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Was it about truth and closure, or was it his own bruised ego? Maybe he was losing it. He sure as hell didn’t want to be sitting in this diner, packed with ­people he didn’t know, waiting for a man he didn’t want to see. He rubbed his throbbing temples. The diner was crowded and way too hot. It was too hot in the whole town for that matter. He wasn’t a small-­town guy—­wasn’t then and wasn’t now.
    The diner buzzed with locals and a few strays waiting for the big press conference. A quiet simmer, a tension, seemed ready to bubble over at the slightest provocation. The ladies in the booth in front of him wore somber expressions, each of them sipping sweet tea. Others appeared angry, eyebrows and mouths drawn into scowls. He wasn’t surprised; Little Springs had been dealt a shocking blow. A few days ago, it was a dot on a map, a tiny college town almost no one knew existed. Today it was swarming with media and spectators. The townsfolk were anxious, many of them angry and frightened, the rise and fall of emotion evident in the diner’s rumble. He couldn’t blame them. Coming here was probably a bad idea. Bile rose in his throat, and his head pounded.
    Cancini fidgeted with his empty coffee cup and tried to focus on the newspaper in front of him.
    Reporters are expected to converge on Little Springs, Virginia, today for the homecoming of Leo Spradlin. Convicted in a series of rapes and murders on the campus of Blue Hill College, Spradlin was cleared of all charges when new DNA testing proved his innocence. Spradlin, granted a pardon and writ of innocence by the governor, immediately announced his intention to return to Little Springs. “I’m going home,” said the newly freed man, “going back to the only home I’ve ever known.”
    Cancini’s bony fingers clutched the paper. Spradlin had chosen his words carefully. Back then, he’d kept his razor-­sharp tongue and quick mind hidden behind a passive expression and charming demeanor. Some may believe a leopard can change his spots, but not Cancini. Spradlin’s public return wasn’t without purpose. It wasn’t homesickness pulling him back. Spradlin was free and coming home to rub it in, to show them all how wrong they’d been. The towns­people didn’t give a damn what science or the governor had to say. To them, the fact was, the day Spradlin was arrested, the murders had stopped. Women in Little Springs were safe again. No one had been more convinced of Spradlin’s guilt than Cancini, and no one had been more instrumental in putting the man away.
    But Cancini knew it wasn’t that simple. The reporters would be fervent in their beliefs, too, particularly when the evidence showed an innocent man narrowly escaping execution. Throw in the lawyers, and it was likely a whole bunch of folks would be wearing righ­teous­ness on their sleeves. No matter the reason he’d come, it was a terrible mistake.
    â€œBaldwin.” A man’s voice rang out. “I wanna talk to you.”
    The mayor stood near the door, and several diners gathered around him, their voices insistent, demanding. He appeared to listen and nod but offered few words in return. His face was pink, flushed from the heat of a Virginia Indian summer, but he stood patiently, acknowledging each question. After a few moments, the small crowd dispersed, grumbling as they returned to their booths and chairs. The lone waitress, a young woman whose ponytail swung when she walked, waved him in. He smiled at her and scanned the room. Spotting Cancini, he strode over and squeezed into the empty seat at the table.
    â€œMike. You look good,” the mayor said, his blue eyes studying his former friend. “How long has it been?”
    â€œA long time.”
    Baldwin chuckled, picking up a paper napkin. “We were kids then, weren’t we?”
    â€œYeah, kids,” Cancini said. Baldwin,