You Don't Want To Know

Chapter 45


“We can’t hold her any longer,” Snyder said outside the interrogation room where he and Lyons had been questioning Ava Garrison. The station had become a madhouse with the capture of Lester Reece, the phone lines jangling, conversation buzzing, and more cops called into duty. The air seemed to crackle with electricity and excitement.

Through it all, he and Lyons had tried to break Ava Garrison’s story.

They’d failed. Tripping her up had proved an impossible task as the woman who was supposed to be mentally fragile, a “basket case” in some references, had proven to be tough as nails. They’d learned little more than they already knew. Despite hours of grilling, she’d stuck to her guns. She didn’t know how the knife had gotten into her room and had seemed shocked when confronted with it. Though they’d found one long strand of black hair from the wig that had been discovered on Jewel-Anne’s head (and probably like the hairs found at the other two crime scenes), she’d sworn she’d never seen it before.

Even though she’d been the last one to see Cheryl Reynolds alive, had accused Evelyn McPherson of having an affair with her husband, and had gotten into a physical altercation with her cousin the night before, the evidence they’d collected against her was still merely circumstantial.

Nothing solid connecting her to the crimes.

The knife that was probably the murder weapon that had been found in her room had no prints on it, and her alibis were still holding up. Snyder could only imagine what a field day any defense lawyer worth his salt would have if they ever went to trial. With so many people living in and around Neptune’s Gate, any number of individuals could have planted the knife and the strand of hair from the wig. Whoever had killed Jewel-Anne Church wanted that link made; they’d left her wearing the fake hair so that the police would connect the dots.

And then there was her wild-ass story about Jewel-Anne gaslighting her, making her think she was going out of her mind. When pressed about the fight with her cousin, Ava had insisted Jewel-Anne and Lester Reece were the biological parents of her child (a fact she’d conveniently forgotten with her hospitalization) and that her crippled cousin, though confined to a wheelchair, had somehow set up an elaborate scheme to make her think she was hearing and seeing her missing son and thereby sending her into fits of paranoia.

Craziest shit he’d ever heard. But she claimed to have video proof. He’d see. Even videos could be altered though he doubted Ava Garrison would go to all that trouble. But, who knew?

And the thought of Lester Reece fathering a kid gave him chills.

“You don’t think she did it?” Lyons asked, perturbed. Leaning one shoulder against the hallway wall, she looked as tired as he felt. It had been a long night that had bled into an even longer day.

“All I know is we can’t hold her,” Snyder answered.

“Sure we can. For a while.”

“To what? Break her? Save her from killing someone else?”

“Yes!” Lyons said vehemently.

“She could ask for a lawyer.”

“Let her.”

Snyder rubbed his chin, felt a bit of stubble and wished the case was more clear-cut. Then again, he always did.

“Motive, opportunity, and means,” she pointed out as an officer leading a prisoner in cuffs pushed past them, and the captive, a guy in jeans nearly falling off his skinny ass, a wet hoodie, and tattoos crawling up his neck slid an appreciative glance in Lyons’s direction. She didn’t seem to notice.

Snyder did.

But he ignored it and said, “The weapon has no fingerprints on it.”

“But maybe some blood transfer? Could be that when the blood on the blade is analyzed, we’ll come up with the DNA of the victim—or, I suspect victims—and the killer.”

“That’ll take time.”

She snorted and dug in the purse hanging from her shoulder. “I say we arrest her. Shake her up.”

“Not yet.”

“Why? Because she’s rich and can hire the best damned defense attorney around?” Lyons charged, frustrated. She located a rubber band and with the dexterity of years of practice began pulling her unruly hair into a ponytail.

“That’s something to think about, yeah. But the main thing is, we just don’t have enough to hold her.”

Lyons rolled her eyes as she snapped her hair into place, a couple of curls already escaping. “I can’t believe you’re saying this. After busting our hump trying to find out who killed these women, you’re going to let her walk. Hell, Snyder, I swear I have more balls than you sometimes!” And with that she marched off.

Ouch! His male ego stung a bit, but he couldn’t give it much thought. He had too much to do, and he was so caught up in the case he almost didn’t notice how Lyons’s jeans hugged her buttocks as she stormed off. Or the way the newly formed ponytail bounced against her back with each of her quick strides.

Almost.

Like it or not, it was time to release Ava Garrison to the free world. Her husband was already here, making a fuss, demanding she speak with a criminal defense attorney. Freedom wasn’t going to be much fun for her, he surmised, because the press was already going nuts. For the moment, they would concentrate on Lester Reece and his rich family and attorney. But the circle would widen quickly, like ripples in a pond when a stone skipped over the surface, and Ava Garrison would soon be of high interest. Her lost son was now rumored to be fathered by one of Washington State’s most renowned criminals, and she was the woman at the center of an investigation where three local women had been brutally murdered, one of the victims supposedly the biological mother of Ava Church’s missing son.

Oh, yeah, the fun had just started.

The way Snyder saw it, Ava Garrison would step out of the station a free woman and end up imprisoned on her island by the media.

He made his way to his cubicle and tried to ignore the general buzz of excitement in the hallways and offices of the station, wouldn’t let the almost-giddy sense of accomplishment infect him.

Once at his desk, he grabbed his mouse and clicked on his computer. Within seconds, he was studying the crime scene photos of Jewel-Anne Church and scratching notes to himself. The dolls bothered him a lot. Why go to all the trouble? No way would Lester Reece have done such a thing, nor Ava Church, but someone was making a point, probably about Jewel-Anne’s fascination with dolls, which maybe stemmed from giving up her real baby? Who knew. He let that train of thought go and concentrated on another puzzle.

Why would the killer leave the wig if he planned on more homicides, more victims? Obviously parts of it were left purposefully at the previous crime scenes, so was leaving the wig some sort of message? With Jewel-Anne Church’s death, was his work finished? Again he came back to the mutilated dolls. Were they payback for the doll that had been buried? Nothing was quite holding together.

Maybe Lester Reece could set the record straight. These current homicides weren’t too far off from the murders that he’d committed years before. Only problem: the man, holed up under the old asylum all this time, didn’t appear capable of killing anything more than a passing rat that might have haunted the old hospital.

Then again, he told himself, looks could be deceiving. And he did have a helluva fight with Austin Dern.

To get another perspective, Snyder decided to head down the hallway and listen in on the interview, see what old Lester had to say for himself.

It might just be interesting.





“Go on inside,” Wyatt said as he cut the engine. “I’ll put the boat away.”

Good! Ava couldn’t get out of the boat fast enough. The silent, nerve-wracking ride across the bay had been bad enough. Accusations had hung in the air, silently stretching thin over the whine of the boat’s powerful engine, so Ava wasn’t going to spend an extra second alone with her husband.

Outside the boathouse, with the cold night as a shroud around her, she stared at the house she’d once loved. Looming dark above the tidewaters, Neptune’s Gate seemed more monstrosity than sanctuary. Never had it appeared less like her home.

A few lights glowed bright in the gloom, but they weren’t enough to lift her spirits. There had been just too much tragedy and trauma in the last twenty-four hours. Two days ago, Jewel-Anne had been alive, tormenting her; now she would never see her cousin again, never be irritated by her humming wheelchair and catty remarks, never wish Jewel-Anne would find another artist to idolize—Michael Jackson, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, anyone other than Elvis . . . not that it mattered any longer.

Walking toward the house, she rotated her neck, trying to loosen the stiffness that had settled in her muscles. She’d been up for what seemed days and had been interrogated at the sheriff’s office for hours. Eventually they’d released her, and Wyatt, ever the doting if straying husband, had insisted upon ferrying her back to the island. During the voyage, he’d tried to make conversation, but she hadn’t felt like yelling over the roar of the boat’s engine, and truth to tell, she was sick of pretending at the marriage as well.

It was over.

They both knew it.

The rain that had been pelting earlier had subsided, leaving a soft mist that seemed to cling to the streetlamps and thicken the air. She looked toward the lights of Monroe. Only the market was still open at this hour, its neon beer sign glowing through the gathering fog. The island seemed a sad, lonely place tonight. Hands in her coat pockets, she walked past the dock where she’d jumped into the bay and wondered why she’d been so certain she’d seen her son standing on this very dock. How willing and broken had her mind been?

Her heart wrenched when she thought of Noah. From what she’d heard, most of it through Wyatt, Lester Reece had denied having taken the boy or knowing where he was. Was the killer telling the truth? Or had he done the unthinkable, and after all this time she’d have to face the horrid fact that her child was dead?

Her throat clogged.

She felt the sting of tears against her eyelids but refused to break down.

Once she was strong again, after about forty-eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, she’d rethink things. Until then, she was too worn out to even rein in her thoughts.

But first, the divorce. No matter how tired you are, tomorrow you’ll get yourself out of bed and make that call to your attorney.

Rubbing the chill from her arms, she looked at the dock one last time and found it empty, stretching into the inky, roiling water. Tonight, and never again, would she see her son standing upon its edge.

Now, as she took the path to the house, she realized her life with her son was only a distant, fading memory. Again the tears threatened; again she pushed them back. “Please be with him wherever he is,” she prayed, her breath fogging in the still night air, her heart in a million broken pieces.

Maybe it’s time to leave the island. Start over.

She passed the garden where the marker for her son had been uprooted, the tiny casket discovered, and if possible, her soul tore a little more.

Could she actually let go of this house that had brought her so much heartache and pain? She’d be alone, because no matter what, she wasn’t going to try again with Wyatt.

Walking through the front door, she shrugged out of her coat and tossed it onto the hall tree. The house smelled of old coffee, cold ashes, and dying flowers but was thankfully quiet. After being barraged by the detectives all day, she needed silence, time to quiet the pounding in her head, space to sleep and forget.

Other than the cat staring at her from the bench in the foyer, no one was around, and for that she was grateful. She heard Wyatt opening the back door. He had told her both Trent and Ian had left for the mainland earlier in the day, and Wyatt wasn’t certain they would return. Demetria, beside herself at Jewel-Anne’s death, had called one of her sisters, and now she was staying off the island for at least this night and probably only returning to gather her things. According to Wyatt, she planned to move permanently as soon as she secured new employment. Simon, Khloe, and Virginia were probably in their quarters and that left Dern. Would he stay on now that he’d located his half brother? Unlikely.

Ava climbed the stairs but hesitated at the second-story landing. Instead of walking directly to her room, she made her way along the gallery to the back guest room, where she peered out the window. Through the fog, she saw the outline of the stable, but no light was glowing from an upstairs window. Dern was probably still off the island.

Ridiculously, she felt more alone than she had.

She couldn’t help remembering the feel of his arms around her. Or the kiss they’d shared. Had it been only twenty-four hours since she’d visited him? Only one day ago that Jewel-Anne had still been alive?

She left the room and saw the nursery door ajar. Her insides wilted, but she forced herself to walk along the open landing and take hold of the knob and pull the door shut. Someday she’d have to clean out the room; she couldn’t forever hold it as a shrine.

But not tonight.

You can do this, Ava. You can. Somehow.

She started for her room again, and as she walked along the open balcony, she glanced downstairs, to the first floor. Past the foyer, she noticed a slice of light against the marble, lamplight glowing from the den.

Wyatt was probably too wound up to sleep.

Good. No chance she would have to deal with him. Besides, she had the same problem. As exhausted as she was, she knew that sleep would be elusive, that her mind was bound to run in circles all night long. Already, images ranging from Jewel-Anne’s corpse to the interrogation room with the cops to Austin Dern and what it would be like to make love to him had been with her. No doubt images of Noah would creep into her mind as well. Wyatt, too, was likely to pepper her thoughts, keeping her awake despite her sleep deprivation.

She cringed a little as she opened the door to her room. The last time she’d seen it, her bedroom had been chaos. However, when she poked her head inside, she felt as if she’d stepped back in time a few days. Someone—Graciela or Khloe or both—had cleaned the entire bedroom and put it back together. Of course, upon closer inspection, she noticed that the rug that had covered her floor was missing. Obviously a new mattress, from one of the guest rooms, no doubt, had been put in place of the one probably taken by the police, and new sheets and blankets had been put in place of the old.

The black powder was gone, and surreally, with the house returned to some kind of order, it was almost as if nothing had even happened, that three women hadn’t been killed and an escaped mental patient captured. Life as she’d known it would continue.

On the nightstand, as always, were her pills laid out for her.

Oh, sure. As if she would actually take them.

Then, for a fleeting second, she actually considered it. Why not? Let yourself go off to dreamland. You might not wake up for twenty-four hours. Wouldn’t that be heaven?

There’s nothing more you can do tonight, and with Reece behind bars, everyone’s safe. You can trust again . . . right?

“Right,” she said aloud, and decided to just let go.

She reached for the pills, scooping them up and popping them into her mouth. Telling herself she needed water to wash them down, she walked to the bathroom. Then, as much out of habit as anything, she spit the capsules into the toilet and flushed. Who knew what the medication really was? Just because Reece was in custody and Jewel-Anne was dead didn’t mean that Ava’s life was back on track.

As if it ever was.

She opened the medicine cabinet and, digging around on the thin shelf, found an old bottle of over-the-counter sleeping aids with a pull date that had expired six months ago.

“Good enough,” she said, and, watching her reflection in the medicine cabinet’s mirror, took a double dose and leaned over to wash them down with water straight out of the tap. Soon, she hoped, she and the sandman would meet. Then tomorrow, once she was rested and clearheaded, she’d figure out what to do with the rest of her life.

She changed into an oversized T-shirt and while waiting for the sleeping pills to take effect, looked for her computer. It was missing . . . no doubt taken by the police, who had stripped her room of anything of remote interest.

“Perfect,” she muttered. But she still had her cell phone, and she could connect to the Internet through it and check her e-mail. Groggily, she found the smartphone and saw an app she’d added just the other day, the one attached to her camera on the stairs so that she could view the steps and locked third-floor maid’s quarters when she was away from her computer.

She wondered if the police had disabled that device as well, or had they, in their hurry to rush her to the station, transport Jewel-Anne’s body, and find Lester Reece, neglected that part of the house?

What were the chances?

Nil. They’re thorough. Then again . . .

Yawning, she clicked on the app, and sure enough, an image formed on the phone’s small screen, a view of the third floor. She was about to turn it off when she noticed movement on the screen. “What?”

A niggle of fear slid down her spine.

Squinting, she caught a glimpse of it again, a shadow flitting into view.

Maybe a rodent had gotten inside or the cat or something bigger . . . ?

No! Someone was on the third floor! She nearly jumped out of her skin when a person came into the camera’s eye, filling the screen. Ava froze, barely daring to breathe. Her skin crawled in warning. What was this? Jewel-Anne was dead, so who would be wandering around on the third floor? “Oh my God,” she whispered as the image cleared and she recognized the person on the screen.

There, big as life, was Khloe Prescott.

Her caretaker.

Once her best friend.

Why would she be on the third floor?

Hadn’t that been Jewel-Anne’s territory, where she’d kept her nefarious secret recording device?

All along, you thought Jewel-Anne had an accomplice. It looks like Khloe, too, was in on the gaslighting, part of the plot to terrorize you.

Heartsick, Ava studied Khloe from her hidden camera. Clearly, Khloe was searching for something.

No, no, no, this is wrong. . . . There has to be some mistake! Khloe wouldn’t have known anything about Jewel-Anne’s plans. Couldn’t have. No way would Khloe have been in cahoots with Ava’s cousin.

And yet, it seemed that’s exactly what had happened. Staring in disbelief, heart beating frantically, Ava watched as Khloe found the device in question, dragging it down from the closet shelf and then working feverishly to dismantle it. She pulled out the tape that had been recorded with some child’s cries and ripped it to shreds.

Something was off here . . . very off, Ava thought, and fought the horrid idea that was forming in the back of her mind. And Khloe, who had been her friend for most of her life as well as Noah’s nanny and later Ava’s caretaker when she’d first been released from St. Brendan’s, couldn’t be involved in something as hideous as Jewel-Anne’s deception.

Another thought, more chilling than the others, assailed her.

What if Lester Reece hadn’t killed Jewel-Anne? What had the cop insinuated about the dolls with their slit throats? That Reece wouldn’t have bothered? But Khloe had hated Jewel-Anne’s obsession with her “babies” too . . . and then Ava understood that Jewel-Anne’s need for the dolls was because she gave up her own child.

Dear God in heaven, was it possible that Khloe was somehow behind Jewel-Anne’s murder? If so, had she tried to set Ava up as the prime suspect by planting the knife in her room? But Khloe had always been her friend, a close ally . . .

Not always!

Remember?

Her friendship with you was a long time ago. And the relationship had started crumbling in high school when you made the mistake of dating her boyfriend, Mel Lefever. Sure, they’d broken up, but less than a week later, you went out with him. Khloe had been hurt at the time, but that was just high school stuff. It all seemed forgiven, years before.

Maybe not. Was it possible Khloe still held a grudge? No way.

Then what about Kelvin? She was crazy in love with him when he died, and if she, like Jewel-Anne, blamed you for his death . . .

Ava’s mind raced with the times Khloe had seemed distant and dark, how she’d married Simon Prescott, a man with whom she’d rebounded and had a tumultuous, maybe even abusive relationship soon after Kelvin had died.

“Dear God,” Ava whispered, trying to understand when nothing was making sense. Nothing! She was tired and her mind groggy, the sleeping medication starting to kick in. She fought it, had to stay awake, had to find out the truth.

She could confront her friend.

And how would that work out if Khloe is really a murderess?

“No way!”

The image on her computer blurred as a shadow covered the screen for an instant. Khloe looked up. Smiled. An almost naughty grin.

What?

Another person came into view. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Male.

The hairs on the back of Ava’s neck stood on end.

Her heart nearly stopped.

It couldn’t be! Couldn’t! Her hand shook as she held the phone, staring at it in disbelief. The person entering the room was Wyatt.

What the hell was he doing in the attic? Still staring at the device in her hand, she edged to the door of her room, then poked her head out onto the landing overlooking the floor below. The light in the den was still glowing through the cracked door.

What was going on?

A dozen answers sprang into her head. Not one of them was good.

As she eased back into her room, she watched Khloe greet him with that slow and sexy smile. Ava could only see his profile, but he, damn him, returned Khloe’s I’ve-got-a-secret smile with one of his own.

Really?

They were in league together?

She hadn’t suspected, but then she’d been so certain he’d been involved with Evelyn McPherson.

On the screen, Wyatt closed the short distance between himself and Khloe, said something unintelligible, then, when she laughed, tossing her head back, he reached forward and caught the back of her neck with one hand. Khloe’s eyes twinkled with a sensual, come-and-get-me fire.

Horrified, Ava watched as Wyatt dragged Khloe closer to him. She said something and he chuckled; then he kissed her. Long. Hard. As if he’d been waiting forever for just this moment.

Sick!

It wasn’t Evelyn McPherson he was having an affair with, you idiot. It was Khloe! Oh, Jesus!

Had they . . . ? Her mind was reeling. Was it possible that they had actually killed Jewel-Anne and the others? No . . . of course not. That had to be Lester Reece. Had to!

Or not?

A cold panic was welling from deep within her. Of all the things she thought of her husband, not for a second had she ever considered him capable of murder.

But you didn’t think he’d become involved with Khloe, now, did you? What do you really know about Wyatt . . . or Khloe? Only what they wanted you to.

Had they both been a part of Jewel-Anne’s gaslighting scheme? Had something gone wrong and the cruel prank evolved into something more hideous than playing with Ava’s mind?

She dropped the phone and had to let out her breath slowly. A million questions screamed through her mind, questions with no answers. She didn’t want to believe these two lovers were involved in Jewel-Anne’s murder, nor the other women’s brutal deaths as well.

In her heart of hearts, she realized that Wyatt and Khloe had a hand in all of it. How deep they were involved she couldn’t guess.

Think, Ava, think. You can’t just stand here and digest this or puzzle it out. You have to do something.

However, she was a little sluggish, the pills she’d swallowed starting to work their sedative magic, despite the adrenaline coursing through her blood.

You have to confront them.

No. That wouldn’t work. Retrieving the phone, she stared at the small screen and saw that they were still embracing, still kissing, really getting into it.

Get help. Find someone and then confront them.

Impossible! The house was empty. She’d felt it from the moment she’d stepped through the front door. No one was here.

Except Khloe and Wyatt.

Her insides turned to ice. Had Khloe gotten rid of everyone in the house? Then had Wyatt come to pick her up, playing the part of the devoted husband, to set her up?

She reached for the bedside phone, intending to dial 911 and try to locate Detective Snyder. Though he still considered her a suspect in the murders, he would be interested in this. They had a history.

She plucked the handheld from its base.

No dial tone.

No display on the screen.

No . . . anything.

Dread dripped down her spine.

It had to be a mistake.

She checked on the electrical connections, clicked the TALK button.

Nothing.

Oh, God!

They’re isolating you!

This, tonight, is all part of their plot to make you appear insane.

Once more, she glanced at her smartphone’s screen where the kiss was just ending. They smiled up at each other as if satisfied that their perfect plot was finally coming together.

Get out of the house! Take the boat. Get the hell off of the island! Now! While they’re still in the attic, involved with each other. Go now! Think of Jewel-Anne. This might be your only chance to escape with your damned life.

But first . . . she punched out 911 on the cell before hanging up quickly. If Wyatt had really wanted to kill her, why hadn’t he thrown her overboard on the way back from the mainland only an hour earlier? He could have claimed that she fell or jumped overboard, and with her history, no one would doubt him. No, no, no. She was confused. He didn’t want to do her harm. That wasn’t his mission.

Then what is?

You really can’t afford to stick around and find out.

She found a pair of jeans and quickly slipped them on. With one eye on the small screen of her phone, she slid her arms through the sleeves of her jacket again. She’d sneak out of the house, get down to the boat, and . . .

And what? Run away like a coward? Let them get away with whatever it is they’re doing? Tell the police that they were having an affair and destroying a simple recorder that played the sounds of a baby crying? You think they’ll believe you? Or will the police, too, think you’re paranoid or desperate or just plain crazy.

Take a deep breath, Ava. Then fight back! Beat them at their own game.

But she needed help. She couldn’t do it alone. Clicking off the screen again, she dialed Dern and silently prayed that he would pick up, that his cell was turned on, that he wasn’t out of range. She hadn’t seen him since he’d joined the police in the search for Reece, though she’d overheard the buzz at the station indicating Dern had been instrumental in the fugitive’s capture. Now, though, she had no idea where he was.

Her call went directly to voice mail. Crap! She didn’t have time for long messages, but whispered, “This is Ava. Please come back to the island. ASAP! There’s something happening here. Call me back!”

Despite her hammering heart, her blood was sluggish, her mind not quite as sharp as it should be. She checked her camera again.

Finally the long embrace had ended and something seemed to have changed. They were still standing close to each other, talking rapidly, but the sexy playfulness had disappeared, morphing into other emotions. Definitely, the mood had changed to something tenser, anger visible in their faces. Wyatt’s jaw was rock hard and it seemed as if Khloe’s eyes had darkened, her mouth twisting in a deep, seething fury. Obviously they were arguing.

About Jewel-Anne?

Or something else?

You, Ava. She’s trying to get him to go along with killing you! Or maybe it’s the other way around; maybe he’s trying to convince Khloe to take your life.

Either way, it was time to leave.

Still staring at the screen, she headed out the door. She was at the top of the stairs when she saw things shift on the screen. Something was happening. The argument obviously escalating.

Oh, God. Ava stopped in her tracks and watched.

Khloe’s stare was cold as ice.

Wyatt reached for her again, but Khloe stepped back, said something that stopped Wyatt in his tracks. His mouth rounded as if he were saying “No!” Then, quick as a snake striking, Khloe reached into her pocket and produced a knife.

What?! Ava gasped.

Wyatt held up a hand.

But with teeth bared, fury burning in her eyes, Khloe sprang.

The knife glinted. Wyatt feinted, trying to dodge the blow.

Too late.

Ava watched in horror as, with a look of primal victory, Khloe plunged the blade deep into Wyatt’s chest.