Читать книгу A Breath Away - Rita Herron - Страница 13

VIOLET TWISTED the Best Friends necklace between her fingers as she stared at the door. Should she go inside or drive to the nearest hotel and spend the night, then return tomorrow when she wouldn’t have to face Grady? But she had been running from her past all her life.

It was time to stop.

Besides, the sooner she found some answers, the sooner she could return to Savannah and move on with her life. She needed to know that her father hadn’t killed her friend.

Gathering her courage, she opened the car door and climbed out, willing her legs to steady themselves as she ascended the steps. Honeysuckle sweetened the air, floating on the breeze. But the musty odor of the tattered welcome mat seeped upward as she stepped on it and raised her fist to knock. Then she caught herself. She didn’t need to knock. This house belonged to her. Or at least it had once been her home. In another lifetime.

Footsteps rumbled inside. Grady?

She turned the knob, bracing for his reaction.

GRADY HAD BARELY TOURED the house when footsteps sounded on the front porch. He’d thought he’d heard a car a minute or two before, and had headed toward the front. Who had driven all the way out here to Baker’s place?

Someone who knew about his death? Grady’s own father, maybe…

He waited for the knock, but it never came. Instead, the doorknob turned. He slid his hand to the gun holstered by his side, then drew his weapon just in case some troubled teen or vagrant had heard about Baker’s death and decided to rob him.

The door creaked open. Faint moonlight spilled in from the front porch, silhouetting a human form. Grady inched farther into the den. The low-wattage lightbulb in the foyer showed him it was a woman. She was slight, her pale face in shadows. A tangled web of dark hair floated around slender shoulders. The rattle of her breath broke the tense silence.

“Freeze! Police!”

She threw up her hands. “Please don’t shoot.”

He stepped forward just as she looked up, and he realized the face looked vaguely familiar. Her accent was familiar, too.

Dear God. It couldn’t be.

“Grady?”

“Violet?” Tension crackled between them. She looked so…so different. Not like the homely, sad-faced, big-eyed girl who’d traipsed after him years ago.

More like a…woman. A very attractive woman.

Shit, he didn’t need this.

“Yes, it’s me.” Her lower lip trembled at the sight of his Glock pointed at her.

He lowered the gun to his side, his gaze skimming over her, cataloging her features. Yes, she had definitely changed, had grown into a beauty. Not that any one feature was perfect, but she was stunning in an indefinable kind of way. Fragile. Earthy. Natural.

She stood around five-three and was still too slender. But her once scraggly brown hair shimmered with shades of gold, accentuating a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and a small dainty nose. Her cheeks were pale, yet a natural rose color stained full lips devoid of lipstick. She didn’t need it. She had kissable lips.

Damn, if she hadn’t developed some luscious curves, too. Grady tried not to linger on the swell of her breasts, tried to stifle the elemental response of his body. Her denim skirt hung loosely on the gentle slope of her hips, and sandals showcased bare toes. Her toenails were painted pale pink.

The whisper of her feminine scent floated to him. That smell and those damn pink toenails made his body stir, waking nerve endings that had lain dormant forever.

For God’s sake, this was Violet Baker.

He could not be attracted to her. She had been Darlene’s best friend. Her father had confessed to killing Darlene. And Violet might have known.

Besides, he’d heard the rumors about her being strange, maybe crazy.

She cleared her throat, and he realized he’d let the silence stretch way too long.

“What are you doing here, Grady?”

“I…” He halted, not wanting to admit he was searching for evidence to corroborate her father’s confession.

She seemed to read his mind, anyway. “Did you find anything?”

“No.” He secured his gun back in his holster. “But I haven’t conducted a thorough search.”

Pain flickered in those expressive eyes—the one thing about her that hadn’t changed. They were still huge and an unusual shade of blue, almost purple, the obvious reason her parents had named her Violet. And they still had the power to tug at emotions inside him just as they had when he was a scrawny kid.

He dragged his gaze away. He refused to get sucked in by emotions. He’d waited too damn long to crack this case. Besides, Violet was not a scrawny kid anymore; she was an adult who could take care of herself.

“How did you get in?” she asked.

He gestured toward the door. “It was unlocked.”

She frowned as if that surprised her.

He shrugged. “Most people around here don’t lock their doors.”

The throat muscles worked in her slender neck as she swallowed. “My father always used to. At least he’d latch the screen.”

Maybe because he knew he wasn’t coming back, Grady thought, but he refrained from pointing that out. “How’s your grandmother?”

More pain in her eyes. “Stable. She wanted to be near her sister to recover, so she’s being transferred to the Black Mountain Rehabilitation Center today.”

He nodded. “Good. I’m glad she’s okay.”

“She’s not okay, Grady.”

He let the statement stand in the dank air between them for a minute. “What’s wrong?”

“She needs therapy.” Her voice took on a hard edge.

“But it’s not just the stroke. Your phone call upset her.”

Another awkward silence fell between them. He had no idea how to reply. Telling her not to blame the messenger seemed pointless. “I didn’t expect you to come to Crow’s Landing so soon.”

She folded her arms beneath her breasts, then tipped her chin up, offering a glimpse of the feisty little girl she’d once been. “I have a lot of things to take care of here.”

“Right.” The funeral arrangements. “I’ll let you know as soon as the coroner releases your father’s body.” Then she could get out of town. He didn’t want her here.

Her hands tightened into fists. “Tell me about this supposed suicide note and the confession. I’d like to see it, too.”

Grady shook his head. “I’ve told you everything I know. And I sent the note to the crime lab to verify that your father wrote it.”

“Then I suggest you leave now.”

He frowned. “I’m not through here.”

“Yes, you are. I won’t let you hunt for more evidence to incriminate my father.”

Anger flared. “I didn’t realize you and your dad were close. You haven’t been back here in years.”

Violet bit her lip. “My grandmother doesn’t believe my father killed—” Her voice broke, her first visible sign of emotion. “She doesn’t believe the confession is real,” she finished, sounding stronger. “And neither do I.”

Could she not even say his sister’s name? “Is that the reason you came back?”

She stepped sideways, indicating the door. “Yes.”

His gaze locked with hers, and he saw her inner turmoil. She might claim she didn’t believe her father was guilty, but she had doubts.

She was afraid her father had killed Darlene.

“Like I said, I’m not finished here,” he said baldly.

Her eyelashes fluttered. “Yes, you are. Come back when you have a search warrant.”

Her hand trembled as she toyed with a long chain dangling between her breasts. The Best Friends necklace Darlene had bought them. She still wore it.

So she remembered his sister. She had cared for her.

Or maybe she wore it out of guilt.

He caught her wrist with one hand, then flicked a thumb along the jagged edges of the necklace, tracing the word Friends with his finger. Her breath hissed in. “I’m going to find out the truth, Violet. All my life, I’ve wanted Darlene’s murderer to pay. I’ll see that he does.”

Both fear and courage emanated from her eyes as she glared at him. “I want that, too.”

“Really? What if the killer was your father, Violet?”

Ignoring the hurt and uncertainty that darkened her eyes, he released her arm, then stalked outside. But he would be back with that search warrant.

And no matter how much he had to hurt Violet, her grandmother or his own father, he’d uncover the truth and see that Darlene’s killer got what he deserved.

And if one of them had covered for the killer…he’d make him or her pay, too.

AS THE DOOR SLAMMED SHUT, Grady’s declaration echoed off the dingy walls. Violet shuddered, the empty house closing around her. The mustiness, the echo of abandonment, the stale smells of dirty clothes, booze and old sweat assaulted her. And the familiar smell of Old Spice…

Memories bombarded her, along with the unsettling feeling that she had never quite left this place. Unable to assimilate it all at once, she stood still, willing her body to absorb the shock of homecoming, along with seeing Grady.

Over the years, she’d imagined what he might look like as a man. All the girls had doted on the teenage version, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. Any trace of cuteness had disappeared, though, and in its place, a rugged prowess radiated from his every pore. Over six-three, he was big, powerful and muscular, almost frighteningly so. Prominent cheekbones and a nose crooked from being broken dominated his features. And those deep-set eyes were almost hypnotizing. When his callused hands had caught her wrist, heat had rippled between them, charged with frustration and something sexual.

No, she had mistaken that feeling.

The emotion had been anger.

He carried that in spades. An obvious hatred toward his sister’s killer flashed in his tortured eyes.

A hatred she understood. But did the killer’s face belong to her father?

And would Grady turn that anger toward her now that he realized they were on opposite sides? At least concerning her dad…

She sighed and forced herself farther into the house. Stifling heat and cloying odors of mildew and decay nearly suffocated her.

In the shoe box den, the same plaid sofa lined the back wall, the rust-colored recliner her father had lived in angled toward the ancient TV set, a stack of Popular Mechanics magazines stacked beside it. A dog-eared metal antenna jutted upward from the TV in a warped V, proving he hadn’t updated the set or his service in twenty years. The beige carpet was stained, the lack of photos a brutal reminder that her father had shut his family out of his life.

She stopped beside the wicker rocking chair and stroked the arm. She imagined her grandmother sitting in the chair, crocheting in the afternoon sunlight, sunshine that turned the tiny room into an inferno in summer. Violet had curled up at her knees and played with her rag dolls while her grandmother watched her soap operas. Now dust coated most of the ancient furniture, and cobwebs hung in the corners. She slowly walked through the kitchen, not surprised to find everything the same, only older and smaller. Newspapers and magazines littered a beige countertop spattered with stains. Dishes encrusted with half-eaten food cluttered the sink. Trash overflowed onto the graying linoleum floor, the stench almost unbearable.

A delivery box containing an uneaten pizza sat on the counter next to a full six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, as if her father had just returned from getting dinner. Odd, but both had been untouched. And the want ad page lay on the table, a red circle around two ads. Why would her father buy an entire pizza and six-pack and be job hunting if he planned to kill himself?

Depressed people aren’t exactly rational, she reminded herself.

Her father’s room was to the right, but she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. On the left, her grandmother’s room adjoined Violet’s. The crocheted green afghan her grandmother had used to warm her feet at night still lay at the foot of the Jenny Lind bed, the scent of her grandmother’s favorite lavender potpourri mellow, yet lingering. Violet grabbed the afghan and hugged it to her, then glanced at her own room. Had her father changed it? Turned it into a study or storeroom for the old car parts he collected? The parts that had meant more to him than she had.

She pushed open the door and was shocked to see the sawed-off iron bed still rooted in the corner, the antique dresser laden with her childhood costume jewelry. Even more surprising, Bobo, her big brown birthday bear, hugged the pillows where she had once slept. Right next to Bobo were her Raggedy Ann doll and the stuffed pony her father had won for her at the county fair. The same pale pink chenille bedspread covered her bed, too, although it had yellowed with age.

Tears pooled in Violet’s eyes. Taking a deep breath, she noticed the faint scents of mothballs and wood polish, as if her father had tried to preserve her room. Peculiar, when the rest of the house seemed in such disrepair.

She flipped on the radio her father had given her for Christmas one year. Static bellowed back at her, and she fiddled with the knobs, hoping to find some soft music to calm her. An oldies station came through, so she let it play while she retrieved her suitcase. The floor creaked as she entered the house again. Could she really spend the night in this old place?

Would the ghosts haunt her when she tried to sleep?

Exhausted and drained from the trip, she dragged on a thin cotton nightshirt. But just as she lay down, a newscaster’s voice came over the radio. “This late-breaking story in just now, folks. The search for Amber Collins, the missing woman from Savannah, Georgia, has ended tonight.”

Violet gripped the sheets. She didn’t need to hear the report—she knew what he was going to say.

Amber Collins was dead.

Still, she listened, her pulse racing. “The young woman’s body was discovered late this evening on the front steps of a church outside the Georgia state line, in what looks like it might be a ritualist killing. Sources say the coed was strangled. Although no signs of sexual abuse have been reported, one source tells us that the victim was left holding a note in her hand that read, ‘For Our Father.’ No suspects have been named thus far. Police have refused comment. We’ll bring you more information as it becomes available.”

Violet pulled the teddy bear into her arms, stroking its ears the way she had as a child. The police hadn’t mentioned finding a bone whistle beside Amber’s body. Had the killer taken it with him instead of leaving it behind? Or had she simply imagined the whistle?

Maybe her visions weren’t real.

But if they were, she needed to alert the police. Would they believe her? Or think she was crazy, the way her father had claimed?

After all, she hadn’t seen enough details to recognize the killer or even pinpoint where he’d held the woman, so how could she help?

Her head began to pound, and she lay back and closed her eyes. Why had she experienced this vision about the coed when she hadn’t had one since Darlene was murdered? And why were all these other disturbing things happening now—her father’s death, the suicide note? It wasn’t as if they were related.

Yet, she sensed somehow they were. And that she had something to do with all of them.

What about Grady? How would he play into the situation—by proving her father was a killer? By finding the real one?

As she massaged her temples, the reedy sound of the bone whistle grated through the darkness. If her premonition was right, the questions had only begun.

And so had the killings….

ROSS WHEELER’S HEART raced with excitement as he opened the magazine and examined the pictures. The young lovers would take away the pain. Their supple bodies were ripe for picking. Their size didn’t matter. They were firm and tender, begging for attention. Begging for him to taste them.

But Father told him no. It was wrong to lust. To satisfy his cravings.

How could sex be wrong when it was in the Bible? Sex was natural, a man’s God-given primal need for mating.

But the reverend had different rules for himself. He preached abstinence, while he dipped from the honey pot himself.

Maybe, as God’s spokesman, he thought he’d risen above human sins. Shame crept through Ross at the memory of the reverend’s condemnation over those sexual misconduct charges. How could the town accuse Ross of such a thing, especially in front of a divine man like his father? Ross was the preacher’s son, had been a good teacher, a soccer coach, a deacon himself until they’d ruined his reputation with their accusations.

Worse, his father had believed them….

And to think he’d always done everything to please the man.

Would he ever receive forgiveness?

Bible verses he’d been forced to learn as a child floated through his head, jumbled and distorted versions that made no sense. He’d hated the rigorous memorizing. The daily prayers. The sermons on hellfire and damnation.

His gaze flicked to the pictures again.

His hand slid down his waist, unfastened his belt buckle, pushed it aside. He slipped his fingers beneath the fabric. He was so hard, throbbing like an animal, aching for release, for the sweet fulfillment the young ones promised. He could have it, too. Pleasure lay at his fingertips. All he had to do was look at them, imagine stripping off their clothes and spreading them on the ground for his taking.

His fingers began to stroke his member, closing around the rigid length until it surged to life and droplets of erotic nectar spilled over.

Suddenly heavy footsteps clattered above. Click, clack. Click, clack.

Shit, the reverend.

“Ross!”

He jerked his hand away, grabbed a handkerchief and cleaned himself, frustration and embarrassment burning through him.

Now he would have to repent again, confess his sin to his father and kneel at the altar for hours on end. Damn the reverend for destroying his momentary pleasure.

He gathered his control and went to face the master. Tonight the reverend would be busy sucking up to the televangelist who was coming in to preach at the revival.

Ross would do whatever necessary the next few hours to please them both, but tomorrow night he’d do exactly as he wanted….