The Truth About Love (6 page)

They arrived at her SUV and she leaned against it. “You said I didn’t know anything about it. That I’d only worked for Morgan’s Ladder for three weeks.”

Yeah? And?

He would never understand women. “How long have you worked there?” Maybe he had the time frame mixed up. He thought she’d only gotten here this summer, but maybe he was wrong.

“Four weeks,” she said.

Crazy. All of them.

He couldn’t think of anything to say. And he sure as hell didn’t want to make her start crying. He’d never known how to deal with women’s tears.

“But that doesn’t mean”—she took a ragged breath—“that doesn’t mean I didn’t know about eyewitnesses before then.”

His head shot up. What was she talking about? Had she been the victim of some violent crime? A protectiveness he’d never felt before washed over him.

She closed her eyes and looked like the most vulnerable, innocent person he’d ever met. The made-up woman who’d tried to hook up with him inside was nothing compared to Gina’s wholesomeness. How could wholesomeness be so damn sexy?

He reached out and took her hand. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought I knew who killed my brother.” Her voice quavered. “But I was wrong.”

“
You
were the eyewitness?” A sense of relief washed over him. No one had harmed her. At least, not that he knew of.

Her nod was barely visible. “A kid went to prison for eighteen months.” A single tear streaked down each of her cheeks. “Because of me.”

He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. “People make mistakes. They don’t always see what they think they see.”
He
hadn’t made a mistake in tagging Cyrus Alexander, but perhaps other people misidentified suspects.

“He was sixteen when he went in.” Her voice pleaded with him to understand. “Can you imagine what happened to him in there? How his life was ruined?”

“So this is why you work for Morgan’s Ladder?” He stepped closer to her, the intimacy of the moment drawing him near.

She sniffed and nodded.

No wonder she brought so much passion to her work.

“So where do we go from here?” he asked.

“I continue to do my job.”

He’d never seen her look so tired. So defeated. He tipped her face up with his finger. Just touching her made the connection between them more real. More alive. “And I continue to be the asshole on the other side of the case, making your life miserable?”

“Something like that.” Her eyes studied his. Questioning him. As if trying to share things that were far different—far deeper—than her superficial words conveyed.

“That doesn’t seem like a very good arrangement,” he said.

“It’s why I came to Tallahassee. What I was meant to do.”

He bent his head next to hers, reveling in their closeness. He wished it could be different between them. “But what if you’re wrong?” His mouth lingered near her ear. The scent of her beckoned him closer. “What if it’s not why you’re here?”

“We’re not talking about the case anymore, are we?” she whispered.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” His nose skimmed the soft skin in front of her ear. “Or what I’m not supposed to do.”

She pulled away from him far enough to look into his eyes. “We probably . . .” She brushed her lips on his. “Shouldn’t . . .” She grazed her lips on his again. “Do this.” She grasped the front of his shirt with her fingers and pulled him toward her. His hands immediately went to the top of her SUV, bracing him as he leaned into her kiss. She clutched the fabric of his shirt tighter. A release of tension trembled through his body as he realized that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

A shiver raced down his spine as his lips settled onto hers. He’d wanted to do this ever since that first kiss they’d shared on the night they met. He moved his hand to her jaw and felt the dampness of her tears. The softness of her skin. The magnetic pull he couldn’t seem to escape.

He brushed his tongue against her lips and she parted them as a soft moan escaped from her chest. He took a step forward, pinning her against the SUV with his body. Her hands skimmed his rib cage. His shoulders. Came to rest on his backside and pressed him forward, molding their bodies together as their tongues explored each other.

A bright light flashed over them as tires crunched on gravel a few feet from them. Her hands rushed to his chest and pushed him away as the headlights to a car pulled into the space facing her SUV, illuminating them like a spotlight.

She pushed against his chest even harder and he stepped back. He wanted to punch the asshole who’d ruined their kiss. Gina squinted and held up her hand to block the headlights. He stepped into the path of the beam, blocking it for her with his body as he sidled up beside her.

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

“You’re not going back inside?” He’d waited all night for her to get here and he sure as hell didn’t want her to go. Not until he’d spent more time with her. Not until he understood what made him so drawn to her.

She motioned to her tear-streaked face, then removed the set of keys she’d tucked in the waistband of her volleyball shorts. The lights on her SUV flashed behind her again as she beeped the locks open. “Can you tell someone on my team I’ve gone home?”

“I don’t feel much like partying anymore, either.” He toed a rock beneath his feet. He wanted to spend more time with her, though he wasn’t sure which of his motives drove his desire. Was it Gina, the woman, or Gina, the employee of Morgan’s Ladder, who made him feel like he had to keep an eye on her? “Give me a ride to my condo? I rode here with Boomer.”

“We shouldn’t have done that.”

“This?” He motioned from her to him, then back again in the space between them.

“Yes. This. It can’t happen again.”

Her resolute demeanor felt like cold steel slicing into him. “I’m just asking for a ride home.”

“I’m not coming inside.” She held a hand up, as if to accentuate her point. “Just dropping you off.”

He wished like hell it was different between them, but wasn’t about to push himself on her, regardless of how much he wanted to kiss her again. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

She jerked her head toward the SUV, motioning for him to join her, and they both climbed in. Her car smelled like lavender. A clear droplet of crystal hung from the rearview mirror, sending sparkles of light throughout the interior. He looked around the SUV while she texted her friend inside to let her know she was leaving. A gym bag and a briefcase sat on the backseat. A pair of Nikes were tossed on the back floorboard.

By the time he’d texted Boomer to let him know he wasn’t coming back inside, they were cruising through the streets of Tallahassee.

He settled back in his seat and tried to sort through what had just happened. She’d kissed him—and it was clearly her doing—but now acted like they’d committed some horrible sin. She didn’t want to get involved with him because of the case, but she’d been the one to clutch his shirt and pull him toward her.

It wasn’t like there could ever be anything between him and Gina, even without the case. But he wanted to pretend that things were different.

She’d eventually realize he wasn’t good enough for her. Sure, he got to play football for a few years, but he would always be the one with the sordid past.

He knew he made a good first impression.
Sports Illustrated
had called him “ruggedly handsome.” The wives of booster club members fawned over him. He’d never had trouble going home with a woman when he had a need for sex.

But Gina would learn soon enough that outward appearances didn’t solve everything. Sometimes they just hid the reality inside. A reality that would never live up to the promise. That would never make him good enough for a girl like Gina.

“So I talked to my boss about the death penalty task force,” he said, trying to get his mind off of their kiss.

“And?”

“He’s asked me to be the representative for his office.” Okay, that wasn’t the complete truth. Landon had first
asked
Scott Meredith to recommend him to the senator for the assignment, but she didn’t need to know that.

She jerked her head to face him. “On the task force?”

He nodded. “I’m scheduled to go on an interview with you the day after tomorrow.”

“The one in Tampa?”

“Yep.” They’d be interviewing a college professor who specialized in eyewitness misidentification.

“You’re sure you’re up for this? Discussing crime scenes and murders and stuff?”

No, he wasn’t sure. But he’d volunteered for the task force before he’d known what all was involved. He’d thought it would be committee meetings. Debates. Statistics for and against the death penalty. He’d had no idea he’d have to interview people about the accuracy of eyewitness testimony. “I can handle it.”

She nodded and seemed to think about his response for a minute. Then, as if the thought had just leapt into her mind, she turned toward him. “No one can know what we just did.”

“I understand.”

“No one.” She emphasized her words with a slice of her hand through the air.

“I got it.” God, did she have to act like it was the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen to her? It was a goddamn kiss. And a nice one at that.

They fell into silence. His eyes darted to the curve of her breast as the faint glow from the dashboard shadowed her body. Headlights from each passing car shot a swath of light through the interior, illuminating her face for a brief moment. He shifted his body to look out his window, away from her. Surely he could keep his libido in check long enough to talk to her about all the reasons Cyrus Alexander should stay in prison. They’d had no business kissing. It conflicted with her professional obligations and sure as hell wasn’t a good idea for him, either.

But he’d known from her reaction—the way she’d pressed her body to his, the way she’d opened her mouth and let his tongue explore hers—that she’d enjoyed it as much as he had.

Gina felt Landon’s gaze on her from the other side of the car. She’d seen his eyes flash both passion and annoyance—and she wondered what was in them now.

But she was driving him home. Period. And doing her best to forget the fantastic kiss they’d just shared. She tried to force herself to think of him as the forlorn child in the crime scene photos and not the sexy-as-hell man whose hands had molded to her hips, urging them closer as his mouth devoured hers.

That first kiss, more than a week ago, had been innocent. She hadn’t known who he was then. But this one—this one she’d asked for, knowing exactly who he was and how he was connected to one of the cases at Morgan’s Ladder.

Just her luck, the car that pulled up when they were in each other’s arms would probably end up belonging to a Florida State Supreme Court justice. Yeah, right. Like they hung out at the Twilight on Thursday nights. The end of her legal career before it ever got started.

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t been more careful, especially on the heels of the fiasco with Christopher. She’d dated the guy a year and a half, then caught him in bed with a girl he’d met at the pizza place that same day. She’d been humiliated. Heartbroken. And worse—she’d been made to feel like she was disposable. Their relationship had meant so little to him that he’d slept with a girl he’d met two fricking hours earlier.

She’d promised herself that she’d be much smarter with guys after that. So why was she kissing Landon Vista again? And she’d been the one to initiate it.

He grunted brief directions to guide her way. She turned into the driveway of the condo complex where he lived and pulled her car along the edge of the asphalt. A streetlight shone from above, creating a bright pool of light in an otherwise inky-black night.

A tall, thin man stepped into the beam of the streetlight, one of his hands raised in greeting.

Landon groaned. “You should just floor it now.”

“And run over him?” Sure, he looked kind of scary in his faded T-shirt and wrinkled pants, but she had Landon Vista with her. Tallahassee’s answer to Superman.

Landon got out of the car, slammed the door shut a little harder than necessary, and stalked toward the man. The guy was almost as tall as Landon, but much skinnier, in a sickly sort of way. The two exchanged words, then both sets of eyes turned to look at her.

Why was she a part of their conversation? And who was this guy?

She shifted into park and slipped out of her side of the car, eager to find out.

CHAPTER FIVE

L
andon stood in front of Gina’s SUV, frozen in place, dreading the introduction he would have to make as soon as she crossed in front of the car toward them.

As usual, his dad ruined everything.

Her questioning look moved from one man to the other, then back again. His dad ogled her like some drunk at a strip club, stopping far too long on those shapely breasts. Landon’s possessiveness kicked in again. Even more than usual, he was disgusted with his old man.

“You’re not going to introduce us?” His dad’s voice sounded wolfish. Sinister.

“This is Gina,” he said. “She gave me a ride home.”

She shot Landon a questioning look, then stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you.” Landon liked the way she didn’t shy away from someone who was obviously dirty and disheveled. He’d always believed people needed to help others. But this was his goddamn father. A man who didn’t even try to help himself.

His dad’s lips parted into a Wile E. Coyote grin, his tobacco-stained teeth yellow, even in the dim light. “Martin Vista.” His hand nervously smoothed his hair as soon as he’d released her grip.

Her searching eyes met Landon’s. “Your father?”

Years of memories cascaded through his mind. The time his kindergarten teacher wouldn’t release him to a drunken dad. The pitying whispers at his mother’s funeral, wondering why his dad wasn’t there for him, even though his parents had never married. The headline in the newspaper the time Martin had gotten banned from Landon’s high school football games for yelling obscenities at the opposing team.

“You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.” His dad chuckled and slapped him on the back.

“We met through our volleyball league.” She seemed to understand the strained relationship between the two of them. “I’m not his—”

“What can I help you with, Dad?” It was a standard conversation opener for the two of them, but Gina frowned at him.

“I stopped by to see if you’d thought about my . . . investment opportunity.”

Investment opportunity? He hated his dad for trying to sound so important. It was a fucking bait shop. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

“We’re meeting with the bank tomorrow.”

He wondered how long it would take Gina to figure out his dad was drunk. Sure, her past wasn’t as pristine as he’d once thought it might be, but she still seemed rich and classy. Drunks in those families were called alcoholics. And they were still rich and classy. His dad would never be either. “I’m not doing the commercials.”

“One afternoon of taping? You can’t spare that for your old man?”

“I’ll let you two talk.” She tipped her head in Martin’s direction. “Pleasure meeting you.”

The older man waggled his eyebrows at Landon once she’d gotten in her SUV and was backing up. “Ni-i-ce.”

“Stop it.”

“You don’t want to talk about her”—he motioned toward her SUV as she pulled away—“then let’s talk about my new business venture.”

“Don’t mention my name when you’re out there talking to people about it.” He didn’t want to be associated with this.

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “I wish I could remember the exact time you became too goddamn high and mighty for your own father.”

“Good-bye.” Landon took a step up the sidewalk toward his front door, mad that his dad hadn’t asked about the Cyrus Alexander case. He didn’t want to talk to Martin about it, but it would have been nice for him to care enough to ask.

“Don’t have time for me now that you got a sweet little squeeze like that around?”

Landon returned to face his dad. Gina wasn’t his “squeeze,” but that wasn’t any of his dad’s business. “The invitation’s still open. Dinner and a ball game. Anytime you want to come over without some agenda.”

Martin’s jaw twitched in the moonlight. He stared at his son for several seconds, then stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and walked toward the street.

Landon exhaled, trying to rid himself of the toxic tension that thrummed through his veins when his dad was around. This wasn’t at all how he’d wanted the night to go. Granted, the kiss with Gina had been fantastic. Better than fantastic.

But what had he been thinking, kissing her back? And why had he felt so offended when she’d pulled away? To make things worse, he hadn’t been able to form a rational thought in her SUV—hadn’t tried to talk with her about Cyrus Alexander. Hadn’t emphasized the fact that the guy had lost all his appeals. He’d just sat there like some horny teenager, unable to talk when the head cheerleader was nearby.

His cell phone rang in his pocket as he trudged to the fridge for a bottle of water.

“You okay?” Gina asked without a greeting as soon as he answered. “I wasn’t sure if I should stay . . . or go . . . or what.”

“Visits from my dad are always such a pleasure. You did the right thing—got out while you could.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.” He pulled the last grape Nehi out of the fridge. He really wanted a beer, but with his father’s history of drinking, he stuck to the nonalcoholic stuff when he wasn’t out with his friends.

“You sure?”

“Not now.” He cradled the phone against his shoulder as he tugged the cap off the bottle. “Not ever.”

“You two don’t get along very well.”

No shit.

He took a big gulp, knowing he needed to say something nicer to her than what he was thinking.

“Not a great history there?” she said before he could come up with a response.

“I don’t want to be rude or anything, but this isn’t something I like to talk about.” He’d realized since he was a kid that other people had different experiences. Other people had families. He’d always be the kid whose mom had to work in a run-down country store and whose dad hadn’t wanted him. Even with his football success, he’d always be the kid who didn’t belong.

“You should treat him with a little more respect.”

He scoffed. “Did your dad live with you growing up?”

“Yes.”

He could almost imagine her nose rising into the air as if to say “Of course my father lived with us.” He’d learned a long time ago that people like her took family for granted. That they assumed everyone had one.

“And what does your father do for a living?” he asked her.

“He’s a hospital administrator.”

“So he goes to work, brings home a paycheck, stays sober long enough that they want to keep him working there?”

“Yeah . . .” Her voice had a questioning tone.

“Then don’t tell me how to treat my dad,” he said. “You don’t know anything about it.”

Gina and Landon stood as the professor from the university in Tampa entered her office.

“Dr. Stanton.” Gina extended her hand and the older woman shook it. “I’m Gina Blanchard. The administrative assistant asked us to wait in here.”

“That’s fine,” the woman said as she turned toward Landon.

“Landon Vista,” he said as he shook her hand.

“I didn’t expect people who were so”—Dr. Stanton motioned for them to sit as she circled behind her desk—“young.”

“Landon—I mean, Mr. Vista—works for Senator Byers,” Gina said. “And I work for an organization that gets wrongly convicted people out of prison.”

“Which must make my work particularly interesting to you,” Dr. Stanton said. Gina watched her movements, trying to figure out if she knew Landon’s history as an eyewitness to a crime, but Dr. Stanton appeared to be unaware.

“Yes,” Gina said. “I read up on your work once I found out we’d be interviewing you.” The professor’s research on false memories made her one of the leaders in the field.

Dr. Stanton turned to Landon. “And you?”

“I . . . ummm . . .” Landon fidgeted. Gina had e-mailed him links to all the articles she’d read online, but she wasn’t sure he’d read any of them. “I’m familiar with your research.”

“Good,” the professor said. “Then we don’t have to start with the basics.” She rested her elbows on her desk. “So what do you want to know from me?”

Gina opened her notebook and dug a pen out of her purse as she spoke. “In my line of work, we know that eyewitnesses are often wrong.” She avoided looking at Landon.

The professor nodded.

“But
why
are they wrong?” Gina continued. “How do they think they saw something they really didn’t see?” God, if she’d only known the answer to that after Tommy’s murder. Before she’d sent Nick Varnadore to prison.

The professor sat back in her chair. “The mind has a tricky retrieval system. People under stress—like those witnessing a robbery or a homicide—sometimes don’t capture the right details. And if they do, the mind may not retrieve them correctly. That’s why the witnesses often don’t get even the most basic details correct, like whether the perpetrator was bald or had a complete head of hair. Sometimes they don’t know whether the guy’s white or black or Latino.”

Landon sat forward in his chair. “But what if they saw something before they knew the crime had taken place? Doesn’t that increase their level of accuracy?”

Gina shot him a warning glance. He was asking about his own testimony, though the professor didn’t know it.

“Being under stress is only one of the ways our memories are bastardized,” Dr. Stanton said to Landon. Gina wanted to look at Landon’s reaction, but she didn’t.

The professor continued. “The biggest finding in recent years is that other people can plant false memories into our brains. Sometimes it’s on purpose and sometimes it’s by suggestion. An accident.”

“Can you give us some examples?” Gina had read about this in the articles online. She’d spent time rehashing the days after Tommy’s death, as if hoping to find someone else who’d first planted the th
ought that Nick Varnadore was the one who’d pushed Tommy off the train trestle. But no. It had been all her doing.

“I studied a woman last year who claimed to have been on the Jersey Shore during Hurricane Sandy. She was seeking medical help for what she claimed to be PTSD from the storm.” Dr. Stanton opened her desk drawer and pulled out a file folder. “Except the insurance company didn’t buy it. She was having a hysterectomy in Omaha during Hurricane Sandy. They knew it because they’d paid the hospital bill.”

“So why would she claim to have been in New Jersey?” Gina asked.

“She’d spent days during her recovery with nothing to do but watch TV. She’d seen the videos so much she actually believed she was there.” Dr. Stanton opened the file she’d retrieved from the drawer. “And this man.” She spun the file so that a man’s mug shot was facing Gina and Landon.

Gina thought she’d seen the picture before, but couldn’t remember the story behind it.

“William Thomas. His neighbor suspected him of having an affair with his wife, so the neighbor kept asking his own daughter about the times that Mr. Thomas had touched her inappropriately. After a while the little girl had false memories of being molested by Mr. Thomas.”

Landon frowned. “He did that to his own daughter?”

Dr. Stanton nodded. “Sad, isn’t it?”

More like sickening. Or evil. “How’d they figure out it didn’t happen?”

“The neighbor eventually turned himself in. The wife threatened to leave if he didn’t tell the truth.” The professor shrugged. “He ended up admitting he’d talked the little girl into it.”

“I hope the wife left him anyway,” Gina said. “And kept the daughter away from him.”

“I think she did.” Dr. Stanton stood. “Come on. I’ll show you our research lab.”

They spent the next two hours touring the school’s facilities for the study of how the brain recalls facts, experiences, smells, and other stimuli. They listened to the professor’s stories about how false memories had been planted in people’s minds by therapists, well-meaning friends or family members, and even television shows.

“So,” Gina said later as she and Landon walked through the parking lot toward his truck. “What do you think?” He’d been quiet all afternoon, asking questions of Dr. Stanton only a couple of times.

“It’s . . . a lot to absorb.”

She glanced sideways at him. He looked a bit shaken. So he
did
realize how Dr. Stanton’s work could apply to his own testimony. Gina decided not to push it with him. Not until he’d had a chance to process everything they’d learned today. At least she’d had a few days to think about what she’d learned in the articles. And a much longer time to think about how her testimony had locked up the wrong guy.

They walked in silence, both engrossed in their own thoughts.

It had been dark the night of Tommy’s death. She’d just pulled up to their regular gathering spot—the old train trestle out off Highway 63. She’d turned her headlights off as she approached—everyone did when they came here so that Rachel Crawford’s grandma wouldn’t see them from across the river and call the sheriff on them again. Like it mattered when her house was so far away.

But that’s what teenagers in her hometown had been doing for years. And that’s what she’d done that night. It was why it had been so dark. Why it had taken her a minute or two to realize that someone had plunged off the trestle and into the river. Even longer—oh, God, much longer—to realize it had been Tommy. She’d been certain it was Nick Varnadore who’d pushed him. The crowd of teenage boys had been laughing and joking as they drank beer on the trestle. The sheriff found out later they’d also been passing around a bottle of tequila someone’s big brother had bought them.