The First Wife. Tara Quinn Taylor

The police are doing all they can, but how much time do I have before this person decides I’m not going to do what’s right?”

      “I guess that depends on what they want you to do.”

      “Right, and if I don’t do it, what’s the ‘or else’?”

      Brad had no answer to that, either, but whatever the “or else” meant, it couldn’t be good.

      “What about Durango? Did they find anything there?”

      “Not yet, but I ran into Kim Maplewood this morning.”

      Brad straightened when he heard the name. His client was no longer officially associated with Jane, but she had a very angry ex-husband. “What’d she have to say?”

      He was more uncomfortable than ever when he heard about Shawn’s visit to his minister.

      “He needs someone to blame in lieu of taking accountability for his own actions and since blaming Kim didn’t work…” Brad let the thought trail off.

      “I know. Thomas said he’s going to bring Shawn in for questioning.”

      Brad was glad to hear it, but didn’t feel any better about her safety. “And in the meantime?”

      “I called Barbara Manley.” Barbara was Jane’s boss and the publisher of a much more established and highly respected national news magazine. Jane had written for the publication before heading up Twenty-Something. “The company is footing the bill for upgraded security in our building and to have someone watch my house at night, too.”

      “I’m glad to hear that. Keep your phone close by.”

      “I will.”

      “And your mace.”

      “I always do.”

      “Call me if you so much as hear the wind whistle.”

      “Okay.”

      “Or if you just plain get scared. I’m two minutes away and sleep just fine on the couch.”

      He’d spent the night at her house before, when she’d been sick. And a time or two on holidays when they’d had more to drink than safe driving allowed.

      “I’ll be fine,” she insisted and Brad had a feeling that no matter how scared she might get in the middle of the night, he was not going to be the one she called.

      Whether Jane wanted to admit it or not, things had changed between them.

      The knowledge left him empty and sad. He was worried as hell about her. And helpless to do a damned thing that would make the situation better.

      THE BLACK SUIT? Or the red one? Black spoke of power and authority. Its absence of color blocked emotional accessibility. Black commanded respect. Red meant energy. Strength. An ability to take action. It also spoke of passion.

      Jane threw the black suit into her suitcase. Black with a white blouse. Elegant. Respectable.

      And untouchable. She hoped.

      She also hoped that the issue on clothing colors that they’d run the previous year was more than just psychological mumbo jumbo. She’d read every article before publication. Most of the stuff she’d heard before. Some she hadn’t. Like the information about Elizabethan clothes colors.

      Back then England had had Sumptuary Laws that dictated the colors people could wear. It had to do with immediate recognition of a social class, but also with the expense of fabrics and dyes. Red, black and white were colors worn mostly by royalty.

      And the lower class…whatever. She really didn’t care about Elizabethan clothes.

      Adding her cosmetic bag, Jane zipped her suitcase shut and pulled it from bed to floor with ease. What she really cared about was that her flight to Ohio—to meet with the prosecutor in her ex-husband’s trial—left in a little over three hours. Which meant Brad would be arriving momentarily.

      She was nervous about the drive. About being alone with him. That last conversation on Monday, he’d sounded different by the time they hung up. A bit distant. And other than a quick call each evening to confirm that the unmarked security car was outside her house, Jane hadn’t heard from him since.

      Before Saturday, they’d talked just about every day.

      “Come on, Petunia, let’s get you fed,” she said, forcing cheer into her tone as she took a container of chopped-up green beans from the refrigerator. The rescue macaw, the family member she’d adopted during a spread on animal abuse, used to scream on a daily basis. Now she only did so when she sensed that Jane was upset.

      “Beans. Pet beans… Beans. Pet beans for Pet.” The twenty-four-inch blue beauty chirped, skittering to the back of her perch and watching as Jane filled her dish. “Beans. Pet beans for Pet.” As usual, Jane took an extra couple of minutes to smooth the young bird’s silky feathers.