to the foyer. But she turned her back.”
“Pacing.”
Eve glanced at Roarke. “What?”
“Pacing. You do that when you’re thinking or upset. Stride away, back and away.”
“Huh. Yeah. She was upset, had gone there without telling her boss—and friend. Distracted. Got a date with the guy she’s in love with, but upset and distracted enough to stop off there first. Talking, pacing, and telling him—speculatively—something she’s figured out or knows that could implicate him with Ziegler. That’s what plays for me. And, like with Ziegler, he goes with the raging impulse of the moment. In this case, he pushes her. She falls hard and fast, and she’s dead. Blood coming fast, too. Head wound, you always get plenty of blood.”
Eve paced now, and the act of it made Roarke smile. “He left the room, had to leave the room or the wife would never have gotten so far on the nine-one-one call. Does he hear her? Maybe she screamed. People do when they walk in on blood and a body. So he rushes back in, sees her. And that rage is still pumping, so he goes after her. It’s what plays.”
“And fairly tidily,” Morris commented.
“Yeah, it’s the fairly I have to eliminate.”
“It’s going to be difficult for her family—the holidays. Difficult enough,” Morris continued, “to get through holidays after a loss, but when the loss is so closely connected to them, harder still.”
Hesitating, Eve slipped her hands into her pockets. “If they have any questions, you can tell them to contact me.”
“I will, but I should be able to answer most.”
“Okay, well. Listen, if you don’t have any plans for Christmas, you could hang with us.”
Morris looked at her. His eyes darkened a moment—a war of emotions. Then he crossed to her. “You won’t mind,” he said to Roarke, and laying his hands on Eve’s shoulders, kissed her cheeks, one then the other. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“It’s not that. It’s just . . . we’re pretty loose that day. Depending. Right?” she said, appealing to Roarke.
“We are. And no,” he said to Morris. “I don’t mind at all.”
“I’m spending the day with my parents, and some other family. I plan to leave tomorrow, early afternoon, if possible.”
“Good. That’s good.” Eve left her hands in her pockets, not sure what else to do with them. “Have a good one, Morris.”
“And you. Both of you.” He looked back at Catiana. “And we’ll all do our best by her.”
She worked on the drive home. She’d forgotten about dinner, Roarke thought, but he’d see she got food—even if it was that slice of pizza—once they were home.
He found he wanted home—symbol and sanctuary. So much loss in one night, so much rage and grief. And all, from what he could see, generated from one man. Trey Ziegler’s greed had spread ripples of betrayal, fear, blood, and murder.
Lost trust, lost love, lost joy, lost life.
So he wanted home, even though those losses would follow them.
“Mira reports severe anxiety attack as believed. No other issues, and no reason Copley can’t be interviewed tomorrow.” She frowned as they wound up the drive. “The lawyer will try to block. I may need to pull Reo in, block the block. I want to finish that fucker off. Check on Quigley, because I want to talk to her first thing in the morning, toss whatever she tells me at Copley.”
She got out of the car, looked up at the sky for a moment. No stars, she noted, no moon. A cold rain was coming.
“If they hadn’t had sex, they’d have been gone when we got there, had another few hours without knowing they’d lost someone they loved. The Schuberts.”
“I’m aware. The grief would still come, Eve, inevitably. And the fact they’d been together shows they’re not letting what happened with Ziegler divide them, mar their relationship. They’ll get through this easier because they’re together.”
“She’s disappointed in her sister,” Eve added as they went inside, started up. “She won’t let it get in the way, or not for long, but she’s disappointed not just because Quigley didn’t tell her she’d paid Ziegler for sex, but because Quigley cheated on Copley. She doesn’t have much respect for Copley under it all, but my sense is she has a lot for marriage—for the promises made.”
“And Quigley doesn’t.”
“The second time—we know of—she’s cheated. She doesn’t deserve to get her head bashed in over it, but she doesn’t earn a lot of respect, either.”
In her office, still wearing her coat, she walked around her