His question robbed her cheeks of color. “Why ask me that?” she demanded. “Why should I know more than another?”
“Because Paul loved you.”
Her lips twitched and her eyes grew dim. She put up her hand as if to ward off a blow. “Don’t!” She recovered her poise, shaken for a fraction of a second. “I refuse to discuss Paul’s death with you, of all men.”
Trenholm considered her, slowly, carefully, as he leaned back in his chair. “Other men loved you,” he said softly. “I, for one.”
“In Paris?”
“Yes,” quietly. He pressed his lips together. “Calf love—I got over it.”
Betty laughed not quite steadily. “You are to be congratulated.” She spoke with a mockery and malice so neatly balanced that for a swift second he failed to reply.
“I recovered,” he stated, more forcefully. “Others didn’t.” His glance held hers. “Paul is dead, but Alan Mason still lives in his fool’s paradise.”
With one spring she gained her feet and faced him, trembling with rage and excitement.
“After all, Guy Trenholm, the role of sheriff becomes you,” she said, and the scorn in her voice stung him. “Water seeks its own level.” She turned away, snatched her coat from a chair where she had left it that morning and swung out of the door.