They were nearing Stillwater’s main intersection. Madeline stopped at the light, but when it turned green, she didn’t accelerate.
The person behind her honked.
“What’s it going to be?” Hunter asked.
She rubbed her face as the driver of the pickup behind her, frustrated with her lack of response, honked a second time and gave her a dirty look as he sped around her.
Slowly, she started to drive again. She’d already made her decision, hadn’t she? Or she wouldn’t have brought Hunter to town. “I have to know what happened to my father.”
Her words had come out as a mere whisper, but she knew he’d understood her when he said, “You could be making a terrible mistake.”
Tears gathered in her eyes. The stress, the worry and the sleepless nights were catching up with her. “They didn’t do it,” she said.
Hunter watched tears spill over Madeline’s lashes and roll down her cheeks as she drove. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had a more tortured client. Or one who was probably in for a more unpleasant surprise. He wished she could be satisfied letting the past drift farther and farther away from her.
But he couldn’t blame her for her inability to do so. If he were in her shoes, he’d seek the truth, too. Some people couldn’t stop themselves from rushing toward the one thing that could destroy them.
He thought of the alcohol that had taken the edge off his own disappointment and, for a moment, was tempted to tell her he wouldn’t be an accomplice in her fate. He’d sensed something dark lurking inside Clay, some secret pain or scar, and feared that Madeline’s stepbrother was indeed involved in her father’s disappearance. But there was only one way to find out. And that was to move forward with the investigation.
Maybe, if they were lucky, they’d reach a dead end before the big crash. If he couldn’t go any further, Madeline would have to accept that she might never know. Or hire someone else. Then, if she did find out, he wouldn’t have to be a party to it.
Locating a napkin in the glove compartment, he handed it to her to wipe her tears. “Take me to meet the rest of your family,” he said.
Elaine Vincelli was nearly a hundred pounds overweight. But she carried it well. With shoulders broader than those of most men, she looked solid. Compact. And her get-to-the-point-and-make-it-quick manner suggested she possessed a keen mind.
“What do you want?” she asked as soon as Madeline had introduced him. They were standing on her doorstep, but she didn’t bother to invite them in.
“I want to know who killed your brother,” Hunter replied.
“And you think I can tell you?”
“I’m hoping you can help.”
“If I knew, I’d be demanding the police put him in jail,” she told him.
She’d once insisted the police arrest Clay, hadn’t she? What about that? Wasn’t that the excuse Madeline had given him for Clay’s behavior—that he’d been through a lot and was afraid of being blamed again?
Hunter assumed a casual pose. He wanted to convince her he wasn’t a threat, so she’d relax and say more than she otherwise would. It was an act he’d perfected over the years, a way to make the most of a face that was too pretty to look very dangerous. “Madeline says you think it’s Clay Montgomery,” he said.
Elaine shot an irritated glance at her niece. “I’ve had my doubts about him in the past.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “Not anymore?”
Her mood seemed to darken. “I wasn’t there that night. I don’t know what happened.”
“I’m only asking for your opinion.”
He’d used just the right inflection to imply that she could trust him, but she wasn’t so easily fooled. “Shouldn’t you be more interested in the facts? What good is an opinion?”
“You strike me as an excellent judge of character,” he said. “Sometimes it’s as important to know who to ask as it is to know what to ask.”
She was tempted by the flattery. He could almost see the locks snapping open in her mind. “I am a good judge of character.”
“Which is what makes me wonder about Clay.”
He’d set the stage for her to tell him every vile thing she’d ever seen or heard about Madeline’s stepbrother. So he was surprised when she broke eye contact and muttered, “I’m not sure he would’ve been capable of cold-blooded murder. Not at sixteen.”
“So you think it was ‘cold-blooded’ murder?” he asked.
“Is there any other kind?” she replied.
He shrugged. “It could’ve been an accident.”
Her lips formed a thin colorless line. “It could’ve been a lot of things.”
He ran a thumb over the whiskers on his chin. Why wasn’t she going after Clay as he’d expected, as he’d been told she’d done in the past? “So…if it wasn’t Clay, who was it?”
“How should I know? Maybe it was a vagrant, like Irene Montgomery’s always claimed.”
From the corner of his eye, Hunter caught the startled rounding of Madeline’s mouth. But he didn’t turn or acknowledge her reaction and was grateful she didn’t break into the conversation. “I don’t think so,” he said. This was only his first day in town and already he was willing to bet that whoever killed Barker had known the man well. This whole case suggested hidden actions and emotions.
“Regardless of what you think, this is a peaceful community,” she snapped. “No one who lives here would commit murder. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.”
She’d gone from blaming Clay to blaming no one. Interesting. “Do you remember Katie Swanson?” he asked.
“Katie?” she repeated. But he doubted it was because she didn’t recognize the name. She just didn’t know how to react to it.
“The fifteen-year-old girl who was killed in a hitand-run accident twenty-seven years ago.”
Elaine frowned at Madeline. “Why are you asking about her?”
“I was just wondering how well you knew her.”
“Hardly at all.”
“She was at the church quite a bit, wasn’t she?”
“No—I…I don’t remember that.”
“From what I understand, she used to work for your brother.”
“I never saw them together,” she said.
“Your brother never mentioned her?”