Read One Wrong Step for Free Online Page B

feet tall and 200 pounds, almost exactly the same size as Rowe. For a woman that small to actually claw the guy’s eye out…Well, suffice it to say she must have been experiencing some serious panic. The rapist had been unarmed, thank God, or he almost certainly would have killed her.
    And the eyeball thing wasn’t even the most impressive part. After the trial, Cecelia had made a few public statements, becoming somewhat of a spokeswoman for sexual assault survivors. In subsequent years, she’d dropped off the map, though.
    “She’s tough,” Rowe said. “She may have been shaken up today, but she’ll get over it. She just feels responsible.”
    She felt that way because Stevenski and Rowe hadn’t been entirely candid with her. Yes, her ex-husband had had a few drinks when he lost control of the Explorer, but he hadn’t been on drugs. And some black-on-blue paint transfer on the rear fender indicated he may have had a nudge into that rock wall.
    Rowe turned onto the highway and glanced at the clock. He needed to track down that reporter from the crash scene. He definitely should have talked to her by now, but she hadn’t returned any of his phone calls.
    “You ever hear back from that woman at the Herald ?” Stevenski asked, reading his mind.
    “No, and I’m beginning to think she’s dodging me.” Rowe checked his phone, but still no messages. “Looks like I need to pay her a visit.”
     
    Celie sat across the table from McAllister and wondered how the heck he’d talked her into this. One minute she’d been thinking up a tactful way to get him out of her apartment, and the next minute they were in his Jeep on their way out to dinner. Forget that she felt—and looked—like roadkill, and that going out was the very last thing she wanted to do tonight. Somehow McAllister had convinced her that whatever her problems, she’d feel better after a stiff margarita and some Mexican food.
    And, just like that, she’d said yes.
    So now here they were, at a loud Mexican dive sandwiched between a Laundromat and a Goodwill shop. McAllister claimed it was the best Mexican food in town, but Celie had her doubts. The place was wall-to-wall kitsch, down to the Elvises-on-velvet and neon beer signs decorating the walls.
    She snuck a glance at McAllister over the top of her menu. Austin agreed with him. His skin was tan, his hair streaked gold from the sun. Clearly, he’d been spending time outside, probably water-skiing, or rappelling, or practicing one of the many daredevil sports he was so fond of. Whatever he’d been up to, he looked good. Better, even, than he had last summer back in Mayfield. How was that possible? How was it that as time ticked by, men got better and better looking, while women just looked more and more used up?
    That’s how Celie felt these days. Exhausted by an endless series of trials and disappointments. And with each passing day, the things she wanted most for herself seemed to move further and further out of reach.
    “You’re not going to cry, are you?” McAllister asked, not looking up from his menu.
    “Huh?”
    “Your chin’s quivering.” He laid his menu aside and met her gaze. “And you can cry all you want, honey, but just let me know ahead of time so I can change your margarita to a double.”
    “I’m not going to cry,” she said, meaning it. “I spent most of the day at the police station and on the phone with my former in-laws—who hate me, by the way. I’m all cried out.”
    He watched her for a long moment. “I’m sorry about Robert,” he said.
    He didn’t really look sorry about Robert, but he seemed genuinely sorry she was upset.
    “Thank you.”
    “Don’t look so guilt-ridden. It’s not your fault.”
    Hello, Robert. Rumor has it you’re dead.
    You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
    She wished, for the hundredth time that day, that their last conversation hadn’t been so awful. She shook her head. “I just keep thinking if I’d said something different,