His accusation of betrayal hurt, but she ignored it, just as she ignored the impulse to insist that of course she knew who Jake was. He was all about the truth. He wasn’t hiding his own truths from her. But she knew her father well. Know your enemy was one of the commandments he lived by. If he said there was a secret in Jake’s past, undoubtedly he had the documentation to prove it.
“You ever ask yourself why he’s so determined to prove Baker’s innocent?”
“Proving Charley’s innocence isn’t Jake’s goal. He wants the truth.” Though she kept her hands clasped in her lap, they started to tremble. “And the truth is, Charley is innocent, isn’t he? He had an alibi for the time of the murders. He couldn’t have killed the Franklins. You knew it. Roberts knew. Jenkins knew. And you took him to trial anyway. You prosecuted an innocent man, and they helped you do it.”
The senator’s gesture was sharp, dismissive. “That alibi wasn’t credible. Leonard Scott didn’t know the time of day. He damn sure didn’t know what time Baker was in his bar. Charley Baker was guilty. Everyone knew it.”
How many times had her father told that lie? Dozens. Probably often enough to convince himself at least part of the time that it was true. Often enough to believe that his mindless daughter would accept it as truth, too.
“Bullshit,” she said bluntly. “He was framed. And you helped.”
The senator’s face took on an ugly red flush. “How dare you!”
“How dare you! You hold yourself out as a good man, an honorable man, and you don’t know the meaning of the words!” Unable to sit one moment longer, Kylie surged to her feet, nearly stumbled over the box of books, grabbed them up and started to the door. She needed to leave, to get away before they destroyed their little family beyond repair. She was halfway there when her father spoke again.
“You think Norris is an honorable man?” he sneered. “You don’t even know his real name. He’s not looking for the truth, Kylie. He’s trying to get his worthless father out of prison and he’ll do anything, including screw you, to do it.”
Her feet took root, ignoring her brain’s insistent commands to continue moving. Her ears buzzed, and her vision tunneled on the doorway, only a yard away but too far to reach. The emptiness in her stomach grew, spreading welcome numbness through her, drowning out the buzz, softening the edges of the tunnel.
Jake was Charley Baker’s son, C.J. The ten-year-old whose life had changed so drastically with the murders. The boy who’d been harassed, bullied and forced to leave town after his father’s arrest.
Oh, God, he was the boy who’d found the Franklins’ bloodied bodies, who’d rescued Therese from her nightmare, who lived with his own nightmares.
The quivering started deep at her core, forcing her to take the last step that separated her from the door. There she leaned against the jamb, grateful for the support. The sad stories Jake had told her about C.J. seemed so much sadder knowing they were about him. She wanted to go to him, hold him, help him. She wanted to share her strength with him, to hold the nightmares at bay for him.
And ask why he hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her.
“See? You didn’t know.” The senator’s triumphant crow filled the room. He’d stunned her, taken her breath away, and was delighted by it.
And that was the reason she called him by his current title rather than Father. He’d been an idol, a role model, a boss, the focus of her life, but he’d never been much of a parent. He wasn’t capable of being a dad.
Rather than give the obvious response, she asked a question of her own. “Did you have an affair with Jillian Franklin?”
It was a tactic she’d learned over the years from the best reporters—catch him off guard. He would put his usual spin on his answer, but there was that instant before he regained control that could be telling.
Today it was. Emotion passed through his eyes—guilt, quickly eclipsed by anger that morphed into icy cold. “I loved your mother.”
“That wasn’t the question, sir.” But it made the answer crystal clear. Dismay clenched her jaw. Had her mother known? Was that why the close friendship they’d shared with the Franklins had cooled so suddenly there at the end? Had Phyllis forgiven and forgotten or merely decided that a divorce was unacceptable?
He rose from the chair, rested his hands on the desk and leaned toward her. “No. I did not have an affair with Jillian or anyone else.”
Too little, too late, too untrue.
She straightened, no longer needing the door’s support. “Does it ever bother you, sir, that you sent an innocent man to prison? That you perverted the very law you were sworn to uphold? That you took a father away from a ten-year-old boy? That a murderer is still out there, living his life without fear?”
He bristled unconvincingly. “I never sent anyone to prison. I prosecuted the cases brought to me by the police and the sheriff’s department. I presented the evidence they gathered, and the juries made the decision as to innocence or guilt. The juries. Not me.”
Wordplay. Most politicians were good at it. He excelled.
“Have you ever regretted it, even just a little?” She wanted him to say yes. It wouldn’t make much difference, but at least it was something. But if he admitted to regrets, he had to admit to guilt, and he was in full-bore-denial mode.
He fixed his gaze on her, steely and unforgiving. “My only regret is that my daughter has turned into the kind of person who could even think these things about me, much less say them. I have never been so disappointed in anyone.”
She smiled sadly, offering one last comment before walking out the door. “The disappointment is mutual, sir.”
Chapter 10
Jake slept another five or six hours after Kylie’s phone call, but it was a restless sleep, broken by bad dreams. Bad memories. Jillian, beautiful, dead, laughing a sultry laugh, her blood-soaked dress clinging provocatively. Therese, small, defenseless, mute. Charley, blood dripping from his clothes and the knife clutched in his left hand, slowly morphing into Jim Riordan, with Kylie standing behind him, her expression stunned, hurt, bewildered.
He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands over his face. He needed a shower, a shave, food. A stiff drink sounded pretty good, too. After that, he had some hard planning to do. There were still a few people he wanted to talk to, Therese, her grandmother and Charley’s priest among them. Then he was leaving Riverview.
Because he couldn’t talk to the one person he wanted to see most. Couldn’t discuss theories or plans with her. Couldn’t confide in her.
He couldn’t even tell her—two days too late—that he was Charley’s son. No doubt Riordan had already taken great pleasure in spilling the news. She wouldn’t understand how he could make love to her without sharing that one fundamental part of who he was.
He showered, shaved, brushed his teeth and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Carrying the backpack by a strap, he stepped out the door, locked it, then turned and stopped.
Kylie sat on the second step, elbows resting on her knees, a book open in her hands. Hearing him, she closed the book, one finger marking her place, and his own face gazed up at him from the back jacket. He spared it only a glance, though. He was more interested in her face. She looked ragged. Shaken. Beautiful.
Sitting on the opposite side of the step, he let the pack slide to the concrete and mimicked her position. For a time he just sat there, unable to think of anything to say. Finally he forced a sorry smile. “Good book?”
“Sad book.”
It was that. His first one—the story of a mother who’d killed her three children because God told her to. Suffering from severe paranoid schizophrenia, she was the saddest person he’d ever met.
She folded the dust jacket flap over to mark her place, then closed the book. “I talked to my father.”
Jake turned his head away from her, squinting into the afternoon sun. “So did I.”
“Really. He didn’t mention it.”
“But he did mention my fath
er, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” Her answer was so subdued that it was nearly lost in the sound of traffic from the nearby street.
“So my secret’s out.” Was she angry? Hurt? Disillusioned now with him instead of Riordan? He wanted to look for answers in her face, but he couldn’t. He just kept staring off to the west.
“You could have told me.”
“People were unhappy enough when they thought I was just some writer asking questions. How different would it have been if they’d known I was Charley’s son?”
“We’re not talking about ‘people.’ We’re talking about me.”
The hurt barely identifiable in her voice made his nerves tighten. “Oh, yeah. You’re Senator Riordan’s daughter. You’re special. You’re entitled to know things other people don’t.”
“No,” she said quietly. “I’m Kylie, the woman you turned to for sex, assistance and information. I’m nothing special. But I did think I was entitled to know your real connection to this book before you went to bed with me.”
An ache started in his chest, and he absently rubbed at it. Guilt, no doubt, accompanied by need—to hold her, to be held by her. To ease her pain, to take away the wounded look he was sure darkened her eyes. But he didn’t reach for her.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “I’m sorry. I haven’t used my real name—my father’s name—since I was ten years old. I wanted to tell you. I intended to. I just…” He shook his head and shrugged.
She shifted on the step to face him. He saw the movement peripherally but continued to avoid her. “What did the senator say to make you not want me anymore?”
The idea was so ridiculous that he would have laughed if not for fear he would choke instead. “I still want you. I can’t imagine not wanting you. Hell, I’m about this far—” he raised two fingers a millimeter apart “—from falling in love with you.”
“But you don’t trust me. He made you doubt me.”
He was ashamed to answer. He trusted her more than anyone else in the world. He was ninety-nine percent sure he could trust her with his life. But ninety-nine percent wasn’t good enough to trust her with Charley’s life.
Finally he turned to look at her. “He said you’re simply following his orders. That he told you to do whatever it took to make me believe you were on my side—hang out with me, pretend to believe me, sleep with me. That you were keeping him informed of everything we were doing, everything we learned. He knew every move we made yesterday. He knew about Jillian’s bank account, how much money was in it and that we suspected she was blackmailing her lovers.”
Her features were expressionless. “He’s probably known about that for years.”
True. Even if Riordan hadn’t been one of Jillian’s blackmail targets, Tim Jenkins, the Franklins’ attorney, would have known of the account and likely would have shared it with him.
But there was one thing Riordan knew that he could have learned from only Kylie or Jake, and Jake damn well hadn’t told him. “He knew the first time we made love. Where. How many times.”
Her face flushed, though anger seemed more likely a reason than guilt. She stood up, the book falling unnoticed to the ground, and the air between them damn near shimmered with tension. “You know he’s lied. I told you he lied to me. And yet you believe him on this.”
“No. I just…”
She waited, but when nothing else came she smiled thinly, so sadly that he felt its pain in his chest. “You just don’t believe you can trust me.”
He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.
For a long time she just stared at him as if she didn’t know him at all. Then her shoulders drew back, and her chest rose with a deep breath. “For the record, Jake, the only order the senator gave me was to stay away from you. I chose to spend time with you anyway. I chose to sleep with you. I chose to accept the evidence that my father has done some terrible things. I haven’t passed on information about you. I haven’t told him what you’re doing or what you’re learning.
“I admit, I did make a mistake in telling him that I’d slept with you three times Thursday night. He was warning me that seduction would be next on your agenda, that you would tell me how beautiful I was, that you would get me into bed and manipulate me so I would believe your lies and forget the people who really mattered. I shouldn’t have said anything, but he made it sound as if you couldn’t possibly want me just for me. So I told him it was too late. I’d already seduced you. I’m sorry.” A tear slid down her cheek that he wanted desperately to brush away. “I’m sorry about a lot of things.”
She’d reached her car before he managed to speak with the lump in his throat. “Kylie, Charley’s my father. He’s spent more than a third of his life in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, and I have a chance to get him out.”
“And you don’t trust me to not screw that up. After all, I am the senator’s daughter. I understand.”
“I don’t believe you would do anything—”
“Please.” Finally she swiped away one of the tears. “I’m sick to death of lies. You don’t trust me. Neither does the senator anymore. And you know what’s funny about that, Jake? I’m the only one who hasn’t lied.”
With that, she got into her car and started the motor. If it had been him, he would have backed out with a squeal of rubber, would have gunned the engine in a close call with oncoming traffic, would have reached seventy miles per hour before screeching to a stop at the light. She didn’t do any of that but drove away as if nothing had happened.
Damn it all to hell.
He sat there a long time, staring blindly at the book on the ground. What could he have done differently to prevent this mess? Stayed hell and gone from her? No way. He’d been attracted to her from the moment he’d seen her in her father’s office. He couldn’t have not fallen for her. Trusted her more? There wasn’t enough trust in the world to put his father’s future in hands related to Jim Riordan.
That was the problem: not enough trust.
Wearily he got to his feet, picked up the book and put it and the backpack in the passenger seat of the truck. By the time he’d driven a block, a patrol unit was two car lengths behind him. The officer followed him to the drive-in on Markham Avenue where a high school girl on skates delivered his burger and fries to his truck. From there they went to a liquor store, where Jake picked up a bottle of scotch, and then along side streets to the south entrance to the Colby estate.
Kylie’s car was visible through the bars of the gate, parked in its usual place near the cottage door. Was she in there crying? Hating him? Wishing she’d never met him?
He couldn’t blame her. All he could do was hope that someday…
Behind him, the cop apparently tired of waiting, switched on his lights and climbed out of his vehicle. Jake watched in the rearview mirror as he took a few steps toward the truck, then he eased his foot from the brake to the gas pedal and drove off. With an obscene wave, the cop hastily returned to his car and moments later was on the truck’s bumper.
Jake was back at the motel, laptop booted up, a drinking glass from the bathroom half-filled with scotch, when the cell phone rang. He didn’t waste time hoping it would be Kylie—didn’t look at caller ID at all but flipped it open and said a curt, “Hello.”
“Hey, son, it’s me.”
Closing his eyes, Jake rubbed the ache in his temple with his free hand. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“The usual. Eat, sleep, work and stay out of trouble. What’s up with you?”
“Eat, sleep, work and get into trouble.” Though Charley chuckled, Jake couldn’t crack a smile. He was too damn sore inside to be amused by anything.
“You in Oklahoma?”
“Yeah. I’ve been here a few days.” Expectant silence met his words, but Jake couldn’t bring himself to rehash everything with him. Not yet. “I’ll be going back home in a day or two, but I’ll come down to see you first and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Good.” Another silence. Char
ley had a lot of those these days, when he’d never been hesitant or reticent in the past. “Did you remember much about the town?”
“Not really. The school’s about the same. The church has been replaced. The house is still standing.”
“Your mother was always afraid that every tornado watch was going to bring the one that would blow it down with us in it,” Charley remarked. “All these years, and it’s still standing.”
You’re still standing, too, Jake wanted to say. The house had survived years of neglect and misfortune, and so had Charley. Instead of just surviving, though, hopefully he would soon start to live again.
“Do you think…” Charley’s voice trailed off, but Jake didn’t need to hear the words.
His fingers gripped the phone tighter, and emotion welled inside him, making his voice husky. “Yeah. We’ve got a chance, Dad.”
The same emotion was in Charley’s voice. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
They talked a few minutes longer before hanging up. Jake stared at the computer and the papers on the desk, picked up the glass of scotch and dumped it down the sink.
No matter how wrong his decision regarding Kylie was for him, for Charley it was the right thing. He was going to get his chance.
And someday, when his name had been cleared and he was out of prison, maybe Jake could have a chance, too.
Because Kylie was turning out to be all he really wanted.
When Kylie returned from her run on Sunday morning, the senator’s SUV was sitting in the driveway and Alberto was loading bags into the cargo area while the senator waited impatiently. Taking a deep drink from the water bottle she carried, she walked toward the truck and both men. Her stomach was knotted, her muscles more tense than a workout could excuse. As she drew closer, she slowed her steps considerably, giving the senator every opportunity to speak.
He didn’t—at least not to her. He gave her a look that could have scalded milk, muttered something to Alberto, then got into the truck and drove toward the gate.
More Than a Hero Page 18