You Don't Want to Know

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

In Ava's dreams, her son, Noah, looks just the way she remembers him: a sweet two-year-old in rolled-up jeans and a red sweatshirt. When Ava wakes, the agonizing truth hits her all over again. Noah went missing two years ago, and his body has never been found. Almost everyone, including Ava's semi-estranged husband, Wyatt, assumes the boy drowned after falling off the dock near their Church Island home.

Ava has spent most of the past two years in and out of Seattle mental institutions, shattered by grief and unable to recall the details of Noah's disappearance. Now she's back at Neptune's Gate, the family estate she once intended to restore to its former grandeur. Slowly, her strength is returning. But as Ava's mind comes back into focus, her suspicions grow. Despite their apparent concern, Ava can't shake the feeling that her family, and her psychologist, know more than they're saying. But are they really worried for her well-being - or anxious about what she might discover?

Unwilling to trust those around her, Ava secretly visits a hypnotist to try and restore her memories. But the strange visions and night terrors keep getting worse. Ava is sure she's heard Noah crying in the nursery, and glimpsed him walking near the dock. Is she losing her mind, or is Noah still alive? Ava won't stop until she gets answers, but the truth is more dangerous than she can imagine. And the price may be more than she ever thought to pay…

Release date: March 1, 2012

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 480

Sample

“I’m serious, you can’t tell a soul,” a breathy voice whispered. “I could lose my job.”

Ava Garrison opened a bleary eye. From her bed, she heard the sound of voices beyond the big wooden door that stood slightly ajar.

“She doesn’t even know what’s going on,” another woman agreed. Her voice was deeper and gruffer than the first, and Ava thought she recognized it, a headache pounding behind her eyes as the nightmare retreated into her subconscious. The pain would recede, it always did, but for the first minutes after waking, she felt as if steel-shod horses were galloping through her brain.

Inhaling a deep breath, she blinked. The room was dark, the curtains pulled, the rumble of the ancient furnace forcing air through the registers, muting the conversation beyond the heavy oak door.

“Shhh . . . she should be awake soon . . .” Breathy Voice again. Ava tried to place it and thought it might belong to Demetria, Jewel-Anne’s dour nursemaid. For a woman not yet thirty, tall, slim Demetria always wore a severe expression that matched her harsh hairstyle, dyed black and pulled back, restrained by a heavy clip at her nape. Her only concession to whimsy, it seemed, was the hint of a tattoo, an inky tendril that curled from beneath the clip to tease the back of her ear. The tattoo reminded Ava of a shy octopus, extending one questioning tentacle from beneath its hiding spot of thick dark hair and tortoiseshell clip.

“So what is it? What’s going on with her?” the second voice demanded.

Oh, Lord, did it belong to Khloe? Ava felt a jab of betrayal; she knew they were talking about her, and Khloe had been her best friend while growing up here on this remote island. But that had been years ago, long before fresh-faced and happy-go-lucky Khloe had turned into the unhappy soul who couldn’t for the life of her let go of a love that had died so swiftly.

More whispering . . .

Of course. It was almost as if they wanted to have her overhear them, as if they were taunting her.

Ava caught only phrases that were as crippling as they were true.

“. . . slowly going out of her mind . . .” Khloe again?

“Has been for years. Poor Mr. Garrison.” Breathy Voice.

Poor Mr. Garrison? Seriously?

Khloe, if it were she, agreed. “How he’s suffered.”

Wyatt? Suffered? Really? The man who seemed intent on being absent, always away? The man she’d contemplated divorcing on more than one occasion? Ava doubted her husband had suffered one day of his life. She could barely restrain herself from shouting, but she wanted to hear what they were saying, what the gossip was that ran rampant through the wainscoted hallways of Neptune’s Gate, this hundred-year-old house built and named by her great-great-grandfather.

“Well something should be done; they’re richer than God!” one of them muttered, her words thin and reedy as she walked away.

“For God’s sake, keep your voice down. Anyway, the family’s making sure that she gets the best care that money can buy . . .”

The family?

Ava’s head was throbbing as she threw off the thick duvet and her bare feet hit the plush carpet that had been cast over hardwood. Fir . . . it was fir planks . . . she remembered, planed by the sawmill that once was the heart of Church Island, named without a drop of modesty by that same great-great-grandfather who had built this house. One step, two . . . She started to lose her balance and grasped the tall bedpost.

“Everyone in the family . . . they need answers . . .”

“Don’t we all?” A sly little snigger.

Please, God, that it wasn’t Khloe.

“But we don’t own any part of this damned island.”

“Wouldn’t that be something . . . if we did, I mean.” The voice sounded wistful as it retreated.

Ava took a step and a wave of nausea washed up her throat. She thought she might throw up as bile teased her tongue, but she bit down hard, took a deep breath, and fought the urge to vomit.

“She’s crazy as a loon. But he won’t leave her,” one of them, she couldn’t tell which, said, and the words were as crippling as they were true. She silently cursed her cloudy memory, her fractured brain.

Once, she’d been brilliant, at the top of her class, not only a stellar student but also a businesswoman with the acumen of . . . of . . . what?

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to the doorway and peeked out. Sure enough, two women were stepping down the stairs, their bodies slowly disappearing. But neither one was Khloe, as Ava’s mind had suggested. They were Virginia Zanders, Khloe’s mother—a woman twice the size of her daughter and the cook for Neptune’s Gate—and Graciela, a part-time maid, who, as if sensing Ava in the doorway, glanced over her shoulder and offered a smile as saccharine as the iced tea that Virginia poured on hot summer days. Half the size of her companion, Graciela was petite, with lustrous black hair knotted at the base of her skull. If she wanted to, Graciela could turn on a brilliant smile that could charm the coating off an M&M. Today, her smile was more like that of a Cheshire cat, as if she knew some deep, dark, and oh-so-private secret.

About her employer.

The hairs on the backs of Ava’s arms lifted. Like a snake slithering along her vertebrae, cold seeped down her spine. Graciela’s dark eyes seemed to glint with a secret knowledge before both she and Virginia were out of sight, their footsteps fading.

With a quick push, Ava slammed the door shut, then tried to lock it, but the dead bolt was missing, replaced by a matching faceplate to cover the hole left in the door. “God help me,” she whispered, and drew in a long, calming breath as she leaned against the door.

Don’t give in. Don’t let them make you the victim. Fight back!

“Against what?” she asked the dark room; then angry with her plight and her attitude, she stalked to the windows. When had she become such a wimp? When? Hadn’t she always been strong? Independent? A girl who raced her mare along the ridge over the sea, who climbed to the topmost spire of the mountain on this island, who swam naked in the icy, foaming waters of the Pacific where it poured and swirled into the bay? She’d surfed and rock climbed and . . . and it all seemed like a thousand—no, make that a million—years ago!

Now she was trapped here, in this room, while all those faceless people were speaking in hushed tones and assuming she couldn’t hear them, but she could; of course she could.

Sometimes she wondered if they knew she was awake, if they were taunting her on purpose. Perhaps their soft, condoling tones were all part of a great façade, a horrible, painful labyrinth from which there was no escape.

She trusted no one and then reminded herself that it was all part of her paranoia. Her sickness.

With pain shooting behind her eyes, she stumbled to the bed and fell onto the pillow-top mattress with its expensive sheets, waiting for the pain to abate. She tried to raise her head, but a headache with the power to make her tremble stopped her, and she had to bite down so that she didn’t cry out.

No one should suffer like this. Weren’t there painkillers for this sort of thing? Prescriptions to stave off migraines? Then again, she took a lot of pills and couldn’t help but wonder if the pain slicing through her brain was because of the medication rather than in spite of it.

She didn’t understand why they were all out to torment her, to make her feel as if she were crazy, but she was pretty damned sure they intended just that. All of them: the nurses, the doctors, the maid, the lawyers, and her husband—most certainly Wyatt.

Oh, God . . . she did sound paranoid.

Maybe she was.

With extreme effort, she gathered her strength and eased off the bed again. She knew that eventually the stab in her brain would slowly dissipate. It always did. But when she first woke up, it was always a bitch.

With a hand on the bed to steady herself, she walked carefully to the window, pushed back the curtains, and opened the blinds.

The day was gray and grim, as it was on that day . . . that horrid day when Noah . . .

Don’t go there!

It serves no purpose to relive the worst moments of your life.

Blinking, she forced her mind back to the present and stared through the watery, leaded-glass panes that looked out from the second floor of this once-elegant mansion. Autumn was seeping toward winter, she thought as she squinted, looking toward the dock where twilight was descending, fingers of fog sliding over the blackened pier.

It wasn’t morning but nearing evening, she realized, though that seemed wrong. She’d been asleep for hours . . . days?

Don’t think about it; you’re awake now.

Placing a hand against the cool panes, she took in more of her surroundings. At the water’s edge, the boathouse had grayed over the years, the dock next to it listing toward the wind-ruffled waters of the bay. The tide was in, foamy waves splashing against the shore.

So like that day . . .

Oh, sweet Jesus.

A chill, as cold as the depths of the sea, washed over her, a chill that was born from within.

Her heart clutched.

Her breath fogged on the window as she leaned close to the glass.

The back of her neck tightened in a familiar way; she knew what was coming.

“Please . . .”

Squinting, she stared at the end of the dock.

And there he was, her tiny son, teetering near the edge, a ghostly image in the fog.

“Noah,” she whispered, suddenly terrified, her fingers sliding down the pane as panic surged within. “Oh, God, Noah!”

He’s not there. It’s your fractured mind playing tricks on you.

But she couldn’t take the chance. What if this time, this one time, it really was her boy? He stood with his back to her, his little red hooded sweatshirt damp in the misting fog. Her heart squeezed. “Noah!” she screamed, beating on the glass. “Noah! Come back!”

Frantically she tried to open the window, but it seemed nailed shut. “Come on, come on!” she cried, trying to force open the sash, breaking her nails in the process. The damned window wouldn’t budge. “Oh, God . . .”

Propelled by fear, she yanked open the door and raced barefoot out of her room and down the hall to the back stairs, her feet slapping against the smooth wood of the steps. Down, down, down she ran, breathless, one hand on the rail. Noah, oh sweet, sweet baby. Noah!

She burst from the stairway into the kitchen, then through the back door off the kitchen, across the screened porch, and out to the sweeping grounds of the house and beyond.

Now she could run. Fast. Even though night was falling swiftly.

“Noah!” she yelled as she sped along the weed-choked pathways, past the deadened rosebushes and through the dripping ferns to the dock where darkness and fog had disguised the end of the pier. She was breathing hard, screaming her son’s name, desperate to see him, to witness his little face turn around and look up at her, his wide, expectant eyes trusting . . .

The dock was empty. Fog playing in the shadows of the water, seagulls crying hollowly in the distance.

“Noah!” she screamed, running over the slick boards. “Noah!”

She’d seen him! She had!

Oh, honey . . . “Noah, where are you?” she said over a sob and the rush of the wind as she reached the end, the last board cutting into her feet. “Baby, it’s Mama . . .”

One last, wild search of the dock and boathouse told her he was gone. She didn’t hesitate but jumped into the icy water, feeling the rush of frigid cold, tasting salt water as she splashed and flailed, frantically searching for her son in the dark depths. “Noah!” she yelled, coughing and sputtering as she surfaced. She dived back down into the black water again and again, searching the murky depths, desperately hoping for some glimpse of her son.

Please, God, let me find him. Help me save him! Do not let him die! He’s an innocent. It’s I who am the sinner. Oh, dear Jesus, please . . .

Again and again, she dove, five times, six, seven, her nightgown billowing around her, her hair loosened from its rubber band, exhaustion overtaking her as she drifted farther and farther from the dock. As she surfaced slowly one more time, she was vaguely aware of a voice.

“Hey!” a man yelled. “Hey!”

She dove down again, her hair floating around her, her eyes open and burning in the salty water, her lungs so stretched she thought they might burst. Where is he? Noah, oh, God, baby . . . She couldn’t breathe, but she couldn’t stop searching. Had to find her son. The world grew darker and colder, and Noah grew ever more distant.

Someone dived in next to her.

She felt strong arms surround her rib cage in a death grip. She was weak, about to pass out, when she was jerked upward, roughly dragged toward the surface, a ripple of air escaping her lungs.

As they broke through the water, she gasped, coughing and spewing as she found herself staring into the stern, uncompromising gaze of a total stranger.

“Are you out of your mind?” he demanded, slinging the water from his hair with a muscular twist. But before she could answer, he snarled, “Oh, hell!” and starting kicking hard, holding her tightly, dragging her to the shore. She’d drifted away from the dock, but his strokes, strong and sure, cut through the water and pulled them both to the sandy beach, where he deposited her in the waist-high water. “Come on!” he snapped. His arm steadied her as they slogged through the lapping water and up the sandy shoreline. Her teeth were chattering, and she was shivering head to toe, but she barely felt anything other than a deep-seated and painful grief. Swallowing against the pain, she tasted salt and finally roused herself enough to look at this man she’d never met before.

Or had she? There was something remotely familiar about him. Over six feet tall, in a wet, long-sleeved shirt and soaked jeans, he was rugged-looking, as if he’d spent most of his thirty-odd years outdoors.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded, shaking the hair out of his eyes. “You could have drowned!” And then, as an afterthought, “Are you okay?”

Of course she was not okay. She was damned certain she would never be even remotely okay again.

“Let’s get you inside.” He was still holding on to her, and he helped her past a pair of boots thrown haphazardly on the grass, then up the overgrown sandy path toward the house.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He eyed her up and down. “Austin Dern.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “And you’re Ava Garrison? You own this place?”

“Part of it.” She tried to wring the cold salt water from her hair, but it was impossible.

“Most of it.” His eyes narrowed on her as she shivered. “And you don’t know who I am?”

“Not a clue.” Even in her state of shock, the man irritated her.

He muttered something under his breath, then said, “Well, now, isn’t that something? You hired me. Just last week.” He was pushing her toward the house.

“Me?” Oh, God, how bad was her memory? Sometimes it seemed as thin and fragile as a cheesecloth. But not about this. Shaking her head, feeling the cold water drip down her back, she said, “I don’t think so.” She would have remembered him. She was sure of it.

“Actually it was your husband.”

Oh. Wyatt. “I guess he forgot to tell me.”

“Yeah?” His gaze skated over her bedraggled, freezing form, and for a second, she wondered just how sheer her sodden nightgown was.

“By the way, you’re welcome.” He didn’t so much as crack a smile. Though darkness was settling over the island, she saw his features, set and grim. Deep-set eyes, their color undetermined in the coming night; square, beard-shadowed jaw; blade-thin lips; and a nose that wasn’t quite straight. His hair was as dark as the night, somewhere between a deep brown and black. They trudged together toward the behemoth three-storied manor.

On the back porch, the screen door flew open, then banged shut behind a woman running from the house. “Ava? Oh, God, what happened?” Khloe demanded, her face a mask of concern as it caught in the porch light. She sprinted past the garden and jumped over a small hedge of boxwoods to grab Ava as the stranger released his grip on her body. “Oh my God, you’re soaking wet!” Khloe was shaking her head, and her expression was caught somewhere between pity and fear. “What the hell were you doing . . . oh, don’t even say it. I know.” She held Ava close and didn’t seem to care that her jeans and sweater were soaking up the water from her friend’s nightgown. “You have to stop this, Ava. You have to.” Glancing up at the stranger, she added to Ava, “Come on, let’s get you into the house.” Then to Dern, “You too. Dear God, you’re both soaked to the bone!”

Khloe and Dern both tried to help her up the path, but she shook them both off, startling Virginia’s black cat, Mr. T, who had been hiding behind a withering rhododendron. With a hiss, the cat slid into a crawl space under the porch just as Ava’s cousin, Jacob, came running from his burrow of an apartment in the basement of the old house.

Some of her old pluck began returning. She was tired of playing the victim, bored with the pitying stares and the knowing glances shared between others as if to say, Poor, poor thing. So they thought she was crazy.

Big deal.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t questioned her sanity herself, just minutes ago, and yet everyone’s concern was really beginning to get under her skin.

“What happened?” Jacob demanded. His glasses were off-kilter and his reddish hair mussed, as if he’d been asleep.

Ignoring him and everyone else, Ava clambered up the stairs, dripping, her nightgown sucked tight to her body. She didn’t give a damn what they thought. She knew she’d seen Noah, and no matter what Khloe or her cowboyesque savior or even the damned shrink Ms. Evelyn McPherson thought, she wasn’t insane. Had never been. Wasn’t ready for the loony bin.

“Let me help you,” Khloe said, but Ava was having none of it.

“I’m fine.”

“You just jumped into the ocean, Ava! You are definitely not anywhere close to fine.”

“Just leave me alone, Khloe.”

Khloe glanced at Dern, then backed up, lifting her hands, palms out. “Ooookay.”

“No need to be melodramatic,” Ava muttered.

“Oh, yeah. I’m the drama queen!” Khloe sighed heavily. “Just for the record, who was it who flung herself into the bay a few minutes ago?”

“Okay, okay.” Ava was up the stairs and opening the screen door. “I get it.” Once inside, where the heat hit her like a wall and the tangy scent of tomatoes and clams swept through the hallways, she hurried past the wall of windows that overlooked the yard, taking another quick glance. Now, aside from a few security lights, the grounds were dark, the fog too dense to see the end of the pier. Her heart ached at the thought of her son, but she pushed her grief aside.

At least her mind had cleared somewhat; her headache, if not completely gone, at least had receded to somewhere far away from her frontal lobes. She heard the screen door open and close behind her and knew that her confrontation with Khloe, and possibly the man who had leaped in after her, wasn’t yet over.

Great. Just what she needed!

Teeth chattering so hard they rattled, she was heading toward the back stairs when she heard the clunk of the elevator from the shaft that ran along the east side of the stairs, then the whisper of the elevator doors slowly opening.

She prayed the occupant wasn’t Jewel-Anne. But, of course, she wasn’t so lucky, and within seconds her pudgy cousin emerged, her electric wheelchair carrying her into the hallway. Through thick glasses, she threw a look at Ava, taking in her soggy nightgown, plastered hair, and probably nearly blue skin.

“Swimming again?” she asked with that smug little smile Ava would have liked to wipe off her face. Jewel-Anne pulled out an earbud from her iPhone, and Ava heard the strains of Elvis’s “Suspicious Minds” sounding tinny at the distance.

“We’re caught in a trap,” he warbled, and Ava wondered why a woman who had been born long after the rock icon had died had become such a die-hard fan. Of course, she knew the pat answer, because she’d posed the question to Jewel-Anne just this past year. Over her oatmeal, with one earbud plugged in, Jewel-Anne had turned deadly serious. “We shared the same birthday, you know.” She’d added a second scoop of brown sugar to her cereal.

Somehow, Ava had managed to keep her sarcastic tongue in check and said only, “You weren’t even alive when—”

“He speaks to me, Ava!” Jewel-Anne’s lips had compressed with certainty. “He was such a tragic figure.” She paid attention to her breakfast, stirring her butter and brown sugar and swirling her hot cereal in her bowl. “Like me.”

Then she’d looked up at Ava with innocent eyes, and Ava had felt the deep jab of guilt that only her paraplegic cousin could inspire.

You’re not the only one he speaks to, she’d wanted to say. There are hundreds of Elvis sightings every day. He’s probably “speaking” to those lunatics, too. Rather than escalate a fight with no end, she’d pushed out her chair, scooped out the remainder of her cereal into the sink, and dropped her bowl into the dishwasher just as Jacob, Jewel-Anne’s only full brother, strolled into the kitchen without a word, found a toasted bagel, and walked out the back door, his backpack slung over one thick shoulder. Once an all-state wrestler, Jacob, with his curly red hair and acne-scarred fair skin, was a perpetual student who owned every electronic gadget imaginable. He was a full-blown computer geek and as strange as his sister.

Now Jewel-Anne, with her straight, waist-length hair and trusting, so-sincere blue eyes, didn’t have to utter a word but Ava knew she still believed she had a special connection to the King of Rock and Roll. Oh, sure, Elvis speaks to Jewel-Anne. Even in nonliteral terms, Ava doubted they had even the most tenuous of connections and quickly took the stairs two at a time.

Why should she worry about her own sanity when she was living with a group of people who, at one time or another, could have been certifiably nuts?

The lights flickered twice as Ava stood under the hot shower spray. Each time darkness flooded the bathroom, she tensed and placed a hand on the tiled shower wall, but fortunately the power didn’t go out. Thank God. That was the problem with this island, which was set off the coast of Washington with no access to the mainland except by private boat or a ferry that ran twice a day to Anchorville, weather permitting.

It had been a haven for her great-great-grandparents, Ava knew, who had settled here, commanded the largest chunk of real estate, and somehow, through logging and sawmilling, had made a fortune. When other people had settled on the island, Stephen Monroe Church had offered them lumber and supplies and, more importantly, jobs.

Ava had always wondered about the population back then. Why leave the comfort of the mainland? What had the settlers been running to . . . or, more likely, from?

Whatever their reasons, they had helped Stephen and his wife, Molly, construct this grandiose home, complete with three sets of stairs, three floors above ground (not counting the attic), and a basement now used for storage and Wyatt’s wine cellar and Jacob’s apartment. Built in the Victorian style on one of the highest points on the island, Neptune’s Gate had nearly a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view from its westerly turret, which rose over a widow’s walk. Hence it was a house of windows that winked and caught in the summer sunlight. This time of year, though, with the fog and rain, sleet and hail, the refracting rays were few and far between.

Scrubbing with lavender soap and some guaranteed-gentle shampoo, she washed the salt and grime from her skin and hair, letting the soothing water calm the fear that split her soul—fear and confusion about her son.

What had she been thinking earlier?

Noah hadn’t been on the dock.

It was just her willing, weak mind playing tricks on her, vestiges from her dream remaining to confuse her.

Yet the image of him standing in the rising mist, teetering on the edge of the dock, eerily real, still stayed with her.

It’s been two years . . . let him go.

She rinsed off, thinking that her son would be four years old now, had he survived.

Tears filled her eyes and her throat grew thick. She turned and faced the nozzle, letting warm water wash the damned tears away.

By the time she’d dressed and combed the tangles from her hair, she felt better. Rested. No longer balanced upon a mental precipice.

She was just walking out of the bathroom when she heard a tap on her bedroom door. “Ava?” her husband’s voice called softly as the door opened.

“I thought you were in Seattle,” she said.

“Portland.” His smile was thin, his features marred with worry, his sandy-colored hair rumpled as if he’d been forcing stiff fingers through it.

“Oh. Right.” She’d known he’d driven south. Wyatt’s client was from Seattle but had real estate holdings in Oregon and had some kind of lawsuit leveled against him.

“Doesn’t matter.” Wyatt stepped closer to her, and she tensed but didn’t back up, not even when he brushed an errant curl off her forehead, his fingertips warm and familiar as they grazed her skin. “Are you okay?” he asked, his hazel eyes dark with concern. That same old question that no matter how she answered, everyone had already come up with their own conclusions.

“I’d like to say fine, but . . .” She tipped her hand side to side. “Let’s just say I’m better than I was an hour ago.”

She remembered falling in love with him, or at least she thought she had. They’d met in college . . . yes, that was right. At a small private school near Spokane. That had been nearly fifteen years earlier. He’d been handsome and athletic and sexy, and those attributes hadn’t changed over the years. Even now, with his light brown hair mussed from raking his fingers through it and a day’s worth of whiskers darkening his chin, he was a good-looking man. Strapping. Bold. A take-no-prisoners attorney who now looked rumpled, his suit jacket wrinkled, his white shirt open at the throat, his tie loosened. Yes, indeed, Wyatt Garrison was still a sexy, attractive male.

And she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

“What happened?” Wyatt asked as he sat on the edge of the bed, on “his” side, the mattress sinking a bit under his weight. How many times had she lain in his arms in that very bed? How many nights had they made love . . . When had they stopped? “Ava?”

She snapped out of her reverie. “Oh. You know. The same thing.” She glanced to the window where she’d been certain she’d seen her son. “I thought I saw Noah. On the dock.”

“Oh, Ava.” He shook his head slowly. Sadly. “You’ve got to stop torturing yourself. He’s gone.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts.’ ” The mattress groaned as he climbed to his feet. “I thought you were getting better. When they released you from St. Brendan’s, the doctors were convinced you were on the road to recovery.”

“Maybe it’s just a bumpy one.”

“But it shouldn’t have U-turns.”

“I was getting better,” she said, preferring not to think of the hospital from which she’d been recently released. “I mean I am!” She swallowed hard, didn’t want to think about having to go back to the psych ward at the inland hospital. “It’s just the nightmares.”

“Have you seen Dr. McPherson lately?” Evelyn McPherson was the psychologist Wyatt had personally chosen upon Ava’s release from St. Brendan’s. He’d said it was because she practiced in Anchorville and was willing to visit Ava on the island, which made sense, but there was something about the woman that bothered Ava. It was as if she were listening too intently to her, was too damned concerned, as if Ava’s problems were hers. It was all too personal.

“Of course I’ve seen her. Didn’t she tell you?” When had it been? “Last week.”

His dark eyebrows lifted as if he didn’t believe her. “When last week?”

“Uh . . . Friday, I think. Yes, that was it.” Why was he doubting her? And why did he care? Ever since Noah’s disappearance, their marriage had been tenuous at best. Most of the time Wyatt was in Seattle on the mainland where he lived in a high-rise only a stone’s throw from the office where he was a junior partner in a prominent law firm. He specialized in tax law and investments.

She’d suspected that his interest in her had waned, that she was an embarrassment, a “crazy” woman and a wife best left concealed on a small island off the Washington coast.

“I was afraid I’d lost you.” He sounded sincere and her throat closed for a second.

“Sorry. Not this time.”

He looked as if she’d slapped him.

“Bad joke.”

“Very.”

She needed to change the subject and fast. “So, Austin Dern,” she said as she pulled the curtains shut. “You hired him?”

Wyatt nodded. “For the stock.” He threw Ava a glance. “Let’s face it. Ian’s really not cut out to be a ranch foreman, isn’t really a horseman and cattleman. I thought he could take over after Ned retired and moved to Arizona, but I was wrong.”

“I took care of the horses.”

“Once upon a time,” he said with a faint smile. “And even then you weren’t the best