Depth Perception

by Linda Castillo

  "Sugar, you invited trouble the day you put a bullet in my brother's heart."

  For an instant, she was so shocked by the ugly words and his open hostility that she didn't know what to say. Then she looked down at the beer bottle in his hand, realized he was drunk, and shock gave way to anger. "You have no right to speak to me that way," she said, hating it that her voice was quavering.

  "You deserve a hell of a lot worse than anything I could say to you. You ought to be in prison instead of sitting pretty on that barstool."

  Hunt Ratcliffe was slightly built, but he had a mean streak that more than made up for what he lacked in stature. She'd seen it in the years she and Ward had been married. Hunt never had the guts to turn that meanness on her-Ward never would have tolerated it-but she'd always known he had a dark side. Judging from the look in his eyes, she was going to get a taste of it tonight.

  "What the hell are you trying to prove by coming back?" he asked. "Do you think the people in this town are going to forgive and forget? Do you actually think they're going to welcome you back?"

  "You know I didn't hurt Kyle or Ward."

  He smiled, but it was the kind of smile designed to hide something ugly slithering just beneath the surface. ''Me and a lot of other people in this town think you did a hell of a lot worse than hurt them."

  "You're wrong."

  "Was the evidence wrong, Nat-a-lie?"

  "I wasn't indicted, Hunt."

  "Goddamn bleeding hearts let you go because you were laid up in the hospital. The rest of us think justice would have been served if you'd succeeded when you cut your wrists and bled to death right there on the jailhouse floor that night."

  She winced inwardly at the cruelty of his words, but she didn't let the hurt stop her. “Hunt, listen to me. I didn't do it. You have to believe that."

  "Jesus, you're good, aren't you?"

  "Whoever killed Ward and Kyle is still out there."

  His expression turned incredulous. "You just don't stop, do you? Do you have any idea how many lives you've ruined? How many people you've hurt?"

  "I know people were hurt. I was hurt, too. Hunt, I lost my family that night."

  "You were a lying bitch three years ago, and you're a lying bitch now. If it's the last thing I do, I swear to Christ I'm going to make you pay for what you did."

  Nat looked around, aware of the eyes turning their way, hating it that she was shaking inside. That she was embarrassed and hurt and deeply ashamed when she had nothing to be ashamed of.

  "Your fingerprints were on the knife that slashed my nephew's throat," he said. "You were covered in their blood. You cut yourself to make it look as if you'd been attacked."

  "Stop it, Hunt. I can't ... talk about it. Not here."

  "You afraid you'll get caught in a lie?"

  "It's too painful," she snapped.

  ''Too painful? Oh, for crying out loud, that's rich." Laughing, he pressed his hand to his chest. When he leaned close to her, his eyes were as cold and hard as ice. "Let me tell you something, Nat-a-lie. People in these parts don't take kindly to women who kill their children."

  "I didn't," she said breathlessly. "You know I couldn't do something like that."

  "What I know is that you received a big life insurance check. More money than you would have seen in your lifetime if you hadn't hooked up with Ward. That's an awful lot of motive for a little swamp rat like you. Marrying into the Ratcliffe family wasn't enough, was it?"

  Nat knew defending herself was useless. He was drunk. Her own emotions were beginning to spiral. A volatile situation that was only going to get worse if she didn't get the hell out of there pronto.

  She started to slide off the barstool, but he reached out and stopped her by grasping her arm. "I'm not finished with you. I've been waiting three years to say this. The least you can do is listen."

  "I don't have to listen to you. You're so blinded by hatred and blame that you're incapable of seeing the truth."

  "And what truth is that?"

  "That someone in this town got away with murder."

  He shook his head, gave her that ugly smile again. “They say if you hear a lie often enough, people will start to believe it. I think you actually believe what you're saying," He leaned close to her. "But rest assured, Nat-a-lie. I will not forget. This town will not forget. We're not going to let you get away with it."

  That he could believe she'd done something so heinous made her feel sick. She simply couldn't fathom how anyone could believe she was capable of murdering her own husband and child.

  "I have to go." Shaking off his hand, she slid from the stool and started for the door. She'd only taken a couple of steps when strong fingers bit into her shoulder and spun her around. She caught a glimpse of Hunt's lips drawn back, his teeth clamped and grinding.

  "Did you know my father hired a private detective?" he asked. "From what I hear this guy's a real pit bull. He's going to get you, Nat-a-lie. No matter how long it takes. No matter how far you run or how many lies you tell. He's going to take you down."

  "He's looking at the wrong person," she said.

  "I'll be sure to tell him that, but somehow I don't think he'll believe it any more than I do. You see, Natalie, while you were in the hospital, playing possum all those months, he was already hard at work. You'd be amazed at all the stuff he dug up."

  She stared at him, vaguely aware that her breaths were rushing in and out. That she was shaking all over. She looked around, saw the dozens of people that had gathered to watch, and suddenly knew what it was like to be a rabbit surrounded by a pack of wild dogs.

  He leaned so close his breath ruffled her hair as he whispered into her ear. "We know about Ward's lover. I didn't think my brother had it in him to go after that hot little secretary of his. But he was fucking her brains out every chance he got, wasn't he? Combine that with a five hundred thousand dollar life insurance policy, and we have one hell of a motive for murder."

  "I'm not going to listen to this."

  She tried to slap his hand off her shoulder, but he grabbed her wrist and gave it a twist. "You found out about Ward and Sara Wiley and flew into a jealous rage, didn't you?"

  "No!"

  "Kyle is the one I could never figure, Natalie. A seven-year-old little kid. Jesus Christ, that is sick. It took me a while, but I finally figured why you did it. He saw you shoot his daddy, didn't he?"

  Something terrible glinted in his eyes, and with a sense of horror, she realized he truly believed what he was saying. He thought she was capable of cold-blooded murder.

  Fury and grief tangled inside her, two storms colliding with a violence that made her legs go weak. "I didn't, damn you."

  Hunt's teeth pulled back in a snarl. "You might be able to fool some hick jury, but you can't fool me, you money-grabbing piece of trash. Gold-digging bitch. Baby-killing whore."

  "Stop it."

  "You're not going to get away with killing them, you cold-hearted bitch. How could you do something like that?"

  Nat jerked away, broke his grip on her arm. The urge to run out the door was strong, but she didn't. She held her ground, met his gaze. "Stay away from me, Hunt. I mean it."

  "Or what?" he mocked. "What are you going to do? Shoot me? Cut my throat? Slit your wrists so everyone will feel sorry for you?"

  Dizzy with fury and adrenaline and a terrible agony that never seemed to leave her. Nat turned away, pushed through the crowd and headed toward the door. Her entire body was vibrating. She could feel the sobs bubbling in her throat, but she didn't cry. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her break. Damn them all.

  She'd been wrong to come here tonight She'd been wrong to come back to Bellerose. She'd been crazy to believe she could do this. There was too much hatred. Too much pain. Too many memories. All of those things stood like a mountain before her, and at the top lay the truth, as out of reach as the sky.

  She was midway to the door when a hand clamped down on her arm. Surprise and the first real jab
of fear assailed her when she was spun around. She caught a glimpse of Hunt, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

  "Don't you walk away from me, you little bitch." His fingers dug into her arm. "You came in here, throwing what you did in my face. Gloating because you got away with it."

  "Let go of me."

  He shook her with enough force to knock her off balance. ''Now you can take what you got coming."

  Before she even realized what she was doing, she drew back her free arm and slapped him hard across the cheek. Surprise flickered in his eyes. Even in the dim light she saw his face redden, the vein at his temple begin to pulse.

  She knew better than to fight violence with violence; she knew it was a fight she would lose. He was fueled up on alcohol and hatred, and the situation was an inch away from spiraling out of control. But Nat had had all the bullying she could take. Her own emotions were like a raging river, overflowing its banks, threatening to drown her.

  His hand shot out so quickly she didn't have time to react. His knuckles connected with her left cheekbone hard enough to snap her head back. She heard her teeth clack together. The sound of a jet engine roaring in her ears. Pain radiated from her jaw to her temple. Then she was reeling backward into space.

  An unexpected shove from someone in the crowd sent her sideways. She lost her balance and went down hard on her hands and knees. Vaguely, she was aware of the dozens of people around her. The din of voices coming from all directions.

  ''Killed her own child ... "

  "Slit that little boy's throat like a butchered cow ... "

  "Her husband was a minister ... "

  "Serves her right ... "

  She couldn't believe this was happening. That the people she'd grown up with, gone to school with, lived among her entire life, could hate her so much. The knowledge wounded her terribly. She'd told herself it didn't matter what they thought of her. But it did. This was her home. She was innocent.

  "Get up." Rough hands closed like talons over her right biceps. Nat tried to lunge away, but Hunt was stronger and yanked her to her feet, forced her around to face him.

  "Get your hands off me." She tried to make her voice sound authoritative, but it was shaking like a piano wire. Her entire body was trembling. And for the first time, she was truly afraid that he was going to harm her. That not a soul in the crowd would step forward to stop him.

  He shook her hard enough to whip her head back. "No one murders their own kid and gets away with it." Spittle flew from his lips as he snarled at her. "Not in this town."

  "Get your hands off of her. Now!"

  Nat looked over to see Nick Bastille drill through the crowd like an icebreaker cutting through a frozen sea. She caught a glimpse of eyes that were black with fury. A mouth that was pulled into a nasty snarl. Hands that were clenched into fists. He didn't bother with a second warning. One instant Hunt was shaking her hard enough to jar her teeth, the next he was lying on the floor, blood pulsing from his nose. Nick pointed at him with a steady hand. "If you want to walk out of here under your own power, don't get up."

  Chapter 8

  There were a whole slew of reasons why Nick shouldn't get into a barroom brawl, the most pressing being his status as a parolee. One wrong move, and his ass would be back in Angola faster than he could call his lawyer. Hunt Ratcliffe had been drinking half the night. God only knew what else he'd been doing to arrive at the altered state he'd achieved. People got stupid when they were pumped up on adrenaline and booze, especially wealthy jackasses who didn't have the good sense to know when to quit.

  But there was no way Nick could stand by and do nothing while some juiced-up bully pounded on a woman half his size.

  Ratcliffe scrambled to his feet. "You jailbird son of a bitch. Do you have any idea who you're fucking with?"

  "I know exactly who I'm fucking with, and I'll put you on the floor if you so much as lay a hand on a woman in this place again. You getting the gist of what I'm telling you, Hunt?"

  "You don't know what you're getting in the middle of." Ratcliffe blotted the blood from his nose with his sleeve. "You're protecting a murderer."

  "Touch her again, and I'll make you regret it," Nick said.

  "That bitch came in here looking for trouble."

  ''You appear to be the one looking for a fight,"

  "She murdered my brother." He gave Nat a killing look. "Murdered her own kid."

  A murmur went through the crowd. Nick hadn't been expecting him to say that. He sure as hell wasn't expecting Nat Jennings to go on the offensive. But one minute she was standing quietly, the next she was launching herself at Ratcliffe.

  "That's a lie!" she cried.

  Nick managed to snag her around the waist an instant before Ratcliffe would have nailed her with his fist. "Cut it out," he growled, pulling her back and shoving her away so that she was out of reach of the other man. "Stay put."

  He swung around to face Ratcliffe in time to see the other man throw a punch. Nick tried to duck, but he wasn't fast enough and a hard-as-steel fist slammed into his jaw. He heard bone crack, found himself hoping it was Ratcliffe's knuckles and not his own teeth. Pain zinged from his jaw to his sinuses.

  Shaking off dizziness, Nick went into a boxer's stance, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet, his fists high and loose. Ratcliffe threw another punch, but Nick was ready and went in low. He landed a quick uppercut to the chin. A neat jab to the jaw. Ratcliffe threw another wild punch. Nick lurched back, felt the whoosh of air, then followed up with a power punch to the stomach. Ratcliffe doubled over, retched, went to his knees, and spewed vomit.

  The sharp crack of electricity silenced the crowd. "C' est assez! That's enough!"

  Nick looked up to see Mike Pequinot hobble to the outer perimeter of the crowd, a souped-up cattle prod in one hand, an aluminum bat in the other. "The next man who throws a punch loses his teeth." His gaze landed on Ratcliffe. "Hit the road."

  Looking thoroughly humiliated, Ratcliffe spat blood on the floor and struggled to his feet. He glared at Nick for an instant, then cast a final look at Nat before heading for the door. "This isn't over," he muttered.

  Pequinot raised the bat. "It is tonight, rich boy." He motioned toward the door. "Unless you want us to carry you out, I suggest you make use of the door."

  The crowd began to disperse. Someone fed coins into the jukebox, and a popular Cajun number began to rattle the speakers. Nick looked around to see Pequinot limp back to the bar with the bat and cattle prod in hand. A few feet away, Nat Jennings had sunk into a chair, looking shell-shocked.

  Nick found it odd that not a single man in the bar had gone to her aid when Ratcliffe slugged her. Even among drunks in the most disreputable of establishments, there was an un-written code of honor that precluded a man hitting a woman--even if the woman had it coming. Considering Ratcliffe's accusations--the murder of her husband and son--Nick wondered if maybe Nat Jennings had had this corning.

  But even after the crazy. hurtful things she'd said to him earlier in the day, some smidgen of decency wouldn't let him walk away without making sure she was all right. Scooping her purse off the floor, he crossed to her. "Did anyone ever tell you, you have a real penchant for pissing people off?"

  "It's a gift," she muttered.

  He held out the bag. ''I think you dropped this."

  She looked up at him, and for the first time he noticed the bruise on her cheekbone. It hadn't yet bloomed, but he could tell it was going to be a doozy when it did. Damn, he hated seeing a pretty face like hers messed up.

  Rising, she looped the bag over her shoulder. “I guess I should thank you for stepping in."

  Nick shrugged. "Ratcliffe is a mean drunk."

  "He's mean when he's sober."

  "You want me to call the cops?"

  She shook her head, keeping her bruised cheek turned away, as if hoping he wouldn't notice. "No thanks."

  "That cheek is going to swell if you don't ice it."

  "I'm fine. I just . . .want
to go home."

  He was nearly a foot taller than she was and found himself tilting his head in an effort to get a better look at her face. She wasn't making it easy, so he reached out and gently put his fingers beneath her chin. "Let me have a look."

  Closing her eyes briefly, she allowed him to lift her chin and tilt her head toward the light. The flesh was just beginning to color. An abrasion the size of a quarter stood out in stark red against her pale complexion. Nick growled low in his throat. "You ought to press charges against that jackass."

  “I threw the first punch."

  "It doesn't matter. You're a woman. He outweighs you by eighty pounds."

  She eased from his grip, then stepped back. "I don't think that matters when your last name is Ratcliffe."

  Nick couldn't argue with that. The Ratcliffes were Bellerose's wealthiest residents. Elliott Ratcliffe had made millions on the televangelist circuit. He had three sons, Hunter, Travis, and Ward. From what Nick had gathered, this woman was Ward Ratcliffe's widow, and evidently the family made no bones about blaming her for his death.

  "Besides, the cops hate me in this town," she said.

  "You, too, huh?" He smiled.

  She didn't smile back. "Look, thanks for helping me out. I'm sure it didn't earn you any points. But I've got to go."

  "Not everyone in this town gives a damn about points."

  She just shook her head, and started for the door.

  Nick knew he should let her go. Judging from what he'd seen and heard, Nat Jennings was not a woman he wanted to know. But something he'd seen in the depths of her eyes wouldn't let him allow her to walk away. Not when she was trembling and bruised and trying her damnedest to look unaffected.

  "Wait," he heard himself say. "I'll make an ice pack."

  She stopped and glanced at him over her shoulder, her expression perplexed. "You don't have to be nice to me."

  "No one ever accused me of being nice, chere."

  For an instant he thought she might smile, but she only continued to stare at him with those sad, haunted eyes. She had the kind of eyes that told a man things. The kind of eyes that wouldn't lie even if she wanted them to. Right now those eyes were telling him she desperately needed someone to be kind to her. Nick didn't think he was the man for the job; he wasn't even sure he remembered how. But it didn't look like anyone else was going to step forward, so he motioned toward the kitchen.