the motive for the attempted assassination remained unknown, and that was unsettling. Even if her own peace of mind didn’t require an explanation, the voting public would. Her constituents would wish to know what was behind the courthouse tragedy and if it related to her.
She had little doubt that Sanders would use it, twist and manipulate it, to discredit her. Tonight, he was probably awake, too, preparing his onslaught of open criticism and innuendo. He would want to attack while the incident was fresh, possibly launching it as early as tomorrow.
With that in mind, she finished the last of the whiskey, set the glass on the nightstand, and reached for the lamp switch. But she hesitated and momentarily considered sleeping with the light on. Just for tonight. Then, chiding herself for the silliness, she extinguished the light with a decisive snap.
But as she did so, she noticed that her hands were still shaking. The bourbon hadn’t soothed her, but rather seemed to have magnified her memories of the gunman, made the images of him more distinct and frightening.
She lay tense and wakeful, her senses highly attuned.
So that when she heard the noise coming from the backyard, she sprang upright, heart racing with fear.
Chapter 5
z
A curtain was pushed aside, and her face appeared in the window. Automatically she reached for the switch plate.
“Don’t turn on the light.” He spoke only loud enough to make himself heard through the windowpane.
“What are you doing here?”
“Open the door.”
“Are you insane?”
“The court-appointed shrink didn’t think so. Now unlock the door.”
Crawford waited with diminishing patience while she wrestled with the decision. Finally she slid the bolt, flipped the button on the knob, and opened up. He slipped inside, closed the door behind him, and pulled the curtain back into place. When he turned toward her, she took a cautionary step back.
“Relax, judge.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Hunt.”
“If I was here to do you bodily harm, would I have knocked?”
Behind her was an open doorway through which he could see into the living room. On the far side of it was a short hallway that he figured led to the bedrooms. A nightlight glowed from the baseboard in the hall. It cast only enough light into the kitchen to keep them from bumping into the furniture.
“Are you here alone?”
“It’s four o’clock in the morning.”
He brought his gaze back to her. “Are you alone?”
She hesitated, then bobbed her head once.
“Who lives in the main house?”
“An eighty-something-year-old widow.”
“By herself?”
“Three cats.”
“No caregiver? Nurse?”
“She insists on living alone, but having someone nearby is a comfort to her as well as to her family. She was a friend of Judge Waters. Knowing I needed a place to live, he suggested the arrangement, and it’s worked out well for both of us.”
He couldn’t see a reason for her to lie about the occupant of the stately, southern Greek revival house. A genteel but independent widow living out her days with three cats was too clichéd not to be the truth.
He relaxed somewhat and took a closer look at the judge. Gone was the severe ponytail she’d worn in court. Her hair was hanging loose to her collarbone. Under his scrutiny, she self-consciously hooked it behind her ears. “I’ll ask again. What are you doing here?”
“Were you asleep?”
“Yes.”
Knowing she was lying, he just looked at her.
After several seconds, she sighed. “I tried to sleep but couldn’t keep my mind off the shooting.”
“Whose whiskey?”
“What?” Following his line of sight, she looked over at the bottle on the counter. “Mine.”
“I doubt it.”
“All right, a friend left it—”
“What friend?”
“—and I’m glad he did—”
“He?”
“—because I needed it tonight.” With asperity, she straightened her spine. “I don’t have to explain a damn thing to you, Mr. Hunt, but you’ve got a
She had little doubt that Sanders would use it, twist and manipulate it, to discredit her. Tonight, he was probably awake, too, preparing his onslaught of open criticism and innuendo. He would want to attack while the incident was fresh, possibly launching it as early as tomorrow.
With that in mind, she finished the last of the whiskey, set the glass on the nightstand, and reached for the lamp switch. But she hesitated and momentarily considered sleeping with the light on. Just for tonight. Then, chiding herself for the silliness, she extinguished the light with a decisive snap.
But as she did so, she noticed that her hands were still shaking. The bourbon hadn’t soothed her, but rather seemed to have magnified her memories of the gunman, made the images of him more distinct and frightening.
She lay tense and wakeful, her senses highly attuned.
So that when she heard the noise coming from the backyard, she sprang upright, heart racing with fear.
Chapter 5
z
A curtain was pushed aside, and her face appeared in the window. Automatically she reached for the switch plate.
“Don’t turn on the light.” He spoke only loud enough to make himself heard through the windowpane.
“What are you doing here?”
“Open the door.”
“Are you insane?”
“The court-appointed shrink didn’t think so. Now unlock the door.”
Crawford waited with diminishing patience while she wrestled with the decision. Finally she slid the bolt, flipped the button on the knob, and opened up. He slipped inside, closed the door behind him, and pulled the curtain back into place. When he turned toward her, she took a cautionary step back.
“Relax, judge.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Hunt.”
“If I was here to do you bodily harm, would I have knocked?”
Behind her was an open doorway through which he could see into the living room. On the far side of it was a short hallway that he figured led to the bedrooms. A nightlight glowed from the baseboard in the hall. It cast only enough light into the kitchen to keep them from bumping into the furniture.
“Are you here alone?”
“It’s four o’clock in the morning.”
He brought his gaze back to her. “Are you alone?”
She hesitated, then bobbed her head once.
“Who lives in the main house?”
“An eighty-something-year-old widow.”
“By herself?”
“Three cats.”
“No caregiver? Nurse?”
“She insists on living alone, but having someone nearby is a comfort to her as well as to her family. She was a friend of Judge Waters. Knowing I needed a place to live, he suggested the arrangement, and it’s worked out well for both of us.”
He couldn’t see a reason for her to lie about the occupant of the stately, southern Greek revival house. A genteel but independent widow living out her days with three cats was too clichéd not to be the truth.
He relaxed somewhat and took a closer look at the judge. Gone was the severe ponytail she’d worn in court. Her hair was hanging loose to her collarbone. Under his scrutiny, she self-consciously hooked it behind her ears. “I’ll ask again. What are you doing here?”
“Were you asleep?”
“Yes.”
Knowing she was lying, he just looked at her.
After several seconds, she sighed. “I tried to sleep but couldn’t keep my mind off the shooting.”
“Whose whiskey?”
“What?” Following his line of sight, she looked over at the bottle on the counter. “Mine.”
“I doubt it.”
“All right, a friend left it—”
“What friend?”
“—and I’m glad he did—”
“He?”
“—because I needed it tonight.” With asperity, she straightened her spine. “I don’t have to explain a damn thing to you, Mr. Hunt, but you’ve got a
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