by Tanya Holmes
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?”
