Page 52 of Deadline

“He is. His car is there.”

“That piece-of-crap car.”

“Grant! Where did you hear that?”

“Hunter said it.”

“I did not!”

“Okay, okay. Whoever said it, it’s inappropriate language. Don’t say it again. And stay away from Mr. Scott’s house.”

“Why? He likes us.”

“He’s probably working.”

“But, Mom—”

“Hunter, I said no.” As she escorted them through the front door, she said to Stef in an undertone, “If he comes out, bring them inside.”

“Okay,” Stef grumbled. “I don’t get it, but okay.”

Amelia didn’t have a single ally in her camp, but she was still the commander of this little band, so the rest of them could like it or not, they were having nothing more to do with their neighbor.

In the utility room, she attacked the piles of clean laundry waiting to be folded, realizing that in a week, she would be packing up their clothes to move back into Savannah. She didn’t look forward to it. The boys disliked the apartment into which they’d moved after leaving the Jones Street townhouse, but her encounter with Willard Strong had made it impossible for her to continue living there.

Hunter and Grant wanted a house with a yard so they could have a dog, and, in fairness to them, they hadn’t had a permanent home since she’d left Jeremy. She planned to begin house hunting immediately after the trial ended.

Thank God that tumultuous chapter of her life was about to close.

Unless Dawson Scott’s theory was correct and Jeremy was still alive.

Despite her determin

ation to dismiss his unsettling notion, she couldn’t. Because the possibility that Jeremy had faked his death had crossed her mind with disturbing frequency. More so lately than before. Dawson had lent it credence. Now she couldn’t shake her misgivings no matter how badly she wanted to.

After a restless night, she’d awakened at dawn, thinking about the boat that had been anchored offshore for the past several days. She had scrambled out of bed, gone to the window, and anxiously scanned the horizon. The inclement weather had made the water choppy, and the surf was stronger than usual. The boat she sought was no longer there, only a shrimp boat and an oil tanker, both commonplace sights.

She’d climbed back into bed, hoping to catch another forty winks, but she was too fidgety to go back to sleep, partially because of her general uneasiness, but also due to reexperiencing the sensations that Dawson’s embrace had elicited.

Her mind refused to stay away from the memory. She felt the brush of his thumb against her lip, heard his roughly whispered Because you walked into that courtroom, and recalled the solid imprint of his body. The particular kind of agitation she was feeling was definitely inconvenient, because nothing could be done about it, and judging by the truculence in Dawson’s eyes as he’d looked into hers, he was no happier than she about the chemistry between them.

She’d welcomed the appearance of her sons, who’d come from their beds to climb into hers. She’d gathered them against her, one under each arm, snuggled them, and kissed the tops of their tousled heads in fervent gratitude that they were hers. To keep. Forever. She would protect them with her life…and kill anyone who tried to take them from her.

Now, less than an hour after they’d gone outside, a sudden downpour called an end to the beach excursion. They barreled in through the utility-room door, all three of them sopping wet and shivering. Sand had blown into Hunter’s eye. He was crying. Grant’s lips were blue with cold.

“Stef, please get Grant into some dry clothes while I wash out Hunter’s eye.” At the prospect of that, he began to howl.

Amelia asked herself how this day could possibly get any worse.

* * *

Dawson watched Stef and the boys hurtling through the torrent toward the house. He’d watched their play from indoors, believing it best for everyone if, from now on, he made himself scarce.

As he turned away from the window, he checked his cell phone and saw that he had a signal, something that had been sporadic all morning. Knowing he should make the call while he could, he punched in the Headlys’ house number. Eva answered. When she heard his voice, her relief was obvious.

“Are you all right? Gary’s been trying to reach you.”

“Cell service is dicey.”