I remembered that trial. Young, hotshot prosecutor had done the impossible, they said. “Rising star,” they called him.
“Vincent Marconi wasn’t too pleased, and I gloated in his face,” he said through clenched teeth. “f*****g stupid.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I slipped my fingers in his, giving him any comfort I could.
“It was about two weeks after my birthday that we went to Grace’s parents’ house for a combination Father’s Day and my belated birthday celebration. Her whole family and my parents were there. That was when she gave me this: the first glimpse of my son.” With shaking hands he handed me a framed photo.
The frame was wracked; the corners loose and bent. Evidence of the glass could still be seen in the powdery sand in the edges and the scratches on the picture
