The Runaway

by Lisa Childs

  Dr. Cooke’s smile slid down into a slight frown. “I heard about your unfortunate accident.”

  It had been unfortunate for her—even more unfortunate for whoever had been trying to get rid of her when they’d cut that brake line—because she wasn’t going anywhere. It hadn’t been an accident, though, but she suspected he knew that.

  “The sheriff asked for surveillance footage from the parking lot where you were parked,” he said. “I hope you don’t think someone sabotaged your vehicle while you were here for your interview.”

  Was that why he’d called her in for an interview? To set her up?

  “Did you give him the footage?” she asked.

  He sighed. “Unfortunately, by the time he’d produced a warrant, the footage he wanted had been recorded over.”

  Cold sank deeper into her flesh until she was chilled to the bone. Something must have been on that footage. Him? Was that where he’d gone when he’d disappeared during their interview? Maybe he hadn’t been getting rid of Genevieve’s things. Maybe he’d been cutting her brake line in order to get rid of her.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t help the sheriff’s investigation,” he said. “But I’m sure he’s mistaken about someone tampering with your brake line. He tends to see conspiracies where there are none.”

  She narrowed her eyes to study his handsome face. “Sounds like you and Sheriff Howell have a history.”

  That slight smile curved his lips again. “The sheriff and I went to elementary school together here on the island. He was quite the bully then.” His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Some things never change.”

  “It’s hard to imagine you as the victim of a bully,” she said. He was tall and broad, but more than physical strength, he had the power of the intelligence glowing in his eerie light-colored eyes.

  “Anyone can be a victim,” he said, and he studied her thoughtfully, almost as if he knew about her past, about her nightmares.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “And anyone can be a survivor.”

  “Fortunately, you seem to be,” he said. “The sheriff says you’ve survived two accidents.”

  She opened her mouth to deny that anything about the wrecks had been accidental, but another question slipped out instead. “Why did you ask me to come back here?” If it had been to set her up again, he was too smart to admit it. “Do you have more information about Genevieve?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know any more than I did the last time we spoke,” he said. “You haven’t heard from her?”

  “No.” After replacing her phone, she’d checked her voicemail. Unlike him, Genevieve had left her no messages. There had been no missed calls that could have been her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had hoped you would have heard from her by now. I know you’re worried.”

  Terrified was more like it, but she just nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “She’s a smart girl,” he said. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  Rosemary didn’t believe that Genevieve had been getting into the trouble Abigail claimed she had. Genevieve had been sheltered; Rosemary’s mother had seen to that, so that Genevieve would not embarrass her like Rosemary had. So that she wouldn’t be wild and take unnecessary risks. Running away was a risk she wouldn’t have taken ... unless she’d been running for her life.

  “I hope so, too,” she told Dr. Cooke. Hope was all she had of ever seeing Genevieve again—unless she could find some leads to her whereabouts, some reason that she might have run away. “Is that why you asked me here?” she wondered. “Just to find out if I’d heard from her?”

  He shook his head and gestured toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, take a seat,” he urged her. “Would you like anything? Coffee? Tea?”

  “Your receptionist already offered,” she said. “No, thanks.”

  He settled into the chair behind his desk and smiled at her again, that smile that didn’t warm his cold eyes. “Are you planning on staying on the island?” he asked. “Or will you be returning home to look for Genevieve?”

  “I’m not leaving,” she said.

  “But more than likely she’s back home—staying with whatever friend picked her up,” he said.

  “If that was the case, I would have heard from her,” Rosemary insisted.

  He sighed. “Teenagers—especially angry teenagers— often strike out at all the adults in their lives. She may not reach out to you for a while.”

  “Do you have a teenager?” she asked. The sheriff had one, and the two men were the same age.

  “No, I’m just speaking from professional experience, not personal,” he admitted.

  She couldn’t imagine a teenage girl striking out at him. His good looks would have them falling all over him to get closer, not farther away.

  “Of course, teenage girls aren’t my area of expertise,” he said. “Not that I have much time for counseling at all anymore with acting as director of Halcyon Hall.”

  “I’m sure you’re very busy,” she acknowledged. So why was he wasting his time with her?

  His smile curved slightly higher, as if he’d read her mind. “You can help me with that,” he said.

  She stiffened. He wanted her to stop bothering him. “I’m not leaving,” she began.

  “Good,” he interrupted. “I’d like for you to stay. I’d like for you to come on staff as our newest counselor.”

  “What?” she asked, shocked. “You’re offering me a job?”

  “On one condition,” he said.

  She suspected he wanted her to stop her investigation but asked anyway, “What is that?”

  “That you take the job for the right reason,” he said. “That you truly want to help people. That’s why the hall is here—to help.”

  A chill chased down her spine, but she resisted the urge to shiver. Instead she smiled. “I’m here to help, too.”

  Her daughter ...

  As if he’d read her mind, he chuckled. “I need your help with our current and future guests, not our previous ones.” The smile slid away from his handsome face. “No one can change the past, Ms. Tulle. No matter how much they might like to . . .”

  She wanted to ask what he wished he could change, because it was obvious there was something, but his door rattled with a knock.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I told her not to interrupt—”

  “It’s Dr. Chase,” her old mentor spoke through the door.

  Cooke must have pressed a button or something because the door suddenly opened. Gordon rushed toward her. “Thank goodness you came, Rosemary,” he said. “After what happened last time you were here, I was afraid you might not come back.”

  She smiled. “Me too. I was lucky I survived. The car was not as fortunate.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Oh, my goodness. The roads are just not very well maintained on the island. The limited crews can’t keep up with weather conditions.”

  Her accident had had nothing to do with weather conditions, but she refrained from telling him that. She was more interested in what Dr. Cooke had been saying, so she turned back toward him. “If you’re serious,” she said, “I will accept your job offer.”

  Gordon clapped. “That’s fabulous,” he said. “I’m so happy that you’ll be here to help. There are some patients—”

  “Guests,” Dr. Cooke corrected him. “We have guests at the hall—not patients.”

  Obviously, he was trying to distance himself from the specter of the psychiatric hospital the manor had once been. No matter how much he tried, she doubted that would ever happen.

  “I would love to get your input on some of these guests,” Gordon said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

  “Before she can see any guests, she’ll need to sign a contract,” Dr. Cooke reminded him.

  She didn’t just want to see the guests to ask about their problems; she wanted to ask them about Genevieve, too. She stood up and approached his desk. “Where is it?” she asked. “I’ll sign
.”

  “You don’t want to read it over first?” he asked. “You don’t want to negotiate?”

  She shook her head. “I just want to get started.”

  Gordon clapped again. “Good! That’s excellent.”

  “You looked over the contract before you signed,” Cooke reminded him. “You negotiated.”

  Dr. Chase smiled. “Rosemary isn’t as mercenary as I am. I’m sure she’ll be happy with whatever you offer her.”

  Because she wasn’t here for the money.

  Dr. Cooke must have told him that she was really Genevieve’s mother. Gordon stared at her as if he was trying to peer inside her soul. Of course, he’d always looked at her that way—as a friend of her father’s and later as her professor.

  But then she hadn’t believed he’d really seen it. Now he did.

  Because Genevieve was her soul.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” she told Dr. Cooke. But she was cautious enough to take a moment to read it over while the two men talked of other things, of the weather, of the chef’s latest culinary creation ...

  Fortunately, the contract held a trial period during which either party could terminate it. So if Genevieve showed up, Rosemary would be able to leave. She had to show up.

  Rosemary picked up a pen from the desk and the conversation ceased between the men. The sound of the pen point scrawling across the paper was the only sound in the room ... until Dr. Chase released a shaky sigh.

  “So we’ve got her now,” he said. “And we’re not going to let her leave.” He clapped his hands together with glee.

  Maybe a little too much glee for Rosemary’s peace of mind. But she had always enjoyed her father’s friend’s enthusiasm for life and for his work. Despite his age, he had a timeless vitality to him, which was probably why he always gravitated toward younger people. He was the reason why she’d chosen to pursue her own career in psychology.

  A grimace briefly contorted Dr. Cooke’s handsome face. “She will be free to leave if she chooses,” he said almost defensively.

  “Let’s hope she chooses to stay then,” Dr. Chase remarked. “Let me show you around the old place, Rosemary.”

  “It’s not old,” Cooke said with another grimace, and there was definitely a defensive tone to his suddenly sharp voice.

  Unabashed at his boss’s not so subtle rebuke, Dr. Chase chuckled. “Elijah would like to forget what this place once was,” he said, as he guided Rosemary toward the door with a hand on her back, “but his efforts are futile. Nobody else will ever let him forget.”

  Rosemary waited until the door closed, shutting Dr. Cooke alone in his office while they walked down the hall. Then she asked, “Was it as bad as everyone says it was?”

  Dr. Chase shrugged. “Its legend has taken on a life of its own.”

  “I’ve met someone who was here,” she said, “back then. She has nightmares about it.” Nightmares were the least of the problems that Bainesworth Manor had caused Bonita—at least according to her sister. But Evelyn must have been a child when her sister had been a patient at the asylum, though. Maybe she was only romanticizing how her sister had been before her stay.

  Dr. Chase squeezed her hand. “She’s not the only one who has nightmares.” He was staring at her now, at the circles that she hadn’t quite been able to conceal beneath her eyes. “I think I know what yours are about now.”

  She sighed. “I’ve always known.”

  “You were so young, Rosemary. Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice cracking with concern. “Why didn’t you come to me all those years ago?”

  She shook her head. “My mother . . .”

  He sighed. “Your mother. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know.” He grimaced. “Probably especially me.”

  “Probably,” she acknowledged. Her mother hadn’t appreciated his checking up on them as much as Rosemary had.

  “Who’s the father?” he asked.

  “I thought I knew . . .” She sucked in a breath. But dare she believe Whit as much as she wanted to? “But that night ... it’s all a blur.”

  “A nightmare,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” she said. “I need to find Genevieve. You can talk to me about her now. You can tell me if you really think she ran away.”

  “She did,” Dr. Chase said. “She hated it here.”

  Rosemary couldn’t deny that; she’d heard the hatred in that voicemail Genevieve had left her. But she’d heard more than that. “She was afraid to be here,” Rosemary said. “Do you know why?”

  From what she’d seen of the place, it was quite luxurious with marble and hardwood floors, coffered ceilings, and expensive furnishings. And all the leaded glass windows would have let in much light if the dark clouds hovering over the island ever let any sunshine through.

  He shook his head. “There are people who feed into the legend, into the old stories. It’s why some of them come here to stay—for the ghosts. Maybe one of them got to her.”

  “She didn’t talk to you?”

  He shook his head again. “I think she blamed me for her being here.”

  “Oh, no . . . that’s why . . .”

  He nodded. “I suggested the hall when your mother called to ask my opinion about another facility. I thought this would be better for Genevieve because I would be here. But she felt like I betrayed her.” He squeezed Rosemary’s hand. “She felt like you betrayed her, too. That’s probably why you haven’t heard from her.”

  “How do you know I haven’t?” she asked.

  “You wouldn’t be here if you had,” he said. “And you wouldn’t have those dark circles—unless your nightmares are causing those. I know you’re worried about her, Rosemary, but you need to worry about yourself. You need to put the past behind you once and for all.”

  “I have—I—”

  “You have not,” he said. “Or you’d be able to sleep at night. You need to know the truth. I can help you . . . if you’ll let me.”

  “Dr. Cooke hired me to help the guests,” she reminded him. “Not for you to help me.”

  Gordon grinned. “He’s a better man than anyone will give him credit for. He did this to help you as much as for you to help his guests. Maybe more so.” His brow furrowed. “Actually he would probably be able to help you more than I would ... with those nightmares . . .”

  Ignoring his persistence, she brought the subject back to what was most important to her. “So you don’t think he has anything to do with Genevieve’s disappearance?”

  “She ran away, Rosemary.”

  “Then why did someone mess with my car while I was here for my interview?”

  He shrugged. “Are you sure it was really messed with?”

  “The sheriff said—”

  “The sheriff has a personal vendetta against Elijah,” he said. “He’ll say or do anything to implicate him and this place in a crime. He even tried blaming them for his wife’s death.”

  “What?”

  “She came here to get away from him, from his abuse,” he said. “But she still felt so hopeless that she wound up killing herself.” His brow furrowed. “Or at least the sheriff claims it was a suicide. From the bruises on her wrists, I have my doubts.”

  “You really think he could be responsible? That he could be a killer?” She’d trusted this man to help her—despite all the times he’d refused. Dare she trust anyone on this island?

  Even Dr. Chase?

  Someone else flitted into her mind with his chiseled features and warm green eyes: Whit. Could she trust him? He’d showed up on the island though—just about the time her brake line had been cut. Despite Dr. Chase’s suspicions about the sheriff, Rosemary believed someone must have cut the line. Why else would she have so abruptly lost her ability to brake the car?

  It must have happened here. How would Whit have gotten inside the gates that she’d struggled for days to get inside?

  No. Perhaps Whittaker Lawrence was the only person she could trust. Something she wouldn
’t have believed until she’d come to the island, until she’d begun to face her nightmare.

  Maybe Dr. Chase was right; she needed to know the truth. For her sake and for Genevieve’s.

  “How would you help me find out what really happened that night?” she asked.

  He stilled and stared at her. “Uh . . . you’d consider it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hypnosis,” he said. “That would be the best way to bring you back to when the nightmare started, to find out what it really means.”

  The thought of returning to that night made her feel physically ill. But then she went back so often already. “I don’t know. . . .” she murmured. “I don’t know if I’d like to do that.”

  At least not alone ...

  Not with just the doctor to guide her through the nightmare. She needed someone else, someone who would be there for her. And for the first time she realized how alone she actually was. She always shut down every relationship before it could become too close, too important, too intimate. She shut down every chance she had of being hurt. Again ...

  “Rosemary . . .”

  She shook her head. “I’ll think about it,” she promised.

  “You can trust me,” he said, as if he’d read her mind.

  She smiled. “I want to focus on my new job,” she said, “on the guests. Tell me about the current ones.” Because when she was focused on other people’s problems, she could forget about her own.

  At least for a little while ...

  She could forget the nightmares. But she couldn’t forget that Genevieve was missing. But maybe when she talked to some of these guests, they would be able to provide clues as to what had happened to her daughter.

  * * *

  “What the hell were you thinking?”

  Elijah turned toward Jamie. Or Bode as he preferred to be called now that he was a big boy. To Elijah, he would always be the annoying chubby little kid that had followed him around—until Elijah had finally gotten off the island.