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“Sure, Mom.”
Cat tosses her napkin on the table and stands, unaware her mother just played the situation to distract her from the picture. She only got away with it because Cat allowed it. Or rather, her subconscious did.
My eyes meet Peggy’s before she leaves the room, silently thanking her for her quick thinking.
As soon as they leave the room, Emily hands me the picture with an apologetic look, and I get up from the table. As a rule, I don’t invade people’s privacy—their bedrooms are theirs alone—but I do go into Jacob and Peggy’s room and straight to their closets. There are a few more picture frames on a shelf at the top. Looking at the picture in my hand, I let my eyes linger on the two children. A beautiful young girl, not quite a teenager, with curly brown hair, is sitting in a wicker chair holding a toddler. She has her head down so her cheek is pressed against her little brother’s. Both of them are smiling into the camera, their eyes filled with joy.
My throat tightens and the ache in my chest that never goes away, doubles in pain. Lifting the picture, I bring it to my lips and kiss it before placing it on top of the others.
* * *
The rideback to the house is quiet. Too quiet. It makes me worry. With a sideways glance, I see Cat staring out the passenger window. I don’t know where her thoughts are, and not knowing is making me twitchy.
When they returned to the table after taking care of Peggy’s shirt, she acted as if nothing had happened. Maybe I was wrong though. Perhaps that’s why she looks so pensive.
Reaching over the console, I lace my fingers through hers.
“Hey,” I call, grabbing her attention from the window. “You okay?”
From the streetlights we drive past, I see the small smile that curls her lips. “I’m fine. Just a little tired, and I feel a headache coming on.”
“How about you take a pain pill while I draw you a bath when we get home?”
I take my eyes off the road long enough to see her shifting in her seat so she’s facing me more.
“That sounds heavenly.”
I bring the back of her hand to my lips. “Done.”
Some of the stiffness in my shoulders loosens as I continue to navigate the streets. Over the years, I’ve perfected reading Cat’s emotions pretty well, and I don’t get the sense from her that she’s not feeling more than what she claims.
But something tells me I’m wrong.
ChapterFour
Hunter
The tall, white double doors loom before me as I walk up the wide stairs leading to the front porch that wraps around to the sides. The building is old, dating back to the mid-eighteen hundreds, and the owners have done well with keeping the Victorian feel over the years. A wooden sign with bold script that reads The Grove is to the right of the doors.
Up until a few years ago, the place was run down. The staff who watched over the patients residing here, save for a few good apples, took advantage of the people who depended on them in disgusting ways. The Grove is now considered the top private psychiatric facility in the state and only houses ten or so carefully selected patients.
Pulling one of the doors open, I walk inside and go straight for the receptionist’s desk. An older woman sits behind a computer, and the moment she sees me, she offers a friendly smile.
“Good morning, Mr. St. James. How are you today?”
“I’m fine, Katherine.” I shove my hands into my slacks pockets. “And yourself?”
“Nothing to complain about so far.” Using the mouse, she clicks something on the computer screen before getting up from her seat. “I’ll take you back. She’s been waiting for you.”
“How is she today?”
She pauses, her head swiveling around to give me a look I know well. “She seems more gloomy than usual, but I’m sure that’ll change once she sees you.”
With my silent nod, she turns and leads me down a wide hallway toward the back of the facility. The house is over ten-thousand square feet, has twenty bedrooms—only half being used—and sits on twenty acres of land. A third of those acres are wooded. Back in the day, the place was an inn that catered to weary travelers.
When we reach a large room, which has been converted into a recreation area, my eyes are drawn to the woman I’m here to see. She’s sitting at the same small, round table she always chooses when she’s in this particular room. Her head is bent, the thick mass of dark hair a mess and tangled around her face. A deep look of concentration is pulling her features down as she slowly traces the design on the tabletop.
Just as it always does, a dull ache forms behind my sternum as I gaze at the thick bandages wrapped around her wrists.
