Emily, if given the proper motivation, would recall that night with a little more clarity. All he had to do was manipulate a reaction that would reverberate through the whole damned town.
Movement in the rearview mirror snagged Clint's attention. A truck, an older-model Chevy, had topped the hill behind him moving way too fast. Clint edged nearer the shoulder of the road to allow plenty of room for the driver to get on by. But he didn't do that. He roared up behind Clint.
"What the hell?" He braced just in time for the impact.
The track pushed against his rear bumper.
Clint tightened his grip on the steering wheel and floored the accelerator in an attempt to put some distance between them. The truck responded likewise, nudging him again before he could get his momentum going.
Clint topped the next hill. A slow-moving car on the road in front of him forced him to brake hard. The truck didn't.
A sharp cut to the right avoided the crash and sent him bucking across the shallow ditch and into the cornfield, clearing a wide path of stalks.
He swerved left, came down hard on the brake.
The Firebird skidded to a jarring stop.
CHAPTER FIVE
212 Cedar Street
7:10 p.m.
"How long will you be staying, honey?"
Emily pushed the peas around on her plate and considered how best to answer her father's question. Silence had started pressing in on the family dining room as soon as she'd arrived late for dinner. This moment had been coming ever since.
Despite his affable tone, her father wore his seriously concerned face.
Since the breakdown her parents had used alternating zones for dealing with her: curiously indulgent, surprisingly relieved, seriously concerned, or deeply troubled. Tonight, apparently, was seriously concerned.
"A week or so. I haven't decided." Emily stuffed a forkful of potatoes into her mouth to avoid further elaboration. She'd asked for two weeks' vacation, but she would take as long as necessary. That she was a grown woman and could make her own decision on the matter wouldn't be relevant to her parents.
Stevie Wonder couldn't have missed the look that passed between them. They weren't anywhere near finished yet.
Edward Wallace set his fork aside and peered down the length of the table with sympathy in his brown eyes, the same brown eyes that stared back at Emily every morning from the bathroom mirror. Only sans the emptiness.
"You're welcome to stay as long as you like, Em."
There was a but coming and then the event she dreaded with every fiber of her being each time she visited. Emily settled her hands atop the linen napkin in her lap and braced for the talk . They were about to enter the deeply troubled zone.
"But your mother and I are worried about your reasons for taking this abrupt vacation." He searched her eyes as if he hoped to see the answer he sought there. Evidently he didn't find it, so he went on. "We know how you feel, honey."
Impossible . The word resounded inside her, but she didn't allow it to cross her lips. Any argument from her would only accelerate the disintegration of the already unstable climate. What she felt was dead. When she didn't feel dead inside, she felt angry. Like now. They couldn't know.
"What your father is trying to say, dear," Carol Wallace jumped in, as if they had assigned parts and had carefully rehearsed, "is that it's a crying shame that boy's not still in prison, but nothing you do is going to change the facts. Em, you're twenty-eight years old; it's time you paid attention to yourself... to your future. We don't want you going backward."
Carol was a lovely woman no matter that she shopped in the plus-size departments these days and wore the gray invading her black hair like a badge of honor. Despite a nursing degree, she'd spent her life serving her family, her church, and her community—in that order. The same could be said for Ed Wallace. Long hours at his investment firm
had never once prevented him from being a loving,
Movement in the rearview mirror snagged Clint's attention. A truck, an older-model Chevy, had topped the hill behind him moving way too fast. Clint edged nearer the shoulder of the road to allow plenty of room for the driver to get on by. But he didn't do that. He roared up behind Clint.
"What the hell?" He braced just in time for the impact.
The track pushed against his rear bumper.
Clint tightened his grip on the steering wheel and floored the accelerator in an attempt to put some distance between them. The truck responded likewise, nudging him again before he could get his momentum going.
Clint topped the next hill. A slow-moving car on the road in front of him forced him to brake hard. The truck didn't.
A sharp cut to the right avoided the crash and sent him bucking across the shallow ditch and into the cornfield, clearing a wide path of stalks.
He swerved left, came down hard on the brake.
The Firebird skidded to a jarring stop.
CHAPTER FIVE
212 Cedar Street
7:10 p.m.
"How long will you be staying, honey?"
Emily pushed the peas around on her plate and considered how best to answer her father's question. Silence had started pressing in on the family dining room as soon as she'd arrived late for dinner. This moment had been coming ever since.
Despite his affable tone, her father wore his seriously concerned face.
Since the breakdown her parents had used alternating zones for dealing with her: curiously indulgent, surprisingly relieved, seriously concerned, or deeply troubled. Tonight, apparently, was seriously concerned.
"A week or so. I haven't decided." Emily stuffed a forkful of potatoes into her mouth to avoid further elaboration. She'd asked for two weeks' vacation, but she would take as long as necessary. That she was a grown woman and could make her own decision on the matter wouldn't be relevant to her parents.
Stevie Wonder couldn't have missed the look that passed between them. They weren't anywhere near finished yet.
Edward Wallace set his fork aside and peered down the length of the table with sympathy in his brown eyes, the same brown eyes that stared back at Emily every morning from the bathroom mirror. Only sans the emptiness.
"You're welcome to stay as long as you like, Em."
There was a but coming and then the event she dreaded with every fiber of her being each time she visited. Emily settled her hands atop the linen napkin in her lap and braced for the talk . They were about to enter the deeply troubled zone.
"But your mother and I are worried about your reasons for taking this abrupt vacation." He searched her eyes as if he hoped to see the answer he sought there. Evidently he didn't find it, so he went on. "We know how you feel, honey."
Impossible . The word resounded inside her, but she didn't allow it to cross her lips. Any argument from her would only accelerate the disintegration of the already unstable climate. What she felt was dead. When she didn't feel dead inside, she felt angry. Like now. They couldn't know.
"What your father is trying to say, dear," Carol Wallace jumped in, as if they had assigned parts and had carefully rehearsed, "is that it's a crying shame that boy's not still in prison, but nothing you do is going to change the facts. Em, you're twenty-eight years old; it's time you paid attention to yourself... to your future. We don't want you going backward."
Carol was a lovely woman no matter that she shopped in the plus-size departments these days and wore the gray invading her black hair like a badge of honor. Despite a nursing degree, she'd spent her life serving her family, her church, and her community—in that order. The same could be said for Ed Wallace. Long hours at his investment firm
had never once prevented him from being a loving,
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