“Bud Traynor killed Cameron.” The knowledge seethed in her heart, her bones, her head.
Max grabbed Witt as soon as he walked through the door. She forgot the Chinese food, forgot everything, as she shoved the yearbook beneath his nose.
“He paid those men to kill Cameron.”
She said it over and over that night until she’d driven Witt into a merciful sleep on the covers of her bed. She repeated it like a mantra as she lay next to him and in the morning as she stood beneath the stinging spray of the shower. She told Witt a thousand times on the drive to the airport. Holding his hand, she whispered it in his ear as the plane took off, soothed him with it as his fingers clenched on his thighs, recited it like a prayer as they winged through the sky, puffy clouds below them, chanted it as they deplaned, again and again until Witt, in the middle of the causeway, stopped her with his hands on her face.
“I believe you.”
Travelers flowed by, buffeted them with bags and computers, grumbled and murmured, while stiff, formal voices squawked instructions over the intercom. The scent of hamburgers, pizza, coffee, and sweat-stained bodies swirled around them. A child screamed at the top of her lungs.
Witt didn’t let go. His blue eyes studied hers. His aftershave filled her head and buried everything else. “I believe.”
Max almost cried, for Witt’s touch, for Cameron’s loss, for Bud Traynor’s birth.
Witt pulled her to an empty gate, pushed her down into a seat by the windows, then sat next to her, right knee to her left one. Sounds and people faded away.
“Walter Spring’s case tipped him off.” Cameron’s last case before he died. “Your husband was a good prosecutor, left no stone unturned. Had a rep for going back over a detective’s notes and re-interviewing witnesses.”
“And he would have talked to Walter’s business partners.” Walter Spring, of Traynor, Spring, and Gregory, allegedly committed suicide in the fall two years ago. Only a month or so before Cameron died.
Bud Traynor, senior partner in the law firm, had goaded Walter into suicide. Max knew. Cameron had suspected murder then, but his work had been forbidden territory between them, confidential, classified. She’d known nothing of his last case, nothing until a month ago.
Back then, when Cameron was alive, she didn’t know about Walter, she didn’t know about Bud Traynor, she didn’t know that Cameron had found his runaway uncle.
“Bud suspected that Cameron would eventually realize Cordelia never left Michigan.” She’d gone over and over this with Witt last night.
“Are you sure she’s dead?”
“She’s in those woods.” Max closed her eyes, sensed Cordelia’s voice deep inside, weaker than it had been in Lines, but there, talking to her. “Bud buried her there after he killed her.”
Two airline employees entered the waiting area, headed for the podium. A stubby man rolled his carry-on across the carpeting and sat two spaces from Witt. Seats filled up. Max hadn’t noticed. Voices filtered back into her consciousness.
“Let’s go.” She had things to do. With the time change, their flight arrived a little after four. Bud Traynor would be waiting for her. At his house, at his office, somewhere, he’d be waiting for her. Because he’d known she’d find his past in Lines. He knew she’d come looking for him.
Witt’s hand prevented her from rising. “You aren’t going to see him.”
Her muscles tensed. “You can’t be serious.”
He tugged on her wrist. “I’ll look into it. Do some checking, ask some questions, track the guys who shot your husband, connect them to Traynor.”
“The cops couldn’t find them then.” What was different now?
“I wasn’t on the case before.” He skewered her with blue lasers. “Personal stakes count for a helluva lot.”
His personal stakes? “You’re on leave.”
“Doesn’t mean no one’s talking to me. I’ve got resources. I’ll do this, Max.” For her. To protect her. He must have seen the doubt in her eyes. “We don’t want him slipping through our fingers because you fucked with procedure or tipped his hand.”
He knew her buttons. She bit her bottom lip. She’d die if Traynor became an OJ, beating the system, walking free. She’d give anything to see him to pay with his life. The need rose in her, choked her, gnawed on her soul. He had to pay. She’d never forgive herself if she screwed the case against him by doing something stupid.
“He’s my fight, Witt. He always has been.”
He put a finger to her lips. “Let it be mine, too. You’re not alone.”
Her chest tightened. Even when Cameron was alive, she’d sometimes felt alone. A lot of times. Maybe this need to take on Bud alone was simply another way to keep Witt on the outside.
“I won’t go see him. But don’t take so long figuring it out that I have to break my word.”
If Witt failed, she’d take matters into her own hands. This time, Bud wasn’t getting away with it.
*