Page 53 of The Perfect Marriage

“Daniel, I didn’t fucking kill—” I grit my teeth. What isn’t he getting?

“I can picture it now, you doing press junkets from your cell, signing autographs at visitation sessions. Hmm, I’ll have to figure out how the hell they’ll let you go on a promotional tour but… wait… I got it! We can let them move you in a prison van with cops and everything, put you in an orange jumpsuit. Oh, the press would be fucking fantastic—”

“Daniel! I didn’t fucking do it, okay. Listen to me, goddammit!”

“Geez, bud, relax. I know you didn’t fucking do it. I mean you can be a ballbuster sometimes, but a killer? Hell, you couldn’t hurt a fly. But regardless of how this turns out, the people don’t need to know that. The way I see it is this; if you did kill her—”

“Which I didn’t,” I repeat. This fucking guy! Even at a time like this, his mind is always on making money. That’s what makes him such a good agent, but also such a shit person. “I don’t know, Daniel, I’m not really interested in being a would-be murderer when I didn’t do anything.”

“Look, you and I both know you’ve needed a spark for years now and then boom! This falls right in your lap. All I’m saying is, don’t ignore it. You wanna send me some pages on it, I’ll read ’em. If not, well… you can get back to finishing that ‘next great American novel’ I’ve been hearing about for the last half a decade. Up to you.”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe.”

“That’s the spirit. Hang in there, kid. We’ll grab lunch soon.” Click goes the line.

I set the phone down and sink back into my seat, bringing the scotch to my lips. He’s not wrong. This is a great story, and it’s my story to tell. I know I didn’t do this, but I can figure out who did. A whole true crime mystery for me to tell the world. A guaranteedNew York Timesbestseller. But what would I call it?

In Warm Blood… It Wasn’t Me.

Fuck, I’m rusty. I take a pad of paper and a pen from the coffee table and start writing down everything that’s happened, starting from the very beginning.

33

Sarah Morgan

I’m going over the case files and waiting for Anne to bring me breakfast. She convinced me I should eat. I seem to have been living solely off coffee, water, and alcohol. I’m not sure who Adam and I are anymore. Husband and wife? Lawyer and client? Lovers? Enemies? I guess that doesn’t really matter. All that matters is getting through this case, which has become increasingly difficult as the story was picked up nationally over the weekend. Reporters have been calling the office nonstop, and they even got a hold of my work cell. I bunkered down at our D.C. house and my office over the weekend, keeping a low profile, and focusing on the case files.

Anne informed me that the internet has gone wild with theories as to who may have killed Kelly. The majority seem to believe it is Adam, while several theories have arisen about Scott, the third set of DNA, a co-worker, another police officer on the force, and even the ghost of her ex-husband. I haven’t paid much attention to them. The information regarding her killing her first husband and her being killed in the exact same way is what caught the public’s eye. Many believe she got what she had coming, and others think she’s being portrayed inaccurately. It’s a polarizing case and there’s not much agreement, which should benefit us when it comes to the jury.

A not guilty verdict is going to be a hard one to pull off, but perhaps we can get a mistrial through a hung jury. It may or may not be tried again after that, but we don’t have a lot of time before the trial starts and at this point, that’s our best bet.

The door is flung open and startles me. Anne scurries in carrying two smoothies, a bag of food from a local café, and a box of chocolates. She places everything on the desk in a hurry.

“What? What is it?” I ask.

“Bob’s looking for you.” Her eyes widen.

“And?”

“He’s pissed.”

Bob appears in my doorway wearing a nice tailored suit and a scowl. “What the hell is going on here?” He takes a couple of large steps into my office, so he’s directly in front of my desk. Anne quickly shifts aside.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Bob?” I smile.

“What’s with the reporters out front? And what’s this I hear you’re representing your husband in a murder trial?” His face crumples.

“Yes, yes I am. My husband has been wrongly accused, and I’m doing some pro bono work on the case.” I shift some papers around while paying nearly no mind to Bob.

“You can’t do fucking pro bono on your own husband’s case!”

“Yes, I can, and I am. I’ve already talked to Kent about it.”

Anne lets out an awkward cough as if she had been holding it in to not make a sound. I glance at her and then look Bob directly in the eyes.

“Oh, have you? I’ll also be talking to Kent about this and explaining to him how god-awful this publicity is for the firm.” He points at me as he speaks.

“Do it, and I’ll bury you, Bob,” I warn.

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