Having Ismay over was a mistake, and Bo knew it. He could’ve sent her a link to play a digital game of chess, which would’ve allowed her to stay at the cottage or play from wherever she was. That would’ve been safer, especially with Bastian around to make a big deal of them getting together again.
But Bo hadn’t sent an electronic link. He wanted to see her too badly. He’d wrestled with himself for an hour before giving in and inviting her to play. Then he’d hoped she’d have other plans and turn him down, because it would keep them both safe from spending more time together and, possibly, getting too close.
Instead, she’d accepted his invitation, shown up with a bottle of wine and the groceries to make a cheesy sourdough bread appetizer, which she’d just put in the oven. And now she was sitting across from him, puzzling over her next move in the game they’d started before she’d stopped to make the appetizer.
She touched her knight as if she was going to move it and looked up at him. He shook his head. Then she fingered her rook, and he nodded. She was learning fast, but there was no replacement for experience. He probably helped her more than he should. She’d learn faster if he let her make more mistakes—but his guidance kept the game interesting, and it made him feel better about beating her. At least he gave her a fighting chance.
“Why shouldn’t I have moved my knight?” she asked.
“Because it would’ve left your queen vulnerable.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” She pointed to the pawn protecting her queen.
He showed her what would’ve happened two moves down the line, once he’d changed the position of his bishop, and she frowned as she propped her chin on her hand. “Damn. It’s frustrating that I don’t seem to be improving.”
“No one improves that much over the course of a few games. You know what Malcolm Gladwell says.”
“What does Malcolm Gladwell say? And where did he say it? In The Tipping Point? Because I read that book and—”
“It’s in Outliers,” he said. “Gladwell claims it takes ten thousand hours of intensive practice to get really good at anything.”
“You’ve put ten thousand hours into learning this game?” she asked skeptically.
He remembered the long days in prison, when—other than lifting weights or reading—chess was all he had to fill his time. It was also the only way he could make a few bucks, so he played whenever he could, almost as if it were his job. They weren’t supposed to gamble, but that certainly hadn’t stopped them. They bet on almost anything and wagered almost anything they could trade—cigarettes, drugs, cash, a cell phone, food, even gum. “Maybe not that many. But close.”
“When you were young, or...”
“I’ve always liked it,” he said to avoid a more direct answer. Then he asked her a question—to distract her but also because he’d been curious. “That picture you showed me...”
“What picture?” she asked, preoccupied with the game again since he’d already made his move.
“Of the girl.”
Suddenly shifting uncomfortably, she looked up before taking her turn. “What about it?”
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I asked you if you’d ever seen her.”
“But...if you don’t know her, why do you have her picture?”
She began to dig at her cuticles.
“Ismay, what is it?” He’d become an expert at reading body language—a very important skill, especially while locked up. His ability to sense what someone else might be thinking and feeling and, consequently, what that person might do, had probably saved his life on more than one occasion. But it didn’t take an expert to realize she was uneasy. “Something about that picture troubles you. Why?”
Lines of consternation appeared on her normally smooth forehead. “I don’t know what it means.”
“What it means?” he repeated. “How do you know it means anything?”
“Maybe it doesn’t.”
This conversation wasn’t making any sense to him. “Where’d you get it?”
“I found it.”
“Where?” he persisted.
“I don’t... I don’t want to talk about it. And please, don’t mention it to anyone else.”
She’d already asked him for his discretion. Why was she so afraid he might mention it to others? “I won’t,” he said. “And that’s a promise. You believe me, don’t you?”
“I do.” Her lips curved into a reluctant smile. “Thank you. It’s just that... I never should’ve brought it up. I wouldn’t have if I wasn’t so worried that—”
“That...” he prompted.
“That I’d be stupid to ignore it.”
Now he was really curious. They stared at each other for several seconds without speaking. Then he said, “This sounds kind of ominous. I think you should tell me what’s going on.”
Leaning on her elbows, she pretended to puzzle over the game, but he could tell she wasn’t seeing what was right in front of her. She was too deep in her own thoughts.
He guided her hand to the pawn she should move. “This one,” he said, and the desire to continue touching her suddenly welled up. She was incredibly beautiful. That and the fact that he genuinely liked her filled him with desire.
Knowing he had to be extra vigilant, he forced himself to withdraw before it seemed odd that his hand was lingering. He took his turn, then the timer on her phone went off.
“The bread,” she said, sounding relieved by the interruption, and jumped up to get it out of the oven.
Bo didn’t bring up the subject of the picture again. He wanted her to enjoy herself while she was with him, didn’t want to put her on edge. He also knew that if he wanted her to trust him, he had to let her arrive at her own decision.
They enjoyed the cheesy bread with butter and garlic and played several more games of chess. Then they played cards, and when they’d finished the wine, and she was sitting on his couch and he was in his chair, they’d talked about the books he’d recently read, her brother’s divorce, and her hope that Jack could take care of Honey’s house. Until she said, “Remember when I asked you if you could ever really know someone?”
For a second, Bo feared she was talking about him—that she suspected something—and froze. But there was no accusation or anger in her tone. It was just his own guilty conscience that made him feel as if she’d found him out. “I do, and I’d like to know why you were thinking about that,” he asked casually.
“It’s because everyone has secrets. It’s not as if your friend or significant other is going to tell you something he or she knows you won’t approve of. With humans, it’s all about image and...being accepted, even admired.”
Sometimes hiding certain facts was about more than that—it was about being able to make a living and survive outside of prison. “You’re referring to Ashleigh?” he guessed, since they’d been talking so much about Jack and his situation.
Ismay had drunk enough wine that she seemed more relaxed than at any other point in the evening. “And Remy,” she said. “How do you know if you can really trust someone to be who you think they are? It’d suck to get an unpleasant surprise after you’d spent ten or twenty years of your life with them.”
“I guess you look for signs,” Bo said. “Notice how they behave in certain situations, especially when they’re under stress.”
“Remy’s always under stress,” she said. “It’s been a long hard road to get to where he is now. But if people are smart—like he is—they’ll know how to behave even if that’s not who they really are, right?”
That was what he’d tried to tell her the first night during the storm. She needed to look twice at Remy—at whether she really wanted to tie herself to someone as spoiled and narcissistic as he was. But Bo was so attracted to her he didn’t know if he dared to say that. He was afraid those words would make his own admiration of her too transparent.
“Think about serial killers,” she continued.
“Serial killers?” he echoed. “That’s a big leap. What makes you think of serial killers in the same breath as your fiancé?”
When she didn’t answer, he realized she didn’t find his comment funny and stopped chuckling. “Ismay?”
“I’m just thinking about how difficult it is to catch a serial killer—because they blend in. Many live regular lives—have wives, kids, jobs. No one suspects them of such heinous crimes. And when the truth comes out, it seems like the family is always shocked.”
“There are signs those people aren’t like everyone else,” he insisted, and he should know. He’d lived among some of the worst human beings. “Someone just has to be paying attention.”
She scooted forward, her eyes focused and intense, despite the wine. “But the signs that signal something is wrong could also be completely innocuous. How would you ever tell the difference?”
He rubbed his chin. “From what I’ve read on the subject, lack of empathy is a big one.”
“But a person can lack empathy and not be a murderer. You’d hate to falsely accuse someone of a terrible violent act without proof.”
“I guess a lack of empathy is just the first sign. Then you have reason to look deeper.”
Her gaze fell to the carpet.
“Ismay?”
“What?”
“Are we talking about that photograph again?”
When she covered her mouth in regret, he understood that they were. “Where’d you find it?”
“I can’t say. I’d feel too guilty if I was wrong and it meant nothing.”
“Did Remy have it somewhere?” That had to be it. Otherwise, she’d be able to say. “If so, that picture could be a girl he knew way back when, a girlfriend. I get the impression there’ve been a lot of women in his life. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
She didn’t react to the “a lot of women” comment. She seemed genuinely concerned that photograph signified more. “But...what about the other things?”
“What other things?” She hadn’t mentioned anything else...
She shook her head. “Never mind. Please. I’ve already said too much.” Picking up her phone, she got to her feet. “I’d better go. I’m hoping to beat Bastian home, so I won’t have to lie to him about where I’ve been.”
Bo got up, too. “If you won’t tell me where you found that picture, or what you found with it, will you at least tell me when you found it?”
At first, he thought she wasn’t going to answer. But then she squeezed her eyes closed and said, “The night of the storm. When the power was out.”
For years, Bo had been housed with violent men, so he’d come to know some of them quite well. He’d never thought his experience with the criminal element would carry over into life after his release, especially on Mariners. Since he’d come here, there hadn’t even been a major crime committed—other than the usual drunken brawl at one of the bars or a domestic dispute. So, even though she was a bit rattled by whatever she’d found, it couldn’t mean anything, could it?
A ding sounded, causing Ismay to look down at her phone. “Oh, God,” she said.
“What is it?” Bo asked.
“Bastian just sent me a text asking where I am.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I’m definitely not going to tell him I’m here.”
He nodded. “I think that would be best.”
She’d said too much. Bo came across as so solid and easy to trust, and she’d been so worried about her relationship with Remy and what she’d found that she’d given in to the need to confide in someone and chosen him. But she should’ve chosen Jack or someone else—except Jack was going through enough. She didn’t need to get him worried about her. She didn’t want to poison anyone in her family against Remy, so maybe telling Bo had been the wisest choice.
Except what about her loyalty to Remy? She was engaged to him, for crying out loud, and Bo worked for his family.
Ismay felt nauseous as she slipped out the back door of Bo’s bungalow and circled around the property so she could approach the cottage from the road. She hated feeling she had to hide where she’d been—she and Bo had done nothing inappropriate—but there was no way she wanted Bastian to learn they’d been together again, especially when she’d turned down his invitation to accompany him to town. She didn’t want that getting back to Remy.
Stop obsessing about it and just get back to the cottage. There’d be plenty of time to kick herself later. She hadn’t answered Bastian’s message, didn’t think she should have to report her whereabouts—and she would tell him so if he complained—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t grill her the moment she stepped into the house. She needed to be prepared. If she gave him any reason to doubt her, he’d keep even a closer watch over her.
As soon as she saw the cottage through the trees, she threw back her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Why is Remy’s twin even here?” she grumbled but forced a smile, just to get herself in the right frame of mind before climbing the stairs to the front door.
“There you are!” he said when she walked in. “Didn’t you get my text?”
Steeling herself against the irritation that immediately reared up, she held her smile firmly in place and spoke as breezily as she could. “I did, but I was already on my way home, so I knew I’d be seeing you shortly.”
“Where’ve you been?”
His imperious tone got under her skin, but still, she smiled. “I went to the beach, like I said.”
“And then?”
She felt her jaw tighten. “Then I decided to walk to that restaurant about a mile away—Mariners Grill?—and have a glass of wine.” She’d almost said dessert but was afraid he might ask what kind, and she had no idea what they served. Thankfully, she’d caught herself.
“If you’d answered my text, I could’ve picked you up in the Jeep,” he said.
“It wasn’t far.”
When she crossed the room behind him and started up the steps to Remy’s bedroom, he got up off the couch and turned to face her. “Where are you going now?”
“To bed,” she replied. “I’m tired.”
The way he tilted his head and looked at her made her pause. “What is it?” she asked.
“How long have you been dating my brother?”
“Almost three years. We’ve been living together for two. Why?”
He didn’t answer her question. “Then you probably know each other pretty well.”
“I’d like to think so.” But there was certainly some question about that, which was why she was so worried about what she’d found in Remy’s closet—and why she’d finally broken down and told Bo about it.
“And you still want to marry him?” Bastian asked.
“Excuse me?”
A strange expression came over his face—one she could only interpret as...sadness or regret, maybe? “Never mind,” he said and turned back to the TV.
Taking the opportunity to escape him, Ismay hurried up the stairs, grabbed her pajamas, and crossed the hall to the bathroom, where she locked the door behind her. She was going to try to relax in a hot bath. Despite what she’d said to Bastian, she wasn’t quite ready for bed. Too much was going on in her mind, from the argument she’d had with Remy—she still hadn’t called him back—to how much she enjoyed being with Bo even when they weren’t doing anything, and the danger she’d created by sharing some of what she’d found in Remy’s closet with him. What was going on with her? She should be having the time of her life. She’d just graduated from law school and was supposed to be celebrating. Instead, she was obsessing over a stupid duffel bag filled with underwear and jewelry that could mean nothing, arguing with Remy, and trying to avoid her future brother-in-law.
With a sigh, she stacked her clothes on the closed toilet seat while she filled the tub and was about to step in the water when she paused for a second to text Jack.
Are you still coming?
He answered right away. If you’re sure you want me to.
She wanted him to—but Remy had made his reluctance and disappointment plain. Because she didn’t have her fiancé’s support, it wasn’t going to be easy to have her brother on Mariners.
Still, she wrote back with confidence. It wouldn’t serve any purpose to make Jack feel hesitancy on her part. Of course I want you to.
Then I’m still coming.
When?
Just told Mom and Dad before I left the farm. So I’m looking for a flight right now.
She could only imagine how surprised her parents were by this development and wondered if they were upset she’d made him such an offer. They had Hank to help with the farm, but more hands were always better. They’d probably been counting on having both their sons. And they might feel as though escaping the situation was taking the coward’s way out. Her parents were like that. They lived on principle, and sometimes they chose to take a stand that made no sense to her. How’d they take the news?
They were supportive.
She sagged in relief. At least she wouldn’t have her parents to contend with. Just Remy. Thank God, because Jack needed their support now more than ever.
That’s wonderful!
I was shocked.
Maybe they understand this is what’s best for you.
It’s hard enough for them to be the center of town gossip. Did you find out about the house-sitting gig?
Not yet. But I’m working on it.
Okay. I’ll let you know when my plane gets in. I can’t wait to lock up this empty house and drive away—possibly for good.
I’m looking forward to it.
Setting her phone on the counter, Ismay stepped into the warm water. It wasn’t going to be easy making sure Remy had the summer he was looking forward to while trying to entertain and support Jack, especially with Bastian thrown into the mix. But she’d figure out a way to make it all work because her brother needed her. She wasn’t going to let him down.