The Runaway

by Lisa Childs

  “Hello?” she called out. “This is Rosemary.”

  A slap rang out, like the slap that Rosemary had delivered. She sucked in a breath like her mother had. Then the breathy sound of sobs emanated from her phone.

  “Who is this?” she asked. “Who’s there?”

  “Genevieve . . .” the voice murmured. “It’s Genevieve.”

  Relief coursed through Rosemary. Her daughter was alive. But ...

  “Where are you?” Rosemary asked.

  More sobs crackled in the phone. Then another slap of skin against skin. Rosemary flinched as if she’d felt the blow, too. “Where are you? What’s going on?”

  Somebody had her. Somebody was hurting her.

  “At the boathouse . . . on the property . . .” Genevieve murmured. “You have to come alone, or he’ll kill us both.”

  “Who?” Rosemary asked. But the phone clicked dead.

  And Rosemary knew if she went alone she would probably wind up dead as well. But if she called anyone else to help her, she would risk her daughter’s life.

  She could not lose Genevieve.

  Again ...

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Where the hell was everyone?

  Elijah returned from a visit to his grandfather to find the hall nearly empty but for guests and low-level staff. Dr. Chase was gone. So was Rosemary.

  Even his brother was gone. Bode hadn’t been with Grandfather either. After his nurse had gone missing, the old man had tried Bode first. He’d made it painfully clear to Elijah that he had been his last choice to call. That hadn’t hurt Elijah’s feelings. He’d rather not talk to the old man, who reminded him of everything that was wrong with his family.

  “What did you mean the other night?” he’d asked him. “When you acted like you were surprised we only found one body?” He hadn’t been able to think about anything else after Deacon’s visit. No shoes and a hospital gown? What the hell was going on . . . ?

  If anyone knew, his grandfather would.

  But the old man had shrugged his frail shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. A body was found?”

  Elijah had held back a snort of derision. The old man wasn’t senile. From the glint of light in his pale eyes, he was just messing with Elijah. Now. Had he been messing with them that night—when he’d made that odd comment?

  And why hadn’t Bode seemed as surprised by the remark as Elijah had been? What the hell did he know?

  And where the hell was he?

  Elijah had hated helping his grandfather, but there had been no one else. Where the hell had the nurse gone? He hadn’t returned before Elijah left, but Grandfather had insisted he was fine alone. He wasn’t the one Elijah worried about, though.

  The intercom on his desk beeped, and Elijah released a ragged sigh of relief. Finally somebody was calling him back. He pressed the button and asked, “Who is it?”

  “That reporter has returned, Dr. Cooke,” the receptionist informed him. “She’s demanding to talk to you.”

  He sighed, but it wasn’t with relief this time. “I don’t want to speak to her.”

  “She’s threatening to call the sheriff if she doesn’t see or speak to Ms. Tulle,” the receptionist said. “She’s worried that she’s in danger. And I think she might be right.”

  His blood chilled now. “Why?”

  “The Walcotts were here earlier, visiting with her,” the receptionist said, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I heard them arguing. It sounded as if it had gotten violent.”

  “And you didn’t call the police?” Elijah asked her.

  “I didn’t think you’d want me to involve them on what must have been a personal matter.”

  She had every reason to have believed that given how reluctant Elijah always was to talk to the sheriff.

  After what they’d learned when he’d hypnotized Rosemary, he was surprised she’d agreed to see them at all. She must have thought they had information about her daughter.

  “The Walcotts didn’t stay long,” the receptionist continued. “Then Ms. Tulle left after they did.”

  “I didn’t think she was here,” Elijah said. He’d come back into the hall through the conservatory and had stopped by Rosemary’s office on his way to his.

  “She’s not, but security has informed me that her vehicle is still in the lot.”

  So she hadn’t left the property. . . .

  Where the hell was she?

  * * *

  Where the hell was she?

  Rosemary had had to stop and ask that young groundskeeper where to find the boathouse. She’d never noticed one before—not even when she’d been dangling over the rocky shore. The property was so vast, though, and encompassed so much of the island and the shore that there was a whole area she never would have thought to explore. Fortunately, the groundskeeper had pointed her in the direction.

  So she’d hurried off across the snow-covered land toward a lower area of the island, toward a section of shore that wasn’t as rocky as the area where she’d nearly fallen to her death.

  She’d felt marginally safer then—until she’d gotten farther and farther from the hall. Then she’d reconsidered her decision to go off alone. But surely the groundskeeper would tell someone where she’d gone ... if they asked.

  Would anyone ask?

  She’d sent Whit away. And Gordon . . . Could she trust him or had her mother been right about him? About everything?

  No. Abigail was a master manipulator, and she was just messing with Rosemary’s mind as she always had. Rosemary shook her head to clear it and snowflakes dropped from her hair onto her jacket. This time she’d grabbed it and her scarf and her boots before she’d rushed outside.

  She was prepared for the cold but not for what she might find. Had that been Genevieve on the phone or someone trying to sound like a scared teenager?

  Whoever it was had been scared—very scared. She’d never heard Genevieve sound like that, not even on the voicemail she’d left begging Rosemary to rescue her from Halcyon Hall. But, despite the sobs and fear, the girl on the phone had sounded like Genevieve.

  So much like her ... that Rosemary had been compelled to meet her alone even though she knew she was risking her life. She hurried across the property in the direction the groundskeeper had pointed. Gradually the trees thinned, and the land sloped down toward the ocean, which was frozen along the shore.

  Rosemary shivered, and the soles of her boots cracked through the ice-covered snow. The crackling sound echoed, not from her footsteps but from someone else’s. Someone was following her. She shoved her hand in her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the pepper spray canister she’d taken out of her purse before she’d left her office. With the canister clasped tightly in her hand, she pulled it from her pocket and whirled around to confront whoever was following her.

  But nobody stood here. Only a pine bough moved on a tree some distance behind her. Was there a shadow back there? Was someone hiding behind the pine tree?

  “Hello?” she called out.

  Maybe someone else had followed her. Someone like Whit...

  But Whit’s car hadn’t been in the lot when she’d left. He’d been gone for a while now, probably so long that he’d made it back home. To his home. It would never be hers.

  She would never have a life with him. But she wanted a life. She needed to call the sheriff. She reached into her other pocket and pulled out her cell phone. No bars appeared in the corner of the screen, and when she touched the phone icon, nothing happened. She had no signal.

  She should have called from her office phone, should have waited until he’d arrived at the hall. But she hadn’t wanted to wait because she’d believed that Genevieve needed her. But if Genevieve had been here this entire time, wouldn’t someone have found her—especially during that search the sheriff had conducted?

  Now that she was out in the cold, it had whipped some sense into her—chilled away the emotion, so that she had to face reality. She’d put
herself in danger, and if Genevieve was really alive, she’d put her in danger as well. She held out her phone and tried to press the phone icon again and again.

  As she stared down at it, a shadow fell across the snow and across her. As she whirled around, a scream rang out. It wasn’t hers. It sounded like ...

  Genevieve . . .

  Before she could see her daughter, something struck Rosemary, and the shadow overtook her vision, turning everything black as pain exploded in her skull.

  Her last thought was that her mother had been right. She had always trusted the wrong people. She shouldn’t have trusted that voice on the phone calling her out—because it had probably called her to her death.

  * * *

  Whit couldn’t do what she wanted; he couldn’t just leave her alone on this damn island. And he couldn’t leave until he saw who the hell the sheriff was meeting.

  The Walcotts . . .

  Anger flared as he watched them step out of the limousine onto the sidewalk outside the sheriff’s office. He’d seen them just a short while ago, but he’d been so mad then that he hadn’t really studied them. Her mother looked the same as she had that night when, nearly two decades ago, she’d shoved him out of her house and out of her daughter’s life. Bobby looked older though. His hair had thinned and his once fit body had gotten flabby, and there were new lines and a bruise and swelling on his face. It was clear that they didn’t want to be here, but the sheriff had somehow compelled them to show up.

  Whatever initial doubts Whit had had about Howell had been allayed and not because the sheriff had tried to allay them but because he hadn’t. He hadn’t done anything but his job, which clearly meant more to him than he was willing to show. A man who cared that much about representing the law wasn’t likely to break it for anyone—not even himself.

  And especially not for an obnoxious snob like Abigail Walcott.

  They must have realized quickly that Howell would not be easily fooled or manipulated because they weren’t inside the office long. The door flew open, and Abigail rushed out with Bobby following closely behind her. The boom of raised voices drifted across the street to where Whit had parked. But he couldn’t make out the words—just the outrage.

  Howell hadn’t arrested them, but he’d clearly rattled them. Maybe he’d threatened them with the same charges Whit had. A grin tugged at Whit’s mouth. He was actually beginning to like Deacon Howell.

  The couple on the sidewalk climbed into the limousine; it was just pulling away from the curb when a siren rang out and lights began to flash. Was Howell going to arrest them after all?

  But his SUV, with light bar flashing on top, sped past the long black car and on down the main street. Instinctively Whit knew where the sheriff was headed. To the hall . . .

  To Rosemary.

  He wouldn’t have turned on the lights and sirens if he just had news for her. This was something else, something more serious. An emergency ...

  As instinctively as he knew where the sheriff was heading, Whit turned the key in the ignition, started his car, and headed after him. The limousine had pulled out between them, but it stopped at the light, its signal on to turn left—toward the bridge. Whit swerved around it and sped through the light. The chauffeur and maybe some other drivers blew their horns. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to lose the sheriff.

  More importantly he didn’t want to lose Rosemary.

  He only hoped he wasn’t already too late. More vehicles, with lights flashing on top of them and sirens blaring, joined in his chase of the sheriff. Had Howell called another search party?

  But the volunteers for the last one hadn’t showed up with lights flashing. They weren’t looking for a dead body this time; they were looking for a live one—or at least one they hoped they would find alive.

  The gates stood open to the hall; maybe that was just because the sheriff had sped through them. Or maybe they’d left them open for the others. Whit followed the sheriff’s SUV down the winding drive, and those other vehicles followed him.

  He stopped in the lot next to a familiar Jeep. Was the reporter the reason the sheriff had come out here with sirens blaring? Was she the one who was missing? Because somebody had to be ...

  But when he jumped out of his car, she rushed up to greet him. “What is it?” she asked him. “What’s happened?”

  He shook his head and turned toward the sheriff. “What’s with all the flashing lights and sirens?”

  “Cooke called. Rosemary’s missing,” Howell said.

  He sucked in a breath as pain stabbed his heart. He shouldn’t have left her—no matter what she’d said.

  “But her car is here,” he said, pointing toward it in the lot.

  “She’s not,” Elijah Cooke said as he joined them. “There are tracks leading away from the hall, through the snow.” He must have been following those tracks because snow clung to the legs of his dress pants.

  “But you didn’t find her?” the sheriff asked, his dark eyes narrowed with suspicion as he stared at the psychiatrist.

  Cooke shook his head. “I found blood though. That’s why I called.”

  Fear gripped Whit. “Where is it?”

  “No body?” Sheriff Howell asked.

  Cooke shook his head again. “No. But there are drag marks.”

  “Any coyote tracks?”

  Fear tightened its grip on Whit. He wasn’t going to wait around here while they talked and those wild dogs mauled the woman he ...

  He loved her. He’d always loved her—even all those years ago when he hadn’t really known what love was. He’d loved her then. And now he might have lost her. Unconcerned that he wore dress shoes and slacks like the doctor, he headed off across the snow—following the tracks.

  A strong hand gripped his arm, pulling him up short. “You’re not conducting this search,” Sheriff Howell told him.

  “You’re not stopping me,” Whit said. “Not this time.”

  “No,” Howell agreed. “I’m not. I’m going with you.” He released Whit’s arm then and reached for a walkie-talkie. “I’m following a trail,” he said into it. “But I want everybody to be on the lookout for anything suspicious, like someone transporting something, probably in a pickup or SUV. Keep an eye out around the perimeter.”

  Pickup ...

  Whit remembered the clanging noise from earlier, but that had just been the groundskeeper putting his tools in the box of the truck. That hadn’t been Rosemary; she’d been inside the hall then, where he should have stayed with her so that she wouldn’t have gone off alone.

  “Why the hell did she leave the hall?” he murmured aloud.

  “Her parents were here earlier,” Cooke said. “They probably upset her.”

  “Or did you?” Edie asked him.

  Whit hadn’t realized the reporter was tagging along with them.

  The sheriff glanced at her. “You were here earlier today. Did you say something to her?”

  “She talked,” Edie said. “She told me about this trust fund she’d forfeited.”

  “I know about that,” the sheriff said.

  Whit hadn’t. She hadn’t told him about that. “Why did she shut me out?” he murmured aloud.

  Edie’s face flushed, and he doubted it was from the cold. “She was probably protecting you.”

  “Damn it,” he said, his earlier suspicion confirmed. Rosemary had pushed him away for his sake.

  “Here!” Cooke called out as he hurried a few steps ahead of them to point at blood sprayed across the snow.

  Fear clenched Whit’s heart so tightly that it felt as if it stopped beating. Blood rushed to his head, making him so dizzy that he nearly stumbled.

  Edie caught his arm. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “No . . .” He jerked away from her and walked forward.

  But Howell held out his arm, gesturing them back. “This is a crime scene,” he said. Glancing at Cooke, he remarked, “That’s already been compromised. We have to protect whatever evidence might
still be here.”

  “We have to protect Rosemary,” Whit said. He’d wanted to—but she hadn’t let him.

  “It looks like we’re too late,” Edie murmured.

  “There’s no body,” the sheriff pointed out. “Just blood and not really a lot of it.”

  “It looks like a lot,” Edie said.

  Whit studied the snow and understood what the sheriff meant. The snow around each droplet of blood had changed red as if dyed with the color. Like with dye, it had taken only a few drops to change a lot of snow. He released a shaky breath. “She could be all right then. If she wasn’t dragged off . . .”

  Howell shook his head and said, “Looks like someone fell but got back up. How’d you know she ran off?” The sheriff grabbed the shrink’s arm then. “Were you the one chasing her?”

  “Like your grandfather hurt those girls,” Edie added.

  Dr. Cooke ignored her as he shoved the sheriff back. “Of course not! I only came out here to look for her after this woman demanded to see her and she wasn’t in her office. Then I saw the tracks and just started off. I called you when I found the blood.” He gestured at the blood-spattered snow. “When I heard the sirens, I turned back—”

  “To stop me from investigating without a warrant?” Howell challenged him.

  “To show you where to look,” Cooke replied, his voice sharp with impatience. “I want to find Ms. Tulle, too.”

  “You need to go back to the hall,” the sheriff said. “All of you—”

  “No!” Whit protested. He wasn’t giving up—not again.

  “You’re just going to mess with whatever evidence there is,” the sheriff said, “if we’re all trudging around out here.”

  Clearly, he thought that a crime had been committed this time.

  “I’ll follow the tracks. I’ll find her,” the sheriff promised.

  But would he find her like he had the last person who’d gone missing? Would he find a body?

  Or would he find her alive?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  She was alive. Rosemary had no doubt about it now. That had been Genevieve’s voice on the phone—and it had been her screaming at her in warning.