by Brenda Novak
He didn’t wait. She wasn’t committed to refusing. He could tell by the fact that she didn’t stop him when he pulled off the sweatpants he’d loaned her. “There’s also a lot about this that feels right.” He could understand her hesitancy, the fear she had to be feeling that she might be making another mistake. But practical concerns were difficult to remember, and even harder to heed, while deluged with so many hormones.
“Okay, one more time,” she said. “Then that’s it.”
“No.” He was done fighting. As far as he was concerned, they were in a relationship. Whether that would turn out to be good or bad, for either one of them, remained to be seen. But there was no going back. The fact that they were once again straining to come together, when it had been only a few days since the first time, proved that.
“No?” she echoed, sounding a little panicked.
“It’s too late. All we can do now is go for it—and hope for the best.”
Putting her hands on his chest, she pushed him far enough away to be able to look into his face. “That terrifies me as much or more than anything related to Sly.”
“I understand. But think of this. Maybe it’s meant to be. Maybe finding each other will be the one good thing to come out of all the shit we’ve been through.”
“It’s just so fast, too fast...”
“We’ve been trying to make it go slower. We just...can’t. So I say we let go—grab hands and jump off the cliff, enjoy the fall.”
She laughed again. “Is that supposed to convince me? That sounds as ominous as it does exhilarating!”
“To me, it just sounds exhilarating. I don’t want to miss out on what might be the best thing to ever happen to me. Do you?”
She ran her hand over his cheek in a gentle caress. “No,” she said, and with that the tempo of their lovemaking changed. They were no longer in such a hurry. Giving themselves permission to feel something deeper than the physical created a completely different kind of experience—one even more fulfilling.
* * *
Sly sat in Dawson’s living room, listening to the rhythmic creak of the bed overhead. Dawson and Sadie were so busy he probably could’ve used his shoulder to bust open the back door—splintered the whole damn thing—without drawing their attention. Instead, he’d been careful, oh so quiet as he used a screwdriver from Dawson’s own toolshed to dig away at the dry rot in one of the window frames until he’d made a hole large enough to reach his hand through and release the latch.
Dawson might notice the damage in the morning. Or maybe he wouldn’t. There’d been so much vandalism that he hadn’t been able to repair it all. Either way, Sly didn’t care. Dawson and Sadie wouldn’t be able to prove a damn thing. He’d been wearing gloves when he used the screwdriver—was wearing gloves now. And if it ever came down to an extensive evidence search where a strand of his hair or some of his DNA was found in the living room, so what? He’d been here before—with the chief of police, no less. He could’ve left hair or DNA then as easily as now. He wasn’t frightened. He was too livid to be frightened—so livid he could hardly see straight.
Squeak, squeak, squeak. As he listened to what was going on upstairs, he tapped the tire iron he’d used as a lever to help open the window against the palm of his left hand. The blood was rushing through his body so fast he could hear the roar of it in his ears. Even a month ago, he would never have dreamed he’d find himself in this position, had never considered the possibility that another man could come between him and Sadie. She’d always been his—since she was old enough to date.
Then Dawson had been let out of jail and, just when Sly felt as if he was making some progress toward putting his marriage back together, everything had fallen apart. Now, here he was, listening to another man take his place between her legs.
He stared at the tool in his hand. He wanted to use it on them. Get rid of them both so he didn’t have to think about them ever again. Put an end to his own torment that quickly, that easily. Even if he became the prime suspect, no one would be able to prove anything. Then there’d be no one to pay the fire inspector who was coming to town, and there would be no worry that some hotshot might be able to find what their own far less experienced department could not.
Look what you’ve reduced me to, he silently berated Sadie. An arsonist. A man who wants to commit murder.
And she thought he’d ruined her life. She had no idea what she’d done to him. He’d never be the same.
Unable to take the sound of that bed squeaking any longer, he decided to put an end to it. Imagining the humiliation he’d face if the arson investigator somehow proved he was responsible gave him the perfect excuse to do what he wanted to do anyway.
He stood up, but before he could reach the stairs, a pair of headlights flashed through the front windows of the house.
Someone was here.
Panic surged through him, clearing his head. He had to get out. Now.
Taking the screwdriver and the tire iron with him, he hurried to the back door, let himself out and slipped into the darkness.
Once he reached his car, he was relieved to be out of the house. He didn’t think he’d been seen. But he didn’t know for sure. And, just in case someone was watching and listening, he waited, didn’t dare start the engine because of the noise.
As he sat there with his heart beating in his throat, he saw headlights again, only this time the car was moving back toward the highway. He didn’t think there could be two cars, so whoever had come to the farm was leaving. Already.
Had whoever it was even gone to the door?
No. There wouldn’t have been time. At least, Sly didn’t think so.
He held off another five minutes before starting his cruiser, turning around and rolling slowly and cautiously back toward the highway. From there, he took side streets—as much as possible—to his house so that he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew.
Not until he got home, where he’d left his phone so that his whereabouts couldn’t be tracked after the fact, did he understand what’d happened. It was Pete who’d visited the farm. Sly had missed half a dozen calls from him, texts, too.
Where the hell are you, man?
Don’t tell me you’re out at Dawson Reed’s place. That would be crazy. You realize that, right?
You gotta leave Sadie and Dawson alone. They aren’t worth your future.
Why won’t you pick up? I know you’re not home. I’ve been by your place twice already.
You’re not at your mother’s either. What the hell, dude? Are you trying to get yourself kicked off the force?
Pick up. You need to listen to me.
Pete had driven to Dawson’s in order to keep him out of trouble. But he would never know just how close Sly had come—because Sly could never tell him.
* * *
Dawson woke up when Sadie pulled away from him. “You’re leaving already?” he mumbled sleepily.
“Yeah. I’ve got to get back to Jayden.”
“But it isn’t morning yet.”
“I’m afraid I’ll oversleep if I don’t go now, and it’s best if he wakes up to find me where I usually am.”
Dawson had an alarm set for fairly early, but he didn’t mention that. Jayden could always wake up before the alarm went off. Besides, things were going fast enough as it was. Sadie would probably feel more comfortable sleeping with her son, like she usually did. “Just tell me one thing before you go.”
She was putting on her clothes. “What’s that?”
“You’re okay, right? You’re not too freaked out?”
“Right now I’m not freaked out at all. Right now I’m pretty happy.”
He knew she was referring to the climax he’d given her and smiled even though she couldn’t see him. “Then try to remember, in the morning, that everything’s going to be fine
. Even if things go...bad between us at some point, we’ll figure out a way to be kind to each other, to end as friends. You won’t go through anything like what you’ve been through with Sly. I promise.”
“You’re a good man,” she said. “I’m glad I met you.”
You’re a good man. That wasn’t something he’d heard very often in his life. He’d been a troubled kid and barely out of that difficult stage of life when he’d been accused of murder. The whole town still believed he’d taken two lives with a hatchet—and not just any lives but the lives of his parents.
Maybe that was why he rolled her words around and around in his head for so long after she left the room. Her belief in him felt even better than the pleasure she’d provided.
23
Robin Strauss wasn’t a minute late. With her gray hair combed into a bun at her nape and a multitude of lines around her mouth, she appeared to be about fifty-five and rather...harsh.
Sadie could tell that Dawson grew even more nervous once he saw her. The media hadn’t been kind to him, and the media reports had to be at least part of what Robin Strauss would use to judge him by. With her sober demeanor, button-down suit and thick glasses, she looked like a no-nonsense nun, or maybe a spinster librarian—someone who would view him as skeptically as possible.
Once they let her in, she didn’t say anything overtly negative, but she wasn’t friendly, either. She walked through the house, peering into each room before pausing at the master.
“This is where it happened?” She turned to Sadie, since Dawson had stopped at the doorway rather than follow them inside.
“Yes.” Sadie had asked Petra to watch Jayden for a couple of hours. She hated to leave him, in case Sly tried to cause trouble, but she’d known it wouldn’t be wise to have him here during the visit in case the discussion turned to the murders, and Petra had assured her she wouldn’t let Sly take Jayden no matter what.
“Is anyone using this room?” She focused on the box springs that didn’t have a mattress.
“Not yet.”
Ms. Strauss turned around to address Dawson. “What do you plan to do with it? Anything?”
“Sadie and Jayden will move in here once Angela is allowed to come home,” he said.
Her eyebrows, carefully drawn in with pencil, rose slightly. “Sadie doesn’t mind the fact that there was a double homicide here?”
Sadie spoke up before Dawson could attempt an answer. “I’m not pleased by the idea, of course. No one would be. But, as we’ve already explained, I’m living here because Dawson felt it would be better for Angela to have round-the-clock care. Or are you saying the bedroom should be closed off and never used again?”
Ms. Strauss seemed to realize how impractical the alternative would be. Despite the Reeds’ deaths, there were still living and breathing people who needed shelter. A house couldn’t be boarded up or burned down every time someone committed an act of violence inside its walls. “Some people are funny about those types of things—superstitious—is all,” she said.
“I’m not superstitious,” Sadie told her, but she had to admit, at least to herself, that the thought of sleeping in this room was a little discomfiting. She didn’t feel it was fair to put Angela here, however. And she knew how hard it would be for Dawson. So she’d insisted on being the one. Given that she wasn’t paying rent, it only seemed fair. “And just so you know, Dawson isn’t to blame for what happened, despite what you might’ve read about his case. He’s currently looking for the man he believes to be responsible.”
Ms. Strauss pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “That’s what he told you?”
Sadie couldn’t help bristling at the skepticism in her voice. “Yes. And I believe it’s true.”
She made no comment, merely clasped her clipboard to her chest. “So where is Angela’s room?”
“That’s where Jayden and I are staying at the moment. Right this way.”
Dawson stepped aside as Sadie led her back into the hall.
Ms. Strauss peered into Dawson’s room before taking a long look at Angela’s. “I’ve spoken to Angela,” she announced, rather abruptly.
“Did she tell you how badly she wants to come home?” Sadie shot a hopeful glance at Dawson. He’d rejoined them once they came out of his parents’ room, but he wasn’t doing a lot of talking. Sadie was trying to fill the long awkward silences, to make Ms. Strauss more sympathetic, if possible.
“She did.”
“She loves her brother. He’s always been good to her.”
“How long have you known Dawson?” she asked.
There was that skepticism again. Sadie barely managed to keep her smile in place. “Not long, which is why it’s so great that you don’t have to take my word for what a nice guy he is. The one person in town who’s known him the longest, since he was a freshman in high school, has said all along that he could never have perpetrated such a terrible crime. Feel free to talk to her, if you need a character reference.”
“I’ll do that,” she said, but Sadie got the impression she only agreed in order to be thorough. “Who should I contact?”
“Aiyana Turner. She’s the owner of New Horizons Boys Ranch.”
“Where he went to school.”
She’d done her homework. “Yes. Her sons also know Dawson and believe the same thing she does. His detractors, on the other hand, are virtual strangers. They’re judging him by what was presented in the media—which is, of course, what we both hope you won’t do. For Angela’s sake.”
When the older woman’s eyes narrowed beneath those thick glasses, Sadie feared she might’ve been a little too zealous in his defense. She didn’t want to reveal her romantic interest. That would only make Ms. Strauss question her credibility. “You told me that you started working here a week ago, correct?”
What Ms. Strauss really meant was, “How would you know?” Sadie could tell. “Yes.”
“Were you familiar with Dawson before that?”
“Not really, no.”
“Well, you certainly seem to be getting along so far.”
That would be a good thing for Angela, wouldn’t it? But Sadie wasn’t sure Ms. Strauss meant her statement in a positive way.
After that, she tried to keep her mouth shut. Dawson finished the tour, answered several more questions—about where Angela was when the murders occurred, how much she saw, what she understood.
Before Ms. Strauss left, however, she asked if Sadie would walk her out to her car—and made it clear that Dawson wasn’t to join them.
A rush of nervous energy flooded through Sadie as she agreed. “Sure.”
Sadie guessed Dawson was watching from the window while they crossed the porch and descended the stairs. Ms. Strauss didn’t speak immediately—didn’t say anything until they were well out of earshot of Dawson. Then she used her key fob to unlock the doors to a black sedan and turned. “You seem very supportive of Mr. Reed.”
“I am,” Sadie admitted. “I’ve spent a lot of hours with him over the past eight days and have seen nothing that would lead me to believe he would be anything other than a devoted brother. We’ve even been to visit Angela at Stanley DeWitt together. He wanted to take me along, so she could meet me.”
“Eight days isn’t a long time,” she said, refusing to be persuaded.
“Like I said, you can speak to Aiyana, Elijah or Gavin, if you’re looking for someone who has known him longer.”
“I’m not sure they could convince me.”
Ms. Strauss spoke with such resolution, Sadie felt her jaw drop. She was going to deny Dawson’s request for Angela to come home! “Because...”
“If we turn Angela over to him, and something happens to her, the blowback could be severe. The press will make a lot of the state releasing a mentally handicapped woman to a man we had reason
to believe might be dangerous, and—”
“Whoa, wait a minute,” Sadie broke in. “He was tried and found innocent. I think the state has done all it can do.”
“Not in this regard, I’m afraid.”
“But refusing to let Angela come home makes no sense,” Sadie argued. “Dawson wants her here, and she wants to be here. Why would the state insist on continuing to pay for her care when she has a family member who’s willing to step up?”
Unperturbed, as if she dealt with emotional situations all the time—and, of course, she probably did—Ms. Strauss climbed behind the wheel. “Because we’re responsible for her well-being. I don’t feel it’s wise to take the risk, not when Angela is receiving the care she needs at Stanley DeWitt.”
Dawson was going to be heartbroken. He would believe he’d let Angela down—and his dead parents by extension.
Sadie caught the door before Ms. Strauss could close it. “But you can’t believe the media reports,” she said. “Please. They don’t always get it right.”
She put her key in the ignition. “I’m not basing my decision on the media reports.”
“You have to be! What else could be influencing your decision?”
She sighed audibly. “I received a call from someone yesterday that definitely made an impact.”
Sadie’s mind raced as she tried to imagine who might’ve contacted the state in regards to Dawson getting his sister back, but no one came to mind. Who else would care? Distant relatives? The prosecutor? The detective? “From who?”
“From someone who’s very concerned about this situation, concerned enough to let me know where things really stand.”
“Who?” Sadie repeated with more insistence. “It couldn’t be anyone who knows what he or she is talking about.”
“It was an officer on the Silver Springs police force,” Ms. Strauss announced, as if that cinched it. “He let me know in no uncertain terms that Dawson Reed has gotten away with murder.”
Sadie felt the blood rush to her head. “Excuse me?”
Ms. Strauss looked a little shocked by the power behind her outburst. “I was saying that I have it on good authority—”
