by C. B. Clark
“Goodbye, Mrs. Higgensdorf.” Carrie Ann huffed out a weary sigh and turned toward the door.
Mrs. Higgensdorf, her voice strident, called to her. “What’s in the box, Carrie Ann? Is it your mother’s? I heard Vivian found some of her effects. Who’d have thought after all these years—”
“Go home, Mrs. Higgensdorf.” Carrie Ann unlocked the front door and stepped into the hushed quiet of the big house. She closed the door behind her, leaned against the solid, cool surface, and breathed.
Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? Mary Higgensdorf was probably already on the phone spreading the word Carrie Ann Hetherington had come back to town to help Declan McAllister prove his innocence. Before the day was out, the entire town would have her sleeping with him. As if that would ever happen.
Chapter 5
Declan lifted his soda and drank, grimacing at the saccharine-sweet taste. He leaned against the shiny, cracked, vinyl back of the bench seat. The High Five Bar and Pool Hall was busy for a Thursday night. Most of the booths were filled, and a crowd stood at the bar demanding service from the lone bartender. Smoke hung in a thick haze, dulling the low wattage lighting even more and making his eyes water. Apparently the sheriff was too busy to enforce the indoor no-smoking bylaws in Cooper’s Ridge.
The battered wooden door opened, and Sheldon stepped into the bar. He glanced around the room, spotted Declan at the back table, waved, and shouldered his way through the mob. “Hey, man, good to see you,” he shouted over the buzz of conversation, the sharp crack of billiard balls, and twang of honkytonk music emanating from a pair of oversized speakers set against the far wall by a tiny, rickety-looking stage.
Declan stood and shook his friend’s hand and then they sat, facing each other across the scarred, wooden table.
Sheldon signaled the harried waitress for a beer for himself and another soda for Declan. He swung back to Declan. “So, the prodigal son returns. Finally.”
Declan ground his teeth. Everyone felt the need to comment on the all-too-obvious fact he was back in town. “Didn’t you think I would?”
“I wasn’t sure. You can be one stubborn cuss when you want.”
“I should have done something years ago. This mess has been hanging over me far too long.”
“Well, you’re back now.” Light reflected off Sheldon’s scalp, visible through his thinning red hair when he nodded. A deep furrow ran between his thick, red brows, and a myriad of tiny lines extended from the outer corners of his eyes as if he spent a lot of time squinting over numbers. “I’m glad you are.”
The years had taken a toll on Sheldon, but Declan wasn’t the same man he’d once been either. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept through the night without waking in the throes of a nightmare; a nightmare that didn’t end when he awoke.
“Declan?”
He shoved his dark thoughts away and turned his attention to Sheldon. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I asked if you’d talked to the sheriff yet.”
Declan shook his head. “First, I want to meet with the private investigator I hired and see what he’s found. The sheriff’s going to need some serious convincing before he’ll even begin to look elsewhere for a suspect.”
The waitress bustled over with a large, frothy pint of beer and a glass of soda.
“Hey, Tanya.” Sheldon flashed her his one-hundred-watt, toothy grin. “Busy tonight.”
She cracked her gum and cocked a hip. “Big football game over at the high school. Our team won.”
“What?” Sheldon chuckled. “The other team didn’t show up?”
She chortled, a deep throaty sound. “Better not let anyone hear you. In these parts, dissing the local team’s grounds for murder.”
Declan cringed at her choice of word, but when she didn’t glare at him and continued her teasing banter, he relaxed. Maybe everyone in town didn’t know about his past. He’d been gone ten years after all. Maybe to some people, what had happened prom night twelve years ago, was old news.
“Hey, have you met my friend, Declan?” Sheldon pointed across the table.
The waitress turned her sharp-eyed gaze on him. Her face would have been pretty if her skin wasn’t plastered with so much caked-on makeup and her eyelashes clumped together with layers of thick, black mascara. “No, but I know who he is. You’re quite a celebrity around these parts, Declan.” She popped her gum. “Everyone’s talking about you.”
Declan didn’t have to scan the room to know she told the truth. From the moment he’d walked into the bar, all eyes had been on him. He’d known he’d face distrust and antagonism when he returned to town; he hadn’t counted on how much the censure would bother him.
“What are they saying?” Sheldon craned his neck as he peered around the bar.
Declan glowered. What was with the man? He knew damn well what the topic of the bar patrons’ chatter was.
Tanya picked up his empty glass and set it on her tray. “They’re saying y’all had something to do with some poor girl’s death a while back.”
Declan bit back a gasp, startled at her candor. “What do you think?”
She shot him an assessing gaze. “I don’t pay much attention to gossip. I make my own decisions about people.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“Hey, Tanya, quit gabbing and get your sorry butt back here,” the bartender hollered at her.
She turned on her heel and flipped him the finger. “Enjoy your drinks,” she called over her shoulder to Sheldon and Declan, and strutted, hips swaying, back to the bar.
Declan lifted his soda and drained half the contents in a single swallow, hoping the icy liquid erased the bitter taste in his mouth.
“So”—Sheldon shrugged—“people are talking. What’s new, right?” He flashed a grin. “This is Cooper’s Ridge after all.”
Declan grunted.
“I saw Carrie Ann today,” Sheldon said.
Declan sucked in a breath.
“I heard she was in town, so I stopped by her aunt’s place.” He held up a hand as if to forestall any words of protest from Declan. “I know, I know, she’s a bitch and you hate her. Hell, I don’t blame you one little bit. She done you wrong, buddy.”
Declan didn’t say anything. He had no intention of discussing Carrie Ann with Sheldon or anyone else.
“I have to say, man, she looks damn good.”
Declan scowled, but he couldn’t help thinking Sheldon was right. Even covered in mud and drenched with rainwater, Carrie Ann was beautiful. He was still pissed at the kick in the gut he’d felt when he’d seen her standing in the road. It had taken all his willpower not to kiss her, or at least touch her, to see if she tasted as sweet as she used to, or if her skin was as soft. But he couldn’t forget what she’d done, and it was as if a layer of ice had formed around him and suddenly, keeping his distance was easy.
Sheldon was still speaking. “I can’t believe after all these years, this private dick of yours thinks he can find any new evidence.”
“I’ve heard he’s pretty good.”
“He’ll have to be. The sheriff and his crew didn’t find much when they searched the crime scene years ago.”
“You mean, they didn’t find proof pointing at any one person, and that left me as their fall guy.” Declan rubbed his stomach, pressing hard to ease the all-too-familiar painful twisting deep in his guts as he relived the nightmare memories of the law’s injustice.
“They sure were gunning for you, especially Judge Winters. He was furious when the sheriff had to release you.”
“The sheriff had to let me go. He didn’t have a choice. The charge wouldn’t stick. How could it when there wasn’t any hard evidence against me?” The knot in Declan’s gut tightened. “Part of the reason the local authorities agreed to take a second look at this case is their hope they’ll find something to finally pin Skye’s murder on me.”
“But they won’t, right? You must be stoked.” Sheldon leaned across the table. His b
eer-scented breath washed over Declan. “I mean, if this private investigator comes through, we’ll finally know who killed Skye, and you’ll be in the clear.”
“I sure as hell hope so.”
“You know, your friends never thought you had anything to do with her murder. They believed in you.”
Declan’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Yeah? Well, where were all these friends twelve years ago? Where are they now?” He met the stare of a bearded man wearing a ball cap with the local football team’s logo stenciled across the sweat-stained peak, slouched in a chair at a nearby table. Randy Martin. They’d been in the same grade in high school.
Randy nudged the beefy guy sitting beside him. His dark brows furrowed in a vee as he said something. The other man eyed Declan, and then they both glared.
Declan turned away, his gut churning. He should be used to this. He’d faced the same distrust and hatred since the moment he’d become the prime suspect in Skye Lawrence’s disappearance and murder. The fact he’d been cleared of the crime was irrelevant. As far as the people in Cooper’s Ridge were concerned, he was guilty. They didn’t care that no real evidence against him existed. He was the prime suspect. He’d been dragged into the police station for questioning; therefore, he must be guilty.
“Well, when your investigator finds out who murdered Skye, everyone will know the truth.” Sheldon nodded. “They’ll be eating crow for years trying to make it up to you.”
Declan smiled at his friend. Through all the hell of these past years, Sheldon had stuck by him. When he’d moved away, they’d kept in contact. And now he was back in town. Being seen with him, the local pariah, couldn’t be good for Sheldon’s business. Yet, here he was.
Sheldon had suggested they meet at the High Five for a drink. Declan hadn’t wanted to, but Sheldon had insisted. He said he wasn’t going to let Declan hide like a criminal. He had to get out and meet his accusers face-to-face. Ice cubes clunked as he swigged more soda and drained the glass. He never had been able to refuse his friend anything.
Sheldon tapped Declan’s empty glass. “I see you’re still not drinking booze. That’s crazy, man. Have a drink with me. One beer won’t turn you into your old man.”
Declan licked his lips. He wanted a beer, could almost taste the bittersweet ale, wanted nothing more than to lose his mind in an alcohol haze, at least for a while. But he wasn’t going to have a beer. He’d promised himself years ago, he wouldn’t drink like his old man. He’d broken his pact only once—the night Skye was murdered. And look how that had turned out. He heaved a sigh. “I’d better take off. I have some paperwork to finish tonight.”
“Always the busy executive.” Sheldon emptied his glass. “How’s the business doing anyway? Still raking in the dough?”
“Still making money.” At least the work side of his life was going well. Business was good, very good.
“Who’d have thought people would spend a small fortune to have you buy and sell stocks for them?”
“Lucky for me they do. The private investigator I hired doesn’t come cheap.” Declan stood and tossed some cash on the table. “Thanks, Sheldon.” He waved a hand indicating the empty glasses. “I needed to get out.”
“Hey, what can I say? You’re my friend, man. We go back a long ways.”
“Good night.” He turned to leave.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Sheldon called after him.
“I don’t know. I’m going to be pretty busy these next few days.”
Sheldon nodded. “I’ll call.”
Declan threaded his way through the crowd toward the door.
“Hey!”
Someone grabbed his arm. He stopped and faced a burly man with watery, red eyes. Spittle flecked the corners of his mouth.
“You’re the asshole who killed that poor, sweet, high school gal, aren’t you?” the man slurred.
Declan shook off his hand and turned to leave.
“What? Are you too chicken to fight someone your own size? You only like to hurt women?”
He forced himself to keep walking.
The bar had grown silent. Someone had turned down the music, and even the clink of glasses had ceased.
Walk away. Walk away. He took another step and then another. The door and escape seemed miles distant.
“How did it feel when you wrapped your hands around her throat and squeezed the life out of her?” the man taunted. “Did she beg you to stop? Did you get a kick out of hurting her, you asshole?”
Declan whirled and faced his accuser. “What did you say?” he bit off. He had the satisfaction of seeing the other man’s face pale.
The drunk stumbled back a step, before steadying himself against his friend. He studied the ring of bright-eyed spectators, puffed out his chest and sucked in his large belly. “I asked what it felt like to murder that girl.” His red-streaked eyes glared at Declan.
“And you’re asking me this because?” Declan kept his voice neutral, but his insides seethed.
The other man blinked. “What sort of monster are you?” he sneered.
Declan shook his head in disgust. Once again, he turned and walked away.
The drunk called after him, his slurred words carrying over the strains of country western music. “Better lock up your daughters and wives, fellas. Declan McAllister’s back in town. Ain’t no female safe now.”
Fire burned in Declan’s belly, and he clenched his jaw until his teeth ached, but he kept walking, placing one foot in front of the other toward the red Exit sign. He ached to punch the drunken jerk in the face, smash his fist again and again until his jowly cheeks were a bloody pulp. Oh, yeah, he wanted to hit him. But he was going to walk out of the bar. He couldn’t beat up everyone who accused him of Skye’s murder. Half the town would be in the hospital.
He reached the exit, kicked open the battered door and stepped into the parking lot. As the door closed behind him, he sucked in the fresh night air and contemplated the sky, trying to cool the fire heating his blood. Stars twinkled in the clear night, so distant, removed from human troubles. He envied them.
Why had he come back? No one gave a damn about the truth. As far as the people in this town were concerned, he was guilty—as good as tried and convicted. No matter what proof he offered, no matter what the Sheriff’s Office ruled, to the people of Cooper’s Ridge, he’d always be the guy who kidnapped and murdered Skye Lawrence. After all, he was a McAllister. Like father, like son. Right?
A hand gripped his arm. He spun, fist cocked, ready to strike, adrenaline coursing through him. He drew back at the last second. “What the hell, Sheldon? Do you want to get punched?”
Sheldon released his hold on Declan’s arm and stumbled back a step. He gestured toward the bar. “I couldn’t let you leave like that.” He held out a cigarette. “Here.”
Declan shook his head. He’d smoked when he was in high school, but quit cold turkey years ago.
Sheldon pulled a lighter from his shirt pocket and lit the cigarette. He blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into the night air.
The music from the bar throbbed. Laughter and voices once again raised in heated conversation reached them.
Sheldon broke the silence. “Joe Phillips’ an ass.”
Declan nodded. He couldn’t agree more.
“No, I mean it. He’s a blowhard. He’s in the bar all the time, drinks too much, and gets into a fight more nights than not. You can’t listen to what he says.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve heard worse. I expect I’ll get even more hassle now the case has been reopened. I can handle it.”
“I never doubted you, you know? Not once.”
Tears burned Declan’s eyes. “I know, man. I know.” He turned and walked toward the far end of the dimly lit parking lot where he’d left his truck. He couldn’t help the wave of despair flooding him. Sheldon might have stood by him, but he knew damn well he was the only one who had.
The one person who should have believed in him, the one person who should have stuck by
him through the whole sordid mess hadn’t. The one person he’d counted on had deserted him when he’d needed her the most. He’d never forgive her.
Chapter 6
Declan swerved around another deep pothole. The truck skidded on the loose gravel, the rear end swinging wide. He gripped the steering wheel as the heavy vehicle shuddered and bounced over a series of washboards.
He’d been on his way out to the old farm on Getty’s Road the night he’d run into Carrie Ann and her flat tire. Earlier that day, he’d received an anonymous text instructing him to go to the farm. The person who texted him said he’d meet him at the farm at eight o’clock, and promised proof of who murdered Skye Lawrence.
Chances were the text was a cruel trick, but Declan couldn’t ignore it. He’d jump through the fires of Hell if the slightest possibility existed to prove his innocence. Running into Carrie Ann had ruined his plans.
After he’d dropped her off at her aunt’s house, he drove to the old farm, but the place was deserted. Whoever texted him was long gone. If it weren’t for Carrie Ann, he might be holding evidence to point to Skye’s killer. A part of him knew he was being unfair. She hadn’t shot out her own tire, but he couldn’t stop blaming her. This whole damn nightmare was her fault.
Incredibly, he’d received another text a few hours ago saying there was something to be found at the farm. The entire scenario seemed like a joke, and at first, he’d decided to ignore the text. But he couldn’t get it out of his mind. What if the person was telling the truth? What if some sort of clue to who murdered Skye existed? He couldn’t risk the possibility the anonymous texter was telling the truth.
He steered the truck through a puddle spanning the width of the road and turned left onto a narrow lane. The path to the farm was more track than road, winding through thick underbrush, almost vanishing in places where heavy vegetation covered the gravel.
Rankin’s deserted farm had been the party place of choice back in high school. He and the other kids from town had gone there after every hometown football, basketball, or baseball game, either to celebrate a win or cry over a loss. The rough, little-used road made it clear the kids didn’t go there anymore. They’d more than likely found a place closer to town.