The office was simple and small with a gray metal desk and matching credenza. Shelves displayed a variety of trophies—all football championships of some sort. Several pictures hung on the wall behind the desk. Maggie sank into the soft leather chair, the only extravagance in the otherwise plain office. She picked up the phone while she got a better look at the wall of honor.

There were several photos of young men clad in red and white football jerseys. One photo was obviously a young Morrelli under the sweat and dirt. He stood proudly next to an older gentleman, who, from the scratched autograph, was a Coach Osborne.

In the corner, almost hidden behind a file cabinet, hung two framed degrees collecting dust. One was from the University of Nebraska. The other was a law degree from… Maggie almost dropped the phone. The other was a law degree from Harvard University. She stood up to examine it more closely, then sat back down, embarrassed that she even, for one fleeting moment, thought it a fake, a practical joke. It was, in fact, very real.

She looked back at the football photo. Sheriff Nicholas Morrelli was certainly full of surprises. The more she learned, the more curious she became. It didn’t help matters that they seemed to spark off each other with an unhealthy amount of electricity. It was a part of Nick Morrelli’s personality. It was not, however, a part of her own, and she found it annoying.

She and Greg had always had a comfortable relationship. Even in the beginning it wasn’t so much heat or chemistry that had brought them together, but friendship and common goals. Goals that had changed over the years. And a friendship that had turned to complacency. They didn’t even extend each other the common courtesies of friendship anymore. Lately, she wondered if they had drifted apart, or if they had ever been close.

It didn’t matter. Marriage was something a person worked at, despite the changes. She believed that. She wouldn’t have made it this far if she didn’t. Now, at least, Greg had called her, made the first move toward reconciliation. That had to be a good sign.

She dialed his office and waited patiently through four, five, six rings.

“Brackman, Harvey and Lowe. How may I help you?”

“Greg Stewart, please.”

“Mr. Stewart is in a meeting, may I take a message?”

“Could you please see if you can interrupt him. This is his wife. He’s been trying to reach me all morning.”

There was a pause while the receptionist decided how unreasonable a request it was. “One moment, please.”

One moment turned into two, then three. Finally, after five minutes, Greg’s voice said, “Maggie, thank God, I got ahold of you.” His voice sounded urgent, but not remorseful. She was immediately disappointed instead of alarmed. “Why isn’t your cellular phone turned on?” Even in his urgency he had to get in a scolding.

“I forgot to recharge it. I’ll have it by this evening.”

“Well, never mind.” He sounded irritated, as if she were the one who had brought it up. “It’s your mother.” His tone automatically changed to that sympathetic one he used with clients who had just lost their case. She dug her fingernails into the leather armrest and waited for him to continue. “She’s in the hospital.”

Maggie leaned her head back, closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “What was it this time?”

“I think she might be getting serious, Maggie. She used a razor blade this time.”