Cut to the Quick by Dianne Emley Page A

and emerged from a blackout in the Malibu–Lost Hills sheriff’s station lockup. That was a turning point in their lives. They’d both awakened to a new dawn and were delighted to become acquainted with their new selves. Mark had even stayed the course when he shut down his restaurant and joined his father’s business. But the old man’s illness and death had unhinged Mark, cut him loose from his moorings, and he had drifted back to the bottle.
    Dena didn’t know whether Mark was more upset over Oliver’s and Lauren’s murders or the police interview. She knew that Mark had had nothing to do with those murders. For better or worse, she knew this man, and he didn’t have it in him. Behind his boisterous demeanor, he was reclusive and shy. He’d struggled with depression. He was not a man who lashed out. He sucked it in. It was his sweet, sensitive side that she loved the most. Unfortunately, lately, she’d seen that side less and less.
    She knew full well it was pointless to ask what was bothering him again until he’d sobered up.
    Last night, she’d gone to bed after leaving him in the media room with a cup of chamomile tea, watching a program about crocodiles on Animal Planet.
    After one in the morning, she’d been awakened out of a sound sleep by her husband raging incoherently by the pool. She’d pulled on a bathrobe and run outside to find him with a bottle of Hennessey in one hand, a lit cigar in the other, tottering unsteadily by the edge of the water. She’d coaxed him inside and deposited him in his bed, then gone to her rooms in the opposite wing of thehouse, wondering how much longer she could keep up the ruse of her sham marriage.
    Always a professional, Hale had arrived at work on time, prepared, and had left her personal troubles at the door. Only those closest to her would have noticed the slight deepening of the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and the subtle dullness of her normally sparkling blue eyes. They might have attributed it to fatigue, and that observation would have been partially correct. There was also a heavy dose of sadness and frustration. Trying to keep a marriage together while the other party’s time and interest were elsewhere was like one hand clapping.
    Hale picked up a book and showed the cover to her audience. “You have undoubtedly heard about this wonderful novel, Razored Soul . I’m telling you, I couldn’t put it down. I could not put it down . Critics are calling it The Catcher in the Rye meets The Belly of the Beast . What’s especially remarkable about this book, the author’s first, is that he wrote it entirely while he was serving a seven-year prison term in San Quentin for voluntary manslaughter. The book immediately shot to the top of the bestseller lists. The author left prison only last month after completing his sentence. Unless you’ve been under a rock, you’ve probably seen the sexy photos of him in the current issue of Vanity Fair .”
    Hale fanned herself. “Whoo! Oh, and there’s a wonderful interview in that issue too.”
    The largely female audience laughed.
    “We are so thrilled to have this man on our show to tell us about his astonishing and inspirational journey. Please welcome Bowie Crowley.”
    Hale stood and clapped. The audience members got to their feet as well, enthusiastically whooping and whistling as Crowley walked across the stage. He cut a commandingfigure as his long legs, clad in snug, button-front Levi’s, made short work of the distance. His body displayed the results of years of pumping iron in the prison yard. His trademark tight black T-shirt, tucked into jeans, hugged well-developed musculature underneath. Around his broad neck was a large crucifix on a heavy gold chain.
    Uncomfortable with the attention, he tossed a nervous nod and a crooked smile to the out-of-control audience. Reaching Hale, he gave her a two-handed handshake and went to the chair as if finding a life raft. He pulled one ankle atop a knee and