Dead Right. Brenda Novak

all did. But she felt the need to address it today, to apologize once again. Clay could’ve died, and it would’ve been her fault. She shuddered at the thought. “I’m so sorry for what I did.”

      “Don’t mention it. Hendricks was only supposed to rattle a doorknob or two. I know that.”

      “But you wouldn’t have been hurt if I hadn’t sent him there in the first place.”

      “You had no way of knowing he’d take it so far. Or that I’d even be around that night.”

      It was true, but she’d never be able to forgive herself for resorting to the tactics she’d used. If she hadn’t allowed her hopes to soar so high when Allie returned to Stillwater and promised to look into her father’s disappearance—or felt so damn helpless when Allie lost interest—maybe she would’ve been thinking more clearly. But her desperation and impatience had simply gotten the best of her. When she felt Allie’s commitment and enthusiasm beginning to lag, she’d tried to shore it up by trying to convince her that someone out there was still a threat.

      It had seemed like an innocent enough plan. But it had cost Hendricks, who’d been a member of the Stillwater Police force, his job, a year in prison and probation after that. His wife was struggling to support their family without him and, had Hendricks’s aim been more accurate, Clay could’ve paid an even higher price. Madeline had only escaped prosecution because she hadn’t intended any harm. Stealing Allie’s gun—and using it—had been Hendricks’s idea.

      She got up and paced the room. “Sometimes I think about it and—”

      “Don’t think about it,” he said. “We all make mistakes, do things we regret.”

      She managed a tired smile at his generosity. “You’re a good brother.”

      He immediately moved forward with the conversation. “Grace tells me you’re hiring a private investigator. Someone from California.”

      “That’s right.”

      “When’s he coming in?”

      “This Thursday. I’m not sure what time.” She stopped at the window. Why hadn’t Chief Pontiff called? If only he could come up with something that would finally solve this…

      “That soon?” Clay said.

      “Yeah.” She wandered back to her desk and sank into her seat. “Grace doesn’t seem to think it’ll do any good.”

      “The odds aren’t in your favor,” he responded.

      She began doodling on a Post-it note. “So you don’t think I should do it, either.”

      He didn’t answer right away. When he did, he surprised Madeline. She’d been expecting his customary, “You gotta do what you gotta do.” He said that whenever she asked his opinion on publishing a new lead or printing a story designed to inspire renewed interest in the mystery. Instead she got, “Some things are better left as they are, Maddy.”

      Dropping her pen, she sat up straight. “What do you mean by that?”

      “Maybe the answers will haunt you more than the questions.”

      She rocked back in her seat, suddenly uneasy. “What? Clay, if…” Swallowing hard, she tried to calm the butterflies fluttering around in her stomach. “If you want to tell me anything, do it now.”

      Could she have imagined the slight hesitation that followed? “That’s all,” he said.

      “I don’t understand. How could the answers be any worse than the questions?”

      “Who knows? Maybe he was involved in something he shouldn’t have been.”

      “That’s crazy! He was a humble servant of Christ,” she said, her voice rising. “You know what a good man he was. You lived with him, heard his sermons. He took religion very seriously.”

      Clay said nothing.

      “Do you know something I don’t?” she asked, her disquiet turning to panic.

      “Only what I was thinking when they pulled the Cadillac from the quarry.”

      “Which was…”

      “People don’t usually murder a middle-aged man without a reason.”

      “He could’ve been robbed! Maybe whoever attacked him stole the money from his wallet,” she said. “Or maybe there was no real motive, other than childish anger, lashing out, stupidity. There’re hundreds of reasons that have nothing to do with him.”

      “You’re thinking of Mike Metzger.”

      “Of course.”

      “Mike might be a dope hound but he’s not a murderer.”

      “You don’t know that. See? That’s the problem. We all have our suspicions, but no one really knows. That’s why folks keep blaming you. If Mr. Solozano uncovers the real culprit, they’ll have to stop, and I’ll be damn glad of it.”

      “It might be easier on you if you’d quit defending me,” he said. “You don’t have to, you know.”

      “Yes, I do. When folks accuse you, it hurts me, too. I’m tired of it. And I’ve had it with all the people who’ve implied that I must be an idiot to miss the obvious.”

      “Ignore them.”

      She made a face even though he couldn’t see her. “I can’t. You live outside town. I have to mingle with Stillwater’s residents every single day.”

      “But this investigator can’t be cheap,” he argued.

      He had no idea…“He’s not that expensive,” she lied.

      “You can afford him?”

      She pressed her thumb and forefinger to her closed eyelids. “Of course.”

      “Then you’re committed to this.”

      Hunter Solozano had asked her the same thing. “Yes. This is a gamble I have to take. Won’t you be relieved to know the truth? Aren’t you even a little curious?”

      “I’ve put the past behind me,” he said. “We have to live with what is.”

      She started to say she couldn’t face a future of not knowing. Every time she tried, the nightmares came more often. But she hadn’t told anyone about her sleepless nights. She was afraid she’d sound crazy.

      “I wish I could do that,” she said. “But I can’t.” At the sound of the door opening, Madeline turned. Irene had just walked in. “Mom’s here,” she told Clay. “Can I call you later?”

      “Sure. In the meantime, try to relax, okay? You’re worrying me.”

      “I’m fine,” Madeline said, but she had a headache from being awake most of the night. “Fine” actually felt a long way off.

      “Call me if you need anything,” he said and hung up without a goodbye. He didn’t waste words. She’d gotten more out of him today than she usually did, but she didn’t have time to think about that. Her stepmother looked upset.

      “Hi, Mom.” She rounded the desk to give Irene a hug.

      “Hi, honey.” Irene embraced Madeline rather stiffly, proof that she was as anxious and upset as Madeline was. “Have you heard from Chief Pontiff?”

      “No. You?”

      An expression of disgust tugged at her stepmother’s lips. “He’d never call me. Not unless he had another search warrant. Or an arrest warrant.” Although Chief Pontiff seemed less prejudiced against the Montgomerys than some people in Stillwater, he wasn’t particularly friendly to them, either. In the absence of hard evidence, he was obviously making an effort to reserve judgment. But Madeline sensed that he believed what everyone else believed—that