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law partners specifically called me in to help pick a jury, a winning jury because I never pick wrong. I can do all the other law stuff—brief writing, oral arguments, trying cases—but this is where I really shine.
    I have a knack for reading jurors, for picking up on things. It doesn’t always work in my personal life, but I never miss a detail in here. Glancing across the jury box, I note one potential juror is a smoker. I can tell from the wrinkles above her lips, the way she’s holding her fingers, how often she glances at the clock. She clearly needs a cigarette. Another woman isn’t wealthy but wants to be. Everything from her shoes to her purse is a knock-off. She’s definitely got some aspirations of the designer variety.
    Then there’s this older man—military service, the picture of an American hero, no wife and kids. It’s his turn in the hot seat, and I can tell the prosecutor wants him, thinking he’d be sympathetic to the government. But I know better. The man is likely gay, a small rainbow pinned to the back strap of his bag, probably forced into the closet for many years while he was serving his country. I hope the prosecutor picks him. The man won’t do the government any favors. It hasn’t served him.
    But I won’t have my answer today. I glance down at my dad’s vintage Rolex, the one my mom saved for me, the one she gave me when I graduated law school. It’s almost lunchtime. The judge will call a break any minute. I wish we could just keep going through lunch and dinner, too, if necessary, but the potential jurors have lives. There’s nothing waiting for me at home, nothing but a frozen dinner or a takeout menu in my cold, empty house. That house is just another reminder of the life I don’t have.
    My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I ignore it. No quicker way to get on the wrong side of a judge than to pull out your phone in court. But it continues to vibrate over and over again. I glance around, making sure the coast is clear and smoothly slide it out of my pocket to take a quick peek at the screen. Deacon! All it says is “emergency.” I’m sure it’s not a real emergency. Deacon is a bit dramatic. My stepbrother seems to have the best life, though he apparently got himself into some sort of mess again, and clearly it’s up to me to fix it, as usual.

CHAPTER THREE
    KENZIE
    What just happened? I slump home to my crappy apartment, in the back of my start-up shop. The whole place is small, kind of a mess, out in the middle of nowhere. It’s the best I can do since I’m just starting out. Usually, I don’t care how it looks—nobody sees it because most of my business is by phone or online—but it’s bothering me now. It looks worse than ever, and I just want to hide.
    I put on running shorts and a tank top then head out of my tiny apartment to my usual spot, my design table. My head falls to the top with a thud. I don’t have any appointments scheduled today, and Lord knows, I won’t be getting any random walk-in customers, not after what just happened. Maybe I’ll just close and spend the day eating a whole carton of ice cream and whatever else I can get my hands on.
    My career just went up in flames in front of the whole world. Thanks, Deacon Barnes.
    I allow myself a few minutes to wallow, but that’s it—a few minutes. People are depending on me. I can’t give up. I never do. I’m not that kind of girl. My mom used to call me her little yes girl . I’m the type who pushes through. I remind myself of that. It’s hard to convince myself right now, but I’m trying real hard. Midway through my pep talk, the phone rings.
    “Let the machine get it,” my stepsister says, coming out of a back room with my baby niece strapped to her chest.
    I look at the baby’s bald head, a little pink bow sliding into the few blonde hairs she has. Then I look up at my sister’s bald head. “I’m sorry, Tessa. He made a pass at me before the interview started and then was so