Steve frowned. What was an estate lawyer doing at the prison?
He studied the spidery signature—
Macon Reynolds III
—a prickling at the back of his neck and in the tips of his fingers. Last Tuesday afternoon, two days after the murder of Helen Ellis, her lawyer had paid a prison visit to a Clyde Miller.
He nudged the log sheet toward the window, tapping a finger on the relevant entry. “You know this guy?”
The deputy squinted through the glass. “Miller? Sure. He was just transferred to isolation.”
Apprehension gripped Steve. “Why?”
“He killed that other inmate.”
“Which other inmate?” he asked urgently.
The pretty deputy’s face creased in confusion. “Why, the one you were asking about. Billy Ray Dawler.”
TWENTY-ONE
M
ACON pulled his Lexus SUV into his reserved space in front of the law office at nine-thirty. He had a ten o’clock appointment with that little bitch Regan Poole, after which she would undoubtedly expect him to take her to lunch.
He might. He might not.
Her usefulness to him was over. The girl just proved Macon’s general rule that once you stuck your dick in a woman, she became less interesting and more demanding. She was too conscious of what he owed her, too critical in bed. Hell, if he wanted that kind of attitude, he could fuck his wife.
He swung out onto the sidewalk—God, it was hot—pausing to admire the picture of Leann Edwards strolling up the street, a pharmacy bag in her hand. Two kids and twenty years hadn’t robbed the bounce from her tight little cheerleader’s body. He rather regretted missing his chance with her in high school. Back then, of course, good girls hadn’t interested him. And by the time he finished law school, Leann was already married to that stick, Bryce.
He wouldn’t miss his chance now.
He lengthened his steps to intercept her. “Leann. This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you into town?”
She waggled the bag at him. “I had to pick up a prescription for Mama. She’s that upset about what happened to Daddy.”
He arranged his face into a suitably grave expression. “I heard. How is your father?”
“Doctor says he’ll be fine.”
“That’s good. You tell them I missed them in church yesterday. Your sister, too,” he added casually. “How’s she holding up?”
Leann rolled her eyes. “You know Bailey. She’s making a big fuss over nothing.”
Macon didn’t know Bailey, but she hadn’t struck him as the fussy type. She seemed quiet. Smart. Observant. All of which made her more dangerous to him.
“I guess that’s natural,” he said. “It can’t be easy for her, being in that house all alone after your father was attacked like that.”
“She’s not staying in the house. She checked herself into a hotel.”
Macon widened his eyes. “Really? Well, the Do Drop’s nice.”
“She’s not at the Do Drop. She’s at one of those nasty places out by the highway.”
His pulse picked up. “Some of them aren’t so bad. Which one?”
“Pineview? Pinecrest? I went to see her this morning, and all I can say is I’m glad I’m not staying there. Of course, it didn’t help any that she has papers all over the room.”
“Papers?” Macon asked carefully.
“Just something she’s working on. The Lord knows what she’s going to do with herself now that . . . you know, she doesn’t have a job. She asked me to bring her my old yearbooks, of all things.”
“Yearbooks.” He could barely breathe. His blood drummed in his ears.
“All four of them. I thought it was funny, too.”
Not funny. And now Leann would remember this conversation, would remember she told him about the hotel and the yearbook . . .
Shit
.
“Maybe she was bored,” he suggested. “Staying by herself.”
“She could have stayed with us. Although Mama’s in the guest bedroom now, and I don’t know what Bryce would have said, having my whole family staying with us as if they didn’t have a perfectly good house not ten miles away.”
He had to think. He had to act. Quickly.
“I’m sure Bryce would go along with whatever you wanted, Leann. He’s a lucky man.”
She dimpled and didn’t deny it. “Aren’t you sweet to say so.”
“I always thought you were the prettiest girl in high school.”
“You did not. You never once looked my way. You thought I was just some skinny ass little Goody Two-Shoes.”
Macon heard the hint of pique and smiled. He could use that. He could use her.
“Oh, I looked,” he assured her. “But you were one of the good girls, and back then, well . . .” He smiled disarmingly. “I was always such a bad boy.”
She laughed.
He took a step closer, careful not to touch her, careful not to alarm her, enjoying the pretty pink flush of excitement in her cheeks and the guilty sparkle in her eye.
“Come be a little bad with me,” he invited. “We could grab a cup of coffee.”
She tapped her well-manicured foot in its expensive sandal. “Oh, I don’t know. Bryce . . .”
“Would be welcome to join us, of course,” Macon said promptly. He observed with satisfaction the disappointed downturn of her lips. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t grudge me buying his lovely wife a cup of coffee. For old times’ sake.”
“We-ell.” Leann smiled at him, confident in her ability to attract. Secure in the knowledge she would never, ever cross the line. “I guess for old times’ sake . . .”
“My car’s right here,” Macon said, and swept her away.
THAT fucking bastard stood her up.
Regan narrowed her eyes at Macon’s middle-aged office assistant. “What do you mean, he isn’t in this morning? I had an appointment.”
The woman consulted her desk calendar. “I see that. I don’t know what could have kept him, but—”
“This really pisses me off.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Poole.” The genuine sympathy in her eyes made everything worse. “I’ll tell him you were unhappy.”
“I’ll tell him myself.” She marched toward the door to his office.
The assistant stood. “You can’t go in there.”
Regan barged through, fully expecting to find Macon behind his desk.
Fuck
. He wasn’t there. His assistant wasn’t lying about that, at least.
She appeared in the doorway, her pleasant, round face creased in worried lines. “You’ll have to leave.”
Regan tossed her hair. “Why?”
“This is Mr. Reynolds’s office,” she explained. Like Regan was stupid or something.
“But he’s not using it now, is he?”
The woman pressed her dark red lips together. Regan could have told her a lighter shade would be more flattering to her skin tone, but she wasn’t in a charitable mood. “If you’d like to wait, you can do so in the reception area.”
Regan cocked her head. “With you? You really want me out there with you and all the firm’s other clients, complaining about what an asshole your boss is? And how I can’t wait to replace him with somebody who hasn’t ridden his daddy’s coattails all his life? Maybe somebody who, I don’t know, actually knows how to spell barrister.” The woman’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I thought so,” Regan said in satisfaction. “I’ll wait in here.”
“It’s very irregular,” the assistant complained.
“So is blowing off a really big client, but that doesn’t seem to bother your stupid boss.”
Her point won, Regan sank into Macon’s large leather desk chair. She was sick of being dismissed. Ignored. Just the way her mother had ignored her, just the way her brother ignored her. Richie hadn’t even returned her call last night.
Tears tightened her throat. Asshole. They were all assholes.
Bereft, bored, and at a loss, she looked for something to occupy the time until Macon showed up. All those big fat law books had to be just for show. The man she had gotten to know was hardly the world’s biggest intellect. He probably stashed dirty magazines in his desk.
The thought cheered her. She opened a bottom drawer to reveal a box of thick, cream-colored stationery. Boring. But under it . . . Her lips curled. He had something hidden there. She tugged on a dark corner. A notebook. She pulled it out.
TANYA DAWLER. MY DIARY. KEEP OUT.
Now, why would he keep some girl’s diary in his desk?
Opening it at random, she began to read.
BAILEY lined her pencils in a row and flipped the yearbook open to the section with the seniors. If she was right—big “if ”—all she had to do to identify the father of Tanya Dawler’s baby was find a good-looking upperclassman with the name or nickname Trip. Which could be anyone with a “III” after his name.
Not that a name alone would be enough to win a conviction or even to reopen the case. But she might turn up an actual person for Steve to interview.
Margaret Allen, Evelyn Armstrong, Dawn Ayers . . .
The girls had big hair and fake pearls and velvet drapes pinned firmly between their shoulder blades by Georgina Stewart of Stewart Photography.
Reflexively, Bailey straightened her spine. Ten years after these pictures were taken she had worn the same pearls, endured the same pins and disparaging comments about her lack of bosom. She had hated it then. It was funny now.
The boys’ photographs were funny, too, with their uncomfortable expressions and tuxedo-style dickies Velcroed around their throats.
Daniel Baldwin, Richard Bland, Jr., Steven Burke . . .
Steve
.
Gosh, he looked young. All that
hair
. She smiled. How did he fit that under a football helmet? He looked out from the page with all the assurance of strength and youth, and her heart broke for him a little because his life hadn’t turned out the way he must have planned. She thought of the experience that had etched lines across his forehead and the loss that carved brackets around his mouth. And yet . . . He was the same. Tougher, maybe. Improved with age. But she recognized his dark, level gaze, his firm lips, the confident set of his shoulders.
He’d left town shortly after graduation, just like her. Just like her, he was back.
But for different reasons. Steve had come home for his daughter. For Gabrielle. Bailey understood and respected his decision. But once their hearts healed, once they’d both made peace with their loss . . . what then? Was Stokesville enough for him and Gabrielle?
Was it enough for her?
She sighed and turned the page.
Andrew Carroll, Matthew Clark, Eugene Cotton . . .
She was working her way through the M’s (
McDonald, McKinney, Mitchell
) when someone knocked on the door.
Bailey raised her head with relief. It was almost ten. Could Steve be back from the prison already?
But when she checked through the peephole, she saw her sister standing there with her weight on one foot and a stricken expression in her eyes.
She jerked the door open. “Leann, what’s wrong? Is it Daddy?”
Macon Reynolds III stepped in from the side, his jacket over his arm and his swathed hand pointed at Leann’s head. “It’s not Daddy. It’s me.” With his free hand, he pushed Leann toward the door. “Get in.”
STEVE whipped his truck to the curb in front of the fire hydrant. No matter how disliked he was in the department, no cop would ticket another cop for a parking violation. Besides, right now he didn’t give a good God damn.