Every now and then I’d reach for his hand to give it a sympathetic squeeze, and he’d return the gesture, though absently. Less than three feet separated us, yet he seemed miles away.

The scene at the O’Dell’s still haunted me, but one cryptic exchange screamed the loudest:

‘After everything I’ve done for you,’ Trace had said. Patrick’s reply? ‘…Oh, you mean Nyle Weathers?’ More damning words followed. ‘…My contacts are sure Dawson was involved in his death,’ Darien had said. ‘They just didn’t have the evidence to prove it.’

I drew a shaky breath, not liking the path my thoughts had taken. Did Trace kill that prisoner? If so, what could have driven him to it? Every part of me, from my flesh to my soul, desperately hoped my suspicions were wrong.

I found an empty space half a block away from his house and rolled in beneath the hulking shadow of an overgrown pine. After I cut the engine, I faced him, squeezed his limp hand again. This time he didn’t squeeze back.

Winter’s chill seeped into the car, and when Trace finally looked at me, I could see his breath. He rested his head against the seat. His doleful eyes were dark and haunted, telegraphing a thousand hells.

I’d seen him furious. I’d seen him indifferent, and I’d seen more than a dozen of his emotions in between.

But this?

Never.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Naw.” He shook his head. “You?”

“I’m still numb, I guess.”

He shifted. Moonlight poured over half his face. “Icky, I get,” he said, his voice hoarse from yelling, “but Beverly….”

“Can you forgive her?”

He shrugged. “I dunno, but if you don’t press charges against him, I will.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

His eyes narrowed. “We’re talking theft, forgery and a bunch of other—”

“What about Nyle Weathers?”

A wall crashed between us and he looked straight ahead.

“Patrick knows what happened in Gainstown,” I said. “He’ll likely hold his tongue as long as you do.” I watched the subtle changes on his face while understanding registered. “Please. I need to know the truth. Did you kill him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes or no, Trace?” He didn’t answer, so I grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at me. “How can I believe anything that comes out of your mouth?”

He jerked his chin away. Fury sharpened his expression, as if I’d punched a button inside of him—the wrong one. “You got no idea what I’ve been through. So spare me your self-righteous bullshit.”

His words cut into me like a switchblade.

“Hell,” Trace said, “why should I tell you anything?” He pushed the hair off his face. “You yank down the blinds when folks see us together. You show up at my house wearing a damn hood—and you expect me to trust you? I won’t spill my guts to a woman who’s ashamed of me, much less get involved with her.”

“For the last time, I’m not ashamed,” I said, forcing a calm I didn’t feel.

Trace flicked a glance at my hood. “That says otherwise.”

Okay, he was mad and hurting. What better way than to take his rage out on me? Small wonder he’d try to turn things around, but I wasn’t about to let him get away with it.

“My hood has nothing to do with this situation. We’re talking about your inability to—”

“It has everything to do with what just happened.” He laughed, but it sounded cruel. “You want honesty? So do I. Can you really see us together? Here or anywhere else?”

My face fell and I sank against the driver’s side door. I told myself his words were meaningless. That he was wrong, but he’d hit his mark. “Why are you pushing me away?”

He sighed. “Because I’m beer nuts and you’re…you’re truffles,” he said bitterly. “You know words I’ve never heard before. You’ve built a successful business on your own. You’ve got book smarts, money and I-I don’t have a pot to—”

“No.”

He did a double take. “No, what?”

“No, I can’t see us together,” I told him. “And it’s not because of your education level or social standing. Given everything you accuse me of, don’t you think it strange how I always find my way back to you? Even after all these years. But none of that matters because I can’t possibly be with a man who doesn’t trust me.”

“So go marry that rich prick and be done with it!”

“This has nothing to do with him,” I yelled. “You lied. Now you say you want to help me, but you insist on keeping secrets. I can get that at home. I don’t need it from you.”

“Tell you what.” He gave me a scathing once-over. “When you lose that hood, when you can admit to your family—to Montgomery…hell, this whole town—how you feel about me, then maybe this ‘friendship’ won’t be such a damn joke. Right now they all prob’ly think I’m a pet project of yours. Just like Icky was.” He laughed bitterly. “Who knows? Maybe I am.”

An eternity passed before I trusted myself to speak. “I’m sorry Beverly lied,” I said in a painfully controlled voice. “And I’m sorry Patrick wrote that hateful letter.” When fire flashed in his eyes, I narrowed mine. “Yes, you had a terrible night. We both did. But you still have no excuse for lying. And you want to know what hurts most? That you feel no guilt for your dishonesty.”

“Why should I? I told you I didn’t kill your mama, but you still didn’t believe me. So yeah, I lied. At the time, I didn’t think you deserved to know the truth, but since Icky spilled the beans, I’ll tell you exactly how Nyle Weathers died.”

“I don’t want to hear it!”

“Tough shit.” He jerked all the way around to face me. “Icky was in stir two years before he got transferred to my cell. So he asks for my help one day. Seems he was having problems with three inmates. They were ass raping him. Butt fucking. Fudge packing. You know what that is, don’t you?”

My mouth fell open. He was being deliberately base and crude. He wanted to shock and upset me. “Stop it!”

“Naw, you asked for it, now sit there and listen!” he barked. “They raped a bunch of other cons too, but Icky had it ten times worse. They lent him out to people. Made him suck cock. Take it up the ass. Pissed on him. Some of the shit they did, I can’t even name.” A muscle in his jaw pumped hard and fast. “I had to do somethin’, so I went to talk to Nyle and his boys, but we had…words.” He looked away. “A week later, Nyle pulled a shank on me—in the shower, of course. Said he wanted me to dance for him before he made my ass bleed.”

My stomach hit the seat as the frost in his eyes chilled me to the bone. “So I decided to make him bleed instead.” When he spoke next, his words were ice cold. “I wrestled the shiv away from him. Then I cut his dick off and shoved it in his mouth. He bled out in the shower.”

I struggled to breathe, but he kept talking.

“I did it as a warning for the ass-raping animals who hung with him. Had I not gone through with it, had I not been as vicious as I was, they’d’ve thought me weak. They’d’ve come for me again, and the next time, they’d’ve killed me. That’s just the way it is. You gotta hit back hard to send a message. Let ‘em know you’re willing to take things to the next level.” He stared forward. “We were on lockdown for days after that. Everybody’s cell was searched, but my…friend got rid of the shank for me, and any DNA evidence went down the shower drain.”

I listened in rapt silence, my heart hanging on his every word. When he looked at me again his eyes were filled with unshed tears and a flood of emotions. Pain, defiance, remorse, grief, anger. They were all there.

“From that day on, Icky was under my protection,” he said matter-of-factly. “And they never bothered either of us again. So yeah, I killed Nyle. Not by choice. I did it to survive.” He sniffed and looked away. “Wasn’t nobody goin’ backdoor on me.”

I moved to touch him, but he dodged my hand. His rejection hurt even more than his words had. “Why is Patrick so bitter toward you?”