Visions of yesterday flew through her head. His eagerness to touch her. His lips on her neck. His arms bearing her weight.
Shutting her eyes, she struggled to forget. “Tell me what it is.”
The ice in his glass clinked as he took a sip of water. Madeline had the impression that he was stalling, so she cleared her throat. “I’m waiting.”
“I don’t think it was Clay who killed your father.”
She didn’t respond immediately. She was so distracted by desire and by fear, it took her a moment to absorb those words—and to realize that this was actually good news. Maybe.
“Why?” she asked tentatively. “Because he was so young?”
“No. He was and still is the most physically capable—the biggest, the strongest, the oldest,” he said gruffly, giving it to her straight and hard now as she’d demanded. “And statistically most murders are committed by men.”
“I thought this was where you told me why Clay didn’t do it,” she said.
“It is.”
“So why do you think it wasn’t him?”
His gaze fell to her lips, and she could tell he was feeling the same awareness that was humming through her. It was there, just beneath the surface, every time they were together. Their encounter yesterday only made it more intense.
“We were talking about Clay,” she reminded him, trying to squelch the fluttering in her stomach.
He swallowed. “Clay isn’t the type to depend on his family to protect him with their silence,” he went on. “I can’t see him killing your father, then orchestrating a big cover-up on his own behalf. He’d run first, separate himself from his family as quickly as possible, so that whatever happened to him wouldn’t hurt them, too.”
She licked her lips, drawing his eyes back to her mouth. “So if it’s not Clay, who is it?”
“Someone he’d protect. Someone he loves.”
Hunter already understood Clay better than almost anyone in Stillwater, which frightened Madeline, because she could so easily grasp his logic. For the first time, she had reason to believe that someone with the right kind of knowledge was taking an unbiased look at what had gone on twenty years ago.
But Hunter was still pointing a finger at her family.
“Irene knows what happened, and she’s starting to crack.”
Suddenly the fear Madeline was feeling overtook the desire. “How do you know?”
“I talked to her.”
“You talked to my mother?”
“You haven’t,” he retorted.
She stared into her lap. “I’m not sure what to say to her.”
“You should return her calls. She’s worried about you.”
“She shouldn’t be. Last night’s break-in was no big deal. I’ve been thinking about it and I figure it was probably a prank, meant to send our investigation offtrack, you know? No one’s particularly happy that I brought you here, even my aunt, and I thought she’d be thrilled.”
“I don’t believe it was a prank,” he said.
“It could’ve been,” she persisted.
He shook his head. “Irene didn’t seem to think so, either.”
“You’re citing my stepmother as a credible source? You think she’s in league with Grace and Clay!”
“They’re all in on it. I just don’t know which one actually did it.”
Their waitress brought their salads, but Madeline couldn’t eat. “So how do we find out?” she asked at length.
He stretched his arm casually across the back of the booth. “Let’s leave it for now, okay?”
“Until…”
“Until I have some sort of proof. Before that, what I think doesn’t really mean anything.”
But it did mean something. He seemed so damn sure of everything. “Molly was only eleven years old at the time. Grace was thirteen. Surely you don’t think it was one of them!”
He gave a little shrug. “I’ve heard of more unbelievable things.”
She set her fork on the table and pushed her plate away.
“Eat,” he said.
“No.”
“You need a good meal.”
“Would you stop? You don’t give a damn about me, remember? All you care about is in California!”
He said nothing.
“Maybe you should just go back.”
She felt his hand touch hers, felt him tuck her fingers into the warmth of his palm. “Not until I know you’re safe.”
Don’t care. Do care. Feel. Don’t feel. It’s the Montgomerys. It’s not the Montgomerys. Grace was molested. Grace wasn’t molested. Madeline couldn’t seem to get her emotional bearings.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said.
She stared at their joined hands. “I knew them at that age,” she whispered. “They couldn’t have done it. They were so…gentle and sweet.”
“You’re probably right,” he agreed.
Pulling away, she took a deep breath. “If Clay had killed him, he would’ve run and didn’t, so that only leaves my mother.”
When he didn’t speak, she knew he thought it was Irene. She’s beginning to crack…What did that mean? Would her stepmother go to jail? Would Clay and Grace and Molly join her?
It was unthinkable. Especially because…
“And you suspect she did it because my father was molesting Grace,” she added quietly.
He looked as if he’d reach out to her again, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry.”
Too numb to even cry, Madeline averted her face as the waitress came to collect their salad plates.
“How was it?” she heard the woman ask Hunter.
“Fine,” he responded. When she was gone, he leaned forward. “Knowing Irene, and Clay, it’d have to be a strong motive. And what could be stronger?”
“If that was happening—and that’s a very big if— there were other options besides cold-blooded murder.”
“Maybe it wasn’t planned, Maddy. This is an emotional issue, an explosive issue. Maybe there was an argument and it spiraled out of control.”
Was it possible? Madeline had been at a friend’s house that night. She had no idea what’d gone on at home. But Jed Fowler had been there. If there’d been a fight, he would’ve heard it. And there was another problem with the accident theory.
“If it was an accident, why didn’t she come forward?”