Traceless (22 page)

"I need to speak with you, Em."

The defeat in his voice and in his eyes, now that she looked, made her desperate to fix this whole mess somehow.

"Come in." She stepped back, to give him room to pass, then closed the door. That he carried her overnight bag registered. Was he bringing her things to her so she wouldn't have a reason to come back home?

"I thought you might need these." He set the bag on the chair by the window.

She managed a strained up-and-down motion of her head. "Thank you."

He was dressed for church, with his navy trousers and crisp white shirt and the striped tie her mother had most certainly selected. Ed Wallace could not coordinate colors to save his soul.

"Ray called me this morning and told me what happened last night."

Emily winced inwardly. After Troy ranting at her right in their own front yard, hearing more of the same from Ray had to be hard to take. She was doing it again. Making her family miserable.

Her father gestured helplessly as if he wasn't sure how to proceed. "Between you going into that burning house and what Ray told me, your mother and I have—"

"Dad," she stopped him, "I'm really sorry—"

He put his hand on her arm to quiet her. "I need to finish this. I've put it off too long in hopes of sparing you the fresh hurt."

The anguish on his face made her want to weep for all the damage she'd done. She was certain whatever her father had done he'd only done to protect her.

"It was Homer Jenkins," he began. "He was the one who recommended Fairgate to me."

The anticipation she'd expected to feel when her father finally gave her the truth was glaringly absent. She felt cold and afraid. She wanted to ask her father to sit down, but she didn't dare move or speak for fear of somehow altering the momentum of the moment.

"I had gotten into trouble that year," he went on, his eyes distant as if he were reliving those days ... mentally filtering through the events that had led up to his decision. "We would have lost everything. Going to Fairgate was my only option. So I took Homer's advice."

A divorced, good-hearted man of about fifty at the time, Homer Jenkins had been the neighbor on Emily's side of the house on Ivy Lane. It was his car that Clint Austin had insisted he'd been attempting to steal that night.

Emily hated that her father had to relive that awful time ... but she had to know. This terrible secret had been buried too long.

"Fairgate lent me the money. At the time I was so glad, I didn't consider how a man like him might want his repayment." Her father's white-clad shoulders lifted and fell listlessly. "It only mattered that we could hang on to our home for a while longer.

"When it was time to repay him, the debt was four times what I had borrowed. I couldn't pay all of it... not even after months of unparalleled investment returns. I simply didn't have it. I went to him... that
day
..."

Emily felt herself wilting, unsure she could hold up beneath the weight of guilt growing heavier as what Sid Fairgate had told her was corroborated. What had they done?

"I had half the money. Fairgate took it, told me what he would do if he didn't get the other half in one week." Her father stared at the floor a long, pulse-pounding moment. "One of his thugs called him to the door of his office, said it wouldn't wait. I didn't move. I was too afraid. I knew what Fairgate and his men were capable of. So I sat there. He went to the door behind me and had a conversation."

Emily braced for what came next, unsure she could bear to hear him say the words.

"I didn't see any of it," he said, his eyes urgent now, needing her to understand. "I didn't dare turn around, but I heard the exchange between him and Austin." His voice wavered. "I heard him tell Austin to take Homer's car that night."

She wanted to say something to comfort her father, but she couldn't find the words.

"After the... murder... I was so devastated I didn't even think of the conversation. Fairgate and my problems with him were the farthest things from my mind. Once the police were gone that night, he sent for me. Two of his thugs came to the house while you and your mother were at the hospital. I had been about to go there myself. Your grandparents had picked up your brother." The fleeting look he cast at Emily confirmed just how much he'd suffered with the weight of this secret.

"They took me to Fairgate and he made me an offer I couldn't refuse." He drew in a heavy breath. "He gave me back the money I'd paid him already, minus half of the original loan, and said I didn't owe him anything else. I knew then he was up to something no good. He didn't want to be dragged into the investigation. Didn't want the police nosing around in his business practices. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut about what I'd heard."

It was true. Every word. Her heart dropped into her stomach and quivered uselessly, leaving her aching all over.

Edward Wallace squared his shoulders and met what he no doubt saw in her gaze with a challenge in his own. "I refused."

Hope welled, tightened in her chest.

"I told him that he could forget it. I wasn't about to break the law for him. And then he explained how things were going to be. I would keep my mouth shut and in return not only would the remainder of my debt be dismissed, but I wouldn't have to bury my family."

Horror gripped Emily's throat, but the words burst free: "He threatened to kill us?"

"If I said a word," her father confirmed, needing her to see what he'd been up against, the desperation spelled out across his face, "he said you would be the first to die. Then James, then your mother. What was I supposed to do?"

Tears glittered in his eyes. "I told myself it wasn't such a terrible thing. Just because Austin told the truth about his reason for being next door didn't mean he was innocent of the charge against him." His eyes sought agreement from Emily's, if not forgiveness. "This doesn't mean he was innocent, Em."

But it did.

When she couldn't confirm his assertion, he looked away.

The realization that she and her father had sent an innocent man to prison changed something elemental inside her.

"There was nothing else I could do, Em. You have to know that. I've lived with this guilt...," his voice caught, "...but I had to believe I did the right thing... It was the only way to live with what I'd done."

She did know. Somehow she did.

"Daddy." She laid her hand on his sleeve, felt the familiar freshness of starched cotton. "I know you did what you had to do. Now I have to do the same."

"I'm worried about your safety, honey. Surely if Austin had been innocent the police would have figured that out. But I'll do what I should have done ten years ago; you have my word on that. Just don't expect it to change anything."

Oh, but it did. It changed everything.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

9:45 a.m.

Clint sat down with his Styrofoam cup of coffee and considered his limited options for breakfast. Doughnut or candy bar. He'd made a trip to the Sack&Go for something to fill his gut, but he hadn't spent much time on choices since folks were coming through on their way to church. He didn't want to endure the way they looked at him. He'd thought he could tolerate it, that nothing could touch him after what he'd been through at Holman, but he'd been wrong.

They could touch him, just like Ray said.

Clint swallowed a slug of coffee and banished the thoughts. He'd get through this. Giving up now was out of the question.

Moving on to the case files would put him on the right track.
Someone
was definitely getting nervous. Clint had always known that Heather had been the intended victim. He'd watched Emily too closely not to have been aware of any threat to her. He'd wanted her something fierce. Now he'd caused her to be hurt... again.

All those years locked in a cell Clint had lived for this opportunity.

The determined fury that usually zeroed in on Emily Wallace wouldn't stay focused on her. If he could just get her to look past his guilt, to think about the days and weeks before Heather's murder, she had to know who had it in for her best friend. Who had Heather been at odds with at the time? Who was jealous of her or would have wanted her out of the way?

There had to have been clues leading up to what happened. The way she had been murdered spoke of revenge ... jealousy, not a mere random act. That was the very detail the DA had used against Clint.

Only it hadn't been him.

He glanced around the barn. His mother had kept his car out here, to protect it from the elements. And the old truck. He couldn't believe that old pickup was still out here. A 1964 light green Ford, a little banged up and seriously faded. He'd learned to drive in that old thing. The memory of his mother's patience made him ache with sadness. He'd lost her house ... all her things. Now this old barn was all he had left in the way of a roof over his head. All he had left of her.

He'd gone to Wal-Mart and gotten a couple of sleeping bags. There wasn't any electricity, so lights and cooking were out unless he wanted to go the campfire route. He'd had enough smoke and fire for a while.

But there had been one unexpected turn of events. An insurance representative had dropped by on his way to church this morning and told Clint that his house was covered and temporary housing would be provided within forty-eight hours. His mother had set up automatic payments for the insurance and the taxes from her bank account. Clint hadn't even realized she had an active bank account. He doubted there was much, if any, money left. He'd have to look into that in a few days. Mainly he was just astounded that the guy from the insurance company would even bother to let him know. Maybe there were still a few good folks left. He damn sure hadn't expected to find any in this town.

The sound of a car door closing put him on alert. He set his coffee aside and stood. Probably Ray, dropping by to see if he needed anything or maybe to arrest him for beating the hell out of Baker and Medford last night.

Not Ray.

The car parked in Clint's driveway, next to the remains of his mother's house, was Emily's.

What was she doing here? The idea that she wasn't at church with her folks surprised him. She'd always gone to church before, good little girl that she was. Too good for him.

She got out of her car and looked around; the uncertainty in her movements made him want to stay in the shadows of the barn and just watch. He doubted she would come out here. She would look around the yard, take a few steps from the driveway, maybe call his name, and then she'd leave.

If he was smart, he'd let that course play out.

Evidently he wasn't so smart. He stepped out of the shadows, let her see him. Some part of him was drawn to her that way, always had been.

Her gaze collided with his and he felt that connection as surely as if he'd grabbed hold of a live wire. Clint steeled himself. Judging by the fragile expression on her face, he wasn't sure he could deal with whatever she had to say.

Even he had his limits, or so he'd learned recently.

"I need to ask you a question."

No
hello
, no
good morning
, just straight to the point. The stupid side of his brain that had deep down hoped she'd come to tell him that she'd been wrong all along sent a ripple of disappointment through him.

Clint called upon every ounce of the hard, bitter strength he'd found doing ten years in prison. "So ask." His voice was sharp and challenging. He couldn't afford to feel these crazy emotions.

"Will you tell me the whole truth about what happened that night? Don't leave anything out."

She had to be kidding. "What's the point?" That she would even ask annoyed him unreasonably.

"I need to know."

The pain in her eyes told him she wasn't playing.

He gestured to the interior of the barn behind him. "You'll want to sit down for this."

She didn't argue, just followed him into the shadows of the barn and took the seat he offered. The notion that he'd slept right where she was sitting distracted him briefly.

He couldn't sit and talk about that night. So he stood, rolled his rigid shoulders to relax them, and decided the abbreviated version was the best route to take. "Fairgate told me to take Jenkins' car for leverage. I waited until dark, dressed to fit in, and went to do my job." He pressed her with a look that showed he didn't care if she judged him. "It was what I did, and I did it well."

She nodded. "I understand."

A flare of surprise that she would admit as much caught him off guard. He looked away from her. "I heard screaming from your house and I did what I had to do."
Biggest mistake of my fucking life
. "I picked the lock on the front door and rushed through the house until I found your room. I knew which end of the house it was on, so I—"

"How did you know?"

He blinked, startled again at her reaction. "What do you mean?"

"How could you be sure about where my room was?"

The way his mouth was dehydrating forced him to lick his lips. She watched the movement and wet her own. That his entire body reacted didn't help his ability to focus here.

"I'd driven by your house a thousand times." He shrugged. Sounded mental. So what?

"Why?"

His pulse started to hammer, making it hard to catch his breath. "Because I was stupid," he snapped, hoping to clear his head. "I wanted to get a glimpse of you." He exhaled a lungful of frustration. "I saw you and Heather climbing out that window one night." The memories were as vivid in his mind as the night he'd watched them happen. Summertime, hot like now. He would never forget the way Emily had looked in those pink shorts and tank top. "The two of you sneaked to the next block and met up with more friends. I followed you to the theater."

He'd kissed her that night. He'd been a class A jerk afterward. As tough as he was, she had been the one girl who'd scared him to death.

She stood. He barely resisted the impulse to back away when she came closer. Wariness joined the curiosity and rising tension. He didn't know what was on her mind, but he was sure it wouldn't be good for him. Nothing ever ended well for him that involved her no matter how badly he wanted it to.

"You knew where my room was, so you went there."

This had gone far enough. "You know what happened next."

"She was... bleeding; you... said you tried to help."

He jerked his head in confirmation. "I tried to help. She was..." he swallowed again, but that tight feeling in his throat wasn't going away, "...she was trying to speak. The words were so broken and weak... barely a whisper. I needed to stop the bleeding, but I couldn't."

"The window was open when you came into the room?"

He shrugged. "I don't know if it was open, but it was damn sure unlocked, because you came in that way. Did you open it or was it already open?"

Emily didn't have to think about her answer. She hadn't opened the window. It had already been wide open.

On some level she'd known that was wrong. Dear God, she'd made a terrible mistake. She fought back the emotions rising inside her so swiftly she could scarcely think.

Keep going
.
Get the whole story
. "Why did you pick the lock on the front door?" she asked, that point suddenly poking at her. If he'd kicked the door in, his story would have been much more credible. As it was, there had been no sign of breaking and entering other than the probability that he'd entered through her unlocked bedroom window.

He looked at her funny. Even with so little light here in the barn, his every expression was stark and vivid. "Have you ever tried to kick in a steel door?"

Steel?
"My front door was steel?" She just assumed it was wood.

He nodded. "So are a lot of residential exterior doors. I learned to pick locks. I could do it in seconds."

"Did you close the door when you came in?" He had to have; otherwise Principal Call wouldn't have still been trying to open it when the police arrived.

"I don't think so. I picked the lock and rushed in. I guess it could have closed behind me. I don't know."

There had to be something they'd both missed. "You didn't see anyone else or hear anything?" Whoever had done this couldn't have gotten out of the room more than a few moments before Clint came in. Maybe the killer had hidden in Emily's house and then slipped out the door after Clint came in. The killer could have closed the door... but would he have taken the time to lock it? Blood had been trampled all through the house by the cops and the half a dozen other people who had come into her house that night. The crime scene had been a mess. Mishandled, just like Cathy suggested. The whole case had been mishandled.

Fury streaked across Clint's face... the face that only moments before was twisted with agony. "You know damn well I didn't see anyone else. You sat in that goddamn courtroom every day. You've heard all this!"

She closed her eyes and fought the urge to cry. He was right. "That was before," she said, forcing her eyes open to meet his, "before I knew you were telling the truth."

She didn't know how she managed to maintain eye contact when her whole body screamed with its own agony just looking at the desolation and fury smoldering behind six feet of sharp-edged, battle-hardened man.

"My father," she went on haltingly, "he heard Sylvester Fairgate give you that order. Fairgate threatened that if he ever told anyone he would—"

Clint held up his hand for her to stop. "I know the kind of tactics he utilized." His tone was menacing, bitter, his eyes glacial.

She managed a ragged breath. "My father said he would talk to Ray after church today. He wants to do the right thing."

"And this suddenly changes how you feel."

That Clint snarled the words at her shouldn't have surprised her, but it did. She hadn't expected his appreciation or even his understanding. Her father's refusal to risk his own family to back up Clint's alibi had cost him ten years—no, eleven years, counting the investigation and trial. He wasn't going to just say,
Thanks and let's forget the whole thing ever happened
.

"I... yes, it does," she admitted. "I understand that if you told the truth about that, you were probably telling the truth about the rest." Facing him this way with the rage building in his eyes was nearly more than she could handle, but she owed him that much. "Maybe you were right when you said I needed someone to blame besides myself." That she had been that selfish, that much of a coward, deeply pained her. More so than she could adequately articulate.

He took another step closer, putting his large body directly in her personal space... mere inches from her.

"Do you have any idea what they did to me in there?"

The words were low, guttural... animalistic. She should have been afraid... she should have run for her life, but she couldn't move.

"I'm sorry." She was. God, she was.

"The only way to survive was to learn not to feel."

She wanted to back up, to put some distance between them. She couldn't. Her entire focus was on his face. This close she could distinguish every detail. The scar was more prominent, a shade or two lighter than his skin. The years of agony and torture had carved grooves at the corners of his mouth and creased lines around his eyes. And still he was a remarkably handsome man. Gone was the smooth charm, replaced by a raw sexual energy that bordered on dangerous.

"The pain was nothing," he growled, drawing her gaze back to his. The ice blazed now with a white-hot fury that turned those gray eyes pure silver. "Blocking that wasn't so hard."

He grabbed her by the arms and shook her. She pinched her lips together to hold back the cry of fear pressing against her throat. She scolded herself for being afraid. She deserved whatever he did to her. This was her fault... her mistake. A mistake he'd paid dearly for.

"It was the other that killed the cocky guy you used to know."

He didn't have to elaborate... she knew. Dammit. She knew what they did to young guys in a place like that. Especially one as handsome as Clint.

"You had a thing for me back then." He hissed the words, his mouth only centimeters from her temple when she turned away, couldn't bear to look anymore. "No matter how you denied it publicly, you did; I know you did."

"Yes." Why lie? There had been too many lies.

"How do you like me now, Emily?" He seized her chin and forced her to look at him.

Tears crowded behind her eyes, made her feel stupid and helpless. What did she say to that? That even now, with his fingers biting brutally into her flesh, she wanted him to make her feel the way she used to? He wasn't the only one who'd lost the ability to feel.

"You're the one thing," he said with such cruelty that she flinched, "that helped me survive all those years alone in that hellhole."

Her heart shuddered at the realization that he had every reason to hate her, probably wished she were dead for what she'd done. How could she blame him?

"Every single night I told myself I would live another day just to make sure I could come back here and prove that you were wrong. To make all the people who put me there look at what they had done to me."

He didn't understand. She had suffered, but not the way he had. 'Then make me pay," she urged, her voice a pitiful warble when she wanted to sound strong. "But you'll be wasting the effort. My life ended that night the same as Heather's did..." She stared straight into those silver slits of fury. "The same as yours did."

She watched the battle play out on his face. He wanted her to comprehend the pain he had felt, even if it hurt her. But he wanted something else more. The realization took her breath away... awakened years of suppressed hunger. When his gaze dropped to her lips and his breath hitched, she knew for sure. Her whole being felt a kind of relief at the idea that this part she could make right. This was something she could do.

Slowly, knowing he would bolt at any sudden moves, she reached up and touched his face... touched that scar that had marred the stark beauty of it, shivered at the stubble that shadowed the lean hollows of his jaws. He flinched but didn't draw away. She tiptoed but still wasn't tall enough, so she hung her fingers on the back of his neck and pulled his head down. She pressed her lips to his. His did not yield, making her uncertain of herself, but only for a second. She kissed him until his resistance faded and his lips softened just the tiniest bit. She'd been so afraid she wouldn't know how to do this right, but his slow surrender gave her courage.

His arms went around her in a brutal hold. She didn't fight him, no matter that fear had joined the mix of wild sensations whirling inside her. She had earned whatever punishment he chose to levy.

The fingers of one hand delved into her hair, held her head still while his mouth plundered hers. That inkling of fear vanished, gave way to the more forceful, hotter feelings of desire and need.

She wanted Clint Austin.

Maybe on some level she had always wanted him. And maybe her friends were right; maybe she had waited for him. God knew she'd never wanted anyone else... had never even been kissed by another man. Her body melted against his, desperate for the contact.

As if he'd suddenly come to his senses, he set her away. "Go." The single word was ragged with need, torn with uncertainty.

She had stood back and denied her feelings as a foolish young girl; she would not make the same mistake as a grown woman. "No."

Surprise flickered beyond the rage and need. His nostrils flared. As much as she wanted to make him feel again... this wasn't just for him. She'd waited a long time for this. A trickle of uncertainty undermined her determination. What if she did something wrong? What if the novels she'd read and instinct alone weren't enough to guide her?

Not giving herself time for any more second thoughts, she backed up a couple of steps and reached for the buttons of her blouse. This part she knew how to do. Slowly, she released each one, shrugged the fabric free, then let it drop to the ground. The longing that flashed in his eyes stoked hers to a full blaze. She kicked off her sandals, reached behind her, and lowered the zipper of her skirt. It dropped around her ankles and she stepped out of the rumpled ring it made.

She wanted him to look at her exactly this way... as if he could eat her alive. It was all she'd dreamed of at one time. She would listen to Heather's stories about how it was between her and Keith, and Emily would fantasize about Clint doing those same things to her. The thought of his mouth on her skin had made her shiver; it did the same now. She released the front hook of the demibra she wore and allowed it to glide down and off. Only her panties remained.

The tension visibly building in him made her unashamed of her near nakedness, gave her the courage to take a moment to simply admire the man. She liked what she was doing to him. He was breathless, that innate sexual energy humming from his powerful body. She'd been right; he was bigger than before. Those broad shoulders, bare in deference to the muggy heat this morning, had filled out with hard, lean muscle. His stomach looked equally rigid and gorgeously rippled, making her sweat, and she hadn't even touched that part of him yet. The faded jeans clung to the lean lines of his narrow hips and long legs. She looked at his crotch; he was aroused and it showed. That he studied her breasts so conscientiously made her quiver in anticipation, made her hot skin feel too tight.

When he continued to stand perfectly still, she moved toward him. He watched her, his eyes guarded as if he expected a battle. She smiled, unexpectedly thrilled at her power over him. In her mind he'd always been the one with the power. When she stood as close as possible, she inhaled deeply, loving the earthy sweet smell of his damp skin. It was so damned hot in here, but it felt so good.

She walked all the way around him, touched each scar on his back with her fingers first, then with her lips. He shuddered each time her mouth landed against his skin. The salty taste and smooth texture made her hunger for more. Made her body vibrate with need. When she came around in front of him again, the desperation in his eyes was different. It wasn't about the past... it was about now... about her.