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  Her dad took one look at her as she got out of Jason’s car and grabbed her into his arms. “What happened to you, Jitterbug? I’ve been sittin’ here waiting forever. I thought you had a flat tire.”

  Abby was visibly relieved. “I needed you to come to the hospital, not here.”

  “I thought you said you needed to make a delivery to the hospital.” He put a gentle thumb to her forehead. “What happened?”

  “It’s a long story,” she said. “I’ll tell you after I get a shower.” She turned and looked at Jason across the hood of his car. “Thanks so much for your help.”

  Abby’s dad walked toward Jason. “Tom Whitman.” He extended his hand in introduction. “I appreciate you helping my little girl.”

  Jason saw the stricken look on Abby’s face. “I’m Jason Coble. We saw each other yesterday at the funeral.”

  Tom slid a quick sideways look at his daughter, then chuckled a little uneasily. “ ’Course. I remember now.”

  The look on Abby’s face said she saw through the lie. “Dad, you have a key to my house, could you go unlock it? I’ll be right there.”

  He nodded to Jason and walked toward the cottage.

  Abby’s stark gaze met Jason’s. “What do I do?”

  This time he didn’t stop himself. Jason reached out and took her hand in his. “He’ll need to be evaluated. If you like, I’ll make some calls.”

  “Can’t you do it?” she asked, squeezing his hand.

  “I can, at least the initial evaluation. I thought you might be more comfortable with a specialist. There’s a doctor in—”

  “No.” She said it quietly and firmly, with all of the control he’d seen her use to disguise her fears. “I’m more comfortable with you.”

  Tell her no.

  “All right. Tomorrow afternoon. I don’t have any patients booked. Two o’clock work for you?”

  She nodded, holding his gaze. “Thank you.” Then she turned and walked away.

  Jason didn’t date; he already had his emotional hands full. Abby Whitman had already crawled more deeply under his skin than he should allow—and astoundingly quickly. His invitation to have dinner again had come out of his mouth at a weak moment; borne of the most enjoyable evening he’d spent in a very long time. And he was afraid Abby would induce many of those moments. Treating her father would only lead to further temptation.

  He watched as she walked to the cottage, knowing in his heart he was making a mistake.

  CHAPTER 6

  Maggie listened as Abby’s recorded voice answered. Something was wrong. Abby was supposed to be here by now. She’d said she would come before Mrs. White, the housekeeper, got here. Mrs. White had already been here for fifteen minutes.

  Maggie had gotten up extra early to be ready. She and Abby were supposed to make a special garland today. It had to be made all by hand. This would be the first time Maggie got to help make the flowers, not just put them up.

  But Abby hadn’t come.

  And she wasn’t answering her phone. Maggie had left messages at both numbers. Abby always called right back, even when she was real busy.

  “Who are you calling?” Uncle Father was grouchy today. He looked sick.

  “Abby.” She hung up the phone.

  “You shouldn’t be bothering her all of the time.” Now he sounded plain mad.

  Maggie opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She was Abby’s helper. Abby needed her.

  Uncle Father came and put his arm around her. Maggie leaned away and looked in the opposite direction.

  “I’m sorry.” It was his regular Uncle Father voice. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m not feeling very well today.”

  “Are you dying?” Maggie wasn’t going to ask. But it just came out. Now there was no way to swallow the words back up.

  Uncle Father looked like she’d yelled at him. “Why would you ask such a question?”

  Maggie wasn’t going to admit she’d been listening when he talked on the phone. That was the worst of bad manners.

  She looked at the floor and shrugged. Nobody ever made her answer when she did that.

  “Maggie, dear. I’m just feeling a little off today. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  Maggie blew out a breath that puffed her cheeks. She’d been so worried. He must be okay. Uncle Father never lied.

  “What about Abby?” she asked. “Something. Is. Wrong.” She pointed her finger into her other palm with each word so Uncle Father understood this was serious. “She always calls me right back.”

  Maggie felt the grouchy come on him again. His arm tightened around her shoulder. He gave her a little shake as he said, “Enough about Abby.” He took a deep breath that sounded like it might suck all of the air out of the room. “I’m sure she’s busy. Now you need to go do your studies.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. To your room.”

  Maggie left the kitchen and stomped up the stairs. But she stopped when she heard Uncle Father’s cell phone ring.

  She knelt down after the turn in the stairs where Uncle Father couldn’t see her. It was bad to listen. But it could be Abby.

  Uncle Father answered with his grouchy voice. “What do you want?”

  Maggie listened harder. Uncle Father was never rude.

  He said, “I told you I’m taking care of her.” He was quiet for a minute. “That would be entirely the wrong way to handle it.” He was quiet again. “She doesn’t know… Yes, I’m painfully aware of what’s at stake.” He hung up.

  Maggie wondered, What don’t I know? And why won’t he tell me?

  Then it struck her like a hammer. Her ears started ringing and she couldn’t breathe. He is dying.

  She swallowed down the cry that tried to come out.

  She tiptoed up to her room and closed the door. Then she lay down on her bed and cried into her pillow.

  Drawing on a reserve she hadn’t been aware she possessed, Abby kept herself from falling to pieces in front of her father while she told him about her accident. Even as she began to recount the aftermath, she was weighing whether or not to admit her fear of sleep-driving. She didn’t want him to worry—not to mention she didn’t ever again want him to look at her the way he had after she’d burned down the house. And yet, she didn’t want to outright lie to him either. Luckily he made it easy by not asking why she’d been out on Suicide Road in the middle of the night in the first place.

  That non-reaction was the only hint that he wasn’t entirely himself. He’d acted perfectly normal otherwise. So normal and connected that she thought perhaps she’d been overreacting with her assumption something was wrong with him. She’d been exhausted, distraught, and in pain when she’d called him from the emergency room. Perhaps she hadn’t been clear that she wanted him to come to the hospital.

  “You’re sure you’re all right?” he asked once again.

  Truth was, her equilibrium was shaky at best and she was so drained she could barely hold a coherent thought.

  Since he wasn’t letting it go, she worked up more than the single word “fine” she’d used the past two times he’d asked. “Just a killer headache and some sore muscles.” She cringed at her choice of adjective—killer. Was she?

  He seemed to read her thoughts. “It was an accident, Abby. The police didn’t say anything that made you think they suspect you were criminally negligent, did they?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then let’s not view this as anything more than what it was, an unfortunate accident. Motorcycles are so dangerous. If that fella had been in a car with a seatbelt on, he probably would have walked away like you did.”

  But he didn’t. And I can’t remember.

  “Accidents happen, baby.” He held her close and rubbed her back. “There wasn’t anything you could have done to avoid it.”

  “You don’t know that—”

  He took her shoulders and held her away from him. He looked into her eyes. “I know you. If you could have avoided an accident, you wo
uld have. Remember when you drove Mom’s car into the ditch to avoid hitting a squirrel?”

  She nodded. Her mom’s car had sustained twelve hundred dollars’ worth of damage; the squirrel only an adrenaline rush. Her dad had said that squirrel was the forest equivalent of the six-million-dollar man.

  But this hadn’t been a squirrel. This had been a man. And she hadn’t avoided killing him. She shivered.

  He wrapped her in a warm gentle hug. “You go ahead and take your shower. Then you should get some sleep.”

  “Um, I really have some things I have to do today. Can I borrow the Explorer?”

  He looked at her from beneath beetled brows. “Sleep. You need to sleep.”

  I may never go to sleep again.

  “I’ll take a nap as soon as I have things at the shop under control.” She paused. “I promise.”

  “Why don’t you let me take care of the shop for you today? I can make your deliveries.”

  She needed him home where he’d be safe. And she needed to talk to the sheriff’s department. If she told him where she was headed, he’d insist on going with her. She wanted to keep his stress to a minimum until she had an opinion from Jason about her dad’s mental health.

  She decided she’d talk to her dad about that appointment later. She’d thrown enough at him for the moment.

  With a hand on her hips for emphasis, she said, “I can only imagine the arrangements you’d put together. You can’t even get dressed without Mom—” she cut herself off.

  He looked away, blinking.

  Putting her hand on his back, she whispered, “Sorry.”

  He sniffed and looked at her with unshed tears in his eyes. “It’s all right, Jitterbug.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Go get your shower.”

  Moments later, Abby had the water in her shower cranked nearly as hot as it would go. She stood under the scalding spray. As she watched the skin on her chest bloom crimson, a choking sob broke free. She slapped a hand over her mouth, stifling the sound from traveling though her tiny house to her father’s concerned ears.

  That sob was quickly followed by another that erupted from the very center of her body. Dizzy, she staggered backward until her back hit the cold tile. Her knees buckled and she slid down the wall until she was folded in the corner of the shower stall.

  The hot water pelted the top of her head and her shoulders as she curled deep into herself, wrapping her arms around her knees. Breathy sobs shook her body with their intensity.

  She huddled there until the water ran cold and her tears were spent. And still the anguish in her heart remained branding-iron hot.

  On Jason’s way back into town, his cell phone rang.

  “Dr. Coble,” he answered.

  “Jason, this is Ken Robard, I need you to come to the house as soon as possible. Kyle has been,” the man paused, “killed. Jessica’s had a complete breakdown.”

  Jason had been treating Jessica Robard for severe depression for over a year. Somehow they’d managed to keep her treatment private even though Ken Robard led a very public life.

  Their only child, Kyle, was a sophomore at Duke University. Jason wondered if the boy had fallen into drug use while on campus. Jesus, Jessica was in no shape to withstand a blow like this.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes, Senator.”

  * * *

  Abby ignored her father’s insistence that she stay at his house, telling her she was in no shape to drive. Which was probably true. But she convinced him to loan her his car anyway. She needed answers and there was only one place to get them.

  It was nearly eleven-thirty. Her plan had been to go directly to the sheriff’s office and see what she could find out about the accident investigation. At the very least, she wanted the identity of the man on the motorcycle. Not that it would make things any easier, but it would fill in one of the many unknowns about last night.

  However, as she drove past St. Andrew’s guilt moved her foot to the brake and turned the Explorer to the curb. Maggie had left three worried messages on her home voice mail—and Abby hadn’t taken the time to call her back.

  Father Kevin’s car wasn’t in the driveway of the residence. Abby went to the door anyway; sometimes he left Maggie at home when he was going to be gone for a short time.

  Maggie’s face brightened when she opened the front door, then quickly clouded over. “What happened to your head?”

  “I had an accident in my van last night and bumped my head. That’s why I wasn’t here this morning.”

  Maggie’s brows drew together. “I’ve been worried. I’ve been calling your cell phone all morning. Even after Uncle Father told me to stop.”

  “I’m sorry you worried. I lost my cell phone in the accident—that’s why I stopped by. I wanted you to know I’m okay.”

  “What about the garland?” Maggie was just short of pouting.

  “We’ll have to do it all tomorrow. How about I pick you up at eight in the morning? We can work at the shop all day and have the flowers ready for the wedding Saturday morning.”

  Disappointment creased Maggie’s innocent face, but there was no way Abby could focus on work today.

  “Please help me tomorrow,” Abby said. “There’s no way I can get it done in time all by myself.”

  Maggie brightened. “All right. I don’t want you to get into trouble with Mrs. Ostrom; she’s grouchier than Uncle Father is today.”

  Abby chuckled. “Mothers of the bride are always grouchy right before a wedding.” She gave Maggie a quick hug before she turned and went down the steps to the street. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Maggie called, “Neither do I.”

  By the time Abby reached the nineteen-sixties yellow brick one-story building that housed the sheriff’s office, all traces of the smile Maggie had sparked had faded.

  The sun beat through the Explorer’s windshield, making the car stuffy and uncomfortable. Still she sat there for a long while before she found the courage to get out and face the culmination of her darkest fears.

  CHAPTER 7

  As Abby entered the lobby of the sheriff’s office, which was in the county seat seventeen miles from Preston, she realized this was the first time she’d ever been inside a police station of any sort. Going through the door, moving from bright sunlight to wholly artificial fluorescent, from the heat of the sun to the cool interior, intensified the sense of vertigo that had been growing over the past hour. She had to pause with her hand on the door handle and wait for the spinning to stop.

  Once she could move forward in a straight line, she did so, taking in the lobby area. It wasn’t at all what she’d expected, given their mostly rural county.

  Instead of stepping into Andy’s office in TV’s Mayberry, she walked into a room with a dozen battered vinyl chairs, some mended with color-matched vinyl tape. Instead of a wide counter or a reception desk manned by a kind-faced grandmother dressed in a seasonal-themed sweater, there was a four-by-four Plexiglas window on her right. It had an intercom mounted on the wall next to it and a slide tray like you’d see at a bank’s drive-up window. Behind that was a man in a deputy sheriff’s uniform.

  A sign indicated the jail was through a door on the left side of the lobby.

  The deputy behind the glass looked up when Abby approached. “Can I help you?”

  His voice sounded tinny through the intercom.

  She started to speak, but only produced a froggy croak. What was a person supposed to say in a situation like this? Should she just blurt out that she wanted to know who she’d killed?

  She cleared her throat. “I’m Abby Whitman… I was in an accident last night….”

  He nodded. “What can I do for you, Ms. Whitman?”

  “I just wanted to know if… if you can tell me anything about the investigation—who else was involved?”

  “Just a moment.” He got up and walked away. A few seconds later the door in the same wall as the window opened and he said, “Please come in.�
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  Behind the solid door was what appeared to be an ordinary office with cubicles and a couple of private suites.

  “Have a seat.” He pointed to one of two chairs outside one of the private offices. “I’ll inform Sheriff Hughes that you’re here.”

  “Thank you.”

  The deputy returned to his desk and picked up the telephone.

  A short time later the door to the private office opened. Abby only knew Sheriff Hughes from his campaign posters and photographs in the local paper. He was a bear of a man with grizzled gray hair. He looked much larger in person.

  “Ms. Whitman. Come in.”

  Once she had declined a beverage and was seated across the desk from him, he said, “I’m glad to see you’re all right.” His serious gray eyes traveled to the lump on her forehead.

  “Thank you.” Guilt weighed down her gaze. She had trouble meeting his eyes. “The man on the motorcycle… he didn’t make it, did he?”

  The sheriff shook his blockish head. “No, I’m sorry, he didn’t. He was pronounced at the scene.”

  Abby sucked in a shuddering breath and gripped the edge of her chair. “So there’s no way to know what happened?”

  “Deputy Trowbridge said you have no recollection of the accident or events preceding. Have you had any improvement in your memory?”

  Was there accusation in his voice? Or was she just projecting her own conscience on his words?

  She shook her head and her sore neck muscles screamed in protest. She stopped and answered verbally. “Unfortunately, no. The last thing I can remember was around nine o’clock when I left Jeter’s.”

  He nodded, looking almost sympathetic. “We may have some luck figuring out what happened, at the accident scene at least. There is a state crash investigation team working on it. They’re usually pretty good about determining how an accident happened.”

  She straightened her spine and looked him in the eye. “Good. I need to know.”

  “It’s early yet, but I can contact you when I receive their report.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Unfortunately, once we pull your van from the marsh, we’ll have to keep it in the impound lot until the investigation is complete.”