Throwing Heat

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SHE SHOULD BE in jail.

Leslie Cutter signaled the bartender behind the hotel lobby bar for another round and dabbed at the corner of her eye with a fingertip. No way was she going to cry in public. He didn’t deserve that kind of satisfaction.

Nobody would see her cry.

Not even tonight, of all nights. Just the opposite. She should be celebrating her victory. She should be rejoicing in the fact that her fancy-pants attorney had saved her ass from lockup. And she would, too, right after she drowned her sorrows in the bottom of a shot glass.

Fraud.

The word echoed in her mind, taunting her. That’s what they’d called it—the legal terminology. But she felt like it was a personal attack against her character. That the word was meant as a label for her, not some charge leveled against her in the courts.

The dark-haired bartender refilled her glass, and Leslie murmured her thanks, her eyes feeling as watery as the amber liquid she held. She should have known it would come down to this. It always did. No matter how hard she tried, somehow or some way she inevitably screwed up.

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