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sorry.” Shane leaned forward, shoving pie, the bag of oranges and Twizzlers aside so he could reach her hand, the one with the half-eaten strand of licorice in it. “I don’t know what else I can say.”
    She looked at his hand, covering hers, and then up at him. His thumb moved slowly over the ridge of her knuckles, back and forth. He didn’t say anything, but the pain in his eyes was clear enough. He was mourning Nick too. Dusty didn’t really believe he’d done anything to her brother, she had to admit that, even to herself. So why was she being so hard on him?
    “Why did you kiss me?” Her question startled him and he looked down, turning her hand over in his. He took the Twizzler from her and folded it into his mouth, chewing as he traced the angry red line of it on her hand where she had been gripping the licorice. He was quiet for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer. He just kept tracing her palm, over and over. The sensation was maddening. It made her belly clench and her limbs tingle with feeling.
    “You tell me,” he answered finally, a question with a question. “Why did you kiss me?”
    She was about to protest—she hadn’t kissed him! But she had, hadn’t she? She’d been ready to do far more than that, just to avoid having to go out and face the impossible. But was that why she’d done it? Something about what Nick had said that night stuck with her. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. But she hadn’t. Not until they’d been on their knees in the funeral home closet, face to face, breath caught and bodies pressed close.
    “I don’t know.” She lied, watching the path his finger took, trying to dissociate herself from her hand, to pretend it was someone else he was touching. It was driving her crazy, sending hot waves of electricity up her arm and straight down her spine. She could have pulled away, of course. But she didn’t. “Because I hate you.”
    “I know.” He smiled, lifting her hand and pressing his lips to her reddened palm. Just the memory of his mouth on hers gave her goose bumps. She didn’t like how her body responded to his nearness, his attention. His breath warmed her skin, eyelashes brushing her fingers. He closed her hand into a fist, as if this would allow her to keep his kiss. Then he let her go, sliding his chair back and moving to get up.
    Dusty stopped him with a question. “What did you tell the police?”
    “The same thing I just told you.” He snorted lightly, sitting again. “Only about a hundred more times.”
    She leaned forward, elbows on the table, looking at him speculatively. “Did they make you take a lie detector test?”
    His smile was small and sad. “Is that the only thing that would make you believe me? If it is, I’ll go take one right now.”
    “I don’t know.” She brushed her hair away from her face, leaning her chin on her palm—the same one his lips had brushed just moments before, still sticky from the licorice. The intimacy of the moment still held her in its spell, in spite of her racing mind. Her body didn’t seem to care about rational thought—it leaned toward him, as if seeking his warmth. “Something just doesn’t add up.”
    “Do you really think I would do anything to hurt Nick?”
    “No.” Dusty shook her he ad slowly, finally admitting it out loud to him. He looked relieved, reaching for her hand again, but a knock on the door stopped him.
     
     

 
    ✝ Chapter Fou r ✝
    “Well hey there, Missy.” Sheriff Buck Thompson stepped into the kitchen. It was strange to see him out of uniform. He was a big man, tall and wide, with a thick mustache just starting to go grey. He was formidable when he wore his sidearm, usually accompanied by sunglasses and a hat no matter what the weather. To Dusty, he looked older in just a suit, dark hair thinning around the sides of a widow’s peak.
    I probably teethed on his badge, she thought. Buck was a good friend of her father's and spent a great deal of casual