Ian didn’t seem to notice the doll and kept reaching into his breast pocket where he’d once kept a pack of cigarettes always at the ready. He’d given up the habit a while back, he claimed, though Ava had seen him out near the dock, sneaking a smoke, though why he lied about it was anyone’s guess. Long and lanky, topping six feet, with curly brown hair showing a few strands of gray, Ian had taken a job on the island as a handyman a few years back, and Ava had often wondered why he didn’t move on, get away from this place. He, like her other cousins, had once owned part of Church Island, or “a piece of the rock,” as Ian’s father had often said, a reference to an old slogan for an insurance company that fitted his view of the island.
No doubt the cozy little group had been discussing Wyatt’s wife and her current mental state, as they all became quiet when she walked into the room.
Great, she thought as the uncomfortable silence stretched, and the knot already tightening in her stomach twisted a little more painfully.
“. . . just really needs her rest,” the doctor was saying as Ava entered the room. She and Wyatt looked up, a bit guiltily, she felt.
“Ava,” Wyatt said, leaping to his feet and quickly crossing the faded rug stretched across the old hardwood of the library. He sent a quick, questioning glance in Khloe’s direction as if he were upset that she’d talked Ava into coming down. As he reached Ava, he whispered, “I thought you had a headache.”
“I did, but it’s a wonder what a couple Excedrin Migraine tablets can do.”
“I thought the sheriff wanted to ask her some more questions,” Khloe said stiffly.
“I do,” Biggs said.
“Good.” To Ava, Khloe said, “Let me get you some hot chocolate.” But she was too late. As if anticipating Ava’s return, Demetria, Jewel-Anne’s nurse, appeared with a steaming mug in which tiny marshmallows were dissolving in the thick, hot cocoa. She handed the mug to Jewel-Anne. “I’ve got another cup in the microwave,” Demetria offered, some of her severity seeming to have receded, her thin lips stretched into the semblance of a smile. “Just a sec.”
“Let me help,” the psychologist said, starting for the kitchen.
“Hey, could you grab me a cup of coffee?” Ian asked with a smile at Jewel-Anne’s nurse.
Demetria looked about to say, Get it yourself, but instead she smiled coldly. “I’ll see if there’s any made.” Turning on her heel, she found her way back to the kitchen as Wyatt, holding Ava’s hand, helped her to the sofa. They sat together, side by side, stiffly, and Ava was all too aware of everyone watching them, watching her. Wyatt’s fingers remained linked with hers, as if he cared—or was afraid she might bolt.
To where? We’re on an island, for God’s sake.
Beneath her sweater, her shoulders stiffened and she couldn’t help but feel Wyatt was acting the part of doting husband, putting on a show for everyone else, which was ridiculous. Everyone who lived at Neptune’s Gate knew their marriage was in trouble. It had been since the night Noah had disappeared.
Casually, she pulled her hand from his and stuffed it into the deep pocket of her sweater. Her finger brushed something cold and metal.
. . a key, she realized as the tip of her index finger scraped the jaw-like serrations on one side.
A key to what? To where? Hadn’t she worn the sweater earlier today? There had been no key in its pockets, or at least she hadn’t thought so.
Demetria returned with a cup of hot chocolate for Ava and handed it to her. Evelyn McPherson, on her heels, returned as well, cradling her own mug.
“No coffee?” Ian asked. At Demetria’s shake of her head, he scowled. “But I smell it and . . .” He glanced at Biggs who was taking a long swallow from his cup of coffee. “Goddamn it!” He pushed himself upright and stormed into the kitchen while Demetria seemed to swallow a smile.
Small, small victories, Ava thought, weary of all their games.
Biggs shifted in his chair, his eyes on Ava. “You saw something and ran out to the dock?”
“I already told you I thought I saw my son and I ran out to save him. I guess I was wrong,” she admitted, though she had to force the words. “But I saw something. Someone. On the dock.”
From the corner of her eye, she caught Wyatt sneak a look at Evelyn, who stood near the fire, ostensibly warming the back of her legs but really, Ava knew, scrutinizing her patient.
Her throat thickened and she stared into her cup as the marshmallows disintegrated, like foamy, dark waves on the beach.
“I guess I was confused, but I was frightened.”
“You thought you were saving someone?” Biggs asked.
“Yes.”
“Is she on hallucinogens?” he asked the psychologist.
“I wasn’t hallucinating!” Ava argued, then heard a quiet cough and saw Austin Dern standing near the window, ostensibly looking out at the dark night. He caught her gaze in the watery glass for just an instant and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
“I mean . . . Oh, I don’t know what I mean.” She hated this. She was lying, but Dern’s subtle warning had penetrated her anger.
“You know Noah’s been gone for nearly two years,” Evelyn McPherson said kindly, and tears threatened behind Ava’s eyes. “He would be almost four now. He would look much different than when you last saw him.”
Ava swallowed hard and nodded.
To the sheriff, the doctor said, “Obviously this isn’t a good time.”
“Is there ever one?” Ava asked. “A good time?”
“There are better times.” McPherson straightened and Joe Biggs took his cue.
“Glad this is all straightened out,” the sheriff said.
Really? Ava stared at Biggs as if he’d gone mad, but if he saw the doubt in her eyes, he ignored it. Squaring his hat on his head, he started out of the room.
“Thank you, Joe,” Wyatt said, and the big man stopped. “I know it’s an inconvenience.”
“All in a day’s work.” Biggs shook Wyatt’s hand before walking through the kitchen, his heavy footsteps fading as the back door creaked open.
In her pocket, Ava’s fingers curled over the unknown key in a death grip. She didn’t know why it felt important. She didn’t know who had left it for her, but she didn’t think it was some random mistake. The key was significant to something.
If she could only figure out what.
What the hell had he gotten himself into? Dern wondered as he strode down the broken stone path to the stable where the small herd of horses that were now in his care was locked for the night.
The whole island was something out of a Hitchcock movie and a bad one at that, the kind his mother had watched far into the nights to accompany her and her ever-present insomnia.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the house, a huge, rambling beast of a building that rose into the night, its single turret appearing like the long tooth of a monster’s lower jaw, piercing the low layer of clouds huddling over the island. Neptune’s Gate . . . Whose idea was it to name it that? He supposed the building had been dubbed long ago, maybe by the original owner, a sea captain who had settled here and taken up sawmilling back when the virgin forests stretched over the states of Washington and Oregon for thousands of square miles.
Well, old Stephen Monroe Church begat himself a loony of a great-great-granddaughter in Ava Church Garrison. Beautiful, almost hauntingly so if you believed in those things. Dern didn’t. With her big eyes, as gray as the waters of the Pacific in winter; high cheekbones; and pointed chin, she had the markings of a real beauty, but she was just too damned thin for his taste. Waifishly so. Though it hadn’t always been. He knew.
He checked on the horses and felt a little calmer as the smell of dry hay, dust, and oiled leather was layered over the more astringent smells of urine and the earthy scent of manure. The horses rustling in the straw, occasionally nickering, was also comforting. Then again, he’d always felt more at home with animals than he had with people, and today the reasons f
or his feelings had become clearer than ever when he’d met more of the people housed in Neptune’s Gate, a nest of vipers if there ever was one.
Locking the door behind him, he headed up the exterior stairs to the apartment that was now, at least for a short while, his home. Inside was a studio, smaller by half than the library in which he’d witnessed the interaction of the Church family members, the staff of Neptune’s Gate, and the sheriff. That’s where the lines blurred a bit. Some of the staff were relatives, and even the damned county sheriff was related to Khloe Prescott, who supposedly had been the missing kid’s nursemaid and stayed on after his disappearance to care for Ava, who had once been her best friend.
It was like a never-ending riddle.
And he knew they were all liars. Every last one of them. Including the waifish Ava Garrison. He could feel it.
His room was barren, just a couch that folded outward into an uncomfortable bed, a gate-legged table with a stained top, one “easy” chair, and a television circa 1983 or so. A gas stove painted a deep forest green stood a step away from the front door and offered the only heat in the unit. It was also now covered with his still-soaked pair of jeans. On the wood-paneled walls, pictures of seagoing vessels from an earlier era hid holes in the worn paneling.
Home sweet home.
Earlier, upon his arrival, he’d tossed his bedroll onto the couch and packed his few clothes into a tiny closet that fit him just fine. His bath consisted of a shower stall, toilet, and chipped pedestal sink tucked behind a bifold door, and his kitchen was a long closet with a functional sink, tiny counter, microwave, and mini-fridge. From the heat stains on the old Formica counter, it seemed that a previous tenant had once owned a hot plate, but it was nowhere to be found in the tiny, single cupboard that housed dish liquid, two plates, two bowls, and an assortment of jelly jars and glasses. A coffeemaker was tucked into a corner, two cups nearby, but no coffee to be found anywhere.
He heard a scratching sound at the door and opened it to find a bedraggled dog—a shepherd mix of some kind, probably Australian crossed with a bit of Border collie, all black with three once-white feet. They were now covered in dirt. “Who the hell are you?” he muttered, then said, “Hold up.” Grabbing one of the two towels from a cupboard beneath the television, he wiped the dog’s feet before the mutt wandered inside, made three circles, and dropped onto the worn rag rug that covered the linoleum in front of the gas stove. Head in his paws, the shepherd stared up at Dern, as if waiting.
“Make yourself at home,” Dern muttered before snagging his still-damp jeans off the stove and turning up the heat. As his new friend watched, Dern carried his Levi’s to the bathroom where he draped them over the shower’s frosted glass door, next to his still-wet shirt.
The dog didn’t move except to thump his tail when Dern snapped the bifolds shut and returned. “I take it from the way you walked in that you’ve been here before, right, buddy?” Dern bent down—he couldn’t resist scratching the dog’s ears—then twisted his collar around and read a long-expired tag. “Rover?” he asked, rocking back on his heels. “Seriously? That’s your name?”
Again, Dern was rewarded with a thump of the dog’s wet tail as he unbuckled Rover’s collar and checked to see that it really was a dog collar and nothing else. He’d already swept the small apartment for any signs of bugs, the electronic kind. He’d found nothing suspicious, no hidden microphones or tiny cameras anywhere. He’d even checked what served as an attic and searched every inch of the flooring, walls, and ceiling. It was a habit, something he’d done ever since his days in the military. And considering his motives for being here, a good idea.
“All clear,” he told the dog as he reattached the collar, then gave Rover another pat before straightening and wishing he’d thought to stock the mini-fridge with a beer or two.
His plan was that tomorrow morning, after taking care of the stock, he would boat across the bay to Anchorville, check out the tone, nose around a bit. If he had the time, he hoped to sift through the local gossip without arousing any suspicion and learn more about Church Island and its inhabitants.
If possible.
Now he walked to the window facing Neptune’s Gate and looked up at the gargantuan house. Lights were still glowing in some of the windows, though he couldn’t spy Ava Garrison’s room from this vantage point. That bothered him a little, especially now, after her surprising dive into the bay a few hours earlier. But he couldn’t make a scene about where he lived, about the fact that he needed a spot where he could keep an eye on her, or he would arouse suspicion. As it was, he had to be careful.
After yanking the blinds closed, he double-checked his hiding spot, one of the holes in the wall covered by a picture of a clipper ship riding angry waves. Earlier, he’d carefully superglued a strong, waterproof pocket to the inside of the paneling, as far down the hole as he could reach. The pocket had a Velcro flap, and inside were several items, including a prepaid cell phone that couldn’t be traced, at least not easily; an Internet connective device that he didn’t want anyone to find; and a small jump drive that held all the information he dared keep on the island. The backup info was tucked far away at a private data backup site on the mainland, one that kept it away from prying eyes. The last item was his gun. A Glock that couldn’t be traced to him.
Nonetheless, he never felt completely safe, was always wary.
“Comes with the territory,” he reminded himself as he extracted the Internet connection device and the data stick from their hiding spots. After checking the dead bolt, he opened his laptop and connected to the Internet, ready to write his notes on what he’d discovered on his first day under the employ of Ava Garrison.
Unfortunately, at this point, he had more questions than he had answers.
But that would change.
The dog let out a long sigh and closed his eyes.
Dern glanced at the smelly shepherd.
He figured the beast might just be his only friend on the island.
Then again, that suited him just fine.
CHAPTER 4
She awoke alone.
Again.
Wyatt’s side of the bed was cold, as if he’d never joined her.
“Good,” she whispered, then made a face at the sound of her relief. It was just wrong. She’d already lost her son and, it seemed, her own identity, so she should be holding fast to her husband and her marriage. But she was seriously in danger of losing both and all she felt was relief.
When had that started?
At first, after Noah’s death, she and Wyatt had clung together, holding each other, tasting each other’s tears. There had been a tenderness and a desperation to their lovemaking that had evaporated over the months with the realization that he wasn’t returning, that their boy was gone forever.
Wyatt began staying on the mainland, and when he returned, they rarely slept together.
Despite her need for another baby.
One child cannot replace another. She knew that. But she wanted another child. Someone to love.
Through the closed door, she heard the sound of Jewel-Anne’s wheelchair whirring outside her door. Had her invalid cousin been spying again? Jewel-Anne was getting creepier by the minute, and Ava found her patience with her cousin wearing thin. And why the hell would Jewel-Anne be hiding and watching her, eavesdropping on her conversations? Was her cousin that bored? It just didn’t make a helluva lot of sense.
Again, Ava’s headache raged, and again she felt as if the world were collapsing around her. She was groggy, the remnants of deep sleep dragging her down, but she fought it. She’d always been a light sleeper, but lately . . .
You were drugged. Obviously. Since you have been ignoring the sleeping pills Dr. McPherson prescribed, she probably slipped them into that damned cocoa you sipped so greedily last night. Hadn’t she been in the kitchen with Demetria?
She drew a breath. Don’t go there. Evelyn McPherson is a well-respected doctor, a psychologist trying to help.
r /> Closing her eyes for a quick second, Ava tried to force herself out of bed, to face the day, but it seemed daunting.
You can’t just lie here and feel sorry for yourself, can’t feed the paranoia that everyone’s against you. Get out of bed and do something. Anything!
Throwing off the covers, she forced herself to roll off the mattress and hunt for her slippers. The cozy, rumpled bed beckoned, but she ignored the temptation of dropping back onto the mussed covers, laying her pounding head on the pillow and closing her eyes again to block out the world. What good would that do?
Slippers on her feet, she paused to stretch, listening to her spine pop, feeling a yawn coming on.
Coffee, that’s what you need. Two, maybe three cups of Italian roast or any blend with a crazy lot of caffeine.
At the window facing Anchorville, she winced a little as a slim shaft of sunlight pierced through the opening between the nearly closed curtains and cut through her brain like a hot knife. God, her head hurt. But then it always did in the morning.
She flung the heavy drapes aside and stared outside to a day already begun. The sun was up in the east, shafts of bright light hitting the water and sparkling so brightly she had to squint to make out the ferry, just churning away from the shoreline of the town of Monroe—a hamlet, really—on this side of the bay. Little more than a general store with a post office, a café that was open on the whim of its owner, a small inn, and a coffee kiosk surrounded by a smattering of houses, Monroe boasted seventy-eight full-time residents. The few children who lived there caught the ferry to school in Anchorville, and most of Monroe’s residents were employed on the mainland as well or worked at the old hotel, which was now a bed-and-breakfast, the only lodging on the island.