Playing Dead

FOURTEEN

Claire couldn’t sleep. Mitch’s even breathing was soothing, and she was lulled into a comfortable drowsiness, but she still couldn’t cross over to the other side.

She watched Mitch while he slept, sprawled comfortably across her bed on his stomach. Too good to be true, but here he was, in the flesh. Her body still remembered just how good he was, and he was in her bed, generating about a thousand watts of heat. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t sleep, she was too hot. He wore his boxers and had only the sheet draped over his legs. Neelix was curled between his feet. Mitch was a good sport about her cat.

The bullet wound he’d gotten while in the military hadn’t made it to his back. In the faint light she saw another scar, lower on his back, above his left kidney. And another scar on his arm. That one was new-it still bore a reddish appearance. She’d seen it many times before; it was on his forearm. He’d never told her what it was from, and she’d never asked.

Now, she wanted to know everything about him. They had time. She wanted to savor each moment and every revelation about Mitch.

Carefully, so she didn’t disturb him, Claire slid out of bed. Her hair was still damp from their midnight shower. After the intense first time, playful sex in the shower was a welcome diversion from her thoughts-her feelings-about Mitch. But now sleep wouldn’t come and those thoughts and fears came back.

Bill Kamanski used to brew her hot tea when she hadn’t been able to sleep after the trial. Sometimes it had worked.

She made the tea as quietly as possible using only the stove light for illumination.

She’d have preferred to stay in bed with Mitch and block out the real world, but Claire didn’t have the luxury of avoiding her responsibilities. She had to follow up on her contacts for the Holman arson investigation and check her office e-mail to see if she had a new assignment waiting.

But in all honesty, her job was the last thing on her mind. She had a trail to follow. Professor Don Collier hadn’t returned her call, but she didn’t know if he’d even received it. Maybe he hadn’t even been on campus yesterday.

Hot mug of tea in hand, Claire made a small detour into her makeshift office and turned on her screen, glancing through the doorway to her bed, where Mitch hadn’t moved. The screen didn’t shine on the bed, so she hoped she wouldn’t wake him. Gently, she tapped the keys and brought up the UCD website. A few clicks later she learned that Collier’s first Thursday class was criminal law at eight a.m., and lasted ninety minutes. If she rushed out by seven in the morning, she’d make it to Davis in time, even with traffic. She glanced at the clock. 2:30. Now that she had a set plan, she might be able to get a couple hours’ sleep.

She looked for her notepad to jot down the time and location of Collier’s class. She picked it up and saw a folded piece of paper protruding from underneath her keyboard with a bright green sticky note with CLAIRE written in large block letters.

Someone had been in her house.

Blood rushed to her head as she unfolded the note with shaking hands. An overwhelming sense of violation hit her.

In the odd light of the computer monitor, she read the letter.

Dad. He hadn’t signed it, but she immediately knew her father had been here. Not only from the small block letters he used, but from the way he addressed her.

Claire Beth, it began.

Short for Claire Elizabeth. Her dad was the only one who sometimes called her Claire Beth.

She glanced at the narrow wall where she’d hung a picture of her and her dad. She blinked, at first seeing it, then realizing it was missing.

She stared at the letter, her ears ringing. Her father had been here.

Claire Beth,

I wish I had approached you at another time and place, but my opportunity was limited. I understand why you don’t believe me. If I had been in your shoes then, at fourteen, walking in on what you did, I would probably feel the same way. And please believe me, I would have done anything to have spared you sitting through the trial.

The pain you’ve endured all these years tears my heart. It shows in your eyes. You once enjoyed every moment of the day. Now, all I see are barriers and skepticism. How I wish I could change the past, change everything that happened.

I did not kill Lydia or Chase Taverton. I am not a killer, Claire, and I will prove it to you. Somewhere a killer walks free and he is the proof of my innocence. I believe the way to find him is through Chase Taverton.

I didn’t want to get you involved. I only wanted to find Oliver because he has the information about Taverton that could exonerate me.

Oliver believes that Taverton was the target, not your mother. I don’t know exactly what he found, but it was big. He called me the week before I was transferred to Section B and said as soon as he tracked down a man named Frank Lowe, he’d have the evidence he needed. All Oliver told me about Lowe was that Taverton had cut a plea with him and he disappeared right after Taverton was murdered. I have no idea who Lowe is, but Oliver believes he can clear my name.

Find Oliver or find Frank Lowe.

I can face death if I know, in my heart, that you believe in my innocence. Until then, I’m in hiding. The police aren’t going to reopen this case without clear evidence I’m innocent. Even then, I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I have to fight. This is my last chance. This is my stand.

Consider this, Claire Beth, because I have thought of it every day and every night for the last fifteen years. When you came home that day and heard your mother with a man, they were alive and in the bedroom. Twenty minutes later, I came in and they were dead, killed with the revolver I kept in my nightstand drawer. You know I never carried my.357 with me. I always kept that gun in my drawer. I taught you to use that gun. I taught your mother how to use that gun. It never left the house.

If you believe that, believe that I didn’t premeditate murder, then you know that I am innocent.

What continues to haunt me every day of my life is that I know you almost died that day. I know I didn’t kill anyone, but my gun was used. That tells me that the killer spent time in the house. He took my revolver, and hid. Waiting for the right time to kill Taverton and your mother. Taverton was the target. I’m certain of that.

You’re a grown woman. A beautiful, smart woman. You work for one of the best security companies in the country. Help me. You’re my only hope. Be careful! Someone framed me and if they know you’re looking into the case, your life is on the line. I would never put you in danger if I could avoid it, but you’re my only chance.

I love you.

Claire read the note three times. She’d ignored him, pretended he didn’t exist. It was much easier to think that he was guilty and she was doing the best she could.

Her father’s written plea was far more compelling than his restraint at trial. She felt emotion in this letter. Fifteen years earlier, he had seemed to exist on autopilot.

Oliver was dead. Where was Frank Lowe? How could she prove her father was innocent?

“Working late?”

She jumped and pivoted in her chair. Mitch sat up in her bed watching her.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said.

“It’s nearly three. You need sleep, sweetheart.” He patted the spot next to him.

She refolded the letter and put it under her keyboard, turned off the monitor, and went back to her bedroom. She slid between the sheets and Mitch took her into his arms.

“You’re tense.”

“I’m an insomniac.”

He kissed her neck and pulled her to him so their bodies were spooned together. She snuggled against him, not wanting him to know anything was wrong. Showing Mitch the letter would risk his freedom and safety. Claire wouldn’t do that.

She couldn’t do that to the man she was falling in love with.