“Actually I'm not.” She smiles, a little awkward, but friendly. “Would you mind letting Hunter know I'm here?”
My stomach clenches—maybe because I can’t imagine why she’s here. “Uh…one second.” I shut the door in her face without even thinking of asking her in. As soon as I turn around, Hunter is there. He's wearing black jeans and a brown shirt, and he looks pissed off. Behind him are four other men, all beefy, with guns on their belts. They definitely don’t look like cops.
“Is that Elizabeth Bernard?” he asks, frowning.
“Yes. She says she wants to see you.”
He nods, looking kind of dazed. “I was in a meeting. I thought you would be sleeping.”
One of the men—they are all still standing in a row beside the stairs—tips a baseball cap at me, and I say, “That's okay. I only answered because I thought she was here for me.”
Hunter looks over his shoulder. “Dave, Jake, Gilly, why don't you wait for me in the kitchen. My chef, Bernita, is there. She can feed you.”
“I'll show you the way,” I offer, as Hunter opens the door.
He smiles as he squeezes Dr. Bernard’s hand. “How can I help you, Libby?”
My jaw drops, and I almost run into the couch. That—Dr. Bernard is Libby? Someone kind from Hunter's past. Someone I remind him of. How weird is that?
I want to go upstairs, but I decide to wait for him outside his office. I won't get too close, just close enough so I can see him when he comes out. If I don't, I'm afraid I won't even get to say goodbye.
I'm not surprised to find the big, wooden doors shut, but I am surprised that Dr. Bernard's voice is coming from just inside the door. It's not loud, but it's crisp and clear. The woman has excellent enunciation, and I can hear every word. I take a step back, wanting to respect Hunter's privacy but then I hear “girl who disappeared” and my curiosity keeps my feet planted.
I inch closer, driven by curiosity over what happened to Hunter's former escort, and I can faintly hear Dr. Bernard say: “...looking back through some of my files. Quite a few women at the ranch were friends with Missy King. I trust you're familiar with what happened to her.”
“I am.”
“Yes, well I spoke with several of our escorts after she went missing. One of those women is still employed at the ranch, and she spoke with me yesterday about Sarabelle’s disappearance.”
“Do you have something?” Hunter asks. I’m shocked, because he sounds…almost desperate.
“I think so,” the doctor says. “One of the things that bothered her most was a connection she saw between Sarabelle’s disappearance and Missy’s. She said that Missy entered into a relationship with a man from San Luis months before she disappeared.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Jim Gunn. She’s sure.”
“How sure?”
There's a brief pause. “She seemed certain.”
Hunter is silent for a moment, and I would pay a lot to hear his thoughts. Eventually, he says, “Did she say anything else helpful?”
“Nothing that stood out, but if I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”
For a long second, no sound comes from the room.
Then I hear Hunter's voice. He sounds choked up as he says, “Thank you.”
“I know Marchant and you are looking into this on your own. He doesn't mind me telling you, he mentioned it during one of his sessions. I know you don't like that I moved West, and I know you don't like me knowing so many private things about your past. But I care for you, Hunter. I'm on your side, and I always was.”
I hear what sounds like a squeak from Dr. Bernard, and through the crack between the doors I can see Hunter's arms around her shoulders.
“Thank you, Libby.” His voice is low and sounds like it's coming from the back of his throat, and suddenly I understand the subtext here: Back in New Orleans, Dr. Bernard was Hunter’s shrink, too. Which is why she wants to help him now.
With questions spinning in my mind and an ache in my chest, I hurry toward the stairs.
*
I'm in the bedroom Hunter gave me, sipping a chilled latte I got from the refrigerator, when I hear footsteps coming down the hall. I've spent the last thirty or so minutes thinking over what Dr. Bernard said. Thinking about what Dr. Bernard knows. Thinking about how it all applies to Hunter. The truth is, I know so little I really can't even speculate. All I know for sure is Hunter's in a mess.
I sigh, and allow my mind to chew on other, more personal details. Like how his real mother was an escort. Rita, the woman I thought was his mother, died of cancer when Hunter was fourteen, but based on the conversation he had with his father, it sounds like there was no love lost between them. Was it Rita who hit him? Surely not. A well-bred woman from New Orleans wouldn't hit a young boy, would she? Maybe so. There are so many things I want to know—I want to know everything about Hunter—but he's up to his eyeballs in this awful situation, and if he wants me to leave so he can focus on getting all this figured out, I will.
I hear him turn the doorknob and my stomach aches. I don't want to go, though. I don't want to leave him here in this big house by himself. The thought that we might never share any time like this together again makes me feel terribly depressed, and the more I think about it, the more I think it's not just because Hunter is an unavailable male for me to idealize but never get to know. I do know Hunter now. And I like what I know.
He comes into the room, and as usual, I can't breathe for half a second. He's such a handsome man. It's not just his high cheekbones, or his beautiful, lash-framed cat eyes, or his soft, firm lips, or his messy, tug-able golden hair. It's the way he moves. The sound of his voice. The way he reaches out and touches my elbow. The way he looks at me with concern.
“How ya doing up here?”
I shrug. “I'm fine. How are you?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Just got a visit from an old friend.”
I smile. “I talked to her at the ranch. She's really nice.”
I'm surprised when his lips tuck up into a lazy grin. “I thought you might say that. You know, when we first met, you reminded me of her.”
I can barely contain my own silly grin. I love that I remind him of someone who cares about him. “Oh yeah?”
“Yep. You're both...just really nice.”
I smile, and I love the way his eyes caress my face. “I think you're the nice one, Mr. Southern Gentleman.” I take his hand and pull him close. His other hand curls around a piece of my dark hair.