Somehow the idea of Wyatt with a wife ... and kids ... carried the same impact as a fist straight into her gut. What had she expected? That he would grieve the loss of her until now? That his sorry ass would still be groveling for forgiveness nearly a decade later? She had to be out of her mind.
“Forty-eight hours, Cooper,” Spencer said. “You hand-carry the evidence down to Sheriff Henderson, check out the situation, and then you get yourself back up here. You can keep tabs on the investigation from right here.” He poked his desk with his finger for emphasis.
“But, sir, that’s barely enough time to—”
“Forty-eight hours,” he reiterated. “Not a minute more. You don’t get back here on time, I’ll send Metcalf and Wallace down there to bring you back.”
“Yes, sir.” She could argue the point later, when she had both feet solidly entrenched in the investigation. Grabbing her jacket, she headed for the door.
“And Cooper.”
She turned back to her boss. “Sir?”
“Don’t go down there throwing your weight around,” he warned. “Keep it low profile. There are too many folks who’d still like to see you pay for what happened nine years ago. I don’t want to have to do the necessary explaining or the paperwork if you get yourself killed.”
“I’ll do my best not to let that happen.”
She had no intention of getting dead for anyone. That much she could promise Chief Spencer. Adeline Cooper planned on staying alive.
The thing she couldn’t promise was exactly what she might have to do to stay that way.
4
4718 Miller Road
Pascagoula, Mississippi; 2:30 p.m.
Irene Cooper perched on the edge of the sofa. She had waited ten minutes already. She’d run out of things to do with her hands. She’d twisted her purse straps every which way. She’d tugged at the hem of her skirt until it was out of shape. Then she had wrung her hands until her fingers felt numb.
This was wrong.
She’d made a terrible, terrible mistake.
And her daughter could never know.
Lord, Irene didn’t even want to think what Adeline would say if she learned about any of this.
The squeak of wheels turning drew Irene’s attention to the parlor doors. She should’ve known better than to come to him about this. His help always came with a heavy price.
But just like thirty years ago, the situation had been desperate.
Now things were out of control. Again.
How had she allowed fear to drive her to make the same poor choice twice?
Cyrus Cooper rolled his wheelchair through the double parlor doors. He looked old. Not just because of the wheelchair. He’d been a prisoner to the crutches and then to that thing for more than thirtyyears and that had never stopped him from doing a single thing he decided to do. Never once prevented him from looking powerful. And as mean as a junkyard dog if the need arose.
No, this was the cancer. He had maybe six or eight months at most.
And then he would finally be dead.
No other man on earth deserved to die more than Cyrus Cooper. Irene, for one, would dance on his grave the same day the old bastard was buried.
God forgive her for the thought ... but it was true.
As had been the case for more than thirty years, she had no other place to turn. She was a prisoner to the decision she had made all those years ago.
“Irene.” He rolled across the room, parked his ambulatory chair on the opposite side of the fancy coffee table from where she sat. Every piece of furniture in the room was a priceless antique. The man owned nothing that wasn’t valuable, more often than not bartered in blood. “Is something wrong?” Those too-seeing brown eyes scrutinized her. “You look pale as a ghost. What’s happened?”