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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: You Don't Want To Know
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Ava felt a chill when she thought of Reece and his heinous acts. It seemed impossible now to think of him, and the others who had been equally dangerous, living so close to Neptune's Gate. Of course, as a child, she'd accepted it as just a part of Church Island's lore.
“So, who sprung you?” A male voice cut into her reverie, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Looking over her shoulder, she caught sight of Austin Dern heading her way. A beat-up backpack was slung over his shoulder, and the shadow of his beard had darkened overnight.
“I'm not locked up.”
Yet, hadn't she thought of the house as a prison just an hour earlier?
“If you say so.” Not bothering to mask his skepticism, he shifted the backpack higher onto his shoulder. “You coming or going?”
“Coming. Just got here . . . I have a few errands to run and I thought maybe I'd look up an old friend.”
“Good idea.”
“And you?”
“Needed a few things,” he said easily. “I checked in Monroe, but you can't get much more than stale pretzels and pepperoni that's months past its pull date at Frank's Food-O-Mart. The name's kind of a lie, y'know. Not much would pass as food in there.”
She felt a smile threaten the corner of her lips. God, when was the last time that she'd grinned or been even slightly amused?
“Frank's, that's the name, right?” he asked, squinting.
“Monroe's answer to 7-Eleven. And you can get corn nuts there,” she said, nodding. “If you're desperate. I don't think they have pull dates.”
His gaze sharpened on her face as if he'd just discovered something unexpected. “You could be right.” He hitched his chin toward the marina, where there were several boats that were used as private taxis to and from the island. “Depending on how long you'll be, we could share a ride.”
Shaking her head, she demurred, “Don't wait. I'll probably catch the ferry.”
“I don't mind.”
He didn't budge, and she wondered what he really thought of her after dragging her kicking and screaming out of the bay the night before. “You sure?”
“Yeah, really. Despite what you might think or may have heard, I don't need a keeper.”
“I didn't say—”
“I know.” She held up a hand to ward off any further arguments. “Thanks.”
He nodded, then started toward the waterfront. “Your loss.”
“If you say so,” she said, throwing his words back at him, and the sound of his laughter tumbled back at her. Watching him walk down the hill toward the marina, she noted the breadth of his shoulders pulling at the seams of his jacket and the way the faded denim of his jeans fell over buttocks that moved easily.
Heat climbed up the back of her neck, and though she told herself it didn't hurt anyone to “check out” another man, her gaze slid to the slip where Wyatt had docked the family cabin cruiser.
“Get over yourself,” she whispered under her breath, then waited, sipping her cooling coffee until she saw Dern climb into a boat and negotiate a ride. As he settled into a seat, he glanced over his shoulder and up the hill, his eyes finding her before the captain started the taxi's engine and maneuvered his boat out of the marina.
She wondered about him. How he'd found the job on the island.
Nothing sinister in looking for a job.
So why did she feel she'd met him before? That Austin Dern had his own set of secrets? That he wasn't who he said he was?
Because you're a suspicious bitch.
She smiled a little, then as the first raindrops fell, turned up the hood of her jacket and hurried along the side streets. Head bent against the wind, she decided to cut through the park where an elderly woman was herding two dogs on separate leashes. Half-grown whippets were pulling this way and that, nosing the wet grass and charging after a gray squirrel that had the nerve to scamper from one oak tree to the next.
“Harold! Maude! Come along!” the woman said, pulling hard on the leashes, while the thin dogs strained to give chase. They lunged and stood on their back legs as the woman tried in vain to haul them toward a little blue Subaru parked near the curb. “It's raining!” she reminded her pups, though neither Harold nor Maude seemed to notice. “Oh, for goodness' sake. How about a treat? Come
on
now!”
Her dogs didn't so much as flick an ear in her direction. Ava skirted the woman's unruly charges and wound up at the far edge of the park, where a wrought-iron gate was open to the street. She was about to jaywalk when she stopped dead in her tracks.
Her husband was holding open the door to a coffee shop and looking toward the interior. A second later, Dr. McPherson emerged. Wearing boots, a slim skirt, and sleek leather jacket, the psychologist opened an umbrella against the rain, then turned and with Wyatt's hand on her elbow, walked away from the park, heading toward the bay.
Ava stood frozen to the spot.
Her heart drummed in her chest as she watched the couple leave. Wyatt's head bent low under the umbrella, and his fingers never left the crook of Evelyn McPherson's elbow. It was almost as if he were shepherding her along the wet sidewalk, as if he had some proprietary claim to his wife's doctor.
What did that mean? She barely noticed the steady drip of the rain or a teenager who whipped by her, sending up spray from a puddle.
It's nothing,
she told herself.
Nothing.
Yet she was left with the same cold feeling of suspicion that had been with her since leaving the hospital, that everyone she knew wasn't as he or she pretended to be. Not even her own husband.
Fortunately, Wyatt had been so wrapped up in Dr. McPherson that he hadn't noticed his bedraggled wife standing in the rain. Which was just as well. It was far better if no one had any idea about what she was doing on the mainland.
They already thought she was nuts as it was.
If anyone on the island realized she had started seeing a hypnotist, there would be no end to the questions and raised eyebrows.
Trouble was, she didn't really blame them.
Even to her own troubled mind, it sounded lame.
CHAPTER 6
O
nce she was satisfied that Wyatt and the good doctor were out of sight, Ava tossed her coffee cup and its cold remains into a nearby trash can, then hiked the remaining three blocks to her hypnotist's studio.
Telling herself it meant nothing that Wyatt was meeting with her doctor, that she had to have a little faith, she hurried down the curved steps to the basement level, then paused at the door of the rambling Victorian home. Once owned by a timber baron, it had been cut into several apartments and was now owned by Cheryl Reynolds, a fiftyish woman who claimed to have a “gift” to not only be able to hypnotize her clients, but also, for a few extra dollars, predict their future.
You've never been one to believe in hocus-pocus or parlor games or hypnosis, have you? Remember going to the state fair and seeing a hypnotist with volunteers from the audience, how they all appeared to sleep, then got up and stomped around, then flapped their arms as if they were chickens? Is that what you want? The first time, this didn't work, right? But still you're back here, hoping for what? Answers about your son? Repressed memories brought to the surface?
Ava's shoulders tightened. She felt a cool breath of wind tugging on her hair and remembered the dream, how real it had been, then yesterday seeing Noah on the dock.
She pressed the buzzer.
Two of Cheryl's stray cats watched from their perches in the retaining wall as Ava waited, second-guessing herself.
Half a minute later, the door opened.
“Ava, so good to see you,” Cheryl said as she motioned Ava inside.
Barely five feet, Cheryl hid her curves with a tie-dyed caftan, and her blond curls were banded away from her round face, which was creased with worry. No doubt the story of Ava's latest crazy dive into the bay had reached her ears, too, through the coffee shops and tearooms of the town. “So, tell me,” she insisted as soft music whispered through the hallways and the scent of incense couldn't quite mask the thin, sharp odors of mildew and cat urine. “How are you?”
“I keep saying I'm fine, but of course . . .”
“You're not.”
“It's the dreams again. I know it sounds crazy, impossible, but I see him. I see my baby.” She fought to keep her voice from cracking when she thought of Noah.
Cheryl patted her arm. “Come on in. Let's see what we can do.” Waving for Ava to follow, Cheryl led her through a series of connecting rooms to her studio, a converted bedroom painted an icy gray that reminded Ava of the sea in winter. “You can have a seat in the recliner, or if you prefer, the couch.” She paused to light a candle.
This was Ava's second visit. The first stab at hypnosis hadn't been all that effective; at least there had been no major breakthroughs, no startling revelations that had helped Ava understand her own troubled mind.
Yet, she was back.
Still restless. Still searching.
She forced herself to settle into the oversized La-Z-Boy and raised the footrest. As she closed her eyes, she felt the warmth of a cozy blanket as Cheryl draped a quilt over her legs. Dear God, she was tired, and here she felt safe. At peace. A relief that was never present at the island.
“So I want you to go deep today,” Cheryl said softly as she settled into a nearby chair. “Just relax and go deeper . . .”
Ava was barely aware of the sound of her voice or the relaxing music as she slid beneath the veil. It was a weird sensation, as she wasn't truly asleep, though she wasn't sharply awake either, but hovering between the two states. Dreamlike . . .
“Breathe deeply . . .” Cheryl's voice was gentle, yet firm.
Ava drew in a long breath and the tension seemed to drain from her muscles.
“Now go deeper . . . to your private place . . .”
The place of calm. That's how she thought of it. In her mind's eye, she saw herself in that sunny cove near the waterfall. She was wearing a yellow sundress, her hair pulled away from her face by a simple rubber band. White sand shimmered in the sunlight filtering through the trees and a gentle spray touched her cheeks. The water was clear and cool and . . .
Noah was there, too, she realized. Playing in the sand, his chubby fingers digging through grains that glinted in the sun's warm rays, he was only a few feet from her.
“Baby,” she said aloud, and he grinned, showing off his tiny teeth.
“Mommy! See what I find!” He held up a clam shell, golden and glistening, beautiful in its complexity but broken and chipped.
“Careful, honey, that's sharp.”
She walked toward him, her shadow falling across his upturned face, and she saw a bit of challenge in his eyes. “That's why it's called a razor clam . . .”
“It's mine!”
“I know, but let Mama see it. Just to make sure it's okay.”
“No! Mine!” he repeated, his little chin jutted defiantly, the shell clenched in his fist.
“Of course it is.” She knelt beside him, her arm outstretched. “I just want to make sure it won't hurt you.”
But he wasn't listening. Instead he was backing up, away from her, holding tight to the shell, blood beginning to show between his chubby fingers.
“Noah, please—”
“No!”
More blood.
She lunged for him, but on short little legs, he turned and sped off toward the water.
“Noah!” she screamed, frantic. “Stop!”
In that mind-numbing instant, she saw her mistake. She took off after him at a dead run, her bare feet pounding the sand.
“Noah!” Her voice caught in the wind as the ocean darkened from aquamarine to slate gray, shifted from a tranquil lagoon to the dark and roiling sea. “Stop! Oh, please! Baby!” Horrified, she watched him step into the water, the waves lapping, foam crashing around him.
She was breathing hard, chasing him, but just as she lunged forward, grasping at him, he turned, eyes round with fear; then his little feet slid off an underwater shelf and he disappeared into the deep water. “Noah!” she cried, desperately. “Baby—”
“And you're waking up,” a voice said from a distance.
Sobs erupted from her throat.
“Breathe deeply. And you're opening your eyes—”
Ava's eyes flew open and she found herself half lying in the recliner in Cheryl's studio. Her heart was pounding frantically, her fingers clenched into the chair's leather arms, her mind filled with dark images that brought a soft cry from her lips.
“And you're calm now . . .” Cheryl sounded certain.
Ava slowly let out her breath, the tension draining from her body again as she felt the relief that her horrid dream was passing. She unclenched her fingers, let her shoulders slump. “Oh, God,” she whispered, glancing up at Cheryl and feeling tears fill her eyes. Damn she didn't want to cry.
“You relived it.”
“No.” Shaking her head, she sniffed and slapped her tears away. “That's just it; I don't think I ever lived it the first time. There's no
re
living it.”
“That you're aware of.”
“Damn it all.”
“You okay?”
“Do I look okay?” she asked, then nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all.
Cheryl leaned closer as the candle burned. “It's your fears coming to the surface,” Cheryl said, “but what concerns me is that they permeate your quiet place. Before you can completely relax, before we can go deeper, the visions return.”
“I know.” This was only her second session, and in the first, she'd had a similar experience, yet Ava was convinced that if she could ever get past the mental barrier she'd created for herself, she would remember so much more, find the truth.
“Here.” Cheryl offered her a cup of steaming herbal tea that smelled like ginger. “Want to try again?”
Sipping the tea, she shook her head. “Another time.” Another swallow. “You have any other clients who have this same problem?”
Cheryl smiled as the door to her room slid open and a skinny tortoiseshell cat slithered inside. “There was a guy a few years ago who had a major mental block, but we got through it. I think we can with you, too . . . You get right to the edge and pull back.”
“How is that possible? I thought with hypnosis”—she shivered inside—“that, you know, you could delve past everything.”
“Everyone's different, Ava. Even the most willing participants sometimes are difficult to reach. We'll try again, if that's what you want.”
“Okay.” She sipped her tea, then, pulling herself together, paid Cheryl and made an appointment for the next week.
Even though she half suspected the whole hypnosis thing wasn't working, she couldn't give up. At least not yet. As she made her way back to the dock, she wondered if anything could help or if she would forever be trapped in this state of unknowing, a hellish purgatory that had no end.
Her recent hospital stay hadn't done more than calm her, and her regular therapy sessions with Dr. McPherson hadn't provided any major breakthroughs. Hypnosis had been a last grasp on her part, a desperate measure, and it, too, hadn't succeeded in opening repressed memories or shrouded truths.
Maybe there are none. Maybe the answers you're searching for will never be found.
That thought was chilling, and it chased her through the narrow streets and down the barnacled steps to the dock where she found Butch, seated at the helm of the
Holy Terror
as he flipped through the pages of a worn paperback and smoked a cigarette.
“I thought I told you I'd catch a ride with Wyatt,” she said as he glanced up to peer at her over the tops of his sunglasses.
“You did.” He set the book down and started the engine.
“So?”
“You're a liar, Ava. We both know it.” He flashed her a smile that made him look ten years younger, then waved her into the boat. “Climb aboard.”
“You didn't have to come back for me.”
“I didn't.”
“Now who's the liar?”
He snorted, adjusting the brim of his hat. “Wasn't doin' anything anyway. Fishin's lousy.”
“So bad that you had to hang around here and wait for me.”
“Nothin' better goin' on.”
She didn't believe him for a second, but she took the ride.
As she settled into her seat, Butch tossed the ropes holding the boat to its mooring inside the hull, then stood behind the helm. Threading the
Holy Terror
through the other docked fishing and pleasure vessels, he didn't notice as she sank deeper into the plastic cushions and told herself the vision she'd had during hypnosis was nothing, just her active imagination. Again.
She heard the engine begin to race as Butch let out the throttle, and when she opened her eyes again, the marina and Anchorville were behind them and the gray expanse of water between the island and mainland was narrowing.
She told herself she wasn't going back to prison, that she was a free woman, but as the
Holy Terror
bucked a little as the prow hit the wake of a speed boat cruising the opposite direction, she knew she was lying to herself.
Ava wrapped her arms around her middle and felt a cold spreading through her body as Neptune's Gate came clearly into view. It had once been the one place in the world she'd felt safe and secure. She'd worked hard to own all of it . . . well,
almost
all of it. There still was Jewel-Anne's portion. Jewel-Anne was the only holdout, the one cousin who hadn't been swayed by money.
“Why would I sell it? I
love
it here, Ava,” she'd said, looking up at her with her pretty, little girl face and seemingly innocent eyes. They'd been in the back hallway, near the elevator shaft, Jewel, for once, without one of her dolls. “It's more important than any amount of money.”
“You could live with friends, be in the city—Seattle or San Francisco, even L.A.—instead of being cooped up here on the island.” Ava had already offered her cousin nearly twice what Jewel's share of the estate was worth.
Jewel's perfect little mouth had twisted into a wry smile and her eyes had seemed to shine with superiority. “I said I love it here.” She'd flipped her hair over her shoulder, turned her wheelchair around, and waited for the descending elevator car. As it clunked to a stop and the doors whispered open, she'd cast one last glance at Ava and vowed, “I'll never leave. This is my home.”
Home
, Ava thought sourly now as she focused on Jewel-Anne's corner room, the one tucked inside the middle floor of the windowed turret. From inside, one could view the gardens, bay, mainland, and open sea, and it was Jewel-Anne's favorite spot, one where she'd said often enough, “I can see where it happened, you know . . . the place where Kelvin drowned. . . .” Her smile would always turn wistful, then sad, and there was always an unspoken accusation in her eyes.

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