Dead Giveaway

by Brenda Novak

  “Excuse me,” she murmured. Irritated that Jed seemed to be lurking around every corner, she got in her car and drove away.

  Allie reached the cabin much later than she’d hoped. A semi pulling two trailers full of dirt had overturned on the highway ahead of her, causing a traffic jam that lasted more than two hours. And then it had started to rain. By the time she arrived, it was pouring and completely dark.

  “Just my luck,” she muttered, staring miserably at the fat drops pelting her windshield. She was tempted to turn around and go back. She didn’t really want to be out here alone so late at night. And she definitely didn’t want to find what she was looking for.

  But she’d already made the drive. It didn’t make sense to give up before she’d even gotten out.

  Grabbing her small dinner and the plate of brownies, she made a dash for the door. But she hesitated once she stood under the small overhang, staring at the dark cabin. She felt jittery, afraid, because she hadn’t been able to answer the questions she’d been asking herself the entire drive: What if my father is seeing someone else? Would I tell my mother? Confront him? Or keep his dirty secret? What would be best for both my parents?

  Despite her father’s bluster, Allie loved him as much as she did Evelyn. But she wasn’t sure how she’d feel toward him if she caught him cheating. To her, the fact that he was a cop made the situation that much worse. She expected more from a police officer. She didn’t want to lose respect for the man she’d always admired.

  “Please, don’t let me down,” she whispered. Then she took a deep breath, retrieved the key from under the mat and went inside.

  The place smelled like Clay. Allie couldn’t believe it. It’d been a whole week, and yet she could still detect his cologne. Or maybe she was only imagining that she could pick up his scent because she wished he was with her.

  She scanned the room. Nothing that said “adultery” jumped out at her, even now that she was looking with a critical eye. But her father wouldn’t leave evidence of a clandestine affair lying around where anyone could find it, would he?

  She had to search for the small, insignificant details he might have overlooked.

  Clay flipped through the channels on the television, trying to distract himself. Allie was probably at the cabin already, searching for proof of her father’s infidelity. Whether or not she’d find it, he couldn’t guess. He hadn’t seen anything suspicious. But he hadn’t checked the drawers, under the bed, the bookcase or cupboards. There was no telling what small thing his mother might have left behind. And if Allie found anything to fuel her suspicions, it’d only be a matter of time before she reached the truth.

  Unless his mother could remain strong and stay away from Dale. Then there might be a chance.

  But Clay didn’t have much hope of that. He’d spoken to Irene earlier. “I’m fifty-one years old, and my life is more than half over. What else do I have to look forward to?” she’d wailed. “Why am I denying myself?”

  He’d tried to remind her. He’d also invited her to the farm, so she’d have company, but she’d declined. He would’ve gone to her place and kept watch over her, except he didn’t believe that, ultimately, it would make any difference. If Irene was going to see Dale, she’d just arrange a meeting after he left. He couldn’t stand guard on her around the clock.

  Besides, he was agitated and torn himself. He couldn’t stop thinking about Allie up at that cabin alone, discovering that her father was sleeping with his mother.

  He shook his head. Allie would hate him by association. She might even guess that he’d known all along and wonder if he’d been secretly laughing at her.

  The possibility that she might feel he’d betrayed her bothered him. But he didn’t owe her anything. He had to protect his family from the people of Stillwater, including the police, including Allie. She was a cop.

  And yet—he blew out a long sigh and changed the channel—and yet he wanted to shield her from the hurt she’d suffer as a result of learning the truth.

  Flipping off the television, he stood. If she was going to find proof of her father’s affair she’d have it by now. He’d drive there, console her if necessary, see that she made it safely home.

  But if she hadn’t found anything, they’d be in the same situation as last weekend, alone together, with only a nineteen-year-old secret to keep them apart—a secret that was all too easy to forget when he felt her beside him.

  Muttering a curse, he forced himself to sit back down. He wasn’t going anywhere. Allie wasn’t his concern. He couldn’t care about her and his family, too. Loving one would only betray the other.

  Allie pointed her flashlight under the bed, then lifted the mattress. She was looking for sex toys, cast-off lingerie or lipstick-smeared shirts. But she found nothing.

  She went through the bookcase, searching for pictures or notes or pornography. Nothing there, either.

  She pulled everything out of the cupboard, checking for champagne or the presence of foods her father didn’t like or wouldn’t eat. She looked everywhere else she could think of—but once again came up empty-handed.

  Standing in the center of the room, she turned slowly around, wondering if she’d missed anything. But she couldn’t imagine what. One room, without much furniture, didn’t give her father a lot of hiding places. Besides, he wasn’t even aware that she suspected him, so she doubted he’d get too creative.

  And that meant she’d been wrong.

  Feeling a tremendous surge of relief, she laughed out loud. So what if her father was drinking out of a teddy bear mug? So what if she’d found the number of a florist on his Rolodex or a tube of lipstick in his car? She didn’t care—because it didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t having an affair, or there’d be proof of it here at the cabin. She felt certain of it. Where else would he find the privacy an affair required? He couldn’t meet his lover anyplace in town. He’d be instantly recognized.

  Hunger pangs reminded Allie that she hadn’t had dinner yet. Throwing another log on the fire she’d built for light as much as heat, she left the kerosene lamp burning, grabbed a flashlight, some soap and a towel and went to the outhouse before heading down to the river to wash her hands. It was still raining outside, but she didn’t mind getting wet. She wasn’t going to stay at the cabin much longer. She’d eat, then drive home, where she’d give her father a heartfelt hug and revel in the knowledge that her mother’s life wasn’t about to be destroyed.

  The sound of shattering glass brought Allie’s head up. There were a few other cabins in the area, but she didn’t know exactly where and they were pretty spread out. She was fairly sure the noise had originated from her own place.

  Dropping the soap and towel, she ran up the bank to the cabin, careful to turn off her flashlight and hang back out of sight as she approached it. But the window wasn’t even cracked. She could see the glimmer of the fire through the glass. So…

  A rustling in the woods not far away sent her pulse racing. Was it a small animal of some sort? “Is someone there?” she called, just in case.

  No one answered.

  She stepped out of the woods, her flashlight held low to the ground. But as she examined the clearing, she realized that someone had broken her car window. The rock that had been used to smash it was lying a few feet away.

  Stunned, she crouched down for cover and searched the clearing again. But she could see no one, hear nothing except the soft beat of rain. Whoever had used that rock seemed to be gone, so she hurried over to check the damage. Why would anyone—

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. Slipping her hand gingerly through the jagged hole to unlock the car and open the door, she began to feel underneath the seat. Her gun was missing. Someone had stolen her Glock.

  “Shit.” Automatically, she reached for the portable radio she carried almost everywhere. But whoever had stolen her gun had taken the radio, too.

  How had someone stumbled upon her car in this remote location and in the middle of a storm? Where had that
person come from? And, more important than anything—at least at this moment—where had he gone?

  Using the door for protection, Allie moved her flashlight in a wide arc. Who’d done this?

  She couldn’t see anything but trees.

  Too bad she hadn’t brought her squad car. That might have discouraged the theft. But she never took it outside jurisdiction.

  She needed to get her cell phone, alert her father, then get the hell out of the woods. She didn’t want to be sitting here alone in the middle of a storm while some unknown person was running around with her gun.

  Turning off the flashlight, she picked up the closest stick she could find and crept toward the cabin to peer through the open doorway. Empty. A more thorough check revealed that there was no one hiding under the bed or behind the door. But her purse, which she’d left on the table, was gone, too—and with it her cell phone and car keys. In its place, next to the plate of brownies she’d bought from Grace, was a rain-soaked note.

  The paper nearly fell apart as she unfolded it, but she managed to make out the blurry words that appeared to have been typed on a computer.

  Leave the past alone, or Barker won’t be the only person missing.

  12

  Rain pounded on the roof of the cabin as Allie huddled by the fire. She’d covered the window with a blanket so she couldn’t be seen from outside and shoved the bookshelves in front of the door. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but without a car or any way to call for assistance, she couldn’t do much more. Except hope that the dry wood lasted until morning, and that the offender who’d paid her a visit was gone for good.

  Noises from outside kept her on edge. Branches banged against the sides of the cabin; the rain thrummed loudly and steadily on the roof. Even the crackle of the fire made it difficult to determine whether or not she heard someone moving around.

  It was unlikely, she told herself. If the person who had her gun had intended to hurt her tonight, he would’ve done it already. She had a kitchen knife for a weapon, but a knife wasn’t much use against a gun. Considering her isolation, she was easy prey. So she doubted her visitor had hung around with plans to harm her. For now he—or she—was only out to deliver a message.

  She knew that and yet she couldn’t relax.

  Holding her breath, she closed her eyes so she could focus on differentiating between the various rustling, tapping and scratching noises. But, in the end, concentrating didn’t help. Her nerves were working against her. She couldn’t tell what was real and what she’d imagined.

  Calm down. Her palm began to sweat on the handle of the knife, but she didn’t release it. She tried to occupy her mind by puzzling out who might’ve written the note. It had to be someone who knew her and what she was working on, someone who was familiar with the Barker case and had a personal stake in it.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t bring a lot of possibilities to mind. Most people in Stillwater wanted her to get to the truth. The Montgomerys were the only ones she knew of, besides Jed Fowler perhaps, who weren’t particularly forthcoming.

  Could it be Clay?

  The thought crept in, even though she’d been carefully avoiding it. She’d told no one else where she’d be tonight.

  But he was too smart to write a note that would make him look worse than he already did. And he’d told her not to come to the cabin alone. Would he encourage her to bring a friend if he planned to break into her car and frighten her half to death?

  She didn’t think so. It had to be someone else. Someone who wanted her to believe it was Clay….

  Joe Vincelli? Joe’s father or another member of the Vincelli clan? Beth Ann?

  A car door slammed, and Allie froze. Maybe she was about to find out.

  Scrambling to her feet, she pressed herself against the inside wall of the cabin listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. Whoever it was wouldn’t be able to get in through the door. But he—or she—could break the window.

  A loud knock made her knees go weak.

  “Allie? Are you in there?”

  Clay! She recognized his voice immediately and nearly called out to him. But she was afraid she’d been a fool to trust him so much. Had she been blinded by his legendary sex appeal?

  It was possible. Anything was possible. At the moment, she doubted herself, doubted everyone.

  “Allie, open the door,” he said. “What happened to your car? Why’s the passenger window broken?”

  The doorknob rattled. Icy tentacles of fear tightened every muscle—and yet Allie’s first instinct, even now, was to let him in. She would have, if not for the echo of her father’s voice in her head…you got into his car, knowing he could be dangerous…

  “Allie, answer me! Are you okay?”

  If Clay intended to hurt her, he’d had his chance last weekend.

  Her reaction wasn’t logical, but fear rarely was. Fear said if she lowered her defenses and she was wrong, he could kill her, bury her in the woods and drive back to town as if he’d never even left the farm—and no one would be the wiser. She’d simply be gone. Like Barker. Just as the note promised.

  The fingernails of her free hand curled into her palm as she heard Clay move to the window. Would he break it?

  She waited, heart racing, as she wondered if she’d have to defend herself against the man she’d started fantasizing about.

  But when she heard his voice again, he was heading toward the river, probably searching for the outhouse she’d told him about, hoping he’d find her there.

  “Allie!” The wind tossed his voice about. Her name seemed to echo against the trees, mixing with the melee of thunder and wind and rain. He must be getting soaked.

  If he wasn’t responsible for the night’s events, what was he doing out here?

  Think, she ordered herself. Think, think, think! She needed to clear her head; her imagination was getting the best of her. She didn’t believe Clay had killed Barker, at least not purposely. And she couldn’t believe he’d harm her now. She trusted him.

  Enough to bet her life on opening the door?

  She remembered the humiliation she’d sensed in him when she’d made him remove his shirt the night Beth Ann had accused him of murder. Beneath the tough exterior, Clay was a good man. Her gut had told her that from the beginning and her gut was all she had to rely on.

  Taking a deep breath, she set the knife aside and started to shove the bookcase out of the way. But then she heard a muttered curse right outside the cabin, too close to be Clay. Clay was still calling for her down by the river.

  Was the person who’d taken her gun still there? If so, why?

  Joe’s face, angry and vindictive, flashed through Allie’s mind. The only answer she could come up with was that this was some kind of setup. No doubt Beth Ann had convinced Joe, along with half the town, that Allie wouldn’t put Clay behind bars even if he deserved it. Maybe Joe had gotten tired of waiting for justice and decided to take the law into his own hands. Joe and his father and brother had been fishing with Allie’s father a couple of times, so they knew about the cabin. It was possible that Joe had enticed Clay to the lake on false pretenses.

  And if that was true…

  Allie’s stomach tensed. If that was true, she’d just let Clay walk into a trap.

  She had to warn him. Now! But it had taken her a full fifteen minutes to slide the bookcase in front of the door. She couldn’t move it in a matter of seconds.

  Unable to stop the terrible images bombarding her brain—images of Joe creeping up behind Clay with her Glock—she tore half the books off the shelves, kicked the unit over and used the wall to give her some leverage as she pushed.

  “Allie?” Clay was still calling her.

  “Stop! Get down!” she cried out in panic and frustration. But she knew he couldn’t hear her. Each agonizing second seemed to last an hour as she moved the bookcase inch by inch.

  Finally, she was able to open the door enough to slip through. “Clay!”

  Clay’s truck w
as parked right in front. Even without a flashlight she could tell that someone had punctured two of his tires.

  Someone who didn’t want him to leave. Which frightened her more than anything.

  “Clay, get down! Don’t say a word!” she yelled. Her cry echoed back to her as she charged after him. But it was too late. A shot rang out before she’d taken five steps. She heard a gasp to her left. Then someone went crashing through the woods to her right.

  Time seemed to stand still as, not far away, Allie heard an engine start. The shooter was escaping. She didn’t even try to follow. She’d never be able to catch him. But that wasn’t what kept her rooted to the spot. It was the sickening realization that someone had just taken a shot at Clay. And she’d heard him fall.

  The pungent smell of wet earth filled Clay’s nostrils as he lay on the ground, blinking against the rain falling into his face. What had happened? One moment, he’d been searching frantically for Allie. The next, he’d heard a gunshot and something—presumably a bullet—had knocked him off his feet.

  Had someone taken a shot at him? As surreal as that seemed, it was the only explanation. He wanted to believe the gunshot was a freak accident, but then he remembered Allie yelling, trying to warn him.

  What was going on? He remembered the shattered window in Allie’s car. She wasn’t safe. He had to get up.

  But his arm…

  Muffling a groan, he tried to see what was wrong with it. It ached and burned. His head hurt, too. But he had to reach Allie somehow. The person who’d shot him could be after her.

  “Allie?” he called. Except he was pretty sure her name didn’t actually leave his lips. He was yelling, but only inside his head.

  “Clay? Answer me if you can. Please! Clay? Help me find you.”

  She was the one who was calling. She was pleading with him, searching for him, but he couldn’t seem to respond. Why?

  The beam of a flashlight swept through the trees. She was coming toward him.