Convictions

Chapter One

Murky
fog swirled around the streetlamp's glow as Olivia Kincaid hurried down the nearly deserted sidewalk. Her smoky shadow guided her, then shifted to her side, and finally became a benevolent stalker.

Her sensible flats slapped the cracked sidewalk, the only sound save the whispery rasp of her breath and the familiar hum of freeway traffic three blocks away. She shifted her shoulder, trying to find a more comfortable position for her leather briefcase strap.

She came to a cross street and, out of habit more than necessity, paused to check for cars.

A shoe sole scraped concrete.

She whirled around, and her hair whipped across her face. Shoving the strands out of her eyes, she searched the enveloping darkness as her heart slammed against her breast.

Damp silence seeped through her clothing and into her pores. She trembled, tilted her head, listened, but only heard the typical—and usually unnoticed—city backdrop.

With a gloved hand, Olivia clenched the strap on her shoulder as she waited, poised listening, for another footfall. Onethat never came. Blowing out a lungful of air, she continued down the deserted sidewalk.

Blaming her taut nerves on the rape case she was prosecuting tomorrow, she inhaled and exhaled deeply as she lengthened her stride. Only two more blocks, and she'd be at her apartment building.

Then came the metallic ring of something—or someone—striking a garbage can in the dismal, smelly alley. Olivia's footsteps faltered, and her heart, which had eased into a more normal rhythm, kicked into high gear again. She moved faster, her shoes skimming the sidewalk now.

Not slowing her frantic pace, she glanced over her shoulder. Stygian shadows from the encroaching mist gathered and separated, like dancers shuffling to a funereal dirge. A soft cry escaped Olivia's lips and she jammed a knuckle into her mouth.

Was it
him
? The one who'd called her at least a dozen times a day over the past two weeks and left no messages? The one who'd sent her dead red roses? The one who'd left a message on her windshield while her car was in a locked garage?

She stumbled.

Fingers clutched at her arm.

Swung her around... toward a face with no face.

Olivia Kincaid jerked awake and opened her eyes to darkness. But it was, mercifully, a darkness devoid of pirouetting ghosts and empty faces. She bolted upright, biting back a moan when her healing leg protested the abrupt motion. Her satin nightgown, saturated with cold sweat, stuck to her clammy skin. Using her thumb and forefinger, she plucked the drenched material away from her breasts

Grimacing and wondering if she had any clean gowns remaining in her dresser, Olivia threw off the damp sheet and eased her feet onto the red, green, and blue braided rug covering the polished pine floor. After switching on the nightstand lamp, she pushed herself to her feet. She placed most of her weight on her right leg, which had become habit over the past two months. Her cane rested against the foot of her bed, but she ignored it as she tugged the wet gown over her head and tossed it toward her closet.

Goose bumps arose on her arms and legs, and her nipples puckered in the cool air. Ignoring her body's complaints, Olivia limped across the floor to her dresser and tugged open the third drawer. One nightshirt remained— actually it was an oversized T-shirt with a faded pink kitty on the front. It had been her favorite when she was a freshman in high school, over half a lifetime ago.

Olivia wrinkled her nose and donned the ancient relic. If her fellow assistant district attorneys could see her now, she'd never live "kitty" down.

But then, that was pretty unlikely with them being a thousand miles away and living in another world. A world she prayed she could return to someday.

Refusing to let depression gain a foothold, Olivia glanced at her digital clock radio: 1:28 a.m.
Lovely.
It was too early to rise, but there was no way she would be able to fall asleep again any time soon. Time for a hot chocolate fix.

She shrugged into a knobby blue terry cloth robe and debated using her cane. If she fell, or twisted her bad leg, it would set her recovery back another month. Easy decision. She hobbled back to her bed and grasped the smooth wooden curve at the top of the polished cane. It was easier to navigate with it, but Olivia still resented the need. But then, she resented everything about what had happened that night two months ago.

The familiar tap-slide, tap-slide of her footsteps accompanied her down the hallway to the spacious kitchen at the other end of the house. She passed her father's room and wasn't surprised to see a light shining beneath the closed door. He often read into the early morning hours. That hadn't changed in over twenty years.

She considered knocking on his door and letting him help chase away the remnants of her nightmare, but decided against it. It was past time to deal with them herself.

Olivia paused in the gourmet kitchen's entrance. Darkness gathered around her like the shadows in her nightmare-circling her and growing nearer. Dread twisted her belly. Her breathing became jerky and shallow as heaviness pressed down on her chest.

She threw out her hand and flattened it against the cool, smooth wall. Closing her eyes, Olivia concentrated on the solidness beneath her palm and not the coil of blackness that tightened its noose around her. She imagined the generations of Kincaids who'd lived protected within these very same walls. She reminded herself that her childhood had been spent in this house. There was nothing to be frightened of here.

Nothing.

"I am safe. I am secure. I am
not
afraid," she whispered.

The terror retreated and the anxiety eased, as did her labored breathing. Finally, she opened her eyes and lowered her hand. She felt like she'd just run a marathon. Brushing a hand across her sweat-dampened face, she limped into the kitchen and flicked on the light.

With steadier hands than she thought possible, she retrieved a saucepan and poured milk into it. No instant-mix-with-hot-water chocolate, but the honest-to-goodness stuff with cocoa, sugar, and a splash of vanilla. Anything less would've been blasphemous in the Kincaid household.

Olivia heard a faint shuffling and froze, then recognized her father's footsteps in the hallway. She was torn between wanting his reassuring presence and scorning her uncharacteristic dependence. She added another cup of milk to the saucepan, set it on the stove, and turned on the burner.

"There's enough for two," she said, looking at him over her shoulder.

Her father stuck his hands in his bathrobe pockets and studied her, as if seeing her for the first time.

Olivia grew concerned. "What's wrong, Dad?"

He blinked, and she almost believed he was blushing, but retired Judge Andrew Kincaid never blushed.

"For a second, you looked exactly like your mother," he said softly.

Olivia turned away to retrieve two cups from the cupboard and to hide the moisture sheen in her eyes at his unexpected comment. "Must be a trick of the light."

She heard the telltale slipper shuffle again as he came up behind her. "I'll take care of that. You sit down," her father said as he took the mugs from her hands.

Smiling despite her exasperation, she didn't bother to argue. Leaning on her cane, she limped to the breakfast nook. She pulled out a chair, its legs scraping quietly across the parquet floor, and sat down. She leaned her cane against the wall behind her and propped her elbows on the table.

"With or without cinnamon?" he asked.

"With," she replied, enjoying the rare moment of serenity. "Is your leg bothering you?" he asked, keeping his back to her.

Olivia automatically massaged the scarred flesh above her knee. "A little."

"Ask your therapist about it."

"I might cancel tomorrow's session," she said, the tranquillity fading.

He looked at her over his shoulder. "Why?" He narrowed his eyes. "Does this have anything to do with the new batch of convicts coming in?"

Olivia considered lying, but ever since she was a little girl, she hadn't been able to slip a lie or a bluff past her father. It was a good thing she'd never had to face him in a courtroom.

"You know my feelings on the matter," she replied, her shoulders tensing under his steady gaze.

Steam rose from the milk on the stove, and her father poured it into the mugs and stirred. He brought them to the table and set one in front of Olivia.

"Thanks." She wrapped her hands around the mug's warmth and inhaled the familiar, soothing aroma of cinnamon and chocolate.

Her father sat across from her and mirrored her hold on his own mug. She glanced up at him and recognized the glint in his eyes. She almost wished she hadn't surrendered to the chocolate siren.

"I don't understand why you're against the work release program," he said.

Olivia clamped down on her frustration. "They're criminals, Dad. My job is to put men like them away for the longest sentence allowable by law. I don't work my butt off every day just so people like you can grant them early release."

He blew across his hot chocolate and then took a tentative sip. Olivia suspected it was to give him time to form a rebuttal.

"Prisons are overcrowded. There are incarcerated people who deserve another chance. Those are the ones I try to help," he said quietly but with an underlying steeliness.

Olivia gazed at her father, taking in the deeply etched lines in his tanned face topped by a full head of white hair. The steadiness of his gray eyes defied his seventy-one years. A lawyer for twenty years, a judge for nineteen, and a rancher all of his life, Andrew Kincaid should've been the poster child for the right-wingers. However, the fates had played a practical joke—he was the liberal and Olivia the conservative.

"And when they kill or beat or rob someone right after their early release, who explains to the victims and their families why this convicted felon was out on the streets weeks, even months, early?" She forced herself to hold his gaze and asked in a tremulous voice, "How did you feel when that victim was Mom?"

Her father didn't flinch. "She would've been the last person who'd want me to pull my support because of the actions of a few." He leaned forward and laid a large, callused hand over Olivia's clasped one. "Your mother's been gone for over twenty years, honey. It's time to let her go."

Olivia stared down at her father's hand on hers and concentrated on keeping the lump in her throat from expanding. Ever since she'd returned to the ranch for an unexpected—and extended—visit, her emotions had wavered near the surface. For a woman who hadn't cried in years, she was blindsided by this continuing welling up of sadness. And yet, part of her felt almost detached from this maudlin side she hadn't known existed within her.

Her mother's murder, when Olivia was only eight, was the reason she became a prosecutor. She had never faltered from her goal, studying nights while her fellow high school students partied. During college and law school, she'd also ignored the social activities and worked at the courthouse when she wasn't hitting the books. She hadn't let anything get in the way of her goal, including emotions and relationships.

After a few moments, she cleared her throat and raised her mug to take a drink. Her father's hand fell away.

They sat quietly, sipping their hot chocolate. This would be the last night of peace for Olivia. Tomorrow the ranch would become a temporary home and workplace for five convicted felons—men who'd committed violent acts against innocent victims.

Men she would've eagerly prosecuted.