That shut me up. Trace was persona non grata everywhere, and unfortunately, by association, his friend Cholly had been made a target. In the past, I’d reached out to Cholly because I’d sold him the commercial building—formerly The Playroom nightclub—but it was obvious he hated me. He’d made the transaction as unpleasant as possible.
“If you’re after a clear conscience,” Trace said, “go elsewhere. Today’s performance didn’t change my mind.”
“You’d be in jail if not for me. Now you have the gall to—”
“Say you were putting on a show?”
I straightened. “It wasn’t a show.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I have nothing to feel guilty about.” But I did feel guilty, real guilty.
“You’re right,” he said with a frosty smile. “Everybody knows you’re as blameless as baby Jesus. I mean, look at that fancy billboard of yours. What’d it say?” He tapped a finger to his swollen lips. “Oh, yeah. ‘Shannon Bradford: a name you can trust.’” He snorted. “What a load a bull.”
“You’re obviously beyond the point of reason.”
“You just figuring that out?” He studied me as if I were a puzzle and his mouth slid into a bitter smile. “Hell, maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s not about guilt, and you’re just clueless.”
“No, you’re the expert in that area.”
Unfazed, he tilted his head and his eyes narrowed. “I’ll bet you’re one of those bleeding hearts. You prob’ly believe in prison reform too.” He laughed. “Think I’ve forsaken my murdering ways? Yeah, you wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“What are you talking about?”
He tooled his gaze around the limo. “Alone in the back of this fancy ride with a certified lady-killer. You’re not worried?”
Of course I was, but I’d be damned before I’d admit it. “If you’re trying to frighten me, it’s not working.”
“You sure?” His sharp eyes held me. “All those years in Gainstown could’ve made the Butcher Boy even crazier. Maybe he’s just been biding his time ‘til he could settle a score.”
He wanted to scare me. Wanted me to believe in the monster the town had created, but it was a ruse. The monster was actually a wizard trying to distract me from the man behind the curtain. And that just made me angrier.
“Your opinion of me is quite clear,” I said, “so why didn’t you just let that Jeep mow me down?”
“Simple. I would’ve done the same for a dog.” Even as my eyes widened in shock, his stayed cold and dead. “Now go tell your bloodsucking family and your troll of a fiancé how I threw your little olive branch back in your face.”
Pain squeezed my heart. “You really hate me, don’t you?”
He studied me, blinking in that lazy way of his. “To be honest, I don’t feel much of anything where you’re concerned.”
I tore away and stared sightlessly out of the window while the limo inched through traffic. He was right. I was naïve. My biggest mistake was in misjudging the depth of his pain. Despite what he’d said, his feelings for me were anything but neutral.
I’d known Trace since I was six. His mother, having cleaned houses for the best families, came to Cheltenham Manor with high recommendations. Ten-year-old Trace used to tag along and was later hired to do odd jobs around the estate.
After he got his license, he was hired as a chauffeur. By then, he and I had forged a bond, one I thought couldn’t be broken. Now his parents were dead, and his brother was in a padded room. If he were innocent, of course he’d feel robbed. If he were guilty, would his bitterness be any less potent? Either way, in his mind, I’d betrayed him. Dare I push him further?
Yes. I had no other choice.
Reaching inside my blouse, I held up a sterling silver chain with a charm. “See this?” It dangled between my fingers. “I found it in an old trunk. I still don’t remember much about the day you gave it to me, only that you said your great-grandfather sent it to you for Christmas. You called him Bisabuelo.”
An emotion I couldn’t identify flashed in his eyes.
“Do you remember the inscription?” I asked. His Adam’s apple bobbed as I flipped the charm over and recited, “‘Una vida vivida con miedo es una vida media duración.’” I dropped the locket back between my breasts. “I’d forgotten the reason you wanted me to have it…until now.”
“Shannon….”
“Listen to me, okay? I used to draw in my diary, but it went missing right before Auntie and Uncle moved me to Briar.” I lowered my eyes, fingered the chain hanging from my neck. “Two months ago, I found this locket with a few torn diary pages. Around the same time, a memory came back. And it…it was something so awful that I began questioning everything I thought I knew.” I looked at him dead on. “But one thing was clear. I lied to you about Mother that day at Miller’s Pond.”
Child abuse.
Until I’d found the diary pages, what few memories I had of Lilith Bradford were surreal. I’d honestly believed my mother never laid a hand on me. Now the only question was why. How could I have forgotten the hell I’d endured? And not just parts. I’d forgotten it all.
Murder in the second degree. Thirteen years—a minimum of ten served. The sentence was a miracle, considering the evidence. Andrew Gartner, Trace’s Harvard-educated attorney, came forward a week after the murder hit the airwaves. Offering his services, pro bono, he was one of the best criminal defense lawyers on the East Coast, but he’d met his match in Darien.
Trace maintained his innocence throughout the trial. As for suspects, his lawyer pointed to the half dozen or so lovers Mother was rumored to have had. The defense argued that the last time Trace saw her alive was when he’d confronted her about my bruises, an incident witnessed by several servants.
The prosecution claimed the abuse was a figment of Trace’s imagination and that the violence he’d suffered at the hands of his own father—Gary Dawson—had caused him to lose touch with reality.
My deposition didn’t contradict this. I was convinced Mother never hit me, but finding the diary pages changed all that. Little had I known what other things those pages would stir up.
“I’m sorry, Trace. I don’t know why I denied the abuse, but at the time, I actually believed what I was saying.”
His face lacked expression, but he seemed to take pity on me when his eyes softened. “I never held that against you.” He looked out of his window. “You couldn’t even admit it to me or yourself, much less to strangers.”
I shrank back. His words had left me temporarily speechless. “Oh, my God. That’s why Gartner didn’t cross-examine me. You wouldn’t let him.”
He fixed his eyes on mine again, saying nothing. Even with his freedom on the line, he’d protected me. The realization had my mind reeling. If he didn’t blame me for testifying, then where was all this hatred coming from?
I shook my head again, even more confused. “Do your promises have expiration dates?”
“What?”
“You once said you could never hate me. And that you’d be there if I needed you. Well, I need you now more than ever.”
He looked away.
“The Miller’s Pond diary entry was the last one I ever wrote. Mother came in my room drunk that night, just as I was finishing. She snatched it from me, read a few paragraphs and started ripping pages out. That’s the last time I saw it. Then after you had that fight by the pool the next night, she made me give her the necklace. She didn’t want me to keep anything of yours. But my diary—the pages…everything disappeared after the murder.”
“And this has what to do with me?”
“That’s what I want to find out.” Emotion welled in my throat. “Something caused me to forget the abuse. Doesn’t that sound strange to you?”