Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(45)

Gripping the sides of the sink, he forced himself to raise his head and stare in the mirror again.

This wasn’t who he wanted to be. But it was what he’d become, what he’d made of himself.

Had there been any tears in him, he would have wept.

“Alex,” came the quiet voice from the doorway. “You’re not afraid of work. You’re used to tearing things down. Rebuilding.”

Even as sick as Alex was, the metaphor didn’t escape him. “Houses aren’t people.”

“Everyone’s got something that needs fixing.” The ghost paused. “In your case, it happens to be your liver.”

Alex struggled to strip off his shirts, having sweated through both of them. “Please,” he managed to say. “If there is any mercy in you … don’t talk.”

The ghost obliged, retreating.

By the time Alex had gotten dressed again, the shaking had subsided, but the clammy hot-and-cold feeling kept crawling over him. His nerves were strung tight. The difficulty in finding the work boots he wanted, the same ones he’d worn the previous day, sent him into a full-blown fury. As soon as he laid his hands on the boots, he threw one of them at the wall so hard that it ruined the paint and left a dent in the Sheetrock.

“Alex.” The ghost reappeared. “You’re acting crazy.”

He hurled the other boot, which shot through the ghost’s midsection and left another dent in the wall.

“Feel better now?” the ghost asked.

Ignoring him, Alex retrieved the boots and jammed them on. He tried to think above the violent pounding of his head. He had to get the check from Justine and take it to the bank.

“Don’t go to Artist’s Point,” he heard the ghost say urgently. “Please. You’re in no shape. You don’t want anyone to see you like this.”

“By ‘anyone’ you mean Zoë,” Alex said.

“Yes. You’ll upset her.”

Alex gritted his teeth. “I don’t give a damn.” Grabbing his car keys, wallet, and heavy black sunglasses, he went to his truck and pulled it out of the garage. As soon as he drove onto the main road, the sunlight seemed to split his skull open with the precision of surgical instruments. He groaned and swerved, looking for a place to pull over in case he needed to puke.

“You’re driving like you’re in a video game,” the ghost said.

“What do you care?” Alex snapped.

“I care because I don’t want you to kill anyone. Including yourself.”

By the time they had arrived at Artist’s Point, Alex had sweated through another T-shirt, and he was trembling with what felt like fever chills.

“For pity’s sake,” the ghost said, “don’t go through the front entrance. You’ll scare the guests.”

Much as Alex would have loved to defy him, the ghost had a point. Surly and exhausted from the effort of driving, he pulled around to the back of the inn and parked near the kitchen entrance. The smell of food drifted outside, causing the hot sting of nausea in his throat. As his sunglasses slipped down his nose on a fresh bloom of sweat, Alex ripped them off and flung them across the gravel with a curse.

“Get control of yourself,” he heard the ghost say tersely.

“Fuck off.”

A retractable screen door covered the kitchen’s back entrance. Through the fine solar mesh, Alex saw that Zoë was alone in the kitchen, making breakfast. Pots simmered on the stove, and something was baking in the oven. The smell of browning butter and cheese nearly made Alex recoil.

He tapped on the doorjamb, and Zoë looked up from a cutting board piled high with hulled strawberries. She was dressed in a short pink skirt and flat sandals, and a white ruffly top, and an apron tied at the waist. Her legs were toned and gleaming, calf muscles neatly rounded. The blond curls had been drawn up to the top of her head, a few escaping to dangle against her cheeks and neck.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile. “Come in. How are you?”

Alex avoided her gaze as he entered the kitchen. “I’ve been better.”

“Would you like some—”

“I’m here for the check,” he said curtly.

“Okay.” Although this was certainly not the first time he’d ever been brusque with her, Zoë gave him a questioning glance.

“The first payment’s due,” Alex said.

“Yes, I remember. Justine handles the office work, so she’ll write the check for you. I’m not sure which account to write it from.”

“Fine. Where is she?”

“She just went out for an errand. She’ll be back in five or ten minutes. The big coffee machine is broken, so she’s picking up some carafes of breakfast blend from a local place.” A timer went off, and Zoë went to take a dish out of the oven. “If you want to wait for her,” she said over her shoulder, “I’ll pour some coffee and you can—”

“I don’t want to wait.” He needed the check. He needed to leave. The heat and light of the kitchen were killing him, and yet he had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering like one of those plastic windup skulls from a joke shop. “She knew the check was due today. I texted her.”

Zoë set the casserole dish on a pair of trivets. Her smile had vanished, and her voice was even softer than usual as she replied. “I don’t think she knew you would be here this early.”