by Sarah Abbot
“Deputy Flynn? I was wondering,” she said. “Did you ever run a lab test on that note I left with you? I’ve been waiting to submit my blood for analysis, but I haven’t heard anything.”
Connor’s face clouded. “Well, now, about that. Seems we can’t find that note anywhere.”
Abby gaped. “You lost it?”
“I’m sure it’s not lost, just misplaced,” he said soothingly. “It’ll turn up, don’t you worry.”
“Right.” She turned to leave, not at all surprised by this latest turn of events. Sheriff Flynn was behind the disappearance of that note—she’d be willing to bet on it.
“You sure you don’t want a lift? I’d be happy to take you to your car.”
Right about now, the last thing she wanted was another close encounter with a Destiny Bay man. “I’m sure. But if you could just keep your eye on me until I’m through the alley, I’d really appreciate it.”
Connor tipped his head. “I’d be happy to.”
Just try not to lose me, she almost said, but thought better of it.
“Thanks.” Abby glanced back over her shoulder as she retreated. To her utter relief, the cruiser stayed in place, Deputy Flynn watching her make her way into the alley and head toward the haven of her car. Somewhere amidst the wrecks, Bartholomew still shuffled, still muttered. Or did he?
She looked around at the rusted hulks of forgotten vehicles, the relics of another age. Looked at all the places a person could hide…or could be hidden. She rubbed her arms to ward off the chill of unease that had settled there.
Abby closed her eyes, attempting to ward off a thought that was just too unsettling for words.
What if Bart wasn’t actually the incompetent everyone thought he was? What if he was very, very sane?
That, she decided, would be a dangerous situation, indeed.
Ryan was right. And so was the White Lady.
There was no doubt she was in danger.
Abby hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything but the realization that her safety had been jeopardized, and it was looking more and more like Bartholomew Briggs was the culprit. Even keeping her mind on Cora’s delectable seafood chowder had been an effort.
A rustling from the hallway closet snagged her attention, bringing her firmly into the here and now.
Cora poked her head back into the kitchen. “Here it is,” she said triumphantly, walking into the kitchen with both arms hidden behind her back and what looked like an anticipatory smile on her face.
“Cora, you really shouldn’t have brought me a gift,” Abby said in protest. “You’re already too kind.”
“Nonsense! Besides, it’s not like I went out shopping. This is something I’ve owned for a while, and I think that you ought to have it.” She pulled the painting, Nude Woman by Candlelight, from behind her back.
Abby gaped in confusion at the painting. “Cora, how did you get this? Kyle told me the owner was a closely guarded secret.”
Cora’s smile was soft. “I’m the owner, Abby. At least I was. Now it’s yours.”
Abby looked from Cora to the painting. “I don’t understand. You own all of them?”
“Yes. I do. And they’ll be Ryan’s one day. Whether or not he wants them.”
“You’re giving him his father.”
Cora sighed sadly. “I pray he’ll soften to the idea of it one day. Douglas was what he was, and unrepentant along with it. Complete, utter failure as a father, a lover, a friend, but, by the heavens, he was an artist,” she said quietly, fiercely, eyes glistening. “And he was my son’s father. Two qualities that redeem him in the face of every other failure.”
Abby touched Cora’s arm, squeezing gently. “He’ll thank you one day, Cora. I’m sure of it.” She pulled Cora into an embrace that hinted at a child’s longing for a mother; that answered Cora’s generosity and spoke a volume more. “And I’ll thank you now.”
“You’re welcome, luv. Here,” she said, patting Abby’s arm, “put that down and come help me clean up these dishes.”
Reluctantly, she set the painting aside—promising herself a good long examination of it as soon as she was alone—and followed Cora to the sink.
“Cora,” she said, forcing out the words, “I have to talk to you about Bart.”
She told Cora everything: about the gallery, about the alley, about the terrifying transformation that took place right before her eyes.
Cora frowned. She plunged her hands into the iridescent bubbles and emerged with a sudsy plate. She rinsed it under a stream of water, then handed it to Abby. “Old Bart’s always been a little off, you realize—even when he was young. Are you sure he appeared lucid?”
Abby dried the plate and shelved it with the others. “I’m telling you, Cora, it would be hard to imagine anyone more lucid. It was the eyes,” she said, grasping a bowl and running her cloth over it. She shivered minutely. “They were like ice. So cold, so focused…he looked right into my heart, saw everything I feared and spoke it aloud.”
“You mean the business about something waiting in the shadows?”
Abby lifted a brow. “Something waiting in the shadows isn’t enough?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that, deary,” Cora said quickly, arm scrubbing at a pot. “All I meant was that he could have said those words to anyone, see. He’s always imagined things lurking in shadows, around corners, in closets…drove his mom and dad batty with his imaginings, he did.”
Abby accepted the pot, ran her cloth over its surface thoughtfully. “What if he was right?”
“What if he’s just crazy?” Cora answered, just as quickly.
“Mentally ill, Cora.”
“Quite right. Mentally ill, it is.”
Abby bit her lip, understanding Cora’s reasoning, yet unsettled in her heart. “So, when he said those words, it was simply coincidence that I may actually have someone lurking in my shadows?”
Cora frowned at the idea. “So it seems.” She reached into the depths of the sink, pulled the stopper, and dried her hands as the water drained. “I think it’s time you gave up the cottage, Abby, just for a bit. I know you’d hoped to move back in this weekend, but I’d really rather you didn’t. I’ve a nice little apartment on Musket Lane, right next to my cousin Dotty’s son, Reginald. He’s a big man, aye? He’d be able to put a right clobberin’ on anyone who’s got designs on you.”
“I think you’re right,” she said sadly.
“Oh, I am glad to hear it. I’ve been fair concerned over this stalker business, Abby. I know Ryan will be more than happy to help you move.” Cora handed her another plate. “Speaking of Ryan…Mavis mentioned that she’s seen him about town. With you,” she added, sounding far too smug.
“She did, did she?”
“Well, her and half the folk in town. Don’t keep me in suspense, deary—have you nabbed that son of mine?”
Abby threw her head back and laughed. “Cora, you are the most startlingly direct woman I’ve ever met!”
“And you the most evasive.”
Abby looked at Cora, felt her cheeks blushing warmly and her heart beating happily. “I want to make him happy. I want that so much it shocks me.”
“That’s what they call ‘love,’ deary.” Cora’s eyes were intent on the bubbles in the sink. “And, so I don’t start boo-hooing, let’s have a change of subject, eh?
“It bothers me that you’re being deliberately frightened, Abby. Even if it is only by Bartholomew Briggs. I’ve always considered the possibility that one day, his harmless ramblings and oddities could take a darker turn. It seems,” she said quietly, “that they finally have.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Ryan hung up the phone with a satisfied smile. The packing plant in Marriot’s Bay was his. An appointment with his lawyer to discuss the details of the lease was in order, but for now, the workday was done.
He shrugged on his jacket with a smile, not even able to recall the last time he’d been anxious to leave work for the day. Sure, there
was a mountain of paperwork fit to keep him at his desk for another several hours, but he had more pressing matters to attend.
He grabbed the bouquet of roses he’d purchased on his lunch hour and grinned down at them. Abby would love them. They were the softest pink the florist had—perfectly delicate, she’d said as she wrapped them. Something about them reminded him of Abby.
“You leaving?” asked Johnny Mac as he passed. “But it’s only four o’clock.” His eyes fell to the flowers and glinted knowingly. “I see. Got yourself a little action, eh?”
“The only action you need to concern yourself with is table seven,” he said, trying to sound stern but failing. Jeez, his work ethic was going to hell in a handbasket. “Their glasses are empty.”
He walked into the sunlight, realizing, suddenly, that there was a spring in his step. He did his best to rectify it before anyone noticed and loped around the back of the bar toward the parking lot.
He stopped suddenly, a chill clutching the back of his neck. A piece of white paper secured beneath his windshield wiper fluttered in the wind.
He snatched the paper, glaring at it for a split second before the words sank into his mind and clutched his heart like a vise. Adrenaline surged through his limbs in answer to the instinctive call to fight or flight.
Touch her again, and she will die
As if in a dream, he heard the back door of Rum Runner’s screech open, heard Johnny Mac making yet another wisecrack as he lumbered to the trash bin and tossed in a bag.
“Abby,” Ryan said, more to himself than to Johnny.
“Oh,” said Johnny, wiping his hands down his pant legs. “So that’s where the action is.”
Fight or flight?
Ignoring Johnny, Ryan slid behind the wheel and jammed his foot on the gas.
Fight. Definitely fight.
Ryan burst into his mother’s house, breath tight in his chest. “Where is she?”
Cora all but swallowed her teacup. “Wh-what? Who?”
“Abby!” he said as he raced into the living room, searching for signs of her. “I need to talk to her. Where is she?”
In what he could only describe as a typical response to his heightened state, Cora seemed to sink purposefully into her seat and draw calmness around her like a blanket. “Whatever are you on about, son?”
Ryan fell to a crouch before her, grasped her shoulders and squeezed as gently as he could—which he feared was not very gentle at all. “Work with me, Mom,” he said, his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. “Where’s Abby?”
“Well, I imagine she’s back at the cottage packing up,” she said placidly. “I’ve finally convinced her to move into town where she’ll be safer. What is all the fuss about?”
Ryan grabbed the now-rumpled paper out of his pocket and tossed it onto her lap. He strode across the room, raking his fingers through his hair.
“Oh no,” she gasped.
“Yeah, that was my thought, exactly.” Struck with sudden inspiration, Ryan pulled his wallet from his pocket and withdrew his Visa. “I’m heading up to the cottage. Get on the phone and book her a ticket home.”
“Wh-what?” Cora stammered, following him to the door. “But, but—”
“But nothing. She needs to be safe, Mom, and that means she needs to get out of here.”
He turned to leave, but was stopped by her hand on his sleeve. “I think you should know she had an encounter with Bart today. He scared her.”
Resolve was a solid stone in his belly.
“Make the call, Mom.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Abby rubbed her hand over her heart—where a pang of remorse still resonated. She’d known for a while that the only safe and reasonable thing to do was pack up the better part of her belongings and lock up the cottage. She wouldn’t even get to enjoy the lovely new bathroom addition that had been completed that very morning.
From the moment she’d arrived on the island, had set up her home in the cottage, she had felt a long-festering wound beginning to heal. She’d sensed the internal resurrection of dormant dreams, found solace in the tranquil beauty of the forest.
Now fear marred the tranquility.
Gulls wheeled over the inlet, calling a melancholy omen to her heart. Nothing was as it seemed. Bartholomew Briggs was truly a frightening character—she was almost certain now that he was the culprit behind the notes, the ring and the unsettling feeling she’d had of being watched. He’d said it himself: Bartholomew is a stone: Bartholomew is a tree. No one sees Bartholomew, but Bartholomew sees all.
Abby shivered at the memory. Bartholomew certainly fit the profile of a stalker.
She looked over the list of possible suspects she had begun to compile. The criteria was admittedly broad. To make the list, the person had to be male, had to have been of a certain age when her mother lived in Destiny Bay, and had to have had contact with her since she’d arrived.
At the top of the list was Bartholomew, followed by Sheriff Flynn and Johnny Mac. Who else? she wondered. Not that it mattered. The police had absolutely no interest in her situation, and the fact that the sheriff was on her list probably narrowed her chances of enlisting his help considerably.
Abby forced herself to place the list back on the table and resume her packing. She had to finish up and get out of the cottage—the sooner the better.
The sound of footsteps coming down the verandah stopped her in her tracks. Abby’s heart hammered in her chest. She scurried to the corner of the room and snatched the toilet plunger—a parting gift left by the contractor— and held it high over her head.
Breathlessly, she peered through the window that overlooked the verandah…and saw the top of someone’s head approaching the door.
The door opened. “Abby?”
Abby slumped against the wall in relief, let the plunger fall from her grasp, and sucked in a great lungful of breath. “Ryan, you scared me! I thought you were—you know.”
Ryan bent down, grasped the plunger and examined the rubber cup. “So you brandished your toilet plunger in order to, what…shove you know down the nearest drainpipe?”
“I could have knocked him off balance.”
“Or, more likely, you could have knocked yourself off balance and found yourself in a less than ideal position.”
Abby deflated. She looked Ryan in the eye, felt her defenses switch to high alert when she saw the color of his face. He looked positively ill. “Ryan?” She placed her hand on his forehead. “You look awful. Something’s wrong.”
“Come sit down, Abby.” Ryan took her hand. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Abby shook her head. “I’m not going to like it, am I?”
“No.”
She followed him to the living room, allowed him to steer her to the couch, then sank into its plush depths.
Ryan took her hands. “I’m not showing you this to frighten you, Abby—I want you to understand that. I’m showing it to you because you need to understand how serious this situation is, because I don’t think you get it.”
“I do get it, Ryan.”
“Do you really?” he asked, sounding more than a little ticked off. “Because here you are at the cottage—the last place you should be without me.” His face was mottled with red, his eyes beginning to blaze. “And Mom told me that you had an encounter with Bartholomew, when you know you ought to stay clear of him!”
Abby sank to her seat. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”
“Is that what you’re going to say when they’re wheeling you into the emergency room—or worse? That you’re sorry ?”
“Don’t shout at me!”
He yanked a folded note out of his pocket, tossed it onto her lap.
Before she even opened it, she knew it was bad. Her fingers vibrated with the knowledge. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
She did, feeling as if the contents within might explode in her face. Abby looked at the words on the paper, felt her world spin out from beneat
h her.
She dropped the note, clapped her hand over her mouth. Her body started trembling, her eyes misting with tears. “What—what is this?”
“It’s a death threat, Abby,” he said, taking her into his arms. “This man wants to kill you.”
“I’ll die if you touch me again? Who is this person?” Abby demanded. Her body was shaking uncontrollably, torn between terror and rage. “What right does he have to frighten me? I’ve never done a thing to him!”
“Shh,” Ryan said, rocking her gently. He stared up at the ceiling as if an answer to this impossible situation were somewhere up there. “Pack your bags, Abby. I’m putting you on the first plane out of here.”
She broke away, gaping at him. “I’m not going!”
“You’re leaving, Abby.”
She grabbed his arms. “No! I’m not leaving you!”
“It’s just for a while.”
Abby thought she might vomit. She sank back on the couch, her body shaking. “This man has to be caught, Ryan. I can’t just run away—what’s to stop him from following me?” Her voice had risen substantially, making her sound on the verge of hysterics.
Ryan’s eyes were a brooding topaz. He grasped her shoulders, looked into her face with a raw expression that hinted at the torment he bore. Abby stroked his cheek, almost expecting her hand to come away singed from the emotion that simmered beneath the surface. “I won’t let that happen, Abby. I’m going to find him, myself.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. After all this, she wasn’t going to lose him. “Ryan,” she said, “you can’t do that— he’ll hurt you!”
The face that looked back at her was tormented, ravaged by a new reality that he surely didn’t wish to face. “Better me than you.”
Abby pressed her mouth to his, drank in his honor and his honesty and the man that he was. “I won’t let him take you from me. I’ll find him, and then I’ll have you back, Abby,” he swore. “You’re mine—destiny has made it so, and damn him for thinking he can undo it.”
She watched his hand, rising—as if through water—to touch hers. “I am yours. I always will be.”