Magic hour: a novel (45 page)

He groaned and covered her body with his, moving against her until she couldn’t think of anything, could only
feel.

When he entered her, with a thrust that went straight to the core of her, she cried out, terrified for a moment that she’d lost herself in all this need.

When it was over, he held her close and kissed her again. It was long and slow and gentle, and it made her want to cry.

“You’re a good man, Max Cerrasin,” she said throatily.

“I used to be.”

She drew back just enough to look at him. In the pale light from a single lamp, she saw now what she’d refused to admit before, even to herself: she’d been lost from the moment she saw him, certainly from their first kiss. She hadn’t merely stepped into love; she’d tumbled headlong, like her beloved Alice, down the rabbit hole to a place where nothing made sense. It didn’t matter now whether he loved her back. What mattered was the love itself, this feeling of connecting with another heart. She could see, too, that he was worried. They’d come to a place that neither had quite expected, and there was no way to know how it would end. In the past—hell, yesterday—that would have frightened her. She’d learned a lot today. “Yesterday I was worried about a lot of things. Today I know what matters.”

“Alice.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “And you.”

M
AX LAY BESIDE HER, HOLDING HER NAKED BODY CLOSE, AND STARED UP
at the ceiling. It had been a long time since he’d felt this way. He wanted to spend the night with Julia, to wake up beside her, to kiss her good-morning and talk about whatever came to mind.

In ordinary times that might have been possible; these were far from ordinary times. A part of her was breaking apart right now; she was holding herself together by sheer force of will.

He rolled onto his side and looked down at her. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, tracing her full lower lip with his finger.

“You, too,” she said with a smile. Her nose brushed his chin. When she smiled, her pale green eyes made him think of misty rain-forest mornings. Cool and deep and somehow magical.

“You’re turning me into a romantic,” he said.

“Then you already were one.”

He smiled at that. “You shrinks always know what to say, don’t you?”

She stared at him a long time before she answered. “Don’t lie to me, Max. That’s all I ask, okay? Don’t pretend to feel something if you don’t.”

“I’ve never pretended with you, Julia.”

“Then tell me something real.”

“Like?”

She glanced over at the bureau along the wall. There were several framed pictures displayed. Images from his life Before. “Like about your marriage.”

“Her name was Susan O’Connell. We met in college. I loved her from the first moment I saw her.”

“Until?”

He looked away for a second, then realized it was useless. Her keen eyes saw everything; certainly, he couldn’t hide this pain by looking away. “Believe me, now isn’t the right time for this conversation.”

“Will there be a time for it?”

“Yes,” he said softly.

She kissed him gently, then drew back. “I better go. Alice has trouble sleeping. She’ll panic if she wakes and I’m gone.” As she said the girl’s name, her voice wavered.

“The courts will see you’re best for her.”

“The courts,” she said with a heavy sigh.

“You don’t believe they’ll do the right thing?”

“The truth is, I can’t think about all that right now. If I do, I’ll fall apart. For now, I’m going to focus on proving that he’s an unfit parent. One step at a time.”

“You’ll need me.”

The smile she gave him was slow and steady. It released something in his chest, made breathing easier somehow. “I certainly will.”

T
HE NIGHT PASSED FOR
E
LLIE IN A RIVER OF BLACK DREAMS AND FRIGHTENING
images. When she woke—at dawn—she was edgy and nervous. The first thing she did was pull out the file. Already, she’d read the words so often she’d almost memorized them. In the last twenty-four hours she’d personally spoken to every single police office who’d worked the Azelle case. In addition, she’d spent nearly an hour on the phone with the best private detective in King County.

Every person she spoke to and every report she read said the same thing.

He was guilty.

And the state hadn’t proved it.

Ellie paced the living room. The dogs followed her everywhere, running into her every time she turned. They were upset by her energy. It was on
her
shoulders to prove that Azelle was a bad guy, an unfit parent, but so far all she could find was a layer of innuendo, a fog of accusation.

He was an adulterer; that was a fact. The only one she’d been able to nail down. Neighbors
thought
he hit his wife. Jurors
believed
he’d killed her, but on the basis of nothing concrete. And the media . . .

Every journalist she’d spoken to was certain he’d done it.
Guilty son of a bitch
was the label most often used to describe him. But not one story had uncovered previous bad acts. No drug charges, no DUI, not even a Drunk and Disorderly.

With a curse, she grabbed her files and left the house.

She drove straight to the Rain Drop. The diner was the only place open this early in the morning. As usual, it was full of loggers and fishermen and mill workers having breakfast before work. She stopped and talked to people in every booth as she made her way to the cash register.

Rosie Chicowski was behind the hostess desk, smoking a cigarette. Blue smoke spiraled upward, joined with the hazy cloud that was always there.

“Hey, Ellie, you’re in early,” she said, pulling the cigarette from her mouth and stabbing it out in the ashtray. Patrons had been smoking in the Rain Drop for fifty years. No state law was going to change that.

“I need some caffeine.”

Rosie laughed. “You got it. How about one of Barb’s marionberry muffins to go with it?”

“Thanks. Only one, though. Shoot me if I try to order another.”

“Flesh wound or kill yah?”

“Kill me.” Laughing, Ellie turned around, heading back for a booth in the empty nonsmoking section of the diner.

It was a moment before she saw him.

He sat sprawled across the burgundy vinyl booth, an empty coffee cup in front of him. He saw her and nodded.

Ellie walked over to him. “Mr. Azelle,” she said.

“Hello, Chief Barton.” He did not look pleased to see her. His gaze flicked over the heavy manila folder she carried.

“Can I join you? I have some questions to ask you.”

He sighed. “Of course you do.”

She sidled into the booth across from him. She looked at him, trying to really
see
him, but all she saw were tired eyes and deep frown lines. As she was marshaling her thoughts into a question, he said, “Three years.”

“Three years what?”

Leaning toward her, he looked deeply into her eyes. “I was in prison for a crime I didn’t commit. Hell, I didn’t even
know
about it. I thought Zoë had left me for one of her lovers and taken our kid.” The intensity in his eyes was unnerving. “Imagine how it would feel to be convicted of something terrible—horrific—and put in a cage to rot. And why? Because you made bad choices and let passion rule your life. So I had affairs. So I lied to my wife and family about that. So I sent her flowers after a knock-down and drag-out fight. It doesn’t make me a killer.”

“The jury—”

“The
jury,
” he said with contempt. “They couldn’t see past my life. Every newspaper and TV station called me guilty within five minutes. No one even looked for Zoë and Brit.
Two
eyewitnesses saw a strange van on
my
street the day my family went missing—and no one cared. The police didn’t even bother to search for a white guy in a yellow slicker and Batman baseball cap who drove a grayish Chevy van. When I offered money for information, they compared me to O.J. For the last month I’ve been waiting every day for the DNA analysis that would give my daughter back to me. I had to get a court order to compare her DNA to the blood found at the scene. And when I get it, I race up here . . . only to find that your sister is going to fight me for custody.”

Rosie showed up at the table. “Here’s your coffee and muffin, Ellie. I put ’em on your tab.” She grinned. “Along with a healthy tip.”

When Rosie left, Azelle leaned across the table. “Do you believe me?”

She heard a crack in his voice, an uncertainty that bothered her. “You want me to see an innocent man,” she said slowly, watching him.

“I
am
innocent. It’ll be easier on all of us if you believe that.”

“It would certainly be easier on you.”

“How is she? Can you at least tell me that? Does she still suck her thumb? Does she—”

Ellie stood up quickly, needing distance between them. She didn’t want to hear what he knew about their girl. “Alice
needs
Julia. Can you understand that?”

“There is no Alice,” he said.

Ellie walked away, not daring to look back. She was almost to the door when she heard him call out to her:

“You tell your sister I’m coming, Chief Barton. I won’t lose my daughter twice.”

T
HE NEXT FORTY-EIGHT HOURS UNFOLDED IN A KIND OF FADED SLOW
motion. The snow stopped falling. In its wake, the world was sparkling and white. Julia spent every hour working. During the day, she was with Alice, teaching her new words, taking her outside to make snow angels in the backyard. Several times during the day Alice asked about her wolf and pointed to the car. Julia gently turned her attention back to whatever they were doing. If Alice wondered why she kept kissing her cheek or holding her hand, she showed no sign of it.

But it was the nighttime hours that mattered most right now. She and Ellie and Peanut and Cal and the private detective worked all night long, poring through police reports and newspaper accounts and archived videotape. After a long shift at the hospital, Max showed up to help. They read or watched everything they could find on George Azelle. By Monday morning, when the meetings were over, they knew every fact of his life.

And none of it would help them.

“Read Girl?”

Julia drew her thoughts back in and glanced at the clock. It was nearly two o’clock. “No reading now,” she said softly. “Cal is bringing Sarah over to play with you. Do you remember Sarah?”

Alice frowned. “Jewlee stay?”

Such an ordinary question. “Not right now, honey. I’ll be back, though.”

Alice smiled at that. “Jewlee back.”

Julia dropped to her knees. Before she could figure out what exactly to say, the front door opened. Ellie, Cal, and Sarah walked into the house.

No one bothered to say anything.

Sarah showed Alice a pair of Barbie dolls.

Alice didn’t respond, but she couldn’t look away from the dolls. After a few moments the girls wandered into the living room, where they played separately side by side. Alice still didn’t know how to interact with other children, but Sarah didn’t seem to mind.

Ellie touched Julia’s arm. “You ready?”

Julia forced a smile and reached down for her briefcase. On the way out she stopped to talk to Cal. She meant to say,
When Alice feels comfortable, she’ll talk to Sarah,
but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out.

“Good luck,” he said softly, squeezing her arm for comfort.

Nodding, she followed Ellie out to the cruiser.

In a silence broken only by the
thump-thump
of the windshield wipers, they drove to the county courthouse. It was a tall, gray-stone building set on a hill above the harbor. The wild blue Pacific made a stunning backdrop; today, the gray sky blurred the horizon, made everything appear watery and indistinct.

Family Court was on the main floor, at the very end of a hallway. Of all the courts Julia had once frequented, Family was her least favorite. Here, hearts were broken every day.

Julia paused, straightening her navy suit, then she opened the door and went inside. Her high heels clicked on the marble floor. Ellie matched her step for step, looking ultraconfident in her gold-starred uniform. They passed Max and Peanut, who were seated together in the back row of the gallery.

George Azelle was already seated in the front of the courtroom, with an attorney beside him.

He saw them and rose from his seat, moving toward them. He wore a charcoal gray suit and a crisp white shirt. His hair had been tamed into a smooth ponytail. “Dr. Cates. Chief Barton.”

“Mr. Azelle,” Ellie said.

Behind them the courtroom doors banged open. Julia’s attorney, John MacDonald, bustled in, carrying a worn leatherette briefcase. He looked tired, which was hardly surprising, given that they’d all been up until four o’clock that morning, looking for anything to use against Azelle. “Sorry I’m late.”

George looked at the opposing counsel, no doubt noting John’s brown corduroy suit and pilled green shirt. “I’m George Azelle,” he said, reaching for the man’s hand.