Page 60 of The Locked Ward

Regrets slam into my mind as the bright morning sun hits my eyes.

I had sex with Scott last night—twice. He’s in bed beside me right now, his warm, heavy leg draped over my hips. As if my life needed another complication.

Like the universe can hear my thoughts, my phone pings. I gingerly pull it off my nightstand and read the text. It’s from Colby: Can’t wait to see you tonight, beautiful.

Colby is acting way too familiar. It’s creepy.

“Mmm,” Scott mumbles as he wraps his arm around me, pulling me in closer.

“Bathroom,” I whisper, slipping out from under him.

Last night’s alcohol and lack of sleep have wreaked havoc on me. My face looks pale and drawn, and my hair is tangled.

I jump into the shower and scrub myself down, rinsing Scott’s scent off my skin.

I’m lathering my hair with shampoo when my shower door opens.

Scott’s standing there, naked. I cringe when I see the marks my fingernails left on his shoulders. “Room for two?”

I know the response I give him isn’t what he wants: “I’ll be right out!”

I quickly rinse the suds from my hair and don’t bother with conditioner. I turn off the water and step out, twisting up my hair in a towel and slipping on my terry cloth robe.

“Didn’t mean to rush you,” Scott says.

I can’t meet his eyes.

“No, no, it’s good. I just have to go to Charlotte this afternoon and I need to get a few things done at the bar first.”

I grab a wide-toothed comb out of my vanity and start digging the knots out of my hair.

“I’ll shower at home then.” Scott’s voice is flat. He goes into my bedroom, and I hear the rustling sound of him pulling on his clothes.

I’ve not only hurt him, I’ve messed things up at work.

I close my eyes and see an image of Scott staring at me tenderly as he moved on top of me.

I turn around, an apology rising in my throat. Before I can speak, I hear my front door shutting.

I’m still thinking about Scott at twilight as I sit by a window in a coffee shop, waiting for Colby. Dress casually—tonight’s going to be great! Colby texted this afternoon. Then, less than an hour later: Bring a sweater in case it gets cold. Can’t wait to see you!

I’m feeling claustrophobic. If I didn’t desperately need to find out what Colby knows, I’d cancel. His texts are over the top.

I’m wearing jeans, ballet flats, and a white linen shirt—all belonging to Georgia.

I can actually fit into her pants now that stress has peeled a few pounds from my body.

I folded her fuchsia cashmere sweater into one of her big shoulder bags.

All told, my outfit probably costs over $1,000, which equals casual in Georgia’s world.

It’s a good thing I’m there early. Fifteen minutes before we’re scheduled to meet, Colby comes hurrying down the sidewalk, holding a bouquet of roses.

I step outside to meet him, then stop short when I glimpse his face.

“What happened?” I blurt.

“Long story.” He sweeps me into a long hug. “Wow, you look even better than I remembered!”

I thank him for the flowers, trying to conceal my discomfort at his lavish bouquet, and he leads me to his Lexus, which is parked half a block down.

I keep glancing at him out of the corner of my eye.

There’s a bruise the size of a plum on his jawline, and the area around it looks painfully swollen.

“Where are we heading?” I ask, laying the roses on my lap while I fasten my seat belt.

“It’s a surprise.” We drive through the city, onto a two-lane road lined with horse pastures and big homes and the occasional farmers’ market or antiques store. The sun is beginning to sink when Colby turns onto a bumpy gravel path. We travel another fifty yards, then reach a small parking lot.

He cuts the engine and a sense of unease floods over me. No restaurants or even other people are in sight.

“Shall we?” he asks. He walks around to open my door, then goes to the trunk and pulls out a picnic basket and blanket. I follow Colby down a trail to a small, grassy area overlooking a creek. In the daytime, it would be a beautiful spot. At twilight, it feels a little spooky.

Colby spreads out a blanket and tells me to make myself comfortable, then opens the huge picnic basket.

It’s a fancy contraption with sides that bend down and out.

Inside are special holders for two wineglasses, a bottle of wine, votive candles, and two covered platters.

Colby uncorks the wine with a silver corkscrew from yet another compartment and fills the glasses.

“To a beautiful night and an even more beautiful woman.” He clinks his glass against mine, his index finger sticking out slightly again. Maybe he broke it playing sports when he was young.

There’s something off about Colby. I want to get whatever information I can out of him and get home.

I take a big sip of wine. “It’s so peaceful here.”

“And no paparazzi to interrupt us.” He shifts closer to me. I can tell he’s about to try to kiss me, so I lean back.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m not ready for that yet.” But at least he’s given me a segue. “I just got out of a long relationship,” I lie. “And I guess my heart was broken. He cheated on me with a friend of mine.”

I need to get Colby to admit what he knows about his dad and Annabelle. His testimony would go a long way toward freeing Georgia.

“Sorry that happened to you. I never understand why people cheat,” Colby said. “Me, I’m a one-woman man.”

“Yeah, I guess my ex-boyfriend learned it from his father. His father always had young girlfriends on the side.”

Colby’s mouth tightens. “Women who do that are trash.” It doesn’t escape my notice that he put all the blame on the women, and none on the man.

It’s like there are two sides to Colby—the awkward, gentle guy and the one who is simmering with a quiet anger.

I decide to change the subject. I put my hand over my stomach and force a laugh. “My stomach’s growling. I guess I’m hungry.”

Colby reaches into the basket and brings out the top plate, which is filled with fruits, cheeses, and crackers. We eat for a moment in silence. I’m not hungry, but I force down some fresh strawberries and sliced peaches.

The light is fading away, and Colby’s face is harder to read in the shadows. The bruise on his jaw isn’t nearly as noticeable now.

“So what happened to your face?” I ask again.

“My brother Kyle happened.”

“He hit you?” I ask. “Why?”

“He’s never needed a reason. At least this time it isn’t permanent.” He lifts his index finger, the one that I’ve noticed doesn’t bend. “He broke this middle joint when I was ten. It never healed properly.”

“That’s horrible.” I feel my temper rising. There’s nothing I despise more than a bully. “Kyle hit you for no reason? You weren’t arguing?”

Colby shrugs. “Maybe in his mind he had a reason. Kyle’s a lot like my father.”

The world around us is still and quiet, except for the chirping of a lone cricket. I ask the question gently, wanting to lull Colby into revealing a confidence. “What do you mean, he’s like your dad?”

Colby sips his wine. He’s not looking at me; his eyes are narrowed, like he is lost in an angry memory.

Then he says, “The most dangerous place to be in the world is between my father and something he wants.”