Free Dark Lady by Richard North Patterson

spoke to her in a different tone, quiet and compassionate. “Can you stand any more of this? It’s important.” It seemed to bring Brett back to her. “I guess I have to,” she murmured. Caroline settled back. “Case two,” she said, “is manslaughter. But in some ways, this will be even harder for you to hear.” Brett was still, watching her. “It’s very simple.” Caroline’s voice was quiet again. “You never planned to kill him. You got drunk, and then stoned. Quarreled over something. Lost your temper. “You weren’t rational. In a surreal impulse, you simply cut his throat before you even knew what you had done.” Brett’s eyes were open, staring. Gently, Caroline finished. “You may not even remember killing him. Or, perhaps, don’t wish to remember. So you told the police a story you badly need to believe.” Brett averted her eyes. “We never fought—”
    “The knife,” Caroline interrupted. Slowly, reluctantly, Brett turned to her. “What about it?”
    “The knife is critical. If they can trace it to James, or to you, then the case I just described to you may not be the prosecution theory. It may be your best defense. To a
    charge of murder one.” Caroline’s voice became quiet; she reached out, touching Bret’s arm. “Before you answer me, Brett, I need to tell you something else. “You asked me to believe you. I’m offering you something better.” Caroline’s voice became softer yet. “I don’t care what happened. All I care about is that you not be hurt.” Brett sat straighter, her eyes looking straight into Caroline’s. With equal softness, she said, “I had no reason to kill him, and I never saw that knife before. I’m innocent.”
CHAPTER FOUR
    Wearily descending the staircase, Caroline was unprepared for Larry. He turned from the dining room table, a china plate in his hand. As he froze in the candlelight, Caroline saw the young husband she had known, gentle and soft-spoken, beneath the wary gaze of a man of fifty. He was still lean, gray-haired now, the kind aspect of his face tending far less to the amused irony of the graduate student who knew his choice of English lit was feckless but believed that life would somehow reward him for his foolishness, providing the job that he needed and the baby Betty so desperately wanted. For a fleeting moment, Caroline wished that she could stop that summer in midflight, so that she would not now read its end in Larry’s face. “Cato,” he said softly. She merely nodded. There was really nothing to say. He moved a step closer, still tentative, as if to verify her presence. Caroline gave him no help. He stopped, looking into her face until he seemed to see what was written there. “Why,” Caroline said in a low voice, “did you ever bring her here?” Larry did not flinch; Caroline saw that he had prepared himself for this. “All that matters, Caroline, is how she is right now.” Through his defensiveness, Caroline heard a trace of rebuke, as though the family that lived here was paying a price Caroline would never know. “Yes,” she said coolly. “I’m very sorry for you, of course.”
    Larry glanced over his shoulder. In an undertone, he said, “Caroline, please…”
    “The truth, Larry, is that I don’t know how she is. Only that she’s frightened, and smart, and trying to maintain.” The struggle for dispassion, Caroline realized, was costing her: some part of her felt gutted. For a moment, Larry watched her. “We waited dinner.” Larry’s tone held a faint apology. “You look pale, Caro. It would be good if you ate something.” Caroline was light-headed from weariness and hunger. Yes, she thought, that was the Larry she remembered—considerate, at pains to empathize. The one she had opened her heart to when she could no longer turn to her own family. She shook her head. “There’s been a lot today …. ” As if her admission gave him confidence, Larry reached out, his hand resting gently on her