Last Kiss Goodbye Page 9

  And she had wanted to save money, Ivy remembered. At night, she’d tell Ivy stories of faraway places. Show her pictures of cities she wanted them to visit. Of big fancy houses and shopping centers, and schools. Even colleges that she dreamed of Ivy attending. Tall massive stone structures with architecture that resembled castles from a fairyland.

  “See those pretty green vines growing on that building?” she had said.

  Ivy had stared in awe at the photos. “It looks like a castle, Mommy. Like something a queen would live in.”

  “It’s not a house,” her mother had explained. “It’s an Ivy League university.” She had hugged Ivy into the circle of her arms then and traced her finger over the beautiful green vines crawling up the stone structures. “That’s the reason I named you Ivy. Because one day I want you to attend an Ivy League school. Then you can make something of yourself, be important. Not like your mama and daddy.”

  Tears pressed against Ivy’s eyelids as she recalled her mother’s words. Lily had loved her and would still be with her if someone hadn’t brutally stolen her life.

  “Ivy?” Worry tinged Matt’s voice. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She placed her empty coffee mug on the counter, inhaling sharply. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

  He nodded. “Then I’ll go. Let you get some sleep.”

  Ivy nodded, as well, but she didn’t turn around. She wasn’t sure she would sleep. Not with memories of that bloody message and dead chicken taunting her. Not knowing that someone might try to harm her.

  And that Matt might be in danger, too.

  MATT ORDERED HIMSELF to leave. Being in the same room with Ivy disturbed his equilibrium. Resurrected his protective instincts. Made him want to hold her and erase the fear from her eyes. Made him want other things he couldn’t have. A kiss. A touch. A night with her in his arms.

  But he had a mission and nothing would deter him. Especially a woman. Still, Ivy looked so lost he could hardly drag himself away. Traces of guilt and helplessness had echoed in her voice. And fear lingered in her eyes as well as the memory of that gruesome threat.

  Restless energy pounding through him, he laid a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her to face him. Her creamy skin looked ashen. “Ivy? Did you remember something else?”

  She shook her head. “Not about that night. Just…little things about my mother. The reason she named me Ivy.”

  He smiled. “For those deep green eyes of yours.”

  “No. Because she wanted me to attend an Ivy League college. She said my eyes were the same color as the ivy.”

  His throat tightened. In spite of the fact that she’d frequented Red Row, Lily had loved Ivy. Had Lily been working to save money to help her daughter escape the life she’d been saddled with? She should have found another way, a life that hadn’t been so dangerous.

  “But my father called me Poison Ivy,” Ivy whispered, a bleak note in her voice. “He said I was poison to his marriage.”

  Anger sent a blade of pain through Matt. “Like I said earlier, Ivy, your father was a bastard.”

  She bit down on her lip, and the soft glow from the lamp across the room cast her beautiful face in an angelic glow. Matt wondered what she saw when she looked at him. The scar on his face? The animal he’d become in the pen?

  The filth, the fights, the unspeakable acts…

  He wished he could will away his past. He ached to kiss her, almost tipped up her chin and claimed that soft mouth for his own. Let her tenderness soothe his blemished soul.

  But he couldn’t. He had killed. Not her father or mother. But since then, he had taken lives. In dirty ways he never wanted her to know about.

  “Do you think you can sleep?” he asked gruffly.

  She hesitated. “I…don’t know. But we both need to try. Tomorrow…tomorrow I want to talk to some people in town.”

  “Maybe you should heed that warning and leave, Ivy. It’s dangerous for you to ask questions.”

  “I can’t leave,” she whispered. “The nightmares follow me everywhere I go.”

  God, he understood about nightmares. He might be out of prison, but the sins he’d committed inside would dog him forever. The very reason he slept with the window open. With a knife. With his face toward the door.

  Never turn your back or you might be attacked. Or worse…

  Ivy reached up and traced a finger along the edge of his scar, and his breath hissed between clenched teeth. Emotions crowded his chest—anger begging for release, but a tenderness tugged at him, too, one he hadn’t felt in so long he thought that side of him had died.

  “Does it hurt?” she whispered.

  Every damn minute of every day, he wanted to say. But pain had become his friend, reminding him he was alive. Still, her concern touched him, made the pain recede momentarily. The back of his throat burned. Jesus Christ, he felt as if he might actually get choked up. Big ugly tough men like him did not get emotional. They learned to channel their feelings into productive ones like anger. Revenge.

  So he lied.

  “No.”

  She stroked his cheek again, and moistened her lips with her tongue, drawing his eyes to the erotic movement. Heat engulfed his body. Need and hunger speared through him, a craving to be closer to her that nearly made his knees buckle.

  He had to walk away before he made a fool of himself. There was no changing the man he’d become, a bitter fighter, not a lover.

  And while he’d do his damnedest to keep her safe, loving her in any way was not an option.

  TOMMY WERTH’S TEMPLES throbbed as if a hammer were beating against his skull. His stomach cramped in response, and he thought for a minute he was going to puke. Throwing off the covers, he tried to sit up, but the room swayed. He was so dizzy he flopped back down, but that movement sent his stomach into another spin cycle. The pounding grew louder, and through the blurry haze of his mind, he realized someone was really banging at the door.

  Yanking his boxers up and tugging his Metallica T-shirt down over his growling belly, he scrubbed a hand over his face, peered through bleary eyes at the clock. It was the middle of the night. Who the fuck was bothering him? One of his buddies…

  No, Trash and Ace would just crawl through the window.

  The hammering sound continued. He cursed again. The only way to stop the noise was to answer the damn door. Head threatening to explode, he stood, grabbed the door edge for support, then wobbled through his dark bedroom. He fumbled for the switch, then flipped on a lamp and winced as bright light pierced his eyes. He blinked furiously, then lurched forward and leaned against the door. “Who is it?”

  “Sheriff Boles, Tommy. I need to talk to you.”

  Panic zinged through him. Shit. Shit. Shit. What the hell was the sheriff doing here?

  The night before rolled through his mind like a movie trailer. He’d come home and gotten drunk. All that beer. Man, it had been good. But what had happened before?

  Geez…his mother.

  No. No. No. They couldn’t have found her yet. He’d buried her too deep. He had to calm down. Act cool.

  “Tommy, open up,” the loud voice boomed. “Now.”

  The sheriff’s commanding voice intensified the pain in Tommy’s head. He had to run. Get away. But where could he hide? The cellar? The attic?

  No, hiding would make him look guilty. Maybe they hadn’t found the old hag, after all. Maybe they were only looking for her. But who would have reported her missing? She didn’t have many friends.

  “Tommy, open the door or I’m going to open it.”

  No time to run. To think. To escape. Had to face him. Lie if he had to.

  He fidgeted with the doorknob, then yanked at the wood. It was swollen from the rain, but finally screeched open. “Sorry, Sheriff, I was asleep.”

  His bleary eyes latched onto the sheriff’s badge, and he took a step back, staggering slightly.

  “You okay, Tommy? You don’t look so well.”

 
“I…got the flu or something.”

  “Or something.” The sheriff stepped inside, sniffed, then glared down at him. “What you have is a hangover.”

  Tommy shrugged and clutched at his stomach. “Yeah, well, I’m nearly eighteen.”

  “You’re sixteen and underage,” Sheriff Boles stated.

  “Look, Sheriff, it’s not like I’m out driving or anything. I wasn’t bothering anyone here in my own house.”

  “Have you been here all night?”

  Was he trying to trip him up? “Yeah.” Tommy gestured toward his mother’s fancy white couch, littered with bags of chips, a half-eaten frozen pizza he’d fixed, and a dozen empty beer cans that smelled sour. “My mom was out, so I had a little party.”

  “By yourself?”

  Once again panic clawed at his stomach, but he refused to puke in front of this man, who would probably laugh his ass off. Tommy had heard the sheriff could drink almost anyone in the town under the table at the Ole Peculiar.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why hadn’t he called someone over last night? Then he would at least have an alibi.

  “Were you alone, Tommy?”

  “Yeah.” He swallowed down the bile in his throat. Better not say too much. Keep quiet or he’d give something away.

  “What were you celebrating?” the sheriff asked.

  Tommy shifted on his feet, rubbed a hand over the emblem on his T-shirt. “Listen, Sheriff, give me a break. I’m sure you knocked back a few when you were my age, too, didn’t you?”

  Boles’s thick mouth flattened at that comment. Score one for Tommy.

  “What’d you stop by for?” he asked. “Did you need to see my mother?”

  Sheriff Boles’s eyes turned somber, his mouth thinning into a flat line. “Actually, that’s the reason I’m here. I have some bad news for you, Tommy.”

  Tommy braced himself to act dutifully shocked and upset.

  “We found your mother’s body.” Boles hesitated, looking grim. “I’m afraid she’s dead.”

  The memory of the blood squirting from her body flashed back, like ketchup spewing from a broken bottle. Other moments of the night before bombarded him. Her shrill scream that had pierced the black night. The smell of her urinating on herself.

  His mouth fought a smile, but his stomach protested. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if he got sick in front of the sheriff. It might be a nice touch. Make him appear to be the grieving, shocked son. Somebody who gave a damn.

  He made a choking sound, half crying, half sick, then ran to the bathroom, dropped down and emptied his stomach. The sheriff’s boots clattered on the cold linoleum floor. Seconds later, he appeared, doused a washcloth in cold water and handed it to Tommy.

  Sweat poured off his face and neck, and his hands were shaking. He even managed to choke out a few tears. Then he accepted the cloth, leaned over the toilet again, pressed it over his face and moaned.

  Behind the washcloth, he finally allowed himself to smile. He was a pretty good actor, if he did say so himself.

  IVY TRIED TO SHUT OUT the images of blood and violence, but they taunted her, anyway, following her into the shadows of night as she prepared for bed. She still didn’t have a good read on Sheriff Boles. One minute he’d acted friendly to her, the next he’d practically told her to heed that bloody warning.

  She slipped on a long-sleeved nightshirt, still shivering from the chill in the room. The old-fashioned, brown paneled walls added another layer of darkness to the cabin, and the wind howled through the wooden cracks like an injured wild animal. If it wasn’t so late, she’d turn on the gas logs in the fireplace to warm the room, but going to bed with them burning didn’t seem like a wise idea. These cabins had been built years ago; the aging wood and faded carpet testified to the fact that things might be in disrepair.

  Not willing to take a chance, she grabbed an extra blanket from the closet, tugged on wool socks and set the teakettle on the stove. Better keep to the rituals.

  Tea. Read a few minutes. Listen to some soft jazz music. Then maybe she would fall asleep sometime before morning.

  The tea made, she brought her laptop to bed, then decided to do a little more research on the town and its history to wind down.

  Curious, she accessed the local paper’s archives, starting with her parents’ deaths. A photo of her had appeared in one of the papers, clinging to that muddy Santa, her clothes hanging on her skinny young body, as a social worker carted her away.

  Eight-year-old Ivy Stanton, thought to have possibly witnessed the brutal murder of her parents, is temporarily placed in foster care. Sources report that she has undergone a psychiatric evaluation. Doctors report that if she did witness the murders, she’s repressed the memories. Whether or not she will ever recall the events of that night remains a mystery.

  Ivy pulled the photos of the crime scene she’d managed to obtain from an investigator from her briefcase. She had seen the photos but never really studied them before. The stark, black-and-white pictures showed her mother’s dead, bloody body sprawled on the cheap linoleum floor of their trailer. Her hand had been outstretched as if reaching for something. Maybe for Ivy. Maybe for a weapon to defend herself. Or for help.

  Blood had pooled around her head and chest, a river of brown that had spread under the table. Her head lay at an odd angle, her dress was tattered and shoved up around her knees, and one high heel was missing. Her mother had always liked shoes, especially heels. Ivy had loved playing dress-up in them, wobbling and trying to walk like a model.

  She forced herself to read the article, nearly choking as the reporter hinted that her mother might have been killed by a jealous lover. He’d also alluded to the fact that she had once been a waitress at the local honky-tonk and that the men liked her.

  The gossip in town echoed in Ivy’s head—that Stanton woman was a slut.

  Ivy chewed her lip. Had her mother had a lover?

  She certainly was beautiful. Her golden hair matched Ivy’s, although her mother had been taller and full-figured. And her eyes were brown, like hot cocoa, Ivy remembered, not green. She’d been warm and laughing—that is, when her husband hadn’t been around.

  No, her mother hadn’t been a slut. She couldn’t have been. She stayed home with Ivy, met her at the school bus every day, baked homemade chocolate chip cookies for her in the afternoon and helped her with her homework.

  An animal growled outside, and Ivy rose and peered through the window into the woods. Tall trees swayed, sending rain splattering on the muddy ground, leaves and twigs. A small pinpoint of light moved behind a tree—maybe from a cigarette or lighter? The growl of the animal grew louder. Closer. A mountain lion? Or a bear, maybe? Did they inhabit this part of Appalachia? Did they come this close to the cabins?

  The light moved again, and panic slammed into her. Was the person who’d left that bloody message out there, watching her from the woods?

  CHAPTER SIX

  MATT TOSSED AND TURNED, unable to sleep for thinking about Ivy. Wondering if she was okay. If she’d been too shaken to rest.

  Dammit. He wasn’t supposed to worry about her. He had only one purpose here in town and that was to find the person who’d framed him for murder. Once that individual was punished, Matt would leave this godforsaken town forever.

  Throwing the covers aside, he walked to the table and spread out the transcript files of his trial. He slumped down and read through the pages again, searching for any clue as to how he could have saved himself. His lawyer hadn’t committed any serious infractions; he simply hadn’t built a defense. He definitely should have put Matt on the stand, but he’d reasoned that Matt’s angry attitude would hurt his case. Maybe he’d been right.

  Or maybe someone on that jury would have seen through to the frightened boy underneath the tough facade.

  Hell, it didn’t matter. What was done was done. All that mattered now was righting that wrong. And exacting revenge. Matt had to harness the drive that had helped him survive prison.


  Turning back to the task, he studied the list of witnesses for the prosecution. Randy Putnam, the owner of the local hardware store back then, had testified that he’d caught Matt trying to lift a tool set once. The principal at the high school had added that he’d been truant, had caused fights in school, had an explosive temper and was rebellious toward adults. Old man Dayton had testified that he’d seen Matt stealing car parts from the junkyard, which the D.A. had gladly used to crucify him. The entire case hinged on suppositions that Matt had gotten caught stealing and had killed Stanton. Of course, he’d waffled slightly on Matt’s motive for killing Mrs. Stanton.

  But his own mother had erased any lingering doubt about his guilt when she’d admitted on the stand that he’d fought with his father all the time. That he’d beaten him with a bat once. And another time, he’d challenged him with a pocketknife.

  He had hit the old man, but only to stop him from beating on his mother. But had she mentioned that detail? No. The woman had covered for his old man’s ass so many times Matt had lost count. Then his father had run off and left her high and dry, with nothing.

  During the trial, Matt had heard gossip that some people thought he might have even killed his old man. But Matt had been eleven when his father had left town. Although if Jerry Mahoney had stayed around and continued his abusive ways, Matt probably would have murdered him. Then he would have ended up in jail, anyway. But at least he would have had the satisfaction of killing the bastard first.

  You have killed since.

  But only in self-defense.

  Did it really matter? He had taken another man’s life….

  Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his face. He swiped at the moisture, desperate to wipe away the ugly memories, as well. The sheriff then, Larry Lumbar, had described the bloody scene at Ivy’s trailer and displayed samples of fingerprints matching Matt’s. His boot prints were shown, as well. Matt had no alibi. A.J. had claimed he’d been home with his daddy. Matt’s mother had admitted that he hadn’t come home all night.