Dead Giveaway. Brenda Novak

kid with a shock of shiny black hair and cobalt-blue eyes. When he wasn’t aware of being watched, he occasionally looked lost, even weary, yet he consistently resisted any and all kindness. He hadn’t filled out until after she’d gone to college—presumably in his early twenties.

      “Did he explain how he killed his stepfather?” she asked.

      “I told you. He—he beat him.” Much to Allie’s relief, Beth Ann finally put on her shirt. Allie had seen a lot in her days working for the law—more dead bodies than she cared to count—but having the very busty Beth Ann sitting next to her half-naked, and knowing she’d probably just left Clay’s bed, was a little too up-close and personal. There was no cushion of anonymity in Stillwater.

      “You’re telling me he killed Reverend Barker with his bare hands? At sixteen?” Now that Beth Ann was dressed, Allie snapped on the interior light so she could read the nuances of the other woman’s expressions. But storm clouds covered the pale, waning moon outside, and the cabin light was too dim to banish all the shadows.

      “He’s strong. You have no idea how strong he is.”

      Allie was familiar with Clay’s reputation. He’d broken a number of weight-lifting records in high school. But that was as a senior, when he’d had more meat on him, not as a skinny sophomore. “He might’ve weighed a hundred and sixty pounds at the time,” she pointed out.

      Silence met the skepticism in her voice, then Beth Ann said, “Oh, I think he used a bat. Yeah, he used a bat.”

      Something about this interview wasn’t right, but in an effort to avoid the kind of snap judgments that could sabotage a case, Allie tried to go with it a little longer. If Beth Ann was telling the truth—and by now, she thought that was a pretty big if—what could Reverend Barker have done to cause Clay to take a bat to him? Had he grown too strict? Was his discipline too severe?

      That was possible. Allie remembered Barker as a particularly zealous preacher, and Clay had never been puritanical. He’d always liked women—there’d never been any shortage of females eager and willing to do whatever he wanted—and he’d been involved in a few fights. But he was kind to his mother and sisters. And, as far as she knew, he had no problems with drugs or alcohol.

      “The police never found a murder weapon,” she said, hoping to draw more information out of Beth Ann.

      “He must’ve gotten rid of it.”

      “Did he tell you he used a bat?”

      She glanced outside at the house. “No, but he must have.”

      He must have…Allie allowed herself a sigh. “When did Clay make this confession to you?”

      “A…a few weeks ago.”

      “Did you tell anyone?”

      “No.”

      The rain began to fall harder, drumming against the hood of the car and making the air smell of wet vegetation. “What about your mother or father? A friend?”

      “I didn’t talk about it. I—I was too afraid of him.”

      “I see,” Allie said. But she didn’t see at all. Beth Ann had shown no fear of Clay when Allie had seen them together at church last Sunday. On the contrary, Beth Ann had touched him at every opportunity, clung to him like lint, even though he’d continually brushed her off. “And you came out here tonight, although you’re afraid of him, because…” She let the sentence dangle.

      “I’m in love with him.”

      “But…”

      “He attacked me!”

      “What precipitated the attack?”

      “We…had an argument.”

      Allie said nothing, merely waited for Beth Ann to continue. Generally, people kept talking when the silence in a conversation stretched, often revealing more than they intended to. Sometimes it was the best way to reach the truth.

      “I—I told him I was pregnant.” She wiped at a tear. “He…insisted I get an abortion. When I refused, he started slapping me around.”

      It was difficult to tell in the eerie glow of the interior light, but Allie couldn’t see anything more than smeared makeup on Beth Ann’s face. There was certainly no blood. And she was calmer relating this part of the story, which should have evoked more emotion, not less. “Where?”

      “In the house.”

      “No, I mean, where did he hit you?”

      Beth Ann made a vague motion with her hands. “Everywhere. He wanted to kill me!”

      Allie cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Clay Montgomery, but he’d been pretty tight-lipped over the past two decades. She doubted he’d suddenly divulge his culpability in a capital crime to someone like Beth Ann, and then let her run straight to the police. Besides, if he’d really wanted to hurt her, she wouldn’t be sitting here safe and sound—in his driveway, no less. By her own admission, BethAnn had her car and her keys.Yet she’d chosen to wait for Allie instead of speeding away from danger. “How did you manage to escape him?”

      “I—I don’t know,” she said. “It’s all a blur.”

      Allie pursed her lips. Apparently only Clay’s confession was crystal clear.

      Grabbing the notepad she kept in her car, she scribbled down Beth Ann’s exact words. Then she peered thoughtfully outside. “Stay here. I’d like to hear what Mr. Montgomery has to say. Afterward, you can follow me downtown and give me a sworn statement. Unless you feel you need to go to the hospital first,” she added, her hand on the door latch.

      Beth Ann ignored the hospital suggestion. “A sworn statement?”

      “Attempted murder is no small crime, Ms. Cole. You want the D.A. to press charges, don’t you?”

      Beth Ann tucked her hair behind her ears. “I—I think so.”

      “You told me he assaulted you. That he tried to kill you.”

      “He did. See this?” Beth Ann shoved out her arm.

      Allie saw a superficial wound that resembled claw marks. Hardly the type of damage she would’ve expected Clay to inflict. In a fight, a man typically aimed for the face or midsection. But it was her job to document the injury, just in case. “We’ll get pictures of that. Do you have any other scrapes, cuts or bruises?”

      “No.”

      “And yet he hit you how many times?”

      “I guess he didn’t hit me that hard,” she replied, retracting what she’d said earlier. “He grazed me with his nails when I was trying to get away. It frightened me more than it hurt me.”

      An accidental scratch was a far cry from attempted murder. “What about his confession? Did you remember that correctly?”

      “Yes. Of course.”

      Allie had her doubts there, too. “You’ll swear to it?”

      Beth Ann stared at the house. “Will he go to jail if I do?”

      “Would it make you happy if he did?”

      “Me and almost everyone else in this town.”

      Allie hesitated before answering. “If what you say is true, prison is a possibility. But your story would require corroboration. Can you offer any supporting evidence?”

      “Like what?”

      “The location of Reverend Barker’s body? The location of Reverend Barker’s car? The murder weapon? A taped or signed confession?”

      “No, but Clay told me he killed him. I heard it with my own ears.”

      Allie didn’t believe a word of it. She didn’t