Get over it; you’ll be back on the island within the hour.
His boots rang on the damp boards of the marina, and the scent of briny water mingled with oil hung on the fog that had begun to roll in from the ocean. All of the boats were docked for the night, tied firmly in their berths, but he spied the Holy Terror, her captain sitting outside in the mist, the tip of his cigarette glowing red in the night. Perfect.
“I need a ride,” Dern said to the owner. He’d met Butch Johansen a couple of times, thought the guy might be okay. “To Church Island.”
“It’ll cost ya.” Johansen flipped the end of his cigarette into the night, its red tip arcing before dying an instant death in the inky water.
“Fine. Just make it quick.” A sense of urgency drove him, and he couldn’t help but worry that Ava was on the island, possibly with a killer on the loose.
“As quick as I can. Fog’s comin’ in.” Despite his concerns, Johansen was already reaching for the ignition as Dern climbed aboard. As the engine fired and Johansen eased the Holy Terror out of the slip, Dern kept his gaze fastened to the murky night ahead. Though he couldn’t see Church Island, it was out there. Somewhere. And Ava was probably there with that prick of a husband. That thought bothered him, too. He tried his phone again and though there was a glimmer of illumination on the screen, still nothing.
His worry increased.
“You got a cell phone?” Dern asked over the increasing roar of the engine.
“Radio.”
“Seriously?” Who didn’t have a cell these days?
“Got in a pissing match with the carrier. Guess who lost?” Johansen’s gaze didn’t move from the prow of the boat and the soupy night ahead.
Great. The wind was screaming past them as they cut through the fog, but they weren’t going fast enough. “Can this tub go any faster?” he yelled, frustrated. It was dangerous, but Dern didn’t care. A sense of urgency was driving him, fear for Ava.
“Yes, sir!” With that, Johansen hit the gas and the boat nearly flew across the water. As if they were outrunning the fog silently collecting over the black surface.
Still, for Dern, it wasn’t fast enough.
No, oh, no . . . Ava stumbled backward as she stared in horror at the tiny screen in her hand. Khloe stood above Wyatt who was struggling, gasping for breath, a red stain blooming on his shirt.
“No . . . no . . .” She had to help him, save him, but the malevolent light in Khloe’s eyes suggested she wasn’t finished, and Ava remembered the garish slice across Jewel-Anne’s throat. She needed a weapon. A gun, a knife, a baseball bat. Any damned thing. So she could fend off Khloe and help save Wyatt. If there was enough time. Oh, please, God!
She knew the police couldn’t get to the island fast enough; saving Wyatt was up to her. Moving into the hallway, she dialed 911 again as precious seconds ticked away, seconds that could mean his life or death.
A raspy-voiced operator answered. “Nine-one-one, please state your emergency—”
Before the operator could ask any questions, Ava cut in. “Send help to Neptune’s Gate on Church Island! Right away! My husband is being attacked! He . . . Oh, God, he might already be dead!”
“Ma’am? Calm down. Who are you and what is your emergency? An assault?”
“My name is Ava Church, and I’m watching someone try to kill my husband! Out here on the island. Send someone immediately!” She couldn’t keep the panic from her voice. “She’s got a knife and she’s trying to kill him!”
“You’re witnessing the attack?”
“On my phone! The camera on my phone!” she clarified, hurrying down the stairs to the first floor. She was running out of time. With every second, Wyatt was bleeding out.
“Pardon me?”
“I have a camera set up! I can see what’s happening.” She was running now, barefoot across the foyer to the den, time her enemy. As she passed it, the grandfather clock began to strike loudly, each chime reverberating and counting off the seconds, the beats of Wyatt’s heart—though, she realized, even now her husband could be dead.
Into the den she flew, forcing her tiring legs to keep running, her mind to stay focused, but she was clumsy from the drugs sliding into her bloodstream and she hit her hip on the corner of the desk, then stubbed her toe on a chair. “Ouch! Damn it!”
“Ma’am? Mrs. Church?”
The operator was still on the line. Ava said, “Just, please, listen! I’m telling you Khloe Prescott is stabbing my husband! For God’s sake, send someone. Now!”
“You’re watching this on your phone?” Skepticism.
“I told you, YES!!!!” Frustrated, she rattled off the address. “Get Detective Snyder or Detective Lyons. Please hurry!”
“If you’ll please stay on the line, Ms. Church—”
“I can’t!” she said, and clicked off and tried Dern again. Nothing. Quickly, she texted him:
Khloe stabbed Wyatt. In the attic. Send help!
After sending the text, she switched her phone to silent mode; she couldn’t have it go off and alert anyone hiding in the shadows of her location.
Hurry, Ava, hurry!
Her mind screamed at her, but her body wasn’t complying. All of her movements were sluggish, the sleeping pills taking effect. Still, she pushed onward. She was certain Wyatt kept a pistol locked in his desk; it had been a bone of contention between them when Noah was living in the house.
Of course the drawers were locked! “Come on, come on,” she urged herself, and found the key he kept hidden, one she’d found years before. With fumbling fingers, afraid that Khloe would walk in on her at any second, Ava unlocked the drawer where Wyatt had always kept his gun and yanked the damned thing open.
Empty!
“Damn!”
Her heart sank. But she couldn’t give up. She had to find the damned Ruger he was so proud of. Frantically, she searched the other drawers, flinging them open, tossing out the contents, searching wildly for the gun and coming up with nothing.
Khloe has it!
She’s cut the phone lines and taken the gun.
Now what?
Don’t waste any more time! Get a knife from the kitchen. Quickly! There are half a dozen in the magnetic rack above the stove.
Heart in her throat, Ava crept quietly toward the kitchen. Her stomach jumping, she expected to be attacked at every corner. Who else was in this horrid plot against her? Trent? Jacob? Ian? Were they even around? She’d felt that the house was empty, but obviously Khloe was around. What about Simon? Or Virginia? Did they have any clue that Khloe was a murderess?
Get a grip. Don’t worry about the others. Just deal with Khloe and try to get to Wyatt. There still may be time! Hurry, Ava, move!
She reached the archway into the kitchen, but her movements were slowing, and she had to work hard to stay focused. At the threshold of the hallway, she stumbled slightly, her feet not working properly. Come on, come on! You can do this. Forcing herself, she eased through the darkness, only the palest of light from a far-off security lamp coming through a window and giving any illumination to the Stygian room.
A shadow passed by the window and she nearly screamed before she saw that it was the black cat, hiding on the counter near the sink.
Her fingertips found the big gas stove, and she reached over the burners to the magnetic strips mounted on the wall tiles. Carefully, she ran her fingers over the knives. Feeling the sturdy handle of the butcher knife, she pulled it down and faced the yawning dark archway leading to the back stairs, then decided to take a smaller knife as well and slid it into her pocket. “Okay, bitch,” she said softly, her tongue thick, and she stepped into sheer darkness. Up one step. Then the next. She couldn’t risk the switch or a flashlight. She’d have to climb the stairs quietly, knife raised and—
Creeeeaaaakkk . . .
Far away, a door opened.
Oh, God!
Ava’s heart nearly stopped.
She held her breath, not daring the slightest sound
.
Footsteps came cautiously from the stairway above. Someone creeping, hoping not to step on a squeaky step.
Khloe.
Jesus, help me.
Slowly letting out her breath, she stepped backward, down the two steps she’d mounted, silently backing up as her heart thudded and beads of cold, nervous sweat collected on her forehead and palms. The knife in her hand felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds.
You can do this, Ava, you can. Think of Wyatt . . . He cheated on you, yes, maybe even was a part of the gaslighting, but he didn’t deserve this . . . no way.
Throat dry, she hid in the darkness, just around the corner of the archway. Her heart was pounding, echoing in her head. Her eyelids were as heavy as they’d ever been in her life, and, back flattened to the wall, she was scared to death.
The footsteps were louder now.
Closer.
Help me.
Ears straining, eyes trying to see in the darkness, Ava waited, counting her heartbeats, ready to lunge. Hold on for the right moment. Just take her by surprise, throw yourself at her, wrest her damned knife from her. Just disarm her. That’s all you have to do. Oh, dear God . . . Sweating in the cold room, she held her weapon with both hands.
Somewhere, far, far off in the distance, she heard the rumble of a boat’s engine.
Her knees went weak. Thank God!
Dern. It had to be Austin Dern.
Hurry, oh, God, please hurry!
The footsteps creeping down the stairs stopped suddenly. As if Khloe, too, had heard the approaching boat. Then, movement again, the softer tread of shoes on the floor, coming closer only to stop somewhere in the middle of the kitchen.
“Ava?” Khloe said softly, and Ava wanted to fall through the floor. “I know you’re down here.”
What? No . . . oh, please no.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Ava didn’t move. Just held her knife aloft in the darkness. Every muscle in her body was tense. But she was tired . . . oh, so tired. . . . She had to fight to remain rigid, ready.
“Aaaavaaa,” Khloe singsonged again. “Aaaaavaaa.”
Sweat drizzled into Ava’s eyes and palms, feeling slick against the knife’s handle. “You saw it all on your little camera, didn’t you?”
Ava swallowed hard. Didn’t answer. The knife wobbled in her hands.
“Oh . . . I get it . . . you think you’re going to get the drop on me, don’t you?”
She was swaying, the knife so heavy, the drugs in her system dragging her down, not even her own adrenaline strong enough to counteract the sedative.
“Well, friend, it’s never going to happen!”
It’s now or never!
Wielding her butcher knife, Ava leaped forward.
At that moment, the world went white. Bright light burned her retinas. She only caught a glimpse of Khloe’s surprised expression and the mega-flashlight in one of Khloe’s hands.
In the other was the very blade that had plunged into Wyatt’s chest.
The message came in late. After midnight. The 911 operator tracked Snyder down and gave him the news Ava Garrison had called in and claimed she was witnessing her husband being attacked by Khloe Prescott, that even now, Wyatt Garrison could be dead. Snyder listened to the tape twice. He didn’t understand what was going on, couldn’t begin to piece it together, but he didn’t waste any time and coordinated with the pilot of the sheriff’s department boat, then headed from the station to the marina. He’d been up for over twenty-four hours and was dog tired, but he shook it off as he left his bike in his office and took one of the department’s cruisers. Lights on, sirens wailing, he roared down the streets toward the marina.
No doubt Lyons would be pissed that he hadn’t called her, but he wasn’t going to wait. He’d heard the sheer terror in Ava Garrison’s voice on that tape and knew she was in trouble. Big trouble.
She was a suspect, yeah, but after spending most of the day interviewing her, he didn’t believe she’d call for help if she didn’t really need it.
The first response team was already on its way to the island, a Coast Guard cutter and helicopter dispatched. But Snyder intended to get to the island as well.
He drove through one yellow light and slowed for a red, but the streets were empty and his lights were blazing, so he ran the light, taking the turns to the waterfront a little too fast, and screeched to a halt in the parking lot across from the marina in record time. Near the water, the fog was rolling in, thin wisps that promised to become a bank before dawn.
The boat was waiting.
Lyons, damn her, was already on board.
“So what the hell took you so long?” she asked, tossing him a life jacket and sending him a don’t-ever-try-to-put-one-over-on-me-again grin.
“Go to hell.” But he was glad to see her.
“Back atcha,” she said, then to the captain, “Let’s go!” and the boat took off, speeding across the inky water, cutting through the fog, heading for whatever.
“You goddamned bitch!” Khloe shrieked as Ava pounced on her, plunging her knife deep into Khloe’s shoulder. The flashlight fell, crashing against the tile and rolling drunkenly away, its beam swirling crazily overhead.
Khloe, screaming, flailing with her free hand, tried to stab Ava over and over again as they hit the floor.
Crack! Ava’s knee hit hard on the tiles, but she grabbed Khloe’s wrist before she could be wounded.
In the weird light, Khloe’s face was contorted in pain and hatred, her gaze drilling deep into her adversary. She’d missed with her blows but kicked hard, the toe of her boot connecting with Ava’s shin.
Pain shimmied up her bone and she lost her grip.
Scooting away, she heard the slurping sound as Khloe yanked the knife from her shoulder and squealed again. The knife clattered to the floor. Frantically Ava scooted away, trying to stand, her bare feet slipping and smearing on warm, sticky blood.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Khloe snarled.
“So why didn’t you?” Ava threw back at the woman who had once been her friend. Keep her talking and keep her in your sight. . . . Don’t be distracted for an instant. “You had plenty of chances.”
“It had to look like an accident, you idiot! Why do you think? That’s a little harder than they make it look in the movies!”
“But the others. They weren’t accidents.” While she was talking, Ava was staring at the knife in Khloe’s fingers and hoping that the police were on their way. Or Dern. Or anyone. She’d heard a boat approaching. Where the hell was it?
Khloe was advancing, trying to climb to her feet. The knife. Where’s your damned knife? She’s hurt. You could get the drop on her, but you need the knife. Desperately she searched the dark room, then remembered the knife in her pocket and the dozens in the drawers and racks in this room.
“They didn’t have to be accidents,” Khloe was explaining, seeming glad to tell Ava about her plans, how clever she’d been. “So the police would think you, the crazy woman, killed them.”
“I had no reason.” Carefully, keeping her gaze fixed on Khloe she slid her hand into her pocket.
“You hated them . . .”
“No! Not Cheryl!” she cried, thinking of the kind woman who had taken her in and quietly hypnotized her in the hopes of exorcising Ava’s demons. Her fingers touched the tip of the knife in her pocket, but she had to keep Khloe talking, hope that she was distracted. “Why would I kill Cheryl?”
“Because she knew all your secrets. And when they finally find the tapes of your session that you hid in the floorboards of your closet, you’ll be tied to the murders.”
“What tapes . . . I never . . .”
Khloe’s eyes glowed with her own warped sense of pride. “They’ll find them,” she assured Ava, and swayed a little on her feet. She was still bleeding, red drips streaking down her arm.
“You killed them all,” she charged. “Why?”
“Shut up!”
she yelled at Ava. “It doesn’t matter. They knew too much. Had all, one way or another, learned about Wyatt and me. They . . . they had to go.” She was breathing hard, dragging in breaths, her one arm limp, her eyes blazing. “Tell me, bitch, how does it feel to have lost the love of your life?”
“The what?” For a second, she thought of Dern.
“Your husband!” Khloe snarled as Ava kept sliding away from her. Ava’s mind was racing. She wondered just how badly she’d wounded Khloe. The cut had been deep . . . but still Khloe kept coming, kept crossing the long room.
“Wyatt. We have to save him!” Her fingers curled over the hilt of the knife in her pocket.
“He’s dead.”
“No!”
“Oh, yeah. I made sure,” Khloe said smugly. “I don’t leave loose ends.”
“But . . . you and he . . . why . . . Oh God,” she whispered, sick to her stomach. Not that she loved him, not any longer, but to think that he’d given up his life at Khloe’s hand . . . “How could you?” But then, how could this woman she’d counted as a friend become a savage, ruthless killer?
“What do you care?” Khloe said, and her lips twisted in a half smile. “He was just so fucking easy to seduce. I did it to get back at you, you know.” Her grin, though a partial grimace, widened, and she seemed to enjoy stalking Ava, advancing slowly, stretching out her quarry’s terror.
“Back at me for what?”
“Every damned thing! This house! The money! The fact that you were treated like a princess when I had all those brothers and sisters to take care of. How do you think I feel working for you? Having my mother and husband working for you?” Khloe threw up her hands, the knife wobbling, blood spraying.
Rage that had been building for years bubbled forth. “And then there’s the men. First in high school, you weren’t satisfied until you went out with my boyfriend.”
“Mel? But that was years ago . . .” Ava couldn’t believe Khloe’s pure hatred. Her fingers tightened over the knife.
“And then Kelvin . . . just when I thought I had a chance to better myself . . . to taste a little of what you take for granted, by marrying your brother, you convince him to take the boat out.”