Deadline. Metsy Hingle

run for lieutenant governor. Now he was only a few weeks away from the election that could make him the state’s next governor.

      Unless he found a way to stop him. And right now the only way it seemed he might be able to do that would be to prove that the mystery caller had been right—that Caine had somehow rigged that long-ago trial resulting in a man’s conviction and eventually, his suicide.

      The television screen across the room flashed with an image of Caine on the late-night news. Spencer reached for the remote and hit the sound button.

      “With the governor’s election less than a month away, both candidates have been busy on the campaign trail,” the news reporter stated. “Lieutenant Governor Caine made an appearance in Oxford, Mississippi, today at his alma mater, Ole Miss, where he was met by thunderous applause.”

      “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow Rebels,” the smiling Caine began, referring to the team’s athletic mascot and evoking cheers from the crowd.

      “Enjoy it while you can, Caine, because they’re not going to be cheering you much longer,” Spencer muttered. “Soon, real soon, the people of Mississippi are going to know you for the coldhearted, conniving bastard that you really are.”

      Because somehow, someway, he intended to expose the real Everett Caine—the man who had used an innocent girl, then tossed her aside like garbage and caused her to take her own life. And while she didn’t know it yet, Tess Abbott was going to help him bring the man down.

      When George came strolling back into the room and jumped up beside him, Spencer stroked the cat behind the ears and listened to him purr. Then he went back to the article. After fine-tuning it, he sent it off then set the laptop aside. He reached for the cat, stroked his silky fur. “Looks like I’m going to have to take a trip to visit the folks, fella. How’d you like to spend a few days with Miss Rosie next door?”

      As if in answer, George purred even louder.

      Spencer laughed at the cat’s reaction to the mention of the elderly widow who kept an eye on his apartment and George whenever he was away. “I thought so. The woman spoils you rotten. Just don’t get used to eating fresh tuna and chicken while I’m gone. Because when I come home, it’s back to the canned stuff. Understand?”

      George gave him an indignant look out of his green eyes, then he flicked his tail and hopped off his lap to the floor. Without missing a beat, the cat walked over to the door and waited.

      Tess exited the bathroom of the suite of rooms she’d been given and yawned. She shook her head, still surprised to discover a Jacuzzi tub and modern bathroom attached to a room that looked as if it had been designed during the Civil War. Heavens, but the room was beautiful, she thought as she flicked off the bathroom light. She padded on bare feet across the plush carpet to the antique four-poster bed. Running her fingers along one of the ornately carved posts, she stared up at the canopy that spanned the entire length of the bed. It had been done in the same rich blue satin fabric that had been used in both the bedspread and the drapes on the windows. The color scheme had been carried through on the pillows, too.

      Glancing around the room, she took in all the little touches—the vase of fresh flowers, the oil paintings, the crystal candlesticks, the old-fashioned miniature frames with black-and-white photos, the intricate design of the fireplace screen. She looked at the fireplace, where logs had been placed in the grate, just waiting for someone to strike a match to the kindling wood. There was something so old world and Southern and inviting about the place.

      Tired, but eager to explore a bit more, Tess moved across the room to the window. Kneeling on the chair beneath it, she unlatched the window and pushed open the shutters. The sheers billowed in the breeze. After propping her elbows on the windowsill, Tess lifted her face to the sky. The air was cool and damp against her skin. A strong wind coming from the north blew her hair across her face and Tess brushed the tangles from her eyes. Chilled, she shivered lightly, but continued to let the wind and the night wash over her.

      And she listened to the sounds of the night: an owl hooting for its mate, frogs croaking near a pond, a dog barking in the distance. Somewhere, someone played a mournful tune on a harmonica that made her think of another time, another night when the air had been cool and damp like this one. The night her mother had been murdered.

      Uncomfortable with the turn of her thoughts, Tess opened her eyes and gazed up at the starless sky. The moon had managed to escape the cloud cover, providing a sliver of light in a sky that was now an inky black. There were no high-rise buildings, no garish neon signs, no billboards here. But there were lots and lots of trees and cottages scattered across the landscape. Below her, Tess could make out some sort of garden with a bench beneath a tree. And there was a pebble path that led away from the house. She promised herself that in the morning she would follow that path and see where it led.

      As she knelt at the window, the scents and sounds continued to wash over her, evoking old memories. Memories that she’d spent most of her life trying to forget. Memories that she knew she would have to face again if she was going to find the answers she sought—find out who was really responsible for killing her mother. Reminding herself that it was the reason she was here, Tess closed the window and turned back to the room.

      Still chilled and feeling a little achy, Tess wondered if she was coming down with a bug. Deciding not to take a chance on getting sick, she returned to the bath-room where she retrieved two aspirin from her toiletry bag and washed them down with a glass of water.

      When she exited the bathroom again, she spied the case with her laptop, resting beside the night table. It was late, but she could still do some research tonight. And she wanted to see if she could find out anything about Lester De Roach, she reminded herself as she recalled the strange incident at the convenience store earlier.

      But she felt so tired, she admitted and yawned again. Giving in to fatigue, she walked over to the bed and climbed in. After switching off the lamp, she crawled beneath the duvet and closed her eyes. Tomorrow she would see what she could find out about De Roach, see if there was any connection between him and her mother, she promised herself while she snuggled into the pillows and waited for sleep to claim her.

      As she drifted off to sleep, Tess’s thoughts were filled with her mother. Tossing and turning, Tess dreamed…

      Tess dreamed that she heard voices—her mother’s voice. Only it wasn’t her nice, inside voice. It was her angry voice. And she was crying. Just like she had been crying that morning when she had argued with Daddy first about Mommy wanting to get a job and then about them going to Jackson to see Grandma Elizabeth and spending the night at a hotel. Daddy hadn’t wanted her mommy to work. And he hadn’t wanted them to go to Jackson. He had yelled and said that Grandma Elizabeth was not to pay for their hotel. That he would pay for it.

      But they hadn’t stayed at the hotel after all. Because of her. She’d gotten sick. So she and Mommy had come home. So why was Daddy still mad? And why was Mommy crying? Tess heard a crash and her mommy screamed. Scared, she hid under the covers and cried. She cried and cried for a really long time. And then she slept.

      When she heard her daddy yell again, Tess opened her eyes. She didn’t feel good. Her throat hurt. And she felt hot and thirsty, too hot and thirsty to keep hiding. “Mommy,” she cried. “Mommy.”

      But Mommy didn’t come. Mommy always came when she was sick.

      Still sobbing, Tess climbed out of bed and opened the door. She ran down the hall from her bedroom. “Mommy, my throat hurts,” she sobbed as she turned the corner and came into the living room.

      Tess stopped and stared at her Daddy kneeling on the floor over her mommy, holding the statue from the bookshelf in his hands. “Is Mommy sleeping?” she asked.

      But her daddy didn’t answer. He never even looked at her. He dropped the statue and reached for her mother. So Tess moved closer. She touched her daddy’s shoulder. Then she saw it—blood. Lots and lots of blood. On her mommy’s head, on the floor, on the statue, on her daddy.

      “Tess,” her Daddy cried out. “Get out of here, baby. Go back to your room, baby.