So she ran, without thought of destination, through the trees, through the dark, with images flipping hideously through her head.
The photograph of her mother, coming to life. The eyes opening. Confusion, fear, pain. The mouth stretching wide for a scream.
Pain stabbed into Jo’s side like a knife. She gripped it, whimpering, and kept running.
On the sand now, with the ocean crashing. Her breath heaved out of her lungs. She fell once, hitting hard on her hands and knees, only to scramble up and stumble back into a run. She only knew she had to get away, to run away from the pain and this horribly tearing sorrow.
She heard someone call her name, and the sound of feet pounding the sand behind her. She nearly tripped again, righted herself, then turned to fight.
“Jo, honey, what is it?” Clad in only a robe, her hair streaming wet from the shower, Kirby hurried toward her. “I was out on the deck and saw you—”
“Don’t touch me!”
“All right.” Instinctively, Kirby lowered her voice, gentled it. “Why don’t you come up to the house? You’ve hurt yourself. Your hands are bleeding.”
“I . . .” Confused, Jo looked down, saw the scrapes and the slow trickle of blood on the heels of her hands. “I fell.”
“I know. I saw you. Come on up. I’ll clean them for you.”
“I don’t need—they’re all right.” She couldn’t even feel her hands. Then her legs began to tremble, her head began to spin. “He killed my mother. Kirby, he murdered my mother. She’s dead.”
Cautiously, Kirby moved closer until she could slide a supporting hand around Jo’s waist. “Come with me. Come home with me now.” When Jo sagged, she led her across the sand. Glancing back, she saw Nathan standing a few yards away. In the moonlight their eyes met briefly. Then he turned and walked away into the dark.
“I feel sick,” Jo murmured. Sensation was creeping back, tiny needle pricks all over her skin, and with it the greasy churning in her stomach.
“It’s all right. You need to lie down. Lean on me and we’ll get you inside.”
“He killed her. Nathan knew. He told me.” It felt as if she were floating now, up the steps, in the door of the cottage. “My mother’s dead.”
Saying nothing, Kirby helped Jo onto the bed, put a light blanket over her. She was beginning to tremble with shock now. “Slow breaths,” Kirby ordered. “Concentrate on breathing. I’m just going in the other room for a moment. I’m going to get something to help you.”
“I don’t need anything.” Fresh panic snaked through her, and she gripped Kirby’s hand hard. “No sedatives. I can get through this. I can. I have to.”
“Of course you can.” Kirby eased onto the bed and took Jo’s wrist to check her pulse. “Are you ready to tell me about it?”
“I have to tell someone. I can’t tell my family yet. I can’t face that yet. I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what to feel.”
The pulse rate was slowing, and Jo’s pupils were returning to normal. “What did Nathan say to you, Jo?”
Jo stared at the ceiling, focused on it, centered herself on it. “He told me that his father had murdered my mother.”
“Dear God.” Horrified, Kirby lifted Jo’s hand to her cheek. “How did it happen?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I couldn’t listen. I didn’t want to listen. He said his father killed her, that he kept a journal. Nathan found it, and he came back here. I slept with him.” Tears trickled out of her eyes, slid away. “I slept with the son of my mother’s murderer.”
Calm was needed now, Kirby knew. And cool logic. The wrong word, the wrong tone, and she was afraid Jo would break in her hands. “Jo, you slept with Nathan. You cared for Nathan, and he for you.”
“He knew. He came back here knowing what his father had done.”
“And that must have been terribly hard for him.”
“How can you say that?” Furious, Jo pushed herself onto her elbows. “Hard for him?”
“And courageous,” Kirby said softly. “Jo, how old would he have been when your mother died?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Nine or ten, I imagine. Just a little boy. Are you going to blame the little boy?”
