"Who is . . . ?" Dylan asked, taking the paper from her hand. He skimmed the memo, which simply recapped the open rental periods, one of which covered the current week, but there was no clue as to who actually owned the house. Was it Richard Sanders? Had he held on to the property all these years? It seemed unimaginable. "Is there anything else in that drawer?"

"A local telephone directory, restaurant menus, local churches, tourist activities," Catherine muttered as she ran through a file folder. As she set it back into the drawer, she pulled out an old newspaper.

Dylan's pulse quickened at the sight of the yellowing paper. "That's from the past."

"Yes," Catherine agreed, her gaze skimming the page. When she looked at Dylan there was pain in her eyes. "Oh, God!"

"What is it?"

She handed him the newspaper. It took him a moment to realize he was looking at the obituaries. A name jumped out at him: Olivia Sanders.

Olivia Sanders was dead.

His heart stopped. His breath caught in his chest. He couldn't make a sound.

His mother was dead.

She'd died twenty-three years ago. His gaze fixed on the date. It couldn't have been more than two months after she'd left them. She'd come here, and she'd died here. How? He read through the brief notice, which listed the cause of death as accidental drowning. The notice said that Olivia was survived by her husband and two children. There was nothing else.

How could that have happened? His mother had been an excellent swimmer. She couldn't have drowned. She'd grown up on the island. She'd taught swimming lessons. Something was wrong.

"This can't be right," he said, looking at Catherine.

"I'm sorry, Dylan. I know you wanted to find her alive."

"But she knew how to swim. She wouldn't have drowned."

"Maybe she was on a boat or something, or she got caught in a riptide, had an unexpected cramp."

"Or someone killed her and made it appear as if she had drowned." He waited for Catherine to challenge his words, but her silence told him she was thinking the same thing. He looked into her eyes. "If she never came back, no one would ever challenge his story; no one would ever know the truth about his marriage, or about me."

"Except your real father," she pointed out.

"If he knew. Who's to say my mother told him? He could have been left in the dark. He certainly never came looking for me."

"He had to know if he gave blood when you were sick, if that's when the truth came out."

"Right. So he just didn't want anything to do with me." He shrugged. "Well, I'll think about him later. I have to find out what happened to my mother."

"Dylan," she said, cutting him off, "don't you want to take a minute?"

"To do what?"

"To grieve."

"I already mourned her leaving."

"But it's different now. You know she didn't willingly leave you."

"Yes, she did. Okay, maybe she got kicked out, but she did leave. And she came here."

"But she didn't stay away all this time. She might have intended to come back. She just didn't have the chance."

"We'll never know," he said flatly. "I can't trust this newspaper because too many lies have already been told."

"Do you think someone planted it here?"

"It's certainly not a coincidence that a newspaper from twenty-three years ago is conveniently found in a drawer in an open house. Someone wanted me to see that. It has to be my father. He kept this house and rented it out to make money, because that's what he does."

"Or because he felt some guilt at your mother's death," Catherine interjected.

Dylan immediately shook his head. "Richard Sanders doesn't feel guilt. He doesn't feel anything. He has no heart."

"I'm sure you're right, but you're the logic guy, Dylan, and it isn't logical for your father to hang on to a piece of property that belonged to your mother, a woman he supposedly hated."

"I guess I won't know the answer to that until I confront him, but first things first. If my mother died here, then she's buried on this island. I want to find her grave. I want to see it for myself. I want to make sure this isn't just a fake obituary."

"There's a cemetery on the island?"

"For the longtime residents, yes. It's by the church. We used to walk by it every Sunday. Jake told me that the ghosts would come out and grab me if I was bad."

Catherine smiled. "Nice big brother."

"That was before he knew that I really was the bad kid."

"No, you weren't. Your father hated you for reasons that had nothing to do with you. None of this was ever about you. It was about them-your parents, their messed-up relationship."

"Whatever. I just want to find her grave. I want to see her name written in stone. Only then will I believe she's gone. Otherwise this could all be part of his plan to torture me." Dylan didn't think that was really the case, but he had to make certain of each fact as it came to him. And to be honest, it was easier to concentrate on the facts than the feelings swirling inside him. He'd deal with them later.

As they left the house and walked out to the street, Dylan paused, trying to remember which way the cemetery was. Down the street to the right, he thought. "We can walk. It's not far. Just a couple of blocks."

He'd thought it would be an easy walk, but each step forward took him back in time. He remembered the cracked sidewalk where he'd fallen and broken his little finger, the bushes he'd hidden behind when they'd played hide-and-seek in the twilight hours. He remembered learning how to ride a bike, stopping his downward speed by running onto the lawn of the house at the end of the block.

There had been few rules on the island. Everyone had known one another, left their doors open, shared meals. The kids had run together in a wild pack. He wondered if it was still so idyllic, so close-knit, or if the renters had taken over, turning it into a tourist destination more than a real family neighborhood.

"I want to talk to some of the neighbors when we come back," he said. "Someone might remember my mother and might know more about what really happened to her."

"She died, Dylan. That's what really happened to her."

He frowned at her pragmatic attitude. "Hey, I thought you'd be a little more compassionate."

"I am compassionate, but you can't make a mystery out of everything."

"I'm not doing that. It's possible my father came up here and drowned her. You think that's crazy?"

"I guess not. I just feel as if you're focusing on how she died rather than on the fact that she really is gone, and she's not coming back. That has to bother you."

"I told you, I accepted that a long time ago."

It was obvious she didn't believe him, but she let it go. He wasn't lying, but he wasn't telling the whole truth either. If he gave himself a moment to think about her being dead he'd lose his focus, so he wasn't going to think about it, not right now, anyway.

The graveyard came up quickly. It ran for one long block. Small stones were set in neat rows on the slight rise. It was a peaceful place surrounded by trees, quiet save for the sounds of birds.

He moved through the rows, studying the names, not really recognizing any of them, although some sounded vaguely familiar. Finally, at the top of the hill he found her grave, his mother's name on the simple gray stone, Olivia Sanders, and the dates of her life. There was nothing else. No loving mother or loving wife. Had his father buried her? Had he even come to the funeral? Or had strangers done the deed?

Finally it sank in.

His mother was dead.

He was never going to see her again. He would never have the chance to talk to her, to hear her side of the story.

His legs weakened. He felt shaky, hot.

Catherine's hand slipped into his. He held on tight, feeling like he might just keel over. He'd thought he was handling it, but apparently he wasn't. Finally the dizziness passed. He drew in several deep breaths and then let go of her hand, embarrassed by his emotional reaction. "I need a minute," he said roughly. "By myself. Do you mind?"

"It's okay to care, Dylan."

"Just wait for me at the end of the road."

"All right. Take whatever time you need."

He didn't know why he'd sent Catherine away. He missed her as soon as she was gone. Now it was just his mother and him, no buffer between them. He felt he should say something, but what? He was normally good at finding the right words, but in this moment he had none. He didn't know what to think. For so many years he'd lived his life believing she'd deserted him. It was hard to let go of that. He didn't even know if he should let go of it. She had left. It was just a question of whether or not she would have come back. Now, as he'd told Catherine, they would never know.

Several more minutes passed before he could speak. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "You didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve him, and neither did I." He took a deep breath. "I blamed you for the bad stuff, but I guess you were a victim, too. You didn't come back, but I'm going to believe that you wanted to, and that you would have if you'd had more time." He paused again, staring down at her name on the stone. He knelt down next to the grave, his last words coming out in barely a whisper. "I forgive you, Mom."

He felt a burden slip off his shoulders as he finally let go of all the hate, the bitterness, the rage he'd felt toward her. He still had the same feelings toward his father, but her he could forgive. It was past time to do anything else. And who was he to judge her for the actions she'd taken so many years ago? She'd been a lonely, unhappy woman. He hoped she'd found some joy in her affair; she'd certainly paid a big price for it.

A car door shut; an engine roared. The noise brought his head around. At the end of the lane he saw a car pull away, a man behind the wheel.

Fear suddenly ripped through his heart. Where was Catherine? He'd told her to wait at the end of the road, but she wasn't there.

"Catherine. Where are you?" He ran through the graveyard and down the street, calling her name, but she was gone. Someone had taken her.

Chapter 19.

Dylan ran back to the house, jumped into the car, and headed off in the direction of the vehicle he'd seen by the cemetery. As he drove his heart hammered against his chest, desperation washing over him. He never should have told Catherine to leave him alone. He'd put her in a vulnerable position, and someone had taken advantage of his mistake, someone who had been watching him-the shooter, no doubt. He'd tracked them here. Dylan wasn't surprised. Whoever was after them always seemed to know where they were going. He wanted to figure out how, but right now he had more pressing problems. He had to get to Catherine. She must be terrified.

Why hadn't she cried out to him? Why hadn't she screamed, struggled, fought? The man must have come up behind her, caught her off guard. She'd probably been looking at him, worrying about him. Dammit!

He'd been so caught up in the past he'd forgotten about the danger that lurked in the present.

He had to think, focus. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he drove across the island, searching for some sign of the car. But the island was huge, with lakes, forests, hills, thousands of acres, and he had no idea where to go.

Where would the killer go?

He was the prime target. Someone wanted him dead. So why grab Catherine? Just to get her out of the way first? Or was there another reason? If his father was behind the plan, then what was his ultimate goal? Had his intention always been to bring Dylan to the island where he was conceived and have him die here? That made some sort of poetic sense.

But where had he been conceived? In his mother's house? Somewhere else? How the hell could he figure it out? He didn't even know who his real father was. He'd been seven years old the last time he'd been here. He barely remembered anything.

Or did he? Was the answer locked up in his brain somewhere?

Maybe he should call Jake. Perhaps his brother knew more than he did about his mother and her past relationships on the island, but that would take time, and he didn't have time. He had to get to Catherine. He had to save her. He knew she was counting on him. He could hear her voice in his head, confident that he would find her, that he would save her. They were connected. They were linked.

Damn. That was it. He had to open himself up in a way he'd never done before, let all the emotions in so he could hear her. Catherine said she couldn't get past his defenses. He had to take them down.

Pulling over to the side of the road, he leaned his head against the steering wheel and closed his eyes, trying to be as quiet as possible. But his own inner voice was too loud, telling him he was an idiot to try to use mental telepathy to solve his problem. He needed to go to the island police, or back to his mother's house or somewhere.

Then he heard her voice again, telling him to listen for a change and stop talking.

Drawing in a deep breath, he focused on Catherine's face, her blue eyes that revealed so much, her sweet lips, the freckles that dotted the tip of her nose.

Tell me where you are. Bring me to you. I know you can do it. Make me believe.

Catherine winced with pain as the car hit another bump in the road and her head struck the roof of the trunk. She didn't know what had happened. She'd been watching Dylan at his mother's grave, and now she was squished into the trunk of a car. Her hands were untied. She didn't have a gag or a blindfold. But as she inhaled she smelled it again: that thick, sweet odor that had covered her nose and mouth so quickly that she couldn't breathe, couldn't scream.

She was in big trouble. She searched in the darkness for some way to open the trunk from the inside, but she couldn't find anything. She stuck her fingers into the thin line of light that streamed into the car, but she couldn't pry open the heavy metal lid. She was trapped, and she was quite possibly going to die.

The realization hit her hard. This wasn't anyone else's nightmare. It was hers. The man who had killed Erica, who had shot out the windows at the house-the man whose evil she'd felt in her soul-was taking her somewhere, and he was going to kill her. She wanted to scream, but she was afraid to draw any more attention to herself. In a moving car would anyone hear her- except him? Did she want him to know she was already awake?

She needed to buy some time, figure out a way to save herself, or at least give Dylan a chance to find her. But how was he going to do that? He wouldn't know where to go, unless he'd seen her get snatched. Even if he had, he'd been on foot. It would have taken him precious minutes to get back to the car. She couldn't count on him to save her.

Well, she'd wanted to get out of her dreams and into the real world, and she'd gotten her wish. But there had to be a way to use her visions to help herself. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine where they were going, what would happen next.

The car stopped for a minute. She held her breath. Had they arrived? A moment later the car started moving again. They'd either been at a traffic light or a stop sign. Had they passed either on their way to the house from the ferry? She couldn't remember.

Panic began to set in despite her best effort to remain calm. She pushed it back. She couldn't let the fear overwhelm her or she'd have no chance of surviving. The car sped up as if they were leaving a more populated area, getting out on the open road. They were going faster now. The person driving knew exactly where he was headed.

A few moments later the car swerved to the right, then to the left in a series of sharp turns. They were on a winding road, noticeably climbing. She could hear the intense whine of the motor, feel the upward tilt. There was a huge mountain on the island. Was that where they were now? And what was going to happen at the end of the trip?

Helplessness engulfed her as she considered the possibilities. Her mind created every possible worst-case scenario. The man might open the trunk and shoot her in the head before she could move. He could wrap her body in the sheet she appeared to be lying on and dump her over the side of the mountain into the water below. She could die without anyone knowing.

"Dylan," she whispered. "You have to find me. I don't think I can do this by myself."

His confident voice came into her head: I'm coming. Don't give up. Just get me there.

Get him there? How could she do that?

And then she realized the power she'd always had: the power to enter other people's minds. She'd never tried to use it. She'd always let it use her. She'd been afraid to go into the evil, afraid she'd lose herself there and never come out. But she'd have to take that chance.