“Physically, yes.” Ivy could feel her father’s fingers pushing back the hair from her forehead. “Emotionally? After all she’s been through . . . with Andrew? She’s never been the same since. I lost them both the day he drowned. In different ways. So, I don’t know, Joel. I don’t know if she’ll ever recover,” Dr. Thorpe said.
Darkness crowded in on Ivy once more, except this time it was different. It summoned the pain she’d never buried. The pain of Andrew, the pain of Joel’s abandonment, and the aching question: Why had he come home?
The second time she awoke, the memories came with force. Foster Hill House, the scarlet bed, a volume of Great Expectations, and the attack.
Ivy’s eyes flew open and she sat up in a swift motion. The room spun, and she blinked rapidly as shutters of black closed across her vision.
“Slow down,” the voice beside her murmured. She had no choice but to yield to the pressure of a hand on her shoulder, urging her back onto the pillows.
Ivy turned her head, her gaze landing on a muscled forearm, rolled-up sleeves of a blue cotton shirt, and the clean-cut jaw of Joel. She closed her eyes. More to avoid seeing his disapproval than from the spots still swirling in her vision.
Yet he didn’t say anything, so after a few moments Ivy attempted to open her eyes again. Her body awakened to the sore muscles from her tumble down the stairs. Her jaw hurt from where she had struck it on a step as she’d twisted from beneath the man’s wicked grip.
Her eyes met Joel’s. There was no criticism in his expression. She was taken aback by the tenderness she saw there, until it disappeared and his face transformed into the detective he was instead of the friend he’d once been.
“Did you see the man who did this to you?”
Yes. This was the Joel she was fast becoming accustomed to. Ivy looked away, toward the window and the trees that waved black, bare branches against a blue sky.
“No.” There wasn’t any need to expound further.
“Any physical features at all?”
“Outside of the fact that his arm around my throat was like a steel bar? No.”
Silence. Ivy should feel bad for snapping at Joel. But with awareness seeping into every cell of her throbbing body, the need to distance herself from this man at her bedside grew.
“Did he speak to you? Did you recognize his voice?”
Ivy bit her lip, then reconsidered when she bit down on a bruise. Tears burned her eyes but didn’t fall. She wanted to sleep, to curl deep into the covers and not see the light of day for hours, days even.
“Ivy?” Joel pressed.
She turned her head on the soft pillow but kept her eyes closed. “He spoke, but I didn’t recognize his voice.”
“What did he say?”
“Stop, Joel.” Ivy lifted her eyelids. “Please.”
His blue stare drilled into her. In another time and place, she might have been able to interpret the look in his eye. Now he was a stranger. A stranger who still stirred something deep inside of her. She resisted that. “Please, stop fact-gathering.”
“I need to know, Ivy. This man—he could have hurt you worse. We need to find him to determine why he’s targeting beautiful women.”
Beautiful. Ivy picked at a loose thread on the blanket that covered her. She’d never known he considered her beautiful. She stole a glance at Joel. In all her resentment toward him, she’d neglected to notice his demeanor had shifted over the years. Gone was the boy who smiled, who laughed, and who put her in her place as he toyed with the ends of her braid. The pragmatic and calculating personality hints she’d witnessed in the orphan boy had swallowed the mischievous boy whole.
Andrew’s death had darkened them both.
Yet, in spite of what happened, in spite of what Joel had done, she still missed him.
“Why did you come home?”
Joel blinked, his expression remaining impassive. “I was hired by Sheriff Dunst.”
It was a bland answer. Unsatisfactory, and the vagueness of it hurtful.
“Because of all the crime in Oakwood?” Ivy regretted speaking, the irony in her tone not only sounded wicked, but the quick flash of hurt in Joel’s eyes made guilt clutch her heart. But she shouldn’t feel guilty. He owed her an explanation she could accept.
“Because I inquired, and because it was offered.”
Fine then.
“Ivy, not now.” Joel’s eyes connected with hers, searching, pleading.
He was right. Now wasn’t the time. Not when her brain was fuzzy, muddled from her fall, when Gabriella’s baby was unaccounted for, and when a potential killer was still haunting Foster Hill.
Joel’s hand rested on the edge of her bed, its weight tugging the blanket tight at her side. The scent of his spicy cologne tempted her with its warmth, as if he himself were a safe refuge. So contradictory to her memories. It was an invisible pull, and one Ivy didn’t have the strength to resist. She moved her hand down her side until her smallest finger touched his skin. His hand didn’t stir, didn’t even twitch. She considered pulling away—she should pull away—but just as Ivy determined to, Joel’s finger curled around hers. There was no forgiveness in their connection, only longing for what should have been, instead of what was.
Chapter 8
The third bedroom was far less daunting in daylight. Even the bed, with its scarlet blanket askew and the mattress covered in debris and mice droppings, was sad. It was Joel who was intimidating. He glowered at Ivy from the doorway, his arms crossed, the scowl on his face harsh. Their carriage ride to the house on Foster Hill had been one of silence. He preferred she stay in bed, but Ivy had had enough. Twenty-four hours in bed had only sealed fate if Gabriella’s baby had been left behind in the cold. The very idea ate at her insides and made Ivy’s own pain unimportant.
“Stop looking at me as if I’m a pariah.” She twisted one of her dark strands of hair around her finger. It was hanging loose. It hurt too badly to put it up proper.
“I’ve not disowned you, but I’m coming awful close.”
She gave Joel a sharp glance. He hadn’t disowned her? Then what did the last twelve years without even a letter mean?
“I need to tell you what happened to me here, before I forget the details.” Ivy chose to ignore the more personal train of thought and focus on Gabriella and her baby instead. “The baby—”
“Ivy.” Joel’s hand on her arm caused her to pull back. He hesitated before he returned it to his side. “You need to trust that Sheriff Dunst and I are putting forth every effort to find out who Gabriella was and where her baby is.”
“I do.” She didn’t, but for now she preferred to lie.
The look he gave her was dubious at best. He ignored exploring further the truth behind her assertion. “What do you remember?”
Yes. Anything. She would do anything to help find Gabriella’s killer and now her own attacker. Ivy pushed a curl behind her ear and the movement made her grimace. Her shoulder was sore and bruised from hitting the stairs when she’d been pushed. It even hurt to talk.
“I was standing here. No. No, I was kneeling. By the bed.” Ivy remembered now. A beam of light through the lone window had illuminated the floor at the end of the bed. “I noticed the blanket. It was very red in the moonlight. I thought maybe Gabriella had slept on the bed before.”