Within Temptation

Sons of Temptation - 1

Tanya Holmes

To the wonderful Jack VanGreko, who believed in me even when I didn’t. I couldn’t have done this without you.

“The course of true love never did run smooth."

―William Shakespeare

CHAPTER ONE

Happy Reunions

TRACE

____________________________

Was this a major coincidence? Or had Lady Luck just taken a piss on me? I shot forward in the passenger seat, not quite believing my own eyes. Damn. Less than four hours had passed since I’d left Gainstown Penitentiary, and who do I run into? Shannon Bradford—the last person I wanted to see.

My brother-in-law had just dashed into CVS at Main Street Plaza when I spotted her. She pulled into the lot, parking her black Volvo sedan in the opposite row, five spaces to my left.

I squinted past the salty film on the windshield and the trickle of snowflakes outside while she rescued the key ring she’d dropped. After a van blew by, spewing a wave of slush that barely missed her, she crossed the street and disappeared inside Noëlle’s Bakery. A few miles back, I’d seen her photo plastered on a fancy billboard along the interstate. Long blonde hair, eyes like liquid chocolate, and a killer smile.

Beneath her picture, the caption read: Shannon Bradford of Bradford Realty: A Name You Can Trust.

Not in this friggen life.

My heart slowly tightened into a fist, as the air got thick. I reached for the door handle and tore outside to snatch a decent breath, but it was like the world had opened up and swallowed me whole. Cars crept by. People walked this way and that. Snowflakes pelted my face. Icy wind slapped me. There was just too much going on. Damn if I didn’t feel like an alien in a foreign land.

I’d left Gainstown with only a few modest goals. Apart from hooking up with a generous lady for a few hours of mindless sex and diving into a bottle of Herradura, my biggest wish was not to be fucked with.

One look at Shannon Bradford had shot all that to hell.

An icy blast swept by in a haze of snow dust, yet I didn’t feel anything but a hot churning in the pit of my gut. No doubt about it, I was coming unglued. The trees lining the street hadn’t been this big before. Icy daggers hung from them like claws—claws that could snatch my soul back to hell. The world was closing in on me, just as it had twelve years ago…when Shannon Bradford accused me of murder.

SHANNON

____________________________

Saying goodbye—yet again—to Darien at the airport an hour ago had been bad enough, but this topped everything. Trace Dawson. Now here I was trapped in Noëlle’s buying a pecan pie I didn’t want. Why? Because he was lurking in the parking lot!

Despite the dirty windshield, I’d recognized him immediately. His shoulder-length light brown hair and hazel eyes, the chiseled shape of his jaw, and the way he always leaned to the right when he sat—everything about him was burned into my memory.

His was a name synonymous with death. A name frightened children whispered while swapping campfire stories. His legend still haunted Willow’s Corner and Temptation, West Virginia—New Dyer too for that matter. Probably would take an eternity for folks to forget it. As if they ever could.

Over a decade ago, on a hot September morning, I entered hell. In my nightmares, I could still smell the blood…could still see Trace Dawson clutching a garden spade while crouched over Mother’s corpse.

I squeezed my eyes shut as “Golden Afternoon” screeched from a TV in the back of the shop. An Alice in Wonderland song—just the perfect recipe for insanity. Fear dared me to steal another look outside. When I did, my breath froze. Now he was leaning against a car, glowering at the bakery. That sent me pacing holes into the floor.

Thinking that by the time I bought the pie, he’d be gone, I’d avoided my office, which was three doors down. But my plan had been asinine. Bradford Realty was inscribed in bold letters on the storefront glass, not to mention the six billboards that spanned the county, billboards with my picture plastered on them.

Wait a minute. What was with this sudden case of cold feet? Hadn’t I planned to contact him anyway? For two months now, I’d been preparing myself—emotionally—to face him. So what if he’d surprised me by showing up here? Willow’s Corner was smaller than a postage stamp and Temptation was just a stone’s throw away. We were bound to cross each other’s paths eventually.

With pastry box in hand, I left the bakery’s sweet warmth and slipped out into the bitter cold. On the surface, I was the paragon of poise, but inside, I was a mess. The scared little girl within begged me to run, yet the woman I strived to be demanded that I stand tall. Unfortunately, my churning stomach, racing heart, and sweaty forehead weren’t cooperating.

‘Horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glow,’ Auntie always said. Well, whatever the case, I was sweating very unladylike bullets, and it wasn’t more than thirty-five degrees.

Like a magnet, my gaze zipped to Trace Dawson’s. He stood engulfed by snowflakes with his hands shoved inside the pockets of a navy peacoat. The white specks wafting down shone like diamonds against the dark blue wool. His collar was up, and he wore faded jeans and a stone-cold expression. Prison had transformed the easygoing boy I’d known into a dangerous-looking stranger.

Even so, I had to walk up to him, had to prove I could do this. What did I have to fear anyway? We were out in public. Too many people were around, and he’d be a fool to risk his freedom.

But as I headed over to greet him, desperation darkened his face. He was yelling. And running. In my direction. I tried to read his lips as he sprinted toward me, but fear paralyzed all thought. Nothing would move. My legs were frozen in place. He was almost a blur, he was sprinting so fast. Had I misjudged my safety? Had he come back to kill me?

TRACE

____________________________

The second the Jeep banked the corner, I hit the ground running. Yelling at her was useless since the howling wind drowned out my voice. As if I were trapped in a nightmare, I tried to reach her, tried to save her, yet my feet wouldn’t move fast enough. It felt like weights were holding them down.

To my amazement, Shannon Bradford stood in the middle of the lot like a mannequin. Her eyes were doe-wide, and she was staring at me. What was wrong with this fool woman? Didn’t she see the damn car?

Before I could catch myself, I slipped in the slushy muck and skidded headfirst into a runaway shopping cart, busting my chin on the frosty steel of its foot.

Stunned, I rose on one elbow and wheezed out a breath. The sound of squealing brakes echoed in my ears. My hands burned with cold. My chin throbbed with white-hot pain. That’s when I saw the blood—my own—melting into the snow. The drip of scarlet was slow but steady.

I shook out the fog in my brain while the wind smacked my face. Once I raised my head, I squinted across the lot, blurry-eyed, and the sight stole my breath. Shannon Bradford lay on the sidewalk. She wasn’t moving.

SHANNON

____________________________

No more than two minutes could have passed, two of the most terrifying minutes I’d ever had. The left side of my face was numb with cold. My lips and hands ached too. I couldn’t seem to make anything move.

The details came in pieces. How I’d almost been run over. How a stranger shoved me to safety just before a Jeep playing target practice could send me flying.

Then as if someone had flipped a switch, sensory explosions filled the void. Horns blared. Somebody screamed. A baby was crying. And the wind howled while sounds burst forth in a crush of voices.

“I swear the brakes locked!” a teenage boy yelled. “She ain’t dead, is she? Oh, jeez. Daddy’s gonna kill me!”

“Don’t just stand there. Call 911!” a girl shrieked.

A cell phone chimed and someone started pressing numbers.

Next, an old man with a rough-and-ready voice said, “Pushed her out the way just in time. Another second and—”

“Is she dead or not?” the teenager demanded again.

While this was going on, I sat up, taking my time to ensure I was in one piece. Except for a sore hip, a bump on the head, and a scraped knee, I was fine. A woman standing nearby helped me, and as I got to my feet, realization dawned.

Trace Dawson had tried to save me.

I fought to see past the crowd into the parking lot, spotting him instantly. He’d just struggled to his feet and was staring right at me, his chin dripping blood. The people scurrying about and the cars streaming through the slush faded. Nothing but the two of us existed.

Memories flooded my mind, of the quiet riot he was, of the secret crush I’d had on him, and the extraordinary friendship we’d shared so many years ago. As fast as those images came, others replaced them.

I was thrust back to the crime scene, back to Mother’s corpse and the shirtless eighteen-year-old roaring obscenities while Sheriff Gray and a deputy dragged him away in handcuffs.

Trace Dawson the man glared at me now, and his eyes were hard and accusing, eyes brimming with fire and ice. A chill wind rumbled past him, but he stood as still as a statue. Only his eyes moved while he looked me up and down with agonizing thoroughness. The rage. The pain. It was all there.

“Trace?” I whispered.

In chilling silence, he walked away without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

The crowd reacted in an explosion of chatter, their tongues empowered by his retreat. Hate-filled words like “psycho,” “killer,” and “bastard” flew unrestrained.

Trembling with emotion, I gathered my things in silence and melted into the growing sea of onlookers. People were so busy gaping and murmuring epithets at Trace that they didn’t notice me fleeing the scene.

I’d almost made it to Bradford Realty when a conversation between four store clerks stopped me cold. A clutch of women on a smoke break were huddled in a corner, unaware I could hear everything.

“You know he killed a man in prison,” one woman spouted.

“Probably turns her on,” dished another with a ten-pack-a-day voice. “I heard her and that fossil she’s marrying are into S&M and stuff.”

“But did you see the way she was lookin’ at ‘im?” the first rattled back.

A third piped in, “Yeah, like he was cookies and she was milk.”

“Not surprising,” number one concluded. “The mother was the same way. Her and Dawson used to go at it like dogs.”

A fourth woman cackled. “Who can blame her? Word has it he’s got an anaconda between his legs.”

They roared with laughter and their vile assertions grew more offensive by the second. Lilith Bradford, my mother, had been linked to half a dozen men before her death, Trace Dawson being one of them.

Rising above Mother’s salacious reputation proved quite the challenge. Talk had even followed me to college. It added up to a womb-to-tomb legacy of degradation, and Trace’s return had resurrected it.

My anger burned hot, but propriety stayed my tongue. The last thing I needed was another scene. Father would be spinning in his crypt. Auntie and Uncle wouldn’t be pleased either. Mead would have plenty to say too.

He always did.

So I limped to my office intent on disappearing inside. However, the wails of a police siren and an ambulance stopped me dead in my tracks. Two minutes later, a police officer peppered me with questions. Yes, I was okay. No, I didn’t need medical attention.

Yet when an EMT bullied me into an ambulance, I was too drained to argue. During the hospital ride, my mouth responded to his questions, but my thoughts hovered over the first piece of an intricate puzzle. Far from wanting me dead, Trace Dawson had tried to save my life. But why?

Hadn’t I destroyed his?

TRACE

____________________________

“What the hell happened back there?” Wrapped from neck to nose in a tangle of scarves, floppy hat, and earmuffs, Icky gripped the wheel and glared at my bloody chin as the windshield wipers thrashed. “Trace!”

“Just get me to the hospital!”

I wrenched the frayed seatbelt across my chest and snapped it home. Then I snatched a bandana from my pocket, wadded it, and set the thing over the gash in my chin. Blood covered my jacket and my cut ached something fierce. Everything pained me. Bones, teeth, gums—hell, even my hair hurt. The lumpy seat cushion was little comfort. My ass smacked the floor at every bump.

I’d yet to get a handle on my thoughts and feelings. Both were miles ahead of me, and I wasn’t in the mood to hunt them down. But if I didn’t say something quick, Icky would bust a gasket. So I skipped over the unnecessary details and gave an abridged account.

Afterward, Icky asked, “Why’d you try to help her?”

I shrugged. The question surprised me. “I don’t know.”

When we were kids, I’d nicknamed her “Shadow” because she used to follow me around like a lost puppy, but she wasn’t my Shadow anymore, if she ever really was. As it stood, she was nothing to me now.

“Well? Was Ms. Bradford okay?”

That snapped me out of my reverie. “Miz? You know her?”

“Uh, yeah.” Icky’s brows bunched into a frown. “She ran an ad for this real estate course, but I couldn’t get a license because of my felony. So she got me a data entry gig at Kingston Realty, over in New Dyer.” Icky slowed for a stop sign as an ambulance screamed by. He flashed me a toothy white grin. Big improvement over the yellow jigsaw of a smile he’d had in prison. “I’m up for a promotion next month. Administrative assistant. For the lead realtor.”

Well, whoopty doo. “Shannon know about us?”

“Yeah. I laid it all out when I called her. That I married your sister. That you and me were cellies. She knows everything.”

I set my jaw. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“Y’all’s history has nothing to do with me.”

So he said, but I had doubts. Patrick “Icky” O’Dell had been my cellmate way back when. We’d drifted apart because of a fight we’d had over my big sister Bev, and it looked like the fight wasn’t over. Case in point: after I paid my parole officer a visit today, Icky had insisted on stopping at the plaza for a prescription.

I glanced at the backseat. Nothing there but my pillowcase. It held all my belongings. “You forget your pills?”

Icky’s guilty pause was answer enough. “Um…they won’t be ready for a couple more hours.”

“You think I’m stupid?” I smiled bitterly. “You planned this, didn’t you?” Silence. “You drove me there ‘cause you wanted me to see her.” When Icky wouldn’t even make eye contact, I knew it had been a set up. “This is about Bev, isn’t it?”

“You’re crazy,” Icky mumbled, but his shifty eyes said something different. “I’m just the driver. Amber’s car broke down. She called Bev. Bev called me—”

“Save the spin. The truth, Icky. Now.”

His angular face was as red as the curls dripping from beneath his floppy hat. He yanked the gearshift. “I told you the truth. And I got no reason to lie either. Seriously, man. I found Jesus.”

Icky finding religion was about as silly as a gorilla in a dress. “Tell me somethin’, choirboy,” I said. “This conversion of yours. Was it before or after you slapped my sister?”

“I was using then and you know it!”

“How do I know you’re not usin’ now?” I searched Icky’s face. Dilated pupils. Glassy eyes. He was high as hell.

Icky fixed his gaze on the bumpy road. Frozen trees flew by as the car sped through traffic. “What if I did set you up?” he finally said, breaking the angry silence. “Either way, you learned a valuable lesson.” He rammed the gears. “From the warm reception you got, isn’t it obvious folks don’t want you here? Your enemies outnumber your friends.”

“Which group do you fall in?”

Icky sighed. “Just stay out of my marriage, okay? We were fine until you poisoned her against me. She’s my wife.”

“That could change if you go postal on her again.”

Icky stewed for a minute, then made a hard left into the hospital parking lot. After we skidded up to the ER in a spray of sleet, he stared straight ahead, nostrils flaring. “Get out.”

I blinked slowly. “I won’t forget what you did today. Not by a long shot. And if you touch my sister again, I swear—”

“Fuck off.”

Biting back a curse, I went for the door, but Icky beat me to it by shoving it open. Once I got out, he dumped the pillowcase in the slush. I just stood there, eyes like slits, my anger spiking. Then he ripped into the glove box, snatched a tabloid magazine, and tossed it at my feet.

“Happy reading,” he said with a nasty smirk, then peeled away in a cloud of sleet, leaving me to glare after him as the tabloid pages fluttered in the wind.

CHAPTER TWO

Hell Freezes Over

TRACE

____________________________

I’d busted my chin. Almost witnessed a vehicular homicide. Quite possibly incited a lynch mob, and had alienated my brother-in-law. Then there were the five stitches, tetanus shot, and X-ray that had put me in debt for close to a grand. All this and I’d been free less than a day.

When would this nightmare end?

I sat in the lobby waiting on my cab. Thanks to the snow, ER patients from Willow’s Corner, Temptation, and New Dyer were crammed together like crayons in a box.

Between the crackling intercom, the coughing, and the wailing babies, I couldn’t decide which was worse: Temptation Memorial or prison.

My cut ached and my head felt like somebody had hit me with a shovel. I couldn’t wait to get out of here. ‘Course, the place was abuzz with gossip. The gaping and finger pointing started minutes after I’d signed in. Doctors and nurses, up to their elbows in patients, snuck peeks while exchanging whispers from behind their clipboards.

Nosy sons-a-bitches.

Boredom made me remember Icky’s tabloid—The Dirty Dish. I grabbed the damp magazine, peeled the pages open, and read the stupid headlines topping the pictures of stars, weirdos, and wannabes.

Then I saw it.

On page seven.

Society Scoop

By: Erica Davies, Senior Editor, The Dirty Dish

Darlings, twelve years ago Tracemore Dawson—the notorious “Butcher Boy” of Temptation, West Virginia—was convicted of second-degree murder in the stabbing death of Lilith Bradford. The victim, a former beauty queen turned interior decorator, was the widow of advertising magnate Harrison Parker Bradford.

Labeled a crime of passion, the case can still trigger a debate among the residents of this sleepy little town. Officially, 18-year-old Dawson worked as a handyman and chauffeur on Bradford’s multimillion-dollar estate. He also moonlighted as an exotic dancer at a few of the local nightclubs.

Some say he was Bradford’s glorified boy-toy. Others are convinced he’s a cold-blooded sociopath. There’s also the lunatic fringe who call him an avenging angel. They say Lilith “Mommie Dearest” Bradford only got what she deserved.

Charges of child abuse were leveled against Bradford at the time, but her 14-year-old daughter Shannon claimed they were false. The teen was the prosecution’s star witness, and her taped deposition helped convince a jury to return a guilty verdict.

As I reported last spring, Shannon Bradford, now a 26-year-old realtor, is engaged to former Dawson prosecutor Darien Montgomery. “Dashing Darien” as the press so aptly named him, is currently defending pop idol Kidd Mann in a scandalous murder trial that has rocked Hollywood to its core.

This doesn’t mean Montgomery skips playtime. On the contrary, a source claims he and Bradford are diehard swingers who dabble in S&M. The kinky stuff aside, their 22-year age gap does push the May-December envelope.

But what’s a little cradle robbing between satyrs?

Since Bradford’s cousin Mead is the frontrunner in the state’s gubernatorial race next year, one can only wonder if these juicy distractions will affect his campaign.

By now you’re probably saying, “Erica, what the #&%@ does all this have to do with the price of bonbons?” Well, darlings, Dawson, 30, will be released from Gainstown Penitentiary this week on parole, and my source confirmed Bradford is hosting an engagement party this month. What will Dawson do when he learns the two people who sent him to the pokey are getting hitched? I don’t know about you, but for Bradford’s sake, I hope the Butcher Boy isn’t a party crasher.

I gaped at the pictures. There, the bewildered face of the boy I used to be stared up at me. Fear abounded in his young eyes. I compared that photo with the one next to it—a recent picture of me in the prison yard. How the leeches got the shot was anyone’s guess.

Vintage photos of Lilith, Shannon, and that pissant Montgomery were beneath mine. Mr. Prosecutor. What the hell could she possibly see in that piranha?

“Well, looky here.”

The deep voice broke into my mental rant. I glared up to see Eddie Gray edging toward me like a hunter sneaking up on a wounded bear.

Wearing full rent-a-cop regalia, complete with a ‘GRAY SECURITY’ patch on his black uniform’s breast pocket, Sheriff Jackson Gray’s firstborn son held a billy club in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other.

He was only three years older than me, but hard living had taken its toll on him. His thick blond hair looked as greasy as his pockmarked face. Back in the day, Eddie had been built like a linebacker. Now he was just a bloated, wannabe cop stuffed into a rumpled uniform.

Eddie muttered into his walkie-talkie. The static resonated around the lobby as he seated the black box into his belt clip. I dug out my iPod and put the earbuds in—my way of ignoring the asshole. First song up: Jamar Rogers’ “Hard Cold War.”

Quite fitting considering the circumstances.

“Heard you was back, Dawson.”

I pretended to read. The last time I’d seen Eddie, the bastard was grinning at the trial. Before that, he’d been at the other end of my fist.

He pointed the billy club at my chin. “What happened?”

“Shaving accident,” I mumbled.

“Always the smart-ass.” Eddie looked me over. “The Fontanas set you up real nice, didn’t they? A mechanic’s job at the old man’s garage and carpentry work at Cholly’s new club.” Then he said in a stage whisper, “But Cholly can’t even get a local contractor to renovate ‘cause of you. Got folks boycotting Mr. Fontana’s garage too.”

I flipped a page. It wasn't like I wanted to come back, but the conditions of my parole left me no choice. I needed a job and nobody but my best bud Cholly and his dad would give me one.

Eddie lurched closer. His eyes glinted like black diamonds. “Twelve years in the pen. I’m surprised they didn’t shiv your ass.” He tugged at one of my earbuds. “You must have a guardian angel.”

I lowered the paper. “Don’t do that again.”

“Or what? You gonna stab me?” He chuckled. “Nah, that’s not your style. Whack jobs like you only prey on helpless women.”

I ripped my earbuds out and shoved the iPod into my pillowcase.

“You ain’t mad, are you?” Eddie cocked his head and poked my shoulder with his nightstick. “I’m just trying to be helpful. Temptation trailer trash may ignore you for now, but they’ll send you packing soon enough. Hell, if you ask me, they should’ve rode your whole nutbag family out years ago, boy.”

The tabloid crumpled in my hand. “I got your ‘boy’ right here, Eddie.”

“Temper, temper. I’m only speaking truth, is all. Your brother’s a loon; your daddy was a drunk. Then there’s that airhead sister of yours.” His lips stretched into a crooked grin. “But as I recall, her brain wasn’t her best asset.”

Close to losing my shit, I crammed the tabloid into my pillowcase. Eddie’s crude remarks about Bev had spawned our last disagreement.

“Did I poke a button?” Eddie asked in mock innocence. He nudged my shoulder again. “Speaking of poking, you do any of that fancy dancin’ for your butt buddies during shower time?”

SHANNON

____________________________

I had just claimed a payphone outside the cafeteria when I heard the scream—a woman’s. The crash that followed jarred me like a lightning bolt.

Two security guards charged down the corridor soon afterward; the ensuing breeze ruffled my bangs. While their faces looked familiar, their names escaped me. All I knew was they were related to Eddie Gray.

The duo raced around the corner yelling into their walkie-talkies. Static drowned out most of what they'd said, but one word was unmistakable: Dawson.

Before I realized it, I was hobbling after them, bruised hip, sore leg, and all. The noise led me to the lobby and what I saw froze my blood. The two guards had pinned Trace to the wall while Eddie punched him in the ribs.

I evaluated the situation in a glance.

At least sixty people looked on, but no one moved to stop the beating. The men were transfixed, the women frightened. All seemed caught up in the moment, like spectators at a prizefight.

Time slipped back, and I was at the plaza again. What are you waiting for? Trace didn’t hesitate when he saw the Jeep.

I sighed and crossed myself. “God help me.”

Weaving through the crowd, I reluctantly limped my way over to Eddie. Getting there wasn’t easy—it was standing room only. People were rooted in place, unwilling to give any leeway, which was absolute murder on my leg.

The shouts, whistles, and catcalls grew louder the closer I got. Half a minute went by before I reached them.

“Stop it,” I finally said, catching my breath. “That’ll be enough!”

The noise level dropped and everyone turned in my direction.

Eddie shot me a dismissive look while the guards held Trace. “Why don’t you go back to terrorizing my daddy instead of sticking your nose in here?”

He was talking about my calls to Sheriff Gray, calls the old cuss had yet to return. “That’s none of your business.”

“And this is none of yours.” To his men he barked, “Gimme some cuffs.”

But Trace had other ideas. Seconds later, Eddie had a thick wad of spit oozing down his sweaty forehead.

Before Eddie could retaliate, I blurted the first thing that popped into my mind. “Touch him again and you’ll have a pink slip within the hour.”

Eddie rounded on me, chest heaving. He angrily wiped the spit from his fat face. “What’d you say?”

“My uncle is chairman of the Bradford Group—the same philanthropic organization that saved this hospital from financial ruin two years ago. And I’ve a seat on the board of directors.” I levered my chin. “Contract or not, Gray Security can be replaced in a heartbeat.”

“Why, you little bit—”

Eddie cut his own words short and stared beyond me, his eyes wide with dread. I glanced over my shoulder only to see Eddie’s wife elbowing her way through the mob. A frizzy-haired brunette with bad skin and bushy eyebrows, Dee Dee Gray worked part-time in the hospital-billing department. She’d had a baby in her belly for five of the six years they were married.

“Get back,” she yelled at Eddie, parking her pregnant body between us.

“But, honey, she threatened my job!”

Dee Dee glowered at me. “Typical. You Bradfords are all alike, throwing your weight around and everything.”

“If anyone abused power, your husband did.” I fired a look at Eddie. “So do me a favor and don’t force my hand.”

Eddie glared at Trace who’d since wilted against the wall. “It don’t matter anyway. Dawson violated parole when he threw his first punch.”

“I never touched your sorry ass,” Trace barked.

Eddie’s bloated face turned a frightening shade of red. “You jumped up and kicked me when I tried to make a citizen’s arrest. That’s assault in my book.”

“And of course you did nothing to provoke him,” I said, keeping my voice low. When the ape smirked, I realized that had been his intention all along. “I don’t make idle threats, Edward. You want to keep your job? Let it go.”

Ignoring his crude response, I glared at the other two guards. They knew the score. Walk away or risk scouring the want ads. The choice was theirs and they made the right one.

“Come on.” Dee Dee tugged Eddie along. He slung a murderous glower at me, then grudgingly followed his wife.

My attention swept to Trace who sat slumped on the floor, hugging his ribs and coughing. Broken glass crunched beneath my boots as I stooped next to him. I could almost feel the crowd’s reproving eyes searing me, but even I had to question my own actions. Not one to abuse the power behind my name, I hated the threats I’d had to make, but I couldn’t think about that now. There would be time enough to fall apart later.

Trace didn’t recoil once I cupped his face. The day’s growth rasped my palm. He had a split lip and an almond-sized knot under one eye. God only knew what his chin looked like beneath that bandage. “Are you okay?”

He coughed out a “Yeah.”

“Why were you fighting with Eddie?”

“We’ve got…issues.”

“Issues?”

“Yeah.”

My concern deepened. “How’s your chin?”

“It’s nothin’,” he said while time took another breather.

Just like at the plaza, our gazes held. He searched my eyes with a thoroughness that gave me pause. His stare felt invasive, as if he was trying to peel away my protective layers. I trembled inside. A question that had plagued me for months centered my thoughts. Was his the last face Mother saw?

“Trace.” I swallowed. “There’s something I need to—”

“Why?”

I blinked. “Pardon?”

His brows flickered in question. “Why’d you help me?”

A horn blasted outside the hospital, the noise invading the surreal cocoon that encircled us. I looked up to see a yellow cab idling beside the curb.

“There’s my ride,” Trace said.

The spell was broken.

I anchored my shoulder under his and wrapped an arm around him. The contact made me shiver. He must’ve felt it too, because he tossed a bemused glance my way. His stomach muscles rippled beneath my fingers while he fought for balance. He was so close his heat branded me and his scent tugged me back to the past. He smelled the same as before. Like Ivory soap and man.

The cabby rode the horn.

“Wait,” I breathed. “You need a doctor.”

He limped away. “Forget it. I’m gone.”

Cradling a hand to his ribs, he scooped up his belongings and headed for the exit. Wind rushed the lobby once the automatic doors slammed back. It blew the flaps of his jacket open, but he didn’t button up. A heaviness squeezed my chest when he winced as he eased into the cab. It was insane. I was actually worried about him. Oh, God, was I losing my mind?

I was about to slink away when the taxi pulled off, but the brake lights flashed twice. The vehicle backed up and lurched to a stop. Muffled shouts followed and the door flew open with Trace tearing out of the cab.

Pain must have stabbed him because he winced again, then yelled a litany of four, five, and six-letter-words. The cabby barked a choice word in answer, then flipped him the bird and roared off. Obviously, the man recognized him and decided he posed a danger.

I watched Trace’s shoulders fall, like all the fight had been sucked out of him, and compassion welled in my heart. As if in a trance, I stepped through the automatic doors, closing the distance between us. Tall as a god, he towered over me. His shadow blocked what little sunlight squeezed past the clouds.

Snowflakes drifted while we studied each other, but this time, his gaze bore an intensity and wonder that rippled through every cell in my body. For a moment, I’d have sworn I’d seen a flicker of the boy who’d taught me to dance.

He tilted his head to the sky and snow melted on his bruised face. “What’re you doin’, Shannon?”

Good question.

I hugged myself, sifting through a labyrinth of emotions. Yes, I had big doubts about him, but if he’d wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have tried to save me. As for the gossipers, since I’d been seen with him twice, the damage was already done. Besides, I needed to talk to him. Desperately. So I decided to shove my doubts aside.

For now.

“I was about to call for a car,” I said. “Do you need a ride?”

TRACE

____________________________

If someone had told me I’d be riding in anything owned by a Bradford, I would’ve thought they were nuts, but the day had been full of surprises.

As the sun fell below the horizon, a black stretch limo pulled into Temptation Memorial. Steam hugged every inch and a dewy row of tinted windows lined either side.

I watched a thirty-something driver with curly blonde hair exit the dark beast. Decked out in a topcoat, leather boots, and a cap, he looked familiar to me.

“Good evening, Miss,” the man beamed. His zeal was as cheesy as the smile he wore.

Shannon looked annoyed. “Gerard, I only asked for a car.”

“Your aunt said the limo would be roomier—for your leg.”

That seemed to piss her off even more. She gave a put-upon sigh, squared her shoulders, and after whispering something to the driver, she disappeared inside.

No doubt about it. I’d entered an alternate universe.

I glanced at the lobby. Half a dozen sets of hate-filled eyes were lasered on me. Eddie and his two inbred cousins, Dumb and Stupid, were among them.

What a steaming pile of dung I’d fallen into. Truth be told, I was bone-tired, my body felt like a giant knot of pain, and I was freezing my ass off. Forget the mindless sex. All I needed was a bed. Oh, and the bottle of Herradura. Yeah, I still wanted that.

Goldilocks cleared his throat. “Sir?”

His hands were clasped behind him while he tipped back and forth on the balls of his feet. Wait a minute. Now I remembered him. The little snot used to work for Lilith. Probably fucked her for all I knew.

“Will you be riding with Miss Bradford?” he asked me.

I raked my gaze at the sky. So these were my choices: I could stay out here and freeze. Be the main attraction at the sideshow in the lobby. Or take my chances with Shannon.

Unfriggenbelievable.

With a weary sigh, I slipped inside the limo and settled across from Shannon. Fear nudged my heart when Goldilocks closed the door, but a feeling of safety soon rivaled it. Strange how close quarters gave me a bizarre mixture of security and panic.

I took a calming breath and sized up my surroundings. The thick burgundy carpet beneath my feet didn’t feel half as good as the warm, marshmallow-soft leather that cradled my body.

I relaxed, sank into it—quite a change from Icky’s hunk of junk. The VW’s dirty interior had been bone-bare, except for the hive of wires jutting out from a hole where a radio should’ve been.

I watched Shannon through hooded lids while we taxied toward the main road. She’d draped her coat across her lap. Her torn jeans revealed a bloody bandage on her knee, and her left cheek was bruised.

She stared out of her window, doing her damndest not to look at me. It played out on her face, the war that raged inside her, a war I’d probably incited. She seemed frustrated and confused, like a woman trying to force a rope through the eye of a needle.

I could relate.

She broke the silence. “I left my cell phone at Briar, so—”

“That’s where you live? With your aunt and uncle?” The question leapt out before I could yank it back.

“Actually, they live with me. Now, as I was saying—”

“How is that?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Father willed Briar to me. It’s been in his family for four generations.” She straightened, started picking invisible lint off her coat. “After Mother’s…death, Auntie and Uncle closed Cheltenham Manor and we went to Briar.”

Mother’s death? Talk about an understatement. Moving right along. “You don’t mind being there with everybody?”

She arched a brow. “It’s a big house.”

Another understatement. Briar Hall was huge.

“Now,” she said with a breathy sigh, “I’m afraid I forgot my cell phone. You can use the one up there, if need be.” She nodded at the tinted window behind me. It separated us from the driver. Then she produced a hanky. “Here.”

“What’s this for?”

“Your lip. It’s bleeding.”

I leaned forward to claim the dainty fabric. When our fingers brushed, she pulled away like I’d singed her with hellfire. Yep, this would be a very long ride.

The scent on the lacy fabric—Shannon’s scent—was hard to resist, so I took a whiff. It smelled rich and seductive, like smoky grapes or something, and damn if it wasn’t giving me a hard-on. Like the one I got in the lobby when our bodies touched. Speaking of which, I took a generous look at her slight frame. Wasn’t long before my cock started pressing against my zipper. Aw, yeah, she was all grown up now. Then again, after twelve years in the joint, Popeye’s girlfriend could probably get a rise out of me.

I crushed the hanky in my fist as my mind stumbled over the same roadblock. Why’d she help me? Her threat to Eddie had fangs behind it. While the Grays were high up on the totem pole, the Bradfords owned the damn thing.

When Shannon’s Uncle Sears wasn’t playing legal eagle, he moonlighted as head honcho of the Bradford Group, a nonprofit foundation with a gazillion subsidiaries. Shannon’s cousin Mead had served two terms as New Dyer’s mayor, and was a shoe-in for next year’s governor’s race. Even Eddie’s daddy, Sheriff Gray was Shannon’s godfather.

I glanced out of my window at the grime and decay of Temptation, comparing it to Shannon’s golden world, good ole Willow’s Corner. In her pricey neighborhood, red brick colonials stood tall, capped with a thick down of milk-white snow. Chimney smoke made the quiet setting look warm and friendly—like a fucking Hallmark card.

But I knew better.

Behind those fancy doors, with their brass knockers and deceitful doormats that had the nerve to say, ‘Welcome,’ were the same vicious snobs who’d looked down their noses at me earlier.

Shannon, by all appearances, seemed just as mystified by the day’s events as me. Now her eyes had a vacant look, like she’d drifted off into her own universe to escape the complete shitstorm in this one.

Was I grateful for her help? Hell yeah, but nothing had changed. As if it ever could. What she’d done to my family was unforgivable.

CHAPTER THREE

I Scream, You Scream

SHANNON

____________________________

At least five minutes had passed since I’d given him the hanky, yet my fingers still tingled where we’d touched. I’d ridden in this limo a million times, but it never felt this claustrophobic. Blocking him out was impossible. His presence seemed to fill every inch of space.

Although sending a limo in lieu of the more practical town car was a classic example of Auntie’s smothering and pretentiousness, hindsight made me think again.

The more distance between Trace Dawson and me, the better.

“You still owe me an explanation.”

Like a clap of thunder, the low rumble of his voice came out of nowhere.

I gathered my wits while a bus crammed with riders crept by in a cloud of diesel exhaust. “Sorry?”

“Back there.” He jerked his head. “You helped me. Why?”

The answer eluded me, so I chose the coward’s way out. “Do you know why you tried to help me?”

“No.”

“Well, neither do I.” A weight lifted when he didn’t press the issue, but then the perfect answer came to me. “Trace?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe things aren’t as enigmatic as they seem. Maybe we both just had a visceral reaction and…and there’s no mystery about it. Maybe it just is.”

He squinted as if I’d just sprouted feathers. “Care to say that in English?”

I blinked. Two heartbeats later, I said, “Some things are instinctual. Like gut reactions? But then other things are more complicated.” I dipped my head, brushed my bangs away. “Like this conversation.” His granite expression softened. Encouraged, I kept on. “Since I heard you were getting out, I’ve worried about things like where and how to approach you…and what to say…and what you’d think if I—you know, how you might react when we….” I tossed a hand. “I’m not making any sense, am I?”

“Some.”

Some. Amazing how one simple word could lighten a burden. “To be honest, you blindsided me this morning,” I said, picking at the hole in my jeans. “And when you started running, I thought….”

He eased forward. “Yeah?”

“I thought you wanted to hurt me.” I lowered my eyes again. “But then I understood. You would’ve pushed me out of the way had you been closer.”

“That was the plan.”

“Right. So, I started thinking that maybe I should offer an olive branch. You know, considering all we’ve—”

He cocked a brow. “An olive branch, huh?”

“Yes.”

Trace’s eyes flickered with a chilling combination of veiled amusement and…contempt? “Don’t you think it’s a little late for olive branches?”

Whatever relief I felt vanished. Something had just gone horribly wrong.

“Oh, before I forget.” He snagged a magazine from his pillowcase, and tossed it on my lap. His cool gaze slid to the three-carat solitaire winking on my ring finger, then raked up my arm to rest on my face. “Congratulations.” When I eyed the tabloid in distaste, he said, “Turn to page seven.”

I feigned indifference. That is, until I found the article. By the time I’d finished reading it, my stomach was in tatters. With a circulation in the gazillions, the filthy rag went all over the country, and it was as accurate as a mood ring.

“I don’t know where this vulgar woman gets her sordid ideas,” I said, pitching the disgusting paper aside. “But I am not, nor have I ever been a ‘swinger.’ As for the ridiculous sadomasochism garbage—”

“I kinda knew that already. What about the engagement?”

“Uh….” I didn’t have to apologize for my choices, yet for some reason, I needed to explain. “He’s my fiancé, but I’m not throwing an engagement party now or in the future.”

“Isn’t he nearly twice your age?”

My jaw tightened. “That’s none of your business.”

“All right,” he said with ease, but he’d judged me. “So let’s get back to those olive branches.”

My voice quavered. “Do you plan on making Temptation your home?”

“It’s always been my home, Shannon.”

“I know that. All I meant was—” My left brow trembled. Stitches of pain followed. “Why are you making this difficult? I’m just trying to bridge the gap between us.”

He rubbed his ribs. “See, that’s the thing.” A muscle in his jaw flexed. “You’re wearing yourself out for nothing. We don’t have to bridge any gaps. Stuff is just fine the way it is.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Look….” His pause was as pregnant as they come. “I’m grateful for what you did back there, but the best thing we can do is get on with our lives and leave each other alone.”

“We’ll never resolve anything that way.”

“Who says we have to? I hate to be blunt, but just being with you brings back a bunch of stuff I’d rather forget.”

“That’s the problem. I’ve forgotten too much.” I sighed. “These are the facts. Mother is dead, I testified, and you went to prison. Let’s deal with it.”

His face sobered in degrees. The body armor went on next.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean—”

He raked his fingers through his damp hair. “Talking’s not gonna make a bit ‘a difference.”

“Why did you come with me then?”

“Why else?” He rested an ankle on his knee. “You practically begged—” He paused mid-sentence, like an epiphany had struck him. “Aw, hell.” Laughter danced in his eyes. “Why didn’t I see it before? This is nothin’ but a guilt trip.”

“What?”

“Guilt.” The smile he flashed didn’t have a trace of humor in it. “Everything you did back there. The threats to the Grays. This little powwow. It was all part of a plan, wasn’t it? I wouldn’t be surprised if Eddie was in on it.” He nodded to himself as if he were putting puzzle pieces together. “First Icky conveniently shows up to get me, and now here we are. Damn. This scheme y’all cooked up was brilliant.” He glared at me. “So who’s the mastermind? Couldn’t be Eddie. He’s too stupid.”

All pretense of civility vanished. “You’re not serious.”

“As the grave, baby doll.”

My back hit the seat. The man was insane. “Okay, you’re right. We staged the accident and I used my magic powers to lure you there,” I said, wiggling my fingers. “And the incident with the cab? That was me too. I even paid my godfather’s psychotic son to beat you up, just so I could come to your rescue.”

“Go ahead and poke fun, but Icky already admitted he brought me to the plaza on purpose. He knew you’d be there.”

I rolled my eyes. “I had nothing to do with this nonsense.”

“So I’m just having a bad day.”

“Exactly.”

“And Cholly?” He eased back, folded his arms. “I s’pose you’re in the dark about that too. Folks are talking boycotts. He’s had permit delays for the club he wants to open in New Dyer. And none of the local contractors will touch him. All ‘cause of me. Hell, it’s this whole piss-ass town. I knew when I got out folks would be up in arms, but this…this is unreal.”

That shut me up. Trace was persona non grata everywhere, and unfortunately, by association, his friend Cholly had been made a target. In the past, I’d reached out to Cholly because I’d sold him the commercial building—formerly The Playroom nightclub—but it was obvious he hated me. He’d made the transaction as unpleasant as possible.

“If you’re after a clear conscience,” Trace said, “go elsewhere. Today’s performance didn’t change my mind.”

“You’d be in jail if not for me. Now you have the gall to—”

“Say you were putting on a show?”

I straightened. “It wasn’t a show.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I have nothing to feel guilty about.” But I did feel guilty, real guilty.

“You’re right,” he said with a frosty smile. “Everybody knows you’re as blameless as baby Jesus. I mean, look at that fancy billboard of yours. What’d it say?” He tapped a finger to his swollen lips. “Oh, yeah. ‘Shannon Bradford: a name you can trust.’” He snorted. “What a load a bull.”

“You’re obviously beyond the point of reason.”

“You just figuring that out?” He studied me as if I were a puzzle and his mouth slid into a bitter smile. “Hell, maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s not about guilt, and you’re just clueless.”

“No, you’re the expert in that area.”

Unfazed, he tilted his head and his eyes narrowed. “I’ll bet you’re one of those bleeding hearts. You prob’ly believe in prison reform too.” He laughed. “Think I’ve forsaken my murdering ways? Yeah, you wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“What are you talking about?”

He tooled his gaze around the limo. “Alone in the back of this fancy ride with a certified lady-killer. You’re not worried?”

Of course I was, but I’d be damned before I’d admit it. “If you’re trying to frighten me, it’s not working.”

“You sure?” His sharp eyes held me. “All those years in Gainstown could’ve made the Butcher Boy even crazier. Maybe he’s just been biding his time ‘til he could settle a score.”

He wanted to scare me. Wanted me to believe in the monster the town had created, but it was a ruse. The monster was actually a wizard trying to distract me from the man behind the curtain. And that just made me angrier.

“Your opinion of me is quite clear,” I said, “so why didn’t you just let that Jeep mow me down?”

“Simple. I would’ve done the same for a dog.” Even as my eyes widened in shock, his stayed cold and dead. “Now go tell your bloodsucking family and your troll of a fiancé how I threw your little olive branch back in your face.”

Pain squeezed my heart. “You really hate me, don’t you?”

He studied me, blinking in that lazy way of his. “To be honest, I don’t feel much of anything where you’re concerned.”

I tore away and stared sightlessly out of the window while the limo inched through traffic. He was right. I was naïve. My biggest mistake was in misjudging the depth of his pain. Despite what he’d said, his feelings for me were anything but neutral.

I’d known Trace since I was six. His mother, having cleaned houses for the best families, came to Cheltenham Manor with high recommendations. Ten-year-old Trace used to tag along and was later hired to do odd jobs around the estate.

After he got his license, he was hired as a chauffeur. By then, he and I had forged a bond, one I thought couldn’t be broken. Now his parents were dead, and his brother was in a padded room. If he were innocent, of course he’d feel robbed. If he were guilty, would his bitterness be any less potent? Either way, in his mind, I’d betrayed him. Dare I push him further?

Yes. I had no other choice.

Reaching inside my blouse, I held up a sterling silver chain with a charm. “See this?” It dangled between my fingers. “I found it in an old trunk. I still don’t remember much about the day you gave it to me, only that you said your great-grandfather sent it to you for Christmas. You called him Bisabuelo.”

An emotion I couldn’t identify flashed in his eyes.

“Do you remember the inscription?” I asked. His Adam’s apple bobbed as I flipped the charm over and recited, “‘Una vida vivida con miedo es una vida media duración.’” I dropped the locket back between my breasts. “I’d forgotten the reason you wanted me to have it…until now.”

“Shannon….”

“Listen to me, okay? I used to draw in my diary, but it went missing right before Auntie and Uncle moved me to Briar.” I lowered my eyes, fingered the chain hanging from my neck. “Two months ago, I found this locket with a few torn diary pages. Around the same time, a memory came back. And it…it was something so awful that I began questioning everything I thought I knew.” I looked at him dead on. “But one thing was clear. I lied to you about Mother that day at Miller’s Pond.”

Child abuse.

Until I’d found the diary pages, what few memories I had of Lilith Bradford were surreal. I’d honestly believed my mother never laid a hand on me. Now the only question was why. How could I have forgotten the hell I’d endured? And not just parts. I’d forgotten it all.

Murder in the second degree. Thirteen years—a minimum of ten served. The sentence was a miracle, considering the evidence. Andrew Gartner, Trace’s Harvard-educated attorney, came forward a week after the murder hit the airwaves. Offering his services, pro bono, he was one of the best criminal defense lawyers on the East Coast, but he’d met his match in Darien.

Trace maintained his innocence throughout the trial. As for suspects, his lawyer pointed to the half dozen or so lovers Mother was rumored to have had. The defense argued that the last time Trace saw her alive was when he’d confronted her about my bruises, an incident witnessed by several servants.

The prosecution claimed the abuse was a figment of Trace’s imagination and that the violence he’d suffered at the hands of his own father—Gary Dawson—had caused him to lose touch with reality.

My deposition didn’t contradict this. I was convinced Mother never hit me, but finding the diary pages changed all that. Little had I known what other things those pages would stir up.

“I’m sorry, Trace. I don’t know why I denied the abuse, but at the time, I actually believed what I was saying.”

His face lacked expression, but he seemed to take pity on me when his eyes softened. “I never held that against you.” He looked out of his window. “You couldn’t even admit it to me or yourself, much less to strangers.”

I shrank back. His words had left me temporarily speechless. “Oh, my God. That’s why Gartner didn’t cross-examine me. You wouldn’t let him.”

He fixed his eyes on mine again, saying nothing. Even with his freedom on the line, he’d protected me. The realization had my mind reeling. If he didn’t blame me for testifying, then where was all this hatred coming from?

I shook my head again, even more confused. “Do your promises have expiration dates?”

“What?”

“You once said you could never hate me. And that you’d be there if I needed you. Well, I need you now more than ever.”

He looked away.

“The Miller’s Pond diary entry was the last one I ever wrote. Mother came in my room drunk that night, just as I was finishing. She snatched it from me, read a few paragraphs and started ripping pages out. That’s the last time I saw it. Then after you had that fight by the pool the next night, she made me give her the necklace. She didn’t want me to keep anything of yours. But my diary—the pages…everything disappeared after the murder.”

“And this has what to do with me?”

“That’s what I want to find out.” Emotion welled in my throat. “Something caused me to forget the abuse. Doesn’t that sound strange to you?”

He shrugged. “Kids repress stuff like that all the time.”

From his far-away expression, I could tell he was speaking from experience. “Who else knew what Mother was doing? The servants witnessed the pool fight, right? You said it was the last time you saw her alive—”

He flashed a palm. “Hold up. I don’t like where this conversation is going.”

“Please hear me out. You reported Mother to Sheriff Gray. That’s one of the reasons I want to talk to him. I remember him grilling me before I gave my deposition.” I bowed my head and shook it. “He’s retired now and lives in Roanoke. I call every day, leave messages, but he ignores them.”

He started to speak, but must have thought better of it.

“I found Valene Campbell too. Our old cook.” I raised my eyes. “She was your mother’s best friend, right?”

He just looked at me.

“Oh, come on! You can help. I’ve left countless phone messages. I’ve even written a few letters, but her granddaughter Jane intercepts everything. She said Mrs. Campbell was too infirm and senile to speak with me.”

He gestured. “Well, there you go.”

“She’s lying.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m telling you, the old woman knew everything that went on at Cheltenham Manor.”

“So talk to your family,” he said.

“They don’t believe Mother abused me. They say the diary pages are stories I used to make up. That I was a precocious girl with a vivid imagination.”

“What about Montgomery?”

I gestured helplessly. “He says even if she hit me—”

“That I’m still a murdering bastard, right?” He rolled his eyes, his face a mask of hostility. “I can’t help you.”

Debating his guilt or innocence was the last thing I wanted to do—too many minefields there. “Reading through the transcripts was like falling down a rabbit hole. It was information overload. That’s why I thought if I talked with you, or maybe if we went back to Cheltenham Manor—”

“Oh, hell no.”

“It’s been empty for twelve years. I haven’t set foot—”

“Shannon, do you hear yourself? I just got out of the joint today. What makes you think I wanna deal with this shit now?”

I leaned closer. “Are you saying your answer would have been different had I waited a week…a month…a year?”

He rolled his eyes again.

“Please.” I grabbed fistfuls of the coat in my lap. “I’m desperate, okay? I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

For a second it seemed like he’d understood. Like I’d reached him somehow, but then his eyes turned hard, almost as if he’d flipped a channel. After a long silence, he said, “Will helping you erase the hell I lived?” He latched his unblinking gaze to me. “Will it bring my mama back?”

“N-no, but—” I jiggled my head to clear it. “What about the promises you made?”

“The boy who made them is dead.” He cast me aside with a glower. “Amazing. After all you’ve done, you got the nerve to—”

“You just said you didn’t fault me! My God, how can you blame me for something I’m still confused about? I was barely fourteen,” I cried. “Mother was dead—and…and I saw you crouched over her! You had the spade and there was blood all over your hands…and your jeans were soaked with it! If you were me, what conclusion would you have drawn? Given everything that happened that week with…with all the fighting and the rumors about you and—”

“Don’t even go there!” Anger flared in his eyes like a struck match. When I retreated in fear, he registered momentary surprise, but his ire returned a split-second later. “I already said I didn’t hold any of that against you!”

“Then what—”

“I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to bring it up, but you’re obviously bent on playing dumb. Stop the innocent act!”

“Act?” I snapped. “I have no idea what you’re—”

“Bullshit!”

“Trace, I don’t—”

“Enough!” Veins stood out in his neck. “I’m done with this.” He punched the intercom button. “Put the brakes on, Jeeves. I’ll see myself out.”

The limo came to a violent halt. I went for his arm, but he wrenched it away, glaring back at me as if I’d just spit on him. His hatred was a tangible thing that made his silent message all too clear. Back off, his eyes told me.

“Please, don’t leave like this,” I begged.

Trace was beyond hearing me. He snatched his pillowcase and tore outside. Horns blared. Wind smacked me when he whipped around. His face was a gray blur through my veil of tears.

“Bye, Shannon,” he blurted. The cold sheathed his words.

“No, wait! I swear I don’t understand what’s—”

Another loud chorus of horns exploded when Trace’s pillowcase hit the ground. “You got amnesia about this too?” He shook his head. “Unfuckinbelievable!”

“This? This what?” I screamed back. “Tell me!”

“The letter you wrote the parole board!”

“What letter?”

He snagged the pillowcase. “That’s it. I’m gone.”

“Damn it, what letter!”

He blazed a look at me, then said through clenched teeth, “The one that killed my mother. Ring a bell?”

Eyes wide with mortification, I wagged my head as my mind raced to connect the dots. “But I never—”

He slammed the door so hard the limo rocked.

“…sent a letter.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Beware Of Blondes Bearing Rock Salt

TRACE

____________________________

I’d warned her. Told her straight out to drop the subject. All I’d wanted was a ride and an explanation for what she’d done. I’d never intended to get into a deep conversation, not with my soul still gushing blood. But she had to press me, goad me, so I chewed her up and spat her out.

Maybe now she’d leave me the hell alone.

Stalking down Jefferson Boulevard with the wind at my back and pain in my ribs, I tried to shove Shannon out of my mind, but I was still boiling mad. ‘Let’s make amends,’ she’d told me. ‘Let’s bridge gaps.’ Screw her gaps; screw her prick of a fiancé and her olive branches. What a joke. She’d cowered in the limo like I was a monster. No wonder she’d sent the letter.

I scared the hell out of her.

When she’d penned the thing, she was an adult, capable of making her own choices and living with the fallout. Whatever she wrote swayed the board’s decision to deny my parole last year. The consequences set a tragic chain of events into motion, events that would haunt me forever.

I ducked my head against the lashing wind and zigzagged across the street to my childhood home. The pillowcase I’d slung over my shoulder seemed to weigh a ton as I took the porch steps, going slowly because my knees were shaking. So were my hands. This place was my greatest nightmare. The house of cards built with cement and brick.

‘Stare the monster down,’ Doc Rosen had said.

I sighed. “Easier said than done, old man.”

It was a typical cracker box; probably still swarming with cockroaches and an equally impressive rodent population. The battered screen door smacked my butt as I fished the chain from my pocket. I shook lint balls off the key and unlocked the door, giving it a gentle nudge with my foot. The rusty-hinged block of wood wailed open. It reminded me of the muted squeals the sows on Bisabuelo’s farm used to make while birthing.

Pale light spilled in from a long hallway that led off to the kitchen. I took a whiff, and my stomach rumbled. The scent of home cooking softened the visual. Maybe Bev had left me some dinner. I flipped the wall switch for the ceiling lamp, but nothing happened. Burned-out bulb, no doubt.

Even in the dimness, the room looked homely. Like fruitcake, cockroaches, and taxes, Mama’s patchwork furniture—complete with plastic slipcovers—would endure forever. Add a maze of water spots on the ceiling and an ugly orange carpet, and you had the makings for a bass-ackwards funhouse in hell.

I eased down on the sofa expecting to feel grief or even anger, but it wasn’t there. Maybe Doc Rosen was right about facing the monster, because the knot in my gut had slackened. If I could survive Gainstown, surely I could endure Gary Dawson’s House of Horrors.

But what about the basement?

A chill rippled over me when I glared at the basement door. Funny. I didn’t remember it looking that damn creepy. The wood appeared worn in some spots, splintered in others, and where the bottom met the floor, two inches of darkness reached out from beneath.

I looked away, shelved the thought altogether. These were temporary digs. Aside from my share of the money in Mama and Daddy’s retirement account, the one good thing the old man had done was deed me this house. Ten-and-a-half months of rent money from a revolving door of tenants—a little over six thousand—along with whatever I could net from the sale of this hell hole, would further my plans. I’d satisfy the conditions of my parole, deal with the situation with my brother, and get this place in shape for the market. In two months, six tops, I’d start on my BA, and later I hoped to launch my own business. Somewhere.

But first I’d have to do a major overhaul here. The walls needed spackling and paint. Crown molding along the ceiling. Wainscoting in the stairwell. A pine floor lay beneath the carpet. Maybe I’d rent a buffer—

Light flooded in from the adjacent dining room. I leapt to my feet and pain speared my ribs. In the hallway stood my apron-wearing sister. She cradled a white bowl filled with what looked like dough. An iPod was clipped to her waist. Headphones draped her neck.

I breathed a relieved sigh. Seeing Bev made my soul feel a hundred pounds lighter. She flashed a smile and a tear dashed down her cheek. Her long auburn hair was gathered up high in a ponytail. That combined with a sprinkling of freckles, made her look much younger than her thirty-two years.

“I was beginnin’ to worry,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.” I glanced beyond her. “Is Icky in there?”

She set the bowl on the table and scrubbed her hands together. A cloud of flour wafted up. “I haven’t seen him since he left to get you.”

So she didn’t know about our fight. Good. ‘Cause I wasn’t in the mood to rehash it. “What’s up with the lights?”

“Fuse musta burnt out.” Her grin faded as she drew near and frowned up at me. “What happened to your face?”

“It’s nothing.”

Her hazel eyes—the same color as mine and Mama’s—narrowed with concern. “You been fightin’ again, Tracemore?”

“Naw. C’mere.” I hugged her close to stifle her questions, mindful of my sore ribs and her messy hands. A lump wedged in my throat. I didn’t think I’d ever hold my big sister again as a free man. “Damn, I missed you.”

“Missed you more,” she said, sniffling. “Amber had to go sign some papers for the rental car she got, but she’ll be back. I put her bag in your room.”

That was a relief. I could use some of Amber’s TLC. We were ‘friends with benefits’—great sex with no commitment, which suited me just fine because I didn’t want strings and neither did she. The girl loved her freedom.

“Before I forget.” She rested her chin atop my chest. “I may have a lead on a carpentry job for you. Now nothin’s set in stone, but Zoe Dillon’s husband owns a construction company, and they’re in the running for a big contract. It’s with the city to build a new library. She said she’d put in a good word for you.”

Zoe and Bev had been friends for years, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”

I fingered Bev’s ponytail, smelled it. “I thought you said you quit?”

She buried her face in my shirt. I could feel her grin. “God’s just testing me,” she told me, her voice full of sass.

Ever since Bev found Jesus three years ago, He, let her tell it, had kept her busy. The Lord was an easy scapegoat for her nicotine addiction.

She gazed up at me again. “I’ll serve you as soon as dinner’s done, but I can’t stay. I gotta get home.”

To that wife-slapping crackhead. “Soooo what’d you make?” I asked, keeping my thoughts to myself.

“All your favorites. T-bone steak. Mashed potatoes and broccoli.” She pecked my cheek, grabbed the bowl, and set off down the hall. “There’s Herradura in the fridge,” she said over her shoulder. “Cold, just the way you like it. I put fresh towels in the closet, a new robe in the bathroom, and a bottle of Mr. Bubble on the sink. Oh, and Shannon Bradford called.”

TRACE

____________________________

“Shoot.” Amber canvassed the busy parking lot. “Where the hell is the car?”

I strode beside her lugging a dolly weighted down with renovation equipment and supplies. Cupping a hand over my brow, I squinted against the biting wind. The day was sunny, but a cold front was expected to slide in after dark, bringing an unseasonable ten inches of snow. Not surprisingly, Home Depot had morphed into a hornet’s nest of panic buying.

“There.” I pointed, picking up the pace. “By the Hummer.”

The trek to the car was treacherous. Black ice and potholes abounded. When we finally reached Amber’s SUV rental, my relief was short-lived. A rude shout greeted us—this from one of five teenage punks loitering by the dumpsters several yards away.

“Yo, Butcher Boy. What’d you buy?”

“Garden tools,” the idiot next to him blurted with a cough.

A burst of laugher followed.

Another hollered, “Psycho!”

“Fuckin’ nutjob!” someone else yelled.

“Ignore them,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. I stabbed the remote at the car and yanked the hatch open. “Just a bunch of dumb ass kids.”

“Hey, baby,” the first boy yelled at Amber. “If you’re still alive tomorrow, call me.” He shook his junk. “I may have a home improvement project for you.”

“I’ll prolly need a microscope to find it,” she fired back.

I blasted her with a glare. “What are you doin’?”

“Eat me, bitch,” the crotch-grabber retorted.

She smiled, tilted her head, and flashed a one-finger salute.

“Amber!” I barked.

“What?” She batted her lashes innocently. “The little bastard had it coming.”

I ignored the dull ache in my ribs and snatched a set of power rollers and a can of paint off the dolly. “Get the hell in the car before you get me arrested.”

“Don’t worry, shug. I’ve got your back.”

No doubt she did. Though her close-cropped black hair and violet eyes made her look like a pixie, the leggy ex-prison guard held a concealed weapons permit and two black belts—one in karate, the other in aikido.

She grabbed a snow shovel and grinned. “Speaking of arrests, I still have my handcuffs if you want to play later. I’ll even spring for the honey and whipped cream.”

I fought a smile. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“I can think of a few things,” she said with a saucy wink.

By the time we finished loading the car, the punks had moved on. I hopped in and was about to start the engine when Amber began squirming in her seat.

“Oh, my God. Look.” She nudged her chin. “That’s my girl Neecie—and she’s got her baby boy with her! Give me a minute, okay? I haven’t seen her since they let her out of rehab.” She smashed a kiss against my cheek. “Be right back.”

She threw the door open and giggled her way over to a blue Sentra in the next aisle.

Women.

I sat for a time picking at a hangnail until my stitches started bothering me. I adjusted the rearview mirror and eyed my chin. Damn if the cut didn’t itch something fierce. So did the tape on the bandage.

I was seconds away from a scratching fit when a blur of blonde hair whisked past my peripheral vision. I jerked the mirror to the right. Aw, hell. It was her. Shannon Bradford, one row behind me, fighting with a shopping cart. As she pushed, the thing pushed back, its wheels slipping and sliding over the icy pavement.

Clearly, God, the devil, or both were determined to screw with me. Bad enough one of her damn billboards stood big as day on the same street as Fontana Exxon. Every morning her sunny face greeted me, and now this. I squeezed my lids shut, and tried to forget she was out there, but curiosity chomped at my insides.

Fuck it.

I scooted forward and snagged the mirror again, just in time to witness a bag of rock salt topple from her cart and slap the ground. The plastic burst open, spitting pellets everywhere. Shoppers streamed around her, too consumed by their own Snowmageddon madness to care.

Before I even realized it, I’d wrapped my hand over the door handle.

Oh, hell no. Caution made me uncurl my fingers. I glanced across the dashboard. Amber had since climbed into Neecie’s car and was gabbing away. With Amber being Amber, they’d be jawing for at least another ten minutes. I glared up at the roof and tried to talk some sense into myself, but three seconds later, I was slamming out of the car, muttering curses the whole way.

Even as I stood behind her, I regretted it, but for whatever dumb reason, I couldn’t leave. “Need some help?” I muttered, my voice taut with irritation.

Wearing a brown sheepskin jacket, jeans, and ankle boots, Shannon tore around. The broken bag in her arms hit the ground again in a mad spray of salt. “Jeez. You scared me.” She eyeballed the lot as she knelt to stuff handfuls back into the busted sack.

“You want some help or not?”

“No thanks,” she said, her gaze still sweeping the area.

I smiled.

We’d been the talk of the town for the past few days, so clearly little Miss Priss was dealing with the backlash. Why else would she be casing the parking lot like she stole something? Now she’d been seen consorting with the infamous Butcher Boy again. God, I was trying not to enjoy this, but her paranoia only made me want to extend my visit.

“Move,” I grumbled. “You’re just making a bigger mess.” My sore ribs screamed when I snatched the ruined bag off the ground—a twenty pounder—but I bit back the pain. “Why didn’t you send Jeeves to pick this stuff up for you?”

“His name is Gerard,” came her curt correction. She shoved to her feet, smacking salt from her hands. “Anyway, this ‘stuff’ isn’t for Briar. It’s for a property I’m showing next week. The place is special, so I don’t mind doing—oh, forget it.”

I gave her a ‘whatever’ look and dumped the leaking bag into a stray cart. Salt rained through the plastic grill as she continued skimming the scene for gawkers. “Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll get bored eventually.”

She glared at me for a long moment. “Why haven’t you returned my calls? I’ve left you six messages.”

More like eight. She’d had my phone on blast all week. “Maybe ‘cause I didn’t want to talk to you.”

She opened her mouth, but a trio of blue-haired old ladies ambled by in a flurry of whispers. Her voice held a cautious undertone when she spoke. “I didn’t write the letter, Trace.”

So she’d said eight times ago. I grabbed one of the three remaining bags and positioned the thing in her open trunk.

She tossed a hand. “You’re just going to ignore me?”

“Naw,” I said in a bored voice. “I’m also gonna finish loadin’ up your car.”

Dark amusement warmed me at her look of outrage. Tiny as she was, she still managed to block my way. “You accuse me of destroying your family,” she spat, eyes flashing, “but you won’t let me defend myself? How fair is that?”

My nostrils flared as the smoky-sweet scent of her teasing perfume snuck up on me. Annoyed, I stepped around her to grab the next bag. “Life ain’t fair, Miz Bradford.”

“Oh, grow up. Someone impersonated me. I have a legal right—no, a duty to dig into this. Darien’s even helping.”

I froze. “So lover boy’s in on this now?”

“‘Lover boy’ isn’t ‘in’ on anything.” She jammed her hands into her pockets as a breeze carried her scent past me again. “He’s an ex-prosecutor, so he can plow through the bureaucratic mire a lot faster than I can. What did the letter say?”

I rolled my eyes. As if she didn’t know. “Beats me. It came with a confidentiality request. So they wouldn’t let me see it, which is laughable since somebody mailed a copy to my mama.” I threw the second bag into the trunk and shot her a look packed with blame. “Must’ve been a doozy considering the fallout.”

Bitter satisfaction filled me once her face fell and she looked away. Outfreakingstanding.

Gossip had almost faded when the Dawson double suicides dropped Temptation, West Virginia back on the map last year. My mother had died with a plastic bag over her head, crucifix in hand, and a bellyful of pills washed down with half a pint of good old Jim Beam.

But my crazy ass daddy had gone out with a bang. Blew his brains out with a shotgun. Bev claimed some of the buckshot was still embedded in the basement wall. Soon afterward, my baby brother Coltrane (Cole for short) ended up at Saint Mary’s Asylum. The boy slashed his wrists with a Ginsu knife and smeared his chest with his own blood after finding the bodies. To this day, he still swears ‘voices’ told him to cut himself.

News accounts glossed over everything with the usual tactless comments from judgmental neighbors:

What else would you expect? The whole family was nothin’ but trash.

Yet I knew the truth.

So did Shannon Bradford.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she snapped. “Just think about this, okay? If I sent the letter, why didn’t I send another one to keep you from getting out again?”

I dug the last bag from the cart and hauled it to her car. “How the hell should I know? You’re the one with amnesia. Maybe you forgot.”

Shannon stared hard at me. “Really?”

I lifted a brow in answer.

She scowled. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, and once I do, you’ll have no more excuses.”

I laughed at her and dumped the bag in.

“We’re both injured parties here,” she insisted.

Yeah, right. I made a ‘bitch, please’ face, slammed the trunk and shoved the cart aside. Tipping an invisible hat brim, I said, “You have a good day.”

But she caught my wrist when I turned to leave and it felt like some kind of heat ray zapped the spot she touched. The sensation coursed through my blood, melted into my bones.

Her hand wasn’t much bigger than a child’s, but it had the weight of someone three times her size. I stared at where we were joined, then lifted my eyes to her face. She looked as stunned as me. Lips parted, she’d had the same confused expression when we’d stood outside the hospital. Then and now, the world and the last twelve years seemed to fall away.

I blinked to clear my head. “You got somethin’ else to say to me?”

Our gazes held as the wind tore into her hair. She released my wrist to absently tuck an errant lock behind her ear. “You may not believe this,” she said, her bottom lip trembling, “but the fact that you’re hurting makes me hurt too.”

My shoulders inched down a notch. She actually looked sincere. The moment stretched on while I examined her face, searching for something beyond my reach. Silence ballooned into awkwardness and she backed away, her skin pale, her chocolate-brown eyes dulled over in bewilderment.

She wasted no time hightailing it to her car, and after climbing behind the wheel, she pulled off without looking back. An icy breeze tugged at my peacoat as I absently rubbed my wrist and watched her Volvo melt into the endless chain of traffic.

When she’d completely vanished minutes later, I turned to find Amber leaning against the SUV, waiting, her eyes fixed on me.

CHAPTER FIVE

Little White Lies

SHANNON

____________________________

I was crouched on the wraparound porch of an old house, trying to open the front door. Ten minutes I’d been at this, and I hadn’t gotten anywhere. Thanksgiving and Snowmageddon had come and gone a week ago, but everything was still iced-over—hinges, locks, the whole shebang. At this rate, I’d need a blowtorch.

Situated in the heart of New Dyer’s historic district, this house, a romantic Queen Anne Victorian, had languished on the market for a year. The leaky roof, warped parquet floors, termite damage, and peeling wallpaper hadn’t endeared it to many, but anyone with imagination could see the swan within this ugly duckling.

A wind gust rocked the porch just as my 9 a.m. appointment rolled into the carport thirty minutes early. Musty air greeted me once the lock finally relented, but another gale licked from behind and ripped the handle from my grasp. My purse went next. Its contents skipped across the parquet floor like jacks.

I stared down in horror: ChapStick, wallet, mints, Midol, change, and two tampons.

“Just lovely,” I muttered.

Without thinking, I dropped to the floor in a frantic grab, but had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. Pain roared down my leg when the scab on my knee split. The weathervane on the carport whirled as Ian Lovejoy, a marine with sleepy brown eyes and a buzz cut, rounded his car to help Kimmy, his very pregnant wife.

A minute later, Kimmy gave a buoyant wave. “Hi, Shannon.”

“Hey, lady.” I shoved the last tampon into my purse. “Be careful. One of the neighborhood boys put rock salt out for me, but there’s still some ice patches.”

“We’re early, but I was kinda anxious,” Ian said. He curled an arm around Kimmy as they made their way up the steps. “Yeah, the place needs work. Termite damage, a warped porch…a leaky roof, but we want it anyway.”

I struggled to my feet, brushing myself off. Though I was all smiles, I felt numb. The Victorian had really grown on me. “Well, now,” I said, pumping a ton of sunshine into my voice. “Looks like we’ve got an offer to write. Shall we go back to the office?”

Ian beamed. “Mind if we take another look?”

“Take all the time you need.”

Lovejoy didn’t waste any.

He scooped Kimmy up and whirled her around. They rushed into the house like children hearing a recess bell. After Kimmy slid down his body, he delivered a kiss that bordered on pornographic. With one hand cupping his wife’s behind, Lovejoy palmed the door shut.

Swoosh.

Musty air fanned my face just as a frosty gale whistled across the porch, yet I was anything but cold. Watching that young couple filled me with longing because they had something I didn’t—spellbound passion. Lately, all Darien and I seemed to do was argue.

The vibration tapping my hip yanked me back. I dug my cell phone out. “Shannon Bradford.”

“I finally found it,” Darien said. “It’s a five-pager.”

The parole letter. My heart smacked my rib cage. “Five?”

“Written on Bradford Realty stationery. And, Shannon, the signature’s a dead ringer for yours.”

Weak-kneed, I gravitated to the porch swing and dropped. The chains rattled. I’d been in an emotional tailspin since the limo screamfest with Trace. Seeing him at Home Depot last week didn’t help. He’d acted as hateful as ever. God, but the man had the uncanniest ability to completely unnerve me with just a look. It was so annoying.

“Babe? Are you okay?”

“Give me a sec.” I closed my eyes to gather my scattered thoughts. “Who…where did you find it?”

“The parole board. The letter was submitted directly to them. A colleague faxed me a copy yesterday. I also contacted Victim Services. It’s an arm of the Department of Corrections. I would’ve called sooner—”

“But you were swamped,” I finished.

Darien and Uncle Sears were lead counsel on a celebrity murder trial in LA. Uncle had flown back yesterday on the heels of a stomach virus, leaving Darien with junior partners Yao Cài, Tom Blake, and paralegal Kate Sims. Their celebrated firm, Bradford, Jacobs and Montgomery had earned a national reputation for excellence.

“Yeah, it’s been nuts around here.” He gave a labored sigh. “Who has access to your office stationery?”

I combed my memory. “My admin keeps it in the back room.”

“Did anyone from the parole board or Victim Services ever contact you?”

“No. Never.”

“Amazing. I can’t believe they skipped a follow-up.” I heard papers being flung aside. Something was slammed. “Here it is,” he said. Irritation spiked his voice. “It was date-stamped two weeks before Dawson’s first parole hearing.” He counted out loud. “That would have been a little over a year-and-a-half ago.”

“Is the letter the reason he didn’t make parole last time?”

“No. He’d already racked up a long list of offenses. You know, fights, contraband violations. On the plus side, he earned two associate degrees and an HVAC apprenticeship. He even taught dance classes.” More pages turned. “Anyway, the good didn’t outweigh the bad. His prison psychiatrist, a Dr. Joseph Rosen concluded he still had anger management issues.”

Color me surprised. “How did he get out this time?”

“He cleaned up his act. Plus Cholly Fontana vouched for him, guaranteeing his employment upon release. That had weight since he’s a well-respected celebrity.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yeah. A woman named Amber Pugliese. She used to work as a corrections officer there. Now she runs an event planning business. They were rumored to be lovers. All of his apprenticeship teachers stood up for him too. He got the most help from Dr. Rosen though. Whatever he said allayed the board’s concerns.”

I pushed out of the swing. Its rusty chains creaked and wailed. “So what was in the letter?”

His pause lingered past my comfort zone. “I’m on a hotel phone, honey. I’d prefer not to get specific.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Try disgusting. I see why Dawson’s mother was devastated.”

An insane combination of curiosity and dread burned hot. I crossed the porch to get a better signal. “Then fax it.”

“Look, it was a prank. Knowing who did it won’t change a thing. Dawson’s gone on with his life. You should do the same.”

Everyone—Darien included—had opposed my inquiries from the beginning. Since then, my faith in the town had flatlined. My faith in my family had died too, but nothing had died quicker than the faith I’d once had in myself.

“It’s not a prank,” I insisted. “It’s a tragedy.”

“Sears said you and Dawson are the talk of town. Think what damage this misguided guilt trip of yours can do.”

“Now Uncle is calling you with updates?”

“He’s…concerned. And that tabloid hasn’t helped matters. We’re not just talking about your reputation, there’s your family and Mead’s campaign to consider.”

I started down the porch steps and gripped the handrail to keep from slipping as Darien’s caustic reminder hung in the air like a noose.

Gossip had shaped my life and many of the choices I’d made, and now here I was, dealing with its specter again. How could I not understand my family’s concerns? They’d been drilled into me from birth. Since Trace’s parole, Aunt Hesta, Bradford mediatrix extraordinaire, had swept the ‘unpleasantry’ beneath the proverbial rug. Uncle Sears and the others had followed suit.

The only holdout was Cousin Mead who talked nonstop about my ‘stupid lapse in judgment.’

And Darien agreed. “Let this go before it snowballs, babe.”

“Someone used me to destroy his family.” I picked my way down the icy footpath. “Now they’re after anyone who helps him.”

“You think I would’ve prosecuted him if I wasn’t convinced he did it? You should know better. And a jury agreed with me.”

“Are you saying twelve people can’t be wrong?” I asked.

“Are you saying they are?”

That was the problem. I didn’t know what I was saying.

“Okay, how’s this?” Darien offered. “Since we’re throwing everything in but the kitchen sink, I guess you have an explanation for the con Dawson killed.”

Trace had allegedly murdered an inmate, but I didn’t want to believe it. “Since when are rumors facts?”

“The guy’s name was Nyle Weathers, and my contacts are sure Dawson killed him. They just didn’t have the evidence to prove it. No weapon was ever found. Some say Amber Pugliese stashed it for him. They did an investigation, but nothing ever came of it.”

This was bad, but I wouldn’t concede. “Is that all?”

“Isn’t that enough? He’s a psychopath and you’ve got no reason to feel guilty. You’re Catholic. Go say a few Hail Marys and be done with it.”

I stalked to my car, ice patches be damned. “The sarcasm doesn’t help.”

“I’m just telling it like it is. You know, the facts? Those annoying little things you take issue with?”

“Here’s a fact.” I caught my balance when I almost slipped. “Mother hurt me, but I didn’t remember the abuse. Until now.”

“Even if she beat you, it doesn’t absolve that murdering piece of sh—” He mumbled beneath his breath. “I’m not getting into this with you again. Can we change the subject?”

My call waiting beeped before I could answer him. “Hold on.” I punched a button to switch over. “Shannon Bradford.”

“This is Jane Younger. Valene Campbell’s granddaughter.” A dramatic pause preceded her snippy, “I’m returning your calls.”

I rested my hip against my car door. “Yes, Ms.—”

“I don’t like repeating myself,” she continued, her tone icy. “But my grandmother can’t speak with you. Now or ever.”

SLAM.

Incredulous, I glared at the receiver, muttering a curse as I clicked back over to Darien.

“Hi,” I said tightly.

“Did something happen?”

“Mrs. Campbell’s granddaughter all but told me to go screw myself.” I scowled. “Something’s going on, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you couldn’t care less.”

Darien sighed. “Shannon, can we stop this? Please? Our wedding’s in four months and all we ever do is quarrel.”

He had a point, but then, most of our arguments stemmed from his absence. “Are you sure you can’t make the luncheon?”

I’d been planning Auntie and Uncle’s anniversary for months. They were like parents to me; parents who were dangerously close to divorce. I’d hoped this gala would remind them that their thirty-six years together were worth fighting for. Speaking of which, whoever had given The Dirty Dish that bogus engagement party tip, had probably confused it with this one.

“Honey,” Darien said, his tone firm. “I already told you I can’t make it. But as soon as this trial winds down—”

“Fine. Can you fax me the letter?” I wrenched my car door open and plopped down sideways, legs out. “I’d like to review it before I leave for the realtors seminar.”

Static crackled for a few seconds, and when he spoke, I could feel his reluctance. “I’ll send it tonight. But I can’t concentrate if I’m worrying about you. Stay away from Dawson.”

That was so far from okay, it wasn’t funny. “But Darien—”

“No buts. Promise me.”

If I told him I planned to track Trace down as soon as I got back, he’d worry. So what else could I do but lie?

CHAPTER SIX

Poison

TRACE

____________________________

The dream began as it always did.

From a bona fide memory.

I was in Lilith’s room. A canopy bed smothered with pillows centered the white marble floor. Mirrors adorned the walls and porcelain sculptures crowded the shelves. It was like stepping into a cloud. “Come Live With Me,” a sixties song she liked to play, hummed in the background. The sound led me to her boudoir.

She was sitting at a vanity table, dragging a brush through her glossy black hair. A glass, a crystal carafe of wine, and a vase spilling over with purple calla lilies were among the many perfume bottles before her. From her glazed eyes, she was obviously pickled. Even so, she still rated a ten.

The sheer black negligee she wore left nothing to the imagination. At forty-one, the ex-beauty queen gave women half her age a run for their money. God had blessed her with flawless skin, a long, graceful neck, tilted eyes like wet jade, and a body that could breathe life into a dead man.

Lilith glanced at me through the mirror when I filled the doorway. She tossed her brush to the side and poured herself another generous drink. The woman had barely drained her glass before she’d tipped the carafe again.

“What can I do for you, Mister Dawson?”

“Um, Cook said you wanted to see me before I left.”

She stared back at me for an awkward eternity, then… “You ever been in love?”

I raised both brows in surprise. “Ah, no, ma’am.”

“Good for you. People toss the word around so much, they cheapen the sentiment.” The golden wine licked the rim after she set her glass aside with the grace of a toddler. She frowned into the mirror. “God, I hate getting old.”

I shifted from one foot to the other. This was getting awkward. “Um, ma’am, can you, ah—can you tell me what you needed? Cholly’s going away party is tonight and—” My eyes widened when she cupped her breasts.

“Gravity wasn’t a problem,” she said this to the left one as she weighed and squeezed it. “A little lift-tuck and voila! Boobs you can bounce a quarter off.” She grabbed her glass. “It’s the things you don’t expect that get you. Some call it a mid-life crisis, but I call it death.” She burst out laughing, yet her eyes stayed haunted. “Did you know I’m eligible for the Silver Star Plan?” She seemed surprised by my bewildered expression. “Surely you’ve seen that tacky Life Trust insurance commercial? The one with the old couple walking into the sunset with their stupid dog?”

I gave my head a faint shake.

“The annoying thing comes on at 2 a.m. every damn night. Like this is something I want to think about before I go to bed.” She rolled her eyes. “They’ve lumped me in with the mummies. I’m in the forty to eighty-five range. That’s the Silver Star Plan.” She studied her reflection. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

I frowned, scratched my neck. “Um. Yes, ma’am.”

Satisfaction softened her steely expression. “I feel the same as I did at twenty. My dreams haven’t changed.” She met my gaze in the mirror. “Neither have my desires.” She swiveled around to face me. “This is why I called you up here.”

My throat got tight. “Um, I don’t understand.”

“It’s quite simple. You see, the man I love doesn’t want me. But I’m hoping you can make me forget about him.” She smirked. “Well, at least for a couple of hours.”

Fear burned across my chest. When the lady of the house got liquored up, a new woman emerged. My gut twisted once she rose and advanced.

“I’ve always wondered about you.” She inched closer. “You don’t mind if I call you Trace, do you?”

I started backing away, darting a glance over my shoulder every other step.

“I watch you sometimes.” A strap on her gown slipped down. “Riding your bike, working on the cars. In the garden….”

My butt hit a wall.

“Needless to say, you turn me on.” She sidled up to me, cupped my cock and squeezed. “Mmm. So the rumors are true. You’re hung like a bull.”

Took all of fifteen seconds before I was spike hard. If she didn’t stop, I feared I’d go off like a firecracker.

Lilith licked her lips. “I hear you perform at The Playroom for Ladies Night every week. My friend says you’ve got this prisoner/bondage shtick going on.” She smiled and ran a fingertip along my erection. “Handcuffs and shackles? Really? I never figured you for the kinky sort.”

Breath rasping, all I could do was stare at her.

“What does Dottie think about her son dancing around half naked for a bunch of horny women? Why, you’re not even old enough to drink.” She smiled. “Such a baaad boy.”

“Ma’am, I really need to—”

“Shhh.” She rubbed my stiff cock again, squeezed it hard, giving it a torturous stroking. “Here’s an idea. Since you did such a great job teaching Shannon that dance routine, how about a more intimate lesson for me—between the sheets?”

She tugged my face down to hers and invaded my mouth. Mass confusion trapped me in limbo for a few seconds, but then my brain started working again. Lust should’ve roared to life. Class distinctions should’ve dissolved, but all I could think about was escape. She sickened me. I shoved her back, wiped my lips on my sleeve. That’s when the dream became a familiar nightmare.

Lilith started chanting my name, her voice growing demonically deeper by the second. Blood trickled from her mouth. After the trickle, came a stream, then a flood. Her face turned skeletal and the skin shriveled like a prune.

Everything melted around me. The walls. The floor. Even Lilith.

In the next instant, I was home, in the basement, standing over her pale corpse. I had a garden spade in my hand. Blood on my clothes. Brains were strewn across the floor, the walls, the ceiling. The place looked like a slaughterhouse.

I hit my knees and choked on a stream of bile. The air was alive with death and sorrow. Carnival music poured from the walls. A naked bulb suspended from a wire in the cobwebbed ceiling, swung pendulously, lashing the room with piss-yellow light.

Lilith became Nyle Weathers, then Nyle morphed into Daddy, but half his head was gone. His brains spilled on the dirty concrete like scrambled eggs. The eyes in his bloated face, or what was left of it, stared off into the great beyond. As Daddy’s head angled my way, his irises went from blue to white. Chapped lips cracked and bled into a toothless smile.

Hey, ya little shit. Do ya miss me?

I bolted upright. My pulse beat like a jackhammer as I dragged a hand down my face and kicked the damp tangle of sheets off the bed. The dream ended just as it had before—with me trapped in the basement. Now here I sat, smelling my own fear. The fog of another hellish night clung to me like stink on a dog.

Desperate for something to ground me in reality, I squinted into the shadows. One by one, objects emerged. Mama’s cuckoo clock. A closet. Cole’s drawing easel. The sight should’ve filled me with relief, but this particular nightmare had staying power. No way was I venturing into that basement to replace the fuse. A floor lamp and an extension cord would have to do.

I’d been home almost two weeks now, yet none of Doc Rosen’s ‘therapeutic’ suggestions had helped. Renovating the house. Burying myself in work. All were creative ways to pass the day, but the nightmare ruled my dreams.

Geographically speaking, I was free, but I still thought like a con. Still felt like a caged animal. Something told me that to survive this alien place, I’d have to define stuff in terms of Gainstown. Nothing made sense outside of it.

I swung my legs over the side of the mattress and rested my head against my palms. Damn if I didn’t miss my cell, the concrete walls, the iron bars, and the heat-packing guards who prowled the catwalks. I felt like a total girl for all the missing I was doing. Had twelve years of being told when to take a leak turned me into a pussy?

Amber stirred. “Bad dream again?”

I nodded as her bare nipples brushed my back. She rescued the covers, and once she’d reassembled everything, she drew me down to lie with her. Foreign sounds drifted in from outside: snow shovels scraped the sidewalks. Engines turned over. Car doors slammed while the neighborhood canine chorus performed their early morning barkathon.

“You’ve been stressed out all week, shug.”

I wiggled a brow. “Well, I can think of a way you could take the edge off.”

“Oh, really?”

“Uh-huh.”

Amber grinned and slipped her hand over my cock. Wasn’t long before I was spike hard and ready for business.

I reached for a rubber, then scowled. “Shit. The box is empty.” I gave her a hopeful look. “I could pull out.”

She shook her head.

“Aw, come on, you know I’m clean.” I sat up. “Don’t you have any more of those sponge things?”

“Nope.”

Desperation set in. “Well, you’re on the pill right?”

“Not anymore. They made my ass spread.”

I barked a laugh and collapsed on the bed. “Well, damn.”

“All’s not lost.” With a sly curve of her lips, she lifted a brow and drew a teasing circle over my chest. “How about I kiss it and make it better?”

The alarm clock buzzed rude and loud. “Crap.” I slapped at it blindly. “There’s no time. I forgot I have to be in New Dyer in less than an hour.”

Amber rose on an elbow and frowned. “At The Slam Dunk? I thought Cholly had you working at his daddy’s garage?”

“I still am, but we switched things up. I’ll be back there next week once the Porsches come in. I’m restoring them. Think one’s a Speedster.” I pushed to my feet, flipped the light on and started rummaging around the room. “In the meantime, he’s driving Wynter back to school this morning, so he’s got me painting and hanging drywall at the club.”

“Wynter?”

“His baby sister. She goes to Howard. Anyway, we’re expecting a big delivery. I gotta be there to sign for it.”

Still wearing the blush of sleep on her tall and very naked body, Amber slipped from the bed and stretched. She scrubbed a manicured hand through her bed head, disappeared into the closet, and emerged wrapped in a frilly blue robe.

“Hey, shug, is this yours?” A lacy white square stained with blood dangled from her fingertips. “I found it when I was washing clothes last week. The initials say S.M.B.”

Shannon Marie Bradford. It was the hanky she’d given me in the limo, a hanky that had accidentally landed in my pillowcase. Since then, I’d taken a few whiffs of the faint scent that still lingered on it—accidentally, of course.

“Uh, that’s nothin’.” I snatched the thing, shoved it in a drawer. “Just an old rag.”

Amber’s lips pinched. “An embroidered ‘old rag’ smelling of Poison? That’s the name of the perfume, in case you’re curious.”

Heat climbed my neck. Before it could reach my face, I shrugged and escaped down the hallway to the bathroom.

CHAPTER SEVEN

In The Lion’s Den

SHANNON

____________________________

Nothing could have prepared me for Darien’s fax. A week had already passed, and I was still at a loss for words.

The day I’d gotten it, I scoured the first page and barely stomached the second. Reading the rest was sheer torture. After obsessing for days, I finally found the courage to show it to Trace. I just prayed I’d find him in a reasonable mood.

The sky had turned a wicked shade of gray once I got to Temptation. I purposely parked two blocks from Fontana Exxon. Last thing I needed was for someone to see my car outside Trace’s job. Darien’s words hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. He was right. Tongues were still flapping. I’d be darned before I’d give anyone more ammunition.

I threw my hood on, tugging it over my brow. I had to do something, what, with my own face towering over me a block away. No matter how many times I saw those billboards, I’d never get used to them.

The car alarm’s chirp bounced off the ugly fleet of concrete buildings that dotted this busy road. Even the halfhearted Christmas ornaments decorating some of the storefronts couldn’t lift the gloom. Temptation needed a serious face-lift.

I covered the two blocks in record speed, and like a diamond on a gnarled finger, the newly renovated gas station stood out in relief against the dreary backdrop. Twin mounds of black snow walled both sides of the pavement, which lay smothered in dirty slush. Flicking a wary glance over my shoulder, I gathered my coat and trudged up the crudely shoveled footpath to the entrance.

Frost and Christmas garland bordered the building’s storefront window, and inside, behind a long, slate-colored counter, Cholly Fontana sat with two other men, their backs to me. They all wore matching gray shirts with Fontana Exxon written in bold script on the back.

Their attention was riveted on a TV they’d set atop a file cabinet. The wadded tin foil crowning its makeshift antenna didn’t help the basketball game’s grainy picture.

Christmas lights framed the two-way mirror that centered the cinder block wall to their right. Photos and certificates lined the other walls. A cracked flat screen TV peeked out from a box in the corner.

Cologne, burned coffee, and prehistoric BO were just a few of the odors that assaulted my nose upon entering. I stomped the sleet from my boots, but the noise, along with the clang of the jingle bells against the glass door, didn’t rouse the men. They were too busy yelling at the TV.

I tugged off my hood and cleared my throat. Nothing. Who could hear with all that racket? Rap music, a blasphemous tune featuring a chorus of ‘Hail Mary’ complete with an assorted collection of swear words, blared from the sound system.

Face burning, I stepped up to the counter and tapped my keys on the Formica, but the chaotic din drowned me out.

This time I raised my voice. “Excuse me.”

Three sets of eyes swung my way. The blonde, stringy-haired man on Cholly’s left gave me a lecherous smile that revealed a yellow corncob of misshapen or otherwise, missing teeth. The one seated next to him with the red Mohawk and skin that resembled a sausage pizza, let out a wet-sounding belch.

It took all my strength to keep my lunch down.

My eyes widened when Trace’s best friend uncoiled from his chair. At six-foot-six, Cholly Fontana looked like a formidable giant. His short afro was cut into a fade on both sides of his head. Butterscotch-colored arms that had scored many a three-pointer were covered in tattoos. He was quite handsome, despite his trademark scowl. He’d played for the Washington Wizards until a tragic knee injury ended his career a few years back.

The hostile ex-ballplayer and his aftershave approached the counter, but I’d smelled him ten feet ago. Using my brilliant powers of deduction, I determined the BO wasn’t Cholly’s. His cohorts were the proud owners. Not that it mattered. Cholly’s cologne, plus the stench from his pals, equaled nausea.

He stabbed a button on the wall and the music stopped. Then he plopped a king-sized forearm on the counter and glared down at me as if I were a succubus from hell. “Yeah?”

“Um—” I glanced off, distracted. Corncob man was leering at my breasts. I looked away just as pizza-face gave another liquid belch. Horrified, I focused back on Cholly. “I, ah, understand you’re still doing renovations on your club. Trace said you’re having some contracting issues. Do you need me to look into anything for you?”

Fontana raised his brows and his hairline slipped back half an inch. “Now why would you do something like that?”

His hostility felt as oppressive as his cologne. “I sold you the building. Why wouldn’t I be concerned?”

“I can handle it.”

“O-okay.” When he just stared back at me, I blurted, “Is Trace here?”

He cut his eyes from me, sauntered around the counter and strolled to a metal door marked ‘Employees Only.’ Its handle thumped the wall after he yanked it open. He ducked beneath the arch, disappearing from the chest up behind a late model gray Porsche suspended atop a hydraulic lift. The door smacked shut.

“Hey, man,” Fontana called. “You got company.”

A muffled curse followed. Next came a loud clank. After that, an earsplitting crash reverberated. The other two whispered behind me. I refused to ponder their remarks.

Something vulgar, no doubt.

Fontana reappeared, dropping into his former seat on the other side of the counter. He focused on the TV again. “Trace says he’s busy.”

Okay, so he wasn’t in a reasonable mood. I drew a strengthening breath, and stalked to the metal door, ignoring Cholly’s, “I wouldn’t do that.”

Petroleum-scented heat and a musical mash-up of Christian Bale’s profanity-laced tirade hit me once I stepped inside. The techno-ripped dance track blared from hidden speakers. I couldn’t be sure, but I suspected Cholly’s dreadful song choices were his way of telling the town what he thought of their boycott.

The air was hothouse humid, and beads of condensation wept down the row of windows on the bay doors. After I hung my coat on a peg, I glanced around. The garage was larger than it appeared from the outside. What looked like kitty litter blanketed the concrete floor. My boots made a crunching sound as I ambled along.

Toward the rear, right above a shelf crammed with tires and hubcaps, a circular fan spewed hot air from a corner perch. Three orange strings were tied to the fan’s silver cage. They waved furiously while the powerful head rotated back and forth.

“Trace?” I called, but the music drowned out my voice.

My chest constricted when I finally found him. He was in the third bay, bent over the mouth of a vintage Porsche. A metal toolbox lay next to his booted feet. His broad back eclipsed the car’s tiny engine, and like the other mechanics, he was dressed in a gray uniform shirt and black jeans. Razor-sharp creases that ran the length of his shoulders vanished under sleeves he’d rolled to just above his elbows. His shirt stretched taut across his V-shaped torso while he twisted a screwdriver. Sweat darkened the fabric beneath his underarms and a thin horizontal line of it shot down the center of his back.

Heat coiled in my belly as I watched him. “Hi.”

Trace jackknifed up and the tool bounced across the floor. He whirled around, jammed his knuckles into his mouth, and his brows pinched into a frown that flatlined once our eyes met. Blood dripped from his hand.

“Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Are you okay?”

With a scowl, he strode past me and punched a button on a console, bringing the noise to a blessed end. A first aid kit was tacked to the wall right next to him. The tinny sound of the metal lid smacking the cinder block echoed after he tore it open. Gauze and aspirin packs spilled out as he rifled through its contents. Finally, he found a bandage, but it fell in his haste to strap it on.

The profanity flew after that.

I approached him with caution. “Here. Let me.”

He quirked a brow as if surprised by my moxie. That was a good thing. Any reprieve from his colorful vocabulary and that dreadful music was a blessing. I examined the wound, dabbed it with gauze, but blood welled again within seconds. Grease-stained and callused, his skin felt hot, and the veined back of his hand was sprinkled with a silken down of sun-bronzed hair.

I opened an alcohol pad. “This might sting.” But he didn’t flinch, just glared at me while his blood trickled into my palm. His life essence dripping into my hand, staining my skin, felt oddly personal. Intimate.

“Damn near every time I’m around you, I bleed,” he said.

I studied him in tongue-tied silence, noting the subtle changes the years had etched in his face. While his eyes looked the same light amber shade of hazel, the sparkle was gone, giving them a dull, cynical cast. Fine creases bracketed the corners. I suspected they hadn’t come from smiling.

Adrenaline sluiced through me when I glanced at his chin. What was once a nasty slash now looked like a bee sting with whiskers. A purple smudge underscored his left eye, and a thin, red line centered his bottom lip.

I pulled my gaze from his, pressed a pad over his knuckles and secured the bandage with surgical tape. “All done.”

“Thanks.”

He looked me over one last time before snatching a tool from the floor; then he bent over the Porsche again as I cleaned my hands.

A minute later, he glanced at me. “Get me that wrench, will you?”

“Wrench?”

“On the table. Looks like a crab claw.”

I handed him the tool and stared past him. Next to a row of gray lockers sat an old Harley—Trace’s old Harley. I went to make a closer inspection as a vivid mental picture bobbed to the surface: the two of us roaring around Miller’s Pond with me at his back, the wind in my hair, and the sun kissing my skin. Another lost memory found. I tucked it away for safekeeping.

“You’re restoring your bike.”

He didn’t look. “Yeah.”

I stroked the seat. The worn leather was cracked in spots. Blue lightning bolts with gilded edges adorned either side of the faded black metal. His initials were scrawled in fancy gold cursive. T.P.D. Tracemore Phillip Dawson.

“Does it run?” I asked.

“It got me here.” He tossed the wrench and faced me. “What do you want? I said all I had to say at Home Depot.”

The room stilled. Even the droning fan faded as I approached him. His iron gaze, the hard set of his jaw, these I ignored. Instead, I unzipped my purse and gave him the envelope with the photocopy.

He eyed it with suspicion. “What’s this?”

“Just read.”

He dragged a stool over and sat, one foot hitched on a spoke, the other anchored to the floor. As he examined the pages, his expression morphed from bewilderment, to disbelief, to full-blown rage…and finally to something in between. When he finished, he lowered the paper and swung a hard look in my direction.

“You got ten seconds to explain this shit.”

I felt like a schoolgirl in the principal’s office. “If I could I would, but I haven’t the slightest idea who—”

His murderous look cut my words short. He tore through the pages, searching for a particular passage and read aloud. His sharp gaze arrowed to mine whenever he found something scathing.

“‘My mother also had sex with Trace in front of me,” he read, his voice spiked with bitterness. “Sometimes she held orgies where he serviced multiple male partners, all at her bidding. On one occasion, she got so inebriated she passed out on the floor while he sodomized her. When I threatened to tell—’”

“Trace—”

“Shut up! ‘…to tell someone, he promised to skin my dog alive if I ever breathed a word. Days later, he cornered me and said he was tired of my mother, and that he couldn’t wait until I turned eighteen so he could take my virginity. None of these facts came out during the trial since my family wanted to protect me. I’m not interested in filing charges. Frankly, I’m just afraid for my safety. I’ve had nightmares since the murder and have had difficulty with relationships—’”

“Please, put it away….” I begged.

Whether mercy or disgust stopped him, I wasn’t sure. “So this is what my mama saw?” He crushed part of the papers in his hands. “She wouldn’t tell me what was in it. Neither would Cholly or Bev. Now I know why.”

Desperation sharpened my voice. “Whoever wrote this…this filth sent it to your mother for a reason. Stop rolling your eyes! They wanted to inflict as much pain as they could. That’s why they went for her. They knew how much she meant to you. I could never have written those lies. I loved Miss Dottie, too.”

“Sure you loved her. Loved the way she scrubbed your mama’s toilets and polished her floors. Yeah, y’all loved the hell out of her.” He snorted. “Love.”

Spitting in my face would have been kinder. “That is so unfair and—” I blinked and jumped back when he bolted up and flung the pages. Then he kicked the stool hard. It smacked the wall and wobbled until it shuddered still.

Cholly burst into the garage like a herd of buffalo. “What the hell’s going on in here? I can hear y’all out at the pumps.”

Trace swung his head in Cholly’s direction, then looked back at me. “Nothin’. Miz Bradford was just fixing to leave.”

My muscles were petrified. I was grateful when Cholly didn’t offer to escort me. He just shook his head and disappeared behind the metal door, closing it soundly.

Trace sighed, braced the worktable. “I said, get out.”

Frozen with fear and anger, I stared at the floor. “No.”

“No?”

I elevated my chin a fraction. “That’s right…no.”

He twisted around. His expression made a gradual shift from vengeful to predatory. Our eyes battled in silence, then, like a prowling lion, he advanced, and I, his prey, retreated until I’d backed into a wall. When his shadow engulfed me, I had to tilt my head all the way back to stare up at him. The ice had thawed in his eyes, leaving twin pools of lava.

I looked at his mouth and the time I kissed him on his seventeenth birthday came to mind. Thirteen-years-old and smitten with a desperate case of puppy love, I’d snuck up on him as he’d sat asleep in the carriage house.

The second my lips bumped into his, he’d startled awake and promptly put me away from him. He’d delivered a hasty, but genial grin, then wagged a finger.

Instead of giving me the brutal truth—that I was a pathetic little girl—the boy they’d ranked with Satan took pity on me. I was too good for him, he’d said.

But there was no pity in his eyes now as his gaze wandered my body. He may have killed my mother, may have even taken another life in prison, but I wasn’t afraid—not in the least. Dear God, had I become like those wretched women who got turned on by bad boys with blood-splattered pasts?

Fighting it, I looked away. “Please…stop.”

“Stop what?”

I drew a shallow breath. “This. What you’re doing.”

“What am I doin’, Shannon?” He anchored a forearm to the wall above my head. His left arm hung at his side.

I swallowed. “You’re trying to scare me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He looked me over again, and when he spoke, his voice came out deep and gravelly. “Right now, scaring you is the furthest thing from my mind.” He snagged a whiff of my perfume and inched closer. “Way I see it, I’ve politely asked you to leave, but you refused. So I’m left wondering what’s keeping you here. Can’t be my sunny disposition.”

His gaze traveled down my neck, to my chest, a chest that rose and fell in frantic succession. He spent a long time looking there…at my breasts.

I felt my nipples bead, felt my face burn. Embarrassed, I lowered my eyes, but that was a mistake. A full arousal tented his zipper.

He smiled. “See, I think you’re still here ‘cause somethin’s missing.”

“What?” I all but squeaked.

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe lover boy’s not cutting it in bed?”

Fury burned my cheeks. “How dare you.”

“Just an honest question. I’m curious.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“What? Your sex life?” He cocked his head and frowned. “Hell, do y’all even have one?” Before I could tell him to kiss my ass, he added, “Trust me. If he’s not getting it from you, he’s getting it somewhere.”

I seared him with a glare. “Your crudity is astounding.”

“I’m just giving you my humble opinion. Nothin’ more.”

“You don’t know the first thing about humility.”

“Really.”

“Yes, ‘really.’ You’re too full of yourself.”

A slow, wicked grin eased across his lips. “Maybe so. But I’d bet the farm you wouldn’t mind being full of me too.”

Scandalized, I shoved at him, but he just studied me with those piercing hazel eyes. He raised his hand to touch a wayward lock of hair that lay wilted against my neck. A bizarre mesh of outrage and longing stilled my heart while he twined the curl around his fingers. He examined it possessively, as if it were his right, as if he’d done it a million times.

I seized his hand to peel it away, but couldn’t. His electric touch stunned me, just as it had at the hospital and Home Depot. I’d shoved both episodes from my mind, hadn’t even allowed myself to ponder them till now.

Our attention drifted to our entwined flesh; to the golden hair coiled around his fingers; and to the small, slender fingers wrapped around his big hand. I noted the contrast of our skin tones—his dark, mine fair—and the heady sensation the contact elicited. In an instant, our eyes embraced.

Thoughts telegraphed and his Adam’s apple rode his throat. He worked his jaw as he expelled a breath through flared nostrils. I trembled once he licked his lips because there was no question of what had crossed his mind.

It had crossed mine too.

With our hands still linked, he stroked my cheek, then his bandaged knuckles slid from below my ear to my chin. He tilted my face to his and the heat from our mouths meshed together. His lips were millimeters away—so close I could taste the mint of his breath as it beckoned me nearer.

He anchored his free hand on the small of my back, and tugged me closer, causing me to gasp. We fit together like two halves of a torn piece of paper. The concrete bulge between his powerful legs stabbed into my stomach and his thighs were hard against my softness. There was fire in his eyes. Electricity in his touch. Heat in his breath. I was dying.

What are you doing? my mind screamed. Darien, remember?

Sanity returned. I propped a palm on his chest and exerted pressure. He blinked slowly after his gaze fell on my ring, pulling him as if from a trance. The gem caught the light spearing down from the ceiling. Once he untangled my hair from his fingers, I ducked beneath his arm and backed away.

“Damn,” he muttered, attention glued to the wall.

I shoved my bangs off my face. “I don’t like games.”

“You saying you didn’t want me to kiss you just now?”

I wasn’t sure what I’d wanted him to do, and that scared me the most. “You tried to use sex to—”

“Didn’t work though.”

I blinked several times. “So you admit it?”

“That I was seconds away from taking you up against this wall?” He gave a sharp nod. “Hell yeah, I admit it. Are you brave enough to admit you wanted me to?”

The power of speech left me. I didn’t know whose behavior disgusted me more, his or my own. Finally, I said, “Give this some thought. If Mother’s murder and twelve years couldn’t keep me away, why would your pathetic machinations?”

When his shoulders fell, I knew I had him. He hung his head and sighed. “What the hell do you want from me, Shannon?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Pearly Gates

SHANNON

____________________________

The fan’s soft buzz echoed in the background for several heartbeats. It would take a while for the sensual haze to ebb, a while before my pulse stopped racing. I could still smell Trace’s minty breath, and his warm touch lingered on my skin. No doubt, these memories would have a long shelf life.

I wandered to the worktable and set my purse down. Gathering my thoughts wasn’t easy. My body still craved what my mind had forbidden. Even so, I forced myself to speak. “Ah….” I began, my voice annoyingly unsteady. I cleared my throat and tried again. “The first time I saw that…that wretched letter was a week ago. Someone sent it to the parole board right before your first hearing, but no one followed up with me. They assumed it was authentic.”

Trace pushed away from the wall and hopped on a stool. Dust trickled down while he rummaged through the row of tires above his head. He didn’t hide his arousal, as if traipsing around with an erection was commonplace.

I wouldn’t look south again.

My heart raced as I waited for him to speak, yet he said nothing, just continued to fiddle with those stupid tires. One unnerving minute passed, then another, with no acknowledgment from him, so I opened my mouth and decided to go for the jugular.

Thankfully, he cut me off.

“Okay,” he finally said, shouldering his eye as he tugged at two Dunlop tires. “Here’s my problem. Your deposition was pretty damn persuasive.” He tucked a tire under his arm. “You didn’t blink when you said I could’ve done it. Hell, you even had me going for a while.”

This wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind. Jeez. The day I’d made that tape was little more than a blur. All I remembered was the fear. Fear of the camera. Fear of everything.

“I thought we were talking about the letter,” I said. “Now you’re bringing this up? Why?”

“I’d be a fool not to.” He stepped down, set the tires by the Porsche, and went back for two more. When he finished, he grabbed a bandana to mop the grit from his hands. “You know what? I don’t even feel like dealing with this shit.” He balled the bandana up and stalked past me. The heat from his body fanned my face. “Just get out. I got work to do.”

“I never figured you for a coward.”

Trace stopped like an invisible wall had crashed in front of him. “What did you say?”

“If you heard coward somewhere in there, then your ears are working fine.”

He did a slow one-eighty and faced me. “Best be careful.”

“Careful doesn’t work with you, but bluntness does. This resistance isn’t about the letter. You think I ruined your life—you, the man who said you’d never hate me. But if you admit it, you’d also have to admit you lied to that girl twelve years ago.” I pressed a fist to my chest. “That you lied to me.”

He stared back in silence for a long moment with a bemused expression, then he started nodding as a cruel smile shaped his lips. “Oh, you’re good. Almost sucked me right in, but I see what this is. Shine the spotlight on me so I’ll stop blazing it on you. The fact remains that you believed a lie. Swore to it in court. So like I told you at Home Depot, maybe you wrote the letter and blocked it out. Maybe guilt got the best of you, and your brain did an info dump. Hell, if it happened once, it could happen again. That’s all I’m saying.”

He’d left me no choice. It was time to play hardball. “Your father beat you bloody when you were a boy, but you denied it. I read the transcripts. You lied.” He’d already drawn first blood, but I’d drawn a close second. I tucked my hair behind my ear and said with sincerity, “Look, perhaps I was like you. Maybe deep down, I was trying to protect myself.”

He glanced off.

“I’m going to say something,” I continued. “And I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, because it comes from my heart.” I pooled my courage and forged ahead. “Bitterness—no, rage—is eating you alive. You guard it like a treasure and I understand that. It’s the one thing they couldn’t take from you. Now I’m asking you to give it up. That has to be terrifying.”

“Shannon….”

Sympathy filled me as I surveyed him with new understanding. “To keep it alive, you stash people in boxes, stuffing them into categories. That makes you feel safe, doesn’t it? This way your preconceived notions go unchallenged.”

He flung the bandana, went for the worktable again, and started clearing it with ruthless precision. A line of boxes filled with nuts and bolts bordered the wall. He was in a frenzy, sorting screws and whatever else lay before him.

“Now here I am,” I said, “trying to make things right between us and it’s driving you mad. I’m an anomaly. That’s why you’re frustrated. You’re used to trashing what you can’t label. What doesn’t fit, you wish into a cornfield.” He kept sorting, so I opted for bluntness. “I know your mother was deathly ill with cancer when you first came up for parole.”

He gripped the table. “Leave it alone.”

“All right. I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” I whispered, my heart and soul aching for him. “I’m so very sorry.”

I felt like an empath. Pain—his pain—coursed through me with paralyzing speed. Filling my lungs with much-needed air, I scooped the last page of the letter from the floor and stood next to him at the table.

Now I was more physically aware of him than ever.

My hands shook as I removed an inkpad, a rubber signature stamper, a pen, and a stack of index cards from my purse. I flipped the inkpad open and pressed the stamp against it. Once I’d made an imprint on an index card, I grabbed the letter’s signature page.

“What are you doing?” he asked me.

“Just look. Please.”

I lined the signature page up with the index card I’d just stamped and placed them side by side. Next, I got another index card and signed my name, three times. Placing that beside the other two pieces of evidence, I pointed to the signature on the parole letter, then to the scripted signature I’d imprinted with the rubber stamp. “See.” I glanced at him. “They’re identical.”

He stared in silence.

“No two signatures are exactly alike,” I said, tapping the index card with the three autographs. “Even those penned by the same person. But a stamp makes the same impression every time.” I stuffed the pad and stamp inside my purse and left everything else. “As soon as I saw the letter, I recognized the signature for what it was. A stamped copy.”

We looked at each other and something—hope, affirmation maybe—dawned in his eyes. In my heart I knew he desperately wanted to believe me. He tore away to hold the cards up to the light, giving them a thorough inspection.

His face was a stony mask.

“If I had sent that thing,” I said, “I would have signed it myself. And I wouldn’t have used company letterhead.” I slipped my purse over my shoulder, fished a business card out and dropped it on the worktable. “I’m not the girl who put you in prison. Your best bet would be to forgive her and move on because she’s gone. You’re stuck with me now.”

“And who are you?”

“Someone who wants to get to know the man you are today. So if you believe me. If you can own up to the fact that this…fury raging inside of you has nothing to do with the letter—if you can admit that you do harbor some resentment against me, against the girl I was, and that maybe you even blame her, just a little, for ruining your life, then call me.”

His face was expressionless, but his eyes…yes, his eyes, burned with the first flicker of warmth, of feeling.

I crossed the garage and slipped my coat from the peg. “I’ve got clients flying in from New Orleans and several open houses to attend, so I’ll be tied up for the next few days. That should give you time enough to think about everything, to decide. And if you don’t call, I won’t bother you again.”

TRACE

____________________________

“Is it nasty?” Amber asked from across the kitchen table that same night.

I glanced up from my plate. “Huh?”

“Your dinner. You’ve hardly eaten a bite.”

She’d slaved over this meal, and I’d done nothing but pick at it. Guilt made me spear a piece of broccoli smothered with Velveeta. I crammed it into my mouth and gave an enthusiastic nod. “Naw, it’s good. So’s the chicken.”

“That’s not chicken, shug. It’s fish.”

I hastily forked a slice, shoveled it in as well. “Mmm.”

“All right, that’s it.” She tossed her napkin. “You’ve been on Mars since you got home. What’s wrong?”

I sighed and set the fork down. It was no use. My appetite was shot. After giving my food a last once-over, I pushed away from the table and went for a Corona in the fridge. “It’s just been a long day.”

Her brows crashed together. The woman had a sixth sense about her, a talent she’d probably honed during her prison guard days. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nothin’ to tell.” I lifted the beer to my mouth.

Her doubtful expression said she wasn’t buying it. Not that she should.

After I’d removed the broken screen door outside earlier today, I’d spent the next two hours stripping the living room floor without speaking a word. Once we sat down to eat, my attention had drifted more than a few times. I’d tried to keep the conversation going, but my mind kept wandering back to today’s unsettling encounter with Shannon.

Her intelligence, sincerity, and the ballsy way she’d stood her ground fascinated me. Yet so did her mind-blowing accusation. It had gnawed at me all day. Was she right? Did I really resent her testimony deep down? Hell, no. She’d completely missed the mark on that one. Hadn’t she?

I drained half the bottle. “Think I’ll call it a night.”

Amber frowned. “I got a key lime pie from Noëlle’s.”

“Naw, I’m beat.” I made a silent burp into my fist and pointed the Corona at the dishes. “Need some help with those?”

“No worries, shug. Go on up.” She started collecting the plates, but then she set them back down. “On second thought, I think you could use a little ‘help.’” With a wicked gleam in her eyes, she took hold of my arm and tugged me into the living room. After she stood me in front of the La-Z-Boy, she undid my jeans and yanked them and my boxers to floor.

I blinked. “What the—”

Amber shoved me into the chair, then slipped to her knees. Once she took me into her mouth, the bottle hit the floor, spewing suds. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as I ran my fingers through her short hair. Two minutes later, I was ‘thisclose’ to storming the pearly gates when the phone screamed. Scowling, I wilted into the worn leather chair. Sweat trickled down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I wiped at my brow with a fist and groped for the phone with my other hand while Amber continued to torture me.

“Daaawson,” I breathed, jamming the receiver to my ear. Dead air answered, but below my waist, things were pulsing to life. My lids trembled shut against the pleasure. “H-hello?”

More static, which meant another crank call.

Amber’s wicked tongue beckoned, so I dropped the phone, threw an arm over my eyes and let nature take its course. Weird thing was, instead of Amber’s face, another rose from the darkness. Golden hair. Chocolate eyes. Lips as pink as cherry blossoms, and the heady, seductive scent of Poison….

Shit. She’d snuck inside my mind again.

I drew a ragged breath, forcing myself to focus on Amber’s perfume, Amber’s tongue, and the toe-curling sensations they gave me. Yet minutes later, when my body exploded in pulsing waves, my eyes widened in shock. Strange couldn’t begin to describe the scary realization that rocked me. I sagged into the cushions as Amber sank back on her heels, but not before kissing my cock, which now rested like a spent warrior against my thigh, semi-limp, damp, and sated.

Brows furrowed, she studied me. “What’s wrong?”

“Uh, nothin’.” I blinked twice. “Nothin’ at all.”

“Stop lying. You look…weird.”

I started righting my jeans. “It’s nothin’, now hush.”

She was still frowning when she headed back into the kitchen. Meanwhile, I sat in dazed silence, trying to wrap my mind around—

What was that fifty-dollar word Shannon had used before? Enigma? No, enigmatic. Yeah, that was it. Enigmatic, meaning mysterious. Enigmatic, meaning hard to understand. That’s what had just happened here. Something enigmatic.

Because when frustration trapped me in limbo, and orgasm seemed like an impossibility, visions of Shannon’s hair, Shannon’s face, Shannon’s mouth and Shannon’s tongue—not Amber’s—crept back into my mind.

Only then did I see those pearly gates.

TRACE

____________________________

Four days later, I threw my street clothes on and left the men’s john at Fontana Exxon. Running a comb through my wet hair, I skimmed the jungle of Post-it notes on the garage corkboard. One coded message from my watchdog Zander, warning me of a ‘surprise’ home visit next month, two from Tori Mills, an old flame, but still no word from Amber.

I’d awakened to an empty bed yesterday and no note. Hell, things hadn’t been the same since the night she’d made dinner. I’d tried to make it up to her the next day with a bouquet of flowers, but she’d acted uncharacteristically distant.

Okay, she might be pissed about me being distracted in the sack. My plumbing had worked, but she’d said I was a million miles away. Then she’d hit below the belt by saying she may as well have been fucking a robot. The fact that I’d had a couple wet dreams didn’t help. I thought those would’ve ended after stir, but maybe I was still adjusting.

As the bay door lifted, I pushed my bike out into the cold. Sidewalk trees, stripped bare by winter’s kiss, swayed when a gale howled across the lot. I straddled my Harley and drew a lungful. The air had a bite, but I didn’t mind. Seeing the sun for more than ninety minutes a day made up for it.

The bay door thundered back down. I slipped some gloves over my hands and glanced down the road, my attention straying to that damn billboard.

Her billboard.

I raked my gaze at the sky. “Not again.”

See, this was why I couldn’t think straight. It was all Shannon’s fault. She’d called me a coward. Claimed I shoved folks into boxes. That I was angry and resentful. As if I didn’t have a right to be. What happened to my mama was a prime example. She’d been bedridden for months, and the only thing she wanted was to live to see me make parole. But God had other plans.

To survive Gainstown, I’d had to prove myself 24/7. Yeah, I’d gotten into some trouble—through no fault of my own—but I’d also put my associate degrees to good use and taught a weekly dance class. I’d even gone to sunrise service every day, despite the fact that I’d lost faith in God a decade before. All this, so I could see Mama one last time.

When they gave her six months, I begged God not to let her lose hope, but apparently, The Man Upstairs wasn’t taking requests. A week after she learned I hadn’t made parole, my mama, Dorotea Annabelle Dawson, downed a vial of sleeping pills. She died believing her son was a pervert.

Soon after my father found her body, he put a shotgun in his mouth. His suicide note said he didn’t want to live without Mama. Since he’d made her life hell, it seemed fitting. But what happened to Cole was a major injustice. The kid had a bright future. Multitalented with mega brains, he was a self-taught musician, had the voice of an angel, and could draw like nobody’s business. He even earned a free ride to college, but fate dealt him a devastating blow.

A recent visit to Cole at Saint Mary’s had nearly wrecked me. The sight of my baby brother wearing a straightjacket and mumbling to invisible friends would never go away.

Nyle Weathers. Bev and Icky’s marriage. The parole hearing. Mama’s death. Daddy’s suicide. Cole’s breakdown. It was the old domino effect. They all had the same first cause….

Shame melted the steel in my spine as an awful truth, one I couldn’t deny, rammed me in the gut.

Shannon was right.

“Heard from Amber yet?”

Cholly’s voice broke into my thoughts. Hands bunched inside a pristine Washington Wizards jacket, he strolled down the salt-covered walkway, shoulders hunched, his breath misting.

“Naw,” I muttered distractedly. “Prob’ly her time of the month. She’ll call once the fog clears.”

Fontana shrugged. “Females. Who can understand them?” He leaned a shoulder against the garage door. “You decide what you’re gonna do about Shannon Bradford?”

I zipped up my jacket. “Haven’t given it much thought.”

“Want some advice?”

“Not particularly,” I said, tugging my helmet on.

“Too bad.” Cholly nodded a few times. “Now you see why I wouldn’t tell you what was in the damn letter. I still can’t believe that witch showed it to you.”

“Cholly—”

“Don’t even start,” he insisted. “I was here. I saw what it did to your mom.”

“She didn’t write it.”

Cholly stared at me in stunned silence. “You been snorting Icky’s dope?”

I lurched up, kick-starting the bike. “It wasn’t her.”

“Yeah, right,” Cholly yelled over the rumbling engine. “I’m telling you, she’s bad news. The girl had a hood on when she left. It covered half her face. She’s ashamed to be seen here.”

“Ever think she might’ve been cold?”

Cholly’s hairline slipped back. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’d worked some roots on you or something.”

I darted a glance at the billboard again and muttered, “Or somethin’.” Then I shrugged and roared off, heading south toward Bradford Realty.

CHAPTER NINE

Noise Pollution

SHANNON

____________________________

“Here’s another from the Camelot theme, sweetie.” Auntie added a snapshot of a medieval-style wedding gown to the photo stack. Hummingbird small, the wispy five-foot-nothing matriarch came around my desk, and a cloud of Muguet Du Bonheur followed. “Isn’t it fabulous?” She tapped a pearl-white fingernail on the picture. “They’re amber studs. The belt comes with gems or in faux gold. They call it a cotehardie.”

I gave the photo a halfhearted glance, my attention everywhere but on the dress. “It’s lovely, Auntie.”

“And the train is attached by cabochon buttons. There’s even a matching velvet cape. Perfect for a winter wedding….”

As Auntie prattled on, my attention drifted to the wall clock for the millionth time, and to the undeniable conclusion that Trace hadn’t believed me.

If he had, he would’ve called by now.

Keeping my mind on work proved impossible. I’d tossed and turned last night. Hadn’t eaten all day. How could I when my stomach was tied in a million knots?

When Auntie had stormed in an hour ago toting a Rubbermaid box filled with wedding paraphernalia, I’d wanted to scream. Hesta Bradford was an adrenaline factory.

Normally, that energy was infectious, but concerns about Trace, Darien, tomorrow’s anniversary luncheon, and my ignored calls to Sheriff Gray had left me ill-tempered and distracted—so distracted I’d forgotten the videographer appointment I’d scheduled weeks ago.

My staff had already fled for the evening—anything to avoid my unusual show of temper. It had been a slow day anyway, so when Auntie showed up, I’d had no choice but to summon interest in medieval wedding gowns, Old English calligraphy, and a dozen other prenuptial annoyances.

I gave the clock another glance. Four-thirty-five p.m. and ten seconds.

Forget it.

He’s not calling.

“…and instead of flowers, you might want to carry a white Bible,” Auntie went on. “Or we could do the traditional—” She snapped her fingers. “Hello? Anyone there?”

I drew myself up. “What?”

“Sweetie, time is running short.” She looked exasperated. “Do you realize how much we have to do?”

I closed my eyes. Details. When did commitment get so complicated? You get a license. Buy a dress. Find a priest and say, “I do.” A simple process if there ever was one. Or at least it would be if not for Auntie.

She’d loved and cared for me as her own, been mother and father, friend and confidante. She also had an inner glow that shined through. So to rob her of the joy she derived from this grand event was unthinkable.

Auntie licked her thumb then smoothed back an errant curl along my temple. “You’re about to live every woman’s dream. Why aren’t you excited?”

“Who says I’m not?” I mumbled, folding my arms.

“I do remember how a bride-to-be is supposed to feel.”

I produced a smile, waiting with feigned interest for the coming stroll down memory lane, a stroll Auntie took often.

“I never told you this,” she said, pulling up a chair, “but my wedding was a debacle. When Sears defied his parents and married me anyway, you’d have thought it was Armageddon.”

Considering their scandal paranoia, it was funny how my relatives could find it without fail. The Kennedys had nothing on us. An old-moneyed family, whose wealth and power were substantial, the Bradfords went all the way back to West Virginia’s glorious birth. We were a household name across the state and beyond.

“So what happened?” I asked.

Auntie gazed off into yesteryear. “Granny Mae and Digger couldn’t afford much, but they made do. Of course, Mother and Father Bradford boycotted the wedding, so we went to Saint Ann’s. The sisters made pigs-in-a-blanket and pizza bagels for hors d’oeuvres.”

I gaped in horror.

“Oh yes.” Auntie chuckled. “It was quite the scandal. But the family eventually accepted the match, and I never gave them cause to regret it.” She clasped my hands. “Do you see why this wedding has to be the event of the year? I only want the best for you, sweetie.”

I saw the opening and took it. “And I, you. That’s why I’m hoping the luncheon will do you and Uncle good. You hardly spend any time together.”

“You worry too much.” She patted my hand. “Besides, we’re not talking about my marriage, we’re talking about yours.”

The statement roused a deep-seated concern. “Our cell phones have a better relationship than Darien and me.” I swallowed my unease. “He said things would be tough if he took this case, but I never imagined….”

“Well, that explains it.”

“What?”

“This Butcher Boy distraction of yours,” Auntie said. “There’s been talk, and it’s not the usual rumor mill. Now it’s reached my circle of friends.”

A familiar stirring of something hot and dark burned in the pit of my stomach, but I ignored it as well as Auntie’s derogatory term. “Speaking of Trace,” I said, changing the direction of the conversation, “were you and Uncle ever registered with the Department of Corrections?”

She looked genuinely confused. “Come again?”

“Registered for updates about Trace’s parole status. As my guardians, you were legally entitled to them.”

“No, no, of course not. Why would you ask such a crazy thing?”

“Someone forged a letter to the parole board in my name.”

Her brows climbed north. “What are you implying?”

“It’s a valid question.” I watched her eyes. If I trusted anyone, I trusted Auntie. “Yes or no?”

“No,” she replied without hesitation.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Given the letter’s content, I was pretty sure my aunt and uncle weren’t involved.

Mead was another story.

Auntie snatched a crocheted hanky from her breast pocket. “I haven’t the foggiest what all this is about, but I don’t like it. There’s been nothing but chaos since that dreadful man got out.” The brightness in her eyes dimmed as she worried the tiny swatch of fabric. “A dear friend of mine said her husband saw you leaving Fontana Exxon a few days ago. And before that, someone else saw you conversing with the Butcher Boy outside Home Depot. Is it true?”

Turning away, I scooted my chair over to the buzzing fax. “I’ve decided I don’t want a cape,” I announced, changing the subject as I waited for the machine to spit the rest of the paper out. “A veil would be much better.”

Auntie came up behind me. “What would Darien say if he knew what you’ve been up to?”

“Nothing. Because I’m not telling him.” I tossed an acidic look back at her. “And neither are you.”

She tugged my chair around. “This is nothing but misguided guilt!”

“Now you’re a psychologist?”

“I’m only trying to understand you.”

I made a face. It wasn’t rocket science. “What’s to understand? I want to know where my memories went.”

“So your solution is to go to the Butcher Boy?”

Okay, that was it. “His name is Tracemore. Phillip. Dawson.” I slapped the words out succinctly. “And for some stupid reason I’d hoped he would help connect the dots, but you can rest easy. He’s been about as helpful as you have.”

“Don’t you understand what you’re dredging up? Our reputation was in shambles after the murder. And the papers were brutal. When all the sordid details came out, your uncle had to walk away from a judgeship nod. Our friends shunned us and gossip even followed Mead back to Yale.” She pinched her thumb and index finger together. “He was this close to a breakdown.”

That gave me pause. I’d gone through a similar experience. Like flies to manure, my dead mother’s sleazy legacy had also followed me to Sarah Lawrence. One incident in particular had left an indelible mark.

“Why am I just hearing about this, Auntie?”

“We didn’t tell anyone, dear.” She dropped her gaze. “And given Mead’s campaign, we’re all understandably nervous. His chances are excellent, but I won’t take anything for granted.”

I didn’t know whether to feel sympathy or disgust. “This just typifies the level of secrecy in this family.”

“Listen, sweetie. It was a ghastly thing—the way Lilith…the way she died. No one deserves to leave this earth like that.” Auntie’s eyes squeezed shut as her breath shuddered out of her. “We were just trying to protect you. At the time, you were our only concern. Were errors made? Yes. But—”

“Not errors. Lies,” I insisted. “Why do I remember Uncle Jackson grilling me before my deposition?”

“How many times must I say this? Nothing happened. Jackson’s questions were routine.”

“How would you know? You said you left the room!”

“Sears assured me everything was safe and aboveboard.”

That left me speechless. She’d accused Uncle of being a philandering liar for decades. Why did she believe him now?

“Time distorts things,” Auntie said without conviction. “Your adult mind is trying to make sense of a child’s fantasies.” Edict declared, she gathered her things. Her way of letting me know the debate was over. “I’ve a six o’clock DAR meeting.” She threw her coat on and grabbed the box. “You should really consider having Beatrice put up a tree or something. The place could use some Christmas cheer.”

“You’re dodging the issue again. Just like everyone else!”

Auntie stalked to the exit. Over her shoulder she said, “Sweetie, I love you, but you’ve misplaced your priorities.”

DING DONG, blared the chime.

Cold invaded the office as Auntie lugged that ridiculous box to her car. I dashed up front to run after her, but thought better of it. Everyone had closed ranks on me. God, I’d never felt so alone in my life.

I shrank away from the door as the distant roar of a motorcycle drew near. Noise pollution. Bending over Beatrice’s desk, I turned the radio to a soft rock station. Adam Lambert had just started the second chorus of “Ring Of Fire.”

After switching off all but one of the front lights, I wandered back to my office and shuffled through the bridal photos with the patience of a two-year-old. Honestly? I didn’t like any of these dresses. They were all hideous. So I just picked the gown I hated the least. Where was the pre-wedding bliss Auntie had raved about? Thus far, for me anyway, there’d been nothing but dread.

I glanced at the clock. Five p.m. Tossing the photos on the credenza, I collapsed into a chair, and shut my lids.

He’s not calling. Get over it.

DING DONG.

I blinked my eyes open at the entrance chime. “Auntie?”

The silhouette of a helmet-clad man came into focus. Dusk was minutes away, but he wore reflective shades. He flipped the door sign to “Closed.” Relief warred with anxiety once recognition clicked. I’d know that cocky swagger anywhere.

As he stepped beneath the ceiling lamp, the silver crucifix around his neck glinted. Clad in a black motorcycle jacket and a navy blue T-shirt, he looked dark and unapologetically male. Jeans that had faded to ash white at the knees hugged him in all the right places. Black shit-kickers covered his feet.

K.D. Lang’s “The Consequences of Falling” played softly as he tugged his gloves off. His helmet went next. He bulldozed a hand through his damp hair, leaving tracks.

Meanwhile, a stark image had dawned in my mind. I was in the garage again, with my back plastered to that wall while his rock-solid body pressed into me. His arm was cocked above my head, his fingers tangled in my hair. The memory wouldn’t go away. It was a living thing.

An entity.

Trace tipped his chin in greeting. “Shannon.”

Over thirty feet separated us, but the office had never seemed so small. I forced myself to speak. “Why are you—”

“Here?” His baritone melted over me like a caress. “Figured it was my turn to pay you a visit.” He glanced around. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

My mind went blank. “What time is it?”

He flicked his wrist in gesture. “Quittin’ time.” Seconds passed. “We need to talk.”

“I know,” I whispered, my eyes never leaving his.

He set his helmet on a table smothered in real estate magazines, then went for the door as I stood. The scrape of the bolt hitting the chamber echoed. Weeks ago I would’ve been terrified. Now we were here, alone, in my office, and I’d never felt happier to see anyone.

He faced me. “I like it.”

“Pardon?”

The Berber carpet muffled his steps. “Your place.” He lifted his arms from his sides. “It’s girlie, but nice.”

French provincial furniture, the color of tea-rose and gray, decorated the suite. Tessellate borders, mahogany cabinets, and impressionist oil paintings adorned the mauve walls.

“So what did you need the stamps for?” he asked.

“Stamps?”

“The signature stamps,” he said. “Why’d you buy them?”

I threw my mind into gear. “They were for my assistant.”

Twelve feet and closing.

“You don’t sign your letters?”

“Yes.” I gripped the desk when my knees started shaking. “But five other agents share this office. We’re not always here to sign letters. We got them for the admin and….”

He stepped within the glass walls of my office. The scent of leather, herbal shampoo, and the chill of outdoors filled my senses. His dark, brooding presence dominated every inch of space just as it had in the limo. “Any suspects?”

“No.” I swallowed. “We get so much traffic in here. Clients, agents, vendors, loan officers.”

“What about your secretary?”

“My administrative assistant,” I gently corrected, “is Beatrice, a trusted staff member. I’ve known her since kindergarten.”

He folded his arms, settled his weight to the right, and stroked his chin. “This happen to the other agents?”

“No, but things get misplaced quite a lot—” I widened my eyes when he rounded the desk and picked up the bridal photographs from the credenza. “W-what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, just started thumbing through the pictures. I stepped back, but he was still too close. Careful not to snatch them away, I tugged the photos from his hands.

“So when’s the big event?”

I tapped the edges to align them. “February 28th.”

“Kinda cold then.”

I dropped the snapshots into a drawer and shoved it closed. “I’m sure you’re not here to talk about my wedding.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

Had he come to form an opinion? Or had he already decided? When his brows crested above the silver rim of his shades, I said, “I’m happy you’re here.” Hope surged. “But does this visit mean you believe me?”

His steady gaze was fastened on mine when he removed his glasses. Certainty shone in his eyes. “Yeah. It does.”

CHAPTER TEN

Broken Olive Branches

SHANNON

____________________________

Instinct made me grip the desk when I swayed, but I still landed in my chair with a graceless thump.

Trace looked concerned. “Hey, you’re sheet white.” He picked up a half-empty water bottle from the credenza and thrust it into my hand. “Drink it all.”

I obeyed. When I finished, he sat at the corner of my desk. Our legs brushed, then stilled. The right side of mine pressed against the right side of his. Winter’s chill lingered on him, but his leg felt like a branding iron. Butterflies invaded my stomach once our attention slid south.

On cue, both of us eased back to a proper distance. Then our eyes met, but didn’t hold. Too many untested emotions lay there. He became fascinated with an oil painting behind my desk, while I examined my hands, deciding it was time for another French manicure.

“Um…Shannon?”

My gaze zipped to his. “Yes?”

He hung his shades from the chain around his neck. His attention seesawed from my face to the floor. “About the stuff I said in the limo…and the parking lot…and the garage too. I-I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He blinked slowly. “I’m sorry ‘bout that.”

I searched his eyes. The cold veneer was gone, replaced by something warm and endearing.

He grasped my chair’s armrest and twisted me around to face him. “Deep down, I wanted to believe you.” He bowed his head. The invisible barrier between us had weakened. To the rug, he said, “I didn’t realize it ‘til now.”

More butterflies gathered in my stomach.

“I’ve been thinking about the other thing you said too.”

I stared spellbound. “What was that?”

“About me resenting you. I guess I did…a little. Maybe I…um…didn’t want to face it ‘cause I couldn’t justify it. Least not to myself. Anyway, given the evidence, they would’ve convicted me with or without your testimony.” He looked at the ceiling. “You were a young girl. A victim. I knew that. I couldn’t blame you, logically, but the feeling was still there.”

“It’s okay. You’re a human being, not a saint.”

He gave a solemn nod. “Well, with the letter and the fallout—when I thought you wrote it—it just stung.” He paused. “I was angry with you for other reasons, too. But I’ll…we can talk about that later.” He scratched his neck. “For now, you need to know I never lied to you. Not intentionally. I just didn’t understand what was really going on. With me, I mean.”

He let out a slow hiss of a breath, as if he’d dropped a load off his shoulders. There was a tenderness in his expression that I hadn’t seen since we were kids. It should have disarmed me, but the butterflies only multiplied.

Things got worse when he moved to stretch his legs and our knees brushed again. The contact sent my butterflies into a frenzy. He must have felt it too because he excused himself to drag a chair from the corner, mumbling something about leg cramps.

He sat across from me and the butterflies mutated into killer bees. This was ridiculous. A desk separated us, but my leg still burned from his touch, and my heart wouldn’t stop pounding.

Trace skimmed my office. “So you got the letter from the Department of Corrections?”

“Yes,” I said, grateful the awkward silence had ended. “Darien contacted the parole board and Victim Services.”

“What do they do?”

“Whenever an inmate’s status changes, all registered parties are notified through their VINE program—Victim Information & Notification Everyday.”

“What kind of changes?”

“If you—” I cringed when understanding darkened his eyes. “Uh, I mean, if someone had a parole hearing, those on the notification list would be contacted. Or if…someone was about to be released…or if y—I mean….”

“Shannon?” He paused when my gaze fell. “Will you look at me, please?”

I did.

“You don’t have to tiptoe around me. I’m not made of glass.”

“All right,” I said with a grateful smile.

He wrinkled his nose. “Somethin’ burning?”

I smelled it too. “Oh. The coffee pot must still be on.” I got to my feet and ambled past him. “Excuse me.”

He watched me leave. “Were your guardians registered?”

“They didn’t send it,” I said over my shoulder. “Trust me on this. I asked Auntie about it right before you came.”

I was still within his eyeshot when I crossed to the adjoining kitchenette and turned the coffee off. Black gook sloshed in the cloudy glass as I removed it from the well. I dumped the sludge down the stainless steel sink and rinsed the pot.

The nearness of his voice signaled his approach. He dug his hands in his pockets. “How can you be sure they didn’t do it?”

Because it was the only thing I was sure of. “Auntie and Uncle would never risk a scandal like that.” I slipped the pot back in place and the burner sizzled. “Their aversion to negative publicity can’t be understated. Excuse me.”

Squeezing past him without our bodies touching was impossible. My skin tingled at every point of contact. By the time I swept into my office to snare a cup from the sill, I was covered in gooseflesh. When I twisted around, he was right there, face to chest. I tilted my head back to look up at him. Even in the dim fluorescent light, I could see the golden flecks in his eyes.

His Adam’s apple climbed his neck. “What about your boyfriend?”

“Darien?”

“How many boyfriends you got?”

It was taking my brain longer to react. I couldn’t think when he was so close to me. “If you’re asking whether he’d do such a thing, the answer is no. And he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my fiancé.”

Trace eyed my ring finger as I stepped around him to go back into the kitchenette, but he was right behind me, stopping short at the entryway. My defenses crept up. A confrontation was imminent.

“Darien has no vendetta against you,” I said, dumping my cup in the sink. “He’d never shame me that way, and he’d never do something illegal.”

“Your man’s human. That makes him as capable as anyone.”

I bristled at his word choice. “He’s not my ‘man.’ He’s—”

“Your fiancé. Right. I get it. So he helped you find the letter?”

Jaw tight, I squeezed a drop of lemon Joy in my cup and turned the spigot on. “Yes. And while he doesn’t approve—”

“Approve?” His eyes narrowed. “You need his permission?”

I washed the cup none too gently, hating the sarcastic undercurrent in his voice. “Of course not. He just thinks nothing we do will change anything.” Switching the water off, I set the cup aside and ripped a brown paper towel from the metal dispenser on the wall. “As for your other assertions,” I said, grabbing the cup again to give it a thorough drying, “Darien’s a man of integrity.”

“Integrity didn’t stop him from prosecuting an innocent man.”

My hand convulsed and the cup crashed to the floor. I gripped the sink’s edge and stared sightlessly at the pieces.

Trace studied me with a guarded frown before stooping to collect the shards. “Damn.” He slipped a finger into his mouth.

I knelt beside him, hoping he didn’t notice I was trembling. “You cut yourself?”

“It’s nothin’.” His lips made a sucking noise when he pulled his finger out. Blood welled. “Seems every time we’re near each other, I bleed.”

My breath shuddered as I got to my feet and grabbed a broom. I handed him the attached dustpan so I could sweep. We worked in silence, and once we were done, he stood and leaned a shoulder against the jamb.

His stare burned into me—hot, hard, invasive. “I asked you a question. Would Montgomery knowingly convict an innocent man?”

“No,” I said with certainty. “If he thought you were innocent, he would’ve stepped aside.” I replaced the broom and dustpan, then headed for the lobby as Heather Nova’s “Gloomy Sunday” wafted from the radio.

He wasn’t far behind. “Do you think I’m innocent?”

I froze mid-step. Trace deserved candor, but an honest answer would trigger a backlash. His vow to protect me surfaced from a distant place in my memories. Given his abusive father, was it a stretch that Mother’s actions may have set him off? I could still see him crouched over the body…still see the spade and blood on his clothes. The rumors about the inmate he allegedly killed came to mind as well.

“You going to answer me or what?” he asked.

Just then Tori Mills of Main Street Flowers and her best friend Dee Dee Gray—Eddie’s brassy wife—stopped to look in the storefront window. Dee Dee’s four preschool-aged sons tagged along. One snow-suited child rode her hip while the walkers, who were linked with a toddler leash, formed a line behind her.

An astrology nut with a sixties obsession, Tori had a white beehive, big boobs, and endless legs that made her look like a wannabe Barbie. Her bee-stung lips fell open when she spotted Trace glowering by the fax machine. Dee Dee hitched her baby higher and squinted into the tinted glass.

I strode to the front and yanked the cords on each of the five venetian blinds. One by one, the shades smacked the windowsill as darkness raced across the office. When I was done, I rounded to find Trace’s hard eyes locked on me.

“What do you think they’ll say?” he asked.

I snatched a displaced magazine. “Who knows? I really couldn’t care less.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” He sat on the edge of Beatrice’s desk. Raw emotions flashed between us. “Still waiting.”

I glared back at him in a show of defiance, but inside foreboding set in like wormwood. “I won’t dignify your ridiculous assertion with a response.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Trace crossed his arms over his chest and the brush of leather on leather filled the momentary hush. “I’m gonna tie it all into a neat little bow so you’ll understand what time it is. Number one, I don’t give a damn about the letter.” When my eyes widened, he added, “Like your man said, finding the writer won’t change a thing.”

He couldn’t be serious. “So what was with all the questions about Uncle and Darien?”

“I wanted to see where your head was at.”

Anxiety and disbelief coalesced into anger. The song’s weepy lyrics suddenly started to annoy me. I flicked the radio off, nearly breaking the knob. “Then why all the histrionics?”

“Histri-what?”

“Histrionics!” I flung the magazine aside. “Fits. Hysterics. Drama. You went on and on about how the letter ruined your family. You sent me on an all-expense-paid guilt trip!”

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

I stormed up to him. “No, because it makes no sense.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that digging this stuff up isn’t gonna undo the past? Both our mamas are still dead. I’ve still lost twelve years. Cole’s still in Wonderland and—”

“That’s not the damn point.”

“For the love of—” He scowled. “Get your head outta the clouds, will you? Look at all the crap that’s been flying at me since I moved back. Say we find out who wrote the letter. Then what? It’ll only be somethin’ else.”

Talk about twisted logic. “You’re just going to give up?”

“It’s not about giving up. It’s about reality. Cholly can’t get a local contractor for his club ‘cause of me. So he’s working around it. I had a potential carpentry job, but I haven’t heard a word about it, and prob’ly never will. So I’m working around that too. I get at least five crank calls a day. At home. At the garage. But I deal with them. There’ll always be assholes. That’s why I’m not dwelling on shit I can’t control.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Nothing matters?”

“Not necessarily.” His gaze imprisoned me. “Remember what I said about tying stuff together?” Once I nodded, he asked, “Why’d you get flustered when Tori and Dee Dee saw us?”

My reasons were too complicated to explain now. “It’s not what you think.”

He canvassed my face and his chest swelled. “I only cared about the letter ‘cause I thought you wrote it. You were a girl once. Scared. Confused. You thinking I killed Lilith was understandable then. But stuff’s different now.”

I couldn’t speak, the passion in his words left me stymied.

“The way you look at me sometimes,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. I saw it in the limo. You still think I did it.”

Think? I didn’t know what to think—about him, my family, Mother, the murder. Nothing made sense anymore. It all lay trussed behind a veil, shrouded in darkness. I closed my eyes for a second and tried to put my frenzied thoughts into words.

“Trace, listen. It’s-it’s not just you. It’s everything and—”

“Cholly was right. If you believed I was innocent, you wouldn’t have worn that hood. And you damn sure wouldn’t have pulled the blinds down just now. See, this is what’s been pissing me off. Took me a while to figure it out, but here it is.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “You talk about olive branches. Wanna know what I’m still waiting to hear? That I’m innocent. You never said it once! How do you expect to fix stuff between us, when you still think I plunged a garden spade into your mama’s chest? Can’t you see what a joke this is?”

TRACE

____________________________

I watched her tear away to fuss with some magazines that didn’t need straightening. I’d come to ease her mind about the letter. Picking at a scab hadn’t figured into the plan. Now two questions dominated everything else: was she ashamed to be seen with me? And did she still believe I was guilty?

When she ran out of busywork, she eased into a chair, robot stiff. Silence swept through the office like an angry breeze.

I approached her, my steps slow. With a desk between us, I braced the edge. “Do you still think I killed your mama?” Her silence turned disappointment to anger. I came around and sat at the corner next to her. “Let me put this another way. We’re alone. You’ve shut the blinds, and I dead-bolted the door. Nobody can see us and they can’t get in.”

“So?”

“You’re not scared?”

“No.”

“You should be.” I directed her with a glance at the exit. “You could make a run for it, but I’ve got at least eighty pounds and a good seven inches of height on you.” I looked her up and down. “You’re a peanut compared to me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The psycho act is getting old.”

“Who says it’s an act?”

She swallowed. “You’d never hurt me.”

I should’ve been relieved, yet it wasn’t enough. I wanted all or nothing. “You’re right, but what about Lilith?”

She lowered her eyes.

I smacked the desk. “Answer the question!” She started and I leaned in close so our faces were mere inches apart. “I didn’t kill your mama. Do you believe me or not?”

“I just need some time to—”

“If you don’t know by now, you never will.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Fine. You don’t believe me.”

She looked away. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Somebody has to. Just say it!”

“I can’t!” Shannon bolted up. She slapped a hand to her forehead and paced. “This is what I tried to explain in the limo. My memories are fractured. The diary pages brought some things back, but made others fuzzy and confusing.”

“What the hell do you remember then?”

She stopped in front of me. “The night Mother kissed you. I was in the—”

“You saw that?”

“Yes,” she said with a frantic nod. “I heard her tell Cook—Mrs. Campbell—to send you up once you finished your duties. I was afraid Mother would make you…do things, so I hid in her closet. After you rejected her, I ran after you, but I bumped into her vanity table and the vase with the calla lilies fell. Then Mother slapped me and—”

I flashed a palm. “We’re getting sidetracked here.”

“Why do you think I’ve been hounding my family? Calling Sheriff Gray? I only had good memories of Mother, but then I found the diary pages and my world flipped upside down.”

“Shannon….”

“I found Mrs. Campbell through the internet. I called, wrote half a dozen letters, but her granddaughter won’t let me see or talk to her. I wanted to know about the fight you and Mother had by the pool the night before she died—”

“Shannon! What does this have to do with my question?”

“Are you even listening?” She shoved her bangs off her forehead. “I don’t know if my memories are real or by-products of my imagination. I have never felt this isolated and lost. I had direction. A purpose. But now everything’s twisted. So yes, my head is in the clouds. You know why? Because the earth’s just too damn confusing right now!”

That was too bad because I wanted nothing to do with her aimless obsession. I could tell her about the letter Cook had written me after Mama died last year.

The old woman had asked for just one thing—that I visit her as soon as I got out. She had things to tell me, the letter had said. Secret things. I figured she wanted to purge her conscience, but I wasn’t about to oblige her. Just like I wouldn’t be obliging Shannon.

“Let’s get somethin’ straight,” I said. “The pool fight, the trial, and everything else is off limits.”

She gave her head a slow shake. “For God’s sake, why?”

“I spent half my life dwelling on it. What time I got there. Where I went. Who I saw. Well, no more. I’ve moved on.”

“But if you do nothing, you’ll never know.”

If I had wanted to dredge all this crap up, I’d have gone down in the basement by now and fixed the burned-out fuse for the ceiling lamp. Facing fear sounded brave, but I didn’t give a rat’s ass about brave. I just wanted my life back.

“Shannon,” I said calmly, “you’re asking me to open my wrists. To bleed. Well, no thanks. I’m done with that.”

“I want to remember and you want to forget. We can’t resolve this if you refuse to broach it!”

“We don’t need to broach nothin’,” I snapped. “You should’ve made up your mind way before you got in my face.”

“When I swore I didn’t write that letter you refused to believe me at first. You wanted proof.”

“Can you blame me?”

“God, no. I understand completely.”

I gestured. “Then what’s your point?”

“You only believed me after I gave you proof, yet you expect me to just take your word for it?”

“You’re damn right I do.”

Her eyes hardened. “Why am I held to a higher standard?”

“Twelve years in stir, that’s why.”

“So now we’re fighting over who suffered more?”

My face burned hot with anger. “I didn’t kill her,” I shot back. “Do you believe me or not?”

“You only care about what you want. Well, what about—”

I snatched my helmet and shouldered past her. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Trace!”

I kept going.

“Did you kill that man in Gainstown?”

My heart hit the floor and I froze. The subtle hint of her perfume let me know she was close. She stood before me and I could barely look at her. Black, spiky lashes framed her tilted eyes, eyes that burned with desperation.

I rolled my shoulders. “I said I didn’t kill your mama, yet you don’t believe me. Why is now any different?”

“Just answer me, please.”

“What’s one got to do with the other?”

“Everything and nothing.”

I hung my head and sighed. Having laid Nyle to rest, I thought I’d moved past this, but secrets had a way of crawling from the darkest of graves. Could I put Amber’s freedom and my life in Shannon’s hands? Why should I when she didn’t believe me about Lilith?

It was all bullshit.

“Tell me,” she said. “Is it true?”

“No.” I moved around her, yanked the deadbolt and ripped the door open. Wind smacked me. The lot was almost full by now, with the brunt of cars clustered at Walmart.

She tugged my arm and I twisted around. Heat like a thousand hells burned into me. Her hand all but seared its shape into my flesh through the leather while we stared at each other.

Our labored breaths formed twin wisps of fog that knotted into one. A lock of hair tangled in her lashes and I reached to brush it back, but she flinched, just as she had in the limo.

The shock of what she’d just done played out on both of our faces. “Oh, my God,” she said. “I-I didn’t mean—”

That was the worse cut of all.

I swung away without looking back, not really sure what disturbed me the most—that she was still afraid of me or that I’d just lied to her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Promises To Keep

SHANNON

____________________________

Three days before Lilith Bradford’s murder….

“What’re you doing, Shadow?” Trace asked me one breezy afternoon. “Your mama said she didn’t want you coming out here.”

“Please don’t tell.”

He hesitated, then waved me closer. “All right. But this is the last time.”

Dressed in gym shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, I eased down next to him, where he reclined against a gnarled old oak. Its foliage veiled the early September sun, and painted gray dapples across the greenest tall fescue in the county.

Miller’s Pond was our place of refuge, a magical port in whatever storm the day brought. We were safe here. Nothing could harm us.

“Hey,” I said, staring at the grass.

“Hey yourself.”

“Here’s the surprise I told you about.” I handed him a ring I’d won at the fair last week. It took six tries, at twenty-five cents a pop. “Do you like it?”

He worked the small golden circle onto his pinky finger—with difficulty—and held his hand out to inspect the sparkling blue gem in the center. “It’s right nice, but my birthday’s not for another four months.”

My chin bumped my chest. Shyness weighed it down. “This isn’t a gift. It’s a reminder.” I played with my fingers. “Your middle name is Phillip, and that’s a Prince Phillip ring,” I said. “Remember the Sleeping Beauty DVD you got me the Christmas before last? You bought it because you said I look like Aurora. Well, the inscription on the inside of that ring says ‘Prince Phillip.’ I thought you’d get a kick out of it. Anyway, I want you to wear it, so you’ll remember.”

He cocked his head. “Remember what?”

“Me,” I murmured. “I’ll be eighteen in four years. So we can go travel the world. I’m thinking Paris first.”

“Paris, huh?” He smiled. “You got some big dreams.”

“It’s not a dream. I’m going to make it happen.”

“Would this trip to Paris have anything to do with what happened yesterday?”

He always did get straight to the point. Last night, he’d found me bawling my eyes out in the tree house he’d built for me. The Washington Wizards had drafted his best friend Cholly, and Trace had been about to leave for the farewell party, but he ended up going late. He’d stayed behind to coax the truth out of me, yet the truth was too ugly for words.

“Come on, Shadow. Spill it.”

Gosh, he was handsome. Stubble darkened his jaw and thick brown fans framed his hazel eyes. Even the lashes Mother glued on every day weren’t as silky. “May I ask you something first?” When he nodded, I gathered my courage. “If I broke your radio….” I paused to swallow. “Would you hate me?”

His eyes slid closed. “I could never hate you, girl.”

I set my chin against my knees and stared across the pond at the one thing dearest to his heart. He’d parked it where he always did, beneath the cool shade of a giant maple.

Blessed Mother, please let him answer right. “Trace?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“What-what if I broke your motorcycle?”

He blinked his eyes open and glanced at his Harley. “Now why would you do somethin’ like that?”

“Would you forgive me or not?”

He rewarded me with a lazy grin. “Yeah. Eventually.”

I sat up straight. “Really?”

The grin ebbed while he watched me. He eased forward, lifted my chin, and brushed my cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. “Have I ever lied to you, sweet pea?” I gave my head a slow wag, and he said, “So why do you keep doubting me?” One of his brows arched. “Didn’t I say I’ll always care?”

I lowered my eyes to escape his. Every time I looked at him, I got butterflies.

“Tell me.”

Getting the words out took some effort. “It was Mother,” I whispered, bottom lip quivering.

“Go on.”

My eyes started welling. “Sh-she said….” Tears streamed down my face as the words stumbled out of me. “I was running, and I broke her favorite vase yesterday—by accident. The flowers. The purple ones she likes. They fell and broke too. That made her mad. Then she…she said she h-hated me and—and she wished I was never b-born. And that it was my fault she had to get breast lift surgery.” I shouldered a tear. “If I ever break something of yours, you won’t hate me, will you?”

He searched my eyes as incredulity darkened his. “This why you been asking all these—” He muttered a curse and gathered me into his arms. I forced myself not to cry out, not to flinch because of the pain reverberating around my bruised ribs. Out of nowhere he asked, “Your mama ever hit you?”

“No,” I lied as a breeze ruffled my hair.

“That the truth? ’Cause if she did—”

“She didn’t, okay?”

A minute passed before he responded. His voice was quiet. Reflective. “Daddy used extension cords. Bev’s jump rope. His fist. Beat me with some jumper cables one time, too.” He wiped my tears with care. “It’s ninety degrees out here. Why the long sleeves?”

“Because.” I served up another lie. “I’ve got … um, poison ivy.”

He paused in ominous silence. When he finally spoke, there was an intensity in his voice I’d never heard before. “Listen, you’re one of the best things that ever happened to this fucked up world. Remember that.” Hugging me close, he dropped a peck atop my head. “And there’s nothin’ you could do that would make me hate you.”

“You say that now, but….”

“What?”

“Mother. She says she loves me all the time.”

“Shadow?” He jiggled my hand. “I’ll never lie to you.”

My hopeful gaze clung to his. “Promise to goodness?”

“Promise to goodness.” He drew an X over his heart. “Believe me now?”

I recalled something he’d said he’d done with Cole, his baby brother. “Yes, but can we…spit on it?”

He considered me for a moment. “You know somethin’? You’re right,” he said with mock seriousness. “A promise isn’t truly bona fide ‘til it’s sealed with spit.”

I beamed a smile, but caution weakened it. “About the spitting. You…you mustn’t tell Mother. All right?”

He managed to look insulted. “What kind of friend would I be if I did that?”

“Not a very good one.”

“You got that right.” He bared his callused palm, spat, then winked at me to do the same. My efforts barely produced a dollop, but it was enough to close the deal. “No lies?”

“No lies,” I repeated once his big hand swallowed mine.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It’s On

SHANNON

____________________________

I pulled into the carriage house at Briar and spoke into the handless cell phone receiver. “Didn’t you get the message I left with Kate?”

“Uh-no, sorry,” Darien mumbled. It was the same distracted tone I’d grown accustomed to. One I’d heard too many times before. His footsteps echoed in the background. “I just got out of court. We’re meeting with the prosecutor in a few minutes. What’s going on?”

In other words, I’m busy. Again.

“Everything is going on,” I said.

My throat was still raw from yelling. Not that Darien noticed the rasp in my voice. An hour had passed since Trace had stormed out of my office, and my fried nerves had yet to recover. Why hadn’t I taken him at his word about Mother?

He’d never lied to me.

“That’s right,” Darien said. “The luncheon is tomorrow.”

“What? Oh, yeah.” I tried to remember why I’d called him, but couldn’t. “Ah, I guess I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed. Between that and the wedding planning—”

“Oops, I’ve got another incoming. I’ll only be a second.” The phone clicked. “Darien Montgomery.”

“It’s still me.” My voice bordered on snippy. Not that he noticed that either. “Try again.”

“Sorry. New phone. Hold on.”

I yanked my keys from the ignition. Of course the phone was new. He probably burned the other one out from overuse! With Trace still on my mind, I’d needed to reconnect with Darien, but this long distance garbage was driving me crazy.

“Okay, I’m back,” he said. “Are you all right?”

Not if feeling confused, frustrated, and angry counted. I couldn’t tell him the truth. If I did, he’d know I’d broken my promise. “I just miss you.”

“Me too. So what time do the festivities begin tomorrow?”

“Twelve noon.”

“Did Granny Mae do the guest list again?”

I grabbed my things and wrenched the car door open. “No, she swore off party planning after the last one. If you’ll recall, Auntie accused her of turning the place into a trailer park who’s who.”

He laughed the same polite laugh he gave clients…and strangers. “Honey, we’re trying to wrap things up here, so….”

“Wait.” I finally remembered why I called. “Have you heard anything more about the letter?”

“I’ll be right there,” he told someone. Then to me, he said, “Nothing else has shaken loose, but I’m still on it. Now, I’ve really got to go. I’ll call you tonight at the usual time, okay? I love you, babe.”

TRACE

____________________________

The next day, I sat slumped in the passenger seat of Bev’s brand-new truck as she drove into Grace Brethren Memorial Park, New Dyer’s fanciest cemetery. She’d picked me up after work so we could visit our mother together, but considering my black mood, I should’ve gone home. Between Amber ignoring my messages, this nonsense with Shannon, the constant crank calls, and what Bev had told me last night, I was about to lose my shit. Somebody had spray painted SATAN’S SISTER on the windows of her nail salon.

I’d only gotten four hours of sleep, one of which I’d spent trapped in Daddy’s nightmare. Seconds after I woke, my thoughts flew straight to Shannon. The fear and mistrust I’d seen in her eyes haunted me even now. I didn’t think I’d ever care what she thought, but I did. She was terrified of me. Hell, if I’d told her the truth about Nyle, she probably would’ve run off screaming.

As Bev taxied up the two-lane road, intermittent winks of sunlight flashed above a thick line of skeletal trees. This was where all the well-to-dos went when they kicked the bucket. Mama had cleaned their houses, so if she couldn’t live like them, she figured her final resting place would be as swanky as theirs. I was just glad she’d gotten the last laugh.

“We've gone as far as we can go,” Bev said, tugging me back. She cut the engine and pulled some Marlboros from the visor. Staring straight ahead, she tapped the crumpled pack until a cigarette inched out. She lit it and exhaled. “The north access road is closed. We gotta hike the rest of the way.” She pointed to a path on a hill that faded into a copse of snow-speckled evergreens. “Mama’s up there,” she said in monotone.

Clearly neither of us was in the mood for this visit. Having avoided the cemetery since Mama and Daddy’s funeral, Bev claimed grief kept her away, but I knew better. Mother and daughter had never been close.

From Bev’s cradle to Mama’s grave, they’d fought 365 days a year.

Out of the blue, she said, “I’ve been putting this off, but now’s a good a time as any. Zoe called about the job.”

“It’s a no-go, right?”

She nodded sadly. “Her husband Jerome heard one of the Bradfords was behind it. Betty Todd’s the county purchasing director and she told Jerome if he hired you, he could lose the Temptation library contract. Jerome said Sears Bradford is friends with all three commissioners. So’s his son Mead. They’ve basically blacklisted y’all…everywhere. That’s prob’ly why Cholly can’t get any local contractors for his club.”

I ground my jaw. An all too familiar hellish shade of red flashed before me. “Devious sons-a-bitches. I should’ve known.”

Not that I’d thought I’d had a snowball’s chance of getting that job, but I’d hoped something would’ve shaken loose by now so I wouldn’t have to lean so much on Cholly.

Sears and Mead Bradford wouldn’t be happy until they’d run us both off.

Bev took a drag. “Can’t you ask Shannon to talk to them?”

“Why should I?”

“Aren’t y’all friends now?”

Friends? Yeah, right. “Where’d you get that impression?”

“She called when I was at the house and Randa Quince saw you leave her office yesterday. Others have seen y’all as well.”

I rubbed my tired eyes. So Bev’s House of Nails also doubled as a hen-pecking factory. “Those women need to mind their own damn business.”

“Well, if y’all are friends it gives me hope. I mean, if you can forgive her…I dunno. Maybe you can forgive Patrick.”

I drew myself up. The girl was relentless. “I don’t want to talk about this no more, Beverly.” I fanned the air. “And stop blowing smoke in my face.”

“So now it’s ‘Beverly’? Yeah, you’re pissed.” She sucked on her cigarette as two crows landed on a nearby crypt. “Look, Patrick told me what he done at the plaza. He was just actin’ a fool, okay? But he’s my husband. Nothin’s gonna change that.”

“Does he even know you’re here? With me?” Soon as she hooded her eyes, I said, “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming at me with this when you’re sneaking around just to see your own brother.”

“It’s up to you to make amends. You started this war.”

I fixed her with a coarse look. “Your judgment’s always been off. The friends you pick, the men you choose—you’re a pleaser. Just like Mama. Every man you ever had treated you like shit. Hell, you up and married the first bum you met in stir. And why? ‘Cause you don’t think you deserve better.”

“Patrick’s not a bum. He’s a sinner—like all of us.”

“Uh-oh, I hear a sermon coming on.”

“Well, God knows you’ve lost your way.”

“And you’ve lost your damn mind.” I yanked off my seatbelt. “All that scripture slinging won’t erase the truth. You’re clueless when it comes to men. Eddie Gray proves it.”

Her cheeks burned red. “He has nothin’ to do with this.”

“Oh, really?” I stared a hole into the windshield. “Well, if you ask me, you went from one slimeball to another.”

“God’s word says I’m to cleave to my husband, rain or shine. Nobody’s perfect, so I don’t hold all his mistakes—”

“Mistakes?” I tore around. “Icky’s a crackhead and a wife beater. Mama even had him figured. Mama, the same woman who put up with Daddy’s shit. And you up and marry a sorry son-of-a-bitch just like him.”

“Judge not lest you be judged!”

“Don’t preach at me, Beverly,” I hollered. “You know that Bible-thumpin’ of yours drives me nuts.”

“‘Bible-thumpin’ helped me and him forgive each other.”

“What the hell does Icky gotta forgive you for?”

“We’ve all fallen short of God’s grace and glory!”

Any minute now she’d start speaking in tongues. I just shook my head. “No wonder you and Mama never got along. You’re both alike. Neither of you had the sense God gave a brick.”

I felt like an ass the second the words left my mouth. Especially after she ripped her seatbelt off and stormed out. I snatched up the flowers I’d bought at 7-11 and shouldered the door open. Wind hit my face and tugged at my jacket. Even in the dead of winter, cemetery air smelled of death and decay.

Bev tossed her cigarette. Her breath came in misty bursts while she paced back and forth in a frenzy. “You can be a hateful somethin’ when you wanna be.”

“Look, I’m just in a mood. We both are.” I slammed the door and the truck wobbled. “Swear to God, I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, you did.” She hugged herself. “You’re as judgmental as those prigs in Willow’s Corner. Lord help you.”

I set an apologetic hand on her shoulder when she zipped past me. “Hell, Bevy, I said I’m sorry.”

“Bastard,” she whimpered, jerking away. “Who are you? And what have you done with my brother?” Her ponytail waved as she blazed a trail up the hill.

Bev’s words had barely sunk in before her screams pierced the silence.

With my stomach lodged in my throat, I stumbled up the ruddy path, only to encounter my worst nightmare. Our differences forgotten, Bev and me stood side by side at the foot of our mother’s grave, both of us frozen in shock.

My flowers fell to the ground just as Bev’s legs gave out.

“Mama,” she sobbed. “Maamaah!” She grasped fistfuls of snow as her tortured cries echoed over the barren cemetery.

Something in me shattered. Dropping to my knees, I scooped her into my arms and she clung to me like a life preserver. “Aw, Bevy, please don’t cry,” I whispered. “Shhh. It’ll be okay. I promise, it will.”

But it was a lie. Nothing would ever be okay. Not until I did something. Just what that ‘something’ was, I hadn’t a clue. Squeezing my eyes shut, I took a slow lungful of air—like Doc had taught me—but my blood was already at a rolling boil, and the fire beneath it wouldn’t be quenched. Not today.

Jerome Dillon’s contract. The boycott. Cholly’s club troubles. The hate mail and crank calls. Bev’s window and now this. Everything pointed in one direction.

Sears and Mead Bradford had stirred all this shit up. What was next on their evil agenda? Torches and pitchforks?

I was a big boy, okay? And I’d made every effort to keep the bastards from getting to me. Hell, I’d survived Gainstown, after all. But this was different. This time they’d aimed true.

This time, they’d gone and fucked with my mama.

SHANNON

____________________________

Mead stared into his Scotch glass. “So what does Darien think?”

I took a leisurely sip of strong coffee. No doubt he was referring to the current edition of The Dirty Dish. He’d been on a tear about it all afternoon. With the party over, Granny Mae, Digger, Mead’s wife Francine, Uncle, Auntie, and I had retired to the dining hall for drinks, sweets, and peace.

That is, until Mead pulled up a chair.

“Well?” he prompted, his cultured southern voice issuing a challenge. “The man can’t be pleased with your behavior.”

Aunt Hesta sent her son a quelling look from across the massive table. “Must we discuss these unpleasantries now?”

Mead slipped a crumpled magazine page from his jacket in answer, and tossed it next to the remains of Granny Mae’s peach cobbler dish. It was a copy of the latest tabloid article by the same vulgar gossip columnist. From everyone’s stunned reaction you’d think he’d thrown a serpent atop a holy altar.

“Here we have a glorious exposé featuring Shannon’s nail-biting brush with death,” he continued. “Followed by her touching reunion with the Butcher Boy at the plaza. Next came the hospital melee with the Grays, and then the battle royale on Jefferson Boulevard at the peak of rush hour. And last, but not least, a rendezvous in the parking lot at Home Depot. How does Erica Davies know all this? The bitch has tentacles everywhere.”

“Stop being a bore, Mead.” Uncle’s droll voice drifted from the other side of the table where he sat sequestered behind a newspaper, his manicured fingers the only visible part of him. It was the most he’d said all afternoon—to anyone, including Auntie. “Talk will die down soon enough.”

“Not if she doesn’t stay away from him,” Mead complained. “Any shit between her and Dawson floats back to me. That invariably unearths Lilith’s stench. Are folks talking about my credentials for governor? No. They’re gabbing about The Dirty Dish and Shannon’s sordid misadventures with the resident psychopath. I’ve got a fickle constituency and a drop in campaign contributions. All this, since that nutjob came back to town.”

Francine patted his hand. Her long, expressionless face gave evidence of recent Botox injections. “You worry too much.”

“Forget about my campaign.” Mead turned to me. Up to this point, I had put him on ignore. “Think of yourself, Shannon. Next they’ll be saying you’re taking Lilith’s sloppy seconds.”

Silence echoed as servants scurried to refill water glasses. Mead could wrap his constituents around his finger, but here, in the presence of relatives and under the influence of too many fingers of Scotch, he wore a different face.

Tall, blonde, and filthy rich, the mayor of New Dyer had the looks of a Calvin Klein model but the self-serving personality of a jackal.

I slammed my napkin on the table. “You’re a monster.”

“And here I thought you liked monsters,” he taunted. “Why else would you keep sniffing around one?”

I stared him down with as much contempt as I could bridle, then cut my gaze from one end of the table to the other, examining each person respectively. “I don’t suppose anyone knows about a letter to the parole board?”

Auntie tossed me a pained look.

“Someone sent a forged letter to the state board protesting Trace’s parole,” I said. “It destroyed his family.”

“Poor, poor, Butcher Boy.” Mead signaled for another Scotch by giving his glass a rude jiggle. A servant was by his side immediately with a refill. “My dear cousin, any one of us could have written our own letter. And we would’ve been justified.”

“Let’s get real here,” I said. “The intent was to hurt Trace. That’s why they did it. A letter from me has more impact. She was my mother after all.”

Mead slurped his drink. “Obviously. Except for the hair and eye color, you could be her double. And if you keep sniffing around Dawson, you’ll end up just like her. Dead and gutted.”

Francine’s botoxed face drooped. “I can’t believe you just went there.”

“Lord ‘a mercy,” Granny Mae muttered as Digger quietly snored beside her.

“Say what you want,” Mead drawled, “but y’all know I’m right.”

I hurled a fiery glower at him. “You soulless gnome. I have had it up to here with your constant—”

Auntie tapped her wine glass with her cobbler fork. “That’ll be enough, children. I’ll not have any more disunity in this house.” She split her attention between her son and me. “This bickering is getting us nowhere. You—” She stabbed a bony finger at Mead. “—leave her alone this instant. I don’t want to hear anything else about this sordid business. Do you understand?”

“But, Mom—”

“Shut it,” Hesta told him.

“And on that note, I’ll make my exit.” Uncle lowered the shroud of newsprint as one of the servers set his evening glass of Alka Seltzer before him. He wrinkled his nose at the fizzing liquid. Saluting the table, he lifted a silver brow and murmured, “Here’s to unity.” Then he drained his glass and without fanfare quit the room by way of the back stairs.

With a long-suffering sigh, Auntie made her excuses and followed after him.

I’d had enough. Ignoring Mead, I said a polite goodbye to Francine, kissed Granny Mae and a snoozing Digger, then threw the double doors open and stalked out. I’d almost reached the end of the hallway when shouts exploded from the foyer. It was two men. The echo reverberated in the house.

My stomach dropped like a brick once I recognized the deeper of the two voices.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Shall We Dance?

TRACE

____________________________

“Leave now before I call the police.”

Anchoring a hand on the jamb, I leaned over the blonde tool at the door, using our height differences to my advantage. “Suit yourself, Jeeves, but I’m not going anywhere ’til—”

“What in the world?” Shannon squeezed between us and gave the blonde lackey a reassuring nod. “It’s okay, Gerard. I’ll handle this.” She tugged me to the other side of the porch. “What are you doing here?”

I shrugged her hand off. That its warmth lingered annoyed me. As did the fact that she looked damn good. Her hair was done up in one of those fancy French braid ponytail things. She wore suede knee boots and a silky blue dress that hugged every curve.

I tore my eyes away, focusing instead on the nervous little man scampering toward us. In the thirty seconds Shannon had been out here, the troll had somehow managed to fetch a shawl.

“I’m not gonna say it again, Jeeves,” I barked. “Go. Get. Him.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Bradford,” the servant sputtered as he draped the fluffy white afghan over her shoulders. His hands were shaking. After she thanked him, he said, “I told Mr. Dawson the family wasn’t receiving any more visitors today.”

“And I told you, I don’t need to see ‘the family.’” I sliced a glance at Shannon who’d swaddled her upper body wholesale. “I’m looking for Mead. His office said he’d be here. If he’s not available, Sears’ll do.”

She shivered. “But you still haven’t told me what this is about.”

As if on cue, Mead strolled onto the porch, his hands balled in the pockets of an expensive-looking suit. Malice gleamed in his blue eyes. “Well, so the Butcher Boy is a party crasher.”

“What was the plan, Bradford?” I marched right over to him. “Stir up so much hate that folks go rogue and run me and mine out of town?”

Shannon appeared at my side glaring daggers at Mead. Pink blotches stained her cheeks. “What’ve you done now?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Mead flashed a palm and took a step back. “I’ve no idea what this nut is ranting about.”

I gave a bitter chuckle. “Unfrickenbelievable—a lying politician. It wasn’t enough that you and your daddy are keeping Cholly’s club in limbo. Or that your cronies told Jerome Dillon he wouldn’t get that contract if he hired me—”

“Seriously?” Shannon gaped at Mead in genuine surprise, if not horror. “I knew you were a reptile, but this…this is—my God. What is wrong with you?”

He pressed his hand to his chest. “Wrong with me? Hey, I’m innocent here!”

“Bullshit!” I growled. “Now the town’s following your lead. Not only did they vandalize my sister’s salon, they desecrated my mama’s grave.”

Color drained from Shannon’s pink cheeks.

“That’s right.” I gave my head a sharp nod. “Somebody tossed a bunch of dog shit on my mama’s cemetery plot. Pissed on it too. Then they spray painted MOTHER OF SATAN on her headstone in red. Wrote somethin’ similar on Bev’s nail salon.”

“Oh, my God,” Shannon wheezed behind her hand.

Mead’s face deadpanned. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

“You and your daddy are the puppet masters, that’s what. Y’all were plotting and scheming even before I left the joint, and this is the fallout.”

Mead whistled soft and slow. “Looks like we can add paranoid delusions to your growing list of mental issues.”

“Paranoid? Naw. Try awakened.” I eyed him up and down, contempt churning in my stomach. “I answered a ton of local want ads months before I got out, but everybody turned me down, including folks who used to support me. Now I know why.”

“You give us too much credit, Dawson.”

Shannon’s narrowed eyes sharpened on Mead. “Did you do it or not?”

“No,” he said with an arrogant shrug. “But we’re not the only ones who want him gone.”

“You lying snake.” I fought with my temper and barely won. “Folks wonder why prison reform doesn’t work. It’s ‘cause of assholes like you. A con can get trained and certified up the yin yang, but when he gets out, he’s gotta deal with you fuckers. What’s your endgame, Bradford?”

Mead looked bored. “Again, I haven’t a clue what you’re—”

“Damn it, you’re hurting innocent people,” I insisted. “Cholly’s only working at Fontana Exxon while his daddy recuperates from hip surgery. Now, thanks to you, the old man’s business is suffering. But that wasn’t enough. You had to go and attack The Slam Dunk before it even got off the ground.”

“You have my deepest sympathy,” Mead said, his hand pressed against the place where a heart should’ve been. “But I still fail to see what any of this has to do with me or my family.”

I closed my eyes and counted to five. Once I found the right words, I spoke with icy calm. “If you steal a man’s dreams, destroy his livelihood, attack his friends and family—then prevent him from protecting the weakest of them, what’s he got left?” I paused and lifted a brow. “Hope. That’s what.” Sidling closer, I narrowed my eyes. “But what happens when you take hope away?” I tilted my head. “I’d say that man is now a dangerous foe. ‘Cause he’s got nothin’ left to lose.”

Mead’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Are you threatening me?”

“What do you think?”

“Okay, that’s it.” Shannon stepped between us, arms spread, her narrowed eyes flicking back and forth. The throw hit the porch. Given our heated words, she probably didn’t need it anymore. “Please, let me try and sort everything out,” she said, searching my face. “I promise, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Shannon to the rescue again,” Mead chimed in using a mock sports announcer’s voice.

I considered her pleading expression, then Mead’s cocky smile. What she planned to do, I wasn’t sure, but if I didn’t leave, I was seconds away from ripping the bastard’s throat open.

With a scowl, I tossed my hands. “I’m out of here.”

“Wait!” She grabbed my sleeve. “I need to speak with you.”

Been there. Done that.

I wrenched my arm away and kept walking.

Mead chuckled. “Ah, look. A lover’s spat. Well, at least this saves you from becoming his whore like your mom.”

I rounded just in time to see Shannon slap the shit out of her cousin.

“Fuck!” Mead roared.

He cupped the pink welt blooming across his cheek, and immediately raised a hand to her, but I was already on him. All I could see was red, hellfire and brimstone red. I grabbed the worm’s arm, twisted it behind his back, wedging it there. Tightening my grip, I forced Mead to his knees.

“Stop it!”

Somehow, Shannon’s voice doused the firestorm in my head. I blinked past the red haze, shoved the asshole away, and ran a shaky hand over my jaw. A swanky-looking woman with a narrow face rushed to the mayor’s side. Hesta Bradford clung to Sears in the doorway as a police siren wailed from afar.

I went for my bike. Shannon and I exchanged a look. Sadness filled her eyes. Well, whatever. She’d made her feelings clear at her office, so we had nothing to say to each other.

“That’s the authorities,” Sears announced, his silver brows forming a bushy V. “You may as well wait on them, Mr. Dawson because they’re coming for you.”

Mead smirked while he nursed his shoulder. “Oh, now you’ve done it.” A dark gleam made his eyes sparkle. “You’ll be sleeping in Gainstown tonight, you murdering piece of trash.”

“No, he won’t,” Shannon said, her voice firm, then for my ears alone, she whispered, “Take the back road.” Her expression held a strange combination of fear, resolve, and reassurance. “It’s going to be okay. Trust me.”

SHANNON

____________________________

Percussion drums and classical violins thundered through the walls when I slipped into The Slam Dunk hours later. I shrugged my hood off and made my way down a long corridor that reeked of sawdust and paint. It fed into a large open area, the first of three dance floors, which is where I found Trace—doing his own version of‘The Angry Dance’ to the frenzied beat of David Garrett’s“The 5th.”

Shirtless and sweaty, he wore nothing but a pair of distressed jeans and black sneakers. His considerable height had no effect on his grace and agility. Neither had the last decade. If anything, the years had refined his talent.

I watched him do a running dive, roll twice, then push himself into a one-armed handstand. He bounced to the beat, balancing his weight on his palm. From there, he jackknifed up and took a flying leap across the dance floor. Once he landed, he executed a dizzying series of grand pirouettes, only to slip into a circular moonwalk after Michael Jackson’s “Morphine” crushed the ending notes of Garrett’s feverish violin.

I couldn’t look away. The man was breathtaking.

He’d just completed a trio of aerial flips, when he froze. There he stood motionless for several breathless seconds before pivoting to stare me dead in the eye. Music screamed around us while his chest pumped up and down. He regarded me intently, appearing to deliberate before snatching a towel from a metal chair. Then he stalked to the sound system right next to me and punched a button, cutting the roaring bass to a raspy whisper.

His face was an iron mask as he rubbed the blue towel in a lazy circle over his rock-hard stomach. He had narrow hips and long arms roped with veins and sculpted muscles that rippled underneath his glistening skin. An indigo tattoo of thorns bordered his right bicep.

Another tattoo, that of a fire-breathing dragon, covered the tanned swell of his left pec, and his massive chest had a light dusting of hair that disappeared down the tightest washboard abs I’d ever seen.

His gray and white underwear peeked out from beneath a pair of low-slung jeans. The logo OBVIOUSLYembroidered the elastic waistband, with a♂ symbol replacing the second ‘O.’

I swallowed, but the lump wouldn’t go down. “Um. I-I remember you used to dance alone in the carriage house when you…when you were upset. You said it helped—”

“How’d you get in?”

The sharpness in his tone pushed me into a blinking fit. “I still have a set of keys from the sale. Cholly never—”

“Who told you I was here?”

If he aimed to rattle me, mission accomplished. “I went to your house, then to Cholly’s. After that, the garage. It was a simple process of elimination.”

He scrubbed the towel through his hair. Despite the sweat pouring off his skin, he smelled shower-fresh. “What do you want?”

“What do you think I want? I had to be sure…I needed to—” I tossed a hand. “Are you okay?”

“If you’re worried I’m going to pop off again, don’t. I’ve made peace with it already. Whatever happens…happens. It’s all good.”

“Well, nothing’s going to happen. I took care of everything.”

He hung the towel around his neck. “And that means what exactly?”

“No one’s pressing charges. Another scandal is the last thing my family wants. I also spoke with someone about Cholly’s liquor license and the other delays. Everything should be cleared up by next week.” I drew a steadying breath. “Oh, and Jerome Dillon got the library contract. I called him myself with the news. He said to tell you the job is yours if you’re still interested. They’ll be starting up in the spring.”

Momentary surprise softened his expression. As the seconds wore on, his lips parted, like he wanted to say something, but they hung open, voicing no sound. In the end, he nodded curtly, mumbled a, “Thanks,” then turned away to poke at some buttons on the stereo unit.

A sultry acoustic guitar instrumental whispered over the sound system as he made adjustments to the mixer.

“I’m sorry for the pain my family caused you.” I clasped my hands. “I swear I didn’t know what they were up to.”

He braced the table. “I never thought you did, Shannon.”

Those six words allowed me to breathe again, but I still needed to tell him what I’d longed to say at Briar. What I should’ve said at my office. Yet from his resigned tone and the tension in his shoulders, I sensed he had something more to say, so I waited on him.

“Listen,” he began, his back still to me. “I know I told you I don’t give a shit what the town thinks—and I don’t—but I can’t ignore the victims any more. They keep piling up. Cholly. His daddy. Bev…Mama.” He sighed long and hard. “Anyway, I’ve been chewing on somethin’ since I left the cemetery. And…um, with all that’s been going on, I figure the only way I can protect the folks I care about is to clear my name. The town won’t leave them alone otherwise.” He slowly turned to face me. “So in light of what you did for me and Cholly today—well, if you still want my help, you got it.”

My shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh, God. Really?”

“Yeah.” He gave a resigned nod and gripped both ends of the towel hanging from his neck. “In fact, I’m working on an idea, but I gotta make a few calls. You can come by my house tomorrow at five. I should have somethin’ by then.”

That I finally had someone on my side made me want to weep. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I gushed.

He leveled a palm. “Hold up. There’s nothin’ concrete—”

“No, no, that’s fine. I’m just happy you’re—” I cupped a hand over my giddy smile. “I swear you won’t regret this.”

“I’m sure I won’t.” He pulled a stick of gum from his pocket and tore off the foil. “When we’re done, nobody will doubt my innocence. Not even you.”

That last bit nipped at my heart. “Trace?”

“What?” he asked folding the gum into his mouth.

My tongue got stuck the moment our eyes latched, yet in my mind, the words flowed with ease.

He’d come to my office in lieu of calling. He’d apologized for doubting my honesty. He’d confessed that he’d resented my testimony, even though he didn’t want to admit it to himself.

With his life on the line, he’d refused to let his attorney cross-examine me. Would a guilty man do that? Would a murdering psychopath put a girl’s welfare above his own?

No, but a hero would.

Yes, I had a bad memory, but the sweet boy I’d grown up with didn’t murder anyone.

That sort of evil just wasn’t in him.

“Well?” he prompted, chewing his gum.

I pushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Okay, I need you to understand what I’m up against. How difficult it is for me to trust you or anyone. Especially since I don’t even trust myself.” Shaking my head, I glanced off. “When I think about all I’ve either suppressed or forgotten, I get…nauseous. No lie. But you want to know what really makes me sick? My family. I’ve known them my entire life, so I should be able to trust them, right? But I can’t because they’ve done nothing but lie to me. And after today, I’m convinced they have a secret agenda.” I paused for a beat. “But you don’t.”

His hard expression flatlined. “Shannon….”

“No, I want you to hear this. It took a lot of courage for you to come back here. Especially given the backlash you’re facing. All you wanted was to live your life and you didn’t care if the town thought you were guilty. You only cared if I did.” I nodded. “I totally get that now. So, yes, I trust you and I’m sorry for doubting your word. I know you didn’t kill Mother.”

He was silent for a long moment.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, uncertain. “If you trust me, why’d you flinch when I tried to touch you the other day?”

Talk about coming out of nowhere. “It-it wasn’t you.”

“That’s funny, seeing how I was the only one there.” A shadow crossed his face. “You did the same thing in the limo.”

“I know, but honestly, it’s not you. I think it has something to do with Mother—with the abuse. It’s a reflex action. I’ve had it since she died.”

The tension around his eyes eased, but skepticism still shaded them. “Is that the truth?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He eyed me for a languid moment. Then, without another word, he grabbed my purse, tugged off my coat and tossed them. After that, he went for the sound system and punched some buttons. A couple moments later, an old song, Terence Trent D'Arby’s “Sign Your Name” oozed from the speakers.

Uneasiness squeezed my stomach. “W-what are you doing?”

“Skipping down memory lane.” He cranked up the volume and spoke over the bass. “Recognize that?”

“What are you doing?” I repeated, warily.

“I taught you cha-cha and salsa on this song. For that contest you entered. You did a solo. Remember?”

As if I could ever forget. Back then, Trace danced rings around some of the professionals on TV. He was self-taught. A natural. So when he agreed to choreograph a routine for my junior high talent show, I’d rejoiced. Every day during spring break, he’d instructed me with such patience and skill that, although Eddie Gray’s little sister Nina won the competition, I placed third—a solid achievement for a girl with three left feet.

Those endless hours of dancing were intense, yet I’d never had so much fun, never felt so alive and free until Trace. Only in his eyes, I was just a silly girl with a crush. Never once did he give me reason to believe otherwise, but that was then and this was….

Unease ballooned to panic. “Um, it’s late. I’d better go.”

“Not so fast.” He angled around and extended a hand. “May I have this dance, Miz Bradford?”

“What? No.”

“Why not?” He crooked a brow. “You scared?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Then prove it.” He moved his body in time with the pounding rhythm. “Dance partnering is one of the truest expressions of trust, and you trust me, right? Or were you just blowing smoke up my ass?”

I tore my eyes from his gyrating pelvis. “No, but—”

“Good. So let’s dance.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Foreplay

SHANNON

____________________________

I’d scarcely opened my mouth to protest again, before he’d hauled me to the dance floor. He took me into his arms with a commanding, yet gentle tug.

Though he towered over me and several inches separated his naked chest from my chin, the heat radiating from his body hit me on full blast. He smelled of soap, male intensity, and a dangerous unknown.

A shiver sliced through me once he propped my left hand on his bare shoulder. His skin was like raw silk pulled taut over hot steel. Bracing his large palm along my back, he threaded the fingers of the other with my free hand.

“We’ll start with the basics and work our way up,” he said, leaning in to speak. “We’re doing cha-cha first, okay? Left foot side, right foot back. Got it?”

I gave a stilted nod as he began.

“No, not with your heel. Step with the ball of your foot,” he said. “Yeah, like that. And one—two—three—cha-cha—one—two—three—loosen those hips. Stop slouching and hold the frame. Head up. Shoulders back. Outstanding.” Less than a minute into it, he did an underarm turn. “Good. Two—three—cha-cha—ouch.”

“S-sorry.”

He squeezed my hand reassuringly. “Remember, you’re the plane, but I’m the pilot. Stop steering and let me lead. When we’re out here, your body belongs to me.” His confident gaze captured mine. “This is about trust, okay?”

I nodded, trying to ignore my pounding heart. Trust wasn’t an issue when I was young and naïve, but now? To surrender control, even for something as trivial as a dance, was against my nature. Yet if I wanted to gain his trust, I had to give mine unreservedly. So I yielded, surrendering to him little by little, and once he’d taken full control, the change was extraordinary.

We began to move as one.

Where he led, I followed, easily reading his body language—be it a look, the angle of his shoulders, or the pressure of his touch. All these and many other nonverbal prompts conveyed where and how he wanted me. And every time I pleased him, he’d flash a grin that transformed his face. His smiles were so rare that when he gave them, the contrast was stunning.

“You up for a swivel?” he asked after a couple minutes.

A smile preceded my nod.

“Okay, and one—two—three—cha-cha—one—two—uh-huh, that’s it. Now, swivel, swivel, swivel. God, that’s sexy!” He whirled me around. “Let’s try the quarter-turn, chasse, and—oh, hot damn. You got it! See, it’s like riding a bike.”

I threw my head back and laughed. “I can’t believe I still remember this stuff.”

“I can.” Trace winked, then spun me out and tugged me back. “You always were a quick study.”

He maneuvered me into a crossover break and another spin once the end of the song neared. On the fourth pass, the music shifted to Marc Anthony’s “I Need To Know,” but Trace sustained the rotation, transitioning me to salsa so seamlessly, I didn’t miss a step. By now, I’d become an extension of his body, and oh, what a body it was. Absent a shirt, his hard muscles were on full display, rippling beneath his golden skin. I’d never seen anything more beautiful than the way he moved. He controlled himself, and me, with breathtaking ease.

We were both slick with sweat when “I Need To Know” melted into Jennifer Connelly’s evocative version of “Sway,” but I wasn’t the least bit tired. The song had a slower pace and a mesmerizing rhythm that seduced me like the Lorelei of old.

Trace did a cross body lead, spun me three more times, only to stop on a dime and dip me so low, my ponytail nearly touched the floor. He hung over me, our bodies fused together, our eyes never losing contact. His breath mingled with mine and sweat bonded our skin, giving rise to a slow burning ache within me that grew hotter by the second.

Just when I thought I’d catch fire, he drew me back up, then sank to his knees and dragged his fingers down my ribcage. I raised my arms and writhed above him while he gripped my hips, moving them from side to side.

His bewitching touch, the sexy way he danced, and the flame that ignited whenever our eyes met, all chipped away at my inhibitions.

The instant the music shifted to a melodic Josh Groban ballad, Trace rose like a coiled snake charmed from its nest. He whipped me around, gave me a sharp tug, and pressed the thickness beneath the metal teeth of his fly into my back. Even as my brain screamed at me to pull away, I’d laced the fingers of one hand with his and melted against his body. I was lost in the moment, lost in his touch, totally lost in him.

We weren’t doing salsa anymore. This was something quite different. This was…foreplay. “Yeah, just like that,” he whispered. “Now slow it down and follow my lead.”

His ‘lead’ was hard, long, and pressed firmly against my spine. Even so, I did as I was told, moving just as he moved, until the music wrapped around us so completely nothing but the dance existed. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the heat, to the drums, and to the hard body moving so sensuously against mine.

As we slowly swayed together, Trace unclipped my hair and separated the French braid, so the locks fell freely past my shoulders. He pocketed the barrette, brushed my hair aside, and snagged a leisurely whiff of my neck.

“You know,” he murmured in a husky rumble, “twelve years of bunking with animals makes a man appreciate a woman’s scent. And I love yours.” He filled his nose again. “That perfume. It’s Poison, right?”

How could he possibly know? “Yes,” I managed, trying to breathe past the elephant on my chest.

“Well,” he said, “you’d think the name alone would ward me off, but as you can see, I’m not going anywhere.” He drew me closer, shooting ripples through my body. His boldness both frightened and thrilled me. “By the way, ever heard this song?”

I wet my lips. “N-no, but I recognize the singer.”

“It’s called ‘My Confession.’” He paused. “I’ve got one. Wanna hear it?”

I shook my head hard, dreading where his ‘confession’ might lead.

“Aw, come on now. You’re braver than that.” There was a smile in his voice, but the underlying edge of masculine intent couldn’t be missed. “Remember when you accused me of stuffing folks into boxes? Well, you were right. Only problem is, the box thing doesn’t work all the time.” He turned me to face him, one hand gripping my hip, while the other forced me to meet his fiery stare. “You see, some stuff just won’t fit anymore.”

I wet my lips again. “I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

My breath shuttered when he slipped a possessive hand past my hip to palm the top of my derrière. In his silence, he dared me to object, to stop him, but I couldn’t. He’d burned all my defenses away.

“See, I shove lots of people in that box,” he said. “Just so I don’t have to think about them.” He ran a fingertip along my spine, giving me goose bumps. “Wanna guess where you are?”

My heart climbed my throat. “In the box?”

“Used to be.”

I frowned in confusion. “But—”

“Shhh.” He brushed a thumb over my lips. “You got too big for it.”

At his admission, I stopped moving altogether. My body froze, but my heart was beating double-time.

He stared, unblinking, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place. “Here’s the thing. I see you sometimes and it’s-it’s like my brain objects, but my body has other ideas. Try as I might, I can’t stay away. And you….” He paused to half-smile. “Can’t seem to stay away from me either.”

My head shook, but the denial was as hollow as a straw. The frightening truth kicked my pulse into overdrive.

“Here’s another confession.” This he whispered in my ear. “Those weeks we spent together, when I taught you to dance? I wanted you. Hell, even before then.”

I gasped in surprise.

“Yeah, I know. Big shocker.” A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, then he sighed and his warm breath stroked my cheek. “I acted like I did ‘cause I had to. I knew how you felt about me, but we—I couldn’t.” His beguiling fingers continued to blaze a path up and down my spine. “Back then, the four years between us were like dog years, but now—”

“Trace.” I slammed my lids shut as a fierce longing coiled so tight within me, I ached, but the renegade feelings frightened me. So much so, my eyes began to well. “Please.”

“Naw, this needs sayin’.” He inched back, his eyes issuing a challenge. “Admit it. You feel it just like I do.”

Oh, God, he was right. Panic spilled into me like sand through an hourglass. I shot a fleeting look at the exit. Blessed Mother, just give me the strength to leave, I prayed. Yet he’d already brushed the chiffon at my neck aside to expose my shoulder, and my hands, seemingly of their own volition, had latched onto him, pulling him close as he sucked the skin there, nursing on it. He was marking me.

A battle raged between my mind and body. His wicked touch made my breasts ache and my panties were completely drenched. Yet fear of the inevitable had my heart beating like a snare drum. If I stayed a moment longer, God only knew where this would lead, but I was powerless to resist him.

The best I could do was to plead for mercy.

“Trace.” A tear rushed down my cheek. I drew a ragged breath. “Please…let me go.”

He lifted his head, casting a worried look at the tear dangling from my chin. Capturing it with his hand, he rubbed the wetness between his fingers and slowly took one step, then two steps back, his eyes fixed on mine.

It was all the space I needed—just a second to breathe, to escape the spell he’d cast. I wasted no time tearing away. Grabbing my purse and coat, I beat a path to the exit. I was halfway out the door when he called after me.

“We’re still on for tomorrow, Shannon.” His voice was thick with promise and determination. “Five o’clock sharp. Don’t keep me waiting.”

SHANNON

____________________________

“What time is it over there?” Darien asked.

I switched the cell to my other ear. “Midnight.”

“Why are you calling so late?”

Guilt knifed me in the chest as I climbed Briar’s porch steps on unsteady legs. “Ah….” I stumbled, gripped the rail. “I just needed to hear your voice.”

“Everything all right?”

Far from it. The sky was falling. I reached the top step and sifted through my keys with clumsy hands. “Everything’s fine,” I lied, my eyes welling again as chatter bled through the phone. Someone called his name. “Where are you?”

“In our war room at the hotel,” he said distractedly. “We’ll probably have to pull an all-nighter. Kidd showed up drunk in court and Henderson’s angling to toss a surprise witness at us, so we’re trying to get a jump on—give me a second, will you?” he shouted to someone, then to me he said, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I guess I just miss you.” I fought to keep my voice steady. “Can you come home this weekend?”

He sighed. “You know I can’t. I’m up to my elbows here.”

“What if I fly out there?” I knuckled a tear away and stared up at the glistening stars. My hands were still trembling. “I’ll clear my schedule and—”

“You’d be sitting alone in a hotel room the entire time. Now what kind of visit would that be? I promise things will slow down in a few weeks.”

He’d spouted the same drivel after I’d dropped him off at the airport the day Trace stormed back into my life. It was the last time I’d seen Darien, and the visit had lasted forty-eight hours.

Having suffered his first major defeat in the courtroom a year-and-a-half ago, I suspected he had much to prove, namely to himself. Darien Montgomery wasn’t used to losing—at anything. Small wonder, this latest case had consumed him, which left little time for much else, including me. So when he ended our call a minute later, I was beyond frustrated.

Things only got worse the second I walked into the house.

I slammed the front door. “Why are you still here?”

“Take a wild guess.” Mead stood glowering by the foot of the winding staircase clutching a Scotch. “So did you fuck him?”

Rolling my eyes, I stalked across the foyer. I was in no mood to deal with a drunk and belligerent Mead. The man was barely tolerable sober.

“Should I take your silence as a yes?” He gave me a once-over as I yanked my coat off. “My, my, just look at you. Your hair. Your clothes. What’s the saying? ‘Rode hard and put up wet.’ The apple really doesn’t fall far.”

I threw my keys on a table and went for the stairs, but he blocked me. The temptation to slap him again was overwhelming. “Move.”

“Not until you explain yourself.” When I stepped around him, he snatched me back. “You’ll never guess who I heard from tonight.”

“Let. Go,” I said, glaring at his hand.

“Betty Todd. She’s the county purchasing director. But you already know that. She said you called her today asking about Fontana’s permit delays. She said you mentioned her brother’s deal with some developers from New Orleans. She said you implied your clients could go with another location—if prompted.”

I quirked a brow. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m warning you, cousin. Don’t cross me.”

Not up for more of his pathetic threats, I wrenched my arm free. “The same applies to you, cousin.”

His lips slid into a spiteful grin. “And here I thought that slap you gave me was a fluke. But maybe you do have a spine.” He feigned a shudder. “Ooooh. Should I be scared?”

“Will you please go sleep it off? Gerard can take you home.”

“I don’t need that insipid fag to drive me anywhere.”

I noted the bags under his eyes. Something more was going on, but I was too emotionally drained to figure it out. “Look,” I said with a heavy sigh, “if you think I’ll stand by while you and Uncle abuse power, you’re mistaken. Trace doesn’t have the money or the influence to fight you. Cholly does, but he refuses to stoop to your level. But as you can see, I have no problem with it. Now get out of my way before you piss me off.”

He didn’t budge, just knocked back another belt, his angry eyes drilling into mine. “Dawson’s dick must really be good.”

I made a fist to keep from clawing his face. Only Mead could drive me to such violence. “I’ll tell you what I told Uncle. Leave Trace and Cholly alone.”

“And if I don’t?”

I flashed an icy smile. “Erica Davies will get a tip. Namely, that the mayor and his cronies are a bunch of bigots.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Cholly’s mother is black and his father is Italian.”

Mead’s blue eyes hardened to ice chips. “I’m not a racist and you know it!”

“But will the voters?” His face boiled a bright shade of red as I added with restrained glee, “I’ll also tell them you’re a serial adulterer, a raging alcoholic, and that you’ve stirred up so much hate, your supporters are terrorizing innocent people—oh, and let’s not forget desecrating an old woman’s grave.”

“You lying, scheming, manipulative little—”

“Yes, growing up Bradford taught me much.” I narrowed my eyes on him. “Call off your dogs or kiss the governor’s mansion goodbye. Cross me on this and I’ll bury you.” I started up the stairs, leaving him with his mouth hanging open. “Now go wait for Gerard. You’re in no condition to drive.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A Slip Of The Tongue

TRACE

____________________________

Damn, I’d missed this place.

I leaned back in my chair and scanned the dive from end to end. Twelve years had passed since I’d seen Rascal’s and nothing had changed. Temptation’s premiere hole-in-the-wall was still rowdy as hell and still reeked of cigarettes, grease, and sour beer. The decor looked the same too, from the slew of photos that chronicled the owner’s bush-league boxing career, to the scarred entryway floor that creaked in the winter.

Rascal’s would forever be a haven for outcasts, old rummies, and the socially challenged. The most important rule was to mind your own damn business. That meant you don’t ask questions and you don’t judge. Like Vegas, whatever happened here stayed here. It was the old honor among drunks sort of thing, the perfect hideaway for a man on parole.

I picked at the label on my beer as a toothless old coot with a pink face and matching eyes staggered to the jukebox. The bum mined a quarter from his jeans, dropped the coin into the slot.

Next came the loud, nasal twang of a cowboy whining about the girl that got away. But then, weren’t all these stupid songs about the same thing?

And this one was almost comical. Seemed the ‘girl’ had stabbed the cowboy, shot his dog, slashed his tires, and torched his doublewide. But the pussy-whipped fool still begged her to come back.

My house ain’t the only thang burnin’ for you, he crooned.

What a dumb ass.

“They didn’t have Herradura. Just Cuervo.”

The familiar voice tore into my thoughts. Dressed in a wrinkled tie and a cheap suit, Icky stood over me and set two shots of tequila and two long necks on the table.

“I’ll be right back,” Icky said. “My fries are up.”

I had, to use Shannon’s terminology, offered Icky an ‘olive branch.’ Given yesterday’s events at the graveyard, I figured it was time to clean house.

First up, my beef with my brother-in-law. So far, we’d shared a drink. Trash talked. Cracked jokes. You know, the usual shit guys do to disarm a frenemy, but I was determined to make our truce real.

“The cemetery called this morning,” Icky told me when he came back. He plopped onto his chair, set a hot basket of fries on the table, and dug in.

I tossed back a shot. “And?”

“They’re replacing the headstone for free, but Bev’s been crying nonstop.” Icky dabbed a fry in catsup. “Guess it finally hit her that Dottie’s gone.”

“I’m glad you were there for her.”

Icky paused mid-chew. He looked surprised.

White noise filled the void: sounds of liquor pouring, drunken laughter, and clinking ice cubes. Voices rose. A trio of rummies sang out of tune. One of the barmaids dumped a beer on a guy who’d squeezed her ass. Damn if she didn’t look like Shannon. Same height. Same hair color. Breasts were smaller though.

Shit.

I’d thought of nothing else since she’d run out on me last night; had to stop myself from calling her at least twice today. Hell, would she even show up tonight? One part of me worried I’d taken things too far, while the other—more vocal part—didn’t think I’d gone far enough.

“Can I be straight with you?” Icky asked, dragging me back to the present.

I hitched a shoulder. “You got the floor.”

Icky drummed his thumbs on the table while he chewed. “I just wanted to say that the stuff I pulled at the plaza—it was wrong.” He hunched closer. “We’re never going to be boys again. I think we both know that.”

“Icky—”

“No, hear me out.” Perspiration dotted his upper lip. “But I’m willing to pretend for Bev’s sake.”

I scooted forward. “My sister’s made her choice and I accept it. If getting along with you makes her life easier, then that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Icky stared back at me. “You’re serious?”

There were shadows in his pale green eyes. Sweaty half-circles stained his underarms. His shirt collar had a centimeter or two of dampness as well. The boy had always had a nervous energy about him…when he was strung out.

It’s none of your business. Let it go. “This thing with Mama got me thinking about a lot of stuff,” I told him. “You and me, we’re kin now. Let’s just lay all the bullshit aside.”

A temporary peace settled over us after that. We chatted some more, even laughed a few times. But an hour and several thousand hollow words later, Icky’s watch—a Rolex—beeped.

A Rolex.

Yep, gonna have to let that one go as well, Tracemore.

Icky flicked a glance at his watch. “Damn. It’s three o’clock already.” He stood, fished a twenty from his pocket, and tossed it on the table. “Man, I’m sorry.” He threw his suit jacket over an arm. “I’ve got to meet somebody.” He turned to leave, then rounded. “Wish you’d been there for Thanksgiving. Bev outdid herself. Maybe you could come for Sunday dinner?”

“Ah, yeah. Sure. I’ll look forward to it.”

I watched Icky leave, wanting to believe we could be one big happy family, but my gut said otherwise.

TRACE

____________________________

“I wake up. You’re gone. I call. You hang up. What’s going on, Amber?”

Longneck in hand, I leaned a hip against my kitchen counter and wedged the receiver between my shoulder and jaw. On a lark, I’d dialed Amber’s number, hoping to catch her in a better mood, but I’d had her on the phone two minutes already and she’d been anything but cooperative.

“You knew I had to get back to work eventually,” she said. “Payroll was due and we’ve got a ton of events this month.”

“So you just up and leave without saying goodbye?”

“I had my reasons.”

“Which are?”

“You. Me.” She paused. “Our sex life. Need I go on?”

Just as I’d suspected. This was about the robot thing. “How do a couple off nights justify your disappearing act?”

“Trust me. You don’t want to go there.”

“Damn it, will you just tell me?”

A long stretch of dead air followed before she said, “You talk in your sleep.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Some people mumble, but you—you talk.” She paused again, for dramatic effect, no doubt. “The morning I left, you were tossing and turning. It was about 5 a.m. so I thought you were having another nightmare. That’s when they usually happen. But this time I couldn’t wake you. So I turned the light on.”

I washed down a swallow of beer. “Is there a punch line?”

“You were smiling.”

“Since when is that a bad thing?”

“You were also hard.”

I rolled my eyes. “For cryin’ out loud. I can’t help what my cock does when I’m asleep.”

“Your dick isn’t the problem. It’s your mind.” Silence echoed for a few tense seconds until she dropped a bombshell. “Trace, you whispered ‘Shannon.’ Then you came.”

Speechless, I sagged against the wall and clumsily set the beer on the counter. Felt like she’d hit me with a knockout punch. An eternity inched by before either of us spoke.

“Look.” Her voice gentled. “I know we have a no strings thing. I’m the one who set the rules up that way. But no woman, no matter how open-minded, could deal with something like this. You’ve got feelings for her. Admit it.”

I scrubbed a hand over my face. I’d been wrestling with these ‘feelings’ for weeks and hadn’t a clue what do with them. Shannon was engaged. End of story.

She’d made that clear when she stood me up four days ago. Didn’t even bother to call with an excuse, or at the very least, an apology. And every call I’d made to her cell phone went straight to voice mail. I’d left at least three messages—five if you counted hang-ups.

Calling her office yielded the same frustrating results. Her‘administrative assistant’ Beatrice always answered, claiming Shannon was in a meeting. Or that she’d just stepped out. One time I’d even heard Shannon whisper, ‘Tell him I’m not here.’

I didn’t need a house to fall on me.

“You won’t believe this,” Amber continued, yanking me away from my wandering thoughts, “but your face gets all weird when we pass her billboards. It’s…a predatory look. Reminds me of the face my ex-husband used to make when he’d take me deer hunting.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, I’m serious. I can even tell when you’re thinking about her. Like you were that night I made dinner. Then there was the time I watched the two of you at Home Depot. In the parking lot. Trace, the way you were looking at her—you never looked at me like that. Not once! And I know the hanky I caught you sniffing was hers!”

“Amber—”

“How can I compete with a woman you won’t even admit you want?”

“Nobody’s asking you to.”

“But that’s how I feel! I can’t help it.”

I stared up at the ceiling, expelled an irritated breath. “Do you want to get past this?”

“I don’t think we can, shug. You haven’t been yourself since you left Gainstown. I thought it was the readjustment. But it’s partly because of her too. It wasn’t a big deal at first, but that wet dream was it for me.”

I rolled the back of my head against the wall. Obviously, our relationship meant more to her than she’d let on. I should’ve known something was up when she went all domestic on me—washing my clothes, cleaning the house, making that big Thanksgiving dinner, and a slew of meals after it. Not to mention how she’d ironed creases into the sleeves of my work shirts. Hell, all those fancy Australian boxer briefs she got me should’ve been a dead giveaway.

Yep. She wanted strings and I didn’t. “I’m sorry, Amber.”

“Don’t be. We had some wonderful times in stir. Great sex. Good conversation. It was exciting and dangerous, sneaking around like we did. But nothing lasts forever, I guess.”

I rubbed my eyes. This was going nowhere. “We need to talk. Face-to-face.”

“No, we don’t,” she said in a quiet voice. “I can’t be a substitute for what you really want. I deserve better, and so do you.” She sniffed. “Listen, I need to go. I’ve got dinner in the oven and…well, you be good, okay?”

The line went dead just as my doorbell rang.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Hand To Mouth

SHANNON

____________________________

The house looked gray and ominous, matching its infamous reputation. Bars fortified the windows on the outside, while yellowed newspaper shielded the glass from within. Three of the four shutters were missing. The remaining one barely clung to a nail as the howling wind propelled it to and fro. The only thing missing from this dreadful place was a sign bearing Dante’s:

‘ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE.’

Hugging myself against a chill, I paced the battered porch. What was I doing? Hadn’t the incident at the club proved we shouldn’t be alone?

Days later, I could still feel the ghost of Trace’s touch. Just the thought of his hands on my body made my nipples harden. I’d barely slept since that night, and the few hours I’d managed to catch were plagued with erotic visions of him…doing things to me.

So why was I here?

Because! I needed his help, that’s why. Given the sorry state of my feeble investigation, I’d run out of options. What choice did I have but to come to his house? Briar was out of the question, and we certainly couldn’t meet in public.

Trace ripped the front door open, flooding the porch with light. There he stood, an unsettling combination of heaven and hell poured into a tight black T-shirt and jeans that hung below his narrow hips in a way Auntie would’ve deemed vulgar.

We stared at each other for half an eternity as Ray Charles crooned, “You Don’t Know Me” from somewhere in the house.

“Take a wrong turn?” he asked, ice dancing in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

His jaw worked. “Four days, two hours, and twenty-three minutes of sorry. You get my messages?”

I nodded in shame. “I just…”

“Got scared.”

My breath escaped in a misty cloud. “I should’ve called.”

“You think?” He studied me in angry silence for a time. “Lose the hood.”

“What?”

“The hood.” He nudged his chin. “Take it off.”

He was testing me. His ‘you’re ashamed of me’ look was unmistakable. So I did as he asked. I tugged it down. “Satisfied?”

Trace swung the door all the way open and his arm formed an arch. I studied the man-made entrance with caution, then ducked beneath it and went inside.

He kicked the door shut.

Unbuttoning my coat, I watched him lean against a wall, arms folded. It may have been my imagination, but he seemed to study me with the same lethal aloofness of a cat watching an unsuspecting mouse—right before the pounce.

To steady my frayed nerves, I concentrated on the beautiful living room. He was renovating. I smelled paint, and drop cloth draped the floor in the adjacent dining room, which he’d jammed with tools and supplies.

An ornate brass floor lamp stood attached to an extension cord that snaked down the hall to what I assumed was the kitchen. A cute tabletop Christmas tree, complete with tinsel, golden ornaments, and candy canes was propped on a twenty-five-inch TV. The pine floor had been polished to a high gloss. Beige paint with alabaster molding covered the walls. Stylish brass vent and outlet covers complemented the gilded vintage ceiling fan above them.

I gestured. “You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah. My shrink thought it’d be therapeutic.”

“You do good work.” I tore my eyes from his sullen face. “It’s beautiful.”

“But a far cry from the fancy digs you’re used to.”

It wasn’t said maliciously. In fact, there’d been a ring of humility in his tone that had almost bordered on apologetic.

“My tastes are simplistic,” I said. “I fell in love with a dilapidated Queen Anne Victorian, but I didn’t trust my instincts. I hesitated. Now it’s under contract.” I turned to him and sighed. “Speaking of which, I may have a job for you. The couple buying it needs a good carpenter. Can I give them your number?”

He hitched a shoulder. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“When do you think you’ll be finished here?”

“In a few months.” He lifted a brow. “Guess I’ll be needing a real estate agent.”

“Look no further.” I tried to smile, but it felt lame. What had happened at the club and my vanishing act screamed in his eyes. “So, do you have a place picked out or….”

“Naw.” He paused, then in a serious tone added, “I’m leaving Temptation the second my parole year is up. Sooner if I can get a transfer.”

My smile froze. He’s leaving? “Ah, th-that’s understandable. What, with everything that’s happened.”

“Exactly. There’s really nothin’ keeping me from going, is there?” He paused and cocked a brow, then said, “Cholly’s got his own life. Mama and Daddy are gone. Bev’s married, and if Cole ever gets out, I’ve got to find a way to help him—but not here. Not in this town.”

Fearing, dreading, I hesitated before asking, “Will you at least stay in West Virginia?” I cleared my suddenly dry throat. “Or will you move away?”

“What do you think?” He gave the room a fleeting glance. “Three tenants lived here over the past twelve months. When they heard about the suicides, they hauled ass. So selling this shack won’t be easy. Either way, I figure I’ll check out the West Coast. Maybe Washington state.”

It felt like he’d reached across the room and punched me in the stomach.

“You okay?” He looked worried.

I ran unsteady fingers beneath my throat scarf. “It’s a bit stuffy in here.”

Trace was way ahead of me. He peeled one of the newspaper curtains away and cracked open a window by the sofa. A cool blanket of air blew in. “Better?”

“Much.” I slipped my coat off and tugged the lamb’s wool scarf from my neck.

“How ‘bout a drink?”

God yes, preferably something strong. I draped my things over an armchair. “What do you have?”

He headed for the kitchen. “Beer. Jack Daniels. Herradura.”

“The latter will be fine. With ice.”

He swung a surprised look over his shoulder. “You know what Herradura is?”

I smoothed a hand along my skirt. “Tequila, right?”

“The best.”

He disappeared around the corner and I wilted onto the sofa. Heat ripped through my stomach.

He’s leaving. There it was again. That same cloying reaction.

No, I didn’t want him to go. But why? Well, he was a friend and I hadn’t seen him in over a decade. Why wouldn’t I feel sad?

What else?

Nothing else! His leaving was probably a good thing. There’d be no one to harass him or his friends. He’d be able to start over again with a clean slate. Perhaps if I kept telling myself this, I’d believe it.

Trace returned bearing a tray of drinks, including a bottle of Herradura and a Corona long neck. Two of the tray’s four glasses were filled with what looked like tomato juice.

He pushed a shot glass of tequila into my hand and settled in next to me.

“Wait a minute,” I said, “Why are you drinking when you’re still on parole?”

He half-smiled. “Providence. The watchdog they assigned me? We played varsity ball at Temptation High—me, him, and Cholly. Zander stayed in touch with me the whole time I was in stir. I’ve known him since forever, so….”

“He’s lenient.”

Trace snorted. “Yeah. You could say that. Zander gives me a head’s up whenever I’m due for a ‘surprise’ visit or a drug test. I just have to be discreet.”

He tipped the Corona to his lips, and as he drank, his throat worked in slow pulses. Condensation from the bottle dripped onto his neck, glistening along his Adam’s apple. Watching him, I sipped my tequila with care. The golden liquid was smooth on my tongue, but burned its way to my stomach. What I wouldn’t give for a lime.

As if he’d read my mind, Trace handed me one of the glasses with the red liquid. I set the empty shot glass back on the tray.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“You never had sangrita?”

“Sangria?”

“Naw, sangriTa. It means ‘little blood.’”

I examined the concoction warily. “What’s in it?”

He held his at eye level. Light glinted off the glass while he turned it this way and that. “Clamato, OJ, minced tomatoes and cucumber, lime, cilantro…uh…and grenadine and Tabasco sauce.” He nodded at me. “I made it myself.”

I glanced from the drink, to him, then back again before I sipped. Surprisingly, it was quite good. The taste enhanced the earthy tang of the tequila.

He cocked a brow. “You like?”

Nodding, I sipped again. “Mmm.”

His mouth became a flash of straight white teeth, his face, an instantaneous softening of hard features. He poured me another shot. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, why?”

“You were staring.”

The lighthearted moment evaporated, replaced by an awkward hush as thick as the leaden tongue in my mouth. He killed his drink, his movements jerky. I followed suit. This time the liquor didn’t even burn going down.

He examined his empty glass. “Sooooo, you ready to see what I dug up?”

The tension leveled off and I gave an inward sigh of relief. “To be honest, I’ve been on pins and needles.”

Trace grabbed some papers from the end table. “I don’t have internet, so I had to use the library.” He handed me the mini stack. “This is all about memory repression. Check it out.”

I thumbed through the papers. “I did a bit of research a while ago, but I didn’t really find anything substantial.”

“Well, Doc—my shrink—gave me a list of specific references to look up.” He pointed at the page in my hand. “That says memory repression’s linked to trauma. Emotional trauma. The clinical name is dissociative amnesia.” He threaded his fingers behind his head. “Further on you’ll read about a murder case in the nineties. A woman in Redwood City, California testified against her daddy. She’d forgotten all about the child he’d killed until somethin’ triggered the memory.”

I glanced up from the reading material. “What are you saying? That I may have witnessed my mother’s murder?”

“That or somethin’ related to it. Anything’s possible. I mean, this could explain why you don’t remember the whole interrogation Gray gave you. Look on the last page.” He darted a finger. “The child’s name was Eileen. Her daddy raped and murdered her best friend—a little girl named Susan. Both of them were eight-years-old. Eileen saw everything, but get this. She suppressed the memory for twenty years.”

Curiosity and dread gnawed at me. I pointed to a particular paragraph. “It says here that most of her memories had unrelated triggers.”

“Right. Sometimes it was words, or a smell…even a picture. But she wasn’t flooded with facts. Things came in trickles until the pieces fell together.”

“Her father was convicted,” I murmured, still reading.

“Yup. Murder in the first. After a twenty-year lag.”

I lifted my eyes to his in amazement. “They returned a guilty verdict the same day they deliberated.”

“Uh-huh. Her memory was credible enough for the jury.”

My light of hope doused. I tossed the papers aside like they were worthless. “My memories were credible too, remember? A jury believed me and you went to prison.”

“But every case is different. Who knows what you’ve forgotten.” His face sobered. “Ever think about hypnosis?”

I gave my head a decisive shake. “No way.”

“Why? Doc tried it on me once. Didn’t work. But it doesn’t mean it won’t for you.”

“I can’t give that kind of control to a stranger.” I studied him for a long moment. “This is totally off topic, but I’m just curious about something. Are your family and friends the only reason you’re doing this? You know, helping me.”

He took his time responding. “Since we’re veering off the map for a spell, how ‘bout you answer my question first?”

“Which?”

“The one I asked at your office.” His eyes pierced me. “Why’d you freak out when Tori and Dee Dee saw us?”

Not this again. “What the heck does that have to do with—”

“Everything. If we’re gonna dig into Lilith’s murder, I’ve got to know where your head is at.” When I rolled my eyes, he said, “You stand up for me at the hospital with the whole town looking on, but you sneak into the club under cover of darkness. You show up on my doorstep draped in a hood at night—this after avoiding me for four days. And you bust a gasket when folks see us together. Yet you defend me and Cholly in front of your family.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it just doesn’t make sense.”

It made perfect sense to me.

“Of course I stood up for you and Cholly,” I said. “I hate bullies, and as I recall, so do you.”

“I get that, but it still doesn’t add up—especially the Tori and Dee Dee thing. Why’d you lose it when they saw us?”

“I didn’t ‘lose it.’” I licked my lips. “Anyway the situations are completely different. My reaction with them was more discretionary than anything else. Mead, I can handle—”

“Speaking of which, what’s up with that? If I didn’t know better I’d swear you hated each other.”

“I don’t hate anybody. He’s the one with the problem. He hates Mother and I look like her. It’s a simple case of misdirected animosity.” I gestured. “Anyway, back to your original question. My family is very conscientious about public perception, so they’ve got just as much at stake as I do.”

“Uh-huh. Which means your secrets are safe with them.”

I gave a reluctant shrug. “Well, yes. Tori’s the town gossip and Dee Dee is her best friend. So I was concerned.”

“Concerned?”

“Let’s look at the facts.” I scooted forward, ticking them off with my fingers. “(1), you went to prison for my mother’s murder. (2), we’re the talk of the town, (3), we’ve been the subject of two—yes two—sleazy tabloid articles—”

“All that’s true, but—”

“And (4), I publicly humiliated Eddie and his wife. If anyone has a grudge against us, it’s Dee Dee. Who knows what whoppers she’s already embellished? As for the other stuff, I don’t want to give people—strangers—needless ammunition.”

His eyes narrowed. “Newsflash: pulling strings all over town for me and Cholly gives them plenty.”

“Maybe, but I didn’t have a choice. My family forced my hand.”

“So you’ll fight bullies, but being seen with me is out of the question.”

“No. That’s what you’re saying. I’m saying the women caught me off guard. I wasn’t….” I let out a frustrated breath. “I wasn’t prepared to deal with them. I’m human.”

“A fact you keep forgetting. Every day’s not a dress rehearsal,” he told me. “You hit the ground running, and you make mistakes. Everybody does.”

My twenty-six years of conditioning said otherwise. “That’s not me. I’ve never flown by the seat of my pants. I’m a planner. It’s called grace. Control. It’s who I am.”

“Control or bondage?” The words struck a raw nerve. Our eyes met. His were soft and teeming with…pity? “Living on edge 24/7 was enough for me,” he continued. “It’s how I had to operate, but I’ve got dreams, and they don’t include worrying about tongue waggers.”

Now who was the naïve one? “Our past is common knowledge,” I said. “Talk will always lurk somewhere. Why invite it?”

“You said it yourself. It’s not going anywhere.”

“Right, but I’ve built a life here. I’ve got a business to run. Colleagues, family, and friends to deal with.” My gaze fell from his. “And you’ve already said you’re not staying. Why should you care what people think? This is my home and I’ve worked too hard to….”

He inched forward. “To what?”

Heat crept across my face. Anger brimmed. “To get past my mother’s sleazy legacy,” I answered, my mouth tight.

All I’d buried threatened to bubble to the surface. A deep ache hit me with sickening force.

“Shannon?”

My breath caught when he reached for my hand and brushed his thumb across the back of it. Flesh to flesh, my skin burned. The sensation crawled up my arm, to my heart. I snatched my hand away as silence claimed the room.

“If you’re not gonna bring it up, then I will.” He stilled, but a muscle in his jaw trembled. “When we were at the club—”

“Stop it,” I told him. “Nothing happened.”

“Then why’d you disappear for four days?” When I didn’t answer, he lifted a brow. “Well?”

I shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you do.” His eyes captured mine. “Are you in love with him?”

I sat back, suddenly captivated by the threads in my denim skirt. “That’s a rude question.”

“Yeah, but I’d still like to know.” He draped his arm across the backrest and I felt heat from his fingertips, even though we weren’t touching. “Do y’all plan to have kids?”

My heart became a live coal in my chest. “Another rude question.”

“I don’t give a damn. Answer it anyway.”

I continued staring into my lap. “We haven’t worked it all out. But once we get settled….”

“How long before that happens?”

Jaw tight, I hurled a look at him. “I—don’t—know.”

“Sure you do. A month? Six? A year? Hell, he’s still young and all, but you gotta admit, time’s not on his side—for building a family, I mean. He’s gotta be pushing fifty at least. Am I wrong?”

“Why are you doing this?”

Trace sighed hard. “Will you just answer the damn question? Are you in love with him or not?”

“Of course I love him!”

“No, are you in love?” he pressed. “There’s a difference.”

“How would you know?”

“‘Cause I love my mama. I love Cole, Bev, and Cholly. I also love rock-n-roll, the blues, smooth jazz, and my Harley. But I’m not in love with them.”

My lips thinned. “Have you ever been in love?”

He just looked at me.

“Ever said it to another human being?”

His jaw worked. “Once.”

“Right.” I harrumphed. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

I got up, but he tugged me back down, gently.

“Wait,” he said in a rough whisper.

His mouth fell silent, but his eyes didn’t. They said what his tongue couldn’t say. And when he dragged his thumb along my palm, everything went torpid and blurry.

The room shrank—so did the couch. The stillness between us was as taut as the tightrope I’d have to walk to get out of here. Yes, I had to leave—again—before I said something, did something. Before I could no longer deny what we both knew.

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles one at a time, his smoldering eyes telegraphing a bold promise of something dark and forbidden. Oddly enough, in that instant I realized Darien had never looked at me this way.

“Know what I wish right now?” he said in a raw voice.

I stared back at him helplessly.

“That this hand was your mouth.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

No Quarter Given

SHANNON

____________________________

I shot to my feet and collected my things in a panic, but he uncoiled from the sofa right after me. And the awareness was swift.

I felt him at my back when I grabbed my scarf. I felt him in my blood when he sighed my name. I felt him in my bones when his breath kissed my neck.

Six feet and several inches of imposing heat flowed out of him, making me weak…dizzy. Except for the trembling, I couldn’t move. Nothing seemed to work—my arms, my brain…everything froze.

The scarf slipped from my useless hands to the floor, forgotten.

“Stay,” he whispered, looming behind me.

Fear squeezed my throat. “I-I can’t.”

“Stay.”

My eyes fluttered shut as he kneaded my shoulders. The weight of his hands, strong, yet gentle, made me melt.

His fingers slid down my arms to lace with mine. “Why’d you disappear on me?” he asked, his voice deep and raspy.

I couldn’t form a thought, much less a reply.

“Why?” he asked again.

My tongue finally unglued. “Something came up at the—”

“You’re lying,” he murmured into my hair.

“No, I….”

“Stop.” When he tied our hands beneath my ribcage, I went boneless, and the back of my head rested against his chest. “You ran because you feel what I feel. That’s why you’re trying to run now. Admit it.”

I hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod.

“See,” he breathed, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I was trembling wholesale. “Why are you doing this?”

“I can’t help it.” He buried his face in my neck, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a mile. “My reaction to you is…. Damn. What’s that fancy word of yours?” He sucked my earlobe and whispered, “‘Visceral,’ right?”

He turned me around and I could feel him gazing down at the top of my head. Looking at him wasn’t an option. If I did, I’d be lost. So I studied the floor planks, noting the contrast between the pale wood and his golden skin. Brown hair dusted his toes, and his feet were twice as large as mine.

The beginning notes of Nat King Cole’s “Nature Boy” filled the silence. He nudged my chin up with a finger, and what I saw stole my breath. His eyes burned. Instinct made me back away until a wall appeared out of nowhere, and just as he’d done at the garage, he moved in on me. His muscles expanded when he rested his forearm above my head to box me in. Unlike the wall at my back, the wall of muscle in front of me didn’t hold me steady, and the more I stared at it, the weaker I became.

Trace touched my mouth with his fingertip, pressing past the barrier of my lips until my teeth parted. My breath rushed in on a gasp as he penetrated and explored. All the while, he stared down at me, his intent sure. Before I could stop myself, I’d sucked and drawn his finger in deeper. He swore softly and his nostrils flared. After I realized what I’d done, I shamefully jerked my head away, dislodging him, but the seductive taste and feel of him remained.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

I obeyed, giving in to the carnal awareness whittling my breath down to short, audible pants. My heart stopped once he lifted his glistening finger and sucked it into his mouth. He kept his eyes trained on me while he lowered his hand to my lips and reverently painted his wetness across them. His chest expanded when I sampled his gift: warmth, sweetness, and fire. That’s how he tasted. Like heaven and hell, darkness and light.

He hadn’t kissed me, yet I knew his touch. Hadn’t swept his tongue inside, yet I knew his taste. Hadn’t done anything except toy with my mouth, but in my imagination he’d done everything and then some. Heat scalded my loins, made me ache so badly I wanted to cry, and like clockwork, the rain came, salving the blaze with a weepy dampness familiar to every woman.

“Please, j-just let me leave,” I begged

He shook his head as if to say, No mercy.

I couldn’t breathe. “Trace…I’m scared.”

“I know.” He slowly cradled my jaw. “Me too.”

As a prelude and promise of what was to come, his breath caressed me even before his mouth did. The moment his lips whispered against mine, I froze, my body rigid with anticipation and fear. Yet, dazed surprise came when he made contact. For such a big man, he had a gentleness about him that made me tremble. I’d expected his kiss to be voracious and demanding, but it was soft, probing, and achingly tender.

Trace became the potter, and I was his clay. He sucked my lips, testing and tasting, until I’d unfolded like a rose beneath the sun’s command.

Even as my body welded with his, some distant part of me still waited for the defenses to come, waited for an inner alarm to steer me away from this all-consuming fire. Guilt should have reared up by now, but it was as absent from my mind as the man whose ring I wore.

Trace made love to my mouth. His passion bled into me in degrees, and soon our tender, exploratory kisses turned feverish and desperate. He kissed my cheeks and my eyes, only to plunder my lips again, and what he gave, I gave back, tongue for tongue, breath for breath.

His arms swept around to enfold me into his hard body. Was he lifting me? Oh, God, he was. He anchored me to the wall as I hooked my heels around his back, and raked my fingers through his hair. Blood boiled between my legs when he pressed himself there. Pipe-hard, he rocked against me with a slow, tortuous rhythm.

Desire overshadowed me in dark waves as he covered my breast with his hand and rasped my nipple to life. He tore his mouth from mine, dipping lower to capture the stiff peak he’d aroused. Sensation burned across my chest and bathed my loins as he nursed on me through my blouse. The damp heat bled into the fabric, and I cried out in a desperate whimper.

“It’s all right,” he soothed.

He brought his lips up to mine for a long, drugging kiss. Next thing I knew, he’d pulled back to peel off his shirt, just ripped the thing over his head. Dizzy with need, I trembled when he snaked his hand beneath my shirt, under my bra, and covered my naked breast. My nipple, still wet from his mouth, puckered against his palm. He trailed his thumb from the edge to the center, circling my areola until he’d worried it into a painful nub.

“These are all I think about anymore,” he rasped, his eyes welded to mine. “I imagine how they’ll taste. Then I torture myself with wondering what color they are.” He bit his bottom lip. “Which is it? Brown? Or pink?”

My breath stopped once his other hand flicked each button until my blouse fell open. One swift tug later, he’d unhooked the front clasp of my bra and pushed the cups aside.

Trace smiled. “Pink. I knew it.” A muscle in his jaw pumped. “God, I could look at these all night.” He leaned his forehead against mine and continued to stare down at them. Embarrassed, I tried to cover myself. “Naw,” he said. “Let me see you.”

Cupping me, he tortured the damp peak with his thumb, then his lips did a slow dance down my neck to my breast. My mind went blank as he suckled my nipple, drawing so hard on it that my sex clenched in pleasure. He plucked every nuance with an expertise that left me breathless, and once he covered my mouth again, his lips were soft, warm, and wet.

“Has he ever made you feel like this?” Trace asked.

I couldn’t lie. Not to him. “No.”

“He ever make you come?”

A flash-fire bled over my face. “What?”

“An orgasm. He ever give you one?”

I slowly shook my head ‘no.’

“Good,” he whispered.

“But we can’t—”

As if from a distance, I felt him raise my skirt, felt him tug my tights halfway down my legs, felt his fingers make a slow descent to stroke me through the thin cotton of my panties. The way his lips worshipped my mouth, the way his hand played me like a fiddle, the way he moved my panties aside and greeted my wet flesh, shoved me to the brink and back. He stroked one spot, that glorious bundle of nerves, over and over with thumb and forefinger, until I stiffened, until I cried his name, until I begged him to put me out of my misery.

“Time to fly,” he whispered into my mouth.

Two strokes later, I did just that. Trace took me to the cliff, tossed me over the edge, and my body exploded in a burst of flames. He was right there, cradling me through it all. Every convulsion was met with a kiss. Every moan earned another caress, every sigh a word of encouragement, until I wilted against him.

Noises filtered in from the open window. A siren wailed. Two dogs traded barks. A cat meowed. The tinkling of a bottle echoed, replaced by a distant crash. Another sad song spilled from the radio. “My Funny Valentine.”

Trace slipped his hand from my panties, sucked his damp fingers into his mouth, taking his time to savor me before he feathered his lips back over mine and I tasted myself.

“It’s just like I knew it’d be,” he murmured in between kisses. “Honey sweet.” He rubbed his thick length against me, his rhythm slow and steady. “You got any idea how bad I want to be inside you?” he breathed into my neck. “You make me so hard, I could…” He circled his hips, once, twice, then again. “I could come just from doin’ this.” He picked up the pace. “Aw…fuuuck.”

Still trembling from the intense pleasure he’d given me, I swallowed his groan, dug my nails into his back, urging him closer, my hips moving in time with his. But somehow my engagement ring twisted 180 degrees and the gem scratched his bare back. He didn’t notice, but I did. The moment I realized what had happened, reality diffused the sensual fog.

Darien. Guilt hit me like a cold slap. Stop before it’s too late. The same voice had guarded my body for twenty-six years, but God, how I wished that voice would shut up!

With his hips still thrusting, Trace dipped low to capture my nipple. He nursed on it, luring me back into the whirlpool.

Grinding. Licking. Tugging. Sucking.

Wedding. Family. Darien. Shame.

I made a weak attempt to push his shoulders. “Trace….”

“Mmm hmm.”

“St-stop.”

Tug. Tug. Tug. “Hmmgh?”

“Stop—oh, God.” He sucked harder and drew me under again. Blinking to clear my mind, I blurted, “I’ve never done this.”

One by one, the muscles in his body slackened. He pulled back and searched my eyes, his hand cupping my damp breast. His fingers lingered and teased while his breath fanned my face. “You trying to tell me you’re a virgin?”

“Y-yes.”

“At twenty-six?”

I nodded, avoiding his eyes as I struggled for air.

Shock painted his face. He put me down and stepped back, watched me yank up my tights with awkward hands. I was a tangled mess. Hair flying. Lips swollen. Skin burning. I didn’t bother fixing the bra. I just fastened my shirt, not caring if the buttons suited the corresponding eyelets.

They didn’t.

Trace’s hazel eyes were dark with raw hunger and disbelief. His chest rose and fell and the bulge below his belt pressed violently against his zipper as if it might burst through at any moment.

I tried to fuss with my clothes again, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking so I just gave up.

Trace was already on the sofa. “C’mere,” he murmured, adjusting his erection. He held his arm out. “I said, c’mere.”

I hesitated, then wandered over to him. Once I sat, he pulled me close to cradle me in his lap. His penis pressed hard against my thigh.

“I’ve heard of being a good Catholic girl, but this is…hell, I don’t know what it is.”

“Well, I haven’t been to confession in ages,” I admitted.

“Then why’re you still a virgin?”

All my reasons swarmed me, but the most painful eclipsed everything. Finally, at Trace’s prompting, I said, “I didn’t have a boyfriend until freshman year at Sarah Lawrence.”

Trace frowned, clearly baffled. “Why?”

“Because,” I said. “I thought once I got to college, the talk would stop.”

“Talk? What talk?”

“They knew about Mother there too,” I muttered. “You know, somebody remembers reading something, then passes it along. This one tells that one, and suddenly, you’re the main event on campus.”

He was playing with my hair, twirling it absently in his fingers. “What does that have to do with your virginity?

“Everything.” I sighed. “The gossip didn’t stop after the trial. When it was over, I had to deal with a new set of problems.” He didn’t look convinced. “What do you think people would have said if I’d gone out with a boy, and as boys have a tendency to do, he made up stories about me?”

Surprise flickered in his eyes.

“I had to protect myself. And while I’ve never been completely intimate with a man—”

“Never?”

I scowled. “No, but—”

“It’s your reason for not doing it that bothers me. If it were just a matter of principle, then yeah, I could accept that. But you did this ‘cause of Lilith. Now to me, that’s sad.”

“Don’t pity me. You don’t know what it’s like.”

He didn’t even blink. “Yeah, I do. I’m the Butcher Boy of Temptation. Murderer and mutilator of poor, helpless women. Your mama was stabbed four times, but ‘legend’ says it was twelve. Bev heard twenty the other day.”

“That’s my point. People embellish things.”

His eyebrows curled up. “Don’t take this wrong, but you made a life-altering decision based on somebody else’s bad rep.”

Pain gripped me like a cold fist. ‘Bad rep’ was an understatement. During the trial, Darien and the defense agreed the killer had acted with an abundance of rage. And testimony from two lovers and five previous employees helped paint her in an unsympathetic light. All five were young and handsome and were let go for one of two reasons; they’d either refused Mother’s advances, or they’d given in and were later fired—with generous severance packages—when she’d tired of them.

Of the five, just one, a gay man, hadn’t bedded Mother. The others weren’t scarred or resentful. In fact, Darien along with Trace’s lawyer, Andrew Gartner, frequently admonished them during the trial for their bawdy comments. The media had a field day too, deeming them, “Bradford’s Boy-toys” and “Lilith’s Harem.”

Because of this, I never stayed out late in high school, or let myself be seen in the wrong places. On the rare occasions I did date, I made sure we were never alone. Group outings, double dates, and third wheels were the norm. I was always careful and watchful, always guarding my reputation.

I stared back at Trace in envy. How freeing it must be to not give a damn about what people think. If only…. “Call it what you like,” I said, “but my reputation meant—means a lot to me. I didn’t even have a boyfriend until my second semester.”

“How long did it last?”

A face I’d banished to my nightmares floated in my mind. “Four months,” I said with bitterness. “His name was Richard. He was from upstate New York.”

“And?”

“I thought I was in love with him,” I said quietly. “He bought me flowers every week. Walked me to and from class. Helped me cram. Escorted me to all the best parties. After a few months, he even put a deposit down on a ring.” I rolled my eyes. “That’s when I decided to sleep with him.”

The ease with which we talked, and how natural it felt, didn’t escape my notice. I could be myself with Trace—a pleasant change from being on guard all the time. This made the retelling of my horrifying experience less painful.

“He was gentle at first, but things grew intense fast. I tried to slow him down, but he…he started tearing at my clothes.” My throat burned as I relived every fearful detail. “I managed to push him off me and escape to the bathroom. Then he started breaking things.” I gestured again when my eyes started stinging. “Lamps. Ashtrays. Anything he could grab.”

“Just ‘cause you got cold feet?”

“He said everyone knew I was like my ‘whoring mother.’” A tear raced down my cheek, but I gave it a vicious swipe. “His frat brothers put him up to it. They wanted to see how long it would take him to get me…to have sex with him.”

Trace wrapped me in his arms, and rested his chin on my crown. “Oh, baby, you’re nothin’ like your mama.”

“He thought I was. So I vowed I’d never be made the….” I sniffed. “The butt of anyone’s joke again.”

Trace was quiet for a long while. “How’d you get out?”

“I just ran,” I said. “And I left everything. Purse. Phone. I had no car. It was raining. I couldn’t call home.”

“Why not?”

I frowned, blindsided.

“Why, Shannon?” When I still didn’t answer, he said, “Did you think you’d disappoint your family?”

Not knowing what to say, I swallowed convulsively.

“A time like that, a girl needs her mama,” he continued. “You should’ve called your aunt. Why didn’t you?”

My chest tightened as a renegade emotion tried to gain control, but I tamped it down, something I’d gotten quite good at. “I didn’t want to worry her.” Even to my own ears I sounded defensive. I cleared my throat and amended, “There was a lot going on at the time. Digger had just come out of the hospital. He’d had triple bypass surgery. Granny Mae was a wreck. So I didn’t want to burden Auntie. She was stressed enough.”

“Who’d you call?”

“Darien.” Relief set in and I could breathe again. “He was attending a law convention in Manhattan. He’d taken me to lunch a few days before.”

“Then what?”

“He grabbed a cab and brought me back to his hotel; I cried myself to sleep in his arms.” When Trace gave me a look, I added, “He just held me, that’s all.”

He lowered his eyes. “Have y’all ever done what we—what I….” He looked at me. “Has he ever touched you like I did?”

“N-no.” At his look of relief, I added, “We’ve touched some, slept in the same bed, but he never pressured me. That’s why I love him. He’s very understanding. Not all men think with their penises.”

“Uh, yeah we do. Either Montgomery’s a eunuch or—”

“I don’t appreciate your insinuations.”

He sighed again. “Fine. Is that when y’all started dating?”

“No,” I said, grateful to be off the hot seat. “I think we began to see each other in a different light then, but nothing happened until after I’d started the business. We have much in common. Similar tastes in art, books, the theater.”

“The age difference didn’t bother your family?”

On the contrary, they encouraged the match. “Darien’s a young forty-eight, and we move in the same circles. No one blinked when we started dating. Uncle went to Harvard with his father, so Darien’s like a son to him. That’s why he left the prosecutor’s office, because Uncle offered him a full partnership.”

Trace stilled. “You know, this thing with him sounds like a pre-packaged fairytale.” His eyes gave me a silent inspection. “Why are you here…with me?”

“I don’t know.”

Lies. I knew why, but I wasn’t ready to admit it.

He cocked a brow. “Well, considering I just had my tongue down your throat—and other places—I deserve a better answer than that.”

I slid from his lap and settled in the corner of the sofa, my legs tucked beneath me as I fixed the mismatched eyelets in my shirt. “We shouldn’t have.”

“Just like we shouldn’t have at the club, and we shouldn’t have at your office, and we shouldn’t have at the garage—and every other time we’ve been together. News flash, this…‘thing’ has been going on since before I even came back to town. So what’re we gonna do about it?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Dirty Little Secrets

SHANNON

____________________________

Snow flurries wafted down like dandelion puffs as I stared out from Trace’s front door window. It was after ten and a party down the street was breaking up. Revelers trickled out, disappearing in either direction along the sidewalk. A few stood near the curb to catch a smoke, while others piled into cars that sped off into the shadows.

I sank my forehead against the glass. Trace had asked me to stay because we had unfinished business. Twenty minutes ago, he’d gone upstairs—to take a cold shower, no doubt. Now that I was alone, without him to distract me, dueling thoughts and emotions filled my mind.

There was guilt, of course. Fear made an appearance too. Even more compelling and amazing was a feeling that had no name.

In the span of two hours, the world I’d known had vanished, replaced by something fearsome and incredible. Trace and I had gone farther than I ever had with Darien. Not only that, but I’d cheated and enjoyed it. And it wasn’t my first infidelity. Truth was, I’d been cheating in my heart long before this. Every word, caress, and whisper had been hardwired into my mind, and I’d replayed them, over and over.

What happened at The Slam Dunk should have warned me away, but I’d just come back for more. Even worse, I wanted Trace’s hands on me again.

I’d never been physically unfaithful. Not once. The shame of it was eating me alive.

The steps creaked beneath Trace’s weight as he descended the stairs. When he loomed behind me, keeping his distance, our eyes met in the window. “Come up with any answers?”

“No,” I said miserably, turning to face him.

Clean-shaven, he’d changed into a tan crew neck. His shower-damp hair bore evidence of a finger comb. On the surface, he looked relaxed, but when I peered deeper, I saw a hidden storm raging behind his hazel eyes. Strange, but I drew comfort from it. At least I wasn’t alone in this.

When the staring got too hot, I twisted away. “It’s time for me to go. I can’t think around you.”

“What’s there to think about? I want you. You want me.”

I flopped into a chair and fished a brush from my purse. “It’s not that simple.”

He stood over me, arms folded. “What else is there?”

“Really, Trace.” I raked the brush through my hair. “Why can’t you believe I love Darien?”

He looked away in thought. Minutes passed before he spoke again. “You remember that talent contest? I ditched driver’s ed and caught the bus in the rain so I could see you perform.”

I crammed the brush back into my purse and frowned. Talk about a left field surprise. “Yes, why?”

“Who else came to watch you dance?”

My gaze fell as the memory pierced my heart. Mother had been nursing a hangover; Father was too busy building his corporate empire. No one bothered to show but Trace.

“Harrison never came to any of your recitals,” Trace said.

I stared into my lap as the memory cut into me again. “Father was…a very busy man.”

“Just like Montgomery.”

My head shot up.

“How old did you say he was?” Trace asked.

I gave him a cold stare. “Forty. Eight.”

“And you’re twenty-six.”

“So?”

He inclined both brows.

It took me a second to get his meaning. “You’re insane.” There was absolutely no truth to his vile innuendo. None. Scowling, I shoved the revolting thought away and spat the first thing that came to me. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with my fiancé. You have a girlfriend.”

“Since when?”

“I saw you with her at Home Depot.”

He looked surprised. “She was never my girlfriend. And anyway, it’s over between us.”

I’d be lying if I said I was ‘sorry to hear that,’ so I kept the hackneyed sentiment to myself. “Well, how do you feel about me—about us?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I care. I’ve always cared about you, Shannon. This whole thing just—” When I looked at him, he asked, “What? You want more?”

I didn’t know what I wanted, but the thought of him with another woman made me physically ill. “Are you…do you plan on seeing other people?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Trace frowned at my sour expression. “Hold up,” he said, his tone firm and reproving. “Let’s get somethin’ straight. You’re engaged. You said as much when you went AWOL. That means I can do whatever and whoever I want.”

Bile bubbled in my stomach, inched up my throat. “So you are seeing someone.”

“What do you care? When things get intense, you go off running like a scared rabbit. Bottom line? If this—” He jabbed a finger back and forth between us. “—whatever you want to call it, goes anywhere, it’ll be your doing. I’m not getting married in three months. So don’t even try to put us on equal footing. When you figure out what the hell you want let me know.‘Til then, ‘caring’ is all you’re gonna get.”

The phone blared, shattering the tension, but an emotional nakedness hovered between us. Knowledge of the carnal sort burned in his eyes.

I knew his scent, his touch. How it felt to have his mouth close around me.

And he knew what I tasted like, knew me in ways no man ever had.

RING. RING. RING.

“I gotta answer that,” Trace muttered. He ignored the phone next to me, and instead chose the one in the kitchen.

Seconds after he picked up, I heard, “Okay, calm down.” Pause. “What?” Another pause. “When?” He sighed, and in a softer voice said, “Aw, don’t cry, Bevy. Nothin’ can be that—” Eerie silence. “Oh, he did?” Another abrupt pause. “I’m leaving now. Just—no, I’m not mad.”

Clearly he was.

“Just sit tight ‘til I get there,” he barked. Another beat passed. “Then why’d you call me?” Silence stretched for a good thirty seconds, but his response took less than five. “I don’t give a shit. I’m coming anyway.”

Trace slammed the phone down and stalked into the hallway. His expression was as grim as the reaper’s when he entered the living room, wrenched the closet door open, and threw his motorcycle jacket on. “I gotta go.”

“What happened?”

He snatched his helmet from a chair, grabbed some keys off the fireplace mantle. “Icky’s having a meltdown.”

“You can’t ride that bike, it’s snowing.” I snagged my coat, scarf, and purse. “I’ll drive.”

SHANNON

____________________________

“How did she sound?” I asked.

“Hysterical,” Trace said. “If he hit her again….”

High beams speared into the car from a truck behind us. I changed lanes and made a right on Clark Street. We were within minutes of the O’Dell’s house in Highgrove Meadows.

“Are we close?” he asked.

I nodded and glanced sideways at him. “So is Beverly a battered woman?”

“I hope not.” He worked his jaw. “I think Icky’s usin’.”

“You mean drugs?”

Trace nodded in bitter silence. “He worked as a runner. That’s what got him pinched. Seven years he served, and he was dealing the whole time.” He sank deeper into the seat. “I smelled trouble soon as him and Bev started making googly eyes. She used to come see me once a week. That’s how they met. Then, right before he got paroled, Bev paid him a surprise visit. He was strung out. She called him on it and he slapped her.”

“In prison?”

“Visitor’s day is a free-for-all. There’s sex. Drugs. One time a guy punched his wife. Friggen guard saw it all and did nothing. They couldn’t care less.” A lethal gleam flared in his eyes. “But Bev always did mistake violence for love. Just like Mama.” He glared out of the window at the blur of trees whizzing by. “This is my problem. You don’t have to be here.”

I sent him an earnest glance. “I know, but I want to.”

“You sure about that?”

His meaning was clear, and it ran much deeper than the current crisis with his brother-in-law. He was alluding to the town, my family, and my willingness (or unwillingness) to drag our ‘friendship’ from the proverbial closet.

“Now isn’t a good time to get into this,” I said.

“We’ll have to deal with it eventually.”

Yes, eventually, but not now.

“This is about more than us.” I sighed. “There’s Mother’s murder for one. People need to know you’re innocent. Otherwise, it’ll be an albatross forever.”

He swung a frown at me. “A what?”

“A burden, a liability,” I answered, changing lanes.

He propped an elbow on the door, studied me in awkward silence. “What’s the connection between clearing my name and ‘us’?” His voice came out low, but hard-boiled.

“Isn’t it obvious? If we do nothing, it’ll never go away.”

He lifted a brow. “Aren’t we really talking about you?”

“What does that mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he said, tossing my own words back at me. “I’m not good enough for your bridge club buddies. Clearing my name would remedy that.”

The man was like a broken record. “Don’t be absurd.”

“You just said you’ve been dodging Lilith your whole life. What’s the town gonna say when they see you hanging with me? And trying to prove me innocent at that? This after every Tom, Dick, and Sally believes I’m nothin’ but murdering trash.”

“I can’t deal with that right now.”

One of his brows shot halfway up his forehead. “What? You think a killer’s just gonna fall from the sky? You’re a realtor, not Nancy Drew. And I’m no Sherlock Holmes. I’m an ex-con with a high school education and a couple blue-collar degrees.”

“What are you saying here? That it’s a lost cause?”

His voice softened. “No, hon, I’m not saying that at all.”

The endearment made my heart skip.

He sighed. “Look, I’m willing to dig into this, but what are you gonna do if we come up empty? Where’s that gonna leave our so-called ‘friendship’?” He nodded at my coat. “Will you still be sporting that hood? And what about those venetian blinds at your office? You can’t yank them down forever.”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. What if our efforts proved fruitless? The very idea terrified me. Thankfully, I found a reprieve when we approached the O’Dell’s well-tended neighborhood.

Floodlights accentuated the billboard-sized Highgrove Meadows sign. Written in flowing script, the words were burned into a huge block of polished cherry wood. The manicured shrubs surrounding the marquee were attractively arranged and carpeted with snow-speckled red mulch.

“So this is it,” he said, his face stony.

“You’ve never been here?”

“Naw.” His attention was riveted on the stylish brick-faced homes lining either side of the street. “She told me where it was last week. I just hadn’t gotten around to visiting.” He gave me the address, then asked, “How old is this development?”

“Two years,” I answered, grateful for the change in subject. “They’re opening a new section next spring.”

“About the houses, what kind of space we talking?”

I pointed at a Tudor to our left. A lighted nativity scene graced the lawn. “That’s the Montreal, Highgrove’s smallest model. It’s around 2,400 square feet.” A white-brick colonial pulled his attention away. “Stunning isn’t it?” I said. “I sold it last year. It’s the Houston. One of the largest at 3,100.”

“You remember what each of these models cost?” he asked

“Yes, why?”

“I wanna know how much Icky paid.” Trace slid a pointed look in my direction. “I think he’s back in the life. Drugs.” He rested his head on the seat. “When he picked me up at Gainstown, first thing I noticed was his teeth.”

I frowned. “Okay, now you’ve lost me.”

“If you’d’ve seen him four years ago, you’d understand. His mouth was a war zone. Now his teeth are capped. That kind of work doesn’t come cheap. New choppers. New truck. New house. Saw him at Rascal’s the other day sporting a friggen Rolex. We had drinks together. Looked strung out to me.”

We approached Beverly’s street. “I’d have to see what model they’re in before I can give you a price, but these homes start in the mid four hundreds.”

He whistled. “What’s the high end?”

“Five-fifteen,” I said, squinting at house numbers.

We pulled into the cul-de-sac where the O’Dell’s stunning Dutch Colonial stood out in relief.  As I crept into the driveway, Trace stared up at the house, slack-jawed. “Holy shit,” he said. “No friggen way.” He flicked a glance at me. “How much?”

Oh, God. The Tuscany.

One of the priciest models.

“Five hundred and ten thousand,” I sputtered, then repaired, “but with a forty-year mortgage or an interest only payment option, anything’s possible. You know, creative financing?”

“Puhleeze. They don’t make enough to afford a crib like this. Icky can’t be pulling more than twenty K, and that’s being generous. You got him the job. Am I close?”

I gave a reluctant nod. “Twenty-one-five.”

“Bev would be at about thirty-five K—forty tops. That puts them at a little over sixty thou. It’s drug money.”

I killed the engine and propped an arm over the steering wheel, staring past the snowflakes pelting the window. A dim glow of Christmas lights lit the dark yard. “I don’t believe it. I can’t. Not with Beverly being so…so religious. Just last month I saw her and two other ladies handing out church flyers outside of Walgreens.”

His eyes turned to stone as he fussed with his seatbelt. “Oh, yeah, she does her share of Bible-thumpin’, but she has the same issues my mama had. Pleasing her man trumps everything.” He shook his head. “You’d never know it, but my sister’s got a 130 IQ. Yeah, she’s real smart. But she’s dumb as hell when it comes to Icky.”

Trace threw his door open. He cut around the hood and helped me out. He was a collection of contrasts. Though he’d been gentle when he led me with care up the walkway, his face was iron-hard. His hand felt rough, yet protective. He seemed aware of my presence, but consumed by his own thoughts. The fine lines in his forehead had deepened. He was somewhere else, someone else, which made me very worried about him.

When the porch lights flooded the lawn, I gave little thought to who might see us. I was too focused on Trace, and what he might encounter in that house.

The front door swung open and his sister appeared in a short jungle-print robe with matching low-heeled mules. Raccoon eyes, red-rimmed and puffy stared out from a bloodless face. Pink rollers lopped against her head as her gaze batted from Trace to me.

Beverly hugged herself tight. She sent me a curt nod, then glared at her brother. The cigarette jutting from her lips seesawed when she spoke. “Thought you was comin’ alone.”

Trace’s eagle eyes were narrowed on the brightly lit hallway beyond Beverly. “You wanna tell me what’s up?”

Beverly snatched the cigarette from her mouth. She flung a restless glance over her shoulder and gripped the door. “I shouldn’t have called you, okay? Go on home. It’s fine now.” When we cleared the stairs, she gestured wide with her cigarette hand. Smoke and ashes ghosted her movements. “Go on,” she ordered. “Patrick’s just havin’ a bad—”

CRASH!

Trace forged past us and followed the sound.

“Oh, hell’s bells,” Beverly sputtered, tearing after him.

I wasn’t far behind, but froze once I entered the kitchen. Broken glass littered the floor. Patrick was sitting at the center island, drink in hand: a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey to his left, a full ashtray to his right. Orange bristles covered his jaw, and bags, like mini flour sacks, underscored his tired eyes. When I’d first met him, he’d been polite and groomed. This Patrick was a scruffy mess of stringy red hair, angry eyes, and rumpled clothes.

I’d never met this man.

TRACE

____________________________

“Look what the wind blew in,” Icky taunted.

I ignored him and glanced around. The huge kitchen was loaded with fancy stainless steel appliances. Hunter green counter tops. Granite. Maple cabinetry. A center island with a swan-neck sink. Pots and pans hung from a copper ceiling rack. The living room was decorated just as nice. This whole setup smacked of tall money, but the broken china scattered across the green ceramic tile marred the pretty picture.

I looked at Icky. “What happened in here?”

“None of your business.” Icky guzzled his drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. To Bev he barked, “You call him?”

“I was afraid. I didn’t want the police to show up.”

“So you thought your little brother could put me in line?” Icky poured another drink. “Yeah, right. His pussy-ass won’t even go down in Gary’s basement.” He glanced at me and laughed. “Fucking coward.”

Bev pleaded, “Patrick, put the bottle down.”

“Patrick, put the bottle down,” Icky mimicked in falsetto.

“He’s on antidepressants,” Bev said with a sob. “Now he’s mixing ‘em with liquor. He lost—”

“Shut the hell up,” Icky roared.

Bev tried again. “His boss caught ‘im—”

Icky smacked the counter top, his eyes wild and raging. “I said shut the hell up!”

“—caught ‘im in the men’s room,” Bev yelled back, “snorting coke! He got fired two weeks ago, Tracemore, and I’m just findin’ out. He’s been leaving the house, dressed in a suit and tie and goin’ God knows where!”

I remembered the day at Rascal’s. Icky had looked like he’d just come from the office. “You back with Spyder?”

Icky considered me for a moment, then settled his mocking eyes on Shannon, as if noticing her for the first time. “I thought you had better taste, Ms. Bradford.”

I lurched forward, but Shannon tugged me back. “Don’t,” she said.

Icky winked at me. “Better listen to her.”

Bev shook her head, her expression grim.

“Answer the question,” I said, my voice just above a whisper. “Are you working for Spyder again?”

Amusement lit Icky’s eyes. “Why would you think that?”

“This house.” I nodded at Icky’s wrist. “That Rolex. And the piece of shit car you picked me up in—just to throw me off.”

“Jealous?” Icky said with a malevolent smirk.

“Of you? Uh-uh.” I folded my arms and leaned against the wall. Shannon stood next to me. “I just wanna know how a data entry clerk and a…a—”

“Cosmetologist,” Bev told me.

I rolled my eyes. “Right. A fingernail painter. Where’d the money come from, Beverly?”

Bev sent me a searing look. “Y’all need to go.”

“I knew your let bygones be bygones was a load of horseshit,” Icky hissed. “You got nerve coming here all sanctimonious. I inherited some money from my uncle. Not that it’s any business of yours.”

“What uncle?” I asked. “You grew up in an orphanage.”

Icky’s sullen eyes narrowed. “Jeez. You are such a clueless dick! What do you think is paying for Cole’s stay in that nuthouse?” He beat his chest. “My money! That’s what. But do I get a thank-you? No. All you ever do is—”

“Trust me, when I’m able, I’ll take care of my brother,” I spat. “The last thing he needs is to be tangled up in your—”

“But that’s just it. You can’t take care of him now, can you, Mr. Parolee?” Icky tossed a hand and scowled. “Why am I even trying to justify myself to a murdering lowlife like you anyway?”

I glared at him for a long while, then said, “You talk too much.”

“The truth hurts,” Icky goaded. “Killing is easy for you Dawsons.” To his wife, he said, “Isn’t it, sweetie pie?” Soon as my brows arched, Icky said, “Did you know your sister—”

“Patrick!” Bev’s eyes bulged out of her face. “Don’t!”

Icky laughed and upended the bottle. “Why not? What’s there to be ashamed of? All you did was murder my child.”

Shannon gasped.

I swung a curious look at my sister.

“Tell them!” Icky yelled. “Or I will!”

Beverly’s eyes spilled over with tears. She shrank away, dragged a chair from the kitchen table and sank into it. Leaning both elbows on the surface, she pressed her forehead to her palm.

A full minute passed before she uttered a word. “It was a while back,” Bev finally said. “Patrick was still in Gainstown and we were always fightin’. I wasn’t sure we had a future and I didn’t think I could raise a child alone. So I aborted it. That’s why he slapped me, Tracemore. That’s why!”

Shannon stood beside Beverly and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Why didn’t you ask your family for help?”

Bev wiped her nose with a ball of tissue she’d pulled from her bra. “Mama didn’t approve of Patrick.”

Icky knocked back a swig. “The witch hated me.”

“Damn it, shut up,” Bev snapped over her shoulder. One of her curlers drooped above her eye and she flung it back with an impatient flick of her hand. “I’d already given a baby up for adoption when I was 13. I didn’t want to, but Daddy made me.” She sniffed. “What I did this time…I know it was selfish, but I couldn’t bear not knowing what—I just couldn’t bear it again!”

“Eddie Gray’s bastard,” Icky put in. “Yeah, that’s right, Ms. Bradford. That greasy ball of fat knocked her up when they were teens, then tried to say it wasn’t his. Even called her a whore. Trace beat the crap out of him a few years later, and they’ve been at odds ever since.” He guzzled the whiskey. “Know what yanks my chain about this whole thing? That she gave his baby away—let it live—but she killed mine.”

Icky’s angry eyes cut to me. “You’re all one twisted family of killers, but I don’t just blame Bev, I blame you too. You’re the one who put doubts in her mind. You and your mother poisoned her against me. You both got what you deserved.”

“Trace?” Shannon came back to me. “We should leave.”

I glowered at Icky. “We got what we deserved, huh?”

“You’ll never guess it in a million years,” Icky taunted.

“Patrick, if you care for me, you’ll stop this,” Bev cried.

Icky laughed at her. “Shut up.”

I grabbed Shannon’s hand. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Hey, Butcher Boy!” Icky called after me. Pride rang in his voice. “Still wondering who wrote that parole letter?”

I was halfway across the kitchen when I jerked to a stop. Bile seared my throat like an eruption from hell. I rounded, my anxious gaze skipping to Bev for confirmation, but she just shook her head and dissolved into tears.

Shannon wheeled around. Her face was ghost pale.

“That’s right,” Icky said with a hard laugh. “I did it, and I’d do it again in a mother fucking heartbeat.”

“You wrote that filth?” Shannon asked, eyes round.

Felt like Icky had plunged an ice pick into my chest. “After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?”

“Oh, you mean Nyle Weathers?”

Blood raced to my head and my vision blurred.

Shannon gazed up at me. “What is he talking about?”

“Big, bad Butcher Boy,” Icky taunted. “I don’t owe you a damn thing. My baby’s dead because you clouded Bev’s mind with lies. Making her doubt me!”

Mad as hell, I stood ramrod stiff, arms at my sides, clenching and unclenching my fists while Icky kept the rant going.

“And here’s the best part,” Icky continued. “They scraped Bev’s womb so clean she’s barren now! She thinks it’s God’s judgment, but I blame you.” He took a swallow of booze then pointed the empty glass at Shannon. “I got the letter idea after I saw her ad. When I told her about my felony, she volunteered to help me with my resume. Once I got to her office, stealing the stamper was easy. It was just sitting on a desk begging me to take it. Grabbed the stationery the second time I—”

“Trace, no!”

I barely heard Shannon’s cry and Bev’s screams. The roaring in my ears all but drowned them out. I snatched Icky off the stool and punched him so hard he went crashing into the wall. A fancy digital wall clock smashed to the floor. Its guts raced across the floor like roaches.

“Mama killed herself ‘cause of you!” I stalked to where Icky sat slumped in a corner, gasping and bleeding. Shannon yanked at my arm, but I kept going.

Before I could finish Icky off, Bev threw herself between us. “Get out!” She fell to her knees and clutched Icky to her breast. “Get outta my house ‘for I call the law! Get out!”

Shannon tugged me from behind. “Come on. Please!”

I blinked as her voice slowly registered. The red haze faded like mist, but the pain lingered. I narrowed my eyes on my sister and when I finally spoke moments later, my throat was raw. “All this time. You knew, and you didn’t say a damn thing. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Bev cleaved to Icky, her gaze fused to the floor.

Shannon stepped around me. Her face was red. “Why Patrick? What did I do to warrant this? I only tried to help.”

“It wasn’t about you,” Icky yelled at her. Blood poured from his mouth. He spat out a tooth and looked at me fiercely. “It was about him. It was always about him!”

Beverly’s head shot up. “I’m sorry for what he done, Tracemore. Real sorry. But tellin’ you would’ve made stuff worse. Now we see I was right.”

“Bullshit, Beverly!” I stabbed a finger over Shannon’s head. “You were protecting him. Can’t you see how he destroyed us? How can you forgive him? And don’t go hiding behind no Bible verses. It’s too damn late for that!”

Icky hocked another bloody tooth on the floor. It took effort, but he rose to his feet on shaky legs. Prideful insolence painted his bludgeoned face.

Shannon curled a steady arm around mine. She looked mad and disgusted as I gave my sister a fiery once-over.

“You were in pain.” Bev lifted her teary eyes. “I-I didn’t want to add to it. I did it for our family. I did it for you.”

I looked from Bev to Icky, and back again. “For me.” I sniffed hard. Tried to stuff my emotions inside where I could control them. When that didn’t work, I gave my throat an exaggerated clearing. Aw, hell. I had to get out of here.

“Tracemore!” Bev cupped a hand over her mouth. Tears and drool leaked from between her fingers. “Please forgive me!”

As I staggered from the house like a blind bull, I heard Shannon yell, “God help you both!” before tearing off after me.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Breakthrough

SHANNON

____________________________

Moonlight bathed Jefferson Boulevard in a pale wash of silver while I drove. The car was quiet, except for an Ed Sheeran song filling the silence. Trace had said nothing during the ride back, leaving me unsure of what to do.

Every now and then I’d reach for his hand to give it a sympathetic squeeze, and he’d return the gesture, though absently. Less than three feet separated us, yet he seemed miles away.

The scene at the O’Dell’s still haunted me, but one cryptic exchange screamed the loudest:

‘After everything I’ve done for you,’ Trace had said. Patrick’s reply? ‘…Oh, you mean Nyle Weathers?’ More damning words followed. ‘…My contacts are sure Dawson was involved in his death,’ Darien had said. ‘They just didn’t have the evidence to prove it.’

I drew a shaky breath, not liking the path my thoughts had taken. Did Trace kill that prisoner? If so, what could have driven him to it? Every part of me, from my flesh to my soul, desperately hoped my suspicions were wrong.

I found an empty space half a block away from his house and rolled in beneath the hulking shadow of an overgrown pine. After I cut the engine, I faced him, squeezed his limp hand again. This time he didn’t squeeze back.

Winter’s chill seeped into the car, and when Trace finally looked at me, I could see his breath. He rested his head against the seat. His doleful eyes were dark and haunted, telegraphing a thousand hells.

I’d seen him furious. I’d seen him indifferent, and I’d seen more than a dozen of his emotions in between.

But this?

Never.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Naw.” He shook his head. “You?”

“I’m still numb, I guess.”

He shifted. Moonlight poured over half his face. “Icky, I get,” he said, his voice hoarse from yelling, “but Beverly….”

“Can you forgive her?”

He shrugged. “I dunno, but if you don’t press charges against him, I will.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

His eyes narrowed. “We’re talking theft, forgery and a bunch of other—”

“What about Nyle Weathers?”

A wall crashed between us and he looked straight ahead.

“Patrick knows what happened in Gainstown,” I said. “He’ll likely hold his tongue as long as you do.” I watched the subtle changes on his face while understanding registered. “Please. I need to know the truth. Did you kill him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes or no, Trace?” He didn’t answer, so I grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at me. “How can I believe anything that comes out of your mouth?”

He jerked his chin away. Fury sharpened his expression, as if I’d punched a button inside of him—the wrong one. “You got no idea what I’ve been through. So spare me your self-righteous bullshit.”

His words cut into me like a switchblade.

“Hell,” Trace said, “why should I tell you anything?” He pushed the hair off his face. “You yank down the blinds when folks see us together. You show up at my house wearing a damn hood—and you expect me to trust you? I won’t spill my guts to a woman who’s ashamed of me, much less get involved with her.”

“For the last time, I’m not ashamed,” I said, forcing a calm I didn’t feel.

Trace flicked a glance at my hood. “That says otherwise.”

Okay, he was mad and hurting. What better way than to take his rage out on me? Small wonder he’d try to turn things around, but I wasn’t about to let him get away with it.

“My hood has nothing to do with this situation. We’re talking about your inability to—”

“It has everything to do with what just happened.” He laughed, but it sounded cruel. “You want honesty? So do I. Can you really see us together? Here or anywhere else?”

My face fell and I sank against the driver’s side door. I told myself his words were meaningless. That he was wrong, but he’d hit his mark. “Why are you pushing me away?”

He sighed. “Because I’m beer nuts and you’re…you’re truffles,” he said bitterly. “You know words I’ve never heard before. You’ve built a successful business on your own. You’ve got book smarts, money and I-I don’t have a pot to—”

“No.”

He did a double take. “No, what?”

“No, I can’t see us together,” I told him. “And it’s not because of your education level or social standing. Given everything you accuse me of, don’t you think it strange how I always find my way back to you? Even after all these years. But none of that matters because I can’t possibly be with a man who doesn’t trust me.”

“So go marry that rich prick and be done with it!”

“This has nothing to do with him,” I yelled. “You lied. Now you say you want to help me, but you insist on keeping secrets. I can get that at home. I don’t need it from you.”

“Tell you what.” He gave me a scathing once-over. “When you lose that hood, when you can admit to your family—to Montgomery…hell, this whole town—how you feel about me, then maybe this ‘friendship’ won’t be such a damn joke. Right now they all prob’ly think I’m a pet project of yours. Just like Icky was.” He laughed bitterly. “Who knows? Maybe I am.”

An eternity passed before I trusted myself to speak. “I’m sorry Beverly lied,” I said in a painfully controlled voice. “And I’m sorry Patrick wrote that hateful letter.” When fire flashed in his eyes, I narrowed mine. “Yes, you had a terrible night. We both did. But you still have no excuse for lying. And you want to know what hurts most? That you feel no guilt for your dishonesty.”

“Why should I? I told you I didn’t kill your mama, but you still didn’t believe me. So yeah, I lied. At the time, I didn’t think you deserved to know the truth, but since Icky spilled the beans, I’ll tell you exactly how Nyle Weathers died.”

“I don’t want to hear it!”

“Tough shit.” He jerked all the way around to face me. “Icky was in stir two years before he got transferred to my cell. So he asks for my help one day. Seems he was having problems with three inmates. They were ass raping him. Butt fucking. Fudge packing. You know what that is, don’t you?”

My mouth fell open. He was being deliberately base and crude. He wanted to shock and upset me. “Stop it!”

“Naw, you asked for it, now sit there and listen!” he barked. “They raped a bunch of other cons too, but Icky had it ten times worse. They lent him out to people. Made him suck cock. Take it up the ass. Pissed on him. Some of the shit they did, I can’t even name.” A muscle in his jaw pumped hard and fast. “I had to do somethin’, so I went to talk to Nyle and his boys, but we had…words.” He looked away. “A week later, Nyle pulled a shank on me—in the shower, of course. Said he wanted me to dance for him before he made my ass bleed.”

My stomach hit the seat as the frost in his eyes chilled me to the bone. “So I decided to make him bleed instead.” When he spoke next, his words were ice cold. “I wrestled the shiv away from him. Then I cut his dick off and shoved it in his mouth. He bled out in the shower.”

I struggled to breathe, but he kept talking.

“I did it as a warning for the ass-raping animals who hung with him. Had I not gone through with it, had I not been as vicious as I was, they’d’ve thought me weak. They’d’ve come for me again, and the next time, they’d’ve killed me. That’s just the way it is. You gotta hit back hard to send a message. Let ‘em know you’re willing to take things to the next level.” He stared forward. “We were on lockdown for days after that. Everybody’s cell was searched, but my…friend got rid of the shank for me, and any DNA evidence went down the shower drain.”

I listened in rapt silence, my heart hanging on his every word. When he looked at me again his eyes were filled with unshed tears and a flood of emotions. Pain, defiance, remorse, grief, anger. They were all there.

“From that day on, Icky was under my protection,” he said matter-of-factly. “And they never bothered either of us again. So yeah, I killed Nyle. Not by choice. I did it to survive.” He sniffed and looked away. “Wasn’t nobody goin’ backdoor on me.”

I moved to touch him, but he dodged my hand. His rejection hurt even more than his words had. “Why is Patrick so bitter toward you?”

“He resents me, but he’ll never admit it.”

“Why?”

“The baby Bev aborted, it reaffirmed his sexuality. I was there. I’m the only one who knows what really happened to him. Nyle and his boys turned Icky out—took his manhood. Then Bev gave it back with that baby, but now she’s barren.”

I tried to make sense of the bombshell he’d just dumped on me. “But aren’t you afraid the others will tell?”

“What others? One was killed in an attempted robbery two days after he got paroled. The other guy’s in a coma. Cancer. They don’t expect him to ever come out of it. Icky and my friend are the only ones who know the truth.” He paused to stab a look at me. “And you of course.”

Trace had killed a man with the same hands he’d used to caress me tonight. I should’ve been terrified of him, but instead I was ashamed—of myself.

He’d lied because he didn’t trust me. Surprisingly, I couldn’t blame him.

He cracked the door, bathing us in light. “Meet me at Rascal’s at two on Wednesday.”

I blinked away the daze. “Rascal’s? Isn’t that a bar?”

“Hole-in-the-wall would be more accurate. It’s at the seediest side of town. I know you don’t want me showing up at your office.”

“Trace—”

“Naw, this way’s better. The garage and the club aren’t options either. Neither is my house. And Briar is out of the question. So Rascal’s is the safest place. We won’t be alone and the regulars are discreet.”

“I have no interest in drinking with you at a bar.”

“We won’t be drinking.”

Curiosity burned hot. “What then?”

“We’re meeting to ride to Wyatt together. Mrs. Campbell’s house is an hour’s drive. I don’t trust my bike for a trip like that.”

TRACE

____________________________

I let myself in the house just as the answering machine cut on. It was Amber.

“Hey, shug. Yeah, I’m drunk dialing.” She laughed. “Okay, but seriously, I didn’t mean to hang up on you like that. I’m just a little down about us. Maybe I was rash. I dunno. I’m going to be busy for the next week or so. We’re training some new hires. Soon as I get them squared away, I’ll try and come by for my stuff. We can talk then.”

I fell back on the sofa. Now she wanted to talk? Unfriggenbelievable. Naw, I wouldn’t waste another brain cell on Amber or any of the other insane women in my life.

Not tonight. I’d had my fill of crazy.

From the kitchen, a sleepy ballad on the radio drifted through the shadows like a ghost, filling the darkness. Diana Ross crooned slow and lazy. She sang a sad hello to a faithful, but gloomy companion—some specter named ‘Heartache.’

Speaking of heartaches, my mind gravitated to the basement door and down the stairs to the place I’d avoided since I got out, to the demon roused by Bev and Icky’s lies.

Hey, ya little shit. Do ya miss me?

Icky had shamed me tonight. Called me a coward. Right now, I couldn’t argue the point to save my life, but I was tired of being afraid.

I needed my freedom.

I shoved off the sofa, stalked down the hallway, and stood by the door. Leaned my forehead against it. I told myself it was just a piece of wood, and this basement was just the place where my parents had breathed their last, nothing more. Fear almost did me in once I unhooked the chain. The rusty metal scraped pendulously against the wood as it fell. I threw the deadbolt back and gave the knob a turn. The thunderous groan of ancient hinges reverberated when I tugged the door open, and musty dampness smacked my face and crept into my throat. I could taste the smell. My stomach heaved, then settled.

Don’t be a pussy, echoed Gary’s rusty voice, a voice scarred by a lifetime of whiskey, cigarettes, and meanness. Come on, you little shit. I’m waitin’ on you.

I started to back away, but Doc’s soothing voice stopped me: We destroy fear by facing it, son. Instead of letting it remain a chamber of horrors, take control of the basement. Create positive memories in that room and embrace the negative ones. Stare the monster down and it’ll lose its power.

Taking a strengthening breath, I flipped the wall switch and descended into hell. Light stung my eyes. I squinted and kept a tight grip on the wooden handrail. The dusty old steps screeched beneath my weight. I could almost hear Daddy’s cruel laughter. The same laughter that had trailed me when I, bloody, bruised, and blinded by tears, had stumbled up these same stairs as fast as my young feet could carry me after one of Gary’s vicious beatings.

Once I reached the bottom, I looked around. The harsh fluorescent bulb, naked and bright, exaggerated every crack and dust ball. As basements went, it wasn’t anything spectacular. Just twelve years older than the last time I’d seen it, smelling of earth and dampness, secrets and misery. I turned in a slow circle and found nothing but empty space. Eight large boxes labeled‘Cole’s books’ were stacked in a corner. A crate filled with Bev’s Barbie collection topped them. My old, urine-stained mattress was propped against the back wall. And Cole’s first Yamaha keyboard lay strewn under the stairs—right below the buckshot holes.

Throat working, I gravitated there, my attention glued to the spot where my father had died. A dark splatter covered the wall, remnants of blood and brains, long gone, but not forgotten. Remnants of a man who claimed he loved me with every stroke of the belt, or extension cord, or whatever weapon happened to be within grabbing distance. It all went down in this basement.

I snatched Cole’s keyboard and pitched it across the room. It crashed against the opposite wall, falling in a broken heap of plastic. Exhaustion turned my legs to jelly, and my knees hit the floor. Hot tears slid down my face. Annoyed, I swiped them away, but they just kept coming.

I wept for my mama, and the goodbye we never said. I cried for my sister, because of the pain Icky would leave her with. I ached for my baby brother, sweet Cole, who never had a chance in this fucked up world. I even mourned for the father I never understood.

When I finally climbed the basement stairs hours later, weary and drained, I’d made peace with myself and my parents’ ghosts…for the most part anyway. I also did something I should’ve done my first night home—changed the damn fuse for the ceiling lamp in the living room.

And then there was light, in more ways than one.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Waking Nightmares

TRACE

____________________________

Two days later, I hung up the phone and slipped back under the covers. Cholly’s call had pulled me from a dream, one that didn't star Daddy, Nyle, or Lilith. This one had Shannon in it, naked and wet for me, but unlike all my other dreams of her, I remembered every erotic detail. Now I had actual experience to draw from. Facts like the sweet way she tasted, the sounds she made, and how a minute of sucking had turned her pink nipples blood red. The memory alone made my cock hard as marble.

Apart from worrying that I’d scared her off again, I had thought of nothing else but nailing her. I wanted her in my bed, on the floor, up against the wall, outside, inside…any and everywhere.

Scowling, I tossed the covers back, spat into my hand, and grasped my cock to ease the ache. My jaw worked while I moved my palm up and down with a slow twist, each gentle tug driving me to Hades and halfway back.

I grabbed Shannon’s hanky from the nightstand, put it to my nose, and closed my eyes. Pictured myself sucking her pink nipples to red peaks. Imagined pushing her legs apart and settling between them.

Shit. I could almost feel her virgin flesh give way as I eased inside her tight little—oh yeah, that was it. I was there, taking what was mine, claiming her as my own, pumping my hips, feeling her nails score my back and her legs wrap around me. I was driving into her hard, fast, and frenzied, filling her sweet body with….

My cock erupted, spurting thick ropes of semen across my chest. Five more strokes and I’d milked myself dry. I wilted into the mattress, spent, but not the least bit sated. I’d need Shannon for that.

After a minute or so, I snatched a T-shirt off the floor and cleaned myself, then collapsed on the bed again. Damn it to hell. This palm-pilot shit wasn’t cutting it.

Montgomery’s cock-blocking face rose in my mind’s eye. Perfect fucking timing. It was like waving a red flag at a bull. Just the thought of the bastard’s paws on Shannon made me want to break something.

Twelve years in stir had forced me to suppress my emotions. Not all emotions. Hate and anger came easily enough, but tender feelings, like the ones I had for Shannon…well, I wasn’t sure how to handle those.

I threw my legs over the side of the bed, stalked down the hallway to the bathroom and flipped the shower dial. Something had to give. Something had to change. This was enough to drive a man mad.

The water had run cold by the time I finally ripped the shower curtain open. I fastened a towel around my waist and padded back into the bedroom just as the phone rang.

“Dawson,” I said.

“Hi.”

My pulse tripped as I fumbled with the receiver. “Shannon?”

“Did I wake you?” Her voice was whisper soft.

“Naw. I was up.”

Seconds ticked by. “I wasn’t sure you wanted to talk to me, because…well, it’s been two days. I figured you needed some space, but….” She sighed. “Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh.” Hell, I figured she needed space. So I’d given it to her. I stared down at the puddle around my feet as static filled the awkward hush. “Um, Cholly called,” I offered. “They approved his liquor license—and he got an electrician to finish the wiring. He told me to tell you thanks.”

“He did?” Silence, then, “Wow.” There was a smile in her voice, but the light moment soon turned weightier. “Trace?”

“Yeah?”

I heard her swallow. “About the other night….”

“It scared you.”

“No,” she insisted.

I sank to the bed. “I’m listenin’.”

She sighed again, taking a moment, I guess to collect her thoughts. “I just need you to know I understand what happened, and I get why you lied. I really do. What you shared, it stays between us forever.” Static crackled when she paused. “And I don’t care who knows we’re friends. No more hoods.”

My shoulders sagged. Damn if she hadn’t knocked the wind out of me. That I’d killed a man, and she’d accepted it as easily as she’d drawn her last breath, humbled me.

“Are you there?”

I rubbed my bristled jaw. Man, was I there. “Uh-huh.”

“Promise me something.”

Anything. “What?”

“That you won’t lie to me again,” she said.

I propped a pillow against the headboard and eased back. Until now, I’d hidden my soul from all but God, yet I’d told Shannon my darkest secret, and I had the sense that confiding in her was the same as locking a diamond in a vault.

Staring up at the water stains on the ceiling, I caved. “Okay. You got it.”

“Promise to goodness?”

The memory made me smile. “Yeah. Promise to goodness.” I plowed the wet hair off my face. “Hey, I’m sorry too. Bev and Icky got me worked up. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I was an asshole.”

She fell silent.

“You hear me?”

“Yes,” she said. “You were an asshole.”

I smiled again. Profanity coming out of her sounded funny as hell. “You still up for seeing Mrs. Campbell on Wednesday?”

“Yes, but….” She quietly cleared her throat. “Why didn’t you say anything about knowing where she was? You called her?”

“Yeah, last week. That’s one of the things I was working on.” My smile faded. “Hadn’t spoken to her since the pool fight with Lilith. She wrote after Mama died, but I didn’t respond.”

“Why not?”

Took me a second to form the proper words. “I was mad. She knew the truth, but she skipped town before Gartner could get a subpoena.”

“How do you feel about her now?”

I rubbed circles over my chest. The damp hair soothed my itching palm. “I’d just like her to tell me why she ran off like that. She knew the truth, but she left me high and dry. Her testimony could’ve helped. Then she has the nerve to send me a letter in stir, like that’s gonna make up for it.”

“Can you do something for me?”

“Yep,” I yawned out, resting a foot on the mattress.

“Before we speak with Mrs. Campbell, I want you to tell me about the pool incident. I have to know what really happened.”

To say I’d rather shove a hot poker up my ass wouldn’t be an exaggeration. Silence dragged. “Okay,” I muttered with a sigh. “What do you wanna know?”

“Everything.”

TRACE

____________________________

The night before Lilith Bradford’s murder….

I was about to leave when I saw her. Still dressed in her Catholic school uniform and matching box coat, Shannon wore a pleated skirt, gray knee socks and patent leather shoes. It was a crisp fall day of sixty degrees. A temperature that, after the blazing day before, felt colder than an Antarctic winter.

Leaves danced mini funnels over the grass. The sun had just begun to set and a thin, golden arc crowned the autumn-colored treetops and hills.

Shannon sat on the gazebo’s whitewashed steps, tossing rocks at nothing in particular. Her quiet sniffles didn’t register until I’d gotten closer. The step creaked when I eased next to her.

“I’m about to head home.” I eyed her face. “Somethin’ wrong?”

She leaned over to pull one of her shoes off. The sock went next. A thin red line creased deep where the strap had been. The dainty little toenails on her exposed foot were painted bubble-gum pink. She wiggled them experimentally.

“Shoes too tight?”

She nodded and I noticed how still she kept her left arm. She’d used one hand to remove her shoe and sock. I moved around and squatted on the step in front of her, cupping her jaw to force her to look at me. Her eyes were puffy.

“What happened to your arm?”

She tucked it tighter against her body. “I fell.”

“You’re lying. Let me see it.”

Teary eyed, she gazed back at me in silence.

“Aw, jeez,” I said, my soul aching for her. “C’mere.”

She fell into my arms the second I opened them. When she finally finished crying, my shirt was drenched. I snatched a bandana from my pocket and mopped her face as best I could, then I examined her arm. She didn’t protest, just stared off, sniffling as I thrust the sleeve to her elbow. Hot, swollen skin had bloomed angry shades of purple, green, and red.

My gaze leapt to hers. “Who did this?”

Her eyes shuttered.

That’s when I knew she’d already dug the moat, bought the alligators, and yanked up the drawbridge. I’d get nothing out of her.

“You’re never gonna admit it, are you?”

Her lips tightened into a tiny pink button. Even now she refused to indict her mama. None of the staff had lifted a finger to help. Their silence, like my own, had been bought and paid for with Lilith Bradford’s money.

I reached behind my neck and unclasped a silver chain with a charm. Leaning over her, I fastened the catch around her neck. “My great-granddaddy on Mama’s side—Bisabuelo—sent me this for Christmas a long time ago. Spent some of my summers on his farm in Puerto Rico when I was a boy. It was the best time of my life. All I did was eat, feed the animals, laugh, and dance. Hell, everybody in the family danced. God, I miss that place.”

“You’re Puerto Rican?”

“Only a quarter—but it’s my favorite quarter.” I gazed at the sky and my lips slid into a sad smile. “The greatest lesson I learned from that old man was to do what’s right, no matter the cost.”

She squinted at the Spanish on the back. “What’s it mean?”

“Somethin’ you better not forget. It says, ‘A life lived in fear is a life half lived.’ It’s an old Spanish proverb.”

Her lips trembled. “But what does that have to do with—”

“I’m gonna fix it, okay?” I said in a soft voice. “I’m gonna make it so you never have to be afraid again.”

She sniffed, blinked her teary eyes. “H-how?”

I tipped her face to the sun and gently brushed her tears away with my thumbs. Closing my eyes, I pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Te quiero, Sombra.”

“Huh?”

I smiled. “Just remember what I said at the pond. I’m always gonna care about you. No matter what. Now stay put.” I shoved to a stand and headed for the main house. When she shot up after me, I yelled, “Stay put!” over my shoulder.

I cut across the lawn, my feet thundering on the ground. I could see much of myself in Shannon. When I was nine, I’d hidden under the covers in fear of Daddy’s rage. Too scared to take a piss, I’d wet the bed, or sometimes, I’d stash a mop bucket in my closet before I left for school. That way I wouldn’t have to venture down the hall late at night. Primetime for Gary’s binge drinking. Squeaky floorboards, rusty hinges, and a flushed toilet made noise, but peeing in a bucket didn’t. Even so, the bed-wetting, and makeshift urinals just led to more beatings and missed school days.

Lilith and Gary—two halves of the same evil coin. As a child, I wore fear like a second skin. Bisabuelo had sensed it during those summer visits, even though I never said a word. The old man knew lots of things without ever being told.

Growing up, I always dreaded going home. Which father would I get? The cold hermit who favored TV and silence over family, or the bully who stank of whores and booze? Stuff changed when I turned fifteen. By then, I towered over Gary’s five-feet-six inches. By then, I was big enough to hit back. That’s when a new father emerged. This one was a defeated foe whose reign of terror had ended with a whimper.

I threw the doors open to the mansion, ignoring the wide-eyed stares and swept past the knot of servants in the foyer. In six angry strides, I’d cleared the staircase to check the second floor, but Mommie Dearest was MIA. Lilith’s personal maid stood at the landing, a scowl sandblasted on her pale face. Her bony arms were wrapped around a tower of linen. She glowered at me as if I were a fly on a cake.

“Where is she?” I asked, barreling down the steps.

The woman moved her judgmental gaze over me. “Busy.”

Witch.

I was already stalking down the narrow corridor to the kitchen. I found Mrs. Campbell hard at work on the evening meal. The smell of baked ham and cinnamon perfumed the air.

Out of breath, I said, “Where’s Miz Bradford?”

Mrs. Campbell’s apple-cheeked face scrunched into a frown at my noisy intrusion, but her steel-gray head remained bent in concentration. Her chubby hands worked a thick knot of dough. “In the pool room—where she always is this time of day,” she snapped, not missing a beat as she kneaded the yellow blob. Her voice held a warning when I stormed off. “The lady’s in a devil mood tonight, Tracemore. Best leave her be. Um-hmm.”

I cocked my head to listen. All I had to do was follow the sound. That fucking song she played all the time, “Come Live With Me” was blaring from the indoor pool. I stalked out and cut down a side hallway to the back of the house.

Lilith had just climbed out of the pool when I got there. She wore a string bikini that hid nothing. Water cascaded down her skin as she toweled herself dry. Long, sable hair shimmered along her graceful back like a midnight waterfall.

Whether her eyes were bloodshot from chlorine or liquor, I couldn’t tell. I just wondered which Lilith I’d have to deal with. Had her bitch switch been flipped, or would she try and ram her tongue into my mouth again?

I cleared my throat. “Shannon’s got bruises.”

She tossed the towel and snagged a wineglass from the mini bar. “Good evening, Mister Dawson,” she trilled.

I stared down my nose at her. God, I hated the snooty way she said ‘Mister.’ I could see through the airs she was putting on. Hell, the woman had her hand on my cock four days ago! It didn’t matter that she was my boss. Or that she was rich and I was dirt-poor. The lowly servant who’d worked in obedient silence was long gone.

“The bruises, Miz Bradford. Who put ‘em there?”

That got her back up. “You forget your place, young man.”

“My ‘place’? Look, I know what you’ve been doin’ to her.”

Lilith cranked the ice-bitch routine up a notch. “Better watch yourself. You’re skating on thin ice as it is.”

“She’s bruised on the inside too,” I said, ignoring her threat. “You don’t know how lethal words are. One stupid remark can cut a child down faster than a bullet.” I moved closer. “Her back was bruised last week. She flinched when I went to hug her the other day. Now she’s got a bruised arm. Says she fell, but I know better.”

Brow arched, Lilith said, “Yes, I’m well-aware of your ‘contact’ with her.” She paused. “Let me ask you something, Mister Dawson. Do you think it’s proper for an eighteen-year-old ‘male stripper’ to have such a close relationship with a fourteen-year-old minor?”

Took a second before her insinuation hit home. It cut deep.

“I don’t like the time you spend together,” she said, mounting her imaginary high horse. “Especially now. I saw her diary last night and it was all there—every disturbing detail. The two of you dancing alone. The way you whisk her off on that bike, disappearing for hours at a time. You’re inseparable.”

My breath bounced off her. “Nothin’ is going on and you know it! She’s got nobody but me. Everyone else ignores her.”

“Get out.” She jerked away and her hair slapped my face like a wet curtain. It stung.

“Why do you hate her?” I wrenched Lilith around by the arm. She glared at my hand, but I kept a firm grip. “She’s your baby!”

“Not anymore, she isn’t.” Lilith jerked free. “You’re fired! Maybe now you can do your Playroom striptease full-time.”

An audience: Mrs. Campbell and other servants gathered, including Gerard, Lilith’s butler.

Mad as hell, and trembling with rage, I stalked off, but then she yelled, “Tell Dottie to pack up her mop and bucket. She’s fired too.”

Lilith had just poked a hornet’s nest. I was in her face within seconds. “Do what you want to me, but leave Mama out of it. She needs this job.”

“You should have thought about that before.”

“Guess what?” I hissed. “You won’t fire my mama, ‘cause if you do, I’ll spill all your dirty secrets. I’ll tell the town what a slut you are. How the only reason you kicked us out is ‘cause I wouldn’t stick my dick in your nasty hole. How you’ll spread your legs for anything that’s young, male, and fuckable!”

A flood of gasps ricocheted from the staff as my voice thundered across the room. Lilith went ballistic. Her face turned blood red and her eyes sizzled with hellfire. She hauled off and slapped me, her nails cutting a trio of red lines into my cheek.

I tried to restrain her while she bit and clawed, but she just drew more blood. I didn’t realize my own strength when I shoved her away from me with such force she hit the floor butt first, her body slamming into the mini bar. Bottles crashed around her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Calla Lilies

SHANNON

____________________________

“I’m not sure why she didn’t press charges,” Trace said, his voice raspy. “Prob’ly knew I’d make good on my promise.”

I cradled the phone and eased into the seat at my vanity table, trying to connect the mother I remembered to the monster he’d just described.

Both were strangers now.

It took me a moment to gather my thoughts amidst the pain he’d endured. Trace had recounted, in amazing detail, the last night of my mother’s life.

More than a few times, he’d had to stop to collect himself, yet he’d refused to quit, as if he were purging some disease from his soul. Now I understood why he’d taken on the role of my guardian angel. He’d done for me what he’d been powerless to do for himself.

“I went straight home afterwards,” Trace continued. “Mama was on the phone with Mrs. Campbell when I got there. Soon as she hung up, me and Mama got into it, then Daddy crawled from the bottle to add his two cents. They actually wanted me to apologize.”

I got to my feet and carried the phone into the bathroom. “They thought Mother would rehire you both?”

“Yep. Mama was ranting about Daddy being on disability—that we needed the money and I should’ve minded my own business.” He sighed. “I asked why she let Daddy use me for a punching bag. Told her Lilith was doing the same thing with you.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing. She just stormed off. Then Daddy cursed the day I was born. Went staggering up to me and Cole’s room. Tossed my TV out the window. My clothes. Everything I owned lay in the front yard. I didn’t speak to Mama for years after that.”

“Did your father ever abuse Beverly and Cole?”

“Naw. My little brother was his pride and joy and Bev was his princess. Seems he saved all his vinegar for me. Bev used to think he was jealous. She said I was independent and fearless. He hated that. So he tried to beat it out of me.”

Heart trembling, I leaned against the tiled wall. “But you and your mother found your way back to each other. Is that why she’d pinned all her hopes on you making parole?”

“Yeah.”

Just the thought of how he’d suffered made me ill. “Where did you go after you left your house?”

“Cholly’s,” he said, his voice staid, resigned. “The Fontanas let me stay with them. But after I dropped my stuff off there, I went straight to Sheriff Gray.”

“To report Mother.”

“Yep. I didn’t have much hope given the whole Eddie and Bev thing, but after I told him about your bruises and Lilith’s drinking, he said he’d look into it. Even thanked me for coming by. I was hopeful when I left. Looked like he believed me.”

“But he testified that your claims were baseless later.”

“Yeah,” Trace said bitterly. “Only question is why.” Silence lingered. “What do you remember about the day she died?”

Not much, but just then…. I cupped my forehead as another memory gelled of the day before the murder. Namely, the reason Mother had hurt me that last time.

I was too embarrassed to share it with Trace or any man.

I slid down the wall and hugged my knees. Sorrow washed over me. “Everything’s still fragmented,” I whispered.

“Well, I got to your house early the next day. I hopped the fence to stay hidden, but it was deserted. Not even a breeze. That’s what I’ll never forget. The quiet. It was unnatural.”

I licked my lips. “Why did you come back?”

“To give you hope. To tell you the Sheriff said he’d help.”

That he’d still been thinking about my welfare even after the horrible night he’d had was heartening. But it also made me more determined to uncover the truth. Not just for Mother’s sake, but for his as well. “I’m sorry I called you a coward when we were in the garage. I was wrong. You’re a hero…my hero.”

I guessed from his silence that I’d surprised him. Ten seconds went by before he said, “Th-thanks.” Trace Dawson had actually stuttered. He cleared his throat. “Well, I, ah, I gotta get to work.”

“I do too.” An awkward moment followed, one of unspoken words and untested emotions. Much needed saying, but I didn’t know where to begin. I got up and wandered into the adjacent walk-in closet. “So I’ll see you at two on Wednesday?” I said, staring at my rack of clothes with blind eyes.

“Yeah. Shannon?”

His tone changed, letting me know he planned to take the subject in the direction we’d both been avoiding.

I snatched a pair of jeans from a hanger. It went flying. “I’m really running late—”

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said.

Not a smooth segue, but then, ‘it’ had loomed in the background during our entire conversation. ‘It’ being what we’d done at his house. ‘It’ being what he continued to do to me now. It was insane. Even as we’d talked about Mother’s murder, ‘it’ had been there the whole time.

Just listening to his voice dragged me back to that night. I could still feel his body pressed against mine. His mouth on my breast. The tugging. The wetness. Everything bounced between us like a flaming boomerang.

I yanked an ankle boot from the shoetree, retrieved its mate, and strode back into my room to flop on the edge of the bed. “I can’t talk about this now.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Suit yourself.” His voice was sandpaper rough. “But it’s not going away.”

SHANNON

____________________________

He was right. It didn’t go away. The second I laid eyes on him at Rascal’s Wednesday afternoon, the intensity ignited. The drive to Valene Campbell’s was as uncomfortable as I’d feared, and if I thought I’d have a reprieve once we arrived at our destination, I had to think again.

Even as we followed Jane Younger down the hall of her federal style home, I had to fight to keep my mind on the task at hand. I made a point of not looking at Trace since it would just lead to distraction.

Instead, I concentrated on the waspish, middle-aged woman in front of me.

Jane Younger was a reedy, whey-faced brunette with frosty gray eyes and a brusque gait. Wearing a chignon and a stodgy, gray dress that made a whooshing sound as she walked, she marched us down a corridor flanked by ugly paintings and cheap knickknacks.

The place resembled its owner, cold and hollow.

“I don’t like this,” Jane said. She threw a terse glance at us over her rigid shoulders. “But Nana insisted.”

I exchanged a guarded look with Trace. “We do appreciate your hospitality, Ms. Younger.”

“Just don’t upset her,” came the snippy reply. To Trace she said, “Had I been home to receive your call, you wouldn’t be here. Only reason you are now is because Nana answered.”

We came to a long staircase and Trace stepped back in deference to the stodgy Ms. Younger. He gave her a good ‘ol boy grin, and the corners of her pencil-thin lips fell south.

When we’d reached the top, Jane led us to a sitting room that smelled of mothballs and liniment. A bay window centered the stone-faced south wall. Light speared across the hardwood floor from a lone table lamp.

Jane approached a small, shriveled old woman with steel-gray hair. She sat hunched over in a wooden wheelchair by the window. A thin green quilt draped her spindly legs.

“Nana?” Jane spoke as if she were conversing with a child. “Your visitors are here. This is Shannon Bradford and—”

“I know who she is,” Valene snapped. She did a complete one-eighty when she flashed a cavernous smile at me. “The Little Miss. How’ve you been?”

“Just fine, Mrs. Campbell. And yourself?”

“Can’t complain. Can’t complain.” She hiked a frail shoulder, then cast a testy glance at her granddaughter. “‘Cept for Janie hiding my mail and screening my calls. Thinks she’s my mother, she does. Um-hmm.”

“Oh, Nana, please.” Jane rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand. She turned to Trace who stood behind the old woman. “This is Mister….” She frowned into a unibrow. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

Panic made my pulse dance. We’d not given his full name for good reason. Trace had mentioned that when he’d spoken to Mrs. Campbell on the phone, she told him to use another name. Jane wouldn’t have let him in otherwise. So we’d introduced him as Mr. Phillips—a play off his middle name.

Before Trace could respond, Valene turned an eye on him. When he came around the chair, she extended a claw-like hand. Her knuckles were bulbous and liver-spotted. “Tracemore Dawson, as I live and breathe.”

Jane Younger’s eyes bugged out of her head. She sputtered, “Trace Dawson? You mean The Butcher—”

“Yep, that’s the one.” Valene chuckled as Trace squatted beside her wheelchair to clasp her hand. “Run along now, Janie. I’ll be fine.”

“But Nana—”

“Run along,” Valene drawled, her smile as crooked and toothless as it was brittle. “And close the door.”

Jane batted a worried look between Trace and me. “See that you don’t get her worked up,” she hissed. After one last cagey glance at Trace, she stalked out and shut the door soundly behind her.

I stood over the old woman’s chair. “If this is a bad time….”

“Forget about Janie,” Valene said. “That’s just her way.” Trace was still crouched beside her, his face expressionless. She patted his hand. “Hearing your voice last week was a blessing. I didn’t think you wanted to see me, boy. I wasn’t even sure you got my letter, much less read it.”

There was something in his eyes when he looked at the old woman, something I couldn’t read. Anxiety? Resentment? Maybe a little of both. “Well, I’m here,” he said in a low, edgy voice. “And I’m listenin’.”

The web of lines in Valene’s careworn face deepened. She shook her gray head and the loose bun tacked to her crown drooped to the left. “Sorry about your mama, boy,” she said in a quiet voice. “A sweet soul, that Dottie. Um-hmm.”

“Yes, ma’am, she was,” Trace muttered, his eyes hard.

Talk about awkward moments. I pulled up a chair and joined them, anxious to pick the old woman’s brain. “We don’t want to take too much of your time.” I slipped my cell phone from my purse. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

Mrs. Campbell looked taken aback for a moment. She glanced off. “Well…no. No, I guess I don’t mind, Little Miss.” She folded her gnarled hands. “This is a great opportunity for me. Now I get to say what I didn’t in the letter I sent Tracemore. So yeah, record away.” She gave a solemn nod. “Go on. Park yourself.”

Trace pushed to a stand and grabbed an armless Windsor chair from the corner. He flipped the thing around, straddled it and propped his arms over the back.

We formed a triangle, with the wheelchair-bound woman making the top point. He glanced at me, but didn’t hold my gaze. Even with this old woman in the room, the tension from earlier was still there, still sharp—still hot.

We’d barely spoken ten words on the long drive over here.

“First things first,” Valene said, looking at me. “You have questions about Lily.”

Lily? I wasn’t used to hearing Mother referred to in such familiar terms, especially by a former servant. But then, I suspected there were more surprises to come.

“How well did you know Miz Bradford?” Trace asked.

Valene flicked her gaze at the ceiling and the cataract in her left eye caught the light. “Oh, I knew her real good. Um-hmm. Too good, actually.” She sighed. “Always figured she’d self-destruct. First time she showed up for a meeting, I sensed it. It was the darkness. Lost souls give it off, you know.”

Trace rested his chin on a fist. “What meeting?”

“AA. That’s where me and Lily first met.”

I blinked hard. “Alcoholics Anonymous?”

“Don’t be surprised.” Valene chuckled and her expression warmed. “Yes, I’m an alcoholic. Been dry twenty-three years.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Campbell….” I shook my head. “It’s just such a surprise. I didn’t know Mother had sought help.”

The old woman gave a swift nod. “Oh, she did. Many times. Went back to the meetings after your daddy died. Master Harrison’s passing was a wake-up call for her, but she didn’t stick it out. Every day I asked her to get help knowing what she was doing to you.” She lowered her eyes. “I just didn’t do enough, I guess. I’m sorry, Little Miss.”

Absolution. That’s why Valene Campbell wanted to meet. She’d carried this guilt for years. The three of us had a lot in common there. I reached out and squeezed her hand.

Valene slanted a glance at Trace. “They never should’ve sent you away. I always know’d you was innocent. Would’ve said as much were it not for that green-eyed devil.”

Trace and I exchanged a puzzled look.

Valene’s toothless mouth worked. “Gray,” she spat the name out like a curse. “Lord, but it feels good to get this off my chest.” Then she whispered, “He’s why Janie didn’t want me speakin’ with ya. She was just trying to protect me.”

TRACE

____________________________

Now stuff was getting interesting. I tipped the chair forward, my attention lasered on the old woman. “Did Sheriff Gray make a threat?”

Her silver brows crested. “In a way, yes. It started with the calls. First one come ‘bout two months before you got out.”

“That’s when I started asking questions,” Shannon added.

“I answered his first call,” Valene said. “Got so mad my pressure shot up. It put me in the hospital for a week. Janie—she started answering the phone after that. She had them rollin’ over to her cell phone so she could deal with ‘im.” Valene’s eyes lifted to me. “If she hadn’t forgotten to take the phone with her the day you called, y’all wouldn’t be here.”

“Wow.” Surprise edged Shannon’s voice. “So Jane really was concerned about your health.”

“Oh, yeah. I tole you, Gray gets me worked up. She worries ‘cause I’m all she’s got. What, with her husband dead. No chil’ren of her own. A sad one, she is, my Jane.” Valene pursed her lips, then reached for Shannon’s hand. “I tried to help you when you was little, but that devil Gray had something on me.”

“He was blackmailing you?” I asked.

Valene tossed a nod in my direction. “‘Cept money wasn’t involved. I called him the night before Lily died when y’all had the pool fight—soon as I hung up with Dottie. I thought it would help since Gray was Master Harrison’s best friend.” She swung a look at Shannon. “I tole him Lily was still beating on you.”

“Still?” Shannon frowned. “You called him before?”

“Lotsa times. I even threatened to contact Protective Services. That’s when his devil side came out.”

I tipped the chair forward some more. The whole situation was twisted as hell. “Go on.”

“I did some things in my youth that I’m not proud of,” she said staring off. “Gray found out and tole me long as I kept my mouth shut, my secrets was safe.”

“So you were afraid?” I asked.

She gave a helpless shrug. “My husband didn’t know of my other life. Gray said he’d make it so nobody would hire me.” Her eyes pleaded. “Can you forgive me, boy? Please say you can.”

I knew how it felt to have your livelihood threatened. Lilith had done it to Mama and me. When you’re dirt-poor, money, or the lack of it, can bring even the strongest people to their knees. Mrs. Campbell was no exception.

I looked the old woman in the eye. Hers were liquid. “Yeah,” I said. “I think I can do that.”

She sniffed, dabbing her cheeks with a corner of the quilt. Relief softened the lines in her face. “Thank you.”

Shannon glanced from me to Valene, waited a few moments for the old woman to collect herself, then, “Why didn’t Uncle Jackson want you to talk?”

“I haven’t a clue, dear heart. Him and your family were very secretive. They didn’t want nobody sayin’ nothin’. And they had the money and power to get away with it, too. Said we all better catch amnesia about Lilith and Sears—”

Shannon’s mouth fell open.

So did mine.

Valene drew back. “Y’all didn’t know?” When we both shook our heads, her gray brows twisted. “Lord, I thought Lily’s obsession was common knowledge. Dottie knew. We all did.”

“My Uncle had an affair…with my mother?”

“Oh, nothing like that,” Valene said. “Not that Lily didn’t try—she was in love with him. But he only had eyes for Hesta.”

Shannon wilted into the seat. “My God.”

“Lily fought with Sears the day Master Harrison was laid to rest,” Valene went on. “Threw herself at him, but he rejected her. Said he loved his wife. So Lily got desperate and threatened to lie—to tell Hesta they was involved anyway. She never did, but her threat made Sears very angry.” Valene’s sympathetic eyes zeroed in on Shannon. “No offense, but I always believed she married your daddy just so she could have a version of Sears—them bein’ twins and all.”

Words Lilith Bradford had once spoken finally clicked. …the man I love doesn’t want me.

“How long was this thing with Lilith and Sears going on?” I asked.

“Years, but he rejected her every time,” Valene said. “It just made her more bitter. She was middle-aged, dreading the other side of forty. With her beauty fading, she feared she’d never find love again.” Valene’s eyes darkened. “So she turned destructive. Started taking up with younger men. She refused to grow old gracefully.” Her pensive gaze rested on Shannon. “That’s why she went crazy when you first got your menses.”

Shannon colored.

But the old woman kept on. “I don’t mean to embarrass you. I just want to help you understand Lily.” She set her sights on me. “The evenin’ y’all had the pool fight, she told me she’d hit the Little Miss and she was sorry for it.” She looked at Shannon. “You gettin’ your menses made her even more scared of growin’ old. So she took her fear out on you.”

I muttered a curse. “That’s why you had the bruises when I found you at the gazebo?”

Shannon’s face was somber. “I’d forgotten about this until you told me about the pool.” She stared into her lap. “Mother and I had never talked about…that. I was upset, so I went to her expecting—oh, I don’t know. Maternal comfort.”

“But she went ballistic on you.” I nodded to myself. Now it all made sense. “When she kissed me in her room. The night you broke the vase. She was going on about insurance plans and how stuff was out of her control. I just thought she was drunk, but now I see she was scared of getting old. She also said somethin’ about loving a man who didn’t love her back.”

“That would be Sears,” Valene put in. “With each rejection, the drinking got worse…as did her abusiveness.”

Shannon raked her bangs off her face. “The sheriff blackmails you into silence about the abuse and Mother’s obsession with Uncle. But he couldn’t care less about the Bradford name. So what’s the connection?”

“It’s there,” I said. “We just gotta find the key.” I looked at Valene. “You think Sears killed her?”

Valene sighed. “That ornery temperament didn’t endear her to most. She had lotsa enemies.” Her gaze drifted to the window and beyond—to the manicured backyard with its naked trees and snow-dappled shrubs. “But I still miss Lily. She was like a daughter to me—wayward, but still a daughter. Not a year goes by that I don’t visit her grave. I say a few words. Leave some flowers.” She turned her eyes on Shannon. “I see yours there too.”

Shannon looked confused. “I’ve never left flowers, Mrs. Campbell. In fact, I’m ashamed to say I rarely visit.”

“Oh, dearie, that’s understandable.” Valene straightened, furrowed her brows. “I just assumed they come from you ‘cause I visit her the same time every year. First week in January, near her birthday. Somebody always leaves a dozen calla lilies before me.” She worked her lips. “Guess she’s got an admirer, um-hmm.”

I frowned. “Sears?”

“Can’t see anyone but family keeping a vigil like that,” Valene said. “But it could be one of her young men.”

“A vigil,” Shannon murmured. “Joe DiMaggio did that too.”

“Yes he did.” Valene smiled. “Left flowers on Marilyn’s grave for twenty years.”

An ominous feeling ate at me. “Maybe it’s not a vigil. Maybe it’s a guilt offering.”

Valene bobbed her head. “Could be. Could be.”

“What about Sheriff Gray?” Shannon asked.

“Him give her flowers?” Valene harrumphed. “He wouldn’t lay a dandelion on her grave, much less some hothouse posies.” The old woman’s cataract hit the light again. “He hated her.”

I let that sink in. “Where’s Lilith’s grave anyway?”

“Same place as Dottie’s,” Valene said. “At Grace Brethren.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

New Memories

TRACE

____________________________

I strode down the flagstone path of Jane Younger’s three-story house. Shannon marched ahead. Icy air stung the back of my throat, but the anger kept me warm enough. The main thing on my mind was Mama’s grave and the heartless cowards who’d violated it. I gazed heavenward.

The sun had gone missing somewhere in the smoke-colored sky, and except for the occasional wind gust, the woodsy neighborhood was as quiet as a morgue.

Something wicked loomed on the horizon.

I caught up with Shannon in the driveway. Eyes narrowed, she pointed the alarm remote at her Volvo. The car chirped and the locks disengaged with a loud click.

After I opened her door, she slipped behind the wheel in brisk silence while I came around the passenger side and hopped in. She rammed the key into the ignition and floored the gas. The engine growled.

“I didn’t know Lilith was buried there too.” I snatched my seatbelt, channeling my anger. “It just makes me wonder.”

“About what?”

“Why they wrecked Mama’s grave.” Bile burned hot in my stomach. “Grace Brethren is the priciest cemetery in the area. Me coming back may have provoked the vandal into doing somethin’ he wanted to do all along. What if he was pissed that she had the balls to be buried in the same place—”

“As her son’s murder victim,” Shannon finished with grim finality. “Yes, I thought about that too.” Gripping the wheel so tight her knuckles paled, she stared straight ahead, then sank her forehead against the back of her hands. “I’m not sure I even want to know the truth now. It just keeps getting uglier.”

“Hey, c’mere.” I curled an arm around her so her head rested against my shoulder. God, she smelled good. That and the feel of her soft body next to mine nipped the edge off my anger. I kissed her temple. “Whatever happens, I’m here, okay?”

Nodding, she said, “I guess I need to speak with Uncle.”

“What? Now?”

“No, I’ll have to wait until he gets home next week.” One awkward pause later, she added, “He’s in LA…with Darien.”

Jealousy tore into me like a set of fangs, but I kept the venom from my voice. “You think Sears killed her?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Montgomery’s unspoken presence lingered when she pulled back and looked at me with nervous eyes. “Um, the…the grave desecration is too base for Uncle. If anything, he’d pay someone else to do it. That’s his MO. I just want to see his reaction when I tell him I know about Mother’s obsession.”

“What makes you think he’ll tell you anything?”

“He won’t,” she answered, her expression still wary. “It’s what he doesn’t say that matters.”

“What about your aunt? You gonna confront her?”

“No, she’ll just back him up. It’s what she always does. Anyway, I think I’ll call every flower shop in New Dyer. Calla lilies aren’t cheap. I also want to visit Cheltenham Manor.” Her eyes turned hopeful. “Will you go with me?”

I nodded, but inside a battle raged. Some hero I was. I’d had nightmares about that place for years, so just the thought of going back there again scared the piss out of me.

SHANNON

____________________________

“I hope this expedition is more fruitful than my calla lily idea,” I said when Trace and I arrived at Cheltenham Manor two days later. “A million flower shops in Temptation and New Dyer and no one’s ordered any since September.”

Trace was staring out of his window. He’d been pensive since I’d picked him up at the garage half an hour ago. “You try Main Street Flowers in Willow’s Corner?” he asked, distractedly.

“Yes, and Tori Mills was especially rude. She has the biggest mouth in West Virginia, yet she’s got the gall to lecture me about customer confidentiality?”

“Leave it to me. I’ll—” Slack-jawed, he stopped mid-word once the estate mounted above the treetops. Sheltered behind acres of evergreens and dogwoods, it looked like an old southern belle who’d lost her beauty—the sort who donned the same faded cotillion gown of her youth whenever company called.

My heart pounded when the Volvo coasted to a stop on the gravelly square. I loosened my death grip on the steering wheel and gaped at the heap of ivy and moss-covered brick. There’d been a few caretakers over the years, but the place eventually fell into disrepair. Without a word, Trace climbed out, came around and opened my door. How could he be so fearless when I was anything but? I wasn’t ready. I needed time—to prepare, to think. Just a few more minutes to—

Trace extended a hand. “Come on,” he said, as if reading my mind. “Twelve years is time enough.”

There was an intimacy between us, a strengthening of trust, and I knew right then that I’d be okay as long as he was nearby. I took his hand and followed his lead up the path to the carriage house. The sound of our footsteps filled the hush. Bushes guarded the walkway on either side. Willow branches dripped from above. Dead weeds sprouted through the cobblestone cracks beneath us. It was just as I remembered, but then again, it was not. Scents I hadn’t smelled in ages came trickling back, but they’d changed somehow.

I’d expected to feel something more than…numbness. Yes, numbness. This place had given me many nightmares over the years, but now? It was just an old estate with untended land—an imposter who’d been unmasked.

Relief made me breathe a little easier, yet when we reached the path’s end, I felt as steady as a paper doll in the wind. There it was, Mother’s death house, looking just as dark and ominous as before.

Trace gripped my shoulders, ducking down so we were eye level. “No going back now. All right?”

I swallowed, gave an uneasy nod, my mind screaming just the opposite. But after he laced our hands together again, strength leached from him to me, and I was comforted.

As we ventured around the side of a cottage-style guesthouse, I concentrated on nothing else but the rock-steady hand holding mine.

Trace let my hand go to trot to the center of the driveway and the feeling lingered. His energy level seemed to increase with each step. “I got here about ten or so.” He looked around. “I snuck through there.” He pointed at some boxwoods, strode ten feet and pointed again. “Here’s where I found the spade.”

I watched him in awe. Watched how everything he’d had bottled up, spilled out. He was reliving it all, but instead of crushing him, this visit appeared to free him somehow.

His gaze darted in one direction after another as he spoke. “I grabbed it thinking the gardener had dropped it by mistake.”

I came up next to him. “It was clean?”

He nodded, clasped my hand and led me over a bowed bridge overlooking a small, man-made pond. The carriage house lay just beyond it. Once there, I gave him the keys and after he’d fiddled with the lock, the brass-studded door thundered open like a giant who’d been startled awake from a long nap.

I stared into the musty darkness as the doorknob thumped the wall. I didn’t move when he ventured inside, opening shades and blinds, testing doors. The sun, muted as it was, meshed with the light spilling from a hole in the roof.

A sense of detachment settled over me as I crept past the threshold and ambled around, taking it all in. A splintered wooden table. A stack of water-damaged oil paintings. Rusty tools strewn across the floor. Spider webs and mounds of dust. I could hardly contain my relief, it was so acute.

There was nothing to fear, nothing at all, nothing until….

I stepped on that floorboard.

The familiar squeak hit me like a sledgehammer. Age and time had given the sound strength. Intensity. Everything blurred, and tears filled my eyes, falling with blinding speed. Now I remembered the sight of Mother lying in a pool of blood, her dead eyes staring up at nothing. Now I remembered how I’d felt—the realization that I was an orphan. No father, no mother, a child’s worst nightmare. I gasped when my back smacked a wall. It felt like I was teetering on a ledge, and I was terrified of falling.

Trace immediately snatched me into his sheltering arms.

“The s-squeak,” I sobbed. “It squeaked when I f-fell to m-my knees—b-by Mother’s b-body. F-first sound. It s-squeaked.”

“Hey…hey. Breathe, Shannon. Breathe.”

“This is why I…couldn’t…come here. On my own. Too afraid.” I keened. “I’m a coward.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Y-yes, I am. The w-worst kind. That’s why I never went…to her grave. That’s why I never came back here. I was s-scared. Deep down I suspected something wasn’t right in my head…with all…all the memories. So I avoided anything that would…challenge what I believed—M-mother, oh, Mother.”

“Shhh.” He tenderly lifted my hair from my face. “Hey. I wouldn’t even be here if not for all your pushing and badgering. You’re the brave one,” he whispered kissing me as I sobbed. “And I admire the hell out of you.” He hugged me close. “Go on now. Cry all you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

My knees gave and I sank to the floor, taking him with me. Twelve years of grief flooded my heart. Years of pain denied. The child I’d vanquished was back, had never left, and now that little girl wanted her due.

Trace cradled me in his lap and murmured words of comfort. Once more, he told me how much he admired and respected me, and that I wasn’t alone. He swept my hair aside, kissed a tear away, and sipped at the next one. Each healing touch stirred something hidden, until I responded in kind, and in a flash, the mood shifted. He dragged his lips over my eyes, and lower still, to kiss the tip of my nose, all the while whispering assurances. How could desire come alive here, in this crypt of death? But it had, and want him, I did.

Feelings we’d tried to bury clawed to the surface. Breaths tangled, and lips fused in an untamed rhapsody. This wasn’t the childish lip banging I’d given him years ago—in this very room—when I’d surprised him while he was sleeping. This kiss was deep, dark, and carnal.

His fingertips drifted over my face, imprisoning me while his hungry mouth moved over mine. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was wild and seasoned with tears and pain. He fisted my hair, ate at my lips, ripped his mouth away on a gasp, then came back. And I was right there with him, matching his passion.

But our kisses ended all too soon when Trace drew back. We stared in bemused silence, battling for breath, neither of us comprehending what had just happened. Outside, the building groaned against the gentle lash of the wind. Inside, tension vibrated like a plucked wire.

I swept my gaze over him as his Adam’s apple dipped and climbed. His lips were as swollen as mine felt. That I’d lost control with him again, in here of all places, confused me even more. What the hell was I doing?

Gasping for air, Trace knelt before me, his eyes searching my face. “Listen up, ‘cause I don’t want you to miss a word of this.” He pressed his forehead to mine and stroked my cheeks with his thumbs. “Doc says that the best way to kill a monster is to embrace it, and then create new memories. In your case, the monster’s right here, and we’ve just stared it down.”

He brushed my lips with his once more. “As for creating new memories, if the monster rears up again—what I’m about to tell you…I want it to be the first thing that comes to your mind.” He ran the fingers of one hand along my shoulder, trailing them up and down my arm. “Remember when you woke me with a kiss in this room? And how I gave you some song and dance about you being too good for me? Well, just the memory of your lips made me ache. All day. It got so bad I had to do something about it.”

He swallowed, looked away, then focused back on me. “So I did. Right here in this room…and many times after it.” At my stunned stare, he stroked my cheek tenderly and said, “Yeah, Shannon. I finished myself off, on just the memory of that kiss.”

My heart was thumping so hard I could feel it in my throat. I should’ve been disturbed by his confession, but I wasn’t. If anything, his shocking words aroused and excited me.

Trace slipped a bloodstained handkerchief from his pocket. The one I’d given him. He brushed it along my neck, raised it to his nose, and closed his eyes to sniff long and deep. Then he smiled down at my widened eyes.

“It lost most of your scent since the limo ride,” he said, “but there was still enough for me to finish what we’d started that night at my house.”

My mouth fell open in shock, but he smiled again. “I didn’t just take a shower while you were waiting. I went to my room, pulled this thing from a drawer, and dealt with the hard-on you left me with. I buried my nose in this hanky and pretended my other hand was yours.” I swallowed as he tucked the hanky away, then cupped my cheek. “So the next time this room comes to mind, I want you to remember me and what I just told you.”

My cell phone screamed at my hip. I jumped. Breathless, I snatched the gadget from my pocket.

My voice came out husky…uneven. “Th-this is Shannon Bradford.”

“Hi. It’s Bev O’Dell.”

I immediately looked to Trace who’d since gotten to his feet. He drew away as I shoved up. “Um, I have to take this,” I said, still stunned and trembling from his words. He nodded as I slipped outside and whispered, “How did you get this number?”

“Your office. I said I was a client.”

I paced the bridge, hugging myself against the cold wind slapping me in every direction. “What do you want?”

“I needed to say I’m sorry. For Patrick. For my silence.” Beverly sighed. “You can’t forgive me, can you?”

I licked my kiss-swollen lips, still tasting Trace. “It’s not for me to judge.”

“Cholly said Tracemore’s with you.” She paused. “Can you talk to my brother for me? Tell him I’m sorry? I’ve left messages, but he won’t return my calls.”

I glanced in the picture window. Trace had disappeared down a hallway. “I can’t make him do anything.”

“Please. I’m desperate.”

I propped my palm on my forehead as my mind raced. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I’m not askin’, I’m beggin’.”

I weighed my options. Finding none, I went back in as Trace reemerged. “Hold on,” I said to Beverly. After a hasty prayer, I slowly offered him the phone. “It’s for you.”

He was rummaging through a dusty box. “Huh?”

“It’s your sister.”

His back stiffened. He drew up in silence, dug his hands into his pockets and wandered to the picture window in the front where he stood, gazing outside. “Take a message.”

A lump welled in my throat. “But, Trace—”

“Take. A damn. Message.”

I blinked at his brittle tone and searched for words. “Ah, he…he can’t talk right now, Beverly. I’m sorry.”

“You mean he won’t,” came the sad reply.

I didn’t answer, just fixed my eyes on his rigid shoulders. When the line went dead, I shoved the phone back into my pocket. It was hard not to take his rude admonition personally. “She’s your sister for God’s sake.”

He was still staring outside. “I need time.”

“Then why couldn’t you have said that?”

“Leave it alone, Shannon.”

Minutes went by without either of us speaking. Our reckless moment and the aftermath of Beverly’s call, lingered. This was going nowhere fast, so I flipped the channel in my brain. “How was Mother lying when you found her?”

He angled around and met my gaze. The wall that had separated us before was back. I could see it in his face.

He stared up at the ceiling as if to pull a memory down. “On her side, with her head resting against her shoulder,” he said in monotone. “There was a blood trail from her to that door over there.” He hitched his chin at the short hallway that led to a loft and the rear exit. “It happened in the garden.”

A chill slivered through me. “She must have crawled inside while the killer fled. Ours were the only footprints.”

I tried to imagine things as they were. The cement floor in the next room. The workbench. The tools hanging on the walls.

“I saw you from that hallway.” I nodded toward the rear. “You were kneeling beside her and when I made a noise, you looked up. So I ducked. Then….” I rubbed my temples, fighting to capture a fuzzy image. “Did you give her mouth-to-mouth?”

His brow lifted. “That damn sure wasn’t in your testimony.”

“Because I just remembered it.” I kneaded the bridge of my nose. “My God, what else have I forgotten?” What else, indeed. But how desperate was I to find out? I took a shuddery breath. “Can you get me an appointment?”

“With who?”

I fortified my resolve and looked him square in the eyes. “Your psychiatrist. I’m ready to try hypnosis.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Woman On Fire

SHANNON

____________________________

Harrison Bradford’s younger brother lurked in the study doorway beneath a row of recessed ceiling lights. “What are you doing in here, gumdrop?”

I gripped the armrests of the club chair as he closed the doors behind him. Though I’d rehearsed what I’d planned to say to Uncle Sears a million times, it hadn’t stopped the automatic clenching in my stomach.

“We need to talk,” I said with false calm.

“I already told you I had nothing to do with blacklisting that vile man.”

“This isn’t about Trace.”

“Well, it’s obviously about something just as unpleasant, given that sour face of yours.” Light and shadow rippled over Uncle’s tall, rawboned frame as he approached me. Despite the paunch clotting his middle, he had the grace of a panther and the stride of a man in control of himself and those around him.

He’d combed his wavy silver-blonde hair back, taming it with pomade. Narrow-faced and clean-shaven, he wore his usual evening garb: navy blue satin PJs and a matching smoking jacket. He took a seat on the leather sofa across from me. “Is this ‘talk’ the reason you were quiet at dinner as well?”

Quiet? Try angry. Try anxious—and betrayed. “Did Auntie know about Mother’s obsession with you?”

He registered momentary surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“I visited Valene Campbell, Cheltenham Manor’s old cook. She said Mother was in love with you. Did Auntie know?”

His walls went up immediately.

I watched him weigh all the ‘what ifs,’ and ‘why nots.’ If he answered me, he’d be acknowledging something he wanted to avoid, but if he didn’t….

“I never told her,” he finally replied begrudgingly.

His admission left me temporarily speechless. “Why not?”

“I wanted to spare her feelings.”

“Did Mother tell her?”

“Of course not. Lilith was too much of a coward. Luckily your Aunt still believes that woman gave a damn about her.”

I kept my expression neutral. “Mrs. Campbell also said Uncle Jackson blackmailed her into keeping silent.”

Sears removed a crisp, white hanky from his breast pocket and slid his glasses off. He started cleaning them, his movements smooth. Arching a brow, he asked, “Was this visit in any way connected to your trip to Cheltenham Manor?”

I hadn’t seen that one coming. “How in the world—”

“Someone observed you leaving. With him.”

In times past, I’d have stumbled right into Uncle’s trap. He and Auntie would put me on the defensive. They’d ram the same nauseating twaddle about appearances down my throat. Then I’d give the appropriate contrite response. They’d trained me better than Pavlov trained his dogs.

I met his accusing stare. “What went on between Mother and you? Have you ever left calla lilies at her grave?”

He shoved his glasses back on. Scowling, he tossed the hanky, then pushed off the sofa and started pacing.

Ah, yes, Uncle was definitely rattled.

“I’m seeing a hypnotist,” I announced, feeling rather smug and liking it. “I’ve already had two consultations with him. Next time, he’s going to try and put me under, but before he does, is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

Tension sharpened his features as he ran a hand up and down his left arm. “I don’t know what has gotten into you, but some things are best left alone.”

His abrupt change in temperament intrigued me. I eased myself up. Studying him like a painting that had just been unveiled, I stepped closer. “Trace is innocent. He tried to help me, but you know that already, don’t you?”

“I know no such thing,” he countered. “And his motives for helping you now aren’t as altruistic as you think.”

“Spare me.” I propped my fists on my hips. “FYI, Uncle, I saw him give Mother mouth-to-mouth. Why would a spade-wielding Bluebeard do that?”

“Remorse. Guilt. How should I know?” Still massaging his arm, he glared at me. He was becoming more agitated by the second. “Whatever you think you remember didn’t happen. It’s just something your mind cooked up. Lilith ended their affair, fired him, and so he killed her.”

I shook my head. “You’re actually starting to believe your own lies.”

He tore away to the mini bar, splashed a few fingers of brandy into a snifter. After draining it, he slammed the stem down and rounded on me. “Don’t you find it strange no one else got murdered after they threw that scoundrel in jail?”

“First you said it was a crime of passion, now you’re trying to make him into a serial killer? Which is it, Uncle? Lizzie Borden or Ted Bundy?”

“Both,” he said with a haughty lift of a brow.

As I considered his defiant eyes, my body pulsed with determination. “You know something? I’ll get the truth. Even if I have to drive to Roanoke and camp outside Uncle Jackson’s house.” Folding my arms, I invaded his personal space with deliberate ease. I wanted him as uncomfortable as possible. “Admit it. I saw something the morning Mother died.” When his face blanched, I smiled. “Never mind. I have my answer.”

“I swear, if you continue with this, I’ll….”

“You’ll what?”

At that exact moment, the massive double doors burst open. They hit the walls with a raucous thump. Auntie stormed in. The silky train of her white geisha lounging pajamas fluttered behind her.

She looked from Uncle to me. “What in God’s name is going on in here?”

“Ask him,” I said as I slammed out of the room.

SHANNON

____________________________

“Give me the benefit of the doubt for once,” I hissed into my office phone. “I’m telling you they’re all lying.”

“No, you think they’re lying,” Darien amended. “Look, you asked about hypnosis from a legal perspective and I’m telling you, it’s a hard sell. Anyway, there’s no reason to let some quack go poking around in your head.”

“I’ll never know what happened otherwise.”

“You solved the letter mystery. Why isn’t that enough?”

My pulse pounded. “This isn’t about the letter!”

“Since when? For weeks, you’ve been going on about some grand conspiracy. You tell me Patrick O’Dell forged your name, but you refuse to press charges. Why? Because you’re hell-bent on proving your family’s involved in a murder cover-up. Can’t you see how insane this sounds? Damn. Hold on. I’ve got another incoming.” The line clicked. “Darien Montgomery.”

This made the third interruption. Why the hell couldn’t he just ignore the calls? “It’s still me,” I ground out.

“Oh, sorry. I’ll be right back.”

When he switched over, I glowered at the lobby. My staff had mounted a laughable attempt to look otherwise occupied, but any idiot could see they’d been eavesdropping.

Moments ago, my discussion with Darien had lapsed into a heated debate. No doubt, my audience had overheard more than it should have.

“Sorry,” he said. “Now what do you know about this quack?”

Chair wheels creaked when I scooted forward. I didn’t mention Dr. Rosen’s name since Darien would recognize it from the research he’d done about Trace’s letter.

“The doctor isn’t a quack. He’s a board certified—”

“How long has he been in practice?” Darien’s voice boomed in my ear. “And what the hell happened to get you this worked up? You’ve been reading the transcripts again, haven’t you?”

“If what I suspect is true, they’re riddled with lies and distortions.” I rested my forehead on my palm. “The last thing I need is to cloud my brain with nonsense. Uncle Jackson was like a father to me and after he moved, the relationship stayed warm until I started asking questions.”

“I don’t doubt it. You’ve been calling him a liar.”

“Trace reported Mother to him. It was the night before the murder. Then later, Uncle Jackson said Trace’s claims were unfounded. Under oath. He said no one saw anything. He stuck to this lie even during Gartner’s cross!”

“This is old news. Jackson questioned everybody. Nobody corroborated Dawson’s crazy claims. Not his mother. Not even you.”

“Because they manipulated us all!”

“Do you hear yourself? This is crazy talk.”

I bolted up and started moving around like a caged animal. “Someone—either Uncle Sears, Uncle Jackson, or both—did something to me. I read my testimony. I couldn’t have been that convincing on my own. I was coached.”

Darien’s hard sigh made my eardrum vibrate. “Sears called me. He’s worried about you. He said you were with Dawson.”

I rolled my eyes. “Worried my ass….”

“So it’s true?”

“They’re all lying and you’re pointing fingers at me?”

“Damn it, Shannon, you broke your promise!”

I jarred to a stop, raked my fingers through my hair, and whispered, “A promise I never should have made. My biggest mistake was in relying on you and everyone else.” I flopped into my chair. “Uncle tells you I’m crazy, and you believe it because you’ve got him on a pedestal. That’s what’s going on here. He says jump, and you—”

“Hey, I’m not the bad guy here. Neither is Sears.”

“That he might’ve killed Mother never crossed your mind?”

“More crazy talk,” he snapped. “Dawson was guilty—is guilty. You can rationalize this forever, but he brought it on himself when he picked up that garden spade.”

“Picked up is right. He found it in the driveway.”

“No. He claimed he found it in the driveway.”

“Just like Uncle Sears claims I wasn’t manipulated,” I slammed back. “You can’t have it both ways.”

Darien raised his voice. “What the hell are you talking about? He confessed!”

“No, he didn’t. He was bullied into a plea bargain.”

“You mean I bullied him, right?”

I shook my head in disbelief. “This isn’t even about him, is it? This is about you being wrong. Because if he didn’t do it, then you convicted an innocent man. God forbid the great Darien Montgomery, Esquire, should make a mistake.”

“I don’t deserve that. Especially not from you!”

I slapped my palm on the desk. “You weren’t there and neither were those jurors. I was. The boy I knew back then couldn’t have squashed a bug!”

My ears were burning. I looked up to find five sets of curious eyes on me. My staff had gathered around the water cooler. They’d spoken in hushed whispers, but upon discovery, they broke into exaggerated chatter.

I swiveled my chair around. “I have to go.”

Darien must have sensed the chasm between us had grown dangerously wide. “I don’t want us to part like this,” he said gently. “I need to know we’re okay.” He paused. “Are we?”

Shame doused my anger, but its source had changed. Now I felt guilty for the lie I was about to tell. “We’re fine.”

“Well, good.” He sounded relieved. “I wanted to surprise you, but I’m coming home early for Christmas. We’ve been apart so long, I fear you’ve forgotten what I look like.”

Clearly Uncle put him up to it. Home? Now? “But the trial—”

“Kate and the others have a good handle on things,” he said. “Honestly, I need a break—I need you, honey.”

I loved Darien—truly, fiercely, and deeply, but I wasn’t in love with him. Even worse, I feared my heart belonged to another, and maybe it always had.

Only problem was, I didn’t know whether I had the guts to follow it.

The office door chimed. I looked up to witness the Lovejoys pile in wearing the longest faces I’d ever seen. Ian nodded at Beatrice and led his wife to a seat. Something was wrong. Had I forgotten an appointment with them? I rifled through my day planner. No. They weren’t closing for another week.

“Ah, Darien, I need to go. I’ll call you later.”

As soon as I hung up, Beatrice’s voice exploded from the intercom. “The Lovejoys are here and there’s a Judy Mott from Dr. Rosen’s office on line 2. They had a cancellation and can fit you in tomorrow morning at 10:45. Is that good?”

“Yes, tell her I’ll take it.” I acknowledged the Lovejoys with a genial glance as I speed dialed Trace.

He answered on the first ring. “Hey, you.”

“Hey yourself.” His welcoming voice soothed my frayed nerves. “Dr. Rosen has an opening for me tomorrow morning. Are you free?”

“Yeah. Of course, but are you sure you’re ready for this?”

My heart fluttered. “No, but he thinks I am.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

No Rainbows

SHANNON

____________________________

Twelve years ago….

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Sheriff Jackson Gray murmured. His ragged brows arched above moss-colored eyes. “I just want to understand what happened. Your mother’s gone now, but I know she’d want you to tell the truth.”

I rocked back and forth in Auntie’s easy chair. My pulse raced. My heart pounded. So far, Uncle Jackson had spoken in a gentle voice, yet impatience lurked beneath the surface. It gave his tone an edge he couldn’t hide.

Five minutes ago, he’d stuck a needle in the back of my hand. It was attached to a tube that connected to an IV bag he’d hung on a pole beside my chair.

Overhead, a ceiling fan churned, the sound like one of those cartoon pterodactyls swooping in for its prey. Light speared from a brass floor lamp he’d set right next to me. It shone so bright, I had to squint to see.

“Shannon, honey?” he continued. “The day your mother died, why’d you stay home? This is official police business. You gotta tell the truth. Otherwise….”

“What?” I croaked.

“You’ll be leaving me no choice.”

Panic burned into me. “Will I go to jail?”

I had no reason to think otherwise. He’d done the same to Trace two weeks ago.

“Really, Jackson!” Auntie’s voice exploded from the rear. She was perched behind me, on the window seat next to Uncle Sears, and I imagined her standing ramrod stiff, with her tiny hands balled on her narrow hips. “This isn’t one of your prison camps, and she’s not a POW. She’s a child, damn you!”

“Shut up,” Uncle Sears hissed. “You know what’s at stake.”

Uncle Jackson smiled at me again, a smile that skirted his eyes. “Yes, honey. I’d have to take you in. Maybe even stick you in a cell. I don’t want to do that. Just tell me what I need to know, and everything’ll be fine. Okay?”

Clad in pink pajamas, I dragged my legs up tight against my chest.

“Now why did you stay home?”

In a muted whisper, I said, “It was volleyball day.”

“So?”

I don’t want to talk about this. Blessed Virgin please make him stop. “I…had to wear shorts.”

“You wanted to wear something else?”

My heart skipped. “Yes.”

“Why, Shannon?”

Please! “Because,” I muttered. “People would see.”

“See what?”

Help me! I’m begging you. I rested my chin against my thighs. “Ah…m-my skin. They’d see my skin.”

“What was wrong with it?”

Tears stung. There was no way out of this. “I h-had…bruises.”

Auntie gasped.

In a move that took a split-second, Uncle Jackson’s gaze dashed from me to her. He delivered a swift but silent rebuke, then looked at me again. “Where were these bruises?”

I sniffed and hugged my knees tighter, afraid if I let go, I’d fall apart. “On my legs. My arms. My back.”

“Did you tell anyone else about this?”

“N-no. Mother said the rainbows were our secret.”

His face paled. “Rainbows?”

I sniffed again. “My bruises—that’s…that’s what she made me call them. Something about G-god giving Noah a rainbow after the…the flood. She said that’s why Noah never forgot—because of the rainbow. So s-she told me that every time I looked at…at the colors, I should remember not to upset her.”

Auntie gasped again.

The sheriff’s throat worked. “Your Mother didn’t give you any bruises,” he said, clearly disturbed. “Do you hear me? You stayed home because you had a stomach ache, understand?”

I shook my head fitfully and my hair slapped my damp cheeks. My eyes were swollen from crying. “Can I please go back to bed?”

“That’ll be enough, Jackson!” Auntie stormed around and stood behind the sheriff. Uncle Sears followed. “Can’t you see she’s—”

The sheriff didn’t move, just flashed a beefy palm to silence her.

My gaze zigzagged from Auntie, whose face was soft with empathy, to Uncle Sears, whose mouth was a grim slash, to Sheriff Gray, whose eyes had narrowed to slits. We’d been at this for more than an hour. I’d answered what seemed like a million questions. Now I wasn’t sure of anything.

I whimpered. “I’m so tired.”

“I won’t be a party to this.” Auntie burst into tears and fled down the hall. Her rapid footsteps echoed.

Uncle Sears moved away. He watched his wife’s retreat through hooded eyes and leaned against the wall. When he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically warm and soothing. “Gumdrop? Were you upset when Trace got fired?”

I stopped mid-sob. The question took me aback. “Y-yes, of course.”

“When you get upset, what happens?” Uncle Sears asked.

Took me a second or so to think. “Um…I-I cry sometimes. Why?”

The sheriff sent him a nod of approval.

Uncle Sears stepped forward. His hands were clasped behind his back while he circled me, his pace slow and easy. I’d seen him do this at the courthouse. Mother had taken me once when I was five just to watch him work.

“Well, you cry when you get upset,” Uncle Sears remarked, his silver-blonde head tilted in thought. Like Father, he’d gone prematurely gray. “Don’t you feel sick sometimes too? I know when I get upset, all kinds of things happen. I’m nervous, and my stomach starts doing strange things.”

That surprised me. Nothing ever rattled Uncle. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. All the time.” He grinned, just like Father used to. They were twin brothers, after all. “I can’t sleep. I can’t eat—did you have breakfast that morning?”

“No,” I said feeling the first measure of calm.

“See? It was your stomach. Wasn’t it?”

“Um-yeah. I guesso.”

“And your Mother never gave you bruises, did she?”

I raised cautious eyes. “Yes.”

“No, she didn’t,” he said with a warm smile.

I started rocking. Oh, yes, she did.

In front of strangers, Lilith Bradford became “nice Mother,” but “mean Mother” always returned once “nice Mother’s” audience had gone.

That’s when “mean Mother” would yell at me, and correct me…and shake me…and beat me…with Father’s sterling silver walking stick.

Sheriff Gray took over again. His eyes were like green daggers. They were the same color as Mother’s. “You had no rainbows—er …bruises,” he said, a vein in his neck pulsing. “Are we clear?”

Mother had a similar vein. It used to do that whenever I displeased her. First the vein, then the screaming, then the hitting.

I looked for reassurance in Uncle Sears’ eyes, but it wasn’t there.

“Shannon!” the sheriff yelled.

I jumped. “No rainbows!”

And just like that, my interrogator’s expression softened. “Excellent. Now I’m about to relax you a little bit more, sweetheart.” He stuck a needle into the IV bag tubing, and almost instantly, warmth slipped up my arm and cradled me. I was floating.

For nearly thirty minutes after this, Uncle Jackson talked softly, calming me, reassuring me, until the panic and fear fell away—making me trust him again.

“Now I want you to do something for me,” he said, smiling. “Look at the ceiling fan above us.” He switched off the bright light. “See it?”

I swallowed convulsively. “Yes.”

“See how the paddles blur as they whiz around and around?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Keep staring at them. Don’t look away.”

I did as I was told. “All right.”

After several minutes had passed, when everything around me started feeling warm and fuzzy, he said, “Imagine a cloud coming down and slipping inside you. It’s fog. White fog that’s so thick it covers everything. All the stuff that makes you sad, all the hurt; imagine the fog taking it away.”

I was drifting out to sea. “Away?”

“Yes, far and away,” he soothed. “Fog is good. Rainbows are bad. Rainbows upset you. We’ll just stuff them in the good fog. Would you like that?”

“Good fog. Yeeeessssssss.”

Five minutes later he said, “You can’t see the bad stuff anymore. You can’t even see us. I’m about to drop this conversation into the fog too—because it upset you. We don’t want you upset. We want nothing but good memories. All you see is truth, and the truth is that there were no rainbows.”

“No rainbows,” I said, trance-like.

“And you had an upset stomach. That’s why you stayed home.”

“Upset stomach,” I parroted. “That’s why I stayed home.”

“All you have now are good memories of your mother. The bad ones are gone. Forever. She was a very good mother. Okay? Keep looking at the fan. See the paddles go round and round?”

“Yes.”

“Go on, say it. Say, round and round.”

“Round and round,” I repeated, “and round and round….”

SHANNON: …and round, and round, and round, and round....

DR. ROSEN: Whispers to Trace. She’s under pretty deep.

SHANNON: …and round and round and round….

DR. ROSEN: Shannon, it’s time to leave Briar.

SHANNON: …and round and round and round….

DR. ROSEN: We’re going to take another trip, all right? Back to Cheltenham Manor. Say goodbye to Sheriff Gray and Uncle Sears.

SHANNON: …and round and round—bye-—and round and round and round….

DR. ROSEN: Good. Let’s pretend I’ve waved a magic wand. Just like before. The fan is gone. The fog has lifted, and you can see everything as it was.

Thirty seconds pass.

DR. ROSEN: Let’s go back to the morning after your mother fired Trace at the pool. Do you remember that day?

SHANNON: Sad voice. Y-yes.

DR. ROSEN: Why did you go to the carriage house?

SHANNON: Had to say goodbye.

DR. ROSEN: To who, sweetheart?

SHANNON: Trace.

DR. ROSEN: Exchanges a look with Trace. You were hoping he’d come back?

SHANNON: Whispers. Uh-huh. But he’s not there. I’m going to take a nap in the loft…I don’t want to miss him.

DR. ROSEN: Okay, fast forward, Shannon. Trace has arrived. Are you still asleep?

SHANNON: Smiles. Dreaming. Trace is in the sky. He’s floating, riding the motorcycle. The bike—it’s loud.

DR. ROSEN: What happens next?

SHANNON: Yawns, stretches arms. I wake up.

DR. ROSEN: You come downstairs and enter the back area of the carriage house. What do you see?

SHANNON: Starts to rock.

DR. ROSEN: Shannon?

SHANNON: Still rocking, begins to cry.

DR. ROSEN: Remember you’re not really there. You’re here with me. Safe. Now tell me what’s happening.

SHANNON: Sniffs, wipes eyes. I’m going to surprise him and sneak downstairs. He’s…. Sniffs again. He’s…. Moans. I don’t want to say! Please don’t make me!

TRACE: Whispers. Doc, I don’t like this.

DR: ROSEN: Presses a finger to his own lips.

DR. ROSEN: It’s all right. Go ahead. Tell me.

SHANNON: Keens.

DR. ROSEN: What’s there, honey?

SHANNON: Wheezes a few times. Mother’s dead! And Trace looks…scared. He has s-something in his hand—a…garden spade!

SHANNON: Rocks and sobs. He’s falling to his knees. He’s turning Mother over! He’s putting his finger on her neck. Whimpers. Now h-he’s—he’s crying and talking to her.

DR. ROSEN: What’s he saying?

SHANNON: I don’t know. Moans. He’s bending over her, blowing into her mouth. Now he’s pressing his hands up and down on her chest. But the blood—it keeps…. Cries. He’s running away!

DR. ROSEN: What are you doing now?

SHANNON: Crying, rocking. Running to Mother. Have to—she feels…weird. F-floor s-queaks. Blood. Everywh—Ow!

DR. ROSEN: What happened?

SHANNON: Screams.

TRACE: Shoots to his feet. That’s it. Bring her out now.

DR. ROSEN: Time to go, Shannon.

SHANNON: Hysterical. Mother! I’m sorry. I won’t write them anymore. I promise I won’t. Mother! Please, don’t go! Don’t leave me! I’ll be good, I swear!

TRACE: Damn it, Doc! Bring—her—out!

DR. ROSEN: Shannon, I’m going to count backward.

SHANNON: Wailing.

DR. ROSEN: When I get to one, you’ll awaken, refreshed, and unafraid. Ten, nine—

SHANNON: Moooommmmy!

DR. ROSEN: Eight, seven, six—you’re calm.

SHANNON: Moaning and whimpering.

DR. ROSEN: Five—four, three—you feel refreshed. Two—one. Snaps fingers. Awake!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Fall

TRACE

____________________________

Dr. Joseph Rosen turned the recorder off and the tape rewound. Silence ruled while the bald old man waddled across his cluttered office. After tweaking the blinds open, he quietly excused himself, and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Shannon and me alone.

From the leather sofa, I blinked as sunlight streamed in. Located in Gainstown’s fading business district, Doc’s modest office was crammed with professional journals, certificates, and plain old clutter—quite a difference from his prison office, a sterile room with concrete walls and bars on the windows.

I was seated next to Shannon with my arm draped along the back of the sofa. I gave her a careful once-over. The black wool leggings and matching knee-length sweater made her white skin look moon pale. All the crying she’d done had stripped her of makeup. Her eyes were red and swollen, and unshed tears glistened on her lashes. I curled an arm around her rigid shoulders and hugged her close. Her body relaxed against the comfort of mine.

An hour had passed since we’d recorded that tape. This was Shannon’s first time hearing it, and her emotions were raw, as were mine. Doc had warned us. He’d said if he could hypnotize her, the process would be akin to an emotional roller coaster ride. Little had I known I’d be riding along with her. Before the session, Doc had pulled me aside. Told me to keep my emotions on a leash when she came out of it. For her sake, I had to play it cool.

I brushed my lips against her ear. “You all right?”

She nodded and tried to put on a brave face, but I knew better. She’d been acting weird since she’d picked me up this morning.

At first I’d thought she was still upset over what happened in the carriage house. Not that I blamed her. I hadn’t thought of much else, and Bev’s surprise call didn’t help. Even so, I suspected that was only part of what was bothering her, but she wasn’t talking.

I looked up as Doc pushed a steaming mug of tea into her hand. He toddled back to his seat and lowered his bulk into a well-used armchair.

“What’s your take on everything?” I asked him.

Doc gazed over steepled fingers. “Do you remember why you screamed, Shannon?”

She was staring into her tea. “Yes. The spade cut my knee when I went to Mother. I’d forgotten about that.”

“Well, no question your memories were deliberately manipulated,” Doc said. “There’s a term—False Memory Syndrome. The mental health community doesn’t officially acknowledge it, but even cynics acquiesce when presented with well-documented case studies. And it’s an indubitable verity that memories can be distorted. I imagine this Sheriff Gray injected you with sodium amytal or sodium pentothal to facilitate an inalterable state of hypnosis-induced amnesia.”

“English, Doc.”

“Shannon is suffering from FMS—false memories. There are critics, but the fact is that memories can be altered. And this is what the sheriff did. He used drugs to help push her into a trance-like state. This allowed him to add and extract whatever he wanted—to control her. I hate to say it, but I don’t think that was the only session.” Doc looked at Shannon. “It’s just the only one you remember.”

I swore under my breath.

“He was with Special Forces in Vietnam,” Shannon murmured into her tea. “He dealt with captured Viet Cong. Something to do with interrogations.”

Doc nodded. “Yes, the interrogation background would explain much.”

“Back in high school, Eddie used to brag that the sheriff once belonged to a Black PSYOPS unit,” I said. “I just thought he was talking shit, but now….”

Doc removed a cigar from his jacket, clipped an end, then set a match to it. Smoke curled around his face. “Well, they’ve used those intel techniques for years. The skilled ones can unlock, or in this case, cloak information without their subjects even knowing it. The RAND Corporation has done extensive research on hypnosis and mind control.” He handed me a thick folder. “I’ve made copies of some of their most compelling reports.”

I started thumbing through them.

“This is crazy.” Shannon’s expression shaded even more. “I still don’t see how he did it.”

“It’s all about trust,” Doc answered. “He and your uncle were authority figures to you. Granted, only one quarter of the world’s population can be hypnotized—that is, be placed into a trance-like state and manipulated—but you were very young, impressionable, and emotionally traumatized. Your walls were already breached.”

I set the files aside. “I never much believed in it ‘til now.”

“It’s not as difficult as it seems, son. We use hypnosis on ourselves all the time.”

Shannon’s brows raised half-mast. “How?”

“Millions awaken at the same hour every morning—without an alarm. Why? Because they program their minds the night before. Some call it an inner clock, but it’s just basic self-hypnosis. How else does a sleeping mother hit the ground running when her baby cries?”

Shannon seemed to consider that. “But isn’t this different? My God, they could have gotten me to do anything.”

Doc lifted a finger and smiled warmly. “Ah, but that’s the biggest misconception of all.” He crossed his stubby legs. “There was a case in Paris. In 1889 or ‘90, I think. The woman was sentenced to twenty years for a murder she committed under the influence of hypnosis.”

She gazed at him over the mug’s rim. “Doesn’t that prove my point?”

“No,” he said, his smile widening. “Hypnosis isn’t the free-for-all Hollywood makes it out to be. A hypnotist cannot compel you to do what’s contrary to your character. Everyone has a personal set of acceptable behaviors. For Gabrielle Bompard—the woman in Paris—it was murder.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you saying lying is part of my nature?”

“No.” I rattled her shoulder. “Doc’s not saying that at all. You’d already decided to protect your mama before they even got to you. Remember the gazebo? When I gave you the necklace? You wouldn’t even admit it then.”

“You weren’t ready for the truth,” Doc added in agreement. “You needed to believe she was the perfect mother. That’s why the sheriff’s suggestion took. You’d been so traumatized that deep down, you wanted to forget the bad things. You see, the mind won’t accept something it hasn’t already green-lighted. The sheriff and your uncle knew that, and used it to their advantage.”

“At least we know you didn’t witness the murder,” I said.

“But why did they make me forget? Why do they continue to lie about it? What are they hiding?” Shannon set her mug aside. “Dr. Rosen, can I come back? I want to do this again—as many times as it takes. I need to remember everything.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” he said around a cloud of cigar smoke. “I’ll have my assistant schedule a session for sometime next week. And, Shannon? I’d like you to consider regular therapy as well—if not with me, then with another mental health professional.”

TRACE

____________________________

She’d seemed fine when we left Doc’s. Even claimed she was fine to drive. In fact, she’d insisted on it. Said she couldn’t sit still, and getting behind the wheel would help her sort things out.

Five minutes into the trip home, I decided she was fine too. So I settled in for a nap, but was jarred awake when my shoulder slammed into the passenger-side door. The radio was blaring an annoying Christmas song about jingle bells, sleigh rides, and lovely weather.

I leveled a groggy look at Shannon while I grappled for the seatbelt strangling me.

“Go back to sleep,” she muttered. “Everything’s fine.”

The tremble in her voice said otherwise. She swerved onto the interstate’s northbound lane—to hell with turn signals and yielding. Horns blared. Epithets flew.

An irate trucker flipped her the bird and yelled what looked like “Bitch.”

“Pull over,” I ordered, snapping the radio off. “Now.”

She veered hard toward the shoulder and lurched to a stop. The chassis was still writhing when I ripped my seatbelt off, hopped out, and cut around the hood.

I banged a knuckle on the window. “Scoot over. I’m drivin’.”

Traffic whizzed by. She shoved the door open and slid to the passenger side like a pissed off toddler who’d just been sent into time out.

We sat in silence. Me with an elbow latched to the window, my head propped on a fist. She forked her fingers through her hair and her bangs hovered over the back of her hand. She’d been wound tighter than a ball of yarn all day, and I feared she was about to unravel.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Her phone jangled. She snatched it from her pocket, then rolled her eyes at the incoming number. She didn’t answer the call, just tossed the gadget into her purse.

“Shannon?”

She let out a slow breath. “I don’t know what’s real.”

“So you’ve been stewing this whole time?”

She stared daggers into the windshield. “More like boiling.”

I stayed put. Coddling, she didn’t need. A listening ear would do her much better. “It’s a lot to digest,” I said.

“Not only do I have to get hypnotized again, I’ll probably be in therapy for the rest of my life! And why? Because my godfather went poking around in my head. I knew they were lying, but now that I’ve got proof….” She turned her angry eyes on me. “How can you just sit there? This doesn’t disturb you?”

It did, but my anger would only fuel hers. Strange that I was even thinking this way—rationally. Before, I’d’ve kicked ass and asked questions later, but the stuff with Bev and Icky taught me a crucial lesson. After all was said and done, I was still alone and missing the hell out of my sister.

The lecture Doc had given me in private right before we’d left put things into perspective. If I didn’t get a handle on my rage, I’d be looking at the other side of those prison bars again. There was too much I wanted to do. Like go to college. Start a renovating business—maybe even open up a dance studio. Buy a house. Get married. Have some kids—

I blinked. Whoa. What the—

“Trace?” Her eyes questioned me. “Aren’t you angry?”

I blinked again to clear my head, then chose my words with care. “Yeah, I’m angry, and I want justice. But this isn’t about me right now. It’s about you. And you’re in a better position to get to the truth. They screwed with your head.” I paused. “So what do you want?”

“What do I want?” Red flamed her cheeks. She drew herself up and exploded. “I want them to tell the truth for once! I want them to stop making me think I imagined it all—that I’m crazy! I need them to pay for what they did to you and your family. And to me!” She scowled. “Let’s just go.”

“Where?”

She yanked the seatbelt over her chest, drove it home. “To Roanoke. To see my godfather.”

“But he’s here.”

Her expression brightened. “Since when?”

“Cholly saw him this morning when Eddie came by to fill up. Gray was in the passenger seat. Cholly said he looked like he’d lost a lot of weight. I heard he was in town ‘cause Dee Dee had her baby last night.”

Her lips thinned. “This works out perfectly. Let’s go.” She took out her cell phone and started poking buttons. “And I’m going to record everything. We’ve got a One-Party-Consent law in this state, so I don’t even have to tell him.”

Oh, hell no. She needed—heck, we needed a break from all this shit. “You’re in no condition to tussle with Gray and neither am I. We’ll catch up with him tomorrow.”

“What’s wrong with today?”

“Just look at you,” I said. “Your head’s about to explode.”

She snapped her arms together. “I don’t care. I want to see him now.”

“And people in hell want ice water.” I calmly flipped the car into gear, then delivered a look that dared her to test me. “We’re not going today and that’s the end of it.”

She jerked her head around and glared daggers out of the passenger window. “Fine. Then take me home. Gerard and I can pick up my car tomorrow!”

“That’s a negative too. You’re liable to rip somebody a new asshole.” I pulled back into traffic. “I’ve got a better idea. Just trust me, okay?”

SHANNON

____________________________

Trace skidded to a stop. “Had enough?”

“Again!” Giggling, I adjusted my helmet, then tied my arms back around his waist. “Only this time, go faster.”

He laughed and gunned the engine. “You asked for it. Hold on.”

The Harley lurched forward, spewing a white cloud into the wind as we took yet another lap around Miller’s Pond—our sixth. The cold weather had turned the earth into cement, but the bike’s studded tires easily ground the dirt to powder. I rested my head against Trace’s back and squeezed him in gratitude. I’d wanted to scream when he’d refused to take me to Uncle Jackson, but he’d known exactly what I needed—as always.

Once we’d circled the pond six more times, Trace parked the bike and we settled between a clutch of evergreens. For the next hour, we huddled shoulder-to-shoulder beneath a thick brown quilt, sharing a thermos of hot cocoa. A gray blanket lay under us. We sat in companionable silence, watching nature in all its glory beneath the burnished gold of the setting sun. Black birds flitted from tree to tree while a gaggle of geese pecked the ground. A white-tailed doe and her baby warily approached the icy pond, but when a chainsaw echoed in the distance, the mother lost her nerve and scurried off into the brush. Her skittish fawn followed in hot pursuit.

“Warm enough?” he asked curling an arm around me.

I nodded as he polished off the rest of the cocoa.

He nudged his chin at our surroundings. “Who needs drugs when we’ve got this? Three hours ago you were spitting nails and now….”

“I’m docile,” I said with a smile.

Trace grinned and lifted his face to the darkening sky. “It was always magical here.”

“Like a little slice of heaven.” I breathed in a lungful. “After today’s madness, I needed this. Thanks for dragging me.”

I inched up to peck his cheek, but things didn’t go as planned. Somehow, my ‘peck’ missed his cheek and landed on the corner of his mouth. This led to a kiss, then another, until our kisses slowly morphed into a carnal feeding frenzy—five and a half mindless minutes of roving hands, seeking lips, probing tongues, and heavy breathing.

Would I never learn ‘pecks’ were impossible for us?

Trace was first to pull away. “Shannon,” he breathed. “I’m not up for another palm-pilot episode. We gotta stop.”

I stared back at him in desperation, breasts heavy, panties wet, my chest pumping as fast as his. Obviously, he’d reached his limit, but I craved what he’d given me up against that wall in his house. With my world falling apart, I needed to forget about hypnosis, my lying family…and my fiancé.

I needed to get lost in Trace.

So I kissed him again, only this time taking great care to tease a response out of him. Once I eased back to gauge his reaction, he swallowed and sucked in an unsteady breath, but he didn’t move. Just watched me intently and waited. Rising up, I hesitated before straddling his lap. I felt reckless, wild, and out of control—and I liked it. Loved it, actually.

He did too.

The heat in his gaze said it all.

I gathered my courage and grabbed his jacket lapels, pausing to search his fathomless eyes. When I found what I was looking for, I yanked him in for another kiss. It didn’t take much else. In a split second, I was on my back, tucked beneath the sheltering weight of his powerful body.

Trace snatched the quilt over us, cocooning me in warmth as his hungry mouth devoured mine. He caught my lower lip, nibbling and sucking, before delving back in for a deeper kiss, making me blind to everything but him.

By now our pelvises were aligned, with his thick sex lying between my legs. I pressed myself against his erection. He circled his hips in response, grinding into my center, urging me to do the same, his pace slow and unrelenting.

Several minutes of this pushed him to the brink again. “No. I won’t take you out here…on the ground.” A breath gushed out of him. He sucked in another and closed his eyes. “Not for your first time—not while you’re still wearin’ his ring.”

I understood. It wasn’t like I wanted to lose my virginity out here either, yet I refused to leave him unsatisfied again. The hanky story was still fresh in my mind.

So I ignored his protests and unbuckled his jeans, yanking the rough fabric down until nothing separated us but his cotton boxer briefs and the thin wool of my leggings. I couldn’t see anything beneath the quilt, yet I felt him—hot and impossibly hard.

“You once told me you could orgasm just by doing this.” I cupped his backside. “Let’s test that theory.”

He bit his bottom lip when I ground myself into him like he’d shown me. Only now, I could feel his every ridge, and he could feel…me. I rotated my hips once, and again.

“Shannon, you’re—” He groaned when I repeated the motion. “Fuuuuuck. You’re gonna…you’re gonna make me come.”

“That’s the idea,” I said in a determined voice.

Another groan tore from his throat several beats later. “Okay…okay…you win! Shit.”

Closing his lids briefly, he stilled and dragged in a breath, then another. His body trembled above mine as he fought to compose himself. Half a minute inched by before he spoke.

“Now here’s the thing,” he rasped as he slowly began rolling his hips against me. “If you want this, there’s a price you’ll have to pay…‘cause I’m gonna mark you.” He tapped a finger against my temple. “Right here. Understand?”

I shook my head, my lids weighted by the slow-building pleasure.

Trace gazed down at me, desire raging in his eyes. “I’m about to take you someplace you’ve never been,” he gritted out in between strokes, “and when you come back, you’ll always remember it was me who took you there.”

With that, he shoved my sweater up, yanked my bra cup down, and sucked my nipple into his mouth. An invisible line of fire burned from my breast to stoke the blaze between my legs, sending me on a pulse-pounding spiral.

He buried a hand beneath me to tip my pelvis so his erection caressed me right where I needed him. Pleasure seared me like wild fire.

I gasped, “Trace….”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he breathed. “I love it when you say my name.”

Lost in the maelstrom, I clung to him as he swirled his tongue around my nipple and drew deeply, tugging at the tight bead. It glistened when he released it and a sigh of cool air breezed over my flesh.

He cradled my face and locked his gaze with mine. His eyes were like twin flames of golden hazel. “Do you need me, Shannon?” he urged. “Do you?”

Tears stung. “More than anything.”

Trace covered my mouth in a soul-stealing kiss as he continued to stroke the same spot between my legs. When I moaned, he fisted my hair, his powerful hips never missing a beat, until the inner tightening began, until the world burned away and I shattered beneath him, crying out his name.

Moments later, Trace hung above me on unsteady forearms. He gasped and stared deeply into my eyes—his were soft, helpless, and filled with wonder. I’d never seen anything more beautiful. Then his lids trembled shut and he pressed his forehead to mine as his rock-hard penis slowly pulsed against my softness, once, twice, then three more times. Within seconds, a warm dampness seeped into the thin fabric covering my stomach.

As soon as the storm passed he collapsed.

“Shannon.”

I hugged him fiercely. “Oh, God, I wanted—”

“So did I,” he whispered. “So did I.”

I ran my fingers through his hair and held him close. We lay with him on top of me for what seemed like forever…touching, whispering, kissing, sighing, and breathing each other in.

Reality was kind. It didn’t invade or taunt. Just kept a respectful distance, giving us ample time to live in the moment.

Something wonderful had just happened between us, something amazing yet frightening. I closed my eyes and waited for the familiar pang of guilt, but it wasn’t there. Sadness was though, along with a stark fear that had plagued me for some time, a fear I’d finally found the courage to acknowledge.

I’d fallen in love with Trace Dawson.

Again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A Maleficent Encounter

SHANNON

____________________________

Reality’s ‘kindness’ was short-lived. It slammed into me the next morning when Darien called. It struck again when I picked Trace up several hours later. He must have sensed something was wrong; I could see it in his eyes, but he didn’t press the issue, thank God. If he had, I would’ve been forced to tell him the truth. That Darien was on his way home and I had no idea what I was going to do. Given everything that had happened yesterday, I’d tossed and turned all night, weighing the pros and cons, yet every solution came with its own set of consequences.

Who I wanted wasn’t the question. My heart had already chosen Trace, but my brain—haunted by twenty-six years of conditioning—had other ideas.

When we finally arrived at my godfather’s house, Eddie Gray’s belligerent greeting from the doorway was a welcomed distraction.

“Y’all best get the fuck off my daddy’s property.”

Trace was first out of the car. He approached his old nemesis with a smile. “And if I refuse?” he said over the noise bleeding from a TV inside. “Oh, by the way. Congrats. I hear your wife just hatched another gremlin.”

Eddie moved to lunge, but Trace shoved him back.

Knowing Trace wouldn’t throw a punch, I stepped between them, but Eddie was a different story. I braced the pig’s chest. “Keep this up and I’ll make sure you don’t work anywhere in this state or beyond. That’s the last thing you need with another mouth to feed.”

Eddie’s nostrils flared. “Hidin’ behind the lady’s skirts again, Dawson?”

Trace chuckled. “Naw, I just made a resolution to avoid bullshit, but I can break it one last time if you want. You know where I live. We can finish this discussion whenever you like. Hell, I figure if you’d wanted to settle stuff, you’d’ve come by long ago. But you’re a pussy, Eddie. Always have been.”

As the two men traded barbs, I called out to my godfather. “Uncle Jackson. You can either talk to the prosecutor’s office or me. The choice is yours.”

The sound of rebel yells, gunfire and bugles evaporated with the audible click of a TV remote. “Let ‘em by,” came the rusty voice from the darkness inside. “Go back to the hospital, boy. Tell Dee Dee I got held up.”

Eddie yelled, “But Daddy—”

“Go on now. Leave. Come back in an hour.”

Eyes shooting fire, Eddie glowered at us for a few seconds, then muttered a curse before storming down the steps to climb into his mangy pickup truck.

He peeled off in a cloud of gravel.

Trace said nothing as he took my hand and led the way up the stairs. I switched on my phone’s voice record app, then discreetly tucked it into my breast pocket.

Once inside, we went down a short hallway to the master suite. Jackson Gray had retained ownership of this three-bedroom rambler, staying here whenever he visited from Roanoke.

Like the rest of the house, his bedroom hadn’t been cleaned in months. A horrible stench hit me like a fist. It smelled of rotted food, trash, and body odor. Soiled dishes were stacked on every available surface. Trash overflowed the receptacle. Clothes lay in piles.

Mouth agape, I took in the fetid surroundings. A king-sized bed dominated the left side. Its posts and frame looked to be made of the same mahogany as the floor and walls. Three bay windows lay hidden behind drawn wooden shutters, and the lack of natural lighting made the room feel like a crypt.

The loud flush of a toilet gave me a start. My godfather shuffled out of an adjoining bathroom wearing a baggy tan robe and scuffed leather slippers. Looking haggard, if not emaciated, Sheriff Gray ambled past us on unsteady feet. He’d lost a quarter of his body weight. His face was skull-like with deep-socketed eyes. And, dear God, he was drunk. The gamy scent that trailed him confirmed my suspicions. He smelled of Vick’s Vapor Rub, unwashed flesh, and booze. He looked like the room—unkempt and in dire need of a scrub brush.

He didn’t seem surprised that we’d come. If anything, he acted indifferent. I hadn’t seen him in more than six months, and as appearances went, his had changed for the worst. Silver hair spiked his pale crown. His moss-green eyes had turned so gray they almost matched the shaggy pelt of hair that peeked through the V of his robe.

He climbed on the mattress. “Sears warned me you’d come. Surprised to see you with him, though.” He pointed me toward a seat. Trace he ignored.

Dirty clothes littered the chair by his bed. I brushed them to the floor with my purse and sat, trying to keep the revulsion from my expression.

As a child, I’d ridden in his big squad car—me, with little girl’s eyes. Him, with a holstered gun, silver badge, and brass buttons adorning his barrel-chested frame. He’d been larger than life in that uniform, an invincible force that could do no wrong, but this wasn’t the indomitable man whose shoulders I’d ridden. This was a defeated shadow, a mortal who was not long for this world.

Sheriff Jackson Gray was dying.

Whatever latent anger I’d carried up until now vanished. Shock and soul-deep sadness had taken its place. I ached to throw my arms around him, to hold him and tell him I loved him, but this wasn’t the time for that. This was the time for answers. There was too much at stake.

I would have to save the grieving for another day.

Trace stood behind me. His hands curled over the backrest, so hard I could actually feel the tension in his grip. “You’ve been here all this time, haven’t you, old man?”

“Not that it’s any of your business.”

I cleared my throat and ignored the sorrow squeezing my heart. “So what’s with the Roanoke phone number I’ve been calling?”

“It’s an answering service,” Uncle Jackson said. His gaze skipped between Trace and me. “As y’all can see, my time is short.” He sat back, folded his bony arms across his sunken chest, and flashed a tilted smile chock-full of dark yellow teeth. “Prostate cancer. That’s why I’m holed up here. Spending my last days doing what I love. Watching TV and drinking. Living as I please, in peace. Now if you got questions, feel free to ask, but I don’t have to answer them.”

“You hypnotized me,” I said, trying to deliver my words with some semblance of calm. “I know it, and so do you. If you want peace, you’ll talk. You’ll right this wrong and meet Jesus with a clear conscience. Otherwise, you’ll not get rid of me. As I’m sure you’ve seen, I’m very tenacious.”

Trace rounded my chair. His eyes glittered with animosity. He snatched the hypnosis tape from his peacoat and shook the cassette before the sheriff’s suspicious eyes. “The proof’s right here.” He stuffed the tape back into his pocket, patted it. “We also paid Valene Campbell a visit. She says you strong-armed her into keeping mum about Shannon.”

Uncle Jackson erupted into a coughing fit until he’d hacked up a glob of green phlegm, which he spat into one of the many filthy glasses on his nightstand. The sight turned my stomach. Trace squeezed my shoulder when the sheriff grabbed a flask from a robe pocket. Three swallows later, he burped into his sleeve, then stared hard at the place where Trace’s hand rested.

I quirked a brow, daring him to comment. “Just tell me the truth. I don’t want to sit here all day.”

“Everything I done, I done for good reason.”

“So you admit it?” I asked, amazed.

He plucked a tissue from a Kleenex box on the bed and mopped his nose in a brisk gesture. “What the hell? I got nothing to lose,” he said with a huff. “‘Cause if you tell anybody, I’ll just deny it. Nobody’d believe you. Not after your shameful escapades with this murdering scum. They’ll just think you’ve lost your mind. All the mess you been stirring up. Your little trip to Cheltenham Manor. The accusations against your family. Siding with Dawson against my boy—”

“Your boy is a knuckle-draggin’ ape,” Trace barked. “You framed me to get revenge on my family, you gutless prick.”

Uncle Jackson sneered. The stroke he’d suffered two years ago had ravaged the nerves on the right side of his face, making his smiles—on the rare occasions he gave them—appear frightfully cartoonish. “You’re as stupid as ever,” he said.

“What’s the truth?” I asked. “That’s assuming you even know the meaning of the word anymore.”

He glared first at Trace, then back at me, his angry eyes steady. “You think I’d risk my career for a grudge? Not damn likely.” He burped into his fist. “Your daddy was my best friend, Shannon. Since high school. I stepped in when some stupid jocks tried to kick his ass. A strange alliance, considering our class differences, but Harrison Bradford grew to be the best friend I ever had. He was there when I went MIA in Nam. He made the calls. To congressmen. Senators. Hell, I pay my debts. What I done for you, I done for him.”

“How do lies honor my father’s memory?” I asked.

He wheezed a breath. “You had a diary and you drew lotsa pictures.” His expression grew sad. “We ended up burning everything.”

“For God’s sake, why?” I demanded.

“I had no choice,” Uncle Jackson said. His voice crackled with phlegm. “Your prints were on the murder weapon.”

I did a double take. “What?”

“Both your prints were on the spade, sweetheart.” He coughed again. “Any idea how yours got there?”

Trace was quick to answer. “She grabbed it when she found her mama on the floor. It cut her knee, so she tossed it. What the hell does the spade have to do with some stupid pictures?”

“More than you think, boy.”

“All you had to do was ask her why she touched the damn thing,” Trace hammered back. “Why go through all this smoke and mirrors bullshit when a simple question would’ve sufficed?”

I stared, speechless. A sick feeling festered inside me like gangrene.

“It wasn’t just the prints, you ignoramus,” Jackson growled. He blotted his sweaty head with a flaky tissue ball. “It was everything. Her diary was filled with…with things that fancy lawyer of yours could’ve used against her.”

“Like?”

“Twenty-seven letters to Jesus Christ asking Him to do a Job on Lilith,” he snapped fast and furious.

Trace blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“A Job—as in ‘The Book of Job.’ The guy with the sores and boils. Then there were the ten letters to Jude Thaddeus, the patron saint of lost causes, begging him to get Jesus to give her a new mama. Five to Lucifer himself, asking that he send Lilith on a three-day trip to hell.”

Trace shook his head. “You’re outta your damn mind.”

“Think so? Well, this next tidbit will make you a believer. There were over sixty entries where she poured her heart out about you. How she couldn’t let her mama touch you the way she did her other young men. How you’re the only person in the world who cared about her. Dozens of pages were filled with rage over how her mama was trying to steal your affections. Hell, she even wrote that she wished Lilith would go away so you could live at Cheltenham Manor! Then there was the nonsense about Paris, and much, much more.”

Somewhere in the tumult, I heard the words I’d uttered during the hypnosis session. The diary. I’d written my frustrations in the diary. I’d drawn pictures too. My fingers had given voice to what my mouth didn’t dare utter.

I couldn’t breathe. Shock reverberated like the cell phone vibration against my hip. The phone I’d ignored all day.

“I don’t recall any of that,” I said in a shaky voice.

“That’s ‘cause I made sure you wouldn’t,” Uncle Jackson retorted. “Your diary told every bitter thought you ever had. That’s how you purged yourself.”

I narrowed my eyes on him. “I don’t believe you.”

“Sweetheart,” Uncle Jackson said. “Your mama was killed an hour after you left for what everyone had presumed was school. Only you didn’t go to school. You went to the carriage house. That’s why I told you to say you were sick. That you’d planned to stay home all along.” He paused. “You drew pictures, disturbing pictures. Of a knight slaying a dragon, stabbing it in the heart. On one picture, you even wrote names for who they were supposed to be. The knight was Trace. The dragon with the dagger in its chest was Lilith. And that’s how she died.”

I surged to my feet and the chair tipped over. Backing away, I shook my head. “It was just a p-picture I drew about Sleeping Beauty! The movie!”

“That doesn’t explain the names you wrote,” Uncle Jackson said. “Look, we didn’t know what else to do. We figured if we got rid of everything, then influenced you….” He scowled at Trace. “We couldn’t let him use you as a scapegoat.”

“You thought she put me up to it?” Trace asked, stunned and breathless.

“Either that, or she did it herself. At least that’s what Sears thought. Him being a lawyer and all, he was playing devil’s advocate—tryin’ to out-think your scumbag ambulance chaser.”

I backed into a wall.

Trace stood over Uncle Jackson’s bed, barking out words. “Nobody would’ve believed that girl was capable of murder!”

“She’d been physically and mentally abused. When we found her, she was sitting in a pool of her mother’s blood. The spade had both your prints on it. So we had to fix stuff.”

“We? Who the fuck is we?” Trace demanded.

I surfaced from my crestfallen daze. My eyes settled on my godfather. “All this time you thought I killed…that I had Trace kill—” I thrust my bangs off my face, my hand cupping my forehead. “Dear God. Whatever I wrote on those pages…I-I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean it the way you’re implying. I just wanted somebody to make her stop! I never wanted her dead! I loved my mother!”

Fear and outrage pulsed hot. Trace moved to touch me, but I warded him off with a flash of both palms.

No touch, not even his could comfort me now.

“Who else was in on this?” I demanded.

Uncle Jackson pleaded, “You gotta believe, I tried to broach the subject plenty of times with you under hypnosis, but you damn near went berserk. I had to back off. I had to let you be. Hesta accused me of abusing you all over again. Sears did too, so we were never really sure….” He stared at Trace, his furious eyes like switchblades. “I always knew you were guilty, boy. Still do. But I wasn’t about to let that fancy lawyer of yours drag her through the mud. When a man’s drowning, he’ll grab anything to stay afloat.”

I crossed my arms and approached the bed with slow steps. It was all I could do to hold myself together. “I didn’t kill my mother, but neither did Trace. What you did is despicable.”

The sheriff’s bony face twisted with rage. “Why you ungrateful—can’t you see you had a great childhood thanks to me? No bad memories haunting you. A clean slate. Something most only dream about. I gave you your life back! Be happy you don’t remember everything that bitch did! Hope you never do.”

“They were my memories, damn you.” I slapped a hand to my chest for emphasis. “Mine! You had no right to take them.”

“Don’t you realize what I sacrificed to help you?” Jackson hollered.

“Help? What about Trace? You threw him to the wolves!”

“It was either him or you! Harrison made me promise to protect you. I didn’t do the best job, but I came through when it mattered. Greased some itching palms. Dug up dirt on those who needed to keep their traps shut. I did what I had to do.” He flicked a dismissive glance at Trace. “That lawyer of yours—Gartner—was hungry. Would’ve eaten his firstborn to advance his flashy-ass career. Why you think he took you on pro bono? He was a publicity whore.”

“I would never have let him go after Shannon,” Trace spat.

“Nobody knew what y’all were plannin’. We figured you’d sell her out to save your sorry hide.”

A horrific thought hit me. I was almost too afraid to ask, but the question gnawed its way out. “Did Darien know?”

“Are you kiddin’? He’d’ve turned us all in if he had.” The old man inclined a brow. “A lawyer who actually respects the rule of law. Montgomery’s a rare one.” He lifted his hardened face, and his angry eyes narrowed to slits. “Damn it,” he rasped. “You should’ve let this alone. Why couldn’t you have let this alone?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Two Paths

SHANNON

____________________________

Trace and I pulled outside Fontana Exxon half an hour later. We’d driven in silence the whole way back, neither of us looking at the other for too long. I parked next to a line of pay phones.

Behind us, customers crowded the gas pumps and a noisy Mack truck idled by the diesel pump. The truck driver, a thirtyish biker type dressed in a bomber jacket and corduroys, leaned against the truck’s rear and waited on his tank to fill. From the looks of it, the town’s so-called boycott had finally petered out.

I rested my head against the window and slammed my eyes shut. Shock and anger swirled like a firestorm. Had my family actually believed I was capable of murder? Well, of course. Why else had they hatched such a convoluted plan?

“You didn’t do it.” Trace’s earthy voice rescued me from the brink of despair. “You hear me?”

Tears threatened, but I tamped them down. I was too mad to cry. “I can count my memories of her on one hand,” I said, my reedy voice sounding strange to my own ears. “Everything else is gone.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he murmured.

I flashed a look at him. “He burned my diaries. Destroyed my pictures. Screwed with my thoughts. All I have is the nonsense he stuffed into my head. How is that a ‘good thing’? Even bad memories are better than nothing.”

“I beg to differ. Look at me, Shannon. Look real good.”

I did. Long, hard, and extensively.

With a sad smile, I said, “I see a man who used his misery to help someone who couldn’t help herself. Had you not remembered what Gary did, I would have been alone.” I touched his shoulder. “Don’t you see? Our memories shape us, make us—strengthen us. They had no right to steal mine.” I shook my head and scowled. “I’m calling the prosecutor’s office first thing in the morning.”

Trace stared off in brooding silence. Finally, he said, “You sure you don’t want to wait until you have more sessions with Doc?”

“Who knows how long that will take? No. I’m ready to move forward now. I’m sure we have enough to get the case reopened.

“You’ll be implicated,” he said in measured tones. “You ready for that?”

I was so ready it wasn’t even funny. I took out my cell phone. “I just want the truth. Whatever that is.” Typing with my thumbs, I emailed the sheriff’s recording to myself for backup. “Are you still in contact with Gartner?”

“Nope. I call, but he never calls back. Screw him.” He rubbed his eyes. “That reminds me. I need to get over to the flower shop tomorrow mornin’. With all the chaos of the last couple days, I forgot about it.”

“Me too.” I tucked the phone back into my breast pocket and stared into the cemetery of rusted cars Cholly had stored behind the station. “This is going to be a legal quagmire. Uncle Sears will have every lawyer in the firm on his side.”

“Prob’ly, but we’ve got truth on ours.”

I patted my phone. “Yes, we do have that.”

Mrs. Campbell and Uncle Jackson had revealed some explosive information in those recordings, but my confidence waned when I thought about the difficult choices I’d have to make. How my life would change. How nothing would ever be the same.

What the hell had they been thinking? Granted, some of the evidence did point to me, and maybe Trace’s lawyer could have used it to his advantage, but to go this far? To destroy evidence? To rape my mind?

For my godfather’s part, I believed him. He’d done this out of obligation. But my family was a different story. Their actions had more to do with ‘other’ concerns than my supposed welfare. A dark and dirty secret like this would have ruined them for good. Sex. Envy. Matricide?

Child stabs mother in jealous rampage. Film at eleven.

Oh, yes, that would have flushed the family name down the toilet for good.

Trace drew himself up. “What’s your game plan?”

I thought about it, tried to sift through the myriad of emotions clouding my mind. At this point, one thing was clear. “I can’t live at Briar anymore.”

He unhooked his seatbelt. “Where’re you gonna go?”

The Victorian in New Dyer rose in my mind’s eye. “That’s part of the reason I was upset yesterday,” I said. “Some clients were set to close on the house I told you about. But the husband got orders for the Middle East last week. He’s a marine. So I put in a bid. It got them out of the contract and the seller accepted.”

“Sounds like good news. At least for you.”

I drew a sharp breath. Things weren’t what they seemed. “Darien never liked the house. He thought it was a money pit, but he called me last night, and when I told him about the contract, he said he hadn’t realized how much I loved the place. He doesn’t mind living there if it makes me happy.” I swallowed, hard. “He’s coming home. Today.” I shot a wary glance at the dashboard clock. “His plane should be landing any minute.”

Turning to me, Trace drew his leg up on the seat cushion. Storm clouds brewed in his eyes. “What am I supposed to say to that? Congratulations?”

“No, that’s not why I—” I raised a hand, but let it fall flat against the seat. “The wedding announcement appeared in yesterday’s society pages. My aunt has been working overtime planning everything. I’ve signed contracts. Hired a videographer. Caterers. The invitations are being printed.”

“Ever heard of the word ‘cancel’?”

“It’s not that simple. I don’t want to hurt him and…well…it’s…it’s just a very complicated situation.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Here we go again with this crap. What the hell’s so complicated?”

A tense silence filled the car. “There’s just…a lot to consider.”

“We’re the only consideration here. Everything else is bullshit.”

I stared off, my gaze wandering as the truth spilled out, a truth I was finally ready to admit. “You don’t understand. I thought—it’s always been in the back of my mind that if I married him, I’d finally be able to breathe. To relax. I planned my life so precisely that any deviation….”

“Scares the hell out of you?”

I hung my head. “Yes.”

“The truth at last. So I’m the monkey wrench in your picture-perfect life.”

“No, it’s-it’s not like that.”

“Yeah, it is.” His nod was sharp. “See, all this time I thought it was a choice between me and Montgomery. But I was wrong. This is about the safe, little fairytale you’ve been trying to—”

“Trying?” I snapped my head back up to search his face. “I’ve been building it my entire life! Brick by brick, and now I’m about to tear it down.”

“Naw, you’re about to live—for the first time ever. You want to be with me. I know this. But I represent everything you’ve been trying to bury.”

I shook my head. “It’s not about you. It-it goes even deeper than that.”

“Oh, I know. Somehow you convinced yourself that you wanted Montgomery, or at least, what you think you’ll have with him. Respect. Privilege. Approval. Community standing—everything Lilith destroyed.” He shook his head. “But I can’t give that to you, darlin’. That’s what’s got you so spun up. It’s why you keep running away from us.”

I blinked several times. “Us? What us? Do you think telling me you care is enough reason to break an engagement?”

“That you’re not in love with him should be reason enough.”

“Fine. But what you’re really asking me to do is to upend my life so we can be together. And that’s all well and good, but I need more from you. You say you want me, and that you care, but what else? Do your feelings go any deeper than that?”

“Are you blind?” He tossed a hand. “I admitted to killing a man—to you, Shannon, despite a ton of reservations. What the fuck else do you want?”

I pushed the hair off my face. “I used to know. Now I’m just—”

“Confused! Were you even there at Miller’s Pond last night? What? Do you think that was just a dry hump for me?” He glared long and hard. “You won’t tell your ‘fiancé’ the truth, yet you expect me to open a vein? To bleed? Hell, you’re the one who needs to do some bleeding.” We stared hotly at each other for several seconds until he wrenched away to shove the door open. “Fuck it. I don’t need this shit. Go get your boyfriend!”

“I already told you, he’s not my boyfriend!”

“Boyfriend. Fiancé. Sugar daddy. Whatever.”

“He’s none of those things.”

Trace jerked back around. “Please enlighten me then. What the hell is he?”

“My past.”

“And what am I?”

I swallowed and stared intently at him with a nakedness I couldn’t hide. “You’re…my everything.”

The words had barely left my mouth before he grabbed my face, crashing our lips together. He kissed me with a voraciousness that set the car ablaze. He was marking me. Possessing me. Staking his claim. Making it clear, that I belonged to him and none other.

That I always had.

His arms came around me, crushing me even closer. Not an inch separated us as our breaths mingled and our tongues did battle. Everywhere he touched me, I burned; every kiss ignited a new spark, but then he slowly released me and I gradually became cold again. Dazed, I blinked my eyes open only to see him scooting back. Chill air sliced a path between us.

He canvassed my face for several moments, his breath coming in short bursts. When I reached out, he dodged my hand. “You’ve got two paths,” he said. “One is a straight shot. It’s safe and predictable.” He gazed meaningfully into my eyes. “But there’s this other path. It’s less traveled and it’s full of surprises and detours. So which one do you want?”

“You. I choose you,” I insisted. “I’ll always choose you.”

His eyes slowly turned granite hard, as if the kiss and my admission hadn’t affected him at all. Several heartbeats passed before he went for the door again. Over his shoulder he said, “In case you missed it, I chose you a while ago.” He glared at Darien’s ring, then lifted his eyes back to me. “Far as I’m concerned, you’ve been cheating on me with him. So until you give him up, we’re done.” With that, he slammed out of the car and disappeared inside the garage. He didn’t look back.

I was still trembling when I pulled away from the gas station minutes later. He was right. How could I expect anything from him, much less a declaration of love, when I was engaged to another man? Besides, it wasn’t fair to Darien. As soon as I picked him up, I’d go somewhere quiet and tell him the truth. He deserved as much.

Halfway to the airport, my cell phone vibrated. Would I ever remember to connect the thing to Bluetooth? Scowling, I hooked my headset into the phone, eyed the incoming number, and wilted against the seat.

Auntie.

I took a deep breath and told myself it was time for brutal honesty. There had been enough lies. So I pooled my courage and didn’t bother with a ‘Hello.’ Instead, I just started speaking in a mad rush of words. “We need to talk,” I said. “First, I-I’m on my way to break things off with Darien. I’m just not in love with him. The truth is, I’m in love wi—”

“What?” She sounded breathless. “Look, I don’t know what you’re babbling about, but I’m at Temptation Memorial. Mead and Francine are on their way.”

“Dear lord, what’s happened?” I asked, shoving myself up.

My aunt hesitated long enough to scare the life out of me. “It’s Sears. They’re running tests now, but they think he’s had a heart attack.”

My stomach spasmed. “I’ll be right there, okay?”

I hung up with trembling hands, flipped the car into gear and sped down the interstate. My heart was skipping all over the place. Adrenaline burned. Without looking, I poked Darien’s speed-dial button.

“Hello,” he barked, four rings later.

I blinked. “Darien?”

“Oh, sorry, love—I’ve got an annoying client on the line.”

“Where are you?”

“Waiting for my bags. Is something wrong?”

“It’s Uncle Sears,” I said, trying to keep the panic from my voice. “They think it’s a heart attack.”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“He’s at Temptation Memorial.”

“Go on,” he told me. “I’ll grab a cab and meet you there.”

After we said our goodbyes, I was about to hang up, when I heard the audible click on his end, then…. “All right, I’m back,” he said in the same irritated tone I’d heard when he answered my call. “Look, Sears is in the hospital so don’t show up. Okay? You’ll only make this harder. We’re over.”

My breath caught.

“Kate? Are you there?”

Something in me…died. “No,” I bit out. “Try again.”

Ignoring Darien’s, “Oh, my God” and “Let me explain,” I pitched the headset and phone across the dashboard. The gadgets shattered on impact.

TRACE

____________________________

“Hi.” The soft voice reached out from the shadows.

I was walking past the first bay in the garage when I jarred to a stop. Angling around, I found Bev in the driver’s seat of a Speedster. Its door lay ajar. She wore black pedal pushers and an oversized sweater. Her legs were crossed, with one foot planted on the concrete, the other doing a frantic wag.

“What’re you doin’ here, Beverly?”

“We’ve got some things to settle.” Her husky voice echoed. “Cholly said you’d come back for your bike.”

I dragged my jacket off and tossed it aside, not caring where it landed. “You got two minutes.”

She stood and approached me with caution. “Do you know what it’s like to be in love with the wrong person?”

I stared into the darkness for a long while. “Yeah, I just might.”

“Maybe you can give me some advice then.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “Patrick is like a drug to me. How do I turn it off? How do I make it stop?”

Sadness welled. “Wish I knew.”

“I had that abortion ‘cause I was scared. Mama said if I didn’t, I’d be stuck with a baby and no husband. Least not a fit one.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “If I had to do it all again, I’d have my baby, with or without Patrick.”

I glanced off. “Beverly—”

“No! Hear me out. We’ve had enough heartache to last us a lifetime. Daddy’s gone. Mama. Cole….” She stood before me, trembling. “I left Patrick yesterday, so you’re all I got now. Don’t let me lose you too. I’m sick with missing you, Tracemore. Please, forgive me!”

She threw herself at me and buried her face in my shirt while I stood with my arms at my sides. Tears soaked the fabric, just like they had the day I was released, when she’d lifted the weight of the world off my soul.

This was Bev, warts and all. She’d stuck by me. Visited me in prison every week. Wrote. Called. Gave me strength to carry on. I had to forgive her, even though I knew she’d be back with Icky in a few days—a week tops.

That was a certainty.

The ice around my heart melted as I gathered her in my arms. “It’s all right, Bevy.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.” I squeezed her and kissed the top of her head. “Blood’s thicker than bullshit.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Big Break

TRACE

____________________________

“How long ago did she ring the bell?”

Amber tossed a toothbrush into her purse. “I dunno. Maybe five minutes.”

“Shit!” I threw a towel around my waist. Water poured off me onto the bathroom floor. “Why didn’t you just let her in?”

“I don’t like drama, shug.” She walked out and started toward my room. “Have you seen my ankle bracelet?”

“Check the dresser.”

I barreled into the hallway, raced down the stairs, and skidded to a stop at the landing. Winter stormed the house when I flipped on the outside light and tore the door open. The chill sliced into my shower-damp skin like a thousand blades. I swiped the wet hair from my eyes and the pitiable sight of Shannon came into focus.

She stood hunched over on my porch bathed in yellow light; the street beyond her was nearly pitch black. Her coat lay open. Corpse-pale, she shivered and her eyes were huge in her face. She appeared lost, dazed, and vulnerable. A strange sensation pierced my chest.

She was in pain and I felt it.

I drew her inside with one hand, my other fisted in the towel, holding it firmly around my hips. After I kicked the door shut, I braced her shoulder to steady her, then stooped until we were eye level.

“Hey. What happened?” She gave her head a violent shake, and buried her face in my chest. “Shannon?” I said in between her sniffles. “Aw, don’t cry. It’s gonna be all right.”

I glanced beyond her, to Amber, who descended the stairs, knapsack slung over her shoulder, car keys in hand. Shannon frowned at the sound and stared up at me. A question floated in her eyes when she looked from me to the woman who stood frozen in the middle of the staircase.

Shannon swallowed convulsively, her gaze darting from Amber to me. Red flamed her cheeks as her eyes canvassed my body, seeing it as if for the first time. Before I could explain, she’d slammed out of the house.

SHANNON

____________________________

I flew off the porch. Couldn’t get away fast enough. Couldn’t see for the blinding tears. Shoving my hair from my face, I stumbled down the sidewalk fighting delirium. Where the hell had I parked? East or west? North or south? Which block? Which side of the street? The synapses in my brain fired all over the place.

I was completely disoriented.

Turning a corner, I dug into my purse and snatched my keys from a side pocket. I stabbed the black remote in every direction and listened for my car’s answering chime, then searched the darkness for the familiar flash of gold and red lights. None came.

Had I gone the wrong way? I stopped in my tracks. Cold keys dangled against my temple like icy fingers when I propped my wrists atop my head and scanned the block in a frantic haze.

Car. Where was the car?

Tears poured out of me as I trudged on blindly. I was so damn tired of crying! The image of Trace and that woman floated before my eyes. Dr. Rosen. Rainbows. Mrs. Campbell. Mother. Uncle, Auntie, and the sheriff plotting. Darien and Kate screwing each other.

Trace shower damp. Trace darn near naked, wrapped in a towel—that beautiful woman with the stylish black hair, violet eyes, and sultry mouth.

The same leggy woman I’d seen him with at Home Depot, but this time, she was in his house, descending the stairs, having just left his bedroom, no doubt—the bedroom where they’d obviously done God knows—

“Shannon!”

Trace’s voice jolted me as his hand gave my elbow a sharp tug. I crashed into what felt like a bus, but it was him—all six-feet-three-inches of hard-bodied man. His misty breath sawed in and out. Water beaded off his skin, his hair. He looked cold, breathless, and mad as hell.

Mad at me.

He was still dressed in a towel, but he’d had the sense to throw his wool peacoat on. No shoes though. His bare chest pumped up and down while he struggled for words.

“You…didn’t give me…a chance…to explain,” he breathed. “It’s not…what you think.”

The blood was pounding so hard in my head, I could barely concentrate. “What am I thinking, Trace?”

“That I was doin’ stuff.”

“Well, weren’t you?”

“No!” he roared over a sudden chorus of dog barks.

“You badgered me about breaking up with Darien. Made me feel absolutely horrible. But you’re still seeing her even though you told me it was over! I have had it up to here—” I jerked my hand level with my chin. “—with everybody. Darien. My family. You. You’re all liars!”

“Hey, shut that noise up!” someone screamed from a window.

“What am I lying about?” he yelled. “She just came by to get her things.”

“Things? What ‘things’?”

He gestured. “Do we have to get into this out here? I’m freezing my ass off.”

Bark. Bark. Bark.

“Yes, we do. Remember when you said that if Darien wasn’t getting it from me, he was getting it from somewhere? Well, you were right. He was. This whole time! And it looks like the same holds true for you!”

Veins bulged in his neck. “I am not fucking her!”

Bark. Bark. Bark. Ruff. Ruff. Yip!

I poked him in the chest. “Then what was she doing upstairs, and why are you….” I raked my eyes from his bare feet to his head. “Naked!”

Trace scowled. “For the love of—she let herself in when I was taking a shower. I didn’t even know she was there ‘til—”

“Wonderful. She has a key.” I rolled my eyes. “Why did it take you so long to answer the door?”

“Are you hard of hearin’? I said, I—was—in—the—shower.”

Ruff. Ruff. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark! Yip!

“So why didn’t she answer it?”

“‘Cause she didn’t want a scene.”

“Scene? What was she afraid of?”

Bark! Ruff! Ruff! Grrrrrr! Ruff! Yip! Yip!

“This! This right here!” He flung his arms out and his coat flew open. “You going batshit!” He dug a hand through his wet locks. “Damn it, she broke it off weeks ago!”

“So what am I, the booby prize?” I spun away, fists clenched, keys jingling, only to have him yank me back. I slammed into his chest. “Let go!”

Ruff! Bark! Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Grrrrrrrrrrrrr! Ruff! Yip! Yip! Yip

“Not until you hear me out.”

“There’s nothing more to say.” Tears dangled from my chin. “All these years…all these years I worked my ass off to distance myself from my mother—to be blameless. To be perfect! All the weeks I denied my feelings for you, knowing how hard I was falling…knowing it was inevitable! But I still fought to stay true to a man I wasn’t in love with—a man who didn’t deserve me! And as usual it wasn’t enough. Not for my family. Not for Darien and not for you. I wasn’t enough and I never will be!”

“What are you talking about? You’re more than enough for me. Can’t you see that?”

“Just leave me alone.” I twisted to break free. “I mean it. Let go!”

Trace wrestled me still. “Ask me why she ended it.”

Bark! Bark! Yip! Bark! Bark! Ruff! Grrrrrrrrrr! Yip!

“I don’t care!” I said, struggling.

“Damn it, ask me why!”

“Why!?”

He grasped my face. “‘Cause she knew my heart was yours even before I did!”

Over the maelstrom of anger, over the roar of blood in my ears, over all the madness and barking, relief hummed like a song in my heart, like a warm breeze in the dead of winter.

Trace’s eyes burned into me, displacing the cold. He kissed my nose and said, “Do you hear me, Shannon? You’re all the woman I’ll ever need.”

He crushed my mouth with his in a kiss so feral and possessive, it stole my breath. Our hearts slammed into each other as he leaned back, gripped my bottom, and lifted me as if I were penny-light. My feet hovered inches from the ground. I lay flush against his body, my arms tied around his neck, our mouths linked as intimately as our pelvises.

“Y’all need to take that shit inside!” someone yelled.

Trace set me down, squeezed me tight, and gazed up at the starlit sky. “Oh, baby,” he said. “I can’t breathe without you in my world. Don’t you get that yet?” He squeezed me once more. “You scared me to death. Please. Don’t ever run away from me again.”

Bark! Bark! Bark! Yip!

“I won’t.” I closed my eyes. “I swear it.”

He kissed my forehead. “Good, ‘cause we’ve wasted too much time apart. Twelve years is long enough.”

I buried my face in his chest and wrapped my arms within his jacket, around his naked waist. “My God. You’re so cold.”

“Naw, try frozen,” he said, teeth chattering.

“Then let’s get you home.”

Yip! Ruff! Bark!

He shivered. “Give me a minute, okay?”

“For what?”

Bark! Ruff! Ruff! Yip! Meow.

“I can’t feel my feet no more,” he said. Then he leaned down and whispered, “And my towel just fell off.”

SHANNON

____________________________

I pressed a hand to my nervous stomach as I stood in the doorway. Trace slipped a CD into the player and sat at the edge of his bed. He wore white OBVIOUSLY boxer briefs and nothing else. I’d never seen underwear like them. The crotch had an anatomical pouch that was quite…large, giving his sex room to…er…hang.

He looked up, dragging his smoldering gaze from my knees to my face in one sinuous slide. “It’s not Christmas yet, but I’m afraid I’m gonna have to unwrap you early.” His Adam’s apple climbed his neck, then shuddered down. “My robe never looked that good on me. C’mere.”

My heart kicked into overdrive. I padded to the bed and stood between his legs. He hugged me as I cocked my head to listen to the amazing song he’d put on. “Who is this? The melody sounds so familiar.”

“Richard Marx.”

“Didn’t he do this song in English?”

“Yeah, ‘Now and Forever.’ He wrote it for his wife.” Trace smiled. “But this is ‘Ahora y Siempre,’ his Spanish version.”

I closed my eyes and smiled. “It’s so beautiful.”

“No. You’re beautiful.” Trace stood and took me into his arms, leading me in a slow dance. “I still can’t believe you’re here. Like this. With me.”

I cupped his jaw. “There’s no other place I’d rather be.”

“I didn’t think you’d ever get out of the shower,” he said with a nervous laugh.

“I just needed to clear my head.”

He stared at me with concerned eyes. “You sure you want to do this?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

We stayed like that for a while, just swaying to the music. He squeezed me in intermittent doses and told me how I completed him. I combed my fingers through his hair and told him how I’d wanted him since forever.

Together, we acknowledged the import of what we were about to do…how it would change us. How it would take our relationship to another level.

When we separated, he untied the robe with reverence. I sucked in a breath, feeling his gentle hands tour my body. He told me that I was beautiful and not to be afraid. He said he’d take his time, that we were in no hurry.

Meanwhile, I berated myself for blushing, but when the belt fell to the floor, I knew that this night, this man was my destiny.

And that I was loved.

He parted the garment and his hungry gaze rested on my breasts. He’d kissed and sucked them, but that was in the heat of passion. We were both calm now, and would enter this loving clear-eyed. Since I barely filled a B-cup, I was insecure, especially when I thought about his busty brunette friend.

My silly insecurities vanished when I saw his arousal. What used to be a non-threatening bulge, now tented his boxers with such blatant violence I stifled a gasp.

His eyes were fixed on the dark blonde tangle of silk between my legs. Up and down his chest pumped. I could hear the air rush from his flared nostrils. He was happy to see me—very happy. But self-consciousness returned, and a blush flamed my body. It compelled me to pull the robe around myself.

Trace gave his head a slow shake. “Naw. Let me look my fill.”

He brought my arms down to my sides, pushed the robe off one shoulder and moved in to capture a nipple. The ache between my legs was swift and powerful while he drew it into his mouth and sucked.

He anchored one palm at the small of my back. The other hand, he pressed against my belly, and used two fingers to stroke the place he’d stared at. The pleasure was so exquisite I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

His lips made a smacking sound when he released my nipple. It glistened beneath the light. Easing me on the bed, he fit our bodies together, side by side, and crushed his mouth to mine. As our lips did battle, he positioned me astride him. My damp hair framed his cheeks like twin curtains, while my necklace rested against his Adam’s apple. He broke the kiss, swept my hair to one side and gazed into my eyes. A muscle along his jaw trembled.

I shot him an anxious smile. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he said, husky and deep. “Just that I want to get inside you so bad my nuts ache.”

Laughter exploded from my throat and giggles spilled out of me like bubbly. Just like that, my nervous tension evaporated. After the monstrous day I’d endured, this was just what the doctor ordered.

I snuggled his neck. “Oh, my goodness,” I wheezed. “I needed that.”

“But it’s the truth,” he said in an all too quiet voice.

I raised my head, my body still shuddering with laughter. When I bent to kiss him in between giggles, he turned his face away. I blinked, stared down at him, and my laughter died. He wasn’t smiling.

“Trace? What’s wrong?”

He hesitated, his throat working. “It’s your first time. I don’t wanna screw it up.”

“How could you possibly do that?”

He ran his palms beneath the robe, over my bare bottom, and squeezed. “It’s just that…well, being near you makes me want to come.”

I swallowed, licked my lips.

“I don’t know how long I can make it last,” he said. “Understand?”

I nodded in earnest, and offered a logical solution. “Ever heard the phrase, ‘if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again’? And again, and again….”

Trace’s eyes softened and he shook his head as if I was being naughty. His smile was a slow presentation of white teeth against a backdrop of tanned flesh and dimples. “Oh, yeah,” he whispered. “That’ll work.”

He tugged my robe off, tossed it on the floor then pulled a blanket over us. Suddenly, I was on my back and Trace was on top, nudging my legs apart. He kissed his way down my stomach to the place that ached the most.

“Trace,” I gasped.

With his thumbs, he parted my folds and exposed me to his smoldering stare. I knew what he saw—wet, hot, swollen, pink flesh.

He smiled. “You got no idea how much I been aching for another taste.”

Before I knew it, he’d shoved his hands under my derrière and tugged me closer. Then he found me, throbbing and desperately hot for him. He attacked the nub his fingers had roused, drew it into his mouth like one would a straw. He was ruthless.

On and on, it went, with him taking me higher and higher, until I was close to kissing the sun. But right before I was about to burn he stopped to slowly circle his tongue around my clitoris, forcing me back down to earth.

A sob spilled out of me. “Please….”

“Soon,” he promised, drawing me back into his mouth.

Soon was another ten minutes of sweet agony. Endless minutes of him kissing, licking, and sucking—a torturous eternity that pushed my body to the very edge. Only after much begging, did he finally grant me mercy, and this time, he didn’t stop. He kept the suction going while I hovered over a precipice, waiting to fly or fall.

I circled my hips to the rhythm he set, fisted his hair, and cried his name the moment I exploded into a thousand shards. Tremors reverberated throughout my body until I wilted into the mattress, dead to the world.

Trace flicked his tongue over me one last time before he kissed his way back up my stomach to suckle my lips, soft and slow. Then he left the bed and the rocking motion stirred me from the daze I was in. My eyes drifted open, and the first thing I saw was the enormous erection straining his boxers.

I stifled a gasp. Dear God, now it was even bigger.

He slipped the waistband over his hips without preamble, and his sex sprang loose, distended and stabbing in my direction. My eyes widened. I’d felt its impressive thickness, weight, and length yesterday, but I hadn’t ‘seen it.’ And seeing made all the difference.

Memory flashed to that morning at the plaza, to the crude store clerks huddled in the corner: ‘Word has it he’s got an anaconda between his legs….’

They hadn’t exaggerated.

TRACE

____________________________

I was scared as hell. What did I know about virgins? Nada. Zip. Every woman I’d ever lain with had been experienced. Getting inside Shannon wouldn’t be easy. It was a simple matter of physics. She was tiny, and I was…bigger. I would hurt her, I knew, and this time, she’d be the one bleeding.

I took a strengthening breath, grabbed my towel from the dresser, and joined her on the bed. After I’d settled between her thighs, I couldn’t help but notice how tense she’d become. I wasn’t faring any better.

“You’re trembling,” she said, breathless.

I examined her face intently. My heart thumped to the point of pain. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Emotion burned in her eyes. “I know.”

“And the fact that you saved yourself—”

“For you.”

My throat got tight. I cleared it, swallowed. “Well, it means a lot to me.”

She framed my face in her hands and fit her lips to mine. I kissed her back with fierce possession, just to let her know how much I treasured her. I wanted to take my time—wanted to love her good and long, but I was spike-hard, and in desperate need of the release only she could give me.

To ease the ache, I guided her fingers to my cock. I fit her tiny palm around the head, cupped my hand over hers, and whispered instructions on how to hold and caress me. She was a quick study. Her touch was light, yet effective. Didn’t take long before she had me moaning her name. My eyes trembled shut, and when I could take no more, I brushed her hand away.

I got a rubber from the nightstand and tore the packet with my teeth, but my hands shook. It took four tries, before I could cover myself.

“Wrap your legs around me,” I rasped, sliding my hips into place.

She stared up at me with trust in her eyes. “Like this?”

“Yeah, just like that.” I reached between our bodies and grasped my swollen staff, rubbing the head around her center to spread the moisture. “Now raise up,” I told her, my words hoarse, strained. Once she did, I shoved the towel beneath her bottom, then eased into her. “That’s it. Shhhh. Just like—”

I groaned when I slipped the head in, squeezing my eyes shut to fight the demands of my body. Waves of dark pleasure rippled through me. I pressed into her again, but after her flesh resisted, I withdrew.

“I’m sorry,” I said, moving my mouth over hers in apology. “So sorry….” Then without warning, I thrust into her and rent her innocence. She lurched against me, her back curving like an archer’s bow as her muffled gasp of pain filled the room. I was damn near womb-deep. So deep, I could feel her heart thrash. “Sweetheart please please don’t move don’t…mmmh.”

A minute went by before I could speak again. Once I caught my breath, I gazed down at this gift from God, and my heart tilted. My worst fear had come to pass. I’d hurt her.

“I’m all right.” Her smile was tremulous. “Really, I am,” she whispered on a sob. Tears rushed down the sides of her face like raindrops on glass.

My little Pinocchio wasn’t such a good liar after all.

“Oh, my sweet girl.” Rolling my hips, I kissed the corners of her eyes. “I’ll make it good for you. I swear.”

And I was a man of my word.

I slowly withdrew and slid home again. My body trembled from the effort. She was so small and so achingly tight. I had to be careful. I’d thought a rubber would dull the sensation, but she felt even better than I’d imagined.

I’d been at it five minutes when I first felt the change. The tenseness left her body. She circled her hips experimentally, and a look of wonder lit her face.

That’s when my control snapped and I thrust into her with abandon. She was a virgin. Pure. Untouched. And she’d given herself to me. She was mine, this—I pulled out and rammed back into her—this was mine. Some primitive instinct took pride in that. I was mating, claiming, penetrating.

Damn if I didn’t feel like a caveman.

I swept my tongue inside her mouth, all the while, stroking her inner walls down below. I knew I should take it easy, but I’d suffered through too many wet dreams. I couldn’t stop. Just like I’d imagined, she was wetter than wet. Hotter than hot. A velvet vise that tightened the deeper I sank. She held on fast while I took, then gave right back.

Somewhere in the back of my brain reality called. Velvet vise. How could she feel this good with a condom? The truth slapped me like a wet hand. “Oh, crap,” I gasped. “It broke.” She tightened her legs around me as I drove in again, unable to stop. “Damn it, the…rubber—it broke. I gotta pull out.”

But she wouldn’t let me. She dug her nails into my butt to hold me in place. Satin thighs imprisoned my ribcage, drew me in deeper. She wasn’t about to let me go, and I didn’t have the strength or will to fight her.

Pleasure speared through my cock, from root to tip. With the condom gone, I could feel every silky ridge of her, could feel the frayed piece of rubber bunch with each drag and thrust. The friction felt indescribable. I suckled her nipple, all the while stroking the same spot inside her until she gasped. Somehow I knew that tender pocket was right where she wanted me. Then I felt it—her first spasm. I cut her scream off with a thorough kiss while she came with such sweetness, I couldn’t help but follow.

Convulsions ran the gambit within her body. The hot glove sheathing me fluttered, squeezing my cock like a million tiny fists. That’s all it took. Pleasure rushed my groin as I came hard and hot, flooding into her until she’d milked me dry.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Buried Treasure

SHANNON

____________________________

I wilted in Trace’s arms, breathless, giddy, and sated. “Oh, God. Now…we’ll need…to take another shower.”

We’d showered together an hour ago when we’d awakened at the crack of dawn. I was sore, but I wanted him again, wanted that closeness. So he made love to me slowly, gently, up against the cool tile as hot water sprayed down on us. Somehow, we’d ended up back in bed again.

“I think I broke…somethin’, that time,” he said, puffing.

I giggled. “I won’t be able to walk…for a week.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yup.” Chest still pumping, he pulled out and rolled off me. “What do you think…about us gettin’ away from all this? Just for a few days.”

“Huh?”

He rubbed my thigh. “This weekend. Maybe a hotel room in the city. Better still Cholly was telling me about this cabin resort up in the mountains.”

“Perhaps after I clean this mess up.”

“Mess?”

I tried to catch my breath before answering. “The wedding with Darien for one. I’ve signed contracts…need to settle up with vendors. Notify friends, family.”

“How long will that take?”

I gave an exaggerated shrug. “Who knows? I’ve never done this before. It’s bound to be sticky.”

“Yeah, but that shouldn’t take long.” He scrubbed a hand over his wet hair. “You break your contracts and pay the fees.”

“That’s not the only consideration here.”

One of his eyebrows arched high. “What else?”

I rose on an elbow to stare down at him. “My aunt, uncle, and godfather are co-conspirators in a murder cover-up.”

“If that’s not a reason to get away, I don’t know what is. I don’t know about you, but I could use a couple mental health days. For real. Trust me, all this bullshit will be here when we get back.”

Foreboding gnawed deep. “But Mother’s killer is still out there. We’ve got to hire a lawyer. Contact the prosecutor’s office. I expect Uncle Sears to launch a vigorous defense. There’s a massive amount of new information. Mrs. Campbell, Uncle Jackson, what I remembered from Dr. Rosen….”

He levered up, balancing on a forearm. His eyes were like searchlights. “What’s really going on here?”

I felt cornered, flustered. “I’m estranged from my family. Uncle Sears is in the hospital—”

“With a wicked case of indigestion. Least that’s what you said last night.”

“Yes, but it’s what put him there that concerns me. It wasn’t a heart attack, but his stomach problems are stress-related. He’s scared because he knows I’m not backing down. Wait until he and Auntie find out about our visit to the sheriff’s.”

“You didn’t say anything at the hospital?”

“How could I? He and Auntie were at each other’s throats. More than usual. They had to sedate him, it got so bad. And I was upset about the fight with you. Numb about Darien.”

“It was a lot to deal with,” he said in a hushed voice.

“Then Mead shows up and starts pointing fingers at me. Darien arrived just as I was leaving. I ignored him.” I sighed. “When it rains it pours.”

He stared at me with sober eyes. “None of that should stop this trip. Don’t you think we could use the time away to clear our heads? Maybe get a handle on how we should move forward?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?” I lowered my eyes and he nodded to himself. “Oh, I get it. A romantic weekend with me would set tongues waggin’, wouldn’t it?”

Seconds passed. Finally, the angry silence yanked the truth out of me. “All right! All right!” I scowled. “Look, it’s just the timing, okay? I’m about to cancel my wedding, so if I go running off with you now, I’ll be the one wearing the Scarlet Letter. Nobody will care about the details, they’ll just see Lilith Bradford’s daughter doing what comes natural. My God, Darien’s been carrying on for months behind my back. All the guilt I’ve suffered about us…and what was he doing? Screwing Kate Sims the whole time! Why should I be the one—”

“To look bad?” He cocked a brow. “If you think that’s scary, wait’ll your bridge club pals hear about our screaming match last night. We likely woke the dead. Not to mention, I gave the whole neighborhood a peep show.”

I looked away.

“Forgot about that, didn’t you?” When I didn’t answer, he jiggled my hand. “It’s not that you’re ashamed of us. You just want to make sure you come off smelling like a rose.”

“Why do you have to say it like that?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Yes,” I said with certainty. “I’m not ashamed. Just scared.”

“Then write it in the sky. Slap it on a billboard. Tell them you don’t give a damn what they think. That’ll kill the fear for good.”

I looked into his eyes, marveling at how beautiful he was, and how unworthy I felt. I’d hurt him again. And why? Because old habits died hard. Because it would take much more than words and good intentions to erase a lifetime of fear.

Trace peeled the condom off. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and snatched his underwear from the floor. After he’d tossed the condom in the trash, he yanked the boxer-briefs over his hips, and stalked toward the door, but swung back around mid-step.

“I may be free and clear of disease, but there are other concerns.” When my face fell, he said, “Once is all it takes. I mean, you’re not on birth control, and, as I recall, I came inside you twice.” He quirked a brow, then flashed two fingers. “Last night when the condom broke, and again in the shower. We both know I didn’t pull out in time.”

As if on cue, a damp reminder seeped between my thighs.

His gaze dropped to my abdomen. “My little soldiers are in there right now, looking for one thing.” At my widened eyes, he said, “Oh, yeah, we may have created a new life. Now wouldn’t that be somethin’? Think of the headline they could run.” He thrust his hands in front of him. His long fingers curved to form a mock marquee: “Bradford Bears Butcher Boy’s Bastard.”

I flinched. He’d hurled the words like knives. “You know I’d be honored to carry your child.”

“Sure you would.” Trace rolled his eyes and snatched a clean pair of boxers from a drawer, then pulled a shirt and Levi’s from his closet. “I need to get to the flower shop before work.” He stalked down the hall and slammed the bathroom door. The house shook.

I threw his robe on and scrambled after him, getting to the bathroom in a flash. I didn’t bother to knock, just burst through the door, only to freeze in my tracks.

Head bent, he’d set one hand against the tiled wall. With the other hand, he gripped his penis while a steady stream of urine splashed into the toilet bowl. He didn’t even spare me a glance, just continued relieving himself.

There was an intimacy in watching him do this, and strangely enough, it was then that I realized what I had to do to make things right again.

When he was done, he gave his penis two shakes and tucked it in his boxers. After he’d flushed, he tried to move past me, but I blocked his way to the shower. Tying my arms around his waist, I pressed my cheek to his chest. But he didn’t hug me back. His body was as stiff as a pole in my arms.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” he said staring past me. “You can’t help it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s nothin’ I haven’t said before.” He set me away from him, tugged his underwear down, and flipped the shower on. “I used to think you were one of the bravest people I know, and you still are, to a degree. But here’s the problem. You’ll stand up to bullies, but you’re terrified of standing up to yourself.”

That went right over my head. “Huh?”

“Remember my brain box? Well, you’ve got one too. The fancy name for it is repression. I learned that from Doc. You repress your emotions and the way I figure it, you operate on some kind of…weird autopilot. Anything that feels too real, you shove it down—or you run. That’s how you stayed in denial about us for so long.”

I shook my head. “I’m glad you’ve got this all figured out.”

“I do.” He looked at me for a long while. “I spent twelve years in an iron cage with wardens, guards, sharpshooters, and psychopaths. And what were you doin’? You’ll likely say, living your life out here in freedom, right?”

Any answer I gave would probably be wrong, so I held my tongue.

He stepped into the shower and grabbed a well-used bar of Ivory soap. “You’re not ashamed of me, you’re just afraid. And I get that. I really do. But the truth is, you’re in bondage, wasting away in a platinum cage you built. Trying to live up to your own impossible standards. You talk about not being ‘enough’ for other people, but this is about you.” Steam rose as he ducked beneath the hot spray and cracked an eye open. “I may be on parole, but you’re still the warden of your own penitentiary. So, between the two of us, who’s the real prisoner, darlin’?”

He yanked the shower curtain closed.

SHANNON

____________________________

I slowed as a crossing guard led a line of middle school students across the street. Since I couldn’t stand the thought of going home, I’d picked up some toiletries at Walgreens and checked into a motel. I glanced at the dashboard clock—8:05 a.m.—fifty-eight minutes since I’d last seen Trace.

He didn’t say a word after he left the shower. Just got dressed and threw on his coat. A minute later, he was gone.

Was he right? Was I a prisoner of my own making?

Looking back, I had a long list of accomplishments. High school homecoming queen, captain of the varsity cheerleading squad, National Honor Society member, Sarah Lawrence magna cum laude graduate, successful realtor, and fiancé of a celebrated attorney.

I’d achieved all this in spite of child abuse, my father’s sudden death, as well as my mother’s murder and sleazy legacy. Yet lurking beneath all the dazzling achievements and ‘atta girl’s’ was a fear so stark and terrifying, I’d buried it as deep as I could—until Trace dug it out.

He’d spoken a hard truth. I had become my own jailer, and it was up to me to free myself. Nobody else could. All my accolades and certificates couldn’t hide the fact that I was just as flawed as everyone else…even my own mother, which meant I had a right—no, a responsibility—to make my own mistakes and not be ashamed of them.

Because I was only human.

When I rolled into the plaza, ten minutes later, I immediately saw Darien’s Mercedes. Spotting me, he climbed out, stood in front of the office, and waited.

One part of me wanted to berate him for the months he’d been lying, while the other refused to point fingers. I’d given Trace my virginity last night; had a few close calls with him even before that.

Saying Darien cheated first sounded juvenile, even to my own ears.

I cut the engine, filled my lungs, and threw the door open.

May as well get this over with now.

Darien lurked on the sidewalk, his hands shoved in the pockets of a blue trench coat. Even with a tan, he somehow seemed pale. His face looked weighted down, and his perfectly clipped chestnut hair was as windblown as the rest of him.

“Shannon….”

I sailed by, head bent, fingers sifting through my keys. “Make it quick. I’m just here for my day planner and Rolodex.”

“You weren’t home. I’ve been calling your cell all night.”

“It’s broken,” I said, my breath fogging from the cold.

“Can you at least tell me where you’ve been?”

I rammed the key into the lock. “You honestly don’t expect me to answer that, do you?”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I was worried sick.”

“As you can see, I’m fine.”

He followed when I nudged the door open. I flipped the light switch and headed straight for my office. Once there, I eased into a chair—mindful of the tenderness between my legs—and gathered my things with ruthless precision. I kept my eyes down, anywhere but on him.

Darien snagged a seat on the opposite side of my desk. “Honey, please. I need to talk to you.”

I stilled, heaved a sigh. “What is it?”

“You can’t know how sorry I am.”

Oh, I did, and strangely enough, I pitied him. The man looked miserable. Lines in his forehead, the ones I’d once thought gave him character, sliced dramatic paths across his tanned face. Shadows underscored his weary eyes.

I was hesitant, but spoke my mind anyway. “I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach yesterday. Before I left the hospital, I had to touch a tree and feel its bark…to be sure it was real…that I was real. How long have you and—”

“She’s irrelevant,” he supplied with a hint of desperation.

“Irrelevant,” I repeated, my eyes never leaving his. The male capacity for sex without love both puzzled and exasperated me. “I doubt Kate shares your lack of enthusiasm.”

His face looked tight with strain. “She was the tabloid source. I confronted her as soon as I knew.”

Swinging. Sadomasochism. The inherent malice behind the lies made sense now.

“She’s in love with you.”

“Yes,” he admitted with a solemn nod. “I didn’t want a lawsuit, so I paid her off. She’s left the firm.”

If anything, I felt sorry for Kate Sims. But one question nagged at me. “It’s obvious your…secret relationship has been going on for a while. Even before us, probably. So why did you ask me to marry you?”

“Love.” He said the word as if I should have known better. “Yes, I was seeing her before you, but it was just sex. Nothing else.”

“Well, I accepted your proposal because…you reminded me of my father.”

His head jutted back. “What?”

“I know it makes no sense, but there you have it. You’re not in love with me. You’re in love with an idea. Truth is, we used each other, Darien. I wanted something you couldn’t give—your undivided attention. I knew this, but I did it anyway, hoping this time things would be different.”

“Different how?”

I sniffed, looked away. “Hoping this time the busy, distracted, and successful older guy would pay attention me. And you….” I sighed. “You wanted a trophy wife—someone from a good family, someone naïve and malleable. But Kate wasn’t that someone.” I served him a frank look. “And neither am I.”

Darien threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you’re going on about, but here’s my truth. I was wrong to put my career first. Just let me make it up to you. I swear I’ll do better.”

I propped my forearms on the desk. “It’s not just that. I’m tired of watching my back. I can’t guarantee that I won’t screw up in the future. And when they hear about us, trust me, it’ll be my fault, regardless. I’m Lilith Bradford’s daughter.”

“But it doesn’t have to be that way. Look, I wouldn’t care if you were the devil’s daughter! I am in love with you. All I want is another chance to prove it.”

Oh, my God, he’s serious. I drew back and with a heavy heart, slowly lifted my left hand for his inspection.

He blinked at the tan line. “Where the hell is your ring?”

“It’s over. I’m telling you now because I’d rather you hear it from me than gossips.” I paused. “I slept with Trace.”

Color drained from his cheeks.

“I’m in love with him, Darien. I-I suspect I always have been.” Then I added, “He didn’t kill Mother, and I plan on finding out who did.”

Comprehension finally dawned in his steel-gray eyes. “You were with him last night?” I nodded. “How long has this been going on?”

For me? A lifetime. Trace was my first love—my one and only true love—but I’d been too blind to see it. “Does that really matter now?”

Visibly stunned, Darien struggled to his feet. He ambled around the desk, sank to the edge, and grasped my hand, his grip unsteady. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I love you. I always have.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t do this.”

Tears pooled in his eyes as I dug the solitaire from my pocket, uncurled his hand, and tucked it into his palm. He drew a sharp breath, closing his fingers around the gem. It made a scraping sound when it came in contact with his fraternity ring.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “We just weren’t meant to be.”

He rubbed his damp eyes with a fist and dropped the ring in a breast pocket. “Guess that answers my follow-up question.”

For the next hour, we spoke in solicitous tones, both of us coming to terms with what would never be, and what never was. We cried together, held each other in grief, in sadness. And for the first time in our relationship, Darien bared his soul, allowing me to see his emotional nakedness and vulnerability. That heartened me most of all.

However, when the conversation finally shifted, I had a sense that he would get past this—we both would—and perhaps come out the better for it.

“Are you going back to the hospital?” I asked, mopping my nose with a hanky.

Darien slowly stood and ran a hand through his hair. “Uh, yeah. Sears asked me to pick him up.” He sighed. “They’re discharging him this afternoon. But something’s going on with him and Hesta. They were acting….”

“Weird?” After he nodded, I added, “Want to know why?”

“You told them about Kate.” He shot me a rueful smile. “I expect Sears’ll want to dissolve our partnership.”

“For your sake, I hope so.”

“Now you’ve lost me.”

I raised both brows at his puzzled expression. “Your secret’s safe. I didn’t tell him anything. This is something entirely different.” I hesitated. “You may have been a terrible fiancé, but you’re one of the best lawyers I know. Trace and I will need the best.”

Darien looked at me like I was crazy. “What makes you think I’d ever lift a finger to help him?”

“Because despite your personal failings, you respect justice. That’s what I’m counting on.” I powered up my computer and found Mrs. Campbell’s and Sheriff Gray’s mp3 files. “There’s something you need to hear. So grab a seat. I’m about to give you a chance to right a huge wrong.”

TRACE

____________________________

There was nothing I could say or do to change Shannon. Her issues had been ingrained from birth. So where did that leave me? Forever a slave to her annoying obsession with appearances? I loved her more than anything, but could she say the same? I doubted it. If she did, our relationship would be at the top of her list. So what was? Tongue waggers!

I scowled and stalked across the parking lot. This wasn’t my problem. It was hers. She had to work it out. I’d be damned before I’d spend another moment worrying about it. So I shoved Shannon from my mind, and instead focused on the task ahead. And that was picking Tori Mills’ brain.

Knowing the girl like I did, I figured I’d have to come up with a creative lie to get what I wanted. I may even have to do some sweet-talking. Women like Tori had the same buttons, and I’d poked hers too many times to mention in high school. If I was lucky, the store would be empty.

Bullshit was a dish best served without an audience.

I swung the glass door open and sauntered in. The sweet floral warmth of the tiny shop was a welcome change from the chill outside. Tori stood behind the counter counting a wad of cash. I glanced around. Not a customer in sight.

Hot damn.

“My, my,” I said. “Don’t you look delectable this A.M.”

Chewing gum like a cow chews cud, Tori shoved the money into the till. “Don’t start.” She snatched a pen from behind her ear, slipped a receipt book from her work smock, then slapped the narrow pad on the counter. “I already told you my customer records are confidential,” she said, scribbling on the paper.

I plucked the pen from her grasp, set it aside, stroked the back of her hand. “Aw, come on now.”

“You want something bad.” She walked her red talons up my arm. “I heard it in your voice on the phone.”

I resisted the urge to recoil. The harsh fluorescent light accentuated Tori’s flaws. Her skin looked burlap soft, and her paint-by-numbers makeup job didn’t help matters. Her bleached beehive must have taken a can of hairspray to assemble. She looked worn down. Used. Life hadn’t been good to her.

But I grinned anyway. “Be nice.”

“Nice will cost you dinner and a movie.”

I shook my head. “Not gonna happen. How ‘bout you just help me out of the kindness of your heart?”

She lifted a brow and cracked her gum. “I don’t have one.”

“Come on, Tori.” I grinned. “What do you know about calla lilies?”

“Plenty.”

I gave her a full-on smile. “Do you sell purple ones?”

Tori smirked, then nodded, but her hair didn’t move. She sized me up with a thorough once-over. “Hmmm. `Less you’re studying horticulture, I figure you must have courting on your mind. And considering where I saw you the other week, and who called my shop asking these same questions, I can only come to one conclusion. The rumors about you and Shannon are true.”

The girl was getting on my damn nerves. “Yeah, so?”

She tilted her head; her gum snapped and popped. “Don’t be dense. I never once believed you were guilty, and you know it. I even wrote you a couple letters in prison. Now you been out almost two months, and you’re just calling on me?”

“I didn’t see the point.”

Her expression soured. “If you’re trying to butter me up, it’s not working.”

“You owe me.” I leaned closer. “I took the fall for that motel room your drunk ass wrecked. As I recall, it was two bottles of Jack Daniels, me, you, Vickie Carson, a tub full of cherry Jell-O, edible body paint, a can of Silly String—”

“Fine! Their season is March to June. Normally we get them from California, South America, and Holland. If you want them anytime soon, forget it. They’re a special order item.”

“And expensive, right?”

Between gum cracking, she said, “You’re talking, lezzsee.” Her gaze hit the ceiling. “Six-seventy-five a stem. But during the off season, the price doubles.” She frowned and did the math. “It’ll run you about one-sixty a dozen. That’s not including tax.”

I gave a low whistle. “You get many orders?”

“Weddings. Especially in June.” She smiled. “But you want to know about January. ‘Least that’s what Shannon asked about.”

“Bingo.”

She tossed her gum. “He comes in November ‘cause he knows it’s a special order item. Gets a dozen for January.”

“Who’s ‘he’?”

She pursed her red lips. “Mayor Bradford. He claims they’re for his wife Francine. I asked him about it once and he mumbled something about them being for her birthday. That’s why I didn’t tell Shannon. It’s a delicate situation.”

Tori didn’t give a piss-pot about Shannon’s feelings, but in the interest of not getting sidetracked, I didn’t challenge her.

“How do you know the flowers weren’t for Mead’s wife?” I asked.

“Because I knew Francine before she started on Botox—”

“What the hell is Botox?”

Eying me with what looked like pity, Tori sighed. “Hon, you been in prison too long. Look, it’s not important. Anyway, Francine got her eyes done last year. She had the surgery at Temptation Memorial instead of Saint Peter’s in New Dyer. Probably ‘cause she didn’t want her friends to know. See, she just started doing Botox, hence the eye job last year. Spent a pretty penny on her lips too. My best friend works in billing, and—”

“Tori? Will you be getting to the point anytime this week?”

She gestured. “Dee Dee works in hospital billing at Temptation Memorial. Oh, and you do know she had a little boy the other day. I’m a godmother again—”

“Tori!”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “Francine’s been telling the same lie since forever. That she’s twenty-seven when everyone knows the bitch is five years off. So when Dee Dee got her birth date from the billing paperwork, that made me remember the mayor’s calla lilies. She’d have to be a Capricorn or an Aquarius, but she’s a Gemini. You with me so far?”

“Um, barely, but go on.”

“Mead Bradford buys his flowers in January. That’s a Capricorn/Aquarius month. But Francine’s a Gemini. That’s May/June. Not to mention the fact that there are flower shops all over New Dyer. So why’d the mayor come here? Can you say mistress?” She wiggled a black brow. “Tracemore, if those flowers are for Francine Bradford, then I’m a natural blonde.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

A Smoking Gun

SHANNON

____________________________

I’d planned to go to my room and pack, but the light spilling from beneath Uncle’s study beckoned me. Granny Mae had dragged Digger to Atlantic City with her church group. They weren’t due back until tomorrow. Uncle was still in the hospital, and unless my dates were wrong—I glanced at my watch—Auntie was playing tennis at the country club.

I breezed past the towering Christmas tree in the foyer and made my way down the hall to the study. Peering inside the two-inch door crack, I saw Auntie seated at Uncle’s desk fiddling with something in a side drawer.

A crystal decanter of brandy and an empty goblet topped the desk. Half past noon and she was drinking? Upon closer inspection, I noticed she hadn’t changed. She wore the same hunter green cashmere slit dress she’d had on yesterday at the hospital.

Auntie shoved a flyaway curl off her face, upended the decanter, and splashed a generous amount into the huge goblet. After taking a belt, she went back to messing with the desk.

I nudged the door open. It gave a low wail. “Auntie?”

Slamming the drawer, she speared a look of surprise in my direction. The woman appeared frazzled, her eyes wild. Everything about her was amiss. Her hair, usually kept neat and impeccable, lay in a messy heap atop her crown, with droopy and otherwise frizzy curls that floated around her head like Medusa’s snakes. Her face was pale and papery, her makeup a blur, her eyes and nose were bright pink.

I came in wholesale. “What’s going on?”

Auntie pushed her hair out of her face. She sagged in the chair and her chest heaved with relief. “I wondered when you would be home,” she said in a raw whisper. “Where’ve you been?”

“Out.” I stood in the center of the room, arms folded. “Tell me you weren’t up all night.”

“Okay, then I won’t.” Auntie raised the goblet to her chapped lips in one swift move. After she set the glass down, she made a face and tacked a hand over her heart, as if to force a sense of calm. “Jackson called. He told me everything.”

I kept my face expressionless. “So you were in on it.”

She threw a hand up. “Oh, what does it matter? The end justified the means. We were trying to protect you.”

“No. You were protecting yourselves. Obstruction is a federal offense. So is witness tampering.”

Auntie glowered, seeming to weigh the merits of responding, then made a dismissive gesture. “I can’t deal with this right now.” She grabbed her goblet. “Your uncle is divorcing me.”

The news hit me like a shockwave. I felt my way to the nearest chair. No matter how disgusted I was, Auntie had been a mother to me, and I still loved her deeply.

When I’d recovered my power of speech, I asked, “Are you all right?”

“No.” Her hand trembled around the goblet. She gazed into the brown liquid. “Are you leaving me too?”

I stared back dumbly for a second. “Yes.”

“But this is your home.” She made a coarse motion and the liquor swished around in the goblet. “You can’t just leave!”

“I’ll sign Briar over to you and Uncle,” I said in a quiet voice. “I can’t live here anymore.”

“What do you mean? After all I sacrificed to keep this family together? You’re all…you’re all so ungrateful!”

“Auntie, please.”

“Please what? How do you expect me to remain calm when everything I’ve built is crumbling around me?” She looked lost. Tears dripped down her face. “Sears says he’s moving out. Now you’re turning on me too.”

“I’m not. I’m just trying to fix a mistake.”

“You haven’t made any, save this Butcher Boy nonsen—” She stopped on a gasp and shoved to her feet.

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

I tore around. Trace was silhouetted in the hallway. We looked at each other, and I could still see the pain I’d left him with earlier, deep in his eyes.

He glanced away first.

“How did you get in?” Auntie demanded.

“The door.” Trace sauntered into the room as if he owned it. “I told the old woman with the nasty blue wig not to announce me. She didn’t care anyway. Said she didn’t work here anymore.”

I pressed a palm to my heart. “That was Mrs. Ordon. The housekeeper. Auntie, what in the world— Where’s Gerard?”

“I fired him. I fired them all.”

“But he’s been with me since…since Mother!”

“Obviously it was time for him to move on.” She flopped back down and drained her goblet. “Get out, both of you.”

I was still in stun-mode when Trace settled into a chair next to me. “I just stopped by to let you in on a little secret Tori Mills—”

“I found your sedatives,” Mead announced. He rushed in so fast he didn’t notice Trace and I sitting off to the side.

“I thought I told you to go home,” Auntie snapped.

“Mom, please.” Mead uncapped a prescription bottle, shook a pill out, and handed it to her. “I wasn’t about to leave you like this. Where is everybody? The house is completely empty. I can’t even find that stupid—”

Auntie’s panic-stricken features must have tipped Mead off because he dropped the pill bottle and spun around. His surprised expression slid into a murderous frown. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Trace grinned. “Tori says the mayor’s been decorating Lilith’s grave with calla lilies.”

My jaw dropped.

“What is he talking about?” Auntie asked.

Mead’s frown turned uglier. He scowled. “Who the hell cares? He’s lying.”

“If you don’t believe me, call the flower shop,” Trace said. “Tori’s got it on her computer—at least the past five years or so. Now why would you do that, Mr. Mayor? As I recall Shannon said somethin’ about Lilith not being on your list of favorite people. Naw, wait a minute.” He issued the rhetorical question to me. “Wasn’t the word you used ‘despised’?”

I sat forward, heart racing. “Mead?”

Auntie turned to her pale-faced son. “Is it true? Have you been visiting that whore’s grave?”

I blinked at her choice of words.

“Mead!” Auntie pleaded.

His expression turned defiant. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Every year on her birthday. Every year without fail I’ve laid flowers on Lilith’s grave. So what?”

“Why would you do that?” I asked, nonplussed. “After all the vile things you’ve said about her. It makes no sense.”

My cousin shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. He stalked to the window and glowered outside. “I have my reasons.”

“Reasons?” Auntie snapped. “You’ve been secretly pining!”

“Leave me alone,” Mead muttered.

She raised her voice. “Year after year, defiling yourself over a whore who couldn’t care less about you.”

“Tell me somethin’, Mr. Mayor,” Trace said through thin lips. “Did you happen to pop by my mama’s grave during one of your secret visits?”

Mead just chuckled to himself, his back still to us. Something dark and bitter vibrated beneath that laugh.

“Answer me!” Trace growled.

“Perhaps.”

Trace’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Mead rounded on him, teeth bared. “That your low-life mother had no business in the same cemetery as Lilith! Dig her up. Get her out, you psychotic piece of shit!”

Before I could draw another breath, Trace barreled into Mead, head first. The two men went flying, slamming into the wall in a knot of arms, legs, and fists. Chairs writhed back and forth.

“That’s enough!” Auntie screamed.

I scrambled toward the rolling ball of testosterone in an attempt to grab something—an arm, a leg—anything to make them stop. But then Trace crouched on his knees, straddling Mead who lay flat on his back.

He proceeded to pummel my cousin’s face, barking out words in between each powerful blow. Twelve years of rage thundered in his voice. “Mother fucker!”

“Trace, no!”

He ignored me. “Tossed dog shit on my mama’s grave!” Whap! “Pissed on it too!” Whap! Whap! Whap! “Let me rot in Gainstown!” Whap! Whap! “Left Lilith bleedin’ like a stuck pig!” Whap! “You gutless cunt!” Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap—

BOOM!

The gunshot exploded off the walls in an ear-popping roar. Trace froze mid-punch. I wheeled around. Auntie stood with her hand raised to the ceiling, her body looking ridiculously small, compared to the huge smoking gun she clutched.

“You’ll stop this madness right now,” she shouted.

After the men uncoiled from the floor, she dropped her arm, as if the gun weighed a ton. Trace righted the chair. Mead staggered to his feet.

“Why?” She tossed the bulky weapon inside a drawer. “Whatever possessed you to visit that woman’s grave?”

Mead wiped at his bloody face with the back of his hand. His left eye was swollen shut, his nose looked to be broken, and his bottom lip was split. This was not the pompous Mead Bradford I’d always known. This was a man stripped of the last vestiges of arrogance, an arrogance he’d worn like a shield.

“I never stopped loving her,” Mead whispered.

Auntie fell into her chair and stared up at her son, eyes wide. “How could you after everything she did?”

Mead didn’t answer, just joggled a shoulder.

Trace righted his chair, sank onto the arm, and braced his knees. The knuckles on both his hands were bloody.

I looked from Mead to Trace, then back to Auntie. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen next. My lawyer and I have an appointment with the prosecutor’s office tomorrow morning.” When Auntie’s eyes widened even more, I glared at Mead. “You’re lucky West Virginia doesn’t have the death penalty. If it were up to me, you’d fry for what you did to my mother.”

“Go to hell!” Mead yelled.

I ignored him and glared at my aunt. “Everyone else involved will pay the piper too.”

She looked stricken. “Shannon—”

“Don’t ‘Shannon’ me. You’re all liars!” I screamed, giving in to a sudden rise of hysteria. “You’ve covered up the truth just to keep Mead’s sorry ass from prison. Trace didn’t kill my mother. Your son did. You let an innocent man go to jail to save this worthless excuse for a human being!” Auntie wept as I stalked to the desk. “Admit it! For once in your life tell the truth!”

She buried her face in her hands. “Not my son, no.”

“Stay in denial,” I spat. “I don’t care anymore!”

Blood dripped from Mead’s face. “Well, I didn’t kill her!”

“Sure you didn’t, you crazy fuck!” Trace hammered back.

Auntie sobbed to herself as the yelling escalated, with the three of us going at it at once. The men barked obscenities and threats while my high-pitched voice rose above their thunderous shouts every so often.

A minute into it, Auntie pounded her fist on the desk and the arguing abruptly stopped. “Enough!” she blurted, her face painted in misery. Silence reigned for a few spellbinding seconds until she whimpered, “It wasn’t Mead. It was me.”

I stared saucer-eyed and dropped into a secretary’s chair in front of the desk.

Trace came to stand beside me, his steps uneven. Mead, who’d gone snow-white, shook his head in denial, then slowly retreated until he’d backed into a bookcase. He slumped to the floor, speechless.

“No….” It was the only word I could form and it came out a breathless sound.

Auntie’s weeping continued for several moments before she lifted her head again, her red eyes dripping with tears. “Shannon,” she rasped in between sobs, “when you started asking questions, the secrets began taking a toll on Sears—on our marriage. But neither of them—Sears or Jackson—knew I was the one who….” She pulled a hanky from her breast pocket and wiped her eyes. “That’s what put Sears in the hospital. That’s why he’s leaving. I told him. I told him everything. Oh, God.”

“Why did you kill her?” Trace asked, his voice shaky.

She drew a deep breath and stared out of the window. Her eyes appeared vacant, detached. “It wasn’t enough that Lilith came from money. Or that she had a life of unbelievable privilege and her choice of every boy in town.”

Mead wept quietly in the corner, his angry eyes downcast.

“I knew how she felt about my husband. I just never said anything.” Her voice was almost tranquil now. “And when Harrison died, she went after Sears with a vengeance, but he despised her. He’d always thought her shallow, and secretly blamed her for Harrison’s heart attack.”

I listened in bemused silence.

“Sears’ rejection sent her over the edge,” Auntie continued. “There she was, an ex-beauty queen from old money. She couldn’t see how a rich boy like Sears had fallen for a mousy girl from Temptation. Trailer trash at that. It drove her crazy.”

“So that’s why you did it?” Trace asked. “Because she wanted your husband?”

She closed her eyes briefly. “No. It was one thing to go after every man in town—my husband included—but when she went after my son….”

“I already told you,” Mead exploded from his corner. “I went after her!”

Auntie spoke in monotone. “He was barely 21. A baby. And she slept with him. I-I couldn’t just do nothing. She’d already violated my marriage. Was I to let her get away with violating my son?” She shook her head, trance-like. “Mead was destroyed.”

I managed to throw some words together to form a question. “Is that why you almost flunked out of Yale, Mead?”

“I didn’t want to live without her,” Mead whispered. He glared at his mother. “I could have changed her!”

“Fool,” Auntie murmured. To me she said, “Lilith used him to get back at Sears—and to take a swipe at me. That’s what was behind Mead’s acid tongue where she was concerned. He denies it, but deep down he knows she used him like a pawn. He’s been confused about her ever since. And over the years…his feelings for Lilith evolved into a twisted love-hate—”

“Shut up!” Mead snarled.

She looked at me. “The morning Lilith…died, I went to the estate to confront her about you.”

“Why?” I said, bits of my heart falling away.

“The abuse. I overheard Mrs. Campbell and her servants talking during one of Lilith’s dinner parties. Then I saw the bruises myself. I had no choice but to ask her about them. I knew she’d deny it, but I still needed to gauge her response. At that point, I didn’t know about her and Mead. My only intention was to speak with her about you.”

“And?” Trace asked, his tone hard.

She palmed her forehead, lifted the tangle of hair from her eyes. “I didn’t tell Sears. I wanted to confront Lilith first. We were supposed to play tennis that afternoon at the club, so I got there early that morning to invite her to brunch. I found her by the carriage house. In the garden.”

“Oh, God.” Tears gathered in my throat. “I was asleep in the loft. Mother must’ve gone looking for me.”

Auntie sniffed. “I tried to broach the subject carefully. But she…she just snapped. All her rage and bitterness exploded. She told me how stupid I was. That she’d been screwing my son for months. That she’d even had him in my bed!”

“Stop it!” Mead yelled.

“She went on about Mead’s birthmarks. How he tasted.”

“Damn it, shut up!” Mead roared again.

Auntie glared back at him. “Then she told me how she’d screwed with his mind. How she enjoyed every minute.”

“So you killed her,” Trace said, his voice eerily calm.

“I couldn’t let her destroy all I cherished. She mocked me with her perversions.” Auntie gazed off. “Then came the personal attacks. She said I didn’t belong in Sears’ world. That I was trailer trash. I don’t remember grabbing the spade. I do recall that it was still stuck in her chest when she ran. I yanked it out after I caught up with her and stabbed her again. I can’t remember how many times.” She sniffed. “Then I cleaned the spade off afterwards and tossed it in the driveway.”

Mead sobbed fitfully as my heart imploded.

I struggled to my feet, but my legs felt like noodles. “She was…my m-mother.”

“I’m your mother!” Auntie shoved to a stand and her eyes turned wild. “Who raised you? Dried your tears? Rocked you to sleep when you had nightmares? Stayed up when you were sick? Held you when your heart was broken? I’m your mother! That woman just baked you in her foul womb.”

My knees hit the floor.

Trace moved to comfort me, but Auntie had already rounded the desk. The hatred brimming in his eyes was almost palatable as she knelt before me and clutched our hands together. The smell of brandy was pungent on her breath.

“That woman abused you,” she said to me, oblivious to Trace’s fiery stare. “But I-I saved you.”

“Mother was a flawed woman,” I said, grief tearing me apart. “But she did not deserve to die. You let an innocent man go to prison. You allowed everyone to believe….” I jiggled my head to clear it. “That I could do something so vile to my own mother? Just to keep yourself out of jail?”

Auntie squeezed my hands. “You’d already lost a mother. I had a son and a life I adored. I couldn’t give that up.” Her tears dropped along our entwined fingers. “I was born and raised in a damn trailer park. Secondhand clothes. Macaroni and cheese five days a week. Not enough money to pay the bills! Then Jackson introduced me to Sears and everything changed.”

“My God.” I met her tearful eyes. “Uncle defied Grandfather Bradford to marry you, but you never felt the same. That’s why Mother resented you, isn’t it? She knew Uncle married you for love, and you married for money.”

“Make no mistake. Sears got great satisfaction in choosing me. Thumbing his nose at the family.” She gave a bitter laugh. “But he turned into his father anyway. We both did.”

“Admit it,” I said. “You never loved him.”

She looked askance as Trace and Mead listened, their attention trained on her. “What’s passionate love? Does it put food on the table? Does it buy social standing? Or power? Sears has no room to complain. I made him a wonderful home and became the sort of wife a man of his position is expected to have. I did everything by the book and was never an embarrassment. As for love, he could get that from his mistresses.”

“Oh, Auntie.”

“It’s all gone now,” she muttered, looking lost. “Everything I worked for. I don’t understand it.”

“Who the hell are you?” I said, sobbing.

“How could you ask me that?” She wiped at the tears streaming down my face. “Honey, you and I…we have a special connection. You’re the daughter I never had. I thank God for you. Please believe I’ve always loved you as if you were my own.”

“Was it love, or guilt?” I asked.

She blinked. What little color she had left in her cheeks, fled. Mead cried softly while Trace stood in moody silence a few feet from where we knelt.

“Answer me, Auntie. Did guilt drive your ‘love’?” At her tortured expression, I nodded. “All the love you showed me over the years. What was the strategy? Encourage me to succeed, be there whenever I needed you, then marry me off to a successful man, and your conscience is cleared?”

Auntie drew back as if she’d been struck. She got to her feet, her gaze lasered on her son, on me, then to Trace. With a whimper, she stumbled and rounded the desk, flopping down in her chair again.

Then without fanfare, she dragged the drawer open, grabbed the gun and pressed it to her own chest.

Trace yanked me to my feet and shoved me behind him. “Put it down, Miz Bradford.”

“No.” Auntie looked determined. “I need to finish this.”

I lurched to get around Trace, but he held me captive with one arm. “That’s why you fired everyone?” I sputtered. “So you could kill yourself?”

Trace held up a palm. “Ma’am, please. Put it away.”

“Drop it, Mom!” Mead scrambled to his feet.

“Auntie…don’t do this!”

I kept trying to break free, but Trace tightened his hold, almost painfully. “Stay behind me,” was his whispered order, but his attention was locked on my aunt. In a calm voice he said, “You don’t want to do that, Miz Bradford.”

“There’s nothing left.” She was talking to the ceiling. The gun jerked in her hand, made her left breast jiggle. “My children despise me. My husband is gone. It’s over.”

“Stop talking crazy!” Mead barked.

Trace lobbed an incredulous look at him, as if to say ‘you’re not helping,’ then took a careful step forward, still keeping me at his back. “When my parents killed themselves, they left us with a hole that’ll never be filled.”

Hesta spat, “You hate me. Why should I listen to you?”

“You’re right. I can’t stand the sight of you.” His voice softened. “But I lost my folks to suicide and I don’t want Shannon to ever feel that kind of pain. You’ve been a mother to her. Please, if you love your family, you won’t do this.”

I couldn’t stop trembling. In the back of my mind, I could still hear Trace say, ‘Damn near every time I’m near you, I bleed.’ That it might hold true, paralyzed me.

“Told my daddy I hated him,” Trace said. “Took me up to now to realize I love the bastard. Same thing with Shannon. She still loves her mama even after the abuse. Now multiply that love times a thousand. That’s what she feels for you.”

Auntie dropped the gun and sobbed as the men moved in on her. While Mead consoled his mother, Trace seized the weapon.

I nearly collapsed with relief. Only now did I realize what it had cost Trace to speak with such compassion. No doubt he hated Hesta Bradford, but he’d saved her life, talked her down from a figurative ledge—for one reason only. Me.

Trace turned his back to Auntie. The strain was evident in his taut expression. He was trembling as he removed the magazine from the gun and picked the cartridges out. Taking a ragged breath, he tucked the empty casing into his back pocket.

I rose on tiptoe to kiss him, but pulled back. His eyes were distant, if not cold. While he’d put himself between me and a gun, the chasm between us was still there.

“Thank you, Trace,” I said. “For saving her. And me.”

He just nodded stiffly and mouthed, “Call the law.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Waking Sleeping Beauty

TRACE

____________________________

I swung my front door open two days later. Before I could even say ‘Hi,’ Shannon breezed past me sporting a gray suede jacket, black leggings, and riding boots. I cocked a brow and eyed the two leather suitcases she’d carried in with her. “What are you doin’?”

“Auntie’s out on bail. Uncle and Mead are with her.” She dropped the bags where she stood. “And I’m here to grovel.”

My heart did that crazy flipping thing it always did whenever she was within breathing distance. Truth was, she’d had me with the luggage. Hell, even before then.

Like the moment crazy ass Hesta Bradford pulled that gun. Just the thought of never holding Shannon again made me sick to my stomach.

Still, seeing her grovel for a bit was too tempting to pass up. So I stifled a grin and kicked the door shut. “You’ve got my attention.”

Her wary eyes never left mine as she unbuttoned her jacket with clumsy fingers. She seemed to deliberate for several tense moments before ambling closer, her steps hesitant and unsure. When just three feet separated us, she said, “The only time I ever felt good enough was when I was with you, Trace. It’s been that way since we were kids.”

I just looked at her.

“You know how you’ve been telling me to stop trying to be perfect? Well, I’m taking your advice, which means—if you want me—you have to accept all my faults, just as I accept yours. For example….” She cleared her throat. “You promised you wouldn’t fight anymore, but you ended up giving Mead a serious thrashing. His nose was broken, he needed five stitches in his—”

“I had a relapse,” I said, beating back a smile.

She gave a nervous shrug. “No, an occasional relapse is fine. We just have to…to have faith that we’re both trying to be better people. Well, not better people, but—I mean…just that we’re…you know, ‘trying.’” Uncertainty shaded her expression. “Oh, God, I’m babbling. Look, I’m in love with you, okay? Hopelessly and endlessly in love. And…and after today, everyone will know it.”

I balled my hands to keep from grabbing her. “How so?”

“I’ve got three surprises,” she said matter-of-factly. “First, I want to move in with you. At least until I go to closing on the Victorian. Then, once you sell this place, I want you to move in with me. That’s if you don’t mind. You don’t mind, do you?”

Screw this. I gave up and tugged her into my arms. “Really?” She nodded and I tossed back my head and howled. “Hell no, I don’t mind.”

“Thank God,” she said with a huge sigh.

I cupped her cute little butt and squeezed. “What’s the second surprise?”

“Remember the getaway you mentioned? Well, I’ve booked us a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

Another second and I’d have to strip her naked. “When?”

“Is this weekend okay?”

I scooped her up and spun her around. “Hell,” I gushed, setting her in front of me, “I’m almost afraid to ask what the third surprise is.”

Her mouth curved. “Sorry. You’ll have to wait a little while for that one.”

“Not a problem.” I squeezed her butt again. “I’ve got plenty to tide me over ‘til then.”

I crashed my mouth over hers in a thorough kiss that didn’t stop until both of us were breathless, trembling, and clawing at each other’s clothes. Once I’d ripped her panties to shreds, I tried to carry her to my room, but we only made it to the stairs.

I nudged her thighs apart. “You still sore?”

“I’ll just grin and bear it,” she breathed, kissing me feverishly.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” I drew back. “Are you sure?”

Shannon reached between our bodies and rubbed my cock over her wet opening. “What does that tell you?” she said in between breaths.

“That I….” I bit my lip. “That I need a rubber.”

“No. You don’t.”

I searched her face as the possible consequences floated between us. “You know what this means, right?” I asked, my tone sober, but thick with desire.

“Yes. I want every part of you.”

I hung my head for a beat. Her words had snatched the breath right out of me. “Then you got it,” I whispered, lifting my eyes. “May I have this dance, Miz Bradford?”

“You can have anything you want,” she whispered back.

I covered her mouth with mine and sank into her, inch by torturous inch. Just the feel of her tight warmth caressing me, teasing me, made me want to come. Once I’d buried myself to the root, I damn near lost my mind. Shit.

I’d have to take it easy, not only for her sake. If I went any faster the party would be over in no time. So I moved slowly, carefully, dragging my thick length in and out, giving her just what she needed—a gentle inner stroking.

I gazed down at this beautiful woman, at the flush in her cheeks, at the desire in her eyes, and my heart swelled. Damn if I wasn’t in love, as in poetry and daffodils, as in forever and a thousand days. Her voice, her scent, her mind, body, and soul—everything about Shannon took my breath away, and the thought of getting her pregnant, of her womb swelling with my child, would make my looming orgasm all the more sweeter.

“I’m about to come,” I rasped.

She clung to me, gasping and moaning. Her nails scored my back as I aimed for the same spot that had unraveled her before. The second I hit it she screamed my name and her sheath gripped my cock like a palsied fist.

That’s when I lost it.

Breaths raw and choppy, I shoved my hands beneath her and drove myself as deep as I could go. Heat squeezed my balls, drawing them up tight. The pressure surged to the back of my spine, churning and rising until it exploded. Then, with a soul-rattling groan, I found my release and splashed into her.

TRACE

____________________________

Shannon was still asleep when I awakened hours later. As she shifted beside me, I glanced at the towel by the bed. The one I’d used when I’d taken her the first time. A pink circle stained the terry cloth—Shannon’s virgin blood. The sight filled me with male pride, and possessiveness. She was mine and it was time I made it official.

The nightstand drawer gave a low squeak when I eased it open. I quietly waded through the jungle of keys, paper clips, and junk, until I found what I was looking for. Fear made my heart skip, but determination pushed me forward.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” I leaned over, kissing her neck. “Time to wake up.”

Shannon blinked her eyes open and smiled. “Mmmm. Hey yourself,” she yawned. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve got a surprise for you.”

She stretched, then pushed herself up and yawned again. “Okay, now I’m intrigued.”

Courage fled for an instant, but I found it again when I looked into her eyes. “Twelve years ago, your mama asked me if I’d ever been in love. I told her no, but it was a lie. She was drunk and I didn’t feel like getting into—hell, it doesn’t matter. My point is….” Fear climbed my throat again. “Um, a while back you—you asked if I’d ever said the words ‘I love you’ to another human being. I told you ‘once,’ but you didn’t believe me.” I hesitated. “Well, I wasn’t lying that time.”

She furrowed her brows. “Who—”

“That ‘once’ was you.” I took her hand in mine. “Te quiero, Sombra.”

I held my breath until the memory slowly dawned on her face.

“I said those words after I gave you the necklace, but your Spanish was about as bad as my temper.” I smiled and opened my palm to reveal the old gumball ring she’d given me long ago. “Eres el amor de mi vida,” I said, then added, “That means, you’re the love of my life.”

Her eyes welled as she stared at the trinket and cupped her mouth.

“I found it the other night in the basement.” I slipped the band over the pale line on her ring finger, the place Montgomery’s ring used to be. Pride welled, but so did insecurity. “Now this is just a proxy, but the one I’ll buy you tomorrow won’t be much better.”

“Shhh.” She set a finger against my lips and smiled. Love shimmered in her eyes. “Anything coming from you will put his ring to shame.”

My chest tightened and I almost couldn’t breathe. “God help me, girl. I’m so in love with you…I-I can’t even think straight.” I swallowed. “Shannon Bradford, will you marry—”

Before I even finished, she tackled me on the bed.

I laughed beneath a deluge of hugs, kisses, and squeals. “Uh, does that mean ‘yes’?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Hell Freezes Over…Again

TRACE

____________________________

Society Scoop

By: Erica Davies, Senior Editor, The Dirty Dish

Hello, darlings, it’s great to be back at the helm, and I appreciate all your thoughtful cards and letters. My honeymoon was stellar! But then, how could a two-month cruise around the world with the sexiest man alive be anything but fab? J.T. sends his regards, and his new movie “Unthinkable” will be coming soon to a theater near you.

Now unless you’ve lived in a cave for the past two months, you must’ve heard all the sordid details surrounding the Lilith Bradford murder drama in Willow’s Corner, West Virginia. I won’t bore you with a recap. Besides, I’ve got a related story that will blow that rusty boat right out of the water.

Some time back, I announced the engagement of Shannon Bradford and Darien Montgomery. As you’ll recall, Montgomery was the prosecutor who sent Tracemore “Butcher Boy” Dawson to the slammer. Given recent events, we now know Dawson was an innocent man.

But I digress….

Long story short, Montgomery and Bradford have called it quits. In the immortal words of B.B. King, “The Thrill Is Gone.” I got it straight from one of the horse’s mouths. Believe it or not, Shannon Bradford herself called Yours Truly, two months ago, giving me the 411 of a lifetime.

Since I was on my honeymoon, this story languished on my voice mail. But here’s the cherry on top. Young Miss Bradford is gaga for the Butcher Boy—as in head-over-heels.

Before you ask, yes, I did check the source. I called Bradford three days ago. Regretfully, an earlier column I ran about her was steeped in fiction. You remember the S&M and swinging? Well, that source was as genuine as a six-dollar bill.

In this case, not only did Bradford confirm the voice mail she left, she also gave me two juicy updates. When I asked why she decided to go public, in The Dirty Dish, no less, she simply replied, “I want the world to know how much I love him.”

Awwwww…..

Here’s another crouton to toss on your salad. Bradford and her Butcher Boy exchanged vows two months ago at someplace called Miller’s Pond in Willow’s Corner, and the pair honeymooned in Paris. They’re also expecting an autumn visit from the stork.

But that’s not all. Following his rousing success in the Kidd Mann murder trial, Darien Montgomery of Jacobs and Montgomery (Sears Bradford has since left the firm) will represent Dawson in his petition to get his sentence overturned.

Now if this isn’t a sign that the apocalypse is upon us, I don’t know what is.

I rolled the tabloid into a funnel and tossed it on the dashboard of my brand-new Jeep. I kept my face neutral and stared down the quiet street in New Dyer’s historic district, knowing my wife had been sitting on pins and needles for the past two minutes.

“Well?” Shannon prompted.

“Interesting.”

“Interesting?”

I slanted a brow up. “Yep.”

She snatched the funnel from the dashboard and started beating me over the head with it.

I burst out laughing, grabbed the paper weapon, and hauled her into my lap. “You’re sexy as hell when you’re mad.”

“Interesting?” she yelled. “You call that interesting? Do you have any idea how hard I—”

I crushed my lips to hers, wishing I could crawl inside her mouth, she tasted that sweet. The battle of tongues went on for a good five minutes. While our kisses grew in intensity, so did the voice in my head, the one that warned if we didn’t stop, I’d have to take her hard and fast in the front seat of my Jeep. Again. We’d done it last week after I’d picked her up from her therapy session with Doc. She’d had a breakthrough and decided sex in a Jeep was a great way to celebrate. My back still hadn’t recovered.

I slowed the cadence of my kisses. Moved my mouth from hers, to her cheeks, her eyelids, while I slid my hand up and down her arm—my way of bringing her back to reality. Once our breathing turned sluggish, I rested my forehead against hers. I was holding the most beautiful woman in the world.

My bride. My wife, my dream come true.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Her angelic face lit up. “You liked it?”

“Nope. I loved it.”

She beamed a smile, but then her eyes began to well. Baby hormones. “How was I to know she was on her stupid honeymoon? Two months I waited.”

I chuckled. “Yes, but it was still a beautiful surprise.” I nudged my chin at the crumpled tabloid. “That right there’s the fourth best thing you ever gave me.”

She frowned. “The fourth?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s number three?”

I grinned down at her. “The gorgeous hand you gave me in marriage.” I kissed her upturned palm, and did the same to each of her fingers.

“And number two?”

I flattened my hand on her belly. “This precious baby.”

Her eyes twinkled with delight. “And what’s number one?”

I tipped her chin up. “You, Mrs. Dawson.”

Then I slammed my mouth over hers and we went at it again. Seemed all we ever did was make love. Shannon said baby hormones made her frisky. But hell, I wasn’t complaining. If this was a pregnancy side effect, I’d keep her in the family way forever. And after two minutes of tongue hockey, I was rock-hard and ready to explode.

“Hey,” I breathed. “Unless you plan on giving the neighbors another show, we’d best get in the house.”

She righted her clothes. “But we’ll be late.”

“Twenty minutes, tops.”

Cholly had sent Shannon a personal invitation to The Slam Dunk’s grand opening, which was in less than an hour. Bev got one too. Hopefully, she’d leave Icky home.

Shannon grabbed her purse. “Which room?”

“The kitchen. We haven’t done it in there yet. Come on.”

I dragged her out with me, but remembered the satchel with my calculus book in the back. After I slid the strap over my shoulder and slammed the door, I stood with Shannon beneath the carport of the Victorian she’d fallen in love with—the house that was now our home.

I’d made a sizable down payment with the sale of Gary’s cracker box, hoping the move would distract Shannon from all the chaos going on in her family. For weeks, her aunt’s arrest had hung over her like a dark cloud. And with Sheriff Gray’s death and Mead’s governor’s bid in the toilet, I wanted more than anything to lift Shannon’s spirits. From the looks of things, my plan had worked. Seeing the happiness in my wife’s eyes while I renovated her dream house filled me with joy like nothing else. But her new billboards ran a close second.

Shannon Dawson of Dawson Realty: A Name You Can Trust.

Hot damn! I grinned every time I drove past one of them.

“Woooooooo,” Shannon shrieked, when I swept her up, whirling her around beneath the carport. “You’re nuts!”

“What’s wrong with carrying my family over the threshold?”

“How many times are you going to do this?”

“Until you get too fat.” I made a face. “Damn, how many months are you?” She smacked the back of my head. “Ow!”

“Fat jokes. Pregnant woman. Bad idea.”

“I’ll file that away for future reference.” I tackled the porch, then set her down. “You happy, Mrs. Dawson?”

“Deliriously, Mr. Dawson.”

“That’s good to hear ‘cause I’ve got a little problem that needs your attention.”

I shoved the door open. Warm air scented with lemon floor polish wafted out as I slipped inside, tossing the satchel.

She strolled into my arms and cupped my cock. “Hmmm. That…problem is anything but little.”

“Exactly,” I said with a grin. Then I captured her mouth and kicked the door shut.

Swoosh.

A NOTE TO READERS

I hope you enjoyed Within Temptation. Stay tuned for Temptation’s Edge, Book 2 in the standalone, Sons of Temptation trilogy.

Temptation’s Edge is a straight contemporary romance featuring Trace’s baby brother Coltrane (Cole) Elias Dawson and Eddie Gray’s baby sister Nina Penelope Gray.

After two years in Saint Mary’s Asylum, Cole is finally getting out, but is Temptation, West Virginia ready for him? And most importantly, is he ready for Temptation?

Expected release: 2015.

Curious about Cole? Then be sure to put Temptation’s Edge on your Goodreads ‘To Read’ shelf.

You can also check out the sneak peek at the end of this book.

Enjoy!

APPRECIATION

Brittney,Colette&Nicolas—Sorry for all the time I spent away from you in the writing cave.

This is what I was doing.

Mommy—Thanks for pushing me to reach higher.

Daddy—Ditto. God, how I miss you.

Grandmom (my 2nd mom)—Ditto and ditto.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A gazillion thanks to my uber-talented editor and friend, Nikki, who believed in this story and me from the start; and, to the sweet and sassy Tara, sister-from-another-mother, beta reader extraordinaire, and partner-in-crime.

Two thumbs up to the amazingly awesome Argie, friend, beta reader, and trusted advisor; and, to the fiercely fabulous Mitzi, cheerleader, friend, and chief mischief-maker.

Huge props to the marvelous Melissa, friend, book doctor, shrink, and co-conspirator. This story wouldn’t have seen the light of day were it not for you.

Mega kudos to The Sons of Temptation Street Team. Ladies, each of you holds a special place in my heart.

High-fives to my final edit beta readers (AKA the Ladies in Shining Armor): Amber, Angie, Eugenia, Geri, Sonia, and Tianna. I also want to send special thanks to Risa and Tina for all their help and encouragement.

Shout-outs to my Southern Fried Chicas blog mates: Amie, Denise, Mel, Raine, and Vanessa—I can’t thank you all enough for your endless support over the years.

Much love to Roslyn, for your friendship and wisdom. Also, a ton of gratitude to Kathleen, who taught me how to word paint. Thanks also to Amy, Angelle, Chase, Karen, Lynn, Mary, Pam, Rhonda, Roseann, Shari, Stacey, and Theresa—all of these wonderful people suffered through earlier versions of this manuscript, in some form or fashion. I may have lost touch with a few of you, but I’ve never forgotten how much you helped me.  Last, but certainly not least, to D and J—THANK YOU! Y’all know what you did.

Ladies (and Gent), thanks for taking this wild ride with me. I’ll love you forever.

Best wishes,

Tanya

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tanya Holmesis a former Romance Writers of AmericaGolden Heart® finalist, a recipient of theMaggie Award for Excellence, theMICA Award, as well as Overall Winner of theSandy Haddad Award, and a two-time finalist and one-time winner ofThe Emily (Best of the Best). She's happily married with children and loves reading, writing, and a good cup of coffee—but not necessarily in that order.

Content

Within Temptation
Sons of Temptation - 1
Tanya Holmes

CHAPTER ONE Happy Reunions

CHAPTER TWO Hell Freezes Over

CHAPTER THREE I Scream, You Scream

CHAPTER FOUR Beware Of Blondes Bearing Rock Salt

CHAPTER FIVE Little White Lies

CHAPTER SIX Poison

CHAPTER SEVEN In The Lion’s Den

CHAPTER EIGHT Pearly Gates

CHAPTER NINE Noise Pollution

CHAPTER TEN Broken Olive Branches

CHAPTER ELEVEN Promises To Keep

CHAPTER TWELVE It’s On

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Shall We Dance?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Foreplay

CHAPTER FIFTEEN A Slip Of The Tongue

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Hand To Mouth

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN No Quarter Given

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Dirty Little Secrets

CHAPTER NINETEEN Breakthrough

CHAPTER TWENTY Waking Nightmares

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Calla Lilies

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO New Memories

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Woman On Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR No Rainbows

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The Fall

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX A Maleficent Encounter

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Two Paths

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT The Big Break

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Buried Treasure

CHAPTER THIRTY A Smoking Gun

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Waking Sleeping Beauty

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Hell Freezes Over…Again

A NOTE TO READERS

APPRECIATION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR