wouldn't help anyone now. Not poor dead Heather Baker. And not the angry, bitter Clint Austin.
Some things were better left in the past where they belonged.
Shears Salon
" Oh, my God! Did you see all that?"
Justine Mallory refused to react, even as most of the ladies in the shop hovered at the front window to gawk at the unpleasant scene breaking up on the street. You would think the Almighty himself had appeared on the courthouse steps.
They had all wanted to get a final glimpse of him . Clint Austin, the resident convicted killer.
"I can't believe they let him out after only ten years," Jean Cook, the shop's manager, declared indignantly.
Justine bit her tongue rather than say what was on her mind. Clint Austin didn't deserve their avid curiosity, much less all the fanfare that had gone on outside.
"Well, personally I don't think we'll ever know the whole story on that one." Cathy Caruthers, perm rods still dripping, strolled back to her chair. "Mike and I discussed the issue just last night. All the deputies are talking about it."
Cathy liked reminding everyone that she was almost an attorney about as frequently as she liked cheating on the husband she crowed over. That was the trouble with a man in uniform; it seemed he never had time to pay proper attention. Such a travesty.
"Didn't look like he's been wasting away in a cell all this time," Violet Manning-Turner commented, one professionally waxed eyebrow arched in distaste. Violet had always thought herself a cut above the rest. A concept perpetuated by the idea that she'd married far better than she deserved.
Truth was, Clint Austin had always been good-looking. Justine doubted prison had changed that. She would, however, keep that assessment to herself.
Megan Lassiter glanced up from her magazine. Like Justine, she'd ignored the brouhaha and remained seated. "The way I hear it, there's more fighting and killing in that place than in any other prison in the country. Austin probably had to stay in shape to survive." Her expression hovered somewhere between distressed and sympathetic. She never had been able to think badly of anyone, even when they deserved it. Unlike her husband, Grady, who made his living seeking out news, by hook or by crook, to sell newspapers.
Misty Briggs, Justine's teaching colleague and friend, adjusted her glasses repeatedly as she lingered at the window. Just went to show how boring small-town life could be. Justine's idea of real excitement involved two things: a special gift and a more intimate setting with the bearer of said gift. She turned the magnificent gold bracelet on her right wrist around and around. She did love pretty things.
"Does that look okay? I didn't take much off the length."
Justine turned her attention back to the here and now, accepted the mirror Jean offered, and surveyed her long blonde locks. "Perfect." She smiled appreciatively. "As always." Jean wasn't a lifetime resident of Pine Bluff. Not many of the local women liked her, but she was a damned good colorist and stylist, so most tolerated her—at least to her face.
Misty finally shuffled back to her chair. "I remember there was gossip," she said, her hazel eyes huge behind those Coke-bottle lenses as she covertly glanced around the shop, "that Austin was actually innocent."
Tension trickled through Justine. She turned and stared at her friend in utter disbelief. Excited or not, that remark was going too far. "Emily Wallace said he was guilty." Justine's voice reflected her offense. The very idea that Misty would say such nonsense out loud and in the beauty shop, of all places.
Misty put a hand to her throat. "Oh, Justine, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Of course he was guilty." She reached over and squeezed Justine's hand, her face a study in regret, but the hint of satisfaction in her eyes ruined the effect. She loved manipulating a moment like this. It was the only time she managed to draw any real attention to
Some things were better left in the past where they belonged.
Shears Salon
" Oh, my God! Did you see all that?"
Justine Mallory refused to react, even as most of the ladies in the shop hovered at the front window to gawk at the unpleasant scene breaking up on the street. You would think the Almighty himself had appeared on the courthouse steps.
They had all wanted to get a final glimpse of him . Clint Austin, the resident convicted killer.
"I can't believe they let him out after only ten years," Jean Cook, the shop's manager, declared indignantly.
Justine bit her tongue rather than say what was on her mind. Clint Austin didn't deserve their avid curiosity, much less all the fanfare that had gone on outside.
"Well, personally I don't think we'll ever know the whole story on that one." Cathy Caruthers, perm rods still dripping, strolled back to her chair. "Mike and I discussed the issue just last night. All the deputies are talking about it."
Cathy liked reminding everyone that she was almost an attorney about as frequently as she liked cheating on the husband she crowed over. That was the trouble with a man in uniform; it seemed he never had time to pay proper attention. Such a travesty.
"Didn't look like he's been wasting away in a cell all this time," Violet Manning-Turner commented, one professionally waxed eyebrow arched in distaste. Violet had always thought herself a cut above the rest. A concept perpetuated by the idea that she'd married far better than she deserved.
Truth was, Clint Austin had always been good-looking. Justine doubted prison had changed that. She would, however, keep that assessment to herself.
Megan Lassiter glanced up from her magazine. Like Justine, she'd ignored the brouhaha and remained seated. "The way I hear it, there's more fighting and killing in that place than in any other prison in the country. Austin probably had to stay in shape to survive." Her expression hovered somewhere between distressed and sympathetic. She never had been able to think badly of anyone, even when they deserved it. Unlike her husband, Grady, who made his living seeking out news, by hook or by crook, to sell newspapers.
Misty Briggs, Justine's teaching colleague and friend, adjusted her glasses repeatedly as she lingered at the window. Just went to show how boring small-town life could be. Justine's idea of real excitement involved two things: a special gift and a more intimate setting with the bearer of said gift. She turned the magnificent gold bracelet on her right wrist around and around. She did love pretty things.
"Does that look okay? I didn't take much off the length."
Justine turned her attention back to the here and now, accepted the mirror Jean offered, and surveyed her long blonde locks. "Perfect." She smiled appreciatively. "As always." Jean wasn't a lifetime resident of Pine Bluff. Not many of the local women liked her, but she was a damned good colorist and stylist, so most tolerated her—at least to her face.
Misty finally shuffled back to her chair. "I remember there was gossip," she said, her hazel eyes huge behind those Coke-bottle lenses as she covertly glanced around the shop, "that Austin was actually innocent."
Tension trickled through Justine. She turned and stared at her friend in utter disbelief. Excited or not, that remark was going too far. "Emily Wallace said he was guilty." Justine's voice reflected her offense. The very idea that Misty would say such nonsense out loud and in the beauty shop, of all places.
Misty put a hand to her throat. "Oh, Justine, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Of course he was guilty." She reached over and squeezed Justine's hand, her face a study in regret, but the hint of satisfaction in her eyes ruined the effect. She loved manipulating a moment like this. It was the only time she managed to draw any real attention to
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