Page 30 of Trace of Doubt
Years had gone by since I was emotional about my own stupid actions. Whoever claimed tears were cathartic hadn’t ever been this angry... and hurt. I thought I’d hardened to manipulation. Prison tutored the innocent in ways that strengthened or destroyed the human spirit. Those were life skills, not just prison skills. But a part of me wanted to give those on the outside of a locked cell the benefit of the doubt. Officer Hughes had already proved me wrong, and Denton did the same. Why had his admittance to what I’d already discovered cut so deeply? Had I fallen prey to his hypnotic brown eyes and the confidence in his walk?
I’d liked Denton McClure. Past tense.
Shame on me.
19
DENTON
I spent the next eight hours rereading every post and article online about Shelby. Some I’d memorized. Some scratched at my gut... like Travis Stover killed at close range. The blood spatters on Shelby’s and Marissa Stover’s clothes. I reviewed photos and videos in which Shelby displayed no apparent remorse. Her impassiveness matched a coldhearted killer. I’d cut her ruthless image into my mind, despised everything about her.
Now I found myself attracted to a woman I thought I loathed. This afternoon, I had chased her down like a desperate man who longed to be understood. Hogwash, as my grandpa used to say. I glanced at the time—10:02p.m. Popcorn and Coke had been my supper, and a headache plotted against me.
What had I missed that confirmed Shelby’s guilt or pointed to her innocence? Her words poured into my thoughts.“You’ve wasted years of your life on a travesty.”
Stretching my shoulders, I headed to the fridge for pimento cheese, bread, and butter. While I grilled a cheese sandwich in a cast-iron skillet, I headed back to my laptop to specifically study photos of Shelby and her family during the trial. Made sense to look for body language. Again. Much of the media had labeled her a psychopath, and I believed it too.
Examining each photo took careful scrutiny until I smelled my grilled cheese burning. I yanked the skillet from the burner and scraped off the charred bits from the bottom. Sorta like how I felt if I’d wasted years of my life attempting to prove false charges.
I ate the sandwich anyway while examining the photos. Near midnight, I zoomed in on Shelby staring at her family on the way out of the courtroom on the day the jury reached a verdict. Softened features indicated a twinge of regret. Possibly fear. Or unbelief. Her cuffed hands were a hindrance to reading some nonverbal communication, but her shoulders slumped over a gaunt body, and she sobbed.
She’d shivered in the courtroom, as though her contemptible actions had hit her heart. The media used her tears to validate her guilt. TV and talk shows ran rampant exploiting teen crimes.
Her prison records noted her severe depression, abuse from gangs, and a refusal to eat. The assessment changed after she became a Christian. Except the gang beatings continued.
I headed for bed, but my restless thoughts churned like a whirlpool. Shelby’s intelligence helped her to achieve higher education, and I thought for too many years she’d planned the murder and the theft. Now my FBI instincts pushed me into uncertainty. What simmered beneath the surface? Why did someone want her dead? More importantly, who?
I fought the turmoil. The end of my investigation lay in mere days. Soon I’d get back to my job and bury this mess. But I had no real life to speak of. I’d put dating off until this was resolved, while my family urged me to put Shelby’s case to rest. They claimed my obsession with her had become a parasite. Their assessment hitthe target. Vacations were spent alone. Holidays with my family teetered between awkward and why had I bothered?
My swirling thoughts persisted and robbed me of any rest. I pursued truth like a madman. At 2a.m., I gave up my efforts to fall asleep. Wide-awake, I grabbed my laptop and crawled back into bed. The screen came to life, and I dug into the FBI’s secure site to find a connection between someone in Valleysburg and Shelby’s past.
When nothing snared my attention, I searched the Pearce family to see how they’d moved on with their lives. Her parents, close to retirement age, owned and operated a bakery. Marissa worked alongside them. She had a daughter who attended the local high school and made excellent grades. Typical. The family had chosen recovery instead of wearing the badge of a victim.
My thoughts circled back to Valleysburg and Randy Hughes, a bona fide bully. I hadn’t figured out if his attitude pointed to protecting Edie or something else. Since my ongoing investigation had led nowhere, I searched for info about Hughes, the representative of Valleysburg’s finest. Spit-polished and squeaky-clean. A classic example of a big brother watching over his widowed sister. Except for a few reports of verbal abuse and one of police brutality. Perhaps the plight of Shelby’s sister losing her husband intensified Hughes’s motivation.
I closed my eyes, more discouraged than I’d been in years.
20
SHELBY
Trepidation surged through me at the thought of delivering my jewelry to Amy-Jo. What if her response to my craftsmanship sprang from something else? I could handle opposition much easier than pity.
Early Monday morning in the gift shop, I presented her with three necklaces and matching earrings crafted from labradorite stones. The labradorite flashed gold, green, blue, and in the sunlight, some even picked up purple shades. I preferred the dark brass wire and its elegant and vintage feel, but I designed one set using blue stones and silver wire. The intricate cross on the back could actually be worn in the front. Each necklace had a two-by-four-inch white card embossed with a thin copper-colored vine and tied with a white, narrow ribbon—thanks to the advice of Edie’s web designer, a high school senior on her deceased husband’s side of the family. The card indicated each jewelry piece’s name, Hebrew meaning, and Scripture.
“These are breathtaking.” Amy-Jo picked up a necklace rich with gold and amber hues and read the card. “This is anAbigail. ‘Gives joy.’ ‘Always be full of joy in the Lord.’ Philippians 4:4.” She gingerly laid the necklace on the display case and examined another necklace in a pale-gray, purple, and taupe stone. “Bella.‘Devoted to God.’ ‘Protect me, for I am devoted to you. Save me, for I serve you and trust you. You are my God.’ Psalm 86:2.” She replaced the second necklace and lifted the third with a predominantly blue stone. “Davina.‘Cherished.’ ‘People who cherish understanding will prosper.’ Proverbs 19:8.”
Amy-Jo sighed. “Everything about them is perfect, and I love the fact they are reversible. Who knows? I might have to read a Bible.” She chuckled at her own words. “I’ll have these sold before you leave today and a dozen orders.”
All the while she examined each piece, my heart kept cadence to an invisible marching band. “You’re perfect for my ego. I’m working on other pieces, but before I start something new, do you want anything designed differently?”
She pursed her ruby-red lips. “Possibly a few more silver-wire pieces. The younger woman will prefer the silver, but the older and more sophisticated woman will snatch the gold and darker wire. I imagine some shades of stone look better with light than dark.”
“I’ll have a variety including bracelets and earrings. Some will match other pieces, and some will be separate. But all unique designs will have a name and a verse.”
“We have Spring Celebration Days coming up in May. Retail goes nuts then. A huge parade, pet show, talent contest, and people from all over fill the streets. How many pieces can you get done in eight to nine weeks?”
Paying Pastor Emory back ASAP penetrated my thoughts. I calculated the hours needed to create the jewelry and the money left from Pastor Emory’s check to purchase any supplies. “I have no idea, but I’ll work on them whenever I’m not here.”
