Wyatt didn't think: he merely reacted, losing himself to some primal drive that his own intellect hadn't been able to completely subdue. He grabbed the man's beefy upper arm, clenched his fingers tightly around it, and spun him toward the wall, twisting the arm around until the shoulder had to be screaming. Leaning close, their backs to every other person in the place, who probably watched wide-eyed, he snarled, "Don't say another word. Not one word. Do you understand?''

The drunk grunted. Wyatt tugged farther.

"I repeat. Do you understand?"

With a wince, the man nodded quickly, at last recognizing the explosive situation he'd been about to kindle. "Sorry," he whispered. "Hey, I'm sorry. Obviously I mistook you for someone else."

As instantly as it had arisen, Wyatt's anger dissipated. His fingers jerked open and he let the man go, already regretting that lapse, that loss of control.

If Lily hadn't been here, an audience to the truth about the dark past Wyatt had tried so hard to put behind him, would he have been so quick to try to shut up a loud drunk? Maybe. But maybe not.

Of course, if Lily hadn't been here, nothing on heaven or earth would have induced him to come to within a hundred miles of this place. Ever.

"Wyatt?" she said, her voice subdued. She watched from a few feet away, no fear on her face, no flashback of a man's voice raised in anger, thank God. Just concern. "Are you ready to go?"

He nodded once. As the waitress hurried over, finally noticing the situation, he waved toward the cash on the table. "Thank you very much; we'll be leaving now," he said. "I trust that will take care of everything."

The young waitress stared goggle-eyed at the pile of bills. "Sure. You bet. Come back any old time."

Not very likely. Especially not now, when he knew that within hours, all the tiny towns up and down a sixty-mile stretch of coast would be whispering about his presence. The return of the boy who'd survived such an infamous crime.

Not glancing left or right, he put his fingers on the small of Lily's back and led her to the exit, impervious to the stares, almost hearing the whispers.

Was it really him? How old was he, five or six? Did they ever find out how much he saw? Whether he went to the lighthouse on his own, or was brought there? All that blood! I remember the pictures in the paper-they looked like such a nice couple.

It was almost as if he had a sixth sense and could hear the buzz of conversation, the words swirling around and around in his mind, present and past mixing up. The questions were all the same now as they had been then, exploding in the silence, crowding out the quiet hum of the engine and the deep, even sound of Lily's breaths in the seat beside him.

Tension filled the car throughout the drive back to the house. Whatever conversation he and Lily might have had before, now they shared only the uncomfortable memory of Wyatt losing his famed cool.

She asked no questions. Didn't pry, didn't try to tease him out of his dark mood or tell him that fair was fair- she'd done some talking, and now he should.

For all of that, he was most grateful.

But that still didn't stop him from dropping her off, escorting her to the door, then turning around, getting back in his car, and driving all the way back to Washington that very night

The murder house. Wyatt's handsome father and beautiful mother. The boy who'd survived.

Had his family really been killed in this house? God, had he really witnessed the murders of his own parents when he was just a small child?

Lily couldn't get those thoughts out of her head during the ride back to the house or in the moments after Wyatt had unceremoniously dropped her off and left. Her mind had, of course, filled in the gaping blanks left by the drunk man's story. She suspected finally filling in those blanks would provide a complete explanation for the varying facets of the supervisory special agent's life: his brilliance, his secretiveness, his intensity, his solitary lifestyle. His enigmatic personality.

All those answers, just waiting to be discovered.

The information was out there. She knew it. A trip to the local newspaper office or the library would provide archives. That failing, a talkative resident familiar with the history of this town would almost certainly answer any questions she cared to ask about this house.

"So many questions," she whispered, looking out her bedroom window, as she had been for several minutes, since his taillights had disappeared down the steep driveway and up the lonely beach road.

Lily didn't know that she could do it, or even that she needed to. She already knew the basics. Something awful had happened here. Something that had scarred

Wyatt for life, making him the man he was today. It had shaped him the way a piece of raw metal was hammered and formed in the punishing fires of the furnace.

"But could I do that? Intrude on his past like that, ask those intimate questions?" she added, her own breaths making misty circles against the glass, proof that autumn was indeed coming fast in this part of the world. She turned to the other window, on the eastern wall, which overlooked the ocean. Staring down at the shore, at the blackness of the water, the faint outline of the faded lighthouse up the beach-the place he seemed to hate even more than this house-she knew she could not.

No research, no digging, no questions. She couldn't do that to him. It was Wyatt's story. His secret. His history. When he wanted her to know about it, he would tell her. Until then, she could only treat him with the same kindness and respect he'd always shown her and mind her own goddamn business. That was the very least she could do, given all she owed him.

She wandered back to the bed, eyeing the room, studying the curve of the antique four-poster, the soft, honeyed oak of the dresser, and the gently billowing sheers on the window.

The murder house.

Strange that it still felt so safe to her. So comforting, even if it had a horrible history she might someday learn about.

Stranger that he'd brought her here. She'd nearly been killed and her savior had brought her to the site of his darkest, most vicious nightmares to hide her from the world. He'd set aside the seething emotions he must have for the place and installed Lily within it, coming back here, month after month, despite the memories that had to ooze from every wall, seep from each crevice in the floor.

The sacrifice was staggering.

So at the very least, to repay the man, she could be patient and wait for him to tell her the truth. Even though she knew full well that day might never come.

Chapter 8

Frank Addison wasn't as gulhble as the Pennsylvania dentist had been. Or the first two victims, who had been so caught up in their own excitement that they'd walked right into their own massacres.

Not this man. He was cautious, wary. He hadn't moved forward two steps without taking one back since the minute he'd exited his pickup, which was parked by the side of the motel. In fact, for a moment, it appeared he was going to slip away without ever entering the dark, dingy room where the scene had been so carefully laid out. The man's sixth sense had alerted him that something was off, and he'd hesitated before coming in, not driven by his insane need and anticipation of the clandestine evening awaiting him. Maybe because he was another predator, he'd smelled a trap.

Thankfully, though, the man's defenses had dropped when he heard little "Zach's" voice coming from inside the room right after he'd pushed open the unlocked door. Pitiable and soft. Vulnerable and alone. "Do you know where my mom is?"

Those small digital recorders were remarkable. They could not only distort voices in any number of ways, but they could also throw sound to make it appear that it was coming from another area of the room altogether.