Cold Case in Cherokee Crossing. Rita Herron

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      “You asked to see me?”

      “Yes, I’ve decided to grant your request to work the domestic-violence team.”

      Jaxon tried not to react. The director knew his background, that he’d grown up in the system and that domestic violence was personal for him.

      In fact, it had been a strike against him. The director had expressed concerns that Jaxon might allow his own experiences, and his anger, to cloud his judgment, and that he’d end up taking his personal feelings out on the alleged abusers.

      The director had good reason to worry.

      Today was the perfect example. When he’d seen Horace Mumford go after his kid with a wood board, Jaxon had taken the board to him.

      “Thank you, sir.” Jaxon stood, waiting on the reprimand.

      But it never came. Instead the director cleared his throat. “Your first assignment is to make sure the Tierney execution goes forward.”

      Jaxon frowned. “I didn’t realize there was a problem.”

      Director Landers ran a hand over his balding head. “Some young do-gooder attorney wanting to make a name for herself is trying to get a stay and a retrial.”

      Jaxon had seen the recent protests against the execution in the news. Not unusual with death row cases.

      “Go talk to Tierney. Make sure everything stays on track.”

      Jaxon’s gut tightened with an uneasy feeling. “Why the interest?” According to the news, the guy was only a teenager when he murdered his foster father. And he’d been railroaded into a confession.

      “Because that case was one of the first ones I worked when I was a young cop. It built my career.”

      Now Jaxon understood. The director was worried about his damn job, not whether or not a man was innocent.

      “Wipe that scowl off your face. I didn’t screw up. Hank Tierney was as guilty as his father was of murder,” Director Landers said. “The kid was caught with the bloody knife in hand, blood splattered all over him. Hell, even his sister said he stabbed Mulligan.”

      “Fine. I’ll go talk to him myself.” He’d also ask about his motive. He didn’t remember that being reported, only that the police thought the kid was violent and dangerous.

      Director Landers gave him a warning look. “Listen, Ward, I know your history, so don’t go making this kid out to be some hero or I’ll can your ass. Your job is to make sure that case does not go back for a retrial. If it does, it could affect all the cases I worked after that.”

      That would be a nightmare.

      Still, Jaxon silently cursed as he walked out of the office. Was this some kind of test to see if he followed orders?

      Or did Landers just want to make sure nothing happened to tarnish his reputation?

      * * *

      AVERY SHIVERED AT the stark gray walls of the prison as the guard led her to a private visitors’ room. Apparently the warden had arranged for them to actually be in the room together versus being divided by a Plexiglas wall.

      Because she was saying a final goodbye to her brother.

      She twisted her hands together as she sank into the metal chair, guilt making her stomach cramp.

      She should have visited Hank before now. Should have come and thanked him for that night. Should have made sure he was all right.

      The door closed, locking her in the room, and her vision blurred. Suddenly she was back there in that cold room at the Mulligan house. Lying in the metal bed with the ratty blanket...

      Joleen was gone. She’d left earlier that day to take care of her mama. Avery knew it was going to be a bad night. Wade had started with the booze as soon as he’d come home from his job at the garage.

      She clutched the covers and stared at the spider spinning a web on the windowpane. Rain pounded on the tin roof. Wind whistled through the eaves, rattling the glass.

      “Get in there, boy.”

      “Don’t tie me up tonight,” Hank shouted. “And leave Avery alone.”

      Avery fought a scream. She wanted to lock the door, but she’d done that before, and it hadn’t stopped him. It only made him madder. He’d broken it down with a hatchet and threatened to kill her if she locked it again.

      Something slammed against the wall. Wade punching Hank. Grunts followed. Hank was fighting Wade, but Wade would win. He always won.

      Footsteps shuffled a minute later, coming closer to her room. Hank shouted Wade’s name, cussing him and calling him sick names.

      She bit her tongue until she tasted blood. The door screeched open.

      Wade’s hulking shadow filled the doorway. She could smell the sweat and beer and grease from the shop. His breathing got faster.

      He started toward her, and she closed her eyes. She had to go somewhere in her mind, someplace safe where she couldn’t feel him touching her.

      Then everything went black....

      The sound of keys jangling outside the prison door startled her back to reality. The door screeched open, a guard appeared, one hand on the arm of the man shackled and chained beside him.

      Hank. God... Her heart stuttered, tears filling her eyes. She remembered him as a young boy—choppy sandy blond hair, skinny legs, eyes too hard for his age, mouth always an angry line.

      But he was a man now, six feet tall with muscles. His eyes were cold and hard, his face and arms scarred from prison life. He was even angrier, too, his jaw locked, a vein pulsing in his neck.

      He shuffled over to the chair, pulled it out, handcuffs rattling as he sank into it. The guard stepped to the door, folded his arms and kept watch.

      She waited on Hank to look at her, and when he did, animosity filled the air between them. He hated her for not visiting.

      She hated herself.

      A deep sense of grief nearly overwhelmed her, and she wanted to cry for the years they’d lost. She’d spent so much of her life struggling against the gossip people had directed toward her because of her father’s arrest, and then Hank’s, that she hadn’t thought about how he was suffering.

      For what seemed like an eternity, he simply stared at her, studying her as if she were a stranger. He shifted, restless, and guilt ate at her.

      “You came,” he finally said in a flat voice. “I didn’t think you would.”

      The acceptance in his tone tore at her. Maybe he didn’t blame her, but he was still hurt. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit you before. I should have.”

      Hank shrugged as if he didn’t care, his orange jumpsuit stark against his pale skin. But he did care. He’d always acted tough, but СКАЧАТЬ