Swoosh.

Musty air fanned my face just as a frosty gale whistled across the porch, yet I was anything but cold. Watching that young couple filled me with longing because they had something I didn’t—spellbound passion. Lately, all Darien and I seemed to do was argue.

The vibration tapping my hip yanked me back. I dug my cell phone out. “Shannon Bradford.”

“I finally found it,” Darien said. “It’s a five-pager.”

The parole letter. My heart smacked my rib cage. “Five?”

“Written on Bradford Realty stationery. And, Shannon, the signature’s a dead ringer for yours.”

Weak-kneed, I gravitated to the porch swing and dropped. The chains rattled. I’d been in an emotional tailspin since the limo screamfest with Trace. Seeing him at Home Depot last week didn’t help. He’d acted as hateful as ever. God, but the man had the uncanniest ability to completely unnerve me with just a look. It was so annoying.

“Babe? Are you okay?”

“Give me a sec.” I closed my eyes to gather my scattered thoughts. “Who…where did you find it?”

“The parole board. The letter was submitted directly to them. A colleague faxed me a copy yesterday. I also contacted Victim Services. It’s an arm of the Department of Corrections. I would’ve called sooner—”

“But you were swamped,” I finished.

Darien and Uncle Sears were lead counsel on a celebrity murder trial in LA. Uncle had flown back yesterday on the heels of a stomach virus, leaving Darien with junior partners Yao Cài, Tom Blake, and paralegal Kate Sims. Their celebrated firm, Bradford, Jacobs and Montgomery had earned a national reputation for excellence.

“Yeah, it’s been nuts around here.” He gave a labored sigh. “Who has access to your office stationery?”

I combed my memory. “My admin keeps it in the back room.”

“Did anyone from the parole board or Victim Services ever contact you?”

“No. Never.”

“Amazing. I can’t believe they skipped a follow-up.” I heard papers being flung aside. Something was slammed. “Here it is,” he said. Irritation spiked his voice. “It was date-stamped two weeks before Dawson’s first parole hearing.” He counted out loud. “That would have been a little over a year-and-a-half ago.”

“Is the letter the reason he didn’t make parole last time?”

“No. He’d already racked up a long list of offenses. You know, fights, contraband violations. On the plus side, he earned two associate degrees and an HVAC apprenticeship. He even taught dance classes.” More pages turned. “Anyway, the good didn’t outweigh the bad. His prison psychiatrist, a Dr. Joseph Rosen concluded he still had anger management issues.”

Color me surprised. “How did he get out this time?”

“He cleaned up his act. Plus Cholly Fontana vouched for him, guaranteeing his employment upon release. That had weight since he’s a well-respected celebrity.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yeah. A woman named Amber Pugliese. She used to work as a corrections officer there. Now she runs an event planning business. They were rumored to be lovers. All of his apprenticeship teachers stood up for him too. He got the most help from Dr. Rosen though. Whatever he said allayed the board’s concerns.”

I pushed out of the swing. Its rusty chains creaked and wailed. “So what was in the letter?”

His pause lingered past my comfort zone. “I’m on a hotel phone, honey. I’d prefer not to get specific.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Try disgusting. I see why Dawson’s mother was devastated.”

An insane combination of curiosity and dread burned hot. I crossed the porch to get a better signal. “Then fax it.”

“Look, it was a prank. Knowing who did it won’t change a thing. Dawson’s gone on with his life. You should do the same.”

Everyone—Darien included—had opposed my inquiries from the beginning. Since then, my faith in the town had flatlined. My faith in my family had died too, but nothing had died quicker than the faith I’d once had in myself.

“It’s not a prank,” I insisted. “It’s a tragedy.”

“Sears said you and Dawson are the talk of town. Think what damage this misguided guilt trip of yours can do.”

“Now Uncle is calling you with updates?”

“He’s…concerned. And that tabloid hasn’t helped matters. We’re not just talking about your reputation, there’s your family and Mead’s campaign to consider.”

I started down the porch steps and gripped the handrail to keep from slipping as Darien’s caustic reminder hung in the air like a noose.

Gossip had shaped my life and many of the choices I’d made, and now here I was, dealing with its specter again. How could I not understand my family’s concerns? They’d been drilled into me from birth. Since Trace’s parole, Aunt Hesta, Bradford mediatrix extraordinaire, had swept the ‘unpleasantry’ beneath the proverbial rug. Uncle Sears and the others had followed suit.

The only holdout was Cousin Mead who talked nonstop about my ‘stupid lapse in judgment.’

And Darien agreed. “Let this go before it snowballs, babe.”

“Someone used me to destroy his family.” I picked my way down the icy footpath. “Now they’re after anyone who helps him.”

“You think I would’ve prosecuted him if I wasn’t convinced he did it? You should know better. And a jury agreed with me.”

“Are you saying twelve people can’t be wrong?” I asked.

“Are you saying they are?”

That was the problem. I didn’t know what I was saying.

“Okay, how’s this?” Darien offered. “Since we’re throwing everything in but the kitchen sink, I guess you have an explanation for the con Dawson killed.”

Trace had allegedly murdered an inmate, but I didn’t want to believe it. “Since when are rumors facts?”

“The guy’s name was Nyle Weathers, and my contacts are sure Dawson killed him. They just didn’t have the evidence to prove it. No weapon was ever found. Some say Amber Pugliese stashed it for him. They did an investigation, but nothing ever came of it.”

This was bad, but I wouldn’t concede. “Is that all?”

“Isn’t that enough? He’s a psychopath and you’ve got no reason to feel guilty. You’re Catholic. Go say a few Hail Marys and be done with it.”

I stalked to my car, ice patches be damned. “The sarcasm doesn’t help.”

“I’m just telling it like it is. You know, the facts? Those annoying little things you take issue with?”

“Here’s a fact.” I caught my balance when I almost slipped. “Mother hurt me, but I didn’t remember the abuse. Until now.”

“Even if she beat you, it doesn’t absolve that murdering piece of sh—” He mumbled beneath his breath. “I’m not getting into this with you again. Can we change the subject?”

My call waiting beeped before I could answer him. “Hold on.” I punched a button to switch over. “Shannon Bradford.”

“This is Jane Younger. Valene Campbell’s granddaughter.” A dramatic pause preceded her snippy, “I’m returning your calls.”

I rested my hip against my car door. “Yes, Ms.—”

“I don’t like repeating myself,” she continued, her tone icy. “But my grandmother can’t speak with you. Now or ever.”

SLAM.

Incredulous, I glared at the receiver, muttering a curse as I clicked back over to Darien.

“Hi,” I said tightly.

“Did something happen?”

“Mrs. Campbell’s granddaughter all but told me to go screw myself.” I scowled. “Something’s going on, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you couldn’t care less.”

Darien sighed. “Shannon, can we stop this? Please? Our wedding’s in four months and all we ever do is quarrel.”

He had a point, but then, most of our arguments stemmed from his absence. “Are you sure you can’t make the luncheon?”

I’d been planning Auntie and Uncle’s anniversary for months. They were like parents to me; parents who were dangerously close to divorce. I’d hoped this gala would remind them that their thirty-six years together were worth fighting for. Speaking of which, whoever had given The Dirty Dish that bogus engagement party tip, had probably confused it with this one.