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Authors: Lisa Jackson

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BOOK: You Don't Want To Know
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Ava chuckled. “So you promised me some recent pictures of the kids . . . ?”
“Oh! Yeah. Got 'em.” Tanya grinned from ear to ear, then began rummaging in her bag until she found her phone and started a slide show on the phone's small screen.
Ava leaned across the table. “They're so big.”
“Bella's nine and Brent just turned seven. Already in first grade. She's in fourth and has a boyfriend if you could call it that. You know when one of her friends whispers that some boy likes you and then all of the sudden they're quote ‘going'? I ask, ‘Going where?' and she just looks at me as if I'm from another planet. But nine. Really? A boyfriend? Isn't that the time you're still hating the opposite sex?” She shook her head. “So now I get to monitor the TV and the computer or before I know it she'll be quoting one of those ridiculous reality stars.”
Flipping through a few more pictures, Tanya said, “Here's a recent one of Brent, who, wouldn't you know, wants to be a cowboy.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Like his dad,” Ava said, and looked at a picture of Brent wearing a Stetson that was at least three sizes too big and what appeared to be a brand-new pair of cowboy boots.
Tanya scowled. “Anything but that.” She moved through the rest of the pictures quickly, showing off images of Bella dancing or riding on a boat or playing soccer, while Brent was with a mottle-colored dog, or on a horse, or looking so small in a football uniform. “I'm not big on this, either. I think he's waaaay too young, but Russ paid for the sport and supposedly it's not tackle and I don't know. It's hard raising kids these days . . .”
The minute the words were out of her mouth, she pulled a face and looked contrite. “God, Ava. I'm sorry. I'm so dumb sometimes!”
“No, it's okay,” Ava said quickly, but it was a relief when the waitress appeared with their drink orders, saying their meals would be there in a few minutes. She turned her attention to another booth, where a couple was so in love, they'd squeezed into the same side and were making cute little jokes about tossing coins into the fountain painted onto the wall next to their seating area.
“Young lust,” Tanya said, and the moment passed.
“So, how are you and Russ getting along?”
“Let's see . . . He's an ass. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Marrying him was kind of a rebound thing, you know, after Trent. Russ knew all about how I felt about Trent, and he never seemed to believe that I was over him.” She twirled her straw in her drink. “Maybe he was right. I mean, Trent . . . he's . . . got ‘it,' whatever that is.” Her ice cubes danced as she added, “I saw him the other day, you know.”
“Who?”
“Trent. He was here. In town. Well, at the marina.”
“Really? I know he's here now. Ian said so and was going to meet him, but when I talked to him on the phone, he never mentioned being in Anchorville.”
“Okay,” she said with a shrug.
“You're sure you didn't see Ian?” Ava questioned.
“
I
can tell the difference,” Tanya said with a snort. “I dated Trent for over a year and he was my first, you know. I'd never done it with anyone before. So, yeah, I think I can tell him apart from his twin. It's not like they're identical.”
“They look a lot alike.”
She lifted a shoulder, unconvinced.
“You talked to him?”
Tanya shook her head. “Nah. I was surprised to see him and didn't look my best and”—she grimaced—“I should have said hi or something.” More rapid twirling of her straw. “And he was such a big presence in my marriage, you know, I figured I'd leave it be. Russell and I are still arguing about money and . . . even though just talking to Trent might not lead to anything, it might get back to Russ and fan all those old jealous fires.” She gave a mock shudder. Then she looked back at Ava again, focused on the here and now. “I know it shouldn't matter. I shouldn't let anything Russ does change my life, and I try not to, believe me. But he's still the father of my kids and I still have to deal with him. It's just easier sometimes if I don't rock the boat.”
“Come on, you have a life to live, too. You can't let Russ control you. That's emotional blackmail.”
“Maybe.” She shot Ava a look. “So tell Trent to call me when you see him.”
“How about I give you his new phone number.” She found a pen in her purse and a napkin on the table, then found Trent's number in her phone and wrote it down. Sliding the napkin across the table, she added, “This is really none of Russ's business.”
“Tell him that.” Tanya tucked the napkin into a pocket of her jeans. Sighing, she glanced over at the young couple, then at the painting of the leaning tower. “I remember being ‘in lust' with Russ, but I'm not all that sure we were ever ‘in love.' Not like you and Wyatt—Oh, here we go!”
The waitress deposited their first course on the table, then added a basket of warm bread wrapped in a napkin. Ava tested her soup and Tanya fished out a bread stick and dunked it into her dressing before twirling it deftly to remove the excess dressing before taking a bite. “Oh my God, this is good.” She washed her bite down with diet soda, then said, “So tell me about the other night. You know, when you took your little dive into the sea.”
“I jumped,” Ava corrected. “And it was off the dock, in the bay, not exactly the ocean.”
“Why did you do it?” Tanya asked, dipping her bread stick in the dressing again.
“I thought I saw Noah again. I know it sounds crazy, and . . . maybe it is, but I know what I saw.” She sighed. “You think I'm ready for the loony bin, too.”
“Of course not. But there are a lot of mental . . . issues in your family. I mean, kind of a crazy streak that goes through the generations? You told me that.”
“I know.”
“Didn't your great-great-grandmother throw herself off that widow's walk at Neptune's Gate?” she asked. “And Trent's father had some kind of mental blackout while he was driving, right? Killed his wife?”
“Uncle Crispin. His first wife.”
Tanya looked at Ava, and they both knew what the other was thinking: the rumor that the accident wasn't really an accident at all, that Crispin had already been involved with Piper and a divorce would just be too expensive. Nothing had ever been proven, but the taint still remained.
“We've got our crazy stuff,” Ava admitted. “I'm just the craziest right now.”
“You came unhinged when Noah disappeared. You can't be blamed for that. You freaked. I would, too.”
Ava thought a moment, then said, “Tanya, can I tell you something?”
She leaned forward. “Oh, goody. Some deep dark secret?”
“When Noah went missing, we searched the entire island. I even went down the ridge stairs and spent the rest of the night there.”
She nodded.
“But now, when I see Noah, it's always at the dock. There's nothing that connects the boathouse or the dock or anything to his disappearance, but there he is. It just feels so damn real.”
Tanya stared at her friend, and Ava braced herself for another lecture about how she was fantasizing, wishing her boy alive and tricking her mind into creating images of him, creating false hope, but Tanya reached across the table and took Ava's hands in hers. “Okay, then let's say he's alive,” she said, nodding slowly.
Ava could scarcely believe her ears. Someone was actually listening to her. “But he looks the same as he did the last time I saw him, two years ago. He hasn't changed.”
“You trying to talk me out of this now?”
“No! But it doesn't make any sense.”
“Maybe you just need to figure out what the hell's going on.”
“Meaning?”
“Either you're hallucinating or you're seeing a ghost . . .”
Ava yanked her hands back, not liking where this was going.
“Or someone's messing with you, yanking your chain.”
“But how?”
“I don't know. Psychotropic drugs? Hallucinogens?”
Ava thought of the pills she was asked to ingest. “Either way, you're saying that my visions of Noah are all in my head. That he's not really there.”
“You said it yourself. He's not the same age. I'm just saying that whatever happened to Noah, your visions are something else.”
Her insides turned cold. “You mean, someone wants me to believe he's alive when he's not?”
“I don't know about that. I mean, you're seeing Noah, right? Not purple dragons or palm trees growing out of icebergs or your dead mother or even Kelvin. Just Noah. I'm not sure any drug can induce a specific manifestation. No, you're putting Noah in there. But the hallucinations might have a cause.” She grabbed her fork again.
“You're saying someone
wants
me to see him.”
“No, I'm saying someone
wants
you to think you're crazy. And
you're
using Noah. Or, more accurately, your own grief is using Noah's image.”
“But why would anyone do that?”
“You tell me. Who would have the most to gain if you were out of the picture? Or institutionalized?”
“Or dead?” Ava suggested, taking Tanya's logic to the next level.
“No, not dead.” Tanya was shaking her head so violently, her curls bounced around her head. “That would be easy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Killing someone. Easily done. Weapons, assassins, pills, whatever. You can get killed a thousand different ways. It's the getting away with it, that's the problem. So, if you want to keep your hands clean, maybe you just drive the person crazy. Gaslight 'em.”
“You're starting to really worry me,” she said with a smile.
“Har, har, har. Tell me I'm wrong. What if someone really wants you to believe you're going off the rails . . . way off the rails?”
“To get rid of me?” she asked skeptically.
“Get you out of the picture, anyway.” She tucked into her linguini.
“Who? Why? Church Island?”
“That's a good guess.”
“I don't even own all of it. And believe me, it comes with its own problems. Big, big problems.”
“Then name something else. I'm just sayin',” she muttered around a forkful of pasta. Her eyes seemed to glaze over. “God, this is good!”
CHAPTER 17
T
rent didn't answer.
Not on the new number he'd given her nor on his old cell number, which she tried again out of desperation. No voice mail had been set up on the new phone, so she texted him, asking him to call her as she hiked up the side streets to Cheryl's studio.
Had Tanya really seen him recently? Especially since he'd been in Anchorville?
And if so, what did it matter? He'd never really said where he was calling from, but since he lived in Seattle, it was possible he'd arrived unannounced. It wasn't impossible, just out of character. One more thing that didn't seem right and tickled Ava's radar.
Deep in thought, she pocketed her phone and felt a light mist against her face. The rain had stopped for the most part while she'd been in the restaurant with Tanya, but now the temperature had dropped again and a thick blanket of fog had rolled in.
The narrow streets were deserted, no pedestrians out, only a few cars rolling by. Here and there she saw patches of light, warm spots glowing in the gloom of coming evening. Twice she felt as if she were being followed, as if she'd heard the scrape of footsteps on the pavement behind her, and twice she'd been wrong. When she'd looked over her shoulder, she'd seen nothing but wisps of fog and a deepening night.
“Get over yourself,” she said just as a dog started barking crazily. She jumped before realizing the sound was coming from at least a block away. Still, she glanced behind her and for just a split second thought she saw movement near a tall fir tree, but as she stared at the conifer's wide trunk, she realized she was seeing only a broken branch that nearly scraped the ground as it was buffeted by the wind.
Stop it!
She turned and hurried up the next block and a half to Cheryl's studio. Though she still felt as if hidden eyes were watching her, following her every move, she ignored the warning prickle at the top of her scalp and just walked a little faster, past a parked car and a dripping wall of arborvitae before crossing a final street.
Three cats scattered as she reached the entrance to Cheryl's basement and tapped on the door. Rain was pouring from the sky now, the day nearly dark as night, her sweater coat failing her completely, dampness seeping into her shoulders.
Cheryl, dressed in another tie-dyed caftan, opened the door and shepherded her through the bevy of rooms. “You're going to be soaked to the skin,” she said as Ava slid onto the recliner.
“Is that a prediction?”
“I don't predict. Just open doors to the mind.” But she chuckled as she lit a candle. The room began filling with the scents of lavender and thyme, and soft, soothing music could be heard over the drip of rain gurgling down a downspout mounted outside near the single window in the room. “So let's get to it, shall we?” She unfolded a blanket and spread it over Ava's legs before taking her own chair and starting the session.
Within seconds, Ava was relaxed, the edges of this dark basement room fading away, and she was with her son again in summer, when sunlight danced upon the water and Noah ran and giggled near the shore.
Happily he played in the sand, a small plastic boat in his hands . . . a boat that was the perfect replica of the
Bloody Mary
. “Where did you get that?” she asked him, and he looked up at her, his smile wide enough to show off his perfect little baby teeth. “Uncle Kelvin,” he said clearly. “He gaved it to me.”
But that was impossible. Kelvin died before Noah was born. Her son never had the chance to meet him. “It was Uncle Kelvin's boat?” she said, clarifying. Maybe someone else had given the toy to her son.
But Noah was shaking his head, his blond curls catching in the sunlight. “He gaved it to me.” He looked up then, his eyes much wiser than his age. “Why don't you believe me, Mama?”
“But I do—”
He frowned suddenly. “You don't believe anyone.”
“Noah, that's not true. Why would you say such a thing?”
He looked up at her innocently and said, “Daddy told me.”
“Daddy?” she whispered as the sun seemed to go down and her son faded from her sight. “Noah?” she called as darkness descended, and she found herself on the deck of the
Bloody Mary
, the storm raging. Sails whipped wildly and the wind screamed. Rain lashed the deck as the boat pitched and rolled. Jewel-Anne screamed as if in horrid pain. . . .
And then she was with Noah again, her perfect little son, a child she never thought she'd have after her series of miscarriages. So precious. A miracle. Born right after the storm. She hardly remembered much of the pregnancy, had thought she'd had the flu in the early months.
“Three, you're coming around . . . Two, you're surfacing, coming closer . . . One . . . And you're back,” she heard, awakening to find herself in Cheryl's studio. She looked down at her arms, empty. No baby to hold.
“You were in the boat again,” Cheryl said softly. “You were screaming.”
“I know.” Ava felt weighted down and weak. There was so much she couldn't remember about that night, so much grief and sadness. She'd tried through her sessions with Cheryl to learn more about the tragedy of Kelvin's death as well as her son's disappearance, hoping the hypnotist would unlock some memory her brain refused to recall. Now, though, she wondered if it was maybe best that she couldn't recall all the details of that horrifying night.
Both Khloe and Jewel-Anne seemed to have trouble forgiving her for suggesting the boat ride that day. God knew she'd mentally beaten herself up about it, even though she knew it wasn't her fault. But sometimes it felt like there was something else. Something just out of reach, if she could just remember.
“You okay?” Cheryl asked, concerned.
“There's that question again.”
Cheryl smiled, but it didn't quite touch her eyes.
“What?” Ava demanded.
“Nothing.”
“Yes . . . something.”
Cheryl glanced away for just a moment, then said soberly, “It's just that I think you should be careful.”
“Okay . . . scary. Why?”
“Things aren't always as they seem or what we want them to be. There's a lot of bad blood out on the island. You know it. I know it. And sometimes I can't help myself. I worry about you.”
Ava thought about Tanya's comments but said, “Don't,” to Cheryl, touching her surprisingly cold hands. “I am careful, in my way.”
“Good,” Cheryl said fervently.
“Maybe we could get together, next week?”
“Yes . . .” But Cheryl's thoughts were clearly elsewhere, and Ava left feeling more unsettled than when she'd arrived.
 
Cheryl closed the door of her basement and leaned against it, waiting for Ava to head down the street. Her expression was sober. Dealing with Ava Garrison was always difficult, and sometimes Cheryl didn't know if she helped or hurt her.
“Help her . . . you always help,” she reminded herself as she walked back to the room where they'd just ended their last session. A few of her cats swarmed around her feet and she smiled, then reached down to pet each head. Merlin, her long-haired stray, slipped into the next room, his gray tail twitching a bit. Cheshire, her overweight tabby, and Olive, the skittish tuxedo cat with white toes, white chest, and white whiskers splashed upon her black coat, trailed after her.
“Watch out,” Cheryl scolded as she entered the room, closed the door, and went about straightening up. She folded the blanket that had been tossed over Ava's legs and put her notebook into a desk drawer. She blew out the candle, then snapped out the light at the doorway. The studio was instantly dark, not so much as a frail beam of light falling through the window.
Hisssss!
The sibilant sound whispered through the warren of rooms in the basement. One of her cats . . . in the hallway, from the sounds of it. Probably scared himself. “Merlin?” she called, walking to the open door where the hallway, too, was dark.
Odd.
She didn't remember turning out the light.
“Here, kitty, kitty.” She slapped at the light switch, but nothing happened. The hairs on the back of her scalp lifted, but she told herself it was merely a burned-out bulb. “Damn.” Where were the extra bulbs? Down here and around a corner, in the utility room.
Feeling along the edge of the wall, she heard Merlin again and this time he growled, low and throaty.
Cheryl's heart began to thud. Her nerves tightened and she told herself not to let her imagination run wild.
The cat's skittish. Always jumping at his own shadow. Remember that. Nothing to worry about. Just get the bulb for the hall fixture and grab a flashlight so that you can replace it. There's one in the utility room over the sink—
Another growl and a hiss, then a deep yowl and the quick, soft footsteps of the cat running off. Cheryl waited, ears straining. She didn't hear anything over the rapid-fire beating of her heart, so she ran her fingers along the wall, guiding herself, mentally walking these halls as she always did.
One foot in front of the other, her breathing a little faster than normal, she rounded a final corner to the utility room, stepped inside, and threw the switch.
Nothing.
The room, without a window, remained black.
The circuit breaker again.
This wasn't the first time, but the damned breaker hadn't flipped since last winter and she'd told herself she didn't need the expense of fixing it. Now that she knew what it was, she realized the fan on the furnace wasn't blowing any air; the basement was nearly silent.
Breathing a little easier, she rummaged in the drawer near the utility sink as the acrid smell of feline urine swept up her nose. Definitely time to change the litter box again. Fumbling, she found the flashlight, her fingers first encountering pencils, stain sticks, and a box cutter on which she nicked herself before grabbing the heavy cylinder. With her thumb, she pushed the switch and the flashlight's weak beam appeared, giving only feeble light.
It would have to do.
A few more steps with the uncertain beam directed at the wall and she found the breaker box screwed into the wall opposite the dryer. This junction box had been dedicated for her set of rooms, which included her apartment on the first floor and this lower level. As she pried open the box, her bloody finger left a smudge on the metal door.
Sure enough, the main switch had blown.
Never before had this occurred. Yeah, one or two breakers had switched off, but not the main switch. What the hell? She reached up to hit the button when she felt a drop in the temperature in the room.
Just a few degrees.
And she heard some street noise, the sound of a car driving past. As if a window in the basement had been left open.
Again, the feeling of something being not quite right crawled up her spine on whispery, cold legs. She reached for the circuit breaker switch and heard the scrape of leather against cement, a footstep behind her.
No!
She threw the breaker, but it was too late. The laundry room was suddenly awash in flickering fluorescent light, the tubes throwing off a weird bluish color just as strong hands slipped around Cheryl's throat.
Someone was choking her!
Panic invaded her body.
She tried to scream, to kick, to fight, but the steely fingers tightened and suddenly she couldn't breathe. Heart pounding painfully, her lungs on fire, she struggled like a wild thing, flinging her fists backward, throwing her head back, kicking and flailing, to no avail. Whatever maniac had her was strong.
Determined.
Deadly.
Please, God, no!
Her lungs felt as if they would burst, and she knew her eyes were bulging, sensed the tiny veins within popping.
No, no, no!
This couldn't be happening . . . not to her . . . not . . . to . . .
Blackness swam before her eyes and she was suddenly released, allowed to drop onto the floor. She gasped for breath, but the sound was a rasp, broken and wheezing, as if her larynx had been crushed. For a second she thought she might live, and then in her weakened vision, she saw the blade.
Long and deadly, glinting with malevolent intent.
Fear congealed in her brain.
Who . . . ?
The blade came down and slipped across her exposed throat. All she felt was a slight burning sensation, but as she lay dying, she knew that her attacker had left, heard the sound of footsteps fading, and then one of her cats meowed softly . . . gold eyes glowing in front of her face.
Cheshire . . . oh, sweet kitty . . .
BOOK: You Don't Want To Know
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