She took the cup from his hand, wondering what to say, how to tell him what she'd learned. Did she even have the right to tell him? It wasn't her secret. It wasn't her story. But he needed to know. So much now was clear.

"I don't want to hear what you have to say, but you're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?" he asked.

"And I thought I was the only one who could see the future," she said lightly.

He sat down on the bench next to her, stretching out his legs in front of him. He took a sip of his coffee, then set it down on the bench. "Is she dead?"

For a moment she didn't understand the question. "Your mother?"

"Yes. Did my grandmother write that she died-that my father killed her?" His gaze sought hers. "Tell me if it's true."

She shook her head. "No, at least, I didn't get to that part, if it's there. I don't know what happened to her after she left, but I know a little more about why she had to . . . uh . . . go." She stumbled over her words, not sure how to reveal something that would shock Dylan down to his soul.

"Well, something has you rattled. Just say it, Catherine. Whatever it is. Nothing could surprise me anymore."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that."

He frowned, his lips tightening. "Now you're scaring me. It's probably not as bad as I'm starting to imagine."

"It is bad. Okay. Here goes." She drew in a quick breath. "When you were really sick, apparently you needed a blood transfusion, and your father wanted to donate because he didn't want you to have a stranger's blood, but in the end your mother told him that he wasn't a match." She let the words sink in. "That he couldn't give you his blood."

Dylan swallowed hard, his pupils dilating. "Are you saying . . ." He couldn't get out the words.

"He wasn't your real father, Dylan. Richard Sanders is not your biological father." She blew out a breath.

Dylan stared at her in shock. "Are you sure?"

"Your grandmother wrote about when your father found out. It was at the hospital. Your mother confessed that she'd had an affair. I guess she'd been unhappy for a long time, since right after Jake was born. Your father had turned away from her. Your grandmother actually felt sorry for your mother, but she couldn't be disloyal to her son, so she didn't say anything."

"Who is he? Who's my real father?"

"Your grandmother wrote that she didn't know, but I didn't finish the book. It might come out later."

"Then you should keep reading," he said tersely. "I'm going for a walk."

She watched him leave with a heavy heart, wishing she could ease his pain, but he needed time to come to grips with what she'd just told him, if that was even possible. For thirty years he'd known exactly who he was, and now it turned out he was someone completely different.

His father was not his father! He couldn't believe it, but Catherine's words kept going around in his head. If it was true, why hadn't Richard ever told him? Or had he?

All their fights, all their yelling matches had ended in the same way, his father screaming, "You're a worthless piece of shit. You're no son of mine."

Dylan had never taken the words literally, but now he realized that his father's hate came from a place that was real. His mother had had an affair with another man. His father couldn't live with that. He had to kick her out.

Had he also killed her?

Dylan wouldn't put it past him. He'd seen firsthand the depth of his father's rage, the explosive violence of his temper. His mother had seen it, too. Had his father been abusing her all along? Was that why she had turned to someone else?

And she'd kept it a secret for seven long years.

He stood at the rail, staring out at the water, at the island calling him home. Was that where it had happened? It was the only place his mother had ever gone without her husband. It had to have been there. That was why she'd looked forward to the summers. The island was her safe harbor. Maybe where she'd found love. Although he was cynical enough to believe that it might not have been love; it might have just been sex to cover up the loneliness.

Taking a deep breath, he waited for the anger to come, the pain, the hurt, but all he really felt was confusion and, oddly, relief.

He wasn't related to Richard Sanders. He didn't share his blood. He wasn't his son. Thank God for that.

As the reality sank in he saw everything more clearly, including what was happening now. His father had finally found a way to get rid of him. He'd probably been thinking about it for years, but he couldn't just come out and kill the boy he'd raised and claimed to be his son. He had to find a clever way to make his life miserable. Perhaps seeing his friend the senator go to jail had given Richard an idea. He could make his son suffer the same fate. And to take him down, Richard could use the very woman who had given Dylan his biggest story to date.

Dylan wished that he could turn the ferry around. He wanted to go home. He wanted to face the old man and speak the truth. He wanted to forever break the ties between them. His father would probably tell him he should be grateful that he'd raised him, put a roof over his head, food in his belly, clothes on his back. But Dylan knew that Richard Sanders hadn't done any of those things for him; he'd done them to save his reputation. He'd made sure that no one would ever know that his wife had slept with another man. He'd sent her away to punish her, and he'd tortured Dylan to punish him for the very fact of his birth.

So the question remained-why hadn't his mother tried to save him? She must have known what fate awaited him. Had she simply hoped that his father would do the right thing and raise another man's child? She couldn't have been that big a fool.

And what about his real father? Did he know about Dylan? And if he did, why hadn't he come forward?

Was the man someone his father knew? A friend of the family? The mailman, the butcher, the next-door neighbor?

Dylan rolled his neck around on his shoulders, wishing he could do more than speculate. He wanted to take action. He wanted to shake the truth out of someone.

"Dylan?"

Catherine's voice was hesitant, unsure. He turned and saw her standing a few feet away. He beckoned her forward. "I'm all right."

"How could you be?"

He smiled, surprising both of them.

"Are you sure you heard what I said earlier?" she queried.

"He's not my father. That's the best news I've received in the past twenty-three years. He's not my father. I can't stop saying it."

"I thought you'd be hurt."

"That I'm not related to a bully? Not for a second. I'm incredibly relieved."

"Well, then I'm glad I told you," she said, smiling back at him. "I can't believe in all the years that passed your grandmother never said anything. Especially when you tried to tell her that your father was hitting you. She must have known why he picked on you and not on Jake. Why didn't she do something? Quite frankly, I'm annoyed with her. If she weren't in a rest home, I'd tell her so."

"I'm sure you would."

"She was a grown woman and you were a child, and she should have protected you, even if it meant turning on her own son."

"I guess she didn't want to see it," Dylan said. "Love is blind."

"Real love isn't blind. It's honest, accepting, generous."

"I don't know what real love is. I sure as hell haven't seen it in my life. And I don't think you have either, have you?"

She hesitated for a second too long. "No, I guess not."

Catherine was lying to him, but he didn't want to call her on it. Like his grandmother, sometimes he preferred to stick his head in the sand. "Well, I don't have the energy or the time to be angry with my grandmother anymore. I can't change the past. However, I would like to know what happened to my mother after she left, and who my real father is. Do you know?"

"No, there was nothing else in the journal. I'm sorry."

Dylan was disappointed, but he would find out what happened before this was all over. He was determined to uncover every last secret. He glanced at the island that was getting bigger as they drew closer. "I have the strangest feeling she's there, and that's why we're on this ferry. You feel it, too, don't you, Catherine?" She looked away from him, a sure sign she didn't want him to see what she was thinking. "What's wrong? What are you trying to hide from me?"

She sighed. "Nothing, really. I think I heard your mother's voice in my dreams last night. She said to stay away, that it's not who you think, it's never who you think. I didn't know what she meant, or really if it was even her. Usually the visions are longer, more vivid; this was just a voice. It could have been Erica's voice or someone else's. Or it could have just been my imagination."

He didn't know what to make of her latest prophecy, but her words left him uneasy. "It's too late to turn back now."

"Is it? We don't have to get off the boat. We could go back to Anacortes and never set foot on that island."

"You know me better than that. I don't run away. I'm going to face whatever or whoever is on that island if it's the last thing I do."

"Then I will, too," she said, moving over to join him at the rail. "But let's not make it the last thing either one of us does, okay?"

Chapter 18.

Thirty minutes later Dylan felt unexpectedly nervous as they got into their car and waited to drive off the ferry. He rarely thought about the past, because it usually pissed him off. Now he had a lot more to consider, and his instincts told him that while he might not find all the answers he was seeking on this island, he would find at least a few. This was where his mother had brought them every summer. They'd spent long days on the beach, summer nights barbecuing. He could hear the sounds of his childhood in his head, the adults talking as the kids roasted marshmallows or chased the dogs into the water. He remembered his mother playing music late into the night while he tried to fall asleep in the twin bed next to his brother.

Sometimes he'd gotten up, crept to the door, and watched his mother rocking back and forth in the porch swing, staring out at the ocean. Sometimes he'd gone out to join her, curling up in her lap while she stroked his hair and told him stories. God! An ache settled in his stomach that grew into a knot as he thought about her. He'd pushed all those good times away, but now they were storming back.

And what about those nights when he'd heard a male voice out on the porch, the clink of glasses, soft laughter and whispers? Had his mother had an affair with someone on the island? They'd spent time with several families. There had also been men who worked only in the summers, renting boats, lifeguarding, leading hikes up into the hills. Had one of those men drawn his mother's interest, given her the love and comfort she hadn't found at home?

Dylan wanted to know everything, and he wanted to know it now. Honking his horn impatiently at the car that had stalled in front of him released a little of his tension, but made Catherine roll her eyes.

"It's not that guy's fault." She tipped her head to the teenager who was having trouble getting his car into gear.

"I know, but I'm in a hurry. I want to get to the house."

"Do you think it will look the same?" she asked.

In his heart he thought it would be exactly the same, but his head told him different. Twenty-three years had gone by, and he had no idea what had happened to the house after his mother left. She certainly could have sold it. Or she could have come here to lick her wounds.

"I'm surprised you never considered that your mother might have run here," Catherine said, echoing his thoughts.

He was getting used to having her read his mind. He was beginning to find it somewhat comforting not to have to explain himself all the time. She knew what he knew. "I did consider it," he admitted. "But I never did anything about it. A few months ago, when Jake and Sarah got back together, I told him I was going to look for our mother, that I thought it was time, but then I returned to work and the Ravino case broke, and I put it aside again, like I'd put it aside a hundred times before. A part of me didn't really want to know. I wasn't ready. I don't know if I'm ready now, but here we are."

They found the house easily, right past the bridge, left on Falcon, flowers in the window box. The flowers were yellow daisies now, but Dylan knew he was at the right place. He parked at the curb, taking a minute to absorb the sight before him. The house hadn't changed all that much. It was a simple three-bedroom, one-story pale yellow house that faced a private beach shared by the six other homes in the neighborhood. New paint had been applied sometime in the past five years. The lawn had been mowed recently. Someone was taking care of the property; that was clear.

He didn't feel any emotion until his gaze lit on the porch swing, until in his mind he could see his mother rocking back and forth, one leg tucked under her, one foot tapping the ground. She'd loved to sit on that swing during the daytime, reading a book, glancing up occasionally to watch them playing on the tire swing that hung from a nearby tree. The tire was gone now, and the kids who'd played on it were all grown up.

"Are you getting out?" Catherine asked hesitantly.

He realized he'd been sitting in the car for a while. Maybe he wasn't quite as ready to face his past as he'd thought. "I don't know what I'm worried about," he said.

"You're worried that your mother will answer that door."

"Well, there is that."

"Or worse, that she won't be there, that you still won't know what happened to her."

"Do I even need to speak or can you just keep reading my mind?"

"Some of that was just a guess. Frankly I don't know how you're still functioning after everything you've learned today. I'd probably be in bed, hiding under the covers and hoping it was another bad dream."

"A part of me does hope that," he admitted. "It feels like a dream, being in a place where I was actually happy. There was peace in this house. I can't remember my father ever coming here. I think my mother asked him, but he never had time." He paused, thinking about the clues that had led them here. "Why would my father give Erica a key to this place? And don't tell me it's because he wanted to have an affair with her in this house. That isn't logical. It's far away. It's remote."

"Which would make it ideal for an affair, and I don't have to remind you that we're not dealing with logical people. What's happening to you is not about facts; it's about emotion. It's about love and hate. If your mother betrayed your father here, and you were the result of that betrayal, he might have wanted to punish you in a similar way by sleeping with someone you'd been with."

"That's sick."

"I agree. That doesn't make it untrue."

"Erica wouldn't have slept with both of us." He let out a sigh, knowing that he really had no idea what Erica would have done. "Maybe she would have if the price was right."

"Well, if it's any consolation, he's not your real father."

"That's going to take a while to sink in."

"Do you want me to find out if anyone is home?" Catherine offered.

"No, this is my deal. I'll do it." He got out of the car before he could change his mind, but his steps slowed as he drew closer to the house. It was inevitable that he would eventually get there. He finally had no choice but to ring the bell. He heard it peal through the small house, followed by silence. He felt an intense and immediate letdown. "No one's home. We've come all this way, and no one's here." He shook his head in disgust. "I'm getting in even if I have to break the door down."

"Maybe it won't come to that. There might be an open window." She turned the knob. "Or an open door. It's not locked."

Dylan was surprised. It was too easy. "This isn't right."

"You think it's a trap?"

"It sure as hell could be." He glanced around, considering his options. Was it possible that whoever owned the house now had simply left it open? Were they just down at the beach, out for a bike ride? There was no way to know, and he hadn't come all this way to turn around now. "We might as well check it out. I'll go first." After a momentary hesitation he entered the house, feeling as if he were stepping back in time. Then the feeling passed.

The furniture was different. Gone were the old couch and love seat, replaced by sleek sofas in warm burgundy leather, antique lamps and tables. He didn't recognize one piece. The kitchen had been remodeled with granite countertops and oak cabinets. He opened the refrigerator. It was empty save for a carton of milk, its expiration date today. Someone had been here recently. Who?

He walked over to the bedroom he'd once shared with Jake. A queen-size bed had replaced the twins. A cream-colored comforter covered the mattress. Did the house still even belong to his mother? Or had his father taken it over? He had to have been the one to give Erica the key.

When Dylan returned to the living room he found Catherine rifling through the drawer of a desk. She pulled out a piece of paper, her eyes narrowing.

"What did you find?"

"A rental agreement. It looks like Farrington Realtors handles the vacation rentals for the owner."