by Lisa Childs
She stood at a set of patio doors, looking out over the snow-covered estate. She must have spied his reflection in the glass because she whirled around at his approach. “Do you hear them?” she asked.
“Who?” Whit asked as he glanced around the room again.
The other woman said nothing as she bent over a book at the table at which she sat. She seemed intent on ignoring them both, or maybe she was more intent that they ignore her—because it was almost as if she was making herself smaller, slouching deep in her chair.
“I don’t hear anything,” Whit said.
The older woman’s brow furrowed. “I swear I heard them ... screaming.”
“Who?” he asked.
“The girls,” she replied.
“Girls?” he repeated. Maybe Genevieve hadn’t been the only teenager staying at the hall. “Do you mean the teenager that was staying here? The one that Dr. Cooke claims ran away?”
“No . . .”
The older woman hadn’t answered him. The younger one had—without even looking up.
“What?” he asked.
She sighed and raised her head. “She’s talking about ghosts,” she explained. “Not real people.”
“They are real to me,” the older woman replied defensively. “I am here to help them find peace.” She focused on Whit. “I’m a medium.”
“Oh . . .” he murmured—at a loss as to what else he could say to her since he did not believe in ghosts. If it was possible for someone to actually come back from the dead to haunt the living, he would have had a lot of ghosts haunting him. “I’m looking for someone alive,” he told the elderly redhead. Then he turned toward the younger woman. “Rosemary Tulle. Do you know her?”
“The new lady shrink?” she asked.
He nodded. “Have you seen her?”
She sighed again—a long, ragged-sounding one. “She tore through here a while ago looking like she needed a shrink herself. Why was she so upset?” She held up a hand. “No. Forget I asked. It’s none of my business.”
“It’s this place,” the redhead said. “It affects us sensitive beings, like Rosemary. That’s why she ran off. She probably heard them, too. That’s the direction she headed—where the cries are coming from now.”
Whit’s blood chilled. “Where?” he asked. “Where did she go?”
The woman gestured out across the property, and as she did the wind whipped up, blowing snow and ice at the glass so that it rattled. He didn’t care. He pushed open the French doors leading out onto what was probably a patio outside the conservatory, but snow covered it now.
He sucked in a breath at the cold as that wind caught him in the face with a blast of ice and snow.
“You need your coat,” the other woman said; she’d joined the redhead at the patio doors.
“Rosemary didn’t have hers either,” the redhead remarked.
Whit and the other woman cursed.
“I didn’t notice,” the younger woman said. “Or I would have stopped her. Wait!”
But Whit was forcing his face back toward the wind and the faint sound that carried on it.
“You hear them, too,” the elderly woman said. “You hear the girls crying.”
He only heard one cry—a faint one—and it wasn’t coming from a girl. He would bet that it was Rosemary out there somewhere screaming. Panic clutched his heart and stole away his breath more than the cold wind. And in that panic he rushed off—in the direction from which the scream echoed.
He only hoped he could find her in time, but the wind was blowing so hard now that it was blowing the snow across whatever tracks she might have left for him to follow. He had nothing to lead him to her—but the sound of her voice—and even that seemed distorted, as if coming from a long distance away. He shouldn’t have left her alone—even for a moment—because now he might not make it in time. As her screams grew louder, he could hear the terror in them.
She wasn’t just upset like she’d been earlier. She was in danger.
* * *
All he had to do was wait. She couldn’t hold on much longer. Her bare hands had to be frozen and ready to slip off the big rock from which she clung. If only she would shut the hell up . . .
Someone was going to hear her screaming and rush to her rescue like had happened before, and she would escape death again—like she’d escaped before. She couldn’t keep escaping.
She had to die.
He closed his gloved hands around a rock, ready to hurl it down at her—down to where she clung to that rock on the steep slope below him. But if he leaned too far over, she would see him, and if he didn’t knock her down to the rocky shore, if he didn’t kill her ...
She would be able to identify him. And then all his plans for the future, for staking claim to what was his, would be ruined.
If her screaming drew people to the cliff, then someone else would see him, someone who knew who he was. Anger coursing through him, he hurled the rock over the edge. But he wasn’t close enough to see if he struck her.
But at least she finally stopped screaming.
Hopeful that she’d slipped to her death, he ran off—just as the sound of running footsteps echoed around him. Whoever was rushing to her rescue was going to be too late, too damn late to save her.
Chapter Twenty
That rock hadn’t just come tumbling over the side of the cliff any more than she had come tumbling over it. Someone had thrown it—just as someone had thrown her off it. As she’d fallen though, Rosemary had spread her arms out, grasping at anything to stop her. And she’d caught the rough edge of another rock.
Despite her fingers being nearly frozen and numb, she clutched at the rock as she dangled just below the edge of that cliff. Her feet flailed for purchase, for anything to help as she struggled to maintain her grip and ease the unbearable tension in her arms and shoulders. She forced the toes of her boots between some crevices in the rocky cliff, but the rocks were so icy that one of her boots slipped free. All around her the wind howled, hurling snow and ice at her, as if it was trying to help whoever had pushed her.
She’d been screaming since she’d first felt those hands on her back. But after the rock soared over the edge and nearly struck her, she held back the next scream that burned her throat. She wanted her attacker to think he’d gotten rid of her and to leave. But nobody else would come if she kept quiet. Nobody would know where she was.
So she released the next scream, but the force of it had her grip slipping from the rock. She gasped and readjusted her hand and foot holds, but her body trembled from the exertion. If someone didn’t come soon ...
She wasn’t going to be able to hold on much longer. So she screamed louder, but the wind tore her cry from her lips and hurled it into the ocean like it was nearly hurling her. Her body shaking with cold and fear, her fingers started to slip again. She wasn’t going to make it.
“Rosemary!”
The voice—Whit’s voice—jolted her, and one of her feet slipped again. And her grasp on the rock loosened more, her fingers sliding across the rough surface. Before she fell though, another hand shot down and strong fingers closed around her wrist.
“Hang on!” he shouted as he dangled over the side.
If she fell, he would probably go with her ... tumble over the edge and onto the rocky shore, too. Tears burned her eyes and her face, but she fought them back. She had to be strong for herself and for Whit.
She had to climb up, or he would slip over the edge. Only his legs must have been on the ground on top of the cliff. As she peered up at him, a dark shadow fell across him. Had her attacker come back?
Was he going to push Whit off the cliff, too?
She screamed, and her grasp slipped completely off the rock. Whit’s arm jerked as he held her dangling over the rocky shore. Only his grasp on her wrist kept her from dropping all those yards down to the jagged boulders, down to her death.
But he wouldn’t be able to hold on to her long, not without falling himself.
> “Let me go,” she said. “You’re going to fall.”
“I’ve got him,” another voice chimed in. So the shadow looming over him wasn’t intent on hurting him but on helping him. And he must have pulled back on Whit because Whit was pulling her up. Her body bounced off the side of the cliff, and she flinched as sharp rocks jabbed at her.
But then, finally, she was up, and grasped tightly in Whit’s arms as he laid back on the snow. And that shadow loomed over them both.
“What the hell were you thinking?” the sheriff shouted the question. But she wasn’t sure to whom he was talking.
Her?
Or Whit?
He’d risked his life to save hers—even after how horribly she’d lashed out at him for something that had not been his fault. Nothing had been his fault, and she’d spent nearly two decades hating him for no reason. Guilt twisted her heart in her chest, and she clung to him—not just for warmth and comfort but for ...
What?
She had no right for anything from him—not after she’d doubted him. No. She hadn’t just doubted him; she’d blamed him. So now she leaped to his defense. “He saved my life,” she said. And she would never be able to repay him for risking his in the process.
“Yeah, he did,” Sheriff Howell agreed. “But he wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t been trying to end yours! What the hell were you thinking? Why would you give up now?”
“Give up?” she asked. “You think I jumped?” Her body trembled not with cold or shock but fury. Anger coursed through her. “I would never do something like that.”
But Whit was looking at her, too, with suspicion, and he softly murmured, “After Cooke hypnotized you, you were very upset. . . .”
“Not upset enough to end my life,” she said. Maybe her mother’s and her stepfather’s but not her own.
“Then how did you fall?” the sheriff asked, his voice thick with skepticism.
“I didn’t fall,” she said. “I was pushed. Somebody pushed me.”
“Did you see who it was?” the sheriff asked.
“She’s freezing,” Whit said. His big body shook beneath hers, so he was freezing, too. But then he was lying flat on his back in the snow. “We need to get her inside. Now.” His arms still wrapped tightly around her, he sat up and then stood, lifting her with him. He didn’t wait for the sheriff’s agreement; he just started walking toward the hall.
She should have argued with him, should have wriggled free of his arms. But she was frozen with fear—over nearly losing her life. Over Whit nearly losing his ...
All she wanted was to keep clinging to him, to never let him go. But she also wanted her attacker found. And even more than finding him, she wanted Genevieve found. So she forced her head from the crook between Whit’s neck and broad shoulder and peered at the sheriff. “You need to search the grounds.”
“I will,” he replied. “I’ll look around to see if I can find whoever pushed you.”
“No!” she said. “Not for him. Look for Genevieve. Look for her.”
“So someone didn’t just try to kill you?” the sheriff asked.
Why was he so certain that she’d jumped? Then she remembered. “I am not your wife. I didn’t try to kill myself.”
“Rumor is that isn’t what his wife did either,” Whit murmured.
Deacon cursed. “More information your investigative reporter gave you, Lawrence?”
A twinge of jealousy struck Rosemary’s heart as she remembered the blond reporter hanging around Whit.
But he shook his head. “She’s not mine. But she has been good at finding information, information you can’t.”
“She can’t find the facts,” the sheriff replied. “Like most reporters, it sounds like she just looks for the unsubstantiated rumors to make up a scandal.”
Whit sighed. “Usually I’d agree with you . . .”
“Stop arguing,” Rosemary implored them. “Find Genevieve.” While everyone claimed she’d run away, Rosemary had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that she had never left this place, that she was here—somewhere.
But was she alive?
“What do you think I’m doing here?” the sheriff asked. “I was trying to get Cooke to let me search the grounds for her.”
A ragged sigh slipped through Rosemary’s lips. “Good.”
“He didn’t agree to a search,” the sheriff warned her.
Whit cursed and whirled around, with her in his arms, toward the lawman. “Why the hell not?”
“That’s what I would like to know,” the sheriff said.
He clearly suspected that Dr. Cooke had something to do with Genevieve’s disappearance. Rosemary wasn’t as convinced of her boss’s guilt, though.
“Privacy,” Rosemary said with another sigh. “He promises all the guests the utmost privacy.” Knowing how famous at least one of them was, she understood. If the paparazzi found out that the singer was staying at the treatment center, they would swarm the place. While the gates had kept out Rosemary, she doubted they would keep out all the press that would show up on the island.
“I might know a judge or two,” Whit sardonically remarked. “I’ll make sure you get a warrant.”
“Good,” the sheriff said. “Then I’ll be able to bring in a search party. We’ll find her.”
Hopefully, alive ...
* * *
“Here’s your fucking warrant,” Deacon Howell said as he shoved a paper in Elijah’s face the minute he stepped inside the foyer.
“There’s no need to be crude,” Elijah admonished his old school nemesis. But the sheriff wasn’t just an old nemesis. He harbored a fresh grudge against Elijah—over his wife.
Was that what this was about?
“There would have been no need for this warrant if you’d agreed to do the right thing,” Deacon said.
“Let you waste your time?” Elijah asked. “Because that’s all you’ll be doing if you search the entire property.”
As well as endangering the privacy of Elijah’s guests. But they weren’t just his guests; they were Bode’s as well. He would have to warn his little brother about the search warrant. He had a feeling that it might affect him more than it would Elijah.
Bode was the one who seemed as if he was hiding something. But what? A teenage girl?
“It’s my time to waste,” Deacon replied.
“Then I must be much busier than you are,” Elijah said. “Because I have no time to waste.” He had to track down Bode. Their family couldn’t weather any more scandal and neither could the treatment center. Elijah had to make sure that nothing would be found during the sheriff’s search. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said. But instead of heading back to his office, he stepped outside.
He’d seen Bode leave earlier—shortly after Rosemary had run out after being hypnotized. And his little brother had yet to return.
Where the hell was he?
Once the doors closed behind him, he pulled out his cell and punched in his brother’s contact.
“Hey,” Bode answered.
All the times he’d called earlier it had gone to voicemail. Now Bode’s voice was live and echoing from the phone as he stood just feet in front of him. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Why’s the sheriff hanging around today?”
“Is that why you left earlier?” Elijah asked, as he shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Because you’re avoiding him?”
Bode’s brow furrowed. “Why? I’m not the one he hates.”
“No, you’re not.”
Bode never got blamed for anything—because he never took responsibility for anything. Well, he hadn’t until recently, but then he’d been given no choice.
“What the hell were you doing?” Elijah asked. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for hours.”
His brother sighed and stepped farther away from the doors to the foyer—and the sheriff. “I was taking care of something before he found out about it.”
Elijah’s stomach lurched with dread. �
�God, no.”
Not that girl. Not that poor girl. Rosemary had already dealt with enough today. If something had happened to her daughter ...
“It was just some drugs,” Bode said.
“What drugs?” Elijah asked. “Yours?”
Bode shook his head. “No. I caught one of the groundskeeper’s crew selling some to a guest, so I fired him.” He lifted his hand to his jaw, and blood oozed from his swollen knuckles.
“You beat him up?” Elijah groaned. “The guy might press charges.” There was no way they were going to avoid a scandal now.
Bode snorted. “And face charges for peddling narcotics? I don’t think even Teddy Bowers is that stupid.”
“How the hell does a groundskeeper get his hands on narcotics?” Elijah wondered. He needed to get back inside—needed to check the drug supply cabinet.
Bode shrugged. “I don’t know. And he wouldn’t tell me.” He cupped his swollen hand in his undamaged one. “No matter how much I tried to persuade him.”
“You should have let me handle it,” Elijah said.
“Why? Because you’re such a people person?”
“Because I’m the director,” Elijah said. “I’m the one in charge.”
“And you never let anyone forget that,” Bode said. “I could handle this on my own. And I did.”
What else had he handled on his own? Genevieve Walcott?
Chapter Twenty-One
He was wasting his time. At least searching the hall had been a waste of time . . .
Deacon hadn’t found a damn incriminating thing inside the place. The warrant didn’t extend to records or to the private rooms, and as if everyone had been warned that he was coming, the guests had locked themselves up inside their suites. Judge Lawrence must have called in some favors to get the warrant, in an area outside his jurisdiction, so quickly. But maybe someone he’d called had tipped off the hall.
