But Austin hadn’t killed Emily. And he hadn’t run. He’d stayed right there until the police arrived. Why?
Had he been developing his story even then? Attempting to lend credibility to his alibi for being in the room since he’d been caught? That was what she’d told herself the days and weeks after that night. All through the trial, she’d let the momentum carry her along. Everyone thought he was guilty. There were no other suspects. There were no prints on the murder weapon, a kitchen knife that could have been purchased at any local store that sold household goods. He’d been wearing gloves. There just hadn’t been anything else to believe.
A jury had weighed the evidence, no matter how meager and circumstantial, and had found him guilty.
The story should have ended there.
And, yet, it hadn’t.
A knock on the door of her room hurled her out of the past and into the present ... there was no relief either place. How could she keep living like this?
Another knock.
“Emily?”
She sat up.
Clint Austin.
Why would he come here? How did he know she was here?
“I need to talk to you.”
She scooted off the bed, even as she thought of all the reasons she shouldn’t answer the door. She moved closer, angled her head for listening. “What do you want?” He could say what was on his mind and then go. She didn’t need to see him. Not right now; she was too confused. Too vulnerable.
“I need to talk to you. I don’t want to do it through this door and I’m not leaving until I’ve had my say.”
Emily surrendered to the inevitable. She drew back the chain and opened the door.
Those intense gray eyes zeroed in on hers. “You okay?”
“No, I’m not.” He should know. She prepared to shut him out. That he’d come by, that she’d answered the door, was against nature somehow.
“I drove past your house.”
God, she prayed he hadn’t stopped.
He lifted one broad shoulder. “Then I remembered Ray mentioning Fitzpatrick had dropped you off here.”
“You found me.” She didn’t want to look at him any longer than necessary. And she sure didn’t want to listen to his voice. She couldn’t deal with all that being this close to him entailed just now. Not until she’d sorted out her feelings. “What do you want?”
He stared directly into her eyes. She should have looked away but she couldn’t.
“To thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said defensively. They couldn’t have this conversation. “For all you know, I set that fire.”
He chuckled, a rich, throaty sound that rumbled deep in his chest and sent a new kind of tension through her, one that was far too familiar. “You’re right, except why would you have rescued me if you were the one to start it in the first place?”
“Temporary insanity.”
“You know I didn’t kill her. You were there. You know.”
“I can’t talk about this right now.” She braced to close the door. He flattened one palm against it, keeping it open.
“I was trying to help her. I could’ve run, but I didn’t.”
“Just leave.” She couldn’t do this. Not yet. She’d heard it all before ... when he’d testified. She’d asked herself why he hadn’t run not five minutes ago.
