*
There was a flurry of activity then. Sheriff Goolsby and his deputy seemed to fill the tiny landing with their male presence. Brooke shrank back against the wall, her knees drawn tightly to her chest, as an EMT and an ambulance, hastily summoned from the state park, arrived to bandage C. D., hook up IV tubes, and transport him out of the lighthouse and to the sheriff’s boat waiting at the dock at Shellhaven. Before they left, Brooke allowed them to clean and bandage the gash on her cheek.
“Might need stitches,” the burly EMT muttered.
Lizzie and Felicia hovered protectively beside Brooke as she numbly answered the sheriff’s questions, while the deputy quietly went about his business photographing the scene and taking notes and measurements.
“She’s told you everything she knows,” Felicia said after the sheriff asked for the third time why a rich, successful Savannah attorney like Gabe Wynant had ended up dead on Talisa Island.
“She’s in shock,” Lizzie agreed. “No more questions. You can call her tomorrow if you think of anything else.”
They waited until the others had gone. “Okay, the coast is clear,” Lizzie said, watching the parade of trucks motoring away from the lighthouse. “Let’s go home now, Brooke.”
They pulled her to her feet. Brooke took two steps, then froze. “I can’t,” she gasped. “The stairs … dizzy.”
“You’ve got this,” Lizzie said firmly. She wound an arm around Brooke’s waist. Felicia took Brooke’s left arm and placed it across her own shoulders.
“We’re just going to take it nice and slow,” Felicia said soothingly. “Close your eyes. Take a step when we tell you.”
“I’ll fall!” Brooke started to tremble. “I’ll fall, and I’ll pull you down with me.”
“You won’t,” Lizzie said. “We’ve got you. We won’t let you fall. Not ever.”
65
The emergency room admitting clerk called her name loudly. “Brooke Trappnell?”
Felicia and Lizzie walked with her to the doors leading to the triage area, where a nurse in purple scrubs stood waiting, a clipboard tucked under her arm. “Sorry. I can’t let visitors back there. Family only.”
“We’re her family,” Felicia said.
“Sisters,” Lizzie agreed.
The nurse rolled her eyes at the improbability of the statement but showed them back to a curtained-off treatment room. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”
Brooke sat on the narrow bed while Felicia leaned against the wall and Lizzie perched on a low rolling stool. Her head was pounding, and the gash on her cheek throbbed. She looked down at herself. Her hands and arms were bruised, her clothes were filthy and blood-spattered. “God, I’m a mess.”
“You’re alive. That’s what counts. You scared the living bejesus out of us, you know,” Felicia said.
Lizzie nodded solemnly. “Yeah. We heard the shots just as we were pulling up to the lighthouse. We didn’t know if you were dead or alive, or what.”
“How did you even know where I was?”
“It was Farrah. You’d better give that girl a raise,” Felicia said. “After that wacky call from you, she knew something bad was going down over there. I guess you gave her some clue about being at the lighthouse. Where she and Jaxson partied? She called the sheriff, and then she called the house phone at Shellhaven.”
“And I picked up,” Lizzie said. “The poor kid was frantic. She was trying to tell me about Gabe and some tax liens and bad checks, and I didn’t really know what any of it meant, but she convinced me that you were in some kind of trouble.”
The nurse pulled the curtain aside. “You’ve got more company. I’d say this is probably your real family.” She glared at Lizzie and Felicia. “You two will have to leave.”
Marie and Gordon stepped into the already cramped space.
Gordon’s face paled when he saw his bruised and blood-spattered daughter. “Jesus! What did that animal do to you?”
Marie nodded at Lizzie. “Thanks so much for calling to let me know what happened.”
“It looks worse than it really is,” Brooke said. “The EMT said they’ll probably just give me a few stitches. I’m fine, really.”
“You two,” the nurse said, pointing to Felicia and Lizzie. “Out.”
“Can’t they stay? Just for a few minutes?” Brooke pleaded.
“The doctor is finishing up with a patient now. When he’s ready for you, they’ll have to leave,” the nurse relented.
“I spoke briefly with somebody in the sheriff’s office while we were driving down here,” Gordon said. “They wouldn’t tell me much. Just that there’d been an incident over on Talisa and that two people were injured. I hope to God Gabe Wynant is the other injured party.”
“Gabe is dead,” Brooke said quietly.
“Good. Saves me the trouble of doing it myself.”
Brooke’s head felt like it was in a vise. “I don’t understand. Dad, what are you doing here? What’s any of this got to do with you?”
“You’re my daughter. You were nearly killed today. Why wouldn’t I be here?” Gordon said, bristling.
“Your dad called me this morning. He was insistent that I make you listen to the truth about Gabe,” Marie said.
“You always assume the worst about me,” Gordon said bitterly. “And Patricia. Who was only trying to warn you about that snake—”
“Gordon?” Marie’s voice held a warning note. “Let’s not get into the family dynamics. Just tell our daughter what you told me this morning.”
“Um, maybe we’d better let you guys have some space,” Felicia said.
Lizzie nodded. “We’ll go check out the coffee situation in the cafeteria.”
The two beat a hasty retreat.
“Gabe Wynant was the executor of Patricia’s uncle Robert’s estate,” Gordon began. “Robert Zehring founded Chatham Community Bank, which got bought out by a bigger bank in Charlotte fifteen years ago. Robert’s been dead six or seven years. Patricia’s aunt Ellie is in a nursing home, suffering with dementia, so Patricia’s been trying to help untangle her finances, but she could never get a straight answer out of Gabe. She started doing some digging and discovered there was some funny business with the trust accounts. We hired a forensic accountant and, long story short, discovered Gabe had been treating Ellie’s trust account like it was his personal piggy bank. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had gone missing.”
“And that’s not the only client he’s defrauded, right?” Marie looked at Gordon.
“I’ve been making quiet inquiries around town,” Gordon said. “There are two others that I know of. Gabe was slick, I’ll give him that.”
Brooke’s stomach heaved. She made it into the adjacent bathroom just in time. Marie was by her side in an instant, holding her hair as Brooke hunched miserably over the commode, then helping her back to the examining table.
The curtain parted, and a white-coated doctor appeared. “Brooke Trappnell? I’m Dr. Schaefer.”
“We’re her parents,” Marie said. “Can we stay?”
The nurse came in, bearing a plastic-covered stainless steel tray.
“Better not to,” Schaefer said. “Stitches and all. I’ll send for you when we’re done here.”
He turned to Brooke. “How do you feel?” he asked when they were alone, leaning in to look at her face. “This cut is pretty deep. Does your head hurt?”
“It’s killing me,” Brooke said.
“Nauseous?”
“Very,” she admitted.
He held a small penlight and examined her closer. “Does this light hurt your eyes?”
“Yes.” She winced, closed her eyes, and turned away.
“And how did you get these injuries?”
She gave him the condensed version, telling him about the dizziness and panic that seized her as she was climbing the lighthouse stairs, and about falling and hitting her head, and then being struck by Gabe.