“No one answered at the house,” Hunter said as he drew closer.

  “Allie and Whitney left for Jackson half an hour ago.” He shoved the posthole digger into the earth, squeezing and lifting in a rhythmic fashion. “Her mother flew up from Florida so Allie and Whitney could help celebrate her birthday.”

  Hunter found a clump of grass to wipe the mud on the bottom of his shoes, which looked like heavy-duty sandals no one from Mississippi would ever wear. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

  Clay slammed the posthole digger deep into the ground and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Why do you think?”

  The fabric of Hunter’s parka rustled as he folded his arms. Maybe it wasn’t brand-new but, except for skiing, this was probably the only time Golden Boy had ever worn it, Clay thought wryly.

  “Why don’t you explain it to me,” Hunter suggested.

  “I can’t leave town when someone just broke into my sister’s house.”

  “You were going to trust me to take care of her, remember?”

  “I don’t trust anyone that much.”

  “I might be able to do more if you’d level with me, Clay.”

  Clay started digging again. The memory of Madeline cringing when he touched her yesterday was all too present in his mind. The only way to ease his pain and guilt was through the kind of hard physical work that left him too exhausted to feel anything else.

  “Will you talk to me?” Hunter persisted.

  Here they come, the same questions I’ve been asked for the past twenty years. Only now, for Madeline’s sake, he felt obliged to answer them truthfully.

  “That depends on what you ask,” he said, but Hunter’s next words weren’t a question at all.

  “Something happened last night,” he said.

  Those words sounded even more ominous than the searching queries Clay had expected. “She’d better be okay,” he said, straightening.

  “She’s fine. For now. But there’s trouble lurking, and I need your help to figure out where and why.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Someone sent Madeline a package.”

  “To her house?”

  “According to Joe, it was outside her office. He saw it and picked it up on his way home from the bar.”

  “What was in it?”

  Hunter raked his fingers through his hair. “A gigantic dildo.”

  Clay tossed his shovel to the ground. “A what?”

  “You heard me. Just like the one in the trunk of the Cadillac.”

  Clay had been hoping that whoever was harassing Madeline would quit after stealing that box from her basement. He couldn’t believe there was anything valuable or potentially damaging in it. Unless someone knew about the pictures Barker had taken and was hoping to find them before Madeline’s P.I. could.

  “Who put that suitcase in the trunk, Clay?” Hunter asked. “Barker?”

  Clay didn’t answer. “The package,” he said a moment later. “Was there any message with it?”

  “I think that was message enough, don’t you?”

  “But from whom?” Clay whispered to himself. Who would do this? Barker’s sister, Elaine, was aware of the existence of the pictures; Allie had shown her copies last summer. That was what had finally brought the Vincelli family and his to a truce of sorts. But Elaine wouldn’t want to upset the delicate equilibrium that protected her from the humiliation those pictures would bring if they were ever made public. Besides, Elaine knew Madeline didn’t have them. Madeline had no idea they even existed. So why would Elaine send someone over to break into Madeline’s house?

  “Who stands to gain the most from what’s going on?” Hunter pressed.

  “No one,” Clay said. That was the confusing part. As far as Clay knew, he and his family were the only ones who had something to hide.

  “If you want to help Madeline, you need to be honest with me.” Hunter was growing more insistent. “What happened the night Barker died?”

  Clay knew he should fend off the questions, play the usual games: Died? How do you know he’s dead? But he couldn’t. He cared too much about Madeline.

  Taking a deep breath, he said what he’d never dreamed he’d say. “There were other girls.”

  If Hunter was surprised, he masked it well. “Girls who what?”

  “Who were molested by Barker.”

  “When?”

  “Before we ever moved here.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Rose Lee Harper and Katie Swanson.”

  Hunter’s frown became more pronounced. “How do you know?”

  Clay wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “We found pictures. I destroyed all the ones I found, but Allie came across some more last summer.”

  “Will you get them for me?”

  Again Clay searched for a way out and couldn’t see one. This was the beginning of the end. And he was the one pulling the plug. But he didn’t have any other choice. He wouldn’t allow another member of his family to be hurt. “Yes. Just be prepared.”

  “For what?” Hunter asked.

  “The worst.”

  Madeline heard the heavy knock and knew immediately what it meant. Jumping out of bed, she flew down the stairs. It was her father. She could hear him calling her.

  “Maddy? Where’s my girl?”

  She could see his shape through the cloudy glass inset and couldn’t wait to throw her arms around him. Putting her hand on the knob, she started to turn it, then paused, feeling oddly reluctant. Something was wrong.

  “Maddy? Why won’t you answer me?”

  She tried to respond with the welcome he expected, but she was no longer excited. A bone-deep dread settled in as she watched him force the door open from the other side.

  Finding her voice, she spoke over the racket of her racing heart. “Wait! Don’t come in, Daddy. I’m not dressed.”

  She’d used a lie, an easy excuse, but suddenly it was true. She was naked. She could feel her own skin, her bare breasts. But that didn’t stop her father. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, leering at her while he slowly revealed something hidden under his coat—something flesh colored.

  The dildo!

  Madeline screamed as she sat up. She was in such a hurry to get away, to escape the degradation and pain of what she saw and felt that she’d scrambled out of bed before realizing she wasn’t in the entryway at all. She was really naked, but she was in her bedroom, alone.

  Gasping for breath, she looked wildly around. She could smell a hint of Hunter’s cologne, but even he was gone.

  Calm down. It was just another nightmare.

  Only this one was worse—far worse. And then she realized, dimly, that the telephone was ringing. Its jangling was probably what had drawn her from the clutches of that terrible dream.

  Anxious to hear another human voice, she grabbed the handset. “Hello?” she said eagerly, trying to slow her heart and regain control. But when her stepmother answered, she knew she should’ve taken the time to check caller ID. She’d wanted to hear another human voice, but she didn’t want it to be this one.

  “There you are. Madeline, I’ve been so worried about you. Are you okay?”

  She didn’t think so. Her reality—her nightmares, too—was getting worse. But she couldn’t admit it. Irene hadn’t wanted her to bring Hunter to Stillwater in the first place. In a way, all of this was her own fault, wasn’t it? She was the one ripping off the scab that had for so long covered the wound of her father’s disappearance; she was the one drawing fresh blood.

  “I—I’m fine,” she managed to say.

  There was a short pause. “Why haven’t you been returning my calls?”

  Madeline blanched at the hurt and accusation in Irene’s voice. “I’ve been…busy,” she said. “Really busy.” The excuse sounded every bit as lame as it was. But what was she supposed to say? That she was beginning to believe Irene had killed her father? That she was terrified her father might’ve deserved it?

  “That private investigator came by,” Irene said. “He…he has some odd notions. I hope you’re not listening to him, Maddy. I hope you know that—”

  “What?” she countered, unable to avoid it anymore.

  Her mother seemed startled by her almost vehement response. “That—that he’s wrong, of course.”

  “Is he, Mom?” she asked.

  Irene shrank from the challenge. “Well, that depends on what he’s saying, of course, but—”

  Normally, Madeline would’ve let her talk, would’ve accepted what she had to say because the thought of any truth except the one she wanted most was unbearable. But the questions in her soul had grown just as unbearable. “He’s saying Dad molested Grace,” she blurted out. “He’s saying you killed him because of it and that Clay’s been covering for you all these years.”

  There was shocked silence.

  “Is it true?” she demanded.

  “No! Madeline, listen. Your father was a—a reverend. He—he didn’t come home that night, and—and there was a—a transient and—”

  She was babbling and crying—and lying. It had never been more apparent than it was at that moment.

  Slowly, Madeline sank to the floor. Dropping her head onto her knees, she began to cry, too. “How do you know he molested Grace?” she interrupted. “Maybe it was someone else, someone he was counseling. Maybe you killed him for nothing!”

  “Maddy, stay right there. I—I’m coming over. Clay’s coming, too, okay? Did you hear me, Maddy? I’m calling Clay.”

  “To keep it all together for you, Mom? To help you convince me of your lies?”

  Madeline hung up. She couldn’t stay on the phone any longer, didn’t want to hear the panic in her stepmother’s voice. She had to get out of the house before Irene arrived, before Grace and Clay showed up, too. They’d all come so they could convince her that she was wrong…

  Without even bothering to comb her hair, she yanked on some clothes, ran down the stairs, ignoring Sophie who looked up from her food dish, and scooped up the keys to Clay’s old truck. She grabbed her purse, too, and left immediately. She couldn’t deal with the Montgomerys right now; she needed time to think. But her cell phone kept ringing and ringing.

  “Leave me alone!” she cried and swerved around the next corner, nearly crashing into Ray Harper, who was coming the other way.

  Hunter wondered how he could show a man the pictures he had in his possession and ask, “Is this your daughter?” He couldn’t imagine the pain of recognizing his own child in such a photograph. Or maybe he could imagine it. That was why he was having trouble approaching the door, why he was holding back.

  But he had to talk to Ray, didn’t he? He had to figure out the role these girls played in what had happened.

  Maybe Ray already knew what Barker had done to his daughter. It was possible that Rose Lee had gone to her father for help. That might’ve been what caused the falling out between Ray and Barker. It was even possible that Ray, and not Irene, had killed Barker.

  For Madeline’s sake he hoped it was true. Hoped he was wrong about the Montgomerys. That the whole town had been wrong.

  Unzipping his parka, Hunter took a deep breath and finally climbed the four rickety steps to Ray’s door, where he knocked loudly.

  No response.

  He banged on the cheap metal panel once again.

  An old Buick was parked in the narrow carport beside the trailer. The sight of it had led him to believe Ray might be home, but when Hunter gave up knocking and went over to the vehicle, he could see that the front left side was up on blocks.

  Just as he was about to get back in Madeline’s car to search elsewhere for Ray Harper, the neighbor, a tall thin woman with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, came out wearing a robe and slippers and carrying a bag of trash.

  “Hey,” he called. “You haven’t seen Ray this morning have you?”

  “No.” She paused to remove her cigarette. “He usually sleeps in.”

  From the look of the woman’s mussed hair, she’d just rolled out of bed herself. “What does he drive?”

  She hesitated, studying him. “You’re the investigator fella.”

  “That’s right.”

  Her face lit with interest. “You findin’ anything?”

  “Apparently not this morning. Can you tell me what Ray drives?” he asked again.

  She seemed a little crestfallen that he wasn’t more forthcoming, but she answered him. “A Dodge truck. If it’s not in Bubba’s carport, he’s probably gone to church.”

  “Bubba’s carport?”

  “Bubba Turk.” She motioned with the hand that held the cigarette. “Lives on the other side. Least he did. Poor guy had a heart attack and died this weekend.”

  Madeline had mentioned Bubba’s death. It had really upset her. “Why would Ray be using Bubba’s carport?” he asked.

  She tilted her chin toward the broken-down Buick. “Until he gets rid of that piece of junk, he has no place else to park. The streets are already so crowded in here he finally arranged it so I’d quit complaining. But he still pulls up front half the time,” she said in disgust.

  “Didn’t Bubba have his own car?”

  Her lips twisted into a pained grimace. “You’ve never met Bubba, have you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Bubba weighed over 500 pounds and couldn’t fit behind the wheel. He didn’t even have a driver’s license.”

  Five hundred pounds? No wonder he’d had a heart attack. “Did he live alone?”

  “Except for his cat and his spider. But his sister came around once or twice a week to see if he needed anything.”

  “You don’t happen to have her contact information, do you?”

  “Sorry. She lives in Iuka, though. I know that much. You could see if she’s listed.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Helen Salazar.”

  “Thanks,” Hunter said with a wave. “Appreciate it.”

  A row of trees shielded his view of Bubba Turk’s carport. He started to walk toward it, but the neighbor who’d helped him called out before he’d gotten very far.

  “Don’t go too close,” she warned.

  “Why not?”

  “Smells awful. Who would’ve thought the stench would linger like that?” She grimaced as she shoved her garbage into the large outdoor container, then went back inside her mobile home.

  It did smell bad, Hunter noticed as he reached the trailer. He’d been under the impression that they’d found the body fairly soon after Bubba’s death and transported it to the funeral home. But he was beginning to wonder if the hearse had yet to show up. Only death smelled like this.

  The carport was empty, which meant Ray was gone.

  Hunter tried to open Bubba’s mobile home to see what was causing the cloying stench, but the door was locked. It didn’t seem to be coming from inside the house, anyway. It seemed to be coming from—he walked around the place, trying to narrow it down—a small shed behind the carport.

  Holding his breath, Hunter opened the flimsy shed door. There were no windows, and it was too dark to see. But he was fairly sure he’d discovered the source of the stench, especially when he had to take a breath and the next inhalation nearly caused his stomach to revolt.

  What had happened here?

  Pulling the chain on the bulb overhead, he leaned in and looked around. There, behind the door, was a black garbage bag. With the handle of a broom, he nudged the opening wide enough to see inside.

  It was a dead cat.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Is Madeline with you?”

  It was Clay. Hunter held his cell phone with his right hand while carrying the garbage bag with his left. He’d knotted the top, but that didn’t help much. The cat’s remains had begun to liquefy and it was all he could do not to gag.

  “No. I haven’t seen her since this morning.” Since he’d left her bed. But he wasn’t about to share that detail with a protective older brother. Hunter felt guilty enough about their involvement. Despite what she’d done to instigate their physical encounters, he knew Madeline wasn’t the type to take intimacy lightly. “Why?”

  “She knows.”

  Hunter lifted the lid of Bubba’s garbage can. It was empty, so there was plenty of room. But what if no one remembered to put it out on garbage day? Then the smell would get worse. And he didn’t want Bubba’s relatives to be faced with something as nasty as this when they came back to clean out his trailer. Losing a loved one was bad enough.

  “Knows what?” he asked, changing direction and heading for Ray’s garbage can instead.

  “Everything.”

  The gravity in Clay’s voice made Hunter stop, despite what he was holding.

  “You mean she knows who killed her father?”

  There was a long pause, but Clay finally answered. “Yes.”

  Hunter could hardly believe the secret was out. After twenty years…“What makes you think so?”

  “She confronted my mother, then hung up. We’re at her house now, but she’s gone.”

  Hunter set the cat on the ground and turned his face downwind. “What about her cell phone?”

  “She doesn’t answer.”

  “I’ll check the office.”

  “Grace has already been there. It’s locked up.”

  “Where else would she go?”

  “Kirk’s.”

  A jab of hostility almost made Hunter say, “She wouldn’t go there.” But he bit his tongue. “Has anyone looked?”

  “He’s out of town. No one’s home.”

  “What about the quarry?”

  “Why would she drive to the quarry?”

  “If she’s upset, who knows? That’s where her father’s car was found, right?”

  Clay sighed heavily. “I’ll ask Kennedy to go up there, just in case.”

  In even more of a hurry to finish his distasteful chore, Hunter grabbed the garbage bag again. He imagined Madeline coming to the painful realization she’d been trying to avoid for years, and he knew what it’d do to her. “I’ll drive through town, ask around, see if I can spot her.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Let me know what you find.”