Traceless (14 page)

Clint Austin stood in a doorway that probably led to the kitchen. He made no effort to avert his gaze when hers collided with his. She didn't know how long he'd been listening, but she had a feeling he'd heard all she had to say.

She didn't care. She meant every word. For the first time in more than a decade, denial crashed into her. She shook with the force of it.

"Emily, maybe—"

She didn't wait for Ray to finish whatever he'd started; she left. She had to get out of there. Stupidly, she cried all the way home. It made absolutely no sense. She hadn't said a damned thing that wasn't the God's truth and still the tears refused to stop.

Maybe because of what some fool had done to the memory of Austin's mother.
She
deserved better than this. That had been her home, her things. Austin ended up with her property by genetic default.

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 same
deeply troubled
expression.

"Emily," her father said, "we need to talk."

Austin Place

6:15 p.m.

Clint picked up the pieces of the porcelain trinket his mother had cherished. His chest felt ready to explode. Fucking cowards. They should have taken up their beef directly with him. Doing this, 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 sandwich 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 were. 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.

That
he couldn't live with.

Goddamn it!
His fists clenched 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'.

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 be a freaking violation of his parole.

"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."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

9:45 p.m.

302 Dogwood Drive

Justine finished her yoga session, turned off the DVD player, 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 Mal-lory 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 of
work
. Even lipo came with unsightly little marks.

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 another old-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?"

Misty pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and shuffled across the threshold. "I need to talk to you."

Telling Misty to go home wouldn't do any good. When she got like this the only thing Justine could do was ride it out with her. They'd talked about the incident at the beauty shop, for the good it would do. Resigned, Justine offered, "How about some tea?" Not the sweet iced kind everyone around here preferred, but a nice green tea with benefits like antioxidants.

Misty plopped onto the sofa as if she owned the place. "No thanks."

Justine closed the door and joined her. Misty knew Justine had a routine, but she simply disregarded that knowledge whenever she felt needy. "What's the problem?" Justine was spending more and more time holding Misty's hand these days. She needed to stop obsessing about the things that
might
go wrong. There was simply no purpose in it. From the moment Austin's release had been announced, Misty had been in a tizzy.

Justine wished her friend would pay a little more attention to herself instead. She could be attractive if she tried. Even after spending forty bucks at the beauty shop for a cut and style, she still stuck her hair into a ponytail. And those baggy clothes. The whole image got on Justine's last nerve.

"It's
him
," Misty said, squeezing her hands between her knees. "He won't leave."

Justine had watched Misty get like this before. She was a perpetual worry wart, and once she latched on to an idea she simply wouldn't let go. Justine couldn't say she hadn't expected this.

"Stay away from him," Justine urged, "and you'll be fine. I'm certain he won't try to bother you." The whole idea was irrational.

Misty glared at her through those Coke bottle lenses. "It's not me I'm worried about. It's
her
. It's just like before; she's following him around like a puppy."

"I see." Justine felt the first swell of significant tension. "Has something specific happened?"

"Not yet." Misty moved her shoulders in a noncommittal gesture. "But he's not going to let it go. There'll be trouble. You know what he'll do."

"You saw her following him around?"

Misty nodded. "She was at Sid's today, too. I tried discouraging her with the rumor that Austin was innocent."

Justine cringed inwardly. Misty was truly a brilliant individual. Her IQ was off the charts, but she was so dense when it came to everyday life. "Emily's never going to consider , Clint Austin innocent."

"She doesn't have to think he's innocent; she just needs to leave it alone before something bad happens."

"I think," Justine said calmly, despite the suspicions now niggling at her, "that we need to just relax and talk about something else." Misty was obsessing even more than Justine had surmised.

"You saw her this morning," Misty countered, not ready to let it go. "She's not taking this well. She's ... on the edge, just like you said." She shook her head. "I'm really worried."

Justine placed a reassuring hand on Misty's arm. "Misty, honey, I think this whole thing will settle down. Ray is taking care of everything." Ray loved this town. He wasn't about to let the past destroy all that he cared about.

Misty gave her head another of those hard shakes. "I don't think so. She's not going to stop until it's too late."

Misty had really worked herself into a state. Justine draped her arm around her friend's shoulders. "Let's forget about this whole business. Let the chief and his boys take care of it."

Justine had learned a long time ago that staying calm in most any situation was extremely valuable. She wished she could teach that lesson to Misty. Life would be so much easier for her. For everyone. Sometimes Misty's need to be protective was detrimental to both of them.

Misty leaned her head on Justine's shoulder. "You heard about the break-in at his house, didn't you?"

"I did."

"He shouldn't have come back here."

"No," Justine agreed. "He shouldn't have."

The quiet that followed was soothing. Perhaps the turbulence would pass this easily. There was just one thing, but

Justine really hated to bring up the subject again. "You weren't the one who broke into his house, were you?"

That Misty didn't immediately tense or draw away was a good sign. "Don't be silly, Justine." She laughed, poked at her glasses. "Why would I do that?"

Justine patted her hand. "See, I made you laugh."

"You did." Misty stifled a yawn. "Can I sleep here tonight? I don't want to go home."

"Sure, honey. You know you're always welcome here." Justine relaxed. "That's what friends are for."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Half Moon Cafe

Thursday, July 18, 11:59 a.m.

Emily waited before going in.

She'd had to do some major maneuvering last night to convince all involved that she was on the road to finally getting her life together. Her only recourse had been to call her old friends with her mother supervising. Today, at noon, Emily was to have lunch with Megan Lassiter, Cathy Caruthers, and Violet Manning-Turner at the Half Moon Cafe.

Just like old times. Except without Heather.

Emily had watched each of the others arrive. First Megan and Cathy, then, at exactly noon, Violet had made her appearance. She had probably parked down the street well ahead of time, but her intent was to make an entrance after everyone else had arrived. She liked being the center of attention.

Emily had stolen her thunder.

At 12:02 Emily stepped inside the door of one of Pine Bluff's historic landmarks. The cool air made her skin pebble after sitting so long in the heat outside. Not much had changed about the cafe. Same old dark paneled walls, tiled floor, and Coca-Cola light fixtures hanging over each booth. As unoriginal as apple pie and yet every bit as familiar and appealing.

The day's menu was written on a chalkboard hanging on the wall. Waitresses wearing starched pink uniforms scurried about delivering laden stoneware plates and refilling glasses with sweet iced tea. The smell of fresh-baked corn bread made her stomach rumble, reminding her that she hadn't eaten today. She'd stayed in the room that wasn't really hers. She'd called her office. Checked her voice mail. Checked her e-mail via her cell phone. Anything but think about Clint Austin or her father's connection to Sidney Fairgate.