A Breath Away. Rita Herron

      The throat muscles worked in her slender neck as she swallowed. “My father always used to. At least he’d latch the screen.”

      Maybe because he knew he wasn’t coming back, Grady thought, but he refrained from pointing that out. “How’s your grandmother?”

      More pain in her eyes. “Stable. She wanted to be near her sister to recover, so she’s being transferred to the Black Mountain Rehabilitation Center today.”

      He nodded. “Good. I’m glad she’s okay.”

      “She’s not okay, Grady.”

      He let the statement stand in the dank air between them for a minute. “What’s wrong?”

      “She needs therapy.” Her voice took on a hard edge.

      “But it’s not just the stroke. Your phone call upset her.”

      Another awkward silence fell between them. He had no idea how to reply. Telling her not to blame the messenger seemed pointless. “I didn’t expect you to come to Crow’s Landing so soon.”

      She folded her arms beneath her breasts, then tipped her chin up, offering a glimpse of the feisty little girl she’d once been. “I have a lot of things to take care of here.”

      “Right.” The funeral arrangements. “I’ll let you know as soon as the coroner releases your father’s body.” Then she could get out of town. He didn’t want her here.

      Her hands tightened into fists. “Tell me about this supposed suicide note and the confession. I’d like to see it, too.”

      Grady shook his head. “I’ve told you everything I know. And I sent the note to the crime lab to verify that your father wrote it.”

      “Then I suggest you leave now.”

      He frowned. “I’m not through here.”

      “Yes, you are. I won’t let you hunt for more evidence to incriminate my father.”

      Anger flared. “I didn’t realize you and your dad were close. You haven’t been back here in years.”

      Violet bit her lip. “My grandmother doesn’t believe my father killed—” Her voice broke, her first visible sign of emotion. “She doesn’t believe the confession is real,” she finished, sounding stronger. “And neither do I.”

      Could she not even say his sister’s name? “Is that the reason you came back?”

      She stepped sideways, indicating the door. “Yes.”

      His gaze locked with hers, and he saw her inner turmoil. She might claim she didn’t believe her father was guilty, but she had doubts.

      She was afraid her father had killed Darlene.

      “Like I said, I’m not finished here,” he said baldly.

      Her eyelashes fluttered. “Yes, you are. Come back when you have a search warrant.”

      Her hand trembled as she toyed with a long chain dangling between her breasts. The Best Friends necklace Darlene had bought them. She still wore it.

      So she remembered his sister. She had cared for her.

      Or maybe she wore it out of guilt.

      He caught her wrist with one hand, then flicked a thumb along the jagged edges of the necklace, tracing the word Friends with his finger. Her breath hissed in. “I’m going to find out the truth, Violet. All my life, I’ve wanted Darlene’s murderer to pay. I’ll see that he does.”

      Both fear and courage emanated from her eyes as she glared at him. “I want that, too.”

      “Really? What if the killer was your father, Violet?”

      Ignoring the hurt and uncertainty that darkened her eyes, he released her arm, then stalked outside. But he would be back with that search warrant.

      And no matter how much he had to hurt Violet, her grandmother or his own father, he’d uncover the truth and see that Darlene’s killer got what he deserved.

      And if one of them had covered for the killer…he’d make him or her pay, too.

      AS THE DOOR SLAMMED SHUT, Grady’s declaration echoed off the dingy walls. Violet shuddered, the empty house closing around her. The mustiness, the echo of abandonment, the stale smells of dirty clothes, booze and old sweat assaulted her. And the familiar smell of Old Spice…

      Memories bombarded her, along with the unsettling feeling that she had never quite left this place. Unable to assimilate it all at once, she stood still, willing her body to absorb the shock of homecoming, along with seeing Grady.

      Over the years, she’d imagined what he might look like as a man. All the girls had doted on the teenage version, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. Any trace of cuteness had disappeared, though, and in its place, a rugged prowess radiated from his every pore. Over six-three, he was big, powerful and muscular, almost frighteningly so. Prominent cheekbones and a nose crooked from being broken dominated his features. And those deep-set eyes were almost hypnotizing. When his callused hands had caught her wrist, heat had rippled between them, charged with frustration and something sexual.

      No, she had mistaken that feeling.

      The emotion had been anger.

      He carried that in spades. An obvious hatred toward his sister’s killer flashed in his tortured eyes.

      A hatred she understood. But did the killer’s face belong to her father?

      And would Grady turn that anger toward her now that he realized they were on opposite sides? At least concerning her dad…

      She sighed and forced herself farther into the house. Stifling heat and cloying odors of mildew and decay nearly suffocated her.

      In the shoe box den, the same plaid sofa lined the back wall, the rust-colored recliner her father had lived in angled toward the ancient TV set, a stack of Popular Mechanics magazines stacked beside it. A dog-eared metal antenna jutted upward from the TV in a warped V, proving he hadn’t updated the set or his service in twenty years. The beige carpet was stained, the lack of photos a brutal reminder that her father had shut his family out of his life.

      She stopped beside the wicker rocking chair and stroked the arm. She imagined her grandmother sitting in the chair, crocheting in the afternoon sunlight, sunshine that turned the tiny room into an inferno in summer. Violet had curled up at her knees and played with her rag dolls while her grandmother watched her soap operas. Now dust coated most of the ancient furniture, and cobwebs hung in the corners. She slowly walked through the kitchen, not surprised to find everything the same, only older and smaller. Newspapers and magazines littered a beige countertop spattered with stains. Dishes encrusted with half-eaten food cluttered the sink. Trash overflowed onto the graying linoleum floor, the stench almost unbearable.

      A delivery box containing an uneaten pizza sat on the counter next to a full six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, as if her father had just returned from getting dinner. Odd, but both had been untouched. And the want ad page lay on the table, a red circle around two ads. Why would her father buy an entire pizza and six-pack and be job hunting if he planned to kill himself?

      Depressed people aren’t exactly rational, she reminded herself.

      Her father’s room was to the right, but she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. On the left, her grandmother’s room adjoined Violet’s. The crocheted green afghan her grandmother had used to warm her feet at night still lay at the foot of the Jenny Lind bed, the scent of her grandmother’s favorite lavender potpourri mellow, yet lingering. Violet grabbed the afghan and hugged it to her, then glanced at her own room. Had her father changed it? Turned it into a study or storeroom for the old car parts he collected? The parts that had meant more to him than she had.

      She pushed open the door and was shocked to see the sawed-off iron bed still rooted in the corner, the antique dresser laden with her childhood costume