NBA star—had made a series of free throws that hinted at his future greatness. Watching the video, Travis had recognized a familiar face on the sidelines. Lacy Milligan—a smiling, carefree Lacy—had stared out at him from the screen. A time stamp on the video corroborated her story of being at her cousin’s game. Further research backed this up. Here was her alibi. When Andy Stenson was stabbed in the heart, Lacy Milligan was two hours away.
From there, the rest of the evidence began to fall apart. Travis hired a former detective to review the case and the detective—who had retired to Eagle Mountain after a storied career with the Los Angeles Police Department—determined that what had looked like missing funds was merely a bookkeeping error, and the deposit in Lacy’s account was, as she had said, the proceeds from the sale of some jewelry she had inherited.
Travis had felt sick over the error. He hadn’t been able to eat or sleep as he worked feverishly to see that the decision in the case was vacated. He also did what he could to publicize his efforts to clear the name of the woman he had wronged. He wanted everyone to know that Lacy was innocent.
Now she was home. He didn’t blame her for hating him, though it hurt to see the scorn in her eyes. All he knew to do now was to work even harder to find the real killer.
The phone rang and he heard Adelaide answer. A moment later, his extension buzzed. “Sheriff, it’s for you,” Adelaide said. “It’s George Milligan.”
Lacy’s dad. Travis snatched up the receiver. “Mr. Milligan, how can I help you?”
“I think you need to come over here, Sheriff.” George Milligan’s voice held the strain of someone who had taken almost more than he could bear. “We’ve had a, well, I’m not sure how to describe it. An incident.”
Travis sat up straighter, his stomach knotting. “What’s happened? Is someone hurt? Is Lacy hurt?”
“Someone threw a rock through our front window.” George’s voice broke. “It had a...a note tied to it. Just one word on the note—murderer.”
“I’ll be right over,” Travis said. Hadn’t these people suffered enough? Hadn’t they all suffered enough?
Lacy stared at the grapefruit-sized chunk of red granite that sat in the middle of the library table beneath the front window of her family home, shards of glass like fractured ice scattered about it. Strands of thin wire held the note in place, a single word scrawled crookedly in red marker, like an accusation made in blood.
Murderer! She had worn the label for three years, but she would never get used to it. Seeing it here, in the place she had thought of as a refuge, when she had believed her ordeal over, hurt more than she had imagined. Worse, the word hurt her parents, who had put their own lives on hold, and even mortgaged their home, to save her.
A black-and-white SUV pulled into the driveway and Lacy watched out the window as Travis Walker slid out of the vehicle and strode up the walkway to the door. Everything about him radiated competence and authority, from his muscular frame filling out the crisp lines of his brown sheriff’s uniform to the determined expression on his handsome face. When he said something was right, it must be right. So when he had said she had murdered Andy Stenson, everyone had believed him. Men like Travis didn’t make mistakes.
Except he had.
The doorbell rang and her father opened it and ushered Travis inside. Lacy steeled herself to face him. Travis hadn’t thrown the rock through her parents’ window, but as far as she was concerned, he was to blame.
“Hello, Lacy.” Ever the gentleman, Travis touched the brim of his hat and nodded to her.
She nodded and took a step back, away from the rock—and away from him. He walked over and looked down at the projectile, his gaze taking in the broken window, the shattered glass and the note. He leaned closer to study the note. “Has anything like this happened before?” he asked.
It took her a moment to realize he had addressed the question to her. She shrugged. “Not really. There were a few letters to the editor in the paper during my trial, and a few times when I would walk into a place and everyone would stop talking and stare at me.”
“But no direct threats or name calling?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
“I can’t understand why anyone would do this now.” Her father joined them. Her mother was upstairs, lying down with a headache. “Lacy has been cleared. Everyone knows that.”
“Maybe not everyone.” Travis straightened. “I’ll get an evidence kit from my car. Maybe we’ll get some fingerprints off the note.”
Lacy doubted whoever threw that rock would be stupid enough to leave fingerprints, but she didn’t bother arguing. Travis went outside and stopped on the sidewalk to survey the flower bed. Maybe he was looking for footprints? Or maybe he liked flowers.
He returned a few moments later, wearing latex gloves and carrying a cardboard box. He lifted the rock and settled it in the box. “In order to hurl the rock through the window like this, whoever threw it would have to be close—either standing on the porch or in the flower beds,” he said, as he taped up the box and labeled it. “I didn’t see any footprints in the flower beds, or disturbed plants, so I’m guessing porch. Did you see or hear anyone?”
“We were all in the back of the house, preparing dinner in the kitchen,” her father said.
“I’ll talk to the neighbors, see if any of them saw anything,” Travis said. “After the window shattered, did you hear anything—anyone running away, or a car driving away?”
“No,” her father said.
Both men looked at Lacy. “No,” she said. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Who would do something like this?” her father asked. His face sagged with weariness, and he looked years older. Guilt made a knot in Lacy’s stomach. Even though she hadn’t thrown the rock, she was the target. She had brought this intrusion into her parents’ peaceful life. Maybe moving back home had been a bad idea.
“I don’t know,” Travis said. “There are mean people in the world. Obviously, someone doesn’t believe Lacy is innocent.”
“The paper has run articles,” her father said. “It’s been on all the television stations—I don’t know what else we can do.”
“You can help me find the real murderer.”
He was addressing Lacy, not her dad, his gaze pinning her. She remembered him looking at her that way the day he arrested her, the intensity of his stare making it clear she wasn’t going to get away with not answering his questions.
“Why should I help you?” she asked.
“You worked closely with Andy,” he said. “You knew his clients. You can walk me through his records. I’m convinced he knew his murderer.”
“What if you try to pin this on the wrong person again?”
He didn’t even flinch. “I won’t make that mistake
