“He expected it to be free,” Ray complained. “Just because he was my pastor. But a man’s got to eat.”
“You’ll have to explain that to Madeline’s P.I.,” Walt said. “But it doesn’t seem fair that you should have to talk about it at all. This is supposed to be about Barker’s disappearance, and we know who was behind that.”
It was true. The Montgomerys must’ve murdered him. Clay was the kind of guy who’d kill any man who hurt his sisters, right? And Barker had raped Grace. Ray knew it. He’d tried to get in on the action, but Barker was different with Clay’s sister. He wouldn’t share. He’d been absolutely obsessed with her, in love with her, if Ray had his guess. And because she was so reserved, so remote, Barker had probably been especially cruel. Although Barker hadn’t allowed Ray to watch, to be a part of it at all, he’d once made a strange comment. He’d said that Grace wasn’t common like Rose Lee and Katie, that she’d let him kill her before she’d pretend to like what he did.
Ray supposed it was her stubborn resistance that fascinated Barker. But it was her budding beauty that had fascinated Ray. Particularly the budding part.
“I’m not going to say anything to anyone,” he said. “Barker was a fine man. And Rose Lee was well taken care of. That’s all there is to it.”
“Walt!” Clancy Jones, a partner in Walt’s tire store, stood in the doorway. He’d been working a toothpick through his teeth while waiting for Walt. But now he was growing impatient.
“Coming.” Walt got up. “See ya later.”
Ray lifted a hand in a halfhearted farewell. He had to stop that P.I., which meant he had to stop Madeline.
And he had to do it fast.
Clay was busy digging a posthole for a new stretch of fence along the back of his property when he saw Hunter cutting through his fields, coming toward him. He knew something was up. But he didn’t pause in his work.
“No one answered at the house,” Hunter said as he drew closer.
“Allie and Whitney left for Jackson half an hour ago.” He shoved the posthole digger into the earth, squeezing and lifting in a rhythmic fashion. “Her mother flew up from Florida so Allie and Whitney could help celebrate her birthday.”
Hunter found a clump of grass to wipe the mud on the bottom of his shoes, which looked like heavy-duty sandals no one from Mississippi would ever wear. “Why didn’t you go with them?”
Clay slammed the posthole digger deep into the ground and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Why do you think?”
The fabric of Hunter’s parka rustled as he folded his arms. Maybe it wasn’t brand-new but, except for skiing, this was probably the only time Golden Boy had ever worn it, Clay thought wryly.
“Why don’t you explain it to me,” Hunter suggested.
“I can’t leave town when someone just broke into my sister’s house.”
“You were going to trust me to take care of her, remember?”
“I don’t trust anyone that much.”
“I might be able to do more if you’d level with me, Clay.”
Clay started digging again. The memory of Madeline cringing when he touched her yesterday was all too present in his mind. The only way to ease his pain and guilt was through the kind of hard physical work that left him too exhausted to feel anything else.
“Will you talk to me?” Hunter persisted.
Here they come, the same questions I’ve been asked for the past twenty years. Only now, for Madeline’s sake, he felt obliged to answer them truthfully.
“That depends on what you ask,” he said, but Hunter’s next words weren’t a question at all.
“Something happened last night,” he said.
Those words sounded even more ominous than the searching queries Clay had expected. “She’d better be okay,” he said, straightening.
“She’s fine. For now. But there’s trouble lurking, and I need your help to figure out where and why.”
“Trouble?”
“Someone sent Madeline a package.”
“To her house?”
“According to Joe, it was outside her office. He saw it and picked it up on his way home from the bar.”
“What was in it?”
Hunter raked his fingers through his hair. “A gigantic dildo.”
Clay tossed his shovel to the ground. “A what?”
“You heard me. Just like the one in the trunk of the Cadillac.”
Clay had been hoping that whoever was harassing Madeline would quit after stealing that box from her basement. He couldn’t believe there was anything valuable or potentially damaging in it. Unless someone knew about the pictures Barker had taken and was hoping to find them before Madeline’s P.I. could.
“Who put that suitcase in the trunk, Clay?” Hunter asked. “Barker?”
Clay didn’t answer. “The package,” he said a moment later. “Was there any message with it?”
“I think that was message enough, don’t you?”
“But from whom?” Clay whispered to himself. Who would do this? Barker’s sister, Elaine, was aware of the existence of the pictures; Allie had shown her copies last summer. That was what had finally brought the Vincelli family and his to a truce of sorts. But Elaine wouldn’t want to upset the delicate equilibrium that protected her from the humiliation those pictures would bring if they were ever made public. Besides, Elaine knew Madeline didn’t have them. Madeline had no idea they even existed. So why would Elaine send someone over to break into Madeline’s house?
“Who stands to gain the most from what’s going on?” Hunter pressed.
“No one,” Clay said. That was the confusing part. As far as Clay knew, he and his family were the only ones who had something to hide.
“If you want to help Madeline, you need to be honest with me.” Hunter was growing more insistent. “What happened the night Barker died?”
Clay knew he should fend off the questions, play the usual games: Died? How do you know he’s dead? But he couldn’t. He cared too much about Madeline.
Taking a deep breath, he said what he’d never dreamed he’d say. “There were other girls.”
If Hunter was surprised, he masked it well. “Girls who what?”
“Who were molested by Barker.”
“When?”
“Before we ever moved here.”
“Who were they?”