No, no, no, no.

It was a terrible, awful, dreadful scenario, and it wasn’t true.

Ashley lost her appetite for interrogation, and for almond torte.

Abruptly, she rose, reeling dizzily. Jeremy was beside her instantly. He grabbed her elbow, steadying her. “Ashley?”

“I’m ill. Please—excuse me.”

And she fled.

After he’d extricated himself from after dinner brandy with J. Land Crockett, Jeremy headed upstairs to the dark quiet hall and rapped on Ashley’s door. He waited impatiently, but no answer came. He tried the knob: locked. “Ashley, it’s me, Jeremy.”

She was in there—she had to be—but she didn’t answer. All day she’d been avoiding him, shutting him out. Instead of inviting him along, she’d gone off alone with Lillian Parker to Jude’s Paradise. He’d spent the afternoon walking around Badger Rock Island, looking for signs of Mac or Bartholomew Wakefield—any clues as to who was right and who was dangerous and who was crazy. He’d found nothing but rocks and trees and the sea, and he’d tasted the rancidness of fear as he remembered last night, with Mac...and, especially, before, with Ashley. He didn’t want to lose her.

He rattled the knob again. “Open the damn door.”

She wouldn’t.

He couldn’t blame her. He was a reminder of everything she didn’t want to acknowledge. Even tonight, he’d seen the strong family resemblance among the Crocketts: father, daughter, granddaughter, grandson. And he knew Ashley had seen it, too. But she’d said nothing to him. Instead, she’d avoided his eye.

“Ashley, dammit…please.”

But she didn’t come to the door, and at last he left, defeated and exhausted. Since their rooms were adjoining, he should be able to hear her if she tried to leave, but he wasn’t worried. They were on an island, and even Ashley Wakefield wasn’t crazy enough to risk a takeoff in the dark.

Nevertheless, he’d be listening, just in case.

Toward dawn, three men gathered on the blustery sun porch. The entrance of MacGregor Stevens had silenced Andrew Balaton and J. Land Crockett, neither of whom he liked, nor ever had. Remaining on his feet, Mac patted out a cigarette and lit it. He exhaled a lungful of smoke rudely at the old man, daring him to say anything. He knew he’d been smoking too much. He could feel it in his lungs, and a callus was forming on his lower lip.

Back among his blankets and sweaters, Crockett waved the smoke away irritably. “Smoking isn’t good for your health.”

“I know.” Mac took another deep drag and blew it out in the same place. “That’s why I quit ten years ago. Something about you people brings back my old habits. I wonder what it is.”

Andrew Balaton eased onto a wicker chair. “Fear of your own weaknesses, perhaps.”

Mac smiled thinly. “Perhaps.”

“What’re you doing here?” Crockett asked gruffly, with more bluster than anything else. Although the old man wouldn’t remember, Mac had met him once, more than thirty years ago. He hadn’t been afraid of him then; he sure as hell wasn’t now. Crockett reddened, his irritation deepening at Mac’s obvious insolence. “How’d you get on this island?”