The Burden of Desire

A shiver darted down her spine. She was feeling angry, and that wasn’t healthy. Her palm floated unconsciously to her abdomen, resting protectively over the spot where the baby was growing. She’d read that morning that it was the size of a poppy seed. Just a little ball of cells, really, and she couldn’t help but already feel the need to protect it from everything hurtful in the world. She’d been eating healthy and thinking positive thoughts, because positive thoughts bring positive results. At least that’s what the Life Coach podcast taught. She’d been listening to the series during her commute for a few weeks now. Today’s message had been about making peace with failure. As if they’d known I would walk into work and see failure eyeing me smugly.

“Sally.”

She groaned and spun to see Ben standing in the doorway. All the beauty and positive thinking in the world couldn’t stop her blood pressure from spiking at that moment. She didn’t bother to force a smile. “Can I help you?”

She observed his gaze sweeping across her office, her space, her things. He was appraising her. She studied him, trying to get a sense of his ruling, but his face remained inscrutable and he didn’t comment. “I just wanted to tell you that there are no hard feelings.”

The statement turned painfully in her chest. This guy had some nerve. She removed her trench coat with methodical deliberation and draped it across one of the chairs at the little conference table she’d set up in the corner. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

He wasn’t rattled. Cool Ben had the gall to never appear rattled. “Don’t play coy. It doesn’t work with me. We’re colleagues now. I’m suggesting that we try to be civil, even if we can’t stand the sight of each other.”

She gripped her herbal tea, white knuckled. At another time, she might have calmly removed the cover and hurled the beverage at his glaringly white shirt and dull blue tie. But not today, because today she was above that. “It seems like you’re under the impression I spend time thinking about you. Would it make you feel better to know that even if I tried, I couldn’t muster enough interest to hate the sight of you?”

“You’re funny, you know that?”

He stepped into her office and walked toward her purposefully, his gaze locked on hers, the beginning of a smile curving his lips. She watched him, alarm sounding across her body, her muscles frozen. He reached her desk and pressed his large hands down, leaning forward until he intruded upon her space, caused her to lean away. “We both know you care. At least enough to hate me as much as you do.”

He reached forward with one hand and pretended to pick a piece of lint off her Valentino dress. Then he faked considering it before pretending to flick it away. Sally’s blood pounded in her ears. He was close enough that she could smell mint on his breath. Too close. She grabbed a stack of files from her desk and stomped toward the filing cabinet. “Don’t play games with me. You know the feeling’s mutual,” she growled.

“That I hate you?” He righted himself with a slight shrug. “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve always thought you were...interesting.” He lifted one of her business cards from the holder on her desk, turning it between his fingers before tucking it into his pocket. “This murder trial you have, for example. Jack told me about it. A homicide without a body? That’s risky.”

“Is it? I would think it would be riskier to allow a man to get away with murdering his wife just because he’d found a way to conceal her body.”

Ben arched one of his eyebrows rakishly. “Maybe. But do you get beyond a reasonable doubt?”

He leaned one shoulder against the wall and watched her. As he stood there, he folded his arms across his broad chest, silently reminding Sally that he’d never wanted for dates. Women in their law class had draped themselves across him, baking him cookies and inviting him to join their study groups. It was pitiful, and he’d lapped up the attention shamelessly. Ben used women. That’s who he was. Once, before finals, she’d walked into a quiet study room in the library and caught him with a topless girl straddling his lap, his hand snaking up her skirt. He’d had the nerve to smile at Sally over the woman’s bare shoulder as if to say, You wish.

Well, she didn’t wish. She had self-respect. Ben had never been formally attached to anyone. He used women and dumped them. She may have thought she loved him long ago, but he’d been very clear that he wasn’t interested in any kind of long-term, monogamous relationship. She’d been fooled, but that was a distant and ugly memory. Ten years distant.

She slammed the filing cabinet shut. He may be hot, but he wasn’t that hot, really. At least, she’d never understood the appeal. He had mahogany hair, slightly tousled, that he wore at a conservative length. He was tall, but not taller than six feet. He was clean-shaven, probably still tattoo-free, and just...generic. His only striking feature was his pair of deep blue eyes shrouded by long black lashes and strong eyebrows. Sally could admit that his eyes were beautiful. Even his glasses could be kind of hot on a different guy. But everything else about Ben was ho-hum. A playboy who liked to have one-night stands? Yawn. She preferred a man with a real edge and some substance that went beyond whatever was in his pants. A man who could make her laugh and think before he rocked her world. And since her broken engagement, she preferred no man at all.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.” She headed toward the door.

“As do I. And I believe we’re heading to the same place. Remember, we’re partners now.” He stepped aside and waved her through. “After you.”

She rolled her eyes at his pompous formality as she brushed past, accidentally sweeping her shoulder against his chest. “Narrow doorway,” she mumbled.

Her attention was gripped by the sight of seven of her colleagues huddled in front of a television set up in a vacant cubicle in the center of the office. They watched her as she approached.

“Sally, you may want to see this,” Greg said, nodding his head toward the screen.

She squinted to make out the sight of the gray marble steps of town hall. A lectern was erected in the middle of a swarm of buzzing reporters in subdued jackets. “A press conference? What’s going on?”

“Your guy Marlow called it.”

That would be Dennis Marlow, the defense attorney who represented Mitch Kruger in the murder trial. He was a ripe pain in the rear.

“He called a press conference? On the Kruger case? And he didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me about it?” As soon as the words escaped, she reconsidered her simmering fury. Marlow had fallen far short of courteous during the pretrial phase, so what was one more professional breach?

She was aware of Ben creeping up to stand behind her. He had all the space in the world, and he had to stand right there, where she could sense him, practically feel the heat as it rose from his body. She couldn’t resist glancing quickly over her shoulder. Yep, there he was, old jerk face, making a conscious decision to invade her personal space and suck up all her air. She’d been much too polite earlier. She’d have to change that.

Her attention returned to the television as Marlow entered the screen from the right and stood behind the lectern, in a red tie and a black blazer that looked brand-new. “That tie looks expensive,” she murmured, mostly to herself. Marlow didn’t wear expensive ties.

“Must be an important press conference,” Ben replied close to her ear. “Fancy tie, lots of cameras.”

She didn’t have the opportunity to respond before Marlow began to speak.

“I’m Attorney Dennis Marlow, and I represent Mitchell Kruger. My client is accused of murdering his wife almost a year ago. Mr. Kruger has maintained his innocence from day one, and his story has never changed. Namely, that Mrs. Kruger walked out after a heated argument and never returned. We have maintained sincere efforts to locate Mrs. Kruger, but to no avail. Her body was never recovered, and the state’s evidence against my client has always been circumstantial.”

Sally bristled at this bit of theatrics. Most evidence in any case was circumstantial—it wasn’t as if criminal acts were routinely captured on video. Marlow knew better, but lines like “circumstantial evidence” often played well to juries.

The attorney continued. “We have cooperated with the investigation without conceding Mr. Kruger’s involvement in his wife’s disappearance. He was not involved. He, too, was a victim.”

Sally glanced across the crowd of colleagues and caught her friend Tessa’s eye. Tessa made a gesture as if she was about to vomit. Sally shook her head. Mr. Kruger was a victim now? Marlow was really pushing it.

“I’m pleased to announce that now, on the eve of Mr. Kruger’s trial, we are about to clear his good name once and for all.” Marlow looked up from his notes and gestured to the right of the screen. “My client couldn’t have killed his wife, because she’s with us here today.”

Sally’s blood rushed to her feet, and a chill settled in its place as a figure crossed the screen to the lectern. She’d looked at hundreds of pictures of Mitch Kruger’s wife over the course of this investigation and in preparation for trial, imagining the terror the poor woman must have felt in her last moments. Sally knew Mrs. Kruger. The shape of her face. The shade of her white-blond hair. Her slender build.

Through private interviews with her closest friends and family, Sally knew even more than that. She knew that Mrs. Kruger liked country music, line dancing and beer. That she didn’t care for gardening, but kept small potted plants that she tended with love. That she loved her shar-pei, Pookie, and would never, ever have willingly left him with Mitch. Sally knew that Mrs. Kruger was dead.

But then the woman smiled shyly at the camera and said, “Hello. I’m Ronnie Kruger.”

And stupid Ben had the nerve to whisper, “Sally, I think there’s a problem with your case.”

Chapter 2

Ronnie had never been one for card games. The dubious honor of household poker expert belonged to Mitch. “Everyone has a tell,” he’d once informed her over a gin gimlet on the rocks. “A twitch, a smile. Something that lets you know they’re hiding something.”

She’d taken a sip of her icy drink. Three glasses in, and she no longer pinched her lips against the sourness. “I don’t,” she’d said, lowering the glass to the table and licking her lips. “I come from a large family, so I’ve learned how to be a good liar.”

“Is that a fact?” One corner of his mouth had lifted in amusement.

“Absolutely. In a big family, someone’s always looking over your shoulder. I learned a long time ago that if I ever wanted any privacy, I’d have to know how to keep secrets.”

He’d clinked the ice cubes in his glass thoughtfully. “Maybe you can keep secrets, but you can’t hide them completely.”

“Oh?”

He’d set his drink down and placed his hand on the table. Then he’d rubbed the tip of his forefinger against the pad of his thumb. “That’s it, you know. Your tell. I noticed it when you told me you liked the restaurant I chose last week.”

“Huh.” He was right. She’d hated that restaurant. She’d raised her glass and downed the remainder. “And what’s yours?” This was back in the days when they’d flirted with each other, when she’d still found something exciting and arousing about him.

“Not me.” He’d winked. “I’ve eliminated all of my tells. That’s why I’m a hell of a poker player.”

She’d found him sexy and dangerous in that moment, for all the wrong reasons. Here was a man who could read her body’s secrets while he remained almost a complete mystery to her. It was naive on her part to believe he’d never turn it against her. Liars lie, and erasing his own tell simply meant he was an especially practiced liar.

Unlike her. Ever since that conversation, she’d realized how right he was. She was a terrible liar. Her fingertips jumped and twitched when she felt nervous, as she did right now. A press conference? She hadn’t expected that, and this lawyer that Mitch had somehow scrounged up gave her the creeps. He looked like a kid at his own birthday party, hopping around as if he was loaded up on cake and ice cream and drooling about the new bicycle in the driveway.

“This way,” he said with a too-smooth smile as he placed his hand on her elbow to pull her through the hordes of cameras and journalists.

Don’t touch me. She yanked her arm out of his reach, but he didn’t appear to take any offense at the gesture. The old Ronnie might have allowed him to continue to clutch her, for fear of hurting his feelings. The old Ronnie was demure to a fault. Self-sacrificing. She was the school nurse who listened patiently while kids talked about their fake ailments and shared disgusting information about their bodily functions and sexual habits. That Ronnie took it all in stride with a smile. That was the Ronnie who carried little breath mints in her pockets, those sweet red-and-white candies that she’d learned long ago were universally loved and accepted. Sorry your menstrual cramps are so bad, honey. Would you like a mint?

The new Ronnie didn’t carry mints, and neither did she put up with crap like strange men acting overly familiar. I don’t care if you’re his lawyer, his doctor or his priest. None of that makes us friends.

Wormy. That was what the lawyer was. All smug and pleased as punch about her sudden appearance. “This is big,” he confided as they pulled away from the crowd. He was a close talker, and for a second she wished she still carried those mints around. “Real big. You just blew a hole in this side of the prosecution’s case.”

Ronnie smiled tightly. “I’m only here because Mitch is innocent,” she said in a forced saccharine voice. “I just feel terrible that this confusion has continued for so long.”

They were heading down the sidewalk now, and Ronnie winced at the distance to the car. She’d worn the wrong shoes, that was for sure. In fairness, she’d had only a short time to get dressed after she’d arrived. She’d barely been able to sleep on the plane, not knowing what she’d be in for once she landed. She’d gone zombielike to the closet in her home and blinked at the many clothes she’d forgotten about completely. Sweaters and sensible cardigans and so much beige. The old Ronnie had liked beige. Maybe being in a bright landscape like Vegas for almost a year had changed her taste. This Ronnie gravitated toward bright blues and rosy-pinks. They reminded her of the desert sunset.

She’d selected a sensible white blouse, a cardigan in a muted dusty-rose, and a string of pearls. She’d paired the ensemble with a dull gray pencil skirt that fell below her knees and black heels that pinched her toes when she walked. The whole look was dull dull dull. She used to be like this? This boring? No wonder Mitch—

Well. She wasn’t going to think like that. All the beige in the world didn’t justify breaking marriage vows. She wasn’t going to make excuses for him.

She was done with old Ronnie. In her first week in Vegas, she’d come across a fresh snakeskin that a neighbor said had belonged to a rattlesnake. It was just lying there on the side of the road, as if the serpent had taken off its coat and then forgotten to collect it on its way out of the sunshine. It’s a sign, she’d thought. This is what I am now. New Ronnie, who’s shed her old skin.

She’d picked up the remnant, taken it into the motel room she was renting, then spread it out on the bed. She’d never been out West before, and had never seen a snakeskin. The dull scales were brilliantly beautiful under the light, and she’d tried to imagine the sheen of the new ones. Each time the snake shed its old skin, she imagined, it would grow stronger, thicker and more deadly. Glossy and self-confident, it wouldn’t fear anymore.

Hadn’t Ronnie understood when she’d left Connecticut that night that she would never be the same? She’d started changing before she’d even climbed into the metallic cocoon of the airplane. But it wasn’t until she’d found that snakeskin that she knew what she was changing into. In that moment when she’d noticed the discarded pelt from the deadly animal, she’d understood in her heart that she hadn’t come out to Vegas to become a butterfly. She’d come out to become a poisonous snake.

“Ronnie.” The lawyer beamed at her again. “I should’ve asked sooner if I could get you something. Breakfast, perhaps? A coffee?”

He’d placed his hand on the small of her back, and the contact made her cold. “I’m fine,” she replied icily, and with a pointed glare at his arm. “And I’d prefer if you’d keep your hands to yourself.”

* * *

Sally didn’t have to turn to see who was barreling down the hall. Only one person had those footsteps. “Sally! Where is she?” Jack bellowed. He stopped when he saw her. “We need to talk.”

Her stomach knotted. “Your office?”

“Yours. It’s closer.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried not to sway from the reeling in her head. Ronnie Kruger was alive. Good for her, she supposed. Bad for the office, and really bad for Sally herself.

“I need to call Dennis Marlow,” she said weakly, stunned by what she’d just seen. “Mitch Kruger is still in jail.” She placed her palm against her cheek and shook her head, which did nothing to order her thoughts. “I need to find out what’s going on first.”

Jack’s face softened. “I’ll stop by in a few.”

She trudged to her office, well aware of the eyes of her colleagues following her. Now the calmness of her sanctuary offered little reassurance. She drew the blinds. Darkness was preferable—she needed to hide.

Marlow must have been waiting for her call, because he answered after the first ring. “Why, it’s Sally Dawson,” he cooed in an unctuous voice. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“You’ve got some nerve, Dennis,” Sally hissed into the receiver. “A press conference? A freaking press conference?”

“It’s nice to finally hear from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were my first call. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. I left messages on your office phone.”

Sally glanced at the device. Sure enough, it was blinking red to indicate she had a message. She sat in her chair, not wanting to admit that she’d been both late and distracted that morning. “I didn’t get the messages. But there’s no excuse whatsoever. You have a hundred ways to reach me.” She took a breath, trying to steady her nerves. “So Mrs. Kruger...what? Wandered back into town this morning?”

“She called me last night and said she was flying in from Vegas. I only met her this morning, and verified her identity.”

“And you couldn’t give me a heads-up before sending out a press release?” Sally pressed her fingers against her shut eyelids. “Dammit, Dennis. You’ve turned this into a three-ring circus.”

“Oh, come now,” he said, clicking his tongue. “This was a circus long before this morning. This case has been held up by the state’s attorney as an example of his staff’s dedication. You’re all so tough on crime and so clever that you don’t even need a body to go to trial. The magic of forensic science and all that.” He snorted. “I just shone the spotlight in a different direction. All of this works to my client’s advantage, really. Maximum impact.”

She rubbed at her forehead. God, was he right about maximum impact. The press was going to love this little gift.

“You need to file an emergency motion and withdraw all charges,” Marlow continued flatly. “Have it heard immediately so Mitch can get out of jail. He’s been held without bail for months. I hope it doesn’t come out later that you’ve been withholding evidence that would have exonerated my client.” His tone was pointed.

Withholding evidence. Marlow didn’t need to come out and say explicitly what she knew he was thinking. The state had charged a man with murdering a wife who turned out to be very much alive. He’d be searching high and low for proof that the state had overlooked exonerating evidence to manipulate the investigation’s outcome. A civil lawsuit could follow, and quickly. “I’d like to meet with Mrs. Kruger before I file anything. Once I verify her identity for myself, I’ll file a motion to withdraw all charges immediately. That goes without saying.”

“We’re at city hall now. We can be at your office in twenty minutes. Half an hour, tops.” Marlow sighed loudly into the phone. “I probably don’t need to tell you this, but this has been a long nightmare for my client. First his wife walks out on him, then the state brings charges against him for her murder. He lost his job. His son was set to testify against him. This proceeding has done immense harm to Mitch’s reputation and familial relations.”

Heat climbed into Sally’s chest. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, Dennis. The state may ultimately have been mistaken, but we aren’t liable for any wrongdoing. We brought that case on sound forensic evidence.”

He laughed drily. “Not so sound, was it? Not really, when the alleged victim is still alive.”

Sally balled one fist and brought it to her lap, digging her fingernails into her palms. This was Marlow’s little way of informing her that Mr. Kruger would be bringing one hell of a lawsuit. It didn’t matter whether the suit was actually successful; the bad press would be damaging enough to the office. She bit her cheek until it hurt, to keep from saying anything she’d regret. “I’ll see you in our conference room in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be there with bells on.”

She had no sooner slammed her phone down than Jack darkened her doorway. “Sally.”

Her boss’s hands were on his hips, and his face was red. Not angry red, just an alarmed shade of ripened tomato. That made two of them.

“You finish everything you need to do?”

She propped her elbows on her desk and rested her head in her hands. What a nightmare. “Yes, sir. For now. I’m meeting with Dennis in twenty. I need to meet the vic—Mrs. Kruger—for myself.” How disorienting to hear those words out loud, when she’d spent nearly a year thinking of Ronnie Kruger as a concealed body, not a living woman.

“You want to tell me how it is that the murder victim in your case is holding a press conference?”

“Besides stating the obvious?” She looked up to meet his concerned eyes. “You can’t be mad at me, Jack. I’ve prepared for that case exhaustively. I just...” She shook her head, not knowing what she thought anymore. “The evidence was good. Solid. It was Mrs. Kruger’s blood on that rug. There was too much blood for her to have survived. It all added up.” Sally rubbed her temples. It didn’t make sense.

“It’s my fault. The hours you’ve been pulling... I should’ve given you help a long time ago.” He planted himself in her visitor’s chair. His thick eyebrows pulled together, wrinkling the skin on his forehead, and he cursed. “We need to fix this. Quickly.”

She thought of that press conference, how Marlow had chosen to drag Mrs. Kruger out into the spotlight to humiliate Sally, the office and the police. “He let his client sit in jail so that he could shock us all with the news.” Her cheeks grew hot.

“We were about to bring a man to trial for a murder that never happened,” Jack said, loosening his tie. “I don’t think I need to lecture you on the seriousness of this.”

Her heart fell to the floor. No, he didn’t, but he may as well have with that last comment. The effect was equally humiliating. “No, sir. Believe me.”

A quiet rage flickered in her gut. She’d worked her rear off to get to where she was—one of the lead attorneys in the homicide division. She’d worked late nights and weekends for the better part of a decade, sharpening her skills. This case was just like any other: she’d pored over the evidence carefully and taken her responsibilities seriously. Even if Jack didn’t exactly see it, she was certain that the evidence had been manipulated and a trap set. Sally had spent most of her life being underestimated and taken lightly, and she’d worked hard to prove everyone wrong. No one was going to make a fool out of her.

She tried to keep her voice steady now, but it sounded shaky, as if her words were being dragged over gravel. “I’m going to review that file. I’m going to figure this out. Some crime was committed, and whether it was an attempt to commit insurance fraud or murder...” She looked at him. “I’ll fix it. I promise.”