Heroes Are My Weakness(32)

“I can’t help it. I tend to joke when I’m terrified.” She tried to see whatever it was he wanted her to see, but she was too confused. Was Theo genuinely innocent or simply a good actor? She couldn’t think of anyone else who would have done this. Barbara had warned her about strangers on the island, but wouldn’t a stranger have stolen something? Not that there was much to steal.

Except Mariah’s legacy.

The idea that someone else might know about the legacy stopped her in her tracks. She gazed at the kitchen. The biggest mess came from the overturned trash can and spilled bags of rice and noodles. Nothing seemed to be broken. “I guess it could have been worse,” she said.

“Exactly. There’s no broken glass. As far as you can tell, nothing is missing. This seems calculated. Does someone on the island have a grudge against you?”

She stared at him. Seconds ticked by before he got it.

“Don’t look at me,” he said. “You’re the one holding the grudge.”

“For good reason!”

“I’m not saying I blame you for it. I was a rotten kid. All I’m saying is that I don’t have a motive.”

“Sure you do. More than one. You want the cottage. I bring back bad memories. You’re—” She stopped herself just before she spilled out what she was thinking.

He read her mind. “I’m not a psychopath.”

“I didn’t say you were.” But, oh, was she thinking it.

“Annie, I was a kid, and I had big problems that summer.”

“You think?” She wanted to say so much more, but this wasn’t the time.

“Let’s temporarily eliminate me from your list of suspects.” He held up his hand, disturbing the cat. “Just as an exercise. You can put my name right back at the top as soon as we’re done.”

He was making fun of her. That should have made her furious, but it was oddly comforting. “There are no other suspects,” she said. Except whoever knew that something valuable was supposed to be here. Had they found it? She’d been through everything in the bookcase, but she hadn’t done a systematic inventory of the contents of the boxes in the studio or of everything in the closets. How would she even know?

“Have you had a run-in with anyone since you arrived?” Again that hand went up. “Other than me.”

She shook her head. “But I’ve been warned about drifters.”

He set the cat down. “I don’t like what’s happened. You need to report it to the mainland police.”

“From what I remember, nothing short of murder brings them out here.”

“You’re right about that.” He unzipped his jacket. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up.”

“I’ll handle it,” she said quickly. “You go on.”

He gave her a faintly pitying look. “If I intended to kill you or rape you or whatever you think I might do, it would have happened by now.”

“So glad it hasn’t.”

He muttered something under his breath and stalked off into the living room.

As she removed her coat, she thought about the self-help gurus and the way they told people to follow their instincts. But instincts could be wrong. Right now, for example. Because she felt almost safe.


BY THE TIME ANNIE CURLED into bed that night, she’d begun coughing again, which made it even harder to fall asleep, but how could she relax with Theo Harp sprawled on the pink couch? He’d refused to go home, even after she’d ordered him out. And the awful thing was, some part of her had wanted him to stay. This was exactly how it had been when she was fifteen. He’d acted like a friend, gained her confidence, and then turned into a monster.

The day had been exhausting, and when she finally drifted off, she slept deeply. As the faint gray morning light seeped through her eyelids, she experienced one of those blissful, sleep-fogged moments when it was too early to get up and she could stay where she was. Warm and cozy, she pulled up her knees. And brushed against something.

Her eyes flew open.

Theo lay in bed next to her. Right there. On his back. Only inches away.

The air stuck in her throat, then came out in a wheeze.

His eyes stayed shut, but his lips moved. “Warn me if you’re going to scream,” he muttered. “So I can kill myself first.”

“What are you doing here?” she screeched. Not screamed.

“The couch was killing my back. Too damned short.”

“I told you to use the bed in the studio!”

“Boxes on it. No blankets. Too much trouble.”

He lay on top of the covers, still wearing his jeans and sweater, with the quilt she’d given him last night pulled to his chest. Unlike the rat’s snarl that awaited her in the morning, his hair was perfectly rumpled, his jaw attractively stubbled, the bronze complexion he’d inherited from his mother showcased by the snowy white pillowcase. He probably didn’t even have bad breath. And he showed no inclination to move.

Any urge she’d felt to fall back asleep had vanished. She thought of all kinds of things she wanted to say. Damn you! How dare you! But both sounded like bad dialogue from one of her old gothic novels. She gritted her teeth. “Please get out of my bed.”

“You got anything on under the covers?” he asked, eyes still shut.