Dead Giveaway by Brenda Novak

lowered her voice because they could hear Whitney skipping down the hall, singing. “You should’ve told us what you were dealing with a lot sooner.”
    â€œI thought the medication would help his mood swings. And it did, to some extent. I could’ve lived with his ups and downs if only he’d cared about Whitney.”
    â€œHe was just too—” Whitney entered the room, and Evelyn finished with a simple “—selfish.”
    Allie’s daughter had chocolate smeared on her face and was grinning from ear to ear. “Boppo makes the best cookies. I’m glad we live here!”
    Whitney didn’t seem to miss her father. Considering the way Sam had treated her, Allie wasn’t particularly surprised. “I’m glad, too, honey.”
    â€œThat makes three of us.” Evelyn collected Allie’s empty plate. “Come on, Whitney. We’ll let your mother grab a quick nap.”
    Whitney didn’t answer. She was too busy searching thebed and the floor. “Where is it?” she asked in obvious disappointment. “Where did it go?”
    Allie had slumped back onto the pillows. She planned to get up and help her daughter with homework. But she craved fifteen more minutes before she had to roll out of bed. “Where did what go?” she asked, her mind having shifted to the poster board Whitney needed for a project at school.
    â€œThe picture,” Whitney replied.
    â€œWhat picture?” Evelyn asked.
    â€œOf the naked man. The one Mommy took at work.”
    Allie could feel her mother’s gaze, but pretended not to be paying attention.
    â€œAllie?” her mother said.
    â€œGive me a few minutes,” Allie mumbled, feigning sleep.
    â€œMommy,” Whitney started but, much to Allie’s relief, Evelyn managed to coax her from the room with the promise of calling Uncle Daniel in Arizona to say hello.
    â€œWill Aunt Jamie be there, too?” Whitney asked.
    â€œMaybe,” Evelyn said. “We’ll see.”
    As soon as they were gone, Allie pulled Clay’s photograph from under her mattress, intending to return it to the file. She had no reason to feel embarrassed that she had it. It was work, that was all. And yet his fathomless blue eyes held her spellbound.
    Was he a murderer? An accomplice? Or a convenient target?
    At this point, she had no idea. She only knew he was the handsomest man she’d ever met.
    With a curse, she shoved the photograph back between the mattresses—she didn’t want her mother and Whitney to catch her leaving the room with it—and forced herself to get up.
    Â 
    It rained again that night, and steam rose from the warm earth. Clay stood at his bedroom window, watching it, listening to the wind whip the trees against the house. The ferocity of the storm made him feel more isolated than usual, and yet it reminded him that seasons changed and life went on—even though he felt like he was trapped in the past.
    The phone rang. After a long day of plowing, he’d replaced the roof on one of the sheds behind the barn. His back ached from hauling the heavy roofing material up the ladder and from bending over to attach each shingle. He wanted to go to bed. But, tired as he was, he strode to the nightstand and reached for the handset. It had to be Beth Ann. He’d tried calling her twice earlier.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œClay?”
    It was her, all right. Stretching out on the bed, he gazed up at the ceiling, wondering why he wasn’t angry. She’d done her best to land him in prison, which was still a possibility. But he blamed himself more than he blamed her. At least she was willing to make a commitment. He couldn’t even offer her friendship.
    â€œWhat’s up?” he said.
    There was a moment’s hesitation, during which he felt her surprise at receiving his typical greeting. “You’re not mad?” she asked.
    â€œThat depends on what you mean