by Lisa Childs
Her hands, which had been tight fists against his chest, clutched at his shoulders instead, as she clung to him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry . . .”
He slid his arms around her, holding her close to his chest where his heart beat fast and frantically for her. For her fear. “Rosemary . . .” He wanted to say more, but he didn’t know how to help her. “I wish I could do something to end this nightmare for you.”
“You are,” she said, as her breath escaped in a shaky sigh and her body melted against his. “Just by holding me, by being here . . . I’ve felt so alone for so long.”
“So have I,” he admitted.
Her arms tightened around him. “I’m sure you have,” she said. “And I’m sorry that you went through that, that you lost so much.”
His wife and daughter hadn’t been his first loss, though. Rosemary had been.
“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you,” he said, “that I dropped out of your life as abruptly as I did.”
“You said it wasn’t your choice. My mother threatened you.”
“Yes, but I shouldn’t have let her intimidate me. I should have stood up to her.” He’d felt so ineffectual back then, so much like he hadn’t belonged anywhere. Certainly not in that prep school with all those wealthy kids who’d known their fathers. Rosemary had been the only person who’d ever accepted him for him.
“You were a kid,” she reminded him. “And my mother can be pretty damn intimidating.”
“Yes, she can.” But he should have been stronger—for Rosemary. He couldn’t imagine how she must have felt when he just stopped having any contact with her—when she thought ...
“I wish there was a way we could figure out what happened that night,” he said, “after your mother threw me and the other kids out.”
“Everybody else left, too?” she asked.
He nodded. “I made some of them leave,” he said. Those sons of bitches who’d confessed to drugging her drink so that she would sleep with the maid’s bastard kid. “And some more ran out when they saw your mother’s car heading up the driveway. The few that were left were tossed out with me, or so I thought.”
“It really wasn’t you,” she murmured.
“Didn’t you talk to anyone after that night?” he asked.
She shook her head. “My mother pulled me out of school. She blamed everybody—including me—for my going bad. I was sent off to a boarding school until I started showing—then she brought me back to be home-schooled until the baby came.” Emotion cracked her voice. “Until Genevieve came . . .”
“You’ll find her,” he said. He only hoped that when they did, the girl was alive. Rosemary couldn’t lose her child twice.
She shook her head. “I’m not so sure. I don’t know why I haven’t heard from her.”
“Do you think she found out?” he wondered. “That she learned you’re her mother?”
“And she’s mad at me for lying to her?” She shrugged. “It’s possible. But I would think that she would at least give me a chance to explain or ask me questions.” She sighed. “Questions I don’t have the answers to.”
“Like who her father is,” Whit replied.
“There is a way that I can find out,” she said. “A psychiatrist at the hall, an old professor of mine, suggested hypnosis.”
Nerves knotted his stomach muscles. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“No,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to relive that night—alone.”
“I’ll go with you,” he offered. His campaign manager would probably go ballistic if he knew how involved Whit was getting with the hall and Rosemary Tulle. But Whit was determined to do the right thing for her this time. “I want to be there.”
Her breath shuddered out with relief. “Thank you . . .” Then she leaned forward and brushed her mouth across his.
He wanted to kiss her back—really kiss her, but he didn’t want to scare her with his passion or violate the trust she’d given him. He just stroked her cheek with fingers that shook slightly and smiled. “Thank you,” he said, “for believing me . . .”
She had no reason to—nothing but his word. And she’d taken him at it. But he wondered if she still had doubts....
She jumped up from the bed. “I should get back to my room before Bonita realizes I stayed here.”
He chuckled at that and at how stealthily she cracked open the door and checked the hall before leaving him. Moments later he heard her talking to someone, but he heard only her voice so she must have been on the phone. He took a moment to check his own messages. He hadn’t heard his phone ring, but he had a voicemail from the investigative reporter. When he listened to it, he felt sick and his concern for Rosemary increased.
While he wanted to be with her, he also needed to regroup before he saw her again, so he did the same thing she had, checking the hall before he hurried across it to the bathroom. He took a long shower, hoping the steam would get some of the wrinkles from his shirt. But when he returned to his room, he found an ironing board and iron in the closet. He was standing in his pants and undershirt, ironing his dress shirt when his door opened.
“It’s set up,” Rosemary told him as she stepped inside his room. She’d changed into jeans and a black sweater, maybe wanting to be comfortable for what was to come. “Dr. Cooke is going to do it.”
He tensed and hesitated, wondering if he should tell her what Edie had learned.
“Did you change your mind?” she asked. “Don’t you want to do this?”
“No,” he said. “I want to know as much as you do.” Maybe more. If one of his former prep school classmates had hurt her, Whit would deliver a sentence no matter how long ago the statute of limitations had expired.
She nodded. “Then let’s do this before I change my mind.”
He would tell her about Edie’s call after she was hypnotized. He didn’t want her postponing it for any reason. Maybe it would even help her, not just with the nightmares from her past but with her current nightmare of not knowing where her daughter was. Maybe it would provide a clue that he and the investigative reporter hadn’t been able to find. He turned off the iron and put on his warm shirt. After buttoning it up and putting on his tie and suit jacket, he said, “I’m ready.”
“I don’t want to wrinkle your shirt again,” she said as she slid her arms around his waist and hugged him against her. “But I want you to know how much I appreciate you staying here. I don’t know how I’d do this alone.”
“Just like you’ve done everything else,” he said as he patted her back, his hand sliding over the softness of her sweater. “You’re very strong, Rosemary.”
“I hope so,” she said. “I hope so. . . .”
Obviously, despite the drugs those idiots had slipped into her drink, she remembered enough about what had happened that it caused her to have nightmares. She knew it was going to be painful, and he didn’t want to put her through more pain.
“Maybe this isn’t the best—”
She pulled back and pressed her fingers over his lips. “Don’t. Don’t give me any doubts now.”
He nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”
Despite the sisters’ objections, they refused breakfast and headed straight for the hall. Rosemary drove through another gate in the stone wall. It was as high as the visitors’ gates and just as formidable.
“Why the wall?” he murmured. “To keep people out or . . .”
“To keep people in,” she finished for him. “When it was an asylum, it was probably to keep the people inside.”
“Why’d they bother renovating the place with the reputation it has?”
“Not renovating it would have been a waste of beautiful property on a beautiful island.”
He didn’t see the beauty in the snow-covered trees and icy winding drive. Even when the renovated main building came into view, the huge stone structure looked more like a prison than a treatment center. “They could have done a better job,” he
murmured.
“It really is beautiful.”
She was the beautiful one. Inside and out.
“Yes . . .” he murmured, staring at her.
She glanced over at him and smiled. “The place. I think it’s beautiful.”
He chuckled and teased, “How long have you been suffering from delusions?”
“Hey, I’m the counselor,” she said. “You’re the judge.”
“I was a DA, which is a counselor,” he said. “And a lot of times I’ve felt like a shrink.” Like now.
She had pulled into a parking spot and turned off the car. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, and her entire body was tense with nerves.
He covered one of her hands on the wheel and squeezed. “I’ll be right here. I’ll be with you the entire time. I won’t leave you alone again.” Not like last time ...
“Thank you,” she said.
He wasn’t sure she would thank him when this was all over—when she knew the truth. She might blame him as much as she already had—as much as he’d been blaming himself.
* * *
She knew.
She’d heard the rumors. Deacon realized it the moment his gaze met Rosemary’s, when she and the judge entered the foyer of the hall, and she quickly looked away from him. Holly couldn’t bear to look at him either.
Hell, maybe Holly was the one who’d told her—since they worked together now. Or maybe the judge had dug up the dirt on Deacon. Surprisingly, Deacon hadn’t been able to find any on Whittaker Lawrence.
Lawrence must have heard the rumors, too, and from the hard, disapproving glare he directed at Deacon, he’d accepted those rumors as fact. Fortunately, not everybody had.
Some people knew him too well to believe him capable of such violence. Too bad his daughter wasn’t one of those people.
Despite her suspicions, Rosemary approached him, but the judge stuck close to her—too close. Why didn’t she have suspicions about Lawrence anymore? What had he done to change her mind?
“Have you found out anything more about Genevieve’s disappearance?” she asked Deacon.
He shook his head. “She’s probably just holed up with one of her friends.”
The judge shook his head. “No, she’s not. She’s not with any of them.”
Rosemary turned toward him, her eyes wide with shock. “How do you know who her friends are? I don’t even know.”
Deacon could relate. He didn’t know many of Holly’s friends anymore. He only hoped that she still had some.
“I don’t know who her friends are,” Whittaker replied. “But instead of trying to get rid of Edie Stone, I put her and her sources to good use.”
“Teenagers are not sources,” Deacon said. “I’m sure they wouldn’t tell her the truth even if she paid them for it.”
“Their phones told her the truth,” Lawrence said. “Somehow she got access to their text records and voicemails. Nobody heard from Genevieve since shortly after her ... adoptive parents checked her into this place.”
Deacon grimaced. The last thing he wanted was to co-ordinate his investigation with a reporter, but he wanted to help Rosemary, too. And Genevieve . . .
Maybe he’d at least be able to help one teenager—if it wasn’t already too late. “I’ll need copies of these text messages,” he told Lawrence. “I need to establish a timeline of when she disappeared.”
“Dr. Cooke told me it was just a couple of days before I showed up on the island,” Rosemary said.
He snorted.
“You don’t trust this Dr. Cooke?” Lawrence asked.
Deacon shook his head. “Not as far as I can throw him.” That wouldn’t be very far now. Not like when they were kids.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have him hypnotize you,” Lawrence said to Rosemary.
Deacon felt a jab of panic. “You’re not going to get hypnotized. That’s not going to help you find Genevieve.”
“Maybe it will,” Rosemary said. She turned back toward Lawrence. “Dr. Cooke is the director of the hall. My boss.”
Whittaker flinched.
Deacon felt his pain.
“Rosemary . . .”
Elijah’s deep voice grated on Deacon’s already frayed nerves. But he whirled toward him and said, “You’re supposed to be meeting with me.”
“You don’t have an appointment,” Elijah said. “Rosemary does.”
Deacon shook his head and looked at Rosemary. “No, not him. Don’t trust him.” His wife had and then he’d messed with her mind, messed her up even more than she’d been.
Whittaker met his gaze over Rosemary’s head, concern darkening his green eyes. “Rosemary, maybe we shouldn’t—”
“We shouldn’t have any discussion out here,” Elijah said with a pointed glance at Deacon. “This conversation should be had privately, Mr. Lawrence.”
Whittaker’s eyes widened now with surprise—probably that the guy knew his name. But before he could say anything more, Elijah turned back toward Rosemary.
“Are you ready?” he asked her.
She nodded and followed as he headed back toward his office.
“Don’t . . .” Deacon murmured. Nobody at this place ever helped anyone—they only hurt them more.
But she was already walking away with the doctor, already letting him lead her down a dark path. He could only hope it wouldn’t lead her to the same place it had led his wife—to her death.
Chapter Nineteen
The door to Dr. Cooke’s office automatically opened, and he stepped inside. But before she could follow him across the threshold, Whit caught her arm and held her back in the hall. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, his handsome face tense with concern.
“No.” She wasn’t sure about anything. “Why didn’t you tell me about having that reporter investigate my daughter? Why didn’t you tell me that she’d found Genevieve’s friends, that she’d contacted them?” Panic tightened its grasp on her heart. They hadn’t heard from her. She wasn’t with any of them.
“I just found out this morning, and I didn’t want to distract you from this,” he said. “But now I think I should have. Maybe the sheriff is right—this is a bad idea.”
“Have you changed your mind?” Dr. Cooke asked as he turned back toward the open door. “Would you rather not do this?”
He sounded almost hopeful. But then he was a busy man. She knew that since she worked at the hall, too.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to waste your time.”
He shook his head. “It’s not a waste of my time,” he said. “Not if it will help you . . .”
“But will it?” Whit asked. “Will it help you?”
Frustration bubbled up inside her—frustration over her inability to find Genevieve, frustration over the nightmares, frustration over letting the past rule her life for nearly two decades. “Yes!” she said. “I need to know what happened.”
Maybe knowing who Genevieve’s father was would help her daughter, too. Maybe he’d found his child. Rosemary’s stomach churned at the thought of her daughter being with the man who’d hurt her. It would explain why Genevieve hadn’t contacted her—why nobody knew where the teenager was ...
“I need to do this,” she said.
Whit nodded, then reached for her hand. Entwining their fingers together, he walked through the doorway to Dr. Cooke’s office with her just as he would walk back into the past with her.
“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” the psychiatrist asked again. But he wasn’t looking at Rosemary now; he was focused on Whit. And there was the same suspicion on his face that was on Whit’s.
Whit nodded. “I want to be here for Rosemary.”
“You were part of her past, of that night,” Dr. Cooke said. She hadn’t told him that; maybe Dr. Chase had. Or the sheriff, not that they were exactly friends. “It might be hard to relive.”
“Not as hard for me as it will be for her,” Whit said. “That’s why I want to be here. I need to be here
.” His voice was gruff with guilt.
She squeezed his hand. “Knowing the truth will make it better,” she said. She hoped.
“Then let’s get started,” Dr. Cooke said. He reached into his pocket and must have hit some kind of remote-control switch because one of the panels on the walls slid aside to reveal another room.
“There’s the couch,” Whit murmured.
“This is the therapy room,” Dr. Cooke said. “I need to keep it separate from my office to avoid distractions when I’m with a guest.” After they stepped inside the space, the panel slid closed again.
So it looked as though the room had no door and no windows. No escape. Panic clawed at her, and she squeezed Whit’s hand tighter.
“People feel comfortable here?” Whit asked, skepticism furrowing his brow.
“Yes,” Dr. Cooke maintained. He must have touched something else because the room took on a soft glow as if it was infused with sunshine despite having no windows.
Nervous, Rosemary drew in a deep breath that felt like pure oxygen. The room had a special ventilation system with relaxing scents of lavender and jasmine. Her racing heart began to slow its frenetic pace.
“Have a seat,” he told her, gesturing toward that couch.
It wasn’t the stereotypical leather lounger. This was almost like velvet, soft and warm, and as she settled onto it, she felt as if she was dissolving into it. Instead of reaching for one of the chairs in the room, Whit knelt on the floor beside her—as if unwilling to let her go for even a moment. Or maybe it was because she grasped his hand so tightly, afraid to let him go even for a moment.
“Relax,” Dr. Cooke said—to them both.
She heard his voice but when she glanced around, she couldn’t find him. It was as if the light had swallowed him. He was only a voice now.
Was she traveling backward through a real-life version of The Wizard of Oz? Her journey had started when she’d seen the man behind the curtain and now he’d pulled the curtain closed? Dr. Cooke had never seemed like just a man to her, though.
“Are you really sure about this?” Whit whispered, his mouth close to her ear.
Her breath escaped in a long sigh and she nodded. “Yes . . .” Her heart rate slowed even more. Without saying much of anything at all, Dr. Cooke had already begun to hypnotize her, or so it seemed to her. She felt disconnected from everything but Whit. She could feel his hand on hers, holding on to her. But it was as if he were rope tethering her within the hemisphere while she floated above him, above herself even.
