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.”