A Family at Last. Jacqueline Diamond

are you going to do if you have to write a story that involves him?”

      “That’s different. I always behave like a professional on the job.” He shifted the box. “You’re right, though. There’s no point in ducking him.”

      “Good.” And just in time, for Chris was moving toward them.

      “I don’t intend to leave him in any doubt about where we stand.”

      “That isn’t what I meant!” Karen hoped they weren’t going to quarrel in public. Still, better here than at the nursing home. She’d hate for Renée and Mae Anne to witness an argument.

      Nearing them, Chris opened his mouth to speak. Barry raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t bother.”

      “Don’t bother to say hello?” Chris halted, apparently unaware that he had a twig stuck in his hair from playing with the children. Karen felt an irrational urge to pluck it out.

      “If you think we can be friends, you’re wasting your time.” Bitterness coarsened Barry’s voice. “We’re not even acquaintances. Or anything.”

      Chris regarded him steadily. “How can we not be anything? Strangers, enemies—we have to be something.”

      “Why’d you decide to grace Downhome with your presence—so you could gloat?” Barry’s rage crackled across the intervening half-dozen feet. “You covered your crime pretty well, but you weren’t satisfied to get away with it, were you? No, you had to come rub my face in it.”

      “What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t commit a crime and you know it, or you ought to.”

      Fists tightened at Barry’s side. “I’m going to nail you if it’s the last thing I do.”

      Chris’s eyes narrowed at the ferocity of the response. “This idea about my killing Mr. Anglin is crazy.”

      He probably didn’t realize that the implication of mental illness was a sore point with Barry because of his depression. For a moment, Karen feared her brother would lose what remained of his self-restraint. Suppose he physically attacked Chris and got arrested? With his felony record, he’d probably be sent back to prison.

      Fortunately, Barry hadn’t entirely lost his judgment. “You always were good at playing to the crowd,” he retorted coldly. “Anybody’d think I’m the one who wronged you. Look at him, Karen. There’s a man who can deceive you so smoothly you won’t know you’ve been taken in until it’s too late.”

      Yes, she’d seen that side of Chris. Yet there was nothing cold or calculating about the dismay on his face.

      “You think you can prove I killed Norbert Anglin?” the young doctor asked skeptically.

      “If I have to do it with my dying breath,” Barry answered, “yes.”

      “For Karen’s sake, I hope that won’t be soon.” Chris shook his head. “My family left Downhome out of consideration for your folks, and I’ve stayed away for the same reason. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, because I know you didn’t mean to lash out as hard as you did. But as for the rest, you’re in denial and it’s time you got over it.”

      “I’m glad we’ve got this out in the open,” Barry growled. “So we don’t have to pretend to get along. There’s nothing I hate worse than hypocrisy.”

      With that, he renewed his grip on the flyers and departed so rapidly he left Karen behind. She stole a glance at Chris’s face.

      Among the warring emotions, she saw sadness. If only she could offer some reassurance, but what was there to say?

      Aware of the watchers at the café, she hurried after her brother. Everyone had better understand that Barry could count on his sister’s loyalty, one hundred percent.

      “THESE DATE BACK TO before we computerized our records.” Lieutenant Mark O’Bannon dropped a stack of dog-eared reports on the interrogation-room table. “Good luck finding what you want.”

      “I appreciate your letting me look through these.” With Ethan on his honeymoon, Chris hadn’t been certain what sort of response he might receive when he’d walked into the police station a few minutes ago.

      Barry’s declaration of war had completely changed his mind about reviewing the facts of the case. He most definitely would; he needed all the ammunition he could get.

      “Amy was happy to pull them.” Mark, a straightforward young man in his late twenties whom Chris remembered vaguely from their younger years, was engaged to Amy Arroyo, who doubled as both the chief’s secretary and as records clerk. He was also Rosie Otero’s son. “We’re glad to help Maria Wilhelmina’s doctor.”

      Being the town’s pediatrician brought unexpected perks, Chris reflected. “I don’t mean to take advantage. But as I mentioned, Barry seems determined to smear my name. Frankly, I’ve forgotten most of the details of what happened, if I ever knew them.”

      As a key witness, he’d been barred from the courtroom during much of the proceedings. The newspaper, at that time edited by Barry’s parents, had printed only the most basic information, and afterward, Chris had wanted to put the whole matter behind him, not to dwell on it.

      “Knock yourself out,” Mark rejoined cheerfully and went about his duties.

      Chris began plowing through the stack of paper. Face sheets, diagrams, the coroner’s report—most of it was new to him.

      As he studied the pages, memories intervened. That summer before college, Chris had been working at the grocery store when one day, to his astonishment, farmer Norbert Anglin stalked in and accused him of flirting with his wife.

      Although he’d exchanged a few pleasantries with Amelia as he’d bagged her groceries, that was the extent of their acquaintance. When Chris protested, Norbert called him a liar. Furious, Chris tried to defend himself, only to be shouted down.

      The curmudgeonly storeowner, Beau Johnson, threatened to fire Chris for arguing with a customer. At Norbert’s insistence, the young man was forced to apologize in front of a store full of customers.

      The injustice stung. Chris might have left it at that, but when Barry heard about it, he urged that they play a revenge prank on the farmer.

      The boys sneaked onto the farm one night a week later to let chickens out of the coop. Suddenly, floodlights activated. As they scrambled to flee the barnyard, Anglin had born down on them with a pitchfork.

      In retrospect, it was lucky he hadn’t gone for his shotgun, but he’d meant business with those tines. Barry had grabbed a shovel and fought back, whacking the man hard enough to send him reeling.

      They’d bolted over a fence and ran for dear life. In the haste and confusion, they lost sight of each other. Chris waited in his car, parked out of sight, for ten or fifteen minutes before Barry showed up. Scraped and out of breath, he claimed to have run the wrong way in the darkness.

      Heading home, they heard sirens. Later, horrified to learn the farmer had died of his injuries, Chris had gone to the police accompanied by his father, who was a lawyer, and told his story.

      The county district attorney had charged Barry in the death. Determined to tell the truth, which he believed would exonerate his friend, Chris had testified that he’d seen only one blow connect and that Anglin had attacked first.

      However, according to the coroner, three blows had landed. A couple of witnesses, neither of whom had a criminal record, had testified to seeing Barry sneaking back a short time later. The implication was that he’d decided to finish the job.

      One witness was a homeless man, Lou Bates, whom a motorcycle accident had left with only one arm and a pronounced limp. He didn’t seem physically capable of launching such a vicious assault, nor did he have a motive. The other was a farmhand, a man named Hank Lincoln. He was returning to the bunkhouse from church when he claimed to have spotted Barry, wearing a blue shirt and moving in a suspicious