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“Do you blame him?” she’d thrown at Tate as they’d stood in the kitchen of his loft. “He’d just gotten out of prison and he hates the cops. And, well, hell, I ran away, too.” She’d turned to face him, and he’d been caught again by her beauty. “Jonas didn’t have any blood on him, Wes. Not a drop. Wouldn’t some of Merritt’s blood have been on him if he’d sliced Merritt’s throat?” She’d physically shuddered. “Besides, the police would figure that out pretty damned fast, wouldn’t they? They had his clothes after the accident. So they know he didn’t do it.” She’d frowned and studied the wine in her glass. “I know Jonas has issues. He’s bitter. Who wouldn’t be?”
“That’s assuming he’s innocent.”
“Even so,” she’d argued, then tossed back her wine. “Okay, okay, I get it. Jonas is a fraud. I know that. This whole religion thing of his is bogus. No one who’s really ‘found Jesus,’” she said, making air quotes with her fingers, “would be so vindictive, so greedy, so damned angry. But that doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”
At that point he’d dropped the subject and she’d poured herself another glass.
And this morning, she’d refused to let him join her in the sheriff’s office.
Tate had slid his RAV4 into this very spot, and offered only hours before, “Okay. I could come in with you—”
“We already discussed this,” she’d snapped as she’d pulled on a pair of gloves, then opened the passenger door. “And you don’t have to wait for me. I’ll get my phone back, or the cops will take me home.”
“Your dog is at my place,” he’d reminded her.
“Right. Well, you know what I mean.”
“I do. And I’ll wait.”
She’d sent him a questioning look, as if trying to decipher his motives—was he a good guy or just a reporter bending over backward for a story? “It’s freezing.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“If you say so.” She’d climbed out, slammed the door shut, hesitated to let traffic clear, then jogged across the street. He’d watched her cross, her hair bouncing, her legs moving so easily and he told himself not to notice how sexy she was. Those kinds of thoughts were way out of line and would only get him in trouble. Still, he hadn’t been able to turn away as she’d hustled up the concrete steps to enter the glass vestibule. His view had been cut off by an ancient Volkswagen Vanagon rattling past and when he’d been able to see the steps again, she was gone.
He felt an unbidden pang that stupidly still lingered.
Less than five minutes later, his mother called.
“Don’t tell me,” she said when he answered. “You’re back on the McIntyre thing, aren’t you?”
“Hi to you, too, Mom.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” she said, and launched right in again. “Damn it, Wesley, can’t you let it go?” Her fury emanated over the wireless connection.
She knew he couldn’t. They’d had this discussion over and over again.
“I saw on the news that Jonas McIntyre’s out of prison and that lawyer who got him out? Merritt Margrove? He was killed. It’s everywhere. Newspaper, radio, television, even my damned Facebook feed!” She let out a long sigh. “I’ve had a reporter call me this morning. That Sheila Keegan woman. Pushy thing. And she’s just the first. They’ll be lining up, I know they will. There’s already been some kind of rally about Jonas McIntyre. And they’re gonna dig this all up again. And you . . . you’re right in there with the rest of them.”
“It’s my job, Mom.”
“No, Wesley, it’s your obsession!” She paused and then more calmly said, “You need to let it go. What’s done is done. I’m not crazy about the fact that Jonas McIntyre is out of prison, you know I’m not, and I feel bad that another man died—was killed—but it’s all in God’s hands now.”
“Merritt Margrove was murdered. I don’t think God had anything to do with it.” Tate started the engine and cranked up the heat in the defroster as the windows had begun to fog.
“But that’s not what this is about,” his mother reminded him. “Haven’t you spent enough time on this? Give it up, son.”
“I’ve got a new angle,” he said, glancing away from his phone and watching through the condensation as two deputies walked out a side door and climbed into a department-issue SUV.
“Look, if I can leave the past behind where it belongs, you can.”
“I can’t.” And that was the God’s honest truth. The tragedy had been haunting him for over half his life.
“You’re as stubborn as your father was. He wouldn’t listen to me either.” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t you think this whole thing has done enough damage to our family? And it’s been so long. It doesn’t matter if Jonas McIntyre is out of prison or not, you need to find a life beyond it.”
“So you’ve said, Mom.”
“Okay, okay. Now, there’s something else.”
