“That’s what you said at the trial, but-”
“It’s true.”
“It was convenient for you. And would it really matter? Even if she’d screwed around with a dozen men it wouldn’t change the fact that Mom and her current lover were screwing in your bed when you walked in and shot them.”
She was on a roll. She stared at him, remembered that he had been convicted in a court of law by twelve jurors. He’d been convicted of murder, and few innocent people went to prison.
“You would have said anything to get out of prison. The D.A. offered you a plea. You didn’t have to get the death penalty! You could have pled guilty. Maybe if you’d just admitted the truth I could have lived with it, I could have forgiven you, but you just lied and lied and-”
“I wasn’t lying,” he insisted, his jaw tight. “Everything I told you then was the truth.”
“The evidence showed-”
“The evidence was circumstantial. Someone framed me. I have proof.”
“What proof? If you had proof, why didn’t you bring it up during one of your half-dozen appeals? Have your attorney petition the court? There is no proof that you’re innocent.”
“And there was no proof that I was guilty!” he shouted in her ear, his voice shaking. “It was all circumstantial, Claire. A setup. A frame-”
“Yeah, so why don’t you go find the real killer?”
“Dammit!” He took a deep breath. “I need to find Oliver Maddox. I know he spoke to you in January before”-he paused-“the earthquake.”
“Before you escaped from prison? Let’s call a spade a spade, Daddy, okay? No bullshit. You’re an escaped killer and they’ll shoot first, and frankly, no one gives a shit about your answers.”
Claire’s insides were twisted and burning. She’d never talked to her father like that, had never raised her voice or sworn at him.
Don’t think of him as your father. He’s an escaped prisoner. A convict. A murderer.
His face hardened, but pain lit his eyes. “Oliver Maddox has information I need to prove my innocence. He works with the Western Innocence Project. I tried calling him, but his phone isn’t working. I can’t very well go looking for him. I think someone scared him into hiding. I need your help to find him. I don’t have anyone else to turn to, Claire.”
She blinked back tears. More lies from her father. “After I talked to Maddox, I did a little research. I’m good at that. He’s just a law student, not even an attorney. Doesn’t even work for the Western Innocence Project-he was an intern last summer. They were never going to take up your case.”
Her father shook his head. “That’s not true. Oliver planned on meeting me the week before the earthquake. He said he had information about Lydia’s lover, Chase Taverton. Evidence that he was the primary target. Taverton was a prosecutor. If he was the target, that opens an entire pool of suspects, and the detectives barely looked at that possibility.”
“You’re grasping at straws-”
“Oliver has even more information,” he continued quickly, “but he never showed for our meeting, and I couldn’t reach him. The next day, I was transferred into the general prison population.”
“They don’t put cops in with the general population.”
“Something happened. Someone got to him-”
“I haven’t spoken to Oliver Maddox since I kicked him out of my house months ago when I found out he’d lied to me. He lied to me, and he lied to you. He was just a kid jerking your chain, he didn’t have the Project behind him, and he probably didn’t know anything that would help you unless he made it up. You were a cop once. You should know how many killers claim they’re innocent.”
“I am!”
“So who did it? In the twenty minutes between when I left the house and called you and you walked in, who broke into our house and killed them? And why? You know, Dad, usually the most obvious answer is the correct one.”
“I’m so sorry, Claire, but you have to believe me. The only reason I care about proving my innocence is to prove it to you. I don’t want you looking at me the way you are right now. I want my little girl back.”
“I’m not a little girl.” She found it hard to catch her breath. She couldn’t think, she just wanted him to disappear.
“I know.” His voice quivered. “Please, Claire, I’m risking everything coming to you. I need your help. I can’t do this on my own. I went to the campus, his house, couldn’t find him. I couldn’t ask more questions without drawing attention. I need to find out where he went and exactly what he knew, get him to tell the truth no matter who threatened him. Working for Rogan-Caruso Protective Services, you have access to far more information and resources than I do.”
“Why would I help you? I could lose everything I’ve built since you went to prison,” she said. “My career, my PI license, my home. I don’t want to go to jail.”
“Claire. Please.”
The quiet plea twisted her heart. “Go away. Leave me alone.”
“I don’t have anyone else,” he whispered.
She spoke equally quietly. “Well, then, you don’t have anyone, Dad.”
A truck turned onto the road heading for the warehouse.
“Think about this, Claire. Think about me. I’m not a killer. You know that in your heart.”
To prevent her from pursuing him, he pushed her down. “I’m sorry,” he called as he ran in the opposite direction of the approaching truck.
Claire slowly pulled herself up. She might have been able to chase after and catch her father, but what would she do? Shoot him in the back?
Instead she put her hands on her knees and fought to regain some semblance of control over her emotions. To try and forget the pain in her father’s eyes. To try and forget the pain twisting in her heart.
The truck belonged to the arson investigator, Pete Jackson. He got out, looked at Claire with a frown. “You okay, Ms. O’Brien?”
She faked a half smile as she stretched. “Fine. The sooty air just got to me.”
“I told you not to go in until I got here.”
“Sorry. Why don’t you walk me through it?”
“You must already have your own conclusion.”
“I need you to prove it.”
“Lucky for you I already have the proof your company needs. Found the hot spot and identified the accelerant. The burn pattern indicates not only arson, but an amateur.”
“Too cheap to fork over for a professional,” Claire muttered.
As she followed Pete Jackson into the warehouse, she glanced over her shoulder, looking for her father. Tom O’Brien was nowhere to be seen.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t around.
The Feds had made it perfectly clear to Claire that she needed to report any contact from her father, or be considered an accomplice. They’d threatened her-jail time, loss of her private investigator’s license, her concealed-carry weapons permit. Her dad said that the Feds were still watching her. Agent Donovan had come around a couple times, but it was routine. She’d answered his questions and told him to get lost each visit. She didn’t think they had someone on her 24/7 after the first two weeks since the quake, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe she’d been so preoccupied with trying to forget about her father, she’d missed the obvious.
Remembering the look on her father’s face gave her pause. And his words had sounded. . truthful. But he’d had fifteen years to perfect his act. How could she believe him now when she hadn’t believed him then?
But what if he was telling the truth?
For fifteen years she believed, she knew, that he was guilty. After the trial she learned to block everything out to prevent the nightmares from creeping in. If it hadn’t been for Detective Bill Kamanski and his son Dave, a young street cop who had been her dad’s friend, she would have probably turned to drugs or worse. They taught her to be strong, to accept what had happened and move on. She’d almost changed her name to forget who her father was. But in the end, she’d realized that if she changed everything about herself, she’d be living a lie. So she remained Claire Elizabeth O’Brien, accepting the truth, at the same time forcing that horrific day and the trial from her memory. Most of the time it worked.