“Give me a minute.” I wanted so badly for Anarchy to fit into my life that I’d never given a thought as to how I’d fit into his. He was a cop. A homicide detective. He asked questions. Solved murders. I knew that. But this? Who knew what secrets he’d expose? I scraped my fingers through my hair.

“Graham deserves justice.”

“I know. You already said that.”

“What’s your concern? Invitations to cocktail parties?”

I jerked my head so I could glare at him. Did he think so little of me? I wanted my friends to like him. I wanted Anarchy to like them. I wanted them to be our friends. Part of the life we built together. “This has nothing to do with parties.” It had everything to do with us. “Judges recuse themselves.”

“Pardon?”

“When they have a personal interest in a case.” I was on to something. “They recuse themselves. Another judge takes over. You could do that.”

“I could. But it will affect my career.”

The lead in my stomach reached up and squeezed my heart.

His hands closed around my shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

That utterly stupid line from Love Story landed on the tip of my tongue. Love means never having to say you’re sorry. Real love meant saying you’re right, I’m wrong, I’m sorry. But who was wrong? Me? Anarchy?

He loved his job, and I knew what he did when I married him. Was it fair of me to ask him not to investigate a murder just because I worried our friends wouldn’t like him? “Do what you have to do.”

“I can walk away.”

I searched the face I loved so well. Anarchy’s brows were drawn, his eyes serious, and his lips tight. He’d damage his career. For me. “You don’t want to walk away.”

“No,” he admitted.

“Then catch Graham’s killer.”

Chapter Four

The police—Anarchy and a wet-behind-the-ears deputy from the county sheriff’s office—chose the clubhouse dining room to conduct interviews.

With a brief nod, Anarchy told me I could leave. I escaped to the stables, where the comforting smells of horses and leather filled my lungs. Usually when I was upset, I painted. The transfer of color from palette to canvas helped me work through emotions. But painting was a solitary pursuit, and Libba and Charlie had followed me.

I’d let them. I didn’t want to be alone.

Unwilling to risk her manicure, Libba leaned against a stall and watched as Charlie and I prepared the horses.

“Anarchy let you leave?” It was rhetorical question. I dragged the hoof pick through a bit of manure caught near the horse’s shoe.

“He didn’t want you to be alone.”

I grunted, satisfied there were no pebbles or small rocks caught in Nester’s hoof, and let him stand on four legs.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Fine.”