Dead Right (30 page)

“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 spil ed 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 al egations 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 tel 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, final y 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’l 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 al the confusion and emotional upheaval, Madeline found Hunter far too appealing. Especial y when he was sticking up for Clay.

“He’s ful 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 fal 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 stil asleep. He’d made it al the way to morning without touching her. He was proud of that, especial y 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 fal en 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 pul ed his cel 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 al 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 actual y been a decent husband, especial y 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 automatical y dial his little girl. But if he tried to cal 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 final y 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 cal .

It rang several times before someone picked up.

“Hunter, have you mailed my check yet?”

It was Antoinette. Obviously, her cal er 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 real y seeing anything.

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

He drew a steadying breath. “Wil 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 cal ing,” 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 al 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.

18

H
unter knew Irene Montgomery was home—he’d heard movement when he rang the bel , felt the scrutiny of someone on the other side of the peephole—but he had to knock several times before she answered. She final y 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 physical y 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 ful of col ectibles, a stool that sported fringe al the way around, an old-fashioned teacart with hand-blown glass and delicate china, several inlaid accent tables and two Victorian lamps. Al in one smal 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 cal 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 stil 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, especial y one who seemed as strict in his beliefs as Barker—his ostensible beliefs, anyway. She had “sex kitten” written al 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 liberal y as she did makeup. “We don’t know. Whoever it was got away.”

“What happened?”

“Madeline heard someone in the house. When she cal ed 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 tel 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’l only take a minute. I—”

“Madeline’s not returning my cal s,” 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 cal 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 al in a tough spot,” Irene said. “And life never seems to get any easier. Believe me, I’ve seen it al .”

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 Stil water? The lack of acceptance, and the judgment and skepticism that had fol owed her ever since? Or the murder of a man she’d found out was molesting her daughter?

She wanted to talk, Hunter could tel . 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 final y sort it al out,” he said.