Koa knew Kimmy Baker’s father.
“Ah,” I said. As thoughts whirled through my brain, I glanced at Doro. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed.
Did she have any idea that Koa was here because of Kimmy’s father? Surely she would’ve mentioned that back when we discussed him before. And if she didn’t know about their connection, was I obligated to tell her? She’d suffered so much because of people’s whims and ulterior motives. But dammit, I had no interest in ratting out Koa or causing any trouble between him and Doro. And what would I say, anyway?
Just want to let you know Koa is tight with the father of the little girl everybody thinks you murdered.
That could not go over well. Not in any scenario.
I decided to sidestep the issue, for the time being. I’d get Koa to tell me what the hell he was doing here and then figure out what to do.
“No luck,” I said. “I can’t seem to find anything about Kim’s father.”
Koa leapt up and crossed the room. He checked the bag, rattled the IV stand beside me. “How are you feeling?” he asked briskly.
“Good,” I said. Snapped the laptop shut. “Good.”
“Ready to get this cath out?”
“Is it done?”
He didn’t meet my eyes, just dropped beside me and motioned for my arm. I offered it to him, and, unceremoniously, he ripped off the tape.
“Ow,” I said.
Doro stood, was stretching and going to collect Koa’s mug. “Take it easy on her, Koa.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
Koa removed the needle. A drop of blood oozed from the hole in my arm and dripped down to my wrist. He grabbed my arm, pulled it straight, and smacked a bandage over the spot. I tried to pull away, but he didn’t release me. His fingers dug into my arms until I lifted my eyes to meet his. In them, I saw a glint that was clearly a warning.
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 10
Herb Murphy announced at breakfast that he felt the early signs of a hurricane. The remaining guests—most of them still pale and dyspeptic from the ravages of the stomach virus—trudged to their rooms to pack their belongings.
A grim-faced Delia pulled Herb into the library, and Fay heard the woman’s high, sharp voice. She hustled Kitten away, down to the dock to see everyone off.
“She’s angry,” Herb told Fay when he joined them later. He waved at the departing guests. No one waved back.
For a minute Fay couldn’t formulate a reply. Then she managed, “I suppose it’s because some of them will expect a refund. It’s hard to believe—the sky is as blue as can be.”
Herb looked at her for a moment, like he didn’t comprehend her words. Then he glanced over at Kitten. She had climbed one of the slick piers and was balancing perfectly on its top, on her toes, arms out like a trapeze artist.
“Storm’s still a ways off.”
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It had been two days since I figured out Koa knew Neal Dwayne Baker, but even then, I didn’t have any actual proof of their connection. Well, none other than the look on Koa’s face when he realized I’d stumbled upon Baker’s blurb on the Internet.
After ripping out my IV, he had practically run out of the house, and I hadn’t seen a trace of him since. Which was probably all the answer I needed—Koa was linked to Neal Baker, maybe even in a father-son sort of way, and he had, in all probability, come to Bonny at the behest of the man.
The motivation was murkier. But only two options seemed viable: he was on a mission either to gather information on Doro or to execute some sort of revenge for Kimmy’s death.
He was supposed to give me my final treatment for the week either today or tomorrow. Which was definitely going to be awkward. Would he talk to me or ignore the Neal Baker situation completely? Maybe I should take the lead and address it head-on, I thought. I’d either clear the air or blow the whole damn thing up.
I needed answers. Well, scratch that—I wanted answers. What I needed to do was get this book finished. When I spotted an email in my inbox from Asa, relief flooded me.
Stellar stuff, Meg. You’re a magician. Keep going. Don’t stop, don’t let up. I want a detailed blow-by-blow on how Frances screwed the whole Kitchens family over. And look, I’m not going to bother you anymore. No more needy voice mails, scout’s honor. I’ll handle the Frances fallout. You just work. Cheers, Asa.
The poor guy sounded desperate. Frances had probably set her team of lawyers on him, deluged him with threatening emails and letters. I was willing to bet she’d called him as well, treated him to one of her famous terrifying tirades.
I closed my computer and sat back in the desk chair. Chewed on my thumbnail. I thought I should get in a few more Kitten chapters before breakfast. I could afford to take a break. I’d already worked on my book for the past hour and a half, and was close to finishing the full draft in the next day or so.
I reached for Kitten, found the last dog-eared page, and settled down to read. After a couple of paragraphs, however, something began to nag at me. I stared at the words. The page was pristine. No annotation marred the spaces. Susan Doucette hadn’t underlined a single sentence or scribbled any notes in the margins. Not on this page or in the previous chapter.
I pushed myself against the bank of pillows and flipped through the next chapters. All the annotations were gone. The margins were blank, no words circled or underlined. I paged to the end of the book. Nothing. It was as if Susan Doucette had given up.
A coil of tension tightened inside me. I held my place and flipped to the cover page. It was blank.
No Susan Doucette, Age Twelve.
No Aunt Jo.
I thumbed through the first half of the book, frantically searching for any trace of Susan. There were no notes or underlined passages. It was all gone.
I scrambled up and ran out of the room. Clattered down the steps and out the front door. Esther was on the front porch, pushing a mop over the red tiles, having an animated conversation with what appeared to be an invisible person. I positioned myself in her path, fists planted on my hips.
“I’ll call you back.” Esther touched the Bluetooth in her ear. “Everything all right, Miss Meg?”
I held up the paperback. “Where’s my book?”
“Miss Meg—”
“What have you done with it?”
Her face darkened. “I’m sorry. Really sorry, Miss Meg.”
“It’s fine, just . . . just tell me what happened and, for God’s sake, stop . . . Just call me Meg, okay?”
She dunked the mop in the pail. “I was cleaning your room. Your bathroom, and I saw the book by the tub. I’d never read it, so I picked it up and sort of . . . went through it.”
“Okay.”