Every Single Secret(45)

Glenys wasn’t there. After I got over my disappointment, I reasoned that she was probably having a session back at the house or had other assignments to complete for the doctor. When I’d headed out, I hadn’t thought of the schedule, only my claustrophobia and need to move—to get away from that creeping, oppressive house. I couldn’t get my mind around how the other patients—clients—were okay to hang out in their rooms, submitting to the watchful eyes of the doctor’s cameras. I wished I’d run into one of them, even snooty Donna McAdam. I’d welcome seeing another human face about now.

I planted my hands on my knees, waiting for my breath to slow. At the edge of the brow, wind gusted, and to my left, a bank of dark clouds heaped up and roiled, dumping rain on the distant mountains. The clouds were moving this way; even now I could feel the spit of raindrops. I would have to run if I wanted to make it back without getting soaked.

My sweat chilled by the wind, I started back down the path. By the time I was descending the final slope toward the house, I was shivering. And dreaming about a cup of scalding hot chocolate, with a splash of Baileys, preferably. Maybe I could pop in on Luca in the kitchen and make a special request. I was so caught up in my plan, I didn’t see the bird until I’d almost stepped on it.

It was a cuckoo—a female, I thought, a long, slim brown body with a white underside and a bright-yellow beak. Mr. Al had once pointed one out to me, sitting on the hitching post of the ranch office. He whispered that sometimes they laid their eggs in other nests. “Like us girls,” I had replied. “We live in other nests too.”

This bird lay in the grass, unmoving. I nudged it gently with my foot, but the body was limp. I squatted down and rolled the tiny body over gingerly. There were no puncture marks, no gashes from a cat’s claw or teeth, none that I could see, but I was no veterinarian. I wondered if something had happened to it down in the bird garden and it had flown up to the lawn to die.

I scooped it up and carried it to the patio, to the long, rickety potting bench against the house. I sifted around the plastic pots and nearly empty bags of soil until I found a trowel. Then I scanned the yard, looking for a good grave site. My gaze settled on the barn. It seemed an appropriate resting place, sheltered from the wind and rain.

On the far side of the barn, hidden from the view of the house, I laid the cuckoo down and went to work. In no time, I had a perfect little rectangle about six or seven inches deep. I hoped it was deep enough. I couldn’t stand the thought of a cat—or whoever the killer was—sniffing out the body and digging it up for more macabre fun.

I ripped a couple of strips of moss off the dirt, fashioning a makeshift burial shroud around the bird, then laid the pitiful package in the hole. With its head twisted to one side, it looked like it was sleeping. That was what people said about the dead, wasn’t it? That they looked so peaceful. It was what they had said about Chantal, when they filed past her casket.

“I’m sorry, little one,” I said, and immediately a grunting sob rose and tears sprang to my eyes. I clapped a hand over my mouth. Then both hands, even though they were crusted in dirt and dead-bird germs. What was my problem? It was just a bird, just one of a million birds who died every day. I was being dramatic.

I tamped down some loose dirt and tried to scatter some bits of grass and straw over it. Blotting the tears with my sleeve, I walked back to the house.

I paused in the middle of the yard and took a minute to suck in a lungful of cool, rain-tinged air. To brush my hands against my running tights, then gently press the swollen skin around my eyes. This place—it was making me crazy, playing on my frayed nerves, messing with my head. I didn’t know how much longer I could take being trapped on the mountain. I considered asking Luca if he had any whiskey.

Then I remembered the iPad and nearly leapt with elation.

“Hell to the yes.” I’d run a bath out of sight of the stupid camera and watch the dozen episodes of The Americans I’d downloaded a couple of weeks ago. Nothing like Russian spies wreaking havoc to get your mind off real-life ones. I pivoted and headed for the gravel drive and the Nissan.

I checked to make sure the coast was clear, then slipped between the cars. I pulled at the Nissan’s door handle, but it was locked. Stepping back, I stared, perplexed. I’d left it unlocked yesterday, I knew I had. I scanned the backyard. Empty. But maybe Dr. Cerny had seen me out here. Maybe he’d waited for me to head up the mountain and come back to lock the car.

Or somebody else had done it. You didn’t need the actual key, you could also just manually punch down the old-school lock. But why would somebody do that—other than to mess with me?

I jogged back to the house. In the empty kitchen, I helped myself to a whiskey soda. I knocked half of it back, then poured another slug. Snagging a half-finished bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge, I made my escape into the hallway. On my way past the doctor’s office, I peered through the French doors. The sunroom was dark and quiet. I tucked the bottle of wine under my arm and tried the door. Locked.

The front of the house was quiet as well—the salon, library, and dining room all doused in darkness from the approaching clouds. I climbed the stairs and let myself into our suite.

There was no sign of Heath having returned to the room after lunch. Our bed was made and the room looked like it had been freshly vacuumed. I set the bottle of wine aside and headed to the bathroom, whiskey in hand. I was already warmer, pleasantly loose limbed.