Page 106 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

And then they’d come knocking on his door instead of the other way around.

So he had to work quickly, to gather as much information as he could. Some of that important data only he could retrieve because he was Caitlyn Bandeaux’s psychologist of record. He was privy to information the cops weren’t.

Guilt wormed its way into his brain. He was using her. For his own purposes. No matter how altruistic they might be. On top of it all, he was falling for her. Or thought he was. This was one helluva time to play the role of the romantic. He couldn’t get involved with her, not even a quick dalliance. It wasn’t his style, nor, did he think, hers. She was his patient, for God’s sake, and he was having trouble keeping his hands off her. Which was just plain stupid. It served no purpose and yet he couldn’t seem to stop wanting.

And yet it was her face he’d seen as he’d woken up sweat-drenched, his groin aching, his cock rock-hard. Her body he’d been fantasizing about as he’d lain on his bed staring up at the ceiling. He’d wondered what it would be like to kiss her. Really kiss her and touch her intimately. In his mind’s eye he’d imagined parting her lips while running his palms down her spine, his fingers curling in her firm buttocks.

It had been torture.

He hadn’t dreamed of another woman in years. The last had been Rebecca, but her image was finally fading, had all but been erased by Caitlyn. What was it about her? Not just her beauty and certainly not the weak part of her. He’d never considered himself for the role of great protector; he certainly didn’t see himself as some kind of white knight, ready to ride his charger to her defense so that he could take care of her. Nope. It was more than sex and had little to do with a need to defend and protect.

He closed his eyes for a second. Damn it, he just liked being with her. Too much. It would have to stop. Along with his damnable fantasies. He felt as if he was walking a tightrope high over a dark abyss that seemed to have no bottom. One misstep and he’d fall, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d take Caitlyn down with him.

With difficulty, he turned his thoughts to the problem at hand, dismissing his lingering visions of Caitlyn, refusing to walk down that dangerous path. Even the slightest bit of sexual or romantic contact with her would spell disaster; potentially taint and ruin everything.

Jaw tight, he glared at the computer screen. Since he hadn’t yet been able to find any of Rebecca’s missing notes, he’d started surfing the Internet looking for articles on the Montgomery family. He’d read through all of Rebecca’s other patient files and found nothing in them worthy of her excitement and claim that this case was sure to make her a millionaire as well as gain her national recognition.

Which he didn’t care about. But he had to find out what it was about Caitlyn Bandeaux that had Rebecca dreaming fantastic dreams. Therein lay the key to her disappearance. He was certain of it.

He grabbed his keys and hurried down three flights of creaky stairs. Outside it was still overcast and gloomy, but he barely noticed. He drove to the offices of the Savannah Sentinel, where a bored-looking receptionist with nails polished in different colors, sleek glasses and a short-cropped, windblown head of hair asked to help him, then looked pointedly at the clock. It was after four.

When he asked to see the archives, she made a quick call, then led him to an area where all of their old editions were kept on compact disk. “The real old stuff is on microfiche,” she added, pointing to a viewer and giving him a long once-over before leaving him to his devices. “But we’re closing soon.”

“I’ll be quick,” he promised and settled into the musty room with its single broken-backed office chair. He started with the most recent articles and went back in time, using important dates as a reference. He read about Caitlyn’s daughter’s death, about her marriage, about a merger with a smaller institution and Montgomery Bank and Trust. There was information on Hannah Montgomery’s drug arrest and later acquittal, and Troy Montgomery’s short-lived marriage. There were also articles about Amanda’s marriage to Ian Drummond and, long ago, the death of Charles Montgomery. He printed all the articles, but the ones that held his interest, the information that caused him to sit up and take notice, were the line inches dedicated to the boating accident involving both of the Montgomery twins. It was a series of articles, starting with the date of the accident, complete with pictures of both girls, identical as far as he could see, and some of the boat wreckage.

Caitlyn’s recollection of the string of events was intact.

The two girls were going out to a party to celebrate their twenty-fifth birthday. They’d drunk and danced until after midnight, then headed back to the mainland. On their way home, there had been an explosion, the cause of which was under investigation. The boat sank.

That was where the story veered sharply from Caitlyn’s account.

One hundred and eighty damned degrees.

As Adam read the article, every muscle in his body tensed. His jaw was rock-hard, his stomach churning.

According to the front page of the Sentinel, some ten years earlier, Caitlyn Montgomery, injured and knocked unconscious, was found by a couple on a sailing boat who witnessed the expensive cruiser being blown to smithereens. But just Caitlyn. No Kelly. In fact, Kelly was never found. Not that night, not the next day, not in the next week.

Adam’s heart beat faster. Caitlyn had altered the truth. Bald-faced lied to him.

As you’ve done to her. From the get-go.

“Mr. Hunt?” The receptionist was poking her head through the doorway as he pressed the print key. “We’re locking up.”

“I’ll just be a second,” he promised and she, rolling her eyes, jangled her keys impatiently, but left him alone.

There was article after article about the search for Kelly Montgomery. Adam printed them all as he skimmed each page. He read where the Montgomery family had gone into seclusion, that the police feared the worst and hoped for the best.

After a week the search was called off, and the articles became fewer and far between.

Until the last newspaper mention of Kelly Griffin Montgomery.

Her obituary.

Her headache was immense. Clanging. Making it impossible for Atropos to concentrate. Even her quiet place with its cool white walls and sparkling clean floor didn’t help. She’d tripped over that awful white-trash girl in the other room and almost forgot to put on her surgical slippers. Almost. But before she made that mistake, she slid them on, then quickly walked to her desk and tried to think. She was Atropos, that was it . . . Atropos the inevitable.

She had Cricket held hostage for a reason. A reason. Think!

Remember your mission. You are one of the Three Fates, the most important.

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