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  Shel glanced around the kitchen at the plastic childproof locks on the bottom row of cupboards. Hell, even the outlets had plastic safety covers. Perhaps Kathleen Fortier had had a lobotomy; perhaps she had amnesia. Either way, she was nothing like the person her husband had described. He was probably the liar—but why all the lies? What did Kathleen have that he so badly wanted? Why did she want away from him? Shel was desperate for the truth.

  She found herself staring at her pile of wet clothes heaped on the doormat. A bad, slow-growing idea was gaining momentum as she crossed the floor and retrieved her jeans from the heap. She unrolled them and plunged her hand into one pocket, withdrawing the tiny bag. She peeled apart the zipper opening and shook it into her hand and caught herself staring at it for too long. It was easy to remember the warm, cozy feeling they used to give her—a nice, fuzzy, floaty relaxation.

  During her days as an undercover, she’d witness fellow punks administering various drugs to one another because it made them “chill.” She didn’t fully understand this until after she’d been shot. How nicely Percocet had come to her rescue, settling in, cozying up, lessening the pain—physical and emotional—and indeed she chilled. It was with drug-enabled courage that she’d told her boss where to shove the job without giving it a second thought. Percs made her loose, careless…

  She set the pill on the counter and chucked the empty plastic bag into her wet jeans pocket, then reballed and dropped her clothes back onto the mat, just as they were. Operating in stealth mode, she padded back to the counter and began to move around the kitchen, hunting through the drawers for a spoon. She located one and used it to crush the pill into tiny granules, careful not to send any particles flying. She brushed them into a neat pile then dumped about half, then on second thought, a little more into Kathleen’s glass.

  She mentally reviewed Percocet, or Oxy, as they’d called at the clinic where she’d detoxed. Aside from its sedation and pain management, the drug created a dangerously low dip in brain function. Lying was a very high-level functioning activity. She figured for the average, nonaddicted person of small stature, Percocet would serve as a low-level truth serum. It was just as Rob had intended it to be. At very least it would dramatically lower her host’s inhibitions.

  Shel disposed of the residue in the sink drain and ran water to wash it down, then scrubbed the countertop clean with a paper towel. She twirled the spoon in the glass, careful to avoid clinking against the sides. She ran the spoon under hot water, dried it, and replaced it in the silverware drawer. Shel raised the glass, examined it against the light. Were it store-bought wine sans the floaters, the operation would have been a total fail.

  “That for me, I hope?” Kathleen’s voice caused her to lurch, even slosh the wine a little. Shel quickly recovered and handed the little glass to her smiling hostess. They raised and clinked glasses and Kathleen took a sip. She grimaced then weakly smiled. “It’s not the best wine I’ve ever had. In fact, it’s rather bad.”

  “It’ll do,” Shel said. She held her own glass to the candlelight, gave it a good look. “You said you got this at work?”

  “Yeah. Maybe I should have left it there.” Her eyes flitted to the front window and the storm raging outside.

  Shel moved to intervene before the woman again became lost to her concern over the weather. She motioned toward the couch. “You want to sit down?”

  “Sure. Yes.”

  Kathleen transported their meager light source, followed by Shel who was toting the jug of wine. They arranged the glasses and oversized rustic decanter on the table in front of the couch. Like clockwork they sat down, each carefully minding her personal space, though likely for different reasons. Shel cautiously sipped her wine, which wasn’t good, but surely better than Kathleen’s. The crushed half-pill would have hers tasting very bitter. Shel kept her voice low as to not disturb the child in the next room. “So where do you work that they pay you in wine?”

  Kathleen chuckled unexpectedly then smiled. “The art gallery near the city dock. They generally don’t pay me in liquid, thank God, or else I would be insulted by this particular…” Her voice faded and she held her tiny glass up to the candlelight, swirled it, floaters and all. “What do you suppose this is, anyway?”

  “Something comparable to bathtub gin.” Shel gave an innocent shrug after winning yet another sweet laugh from her hostess. Encouraged that the woman was feeling more comfortable despite the storm, she added, “Great glasses, by the way.”

  “Here’s to Goodwill, right?”

  Shel wondered if the medicine was already at work. She raised her glass and tipped back another sour sip, all the while wondering why a millionaire’s wife would be buying jelly jars from Goodwill and sipping bad, homemade wine. Kathleen eyed the drink with suspicion, causing Shel’s heart to beat a bit faster. Kathleen’s floaters were obviously white, and Shel wondered if she’d noticed the difference in this poor light. Shel lifted the jug and quickly poured another inch into both glasses with hopes of further diluting the white specks. Kathleen arched an eyebrow.

  “I see you’re a woman who likes to live on the edge, floaters and all. How brave of you.”

  “Indeed,” Shel said, lifting her own glass again. “Cheers.”

  Another sip, another round of shudders.

  “So, what do you do at the art place?” Shel asked upon her recovery.

  “At the art gallery,” Kathleen politely emphasized the correction. She smiled. “I paint.”

  “You’re an artist?” Shel faked a reasonable level of surprise at the news. “Impressive. Are you good?”

  Kathleen shrugged. “I hope so. It’d be nice if Addison James could sell enough work to keep the kid in juice boxes.”

  It was an odd third-person remark that sounded more like a wish than an actual statement. Shel mentally filed it away and moved ahead. “How long have you been in Naples?”

  “Not long.”

  “Where are you from originally?” Shel tested the strength of the drug and the level of Kathleen’s resistance to it.

  “Florida,” Kathleen answered after a few seconds. Shel tried to avoid looking outwardly disappointed. She questioned the strength of the pill and then considered that Kathleen might be such a seasoned liar, she believed her own lies. Not even real truth serum could bust through a deluded frame of mind. The quickness of her reply had Shel again leaning toward Richard Fortier’s side of the story once again. It was tough to keep score. Just as she was wishing she’d had two pills instead of one, Kathleen spoke up. “So I was glad to come back.”

  “Oh?” Slow growing hope was building within Shel. “Where else have you lived?”

  Kathleen frowned, and after some hesitation answered, “Louisiana.”

  “Good.” Shel’s strange reply was issued in a low, comforting tone. She subtly encouraged her conversation. “Let me guess—you were one of those girls who got hitched and forever left your hometown behind?” When Kathleen gave her a funny look, Shel explained, “That’s the way it usually goes, right?”

  “I never wanted to leave Florida,” Kathleen firmly answered. She looked Shel straight in the eyes, said, “And I’ve never been married.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Shel stared at Kathleen, trying to comprehend the lie that had just tumbled from such perfect, lush lips. She shook her head.

  “But you have a child.”

  Kathleen bit her lower lip and demurely smiled. “Well, anyone can have a child.”

  “I s-suppose,” Shel stammered, making quick physical assessment of the woman sitting beside her. Kathleen’s pupils were dilated, her posture was notably more relaxed—it appeared the drug had taken effect. It wasn’t a perfect system. Shel didn’t care that her next question was a bold one. “Then how did you…?”

  “How are those things normally done?” She was again being coy, but Shel was quickly tiring of her flirtatious game. The game part of it annoyed her; the flirtatious part turned her on. Both reactions were making
her angry at the moment. Perhaps Kathleen could tell. She ceased the batting eyelashes and coy behavior, softly admitting, “I was in a relationship, but it went bad.”

  “How so?”

  Kathleen looked away, reached for her pseudo wineglass and took the last sip. “It just did.”

  Shel pressed on. “So the father has visitation rights, I take it?”

  “The biological father has no right,” Kathleen suddenly snapped. Her stance and expression were defensive, yet different from what Shel had witnessed when they first met that strange, late night. This was a combination of hurt, fear, perhaps a hint of righteousness, and those aqua eyes contained nothing short of plain hatred for the man about whom she spoke. Shel held her cold gaze unflinchingly until at last Kathleen said, “He takes anything he wants and he always wins, but not this time.”

  “This time?” Shel’s breath caught in her throat. She carefully pursued the odd comment. “Tell me about the other times.”

  Kathleen looked away, recouping her composure, her eyes quickly softening nearly to tears. Now it was her turn to blink and stammer. She appeared to be attempting to collect her thoughts and habitually ran her fingertips along the plunging dress collar. In the dim candlelight Shel discovered a very useful tool: Kathleen Fortier got blotchy when she was nervous. Hives.

  Shel pushed ahead, leading with a promise that was a bold-faced lie. “I’m not going to judge you. You can tell me.”

  Kathleen abruptly yawned and slowly blinked, and Shel realized that it was likely she’d unnecessarily drugged a woman who was already too easy to read. She set about doing damage control, gathering their glasses and taking them to the kitchen sink. There she rinsed them thoroughly, scrubbing her finger along Kathleen’s jelly jar glass, eliminating the last of the pill residue. She rinsed it several times before filling it with water. She quickly crossed the small room and handed it to Kathleen, calculating only a small window of time before the woman nodded off. Shel forged ahead.

  “Start by telling me why you left Florida in the first place.”

  “I was very young.” Kathleen said after several welcome gulps of water. A melancholy expression came over her as she launched into her quiet narrative. “My parents were killed in an accident and I went to live with an aunt and uncle in Louisiana. I’d never met them before landing on their doorstep.”

  Shel noticed Kathleen didn’t again touch her neck, but it remained blotchy making it difficult to know if it was the lies, the wine or the South Florida heat without the benefit of electric air.

  “How old were you?” Shel encouraged the conversation.

  “Twelve,” Kathleen sleepily answered.

  “Were they good to you?”

  “They were okay. They just didn’t really know what to do with a kid.” She looked away, her eyes telling of great pain. “They weren’t very good comfort to me after my parents died, but they were there, and that counts for something.”

  “That must have been a sad time for you.” Shel wanted to keep her talking. “What did you do?”

  “I painted. I wanted to be an artist like my mother. I eventually got an art scholarship and I enrolled in college.”

  “Your mother was an artist. I like that,” Shel said with genuine admiration. “And your Louisiana family, do you see them now?”

  She shook her head. “They died in Hurricane Katrina.”

  Her story lent validity to Fortier’s tale and certainly gave him points. It was tough to believe that a madwoman could possibly be wrapped in this beautiful package, sitting next to her on a couch in Naples. Still, Shel would be foolish to discount the notion. She spoke up, offering her condolences. “I’m sorry.”

  “That was long ago.” Kathleen appeared distant. “Do you believe everyone gets what they deserve?”

  “I’m sorry? Explain that one to me.” Shel leaned slightly forward, but failed to capture Kathleen’s gaze. “Do you mean your relatives deserved to die?”

  “No, oh no...” She was barely making sense. “Do you believe in karma?”

  Helpless to her own honest reaction, Shel answered, “To some degree I feel I’ve lived karma.”

  “I hope I haven’t. I’d wonder what I’d done to deserve…” Kathleen’s voice drifted off reflecting an apparent change of heart concerning what she was about to say. Her eyes flicked back to Shel. “Never mind. It’s really nothing.”

  Kathleen’s speech had become slightly slurred, which made Shel nervous. There was more information to be harvested and this was her best—possibly only—chance. Again she grabbed the glass and refilled it in the kitchen sink. She returned and handed it to her hostess, who drank the water like she’d just come off the Sahara.

  “More?” Shel asked her.

  Kathleen shook her head and Shel sat down next to her. She noticed the woman had scooted somewhat closer to her, which also had her nervous, but Shel pressed ahead with her mission. “I have a question for you.”

  In such close physical proximity, there was no room for lies. Shel alternately monitored Kathleen’s expression and her hive-prone skin in the candlelight. She lunged ahead. “The night I came over here—after the scream, what had happened? Tell me the truth.”

  Kathleen’s lips moved, but no words came. Finally, she whispered, “Harper.”

  “What’s wrong with Harper?”

  Kathleen grew tearful, whispered, “She has nightmares.”

  Shel knew the feeling all too well, but wondered what the child could have seen in her young life to inspire such trauma. “What kinds of nightmares.”

  “About…someone breaking into the house. Then he tries to hurt us.”

  “Why?” Shel scooted slightly closer, kept eye contact. “Why is she afraid?”

  “For the same reason I am.” Kathleen’s voice broke.

  Shel refused to dismiss her gaze. “Who scares you so much?”

  Her own eyes locked on Kathleen’s, but Shel was continually sidetracked by beautiful lips that were flushed and swollen from bad wine. She found her gaze drifting lower as she imagined what soft curves existed beneath the thin, shapeless dress. She tried to put it out of her mind given the importance of her task.

  “I can’t talk about it.” Kathleen’s low, disturbed voice indicated she’d probably only meant to think, not verbalize the statement.

  “Please, trust me.” It was an absurd statement coming from Shel, who’d neither trusted, nor received real trust in her life. Her sudden unexplainable shift of instincts occurred in congruence with her rapidly realigning allegiance. It terrified her. Her stomach fluttered at the sound of her own raspy words. “I’d like to help you.”

  “I know you mean well,” Kathleen said, never removing her stare from Shel. “But I’m afraid nobody can help us.”

  Shel’s eyes felt dry and her mouth twitched. Her body felt tingly in an unfamiliar physical response to an urge so strong, it was downright painful.

  The underlying insecurity in Kathleen’s eyes was steadily devoured by her apparent desire to share her secret. At last she said, “Someone was quite awful to us.”

  Shel reached her hand across the couch and covered Kathleen’s. It was obvious that drugged, Kathleen’s restraint was perilously out of check. She craved comfort and Shel craved nothing more than to provide it. She willed herself to put the notion aside for the sake of the case, but found herself speaking out of turn.

  “Come here,” she whispered. She swallowed hard, awkwardly slipped an arm around Kathleen. Her next words were undoubtedly the most foreign to tumble from Shel’s lips. “It’s okay.”

  Kathleen’s eyes never left Shel’s. Whatever internal war waging within her at last reached its conclusion and her shoulders caved slightly forward. Shel gently nudged her closer still until the woman’s rigid body was against hers.

  “Breathe,” Shel whispered.

  Within moments, she felt Kathleen relax somewhat. Kathleen raised soft eyes to Shel and at once the space between them vanished along with every last dr
op of self-possession. Warm lips collided, sending tongues exploring, first tentatively, then hungrily. Shel weaved fingertips through Kathleen’s still damp hair, encouraging and deepening their connection until their lips parted and they gasped for breath. Eyes searched each other, channeling and receiving unspoken permission to advance their passion. They kissed again.

  The warmth felt beneath Shel’s robe resonated throughout her entire body, causing harried, awkward movement on her part. She moved her arm behind Kathleen and easily scooped the woman onto her lap. With small encouragement, Kathleen gracefully straddled Shel, hiking the hem of her sundress up enough to lean into her. Shel untied the robe sash and parted the opening, allowing Kathleen to writhe against underwear that was damp from both the rain and their escalating passion, making her wish she’d removed them after all.

  Kathleen emitted a needy moan and Shel shifted her leg slightly to allow her to press even closer. She ran a hand along the springy elastic top of the Kathleen’s sundress then pulled it down to reveal her soft flesh. The candlelight created a glowing outline of Kathleen’s thin form and softly illuminated perfect breasts. Shel cupped one then dipped her head enough to capture the hard nipple in her mouth. She suckled her, cupping a hand beneath Kathleen’s bottom, assisting her rhythmic movement. Shel felt an explosion rising within as Kathleen groaned.

  A sharp scream disrupted their frenzy. Their bodies tensed and ceased all movement. Kathleen quickly pulled back and nearly toppled off Shel’s lap. Her eyes were wide with horror as the sum total of their frenetic actions seemed to hit her. With muttered apology and obvious embarrassment, she covered her front, pulling up the top of her dress as she stumbled and recovered and then hurried off in the direction of the child’s bedroom.

  Left alone, Shel gazed down at her own disheveled state. The robe hung open revealing her long, pale body, and plain, standard- issue white underwear. Her head dropped against the back of the couch timed to her remorseful sigh. She’d been abruptly expelled from a passion best never engaged in the first place. Slowly, she stood and straightened and retied the robe sash, mentally consoling her sex-starved body. No matter her painful discomfort, Shel could see past the physical urge enough to realize it felt different. It wasn’t about sex. It was something more.