Whispers in the Night. Diane Pershing
the feeing she wasn’t real comfortable with him yet. Today, there seemed to be a definite improvement in her mood.
Do it, he lectured himself silently. Use the time to get the information you need.
And forget about wanting her. The woman had good sense—she wasn’t about to get mixed up with an ex-con, and he wasn’t about to screw up his reasons for being here with any sexual nonsense.
But how to start? So, he could say, tell me about yourself—any sisters or brothers? Right. Like they were on a blind date or had just met at a bar. Okay, start casually, lead into it. Gazing around him, Paul said, “This place is really something.”
“Yes, I’m lucky it’s in the family. Although, given the choice, I’d rather Walter were still alive.”
It was such a sad little comment, and it took him by surprise. He studied her face, open, honest and completely devoid of makeup or artifice of any kind. “So…you loved him.”
She seemed taken aback. “Of course I did.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get personal. It’s just—” he shrugged “—you’re so different from what the papers made you out to be.” After it was out, he wondered if it had been a wise thing to say.
But she didn’t seem to mind. Lifting one shoulder in an answering shrug, she said, “They make it up. I’m a creation of the media. They’re getting back at me for refusing interviews and insisting on my privacy. I wanted to mourn my husband’s death. They couldn’t understand why someone wouldn’t welcome their fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Yeah. Being damned in the press can really play havoc with your life, big-time.”
“Is that what happened to you? I don’t remember the details. Were you tried in public, too?”
“Believe it. It started out with one of those ‘anonymous sources’ you read about. He called a reporter with the scoop on me, how I was a dirty cop.”
Talking about it dredged up that familiar sense of outrage. He took a sip of his tea to calm himself and to watch Kayla’s face for any hint of recognition. Nope. Nothing there but polite interest.
“An investigation was opened,” he continued, “and then there was a trial. It was pretty carefully orchestrated. I never had a chance. The guy, the ‘anonymous source,’ he started the whole thing.”
She shook her head. “I hate when people hide behind anonymity—it keeps them from having to be responsible for their actions.”
“He didn’t stay hidden, trust me. He testified at the trial.” He was talking about her brother; again, Paul watched her closely, but she showed no signs of having heard any of this before. “It was all a lie.”
“But now you’re out. You’ve served your time.”
“I could still go back. See, this chief witness against me was a paid informant, working for the district attorney, and the defense wasn’t informed of that. His testimony was pretty damaging. Had my lawyer known about him, he could have impeached his credibility.”
“So, they had no choice but to release you.”
“Pending a new trial. They’ll let you out if it’s a first offense and not a crime against person or persons.” He was telling her more than she needed to know, but there was something about Kayla Thorne that made talking to her easy.
She nodded. “I see. Well, good luck.”
He gave a mirthless grunt. “I’ll need more than good luck. But we’re working on it. I want to clear my name,” he added with more vehemence than he’d intended.
“Well, of course you do.” Compassion flowed out of her. “It must have been so hard on your family, you being in jail.”
“My family?”
“Your wife, children. If you have either.”
It was one of those questions that women usually asked to find out if a guy was married before she got involved with him. However, in her case, he figured, she wasn’t on a fishing expedition; she was just being courteous.
“No kids,” he told her. “And my wife divorced me while I was in jail.”
“Oh.”
“My family stood up for me, though. My dad and brothers are responsible for me having this second chance—they’re helping to pay for the lawyer. If for no other reason, I need to prove my innocence, for them. To pay them back.”
“How are you going to do that?”
By finding out where your son-of-a-bitch brother is, he wanted to say. Jay Vinovich, aka Jay Goodall, the anonymous source and main witness. When Paul found him, he would pay, in spades.
“I’m working on a few leads,” he said, then plunged ahead with the topic that, after all, she had raised. “I can’t say enough about my family. They really came through for me. How about yours? During this whole thing, this bad rap in the press, did your family stand by you?”
If she’d been a window, at that moment the shutters would have snapped closed. “I don’t speak to my family much,” she said. “Not at all, actually.” She turned away from him, gazing instead at the vista before them.
“Oh, sorry. No mom and dad?” He made himself push it. He had no choice. “No brothers or sisters riding to your rescue?”
“My mother is gone, and I’ve lost touch with all the rest of them.”
“All the rest?”
“I’m the only girl of five children.”
He already knew that, but he whistled and said, “Big family.”
“Too big.” Her smile was inward, and bitter.
“And you don’t see any of them?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame,” he said with a sinking heart.
A damned shame, in fact. In more ways than one.
As though, after the flurry of dialogue, they’d each agreed to a time out, conversation stopped. Paul went back to his lunch, barely tasting his sandwich, and wished he knew what to ask next. What he’d learned so far from Kayla Thorne was exactly zip, and he tried to fight the growing sense of despair in his gut. Maybe she was exaggerating the estrangement; maybe she’d lost touch, but you could always find out where your family was, couldn’t you? If you really needed to…?
But he’d prodded about as much as he could at this time. Besides, he’d never been good at fishing expeditions. He figured if a person wanted to talk about a difficult subject, then they would. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t. He personally hated to have his privacy breached, but that was what he was trying to do to her right now.
For extremely important reasons, he reminded himself. The difference between a second chance at life and the possibility of going back to hell for several more years.
The sun felt good on Kayla’s back as, later in the afternoon, she pulled weeds from the garden on the far side of the house. Rich autumn smells filled her nostrils, from a neighbor burning leaves to the wild onions that grew at the edge of the porch. She listened to the sound of sawing and nail-pounding from upstairs, birds twittering in the trees all around. It was like surround sound for nature. She sighed. It had been a long time since she’d felt such contentment, such a sense of peace….
“Kayla!”
The harsh sound of her name made her jerk her head up. No, she thought, standing, wiping her hands on her jeans, pushing her hair off her face, no doubt leaving traces of dirt on her cheeks as she did so. She’d been so absorbed in her role as the happy gardener, she hadn’t heard his car drive up.
“Steven,” she said, turning to face the newcomer, who stood a few yards away,