smile and a brief nod, but decided to wait before saying anything. At least he wasn’t pretending they were strangers. It would have been even more awkward if he had.
He motioned for her to sit. “I know you’ve already answered a lot of questions for Detective Fitz, but I need to ask you a few more.”
She slowly sank onto the bench. Instead of also sitting, as she’d expected, Jack crossed to where the coffeepot remained nearly full. He was dressed in a suit. Had he been out on a date? Had he sat across from a beautiful woman tonight in an expensive restaurant?
Lexie retrieved her cold cup of coffee. Where Jack Blade went or what he did when he got there was none of her business. In every way that was meaningful, they were strangers.
So why couldn’t she just forget about that night two months ago? They’d met in a restaurant bar. He’d been wearing faded jeans and an equally faded T-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. He’d looked very male, not as civilized as he did now. And by the end of the evening, the T-shirt had been smeared with her tears and makeup.
It had gotten only worse from there. He’d driven her home to her place and taken her to bed. She became uncomfortable at the memory of the gloriously hot sex they’d shared.
He’d phoned several times after that night. Finally, she’d lied, telling him that she wasn’t interested. The pathetic and cowardly truth, though, was that it was easier to pretend she was okay when there was no one there to see her fall apart.
As she watched, Jack poured two cups. Putting both on the table, he slid in across from her, facing her as Fitz had, but because he was taller than the other man, his knee brushed hers. Both of them ignored the contact.
He looked better than she remembered. Blond hair, longer on top and with some darker streaks running through it. Penetrating, deep-blue eyes; a strong jawline. But it was his mouth that was the real attention grabber. No woman would be able to resist imagining how it would feel. And not just on her lips.
Lexie pushed the old cup of coffee to the side and pulled the fresh one toward her, then waited in silence.
“Was your ex-husband right-or left-handed?”
It wasn’t a question that she’d been expecting, so it took her a second to answer it. “Actually, Dan was ambidextrous. He did some things with his right hand and others with his left.” She leaned back. “He was born a lefty and still played most sports that way, but during medical school he trained himself to use his right hand for just about everything else. Said it made things easier for everyone. That nurses didn’t have to spend a lot of time changing setups and rearranging the equipment in operating rooms.”
“How about with a gun? Would he have used his right or his left hand?”
She fiddled with the cup handle. “I don’t know. I never saw him pick one up.”
He seemed surprised by the answer. “There was a .357 found next to the…next to your ex-husband. Nickel-plated, which means it was sort of a silvery color.”
“I’m familiar with the term.” The words came out sharper than she intended, but Lexie wasn’t in the mood to apologize. She took a hurried sip of the cooling coffee. That she hadn’t seen the gun or given any thought to the weapon that had been used bothered her. She should have, she realized. Was the revolver hers? She hadn’t been worried when she’d moved out and left it secured in the gun safe. Dan had never shown any interest in her grandfather’s collection of weapons.
Jack seemed to study her for several seconds. “So, as far as you knew, Dr. Dawson didn’t own a .357?”
“No. But when I moved out I left one locked in the gun safe upstairs.”
“So the weapon may be yours?”
“If it’s the one from the safe, it would be registered to my grandfather.”
“But you had possession of it?” Jack said.
Lexie frowned. “Yes. I suppose you could say the gun was mine.”
“When was the last time you shot it?”
“Never.”
“Why keep it then?”
“Sentimental reasons.” She drew air deep into her lungs, let it back out. The questions were really starting to get to her. She was beginning to wish that she’d left when Fitz had said she could.
“Most people don’t consider guns to be very sentimental.”
“I kept it because my grandfather enjoyed taking it to the range and shooting with his buddies. When I visited as a little girl, he’d take me with him. When I got older, he taught me how to handle a gun. After that, it became something we shared. The gun meant something to him, so it means something to me.”
“When’s the last time you saw your grandfather’s gun?”
“Eleven months ago.”
“But not tonight? When you found the body?”
She shook her head. “As soon as I saw Dan, I called 9-1-1.”
“The call came in around eleven-forty,” Jack said. “What were you doing here at that time of night?” Unlike Detective Fitz, he wasn’t making notes, so his gaze never left her face. It had been the same the night they’d met. But it hadn’t been just his eyes that had seemed completely focused on her; it had been everything else, too. Every movement, every touch had seemed meant for her. Had seemed meant to heal her deep down inside. It was no wonder she couldn’t get him out of her head, and yet at the same time couldn’t allow him anywhere near her.
She realized that he was waiting for her to answer, but it took her a moment to recall his question. “I had come by to collect some documents.”
“What type of documents?”
“Property settlement papers,” she said. “Dan called me earlier. He’d signed them and wanted me to pick them up.”
“At eleven-thirty at night?”
Lexie felt her pulse pick up, but tried to ignore it. She had nothing to worry about. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Everyone became a little nervous when a cop asked questions.
“Dan was a night owl,” she said after a several-second hesitation.
“How did he seem when he contacted you tonight?”
“Fine.”
“Who wanted the divorce?”
“This is a no-fault state.” As soon as she said it, she realized that, though she didn’t like the direction the question had taken, it was still a police investigation and personal feelings shouldn’t play into it. “I was the one who wanted out.”
“May I ask why?”
“Irreconcilable differences,” she offered. It was nothing more than a twentieth-century sound bite that explained very little, but then, she’d learned that pigeonholing the reason a relationship failed was nearly impossible.
His
