“And you’re the one who has them running scared?”

  Hunter ignored Pontiff’s verbal jab. “Things have changed,” he said. “Beginning with the discovery of the Cadillac and what was in it. This case is heating up again and it’s making someone very nervous.”

  “That someone has got to be Clay,” Radcliffe said.

  “My stepbrother’s the one who gave me those boxes in the first place,” Madeline retorted. “Why would he steal them back?”

  “Maybe he’s just remembered there was something in one of ‘em.”

  “Not likely,” Hunter said.

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that this ‘intruder’ knew right where to go?” Radcliffe asked.

  That detail bothered Madeline, too. She didn’t show her basement to very many people. Only Hunter, Kirk, her family and Ray Harper, whom she’d hired to build some shelves a few months ago, had been down there.

  “It’s not Clay,” Hunter insisted. “If there was something potentially incriminating in those boxes, he would’ve removed it long ago. Besides, he was with me last night.”

  Madeline glanced up at him. Had she heard right? “What’d you say?”

  “We met for a drink,” he explained, his attention still on Pontiff. “The waitress at Let the Good Times Roll can vouch for us.”

  “What time did you leave?” Toby asked.

  “Just before I came here.”

  “And Clay?” he persisted.

  Madeline sensed that Hunter wasn’t particularly eager to answer this question. “About an hour and a half before me.”

  “That would put him in town and out on the streets alone right around the time of the burglary,” Pontiff said smugly.

  Hunter circled the small table separating them. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t Clay.”

  Dislike and impatience made deep grooves on Radcliffe’s forehead. “Maybe whatever was in there was only incriminating together with the evidence from the Cadillac—evidence he thought we’d never find.”

  “No.” Hunter shook his head.

  “How can you be so sure?” Radcliffe asked.

  “Because Clay would have easier ways of getting to those boxes than breaking Madeline’s window in the middle of the night.”

  “How do you know so much?” Pontiff asked. “You’ve been here, what, two days?”

  “A lot can happen in two days.” Hunter’s light eyes flicked Madeline’s way, and she knew he was referring to what had already occurred between them.

  “Besides,” Hunter added, “Clay wouldn’t risk scaring Maddy—or getting caught.”

  “To my mind, that would depend on how much he wanted that box,” Radcliffe said. “Like most criminals, he cares more about himself than anyone else.”

  “You’re that sure he’s guilty?” Hunter asked.

  Radcliffe glared at him. “The whole town knows he’s guilty.”

  A muscle twitched in Hunter’s cheek. “Is that why the police tried to beat him into a confession?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pontiff said.

  “Read the reports,” Hunter responded.

  “I’ve read them. There’s nothing to indicate he was struck even once.”

  “Then you’re not reading very closely. You should pay special attention to the deleted parts.”

  Pontiff’s face grew mottled. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he shouted. “You can’t come down here, slinging around accusations designed to make my force look bad. Not without proof—and I’m guessing you don’t have any.”

  “We could always ask Clay,” Hunter said.

  “As if we could trust him.” Radcliffe jammed a finger in Hunter’s chest. “Without proof, you haven’t got anything!”

  Hunter knocked the other man’s hand away and immediately blocked the fist he threw.

  “Radcliffe!” Pontiff barked.

  Madeline nearly spilled her tea trying to set it down so she could move between them.

  “That’s enough,” she said. “Why fight about it here? Why not go see if Clay’s been cut? If he has, come back and let us know. If not, quit making allegations against him until you have some proof!”

  Pontiff gripped her elbow. “Listen to me, Maddy. You’re paying this guy a lot of money to have him tell you what you want to hear. You love Clay, so he says it’s not Clay. But that doesn’t make him right. You’re paying for nothing,” he spat out.

  “Kiss my ass!” Hunter said, finally goaded into losing his temper. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Pontiff ignored him in favor of appealing to Madeline. “Get rid of him. I’ll find your father’s murderer and whoever broke in last night, and it won’t cost you a dime. I’m a public servant, remember? Not a bloodsucking leech.”

  “Hey, Barney Fife, maybe this is news to you but, so far, you haven’t done anything except defend your department—men who used their power to abuse a sixteen-year-old boy.”

  Despite all the confusion and emotional upheaval, Madeline found Hunter far too appealing. Especially when he was sticking up for Clay.

  “He’s full of shit, Maddy,” Radcliffe added, mistaking her silence for indecision and piling on. “Clay wasn’t beaten up.”

  “I’ve read the reports,” she said. “Maybe Clay’s never made any accusations, but I think Hunter’s right.”

  “What?” Radcliffe cried.

  She raised both hands, indicating her desire for silence. “It makes too much sense—and it’s further proof that I need someone with a different perspective than our own. Someone like Hunter.”

  “He’s a troublemaker, Maddy,” Pontiff said. “Send him packing. He doesn’t belong here.”

  Maddy was tempted to let Hunter go. But not because she agreed with anything Pontiff or Radcliffe had to say. Her reasons were purely those of self-preservation. She was beginning to fall in love with him—in a headlong tumble she’d never dreamed possible. And he was the one person most likely to destroy everything she’d ever believed about her father and her family.

  “Hunter stays,” she said.

  Pontiff’s fingers tightened on her hand. “Why?”

  “Because it’s time to face the truth.”

  Hunter stood, gazing down at Madeline, who was still asleep. He’d made it all the way to morning without touching her. He was proud of that, especially since it hadn’t been easy. He’d wanted to comfort her, but he knew where any break in his resistance would lead and refused to take advantage of her vulnerability. So he’d wrestled with himself until they’d both fallen asleep, with her on the couch and him in the recliner. And now he was hoping to leave before she woke up. There were people he needed to talk to, and he preferred not to take her with him.

  Careful to move quietly, he gave Sophie a quick pat and walked outside, but as soon as he reached the porch he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Flipping it open, he studied Maria’s picture, although he’d already memorized every detail.

  He wanted to speak to his daughter. Maybe that would help him remember why he couldn’t afford the kinds of emotions he was starting to feel for Madeline—tenderness and compassion, the instinct to protect, sexual desire.

  With one kind word from Maria, he could give up any hope of a relationship with Madeline. He could make the sacrifice. If his daughter agreed to see him, he’d leave for California tomorrow. He was afraid they’d miss so much. She was only twelve years old. What about all the places they’d never visit? The prom dates he’d never meet? The pictures he’d never take?

  He sighed. How did it get to this point? He hadn’t been a bad husband or father, at least not until the final year of his marriage, when he and Antoinette had grown so estranged that he could hardly make it through the day without pickling his brain in alcohol. Before that last year, he’d actually been a decent husband, especially in the beginning, when his resolve was fresh and he believed the love he felt for his daughter could compensate for the love he didn’t feel for his wife.

  His fingers caressed the phone button that would automatically dial his little girl. But if he tried to call her, chances were she’d rebuff him again. Antoinette made sure Maria heard, on a daily basis, a litany of his faults and shortcomings—how he was a womanizer, even though he’d only slept with two, now three, women in his life; how he was an alcoholic, even though she drank heavily herself and used cocaine and other drugs when she partied; how he’d stolen her best years even though he hadn’t wanted them in the first place.

  He knew what Antoinette said. Maria had told him in the past, when she’d craved reassurance. Unfortunately, she didn’t come to him with her concerns anymore. She’d finally succumbed to the poison of her mother’s words.

  He wasn’t sure he could take hearing his daughter repeat what she’d said during their last conversation. So he started to put his phone away. But then he changed his mind and sent the call.

  It rang several times before someone picked up.

  “Hunter, have you mailed my check yet?”

  It was Antoinette. Obviously, her caller ID was in good working order.

  He didn’t answer. He was too busy searching for the right words. The ones that would make peace, patch things up, turn the situation around.

  The ones he never seemed to find.

  “If you think you’re going to get out of paying your child support this month just because you gave me a little extra last month, you’re wrong,” she said. “Maria’s the one who didn’t want to go to Hawaii. You can’t blame me. I had nothing to do with it.”

  He could blame her, and did. The only way Antoinette could hurt him was through Maria, so she turned their daughter into a weapon at every opportunity. The woman who’d claimed she loved him more than her own life—who’d been so obsessed with him that she’d once hired a private detective to trail him, who’d gone so far in her paranoid delusions that she’d bugged their home phone—now hated him in equal measure.

  “Is she there?” He stared out over Madeline’s front lawn without really seeing anything.

  “She’s here, but she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  He drew a steadying breath. “Will you ask her?”

  There was a long pause. “Hang on,” she snapped as if she’d rather not be bothered.

  She was gone for precisely eighty-nine heartbeats. “She wants to know why you’re calling,” she said when she returned. “And she told me to remind you of your promise.”

  “My promise?”

  “To leave her alone.”

  “I only promised because she asked me to.”

  I can’t stand the tug-of-war any longer, she’d said. Please, give up. Let me go.

  “Then keep your word,” Antoinette said simply. “She’s fine, you know. We’ve grown very close.”

  “That’s it, then?”

  She seemed unsure of his attitude. Knowing her, she was trying to figure out how to work his current mood to her advantage. It probably alarmed her that he seemed resigned to the situation; she didn’t have any power if he gave up. If she’d held anything else over his head, he would’ve sacrificed it a long time ago just to be rid of her. But this was his daughter, for God’s sake.

  “She might change her mind, but not if you don’t send that damn check,” Antoinette was saying. “Or are you spending all your money on Selena these days?”

  She knew better. He hadn’t been with their neighbor since that night two years ago, when he’d been too drunk to stop himself from accepting the kindness Selena had offered him. It was just that he didn’t appear to be in enough agony right now, so Antoinette was revising her tactics.

  Why couldn’t she see that the animosity between them was hurting Maria more than anything that had or hadn’t happened in the past? Why did it have to be this way? They could let bygones be bygones for Maria’s sake, couldn’t they?

  He’d asked her to do that, again and again. But it was no use. Antoinette refused to cooperate—and now he didn’t have any influence with Maria, either.

  “Hunter?” she said when he didn’t take the bait.

  He hung up because there was nothing more to say.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hunter knew Irene Montgomery was home—he’d heard movement when he rang the bell, felt the scrutiny of someone on the other side of the peephole—but he had to knock several times before she answered. She finally opened the door, but only an inch or two.

  “What do you want?” she asked, staring out at him.

  Hunter summoned his most engaging smile. “I’m Hunter Solozano.”

  “I know who you are.” She looked him up and down. “Why are you here?”

  Rain dripped down the back of his neck. He wanted to move closer, so he’d be sheltered by the eaves. But he was trying not to crowd Irene; Madeline’s stepmother was nervous enough already. “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “Where’s Madeline?”

  “At her own place. She had a little…incident last night.”

  “Incident?” she echoed suspiciously.

  “Yes. That’s partly why I want to talk to you. Someone broke into her house.”

  The door suddenly flew open. “What? Is she okay?”

  “She’s upset and confused, but physically she’s fine.”

  “Come in.” Stepping back, she waved him past her.

  He had to turn sideways in order to fit through the cluster of furnishings. The place was spotless, but stuffed with knickknacks, decorations and furniture. Beyond the usual couch, chair, television and coffee table, Hunter saw a velvet chaise, a cabinet full of collectibles, a stool that sported fringe all the way around, an old-fashioned teacart with hand-blown glass and delicate china, several inlaid accent tables and two Victorian lamps. All in one small living room. And the upholstery was a sort of dusky pink.

  “Nice,” he said vaguely, because he couldn’t find anything specific to admire. It was just that the moment seemed to call for a polite remark and he didn’t know what else to say when confronted with so much pink and gold.

  Irene’s tastes definitely ran toward the ornate and feminine, even in her personal appearance. Dressed in a tailored turquoise blouse with turquoise jewelry, a pair of skin-tight jeans that had sequins down the front, and high heels that matched her shirt, she still had a good figure. Like Grace, she also had pretty blue eyes and dark hair, which she’d piled on top of her head, leaving a few tendrils curling around her face.

  He couldn’t imagine anyone like Madeline’s stepmother marrying a conservative preacher, especially one who seemed as strict in his beliefs as Barker—his ostensible beliefs, anyway. She had “sex kitten” written all over her.

  “Was it Mike?” she asked.

  Now that the door was shut, he could scarcely breathe for the strength of her perfume. Evidently, she applied scent as liberally as she did makeup. “We don’t know. Whoever it was got away.”

  “What happened?”

  “Madeline heard someone in the house. When she called out to him, he ran out.”

  The color had drained from beneath the heavy powder on Irene’s face. “Did he take anything?”

  “A box of your husband’s things.”

  She steadied herself with a hand on the back of the sofa. “But why?”

  “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “If they were the ones Clay packed up when he dismantled the office, there was nothing in them but sermons and personal effects, none of which had value to anyone but Madeline. Other daughters would probably have tossed some of it. But not Madeline. She saves everything.”

  She waved at the living room. “I have too much stuff myself. But none of it’s old. I want to purge. She wants to save.”

  “Maybe it’s because so much in her life has slipped away from her.”

  “And I can’t rid myself of the past no matter how hard I try,” she muttered.

  He couldn’t help liking Irene. She seemed nice, almost childlike. “Speaking of the past, I want to ask a few questions about your husband, if you don’t mind.”

  The wariness instantly reappeared. “I’ve already answered every conceivable question.”

  “I might have some new ones.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.” She glanced at the window.

  “Are you expecting someone?” he asked.

  She ignored this and moved toward the kitchen. “Can I make you a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks. This’ll only take a minute. I—”

  “Madeline’s not returning my calls,” she interrupted, stopping her retreat.

  He would’ve thought she was dodging him, but the concern in her eyes was real.

  For Madeline’s sake, he tried to reassure her. “She hasn’t had a chance. She’s been busy since I came to town.”

  “Too busy to call her mother?”

  “She’s struggling with the fact that you don’t want me here, and that she’s the one who brought me.”

  The frankness of his response begged equal candor. And she didn’t disappoint him. “How can she expect me to be happy about it?”

  “She doesn’t. She’s just in a tough spot, caught between the love and loyalty she feels for you and the love and loyalty she feels for her father.”

  “We’re all in a tough spot,” Irene said. “And life never seems to get any easier. Believe me, I’ve seen it all.”

  Was she talking about the heartbreak of having a husband abandon her? The fear of nearly losing her children to the state? The dubious reception she’d received when she moved to Stillwater? The lack of acceptance, and the judgment and skepticism that had followed her ever since? Or the murder of a man she’d found out was molesting her daughter?

  She wanted to talk, Hunter could tell. She seemed weary, desperate, as if looking for a safe haven she’d never been able to find. He had to pity her, she seemed harmless in so many ways. And yet he recognized the opportunity she afforded him. “Maybe it’s time to finally sort it all out,” he said.

  She straightened abruptly. “There’s nothing to sort out. I—I want you to leave. I can’t deal with the past anymore. It’s over, do you hear me? It’s over. I only did what I—”