The Runaway

by Lisa Childs

  Chapter Eleven

  Where the hell was she?

  The treatment center she’d mentioned was on a damn island, so it wasn’t as if there were that many places she could be. Since she’d said they wouldn’t let her into Halcyon Hall, he hadn’t even gone there yet. But he didn’t know where else to search.

  The local hotel was closed for the season. Was she sleeping in her car?

  Whit peered through the windshield as the headlamps of his Cadillac illuminated twin spots of light in the all-encompassing gloom of Bane Island. Brick and clapboard buildings lined the street he traveled. He’d found the town. Maybe he would find Rosemary here. He passed the police station, or so the emblem on the door declared the small building. She wasn’t there; she’d already said they wouldn’t help her. So he pulled into the lot of a diner next to it.

  Weren’t diners usually gathering spots for the locals? Someone here would know where she was. The lot was nearly full, but he found a spot next to a Jeep. Since he hadn’t seen much else open, he wasn’t surprised that the restaurant was packed. The din of voices reached him across the porch as he headed toward the front door of the old Victorian house. Once he pulled open the heavy mahogany door, though, all conversation ceased and everyone turned toward him.

  Had they stopped talking because he was a stranger? Or because they recognized him? After a quick glance at him, everyone resumed talking and eating except for one person who stared intently at him from a booth on the other side of the room.

  Anger coursed through him. He was such a damn fool; he’d started to believe that maybe Rosemary did need his help, that she had been telling the truth about that at least. But not now ...

  Not with her here. They must have been in on it together to discredit him. He stalked over to the booth and slid onto the side across from Edie Stone. “Where is she?” he asked.

  The blonde tilted her head. “To whom are you referring?”

  “You damn well know whom,” he shot back at her. Why would Rosemary do this to him? For money? Revenge? He hadn’t been responsible for what had happened to her, though. He’d had nothing to do with spiking her drink that night. And once he’d found out ...

  Edie Stone’s mouth curved into a slight smile. “Rosemary Tulle.”

  “So you do know her,” he said. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “I’m just chasing down the lead to a hot story,” she said.

  “Chasing or creating?” he challenged her.

  She sucked in a breath. “I don’t create. I just report.”

  He snorted. “There’s nothing to report here.”

  “You’re here,” she said. “For Rosemary Tulle.” She hadn’t asked a question. She already knew. So if she wasn’t conspiring with Rosemary, she must have been listening at the door after he’d showed her out. Or maybe someone else had told her ...

  “Who’s been talking to you?” he asked. He doubted that Martin had; he was even more desperate—too desperate—to keep Rosemary’s allegations secret than Whit was. “Dwight?” His clerk could have been swayed with either her money or her charm.

  What else had Dwight told her? He wasn’t above listening in on the intercom or at the door. What had he heard that day? Her accusation that he’d raped her? The word was so damn ugly that his guts twisted at just the thought of it, of someone doing that to someone else, to someone he’d once cared so damn much about. She wasn’t the only woman he’d cared about who’d been violated like that. His own mother ...

  How had she ever been able to look at him let alone love him? He was a constant reminder of what had happened to her. Once he’d found out how he’d been conceived it had been too late to do anything about it. The statute had run out. That was one of the things he wanted to change when he got elected, if he got elected....

  If Edie Stone reported Rosemary’s accusation, some people would believe it—even though it couldn’t be proven. There was no statute of limitations on scandal.

  “Nobody’s been talking to me,” Edie Stone replied. “Your campaign manager has made certain of that. What’s he trying to cover up for you, Your Honor? Or is that why you’re here now? You’re doing your own dirty work?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. I’m reaching out to someone who might need my help.”

  She snorted now. “More like reaching out for votes.”

  He wasn’t looking for votes. He was looking for Rosemary Tulle and for the truth.

  * * *

  Running through the open front doors of the hall, Elijah called out, “Stop!” As he rushed toward the parking lot, his shoes slipped on the slick sidewalk, and the cold wind blasted through his suit jacket and dress pants. “Damn it!”

  He was too late. Rosemary Tulle’s rental car, with its back bumper crushed, headed down the drive toward the road. He wasn’t about to chase her down to do . . . what?

  Stop her from calling the police? That was probably where she was headed. But Sheriff Howell understood, better than most, that teenagers ran away; when he heard what had happened, he wouldn’t be as concerned as she was. And if she talked to reporters ...

  Elijah would just decline to give out any information on a guest. Maybe he shouldn’t have told her what had happened. But, damn it, he wanted to hire her, wanted her to work with the guests that he and Dr. Chase weren’t able to counsel the way she would be able to....

  Was Gordon right about her not leaving the island until she found Genevieve? Would she take the position if he offered it to her? That was why he’d really tried to stop her—to ask.

  “Who was that?” a deep voice asked.

  Elijah turned toward his business partner. The younger man wore a suit, too, a track suit. Bode James was the head of the physical well-being part of the treatment center, and the fitness expert embodied his role. His black hair was damp beneath the hood of his sweatshirt. He must have been out running.

  “The psychologist I interviewed this morning.”

  “She ran away from your interview?” Bode chuckled. “What the hell did you ask her?”

  “It’s what I told her,” Elijah said. “She’s Genevieve Walcott’s mother.”

  Bode shook his head and a droplet of sweat rolled down his face. “No, she’s not. I met the mother when Genevieve was dropped off.”

  Of course he had. Bode always made it a point to meet—and charm—every female who arrived at the hall.

  Elijah studied the younger man’s handsome face. “Did you meet Rosemary Tulle just now?” he asked.

  Maybe she’d had another reason to run off.

  Bode expelled a shaky breath. “The sister ... the one who’s been trying to get in to see her . . .”

  “She knows the truth now,” Elijah said.

  “Does she?” Bode mused. “Do we?”

  Elijah narrowed his eyes. He suspected Bode might know more than he did. Genevieve was a beautiful girl. Girl . . .

  Wouldn’t her age have stopped Bode from turning his charm on her, though?

  Bode tugged his hood tighter around his face, as if uncomfortable with Elijah’s scrutiny of him. “So is she going to stay away now?”

  “I hope not,” Elijah said. “I’m going to offer her a job.”

  “Have you lost your damn mind?” Bode asked. “I thought you were kidding about interviewing her.”

  Elijah arched a brow. “You did?”

  Bode snorted. “Yeah, you’re right. I should have known better. You don’t have a sense of humor at all.”

  And Bode had too much of one. They were damn unlikely business partners. Even more unlikely brothers ...

  But Elijah had had no choice about either situation. Neither had Bode. Or Jamie, as Elijah called him. The fitness expert had rearranged his first and middle names and dropped his last to sound more marketable, for his brand ... for the books he’d published and the television programs on which he was a frequent guest. He was smart—smarter than Elijah realized most of the time.

  “It’s a bad idea,” Bode
said. “Hiring her . . .”

  Probably.

  “She’s just going to make trouble for us.”

  They’d both invested so much into restoring the manor and converting it to something new, something special—something that the past wouldn’t be able to overshadow anymore. But if the press found out about the recent problems ...

  The curse would come back to haunt them all.

  And he and Bode had too damn much to lose ...

  * * *

  Panic pressed on Rosemary’s lungs again—like it had while she’d waited for Dr. Cooke to return to his off ice, to let her out. Would the gates open as she neared them? Or did she have to stop and request to be released? And would he let her go, or would he keep her inside that damn property like he’d tried to keep Genevieve?

  Had she really run away?

  Where the hell could she have gone?

  And why hadn’t she contacted Rosemary to let her know where she was, that she was okay?

  Because she wasn’t okay ...

  Tears stung Rosemary’s eyes, blurring her vision as she neared those tall wrought iron gates. With the wet sole of her boot, she tapped the brakes, and the pedal went down, down to the floor of the car, with no resistance. The tires didn’t slow. The brakes didn’t engage.

  What the hell had happened?

  She glanced up, just as the gates opened. Maybe it would have been better had she crashed into them. Maybe they would have stopped her. But she couldn’t stop now. She could only wrench the wheel to the right so she wouldn’t crash into the trees across the street. The right brought her away from town, but if she’d turned left, she would have had two lanes of potential traffic to navigate.

  The car fishtailed, sliding back and forth across the slick pavement, as she fought to get it under control. But she was going too fast, just as the sheriff had cautioned her that first day she’d arrived on the island. She was going too fast for conditions—for having no damn brakes.

  What had happened?

  And how the hell was she going to be able to stop?

  Turning away from town brought her toward that pier she’d nearly struck the first day and all the rocks along the jagged shoreline. She had to stop the car before she launched off the pier and into the frothing icy waves in the ocean.

  She jerked the wheel again, this time to the left. She wasn’t trying to turn back toward town. She knew she would never make it there. She could only hope that she didn’t wind up in the water where nobody would ever find her, let alone save her.

  As she turned, at such a high speed, the tires squealed and skidded before two of them left the pavement, and the car toppled onto its side, then its roof, then its side....

  Metal crunched, and Rosemary screamed as the car began to collapse around her. She could only hope that it stopped tumbling before it landed in the water. But then something struck her head, sending a wave of pain and blackness crashing over her. And she thought no more....

  Chapter Twelve

  Deacon leaned against the front counter of the diner, waiting on his lunch order. He could have sent Margaret to pick it up, but it was cold, and he’d needed to stretch his legs.

  This time of year was usually quiet on the island. It would have been quiet if not for Rosemary Tulle’s arrival. But she wasn’t the only unfamiliar face in town. As he waited, Deacon glanced around the booths and tables. Most of the patrons were known. Some smiled and waved at him; others looked away, unwilling to meet his gaze. Some others stared back at him with disapproval and condemnation.

  It didn’t matter what the state police had ruled; some of the islanders held him responsible for what had happened. They believed the worst. Hell, maybe he was responsible—just not in the way that they thought.

  Ignoring the familiar faces and the unfriendly gazes, he focused on the unfamiliar. They were a couple. Both blondes. The woman’s hair was nearly as short as the man’s and tucked behind her ears, revealing her pointy chin. She looked familiar.

  Deacon narrowed his eyes as he focused on the man. He wasn’t completely unfamiliar. Something about him struck a chord in Deacon’s memory. He’d seen him before.

  Where? When?

  And why was he on the island now?

  It wasn’t exactly tourist season. He could have been heading to the hall or bringing the woman ...

  But why stop in town? Why not head right there?

  Cooke had hired some fancy French chef. Deacon had eaten there once—when he’d been the guest of a guest, when he’d been on the list that Rosemary wanted on so damn badly.

  Where was she now?

  He probably needed to check on her—to make sure she’d not gotten herself into trouble again. He’d just been assuming, though, that she’d found trouble at the hall.

  But what if it had followed her here?

  What if the danger Rosemary Tulle was in had nothing to do with the island at all and everything to do with the people in her life? Were these people in her life?

  Deacon had learned the hard way to not ignore his instincts. These people appearing in town right now—right around the time Rosemary Tulle had—was no coincidence.

  He approached the booth the couple occupied. Not that either seemed all that happy with the other’s company. Tension radiated from both of them. Was that because of the conservation he’d interrupted or because of his badge?

  “You’re new to the island,” Deacon remarked. “Anything I can help you find?” The man shook his head while the woman asked, “Do you personally greet all visitors to the island, Officer?”

  “Sheriff,” Deacon corrected her. “And yes, I like to learn the name of every stranger to Bane.”

  “Edie Stone,” she replied. “And this is Judge Whittaker Lawrence.”

  “Oh . . .” Now he knew why he’d recognized him. The guy had just announced his intention to run for governor next year. Was he already starting his campaign? Why here? Bane didn’t have that many registered voters, not like Portland where he was a sitting judge.

  “Thank you for the warm welcome, Sheriff,” the woman remarked with a dismissive smile.

  A grin tugged at Deacon’s lips. “Not much warm about the island this time of year,” he murmured, “which makes me wonder why you would choose to visit now.”

  “Is that what’s brought you over to our booth, Sheriff?” the woman asked. “Curiosity?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?” she asked. “You must get visitors year-round with Halcyon Hall on the island.”

  “Is that where you’re heading?” Deacon asked. “You two checking in?”

  “You are quite curious, Sheriff,” Stone said while the judge remained silent.

  He shrugged. “Hazard of my job, I guess.”

  “Mine too,” she said. “I’m a reporter.”

  A pang of unease struck him. He was not a fan of the press. “A reporter and a politician . . .” Usually politicians weren’t fans either, at least not lately.

  “Sounds like the beginning of a joke,” the judge finally spoke, but it was obvious from the tight expression on his face that he didn’t find the situation all that funny.

  “What’s the punch line?” Deacon asked.

  “If she had her way, it would probably be me,” Lawrence admitted.

  He hadn’t imagined that tension. “Sounds like at least one of you might need a stay at the hall,” he mused.

  “I’ve heard it’s pretty hard to get into,” Lawrence remarked.

  “You heard right,” Deacon said. “I hope you’ve made a reservation for your stay, or you will probably be turned away at the gates.”

  Like Rosemary Tulle had been ...

  “I’m not here to check into the hall, Sheriff,” Lawrence adamantly replied. Of course he wouldn’t want anyone to know that he was checking into what was basically a fancy rehab center.

  Before Deacon could challenge the judge with more questions, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Margaret was probably wondering what was t
aking him so damn long to pick up their lunch. The bag sat on the counter. Hopefully, the Styrofoam containers had kept it warm, as warm as it had ever been.

  “Margaret,” he greeted her. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Sheriff, there’s been an accident,” she said. “You’re needed out past the manor—near the pier.”

  “Is Warren closer?” he asked.

  “Warren’s not answering his radio,” she replied. “And it’s serious. I’ve already dispatched an ambulance.”

  Margaret wouldn’t have done that for a fender bender. He cursed. “That bad?”

  “Rollover,” she confirmed. “A rental car . . .”

  “Rosemary Tulle?” he asked.

  “You know anybody else driving a rental right now?”

  Maybe these two, but they were here. They were safe. He turned away from them, dodged a waitress carrying a coffeepot, and headed toward the door. When he pushed it open, somebody caught his arm. He didn’t want the damn food now. “I have to go—”

  But it wasn’t a waitress holding him back. It was Whittaker Lawrence. “What the hell do you want?”

  * * *

  “Rosemary Tulle,” Whit said. That was who he wanted. “You said her name.”

  The sheriff’s dark eyes narrowed. “You know her?”

  Not anymore ...

  But with how he’d said her name, it was obvious the sheriff did. So she must have tried to get the police to help her, like she’d claimed.

  “What’s happened to her?” Whit asked, his heart beating fast with concern.

  The sheriff jerked his arm free of Whit’s grasp. “I’m about to find out. I advise you to stick around Bane, Lawrence, because I’m sure I’m going to have some questions for you.” His dark eyes skimmed briefly over his face, the same look in them that had been in Rosemary’s—the accusation.

  Had she told the sheriff what she believed about him?

  Before he could ask, the man headed out the door. He started after him but someone tugged on his arm. “Where are you going?” Edie asked as she shoved her wallet into her bag and pulled out her keys.

  He tugged free of her grasp and headed out the door, but she stayed with him as he crossed the lot to his vehicle. The lights flashed on the Jeep as she clicked a fob. “If you’re trying to follow the sheriff, my ride will handle these roads better than your fancy car.”