Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(54)

Zoe turned to Pasha, but Oliver blocked her view.

“Zoe!” Pasha called. “Find Matthew! Then you’ll know, then you’ll understand everything! Find Matthew and you’ll be safe.”

Oliver turned and looked at her over his shoulder, his face telling her everything.

He knew, and he believed that the woman whose life he was responsible for saving had taken the life of a child, a child very much like his own.

Would Oliver Bradbury, the man who always did the right thing, do the right thing now?

She had to trust him.

And she had to find Matthew.





The Lee County sheriff’s satellite office in Mimosa Key was tucked away on Center Street between a florist with the unlikely name of Bud’s Buds and a very small teahouse that had three outdoor tables under a spread of live oak trees. Zoe parked a half-block away and sat very still. The midmorning sun was already strong enough to warm the leather upholstery of the topless Jeep, making Zoe’s legs feel like they were stuck to the driver’s seat.

Or maybe that was raw terror keeping her trapped in her seat.

Because she was trapped. For as free a spirit as she fancied herself, Zoe Tamarin-cum-Bridget Lessington was really as tethered and shackled as a woman could be. The realization hurt her chest, as if a great big elephant sat on it, crushing her.

An elephant named Matthew Hobarth.

A little boy who’d died before Zoe was even born had somehow inexorably tied Zoe down and trapped her.

She dropped her head back and looked up at the Florida blue sky, a distinct cloudless Wedgwood color that was like a siren call to her spirit. When running wasn’t enough, Zoe wanted to fly away. To get in that gondola, pitch the sandbags with a soft rebel cry, and lift off this earth to somewhere silent and safe.

She ached like an addict who’d kill for a fix. Every fiber of her being wanted to rise out of this situation and escape. But that would mean leaving Oliver. And Evan. And Lacey, Tessa, Jocelyn. And Pasha. Barefoot Bay and—

How had that happened? How had this little island become a different sort of sanctuary, with friends and happiness, with family and…love?

She closed her eyes and thought of Oliver, but instead of seeing his face when he smiled or laughed or looked at her with a touch of awe in his eyes, she could only conjure up his last expression.

The one that said he knew—and he was hurt she hadn’t told him.

In the time since she’d driven from Naples back to Mimosa Key, she’d figured out what had happened. He’d seen her computer screen; he knew that there was more to what his patient was hiding than the “kidnapping” of a foster child. She’d come to him for “comfort” and listened to his own story, but never once said, Uh, I have to tell you something.

No wonder he’d kicked her out.

And this morning there’d been no time to explain or talk, obviously, not moments before he was about to start Pasha’s transfusion and treatment. She tried to swallow, but her throat was bone dry. Maybe an iced tea at the outdoor tables, a quiet moment, a bit of…delay.

A delay like all afternoon and into tomorrow. Get out of here, Zoe, before you do something stupid.

“Shut up,” she murmured to the anonymous, hated voice that screamed from her gut. That voice was never right! She pushed open the door and climbed out, her sandals hitting the pavement with a snap. Oh, Lord in heaven, she didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to walk into that little office and sit down in front of a sheriff and betray a woman who’d been like a mother to her.

Find Matthew.

Now that voice wasn’t anonymous; it was Pasha’s. What had she meant by that? Was it some kind of obscure message?

No! It was the rambling of an old, sick lady who had cancer and some dark secrets growing inside of her.

Secrets…like murder.

No! Zoe put both hands on her temples like she could squeeze the voice out. Pasha hadn’t killed a child; Zoe knew that like she knew her own name.

Except you barely remember your own name.

“Ugh,” she grunted out loud, hesitating while a car passed, her gaze locked on the building down the street.

What if the sheriff wasn’t there? He was out a lot. Half the time he was over at the Super Min sniffing around for Gloria Vail, who often worked a second shift for her Aunt Charity. She glanced at the convenience store and lost a mini-battle. She was dying for something cold to drink.

That wasn’t such a bad delay tactic, was it? A cold soda on a blistering hot day?

Yes, the convenience store called to her.

She darted across the street, her thin cotton skirt swirling around her ankles as she practically pranced to this much, much more welcome destination. Inside a little bell rang, snagging the attention of the Super Min’s owner, first class town snoop Charity Grambling.

It wasn’t Zoe’s first encounter with the woman, but mostly she stayed off Charity’s radar.

“Oh, you’re the doctor’s little harpy,” Charity announced in greeting.

Zoe froze, frowning at the older woman, who adjusted tortoiseshell glasses on her nose like she simply had to have a better look.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen you with him,” Charity said, giving Zoe a slow up-and-down. “He’s very handsome.”

“What the hell is a harpy, anyway?” Zoe asked. She was so not afraid of this woman who had tried to stop Casa Blanca from ever being built. “Other than fantastic, fresh, and fabulous, of course?”

Charity didn’t smile, still busy eyeing Zoe. “He has a son, you know.”

“Must be that wicked-high sperm count.” She headed to the back, her eye on the coolers full of Coke. And not diet, damn it.

“I thought he might go out with my niece, Gloria.”

She opened the fridge and looked at Charity through the frosted glass. “Isn’t she dating the sheriff?” The same sheriff I should be standing in front of right now, confessing.

“Not anymore.”

“They’ll get back together.” She grabbed the can and closed the fridge. “And you’ll come around to like him.”

The other woman made a harrumphing noise that would probably be engraved on her tombstone, placing her hand on the register. “He might not be so bad after all,” Charity said.

We’ll see how bad he is—will he arrest Pasha before or after she gets out of the clinic? Zoe smiled. “I bet you like him more than you’re letting on. You just like to make trouble.”

“Of course I do.” She hit a key and grinned back. “Like trouble, that is. Anyway, he’s about to get a break on some big case.”

You have no idea, lady.

“He was just in here this morning, trying to kiss up to me and tell me stuff he surely shouldn’t have been telling me.”

“Which of course you’ll repeat.”

Charity bared aging teeth. “Of course.”

Good to know the sheriff couldn’t keep his mouth shut. No doubt Charity would know Zoe’s deep, dark secret by nightfall. She slid a five across the counter and popped the top of the soda can, the crackling fizz tempting Zoe to drink before she even got her change.

But there was no change, because Charity lifted her skinny butt off her stool, looked side to side as if the CIA were hiding behind the magazine rack, and whispered, “Things like this don’t come along very often in Mimosa Key.”

Zoe shrugged, taking a huge, icy gulp.

“The FBI is in town.”

And spit Coke all over the counter.

Charity jumped back. “Oh my—”

“The FBI?” Those right there were the three scariest letters in the English language. She’d grown up in fear of them, imagining them as dark-suited, sharp-toothed, beady-eyed Kidnapper Hunters bent on tracking down every old lady who’d ever snagged a foster child, no matter why.

Charity’s mouth turned down at the soda sprinkles on the counter. “You can buy some paper towels in aisle two.”

She set the can down. “Keep the change. And the Coke.” If she ran out of here she’d look guilty. Like she knew exactly where the murderer was hiding. Charity would be on the phone before Zoe left the parking lot. The FBI would be after her, lights flashing, bullhorn screaming, charges flying.

She was ready to deal with the town sheriff—well, sort of ready—since she knew his weaknesses. But the FBI? No. That was like walking into hell to face the devil.

Her heartbeat echoed so loud she couldn’t hear Charity talk, although her lips were moving. She couldn’t remember how to breathe or think or make a joke that could get her out of this.

All she could do was run. So she did.





Chapter Twenty-three



When the transfusion and gene-therapy treatment were complete at three o’clock, Oliver and Raj crashed in the conference room, both quiet as they came down from the process of injecting vector carriers into Pasha’s cells and monitoring her response.