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row.”
    She took another sip of her drink, then set it on the butcher block table behind her. Turning back, she stared at me for a long moment, her lower lip thrust out in vague annoyance.
    A wave of cold rushed through me. Bad news was on its way.
    She’d had it with this current mess of affairs. She wanted out. Maybe she’d be generous and offer to stand by me throughout the trial, a figurehead of comfort—like those heartbroken, stiff-faced senator’s wives who stand by their husbands despite their wild cavortings with prostitutes and campaign aides—but with my verdict also would come my walking papers.
    “I’m committed to you, Rick,” she said quietly. “There’s no one else for me.”
    Took me a moment to realize I’d heard what I’d heard. My heart plummeted, bouncing hard on my gut before soaring back to its rightful spot. But the silver cloud still had a dark lining.
    “I may spend my life behind bars.”
    “I can’t believe a jury would find you guilty.”
    “Even twelve righteous people can be wrong. DNA tests have cleared men who’ve spent decades in prison for crimes they didn’t commit.”
    “Well,” she said quietly, “considering our business…” She gestured broadly, indicating the lodge. “…is tanking, time for us to dedicate ourselves to investigating your case.”
    I put down my drink, stood. Sometimes a thoughtful man has to cut to the heart of the matter, offer a satisfactory resolution for all parties involved.
    “Let’s go to bed.”
    We didn’t quite make it there. Not sure if we even tried.
    All I knew was that we were in each others’ arms, clutching, clinging, our mouths damn near devouring each other. I’d never kissed her like that—hell,
I’d
never been kissed like that. Like two drowning people clinging to the only rock—us—in a turbulent ocean. At one point, she pulled back her head, those violet eyes wet with emotion, and started to say something, but I claimed her again with my mouth, didn’t want to hear words, only wanted to feel, to drown all the pain and hurt and fear…

Ten
     
Your worst enemy cannot harm you as much as your own unguarded thoughts.
—Buddha
     
    “I hate lawyers. You guys expect everybody to jump when you want them to jump, and if they don’t, you subpoena them.”
    Brianna Shephard felt better getting that off her chest, the same one that Mike Dowling, the Jeffco Deputy D.A. who sat across the desk from her, was staring at. She toyed with zipping up her leather bomber jacket, but with the heat cranking in here, she’d be broiling.
    He managed to lift his gaze. “But I didn’t subpoena you. Just left a message that I would if you didn’t call me back.”
    “I always do my duty on behalf of those who can’t speak.”
    “That’s what makes you a great coroner.”
    “Deputy coroner.”
    Leaning back in his ergonomic chair, he stroked his wispy goatee. “C’mon, you and I both know you should be the big cheese. And when Ralph finally steps down, you’ll be a shoe-in to take his spot.”
    “I’ll get there in due time.” She glanced at his notes, wishing she could read upside down. “I’m here because you said you wanted to prepare me for the Williamson case testimony.”
    “Did I mention you look nice today?”
    Her stretched goodwill snapped. “Let’s get something straight, Mike. It was just one night.”
    “But…I thought…after this past year…maybe you’d want…”
    It’d been a long, hard year since her husband’s murder. Nobody expected Lieutenant Joe Shepherd, one of Arapahoe County’s finest, to die. Didn’t make sense, never would, how a punk tweeker could snuff out his life like that.
    She nodded to the papers in front of him. “Jefferson County Coroner was overwhelmed. Another murder on a summer weekend night. We got borrowed. Your vic, Jerry Williamson, had a forty-five degree angle of a gunshot wound, from a distance. Went into the chest, pierced the aorta, and he bled to death. And