Traceless Read Free Page B

of his teeth, but he hadn't cared. His future had been all mapped out. He'd owned a fast car, had a slick job, women begging for a date with him, and was the envy of the town's male population. Life had been full of promise.

    But that happy-go-lucky arrogance had deserted him hard and fast as he lay facedown on a cold concrete floor his first night in prison.

    Pushing aside the memories, he walked to the fireplace and picked up the porcelain music box that sat amid the other cheap knickknacks on the mantel. At seventeen he'd gotten his first decent-paying job. Sylvester Fairgate had paid Clint fifty bucks to deliver a message to a scumbag who owed him money. That had been the beginning of Clint's tough-guy reputation and his barely legal career. No one could believe he'd driven to Decatur and waltzed into Frank Dennison's TV repair shop that fronted a small-time bookie operation and passed along the warning issued by Fairgate.

    Lots of balls, not nearly enough brains.

    Afterward Clint had gone straight to Treasures Gift Shop and bought the music box. He'd seen his mama stop many times at the big trinket-filled window to admire the porcelain image of a red-haired beauty in a flowing gown playing a baby grand piano. When he'd given his mama the present, she'd cried and insisted he take it back. He'd refused. She'd cried some more before finally accepting his gift and thanking him again and again. That silly music box had meant the world to her.

    The mistakes he'd made had hurt her. Maybe even worse than those of his no-good, low-down daddy. That bastard had taken off when Clint was four years old. Just another bad-luck chapter in the life and times of Clint Austin.

    He wandered through the house, feeling restless and wary. If he'd been smart, he would have headed anywhere but here. But no one had ever accused him of being a rocket scientist.

    He pushed open the door to his room and felt a ripple of surprise. His mother had painstakingly put everything back just exactly as it had been before the police had ripped it apart looking for evidence. Evidence they hadn't found.

    Hatred seared him. He'd been at the wrong place at the wrong time. They'd had nothing on him, except bad timing, stupidity, and the testimony of one person.

    Emily Wallace.

    Jaw clenched, he picked up his senior yearbook, still prominently displayed atop the dresser. He wondered how many times his mother had thumbed through it wishing for happier days. He paused on the page showcasing the varsity cheerleaders. There she was, all smiles alongside her best friend, Heather Baker.

    He had thought Emily was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. No matter how many girls he dated, she was the one he fantasized about in bed each night during those final minutes before drifting off to sleep. But she'd been out of his league, a good girl from a well-to-do family.

    Long dark hair, big brown eyes. He'd wanted her so badly.

    That desire had served as the primary motive behind his actions, according to the district attorney. Clint had been obsessed with Emily and had decided that if he couldn't have her, no one could. Only it wasn't Emily who'd been sleeping in her bed that night, and when he had realized his mistake it had been too late; Heather was mortally wounded. That was the State's version of what happened, and they had stuck to it, all the way to closing arguments. The jury had unanimously agreed.

    Clint slammed the yearbook closed and walked out of the room full of pointless memories.

    Emily Wallace was the main reason he'd spent the past ten years in hell. She was the reason his mother's heart had given out far sooner than it should have, ensuring that he lost the last thing in this world that he cared about.

    The whole damned town had been on Emily's side.

    The bitterness twisted like barbed wire in his gut. Someone else had killed Heather Baker. Clint might not be able to prove it, but he knew it... because it sure as hell hadn't been him. And maybe,