I hold her tightly. I’m sure that’s not true.

When she was in the hospital, Sage says, when she was dying, she told me, I forgive you. There’s no reason to forgive someone, unless you know they’ve done something wrong.

Sometimes bad things just happen, I say. I brush my thumb over her cheek, tracing the topographical rise and valley of her scars.

She catches my hand, brings it to her mouth, kisses it. And sometimes, good things do.

• • •

I have a thousand excuses.

It was the red wine.

The white.

The stress of the day.

The stress of the job.

The way her black dress hugged her curves.

The fact that we were lonely/horny/sublimating grief.

Freud would have plenty to say about my indiscretion. So would my boss. What I’ve done—taking advantage of a woman who was instrumental in an open HRSP case, one who had attended a funeral hours before—is unconscionable.

Worse, I’d do it all over again.

Eva the dog is giving me the evil eye. And why shouldn’t she? She witnessed the whole sordid, intense, amazing affair.

Sage is still asleep in the bedroom. Because I do not trust myself to be near her, I’m out here on the couch in my boxers and T-shirt, poring over Reiner Hartmann’s file with every ounce of Jewish guilt I can muster. I can’t undo what I did last night to take advantage of Sage, but I can damn well figure out a way to make sure this case doesn’t get ruined in the process.

“Hi.”

When I turn around, there she is wearing my white button-down shirt. It almost covers her. Almost.

I stand up, torn between grabbing her and dragging her back to bed, and doing the right thing. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “That was a mistake.”

Her eyes widen. “It didn’t feel like a mistake.”

“You’re hardly in any condition to be thinking clearly right now. I knew better, even if you didn’t.”

“Marge says that it’s normal to crave life when you’re in the throes of death. And that was pretty lively.”

“Marge?”

“She runs the grief group.”

“Oh,” I sigh. “Fabulous.”

“Look. I want you to know that in spite of what you’ve seen in the few days you’ve known me, I’m not usually... like this. I don’t... you know.”

Right. Because you’re in love with the married funeral director,” I say, rubbing my hand through my hair and making it stand on end. I’d forgotten about him last night, too.

“That’s over,” she says. “Completely.”

My head snaps up. “You’re sure?”

“Dead certain. So to speak.” She takes a step toward me. “Does that make this less of a mistake?”

“No,” I say, starting to pace. “Because you’re still involved in one of my cases.”

“I thought that was over, too, since there’s no way to identify Josef anymore as Reiner Hartmann.”

That’s not true.

The caveat flies like a red standard in the battlefield of my mind.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-21