Page 31 of Done Dirty

“That sounds serious,” she said. Her voice was low and slightly husky, and I was willing to bet money she’d practiced that. “Come in.”

The inside smelled like expensive perfume and fresh flowers and money. Everything was white and glass and light oak, the furniture low slung and architectural, art on the walls that was ugly but probably ridiculously expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on a backyard with an infinity pool and a pergola draped in string lights already glowing in the early evening.

She led us to the living room without asking if we wanted to sit, and she curled herself into the corner of a concrete-colored sectional, tucked her bare feet under her, and looked at Jack like she’d be happy to be his evening meal.

“Is this about Wade?” she asked. Her voice had gone carefully neutral.

“It is,” Jack said. “When did you find out?”

“Yesterday afternoon.” She glanced at the wall of windows. “The news.” She looked back at Jack. “I’ve been just devastated.”

Her eyes were dry and her mascara was perfect.

“How long had you known Wade Rivers?” Jack asked.

“Eight months.” She rested her chin in her palm and blinked slowly. “I started with the group classes. He suggested private sessions after about a month.”

“Private sessions at the studio or at his condo?” Jack asked.

“Both.” She said it without a flicker of discomfort. “His condo was more convenient. More private.” She paused and gave a secret smile. “The results were better there.”

“Was the relationship strictly professional?” Jack asked.

She shifted and the dress showed more of her thigh. She didn’t seem to notice. “I was very fond of Wade. He was attentive in ways that most men aren’t.” Her eyes went to Jack and held there. “He noticed things. Small things. What you wore, what you mentioned in passing. He remembered all of it. It makes a woman feel seen.” She tilted her head slightly. “I imagine you know something about that.”

Jack looked at her with an arched brow and asked, “How long had the relationship been physical?”

She ran her fingers through her hair and smiled unselfconsciously. “Oh, about seven months.”

“Did your husband know?”

“He suspected.” She examined her nails, which were long and hot pink. “He always suspects. He’s a suspicious man. He gets the scent of something, and he goes after it loud and wrong and then he apologizes with big gestures. We’re going to Tahiti in a couple of weeks.” She glanced up. “Twelve years. That’s our pattern.”

“He confronted Wade at the studio,” Jack said. “Threatened to kill him in front of witnesses.”

“That sounds like Holt.” She stretched her arms above her head like a cat and resettled herself against the cushions. “He’s very passionate. It’s the Irish in him.”

“Does he normally threaten to kill people?” Jack asked. “Like he did Wade?”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “He says a lot of things. He doesn’t really mean them.” She tilted her head. “Well, maybe he means them in the moment, but Holt is harmless. All bark and no bite.”

“Did you know he was going to confront Wade?”

“God, no.” She looked genuinely horrified, or did a good impression of it. “He doesn’t tell me his plans. He just executes them and then I find out about it when he gives me a tennis bracelet or something in apology or buys me new lingerie. That’s a sure sign of how the rest of our night is going to play out.”

“Harmless people don’t normally throw punches at law enforcement,” I said.

Her laugh was low and throaty. “Did he really? Tough guy. And how did that turn out? Am I going to have to bail him out of jail?”

“No, but he’s going to have a sore shoulder and bruised ego,” Jack said.

“He’s going to be in quite a mood when he comes home.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, still smiling. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.”

“When was the last time you saw Wade?” Jack asked.

“Last Thursday.” She crossed her legs. “I go to the studio most mornings for group class, but my private session with Wade was every Thursday evening. His condo.” She paused. “It was different that session.”

“Different how?”