All I ever wanted was for my family to love me as much as I loved them.
Not since she was nine years old and waking up in a white emergency room had she felt so alone.
AT SIX A.M. Melanie got up. She ate half a cantaloupe for breakfast and a cheap cheese-filled Danish that came out of a plastic wrap. She washed it down with bitter motel coffee, black. Then she showered again and donned a new outfit. After she plastered on some makeup she was ready.
Huntsville didn't just house Texas's extensive prison system, it also housed the Huntsville Prison Museum. The museum opened at nine and Melanie planned on being the first person through the doors. If any place could tell her about Russell Lee Holmes, surely the museum would be it.
She stopped by the visitors' bureau, picked up slick, brightly colored maps, and continued straight into town. Huntsville looked surprisingly pleasant for the city that had hosted more executions than any other in the United States. Old West storefronts, clean sidewalks, wide streets. An impressive stone courthouse set atop an emerald sea of grass and the all important old-fashioned ice cream parlor.
In a town so square and quaint, it took her all of three minutes to locate the prison museum. She pulled her car into a space that still had the bar for hitching a horse. She walked up a gently sloping sidewalk on a bright warm day that promised heavy humidity and booming thunderstorms. A small family of tourists was in front of her, merrily snapping photos.
The small museum was sandwiched between a jewelry store and a western shop. It wasn't much to look at. Dark walls, drop ceiling, faded brown carpet. The room mostly boasted a large model of the Huntsville prison system and many freestanding exhibits of the individual units that comprised the Texas Department of Corrections.
Melanie followed walls covered with portraits of the corrections officials who'd built the prisons. She learned of the famous prison rodeo. She got to stare at Old Sparky, appropriately on display in a fake execution chamber, the wood still rich and gleaming, the broad leather straps and metal electrodes fully functional. Next to the chair, the museum had posted the last meal requests of many men. Three hundred and sixty-two men served.
Melanie found what she was looking for in the small room marked PRISONERS' HALL OF FAME. It featured pictures of such notorious felons as Bonnie and Clyde and, of course, Russell Lee Holmes. Unfortunately the neatly typed placard next to Russell Lee's picture said very little: Convicted of murdering six children. The first prisoner to be executed by Old Sparky when the moratorium on the death penalty finally ended, and, due to his hands and feet blowing off, the last.
“Do you have any more information on specific prisoners?” Melanie asked.
“We get books and tapes donated all the time. Some of them are more specific.”
“Where would I find them?”
“Stacked against the wall, honey. Help yourself and take as long as you need. Huntsville prison has some of the most exciting history in the United States, and we're here to share it.”
Melanie sorted through the pile of old, faded novels.
Hour dissolved into hour. The curator left and a young man took over, reading
Gray's Anatomy
at the front desk until midafternoon. Then, when it became obvious Melanie wasn't going to budge, he offered to lock her into the museum while he ran across the street to grab a sandwich. Vaguely Melanie was aware of the ding as the door opened again, then the tall, ropy medical student was asking her if she wanted pastrami. She didn't.
She was reading about the deaths of men, the many, many deaths, and the intricate process that culminated in capital punishment. The book was written by the journalist who'd had the death beat in Huntsville, Larry Digger.
Melanie kept reading. Another person entered. She heard the bell and then she simply knew. In fact, she realized now, she'd been waiting for this. She'd known that of all people, he would deduce where she'd gone. After all, he was the person she'd told the most to. He was the person she'd trusted.
Melanie didn't look up. She waited until she felt the warm, hard body of David Riggs standing behind her.
“Melanie,” he began softly.
She pointed to the black and white photo in the middle of Larry Digger's book. She said, “Meet Daddy.”
"OKAY, MELANIE, START talking.” David planted his feet in the middle of Melanie's motel room, looking harsh. He'd been up most of the night and traveling since six that morning. He wasn't in the mood for excuses and he was pissed — no, he felt guilty, scared and sick to his stomach with the worry that something might have happened to Melanie. He wasn't used to worry. He resented it. Then he looked at her face, bruised from William's fists, and he returned to feeling pissed.
Melanie wasn't helping matters. Apparently she'd decided to try out a new look — a black denim skirt that used less material than a headband, a white cotton T-shirt that was at least two sizes too small, and blue eye shadow that appeared to have been applied with a trowel.
He was afraid he knew what she was trying to prove, and it made him feel worse.
Now she arched a brow at his growling tone and shrugged. “Sorry, Agent, but I'm pleading the Fifth.”
“Melanie—”
“What do you think? Does this outfit work for me? Very Texan, you know. Younger too. I think Russell Lee would be proud.”
“Enough, Mel. You're taking this too far.”
“On the contrary, I don't think I'm taking this far enough.”
“You are not some piece of trash! You are not this …this
chick
.”
“Oh, then, who am I, David? Just who am I?” She stormed away. He grabbed her arm.
“You've been dreaming again,” he stated bluntly. “The nightmares, right?”
“Maybe I have, maybe I haven't. Maybe it's simply that I've never been to Texas before and yet everything in this damn state looks familiar.”
“Melanie, you're falling apart.”
“Yeah, well, what do you care?” She jerked her arm free and skewered him with a withering glance. “Why are you here, David? Suffering a change of heart? Well, let me do you a favor — too late.”
“Dammit, you're wanted for questioning regarding the death of William Sheffield.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“I'm questioning you!”
“Then let me get out the thumbscrews.”
“What will it take to set things right? You want sorry? I'm sorry. You want remorse. Hey, I can do remorse. But figure it out, because I am trying to help you, and you need help! Your father has already gone on record as saying that William dumped you, that you haven't been yourself lately, and that you pulled the trigger out of spite. You shot a man and your own father has hung you out to dry. This is
serious
.”
She flinched. Her overly made up face finally stilled, but not before David caught the bleakness in her eyes. She turned away and sat down on the edge of the bed, the black miniskirt hitching up to the tops of her thighs.
“Well,” she said finally with forced nonchalance. “Easy come, easy go.”
“Bullshit. I don't believe Harper. Neither does your mom or your brother. You have allies, Melanie. You do.”
“So you found Brian?”
“Yeah. He's sorry he missed your call.”
“Is he?” She spoke wistfully, then caught herself and fisted her hands on her lap. “What about my mother? How is she doing?”
“She's shaken but managing. And your brother did clear her. We don't believe she or Brian harmed Meagan.”
“Which just leaves dear old Dad. You know the men in my life….”
“He doesn't have an alibi,” David said. “He may have engineered Meagan's death so he could collect the million-dollar life insurance. He definitely needed the money.”
“If he did it, he didn't do it alone. He would never approach a man like Russell Lee Holmes. Jamie had to have helped him.”
“I'm getting the impression that Harper and Jamie come as a package.”
Melanie smiled thinly. Then her shoulders slumped and he could practically hear her unspoken thoughts. Two of the men who meant the most in her life plotting the kidnapping and death of a little girl. Who did the planning? Who did the murder? How much could a four-year-old child plead? How much had she screamed — or had she never seen it coming?
“William said my family was an illusion,” Melanie murmured after a minute. “My straitlaced father has been operating on healthy people for profit, my mother is a lush, and my brother is gay. And I'm their patsy, he said. Their audience of one because I always believe whatever they show me. I'm not loved, I'm just stupid.”
“William's an ass.”
Melanie remained unconvinced. “You knew about the surgeries, didn't you, David? You were in my house not because you were investigating William, but because you were investigating my father. White collar crime. The ‘case' you would never discuss with Detective Jax or Agent Quincy. And I never put it together. I was stupid for you too.”
“It wasn't that cold—”
“Of course it was! For God's sake, don't continue to treat me like an idiot. For once in my goddamn miserable life, I want to hear the
whole truth
. Why is it so hard for anyone to tell me the truth?”
David fisted his hands. His own temper was sparking, and now he found himself saying more crisply than he intended, “Fine. You want the truth? Here you go. We have reason to believe William and Harper were selecting healthy patients and injecting them with beta blockers to make them appear to need pacemakers. It garnered your father up to forty grand a month, and your father loves money. Hell, he probably murdered his own kid for a million, so what's a simple surgical procedure for six thousand a pop? Can we prove it? No. We have no proof. We'd hoped to catch William red-handed in the hospital and squeeze it from him. But then you shot him, so…” He shrugged.
Melanie bolted off the bed, stalking toward him, her eyes narrowed dangerously.
“You mean I made your life messy, Agent? Added some complications, screwed your plan? Welcome to the club, David. Welcome to the goddamn club!”
She jabbed a finger in his chest. He winced. But then he saw the tears gathering in her eyes. He stared at her bruised cheek, her swollen lip, her shaking hands, and everything in him gave way.
“I'm sorry,” he found himself saying hoarsely. “I'm sorry, Mel, I'm sorry.”
He took her in his arms despite her protests. She kicked at him.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
He held her closer. “I know. Shh, I know.”
She started to sob, the grief and anger racking her frame. David pressed her against his chest. She smeared blue eye shadow and black mascara all over his white shirt. He held her tighter, but it wasn't enough. He had hurt her. He had not been the man his father had raised him to be, and this time around he couldn't blame it on his medical condition. He'd played it safe when Melanie had deserved more.
When he had wanted to give her more.
Suddenly her head angled up. Her hands dug into the back of his head as she dragged him down. There was nothing passive about the kiss. Melanie was upset and angry. She turned on him violently, seeking an outlet for her rage. He went along with it. Hell, he found himself responding to it, and then they were tearing at each other's clothes like savages.
He ripped her T-shirt off and pushed her onto the bed. Her hands grabbed his belt, cracking leather as she ripped it from the pant loops. He just managed to get the back of her skirt unzipped before she'd hooked her thumb inside the waistband of his briefs and pushed them down around his ankles.
Then she was slithering out of her skirt and sprawling on the bed in her simple cotton underwear. The sight of it grounded him, brought him back to reason.
“Easy,” he whispered. “Easy.”
He feathered back her hair, stroked her cheek, trying to get her writhing body to relax.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered again. “I'm sorry.” He ran his fingers down the delicate curve of her jaw to the vulnerable hollow at the base of her throat. Her pulse pounded against his thumb. He kissed her collarbone, felt her shiver a little. His lips came lower, his cheek brushing the high, firm swell of her breast. He waited a heartbeat. She moaned softly, almost a sigh. He drew in her nipple deeply and sucked hard.
She shivered. Then she tightened her legs around his waist and he went tumbling off the cliff of reason.
He kissed her breast, her waist, her navel. His hand slipped between her thighs, stroking her folds, feeling her dampen for him. She was so passionate, so responsive, and it had been a long time for him. He was torn between taking her right that instant and making the moment last.
He managed to pull away long enough to root around the floor for his wallet. He always traveled with a condom, the eternal optimist.
When he rose back up, foil package triumphantly in hand, he had a clear view of her, her slender body sprawled on the dark blue comforter, breasts high and pink-tipped, skin all cream and rose. Makeup was smeared across her face, but he could see her beneath it, her lips parted, her eyes heavy-lidded with passion.
“Look at me,” he demanded hoarsely. “This isn't just some fling, Mel. Once this is over, I'm not ever going away.”
He smoothed on the condom, his gaze still on her face, and entered her in one fierce thrust.
She cried out.
“Melanie. Sweet Melanie.”
Her gaze darkened. “No,” she muttered, then gasped as he began to rock. “Not Melanie. Not anyone.”
“You're wrong. You're Melanie, sweet, loving Melanie.
My Melanie
.”
He thrust harder. Her teeth sank into her lower lip. He could feel her body tense. Then he got to see the small moment of wonder as her climax broke and brought fresh sheen to her face. She was lovely.
“David…”
The traffic roared and rushed beyond the curtains. He closed his ears to the sound and followed her over the brink.
MINUTES LATER HE rolled off her. Not wanting to completely break contact, he spooned her body against his. Her head rested on his arm, her gaze focused on the far wall. He was struck once more by her tiny size, the delicate shape of her arm, the long, graceful line of her back. She hardly made a dent against his own darker, larger form. He thought of her having had to take on William Sheffield, and he wished the man were still alive just so he could kill him.