by Tanya Holmes
“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.
&n
bsp; 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?”
