Perfect Match Read Free Page A

Probably the fly had just figured it was going to take a rest. Probably it had stopped for a second to see how the sun looked like a rainbow through that web, and the spider grab bed him before he could get away.
    “Bet she eats the head first,” Cole says.
    Nathaniel imagines the wings of the fly, pinned to its back as it is turned a nd wrapped tight. He lifts his hand and slashes it through the web; walks awa y.
    Brianna is fuming. “Hey!” she yells. And then, “Miss Lydia!” But Nathaniel doesn't listen. He looks up, surveying the top beam of the swin gs and the jungle gym with the slide that's as shiny as the blade of a knife. The jungle gym is taller by a few inches. Settling his hands on the rungs of the wooden ladder, he begins to climb.
    Miss Lydia doesn't see him. His sneakers send down a rain of tiny pebbles and dirt, but he balances. Up here, he is taller than his father, even. He think s that maybe the cloud behind him has an angel fast asleep in its center. Nathaniel closes his eyes and jumps, his arms glued to his sides like that fly's . He doesn't try to break his fall, just hits hard, because it hurts less than e verything else.
    “Best croissants,” Peter Eberhardt says, as if we have been in the middle of a conversation, although I've only just walked up to stand beside him at th e coffee machine.
    “The Left Bank,” I answer. We might as well be in the middle of a conversat ion, come to think of it. Except this one has been ongoing for years.
    “A little closer to home?”
    This I have to think about. “Mamie's.” It's a diner in Springvale. “Worst hair cut?”
    Peter laughs. “Me, in my middle school yearbook.”
    “I was thinking of it as a verb, not a noun.”
    “Oh, well, then. Wherever Angeline gets her perm.” He holds out the coffee and fills my cup for me, but I'm laughing so hard some of it spills on the floor. Angeline is the clerk of the South District Court, and her coiffure resembles something between a muskrat curled on her head and a plate of but tered bowtie noodles.
    This is our game, Peter and me. It began when we were both assistant DAs in t he West District, splitting our time between Springvale and York. In Maine, d efendants can come to court and plead innocent, guilty, or request to meet wi th the prosecutor. Peter and I would sit across from each other at a desk, tr ading court complaints like aces in a poker game. You do this traffic ticket, I'm sick of them. Okay, but that means you get this trespassing charge. I se e Peter far less now that we are both trying felonies in the superior court, but he is still the person I'm closest to in the office. “Best quote of the d ay?”
    It is only ten-thirty; the best may be to come. But I put on my prosecutor's face and look solemnly at Peter, and give him an instant replay of my closing in the rape case. “In fact, ladies and gentlemen, there is only one act that would be more criminally reprehensible, more violating, than wh at this man did-and that would be to set him free to do it again.” Peter whistles through the space in his front teeth. “Ooh, you are the drama queen.”
    “That's why they pay me the big bucks.” I stir creamer into my coffee, watch it clot like blood on the surface. It reminds me of the brain matter case.
    “How goes the domestic abuse trial?”
    “Don't take this the wrong way, but I am so freaking sick of victims. They're s o . . .”
    “Needy?” I say dryly.
    “Yes!” Peter sighs. “Wouldn't it be nice to just get through a case without h aving to deal with all their baggage?”
    “Ah, but then you might as well be a defense attorney.” I take a gulp of the c offee, leave the cup on the counter, three-quarters full. “See, if you ask me, I'd rather get through a case without them.”
    Peter laughs. “Poor Nina. You've got your competency hearing next, don't y ou?”
    “So?”
    “So, whenever you have to face Fisher Carrington you look . . . well, like I did in that middle