Free Healing Stones by Stephen Arterburn, Nancy Rue

do not,” I said. “But I will. They fell out of my hands when I was trying to get the gate open, so I shoved them off the dock with my foot. I was upset, and I wanted to get out of there.”
    â€œUpset because—”
    Rich’s arm twitched against me.
    â€œBecause while I was on board the boat with Mr. Archer, someone came out of the dark and snapped pictures of us. I gathered up my clothes and in the process I knocked over a candle, which set the boat on fire. Zach told me to go, so I ran. And that was the last time I saw him.”
    â€œSo there was someone else on the boat with you two.”
    â€œYes, but I don’t know who it was.”
    â€œSo there are photographs of the scene,” the officer said.
    â€œThere were,” Rich said. “I saw them.”
    I wanted to die for him.
    â€œAnd where are they now?” the young cop asked.
    â€œI burned them,” I heard myself say.
    Boy Cop looked disappointed, and I wanted to grab his throat.
    â€œHow did you get the pictures?” The detective looked from one of us to the other, like someone choosing between two half-rotten melons.
    â€œThey were delivered to me at the fire station,” Rich said. “I don’t know who and I don’t know why. I brought them straight home and
confronted my wife.”
    Boy Cop grunted.
    Rich turned on him. “Would I be upset if something happened to the guy? No. Am I glad he’s disappeared? Yeah. But do I think my wife did anything to the dude—you gotta be kiddin’ me.” Rich dragged his gaze to me. “She’s in love with him, okay? If she knew where he was, she’d probably be with him. Now—you got anything else? ’Cause I gotta tell ya, I’m sick of you bein’ in my house.”
    The detective stood up. “That’s it for now. Mrs. Costanas, don’t leave town.”
    I found my professor voice again. “I wasn’t planning to.”
    â€œYou either,” he said to Rich.
    He started for the door and I followed him, determined that he not spend an unnecessary minute in our home. He stopped, his face now so close to mine I could see the nicotine stains on his teeth.
    â€œOne more question. The secretary at your college—” He consulted his pad. “Sebastian Young. He said you borrowed his master key to get into Archer’s office yesterday.”
    I closed my eyes.
    â€œWhat were you looking for?”
    â€œI wanted to return some books, which I did,” I said.
    â€œDid you find anything you’d left in there ?” Boy Cop asked.
    â€œGet out!”
    I whipped my head toward Rich. He started across the floor, teeth set into a grind, eyes menacing.
    â€œI don’t need an escort,” Updike said. He nodded Boy Cop out and followed him.
    When they were gone, I leaned my forehead against the door. I didn’t hear Rich make a move, not even as I turned to him and tried to see him through pained tears.
    â€œThank you,” I said.
    â€œDon’t even start. I did that for our kids. I don’t want them knowing anything about this.” He sucked in a ragged breath. “Do you hear me this time? Don’t tell them anything.”
    â€œI agree.” The professor voice had been replaced by a thin plea. “I was going to tell you what happened at the yacht club yesterday—”
    â€œYou went back there—and to his office. You said it was over, and then you went looking for him.”
    â€œTo make sure he knows it’s over!”
    â€œHow many more clothes do you have to take off before he’ll be convinced?”
    He stormed up the steps.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    A t the moment, Dr. Sullivan Crisp felt almost nothing like a psychologist. And that, he told himself, was exactly what he wanted.
    He’d picked the right place. The beach at Point No Point, the northernmost tip of the peninsula, stretched out before him like an endless playground strewn