CHAPTER 16.

Hunter hadn't set foot in the Cypress Springs Police Department in thirteen years. It hadn't changed, he saw. But then, in Cypress Springs nothing seemed to change, no matter how many years passed.

He had come today because he had remembered something about the other night that might prove useful to the St. Claire murder investigation.

And because since finding the dead woman thirty-six hours ago, he had been unable to think of much else. He couldn't put the image of the dead woman out of his head.

The front desk stood empty. Not for long, Hunter surmised by the steaming mug of coffee and half-eaten doughnut sitting on a napkin on its top. Hunter didn't wait, instead he strolled past as if he still had every right to do so.

He found the door to his father's office open, the room empty. Hunter stepped inside. It smelled like his dad, he realized. And like his childhood.

Hunter scowled at the thought, at the rush of memories that flooded his mind. Of playing under the big, old oak desk, of him and Matt staring openmouthed as their dad chewed out a couple underlings, of his last visit to the office, on his way to college.

Hunter had attempted, one last time, to broach his feelings of exclusion and alienation from his family.

"Dad, just tell me what I've done. Tell me why you've shut me out. You and Mom, Matt and Cherry. It's like I'm not one of you anymore. Talk to me, Dad. I'll do whatever it takes to make it better."

But his father hadn't had time for him. He had brushed him off, insisting Hunter was imagining it. That the fault lay with Hunter's perceptions, not reality.

Angry, hurt, he had left, promising that he would show them all, someday, somehow he would show them.

Hunter's gaze landed on the desk. A file folder stamped Photos lay on its top.

From the murder scene? he wondered, inching toward the desk. He saw immediately that they were; the file's tab bore the name St. Claire, Elaine.

"Hello, son."

Son. Hunter turned, feeling that one, quietly spoken word like a punch to his gut. He met his father's

gaze. "Dad."

His father's shifted to the desk, then back to his. "What brings you in this morning?"

"The St. Claire murder."

The man nodded and ambled across to his desk. He motioned to the chair directly in front of it. "Have a

seat."

Hunter would have preferred to stand, but he sat anyway. "Place hasn't changed a bit."

Buddy settled into his own chair. It creaked under his weight.

"It's been a while."

"Thirteen years."

Hunter moved his gaze over the room. His Little League championship trophy was gone, as was the

picture that had sat front and , center on his dad's desk, of the two of them with the prizewinning fish at

the Tarpon Rodeo. He scanned the shelves and walls, taking a quick, mental inventory.

He returned his gaze to the other man. "You've done some redecorating. Looks like you removed every trace of my existence."

"You left us, Hunter."

"Did I? Maybe I don't see it that way."

"Don't you ever get tired of the same old story, bro?"

Hunter twisted in his seat. The way Matt stood in the doorway, as if he owned the place, raised Hunter's

hackles. "You're just in time for our little family reunion."

"Lucky me," Matt murmured.

"Hunter says he's here about the St. Claire investigation."

"That so?" Matt ambled in, stopping in front of the desk. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned

against its edge.

"I walked Sarah around five forty-five, we took our usual route. Saw nothing out of the ordinary."

"And what's your usual route?"

"Walton to Main, around the square and back." He paused, then continued. "I was thinking, she...the victim, couldn't have been there yet. Because Sarah would have gone nuts. The way she did later."

"Why didn't you tell us this last night?" Matt asked.

"You didn't ask. And I didn't think of it until today."

Matt inclined his head. "Actually, it's fortuitous you dropped by. We had a couple more questions for

you."

"Questions for me?" He shifted his gaze between the two men. "All right. Shoot."

"Did you know the victim?"

"No."

"Never heard the name Elaine St. Claire before?"

"Before last night, never."

"Where were you yesterday, between four in the afternoon and when you came to find us at

Gallagher's?"

"Is that when she died?"

"Answer the question, please."

"You're kidding." He could tell by their expressions that they weren't. "Am I a suspect?"

"Standard investigative procedure. You found the body, that automatically makes you a suspect."

He got to his feet. "This is bullshit."

"Sit down, son," Buddy murmured, sending an irritated glance at Matt. "Answer the question. Where

were you yesterday between the hours of four and eight?"

"I was working. Alone. Sarah was with me. Seems to me she should make a great alibi. She's certainly

more loyal than most humans. Present company included."

"Other than taking Sarah for a walk, did you go out at all?"

"No."

"On the walk, did you speak with anyone?"

Hunter thought a moment. "No."

"Did anyone call during that time, someone who could sub-stantiate your being home."

Again Hunter replied in the negative. "But that doesn't make me a killer, now, does it?"

"But it doesn't rule you out either."

Hunter longed to wipe the smug expression off his brother's face. "Can I go now?"

"Not quite yet." Matt glanced at his father, then back at Hunter. "You know how she died, Hunter?"

"Obviously not."

"A sharp or jagged instrument was repeatedly inserted-jammed really-into her vaginal canal."

Hunter went cold. "Oh, Christ."

"She bled to death from internal wounds. It was an excruciating, punishing death."

Buddy stepped in. "Do you have any idea who might have been capable of such a crime?"