You Don't Want To Know - By Lisa Jackson Page 0,17

she could own Neptune’s Gate herself, a woman who had planned to restore this old house to its former grandeur?

She’s gone . . . lost when her only child disappeared. A tear rolled from Ava’s eye, and she angrily brushed it away. No more moping around grieving! No more letting others push you around! No more playing the damned victim! Toughen up, Ava. And if the past bothers you so much, then figure it out. Find out what happened to your boy and move the hell on.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, suddenly afraid to let go.

Come on, Ava! For the love of Christ, do something!

Downing the remainder of her coffee, she nearly cracked the glass-topped table as she slammed her mug down onto its dusty top. She crumpled her napkin, stuffed it into her jeans pocket, then walked down to the dock and boathouse. Inside she discovered only the dingy was still there, but the powerboat was missing, its slip empty, the lift down. She’d always been fascinated with the boathouse as a child, how it smelled brackish from the sea, the way the water was always restless, the hidden attic above where the mechanism for the boat lift was hidden along with a few abandoned mud wasps’ nests and a multitude of sticky cobwebs that, filled with the bodies of desiccated insects, dangled and draped over the single dirty window.

She and Kelvin had hidden there as children, away from parents whose fights were as volatile as their passionate affection.

Kelvin. Her heart twisted when she thought of her brother, and she walked swiftly from the boathouse, refusing to let the memories of her only sibling draw her back to that dark place that forever seemed to call her. First Kelvin, then Noah.

Maybe all the members of her family who thought she was crazy were right. There was a good chance that she was certifiable.

Then again . . .

From the boathouse, she made her way up a series of rock steps to the garden, where, in the summer, roses, hydrangea, and heather flourished. Today the garden was weed-choked and neglected, grass growing over the stones. She stopped at the marker, a rock carved with Noah’s name. There was no birth date, nor was the day he disappeared etched onto the uneven stone. It contained only his name. She bent and rested on one knee, leaning forward and touching the letters, then kissing her fingers and brushing them over the hard surface. “I miss you,” she whispered, then felt as if she were being watched, studied by unseen eyes.

She glanced over her shoulder at the house but saw no one in the dark windows that reflected the sea.

Wyatt was right. She couldn’t go on this way. Living in the past. Not knowing what happened to her boy. You have to find out what happened to him. You. You know you can’t rely on anyone else.

Straightening, she looked down at the dock and scowled. Why was it that she always saw him there? It wasn’t as if he’d been playing near the boathouse when he’d disappeared, and yet in her dreams or in her waking visions of him, she always viewed his little backside at the edge of the dock, so dangerously close to the water.

Why did her nightmares always take her there?

Through a rusting gate, she walked to the rear of the house where she eyed the stable, barn, and outbuildings. The horses and a few head of cattle were grazing in a pasture, sunlight burnishing their shaggy coats. Curious, Ava eyed the area, searching for Dern, but he wasn’t anywhere outside. When she explored the stable and barn and even climbed the stairs to his apartment, she found it locked and no one answered her knock. Dern, like everyone else in the household, appeared to be MIA this morning, which was too bad because she wanted to talk to him, find out more about the man who had pulled her from the bay.

From the stable, she walked to the front of the house and let herself in the front door. No longer was she alone. Virginia was rattling around in the kitchen. Also, Ava heard footsteps on the floor above, then the smooth hum of Jewel-Anne’s wheelchair.

No, she was no longer alone.

And she didn’t know if that was a good thing.

Or bad.

She wandered to the kitchen where Virginia, balanced on a step stool, was straightening cans in the pantry, every tin label facing out, the larger cans in the back, smaller in