“It wasn’t about you,” Icky yelled at her. Blood poured from his mouth. He spat out a tooth and looked at me fiercely. “It was about him. It was always about him!”
Beverly’s head shot up. “I’m sorry for what he done, Tracemore. Real sorry. But tellin’ you would’ve made stuff worse. Now we see I was right.”
“Bullshit, Beverly!” I stabbed a finger over Shannon’s head. “You were protecting him. Can’t you see how he destroyed us? How can you forgive him? And don’t go hiding behind no Bible verses. It’s too damn late for that!”
Icky hocked another bloody tooth on the floor. It took effort, but he rose to his feet on shaky legs. Prideful insolence painted his bludgeoned face.
Shannon curled a steady arm around mine. She looked mad and disgusted as I gave my sister a fiery once-over.
“You were in pain.” Bev lifted her teary eyes. “I-I didn’t want to add to it. I did it for our family. I did it for you.”
I looked from Bev to Icky, and back again. “For me.” I sniffed hard. Tried to stuff my emotions inside where I could control them. When that didn’t work, I gave my throat an exaggerated clearing. Aw, hell. I had to get out of here.
“Tracemore!” Bev cupped a hand over her mouth. Tears and drool leaked from between her fingers. “Please forgive me!”
As I staggered from the house like a blind bull, I heard Shannon yell, “God help you both!” before tearing off after me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Breakthrough
SHANNON
____________________________
Moonlight bathed Jefferson Boulevard in a pale wash of silver while I drove. The car was quiet, except for an Ed Sheeran song filling the silence. Trace had said nothing during the ride back, leaving me unsure of what to do.
Every now and then I’d reach for his hand to give it a sympathetic squeeze, and he’d return the gesture, though absently. Less than three feet separated us, yet he seemed miles away.
The scene at the O’Dell’s still haunted me, but one cryptic exchange screamed the loudest:
‘After everything I’ve done for you,’ Trace had said. Patrick’s reply? ‘…Oh, you mean Nyle Weathers?’ More damning words followed. ‘…My contacts are sure Dawson was involved in his death,’ Darien had said. ‘They just didn’t have the evidence to prove it.’
I drew a shaky breath, not liking the path my thoughts had taken. Did Trace kill that prisoner? If so, what could have driven him to it? Every part of me, from my flesh to my soul, desperately hoped my suspicions were wrong.
I found an empty space half a block away from his house and rolled in beneath the hulking shadow of an overgrown pine. After I cut the engine, I faced him, squeezed his limp hand again. This time he didn’t squeeze back.
Winter’s chill seeped into the car, and when Trace finally looked at me, I could see his breath. He rested his head against the seat. His doleful eyes were dark and haunted, telegraphing a thousand hells.
I’d seen him furious. I’d seen him indifferent, and I’d seen more than a dozen of his emotions in between.
But this?
Never.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Naw.” He shook his head. “You?”
“I’m still numb, I guess.”
He shifted. Moonlight poured over half his face. “Icky, I get,” he said, his voice hoarse from yelling, “but Beverly….”
“Can you forgive her?”
He shrugged. “I dunno, but if you don’t press charges against him, I will.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
His eyes narrowed. “We’re talking theft, forgery and a bunch of other—”
“What about Nyle Weathers?”
A wall crashed between us and he looked straight ahead.
“Patrick knows what happened in Gainstown,” I said. “He’ll likely hold his tongue as long as you do.” I watched the subtle changes on his face while understanding registered. “Please. I need to know the truth. Did you kill him?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes or no, Trace?” He didn’t answer, so I grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at me. “How can I believe anything that comes out of your mouth?”
He jerked his chin away. Fury sharpened his expression, as if I’d punched a button inside of him—the wrong one. “You got no idea what I’ve been through. So spare me your self-righteous bullshit.”
His words cut into me like a switchblade.
“Hell,” Trace said, “why should I tell you anything?” He pushed the hair off his face. “You yank down the blinds when folks see us together. You show up at my house wearing a damn hood—and you expect me to trust you? I won’t spill my guts to a woman who’s ashamed of me, much less get involved with her.”
“For the last time, I’m not ashamed,” I said, forcing a calm I didn’t feel.
Trace flicked a glance at my hood. “That says otherwise.”
Okay, he was mad and hurting. What better way than to take his rage out on me? Small wonder he’d try to turn things around, but I wasn’t about to let him get away with it.
“My hood has nothing to do with this situation. We’re talking about your inability to—”
“It has everything to do with what just happened.” He laughed, but it sounded cruel. “You want honesty? So do I. Can you really see us together? Here or anywhere else?”
My face fell and I sank against the driver’s side door. I told myself his words were meaningless. That he was wrong, but he’d hit his mark. “Why are you pushing me away?”
He sighed. “Because I’m beer nuts and you’re…you’re truffles,” he said bitterly. “You know words I’ve never heard before. You’ve built a successful business on your own. You’ve got book smarts, money and I-I don’t have a pot to—”
“No.”
He did a double take. “No, what?”
“No, I can’t see us together,” I told him. “And it’s not because of your education level or social standing. Given everything you accuse me of, don’t you think it strange how I always find my way back to you? Even after all these years. But none of that matters because I can’t possibly be with a man who doesn’t trust me.”
“So go marry that rich prick and be done with it!”
“This has nothing to do with him,” I yelled. “You lied. Now you say you want to help me, but you insist on keeping secrets. I can get that at home. I don’t need it from you.”
“Tell you what.” He gave me a scathing once-over. “When you lose that hood, when you can admit to your family—to Montgomery…hell, this whole town—how you feel about me, then maybe this ‘friendship’ won’t be such a damn joke. Right now they all prob’ly think I’m a pet project of yours. Just like Icky was.” He laughed bitterly. “Who knows? Maybe I am.”
An eternity passed before I trusted myself to speak. “I’m sorry Beverly lied,” I said in a painfully controlled voice. “And I’m sorry Patrick wrote that hateful letter.” When fire flashed in his eyes, I narrowed mine. “Yes, you had a terrible night. We both did. But you still have no excuse for lying. And you want to know what hurts most? That you feel no guilt for your dishonesty.”
“Why should I? I told you I didn’t kill your mama, but you still didn’t believe me. So yeah, I lied. At the time, I didn’t think you deserved to know the truth, but since Icky spilled the beans, I’ll tell you exactly how Nyle Weathers died.”
“I don’t want to hear it!”