Her heart continued its tachycardic rhythm. She pulled on her warm terry robe, rubbing her arms with her hands as she stepped to the multi-paned window in the front door of the cottage. How many times since Joni’s murder had she considered getting therapy?
But shouldn’t she know the drill after working with so many patients at the Vance Rescue Mission? She wasn’t living on the street or battling psychosis or alcoholism or drug addiction. Couldn’t she work this out for herself?
Still, the foreboding persisted as every creak of the cottage, every odd sound outside, instead of comforting her, sent a fresh chill through her. Maybe resuming her habit of early-morning study would be a good distraction.
She stepped around the red antique room divider, tugging the collar of her robe more closely around her neck as she glanced around the room. The furnishings so generously provided to her by her tiny group of longtime girlfriends were barely outlined by the gentle glow of moonlight that drifted down through the treetops and through the windows.
She went to the kitchenette for a drink of water, her shadow faint against the sand-colored walls of the one-room cottage—a hue that reminded her too much of the place from which she’d fled.
Megan seldom concerned herself with the appearance of her surroundings. The recent flurry of decorating—the red divider, the Roman shades over the multiple windows across the front of the cottage—had been Kirstie Marshal’s idea. When thinking clearly, Kirstie was good with a hammer and screwdriver. The love seat in the tiny sitting area had come from Nora Thompson’s own home. This cottage was Thompson property.
As a teenager, Megan once dreamed of living in this very cottage, so deep in the woods, so isolated from the world…but of course, not far from Alec Thompson, the boy she’d had a crush on since fifth grade. Most times, she loved the peace of this place. Though Alec no longer lived in the family home with his mother, Megan took comfort in knowing that Nora was still barely two hundred yards through the woods in the big house on the cliff above the creek.
Five in the morning, however, wasn’t a good time to call Nora to come running down the hill with hot cocoa and a dozen of her famous black walnut–butterscotch cookies. Megan saw Jolly Mill as a place of comfort, but she also saw it as personal failure. She hadn’t even been able to face a full two years of real life in the trenches.
Here, everyone in town knew her by her first, middle and last names, and some could recall the subject of her valedictorian speech on graduation night. She had old friends and classmates who’d lingered in Jolly Mill to carry on the family businesses, to settle with their own families and continue a long tradition of farming. They weren’t hiding here—they were living here.
She was hiding.
The sleeping pill had made her thirsty during the night, and she swigged down the whole glass of water and poured another, listening to the music of the peepers and the breeze that gently rustled through the spring leaves outside. The faint sound of a small motor kicking on in the pump house to replace the water she’d poured. It kicked off just as quickly.
A quiet melody took its place and it took her a few seconds to recognize the tone of her new cell phone. It grew louder as she listened, shooting through the cottage. She stiffened. A phone call in the dark had always been her least favorite sound.
Her legs felt stiff as she rushed to the phone, then answered and peered out at the foggy, moonlit haven that surrounded the cottage.
“Lynley?”
“Thank goodness.” Her best friend’s voice, normally brisk and filled with energy, sounded tight and raspy through the receiver.
“What is it?”
“Mom’s disappeared again and this time I haven’t been able to find her.”
Megan turned from the window. No. Not again. Poor Kirstie. “How long has she been missing?”
“Maybe all night. I can’t believe I didn’t check on her, but she was doing so well the past few days and I was studying late. I remember laughing with her because she teased me about what she should call me when I got my doctorate in nursing. She named me Dr. Nurse Marshal. I was tired and I thought she’d gone to bed, and I fell asleep—”
“Lynley, calm down,” Megan said. “Call some neighbors and ask them to help search. She may have taken shelter in a barn again until it gets light enough for her to find her way home.”
“I’ve already called everyone whose land adjoins ours. No one’s found her. I know they’re getting tired of my calls, though Elmer Batschelet offered to use his dogs to track her. I’ll probably take him up on it if she doesn’t show up soon. Do you know how many times this has happened in the past month?”
Megan took her lower lip between her teeth. Now was not the time for recriminations, but couldn’t Lynley see the obvious? “This makes the second since I’ve arrived.” An average of once a week.
“It’s getting worse.”
“Have you called the sheriff?” Megan asked.
“He and his men are out searching. Again. Poor Sheriff Moritz. And poor Mom. She’s always so embarrassed when this happens.”
“We can help her deal with the embarrassment later. First get her safely home.” Megan stretched. “When she shows up, bring her by the clinic so we can check her out.”
“I’ll be in for work as soon as I find her.” There was a sigh. “If I do. If she’s okay. I doubt she’ll be in shape to even answer phones today.”
Megan allowed those statements to linger. Maybe Lynley would talk herself into doing the right thing and prevent a quarrel that neither of them wanted right now. Kirstie’s daughter needed to see reason before Kirstie got hurt.
“Megan?” The voice was tentative, almost as if Lynley could hear Megan’s thoughts. And she probably could. They’d known each other from the cradle. “What if she doesn’t come back this time?”
Instead of reassuring her friend as she had been doing since Kirstie’s mysterious episodes began last month, Megan pressed her lips together. It was a good question. Maybe Lynley needed to follow it to its logical conclusion and start dealing with the dangers of her state of denial.
“Megan?”
“I don’t know, but you can’t keep trying to do this alone.” Megan felt awful as she spoke the words, but as Kirstie herself had said, her daughter wouldn’t listen to reason. “You need help.”
“We just need to get through this until we figure out what’s really causing the problem.”
Megan forced a gentleness to her voice. “Then if you won’t accept help, place her into protection until we do get it figured out.”
“Protection?” There was a soft snort. “You mean imprison her, don’t you?”
“I mean arrange it so this doesn’t happen again.”
“Megan, she’s a vital, active, fifty-two-year-old woman, not someone accustomed to sitting in a rocking chair or being cooped up in a block of rooms. You think she deserves to be locked up in a nursing home?”
“I don’t think she deserves Alzheimer’s, but—”
“Don’t say that! I hate that word. You know as soon as that diagnosis is made and the patient is shoved into a lockdown ward, no one ever searches for other causes, they just treat the symptoms. I’m not giving up on her that easily.”
“I’m not telling you to give up.”
“This isn’t sundowner’s syndrome.”
Megan couldn’t miss the increasing tautness of Lynley’s