Preface

Wilder, California, and Shadow Lake don't exist except in the writer's imagination. The setting for Shadows Fall was inspired by visits to the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California.

Chapter 1

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

Tom Stevens' property, on the east-facing slope of Wilder Mountain, shared a boundary with the twenty-thousand or so acres of northern Sierra forest the Grays owned, which included Wilder Mountain Lodge and Shadow Lake on the west slope. The barest hint of a breeze stirred Tom's trees on this hot summer night, just enough to fool one into thinking it was cooler outdoors.

Sheriff Les Kendall waited on Tom Stevens' pea-gravel driveway for his deputies. Duane Prescott arrived last, well after the other two. He walked up to the three of them in the moonlight and stood with his hands on his hips. He was nineteen, with a stocky build and a square-shaped face, an immature mustache and a thick head of straight brown hair. His blue eyes seldom opened wide enough to let you get a grip on their true color. His uniform appeared shrugged on. "Why'd you call me, Sheriff?"

"Because we need a young mind, and you're the youngest." The other two snickered, and Les glanced at them. They shut up. "Where do the twins go on their midnight jaunts their father thinks they never take? Do you know?"

Duane didn't even have to think about it. "They swim in a pool in Carter's Creek, about halfway to the Lodge. It's on Gray property, so they don't tell their dad."

"Tom says Beth Gray threatened Ollie."

Duane cracked a grin. "Not likely."

"Tom thinks she's unstable, and there have been rumors."

"Gossip, Sheriff. She's had a tough time since her dad died. Her fianc�'s out of the country, and she goes off to college herself next month. She's spending a quiet summer working at the Lodge."

"Ollie still up to his pranks?"

The front door of the house opened. Duane looked that way and nodded. "He locked her in the bathroom of a cabin she was cleaning two weeks ago. She was stuck for hours. She can't stand that, Sheriff. She avoids Ollie."

"Check the boys' room while I talk to Tom, then we'll head to the swimming pool. If we find those two having a moonlight dip, maybe I'll join them. Damn, it's hot!"

The other deputies checked outside the windows and doors for signs of a forced entry. Minutes later, when Duane emerged from the house, Les motioned him aside. "Find anything?"

"No sign of a break-in." Duane frowned at the house. "One boy's bed looks slept in, the other doesn't."

"Anything else?"

Duane shook his head, but he looked unsettled. Les watched him a few more seconds, wondering what was up. Then he decided the kid was just sleepy. Either that or Tom Stevens wasn't the housekeeper Duane's mother was.

Les turned and motioned to the others. "Okay, let's go. Maybe the uniforms will scare them out of worrying their dad this way again."

The moon was full, which made walking easy until they reached the woods. They used flashlights to follow a deer track through dense trees and undergrowth along the bank of the creek. Halfway to the clearing and the swimming pool, the oak woods opened out and the trail lay exposed, dappled by moonlight.

A gunshot cracked the still of the night, echoing off nearby hills.

The men continued at a faster pace, caution in their eyes, hands on their sidearms.

Another shot shook the air. A minute later the beams of their flashlights caught a swift movement through the trees in their direction. One of the Stevens twins came toward them at a run. "He's been shot!" The whites of his eyes shone in the moonlight.

"Who's been shot?" Les grasped the breathless boy's shoulder. "Where?"

"My brother." The youth twisted out of his grasp and bolted back through the trees.

Les ran after him, shouting for him to wait. Near the clearing, moonlight filtered more brightly through the sparser trees. They heard a shout, followed instantly by a high pitched cry and a third shot. Les and his men pulled their revolvers and broke through the brush along the south side of the clearing.

"She shot him!" The boy stood panting and sobbing at the edge of the woods, staring into the moonlit clearing, where his twin lay on the ground.

A flashlight lay beside the fallen boy, extinguished. Beth Gray stood near his feet, her arms at her sides. In one hand she gripped a semi-automatic pistol. She stared at the four men who aimed revolvers at her. Her luminous eyes looked black in the moonlight, the eyes of a cornered doe ready to dart away.

"Put the gun on the ground, Beth," Les said. "Carefully."

She looked at it as if seeing it for the first time; then she placed it on the ground. As she straightened, Duane Prescott moved to her side and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Duane," she said faintly, and went into his arms like a pliant child.

Les moved to the boy on the ground, knelt beside him, tilted his head back and listened for breath. Instead he heard only the flies that had already gathered. He felt for a pulse, while his nose told him he wouldn't find one. Then he took a look at the boy's eyes with his flashlight.

"He's dead, isn't he." The sibilant sound of the girl's whisper carried on the still air.

The boy had been shot in the chest, and there was a gaping wound in his left forearm. A pair of woolen knit gloves was tucked into his belt.

Les looked at his watch, pulled out a notebook and recorded the time. Then he turned to the girl.

She wore shorts, and sneakers with no socks. Her T-shirt was tied in a knot at the waist. She looked as graceful as a deer, with long, lean legs. Les recalled thinking when she was a little girl that Beth Gray would grow into a beauty, and she had. She had a vital kind of allure that was both sexy and high-minded at once. She was the kind of girl a man wanted to touch but didn't dare, in spite of the rumors that she'd allow any male to touch her. Gossip, and those weren't the only rumors. She was seventeen, two years younger than Les's daughter Nora. Homecoming queen, valedictorian. Murderer? Les suppressed a shudder.

The twins' father stood at the edge of the clearing, staring at the dead boy. When the surviving twin put his arms around his father, Tom appeared to waken out of a daze. He held the boy for a few seconds before he went over and knelt by his dead son. "Ollie?" Tom's voice was hollow with disbelief. He nudged the dead boy's shoulder as if trying to rouse him.

"I'm sorry, Tom." Les moved to his side. "I can't let you touch him." He drew him away. Then Les turned to the other boy. "Are you Owen?"

The boy nodded.

"Whose gun is it, Owen? Do you know?" The pistol on the ground, a mother-of-pearl-handled semi-automatic, looked familiar to Les.

"She had it." Owen pointed at the girl.

Les turned. "Beth?"

"It's my father's," she said so faintly it was almost a whisper. She still stared at the dead boy, and she still clung to Duane.

"How did the gun get here, Beth?"

She blinked at Les, dark eyes wide, then she looked at the dead boy again.

"She shot him," the other twin wailed. "I saw, Dad."

Tom lunged at the girl. "You murdering whore!"

Les and two deputies pulled him away, while Tom fought them, determined to get at Beth. She clung to Duane like a drowning man to a life preserver.

"Take her to the station," Les said, reaching for his radio. It would be a half-hour before he could get more deputies out here.

"Sheriff, she didn't do this," Duane argued. "Beth wouldn't hurt anyone. Look, she's scared. Let me take her home."

"Take her in I said, Prescott."

Duane looked at the others, at Tom Stevens, then at Beth. "Come on, Beth." He led her away by the arm. Tom Stevens' torrent of obscenities followed the silent girl and the deputy out of the clearing.

"Mirandize her," Les called. "Follow procedure. And call her mother!"

Beth's mind labored out of the opaque white mist it had been lost in since Ollie--no, Owen--had come crashing through the brush and startled her, before all those uniformed men pointed revolvers at her, including, for an instant, Duane.

She focused on Duane's voice repeating words she knew from too many movies and television. She paused and looked at him. "Duane?"

"Let me finish, Beth. I have to do my job," he said and continued.

She kept walking, with Duane's hand on her arm. She didn't know this part of the trail as well, and she was glad he had a flashlight, because she'd dropped hers somewhere. The trees created a dark tunnel in front of them, lit by patches of moonlight. She tried to think about where she stepped, instead of what had happened and where they were going. This couldn't be happening. Ollie couldn't be dead. Just today he had pushed her into the lake and laughed with her sister Vicky about it.

The white mist hovered, threatening to engulf her. No, she had to think.

Duane stopped her at his truck, near the Stevens' house. "What's that in your pocket?" He made her empty the pockets of her shorts. She pulled the tennis ball out and handed it to him.

"What are you doing with a tennis ball in your pocket?" Duane looked like he didn't know what to do with her.

"Can I go home now?" Beth dared to hope this was another bad dream, just like all the other nightmares she had. She could be asleep at home, having a new nightmare, from which she'd waken, crying or screaming. Tomorrow Ollie would come looking for Vicky to go swimming with him. He wasn't really dead.

"No, Beth," Duane said. "The sheriff wants to talk to you. This looks bad. You understand that, don't you?"

The white mist threatened again, and she wanted to lose herself in it. But this was important. She wasn't dreaming. "Are you sure he's dead? Maybe--"

"Beth, don't say anything. I'm going to call your mom. She can get you a lawyer. Anything you say to me now, I have to tell the sheriff, understand? Did you understand what I said when I read you your rights?"

She stared at him. "You're still my friend, aren't you Duane?"

"I'm still your friend. Get in the truck. I have to take you to the station. Your mom will come see you there."

He held the door open. The cab of his truck was small and dark. Beth backed away. Her breath came quickly, one breath upon the last, and her pulse pounded in her ears. A scream like that of a small child trapped inside her wanted out. Holding it in made her feel sick.

Duane's hand pressed against her back. "The window's open, Beth. You can sit by the open window."

She looked at Duane.

"It's just my truck, Beth. You've ridden in my truck before."

She got in. Both side windows were open. Duane closed her door and she held her face close to the open window, where the moonlight caressed her cheek, a silver gauze that softened the hard darkness of the night. Duane got into the driver's seat and opened the sliding rear window. A delicious breath of air touched the back of Beth's neck.

"All the windows are open."

She held her face near the open window.

Duane closed his door, and Beth jumped at the sound. She felt his gaze on her. She didn't want to think what he wondered. She concentrated on the moonlight and the night sky. It could be Gabriel beside her, taking her on a moonlight drive. They could be leaving on their honeymoon, starting a new life. Everything would be different after this.

Duane put the truck in gear and moved it slowly down the length of the driveway. On the road, where he could easily have turned to the Lodge and driven her home, he steered instead toward the town in the valley. Beth prayed silently, over and over. Don't let this happen. Please don't let this happen!

When she and Duane walked into the sheriff's station, a female deputy met them. "Sheriff called, Duane. He wants you back out there, pronto. I'll help you process her." She grasped Beth's arm firmly as she spoke. Then she glanced at Duane. "You didn't use cuffs?"

Beth's fear took control. She pleaded, and cried. She didn't care about anything in that moment but her freedom. Tears streamed down her face, and her convulsive sobs made her words unintelligible even to herself. She screamed.

The ringing of the phone in the dead of night wakened everyone at the Lodge but three-year-old Rita. They'd slept with their doors open, because it was hot and the Lodge didn't take paying guests anymore, so privacy wasn't a concern.

Matt Gray, eleven years old, had the room next to his mother's, and he was the first out of bed. He went to his mother's door and listened. Only bad news came with a phone call in the middle of the night.

"What?" his mother said. Matt knew, by the sharp staccato of the single word, that something was very wrong. He stepped into the room, and his thirteen-year-old sister Vicky followed. Vicky had stopped to put on a robe. Matt wore only his boxers.

"That's impossible," their mother was saying into the phone. Then, more quietly, not out of calmness but disbelief, "She's here, I just spoke to her before she--" She put her hand over the phone. "Matt, see if Beth's in her room."

Matt ran into his sister's room, switched on the light and looked around. Beth's bed sheets were tossed, and her robe lay across the foot of her bed, but she was nowhere in sight. He checked the bathroom, then ran back to his mother's room. "She's not there."

"She doesn't take them anymore," Matt's mother was saying into the phone, "Not since her father died. Tell her I'm on my way, Duane. Talk to her. Please don't leave her alone." She put the phone down and moved from the bed to the closet faster than Matt had ever seen his mother move.

"What's wrong, Mom?" Jack came into the room behind Matt and Vicky. He was their second oldest brother, twenty-one years old. He towered over his younger siblings, with the voice of an adult, wearing a light cotton bathrobe, his hair wet from the shower.

"Beth's been arrested," Emily said, her voice under taught control. She began pulling clothes out of her closet. She peeled off her nightgown, and Matt felt torn between looking away and watching. His mother had never revealed herself to him before.

"Arrested? For what?" Jack wore a big grin, as though envious of his younger sister going out and having some real fun, without him.

"They think she shot Ollie Stevens. He's been killed."

Vicky gasped, and Matt looked at her. Her face was a mask of shock. "She really did it!" Vicky cried, and ran sobbing out of the room.

"Vicky?" Emily called after her. "What is she saying? Jack, stay with the younger ones and keep them calm. Wake Cornell."

Emily pulled on one of her schoolteacher dresses, over the pantyhose she'd dragged on so quickly she'd punched a hole in them with her thumb. She hadn't even noticed.

Matt hadn't dreamed Beth meant what she said today about killing Ollie. The first threat had been a joke. She'd laughed, and so had Matt, when he'd found her with their Dad's gun in her hand and she said she was going to shoot someone. The second threat had been the impulse of a moment's anger after being shoved into the lake. Beth wouldn't really do something that brainless, that heartless. She wouldn't suddenly turn violent. Not even against Ollie.

"Jack, you look so much like your father," their mother said. "Please be like him now. Help me. Cornell knows lawyers. She'll need a good lawyer. Zip me up, dear. My hands are shaking. Call Dr. Rayborne and have him come to the Sheriff's Office in Wilder. Tell him it's an emergency, that Beth's been arrested. She's in jail, and she's ... not herself. She needs a sedative."

Jack zipped her dress, then ruffled his damp, wavy red hair as he sat on the foot of the bed. Emily slipped her feet into shoes and picked up her purse. She hadn't combed her hair and she had no makeup on, but she looked nice, kind of like she was going off to church, except for the huge run in her pantyhose.

"Mom?" Matt grasped her arm. "Can I go with you?"

She hugged him. "Matt, of course you can't come. Look at you, standing here in your shorts. Go put your robe on. You're to stay here and listen to Jack and Cornell. They're in charge."

Peter Lloyd's young wife Claire pored over the morning newspaper. She read it every morning, and it always upset her.

"Look at this," she said now. "This seventeen-year-old girl killed a fourteen-year-old boy with her father's handgun, because he'd played some practical jokes on her and pushed her into a lake the previous day. She'd just graduated from high school with honors, and now she's thrown her whole life away. Look at her!"

Claire caught Peter sneaking two-year-old Emery a bite of pancake. "And stop feeding him that garbage. You poured a gallon of syrup on it." She pushed the paper in front of him.

Peter didn't see it. He watched Claire's eyes light up in response to his look. A slow smile appeared on her face. She shook her head at him.

"Come here." He dragged her chair closer to his. "Why do you want to start your day off that way?"

"It makes more sense than reading the same fishing magazine every morning. You don't have time to fish, Peter."

"That's why I read this. It's fishing meditation, a mini-vacation, before I go off to study serious medicine."

"Peter, look at her. There's something about her that makes me want to cry. It says she was homecoming queen."

Peter brushed Claire's cheek with his hand as he touched her blonde hair.

"She would've started college next month, now she'll spend the rest of her life in jail."

"There's not a thing I can do about it, Claire." He kissed her, and Emery squealed with laughter.

"Look at her." Claire pushed the newspaper in front of Peter and squirmed out of his grasp.

He looked at the newspaper, and the face in the photograph snagged his attention. He kept looking, trying to figure out where he'd seen the girl before.

Meanwhile Claire grabbed her tote bag and purse and kissed Emery. "Bye-bye, sweetheart. Be good. Daddy will pick you up at daycare. I have a doctor's appointment. Don't forget, Peter." She went out the door.

Peter finally looked up, but Claire was gone. "Why does she have a doctor's appointment?" he asked Emery, who only laughed at him.

Peter studied the picture of the girl, and read the article twice. What would drive a girl like her to kill? "I know you, but I've never met you," he said softly. "Explain that, Elizabeth Gray."

Without any reason but curiosity, he fetched the kitchen scissors and clipped the article before putting the paper in the recycle bin.

Chapter 2

THE PRESENT

Shadow Lake spread below the Lodge, its wet fingers intertwined with green fingers of new meadow grass and the darker greens of timber. An osprey sailed across the delicate blue with a thin whistling cry and landed in a tree at the lake's edge. Steep, dark mountains rose all around, rocky in places and dotted with meadows, the remainder of their surfaces covered thickly with trees. The lake reflected everything.

Beth stood on the shoulder of the road and drank in the view of her childhood home, her first in more than fifteen years. Wilder Mountain Lodge stood in the distance, a gray stone edifice backed up against the densely forested slope of a mountain overlooking the lake. The magnitude of the landscape dwarfed the Lodge so it resembled a child's sandcastle, but it was a massive structure, its four stories punctuated by a five-story tower. Ornate chimneys stretched skyward. Small diamond-shaped panes winked in the windows of the first floor.

Trees sighed above Beth's head. The world stood still. She could rest here, and find what she'd lost. Here she could touch the distant reaches of her soul and find peace.

She believed those things in this big silence. She sighed, and the elusive whisper of trees answered her. It was a subtle sound she remembered intimately from her girlhood. The osprey was a good omen, surely. She unclenched her jaw and breathed in the perfume of the trees and earth, willing fear to subside. She touched the trunk of a young tree and it pressed against her palm, pulsing in the breeze.

"Mommy, I'm hungry," a young voice called behind her.

Beth turned. Her four-year-old daughter Abby had her head out the window of the big white Mercedes parked in the pullout across the road. Liz Palmer's car.

"We're almost there," Beth called and hurried back across the road.

She drove to the Lodge and parked in front of the stone steps, got out and went around to Abby's door. Then she looked up at the Lodge and hesitated.

The higher windows with upright rectangles of glass were shut fast, the interior rooms obscured by heavy draperies or dustsheets and further shaded by the long galleries that wrapped around each upper floor. A stone terrace extended the length of the ground level until it abutted the solid bulk of the corner tower. The stone steps spread in a solid fan, rippling in hard gray waves to the new black asphalt of the parking lot.

Abby opened the door herself and got out. "Is my grandma here?"

"I hope so." What if her mother wasn't home, and she had to face someone else first? Beth tensed again.

Abby craned her neck to take in the massive building. "It looks like a castle. Are we going to live here, Mommy?"

"No. This is just a vacation, Abby."

"Beth!" One of the big oak doors swung open and Beth's mother, Emily Gray, hurried down the front steps toward them.

Beth ran to meet her and hugged her tightly, unwilling to let go once she had her arms around her. Years of separation compressed inside her, sealing a big emptiness she hadn't allowed herself to measure for a long time. She fought to push intelligible words past the constriction in her throat. A single word was all she managed. "Mom."

Finally her mother backed away. "I'm so relieved to have you home at last. How are you feeling? You look pale." She touched Beth's face.

"That's from lazing indoors the past few weeks. You look wonderful."

Emily didn't appear to have aged, except for a few more lines around her eyes and a coarser texture to her deliberately-darkened hair, which she wore short and permed. She was plumper than Beth remembered, but it didn't detract from her grace. She wore a fair-isle cardigan Beth had knit for her in pastel shades of mauve, lilac and blue, with blue jeans. Beth had never seen her mother in blue jeans before. Times had changed.

Emily's gaze lingered on Beth's face. "You're too thin."

"I really am fine, Mom." Beth smiled and turned to Abby, who hovered shyly beside her. "Abby, do you recognize Grandma from her pictures?"

Emily bent to touch the little girl's dark curls. "Abby, I'd know you anywhere. You look like your mother when she was your age. Don't you take after your father at all?"

Abby stiffened and looked at Beth.

"It's okay with just Grandma," Beth said. "I told her not to talk about Dan to anyone here," she explained to her mother.

Emily's eyes clouded. "If you decide to stay--"

Beth shook her head. "Only four weeks. We have deadlines."

"Nonsense. Dan told me you're not to worry about that while you're here, you can stay as long as you like."

Beth searched the windows of the second floor again. "Is anyone else home?"

"Jack was, but I sent him to run errands, to give you a chance to rest before facing too many people. Rita's in school, and Vicky's at work. The family will be here for dinner, and of course Faith's here. Rita stayed up late last night making a special dessert for your homecoming dinner."

The knot in Beth's throat tightened. "She must be so grown up."

"You won't know her. She graduates in June." Emily turned to Abby. "Do you like oatmeal raisin cookies?"

Food was the quickest way to Abby's heart. She bounced, shyness forgotten. "I like all kinds of cookies."

Beth started toward the back of the car, but Emily stopped her. "Come see your rooms first. I'll help you with your luggage later." She led them into the lobby, and paused to gesture at the big painting Beth had sent months earlier, of a flowering jacaranda tree.

"It was a delight to unwrap something full of blooms in winter. Leigh is looking forward to meeting you. He's one of our renters, a teacher and an artist himself. He's delighted with your work, especially the portraits."

They went up the stairs. "If there's anything you'd like changed, just say so," Emily said.

She'd prepared connecting rooms. Abby's was smaller, the walls freshly papered with a forest pattern incorporating flowers and woodland creatures with friendly faces. The single bed and simple furnishings were painted and dressed in the same theme.

In Beth's room, a cherry wood tester bed was arranged at an angle, as if inviting one to rest. Its crocheted lace canopy had fringed edges. A quilt covered the bed, and a frothy cable-knit coverlet lay folded at the foot.

Framed botanical prints hung on the cream colored walls. An antique pine dresser held a vase of wild flowers that gave off a delicate scent. The matching armoire supplemented a full-size closet. An overstuffed sofa and a wing chair were arranged cozily, and near the French doors stood a table Emily said should serve for spreading out art supplies.

Beth had requested the view, of nothing but trees, dark and thick against the mountainside. "It's perfect." She kissed her mother's cheek. "Thank you."

Emily helped carry their bags up, but Beth wasn't interested in unpacking more than immediate essentials while the sun shone. She briefly acquainted Abby with the rooms and their location in relation to the west stairs. Abby arranged her dolls and toys on top of a blanket chest near her window, while Beth placed sweaters and jackets where they'd be easy to find.

Downstairs, Emily led them through the empty bar and vast dining hall onto the west porch, where she served them a lunch of tuna salad sandwiches.

The outdoor air was brittle, dry, and aromatic with the scent of earth and growing things. The sighing of the wind in the trees was delicate and elusive. Beth strained to hear it even as she spoke.

"The Lodge feels empty," Beth said. "Dad would hate to see it closed for so many years."

"I'm sure it wouldn't remain that way if you decided to stay."

Beth put down her glass and asked Abby to run inside for their sweaters. She watched her disappear into the Lodge before she spoke again.

"Mom, I need to know how the others feel about my visit."

Emily lowered her eyes for a moment. "Holly, Vicky and Matt have voiced animosity toward you. They know I don't want to hear it, but--"

"They blame me for Ollie's death, you mean."

"Yes."

"There was a time when Matt answered my letters."

Emily's grave expression said more than her words. "I insisted he do that, when he was younger. Holly is the most vocal of--" she broke off, frowning.

"My detractors?" Beth arched an eyebrow.

"But she lives in town and she's focused on the baby. You'll have more contact with Vicky. Matt will be home next week. His school has an odd schedule; it's his spring break. I'm sorry, Beth."

Beth leaned back in her chair, more to let her mother think she was relaxed than because of any real ease she felt. Inside, she was tied up in knots. "I expected this. If my brothers and sisters are so divided, how must people in town feel?"

"I made a promise to your father that this would always be your home. If only--" Emily shook her head. "It's been so long. For all we know the killer still lives here."

"Abby said almost the same thing."

Emily's eyes opened wide. "She knows about the murder?"

"I couldn't risk having someone else tell her. We've been all through it during the past week. She understands as much as a child her age can."

"I've been so selfish." Emily lowered her eyes.

"Mom, you have a perfect right to know your grandchild. I realize how awkward it would've been to visit us and not tell anyone here where you were. It's good for Abby to see where I come from, but I'm afraid to be here. You can't expect this visit to somehow fix the past. Home is elsewhere now."

Her mother was in tears, and Beth felt responsible for them. She moved her chair over, put her arm around Emily's shoulders, and kept her gaze on the doorway where Abby would reappear. What was taking her so long?

The sound of small, skipping steps on the stone floor of the big dining room signaled Abby's return. The footsteps stopped suddenly, and Abby said a shy, "Hello."

Thinking she was lost, Beth took a breath to call her, but before Beth spoke a man's voice returned softly, "Hello there."

Emily met Beth's look, and they both listened.

"Who're you?" Abby said.

"If you're Abby, I'm your Uncle Jack."

"Uncle Jack, do you think Mommy killed that boy?"

There was a pause inside the dining room. Then Jack spoke in a weary tone. "I wasn't there, Abby. What does your mother say?"

Beth called Abby. She ran out with their sweaters. "Mommy, I saw Uncle Jack."

"I heard. Thank you, honey." Beth took her sweater and helped Abby with hers. "Finish your lunch."

Jack appeared, wearing a lopsided grin. He came over and kissed Beth's cheek. "She gets right to the point, doesn't she? My, you look sophisticated. Is that your car out front? Very impressive." He straightened and met Emily's look. "I got back early. I hope I'm not intruding."

"Beth has just convinced me she can only stay four weeks. Have you had lunch?"

"I ate in town." He pulled out a chair and sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms folded across his chest. His auburn hair was cut short so its tight waves lay close to his scalp. This seemed to lengthen his lean face. He looked even more like their father than Beth remembered. Jack held Beth's gaze with his silver-green eyes, his lips forming a half smile. "Mom told us you've been sick. Glad to see you looking well. Has the place changed much?"

"I haven't had a chance to look around. It seems empty." She felt a need to make small talk. "But it's still spectacular. I used to think we had to have tennis, horses and fishing for entertainment, but--"

"Horses! Not in years. Not even a dog or a cat. You'll have to settle for fishing. The lake's still too cold to swim, and you'll have trouble finding anyone who has time for tennis." He lifted his eyebrows. "Not much of a vacation."

"I wouldn't say that. There are walks, and I've brought my paints and things with me. Abby and I will find plenty to occupy us."

"If you need fishing gear, it's stowed in the game room. Same with tennis rackets. They're getting old, but we still loan them out to people who rent the cabins, and there are fresh balls. The only boat is Leigh's canoe, but I understand the shores are best this time of year, where the water's shallow and warmer. I'm not much for fishing. You'll have to pick Peter's brain about that. Jay would've fished with you." He glanced at Emily.

"Peter?" Beth said.

"He rents one of the cabins," Jack said. "You'll meet him. I have to go now. See you both tonight. I've invited Amy, Mother. I hope you don't mind."

"Jack, I--" Emily began. But he was gone, down the side steps and around the tower toward the front of the Lodge, out of sight.

Abby craned her neck to see where Uncle Jack had gone. Beth stood, beckoning to her daughter. "Abby and I need to have a chat. I think we'll grab some cookies and take a walk."

"Get your bearings, both of you. Dinner is at six-thirty."

The kitchen windows were open wide, letting a chilly breeze blow through the room. There was no sign of Faith, but the cookies were arranged on two plates on the marble-topped center island. Beth handed Abby two.

"Look at you!" Faith said behind them. She stood in the pantry doorway. "All grown up and a mother yourself."

Faith Simms had cooked for the Lodge ever since Beth could remember. She'd stayed on when Emily let the other help go. She was a large woman who'd grown rounder, with graying hair worn in a bun compressed under a hair net. Her rosy face was creased like paper that had been folded and unfolded countless times. She hugged Beth, then beamed at Abby. "I've known your mother since she was smaller than you, Abby."

Abby smiled up at Faith. "The cookies are great. Did you make them?"

"I did." Faith shot a speculative look at Beth. "Are you home to stay?"

Beth shook her head. "Four weeks. We're on our way out for a walk."

"So long as we have a few chats in this kitchen, the way we used to. I've been hoping you'd make it back before I retire. How long did you think an old thing like me could hold out?"

"How old are you?" Abby asked with a wondering look. Faith laughed and shooed them out.

Beth and Abby wandered down to the lake, where they skirted the shoreline for a ways, walking slowly so as not to miss a bird or a squirrel or a blade of new grass. Eventually they sat on a sunny, dry spot near the water and Beth faced her daughter. "Abby, why did you ask Uncle Jack if he thought I killed that boy?"

"I wanted to know if he likes you. He was hiding in that big room, and he didn't hug you like Grandma and the other lady."

"Some people don't hug very much. I don't want you to ask people that. It's not polite."

"Why do I have to be polite?"

"Because we want to get along here and have a nice time. We're going to be polite and civilized. That's very important to Grandma, and this is her house."

"I just want to take care of you, like Daddy told me." Her earnest expression touched Beth's heart.

"That was when I was sick, and you did a wonderful job, honey," Beth said, smiling. "I'm lucky to have a little girl who loves me so much. Tell you what. Your job, while we're on vacation, is to just be a kid and have fun. And if I catch you not having enough fun, you're going to have to explain yourself, or ... get tickled!" Beth tickled her and she giggled and squirmed away, squealing.

"Okay, Mommy. I'm having fun, I promise!" Abby plopped into Beth's lap, belly down, still laughing.

They walked and rested intermittently, going slowly to accommodate Abby's smaller steps. On the return trip, they moved away from the chill of the lake and through the wide meadow, nearer the woods. Abby ran ahead of Beth every now and then, and once vanished for a few seconds beyond a stand of black oaks. Beth called to her, and Abby peered around a tree trunk, laughing.

They were nearly to the Lodge when Abby ran back to Beth and tugged at her hand to coax her off the trail, into the trees. "It's a playhouse, Mommy. Come see it."

It was the bike-shed, which Beth remembered all too well from Ollie Stevens' pranks. She shivered and told Abby to come away.

Abby disappeared around the end of the shed. Beth followed, and found the door open and Abby inside. Beth's heart raced. "Abby, come out of there! Look, it's full of trash. It's filthy."

"I can play here while we're on vacation. I brought my dolls." Abby bounced up and down inside the shed, pleading.

"You can play with your dolls in the nice room Grandma fixed for you. You're not to come outside by yourself. This isn't our backyard at home; it's a wild place, it can be dangerous." She heard herself uttering those words of warning she'd defied too many times as a girl and hoped Abby would be different.

Abby came out of the shed and peered at Beth soberly. "Are you tired, Mommy?"

"Yes. It's cold, and it'll be dark soon. Let's go get ready for dinner. You can put on a pretty dress and I'll tie your hair with a ribbon."

Abby took Beth's hand. Beth risked another glance behind her. The shed leaned into the sinking sun among the trees, its shadow stretching toward her, mocking her. She shivered again, unable to escape the memories. She hadn't expected to meet any ghosts so soon.

They met Jack on the west porch. His eyes flashed silver in the dusk. "Mom just sent me out to look for you two. You all right?"

"We're fine."

As she approached the door, Beth had a clear view of the kitchen through the windows. She glimpsed a slender girl with short, straight black hair who stood at the island, rolling out biscuit dough. This was Beth's youngest sister Rita, who was eighteen. Vicky, twenty-eight and slightly plump with strawberry-blond hair, sat on a stool beside Rita. She wore office apparel and a bored expression. Emily and Faith stood at the stove with their backs to the door, consulting over a saucepan.

Jack reached past Beth to open the door. The warm air met them, fragrant with the aromas of beef, mushrooms and a hint of garlic.

Emily turned from the stove. "There you are."

"Beth!" Rita cried out, and wiped her floury hands on a towel. She gathered Beth into a hug, then turned to Abby. "I'm Aunt Rita, and this is Aunt Vicky."

Abby hovered beside Beth, unapproachable. "Mommy's tired, and her name's Liz." She marched across the kitchen, through the hall door to the foot of the west stairs, where she turned and waited for Beth to follow.

"I'll be up in a few minutes. Do you remember the way?" Beth said.

"Yes." Abby grudgingly continued up the stairs alone.

"What was that about?" Vicky murmured.

"She misunderstood something that happened outside," Beth told her.

Vicky's expression went cold and blank. She turned away. Rita chewed her lip. Emily came over and placed the back of her hand against Beth's cheek. "You do look tired, and you're chilled. I should've made sure you took jackets."

"I just watched Abby run into the bike-shed. She thought it would make a wonderful playhouse. I overreacted."

Rita drew in her breath. "Oh, Mom, I forgot. It slipped my mind. I'm sorry, Beth. I was supposed to lock it last night. I'll take care of it now."

"No, it's all right, Rita." Beth smiled, feeling a need to lighten the mood in the room. "Mm, something smells heavenly in here."

"Nothing like home cooking," Cornell said, coming in from the hallway. "You waited long enough for it, and it appears you need a few of Faith's roast beef dinners." He was Beth's oldest brother, as different from Jack as he could be, with Emily's darker coloring and a stockier build. He slipped an arm around Beth's waist and kissed her cheek.

Beth hugged him. "Cornell, I'm so happy to see you."

"Was that Abby I saw running up the stairs? She didn't look happy."

"She's tired, and worried about her mother." Emily patted Cornell's arm, "Thank you for coming to dinner, let me get your sister some tea. It's chamomile, Beth." Emily dropped a tea bag into a mug and filled it from the urn of water kept forever hot beside the coffee maker. She turned towards Beth, "Honey or plain?"

"Plain, thanks."

"Let it steep for a few minutes. Why don't you lie down until dinner. I'll help you unpack later." Emily pressed the cup into Beth's hand. Beth climbed the stairs slowly to avoid spilling the hot liquid. Emily's voice followed her. "A playhouse! Rita, run lock the shed now. She's going to feel safe here."

Beth approached the family room an hour later and found Rita in the smaller dining room the family used, setting the table. She'd covered the antique walnut surface with old lace, on which she'd arranged Emily's wedding china with its delicate pattern of old fashioned roses. Rita moved briskly around the room as she arranged glassware and silver.

"Everything looks beautiful," Beth said as she entered.

Rita looked up and smiled. Then Beth followed Rita's gaze to the portrait on the dining room wall. It was one Beth had painted of Abby. "It looks just like her, Beth. Where is Abby?"

"Still in her room. She's never seen that painting. I was afraid she'd want to keep it, and I meant it for Mom. I coaxed her to wear that dress tonight. I'm surprised it still fits. She wore it for her baby sister's christening last fall."

"Her baby sister?" Rita said.

"She has two half-sisters."

The sound of steps in the hallway made them both turn. Duane Prescott came around the foot of the stairs, wearing a blue sheriff's deputy uniform, his badge glistening under the hallway's deer antler sconces. Beth froze at the sight of him.

He stopped at the dining room door. "Beth, you look fantastic."

His name stuck in her throat. "Duane," she croaked, remembering that he was now married to her sister Holly.

He entered the room. Beth stared, feeling trapped.

"I guess you're not too thrilled to see me."

She moved forward with her hand outstretched, and tried to smile. "You're family now."

"I'd prefer a hug," he said earnestly. She hugged him, then backed away into the table. "Excuse the uniform. I couldn't get the whole night off, just a couple hours for dinner."

Rita touched Beth's arm. "The others are in the family room with Mom."

Beth's oldest sister Sarah hugged her at the door of the family room, her honey-gold hair silky against Beth's cheek. Sarah turned to include her husband and daughter.

"Good to see you, Beth," Art Franklin said with a handshake. He was in his forties and gray-haired for his age. He'd married Sarah shortly before the murder, had never known Beth well, and appeared uncertain exactly how to take her now. But he was polite, and he smiled as nine-year-old Robin gave Beth a mother-directed hug.

Sarah introduced Jack's guest, Amy Rankin, who'd been a few years ahead of Beth in school. Amy greeted Beth quietly, then moved away to a corner with Jack. Beth visited with Sarah and Robin until dinner.

Holly and her four-month-old son Josh arrived just as the others were sitting down at the table. Holly took her place without a glance in Beth's direction, which had to be difficult, since Beth was seated right across from her.

Matt arrived last. He'd been eleven when Beth last saw him. Now he was twenty-six, tall and muscular. Except for his dark brown hair being straighter, his features were so like Beth's there'd be no question in any stranger's mind that they were siblings. They'd been close when he was little, and Beth longed to hug him, but he didn't acknowledge her by either word or look. He took the farther of the two empty seats between Beth and Rita.

"Sorry I'm late. I stopped in town to see Owen." Matt's announcement earned him an icy glare from Emily, and a smoldering one from Rita. He shrugged, looking smug, and avoided Beth's gaze.

The conversation was strained, but there were enough people present for there to be a steady drone of voices. If Beth was too silent, Duane made up for it. He sat across from her and talked, mostly to Beth and mostly about his son, who slept in an infant seat between Holly and Emily.

Holly tugged at the sleeping baby's blanket, fretted with his pacifier, adjusted his booties. When a strand of her long, copper-red hair slid over her shoulder and tickled his cheek, Joshua wakened and began to cry. Holly shot a cold glance at Beth, who couldn't help feeling she was, indirectly at least, the cause of the baby's distress.

They were well into Faith's delectable roast beef dinner when Abby appeared. She walked over to the baby and let him grasp her finger. Josh stopped fussing and cooed at her while his mother looked on, spellbound. "Mommy, you didn't tell me there would be a baby," Abby said.

Quiet laughter erupted. "That's your cousin Joshua." Beth beckoned Abby to the chair beside her and introduced the others. The three who wouldn't speak to Beth appeared at ease with Abby. Beth relaxed ever so little.

"Abby, who's that behind you?" Matt said.

Abby turned and saw the portrait of herself, wearing the same burgundy velvet dress she wore now; then she gazed into Beth's eyes. "You did that, Mommy." She got up on her knees and planted a kiss on Beth's mouth.

Matt's face darkened. He spoke only to Rita and Vicky after that. Holly returned her attention to Joshua. Jack looked as if he recalled some old resentment and didn't speak again. Amy looked only at her plate. Cornell sat quietly at the far end of the table, wearing a resigned smile. Sarah, shy to begin with, inched nearer her husband and daughter, and Art put his arm across the back of her chair. Even Abby and Duane grew subdued.

The ice had congealed again. It hardened as the minutes dragged and the silverware clinked. Beth pushed food around on her plate, thinking her mother had been blindly unrealistic to believe this welcome home dinner could succeed.

Holly and Duane got up to leave before dessert. Beth followed them to the dining room door, where Duane hugged her again. "I'm satisfied you're all right now," he said.

Beth turned to Holly, who was her nearest sister in age. There was no light of affection in Holly's grayish-green eyes. Beth attempted to bridge the gulf just the same. "Thank you for being here tonight. Abby and I both enjoyed meeting Josh."

"I came because Mom asked me to."

Beth wondered if the cold blast could be felt across the room. She felt the chill of it long after Holly's departure.

Chapter 3

Just after sunrise the following morning, Beth answered Rita's light rap on her door. "Mom sent me to invite you to breakfast. I didn't think you'd be awake." Rita's gaze fell on Beth's pink sweat suit, then the open French doors. "It's cold out."

"I need a run, but I'm worried Abby will feel lost if she wakes up alone in a strange place."

"Leave her door open. I'll listen for her. I'm right downstairs in the kitchen. She knows where that is."

"Thanks, Rita. I won't be long." Beth bounded down the lobby stairs and out the front door.

The lake beckoned, still and glassy. Beth warmed up on the front steps, then ran at an easy pace down the sloping meadow to the water. From there she moved onto the paved road leading to the cabins. It was her first run in several weeks, and she wasn't accustomed to the altitude yet. She turned back when she reached the first cabin.

A truck with a blue and white camper came along the road behind her, heading toward the Lodge. The driver tapped his horn as he approached, and waved as he passed. Out on the lake, another man glided a canoe toward the landing below the Lodge.

Beth ran on. The clean air moved in and out of her lungs. There were no freeway sounds, no airplanes above, no other people, and no smog. The only sounds besides her own were those of the birds and a fresh breeze rustling the trees and stirring the lake. The immense peace stilled her mind. The movement of her feet over the earth liberated her as nothing else ever had.

When she reached the parking lot she slowed and passed the blue and white camper at a walk. Its occupant was seated in the shadow of the cab. She would've called good morning and introduced herself, but his window was closed and he held a telephone to his ear. A cellular phone, up here. So much for leaving the city behind. Beth grinned to herself and continued into the lobby.

Peter Lloyd sat in his truck and watched Beth run up the steps and enter the Lodge, leaving the door wide open behind her; and he sincerely wished his phone hadn't rung just now. He'd hoped to speak to her out here, alone.

The second he'd seen her running along the side of the road, he'd been swept back to the day they first met. Every memory of her was as clear in his mind as if it had happened yesterday.

It had been in a hospital in Corona. Peter had known which room he wanted by the guard stationed outside. Inside, he'd introduced himself, explained the patient's injuries to her, the more urgent surgery she'd undergone to save her life, the surgery they'd performed to save as much function as possible in her left knee. She remained silent. He shone his penlight into her eyes and commented on how gray they were. No response, except from the pupils in those deep gray irises. He finally went to the door, his curiosity stymied.

"Does her family know she's here?" he asked the guard.

"Doesn't want them to."

Peter glanced back into the room. The flicker in her eyes was like a lantern signaling. He returned to her side, and for the fifth or sixth time he wondered why she was here.

Not literally why. He knew about the attack in the prison infirmary. A doctor had been killed and a nurse and three guards injured. The inmate who'd waged the brutal attack was dead. One of the injured guards had told Peter that a young inmate saved her life. This inmate, Elizabeth Gray. She'd been brought in well after the others, badly beaten, with fractured ribs, a lacerated spleen, and a gunshot wound to her knee.

Peter wondered why she'd appeared in his life again. Not that she'd actually been in his life before. Only her picture, and a strong sense of familiarity. It was a cosmic why, the why-am-I-here kind of why. He didn't expect an answer. It was the end of a long and arduous shift. He needed to unwind, he told himself, before the drive to his parents' house and then home. So he lingered at her bedside.

She stirred and said something he didn't hear. He leaned nearer.

"What happened to Tilly?" she murmured.

"Tilly?" Then he recalled the injured nurse. "She's down the hall. She's going to be fine. So are you, you realize that, don't you, Elizabeth?"

She blinked at him, then shifted her focus. Peter sat there for a full minute before she spoke again. "My father's a doctor. Was. I keep forgetting he's not there. The Lodge wasn't the same place, after he died."

"The Lodge?"

"Wilder Mountain Lodge, in the northern Sierras. I was the first Gray born at the Lodge in a hundred years. My father planned to leave the Lodge to me. My brothers and sisters didn't like that plan, but he used to tell me I was like him. I miss the Lodge, the lake and the trees."

"What is that, the Lodge? Is that your house?"

Her chuckle was silky, sleepy. "Too big. It's an inn, built like an English manor, during the Gold Rush days. Later it became a hunting and fishing lodge. My mother closed it, after my father died."

It started that way, and she kept talking. He should go home, the nagging voice of worry told him, not sit here and listen to a killer ramble on about her home and childhood. A murderer who'd grown up in a fishing lodge. "I used to like to fish, when I was younger," he found himself saying.

"You don't like to now?" Dark eyes watched him, wide and softly lit. He felt torn between going and staying.

"Try to rest. You're safe here." He forced himself to go.

On his way to lunch a couple of days later, Peter steered his way into Elizabeth Gray's room without planning to. She looked up, lay her book aside, and asked if it was raining outside.

He went to the window and peered at the wet parking lot below. "What do you know? It is."

"You work too hard, if you go around not knowing what the weather's like."

He grinned at her. "You're probably right."

She returned a close-mouthed smile that favored the cut lip and lightened her eyes. That lightness, that vital glow, softened the contrast of her darker eyebrows and hair with her pale complexion. He lifted one end of the book beside her, a copy of Anna Karenina. "You prefer Tolstoy to TV?"

She grimaced. "I'd just as soon read a steamy romance novel. My mother's an English teacher. She sends me lists of books she thinks will improve my mind, and she quizzes me in her letters to see if I've read them. I've told her I don't think poetry and literature are going to help me get an entry level job in another twelve years, but I do like the poetry."

The weight of her situation slammed home in Peter's mind. She'd be thirty-two in twelve years. "Aren't you eligible for parole before then?"

She didn't answer that. "When will I be able to run, Dr. Lloyd?"

"You're a runner?" His words came out choked.

"That's what I'm asking you."

He explained again that she'd need follow-up surgery, and lengthy physical therapy. "Let's see how it heals," Peter concluded. "I've been wondering why you helped that guard."

Her smile vanished and she looked at her hands. "Why not?"

Harry, another guard, barged in carrying a big rain-splotched envelope and emptied it onto the roll-away table. "Fresh letters, paper, pencils, and Wordsworth. Oh, and your drawing for Tilly." He glanced at Peter as he handed her a slender blue book and a roll of paper, then he turned and left the room.

"'Why not' isn't an answer," Peter said, getting back to why she'd helped the guard.

She clearly wanted to forget that conversation. He returned her look steadily, waiting.

"I can't think straight today. Doctors. A drug for every occasion, just like my father." Her gaze flickered. "My actions only baffle you because I've been convicted of murder. If anyone on the street helped someone out of a spot like that, they'd be praised, and no one would question their motive. You question mine because you think I have no regard for life. I've already been judged, Doctor."

Her bitterness disturbed him. What did she want? She'd killed someone. Of course that changed how people viewed her and her motives. Suddenly Peter felt anxious to change the subject. "What do you do besides read?"

"Draw, study, and work in the textile factory." She shook her head and shifted, looking pained and sheepish. "That's not true. I like to sew, and I want to learn upholstery; but the doctor before Severn said I shouldn't operate machinery, because I'm taking medication. I clean floors. Someone gets a perverse delight out of assigning a well-read inmate to janitorial and a less bookish one to the library. It's engineered to humiliate generally."

"What do you study?"

"Business. Are you always so serious?"

"Serious? No." Until Claire's illness, no one had ever accused him of being too serious. He rubbed his face. "I've ... had a tough year." He turned away and headed for the door.

"May you have only one," she said in a gentle tone. Then she picked up the roll of paper. "Will you give this to Tilly for me? I'm afraid I won't see her before she retires."

He took it from her and unrolled the color-pencil portrait. The woman in the drawing wore a knowing, humorous expression in her liquid brown eyes. Her broad smile was brilliant against mahogany skin and black hair. Humor dwelt in the graceful arches of her eyebrows, warmth moved in the gentle curve of her lips. The drawing was dated and signed in one corner, "E. R. Gray." There was a note that read, "Tilly, Happy Retirement. Please don't come back. Love, Beth."

"You're an unusual lady," Peter said, meeting her gaze.

"Ladies don't wind up in prison."

Peter's stomach growled as he left her room, and he tried to think only about lunch. There was lady written all over her face, in her speech, and enlivening her big soft eyes from deep inside. Why had she wound up in prison?

"She going to be okay, Doc?" Harry said. "I mean the leg."

Peter gave a non-committal answer and walked away. Then he turned around. "Why isn't she allowed visitors?"

"She doesn't want them. Never has." Harry frowned at her door and shook his head. "She's the only one I've heard of with that distinction."

"Why wouldn't she want visitors?" Peter said, half to himself.

"I asked her once. Said she's trying to leave her past behind. But you saw her in there, reading books and poetry her mother sends her. Doesn't sound like she's making a clean break, does it?"

Peter took the portrait to Tilly's room, and found five young men and women there. They crowded that side of the room and made enough noise for Peter to be relieved the other bed was empty. Tilly sat up in bed with one arm in a sling, laughing. She opened her eyes wide when she saw Peter, and grinned at him. "Hello."

"I'm Dr. Lloyd. I have something for you from Beth Gray."

She took the roll, thanked him, and had the young woman nearest her open it. Tilly's mouth opened, and the others began talking excitedly.

"Mom, I'm going to have this framed and hang it in the living room," the daughter who held the drawing said.

Tilly leaned forward, and the younger woman inched the drawing closer. Tilly burst into tears. "Oh, put it away before I spoil it!"

"Mom, what's wrong? It's beautiful."

Tilly looked at Peter with her great brown eyes swimming in tears. "That girl saved my life and drew this picture, and she won't let me visit her. Well, I'm going to write her once a week." Tilly looked at Peter again. "Children, get out. I need to talk to this man." She waved her good arm at them, and they filed out.

"I'm her nurse," she told Peter. "Have been for two years. She saved my life, and she saved that guard's life, when Dr. Severn was killed. Did she tell you what happened?"

"I heard it from the guard."

"Well she couldn't see it the way I did. Beth wouldn't pick up that gun to save herself. She couldn't. She saw something."

"Saw something?"

"Something only she could see, in here." Tilly pointed at her head. "It like to got her killed."

"Are you saying she hallucinated?"

Tilly looked disgusted. "She told me her own lawyer wanted to prove she's psychotic. But she's been evaluated and tested, probed and questioned until she doesn't care if she ever sees another doctor. No, I'm not saying she hallucinated!"

"What, then?"

"I don't know. Dr. Severn had just been saying how he thought she has posttraumatic stress. He'd just finished talking to her for the first time." Tilly's eyes filled with tears again. "Then he gets killed, on his first day. Nothing like that's happened in all the time I've worked there. With a gun. The guards don't even carry guns."

"Do you think she flashed back to killing that boy?"

Tilly glared at him. "So you think you know why she's in CIW."

"I read a newspaper article soon after she was arrested."

"Did she tell you why she's in prison?"

"She says she was convicted of murder."

Tilly nodded. "Exactly. She never says she committed murder, just that she was convicted. Do you see the difference? She says it's like a puzzle she should've solved but couldn't."

"Do you think she's in denial about the murder?"

"That child never killed anyone." Tilly pursed her lips, resolute.

"Tilly, did she tell you she didn't kill him?"

"She won't say, and there's no convincing someone who doesn't know her the way I do. But I see criminals every day who claim they're innocent. I see spoiled rich white girls who thought they could get away with anything until they got locked away for a while. She's different."

He couldn't help a smile. "Tilly, don't mistake affability for innocence." He'd grown uneasy about Beth Gray. He wanted a reason not to care so much, not to worry about her.

"Look in her eyes and ask her if she killed that boy, Dr. Lloyd."

Peter entered the guarded room early that evening and found his patient leaning over the rail of the bed, whimpering as she struggled to reach something out of view on the floor.

When she saw him, she lay back and moaned, clearly hurting a lot. She was sweating, and there was a wildness in the depths of her eyes. Drawings and art supplies were strewn across the bed, table and floor.

"It didn't hurt this much when she hit me. She really beat the hell out of me, didn't she?"

He picked up the drawing she'd been trying to reach, of an old gnarled oak tree. Then another, of a spruce. Both were signed and dated today. "Seems to me you should be studying fine arts instead of business." He gathered the rest together, collected the pencils and replaced them in the fallen box.

When he stood up, her wary, searching look didn't comfort him. The bruised side of her face and the cut lip gave her a desperate, rakish appearance. He handed her the stack of drawings and moved away. "If you re-injure yourself, you'll be stuck in bed that much longer. Call for help next time."

She nodded silently.

He remained beside her until she met his gaze. "Why are you in prison, Beth?"

She blinked. "You said you knew." She turned to place the stack of drawings on the table, then hesitated, clearly unwilling to repeat a painful movement. Peter rolled the table closer, took the drawings from her and placed them on it, within her reach. Then he sat in the chair on the other side of the bed and faced her.

"Talk to me, Beth. Why are you in prison?"

She spoke quietly, without expression, and didn't meet his gaze. "I was sentenced to fifteen years for the murder of a fourteen-year-old boy named Oliver Stevens."

"'Sentenced ... for the murder of.' You never say you killed him, do you?"

Her gaze flicked in his direction, cautious.

"You're careful never to say that, aren't you?"

"I don't have to be careful."

"Why?"

"Only lies require planning."

"Did you kill him?"

She looked at her hands and didn't answer.

"What do you have to lose by telling the truth now? You're in prison. Why won't you answer me?"

"Because ..." Her face took on a drawn look as the light faded out of it. She looked straight at him. "I don't want to see your eyes filled with disbelief."

Peter stood and turned away. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"He's dead. I'm locked up. Talking about it won't change that."

Peter turned to face her again. She rested her head against the pillow and gazed at the window with a hungry look.

"What did you see when you tried to pick up the gun in the infirmary?" he asked.

Her eyes widened and she met his look again. Then she slid her gaze away and closed her eyes.

He glanced at his watch. "I have to go."

"Wait." She focused on something not present in the room.

He sat down and waited.

She held out her right hand. "I saw ... my father's gun ... in my hand. I saw Ollie Stevens lying on the ground in the moonlight, that night."

"The night you killed him?"

She caught and held his gaze, then brushed beads of sweat off her upper lip. "The night he died."

"Did you see him die?"

She parted her lips, then she went still, watching Peter. "Picking up a gun that night got me into such a mess, I don't think I could ever do it again." She cleared her throat.

Peter sat and looked at the floor, feeling slightly ill. She still wouldn't say it, but now he grew convinced she was innocent. Twelve more years? It was almost as much a waste of life as Claire's illness. Almost.

He sat up straight, suddenly anxious to leave. That was when he remembered, stuck his hand in his pocket and retrieved the small bag of chocolate kisses. "These are for you." He placed them in her hand. "Tilly told me you love chocolate."

She smiled sweetly at him. "Thank you." She opened one, bit half of it off and sucked it with a rapt expression.

Peter had known her barely three days. He'd been hearing her voice in his dreams, seeing her face, and watching for her among crowds, ever since.

His attention returned to the present. The caller was his brother. "I tried you at home first. You're out early. Fish biting already?"

"Not yet. I'm about to have breakfast." Seated in the driver's seat of his camper, Peter watched the door Beth had left open when she entered the Lodge.

"Have you checked your mailbox lately? I want to be sure my package made it there."

"Tim, you didn't have to buy me a gift. You're buying me dinner--"

"I know, but I got a fantastic deal on this, from a client, so just enjoy it. When's your interview?"

Peter sighed, watching his friend Leigh glide his canoe to the landing. Then he said a hurried goodbye to Tim and went to meet Leigh. They walked around to the kitchen together.

Breakfast aromas drifted into the hallway along with the voices of the family Beth hadn't been a part of in years. A familiar ache, a longing she hadn't allowed herself to explore in a long time overwhelmed her all at once. She paused outside the kitchen door, leaned against the wall, and willed the heaviness to leave her before she faced the people in that room.

"You trust Rita to cook for your guests, Mom?" Jack said in the kitchen.

"They're family," Rita said.

"Beth brought some of her lemon marmalade," Emily said. "Put that out for the toast, Rita."

Vicky murmured something Beth couldn't make out, and Jack laughed. Beth pushed away from the wall and entered the kitchen with a cheery "Good morning."

Jack's laughter silenced as if someone had pulled his plug. Emily lifted her gaze from her newspaper and smiled. "Sit here, Beth." She beckoned to two empty places between her and Matt. "There's room for Abby next to you when she wakes up. All these strangers must be overwhelming for her."

"You're the picture of health, this morning." Jack's eyes flashed as he met Beth's gaze.

"Beth was always an active child," Emily said. Jack glanced at Vicky and chuckled. "What is it you find so amusing, Jack?" Emily eyed him over her reading glasses.

Jack looked thoughtful for an instant. "The drama of it all, Mother. More coffee?"

"Please."

Jack filled Emily's cup from a carafe on the table. "Beth?"

"Please." Beth wished she'd allowed herself time to shower and change. Emily looked impeccable, not at all like a woman who planned to grub around in a garden all day. Jack was neatly combed, in a polo shirt and trousers. Vicky wore mascara and lipstick. Her hair's tight curls were caught up in a precarious French braid.

Matt, on the other hand, was unshaven and dressed in ragged navy blue sweats. He watched Beth with a sleepily insolent expression, which she had trouble meeting.

Beth had just decided to take the chair nearest her mother when Jack placed her coffee beside Matt. Jack leaned back and grinned a challenge at his brother. They appeared to wait to see which chair Beth would choose.

"Sit down, Beth," Emily prompted.

The back door opened. Two men entered, said a general good morning and removed jackets, revealing plaid shirts tucked into blue jeans. Beth went over to introduce herself. After last night's dinner, two strangers were easier to face than her family, especially Matt.

She offered her hand to the man from the canoe first. "I'm Beth Gray."

"Leigh Turner." He held her hand an extra second or two, his intelligent hazel eyes level with hers.

"Leigh, it's nice to meet you." She turned to the taller man, and stopped short when she realized she knew him.

His pale blue eyes lit with what Beth presumed was recognition as he took her hand. His handshake was warm and firm, his voice deep and resonant, almost a caress. "Peter Lloyd."

"We've met before," Beth said.

His gaze deepened as if in surprise, then he shook his head. "I'm not from around here."

"You're just in time," Rita said, carrying plates to the table. "Sit down."

Beth took the seat nearest Matt, feeling challenged on all sides, and determined not to let it get to her. Leigh Turner took the seat across from her. Peter Lloyd sat beside Vicky.

"I'm sure we've met, Peter," Beth persisted.

He shook his head. "I must have one of those faces."

"No, I'm certain. I don't mistake faces. It was--" Beth glanced at Emily and closed her mouth, realizing she didn't want to say where they'd met, or how, in front of her mother.

Peter cleared his throat. His solemn gaze rested on Emily before it returned to Beth. Beth dragged her attention away and found Leigh Turner regarding her thoughtfully. "Certainly he would remember you," Leigh said. "Wouldn't you, Peter?"

"Most certainly," Peter agreed. "I moved here five years ago," Peter added, capturing Beth's gaze again. Now his eyes twinkled. "The fishing came highly recommended."

Jack chuckled. "We haven't decided whether Peter is more serious about doctoring or fishing. I don't think he knows."

"Peter's a physician." Matt said helpfully.

Beth barely noticed this was the first time Matt had spoken to her. She returned Peter's gaze, her knowledge confirmed. Why did he deny knowing her?

Jack leaned toward Beth with the last corner of his toast in his hand. "The marmalade isn't bad. No bitterness?"

His tone made her wonder if he hinted at something besides the quality of the marmalade. "No bitterness," she said evenly.

"Funny, I don't recall you being much of a cook."

"I'm not. Lemon marmalade, cookies and pies are the extent of my culinary skills, as my ex-husband and daughter will attest."

Someone chuckled. Beth glanced at Peter Lloyd again.

"Your talents clearly lie elsewhere," Leigh said. "You've come to the right place to let others do the cooking. Good food abounds here."

"Thank you, Leigh," Rita said and shot a smug look at Jack.

"Leigh teaches Robin's third grade class," Emily told Beth, "and he's an accomplished artist. I hope you'll show Beth your artwork."

Leigh's face colored. "The portraits you painted of your mother and daughter are extraordinary. Perhaps you'll give me some advice while you're here. Portraits are an enigma for me." He spoke with the softest hint of an accent.

"I've had a lot of practice with portraits," Beth said. "I'd love to see your work."

Peter Lloyd spoke to Vicky, and Beth's gaze returned to him and lingered. She couldn't keep her eyes off him, or her mind off the puzzle of his presence here.

"You're welcome to come by my cabin and see them anytime," Leigh said.

Vicky looked Beth's way, and Peter met Beth's gaze. His was steady, searching. Under the weight of it Beth lowered her fork, glimpsed Matt's keen glance, and then realized Leigh had spoken to her. She blinked at him. "I'm sorry?"

"Mommy?" Abby said upstairs. Beth excused herself and ran up the stairs. When she eventually returned to the kitchen with Abby, everyone but Rita had gone.

Chapter 4

Later that morning, Rita and Vicky took Abby into town. Beth watched them leave with trepidation, while Emily assured her that Abby would be fine and invited her to work in the garden. "If you're feeling up to it," she added.

Beth rankled at her mother's indulgent tone and opted to spend a few hours engaged in the one activity for which she preferred solitude. She pulled a purple and gray swirl-patterned sweater over her shirt. Then she carried her portable easel and charcoals down to the lake and found a sunny spot on the eastern shore to sketch.

She drew the Lodge, thinking she would complete a final painting of it in pastels. She rediscovered her affection for the outward form of the Lodge, distinct from the pressures she felt when inside it.

The Lodge made demands on Beth. Her family home had a hold on her, in associations and unfulfilled obligations. It had haunted her for years through memories of her father, and in the time and energy her mother spent attempting to redeem his dead dreams. But the Lodge didn't despise Beth, it didn't believe things about her that were impossible to disprove. It didn't scrutinize her every action as she felt her family had in the past several hours.

The proportions of the third sketch pleased her, and she began to fill in the shapes of the surrounding landscape. The sun wound its way along the ecliptic while she struggled with a vague feeling that she was missing something. She removed her jacket, and later the sweater, as she grew more frustrated. Finally she stood with her arms crossed, and studied the sketch. This should be as effortless as any portrait, but when she looked for what was missing she felt disoriented. She shook herself. She was overanalyzing. It was just a building!

She felt a chill in the air, and bent to pick up her sweater.

"Isn't that turning into a bit of a mess?" a male voice said behind her.

Beth whirled around.

Peter Lloyd stood several feet away with a fishing rod propped beside him as he calmly tied a fly onto his line. He didn't look up, but continued what he was doing.

He wore the gray and black plaid shirt he'd worn to breakfast, only now the sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, disregarding the chilly breeze. His threadbare fishing vest, which appeared held together by its pockets, hung open because the zipper was broken. A largish nose gave his face an appealing strength, and his skin was lightly tanned, with a healthy glow, but the mark of intervening time in the set of his mouth and in the lines around his eyes had aged him. The years hadn't been kind, but Beth liked his face better this way.

After a swift glance her way, he cast his line into the shimmering, sunlit water beyond the shade of the trees. The sinews stood out on his bare forearms as he gripped the rod. He turned his head and grinned at Beth. "Sorry I startled you. I saw you running this morning. I take it the knee healed all right?"

She dropped her sweater and walked over to him. "So you do remember me. What are you doing here?"

"Catching lunch."

"I mean what are you doing in Wilder?"

He lifted his shoulders, and smiled mildly. That warmed his eyes and made her tingle a little all over. "Waiting around for you."

"You started making points right off, denying knowing me."

He lifted his eyebrows and didn't answer.

Her breath caught in her throat as she considered he might actually be serious. "But why? I mean, are you following me?" There was a word for people who did things like that.

Mischief tugged at the corners of his mouth. He looked about to laugh. "I've been here for five years, Beth. I got here first."

"You don't know what a shock you gave me, showing up at breakfast. Then you wouldn't even acknowledge you knew me."

He turned to the water and played with his line. "Doctor patient privilege."

"I thought that was supposed to protect me, not make me feel like a fool. Aren't you taking it to extremes? The patient acknowledged she knew you."

"You told me, twelve years ago, you didn't want your mother to know you'd been injured. Does she know now? Or did you want to tell her this morning, at breakfast?" He glanced sideways at her.

She looked down at his battered boots. "No. I still don't want her to know ... and how else would I explain knowing you? Okay, I understand. Thank you. But why are you here?"

"I already answered that question." He returned his attention to his fishing line and reeled it in.

"So five years ago you came here because, years earlier, one of your patients mentioned the magic word, fishing. You rented a cabin and decided the fishing was so good you never wanted to leave."

He answered with a squint and a lopsided grin. Then he prepared to cast again and she got out of his way. The fly hit the water. "Where else can I fish in the pristine serenity of a private lake not overrun by tourists? You did mention your mother had closed the Lodge."

"Will you stop kidding around? Oh never mind." She walked to her easel.

"Why is it so important to you?" He turned to face her again, his eyes narrowed and his smile no longer in evidence, the fishing rod gripped loosely in one hand. "Why did you come back?"

She moved closer to him again. She couldn't help her curiosity. Whether it was his claim to have come here looking for her, or just the tug of intense attraction, she couldn't say. He irritated and intrigued her. "My mother didn't tell you?"

"Your mother doesn't talk to me much. Your siblings, who do, have no idea why you're here."

Beth absorbed this in silence, and remained silent.

A sudden tug on his line distracted them both. He brought in a rainbow trout with the speed and dexterity of practice, and dispatched it more quickly and cleanly than she'd thought possible.

He lay his rod down, came over and stood facing her with his hands on his hips. "Well?"

"My siblings could've told you, I wasn't allowed to come back. The conditions of my parole prohibited me from returning to the vicinity of the crime."

He looked resigned. "That's not why you're here, it's why you stayed away."

"My mother had never met my daughter."

He shook his head. "Your mother could've visited you."

She didn't go into the reasons her mother couldn't visit. "I own half of a business I used to love being a part of, but I'm burned out. I came here for a vacation, to relax and paint."

"You could vacation, or paint, elsewhere."

"You're an exasperating man."

His grin returned. "That's not the reason you're here either."

She took a deep breath. "I had a bad case of pneumonia. I decided life is too short to spend it avoiding the place and the people I love most. I had to see it again."

Peter nodded, appearing satisfied, yet he said quietly, "Any other reason?"

"My ex-husband wanted ... I suppose I do need to ..." She dropped her arms to her sides and looked around without seeing. Then she closed her eyes and heard a car on the Lodge road.

Why did he have to stand so close, and stir up memories of a time she'd rather forget? Weren't there enough unanswered questions in her life? Why couldn't she ignore him? "To see if I can reclaim any lost dreams. To see if the shadows are as scary in reality as they are in my nightmares. To see if Gabriel and I still love each other."

He frowned. "Gabriel?"

"Gabriel Handley. We were engaged."

He turned toward the lake, still frowning.

Beth saw Vicky's small green car arrive at the Lodge, and moved toward her easel to gather her things together. Peter stepped between her and the easel. He touched her shoulder, and when she felt his hand through her purple silk shirt she wanted to lean into his strength. She stood rooted to the spot, feeling the weight of his gaze on her as plainly as she felt his hand on her shoulder.

"You're planning to see Gabriel while you're here?" he said.

"Yes, probably. I need to."

He stood in the sun now, and his eyes were lighter, a pale blue with dark gray rims around the irises.

"I'm afraid," Beth said. "I mean, he's at the center of that part of my life. The most important things in my life before Ollie Stevens' death were Gabriel and the Lodge." She blew out her breath. "Why am I telling you this?"

"Maybe you need someone who understands your history, rather than someone who's a part of it." Did he mean himself? He removed his hand from her shoulder and tucked his fingers into his back pockets, but he didn't move away.

"I have to find out for certain, first, about Gabriel. Don't I?"

He shook his head, wearing a lopsided grin. "You're asking the wrong guy. What will make you happy?"

"I don't know anymore. All I know is I'm not happy." The truth in her words surprised her. So did her tears. She cleared her throat and watched Abby skip toward them, ahead of Vicky.

Peter moved away and looked out over the lake, where Leigh glided his canoe across the water toward the Lodge. "If you have to see him, just do it, Beth. Do it soon." He turned to look at her. "Will you introduce me to your daughter?"

Abby ran over to them and Beth scooped her up and kissed her cheek before turning to Peter. "Abby, this is Dr. Lloyd."

"Hello." Abby stretched a hand toward him, narrowing her eyes. "Doctor?"

"Hi, Abby." He grasped her hand. "You can call me Peter."

"Peter, are you the doctor who's going to tell Mommy she's better, when she's had enough vacation?"

He glanced the question at Beth. She sighed, put Abby down, and began gathering her things together.

Abby went on in a serious, grownup tone of voice. "Mommy was very sick for a while, and I was worried. First she dreamed bad dreams and she wouldn't wake up. Then she was in the hospital in sensitive care, and even Daddy was scared. He said I shouldn't be loud or make her play hard for a long time, 'cause we have to take care of her. And Aunt Stella thinks Mommy's a worker--a workercolic. She never used to sleep, but now she's always tired and she sleeps a lot. So, I think you should keep your eyes on her for a while. Just in case."

Beth threw up her hands. "I've told her I'm okay. Maybe she'll believe it coming from you."

Peter squatted down on Abby's eye level. "You don't need to worry about Mommy anymore, Abby." He glanced at Beth again. "She looks pretty healthy to me."

"Why is she always tired?"

"She's building up her energy again after being sick. Even Mommies are supposed to sleep, Abby. No more worrying." He tugged on one dark curl, and Abby skipped away to meet Aunt Vicky.

"Feel free to bill me for that," Beth said, smiling.

He returned her smile, in silence at first. Then he said, "No charge. Just don't make a liar out of me."

Vicky approached, with Abby beside her. "Are you eating with us, Peter?"

"No, I have my lunch right here. I'll walk in that direction, if you ladies don't mind my company," he said with a glance at Beth.

Peter picked up his fishing gear. Beth was slower gathering her things and followed the other three. Vicky and Abby went ahead, while Peter waited for Beth, and walked close beside her. When they neared the northwest shore of the lake, he spoke privately. "If things don't work out with Gabriel, I hope I have a chance."

She paused and watched him move in long strides up the gentle slope ahead of her. Surely he hadn't waited around here for five years for her to show up. He seemed too grounded in reality to do something like that.

He turned and watched her, blue eyes wide and pale in the sunlight. Sober eyes, steady and unshakable.

Of all the men she'd met in the past several years, he had the best chance. There were no secrets to keep from him, no wondering when to tell him what. She had this compulsion to blab her life's story to him. But she couldn't stay.

He veered off, waving goodbye with his rod.

Abby had run ahead to meet her grandmother on the front steps. Vicky hung back in the parking lot, waiting for Beth. She made a bright splash of color in her coral pink tunic and pale gold leggings, with her hair released from the braid she'd worn at breakfast, glistening gold in the sunlight. Her pale green eyes sparkled in her freckled face. She approached Beth with a little smile like the one she'd worn when she asked Peter to lunch. Beth began to think Vicky was warming up to her.

"Making the rounds already, Beth? Is that the example you set for your daughter? Are you planning to sleep with every man in the county before you leave? That should be a recuperative vacation." Vicky turned and strode the rest of the way to the steps.

Leigh Turner joined the family for lunch, which was again served on the wide porch, west of the empty dining hall, to take advantage of the unseasonably warm weather. Today two square tables were pushed together to accommodate eight.

After a few false starts at conversation, Rita had fallen silent. Abby was tired and picked at her food. Matt and Vicky were both surly. Jack wore the same smug grin he'd worn through breakfast, but he said nothing. Emily appeared to daydream, her face a placid mask.

"The orchard looks spectacular in bloom. Did you get a lot of fruit last year?" Beth said, attempting once again to fill the awkward void. Was this why neither Peter nor Leigh had been here for dinner last night?

"I'm not convinced the cold is over," Jack said. "Too bad you won't be here to make jelly when the fruit's ripe, Beth. Your lemon marmalade is excellent."

She glanced at him, feeling he was laughing at her, or at someone. "Thank you, Jack."

Emily cleared her throat. "Gabriel plans to stop by one morning this week, Beth. He doesn't know about your visit. If you'd like me to cancel, I can."

"I want to see him. Gabriel is part of the reason I'm here."

"Who's Gabriel?" Abby said.

Beth glanced at her and caught sight of Matt, watching her with an unreadable expression. Jack scraped the floorboards with his chair, excused himself and left the table.

"Is Gabriel my uncle too?" Abby persisted.

"He's an old friend of your mother's," Matt said. "You can call him uncle if you want to."

"Like Aunt Stella? She's not my aunt either. She works with Mommy and Daddy at--"

"Abby!" Beth said.

"Wups." Abby lowered her eyes, and spoke in a small voice, "I'm not s'posed to talk about that."

"Who said you can't talk about that?" Vicky glared at Beth.

"I said." Beth met the challenge in her sister's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mommy."

"I know. I'm sorry I snapped at you, sweetheart."

"I'm not hungry. I ate stuff at the other peoples' house. Can I go play with my dolls?"

"May I. Yes, go ahead." Beth watched her go through the dining hall.

"So, since you're hiding, Abby has to hide from us too?" Vicky said. "She has to keep your secrets for you?"

"Victoria, that's enough," Emily said.

"It's not enough, Mom. I can't believe you help her hide the way she does."

"It has nothing to do with you, Vicky," Beth said. "The life I've made for myself is my business."

"Then why did you come back? How dare you, after what you did?" Vicky's eyes blazed. "How can you sit here as if you have every right, and expect us to treat you like one of us?" Vicky spoke slowly, through clenched jaws, her eyes cold as she met Beth's gaze. "Ollie is still dead."

"Yes. He would be just as dead if I were still in prison. No one and nothing can change the fact that he's dead. Believe me, I prayed that could change, a thousand times, during the trial alone."

In the long silence that followed, Beth attempted to eat, and found her appetite had vaporized. She excused herself and took the stairs slowly.

Abby lay asleep on the carpeted floor of her room, with a soft cloth doll tucked in her arms. Beth covered her with a quilt and sat on the floor beside her to watch her sleep.

"No matter how I may want to change the past," Beth whispered, "I'll never regret that it included having you."

That afternoon, Beth and Abby found Emily seated with Rita in the kitchen, planning menus and making a shopping list. Beth asked her mother for keys to the unused rooms, so she could take Abby on a tour of the Lodge.

A smile appeared on Emily's face, and she got up at once. "Of course, just wait here while I get them."

"I'm trying to decide what to wear for my graduation," Rita said. "Mom says it has to be a dress, not pants. I'm giving a speech. What do you think, Beth?"

Beth watched Rita's sparkling, deep blue eyes, which she found curious in a member of her family. Rita was taller than Beth, with wide shoulders, a slender, athletic build and long legs. Her hair was short, straight and jet black. She was a striking-looking girl. "I recently saw a slim, two-piece outfit, with one of those little flared skirts, a long, slightly-fitted jacket with a round neck, no lapels. It was made of a soft rayon, in Navy."

"Navy?"

"It's a serious color, but it would make your eyes shine like sapphires."

Rita cracked a smile. "Sounds nice, but I don't know, Beth. I'm a blue jeans kind of girl. Nobody would recognize me."

"Isn't that what commencement is about?"

Emily returned a moment later with a large ring of keys. She placed them in Beth's hand with a satisfied pat. "These are for you to keep. You have the run of the place."

The keys were all labeled. Beth went through them and came to one marked TWR, an abbreviation for the tower. She removed it from the ring and handed it back.

"If Dad's collection is still there, I don't want this one. Are there any others you should've removed before you gave them to me? I warned you the other day on the phone, Mom. The firearms stay locked up as long as I'm here. I don't want to risk any trouble, and I don't want the keys, for God's sake!" Her voice shook with barely contained anger.

Her mother stared at her. So did Abby. Rita sighed and sent her mother an exasperated look.

"It's illegal, Mom, for me to be in possession of a firearm. I don't want there to be even the hint of a question about that. Do you understand?"

"I thought you were just worried about Abby. Here, there are two others to the gun cabinets in the library. Let me find them." Emily took the key ring, removed two small keys and handed the rest back. "I want to think that's all over for you now."

"It will never be over. Never!"

The Lodge had been modeled after an English castle, by one of Beth's ancestors who'd made the bulk of his fortune in a gold strike. The interior layout was an educated guess at best, arranged to suit his personal tastes and later reworked when it was converted into an inn.

The center stairs led from the lobby to the second floor of the Lodge, and no farther. The east and west stairways led all the way to the fourth floor. The tower had its own spiral stairs and connected to each floor of the Lodge via the outside gallery, but since the tower was locked for the duration of Beth's visit, she didn't bother to explain to Abby how it fit into the layout of the Lodge.

They explored the ground floor first: the library, music room, game room, the downstairs drawing rooms and smoking rooms. Eventually they reached Beth's father's medical clinic, which occupied the east end of the first floor. Beth marveled at how clean the examining rooms were. On the second floor, they avoided the rooms the family members occupied and inspected instead the unused rooms in the east end, where dustsheets shrouded antique furnishings. Abby insisted on seeing each room, lifting the dustsheets to see the objects beneath.

The fourth floor rooms were different, having been used for storage and as staff living quarters in distant years, when the Lodge had been in service first as a luxurious family residence and later as an inn. On the fourth floor, at the southwest corner of the Lodge, beside the tower, Beth eyed the last door and told Abby the tour was over. She moved toward the stairs.

"But we didn't see that one," Abby said, thorough as always.

"We're not going in there," Beth said.

"Just to look?" Abby pleaded.

Beth stood facing her daughter. This was ridiculous. How could she expect Abby to go through life avoiding the things she avoided so irrationally? That room carried no significance to anyone but Beth, of something that had happened before her earliest memory. It was the stuff of nightmares, but a child's nightmares. It wasn't something an adult should fear.

She nodded, inserted the key in the lock and turned it.

Her feet wouldn't move her past the threshold. She broke out in a sweat and her pulse thundered in her ears while she let Abby peek into the room, holding her firmly in her grip.

"You're not taking her in there, are you?" a male voice said.

Beth jumped.

Cornell stood on the stair landing several feet down the hall.

Beth drew Abby away, shut the door and removed her key from the lock. "No. You startled me, Cornell."

"I'm sorry." He came closer, looking annoyed with himself. "Mom told me you were showing Abby around. I haven't been in most of these rooms myself in years. Mom goes through them twice a year like clockwork, but she's obsessive about this place. Why did you open it?"

"Abby wanted to peek inside."

"I wouldn't think you'd want to go anywhere near it, especially with her."

"Abby doesn't share my fears, and I see no reason why she should. I thought about taking her inside, but as soon as I had the door open, I ... changed my mind." Her feet had changed her mind.

"Come visit for a while. You don't have to scare up every ghost in the place your first week here. Come on, Abby."

Late that same night, Beth woke with a shriek and sat up in bed, shivering and breathing hard. It took a moment to recall where she was.

She shivered, breathless, still caught in the terror of the dream. She pulled the covers closer to ward off the chill, took deep, slow breaths and told herself it was just a dream.

But she knew this wide-eyed, lingering apprehension. There would be no more sleep tonight, and she'd brought no work or knitting with her. Once she was calmer, she might sleep again. She had to get her mind off the dream.

She turned on the bedside touch lamp and slipped into her robe. She padded down the center stairs, through the lobby, into the library on the left. Her mother kept a stack of paperbacks on a corner shelf near the door. She snatched one off the top without looking at it and started back through the lobby.

"Bad dream?"

Beth jumped away from the murmuring shadow, releasing a sharp cry. It moved out of the darkness at the foot of the stairs into the faint light of the front lampposts shining through the diamond-shaped panes.

"Matt! You scared the hell out of me."

Like her, he was in his robe, barefoot.

"Sorry. I heard you cry out earlier. Then I wondered where you were going at this hour."

This was a hell of a time for him to start speaking to her, in the middle of the night after a nightmare. But his room was next to hers, so it was no surprise he'd heard her.

"I'm sorry I wakened you." She hugged the book. "Excuse me."

He followed her to the stairs. "Doesn't that frighten Abby?"

"What?"

"The screaming. Doesn't it wake her up?"

"Hardly ever. She's a sound sleeper. If I exchanged rooms with Abby, maybe it wouldn't waken you."

"That would put you next to Vicky. I normally only sleep here on weekends. I just wondered if you were okay." He stood beside her on the same step, speaking in a hushed tone. "What do you dream about that frightens you?"

"A shadow, with--" She stopped. Her voice had risen in pitch. "I can't talk about it now."

He watched her for a few seconds. "Well, try to get some sleep." He continued up the stairs ahead of her and into his room.

Chapter 5

Beth made a detailed color drawing of the Lodge from her spot beside the lake the following morning. As she worked, she realized what had been missing yesterday. The flags. The stars and stripes, with the grizzly bear flying below, billowing in a stiff mountain breeze, had been one of her favorite sights as a girl. "What happened to the flagpole?" she said aloud, to herself. She would ask her mother.

She couldn't help glancing around every so often, wondering if Peter would appear. He didn't, and neither he nor Leigh had shared dinner with the family last night, or breakfast this morning. Mealtimes with just the family were grimly silent, Abby's gregarious nature subdued by the implicit tensions. It was her own presence that caused the tension, Beth knew, yet she longed for a break from it.

She glanced up once and spotted Leigh approaching across the sloping meadow from the direction of the Lodge. He waved and shouted good morning. Then he came and stood beside her and studied her work.

"I've never noticed the diamond shapes of the panes reflecting light that way. How does that happen, when they're in shadow? Oh, I see, it would be the reflection off the lake at dawn. You have to know it the way you do, I suppose, having grown up here."

"For some reason I know it better today than I did yesterday. I think even Peter would like this one."

"I think he would wonder why you're painting the Lodge instead of the lake." Beth turned to read his expression. Leigh met her gaze and grinned. "Peter is an honest critic. Objective and analytical."

"Refreshingly honest," she said, grinning. "Where are you from, Leigh?" She began filling in the orchard grass as she listened to the soothing rhythm of his speech.

"I was born in Boston, but I spent most of my childhood in Austria. When I was thirteen and my mother remarried, I came back to live with my father."

"Rita told me you and Peter eat at the Lodge with the family when I'm not here. You're not staying away because of me, are you?"

He put his hands in his pockets, looking uneasy. "Your mother thought the family should have some time to themselves while you're here, to work things out."

"She asked you to stay away?"

"For dinner, at least."

"Don't, please. I'll talk to Mom about it. The family isn't growing any closer without you. We hardly know what to say to one another in private. If you can stand the awkwardness my presence effects, I'd like you to share our meals."

"I would appreciate that. Faith and your sister are rather marvelous cooks, and meals were part of the original agreement with your mother. Sometimes Peter is busy."

She went back to work. "Do you fish, Leigh?"

"You're not what I expected," he said. "I thought you'd be more like Vicky."

"Oh. My father's family were all redheads, and my mother's--"

"That's not what I meant by comparing you to Vicky. After prison, I expected you to be bitter, and I expected you to be more worldly than your sisters, in a crude way, while ... you're rather elegant."

She looked at him in some surprise. "I'm relieved you can say kind things about me, but I am bitter, Leigh. So bitter, I'm amazed I can contain it for any length of time." She brushed off her hands and turned to face him. "My freedom was stolen from me. I didn't understand at the time what made people think I could be so violent. I realize now how damning the evidence was. But things were brought up at the trial, things I know I didn't do or say. They made me sound ... cunning. Even psychotic." She shook her head. "I've learned to keep my bitterness inside."

"Don't you express it, even in your artwork?"

"What purpose would that serve? I find myself wanting to blame someone from time to time, and I rail against the hopelessness of changing the past. Sometimes I'm even angry with God."

"No one knows about the burning inside," he said. "Beth, will you let me make a pencil sketch of you?"

"I suppose."

He nodded, then his expression clouded again. "I've found something I think you ought to see." He turned around and looked in all directions, even up at the dense shrubbery on the hillside that sloped toward the road. Beth waited, itching to resume her work. Finally Leigh spoke again.

"Soon after I came here, my students showed me the pool in the clearing where Ollie Stevens was killed. I thought they were talking about something that happened recently, something they remembered and needed help coping with. That was when I learned about you."

Beth turned away to remove her paper and collapse her easel. She'd suddenly had enough.

Leigh went on. "I developed a morbid fascination with the place, and the murder, and I started researching it. I talked to people, read old newspaper accounts. I learned more details as time went by. Often they were in conflict. For instance, I heard there was a note you wrote Ollie, telling him to meet you there that night, but the note was never found. The Stevens twins had a secret mailbox where they left each other messages, but no one knew where it was. I started thinking how natural it might be that the hiding place was near where the boy was killed, since the two were connected, and I wondered more and more about the notes."

Beth shivered involuntarily.

"I'm sorry," Leigh said. "You don't want to talk about this."

"Go on." She'd finished packing her things and stood listening. She zipped up her jacket.

"I found an old tree near the swimming pool, about thirty yards into the woods. It was hollow, and someone had placed a wooden birdhouse inside it. Inside the birdhouse I found an old tin box, rusted shut. I destroyed it, prying it open. There was a note inside, wrapped in an old plastic bread wrapper. It aroused my curiosity, and I took it home."

He pulled a piece of folded paper out of his shirt pocket. "This is a photocopy. The original is at my cabin." He handed the paper to her furtively, and glanced around again.

Beth's thoughts, which had seemed so lucid earlier, dissolved into a white mist, and she hardly knew how to register what Leigh was saying. She half expected to find one of his drawings on the paper when she unfolded it. But it was a photocopy of a hand-printed note, all in block letters. The second line had been scratched out:

"OLLIE--

IF YOU DON'T STOP BOTHERING

STAY AWAY FROM ME OR I'LL KILL YOU.

BETH"

"I don't understand." Her voice shook. So did her hand. She gave the paper back.

"You didn't write that. The printing isn't yours." He held the paper out to her again.

"I know, but--" She suddenly understood and looked into his eyes. "How do you know it isn't my printing?" She frowned, dispirited and more confused than ever.

He met her gaze. "You said earlier you sometimes want to know who to blame for what happened to you, that you sometimes blame God, that your freedom was stolen. You weren't surprised just now when I said the printing wasn't yours."

"You're taking my word for it? You don't even know me. My own sis--"

He raised his hand. "I saw your printing recently, on the back of a photograph you sent your mother. I'm convinced you didn't write this note. But let's prove you didn't. Give me a sample of your printing."

"Are you a handwriting expert?"

"No. I have a friend, a calligrapher, who studies antique documents. I've mentioned this note to him. He offered to look at it, to compare it with samples, if I could get them."

"When did you find the note?"

"Almost three years ago."

"But it couldn't have still been there, more than twelve years after Ollie died."

"It was sealed in that tin, in plastic, sheltered from the weather."

"But it's not the note they talked about at the trial."

"That one is probably lost forever. There were supposed to be several threatening notes, weren't there? This was most likely written by the killer."

She stared at him again for a moment, then closed her eyes. "If I let myself believe this--" She broke off, afraid to finish the thought. She took a deep breath.

"That you can clear your name?"

She straightened, suddenly decisive. "I want to see the original."

He nodded. "Can you come to my cabin now, and bring a sample of your printing?"

Beth picked up her easel. "I'm sure I have something in my room. Vicky's the only one home."

"No need to tell her where you're going. She won't want to come anyway."

Something in his tone made her curious. "Are you and Vicky romantically involved?"

He nodded. "We were, until shortly before you came home. Her attraction to me has waned in favor of Peter."

Beth dropped her things off in her room. Vicky watched Beth and Leigh leave the lobby together, no doubt convinced Leigh was about to be debauched.

Leigh spoke of the weather and other equally mundane topics while they walked just over a mile and a half to his cabin. It stood nestled in the woods, between fingers of land that reached out into the colder depths of the lake, overshadowed by the bulk of mountains to the south and west. A small beige truck stood in front of it.

"Peter lives there." Leigh nodded in the direction of the furthest cabin as he opened his door for Beth. She glimpsed Peter's blue camper, just visible through the trees to the south, before Leigh closed the door. Then she pulled her samples out of her pocket.

"May I see your artwork, while you compare these with the note? I need a distraction."

He showed her into the smaller room he used as a studio and left her alone to study the drawings and paintings that lined the walls and filled the corners and cabinets. Her opinion improved with each new revelation. Leigh was better than she ever hoped to be. Apart from his sheer talent, she withheld something from her work, the very emotions Leigh couldn't believe she didn't express.

Everything he painted he blessed with honesty. He expressed it all: the stark loneliness of an ancient incense cedar in the cemetery, the frigid depths of the cove outside his own back door, the splash of an osprey plunging feet first for a fish. There was sorrow here. There was danger, exultation and mastery.

Beth dragged her attention away with difficulty when Leigh appeared in the doorway, and she spread her arms as she faced him. "Leigh, you have such treasures here. Have you shown much of your work?"

"Only to friends, and my pupils. I've given quite a lot as gifts."

"What does Peter say about your artwork?"

"He says I'm brutal. I'm not sure what he means. I don't depict any sort of cruelty. Except for the osprey, but that's survival, and Peter kills fish all the time."

"Leigh, do you even know how talented you are?"

"Actually, I do think I'm rather good," he said with a mild smile. "I value your opinion though, because I admire your work so much. Your mother's shown us other drawings and things from time to time, but in portraits you capture spirits."

"For a long time all I did was people and trees."

He smiled mildly. "Peter's favorite is the jacaranda."

She looked away, heartened by that after Peter's criticism yesterday, and perplexed that his opinion meant so much. "My work is tame and banal in comparison. Leigh, don't you want to sell it?" She turned to face him again.

He'd backed away. "No, I think not. Please, choose one of these for yourself. I'll be interested to see which you like."

She chose the drawing of the old cedar tree in the cemetery. It wasn't as dramatic as many of the others, but it was a familiar scene, something from home that she wanted to keep. "Thank you, Leigh."

"Your samples don't match the note. Come see."

Beth sat at his kitchen table and compared the note with her own printing. No one could mistake the printing for hers. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly as she allowed the seed of hope to plant itself in her mind.

"Part of me wants to take it straight to the sheriff," she said, "but in his mind the case is closed. I don't feel right about you and I being the only ones who know about it. Do you mind if we show it to Peter?"

"Do whatever you wish with the note, Beth. You can keep it, or let my friend study it, or turn it over to the sheriff. Of course we can show it to Peter. Shall I call him now?"

"Please, and I do want your friend to look at it. Will you show Peter and me where you found it?"

He phoned Peter, who came at once and listened while Leigh explained how he'd found the note. Then Peter studied Beth's samples briefly, while Beth's tension mounted. She longed to hear him announce that this proved she wasn't a murderer. He remained silent.

The three of them rode together in Peter's truck, parked in front of the Lodge, then walked past the tennis courts and empty stables, across the orchard and main road, to the trail leading into the woods. Where it split, they took the left fork leading alongside the creek. They crossed over a rough wooden footbridge and continued until the mixed forest opened into an oak grove, then into the sunlit clearing where Carter's Creek filled a deep, tranquil pool.

Beth's gaze went directly to the spot where the dead boy had lain, a silent shadow. She paused at the near edge of the clearing, remembering. She'd noticed the gun near his feet, where tiny plants now forced their way out of the soil, preparing to bloom. Moonlight had glinted off the mother-of-pearl grip, enticing her to touch it.

"Beth?" Leigh's voice drew her back to the present. Both men watched her, and she realized she'd been staring at her hand for some time. Peter touched her shoulder. She glanced up, intensely relieved by the contact, believing his touch had the power to anchor her in the present. He didn't speak, but his quiet eyes communicated understanding. Gratitude flooded through her and she moved on, with Peter's hand on her back as he steered her around the edge of the clearing.

An old California black oak stood in the gully Leigh descended. It was fire hollowed on the uphill side. The hollow was large enough for a toddler to stand in, sheltered from view by thick brush and large, scarred rocks. The birdhouse was still there, faded and splintering, on top of a rock that was flat on top and just small enough to have been moved here by two boys.

Leigh removed the rotting lid of the birdhouse and showed his companions the rusted metal flakes.

No one said a word. Leigh replaced the objects and they returned to the clearing.

Beth walked deliberately to the far edge of the clearing and pointed at the ground.

"I found him here," she said. "At first I couldn't tell whether it was Owen or Ollie. They were identical twins. I could usually tell them apart, but that was when they were animated, and it was by expression and mannerism. When I saw the green gloves stuffed under his belt, I realized it could only be Ollie. He never let Owen wear them.

"The gun was there." She pointed at the ground. "I recognized it, and I picked it up. When Owen came running through the trees, he startled me, and I fired it accidentally.

"But not at him, or Ollie, or anyone. I never could--" She stopped, took a breath. "There were seven rounds fired altogether, but only three hit Ollie, two in the arm and one in the chest. They never found any of the other bullets, but I know the clip was full earlier that day."

"Earlier that day?" Leigh cast a furtive glance at Peter.

Beth nodded. "I'd found my father's desk drawer jimmied open that afternoon. The gun was kept in it. I checked the gun, then I locked his office. Matt came in while I was there and asked what I was doing. I said I was going to shoot someone. It was a stupid thing to say, but as kids we joked around that way sometimes, trying to scare each other.

"I forgot about finding the desk broken into. So did Matt. I didn't mention it again until after I was arrested. They thought I broke open the desk and took the gun to shoot Ollie. That made no sense, because I had a key to it.

"They found residue on my hands. The note they said I'd written Ollie, telling him to meet me, was still here somewhere, according to Owen. The sheriff and prosecutor theorized the wind blew it away." She glanced at each of the men. "I remember it as a hot, still night, with a full moon and no wind."

She turned away, wondering why she bothered to tell this. She hated to even think about it. "I never wrote those notes. I didn't kill Ollie."

"Why were you out here that night?" Peter asked.

She hung her head. These memories exhausted her. "I used to walk at night when I couldn't sleep. My mother discouraged it, but it was as if I had the world out here to myself. She'd forbidden me to go out that night, after Vicky accused me of planning to. Something wakened me, though, and I couldn't get back to sleep. A noise, pea gravel hitting the window. I wanted to obey my mother, but I heard someone run off into the brush." What was she forgetting? She brushed sweat from her upper lip, sighed, and moved away to lean against a tree, holding her head.

"It's all right," Peter said. "You don't have to talk about it."

"I do. I want you to understand." She pointed through the woods. "I was back that way, closer to the bridge, when I heard the shots. I ran toward them instead of away." She met Peter's look, couldn't read his expression. "I didn't sense any danger. I thought it was a poacher, and I was indignant, as if I owned the place." She shook her head, looking down at the ground.

"People heard you threaten Ollie earlier that day," Leigh said.

She nodded. "Ollie used to deliberately frighten me. That's a whole story in itself. That afternoon was different though. He pushed me into the lake when I was wearing a wristwatch my father gave me. I wasn't frightened, I was angry. I thought the watch was ruined, and it was the last gift my father gave me before he died. I told Ollie I hated him and I'd kill him if he came near me again. I didn't mean it, it was--"

She caught her breath, remembering something else. "He said, 'I got your love note.' At the trial I thought Owen was making the notes up. Especially when he wouldn't say where the secret mailbox was."

She stopped talking, worried she sounded more crazy by the minute. She looked at Peter, who shifted his gaze to meet hers. The lines of his face softened and he motioned to her. "You'll be expected back."

They left with Peter in the lead and Leigh at the rear. Where the trail widened enough, they walked abreast with Beth in the middle. They moved at a leisurely pace, mostly in silence, with the dappled sunlight that played through the branches above waving on their shoulders. When they left the trail and crossed the main road again, they skirted the orchard and approached the Lodge and Peter's truck from the lake road. The cars in the parking lot indicated the others were back from church.

Leigh retrieved the drawing he'd given Beth from the cab of Peter's truck, and handed it to Peter. "She chose the cemetery. I need to find Emily before lunch and take care of next month's rent. Excuse me." Leigh hurried toward the Lodge, pausing to wave at Vicky, who stood at Rita's upstairs window looking out.

"Uh-oh." Peter turned and leaned against his truck door, facing the lake and Beth with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You've been seen with me again. You're in for it now."

"So you know my sister's attracted to you?"

"I wouldn't call it attraction. It's more like fishing. Vicky goes after a lot of fish, but the one fish she's caught she never bothered to reel in."

Beth broke into a grin. "What does that mean? Does everything come down to fishing, with you?"

"Not everything." Peter sobered and looked at the lake.

"What are you doing here, Peter?"

He handed her the drawing, held her gaze as his hand brushed hers. "I already answered that question. Have you seen Gabriel?"

"No. It's only been a day since I told you I would."

"I'm impatient."

She started toward the Lodge. He fell into step beside her.

"I haven't baited my hook, Peter."

"You don't need bait. You have allure."

She avoided looking at him, but couldn't resist a smile at his audacity. His nearness insinuated itself on her awareness, wrapped up with an explicit pleasure. He was impossible to ignore.

Beth sliced bread, for lunch, while Rita made sandwiches and Emily tossed a big green salad.

Jack sat at the table with the newspaper and a freshly opened beer in front of him. Leigh's drawing of the cemetery lay on the table as well.

Jack laughed at it. "The cemetery. Isn't that a bit ghoulish, Beth? I know Leigh has macabre tastes, but I thought prison would have cured you of that."

Beth handed her sister two slices, then followed Rita's gaze. Cornell, Matt, Peter and Leigh stood in a half-circle out on the porch, talking. Abby hung onto Matt's hand. The kitchen door stood open and the four men and little girl had just turned their heads in this direction.

"Don't you ever think before you speak, Jack?" Rita said.

Jack leaned toward her, narrowed his eyes and said quietly, "I always do."

Emily carried the salad to the table, picked up Leigh's drawing and shook her head at it. "I don't understand why he gave you this one. Surely he's done something more cheerful."

Beth said nothing, considering this came from the woman who'd recommended she read Anna Karenina in prison, after attempting suicide. None of Leigh's subjects appeared to have stepped in front of a moving train.

"Take it up to Beth's room for her, Jack, before it gets soiled. Call the others. Lunch is ready."

Chapter 6

The ancient incense cedar that still stood sentinel over the cemetery was a giant with lace-like foliage, a heavily buttressed trunk, and cinnamon colored bark scarred by time. Its trunk was five feet thick and generously dotted with woodpecker holes, some filled with acorns from neighboring oaks. The top of the tree was dead, the victim of a lightning strike. Thick newer branches stuck out at right angles to the trunk, and shot upward to form a graceful canopy of flat green fronds. The tree grew several feet from the farthest of the graves, on the slope of the hill that rose gently to the west beyond the burial place.

Beth carried three white rosebuds from her car. She lay the first on her father's grave and the second on the new mound of Jay Handley's. She sat on the ground beside Jay's grave, recalling the last few conversations she'd had with him, fifteen years ago. Than she got up and searched for Ollie Stevens' grave and placed the third rosebud on it.

She would've left then, but she suddenly remembered too clearly the sight of the boy lying dead in the moonlit clearing. She pulled a tissue out of her jacket pocket, dried her eyes, turned back toward the parking lot and stopped. Peter's camper was parked beside her car, partially obscuring it from view. She glanced around, then turned full circle, searching for him among the headstones and the trees. She spotted him leaning against the trunk of the old cedar, with his head back, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes focused upward. Beth watched him until he looked at her and waved. Taking that for an invitation, she climbed the slight incline.

He wore faded blue jeans, and a T-shirt under the familiar plaid shirt, which was unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up. Beth wondered if he ever felt the cold.

"Roses," he said when she stood beside him. "Your mother's aren't blooming yet. Did you get those in town?"

"No, I robbed the vase in the dining room. That's part of my agreement with Mom. I don't have to go into town while I'm here."

"Where's Abby?"

"With Holly and Vicky." Beth shrugged. She turned and placed a hand on the bark of the big tree. "When I was a girl, I thought this tree was hallowed, sacrosanct, what God would be if He were a tree." She turned and leaned against the tree to watch him, basking in his smile. "What are you doing here?"

The smile became a pained expression. "You keep asking me that."

"I mean here by this tree, right now."

"Oh." He looked away.

"If you prefer to be alone, I can leave. I was about to."

"I'd like you to stay." He met her gaze again.

"Do you have an office in town, Peter?"

"I don't think most city doctors would call it an office. It's the old barbershop." He gestured toward his truck. "There's also my portable office, and I work three days a week at the hospital in McGuffey. I came here on vacation, during the summer. I camped and fished until the weather turned; then I talked your mother into renting me the cabin for the winter." He shot her a quick glance. "I've been looking around for more space, where I can have a staff. Suitable properties are scarce."

"I'm surprised you haven't persuaded my mother to lease you my father's clinic, at the Lodge."

He was shaking his head. "I've discussed it with her. She doesn't want to."

After a moment's silence, she said, "I'm having trouble with my decision to only stay four weeks." Beth stole a glance at those blue eyes.

"Sounds like we have the same problem."

"Not exactly." Hers had no solution.

He straightened, moved away from the tree and stood facing her. "The murder?"

"What else is there? It's all people here think about when they see me."

"There's lots else, Beth. What do you have, where you're living now?"

She sighed. "A partnership in a successful business, a little girl who happily divides her time between her father's house and mine, a house in a quiet neighborhood, and financial security. The downside is that my work is suffering because I'm not sure whether it's really what I should be doing with my life, my life is suffering because I feel burned out, and I've always disliked living in the city."

"Whereas here you have...?"

"Here I have a lot of people who don't want me around; a reputation as a murderer and, apparently, a loose woman; a few people who do want me. And yet, here I feel whole, natural. I just can't stay." She fell silent, depressed again.

"I'm divided between city and country," Peter said, "between living near family and fishing from my back porch. Between a polluted environment and a pristine one, between a stressful position on a hospital staff where I could stay busy earning a considerable income, and a small family practice that may be satisfying but may not pay the rent. Between memories, and possibilities.

"Let's vote," he said. "If you want Beth to stay, raise your hand." He raised his. So did she. He lifted his eyebrows. "It's unanimous."

She laughed. "If you want Peter to stay, raise your hand." The result was the same. "We both knew what we wanted all along." She noticed him watching her hands, and she fell silent, self-conscious. She pushed away from the tree. "I have to go. See you at dinner."

"Beth."

She stopped. She didn't want to leave. But he was about to get serious. She'd seen it in his eyes, and her instinct was to run.

"There's something I've wanted to ask ever since I met you." He caught one of her hands in his, frowned at it with a caution approaching tenderness. Then he rubbed his thumb across the lengthwise scars on her wrist. "Why did you do this?" He looked into her eyes.

Beth felt frozen to the spot, her gaze locked with his.

Why? She worked in a business where she used her hands, shook hands with people, gave presentations, handled fabric in the presence of employees, vendors and customers. Dozens of people saw her hands every day. She saw them notice, then steal the first opportunity to look more closely. She recalled Dan tracing the scars on one wrist with his fingertip one night when he thought she slept, and she recalled the expression on his face when he'd looked up to find her watching him and she'd pulled her hand away.

"No one's ever asked," she said.

Peter released her hand and dropped with ease onto the ground, patted the earth beside him, then draped his long arms over his raised knees and waited, peering up at her.

She leaned against the tree, afraid to sit. She realized letting go of the restraints that contained her memories was the only way to give an answer that would satisfy him. He'd see through anything else.

"Jack would call it one of my flirtations with death. If I'd succeeded, I would've been buried here." She slid ungracefully to the ground and looked over the graves.

"It was the night after Owen Stevens testified that he saw me shoot his brother. I knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth that I'd be convicted. I could see it in the jury's and judge's eyes, even in my attorney's. None of them would look at me.

"I felt abandoned, hopeless, and desperate to put an end to my fear of being locked in a small dark cell somewhere."

She glanced at Peter. The look in his eyes pushed the feelings back into the past for a few seconds.

"They'd been watching me since I was first arrested, but I never considered suicide before that day. The impulse was sudden, and the opportunity arose immediately, because of a near riot outside the jail. I took that as a sign it was meant somehow.

Beth