by Tanya Holmes
Trace maintained his innocence throughout the trial. As for suspects, his lawyer pointed to the half dozen or so lovers Mother was rumored to have had. The defense argued that the last time Trace saw her alive was when he’d confronted her about my bruises, an incident witnessed by several servants.
The prosecution claimed the abuse was a figment of Trace’s imagination and that the violence he’d suffered at the hands of his own father—Gary Dawson—had caused him to lose touch with reality.
My deposition didn’t contradict this. I was convinced Mother never hit me, but finding the diary pages changed all that. Little had I known what other things those pages would stir up.
“I’m sorry, Trace. I don’t know why I denied the abuse, but at the time, I actually believed what I was saying.”
His face lacked expression, but he seemed to take pity on me when his eyes softened. “I never held that against you.” He looked out of his window. “You couldn’t even admit it to me or yourself, much less to strangers.”
I shrank back. His words had left me temporarily speechless. “Oh, my God. That’s why Gartner didn’t cross-examine me. You wouldn’t let him.”
He fixed his eyes on mine again, saying nothing. Even with his freedom on the line, he’d protected me. The realization had my mind reeling. If he didn’t blame me for testifying, then where was all this hatred coming from?
I shook my head again, even more confused. “Do your promises have expiration dates?”
“What?”
“You once said you could never hate me. And that you’d be there if I needed you. Well, I need you now more than ever.”
He looked away.
“The Miller’s Pond diary entry was the last one I ever wrote. Mother came in my room drunk that night, just as I was finishing. She snatched it from me, read a few paragraphs and started ripping pages out. That’s the last time I saw it. Then after you had that fight by the pool the next night, she made me give her the necklace. She didn’t want me to keep anything of yours. But my diary—the pages…everything disappeared after the murder.”
“And this has what to do with me?”
“That’s what I want to find out.” Emotion welled in my throat. “Something caused me to forget the abuse. Doesn’t that sound strange to you?”
He shrugged. “Kids repress stuff like that all the time.”
From his far-away expression, I could tell he was speaking from experience. “Who else knew what Mother was doing? The servants witnessed the pool fight, right? You said it was the last time you saw her alive—”
He flashed a palm. “Hold up. I don’t like where this conversation is going.”
“Please hear me out. You reported Mother to Sheriff Gray. That’s one of the reasons I want to talk to him. I remember him grilling me before I gave my deposition.” I bowed my head and shook it. “He’s retired now and lives in Roanoke. I call every day, leave messages, but he ignores them.”
He started to speak, but must have thought better of it.
“I found Valene Campbell too. Our old cook.” I raised my eyes. “She was your mother’s best friend, right?”
He just looked at me.
“Oh, come on! You can help. I’ve left countless phone messages. I’ve even written a few letters, but her granddaughter Jane intercepts everything. She said Mrs. Campbell was too infirm and senile to speak with me.”
He gestured. “Well, there you go.”
“She’s lying.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m telling you, the old woman knew everything that went on at Cheltenham Manor.”
“So talk to your family,” he said.
“They don’t believe Mother abused me. They say the diary pages are stories I used to make up. That I was a precocious girl with a vivid imagination.”
“What about Montgomery?”
I gestured helplessly. “He says even if she hit me—”
“That I’m still a murdering bastard, right?” He rolled his eyes, his face a mask of hostility. “I can’t help you.”
Debating his guilt or innocence was the last thing I wanted to do—too many minefields there. “Reading through the transcripts was like falling down a rabbit hole. It was information overload. That’s why I thought if I talked with you, or maybe if we went back to Cheltenham Manor—”
“Oh, hell no.”
“It’s been empty for twelve years. I haven’t set foot—”
“Shannon, do you hear yourself? I just got out of the joint today. What makes you think I wanna deal with this shit now?”
I leaned closer. “Are you saying your answer would have been different had I waited a week…a month…a year?”
He rolled his eyes again.
“Please.” I grabbed fistfuls of the coat in my lap. “I’m desperate, okay? I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
For a second it seemed like he’d understood. Like I’d reached him somehow, but then his eyes turned hard, almost as if he’d flipped a channel. After a long silence, he said, “Will helping you erase the hell I lived?” He latched his unblinking gaze to me. “Will it bring my mama back?”
“N-no, but—” I jiggled my head to clear it. “What about the promises you made?”
“The boy who made them is dead.” He cast me aside with a glower. “Amazing. After all you’ve done, you got the nerve to—”
“You just said you didn’t fault me! My God, how can you blame me for something I’m still confused about? I was barely fourteen,” I cried. “Mother was dead—and…and I saw you crouched over her! You had the spade and there was blood all over your hands…and your jeans were soaked with it! If you were me, what conclusion would you have drawn? Given everything that happened that week with…with all the fighting and the rumors about you and—”
“Don’t even go there!” Anger flared in his eyes like a struck match. When I retreated in fear, he registered momentary surprise, but his ire returned a split-second later. “I already said I didn’t hold any of that against you!”
“Then what—”
“I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to bring it up, but you’re obviously bent on playing dumb. Stop the innocent act!”
“Act?” I snapped. “I have no idea what you’re—”
“Bullshit!”
“Trace, I don’t—”
“Enough!” Veins stood out in his neck. “I’m done with this.” He punched the intercom button. “Put the brakes on, Jeeves. I’ll see myself out.”
The limo came to a violent halt. I went for his arm, but he wrenched it away, glaring back at me as if I’d just spit on him. His hatred was a tangible thing that made his silent message all too clear. Back off, his eyes told me.
“Please, don’t leave like this,” I begged.
Trace was beyond hearing me. He snatched his pillowcase and tore outside. Horns blared. Wind smacked me when he whipped around. His face was a gray blur through my veil of tears.
“Bye, Shannon,” he blurted. The cold sheathed his words.
“No, wait! I swear I don’t understand what’s—”
Another loud chorus of horns exploded when Trace’s pillowcase hit the ground. “You got amnesia about this too?” He shook his head. “Unfuckinbelievable!”
“This? This what?” I screamed back. “Tell me!”
“The letter you wrote the parole board!”
“What letter?”
He snagged the pillowcase. “That’s it. I’m gone.”
“Damn it, what letter!”
He blazed a look at me, then said through clenched teeth, “The one that killed my mother. Ring a bell?”
Eyes wide with mortification, I wagged my head as my mind raced to connect the dots. “But I never—”
He slammed the door so hard the limo rocked.
“…sent a letter.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Beware Of Blondes Bearing Rock Salt
TRACE
____________________________
I’d warned her. Told
her straight out to drop the subject. All I’d wanted was a ride and an explanation for what she’d done. I’d never intended to get into a deep conversation, not with my soul still gushing blood. But she had to press me, goad me, so I chewed her up and spat her out.
Maybe now she’d leave me the hell alone.
Stalking down Jefferson Boulevard with the wind at my back and pain in my ribs, I tried to shove Shannon out of my mind, but I was still boiling mad. ‘Let’s make amends,’ she’d told me. ‘Let’s bridge gaps.’ Screw her gaps; screw her prick of a fiancé and her olive branches. What a joke. She’d cowered in the limo like I was a monster. No wonder she’d sent the letter.
I scared the hell out of her.
When she’d penned the thing, she was an adult, capable of making her own choices and living with the fallout. Whatever she wrote swayed the board’s decision to deny my parole last year. The consequences set a tragic chain of events into motion, events that would haunt me forever.
I ducked my head against the lashing wind and zigzagged across the street to my childhood home. The pillowcase I’d slung over my shoulder seemed to weigh a ton as I took the porch steps, going slowly because my knees were shaking. So were my hands. This place was my greatest nightmare. The house of cards built with cement and brick.
‘Stare the monster down,’ Doc Rosen had said.
I sighed. “Easier said than done, old man.”
It was a typical cracker box; probably still swarming with cockroaches and an equally impressive rodent population. The battered screen door smacked my butt as I fished the chain from my pocket. I shook lint balls off the key and unlocked the door, giving it a gentle nudge with my foot. The rusty-hinged block of wood wailed open. It reminded me of the muted squeals the sows on Bisabuelo’s farm used to make while birthing.
Pale light spilled in from a long hallway that led off to the kitchen. I took a whiff, and my stomach rumbled. The scent of home cooking softened the visual. Maybe Bev had left me some dinner. I flipped the wall switch for the ceiling lamp, but nothing happened. Burned-out bulb, no doubt.
Even in the dimness, the room looked homely. Like fruitcake, cockroaches, and taxes, Mama’s patchwork furniture—complete with plastic slipcovers—would endure forever. Add a maze of water spots on the ceiling and an ugly orange carpet, and you had the makings for a bass-ackwards funhouse in hell.
I eased down on the sofa expecting to feel grief or even anger, but it wasn’t there. Maybe Doc Rosen was right about facing the monster, because the knot in my gut had slackened. If I could survive Gainstown, surely I could endure Gary Dawson’s House of Horrors.
But what about the basement?
A chill rippled over me when I glared at the basement door. Funny. I didn’t remember it looking that damn creepy. The wood appeared worn in some spots, splintered in others, and where the bottom met the floor, two inches of darkness reached out from beneath.
I looked away, shelved the thought altogether. These were temporary digs. Aside from my share of the money in Mama and Daddy’s retirement account, the one good thing the old man had done was deed me this house. Ten-and-a-half months of rent money from a revolving door of tenants—a little over six thousand—along with whatever I could net from the sale of this hell hole, would further my plans. I’d satisfy the conditions of my parole, deal with the situation with my brother, and get this place in shape for the market. In two months, six tops, I’d start on my BA, and later I hoped to launch my own business. Somewhere.
But first I’d have to do a major overhaul here. The walls needed spackling and paint. Crown molding along the ceiling. Wainscoting in the stairwell. A pine floor lay beneath the carpet. Maybe I’d rent a buffer—
Light flooded in from the adjacent dining room. I leapt to my feet and pain speared my ribs. In the hallway stood my apron-wearing sister. She cradled a white bowl filled with what looked like dough. An iPod was clipped to her waist. Headphones draped her neck.
I breathed a relieved sigh. Seeing Bev made my soul feel a hundred pounds lighter. She flashed a smile and a tear dashed down her cheek. Her long auburn hair was gathered up high in a ponytail. That combined with a sprinkling of freckles, made her look much younger than her thirty-two years.
“I was beginnin’ to worry,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.” I glanced beyond her. “Is Icky in there?”
She set the bowl on the table and scrubbed her hands together. A cloud of flour wafted up. “I haven’t seen him since he left to get you.”
So she didn’t know about our fight. Good. ‘Cause I wasn’t in the mood to rehash it. “What’s up with the lights?”
“Fuse musta burnt out.” Her grin faded as she drew near and frowned up at me. “What happened to your face?”
“It’s nothing.”
Her hazel eyes—the same color as mine and Mama’s—narrowed with concern. “You been fightin’ again, Tracemore?”
“Naw. C’mere.” I hugged her close to stifle her questions, mindful of my sore ribs and her messy hands. A lump wedged in my throat. I didn’t think I’d ever hold my big sister again as a free man. “Damn, I missed you.”
“Missed you more,” she said, sniffling. “Amber had to go sign some papers for the rental car she got, but she’ll be back. I put her bag in your room.”
That was a relief. I could use some of Amber’s TLC. We were ‘friends with benefits’—great sex with no commitment, which suited me just fine because I didn’t want strings and neither did she. The girl loved her freedom.
“Before I forget.” She rested her chin atop my chest. “I may have a lead on a carpentry job for you. Now nothin’s set in stone, but Zoe Dillon’s husband owns a construction company, and they’re in the running for a big contract. It’s with the city to build a new library. She said she’d put in a good word for you.”
Zoe and Bev had been friends for years, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”
I fingered Bev’s ponytail, smelled it. “I thought you said you quit?”
She buried her face in my shirt. I could feel her grin. “God’s just testing me,” she told me, her voice full of sass.
Ever since Bev found Jesus three years ago, He, let her tell it, had kept her busy. The Lord was an easy scapegoat for her nicotine addiction.
She gazed up at me again. “I’ll serve you as soon as dinner’s done, but I can’t stay. I gotta get home.”
To that wife-slapping crackhead. “Soooo what’d you make?” I asked, keeping my thoughts to myself.
“All your favorites. T-bone steak. Mashed potatoes and broccoli.” She pecked my cheek, grabbed the bowl, and set off down the hall. “There’s Herradura in the fridge,” she said over her shoulder. “Cold, just the way you like it. I put fresh towels in the closet, a new robe in the bathroom, and a bottle of Mr. Bubble on the sink. Oh, and Shannon Bradford called.”
TRACE
____________________________
“Shoot.” Amber canvassed the busy parking lot. “Where the hell is the car?”
I strode beside her lugging a dolly weighted down with renovation equipment and supplies. Cupping a hand over my brow, I squinted against the biting wind. The day was sunny, but a cold front was expected to slide in after dark, bringing an unseasonable ten inches of snow. Not surprisingly, Home Depot had morphed into a hornet’s nest of panic buying.
“There.” I pointed, picking up the pace. “By the Hummer.”
The trek to the car was treacherous. Black ice and potholes abounded. When we finally reached Amber’s SUV rental, my relief was short-lived. A rude shout greeted us—this from one of five teenage punks loitering by the dumpsters several yards away.
“Yo, Butcher Boy. What’d you buy?”
“Garden tools,” the idiot next to him blurted with a cough.
A burst of laugher followed.
Another hollered, “Psycho!”
“Fuckin’ nutjob!” someone else yelled.
“Ignore them,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. I stabbed the remote at the car and yanked the hatch open. “Just a bunch of dumb ass kids.”
“Hey, baby,” the first boy yelled at Amber. “If you’re still alive tomorrow, call me.” He shook his junk. “I may have a home improvement project for you.”
“I’ll prolly need a microscope to find it,” she fired back.
I blasted her with a glare. “What are you doin’?”
“Eat me, bitch,” the crotch-grabber retorted.
She smiled, tilted her head, and flashed a one-finger salute.
“Amber!” I barked.
“What?” She batted her lashes innocently. “The little bastard had it coming.”
I ignored the dull ache in my ribs and snatched a set of power rollers and a can of paint off the dolly. “Get the hell in the car before you get me arrested.”
“Don’t worry, shug. I’ve got your back.”
No doubt she did. Though her close-cropped black hair and violet eyes made her look like a pixie, the leggy ex-prison guard held a concealed weapons permit and two black belts—one in karate, the other in aikido.
She grabbed a snow shovel and grinned. “Speaking of arrests, I still have my handcuffs if you want to play later. I’ll even spring for the honey and whipped cream.”
I fought a smile. “What am I gonna do with you?”
“I can think of a few things,” she said with a saucy wink.
By the time we finished loading the car, the punks had moved on. I hopped in and was about to start the engine when Amber began squirming in her seat.
“Oh, my God. Look.” She nudged her chin. “That’s my girl Neecie—and she’s got her baby boy with her! Give me a minute, okay? I haven’t seen her since they let her out of rehab.” She smashed a kiss against my cheek. “Be right back.”
She threw the door open and giggled her way over to a blue Sentra in the next aisle.
Women.
I sat for a time picking at a hangnail until my stitches started bothering me. I adjusted the rearview mirror and eyed my chin. Damn if the cut didn’t itch something fierce. So did the tape on the bandage.