Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe. Nancy Bush

curtains where a strip of moonlight crept in, and it was enough for her to see his expression. He looked confused.

      “I don’t care what you do,” she said, before he could speak. “Call the police. Run away. Do the chicken dance. I just don’t care.”

      “Tell me what the dream was about.”

      “This isn’t about the dream,” she snapped back. “Not in any way I can explain. Just . . . I don’t care.”

      For the first time, he seemed at a loss for words. Well, good. She was sick of talking to him anyway. “Why are you called Auggie?” she asked him again.

      “Because I liked dogs. My Dad called me Auggie-Doggy.”

      “Is that true?”

      “Why would I lie about it?”

      She shook her head in frustration, looked away from him, then sighed. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this and growing sorrier by the minute.”

      “At the risk of being redundant, why don’t you contact the police? Do you have some deep dark secret? Some lawlessness that’s caught up to you? Some crime you don’t want discovered?”

      “The police have done me no favors,” she mumbled, wishing he would just go back to sleep.

      “They catch you shoplifting? Pick you up for a DUI? Give you a speeding ticket?”

      “My mother hanged herself when I was six and I found her body, and they treated me like I was stupid and a liar and they treated my brother the same way.”

      Silence.

      That, finally, had the power to shut him up.

      And then she remembered what Hague had said about the doctor.

      The doctor.

      We both know him . . . from when we were kids . . .

      The stalker. The zombie. The doctor.

      We both know him.

      She sat up straighter.

      “What?”

      “I went to see my brother tonight. Hague. He said it was the doctor.”

      “It?” he repeated.

      “The bogeyman.” She abruptly got to her feet, thinking hard.

      “Which doctor? Your Dr. . . . Yancy?”

      “Another doctor. But he was there. He came to Hathaway House and he stalked! ” She paced toward the kitchen, felt for a light switch on the wall, changed her mind at the last minute and left the room illuminated by only faint moonlight. “Can’t remember his name. He was a visiting doctor, and I saw him a time or two. I’m sure of it. Almost sure of it . . . He must’ve had contact with Hague, too. Who is he? Could he have known who we were, even then?”

      “Not following,” Auggie said.

      She pressed her hands to her head, dragging at memories long buried, ones she’d hidden from herself maybe. “The man in the photo,” she said to herself with conviction. Then, “The doctor in the photo. Maybe . . .”

      She tried to force herself to think back to Hathaway House, when she’d lived there, but the memories scorched her and she shied away from them. Was he the man in the photo? The one stalking angrily toward the camera? Was he the visiting doctor at Hathaway House? Was he?

      And does this have anything to do with the murders at Zuma?

      “Any chance this revelation is going to send you to the authorities?” he asked.

      She looked back at him, blinking several times. “No. Not yet.”

      “Not yet,” he repeated. “Progress.”

      “I need—to be alone. To sort some things out.” Seeing him unfettered, she asked lamely, “Would you mind just going to bed?”

      “I can help you,” he said.

      She couldn’t stand it. She needed to think. And having him right there wasn’t helping.

      The gun was under the couch where she’d tucked it. Momentarily she thought of pulling it out, but she was past threatening him with it.

      “Tomorrow,” she said.

      He seemed to want to argue. He stood there for a long, long time.

      “Please,” she rasped.

      She had no idea what he was thinking, but in the end he made a sound of frustration, headed for the bathroom, and then back to his bedroom. If he changed his mind and decided to walk out the door in the middle of the night there wasn’t anything she would do about it.

      She made a trip to the bathroom herself, then lay back down on the couch, certain she would never fall asleep, and then promptly did.

      The medical examiner’s office was located in a squat brick building on the grounds that held the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department and other government offices. J.J. was a busy man at the best of times, and today was closer to the worst. He was brusque and had tired lines around his eyes and Jo Cardwick’s histrionics were starting to get on his nerves.

      Upon having the drape pulled from Trask Martin’s bloodless face, Jo had collapsed into keening wails and swaying motion. September had pulled her away upon seeing Journey’s tightened lips and obvious displeasure. Now they were in an anteroom just outside, and Jo was collapsed in an orange plastic chair, her head between her knees, sobbing and shaking.

      September walked to the water cooler, grabbed a small paper cup and poured Jo a drink. The girl could really use a stiff one, she thought, but plying alcohol was not accepted protocol. “Here,” she said kindly, holding out the cup.

      Jo tried to stem the flow. She truly did. She lifted her head and looked at September through glazed eyes. “He’s dead. He’s really dead.” She took the cup but didn’t drink from it, just held it out straight as if it were poison.

      September nodded. “I’d like to ask you a question or two, if you’re up for it.”

      “She killed him. She must’ve.” Jo hiccupped, looked at the paper cup as if seeing it for the first time, then brought it to her lips. She drank it all.

      “Do you mean Olivia Dugan, in apartment 20?”

      She nodded, gulping.

      “Why do you think that?”

      “’Cuz she’s the only thing different. Everybody loves Trask. Everybody. And she was always so shut down. And then he was over there and saw some pictures and she was kinda crazy about them, he said.”

      “Crazy about the pictures?”

      “That’s what he said.”

      “What were the pictures of?” September pressed.

      “I don’t know. Old pictures of people, I think.” She suddenly looked angry. “She had a few drinks with us, but she was cold. Really cold.”

      “When was this?”

      A pause. Fresh tears welled. “Last night!” she cried, as if she’d just remembered.

      “And that’s when Trask saw the pictures?”

      She shook her head. “Sometime before. I told you. He saw ’em at her place. And I don’t care anyway!” Then, “Are you going to arrest her? Throw her ass in jail! DO SOMETHING?”

      “Yes. I’m going to do something,” September assured her.

      She was going to get through to her brother if it was the last thing she did.

      Chapter 10

      Liv watched dawn creep across the horizon. She was at the living room window, peering out through a gap in the curtains. Pink streaks