"Well, that was weird." I tell Martina when I get to work and she comes into my office to go over what's on the schedule for the day.

"What?" she asks leaning forward until she's perched on the edge of my visitor's chair. "That guy Brad got weird after I left?"

"No. He was fine. What's weird is the idea of going out with someone other than Max."

"He asked you out?" She doesn't quite manage to hide the excited tone in her voice.

"Sort of. It was more of a, let's meet up in the juice bar next time we're in the gym at the same time, or maybe go out for coffee, kind of thing."

Martina nodes. "Progress. Baby steps. This is good."

I shrug. "I don't know. We'll see."

We finish reviewing the schedule for the day and Martina goes back out to her desk. I try to work but my thoughts keep drifting to Max, wondering what he's doing right now.

Stop it, I tell myself. It's over and you just have to let it go.

But how can I do that when the bracelet on my wrist is a constant reminder?

* * *

I'm feeling better as I walk out of the courthouse late in the afternoon. Being in court always gives me an adrenaline rush, and things went well at the hearing.

My good mood quickly fades when I cross the courtyard and see a familiar black sedan pull up to the curve. I sense a movement behind me and turn, almost bumping into Agent Collins.

"Ms. Jones," he says. "We'd like to have a word with you."

He steps past me and opens the door to the back seat of the car. "After you," he says, and when I don't move, adds, "You know who I am now, so you have nothing to fear getting into the car." He pauses. "Unless you want us to just note that you refused to cooperate in an official investigation."

"Are you serious? I'm a criminal lawyer, and I'm well aware of my rights. Which include the right not to speak with you or go anywhere with you unless you have a subpoena."

"We would appreciate a few minutes of your time."

I glance at my watch. "Fine," I say, concluding that it's better to speak with them in their car than have the spectacle of FBI agents coming to see me at the law firm office again, where nosy Dylan will be just around the corner lurking in the hallways trying to find out what's going on.

And I guess I'd rather be out of sight in the car, than standing on the street talking to them in the open. I have a sudden mental picture of Vincenzo happening to be back in Miami again on other business, and spotting me chatting away with two FBI agents, reporting that fact back to Gino . . .

Things could go really bad, really fast, and I'm not sure the bracelet on my wrist would save me if their instinct was to act first, ask questions later.

I slide into the backseat, and Collins shuts the door behind me and gets in the front passenger side. Agent Davis is driving, and she pulls back into traffic. The man sitting in the back with me is someone I've never met.

Collins turns around. "Ms. Jones, this is Special Agent Assante Williams. He's part of the FBI's organized crime task force, and he has some questions for you."

I study the man sitting next to me. He's wearing a light gray suit, a light blue button down shirt with a white collar, and a burgundy tie. His hair is close-cropped, and he's wearing glasses with black frames.

The effect is that he looks just like any other executive you might come across on the streets or in the office towers of Miami.

But when you look closer there's something in his eyes that says this is not a man to trifle with. There's power there, and determination.

If this man is after Max, I suspect he's a formidable adversary. A small shiver of fear goes down my spine - not for myself, but for Max and Gabe.

"What can I do for you, Special Agent Williams?" I ask him, and for just a second there's a glint of amusement in those eyes.

"I imagine you could do a lot for us, Ms. Jones," he says. "But based on your previous conversation with Agents Collins and Davis, I have my doubts as to what extent you are willing to assist us."

"Well," I tell him, "I'm not going to share attorney-client privileged information with you, so if that's what you want from me this is going to be a short conversation."

"Is Benadicto Rojas Ortiz a client of your firm?"

I stare at him, caught off guard. I wasn't expecting that question.

"No," I say cautiously. "Mr. Rojas Ortiz is a new artist from South America whose work is on exhibit at the art gallery I've been doing some legal work for. I met him when I attended an event there introducing him to the Miami arts community."

"He's from Columbia, correct?"

"I believe so, based on the titles and settings of some of the paintings I saw Friday night at the event."

"I'm interested in what you know about a particular painting. Or rather the sale of it. Family Lunch."

I frown. "I remember seeing the painting there, because I actually chatted with the artist about it for a few minutes. But I don't know anything about a sale."

"What do you know about how much of the sales price will actually go to the artist?"

I'll make 10,000 U.S. Dollars on this sale, I remember him telling me, somewhat in awe. That's more than 39 million pesos.

"He mentioned that the painting had sold, but there'd be no reason for him to tell me how much money he was making on the sale," I hedge.

"Not even when you're the person who drafted his commission agreement with the gallery?"

"No," I say. "I prepared a general commission agreement for the gallery to use with any number of artists who wish to display and sell their work there. It wasn't particular to Mr. Rojas Ortiz."

"What percentage of the sales price did Mr. Rojas Ortiz agree to pay as commission to the gallery?"

"I have no idea."

"How is that possible? After all, you prepared the agreement between the gallery and the artist."

"It's possible," I say levelly, "because the commission agreement I prepared is like a template. My understanding is that the commission rate can vary, based upon the experience, popularity, reputation and negotiating ability of the artist. My agreement sets up the general language that's common to a variety of arrangements. Then my client customizes it for each artist, including filling in provisions like the percentage commission."

He folds his hands together, flexes then. "A variety of arrangements," he repeats. "Well, that's a very interesting way to phrase it."

"I don't know what your point is," I begin, "but-"

He cuts me off, his eyes narrowing. "The point is I think you know exactly what's going on. I think you're involved right up to your eyeballs in whatever illegal activities Max Bennett is channeling through that gallery. You're not a visual arts attorney, Ms. Jones. You're not even a business attorney. You're a criminal defense lawyer with a year's experience defending petty criminals on misdemeanor charges. You're way out of your depth here."

"That's where you're wrong." I stare back at him.

"I don't think so." He leans slightly toward me and I have to force myself not to slide closer to the edge of the seat, away from him.

"You're either incredibly naive, or you're part of whatever criminal enterprise Max Bennett is running out of that gallery. Either way, when it all falls apart you'll be lucky if all you lose is your license to practice law." He leans even closer. "If you know one little thing about a crime that hasn't happened yet and haven't told me, that's obstruction of justice. All I need is one little thing."

I swallow hard but I'm not going to let him know I'm nervous, not going to give any sign that his words actually make me afraid.

"What do you have, some kind of a vendetta against Max Bennett?"

He smiles but there's no humor in his smile.

"My job," Williams says in a deadly calm voice, "is taking down self-proclaimed crime bosses like Max Bennett who think the laws don't apply to them. I will uncover what he's doing with that art gallery, and I will put him away."

He leans a little closer.

"The only thing I enjoy more is taking down dirty lawyers. And I'm going to be watching you."

"This interview is over," I say stiffly.

"Drop her back off at the courthouse, Agent Davis," he instructs, then looks back at me, pulls out one of his cards and drops it on the seat.

"If you come to your senses, give me a call."

When I get out of the car I leave the card behind. That's probably a mistake, since it would help me look into who and what he actually is.

But I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

I want to tell Max, let him know what just happened, but I hesitate. Is the FBI able to intercept my calls on a cell phone? I think I've read that's possible with the technology they have now. They'd need a court order to be able to use anything they overheard as evidence in a courtroom, but what if their objective is just gathering information and they aren't worried about it being admissible in court?

It would take a lot for a judge to give them permission to tap a lawyer's phone, potentially monitoring all those privileged attorney-client communications, but if they don't actually intend to use it in court, would they even care about crossing the line into illegality?

They probably expect me to call Max right away, or go see him. But if I'm under surveillance then obviously Max is as well.

Is there anyplace that's safe to talk?

I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. It's still on silent from when I was in court this afternoon.

I pull it out and look at the screen. How does he always do that? I think of him and the phone rings and there he is.

"Max," I answer, "I probably shouldn't talk right now."

There's a long pause.

"Are you okay?"

"I was coming out of the courthouse when they stopped me. Max, I just had a conversation with Special Agent Assante Williams."

"Hadley," Max says, "why are you having a conversation with the man who put my father in prison?"

I feel my own quick intake of breath, and Max obviously hears it.

"On second thought, don't answer that. I'll see you soon."

Then he disconnects.

I start the walk back to my office. I'm not getting an Uber today. I feel like I have to breathe, and outside it's less like the walls are closing in on me.

I'm trying to put my relationship with Max in the past, but circumstances keep throwing us together. I have to tell him what happened today, especially now that I know this Agent Williams was involved in Max's father's case. From what I've read online, it took years for the Feds to put that case together. Now I'm wondering if going after the Bennetts - and anyone else who happens to get in the way - is some kind of career-long crusade for Williams.

I'm only about halfway back to the office when I sense a car pulling up beside me, and fully expect it to be the FBI agents again.

The front window on the passenger side rolls down and I bend down slightly and see Gabe behind the wheel.

"Max is waiting," he says, and I open the door and step into the car.

At first I'm too caught up in my own thoughts to notice where we're going, but then I realize we aren't heading toward the club. Maybe I'm meeting up with Max at a restaurant - somewhere the FBI wouldn't predict we'd be and won't have any surveillance in place.

But I soon realize we are headed out of downtown.

"Where are we going?" I ask Gabe.

"Coral Gables."

I frown. "What's in Coral Gables?"

Gabe glance over at me for a moment.

"Max," he says, then goes silent again.

Gabe, who I would not ever describe as talkative, is even less so today.

We ride in silence a while longer, until I can't stop myself.

"What?" I ask.

Gave keeps his eyes on the road, so I try again.

"You want to tell me why you give me the cold treatment every time I see you now? I get that you were annoyed at me when Max and I broke up, but if you're going to keep dating my best friend we're going to be seeing each other, so can you just put it aside?"

He glance over again. "Strange advice for you to be giving."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, you broke up with him, fine. But you just can't keep away, can you?"

"That's not fair, Gabe."

"Isn't it? You don't approve of what Max does for a living. That's your business. But you're either in or you're out."

"I wish it was that simple," I say.

"Did you ever think that you keep coming up with reasons to see him because you just can't let go?"

When I don't say anything, he continues.

"Like I said, you're either in or you're out, Hadley. Why is that so difficult to understand? What you're doing now, you're hurting him. It's like death by a thousand cuts."

I really don't know what to say, but fortunately I don't have to say anything, because Gabe turns off the road and stops the car by a brick pillar with a keypad on it. He pokes in some numbers, and a wide wrought iron gate swings slowly open. The car moves through, and what I see in front of me takes my breath away.