Free Chance by Kem Nunn

I don’t know. I don’t care about Jackie.” She gave it a beat. “I have a daughter,” she said.
    Chance was stunned. There had been no mention of a child in any of the paperwork pertaining to her case. Nor had the subject come up at the time of his initial interview. He studied her for some time in the muted light.
    Jaclyn Blackstone studied her hands.
    “The child is his?”
    She shook her head. “I was seventeen. Her father and I were never married.” She hesitated and went on. “I gave her up for adoption. We reconnected two years ago. She’s in school at Chico State. Raymond pays her tuition.”
    “Raymond is your husband?” He believed it was the first time he’d heard her say his name. She indicated that such was the case. “Why didn’t you mention any of this when you came to my office?”
    “I guess . . . what I was most afraid of just then . . . was that these symptoms I’d been experiencing were neurological.”
    His first inclination was to mention that he was in fact board certified as both a neurologist and as a psychiatrist, that any proper evaluation of her particular symptoms would require his being privy to any and all pertinent information. Upon reflection this struck him as needlessly argumentative, given the circumstances, and he chose to let it go, at least for the time being. “I take it,” he said finally, “that you believe your daughter to be at risk as well.”
    “He’s said as much.”
    Chance imagined himself no stranger to the machinations by which people went about establishing the architecture of their own imprisonment, the citadels from whose basement windows one might on occasion hear their cries. Like Houdini, we construct the machinery of our entrapment from which we must finally escape or die. Mired in thelegal and financial difficulties following in the wake of his divorce, he did not find in himself any particular exception to this rule, though in comparison to Jaclyn Blackstone, his chances of death were certainly more figurative than literal. “Beyond trying to find legal help,” Chance said. He was at the end of another long pause. “I don’t know what to say. Will you continue with Janice?”
    “He’s forbidden it. This was a big deal, me coming here. This is dangerous for me.” Her eyes searched the room. “It could be dangerous for you too. I could be putting you at risk. I had to think about that.”
    He was for the second time that afternoon aware of the day’s fresh slant. “There is,” he said, “quite often a difference in what people threaten and what they will actually do.” But noted that his pulse had quickened.
    “Right,” she said.
    “Look,” he said. “This is not easy. I get that. What do you risk to get your life back? Do you risk losing it? And it’s not just you. There is your daughter to consider. I can’t tell you what to do. I still think some kind of discreet conversation with someone more versed in the law . . . I’m often called to testify in court as an expert witness. These are rarely criminal cases, but I do know a number of attorneys. I could make inquiries. . . . Beyond that . . .”
    She reached suddenly across the table to take his hand. “Maybe it’s like you said,” she told him. “Maybe there’s just this. Maybe this was why I came.”
    The move caught him. He sat with his hand in hers, studying her in the late light. Christ, he thought, you could land a plane on those cheekbones, and wondered how at their first meeting he could have missed so much. She pulled his hand toward her, clasping it between her own, the wedding ring she still wore sharp against his fingers. He imagined himself outside looking in. He imagined the picture they might make at just this moment. He imagined the bad cop looking on. One should really be more mindful of appearances, he thought, in the manner of his father, one should be more cautious, but his hand remained where it was. He was aware of the pulse in her