Natasha Ryder hastily pulled on her clothes and carried her shoes to the door, careful not to wake Brian, or was it Baden? On the way out, she stole some cigarettes from the jacket he had worn half an hour before. So much for litigators, she thought. One climax led to an instant coma. Like many lawyers, the concept of afterplay or prolonging the moment was completely foreign.
Damn it. She’d managed twenty-nine days without so much as a craving. It was just a matter of self-control. This time the rush of sex made her covet it more. She could taste it on his lips and in his hair. The sex was average but the anticipation of a cigarette afterward kept her interested.
Rolling it between her thumb and index finger, she enjoyed the familiar feel of the paper, the smoothness, the sleekness. Just knowing it was bad for her made it so much more tempting.
The last few weeks had been some of the most stressful of her career. If she made the slightest mistake in prosecuting the Harbourns, her job could be on the line.
For God’s sake, the whole police force had done a collection for Sophie Goodwin’s medical treatment, after already offering to pay for the sister’s funeral. The public appeals had received over $50,000 in the last week. Every ghoulish reporter, makeover show and magazine wanted to do a story on Sophie, the miracle survivor. Public demand for justice exceeded anything she’d seen before.
It didn’t hurt that Sophie was a stunning-looking teenager in the photos of her before the attack, or that her sister had a smile every parent could be proud of. The girls next door who had tragically lost their mother but pulled together as a family only to have their lives shattered by the most heinous crimes. The grieving father who buried his ex-wife, a beloved daughter and kept a bedside vigil, praying his other child would survive. She couldn’t have scripted it better for public sympathy.
Natasha grabbed her briefcase and let herself out the front door of the unit. Outside, she lit the first cigarette with his lighter. The smell of burning tobacco made her salivate.
Instead of a taxi, she decided to savor the cigarette and walk the rest of the way home. Four blocks and a mild night might just make her feel alive again. Not numbed by the politics of prosecuting, or the lame stunts pulled by defense lawyers.
She thought about Anya Crichton and envied her in some small way. Life was simple when you could afford to be self-righteous and principled. She wasn’t answerable to the public the next time another victim appeared.
If the doctor had been willing to say she had seen marks on Giverny’s face before performing CPR, everything would now be different. She could have laid charges against the Harbourns for conspiracy to murder and kept them in jail. The others could have been rounded up and the Goodwin girls would never have suffered. Sophie would be enjoying being a teenager and her father would be looking forward to the next family Christmas.
How the hell could Anya claim to be ethically superior by sticking to her principles? Those principles had got Rachel Goodwin killed.
The cigarette was burning down too quickly. Natasha sucked every molecule of smoke into her lungs.
The streets were quiet, except for the occasional lovers walking along arm in arm. Restaurants and cafes had closed, business over for the day.
A tall woman, Natasha had never felt physically intimidated. She strutted with confidence and wouldn’t hesitate to fight back if anyone tried to hurt her. Besides, she always carried Mace just in case she ran into anyone from a case she’d been involved in.
Anya Crichton, on the other hand, was more maternal, the sort of woman men admired but wanted to look after. Even so, she was more resilient than Natasha had expected. She could hold her own in an argument and, in some way, that deserved respect.
She’d also grown up with the trauma of a missing sister and the subsequent media scrutiny. Maybe that gave Crichton her quiet strength. You never knew exactly what she was thinking, or how she would react.
Natasha stopped before the crossing to light another “cancer stick.” One more wouldn’t hurt. It was calming her down, and she had a few more hours’ work on the Harbourn trial tonight.
In her peripheral vision she saw a car slowing, far too early to let her cross. She walked on and saw an elderly man putting out his rubbish. The car still lagged behind.
“Excuse me, could you please tell me the time?”
She put down the briefcase and fiddled with her watch. The old man mentioned the hour and said something about hooligans letting off fireworks nearby. By then the car had passed.
Natasha collected her case and continued on. This trial was beginning to get to her. She was becoming paranoid. At this hour the driver was probably someone who’d drunk too much and didn’t want to attract police attention on the way home.
She turned the corner into her street and startled at the sound of a large crack followed by fireworks bursting in the air. A few more and then a break. She put the remains of the cigarette in her mouth and opened her front gate, this time juggling the briefcase and handbag to find her keys. The sensor light had blown yet again, which made the simple task more challenging.
Rummaging through her bag, she ignored her ringing phone, scooped out the keys and opened the front door. Whoever wanted her this late would just have to call back.
Just inside, Minty purred at her feet as she bent down to say hello.
“Hey gorgeous, did you miss me?”
She barely glimpsed the dark shoe behind her. Before she could turn or reach inside her bag, her head was shoved forward and her left arm yanked back, forcing her to her knees. A crack exploded behind her.