Kitabı oku: «Dead Giveaway»

Praise for BRENDA NOVAK’s
Every Waking Moment

“A page-turner…A darn good read.”

—All About Romance

“Novak knows how to relate a suspenseful tale. [The heroine’s] almost palpable fear fuels this gripping tale.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A brave but very human heroine and a grieving hero obsessed with vengeance manage to find both healing and love as they deal with the past—and the violent present—in this fast-paced romantic thriller. Exceptionally vivid descriptions and realistic but not overwhelming details of the day-to-day aspects of raising a child with diabetes add depth to a story more complex than most.”

—Library Journal

“This story’s strong, edge-of-your-seat suspense starts on the first page and doesn’t let up until the end…Novak’s book is an extremely tense and emotional story with a satisfying conclusion.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Brenda Novak’s gift lies in grabbing the reader mercilessly by the throat and not letting go until the very end…Fast-paced scenes filled with sparkling dialogue, romantic tension and a series of pulse-racing twists bring the story to a heart-stopping climax.An exciting, compelling, entertaining read.”

—Mayra Calvani, Midwest Book Reviews

“Strongly defined characters, sizzling sexual tension and a tautly constructed plot steeped in danger blend brilliantly together in Novak’s exceptionally intense, powerfully emotional novel.”

—Booklist

“Every Waking Moment is an absolute must-read.”

—Dawn Myers, Writers Unlimited

Dead Giveaway
Brenda Novak

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Kendra DeSantolo, who supports me in everything I do. She reads my work and holds my feet to the fire until I get each story just right. She donates and shops at my annual online auction for diabetes research. She delivers food when I shut myself up in my house for days to finish a book (and my family is gone and I have nothing but a bag of almonds in my desk). She offers sage advice when I need input on various life subjects. She notifies me of any bake sales in the area (I love bake sales). And she listens when I need to complain.

I’m glad she’s part of my life. She’s a true friend.

Dear Reader,

Is it ever OK to do the wrong thing for the right reason? That’s one of the themes I wanted to explore when I wrote this story. Clay Montgomery has certainly walked on the wrong side of the law—is still walking on the wrong side of the law.Which makes it pretty tough to get together with a police officer. But faced with the same set of circumstances in which he found himself nineteen years ago, he’d do it all again.That’s what I love about him. He’s uncompromising in his determination to protect those he loves, regardless of the personal sacrifice. I don’t think I’ve ever created a character with such a strong sense of responsibility, or so much courage.

Please visit my website at www.brendanovak.com. to take a peek at some of the exciting and unique items that will be up for bid in my next online auction to benefit diabetes research. My youngest son has this disease, so my auctions are held on my website every May, in honour of Mother’s Day. Together with my donors and shoppers, I raised $34,982 in 2005, $62,706 in 2006 and $100,000 in 2007 and could definitely use your help.

I love to hear from readers. If you don’t have internet service, please feel free to write to me at PO Box 3781, Citrus Heights, CA 95611, USA.

Here’s hoping you enjoy your visit to Stillwater, Mississippi!

Brenda Novak

“Any coward can fight a battle when he’s sure of winning; but give me the man who has pluck to fight when he’s sure of losing.”

—George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)

English novelist, 1819—1880

Chapter 1

Any coward can fight a battle when he’s sure of winning; but give me the man who has pluck to fight when he’s sure of losing.

—George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) English novelist 1819-80

They hadn’t meant to kill him. That should’ve mattered. It probably would have—in a different time, a different place. But this was Stillwater, Mississippi, and the only thing smaller than the town itself was the minds of the people living in it. They never forgot and they never forgave. Nineteen years had passed since Reverend Barker disappeared, but they wanted someone to pay for the loss of their beloved preacher.

And they’d had their eye on Clay Montgomery from the beginning.

The only bit of luck that had gone his way was that, without a body, the police couldn’t prove Clay had done anything. But that didn’t stop them—and others—from constantly poking around his farm, asking questions, suggesting scenarios, attempting to piece together the past in hopes of solving the biggest mystery Stillwater had ever known.

“Do you think someday he’ll come back? Your stepdaddy, I mean?” Beth Ann Cole plumped her pillow and arranged one arm above her head.

Annoyance ripped through Clay despite the beautiful eyes that regarded him from beneath thick golden lashes. Beth Ann hardly ever pressed him about his missing stepfather. She knew he’d show her the door. But he’d let her come over too much lately and she was beginning to overrate her value to him.

Without answering, he kicked off the blankets and began to get out of bed, only to have her grab hold of his arm. “Wait, that’s it? Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am? You’re not usually so selfish.”

“You didn’t have any complaints a minute ago,” he drawled, glancing pointedly over his shoulder at the claw marks she’d left on his back.

Her bottom lip jutted out. “I want more.”

“You always want more. Of everything. More than I’m willing to give.” He stared at the delicate white fingers clutching his darker forearm. Normally, she would’ve recognized the warning in his expression and let him go. Tonight, however, she went straight into her “how can you use me like this” mode, an act she put on whenever her impatience overcame her good sense.

The cloying sound of Beth Ann’s voice bothered Clay more than usual. Probably because he’d so recently had bad news. The police chief’s daughter, Allie McCormick—a police officer herself—had returned to town. And she was asking questions.

Swallowing a curse, he rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate the beginnings of a headache.

The pounding only grew worse when Beth Ann’s voice rose. “Clay, are we ever gonna move beyond a physical relationship? Is sex all you’re interested in from me?”

Beth Ann had a gorgeous body and occasionally used it to get what she wanted—and he knew what she wanted right now was him. She often wheedled or pouted, trying to coax him into a marriage proposal. But he didn’t love her, and she understood that, even if she liked to pretend otherwise. He rarely made the first move, hardly ever asked her out, never made any promises. He paid her way if they went anywhere, but that was a matter of courtesy, not a declaration of undying devotion. She initiated most of their contact.

He remembered the first time she’d come to his door. From the day she’d moved to town nearly two years ago, she’d flirted with him whenever possible. She worked in the bakery of the local supermarket and did her damnedest to corner him the moment he crossed the threshold. But when he didn’t immediately fall and worship at her feet, like all the other single men in Stillwater, she’d decided he was a challenge worthy of her best efforts. One night, after a brief encounter at the store, during which she’d made some innuendo he’d purposely ignored, she’d appeared on his doorstep wearing a trench coat—and not a stitch of clothing underneath.

She knew he couldn’t ignore that. And he hadn’t. But at least he didn’t feel guilty about his involvement in her life. Maybe she liked to act as though he was the sex fiend and she the benevolent provider, but after experiencing her voracious appetite over the past several months he had his own opinions about who’d become the provider.

“Let go of my arm,” he said.

Obviously uncertain, she blinked at the edge in his voice and released him. “I thought you were starting to care about me.”

Presenting his back to her, he pulled on his jeans. Sex relaxed him, helped him sleep. Which was why he’d let his relationship with Beth Ann continue for so long. But they’d just made love twice, and he felt more wound up than ever. He couldn’t stop thinking about Officer Allie McCormick. His sister Grace had told him she’d been a cold case detective in Chicago—a damn good one. Would she finally bring an end to it all?

“Clay?”

Beth Ann was getting on his last nerve. “I think maybe it’s time we quit seeing each other,” he said as he yanked on a clean T-shirt.

When she didn’t answer, he turned to see her gaping at him.

“How can you say that?” she cried. “I asked one question. One!” She laughed in a manner meant to suggest that he’d completely overreacted. “You’re so jumpy.”

“My stepfather is not a subject I’m prepared to discuss.”

She opened her mouth, then seemed to reconsider what she was about to say. “Okay, I get it. I was tired and didn’t realize how much the subject would upset you. I’m sorry.”

She should’ve told him to go to hell and walked out.

He scowled. Although he’d tried to make it clear that he was the most emotionally unavailable man she’d probably ever meet, she was becoming attached. He didn’t understand how, but there it was, written all over her face.

He had to make a change. He wasn’t even willing to admit he had a heart, let alone open it to anyone. “Get dressed, okay?” he said.

“Clay, you don’t really want me to leave, do you?”

He used to send her home as soon as they were finished, so there could be no confusion about the nature of their relationship. But the past few times they’d been together, she’d faked sleep and he’d let her stay the night.

Softening his stance had been a mistake. “I’ve got work to do, Beth Ann.”

“At one in the morning?”

“Always.”

“Come on, Clay. Stop being a grump. Get back into bed, and I’ll give you a massage. I owe you for that dress you bought me.”

She grinned enticingly but with enough desperation to make his neck prickle. He should’ve said goodbye a month ago. “You don’t owe me anything. Forget me and be happy.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “If you want me to be happy, that means I matter to you.”

Determined to be completely honest—or at least retain his hard-ass image—he shook his head. “No one matters to me.”

As tears slipped down her cheeks, he silently cursed himself for not seeing this coming. Perhaps he’d relied too heavily on the fact that BethAnn wasn’t a particularly deep person. Anyway, she’d get over him as soon as some other man strolled through the Piggly Wiggly.

“What about your sisters? You love them,” she said. “You’d take a bullet for Grace or Molly, even Madeline.”

What he’d done for his sisters was a case of too little, too late. But BethAnn wouldn’t understand that. She didn’t know what had happened that long-ago night. No one did, besides him, his mother and his two natural sisters. Even his stepsister Madeline, Reverend Barker’s only natural child, had no clue. She’d been living with them at the time, but as fate would have it, she’d spent that night at a girlfriend’s.

“That’s different,” he said.

Silence. Hurt. Then, “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“Better than you do, I’m sure.”

When he wouldn’t give her a target, she drew herself up onto her knees. “You’ve been using me all along, haven’t you!”

“No more than you’ve been using me,” he replied calmly, and pulled on his boots.

“I haven’t been using you! I want to marry you!”

“You only want what you can’t have.”

“That’s not true!”

“You knew what you were getting into from the start. I warned you before you ever peeled off that trench coat.”

She glanced wildly around the room as though stunned to recognize he was really through with her. “But I thought…I thought that for me you might—”

“Stop it,” he said.

“No. Clay.” Climbing out of bed, she came toward him as if she’d wrap her arms around his neck and cling for dear life.

He put up a hand to stop her before she could reach him. Not even the sight of her full breasts, swinging above her flat stomach and toned legs, could change his mind. Part of him wanted to live and love like any other man. To have a family. But he felt empty inside. Dead. As dead as the man buried in his cellar. “I’m sorry,” he said.

When she saw how little her pleading affected him, her top lip curled and her eyes hardened into shiny emeralds. “You son of a bitch! You…you’re not going to get away with this. I…I’m going to…” She gave a desperate sob and lunged toward the nightstand, grabbing for the phone.

Because Beth Ann was so prone to histrionics, Clay guessed she was playing some kind of dramatic game, possibly hoping to get one of her many male admirers to drive over and pick her up, even though she had a car parked outside. He watched dispassionately. He didn’t care if she used the phone, as long as she left right afterward. This was a blow to her pride, not her heart, and it couldn’t have come as a surprise.

But she pressed only three buttons and, in the next second, screamed into the receiver: “Help! Police! Clay Montgomery’s trying to k-kill me! I know what he did to the rev—”

Crossing the room in three long strides, Clay wrenched the phone from her and slammed down the receiver. “Have you lost your mind?” he growled.

She was breathing hard. With her gleaming, frantic eyes and curly blond hair falling in tangles about her shoulders, she looked like an evil witch. No longer pretty.

“I hope they put you in prison,” she said, her voice a low, hateful murmur. “I hope they put you away for life!”

Scooping her clothes off the floor, she hurried into the hall, leaving Clay shaking his head. Evidently she didn’t grasp that she already had her wish. Maybe he wasn’t in a physical prison, but he was paying the price for what had happened nineteen years ago—and would be for the rest of his life.

Officer Allie McCormick couldn’t believe what came through her police radio. Pulling onto the shoulder of the empty country road she’d been patrolling since midnight, she put her cruiser in Park. “What did you say?”

The county dispatcher finally swallowed whatever she had in her mouth. “I said I just got a call from 10682 Old Barn Road.”

Allie recognized the address. She’d seen it all over the case files she’d been studying since she and her six-year-old daughter had moved back to Stillwater and in with her parents several weeks ago. “That’s the Montgomery farm.”

“There’s a possible 10—31 C in progress.”

“A homicide?”

“That’s what the caller said.”

Allie thought there might have been one murder committed on that property years ago—if the Reverend Barker hadn’t disappeared of his own volition. But there’d never been any proof.

This was probably a prank. Kids screwing around because of all the rumors that had circulated about Clay and his missing stepfather.

“Was it a man or woman you spoke to?”

“A woman. And she seemed damn convincing. She was so panicked I could barely understand her. Then the call was disconnected.”

Shit. Skeptical or not, Allie figured that couldn’t be good. “I’m not far. I can be there in less than five minutes.” Peeling out, she raced down the road.

“You want me to rouse Hendricks for backup?” the dispatcher asked, still on the line.

The other officer on graveyard wasn’t the best Allie had ever worked with, but if there was trouble, he’d be better than nothing. “Might as well try. I’ll bet he’s sleeping at the station again, though. I caught him with his chin on his chest an hour ago, and once he’s out, an earthquake won’t raise him.”

“I could call your dad at home.”

“No. Don’t bother him. If you can’t get Hendricks, I’ll handle this on my own.” Hanging up, she flipped on her strobe lights to warn any vehicles she might encounter that she was in a hurry, but didn’t bother with the siren. Once she got near the farmhouse, she’d turn it on to let the panicking victim know that help had arrived. Until then, the noise would only rattle her nerves. She wasn’t completely comfortable being a street cop again. She was too rusty at the job. As a detective in Chicago, she’d spent the last seven years working mostly in an office, the past five in the cold case unit. But her divorce, and coming home so that she and her daughter would be closer to family, meant she’d had to make some sacrifices. Hitting the streets was one of them.

Rain began to plink against her windshield as she drove down Pine Road and hung a skidding left at the highway. It had been a wet spring, but she preferred it to the terrible humidity they were facing as June approached.

Staring intently at the shiny pavement ahead of her, she ignored the rapid swish, swish, swish of her windshield wipers, which were on high but beating only half as fast as her heart. “What’re you up to, Mr. Montgomery?” she muttered. She couldn’t imagine he was really trying to kill anyone. Other than an occasional fistfight in the bar, Stillwater had next to no violent crime. And Clay was a real loner. But, like everyone else in Stillwater, she felt a little nervous around him. The Reverend Barker’s disappearance—an incident she clearly remembered—was highly suspicious. She didn’t believe such a well-respected man, the community’s spiritual leader, would drive off without saying a word to anyone and without packing or withdrawing any money from his bank account. No one would do that without good reason. And what reason, good or otherwise, could Barker have had to abandon his farm?

If he was alive, someone would’ve heard from him by now. He still had plenty of family in town: a wife, a daughter, two stepdaughters, a stepson, a sister, a brother-in-law and two nephews.

His daughter Madeline—who, like Clay, was thirty-four, a year older than she was—was certain he’d met with foul play. But Madeline was equally certain that her stepmother, stepsisters and stepbrother had nothing to do with it.

It made for an interesting mystery. One Allie was determined to solve. For her own peace of mind. For Madeline, whom she’d known her whole life. For Barker’s nephew, Joe, who was pressing her to solve the case almost as hard as Madeline was. For the whole town.

Gravel spun as she arrived at the farm and whipped into the long driveway. She realized that the property looked far better than it had when Reverend Barker lived there. The junk he’d stacked all around—the rusty old appliances, flat tires, bits of scrap metal and other odds and ends—was gone. The house and buildings seemed to be in good repair. But she didn’t have time to look the place over very carefully. She was too busy flipping her siren on and off before coming to a halt.

Leaving her lights flashing, she jumped out of the car and hurried toward the front door, only to be intercepted by a woman wearing a pair of slacks unbuttoned at the waist and holding a shirt and purse to her bare chest. “There you are,” she cried, stumbling toward Allie from the direction of the carport.

The woman appeared to be alone, so Allie relaxed the hand she’d put on her gun and reached out to steady her. It was BethAnn Cole, who worked in the bakery at the Piggly Wiggly. Allie had seen her several times. Beth Ann wasn’t someone she—or anyone else—was likely to forget. Mostly because she had the kind of face and body people admired. Tall, elegant and model pretty, she had healthy, glowing skin, long blond hair and slanted, cat-green eyes.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she said.

Suddenly, the other woman was crying so hard she couldn’t speak.

“Try to get hold of yourself, okay?” Allie used her “cop” voice, hoping to cut through Beth Ann’s near hysteria, and it seemed to work.

“I—I’m cold,” she managed to say, glancing toward the house as if she was afraid Clay might come charging out after her. “C-can we sit in your car?”

“Of course.” Allie didn’t hear or see anything that made her feel threatened, but until she knew exactly what had happened, she didn’t want to approach Clay. She’d never met a more difficult man to read. She’d gone to junior high and high school with him and had certainly noticed his swarthy good looks. But she’d never gotten close to him. No one had. Even back then, he’d made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested in making friends.

If she waited, maybe her backup would arrive.

She helped Beth Ann to the passenger side. Then, once again checking to make sure Clay wasn’t about to spring out of the azalea bushes near the house, she slid behind the wheel.

After locking the doors and turning off her flashers, she twisted in her seat and studied the other woman as well as she could in the dark. A floodlight attached to the barn had come on when she pulled in, revealing BethAnn’s smudged mascara. But it had been activated by a motion sensor and chose that moment to go off, and Allie didn’t want to turn on the car’s interior light until Beth Ann was fully dressed.

“Take a deep breath,” she said.

BethAnn sniffed and dashed a hand across her face, but more tears followed, so Allie started with a simple question, trying to relax her. “How’d you get out here?”

“I drove.” She pointed to a green Toyota Avalon not far from where Allie had parked. “That’s my car right there.”

“Do you have the keys?”

She nodded and sniffed again. “In my purse.”

Despite her desperation to escape, she’d been able to grab her purse? “What time was it when you got here?”

“About ten.”

“Are you the one who called in the complaint?”

“Yes, he’s an…animal,” Beth Ann responded. She broke into sobs again but spoke disjointedly through them. “He—he killed that reverend…guy everyone’s always talking about. The man…who’s been missing for…for so long.”

The hair rose on the back of Allie’s arms. Beth Ann had stated it so matter-of-factly, as though she had no doubt. And her words definitely supported the majority opinion. “How do you know?”

She rocked back and forth, still covering herself with her shirt but making no attempt to put it on. “He told me. He s-said if I d-didn’t shut up, he’d b-beat me to a bloody pulp, like he did his s-stepfather.”

Physically at least, Clay was capable of beating just about anyone. Nearly six-four, he had a well-defined body with shoulders broader than any Allie had ever seen. The long grueling hours he worked maintaining a farm that should have taken two or more people to run kept him in shape.

But he hadn’t been very big at sixteen. He’d been a tall, lanky kid with a shock of shiny black hair and cobalt-blue eyes. When he wasn’t aware of being watched, he occasionally looked lost, even weary, yet he consistently resisted any and all kindness. He hadn’t filled out until after she’d gone to college—presumably in his early twenties.

“Did he explain how he killed his stepfather?” she asked.

“I told you. He—he beat him.” Much to Allie’s relief, Beth Ann finally put on her shirt. Allie had seen a lot in her days working for the law—more dead bodies than she cared to count—but having the very busty Beth Ann sitting next to her half-naked, and knowing she’d probably just left Clay’s bed, was a little too up-close and personal. There was no cushion of anonymity in Stillwater.

“You’re telling me he killed Reverend Barker with his bare hands? At sixteen?” Now that Beth Ann was dressed, Allie snapped on the interior light so she could read the nuances of the other woman’s expressions. But storm clouds covered the pale, waning moon outside, and the cabin light was too dim to banish all the shadows.

“He’s strong. You have no idea how strong he is.”

Allie was familiar with Clay’s reputation. He’d broken a number of weight-lifting records in high school. But that was as a senior, when he’d had more meat on him, not as a skinny sophomore. “He might’ve weighed a hundred and sixty pounds at the time,” she pointed out.

Silence met the skepticism in her voice, then Beth Ann said, “Oh, I think he used a bat. Yeah, he used a bat.”

Something about this interview wasn’t right, but in an effort to avoid the kind of snap judgments that could sabotage a case, Allie tried to go with it a little longer. If Beth Ann was telling the truth—and by now, she thought that was a pretty big if—what could Reverend Barker have done to cause Clay to take a bat to him? Had he grown too strict? Was his discipline too severe?

That was possible. Allie remembered Barker as a particularly zealous preacher, and Clay had never been puritanical. He’d always liked women—there’d never been any shortage of females eager and willing to do whatever he wanted—and he’d been involved in a few fights. But he was kind to his mother and sisters. And, as far as she knew, he had no problems with drugs or alcohol.

“The police never found a murder weapon,” she said, hoping to draw more information out of Beth Ann.

“He must’ve gotten rid of it.”

“Did he tell you he used a bat?”

She glanced outside at the house. “No, but he must have.”

He must have…Allie allowed herself a sigh. “When did Clay make this confession to you?”

“A…a few weeks ago.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No.”

The rain began to fall harder, drumming against the hood of the car and making the air smell of wet vegetation. “What about your mother or father? A friend?”

“I didn’t talk about it. I—I was too afraid of him.”

“I see,” Allie said. But she didn’t see at all. Beth Ann had shown no fear of Clay when Allie had seen them together at church last Sunday. On the contrary, Beth Ann had touched him at every opportunity, clung to him like lint, even though he’d continually brushed her off. “And you came out here tonight, although you’re afraid of him, because…” She let the sentence dangle.

“I’m in love with him.”

“But…”

“He attacked me!”

“What precipitated the attack?”

“We…had an argument.”

Allie said nothing, merely waited for Beth Ann to continue. Generally, people kept talking when the silence in a conversation stretched, often revealing more than they intended to. Sometimes it was the best way to reach the truth.

“I—I told him I was pregnant.” She wiped at a tear. “He…insisted I get an abortion. When I refused, he started slapping me around.”

It was difficult to tell in the eerie glow of the interior light, but Allie couldn’t see anything more than smeared makeup on Beth Ann’s face. There was certainly no blood. And she was calmer relating this part of the story, which should have evoked more emotion, not less. “Where?”

“In the house.”

“No, I mean, where did he hit you?”

Beth Ann made a vague motion with her hands. “Everywhere. He wanted to kill me!”

Allie cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Clay Montgomery, but he’d been pretty tight-lipped over the past two decades. She doubted he’d suddenly divulge his culpability in a capital crime to someone like Beth Ann, and then let her run straight to the police. Besides, if he’d really wanted to hurt her, she wouldn’t be sitting here safe and sound—in his driveway, no less. By her own admission, BethAnn had her car and her keys.Yet she’d chosen to wait for Allie instead of speeding away from danger. “How did you manage to escape him?”

“I—I don’t know,” she said. “It’s all a blur.”

Allie pursed her lips. Apparently only Clay’s confession was crystal clear.

Grabbing the notepad she kept in her car, she scribbled down Beth Ann’s exact words. Then she peered thoughtfully outside. “Stay here. I’d like to hear what Mr. Montgomery has to say. Afterward, you can follow me downtown and give me a sworn statement. Unless you feel you need to go to the hospital first,” she added, her hand on the door latch.

Beth Ann ignored the hospital suggestion. “A sworn statement?”

“Attempted murder is no small crime, Ms. Cole. You want the D.A. to press charges, don’t you?”

Beth Ann tucked her hair behind her ears. “I—I think so.”

“You told me he assaulted you. That he tried to kill you.”

“He did. See this?” Beth Ann shoved out her arm.

Allie saw a superficial wound that resembled claw marks. Hardly the type of damage she would’ve expected Clay to inflict. In a fight, a man typically aimed for the face or midsection. But it was her job to document the injury, just in case. “We’ll get pictures of that. Do you have any other scrapes, cuts or bruises?”

“No.”

“And yet he hit you how many times?”

“I guess he didn’t hit me that hard,” she replied, retracting what she’d said earlier. “He grazed me with his nails when I was trying to get away. It frightened me more than it hurt me.”

An accidental scratch was a far cry from attempted murder. “What about his confession? Did you remember that correctly?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Allie had her doubts there, too. “You’ll swear to it?”

Beth Ann stared at the house. “Will he go to jail if I do?”

“Would it make you happy if he did?”

“Me and almost everyone else in this town.”

Allie hesitated before answering. “If what you say is true, prison is a possibility. But your story would require corroboration. Can you offer any supporting evidence?”

“Like what?”

“The location of Reverend Barker’s body? The location of Reverend Barker’s car? The murder weapon? A taped or signed confession?”

“No, but Clay told me he killed him. I heard it with my own ears.”

Allie didn’t believe a word of it. She didn’t even believe Beth Ann had been attacked. But, because it was still smart to be cautious, she radioed dispatch to see if her backup was en route.

“I couldn’t reach Hendricks,” the dispatcher told her. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wake your father?”

Allie flipped off the interior light and considered the quiet farm. Getting soaked seemed to be the only threat she faced. “No, I’ll take care of it. If you don’t hear from me in fifteen minutes or so, go ahead and rouse someone.”

“You got it.”

Adjusting the gun on her belt, Allie hung up and stepped out of the car. “Sit tight and lock the doors.”

“What will you tell Clay?” Beth Ann asked.

“Exactly what you told me.”

BethAnn stopped her from closing the door. “Why? He’ll just deny it.And you can’t trust someone with his reputation.”

Allie didn’t respond. She knew there’d be plenty of people willing and eager to put Clay away based on such flimsy testimony. But she wasn’t one of them. She wanted the truth. And she was going to use everything she’d ever learned about solving cold cases to find it.

Chapter 2

Clay took his time answering her knock. Allie knew he must have heard the siren when she pulled up, must have known that she and Beth Ann had been sitting in his driveway. And yet the only clue that he’d paid them any mind at all was the subtle movement of a curtain in the bedroom overlooking the front yard as she’d approached the house.

When he finally opened the door, he was dressed in a clean T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans that molded comfortably to his long legs, and work boots. If he was concerned or upset, he didn’t give himself away. But then, Clay Montgomery rarely revealed his emotions. He came across as brooding and uncommunicative, just like always.

Or maybe not always. According to the files, which included statements from everyone even remotely connected to Reverend Barker, Clay had once been a popular and fun-loving kid. Although Allie hadn’t become fully aware of his existence until the scandal broke, there were plenty of folks who remembered him from when he’d first come to town, right after the widowed reverend married Irene and moved her little family from neighboring Booneville to the farm. Those statements also said that Clay hadn’t changed into the very guarded person he was now until after his stepfather disappeared.

Which definitely left room for conjecture.

“What do you want?” he asked without preamble.

Allie had seen Clay around town once or twice since she’d been back, but he’d acted as if she didn’t exist. Not that she’d expected him to take special notice of her. Only five foot three and barely a hundred and five pounds, she had a small, compact body—a tomboy’s body—with dark hair that she’d recently cut into a very short style and brown eyes. Being athletic was a plus. But she had rather small breasts and wore a badge. She couldn’t imagine that was a lot to recommend her to a man like Clay Montgomery, who socialized with bombshells like Beth Ann and hated the police with a passion. Even minus the uniform, she doubted she’d ever turn his head. Despite his dubious past, he could have almost any woman he wanted. He possessed more sex appeal than a man had a right to. And he had a reputation for remaining just a hairbreadth out of reach.

For many, the challenge proved irresistible. But Allie knew better than to let anything about him appeal to her. Maybe other women liked moody men, but she’d already made the mistake of getting involved with one.

Still, she couldn’t help admiring the thick black hair that fell across Clay’s forehead, the nose that was, perhaps, a touch too wide, the prominent jaw. Every feature was intensely masculine, except his eyes. Fringed with the longest lashes she’d ever seen, they held a world of secrets. And, possibly, pain.

“I have a woman in the car who claims you assaulted her,” she said.

His gaze slid to the cruiser but he said nothing.

“You don’t have a response to that?”

The forbidding expression on his face madeAllie realize why most people chose to leave him alone. Beyond his impressive height and massive shoulders, he could shrivel a person with one glance. “Does she look like I assaulted her?”

“Tough to tell in the dark.”

“Then let me help you out—she’s lying.”

“So what are you saying? You didn’t touch her?”

Although she knew he wasn’t doing it on purpose, his muscles bulged conspicuously as he folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “Is that a trick question, Officer?”

“Excuse me?”

He lifted one shoulder in a careless motion. “Sure, I touched her—in all the places she wanted me to touch her. We weren’t playing checkers. But I didn’t hurt her.”

Normally when a suspect made that kind of statement, it registered only in the cognitive part of Allie’s brain. She was good at gathering facts, reconstructing the circumstances surrounding a crime, solving puzzles. But working in her hometown where she knew almost everyone made police work so much more personal. Clay’s comment evoked images she’d rather not see.

Wetting her lips, she quickly steered her focus back where she needed it to be. Because of who Clay was, and the number of people in Stillwater who’d love to see him behind bars, this was a more sensitive situation than it would’ve been otherwise. She didn’t want to screw up—for his sake, more than anyone else’s, although she doubted he’d believe she had his best interests at heart.

“Is it true that you and Beth Ann argued about the baby?” she asked.

“What baby?”

Confederate jasimine scaled the lattice on both ends of his porch. Allie could smell its sweet scent despite the rain. “She didn’t tell you she’s pregnant?”

The word made him rock back as if she’d just landed a solid right hook. Even Clay had his limits, because he wasn’t able to prevent the abject terror that flooded his face. “What?”

“She said you demanded she get an abortion.”

“That’s bullshit!” he shouted, and if Allie hadn’t stepped in front of him, he probably would’ve charged out to the cruiser. “Bring her back here. She can’t be pregnant.”

Allie arched her eyebrows. “You weren’t playing checkers…”

“We might’ve had…but we never—” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Hell, what we did or didn’t do is none of your damn business. I’ll handle this.”

“I’m afraid it is my business,” she said, refusing to back down. “Beth Ann said—”

“She’s making it up!”

“Perhaps. But I have to investigate her story all the same.”

His nostrils flared, but he seemed to rethink his belligerent attitude. “Okay, how specific do you want me to get?” he asked. “She was on the Pill, and I’m religious about using a condom. But we didn’t always do it the conventional way. She liked it best when I used my mouth. Or sometimes I’d get her off by—”

“That’s enough,” Allie said, hating the blush she could feel creeping up her neck. She knew he’d been trying to singe her ears, to punish her for treading where she didn’t belong, and hated giving him visual proof that he’d succeeded. But she was human and not completely at ease discussing the sex habits of such a private—and virile—man.

“Would you say it’s possible she hasn’t been taking her pills?” Somehow Allie managed to maintain eye contact despite the extremely personal nature of her question.

“Maybe. But not likely. She wouldn’t get pregnant on purpose.”

He said that with absolute certainty, but Allie could tell his mind was frantically racing through possibilities. He seemed so panicked, she almost felt sorry for him. “Because…”

“Because she wouldn’t want to be saddled with a baby and no husband to take care of her. She knows I don’t love her. I’ve never led her to believe otherwise.”

“Maybe she thought a baby would make you change your mind.”

“God.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Mr. Montgomery?”

Dropping his hand, he sighed as he met her eyes. “I want a pregnancy test. Tonight.”

“I can’t force her to take one.”

“Of course not,” he said dryly. “You wouldn’t want to invade anyone else’s privacy. Why break with tradition?”

Allie let the verbal jab go because he had a point. The police and others had sometimes pressed him too hard. “I can’t force her,” she explained, “but I will tell you that if her other claims serve as any indication of her truthfulness in general, I don’t think she’s pregnant.”

At this, his eyebrows drew together, and he studied her more closely. Allie got the impression he was so used to being bullied by police that he couldn’t believe she’d offer even this small amount of comfort. He seemed to suspect her of laying a trap for him, of trying to gain his trust so she could stab him in the back. “We didn’t argue over anything like that,” he insisted.

“But you did argue.”

“I asked her to leave. It’s my house. I should have that prerogative.”

“Would you do me a favor, Mr. Montgomery?”

“What’s that?” he asked, continuing to search her face.

“Will you show me your hands?”

His expression darkened as if he’d finally guessed her motive. “No.”

“Mr. Montgomery—”

“I grow cotton, Officer McCormick. I rebuild antique cars. I fix my own tractors and repair my own house, barn and outbuildings. In other words, I use my hands. A lot. They’re not going to look like some pencil-pusher’s from the big city. I won’t let you use a knick here or a cut there as proof that I struck her.”

The fact that he’d called her Officer McCormick without even glancing at her badge told Allie he’d known all along who she was. They hadn’t exchanged a word since she’d been back, but his familiarity with her didn’t come as any big surprise. Word traveled fast in Stillwater.

“I’m not unrealistic, Mr. Montgomery,” she assured him. “Beth Ann has accused you of a very serious crime, and it’s my job to see if that accusation has any basis.”

“And if I refuse to cooperate?”

“It might raise my suspicions.”

“Which would affect the situation in what way, exactly?”

She lifted her chin at the challenge in his voice. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could do to overcome his tremendous height advantage. “I might have to arrest you and take you down to the station.”

“You and what army?” he asked, his eyes narrowing at the threat.

She smiled sweetly. “Trust me. I could arrange it.”

“I’d get an attorney,” he countered. “I happen to know a good one.”

He was referring to his sister Grace, of course, who’d worked as an assistant district attorney in Jackson before moving back to Stillwater nine months ago. “That’s your choice,” Allie said as amiably as possible. “Grace can join us. But if I remember right, she’s about to deliver a baby. Do you really want to wake her in the middle of the night and ask her to come out in the rain? It won’t make any difference in the end, you know. I’ll see what I want to see. It’ll just take longer.”

The muscle that flexed in his cheek told her what he thought of her response. He didn’t like being cornered. He reminded her of a lion trapped inside a small cage, a lion that paced back and forth, resenting his captivity.

After another long, defiant stare, Clay shrugged and thrust his hands at her. “I have nothing to hide.”

Allie checked his palms, then turned his hands over and examined the backs.

“So, did I beat a defenseless woman?” he asked sarcastically. “A woman who has no injuries?”

Allie noticed a few calluses and cuts, but no more than she’d expect to find on a man who worked outdoors. “I want pictures.”

“For what?”

“Proof.”

“I didn’t hit her!”

“A picture would show that your knuckles aren’t swollen and that your nails are too short to have made the gouges on her arm.”

He hesitated, obviously still skeptical that she was on his side. “There aren’t any gouges on her arm.”

“There are now,” she said. Even if Beth Ann’s injuries were self-inflicted, as Allie suspected, there were other people who might try to use those marks to pressure the D.A. into building a case against Clay. Reverend Barker’s nephew was one of them. Joe Vincelli hated the Montgomerys—and he had powerful friends. “Beth Ann’s a bit…undecided about what really happened. But that doesn’t mean Mr. Harris can’t press charges if he chooses to. Now…” Allie was reluctant to move any closer to Clay but she inched forward to avoid the rain dripping down her collar. “Would you please remove your shirt?”

“What?” he said as though she was out of her mind.

Where was Hendricks? she wondered. This would be easier if she had a male officer with her. “I think you heard me.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason I wanted to see your hands.”

She expected him to refuse her again. Allowing her to be in charge ran contrary to his nature. But he didn’t. Instead, he riveted his blue eyes on hers, and his sensuous lips curved in a devilish grin. “After you,” he said.

Obviously, he was changing tactics. The best defense was a good offense and all that. But she refused to let him rattle her. “I’m convinced you’ve seen much more than I have to offer,” she said. “I’m hardly centerfold material.”

“Maybe I like my women small.”

She conjured up a prudish expression. “If you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

He glanced in the direction of her cruiser, and she knew he’d probably find it demeaning to be examined in front of his accuser.

Damn Hendricks.

“We could go inside, if you prefer,” she said politely.

“Shouldn’t you get rid of her first? In case you decide to stay?” His suggestive smile indicated that he was still trying to make her as uncomfortable as possible.

“She’s fine where she is. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to control myself.”

Chuckling, he sauntered into the house as if he didn’t care, but she knew he did. The way he sobered the moment they were safe from Beth Ann’s prying eyes told her that much.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked softly and there was a hint of desperation in his voice.

After all the police interest he’d endured, Allie had little doubt he wanted to be left alone. But, for some reason, getting visual proof of his innocence was important to her. Word of what had happened tonight could provoke some strong reactions, and she’d always been a sucker when it came to the underdog.

Why she thought of Clay as the underdog she had no idea. Except that public opinion was already stacked against him, and he never tried to change it. He was his own worst enemy.

“If I specify in my report that your hands and body show no signs of an altercation, the district attorney will be much less likely to take action.”

“There wasn’t an altercation! All I did was end the relationship.”

It was the past that made the situation volatile. But Allie didn’t want to tell Clay that Beth Ann had claimed he’d confessed to Reverend Barker’s murder. If he wasn’t angry enough already that could do the trick. Why provoke a confrontation between them while they were in such proximity? She’d simply add Beth Ann’s statement to the file, where it’d join the plethora of other unsubstantiated claims Allie planned to investigate—slowly and methodically. “It’s for your own protection, Mr. Montgomery.”

She wasn’t sure he really believed her but, with a nod that seemed incongruously boyish for such a strong man, he pulled off his shirt.

Allie had never seen a more beautiful example of the male body. A gold medallion hung around his neck, fitting nicely in the groove between his pectoral muscles. It appeared to be a tribute to a Catholic saint, which surprised her. She didn’t think of him as particularly religious.

Their eyes met and, for a moment, she was afraid he could read her grudging appreciation of his looks.

“For a cop, you don’t seem very comfortable with some of the stuff you have to do,” he murmured, and this time all the bullshit was gone from his voice. The “I don’t give a damn what you do to me” and the “I’m too tough to care.” He’d ditched the whole “screw the world” routine.

“My forte is dead bodies, not live ones,” she said.

“Surely live ones are more fun.”

He was flirting again, but she could tell he didn’t mean anything by it. He was probably searching for a way to keep his mind off the indignity of being inspected like an animal.

“Maybe,” she said. “But they’re also a lot more threatening.”

His good humor slipped away. “I didn’t hurt her.”

“I’m not talking about that kind of threat.” She touched his arm to get him to turn around, but he wouldn’t budge.

“If I was beating a woman, and she was fending me off, the marks would be on my face, neck and chest,” he said.

She saw no evidence of a struggle. But his reluctance to show her his back made her curious to know the reason. “There are a few exceptions.” She gave his arm another tug.

“I’ve shown you enough,” he argued. But she insisted he turn around and when he complied, she saw what he hadn’t wanted her to see: several scratches, all of them fresh.

“I take it you got these tonight?” she asked.

He shot her a sullen glance over his shoulder. “Not from fighting.”

Right. Judging by the direction and angle of the scratches, Allie could easily guess what he and Beth Ann had been doing at the time. He’d already painted her a very vivid picture.

Relieved to be finished, she stepped away from him. “Thank you. If you’d like to meet me down at the station after I’m done with Beth Ann, I can take a few photographs, to show that you’re in great shape.” She blushed when she realized how her words could be interpreted, and hurried to clarify. “I mean, free from any injury that would show you’ve been in a fight.”

He didn’t acknowledge her slip. “Do you believe me?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m just going to document the facts. The district attorney will draw his own conclusions. If you’re willing to play the odds that my notes will be enough of a defense if Beth Ann doesn’t back down from her story, there’s no need to come to the station. Otherwise—”

“Allie.”

She blinked. She’d had no idea he knew her first name. “What?”

“I’ve never struck a woman. Do you believe me when I say I didn’t hit her?”

She stared up at him, weighing her instincts. She’d been trying not to make any judgments one way or the other, to simply do her job. But it was Beth Ann’s words that had rung false, not Clay’s. She thought maybe he needed to hear that from someone in uniform.

“I do,” she admitted. Then she walked out.

Clay sat at his kitchen table, listening to the clock tick above the stove while telling himself that he didn’t need to go down to the police station. BethAnn’s charges were completely unfounded. Allie McCormick had said she believed him. But he had little faith that she’d stick by her words if her father or anyone else read the facts differently. Why would she? Clay knew the night’s events couldn’t have reflected well on him. The hysterical woman calling from his house. The marks on his back. BethAnn’s assertion that she was pregnant and that he’d demanded she get an abortion.

It was humiliating. He was almost positive Beth Ann wasn’t pregnant, or she would’ve told him—to stop him from breaking off the relationship. She was manipulative enough to use that bargaining chip if she possessed it. But this scare convinced him that he wanted no more women in his life. He couldn’t even have casual relationships without regretting it.

“Shit,” he muttered and stood to collect his keys. He’d go down and let Officer McCormick take her damn photos. Stripping off his shirt and revealing Beth Ann’s nail marks couldn’t be any more demeaning the second time around. He owed it to his sisters and mother to clean up the mess he’d made.

Anything to deflect interest. Anything to make Beth Ann’s accusations fade away so he wouldn’t draw any more unwanted attention.

Anything to make up for the past.

Allie hadn’t expected Clay to show up, so she was more than a little surprised when he strode into the police station at nearly three o’clock in the morning. Beth Ann had left a few minutes earlier, and Hendricks had finally dragged his lazy butt out on patrol.

Which meant that, once again, she was alone with Clay.

“Mr. Montgomery.” She assumed he’d tell her to call him by his first name. They were nearly the same age, had gone to school together. But he didn’t.

“Officer McCormick.”

She’d been about to pour herself a cup of coffee, but set the pot aside instead. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You got your camera ready?” he asked.

“I do,” she said and retrieved it from her desk.

“Then let’s get this over with.”

She snapped photographs of his hands. Then he stripped off his T-shirt and she took several pictures of his face, chest and arms. When she purposely neglected to take pictures of his back, he raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“So…is this going to blow over?” he asked hopefully, pulling his T-shirt on over his head.

Even with Beth Ann no longer on-site, Allie felt reluctant to discuss his alleged murder confession with him. Mostly because, regardless of what Beth Ann had said, she wasn’t prepared to point a finger at Clay or anyone else. She needed proof, forensic proof, not circumstances and hearsay. And she was good enough to find it. Eventually.

But eventually wasn’t now, and it was only a matter of hours before he heard what Beth Ann had told her. Especially since Hendricks knew. The other officer had listened avidly to every word Beth Ann had said. If Allie didn’t tell Clay herself, he’d probably feel as if she’d duped him in some way, and she saw no reason to alienate anyone involved in the case. She’d learned long ago that help often came from unexpected places. “I don’t think there are grounds for an attempted murder charge, if that’s what you mean.”

She let him know by the tone of her voice that there was more, and he didn’t miss the inflection.

Standing with his legs spread a shoulder width apart, he folded his arms. “Somehow I’m getting the impression I’m not completely off the hook.”

Allie sat on the edge of her desk. “Not quite.”

The shuttered look returned to his face but not before Allie saw a hint of the underlying weariness she’d occasionally noticed before. “Feel free to explain anytime,” he said.

“She says you killed your stepfather.”

He seemed unaffected. “A lot of people say that.”

“She’s claiming you admitted it to her.” Allie clasped her hands together, knowing, if he was innocent, how terrible Beth Ann’s words must feel. “She just signed a statement to that effect,” she added gently.

Allie had thought he’d get angry and holler, as he had about the pregnancy that might or might not be real. But he just stared at her—or, more accurately, stared through her.

“I didn’t confess anything,” he told her at last.

“That doesn’t mean you’re innocent of the murder,” she said, to gauge his reaction.

His chest lifted and fell again. “It doesn’t prove the opposite, either.”

Allie’s question hadn’t rattled him into revealing more than he wanted to. She could tell by his response that he already knew Beth Ann’s statement wasn’t as incriminating as his enemies would like to think. So she played it straight. “What’s really going on? Is she out to get you?”

“Of course. And she’s not the only one.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she said. “Fortunately, I intend to discover the truth.”

He picked up the picture of Whitney, which she kept on her desk. “What I’ve heard is true, then?”

“What have you heard?”

“That you’re determined to find out what happened to my missing stepfather.”

She waited until he looked back at her to answer. “Madeline has requested my help. We’ve known each other since high school, socialized a bit in the past. I’d like to bring her some closure, if I can.”

He returned the photograph to her desk. “Madeline still believes her father is alive.”

“What do you believe?” she asked.

“I believe nineteen years is a long time. It won’t be easy to find anything.”

Was that wishful thinking on his part? Or was he merely stating a fact? “I’ve solved older cases.”

“I’m guessing those cases had some forensic evidence. There is no evidence here. Plenty of other people have tried to find it and failed, including your father.”

“I have tools the police didn’t possess back then.”

“That’s hopeful,” he said, but the slight twist to his mouth made Allie wonder if he was being sarcastic.

“If your stepfather’s dead, wouldn’t you like to see his killer brought to justice?” she asked.

The expression on his face gave nothing away. “I’m all for justice,” he said, his voice completely deadpan.

“What are you doing, waking me up so early? It’s barely seven!”

Only five foot two—but with a bustline to rival Dolly Parton’s—Clay’s mother hid behind the door of her little duplex, which she’d recently begun to redecorate. It was becoming so cluttered with new rugs and furniture, paintings and knickknacks, Clay couldn’t help worrying that others would soon suspect what he already knew. Irene obviously wasn’t buying such expensive items with the money she made working at the dress shop. She told everyone she’d gotten a raise, but even an idiot would guess she couldn’t be making that much.

“Considering I get up at four most mornings—” and that he hadn’t slept at all last night “—I don’t feel too sorry for you,” he said. Especially because he knew she wasn’t really grumbling about being dragged out of bed. She hated anyone to catch her before she could “get her face on,” as she put it. Even him. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his mother without the thick mascara she wore on her lashes and the deep red lipstick she put on her lips. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

“Of course.” She tightened her bathrobe, then patted her dark hair, which she usually backcombed, before stepping to the side. “What’s gotten into you, anyway? What’s wrong?”

He barely fit inside the cluttered room. Since he’d last been over a month ago, his mother had acquired a new leather couch, two lamps, a big-screen TV and some sort of fancy tea cart.

“Tell me you quit seeing him,” he said the moment she closed the door.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she responded, but she wouldn’t look him in the eye.

The gardenia scent of her perfume lingered as she headed straight to the kitchen, which had been remodeled so that it opened directly into the living room. “Would you like some coffee? I have the most delicious blend.”

Gourmet coffee. Allie’s father was sure taking care of her. “Do you realize what you’re doing?” he asked in amazement, following her. “Do you know what you’re risking?”

“Stop it,” she replied. “I’m living, like everyone else.”

She was living, all right—in denial. Most of the time, her unwillingness to acknowledge what had happened to Barker was harmless enough. As long as Clay was around to take care of her and his sisters, he figured everything would be okay. He wanted them to be happy…and to forget. That was why he stayed on the farm. That was why he diligently guarded any evidence to be found there. So they could have the kind of life he wanted for them. But if Irene refused to listen, all his efforts could soon be for nothing. “Allie McCormick is working on Lee’s disappearance,” he told her.

She revealed no visible sign of distress. “Not officially.”

“That doesn’t matter. She used to be a cold case detective. She’s trained in forensics.”

“I know.” She continued to make coffee. “She’s an excellent police officer, just like her father.”

The proud note in his mother’s voice made Clay’s jaw drop. “What?”

“Grace told me all about her,” she said. “But don’t worry. Allie’s been through a painful divorce. She’s lonely and bored, so it’s natural that she’d want to poke around a bit. What else is there for a crack detective to do in a one-horse town like this? She’ll grow bored with it eventually.”

“Bored,” he repeated, unbelieving.

“It’s Madeline who’s egging her on, you know.”

“Allie’s not just toying with this case, Mother. Unless I completely misread her, and I don’t think I did, she’s serious about locating your husband—or what’s left of him. That doesn’t concern you?”

He knew he should add that Beth Ann’s accusations wouldn’t help matters. After last night, Allie had to be more curious about him and the case than ever. But he’d been stupid to allow himself to fall into the mess his relationship with Beth Ann had become, and he was ashamed to have put his mother and sisters at risk.

Irene turned her back to him while she sealed the small package of gourmet coffee. “Why should anything Allie does concern me?” she asked. “What happened was in another lifetime. Like I’ve told Grace over and over, that’s all behind us now. Why won’t anyone let me forget and enjoy what’s left of my life?”

“You’re happy settling for a married man?” he asked. “A man who can only see you on the sly? Who can’t acknowledge you in public?”

“He treats me better than any man ever has!” she spat, her eyes sparking in a rare display of temper. “Look at this lovely robe he gave me. Look at this place. Finally, I’m in love with someone who loves me back, someone who knows how to treat a woman.”

Clay hated the guilt that welled up inside him when he thought of his mother being satisfied with so little. It was largely his fault she’d gone through what she had during the past two decades. If only he’d done as she’d told him that night and stayed home with Grace and Molly. But he’d been sixteen years old—too innocent to conceive of the possibilities, too young to understand the threat his mother had begun to sense. “Mom, it’d ruin him if anyone found out about the two of you. He’s the chief of police, for God’s sake!”

“No one’s going to find out.”