Dead Giveaway. Brenda Novak

signed a statement to that effect,” she added gently.

      Allie had thought he’d get angry and holler, as he had about the pregnancy that might or might not be real. But he just stared at her—or, more accurately, stared through her.

      “I didn’t confess anything,” he told her at last.

      “That doesn’t mean you’re innocent of the murder,” she said, to gauge his reaction.

      His chest lifted and fell again. “It doesn’t prove the opposite, either.”

      Allie’s question hadn’t rattled him into revealing more than he wanted to. She could tell by his response that he already knew Beth Ann’s statement wasn’t as incriminating as his enemies would like to think. So she played it straight. “What’s really going on? Is she out to get you?”

      “Of course. And she’s not the only one.”

      “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she said. “Fortunately, I intend to discover the truth.”

      He picked up the picture of Whitney, which she kept on her desk. “What I’ve heard is true, then?”

      “What have you heard?”

      “That you’re determined to find out what happened to my missing stepfather.”

      She waited until he looked back at her to answer. “Madeline has requested my help. We’ve known each other since high school, socialized a bit in the past. I’d like to bring her some closure, if I can.”

      He returned the photograph to her desk. “Madeline still believes her father is alive.”

      “What do you believe?” she asked.

      “I believe nineteen years is a long time. It won’t be easy to find anything.”

      Was that wishful thinking on his part? Or was he merely stating a fact? “I’ve solved older cases.”

      “I’m guessing those cases had some forensic evidence. There is no evidence here. Plenty of other people have tried to find it and failed, including your father.”

      “I have tools the police didn’t possess back then.”

      “That’s hopeful,” he said, but the slight twist to his mouth made Allie wonder if he was being sarcastic.

      “If your stepfather’s dead, wouldn’t you like to see his killer brought to justice?” she asked.

      The expression on his face gave nothing away. “I’m all for justice,” he said, his voice completely deadpan.

      “What are you doing, waking me up so early? It’s barely seven!”

      Only five foot two—but with a bustline to rival Dolly Parton’s—Clay’s mother hid behind the door of her little duplex, which she’d recently begun to redecorate. It was becoming so cluttered with new rugs and furniture, paintings and knickknacks, Clay couldn’t help worrying that others would soon suspect what he already knew. Irene obviously wasn’t buying such expensive items with the money she made working at the dress shop. She told everyone she’d gotten a raise, but even an idiot would guess she couldn’t be making that much.

      “Considering I get up at four most mornings—” and that he hadn’t slept at all last night “—I don’t feel too sorry for you,” he said. Especially because he knew she wasn’t really grumbling about being dragged out of bed. She hated anyone to catch her before she could “get her face on,” as she put it. Even him. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his mother without the thick mascara she wore on her lashes and the deep red lipstick she put on her lips. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

      “Of course.” She tightened her bathrobe, then patted her dark hair, which she usually backcombed, before stepping to the side. “What’s gotten into you, anyway? What’s wrong?”

      He barely fit inside the cluttered room. Since he’d last been over a month ago, his mother had acquired a new leather couch, two lamps, a big-screen TV and some sort of fancy tea cart.

      “Tell me you quit seeing him,” he said the moment she closed the door.

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she responded, but she wouldn’t look him in the eye.

      The gardenia scent of her perfume lingered as she headed straight to the kitchen, which had been remodeled so that it opened directly into the living room. “Would you like some coffee? I have the most delicious blend.”

      Gourmet coffee. Allie’s father was sure taking care of her. “Do you realize what you’re doing?” he asked in amazement, following her. “Do you know what you’re risking?”

      “Stop it,” she replied. “I’m living, like everyone else.”

      She was living, all right—in denial. Most of the time, her unwillingness to acknowledge what had happened to Barker was harmless enough. As long as Clay was around to take care of her and his sisters, he figured everything would be okay. He wanted them to be happy…and to forget. That was why he stayed on the farm. That was why he diligently guarded any evidence to be found there. So they could have the kind of life he wanted for them. But if Irene refused to listen, all his efforts could soon be for nothing. “Allie McCormick is working on Lee’s disappearance,” he told her.

      She revealed no visible sign of distress. “Not officially.”

      “That doesn’t matter. She used to be a cold case detective. She’s trained in forensics.”

      “I know.” She continued to make coffee. “She’s an excellent police officer, just like her father.”

      The proud note in his mother’s voice made Clay’s jaw drop. “What?”

      “Grace told me all about her,” she said. “But don’t worry. Allie’s been through a painful divorce. She’s lonely and bored, so it’s natural that she’d want to poke around a bit. What else is there for a crack detective to do in a one-horse town like this? She’ll grow bored with it eventually.”

      “Bored,” he repeated, unbelieving.

      “It’s Madeline who’s egging her on, you know.”

      “Allie’s not just toying with this case, Mother. Unless I completely misread her, and I don’t think I did, she’s serious about locating your husband—or what’s left of him. That doesn’t concern you?”

      He knew he should add that Beth Ann’s accusations wouldn’t help matters. After last night, Allie had to be more curious about him and the case than ever. But he’d been stupid to allow himself to fall into the mess his relationship with Beth Ann had become, and he was ashamed to have put his mother and sisters at risk.

      Irene turned her back to him while she sealed the small package of gourmet coffee. “Why should anything Allie does concern me?” she asked. “What happened was in another lifetime. Like I’ve told Grace over and over, that’s all behind us now. Why won’t anyone let me forget and enjoy what’s left of my life?”

      “You’re happy settling for a married man?” he asked. “A man who can only see you on the sly? Who can’t acknowledge you in public?”

      “He treats me better than any man ever has!” she spat, her eyes sparking in a rare display of temper. “Look at this lovely robe he gave me. Look at this place. Finally, I’m in love with someone who loves me back, someone who knows how to treat a woman.”

      Clay hated the guilt that welled up inside him when he thought of his mother being satisfied with so little. It was largely his fault she’d gone through what she had during the past two decades. If only he’d done as she’d told him that night and stayed home with Grace and Molly. But he’d been sixteen years old—too innocent to conceive of the possibilities, too young to understand the threat his mother had begun to sense. “Mom, it’d ruin him if anyone found out about the two of you. He’s