“Right. That’s low, don’t you think? Or do you just break and enter?”

“I’d like to explain. I want to believe in your innocence. Can you prove to me you know nothing about the stolen money?”

His plea sounded like a whining boy instead of an immature, annoying grown man.

Every crack and stone in the road caught my attention—anything to keep my mind occupied.

“Shelby?”

“You have all the evidence pointing to my innocence. End of discussion.”

He gunned his engine and passed me, spitting a fog of dust and dirt. Once he disappeared, I released the tension in my knotted shoulders.

At the cabin, I scanned the area for signs of unwanted company. The rocks I’d placed on the steps hadn’t been kicked aside, and the folded piece of paper stuck between the threshold and door hadn’t been moved. Satisfied my privacy hadn’t been invaded, I chained the bicycle to the front porch, stepped inside with my lunch, and locked the door behind me. I loved on Joy while each room received a thorough inspection.

I’d worried about my puppy while I was gone. Doubtful the person threatening me would spare my sweet pet. Even Denton wouldn’t stoop to such degradation. Officer Hughes? He leaned toward the do-anything mode.

Years had gone by since I was emotional about my own stupid actions. Whoever claimed tears were cathartic hadn’t ever been this angry . . . and hurt. I thought I’d hardened to manipulation. Prison tutored the innocent in ways that strengthened or destroyed the human spirit. Those were life skills, not just prison skills. But a part of me wanted to give those on the outside of a locked cell the benefit of the doubt. Officer Hughes had already proved me wrong, and Denton did the same. Why had his admittance to what I’d already discovered cut so deeply? Had I fallen prey to his hypnotic brown eyes and the confidence in his walk?

I’d liked Denton McClure. Past tense.

Shame on me.

19

DENTON

I spent the next eight hours rereading every post and article online about Shelby. Some I’d memorized. Some scratched at my gut . . . like Travis Stover killed at close range. The blood spatters on Shelby’s and Marissa Stover’s clothes. I reviewed photos and videos in which Shelby displayed no apparent remorse. Her impassiveness matched a coldhearted killer. I’d cut her ruthless image into my mind, despised everything about her.

Now I found myself attracted to a woman I thought I loathed. This afternoon, I had chased her down like a desperate man who longed to be understood. Hogwash, as my grandpa used to say. I glanced at the time—10:02 p.m. Popcorn and Coke had been my supper, and a headache plotted against me.

What had I missed that confirmed Shelby’s guilt or pointed to her innocence? Her words poured into my thoughts. “You’ve wasted years of your life on a travesty.”

Stretching my shoulders, I headed to the fridge for pimento cheese, bread, and butter. While I grilled a cheese sandwich in a cast-iron skillet, I headed back to my laptop to specifically study photos of Shelby and her family during the trial. Made sense to look for body language. Again. Much of the media had labeled her a psychopath, and I believed it too.