“That is ridiculous.”

Quinlan moved even closer, leaning over her now, forcing her to press her back against the chair. “Why did you do that, Amabel? You just said you knew she was in a sanitarium. You knew, didn’t you, that someone put her there and kept her for six months drugged to her eyebrows? You didn’t try to assure her that she was as sane as anyone—no, you kept on with the innuendos.

“Don’t deny it, I heard you do it. You tried to make Sally doubt herself, her reason. Why?”

But Amabel just smiled sadly at him. She said to David, “Sheriff, I’ve been very patient. This man only knew Sally for a little over a week. I’m her aunt. I love her. There’s no reason I would ever want to hurt her. I would always seek to protect her. I’m sorry, James, but she ran away. It’s as simple as that. I pray the sheriff will find her. She’s not strong. She needs to be taken care of.”

Quinlan was so angry he was afraid he’d pull her out of the chair and shake her like a rat. He backed off and began pacing around the small living room. David watched him for a moment, then said, “Mrs. Perdy, if Sally ran, can you guess where she would go?”

“To Alaska. She said she wanted to go to Alaska. She said she preferred Mexico, but she didn’t have her passport. That’s all I can tell you, Sheriff. Of course, if I hear from her, I’ll call you right away.” Amabel rose. “I’m sorry, James. You know who Sally is. It’s likely you’ve told Sheriff Mountebank her real name. There’s a lot for her to face, and she’ll have to face it eventually. As to her mental status, who’s to say? All we can do is pray.”

James wanted to wrap his fingers around her gypsy neck and squeeze. She was lying, damn her, but she was doing it very well. Sally wouldn’t have run away, not with him lying unconscious at her feet. She wouldn’t.

That meant that someone had her.

And that someone was the person who had pretended to be her father. James would bet on it. Now he knew what to do. He even had a good idea where she was, and it curdled his blood to think about it.

13

IT WAS A black midnight, not even a sliver of moon or a single star to cast a dim light through that cauldron sky. Roiling black clouds moved and shifted, but never revealed anything except more blackness.

Sally stared out the window, drawing one deep breath after another. They would be here soon to give her another shot. No more pills, she’d heard Beadermeyer say, she just might be able to hide them again in her mouth. He announced that he didn’t want her hurt again, the bastard.

There was a new nurse—her name tag said Rosalee—and she was as blank-faced as Holland. She didn’t speak to Sally except to tell her tersely what to do and when and how to do it. She watched Sally go to the bathroom, which, Sally supposed, was better than having Holland standing there.

Dr. Beadermeyer didn’t want her hurt? That could only be because he himself wanted to be the one to hurt her. She’d seen no one except Beadermeyer and Holland and Nurse Rosalee. They’d forced her to keep to her room. She had nothing to read, no TV to watch. She didn’t know anything about her mother or about Scott. Most of the time she was so drugged she didn’t care, didn’t even know who she was, but now she knew, now she could reason, and she was getting stronger by the minute.

If only Beadermeyer would wait just a few more minutes, maybe fifteen minutes then she’d be ready.

But he didn’t give her even two more minutes. She jumped when she heard him unlock the door. No time to get into position. She stood stiffly by the window in her peach silk nightgown.

“Good evening, my dear Sally. You’re looking chipper and really quite lovely in that nightgown. Would you like to take it off for me now?”

“No.”

“Ah, so you’ve got your wits together, have you? Just as well. I’d like to have a conversation with you before I send you back into the ether. Do sit down, Sally.”

“No. I want to stay as far away from you as possible.”

“As you wish.” He was wearing a dark-blue crew sweater and black slacks. His black hair was slicked back as if he’d just had a shower. His teeth were white, the front two top teeth overlapping.

“Your teeth are ugly,” she said now. “Why didn’t you wear braces as a kid?”

She’d spoken without thinking, another indication that her mind wasn’t completely clear yet.

He looked as if he wanted to kill her. Without conscious thought, he raised his fingers to touch his teeth, then dropped his arm. There was only a thin veil of shadow separating them now, but she recognized the anger in him, knew he wanted to hurt her.