Jennifer’s sharp fingernails dug softly into my back. Her lithe body arched and responded to the caress of my hands.
After a few minutes, I pulled back and took her small hand in mine. In the pale glow of the crescent moon, we stood up together and then walked into the house and upstairs to my bedroom.
† † †
In the warmth of my bed, I gradually awoke from vivid dreams where I floated beneath the ocean, stretched out my arms, and glided over a jagged reef of orange and red corals. Images of antique books and ticking clocks approached me in the turquoise water and then vanished back into the distance. After a few moments tangled in the sheets, I started to gain my bearings, unsure when I had dropped off to sleep last night. Rubbing my blurry eyes, I focused on the clock atop the nightstand. 4:19 a.m. The sounds of shuffling movements came from somewhere on the first floor of my house, perhaps from the area of the law office. My mind was cloudy and slow, but soon I realized that I was alone. Jennifer was not beside me.
When I switched on a small lamp, the light stabbed at my eyes. I could not fully wake up. Half a glass of wine and a single India Pale Ale would not have knocked me out like this or given me a hangover. Perhaps my sluggish brain was just exhausted from trying to figure out who murdered Richard Kostas and what happened to the stolen files. Normally, a rush of adrenaline would jolt me awake on a trial day, but not today. Maybe it was just too early. But someone was downstairs, so I did my best to snap out of the fog and listen for more sounds.
On the floor beside the bed were all of Jennifer’s clothes. Her purple dress, black high heels, lace bra, and pink thong lay strewn across the carpet. She was still here and not wearing any of her clothes. Someone was definitely walking around on the first floor.
Quiet footfalls came up the stairs toward my bedroom.
Feeling woozy, I sat up and looked for my boxer shorts on the floor, but came up emptyhanded.
Jennifer tiptoed barefoot to the doorway, wearing only my Oxford shirt I had worn to work yesterday, mostly unbuttoned. With her hair a tangled mess, she still looked striking, even first thing in the morning.
“Oh, you’re up early,” she whispered. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, what are you doing up?”
“Needed water,” she said, holding up a clear plastic bottle.
“There’s a glass in the bathroom.”
“I don’t like tap.” Jennifer took a sip of water and set the bottle down on my dresser. “I borrowed your shirt. Was that all right?”
“Looks good on you. Better than it does on me.” When I held out my hand, she slowly unfastened the buttons that held it across the curves of her body and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. She climbed under the covers, kissed my neck, and lay down against me. From the warm feel of her silky skin, I knew that she had slipped off my shirt and dropped it onto the floor before returning to bed.
“Go back to sleep, Bryce. You’ve got a big day ahead.”
Still unusually drowsy, I drifted back to sleep until my alarm clock screeched at 7:00 a.m. After switching off the alarm, I turned and realized that I was again alone in the bed. I had to meet Marisa at the courthouse at 8:30. The alluring smell of cooked bacon drifted up the staircase into my bedroom.
Downstairs, I looked for Jennifer, but she was not there. A plate covered with aluminum foil sat atop the kitchen counter. A handwritten note leaned against it.
The note read, “Had to run, Bryce. I’m scheduled to meet with my cameraman early. I made breakfast for you. The judge should hear you speaking, and not your stomach growling. See you at the courthouse. — Jennifer”
After her name, she had drawn a silly, but cute, smiley face with hearts for eyes.
Beneath the aluminum foil were two fried eggs, bacon, and pumpernickel toast — all still warm. She must have left my house a short while ago. In the silence of my kitchen, I ate breakfast alone, knowing that Judge Arnetti would call the Dupree case from the morning docket in less than two hours.
Fatigue and fog still gripped my brain even after a second cup of strong coffee. My gut instinct, though, told me that I should look around the first floor, especially in the law office.
I found the front door locked, so Jennifer must have gone out the back, the same way she had entered the house last night. The lights were off. My desk remained undisturbed, just as I left it at the end of work yesterday. The computers were dark and felt cool. My locked briefcase with the Dupree file inside still stood where I had set it on the floor. An array of hackers, muggers, and international spies in Bridgeford must have ramped up my paranoia. Nothing in the office was out of place.
I checked my drop-box, mostly out of habit, but it was empty.
Upstairs, I contemplated legal strategies and defenses as I brushed my teeth, shaved, and showered. Although the thought seemed dramatic, dressing for trial always reminded me of a knight putting on armor before a battle. Buttoning my white shirt, knotting a silver paisley tie, and putting on a charcoal gray suit were solemn and introspective tasks. After tying my black shoes, I was ready for the hearing.
I walked along the narrow streets of Bridgeford past the storefronts, sandwich shops, and law firms preparing to open for the day. Even by midmorning,
