He shrugged. “Kids repress stuff like that all the time.”
From his far-away expression, I could tell he was speaking from experience. “Who else knew what Mother was doing? The servants witnessed the pool fight, right? You said it was the last time you saw her alive—”
He flashed a palm. “Hold up. I don’t like where this conversation is going.”
“Please hear me out. You reported Mother to Sheriff Gray. That’s one of the reasons I want to talk to him. I remember him grilling me before I gave my deposition.” I bowed my head and shook it. “He’s retired now and lives in Roanoke. I call every day, leave messages, but he ignores them.”
He started to speak, but must have thought better of it.
“I found Valene Campbell too. Our old cook.” I raised my eyes. “She was your mother’s best friend, right?”
He just looked at me.
“Oh, come on! You can help. I’ve left countless phone messages. I’ve even written a few letters, but her granddaughter Jane intercepts everything. She said Mrs. Campbell was too infirm and senile to speak with me.”
He gestured. “Well, there you go.”
“She’s lying.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m telling you, the old woman knew everything that went on at Cheltenham Manor.”
“So talk to your family,” he said.
“They don’t believe Mother abused me. They say the diary pages are stories I used to make up. That I was a precocious girl with a vivid imagination.”
“What about Montgomery?”
I gestured helplessly. “He says even if she hit me—”
“That I’m still a murdering bastard, right?” He rolled his eyes, his face a mask of hostility. “I can’t help you.”
Debating his guilt or innocence was the last thing I wanted to do—too many minefields there. “Reading through the transcripts was like falling down a rabbit hole. It was information overload. That’s why I thought if I talked with you, or maybe if we went back to Cheltenham Manor—”
“Oh, hell no.”
“It’s been empty for twelve years. I haven’t set foot—”
“Shannon, do you hear yourself? I just got out of the joint today. What makes you think I wanna deal with this shit now?”
I leaned closer. “Are you saying your answer would have been different had I waited a week…a month…a year?”
He rolled his eyes again.
“Please.” I grabbed fistfuls of the coat in my lap. “I’m desperate, okay? I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
For a second it seemed like he’d understood. Like I’d reached him somehow, but then his eyes turned hard, almost as if he’d flipped a channel. After a long silence, he said, “Will helping you erase the hell I lived?” He latched his unblinking gaze to me. “Will it bring my mama back?”
“N-no, but—” I jiggled my head to clear it. “What about the promises you made?”
“The boy who made them is dead.” He cast me aside with a glower. “Amazing. After all you’ve done, you got the nerve to—”
“You just said you didn’t fault me! My God, how can you blame me for something I’m still confused about? I was barely fourteen,” I cried. “Mother was dead—and…and I saw you crouched over her! You had the spade and there was blood all over your hands…and your jeans were soaked with it! If you were me, what conclusion would you have drawn? Given everything that happened that week with…with all the fighting and the rumors about you and—”
“Don’t even go there!” Anger flared in his eyes like a struck match. When I retreated in fear, he registered momentary surprise, but his ire returned a split-second later. “I already said I didn’t hold any of that against you!”
“Then what—”
“I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to bring it up, but you’re obviously bent on playing dumb. Stop the innocent act!”
“Act?” I snapped. “I have no idea what you’re—”
“Bullshit!”
“Trace, I don’t—”
“Enough!” Veins stood out in his neck. “I’m done with this.” He punched the intercom button. “Put the brakes on, Jeeves. I’ll see myself out.”
The limo came to a violent halt. I went for his arm, but he wrenched it away, glaring back at me as if I’d just spit on him. His hatred was a tangible thing that made his silent message all too clear. Back off, his eyes told me.
“Please, don’t leave like this,” I begged.
Trace was beyond hearing me. He snatched his pillowcase and tore outside. Horns blared. Wind smacked me when he whipped around. His face was a gray blur through my veil of tears.
“Bye, Shannon,” he blurted. The cold sheathed his words.
“No, wait! I swear I don’t understand what’s—”
Another loud chorus of horns exploded when Trace’s pillowcase hit the ground. “You got amnesia about this too?” He shook his head. “Unfuckinbelievable!”
“This? This what?” I screamed back. “Tell me!”
“The letter you wrote the parole board!”
“What letter?”
He snagged the pillowcase. “That’s it. I’m gone.”
“Damn it, what letter!”
He blazed a look at me, then said through clenched teeth, “The one that killed my mother. Ring a bell?”
Eyes wide with mortification, I wagged my head as my mind raced to connect the dots. “But I never—”
He slammed the door so hard the limo rocked.
“…sent a letter.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Beware Of Blondes Bearing Rock Salt
TRACE
____________________________
I’d warned her. Told her straight out to drop the subject. All I’d wanted was a ride and an explanation for what she’d done. I’d never intended to get into a deep conversation, not with my soul still gushing blood. But she had to press me, goad me, so I chewed her up and spat her out.
Maybe now she’d leave me the hell alone.
Stalking down Jefferson Boulevard with the wind at my back and pain in my ribs, I tried to shove Shannon out of my mind, but I was still boiling mad. ‘Let’s make amends,’ she’d told me. ‘Let’s bridge gaps.’ Screw her gaps; screw her prick of a fiancé and her olive branches. What a joke. She’d cowered in the limo like I was a monster. No wonder she’d sent the letter.
I scared the hell out of her.
When she’d penned the thing, she was an adult, capable of making her own choices and living with the fallout. Whatever she wrote swayed the board’s decision to deny my parole last year. The consequences set a tragic chain of events into motion, events that would haunt me forever.
I ducked my head against the lashing wind and zigzagged across the street to my childhood home. The pillowcase I’d slung over my shoulder seemed to weigh a ton as I took the porch steps, going slowly because my knees were shaking. So were my hands. This place was my greatest nightmare. The house of cards built with cement and brick.
‘Stare the monster down,’ Doc Rosen had said.
I sighed. “Easier said than done, old man.”
It was a typical cracker box; probably still swarming with cockroaches and an equally impressive rodent population. The battered screen door smacked my butt as I fished the chain from my pocket. I shook lint balls off the key and unlocked the door, giving it a gentle nudge with my foot. The rusty-hinged block of wood wailed open. It reminded me of the muted squeals the sows on Bisabuelo’s farm used to make while birthing.
Pale light spilled in from a long hallway that led off to the kitchen. I took a whiff, and my stomach rumbled. The scent of home cooking softened the visual. Maybe Bev had left me some dinner. I flipped the wall switch for the ceiling lamp, but nothing happened. Burned-out bulb, no doubt.