You Don't Want To Know - By Lisa Jackson Page 0,62

pieces of that horrible night.

“You’ve been here a while?” she asked.

“Dr. McPherson said you were very definite about needing your space, that no one was to disturb you. You’d made that clear.”

“You talked to her? Already this morning?” She picked up her phone and turned it on. “What time is it?” The face of her phone read ten-thirty. She couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t slept in past seven in years, since she was a college student, and only then after pulling an all-nighter the night before. A tiny light on her phone was blinking, indicating she’d received at least one message while she was dead to the world.

“How about I bring you some coffee?” Wyatt said, and her head snapped up at his kindness. A simple offer, and yet she was touched.

“Thanks. But I’ll be right down.”

“I’ll be in the office.” He smiled. “Join me.”

“Okay.” Her heart lifted a little. Maybe there was still a chance for them after all. They had loved each other. Passionately and fervently. “Forever,” she’d whispered after saying “I do” in the garden at the small ceremony where she’d pledged to be his wife forever.

So why was it she felt she couldn’t trust him? Couldn’t trust any of them? She knew the answer to that and wouldn’t go there, not yet. She plugged in the phone and saw that aside from Wyatt’s text, there were two other calls, one from Cheryl, rescheduling their next hypnosis session, and the other from Detective Snyder. It looked like a third call had come in, but the number was unfamiliar and no message was left.

Hmmm, she thought. Could it have been a wrong number?

While the phone was charging, she confirmed with Cheryl for a session the next day, then dialed Snyder’s number, got his voice mail again, and left a message asking if she could stop by the station the next day and go over information about Noah’s disappearance. Phone calls made, she then threw on her clothes, ignored anything remotely concerned with makeup, and hurried downstairs where she found Virginia already starting on lunch by peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink. “Good morning,” she greeted her.

“ ’Morning.” After finding a mug in the cupboard, she poured coffee from the glass pot in the coffeemaker, then heated it in the microwave.

“I was told not to call you for breakfast,” Virginia said, glancing over her shoulder.

“It was fine.”

“There are muffins or bagels, I think.”

“I’m good,” she replied, and snagged a chocolate biscotti from a glass jar tucked into a corner of the counter. “This’ll do.”

“Humph. Not much of a breakfast.” Virginia clucked her tongue as she peeled the thin skin off another potato, and Ava, determined to smooth things with her husband, headed to his office on the first floor.

She found him seated at his desk in front of his open laptop, his cell phone cradled between his shoulder and cheek while he scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. As she entered, he held up one finger, and when she tried to back up, he shook his head and waved her into a chair near the French doors that led to the veranda. She tucked one foot under her other leg as she settled into the chair, took a long swig of coffee, then dipped her biscotti into her mug.

“Sure . . . I’ll be there . . .” Wyatt glanced at the small desk clock situated on the corner of his desk. “Let’s see. How about four?” His gaze shifted to Ava and he rolled his eyes as he listened to a long diatribe on the other end of the phone.

Smiling, she turned her attention to the window where the glass was still heavy with moisture, the sun just beginning to warm the panes.

She’d just swallowed her last bite of biscotti when he finally hung up. “Sorry,” he said, “had to do a little lawyer hand-holding. Orson Donnelly again.” He leaned back in his desk chair until it groaned in protest. “Between you and me, he’s a real pain in the ass.”

“He’s the one who gave you the reference on Dern?” she asked.

“Yeah. Dern worked for Donnelly’s son before Orson sold his place. He mentioned the guy was out of work, and since Ned had already taken a hike and Ian was a . . . less-than-enthusiastic rancher, I called him, had him fax over his credentials, double-checked with Donnelly that Dern wasn’t the reason his ranch was failing, and hired him.” He cocked his head to one