Presumed Guilty until proven innocent

PRESUMED GUILTY

until proven innocent

A Romantic Suspense Novel

by

K.T. Madison

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by Karen L. King

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except brief quotes used in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any place, actual event, or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Every murder turns on a bright hot light, and a lot of people...have to walk out of the shadows.~Mark Hellinger

Prologue

Brooke was pregnant.

The words sliced through Daniel Thorton like the sharpened metal of a shank. He reared back, slamming into the cinder block wall as if he could escape the jolt of pain, but there was no getting free in this place. Steel doors and razor wire kept him trapped.

No! Daniel's brain screamed, but he had grown used to stifling his protest. Whining got you beaten...or worse.

His shoulder stung. On the other side of the barren room, his appellate lawyer quirked an eyebrow.

You didn't know? asked the balding, middle-aged man whose mental acuity showed in the sparkle in his eyes.

Daniel shook his head. He didn't want to know, but the knowledge, once gained, would never leave him. Just as his guilt that he should have prevented Brooke's murder was always with him. He feared his presence in her life had contributed to what had happened. He should have taught her how to defend herself.

I'm sorry, the lawyer said. But this could be a good thing.

Good thing? Telling me a baby was murdered, too, is a good thing? Daniel stared at the man whom he'd regarded as the closest thing he had to a true friend in the last few years. He'd thought Myron E. Lieberwitz was on his side.

Fortunately the medical examiner saved tissue samples from the fetus. If the DNA matches, we can get you a new trial.

DNA got me convicted. The transition to hope was too hard for Daniel to make. Seven years in this place killed hope. He crossed his arms and felt a sullen expression cross his face. He had cultivated the expression as an angry teen, and his resentment had probably contributed to his conviction in the first place. He'd looked like a punk. He'd acted like a punk. Brooke was the only one who'd ever seen through that, and she was dead.

Have a seat, said the lawyer. Even if we get you a new trial, it doesn't mean you'll beat this. The only thing this will prove is that you were telling the truth when you said you had a consensual sexual relationship with Brooke.

Daniel had worked hard to get past the world-is-against-me attitude. This prison housed plenty of men who'd grown up beaten and abused and really had killed their wives or girlfriends. At least he always knew he wasn't one of them.

The lawyer pulled out an orange plastic chair. The legs squeaked against the concrete floor. The coroner's notes estimate that she was almost five months along. Before I petition for the tests, I need to know if you are sure that the baby was yours.

It had to be mine. Daniel's voice came out husky. They'd been sleeping together for several months before she was murdered.

He'd been more than half in love before Brooke ever spoke to him. She had been everything he wasn't: confident, popular, rich. He'd spent months watching her from afar as she went through cheerleading practice. Surrounded by her girlfriends, she'd flip her blond hair over her shoulder while passing by him.

But superimposed over the image of her alive were the macabre images of her death scene. He'd been shown the photos at the trial. He'd wanted to tear them up, hide them. Instead he'd stared straight ahead, refusing to break.

After the trial, Myron had made him look.

Daniel's inability to choke back tears, more than anything, had convinced Myron of his innocence.

Myron leaned across the table. She never told you?

Daniel shook his head. She mentioned getting married. I said I didn't have a good enough job. His vision blurred. She said I should finish high school and go to college.

Daniel had barked a laugh as she'd tried to convince him to go on to college. As if that would ever happen in the normal order of events. He could barely afford high school, and that was free.

Daniel reached for his orange chair, more to occupy his hands than because he really wanted to sit. Why hadn't she told him? God, had he misinterpreted that conversation? In seven years, he'd relived every conversation they'd ever had. She'd also talked of going away.

He'd never expected their relationship to last, even though he loved her with the desperation of a starved dog. Nothing good in his life lasted, not clothes, not food, not his father's sober spells.

If we get a new trial, will Jen Collins testify? Daniel asked.

I don't see why not. She's back in Fairland now, said Myron, shuffling his papers and pulling out a yellow legal pad with a long list of questions.

Jennifer Collins had been the only one who knew of his relationship with Brooke. She had been Brooke's best friend, a mousy little brainiac who was overshadowed by the more flamboyant cheerleader. He never understood what Brooke and Jen had in common. But instead of testifying about his relationship with Brooke, Jen had been in Switzerland during his trial.

Daniel put his head down on the table, and although he knew it was a mistake to ask, he couldn't resist. The answer would sharpen the images in his head from a misty possibility to white hot grief over a real baby, but he wouldn't be able to concentrate on his session with Myron until he knew. Was it a boy or a girl?

Chapter One

Six and a half years later

Late June, Saturday, Noon

So he was back. Daniel Thorton's car swayed and bounced on the potholed Main Street. A handful of locals who probably despised him trudged along the crumbling sidewalks toward Patty's diner. The drugstore's ancient marquee with crooked letters screeched on a rusty pole. Occupying what had been a hunting supply store was a gift-and-flower shop. The Duckwall's store manager turned her cardboard sign in the lusterless front window. In the past, she'd turned the sign to Closed just because she'd seen him coming.

Had Fairland, Iowa been this faded and tired when he left? Perhaps the contrast to Chicago made Fairland look small. Or the town had lost its power to intimidate him. After seven years in the penitentiary, not much scared him.

Daniel drove past a few empty storefronts. He pulled to a stop at the corner of Fourth and Main for the only stoplight in town. Across the street stood the two-story building which had once housed the Monroe Bank, but the bright flag logo on the window announced it was another anonymous branch of a big conglomerate now.

As Daniel's Lexus idled at the flashing red light, Mr. Monroe pushed through the glass door. Daniel's spine stiffened. Mr. Monroe's posture was tired and stooped, his face creased with permanent frown lines. He looked much older than he had at the second trial six years ago. But then, the venomous look Mr. Monroe had shot him as he'd walked out free would have been enough to kill a lesser man.

Emotions as jumbled as threshed corn in a hopper tumbled through him. Mostly he felt pity. Even though Mr. Monroe had done everything he could to get Daniel convicted and keep him in jail, Mr. Monroe had lost a child, and Daniel had an inkling of what that felt like. More than an inkling.

Mr. Monroe looked his way and Daniel eased the car forward. Lingering at the stoplight for too long was bound to draw attention. In spite of his pre-owned car having over a hundred thousand miles on it, his Lexus stuck out like a sore thumb. He should have flown into Des Moines and rented a Ford.

The buildings gradually eased from neat and tidy, to sagging and paint-chipped. After turning on First Avenue, he pulled his car to the curb in front of a particularly tired house. The grayed siding, the rotting trim and the swaybacked roof were familiar. Home. Funny, he'd felt more at home in his prison cell.

He grabbed his bag and crossed the overgrown yard. Maybe he should mow and paint while he was here.

The screen door creaked as he entered the house. The smell of sour beer and dank tobacco smoke assaulted his nostrils while a TV yammered on.

As Daniel's eyes adjusted to the dark interior, he made out his old man, sitting in his undershirt and shorts. His father's legs were scrawny as a sparrow's. Hey, Dad.

What are you doing here? His old man leaned forward in his tattered recliner.

What a welcome. I had two weeks vacation. I thought I'd come home. Daniel would have called ahead, except his father hadn't kept a phone since Daniel went to prison.

People ain't going to like it.

Myron had told him to stay away. If it had just been the seven years Daniel'd spent locked up for a murder he didn't commit, maybe he could have put it behind him. But a few months ago, Daniel had been dragged out of a client meeting to endure another interrogation for a rape and murder he hadn't committed. He'd not only lost his client, but his assistant, too, after she'd Googled him.

Besides Brooke and his son deserved justice. His son had been murdered before Daniel even knew he existed, and the killer still walked free. Can I stay here?

I ain't got no food. The welfare ain't much.

I bought food in Des Moines. He'd also bought cleaning supplies. Seeing what remained of his father's teeth, he winced. Daniel had been introduced to dentistry in prison. Fortunately he'd been young and had healthy teeth. The T-bone steaks he'd bought for dinner had been a bad idea.

Ain't you too good to stay here? You oughta get in that fancy car and go find you a swanky hotel.

I'd rather sleep here, Daniel said. I'd like to spend time with you.

That ain't why you came back.

No, not entirely, Daniel said. Beer cans and food cans with forks sticking out of them littered every available flat surface. Two-foot high newspaper stacks leaned against the walls. He didn't normally think of himself as fastidious, but his skin crawled thinking about sleeping here. My bedroom okay?

I got some stuff in there. You'll have to clear it out. At least it wasn't a get out of here and don't ever come back.

Thanks, Dad. I'm going to get the groceries.

Don't you go stirring up no trouble, said his father as the screen door slammed. Got me fired and I ain't worked since.

Daniel ignored his father's jibe. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't. His father's alcoholism would have got him fired sooner or later. His downward slide had turned into a free fall after his wife took off. His son's murder conviction had just ensured that the fall never stopped.

Carrying grocery sacks, Daniel returned inside. His father followed him into the kitchen. You may have got off on a technicality, but people 'round here still think you're guilty.

Was his father one of them? After sliding the bagged salad into the crisper drawer, Daniel tossed out some green fuzzy stuff that might once have been edible. I didn't get off on a technicality. I didn't kill Brooke. I want to know who did.

His dad looked at the package of T-bones and shook his head.

I can probably make them into a stew. It'd be a damn waste of good beef. Daniel pulled a carton of eggs and a package of hamburger out of the bag.

His father's jaundiced eyes grew watery. I don't eat much no how. I'll just get me a little hamburger patty. He grabbed another can of beer from the open refrigerator and popped the top. Bring any beer?

No, Dad. Hungry? I could fix you a sandwich.

Don't bother. I don't never eat lunch. His father shuffled back into the living room and sat down and stared at the TV, but it didn't appear that the old man really watched.

As a truce, it wasn't much, but it was probably the best he would get in this town.

Almost didn't recognize you, said the old man as Daniel walked through the living room with the bag of nonperishables and cleaning supplies. But you got a look like your mother.

Daniel's stomach tightened. They never talked about his mother. Maybe it was time they did.

Yeah? said Daniel. He knew the obvious. He had her dark hair and serious brown eyes, but he suspected his father saw more than that.

A fly circled and his father didn't reply.

Daniel would need to ask real questions if he wanted real answers. So, have you ever heard from her?

His father looked down at his beer. No.

His mother had left when he was twelve. His parents had fought about his dad's drinking. They'd been yelling and screaming at each other for days. Then she was gone.

Daniel shook his head. He'd always thought she would come back for him, but she never had. If the publicity about his conviction, then his acquittal hadn't brought her out of the woodwork, she must not want to be found.

Dad, do you have a phone book? Daniel asked as he fixed himself a sandwich. He eyed the rust stains on the table knife he'd just pulled out. He decided he didn't need mayonnaise on his sandwich and put the knife back.

Should be one in the drawer, answered his father.

Daniel pulled out the kitchen junk drawer, near where the phone used to be on the wall. He dug under assorted papers and leaking batteries to find the slim volume. Numbers were scrawled across the tattered cover, and the white pages were yellowed around the edges. As Daniel slowly pulled out the book, the year he was convicted jumped out at him.

Grabbing a pop and his sandwich he moved into the living room, leaving the phone book on the counter. You don't have a newer one? I want to call a few people.

People don't move much, and they keep the same numbers. His father took a sip of beer.

A phone book a dozen years old would be outdated and worthless in most places. But this was Fairland where change was slow. Given his plan to find Brooke's killer, the dated book might prove valuable. Besides Jennifer Collins was the first person he wanted to see, and he knew where she lived, next door to Brooke's home. He was strangely eager to see Jen again.

He resisted the urge to wipe away years of grime and shuffled enough junk around on the coffee table to set his plate down. He popped open his soda.

His dad tracked the drink in Daniel's hand as if hoping it was a beer.

Ever see Randy anymore? Daniel asked.

Once and a while. He works.

That statement contained a wealth of understatement. His father's best friend probably couldn't stand to hang out with an alcoholic freeloader.

Does he still work for that deaf farmer out on Millcreek road?

He owns the place now. Spends a lot of his time in his fields, I guess. His dad stared down into his beer can and shook it as if that would dislodge an undiscovered drop clinging to the aluminum walls. He don't invite me there.

His father had driven away everyone with his alcoholism, and Daniel had been too caught up in his own battles to help, not that he could have done much.

The silence stretched between them until his father quietly said, You've had a lot of bad things in your life.

Daniel took a slow sip of his soda, then put the can down. Yeah, well, you have too, Dad.

~*~

Saturday, 1:22 pm

Jennifer Collins wiped down the imitation wood-grained countertop. Then she carried her mother's nearly full lunch plate back to the kitchen, scraped the food into the trash and loaded the plate in the dishwasher. Her mother grew worse by the day. Death stalked her and kept them all trapped in a hopeless waiting for the inevitable.

Jennifer had escaped Fairland for a while. She'd fled more than an ocean away, all the way to Switzerland, where she'd been able to breathe. Her mother's emphysema brought her back. Not in the way she'd meant to return to treat the sick and healthy alike but, in a cruel irony, to take care of her sick mother.

Jennifer turned her back to the window and picked up her book, Gigi by Colette, in the original French. She sat by her mother and listened as she wheezed.

The doorbell startled Jennifer.

Her mother shifted on the hospital bed. Who's that?

I don't know, Mom. I'll go see. Are you up to a visitor?

Tired, mumbled her mother. She heaved a couple of deep gasps as if the few words had taken too much of her precious oxygen.

I'll get rid of 'em. Jennifer set down her book.

She opened the door and froze as the tall, lanky, dark-haired man turned toward her. He stood down a step, putting them on eye level with each other. He looked healthier than the last time she'd seen him. Back then, he'd had an awful prison pallor. He'd nodded to her as she walked past him after the hour she spent in the witness box, as if to thank her for her reluctant testimony.

Hey, Jen. Long time no see.

What are you doing here? Step back. Close the door. She just clutched the knob tighter.

His position on the middle step left a greater distance between them than was normal. Most people would have stood on the stoop. Unless he took a flying leap, she'd have time to close the door if he stepped up.

The corner of his mouth tilted in a wry expression. He swung his keys around his index finger. I took two weeks vacation and came for a visit. My father still lives in town.

Why are you here? At my house? For God's sake, the Monroes still live next door. Alarm filtered through the numbing shock of finding him on her doorstep. Her heart skittered.

I want answers, Jen. He sighed.

It's Jennifer.

He focused on her a minute as if really seeing her for the first time. She wished she'd taken a shower, put on a nice shirt just to make her feel more confident. But no, she wore sloppy jeans and an oversize tee shirt. And he made her just as nervous as he had in high school. Well, duh, he was a suspected murderer, after all.

No one has bothered to look for the real killer and it's time someone did.

Who, you? Warning bells went off in her head. Why was he back? He'd gotten away with it. He couldn't be tried again, no matter what. Why here? At her house?

Well, I didn't think you'd look, Switzerland. He twisted his keys faster and turned as if to leave, but then he hesitated.

She ignored his dig about her skipping out on his first trial. Doubts knocked at her. She had thought him innocent long after the sheriff's department was convinced, the town was convinced and one jury was convinced of his guilt.

You were her best friend. You of all people should know that I didn't kill her.

She was going to break up with you, Jennifer said. How do I know that you didn't get mad and do—

Did you see what was done to her?

Jennifer shook her head. How would he know what was done to Brooke if he hadn't been there? Jennifer's heart pounded and goose bumps rose on her arms.

I saw the crime scene photos. I never would have... He raked a hand through his dark hair. The strands sprang free between his long fingers. I just want to find out what you know, and I'll be gone.

She folded her arms. She wanted him gone, but an uneasy feeling in her compelled her to listen. You wouldn't have what?

She would have hated for people to see her like that. I wouldn't have done that to her. A hint of bewilderment clouded his voice.

Brooke was always put together. Even in her pajamas, she looked like a model teenager, the kind that star in TV sitcoms, with perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect boyfriend. But Brooke had tossed aside the varsity quarterback and gone for the town bad boy.

There was evidence. DNA evidence, Jennifer pointed out.

That proved we had sex, not that I killed her. What do you want me to do, go through the whole trial again? I was found innocent.

You were found not guilty, she corrected, and she hated herself for the jolt of jealousy that stabbed at her. For Christ sake, they'd all been kids. Mingled in with her own teenage hormones and the sad crush she'd had on her friend's boyfriend was resentment that he had taken time away from her with Brooke.

Right. He answered.

Jen? came the weak voice from the living room. Who's...there?

Just a guy I went to school with, Jennifer called back and wondered if their voices had risen. She could step out on the concrete porch, but she was leery of being alone with him.

Is that your mother? Daniel looked over her shoulder where the row of weary, green oxygen tanks stood sentinel along the far wall. His brows knit.

She's sick.

I'm sorry. He looked sincere. We could do this another time. I could buy you dinner in Des Moines.

I'm not going to Des Moines with you. She would have rolled over and died if he would have asked her out in high school. The hour drive to the big city would have made her pant with excitement, with the hope that they would pull over on the way back. He hadn't had a car back then.

You could meet me there. I'd rather not sit and talk in Patty's Diner.

I have to work evenings.

Every night? I just want to talk, compare notes about Brooke's last few days. He looked over at the Monroe house.

I try not to dwell in the past, said Jennifer. She didn't dwell in the present, either, as her life was just a series of endless caretaking tasks, and would be until her mother died. She focused on when she could get her life back, move forward and accomplish something, instead of being stuck waiting, suffocating, feeling trapped.

His jaw set, and he reminded her of the Daniel from high school. Lean and living on the edge. She couldn't go there. High school was an illusion.

He faced the Monroes' house and said, I have a life in Chicago. A career, a decent apartment, but I can't put this behind me until I know who murdered Brooke and my baby.

Shock rocketed through Jennifer, making her knees lock and her chest hurt. His baby? So the rumors were true. Her thoughts swirled, and emotions she thought had been tamped down years ago resurfaced. That Brooke hadn't told her such an important detail stung. But then their friendship had never been quite equal. Did you know about the baby before she died?

She didn't tell you, either? He swung around and looked her straight in the eye.

Jennifer shook her head. Stirring up these old memories only hurt. After the trial was over, she'd just wanted to put it behind her.

Look, Jen, all I'm asking for is a little of your time.

Not wanting her mother to hear and get worried, Jennifer stepped out on the porch, pulling the door shut behind her. From under the grief and hurt, anger erupted. She didn't want to experience all the ugly emotions again. You've gotten more than enough from me. My testimony at your trial got you your acquittal and cost my father his job.

You could have saved me seven years if you hadn't skipped the country for the first trial. You were the only one who knew about my relationship with Brooke.

She pointed at the Monroe house. They hate us. Do you know how much that hurt my mom?

You should try being locked up with people who need to be caged. His voice was calm in a way that made her feel hysterical and wrong. "It wasn't your testimony that set me free. It was the facts, all the facts, including the ones suppressed at the first trial, like Brooke being almost twenty weeks pregnant with my son. Frankly, your little spiel on how Brooke was worried about how I would take it when she broke up with me was not helpful to my case."

I thought you were thanking me when I walked out.

I was grateful that you didn't skip off to Switzerland again. I am grateful you came forward and told the truth. That's all I ever wanted anyone to do.

I was subpoenaed, she muttered.

His face turned hard as if his jaw had turned to stone. I'll keep that in mind. He flipped his keys and looked down at his hand.

Silence stretched between them as she waited for him to back off the step and walk away.

Instead his voice turned hoarse as he asked, Can you tell me where Brooke's grave is? I want to take her flowers. She liked pink. I should take her pink flowers.

Jennifer didn't know why that statement melted her anger and left her feeling drained and sad. How long had it been since she visited Brooke's grave? Years now, but the Monroes went every Sunday after church.

If you go in the main gate, turn right at the second road. After the dip, her grave is on the left.

Thanks, Jen. He clicked the car remote unlocking the doors of a nice-looking, midnight blue sedan.

Jennifer, she corrected.

His eyelids lowered as if he meant to smile, but it never reached his mouth. But then she'd never seen him smile much. She wondered if Brooke had seen him smile.

I never realized your eyes were green, he said.

Unfair. He should have just punched her in the solar plexus. She didn't know if green referred to her jealousy, which should have been long gone, or if he liked green eyes. Brooke'd had blue eyes. Why would you? You never saw me.

She was appalled those words had come out of her mouth.

He watched her with the sudden stillness of a cat ready to pounce, but his words were kinder, I never saw your eyes, because you always wore glasses.

The last of her college money had gone for laser surgery. What a bright idea that had been. Still she wanted to escape. I need to go check Mom's oxygen.

Yeah, I'll be seeing you. He stepped off the step and crossed the lawn to his car.

Jennifer wasn't sure if it was a threat or a promise.

Daniel still attracted her. Those hard edges had been smoothed out, but just a hint of danger and desperation lingered underneath. Was she an idiot or what?

~*~

Saturday, 1:48 pm

In Chicago, Daniel could have walked into a florist and picked up any one of a dozen arrangements and been out the door. This shop contained very few real flowers, a handful of plants, but mostly dusty pottery, lawn ornaments and stuffed animals.

How can I help you? Her Cleopatra hair swinging, the florist skirted around the long counter separating the cash register and a computer from the shopping area open to customers.

I wanted to buy flowers for...a grave.

She grabbed a plastic-sleeved album and flipped it open. These are the arrangements I can make.

She looked at him over the rim of her cat-woman glasses and then drew in a stiff breath. Oh. She stopped short, her album held just out of reaching distance. You're not from around here?

Actually, I used to be.

Oh, my. She took a tiny step back, her hand flying to her neck. The album clunked to the floor.

He turned away staring at the shelf of stuffed animals. He grabbed a small, blue bear. I'll take this.

He finally spotted the cooler at the back of the room. A few arrangements sat on the shelves. At the bottom lay fresh flowers, uncut and unarranged. Some looked a little wilted. An arrangement of pink roses and miniature white flowers in a heart-shaped vase caught his eye.

Can I get this too? He walked back to the small cooler and removed the roses.

She nodded, her mouth open.

He returned to the counter and pulled out his wallet.

Do you... She swallowed hard and jerked toward the cash register. Do you want a sack?

I'll just carry them. He wanted out of the shop as quickly as he could. He hated this town.

Aren't you that guy who... She swallowed convulsively. Thirty-seven, fifty.

How would she have completed the sentence? That guy who killed the Monroe girl? He ignored the feeling of despair that he was tried and convicted in this town's eyes. Clutching the vase of flowers, the bear and the receipt she dropped on the counter rather than hand to him, he walked outside and inhaled.

Inside his car, Daniel leaned his head against the steering wheel. He needed Jen's help. Everyone else in this town thought he was guilty. He hadn't really expected her to be against him, too. He should have expected it. Even the Chicago police thought he was guilty. God, he'd been looking forward to seeing her again. How stupid was that?

He turned the key in the ignition and drove out by the highway to the town cemetery.

Passing the high school, his raw memories of Brooke caught him by surprise. Coughing to ease the sudden dry spot in his throat, he looked away from the stadium. He'd attended a few football games just to watch Brooke cheer. The moves of her lithe form had kept him warm, even though he'd only worn a threadbare jean jacket while the Iowa wind had whipped through the metal bleachers.

Gravel crunched under his wheels as he turned into the town's only cemetery. Following Jen's directions he found Brooke's grave.

Nothing on the big, white stone indicated the baby who had died with her. But then the Monroes wouldn't have wanted anyone to know their teenage daughter was pregnant. It was bad enough she had been slumming with a lowlife like him, let alone gotten knocked up.

He placed the vase in front of her marker and then placed the small teddy bear next to the flowers. He sat down to the side, pulling the stray blades of grass that a mower had missed around the tombstone.

I probably wouldn't have made a very good dad, kid, but I would have tried.

He wanted to tell Brooke he had made something of himself and not ended up in a dead-end job in this dead-end town, nursing beers nightly to numb the endless monotony of it all. But for her death, he might not have ever left Iowa.

Daniel's mind spun back to when he'd been a few months shy of seventeen when Brooke Monroe had beckoned to him in the high school hallway and he'd shuffled over, sure that she was about to make him the butt of a joke.

She'd said, If you quit smoking, you probably wouldn't have such a hard time breathing. When you run, you know. She had tapped the pack in his tee shirt pocket. Besides, I hate the smell.

She'd flipped her hair over her shoulder and turned to talk to Jen. He'd taken the smokes out of his pocket, crumbled them and tossed them in the nearest trashcan. He didn't have the heart to tell her he stopped to catch his breath behind her house because he hoped to get a glimpse of sight of her.

As the weather grew nicer, she came out and asked if she could join him. I thought you quit smoking, she'd said.

I did, I just like to take a break here, he'd answered. He couldn't afford the cigarettes anyway.

He held up his hands to the tombstone. Look, Brooke. Still don't smoke.

In the early days of his relationship with Brooke, he'd barely let her out of his sight. No one cared where he was when he sat in the field until her bedroom light went out. Behavior he'd thought was invisible got painted as if he were stalking her at trial.

She had been found in that field less than a year later. Naked, bruised, her blond hair matted with dirt and leaves and her makeup streaked across her face as if she'd been crying in her final minutes.

He preferred to remember their shared runs, her smile and her belief that he could become a good man.

A shrill voice from behind interrupted his reminiscing. What are you doing here?

God, if he had a nickel for every time that question had been asked of him today. He stood, brushing the seat of his jeans. Flowers, he said tersely.

He turned. Although the last time he had seen her was six years ago at the trial, he recognized Mrs. Monroe instantly. He winced. Sorry, I didn't know you'd be here.

Her hollow eyes burned holes in him as he backed away.