“Julia?” Max pushed.
Julia set her cup on the table, a little chink of china against glass. “I’ve only begun to deal with some things about myself.” She stopped, clasped and unclasped her hands. “In actuality, Bud did us a favor.”
“He set you up to murder your husband.”
“He wanted me to know what was going on.”
“He set you up with Angela.”
Julia’s eyes misted over. “I’ll always be grateful for his bringing Angela to me.”
That didn’t stop Max from hating Bud. She looked to Baxter for help. He tipped his head and shrugged.
Bud Traynor, master manipulator, had won again.
Max rose.
“Don’t hate us, Max,” Julia begged.
Julia didn’t understand Bud’s true nature. Baxter wanted only to protect his daughter. How could Max blame either of them? “I thought you capable of murder, Julia. I’m the one who should ask you not to hate me.”
With that, Max left.
Baxter Newton’s shoes tapped behind her. “Max?”
She didn’t want to stop and might not have if he hadn’t put his hand on her arm. Afraid of the condemning words that would fall from her lips, she kept her mouth closed.
“Max,” he said again, voice low, gaze over his shoulder to where Julia sat in the sun with her tea. “She doesn’t know about me and...” He couldn’t seem to finish.
Max said it for him. “About you and Angela.” She let him stew.
“Yes,” he finally answered. “I don’t want to hurt her any further with Angela’s duplicity.”
“What about your own?” She knew she wasn’t being fair. She didn’t care. Bud Traynor was going to get away again.
A flush rose to Baxter’s cheeks, and his eyes dropped to his tasseled shoes. “I am ashamed.” His gaze rose. “But I’m not ashamed that I cared for Angela. I’ll never be ashamed of that.”
There was really nothing more to say. He was a man who would do anything to protect the ones he loved, a good man.
“I won’t tell, Baxter.” Max didn’t bring up the fact that they would both allow Bud Traynor to go on unhindered. She’d already made her pitch and lost the game
There was, though, another chance.
Hammerhead.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Max waited the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday for Witt to call. It wasn’t fear or self-righteousness. It was a sense of the rightness of waiting, of giving him the chance to make the decision, the chance to come to terms with Angela, with being the instrument that ended her life. What a nice, diplomatic way of saying it.
By Sunday night, Max couldn’t wait any more.
She dressed in a jean skirt Angela suggested she buy, pairing it with a long-sleeved velour top. Her soul wanted to remember that shopping day rather than the rest, when everything fell horribly to pieces. Fingering the velour, she heard Angela’s laughter.
Followed by the blast of Witt’s gun. Max was the incendiary device in the middle, propelling them both toward their fate.
She drove to Ladybird’s for Sunday dinner, hoping Witt would be there, hoping that the actualization of Horace’s prediction hadn’t driven him away from even that refuge.
His truck wasn’t parked in the street out front. Max wanted to cry. She pulled to the curb anyway and climbed from her car.
In the dark, the plastic bushes lining Ladybird’s front walk looked real. The Astroturf appeared lush and green. Light glowed behind the curtains in the front window. A small shadow moved after she’d rung the doorbell.
“Max,” Ladybird chirped as she opened the door.
Max had the odd feeling of wanting to clamp her hand over Ladybird’s mouth. The name, however, was already out, the surprise blown. Just in case Witt was inside.
Ladybird opened the screen door. “Come in, come in, my dear.”
Max hung back. “No, I don’t think so. Not now, Ladybird. Thanks, anyway. I was just wondering if Witt was here.”
Ladybird pursed her lips, then stage-whispered, “Is this about you know who and you know what?”
“Yes,” Max answered, thinking you know who could have been Angela, Horace, even Bud Traynor. You know what could have been any number of crimes Max had committed against Witt.
Ladybird smiled with a touch of sadness. “He already left.”
Max’s heart nose-dived. “Oh.” She looked at her shoes. “Did he go home?”
“He didn’t say where he was going.” Lines of concern furrowed Ladybird’s brow.
Max badly wanted to ask how he was, but if felt like checking if the coast was clear or if Ladybird thought he’d speak to Max.
“It wasn’t your fault, honeybunch.”
“Ladybird, I—”
The little lady held up a hand. “Horace said it was meant to be. We earthly beings can never know why bad things have to occur, but Horace says what happens must happen.”
“You make it sound like destiny.” Destiny didn’t absolve Max.