A Bad Boy is Good to Find - By Jennifer Lewis Page 0,63

his consciousness.

Lizzie’s hand touched his arm, her fingers soft, squeezing the skin.

“It’s okay.” She sounded wary, like she didn’t believe it.

“It isn’t,” he whispered. He could hear the camera whirring. “It isn’t okay.”

“Con,” she said softly. “I don’t know what’s out there for you, but I do know that you need to face it.” She squeezed his arm again.

Their eyes met. For once there wasn’t a trace of anger, malice or cruelty in her face. Just compassion. “You know you do.”

Something stirred in his heart, and he nodded and jerked the stick shift back into drive.

What was he afraid of? The old man and his fists? The camera was protection, not that he needed it anymore. He wasn’t a skinny kid cowering under the house. He took a deep breath.

Danny wouldn’t be there. He’d be twenty-one by now, gone off to lead his own life, if he’d lived long enough to have one. The grim realization brought an emptiness that almost passed for calm.

Lizzie’s hand stayed on his arm as he drove. She rubbed it, intending to be reassuring, but her touch stirred up more anxiety. She’d regret this maybe more than he would.

He wasn’t going to be able to play it the way she wanted.

His blood pressure ratcheted as he noticed Remy’s house was gone. Just the stilts were left, poking up out of black dirt. The road itself was dirt now too, flecked with an occasional hunk of tarmac, but looking like it washed out regularly.

And there it was.

Nothing.

He threw the car into park, jerking them all forward again.

One ragged wooden stilt stuck up out of the muddy dirt.

Nothing and no one there.

“This is the place,” he muttered. So low he could barely hear his own voice. “Must have washed away.”

Lizzie had a hand pressed to her mouth.

A terrible wave of relief swept over him, followed by an undertow of guilt. Was this really it?

Oh, yes. He could feel pain and anger still lodged in the damn trees.

He jumped out of the car. The ground squelched beneath his feet. Wetter than it used to be, sinking into the swamp around them. The road continued on through the trees, but not for much further, he’d bet.

All gone. Except the memories, and he’d sure tried to get rid of those. As shadows of the past crowded toward him, he stiffened his back, like a gladiator ready to fight for his life in the ring. He was angry as hell and done keeping quiet. If Lizzie didn’t like it she had no one but herself to blame.

She climbed out the Jeep and picked her way toward him. Her sandals sank into the dark mud.

“Home sweet home,” he said coolly.

She hugged herself. Smacked at a mosquito on her arm. Her trendy outfit left her exposed and her forehead creased into a pained expression that softened him. Almost.

What had she expected? Lizzie figured it would be a shack in a swamp and here they were, the remains of a shack in a swamp. She was relieved there were no actual people here, but she’d never really thought there would be.

So where was her thrill of victory?

Con walked toward what was left of the stilt foundation and she followed, stick-littered mud squishing under her feet.

“This was the house,” he said, scratching his head. He seemed to have regained his cool. “Up on stilts, ’cause as you can see, it gets wet around here. Two rooms.” He gave a grim little smile that felt like a stab in her gut. “This what you expected?”

She nodded. Bit her lip.

“The bayou’s right back there. You can see it if you’re up a bit higher. We used to get around by boat. Didn’t have a car except for one time when my dad won a few dollars in the lottery. Gone soon enough though.”

He rested his hand on the blackened wood stump of the one remaining stilt. Stared right at her, his eyes black and focused.

Cool? He’d turned cold as ice.

She shuddered.

Are you happy now? His angry stare demanded the question.

Shame heated her face and scattered her thoughts. Had she thought it would be funny that he came from what was—at least to her—grim poverty?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“What for? It’s not your fault I grew up dirt-poor. That some days I didn’t eat. That my parents were alcoholics.” He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

After a long pause he looked down at the dark earth, then back up at her. “It’s not your fault that my dad killed my mom,