You Don't Want To Know

Chapter 37


Dern was a distraction.

One Ava didn’t need, but there it was. She’d avoided him in the two days since confronting him in the stable, but she hadn’t forgotten the man, his betrayal or that damned kiss. It had seemed to linger on her lips for hours, and ever since then, when she should have been thinking about everything but Austin Dern, he was always on her mind, maybe not front and center, but certainly on the sidelines, his image ready to play havoc with what she wanted to do at the slightest opportunity.

So far, she hadn’t heard from Abe Crenshaw, and for the first two nights, her camera caught nothing, nor, thankfully, did she awaken to Noah’s cries. Wyatt had come and gone several times, and the air between them had been strained, like the calm before a storm, the electric feel of oncoming doom rolling in off the sea. They didn’t discuss the adoption further. Ava didn’t want to, and Wyatt obviously didn’t, either.

Then on the third night, lightning struck.

Wyatt and she, barely civil, had eaten dinner together in the dining room and though Virginia’s chicken and rice casserole was delicious, one of her favorites, the bites had stuck in her throat. Across from her, Wyatt had barely met her eyes and the conversation that had bounced around them covered everything from Trent planning to leave on Saturday to Jacob being “pissed as hell” at one of his professors, and Ian saying he might just take off for a few days to go with his brother back to the mainland. Everyone seemed restless, except for Jewel-Anne, who picked at her food and complained of a stomachache.

After the meal, Jewel-Anne had Demetria whisk her up to her room while the twins talked about going into Anchorville to one of the bars. Jacob seemed torn, almost going with his half siblings, but then, after he received a text message, he mumbled something about having to get to the mainland to help a friend with a failing wireless system.

After they all dispersed to separate areas of the house, Ava was alone with Wyatt. She braced herself when he pushed his plate aside, but all he said was, “I talked with Dr. McPherson today.”

“Okay,” she said cautiously.

“I reinstated her as your doctor. It took some doing, but I convinced her she was the best choice.”

“She and I agreed—”

“I don’t care what you agreed,” he cut her off coldly. “For the love of God, Ava, I’m trying to help you.”

“We already had this argument!”

“And you said you didn’t want to go back to the hospital. This is the alternative.”

“I don’t need to go to a hospital. I’ve said that before, too. And I’m not dealing with Dr. McPherson again, Wyatt.”

“I thought you might say that, so I called St. Brendan’s. It turns out they have a room with a view of the—”

“Pay attention to what I’m saying! I’m not going back there. Ever!”

“That’s why I hired Evelyn,” he said with maddening circular logic.

“I don’t know why you think you have to control me, but it’s over. I already called an attorney—and not one in your firm—to start proceedings to remove you as my guardian. So it’s over.” She strode out of the room and felt the anger radiating off of her in waves. It was impossible to hold on to her patience when he was forever trying to control her. Though she’d told him a lie—she hadn’t actually talked to an attorney yet—she did have a list of names, and as soon as she found out who was gaslighting her, she planned to take all of her evidence to the most prestigious lawyer in the state and regain control of her life.

And she was going to divorce Wyatt, the son of a bitch. It was as simple as that. She’d married for life and had meant every word of the “for better or worse” part of the vows, but she was pretty sure the worse part didn’t include adultery and God only knew what else.

As she climbed the stairs, she heard his phone ring, then a short one-sided conversation. A few minutes later, she watched him leave. Head bent against the storm that was coming in off the ocean, he headed to the boathouse. Ian, Trent, and Jacob left in his wake.

As the first drops of rain drizzled down the bedroom panes, she saw the boathouse lights go on, heard the rev of the boat’s engine, and saw them all leave. Her husband was heading to the mainland without a word to her, and all she could feel was relief. “Good riddance,” she said. Turning, she spied her medication all laid out for her, little pills next to a cup of water. She was about to throw them down the toilet when she realized that, for all she knew, her room could be surveilled, tiny hidden cameras mounted in hidden corners.

What makes you think that you’re the only one with a camera? Just because you didn’t find any evidence of this bedroom being bugged while you were in the attic, how do you know?

She snapped on the television in her room, but found that she had trouble maintaining interest, even when the “breaking story” was that another person had reported a Lester Reece sighting. The screen filled with the last known picture of Reece while, off camera, a reporter reminded the viewers of his crimes and how he’d escaped from Sea Cliff. Reece was a handsome enough man, kind of rugged and athletic-looking, with thick dark hair and intelligence lurking beneath his eyes. “Charming” some of his neighbors had called him. “Quiet. Kept to himself.” And now, Anchorville’s most famous criminal.

The legend of Lester Reece wouldn’t die, Ava decided, and was about to turn off the television when a slim African American woman in her early forties appeared on the screen. She was identified by a reporter as the public information officer for the sheriff’s department. The reporter then proceeded to ask the woman about the Cheryl Reynolds homicide.

Ava sat on the edge of her bed and watched as the policewoman basically dodged questions. No, there were no new leads, but the police were doing everything in their power to bring the person responsible for the crime to justice. The public was urged to come forward with any information, should they have it, while a picture of Cheryl filled the screen.

Sadness crept into Ava’s heart. She’d liked Cheryl. Considered her a friend. Had confided in her. To think that someone had so brutally slain her, possibly only minutes after Ava had left, made her shudder. Who would do such a thing? And why?

A number for the sheriff’s office was flashed upon the screen before the station cut away to a commercial for a local car dealership. Ava snapped the television off and grabbed a mystery novel that had been sitting on her bedside stand for weeks. Propped against pillows stacked to cushion her headboard, she tried to read, but after starting the same page over four times, she tossed the paperback aside. Nervous energy propelling her, she wandered the hallways of the house for a while, hearing Elvis crooning from Jewel-Anne’s wing and no other sound in the rest of the house.

The door to Noah’s room was ajar and she walked inside, past the crib with its sea creature mobile to the dresser where the jars of ointment and cream sat. “Sweetheart, where are you?” she said aloud. Even though she’d hired the private detective, she’d searched the Internet herself, looking for any shred of evidence linking her son to the couple who had died in the motorcycle accident on the snakelike section of Highway 101 just south of Oregon’s Cannon Beach. She’d wanted to drive to the site, but it was over two hundred miles away. She’d tried talking to the Johnsons again, but they hadn’t answered when she’d phoned, no doubt recognizing her number on their caller ID.

After touching a soft worn, stuffed beaver that had been Noah’s favorite, she walked to the back guest room that afforded a clear view of the stable and Dern’s apartment. She kept the room dark and opened the blinds, her eyes searching the darkness.

Dern had seen her on the widow’s walk, which was odd. What was he doing up in the middle of the night? Checking on the livestock? Letting the dog out? Just restless? Or had he been spying on her? No, no . . . of course not.

She witnessed the door to his studio open, then saw a man hurry away, a tough, rugged-looking individual who . . . For a second she thought she was seeing Lester Reece, but of course that was a ridiculous notion, brought on by the recent coverage of Reece on the television. Squinting, she realized the man hurrying down the outside stairs was Austin Dern.

Of course.

What had she been thinking?

And looking at him now, she felt her pulse quicken a bit, her blood heat stupidly. As he made his way into the stable below his tiny unit, she felt the urge to track him down, to find out more about him, to talk to him and . . .

Don’t even go there. You had your kiss and your fantasy. Enough. Stay away from him. For now.

Stepping away from the window, she let the blind fall back and made her way to her room, where she forced thoughts of Dern and Noah and Wyatt aside. Picking up the damned mystery novel again, she kicked off her shoes, slid between the covers, and forced herself to read.

She’d deal with Wyatt and her freak show of a life in the morning.





Some things never change, Evelyn McPherson thought as she considered her pathetic love life. It had been a bad day—no, make that a bad week—she decided as she unlocked the door of her home: one side of a duplex, a small place she’d bought when she’d decided to put down roots in Anchorville after Sea Cliff closed. The building, with its two cozy ground-floor units, had seemed a good investment at the time, but now she wasn’t so sure. The second half of her home was vacant, a FOR RENT sign in the window and an ad placed on Craigslist. Her last tenant had moved out three months earlier, after stiffing her for two months’ rent and trashing the place. It was finally back to the condition where it had been before Jerry the Party Dude moved in. She should have known the second she read the bumper stickers on his souped-up pickup.

Tonight, she didn’t care. Sighing, she tossed her keys into a dish on a table near the door, dropped her laptop and purse onto that same table, and then unwound her scarf. The unit was cold, the old furnace spotty at best, and she fiddled with the thermostat in the hall until she heard it kick on. Currently the temperature was hovering at sixty-five. “A few more degrees wouldn’t kill ya,” she muttered, then walked into the kitchen to heat up some tea . . . no, forget that. Tonight she would uncork the bottle of Chardonnay she’d opened two nights earlier and left in the refrigerator. After taking off her coat, she scrounged around for some crackers and a little cheese—smoked Edam, all she found loitering in the refrigerator—and called it good.

After all, what did one have for dinner when one had not only been fired, but had also been accused of having an affair with the patient’s husband? True, technically she’d offered to quit seeing Ava, but then Wyatt had stepped in. Though it had happened days before, it was as fresh today as when it happened.

God, she’d screwed up her life.

Because Ava Garrison’s charges weren’t too far from the truth. More than once, Evelyn had caught herself thinking what life would be like married to Wyatt. Handsome and well built, he was a lawyer who could be as charming as he was attractive. He also maintained offices here in Anchorville as well as in Seattle, and he had a beautiful, historic home with a knockout view of the bay and sea.

And a wife!

A woman struggling to remember what happened to her child.

Who just happens to be your patient.

“Shit,” she muttered as she looked around her tidy living room with its modern furniture, all picture-perfect, as if it had come out of a showroom window. Two matching overstuffed chairs, a long low, sofa, and a couple of glass lamps that winked warmly. A gas fireplace that could be clicked on with the flip of a switch finished the room. Across the wide mantel, opaque glass jars coordinated with scented candles, just the way she’d seen in a store in Seattle. There were pictures on the mantel as well. All of herself. Either alone or with a couple of girlfriends from college, where she’d known Trent Church. “Go Ducks!” she said sadly, repeating the cheer that was forever yelled on campus or written on banners or sent via e-mail and Facebook to anyone connected with the U of O.

Man, this was turning into a pity party of royal order! Clearing her throat, she poured a glass and told herself she wasn’t half in love with Ava’s husband, but that was a lie. And it wasn’t one-sided.

She knew that Wyatt felt it, too, that little hum of electricity whenever they were together. He did seem to light up a little when she was around and was always trying to get her into a quiet spot so they could talk without interruption.

About his wife!

She took a long swallow. The cold wine slid down easily, still tasting divine, and she thought she might just polish off the bottle. Hey, why not? If she got a little tipsy, who cared?

“Right, who the hell cares?” No one, Evelyn. You’re going to live your life alone. No husband, no children, no large house overlooking the sea. She took another sip, and then a third before refilling her glass. This was supposed to be a celebration; she’d been released from dealing with one of the most difficult patients of her practice.

She should be thrilled. But she wasn’t.

She closed her eyes for a second.

Click!

A soft noise caught her attention. Something out of place. Coming from the bedroom. She stopped, straining to listen, but the noise, if there had been one, didn’t repeat.

Your imagination.

Maybe just water dripping?

Nothing to worry about.

Yet, she was a little unnerved, probably due to being called out and fired by her patient and also, let’s face it, because there had been a murder in this small town; the first one Evelyn had ever heard about. Well, other than those committed by Lester Reece.

She didn’t want to go there, to think of the sadistic killer who, she knew from counseling him at Sea Cliff, could charm the panties off the most devoted nun. The man had something . . . dark, dangerous, and deadly—a bad combination, and one from which she hadn’t been immune.

Now, alone in her kitchen, thinking of the men who’d been a part of her life and the mistakes made, every last one of them, she felt the heat of embarrassment rush up her neck.

Had she been a colossal fool over Wyatt? Had she misread the signs? Hadn’t his touches on her sleeve or back lingered a little too long?

She’d thought so.

Hadn’t his stopping by her home and her office under the guise of being concerned for his wife been just an excuse to see her again?

“Idiot,” she muttered, and started cutting the small brick of cheese.

When had her female radar gone so haywire?

Oh, come on, your radar was always messed up. Remember Chad Stanton in high school? That ended when you found him with your best friend, Carlie, and then there was the string of guys in college. Not one turned out to be the love of your life. Especially not Trent Church—you had a thing for him, didn’t you? She winced as she recalled getting drunk and throwing herself at him. They’d ended up in bed and he’d slipped out in the middle of the night. She’d woken up with a headache and a flower, near her bed, a rose he’d picked from a scraggly bush near her apartment’s front door, but he’d left no note, and there had been no phone call from him in the ensuing days. In fact, the next time she’d seen him, he’d been friendly enough, as before, as if nothing had happened, and when she’d pressed him to talk about it, he’d said, “It really wasn’t that big of a deal, was it? I mean, we enjoyed ourselves, but that was it.”

She’d wanted to drop through the lush grass of the quad. Somehow they’d remained friends, and she’d attended that fateful Christmas party with him, the one from which Noah Garrison, Wyatt’s son, had gone missing, but Trent and Evelyn never ended up in bed, or a relationship, again.

And grad school was no better, she chastised herself. Remember the professor, only six years older than you? And then, oh, God, then Sea Cliff . . .

She closed her eyes at that. Didn’t want to think that she was even remotely attracted to one of the patients, especially a dangerous, convicted killer. But it was true, she thought with a grimace; the wrong men had always held a fascination for her, men who were either distant, unavailable, or dangerous, and there were all kinds of reasons for that. She was a mess when it came to love and sex.

So she was lucky she’d gotten fired before she did something stupid! She’d been on the brink of—

Ouch!

Needle-sharp pain burned at the tip of her index finger, where, distracted, she’d nicked herself with the knife while slicing the damned cheese.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she whispered, then stuck the throbbing finger into her mouth and walked through the master bedroom where she snapped on the switch and a bedside lamp turned on. The temperature in this part of the condo had seemed to drop another five degrees, but she couldn’t bother with the heat now. She made a beeline to her bathroom where she kept all of her first-aid supplies. She was certain she had a tube of Neosporin in the medicine cabinet.

Her injured finger still in her mouth, she didn’t bother flipping on the overhead, just let the light from the bedroom spill into the room as she opened the medicine cabinet.

There was enough illumination that she could see—and there it was, the small tube kept right near her box of Band-Aids. Closing the cabinet, she saw a face, shadowy and dark in the mirror.

Dropping the tube, she started to scream, just as strong hands caught her from behind, fingers digging deep into her throat, forcing her Adam’s apple backward, cutting off her air. She flailed frantically, wildly, striking backward, her hands glancing off her attacker’s head and body. She tried to kick but missed.

The world turned blacker.

Her lungs felt as if they would burst.

She felt the heat build in her head, and her hands scrabbled and clawed at the gloved hands surrounding her neck, cutting off her air. Oh, God, she was going to die! This monster was trying to kill her. Frantically, she struggled, knocking over bottles and cans on the counter.

Crash! A glass candle smashed against the tiles of the floor.

Why? she silently cried, and desperately wished she had a weapon—a knife or a towel bar or a lamp or anything! The fire in her lungs became unbearable.

She couldn’t die like this!

Not single, with no children! This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen! In the darkened room she struggled, but more slowly, her reactions slowing, the world spinning.

In the mirror, her gaze met that of her attacker. She saw the cold, hard hatred in soulless eyes . . . eyes she recognized, despite the pathetic disguise of a long, black wig.

Why? she asked herself again, just as the tightness on her throat lessened and she drew in a minuscule amount of air. Light-headed, she couldn’t fight, tried and failed to stand and nearly toppled against the counter. In the mirror, she saw her assailant withdraw a knife from a jacket pocket.

She stumbled, tried to get away.

Too late!

Sharp and gleaming, the blade flashed in the mirror.

Quickly.

Across her throat.

She gasped.

Tried to scream.

Watched in horror as the spray of her own blood spattered the mirror crimson, red drops drizzling down the glass to obscure the malevolent smile of her killer.