Then as if someone had flipped a switch, sensory explosions filled the void. Horns blared. Somebody screamed. A baby was crying. And the wind howled while sounds burst forth in a crush of voices.

“I swear the brakes locked!” a teenage boy yelled. “She ain’t dead, is she? Oh, jeez. Daddy’s gonna kill me!”

“Don’t just stand there. Call 911!” a girl shrieked.

A cell phone chimed and someone started pressing numbers.

Next, an old man with a rough-and-ready voice said, “Pushed her out the way just in time. Another second and—”

“Is she dead or not?” the teenager demanded again.

While this was going on, I sat up, taking my time to ensure I was in one piece. Except for a sore hip, a bump on the head, and a scraped knee, I was fine. A woman standing nearby helped me, and as I got to my feet, realization dawned.

Trace Dawson had tried to save me.

I fought to see past the crowd into the parking lot, spotting him instantly. He’d just struggled to his feet and was staring right at me, his chin dripping blood. The people scurrying about and the cars streaming through the slush faded. Nothing but the two of us existed.

Memories flooded my mind, of the quiet riot he was, of the secret crush I’d had on him, and the extraordinary friendship we’d shared so many years ago. As fast as those images came, others replaced them.

I was thrust back to the crime scene, back to Mother’s corpse and the shirtless eighteen-year-old roaring obscenities while Sheriff Gray and a deputy dragged him away in handcuffs.

Trace Dawson the man glared at me now, and his eyes were hard and accusing, eyes brimming with fire and ice. A chill wind rumbled past him, but he stood as still as a statue. Only his eyes moved while he looked me up and down with agonizing thoroughness. The rage. The pain. It was all there.

“Trace?” I whispered.

In chilling silence, he walked away without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

The crowd reacted in an explosion of chatter, their tongues empowered by his retreat. Hate-filled words like “psycho,” “killer,” and “bastard” flew unrestrained.

Trembling with emotion, I gathered my things in silence and melted into the growing sea of onlookers. People were so busy gaping and murmuring epithets at Trace that they didn’t notice me fleeing the scene.

I’d almost made it to Bradford Realty when a conversation between four store clerks stopped me cold. A clutch of women on a smoke break were huddled in a corner, unaware I could hear everything.

“You know he killed a man in prison,” one woman spouted.

“Probably turns her on,” dished another with a ten-pack-a-day voice. “I heard her and that fossil she’s marrying are into S&M and stuff.”

“But did you see the way she was lookin’ at ‘im?” the first rattled back.

A third piped in, “Yeah, like he was cookies and she was milk.”

“Not surprising,” number one concluded. “The mother was the same way. Her and Dawson used to go at it like dogs.”

A fourth woman cackled. “Who can blame her? Word has it he’s got an anaconda between his legs.”

They roared with laughter and their vile assertions grew more offensive by the second. Lilith Bradford, my mother, had been linked to half a dozen men before her death, Trace Dawson being one of them.

Rising above Mother’s salacious reputation proved quite the challenge. Talk had even followed me to college. It added up to a womb-to-tomb legacy of degradation, and Trace’s return had resurrected it.

My anger burned hot, but propriety stayed my tongue. The last thing I needed was another scene. Father would be spinning in his crypt. Auntie and Uncle wouldn’t be pleased either. Mead would have plenty to say too.

He always did.

So I limped to my office intent on disappearing inside. However, the wails of a police siren and an ambulance stopped me dead in my tracks. Two minutes later, a police officer peppered me with questions. Yes, I was okay. No, I didn’t need medical attention.

Yet when an EMT bullied me into an ambulance, I was too drained to argue. During the hospital ride, my mouth responded to his questions, but my thoughts hovered over the first piece of an intricate puzzle. Far from wanting me dead, Trace Dawson had tried to save my life. But why?

Hadn’t I destroyed his?

TRACE

____________________________

“What the hell happened back there?” Wrapped from neck to nose in a tangle of scarves, floppy hat, and earmuffs, Icky gripped the wheel and glared at my bloody chin as the windshield wipers thrashed. “Trace!”

“Just get me to the hospital!”

I wrenched the frayed seatbelt across my chest and snapped it home. Then I snatched a bandana from my pocket, wadded it, and set the thing over the gash in my chin. Blood covered my jacket and my cut ached something fierce. Everything pained me. Bones, teeth, gums—hell, even my hair hurt. The lumpy seat cushion was little comfort. My ass smacked the floor at every bump.

I’d yet to get a handle on my thoughts and feelings. Both were miles ahead of me, and I wasn’t in the mood to hunt them down. But if I didn’t say something quick, Icky would bust a gasket. So I skipped over the unnecessary details and gave an abridged account.

Afterward, Icky asked, “Why’d you try to help her?”

I shrugged. The question surprised me. “I don’t know.”

When we were kids, I’d nicknamed her “Shadow” because she used to follow me around like a lost puppy, but she wasn’t my Shadow anymore, if she ever really was. As it stood, she was nothing to me now.

“Well? Was Ms. Bradford okay?”

That snapped me out of my reverie. “Miz? You know her?”

“Uh, yeah.” Icky’s brows bunched into a frown. “She ran an ad for this real estate course, but I couldn’t get a license because of my felony. So she got me a data entry gig at Kingston Realty, over in New Dyer.” Icky slowed for a stop sign as an ambulance screamed by. He flashed me a toothy white grin. Big improvement over the yellow jigsaw of a smile he’d had in prison. “I’m up for a promotion next month. Administrative assistant. For the lead realtor.”

Well, whoopty doo. “Shannon know about us?”

“Yeah. I laid it all out when I called her. That I married your sister. That you and me were cellies. She knows everything.”

I set my jaw. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“Y’all’s history has nothing to do with me.”

So he said, but I had doubts. Patrick “Icky” O’Dell had been my cellmate way back when. We’d drifted apart because of a fight we’d had over my big sister Bev, and it looked like the fight wasn’t over. Case in point: after I paid my parole officer a visit today, Icky had insisted on stopping at the plaza for a prescription.

I glanced at the backseat. Nothing there but my pillowcase. It held all my belongings. “You forget your pills?”

Icky’s guilty pause was answer enough. “Um…they won’t be ready for a couple more hours.”

“You think I’m stupid?” I smiled bitterly. “You planned this, didn’t you?” Silence. “You drove me there ‘cause you wanted me to see her.” When Icky wouldn’t even make eye contact, I knew it had been a set up. “This is about Bev, isn’t it?”

“You’re crazy,” Icky mumbled, but his shifty eyes said something different. “I’m just the driver. Amber’s car broke down. She called Bev. Bev called me—”

“Save the spin. The truth, Icky. Now.”

His angular face was as red as the curls dripping from beneath his floppy hat. He yanked the gearshift. “I told you the truth. And I got no reason to lie either. Seriously, man. I found Jesus.”

Icky finding religion was about as silly as a gorilla in a dress. “Tell me somethin’, choirboy,” I said. “This conversion of yours. Was it before or after you slapped my sister?”

“I was using then and you know it!”

“How do I know you’re not usin’ now?” I searched Icky’s face. Dilated pupils. Glassy eyes. He was high as hell.