The Witness

be justice.”
    Her hand balled into a fist on the table for a moment before she ordered herself to relax it. “It’s hard not to feel sad and angry and even hopeless when bad things happen, because fear and influence and money often outweigh justice.”
    He leaned forward, laid a hand over hers. “Who hurt you?”
    She shook her head, said nothing.
    “Not yet, then.”
    “What will you do tomorrow?”
    “I’ve got a seven-thirty meeting with the prosecutor to go over everythingagain. We’ll have an arraignment, bail hearing. I expect they’ll cut Justin and the others loose until trial. I don’t figure he’ll go for a plea straight off. Maybe, once it gets closer, maybe if the lawyers don’t screw it up. The Conroys are just mad enough to go for a civil suit on top of it. I won’t be discouraging that. It’s time the pressure came from the other side.”
    “Then you know what you have to do and how to do it. Are they violent?”
    “The kid likes to bust things up.”
    “I meant could or would they try to hurt you or your friend’s family? Using violence as intimidation.”
    “Can’t say for sure, but I wouldn’t go there. Money’s Blake’s weapon of choice.”
    Abigail considered. “I don’t believe they can have you fired.”
    “Don’t you?”
    “Objectively, your family is a fixture in the community. Liked and respected. You’re also liked and respected in your own right. I assume as a multigenerational business family, with a key property in the community, your friend and his family are also valued. Their property was damaged through reckless and selfish behavior, so sympathy and outrage will be on their side. Those things are also weapons. Extrapolating from what you’ve said tonight, I’d posit that the Blakes are somewhat feared but not well liked. There are likely many people in the community who’d be pleased if the son is punished for his actions.”
    “Extrapolating. Now, how can you use words like that and still manage to make me feel a whole hell of a lot better?”
    “Did I?”
    This time he laid a hand over hers and left it there. “You were right about the sad. I was, and pissed off, and frustrated, and we’ll have to toss in a dash of feeling sorry for myself. Now I’m down to sorry and mad with a whole fat scoop of looking forward to kicking some ass—legally speaking.”
    “That’s good?”
    “It’s real good.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I should go.”
    “I wish you’d stay.”
    He turned her hand over so their fingers linked. “Thank God.”
    “We should go to bed.”
    “Two minds, one thought.”
    “It’s late,” she said, as she rose to gather the tea things. “You’re tired. And, I think, still a little sad. Sex releases endorphins, so for the short term you’d feel …” She trailed off when she turned and found him grinning at her.
    “I’m half in love with you,” he told her, “and heading fast toward three-quarters.”
    Something inside her burst like sunlight before it flooded away on a rise of panic. “Don’t do that.”
    “I don’t think it’s something you do or don’t. It’s something that happens or doesn’t.”
    “It’s a mixture of sexual and physical attraction, along with novelty and the tension between mutual interests and conflicts of interest. People often mistake hormonal reaction and certain compatibilities for what they think of as love.”
    He continued to smile as he got to his feet, but something about the glint in his eyes had her taking a cautious step back as he walked to her.
    He put his hands on her shoulders, lowered his head to brush his lips over hers. He said, “Hush,” and kissed her again. “You don’t want to tell me what I feel or don’t, or I might click back up to pissed off. We don’t want that, do we?”
    “No, but—”
    “Hush,” he repeated, with his lips whispering against hers. “Pretty Abigail, so full of suspicion and intellect. And nerves.”
    “I’m not nervous.”
    “Nerves,” he repeated, skimming his thumbs along the sides of herbreasts while his mouth continued to toy with hers. Rubbing, brushing, grazing. “When you’re not quite sure what’s next, when you haven’t worked out all the steps, or there’s a little detour. I like the nerves.”
    “Why?”
    “And I like the curious why.” He tugged her shirt up and off, watching the surprise—and, yeah, just a few nerves—flicker in her eyes. “I like knowing you haven’t figured it—me,