The High Tide Club
Brooke’s stomach heaved. She made it into the adjacent bathroom just in time. Marie was by her side in an instant, holding her hair as Brooke hunched miserably over the commode, then helping her back to the examining table.
The curtain parted, and a white-coated doctor appeared. “Brooke Trappnell? I’m Dr. Schaefer.”
“We’re her parents,” Marie said. “Can we stay?”
The nurse came in, bearing a plastic-covered stainless steel tray.
“Better not to,” Schaefer said. “Stitches and all. I’ll send for you when we’re done here.”
He turned to Brooke. “How do you feel?” he asked when they were alone, leaning in to look at her face. “This cut is pretty deep. Does your head hurt?”
“It’s killing me,” Brooke said.
“Nauseous?”
“Very,” she admitted.
He held a small penlight and examined her closer. “Does this light hurt your eyes?”
“Yes.” She winced, closed her eyes, and turned away.
“And how did you get these injuries?”
She gave him the condensed version, telling him about the dizziness and panic that seized her as she was climbing the lighthouse stairs, and about falling and hitting her head, and then being struck by Gabe.
He nodded. “Vertigo. That could account for the nausea, but I think you’ve probably also got a concussion. We’ll get your wound area numbed, then I’ll stitch you up. With a concussion, I want somebody to check on you every few hours. Do you have somebody who can stay with you tonight? Your parents or one of your sisters?”
“I think so,” Brooke said. Her head hurt too much to correct him about the status of her real and newly adopted family.
“The man I was with, C. D. Anthony? Do you know how he is?” she asked.
“He’ll be all right. It was a through-and-through gunshot wound. He’s one tough customer. We’ll keep him overnight, mostly because of his age and the amount of blood loss, but barring any surprises, we should be able to cut him loose tomorrow.”
“Can I see him?” Brooke asked.
“Tomorrow. There’s not much to see. He’s been sedated. You should go home and get some rest.”
* * *
Lizzie and Felicia were in animated conversation with Brooke’s parents as the nurse wheeled her out to the waiting room.
“Who gets these?” the nurse asked, holding up Brooke’s discharge papers.
“I’ll take them,” Marie said. She looked down at her daughter. “The girls and your dad and I have been talking. You’re going to need some quiet time at home, so I’m hoping you’ll let me take Henry back to Savannah to my house, at least for the weekend.”
“Lizzie and I can hang with you,” Felicia said.
“Is that really necessary?” Brooke asked, pressing her fingers to her throbbing temples.
“Yes,” Marie said, ushering her out the door. “No arguments.”
* * *
Henry and Farrah were working on a puzzle when they got home. “Ree!” the child cried, ignoring his mother and flinging himself at Marie’s knees. She swung him into the air and spun him around as he laughed in delight. Gordon stood just inside the door, an awkward, silent outsider.
“Omygod, Brooke!” Farrah cried. “I was so worried about you. Gabe showed up to take you to lunch. I told him you were at an appointment, but I knew he didn’t believe me.”
Brooke gave her a wan smile. “You kinda saved my life today. If you hadn’t figured out where I was…”
“I knew something was bad wrong when you said me and Jaxson should pick up Henry, but it took me a minute to figure out you were telling me you were at the lighthouse,” Farrah said, giggling.
“Hey, buddy,” Brooke said as Henry reached for her.
His dark blue eyes widened when he spotted her bruised and bandaged face. “Boo-boo?” he asked.
“Just a little one,” Brooke said, taking him in her arms. “All better now.”
Henry kissed his fingertip and touched it to her cheek. He stared and pointed at Gordon. “Who’s that?”
Gordon’s voice was hoarse. “I’m your grandpop, Henry.” He took the child’s chubby hand in his and solemnly shook.
“Grandpop is my daddy,” Brooke explained. “Just like Ree is my mommy.”
“Let me take him,” Marie said. “I can tell your head is hurting. I can pack his bag, and then we’ll be on our way.”
Catching the cue, Lizzie stepped up and took Brooke by the arm. “Come on. Show me to your bedroom.”
“Henry, would you like to go stay at Ree’s house and sleep in the big bed tonight?” Brooke heard Marie ask just as Lizzie pulled the covers back from her bed and urged her to get some sleep.
66
Every four hours, Lizzie and Felicia took turns shaking Brooke awake, asking the questions outlined in the emergency room discharge instructions. Brooke’s cheek still throbbed, and her head still hurt. She was disoriented and sleepy, but the women were relentlessly efficient.
When she awoke on her own, she could see the sun through the slats in the window blinds. Felicia was asleep on the other side of the bed, facedown on a pillow.
She found Lizzie in the kitchen, making coffee. “You’re alive!” Lizzie said, pouring her a mug.
“Barely.” Brooke sat at the table and sipped her coffee. A moment later, they heard water running in the bathroom, and then Felicia joined them.
“How did you sleep?” she asked.
“Badly,” Brooke admitted. “All night long I kept dreaming I was falling down the stairs at the lighthouse. Down and down and down. And then one of you would wake me up and ask me what day it was.”
“Sorry,” Felicia said. “Doctor’s orders.”
“The past twenty-four hours all seem like a bad dream. I still can’t believe any of it happened. I can’t believe Gabe is dead. That he did those things my dad says he did. None of this makes any sense.” Brooke looked from Felicia to Lizzie. “Does it make sense to you?”
“We sat up talking last night after you were asleep,” Lizzie said, “trying to piece it all together, but some of it’s just a guess, and some of it, let’s face it, we might never know.”
“We took a look at all the stuff Farrah dug up on Gabe yesterday,” Felicia said. “The man was having serious financial problems. There were tax liens on his house in Savannah and at Sea Island. He’d even had some bad check charges, although it looks like those were dismissed once he made restitution.”
“Probably that’s why he looted his clients’ trust accounts. He figured he’d be able to pay back all the money before he was found out,” Lizzie said. “But the question is, why?”
“Sunny,” Brooke said.
The two women gave her a questioning look.
“His wife. She’d been in and out of rehab for years. That couldn’t have been cheap. Gabe told me she would go on spending sprees when she was drinking. He claimed he didn’t even know about that Porsche he’s been driving until he found it in the garage of the house at Sea Island shortly after she died of liver cancer two years ago.”
“Classic,” Felicia said. “Blame it on the dead wife.”
“He needed money, and he needed it fast,” Lizzie went on.