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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: You Don't Want To Know
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“I think I'll make it. So . . . where was everyone this morning?”
Beneath the shoulders of her housedress, Virginia's shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly and the tins of canned fish suddenly threatened to topple.
“Hey, there!” Wyatt's voice rang through the outer hallway. Ava turned to find him striding toward her. The worry she'd seen etched across his face last night had evaporated, and he even managed a smile. “How're you feeling?”
She shrugged. “Not bad.”
“Good.” He hooked her elbow with a hand and admitted, “I was worried.”
“I'll be okay.”
One corner of his mouth twisted upward. “I'm counting on it.” But there were still doubts in his eyes, doubts he tried to hide. “So what do you say? Want to go into town?”
“With you?”
“Of course with me. Maybe get some lunch.”
“I thought you had to work.”
“I'm leaving later this afternoon, but I thought we could get off this island for a while, pick up some groceries or whatever, just hang out.”
“Just hang out,” she repeated.
“I know, I know.” He dropped her elbow and held up a hand as if in surrender. “We haven't done it in a long time, but I was thinking it might be time to, you know”—he lifted one shoulder and his smile stretched a bit—“reconnect.”
She glanced upward, toward the landing on the second floor, to make certain no one was listening. Lowering her voice, she said, “So why didn't you come to bed last night?”
“I was there.”
“No . . . Really? But . . .” She shook her head and stepped back from him, remembering their cold bed, how the pillow had shown no impression of his head, that the sheets and covers on his side had been neat and unmussed. He couldn't have been there. She would have known, would have felt him. “You weren't there.”
“I got up early.”
“Wyatt.” She lowered her voice further, trying to hang on to her patience. “What is this?”
“You tell me.”
“Why are you lying?”
“Good question,” he said, his smile fading. “Why would I?”
“You weren't there when I went to sleep or when I woke up.”
“That's not exactly news, Ava. Happens all the time . . .” Then he looked away from her and let out a long-suffering sigh. “I was there, Ava. Right next to you. For most of the night. I came in and you were asleep, so I didn't disturb you, and then later, when you were so restless, I got up and spent the rest of the night from about four a.m. on down here, in the den.” He hooked a finger toward the room on the far side of the staircase, the place he'd claimed when they'd moved in years before and the room to which he'd often retreated, closing the French doors and drawing the curtains whenever he was working from home, which over the past two years had happened less and less.
“Your side of the bed hadn't been slept in,” she insisted.
“Much,” he corrected, holding up one finger as his face flushed a bit. “It hadn't been slept in
much
.” Scowling, he said, “Okay, forget about coming into town with me. Maybe it's not such a good idea. I guess we both need our space.” Shooting her a final look somewhere between disappointment and anger, he walked back the way he'd come, his footsteps ringing hollowly on the marble floor of the foyer.
She ground her teeth together.
It's your fault, Ava. He was offering an olive branch and you snapped it in half.
“Uh-oh.” Ian's voice whispered through the foyer, and she turned to find him leaning on the wall near the elevator. “Trouble in paradise?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“Touchy, aren't we today, cuz? What's wrong? Off your meds?”
What was this all about? She thought of the pills she'd flushed down the toilet and refused to feel guilty about it. No way, no how.
“You know, it's really not smart to piss Wyatt off,” he said idly.
“I don't mean to.”
“Sure you do.”
Ian was staring at her, and she said, “Don't you have a job or something?”
“Not much of one now. Not since your hubby decided to hire that ex-marine or Navy Seal or whatever he is.”
“Dern? I thought he was a rancher.”
“That too.”
“What do you know about him?”
“That he's trouble. I don't get it. Why Wyatt has to have his spies around . . .” Ian made a face.
Ava felt her paranoia ratchet up a notch. “Why do you think he's a spy?”
“Isn't everyone? Isn't that what
you
think? You're not the only one who can play the paranoid card, Ava.”
She glared at him.
“I don't know a whole lot, okay. Only what I found out on the Internet. Dern's had a couple of scrapes with the law. Arrested twice, never even arraigned or convicted.”
“Arrested for what?”
“The Internet only gave up so much info, but you might want to ask him.”
“Wyatt would never hire anyone with a record.”
Ian gave her a look. “I said he was never charged. That doesn't mean he's lily-white, though, does it?” A grin stretched over his teeth. “Then again, who is?” His cell phone jangled and he punched the
CONNECT
button and strolled away.
As he spoke in hushed tones, Ava hurried up the stairs and walked to her room, but Graciela was already inside, the bed made, the room freshened. “Good morning,” she said as she tweaked the recently plumped pillows, then ran a hand over the coverlet, smoothing it.
“Morning . . . but . . . you know you don't have to make my bed.” Ava had always taken care of straightening up her own room all of her life and preferred it that way.
“Oh, I know.” Graciela nodded as she swung into the adjoining bath. “But since your . . . um . . . your accident last night, I thought I would help out.”
Ava walked to the doorway and caught the maid yanking down her towel from a hook near the shower. “I can take care of it myself.”
“I know.” Graciela's smile was pinned neatly on her pretty face as she gathered a wet washcloth from the counter near the sink, then bent down and snagged a bath mat from the floor. “But Mr. Wyatt, he asked me to.” She started to straighten, glanced into the toilet bowl, and stopped.
“Why?”
The girl lifted a shoulder, then flushed the toilet, and Ava realized at least part of the pills she'd tried to flush away had lingered.
Graciela knows you're dumping your meds. . . .
“I didn't ask,” Graciela said, and for a second Ava was lost, then realized the maid was answering her question about Wyatt's request.
“When?” she managed as if nothing were wrong. “When did he ask you?”
“Last night.” Her dark eyebrows nearly collided, and her smile fell from her lips. “Is there a problem? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no,” Ava was quick to assure her. “It's just that from now on, I'd like to do it myself.”
Graciela blinked, appearing a little crestfallen, and Ava felt like a heel.
“I'm sorry,” the maid said softly.
“Don't be. It's all right. The room . . . looks great.” Ava backed into her bedroom, allowing Graciela to pass. “It's fine. Just . . . in the future, check with me, okay?”
“Whatever you want, Miss Ava.” Graciela, towels bunched under her arm, swept past.
“It's just Ava,” she reminded her, but Graciela, her back stiff, was already walking out of the room.
“Yes, Miss—” Graciela said, then snapped her mouth shut and made her way quickly to the elevator.
For the love of God, Ava, don't pick fights. Don't make mountains out of molehills!
But she returned to the bathroom and peeked into the toilet. If there had been any trace of her medication disintegrating against the porcelain, it had been washed away in Graciela's final flush.
“Not a big deal,” she said aloud, as if the maid being onto her wasn't worth the time of thinking about it.
But deep down, Ava knew she was lying to herself.
Again.
CHAPTER 5
A
va was hurrying down the main stairs of the house when the phone started ringing. One ring. Two. She was almost in the front hallway when she heard Virginia's voice as she answered. “Hello . . . oh, yes . . . hello, Mrs. Church . . .
Mrs.
Church? Uh-oh. Ava cringed inside as she ran through the possibilities of who the caller might be: her uncle Crispin's wife, Piper, mother of Jewel-Anne and Jacob? It certainly wasn't Crispin's
first
wife, Regina, the bitter woman who had borne him his first three children: Ian, Trent, and Zinnia. Regina was long dead, the result of an automobile accident in which Uncle Crispin had been at the wheel. He'd survived and shortly thereafter had taken up with Piper. Ava wanted no part of the conversation with Piper.
“. . . of course,” Virginia was saying, and glanced down the hallway where she spied Ava gathering her purse. Shaking her head and waving her off, Ava hoped that the cook would get the message. Of course she didn't. “She's right here,” Virginia said brightly. “Just a second.”
With a smile as warm as the frosts of winter, Virginia headed her way. Ava steeled herself.
Thrusting the phone into her hand, the cook announced, “It's your aunt.”
Perfect.
Shooting Virginia a don't-ever-do-this-to-me-again glare, she yanked the phone to her ear and said, “Hello?”
“Oh, thank God you're all right! I was so worried after Jewel-Anne called last night.” Piper. In her mind's eye, Ava conjured her impossibly thin aunt whose flaming red hair shot out of her head like lit firecrackers gone wild, all curly streams that she couldn't tame without massive amounts of hair straightener. Piper's fingers would be splayed theatrically over her more-than-ample chest, her breasts out of proportion to the rest of her tiny body.
“I'm fine,” Ava assured her, and sent Virginia's broad backside a withering look as the cook lumbered toward the kitchen.
“Are you? I can't tell you how upset I've been. Ever since Jewel-Anne called me last night, I've been beside myself. I couldn't decide whether to make this phone call or not; then I said to myself, ‘Ava is your niece, damn it, Piper. You need to call and see how the poor girl is doing.' ”
“I'm good,” Ava said dryly.
“Oh, how can you be?” Piper asked on a sigh. “After all you've been through? I know it's none of my business, but if I were you, I'd sell that drafty old house, move off that sorry rock, and start over. Most of Wyatt's business is in Seattle anyway, so why stay on the island and relive that horrible night over and over again? I'm telling you, Ava, you need to do this for your sanity. As long as you stay there, you'll be forever haunted, and that's just not healthy, don't you know? You and Wyatt, you need to have another baby and—Oh my, listen to me ramble. More advice than you ever wanted to hear.”
Amen,
Ava thought as her aunt tittered.
“Anyway, I just wanted to hear your voice, find out how you were doing, and I'll pass it along to your uncle, too. He's been worried sick!”
Crispin, the brother Ava's father had swindled out of his share of the Church fortune? Ava didn't believe for a second that he cared one iota what happened to her, the last of his brother's progeny.
“Oh, dear, I've got another call. We'll talk later,” Piper said, and clicked off.
Ava hung up with relief and then hurried through the kitchen and out the back door before some other relative decided to pick up the phone. Who knew who Jewel-Anne had called or texted or e-mailed or Facebooked or whatever? Ava didn't want to hang around and find out. Besides, she really needed to straighten things out with Wyatt. She'd been short with him. Actually, she'd been a full-blown bitch the last couple of days, always suspicious as hell, always second-guessing his motives. And he, too, was tense. Well, who could blame him? Their fight today was indicative of the state of their marriage. Maybe she should try to start over . . . if it wasn't too late.
Casting a glance at the stable again, she thought about the new man Wyatt hired and told herself to trust that her husband had picked the right man for the job.
She walked swiftly down the back steps to the curving drive and through the massive open gates to the road leading into town. Monroe was less than half a mile down the hill, built upon the shore where the bay fingered a little inland, and Ava figured the walk would help clear her head and keep her focused.
Without meds.
Hopefully the fresh air and exercise, not to mention getting out of that prison of a house, would help dispel the headache that seemed to be constantly lurking inside her brain, ready to rage at any moment.
She slid a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose and kept to the side of the road where the gravel-covered sparse moss and weeds hadn't quite died with the coming of winter. The air was brisk, the scent of the sea strong as the sun peeked from behind thick, billowing clouds. Farther west, out to sea, a fog bank seemed to hover, as if waiting for a starting bell or some other indication to roll inland. For now, though, the day was clear, the sunlight warm against her skin despite the breath of autumn.
Once in the tiny burg of Monroe, she found her way to the marina and passed boats where fishermen were sorting their catches or cleaning their hulls or fiddling with the engines of their moored crafts.
Moored near the end of one pier was the
Holy Terror
, a walkaround-type fishing boat. Butch Johansen was seated at the helm of his small craft, perusing a newspaper. A ratty baseball cap hid the fact that he was prematurely bald, and a cigarette dangled from his lips. He wore a down vest over a sweatshirt, jeans that had seen better days, and half a week's growth of dark beard.
He glanced up as Ava's shadow fell across him.
Squinting against the sun and smoke from his slowly burning filter tip, he said, “Hey, little sister!” a name he'd tagged her with years ago when she had followed her brother and his best friend along the sheep and deer trails of the island. Most of the time they'd tried to ditch her; most of the time they'd failed. “What the hell are you doin'? I heard you half drowned last night after you went in for a quick little midnight dip.”
“Is that what you heard?” She would have bristled, but this was Butch, Kelvin's best friend, someone she'd known for as long as she could remember. He was forever teasing her, and he found the fact that so many people she knew thought she was crazy somewhat amusing.
“Close enough.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“In a town this size,
any
news travels at the speed of light.”
“Speaking of which, think you could streak me across the bay?”
“Hot date?”
“I'm a married woman, remember.”
Butch tossed his cigarette into the water. “If that's what you call it.” When she was about to protest, he lifted a hand to stop her, then added, “Okay, okay, I was outta line. It's just that Wyatt and I don't exactly see eye-to-eye.”
“Is there anyone you do? See eye-to-eye with, that is?”
His thick eyebrows converged beneath the frayed edges of his baseball cap. “Guess not. At least not since Kelvin.” Untying the lines holding the
Holy Terror
against the dock, he added, “Your brother was one of a kind.”
She felt a pang of regret. “Yeah, I know.” Kelvin's death was difficult to think about, a painful wound that had never quite healed. Though it had been over four years since that horrid night, it was with them all constantly. Climbing aboard, she watched as Butch twisted his cap so that the bill pointed down his back, slid a pair of sunglasses over his nose, then started the engine. “You still miss him.”
“Just every damned day. That's all.”
She sat on one of the plastic seats as he maneuvered the boat away from the other crafts nestled in this little marina. She missed her brother, too. Soul deep sometimes, though the night he died was partially lost in her mind, her brain not accepting the horror of it all, though she'd been with him . . .
The mouth of the bay was tricky to navigate, as it was guarded by seven black rocks visible only in low tide but lurking under the surface when the tide was in. Treacherous and sharp, they'd been named the Hydra by her great-great-grandfather, and she always shuddered as they passed, for upon those hidden rocks, her brother had died.
Refusing to stare into the gray depths of the sea, she wrapped her arms around her torso. For his part, Butch didn't so much as glance in her direction as they passed the only dark tip currently visible, a stony protrusion thick with barnacles and starfish.
Once in the open water, Butch let the engine out. Churning a heavy wake, the little boat cut through the dark waters where a stiff, salty breeze was whipping up whitecaps, and seagulls soared in the clear blue skies.
Her spirits lifted as soon as she stepped ashore on the dock in Anchorville. It was afternoon now, the sun sinking lower in the western sky, but she spied the boat Wyatt had used earlier tied to its mooring. A sleek inboard cruiser, it boasted a galley and sleeping quarters, though it was rarely used for anything but transport to and from the island.
“You want me to wait?” Butch asked after she handed him a twenty-dollar bill, which he made a big show of not wanting but pocketed anyway.
“No. I'll ride with Wyatt.”
“Sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Butch cocked a bushy, doubting eyebrow but nodded. At the top of the graying steps leading into the town, she paused and looked out to sea. Spying the
Holy Terror
streaking away from the mainland, she held up a hand and waved, then let it fall. Butch didn't so much as cast a glance over his shoulder.
She checked her watch and saw that it was two-fifteen. The ferry to the island returned at four, so she'd have to be quick if she wanted to finish everything on her agenda.
First stop was to try and catch up with Tanya, a high school friend who had dated Ava's cousin Trent—who just happened to be Ian's twin—for a few years. The relationship had fizzled when she'd met and quickly eloped with Russell Denton, a bad-ass cowboy type who couldn't stay faithful, sober, or away from poker tables.
That marriage had crumbled fairly quickly but not before she'd gotten pregnant. . . twice. Tanya and Russ had been involved in one of those mercurial and toxic relationships that they could never quite end. Eventually, less than a year ago, the divorce papers had been inked. Now a single mother of seven-year-old Brent and his older sister, Bella, Tanya was the owner of Shear Madness, one of the two beauty shops in Anchorville. With her nose for business and ear for town gossip, Tanya was doing all right, or so she'd told Ava. Tanya had left the marriage in possession of the house, an older bungalow built on one of the town's steep side streets, and this little shop. She was one of the few people Ava felt she could trust entirely.
As clouds gathered overhead, Ava hurried to the beauty shop, some five blocks from the docks and wedged between a deli and the best bakery in the county. Her stomach growled as she passed the bakery's open door where she caught a whiff of freshly brewed coffee laced with the scent of warm bread and cinnamon.
The door to Tanya's salon was closed, the lights dimmed, and a sign in the window had been posted with a quickly written note saying that the shop would reopen in the morning.
“Great,” Ava muttered, disappointed. Then again, what had she expected? It wasn't as if she'd made an appointment. She glanced into the darkened interior where the walls were painted a soft pink and the decor was an homage to the sixties, with framed black-and-white pictures of women icons of the decade. Everyone from Marilyn Monroe, Jackie Kennedy, and Brigitte Bardot to Twiggy and Audrey Hepburn stared down at the four stations, now empty, their black faux-leather chairs unoccupied.
She grabbed a coffee to go at the bakery, resisted the urge to buy the last cinnamon roll in the display case, then tried calling Tanya only to get voice mail, where a lifeless computer's voice instructed her to leave a message.
She didn't.
Instead, she sipped her coffee and walked to the corner where she caught a glimpse of the bay and Church Island, still visible despite the fog bank slowly rolling in from the sea. She even made out Neptune's Gate on one end and, just visible on the southern tip of the island, the dark roof of Sea Cliff. The institution had been closed for six years now, forced to shut its doors permanently when the last of its criminally insane inmates, Lester Reece, had escaped. Reece had been a suspect in several local homicides and had been convicted of murdering his wife and her best friend in one of his many fits of rage. His defense team had insisted that he'd been suffering from paranoid schizophrenia, and in the end, Reece had been sentenced to live out his days at Sea Cliff.
Then he'd somehow duped the guards, slipped through the iron gates, and disappeared into the night.

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