He moved his mouth as if chewing gum though he was chewing on nothing but annoyance with her. “Why are you living on Islehaven?”
“I’ve told you why.”
“You didn’t tell me the full story.”
“The full story is also none of your business.”
“I want to know. I’m curious.”
“Well. Like with the”—she made air quotes—“bettercoffee, food, alcohol, sheets, clothes, and Wi-Fi . . . you can’t always get what you want.”
Shaking his kingly head, he steered the truck down her pock-marked driveway.
“It will smooth out soon,” she said, “but we’re going to be late for your hypnosis appointment if you continue driving at two miles an hour.”
“Is Maureen booked solid with hypnosis appointments today?”
“It’s the principle of the thing. I don’t like to be late.”
He’d set his shoulders in the way that indicated he was bracing for discomfort.
“I respect that you’re trying to protect your ribs,” she continued, “but we could probably stand to go as fast as seven miles an hour.”
“This is why I insisted on driving. Two miles an hour is as fast as I can go on this track that can’t even be called a road. What did you do, come out here with a pickaxe to make the surface as rough as possible?”
“Yes. That’s what I did.”
“The tire pressure is all wrong. The truck’s alignment is way off. The brakes are shot. And it’s not responsive at all.”
“You know,” she mused, ignoring his grumbling, “I can walk more than two miles an hour.”
When they hit a more level stretch, he visibly relaxed and accelerated. Then accelerated more.
She wrinkled her nose. He’d been so slow at first that it was shocking to discover he had a lead foot. He was going fifty. She’d never gone over thirty-five here. “Not to be a pest, but I now think you’re going a little too fast.”
“Women. Impossible to please.”
Thanks to the very fast driving that followed his very slow driving, Jonah was pleased to see that they’d arrived at Maureen’s slightly ahead of schedule. One less thing for Remy to nag him about.
Maureen met them at the door of her small house and waved them inside. No taller than five foot one, she looked to be around seventy, with a round white face and short hair dyed black. Her living room was covered in shades of brown and dotted with chicken statues, a chicken print throw blanket, a chicken vase on top of a chicken coffee table book.
Remy remained behind as Maureen led him to a back room. More brown, except here she had a desk, sewing machine, chaise lounge, and shelves holding a collection of teapots shaped like chickens.
“So.” She spoke in a kind, reedy voice. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable here.” She indicated the chaise.
He did so, feeling like an idiot. His feet hung off the end.
She pulled the squeaky desk chair even with his face. “Many years ago, I benefited from hypnosis when struggling to quit smoking. After that, I began an in-depth study of it. Though I’m not a certified hypnotherapist, I really love it. And chickens.”
A bubble of laughter caught in his throat. How was this his life? Stuck on this island with these females? Being put under by an amateur hypnotherapist?
What. Was. Happening.
Was it possible Remy had drugged and kidnapped him after all? Was this an elaborate prank? Purgatory?
“Anyway,” she went on, “I like to think I’ve brought some healing to people here on Islehaven.”
“I’m sure you have,” he said politely, though he couldn’t imagine that outcome.
