into a house and steal a child and kill him? It wasn’t a pedophile, he wasn’t abused that way.” Her head fell to the side, downcast, tears streaming down her face.
Tom stood and pulled her up and into his arms, holding her tight. She clasped her arms around him, her body shaking with silent sobs.
Several minutes later, as Tom stroked her hair and murmured soothing nothings in her ear, Nelia said, “I know the pain in your heart, having someone you love think you are guilty. I believe you, Tom. I want Claire to believe you, too.”
Tom found her lips with his, kissed her, tasted the tears caught in the crevice of her lips. His hands fisted in her hair and he gently pushed her down to the bed. The love, the trust, the faith this woman had in him undid him. He didn’t deserve it, but he would protect it with everything he had, including his life.
“I love you, Nelia.”
She whispered in his ear, “You’re the only person who has ever been able to dull the pain in my heart, pain I’ve lived with for twelve years. You saved my soul, Tom. I love you.”
TWELVE
Claire drove to the Fox amp; Goose after changing at her house. The conversation with Dave had depressed her, making it clear that there was no one on her side in this situation. She wished she could confide in Dave, but he was a cop first. Yes, he cared about her, and he had once been close to her father, but she still didn’t expect him to forget that her father was a fugitive. She couldn’t.
But. .
Oliver Maddox’s death couldn’t be a coincidence. She wished she had been thinking clearer when her father cornered her that morning, asked him more questions, like what exactly did Oliver Maddox know?
She swallowed thickly. She had been in no frame of mind then to ask anything coherent. If only she had a way of contacting him, finding out-
Wouldn’t Oliver have kept records? Files? Notes on his thesis? Something where she could pull out threads to follow on her own? But where to start?
She was no longer a scared high school freshman who’d had her entire life blown up. She’d be thirty this year, she had a career, she was smart. She should be able to look at the evidence on her own, dispassionately, to see if maybe there was something-anything-missed the first time around.
What did Oliver see that no one else saw? Where did the Western Innocence Project fit in? Or Professor Collier?
Tomorrow, she’d catch up with Collier in his office bright and early. She didn’t think she’d learn anything by hitting Oliver’s house-the police would have gone through it after the missing person report was filed. But she’d go by, see if something stuck out to her. Talk to Tammy again, ask more questions about Oliver’s thesis and whom he had spoken to. Though she said she hadn’t known any details, Tammy probably knew more than she thought. It was all about asking the right questions. Then Claire would head into the Rogan-Caruso offices and use their vast computer resources to search for more information. Investigation was legwork and questions. And more legwork and more questions until the truth emerged. That she could do. She felt better having a game plan.
In the bar’s parking lot, she turned off the ignition. She wished she had canceled her date with Mitch. Not because she didn’t want to see him-on the contrary, she’d been looking forward to it all day-but because she was so twisted inside that she knew Mitch would ask her what was wrong. He was unusually perceptive, and while she appreciated his attentiveness in conversation, she didn’t like being the brunt of anyone’s scrutiny.
Still, she needed to unwind. She couldn’t do anything more about Oliver Maddox tonight. A pint of stout, a little dancing, and Mitch. It sounded like just what she needed.
It was a quarter to nine when she opened the door of the pub. She saw Charlie and the Finnegan’s Wake band setting up and was about to say hi when she saw Mitch.
He sat at a table near the back, looking tense, while another man loomed over him, hands on the table.
Claire recognized the bastard harassing Mitch. FBI Special Agent Steve Donovan. He’d come by several times since the earthquake to threaten her about her father. As if she would harbor a fugitive, especially after what her father had done.
Donovan had also harassed Charlie and the band and even talked to her boss at Rogan-Caruso, further embarrassing and enraging her.
Had he been following her? Did he know about her relationship with Mitch?
She stomped over to them, insinuated herself between the cop and the writer. She pushed Donovan in the chest. “Didn’t I tell you after you harassed my friends”-she jerked a thumb toward the band-“to leave me and mine alone? I told you I’d call if I heard from my father.”
Donovan glanced at Mitch, then said, “I’m just following up, Ms. O’Brien. I told you I’d be checking in periodically.”
“Just go away.” She blinked back what she feared were tears. She didn’t want to tell Mitch about her father, but now she had no choice. What must he think of her keeping such a big secret? Not that she’d done it on purpose, it wasn’t typical conversation to open with,
“I’m leaving,” Donovan said. He nodded to Mitch, then left.
Claire turned and looked Mitch in the eye. “I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.”
She slapped her hand on the table. “It’s not okay. I don’t like talking about it, okay? I hate it. I just hate it.” She swallowed. “I’ll tell you everything.” She walked over to the bar, hoping Mitch would follow at the same time she wished he would just tell her,
Mitch followed, sat next to her. She motioned for a pint of Guinness for her and Mitch and waited for the bartender to serve them before saying, “That damn Fed probably told you everything.” She took a long swallow.
“Not really. Just enough-”
“To make you think I’m a liar.”
“You’ve never lied to me.”
“By omission.”
Mitch took her hand, squeezed it. That quietly intimate, sweet gesture had Claire’s heart. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I still like you. A lot.”
As if to prove it, he kissed her softly. Sweetly. She stared into his eyes. He possessed a deep-seated aura of compassion, in contrast to his square-jawed, rugged appearance.
“Fifteen years ago my father was convicted of murdering my mother and her lover,” Claire said quietly. “He escaped from San Quentin during the earthquake. That guy who talked to you is with the FBI. He’s been coming by now and again to make sure I’m not keeping my father locked in the basement.”
“Somehow I don’t see you doing that.”
She shook her head. “I was there,” she whispered.
“Where?”
“At the house. Right after-I saw my father leaving the bedroom where they were dead and-shit!”
“It’s okay, Claire.”
“You shouldn’t have had to hear about this from that man. What did he say to you anyway?”
“Not much. Just wanted to know when was the last time I saw you and if I had seen a man. He showed me a photo. A mug shot.” He stared into his beer. Claire feared this situation bothered Mitch more than he was saying.
“My father?”
“Told me it was Thomas O’Brien, a fugitive. He didn’t tell me about the earthquake, but I’d heard about that
