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to come back? To kill her? The baseball bat seemed to confirm that notion. So why hadn’t he done it? He could have. A hundred times.
    Maybe he’d wanted to witness her terror firsthand. Like a cat playing with a cornered mouse.
    The thought sent a chill up her spine. She stood and crossed to the front window, pulled the drape aside and peered out. He could be anywhere. Anyone. He could be old Mrs. Bell from across the street.
    She dropped the drape. Or maybe he wanted something else from her. But what?

CHAPTER SEVEN
Tuesday, June 4
8:10 A.M.

    Luke sat at his father’s desk—he still thought of it that way—surrounded by files, case notes and crime-scene photos. On the computer monitor were the results of his search: The People of Louisiana vs. Katherine Ann McCall.
    Though he hadn’t slept, he felt wide awake and energized. He’d left Kat McCall’s place and come directly here. He’d been off at LSU when the murder occurred. The trial had come a little over a year later; he’d still been at school, partying his way toward flunking out.
    The trial hadn’t even been a blip on his radar. And after spending time with Kat, after seeing the anger that had been—and still was—being directed at her, he’d wanted the particulars.
    Truth was, he didn’t get it. She didn’t seem like a cold-blooded killer to him—his father’s words—or a lying, sneaky snake, another description he’d overheard.
    He liked Kat. She seemed remarkably calm, considering. And she still had a sense of humor. In fact, he hadn’t picked up on any of those unfortunate characteristics acquired by people who’d been through great trauma. No, Kat McCall seemed to have both feet planted firmly on the ground.
    Though, as he was sure his father would point out, he didn’t know her very well. They’d spent, all combined, maybe an hour in each other’s company.
    He’d like to spend more time with her. He rubbed his stubbly jaw. He could just imagine, that would probably send his old man straight into orbit. Or directly into the ground.
    One corner of his mouth lifted in wry amusement and he shook his head. Just a few years ago that would have been reason enough to get involved with her. It’d been reason enough for most of the ridiculous things he’d done.
    Luke shifted his gaze to one of the framed photos that graced the big, old desk. His brother, Stevie. Holding up the prizewinning bass he’d caught on his tenth birthday.
    The same summer he drowned.
    The summer that everything changed between him and his dad.
    With a familiar pinch in his chest, Luke dragged his attention back to the information spread before him. Forced himself to focus. He’d wanted the particulars to understand the level of fury directed toward Kat McCall. His father’s. Those people who had written with such hate. The folks of Liberty who refused to forget or accept. This “fan” who had followed her for ten years.
    Had the jury botched the verdict that badly? Or had the prosecution blown it?
    Luke looked down at the crime-scene photos, fanned out on the desk in front of him. Awful. Gruesome. Whoever had killed Sara McCall had beaten her to a pulp, even bashing in her face. The pathologist had confirmed that the perpetrator had continued to beat her after she was dead.
    That was pure rage. Personal. Directed against Sara McCall.
    She had known her attacker. A stranger didn’t do that.
    Strike one against the angry little sister.
    Kat had found the body. That’d been another strike. She’d called 911 but hadn’t sounded upset. In fact, she’d sounded calm, some had thought happy. Her story about sleeping through the murder had seemed farfetched; later she changed it, then changed it again. More strikes.
    The prosecution had laid out a parade of witnesses who testified Kat and her sister had fought constantly, that Katherine McCall had publicly wished her sister dead and had told friends she wanted her inheritance, that it wasn’t fair that her sister