The utter chill of her demeanor wasn't merely courtroom histrionics.

"My apologies to you and your client." Trent raised his voice a bit. "Brian, you'll join us in the hallway?"

Patlack, who probably considered himself king of the foster care proceedings, put his files into his briefcase and got to his feet.

"Mr. Medley," Hannah said, "if you'd sit with Tyrell for a minute, I'd appreciate it, and Ms. Niederland will need to meet with Mom for a bit."

Tyrell stared resolutely at the floor. Hannah touched him on the arm-not a pat, not a bid for eye contact, just a small moment of acknowledgment-then went out to the hallway.

"What was that bench conference about?" Trent asked.

Patlack jammed a hand into his trouser pockets and began jingling change.

"First, Judge Merriman asked if Ms. Stark grew up around here, then she asked if she had any family in the area. d.a.m.ned if I know what it's about."

"It's as Brian said, Trent," Hannah added, still in her Counsel from the Coldest Circle of h.e.l.l persona. "The judge asked a few personal questions of me, then said she couldn't hear the case as a contested matter."

"It doesn't make sense." Neither did the way Hannah was acting.

Betsy Niederland came bustling out of the courtroom, a worker whom Trent had mentally consigned to the ranks of those hanging on until retirement.

"Mrs. Oliver will sign a service agreement giving the grandfather custody of Tyrell for the duration," Betsy said with the anxious eagerness of the perpetually overwhelmed. "She's agreed to go to a battered women's shelter for evaluation and counseling, and says it will be a lot easier to find work if she doesn't have to ride herd on Tyrell."

This was apparently Betsy's idea of a happily ever after.

"What about Tyrell?" Hannah snapped.

Betsy blinked at her. "Beg pardon?"

"What about my client? Will he have to change schools if he moves in with Grandpa, does he need help getting his things from Mom's house, is he on any medication that must be refilled immediately, or can Grandpa afford to wait a couple of weeks to get a copy of the signed agreement giving him custody?"

Betsy looked at her attorney, who was probably mentally overworking his already overworked store of profanity.

"I'm going to talk to my client," Hannah said.

"You don't have a client," Patlack replied, his tone smug, as if in this at least, he could exhibit his lawyer smarts. "The matter has been informally resolved, hence Tyrell has no right to representation. You can talk to the kid, but you'll have no attorney-client privilege."

Trent put a hand on Hannah's arm, because her gaze went from chilly to spare-me-from-lawyers-with-little-d.i.c.ks arctic.

"The judge merely continued the case, she didn't dismiss it, Mr. Patlack," Hannah spat. "Until you file a motion to dismiss your pet.i.tion, and that motion is ruled on in your favor, I most a.s.suredly do have a client."

She whirled and marched into the courtroom, leaving a bewildered, over-accessorized suit where a fairly good, if obnoxious attorney had stood.

"Will Ms. Stark be handling any more of the DSS cases?" Patlack asked.

"Betsy needs her a.s.s kicked," Trent said. "She doesn't do the follow-up, and if there was a relative right here in town ready to take the kid in, she should have tried that long before turning this into litigation."

"I'm all for kicking Betsy's a.s.s," Patlack said, "and I'll tell her supervisor as much, but I'm not real keen on having my own backside booted across the courtroom."

He picked up his briefcase and trundled off, his backside doubtless headed for an early happy hour at a local watering hole frequented by attorneys, social workers, and cops.

Damson Valley was usually a friendly place, after all.

Trent took up a lean between portraits of two judges from a bygone era. One was the stern, Wrath of G.o.d type-he'd died of a pickled liver, according to bar a.s.sociation legend. The other had a twinkle in his eye and a Santa Claus beard. The name under that portrait was Hiram Alverston Knightley.

"My newest a.s.sociate just took zealous advocacy to new heights," Trent informed his great-great-grandfather. "I'd be pleased to find a ferocious litigator had joined the family law department, but I don't think she's a happy, ferocious litigator."

When she confronted Betsy after the hearing, Hannah had looked ready to chop the worker in tiny pieces and feed those pieces one by one to rabid dogs.

The unhappy litigator escorted her client from the courtroom, the older gentleman and the boy's mother with her.

"You have my card, Tyrell. Be the first foster kid ever to surprise his lawyer, and let me know how you're doing. The Department can bring another pet.i.tion any time if things don't improve for you and your family."

Mrs. Oliver's head came up-the warning had been meant for her. The family departed, maybe sadder and wiser, maybe only more scared and angry. Hannah's expression remained unreadable, just as Judge Merriman's expression had been unreadable.

The two of them bore a resemblance, in fact, about the eyes and chin.

"You lawyered the h.e.l.l out of this," Trent said. "I mean that as a sincere compliment. You did a better job for the child than I could have, than anybody could have. I think you might have found your niche, Stark."

Trent offered her a compliment, which seemed like a safe place to start unpacking the case.

"I traded insults with opposing counsel, sniped at his worker, compelled my client's mother to admit she's been a.s.saulted by a guy who will not forget her inconvenient bout of honesty, likely flummoxed the judge entirely, and you're pleased with me?"

He was proud of her, also uneasy as h.e.l.l. "Foster care cases are often a matter of no good options for the judge, Hannah. I know they aren't simple."

Nothing about family law was simple, but what worthwhile endeavor was simple or easy?

"Trent, I care that"-she snapped her fingers before his nose-"for the judge's c.r.a.ppy options. Those same options are the child's c.r.a.ppy outcomes, and that ought to be what matters to every person in that courtroom. I hate myself for the way I've handled this case, I hate the Department for nearly popping this child into some facility in Baltimore, and I just about hate you for a.s.signing the case to me."

If she'd been crying, Trent might have attributed her reaction to the usual recoil of wading into child welfare waters, but she was still in the grip of something that went beyond advocating zealously within the bounds of the law.

Something fierce to the point of ugliness.

Trent picked up his briefcase in one hand and Hannah's in the other.

"We'll take my car," he said. "I don't know as you're in any shape to get behind the wheel and Gino can pick up your Prius easily enough when he and Debbie drop off the day's motions with the clerk's office."

Hannah shrugged into her coat before he could hold it for her, and when they got in his car, sat beside him silently. Something else was in the car with them, something to do with the child Grace, with the blanks on Hannah's employee forms, with her unlisted phone number.

"You really feel lousy for the way you handled that case, Hannah? You did a magnificent job."

She didn't answer for about two miles.

"I do feel lousy. I feel ugly. If that means I'm a real lawyer, then the legal profession should be ashamed of itself."

Hannah drove home, feeling leaden and somehow ashamed. Trent had continued to give her odd looks for the balance of the day, but had walked her out to her car at five o'clock on the dot and reminded her he'd pick her up on Sat.u.r.day to take her to the Christmas party.

To celebrate the season of brotherly love after the day she'd had felt obscene. Two of her clients had been locked up for nonsupport, but they'd deserved incarceration. They complained their exes didn't use the money for the children, withheld visits when the check was late, and didn't need the money.

After only two weeks, the excuses were a predictable litany.

Gerald Matthews had been a much better fit for the child support docket than Hannah would ever be.

A better fit for the practice of law generally. h.e.l.l, Matthews had gone out and cadged private cases in addition to what Hartman a.s.signed him. Surely that proved the presence of the gene for the legal field?

As Hannah drove along the slushy mountain road between Eliza's and home, Grace started up with the questions every thirty seconds. "Mom...? Mom...? Mom...?" Stupid questions, idle questions, I-forget questions.

Grace was reacting to the distant, churning vibe Hannah gave off, using a child's tools to try to establish a sense of safety and normalcy at the end of a long, hard week.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Grace?"

"Do you have a headache?"

Yes, Hannah thought, and her name is Grace.

And then: Forgive me, please. I didn't mean that.

"No, not really. I feel like I could get one, though. Like when you're really tired and cold, and you know you need an extra blanket, but you lie there almost shivering because you're too tired to get out of bed and get one."

Sharing a bed with Trenton Knightley, Hannah had slept wonderfully-in another lifetime.

Grace's face puckered, suggesting the experience of shivery exhaustion wasn't one she could identify with, though she was trying.

"I think I know what your headaches are like, Mom."

"What do you think they're like?"

"It's like you can feel your heartbeat from behind your ear to behind your eyes, and it hurts a lot, even in your neck. It feels like half your head is mad at you."

Hannah looked over at the back of her daughter's head-Grace had addressed her comment to the darkened woods going by outside-and concern cut through the emotional detritus of the day.

"Your head hurts, doesn't it, Grace?"

Grace nodded twice, but refused to face her mother, even in the dim interior of the car.

"Does it hurt a lot?"

Another nod, just one.

"I'm glad you told me, Grace, because we can give you some pills when we get home that will help you feel better, though maybe not all the way better."

A shuddery breath from the pa.s.senger's seat. "OK."

When they got home, Hannah shucked her coat, eased Grace's off as well, and led the child to the bathroom, the warmest room in the house.

"Have a seat," Hannah said, getting a bottle of pain killers from the medicine cabinet.

Grace perched on the closed potty lid, eyes downcast, so Hannah hunkered before her daughter.

"I'm giving you some grown-up medicine. This is a little tricky, so you have to listen to me. You listening?"

A nod, no eye contact.

"To take grown-up medicine, you take a swallow of water but you don't drink it down. Then you sneak one of these pills into your mouth. You swallow the pill and the water at the same time. It can take practice, but you have to do it twice. Got it?"

Another nod, and then Grace complied with the directions, not spilling a drop. When the second pill was down, Hannah took the cup from Grace and lifted a hand to brush Grace's bangs from her face.

Grace flinched, and Hannah's hand fell.

Hannah sat back against the cabinets and looked her daughter over as carefully as she could without forcing Grace to meet her eyes. "Honey, tell me what happened."

A single teardrop fell from Grace's chin and hit the back of the hand Hannah rested on Grace's knee.

"Sweetie, you have to tell me," Hannah said as calmly as she could, but brain tumors started with headaches, didn't they? The problem could be anything from simple fatigue to a fight with the guys at Eliza's, but for Grace to flinch like that...

All in one motion, Grace threw her arms around her mother's neck and hopped over to sit on her lap. Hannah lifted the child in her arms and sat with her on the closed potty lid. For a few minutes she rubbed Grace's back and let the child cry.

When Grace calmed, Hannah held a tissue to her nose.

"What's the matter, sweetie? You have an I-did-something-dumb day?"

It was one of their codes, and usually Grace would smile at the term.

"It was an accident," Grace said, cuddling in close.

"Tell your mom about this accident. I know you didn't wet your pants."

"It was a playground accident, like the lunch aides are always talking about. Do I have to go to the hospital?" Anxiety came through loud and clear, despite the fact that Grace was speaking barely above a whisper.

"Tell me what happened, and then we'll decide."

Though likely not. Hospitals had forms, and on those forms were s.p.a.ces for a father's name. "Unknown" had done in the past, but Hannah lived in fear of the questions that could raise.

"Larry pushed me off the s.p.a.ce station, and I hit my head on the way down. I think I have a boo-boo, but it hurts to touch it."

I will kill the little hoodlum. "If I am very careful, may I look at your boo-boo?"

Nod.

"Point to where it is."

Grace pointed from behind her right ear to her right temple.

"You have a boo-boo, my friend, a big old goose egg that has to hurt like heck. The pills you took should help. Could you stand to have an ice pack on it?"