The Runaway Page 4

  But Rosemary had no choice. “I need to talk about the place. I need to find out how to get inside. I can’t leave my sister at Halcyon Hall.”

  Bonita paused with the syrup bottle gripped tightly yet in her hand. “Halcyon Hall . . . the manor?” That glazed look in her eyes turned from one of confusion to terror. “No! No!” she cried out as she dropped the bottle. Then she jumped up from the table and nearly tripped over her upended chair as she ran from the room.

  “What?” Rosemary asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s why we can’t talk about the manor.”

  “Bainesworth Manor . . .” Rosemary murmured. Genevieve had called it House of Horrors. Several articles had referred to it as that, too, because of what they’d done there. To Bonita?

  Rosemary wanted to ask if she’d once been committed there, but before she could, Evelyn jumped up from the table, too, presumably to go after her sister. But she stopped and looked back at Rosemary. “Don’t talk about that place. And don’t go anywhere near it. It’s cursed.”

  * * *

  Abigail Walcott gripped the cell phone tightly in her hand as she stared down at the screen—at all the missed calls from her daughter. From Rosemary ...

  Why wouldn’t she give it a rest?

  Because it was about Genevieve . . .

  Of course Genevieve had called her for help—almost as if she knew. Maybe she did. The girl needed help but not the kind that Rosemary could give her.

  Abigail sighed.

  “Rosemary again?” Bobby asked. He was so handsome with his golden blond hair and deeply tanned skin. Ridiculously handsome ...

  And young, nearly two decades younger than Abigail was. She knew why he’d married her; she was under no illusions that her bank account had been more of a draw than her fading beauty. But she had once been beautiful ... like Rosemary.

  Rosemary was so beautiful.

  And so stubborn ...

  “She’s not going to stop calling,” Abigail said with dread. Eventually she would have to pick up; she would have to talk to her, explain. But she really shouldn’t have to explain herself to Rosemary; that wasn’t their deal. A deal made so long ago ...

  The phone trilled almost on cue. But it wasn’t another call this time.

  “She left a voicemail,” Bobby said as if Abigail couldn’t see that on the screen that illuminated a small circle of their dark bedroom.

  She didn’t want to hear her daughter’s voice, hadn’t wanted to hear it for many years now. But knowing Rosemary wasn’t going to give up, she clicked the play button: “Mother, you don’t need to call me back . . .”

  Abigail released a shaky breath of relief that she wouldn’t actually have to speak with her daughter.

  Rosemary continued, “You just need to call Halcyon Hall and tell them that I can take Genevieve out of that godawful place. I don’t know what you were thinking to send her there.”

  Abigail shook her head. How couldn’t she know? How couldn’t she understand—after what Rosemary had done? She should know that they couldn’t have trusted her ... Genevieve . . . to stay alone while they’d gone on that cruise. A cruise they’d had to cut short because of her. The girl was getting as wild as Rosemary had once been. Maybe even wilder ...

  “I am going to get her out of there—with or without your help,” Rosemary continued. “But if you don’t help, I will be forced to take action. I will be forced to tell the hall and the authorities the truth. If you want to keep your damn secret, you need to call them right away.”

  Abigail sucked in a breath. “She wouldn’t . . .”

  They’d had a deal—a pact, really.

  Bobby’s face, usually so tan from the bronzer he liberally applied, suddenly grew pale in that eerie glow from her cell screen. “She can’t, right?”

  He’d heard what Abigail had—the determination in Rosemary’s voice. She was on another one of her damn crusades—a rescue mission. This person mattered even more to her than those sick people whose problems she listened to.

  Genevieve really mattered to her despite Abigail’s best efforts to keep them apart. Rosemary mattered to Genevieve as well, or she wouldn’t have called her for help.

  Would they be as close if Genevieve knew the truth?

  Was Rosemary really willing to take such a risk?

  “She won’t,” Abigail murmured, but she wasn’t totally convinced. Rosemary sounded very concerned about Genevieve and she didn’t even know everything, didn’t know that she was already too late to help her.

  “Of course not,” Bobby said, and he nodded so sharply that a lock of hair fell over his smooth brow. “She doesn’t really know anything. And what she does know, she can’t prove.” He released a ragged sigh of relief. “Nobody’s going to believe her.”

  Unlike Abigail, Bobby had managed to convince himself, but she knew her daughter better than Bobby did. She knew how stubborn Rosemary could be—how determined. Just like her father, she was obstinate and cared too damn much. Being like that had sent him to an early grave, which was where Rosemary would wind up as well—if she didn’t stop meddling.

  Abigail gripped the phone more tightly. Should she call her back? Should she try to deter her?

  But what would she say?

  Even the truth wouldn’t stop Rosemary. She wouldn’t believe what Abigail did—that it was already too late to help Genevieve. She would keep trying. And that might put them all in danger ...

  Chapter Four

  The wrought iron gates rose high above her into the fog hanging ominously over the island. She’d passed the place and had nearly landed in the ocean again. This time the sheriff hadn’t pulled her over to warn her to be more careful. But the Pierce sisters had both cautioned her again before she’d left the boardinghouse.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Evelyn had reiterated.

  “Cursed,” Bonita had murmured.

  Rosemary suspected it wasn’t just the place Bonita considered cursed as those glazed-looking blue eyes had momentarily focused . . . on her. Bracing herself against nerves and the cold, she drew in a deep breath as she stepped out of her rental car to push the button for the intercom.

  “Welcome to Halcyon Hall, how may we help you?”

  Welcome? Hopefully, this time they would.

  “I’d like to see my sister, Genevieve Walcott,” she replied.

  “Name?” the voice crackled out of the speaker.

  Was it the same person who’d answered the intercom yesterday or the one who’d answered the phone the night before? Rosemary wasn’t certain. And it really didn’t matter—as long as she was on the list this time.

  “Rosemary Tulle,” she replied. Then she sucked in another breath, of frosty fog air, and waited for those enormous gates to open, but the wrought iron didn’t budge. Something moved, though, a shadow shifting in the fog. Like the day before, someone stood inside those gates. Watching her?

  Finally the speaker crackled again. “I’m sorry. You’re not on the list.”

  Hadn’t she given it enough time?

  “My mother was going to call and authorize you to let me visit Genevieve,” she said. Abigail had to call ... if she wanted Rosemary to keep her damn secret.

  Not that Rosemary intended to keep it anymore—not after her mother had failed to uphold her side of their agreement. She had promised to always make sure that Genevieve was safe and happy. And then she’d put her here ...

  While it claimed to be a new age treatment center, it seemed very like the psychiatric hospital it had once been—where parents had committed their wayward daughters. But Genevieve had not been wayward. She wasn’t like Rosemary at all.

  “Has she called?” Rosemary asked. “Has Abigail Walcott called?”

  “I’m not at liberty to reveal guests’ call logs.”

  “My mother isn’t a guest. Has she called you or the director or whoever the hell controls this damn list?”

  The speaker crackled now with a sigh. “You’re not on the list,
Ms. Tulle.”

  So either her mother hadn’t called, or she had called and denied Rosemary access to Genevieve. Her frustration turned to fury, heating her skin despite the cold, damp fog hovering all around her—like that damn shadow hovered on the other side of the gates.

  “You have to let me inside,” Rosemary persisted. “I have to see my sister. I have to make sure she’s all right.”

  “You are not on the l—”

  “Your list be damned!” Rosemary shouted as she pounded her fist on the intercom panel. “You have to let me in!”

  “You will not be allowed inside, Ms. Tulle,” the voice replied. “And you need to leave the premises, or we will contact the authorities and report you for trespassing.”

  The sheriff hadn’t given her the citation for reckless driving, but he might give her one for trespassing. Maybe that was why the officer hadn’t helped her yesterday—because the police department’s allegiance was to the hall, which was probably the biggest employer and taxpayer on the island. Who else did they employ? Security guards—to keep guests inside and unwanted visitors out?

  Was that who was hovering on the other side of those gates?

  She walked away from the intercom to squeeze in between the car’s front bumper and the wrought iron. The scroll design was so tight that there was no way she could get through the metal. The gates were so high, like the stone wall on either side, that she wouldn’t be able to scale them. She gripped the cold metal in tight fists and shook it.

  That shadow moved closer toward the gates, and a man stepped from the fog. He was tall and lanky with a knit cap pulled low over his weather-chafed face. He was young.

  “Hello!” she called out to him.

  He didn’t look like a security guard. He was probably one of the groundskeepers since a pair of long clippers dangled from one gloved hand.

  “Can you open the gates?” she asked, as she rattled the metal again.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Please,” she implored him. “I need to get inside. I need to see my sister.”

  He just stared at her.

  “Genevieve Walcott,” she said. “Do you know her? Have you seen her?”

  He shook his head again. “I don’t see the guests.”

  It was so damn cold that it was unlikely any of them had been out walking the grounds.

  “I need to talk to her,” Rosemary said. “I need to get inside.”

  “They won’t let you in?” he asked.

  She shook her head now, and a lock of her hair caught in the wrought iron. She pulled back, and the black strands clung to the metal. “I need your help.”

  “I can’t,” he said again.

  Did he not know how to open them? Or was he afraid to?

  She rattled the metal again.

  “Don’t do that,” he warned her as he glanced uneasily around them. “The guards will come.”

  His warning chilled her and confirmed her suspicion about the hall having security guards. But why did they need them? To keep people out or to keep people in?

  Before she could ask him anything else, he slipped back into the bushes and into the fog. Not even his shadow remained.

  He was gone. He wouldn’t help her. Who would help her?

  Dare she act on her threat to her parents?

  She had no choice. She had to get Genevieve out of this place—because she was beginning to believe Bonita. It was cursed. Or maybe Rosemary was because she now had to relive her recurring nightmare during the day. In order to secure Genevieve’s future, Rosemary had to face the horror of her past.

  * * *

  “You don’t look nearly as ferocious as I’ve been told you are,” Whit mused as he leaned back in the chair behind his desk and studied the reporter sitting across from him.

  Edie Stone was petite and blond and young—too young for the reputation she’d already earned. Her lips curved into a slight smile. “I was just thinking the same thing about you, Mr. Lawrence.”

  He chuckled.

  “Or should I call you Your Honor?”

  “You’re not in my court,” he pointed out.

  “Considering your reputation as the hanging judge, that’s a good thing.” She glanced around his office. “But I am in your chambers.”

  “Would you have rather we met somewhere else?” he asked.

  She narrowed her eyes and studied him like he’d been studying her. “Should I?” she asked. “Am I in any danger being alone with you?”

  He grinned. “From all I’ve heard about you, I am the one who’s in danger.”

  She chuckled now. “Only if you have something to hide, Mr. Lawrence.”

  “Whit,” he told her. “And I have nothing to hide.”

  She smiled now and shook her head. “Everyone has something they’d like kept secret.”

  He nodded in agreement. “That might be so. But I don’t think secrets are possible nowadays, not with reporters like you.”

  She tensed in the chair and lifted her pointy chin. “Are you one of those politicians who resent and vilify the press to detract from your scandals?”

  “What scandals, Ms. Stone?” he challenged her, but as he did, a frisson of unease chased through his stomach. Was challenging her a mistake?

  She narrowed her eyes again as she considered him. “That’s what I’d like to know, Mr. Lawrence,” she said.

  “I’m sure you already know everything about me,” he assured her. “I’m tough on crime. But I’m only as tough as the law allows me to be. That’s what I would like to change as governor. I’d like to introduce some new legislation that would—”

  “I am well aware of your campaign propaganda,” she interrupted him. “Mr. Clean made sure I had the party line.”

  A laugh sputtered out. “Mr. Clean?” But he could understand why she had given Martin, with his bald head and brawny build, that nickname.

  Her face flushed slightly, but she smiled. “Yes, he also told me about the tragedy you overcame—not that I haven’t heard about it from every other interview done on you. I’m not here to cover those articles, Mr. Lawrence. I’m here to find the story.”

  That frisson of unease passed through his stomach once again. Martin had been right—this had been a bad idea. Edie Stone was only going to run a piece on him if she could dig up some dirt.

  “Then you’re wasting your time and mine, Ms. Stone,” he replied, and he stood. “I’ll show you to the door.” He walked around the corner of his desk, but as he did, the intercom buzzed. Maybe his clerk had been listening and had known it was time to end the interview. He clicked a button. “Yes, Dwight?”

  “Sir, I hate to interrupt you, but someone is insisting on seeing you right now,” Dwight replied, his voice rising with discomfort.

  Whit didn’t care; he’d take any excuse to get out of this meeting with the reporter who was looking only for a scandal. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “A Miss Rosemary Tulle,” Dwight replied.

  “Rosemary Tulle?” Whit had to be dreaming. She couldn’t be here, this close, just a door away from him.

  “Yes,” Dwight replied. “I told her that she should have made an appointment, that you’re very busy, but she insisted that I buzz you. She insists that you will see her.”

  “He will!” a voice shouted so loudly that Whit heard her through the door as well as the intercom.

  “Dwight, give me a moment,” he said, but a moment might not be long enough, though, to get rid of the reporter and to gather his wits about him again. Why was she here? Now? And why did she sound so angry?

  “Who is Rosemary Tulle?” Edie asked.

  Whit narrowed his eyes and focused on her face; she was studying him just as intently. What the hell was going on?

  “Someone who obviously wants to meet with me,” he said. “You and I have nothing further to discuss anyway. I can’t give you what you want for this interview.”

  She hesitated a long moment before finally standing. “I’m not so su
re about that now.”

  What the hell did she think she knew? Fortunately, his office had two doors, one to the reception area where his clerk worked, and another that opened directly to the hall. He walked to the hall door and closed his hand around the knob for it. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Stone,” he lied.

  She must have known because she laughed. “So much for your honest politician image . . .”

  He wasn’t going to argue with her. He just wanted her gone, so he pulled open the door and held it for her. She took another moment before she walked across the room and exited. When he closed the door, he made certain to turn the lock. He didn’t want her sneaking back inside, didn’t want her interrupting this meeting with Rosemary.

  His intercom buzzed again, so insistently that he wondered if Rosemary was pushing the button herself. But why was she so determined to see him now?

  Whit walked back toward his desk and pushed the intercom button.

  His curiosity got the better of his common sense. “Show her in, Dwight,” he said as he dropped into the chair behind his desk. Then he turned toward the door and prepared himself to face his past.

  * * *

  He preferred to live in the past—back when the estate had been a manor and the hall a psychiatric hospital. Hell, he would have preferred the ruins it had fallen to after the state had shut them down to this ...

  Dr. James Bainesworth stared out his window at the perfectly manicured grounds covered with a dusting of snow. The snow couldn’t whitewash everything, though; neither could the renovations. While it looked different, it hadn’t really changed.

  While he looked different, he hadn’t really changed. He’d just gotten older, and unfortunately there were no renovations for him. Nothing that could help him regain the physical strength he’d once had. But as for his mind ...

  It was as sharp as it had ever been. He knew what was going on; nothing escaped him. Nothing had years ago when he’d run Bainesworth Manor, and nothing escaped him now.

  The new management could not say the same. They should have come to him, should have asked for his help.

  Not that he would have given it to them. He wanted them to fail. He was looking forward to it. He’d rather have the place fall to ruin again than to become what it was now: a playground for the rich and spoiled.