The Runaway Page 3

  Rosemary nodded. “Yes.” Now she drew a key fob from her purse. “I’ll get them.”

  “I’ll help,” Bonita eagerly offered. Whenever anyone showed her any kindness or attention, she responded with the same.

  “While you two are getting the bags, I’ll heat up some soup for you,” Evelyn said. “We had clam and corn chowder for dinner.”

  An almost lustful-sounding sigh escaped Rosemary’s lips. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you.” Her blue eyes glistened like Bonita’s had earlier, as if tears were welling in hers as well.

  Evelyn’s heart warmed with sympathy for the young woman. She had a reason for being on the island; anyone who came this time of year wasn’t here as a tourist. That was why the inn was closed in town. The only thing that drew business now was the manor, and their guests stayed there—not at the inn.

  Evelyn shivered and not just because of the cold breeze that blew in the door Bonita had opened. The thought of the manor chilled her . . . and terrified her.

  * * *

  The cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and he quickly pulled it out and pressed the accept button. “Yes?”

  “She came here,” the caller said in such a raspy whisper that Evelyn Pierce’s voice was barely recognizable. “She took a room.”

  He cursed—even though he’d known—Rosemary Tulle wasn’t going anywhere—not without her sister.

  “I—I had to rent it to her,” the older woman said, defensively. “We can’t pay the taxes and utilities for the house without boarders.”

  “I know,” he assured her. “It would have been better if she hadn’t stayed, though.”

  “Better for whom?” Evelyn asked.

  “For her,” he replied.

  “She wants to get into the manor,” she said, her whisper cracking with fear now.

  “I know.”

  “That would be a mistake,” Evelyn said.

  He wholeheartedly agreed. “That’s why it would have been better for her if she left.”

  Because she was determined to get into a place where nothing good ever happened . . .

  * * *

  Would the same woman answer the phone who had answered the intercom at the gate?

  Rosemary considered ways to disguise her voice, but eventually she would have to give her name and her credit card to book a room. Like she’d booked this lovely room at the boardinghouse. Wallpaper, with tiny rosebuds on it, stretched between the creamy white wainscoting and the tall ceilings. The same tiny rosebuds adorned the bedspread on the shiny brass bed.

  She wanted to pull back that comforter and crawl into bed. The delicious chowder had satisfied her hunger, but she was tired. Even as exhausted as she was, though, she wouldn’t be able to sleep—not until she spoke with Genevieve.

  If she wasn’t on the list to see her, she probably wasn’t on it for phone calls either. What had happened to the girl’s cell, though? Like most teenagers, Genevieve was never without her phone.

  Why did all Rosemary’s calls go directly to her voicemail? She tried it again, just to confirm, and now the recorded message informed her that the voicemail box she’d dialed was full.

  She probably wasn’t the only one who’d left messages for the teenager. Undoubtedly Genevieve’s friends had as well. Had she played any of them? Did she even still have her phone?

  What the hell had happened to the girl?

  What had they done to her at the treatment center? They claimed to use only diet, exercise, and counseling to help people deal with a wide range of ailments: eating disorders, drug/alcohol abuse, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress disorder. Which had Mother claimed that Genevieve had?

  Her fingers trembling, Rosemary searched for the number for Halcyon Hall and pressed the button to connect. A female voice answered, but the woman didn’t sound exactly the same as the one who had answered the intercom earlier.

  “Halcyon Hall, how may we help you?”

  Rosemary bit her bottom lip to hold in the words—the accusations—she wanted to utter. After clearing them from her throat, she replied, “I’d like to make a reservation.”

  “When would you like to seek treatment?” the receptionist asked.

  “As soon as possible,” she replied. Like now ... She could definitely claim to have anxiety right now; she was so damn worried about Genevieve.

  “The earliest opening we have is May,” the woman said, and then she read off the beginning and end dates for the week.

  “That’s six months away,” Rosemary said. “You must have something sooner.”

  “We only have that opening due to a cancellation,” the woman replied, and some of the pleasantness left her voice. “Halcyon Hall is exclusive, so we would need to approve your stay before we could book that reservation for you. We have an online application process for appro—”

  Rosemary disconnected the call. She wasn’t waiting six months to get into the place. She needed to get inside now. But that was unlikely to happen tonight.

  Frustrated and chilled, she pulled back the comforter and crawled beneath it. The bed was as soft as it looked and smelled subtly of roses as if the flowers on the wallpaper and comforter were real. As if she was in a garden ...

  Her eyes drifted closed, and darkness enveloped her. She couldn’t see much—just glimpses—of his face. She could feel his arms around her as he carried her.

  She stared up at him, stared at the cleft in his chin, the way a lock of blond hair fell across his forehead, and in his green eyes, her image reflected back at her. She looked so disheveled, her hair tousled, her eyes wide.

  “What—what happened?” she asked.

  She remembered having a drink.

  Or two . . .

  That was stupid. Drinking was stupid. She realized that now. But she’d thought it would loosen her up, that it would get her to relax because he always made her so nervous.

  She was nervous now.

  But he smiled down at her, and a dimple pierced one of his lean cheeks. “Nothing . . .” he murmured. “Nothing happened . . .”

  She closed her eyes again, shutting out his handsome face. The darkness was deeper when she opened her eyes again. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t see anything.

  She could only feel—the hands holding her down—the pain shooting through her body. She thrashed and tried to get away.

  Pain . . .

  So much pain . . .

  Tears burned her eyes. And a scream burned her throat.

  She awoke—sitting upright in that room with the roses on the walls and the bed. This wasn’t where the dream took place. That had been at home.

  When it had felt like home.

  Before that night ...

  After that night—that night she remembered always with pain and fear—nothing had ever been the same.

  Chapter Three

  Whittaker Lawrence stared across his desk at the campaign manager. With his bald head, thick neck and muscular body, Martin Snowden looked more like a boxing manager than the renowned political strategist that he was. But from what Whit had learned in his years as a district attorney and now a judge, boxing and politics weren’t all that different.

  That was why the thought of running for governor had adrenaline coursing through Whit’s veins. He was ready for a fight.

  “Is there anything you need to tell me about? Anything that the press is going to dig up about you?” the campaign manager asked.

  “Nothing that they haven’t already dug up,” he said. Not that it had ever been a secret that he was the bastard son of a maid and her millionaire employer. That millionaire had never claimed him but had paid for his prep school. Once Whit had learned the truth of that affair, though, he had refused anything else from the man. Whit had put himself through college and law school.

  “The reporter who asked to interview you—she’s not known for fluff pieces,” Martin warned him.

  Whit expelled a breath of relief. “Good.” He wanted to talk about issues, about law, not about th
e past ... anything about the past. Not how he’d come into the world and not how his late wife and child had gone out of it.

  “No, not good,” Martin said, his gravelly voice even gruffer. “Edie Stone only does a story if she thinks there is a story to tell. A salacious story. I think we should cancel the interview.”

  Whit snorted. “I can handle a reporter, Marty. I’ve been handling them for years.” He’d personally taken on every high-profile case that had come up for prosecution and not just because he was a damn good lawyer—although he had been.

  Still was ...

  He’d been wasted as a judge. But pride had made it impossible for him to go backward—to prosecuting. Then he’d realized he’d rather be making laws than just enforcing them.

  Martin shook his head almost pityingly.

  Whit had had enough of people’s pity. “I can handle this reporter,” he insisted.

  “She likes to dig up dirt and expose everyone’s nasty little secrets,” Martin warned him.

  Whit shrugged off the other man’s concerns. “There’s nothing for her to expose.” Nothing that would hurt him.

  “Every man has something or someone in his past that haunts him,” Martin persisted.

  Whit could not deny that....

  * * *

  Despite the softness of the bed and the comfort of the room, Rosemary awoke unrested—exhaustion hanging heavily around her shoulders with her guilt. So much guilt ...

  She dragged herself up from the mattress, surprised to see that she still wore her clothes. The long skirt, the sweater ...

  No wonder sweat dampened her hair and her tank top beneath her sweater. She needed a shower. She needed to wake up—to shake off the sleep. No. Not the sleep ...

  She needed to shake off the dream. But it wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare. One that always left her feeling the need to shower it off, to try to wash it all away.

  But it never completely left her mind. The darkness lingered, just like those gloomy clouds hanging low over the island. After crossing the room to the window, she pushed the curtains aside to stare out ... at the gloom. Today it was a thick fog that wrapped tightly around the house like a curtain wound around the entire exterior.

  Suddenly claustrophobic, she sucked in a deep breath, but it didn’t feel as if she got any air in her lungs. They ached ... like her heart ached ... for Genevieve. She had to get back to the treatment center. So she grabbed her bag and headed across the hall to the bathroom, and she showered off the last of that nightmare.

  But it still felt as if there were hands on her flesh, touching her against her will. So she turned the water colder until it was like ice against her skin. Her teeth chattered, and she shivered but she endured it for a moment longer before she twisted off the faucet. Then she stepped out of the claw-foot bathtub. Her wet foot slipped against the small, marble hexagon tiles, but she caught the edge of the pedestal sink and stopped herself from falling.

  She had to be careful. She couldn’t get hurt—not when Genevieve was counting on her. Using one of the towels, which was as soft and fluffy as the bed had been, she dried off quickly and reached for her bag.

  After clasping her bra and pulling up her panties, she stepped into a pair of jeans, loose jeans, in case she had to scale that damn stone wall today. She would—if she had to, if they wouldn’t let her in.

  They had to let her in.

  Dread churned in her stomach. She knew who could put her name on that damn list. Who should have already put her name on that damn list.

  A knock rattled the bathroom door and reminded Rosemary that she was not alone. There were probably other boarders in the house. But a soft voice called out, “Miss Tulle, breakfast is ready if you’re hungry.”

  She shouldn’t have been—not after eating so late the evening before. But her stomach rumbled. “I’ll be right down,” she said. But first she applied some makeup, so her dark circles wouldn’t scare the Pierce sisters.

  After cleaning up the bathroom and putting away her bag, she headed down the elaborate, winding front stairwell to the foyer. The house reminded her of the one in which she’d grown up—with tall ceilings and windows and elaborate woodwork. But the house where she’d grown up had been meticulously maintained—because her mother believed they had an image to maintain, a façade of perfection.

  This house showed its age with scuff marks on the hardwood floors and some water spots on the ceiling. Those imperfections made it more welcoming to Rosemary, though, than that perfect house her mother and stepfather still owned. Because it was truly anything but perfect ...

  Just like their so-called family. Mother wanted so very badly for everyone to believe they were close and happy. But, after Rosemary’s father died, that just hadn’t been possible—not with how quickly her mother had moved on and how she’d behaved. Desperately . . .

  Was she that scared of being alone?

  Rosemary found that she preferred it. It was safer than trusting someone only to be disappointed or ... destroyed. No. She hadn’t been destroyed, but their sorry excuse for a family had been. But had that been her mother’s fault or hers?

  “We’ll be ready in a moment,” Evelyn called through a crack in what must have been the kitchen door. It was on the other side of the enormous dining room. Instead of having one long table in the room, there were a few. One was a small round table tucked into the curve of a bay window that looked out over what must be the garden when the plants were alive instead of brown and dormant. Bonita stood over that table, carefully placing silverware next to three delicate-looking china plates.

  “What a beautiful place setting,” Rosemary praised her.

  The woman turned and smiled widely at her. The smile barely brightened her blue eyes, though, which still appeared glazed as if she’d been drugged. The psychologist in Rosemary kicked in, wondering what condition the older woman had. Despite her age, she seemed so childlike. Perhaps she had a developmental disability.

  Given her age there might have been a complication during her birth that the doctor or the hospital, especially if she’d been born on the island, hadn’t been equipped to handle. Maybe the cord had been wrapped around her neck, denying oxygen to her brain. Maybe she’d been premature; she was still quite petite.

  “Everything all right?” Evelyn asked, her voice a little sharp with concern and protectiveness, as she joined them. Her gaze ping-ponged between Rosemary and her sister. She was taller with a musculature to her build that bespoke the hard work she did around the boardinghouse.

  Rosemary smiled at her with reassurance. “Yes, I was just complimenting Bonita on what a good job she’d done setting the table.”

  Evelyn released a shaky little sigh and forced a smile. “Yes, she is amazing. I don’t know what I’d do without her. I certainly wouldn’t be able to take care of this place on my own.”

  Bonita turned toward her sister. “You need me?”

  “Yes, I do,” Evelyn assured her.

  A pang struck Rosemary’s heart at the genuine love between the sisters.

  “I need you and my baby,” Bonita murmured.

  Rosemary looked at Evelyn.

  “She’s talking about a doll,” she explained. “She keeps misplacing it.”

  Noticing the large tray weighing heavily on Evelyn’s arms, Rosemary stepped back so the older woman could settle it onto the table. There was a carafe with the aroma of rich coffee drifting from it, and covered serving dishes from which other smells emanated, like cinnamon and bacon.

  “Are there more boarders joining us?” Rosemary asked. “That looks like so much.”

  “We—we don’t have other boarders at the moment,” Evelyn said, and her brow furrowed with concern. “Will you be staying?”

  Rosemary settled onto the upholstered chair Bonita had pushed back from the table for her. “Yes,” she said with a nod. “For now.”

  Evelyn sat across from her and Bonita took the chair between them, staring out into the dead garden. As she held
out the carafe of coffee, Evelyn studied Rosemary’s face. “You weren’t able to get a room at the . . .”—her throat moved as if she was choking down something before she managed to finish—“. . . hall?”

  Rosemary shook her head. “No.”

  “Hall?” Bonita asked. “Why would you want to stay in a hall?”

  “It’s actually a facility where people go to feel better,” Rosemary told her. At least that was how Halcyon Hall advertised itself with no mention of the psychiatric hospital the property had once been.

  “Are you sick?” Bonita asked with concern.

  Rosemary shook her head again. “No. My sister is there. My parents booked her into the place, and they won’t let me inside to see her.”

  Another shaky breath slipped between Evelyn’s lips, and her skin, which must have been flushed from the heat of the stove, grew suddenly pale. “Oh, no, it’s happening again.”

  “What do you mean?” Rosemary asked. “What do you know about Halcyon Hall?”

  Evelyn shook her head. “Nothing.” She reached for a serving dish, but her fingers trembled when she lifted the cover. “You should eat before the French toast gets cold.”

  Rosemary’s hunger had turned into a cold knot of dread in her stomach. “What do you mean that it’s happening again?”

  Evelyn had to be referring to the young women committed to the place when it had been called Bainesworth Manor, when all those horrible things had been done to them. Experimental procedures. Lobotomies. Shock treatments. But those treatments were no longer used. None of those things were being done now.

  To Genevieve . . .

  Her pulse quickened as fear tripped it. It was almost as if her parents had committed Genevieve like those families had committed the young women decades ago.

  Evelyn turned toward her sister and stared at her for a long moment. Bonita, making patterns with syrup on her French toast, didn’t notice the other woman’s interest. Evelyn turned back to Rosemary and shook her head. “I can’t talk about it.”

  Was that what had happened to Bonita? Had she been committed to the manor? Had she been hurt there? If so, Rosemary could understand neither of them wanting to discuss it.