Library of Gold Read Free

complex of striking architecture sheathed in glass and Italian travertine stone crowning a hill in the Santa Monica Mountains.
    Silently they passed museum visitors and sat together on a bench where no one could overhear.
    “What’s happened?” she asked.
    He was blunt. “I have an offer from the D.A.’s office. If you plead guilty, they’ll give you a reduced sentence. Four years. But with good behavior you’ll be out in three. They’re willing to make a deal because you have a clean driving record and you’re a respected member of the community.”
    “Absolutely not.” She forced herself to stay calm. “I wasn’t driving.”
    “Then who was?”
    The question hung like a scythe in the sparkling California air.
    “You really don’t recall Charles getting behind the wheel?” she asked. “You were standing in your doorway when we drove away. I saw you. You had to have seen us.” They had been at a dinner party at Brian’s house that night, the last guests to leave.
    “We’ve been over this before. I went inside as soon as I said good night—before either of you got close to your car. Alcohol plays tricks with the mind.”
    “Which is why I’d never drive. Never.” Working to keep the horror from her voice, she related the story again: “It was after one A.M. , and Charles was driving us home. We were laughing. There wasn’t any traffic on Mulholland, so Charles wove the car back and forth. That threw us against our seat belts and just made us laugh harder. He drove with one hand, then with the other . . .” She frowned to herself. There was something else, but it escaped her. “Suddenly a car shot out from a driveway ahead of us. Charles slammed the brakes. Our car spun out of control. I must’ve lost consciousness. The next thing I knew, I was strapped down to a gurney.” She swallowed. “And Charles was dead.”
    She smoothed the fabric of her skirt and stared off as grief raged through her.
    Brian’s silence was so long that the distant roar of traffic on the San Diego Freeway seemed to grow louder.
    At last he said kindly, “I’m sure that’s what you remember, but we have no evidence to support it. And I’ve spent enough of your money hiring investigators to look for witnesses that I have to believe we’re not going to find any.” His voice toughened. “How’s a jury going to react when they learn you were found lying unconscious just ten feet from the driver’s door—and it was hanging open, showing you were behind the wheel? And Charles was in the front passenger seat, with the seat belt melted into what was left of him. There’s no way he was driving. And you had a 1.6 blood alcohol level— twice the legal limit.”
    “But I wasn’t driving—” She stopped. With effort, she controlled herself. “You think I should take the D.A.’s deal, don’t you?”
    “I think the jury is going to believe you were so drunk you blacked out and don’t remember what you did. They’ll go for the maximum sentence. If I had a scintilla of hope I could convince them otherwise, I’d recommend against the offer.”
    Shaken, Eva stood and walked around the tranquil pool of water encircling the fountain. Her chest was tight. She stared into the water and tried to make herself breathe. First she had lost Charles and all their dreams and hopes for the future. He had been brilliant, fun, endlessly fascinating. She closed her eyes and could almost feel him stroking her cheek, comforting her. Her heart ached with longing for him.
    And now she faced prison. The thought terrified her, but for the first time she admitted it was possible—she had never in her life blacked out, but she might have this time. If she had blacked out, she might have climbed behind the wheel. And if she did—that meant she really had killed Charles. She bent her head and clasped the gold wedding band on her finger. Tears slid down her cheeks.
    Behind her, Brian touched her shoulder. “You remember Trajan, the great