Footsteps thunked on the stairs outside Stella’s door, and her breath hitched. Did Dr. Hazzard know Wendell was making his escape? But how could she? He’d been so quiet.
Wendell crossed the yard, gaining ground. In a few minutes he’d reach the road. Then what? Where would he go and how did he intend to get there?
The kitchen door opened, and light spilled onto the grass. Wendell froze behind a berry bush. “Wendell, get back here.” Dr. Hazzard’s unmistakable voice sliced the stillness. She must have known the poor man’s mind was uneasy. But if she wanted to call him back so he could leave in the morning in an automobile instead of creeping through the wilderness alone, her tone would do more to frighten him away than to allay his fears. She set a lantern on the step, and the flame illuminated the yard.
A metallic click set Stella’s nerves buzzing. She’d heard that sound before … but where?
“I’m not asking again.” The doctor’s whisper may as well have been a shout.
A gun. She remembered that sound from when Papa took her to shoot clay pigeons at his club. Her heart plummeted into her stomach. No. She opened her mouth to scream. To warn Wendell that his life was in danger—
Crack!
The gun’s report killed the words in her throat.
Wendell crumpled to the ground. Stinging tears rushed to Stella’s eyes. Thoughts fled away as she gaped at the scene on the lawn. The glass fogged with every breath that sawed from her lungs. It hadn’t really happened. Had it?
Dr. Hazzard strode to Wendell’s contorted body. She nudged him with the stock of her shotgun then with the toe of her boot. She turned to the kitchen door and motioned with her hand. Rollie jogged toward her.
A whispered conversation passed between them, but the breeze changed courses and carried it out of Stella’s earshot.
The doctor’s head whipped around, almost as if her animal instinct told her someone was watching. Stella took a quick step to extinguish her lamp on the desk. She blew, but her first attempt was too weak and trembling to do much good. With her second breath, the flame died. Dead. Like Wendell. Like Claire. Like Sue.
So much death within these walls. She returned to the window.
Rollie dragged Wendell’s limp frame toward a stand of trees. Would the poor man get a proper burial? They wouldn’t simply dig a hole in the woods for him, would they? He’d been a kind man, friendly and warm. Tears trickled, leaving warm trails on her cheeks. He deserved so much better.
She glanced at Dr. Hazzard, who stood in the yard with her hands on her hips. The moon shone fully upon her. Who was this woman? What sort of monster was she that human life mattered so little to her? She had acted so pious when speaking of little Edward Anderson and the health he’d found through fasting. Was her seeming care for the boy nothing more than a charade?
The doctor spun to face the house, and she peered up to the window where Stella stood.
A gasp ripped through Stella’s lips, sounding more like a scream in the silent room. Her heart thwacked her ribs, and her breath stood still. Had Dr. Hazzard seen her? If she would shoot a man like an animal for daring to leave, what would she do to a witness to her crime?
Stella crept into bed and pulled the covers over her head.
Wendell had invited her to leave with him. If she’d taken his advice, she would—
Bursts of light like Fourth of July fireworks erupted before her eyes. A mixture of guilt, relief, grief, and aggravation swirled in her chest. It wasn’t fair she was alive when Wendell was not. It could just as easily be her body Rollie was dragging through the woods. She squeezed her eyes closed, but the sparks and flashes shone bright against her eyelids. Numbness prickled her left thumb then climbed like ivy up her arm as it reached for her cheeks.
Floorboards creaked in the corridor. With each step the groaning grew louder.
Stella tugged the coverlet off her head to her shoulders, keeping her eyes shut tight. She schooled her lungs to take deep breaths. She’d never pretended to be an actress, and when Mama had enrolled her in plays and concerts as a little girl, without fail Stella would be cast as a tree or sunflower. Well, as vegetation, she had learned the art of silence. Please, let it work now.
The door’s hinges moaned.
Amid the squiggles across her eyelids, the light spilling in from the hallway cut through the darkness and turned the firework background brick red.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
The aroma of vanilla tickled her nose. Mr. Hazzard? Was he involved in this too?
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
“She’s asleep,” he hissed.
“But I felt someone watching me.” Dr. Hazzard’s voice was hard as steel with a jagged edge. “And I saw the curtain at her window move.”
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
The hinges squeaked. “Her window’s open, Linda. Probably just a breeze.”
Why wouldn’t they just go away? Nausea churned in Stella’s stomach as bile singed her throat. Please, God, don’t let me be sick.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
“Maybe you’re right.” Dr. Hazzard’s tone softened. “But I sensed eyes on me. I’d swear it.”
The sick feeling in Stella’s middle expanded, and fingers of pain clamped her forehead. Her nerves tangled and throbbed. Why did this infernal migraine have to strike at the worst possible moment and bring its cruelest symptoms in tow?
Stress.
Henry might have been right. About everything.
The door clicked shut, but Stella continued to lie beneath the covers with her eyes closed and her breaths measured. What if Dr. Hazzard had stayed in her room and was lying in wait in the corner? Ready to catch her in the act of innocence, to make her pay for what she’d seen?
The roiling in her stomach calmed.
A door down the hall closed with a hollow snick.
Then, silence.
Stella strained to hear breathing that didn’t match the tempo of her own. Nothing. Was she safe?
The clock in the corridor gave off two tinny chimes. Had it only been an hour since Wendell walked down the stairs? Her chest tightened. She should have stopped him. Persuaded him that leaving in the dead of night wasn’t safe. If she’d tried harder—
She opened her eyes. Glowworms still crawled across her vision, but she squinted past them to the room’s corners. She was alone.
If only this night proved to be a nightmare. But vanilla extract hung like fog in the air, reminding her that this bad dream was as real as the pain in her head.
But Henry was on his way. He might even be in Washington, chugging toward Olalla. For her. Falling tears made the skin around her eyes itch. She’d promised Wendell to leave this wretched place as soon as she could, and she’d make good on that vow as soon as Henry pulled the automobile onto the gravel drive.
She turned over, adjusted the blanket, and tried to sleep. But her mind insisted on replaying Wendell’s murder as if it were on a reel at a moving picture show. Except the sound of a gunshot accompanied these images in lieu of the usual silence.
How could she sleep? She slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the window. All lay still and quiet. The moon shone, unimpeded by clouds.
She gripped the curtain. A chilly breeze gusted through the window and cut through her nightgown, but her mind barely registered discomfort. Dr. Hazzard couldn’t find out what Stella knew. Once Henry had her safely off the property, she’d beg him to take her straight to the police. Whatever was happening here needed to stop. And she wouldn’t go home without knowing the other patients were safe.
What documents had Dr. Hazzard insisted Wendell sign? It just didn’t fit. And why ask him to keep his valuables in her safe? As questions flooded, the ache in her temples reached a crescendo.
She crawled into bed and pressed the pillow over her head. No use thinking about it while her brain was a muddled mess. Tomorrow, Henry would come. She’d tell him everyth
ing. He would know exactly what to do.
Hopefully nothing would delay his reaching Wilderness Heights. She couldn’t stay in this death trap another night.
Chapter Seventeen
Stella clasped her hands behind her back and plodded along the walking trail, passing cabins and breathing in the scent of evergreen. She cast a glance over her shoulder. Mount Rainier stood majestic in the distance, its snowy cap standing in contrast to the shades of green surrounding her. As she pressed forward on her forced march for health, twigs snapped beneath her shoes. The setting sun cast pink and orange streamers across the sky. It was later than she thought … than she’d hoped. A band cinched around her lungs, cutting off her oxygen.
Henry hadn’t come. Her vision blurred.
Was he so angry with her for the way she’d deceived him that he’d ignored her plea for help? Her shoulders sagged. She deserved it. The way she’d lured him, led him to believe he’d have the final say when all along her plans to check in at Wilderness Heights had been determined.
No. She swiped the tears off her cheeks. He’d only been delayed. Maybe the motorcar had some difficulty. But he’d be here. He had never let her down before.
She recited every cruel word she’d said to him when she insisted he bring her to Washington. Her sharp tone and condescending words burned her cheeks as a weight settled on her chest.
He’d deserted her and for good reason.
Fear frothed and churned like a stormy sea. She turned and started for the main house. Without Jane or Henry—or even Uncle Weston—she was alone. How could she survive this place, Dr. Hazzard, on her own?
Emotion scalded her throat. What if she died alone as Sue had? A sob rose in her chest, but she swallowed it. Crying would do no good. She blinked the stinging tears from her eyes.
Jane must have read Henry’s feelings wrong. If he really cared for her, wouldn’t he come to take her home? A fleck of purple peeked from a grassy patch beside the trail. She stooped for a better look. A delicate violet turned its face toward the setting sun. An image of Henry giving her a flower at the beach sprang to mind, and her heart constricted. Had it meant nothing to him?
She eased onto the grass and plucked the violet. The petals were perfect, smooth as silk beneath her fingertips. How could it grow in this place? So much fear and death resided here, the blossom had no business showing its face.
I’m alone, and Henry isn’t coming.
Hope shriveled within her. She glanced at the flower in her palm and curled her fingers around it, crushing it in her fist. A tear warmed her cheek, then another. She fanned her fingers. The blossom lay mangled in her hand, much like her wishes for perfect health lay in a broken heap at her feet.
Perfect health. She sniffed. What had become of Sue’s hopes for perfect health … or Wendell’s? Now, both were dead.
Her stomach gurgled, begging for food. If only the doctor kept food in the icebox. But Stella had checked when no one was watching. Why bother owning an icebox if you didn’t intend to keep food in it? But as many patients as Dr. Hazzard withheld food from, it was no wonder she knew the schemes of the hungry.
Stella lay back on the grass, gazing at the colors displayed by the setting sun. A breeze played with her hair, but she didn’t bother to put it back in place. What did it matter anymore? No one on these grounds cared a whit about personal appearance. They only wanted food, and she was quickly joining their ranks.
Should she send another telegram to Henry? But what if Rollie had failed to send the last? Maybe part of her wished he had. If he had discarded it, that meant Henry hadn’t willfully neglected it. She clenched her jaw. Wishful thinking on her part. Her mind’s method of groping for hope when there was none to be found. Rollie had sent it—that was his job. And telegrams were even more reliable than sending letters through the post office. Mail carriers bragged that not even rain or sleet could stop them. Henry had received her message and chosen to ignore it. Which was exactly what she deserved.
Loneliness expanded within her, squeezing out the hunger in her belly. If only the treatments brought the smallest evidence of improvement, but last night’s headache proved their ineffectiveness. She never should have come to this awful place. Henry had warned her, and she’d plunged headlong into her own ways. Now she’d lost him forever.
The sun sank lower on the horizon, and the pink sky deepened to violet. High overhead, stars winked from their courses in the heavens. A Bible passage Mama used to recite when they walked the nature trails filled her mind. “When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?” Stella’s heart swelled.
She wasn’t alone. Not really. God, in all His vastness and unbounded love, saw her. Thought about her. Tears trickled from her eyes. In her search for healing and her fruitless attempts to appease Uncle Weston, even in her correspondence with a man she’d never met, she’d neglected the One who had saved her and loved her more than even Mama had. Though she’d never stopped praying to Him, her petitions had become selfish, born more out of habit than true devotion. And every decision she’d made for months—maybe even years—had been dictated by her own wishes. God’s plans for her had never touched her mind.
She’d wandered from His loving arms to forge her own path. To contrive a way to make her mark on the world. Now, she lay before Him empty. Broken. Starving in more ways than one. But He’d never demanded some great deed from her. All He desired was obedience.
She closed her eyes. “Forgive me for drifting away. I need You, because I don’t know what’s best for me. Obviously, I ended up here. And I’m scared. Henry didn’t come, and Wendell—” Her voice cracked, interrupting her prayer. “Show me what to do. Keep me safe. And once I’m far away from this place, work out a way for me to make a difference. You know I want to work in the children’s home, but if that’s not the path You have for me, put me on the right one.”
When she opened her eyes, the pressure on her chest eased and peace whispered to the storm within her, calming it until it resembled a sea of glass.
Though shed chased her own pursuits, God hadn’t changed—His love hadn’t changed. He’d waited for her at the very spot she’d wandered away and welcomed her back with open arms as the father of the prodigal had his errant son.
Even if Henry stayed in San Francisco, Stella would never be alone.
Chapter Eighteen
That’s Peter Rabbit. Can you say ‘bunny’?” Henry gestured to a bunny in a blue jacket in the picture book. Daisy prodded a dimpled finger at the furry creature.
He met her gaze but received no response.
“Bunny?” How much should he press? Wouldn’t she speak when she had something to say? But according to Rose, the little girl used to communicate with simple words and short sentences before their parents died. He sighed. All in good time.
He leaned back in the chair and Daisy snuggled close. “Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were—Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter—”
A scream tore through the tranquility. Henry bolted from the chair with Daisy in his arms. He followed the terrified shrieks to the kitchen.
Jane stood there pale as death, with a hand clamped to her chest. A garden snake writhed on the counter in a dusting of flour.
“Get it out! Get it out!” Jane pointed at the squirming creature.
Henry set Daisy down and approached the snake. Something about the coiling, slithering beast set his nerves on edge. Why couldn’t it have been a mouse?
With his heart thumping hard against his ribs, he reached for the snake. Where did one grab them in order to maintain the least amount of physical contact? The neck? But other than the head, weren’t snakes all neck? Bile made a slow climb up his throat, but he swallowed it.
If only Stella were here. She had never been as afraid of snakes as he had. She’d already have this emissary of Satan o
ut of the house. Her fears centered less around physical things like snakes and rats and tended toward ideas and feelings. Once when they were children, she’d made him promise to stay close to her at the fair. She’d been terrified that he would lose her in the crowd, and she would find herself alone among strangers. He had held her hand tight the whole day. Did she feel alone now, surrounded by unfamiliar faces at Wilderness Heights? Or had she made friends?
Henry shook off the thoughts. She was where she wanted to be. No use worrying about a woman who had managed to get her way yet again.
He grabbed the snake and darted for the door. Still, unease squirmed like a serpent inside him. What if the experience, the treatments, the loneliness, were proving more than she could bear? Were her headaches improving? The very idea of poor digestion causing such things—it didn’t add up in his mind.
With a flick of the wrist, Henry tossed the flour-covered snake into the bushes. He rubbed his hand on his trouser leg and stepped into the kitchen.
Jane wiped flour off the counter into a wastebasket, muttering, “How did it get in here? That’s what I’d like to know. Snakes don’t just crawl into houses and coil their way onto kitchen counters.”
A snicker sounded from the direction of the pantry. Jane whirled, fists planted on her hips. “Robby.” Though she didn’t raise her voice, her tone prickled the hair on Henry’s neck. And he wasn’t the one in trouble. No telling what effect it had on the boy.
Robby stepped from the pantry, trying to bite back a smile but failing entirely. Laughter erupted, and he doubled over. “You should have seen your face.” He slapped his knee. “You were white as a ghost.”
Jane’s hands clenched. Though there could be no doubt the child was in the wrong, the look on her face showed she was too invested in the situation and her choice of punishment may not fit the crime.
“I’ll talk to him.” Henry patted Jane’s shoulder then motioned for Robby to follow with a jerk of his head. “Let’s go for a walk.”
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