At Close Range

“He brutally beat another kid to death, simply because that kid’s skin wasn’t white.”

“And what about the mothers whose children I take away? Where’s my compassion then?”

“With the children. Would you want them suffering from malnutrition and skin disease the way you did?”

“I don’t know.” Hannah shook her head, looking inward. “I examine the facts and make decisions. I don’t think I feel anything at all.”

When Brian’s brows drew together, she figured she’d convinced him. And was disappointed that it hadn’t been harder. She wasn’t surprised, though.

“How well do you sleep at night?”

“Depends on the night.”

“Any night after a trial.” And when she didn’t immediately answer, he added, “Or a sentencing. Which,” he went on without letting her answer, “would be just about every Friday night, wouldn’t it?”

The man remembered too much. Or else she talked too much.

“What do you usually do on Friday nights, Hannah?”

He knew what she did. She’d turned down enough invitations from him over the years.

“When I’m not at a SIDS conference, you mean?”

He nodded.

“I come home. Have a quiet dinner…”

“Usually a frozen dinner you microwave because you don’t have the energy to cook. Though you love to cook.”

Peering over at her with his head slightly bent, Brian reminded her of a teacher she’d once had who’d always seemed to think she wasn’t giving him her best effort.

“I have dinner and then I either read a book or take a hot bath or both.”

“And have a glass of wine.”

“One. Sometimes.”

“All to help you relax so that you can sleep.”

Smart-ass.

“Am I right?”

He knew he was. There was no point in admitting the obvious.

“Just because my job takes a lot out of me doesn’t mean I’m a nurturer.”

Brian clasped his hands on his lap in front of him. “I’m prepared to argue this the rest of the night.”

“So am I.”

And they did.

In the end, Hannah felt a lot better. But she still wasn’t convinced.

Watching the beautiful woman seated next to him in Symphony Hall Saturday night, William Horne couldn’t help the frisson of worry in his gut. Hannah could hardly keep her eyes open, and while she’d said that she’d slept and was fine, he knew there were things she wasn’t telling him.

His son, twelve-year-old Francis, had played his piece. William wouldn’t be seeing him after the show. He wouldn’t be seeing him at all until his mother had one more day in court. With a judge specially appointed from another county.

“You want to go?” He leaned over to whisper in her ear.

Frowning, she shook her head. “I’m enjoying this.” And then, her expression suddenly compassionate, she added, “Unless you want to?”

He did. Kind of. But not if she was actually relaxing. Enjoying herself.

“No, I’m fine.” He smiled. Covered her hand where it lay on the armrest between them—a rare show of the physical affection he fought so hard to hold in check.

She’d outdone herself that evening, dressed in a figure-hugging black dress that brushed her calves. Her hair was swept up in an array of curls, leaving her neck exposed. And the diamond hoops threaded through her earlobes had been driving him crazy.

Lately, everything about this woman drove him crazy. From her body to her intellect and personality, she was under his skin.

As the concert went on, shrouding him in a cocoon of darkness and classical music and Hannah’s perfume, he let his mind dwell more intimately on the woman beside him.