Clint didn’t remember the last time he’d laughed at something anyone else said, but the words prompted the strained sound from his throat. “That’s where you’re wrong, Ray. There isn’t a damned thing these people can do that will make me feel anything at all.”
Clint opened the truck’s door and Ray put a hand on his arm, making him hesitate before getting out and sending a new surge of tension through him. He didn’t like being touched, but he let it go this once.
“You have every right to be bitter, Clint. But what the hell good is your freedom if all you’re going to do is wrestle with a past you can’t change?”
Clint didn’t answer. He got out of the truck, didn’t look back or say goodbye as he strode forward. Ray’s well-meaning advice was somethinghe didn’t need. He didn’t need anything or anyone. He wasn’t wasting the effort pretending. He had his own agenda, and nothing or no one was going to get in his way.
He walked up the steps and across the front porch to the door; his hand shook as he unlocked it. Gravel crunched as Ray drove away. The silence settled around Clint and still he hesitated before going in, waited for permission the way he’d been trained—like a dog—to do. That automatic reaction renewed the anger simmering deep inside him. He didn’t need anyone’s permission to enter his own damned house.
He crossed the threshold, elbowed the door closed behind him, and trembled as a flood of memories washed over him. The house still smelled like her. Felt like her. His chest ached. Same old worn-out furnishings. Same framed photos scattered about, glimpses of his history. Such as it was. He’d graduated from high school by the skin of his teeth, but he hadn’t cared. His future had been all mapped out. He’d owned a fast car, had a slick job, women begging for a date with him, and was the envy of the town’s male population. Life had been full of promise.
But that happy-go-lucky arrogance had deserted him hard and fast as he lay face down on a cold concrete floor his first night in prison.
Pushing aside the ugly memories, he walked to the fireplace and picked up the porcelain music box that sat amid the other cheap knickknacks on the mantel. At seventeen he’d gotten his first decent paying job. Sylvester Fairgate had paid Clint fifty bucks to deliver a message to a scumbag who owed him money. That had been the beginning of Clint’s tough-guy reputation and his barely legal career. No one could believe he’d driven to Decatur and waltzed into Frank Dennison’s TV repair shop that fronted a small-time bookie operation and passed along the warning issued by Fairgate.
Lots of balls, not nearly enough brains.
Afterward Clint had gone straight to Treasures Gift Shop and bought the music box. He’d seen his mama stop many times at the big trinket-filled window to admire the porcelain image of a red-haired beauty in a flowing gown playing a baby grand piano. When he’d givenhis mama the present, she’d cried and insisted he take it back. He’d refused. She’d cried some more before finally accepting his gift and thanking him again and again. That silly music box had meant the world to her.
The mistakes he’d made had hurt her. Maybe even worse than those of his no-good, low-down daddy. That bastard had taken off when Clint was four years old. Just another bad luck chapter in the life and times of Clint Austin.
He wandered through the house, feeling restless and wary. If he’d been smart, he would have headed anywhere but here. But no one had ever accused him of being smart.
He pushed open the door to his room and felt a ripple of surprise. His mother had painstakingly put everything back just exactly as it had been before the police had ripped it apart looking for evidence. Evidence they hadn’t found.
Hatred seared him. He’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time. They’d had nothing on him, except bad timing, stupidity, and the testimony of one person.
Emily Wallace.
Jaw clenched, he picked up his senior yearbook, still prominently displayed atop the dresser. He wondered how many times his mother had thumbed through it wishing for happier days. He paused on the page showcasing the varsity cheerleaders. There she was, all smiles alongside her best friend, Heather Baker.
He had thought Emily was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. No matter how many girls he dated, she was the one he fantasized about in bed each night during those final minutes before drifting off to sleep. But she’d been out of his league, a good girl from a well-to-do family.
Long dark hair, big brown eyes. He’d wanted her so badly.
That desire had served as the primary motive behind his actions, according to the district attorney. Clint had been obsessed with Emily and had decided that if he couldn’t have her, no one could. Only it wasn’t Emily who’d been sleeping in her bed that night, and when hehad realized his mistake it had been too late; Heather was mortally wounded. That was the State’s version of what happened, and they had stuck to it all the way to closing arguments. The jury had unanimously agreed.
Clint slammed the yearbook closed and walked out of the room full of pointless memories.
Emily Wallace was the main reason he’d spent the past ten years in hell. She was the reason his mother’s heart had broken, ensuring that he lost the last thing in this world that he cared about.
The whole damned town had been on Emily’s side.
The bitterness twisted like barbed wire in his gut. Someone else had killed Heather Baker. Clint might not be able to prove it, but he knew it ... because it sure as hell hadn’t been him. And maybe, just maybe, if he dug around long and hard enough, stirred the pot until folks got riled up, the real killer would get nervous and bob to the surface.
It didn’t matter how long it took. Clint had nothing but time. Until he had motive to do otherwise, he would focus primarily on the one other person who had been in the room that night.
Shewas the reason he was back.
4
3:15 p.m.
Whatever it took, Emily wanted the bastard back in prison. The sooner the better.
As long as she lived and breathed, she would do all in her power to see thathedid not get away with what he’d done. Evidently, the only way to make sure that happened was to come back to Pine Bluff and get it done. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a vacation which meant she had plenty of time.
She owed it to Heather. Emily would watch him, and she would do whatever necessary to prove he was the one. She would somehow find the necessary evidence or trick him into a confession.
