Free The Dirty Secrets Club by Meg Gardiner Page B

psychiatry training, Jo had worked at San Quentin. She'd seen plenty of callous, violent prison staff.
    "It made her tough, not coarse," he said. "She hated violence. Hated criminals. Hated men who hurt women. She punished people like that."
    She thought of Callie's final minutes, of her plea for help. "Did she express any fears to you? Any worries about people harassing her? Had anybody threatened her?"
    He shook his head. "No. Besides, if anybody threatened her, she'd sic a SWAT team on them. She'd have their balls for breakfast." "Did she have premonitions?" "No."
    "Dreams?"
    In her dreams she was attorney general." A smile touched his hps. What Callie wanted, she went after. Relentlessly. Some people thought she held grudges. I called it tenacity."
    His smile dimmed. He turned away from Jo's gaze and wandered to a bookshelf.
    Anything else? Fantasies?" she said.
    He picked up a photograph in a silver frame. He blew dust from it an brushed his fingers over the glass.
    Mr. Harding? Did Callie have fantasies?"
    He glanced up. His blue eyes were shining. "What kind of fantasies?"
    "Any kind."
    His voice turned wary. "Sexual, you mean?"
    She kept her own voice level. "Any kind of fantasy."
    His mouth tightened. "Her fantasies involved super-max sentencing for repeat offenders. She had no sexual imagination. And for your report, she liked it face-to-face, twice a week, with a shower afterward."
    He stared, waiting to see if he'd shocked her.
    "Did she think sex was dirty?" Jo said.
    Harding's Nordic complexion turned even whiter. "No."
    "Did Callie think she was dirty?"
    He seemed to recoil, as though the question had genuinely shocked him. "No. What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
    "I don't mean to upset you."
    "Callie, dirty? My God, she was beautiful. She had a face designed by Michelangelo. And now she's—"
    He turned away and put a hand over his eyes.
    She hesitated, trying to judge whether she could ease him back down. But things came quickly after that.
    The browser history loaded. Jo saw an entire page of hits for news stories.

    Maki, Lover Dead.
    Burning Boat Tragedy: Fashion World Mourns.
    Noted Physician David Yoshida Dead at 52.
    Heart Attack Fells Cardiac Surgeon.
    On and on. Nothing but Yoshida and Maki. She paused at the next headline.
    "Broken Heart" Over Son's Death Kills UCSF Doctor?
    She heard an inarticulate cry. She looked up and saw Harding punch the bookshelf with the flat of his hand. He fought a sob, mouth open. He was staring at the framed photo.
    He swung an arm at the bookshelf and swept a row of books to the floor. She put her hands flat on the desk. He spun and hurled the photo across the room.
    Jo ducked. It flew straight past her head and thwacked the wall like an ax.
    "Hey," she said.
    Harding swooped across the room and pulled the keyboard away from her. "Get out."
    "Mr. Harding—"
    "Now." He was coming around the desk.
    She jumped to her feet before he could grab the chair or touch her. "Close enough."
    He brought himself up short, a foot from her. A vein was throbbing in his temple.
    "Please step back," she said.
    He held still. She saw the photo on the floor. Behind the cracked glass was a picture of Callie and Harding together. She met his eyes. They were red and wet.
    He backed up, giving her space, but was still standing between her and the door.
    "If you don't mind," she said.
    He held still for two seconds, and three, and five. Quietly, as if extreme quiet was the only way to control his voice, he said, "She was perfect. And now she's dust. What am I going to do?"
    "I'm sorry, Mr. Harding. Now I'd like to go."
    He raised his hands. "Forget it. Just write your report, say whatever you want." He grabbed the notebooks from the desk. "Take it all. Read them, interpret them, x-ray them, whatever. You won't find anything."
    He shoved them into her hands and waved her out of the office. She headed straight out the front door, slamming it behind her.
    Dammit.
    A hundred yards from the