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Authors: Lisa Jackson

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BOOK: You Don't Want To Know
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He was getting jumpy; that was it and it wouldn't do.
Not before his mission was accomplished.
He punched a familiar number.
A woman's voice answered. “I was wondering when I'd hear from you,” she said.
He nodded, as if she could see him. “Just want to let you know that everything's going as planned.”
“I heard that a woman was murdered in Anchorville.”
“That's right.” He didn't dare say more.
“Be careful,” she warned in her familiar tone that reminded him of warm summer nights and starry skies.
“Always.”
He clicked off before the conversation got too personal and wondered who the hell had been inside his apartment.
More importantly: Why?
 
Ava suffered through another private session with Dr. McPherson, and of course the psychologist was encouraging, even saying that she thought Ava could be making a breakthrough, that as her mind healed, Ava's memory would return—the same old song and dance Ava had been hearing ever since she'd been released from St. Brendan's.
“I want to wean myself off my medication,” Ava told her, but the therapist hadn't budged even though she suspected Ava wasn't taking her meds.
“That's the ultimate goal, of course. But for now let's not do anything drastic. You really do seem to be getting better.”
“Am I? I saw my son and jumped into the bay the other night. And now everyone seems to think I'm gaslighting myself.”
Ava hadn't added that she'd snagged the damned key from the hearth and now kept it with her at all times. Foolish? Maybe. Paranoid? Most definitely. Obsessive? Yeah . . . really obsessive, but she kept the key with her anyway, could feel the thin metal in the pocket of her jeans right now. As for her son's wet shoes, she knew someone had taken them from her closet, dipped them in seawater, and left them for her to find just to give her an emotional jolt. She'd returned them to the top shelf of her closet. For now.
“You've been under a lot of stress,” Evelyn had said, leaning closer, “but I do think you're improving, on the right path. I know you want off the medication and we'll work toward that.” Her smile seemed sincere, but the worry in her eyes never quite disappeared. Probably because it was masked with guilt. “This is going to take some time. We all have to be patient.”
Of course, she didn't know that Ava wasn't taking one damned pill, and the headaches she'd been warned would result from going cold turkey off the meds hadn't been all that bad. She would survive.
After the session, Ava quietly left the room even though inside she was running. She crossed through the kitchen where Virginia was still cleaning up after a meal and found some hot water for a cup of peach-flavored tea that claimed to be soothing. Since she was still supposed to be on the prescribed medication, which wasn't supposed to be mixed with alcohol, Ava had gone along with the ruse, all the while thinking a glass of wine or even a margarita might be better for her anxiety.
Nonetheless, she played her part, dipping the tea bag into a cup of hot water, watching as Graciela slipped her arms through the sleeves of a long jacket and tucked her hair into the collar. Virginia had the radio playing softly, some pop-rock song from the eighties barely audible over the running water as she rinsed a baking dish.
“Need a ride?” Ian offered Graciela as he walked into the kitchen and set his glass on the counter. He and Trent had been playing pool. Ava had heard the faint click of billiard balls and laughter as she and the psychologist had talked in the den.
“I'm fine.” Graciela flashed him a thankful smile.
“I'm going into town anyway,” he said. “Out of cigarettes.”
“Okay then,” Graciela acquiesced.
“I thought you quit.” Ava tossed her tea bag into the trash under the sink as Khloe sauntered into the kitchen.
His gaze was cool. “That's why I'm ‘out.' ” When she didn't ask the question, he added, “I'm a big boy. I think I can decide what's good for me.”
Ava blew across her teacup. “Tar and nicotine?” she asked, unable to keep from ribbing him a little.
“And arsenic and ammonia or whatever. Probably just about all the carcinogens you can think of.”
“They're your lungs,” Ava said, but Virginia, wiping her hands on her apron, snorted her disapproval.
“Disgusting habit.”
“Come on, Mom, you smoked for years.” Khloe set a few more cups into the sink, and when Virginia seemed about to argue, she added, “
For years
. Virginia Slims, I remember.”
“That was years ago, before I knew better!” Virginia said, obviously in a bad mood at being called out.
“Well, I still don't.” Ian, placing a hand on the small of Graciela's back to steer her toward the back porch, gave them all a quick wave. “I'll be back in half an hour. Just gonna drop Graciela off and stop at the Food-O-Mart.”
Ava was carrying her cup toward the front stairs when she saw Dr. McPherson and her husband standing close, heads together and whispering. She carefully backed up behind a wall, then stopped to listen but could only hear a few words.
“. . . about Noah . . . I know . . . ,” the doctor said.
Wyatt's response was muffled completely, as his back was to the doorway.
“. . . some kind . . . breakthrough . . . Kelvin . . . I'm sure . . . patience. . . with Ava . . .”
Again Wyatt's response was unclear. Sick of eavesdropping, Ava rounded the corner and found them still close together, Wyatt's hand on the doctor's shoulder as he leaned closer to hear her.
Ava had had enough.
“So . . . what's the diagnosis?” she asked, walking into the hallway. Wyatt looked up sharply over his shoulder and his expression darkened. “I heard my name, so I assume you were discussing my ‘condition. ' ”
“It's true,” Wyatt admitted, straightening. “I was asking about you.”
“Isn't that highly illegal?” she asked, and Evelyn McPherson actually blushed. “Isn't there something about physician/patient confidentiality? You're a psychologist; I think that covers you, too,” she said to Dr. McPherson before her gaze moved to her husband. “And you're a lawyer, so you know it, too. So, what's going on here?”
The cords on Wyatt's neck stood out a bit. “I don't like what you're insinuating.”
“Yeah? After you suggested I get an attorney before talking with the police? After you and Evelyn here are all over each other whenever you're alone?”
“Ava, no,” Evelyn said, shocked.
“Don't,” Wyatt warned, but Ava was done with all the game-playing, the pretenses, the damned lies.
“You're saying,” Ava said to the doctor, “that you aren't having an affair with my husband.”
The woman took a step back and shook her head. “No. Never.”
Ava raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Wyatt burst out. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” He appeared absolutely scandalized by the suggestion. “I'm only with Evelyn because she was recommended, had worked with you at St. Brendan's. I thought hiring her would help you! Don't turn it around on us.”
“On us,” Ava repeated. “Why does it feel like two on one here, that you two are ganging up on me?”
Evelyn said, “I would never . . .” Her words sounded heartfelt, but her eyes gave her away when she looked to Wyatt for support.
“Maybe I don't need you any longer,” Ava suggested.
“In my professional opinion, you're improving due to your sessions.”
“I'm not so sure,” Ava said curtly.
Wyatt stepped in. “Of course you are.” He grabbed Ava's free hand and rotated it, palm up, to show the ugly lines running up and down her wrists. “Look what you did. After Noah left. You were so bereaved, so messed up.” His eyes held hers. “Don't slip away again. Keep seeing Dr. McPherson.” His fingers dug into her arm in his repressed fury.
But the psychologist had regained some of her equilibrium. “If you would prefer another therapist, I could recommend someone. Elliot Sterns is very good—”
“No!” Wyatt was adamant. He dropped Ava's wrist. “You stay. You've been helping her. She needs you.”
“I think that's my call,” Ava said.
Evelyn was nodding. “It is.”
Wyatt glanced from one woman to the other, then said to his wife, “Dr. McPherson is just placating you right now, trying not to upset you, but the truth of the matter is that I'm your guardian, Ava.”
“What?” she asked, nearly choking.
He plowed stiff, agitated fingers through his hair. “After the suicide attempt, I had papers drawn. Don't you remember?”
Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she recalled a meeting with a judge, but she'd been out of it, hadn't really understood what was going on.
“Dr. McPherson stays, Ava,” Wyatt said with a renewed authority. “Unless you want to see yourself back at the hospital.”
Ava set the teacup down on a side table with shaking hands, then grabbed hold of his elbow and pulled him farther into the hallway so that their conversation wouldn't be overheard. Lowering her voice, she dropped his elbow and said, “You'd commit me?”
“Only as a last resort,” he assured her.
“You're threatening me?”
He bristled slightly, his lips flattening over his teeth. “God, Ava. I have to make certain you're safe! That part came with the territory when I said ‘I do.' ”
“Safe?” she repeated. “What are you talking about? I'm not going to hurt myself, if that's what you're afraid of.”
“Look, it would be for your own good.”
“You don't have to be my keeper, Wyatt. That wasn't part of the ‘territory.' ” She stared at him hard, tried to see what was behind his eyes. “One of the things I do remember is that you and I were on the verge of divorce just before I wound up at St. Brendan's.”
“You didn't just wind up there,” he reminded her. “It wasn't a choice. You were committed because you tried to kill yourself! Pills and a razor. Do you remember that?”
“No!”
“Then you're still sick, Ava. Very sick.” He touched her shoulder lightly, almost lovingly, but she knew it was all fake. An act.
“I'm never going back to the hospital.”
He didn't respond, just held her gaze with his own, that slightly superior, condescending stare she hadn't noticed before she'd married him. Though he didn't utter a word, she felt the
We'll just see about that
, hanging silently in the air between them, and a dread, as cold as the bottom of the bay, settled into her soul.
CHAPTER 25
A
va needed to get out. The bedroom walls were closing in on her and she couldn't stand being in Neptune's Gate a second longer.
In the bathroom, she found a rubber band and snapped her hair into a quick ponytail. Though she wasn't on house arrest, she felt a prisoner in the old walls of the home she'd loved so much of her life. Tonight, though, she needed a break. She caught a glimpse of her reflection, the circles under her eyes, the tension in the corners of her mouth, the pale color of her skin, and she cringed.
No more of this being a weakling!
No more being a victim!
No more being pushed around!
She changed into a pair of running pants and top that she'd worn years before, then found her waterproof Windbreaker, complete with reflective tape. She didn't have to worry about her husband giving her any grief about running in the dark, as Wyatt had already asked Ian to take him, along with Dr. McPherson, over to the mainland.
“You're going out?” Khloe asked as Ava, shrugging into her jacket, hurried down the stairs. “Now?”
“For a little while.”
“To Anchorville?” Concerned, Khloe glanced out the tall windows in the foyer to the darkness beyond.
“Just to Monroe.”
“It's raining,” Virginia said as she walked into the foyer, untying her apron.
“I won't drown.”
Virginia eyed her speculatively and Ava was reminded of how recently they had all thought she would die in the waters of the bay. “Look, I've gotta go.”
Before anyone else put up an argument, she grabbed a flashlight and a baseball cap, then headed out the door. Everyone thought she was crazy anyway, so let them shake their heads at her insanity for running in the rain and dark. She really didn't care.
She bounded down the steps and found the gravel path leading to the drive. From there, she started jogging, slowly at first, feeling the cold air against her face and realizing as the rain splattered against her fingers that she'd forgotten gloves. Too bad. She wasn't going to retrace her steps and explain herself all over again.
Down the hill to the main road she jogged, her running shoes slapping the wet asphalt, the beam of her flashlight bobbing ahead of her, her lungs feeling the bite of cold air.
And yet it felt good to run, to feel her calves and thighs, to breathe deeply of the salty air. The road followed the curve of the bay, running like a flat ribbon along the shoreline and into Monroe, where a sprinkling of streetlights gave off a watery blue illumination.
Slap, slap, slap!
She increased her pace slightly, her eyes trained on the weak beam of her flashlight, her legs stretching, her breathing regular. Cold rain ran down her neck, but she didn't care. The feeling of freedom, the exhilaration of actually doing something, was worth it.
So where was Noah?
She didn't believe he was dead. Wouldn't go there. But if not, then whoever had taken him hadn't done it for ransom. So, it had to be someone who wanted her son, and it was definitely someone who was either at the Christmas party as an invited guest, a member of the staff, or someone who had snuck into the house and avoided being seen by anyone.
Unless the kidnapper had an accomplice.
She'd thought of that before. And if there was an accomplice, then it came down to someone she knew or Wyatt knew. The names of the people who'd been at the house that night ran in circles through her brain: Jewel-Anne, Jacob, Trent and Ian, of course. Zinnia, Aunt Piper and Uncle Crispin, Wyatt, and every member of the staff, most of whom were still employed at Neptune's Gate. And then there were the others: Butch Johansen and several of Wyatt's clients and acquaintances. Tanya and Russell . . . Oh, God, there were too many to consider.
What about Evelyn McPherson? Had she been there? It would have been before she became your psychologist . . . even then, were she and Wyatt seeing each other?
No . . . Ava had met Evelyn McPherson at St. Brendan's where she'd been introduced as her therapist . . .
A distant memory sliced through her brain . . . something she'd forgotten. The room was crowded, people coming and going from the party, music playing, glasses clinking, laughter and conversation filling the air. She'd been hurrying down the stairs, her hand trailing along the banister where garlands had been strung, and as she passed by the highest branches of the Christmas tree, she saw a woman through French doors to the darkened den. The panes on the doors reflected the lights of the tree that dominated the foyer, and beyond the glass, a heavy-set woman she'd not met stood in profile. At first Ava had thought the woman was alone, maybe talking on her cell phone, but she'd been focused on something outside of Ava's field of vision. That woman, whose appearance had altered significantly since, must have been Evelyn McPherson.
Had Evelyn turned to glance up the stairs as Ava had hurried down? Or was she imagining it now? And why hadn't the doctor appeared on any of the lists that Ava had created since Noah's disappearance, or the people questioned by the police, or—The toe of her running shoe caught on the edge of a pothole and she was jerked out of her reverie.
She tripped, falling forward, dropping the flashlight as she broke her fall with her hands. Gravel and rough asphalt tore at her skin and ripped the knees of her running pants as she slid, then caught herself.
“Damn!”
She watched as her flashlight rolled down the rest of the hill, sending a wobbly, spinning beam shimmering against the wet pavement. Palms stinging, knees aching, Ava climbed to her feet and was thankful no one had seen her clumsy fall. Her back pained her a bit, but otherwise the bruises were mainly to her ego.
Wiping her skinned hands on her jacket, she looked around, half expecting Dern to appear. The last few times she'd nearly hurt herself, he'd come racing to the rescue, but the night remained quiet and dark, only the sound of the lapping tide heard over the rush of the rain.
“Stupid,” she muttered, then took off after the flashlight that had finally come to rest at the edge of a gutter, its lamp half submerged in a puddle.
Catching up to the damned thing, she picked it up and wiped it off on her jacket, then walked into the small town, past Frank's Food-O-Mart where two teenagers in stocking caps and heavy jackets were seated on the curb, under the overhang of the roof while smoking cigarettes and drinking Red Bull.
Down two blocks, she moved past the only inn in town and into Rose's, the small café that was luckily still open. Rosie, the owner, manager, and waitress, was behind the counter, swiping a rag over the old Formica counter.
“I'm closing in fifteen minutes,” she said, squinting a bit before recognizing Ava. With a toothy smile, she added, “Ms. Church! You know my hours are flexible. Come on in!” Rosie was never going to remember Ava's married name. Now she dropped her rag and grabbed a plastic menu. “Haven't seen you in a while.” A slight woman with a bit of a rounded back, Rosie was somewhere in her seventies and had owned the place for as long as Ava could remember. “Sit anywhere you want. The joint's not exactly jumpin'.”
She was right. The small restaurant was nearly empty. A huge man who looked as if he'd be a lot more comfortable in a tavern sat at the counter, his belly pressed against the top Rosie had so recently swabbed. Next to the guy, a kid of about ten was picking at the fries on his plate, the remains of a hamburger in evidence.
“How're ya doin'?” Rosie asked.
“Okay.”
“You sure?” She handed the menu to Ava.
“Yeah, I am. But don't ask my family. They all think I'm nuts.”
Rosie chuckled and coughed a little, a smoker's rattle that she ended by clearing her throat. “That's what families are for, don't ya know? To love each other to death, all the while ripping their hearts out. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Glass of wine. White. Chardonnay, I guess.” To hell with the ruse of taking her meds.
“Comin' right up. Hey, you want the last piece of pumpkin pie . . . huh? Better snap it up or old George there, he'll get it.” She hooked a thumb at the other customer.
Thinking about the possible caliber of the house wine, Ava said, “How about some cheese and crackers?”
“Only got saltines.”
“They'll do.”
Rosie was nodding. “They're for the chowder and oyster stew. Clyde made the stew this mornin'. But we're fresh out.”
Clyde was Rosie's husband. They'd been married, off and on, for forty-plus years and currently lived in the apartment over the café.
After a wineglass was deposited on the table, she murmured a quick thanks and took a sip, decided it was passable, and looked out the big plate-glass window as Rosie went back to the counter. From her corner booth, Ava gazed across the black water to the lights of Anchorville, thick strands of illumination around the shoreline that were spattered more sparingly up the hillside.
Of course, the distance across the water made it impossible to see anything in the town clearly, but she stared in the general direction of Cheryl's studio. Cheryl's worried image came to mind and the last words she'd uttered to Ava resonated through her brain.
“I think you should be careful. . . . 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
.
”
Cheryl had ended up dead. Murdered. Not the other way around. The danger, apparently, had been to Cheryl rather than to Ava. Odd. Ava frowned, thinking backward to their session. Why had Cheryl been so upset? Was it something Ava had said while she was under hypnosis?
Twisting the stem of her wineglass between her fingers, Ava watched the Chardonnay swirl in the goblet bowl. The motion of the clear liquid reminded her of water sloshing, and a lightning-quick memory burned through her brain.
The day Kelvin died came back to her once again, the painful events of that boat trip somehow tangling up in her head with Noah's disappearance. Sometimes she felt there had to be a connection between the two; her mind seemed to always try to link both tragic events. She'd never been able to discover what held them together, so she always came to the inevitable conclusion that the only thing tying the two events together was the emotional loss she'd suffered at losing both her brother and her son.
Back when Kelvin was alive, there were fewer people living at Neptune's Gate and the family had been estranged. Ava had already bought them out, and aside from Jewel-Anne, they had all left the island, most thinking “good riddance” to the rock in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which separated Vancouver Island in British Columbia from Washington State.
They'd only returned for her brother's funeral, and a few, including Ian, had offered to “help” and stay on.
“We're closing!” Rosie's shrill voice broke into Ava's thoughts, and she looked up quickly to see the glass door opening.
Austin Dern was pushing his way inside, and he didn't pay any attention to the owner's screeches.
“Did you hear me?” Rosie demanded, hands on her skinny hips.
“I'll just be a sec.” He walked to Ava's booth and slid across from her.
She said to Rosie, “It's okay. He's . . . a friend.”
“Humph!” she snorted, but didn't argue.
“Why am I not surprised that you're here?” she asked as he shed his jacket. “It seems any time I leave the house, you show up. Ready to rescue me.”
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, and she noticed that his lips, beneath his five-o'clock shadow, were blade thin. “Something tells me you don't need to be rescued.”
“You're right. Despite what my family seems to think.” She took a long gulp of wine, then said, “Buy you a drink?”
He glanced at the counter where Rosie was refilling napkin holders and sending him looks definitely meant to kill. “I get the feeling the bar's closed.”
“What's your deal, Dern? Why are you chasing after me?” She pointed at him. “And don't give me some garbage about how you just happened to see me leaving or anything like that. And I don't really believe in guardian angels, so that won't fly, either. Since I don't remember hiring you as my bodyguard, there must be some other reason you keep following me.”
Rosie chose that moment to sidle over with a small plate of sliced cheese and three small packs of saltines. “Anything for you?” she said halfheartedly. “Bein' as you're a friend of Ava's and all.”
“How about a beer?” When she lifted an eyebrow, he added, “Whatever you've got on tap.”
“That would be nothin',” she said, lips pursing a bit.
BOOK: You Don't Want To Know
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