Devil in the Dock (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) by Michael Monhollon Page B

this seriously,” she said.
    “If they haven’t seen each other in nearly two years . . .”
    “Then why hasn’t he told me about her?”
    “Our engagement is about us,” Mike said. “It seemed too early to be rehashing old relationships. It’s hard even to think about them.”
    “You’re saying you never think about her? Sarah never crosses your mind?”
    “I haven’t asked you about your old boyfriends,” Mike said.
    Brooke stood. “That’s because I haven’t had any,” she said. There were tears on her cheeks. She tossed her mane of red hair and stalked out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, a door slammed at the back of the house.
    Deeks, who had gotten to his feet when she stood, looked at me anxiously. Paul and Mike were looking at me, too, Mike with an expression almost identical to Deeks’s.
    “I have to say I didn’t see that coming,” Mike said.
    “In college she told everyone she was dating a minor-league baseball player. I think it was a way of keeping guys at a distance.” I’d heard the story over glasses of wine late one night when she’d been rooming with me.
    “She told people she was dating a baseball player, and she wasn’t?” Mike said.
    “She knew a baseball player. I think they did something together once or twice. By telling people she was dating him, she could have guy friendships without all the pressure.”
    “That girl has boundary issues,” Paul said.
    “Whatever that means,” I said to him, conscious of the irritation in my voice. “I’ll go talk to her.”
    I left the kitchen, and Deeks followed me.
    It took me fifteen or twenty minutes to talk Brooke off the ledge. First she was angry with Mike, then with herself. When she got over both of those, she was too embarrassed to come back to the table. By the time we rejoined the others, my chicken marsala was cold. On the plus side, I had already eaten a bit over half of it, and even cold chicken marsala is still pretty good. Brooke went back to picking at her own food, and I covered my plate with plastic wrap and put it in the refrigerator. Then, thinking a little more social lubricant was called for, I added what was left of the second bottle of Chianti to our wineglasses.
     
    The next morning I was at my desk when Brooke came in. She sat in one of my client chairs and let her purse and her computer bag droop to the floor beside her. “Sorry,” she said. “I know I behaved badly.”
    I waved a hand. “You were upset.”
    She nodded, mouth pursed.
    “More upset than I would have expected from you running into one of Mike’s old girlfriends. There’re bound to be a few of those out there, you know.”
    “Not that he was engaged to, hopefully.”
    “What does it matter?”
    “What kind of man goes around asking women to marry him?”
    “One that wants to get married, maybe. I think what you really resent is that Mike proposed to you so soon.”
    “Well? What’s wrong with dating awhile?”
    “Love at first sight?”
    “Yeah, you’d think that, but now we know this is just how Mike operates. He goes straight to the marriage proposal before the girl is ready for it—twice now that we know of.”
    “He’s what, thirty-two years old? He may be at that point in his life when he’s done with dating.”
    She took in a breath and blew it out, her gaze dropping to my desk.
    “You know . . .” I let it hang there.
    She raised her gaze.
    “He might not be so anxious to buy the cow if he was getting a little milk on the side.”
    “I’ll ignore the bovine metaphor,” she said, “but that’s really rich coming from you. And how do you know how much milk I’m giving away?”
    I was suddenly embarrassed. “Mike and Paul are best friends,” I said. “They talk.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “And Paul and I talk.”
    She rolled her eyes.
    “Besides, you evidently know something about the milk I’m giving away. It’s a two-way street.”
    “You’re giving away diddly-squat. Paul goes panting around