Within Temptation

by Tanya Holmes

  “Are we close?” he asked.

  I nodded and glanced sideways at him. “So is Beverly a battered woman?”

  “I hope not.” He worked his jaw. “I think Icky’s usin’.”

  “You mean drugs?”

  Trace nodded in bitter silence. “He worked as a runner. That’s what got him pinched. Seven years he served, and he was dealing the whole time.” He sank deeper into the seat. “I smelled trouble soon as him and Bev started making googly eyes. She used to come see me once a week. That’s how they met. Then, right before he got paroled, Bev paid him a surprise visit. He was strung out. She called him on it and he slapped her.”

  “In prison?”

  “Visitor’s day is a free-for-all. There’s sex. Drugs. One time a guy punched his wife. Friggen guard saw it all and did nothing. They couldn’t care less.” A lethal gleam flared in his eyes. “But Bev always did mistake violence for love. Just like Mama.” He glared out of the window at the blur of trees whizzing by. “This is my problem. You don’t have to be here.”

  I sent him an earnest glance. “I know, but I want to.”

  “You sure about that?”

  His meaning was clear, and it ran much deeper than the current crisis with his brother-in-law. He was alluding to the town, my family, and my willingness (or unwillingness) to drag our ‘friendship’ from the proverbial closet.

  “Now isn’t a good time to get into this,” I said.

  “We’ll have to deal with it eventually.”

  Yes, eventually, but not now.

  “This is about more than us.” I sighed. “There’s Mother’s murder for one. People need to know you’re innocent. Otherwise, it’ll be an albatross forever.”

  He swung a frown at me. “A what?”

  “A burden, a liability,” I answered, changing lanes.

  He propped an elbow on the door, studied me in awkward silence. “What’s the connection between clearing my name and ‘us’?” His voice came out low, but hard-boiled.

  “Isn’t it obvious? If we do nothing, it’ll never go away.”

  He lifted a brow. “Aren’t we really talking about you?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he said, tossing my own words back at me. “I’m not good enough for your bridge club buddies. Clearing my name would remedy that.”

  The man was like a broken record. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “You just said you’ve been dodging Lilith your whole life. What’s the town gonna say when they see you hanging with me? And trying to prove me innocent at that? This after every Tom, Dick, and Sally believes I’m nothin’ but murdering trash.”

  “I can’t deal with that right now.”

  One of his brows shot halfway up his forehead. “What? You think a killer’s just gonna fall from the sky? You’re a realtor, not Nancy Drew. And I’m no Sherlock Holmes. I’m an ex-con with a high school education and a couple blue-collar degrees.”

  “What are you saying here? That it’s a lost cause?”

  His voice softened. “No, hon, I’m not saying that at all.”

  The endearment made my heart skip.

  He sighed. “Look, I’m willing to dig into this, but what are you gonna do if we come up empty? Where’s that gonna leave our so-called ‘friendship’?” He nodded at my coat. “Will you still be sporting that hood? And what about those venetian blinds at your office? You can’t yank them down forever.”

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead. What if our efforts proved fruitless? The very idea terrified me. Thankfully, I found a reprieve when we approached the O’Dell’s well-tended neighborhood.

  Floodlights accentuated the billboard-sized Highgrove Meadows sign. Written in flowing script, the words were burned into a huge block of polished cherry wood. The manicured shrubs surrounding the marquee were attractively arranged and carpeted with snow-speckled red mulch.

  “So this is it,” he said, his face stony.

  “You’ve never been here?”

  “Naw.” His attention was riveted on the stylish brick-faced homes lining either side of the street. “She told me where it was last week. I just hadn’t gotten around to visiting.” He gave me the address, then asked, “How old is this development?”

  “Two years,” I answered, grateful for the change in subject. “They’re opening a new section next spring.”

  “About the houses, what kind of space we talking?”

  I pointed at a Tudor to our left. A lighted nativity scene graced the lawn. “That’s the Montreal, Highgrove’s smallest model. It’s around 2,400 square feet.” A white-brick colonial pulled his attention away. “Stunning isn’t it?” I said. “I sold it last year. It’s the Houston. One of the largest at 3,100.”

  “You remember what each of these models cost?” he asked

  “Yes, why?”

  “I wanna know how much Icky paid.” Trace slid a pointed look in my direction. “I think he’s back in the life. Drugs.” He rested his head on the seat. “When he picked me up at Gainstown, first thing I noticed was his teeth.”

  I frowned. “Okay, now you’ve lost me.”

  “If you’d’ve seen him four years ago, you’d understand. His mouth was a war zone. Now his teeth are capped. That kind of work doesn’t come cheap. New choppers. New truck. New house. Saw him at Rascal’s the other day sporting a friggen Rolex. We had drinks together. Looked strung out to me.”

  We approached Beverly’s street. “I’d have to see what model they’re in before I can give you a price, but these homes start in the mid four hundreds.”

  He whistled. “What’s the high end?”

  “Five-fifteen,” I said, squinting at house numbers.

  We pulled into the cul-de-sac where the O’Dell’s stunning Dutch Colonial stood out in relief. As I crept into the driveway, Trace stared up at the house, slack-jawed. “Holy shit,” he said. “No friggen way.” He flicked a glance at me. “How much?”

  Oh, God. The Tuscany.

  One of the priciest models.

  “Five hundred and ten thousand,” I sputtered, then repaired, “but with a forty-year mortgage or an interest only payment option, anything’s possible. You know, creative financing?”

  “Puhleeze. They don’t make enough to afford a crib like this. Icky can’t be pulling more than twenty K, and that’s being generous. You got him the job. Am I close?”

  I gave a reluctant nod. “Twenty-one-five.”

  “Bev would be at about thirty-five K—forty tops. That puts them at a little over sixty thou. It’s drug money.”

  I killed the engine and propped an arm over the steering wheel, staring past the snowflakes pelting the window. A dim glow of Christmas lights lit the dark yard. “I don’t believe it. I can’t. Not with Beverly being so…so religious. Just last month I saw her and two other ladies handing out church flyers outside of Walgreens.”

  His eyes turned to stone as he fussed with his seatbelt. “Oh, yeah, she does her share of Bible-thumpin’, but she has the same issues my mama had. Pleasing her man trumps everything.” He shook his head. “You’d never know it, but my sister’s got a 130 IQ. Yeah, she’s real smart. But she’s dumb as hell when it comes to Icky.”

  Trace threw his door open. He cut around the hood and helped me out. He was a collection of contrasts. Though he’d been gentle when he led me with care up the walkway, his face was iron-hard. His hand felt rough, yet protective. He seemed aware of my presence, but consumed by his own thoughts. The fine lines in his forehead had deepened. He was somewhere else, someone else, which made me very worried about him.

  When the porch lights flooded the lawn, I gave little thought to who might see us. I was too focused on Trace, and what he might encounter in that house.

  The front door swung open and his sister appeared in a short jungle-print robe with matching low-heeled mules. Raccoon eyes, red-rimmed and puffy stared out from a bloodless face. Pink rollers lopped against her head as her gaze batted from Trace to me.


  Beverly hugged herself tight. She sent me a curt nod, then glared at her brother. The cigarette jutting from her lips seesawed when she spoke. “Thought you was comin’ alone.”

  Trace’s eagle eyes were narrowed on the brightly lit hallway beyond Beverly. “You wanna tell me what’s up?”

  Beverly snatched the cigarette from her mouth. She flung a restless glance over her shoulder and gripped the door. “I shouldn’t have called you, okay? Go on home. It’s fine now.” When we cleared the stairs, she gestured wide with her cigarette hand. Smoke and ashes ghosted her movements. “Go on,” she ordered. “Patrick’s just havin’ a bad—”

  CRASH!

  Trace forged past us and followed the sound.

  “Oh, hell’s bells,” Beverly sputtered, tearing after him.

  I wasn’t far behind, but froze once I entered the kitchen. Broken glass littered the floor. Patrick was sitting at the center island, drink in hand: a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey to his left, a full ashtray to his right. Orange bristles covered his jaw, and bags, like mini flour sacks, underscored his tired eyes. When I’d first met him, he’d been polite and groomed. This Patrick was a scruffy mess of stringy red hair, angry eyes, and rumpled clothes.

  I’d never met this man.

  TRACE

  ____________________________

  “Look what the wind blew in,” Icky taunted.

  I ignored him and glanced around. The huge kitchen was loaded with fancy stainless steel appliances. Hunter green counter tops. Granite. Maple cabinetry. A center island with a swan-neck sink. Pots and pans hung from a copper ceiling rack. The living room was decorated just as nice. This whole setup smacked of tall money, but the broken china scattered across the green ceramic tile marred the pretty picture.

  I looked at Icky. “What happened in here?”

  “None of your business.” Icky guzzled his drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. To Bev he barked, “You call him?”

  “I was afraid. I didn’t want the police to show up.”

  “So you thought your little brother could put me in line?” Icky poured another drink. “Yeah, right. His pussy-ass won’t even go down in Gary’s basement.” He glanced at me and laughed. “Fucking coward.”

  Bev pleaded, “Patrick, put the bottle down.”

  “Patrick, put the bottle down,” Icky mimicked in falsetto.

  “He’s on antidepressants,” Bev said with a sob. “Now he’s mixing ‘em with liquor. He lost—”

  “Shut the hell up,” Icky roared.

  Bev tried again. “His boss caught ‘im—”

  Icky smacked the counter top, his eyes wild and raging. “I said shut the hell up!”

  “—caught ‘im in the men’s room,” Bev yelled back, “snorting coke! He got fired two weeks ago, Tracemore, and I’m just findin’ out. He’s been leaving the house, dressed in a suit and tie and goin’ God knows where!”

  I remembered the day at Rascal’s. Icky had looked like he’d just come from the office. “You back with Spyder?”

  Icky considered me for a moment, then settled his mocking eyes on Shannon, as if noticing her for the first time. “I thought you had better taste, Ms. Bradford.”

  I lurched forward, but Shannon tugged me back. “Don’t,” she said.

  Icky winked at me. “Better listen to her.”

  Bev shook her head, her expression grim.

  “Answer the question,” I said, my voice just above a whisper. “Are you working for Spyder again?”

  Amusement lit Icky’s eyes. “Why would you think that?”

  “This house.” I nodded at Icky’s wrist. “That Rolex. And the piece of shit car you picked me up in—just to throw me off.”

  “Jealous?” Icky said with a malevolent smirk.

  “Of you? Uh-uh.” I folded my arms and leaned against the wall. Shannon stood next to me. “I just wanna know how a data entry clerk and a…a—”

  “Cosmetologist,” Bev told me.

  I rolled my eyes. “Right. A fingernail painter. Where’d the money come from, Beverly?”

  Bev sent me a searing look. “Y’all need to go.”

  “I knew your let bygones be bygones was a load of horseshit,” Icky hissed. “You got nerve coming here all sanctimonious. I inherited some money from my uncle. Not that it’s any business of yours.”

  “What uncle?” I asked. “You grew up in an orphanage.”

  Icky’s sullen eyes narrowed. “Jeez. You are such a clueless dick! What do you think is paying for Cole’s stay in that nuthouse?” He beat his chest. “My money! That’s what. But do I get a thank-you? No. All you ever do is—”

  “Trust me, when I’m able, I’ll take care of my brother,” I spat. “The last thing he needs is to be tangled up in your—”

  “But that’s just it. You can’t take care of him now, can you, Mr. Parolee?” Icky tossed a hand and scowled. “Why am I even trying to justify myself to a murdering lowlife like you anyway?”

  I glared at him for a long while, then said, “You talk too much.”

  “The truth hurts,” Icky goaded. “Killing is easy for you Dawsons.” To his wife, he said, “Isn’t it, sweetie pie?” Soon as my brows arched, Icky said, “Did you know your sister—”

  “Patrick!” Bev’s eyes bulged out of her face. “Don’t!”

  Icky laughed and upended the bottle. “Why not? What’s there to be ashamed of? All you did was murder my child.”

  Shannon gasped.

  I swung a curious look at my sister.

  “Tell them!” Icky yelled. “Or I will!”

  Beverly’s eyes spilled over with tears. She shrank away, dragged a chair from the kitchen table and sank into it. Leaning both elbows on the surface, she pressed her forehead to her palm.

  A full minute passed before she uttered a word. “It was a while back,” Bev finally said. “Patrick was still in Gainstown and we were always fightin’. I wasn’t sure we had a future and I didn’t think I could raise a child alone. So I aborted it. That’s why he slapped me, Tracemore. That’s why!”

  Shannon stood beside Beverly and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Why didn’t you ask your family for help?”

  Bev wiped her nose with a ball of tissue she’d pulled from her bra. “Mama didn’t approve of Patrick.”

  Icky knocked back a swig. “The witch hated me.”

  “Damn it, shut up,” Bev snapped over her shoulder. One of her curlers drooped above her eye and she flung it back with an impatient flick of her hand. “I’d already given a baby up for adoption when I was 13. I didn’t want to, but Daddy made me.” She sniffed. “What I did this time…I know it was selfish, but I couldn’t bear not knowing what—I just couldn’t bear it again!”

  “Eddie Gray’s bastard,” Icky put in. “Yeah, that’s right, Ms. Bradford. That greasy ball of fat knocked her up when they were teens, then tried to say it wasn’t his. Even called her a whore. Trace beat the crap out of him a few years later, and they’ve been at odds ever since.” He guzzled the whiskey. “Know what yanks my chain about this whole thing? That she gave his baby away—let it live—but she killed mine.”

  Icky’s angry eyes cut to me. “You’re all one twisted family of killers, but I don’t just blame Bev, I blame you too. You’re the one who put doubts in her mind. You and your mother poisoned her against me. You both got what you deserved.”

  “Trace?” Shannon came back to me. “We should leave.”

  I glowered at Icky. “We got what we deserved, huh?”

  “You’ll never guess it in a million years,” Icky taunted.

  “Patrick, if you care for me, you’ll stop this,” Bev cried.

  Icky laughed at her. “Shut up.”

  I grabbed Shannon’s hand. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Hey, Butcher Boy!” Icky called after me. Pride rang in his voice. “Still wondering who wrote that parole letter?”

  I was halfway across the kitchen when I jerked to a stop. Bile seared my th
roat like an eruption from hell. I rounded, my anxious gaze skipping to Bev for confirmation, but she just shook her head and dissolved into tears.

  Shannon wheeled around. Her face was ghost pale.

  “That’s right,” Icky said with a hard laugh. “I did it, and I’d do it again in a mother fucking heartbeat.”

  “You wrote that filth?” Shannon asked, eyes round.

  Felt like Icky had plunged an ice pick into my chest. “After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?”

  “Oh, you mean Nyle Weathers?”

  Blood raced to my head and my vision blurred.

  Shannon gazed up at me. “What is he talking about?”

  “Big, bad Butcher Boy,” Icky taunted. “I don’t owe you a damn thing. My baby’s dead because you clouded Bev’s mind with lies. Making her doubt me!”

  Mad as hell, I stood ramrod stiff, arms at my sides, clenching and unclenching my fists while Icky kept the rant going.

  “And here’s the best part,” Icky continued. “They scraped Bev’s womb so clean she’s barren now! She thinks it’s God’s judgment, but I blame you.” He took a swallow of booze then pointed the empty glass at Shannon. “I got the letter idea after I saw her ad. When I told her about my felony, she volunteered to help me with my resume. Once I got to her office, stealing the stamper was easy. It was just sitting on a desk begging me to take it. Grabbed the stationery the second time I—”

  “Trace, no!”

  I barely heard Shannon’s cry and Bev’s screams. The roaring in my ears all but drowned them out. I snatched Icky off the stool and punched him so hard he went crashing into the wall. A fancy digital wall clock smashed to the floor. Its guts raced across the floor like roaches.

  “Mama killed herself ‘cause of you!” I stalked to where Icky sat slumped in a corner, gasping and bleeding. Shannon yanked at my arm, but I kept going.

  Before I could finish Icky off, Bev threw herself between us. “Get out!” She fell to her knees and clutched Icky to her breast. “Get outta my house ‘for I call the law! Get out!”

  Shannon tugged me from behind. “Come on. Please!”

  I blinked as her voice slowly registered. The red haze faded like mist, but the pain lingered. I narrowed my eyes on my sister and when I finally spoke moments later, my throat was raw. “All this time. You knew, and you didn’t say a damn thing. What the hell is wrong with you?”