Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(57)

She could only imagine what Oliver was saying. There she is. There’s the woman you’re looking for.

Had he already turned Pasha in, too?

She swallowed the metallic taste of betrayal and let out a long sigh. “I can’t do it.”

“What?”

She stepped away and gestured to Syl. “You do it. Take us back to the mainland and call a runner to meet us. I can’t get down on that island.”

“I thought you were so sure.”

“I’m not sure of anything or anyone,” she admitted. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Come on, you can do it. I want to see you land this thing.”

She shook her head. “I’m not feeling it today, Syl.” Not feeling free or safe or untethered or any of the things she loved about flying.

Just numb.

“Hmm.” Syl stepped to the valves to do the work. “I didn’t really take you for a quitter, miss.”

Inside her chest, something slipped and gripped and hurt. What was she so afraid of? Whatever the truth, whatever it cost, she had to face this. Until she did, she had no chance at love or a home or the real freedom she’d been searching for all these years. She had to do this.

“You know,” she said to Syl, “I’m not a quitter. Let me at that valve.”





Chapter Twenty-four

Before Oliver could find Zoe, Special Agent Nicholas Fitzgerald showed up at Casa Blanca looking for her. The woman at the front desk sent him to Bay Laurel, and as they greeted each other in the driveway, a brightly colored spot in the sky told Oliver exactly where Zoe was. The agent was alone and made no mention of the sheriff who had been with him when they’d been sent away from the IDEA offices. Maybe they’d decided to split the effort, sending the FBI here and the sheriff to get Zoe.

When the agent asked about her, Oliver pointed to the balloon. His gut told him exactly who was in it, if not flying it.

Oliver wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to say to the agent, so he let the visit unfold to get a feel for the man. His impression wasn’t entirely positive, based on Fitzgerald’s cool demeanor during their conversation, which didn’t change even after Oliver invited him inside.

“I really wanted to speak with Pasha Tamarin personally,” the agent said. “But the staff at your clinic made that impossible.”

Oliver made a mental note to give Wanda a raise.

Once they were seated in the living room, the other man leaned forward and looked earnestly at Oliver. “I’m not sure how much you know about the subtleties of DNA, Dr. Bradbury.”

He managed not to smile. “I know a little.”

“Your patient, whose real name is Patricia Hobarth, is allegedly enmeshed in multiple crimes, the worst of which is the murder of her son.”

“She didn’t do it.”

Fitzgerald’s crystal-blue eyes sparked. “Perhaps you know a little bit about DNA, Doctor, but determining innocence or guilt really isn’t part of your job.”

“Maybe it isn’t, but her health is my number-one concern right now. Ms. Tama—er, Ms. Hobarth has undergone an extremely delicate and experimental procedure today. Stress could grossly undermine the treatment. So my job is to keep you away from her. When she’s healthy, I’m sure she’ll talk to you.”

“You’re sure?” Fitzgerald choked softly. “She’s changed her name, used false identification, fraudulently reported her own death, abducted a child, and God knows what else to avoid being tried for this murder.”

“She was tried for the murder and acquitted.” He’d done a little research himself after Zoe had left last night.

“She was not acquitted,” the agent corrected. “And she most certainly can be retried. She can no longer escape the power of technology and our ability to find fugitives. Obviously, she’s living in fear of that.”

“Maybe she’s living in fear of something else,” Oliver suggested. “Like the real killer.”

Fitzgerald shook his head and sighed. “There’s never been another serious suspect.”

“There’s never been any hard evidence.”

“And you’re basing that on what knowledge, Doctor?” Fitzgerald demanded. “Talking to her about it or reading ancient news accounts?”

The latter, but he was undeterred. “I won’t let anyone near her for at least a week.”

“We can end this very, very quickly, Dr. Bradbury,” the other said. “We don’t even have to talk to her. The FBI has DNA evidence and wants to compare it to Ms. Tamarin. We need access to her to get a clean sample.”

“You want DNA? I have vials of her blood. It’s yours. Moreover, I have mitochondrial DNA, which, if you do a little studying, you’ll discover that you can match with zero doubt and quite quickly, too. In a matter of hours, not weeks.”

The agent shook his head. “We need to verify that it’s her blood, not a random vial from some local health clinic.”

Ire whipped up Oliver’s spine. “You may go to my clinic and examine the vials that were taken during a transfusion today. You may stand at the door and watch the nurse take any sample for DNA testing. But you may not talk to her.”

“Why not?” he asked. “Why can’t I at least question her?”

“She’s eighty-four and battling for her life,” Oliver told him. “And I might add that if she wins that battle, she may save hundreds, even thousands, of others. But not if she collapses under the stress of this investigation.”

Fitzgerald sat back and crossed his arms, unrelenting. “I’ll get a warrant.”

“She’s sound asleep. She can’t tell you anything.”

“But I can.”

Both men turned at the sound of Zoe’s voice as she stepped around the entryway wall into the living room. Her hair wind whipped, her cheeks chapped, her eyes bright from tears or fear, she walked into the room and managed to avoid eye contact with Oliver.

But he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“How’d you get down here so fast?” Oliver asked.

“I’m that good,” she shot back, her attention on the FBI agent. “And the driver broke land speed records. I’m Zoe, er…” She reached out her hand as he stood. “Bridget Lessington.”

“Special Agent Nick Fitzgerald.” The man gave her enough of a once-over to really irk, but Oliver stood slowly, waiting for the introduction to be complete before he walked over to Zoe.

Finally, she looked at him, and the hurt in her eyes punched a lot harder than Fitzgerald’s smart-ass attitude. “How is she?” Zoe whispered.

“She’s good. She’s sleeping, and I’d like to keep it that way.” Oliver nodded to the other man. “Special Agent Fitzgerald has other ideas.”

“I don’t want to hurt your…friend, Ms. Lessington.”

She closed her eyes for a quick second in reaction to the name. “Please call me Zoe. And she’s my great-aunt, even if that’s not what some piece of paper says. What do you want from her?”

“An interview,” Fitzgerald said. “What do you know about the murder, miss?”

She brushed a hair off her face. “I didn’t know she had a son until a few days ago. She’s never mentioned him.”

“All those years of living together and she never mentioned she had a son? Don’t you find that odd?”

Zoe didn’t answer, but worked to swallow.

“She never mentioned her trial?” he asked.

“No.”

“She never mentioned her life in Pennsylvania?”

“Rarely.”

“She never mentioned her marriage to Matthew Harold Hobarth?”

“Not once.”

“She never—”

Oliver shot between them. “That’s enough.”

But Zoe’s eyes were wide, along with her mouth. “What was his name?”

“Hobarth. Matthew Harold, but he goes by—”

She grabbed his arm. “Goes by? He’s alive?”

“Barely, but yes.”

“Have you talked to him?” Zoe and Oliver asked the question in perfect unison, each taking a small step closer to the other.

The FBI agent shook his head, shutting them down. “First of all, he can’t talk. He suffered a stroke in an assisted-living facility outside of Columbus. I met with him before coming down in a failed effort to get more details about Patricia’s relationship with her son and really get a better handle on her motive. To be honest, Harry isn’t going to live out the month.”

Zoe’s eyes narrowed at the news, but Oliver moved in, putting a hand on her shoulder to ask the question burning in him. “Did you happen to get his DNA for testing while you were there?”