“I’m not sure why she didn’t press charges,” Trace said, his voice raspy. “Prob’ly knew I’d make good on my promise.”

I cradled the phone and eased into the seat at my vanity table, trying to connect the mother I remembered to the monster he’d just described.

Both were strangers now.

It took me a moment to gather my thoughts amidst the pain he’d endured. Trace had recounted, in amazing detail, the last night of my mother’s life.

More than a few times, he’d had to stop to collect himself, yet he’d refused to quit, as if he were purging some disease from his soul. Now I understood why he’d taken on the role of my guardian angel. He’d done for me what he’d been powerless to do for himself.

“I went straight home afterwards,” Trace continued. “Mama was on the phone with Mrs. Campbell when I got there. Soon as she hung up, me and Mama got into it, then Daddy crawled from the bottle to add his two cents. They actually wanted me to apologize.”

I got to my feet and carried the phone into the bathroom. “They thought Mother would rehire you both?”

“Yep. Mama was ranting about Daddy being on disability—that we needed the money and I should’ve minded my own business.” He sighed. “I asked why she let Daddy use me for a punching bag. Told her Lilith was doing the same thing with you.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing. She just stormed off. Then Daddy cursed the day I was born. Went staggering up to me and Cole’s room. Tossed my TV out the window. My clothes. Everything I owned lay in the front yard. I didn’t speak to Mama for years after that.”

“Did your father ever abuse Beverly and Cole?”

“Naw. My little brother was his pride and joy and Bev was his princess. Seems he saved all his vinegar for me. Bev used to think he was jealous. She said I was independent and fearless. He hated that. So he tried to beat it out of me.”

Heart trembling, I leaned against the tiled wall. “But you and your mother found your way back to each other. Is that why she’d pinned all her hopes on you making parole?”

“Yeah.”

Just the thought of how he’d suffered made me ill. “Where did you go after you left your house?”

“Cholly’s,” he said, his voice staid, resigned. “The Fontanas let me stay with them. But after I dropped my stuff off there, I went straight to Sheriff Gray.”

“To report Mother.”

“Yep. I didn’t have much hope given the whole Eddie and Bev thing, but after I told him about your bruises and Lilith’s drinking, he said he’d look into it. Even thanked me for coming by. I was hopeful when I left. Looked like he believed me.”

“But he testified that your claims were baseless later.”

“Yeah,” Trace said bitterly. “Only question is why.” Silence lingered. “What do you remember about the day she died?”

Not much, but just then…. I cupped my forehead as another memory gelled of the day before the murder. Namely, the reason Mother had hurt me that last time.

I was too embarrassed to share it with Trace or any man.

I slid down the wall and hugged my knees. Sorrow washed over me. “Everything’s still fragmented,” I whispered.

“Well, I got to your house early the next day. I hopped the fence to stay hidden, but it was deserted. Not even a breeze. That’s what I’ll never forget. The quiet. It was unnatural.”

I licked my lips. “Why did you come back?”

“To give you hope. To tell you the Sheriff said he’d help.”

That he’d still been thinking about my welfare even after the horrible night he’d had was heartening. But it also made me more determined to uncover the truth. Not just for Mother’s sake, but for his as well. “I’m sorry I called you a coward when we were in the garage. I was wrong. You’re a hero…my hero.”

I guessed from his silence that I’d surprised him. Ten seconds went by before he said, “Th-thanks.” Trace Dawson had actually stuttered. He cleared his throat. “Well, I, ah, I gotta get to work.”

“I do too.” An awkward moment followed, one of unspoken words and untested emotions. Much needed saying, but I didn’t know where to begin. I got up and wandered into the adjacent walk-in closet. “So I’ll see you at two on Wednesday?” I said, staring at my rack of clothes with blind eyes.

“Yeah. Shannon?”

His tone changed, letting me know he planned to take the subject in the direction we’d both been avoiding.

I snatched a pair of jeans from a hanger. It went flying. “I’m really running late—”

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said.

Not a smooth segue, but then, ‘it’ had loomed in the background during our entire conversation. ‘It’ being what we’d done at his house. ‘It’ being what he continued to do to me now. It was insane. Even as we’d talked about Mother’s murder, ‘it’ had been there the whole time.

Just listening to his voice dragged me back to that night. I could still feel his body pressed against mine. His mouth on my breast. The tugging. The wetness. Everything bounced between us like a flaming boomerang.

I yanked an ankle boot from the shoetree, retrieved its mate, and strode back into my room to flop on the edge of the bed. “I can’t talk about this now.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Suit yourself.” His voice was sandpaper rough. “But it’s not going away.”

SHANNON

____________________________

He was right. It didn’t go away. The second I laid eyes on him at Rascal’s Wednesday afternoon, the intensity ignited. The drive to Valene Campbell’s was as uncomfortable as I’d feared, and if I thought I’d have a reprieve once we arrived at our destination, I had to think again.

Even as we followed Jane Younger down the hall of her federal style home, I had to fight to keep my mind on the task at hand. I made a point of not looking at Trace since it would just lead to distraction.

Instead, I concentrated on the waspish, middle-aged woman in front of me.

Jane Younger was a reedy, whey-faced brunette with frosty gray eyes and a brusque gait. Wearing a chignon and a stodgy, gray dress that made a whooshing sound as she walked, she marched us down a corridor flanked by ugly paintings and cheap knickknacks.

The place resembled its owner, cold and hollow.

“I don’t like this,” Jane said. She threw a terse glance at us over her rigid shoulders. “But Nana insisted.”

I exchanged a guarded look with Trace. “We do appreciate your hospitality, Ms. Younger.”

“Just don’t upset her,” came the snippy reply. To Trace she said, “Had I been home to receive your call, you wouldn’t be here. Only reason you are now is because Nana answered.”

We came to a long staircase and Trace stepped back in deference to the stodgy Ms. Younger. He gave her a good ‘ol boy grin, and the corners of her pencil-thin lips fell south.

When we’d reached the top, Jane led us to a sitting room that smelled of mothballs and liniment. A bay window centered the stone-faced south wall. Light speared across the hardwood floor from a lone table lamp.

Jane approached a small, shriveled old woman with steel-gray hair. She sat hunched over in a wooden wheelchair by the window. A thin green quilt draped her spindly legs.

“Nana?” Jane spoke as if she were conversing with a child. “Your visitors are here. This is Shannon Bradford and—”

“I know who she is,” Valene snapped. She did a complete one-eighty when she flashed a cavernous smile at me. “The Little Miss. How’ve you been?”

“Just fine, Mrs. Campbell. And yourself?”

“Can’t complain. Can’t complain.” She hiked a frail shoulder, then cast a testy glance at her granddaughter. “‘Cept for Janie hiding my mail and screening my calls. Thinks she’s my mother, she does. Um-hmm.”

“Oh, Nana, please.” Jane rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand. She turned to Trace who stood behind the old woman. “This is Mister….” She frowned into a unibrow. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”