Within Temptation

by Tanya Holmes

“It’s nothin’.” His lips made a sucking noise when he pulled his finger out. Blood welled. “Seems every time we’re near each other, I bleed.”

  My breath shuddered as I got to my feet and grabbed a broom. I handed him the attached dustpan so I could sweep. We worked in silence, and once we were done, he stood and leaned a shoulder against the jamb.

  His stare burned into me—hot, hard, invasive. “I asked you a question. Would Montgomery knowingly convict an innocent man?”

  “No,” I said with certainty. “If he thought you were innocent, he would’ve stepped aside.” I replaced the broom and dustpan, then headed for the lobby as Heather Nova’s “Gloomy Sunday” wafted from the radio.

  He wasn’t far behind. “Do you think I’m innocent?”

  I froze mid-step. Trace deserved candor, but an honest answer would trigger a backlash. His vow to protect me surfaced from a distant place in my memories. Given his abusive father, was it a stretch that Mother’s actions may have set him off? I could still see him crouched over the body…still see the spade and blood on his clothes. The rumors about the inmate he allegedly killed came to mind as well.

  “You going to answer me or what?” he asked.

  Just then Tori Mills of Main Street Flowers and her best friend Dee Dee Gray—Eddie’s brassy wife—stopped to look in the storefront window. Dee Dee’s four preschool-aged sons tagged along. One snow-suited child rode her hip while the walkers, who were linked with a toddler leash, formed a line behind her.

  An astrology nut with a sixties obsession, Tori had a white beehive, big boobs, and endless legs that made her look like a wannabe Barbie. Her bee-stung lips fell open when she spotted Trace glowering by the fax machine. Dee Dee hitched her baby higher and squinted into the tinted glass.

  I strode to the front and yanked the cords on each of the five venetian blinds. One by one, the shades smacked the windowsill as darkness raced across the office. When I was done, I rounded to find Trace’s hard eyes locked on me.

  “What do you think they’ll say?” he asked.

  I snatched a displaced magazine. “Who knows? I really couldn’t care less.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.” He sat on the edge of Beatrice’s desk. Raw emotions flashed between us. “Still waiting.”

  I glared back at him in a show of defiance, but inside foreboding set in like wormwood. “I won’t dignify your ridiculous assertion with a response.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Trace crossed his arms over his chest and the brush of leather on leather filled the momentary hush. “I’m gonna tie it all into a neat little bow so you’ll understand what time it is. Number one, I don’t give a damn about the letter.” When my eyes widened, he added, “Like your man said, finding the writer won’t change a thing.”

  He couldn’t be serious. “So what was with all the questions about Uncle and Darien?”

  “I wanted to see where your head was at.”

  Anxiety and disbelief coalesced into anger. The song’s weepy lyrics suddenly started to annoy me. I flicked the radio off, nearly breaking the knob. “Then why all the histrionics?”

  “Histri-what?”

  “Histrionics!” I flung the magazine aside. “Fits. Hysterics. Drama. You went on and on about how the letter ruined your family. You sent me on an all-expense-paid guilt trip!”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  I stormed up to him. “No, because it makes no sense.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you that digging this stuff up isn’t gonna undo the past? Both our mamas are still dead. I’ve still lost twelve years. Cole’s still in Wonderland and—”

  “That’s not the damn point.”

  “For the love of—” He scowled. “Get your head outta the clouds, will you? Look at all the crap that’s been flying at me since I moved back. Say we find out who wrote the letter. Then what? It’ll only be somethin’ else.”

  Talk about twisted logic. “You’re just going to give up?”

  “It’s not about giving up. It’s about reality. Cholly can’t get a local contractor for his club ‘cause of me. So he’s working around it. I had a potential carpentry job, but I haven’t heard a word about it, and prob’ly never will. So I’m working around that too. I get at least five crank calls a day. At home. At the garage. But I deal with them. There’ll always be assholes. That’s why I’m not dwelling on shit I can’t control.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Nothing matters?”

  “Not necessarily.” His gaze imprisoned me. “Remember what I said about tying stuff together?” Once I nodded, he asked, “Why’d you get flustered when Tori and Dee Dee saw us?”

  My reasons were too complicated to explain now. “It’s not what you think.”

  He canvassed my face and his chest swelled. “I only cared about the letter ‘cause I thought you wrote it. You were a girl once. Scared. Confused. You thinking I killed Lilith was understandable then. But stuff’s different now.”

  I couldn’t speak, the passion in his words left me stymied.

  “The way you look at me sometimes,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. I saw it in the limo. You still think I did it.”

  Think? I didn’t know what to think—about him, my family, Mother, the murder. Nothing made sense anymore. It all lay trussed behind a veil, shrouded in darkness. I closed my eyes for a second and tried to put my frenzied thoughts into words.

  “Trace, listen. It’s-it’s not just you. It’s everything and—”

  “Cholly was right. If you believed I was innocent, you wouldn’t have worn that hood. And you damn sure wouldn’t have pulled the blinds down just now. See, this is what’s been pissing me off. Took me a while to figure it out, but here it is.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “You talk about olive branches. Wanna know what I’m still waiting to hear? That I’m innocent. You never said it once! How do you expect to fix stuff between us, when you still think I plunged a garden spade into your mama’s chest? Can’t you see what a joke this is?”

  TRACE

  ____________________________

  I watched her tear away to fuss with some magazines that didn’t need straightening. I’d come to ease her mind about the letter. Picking at a scab hadn’t figured into the plan. Now two questions dominated everything else: was she ashamed to be seen with me? And did she still believe I was guilty?

  When she ran out of busywork, she eased into a chair, robot stiff. Silence swept through the office like an angry breeze.

  I approached her, my steps slow. With a desk between us, I braced the edge. “Do you still think I killed your mama?” Her silence turned disappointment to anger. I came around and sat at the corner next to her. “Let me put this another way. We’re alone. You’ve shut the blinds, and I dead-bolted the door. Nobody can see us and they can’t get in.”

  “So?”

  “You’re not scared?”

  “No.”

  “You should be.” I directed her with a glance at the exit. “You could make a run for it, but I’ve got at least eighty pounds and a good seven inches of height on you.” I looked her up and down. “You’re a peanut compared to me.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “The psycho act is getting old.”

  “Who says it’s an act?”

  She swallowed. “You’d never hurt me.”

  I should’ve been relieved, yet it wasn’t enough. I wanted all or nothing. “You’re right, but what about Lilith?”

  She lowered her eyes.

  I smacked the desk. “Answer the question!” She started and I leaned in close so our faces were mere inches apart. “I didn’t kill your mama. Do you believe me or not?”

  “I just need some time to—”

  “If you don’t know by now, you never will.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Fine. You don’t believe me.”

  She looked away. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “Somebody has to. Just say it!”

  “
I can’t!” Shannon bolted up. She slapped a hand to her forehead and paced. “This is what I tried to explain in the limo. My memories are fractured. The diary pages brought some things back, but made others fuzzy and confusing.”

  “What the hell do you remember then?”

  She stopped in front of me. “The night Mother kissed you. I was in the—”

  “You saw that?”

  “Yes,” she said with a frantic nod. “I heard her tell Cook—Mrs. Campbell—to send you up once you finished your duties. I was afraid Mother would make you…do things, so I hid in her closet. After you rejected her, I ran after you, but I bumped into her vanity table and the vase with the calla lilies fell. Then Mother slapped me and—”

  I flashed a palm. “We’re getting sidetracked here.”

  “Why do you think I’ve been hounding my family? Calling Sheriff Gray? I only had good memories of Mother, but then I found the diary pages and my world flipped upside down.”

  “Shannon….”

  “I found Mrs. Campbell through the internet. I called, wrote half a dozen letters, but her granddaughter won’t let me see or talk to her. I wanted to know about the fight you and Mother had by the pool the night before she died—”

  “Shannon! What does this have to do with my question?”

  “Are you even listening?” She shoved her bangs off her forehead. “I don’t know if my memories are real or by-products of my imagination. I have never felt this isolated and lost. I had direction. A purpose. But now everything’s twisted. So yes, my head is in the clouds. You know why? Because the earth’s just too damn confusing right now!”

  That was too bad because I wanted nothing to do with her aimless obsession. I could tell her about the letter Cook had written me after Mama died last year.

  The old woman had asked for just one thing—that I visit her as soon as I got out. She had things to tell me, the letter had said. Secret things. I figured she wanted to purge her conscience, but I wasn’t about to oblige her. Just like I wouldn’t be obliging Shannon.

  “Let’s get somethin’ straight,” I said. “The pool fight, the trial, and everything else is off limits.”

  She gave her head a slow shake. “For God’s sake, why?”

  “I spent half my life dwelling on it. What time I got there. Where I went. Who I saw. Well, no more. I’ve moved on.”

  “But if you do nothing, you’ll never know.”

  If I had wanted to dredge all this crap up, I’d have gone down in the basement by now and fixed the burned-out fuse for the ceiling lamp. Facing fear sounded brave, but I didn’t give a rat’s ass about brave. I just wanted my life back.

  “Shannon,” I said calmly, “you’re asking me to open my wrists. To bleed. Well, no thanks. I’m done with that.”

  “I want to remember and you want to forget. We can’t resolve this if you refuse to broach it!”

  “We don’t need to broach nothin’,” I snapped. “You should’ve made up your mind way before you got in my face.”

  “When I swore I didn’t write that letter you refused to believe me at first. You wanted proof.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  “God, no. I understand completely.”

  I gestured. “Then what’s your point?”

  “You only believed me after I gave you proof, yet you expect me to just take your word for it?”

  “You’re damn right I do.”

  Her eyes hardened. “Why am I held to a higher standard?”

  “Twelve years in stir, that’s why.”

  “So now we’re fighting over who suffered more?”

  My face burned hot with anger. “I didn’t kill her,” I shot back. “Do you believe me or not?”

  “You only care about what you want. Well, what about—”

  I snatched my helmet and shouldered past her. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “Trace!”

  I kept going.

  “Did you kill that man in Gainstown?”

  My heart hit the floor and I froze. The subtle hint of her perfume let me know she was close. She stood before me and I could barely look at her. Black, spiky lashes framed her tilted eyes, eyes that burned with desperation.

  I rolled my shoulders. “I said I didn’t kill your mama, yet you don’t believe me. Why is now any different?”

  “Just answer me, please.”

  “What’s one got to do with the other?”

  “Everything and nothing.”

  I hung my head and sighed. Having laid Nyle to rest, I thought I’d moved past this, but secrets had a way of crawling from the darkest of graves. Could I put Amber’s freedom and my life in Shannon’s hands? Why should I when she didn’t believe me about Lilith?

  It was all bullshit.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Is it true?”

  “No.” I moved around her, yanked the deadbolt and ripped the door open. Wind smacked me. The lot was almost full by now, with the brunt of cars clustered at Walmart.

  She tugged my arm and I twisted around. Heat like a thousand hells burned into me. Her hand all but seared its shape into my flesh through the leather while we stared at each other.

  Our labored breaths formed twin wisps of fog that knotted into one. A lock of hair tangled in her lashes and I reached to brush it back, but she flinched, just as she had in the limo.

  The shock of what she’d just done played out on both of our faces. “Oh, my God,” she said. “I-I didn’t mean—”

  That was the worse cut of all.

  I swung away without looking back, not really sure what disturbed me the most—that she was still afraid of me or that I’d just lied to her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Promises To Keep

  SHANNON

  ____________________________

  Three days before Lilith Bradford’s murder….

  “What’re you doing, Shadow?” Trace asked me one breezy afternoon. “Your mama said she didn’t want you coming out here.”

  “Please don’t tell.”

  He hesitated, then waved me closer. “All right. But this is the last time.”

  Dressed in gym shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, I eased down next to him, where he reclined against a gnarled old oak. Its foliage veiled the early September sun, and painted gray dapples across the greenest tall fescue in the county.

  Miller’s Pond was our place of refuge, a magical port in whatever storm the day brought. We were safe here. Nothing could harm us.

  “Hey,” I said, staring at the grass.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “Here’s the surprise I told you about.” I handed him a ring I’d won at the fair last week. It took six tries, at twenty-five cents a pop. “Do you like it?”

  He worked the small golden circle onto his pinky finger—with difficulty—and held his hand out to inspect the sparkling blue gem in the center. “It’s right nice, but my birthday’s not for another four months.”

  My chin bumped my chest. Shyness weighed it down. “This isn’t a gift. It’s a reminder.” I played with my fingers. “Your middle name is Phillip, and that’s a Prince Phillip ring,” I said. “Remember the Sleeping Beauty DVD you got me the Christmas before last? You bought it because you said I look like Aurora. Well, the inscription on the inside of that ring says ‘Prince Phillip.’ I thought you’d get a kick out of it. Anyway, I want you to wear it, so you’ll remember.”

  He cocked his head. “Remember what?”

  “Me,” I murmured. “I’ll be eighteen in four years. So we can go travel the world. I’m thinking Paris first.”

  “Paris, huh?” He smiled. “You got some big dreams.”

  “It’s not a dream. I’m going to make it happen.”

  “Would this trip to Paris have anything to do with what happened yesterday?”

  He always did get straight to the point. Last night, he’d found me bawling my eyes out in the tree house he’d built for me. The Washington Wizards had drafted his best friend Cholly, and Trace had been
about to leave for the farewell party, but he ended up going late. He’d stayed behind to coax the truth out of me, yet the truth was too ugly for words.

  “Come on, Shadow. Spill it.”

  Gosh, he was handsome. Stubble darkened his jaw and thick brown fans framed his hazel eyes. Even the lashes Mother glued on every day weren’t as silky. “May I ask you something first?” When he nodded, I gathered my courage. “If I broke your radio….” I paused to swallow. “Would you hate me?”

  His eyes slid closed. “I could never hate you, girl.”

  I set my chin against my knees and stared across the pond at the one thing dearest to his heart. He’d parked it where he always did, beneath the cool shade of a giant maple.

  Blessed Mother, please let him answer right. “Trace?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “What-what if I broke your motorcycle?”

  He blinked his eyes open and glanced at his Harley. “Now why would you do somethin’ like that?”

  “Would you forgive me or not?”

  He rewarded me with a lazy grin. “Yeah. Eventually.”

  I sat up straight. “Really?”

  The grin ebbed while he watched me. He eased forward, lifted my chin, and brushed my cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. “Have I ever lied to you, sweet pea?” I gave my head a slow wag, and he said, “So why do you keep doubting me?” One of his brows arched. “Didn’t I say I’ll always care?”

  I lowered my eyes to escape his. Every time I looked at him, I got butterflies.

  “Tell me.”

  Getting the words out took some effort. “It was Mother,” I whispered, bottom lip quivering.

  “Go on.”

  My eyes started welling. “Sh-she said….” Tears streamed down my face as the words stumbled out of me. “I was running, and I broke her favorite vase yesterday—by accident. The flowers. The purple ones she likes. They fell and broke too. That made her mad. Then she…she said she h-hated me and—and she wished I was never b-born. And that it was my fault she had to get breast lift surgery.” I shouldered a tear. “If I ever break something of yours, you won’t hate me, will you?”

  He searched my eyes as incredulity darkened his. “This why you been asking all these—” He muttered a curse and gathered me into his arms. I forced myself not to cry out, not to flinch because of the pain reverberating around my bruised ribs. Out of nowhere he asked, “Your mama ever hit you?”