A Little Secret between Friends. C.J. Carmichael

      Even as she had that thought, she pictured Colin Foster reclined on the chair in her bedroom, watching her with a light in his eyes that she recognized all too well.

      Had he realized how much she’d wanted to invite him into her bed with her?

      Oh, Lord. How could she feel this way about the man who had been her best friend’s husband?

      CHAPTER FOUR

      SINCE BETH’S DEATH, Colin had started getting to work late. This was a direct corollary to his sleeping pattern, which involved tossing restlessly in bed until about four or five in the morning, at which time he would finally drop off, only to be awoken by his alarm a few hours later.

      Inevitably, he hit the snooze button. Once, twice, a third time.

      There was no warm body beside him to kick his shin. No cranky voice to say, “If you hit that thing one more time…”

      As a teacher, Beth’s workday had started an hour later than his. A good thing, since she’d never been a morning person, while Colin loved the peace and quiet of dawn, the opportunity to savor the beginning of a day filled with possibilities. In an ideal world, he was the first to arrive at the office. He’d turn on the photocopier, start a pot of coffee, then sequester himself in his office to review the list of cases he would be prosecuting that day.

      This Monday morning, however, was turning out far from ideal. After too many jabs of the snooze button, he rushed into the office only thirty minutes before he needed to be in court. Aware that his jacket was improperly buttoned and his jaw still bled from a rush job of shaving, he tried to hurry into the sanctuary of his office.

      “Good morning, Mr. Foster.” The front-desk receptionist eyed him with an indulgent, if slightly worried, smile.

      He ducked his head and aimed for the main corridor where he almost bowled over a prosecutor he’d worked with for years.

      “Hi, Colin. Any chance you can make lunch tomorrow?”

      “I’ll get back to you on that.” He nodded and picked up his pace. Only a couple more steps and he would be—

      The articling student he’d hired last summer materialized in front of him. “I have a question about that file you left on my desk yesterday.”

      He held up a hand, in a gesture that meant later, and finally slipped gratefully into his office. He closed the door, sighed then turned around.

      Only to see one of the junior prosecutors waiting by the window. Judith Daigle had entered the law profession late, after a messy divorce at age thirty-three. She was now thirty-eight, a member of the bar and, since Beth’s death, unremittingly attentive.

      “Good morning, Colin. Did you have a good weekend? I hope you enjoyed the casserole.”

      Colin didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth—that he’d tossed it, and the aluminum pan it came in, straight into the garbage. Once, when he’d stopped by Judith’s house to drop off a writ, he’d seen a fat orange tabby—one of several of Judith’s cats—parading on her kitchen table. With that picture in his mind, he couldn’t bring himself to eat any of the meals she so thoughtfully prepared for him.

      He wished he could think of some polite way to make her stop cooking for him.

      “How was your weekend, Judith?” He slid behind his desk, aligned the buttons on his jacket, then tapped on his keyboard. Sixty-five unread messages in his e-mail in-box. God only knows how many he’d find in voice mail.

      “My weekend was quiet.” Judith always gave the same answer when he asked that question.

      Colin suspected she was looking to him to change the situation. As with the casseroles, he wished he could think of some polite way to make her stop.

      “I thought you might want to review the Mueller case. As you suspected, he does have a record of similar offenses.”

      “Is the record in his file?” Colin opened the top one in a pile on his desk.

      “Yes, I—”

      “That should be all I need, then.” He slipped on the reading glasses he had only just begun to need and focused on the papers in front of him, barely registering the moment when Judith left the room.

      I should have said thanks, at least. He felt guilty about that. But then, Judith had a way of making him feel guilty about a lot of things.

      If it wasn’t for the cats, maybe things could have been different. She owned so many. He’d counted five on that one visit. Judith was attractive. Intelligent. Obviously available. She had nice legs, too.

      Not as nice as Sally’s, but then Sally was a bit of a phenomenon in that area.

      He’d wondered how far he would get into his day before he thought of her. But this wasn’t even the first time. Visions of her had been in his head when he woke up this morning. And she’d come to mind a couple times during the drive to work, as well.

      She wasn’t telling him the truth about Friday night. He knew that for sure. He could have bought a burned hand. But a fall against the granite counter, too? No way. Not unless she’d had a seizure of some sort.

      He drew a question mark on the pad of paper by his phone. Could that be it? Was Sally ill?

      He hated that possibility. But it was an option he had to consider, although Neil’s pen on the otherwise spotless counter suggested a second scenario. Perhaps Sally and her ex had argued. Then what? Colin knew their divorce had been far from amicable, but he couldn’t picture the sophisticated and courteous Neil resorting to physical violence.

      Had someone else been in the house, then? After Neil left? One of Sally’s client’s disgruntled husbands?

      The buzzer on the phone intercom sounded, cutting into his conjectures. “Mr. Foster? It’s time for you to go to court.”

      Hell. He hadn’t even finished reviewing the files. Colin gathered them into a stack, then shoved them into his briefcase, promising himself he’d follow up on Sally’s “accident” later.

      DURING THE DRIVE HOME, Colin’s speculations focused on the possibility that Sally might have suffered a seizure of some sort. But if so, why not admit the truth to him? Was she worried that if news of her illness became known, it might get in the way of her judicial aspirations?

      He’d heard the scuttlebutt and knew she was a favored contender for Justice Willa Kendal’s position on the Queen’s Bench. Willa had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s a few months ago and was officially retiring at the beginning of June.

      Her replacement would be announced shortly after that date and Sally was high on the committee’s list of potential candidates for several reasons. First, she was a woman, and given the current composition of the courts, that was an important factor. Although she was young, Sally had had a distinguished career. Her integrity was unquestioned. Her politics fortuitously aligned with the current reigning powers.

      Colin pulled into his garage, surprised to find himself home already. His stomach felt a little off, and it only took a minute for him to realize why.

      I don’t want Sally to be sick.

      She didn’t look unwell, but then neither had Beth, at least not in the beginning.

      Colin was suddenly so weary he could hardly get out of his vehicle. As his gaze skimmed by the Miata, his conscience pricked. He’d promised himself he was going to start doing the things that needed to be done.

      And he would. But later.

      In the house, he went straight to the kitchen, to the fridge, to the line of aluminum cans that filled the space that had once contained real food like milk and juice and carefully labeled Tupperware containers of leftovers.

      He snagged a beer, was about to close the fridge door, when he noticed the plastic container behind the dozen ale. He’d seen it a hundred