The first steps of Rachel’s run had started stiff and awkward. Each initial foot strike on the pavement jarred her bruised shoulder enough to make her grit her teeth. But she kept running, hoping for the best. To her relief, after a half mile her body warmed a little and she fell into a rhythm.
As she jogged the path at the park, her breathing soon calmed. In the morning light surrounded with a park full of runners she hoped she’d be safe, but still she kept her gaze swiveling from side to side half expecting to duck an attacker’s blow. She glanced behind her and checked her watch.
She would have loved to say this was a moment of rest and relaxation for her. But she had an important mission. Bill Dawson, Annie’s husband and the man who’d refused all her calls, jogged every morning at seven through the park. She figured if he wouldn’t see her, she’d find him. She sucked in a breath and slowed her pace, hoping he’d shown while her shoulder cooperated.
When she heard the steady clip of footsteps, she glanced back to see a tall, lean, olive-skinned man with hair more gray than black. He was fit, held his head up as he moved and looked as if he’d barely broken a sweat. Earbuds peaked out from his cap. He was attractive and she imagined thirty years ago he would have been stunning. A perfect match to Annie’s beauty.
As he passed, she quickened her pace and called out to him. “Mr. Dawson.”
He kept running.
“Damn,” she muttered, hustling faster until her fingertips brushed his sleeve. “Mr. Dawson!”
At her touch, he slowed and flashed her a look of pure annoyance.
She puffed a stray hair, which had drifted over her eyes. “Mr. Dawson, can I have a word?”
He jerked the earbuds out. “Who are you?”
“My name is Rachel Wainwright. I wanted to ask you some questions about Annie Dawson.”
His breath hitched seconds before his frown deepened with a menace that could make most flinch. “I don’t talk about her, especially to the press.”
“I’m not press, Mr. Dawson.” Her breathless tone forced her to pause. She’d underestimated the toll of her injury. “I’m an attorney and I’m representing Jeb Jones.”
Annoyance didn’t turn to anger as expected but curiosity. “Why the hell would you represent that monster?”
She didn’t rise to the bait that many had dangled in front of her the last couple of weeks. “I’m not sure that he killed your wife.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” The loud barking tone matched his reputation as confrontational and hard. “The cops sent him away thirty years ago.”
In a calm, I’ve-got-to-win-this-jury-over tone, she said, “I think they made a mistake.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have time for this.”
As he turned she said, “The cops cleared you immediately after Annie went missing because you were out of town at a trade show.”
Deeply etched crow’s feet deepened. “Look, if you are trying to pin this on me . . .”
“I’m not. I’m trying to find out what happened to Annie. Your alibi was solid.”
He released a breath as if he’d been holding it for thirty years. “That piece of crap client you are representing was obsessed with her and then while I was gone he came into my home and beat her to death. He beat my wife to death and took her body and dumped it in the woods.”
“While your daughter Sara slept in her crib.”
Your daughter triggered the tiniest of flinches. “Get to the point, Wainwright, or I’m calling the cops.”
She pressed the point she’d been mulling for days. “Were you the biological father of Annie’s baby?”
“What the hell?”
“I was given letters written by Annie from an unknown source. The letters were written to a lover. The way Annie talked I assumed this affair was a secret and yet you two dated openly, meeting in church from what I understand. And then the day after her body was found you signed papers relinquishing parental rights.”
“None of that is your business.”
The raw anger on his face divulged more than words. The nerve she’d struck might be thirty years old but it remained sensitive. “Please,” she prompted. “We need to find this man. I think he could have been involved in her murder.” His angry silence sliced the air between them. “Did she have a lover?”
“What if she did?” The loud question blasted like a double-barreled shotgun. “What the hell difference does it make now?”
“It could make a lot of difference to my client. This secret lover of hers could have been the one that killed her.”
He shook his head, aggravated. “You are chasing a pipe dream. Jeb killed her.”
The door that had cracked might burst open if she pushed a little harder. “Did she identify him?”
He glanced down the path as if common sense told him to leave now, but he lingered, no doubt weighed by an old secret pain. “This is none of your business.”
“If that guy was linked to Annie’s death then it sure is my business. Did you ever get a name?”
Under the anger simmered temptation. He wanted to talk. Wanted to vent.
“You carried the secret all these years. Was it to protect the baby?”
He clenched his fingers. “She didn’t deserve the mess she was born into.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“I couldn’t love her. Not like she deserved. I gave her away to parents who wanted her.”
“That was kind.”
“Or selfish. Depends.” He studied her. “The media has been all over me for another interview. You are the reason the past got stirred up. I missed your news broadcast.”
“My television debut was a hit.” When curiosity darkened his gaze she said, “I’ll give you the shorthand version. Annie’s sister decked me on live television.”
“Margaret.” The word came out like a growl.
“She’s not too thrilled with you either. She demanded contact with her niece.”
His eyes narrowed. “Annie looked out for her sister but she did not want her to have the baby.” His jaw tensed and released. “The last month before the baby was born Annie worried a lot about dying. She begged me never to give the baby to Margaret or her mother. I thought it was hormones, but I promised Annie that they would never raise the baby.”
“You loved Annie.”
Pain deepened the lines on his face. “Go away.”
“Who was Annie’s lover?”
“Christ, you are a bitch.”
Rachel shrugged. “Tell me what I don’t know.”
He flexed his fingers. “I don’t know who the hell he was! She was pregnant with his child when we married. I didn’t know that at the time. I thought I was one lucky bastard who’d landed a hell of a catch.”
“She told you?”
“Hell, no. When the baby was born, two months early by my count, healthy and whole, I knew it wasn’t mine.” White teeth flashed and contrasted with his tanned olive skin. “And do you really think I could make a pink baby with blond hair?”
Rachel had barely pulled a C in biology but she understood that his dark traits would likely have overshadowed Annie’s fairer ones.