Now the truth was out for the world to know.
Donovan Sherman wasn’t a threat.
His past was.
Over the last few days, when I’d least expect them, memories of Madison returned. Such as mice scurrying on tiny feet that looked like hands, the recollections skirted their evil madness over my flesh, leaving goose bumps in their wake. I saw her in my nightmares. She lingered around the corners and in the shadows of my parents’ home.
In hindsight, the sensation of being watched in Van’s home was most likely less paranoia than reality. Michael told me that it appeared as if Madison had been staying on the third floor. Without heat sensors on that floor, she went undetected. She moved around when others were in the house, her blob of light on the sensor being confused with theirs. If she’d also been the person staying in the cabin and guesthouse, since her release from a psychiatric hospital in Texas, Madison had perfected the skill of phrogging.
Even though I knew Madison couldn’t be here in my childhood home, I couldn’t shake the ongoing sensation that someone was watching me.
Could there be?
That took my mind to the lingering question of Phillip. Albert said there had been no recent word from Rob, Van’s private investigator. Rob’s last message was on the day of the wedding.
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” I pushed my chair back. “I’m not hungry, and I can’t stay here any longer.”
“Your car is already in Ashland,” Dad said.
“I’ll rent a car.” It was what I’d done the first time I’d made this trip. January’s weather was as unpredictable as December’s. A smile came to my lips as I recalled that first journey—the white ribbon that led me to Donovan Sherman.
The joy soon faded.
Shot.
Donovan had been shot by Madison.
“Julia Ann.”
My attention went to my mother. “What?”
“I can’t help but state the obvious: Donovan’s brother hasn’t been located.”
“I know that. Michael and Albert are still in Ashland, still on Van’s property, protecting the house and will protect me too. The Mayhands and Currys are overseeing the house and repairs from the fire. I won’t be alone.”
“Those men were on watch when Phillip tricked you, when you were drugged, and when Donovan was shot and a fire was set. Do you really think with a track record like that, depending upon them for your safety is a wise decision?”
“Madison is no longer a threat,” I said.
Madison Montgomery Thomas was currently being held, awaiting a psychiatric evaluation to determine if she was fit to stand charges for her actions. It was hard for me to fathom that the nice woman at the consignment shop was the same woman who poisoned my friends, drugged me, started a fire, and shot Van.
It seemed impossible.
Maybe she was a twin.
It was a new thought.
Taking a breath, I shook my head.
It was as if I were caught—being held hostage—in a bad 1980s soap opera.
“Little girl,” Dad said, refocusing my attention, “please try to eat. The doctors said you need nourishment and fluids.”
“The doctors said the poison and tranquilizer that I was given is fully metabolized.” I fought the urge to cough, lifting the glass again and taking a drink of water. While the drug Madison used to immobilize me wasn’t lethal, given in a larger dosage it could have been.
The tranquilizer affected large muscles. According to my doctors, its intended use was to immobilize patients when necessary for surgery or in cases of intervention. After Madison injected me, I was acutely aware of everything. I saw and heard. I even felt. While I couldn’t trust the accuracy of all my recollections, I remembered not being able to move or speak. My last memory was of the smoke.
Perhaps my demise was supposed to come from fire while my body was unable to respond. The thought made my skin crawl.