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“It’s pretty clever”

When the curtain rose, Roarke watched Eve instead of the courtroom drama

She was, he thought, theof women A few hours before, she’d come home with blood on her shirt Fortunately, not her own The case that caused it had opened and closed almost immediately with the dead she stood for and a confession she’d drawn out within an hour of the crime itself

It wasn’t always that simplistic He supposed that was the word He’d seen her drive herself to exhaustion, risk her life, to bring justice to the dead

It was only one of the myriad facets of her he admired

Now she was here, for hiant black, her only jewelry the dia like a tear between her breasts, and her wedding ring Her hair was short, a careless cap of dozens of shades of brown

She watched the play with those cool cop’s eyes, dissecting, he iined, evidence, motive, and character, just as she would a case that landed in her lap Her ht of lip dye Her strong face with its take-me-on chin and its shallow cleft didn’t need it

He watched that leam as the character of Christine Vole took the stand and betrayed the man she’d called her husband

“She’s up to so”

Roarke danced his fingers over the back of Eve’s neck “So you did”

“She’s lying,” Eve murmured “Not all the way Pieces of lies Where does the knife come into it? So he cut himself with it It’s not a vital point The knife’s a red herring Not the murder weapon, which, by the way, they haven’t introduced into evidence That’s a flaw But if he cut hirees he did—why do they need it?”

“He either cut himself on purpose to explain the blood on his sleeves or by accident as he claims”

“Doesn’t ood” Her voice lowered, vibrated with the intense dislike she’d developed for Leonard Vole “Look at hi in the…what is it?”

“The dock”

“Yeah, standing in the dock looking all shocked and devastated by her testimony”