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.”