“No!” Her eyes leaped to his face and hung on for one amazing, intoxicating moment. Whiskey eyes. Then she said it again on a slow exhalation and looked away, shaking her head. “No. At least…no, it’s not about that. I mean in the past, like maybe…when you were young.”

That was when he realized how important it was, and what it meant. That was when his heart started to beat faster, and prickles of fear mixed with excitement began to crawl along his skin. Because he suddenly knew it was her own story she meant, and that maybe she was trying to figure out a way to share it with him at last. And because he could see that opening up after a twenty-year silence might not be as easy a thing as he’d thought.

Scared to death he was going to say or do the wrong thing and make her change her mind about telling him, he gave it some thought, then said carefully, “Matter of fact most of the things I’ve done that I was ashamed of were when I was young. I think it goes with the territory.”

She gave her head an angry shake and then for a while said nothing. Just when Troy was thinking to himself, Okay, man, that’s it, that’s all, you blew it-she drew an uneven breath and said, “You’re talking about…like, smoking and drinking, sneaking out at night, lyin’ to your mom, playin’ hooky, two-timing your girlfriend-”

Troy interrupted with mock horror. “Damn, you were a wild child, weren’t you!”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Her smile flickered on and off as if it had a faulty connection, and when she went on, her voice had the gruffness of embarrassment in it. “No, what I’m saying is, those kinds of things, yeah, you did them when you were young, and maybe you were ashamed then, mostly because you knew you were supposed to be. But now? Think about it. Tell me honestly-do you really regret most of the stuff you did back then? I’ll bet you even brag about it.”

He rubbed the back of his neck while he thought about it, then gave a soft chuckle of acceptance. “I guess I don’t. No more’n I regret havin’ been young.”

She nodded tensely. Another moment or two went by. Then she pulled in another breath she didn’t really need. “What I’m talking about is something…bigger. Something that not a day goes by you don’t think about it. Something you dream about, and wake up in a cold sweat thinking about. Ever do anything like that?” Her voice had taken on a new hardness, as if, he thought, she were pushing it through clenched jaws.

He didn’t say anything for a minute. He was thinking about a night lit up by burning buildings instead of stars, a night when the smells of the sea and jungle mingled with the smells of petroleum and blood. And of the friend he’d held in his arms while the life drained out of him.

He drew a careful breath of his own. “Yeah, I have.”

“How do you live with it?”

He thought about it, but didn’t have any answers for her. Not the ones she wanted. “I guess you just do,” he said gruffly. “You move on.”

She gave him a look and said no more, leaving him with a black, angry feeling that he’d failed her.


After that walk in the park, reuniting Charly with her luggage was a breeze. The officer on duty at the police station directed them to the impound yard where the Taurus’s remains had been taken, where they were informed that the suitcases had been removed from the trunk of the wrecked vehicle and transferred to a locked storage facility. A short half hour’s wait later, the suitcases had been retrieved and signed over to their rightful owner. Even Charly had had to admit that there were some advantages to small-town living.

Troy had figured she’d want to go back to the motel and change, but she had him pull into the first gas station they came to instead. He got the key for her, and she hauled a big old garment bag and an overnight case into the hot, scuzzy little rest room with her and shut the door.

When she came out, he almost didn’t recognize her. She was wearing a pale gray suit that fit her like a glove, with sable velvet trim on the collar that exactly matched her hair, and a narrow skirt that stopped just above her knees, and that, along with the black high-heeled shoes she was wearing, made those long legs he’d noticed this morning a sight to behold. Her hair seemed to have all but disappeared, slicked magically away from her face and up into some kind of twist at the back of her head, which made her neck look a mile long-reminded him a little bit of Audrey Hepburn. Her lips were the color of hot fudge, and looked every bit as tasty, too. He thought he might have to rethink his position on makeup.

He realized he was staring when Charly said, “Well?” in a sharp, uneasy voice.

He swallowed saliva and muttered, “You look great.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly, and handed him her overnighter.

“Uh, don’t mind my askin’,” he said as he loaded the suitcases into the Cherokee, “but is there a reason you need to get so dressed up just to go pick up your purse? You look like you’re fixin’ to go to court.”

“Funny you should say that.” He looked at her and saw that she was smiling. It wasn’t a pleasant look; there was something about it that made a tingle go down his spine. Something dark, and full of secret resolve. “As a matter of fact this happens to be my favorite ‘impress the hell out of the judge’ outfit.”

“I hope she ain’t female,” he muttered, watching her hike up her skirt in order to lever herself into the Cherokee.

She laughed with a kind of fierce jauntiness that suited her about as well as hot pink vinyl shoes would have matched that outfit.

They drove through town in silence, except for Bubba’s heavy panting and Charly saying things like “Turn left here,” and “Right at the next corner.” Troy felt uneasy but couldn’t put his finger on why. As he drove through sun-dappled neighborhoods past white-haired ladies on riding lawn mowers, shirtless guys washing their cars and kids playing in sprinklers, for some reason he was thinking about last night again, the thunderstorm and what came after, and all the electricity and sexual tension in the air. There was tension and electricity in the air now, too, so thick he could cut it with a knife. But this time he didn’t think it had anything to do with sex.

“This is it,” Charly announced. “You can pull into the driveway, if you want.”

Troy nodded, put on his blinkers and turned right between two brick gateposts topped with carriage lanterns. “This is where you left your purse?” He gazed through the windshield at the huge brick house with its white columns and graceful porches, surrounded by old trees and an aura of gentility, and let go a long, low whistle. “Okay, I think I can see why you might want to dress up a little.”

She gave that snort of mirthless laughter. “Yeah, well, don’t be too impressed. I grew up in that house, and trust me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” She grabbed hold of the door handle. “You can wait here in the shade. I shouldn’t be too long.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

She hesitated, then shook her head and muttered so softly he could barely hear it, “This is something I have to do myself.” As she opened the door and stepped out, he thought she added an unsteady “But thanks.”

This time Charly didn’t bother to go to the front door. Instead she went straight across the lawn and through the banks of azalea bushes, following a path of stepping stones where many had gone before-the trade and service people, the milkmen and meter readers, gardeners and plumbers, delivery people of every kind and description. The pathway led to the garages and outbuildings and the parklike grounds behind the house, and eventually to the woods beyond. Once upon a time it had meandered on through those woods to the huge stone mansion on the other side, where her best friend, Colin Stewart, lived.

But first it detoured to the trumpet-vine-covered back porch, and across that to the kitchen door. Which, as Charly knew very well, was seldom locked. And it was not now. Nor was anyone in the kitchen, it being Saturday, which had always been Dobrina’s shopping day. Charly closed the door carefully behind her and crossed the mellowed hardwood floor, her heart beating in cadence with her footsteps, loud in the silence. Oh, how she remembered that silence.

She knew the judge would most likely be in his study. Unless, of course, he was in his office at the courthouse. She’d thought of that possibility-that after all this, he wouldn’t be here. But she remembered that on Saturdays he’d almost always waited until Dobrina had returned with the groceries before going to his office. She was betting that, like everything else in this place, the old routine wouldn’t have changed that much.

And it hadn’t.

The study door was closed, which meant that it was occupied. Charly hesitated, her hand on the doorknob, trying to take deep, fortifying breaths for which there was no room in her chest. Her heart was pumping wildly, taking up far too much space, and her stomach felt hollow and fluttery, the way it did when she was about to stand up before a new judge and jury for the first time. Which, in a way, was a reassuring thought; she knew from experience that none of what she was feeling would show on the outside. She knew that to all appearances she was C. E. Phelps, attorney-at-law-cool, confident and very much in control. Let the trial begin.

She held her breath, turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Judge Charles Phelps was seated at his desk, smoking his pipe and reading his morning newspaper. He was dressed in the Saturday-morning uniform that hadn’t changed since Charly’s childhood-old slacks with suspenders and a cotton dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, unbuttoned far enough to reveal grizzled chest hair above a vest-type undershirt. He looked up casually when he heard someone come in, no doubt expecting to see Dobrina, back from her shopping.