Emily parked in the driveway of her parents’ home and got out. She was just tired. Tired and overreacting. Tomorrow she would figure out where she went from here. Her father’s situation with Fairgate had to be top priority. Tonight, she was just too mentally exhausted.
If she hadn’t been so caught up in her thoughts she might have paid more attention, might have noticed the car parked at the curb and been able to prepare, but she hadn’t.
She walked into the house and found her parents waiting for her. With her parents were Heather’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Baker. All four looked at Emily with that samedeeply troubledexpression.
“Emily,” her father said, “we need to talk.”
18
6:15 p.m.
Clint picked up the pieces of the porcelain trinket his mother had cherished. His chest felt ready to explode. Damned cowards. They should have taken up their beef directly with him. Doing this, he thought as he surveyed the carnage, was not right—not fair. But since when had his life been fair? The magnitude of emotions he hadn’t been able to suppress all channeled into one—fury.
Someone would pay for this.
“I’ll take these to a fellow I know who might be able to reconstruct them for you.”
Clint glanced at Ray, resisted the impulse to lash out at him. The man was only trying to help. He’d worked diligently to gather the torn pieces of photographs into several plastic bags. The knowledge that Clint should be grateful didn’t alleviate the rage quaking inside him. He placed the remnants of shattered porcelain on the mantel. He had to get out of here.
He strode out onto the porch, sucked in as much air as his cramped chest would accommodate. Emotion burned in his eyes and he closed them tight. What the hell had he been thinking, coming back here? He couldn’t make these people see how wrong they had been. Ray had warned him that digging around in the past wouldn’t help. Maybe he’d been right.
But how could Clint go on with his life without setting the record straight? He’d paid big-time for someone else’s crime; he could live with that. His mother had gone to her grave with this ugliness hanging over her head. She’d called herself a failure. Had told Clint over and over that this wasn’t his fault ... it was hers.
Thathe couldn’t live with.
Goddamn it!He clenched his fists at his sides, and it was all he could do to restrain the desire to get in his car and drive straight to Troy Baker’s house. Then Keith Turner’s. Then, one by one, to each of their friends’ homes.
Ray joined him on the porch, but Clint refused to look at him. Clint just wanted the man to go. He didn’t want to talk right now. He didn’t even want to think. What he really wanted, considering pounding heads was not a viable option, was to get drunker than hell and escape this whole shitty reality.
But that would only shatter his control and right now control was everything.
“Emily didn’t have anything to do with this, Clint,” Ray urged. “I hope you believe that. She’s just doing the only thing she can to assuage the hurt driving her. She doesn’t mean any real harm.”
Clint laughed out loud. Like hell she didn’t mean any harm. She’d made her intentions abundantly clear. She wanted him back in Holman or dead, whichever came first.
“That’s the one thing,” Clint countered, “that’s perfectly clear in all this.” He turned to Ray, looked him dead in the eye. “I know exactly what Emily Wallace wants from me.”
19
9:45 p.m.
Justine finished her online yoga session, turned off her device, and headed for the shower. Tonight she’d selected the extended session, needing the extra relaxation benefits. This had been one hell of a week, and it was only hump day.
The squad was coming along nicely, but a couple of the girls still needed to understand who was boss. Justine Mallory did not put up with any back talk or any breaking of the rules from her girls.
Slipping off her formfitting suit, she considered her body in the mirror that spanned floor to ceiling and half the length of one wall. She liked watching herself work out. A smile tugged at her lips, then faded. It wouldn’t be long now until things would start to go drastically downhill. She worked out every day, sometimes twice, but no one got to keep their good looks and firm body forever. At least not naturally, and she had no desire to deal with the surgical lines ofwork.
None for her. She would just have to increase her already rigorous regimen. And then what?
She stared at her face. Not so bad for a woman approaching forty. The very best skin treatments and, most important, sunscreen, along with good genes, had ensured a minimal amount of lines. She turned her head left, then right, assessed any changes. But every year the new students arrived looking even younger. Pretty soon she’d be just anotherold lady schoolteacher. She couldn’t live with that. That was the very reason she had to plan better for her future. She needed long-term security. There was only one man in this town who could give her that, but the timing had to be just right.
Pushing aside the troubling thoughts, she treated herself to a long, leisurely shower. She’d no more stepped out onto the fuzzy bath mat when pounding thundered from her front door. She loathed unexpected company, and since she had no plans for the evening, whoever was at her door hadn’t been invited.
“The people in this town,” she muttered as she slipped on her robe and tucked her hair up out of the way. They simply didn’t have any manners, much less class.
Annoyed that her routine had been disrupted, she stamped into the living room. With her wet hair twisted in a claw clip and wearing no makeup, it would take an absolute emergency for her to allow anyone to see her like this. She checked the security peephole in her door and sighed, as much from relief as frustration.
She gave the lock a twist and opened up. “Misty, what’re you doing here at this hour?”
