Heroes are My Weakness (12 page)

A little more digging pulled up her obituary. She’d died last February, just as Jaycie had said. She’d been three years older than Theo. She had an undergraduate degree from Bryn Mawr and an MBA from Dartmouth, so she was both beautiful and smart. She’d worked in finance and was survived by her husband, her mother, and a couple of aunts. Not exactly a fertile family. The cause of death wasn’t listed.

Why did she look so familiar? The dark hair, perfectly symmetrical features . . . It finally hit her. Regan Harp might have looked like this if she’d lived to her thirties.

The uneven tap of crutches interrupted that creepy thought. Jaycie appeared in the door of the sunroom. “Livia’s gone. She’s gotten out again.”

Annie set her laptop aside. “I’ll get her.”

Jaycie braced herself against the doorframe. “She wouldn’t do this if I could take her out myself once in a while. I know it’s wrong to keep her cooped up like this. God, I’m a terrible mother.”

“You’re a great mother, and I need some fresh air anyway.”

Fresh air was the last thing Annie needed. She was sick of fresh air. Sick of the wind cutting her face and of her muscles aching from crawling after cats and climbing up the cliff drive to Harp House twice in one day. But at least her strength was beginning to return.

She gave Jaycie a reassuring smile and went to the kitchen to bundle up. She gazed at her backpack for a few moments, then decided it was finally time to pull out Scamp.

Livia was crouched under the branches of her favorite tree. The snow had melted away from the trunk, and she sat cross-legged on the bare ground dancing a pair of pinecones around as if they were play figures.

Annie slipped Scamp over her hand and arranged the puppet’s pink skirt to fall down over her own forearm. Livia pretended not to see her approach. Sitting on an old ledge stone close to the tree, Annie propped her elbow on one leg and let Scamp loose. “Pssttt . . . Pssttt . . .”

The
p
sound was one that amateur ventriloquists tended to avoid, along with letters such as
m, b, f, q, v,
and
w
—all of which required lip movement. But Annie had years of practice with sound substitutions, and even adults weren’t aware that she used a softened version of the
t
sound for
p.

Livia looked up, her eyes fixed on the puppet.

“How do you like my outfit?” Scamp bobbed about, showing off her multicolored tights and star-decked T-shirt. Movement was another distraction that kept audiences from noticing sound substitutions. For example, pronouncing “
my
” as “
ny
.”

Scamp tossed her chaotic yarn hair. “I should have worn my leopard jeans. Skirts get in my way when I want to turn a somersault or hop on one leg. Not that you’d know. You’re too little to hop on one leg.”

Livia shook her head ferociously.

“You’re not?”

More head shaking. Livia scrambled out from under the branches, tucked up one leg, and hopped awkwardly on the other.

“Magnifico!”
Scamp clapped her small cloth hands. “Can you touch your toes?”

Livia bent her knees and touched her toes, the tips of her straight brown hair brushing the ground.

They continued this way for a while, Scamp putting Livia through her paces. Finally, after Livia had completed a series of laps around the spruce tree, with Scamp urging her to go faster, the puppet said, “You’re amazingly athletic for someone who’s only three.”

That stopped Livia in her tracks. She scowled at Scamp and, with a frown, held up four fingers.

“My mistake,” Scamp said. “I guess I thought you were younger because you can’t talk.”

Annie was relieved to see that Livia seemed more insulted than ashamed. Scamp tilted her head so a chunk of curly orange yarn fell over one eye. “It must be hard not talking. I talk all the time. Talk, talk, talk. I find myself quite fascinating. Do you?”

Livia nodded solemnly.

Scamp gazed up toward the sky, as if she were thinking something over. “Did you ever hear of . . . free secret?”

Livia shook her head, keeping her focus on Scamp, as if Annie didn’t exist.

“I love free secret,” the puppet said. “If I say ‘free secret,’ I can tell you anything, and you’re not allowed to get mad. Annie and I play it, and, boy, has she ever told me some bad secrets, like the time she broke my favorite purple crayon.” Scamp threw her head back, opened her mouth wide, and yelled,
“Free secret!”

Livia’s eyes grew huge, expectant.

“My turn first!” Scamp said. “And remember . . . You’re not allowed to get mad when I tell you. Just like I won’t get mad if you tell me something.” Scamp hung her head and spoke in a soft, confessional term. “My free secret is . . . At first I didn’t like you because your hair is pretty and brown and mine is orange. It made me jealous.” She looked up. “Are you mad?”

Livia shook her head.

“That’s good.” It was time to see if Livia would accept the connection between vent and puppet. She pretended to whisper something in the puppet’s ear.

Scamp turned to her. “Do we have to, Annie?”

Annie spoke for the first time. “Yes, we really do.”

Scamp sighed and returned her attention to Livia. “Annie says we have to go inside.”

Livia picked up her pinecones and rose.

Annie hesitated, then made Scamp lean toward the child and speak in a loud whisper. “Annie also said that if you’re by yourself and you see Theo, you should run to your mom because he doesn’t understand little kids.”

Livia scurried toward the house, giving Annie no clue how she felt about that.

I
T HAD JUST GOTTEN DARK
when Annie left Harp House, but this time she wasn’t walking back to the cottage with only a flashlight as a weapon against her vivid imagination. Instead she’d grabbed the key to Theo’s Range Rover from the hook in the kitchen and driven herself home.

The cottage had no garage, only a graveled spot off to the side. She parked there, let herself in through the side door, and flicked on the light.

The kitchen had been trashed.

Chapter Seven

A
NNIE TOOK IN THE DESTRUCTION
. The cupboards and drawers hung open, with silverware, dish towels, boxes, and cans littering the floor. She dropped her backpack. The messy contents of her overturned trash was spread everywhere, along with paper napkins, plastic wrap, and a bag of noodles. Mariah’s kitschy salt and pepper shakers were still lined up on the windowsill, but colanders, measuring cups, and cookbooks lay on a bed of spilled rice.

She looked toward the dark living room, and the back of her neck prickled. What if someone were still in the house? She backed out the door she’d just entered, rushed to the car, and locked herself in.

The sound of her ragged breathing filled the interior. There was no 911 to call. No friendly neighbor she could run to. What was she supposed to do? Drive into town for help? And exactly who was going to help her on a lawless island with no police force? If any serious crime occurred, police came over from the mainland.

No police. No neighborhood watch. Regardless of what the maps said, she’d left the state of Maine for the State of Anarchy.

Her other option was to drive back to Harp House, but that was the last place she could turn for help. She’d thought she was being so subtle with her scary noises and ghostly pranks. Obviously not. This was Theo’s doing. His retaliation.

She wanted a gun just like the other islanders. Even if she ended up shooting herself, a gun would make her feel less vulnerable.

She investigated the interior of Theo’s car. A high-end sound system, GPS, a phone charger, and a glove box with registration papers and a car manual. A windshield scraper lay on the floor in front of the passenger seat, a travel umbrella in the back. All of it useless.

She couldn’t sit here forever.

I would,
Crumpet said.
I’d sit here until somebody came to rescue me.

Which wasn’t going to happen. Annie flipped the trunk switch and inched out of the car. Looking around to make sure no one was sneaking up on her, she crept to the trunk. There she found a small shovel with a short handle. Exactly the sort of thing a smart islander carried around to dig out his car if he got stuck.

Or if he needed to bury a dead body,
whispered Crumpet.

What about the cat? Was it still inside, or had Annie rescued it from imagined danger only to drag it to its actual death?

She grabbed the shovel, pulled out the flashlight she kept in her coat pocket, and crept toward the house.

It’s awfully dark out here,
Peter said.
I think I’ll go back to the car.

The snow had gone through a thaw and freeze yesterday, and the icy surface wasn’t likely to reveal much in the way of footprints, even if she had enough light to see them. She made her way to the front of the house. Surely Theo wouldn’t have hung around after he’d done this, but how could she be certain? She maneuvered past the old-fashioned wooden lobster traps near the front door and crouched beneath the living room window. Slowly she raised her head and peered inside.

It was dark, but she could see just enough to realize this room hadn’t been spared. The taupe armchair that looked like an airline seat had been turned on its side, the couch was askew, its pillows scattered, and the tree painting hung crookedly against the wall.

Her breath frosted the glass. Carefully she raised the flashlight higher and directed it toward the back of the room. Books had been thrown off the shelves, and two drawers of the Louis XIV graffiti chest gaped open. The cat was nowhere to be seen, dead or alive.

She ducked and felt her way around to the rear of the cottage. It was even darker here, more isolated. Lifting her head inch by inch, she finally had a clear view into her bedroom, but it was too dark to see anything. For all she knew, Theo could be lurking under the window on the other side.

She braced herself, drew up the flashlight, and shone it into the room. It was exactly as she’d left it—no mess other than the one she’d made herself this morning.

“What in the
hell
are you doing?”

She screamed, dropped the shovel, and whirled around.

Theo stood in the dark not twenty feet away.

She started to run. Back the way she’d come. Racing around the side of the house, trying to get to the car. Feet churning, brain screaming. She slipped and lost the flashlight as she fell. She clambered back up and kept running.

Get inside. Hit the locks.
Get away before he catches you.
She’d run over his feet if she had to. Run over
him.

Heart hammering, she rounded the front of the cottage. Changed direction. Looked up . . .

He was leaning against the passenger door of the Range Rover, arms crossed over his chest, looking as relaxed as could be.

She jerked to a stop. He wore his heavy black suede jacket and jeans. No hat or gloves. “It’s strange,” he said calmly, the light from the kitchen window cutting across his face. “I don’t remember you being this crazy when you were a kid.”

“
Me? You’re
the psychopath!” She hadn’t meant to scream it—hadn’t meant to say it at all. The word hung in the air between them.

But he didn’t come after her. Instead, he said calmly, “This has to stop. You realize that, don’t you?”

The surest way for him to make everything stop was to kill her. Her chest heaved. “You’re right. Whatever you say.” She began to back up, moving slowly, carefully.

“I get it.” He uncrossed his arms. “I was a monster when I was sixteen. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. But a few years with a shrink straightened me out.”

Shrinks couldn’t straighten out his kind of pathology. She gave a shaky nod. “Good. Great. I’m glad for you.” She inched backward another step.

“It happened years ago. You’re making yourself look ridiculous.”

That sent an angry rush through her. “Go away! You’ve done enough.”

He pushed himself away from the car. “I haven’t done a damn thing. And you’re the one who needs to go away!”

“I’ve been inside the cottage. I got your message.” She lowered her voice, struggling to sound calm. “Just tell me . . .” She spoke even more softly, her voice barely trembling. “Did you— Did you hurt the cat?”

He cocked his head. “Mariah’s death must have been hard on you. Maybe you should talk to somebody.”

Did he really believe she was the one with mental problems? She needed to placate him. “I will. I’ll talk to somebody. So you can go on home now. Take the car.”

“You mean
my
car? The car you drove off in without asking permission?”

He’d told her she could take the car when she needed it, but she wasn’t going to argue with him about it. “I won’t do it again. Now it’s late, and I’m sure you have work to do. I’ll see you in the morning.” Not after this. She’d have to find another way to repay Jaycie because she absolutely couldn’t go up there again.

“I’ll leave as soon as you tell me why you were skulking around the cottage?”

“I wasn’t skulking. Just . . . getting a little exercise.”

“Bull.” He strode toward the cottage’s side door, pulled it open, and disappeared inside.

She made a dash for the car, but she wasn’t quick enough. He shot back out of the house. “What the hell happened in there?”

His outrage was so convincing that she would have believed him if she hadn’t known better. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I won’t tell anyone.”

He jabbed his finger toward the cottage. “You think I did that?”

“No, no. Of course, I don’t.”

“You
do
think I did it.” His frown turned to a glower. “You can’t imagine how much I want to walk away right now and let you deal with this yourself.”

“F-follow your instincts.”

“Don’t tempt me.” In two long strides he was beside her. She jumped as his fingers clamped around her wrist. As she struggled, he pulled her toward the door. “Will you shut up?” he said. “You’re hurting my ears. Not to mention terrifying the entire seagull population.”