Текст книги "Within Temptation"
Автор книги: Tanya Holmes
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Fall
TRACE
____________________________
Dr. Joseph Rosen turned the recorder off and the tape rewound. Silence ruled while the bald old man waddled across his cluttered office. After tweaking the blinds open, he quietly excused himself, and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Shannon and me alone.
From the leather sofa, I blinked as sunlight streamed in. Located in Gainstown’s fading business district, Doc’s modest office was crammed with professional journals, certificates, and plain old clutter—quite a difference from his prison office, a sterile room with concrete walls and bars on the windows.
I was seated next to Shannon with my arm draped along the back of the sofa. I gave her a careful once-over. The black wool leggings and matching knee-length sweater made her white skin look moon pale. All the crying she’d done had stripped her of makeup. Her eyes were red and swollen, and unshed tears glistened on her lashes. I curled an arm around her rigid shoulders and hugged her close. Her body relaxed against the comfort of mine.
An hour had passed since we’d recorded that tape. This was Shannon’s first time hearing it, and her emotions were raw, as were mine. Doc had warned us. He’d said if he could hypnotize her, the process would be akin to an emotional roller coaster ride. Little had I known I’d be riding along with her. Before the session, Doc had pulled me aside. Told me to keep my emotions on a leash when she came out of it. For her sake, I had to play it cool.
I brushed my lips against her ear. “You all right?”
She nodded and tried to put on a brave face, but I knew better. She’d been acting weird since she’d picked me up this morning.
At first I’d thought she was still upset over what happened in the carriage house. Not that I blamed her. I hadn’t thought of much else, and Bev’s surprise call didn’t help. Even so, I suspected that was only part of what was bothering her, but she wasn’t talking.
I looked up as Doc pushed a steaming mug of tea into her hand. He toddled back to his seat and lowered his bulk into a well-used armchair.
“What’s your take on everything?” I asked him.
Doc gazed over steepled fingers. “Do you remember why you screamed, Shannon?”
She was staring into her tea. “Yes. The spade cut my knee when I went to Mother. I’d forgotten about that.”
“Well, no question your memories were deliberately manipulated,” Doc said. “There’s a term—False Memory Syndrome. The mental health community doesn’t officially acknowledge it, but even cynics acquiesce when presented with well-documented case studies. And it’s an indubitable verity that memories can be distorted. I imagine this Sheriff Gray injected you with sodium amytal or sodium pentothal to facilitate an inalterable state of hypnosis-induced amnesia.”
“English, Doc.”
“Shannon is suffering from FMS—false memories. There are critics, but the fact is that memories can be altered. And this is what the sheriff did. He used drugs to help push her into a trance-like state. This allowed him to add and extract whatever he wanted—to control her. I hate to say it, but I don’t think that was the only session.” Doc looked at Shannon. “It’s just the only one you remember.”
I swore under my breath.
“He was with Special Forces in Vietnam,” Shannon murmured into her tea. “He dealt with captured Viet Cong. Something to do with interrogations.”
Doc nodded. “Yes, the interrogation background would explain much.”
“Back in high school, Eddie used to brag that the sheriff once belonged to a Black PSYOPS unit,” I said. “I just thought he was talking shit, but now….”
Doc removed a cigar from his jacket, clipped an end, then set a match to it. Smoke curled around his face. “Well, they’ve used those intel techniques for years. The skilled ones can unlock, or in this case, cloak information without their subjects even knowing it. The RAND Corporation has done extensive research on hypnosis and mind control.” He handed me a thick folder. “I’ve made copies of some of their most compelling reports.”
I started thumbing through them.
“This is crazy.” Shannon’s expression shaded even more. “I still don’t see how he did it.”
“It’s all about trust,” Doc answered. “He and your uncle were authority figures to you. Granted, only one quarter of the world’s population can be hypnotized—that is, be placed into a trance-like state and manipulated—but you were very young, impressionable, and emotionally traumatized. Your walls were already breached.”
I set the files aside. “I never much believed in it ‘til now.”
“It’s not as difficult as it seems, son. We use hypnosis on ourselves all the time.”
Shannon’s brows raised half-mast. “How?”
“Millions awaken at the same hour every morning—without an alarm. Why? Because they program their minds the night before. Some call it an inner clock, but it’s just basic self-hypnosis. How else does a sleeping mother hit the ground running when her baby cries?”
Shannon seemed to consider that. “But isn’t this different? My God, they could have gotten me to do anything.”
Doc lifted a finger and smiled warmly. “Ah, but that’s the biggest misconception of all.” He crossed his stubby legs. “There was a case in Paris. In 1889 or ‘90, I think. The woman was sentenced to twenty years for a murder she committed under the influence of hypnosis.”
She gazed at him over the mug’s rim. “Doesn’t that prove my point?”
“No,” he said, his smile widening. “Hypnosis isn’t the free-for-all Hollywood makes it out to be. A hypnotist cannot compel you to do what’s contrary to your character. Everyone has a personal set of acceptable behaviors. For Gabrielle Bompard—the woman in Paris—it was murder.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you saying lying is part of my nature?”
“No.” I rattled her shoulder. “Doc’s not saying that at all. You’d already decided to protect your mama before they even got to you. Remember the gazebo? When I gave you the necklace? You wouldn’t even admit it then.”
“You weren’t ready for the truth,” Doc added in agreement. “You needed to believe she was the perfect mother. That’s why the sheriff’s suggestion took. You’d been so traumatized that deep down, you wanted to forget the bad things. You see, the mind won’t accept something it hasn’t already green-lighted. The sheriff and your uncle knew that, and used it to their advantage.”
“At least we know you didn’t witness the murder,” I said.
“But why did they make me forget? Why do they continue to lie about it? What are they hiding?” Shannon set her mug aside. “Dr. Rosen, can I come back? I want to do this again—as many times as it takes. I need to remember everything.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” he said around a cloud of cigar smoke. “I’ll have my assistant schedule a session for sometime next week. And, Shannon? I’d like you to consider regular therapy as well—if not with me, then with another mental health professional.”
TRACE
____________________________
She’d seemed fine when we left Doc’s. Even claimed she was fine to drive. In fact, she’d insisted on it. Said she couldn’t sit still, and getting behind the wheel would help her sort things out.
Five minutes into the trip home, I decided she was fine too. So I settled in for a nap, but was jarred awake when my shoulder slammed into the passenger-side door. The radio was blaring an annoying Christmas song about jingle bells, sleigh rides, and lovely weather.
I leveled a groggy look at Shannon while I grappled for the seatbelt strangling me.
“Go back to sleep,” she muttered. “Everything’s fine.”
The tremble in her voice said otherwise. She swerved onto the interstate’s northbound lane—to hell with turn signals and yielding. Horns blared. Epithets flew.
An irate trucker flipped her the bird and yelled what looked like “Bitch.”
“Pull over,” I ordered, snapping the radio off. “Now.”
She veered hard toward the shoulder and lurched to a stop. The chassis was still writhing when I ripped my seatbelt off, hopped out, and cut around the hood.
I banged a knuckle on the window. “Scoot over. I’m drivin’.”
Traffic whizzed by. She shoved the door open and slid to the passenger side like a pissed off toddler who’d just been sent into time out.
We sat in silence. Me with an elbow latched to the window, my head propped on a fist. She forked her fingers through her hair and her bangs hovered over the back of her hand. She’d been wound tighter than a ball of yarn all day, and I feared she was about to unravel.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Her phone jangled. She snatched it from her pocket, then rolled her eyes at the incoming number. She didn’t answer the call, just tossed the gadget into her purse.
“Shannon?”
She let out a slow breath. “I don’t know what’s real.”
“So you’ve been stewing this whole time?”
She stared daggers into the windshield. “More like boiling.”
I stayed put. Coddling, she didn’t need. A listening ear would do her much better. “It’s a lot to digest,” I said.
“Not only do I have to get hypnotized again, I’ll probably be in therapy for the rest of my life! And why? Because my godfather went poking around in my head. I knew they were lying, but now that I’ve got proof….” She turned her angry eyes on me. “How can you just sit there? This doesn’t disturb you?”
It did, but my anger would only fuel hers. Strange that I was even thinking this way—rationally. Before, I’d’ve kicked ass and asked questions later, but the stuff with Bev and Icky taught me a crucial lesson. After all was said and done, I was still alone and missing the hell out of my sister.
The lecture Doc had given me in private right before we’d left put things into perspective. If I didn’t get a handle on my rage, I’d be looking at the other side of those prison bars again. There was too much I wanted to do. Like go to college. Start a renovating business—maybe even open up a dance studio. Buy a house. Get married. Have some kids—
I blinked. Whoa. What the—
“Trace?” Her eyes questioned me. “Aren’t you angry?”
I blinked again to clear my head, then chose my words with care. “Yeah, I’m angry, and I want justice. But this isn’t about me right now. It’s about you. And you’re in a better position to get to the truth. They screwed with your head.” I paused. “So what do you want?”
“What do I want?” Red flamed her cheeks. She drew herself up and exploded. “I want them to tell the truth for once! I want them to stop making me think I imagined it all—that I’m crazy! I need them to pay for what they did to you and your family. And to me!” She scowled. “Let’s just go.”
“Where?”
She yanked the seatbelt over her chest, drove it home. “To Roanoke. To see my godfather.”
“But he’s here.”
Her expression brightened. “Since when?”
“Cholly saw him this morning when Eddie came by to fill up. Gray was in the passenger seat. Cholly said he looked like he’d lost a lot of weight. I heard he was in town ‘cause Dee Dee had her baby last night.”
Her lips thinned. “This works out perfectly. Let’s go.” She took out her cell phone and started poking buttons. “And I’m going to record everything. We’ve got a One-Party-Consent law in this state, so I don’t even have to tell him.”
Oh, hell no. She needed—heck, we needed a break from all this shit. “You’re in no condition to tussle with Gray and neither am I. We’ll catch up with him tomorrow.”
“What’s wrong with today?”
“Just look at you,” I said. “Your head’s about to explode.”
She snapped her arms together. “I don’t care. I want to see him now.”
“And people in hell want ice water.” I calmly flipped the car into gear, then delivered a look that dared her to test me. “We’re not going today and that’s the end of it.”
She jerked her head around and glared daggers out of the passenger window. “Fine. Then take me home. Gerard and I can pick up my car tomorrow!”
“That’s a negative too. You’re liable to rip somebody a new asshole.” I pulled back into traffic. “I’ve got a better idea. Just trust me, okay?”
SHANNON
____________________________
Trace skidded to a stop. “Had enough?”
“Again!” Giggling, I adjusted my helmet, then tied my arms back around his waist. “Only this time, go faster.”
He laughed and gunned the engine. “You asked for it. Hold on.”
The Harley lurched forward, spewing a white cloud into the wind as we took yet another lap around Miller’s Pond—our sixth. The cold weather had turned the earth into cement, but the bike’s studded tires easily ground the dirt to powder. I rested my head against Trace’s back and squeezed him in gratitude. I’d wanted to scream when he’d refused to take me to Uncle Jackson, but he’d known exactly what I needed—as always.
Once we’d circled the pond six more times, Trace parked the bike and we settled between a clutch of evergreens. For the next hour, we huddled shoulder-to-shoulder beneath a thick brown quilt, sharing a thermos of hot cocoa. A gray blanket lay under us. We sat in companionable silence, watching nature in all its glory beneath the burnished gold of the setting sun. Black birds flitted from tree to tree while a gaggle of geese pecked the ground. A white-tailed doe and her baby warily approached the icy pond, but when a chainsaw echoed in the distance, the mother lost her nerve and scurried off into the brush. Her skittish fawn followed in hot pursuit.
“Warm enough?” he asked curling an arm around me.
I nodded as he polished off the rest of the cocoa.
He nudged his chin at our surroundings. “Who needs drugs when we’ve got this? Three hours ago you were spitting nails and now….”
“I’m docile,” I said with a smile.
Trace grinned and lifted his face to the darkening sky. “It was always magical here.”
“Like a little slice of heaven.” I breathed in a lungful. “After today’s madness, I needed this. Thanks for dragging me.”
I inched up to peck his cheek, but things didn’t go as planned. Somehow, my ‘peck’ missed his cheek and landed on the corner of his mouth. This led to a kiss, then another, until our kisses slowly morphed into a carnal feeding frenzy—five and a half mindless minutes of roving hands, seeking lips, probing tongues, and heavy breathing.
Would I never learn ‘pecks’ were impossible for us?
Trace was first to pull away. “Shannon,” he breathed. “I’m not up for another palm-pilot episode. We gotta stop.”
I stared back at him in desperation, breasts heavy, panties wet, my chest pumping as fast as his. Obviously, he’d reached his limit, but I craved what he’d given me up against that wall in his house. With my world falling apart, I needed to forget about hypnosis, my lying family…and my fiancé.
I needed to get lost in Trace.
So I kissed him again, only this time taking great care to tease a response out of him. Once I eased back to gauge his reaction, he swallowed and sucked in an unsteady breath, but he didn’t move. Just watched me intently and waited. Rising up, I hesitated before straddling his lap. I felt reckless, wild, and out of control—and I liked it. Loved it, actually.
He did too.
The heat in his gaze said it all.
I gathered my courage and grabbed his jacket lapels, pausing to search his fathomless eyes. When I found what I was looking for, I yanked him in for another kiss. It didn’t take much else. In a split second, I was on my back, tucked beneath the sheltering weight of his powerful body.
Trace snatched the quilt over us, cocooning me in warmth as his hungry mouth devoured mine. He caught my lower lip, nibbling and sucking, before delving back in for a deeper kiss, making me blind to everything but him.
By now our pelvises were aligned, with his thick sex lying between my legs. I pressed myself against his erection. He circled his hips in response, grinding into my center, urging me to do the same, his pace slow and unrelenting.
Several minutes of this pushed him to the brink again. “No. I won’t take you out here…on the ground.” A breath gushed out of him. He sucked in another and closed his eyes. “Not for your first time—not while you’re still wearin’ his ring.”
I understood. It wasn’t like I wanted to lose my virginity out here either, yet I refused to leave him unsatisfied again. The hanky story was still fresh in my mind.
So I ignored his protests and unbuckled his jeans, yanking the rough fabric down until nothing separated us but his cotton boxer briefs and the thin wool of my leggings. I couldn’t see anything beneath the quilt, yet I felt him—hot and impossibly hard.
“You once told me you could orgasm just by doing this.” I cupped his backside. “Let’s test that theory.”
He bit his bottom lip when I ground myself into him like he’d shown me. Only now, I could feel his every ridge, and he could feel…me. I rotated my hips once, and again.
“Shannon, you’re—” He groaned when I repeated the motion. “Fuuuuuck. You’re gonna…you’re gonna make me come.”
“That’s the idea,” I said in a determined voice.
Another groan tore from his throat several beats later. “Okay…okay…you win! Shit.”
Closing his lids briefly, he stilled and dragged in a breath, then another. His body trembled above mine as he fought to compose himself. Half a minute inched by before he spoke.
“Now here’s the thing,” he rasped as he slowly began rolling his hips against me. “If you want this, there’s a price you’ll have to pay…‘cause I’m gonna mark you.” He tapped a finger against my temple. “Right here. Understand?”
I shook my head, my lids weighted by the slow-building pleasure.
Trace gazed down at me, desire raging in his eyes. “I’m about to take you someplace you’ve never been,” he gritted out in between strokes, “and when you come back, you’ll always remember it was me who took you there.”
With that, he shoved my sweater up, yanked my bra cup down, and sucked my nipple into his mouth. An invisible line of fire burned from my breast to stoke the blaze between my legs, sending me on a pulse-pounding spiral.
He buried a hand beneath me to tip my pelvis so his erection caressed me right where I needed him. Pleasure seared me like wild fire.
I gasped, “Trace….”
“Yeah, that’s it,” he breathed. “I love it when you say my name.”
Lost in the maelstrom, I clung to him as he swirled his tongue around my nipple and drew deeply, tugging at the tight bead. It glistened when he released it and a sigh of cool air breezed over my flesh.
He cradled my face and locked his gaze with mine. His eyes were like twin flames of golden hazel. “Do you need me, Shannon?” he urged. “Do you?”
Tears stung. “More than anything.”
Trace covered my mouth in a soul-stealing kiss as he continued to stroke the same spot between my legs. When I moaned, he fisted my hair, his powerful hips never missing a beat, until the inner tightening began, until the world burned away and I shattered beneath him, crying out his name.
Moments later, Trace hung above me on unsteady forearms. He gasped and stared deeply into my eyes—his were soft, helpless, and filled with wonder. I’d never seen anything more beautiful. Then his lids trembled shut and he pressed his forehead to mine as his rock-hard penis slowly pulsed against my softness, once, twice, then three more times. Within seconds, a warm dampness seeped into the thin fabric covering my stomach.
As soon as the storm passed he collapsed.
“Shannon.”
I hugged him fiercely. “Oh, God, I wanted—”
“So did I,” he whispered. “So did I.”
I ran my fingers through his hair and held him close. We lay with him on top of me for what seemed like forever…touching, whispering, kissing, sighing, and breathing each other in.
Reality was kind. It didn’t invade or taunt. Just kept a respectful distance, giving us ample time to live in the moment.
Something wonderful had just happened between us, something amazing yet frightening. I closed my eyes and waited for the familiar pang of guilt, but it wasn’t there. Sadness was though, along with a stark fear that had plagued me for some time, a fear I’d finally found the courage to acknowledge.
I’d fallen in love with Trace Dawson.
Again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A Maleficent Encounter
SHANNON
____________________________
Reality’s ‘kindness’ was short-lived. It slammed into me the next morning when Darien called. It struck again when I picked Trace up several hours later. He must have sensed something was wrong; I could see it in his eyes, but he didn’t press the issue, thank God. If he had, I would’ve been forced to tell him the truth. That Darien was on his way home and I had no idea what I was going to do. Given everything that had happened yesterday, I’d tossed and turned all night, weighing the pros and cons, yet every solution came with its own set of consequences.
Who I wanted wasn’t the question. My heart had already chosen Trace, but my brain—haunted by twenty-six years of conditioning—had other ideas.
When we finally arrived at my godfather’s house, Eddie Gray’s belligerent greeting from the doorway was a welcomed distraction.
“Y’all best get the fuck off my daddy’s property.”
Trace was first out of the car. He approached his old nemesis with a smile. “And if I refuse?” he said over the noise bleeding from a TV inside. “Oh, by the way. Congrats. I hear your wife just hatched another gremlin.”
Eddie moved to lunge, but Trace shoved him back.
Knowing Trace wouldn’t throw a punch, I stepped between them, but Eddie was a different story. I braced the pig’s chest. “Keep this up and I’ll make sure you don’t work anywhere in this state or beyond. That’s the last thing you need with another mouth to feed.”
Eddie’s nostrils flared. “Hidin’ behind the lady’s skirts again, Dawson?”
Trace chuckled. “Naw, I just made a resolution to avoid bullshit, but I can break it one last time if you want. You know where I live. We can finish this discussion whenever you like. Hell, I figure if you’d wanted to settle stuff, you’d’ve come by long ago. But you’re a pussy, Eddie. Always have been.”
As the two men traded barbs, I called out to my godfather. “Uncle Jackson. You can either talk to the prosecutor’s office or me. The choice is yours.”
The sound of rebel yells, gunfire and bugles evaporated with the audible click of a TV remote. “Let ‘em by,” came the rusty voice from the darkness inside. “Go back to the hospital, boy. Tell Dee Dee I got held up.”
Eddie yelled, “But Daddy—”
“Go on now. Leave. Come back in an hour.”
Eyes shooting fire, Eddie glowered at us for a few seconds, then muttered a curse before storming down the steps to climb into his mangy pickup truck.
He peeled off in a cloud of gravel.
Trace said nothing as he took my hand and led the way up the stairs. I switched on my phone’s voice record app, then discreetly tucked it into my breast pocket.
Once inside, we went down a short hallway to the master suite. Jackson Gray had retained ownership of this three-bedroom rambler, staying here whenever he visited from Roanoke.
Like the rest of the house, his bedroom hadn’t been cleaned in months. A horrible stench hit me like a fist. It smelled of rotted food, trash, and body odor. Soiled dishes were stacked on every available surface. Trash overflowed the receptacle. Clothes lay in piles.
Mouth agape, I took in the fetid surroundings. A king-sized bed dominated the left side. Its posts and frame looked to be made of the same mahogany as the floor and walls. Three bay windows lay hidden behind drawn wooden shutters, and the lack of natural lighting made the room feel like a crypt.
The loud flush of a toilet gave me a start. My godfather shuffled out of an adjoining bathroom wearing a baggy tan robe and scuffed leather slippers. Looking haggard, if not emaciated, Sheriff Gray ambled past us on unsteady feet. He’d lost a quarter of his body weight. His face was skull-like with deep-socketed eyes. And, dear God, he was drunk. The gamy scent that trailed him confirmed my suspicions. He smelled of Vick’s Vapor Rub, unwashed flesh, and booze. He looked like the room—unkempt and in dire need of a scrub brush.
He didn’t seem surprised that we’d come. If anything, he acted indifferent. I hadn’t seen him in more than six months, and as appearances went, his had changed for the worst. Silver hair spiked his pale crown. His moss-green eyes had turned so gray they almost matched the shaggy pelt of hair that peeked through the V of his robe.
He climbed on the mattress. “Sears warned me you’d come. Surprised to see you with him, though.” He pointed me toward a seat. Trace he ignored.
Dirty clothes littered the chair by his bed. I brushed them to the floor with my purse and sat, trying to keep the revulsion from my expression.
As a child, I’d ridden in his big squad car—me, with little girl’s eyes. Him, with a holstered gun, silver badge, and brass buttons adorning his barrel-chested frame. He’d been larger than life in that uniform, an invincible force that could do no wrong, but this wasn’t the indomitable man whose shoulders I’d ridden. This was a defeated shadow, a mortal who was not long for this world.
Sheriff Jackson Gray was dying.
Whatever latent anger I’d carried up until now vanished. Shock and soul-deep sadness had taken its place. I ached to throw my arms around him, to hold him and tell him I loved him, but this wasn’t the time for that. This was the time for answers. There was too much at stake.
I would have to save the grieving for another day.
Trace stood behind me. His hands curled over the backrest, so hard I could actually feel the tension in his grip. “You’ve been here all this time, haven’t you, old man?”
“Not that it’s any of your business.”
I cleared my throat and ignored the sorrow squeezing my heart. “So what’s with the Roanoke phone number I’ve been calling?”
“It’s an answering service,” Uncle Jackson said. His gaze skipped between Trace and me. “As y’all can see, my time is short.” He sat back, folded his bony arms across his sunken chest, and flashed a tilted smile chock-full of dark yellow teeth. “Prostate cancer. That’s why I’m holed up here. Spending my last days doing what I love. Watching TV and drinking. Living as I please, in peace. Now if you got questions, feel free to ask, but I don’t have to answer them.”
“You hypnotized me,” I said, trying to deliver my words with some semblance of calm. “I know it, and so do you. If you want peace, you’ll talk. You’ll right this wrong and meet Jesus with a clear conscience. Otherwise, you’ll not get rid of me. As I’m sure you’ve seen, I’m very tenacious.”
Trace rounded my chair. His eyes glittered with animosity. He snatched the hypnosis tape from his peacoat and shook the cassette before the sheriff’s suspicious eyes. “The proof’s right here.” He stuffed the tape back into his pocket, patted it. “We also paid Valene Campbell a visit. She says you strong-armed her into keeping mum about Shannon.”
Uncle Jackson erupted into a coughing fit until he’d hacked up a glob of green phlegm, which he spat into one of the many filthy glasses on his nightstand. The sight turned my stomach. Trace squeezed my shoulder when the sheriff grabbed a flask from a robe pocket. Three swallows later, he burped into his sleeve, then stared hard at the place where Trace’s hand rested.
I quirked a brow, daring him to comment. “Just tell me the truth. I don’t want to sit here all day.”
“Everything I done, I done for good reason.”
“So you admit it?” I asked, amazed.
He plucked a tissue from a Kleenex box on the bed and mopped his nose in a brisk gesture. “What the hell? I got nothing to lose,” he said with a huff. “‘Cause if you tell anybody, I’ll just deny it. Nobody’d believe you. Not after your shameful escapades with this murdering scum. They’ll just think you’ve lost your mind. All the mess you been stirring up. Your little trip to Cheltenham Manor. The accusations against your family. Siding with Dawson against my boy—”
“Your boy is a knuckle-draggin’ ape,” Trace barked. “You framed me to get revenge on my family, you gutless prick.”
Uncle Jackson sneered. The stroke he’d suffered two years ago had ravaged the nerves on the right side of his face, making his smiles—on the rare occasions he gave them—appear frightfully cartoonish. “You’re as stupid as ever,” he said.
“What’s the truth?” I asked. “That’s assuming you even know the meaning of the word anymore.”
He glared first at Trace, then back at me, his angry eyes steady. “You think I’d risk my career for a grudge? Not damn likely.” He burped into his fist. “Your daddy was my best friend, Shannon. Since high school. I stepped in when some stupid jocks tried to kick his ass. A strange alliance, considering our class differences, but Harrison Bradford grew to be the best friend I ever had. He was there when I went MIA in Nam. He made the calls. To congressmen. Senators. Hell, I pay my debts. What I done for you, I done for him.”
“How do lies honor my father’s memory?” I asked.
He wheezed a breath. “You had a diary and you drew lotsa pictures.” His expression grew sad. “We ended up burning everything.”
“For God’s sake, why?” I demanded.
“I had no choice,” Uncle Jackson said. His voice crackled with phlegm. “Your prints were on the murder weapon.”
I did a double take. “What?”
“Both your prints were on the spade, sweetheart.” He coughed again. “Any idea how yours got there?”
Trace was quick to answer. “She grabbed it when she found her mama on the floor. It cut her knee, so she tossed it. What the hell does the spade have to do with some stupid pictures?”
“More than you think, boy.”
“All you had to do was ask her why she touched the damn thing,” Trace hammered back. “Why go through all this smoke and mirrors bullshit when a simple question would’ve sufficed?”
I stared, speechless. A sick feeling festered inside me like gangrene.
“It wasn’t just the prints, you ignoramus,” Jackson growled. He blotted his sweaty head with a flaky tissue ball. “It was everything. Her diary was filled with…with things that fancy lawyer of yours could’ve used against her.”
“Like?”
“Twenty-seven letters to Jesus Christ asking Him to do a Job on Lilith,” he snapped fast and furious.
Trace blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“A Job—as in ‘The Book of Job.’ The guy with the sores and boils. Then there were the ten letters to Jude Thaddeus, the patron saint of lost causes, begging him to get Jesus to give her a new mama. Five to Lucifer himself, asking that he send Lilith on a three-day trip to hell.”
