No One Knows Part 21

"Oh, Tyler," she said. Her heart really did hurt for him. What he went through trying to get and stay clean she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy. It was hell. He got so very sick.

"Come in. What do you need?"

"It's that obvious?"

"You forget, we've done this before."

He tried for a smile, but only managed a grimace. He stepped into the house, and she shut the door behind him.

"Couch or bed?" she asked.

"Couch."

She got him settled in the living room. "What happened?

"Got waylaid by a friend, looking for info on Derek Allen. I'm sorry."

"Why didn't you go to the clinic?"

"Did."

"So you have the methadone? Why haven't you taken it?"

"Did," he said again. "Isn't working. Not like it should."

He started to shiver. She covered him with an afghan, got him a glass of water and the tall plastic wastepaper basket lined with a trash bag. He was in for a rough night.

"Were you able to find anything-"

But Tyler was gone, passed out cold.

Aubrey supposed this was penance. She vacillated between love and hate for Tyler. The hate all stemmed from the fact that he knew her, knew what her life had been, what she'd been through, in ways Josh never had. She'd never told Josh what happened. She'd never spoken of it to anyone.

But Tyler knew. Tyler knew she'd been sullied. It was like everything that had happened to her was a result of her past. If she'd kept the door closed that night, she would have led a completely different life, with a completely different outcome. Most importantly, Josh might still be alive.

If only.

She got Tyler some water and retrieved her spaghetti. She ate in the kitchen, not wanting to sicken him with the smell if he woke up. The food was so good. She ate like she hadn't eaten in years, with gusto. She even had seconds. Then she cleaned the kitchen and tiptoed into the living room. Tyler was still asleep but restless, a fine sheen of sweat covering his face.

She took her laptop and went to her bedroom. Tyler would wake soon enough, needing food or water or the bucket emptied. She'd take advantage of the lull to send a note to Chase. Just a quick Hey, how are you? I'm home. Call me.

Meghan didn't want her to mention anything about Josh, not just yet. Aubrey felt like she was going to go mad, waiting. After five years, she finally had a spark of hope, and she didn't want to wait any longer. If she hadn't known all the parts of him, there was such possibility. She'd spent five years having to believe he was dead, for that was the only way he'd abandon her. But what if . . . ?

She made a promise to herself. She wouldn't hide from Chase. She'd tell him all of her story, all the blank spots she'd glossed over, and let the chips fall where they may.

Before she started to type, the phone rang. It was Chase. As if she'd summoned him from thin air.

With a smile, she answered. "Hey. How are you tonight?"

"Fine. All good. Did you have a nice run?"

"How'd you know I went for a run?"

"You're out of the hospital before dark, that's why."

"Wow. You already know me so well. What time is your flight tomorrow?"

"I'll be there in the afternoon. I have a car, don't worry about picking me up. Aubrey-" He broke off, and she heard something odd in his tone. "We need to talk."

Her heart started beating double time. "About what?"

"Just . . . things. I have something I want to say, but I want to do it in person. Okay?"

She fought to keep the tears from her voice. "If you're breaking up with me, you can do it now and save the plane fare."

"Whoa, no. That's not it."

"Then what is it?"

"Tomorrow, honey. I have to go now. Sweet dreams, okay?"

"Yeah, you, too." She hung up the phone and started to cry in earnest.

She couldn't lose him now. Not now. Not when everything was starting to come together.

She opened her email again, planning again to send him a note.

And saw a new mail, from an unknown address. With only two words in the subject line: He's alive.

Her heart took off. She clicked on the mail. It took a moment to pull up. The image began to scroll onto the screen, pixel by pixel. Dark and grainy, like an art house black-and-white.

Except this wasn't an art house photo.

Aubrey's hand went to her mouth to fight the sudden nausea that threatened to overtake her.

Josh. Josh standing in a darkened corner, facing the camera. A woman's white-blond hair hovering at his waistline. His eyes closed, head thrown back in ecstasy.

She shut her eyes, willing the photo to disappear, for the shocking pain that lit her skin to fade. When she opened her eyes, the photo was still there, and a fine rage began to build, fiery hot, lighting her from within.

She didn't know who was playing with her mind, but she wasn't going to fall for it. Not again.

CHAPTER 36.

Aubrey Five Years Ago Aubrey drove Arlo's car to the house. Arlo was silent, drumming his fingers on his knee, still smelling like tequila and stale vomit. She didn't care. She just wanted to get home.

The house was dark. April had turned into a blackberry winter; the windows were glazed with an edge of frost along the sill. Aubrey parked on the street, for some reason not wanting to be in her own driveway. She was overcome with dread. Something was so, so wrong.

Arlo tripped as he was getting out of the car, and went down hard on his knees.

"Whoops," he said. Normally they would be laughing; Arlo was still a little drunk and very ungainly, but now, all she could do was grit her teeth and go around the nose of the car to help him.

"What's this?" he said under his breath.

She could see him in the glow from the streetlights. He was on his butt, staring at his hand.

"I'm bleeding," he said.

"Come on. Josh has a first aid kit in every bathroom. I'll patch you up."

Eerie, the similarities: Josh had patched her up just hours before. Her lip throbbed in turn with the memory, and she realized her neck was sore. Whiplash rearing its ugly head.

Arlo held out his nonbloody hand, and she hauled him to his feet.

They entered through the front door, and Aubrey smelled something she couldn't identify.

"Josh?" she called. Total silence. "Josh? Where are you?" Nothing. Not even the sound of nails scrabbling on the hardwood floors, a noise so natural, so normal, that not hearing it made her tense immediately.

"Winston? Wiiiinston. C'mere, boy!" The dog didn't respond to her, and she felt the hair rise on the back of her neck.

"What's that smell?" Arlo could scent it, too, apparently.

"Arlo. Stop where you are, okay?"

He listened without question, and she stepped into the living room and turned on the lamp.

It took a moment to process what she was seeing. Winston was lying by the fireplace, unmoving. There were smears of red along the hardwood floor.

Arlo was staring at the floor and his hand, in turns. He looked up and met her eye. "Aubrey, we need to call the police again. They'll have to listen to you now."

Aubrey whirled to him, eyes wide, then dashed from the room, flipping on lights as she went. "Josh? Josh? Oh, God, Arlo, there's blood everywhere."

She stopped in the door to the kitchen. Viscous fluid covered a large area, about four feet wide, in a strangely configured puddle that looked a bit like the outline of Italy.

"Holy fuck," Arlo said, joining her in the doorway. "Don't go in there, Aubrey. Don't disturb the evidence."

She wheeled on him, her voice a screech. "How can you be rational at a time like this?"

She tore back into the living room, to Winston. The dog was breathing, but out cold. Aubrey collapsed next to him, frantically petting his unmoving head. She heard Arlo on the phone, all traces of drunk gone from his voice. He sounded so old, so serious, so grown up.

"This is Arlo Tonturian. We called earlier to report Josh Hamilton missing. We're at the Hamilton home right now, and there's blood everywhere." His voice dropped to a whisper, cracking on the last note. He thought she couldn't hear, but she could. And the words cut a knife through her soul.

"I think he's been murdered."

CHAPTER 37.

Chase Once he hung up, he at least felt like he could sleep tonight. Even her voice made him calm. His earlier doubts were gone-he thought he might actually be in love.

This was not how he'd expected the story to go. He'd never felt like this, not as a grown man, at least. She was everything he'd ever wanted, even as messed up as he knew she was.

He would tell her the truth tomorrow and hope she'd forgive his subterfuge. And pray like hell Josh Hamilton really was dead as a doornail. Because he didn't want anything to come between him and Aubrey. Not ever again.

But he had to go carefully. He still had questions, questions he didn't want to ask Aubrey. He didn't want to ruin what he had with her.

He pulled the card out of his pocket.

Dialed the number. Got voicemail. Debated hanging up, then steeled himself. You have to do this, Chase. You can't quit now.

"Sergeant Parks, this is Chase Boden. We met at Aubrey Hamilton's house earlier in the week. I was hoping you'd have time for a quick chat. Please call me back."

He was surprised when the phone rang five minutes later. The caller ID showed a 615 area code. Parks.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Boden? This is Sergeant Bob Parks. What can I do for you?"

CHAPTER 38.

Josh Six Years Ago Josh Hamilton was drinking coffee in the Starbucks across the street from Vanderbilt's campus, as was his daily habit once his time at the hospital was finished. The coffee shop's clientele was mixed: young, shiny-haired coeds and jeans-clad, sunglasses-wearing country music stars; aging, exhausted doctors and beautiful young trophy wives. It always gave him something to look at.

He settled into his favorite seat by the window near 21st Avenue. It had been a hard day. He'd just finished his first set of rounds on the surgical floor, and he was so tired his hands were shaking, and so exhilarated it would take hours to come down from the high.

Medical school was challenging, hard on the brain and on the body, even with a little bump here and there-they all did amphetamines; it was like mainlining caffeine. He'd resisted when they were first offered around but soon gave in. You had to do something to stay awake forty-eight hours straight. He'd known school would be difficult, had even desired that a bit, but he'd had no idea how taxing it would be on the body, and the mind. And today, he'd been faced with a wholly new challenge.

He'd always known what he wanted: to be a family practitioner. An old-fashioned make-house-calls, get-involved-in-patients'-lives, deliver-three-generations-of-babies-out-in-the-woods doctor. He'd seen Doc Hollywood when he was a kid and the message stuck. The idea that people who had less than he did deserved to be taken care of in exactly the same fashion as people with millions was intoxicating. He knew it would take a special man to be that kind of doctor. And he was certain he was up to the challenge. Made of all the right stuff. Honestly, he'd dreamed about it for so long he already felt he was.

But rounds this morning, his first surgical tour-he'd been completely seduced. With the slash of a knife, people could be made whole again. It was a skill he could bring to bear on his practice. If he was trained in surgery, he could be the only doctor those people would ever need. He'd be able to fix everything they had wrong himself.

The surgical resident had encouraged him to think long and hard about coming on board. His scores were fabulous; he'd be welcome in whatever residency program he chose. Chances were he'd be able to land a slot here at Vanderbilt, with the right words in the right ears.

But to specialize in surgery meant another five years of training, at a measly salary that wouldn't begin to pay off his student loans.