More guilt? A sure bet, since he was becoming such a pro at it.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “You married someone.”
The accusation in her voice that he’d betrayed her ticked him off. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Peyton. That rock on your finger says you didn’t wait around for me, either.”
She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, or as if her current premarital status didn’t even belong in the conversation. “When did you have time to find yourself a wife and get a divorce?” She took a step backward, resting her bottom against the cheap, laminated dresser. “Why didn’t they find you when you filed for divorce?”
A coldness crept into his veins that he couldn’t have kept out of his voice if he’d wanted to…which he didn’t. “Generally when one’s wife is murdered, divorce isn’t exactly a necessity.”
Peyton’s hands fell to her sides as she stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. “By whom?” she finally asked.
The doubt filling her eyes pushed that damned hot button again. “Who the hell do you think?” he snapped, coming off the bed toward her. The fact that she still believed him capable of murder chafed not only his pride, but had his heart stinging, as well. Once upon a time they’d meant the world to each other. Now she circled him like a hand-shy puppy.
She held her ground, though—he gave her credit for that much, especially considering she’d made a habit out of taking the path of least resistance whenever her personal life was involved.
“I wish I knew.”
“Dammit, Peyton. You just can’t trust me, can you?”
“You haven’t given me much reason to.” She fired the accusation back at him. She stood toe-to-toe with him, and dammit if the flash of heat in her eyes didn’t have his gut clenching with what he recognized as desire. Guilt continued to nudge him, but he sidestepped it and clung to the anger simmering below the surface instead. Anger was good. It not only let him know he was still alive, but it gave him something else to concentrate on other than the need he had no right to feel.
He reached for her and held her upper arms in a tight grip. “You’re going to have to learn. Your life depends on it.”
She struggled, but he refused to let her go. The soft floral scent of her perfume teased his senses, threatening to slam him back to a time when angry words between them were about as common as a blizzard in August.
“The evidence against you is staggering,” she argued. “And you haven’t told me a damned thing since you dragged me here. If you want me to trust you, then start talking, Jared. And you can start by telling me who killed your wife.”
“The same people that are now after you are responsible for Beth’s murder.”
As if he’d slapped her, she flinched, and something in her eyes died. “Her name was Beth?” she asked, her voice suddenly quiet.
He let go of her and his hands fell to his sides. “Yeah,” he said, “her name was Beth.” Sweet, caring Beth. Sadness weighed him down. She hadn’t deserved to die. He might not have been the one to pull the trigger, but he was to blame for her death. All because he’d gotten tired, and been arrogant enough to believe that maybe they’d finally given up trying to find him.
He’d underestimated them, a mistake he would never make again.
“Was she very young?” Peyton asked.
He knew where this was going—straight down a path where the tracks were still fresh. Ignoring her questions was a possibility, but he understood that if he’d been completely honest with Beth, she might be alive today. A wrong he could never right.
He nodded before moving to the edge of the bed to sit. “She was only twenty-six.”
The next question was inevitable. He could see it in Peyton’s face when he looked up at her. The one that would compound the guilt he already felt, the one that would hurt them both when she asked it.
“Were you in love with her?”
A direct shot, right to the heart of the matter. No wonder she made a great prosecuting attorney. She didn’t hedge bets when she wanted information.
He could easily lie. Doing so had become second nature to him. He could even attempt to protect Peyton’s feelings, if she had any left for him, but why? They were the past. He was with her now only to keep her from ending up with a bullet through the back of her head. Wasn’t he?
Then what was that kiss about?
He settled his elbows on his thighs and let his hands dangle between his knees as he stared down at the worn carpet and chose to ignore his conscience. Lifting his gaze to hers, he said, “I cared about her. Love?” He shrugged. “I thought I knew what it was. Once.”
She winced, and it filled him with a morbid sense of satisfaction. “Any other questions?” he asked sarcastically.
“Just one,” she said, crossing her arms. “You stopped running, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t plan to,” he said after a moment. “I hired on as a cook in a truck stop when I ended up in some small town I didn’t even know the name of, somewhere between Manhattan and Topeka, Kansas. Beth managed the place at night and waited tables on the graveyard shift. The cook walked out and I was in the right place at the right time. She hired me on the spot without asking a lot of questions I made a habit of evading.”
Still leaning against the dresser, Peyton crossed her slim ankles. “You couldn’t have used your social security number or they’d have been on you right away. How’d you get around that?”
“I’d give a phony number, then stall for a week or two, saying I lost my wallet and was waiting for a replacement card. By the time they handed me my second paycheck I’d tell them I got my card a couple of days before, but just forgot to bring it with me. I’d promise to have it the next day, but I’d move on to the next town and the next job under another name and fake social. Until Kansas, I never stayed longer than six weeks in any location.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. “Why was Kansas different? Because of Beth?”
He pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. Her questions were no less grilling than the ones he tortured himself with every night. Only now he had to face the answers. No more dishonesty. Not if it could cost another person he cared about her life.
“She was part of the reason,” he admitted. “That, and I’d been on the run just under two years. I was tired of always looking over my shoulder, and frustrated because after twenty-some months, I was no closer to finding out who the bad guys really were. In all that time, I had zero leads and couldn’t come up with a scrap of information that would bring me any closer to clearing my name. I hadn’t planned on sticking around long, just enough to make some cash so I could keep moving. Moving and looking.”
“But you stayed.”
“I stayed. I knew in my gut I shouldn’t, but like I said, I was tired and I hadn’t had any close scrapes in almost a year. Maybe I’d hoped they’d given up. Besides, if I never surfaced, then their dirty little secrets would be kept. With an assumed identity, marriage would keep me safe for longer than usual. And for a while, it did.”
“How long did it last?”
“Almost eight months.” Eight months during which he’d foolishly believed he could maybe have a semblance of a normal life, although nothing like what he’d once envisioned for himself. If it meant staying alive, he was more than willing to make a few concessions.
“How long…”
Before the bastards got to her? “We were married four months,” he said.
“Did she know?” Peyton asked as she straightened and pushed away from dresser. “Did she know