Dowsing his cereal, Cal managed to spill a good cup of milk on the counter. When it dribbled over the edge, Caleb jumped in to help, grabbing a dish towel from the sink. “Squishy. Like bunches of pillows and stuff. Thanks for helpin’ clean. Mom likes a clean house.”
“I know,” Caleb said.
“How?”
“Um—” Geez, where did he start?
“Caleb’s an old friend,” Allie said, standing in the kitchen’s shadowy doorway, long blond hair a mess, eyes red and swollen. She wore a utilitarian white terry cloth robe. A yellow duck was the only decoration. He sat over her right breast. Directly over the tender patch of skin Caleb used to—no. He wasn’t going there. So he dropped his gaze to her bare feet and red-tipped toes. How many times had he painted them for her?
“Where’d you meet him?” his son asked.
“School,” Allie said.
“Elementary?” Cal asked.
“College.”
“Oh.” Cal’s interest returned to cereal. Mouth full, he asked, “Hey, can we go toy shopping today? Oh—and then let’s go see that new movie, Power Force. Sam says it’s awesome!”
“Sorry, but—” Caleb and Allie both spoke at the same time.
“Go ahead,” Allie said.
“You’re his mother.” Caleb loaded his voice with messages only she’d hear. I’m just his father. Don’t mind me.
“Sorry, baby.” She planted a kiss on the boy’s forehead. “But until this trial’s over, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay inside, and out of public places.”
“But can I at least go to school?”
“No,” Caleb said.
Having expected him to argue with her, Allie had been on the verge of aiming a “stop interfering” stare at Caleb. Knowing they were on the same team—at least as far as keeping Cal safe—cocooned her in a surprising calm.
“Aw, man,” Cal whined.
“I’ll make you a promise, though,” Caleb said to the boy, putting Allie back on full alert.
“What?” her son asked, expression once again bright.
“As soon as this trial is over, and we know that you and your mom are safe, not only can you go back to school, but me and a team of other marshals will go with you for a while, just in case.”
“Really?!” Cal asked. “And will they have guns and everything?”
“Absolutely.”
“Awesome!” The boy leapt from his tall counter stool. “I can’t wait to tell Sam and Reider!” He raced up the back staircase, presumably to his room.
“Thank you,” Allie said.
“For what?” Caleb asked.
“Getting his mind off the depressing present and onto better times to come.”
“Will times be better, Allie? Now that your secret’s out, you can’t expect me to just fade into the background.”
After scooping ground coffee into an automatic drip filter, she shot him a look. “You know what I mean. Cal returning to school. To his normal way of life. It’ll be better. I wasn’t referring to us—you.” Allie silently stared at the dripping coffee, trying to let the rich aroma and happy gurgle calm her jangled nerves. Trying, but failing. “Obviously, I don’t have a clue what’s going to happen between us, Caleb. Do you?”
For the longest time, her gaze locked with his. Neither speaking, breathing. And then, just when she’d thought he might be on the verge of saying something—anything—he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away.
THAT AFTERNOON, the tension in Allie’s courtroom was unbearable.
As was the heat.
The accused, Francis William Ashford, sat grinning at her, as if he’d never been charged with blowing up a post office and killing the three clerks and five customers inside—one an infant. In her two years on the bench, Allie had presided over many cases, but this one topped them all.
The gallery was filled with what had begun to feel like every reporter in the state, along with every citizen. Many used the folded take-out menu from the Chinese restaurant down the street for a fan.
Caleb, along with the rest of his six-man crew, stood vigilant watch over the crowded courtroom, occasionally speaking into microphones hidden in their suit coat sleeves.
Her current task was hard enough. And Caleb’s surprise appearance had made her time off the bench insanely complicated. Still, what she was going through was nothing compared to the pain of the grieving victims’ families here in the courtroom.
The prosecution asked the latest witness, a wiry, elderly black man who’d lived across the street from the post office for the past forty-two years, “Sir, could you please tell the court what you observed the morning of the bombing.”
The witness cleared his throat. “I was watching my shows. Price is Right and the like, when I went to the front window to draw the curtain. That time of morning, sun shines right through. Produces a glare.”
“Yes, sir, and did you see something suspicious?” asked the chief prosecuting attorney.
“Objection!” the defense attorney shouted. “Leading the witness.”
“Overruled.” To the clearly shaken witness, Allie said, “Please, Mr. Foster, continue.”
“All right, well, Bob Barker had just started the second Showcase Showdown. I was pulling the curtain closed, when I saw this primer-gray truck pull up to the post office. Ford. Powerful dirty. Mud splatters all over. Had those big, oversized tires. A confederate flag hanging in the back window.”
“Did the flag shock you?”
“Objection! Leading.”
Allie, in no mood for attorney jockeying, shot Mack Bennett, lead attorney for the defense, her most stern look. “One more outburst, Mr. Bennett, and you will be fined. Mr. Foster, please, go on.”
“All right, well, that boy—”
“Excuse me,” the prosecution said, “but which boy? Is he here? In the courtroom today?”
“Yessir.”
“Would you be so kind as to point him out?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’ll shoot me.”
The courtroom erupted in low rumbles.
“Order!” Allie slammed her
