Читать книгу Dead Giveaway - Brenda Novak - Страница 8

Clay took his time answering her knock. Allie knew he must have heard the siren when she pulled up, must have known that she and Beth Ann had been sitting in his driveway. And yet the only clue that he’d paid them any mind at all was the subtle movement of a curtain in the bedroom overlooking the front yard as she’d approached the house.

When he finally opened the door, he was dressed in a clean T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans that molded comfortably to his long legs, and work boots. If he was concerned or upset, he didn’t give himself away. But then, Clay Montgomery rarely revealed his emotions. He came across as brooding and uncommunicative, just like always.

Or maybe not always. According to the files, which included statements from everyone even remotely connected to Reverend Barker, Clay had once been a popular and fun-loving kid. Although Allie hadn’t become fully aware of his existence until the scandal broke, there were plenty of folks who remembered him from when he’d first come to town, right after the widowed reverend married Irene and moved her little family from neighboring Booneville to the farm. Those statements also said that Clay hadn’t changed into the very guarded person he was now until after his stepfather disappeared.

Which definitely left room for conjecture.

“What do you want?” he asked without preamble.

Allie had seen Clay around town once or twice since she’d been back, but he’d acted as if she didn’t exist. Not that she’d expected him to take special notice of her. Only five foot three and barely a hundred and five pounds, she had a small, compact body—a tomboy’s body—with dark hair that she’d recently cut into a very short style and brown eyes. Being athletic was a plus. But she had rather small breasts and wore a badge. She couldn’t imagine that was a lot to recommend her to a man like Clay Montgomery, who socialized with bombshells like Beth Ann and hated the police with a passion. Even minus the uniform, she doubted she’d ever turn his head. Despite his dubious past, he could have almost any woman he wanted. He possessed more sex appeal than a man had a right to. And he had a reputation for remaining just a hairbreadth out of reach.

For many, the challenge proved irresistible. But Allie knew better than to let anything about him appeal to her. Maybe other women liked moody men, but she’d already made the mistake of getting involved with one.

Still, she couldn’t help admiring the thick black hair that fell across Clay’s forehead, the nose that was, perhaps, a touch too wide, the prominent jaw. Every feature was intensely masculine, except his eyes. Fringed with the longest lashes she’d ever seen, they held a world of secrets. And, possibly, pain.

“I have a woman in the car who claims you assaulted her,” she said.

His gaze slid to the cruiser but he said nothing.

“You don’t have a response to that?”

The forbidding expression on his face madeAllie realize why most people chose to leave him alone. Beyond his impressive height and massive shoulders, he could shrivel a person with one glance. “Does she look like I assaulted her?”

“Tough to tell in the dark.”

“Then let me help you out—she’s lying.”

“So what are you saying? You didn’t touch her?”

Although she knew he wasn’t doing it on purpose, his muscles bulged conspicuously as he folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “Is that a trick question, Officer?”

“Excuse me?”

He lifted one shoulder in a careless motion. “Sure, I touched her—in all the places she wanted me to touch her. We weren’t playing checkers. But I didn’t hurt her.”

Normally when a suspect made that kind of statement, it registered only in the cognitive part of Allie’s brain. She was good at gathering facts, reconstructing the circumstances surrounding a crime, solving puzzles. But working in her hometown where she knew almost everyone made police work so much more personal. Clay’s comment evoked images she’d rather not see.

Wetting her lips, she quickly steered her focus back where she needed it to be. Because of who Clay was, and the number of people in Stillwater who’d love to see him behind bars, this was a more sensitive situation than it would’ve been otherwise. She didn’t want to screw up—for his sake, more than anyone else’s, although she doubted he’d believe she had his best interests at heart.

“Is it true that you and Beth Ann argued about the baby?” she asked.

“What baby?”

Confederate jasimine scaled the lattice on both ends of his porch. Allie could smell its sweet scent despite the rain. “She didn’t tell you she’s pregnant?”

The word made him rock back as if she’d just landed a solid right hook. Even Clay had his limits, because he wasn’t able to prevent the abject terror that flooded his face. “What?”

“She said you demanded she get an abortion.”

“That’s bullshit!” he shouted, and if Allie hadn’t stepped in front of him, he probably would’ve charged out to the cruiser. “Bring her back here. She can’t be pregnant.”

Allie arched her eyebrows. “You weren’t playing checkers…”

“We might’ve had…but we never—” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Hell, what we did or didn’t do is none of your damn business. I’ll handle this.”

“I’m afraid it is my business,” she said, refusing to back down. “Beth Ann said—”

“She’s making it up!”

“Perhaps. But I have to investigate her story all the same.”

His nostrils flared, but he seemed to rethink his belligerent attitude. “Okay, how specific do you want me to get?” he asked. “She was on the Pill, and I’m religious about using a condom. But we didn’t always do it the conventional way. She liked it best when I used my mouth. Or sometimes I’d get her off by—”

“That’s enough,” Allie said, hating the blush she could feel creeping up her neck. She knew he’d been trying to singe her ears, to punish her for treading where she didn’t belong, and hated giving him visual proof that he’d succeeded. But she was human and not completely at ease discussing the sex habits of such a private—and virile—man.

“Would you say it’s possible she hasn’t been taking her pills?” Somehow Allie managed to maintain eye contact despite the extremely personal nature of her question.

“Maybe. But not likely. She wouldn’t get pregnant on purpose.”

He said that with absolute certainty, but Allie could tell his mind was frantically racing through possibilities. He seemed so panicked, she almost felt sorry for him. “Because…”

“Because she wouldn’t want to be saddled with a baby and no husband to take care of her. She knows I don’t love her. I’ve never led her to believe otherwise.”

“Maybe she thought a baby would make you change your mind.”

“God.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Mr. Montgomery?”

Dropping his hand, he sighed as he met her eyes. “I want a pregnancy test. Tonight.”

“I can’t force her to take one.”

“Of course not,” he said dryly. “You wouldn’t want to invade anyone else’s privacy. Why break with tradition?”

Allie let the verbal jab go because he had a point. The police and others had sometimes pressed him too hard. “I can’t force her,” she explained, “but I will tell you that if her other claims serve as any indication of her truthfulness in general, I don’t think she’s pregnant.”

At this, his eyebrows drew together, and he studied her more closely. Allie got the impression he was so used to being bullied by police that he couldn’t believe she’d offer even this small amount of comfort. He seemed to suspect her of laying a trap for him, of trying to gain his trust so she could stab him in the back. “We didn’t argue over anything like that,” he insisted.

“But you did argue.”

“I asked her to leave. It’s my house. I should have that prerogative.”

“Would you do me a favor, Mr. Montgomery?”

“What’s that?” he asked, continuing to search her face.

“Will you show me your hands?”

His expression darkened as if he’d finally guessed her motive. “No.”

“Mr. Montgomery—”

“I grow cotton, Officer McCormick. I rebuild antique cars. I fix my own tractors and repair my own house, barn and outbuildings. In other words, I use my hands. A lot. They’re not going to look like some pencil-pusher’s from the big city. I won’t let you use a knick here or a cut there as proof that I struck her.”

The fact that he’d called her Officer McCormick without even glancing at her badge told Allie he’d known all along who she was. They hadn’t exchanged a word since she’d been back, but his familiarity with her didn’t come as any big surprise. Word traveled fast in Stillwater.

“I’m not unrealistic, Mr. Montgomery,” she assured him. “Beth Ann has accused you of a very serious crime, and it’s my job to see if that accusation has any basis.”

“And if I refuse to cooperate?”

“It might raise my suspicions.”

“Which would affect the situation in what way, exactly?”

She lifted her chin at the challenge in his voice. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could do to overcome his tremendous height advantage. “I might have to arrest you and take you down to the station.”

“You and what army?” he asked, his eyes narrowing at the threat.

She smiled sweetly. “Trust me. I could arrange it.”

“I’d get an attorney,” he countered. “I happen to know a good one.”

He was referring to his sister Grace, of course, who’d worked as an assistant district attorney in Jackson before moving back to Stillwater nine months ago. “That’s your choice,” Allie said as amiably as possible. “Grace can join us. But if I remember right, she’s about to deliver a baby. Do you really want to wake her in the middle of the night and ask her to come out in the rain? It won’t make any difference in the end, you know. I’ll see what I want to see. It’ll just take longer.”

The muscle that flexed in his cheek told her what he thought of her response. He didn’t like being cornered. He reminded her of a lion trapped inside a small cage, a lion that paced back and forth, resenting his captivity.

After another long, defiant stare, Clay shrugged and thrust his hands at her. “I have nothing to hide.”

Allie checked his palms, then turned his hands over and examined the backs.

“So, did I beat a defenseless woman?” he asked sarcastically. “A woman who has no injuries?”

Allie noticed a few calluses and cuts, but no more than she’d expect to find on a man who worked outdoors. “I want pictures.”

“For what?”

“Proof.”

“I didn’t hit her!”

“A picture would show that your knuckles aren’t swollen and that your nails are too short to have made the gouges on her arm.”

He hesitated, obviously still skeptical that she was on his side. “There aren’t any gouges on her arm.”

“There are now,” she said. Even if Beth Ann’s injuries were self-inflicted, as Allie suspected, there were other people who might try to use those marks to pressure the D.A. into building a case against Clay. Reverend Barker’s nephew was one of them. Joe Vincelli hated the Montgomerys—and he had powerful friends. “Beth Ann’s a bit…undecided about what really happened. But that doesn’t mean Mr. Harris can’t press charges if he chooses to. Now…” Allie was reluctant to move any closer to Clay but she inched forward to avoid the rain dripping down her collar. “Would you please remove your shirt?”

“What?” he said as though she was out of her mind.

Where was Hendricks? she wondered. This would be easier if she had a male officer with her. “I think you heard me.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason I wanted to see your hands.”

She expected him to refuse her again. Allowing her to be in charge ran contrary to his nature. But he didn’t. Instead, he riveted his blue eyes on hers, and his sensuous lips curved in a devilish grin. “After you,” he said.

Obviously, he was changing tactics. The best defense was a good offense and all that. But she refused to let him rattle her. “I’m convinced you’ve seen much more than I have to offer,” she said. “I’m hardly centerfold material.”

“Maybe I like my women small.”

She conjured up a prudish expression. “If you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

He glanced in the direction of her cruiser, and she knew he’d probably find it demeaning to be examined in front of his accuser.

Damn Hendricks.

“We could go inside, if you prefer,” she said politely.

“Shouldn’t you get rid of her first? In case you decide to stay?” His suggestive smile indicated that he was still trying to make her as uncomfortable as possible.

“She’s fine where she is. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to control myself.”

Chuckling, he sauntered into the house as if he didn’t care, but she knew he did. The way he sobered the moment they were safe from Beth Ann’s prying eyes told her that much.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked softly and there was a hint of desperation in his voice.

After all the police interest he’d endured, Allie had little doubt he wanted to be left alone. But, for some reason, getting visual proof of his innocence was important to her. Word of what had happened tonight could provoke some strong reactions, and she’d always been a sucker when it came to the underdog.

Why she thought of Clay as the underdog she had no idea. Except that public opinion was already stacked against him, and he never tried to change it. He was his own worst enemy.

“If I specify in my report that your hands and body show no signs of an altercation, the district attorney will be much less likely to take action.”

“There wasn’t an altercation! All I did was end the relationship.”

It was the past that made the situation volatile. But Allie didn’t want to tell Clay that Beth Ann had claimed he’d confessed to Reverend Barker’s murder. If he wasn’t angry enough already that could do the trick. Why provoke a confrontation between them while they were in such proximity? She’d simply add Beth Ann’s statement to the file, where it’d join the plethora of other unsubstantiated claims Allie planned to investigate—slowly and methodically. “It’s for your own protection, Mr. Montgomery.”

She wasn’t sure he really believed her but, with a nod that seemed incongruously boyish for such a strong man, he pulled off his shirt.

Allie had never seen a more beautiful example of the male body. A gold medallion hung around his neck, fitting nicely in the groove between his pectoral muscles. It appeared to be a tribute to a Catholic saint, which surprised her. She didn’t think of him as particularly religious.

Their eyes met and, for a moment, she was afraid he could read her grudging appreciation of his looks.

“For a cop, you don’t seem very comfortable with some of the stuff you have to do,” he murmured, and this time all the bullshit was gone from his voice. The “I don’t give a damn what you do to me” and the “I’m too tough to care.” He’d ditched the whole “screw the world” routine.

“My forte is dead bodies, not live ones,” she said.

“Surely live ones are more fun.”

He was flirting again, but she could tell he didn’t mean anything by it. He was probably searching for a way to keep his mind off the indignity of being inspected like an animal.

“Maybe,” she said. “But they’re also a lot more threatening.”

His good humor slipped away. “I didn’t hurt her.”

“I’m not talking about that kind of threat.” She touched his arm to get him to turn around, but he wouldn’t budge.

“If I was beating a woman, and she was fending me off, the marks would be on my face, neck and chest,” he said.

She saw no evidence of a struggle. But his reluctance to show her his back made her curious to know the reason. “There are a few exceptions.” She gave his arm another tug.

“I’ve shown you enough,” he argued. But she insisted he turn around and when he complied, she saw what he hadn’t wanted her to see: several scratches, all of them fresh.

“I take it you got these tonight?” she asked.

He shot her a sullen glance over his shoulder. “Not from fighting.”

Right. Judging by the direction and angle of the scratches, Allie could easily guess what he and Beth Ann had been doing at the time. He’d already painted her a very vivid picture.

Relieved to be finished, she stepped away from him. “Thank you. If you’d like to meet me down at the station after I’m done with Beth Ann, I can take a few photographs, to show that you’re in great shape.” She blushed when she realized how her words could be interpreted, and hurried to clarify. “I mean, free from any injury that would show you’ve been in a fight.”

He didn’t acknowledge her slip. “Do you believe me?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m just going to document the facts. The district attorney will draw his own conclusions. If you’re willing to play the odds that my notes will be enough of a defense if Beth Ann doesn’t back down from her story, there’s no need to come to the station. Otherwise—”

“Allie.”

She blinked. She’d had no idea he knew her first name. “What?”

“I’ve never struck a woman. Do you believe me when I say I didn’t hit her?”

She stared up at him, weighing her instincts. She’d been trying not to make any judgments one way or the other, to simply do her job. But it was Beth Ann’s words that had rung false, not Clay’s. She thought maybe he needed to hear that from someone in uniform.

“I do,” she admitted. Then she walked out.

Clay sat at his kitchen table, listening to the clock tick above the stove while telling himself that he didn’t need to go down to the police station. BethAnn’s charges were completely unfounded. Allie McCormick had said she believed him. But he had little faith that she’d stick by her words if her father or anyone else read the facts differently. Why would she? Clay knew the night’s events couldn’t have reflected well on him. The hysterical woman calling from his house. The marks on his back. BethAnn’s assertion that she was pregnant and that he’d demanded she get an abortion.

It was humiliating. He was almost positive Beth Ann wasn’t pregnant, or she would’ve told him—to stop him from breaking off the relationship. She was manipulative enough to use that bargaining chip if she possessed it. But this scare convinced him that he wanted no more women in his life. He couldn’t even have casual relationships without regretting it.

“Shit,” he muttered and stood to collect his keys. He’d go down and let Officer McCormick take her damn photos. Stripping off his shirt and revealing Beth Ann’s nail marks couldn’t be any more demeaning the second time around. He owed it to his sisters and mother to clean up the mess he’d made.

Anything to deflect interest. Anything to make Beth Ann’s accusations fade away so he wouldn’t draw any more unwanted attention.

Anything to make up for the past.

Allie hadn’t expected Clay to show up, so she was more than a little surprised when he strode into the police station at nearly three o’clock in the morning. Beth Ann had left a few minutes earlier, and Hendricks had finally dragged his lazy butt out on patrol.

Which meant that, once again, she was alone with Clay.

“Mr. Montgomery.” She assumed he’d tell her to call him by his first name. They were nearly the same age, had gone to school together. But he didn’t.

“Officer McCormick.”

She’d been about to pour herself a cup of coffee, but set the pot aside instead. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You got your camera ready?” he asked.

“I do,” she said and retrieved it from her desk.

“Then let’s get this over with.”

She snapped photographs of his hands. Then he stripped off his T-shirt and she took several pictures of his face, chest and arms. When she purposely neglected to take pictures of his back, he raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“So…is this going to blow over?” he asked hopefully, pulling his T-shirt on over his head.

Even with Beth Ann no longer on-site, Allie felt reluctant to discuss his alleged murder confession with him. Mostly because, regardless of what Beth Ann had said, she wasn’t prepared to point a finger at Clay or anyone else. She needed proof, forensic proof, not circumstances and hearsay. And she was good enough to find it. Eventually.

But eventually wasn’t now, and it was only a matter of hours before he heard what Beth Ann had told her. Especially since Hendricks knew. The other officer had listened avidly to every word Beth Ann had said. If Allie didn’t tell Clay herself, he’d probably feel as if she’d duped him in some way, and she saw no reason to alienate anyone involved in the case. She’d learned long ago that help often came from unexpected places. “I don’t think there are grounds for an attempted murder charge, if that’s what you mean.”

She let him know by the tone of her voice that there was more, and he didn’t miss the inflection.

Standing with his legs spread a shoulder width apart, he folded his arms. “Somehow I’m getting the impression I’m not completely off the hook.”

Allie sat on the edge of her desk. “Not quite.”

The shuttered look returned to his face but not before Allie saw a hint of the underlying weariness she’d occasionally noticed before. “Feel free to explain anytime,” he said.

“She says you killed your stepfather.”

He seemed unaffected. “A lot of people say that.”

“She’s claiming you admitted it to her.” Allie clasped her hands together, knowing, if he was innocent, how terrible Beth Ann’s words must feel. “She just signed a statement to that effect,” she added gently.

Allie had thought he’d get angry and holler, as he had about the pregnancy that might or might not be real. But he just stared at her—or, more accurately, stared through her.

“I didn’t confess anything,” he told her at last.

“That doesn’t mean you’re innocent of the murder,” she said, to gauge his reaction.

His chest lifted and fell again. “It doesn’t prove the opposite, either.”

Allie’s question hadn’t rattled him into revealing more than he wanted to. She could tell by his response that he already knew Beth Ann’s statement wasn’t as incriminating as his enemies would like to think. So she played it straight. “What’s really going on? Is she out to get you?”

“Of course. And she’s not the only one.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she said. “Fortunately, I intend to discover the truth.”

He picked up the picture of Whitney, which she kept on her desk. “What I’ve heard is true, then?”

“What have you heard?”

“That you’re determined to find out what happened to my missing stepfather.”

She waited until he looked back at her to answer. “Madeline has requested my help. We’ve known each other since high school, socialized a bit in the past. I’d like to bring her some closure, if I can.”

He returned the photograph to her desk. “Madeline still believes her father is alive.”

“What do you believe?” she asked.

“I believe nineteen years is a long time. It won’t be easy to find anything.”

Was that wishful thinking on his part? Or was he merely stating a fact? “I’ve solved older cases.”

“I’m guessing those cases had some forensic evidence. There is no evidence here. Plenty of other people have tried to find it and failed, including your father.”

“I have tools the police didn’t possess back then.”

“That’s hopeful,” he said, but the slight twist to his mouth made Allie wonder if he was being sarcastic.

“If your stepfather’s dead, wouldn’t you like to see his killer brought to justice?” she asked.

The expression on his face gave nothing away. “I’m all for justice,” he said, his voice completely deadpan.

“What are you doing, waking me up so early? It’s barely seven!”

Only five foot two—but with a bustline to rival Dolly Parton’s—Clay’s mother hid behind the door of her little duplex, which she’d recently begun to redecorate. It was becoming so cluttered with new rugs and furniture, paintings and knickknacks, Clay couldn’t help worrying that others would soon suspect what he already knew. Irene obviously wasn’t buying such expensive items with the money she made working at the dress shop. She told everyone she’d gotten a raise, but even an idiot would guess she couldn’t be making that much.

“Considering I get up at four most mornings—” and that he hadn’t slept at all last night “—I don’t feel too sorry for you,” he said. Especially because he knew she wasn’t really grumbling about being dragged out of bed. She hated anyone to catch her before she could “get her face on,” as she put it. Even him. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his mother without the thick mascara she wore on her lashes and the deep red lipstick she put on her lips. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

“Of course.” She tightened her bathrobe, then patted her dark hair, which she usually backcombed, before stepping to the side. “What’s gotten into you, anyway? What’s wrong?”

He barely fit inside the cluttered room. Since he’d last been over a month ago, his mother had acquired a new leather couch, two lamps, a big-screen TV and some sort of fancy tea cart.

“Tell me you quit seeing him,” he said the moment she closed the door.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she responded, but she wouldn’t look him in the eye.

The gardenia scent of her perfume lingered as she headed straight to the kitchen, which had been remodeled so that it opened directly into the living room. “Would you like some coffee? I have the most delicious blend.”

Gourmet coffee. Allie’s father was sure taking care of her. “Do you realize what you’re doing?” he asked in amazement, following her. “Do you know what you’re risking?”

“Stop it,” she replied. “I’m living, like everyone else.”

She was living, all right—in denial. Most of the time, her unwillingness to acknowledge what had happened to Barker was harmless enough. As long as Clay was around to take care of her and his sisters, he figured everything would be okay. He wanted them to be happy…and to forget. That was why he stayed on the farm. That was why he diligently guarded any evidence to be found there. So they could have the kind of life he wanted for them. But if Irene refused to listen, all his efforts could soon be for nothing. “Allie McCormick is working on Lee’s disappearance,” he told her.

She revealed no visible sign of distress. “Not officially.”

“That doesn’t matter. She used to be a cold case detective. She’s trained in forensics.”

“I know.” She continued to make coffee. “She’s an excellent police officer, just like her father.”

The proud note in his mother’s voice made Clay’s jaw drop. “What?”

“Grace told me all about her,” she said. “But don’t worry. Allie’s been through a painful divorce. She’s lonely and bored, so it’s natural that she’d want to poke around a bit. What else is there for a crack detective to do in a one-horse town like this? She’ll grow bored with it eventually.”

“Bored,” he repeated, unbelieving.

“It’s Madeline who’s egging her on, you know.”

“Allie’s not just toying with this case, Mother. Unless I completely misread her, and I don’t think I did, she’s serious about locating your husband—or what’s left of him. That doesn’t concern you?”

He knew he should add that Beth Ann’s accusations wouldn’t help matters. After last night, Allie had to be more curious about him and the case than ever. But he’d been stupid to allow himself to fall into the mess his relationship with Beth Ann had become, and he was ashamed to have put his mother and sisters at risk.

Irene turned her back to him while she sealed the small package of gourmet coffee. “Why should anything Allie does concern me?” she asked. “What happened was in another lifetime. Like I’ve told Grace over and over, that’s all behind us now. Why won’t anyone let me forget and enjoy what’s left of my life?”

“You’re happy settling for a married man?” he asked. “A man who can only see you on the sly? Who can’t acknowledge you in public?”

“He treats me better than any man ever has!” she spat, her eyes sparking in a rare display of temper. “Look at this lovely robe he gave me. Look at this place. Finally, I’m in love with someone who loves me back, someone who knows how to treat a woman.”

Clay hated the guilt that welled up inside him when he thought of his mother being satisfied with so little. It was largely his fault she’d gone through what she had during the past two decades. If only he’d done as she’d told him that night and stayed home with Grace and Molly. But he’d been sixteen years old—too innocent to conceive of the possibilities, too young to understand the threat his mother had begun to sense. “Mom, it’d ruin him if anyone found out about the two of you. He’s the chief of police, for God’s sake!”

“No one’s going to find out.”

“You don’t know that. How long do you think you can sneak around before someone begins to suspect? To watch you more closely? Grace and I guessed the truth, didn’t we?”

“Did you tell Molly?”

“No.” Fortunately, his youngest sister had moved away when she went to college and never returned to Stillwater. They heard from her often—she also came to visit two or three times a year—but more than any of them, she’d managed to put the past behind her.

“Well, even if you didn’t tell her, I bet Grace did,” she said.

Clay knew that was true. Somehow, though, they’d been able to keep it from Madeline. “You have to give him up. We have enough to hide already.”

“I’m not seeing him anymore,” she said in a sulky voice.

He wanted to let it go at that and hope for the best. But with Allie nosing around, he needed more of a commitment. “If you haven’t left him yet, make sure you do.”

“Easy for you to say,” she grumbled.

“Not as easy as you think. Anyway, consider the people who’ll be hurt if you don’t. I know you care about that.”

Irene slammed the cupboard shut. “It’s okay if I’m the one who’s hurt?”

“He’s married! You don’t have any real claim on him!”

“It’s not as if I planned for this. It just…happened. Sometimes marriages fall apart.”

“As far as we know, his marriage is fine. It’s his libido that’s leading him into trouble.”

“Stop it!” she cried. “Stop treating me like I’m a tramp!”

He wanted to tell her to quit acting like one. But he couldn’t be that disrespectful. Besides, he could almost understand why she’d fallen for Chief McCormick. Both the men she’d married had mistreated her. But Dale was a kind man who lavished her with gifts and attention.

“Mom, if Allie finds out, she’ll be determined to prove that we’re responsible for Reverend Barker’s murder. What better revenge would there be?”

The scent of coffee filled the room. “Dale and I haven’t been together since Allie came back,” she grumbled.

Clay studied her, wondering if that was true. Judging from her expression, he decided it probably was. “That’s good. But you’re planning to be with him as soon as you get the chance, right?”

“No.”

He didn’t believe her. Without a definite breakup, he knew a relationship like theirs could go on for years. “You’ve got to tell him you can’t see him anymore.”

Tears welled up in Irene’s eyes as she came toward him. Seeing her cry made Clay wish he could tell her everything would be okay. But he couldn’t. If Chief McCormick left his wife for Irene, the whole town would be out to get her. They’d never liked her much to begin with—thanks to Reverend Barker. He’d isolated her right from the start by refusing to let her go anywhere except church events. He’d also taken every opportunity to imply that he’d made a mistake when he married her, that he was now saddled with a wife who was too flighty, lazy, vain—a cross for him to bear. Occasionally, he’d even criticized her in subtle, demeaning ways from the pulpit. And his parishioners had bought every word. After all, he’d had a history in this place—land, family, friends and the illusion of purity. Irene had had nothing, except the hope of a better life.

A hope the man behind the pious mask had quickly dashed.

But no one else knew that man. Not like the Montgomerys did.

“I’m sorry,” Clay said softly. “You don’t have a choice. Not really. You know that, don’t you?”

She swiped at the tears spilling down her cheeks. “Yes.”