yourself, you thought she was on drugs.”
“Maybe. But what if these investors really are after her?”
“She should go to the police, exactly like you told her.”
“She won’t.”
“Then she isn’t really scared. Stop blaming yourself for this woman’s problems. You don’t owe her anything.”
He piled a few more diced tomatoes atop his bruschetta. “Two years ago, I would have seen right through her.”
“Two years ago you were an assistant U.S. attorney.”
“Exactly. You remember what my old boss said when we all went over to Tobacco Road after my last day?”
“Yeah, he spilled half of his beer in my lap and said,
“I’m serious. He warned me about this. Guys go into private practice, get a taste of the money, pretty soon they can’t tell who’s lying and who’s telling the truth. Like ships in dry dock. Rusty before they’re old.”
“You done?”
“With what?”
“The pity party.”
“Hmmm. Almost.”
“Good. Now here’s some really shitty news. Just because the rust on the SS
“You really know how to hurt a guy.”
“It’s what you get for marrying a younger woman.”
“Is that all I get?”
She bit off the tip of a breadstick. “We’ll see.”
The loud twang and quick beat from Henley’s “Boys of Summer” clicked in his brain, triggering a nostalgic smile.
They finished their pizzas and skipped the coffee and dessert. The kick in the ass from Cindy had been a good thing for Jack. Behind the jokes and smiles, however, she seemed troubled.
“Jack?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think we’re doing the right thing trying to have a baby?”
“Sure. We’ve talked about this. You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
“No. I just want to make sure you’re not.”
“I want this more than anything.”
“Sometimes I’m afraid you want it for the wrong reason.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you think we need another reason to stay together.”
“Where would you get an idea like that?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, I’m glad you said it. Because we need to put that out of your head right now. How long have you been worried about this?”
“I’m not really worried. Well, sometimes I am. It’s been five years since… you know, Esteban. And people still think of me as fragile. Five years, and I’m still having the same conversations. ‘Are you doing okay, sweetie? Getting enough sleep? Have the nightmares stopped? Need the name of a good therapist?’”
He lowered his eyes and said, “You talked with your mother, didn’t you.”
“Yes. Last night.”
“I’m sorry I dragged her into this. I was trying to enlist a little family support. That’s all.”
“I understand. Look, let’s just forget this, okay?”
“You sure?”
“Yes. It’ll work out.”
“Everything gonna be okay with you?”
“Fine.”
“You want another Perrier or something?”
She shook her head. “Let’s go home.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. Their eyes met as she laced her fingers into his.
“What do you say we stop by Whip ‘n’ Dip, get a pint of chocolate and vanilla swirl to go, climb under the covers, and don’t come out till we kill the whole carton?”
“I’d like that.”
“Me, too,” he said, then signaled the waiter for their bill.
Jack left a pair of twenties on the table, and in just a few minutes they were in their car on Sunset Drive, moving at the speed of pedestrians. The ice cream parlor was up the street beyond the log jam, though the line was clear out the door, typical on a weekend. Even so, they arrived home before ten-thirty. Cindy went straight upstairs to the bedroom. Jack popped into the kitchen in search of two spoons. It was one of Cindy’s pet peeves. If you were going to indulge yourself with dessert, it should be on real silver, not those cheap plastic jobbies with edges so sharp that they could practically double as letter openers.
The master bedroom was on the second floor, directly over the kitchen, and Jack could hear Cindy walking above him. The click of her heels on the oak floor gave way to a softer step, and he realized that she’d kicked off her shoes. A trail of barely audible footsteps led to her dressing mirror. Jack smiled to himself, imagining his wife undressing. But it was a sad, nostalgic smile triggered by what seemed like ancient memories of a time when passions ruled, not problems. She’d reach behind her arching back and unzip her cotton sundress. With a little shrug she’d loosen one strap, then the other, letting the garment fall to her ankles. She’d stand before the full-length mirror and judge herself, unable to see that she didn’t really need that push-up contraption. It was a show he’d watched countless times, wishing he could just strip away all the emotional baggage and pull up behind her and kiss the back of her neck, unfasten the clasp, and reach inside, one for the delight of each hand.
But there was never any pulling up behind Cindy, no physical intimacy of any sort, unless she initiated it. That was their life since Esteban. Jack didn’t blame her for it. Her only crime had been falling in love with the governor’s son. Esteban had been his client, not hers. It was Jack who’d drawn the attacker into their world, not Cindy.
And
Jack started out of the kitchen, then froze at the sight of some broken glass on the floor. He dropped the frozen yogurt on the kitchen counter and ran to the French doors in the family room. One of the rectangular panes had been shattered. Jack didn’t touch anything, but he could see that the lock had been turned. Someone had paid them a visit.
“Cindy!”
His heart raced as he grabbed the cordless telephone and ran to the stairway. He was gobbling up two and three steps at a time and was about to call her name again when he heard her scream. “Jack!”
He sprinted down the hallway. Just as he reached the bedroom door, it flew open in his face. Cindy rushed out. They nearly collided at full speed, but he managed to get his arms around her. He saw only terror in her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
She grabbed him but never stopped moving, her momentum dragging him back into the hallway. Her voice was filled with panic. “In there!”
“What’s in there?”
She pointed inside the master suite, in the general direction of the bathroom. “On the floor.”
“Cindy, what is it?”
She fought to catch her breath, on the verge of hyperventilation. “Blood.”
“Blood?”
“Yes! My God, Jack. It’s-there’s so much of it. Back by the tub.”
“Call 911.”
