“Close, Carson.” He exhaled the air that had trapped in his lungs. “Damned close.”
Careful to monitor both ways first, he darted across the street. By the time he reached the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel of his BMW, his head was spinning with the work he was behind on already ... and he hadn’t even gotten to the office.
Traffic was a bitch at this hour. The few blocks he needed to drive were congested with morning commuters. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Dammit. Dammit. He was an idiot. A complete and utter idiot.
He banged the steering wheel with his fist as he parked in the lower-level garage of the Criminal Justice Center.
Fool.
If Luttrell had set him up ... if there were pictures ...
Fury thundered inside Carson. It wouldn’t be easy, but he would find a way to get even with hisfriend.
Once inside, Carson reached deep for calm, putting Luttrell and the near miss with the black sedan out of his mind. He nodded to the deputy on duty as he approached the line for the security checkpoint. Forty-five minutes ago there wouldn’t have been a line.
But he was late.
For the first time in his adult life ... the man who never missed a deadline or meeting, who was always on time for court, was officially late. He flashed his ID and opened his briefcase for the deputy.
“Running a little behind this morning, aren’t we, Mr. Tanner?”
Carson managed a tight smile. “Traffic was murder.”
The bottom of his feet tingled at the idea that he could be on his way to the ER or the morgue had his reflexes failed him. Too bad his instincts hadn’t fared better last night. And if he was lucky, no one would ever know just how temporarily stupid he had gone.
The deputy shot him a wink. “Yeah, it can be that way some days.”
Carson grabbed his briefcase and headed for the bank of elevators. There was no way anyone could know why he was late, yet it felt as if everyone he encountered did. Felt as if the whole world knew that Carson Tanner had finally screwed up, after so many years on the straight and narrow. He’d held it together all this time just to come undone as he sat poised to achieve the first major milestone of his career—running for Jefferson County DA. Not to mention after finally learning the truth.
Ask yourself if you’ll ever really know what happened.
Stokes was on his way to Holman prison. The investigation into the murder of Carson’s family was closed. Maybe there were a few details he would never know, but he couldn’t change that. No more than he could retract last night.
He pushed both out of his head and stepped off the elevator onto the fourth floor.
Time to put it all behind him.
“Good morning, Anita.” He passed the receptionist’s desk, grabbing his messages as he went.
Anita Taggart smiled at him as she answered a phone call with the practiced greeting, “Good morning, District Attorney’s Office.”
The familiar sounds and environment set Carson at ease. He exchanged the usual pleasantries with colleagues as he made the journey to his office on the west end of the building. The most prized location on the floor besides Wainwright’s suite of offices.
This was who he was.
This was what he did.
He placed his briefcase on his desk and shuffled through the messages. None were urgent. He would return most that afternoon when he’d donesome serious catching up. For now, he wanted to review the files in his briefcase. The ones he should have reviewed last night.
Setting the messages aside, he took a mental step back. The truth was, he hadn’t had sex in six months. If he really looked long and hard at the situation, he would have to confess that he’d likely needed to get the pent-up frustration out of his system. Just as Luttrell had suggested.
Carson shook his head. Seemed as good a way as any to assuage his conscience. But he would be damned if he would give Luttrell any credit for accurately assessing his needs.
Recharged with determination, Carson lifted the files from his briefcase—then hesitated. There was one thing he needed to do first. His attention shifted to the left where in the offices of his colleagues there would be a wall of pride. But Carson had opted for a different use of that valuable space. A whiteboard stretched from floor to ceiling and corner to corner. He kept a running timeline on his open cases on half the expanse, while the other half was covered with the details of the Stokes case.
Carson stared at the painstakingly collected facts related to his slain family. A sour taste churned in his stomach, resurrecting the burn of the rum he wished he hadn’t drunk last night. He’d kept up with every piece of evidence, every known or suspected detail, clipped and saved every newspaper article from fifteen years ago. Sounded morbid but he had held one goal firmly in front of him. Find the truth.
The pictures of his sister ... his father ... and his mother stared at him from amid the data he’d collected. Carson had looked at those pictures a thousand times. Made the same promise each time. Begged for forgiveness.
