going to the door, she made her way to the front window and peered through the glass. The foot-wide gap between the heavy curtains gave her a clear view of the sitting room and a man standing next to the table she’d converted into a desk, reading the notes she’d left there.
For an instant, her heart ceased to beat. Her breath locked in her lungs. The man turned slightly, revealing his profile. Straight nose, high cheekbones and a mouth she’d spent entirely too much time thinking about today.
Des.
She let out a shuddering breath and waited for her heart palpitations to stop. Son of a bitch. Bad enough he’d let himself into her home while she wasn’t there, but to be reading her work…
She took the steps to the front deck two at a time and slammed the front door open.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing…?” The words died on her lips as Des turned to face her, tape recorder in hand, Robert Anderson’s tinny voice emanating from the speaker.
Des hit Stop and cut his father off midsentence. “You spoke to him?”
She stood rooted to the spot. “That’s right.”
He nodded, but didn’t speak. His bruises stood out against his too-pale skin.
“I didn’t see your car out front,” she ventured.
“I parked around back, so no one would see it from the road.”
A thin pang pierced her chest. Of course, he wouldn’t want his family to know he was here. They would probably see any contact with her as disloyal, a betrayal.
“How can you talk to him?” Des asked, his voice thick with disgust.
“It’s part of the process. I interview the perpetrators as well as the victim’s family.”
“Even if everything out of the man’s mouth is complete bullshit? He’s saying he didn’t do it,” he ground out, as though each word was torn from his throat.
She took a step toward him. “Des—”
His eyes flashed. “But that’s probably great for you, right? Innocent man wrongly imprisoned for all those years. Think of the sales.”
Shayne recoiled as if slapped and a shaft of dark delight filled Des. He tightened his grip on the tape recorder, struggling against the urge to crush the plastic in his white-knuckled fist. Smash the thing against the wall.
“That’s not fair,” she said.
Fair? She wanted to talk about fair? Robert Anderson was a free man now, had been for months. The mere thought of Anderson out there, living his life, while he and Julia served their own life sentences—hers a mission of self-destruction with suicide attempts and addiction, and his the futile fight to save her—ate at him with jagged teeth.
He set down the tape recorder and snorted. “Few things are.”
“No matter what your father claims—”
“Anderson,” he corrected.
She nodded. “No matter what he claims, I derive my information from the evidence. There’s no proof he didn’t do it. And why would anyone confess to a crime like that, serve a twenty-five-year sentence if they didn’t do it?”
Des turned away from her. Away from the wary compassion in her voice. The pity in her eyes.
Served him right, really. This is what he got for sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. He’d come here to warn her about Heddi, but her notes scattered over the table had been too great a lure. He couldn’t resist flipping through them, anymore than he could resist the audiotape with his father’s name scribbled across the label.
As he’d slipped the cassette into the player, two sides of his brain screamed out. One wanted desperately to know something of the man who had altered his life so severely, a man he had no memory of, a man he could pass on the street and not recognize. The other had been repelled by such curiosity.
“Did you want to finish listening to the tape?” Shayne’s voice cut the mind-numbing fury pumping through him.
He shook his head. “No.”
He wanted to take a hammer and smash the cassette and any other evidence his father existed. To never speak the man’s name
For an instant, her heart ceased to beat. Her breath locked in her lungs. The man turned slightly, revealing his profile. Straight nose, high cheekbones and a mouth she’d spent entirely too much time thinking about today.
Des.
She let out a shuddering breath and waited for her heart palpitations to stop. Son of a bitch. Bad enough he’d let himself into her home while she wasn’t there, but to be reading her work…
She took the steps to the front deck two at a time and slammed the front door open.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing…?” The words died on her lips as Des turned to face her, tape recorder in hand, Robert Anderson’s tinny voice emanating from the speaker.
Des hit Stop and cut his father off midsentence. “You spoke to him?”
She stood rooted to the spot. “That’s right.”
He nodded, but didn’t speak. His bruises stood out against his too-pale skin.
“I didn’t see your car out front,” she ventured.
“I parked around back, so no one would see it from the road.”
A thin pang pierced her chest. Of course, he wouldn’t want his family to know he was here. They would probably see any contact with her as disloyal, a betrayal.
“How can you talk to him?” Des asked, his voice thick with disgust.
“It’s part of the process. I interview the perpetrators as well as the victim’s family.”
“Even if everything out of the man’s mouth is complete bullshit? He’s saying he didn’t do it,” he ground out, as though each word was torn from his throat.
She took a step toward him. “Des—”
His eyes flashed. “But that’s probably great for you, right? Innocent man wrongly imprisoned for all those years. Think of the sales.”
Shayne recoiled as if slapped and a shaft of dark delight filled Des. He tightened his grip on the tape recorder, struggling against the urge to crush the plastic in his white-knuckled fist. Smash the thing against the wall.
“That’s not fair,” she said.
Fair? She wanted to talk about fair? Robert Anderson was a free man now, had been for months. The mere thought of Anderson out there, living his life, while he and Julia served their own life sentences—hers a mission of self-destruction with suicide attempts and addiction, and his the futile fight to save her—ate at him with jagged teeth.
He set down the tape recorder and snorted. “Few things are.”
“No matter what your father claims—”
“Anderson,” he corrected.
She nodded. “No matter what he claims, I derive my information from the evidence. There’s no proof he didn’t do it. And why would anyone confess to a crime like that, serve a twenty-five-year sentence if they didn’t do it?”
Des turned away from her. Away from the wary compassion in her voice. The pity in her eyes.
Served him right, really. This is what he got for sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. He’d come here to warn her about Heddi, but her notes scattered over the table had been too great a lure. He couldn’t resist flipping through them, anymore than he could resist the audiotape with his father’s name scribbled across the label.
As he’d slipped the cassette into the player, two sides of his brain screamed out. One wanted desperately to know something of the man who had altered his life so severely, a man he had no memory of, a man he could pass on the street and not recognize. The other had been repelled by such curiosity.
“Did you want to finish listening to the tape?” Shayne’s voice cut the mind-numbing fury pumping through him.
He shook his head. “No.”
He wanted to take a hammer and smash the cassette and any other evidence his father existed. To never speak the man’s name
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