Latimer's Law by Mel Sterling

until her throat burst, but she couldn’t.
    “Before or after?” he pressed. “Just tell me. It’s so much easier if you just tell me.” Now his voice was soft, wheedling, promising comfort if she’d only give in, tell him what he wanted to hear.
    He was no different from Marsh.
    “After! After, all right, after, he found a bill that was... It wasn’t late, it had only been in the basket two days. It was after, after! After!” She screamed at him, her fist flying off her legs to pound uselessly against his shoulder. Cade leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes closing, shutting away their penetrating, all-knowing blue, releasing her from that unbearable scrutiny. His hand cupped the back of her head, and when her scream of rage and humiliation turned into desperate, wrenching sobs, he pulled her across his lap and into his arms.
    “It’s over,” he whispered. “Over. I’ve got you.”
    “You bastard. ” But she burrowed hard into the strong curve of his neck and shoulder, where he smelled of sweat and disinfectant, and faintly of blood from his head wound, and maleness, and she wept in his arms for the second time that day. Her tears were jagged, made of broken glass, born in the darkest part of her, that shameful place deep within where she had hidden her inadequacy from the world.
    His big frame shook with what had to be amusement. “I’ve been called worse, Abigail McMurray. By better criminals than you.”
    * * *
    Cade knew he shouldn’t have pushed her so hard, but now the scab was off, and he wasn’t sorry. He had his answers. His curiosity was satisfied for the moment. What he wasn’t prepared for was the depth of his fury toward Abby’s abuser. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t really wanted to know Marsh had screwed her. The idea brought to mind ugly dark thoughts, thoughts he didn’t want to have with Abby in his lap. This was always the weird part of his cop brain, how he could watch dispassionately the terrible things people did to one another, and still go on with his life, untouched.
    Mostly.
    Some memories lingered unpleasantly, and now Cade found himself wondering what Marshall McMurray looked like. Like the Gary in the driver’s license Abby carried? Her weight across his thighs made him think of other women he’d known, held, slept with. It awoke an unmistakable response, too, his maleness hardening. He hoped she was too wrapped up in her emotional upheaval to notice, but her ass was parked right where it would do the most good. The two things in combination—the thought of Marsh’s violence, and Abby’s heart-shaped ass—warred for his attention.
    Cade sat still, willing his erection to subside, moving his palms slowly over Abby’s back, feeling the dampness of her chambray shirt. A mosquito droned near his left ear. When he waved it away, Abby stirred, pushing back from his chest and his embrace.
    “God. That’s twice today.” She scrubbed hard at her face with her hands, scooting from his lap and reaching for the paper towels. “You probably think I cry at the drop of a hat.”
    He let her go and crossed one leg over the other. She wasn’t likely to notice the bulge in the firelight, but why look like a caveman needlessly? It would only alienate her, and he was discovering he didn’t want to do that.
    “So what happens now?” she asked. “You’ve heard my story. And now it’s night.”
    “What do you want to happen?”
    Abby looked at him suspiciously. “You mean I have choices? Like what? You’re holding all the cards. You haven’t told me what happened to Roy Lewis.”
    Cade reached for the beer bottle. “Roy learned his lesson that night, I think. I let him go. His story was good.”
    She snuffled hard and blew her nose once more. Damn, she was tough, those gray eyes not letting him off the hook yet, even though she had no leverage. “What about my story?”
    “Not nearly as detailed as his, but I guess you had reason for