“Yeah.” His chin clenched so hard it ached. “You need to trust me, Val. Just because I’m me. Because I’ve proved myself. I never lied to you. Never.”

Valerie’s throat worked. Her gaze wavered, then slid away, and it was all he could do not to cross the few feet of battered hardwood floors to take her into his arms.

“Okay . . . so you’re right. This diary could just be her imagination. Pure fantasy.” Val’s eyebrows drew together, and she bit at the corner of her lip. “But I don’t think so.” She was shaking her head as she thought aloud. “First of all, she talks about all her lovers. The first one?” She set down her wineglass in disgust. “In high school? Who do you think that is?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know.”

“Athletic. From a large Hispanic family.”

“Could have been anyone.”

“Reuben Montoya,” she said, and when she recognized doubt in Slade’s eyes, she pushed. “I know it.”

“You said they’d dated.”

“They damned well did more than that!” She tapped a finger on the copied pages. “According to this, he was her first, still in high school. Then a string of boyfriends, a one-night stand or two, all without names; then you’re so conveniently mentioned and finally a priest. And we know who he is.”

“Frank O’Toole.”

“Bastard,” she said, scooting out her chair and walking to the kitchen where she poured the rest of her wine down the sink in a quick, angry motion. Bo, ever the traitor, tail wagging slowly, followed. “Montoya shouldn’t be on the case. It’s too personal. And Frank O’Toole should be behind bars.”

“You’re sure he killed her?”

“Yes! Oh . . . God. No, not really.” She shook her head, and the light over the sink caught reddish glints in her hair. How many times had he left their bedroom, seeing the summer sunlight as it streamed through the window to cast fiery sparks in her tangled hair? How many times had she opened a sleepy eye, caught him gazing at her, and slowly grinned, an open invitation that he’d never refused? If he tried, he could smell the scent of their sheets, dried in the hot Texas sun and smelling of her perfume and sex. He felt a tightening in his groin and denied it.

This was definitely not the time.

“That’s the problem,” she was saying. “Frank O’Toole doesn’t seem capable. Hell, I believed him when he said he loved her and I can’t . . . I just have trouble thinking of him with her. At least like that.” She glanced at the pages on the table, and her lips tightened.