A note from Brad:

What you're about to read is the original Chapter 5 for as I originally wrote it. In the end, I loved what it said about Matthew and Harris—and especially about their friendship, but in the midst of the thriller and what was happening around them, it just seemed to bring everything to a raging halt.

To put it in context, you can read this right after page 46 of the US edition of the hardback, as if it were Chapter 4.5. When you're done, would love to hear what you think. Enjoy!

—Brad

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Chapter Five

"I thought we were gonna celebrate?"

"We will," Harris says as the taxi bucks to a stop. "Right after this."

"But why-?"

"You know the commitment—every Thursday, rain or shine..."

He tosses a five to the cabbie and hops outside. We're not far from the Capitol, but he needs to make up time. "Just get a receipt," he calls back to me.

As I wrangle my long legs outside the cab, the driver hands me a blank taxi receipt. I ignore the irony and chase after Harris. "Can you please slow down a second?" I shout as he races up the front steps of the modern white brick building known as McDonough Hall.

As usual, he's not listening. Once he's moving, nothing slows him down. I look down at my watch. He's ten minutes late. That's early for Harris.

Inside the building, he cuts through the lounge, spots the long line for the elevator...

No, don't...

...and makes a dash for the stairs.

Damn.

"Let's go, Matthew—no time to be late!"

I'm gonna kill him. He flies up the stairs two at a time, his suit jacket fanning out behind him like a stage magician. He may have the speed, but I have the stretch. I take the stairs three at a time. Too bad I don't have the stamina. By the time we hit the second floor, I'm already winded. Harris keeps going.

When lobbyists want to do the wine and dine, the easiest social event—besides dinner—is an invitation to play golf. Harris never takes them up on it. Instead, he switches the subject and asks them to play tennis. Few refuse. According to Harris, it's his way of staying in shape. According to me, it's his way of staying in control.

I'm neck in neck with Harris as we hit the third floor landing. It doesn't last long. My legs are on fire. His never lose their stride. "C'mon, Matthew—don't stop now," he cheers, pushing me on. Gripping the top of the banister, he spins toward the next flight like Gene Kelly swinging on a lamppost. Still, just because something comes naturally, doesn't mean it's not hard work. As we hit the fourth floor landing, even Harris is losing steam.

"Wh-Where the hell we going?" I shout as he heads up to the fifth floor. He's dropped his pace to a walk. I'm half a flight down doing a breathless crawl. At this point in his career, Harris has been around so long he knows every Senator by the back of his head. That's my view right now—the back of Harris's head. But I can tell he's smiling.

His polished black shoes slap with a thunderclap against the fifth floor landing, and he tugs the door wide open. From the hallway, the buzz of overexcited, high-pitched student gossip bounces off my chest and echoes down the concrete spiral of the staircase. Harris's fans. Welcome to Georgetown Law School—Evening Division.

"Hey, Harris..."

"Nice to see you, Harris..."

"Saw your boss in the paper, Harris..."

None of them call him "Professor," which is exactly how he likes it. He's one of them—no matter who "them" is.

By the time I reach the hallway, he's already gone—consumed by the few female law students who purposely wait to greet him as he arrives. Trailing the crowd inside, I scan the round room, which is filled with long oak tables that're set up in a giant "U." With all the prime seats taken, I grab an empty chair in the back and let the magician start his tricks. When Harris first got to DC, he was so attached to his job, he attended Georgetown Law at night. Today, he lectures once a week to others just like him.

"Okay, so what'd we do to better America today?" he teases from the oak podium. The seminar's called "Lawmaking and Statutory Interpretation"—or as I like to call it, "Manure and More Manure." Like most seminars in the law school, class size is limited to sixteen students, max. By my count—with all the extra chairs they've dragged into the room—Harris's class is up to at least forty. Some are guys, like the creepy older man with the thick glasses who's sitting next to me and doing a great impression of a flasher. Most are women—like the redhead in the corner and the brunette right behind her, who're studying Harris's every move. All that's missing is a blond in the front row with "I Love You" painted on her eyelids.

For fifty minutes, I sit there. For fifty minutes, I listen. And for fifty minutes, I can't help but be annoyed. Harris tries to make eye contact, but I don't return the favor. He should know better than to bring me here—especially today, when there's something to celebrate. Between the two of us, I've always been the one who's wanted to be the academic. And while I don't blame him for being there first, that doesn't mean I have to be thrilled when he takes our one moment of celebration about the bet and makes me spend it in the back of a classroom. Sensing his mistake, Harris takes another shot at eye contact. I turn away—and that's when I notice the flasher with the glasses nodding straight at me. Perfect.

"See you next week," Harris eventually announces as the class heads for the door. Joining the crowd, I race for the exit—but before I can get there, I feel a tap on my back. It's the flasher with the glasses.

"Are you Matthew?" he asks.

"How'd you know that?"

"Just a guess..." he says far too knowledgeably.

"Who told you my name?" I insist.

"Hey, hey, hey," Harris interrupts, cutting through the crowd. He reads the panic on my face.

"I'm sorry," the flasher offers. "I didn't mean-"

"No worries at all," Harris says, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. Harris shoots me a look, but I'm not sure what to make of it. "Matthew...let me introduce you to our illustrious dean."

"Dean?"

"Dean," Harris says. "Of the law school..."

"James Leebron," the older man says, extending a handshake. "Nice to finally meet you."

"I-I don't understand..."

"I told you he'd be surprised—the guy's caked in modesty," Harris says with a laugh. Turning to me, he adds, "They've got an opening for an environmental expert. The dean asked if I knew any other good lecturers. I told him we should get you two together."

I offer an apologetic smile to the dean of Georgetown Law, struggling to remove my entire loafer from my mouth.

"So tell me about yourself, Matthew?" the dean asks.

I look at Harris, then back at the dean. I've been on the Hill way too long. Trained as a cynic. But for the second time today, I study my friend and laugh out loud. I've got a good feeling about this one.

© Brad Meltzer

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