3rd Degree (Women's Murder Club 3)

After Jill told me what had been going on between her and Steve, after I wiped her tears and cried with her like a little sister, I drove home in a daze. A pall had clung to her face, a whitewash of shame I will never forget. Jill, my Jill.

My first instinct was to drive over there that night and slap a charge on Steve. All along, the slick, self-righteous prick had been bullying her, hitting her.

All I could think of was Jill, the face I saw on her, that of a little girl. Not the Chief Assistant D.A., top of her class at Stanford, who seemed to breeze through life. Who put murderers away with that icy stare. My friend.

I tossed and turned the whole night. The following morning, it took all I had to focus on the case. Overnight the lab tests confirmed Claire’s findings. It was ricin that had been ingested by George Bengosian.

I had never seen the Hall as tense as it was that morning, bustling with dark-suited Feds and media managers. I felt as if I was sneaking past security just to call Cindy and Claire.

“I need to see you guys,” I told them. “It’s important. I’ll meet you at Susie’s at noon.”

By the time I arrived at the quiet counter café down Bryant, Cindy and Claire were squeezed into a corner booth. Both wore anxious looks.

“Where’s Jill?” asked Cindy. “We figured she was coming with you.”

“I didn’t ask her,” I said. I sat in the seat across from them. “This is about Jill.”

“Okay…” Claire nodded, confused.

Piece by piece, I took them through my first suspicions about the marks I had seen on Jill while we were jogging. How I didn’t like the looks of them and how maybe, in the aftermath of losing the baby, she had done them to herself.

“That’s ancient history,” Cindy shot in. “Isn’t it?”

“You asked her?” asked Claire. Her gaze was deadly serious.

I nodded, my gaze fixed on hers.

“And…?”

“She said, ‘What if I didn’t make those marks myself?’”

I watched Claire studying me, trying to read my face. Cindy blinking, beginning to understand.

“Oh, Jesus,” muttered Claire. “For God’s sake, you don’t mean Steve…”

I nodded, swallowed.

A deep, sickening silence fell over the table. The waitress came. We ordered numbly. When the waitress left, I met their eyes.

“That son of a bitch.” Cindy shook her head. “I’d like to cut off his balls.”

“Join the club,” I shot back, “that’s all I thought about last night.”

“How long?” asked Claire. “How long has this been going on?”

“I don’t really know. She keeps saying it was the baby. When she lost it, Mr. Sensitivity there laid the blame on her. ‘You couldn’t do it, could you? The big hotshot. You couldn’t even do what every other woman can. Have a child.’”

“We have to help her,” Cindy said.

I sighed. “Any ideas how?”

“Get her the hell out,” Claire said. “She can stay with one of us. Does she want out?”

I didn’t know. “I’m not sure she’s gotten there yet. I think what she’s dealing with now is just shame. Like she’s letting people down. Us. Maybe him. Strange as it sounds, I think there’s a side of her that wants to prove she can be the wife, and mother, he wants her to be.”

Claire nodded. “So we talk to her, right? When?”

“Tonight,” I answered.