Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(36)

Zoe closed her eyes, the lids burning with exhaustion and stress and fear. And probably some tears.

Her friends were going to be so hurt. So mad. So insulted that they hadn’t been close enough to be trusted. Especially secret-averse Tessa.

“What are you talking about, Zoe?” Tessa asked.

“I haven’t told you…everything.” Zoe couldn’t take her gaze from Tessa’s, hoping the depth and sincerity of her apology was coming through. But, judging from the look of abject misery on Tessa’s face, Zoe was failing.

“Zoe,” Jocelyn said again, adding a squeeze.

Zoe ignored her, still looking at Tessa. It wasn’t Jocelyn who worried her, frankly. She’d hid enough of her own past from them that she’d be the most understanding of the friends. But Tessa, oh, Tessa. She’d only asked for honesty and Zoe had withheld it for all these years.

It was time.

“Zoe, look.” Jocelyn yanked her hand, and finally Zoe turned, her gaze snagged by a man in forest green walking toward them. With a big bad mother-effer of a gun on his hip and a Lee County sheriff’s badge on a sizable chest. “I think Deputy Garrison wants to see you.”

Zoe instantly recognized the buff build and sandy hair of the young deputy sheriff who was such a presence around Mimosa Key.

“Ms. Tamarin.” He nodded.

Slowly Zoe stood, her heart walloping her ribs. So this was it—the moment she’d dreaded for as long as she could remember.

“Deputy Garrison.” She reached out her hand to shake his. “Thank you very much for taking care of my…of Pasha.”

“I’m wondering if you could help me with some paperwork, ma’am. She didn’t have any identification and I have to fill out some forms. Did you bring her license?”

“She doesn’t drive.” Or have a shred of legitimate identification.

“Can you give me her social and permanent address?”

“Actually, I don’t know them.” Because they don’t exist.

“How about a birthday and place of birth so we can plug that into our system?”

And find nothing? Zoe shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t, Deputy.”

He frowned a little. “Then we do have a problem because—”

“What exactly is the problem, Sheriff?”

Zoe whipped around at the velvety, powerful sound of Oliver’s voice, her heart vaulting to her throat at the sight of him in scrubs. Had he operated on Pasha? Treated her?

“How is she?” Zoe asked, the sheriff momentarily forgotten.

He nodded, reaching out a hand to her. “I’ll tell you in a minute. I’m Dr. Oliver Bradbury,” he said to the sheriff. “Pasha Tamarin is a patient of my private practice. I’m on staff at this hospital. We’ll get the paperwork to you tomorrow, Sheriff. Ms. Tamarin needs to see her aunt now.”

Slade nodded. “I understand that, but I need to get something into the system as far as identification. Can you tell me her full, legal name?”

For a long moment no one said a word. Zoe was aware of Jocelyn and Tessa just a few feet away, frozen in uncertainty. And Oliver, clearly waiting for her to…stop running.

“Her name is…” Zoe swallowed and looked at Oliver, seeing the silent plea in his eyes but hearing another in her head.

Don’t do it, Zoe. Run. Lie. Keep that pillow over your head and imagine. Float away from this moment.

Not this time.

“Her name is Patricia Hobarth,” she said softly. “And as soon as I know she’s going to survive this, I’ll tell you everything else you need to know.”

Slade looked satisfied with that, stepping aside to let her get to Oliver, who reached out and pulled her into his chest with a full-body embrace. “That’s my girl.”

Was she his girl? Well, they were certainly a step closer to that, weren’t they? “How is Pasha?”

“Come on. I’ll take you to her.”





Zoe stood in the doorway of Pasha’s room for a few minutes, holding on to Oliver’s arm as she watched a nurse change an IV bag. Pasha looked as tiny as a child, pale and frighteningly close to death.

“What exactly happened?” she asked Oliver.

“Extremely high fever, severe fatigue, and indigestion. We’ve got those symptoms under control, but now we have to treat the cause.”

“Cancer?”

“Tests will confirm what I already know but, yes. Esophageal cancer, advanced.” He put his hand on her back, strong and sure. “We should do the gene therapy, and fast, Zoe.”

Hope. She dug deep into her heart and grabbed it with two hands. But it felt so damn slippery. “Okay.”

The nurse finished and gave Zoe a nod. “She’s awake,” she said, “but there’s some antianxiety and a sedative in that IV so she’ll crash soon. She might not be completely lucid or remember this conversation, but you can talk to her.”

“Thanks.” Zoe headed to Pasha’s bedside, aching to reach out and hold her. “Hey, Auntie,” she whispered, putting a hand on her narrow shoulder. “You in there, sweetie?”

Her wrinkly eyelids fluttered.

“It’s me, your little one,” Zoe said, using the age-old nickname.

Pasha smiled just enough to give Zoe’s heart a joyride. “How is my little one?” Pasha asked.

“I’m fine.”

Her eyes opened, foggy and distant, but open. “No, my little boy. Matthew.”

“Evan,” she corrected. “He’s fine, too.” Zoe leaned closer, trying not to reprimand and scold the old woman for running. “You’re going to be fine, too, Aunt Pasha.”

Brown eyes slid to capture Zoe’s gaze. “I was arrested,” she whispered.

“No, you weren’t. You collapsed in a convenience-store parking lot, which, by the way, you shouldn’t have been in”—she couldn’t resist a little reprimand—“and the sheriff got you to the hospital.”

“I told him I was innocent.”

“Don’t worry about it now, Pasha. Oliver’s here and he’s going to take care of you. As soon as you’re stronger, we’ll move you to his clinic and start the treatment to get you on the road to recovery.”

“Zoe…” She struggled for a breath. “Don’t believe what they say.”

What who say? “I don’t believe anything,” she said, placating her. “Just get better, okay?”

“I mean it.” Her eyes cleared for a moment, like the fog had lifted, then it descended again. “They’re going to tell you things and, I swear, Zoe, I swear to you, I didn’t do anything to hurt anyone.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Pasha really was foggy, and since she was sedated and wouldn’t remember the conversation, Zoe added, “And I started the process of making sure you can live the rest of your life in the open and free.”

Pasha’s dark eyes flashed. “What?”

“Don’t worry.” The words sounded hollow, but she did her best to infuse them with hope. Oliver was right. This was the right thing to do. “I promise you, Pasha. No judge or jury is going to put you behind bars for saving a little girl and getting her away from a dangerous situation. I’ll fight to the end for you.” She squeezed Pasha’s shoulder, trying to transmit the fire in her own veins to Pasha’s.

“They might try, though,” Pasha said. “They did before.”

“No, no.” She was confused. “No one did before.”

“The mistrial was right, Zoe,” she rasped.

The what? “Miss who?”

She closed her eyes. “I’m innocent, little one. I’m innocent.”

“I know you are, Aunt Pasha. You did what you thought was right and it was right. You saved me. Please. Now isn’t the time—”

“If only I could prove that.”

“I can prove it,” Zoe said. “I remember what happened and what he did.”

“So does he.”

“Pasha, that man is dead.”

But Pasha shook her head and then let out a long, slow breath. Her eyes closed as if they weighed too much for her to battle any longer.

Zoe sensed Oliver approaching. “I think she’s asleep now,” she whispered.

“I’m not asleep.”

Zoe startled, turning back to Pasha. “You should be,” she said. “You need sleep.”

Pasha’s eyes opened and her gaze shifted to Oliver. “I always liked you,” she said softly.

He smiled. “I like you, too, Pasha.”

“Because you loved Zoe. I could tell.”

He nodded.

“She’s really not lucid,” Zoe said quickly.