Hunter had already started moving. “You can show me when we leave.”

  But he barely looked when she pointed out the back part of the barn. And he didn’t speak until they reached the car. Then he got in, slammed the door and said, “Your stepbrother’s hiding something.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Madeline refused to look over at Hunter while she drove, for fear he’d see the uncertainty she worked so hard to deny, the uncertainty she often concealed in vociferous protestations of Clay’s innocence.

  “You’re making the same mistake as everyone else,” she said flatly.

  When he didn’t respond, she finally glanced over and found him staring sadly at her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But if the truth’s going to be too hard for you to take, then we need to quit right now.”

  “Stop it.” She waved an impatient hand. “Clay doesn’t make the best first impression, that’s all. He’s the kind of man you have to get to know.”

  “And you know him.”

  “Of course.”

  “He doesn’t let anyone know him.”

  She shook her head. Maybe Clay had his secrets. But those secrets didn’t include murder. “If you knew what life used to be like for him, you’d have a better understanding of who he is.”

  “Tell me about him,” he said.

  She pictured the proud, long-legged boy Clay had been at sixteen, the boy who’d proven himself as tough as any man. She’d already mentioned that it was her stepbrother who’d kept the family together, but it was the smaller details that really defined his character. “He wore the same clothes to school over and over so Grace and Molly and me could have an occasional new dress. He gave up his friends, because he no longer had time to play. He went from being one of the most popular kids in school to being an absolute loner, a boy too old for his years. He skipped lunch more days than he ate so we could eat, and he pretended he wasn’t hungry, so we wouldn’t have to feel guilty about it. He worked like a dog at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen years old, long hours for low pay, to keep a roof over our heads. And he was willing to come to blows with anyone who threatened or mistreated us.” She glanced away from the road long enough to peer into Hunter’s face, to be sure she’d made her point. “I don’t know of another person who could’ve done what he did at such a young age. My whole family owes him. I owe him. He was our protector—our father, in a way, although he was my own age.”

  The passion in her voice must’ve convinced him, because Hunter’s expression grew more thoughtful. “What about Irene?”

  “As time went by, even she leaned on him as if he were the parent and she the child. He did what needed to be done regardless of the sacrifice involved. And he never complained about the price he paid.”

  “No wonder you admire him,” he said softly.

  “He’s earned it.”

  He seemed to weigh her answer, to mull it over and examine every angle. “I appreciate what he’s done for you, Maddy.”

  It was the first time he’d used her nickname. She liked the sound of it on his lips, and that worried her. But she shrugged it off. After the breakup of her closest relationship, she was looking for the warmth and security she’d lost. Hunter was confident almost to the point of being cocky, coolheaded, always in control. She found everything about him attractive. It’d be almost too easy to want to get involved.

  Easy for now but dangerous for later. He couldn’t stay forever. She didn’t even know what kind of life he led in California…

  “I appreciate what he’s done for Grace and Molly and your mother, too,” he was saying.

  As sincere as he seemed, he was holding something back. She could tell. “But it still doesn’t change your mind about Clay.”

  His light eyes bored into her as if he could see right through her. “It tells me you have a decision to make.”

  She knew what he was about to say. She’d faced the same decision for nineteen years. Did she question certain events, conversations—pursue the truth despite her loyalty to the Montgomerys? Or did she play it safe and cling to what her heart told her had to be true? So far she’d done a little of both, but she didn’t know how long she could go on doing that.

  “They’re my family,” she said. “The only family I have left.”

  He touched her shoulder, his fingers warm through her blouse. “Then maybe it’d be better if I went home.”

  She shrugged off his hand because she found it so confusing, so mystifyingly welcome, and raked her fingers through her hair. She didn’t want him to leave, although there were moments she was absolutely terrified—like back at the farm, when Clay was glaring at Hunter and she was seeing her stepbrother through Hunter’s eyes. Or when she remembered the strained silence that had permeated the house as she’d walked in the morning after her father hadn’t come home. Or the tense, wan face of her stepmother in the days that followed. Or the complete absence of emotion with which Clay and especially Grace had talked about her father in the years afterward.

  But that was craziness, wasn’t it? Focusing on those little curiosities was simply allowing herself to succumb to the power of suggestion. The Montgomerys had a rational explanation for each and every behavior. Clay didn’t see any value in opening up to Hunter or anyone else. Why would he? He couldn’t risk coming under attack again, particularly now that he had a family. And of course Irene would be under a great deal of stress and the house would feel odd the morning after her father hadn’t returned. They were all waiting to see what would happen next, to receive some word of him. And Grace had become increasingly secretive and unreachable—and not just when they were talking about her father. Madeline suspected that what they’d found in the trunk of the Cadillac might’ve had something to do with it, but even if Grace was telling the truth about not knowing how her underwear had ended up in that suitcase, teenagers were notoriously moody.

  How could Madeline let the suspicion evoked by those tiny details erode her confidence in her family? She knew the Montgomerys were good people. They’d been there for her, proven themselves over and over. That was a greater testament to their innocence than any strained look could be proof of their guilt. Wasn’t it?

  It was Irene who’d sat at her graduation ceremony, Irene who’d held her when she cried over the breakup with her first boyfriend, Irene who’d helped her move into her cottage and was there any time she needed a sympathetic ear. Clay still came by to patch her roof, fix a leaky faucet, paint her office or keep her old printer going. She and Grace had grown apart for a few years, but since Grace had returned to town, they’d become close again. And Madeline had always adored and mothered Molly. Because Irene had been so busy helping Clay earn a living and save the farm, and Grace had been so remote, Madeline had taken care of the youngest Montgomery. They often talked on the phone, and when Molly came to visit, she stayed as many days at Madeline’s house when she came to visit as she did with anyone else.

  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?”

  She stepped back, out of the path of the door. She was longing to close it; he could tell. “Why would he?” she asked.

  “He seemed to care about her a great deal. And what was the other girl’s name? The one who killed herself?”

  She half closed the door, so that only eight or so inches remained through which he could see her. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You don’t remember her, either?”

  “It’s been too long,” she said, but in such a small community, she’d recall something that sensational. Rose Lee’s suicide had occurred six months after the hit-and-run and only a year before Madeline’s mother ended her life.

  “How long have you lived here?” he asked.

  “I don’t see why I should continue answering questions about people who weren’t even part of my life. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  Hunter grabbed the door before she could shut it. All the people who might know something about the past didn’t want to talk, and he was damned curious about that. “Just one more thing.”

  She hesitated, and he went on. “You and your brother were close—isn’t that right?”

  Obviously taken off guard by the change in subject, she stared at him. “I—I guess you could say that.”

  I guess? A lukewarm answer if Hunter had ever heard one. “So—” he kept one hand on the door and used the other to scratch his head in exaggerated puzzlement “—if there was anything strange going on in his life, he probably would’ve told you about it.”

  “We both had families of our own when he went missing,” she said, resuming her customary authority. “We didn’t spend much time together. But thanks for coming by.”

  He stopped the door again. “Did you attend his church?”

  “Every Sunday.”

  “So you were proud of him?”

  “Who wouldn’t be proud of a preacher?” she said. “The whole town loved him.”

  He hadn’t asked about the whole town. He’d been trying to establish how much she loved him. “Then that suitcase they found in the Cadillac. That couldn’t have belonged to him?”

  Shoving his hand out of the way, she slammed the door.

  “I can’t believe you asked her that!” Madeline said as soon as they were in the Corolla and she was angling away from the curb. “What are you trying to do?”

  “What you’re paying me to do,” he said.

  Her cheeks were flushed with anger. “You’re insulting someone who isn’t even here to defend himself. You’re insulting my father!”

  “I’m searching for the truth, Maddy.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “Why not?” he asked. “That’s what everyone else calls you.”

  “You don’t know me. You don’t know my father. You don’t belong here. I—I’ve made a mistake.”

  “Madeline…”

  She wouldn’t look at him. He could see her grinding her teeth, wanting to say more, trying to hold the words back, along with her tears.

  “Listen to me.” He reached out to touch her. “We have to figure out what happened before your father went missing. That’ll lead us to the person who might’ve killed him.”

  “So you insult my father and accuse my brother?”

  “I didn’t accuse your brother.”

  “You said he’s hiding something. But he’s not! He didn’t kill my father.”

  “Maybe he didn’t. But I’m not going to find out who did unless I press a few buttons, stir things up around here.”

  “And hurt those who are closest to me?”

  “You want me to pull a freakin’ rabbit out of my hat!” he shouted. “I can’t deliver the perfect villain. It’s going to be someone you know, and probably someone you love. You’re aware of that, even if you don’t want to admit it!”

  She didn’t answer. They’d left the expensive, antebellum house of her aunt behind and were now surrounded by farmland.

  “Pull over, so you can look at me,” he said. “I want to be sure I’m getting through to you.”

  At first, he thought she was going to ignore the request. He opened his mouth to tell her they needed to talk, but before he could get the words out, she suddenly jerked the wheel to the right and nearly ran them into a ditch. Shoving the gearshift into park, she left the car running, got out and started to walk.

  Where the hell did she think she was going?

  “Maddy, get back here!” he called. Turning off the engine, he went after her. “You said you were committed to the investigation, remember? You knew the risks, but you said you wanted the truth.”

  She didn’t even turn. “Take the car and go back.”

  “Listen, this is an investigation,” he argued. “I have to run it objectively. You’re paying me a lot of money. I can’t handicap myself by questioning only the people you wouldn’t mind seeing in jail. If that’s what you expect, I’m wasting my time—just like your aunt said.”