Playing Dead by Allison Brennan Page B

innocent. What your father did had nothing to do with you—”
    She interrupted. “It had everything to do with me. And my dad. And my mother. But if my dad has been telling the truth all along, no matter how crazy it sounds, it means that someone else did kill my mom and that prosecutor. And Oliver Maddox was onto it. He must have known something, otherwise why would he come to me—and your dad—” She paused. “How did he die?”
    “I don’t know,” Dave said. “The autopsy is tomorrow and the investigation is ongoing. I heard the FBI is involved, but this isn’t a Sac PD case. I don’t have any details.”
    She looked him in the eye, asking without words.
    He nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out.” He took both of her hands in his and squeezed, his face stern. “Don’t get your hopes up, Claire. This probably doesn’t mean anything. Your father was convicted. The evidence was solid.”
    “It was largely circumstantial.”
    “He had a half-dozen appeals, every one of them a failure. No one thinks he’s innocent. And”—Dave implored her with his expression—“I don’t want you throwing away your life helping him.”
     
    Tom sat in the park across the street and watched Claire’s house.
    She wasn’t home, but he had no idea what her schedule was. In the few days he’d been back in Sacramento, he’d only learned that she had no regular habits except hitting Starbucks every morning.
    She could be home any minute, or not for hours.
    He should have listened to Nelia and not come here. He’d seen Special Agent Bianchi twice; he was obviously watching Claire at least periodically. But Bianchi didn’t appear to be anywhere nearby now, and Tom wore a fairly decent disguise. He’d been using a rinse to hide the silver, making his hair browner than its natural black. He also took Nelia’s suggestion and didn’t crop it short as he’d worn it both before and after going to prison. She’d trimmed it into what she called a conservative businessman’s cut. The day’s growth of beard—though coming in threaded with silver—helped hide the shape of his face. And Nelia had bought him a pair of gold rimmed glasses to wear. He had a newspaper under his arm, and wore sneakers, jeans, and a black polo shirt. At first glance, no one would suspect that he was Tom O’Brien, the last fugitive from San Quentin. But if Claire or a cop saw him, the disguise wouldn’t buy him much time.
    He sat on the bench and watched. Nelia would have woken up by now and be worried about him. Or be angry. Probably both. He didn’t want to upset her, but he’d already decided that if she were caught helping him, he would tell the authorities that he’d threatened her. Forced her to help. Confuse them enough that maybe they wouldn’t push it. It also might help that Nelia was on decent terms with her ex, a district attorney in San Diego.
    The park closed at sunset, and Tom didn’t want to chance hanging out there long after. Patrols increased in the evenings, primarily as a deterrent to juvenile crimes like vandalism and graffiti and petty theft.
    Being back in Sacramento had shoved the past right under his nose. He’d brought Claire to this very park when she was not even three, an inquisitive toddler who enjoyed feeding the ducks. He remembered when one of the mallards had nipped her finger. Instead of crying or chasing the bird, she’d lectured him, pointing that hurt finger at the duck.
    “That was not nice. I fed you already, let the other ducks have a turn.”
    While in prison, Tom tried to remember the good times, but inevitably he’d see Claire’s young, stricken face when she cast her eyes on Lydia’s dead body.
    Traffic in the area diminished as the commute ended. Claire still hadn’t returned home.
    Tom didn’t need a lot of time. Go in, leave the letter, get out. Hell, he could leave the letter in her mailbox. It would be safer that way.
    But the truth was he wanted to see how she was doing, and a