“What?”
“Tell Noah I did it. Otherwise he’ll drag me around in his head. He doesn’t need that.”
“I will not. I won’t.”
He nodded, said, “Thanks, Win. I mean it. If it was redemption you needed, you’ve earned it. Now go home and take care of my family.” Then he left the room.
She stared after him, feeling a hot, impotent rage bubbling up.
“He’s wrong,” she said to the guard, who didn’t respond at all. “I didn’t go through all of this to have it mean nothing.”
She left the prison and went to her car, muttering. “He’s a cynic. Of course he thinks the worst, with what he’s been through.” Already she was figuring how to prove what good news this was.
Noah would be thrilled.
She’d concentrate on that: the good. Optimism was always a choice, and her will would not fail her now when she needed it so much.
She was halfway home when her cell phone rang. It was Lisa, calling to tell her that the prosecuting attorney had just called to say that she’d seen the DNA results and was willing to concede that Dallas had not had sexual relations with the decedent that night, but reaffirmed her certainty that he’d murdered her. They’d be filing their motion to uphold the conviction this week.
Perhaps, the prosecuting attorney had opined to Lisa, Dallas had had an accomplice.
Vivi Ann was in the farmhouse’s kitchen, making a casserole for dinner, when the story came on TV. She wasn’t really listening, was humming along to a song in her head (“Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” but it was best not to think too much about the song itself), when she heard Dallas’s name.
She turned slowly, bumping the oven door shut with her hip. As she walked through the living room, she told herself it was her imagination, running like a colt through new grass, but when she stepped into the family room and saw the look on her father’s face, she knew it had been real.
Saying nothing, Vivi Ann picked up the remote and hit the back button, thankful for the first time that Winona had talked her father into getting a DVR.
When she hit play again, a local newscaster was on-screen, standing in front of the forbidding gray prison walls. A snapshot of Dallas—his mug shot—hung suspended in the corner.
“. . . DNA test results indicate that Dallas Raintree was not the last man to have sexual relations with the victim, Catherine Morgan. Defense Attorney Winona Grey was unavailable for comment, but Prosecuting Attorney Sara Hamm is here with us now.”
Sara Hamm filled the screen, looking older and even more regal. “This is all just legal wranglings. Mr. Raintree’s conviction was the result of a great deal of physical and circumstantial evidence. The DNA evidence wasn’t even used at trial, so it could hardly have convicted him. Thus, this test result changes nothing. Except that local law enforcement is actively investigating the chance that Mr. Raintree did not work alone the night he killed Ms. Morgan.”
The newscaster came back on. “That was Sara Hamm—”
Vivi Ann flicked the off button and the screen went black.
Her father went back to drinking. Ice rattled in his glass as he lifted it to his lips.
“I guess that’s that,” she said, feeling as if something were draining out of her, leaving her smaller. But that was ridiculous. She’d expected this. Prepared for it.
“Thank God. He done nothing but ruin us.”
“What if we ruined him?”
Dad waved his gnarled hand impatiently. “He killed that woman, plain and simple. And his son ain’t much better.”
Vivi Ann felt as shocked by that as when he’d slapped her all those years ago. She stared at this man whom she’d once loved as much as Dallas, as much as Noah, and felt as if she were seeing him for the first time. Had she imagined him once or had he changed, been twisted into who he’d become by loss or disappointment? She knew how that could happen, how emptiness could reshape you. “That’s my son you’re talking about. Your grandson.” She moved toward her father, studying him. The lines on his face had become deep valleys; heavy lids hooded his dark eyes. “When Mom died, I saw you crying,” she said quietly, feeling the memory of that night all around her. “You were by her bed.”
He said nothing, didn’t admit or deny, and suddenly Vivi Ann questioned the validity of a memory she’d always taken for granted.
“All these years I thought it was romantic, but the truth was right in front of me all the time. Aurora saw it first. Winona tries not to believe it. And airheaded Vivi never saw it until now. If you were crying, it wasn’t for the reason I thought. You don’t know a damn thing about love, do you?”
“If you’re talkin’ about that Indian—”
“Enough,” Vivi Ann snapped at him, surprised to see him recoil at the force of her voice. “I won’t let you talk about him.”
Before Dad could answer, the door burst open. She heard footsteps thundering through the house and a voice calling out her name.