to
a man in my bed, Kate thought. And not much of a man, at the
end.
She pressed her fists against closed eyes,
refusing to cry, to accept the heat of a single tear. Dylan
Corrigan was far from the first male to fit her own inexplicable
preference. Every boyfriend before him was a variation on the same
genotype. Smart, lazy, full of clever excuses, with a weakness for
the drink and for spending other people’s money. The attraction
always started with sexual electricity, evolving into a
twice-a-day, can’t-get-enough-of-him affair that gave Kate the
verve to take on whatever the world tossed at her. But when the
ardor faded – when the conversations became strained, when she
realized she didn’t respect him, and he didn’t even like her – Kate
always found herself looking for a new variance on the same lover.
Perhaps she lacked the ability to sustain a true relationship with
another human being. At least she could sustain passion, and she’d
learned to get by on passion alone.
What if she was knocked up? What if she’d
done what she’d sworn never to do, when her sister announced she
was pregnant with Henry? And with a man Kate was finished with, who
no longer stirred the slightest tenderness in her, who would never
be out of her life if she gave birth to his child?
Of course, giving birth wasn’t the only
option. But Kate’s own history of failed relationships made her
wonder if this might be her only chance to have a child. What if
her career took off? What if the next ten years passed even faster
than the last ten, and she found herself wondering why she hadn’t
considered single motherhood while she could?
Taking a deep breath, Kate straightened her
shoulders, smiled at herself in the mirror, and pushed the whole
mess out of her mind. Time to work. Time to interview Jules
Comfrey. And maybe, Kate caught herself thinking with a twinge of
guilt, her man problems are even worse than mine.
Chapter Eight
A uniformed porter escorted Kate and Bhar up
to Jules’s suite. The door was opened by Madge Comfrey.
“Jules is still getting dressed. Come in,”
Madge said in a dull, rigidly controlled voice. She ushered them
into the floral-wallpapered sitting room, where a loveseat, two
striped armchairs, and a small coffee table awaited them.
Madge Comfrey looked ten years older then she
had the night before – only twelve hours ago, Kate realized.
She had changed into simpler attire – a gray turtleneck, black
slacks, and no jewelry, except for her wedding band. That
stiff halo of wavy brown hair had deflated, and her make-up was dry
and flaky. Her fuchsia lips stood out against her white
face.
“I’m surprised you haven’t come to question
me again,” Madge said. “I expected it to be me, not
Jules.”
“We’re obligated to be very thorough, Mrs.
Comfrey. Not only to apprehend your husband’s killer, but to make
sure the charges stick,” Kate said. “Many interviews will
only be a formality. We’ll be speaking to each person who saw Mr.
Comfrey in his final hours, just to make sure no piece of evidence
is overlooked.”
“But surely you aren’t just wasting time
chatting with us?” Madge demanded, apparently incensed by the
standard reassuring script Kate had quoted from Scotland Yard’s
playbook. “Surely there must be a scientific effort going on
to identify the person who invaded our home? Fingerprints,
DNA, security cameras – I’m sure half our neighbors have them – all
those avenues are still being explored, aren’t they?”
“Of course.” Bhar flashed Madge his boyish
smile. “Every case gets solved by Forensic Services, just
like on the telly. But detectives still have to conduct
interviews and take statements. It’s standard operating
procedure, nothing to worry about.”
Madge looked unconvinced. “Are you sure
you wouldn’t rather talk to me?” she asked, casting a quick glance
over her shoulder and lowering her voice. “Jules is very
a man in my bed, Kate thought. And not much of a man, at the
end.
She pressed her fists against closed eyes,
refusing to cry, to accept the heat of a single tear. Dylan
Corrigan was far from the first male to fit her own inexplicable
preference. Every boyfriend before him was a variation on the same
genotype. Smart, lazy, full of clever excuses, with a weakness for
the drink and for spending other people’s money. The attraction
always started with sexual electricity, evolving into a
twice-a-day, can’t-get-enough-of-him affair that gave Kate the
verve to take on whatever the world tossed at her. But when the
ardor faded – when the conversations became strained, when she
realized she didn’t respect him, and he didn’t even like her – Kate
always found herself looking for a new variance on the same lover.
Perhaps she lacked the ability to sustain a true relationship with
another human being. At least she could sustain passion, and she’d
learned to get by on passion alone.
What if she was knocked up? What if she’d
done what she’d sworn never to do, when her sister announced she
was pregnant with Henry? And with a man Kate was finished with, who
no longer stirred the slightest tenderness in her, who would never
be out of her life if she gave birth to his child?
Of course, giving birth wasn’t the only
option. But Kate’s own history of failed relationships made her
wonder if this might be her only chance to have a child. What if
her career took off? What if the next ten years passed even faster
than the last ten, and she found herself wondering why she hadn’t
considered single motherhood while she could?
Taking a deep breath, Kate straightened her
shoulders, smiled at herself in the mirror, and pushed the whole
mess out of her mind. Time to work. Time to interview Jules
Comfrey. And maybe, Kate caught herself thinking with a twinge of
guilt, her man problems are even worse than mine.
Chapter Eight
A uniformed porter escorted Kate and Bhar up
to Jules’s suite. The door was opened by Madge Comfrey.
“Jules is still getting dressed. Come in,”
Madge said in a dull, rigidly controlled voice. She ushered them
into the floral-wallpapered sitting room, where a loveseat, two
striped armchairs, and a small coffee table awaited them.
Madge Comfrey looked ten years older then she
had the night before – only twelve hours ago, Kate realized.
She had changed into simpler attire – a gray turtleneck, black
slacks, and no jewelry, except for her wedding band. That
stiff halo of wavy brown hair had deflated, and her make-up was dry
and flaky. Her fuchsia lips stood out against her white
face.
“I’m surprised you haven’t come to question
me again,” Madge said. “I expected it to be me, not
Jules.”
“We’re obligated to be very thorough, Mrs.
Comfrey. Not only to apprehend your husband’s killer, but to make
sure the charges stick,” Kate said. “Many interviews will
only be a formality. We’ll be speaking to each person who saw Mr.
Comfrey in his final hours, just to make sure no piece of evidence
is overlooked.”
“But surely you aren’t just wasting time
chatting with us?” Madge demanded, apparently incensed by the
standard reassuring script Kate had quoted from Scotland Yard’s
playbook. “Surely there must be a scientific effort going on
to identify the person who invaded our home? Fingerprints,
DNA, security cameras – I’m sure half our neighbors have them – all
those avenues are still being explored, aren’t they?”
“Of course.” Bhar flashed Madge his boyish
smile. “Every case gets solved by Forensic Services, just
like on the telly. But detectives still have to conduct
interviews and take statements. It’s standard operating
procedure, nothing to worry about.”
Madge looked unconvinced. “Are you sure
you wouldn’t rather talk to me?” she asked, casting a quick glance
over her shoulder and lowering her voice. “Jules is very
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