In the seconds that follow I remember my own declaration to Joe Causey. Not everything we do is for money, he said.

You’re young, Ms. Mendoza, he responded. Perhaps you still believe that.

“That’s quite a bit of money,” Mr. Campbell says, with an expressive gesture toward the jury, as if to say, see? I told you so. “And this money is all out of… love, you say? Not for the sex. And not for your testimony today?”

“He doesn’t even want me to testify. Why would he pay me for it?”

“This is a murder trial, Ms. Mendoza. If Detective Causey didn’t kill Rhys Rochester, then maybe his brother did.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Beau Rochester

There’s a part of me that’s not civilized. No, it’s quite savage. Like a caveman. And that part of me wishes I’d tied Jane up inside my cave so she could never testify. Free will be damned. Look at what’s come out of it?

Jane’s been in a state of anxiety ever since the courthouse.

It makes me want to strangle Joe Causey. That part is probably a normal human reaction. The world would be a better place without him. The abnormal part of my reaction is the intense need I have to… lock Jane down. To put her away somewhere safe. To keep her away from the world.

I know it’s wrong.

People have free will. They can make their own choices. And the choice Jane made, to testify even though it put her at risk, even though it exposed her private life, was an admirable one.

But I can’t shake the urge to bind her to me in some permanent way.

In the darkest shadows of my mind, that looks like actual bondage to a bed. I don’t just feel that way because she’s a woman. I feel that way because she’s mine, and I have this primal need to protect her.

In a more practical sense, it’s marriage. I would propose to her right now if I thought she’d accept. She loves me, but she’s made it clear that she would like more time—more time as a college student, figuring herself out, before we get engaged.

Hell, even a wedding ring wouldn’t be enough for me.

I want her pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen. Like I said—caveman.

Of course, I know better than to tell her this. She’d run away from me, and no one could blame her. I don’t tell anyone, not even Mateo.

It’s a dark secret I harbor, that I’m really no better than my brother.

She’s in her office, hiding behind a stack of textbooks.