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don't you own a nightgown that doesn't look like something Mama Pearl made for the poor out of flour sacks?”
    She came back to the bed holding an oversize white cotton T-shirt at arm's length, as if she were afraid its plainness might rub off on her. Savannah's taste in sleepwear ran to Frederick's of Hollywood. Beneath the gaping front of her short, champagne silk robe, Laurel caught a glimpse of full breasts straining the confines of a scrap of coffee-colored lace. With a body that was all lush curves, a body that fairly shouted its sexuality, Savannah was made for silk and lace. Laurel's femininity was subtle, understated—a fact she had no desire to change.
    “Nobody sees it but me,” she said. She stripped her damp gown off over her head and slipped the new one on, enjoying the feel of the cool, dry fabric as it settled against her sticky skin.
    An indignant sniff was Savannah's reply. She settled herself on the edge of the bed once again, legs crossed, her expression fierce. “If I ever cross paths with Wesley Brooks, I swear I'll kill him. Imagine him leaving you—”
    “Don't.” Laurel softened the order with a tentative smile and reached out to touch the hand Savannah had knotted into a tight fist on the white coverlet. “I don't want to imagine it; I lived it. Besides, it wasn't Wes's fault our marriage didn't work out.”
    “Wasn't his—!”
    Laurel cut off what was sure to be another tirade defaming her ex-husband. Wesley claimed he hadn't left her, but that she had driven him away, that she had crushed their young marriage with the weight of her obsession for The Case. That was probably true. Laurel didn't try to deny it. Savannah automatically took her side, ever ready to battle for her baby sister, but Laurel knew she wasn't deserving of support in this argument. She didn't have a case against Wes, despite Savannah's vehemence. All she had was a solid chunk of remorse and guilt, but that can of worms didn't need to be opened tonight.
    “Hush,” she said, squeezing Savannah's fingers. “I appreciate the support, Sister. Really, I do. But don't let's fight about it tonight. It's late.”
    Savannah's expression softened, and she opened her hand and twined her fingers with Laurel's. “You need to get some sleep.” She reached up with her other hand and with a forefinger traced one of the dark crescents stress and extreme fatigue had painted beneath Laurel's eyes.
    “What about you?” Laurel asked. “Don't you need sleep, too?”
    “Me?” She made an attempt at a wry smile, but it came nowhere near her eyes, where old ghosts haunted the cool blue depths. “I'm a creature of the night. Didn't you know that?”
    Laurel said nothing as old pain surfaced like oil inside her to mingle with the new.
    With a sigh Savannah rose, tugged down the hem of her robe with one hand and with the other pushed a lock of wild long hair behind her ear.
    “I mean it, you know,” she murmured. “If Wesley Brooks showed up here now, I'd cut his fucking balls off and stuff 'em in his ears.” She cocked her fingers like pistols and pointed them at Laurel. “And
then
I'd get mean.”
    Laurel managed a weak chuckle. God, how Vivian would blanch to hear language like that from one of her daughters. Daughters she had raised to be debutantes. Sparkling, soft-spoken belles who never cursed and nearly swooned in the face of vulgarity. Vivian had expected sorority princesses, but God knew Savannah would eat dirt and die before she pledged to Chi-O, and she doubtless lay awake nights dreaming up ways to shock the Junior League. Laurel had been too busy to pledge, consumed by her need to get her law degree and throw herself into the task of seeing justice done.
    “Would you prosecute me?” Savannah asked as she reached for the lamp switch.
    “Be kind of hard to do, seeing how I don't have a job anymore.”
    “I'm sorry, Baby.” Savannah clicked off the lamp, plunging the room into moonlight and shadows once again. “I