never forgive her. She didn’t even want his forgiveness—she didn’t know what had possessed her to go out to his house. She just wanted money. A chance to start over in Australia and forget who she was, a little screw-up cop who’d made sure a murderer walked. Beau McGarrity had killed her friend and mentor, and he’d never be brought to justice for it.
Yeah, learn to live with it. Forget that. She planned to get some money off the murdering son of a bitch.
Feeling better, Alice drove to the small town where she’d spent all her life, except for her year in prison. She was driving a rusted little tank of a car that she’d bought from a fellow inmate’s mother for seven hundred dollars. She had to watch her finances. She’d been out of prison three days, and she’d already plowed through a good chunk of her savings. She had a job waiting tables downtown, but that was more for show than real income—it sure as hell wasn’t going to get her to Australia.
She gripped the steering wheel with both hands, feeling the familiar tightness in her chest, the physical longing, whenever she thought about Australia. She’d gotten as many books out of the prison library as she could on Australia and dreamed of it every night from the moment she’d decided that was where she wanted to be, where she wanted to start over. Sidney, Melbourne, Perth, Adelaide—any city would do. They’d talked to her in prison about setting attainable goals. Australia seemed attainable to her. She just needed the money to get there and get started.
The McGarrity ranch was out of town. It hadn’t changed in the past year. There were still the pecan and cypress trees, the live oaks, the huge azalea bushes in front of the sprawling, one-story house. Alice turned onto the long, paved driveway. Before she’d discovered Australia, she used to dream of living in a place like this and being a Texas Ranger. She’d downloaded the names and pictures of all hundred-plus Texas Rangers off the Internet and memorized them. Rachel McGarrity used to tell her about how, if she wanted something, she needed to visualize it, make it real to her. Then it was more likely to come to be.
Alice wasn’t so sure about that anymore. She’d never visualized herself in prison, but she’d sat in a cell for a year. The stink of it was still on her, and her skin was still gray and pasty. She hadn’t curled her hair or done her nails in months.
She parked in the spot where Rachel had parked the night she died and started to hyperventilate. She shut her eyes, controlling her breathing the way she’d learned from her yoga books and prison classes. She’d done everything she could to better herself in prison. She hadn’t wasted a minute. Her grandma would have been proud of her for that part, but at least she wasn’t alive for the other parts-the humiliation of her arrest, the cowardice of her plea bargain, the defeat of seeing Beau McGarrity remain a free man. Grandma had missed all that.
Rachel had loved it in south Texas. She said it was so different from the rich neighborhood in Philadelphia where she grew up. She’d been drawn to the romance of Texas, marrying a Texan—it blinded her to what she was really getting. A mean, crazy bastard who’d shoot her in the back and try to frame her best friend for her murder.
Best friend might be a stretch. Alice sighed, remembering how they’d only met because she’d stopped Rachel for a broken headlight. She’d invited Alice to meet her for coffee. Alice thought that was kind of weird, but she’d agreed. Rachel had slipped into the coffee shop like she was working for the CIA, and she’d talked about flowers and antiques until she finally got to the point—she wanted Alice to do some private investigative work for her.
Rachel was so fine-mannered and naive, so sincere, that Alice went against her better judgment and said sure, she’d do what she could. They met almost every day after that, for a month, and Alice was never too clear on what it was she was investigating—just that it involved Susanna Galway somehow. Rachel had all the pieces, the big picture, and it all seemed to evaporate when she was killed. Alice hadn’t ever told Ranger Jack about it. No one else mentioned anything, so she didn’t. It seemed like an invasion of privacy.
And she’d been afraid she’d end up dead if she said too much. Damn afraid. She remembered her horror when she’d spotted her change purse in a pool of Rachel’s blood on the driveway. It was monogrammed with her initials. Her grandma had given it to her for Christmas one year.
Her only thought had been to get rid of the change purse and scour the crime scene for any other incriminating evidence. Let people say she was a moron cop—she didn’t care.
Later, she’d realized that was what Beau had expected her to do. Panic and contaminate the crime scene, make it impossible for the evidence to lead investigators to him. Alice had felt stupid, like an unwitting co-conspirator. In the midst of her self-loathing, she’d come up with the idea of her bogus eyewitness. Beau hadn’t expected that—she remembered the edge of panic in his voice that day in Susanna Galway’s kitchen, when he’d tried to get Susanna to intervene with her husband on his behalf.
But that wasn’t the only reason he’d gone to see Susanna. She had some connection to what all had gone on, but Alice didn’t know what.
In any case, her fabricated eyewitness hadn’t worked out. Jack Galway had seen to that.
Alice took the curving rock walk to the front door, which opened just as she got to the steps. Beau McGarrity came out. It was a clear, cool afternoon, squirrels chattering in nearby trees. In summer, there’d be a field of sunflowers out back, although Beau leased out most of his land to working ranchers. He just owned the place for show. Rachel had bought into the rugged image he wanted to project. He was a tall man with neat, gray hair, a square jaw and blue eyes. He had the broad shoulders and build that had served him well as a college football player. He and Rachel were married within weeks of meeting while she was in Austin on business. She was his second wife. His first wife, his high school sweetheart, had died of cancer three years earlier. She was a saint, a hard act to follow. No kids.
“Miss Parker,” Beau McGarrity said in his deep, twangy accent, “if you don’t leave at once, I’ll call the police.”
He didn’t like her coming around anymore than Jack Galway had. “Relax, Mr. Beau, I’m not here for a little vigilante justice. I have a proposition for you.”
“Miss Parker, there’s nothing you can offer that would be of any interest to me whatsoever.”
Alice shrugged. She felt tiny and pale next to him, isolated out here on his precious ranch, but not vulnerable—not like that night when she’d found Rachel out here in the dark. She remembered screaming like a damn fool, crouching behind Rachel’s car, expecting a bullet in her back, before she realized Beau needed her alive. As Rachel’s murderer.
“Susanna Galway taped you that day you showed up in her kitchen.”
His eyes narrowed on her, but he said nothing.
“Her daughters had one of those little digital tape recorders, and Susanna saw it and hit the record button.” Alice was matter-of-fact. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”
“This is ridiculous. You’re making this up.”
“No, sir, Mr. Beau, I am not making this up. I am telling you the flat-out truth. It’s not a regular cassette tape. It’s a digital audiotape, about three inches by three inches. I’ve listened to it. You know all that sympathy you’ve been building up this past year? All these people who’re thinking, oh, poor Mr. Beau, he’s the innocent victim of police corruption and incompetence—well, let them hear you threatening a Texas Ranger’s wife.”
“I didn’t threaten her.”
“You
