Traceless (5 page)

She cleared her throat of the emotion lodged there. "It was the least I could do, Troy. Heather would have done the same for me."

He nodded. "She would've. She loved you like a sister, Em." He laughed softly, the sound painful to hear. "She'd have given me up for you any day of the week."

Emotion flooded Emily's eyes and she couldn't hope to contain it. "No, she wouldn't have, silly. She loved you, too, even if you were a pain in the butt. Fifteen-year-old guys can't be counted on for much else."

He smiled, his eyes bright as well. "I don't want him to get away with this, Em, and it feels exactly like he has."

Emily's gaze moved across the cemetery and settled on Clint Austin once more. It was hard to believe they were all standing in the same place like this. Austin appeared completely oblivious to their presence, but he couldn't be.

"He's not going to get away with anything," she said out loud. That was a promise. And until she could make that promise a reality her presence would remind him every day that he wasn't wanted here... that he was a murderer.

"You're right," Troy agreed. "He's not, because I'm going to do whatever it takes to see that he doesn't."

Emily hadn't seen Troy often since the trial, but she recognized the same resolve in him that she felt.

"If we watch him closely enough," she proposed, wondering if Troy had a similar plan, "he's bound to make a mistake. All we have to do is catch him. I don't know all the rules related to his parole just yet, but I know Austin never was very good at following rules. He won't be able to toe the line."

"Maybe," Troy contended, seeming to reflect on something a moment before he went on, "but, personally, I don't think he'll live long enough for us to have to worry about whether or not he makes a mistake."

The sheer hatred in Troy's voice scattered a cold spray of goose bumps across her skin. She couldn't deny that the thought of killing Austin had crossed her mind. It had. But a part of her always recognized that the notion was wrong.

Somehow she didn't sense that same comprehension in Troy. She had to be overreacting. She'd known Troy Baker his whole life. As much as he loved his sister, he wasn't a killer.

Movement in Emily's peripheral vision dragged her attention back to Austin. He was finally leaving.

"I should go," she said to Troy, though she felt reluctant to leave him. She hoped he wasn't going to do anything rash. Her need to keep an eye on Austin won out.

Troy wrapped his fingers around her arm and held on when she would have moved away. "Don't go, Em. Stay and talk to me. We can visit Heather a while longer."

She started to argue when he tagged on, "Don't worry about him. He's not going to get into anything tonight. Trust me."

County Road 18

6:45 p.m.

The sun had started to sink into the treetops as Clint drove the last couple of miles toward home. He'd put off going back there for as long as he could.

He was damned exhausted. The day had lasted a lifetime.

The visit to the parole officer had gone as expected. Lee Brady had laid down the rules and the ramifications of failing to follow those rules. Like most of the folks in town, Brady didn't agree with Clint's release, saying it hadn't been necessary. Clint had felt Brady's antipathy.

The scene outside had made leaving a nuisance. Thirty or so people, their frenzy tuned to a fever pitch by Troy Baker and Keith Turner, had gathered to make their opinions known. Like Clint told Ray, he didn't give a damn what people thought. They had a right to do and say whatever was on their minds. Didn't change a damned thing. They'd just have to get over the fact that Clint was here, because he wasn't going anywhere.

None of it had really bothered him until he'd seen
her
. She'd been headed to join the crowd of demonstrators. He hadn't expected to run into her one-on-one. Actually, he hadn't expected her to let him run into her. He'd figured she would avoid him by staying insulated by the crowd. But he'd seen her
twice
today, both times with nothing more than a meager span of asphalt or grass between them.

Emily had followed him, then hung around the cemetery watching. Then Troy Baker had appeared. Clint had been aware that Troy or one of his cronies had been close by all afternoon. After everything Clint had been through, he'd still tensed when Troy hugged her. It made Clint want to kick himself. Talk about fucked up.

He'd watched her when she hadn't been watching him. She hadn't changed at all. Still wore her dark brown hair long. The skirt and blouse were a little more conservative, but she was as pretty as ever, thinner maybe. Too bad she'd been like poison to him. She had single-handedly destroyed his life. If she kept following him around, maybe he should invite her over and tell her about a few of his jailhouse experiences. She'd change her mind in a flash about whether or not he'd gotten the full extent of what he deserved.

Or maybe she wouldn't.

Either way, he had to stay focused, to watch his step or Miss Emily Wallace would be reporting him to Brady. Clint figured she hadn't shown up back here in Pine Bluff the same day he had for nothing. Ray had mentioned that she'd moved away years ago and rarely visited. Given her obvious agenda, Clint damned sure shouldn't be attracted to her. But considering he hadn't been with a woman in over a decade, it wasn't a major shock. Still, she was his enemy and he had to keep that in front of him.

He checked his mirrors again. He was surprised she hadn't followed him from the cemetery, but she'd been too busy chatting with Baker. Maybe the two of them had been planning the next phase of their surveillance strategy.

Well, Clint had plans of his own. Plans that included not only Emily Wallace but also his former boss's son, Sid Fair-gate. The man who'd hired Clint to take that car that night was dead, but the son would know whatever secrets the father had carried to the grave. Clint was sure of that. Just as he was sure that Emily, if given the proper motivation, would recall that night with a little more clarity. All he had to do was manipulate a reaction that would reverberate through the whole damned town.

Movement in the rearview mirror snagged Clint's attention. A truck, an older-model Chevy, had topped the hill behind him moving way too fast. Clint edged nearer the shoulder of the road to allow plenty of room for the driver to get on by. But he didn't do that. He roared up behind Clint.

"What the hell?" He braced just in time for the impact.

The track pushed against his rear bumper. 

Clint tightened his grip on the steering wheel and floored the accelerator in an attempt to put some distance between them. The truck responded likewise, nudging him again before he could get his momentum going.

Clint topped the next hill. A slow-moving car on the road in front of him forced him to brake hard. The truck didn't.

A sharp cut to the right avoided the crash and sent him bucking across the shallow ditch and into the cornfield, clearing a wide path of stalks.

He swerved left, came down hard on the brake.

The Firebird skidded to a jarring stop.

CHAPTER FIVE

212 Cedar Street

7:10 p.m.

"How long will you be staying, honey?"

Emily pushed the peas around on her plate and considered how best to answer her father's question. Silence had started pressing in on the family dining room as soon as she'd arrived late for dinner. This moment had been coming ever since.

Despite his affable tone, her father wore his
seriously concerned
face.

Since the breakdown her parents had used alternating zones for dealing with her: curiously indulgent, surprisingly relieved, seriously concerned, or deeply troubled. Tonight, apparently, was seriously concerned.

"A week or so. I haven't decided." Emily stuffed a forkful of potatoes into her mouth to avoid further elaboration. She'd asked for two weeks' vacation, but she would take as long as necessary. That she was a grown woman and could make her own decision on the matter wouldn't be relevant to her parents.

Stevie Wonder couldn't have missed the look that passed between them. They weren't anywhere near finished yet.

Edward Wallace set his fork aside and peered down the length of the table with sympathy in his brown eyes, the same brown eyes that stared back at Emily every morning from the bathroom mirror. Only sans the emptiness.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like, Em."

There was a
but
coming and then the event she dreaded with every fiber of her being each time she visited. Emily settled her hands atop the linen napkin in her lap and braced for the
talk
. They were about to enter the
deeply troubled
zone.

"But your mother and I are worried about your reasons for taking this abrupt vacation." He searched her eyes as if he hoped to see the answer he sought there. Evidently he didn't find it, so he went on. "We know how you feel, honey."

Impossible
. The word resounded inside her, but she didn't allow it to cross her lips. Any argument from her would only accelerate the disintegration of the already unstable climate. What she felt was dead. When she didn't feel dead inside, she felt angry. Like now. They couldn't know.

"What your father is trying to say, dear," Carol Wallace jumped in, as if they had assigned parts and had carefully rehearsed, "is that it's a crying shame that boy's not still in prison, but nothing you do is going to change the facts. Em, you're twenty-eight years old; it's time you paid attention to yourself... to your future. We don't want you going backward."

Carol was a lovely woman no matter that she shopped in the plus-size departments these days and wore the gray invading her black hair like a badge of honor. Despite a nursing degree, she'd spent her life serving her family, her church, and her community—in that order. The same could be said for Ed Wallace. Long hours at his investment firm

had never once prevented him from being a loving, devoted father.

As much as Emily's parents loved her and wanted to believe they felt just as she did, they didn't. Holding that against them wouldn't be fair. It wasn't their fault.

It was hers.

They waited expectantly for some revelation that would show progress on her part. A mere smidgen of hope that she intended to divert her life toward some more conventional course could close this argument right now. Tension would recede and the parental scrutiny zone would drop back down to
curiously indulgent
.

But Emily couldn't give them what they wanted.

"I have to do this." Emily placed her napkin on the table next to her scarcely touched plate. Inside she was shaking, but outside she held on to her calm to avoid inciting their suspicions further. She'd gotten really good at that kind of deception over the past few years. "If I don't do what I know in my heart is right, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to move on. I realize you can't understand that, but that's the way it is."

Another visual exchange in that unspoken language gained through thirty-five years of marriage transpired before her father took the next turn at battle. "Dr. Brown would really like you to come back to counseling. He believes that's the best way, Em. Your mother and I agree."

Counseling. It was like a bad penny; it showed up every time. She'd tried therapy. It hadn't worked. Once Dr. Brown had released her, a whole year after her four-week stay at the Calhoun Treatment Center, she'd never gone back to him. She didn't intend to now. Wouldn't that be doing exactly what her parents feared? Going backward?

"You'll have to excuse me." Emily stood. "Thank you for dinner," she said to her mother, then managed a tight smile for her father before walking away from the table.

Deeply troubled
. She didn't have to look back to know, Emily could feel the weight of their troubled gazes on her back as she left the room. The telephone rang, but she didn't slow her retreat. It wouldn't be for her. She hadn't been here long enough in the last decade for anyone to associate her with the address or the number.

She no longer belonged in Pine Bluff.

She didn't actually belong anywhere.

Her mother's voice drifted down the hall behind Emily. The caller was obviously Emily's brother, James. The change from troubled to elated in her mother's tone related the identity of the caller without the mention of a name.

James was in medical school, was on the dean's list. James hadn't prematurely self-destructed. Too bad his success couldn't be enough for Emily's parents.

Emily went into her room and closed the door. She leaned against it and surveyed the space she barely recognized. It felt more like a hotel. She'd spent her senior year in this room, but there was no connection... nothing. She'd slept here and dressed here and that was about it.

Her mom had gone out of her way to try to make this new house home... this new room
Emily's
room. Some of her stuff was carefully arranged on shelves or pieces of furniture. Cheerleading trophies. A neatly framed picture of Bon Jovi, another of Mel Gibson. Stuff. Junk. Nothing that mattered. The items that were important had been hidden away. Packing away all those mementos of the past had been her mother's idea of moving on. Unfortunately, nothing new had filled the emptiness. No diplomas matted and framed for bragging rights. No wedding pictures or snapshots of grandchildren to show off to visitors.