“I do too.” An awkward moment followed, one of unspoken words and untested emotions. Much needed saying, but I didn’t know where to begin. I got up and wandered into the adjacent walk-in closet. “So I’ll see you at two on Wednesday?” I said, staring at my rack of clothes with blind eyes.
“Yeah. Shannon?”
His tone changed, letting me know he planned to take the subject in the direction we’d both been avoiding.
I snatched a pair of jeans from a hanger. It went flying. “I’m really running late—”
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said.
Not a smooth segue, but then, ‘it’ had loomed in the background during our entire conversation. ‘It’ being what we’d done at his house. ‘It’ being what he continued to do to me now. It was insane. Even as we’d talked about Mother’s murder, ‘it’ had been there the whole time.
Just listening to his voice dragged me back to that night. I could still feel his body pressed against mine. His mouth on my breast. The tugging. The wetness. Everything bounced between us like a flaming boomerang.
I yanked an ankle boot from the shoetree, retrieved its mate, and strode back into my room to flop on the edge of the bed. “I can’t talk about this now.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
“Suit yourself.” His voice was sandpaper rough. “But it’s not going away.”
SHANNON
____________________________
He was right. It didn’t go away. The second I laid eyes on him at Rascal’s Wednesday afternoon, the intensity ignited. The drive to Valene Campbell’s was as uncomfortable as I’d feared, and if I thought I’d have a reprieve once we arrived at our destination, I had to think again.
Even as we followed Jane Younger down the hall of her federal style home, I had to fight to keep my mind on the task at hand. I made a point of not looking at Trace since it would just lead to distraction.
Instead, I concentrated on the waspish, middle-aged woman in front of me.
Jane Younger was a reedy, whey-faced brunette with frosty gray eyes and a brusque gait. Wearing a chignon and a stodgy, gray dress that made a whooshing sound as she walked, she marched us down a corridor flanked by ugly paintings and cheap knickknacks.
The place resembled its owner, cold and hollow.
“I don’t like this,” Jane said. She threw a terse glance at us over her rigid shoulders. “But Nana insisted.”
I exchanged a guarded look with Trace. “We do appreciate your hospitality, Ms. Younger.”
“Just don’t upset her,” came the snippy reply. To Trace she said, “Had I been home to receive your call, you wouldn’t be here. Only reason you are now is because Nana answered.”
We came to a long staircase and Trace stepped back in deference to the stodgy Ms. Younger. He gave her a good ‘ol boy grin, and the corners of her pencil-thin lips fell south.
When we’d reached the top, Jane led us to a sitting room that smelled of mothballs and liniment. A bay window centered the stone-faced south wall. Light speared across the hardwood floor from a lone table lamp.
Jane approached a small, shriveled old woman with steel-gray hair. She sat hunched over in a wooden wheelchair by the window. A thin green quilt draped her spindly legs.
“Nana?” Jane spoke as if she were conversing with a child. “Your visitors are here. This is Shannon Bradford and—”
“I know who she is,” Valene snapped. She did a complete one-eighty when she flashed a cavernous smile at me. “The Little Miss. How’ve you been?”
“Just fine, Mrs. Campbell. And yourself?”
“Can’t complain. Can’t complain.” She hiked a frail shoulder, then cast a testy glance at her granddaughter. “‘Cept for Janie hiding my mail and screening my calls. Thinks she’s my mother, she does. Um-hmm.”
“Oh, Nana, please.” Jane rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand. She turned to Trace who stood behind the old woman. “This is Mister….” She frowned into a unibrow. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
Panic made my pulse dance. We’d not given his full name for good reason. Trace had mentioned that when he’d spoken to Mrs. Campbell on the phone, she told him to use another name. Jane wouldn’t have let him in otherwise. So we’d introduced him as Mr. Phillips—a play off his middle name.
Before Trace could respond, Valene turned an eye on him. When he came around the chair, she extended a claw-like hand. Her knuckles were bulbous and liver-spotted. “Tracemore Dawson, as I live and breathe.”
Jane Younger’s eyes bugged out of her head. She sputtered, “Trace Dawson? You mean The Butcher—”
“Yep, that’s the one.” Valene chuckled as Trace squatted beside her wheelchair to clasp her hand. “Run along now, Janie. I’ll be fine.”
“But Nana—”
“Run along,” Valene drawled, her smile as crooked and toothless as it was brittle. “And close the door.”
Jane batted a worried look between Trace and me. “See that you don’t get her worked up,” she hissed. After one last cagey glance at Trace, she stalked out and shut the door soundly behind her.
I stood over the old woman’s chair. “If this is a bad time….”
“Forget about Janie,” Valene said. “That’s just her way.” Trace was still crouched beside her, his face expressionless. She patted his hand. “Hearing your voice last week was a blessing. I didn’t think you wanted to see me, boy. I wasn’t even sure you got my letter, much less read it.”
There was something in his eyes when he looked at the old woman, something I couldn’t read. Anxiety? Resentment? Maybe a little of both. “Well, I’m here,” he said in a low, edgy voice. “And I’m listenin’.”
The web of lines in Valene’s careworn face deepened. She shook her gray head and the loose bun tacked to her crown drooped to the left. “Sorry about your mama, boy,” she said in a quiet voice. “A sweet soul, that Dottie. Um-hmm.”
“Yes, ma’am, she was,” Trace muttered, his eyes hard.
Talk about awkward moments. I pulled up a chair and joined them, anxious to pick the old woman’s brain. “We don’t want to take too much of your time.” I slipped my cell phone from my purse. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
Mrs. Campbell looked taken aback for a moment. She glanced off. “Well…no. No, I guess I don’t mind, Little Miss.” She folded her gnarled hands. “This is a great opportunity for me. Now I get to say what I didn’t in the letter I sent Tracemore. So yeah, record away.” She gave a solemn nod. “Go on. Park yourself.”
Trace pushed to a stand and grabbed an armless Windsor chair from the corner. He flipped the thing around, straddled it and propped his arms over the back.
We formed a triangle, with the wheelchair-bound woman making the top point. He glanced at me, but didn’t hold my gaze. Even with this old woman in the room, the tension from earlier was still there, still sharp—still hot.
We’d barely spoken ten words on the long drive over here.
“First things first,” Valene said, looking at me. “You have questions about Lily.”
Lily? I wasn’t used to hearing Mother referred to in such familiar terms, especially by a former servant. But then, I suspected there were more surprises to come.
“How well did you know Miz Bradford?” Trace asked.
Valene flicked her gaze at the ceiling and the cataract in her left eye caught the light. “Oh, I knew her real good. Um-hmm. Too good, actually.” She sighed. “Always figured she’d self-destruct. First time she showed up for a meeting, I sensed it. It was the darkness. Lost souls give it off, you know.”