He sat out on the balcony, listening to Emily singing in the bathroom. She had a really pretty voice—she’d been singing the first time he’d met her, too.
She was out in her driveway all by herself—there was a basketball hoop on the tiny detached garage of her grandfather’s home, and she was practicing her three-pointers, with unerring accuracy. She had a boom box playing in the open garage, and she was singing along with some pop tune that he didn’t recognize.
Four years in jail, locked away from the world, had made everything seem weirdly alien upon his return. Popular TV shows that he didn’t recognize. Top forty hits that he’d completely missed. Sequels were out to blockbuster movies that he hadn’t seen.
And as for pretty girls...
Well, he’d missed out on a lot socially, too.
So he’d stopped short as he’d come up the driveway as she’d sent that basketball through the net with a swish, then did a dance move, a spin that made her long brown hair swirl around her as she sang along with the music—and then stopped as she saw him standing there.
“Sorry,” she said, laughing. “I’m being a little weird!”
He’d had to clear his throat before he could speak. “No, that wasn’t... That was really good.”
“The singing or the basketball?” she asked, her dark brown eyes dancing in a mix of embarrassment and amusement.
“Both?”
“Are you asking or telling me?” she asked, and the look in her eyes was...
It had been forever since a girl had looked at him likethat. Like she liked what she saw—his long hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, the fit of his T-shirt, the muscles in his legs beneath his jeans.
“Telling.” He knew he wasn’t doing any better at hiding the fact that he, too, liked what he saw. Those eyes, that smile, her generous curves... Although, damn, this girl was barely sixteen.
“Do you play?” Now she was looking like she was going to toss him the ball, invite him to a game of one-on-one.
“Not anymore.” He had to shut this shit down. “I’m looking for your grandfather,” he told her. “Is he home?”
“He’s inside,” she said, curiosity now in her eyes. “Do you work for him?”
“No,” Milt said. “I... no. Um... I’ll...” He motioned with his head toward the front of the house, and headed for the door, glancing back to find her watching him walk away.
But then the sound of the basketball bouncing started again, and she was back to singing as he knocked on the door. His heart was in his throat, but now that he’d met her—Emily—he wanted to do this more than ever. He had to do this. But Jesus Christ, it was not going to be fun.
Milt took a deep breath as the door swung open, and there he was. Frank Santana. Shorter than Milt now was, but big. Burly. With a wide, friendly face, and those same dark brown eyes that he’d clearly shared with Emily—and probably his daughter Marina, too.
Marina, who was dead.
“Mr. Santana,” Milt said. “I’m?—”
The older man’s expression changed in a heartbeat, his eyes narrowed and his mouth thinned. “I know exactly who you are,” he whispered through gritted teeth as his hands clenched. “Get the hell off my property.”
“Mr. Santana, you have to sue my father,” Milt said,praying that this man wouldn’t hit him, although knowing that he had every right to. If their roles had been reversed, he'd already have the man down on the ground, his hands around his throat. “You have to take him to court—civil court. You’ll win, I promise you, and Emily will be set?—”
“You keep my granddaughter’s name out of your mouth!” Frank Santana grabbed him then, taking him by the arm and hustling him down the front steps, across the lawn, and onto the sidewalk, on the side of the house away from the driveway where Emily was playing basketball.
He could hear her, still bouncing the ball, still singing, completely unaware of the drama going on out front.
Frank dragged Milt down the sidewalk, farther away from her. “Get the hell out of here!”
“I didn’t kill your daughter!” Milt blurted, which in hindsight was the dead last thing he should’ve said, but he’d only just found out and the truth was still so raw. So unbelievable.
To Frank Santana, too, no doubt, because he slapped Milt then, right across the face. It was teeth-rattling. Brain-jarring. But far less damaging than a punch might’ve been, because it didn’t knock him out.
He could still speak. “My father did,” he told this rightfully angry old man. “Hekilled her!Hewas driving the Jaguar that night—not me! I wasn’t even in LA!”
He’d found the evidence—hard proof of his innocence—in both the video files on his father’s old laptop, and in the massive paper files his lawyer had created in preparation for the trial that had never been held. He’d never gone to trial because his father, the son of a bitch, had urged him to take the DA’s deal and plead guilty.
