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  “So your stepfather bloodied your nose, you passed out, at some point you threw up, and then Topher woke you and told you about your stepfather?”

  The realization came into full focus and it stunned Sinclair. She nodded before remembering Marie was on the phone. “Yes.”

  “So sometime while you were passed out, your stepfather was killed.”

  She looked at Brenna, whose eyes were open wide.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know if you had thrown up before Clara came to your window?”

  “No, I hardly remember that part at all.”

  “I’ll ask her. It could be important to the timeline I’m establishing.”

  Brenna said, “This is good, right? That she was passed out?”

  “If we can prove it.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “I’m working on it,” Marie answered.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Over the next two weeks, Sinclair and Brenna camped out in the hotel room and stayed in touch with Marie. She was in New York, preparing for the first meeting with the prosecutor, where they would exchange information and she would begin her arguments for dismissal of the case.

  Sinclair went to a lab for a blood draw to be compared to the sample found on the shirt. She also agreed to the police department’s request for her fingerprints since she’d run away before they could be recorded in the system.

  Their life revolved around the hotel room and a fifteen-mile-or-so radius around Little Creek. Brenna called her gallery every day, making sales, dictating letters for Lucy to send, and giving Carl creative input. Although Sinclair tried to convince her to go back, Brenna missed the opening of her current show, From the Hand of the Artist. They’d had a heated argument over it. Words of pent-up frustration and anxiety tinged the squabble, but through it all, Brenna wouldn’t budge.

  Though flashbacks from her ex and the danger she’d put her gallery through came in waves each day that she stayed away from work, she tried to push them away. She would get anxious and aggravated, but kept those particular feelings to herself. The last thing Sinclair needed to know was that Brenna’s past was agitating her, so she fought to ignore any similarities that arose. Still, it was totally unlike her to miss an exhibition opening, and it weighed heavily on her mind. But she couldn’t just leave Sinclair alone in a hotel room, waiting to discover her fate.

  Instead, they ventured out of their room almost every day, driving around the local countryside, poking into antique shops, and picnicking by the river.

  Halfway through their time in Little Creek, Brenna noticed that Sinclair had begun to grow quiet and distant. She would lie on the bed, listening to music from the bedside clock-radio, and stare at the ceiling. When she did talk, she rehashed the abuse she’d suffered, and they’d have long conversations about Sinclair working through the despicable lie she’d lived with for so long. Those conversations were truly wonderful because, in small ways, Sinclair began to heal. She became angry with Topher, understanding that she was too young and naïve to recognize his actions as cunning and deceitful.

  But the distance still remained. Brenna tried to talk to her about it; however, Sinclair seemed unwilling to connect with her long enough to identify what caused her to become so withdrawn.

  At one of their lunches at the river, everything finally boiled over.

  “Maybe tomorrow we could try dinner at that steakhouse by the hotel,” Brenna said while they were eating sandwiches and watching an egret stalk fish on the opposite bank.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Isn’t it a good place?”

  Sinclair shrugged.

  “All day, Sinclair, you’ve uttered sentences of no more than two or three words. Please talk to me.”

  “Okay, then.” Sinclair’s face flashed to anger. “It reminds me of family dinners there. Nothing but arguing and threatening. ‘Eat your fucking supper and let’s go.’”

  “Okay. We don’t have to go there.” She had said the same thing about most places in Little Creek, which was why they ate so many meals out by the river. “We could drive up the highway, to another town that isn’t so familiar.”

  “You don’t get it.”

  “What don’t I get?”

  “You’re making plans, acting like we’re in a nice, normal relationship. We’re not. This is surreal and awful and unbearable.”

  “Our relationship?” Brenna’s own anxiety about her absence from work bubbled up again, setting her on edge.

  “What’s going on with my life. It’ll never be normal.”

  “I want to spend whatever time we have together, Sinclair. Okay, so it’s not normal, but I love you. Let’s just try to make the best of things right now.”

  “Right now. Right now while a prosecutor’s trying to throw me in prison.” Sinclair grew more disconnected and angry. “And why is he doing that? Because I came from a fucked-up family. Violence was the only attention I got in my family. We fought instead of making decisions. There was no love, Brenna, just anger and punching.”

  “But you’re not living with that family any more.”

  Her voice got louder. “I am a product of that family. I was a little ball of goddamn clay that was molded not by gentle shaping but by being smashed. That’s still inside me.”

  “Some of it may be, but I don’t believe that’s entirely who you are now. Our relationship has been wonderful.”

  “How was I when we first met? I was aggressive and distrustful. I almost slammed the door in your face. And what about New York? I ran from the first hint of conflict.” Her cheeks grew red and she was on the verge of tears. “I am not normal.”

  “You had reason to be suspicious when I came to your place unannounced. And you had reasons for running from the police in New York.”

  “Brenna, I tried to push you away back then because I can’t possibly have a successful relationship with you. Don’t you see that?”

  Brenna’s angst came to the surface and her words became more biting than she intended. “You’ve been trying to concede defeat with us every step of the way, Sinclair. What about making love? Does that feel like defeat? Does that feel wrong?”

  “No, it’s not wrong. But that’s not real life.” She swung her arm toward the river. “This is real life. What happened here.” She began to cry, which increased the frustration that Brenna had seen building since they’d started talking.

  “I could be heading to prison. To fucking prison!”

  Brenna reached for her hand.

  “No.” Sinclair tried to pull away but Brenna moved closer and drew her into her arms. Sinclair struggled against her but Brenna squeezed her firmly to her body.

  “I’m your lifeline. Hold on to me. Please.” But Brenna needed to hold on just as tight.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  When they got back to the hotel room, Sinclair walked straight to the bed and lay down. Although still quiet after their ordeal by the river, she was no longer emotionally disengaged. For a long while, they had listened to the sounds of the birds along the banks and watched an occasional fish break the waterline with a single splash. The wind picked up so they had folded their blanket, gathered their lunch material, and held hands as they made the short trek back to the car.

  “Thanks for lunch,” Sinclair said, hands crossed under her head as she lay face-up. “And I’m sorry for raising my voice earlier.”

  “Just feel what you feel.” Brenna walked to her and Sinclair released an arm, patting her lap with her hand. Brenna climbed on top of her, straddling her at the waist.

  “You sure know how to order a mean turkey sandwich,” Sinclair said, reaching up to Brenna’s shirt. She sneaked a hand under and placed it flat on her belly.

  “Instructing deli personnel is one of my strengths.”

  “So you think you’re strong, huh?”

  “At some things.”

  “Think you can keep me pinned down?”

  “Here on the bed?”
/>   “Yeah.”

  “Sure.” Brenna grabbed Sinclair’s wrists, holding her down. Sinclair smiled and suddenly bucked her hips. Brenna launched straight up, laughing at the surprise, but managed to hold her captive. Sinclair rotated her pelvis to the right, squirming out from Brenna’s left thigh, but Brenna regained her hold by locking her leg tight to Sinclair.

  Sinclair smiled again. However, it was a mischievous response, because she quickly bucked again, this time with more strength, and with a quick twist of her hips, she sent Brenna flipping onto the bed beside her.

  “Stick with your deli-sandwich moves.”

  Sinclair moved over Brenna and kissed her ardently.

  Like a stack of dry twigs, Brenna’s passion ignited. Sinclair’s heated fingers traced lines down her stomach and hurriedly pushed her shirt up, bunching it around her neck, and Brenna became wet. Sinclair unsnapped her bra with a flick of her hand and Brenna pushed it onto the floor. As Brenna pulled off her shirt, Sinclair did the same, and she grabbed Sinclair again to kiss her and feel her luscious warm skin against hers.

  When Sinclair moved down, kissing her way to Brenna’s belt buckle, Brenna arched into her and allowed Sinclair to confiscate her pants with a quick unbuckling and a few skillful tugs. Her underwear came next and Brenna moaned her approval.

  “I need you,” Sinclair whispered as she went down on her.

  The flutter of anticipation in Brenna’s stomach fell away to the uncontrollable trembling of heightened desire. Sinclair’s mouth took Brenna to an altogether new place of longing, one that hammered in her chest and entirely overwhelmed her.

  She needed Sinclair, all of her, to take her completely and fervently. She had longed for such an intimate and thorough connection for many days, and her lover now hungrily offered it to her. Her excitement rose swiftly, and with each stroke of Sinclair’s tongue, Brenna willingly gave herself, revealing her favorite spots and movements to Sinclair with a deep moan or encouraging words.

  Sinclair’s breath came quicker and Brenna felt the bed move as her lover’s body rocked with hers. Sinclair was as stimulated as she was and Brenna’s pleasure skyrocketed. Sinclair moaned louder and Brenna’s body exploded in the most exquisite orgasm she could remember.

  Time stopped and the world froze as the waves of her arousal began to subside. She closed her eyes, but tears came anyway, spilling down her cheeks and around her ears.

  Sinclair moved back up. “What’s wrong, baby?”

  Unwilling to open her eyes and end her dream, she said, “Nothing bad. Just a lot of emotions.”

  She shook from the light-headedness and vulnerability of coming so intensely, and Sinclair tenderly covered her with her body.

  “I’ve run from relationships for so long and now that I’m finally letting go with you, they’re all flooding me right now.”

  “I feel exactly the same way,” Sinclair said. “I was so intent on building a brick wall between you and me that I almost lost you.”

  “No more bricks.”

  “No more bricks,” Sinclair said before kissing her ear lightly. “I love you.”

  *

  Sinclair must have dozed off because darkness now enveloped the room, which intensified the blinking red light that accompanied the ringing of the cell phone. Brenna awoke and wiggled her way out of Sinclair’s arms.

  “You’re on speakerphone again, Marie,” Brenna said. “Go ahead.”

  “I’ve been able to review the evidence. Sinclair, Topher’s latent fingerprints were on the gun that killed your stepfather.”

  “That’s good news.”

  After a pause Marie said, “But so are yours.”

  Sinclair looked at Brenna, devastation and confusion suddenly boiling up inside her.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “At the time, they tested him for gunshot residue and found none. You weren’t there to test, so you became the person of interest. They don’t have much more information about the weapon. The fingerprints, hair samples, and other DNA in your home were all yours, your stepfather’s, and Topher’s, but that doesn’t mean much since you all lived in the house.”

  They heard the shuffling of papers before Marie continued.

  “I spoke with Clara, and the mess she said she saw on your shirt was dark, like soda or red wine. Turns out it was blood. The vomit was a light-yellow color.”

  “Noodles and butter,” Sinclair said. “It was noodles and butter.”

  Marie paused, but when nothing more came from Sinclair, she said, “Since Clara only saw a dark-colored stain, that means the vomit on the shirt wasn’t there when she saw you from the window.”

  “This is all about the timeline you mentioned.”

  “Yes. We need to wait for the lab results on your blood test. We need the whole story. So hang tight for now and I’ll let you know facts as I get them. And if anyone asks you to talk about the case, don’t. Call me and I’ll handle everything.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Marie called three long, drawn-out days later. “The police reanalyzed the latent fingerprints on the gun. It’s true that both Topher’s and yours are there. The interesting thing, though, is that yours are on the handle and trigger, and his are on the muzzle.”

  “But that sounds incriminating.”

  “Topher could have picked up the gun after the crime. But it doesn’t rule out the possibility that Topher may have used the gun, wiped his prints off the handle and trigger, and then held it by the muzzle—”

  “To place it in my hand while I was passed out.”

  “Exactly,” Marie said. “He could have worn gloves, which would explain the absence of GSR. But here’s the best news. I just got the report from the medical-examiner’s office. As you probably know, the science of blood-evidence analysis has advanced dramatically in the last two decades. If this evidence had been tested right after the crime, the results wouldn’t be as precise as they are now. Instead of narrowing a sample down to five to fifty percent of the population, it can now be statistically accurate down to one person out of several million or even several billion.”

  Sinclair appreciated the historical significance of forensics, but her nerves were already frayed past the point of being bearable.

  “The blood, Sinclair,” Marie said, “is absolutely yours. Your blood-alcohol level was point zero four percent. You weren’t legally drunk though I’m sure you were spinning. But that’s not the significant finding.”

  Too anxious to interrupt, she nervously held her breath.

  “Barbiturates were detected in the sample.”

  “I didn’t take—”

  “You didn’t,” Marie said, “but Topher did. And you had enough in your system, given your estimated body weight at the time, to render you unconscious for at least an hour or more. Topher had to have slipped you the drug to knock you out. Maybe you weren’t getting drunk enough, so he had to find something stronger. You said he left to get another bottle of alcohol, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He gave you the drug to ensure that you’d pass out so he could kill his father. Then he woke you and made you think you had shot him in a drunken stupor. You changed out of your shirt before you took off, leaving the vomit, thanks to your stepbrother, and the blood evidence, with even more thanks to your stepfather. Clara can testify that she saw you barely conscious, and her timeline between leaving you and hearing the gunshot will corroborate the evidence.” She paused before saying, “You couldn’t have killed your stepfather. You were unconscious.”

  Sinclair couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Marie seemed to have put together a defense that proved her innocence.

  “I have some more notes to write up, but I am officially going to the prosecutor and police tomorrow. I’m driving out in the morning and should arrive in the early afternoon.”

  “Will they drop the case?”

  “I don’t know, Sinclair, but we have a good shot.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

&n
bsp; “Soon,” Sinclair said, “we’re going to know one way or the other.”

  She sat on the river’s edge, leaning back on her hands, feet straight out. Next to her, Brenna sat cross-legged, drumming her fingers on her knees. She’d asked Brenna to take her there rather than wait in the drab confines of the hotel room. She needed to breathe in fresh air and watch the shimmering water, especially since there was still a chance that her days of doing so were numbered.

  “Marie’s meeting with the prosecutor is taking forever,” Brenna said.

  Sinclair checked her watch. “It started thirty minutes ago.”

  “I can’t stand the wait.”

  Sinclair, however, concentrated on the feeling of each second: the cool grass under her legs, a small rock pushed against the palm of her hand, the tickle of her hair responding to a slight breeze.

  She watched Brenna, who fidgeted and stared at the water. The line of her jaw was beautiful, though it persistently clenched, causing the muscle under her ear to ripple. This woman had loved her and made love to her. She’d held firm when Sinclair tried to give up. In so many ways, regardless of the impending outcome, she’d saved her.

  A familiar chortle sent Brenna springing to her feet. She dug into her pocket and retrieved the phone. “Yes,” she almost yelled. She listened for a moment. “Hang on.”

  She pushed the speakerphone button. “Go ahead, Marie.”

  This was the call they were waiting for and Sinclair’s heart hammered. In a few seconds, she would know her fate. Adrenaline suddenly surged through her and she held her breath.

  “I just came from the prosecutor’s office. He’s dropping your case, based on the blood evidence and Clara’s statement. We went over the timeline and he agrees that you couldn’t have killed your stepfather.”

  Brenna yelped with joy but Sinclair froze, absorbing the entire meaning of the news. While Marie said something about Topher being brought in for questioning, the path she had taken for the last twenty years washed through her mind like a river flood, deluging her with quickly passing images. It was mostly horrible and sad, and had led her to a dismal place full of fear and leeriness. Her art kept her sane, but she had desired so much more for herself—opportunities to travel, to live freely, and to not look over her shoulder.