Jenna Mills - A Kiss In The Dark

“You wouldn’t be the first woman to strike out at the man who walked out on her,” Livingston pointed out.

The pale green walls of the cramped room pushed closer. “That’s not how it happened.”

“Refill anyone?” Detective Zito asked, crossing to pick up the coffeepot.

Beth looked at the paper cup sitting in front of her, its contents long cold. She’d barely taken a sip. The mere smell of the burned coffee made her gag.

“Guess not.” He filled his cup and returned to the table. “Did your husband have any enemies?”

“He worked for the district attorney’s office,” Janine answered for her, practically snarling at Zito. “You know that. He was a prosecutor.” Just like Janine was. If Beth was arrested, Janine would be unable to help in an official capacity. “We all have enemies. It’s a hazard of the job.”

“Anyone in particular? Had he received any threatening phone calls or letters?”

“Not that I know of,” Beth said, but then, she and Lance had rarely spoken of that kind of thing. Toward the end, they’d barely spoken at all. She’d lost herself in her work at Girls Unlimited, a center for underprivileged teenage girls, and Lance had worked ungodly hours as one of Portland’s leading prosecutors. His political future had never burned brighter.

“That’s quite a security system you’ve got at the house,” Zito went on. “Was he worried about someone coming after him?”

Obviously, the detective hadn’t known the man whose murder he investigated. “Lance wasn’t scared of anything or anyone. He was born a St. Croix. It never occurred to him that something bad could happen to him.”

“And you?” Zito asked. “Did the thought occur to you?”

Icy fingers of certainty curled through her. “Bad times don’t discriminate. They touch us all.”

“Even the St. Croixs?”

“Yes, even the St. Croixs.” Especially one in particular. But then, Dylan preferred it that way. He’d caused an uproar by dropping out of law school six months before graduation, opting for private investigations rather over the formal justice system. His grandfather the judge had been furious, and while Lance had put on a good show, she knew he’d secretly embraced the opportunity to outshine his black sheep cousin.

Beth stiffened, shaken by the direction of her thoughts. She had no business thinking of Dylan now. No business remembering. He was a living, breathing reminder of mistakes she’d give almost anything to erase. Fire burned. Fire always, always burned.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” she said, and stood. The room spun like a tilt-a-whirl, prompting her to brace a hand against the chair. The two detectives looked at her oddly, Janine in concern.

“It’s late, I’m tired and my head is pounding.” And she was afraid she was going to be sick. Gingerly, she lifted a hand to the gash at the back of her head, but rather than feeling her fingers, she felt Dylan’s. Gentle. Disturbing. “I’d like to go now.”

“We’re not done—” Livingston started, but Zito cut him off.

“Don’t leave town without letting me know first.”

She hardly recognized the woman in the mirror. Beth stared at the pale mouth and dark eyes in the reflection, and felt her throat tighten. Cupping her hands, she returned them to the stream of cold water running from the faucet, then lifted them to her face. Over. And over. Only when two female patrol officers strolled into the bathroom, laughing, did she stop.

Very quietly, very deliberately, she patted her face dry and slung her purse over her shoulder, walked out the door.

She saw him the second she stepped from the elevator. He stood not ten feet away, talking on his mobile phone and slicing a hand violently through the air. He had his back to her, but she didn’t need to see the hard lines of his face to recognize him. She always felt him first, that low hum deep inside, followed by a tightening of her chest.

Somehow, she kept walking.

“No, damn it,” she heard him bark. “Let me handle this.”

Her heart revved and stalled. Handle what?, she couldn’t help wondering. Her? It didn’t matter. She’d—

“Beth, wait!”

She stiffened and, though she wanted to keep going, had no choice but to stop. “Janey,” she said, turning to her friend. “I appreciate all you did for me. I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important.”

“Don’t think twice about it.” Janine took Beth’s hands and squeezed. “How are you holding up? I know things weren’t great between the two of you, but this has to be hard.”

Her throat tightened. Janine was Lance’s friend first, but in her soft voice and expressive brown eyes, Beth found a concern that almost undid her. “I didn’t do it,” she whispered.

“Of course you didn’t,” came a rough masculine voice.

Beth barely had time to turn before the man was beside her, pulling her into his arms. “I just heard, Beth. I’m so sorry.”

The hug caught her off guard. As district attorney, Kent English had been both Lance’s mentor and friend. And though she and Kent had been cordial, the man whose place the media had speculated Lance would soon take had never touched her beyond a handshake. Now the embattled D.A. skimmed a hand along her back in a gesture that should have been comforting.

But wasn’t.

Instantly, she looked across the hall and found Dylan watching her through the most scorched-earth eyes she’d ever seen. Her chest tightened, and her heart started to thrum. The breath stalled in her throat. The truth disturbed.

This hug. This embrace. It was what she’d wanted from Dylan the second she’d seen him standing on the patio, to feel his arms around her, his body against hers. To just lean against him and be held.

She’d be safer dancing naked in a bonfire.

“Thank you,” she said against Kent’s chest, struggling to free herself. His arms suddenly felt like a net, sending panic twisting through her. She needed to get away. Not from the cops or Kent, but from Dylan and those hard, penetrating eyes.

Kent, a shrewd politician with a well-earned reputation for cutting throats and breaking hearts, didn’t try to stop her, just stepped back and frowned. For a man rumored to be on his way out, he still held himself with commanding presence.

“I’ll have Livingston’s badge for putting you through this. Anyone who knows you knows you couldn’t hurt a flea.”

Involuntarily, Beth looked toward the end of the hall, only to find Dylan gone.

“Thanks for coming down,” she said, turning back to Lance’s colleagues. “It means a lot to me.”

Kent pulled her in for another quick hug and Janine did her best to smile. Beth bade them good-night, then crossed the lobby to the front door. A few uniformed cops lingered by a counter, talking in loud tones. A woman rushed inside, demanding to know where her Donny was. Across the room, a young girl with ratty hair and torn clothes yelled to anyone who would listen.

Pushing open the glass door, Beth welcomed the blast of cool night air.

“Mrs. St. Croix!” came a shouted voice, as a crowd of reporters rushed up the steps. “Mrs. St. Croix, can you tell us what happened?”

Flashbulbs exploded around her. Microphones were jammed toward her. “Do they have any suspects?”

“Was the murder weapon really a fire poker?”

Beth tried to turn away, but the swarm had circled her.

“Did you really find his body?”

Revulsion surged through her. She saw the collective gleam in the eyes of the reporters, the thirst for a story with no regard for the fact that the roadkill they picked apart was someone’s world. She’d worked hard to keep her personal life private, but when Lance went to work for the district attorney’s office, anonymity became a luxury of the past. He’d thrived on the adulation, fed off it. And the press had fallen in love. He was the grandson of a wealthy state judge, he was handsome, and everyone believed it only a matter of time before he capitalized on his popularity and ran for public office, starting with D.A. The press had been having a field day with rumors about English stepping down, Lance taking over.