Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [46]
“Andrew and I didn’t love each other, but I never believed he could hurt Justin. But for a while, after all the questions, after Andrew’s affair became public, after the police showed me the ph-photos—” Her voice cracked and Tom wanted to wrap his arms around her, but Nelia had never talked of this. Tom doubted she’d spoken to anyone about what happened during the weeks after her son was murdered.
“I thought maybe . . . and then I thought about my sister. She was babysitting for me that night. What if she had a boyfriend over? Was protecting him? What if she was part of it?” Nelia’s voice trembled. “I blamed everyone. I know Andrew didn’t kill Justin any more than I did, or Carina, or a phantom boyfriend. But when I saw—” She rubbed her face roughly, squeezed her eyes closed, and sank into the chair. Tom took her hand. She was shaking.
“The crime scene photos.” Her voice was barely a whisper, the anguish in every breath. “And.” She cleared her throat. “For a minute, I looked at Andrew. As a killer.” She opened her eyes, stared at Tom. “I knew he wasn’t. He was far from perfect, but he loved Justin with his whole heart.”
“I hate that you went through that.” Even though Tom understood it all too well.
“I was a suspect because I didn’t have an alibi,” she said. “I was working alone at my office.”
“No one believed—”
“Yes, they did. Strangers believed. People who didn’t know me. And for a while, I thought my family—”
“They didn’t think you’d killed your own child.”
She sighed, some of the pain and anger escaping. “No, but for a while they questioned just like I did. Because there were no suspects, there was no one else, and it came down to why? Why would someone randomly break into a house and steal a child and kill him? It wasn’t a pedophile, he wasn’t abused that way.” Her head fell to the side, downcast, tears streaming down her face.
Tom stood and pulled her up and into his arms, holding her tight. She clasped her arms around him, her body shaking with silent sobs.
Several minutes later, as Tom stroked her hair and murmured soothing nothings in her ear, Nelia said, “I know the pain in your heart, having someone you love think you are guilty. I believe you, Tom. I want Claire to believe you, too.”
Tom found her lips with his, kissed her, tasted the tears caught in the crevice of her lips. His hands fisted in her hair and he gently pushed her down to the bed. The love, the trust, the faith this woman had in him undid him. He didn’t deserve it, but he would protect it with everything he had, including his life.
“I love you, Nelia.”
She whispered in his ear, “You’re the only person who has ever been able to dull the pain in my heart, pain I’ve lived with for twelve years. You saved my soul, Tom. I love you.”
TWELVE
Claire drove to the Fox & Goose after changing at her house. The conversation with Dave had depressed her, making it clear that there was no one on her side in this situation. She wished she could confide in Dave, but he was a cop first. Yes, he cared about her, and he had once been close to her father, but she still didn’t expect him to forget that her father was a fugitive. She couldn’t.
But . . .
Oliver Maddox’s death couldn’t be a coincidence. She wished she had been thinking clearer when her father cornered her that morning, asked him more questions, like what exactly did Oliver Maddox know?
She swallowed thickly. She had been in no frame of mind then to ask anything coherent. If only she had a way of contacting him, finding out—
Wouldn’t Oliver have kept records? Files? Notes on his thesis? Something where she could pull out threads to follow on