Eleventh Hour

When she left, I was devastated.”
    “How did she die, Senator?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Did she tell you she was leaving you, Senator?”
    “No.”
    “Are you glad she’s dead, Senator?”
    Senator John Rothman looked at the woman who’d asked him that. A very long look. The woman squirmed. He said finally, “I will not dignify that question with an answer. Anyone else?”
    Another TV-news reporter yelled out, “Did you kill your wife, Senator?”
    He didn’t say anything for a very long time, just looked at the reporter, as if he were judging him, and the conclusion he’d reached wasn’t positive. He said, his voice weary, resigned, “It’s always amazed me how some of you in the media, in the middle of a crisis—large or small—are like a pack of rats.”
    There was silence, some shuffling of feet, some angry whispers and outraged faces.
    Nick stared at the man she’d come so close to marrying. Some of the reporters who were furious at what he’d said started to yell out more questions, but stopped. Everyone was looking at him—his face was naked, open, the pain stark and there for everyone to see. She saw tears streaming down his face, saw that he tried to say something but couldn’t. Or pretended to. He shook his head at the straining group, turned, and walked away, his aides surrounding him, a barrier between him and all the reporters. Tall, stiff, a man suffering. The reporters, all the camera crews watched him. And the thing was—no one yelled any more questions at him. The sound of the cameras was the only noise. She watched him walk out of the room, a man in pain, his head down, shoulders hunched forward. A tragic figure.
    Nick was shaken. She’d never seen John Rothman cry. She felt a moment of doubt before she quashed it beneath the rippling fear she’d felt when she’d awakened from that dream and known, all the way to her soul, that all three attempts on her life had been made by the same man, the man John Rothman had hired to murder her.
    The fact was that John Rothman had also tracked down his ex-wife and murdered her in cold blood. Or had he hired the same man to kill Cleo Rothman? The autopsy would show that she’d been dead for no longer than four weeks. That was when Cleo had written the letter that had saved her life. Only Cleo had died.
    A local reporter turned and said with great understatement, “Senator John Rothman appears very saddened at the discovery of his wife’s grave by a hunter’s dog yesterday. Cleo Rothman’s remains were identified this morning. We will keep you informed as details emerge from this grisly case.”
    Nick walked slowly to the TV and turned it off. She started shaking, just couldn’t help it.
    She looked up to see Dane watching her from across the room. He was leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest.
    She hadn’t heard him come in. And that was a surprise. She’d become very attuned to him over the past week. Only a week. It was amazing. She tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it. She said finally, “Did you see it?”
    “Yes.”
    “There’s no proof, Dane. Nothing’s changed. I know you must have found out that there’s no missing-person’s report on me because I did have the sense to write to my dean at the university about a personal emergency.”
    “And your point would be?”
    He didn’t move, just said when she held silent, his voice very low, “It’s time to tell me all of it, Dr. Campion. There are no more distractions to keep us away from this. Linus is dead. Detective Flynn is with the district attorney deciding what to do about Captain DeLoach, and Weldon will survive. How is Senator John Rothman connected to you, Nick? I want all of it. Now.”
    “Up until three weeks ago, he was my fiancé.”
    “He was what? Jesus, Nick, I want to know how you could get caught up with a man old enough to be your father. I can’t believe that—No, wait, I want to know, but not just yet.” He crossed the space between them, jerked her against him, and kissed her.
    When he let up just a bit, he was breathing hard and fast. Nick’s eyes, once tear-sheened, were now vague and hot. She said into his mouth, “Oh, God. Dane, this is—” She went up on her tiptoes and grabbed him tightly to her. She was kissing him, nipping his jaw, licking his bottom lip, her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, closer still, pushing into him, wanting him. She groaned when his tongue touched hers.
    “Nick, no, no, we