“Me? You’re the psychopath!” She hadn’t meant to scream it—hadn’t meant to say it at all. The word hung in the air between them.
But he didn’t come after her. Instead, he said calmly, “This has to stop. You realize that, don’t you?”
The surest way for him to make everything stop was to kill her. Her chest heaved. “You’re right. Whatever you say.” She began to back up, moving slowly, carefully.
“I get it.” He uncrossed his arms. “I was a monster when I was sixteen. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. But a few years with a shrink straightened me out.”
Shrinks couldn’t straighten out his kind of pathology. She gave a shaky nod. “Good. Great. I’m glad for you.” She inched backward another step.
“It happened years ago. You’re making yourself look ridiculous.”
That sent an angry rush through her. “Go away! You’ve done enough.”
He pushed himself away from the car. “I haven’t done a damn thing. And you’re the one who needs to go away!”
“I’ve been inside the cottage. I got your message.” She lowered her voice, struggling to sound calm. “Just tell me . . .” She spoke even more softly, her voice barely trembling. “Did you— Did you hurt the cat?”
He cocked his head. “Mariah’s death must have been hard on you. Maybe you should talk to somebody.”
Did he really believe she was the one with mental problems? She needed to placate him. “I will. I’ll talk to somebody. So you can go on home now. Take the car.”
“You mean my car? The car you drove off in without asking permission?”
He’d told her she could take the car when she needed it, but she wasn’t going to argue with him about it. “I won’t do it again. Now it’s late, and I’m sure you have work to do. I’ll see you in the morning.” Not after this. She’d have to find another way to repay Jaycie because she absolutely couldn’t go up there again.
“I’ll leave as soon as you tell me why you were skulking around the cottage?”
“I wasn’t skulking. Just . . . getting a little exercise.”
“Bull.” He strode toward the cottage’s side door, pulled it open, and disappeared inside.
She made a dash for the car, but she wasn’t quick enough. He shot back out of the house. “What the hell happened in there?”
His outrage was so convincing that she would have believed him if she hadn’t known better. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I won’t tell anyone.”
He jabbed his finger toward the cottage. “You think I did that?”
“No, no. Of course, I don’t.”
“You do think I did it.” His frown turned to a glower. “You can’t imagine how much I want to walk away right now and let you deal with this yourself.”
“F-follow your instincts.”
“Don’t tempt me.” In two long strides he was beside her. She jumped as his fingers clamped around her wrist. As she struggled, he pulled her toward the door. “Will you shut up?” he said. “You’re hurting my ears. Not to mention terrifying the entire seagull population.”
The fact that he sounded exasperated instead of ominous had an odd effect on her. She began to feel stupid instead of threatened. Like one of those dimwitted heroines in old black-and-white movies who were always being dragged around by John Wayne or Gary Cooper. She didn’t like the feeling, and when they were inside, she stopped struggling.
He let her go, but his eyes were on her, and they were deadly serious. “Who did this?”
She told herself he was conning her, but she didn’t feel conned, and she couldn’t think of anything to say but the truth. “I thought you did.”
“Me?” He seemed genuinely confused. “You’re a pain in the ass, and I wish like hell you hadn’t shown up here, but why would I trash the place where I like to work?”
She heard a mew. The cat crept into the kitchen.
One mystery solved.
Seconds ticked by as he stared at the animal. Then at her. Finally he spoke, using the overly patient manner people employ when they’re dealing with a child or the mentally impaired. “What are you doing with my cat?”
The traitorous animal rubbed against his ankles.
“It . . . followed me home.”
“Like hell.” He picked up the cat and scratched it behind the ears. “What did this crazy lady do to you, Hannibal?”
Hannibal?
The cat tucked his head against Theo’s jacket and closed his eyes. Theo carried it with him into the living room. Feeling more and more confused, she followed him. He switched on the lights. “Does anything seem to be missing?”
“I— I don’t know. I had my cell and my laptop with me, but . . .” Her puppets! Scamp was still in her backpack, but what about the rest?
She rushed past him to the studio. A low shelf for storing art supplies ran beneath the windows. She’d cleaned it up last week and set them there. They looked exactly as they had when she’d left that morning. Dilly and Leo separated by Crumpet and Peter.
He poked his head inside. “Nice friends.”
She wanted to pick them up, talk to them, but not with him watching. He moved toward her bedroom. She went after him.
A messy stack of clothes waited for her to finish clearing out the rest of Mariah’s things to make more room for her own. A bra hung over the chair between the windows along with last night’s pajamas. She usually made her bed, but this morning she’d neglected to do it and had even left a bath towel on the edge of the mattress. Worst of all, yesterday’s bright orange underpants lay in the middle of the floor.
He took it all in. “They did a real job in here.”
Was he actually cracking a joke?
The cat had fallen asleep in his arms, but Theo continued to stroke its back, his long fingers sinking into the black fur. He wandered back into the living room and then the kitchen. She kicked the book of pornographic art under the sofa and followed him.
“Do you notice anything strange?” he asked.
“Yes! My house has been trashed.”
“That’s not what I mean. Look around. Do you see anything odd?”
“My life flashing before my eyes?”
“Stop screwing around.”
“I can’t help it. I tend to joke when I’m terrified.” She tried to see whatever it was he wanted her to see, but she was too confused. Was Theo genuinely innocent or simply a good actor? She couldn’t think of anyone else who would have done this. Barbara had warned her about strangers on the island, but wouldn’t a stranger have stolen something? Not that there was much to steal.
Except Mariah’s legacy.
The idea that someone else might know about the legacy stopped her in her tracks. She gazed at the kitchen. The biggest mess came from the overturned trash can and spilled bags of rice and noodles. Nothing seemed to be broken. “I guess it could have been worse,” she said.
“Exactly. There’s no broken glass. As far as you can tell, nothing is missing. This seems calculated. Does someone on the island have a grudge against you?”
She stared at him. Seconds ticked by before he got it.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “You’re the one holding the grudge.”
“For good reason!”
“I’m not saying I blame you for it. I was a rotten kid. All I’m saying is that I don’t have a motive.”
“Sure you do. More than one. You want the cottage. I bring back bad memories. You’re—” She stopped herself just before she spilled out what she was thinking.
He read her mind. “I’m not a psychopath.”
“I didn’t say you were.” But, oh, was she thinking it.
“Annie, I was a kid, and I had big problems that summer.”
“You think?” She wanted to say so much more, but this wasn’t the time.
“Let’s temporarily eliminate me from your list of suspects.” He held up his hand, disturbing the cat. “Just as an exercise. You can put my name right back at the top as soon as
we’re done.”
He was making fun of her. That should have made her furious, but it was oddly comforting. “There are no other suspects,” she said. Except whoever knew that something valuable was supposed to be here. Had they found it? She’d been through everything in the bookcase, but she hadn’t done a systematic inventory of the contents of the boxes in the studio or of everything in the closets. How would she even know?
“Have you had a run-in with anyone since you arrived?” Again that hand went up. “Other than me.”
She shook her head. “But I’ve been warned about drifters.”
He set the cat down. “I don’t like what’s happened. You need to report it to the mainland police.”
“From what I remember, nothing short of murder brings them out here.”
“You’re right about that.” He unzipped his jacket. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up.”
“I’ll handle it,” she said quickly. “You go on.”
He gave her a faintly pitying look. “If I intended to kill you or rape you or whatever you think I might do, it would have happened by now.”
“So glad it hasn’t.”
He muttered something under his breath and stalked off into the living room.
As she removed her coat, she thought about the self-help gurus and the way they told people to follow their instincts. But instincts could be wrong. Right now, for example. Because she felt almost safe.
BY THE TIME ANNIE CURLED into bed that night, she’d begun coughing again, which made it even harder to fall asleep, but how could she relax with Theo Harp sprawled on the pink couch? He’d refused to go home, even after she’d ordered him out. And the awful thing was, some part of her had wanted him to stay. This was exactly how it had been when she was fifteen. He’d acted like a friend, gained her confidence, and then turned into a monster.
The day had been exhausting, and when she finally drifted off, she slept deeply. As the faint gray morning light seeped through her eyelids, she experienced one of those blissful, sleep-fogged moments when it was too early to get up and she could stay where she was. Warm and cozy, she pulled up her knees. And brushed against something.
Her eyes flew open.
Theo lay in bed next to her. Right there. On his back. Only inches away.
The air stuck in her throat, then came out in a wheeze.
His eyes stayed shut, but his lips moved. “Warn me if you’re going to scream,” he muttered. “So I can kill myself first.”
“What are you doing here?” she screeched. Not screamed.
“The couch was killing my back. Too damned short.”
“I told you to use the bed in the studio!”
“Boxes on it. No blankets. Too much trouble.”
He lay on top of the covers, still wearing his jeans and sweater, with the quilt she’d given him last night pulled to his chest. Unlike the rat’s snarl that awaited her in the morning, his hair was perfectly rumpled, his jaw attractively stubbled, the bronze complexion he’d inherited from his mother showcased by the snowy white pillowcase. He probably didn’t even have bad breath. And he showed no inclination to move.
Any urge she’d felt to fall back asleep had vanished. She thought of all kinds of things she wanted to say. Damn you! How dare you! But both sounded like bad dialogue from one of her old gothic novels. She gritted her teeth. “Please get out of my bed.”
“You got anything on under the covers?” he asked, eyes still shut.
“Yes, I have something on!” She hit the perfect note of righteous outrage.
“Great. Then we don’t have a problem.”
“We wouldn’t have a problem even if I didn’t have anything on.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Was he coming on to her? If she hadn’t already been wide awake, that would have done the trick. She thrust herself out of bed, immediately conscious of her yellow flannel Santa pajamas, a joke present from a girlfriend. She grabbed Mariah’s robe, snatched up yesterday’s socks, and left him alone.
ANNIE’S FOOTSTEPS FADED. THEO SMILED. He’d had his first good night’s sleep in longer than he could remember. He felt almost rested. Just lying here irritating Annie had been . . .
He searched for the word, finally found it. But it felt so unfamiliar, he had to examine it for a moment to make sure it fit.
Irritating Annie had been . . . fun.
She was scared to death of him—no mystery why—but she hadn’t backed down. Even as an awkward, insecure teen, she’d had more courage than she gave herself credit for—more than she should have had, considering the way her mother had undermined her. She’d also possessed a strong sense of right and wrong. No messy gray areas for Antoinette Hewitt. Maybe that’s what had drawn him to her when they were kids.
He couldn’t abide having her here, but it was becoming increasingly apparent she wasn’t going anywhere for a while. That damned divorce agreement. He wanted to be able to use the cottage whenever he liked, and she’d screwed that up. But it was more than the cottage. It was Annie herself, with her ridiculous naïveté and her link to a past he wanted to forget. Annie, who knew too much.
He’d been pissed when he’d discovered her stuck on the road. That’s why he’d baited her into trying to push the car out herself, even though he knew she couldn’t. As he’d sat behind the wheel badgering her to push harder, he’d experienced the oddest sensation. He’d almost felt as if he were slipping into another man’s skin. A regular Joe who liked to have a little fun with people.
An illusion. Nothing about him was normal. But this morning he almost felt that way.
HE FOUND HER STANDING AT the kitchen sink. Last night, they’d cleaned up the worst of the mess, and now she was washing the silverware that had been strewn across the floor. She had her back to him, her run-amok honey brown curls in their customary free-for-all. He’d always been drawn to classically beautiful women, and Annie wasn’t that. His arousal bothered him. But he’d been living without sex for longer than he cared to remember, and it was automatic.
He remembered her at fifteen—awkward, funny, and so smitten with him that he’d felt no pressure to try to impress her. His sexual fumblings were comic now, normal for a horny teenage boy. Maybe the only thing that had been normal about him.
Her plain navy robe came to midcalf with yellow flannel pajamas sticking out beneath. They showed Santa trying to squeeze into a chimney. “Nice jammies.”
“You can go home now,” she retorted.
“Do you have any with the Easter Bunny?”
She turned, one hand on her hip. “I like sexy nightwear. Sue me.”
He laughed. Not much of one—rusty at its core—but still a laugh. There was no darkness about Annie Hewitt. With her big eyes, freckled nose, and scallywag’s hair, she reminded him of a fairy. Not one of those fragile fairies who flitted gracefully from flower to flower, but a preoccupied fairy. The kind of fairy more likely to tumble over a dozing cricket than sprinkle any magic glitter. He felt himself uncoil, just a bit.
She swept her eyes from head to toe. He was used to women staring at him, but they weren’t generally scowling at the time. True, he’d slept in his clothes and needed a shave, but how bad could he look? She frowned. “Do you even have bad breath?”
He had no idea what she was talking about. “I just used your toothpaste, so I don’t think so. Any reason you want to know?”
“I’m keeping a list of disgusting things about you.”
“Since ‘psychopath’ is already at the top of your list, it doesn’t seem like you need to add much more.” He said it lightly, as if it were a joke, even though they both knew it wasn’t.
She grabbed the broom and began sweeping up some rice they’d missed. “Interesting the way you showed up at just the right time last night.”
“I came down to get my car. You remember my car. The one you stole.” He’d told her she could borrow it, but so what?
She was smart enough to pick her battles, and she ignored the
accusation. “You made it here awfully fast.”
“I took the beach path.”
She jabbed the broom into the corner. “Too bad you weren’t using your little spy telescope last night. Maybe you’d know who did this.”
“I’ll be more conscientious in the future.”
She went after a noodle wedged under the stove. “Why were you dressed like Beau Brummell that first day?”
It took him a moment to remember what she meant. “Research. Getting a sense of what it feels like to move around in those clothes.” And then, because he could be a real prick . . . “I like to slip inside my characters as much as possible. Especially the more twisted ones.”
She looked so horrified he almost apologized. But why? He gazed toward the cupboards. “I’m hungry. Where’s the cereal?”
She shoved the broom in the cupboard. “I’m out.”
“How about some eggs?”
“Out.”
“Bread?”
“Gone.”
“Leftovers?”
“I wish.”
“Tell me my coffee’s still here.”
“Only a little, and I’m not sharing.”
He began opening cupboards, looking for it. “You obviously haven’t gotten used to island grocery shopping.”
“Stay out of my stuff.”
He found what was left of his bag of ground coffee on top of the refrigerator. She made a lunge for it, but he held it over her head. “Be nice.”
Nice. A rubbish word. One he hardly ever used. The word had no moral weight. A person didn’t need courage for “nice.” “Nice” called for no sacrifice, no strength of character. If only all he’d ever had to do was be nice . . .
He dropped his arm, and with his free hand tugged at the sash on her robe. As the sides separated, he pressed his palm to the skin exposed by the open V at the neck of her flannel pajama top. Her eyes grew wide and startled. “Forget the coffee,” he said. “Take this off so I can see if what’s underneath has gotten any bigger.”
Not nice. Not nice at all.
But instead of slapping him as he deserved, she regarded him with an unsettling disgust. “You’re demented.” With a scowl, she stomped away.