Page 67 of Trust No One

We left the hospital and crossed the street to the Bones Café. Streetlamps cut the darkness, creating the illusion that nighttime didn’t really exist in the world of medicine. It also didn’t matter in legal defense. How many times had Ken’s phone rung in the middle of the night when a high-profile client was in trouble? I’d listen to his gruff responses as I rolled on my side away from him. He’d kiss me on the cheek, and then he’d be gone.

He opened the door for me, and we stepped into a room buzzing with people dressed in all flavors of scrubs. We grabbed the last two seats at the bar.

He ordered a beer. White wine for me. I was good for one so I could drive home.

Six months ago, I’d never have pictured myself with Ken in a bar. I had visualized burying him alive or pushing him off a building, but not sitting casually beside him as we’d done since high school.

“I miss you,” he said.

“No, you don’t.” The bartender set a basket of nuts in front of me, and I scooped up a handful, needing a task more than the calories.

“I do. We have something good.”

“Now we don’t.”

“That was my fault,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

“Life goes on, Ken.” He still hadn’t taken himself off my calling plan, so when I was feeling masochistic, I would read a few of his texts. The numbers didn’t have names attached to them, but judging by the syntax, he was seducing a new woman on a regular basis.

“Any theories on who might have poisoned Maria?” he asked.

“No.”

“Gabe’s going to be the top of every cop’s list. He had motive and opportunity.”

“I can’t see that. She stuck by him when he was arrested and went to jail. And when his business faltered, she took on more hours.”

“No telling what’s going on in someone’s mind. I’ve had clients snap.”

“Amen.”

He raised his glass. “I wasn’t fair to you.”

“No, you were not.” I took a long sip of wine. “That’s the past.”

“It ain’t over yet.”

“I’ve signed the papers. Now you need to do the same.”

“I haven’t received the papers from my attorney yet.”

“They’ve been on his desk for a month.”

“I haven’t gotten them.”

“That’s not what my attorney says.” Frustration coiled in my belly. This was a familiar dance for us.

“I’ve been slammed. Ending our marriage isn’t a priority for me.”

“It is for me. Just sign and get them back as soon as you can.” This conversation had taken a turn I should have seen coming. How could we have avoided the divorce? By not getting married. “I better get going.”

“There’s no rush.”

I grabbed my purse and stood. “This was a bad idea.”

He gripped my wrist, trapping it in a gentle embrace that could harden in a snap. “I love you. I want to work this out.”

The words tugged me back to a time when I’d lived for him to say this.