You Don't Want To Know - By Lisa Jackson Page 0,30

my client is to negotiating his way out of a lease; then I’ll be back. In the meantime, you can always reach me on my cell.”

She nodded.

“And I’ve asked Dr. McPherson to stop by again.”

“I already have an appointment with her later in the week.”

“I know, but I saw her today in town. She asked about you and so we set it up.” He lifted a shoulder. “Couldn’t hurt, now, could it?”

She was surprised that he brought up the psychiatrist. “So you just ran into her?”

“Not really. Once I learned that I’d be away, I called her, met her for coffee, and suggested she spend some time here.”

“She’s busy.”

“Not that busy,” he disagreed. “Besides, the mainland is just a boat ride away. Turns out, she liked the idea.” His expression turned serious. “She wants to help you, Ava, and she might just be able to if you’d stop fighting her.”

“I don’t fight her.”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “Just try. Okay?”

When he withdrew his hand, she asked, “Do you think I’m crazy, Wyatt?”

“Confused.”

“Don’t slide away from the issue.”

He let out his breath. “I think you need help. Psychiatric help. And so do all the doctors at St. Brendan’s. You’re the one who wanted to be released, to come back here, to . . . face your demons.” Touching her lightly on the shoulder, he added, “But you can’t do it alone, Ava. And no one else here is qualified to help you. Not me or Graciela or Khloe, not even Demetria, though she’s a nurse. We just don’t know how best to deal with this. But Dr. McPherson does.” His smile was troubled, his eyebrows drawn together. “You have to trust us, Ava. We’re all here to help you, but we just can’t do it if you don’t help yourself. And going to a hypnotist . . . really?”

Her breath caught in her throat. Denial leaped to her lips.

Before she could protest, he reminded her, “You have to remember that Anchorville is a small town. Maybe not as small as Monroe, but small enough.” With a glance at his watch, he swore under his breath, then kissed her forehead. “Got to run. Butch is probably already here.”

“Butch?”

“Johansen,” Wyatt clarified, and Ava’s heart sank. “Kelvin’s friend. He ferried you back and forth to the island, right?”

“Yes.”

While slipping his arms into his jacket, Wyatt was nodding, as if he already knew the answer. “I called him. Asked him to pick you up and then wait for me once you got home.” Wyatt eyed her speculatively. “He didn’t mention it?”

“No.” She shook her head and felt a pang of betrayal.

“Well, he’s my ride to the mainland. I thought I’d leave the cruiser here, in case anyone needs it.” Was there just the hint of cruelty in his gaze, a smidgeon of superiority? Or did she imagine it as he found a raincoat in the front closet and grabbed his small bag, just big enough for his computer, toiletries, and a suit.

And then he was gone, the door closing with a soft thud. She peered out the window and saw the Holy Terror moored at the marina.

What the hell was that all about?

Why hadn’t Butch said anything?

He’d never liked Wyatt, never gone to any lengths to hide it, and yet . . . She clenched her fists, digging her fingernails into her palms. You’re overthinking things. Let it go. Wyatt’s your husband. Do NOT second-guess his motives.

But she couldn’t help herself.

Wondered if she would ever really trust him again.

Bothered, she took the steps two at a time to her room and once inside, checked to find that the unidentified key she’d discovered in her sweater pocket was still tucked away in the jeans she’d worn yesterday. Made of tarnished metal, the key appeared old, as if it had been fashioned for an ancient door lock. Too big for a trunk or a newer cupboard or cabinet. She tried it on her door, then, because she heard Graciela on the stairs, slipped it into the top drawer of her desk, under some papers, and told herself she’d figure out what door it unlocked later. She had no idea how it had gotten into the pocket, and that, too, was a mystery to be solved.

Maybe it had been a mistake. An oversight.

Yeah, right, like maybe someone slipped his or her key into your pocket . . . as if maybe that someone had been wearing your sweater? Or was hiding it quickly? Or did someone