‘I don’t want to take on the dingy shade of our habitat. I refuse.’

‘You can refuse all you like.’

‘Do you think it’s fair you hold so much back from your wife?’ I said quietly, and it was very hard to think because my flesh felt hot where he traced the contours of it.

‘It isn’t fair for her, and it isn’t fair for me.’

‘But you feel you have no choice.’

‘I know I don’t. She understands that there are places in me beyond her reach.’

‘Is that the way she wants it?’

‘Yes.’ I felt him reach for his Scotch. ‘You ready for another round?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He got up and metal snapped in the dark as he broke screw cap seals. He poured straight Scotch into our glasses and sat back down.

‘That’s all there is unless you want to switch to something else,’ he said.

‘I don’t even need this much.’

‘If you’re asking me to say what we’ve done is right, I can’t,’ he said. ‘I won’t say that.’

‘I know what we’ve done is not right.’

I took a swallow of my drink and as I reached to set the glass on the bedside table, his hands moved. We kissed again more deeply, and he did not waste time on buttons as his hands slid under and around whatever was in their way. We were frenzied, as if our clothes were on fire and we had to get them off.

Later, curtains began to glow with morning light and we floated between passion and sleep, mouths tasting like stale whiskey. I sat up, gathering covers around me.

‘Benton, it’s half past six.’

Groaning, he covered his eyes with an arm as if the sun were very rude to rouse him. He lay on his back, tangled in sheets, as I took a shower and began to dress. Hot water cleared my head, and this was the first Christmas morning in years when someone other than me had been in my bed. I felt I had stolen something.

‘You can’t go anywhere,’ Wesley said, half asleep.

I buttoned my coat. ‘I have to,’ I said, sadly looking down at him.

‘It’s Christmas.’

‘They’re waiting for me at the morgue.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ he mumbled into the pillow. ‘I didn’t know you felt that bad.’

4

Kay Scarpetta 6 - From Potter’s Field

4

New York’s Office of the Chief Medical Examiner was on First Avenue, across from the Gothic red brick hospital called Bellevue, where the city’s autopsies had been performed in earlier years. Winter-brown vines and graffiti marred walls and wrought iron, and fat black bags of trash awaited pickup on top of filthy snow. Christmas music played nonstop inside the beat-up yellow cab squeaking to a halt on a street almost never this still.