You Don't Want To Know

Chapter 46


Reece wasn’t the killer. If the cops didn’t know it, Dern sure as hell did.

Which meant there was a killer still on the loose.

A killer who’d cruelly taken the lives of those close to Ava.

He found a ride back to the marina. A patrolling deputy dropped him off near the waterfront, and he hurried to find a ride to the island.

The station had been a madhouse, the press and different police agencies adding to the chaos, but out here, under the ethereal security lights, fog rolling in over the dark water stretching beyond the docked boats, the night was serene, at least to the naked eye.

But he felt it. A palpitating fear. An inner knowledge that evil reigned. Fortunately now he was finally dry, his clothes stiff from the briny water where he’d tackled Reece hours before. At the station, he’d made the call to Reba, heard her try not to break down after whispering, “Thank God,” and finally, “Thank you, Austin.” That part had gotten to him, and he’d hung up wondering why a sense of satisfaction was elusive.

Despite Reece’s capture and the hours without sleep, Dern felt restless, his muscles sore, his mind keyed up. If Reece wasn’t the killer, then who was? He’d been asking himself that same damned question for hours, even as he’d stood in the dark viewing room watching the maniac who was his brother deny, offer up bullshit and deny again and again. Insane? No way. Homicidal? Oh, yeah. But Reece had been adamant and believable about not “offing those bitches.”

Which means the killer was still at large.

Someone had murdered three women in cold blood.

So far.

He jabbed his hands deep into the sandy pockets of his jacket, retrieved his phone, and tried to call Ava again, but his cell still wasn’t working. When he’d learned she already left the station with her jerk of a husband, he’d tried calling the house on one of the sheriff’s department lines but hadn’t gotten through.

The fact that he couldn’t connect with her bothered him a little. Well, actually, it bothered him a lot.

Not for a second did he believe Ava was the killer, though from what he’d overheard at the sheriff’s office, the police were trying to mount a case against her.

Dern now believed Ava had been set up. Whoever had been in league with Jewel-Anne had turned on her and tried to make Ava appear to be not only paranoid, but also a killer.

He figured the killer had to be someone close to her, someone who could get on and off the island easily, someone who knew the ins and outs of Neptune’s Gate.

He checked his cell phone again. Still not working, probably never would. Bad luck coupled with his own feeling that trouble was brewing.

Get over it; you’ll be back on the island within the hour.

His boots rang on the damp boards of the marina, and the scent of briny water mingled with oil hung on the fog that had begun to roll in from the ocean. All of the boats were docked for the night, tied firmly in their berths, but he spied the Holy Terror, her captain sitting outside in the mist, the tip of his cigarette glowing red in the night. Perfect.

“I need a ride,” Dern said to the owner. He’d met Butch Johansen a couple of times, thought the guy might be okay. “To Church Island.”

“It’ll cost ya.” Johansen flipped the end of his cigarette into the night, its red tip arcing before dying an instant death in the inky water.

“Fine. Just make it quick.” A sense of urgency drove him, and he couldn’t help but worry that Ava was on the island, possibly with a killer on the loose.

“As quick as I can. Fog’s comin’ in.” Despite his concerns, Johansen was already reaching for the ignition as Dern climbed aboard. As the engine fired and Johansen eased the Holy Terror out of the slip, Dern kept his gaze fastened to the murky night ahead. Though he couldn’t see Church Island, it was out there. Somewhere. And Ava was probably there with that prick of a husband. That thought bothered him, too. He tried his phone again and though there was a glimmer of illumination on the screen, still nothing.

His worry increased.

“You got a cell phone?” Dern asked over the increasing roar of the engine.

“Radio.”

“Seriously?” Who didn’t have a cell these days?

“Got in a pissing match with the carrier. Guess who lost?” Johansen’s gaze didn’t move from the prow of the boat and the soupy night ahead.

Great. The wind was screaming past them as they cut through the fog, but they weren’t going fast enough. “Can this tub go any faster?” he yelled, frustrated. It was dangerous, but Dern didn’t care. A sense of urgency was driving him, fear for Ava.

“Yes, sir!” With that, Johansen hit the gas and the boat nearly flew across the water. As if they were outrunning the fog silently collecting over the black surface.

Still, for Dern, it wasn’t fast enough.





No, oh, no . . . Ava stumbled backward as she stared in horror at the tiny screen in her hand. Khloe stood above Wyatt who was struggling, gasping for breath, a red stain blooming on his shirt.

“No . . . no . . .” She had to help him, save him, but the malevolent light in Khloe’s eyes suggested she wasn’t finished, and Ava remembered the garish slice across Jewel-Anne’s throat. She needed a weapon. A gun, a knife, a baseball bat. Any damned thing. So she could fend off Khloe and help save Wyatt. If there was enough time. Oh, please, God!

She knew the police couldn’t get to the island fast enough; saving Wyatt was up to her. Moving into the hallway, she dialed 911 again as precious seconds ticked away, seconds that could mean his life or death.

A raspy-voiced operator answered. “Nine-one-one, please state your emergency—”

Before the operator could ask any questions, Ava cut in. “Send help to Neptune’s Gate on Church Island! Right away! My husband is being attacked! He . . . Oh, God, he might already be dead!”

“Ma’am? Calm down. Who are you and what is your emergency? An assault?”

“My name is Ava Church, and I’m watching someone try to kill my husband! Out here on the island. Send someone immediately!” She couldn’t keep the panic from her voice. “She’s got a knife and she’s trying to kill him!”

“You’re witnessing the attack?”

“On my phone! The camera on my phone!” she clarified, hurrying down the stairs to the first floor. She was running out of time. With every second, Wyatt was bleeding out.

“Pardon me?”

“I have a camera set up! I can see what’s happening.” She was running now, barefoot across the foyer to the den, time her enemy. As she passed it, the grandfather clock began to strike loudly, each chime reverberating and counting off the seconds, the beats of Wyatt’s heart—though, she realized, even now her husband could be dead.

Into the den she flew, forcing her tiring legs to keep running, her mind to stay focused, but she was clumsy from the drugs sliding into her bloodstream and she hit her hip on the corner of the desk, then stubbed her toe on a chair. “Ouch! Damn it!”

“Ma’am? Mrs. Church?”

The operator was still on the line. Ava said, “Just, please, listen! I’m telling you Khloe Prescott is stabbing my husband! For God’s sake, send someone. Now!”

“You’re watching this on your phone?” Skepticism.

“I told you, YES!!!!” Frustrated, she rattled off the address. “Get Detective Snyder or Detective Lyons. Please hurry!”

“If you’ll please stay on the line, Ms. Church—”

“I can’t!” she said, and clicked off and tried Dern again. Nothing. Quickly, she texted him:

Khloe stabbed Wyatt. In the attic. Send help!

After sending the text, she switched her phone to silent mode; she couldn’t have it go off and alert anyone hiding in the shadows of her location.

Hurry, Ava, hurry!

Her mind screamed at her, but her body wasn’t complying. All of her movements were sluggish, the sleeping pills taking effect. Still, she pushed onward. She was certain Wyatt kept a pistol locked in his desk; it had been a bone of contention between them when Noah was living in the house.

Of course the drawers were locked! “Come on, come on,” she urged herself, and found the key he kept hidden, one she’d found years before. With fumbling fingers, afraid that Khloe would walk in on her at any second, Ava unlocked the drawer where Wyatt had always kept his gun and yanked the damned thing open.

Empty!

“Damn!”

Her heart sank. But she couldn’t give up. She had to find the damned Ruger he was so proud of. Frantically, she searched the other drawers, flinging them open, tossing out the contents, searching wildly for the gun and coming up with nothing.

Khloe has it!

She’s cut the phone lines and taken the gun.

Now what?

Don’t waste any more time! Get a knife from the kitchen. Quickly! There are half a dozen in the magnetic rack above the stove.

Heart in her throat, Ava crept quietly toward the kitchen. Her stomach jumping, she expected to be attacked at every corner. Who else was in this horrid plot against her? Trent? Jacob? Ian? Were they even around? She’d felt that the house was empty, but obviously Khloe was around. What about Simon? Or Virginia? Did they have any clue that Khloe was a murderess?

Get a grip. Don’t worry about the others. Just deal with Khloe and try to get to Wyatt. There still may be time! Hurry, Ava, move!

She reached the archway into the kitchen, but her movements were slowing, and she had to work hard to stay focused. At the threshold of the hallway, she stumbled slightly, her feet not working properly. Come on, come on! You can do this. Forcing herself, she eased through the darkness, only the palest of light from a far-off security lamp coming through a window and giving any illumination to the Stygian room.

A shadow passed by the window and she nearly screamed before she saw that it was the black cat, hiding on the counter near the sink.

Her fingertips found the big gas stove, and she reached over the burners to the magnetic strips mounted on the wall tiles. Carefully, she ran her fingers over the knives. Feeling the sturdy handle of the butcher knife, she pulled it down and faced the yawning dark archway leading to the back stairs, then decided to take a smaller knife as well and slid it into her pocket. “Okay, bitch,” she said softly, her tongue thick, and she stepped into sheer darkness. Up one step. Then the next. She couldn’t risk the switch or a flashlight. She’d have to climb the stairs quietly, knife raised and—

Creeeeaaaakkk . . .

Far away, a door opened.

Oh, God!

Ava’s heart nearly stopped.

She held her breath, not daring the slightest sound.

Footsteps came cautiously from the stairway above. Someone creeping, hoping not to step on a squeaky step.

Khloe.

Jesus, help me.

Slowly letting out her breath, she stepped backward, down the two steps she’d mounted, silently backing up as her heart thudded and beads of cold, nervous sweat collected on her forehead and palms. The knife in her hand felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

You can do this, Ava, you can. Think of Wyatt . . . He cheated on you, yes, maybe even was a part of the gaslighting, but he didn’t deserve this . . . no way.

Throat dry, she hid in the darkness, just around the corner of the archway. Her heart was pounding, echoing in her head. Her eyelids were as heavy as they’d ever been in her life, and, back flattened to the wall, she was scared to death.

The footsteps were louder now.

Closer.

Help me.

Ears straining, eyes trying to see in the darkness, Ava waited, counting her heartbeats, ready to lunge. Hold on for the right moment. Just take her by surprise, throw yourself at her, wrest her damned knife from her. Just disarm her. That’s all you have to do. Oh, dear God . . . Sweating in the cold room, she held her weapon with both hands.

Somewhere, far, far off in the distance, she heard the rumble of a boat’s engine.

Her knees went weak. Thank God!

Dern. It had to be Austin Dern.

Hurry, oh, God, please hurry!

The footsteps creeping down the stairs stopped suddenly. As if Khloe, too, had heard the approaching boat. Then, movement again, the softer tread of shoes on the floor, coming closer only to stop somewhere in the middle of the kitchen.

“Ava?” Khloe said softly, and Ava wanted to fall through the floor. “I know you’re down here.”

What? No . . . oh, please no.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Ava didn’t move. Just held her knife aloft in the darkness. Every muscle in her body was tense. But she was tired . . . oh, so tired. . . . She had to fight to remain rigid, ready.

“Aaaavaaa,” Khloe singsonged again. “Aaaaavaaa.”

Sweat drizzled into Ava’s eyes and palms, feeling slick against the knife’s handle. “You saw it all on your little camera, didn’t you?”

Ava swallowed hard. Didn’t answer. The knife wobbled in her hands.

“Oh . . . I get it . . . you think you’re going to get the drop on me, don’t you?”

She was swaying, the knife so heavy, the drugs in her system dragging her down, not even her own adrenaline strong enough to counteract the sedative.

“Well, friend, it’s never going to happen!”

It’s now or never!

Wielding her butcher knife, Ava leaped forward.

At that moment, the world went white. Bright light burned her retinas. She only caught a glimpse of Khloe’s surprised expression and the mega-flashlight in one of Khloe’s hands.

In the other was the very blade that had plunged into Wyatt’s chest.



The message came in late. After midnight. The 911 operator tracked Snyder down and gave him the news Ava Garrison had called in and claimed she was witnessing her husband being attacked by Khloe Prescott, that even now, Wyatt Garrison could be dead. Snyder listened to the tape twice. He didn’t understand what was going on, couldn’t begin to piece it together, but he didn’t waste any time and coordinated with the pilot of the sheriff’s department boat, then headed from the station to the marina. He’d been up for over twenty-four hours and was dog tired, but he shook it off as he left his bike in his office and took one of the department’s cruisers. Lights on, sirens wailing, he roared down the streets toward the marina.

No doubt Lyons would be pissed that he hadn’t called her, but he wasn’t going to wait. He’d heard the sheer terror in Ava Garrison’s voice on that tape and knew she was in trouble. Big trouble.

She was a suspect, yeah, but after spending most of the day interviewing her, he didn’t believe she’d call for help if she didn’t really need it.

The first response team was already on its way to the island, a Coast Guard cutter and helicopter dispatched. But Snyder intended to get to the island as well.

He drove through one yellow light and slowed for a red, but the streets were empty and his lights were blazing, so he ran the light, taking the turns to the waterfront a little too fast, and screeched to a halt in the parking lot across from the marina in record time. Near the water, the fog was rolling in, thin wisps that promised to become a bank before dawn.

The boat was waiting.

Lyons, damn her, was already on board.

“So what the hell took you so long?” she asked, tossing him a life jacket and sending him a don’t-ever-try-to-put-one-over-on-me-again grin.

“Go to hell.” But he was glad to see her.

“Back atcha,” she said, then to the captain, “Let’s go!” and the boat took off, speeding across the inky water, cutting through the fog, heading for whatever.



“You goddamned bitch!” Khloe shrieked as Ava pounced on her, plunging her knife deep into Khloe’s shoulder. The flashlight fell, crashing against the tile and rolling drunkenly away, its beam swirling crazily overhead.

Khloe, screaming, flailing with her free hand, tried to stab Ava over and over again as they hit the floor.

Crack! Ava’s knee hit hard on the tiles, but she grabbed Khloe’s wrist before she could be wounded.

In the weird light, Khloe’s face was contorted in pain and hatred, her gaze drilling deep into her adversary. She’d missed with her blows but kicked hard, the toe of her boot connecting with Ava’s shin.

Pain shimmied up her bone and she lost her grip.

Scooting away, she heard the slurping sound as Khloe yanked the knife from her shoulder and squealed again. The knife clattered to the floor. Frantically Ava scooted away, trying to stand, her bare feet slipping and smearing on warm, sticky blood.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Khloe snarled.

“So why didn’t you?” Ava threw back at the woman who had once been her friend. Keep her talking and keep her in your sight. . . . Don’t be distracted for an instant. “You had plenty of chances.”

“It had to look like an accident, you idiot! Why do you think? That’s a little harder than they make it look in the movies!”

“But the others. They weren’t accidents.” While she was talking, Ava was staring at the knife in Khloe’s fingers and hoping that the police were on their way. Or Dern. Or anyone. She’d heard a boat approaching. Where the hell was it?

Khloe was advancing, trying to climb to her feet. The knife. Where’s your damned knife? She’s hurt. You could get the drop on her, but you need the knife. Desperately she searched the dark room, then remembered the knife in her pocket and the dozens in the drawers and racks in this room.

“They didn’t have to be accidents,” Khloe was explaining, seeming glad to tell Ava about her plans, how clever she’d been. “So the police would think you, the crazy woman, killed them.”

“I had no reason.” Carefully, keeping her gaze fixed on Khloe she slid her hand into her pocket.

“You hated them . . .”

“No! Not Cheryl!” she cried, thinking of the kind woman who had taken her in and quietly hypnotized her in the hopes of exorcising Ava’s demons. Her fingers touched the tip of the knife in her pocket, but she had to keep Khloe talking, hope that she was distracted. “Why would I kill Cheryl?”

“Because she knew all your secrets. And when they finally find the tapes of your session that you hid in the floorboards of your closet, you’ll be tied to the murders.”

“What tapes . . . I never . . .”

Khloe’s eyes glowed with her own warped sense of pride. “They’ll find them,” she assured Ava, and swayed a little on her feet. She was still bleeding, red drips streaking down her arm.

“You killed them all,” she charged. “Why?”

“Shut up!” she yelled at Ava. “It doesn’t matter. They knew too much. Had all, one way or another, learned about Wyatt and me. They . . . they had to go.” She was breathing hard, dragging in breaths, her one arm limp, her eyes blazing. “Tell me, bitch, how does it feel to have lost the love of your life?”

“The what?” For a second, she thought of Dern.

“Your husband!” Khloe snarled as Ava kept sliding away from her. Ava’s mind was racing. She wondered just how badly she’d wounded Khloe. The cut had been deep . . . but still Khloe kept coming, kept crossing the long room.

“Wyatt. We have to save him!” Her fingers curled over the hilt of the knife in her pocket.

“He’s dead.”

“No!”

“Oh, yeah. I made sure,” Khloe said smugly. “I don’t leave loose ends.”

“But . . . you and he . . . why . . . Oh God,” she whispered, sick to her stomach. Not that she loved him, not any longer, but to think that he’d given up his life at Khloe’s hand . . . “How could you?” But then, how could this woman she’d counted as a friend become a savage, ruthless killer?

“What do you care?” Khloe said, and her lips twisted in a half smile. “He was just so f*cking easy to seduce. I did it to get back at you, you know.” Her grin, though a partial grimace, widened, and she seemed to enjoy stalking Ava, advancing slowly, stretching out her quarry’s terror.

“Back at me for what?”

“Every damned thing! This house! The money! The fact that you were treated like a princess when I had all those brothers and sisters to take care of. How do you think I feel working for you? Having my mother and husband working for you?” Khloe threw up her hands, the knife wobbling, blood spraying.

Rage that had been building for years bubbled forth. “And then there’s the men. First in high school, you weren’t satisfied until you went out with my boyfriend.”

“Mel? But that was years ago . . .” Ava couldn’t believe Khloe’s pure hatred. Her fingers tightened over the knife.

“And then Kelvin . . . just when I thought I had a chance to better myself . . . to taste a little of what you take for granted, by marrying your brother, you convince him to take the boat out.”

“It was an accident.”

“And you end up inheriting everything.” Khloe’s lip curled in disgust as she advanced. “So you see, Wyatt was a way to get back at you. Through him, I can get a part of this.” She wobbled her knife at the interior of the kitchen, to indicate the house, the estate, all of Neptune’s Gate.

“But you killed him!” This didn’t make any sense. Still, Ava scooted away. She just had to keep this going until help arrived. Khloe seemed to want to gloat, to tell her all the little details. Because they both knew that Ava’s chances of escape were small.

“Because the chickenshit backed out! Decided not to go through with it! In fact, the jerk said something about trying to patch things up with you. He liked being married to you, having it all. That’s why divorce was out of the question. He’d rather you be alive and sequestered away in some loony bin so he could have control of everything.”

“And you . . .”

“I had a better idea! I knew what Jewel-Anne was doing and just went along. If she made you crazy enough, you would kill yourself. When that didn’t happen, I went to plan B.”

“The murders. Setting me up to take the fall.”

“See, you’re not as dumb as you look.”

Ava had to keep Khloe talking as she neared the far wall. She was close now. If she could only grab the door, swing it into Khloe’s face, stab her in the gut, then take off, she might have a chance. Where? Where will you go?

The boathouse! If she had enough time. And the keys were in the ignition. Oh, God, if only . . . Keep her talking. For God’s sake, Ava, keep her distracted. “What . . . what about Simon?”

“What about him?”

“He’s your husband.”

“Not for long. I’ve had one too many bruises from that sick son of a bitch. I’m divorcing his ass. He knows it. Won’t fight me.” She stopped for a second and blinked, as if to catch her escaping thoughts. Maybe Khloe was wounded worse than even she knew.

Again, Ava heard a boat’s engine . . . or more than one. Please, oh, please . . .

Khloe took another step forward. “You know, this would have been so much easier if you had just drowned when you were supposed to. You know, when you thought you saw your damned kid. That would have been perfect!”

“Noah?” she whispered, her back connecting with the door casing.

“Of course Noah. Those pills we gave you were switched out. Hallucinogens. But you figured that out, didn’t you?”

“This is unbelievable.”

“Is it? You would do anything for that kid. We knew we could manipulate you with him.”

“We?”

“Jewel-Anne and Wyatt and me. Who do you think? And the really perfect twist to the plan was that he wasn’t even yours. Not really. How ironic was that? Not your damned kid.”

“He was . . . is . . . mine!” She had to fight to get the words out, to stay awake.

“At least he was living with his real dad.”

“Wait . . . what?”

“You really don’t know?” Khloe asked, coming in for the kill. “Lester Reece isn’t Noah’s father. That was all a big lie. Just in case you found out.”

“What?” Ava’s head was spinning. She was still digesting the news that Reece was Jewel-Anne’s lover and Noah’s biological father. “Wyatt?”

Khloe grinned with malicious satisfaction.

“Wyatt and Jewel-Anne?” She thought she might be sick.

“Of course! Jesus, you’re gullible. That’s why Wyatt insisted she stay on the island here in the house!”

Stunned, Ava tried to put the pieces together. Nothing she was saying made sense, and Ava’s mind was slowing down, the sedatives seeming determined to take hold. Hold on to the little knife. Don’t let go.

“He had you and Jewel-Anne pregnant at the same damned time. How’s that for twisted?”

Ava physically shrank at that thought. Wyatt and Jewel-Anne? “That’s impossible.”

“Impossible? It’s the God’s honest truth. Come on, Ava. Didn’t you ever wonder where Jewel-Anne’s arrogance came from? Why she always seemed so smug? She’d already broken up with Lester before Noah was conceived, not that anyone other than Jewel-Anne and Wyatt could figure it out.”

“This is all mind games!” she said thickly. Hold on to the knife. For just the right moment. Don’t let go, Ava. Do NOT let go.

“Can’t face this truth, either, Ava? The reason Jewel-Anne felt superior was because she had something over you, the woman who had it all.” Real emotion charged Khloe’s words, hatred emanating from her. “Your perfect lawyer husband and a beautiful child, even if he wasn’t yours.”

“You’re sick,” Ava whispered, inching backward, struggling to stay awake. “And you helped her . . . it was you who buried the doll in the coffin. You killed her and sliced the necks of those dolls.”

“As I said, she knew too much. Just like the others.”

“I don’t believe you,” Ava said, though it was a lie.

“Think about the scars on your arm! How do you think you got those, huh? You really believe you tried to commit suicide?” she taunted as Ava’s shoulder hit the wall. She’d run out of room, was now at the back door. “Don’t you remember who helped you into the tub, who lathered you up, who gave you wine . . . with a little bit of something else?”

Ava blinked. Tried to think. Good Lord, her head was heavy . . . so heavy. Like it had been on that night. When Wyatt had helped lower her into the tub, adding the bubble bath, kissing her slick neck, and lifting the razor to her arm . . . the bubbles turning pink with her blood . . .

She thought she might be sick. Wyatt? It had been Wyatt? He’d drugged her and slit her wrists in an attempt at a staged suicide? Denial burned through her, but it quickly fled as she realized she’d been Wyatt Garrison’s pawn and had made his life easier for a long time. He didn’t dare divorce her—it would cost him too much and he was greedy enough to want it all. And if he killed her, it would look suspicious, but if she descended into madness and killed herself. . . he would be the perfect martyred husband. Ava actually retched.

“So now you finally get it, don’t you?” Khloe sounded pleased, though her voice seemed weaker.

The knife! She started to pull it from her pocket, but the flashlight wagged in Khloe’s hands. “Ah, ah, ah!” Khloe set the flashlight on the counter. “Don’t even think about it. Of course you have another weapon. A backup. A knife? Pepper spray? Leave it.” She sucked her breath in through her teeth as if suddenly in pain.

Good!

“And about that little boy you’ve been so worried about, forget him. He died that night, Ava. Wandered off and drowned . . .”

“More lies!” Ava screamed, her insides shredding. Her fingers clamped tight around the knife.

“Face it, Ava, he’s gone. And you’ve spent all that money, all that time, all your sanity searching for a kid who’ll never come back. A kid fathered by your husband in an affair with your cousin.”

Ava barely heard Khloe’s explanation, her ranting, over the roar of denial thundering through her brain. Hearing that Noah was dead only furthered her despair. But now that she was unburdening herself, rubbing Ava’s nose in how clever she was, Khloe couldn’t stop. “Wyatt broke it off with Jewel-Anne after the accident, and she never let him forget that he owed her. She was such a bitch. But that was fine. It made it so easy for me to step in. At first Wyatt was comforting me, you know, with the loss of Kelvin, but things heated up quickly. As for Simon, he’s just another pawn. To make Wyatt jealous so he’d do something, get off his ass and find a way to get rid of you! But then, it was obvious that he wasn’t ever going to do anything.” She laughed bitterly. “And you’re such a moron, you never even suspected that Wyatt was with me and not that weak sniveling shrink!” She leaned against the counter, as if for support. “You know, Ava, you really do deserve to die! This is going to be fun.”

As if suddenly tired of all the talk, she lunged.

A loud screech erupted.

Khloe took a misstep.

A dark shadow, hissing and spitting scuttled over the floor.

The cat!

As Khloe tried to regain her footing, toppling forward, Ava yanked her knife from her pocket and pushed herself to her feet, trying to dodge the blow.

Too late. Khloe jabbed.

Pain exploded in Ava’s arm. She stumbled backward.

“Stings like a bitch, doesn’t it?” Khloe taunted, raising the knife once more.

“Tell me about it!” With all of her strength, Ava leaped at Khloe. She shoved her knife deep into Khloe’s chest, and the other woman staggered backward. Spinning, Ava ran for the back door. She shouldered her way past the screen and raced as fast as her legs would carry her along the path to the dock.

Away from Khloe she ran.

Away from Neptune’s Gate.

Away from the horrid knowledge that her son was dead.

Faster and faster she ran, forcing her legs to move, stumbling, her feet slipping on the wet gravel, the mist thick and wet against her skin.

Her thoughts were tumbling one after another, horrid, painful scenarios playing in her mind. Wyatt had tried to kill her, years before. He’d attempted to make it look as if she’d tried to commit suicide, and even now he was dead, lying in a pool of his own blood, but what really hurt, what caused the tears to flow from her eyes, was the suffocating truth that Noah was dead.

Dear God, why did he have to lose his precious little life?

Images of her son laughing, running, calling to her, flashed in her mind. “Mommy, you come, too! Mommy!” He had giggled before taking off, tiny legs moving fast as he’d looked over his shoulder to ensure that she was giving chase.

Sweet, sweet baby.

Oh, honey, Mama loves you . . . Mama . . .

Feeling the warmth of blood slide down her arm, she kept heading to the boathouse. If she could just start the damned thing . . . but as she ran, she noticed a light bobbing next to her . . .

The beam from Khloe’s flashlight.

Uneven footsteps were clattering after her.

Run, run, run! She’s injured. Worse than you. You can outrun her!

Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, Ava saw Khloe struggling, her face contorted in pain, blood running down one arm, a growing stain on her chest, the broken flashlight and knife in her free hand. Her eyes, focused on Ava, were black with loathing, her lips pulled back to bare her teeth. Propelling herself forward on pure hatred, she was relentless and her intent was clear: She was going to dispose of Ava as she had the others. No longer was she content to make it appear as if Ava had killed the other women. Now Khloe’s determination was single-minded: Ava was going to die!

Down the hill and onto the dock Ava sprinted, frantically, awkwardly. Her bare feet slapped on the wet planks, her lungs drank in the briny air, and she felt a release as she ran, her fear dissipating.

The fog was thickening, getting soupy. Though she couldn’t see across the bay, she heard the distinctive hum of boat engines coming closer, but suddenly she no longer cared about rescue.

The black water that stretched from the dock called to her, beckoned her, offered relief from the madness and pain that was her life. It would be so easy to jump. . . .

As if she sensed what was happening, Khloe yelled, “No, Ava, don’t! Let me have the satisfaction—”

Too late. She forced her legs to race even faster, closer and closer to the deep, dark void. The planks beneath her feet stopped suddenly, but she didn’t. At the end of the dock, she leaped high, flinging herself, body and soul, into the welcoming darkness.



Dern’s cell phone flashed for a second and he saw Ava’s text.

Khloe stabbed Wyatt. In the attic. Send help!

What the hell? Khloe stabbed Wyatt? He tried to call her cell again, but his damned phone failed.

“How much longer?” he yelled to Johansen.

“Five minutes.”

Too long. Five minutes was much too long.

“Make it three,” Dern yelled over the wind, his worried eyes trained on the darkness ahead. “And radio the cops. We’re going to need backup.”

“For what?” Johansen asked.

“I wish I knew.”

Hang on, Ava, just hang the hell on!

As Johansen reached for the radio microphone, Dern saw the few winking lights of Monroe far in the distance. Maybe they would make it. There was a chance! God he hoped so. Never had he felt so impotent. His back teeth ground together in frustration.

Khloe Prescott? She was behind it all? The murderer? Not Wyatt? Dern would have bet his life that Ava’s dick of a husband had been behind the plot to gaslight her, had been partnered with the dead cousin. But now Garrison was injured? Maybe dead? At Khloe’s hand?

His anxiety ratcheted up several notches. He only hoped Ava wouldn’t do anything stupid as he stared ahead and tried to make out the huge mansion or dock of Neptune’s Gate. But there was nothing but darkness.

Not a good sign.

The minutes stretched on forever.

Hurry, damn it!

He had to get to her.

Before it was too late.





Ice-cold water enveloped Ava, shocking her body, causing nerve synapses to spark for an instant, waking up her damned brain as she sank into the inky depths. Unfortunately, that skin-bracing moment of clarity lasted only a few seconds. She’d hoped the grogginess that had been overtaking her would be jolted out of her. But she’d been wrong. As soon as her body adjusted to the cold, her eyelids were heavy again. Adrenaline and icy water were no match for the drugs pumping through her veins, and deep in the salty water, she kicked without her usual strength. Fight, Ava, fight, the rational side of her brain silently screamed while the other, sadder part of her considered giving up. Letting go . . .

Slowly she rose to the surface, strings of air bubbles from her lungs spiraling upward with her.

There was a peacefulness under the water, a serenity, even though she heard the distant rumble of boat engines churning through the water, moving ever nearer.

She broke the surface and tossed her hair from her eyes, gulping air.

In the thin, bluish light from a boathouse security lamp, Khloe stood guard, as if she wouldn’t allow Ava out of the water. Pale and thin, a little unsteady, she still brandished her knife, still had fight in her, as if she were unaware of the blood dripping down her arm or discoloring her sweater.

“Go ahead. Stay there,” Khloe snarled, spying Ava and obviously satisfied to have her drown. “It’s perfect. You’ll die looking like the lunatic you are!” she yelled, but her voice was hoarse.

You die first, Ava thought, struggling to stay afloat and swimming closer to the dock.

“Just try it, bitch!”

The fight was leaving her, slowly seeping into the frigid, salty depths. Once a strong swimmer, she was now weak, losing blood, her will to live eroding.

She started to sink and flailed upward again, fighting the sedative. Cold water swirled around her, and she felt herself slipping ever deeper. Images of Dern and Noah filled her brain as she surfaced, coughed, her strength failing. Looking at the dock one last time, she saw Khloe, and this time someone was running through the shadows toward her.

Thank God!

Finally someone would help!

Tall, running fast, seeming familiar, he strode onto the dock and Khloe looked over her shoulder.

Watch out! Ava wanted to yell, to shout a warning. She’s got a knife! But as she tried to force the words over her lips, she started to recognize her savior. Her eyes rounded in disbelief. No, no, no! It couldn’t be.

But as the runner reached the glow of the lamplight, Ava saw the impossible unfold before her eyes as Wyatt reached his lover.

She couldn’t believe her eyes; she had to be hallucinating.

He was dead from a knife wound he’d received from Khloe. Even she’d admitted to killing him to . . . to leaving him for dead.

Ava stared, transfixed, as she floated, her mind spinning in crazy circles. Was he real? Or a figment of her tortured mind?

Like Noah.

You really are crazy!

In disbelief, she watched as he wrapped his arms around Khloe, holding her close, and turned to look at the bay and his drowning wife. He smiled then . . . as if this were all part of his, or hers, no their plan.

Her splintered mind told her that Wyatt was a figment of her imagination. He had to be . . . Nothing made sense. If Wyatt were truly alive, why would he and Khloe go to so much trouble to make you think he was dead, that Khloe had killed him?

To ensure her descent into madness, or better yet, to make her look even less stable, more paranoid when she talked to the police?

She didn’t understand, couldn’t begin to fathom the depths of their depravity.

She felt the water dragging her down, pulling her under, and she stared through a watery field of vision to watch as he kissed Khloe hard, with more passion than she’d thought him capable of. To make a point. The injured woman tried to return his fire, but she was swooning, blood dripping from her arm, and she finally dropped her knife and flashlight.

Ava, in one of her last conscious thoughts, realized his murder was all an act, one to get Ava to react, to force her outside, onto the dock and into the water. Stupidly, she’d fallen for it. No wonder the knife Khloe had brought downstairs had glinted clean, without any trace of blood. He’d obviously been wearing a protective vest.

But Khloe had not. A killer to her very soul, so certain she would overpower Ava, she’d let down her guard, left herself vulnerable.

Through the watery haze, Ava watched them kissing, ignoring her, knowing that they’d finally won. She would die looking like the paranoid mental case they’d always claimed her to be. And even Khloe’s wounds, which were visible, could be cast off as the result of a fight with Ava, who would be painted as the psychotic, knife-wielding assailant.

It was perfect . . .

Except Khloe seemed to be staggering, slipping out of Wyatt’s arms.

Not that it was of any consequence.

Not anymore.

Slowly Ava sank, the water crashing over her, in the very position where she’d always seen her son. God help me. Her head was pounding and the steady thump, thump, thump she heard was out of time with her heart, a bright light as luminous as the moon.

It didn’t matter.

So cold, she was so damned cold.

The bright light was beckoning her.

It was time to let go. . . .





“You got a gun on board?” Dern yelled over the roar of the boat’s engine as the Holy Terror approached the island. The prow of the boat was cutting through the water, angling toward Neptune’s Gate, close enough that the dock and boathouse were starting to emerge in the fog. There were other boats closing in on them, probably the sheriff’s department vessels, but the Holy Terror was still in the lead. Still, Dern feared they were too late. His guts twisted at the thought, and he nearly jumped out of his skin to get to the island.

Johansen, standing at the helm, squinted into the murky darkness. “I got a spear gun. Why?”

“That all?”

“F*ck, yeah, it’s all I got. All I ever needed. I’m a boat captain, not an assassin!”

“Get it! Wait, don’t you have a flare gun?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“Get that, too!”

Johansen threw him a look. “Why? What the hell’s going on?”

“Don’t know, but it’s not good.”

Staring into the darkness, he saw the security lamp mounted on the side of the boathouse come into view. Its bluish, thin light illuminated the dock, and he made out the images of two people. They were clinging to each other. Embracing. Almost holding each other up.

“What the f*ck?” Johansen saw them too.

So involved were they in each other that they didn’t look up as the boat neared. And then he saw the third person, in the water, lying facedown.

His heart stopped.

Ava! Oh, for the love of Christ . . . “Over there!” He pointed at the lifeless body, but Johansen was already turning the prow so that they could get closer to the unmoving form.

“Son of a bitch,” Johansen muttered.

Jesus, oh, Jesus! It couldn’t be Ava.

On the dock, the man was waving them off.

As if he were afraid they’d hit the drowning woman.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Johansen said. “Isn’t that—”

“Wyatt Garrison.” The prick himself. Involved with another woman. . . Khloe? The woman who was supposed to have stabbed him? Now they were embracing.

The whole scenario was bizarre, didn’t match with Ava’s panicked text, and yet there were dark stains on Garrison’s shirt, visible from the boat. Had he been attacked in a lovers’ quarrel and they made up?

He didn’t know what the hell had gone down out here on this miserable island, but he didn’t have time to figure it out. Johansen had pulled out the spear gun and the flare. Feeling time slipping away, Dern grabbed the smaller weapon, confirmed it was loaded. Ripping off his jacket and kicking off his shoes, he flung himself onto the deck rail and jabbed the gun into the waistband of his jeans.

“Holy Mother Mary,” Johansen said, slowing the Holy Terror as close to the body as he dared. “What the f*ck are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” As he heard shouts from the dock, Dern dived. Deep. Into the salty, frigid sea. He didn’t give a damn about the rest of them; he just had to get to Ava. She couldn’t be dead. Couldn’t! There had to be time!





“What the f*ck?” Snyder stared at the dock as they closed in on the island. The Holy Terror was already idling in the water not far from the boathouse, where two people, a man and a woman, were standing, huddled together. Another guy was swimming, and it looked as if there was a DB floating facedown.

“Looks like some major crap just went down,” Lyons said as she snapped her pistol from its holster. “Get in close,” she ordered the pilot. “It’s party time!”

Snyder, too, had pulled out his sidearm while he observed the scene on the dock. The man—Garrison?—seemed to wake up and notice the police cutter for the first time. His face changed expression from curiosity to sheer horror, as if in that instant he woke up to the enormity of what was happening.

As the boat moved in closer, he started backing up, dragging the woman with him. But she seemed a dead weight. A scarlet stain was visible on her sweater, a similar one on the front of Garrison’s shirt.

What the hell had gone on here?

“This isn’t good,” he said, but Lyons was keyed up. “We’ve got stragglers.” Two people in the water, another at the helm of the Holy Terror. Too many people who could get in the way. One seeming already dead.

Lyons said, “Maybe now we’ll finally get some answers.”

Overhead, in the thin fog, the loud whomp, whomp of rotors announcing its arrival, a police helicopter roared, its searchlight bearing down on the scene.

Garrison, suddenly appearing like a caged animal—no more hotshot lawyer attitude—glanced up at the chopper, then at the police boat. He seemed to panic and tried to haul the dead weight of Khloe Prescott with him.

“Nowhere to run. He’s on an effin’ island, for Christ’s sake,” Lyons said, then picked up the bullhorn. “This is the police!” she said, her voice magnified over the water. “Wyatt Garrison, put your hands over your head!”

Ignoring the command, he changed direction and dragged Khloe toward the boathouse.

“No way, Jose! Move in,” Snyder said to the pilot, reaching for his sidearm. “Block the exit. Don’t let that boat get to the open water.” He hooked his finger at the other boat. “And radio the bozo piloting that goddamned boat, the Holy Terror. Tell him to get the hell out of our way!”



Dern swam like hell toward Ava’s motionless body.

Thwump! Thwump! Thwump! The sound of a helicopter’s rotors tore through the night, and with it came an intense beam of light, illuminating the churning waters and the grounds of the estate.

God, how had this happened? How had he saved her once, only to lose her again? Rage fired his blood; adrenaline spurred him toward her.

Hang on, Ava. For the love of God, just hang on!

The sound of another boat’s engine cut through the night, but Dern focused on the body, limp and floating. He reached her in seconds, flipped her body, and as he’d been trained, he swam with her to the shore and the dock where Wyatt stared in disbelief.

“This is the police!” a woman yelled through a bullhorn, the sound echoing over the open water. “Wyatt Garrison, put your hands over your head!”

Wyatt glanced up at the helicopter, then back at Dern. “F*ck this!” He dragged Khloe toward the boathouse, but she was a dead weight, her heels scraping the boards. As Dern reached the shore and the helicopter roared, the police ordered him to stop again, and this time he let go of Khloe and, as if seeing the futility of trying to save her, seemed to decide to save his own damned skin. While Khloe slid to the planks of the dock, he made a run for the boathouse.

“Stop!” the police ordered as they maneuvered their boat to cut off Garrison’s escape. He slid to a stop and turned, ignoring orders to “Halt!” while Dern dragged a limp Ava onto the shore, carrying her over the rocks near the dock, watching as blood poured from a wound on her arm.

“Hang in there, Ava,” he whispered, afraid she was already gone. At that thought, something deep inside of him twisted painfully. He had no idea how long she’d been in the water, but she wasn’t breathing as he laid her on a strip of sand and checked her pulse. He felt nothing beneath his fingertips. He was too late! She was already gone, her body cold, her skin tinged blue.

“Come on, Ava,” he said, “Come on,” and he started CPR. He forced breaths into her lungs, did chest compressions, and he talked to her. “You can do this. Don’t give up, damn it!” More air into her lungs. “Ava, please! Come back to me. Oh, God . . . don’t die. Do you hear me? You. Can. Not. Die! I love you, damn it. Do you hear me? I love you.” His voice cracked, and though he willed her to live, he felt nothing beneath his hands. No response to the breath he forced into her lungs.

Not a damned thing.





“He’s getting away!” Lyons said, swearing under her breath as Garrison reached the boathouse and saw that he was blocked from making his escape. “Son of a bitch! Oh, shit, he’s got a gun!”

Snyder focused on the lawyer, saw him reach into his pocket and withdraw a pistol. “Son of a bitch!” This wasn’t going well. Not well at all. Already Dern had dragged the floater to the shore and was attempting CPR, but it looked too late for the woman. Though Snyder couldn’t see her face, he’d bet his badge that the drowned woman was Ava Garrison.

Lyons clicked on the bullhorn again. “Wyatt Garrison, drop your weapon. Slowly! Then—Oh, crap!”

Blam! Blam! Blam!

Garrison was firing wildly. One bullet struck the hull and another cracked the windshield of the department’s boat. Then he spun and took aim at Dern and the lifeless body lying near him.

“No effin’ way!” Snyder said, drawing a bead on him. He fired one warning shot as Lyons screamed into the megaphone, “Drop your weapon!”

“Oh, hell, he’s going to do it!”





Ava gasped, her lungs gurgling, water spouting from her nose and mouth. Her lungs were on fire and she coughed, dragging in lungful after lungful of air. It was dark, the world swimming, and she saw Dern’s face. Hovering over him was a bright light, and the noise was deafening, the air rushing wildly around them.

Where am I? She felt the sand beneath her, knew she was outside.

What’s happening?

“Ava!” Dern grinned down at her as the world spun. Quickly she turned over and retched, salt water pouring out of her nose and mouth, her stomach and lungs expelling all the water invading her body.

She was sick again as everything righted itself.

Blam! Blam! Blam!

Gunshots?

In an instant, it all came back to her, and as Dern fell against her, instinctively protecting her body with his, she looked over his wet shoulder and saw Wyatt, crouching on the dock, his pistol aimed straight at Dern’s back.

“No!” she screamed, terror rising in her eyes.

Dern turned, one hand going automatically to the waistband of his sodden jeans.

“Watch out!” she screamed, though her voice was raw.

Blam!

Another blast of Wyatt’s gun.

The sand near her head exploded as the bullet hit.

Springing to a crouch, his body between hers and the barrel of Wyatt’s pistol, Dern fired. Other guns blasted and she cringed. A hail of bullets hit the dock. Splintered wood went flying. Ava watched in horror as a massive explosion of color sparked from Wyatt’s face. Flesh and skin ripped, his eyes went wild, and he shrieked in agony. Sparks caught his hair on fire, bright flames shooting upward from his head. Screaming, his body jerking like a macabre marionette as other bullets hit him, he spun, still on fire, blood spurting from his body, and fell into the black waters.

She was sick all over again.

And then Dern held her close to his body, his heart pounding as the chaos of the police descended.

“You’re going to be all right,” he whispered against her hair.

In the shelter of his arms, she believed him. “I love you,” she whispered, and then with the loss of blood and near drowning, she let go, closing her eyes and letting the safety of unconsciousness drag her under. She thought she heard his voice crack as he said, “I love you, too,” but then there was nothing. . . .