Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(56)

“From his memory or from what…happened to him?”

“From…the…killer. From Matthew.”

Oliver startled at the words, but Pasha did exactly the opposite, slipping into a deep sleep, completely still and completely silent.

“Dr. Bradbury!” In the hall, Wanda’s voice rose with an uncharacteristic note of panic. She stopped at the door, a little breathless.

“What’s the matter?”

“I got rid of them, but…” She shook her head. “It wasn’t easy.”

“Them? Who? What are you talking about?”

“The sheriff was here, with an FBI agent. They wanted to take Ms. Tamarin.”

“Take her?”

“She’s wanted in connection to a murder, Doctor.”

The murder of Matthew…but she’d just said he was the killer. Someone named Matthew had killed Matthew. Is that what she’d meant? And she’d been running from him all these years?

He glanced at the sleeping woman, his heart squeezing to put the puzzle pieces together with the same ease as his brilliant son assembled toy puzzles. Something was missing, someone named Matthew. Would Zoe know who Pasha was talking about? Would the sheriff and the FBI agent who’d just been sent away?

Someone knew, and Oliver meant to find out. Hustling out of the clinic, he realized that Raj was right. He cared about this patient. He cared about her, because Zoe did.

Now he had to fix her inside—and out.





“You are really, really good at this.” The balloon pilot, a sixty-something charmer named Syl, had let Zoe take over the operation of the balloon about twenty minutes after they hit their cruising altitude.

Since they’d been out, almost two hours now, Zoe had waited for the happy, light, mind-numbing relief that ballooning always gave her. It never came.

Sure, she’d enjoyed the excursion, floating over the Intracoastal Waterway and up the coast, and now she could see the question-mark-shaped island of Mimosa Key, which gave her a little thrill. “Do we have time to fly over Mimosa?”

“If you can get us there.” He gave her an easy, toothy smile. “Which I’m certain you can, since I’m gonna say you’re the best damn pilot I’ve seen in a long time.”

She laughed. “I’m pretty good at it, I’m not going to lie.”

She twisted the parachute regulator, pulling the cord to let some air escape, which dropped the balloon a few feet so they could catch an easterly breeze.

“You read the wind,” Syl said, his arms crossed as he leaned against an extra propane tank and watched her. “That’s not something that’s easy to teach.”

“Better know how if you want to go anywhere but up or down.”

“You do it on instinct,” he said, his voice rich with admiration. “I’ve seen older pilots fight the wind like a battle to the death. And lose. Men, too.”

She smiled, not fazed by his sexism or ageism, more concerned with the redline on the thermistor. But that was all good. “I lose other battles, but not with the wind. Oh, here we go.” The breeze caught the balloon and it swayed left, then right, then left again, drifting closer to Mimosa Key. “The trick will be getting us back to the mainland.”

“I can call my runners when we land,” Syl said. “That’s all part of my business.”

“If I can land up in Barefoot Bay, I could walk home.”

“You live on Mimosa Key?”

She pulled the chute again, catching a breeze like a windsurfer, the movement almost taking her breath away. But not her heavy heart.

“I live there temporarily,” she said. And wasn’t that the story of her life?

“Where you from?” he asked.

Good question, with no answer. “I live in Arizona. At the moment.”

“Good ballooning in Arizona. You pilot there?”

She turned her face to the sun, the breeze taking away all the heat, leaving nothing but glorious warmth on her cheeks. This was usually the moment she felt free, unencumbered, and safe.

But she didn’t really feel any of those things right now. She felt lonely and scared and so, so tired of running. “Yes,” she replied. “I freelance pilot wherever I live.”

“Why don’t you move here and work for me?”

Zoe almost laughed at the irony of that—exactly what Pasha had suggested she do when she’d seen the ad in the paper. Which, Zoe had to admit, might have been why she’d driven toward Fort Myers when she’d run off, checking the skies until she had caught a few glimpses of a bright-red-and-white balloon. On instinct, she’d followed it until she’d reached an open airfield owned by Sylver Sky.

It had taken a few hours to get a balloon, but she’d gotten to know the owner, Sylvester McMann, and just being at an airfield made her feel a little better.

Before she’d taken off she’d checked with the clinic. Everything was going well. Then she’d texted Tessa, who had informed her that Evan was enjoying a day working in the greenhouse. Cleared of her immediate responsibilities and forced to turn off her phone, Zoe seized the chance to get as far away from the sheriff—and the FBI—as she could. For now.

Then she waited for that natural high that came only with a good escape. But with every foot they climbed, she felt lower.

“Look, there’s the causeway,” she said, peering out at the long bridge that connected Mimosa Key to Florida’s mainland. From up here, the eight-mile-long and two-mile-wide curved island was even more beautiful, a forest-green sanctuary trimmed with white sand beaches, boat-studded harbors, and long docks reaching out like tentacles all around.

At the northern end, the west-facing inlet of Barefoot Bay glimmered like a necklace of emeralds and sapphires.

As they floated over the northeastern side of the island, Zoe got a look at the undeveloped side of Barefoot Bay, where there were no roads, homes, or people. Toward the coast, she spotted a clearing big enough to land.

“I could put us down there,” she said.

Syl launched an eyebrow in the direction of the balloon’s crown. “You could land us in the water, too. Don’t you dare.”

“The beach winds are kind of unpredictable, but I could do it.”

“One wrong cross breeze and…” Syl leaned over the basket and then grinned at her, his hazel eyes dancing. “You could probably do it.”

She puffed out a breath. “No could about it.”

“Okay, young lady, if you drop this baby right on that clearing, I’d pay you twice what you’re making in Arizona to work for me.”

A funny lightness popped in her chest—was that the release she’d been seeking all day? “You would?”

“Hell yeah. I have a dozen customers a week asking to come over here to Mimosa or one of the other islands, and I’ve never had a pilot qualified to land it.”

“Damn, Syl, I love a challenge.”

“Go for it.”

A ping of excitement shot through her, and for the next few minutes Zoe sparred with the Gulf breezes, depending on instinct and experience to guide her as she adjusted the valves and took the balloon up, down, and directly over the clearing.

“Woo-hoo!” she called out, exhilarated with her success as she curled her fingers confidently around the maneuvering vent.

Syl lifted his hand. “Don’t get too cocky!”

Just as he said that, a gust pushed them off course, whipping the basket toward the west. She responded instantly, twisting the valve to shoot out more gas and take them above the breeze, high enough above the tree line that she could now see the buttercream rooftops of Casa Blanca tucked into the foliage and beach.

“My friend owns that resort,” she said proudly. “Her husband is the architect.”

“Really?” He leaned over the side of the basket while she gave full attention to the burners. “I figured it was some corporate conglomerate who owned it.”

“Nope, just a mom-and-pop deal, but it’s top notch.”

“Think you could get your friend to send some of those rich clients my way?”

Zoe struggled with another gust. “Done and done. Okay, I’m going to try this again.”

“Looks like they spotted you, though.”

She turned to look, her gaze scanning the resort until it landed on the rooftop of Bay Laurel and the driveway in front of the villa. There, two men stood side by side, one of them pointing straight up at the balloon.

At the sight of Oliver, even a thousand feet below, her heart flipped. Or maybe that was a reaction to the man he was talking to. And the car parked in the driveway—a dark sedan that Pasha would say “screamed” FBI.

“Those tourists are ripe for the picking, don’t you think?” Syl asked.

Someone was about to be picked. Someone up here.