Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(48)

“What are you doing?” Oliver asked.

“Googling.”

“Foster homes?” Zoe smiled. “You want to know everything about everything, don’t you, little Einstein?”

He tapped a few buttons and scrolled on the screen. “I want to find the closest animal rescue shelter.” His finger paused and he looked up at her. “I bet we could find a dog that needs a real home.”

“I bet we could.” Zoe beamed at Oliver, her eyes brimming with tears. “Mission accomplished.”





Zoe ended what had felt like a nearly perfect day by pouring a heavy-on-the-vodka-with-a-molecule-of-tonic and settling onto her bed with an open laptop. Oliver had practically begged her to stay after dinner and she’d been so tempted, but the siren call of the Internet was too strong.

She had to know more.

Her fingers touched the keys, ready to type. Patricia Hobarth…Corpus Christi…Matthew Hobarth.

Matthew Hobarth? Was that even his name? How would Zoe know? Because the one person she loved and trusted and depended on for everything had failed to tell her.

How? How could Pasha have had a son and never even told Zoe about it?

A white-hot spurt of betrayal shot through her, and not for the first time that day. She’d managed to run from the heartache and escape to something better with Oliver and Evan, even with her honest admissions over lunch.

She was tired of hiding the truth about her life. But, evidently, Pasha was not.

Had Pasha lied to Zoe all these years? Whether out of omission, fear, or just plain guilt—God, no, please. Not that.

She had to know.

Still, she couldn’t type the words. Instead she took a deep, long drink, the vodka harsh on her tongue. A second gulp was a little better, but she still didn’t feel numb enough to face this search.

Whatever had happened, if it had happened, had taken place over thirty years ago. There might not be anything on the Internet.

That gave her the strength to begin clicking. She closed her eyes as the links popped up, praying that this was misinformation, a coincidence that the sheriff and nurse had used the same word: murder.

She finally opened her eyes and read the first link, dated just a few months earlier.

Police reopen 1965 murder of Matthew Hobarth.

Shit. Shit!

She sipped some more, put the glass on the table with a thud, and stared at the words. She jumped when a knock at the bungalow door pulled her out of the sixties and back to the moment.

She popped off the bed, gathered her wits, and listened for the next knock.

What if it was the sheriff?

An old, familiar fear crawled up her back. Grab a bag, get out the back door, hide until it was clear and they could run.

But Zoe didn’t have to run. She picked up the glass to down the last sip but didn’t drink, carrying it to the door.

“Zoe, are you home?”

Tessa. Relief hit as hard as the vodka as Zoe blew out a breath. Tessa was better than the sheriff. Better than anyone, right now.

She flung the door open. “Tess.”

“Where have you been all day?”

“With Oliver and Evan. We went dog shopping. Got a lovely mutt who has a heart of gold and paws the size of basketballs.”

“Really? And you’re not over there doing an assist on the house-training?”

She managed a smile. “They can’t bring him home for forty-eight hours. Shelter rules.”

Tessa inspected Zoe’s face. “You okay?”

No, she was not okay. Zoe grabbed Tessa’s arm and pulled her in. “I need your help.”

Inside, Tessa took the drink from Zoe’s hand and sipped. “Whoa. Ever hear of a mixer?”

“Overrated. Come back here. I need you to read something for me.”

“Too drunk to read?”

“I’m not drunk,” Zoe fired back, her voice cracking. “I’m…” What was she, other than shocked, devastated, and dismayed? Hurt. She was hurt down to the bone. “It’s Pasha.”

Tessa reached for her. “What happened?” The question was loaded with fear and a hint of dread. “Is she okay?”

“I don’t know,” Zoe said glumly.

“Did she have a setback? Is the treatment still scheduled for tomorrow? What’s the matter?”

“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know, except that I can’t stand to do this alone.”

“Do what alone?”

“Find out the truth.”

Tessa practically folded Zoe into her arms, patting her back with as much love and understanding as Zoe had ever felt. “Hey.” She gave her a hug. “We’re good, you know that. Whatever it is, tell me the truth. No judging, I swear.”

The words were like a balm, and incredibly empowering. “I’m not sure what the truth is. That’s the problem.”

“Then let’s figure it out together, can we?”

“Maybe.” She handed Tessa the glass. “Mix me up another vodka-and-vodka and get a little something for yourself. You’re going to need it. Meet me in my room.”

An hour later, neither one of them had finished their drinks. But Tessa had read aloud every single word they could find, which wasn’t much, but it was enough to leave them both in stunned silence.

Seven-year-old Matthew Hobarth had been stabbed to death in the backyard of his Pennsylvania home.

That alone was enough to make Zoe nearly throw up.

The child’s father, Harry Hobarth, the owner of a string of very successful car dealerships all over the state, had been at a car show in Philadelphia when Matthew was killed. His mother, Patricia, a housewife, was the only real suspect. After scouring for clues around the body, which had been found at the far end of the property, investigators honed in on scratches on the mother’s arms. She’d claimed they’d been climbing a tree together that day; the child had similar scratches. And she’d failed a lie-detector test but the evidence wasn’t admitted into court.

The trial had ended with a hung jury, and the judge had declared a mistrial.

With each new fact that Tessa read, Zoe curled more tightly into a ball, wrapping her arms around her pillow, closing her eyes, trying to accept this unacceptable news.

In a story written about five years earlier in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette about unsolved crimes in the area, a reporter had discovered that Harry Hobarth had divorced his wife and remarried, and Patricia Hobarth had moved away from the area. A search of obituaries listed her as dying of natural causes in Lubbock, Texas, in 1988—the year Zoe and Pasha had started their twenty-five-year run from the law.

But the case was now open due to new evidence.

“You okay?” Tessa asked, stroking Zoe’s arm.

She nodded but kept her stinging eyes shut tight.

“What do you want to do?”

“Scream in her face. Demand to know why she never told me.” Was it because she was guilty? Was that even possible? “She doesn’t have a violent bone in her body.”

“Zoe, you don’t think she did this, do you?”

Did she? “No, I don’t, but why didn’t she tell me? Why has she been running and hiding and pretending to be dead all these years?”

Tessa angled her head, frowning. “You know why. Because she basically kidnapped you and would have to face the charges for that, even now. She was protecting you.”

“Was she?” Zoe pushed herself up. “Or was she protecting herself?”

“It was a mistrial.”

“Hung jury. That’s not a clear verdict of not guilty.” Every word hurt to say. The very idea that Pasha could harm a child went beyond unthinkable. “But why be so secretive about it?”

Tessa gave her a rich look. “Says the queen of subterfuge.”

“For a reason.”

“She has her reasons, Zoe, and, frankly, I’m kind of shocked that you’d even consider that she’s capable of something like this. She’s probably terrified of being falsely accused again.”

Guilt tweaked. No, it did more than tweak—it stomped all over Zoe’s heart. “I know she didn’t do this,” Zoe said, the truth of that so powerful it rocked her. “I absolutely know she’s not guilty. I’m angry at her. I’m hurt and disappointed and miserable and…I feel cheated.” The last one took hold and she nodded, letting the emotion ricochet through her. “She cheated me out of a chance with Oliver.”

“She thought she was doing the right thing for you, didn’t she?”

Zoe looked at the screen, where the last story was still visible, but she couldn’t bring herself to lean closer and read every damn word. “What does it say about the open case again?”

Tessa skimmed the words. “They have the killer’s DNA now, something they didn’t have the technology to get back then. But they haven’t matched it to anyone in any database.”