You Don't Want To Know

by Lisa Jackson

  She cringed a little as she opened the door to her room. The last time she’d seen it, her bedroom had been chaos. However, when she poked her head inside, she felt as if she’d stepped back in time a few days. Someone—Graciela or Khloe or both—had cleaned the entire bedroom and put it back together. Of course, upon closer inspection, she noticed that the rug that had covered her floor was missing. Obviously a new mattress, from one of the guest rooms, no doubt, had been put in place of the one probably taken by the police, and new sheets and blankets had been put in place of the old.

  The black powder was gone, and surreally, with the house returned to some kind of order, it was almost as if nothing had even happened, that three women hadn’t been killed and an escaped mental patient captured. Life as she’d known it would continue.

  On the nightstand, as always, were her pills laid out for her.

  Oh, sure. As if she would actually take them.

  Then, for a fleeting second, she actually considered it. Why not? Let yourself go off to dreamland. You might not wake up for twenty-four hours. Wouldn’t that be heaven?

  There’s nothing more you can do tonight, and with Reece behind bars, everyone’s safe. You can trust again . . . right?

  “Right,” she said aloud, and decided to just let go.

  She reached for the pills, scooping them up and popping them into her mouth. Telling herself she needed water to wash them down, she walked to the bathroom. Then, as much out of habit as anything, she spit the capsules into the toilet and flushed. Who knew what the medication really was? Just because Reece was in custody and Jewel-Anne was dead didn’t mean that Ava’s life was back on track.

  As if it ever was.

  She opened the medicine cabinet and, digging around on the thin shelf, found an old bottle of over-the-counter sleeping aids with a pull date that had expired six months ago.

  “Good enough,” she said, and, watching her reflection in the medicine cabinet’s mirror, took a double dose and leaned over to wash them down with water straight out of the tap. Soon, she hoped, she and the sandman would meet. Then tomorrow, once she was rested and clearheaded, she’d figure out what to do with the rest of her life.

  She changed into an oversized T-shirt and while waiting for the sleeping pills to take effect, looked for her computer. It was missing . . . no doubt taken by the police, who had stripped her room of anything of remote interest.

  “Perfect,” she muttered. But she still had her cell phone, and she could connect to the Internet through it and check her e-mail. Groggily, she found the smartphone and saw an app she’d added just the other day, the one attached to her camera on the stairs so that she could view the steps and locked third-floor maid’s quarters when she was away from her computer.

  She wondered if the police had disabled that device as well, or had they, in their hurry to rush her to the station, transport Jewel-Anne’s body, and find Lester Reece, neglected that part of the house?

  What were the chances?

  Nil. They’re thorough. Then again . . .

  Yawning, she clicked on the app, and sure enough, an image formed on the phone’s small screen, a view of the third floor. She was about to turn it off when she noticed movement on the screen. “What?”

  A niggle of fear slid down her spine.

  Squinting, she caught a glimpse of it again, a shadow flitting into view.

  Maybe a rodent had gotten inside or the cat or something bigger . . . ?

  No! Someone was on the third floor! She nearly jumped out of her skin when a person came into the camera’s eye, filling the screen. Ava froze, barely daring to breathe. Her skin crawled in warning. What was this? Jewel-Anne was dead, so who would be wandering around on the third floor? “Oh my God,” she whispered as the image cleared and she recognized the person on the screen.

  There, big as life, was Khloe Prescott.

  Her caretaker.

  Once her best friend.

  Why would she be on the third floor?

  Hadn’t that been Jewel-Anne’s territory, where she’d kept her nefarious secret recording device?

  All along, you thought Jewel-Anne had an accomplice. It looks like Khloe, too, was in on the gaslighting, part of the plot to terrorize you.

  Heartsick, Ava studied Khloe from her hidden camera. Clearly, Khloe was searching for something.

  No, no, no, this is wrong. . . . There has to be some mistake! Khloe wouldn’t have known anything about Jewel-Anne’s plans. Couldn’t have. No way would Khloe have been in cahoots with Ava’s cousin.

  And yet, it seemed that’s exactly what had happened. Staring in disbelief, heart beating frantically, Ava watched as Khloe found the device in question, dragging it down from the closet shelf and then working feverishly to dismantle it. She pulled out the tape that had been recorded with some child’s cries and ripped it to shreds.

  Something was off here . . . very off, Ava thought, and fought the horrid idea that was forming in the back of her mind. And Khloe, who had been her friend for most of her life as well as Noah’s nanny and later Ava’s caretaker when she’d first been released from St. Brendan’s, couldn’t be involved in something as hideous as Jewel-Anne’s deception.

  Another thought, more chilling than the others, assailed her.

  What if Lester Reece hadn’t killed Jewel-Anne? What had the cop insinuated about the dolls with their slit throats? That Reece wouldn’t have bothered? But Khloe had hated Jewel-Anne’s obsession with her “babies” too . . . and then Ava understood that Jewel-Anne’s need for the dolls was because she gave up her own child.

  Dear God in heaven, was it possible that Khloe was somehow behind Jewel-Anne’s murder? If so, had she tried to set Ava up as the prime suspect by planting the knife in her room? But Khloe had always been her friend, a close ally . . .

  Not always!

  Remember?

  Her friendship with you was a long time ago. And the relationship had started crumbling in high school when you made the mistake of dating her boyfriend, Mel Lefever. Sure, they’d broken up, but less than a week later, you went out with him. Khloe had been hurt at the time, but that was just high school stuff. It all seemed forgiven, years before.

  Maybe not. Was it possible Khloe still held a grudge? No way.

  Then what about Kelvin? She was crazy in love with him when he died, and if she, like Jewel-Anne, blamed you for his death . . .

  Ava’s mind raced with the times Khloe had seemed distant and dark, how she’d married Simon Prescott, a man with whom she’d rebounded and had a tumultuous, maybe even abusive relationship soon after Kelvin had died.

  “Dear God,” Ava whispered, trying to understand when nothing was making sense. Nothing! She was tired and her mind groggy, the sleeping medication starting to kick in. She fought it, had to stay awake, had to find out the truth.

  She could confront her friend.

  And how would that work out if Khloe is really a murderess?

  “No way!”

  The image on her computer blurred as a shadow covered the screen for an instant. Khloe looked up. Smiled. An almost naughty grin.

  What?

  Another person came into view. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Male.

  The hairs on the back of Ava’s neck stood on end.

  Her heart nearly stopped.

  It couldn’t be! Couldn’t! Her hand shook as she held the phone, staring at it in disbelief. The person entering the room was Wyatt.

  What the hell was he doing in the attic? Still staring at the device in her hand, she edged to the door of her room, then poked her head out onto the landing overlooking the floor below. The light in the den was still glowing through the cracked door.

  What was going on?

  A dozen answers sprang into her head. Not one of them was good.

  As she eased back into her room, she watched Khloe greet him with that slow and sexy smile. Ava could only see his profile, but he, damn him, returned Khloe’s I’ve-got-a-secret smile with one of his own.
<
br />   Really?

  They were in league together?

  She hadn’t suspected, but then she’d been so certain he’d been involved with Evelyn McPherson.

  On the screen, Wyatt closed the short distance between himself and Khloe, said something unintelligible, then, when she laughed, tossing her head back, he reached forward and caught the back of her neck with one hand. Khloe’s eyes twinkled with a sensual, come-and-get-me fire.

  Horrified, Ava watched as Wyatt dragged Khloe closer to him. She said something and he chuckled; then he kissed her. Long. Hard. As if he’d been waiting forever for just this moment.

  Sick!

  It wasn’t Evelyn McPherson he was having an affair with, you idiot. It was Khloe! Oh, Jesus!

  Had they . . . ? Her mind was reeling. Was it possible that they had actually killed Jewel-Anne and the others? No . . . of course not. That had to be Lester Reece. Had to!

  Or not?

  A cold panic was welling from deep within her. Of all the things she thought of her husband, not for a second had she ever considered him capable of murder.

  But you didn’t think he’d become involved with Khloe, now, did you? What do you really know about Wyatt . . . or Khloe? Only what they wanted you to.

  Had they both been a part of Jewel-Anne’s gaslighting scheme? Had something gone wrong and the cruel prank evolved into something more hideous than playing with Ava’s mind?

  She dropped the phone and had to let out her breath slowly. A million questions screamed through her mind, questions with no answers. She didn’t want to believe these two lovers were involved in Jewel-Anne’s murder, nor the other women’s brutal deaths as well.

  In her heart of hearts, she realized that Wyatt and Khloe had a hand in all of it. How deep they were involved she couldn’t guess.

  Think, Ava, think. You can’t just stand here and digest this or puzzle it out. You have to do something.

  However, she was a little sluggish, the pills she’d swallowed starting to work their sedative magic, despite the adrenaline coursing through her blood.

  You have to confront them.

  No. That wouldn’t work. Retrieving the phone, she stared at the small screen and saw that they were still embracing, still kissing, really getting into it.

  Get help. Find someone and then confront them.

  Impossible! The house was empty. She’d felt it from the moment she’d stepped through the front door. No one was here.

  Except Khloe and Wyatt.

  Her insides turned to ice. Had Khloe gotten rid of everyone in the house? Then had Wyatt come to pick her up, playing the part of the devoted husband, to set her up?

  She reached for the bedside phone, intending to dial 911 and try to locate Detective Snyder. Though he still considered her a suspect in the murders, he would be interested in this. They had a history.

  She plucked the handheld from its base.

  No dial tone.

  No display on the screen.

  No . . . anything.

  Dread dripped down her spine.

  It had to be a mistake.

  She checked on the electrical connections, clicked the TALK button.

  Nothing.

  Oh, God!

  They’re isolating you!

  This, tonight, is all part of their plot to make you appear insane.

  Once more, she glanced at her smartphone’s screen where the kiss was just ending. They smiled up at each other as if satisfied that their perfect plot was finally coming together.

  Get out of the house! Take the boat. Get the hell off of the island! Now! While they’re still in the attic, involved with each other. Go now! Think of Jewel-Anne. This might be your only chance to escape with your damned life.

  But first . . . she punched out 911 on the cell before hanging up quickly. If Wyatt had really wanted to kill her, why hadn’t he thrown her overboard on the way back from the mainland only an hour earlier? He could have claimed that she fell or jumped overboard, and with her history, no one would doubt him. No, no, no. She was confused. He didn’t want to do her harm. That wasn’t his mission.

  Then what is?

  You really can’t afford to stick around and find out.

  She found a pair of jeans and quickly slipped them on. With one eye on the small screen of her phone, she slid her arms through the sleeves of her jacket again. She’d sneak out of the house, get down to the boat, and . . .

  And what? Run away like a coward? Let them get away with whatever it is they’re doing? Tell the police that they were having an affair and destroying a simple recorder that played the sounds of a baby crying? You think they’ll believe you? Or will the police, too, think you’re paranoid or desperate or just plain crazy.

  Take a deep breath, Ava. Then fight back! Beat them at their own game.

  But she needed help. She couldn’t do it alone. Clicking off the screen again, she dialed Dern and silently prayed that he would pick up, that his cell was turned on, that he wasn’t out of range. She hadn’t seen him since he’d joined the police in the search for Reece, though she’d overheard the buzz at the station indicating Dern had been instrumental in the fugitive’s capture. Now, though, she had no idea where he was.

  Her call went directly to voice mail. Crap! She didn’t have time for long messages, but whispered, “This is Ava. Please come back to the island. ASAP! There’s something happening here. Call me back!”

  Despite her hammering heart, her blood was sluggish, her mind not quite as sharp as it should be. She checked her camera again.

  Finally the long embrace had ended and something seemed to have changed. They were still standing close to each other, talking rapidly, but the sexy playfulness had disappeared, morphing into other emotions. Definitely, the mood had changed to something tenser, anger visible in their faces. Wyatt’s jaw was rock hard and it seemed as if Khloe’s eyes had darkened, her mouth twisting in a deep, seething fury. Obviously they were arguing.

  About Jewel-Anne?

  Or something else?

  You, Ava. She’s trying to get him to go along with killing you! Or maybe it’s the other way around; maybe he’s trying to convince Khloe to take your life.

  Either way, it was time to leave.

  Still staring at the screen, she headed out the door. She was at the top of the stairs when she saw things shift on the screen. Something was happening. The argument obviously escalating.

  Oh, God. Ava stopped in her tracks and watched.

  Khloe’s stare was cold as ice.

  Wyatt reached for her again, but Khloe stepped back, said something that stopped Wyatt in his tracks. His mouth rounded as if he were saying “No!” Then, quick as a snake striking, Khloe reached into her pocket and produced a knife.

  What?! Ava gasped.

  Wyatt held up a hand.

  But with teeth bared, fury burning in her eyes, Khloe sprang.

  The knife glinted. Wyatt feinted, trying to dodge the blow.

  Too late.

  Ava watched in horror as, with a look of primal victory, Khloe plunged the blade deep into Wyatt’s chest.

  CHAPTER 46

  Reece wasn’t the killer. If the cops didn’t know it, Dern sure as hell did.

  Which meant there was a killer still on the loose.

  A killer who’d cruelly taken the lives of those close to Ava.

  He found a ride back to the marina. A patrolling deputy dropped him off near the waterfront, and he hurried to find a ride to the island.

  The station had been a madhouse, the press and different police agencies adding to the chaos, but out here, under the ethereal security lights, fog rolling in over the dark water stretching beyond the docked boats, the night was serene, at least to the naked eye.

  But he felt it. A palpitating fear. An inner knowledge that evil reigned. Fortunately now he was finally dry, his clothes stiff from the briny water where he’d tackled Reece hours before. At the station, he’d made the call to Reba, heard her try not to break down after
whispering, “Thank God,” and finally, “Thank you, Austin.” That part had gotten to him, and he’d hung up wondering why a sense of satisfaction was elusive.

  Despite Reece’s capture and the hours without sleep, Dern felt restless, his muscles sore, his mind keyed up. If Reece wasn’t the killer, then who was? He’d been asking himself that same damned question for hours, even as he’d stood in the dark viewing room watching the maniac who was his brother deny, offer up bullshit and deny again and again. Insane? No way. Homicidal? Oh, yeah. But Reece had been adamant and believable about not “offing those bitches.”

  Which means the killer was still at large.

  Someone had murdered three women in cold blood.

  So far.

  He jabbed his hands deep into the sandy pockets of his jacket, retrieved his phone, and tried to call Ava again, but his cell still wasn’t working. When he’d learned she already left the station with her jerk of a husband, he’d tried calling the house on one of the sheriff’s department lines but hadn’t gotten through.

  The fact that he couldn’t connect with her bothered him a little. Well, actually, it bothered him a lot.

  Not for a second did he believe Ava was the killer, though from what he’d overheard at the sheriff’s office, the police were trying to mount a case against her.

  Dern now believed Ava had been set up. Whoever had been in league with Jewel-Anne had turned on her and tried to make Ava appear to be not only paranoid, but also a killer.

  He figured the killer had to be someone close to her, someone who could get on and off the island easily, someone who knew the ins and outs of Neptune’s Gate.

  He checked his cell phone again. Still not working, probably never would. Bad luck coupled with his own feeling that trouble was brewing.