Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [53]
Carefully, so she didn’t disturb him, Claire slid out of bed. Her hair was still damp from their midnight shower. After the intense first time, playful sex in the shower was a welcome diversion from her thoughts—her feelings—about Mitch. But now sleep wouldn’t come and those thoughts and fears came back.
Bill Kamanski used to brew her hot tea when she hadn’t been able to sleep after the trial. Sometimes it had worked.
She made the tea as quietly as possible using only the stove light for illumination.
She’d have preferred to stay in bed with Mitch and block out the real world, but Claire didn’t have the luxury of avoiding her responsibilities. She had to follow up on her contacts for the Holman arson investigation and check her office e-mail to see if she had a new assignment waiting.
But in all honesty, her job was the last thing on her mind. She had a trail to follow. Professor Don Collier hadn’t returned her call, but she didn’t know if he’d even received it. Maybe he hadn’t even been on campus yesterday.
Hot mug of tea in hand, Claire made a small detour into her makeshift office and turned on her screen, glancing through the doorway to her bed, where Mitch hadn’t moved. The screen didn’t shine on the bed, so she hoped she wouldn’t wake him. Gently, she tapped the keys and brought up the UCD website. A few clicks later she learned that Collier’s first Thursday class was criminal law at eight a.m., and lasted ninety minutes. If she rushed out by seven in the morning, she’d make it to Davis in time, even with traffic. She glanced at the clock. 2:30. Now that she had a set plan, she might be able to get a couple hours’ sleep.
She looked for her notepad to jot down the time and location of Collier’s class. She picked it up and saw a folded piece of paper protruding from underneath her keyboard with a bright green sticky note with CLAIRE written in large block letters.
Someone had been in her house.
Blood rushed to her head as she unfolded the note with shaking hands. An overwhelming sense of violation hit her.
In the odd light of the computer monitor, she read the letter.
Dad. He hadn’t signed it, but she immediately knew her father had been here. Not only from the small block letters he used, but from the way he addressed her.
Claire Beth, it began.
Short for Claire Elizabeth. Her dad was the only one who sometimes called her Claire Beth.
She glanced at the narrow wall where she’d hung a picture of her and her dad. She blinked, at first seeing it, then realizing it was missing.
She stared at the letter, her ears ringing. Her father had been here.
Claire Beth,
I wish I had approached you at another time and place, but my opportunity was limited. I understand why you don’t believe me. If I had been in your shoes then, at fourteen, walking in on what you did, I would probably feel the same way. And please believe me, I would have done anything to have spared you sitting through the trial.
The pain you’ve endured all these years tears my heart. It shows in your eyes. You once enjoyed every moment of the day. Now, all I see are barriers and skepticism. How I wish I could change the past, change everything that happened.
I did not kill Lydia or Chase Taverton. I am not a killer, Claire, and I will prove it to you. Somewhere a killer walks free and he is the proof of my innocence. I believe the way to find him is through Chase Taverton.
I didn’t want to get you involved. I only wanted to find Oliver because he has the information about Taverton that could exonerate me.
Oliver believes that Taverton was the target, not your mother. I don’t know exactly what he found, but it was big. He called me the week before I was transferred to Section B and said as soon as he tracked down a man named Frank Lowe, he’d have the evidence he needed. All Oliver told me about Lowe was that Taverton had cut a plea with him and he disappeared right after Taverton was murdered. I have no idea who Lowe is, but Oliver