She turned to him. "No!"

"Denying it to me won't make you fear it any less. Nor will it make it untrue."

"He was killed by Willard Strong."

"His body was never found."

"But there was forensic evidence."

"Of what kind?"

"His blood on the ground inside the dog pen. A piece of scalp..." She buried her face in her hands. "God, what that man is accused of is too horrible to think about."

"I agree. But I question that Jeremy's fate was the same as Darlene's."

"All right. Maybe not. If not, Willard dumped Jeremy's body somewhere in the marsh. He sank it. Or it washed out to sea. There are alligators." Her voice carried a plea that he agree with at least one of those possibilities. But he just looked at her with a mix of skepticism and sympathy, which were equally vexing. She demanded, "Then where is he?"

"I'd like to know."

"Why would he disappear?"

"For the same reason anyone chooses to vanish. To escape trouble. Or the law. To start another life as someone else."

"Okay, say that's right. Why wouldn't he go far, far away from here? Why would he stay in this vicinity and risk being recognized? Faking your death is a crime, isn't it? Wouldn't he be afraid of getting caught? If he was going to disappear, why would he hang around and spy on me?"

"To make you anxious and afraid as punishment for leaving him."

She gave a hard shake of her head. "He didn't care that I left. By the time our divorce was final, he no longer loved me, only the boys. They were all he wanted." Realizing what she'd said, she sucked in a sharp breath and jerked her head up to look into Dawson's incisive gaze.

He gave a slow nod of his head.

"No," she said, her voice little more than a fearful whimper.

"This has occurred to you, Amelia. I know it has."

She wet her lips and rapidly formed an argument. "If Jeremy wanted the boys, he could have snatched them at any time. Before he ever met Willard and Darlene Strong."

"He could have. But in all probability he would have been caught and charged with kidnapping. If they were snatched now, no one would suspect a dead man of taking them."

She felt it was imperative that she argue fiercely against that logic. "You're only trying to frighten me."

"Why would I do that?"

"To get me to say things that'll make your story more intriguing, lend it an air of mystery."

"You know that's not true."

"Then why are you here? I told you that I wouldn't cooperate with any story you intend to write. Why don't you just go away and leave us alone? You weren't even all that interested in the story of Jeremy Wesson. You said you were about to reject it and move on to something else more interesting. Why didn't you?"

"Fair enough. You want to know why?"

He slid his hands under her hair behind her neck and drew her forward until her body was flush against his, his legs sandwiching hers, their faces not quite touching. "Why didn't I leave this goddamn story alone?" He brushed his thumbs across her lower lip. "Because you walked into that courtroom."

He held her there for several beats, his hot gaze moving over the features of her face as though he was trying to decide which to kiss first. Then he swore under his breath and abruptly released her.

Before she had time to fully recover her senses, he was gone, and she was alone.

Chapter 9.

The next day, rainy weather kept everyone indoors. In their confinement, the boys became restless, bored, and whiney. None of the pastimes Stef suggested were greeted with enthusiasm. Worst of all, the cable went out, so watching television wasn't an option.

Lunchtime turned into a battle royal over who was responsible for Grant's spilled milk. Each blamed the other, arguing over who had bumped whom. To prevent a full-blown sibling feud, Stef offered to take them outside during a lull between showers.

"I would appreciate it," Amelia told her. "Just long enough for them to burn off some energy."

As they were putting on their tennis shoes, Hunter asked if they could invite Dawson to come out and play.

"No. Definitely not."

"How come?"

"I don't think he's at home."

"He is. His car is there."

"That piece-of-crap car."

"Grant! Where did you hear that?"

"Hunter said it."

"I did not!"

"Okay, okay. Whoever said it, it's inappropriate language. Don't say it again. And stay away from Mr. Scott's house."

"Why? He likes us."

"He's probably working."

"But, Mom-"

"Hunter, I said no." As she escorted them through the front door, she said to Stef in an undertone, "If he comes out, bring them inside."

"Okay," Stef grumbled. "I don't get it, but okay."

Amelia didn't have a single ally in her camp, but she was still the commander of this little band, so the rest of them could like it or not, they were having nothing more to do with their neighbor.

In the utility room, she attacked the piles of clean laundry waiting to be folded, realizing that in a week, she would be packing up their clothes to move back into Savannah. She didn't look forward to it. The boys disliked the apartment into which they'd moved after leaving the Jones Street townhouse, but her encounter with Willard Strong had made it impossible for her to continue living there.

Hunter and Grant wanted a house with a yard so they could have a dog, and, in fairness to them, they hadn't had a permanent home since she'd left Jeremy. She planned to begin house hunting immediately after the trial ended.

Thank God that tumultuous chapter of her life was about to close.

Unless Dawson Scott's theory was correct and Jeremy was still alive.

Despite her determination to dismiss his unsettling notion, she couldn't. Because the possibility that Jeremy had faked his death had crossed her mind with disturbing frequency. More so lately than before. Dawson had lent it credence. Now she couldn't shake her misgivings no matter how badly she wanted to.

After a restless night, she'd awakened at dawn, thinking about the boat that had been anchored offshore for the past several days. She had scrambled out of bed, gone to the window, and anxiously scanned the horizon. The inclement weather had made the water choppy, and the surf was stronger than usual. The boat she sought was no longer there, only a shrimp boat and an oil tanker, both commonplace sights.

She'd climbed back into bed, hoping to catch another forty winks, but she was too fidgety to go back to sleep, partially because of her general uneasiness, but also due to reexperiencing the sensations that Dawson's embrace had elicited.

Her mind refused to stay away from the memory. She felt the brush of his thumb against her lip, heard his roughly whispered Because you walked into that courtroom, and recalled the solid imprint of his body. The particular kind of agitation she was feeling was definitely inconvenient, because nothing could be done about it, and judging by the truculence in Dawson's eyes as he'd looked into hers, he was no happier than she about the chemistry between them.

She'd welcomed the appearance of her sons, who'd come from their beds to climb into hers. She'd gathered them against her, one under each arm, snuggled them, and kissed the tops of their tousled heads in fervent gratitude that they were hers. To keep. Forever. She would protect them with her life...and kill anyone who tried to take them from her.

Now, less than an hour after they'd gone outside, a sudden downpour called an end to the beach excursion. They barreled in through the utility-room door, all three of them sopping wet and shivering. Sand had blown into Hunter's eye. He was crying. Grant's lips were blue with cold.

"Stef, please get Grant into some dry clothes while I wash out Hunter's eye." At the prospect of that, he began to howl.

Amelia asked herself how this day could possibly get any worse.

Dawson watched Stef and the boys hurtling through the torrent toward the house. He'd watched their play from indoors, believing it best for everyone if, from now on, he made himself scarce.

As he turned away from the window, he checked his cell phone and saw that he had a signal, something that had been sporadic all morning. Knowing he should make the call while he could, he punched in the Headlys' house number. Eva answered. When she heard his voice, her relief was obvious.

"Are you all right? Gary's been trying to reach you."

"Cell service is dicey."

"In the city of Savannah?"

"Weather's moved in. Can't guarantee how long I'll have a signal. Is your old man around?"

"Yes, and he's as grumpy as you sound. I swear, the two of you..." She didn't finish, leaving him to infer that they tested her patience in equal measure.

Headly came on the line and began with an accusatory, "I've called you three times."

"Hello to you, too."

"Why haven't you answered your phone?"

"As I explained to Eva, cell service here comes and goes."

"Where exactly is here?"

Dawson ran his hand around the back of his neck where tension had collected. "I wasn't completely honest with you the last time we talked."

"Oh really?" Headly said, ladling on the sarcasm.

The ornery son of a bitch wasn't about to make this easy on him. "Everything I told you was the truth. I just omitted some things."

"Like where you are. What's that racket?"

"Rain. It's pelting. I'm on Saint Nelda's Island."

"Nelda was a saint?"

"Somebody thought so. It's a sea island off the coast of Georgia, slightly south of Savannah, reachable only by ferry, six miles long, two miles wide."

"Thanks for the geography lesson. I'm ready for Jeopardy. Why there?"

"I rented the house next door to one owned by the late Congressman Nolan."

A huff of surprise, followed by a short silence, then, "I don't even have to ask, do I?"

"She's here with her two sons and a nanny."

"Does she know you're there?"

"Yes."

"Does she know why?"

He skimmed the surface, omitting details, but got the facts across to Headly. "She knows about NewsFront, knows that I came down to cover the trial and see if there's a story worth writing, knows I followed her here to the island hoping for an interview. Nothing about you or the rest of it."

"How'd she react to the idea of a story?"

"She sure as hell didn't embrace it. She all but wears a sign around her neck warning off trespassers."

"Can't blame her. Most of her life has been lived in a fishbowl, first because of her father, now because of her husband."

"Ex-husband. Late ex-husband."

"Those qualifiers seem awfully important to you."

Dawson ignored the implication. "What I'm trying to tell you is that the lady is on red alert. She's particularly protective of her sons."

"Have you seen them?"