Barefoot in the Sun (23 page)

D
id you bring Evan?” Pasha’s first question—before even saying good morning, hello, or
holy hot dogs this is a big day
—made Zoe hesitate in the doorway of the dimly lit room.

“He’s with Tessa. I came super early to see you before the transfusion.”

“Oh, I wanted to say good-bye to him.”

“Good-bye?” Zoe reached the side of the bed, taking in Pasha’s pale complexion, somehow made even more dramatic by the tubes coming out of her nose to help her breathe without having a coughing fit. “Where are you going?”

“You know, just in case.”

“In case what?” Zoe tempered the bite in her question. Now wasn’t the time to do anything but wish her luck. There’d be hours, days, and, she hoped, years to find out the truth of her past. Minutes before a life-saving procedure wasn’t the time. “You’re going to be fine.”

Pasha let her lids close, then open again, working to focus on Zoe.

“Did they give you more sedatives?” Zoe asked.

“Mmm. I guess. I feel pretty woozy.” She attempted a smile. “Wild dreams, too.”

“Oooh. You love those.” Zoe tugged the light blanket higher over nearly childlike shoulders. “See any good signs?”

“Just Matthew.”

Oh, Lord. Matthew. “Really? Who’s that?” Her pulse jackhammered as she waited for the answer.

“My sweet little boy.” Pasha turned her head from one side to the other as if she were looking for someone. “It was like he was here.”

“But he wasn’t.”
What happened to him, Pasha?
The question danced on her tongue, but Zoe managed not to let it out. But it sure would be good to have something concrete to take to the sheriff.

“So did you dream about this little boy?” she asked.

“Yes, but then he changed into you. When you were about eleven or twelve and I bought you that green-and-white polka-dot ruffled top. Do you remember?”

Every thread. “I loved that top.”

“You looked so pretty in it, Zoe. Your eyes looked as green as grass and the ruffles bounced a little when you walked. You always…trusted me.”

“Yes, I did.” Her voice was flat and Pasha opened her eyes, blinking until they momentarily cleared.

“In my dream, you were up onstage, singing in front of hundreds of people.”

“That’s not a dream, it’s a nightmare. You know I can’t sing.”

“But you could in my dream. You know what that’s a sign of?”

“Too many sedatives?”

“That your voice is about to ring out loud and clear.”

Zoe opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. Yes, her voice
was
going to ring out—to the sheriff.

“And what you say is going to be the truth, Zoe, no matter what people tell you.”

“Are you…”
Really innocent?
“Sure?”

A knotted hand crept out from under the blanket, shaking a little. God, Pasha was old. Eighty-four, she’d finally confessed during one of her medical tests, an age that was confirmed in some of the articles Zoe had read online last night.

“You don’t believe in my signs, do you?” Pasha asked. “You’re humoring me all the time when you talk about them, aren’t you?”

Zoe played with a few different answers. “Yes, I am. I don’t believe in signs.” She added a smile. “Well, there you go. I did just ring out the truth, didn’t I? So you always have a bit of something right in your predictions.”

Pasha patted Zoe’s hand. “Listen to me, child. In case I don’t come back from wherever I’m going, listen to me.”

Zoe stayed very still. “I’m listening,” she whispered.

“I had a very good reason for everything I did.”

Doubt and hope sucker-punched her gut. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

Zoe’s skin prickled with the need to know. “Everything?” she asked again.

“If you can find him, you’ll know the truth.”

Oh, Lord. What did that mean? “Find who, Pasha?”

“Matthew.”

He’s dead, Zoe wanted to scream. How could she find him? It was the drugs, of course. The sedatives making her confused. This was not the time for a serious conversation of any sort.

“You just be strong, Pash—”

“But don’t let him know.” Her hand shook hard now and she struggled for breath in spite of the oxygen tubes. “Ever. Promise?”

Zoe shook her head. “C’mon, you have to calm—”

“Good morning, Pasha.” Oliver’s voice startled them both, making Zoe twirl around to face him.

Whoa, game face
on
. Every feature was set in a stern, expressionless stare, and he didn’t look nearly as sleep deprived as Zoe felt.

“Good morning,” Zoe replied, absently patting Pasha’s hand as if she could soothe them both off the cliff they were teetering on.

“We’re ready to go.” He nodded to Zoe. “You can leave now.”

She blinked in surprise, biting back a comment about bedside manner. But it wasn’t a time for jokes. A woman’s life was at stake. Their issues had no place in this room right now.

Pasha reached for her, unaware of the dynamics. “Zoe, remember. Matthew.”

Oliver’s eyes flashed for a second, so fast anyone else would have missed it. But not Zoe. She knew every nuance of his face and…

Holy, holy shit. He
knew
.

“We’re here, Dr. Bradbury.” Two nurses hustled into the room. “Dr. Mahesh is ready in the treatment room.”

Zoe could feel the blood drain from her head.

“Let’s get her prepared,” he said.

For a second Zoe couldn’t move, everything in her body wanting to scream. He couldn’t possibly know who Matthew was, could he?

But instead she leaned over Pasha’s bed and put her lips on soft, familiar cheeks. She knew this woman, right? She did, and, no matter what, Zoe loved her.

“Go get ’em, tiger,” she whispered into Pasha’s ear. “I love you.”

As she straightened she caught Oliver’s quick, dark look, then he turned away and began talking to one nurse while the other put her hand on Zoe’s arm. “No worries, dear. We’ll take great care of her.”

Zoe turned to Pasha, but Oliver blocked her view.

“Zoe!” Pasha called. “Find Matthew! Then you’ll know, then you’ll understand everything! Find Matthew and you’ll be safe.”

Oliver turned and looked at her over his shoulder, his face telling her everything.

He knew, and he believed that the woman whose life he was responsible for saving had taken the life of a child, a child very much like his own.

Would Oliver Bradbury, the man who always did the right thing, do the right thing now?

She had to trust him.

And she had to
find Matthew
.

The Lee County sheriff’s satellite office in Mimosa Key was tucked away on Center Street between a florist with the unlikely name of Bud’s Buds and a very small teahouse that had three outdoor tables under a spread of live oak trees. Zoe parked a half-block away and sat very still. The midmorning sun was already strong enough to warm the leather upholstery of the topless Jeep, making Zoe’s legs feel like they were stuck to the driver’s seat.

Or maybe that was raw terror keeping her trapped in her seat.

Because she
was
trapped. For as free a spirit as she fancied herself, Zoe Tamarin-
cum
-Bridget Lessington was really as tethered and shackled as a woman could be. The realization hurt her chest, as if a great big elephant sat on it, crushing her.

An elephant named Matthew Hobarth.

A little boy who’d died before Zoe was even born had somehow inexorably tied Zoe down and trapped her.

She dropped her head back and looked up at the Florida blue sky, a distinct cloudless Wedgwood color that was like a siren call to her spirit. When running wasn’t enough, Zoe wanted to fly away. To get in that gondola, pitch the sandbags with a soft rebel cry, and lift off this earth to somewhere silent and safe.

She ached like an addict who’d kill for a fix. Every fiber of her being wanted to rise out of this situation and escape. But that would mean leaving Oliver. And Evan. And Lacey, Tessa, Jocelyn. And Pasha. Barefoot Bay and—

How had that happened? How had this little island become a different sort of sanctuary, with friends and happiness, with family and…love?

She closed her eyes and thought of Oliver, but instead of seeing his face when he smiled or laughed or looked at her with a touch of awe in his eyes, she could only conjure up his last expression.

The one that said he knew—and he was hurt she hadn’t told him.

In the time since she’d driven from Naples back to Mimosa Key, she’d figured out what had happened. He’d seen her computer screen; he knew that there was more to what his patient was hiding than the “kidnapping” of a foster child. She’d come to him for “comfort” and listened to his own story, but never once said,
Uh, I have to tell you something
.

No wonder he’d kicked her out.

And this morning there’d been no time to explain or talk, obviously, not moments before he was about to start Pasha’s transfusion and treatment. She tried to swallow, but her throat was bone dry. Maybe an iced tea at the outdoor tables, a quiet moment, a bit of…delay.

A delay like all afternoon and into tomorrow. Get out of here, Zoe, before you do something stupid.

“Shut up,” she murmured to the anonymous, hated voice that screamed from her gut. That voice was never right! She pushed open the door and climbed out, her sandals hitting the pavement with a snap. Oh, Lord in heaven, she didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to walk into that little office and sit down in front of a sheriff and betray a woman who’d been like a mother to her.

Find Matthew.

Now that voice wasn’t anonymous; it was Pasha’s. What had she meant by that? Was it some kind of obscure message?

No! It was the rambling of an old, sick lady who had cancer and some dark secrets growing inside of her.

Secrets…like murder.

No! Zoe put both hands on her temples like she could squeeze the voice out. Pasha hadn’t killed a child; Zoe knew that like she knew her own name.

Except you barely remember your own name.

“Ugh,” she grunted out loud, hesitating while a car passed, her gaze locked on the building down the street.

What if the sheriff wasn’t there? He was out a lot. Half the time he was over at the Super Min sniffing around for Gloria Vail, who often worked a second shift for her Aunt Charity. She glanced at the convenience store and lost a mini-battle. She was dying for something cold to drink.

That wasn’t such a bad delay tactic, was it? A cold soda on a blistering hot day?

Yes, the convenience store called to her.

She darted across the street, her thin cotton skirt swirling around her ankles as she practically pranced to this much, much more welcome destination. Inside a little bell rang, snagging the attention of the Super Min’s owner, first class town snoop Charity Grambling.

It wasn’t Zoe’s first encounter with the woman, but mostly she stayed off Charity’s radar.

“Oh, you’re the doctor’s little harpy,” Charity announced in greeting.

Zoe froze, frowning at the older woman, who adjusted tortoiseshell glasses on her nose like she simply had to have a better look.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen you with him,” Charity said, giving Zoe a slow up-and-down. “He’s very handsome.”

“What the hell is a harpy, anyway?” Zoe asked. She was so not afraid of this woman who had tried to stop Casa Blanca from ever being built. “Other than fantastic, fresh, and fabulous, of course?”

Charity didn’t smile, still busy eyeing Zoe. “He has a son, you know.”

“Must be that wicked-high sperm count.” She headed to the back, her eye on the coolers full of Coke. And not diet, damn it.

“I thought he might go out with my niece, Gloria.”

She opened the fridge and looked at Charity through the frosted glass. “Isn’t she dating the sheriff?”
The same sheriff I should be standing in front of right now, confessing.

“Not anymore.”

“They’ll get back together.” She grabbed the can and closed the fridge. “And you’ll come around to like him.”

The other woman made a harrumphing noise that would probably be engraved on her tombstone, placing her hand on the register. “He might not be so bad after all,” Charity said.

We’ll see how bad he is—will he arrest Pasha before or after she gets out of the clinic? Zoe smiled. “I bet you like him more than you’re letting on. You just like to make trouble.”

“Of course I do.” She hit a key and grinned back. “Like trouble, that is. Anyway, he’s about to get a break on some big case.”

You have no idea, lady.

“He was just in here this morning, trying to kiss up to me and tell me stuff he surely shouldn’t have been telling me.”

“Which of course you’ll repeat.”

Charity bared aging teeth. “Of course.”

Good to know the sheriff couldn’t keep his mouth shut. No doubt Charity would know Zoe’s deep, dark secret by nightfall. She slid a five across the counter and popped the top of the soda can, the crackling fizz tempting Zoe to drink before she even got her change.

But there was no change, because Charity lifted her skinny butt off her stool, looked side to side as if the CIA were hiding behind the magazine rack, and whispered, “Things like this don’t come along very often in Mimosa Key.”

Zoe shrugged, taking a huge, icy gulp.

“The FBI is in town.”

And spit Coke all over the counter.

Charity jumped back. “Oh my—”

“The FBI?” Those right there were the three scariest letters in the English language. She’d grown up in fear of them, imagining them as dark-suited, sharp-toothed, beady-eyed Kidnapper Hunters bent on tracking down every old lady who’d ever snagged a foster child, no matter why.

Charity’s mouth turned down at the soda sprinkles on the counter. “You can buy some paper towels in aisle two.”

She set the can down. “Keep the change. And the Coke.” If she ran out of here she’d look guilty. Like she knew exactly where the murderer was hiding. Charity would be on the phone before Zoe left the parking lot. The FBI would be after her, lights flashing, bullhorn screaming, charges flying.