The skinny cop moved toward her. Then he knelt and felt Wade’s neck. A second later, he looked at his partner and shook his head. “Dead.”
The cop turned to her with a frown. “What happened?”
“Don’t say anything!” Hank yelled.
Avery’s cry caught in her throat. She didn’t know what to do. What to say. She’d seen the knife in Hank’s hand. Seen him stabbing Wade over and over.
Something niggled at the back of her mind. Something that had happened. Wade had come into her room.... She’d heard a noise....
“Where’s your mother?” the policeman asked.
She didn’t know that, either. The foster homes had been her life.
“Stop fighting me, kid.” The big cop shoved Hank up against the wall, pushed his knee in Hank’s back, then jerked his arms behind him.
Tears blurred Avery’s eyes as he handcuffed her brother.
“It’ll be okay, sis,” Hank shouted.
Avery let out a sob. Hank was all she had.
What were they going to do to him? Would they take him to jail?
If they did, what would happen to her?
Twenty years later
“Thirty-four-year-old Hank Tierney is scheduled for execution in just a few days. Protestors against the death penalty have begun to rally, but due to Tierney’s confession, his appeals have been denied.”
Avery stared at the local television news in Cherokee Crossing, her heart in her throat as images from the past assaulted her.
Hank holding the bloody knife, Hank repeatedly stabbing Wade Mulligan...
Her doing nothing... She’d been in shock. Traumatized, the therapist had said. Dr. Weingarten had tried to protect her from the press. Had sat with her during the grueling forensic police interviews. Had tried to get her placed in a safe, stable home.
But nobody wanted Hank Tierney’s sister.
Especially knowing their father was also in prison for murder.
That fact had worked against Hank. The assistant D.A. at the time had argued that Hank was genetically predisposed to violence. The altercations between him and their foster parents hadn’t helped his case.
A couple of the neighbors had witnessed Hank lashing out at Wade when Wade had reprimanded him.
Wade’s wife, Joleen, their foster mother at the time, had testified that Hank was troubled, angry, rebellious, even mean. That she’d been afraid of him for months.
Avery had been too confused to stand up for him.
But she’d secretly been relieved that Wade was dead.
And too ashamed of what the man had done to her to speak out.
“Hank Tierney was only fourteen at the time he stabbed Wade Mulligan. But due to the maliciousness of the crime, he was tried as an adult and has spent the past twenty years on death row. His sister, Avery, who was nine when the murder occurred and the sole witness of the crime, has refused interviews.”
The nightmares that had been haunting Avery made her shiver. Hank’s arrest and the publicity surrounding it had dogged her all her life, affecting every relationship she’d ever had.
Just as Wade’s abuse had.
She was shy around men, reluctant to trust. Cautious about letting anyone in her life because once they heard her story, they usually ran.
A photo of Hank at fourteen, the day of the arrest, flashed on the screen, then a photo of him now. He was thirty-four. Not a teenager but a man.
His once thin, freckled face had filled out; his nose was crooked as if it had been broken. And he’d beefed up, added muscles to his lanky frame.
There were scars on his face that hadn’t been there before, a long jagged one along his temple. But the scars in his eyes were the ones that made her lungs strain for air.
Still, he was that young boy who’d stepped in front of her and taken blows for her when Wade was drinking. Who’d sneaked her food when Wade was on one of his rampages and she was hiding in the shed out back to escape his wrath.
Hank had spent his life in jail for what he’d done. For taking away the monster who’d made her young life hell.
She should have told.
Although the therapist had assured her it wouldn’t have mattered, that the number of stab wounds alone indicated Hank suffered from extreme rage and was a danger to society.
But Hank had killed Wade in self-defense. And Wade had deserved to die.
Still, her brother would be put to death in just a few days. It wasn’t fair.
She looked outside the window at the dusty road and woods. The prison was only an hour from Cherokee Crossing. Subconsciously she must have chosen to settle back here because she’d be close to Hank.
Or maybe because she’d needed to confront her demons so she could move on.
Just like she had to see Hank before he died and thank him for saving her life.
* * *
TEXAS RANGER JAXON WARD took a seat in the office of Director Landers, his nerves on edge. He’d just gotten off a case and his adrenaline was still running high. Beating the suspect the way he had done could get him kicked off the job.
Hell, he didn’t care.
He was ready to hang up his badge anyway. Maybe open his own P.I. agency. Then he wouldn’t have to play by the rules.
“You asked to see me?”
“Yes, I’ve decided to grant your request to work the domestic-violence team.”
Jaxon tried not to react. The director knew his background, that he’d grown up in the system and that domestic violence was personal for him.
In fact, it had been a strike against him. The director had expressed concerns that Jaxon might allow his own experiences, and his anger, to cloud his judgment, and that he’d end up taking his personal feelings out on the alleged abusers.
The director had good reason to worry.
Today was the perfect example. When he’d seen Horace Mumford go after his kid with a wood board, Jaxon had taken the board to him.
“Thank you, sir.” Jaxon stood, waiting on the reprimand.
But it never came. Instead the director cleared his throat. “Your first assignment is to make sure the Tierney execution goes forward.”
Jaxon frowned. “I didn’t realize there was a problem.”
Director Landers ran a hand over his balding head. “Some young do-gooder attorney wanting to make a name for herself is trying to get a stay and a retrial.”
Jaxon had seen the recent protests against the execution in the news. Not unusual with death row cases.
“Go talk to Tierney. Make sure everything stays on track.”
Jaxon’s gut tightened with an uneasy feeling. “Why the interest?” According to the news, the guy was only a teenager when he murdered his foster father. And he’d been railroaded into a confession.
“Because that case was one of the first ones I worked when I was a young cop. It built my career.”
Now Jaxon understood. The director was worried about his damn job, not whether or not a man was innocent.
“Wipe that scowl off your face. I didn’t