You Don't Want To Know by Lisa Jackson Read Free Book Online

staff were relatives, and even the damned county sheriff was related to Khloe Prescott, who supposedly had been the missing kid’s nursemaid and stayed on after his disappearance to care for Ava, who had once been her best friend.
    It was like a never-ending riddle.
    And he knew they were all liars. Every last one of them. Including the waifish Ava Garrison. He could feel it.
    His room was barren, just a couch that folded outward into an uncomfortable bed, a gate-legged table with a stained top, one “easy” chair, and a television circa 1983 or so. A gas stove painted a deep forest green stood a step away from the front door and offered the only heat in the unit. It was also now covered with his still-soaked pair of jeans. On the wood-paneled walls, pictures of seagoing vessels from an earlier era hid holes in the worn paneling.
    Home sweet home.
    Earlier, upon his arrival, he’d tossed his bedroll onto the couch and packed his few clothes into a tiny closet that fit him just fine. His bath consisted of a shower stall, toilet, and chipped pedestal sink tucked behind a bifold door, and his kitchen was a long closet with a functional sink, tiny counter, microwave, and mini-fridge. From the heat stains on the old Formica counter, it seemed that a previous tenant had once owned a hot plate, but it was nowhere to be found in the tiny, single cupboard that housed dish liquid, two plates, two bowls, and an assortment of jelly jars and glasses. A coffeemaker was tucked into a corner, two cups nearby, but no coffee to be found anywhere.
    He heard a scratching sound at the door and opened it to find a bedraggled dog—a shepherd mix of some kind, probably Australian crossed with a bit of Border collie, all black with three once-white feet. They were now covered in dirt. “Who the hell are you?” he muttered, then said, “Hold up.” Grabbing one of the two towels from a cupboard beneath the television, he wiped the dog’s feet before the mutt wandered inside, made three circles, and dropped onto the worn rag rug that covered the linoleum in front of the gas stove. Head in his paws, the shepherd stared up at Dern, as if waiting.
    â€œMake yourself at home,” Dern muttered before snagging his still-damp jeans off the stove and turning up the heat. As his new friend watched, Dern carried his Levi’s to the bathroom where he draped them over the shower’s frosted glass door, next to his still-wet shirt.
    The dog didn’t move except to thump his tail when Dern snapped the bifolds shut and returned. “I take it from the way you walked in that you’ve been here before, right, buddy?” Dern bent down—he couldn’t resist scratching the dog’s ears—then twisted his collar around and read a long-expired tag. “Rover?” he asked, rocking back on his heels. “Seriously? That’s your name?”
    Again, Dern was rewarded with a thump of the dog’s wet tail as he unbuckled Rover’s collar and checked to see that it really was a dog collar and nothing else. He’d already swept the small apartment for any signs of bugs, the electronic kind. He’d found nothing suspicious, no hidden microphones or tiny cameras anywhere. He’d even checked what served as an attic and searched every inch of the flooring, walls, and ceiling. It was a habit, something he’d done ever since his days in the military. And considering his motives for being here, a good idea.
    â€œAll clear,” he told the dog as he reattached the collar, then gave Rover another pat before straightening and wishing he’d thought to stock the mini-fridge with a beer or two.
    His plan was that tomorrow morning, after taking care of the stock, he would boat across the bay to Anchorville, check out the tone, nose around a bit. If he had the time, he hoped to sift through the local gossip without arousing any suspicion and learn more about Church Island and its