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.