Chapter 27
Someone had tried to kill Clint Austin.
Emily wasn’t alone in her conclusions. The headlines of the Huntsville Times online had heralded the same.
And she had heroically, according to both the Huntsville Times and the Pine Bluff Sentinel, also online, saved Austin’s life.
Emily lay back on the cool sheets of the bed. Plain old human compassion. Her actions had been instinct, nothing more. She would have done the same for anyone. For a dog or a cat. How many times had she told herself that already?
But it didn’t change the momentum of the uncertainty mounting inside her.
She hoped the police wouldn’t discover that Troy had been involved in the fire. He’d warned her that he was going to take care of Austin personally. For Troy’s family’s sake, she hoped he hadn’t done this.
Dealing with her own unchristian thoughts about revenge after Heather’s death had been a difficult aspect of facing life without her friend. But this uncertainty Emily faced now was far worse.
Ten years ago, Emily had been certain she was right.
What if she had been wrong?
The prospect shook her.
She had been there that night. He was there. No one else. No other suspects . . . just him.
As much as she didn’t want to, she closed her eyes and allowed the memories to surface.
Megan had rushed to get Emily home as soon as they’d finished leading the freshman girls through their final challenge: decorating the outside of Principal Call’s house for Christmas in July, complete with lights and light-up characters like Frosty the Snowman.
In her haste to leave, Megan had backed into Mr. Call’s mailbox.
Seconds later the principal was hot on their tail.
Knowing how much trouble Emily would be in if her parents found out, Megan had let Emily out at her house and barreled away.
The principal had followed Megan’s car to the other end of the block, taking the unavoidable confrontation away from Emily’s house.
Emily had only one thing on her mind. Hearing the secret Heather had to tell her.
It wasn’t until she’d reached her bedroom window that she recognized something was wrong.
She had climbed inside . . . straight into her worst nightmare.
Her heart pounded mercilessly as she recalled the instant she realized it was Clint in her bedroom.
She pushed the painful images away and opened her eyes to stare at the bland walls of the room she had booked.
The question that she had ignored at the time was why hadn’t Austin left while he had the chance?
That was the one aspect of that night that couldn’t be answered logically by anything she knew or remembered.
She’d told herself that the horror had just occurred.
That her coming in unexpectedly had confused him, especially if he’d only just realized he’d killed the wrong girl.
But looking back now, Emily had to ask herself if running had even entered his mind.
Even when she’d managed to push him away from Heather, he hadn’t run.
Why was that?
And if there had been drugs involved, as some speculated, though blood tests hadn’t backed it up, why hadn’t he finished what he’d gone there to do?
Why hadn’t he killed Emily? The knife had been lying on the floor right by the bed where he supposedly dropped it.
Her parents hadn’t been home yet, and several minutes had passed before the principal had heard Emily’s screams and called the police.
But Austin hadn’t killed Emily. And he hadn’t run. He’d stayed right there until the police arrived. Why?
Had he been developing his story even then?
Attempting to lend credibility to his alibi for being in the room since he’d been caught?
That was what she’d told herself the days and weeks after that night.
All through the trial, she’d let the momentum carry her along.
Everyone thought he was guilty. There were no other suspects.
There were no prints on the murder weapon, a kitchen knife that could have been purchased at any local store that sold household goods.
He’d been wearing gloves. There just hadn’t been anything else to believe.
A jury had weighed the evidence, no matter how meager and circumstantial, and had found him guilty.
The story should have ended there.
And, yet, it hadn’t.
A knock on the door of her room hurled her out of the past and into the present . . . there was no relief either place. How could she keep living like this?
Another knock.
“Emily?”
She sat up.
Clint Austin.
Why would he come here? How did he know she was here?
“I need to talk to you.”
She scooted off the bed, even as she thought of all the reasons she shouldn’t answer the door. She moved closer, angled her head for listening. “What do you want?” He could say what was on his mind and then go. She didn’t need to see him. Not right now; she was too confused. Too vulnerable.
“I need to talk to you. I don’t want to do it through this door and I’m not leaving until I’ve had my say.”
Emily surrendered to the inevitable. She drew back the chain and opened the door.
Those intense gray eyes zeroed in on hers. “You okay?”
“No, I’m not.” He should know. She prepared to shut him out. That he’d come by, that she’d answered the door, was against nature somehow.
“I drove past your house.”
God, she prayed he hadn’t stopped.
He lifted one broad shoulder. “Then I remembered Ray mentioning Fitzpatrick had dropped you off here.”
“You found me.” She didn’t want to look at him any longer than necessary. And she sure didn’t want to listen to his voice. She couldn’t deal with all that being this close to him entailed just now. Not until she’d sorted out her feelings. “What do you want?”
He stared directly into her eyes. She should have looked away but she couldn’t.
“To thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said defensively. They couldn’t have this conversation. “For all you know, I set that fire.”
He chuckled, a rich, throaty sound that rumbled deep in his chest and sent a new kind of tension through her, one that was far too familiar. “You’re right, except why would you have rescued me if you were the one to start it in the first place?”
“Temporary insanity.”
“You know I didn’t kill her. You were there. You know.”
“I can’t talk about this right now.” She braced to close the door. He flattened one palm against it, keeping it open.
“I was trying to help her. I could’ve run, but I didn’t.”
“Just leave.” She couldn’t do this. Not yet. She’d heard it all before . . . when he’d testified. She’d asked herself why he hadn’t run not five minutes ago.
“Think about it, Emily,” he urged before she could shut the door in his face. “That means her murderer is still out there. That’s what last night was about. Someone wants me dead. You could be in real danger for helping me.”
“Go! Please.” Her throat closed; her stomach churned violently. Just let him leave.
“I’m telling the truth,” he urged. “Think about it and you’ll remember what really happened. I didn’t kill her. You just needed someone to blame besides yourself.”
She slammed the door. This time he let her.
Collapsing against it, she tried to stop his final words from echoing in her head. How could she have been wrong?
That would mean he had been the hero to the rescue he’d claimed to be. An innocent guy doing a job next door who’d heard a scream and come running. An innocent man who’d lost ten years of his life in the worst of prisons.
And just like the rest of this nightmare, that would be her fault too.