Read Finger Prints for Free Online

Greg around, would I?” she quipped, tongue in cheek. Actually, had the circumstances surrounding her presence in the U.S. marshal’s office been different, she might have found Greg Reilly’s appreciation to be flattering. Not tempting—just flattering. He was young, perhaps a year or two younger than she was, certainly more appealing than Brozniak, the assistant state’s attorney she’d had occasional dealings with in Chicago. “It must be something about law enforcement as a profession that does strange things to you guys,” she kidded, then added whimsically, “Actually, I prefer older men.”
    Sam ignored her humor, picking up his thought where he’d himself broken it moments earlier. His gaze narrowed. “But it’s not only the nights, is it? Your weekends must be gruesome. My guess is that in the four months you’ve been here you’ve seen just about as much of the area as I’ve shown you. Hmm?”
    Carly fingered her spoon. “I’ve gotten around some.”
    “Where?” He wasn’t about to let up. She wasn’t doing much more than existing. It was a waste.
    She met his gaze with hesitance. “I’ve driven down to Plymouth to see the rock, and out to Lexington and Concord. The area’s chock full of history. And I’ve been to the Faneuil Marketplace. You’d never have the patience to let me idle through the shops.”
    “And you did it? Without getting nervous?”
    “Of course.” It was a wee stretch of the truth, followed by a regurgitation of the arguments he had given her repeatedly himself. “I’m not that bad. I mean, if nothing else, I do look different from Robyn Hart. She had blue eyes and superlong straight hair. There was something—” she searched for the word, recalling an erstwhile wardrobe of peasant shirts, flowing skirts, floppy blazers and faded-to-nearly-nothing jeans “—Bohemian about her. Carly Quinn, on the other hand, is more conventional. She wears her hair at shoulder-length and lets it curl the way God intended. She has gray eyes. She dresses out of the career shop at Saks. It’s not a bad disguise.”
    “That’s the problem, Carly. You’ve got to stop thinking of it as a disguise. You are Carly Quinn now. If you’re called back to testify, the other will be the disguise.”
    Those gray eyes widened in alarm. “They haven’t contacted you, have they?” Her heart pounded against her ribs. “Will there be another trial?”
    He reached across to squeeze her hand. “No. No word of a trial. Not yet, at least. You do know that it’s a possibility though?” Without dwelling on it, he wanted her to be prepared.
    “Yes.” Barber and Culbert had both launched appeals after they’d been convicted. Though the judge had refused them immediate stays of sentence, their appeals went on. She closed her eyes over images of pain. “God, I don’t want that. The courtroom. The crowds. The press. Culbert and Barber staring daggers at me. Their lawyers shooting question after question, putting me on trial, trying to get me to say that I simply wanted to do someone, anyone in because my husband had died in a fire.” Her lids flickered up and she focused pleading eyes on Sam. “Matthew died in a hotel half a continent away. We’ll never know if it was arson.” Her tone grew more agitated. “But we do know that Culbert raked in hundreds of thousands in insurance money when he had those buildings burned in Chicago. And people died!” For an instant, she was in that other time. Her expression bore the agony of remembrance. “The smell. God, it was awful. Acrid. Suffocating. Terrifying….”
    Sam held her hand tighter. “Take it easy, hon. You’re right. We all know what those two did. So does the judge, the jury, the public. But legal processes take strange turns. Even if there is a new trial, it doesn’t mean the outcome will be any different.” He paused. “You know you’d be safe, constantly guarded.”
    Shuddering with apprehension, she nodded.