Shakespeares Champion Page 0,61

with a sigh, and his face looked immeasurably older than it had been. "And what happened to you." His finger traced the worst scar, the one circling my right breast.

I lay close to him, put my arm over his chest. "No," I said. "We don't have to."

"The funny thing is," he said quietly, "Karen wrote that letter herself."

"Oh, no."

"She did." After all this time, there was still pained wonder in his voice. "It was from her typewriter. She wanted Walter to know. I'll never understand why. Maybe she wanted more attention from him. Maybe she wanted him to initiate a divorce. Maybe she wanted us to fight over her. I thought I knew her, thought I loved her. But I won't ever know why she did that."

I thought of things I could say, even things I wanted to say, but none of them could repair the damage I'd recalled to his mind. Nothing could ever make up for what Karen Kingsland had done to Jack, what he had done to himself. Nothing could ever get back Jack's job, his reputation. And I knew nothing would ever erase the memory of Karen's head exploding in front of his eyes.

And nothing could ever erase what had happened to me a couple of months afterward: the abduction, the rape, the cutting, the man I'd shot. I felt the urge to make some good memories.

I swung my leg over him, straddled him, bent to kiss him, smoothed his long black hair against the white lace-trimmed pillowcase. I was not ashamed of my scars with Jack Leeds. He had a full set of his own. I told him, close to his ear, that I was about to take him inside me again. I told him how it would feel. I could hear him draw his breath, and soon I could feel his excitement. My own heart was pounding.

It was even better this time.

"Why housecleaning?" he asked later.

"I knew how to do it, and I could do it by myself." That was the short answer, and true enough, as far as it went. "Why detective? What kind are you, anyway?"

"Private. Based in Little Rock. I knew how to do it, and I could do it by myself." He smiled at me, a small smile, but there. "After a two-year apprenticeship with another detective, that is. There was another ex-cop from Memphis working there. I knew him a little."

So Jack must be working for the Winthrops.

"I have to get dressed. I have an appointment," I said, trying not to sound sad or regretful. So my departure wouldn't seem too abrupt - cold, as Marshall would have said - I gave Jack a kiss before I swung out of bed. Somehow, the further away from him I moved, the more I became conscious of my scars. I saw his eyes on them, seeing them for the first time in one frame, so to speak. I stood still, letting him look. But it was very hard, and my fists clenched.

"I'd kill them all for you if I could," he said.

"At least I killed one," I said. Our eyes met. He nodded.

I took a wonderful hot shower and shaved my legs and washed my hair and put on my makeup, restraining an urge to laugh out loud.

And I thought: Nothing. I will ask for nothing.

Jack had found his surviving clothes in the dryer and pulled them on. I eyed him thoughtfully, and rummaged in my drawers for one of those promotional T-shirts that are all one size. I'd gotten it when I'd donated blood. It had swallowed me, but it fit him, rather snugly; but it covered the bandage and his goose bumps. He winced as he maneuvered his left arm into its sleeve. I had the old jacket the hospital had pulled from its rummage closet, the one I'd worn home the day after the explosion. It fit, too.

He'd perked some coffee while I was showering, and he'd made an effort to pull the bedding straight.

"Normally I do better, but with my shoulder..." He apologized as I came into the bedroom to get my socks and sneakers.

"It's all right," I said briefly, and sat on the little chair in the corner to pull my socks on. I'd put on two T-shirts, which works better for me in cold weather than a sweatshirt - long sleeves are just a nuisance with housework. The edge of the pink tee peeked from under the sky blue of my outer shirt; happy colors.