Justine bit her tongue rather than say what was on her mind. Clint Austin didn’t deserve their avid curiosity, much less all the fanfare that had gone on outside.
“Well, personally I don’t think we’ll ever know the whole story on that one.” Cathy Caruthers, perm rods still dripping, strolled back to her chair. “Mike and I discussed the issue just last night. All the officers are talking about it.”
Cathy liked reminding everyone that she was almost an attorney about as frequently as she liked cheating on the husband she crowed over. That was the trouble with a man in uniform: It seemed he never had time to pay proper attention. Such a sad situation.
“Didn’t look like he’s been wasting away in a cell all this time,” Violet Manning-Turner commented, one professionally microbladed eyebrow arched in distaste. Violet had always thought herself a cutabove the rest. A concept perpetuated by the idea that she’d married far better than she deserved.
Truth was, Clint Austin had always been good-looking. Justine doubted prison had changed that. She would, however, keep that assessment to herself.
Megan Lassiter glanced up from her magazine. Like Justine, she’d ignored the brouhaha and remained seated. “The way I hear it, there’s more fighting and killing in that place than in any other prison in the country. Austin probably had to stay in shape to survive.” Her expression hovered somewhere between distressed and sympathetic. She never had been able to think badly of anyone, even when they deserved it. Unlike her husband, Grady, who made his living seeking out news, by hook or by crook, to sell newspapers.
Misty Briggs, Justine’s teaching colleague and friend, adjusted her glasses repeatedly as she lingered at the window. Just went to show how boring small-town life could be. Justine’s idea of real excitement involved two things: a special gift and a more intimate setting with the bearer of said gift. She turned the magnificent gold bracelet on her right wrist around and around. She did love pretty things.
“Does that look okay? I didn’t take much off the length.”
Justine turned her attention back to the here and now, accepted the mirror Jean offered, and surveyed her long blond locks. “Perfect.” She smiled appreciatively. “As always.”
Jean wasn’t especially liked by many of the local women, but she was a damned good colorist and stylist, so most tolerated her—at least to her face.
Misty finally shuffled back to her chair. “I remember there was gossip,” she said, her hazel eyes huge behind those Coke-bottle lenses as she covertly glanced around the shop, “that Austin was actually innocent. I guess that new trial sort of proved it.”
Tension trickled through Justine. She turned and stared at her friend in utter disbelief. Excited or not, that remark was going too far. “Emily Wallace said he was guilty.” Justine’s voice reflected her offense.The very idea that Misty would say such nonsense out loud and in the salon, of all places.
Misty put a hand to her throat. “Oh, Justine, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Of course he was guilty.” She reached over and squeezed Justine’s hand, her face a study in regret, but the hint of satisfaction in her eyes ruined the effect. She loved manipulating a moment like this. It was the only time she managed to draw any real attention to herself.
Megan piped up, “Heather was my friend. Emily too. If she said he was guilty, then he was guilty.” That was about as close as Megan came to dissing anyone, even a convicted killer.
The others punctuated her pronouncement with a litany of agreeable sounds and pacifying remarks.
As the high school’s cheerleading coach, Justine had known both Heather and Emily well, as she did the rest of those present—excluding Jean, of course. Might as well have her say. “Clint Austin killed Heather Baker in cold blood,” Justine announced, with a stern glance at Misty.
Absolute silence fell over the salon as all waited in anticipation of what came next. “Emily was the one who sealed his fate at the trial.” Justine looked from one expectant face to the other. “You all know she hasn’t been the same since. Considering the lack of real evidence, without her testimony, I imagine he would’ve gotten off scot-free from the beginning. What happened with this latest trial was just wrong. Obviously the jury ignored poor Emily’s testimony.”
Megan’s eyes rounded with fear. “You don’t think that’s why he’s back, do you? To hurt Emily?”
“No,” Cathy rebutted. “Mike and Ray are all over this. Every cop on the force has orders to keep a close eye on Clint Austin. He’s not going to get a chance to hurt anyone.”
All eyes shifted back to Justine for her take on Cathy’s argument. Justine turned her palms heavenward and offered a simple truth: “I don’t know why Clint Austin is back.Butif I were Emily Wallace, I’d be scared to death.”
7
6:00 p.m.
Emily followed him.
Keeping up with Austin’s every move was essential. He’d driven around for over an hour. She was pretty sure he’d recognized that he was being followed, but he made no attempt to lose her or confront her. He just kept driving. Eventually he returned to town, visited Donna’s Floral Shop, and then came here.
To the cemetery. Cedar Hill Cemetery.
Emily hadn’t anticipated that move. Only people who had hearts cared enough to visit the graves of their lost loved ones. Austin had no heart.
Still, he’d tracked down his mother’s grave, laid the flowers he’d purchased against the headstone, and had been standing there ever since. For about half an hour now.
Emily had eventually gotten out of her car. After wandering aimlessly, keeping one eye on him, she’d ended up at Heather’s grave. The shiny black granite headstone displayed an inset cameo of Heather’s senior picture. They’d gone for their portrait sittings just one week before the murder.
Emily dropped down to her knees and traced the picture of her friend. She missed her so much. There were so many things they were supposed to have done together. Like go off to Auburn for college asroommates. When wedding days came, they would have been each other’s maid and matron of honor. Godmothers to each other’s children. Maybe even neighbors. Their whole lives had been plotted out with years of late-night talks and afternoons spent daydreaming.
Heather hadn’t gotten to do any of those things, and neither had Emily. She had managed to muddle through two years at a small business school in Birmingham between lapses into depression, one major breakdown, and a couple of trial drug therapies. Eventually she’d gotten a job and ended up in charge of the files department at a research facility.
