Anything but Mine (26 page)

“This.” Madeline tossed the newspaper on the table. “Forget
Peyton Place
. This place is like fucking
Days of Our Lives
.”

Coffee halfway to her lips, Autry stared at the headline article in a special Sunday edition of the
Daily Herald
. “Accused Serial Murderer, Thought Dead, Rearrested.” Coffee forgotten, she picked up the paper and began reading, stopping when she reached the paragraph listing her as the attorney of record, who refused comment. “Damn.”

“You won’t be able to get him off.” Madeline swung the refrigerator door open and pulled out a can of whipped cream. She sprayed a swirl atop her coffee and offered the can to Autry.

“I don’t have to worry about getting him off.” Autry glanced at the whipped cream and shook her head. Biting her lip, she dropped her gaze to the article once more. “I quit.”

“Oh shit.” Madeline stared, mouth open, a dab of cream on her upper lip. “You did?”

Autry sank into a chair. “Yep.”

“Just his case or the defender’s office?”

“It’s pretty much the same thing.” Wry humor tugged at Autry. “So I guess I’m out of a job, maybe out of a career.”

Madeline made a strangled noise in her throat. “Hell, Autry, when you break bad, you break
bad
, don’t you?”

Autry rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

She should care more about the career she’d worked so hard to attain. She should care that her actions would have broken her father’s heart. If he were alive, he’d be so disappointed.

But disappointed didn’t describe her feelings. Apprehensive, maybe. But mostly…she felt relieved.

“You could always come back to Jacksonville with me.” Madeline eyed her with a critical gaze. “A change of scenery might be good for you. Show you there’s more to the world than Coney, Georgia.”

Autry shot her a look over the edge of her cup. “I have been out of the state, you know. And the country, for that matter.”

Madeline matched her stare for stare. “Just think about it. You never know. You might even find Stanton Reed’s not the only man in the world.”

“You believe this stuff?” With a disgusted sigh, Tick tossed the newspaper on the table. “How does he get this bullshit out that fast?”

Stanton glanced at the headline. At least Ray wasn’t calling for his resignation this time around. But he’d be willing to bet tomorrow’s regular edition would include an editorial blaming the sheriff’s department for somehow bungling the whole affair and leading to Nance Milson’s death.

As bad as he hated to admit it, Falconetti was right—he couldn’t step back and let that continue. They’d screwed up, yes, and God only knew, Stanton had paid for what had happened at the courthouse…but he couldn’t let what had happened undo all the work that had gone into building a good, decent department. He couldn’t let it keep them from moving forward.

“I was thinking about what Falconetti had to say earlier.”

“Yeah?” Tick lifted a stack of folders from a banker’s box.

“She might be on to something with the whole spokesperson idea.” Stanton cleared his throat. “And she’s right about not letting two incidents, however major they might be, get in the way of the big picture of what we’ve done.”

Tick slanted him a look before twisting to peer out the small window. Stanton shook his head.

“What are you looking at?”

“Seeing if Jesus is coming through the clouds.” Tick grinned. “You just said Cait was right about something. That has to be a sign the Second Coming is imminent.”

Stanton laughed, the sound rusty and hoarse, but welcome after the last few days. “Smartass.”

Tick chuckled.

“What are you doing?” He nodded at Tick, who was spreading files across the white folding table in the makeshift squad room.

Tick grimaced. “Trying to get my stuff organized again. I’m still missing folders, but I need to sort out our open cases, get back to work on those.” He lifted a stack of files, tucked a couple under his chin, laid the others on the table. “We have those burglaries in the north end of the county, not to mention Autry’s sick pen pal. And some cold cases we inherited from the previous administration.”

At his mention of Autry and the stalker, Stanton made sure his face stayed expressionless. Obviously, she’d made a decision about her career—if walking out on Schaefer constituted a resignation from the public defender’s office. When he’d called her on the way to the hospital, she’d refused his offer of a ride, and from the way she’d left the hospital without speaking to him at all, he was beginning to think she’d made up her mind about him as well.

Maybe she’d figured she was better off without him and it was time to cut her losses.

One thing was for sure—the waiting and uncertainty were killing him. But he’d promised her time and space and he’d be damned if he broke that promise. Hell, who was he kidding? He was already damned. She didn’t want him anymore.

A quick rap at the open door shook him from his reverie. Tick dropped a folder and cursed as papers flitted across the floor. Stanton glanced up. Botine and McMillian stood in the doorway, faces grim. Stanton’s gut tightened. Local head of the GBI and the DA, together, looking like that? It couldn’t be good.

Botine cleared his throat. “You boys got a minute?”

“Sure.” Stanton leaned against the table, arms folded. “What’s up?”

“The Evidence Response Team has come up with its initial report.” Botine ran a thumb under his collar. “We’re going to bring some people in for questioning and we thought, under the circumstances, you might like to observe.”

Observe? He wanted to rip the bastard apart, but he could settle for watching the interrogation. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Tick stacked his folders on the table and dusted his hands. “What did the ERT come up with?”

McMillian loosened his tie. “The main thing we’re looking at is a truck axle recovered from Durham Street.”

“Examining the distance between the recovery spot and the parking lot where we think the explosion originated, plus the condition of the axle, the techs believe it came from the vehicle holding the bomb.” Botine hitched his thumbs in his belt.

Stanton and Tick exchanged a look. After the Oklahoma City bombing, an axle from the rental truck carrying the homemade bomb had led to McVeigh’s conviction.

“You have a VIN number, don’t you?” Tick asked, his voice quiet. The line of his shoulders betrayed a sudden tension. Stanton didn’t need to be told what was going through his head. When they found the bomber, to Stanton, it would be the person who’d killed his daughter. To Tick, it would probably be someone he’d known all his life. Stanton would have some modicum of vengeance; Tick would face an arrest tearing yet another hole in the community he loved.

McMillian inclined his head. “We have a VIN. A local farm truck.” He held aloft a folded paper. “I have the warrants for the farm. That nitrogen fertilizer came from somewhere. There’ll be a record of it.”

Botine glanced at Stanton. “I want y’all with my team when we execute it. Your department’s taken a lot of heat in the last few months. You should be involved in the arrest and investigation.”

A weak grin quirked at Tick’s mouth. “As long as you don’t let Troy Lee go along, we’re fine.” He cleared his throat, a painfully rough sound. “What farm?”

“Jim Ingler’s.”

“Holy hell.” His face paling, Tick closed his eyes. Stanton blew out a long breath. Jim Ingler’s wife, Erleen, had been one of the first dead pulled from the rubble. His youngest son remained in critical condition in an Atlanta hospital with spinal and head injuries. Tick opened his eyes, his stiff expression pained. “You think it’s
Jim
? I can’t buy that. He was adamant about letting the system work.”

Botine shrugged. “At this point, we’ll be looking at anyone with access to that truck. That includes his workers, his family…”

An image flashed in Stanton’s brain, Beau Ingler standing in Autry’s office doorway, castigating her. And later, blaming the department for his sister’s death. He glanced at Tick. “Beau?”

Tick nodded. “Maybe.”

McMillian’s intense blue gaze sharpened. “What makes you say that?”

Stanton rubbed a hand over his nape. “He…he accosted Autry in her office, and when we went to talk to him about the notes she’d been receiving, he didn’t hesitate to let us know he blamed us for Sharon’s death. We’d brought Schaefer here.”

“Cait said it.” Tick’s bleak expression matched the tone of his words. “It was never about Schaefer. It was about us.”

McMillian glanced at Botine. “Maybe he decided he’d get rid of Schaefer and get his revenge on the system at the same time.”

Botine grimaced. “Wish he’d succeeded in taking care of Schaefer.”

“Don’t worry,” McMillian said, a harsh smile tugging at his mouth. “Arrogant dumbass is planning to represent himself this time around. I’ll bury him.”

Botine quirked an eyebrow at Tick. “Any idea where we’d find Beau Ingler this time of day on a Sunday?”

“Yeah.” Tick tugged a hand through his hair. “Same place I’d be if it weren’t for that mess with Schaefer last night. Church.”

She didn’t want to be here. Autry tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. If Madeline’s expression was anything to judge by, church was the last place she wanted to be right now too. They’d come at their mother’s request, but the curious and sympathetic glances made Autry want to scream.

Madeline leaned a shoulder against a column, her posture indifferent. “You did it again.”

Autry dragged her gaze away from her mother, accepting condolences from a group of ladies her age. “Did what?”

“Let Mama guilt you into being here.”

Autry’s brief laugh was a disbelieving puff of sound. “And what’s your excuse?”

“I knew better than to try and get out of it.” Madeline traced the edge of the church’s brick porch with the toe of her shoe. “But I wasn’t just released from the hospital.”

“You know what Mama’s like when she gets on a tear.” Autry shrugged. “And it’s only an hour. It made her happy and it didn’t kill me.”

Madeline straightened. “Well, well, wonder what that’s all about.”

“What?” Autry followed Madeline’s gaze and frowned. Two unmarked units pulled to a stop alongside the road, at the end of the church drive. One was a familiar white county car, the other a steel gray. Doors opened, and Will Botine and Tom McMillian stepped from the gray car while Tick and Stanton unfolded themselves from the county unit. All four men bore grim expressions and the small pockets of conversation scattered among the groups on the church lawn died as they moved forward.

Autry watched Stanton, her heart lifting and falling at the sight of him. Focused, he didn’t glance her way and she drank in the details of his appearance—his hair a little tousled, his eyes heavy, his face tired and drawn. Her throat tightened and a desire to comfort swept through her. He’d been through so much lately.

Guilt pricked at her. He’d offered her comfort and his strength, and she’d given him nothing in return. She’d pushed him away.

The men stopped at a small group a few feet away, Tom McMillian apparently doing the talking. Autry’s gaze swept over the gathering, her breath strangling in her throat. Beau Ingler stood with his wife and daughter, his arm in a sling, and a bandage still covering the stitches he’d received at his hairline after being pulled from the courthouse rubble. He didn’t speak, merely glared at Stanton and Tick while McMillian talked. A muscle flicked in his cheek. Malevolence gleamed in his eyes.

McMillian motioned toward the cars, and Beau tensed further but nodded. Bending his head, he spoke to his wife and disentangled himself from her hold. Autry’s pulse pounded in her throat. What on earth?

But deep inside, she knew.

Head high, Beau followed McMillian up the drive, flanked by the three law enforcement officers. His wife’s face crumpled and she turned away, into comforting arms. Autry sucked in a deep breath. Lenora Calvert’s arms. Autry’s gaze darted to the men’s retreating backs. Stanton and Tick, their bearing erect, proud, despite the tension in their shoulders, followed behind Beau.

Autry’s eyes stung. Stanton, keeping his promise to find the person who’d killed their daughter and her father. Tick, performing his duty for the community he loved. Neither of them flinching from what had to be done.

Neither of them running away.

She swallowed. “Madeline,” she whispered, “I can’t go to Jacksonville with you.”

Her face set in grim lines, Madeline looked at her. “Why not?”

Autry watched Stanton slide behind the wheel of the county unit. “Because whether I’m an attorney or not, this is where I belong.”

And if you’re so concerned, why did you insist I come over here after insisting I go to church?

She left the question unsaid. Sometimes, silence was the way to go.

Her mama stood on the steps, fretting with the hem of her sweater. “I just worry, is all.”

Eyeing the lines of grief on her mama’s face, Autry sighed and went back to hug her. “Don’t.” She softened her voice. “I’m going straight home, and I’ll call when I get there. Okay?”

“All right.” Her mother’s arms tightened around Autry’s neck. “I love you, sweetheart. Be careful.”

“I will.” Autry disentangled herself. With a wave, she slid behind the steering wheel. She backed down the drive and turned onto the road. Relief washed over her as her mother’s home shrank into the distance and she smothered a spurt of guilt at the emotion. Maybe Madeline was right. Maybe she needed to focus more on what she needed, less on what her mother wanted.

But she could do that without hurting her mother, without breaking her heart as Madeline had broken their father’s. She clenched the wheel and flexed her fingers. Laying all the blame for that estrangement on Madeline’s shoulders wasn’t fair. Her father had been harsh, unyielding, when Madeline had wanted to make her own way. They’d all been at fault.

How unyielding have you been, Autry?

She slowed for the stop sign at the Flint crossroads. Had she done that with Stanton? Ignored his needs and focused only on what she wanted? She’d needed time to figure out what she wanted. But what had he needed? Comfort in his grief? Support in the face of Ray Lewis’s disparagement? Everything she’d asked for, he’d given her.

In return, she’d given him nothing.

Shame flushed through her. Her face hot, she flipped on the air conditioning with one hand and steered into a right-hand turn with the other. She’d been so unsure of his feelings, had wanted a declaration of love, and he’d given her one, by respecting her wishes, her choices in terms of their relationship. His actions talked loud and clear. She was the one putting out mixed signals.

He deserved better, deserved
more
from her.

She swooped around the double S-curve and fumbled for her cell phone. They needed to talk. Her signal was weak, but she punched his speed dial number. After only one ring, his voice mail picked up.

Frustration flowed through her. More than likely, he’d turned his phone off if he was involved in an interrogation. Or he’d let the battery die, which he was wont to do.

At the tone, she swallowed hard. “Stanton? It’s Autry. I really need to talk to you. I’m on my way home. If you have time, would you stop by later?” She paused, feeling awkward and tongue-tied. “Please? It’s important.”

She ended the call and tossed the phone on the passenger seat. The car sputtered and the engine revved up as if idled too high. Frowning, she glanced at the gauges. A half-tank of gas. Temperature normal.

It faltered again as she slowed to turn left on the access road cut-through. Her oil light flashed, along with the check-engine indicator, and she groaned. “Just make it home. Three miles, okay. Four at the most.”

For a moment she thought it would die completely at the stop sign for the Highway 19 intersection, but the little car chugged roughly on, smoothing out a little as she neared town. By the time she reached her own driveway, the warning lights had gone off and the engine ran normally.

Weird.

She scanned the driveway and yard before sliding out of the car and hurrying to the back door. She’d shower and take a nap while she waited for him.

As reliable as he was, she had no doubt he’d come by.

Stanton leaned a shoulder on the wall, the concrete block cool even through his shirt, and stared through the two-way mirror.

Hands folded before him, gaze fixed on his fingers, Beau Ingler sat at the table, Botine and McMillian across from him. The man’s expression rarely changed, and he said little.

He wasn’t denying it.

He wasn’t asking for a lawyer, wasn’t adding information.

But he wasn’t denying it, and with each second, Stanton’s certainty that this was the man who’d killed his daughter deepened.

A cold rage licked through him, seeking a place to dig in and take hold.

“You can’t do it, Stan.” Tick rested his hands on the thin ledge below the viewing glass. His gaze rested steadily on Ingler’s face.

“Can’t do what?” Stanton focused on the conversation as a way to keep the fury from eating him alive. This…
bastard
had taken Claire from them, almost killed Autry, had killed so many others. He’d destroyed too many lives to count.

“Let that anger have you.” Tick jerked his chin toward the room beyond. “That’s what he did. That kind of anger is just a short step away from evil, and once you let it have a foothold, it’s too easy to let it take over everything.”

“He killed my daughter, Tick.”

“I know. You want to tear him apart and I get that.” Tick’s grip tightened on the window ledge. “But you don’t have to let him have any more of your life. That’s the mistake he made. He let Schaefer, let his anger at us, have his entire freakin’ life. You’re stronger than that.”

“Yeah.” On the other side of the glass, Botine leaned forward with another question. Again, Ingler didn’t react. Stanton stared harder. How could the son of a bitch be so cold? Didn’t it bother him at all, what he’d done?

No. Tick was right—somehow, the anger and need for vengeance had destroyed the man’s conscience, his soul.

And damn if Stanton would let him have anything else of his.

He’d lost Claire and Autry already.

That was more than enough to lose.

“Hey.” Tick tagged his arm. “Weren’t you supposed to pick up the boys?”

Shit
.

“Yeah.” Stanton looked down to check the display on his cell phone, remembering too late he’d left it on the kitchen counter, plugged in. “What time is it?”

“About one-thirty.” Tick tilted his head toward the door. “Use the phone at the front desk, call Renee, then get out of here. You need to be with them more than you need to be here, probably.” He cast a dark glance at Ingler’s stony face. “Son of a bitch isn’t going to talk.”

“Probably not.” Stanton took one last look at Ingler. Yeah. Bastard had taken enough. Stanton wouldn’t give him the time with his sons either. He slapped Tick’s shoulder. “Let me know what happens.”

“Will do.” One corner of Tick’s mouth quirked up in a crooked grin. “Now get out of here.”

Stanton unlocked the back door, and the boys spilled into the house, scattering backpacks, iPods and jackets in the kitchen. Jostling each other amid good-natured ribbing, they went straight for the refrigerator.

A smile tugged at Stanton’s mouth. He was glad they were with him, dispelling the house’s morose silence and some of his own loneliness. Dropping his keys on the counter, he tried to shrug off the melancholy blanketing him. Schaefer was in custody again, they had a valid suspect in the bombing with an arrest pending and he should be pleased. Cases closed.

But he didn’t have Autry. That colored everything.

“Dad, there’s nothing here to eat.” Hadden peered into the pantry.

John Logan popped the lid from the milk and wrinkled his nose. “Oh man, that’s sour.”

Stanton chuckled. “We’ll order pizza tonight, all right?”

The boys exchanged a look and dove for the drawer by the phone, where he kept the takeout menus. He eyed their dark heads, bent over the menu, and affection pulled at him. Part of him wished he didn’t have to return them to Renee after the funeral tomorrow. Since losing Claire, he’d felt a desperate urge to get to know them better, to make amends for prior neglect. He’d talk to Renee tomorrow, talk to the boys, see if he couldn’t increase his visitation time with them.

“Pineapple and banana peppers,” John Logan said.

Hadden glanced at him with an incredulous expression. “You’re whacked. Pepperoni and onions.”

Stanton rolled his eyes. “Order two.”

John Logan looked at him over his shoulder. “Then what are you going to eat?”

Laughing, Stanton pulled his cell phone from its charger, where he’d forgotten it. “Fine. Order three. One with all meat.”

The phone’s screen glowed to life. New voice mail. “Guys, I’ll be right back.” He stepped over John Logan’s backpack and exited the door to the deck, phone at his ear.

“Stanton? It’s Autry…” Her voice flowed over him, and his heart stuttered. She wanted to talk to him. Hope flared in his chest.

When you make up your mind, you know where to find me.

Had she? Did she want him back?

Stanton folded the phone and clipped it to his belt. He tugged his wallet free and returned to the kitchen. It was empty, and he followed the sounds of male enthusiasm to the living room and found the boys camped in front of a football game.

“Hey guys, I’ve got to run over to Autry’s for a while.”

His sons exchanged a knowing look. Ignoring it, Stanton extended a hundred to Hadden. “That’s for pizza. If you two can stay out of trouble while I’m gone, you can split the difference.”

The boys grinned. Hadden lifted an eyebrow. “You’re bribing us?”

“Yeah. Is it going to work?”

“You gonna make this a regular thing?”

“No. One time only. I’ve got my cell and I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

A smile flirted around Hadden’s mouth. “Take your time, Dad. We’ll be fine.”

Autry tugged on a camisole over her pajama pants. Her abdomen ached around the still-healing incision there. She closed her eyes on a burning wave of tears. Hours had passed. Stanton hadn’t called. Hadn’t come by.

Had she left it too late?

A knock at the back door stopped her heart, then sent it racing. With a last glance in the mirror, she hurried through to the kitchen. Beyond the glass in the door, she could see Stanton on the stoop, his back to her. The porch light glinted off his dark hair. A frisson of nervousness moved over her skin.

Eyes closed on a swift prayer, she stepped forward and opened the door.

He spun, hungry gaze roving over her. They stared at each other, and she took in the strain tightening his face, the tension in his shoulders, the fire leaping to life in his eyes. The weight in her chest lightened.

She reached for him, pulled him into the house, into her, and lifted her mouth to his. He tasted of coffee and warmth, his lips moving over hers in a light caress before his arms closed around her and crushed her to him. The kiss deepened, full of yearning and discovery.

Autry wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed against him. Sweet certainty washed through her. This,
this
, was what she needed—this man, by her side, in her life.

Stanton pulled his mouth from hers, kissing her temple. His hands roamed over her back, down her sides, up her arms, as though he couldn’t get enough of touching her. “God, I love you, Autry. I was such a damn fool where you were concerned.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She stroked her fingers along the strong line of his jaw. “Now matters. And I wasn’t too smart, myself.”

He smiled, some of the stress leaving his face. The fine lines by his eyes crinkled. “Does this mean you made up your mind about me?”

She traced his mouth, touched the point of his chin. “I love you.”

His lashes dipped, and he swallowed, throat working. “I don’t deserve that from you. I failed you in so many ways—”

“No.” She laid a finger over his mouth and his lips moved in a tender kiss against her skin. “You did everything I asked, everything I wanted, and I was too blind to see it.” She tiptoed up to kiss him again. “I want another chance, Stanton. I want us to try again, to make it work this time.”

His eyes opened, the hazel depths golden and fiery with a brightness she’d not seen there before. “To make it forever.”

She nodded, a sweet ache in her throat. He pulled her close again, arms firm around her, his chin resting on her hair. Autry laid her hands on his back, fine tremors racing along his muscles beneath her palms. Peace settled in her.

They stood, holding each other, for long moments. Finally, Autry sighed. “Stanton?”

“Hmm?” Pure contentment lingered in his voice.

“I still don’t know what I want.”

He stepped back, confusion darkening his eyes. “What? You just said—”

“I mean professionally.” She smiled and curved her hand along his jaw. “I know I belong here, but I’m not going back to criminal defense.”

“Take your time.” He turned his mouth into her palm and murmured the words, lips moving against her skin, sending tingles racing up her arm. “Whatever you want to do is fine with me, as long as we’re together.”

He tightened his embrace, rocking them in a slight side-to-side motion. Autry drank in the soothing sensation of being this close to him, this quiet, this connected.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered against his chest and squeaked when his arms tightened further.