Prologue
May 7, 2002
AN EERIE, FINGERLIKE MIST rose from the lake, luring Karis to the water’s edge. She stepped off the trail, shivering in the chill, arms bare. The shoreline was deserted except for a furry creature ambling along the rocks, caught in the shadows of clouds shifting in the morning sky. Below, tiny waves lapped by her tennis shoes, echoing off the stone bluffs that enclosed the inlet.
Why had she come? To forget? To remember? She glanced at her watch and felt the sadness seep in.
Out of habit, she rolled up her jeans and removed her shoes, wincing at the pinpricks of the coarse sand along the bank. She forced each foot into the murky water, ignoring the cold and the sharpness of the pebbles. A merciful numbness crept through her toes and up her legs. As she took another step, her foot grazed an object that floated to the surface. A mass of gray and brown, stiff, yet soft. Karis choked back a sob. Its eyes were open.
“I wouldn’t go out too far unless you’re a good swimmer. There’s a blind drop-off,” a voice called from behind.
But she already knew that.
A fisherman appeared in the haze. An older man, he carried a tackle box and fly-fishing pole. He seemed harmless enough, but she looked toward the trail anyway.
He must have sensed her discomfort. He backed away, tripping on an exposed tree root. And then he was gone.
The moment passed, but the emptiness lingered.
Against the marble sky, a red-tailed hawk suddenly screeched. Karis fought for breath, willing her heart to still. She looked down again. The dead bird was gone. In its place, a single mottled feather bobbed on the water. She picked it up and tucked it in her pocket, not really knowing why.
If only the pain would go away . . .
Chapter One
Eight years later
Harbor, Missouri
“WHAT ABOUT THE BACK ROADS?” The elderly woman looked up, a spark in her opaque blue eyes. Under the fluorescent light of the exam room, she seemed especially thin and frail, her face wizened, but hopeful.
“You don’t give up easily, do you, Evelyn?” Karis steadied her stroke patient as the woman struggled into her cardigan. “But no driving includes the back roads.”
“You sure know how to ruin a girl’s day.”
“I want you safe.” Karis guided the woman’s weakened left hand into the arm of the sweater. “Besides, your daughter would never forgive me if I let you hot rod around Harbor.”
“I suppose Gertie can pick me up for my meetings, but she’s such a slowpoke.” The widow opened the shopping bag hanging from her walker and removed a foil-covered plate. “I made orange rolls. I want you to have some. No hurry with the dish.”
Karis smiled and took the proffered gift. “Evelyn, you are going to make me fat.”
“That’s the point, honey.” The woman looked over her glasses.
“Let’s see you again in two weeks. And thank you so much for the rolls.” Karis held the door of the exam room and watched the woman totter down the hallway toward the checkout desk. In her Hawaiian shirt, capris, and white tennis shoes, she looked so much like Nana. The memory caught Karis off guard. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.
A splash of late afternoon sun illuminated the stack of charts on the counter. Karis eased onto a stool, relieved to be off her feet if only for a few minutes. Without a local doctor for over two years, patients had stormed the community clinic as soon as her name went on the sign out front. Budget cuts had delayed the transition to electronic health records. Never-ending paperwork had followed. Two months after opening, Karis had barely unpacked and knew she needed more sensible shoes. Fresh paint on the clinic walls wouldn’t hurt either. Beige had never seemed so uninspiring.
A sudden burst of laughter erupted from the second exam room. Her nurse stepped out five minutes later. “There’s an add-on, Dr. Henry. An itchy rash, and man, oh man, he’s—”
“That’s all I need, Lauren. Thank you.” She plucked the chart from the young woman’s hand and whisked open the door to the exam room. “Hello, I’m Dr . . .”
Her throat constricted as his gaze swept over, lingering on her unbuttoned lab coat. The windowless room seemed to grow smaller and unbearably warm. For a split second, she grappled for an excuse, any excuse to back away, but Lauren moved in behind and took up her post.
Karis forced herself to step to the counter, to open his chart, to act normal. As she fumbled for a pen, the chart slipped from her hands. Lauren bent over to help retrieve the errant papers, but her pen rolled across the floor. She froze as he picked it up and held it out, a cordial smile forming below the dark eyes.
She grabbed the pen, wishing her hand wasn’t shaking, and then studied his chart. “You have a rash, Mr. Montes? Where is it located?”
He didn’t answer, but took his sweet time pulling off the navy polo. Above the dimpled chin, his mouth pulled sideways. Lauren was practically bug-eyed.
He would have made an excellent cadaver.
Karis swallowed and stepped closer, trying to ignore the faint scent of his cologne. Musk. Still musk. She blinked away the suffocating memory. Tiny red papules peppered the muscular chest. Most likely an allergic reaction. She backed away, breathing again, shielding herself with his chart. “Have you eaten any new foods or tried any new products recently?” She named the usual culprits.
He seemed preoccupied.
“I asked you a question.”
That slow, easy smile again. “Yes.” His voice sent shockwaves down her spine.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ve eaten something new recently.”
“What is so amusing, Mr. Montes?”
He straightened, effecting a serious expression. “I beg your pardon. Crayfish.”
She noted his answer, but still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was laughing at her. “Have you noticed a similar reaction with other shellfish? Or more serious symptoms like swelling? Trouble breathing? Crustaceans are a common allergen.”
No answer. She glanced up. Now something akin to a George Clooney smirk. She started scribbling in his chart. “I suspect you have a mild case of urticaria or hives which is probably caused by a food allergy. Avoid shellfish in the future. The hives will probably disappear in time. In the meantime, you can use an over-the-counter antihistamine to control the itching.” She slapped the chart shut and prepared to leave the room. “Have a nice life.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
She spun around. “I never forget anything.”
“I requested a complete skin exam. You know, just to be safe.” He pointed to the chart. “I never forget anything either, Dr. Henry.”
She removed an exam gown and then shut the drawer. It clanged loudly. He was doing this on purpose. “Take everything off but your undergarments, Mr. Montes.”
Out in the hall, Lauren’s face was one big question mark, which Karis refused to answer. She’d be rid of the man as soon as possible and forget the day ever happened.
When she stepped back in, he sat with the gown gaping open in front.
“It’s supposed to open in the back.”
As he stood and pulled the gown off, she caught sight of the fitted, black boxers that left little to the imagination. She felt her cheeks burn. Lauren pretended to wipe imaginary spots off the stainless steel sink with a paper towel, but kept glancing sideways.
He seemed to enjoy the awkwardness. He donned the garment again. “Better?”
“Face the wall.”
When he turned around, she saw the ponytail. A leather band secured the unruly black hair. Always one for attention, he’d apparently tired of the textured, curly crop he’d been so meticulous about. She pushed the mass to one side. His upper back was well- toned—no surprise there—and heavily freckled, further evidence of sun exposure aboard what? A new yacht?
And then there was the tattoo, emblazoned across his right shoulder. No doubt he wanted some kind of reaction.
He had two moles on his upper left extremity. She pointed them out for Lauren to document the size and appearance and then pulled the gown back into place. “Show me your hands.”
Besides heavily calloused palms, his right thumb was bruised and swollen.
“You should wear gloves when you lift weights.” An obsessive bodybuilder, he’d paid his personal trainer a fortune.
“I didn’t get these lifting.”
She continued the exam. It wasn’t her business how he hurt his hands.
On his left posterior thigh, she found the one thing she hated to see on any patient—even him. The nevus was textbook—asymmetric, black, suspicious. “How long has this been here?” She pulled out a hand mirror and showed him the reflection.
“No idea.”
“Lauren—”
“Got it.” Her nurse produced a 6mm punch kit and 4-0 nylon sutures from the upper storage cabinet and then drew up anesthetic in a syringe.
A swift knock. Belinda, her receptionist, poked her head in the door and spoke to Lauren, who nodded and waltzed out. Karis swallowed, backing away, hating that she felt intimidated. “That spot needs a biopsy.”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the exam table, looking down at her. His head was mere inches from the swiveling arm of the overhead light. “You really get into this whole doctor thing, don’t you?”
She felt blood rush to her face as she held out a consent form and pen. “This gives me permission to perform the biopsy.”
He signed the paperwork with a deft hand. “Anything else . . . you might want?”
She lowered her voice. “Why did you come here?”
“I had a rash.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Karis . . .” For a brief moment, the smirk melted way.
“Lie down on your right side. This will sting.” She sterilized the site, uncapped the syringe, and jabbed the needle into his quad. He held his breath, but didn’t move. Positioning the biopsy instrument, she punched out a cylindrical piece of tissue and dropped it in a small bottle of formalin.
“The results will be back next week.”
“And then what?” He casually looked over his shoulder as if he were lying on the beach.
She secured the sutures. “I may need to take a wider margin. Unfortunately.”
“And why is that?”
“Because this could be melanoma.”
“More slicing and dicing. I bet you can’t wait.”
Karis pressed the foot pedal of the waste can and threw away her gloves. “This is not a joking matter. Melanoma is cancer that can metastasize. People die from it every day.”
He sat up and placed a hand over his chest. “Duly noted. And what if the results aren’t so . . . catastrophic?”
“In two weeks, the sutures come out, you go on your merry way, and if you ever need a doctor again, find one closer to home.”
He shortened the distance between them. “I’m looking at her.”
She flinched at the warmth in his voice. “Do me a favor and buy some sunscreen.” Just when she’d finally put life back together, Clay Montes had to show up.
