Tidings of Fear

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Back Cover Copy A psychic, a skeptic, and a serial killer... Psychic Lia Morgan sees portents all around her. Although estranged from her family, she joins the search for her missing sister. A simple case gets complicated fast when she discovers her sister's plethora of secrets includes a son. Professor Jared Trimble's world has no room for paranormal mumbo-jumbo. When asked to consult on a case involving a series of crossword puzzles, he's conflicted. Is he a suspect, or an investigator? While Lia uses her physic gift and follows signs, Jared uses his wits and experience. When the two collide, passions flare and the final clue brings them both into the bull's-eye of a serial killer's target.

Highlight It hadn’t escaped Lia’s notice that every woman in the coffee shop, from the barista to the married ladies in business suits, had all checked Jared out. What drew their attention? Rugged good looks and a thick head of hair didn’t set him all that much apart from other men. No, it had to be the confidence he exuded. From the set of his wide shoulders to the way he sat in his chair, his very essence spoke of his self-assurance. Years ago, she’d felt the attraction the minute she’d set foot in Professor Jared Trimble’s classroom. As he’d lectured, she’d been reminded of the scene in the old Indiana Jones movies where the girls in the classroom wrote love notes to Harrison Ford on their eyelids. Sadly, she’d almost been tempted to do the same. Instead, she’d simply dressed in her most provocative outfit and showed up at his office for tutoring. A lesson that had ended with her naked on the desk in his office. Even seven years later, the thought of his hands and mouth on her body made her skin tingle and her core heat. What if… No, she couldn’t go there.

Tidings of Fear By Ericka Scott

Tidings of Fear 9781616503352 Copyright © 2011, Ericka Scott Edited by Piper Denna Book design by Lyrical Press, Inc. Cover Art by Renee Rocco First Lyrical Press, Inc. electronic publication: November, 2011 Lyrical Press, Incorporated http://www.lyricalpress.com eBooks are not transferable. All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content. Published in the United States of America by Lyrical Press, Incorporated

Dedication To my best friend, Linda. You’ve been a huge fan from the very beginning so the least I could do was to put you into one of my books.

Acknowledgements To Piper, my editor extraordinaire, who cracked the whip, made me reword lazy sentences--grimace--and polished my story to a shine. I owe you one!

Author’s Foreword Camel Cove is a fictional town in the California bay area located on the north bank of the Carquinez Strait. And yes, Virginia, there were once camels in California!

Chapter 1 He loved the hunt, always chock full of possibilities. His prey could come in today, tomorrow, maybe next week, but rest assured, she would come into the shop eventually. The bell on the door jingled, and out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the mirror he kept angled toward the entrance. Foggy and cold. Only the sparkling green and red lights in the shop window reminded him it was Christmas and not Halloween. A woman ushered in a child and gave him a shy smile. Plain, rotund and dressed in a too-tight pink sweater and jeans that did, indeed, make her butt look big, his artistic soul shuddered. In contrast, her adorably plump son was all boy, toting two toy trains and hooting like a train whistle while he played. The approaching Christmas holiday had brought in a sudden rush of customers. If he were truly in this business to make money, he would have been more than happy to see the schedule fill up. He’d been turning customers away, hoping to leave room in the schedule for her. Momentary doubt assailed him. Had he left everything too much to chance? Perhaps. Surely, the coupon he’d mailed would bring her in. After delaying for five minutes, he greeted the woman and her son and led them to the area behind the counter he had set up as a studio. A fake Christmas tree and fireplace, the most popular backdrop this time of year, hung at the ready. Still, a few of the customers preferred the snowy evergreen scene, so he rolled that one out for display as well. The woman confided that although a pagan, her parents would be disappointed if they didn’t get a holiday shot of their grandson. He seated the little guy on a stool in front of the Christmas tree and handed the boy a ribboned box to hold. As he worked, he chatted her up, even flirted a little. Practicing for the day, the time, when she would walk in the door with her son. The bell jangled as he took his first photo of the boy and his nerves tingled with anticipation. Was it her? From where he stood, he couldn’t see the door, so he quickly snapped two similar shots and then swung the camera display around to let the tub of lard mother pick the picture she preferred. When he glanced over his shoulder, his mouth went dry. Glory be, she’d come! He bit back a smile as he surveyed the tall, strikingly beautiful African-American woman. A small boy fidgeted beside her.

She captured his attention so completely that he dismissed the short, fat woman from his mind. He noticed her undisguised puzzlement, but couldn’t control his impatience, and rushed her through the photo selection process. Printing up the poses she’d requested seemed to take an eternity, and inside, he fluttered with frustration. With a squeak, the machine spit out the last eight-by-ten and the Hispanic woman and her irritating toddler left. Now he could concentrate on her. With her finally within reach, he contrarily felt the need to delay, to savor the anticipation. He cleared his workspace, filing bundles of pictures into waiting envelopes while the backdrops whirred up to the top and into position for the next set of portraits. The woman gazed around, her eyes narrowed. He bit back a smile. Did she sense something was off in the atmosphere of the shop? Would she guess he’d laid the snare especially for her? She fancied herself a security expert, but he’d crack her defenses as easily as an egg. He gauged her response, waiting until she was on the verge of walking out, before greeting her. He beckoned her to the counter and then his real work began. Adopting a clipped British accent, he greeted her and her son. “Are you in for Christmas piccys today, love?” His quarry shook her head. “I’d like a simple portrait of the both of us, together.” She motioned toward the young boy. Whirring a plain smoke-colored background down, he set up the lifts he’d need under a darker gray blanket. “Have you been here long?” the woman asked. “I’ve been working here for eight months,” he answered vaguely. “I meant how long has the studio been open?” “I’m not sure, mum. I’m only the shop assistant, but the owner will be in later.” “Do you know what time?” He gave a short laugh. “Not exactly. She doesn’t clear her schedule with me.” The woman gave him a tight-lipped smile in response, not that he expected more. No, her bestselling book, Safe and Sane Rules for Single Women, discouraged women from sharing too much information or interest in subjects for which they had an emotional investment. Well, he had news for Miss Security Expert. People, especially women, enjoyed talking about themselves;

they only needed an audience. If he asked the right questions, he could learn everything he needed to know. As he seated and posed them on the stools, he started into his standard patter. He’d carefully gleaned the questions from her book. It would be interesting to find out if she followed her own rules. “So, have you lived in San Francisco long?” “All my life.” “You don’t sound like you’re from around here. I’d have guessed you were from somewhere back east.” “Oh, originally I’m from here. I moved away and then came back to California for the sunshine. Too bad it doesn’t look like we’re going to get too much of that today.” Friendly, but still vague. Her phrasing of moved away didn’t come close to confirming his guess of the east coast. Interesting that she also only referred to California, not the specific city, not wanting to commit to admitting she was local and not a tourist. Well, she was good, but he was better. He glanced down at the questionnaire she’d filled out. There were no answers in the blanks requesting last name, address and phone number. “I have some coupons for the circus over there by the register. Perhaps you’d like to pick up a few to use this weekend when Daddy’s home from work.” He pointedly addressed this question to the little boy. The child frowned and looked up at his mother. “We have other plans. But thank you.” Interesting. Her child hadn’t responded openly to his innocent questions. Had he learned from his mother’s example, or did she use her own book for bedtime reading? After asking a few more questions and receiving non-answers, he lapsed into smiling silence. All too soon, the set of ten photographs had been snapped, and she’d decided on the package. He printed up the first shot and gave an exaggerated sigh. Pasting a tragic look on his face, he turned to her. “Our photo printing machine is on the fritz. Did you need these photos right away?” “In time to mail out our Christmas cards.” The woman smiled, but this time it didn’t go all the way to her eyes. Did she suspect? Well, he knew her answer was an obvious lie. With only a few days left

before Christmas, the postal service couldn’t beat Santa Claus in delivering holiday greetings to their recipients. “I’ll call the repairman immediately. I can mail them to you as soon as they are done.” “Will the photos be ready today?” “Probably,” he hedged. “We’re heading into the, um, I mean, we’ll be busy for a few hours. We’ll pick them up on our way back. Perhaps I can meet with the owner then.” “All right.” He dragged out the affirmation. “Could I get your name so I can tell my boss she has an appointment?” “Sylvie.” The woman simply reiterated the first name on the form. “Oh, and your cellphone number, in case the pictures aren’t ready in time,” he added with what he hoped looked like an innocent smile. “I have the studio’s number on the receipt. I’ll call. They’ll be done by tomorrow, for sure?” Damn her. She had upped the stakes in this game. “Absolutely,” he assured her. Even if the pictures weren’t ready, his trap would be. He almost held his breath as he finished up their transaction. She pulled out her billfold to pay, and just when he thought she would lose the game by default, she paid in cash. “Ta-ta,” he called out as they left. The boy turned and gave him a small wave and a smile. One last item to check. She had her defense skills honed around strangers, but what about open-air security? After a full minute had elapsed, he followed the pair out of the shop and trailed them to their car. If she or her child spotted him, he had a duplicate receipt and a buy-oneget-one-free coupon to present as a plausible excuse. Score one for him, she didn’t notice his presence. Her attention fully focused on her son, who dragged his feet, begging to go back to look at something in a brightly decorated store window. Some words were exchanged between the mother and the little boy, resulting in the little man throwing one heck of a temper tantrum. He stood, openly watching her for the several minutes it took for her to manhandle her screaming son into the car and buckle him into his car seat. In the meantime, he savored the

memory of their verbal foreplay. To his credit, he’d confirmed her weak spot--her child. And he knew exactly how to exploit that. Oh, he did so enjoy the hunt.

Chapter 2 What a nightmare! Lia Morgan rubbed her temples. Of all the calls she had ever envisioned receiving about her sister, this one didn’t come close to anything she’d expected. When the police officer introduced himself and told her Sylvie was missing, the words almost didn’t register. Missing? Impossible. But instead of opening her mouth to argue, she’d listened. “Yesterday morning, Sylvie and her two-year old son, Deion, left their home at approximately eight-thirty. According to statements we’ve taken, they had planned to go to Pier 39, have lunch and return home by five o’clock. When your sister’s friend, Margaret Fletcher, called at five, no one answered,” the officer stated. He then went on to tell her Margaret had called at five-thirty and then at half-hour intervals until eight o’clock. When there was still no answer, and Sylvie couldn’t be reached on her house or cellphone, Margaret drove to the residence. Finding no one home, she’d reported Sylvie and her son, Deion, missing. As the story unfolded, Lia’s disbelief increased. Sylvie had a son? And what had happened between Sylvie and Margaret that they were no longer living together? “When did you last see your sister?” the officer asked. “Seven years ago.” A pregnant silence greeted her statement. “My sister and I weren’t close,” Lia finally added. Now that was the understatement of the year. “Then you wouldn’t know if she’d voluntarily left the area? Is it possible she planned to visit you for the upcoming holidays?” “No, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t know anything about her plans. But just up and leaving isn’t something my sister would do. You’re aware that she’s a bestselling author of a personal security book, right?” “Yes, ma’am.” The officer intoned. “Right now, we’re considering all the scenarios.” “Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am. If you do hear from your sister--” “I’ll be sure to let you know.” Lia laid the telephone receiver back in its cradle. Her thoughts were so jumbled that the sudden loud ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall made her jump. Had time really stood still? Perhaps. Something else infeasible had occurred. Her staid and respectable, older and wiser sister had disappeared. The thought still felt foreign. For ten years, Sylvie Morgan worked as a security expert for some top secret government organization. According to the little Sylvie had been able to say, she had kept numerous presidents and foreign dignitaries safe by working behind the scenes. Whatever that meant. She knew the ins and outs, hell, she’d written the book on keeping your person and identity safe. Lia had bought it last year and taken it to heart. As a freelance photographer, she traveled a lot, and needed to not only to feel secure but to be safe. Even now, Sylvie’s book dominated as a hot topic of discussion on talk shows and sat prominently displayed in every bookstore Lia frequented. So, what had happened to her sister? Margaret? Lia conjured up a vision of her sister’s partner, or were they ex-lovers now? Margaret was exactly six feet tall, just like her sister. Sylvie’s ebony complexion sharply contrasted Margaret’s lack of any pigmentation. Black and white bookends. To complement the comparison, they wore their hair in short bobs. Both had curves and legs that seemed to go all the way up to their necks. Many men admired the women from afar; however, none were allowed any closer. Even if they weren’t together now, Margaret couldn’t have been complicit in Sylvie’s disappearance. According to the police, she had called in the missing person’s report. A niggle of doubt called to mind all the other cases where once lovers had murdered their partners. Lia pushed the thought away impatiently. Instead, she focused on the other tidbit of information the officer had dropped. Sylvie had a son. Wow. What a shock. Sylvie had always professed never to want children and often joked that she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. Well, something had changed. Lia twirled on the kitchen stool where she’d perched to answer the phone. Amazing that her small efficiency apartment could be so crowded and cluttered. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes and, off to left, a pile of laundry mounded up the side of the washer. Luckily, she’d finished a photo shoot and submitted all the shots to her publisher, so she could take off at a

moment’s notice. However, she’d probably better clean the place up a bit. She picked up the receiver to place a call to the airline. With her finger poised over the buttons, a series of beeps startled her. It sounded as if someone were already dialing a number. She hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Were the sounds real, or were they a sign she needed to pay attention to? Damn it, she hated when she couldn’t tell reality from a psychic impression. She picked up the receiver and again, the sounds repeated. This time, she left the phone off the hook. The call never connected, the tones simply repeated, two, perhaps three more times. Too bad she’d never memorized what sound went with which number. Perhaps if she hummed the tune, she’d remember it. She tried and then gave up. Unexpectedly, tears flooded her eyes. Having unique psychic abilities weren’t good for anything if she couldn’t utilize the clues presented. “Dammit,” she shouted into her empty apartment. “At least give me something I can use.” She slammed the receiver down and slid off the stool. On one last hope of being able to call the airlines for a reservation, she picked up the handset. The now-familiar tune played in her ear. With a sigh, she put the receiver down. Gently this time. Laundry, dishes, then pack. She’d make airline reservations via the internet. By eleven that evening, Lia’s apartment sparkled. Well, not really, but it looked cleaner, anyway. She had been able to book a seat on the first flight out in the morning, which meant she’d have to be at the airport before dawn. Before going to bed, she gathered all her unread newspapers to throw into the apartment complex recycling bins. She really should consider canceling her subscription, but having a newspaper delivered made her feel informed and connected. Informed, my ass. That only works if you read the darn things. Huge blue, green and red bins were kept at the bottom of the stairwell. Taking a page out of her sister’s book, she tucked the papers under one arm. After locking the door, she placed her keychain with its accompanying can of mace into her pocket and kept her hand in the pocket. Not that she really worried. She lived in a secure building, a doorman limiting access to residents and their guests. But still, this was New York. The stairway smelled musty, rather like dirty socks left too long in the quarterback’s locker. She made it all the way down to the first floor before the overhead fluorescent light flickered. It dimmed and brightened eight times, then it went out. As she continued down, she

found herself counting the steps. Eight between each landing. Granted, she’d never counted them before, but it struck her as odd. What was it with the number eight today? She hefted her load of newspapers and prepared to throw them into the big blue bin when she noticed something odd. Every paper in the bin appeared to be folded identically. Not rolled, as if they’d never been opened like hers were. But opened to expose page twenty-three where the horoscopes, a few black and white cartoons, and a large crossword puzzle resided. Lia shifted the top layer to the side. The papers below were all the same, and she had the suspicion that if she searched all the way to the bottom of the bin, she’d not find one paper out of sync. She dumped her armful on top and turned her back. On impulse, she reached back into the bin and pulled out one of the folded papers. It might not mean anything, but she’d learned never to ignore the signs. Those cryptic messages sent from who-knows-where had saved her life on more than one occasion. Was it her turn to save someone else? However, after the things Sylvie had said to her in the past, her sister probably didn’t want her help. Stifling the memory, she trudged back upstairs where she locked the door, undressed and then crawled into bed. The sheets were cool and smelled of fabric softener from their recent romp in the dryer. She fluffed her pillows and tried to relax, clearing her mind and preparing for sleep. Unbidden, thoughts and snippets of past conversations, make that arguments, with her sister kept intruding. Although eight years older, Sylvie had been her best friend. Even after they’d grown apart, Lia still admired her tall, beautiful, smart sister. Their parents had treated them the same. Although she knew in her heart they worried just a little more about their youngest daughter, Lia, who couldn’t remember to turn in her homework, and who spent more time dreaming than studying. Then came the summer she turned twelve. She began having odd experiences. Her mother and sister wrote it off as imagination, or worse, to the onset of her menstrual cycle. Lia, sensing that there were some things a girl didn’t talk about, began hoarding the impressions to herself. If she were a skeptic, she’d write all those things off as coincidence or happenstance, especially when the clues came in signs. A dead bird on the sidewalk, a dog barking three times right before she heard the same song repeated three times on the radio, or seeing blood dripping from the exhaust of a car. Lia shuddered.

It had all come to a peak the summer she turned twenty. Lia attended college and her sister worked full time in DC when their parents set off to Italy for their second honeymoon. The signs that morning came fast and furious. A line of dead flies on the window sill, blood pouring from the water fountain, an icon weeping blood in the local church, the sound of an airplane engine sputtering every time she walked out the door. Lia tried to ignore them, tried not to piece the clues together. She almost convinced herself it was only imagination, that nothing bad lurked over the horizon. The minute her parents’ flight took off, the odd occurrences stopped and Lia sighed in relief. The call came later that evening. Her mom and dad had been robbed and murdered within hours of stepping off the plane. She could have stopped it. A headache burned behind her eyes. Lia rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom after aspirin. She looked at the bedroom clock as she passed. Eight. What? She squinted out the window. Still dark. Shaking her head, she swallowed the tablets and made her way back to bed. She picked up the alarm clock. The display now read three thirty-three. How had she gotten an eight out of that? She put the clock back down and curled up on her side. Somewhere, a cricket chirped. She found herself counting along with the sounds. One, two…the insect fell silent at eight. Although she strained to hear something further, no more chirps broke the silence. Had it died. Or… Dragging her mind back to the present, she sighed. Morning would come far too early. She had to get some sleep or she’d be useless in helping to find her sister. When sleep finally took hold, dreams made her toss and turn. The number eight danced through everything--sometimes typewritten and sometimes in fancy script on a door or wall. In one dream, the animated number ran up and down stairs resembling the blocks of a crossword puzzle. She even dreamed of taking a picture of the number, immeasurably pleased with the print. Then the dreams morphed, and she returned to the big pink house where she’d grown up. Her childhood home, a lovely Victorian painted lady that had been her mother’s pride and joy. After their parent’s death, neither Lia nor Sylvie could bear to live there. Conveniently, Sylvie had an apartment in Washington DC, and Lia wanted as far away from home as possible. But neither of them could bear to sell the house. Instead, they’d hired a reputable management company to take care of the property. The last time Lia had checked, a bed and breakfast had been in residence. In her dream, Lia walked through the house. It looked exactly the same. She

began to run through the rooms, frantically looking for something. In the distance, she heard her mother calling her name. She jumped awake. A shrill beeping notified her that morning had finally arrived. She needed to get moving if she wanted to catch her plane. Despite the early hour, the airport buzzed with activity. With the new security measures put into place since that fateful September 11th, she found herself singled out for additional security checks. Bored security guards picked through her carry-on bags and had her take their picture with her digital camera. She suffered it all in good grace. As a photo journalist, she’d traveled through war-torn countries where death lurked around every corner and an unattended bag could result in having not only her personal affects, but also her person, shredded by shrapnel. The extra scrutiny was worth the hassle. All the while, she looked for signs. To her surprise, there were none. No eights, no weirdly folded newspapers. Nothing. What did that mean? She shuddered. The last time the signs had disappeared, it meant her parents were dead. Was she too late? Unable to follow that thought all the way through to the grim conclusion, she boarded the plane. Glancing down at her boarding pass, she frowned. Triple eight. She sighed and resisted the urge to sing “They’re back.” The narrow aisle was crowded and no flight attendants were in sight. She made her way all the way to the back of the plane. Before she hit the button to call for assistance, she looked back down at the ticket. The numbers now read B28. Fate’s cruel sense of humor struck again. Hell, the seats didn’t even recline back here. She hefted her carry-on into the luggage bin and then sank into her seat. Closing her eyes, she fell asleep within minutes. Luckily, this time she didn’t dream. **** Professor Trimble’s phone was ringing…again. Priscilla, the office secretary, sighed. She wished he would just answer his damn phone. When it rang for the third time in half an hour, she stalked down the hallway, the staccato tapping of her high heels sounding loud and vicious. At Dr. Trimble’s open office door, she paused. At first glance, she saw no sign of him, only piles and piles of journals, boxes, books and file folders. Jesus. The man was a pack rat with a Ph.D.

Grabbing the knob, the temptation to slam the door shut was strong, until she saw him. Dr. Jared Jerome Trimble. A rush of emotion flowed through her as she studied his features. She’d never thought she’d be attracted to a man with a beard, but the professor’s goatee looked sexier than the stubble that had made George Michael’s fame. And Jared’s eyes! She’d never seen eyes the color of his, gold with a few brown flecks. Yes, indeed, his six-foot tall muscular frame certainly caught the eye of many a female student and visiting faculty member. She’d never admit that he’d caught her eye too. Nice to look at, but a heartbreaker. Contrary to the rumors, though, Dr. Trimble didn’t chase skirts. Women chased him. They didn’t hang around long, though. Most women didn’t have the patience to put up with a man like Dr. Trimble. After the second or third time he’d stood them up, women gave up on him. There were only two things that kept his interest. Anthropology and crossword puzzles. Priscilla smiled, picturing a woman waiting impatiently at a cafe table, until the phone fell silent. Good luck to that poor woman. She pulled the door shut quietly and left the professor sitting on the floor surrounded by piles of pictures. **** Jared glanced up when the door closed, but then went back to work. When the phone rang again an hour later he was examining a pile of skulls. Well, only a photograph of the mound, but the image spoke volumes to him. Spread out over every surface of his office were graphic pictures of destruction and dismemberment, some ancient and some all too recent. All of them concerned with one thing. Death. When attendance in his class had fallen off a few years ago, Jared had decided to add some popular elements back into the curriculum. Anthropology consisted of much more than simply digging up ancient civilizations, it comprised a way of understanding man and his evolution. Taking a page out of popular television shows, he’d come up with new components to his syllabus. His new program scored a hit with the students, and had gained him tenure and a bit of notoriety among his peers. The school staff thought the concept macabre, but they couldn’t question its appeal, especially when other instructors at area colleges copied his methods. His latest topic had been the most popular and most gruesome. Death trophies. Crime profilers were all too familiar with killers who took items from their victims,

especially since the type of objects taken were as individual to the killers as their fingerprints. Jared knew the practice of taking trophies had existed long before modern day serial killers made the concept popular. Ancient Aztecs took the heads of the conquered, stacking them in macabre displays in their temples. The Nazis stole the wealth of their victims. Mostly money, gold and artwork, but their quest to profit from their crimes caused them to harvest the hair, skin and teeth. Even more common trophies were the victims themselves. The victorious often made slaves of the residents of the countries and communities they conquered. In fact, in relation to this lecture, he should do some additional research on modern day slavery, of which there were many kinds: sex slaves, and recently, a case of involuntary servitude of maids in a ritzy New York neighborhood. When he’d started college, he’d envisioned himself digging up pottery and old skeletons, coming back to a safe office and typing up long, scholastic reports. He’d never dreamed that part of his job would be dissecting of the whys and wherefores of genocide, He loved routine and concrete answers, not peeking into the minds of insane, power hungry individuals. If he had known, he would have promptly changed his major to something more mundane, like underwater basket-weaving. In the end, though, he couldn’t complain. The work might have tended toward the gruesome, but was certainly never boring. A shrill peal pulled him out of his reverie. Would that damn phone never stop? He stretched to press the speaker phone button. “Hello?” “Professor Jared Trimble?” a male asked. “Speaking.” “I’m special agent Mark Powers. Your name came up as an expert in your field.” “I’m honored, sir, but there are other faculty members on staff with more experience and expertise in anthropology--” “Oh, this isn’t about anthropology,” Mark interrupted. “Then what is it about?” “Crossword puzzles. It seems I have a serial killer with a fondness for cruciverbalism.”

Chapter 3 It happened so fast. How many times had a victim told her that and she’d scoffed, yes, scoffed at them. Sylvie Morgan had always believed that with the right precautions and forethought, all kidnappings and assaults could be prevented. She leaned her head back against the wall and wished the cool plaster would cool the heat of her anger. She needed to think calmly, use all the resources available to her, and not panic. This whole situation would have been almost bearable if her captor had only taken her and not Deion. However, that had been part of his plan. He’d purposefully used her child to distract and disarm her. Her heart clutched in her chest. What would she do if something happened to Deion? What if her one moment of carelessness got them into a situation she couldn’t get them out of? His head rested on her thigh as he slept. Despite her initial panic, she’d managed to stay in control of her emotions and not upset her child. But now what? The room held no clues as to their whereabouts. The windows were securely boarded up, the walls painted flat black, and a fluorescent light blazed overhead. No sign of a light switch or any way to douse the light. Of the two doors in the room, one led to a tiny bathroom. A state-ofthe-art cipher lock secured the other, a steel-reinforced panel, and from the sound she’d heard when her captor left, barred on the outside. What’s worse, she’d been imprisoned in her own damn house. Well, not the one she lived it, but the one she’d grown up in and still co-owned with her sister, Lia. At least, Sylvie thought she was still in the house. After he’d gassed her, she’d been unconscious for an unknown period of time. Even now, she felt groggy and sick. No. No doubts. This was her house. It might have been imagination, but the house felt the same, sounded the same, smelled the same as it had growing up. Worse, she didn’t even have to ask herself how this debacle had happened. Since their capture, she’d walked herself through every miserable mistake she’d made. Beaten herself over the head with them, in fact. She should have simply called the management office to find out why the big pink Victorian mansion no longer operated as a bed and breakfast. Instead, she’d walked in the front door.

Granted, the management office wasn’t open on Sundays, a lame excuse. She should have kept on walking. Instead, she’d scoped out the place. Watching another woman and her son concluding their portrait session had given her a false sense of security. On the spur of the moment, she’d decided to have her portrait taken with Deion. A professional portrait to hang in the front foyer as an affirmation of her love for her son. The photographer had given her the creeps. Old and wrinkly, he’d looked like an ancient vampire with his dyed black hair spiked with gold gel, a glittering diamond stud in his left ear, and eye makeup that would make any Goth sit up and take notice. Only in San Francisco. She’d wondered, just for a moment, if he was gay. At first, it amused her to think he was hitting on her, then she realized he’d shifted to subtly digging around into her past. It sent up big, waving red flags and spooked her enough that she hadn’t shared any personal information with him and paid with cash. Having the prints mailed to her P.O. box would have been the smart thing to do. Instead, her curiosity had made her vulnerable. A creak in the hallway made her jump, but she didn’t look over when a small panel in the bottom of the door opened. A tray slid into the room, holding two bottles of water, a sandwich, and an individual pan pizza. Her mouth salivated at the scent of the greasy pizza. However, she knew better than to eat anything offered to her by a captor. Deion sat up and rubbed his eyes. He sniffed the air and gave her a wide smile. “Hunny,” he said, rubbing his tummy. “I’m sorry, baby. I know you’re hungry, but we can’t eat the food.” His large brown eyes filled up with tears. “Hunny,” he said with a sob in his voice. “Hunny, mommy.” He stood and made his way over to the tray and picked up the slice. Stubborn child. But he did look over his shoulder at her before taking a bite. His eyes begged her to say yes. If it had just been her, she could have ignored the food, stifled her hunger. But it had been hours since breakfast, and Deion hadn’t eaten much while they were at the harbor. He’d been too busy watching the sea lions. She closed her eyes. What to do? The look on Deion’s face tugged at her heart. From across the room, she heard his

stomach rumble. Simultaneously, hers joined in. Damn. She crawled over to the tray and pulled it toward them. No suspicious odors or tastes, so against her better judgment, she took the pizza from Deion and took a bite. “Mommy tax,” she teased. It tasted okay, so with a short nod, she let Deion consume the rest of it. They shared the sandwich and drank a few sips of water. Deion sat down on the floor and his eyes drifted shut. Soon, his breathing sounded labored. Shit. Oh shit. She leaned forward to reach for him and the room spun. She blinked back tears of anger. She’d screwed up again. A male voice, sounding as if it were miles away and underwater caught her attention. “Hello, Sylvie.” She shook her head, trying to dispel the effects of whatever he’d drugged them with. The man looked different, taller, younger. She blinked and her vision blurred. Had he been wearing a mask earlier? Prosthetic faces were astonishingly easy to wear and hard to detect. Had he worn the mask to hide his identity, or to give him a new one? “Don’t worry. The effects of the drug will wear off in a few hours. I wanted to talk to you without risking life and limb. Some security specialist you are. Seems a bit ironic, doesn’t it? You’re the expert, but you fell into my trap all too easily.” His voice sounded familiar. Hadn’t her captor had a silly British accent? Her brain refused to focus on details. “I’ll play fair with the authorities. They’ll have all the clues they need to solve your disappearance. They simply have to solve the puzzles.” “How?” The word came out so garbled, she wasn’t sure he’d understand. “I normally don’t tell anyone, but because you are special, I will. The clues are in the crossword puzzles.” Margaret. Sylvie latched onto the thought of her life partner. Margaret loved crossword puzzles, and excelled at them, too. Would the police make her privy to the information? While she struggled to stay awake, the man continued to talk, nearly gloating, in fact. “I’ve always been very good at them, making them and solving them. Don’t worry, though. I’ll give the police plenty of time to solve it. What do you think? Should I give them the full eight days? Nah. That’s way too long. Eight minutes, now that would be way too short.” Her captor reached down to stroke her cheek and she flinched. “Well, don’t you worry

your pretty head about it. I’ll keep a careful watch on the time. When that final alarm goes off, you’ll be mine.” “Deion.” Her heart broke a little as she said his name. What would he do without her? “Oh, don’t worry about your little boy. He’ll be well loved, if you know what I mean.” “You bastard.” Sylvie tried to scramble up, but collapsed in a heap next to her son. The floor shook slightly as the man’s footsteps receded. Tears came unbidden, washing her cheeks and leaving them feeling raw. There had to be something she could do. But what? Put herself in God’s hands? That’s what her ex-lover, Margaret, would say. But Sylvie had seen enough religiously motivated crimes to convince her that God didn’t pay attention to his creations. She thought about her mom and dad, killed in a robbery attempt while they were on vacation, and her flakey little sister, Lia. They hadn’t spoken for seven long years. Not since Lia had come to her, professing that she could have prevented their parents’ death if she’d only paid attention to “the signs.” Sylvie had not only not believed her, she’d ridiculed Lia. As a relatively new agent, she had her eyes on the prize: the top of the career ladder. Having a crazy little sister proclaiming to be psychic embarrassed her beyond reason. As a result, she’d said things she later realized she didn’t mean. After her derogatory remarks, Lia had stormed out. She never came back. Although pretending disinterest, Sylvie had followed her sister’s career as a photojournalist. It seemed her sister did lead a charmed existence. She’d escaped death on more than one occasion, the most notable on that fateful September morning when Lia had refused to get on a plane. That airplane had later crashed into the Pentagon. Was Lia psychic, or just damn lucky? Eyes too heavy to hold open, Sylvie stopped fighting gravity and did the only thing she could do. She focused on the clues she had. Her captor seemed to have a hard-on for the number eight. She pictured the number, seared it in her mind in flaming red letters. Crossword puzzles, the management service’s phone number and the big pink Victorian also held significance. She pictured the images over and over until they seemed to be playing on the back of her eyelids. Then, she did something she thought she’d never do. She prayed. **** As he left his office, the hair on the back of Jared’s neck tingled. He looked over his

shoulder, expecting to see a plainclothes police detective lurking in the background. Instead, he saw nothing. Which didn’t add to his peace of mind, especially since he’d experienced this feeling more and more often lately. When had it started? A week ago? Months ago? Hard to pin down an exact date. Harder, still, to isolate this feeling of being watched from any of the other times. Ever since he’d hit puberty, he seemed to give off alluring pheromones that drew women of all types and ages. After a while, he’d learned to ignore the attention he attracted. However, this feeling of being watched held menace. Was it his imagination, or was someone truly watching him? That thought gave rise to a new and even more disturbing question. Was he a suspect in this case? Why should he be? He lived a boring and mundane life. Work in the morning, office hours and tutoring in the afternoons, then home to sit in front of his computer or the television. Occasionally, he had a date. Unfortunately, he had terrible luck with women. No, not luck’s fault. The blame lay solely with him. Those potential relationships failed, because he didn’t put any effort into them. Oh, some of the women were beautiful, cute, funny--all good qualities. But all of them were missing something, that je ne sais quoi that made a woman irresistible and unforgettable. He’d only met one woman who had captivated and enthralled him. She’d been like a drug, an addiction he couldn’t get enough of, and she’d left him without even saying goodbye. Most disturbing, he fit the profile he’d seen illustrated on numerous crime dramas. He had no close family, no close friends. Quiet, a loner who kept to himself. The perfect suspect. Damn. He looked down at the piece of paper clutched in his hand. Mark Powers, The Agency, crossword puzzle question. A consult or an interrogation? A better question might be whether he should he call a lawyer. Did he even know one? The university probably kept one on retainer; however, the attorney probably only handled business-related issues. Not… He swallowed hard. Not criminal issues. Tamping down the panic, he found his beat-up gray Volvo in the staff parking lot. Luckily he’d invested in a GPS mapping device for his car. He’d only ever heard of historic Camel Cove. He followed the computer voice to the correct exit. Traffic congested the freeway and

navigating proved challenging enough to keep his mind off all those niggling questions until he pulled up to the address the agent had given him. Camel Cove had been named for a failed government experiment to use camels as pack animals in the mid eighteen-hundreds. Located along the shore of Southhampton Bay, the picturesque town looked untouched by time. A large white courthouse tucked on a green knoll sat overlooking the blue waters of the bay. An old-fashioned square of historic buildings painted in soft pastels made up the downtown area. He glanced down at the address on the paper he’d laid on the passenger seat of the car and then looked at the building with a sense of disbelief. A three-story white Victorian mansion that housed a coffee shop on the ground floor and had a sign identifying the second floor as a bridal boutique. He’d expected an official building, a police station or a high rise. But a coffee shop? All the parking spaces in front were full, so he drove past. As he did, the navigator announced he’d passed his destination, in a tone that almost sounded irritated. He circled the block, still puzzling. After a few futile attempts, Jared finally found parking a couple of blocks away. The smell of coffee and baked goods teased his senses when he walked in. Resisting the urge to get straight to business, Jared joined the line instead. He ordered a small black coffee and an enormous cinnamon roll. Hell, if he ended up going to jail he might as well do it on a sugar high. After the barista handed him his java, Jared quickly isolated the man he was to meet. Although there were several single men sitting alone at various tables, one stood out. Where the other men wore business casual khakis and polo shirts, a man gazing out the window wore a pair of worn jeans, scuffed boots and a blue and white striped polo shirt. Beside him on the table sat a white ten-gallon cowboy hat. It matched the accent on the phone. “Mark Powers?” The man looked up at him. Jared held back an exclamation of surprise. Despite his first impression of a strong, virile man, the face that looked up at him was more wrinkled than Jared’s laundry. “Professor Trimble.” The man made a show of starting to stand, but Jared waved him down and then dropped

into the seat across from him. “Thank you for meeting with me.” The man took a sip of his coffee and pulled a face. “Am I a suspect?” Jared winced the moment the words came out of his mouth. “Suspect? Should you be?” Well, this had started out well. “No.” The man grinned. Jared stared. That toothy smile looked so familiar. Did he know a Mark Powers? “You look familiar.” Mark nodded. “I’m sure I do. A little over three years ago, I disgraced the government when I single-handedly nearly got the president killed. I made the front page of almost every major newspaper in the country. “ That explained it. Jared remembered all the bad press related to the botched security at a summit meeting in Denmark, or perhaps Sweden? Shots had been fired, but the president had escaped with his life. Had it been three years ago? He could swear he’d seen this man recently and in a different venue. On the campus or in a local restaurant, perhaps? Too bad he had trouble remembering the names that went with faces. The man must have read the play of emotion across Jared’s face, for he gave a grim smile. “I figured you’d remember.” “What does this have to do with me? You mentioned something about a serial killer and crossword puzzles.” Mark nodded. He slid a fax sheet from under his hat and pushed it across the table. Jared glanced down. A half-completed puzzle. “Do you want me to finish it for you?” “No, yesterday I received this fax from a blocked number. That might not be so unusual, except my fax number isn’t published anywhere. Only three people know it. My wife and two of my former employees, Sylvie Morgan and Margaret Fletcher. When I received this, I immediately called the other two. Sylvie didn’t answer her phone, but when I contacted Margaret, I got some disturbing news. Sylvie’s missing. I caught the first flight I could to come out here to assist in her case.” Mark gave Jared a wry smile. “And?” Jared prompted. “The detective in charge of the case asked me a few questions, said, ‘Thank you very

much,’ and sent me on my way. They don’t want my help, my ideas, and didn’t put any stock whatsoever in this puzzle.” “But you do. Why is that?” “For one, I learn from my mistakes, and I don’t believe in coincidences. Within a day of Sylvie’s disappearance, I received this fax. I’m not much of a hand at crossword puzzles, but some of the clues and answers to this one have me concerned.” Jared glanced down. Most of the questions were pretty common crossword puzzle clues. A four-letter word for organic matter? A three letter word for fish eggs. A four-letter word for bread spread. Nothing unusual until he hit eight across. A six-letter woman’s name. Sylvie had been written in the spot. Eight-down wasn’t a typical clue. A five-letter boy’s name. Most crosswords would ask for a man’s name. Hmmm. Perhaps Mark had stumbled onto something. Especially when the name, Deion, fit both the clue and the remaining letters. “Who is Deion?” Jared asked. “Sylvie’s two-year-old son.” “So they are both missing. Are you sure they haven’t headed off somewhere for the holidays? Christmas is right around the corner.” Mark shook his head. “Sylvie’s partner lives here in town, and Sylvie doesn’t have an extended family. Just a sister in New York. The police checked with her and she didn’t have any information about Sylvie’s whereabouts.” “Why are you so convinced that there’s something sinister about her disappearance?” “My reputation may be shot to hell, but I still have friends who work in the security industry. I had them do a couple of searches.” Mark reached down and pulled up a briefcase. He spun the dials and then popped up the lid. “Over the past eight months, eight sets of women and their children have disappeared from this area.” He pulled out a sheaf of newspapers. “I requested back issues from this newspaper, encompassing that same time period. What I’ve found is disturbing.” Jared took the papers. Again, most of the clues were common. In the earliest paper, one across and one down were a woman and a girl’s name. Mark pointed at the next one. “All of the names coincide with a woman and a child who has gone missing.” “What did the police say?” Jared asked.

“They didn’t say anything to me. Some bored secretary made a few copies and tucked them into a file folder. From what I’ve been able to find out through other sources, none of the disappearances are being actively pursued. None except Sylvie’s, that is. If you could call the lackadaisical attitude of the investigators active.” “My God, you’re telling me there are sixteen people missing, and no one’s looking for them?” “Last year, in California alone, over a thousand children disappeared, supposedly kidnapped by a parent or family member. Eight’s not a very big percentage of that. Additionally, some of the women missing had talked about running away from abusive spouses. I figure that’s the way this bastard has stayed under the radar. Until now, that is.” “Sylvie,” Jared glanced down at the fax in front of him to confirm her last name before continuing, “Morgan. I know that name from somewhere.” “So you should. She’s the bestselling author of a personal security book, Safe and Sane Rules for Single Women. Perhaps you’ve read it, the rules work for single men as well.” Jared shook his head. “No, but some of the women in my class were discussing it last semester. Didn’t Sylvie work for the government?” Mark cleared his throat. “Well, she did.” “Won’t they get involved because of her disappearance?” “Unfortunately, no. Sylvie worked for a rather, um, secret branch of the government. In fact, if anyone were to try to look up her record, the government would vehemently deny she worked for them at all.” “Wouldn’t they be afraid that some clandestine terrorist group had snatched her?” Jared asked. “No. All of the security protocols used are outdated. She wouldn’t be able to tell them anything they couldn’t find out on the internet.” “If there is a serial killer at work, someone needs to know. The police, the government, the press.” “So far, there’ve been no ransom demands. More importantly, no bodies,” Mark shot back. “Believe me, I’ve jumped through all the hoops and no one cares. Sylvie is on her own. Hopefully she and her son aren’t dead.” Something about the conversation convinced Jared of the man’s conviction. A woman

and child had disappeared and could be in mortal danger. Warming to the idea, he theorized, “Even with no bodies, that doesn’t prove these women and their children are still alive. It could simply mean the killer is smart.” Jared tapped the stack of papers in front of him. “Okay, so the guy left his victims’ names in the paper. Did he leave any other clues?” “I don’t know. That’s what I want you to find out. Can you tell who devised these puzzles?” “Did you call the paper?” “Yes, and hit a dead end. This particular newspaper is a community effort. Residents write the columns, a local psychic does the horoscopes and this puzzle is sent in by a Kris Kross. I ran a check on the name, although it’s obviously fake. The mail is delivered to a post office box.” “The post office requires identification when they rent those boxes,” Jared offered. Mark nodded. “Yep, they do. Unfortunately, the box is registered to Sylvie’s partner, Margaret.” “Did you ask her about the crosswords?” “I did. She swore she didn’t rent a P.O. box, and that she didn’t compose any puzzles for the paper.” “And you believed her?” Jared didn’t. “I did.” Jared blew out an impatient breath. “So you’re sure the police…” The figure of a woman entering the coffee shop captured his attention. Her heart-shaped face framed by a riot of dark curls reminded him of someone he’d once known. Once loved. She turned and his heart thudded in his chest. Could it really be her? Without ordering, the woman sank into a seat by the door. Her expression and posture practically shouted her distress. Her almond-shaped brown eyes held unshed tears and her full, very kissable lips, trembled. Intuitively, he put two and two together. Lia Morgan. Sylvie Morgan. Could the two be related? He barely had time to finish the thought, for Mark had already stood and was striding with long confident steps toward the woman. “Lia?”

At the sound of her name, the woman looked up. “Mark? Oh, thank God.” She stood and threw herself into Mark’s arms, sobbing. It seemed as if the whole world stilled while Jared watched them. He couldn’t seem to draw a breath and his heart clutched so tightly he feared it would never start beating again. It had been seven years since he’d seen her last. A long time to wonder what he’d done wrong and why she wouldn’t answer his calls. Too long to pick up where they’d left off. Mark made some ineffectual shushing noises and patted her back. “They won’t tell me anything,” she wailed. “Who won’t?” “The police. I went straight to the station this morning. The officer in charge told me they had the case under control and were following some promising leads. But when I asked what those were, he wouldn’t tell me.” “They don’t want to compromise the investigation,” Mark murmured. More like they don’t know a damn thing. Lia pulled back from Mark’s embrace. “Have you seen Margaret?” “From what I understand, she’s staying at Sylvie’s house, in case the kidnapper calls.” “What happened to her and Margaret? I didn’t even know Sylvie didn’t work for the government anymore until I did a search for her on the internet. Even then, all I got were hits on her book. I didn’t know who to call. But you’re here, so the FBI or someone should be taking over the investigation. Right?” “Come, have a seat.” Mark tugged on her arm to turn her toward the table. She reached up to knuckle the tears out of her eyes as she walked. God, she still hadn’t seen him. What should he do? Run? Or would it be better if he simply dropped to the floor and slithered away? His heart began to beat all too hard now. It hammered against his chest wall and the blood roared in his ears. What would she say? What would she do? She stopped. Mark paused, puzzled, and then looked over at him. “You know him?” Mark asked. Lia simply nodded. Then she seemed to pull herself together. The false smile she plastered on her pretty face hurt more than a scowl would have.

“Professor Trimble,” she said. Her voice, the same soft caress she’d used to seduce him years ago, set off a reaction of want and need inside him. Just for a moment, he remembered what it had been like to hear her whisper his name in the dark after they’d made love, or to pick up a voice mail message from her where she’d describe exactly what she planned to do to him with her mouth, fingers and body. “I haven’t seen you in years,” he managed to croak out. “How are you?” Only after he’d spoken did he realize how ludicrous the question sounded. Her sister and nephew were missing, how the hell did he expect her to be? However, she’d interpreted it as polite lip service. “I’ve been well, up until now.” Her brown eyes shot back to Mark. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.” “We don’t, didn’t.” Mark said. He pulled up a chair from a nearby table. “I got a strange fax and suspect it’s from Sylvie’s captor. So, I called in an expert.” “An expert? Shouldn’t you be calling the FBI?” Her voice quavered. “I’m not sure what you think an anthropologist could do.” Her words stumbled to a stop. “Oh, God. You think Sylvie is dead. But I still don’t understand why you’d need him. It’s not like she’s been missing for years and is decomposing somewhere.” Her voice ended in a sob. “And despite what you might think, I know my sister is still alive.” “No, he didn’t call me in as an anthropologist, but for the crossword puzzles. I…” Jared began, but the moment she looked at him, his mind went blank. “Professor Trimble has won the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament three times. When I found out he lived in the area, I gave him a call.” Lia shook her head. With the movement, the scent of her shampoo wafted toward him and elicited yet more memories of her, naked and in his arms. It took every ounce of restraint for him not to touch her, to ask what had happened to her, to him, to them. “I received this by fax yesterday. Margaret received one too. I think the kidnapper sent them to us as we were the only two unknown numbers Sylvie kept in her cellphone address book.” “I’m still not sure I understand.” Lia sighed. “Oh, God. I feel so bad. Sylvie and I were never close. I haven’t heard from her in years. It was such a shock to have the police call and tell me she and her son, a son I didn’t even know she had, were missing. It’s been too much. But

why would he leave clues in a crossword puzzle?” “We don’t know, but I’ll find out.” Jared looked down at the stack of papers in front of him. At first glance, he didn’t think solving the puzzles was going to pose much of a challenge. Deducing their meaning, now that was another story. Did the puzzle intimate where the victims were held and for how long? Did information, hidden deep within each puzzle, give any indication to the identity of the composer? “Wait a minute, you said you know she’s still alive. How is that? Have you heard something from her captor?” Mark put his hand over Lia’s. Jared felt an irrational jolt of jealousy. He tamped it back down. They were old friends, obviously nothing more. Mark had to be pushing sixty years old, and he had mentioned a wife. “No, it’s just…” Her gaze shot over to Jared, and just for a second, he felt as if her glance held all the answers as to why she had left him and dropped out of college. “I just know, that’s all,” Lia said. “Now tell me, what are we going to do to find her?”\

Chapter 4 Well, the signs certainly hadn’t hinted about him. Professor Trimble. She’d certainly never expected to see her old college professor again, especially since they hadn’t only been teacher and student, but lovers as well. Unless the folded papers had been a portent. But surely that pointed more to Sylvie’s captor. Or did it? Lia stole a glance at Mark. Although she’d only met him once, she’d known of him for years. Mark Powers. When Sylvie had first started working for the government, she’d talked about Mark often. Lia had the impression that he had been Sylvie’s boss or mentor. Did he still work for the government? She took a closer look at him. He looked old and tired. Perhaps he’d retired. Still, she had a sense of something off about him. She just couldn’t put her finger on what. She glanced from him to Jared. Did Mark’s bland expression intimate he suspected Jared, um, Professor Trimble? Or had he really contacted her old flame simply to help? Hard to tell. Not that it mattered to her. She didn’t care if they called in James Bond, just so long as her sister and nephew were found. Besides, she was so over that man… An uncomfortable silence fell over the table as if each of them were lost in their own thoughts. “Where do we start?” Lia finally asked. “At the beginning,” Mark said. “Yesterday, you mean?” “No, eight months ago, when he took his first victim,” Mark said. “Is that when the paper received the first crossword puzzle?” Jared, no, Professor Trimble, pulled a folded newspaper off the bottom of the stack. Lia sucked in her breath. Mark nodded. “I think so, professor.” “Please, call me Jared.” Jared, no, professor, no Jared--jeez, she’d forgotten what the sound of his voice did to her. Turned her insides to mush and focused her thoughts on only one thing. Sex. Then she saw the newspaper and let out an involuntary gasp. “Did you say something?” Jared turned to her, his brow furrowed.

Lia shook her head, but couldn’t rip her gaze away from the newspaper in front of Jared. The papers in the recycle bin of her apartment complex had been folded in that same manner. Was this a clue to the person who had folded the paper? She wished she’d brought the newspaper that had been left outside her door at the hotel this morning instead of leaving it behind. Speaking of the hotel… For nostalgia’s sake, she’d planned on staying at the Bed and Breakfast located in her old pink house. However, like everything else, things had changed. The sign out front advertised a photography studio. Luckily, she’d found a small hotel down the street and checked in. She’d been in such a hurry to get to the police station that she hadn’t thought to bring the paper with her. Not that anyone would believe her about the newspapers meaning anything, anyway. In all her life, she’d only told three people about her gift. The first two, her mother and sister, had openly disbelieved her. The third, her best friend, Carmen, thought her intuitions were cool until Lia confided the disturbing symbols she’d picked up in relation to Carmen’s boyfriend, Mike. Carmen chose to ignore the signs, and now, she was dead. Killed at the hands of a jealous lover, exactly as Lia had foretold. She’d been tempted to tell Jared. In fact, she’d paved the way for her disclosure by talking about taking one of the new paranormal studies courses offered by the university. Jared, Professor Trimble, had laughed uproariously and questioned why she would want to waste her time on mumbo-jumbo. Later that same day, she’d received news of her parents’ death. That, combined with her lover’s disdain for the paranormal, had driven her from his arms. Permanently. Not that she should have been there in the first place. The school strictly forbade fraternization between staff and students. To be honest, although law-abiding, she had never been one for rules dictating who she could and couldn’t date, so that decree had been ripe to be broken. Especially when she could tell that every time he’d looked at her, he’d wanted her. His pulse sped up, his eyes darkened with desire. Hell, she could practically smell his arousal when she’d walked into his classroom. All these years, she’d told herself she’d broken off the relationship more for him than her. They hadn’t had a future, anyway. “Is there anything else in there, professor?” Mark’s voice intruded on her reverie. She realized that while she’d been walking down memory lane, Jared had filled in the blank squares.

Perusing his face, she saw he was still as handsome as ever, although the last time she’d seen him he’d been clean-shaven. The goatee he wore suited him, made him appear older. No, not older. More mature. It hadn’t escaped her notice that every woman in the coffee shop, from the barista to the married ladies in business suits, had all checked him out. What drew their attention? Rugged good looks and a thick head of hair didn’t set him all that much apart from other men. No, it had to be the confidence he exuded. From the set of his wide shoulders to the way he sat in his chair, his very essence spoke of his self-assurance. She’d felt the attraction the minute she’d set foot in his classroom. As he’d lectured, she’d been reminded of the scene in the old Indiana Jones movies where the girls in the classroom wrote love notes to Harrison Ford on their eyelids. Sadly, she’d almost been tempted to do the same. Instead, she’d simply dressed in her most provocative outfit and showed up at his office for tutoring. A lesson that had ended with her naked on the desk in his office. Even seven years later, the thought of his hands and mouth on her body made her skin tingle and her core heat. What if… No, she couldn’t go there. Despite her sister’s derision and Jared’s dismissal of the paranormal, she had seen death in the signs, and her parents had died. In hindsight, she wasn’t sure anything she could have told them would have convinced them to not go to Italy. At twenty, she had been arrogant enough to believe she could cheat fate. Instead, she’d lost out on a relationship. No, she mustn’t go there. It had been doomed by their teacher-student status at the start. In the end, she would have probably broken his heart. Then, with a small start, she wondered if she had… Jared turned the paper so they could read the letters he’d filled in. “No, all I see is the victims’ names. But there’s often more information hidden within the answers. To begin with, I’ll have to solve all the puzzles. Perhaps once I see which questions they have in common and which ones are different, I’ll be able to discover if there are any hidden meanings. There could also be words hidden in the puzzle.” He tapped each of the boxes at the intersections. “Perhaps these letters spell out a location or an address. Alternatively, the eighth letter of each solution might mean something. It’ll take time to do the analysis.”

“It better not take long. We don’t know how much time we have,” Mark said. “Eight.” The words came out before she even thought about it. Mark’s head jerked in her direction. “What? You do know something.” “No, I--” She looked at the papers spread out in front of Jared. Like magic, the clue for seven down seemed to bold. Nights and blank she read. Days? Grasping at that explanation, she tapped the fax paper. “On all the other ones, the answer for seven down is days, I think.” She frowned and tried to act less confident. “But on this one, days is the answer to eight down.” She made a face and shrugged as if trying to downplay her assertion. “Eight days, maybe.” She shrugged. “But what does that mean? He’s going to hold her for eight days? Or…” She trailed off with a shrug. “Damn, I didn’t see that,” Jared said. “Good work, Lia.” “Thanks.” That had been a close one. Luckily she hadn’t needed to divulge why she thought the number eight was significant. However, Mark had really honed in on her. Did he suspect she knew more than she was telling? Hell, even if she told them about all the portents she’d been picking up, would they really believe her? No way they’d believe those signs and symbols foretold the future. Not pragmatic Mark and certainly not skeptical Jared. She’d have to watch what she said. However, she now knew what the eight stood for. Eight days. Why did that sound so familiar? She’d heard of seven days and seven nights. A movie. Eight days as a title didn’t sound quite right. Still, the term resonated. When she got back to her room, she’d have to look it up and see what turned up on a search engine. Perhaps she’d also find out if any of the other signs meant anything. And above all, she had to hope they would continue to appear. Because if not, it might mean Sylvie was dead. “What do we do next?” Jared asked. “I’m going to Sylvie’s and touch base with Margaret. There may be some clue at the house that she’s overlooked,” Lia replied. “I’ve got some leads of my own to follow.” Mark picked up his hat and put it on. “Anything you need help with?” Jared asked. “Nope. I need you to work on those.” Mark reached across the table and tapped the stack of newspapers. “The clues are all there, I’m sure of it.” He slid out of his chair and made his way to the door.

Mark looked over his shoulder as he pushed the door open, a speculative gleam in his gaze. She got the impression that he, too, knew a lot more than he was saying. While Jared gathered up the papers, Lia dialed Margaret’s telephone number. Thank goodness the police hadn’t kept that information confidential. It rang four times and then transferred to voice mail. Lia left her name, her number, informed Margaret she’d arrived in town, but not staying at the bed and breakfast in her old house. Margaret could find her at the Union Motel on Main Street. **** When the studio pictures had arrived in the mail, Margaret felt her heart speed up. Finally, a clue! The receipt had been stamped with the date of Sylvie’s disappearance and someone had scrawled something across the bottom. The handwriting proved difficult to decipher, but after nearly going cross-eyed, she translated it as an apology for the photos being mailed as no one had picked them up. Hand hovering over the phone, she couldn’t decide whether to call the police, or simply take the pictures over to them. With distaste, she remembered the offhand manner in which she’d been treated, in fact, with which the whole case was being handled. Just this morning, when she’d called for an update, the officer in charge had sighed and reminded her that people disappeared every day and that some went missing for a reason. That’s when she knew they had found out about Kyle, Deion’s supposed biological father, and his attempt to obtain custody of their son. Kyle wanted money, and lots of it. He’d demanded a cut of the advance Sylvie had received from her book. When she’d refused to pay, he attempted to blackmail them by shouting to the world that Sylvie had a lesbian partner. Heavens, how they’d laughed about that. They lived in San Francisco, for goodness sake. Gays and lesbians didn’t warrant the bad press they might have received in the Midwest or deep South. Kyle’s next attempt had been to sue for custody. He’d hired a cut-throat attorney and the battle had begun. Sylvie had staunchly denied knowing the identity of Deion’s father, and she refused to have a paternity test performed without a court order. Did they really think Sylvie had run away to avoid a court appearance? If so, they didn’t know Sylvie. But she did.

Or had thought she did. Margaret had been Sylvie’s partner for almost ten years. They’d met on the job, and the spark they felt when together had become a flame. A hot, burning ember that had fueled them through danger, despair, separation, and kept them hoping for a bright future. Until the foiled assignation. That had been the beginning of the end. The first sign their relationship had faltered. Sylvie began making errors at work. A security breach here, a classified paper misfiled there. The errors were little things, but they’d shaken Sylvie’s self-confidence enough that she’d questioned everything she did, both at work and at home. The mistakes had grown to the point that she’d been threatened with suspension. Sylvie vehemently protested her innocence. Margaret hadn’t wanted to believe Sylvie had lost her edge. In fact, she’d thought about investigating on her own to see if someone intended to set her lover up for a fall. But, then, men had started calling. The messages they left were explicit, some downright pornographic, leaving no doubt. Sylvie was stepping out on her with the enemy. Margaret had been puzzled, hurt and then angry. The foiled assassination had ended their government careers, and they’d moved back here to San Francisco. Sylvie pretended to be happy, but Margaret could tell she wasn’t. Until the day Sylvie came to her, beaming with happiness. She’d sold her book. Before Margaret could congratulate her, she dropped the other bombshell. They were having a baby. Margaret had never wanted children. The abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her own parents had convinced her that if children learned by example, she’d make a hell of a prison guard before she’d ever be a good mother. But Sylvie had convinced her to give it a go, and she honestly tried to share in the white picket fence dream. The first time she’d lifted her hand to spank Deion for some minor indiscretion prompted her to pack her suitcase and move out. She still loved Sylvie, more than life itself. But she’d never bonded with Deion, never felt the rush of love toward the little man, and hated that she couldn’t trust herself not to hurt him. And now they were both gone. She stared down at the photograph. Sylvie and Deion gazed at each other, faces full of love. A picture to treasure. Why had Sylvie had it sent to her and not to her own house? Had it been intended for a Christmas present, or… Margaret took a shuddering breath. Was it a

goodbye picture? No! Sylvie had her faults, but Margaret refused to believe she could be cruel like this. She knew Margaret loved Deion, in her own way, knew she had sought counseling in an effort to lay all the demons of her past to rest. Margaret glanced back at the receipt. Sylvie had paid cash. Not that unusual. Except the pictures had cost over one hundred dollars. Sylvie never carried that much cash with her. Unless… Margaret strode over to the bookshelf in the den and pulled out the book. Flipping through the index, she found the entry she sought. The one hundred dollar bill fall-back. Sylvie counseled women to carry an emergency stash of one hundred dollars to use if they sensed the vendor wasn’t honest, or that their personal information could be compromised. Sylvie had spent her emergency money. Something had happened at the photography studio. But what? Margaret slammed the book down on the table and grabbed her coat. She’d retrace Sylvie’s steps to the best of her ability and find out what had spooked her lover. After a short drive, Margaret pulled up in front of the studio. She got out of the car and double-checked the address on the envelope. She’d only been here twice before. On both occasions, a successful bed and breakfast had been operating out of the large Victorian mansion. Her phone chirped. A voice mail? She hadn’t heard her cell ring. Upon flipping it open, an icon informed her that she had one new message. She didn’t recognize the number, but she did the name. Lia, Sylvie’s estranged sister. Well, at least one other person seemed to be taking Syvlie’s disappearance seriously. She listened to the crackling voice mail, only able to make out an odd word or two. Margaret gathered that Lia had arrived in town and then, oddly, Lia also mentioned the now defunct B&B. What an odd coincidence. Or was it? Margaret walked over to the door. An illuminated Open sign hung in the window. Should she tell the counter clerk the reason for her visit? Or just have her picture taken, scope out the place for later? Well, she’d never know if she didn’t ask. A tiny bell peeled as she entered. The shop consisted of a counter separating a small waiting room from the area decorated for client portraits. A snow dappled backdrop, the same one depicted in Sylvie and Deion’s portrait, draped the far wall. Further confirmation that they had been here.

No one manned the counter, nor could she hear the sound of anyone approaching as a result of the entry bell. The skin along the back of her neck crawled, and she rubbed it impatiently. “Hello?” she called. Goose pimples rushed up her arms. Must be a ghost walking on her grave. Nothing to be afraid of in a store open to the public in the middle of the afternoon. Through the plate glass window, she watched pedestrians stroll by. If anything happened to her, someone would see. Someone would hear her scream. Heavens. She needed to shake off this paranoia. At five foot twelve inches tall, as her mother had always said six feet was too tall for a woman, she was no shrinking violet. Tall and big-boned. Granted, some of the muscle she carried had gotten soft since her retirement. But she still thought she cut an imposing figure. No victim here. In fact, just to be on the safe side… She dug her cellphone out of her pocket and scrolled through the menus, looking for the most recent call from Lia. It never hurt to let someone know her location. After pressing the Talk button, nothing happened. Odd. No bars, no connectivity. She glanced over her shoulder. No one had come out of the backroom to assist her. Perhaps they were developing pictures? No, that didn’t make sense. Everything was digital these days. She’d just go outside, make her call, then come back in. With a shrug, she strode over to the door and pulled. It refused to open. Thinking she’d pulled when she should have pushed, she shoved against the door. It still didn’t open. What the hell? She stepped back and heard an odd sound. A low hum. The room had darkened as well. Looking around, she suddenly realized she could no longer see out the front windows. They had darkened, becoming totally opaque. Probably bulletproof as well. Shit. Not that she carried a gun these days. This didn’t make any sense. This was a photography studio, for Christ’s sake, not a government covert operation. The squeal of a door behind her made her swirl around. She did a double-take. The appearance of the woman in front of her didn’t make any sense. Tall, with her blond hair cut in a bob--she felt as if she could be looking in a mirror.

“What the…” she began. “Hello, Margaret,” the person said. The mouth was hers; the voice wasn’t. Despite her misgivings, she stepped toward the figure. Was this some elaborate practical joke? However, when she looked into the blue eyes of the imposter, what she saw there made her gasp. They weren’t the serene blue she saw in her own mirror. These eyes were pale, cold and flat. The eyes of a killer. Her cellphone rang and, without taking her eyes from her captor, she snatched it up to her ear. “Hello, please help me! Hello!” Feedback squealed from the speaker. The figure held up a small device where a red button glowed on the display. The fear she’d been struggling to repress sprang free. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribcage and she couldn’t seem to draw in a full breath. Her nerves jangled, urging her to run, to hide, to do something. Without options, she settled on doing something she’d never before done in a situation like this. She screamed. **** The short walk to his car seemed like a mile. Silence hung between them as palpable as a three-foot thick concrete wall. They might have been closer if they had been walking on opposite sides of the street. He wanted to ask about her, find out where she lived, what she’d been doing. She didn’t wear a wedding ring. Had she never married? Or had she married, had kids, divorced? He ached with a need that had simmered for seven long years. Did she feel the same? Jared opened the car door for Lia. For one long moment, they stood staring into each other’s eyes. She lifted her face to him, and before he thought, he kissed her. As his mouth pressed against hers, he felt a flicker of doubt. What a stupid move. What would he do if she froze or worse, slapped him? Apologize? However, he didn’t have to worry about that, for she did respond. Her lips moved against his, soft, pliant. The warm, silken swipe of her tongue against the seam of his lips turned the sweet languid kiss into something wet, wild and carnal. A rousing ring tone made them jump apart. “Sorry.” Lia stepped away and fumbled in her purse. She glanced at the display for a second before raising the cellphone to her ear.

“Hello, Margaret?” She listened, her brows furrowed. She pressed her finger into her exposed ear as if to drown out the roar of traffic. “Hello? I didn’t quite… Oh.” Lia pulled a face and then shrugged. “Margaret?” “Yes, at least, I think so. A bad connection.” Jared’s heart pounded erratically against his ribcage. He shifted his stance and tried to think about baseball and apple pie, hoping to still the raging lust that had settled behind the zipper of his pants. Lia punched a few buttons on her cell, then spoke. “Margaret?” This time, even Jared had no trouble hearing the static that burst out of the tiny speaker. “Ouch.” Lia snapped the cellphone shut. “Well, I think I’ll let her call me back.” When their gazes collided, his heart clutched. “Ready?” Jared asked, trying to keep his voice light. The corners of Lia’s lips turned up in a slow, seductive smile and her eyebrows quirked, giving her the amused expression of a siren targeting her prey. “Oh, yeah.” Her slow seductive response left nothing to the imagination. After she’d slid into her seat, Jared shut the door and then dashed around to the driver’s seat. As he drove, he fought back the erotic visions that threatened to distract him. Only a few blocks to the hotel and he needed to get there without driving up the curb, or having a head-on collision with a bus. After parking the car and turning off the engine, Jared took a deep breath. Lia opened her door and slid out. As it closed behind her, he sat behind the wheel assailed by self-doubt. What if she had changed her mind during the ride? What if… A blast of cold air roused him from his reverie. “You coming?” Lia asked. Jared swung out of the car. “Not yet, but I plan to.” She giggled in reply. Like a sedate, married couple, they walked through the lobby. It seemed to take an eternity for the elevator car to arrive. The doors slid open and they stepped inside the small, functional box that would carry them up three floors to ecstasy. “Do you remember when…” Jared began. “We had sex in the elevator of the Natural History building,” Lia finished.

“And how we nearly got caught by the Dean of students.” “Oh, yeah. Those were the days.” Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Jared watched the numbers ascend, sure they were never going to reach their destination. When the floor indicator sounded, he felt as if he took his first full breath since Lia had asked him back to her hotel. It wasn’t until they were inside her room, until her lips were pressed against his, until her hands were busy tearing at his clothes, that he finally began to believe this was really happening. After seven years of wanting and wondering, she’d returned to him. There were still more questions than answers, but part of him no longer cared. They were together, that’s what mattered. The next few minutes were a blur. He remembered touching her face, caressing her cheek while his mouth devoured hers. He also remembered the look in her chocolate brown eyes that turned from soft need to a tempest of desire when he stroked his hand down to cup her breast. Clothes flew in all directions until finally they were lying together on the bed, and he realized his fantasies had been nothing but a teasing foreplay for this very moment. Everything about her intoxicated him: her languid movements, the scent of her hair, her skin, the wet slickness of her desire. He smoothed his hands over her and it felt as if they had never parted, as if they had been together all this time. Then his hand traced a puckered scar on her left hip that hadn’t been there the last time he’d had her naked, and the feeling passed. Finally, the time had come. Her brown eyes were locked on his as he hovered above her. Then came the delicious slide inside her. He paused, savoring her heat and afraid to move too fast. Lia wrapped her long legs around him and took the lead, setting the pace until they moved together feverishly, racing to the climax. Hanging on the edge, Jared found himself holding back, slowing the tempo, wanting their lovemaking to last forever. She clung to him, brushing his neck and chest with wet kisses, then suckling on the pulse thundering in his neck. He lost himself in the rhythm of their heartbeats, their gasps and the slow carnal dance. Threading his fingers through hers, he tempered his movements, driving deep and watching arousal and ecstasy dance across her features. Her body tightened like a bow string ready to be plucked. With one last thrust, she cried out his name and he allowed himself to plummet off the cliff and join her in the fall.

She clung to him until her body relaxed and the heat of their lovemaking dwindled. Cool air brushed his back, leaving a carpet of goose flesh behind. He lifted off, noting with dismay the sparkle of tears studding her closed lashes. After wiping them away with his thumb, Jared wondered what to say. Sorry? That seemed so ineffectual, especially since he wasn’t sure what to be sorry for. She’d left him, not the other way around. In the end, Lia spoke first.

Chapter 5 Mark strolled toward his car. The streets were dressed for the Christmas season with lighted candy canes hanging from streetlights and every shop window adorned with a decorated tree. He stopped to admire the window of a local card shop. All the ornaments depicted characters in Jim Burton’s macabre holiday classic, The Nightmare Before Christmas. That certainly seemed to sum up the situation here. The police seemed singularly uninterested in the disappearance of an ex-secret agent and her son. Was that typical? He thought about other high-profile disappearances, the young, beautiful Lacey Peterson, and the very tragic disappearance and death of toddler Caylee Anthony. In both of those cases, the community and family rallied the search efforts, distributed the flyers and manned the tip lines, not the authorities Should he be doing more to get the word out? Or would that hinder the investigation more than help it? His steps faltered as he approached the police station. He’d checked in with them twice a day. He’d taken them the crosswords, but a fat lot of good that had done. He paused, his hand on the car door handle. He hadn’t put enough thought into what clues the perpetrator left of himself in the puzzles. Jared had mentioned that, but was the man smart enough to figure out any unintentionally hidden aspects? What had he been thinking when he’d given Jared the originals? On the way out of the copy shop, he’d purchased the latest issue of the newspaper, only to discover that it featured a different crossword puzzle. He hopped in his car and headed toward the police station, a nondescript building on a tree-lined street. However, instead of pulling into the lot, he cruised on past. A little farther up on the right, an attractive white building with lots of glass in front housed the public library. They would have past issues of the newspaper. He stepped inside. The librarian, not an old woman with horn-rimmed glasses, but a tall middle-aged woman with a bright smile, looked up as he walked in and paused, looking around. “Can I help you?” she called. Mark meandered over to the desk and leaned against it. “I’m looking for your morgue,”

he whispered. “Oh,” the young woman laughed merrily. “Lucky for you, I know you’re talking about past issues of the newspaper. We have a reading room where you can find all the current issues. If you need anything foreign or archived, I can set you up with a microfiche machine. We also have a large chunk of our collection digitized, so let me know what you need.” Mark’s gaze strayed down to the name tag on the woman’s rust-colored cowl neck sweater. He gleaned her name off the slick black plastic piece and noted the word volunteer printed below her name. Still in a low voice, he enquired, “Linda, are any of your patrons here crossword puzzle fanatics?” “Funny you should ask that. The police were in here earlier asking a similar question.” She replied in a normal tone of voice, which seemed to carry in the silence of the little building. Mark resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. There had to be a matronly librarian lurking somewhere who would chastise them for talking. “And the answer you gave them?” “Only one that I know of.” “Oh?” “Margaret Fletcher. She orders puzzle books through the library all the time.” “Margaret? I think I know her.” Oh, did he know her. “Is she a tall woman with platinum blond hair?” “Honestly, I’ve never met her. She places her order by phone and pays to have them delivered. I assume she’s a homebound senior. She’s been written up in the paper several times. Perhaps they have a picture of her.” “Perhaps. Well, I would still like to visit your reading room.” “Sure. Follow me.” She led the way and Mark followed, watching the seductive swing of her ass. Yeah, he might be old, but he wasn’t blind to a pretty woman’s charms. No harm in looking, right? Of course, his wife would have had something to say about that. “Here you go.” Linda paused and gestured toward a cozy corner of the library. Couches and chairs were scattered among tables displaying popular magazines. The newspapers hung in

organized lengths along one wall. “Thank you, Linda,” he said in a low voice, not wanting to disturb the one man hunched over a desk by the window. “No problem. Just whisper if you need anything.” Her green eyes sparkled, and she gave him a wink before heading back to her desk. Mark found the local paper. A weekly issue. He thanked fate that he’d not have to dig through numerous copies of a daily paper. Still, he needed to make sure the puzzle exactly matched. He dug his notes out of his briefcase and compared the clues he’d recorded. Bingo! He stood and stretched, casually folding the newspaper before tucking it into his briefcase. No one spared him a glance. He started to walk away when his briefcase caught the corner of a magazine on an adjoining table. It fell to the floor, the woman featured on the cover smiling coyly up at him. Lia? He snatched up the periodical. A closer examination of the cover and accompanying article confirmed her identity. Well, well. What a surprise. Lia Morgan was a celebrity in her own right. And someone had recently been reading about her. He hadn’t anticipated Lia’s appearance. He’d had the impression the sisters weren’t close and might have been estranged even. Sylvie had never been complimentary about her younger sister and nicknamed her Looney Lia. The young woman sitting at the table today had seemed anything but scatterbrained and unreliable. Looks, though, could be deceiving, he knew that first hand. Why wasn’t she doing more to find her sister? Could be she sought her own brand of revenge on Sylvie. Or perhaps a terrorist faction had solicited her help in feeding them information as they sought to correct the mistakes made during the assassination mishap? Granted, despite all the fumbling mistakes, the president hadn’t been assassinated. That had to have pissed off someone. He laid the magazine back on the table and found himself staring at a photo of Sylvie being confronted by a man wearing a basketball jersey. He read the article. The b-ball player was suing Sylvie over the paternity of her son. A court hearing had been scheduled for right after the new year. Up until now, he hadn’t thought about who had fathered Sylvie’s child. Could this be the reason she’d disappeared, or just a coincidence?

No matter, he had been handed yet another lead he could give the police. He also had a list of names of the terrorists and countries involved in the assassination attempt to give them. Whistling tunelessly through his teeth, he left the reading room and weaved his way through the library. As he approached the front desk, a large matronly woman with rimless glasses hanging from a beaded chain around her neck gave him a scandalized look. “Shh,” she admonished. Mark grinned and gave her an impertinent wave. Next stop--the police station. Would the information he gave them muddy the waters or make things clearer? Only time would tell. **** The shadows on the wall were long when Lia finally rolled away from Jared’s warmth. Hard to believe that a mere twenty-four hours ago, she’d been in New York, living a normal life. That had all been shattered by one phone call. An interesting twist of fate, to say the least. She knew she should say something about the past. Perhaps apologize. Too bad she didn’t regret that she’d just up and left. Their romance had been ill-fated from the get-go. He was a professor, she was a student. If that had been the only difference, their relationship might have survived. Unfortunately, there were other conflicts. Her wanderlust, in particular. Part of the attraction had been his down-toearth nature. He’d been the stability she thought she’d needed. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been any room in his life for mystery and the paranormal, both of which she had in spades. When he’d scoffed at her theory that perhaps some of the extinct civilizations would have survived had they paid more attention to their mystics and fortune tellers, she’d seen his clay feet. As for college, she’d always known it wasn’t for her. The only class that interested her had been his, whether for the subject matter or the teacher, she still didn’t know. After her parents died, and she and Sylvie were no longer speaking, nothing held Lia to the life they had chosen for her. So she’d set out to see the world. Luckily, she had the money from her parents’ life insurance as well as a small monthly income provided by the house rental. It had been enough to buy her first Pentax camera and a ticket overseas. What she’d experienced would fill several lifetimes. And although she tried to see the world only through the lens of her camera, those other, mysterious images kept intruding. And had saved her life more often than she wanted to admit. Looking back, she didn’t think she would have done anything differently. On the surface

it looked as if the change had been effected by her parents’ death, instead, that catalyst had set her free. Lately, however, she’d been feeling a pull toward settling down and--gasp!--perhaps getting married and having a family. Just a tiny tug, but enough to make her turn down the trip to Iraq she’d originally planned. Or had it been something else? She thought back. Had there been any signs telling her not to go? Warning her of the impending danger to her sister? No. She honestly hadn’t thought much about Sylvie in years. As if her mind suddenly tuned into her sister, she heard footsteps coming down the hallway toward her room. Eight distinct thuds, then nothing. No, she didn’t want to talk about the past or plan a future. She needed to find her sister. She rolled onto her belly and picked at the pillow. “I don’t think I’m doing enough.” “What did the police say?” “They said they were following up leads, whatever that means.” “The police didn’t say not to alert the media or anything?” “No, but my sister worked as a top-secret government agent and now she’s a famous author. I’m not sure if it would make it better or worse to advertise who she is and that she’s missing. Do you know what I mean? Right now her captor might think she’s just a woman with a little boy. I would assume she’s had some training about situations like this. I wouldn’t want to ruin any chance of her escaping.” “I understand, but I’m not sure it wouldn’t be best to canvass the public. Someone had to have seen something.” Jared glanced at his watch. “Shoot. I have office hours this evening, but I have enough time to swing past the police station with you. Maybe they know something by now.” “Don’t you think they would have called?” “Maybe they did. Maybe they called Margaret.” It sounded reasonable and yet… She shuddered. She and Sylvie had done it all when their parents died. Flown to Italy, canvassed the public, offered a huge reward, and nothing had ever come of it. Whoever had killed her parents was still a free man, damn him. “Yeah, but you would think if they had a serial kidnapper on the loose, the police would be more, I don’t know, forthcoming. Wouldn’t they be warning the public?” “Perhaps they don’t want to cause a panic.”

Lia raised her shoulder in a partial shrug and then foraged on the floor for her clothes. “I would think they would want the public to be aware of the danger.” “Unless…” Jared began. Lia turned and caught her breath. He was in the act of pulling his shirt on over his head and she wished, not for the first time today, that she had her camera ready to capture a shot of his sexy pose to remember him by. The thought of leaving caused a lump of emotion to rise in her throat, and she swallowed it back. This had been a nice interlude, but nothing more. A small oasis of pleasure for them both. Was it the same for him? He hadn’t spoken about the past. Perhaps the present would be enough. Once they’d dressed, Lia grabbed a cup of coffee from the breakfast bar in the lobby, and all too soon, they headed back to his car. “The station is up here on the left.” Jared nodded, his eyes fixed on surprisingly congested traffic. She stared out the window. She’d once known every resident along this street, every shop, every owner, every clerk. Now they were all strangers. They drove past the big pink house. A neon Closed sign glowed red. Another sign, this one the temperature reading from the sign on the bank across the street, reflected off the darkened window. Eight degrees. Lia closed her eyes and then opened them again. The sign clearly read forty-four degrees Fahrenheit. Did that equal eight degrees Celsius? Having never been good at math, she soon gave up on the mental gymnastics she’d have needed to perform to calculate the answer. Jared pulled into the lot of the police station and parked in the last open slot. The place had seemed rather sleepy earlier this afternoon with only one squad car parked in back. Something had changed. The place was buzzing with activity and even the air seemed changed with energy. Cars filled the lot and there were two news vans parked on the street. Hope vied with dread in Lia’s chest. Had there been a break in the case? Had they found Sylvie? She jumped out of the car and took off at a fast walk toward the front. Someone shouted, and the next thing she knew, reporters surrounded her, thrusting microphones into her face. “Miss Morgan. How do you feel about the allegations that your sister voluntarily disappeared?” a man with a horrible comb-over hairstyle asked.

Confused, Lia stopped. What? Voluntarily disappeared. She turned to answer him when a pretty brunette with almond shaped dark eyes muscled her way in front of him. “Did your sister ever tell you who fathered Deion?” she asked. “No comment,” Jared shouted over the din. To Lia’s relief, he put his arm around her shoulders and guided her inside the police station where it was as hot, congested and confusing as outside. Reporters shoved in her direction as soon as she entered. “May I help you?” A harried officer at the desk inquired after she’d pushed her way to the front of the crowd. “This is Lia Morgan,” Jared answered for her. “Sign in and then follow me.” The officer stood up a little straighter and aimed a glare at the crowd. “Let this woman in to speak to Cap’n, please. You’ll have to wait for your statement.” Lia scrawled her name on a surprisingly empty log sheet. In fact, she signed right below her own name from when she’d been here earlier. Something niggled at her consciousness, but she couldn’t isolate what bothered her. Instead, Lia let the officer lead her through the push gate to an office along the back wall. Not having gone past the sterile front desk earlier, she didn’t know what to expect of the inner sanctum. Her imagination conjured up torture devices or heavy iron bar cells. Instead, the office was homey. A large potted palm sat in the corner of the room. Bookshelves lined one wall. No fiction in evidence, though. The books were either thick law references, or had titles like Blood Spatter Analysis. Incongruously, a gleaming trophy sat in the middle of one shelf. The lights overhead hummed noisily, and the large man sporting a blond crew cut looked up as they entered. The man wore his blue uniform uncomfortably, and Lia thought he would look more at home on a football field wearing a numbered jersey. “Miss Morgan?” He gestured toward a chair facing his desk. Lia nodded and slipped into the seat offered. Since there was only one chair, Jared stood beside her. “Have you found my sister?” Jared put his hand on her shoulder. Its warmth seemed to be the only heat in the room. The officer put his pen down and looked at her with narrowed eyes and a grim expression. She shivered. “No, I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to call you. Our instructions were to notify her

partner first of any developments. But we’ve been unable to reach her. Do you know where Margaret is?” Confused, Lia shook her head. “Um, I tried to call her earlier. Unfortunately, we got disconnected.” “Could you please try her again?” “Sure.” Lia pulled her phone out and punched in Margaret’s phone number. “Put it on speaker, please.” The officer snapped. She did, but the call went straight to voice mail. “Then it’s not only our calls she’s avoiding,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid we don’t understand.” Jared said. “We met with Mark Powers earlier today and discussed the crossword puzzles he’d uncovered. Has there been a new lead?” The officer’s expression darkened, and Lia felt her eyes well up with tears. Oh God, Sylvie was dead. “No, we didn’t find any viable information in any of the items he gave us.” “Oh, then--” Lia began. “We have reason to believe your sister voluntarily disappeared with her son to avoid appearing in court in January.” “Court?” “She didn’t tell you?” Lia pursed her lips. “I already told one of your officers that I haven’t had contact with my sister for seven years. Honestly, I didn’t even know she’d had a baby.” “Well, seems the father of the child is suing for custody.” “Custody?” Lia felt stupid echoing back the officer’s words, but she didn’t know what else to say. Her sister had never, ever been interested in boys, let alone having sex with men. She’d assumed that the baby had been the result of in vitro fertilization, or whatever method of conception most gay couples used. “Yes, she and Deion were to appear in order to obtain a DNA sample to prove Mr. Kyle Creswell’s paternity.” Lia’s mind went numb. “We suspect your sister disappeared voluntarily to avoid that event. It’s doubly suspicious that her partner is also missing.”

Lia swallowed, hard. “You think this is a staged disappearance. A hoax?” Jared stated. “Yes, we do.” “Oh my,” was all Lia could say. Could Sylvie have simply run away, leaving everything-her house, car, business and valuables--behind? It didn’t seem like something her sister would do, but did she really know Sylvie anymore? “We can no longer dedicate men and resources to investigating the disappearance. Unless new information comes in, we really have no choice but to close the case.” “I see,” Lia said, her voice sounding small and unsure to her own ears. “But what if she didn’t disappear voluntarily?” Jared asked. The officer’s gaze softened a bit. “I’m sorry. I know this must be difficult for you, especially since you traveled all this way.” Lia started to stand, but Jared’s hand held her down. He didn’t seem ready to admit defeat. “If we turn up something that indicates she didn’t disappear of her own accord--” “Then, by all means, give us a call. But honestly, I don’t think that evidence exists.” At that moment, the lights in the station flickered and went out. “Damn,” the officer cursed softly. “Stay here, and I’ll go see if one of those damned reporters plugged too many cameras in out front and blew a fuse.” Then, just as suddenly as they went out, the lights came back on. Lia’s eyes were drawn to the alarm clock sitting on the officer’s credenza. The time flashed on and off. When she lost power in her apartment, her clocks would all flash 12:00. The officer’s clock flashed all eights. Lia shivered. Sylvie hadn’t disappeared willingly. She didn’t have an ounce of evidence to support her belief, she simply knew. If the police weren’t going to be out looking for her, that meant she had to find Sylvie. As if reading her mind, Jared bent over, and murmured softly, “Don’t worry, we’ll find her.” She wished she could be so sure.

Chapter 6 Was it day or night? The fluorescent lights and boarded-up windows prevented any contact with the outside world. But Sylvie thought it sounded like night. A hush hung in the air, and Deion sat too quietly in front of a tiny television. Hope seized her heart and she crawled across the floor, hoping the show playing would give her a hint as to the time. Heck, she knew the schedule for kids’ shows better than she did for prime time. That’s what being a parent had done to her. She flipped the channel, then realized a VHS player had been hooked to the television to play a Jimmy Neutron video. She apologized to him and adjusted the set to receive television. Static. Damn. They’d never had a decent signal in this house when she was a child, either. Cable had been a blessing in those days. She normally didn’t watch television, nor let Deion watch any more than half an hour a day. But nothing about this situation resembled normal. She settled in beside her son and put an arm around him. “Mama,” Deion leaned his head against her shoulder. “Sick?” “Yes, Mama’s not been feeling well, but I’m better now.” For how long, she didn’t know. She could refuse to eat or drink anything, but that would only weaken her, further hampering any attempt to escape. While the cartoon genius saved his parents from aliens, she pondered who had kidnapped her and why. Even more important, why had they taken her son, too? Children were a pain in the ass for kidnappers. They had tiny attention spans and cried a lot. Her assailant had implied he would sell Deion, probably as part of a child pornography ring. Well, it would be over her dead body. Unfortunately, that was exactly what the bastard planned. How had her captor known about the significance of the number eight in her life? Was there something magical about that number? The oriental good luck numbers were seven or nine. Mentally, she ran through her schedule for the upcoming days. She had three client meetings this week and that stupid court date right after the new year. She counted the days. More than eight. Had that greedy bastard Kyle hired someone to make her disappear? He had to know the

paternity test was a joke. As if she’d let the likes of him lick the bottom of her foot, let alone be intimate with her. No, she’d gotten pregnant the sensible and smart way. In Vitro fertilization with an anonymous donor. Margaret, a staunch Catholic, would have had a fit if she’d have known. The church may have turned its back on her, but she kept the faith. Sylvie felt compelled to lie and told Margaret she’d picked up random men in bars, trying to get pregnant. As if… But to save face, she’d decided to play the game and submit to the paternity test, then be amused when her attorney produced all the blackmail letters and convinced the judge to charge the dork for a felony. Sylvie planned to laugh all the way home. Still, there had been something familiar about her captor. It teased her memory. Someone from her past or the present? Not for the first time she wished she hadn’t dropped her purse in her flight for freedom. Access to her PDA would shore up her memory, which seemed to have sprung a leak. Momnesia, wasn’t that what they called it? A low murmuring off to the left caught her attention. She cocked her head, hoping to hear more clearly. The movie held Deion’s attention, so she crept on her hands and knees toward the sound. A small grate in the floor seemed to be the source. Sylvie leaned closer to the ventilation duct. She and her sister had often eavesdropped on their parents this way. It had come in especially handy around Christmas when they were children. “You’re sure the room is secure?” A woman’s voice murmured. Ice seemed to flow through Sylvie’s veins. She knew that voice. Margaret! “Of course,” an unidentified man’s voice replied. No sign of a British accent. In fact, he had no accent at all. “You have a buyer for the boy?” Margaret asked. “I thought I would give you first dibs.” Sylvie tensed, praying that Margaret took Deion. Even if she was involved in this horrific plan, he had a better chance with Margaret than he did with a pedophile. “What would I want with her child?” Margaret replied. Sylvie fought back tears. Margaret hadn’t been pleased when Sylvie got pregnant, but once the baby came, she seemed to have not only accepted him, but embraced him. Sylvie knew

that no matter what horrors Margaret had hidden in her past, she would never hurt Deion. The counselor Margaret saw agreed. In fact, Margaret had been making noises about moving back in. “You were lovers.” “Were, yes. But that ended the moment I moved out. I’ve moved on, and believe me, children are not part of my plan.” As soon as the words were spoken, Sylvie’s panic went to hot rage. Something about the conversation seemed off. Years ago, when she’d listened at this vent, she’d noticed that as people moved around the room, or even turned their heads, the voices would dim and become hard to hear. The volume of this conversation didn’t vary. Shit. Psychological torture. Oh, the bastard was good. Too good. Now that she knew his game, she had the advantage. Sylvie closed her eyes while her mind worked frantically. Was she being observed even now? She must be. Just in case, Sylvie rubbed her hands over her face as if unable to process the betrayal of her friend and lover. To her relief, thinking about the unknown future brought tears to her eyes. Instead of blinking them back, she let them fall, hoping her captor would believe her devastated. He’d have been shocked if he could read her thoughts. For one, although she knew Margaret’s voice, there were a million reasons why she might be induced to say them. Telephone calls could be recorded and conversations manipulated. She’d done it a million times, or so it seemed, before. Instead of focusing on the betrayal, she ran down a list of possible suspects. She quickly narrowed it down to someone intimately familiar with the tactics of their specialized group. Could it be a past member? She thought about the team. They had laughingly referred to their missions as playing pool. Although Sylvie had sometimes felt as if they’d stolen the plots for their missions from an old television series. Their team of four had gotten really good at their job. Until the debacle that had ruined their careers. While they were planning the abduction of a keynote speaker to prevent a leak of information that could severely impact national security, they’d uncovered a plot to assassinate the president. Their instructions had been to hand over the information to the president’s security and simply proceed with their own mission. Although they had turned over the information, something had gone wrong. Their own mission had been compromised, the information they’d hoped to block got out, and the president

had nearly died. Every government agency pointed the fingers at each other, and as expected, the government denied any knowledge of them or their activities. Thus, their secret group had been summarily disbanded. Krazy Keith had retired and was supposedly sipping Mai Tais in Hawaii. She’d gotten a Christmas card from him last week, complete with a portrait of his family. But hell, photos could be faked. Next came Bill the Pill, their computer expert. As far as she knew, his career hadn’t been affected by the assassination attempt. The government needed computer experts too badly to write him off. He had the skill set to pull off her kidnapping. But did he have the motive? As far as she knew, neither he nor Kyle had any motive to hurt her. Which left Margaret. Another impossibility. No matter what she heard, she knew her partner too well to believe Margaret would betray her. Did her kidnapping relate to the botched assassination, or a more recent grievance? The voice had sounded nothing like Kyle’s, but she wouldn’t put it past him to try to discredit her even further. However, Margaret would never be complicit. She hated Kyle. Or did it simply mean Margaret hated her more? A creak outside the room caught her attention. It sounded like the same creak the second stair from the top had made when they were kids. Her breath caught in her throat, and trying not to show that she’d heard it, she slipped back across the floor and gathered Deion up onto her lap. Outside the room, someone chuckled. It sounded like Margaret, so much so that Sylvie’s breath caught in a sob. The chuckle increased to a full-on laugh and then silence fell. The video ended, and Sylvie turned off the television. “Awww, Mom,” Deion protested. “Time for bed, buddy boy.” Sylvie stroked her son’s head. Usually she’d read him a story and get him that last drink of water before bed. She had to fight to hold back her panic. The captor had mentioned the number eight with too much significance to be Kyle. This wasn’t a prank pulled by a pissed off potential blackmailer. No, this caper had to do with the past. Eight days. The amount of time their team had been allotted to set up and complete a mission. Was this the first day of the mission, or the last? The question loomed unanswered. Just like previous targets, she wouldn’t know until the moment of her execution. Pulling Deion tight against her, she snuggled him and breathed in his little boy scent. Oh, please don’t let this be my last day to hold him. ****

When the lights blazed back on, Jared’s eyes squeezed shut. He could feel Lia’s whole body shaking. She shook his hand off her shoulder before standing. Jared slid his arm around her waist, hoping she would be able to walk. This had come as such a shock. Not only for her, but for him. “Thank you for your time,” Lia said. The officer looked at them with cold, expressionless eyes. Jared balled his free hand into a fist and then shoved it into his pocket, so he could better resist the urge to punch the smug expression off the man’s face. Getting arrested for assault wasn’t going to help find Lia’s sister. Without a backward glance, Jared propelled Lia out into the hallway. A female officer sitting at a desk in the next office looked up at them. “Excuse me, is there a backdoor?” Jared asked. The woman’s expression softened, and he could see pity in her eyes. “Sure, follow me.” She skirted around her desk and then passed them to lead them away from the pandemonium up front. “This door leads to a small patio for the staff. If you wait a few minutes, the captain’s going to make a statement to the press. They’ll all be up front so you can slip off to your car. Instead of pulling out of the lot, there’s an alley off there to the left. That’ll take you past the library and right back to Main Street,” she instructed. “Thank you,” Jared said. The officer shut the door behind her. Jared heard Lia’s breath catch in a sob. “We’ll find your sister,” he reassured her. “But if she’s just taken off…” Lia began. “I don’t think she did.” A loud murmur sounded from behind them, and Jared took that to be the sign that the press conference had begun. “Come on, let’s get going. We can talk in the car.” Within minutes, they were inside the car and driving in relative anonymity back toward Lia’s hotel. As he drove, he felt Lia’s gaze fixed on him. “So?” she finally asked. “What?” “Are you going to tell me why you think my sister didn’t disappear to avoid going to

court?” “Do you think she did?” Jared shot back. “Not the sister I knew. But…” “People don’t change that much.” The car slid to a stop at a red light with a grinding sound. Odd, he’d had the car serviced not long before. Jared checked out the rearview mirror to check traffic behind him before he played around with the brakes. Behind him in a dark sedan loomed a familiar face. Mark Powers? “There’s something you aren’t telling me. Because, listen, if you don’t have anything concrete, I can’t justify sticking around. I have my own life to live, I can’t be marking time here if Sylvie disappeared voluntarily.” Jared looked over at her. He’d been in love with her before, and frighteningly, he’d realized that his feelings hadn’t changed one iota. He still loved her. He didn’t want her to leave, yet he didn’t want to mislead her, either. “When I was ten years old, my mother disappeared.” Lia let out a small gasp. “I’m so sorry.” Jared shook his head. “I’m not telling you this to elicit your pity. There are too many similarities in the cases to ignore.” “Go on.” Lia looked over at him with a gleam of interest in her eyes. “There had been things leading up to her leaving. My grandmother had recently died, and Mom and Dad were having problems. I knew they argued a lot, too much and about anything and everything. But I never expected her to just up and leave without me.” “Who went to the police?” “I did. I’m an only child, and despite all my arguments, my father wouldn’t go with me. So I went alone.” He paused, trying to think of how to express his thoughts without being overcome with emotion as the memories assaulted him. It had been cold that day. Hell, was it December then, too? Must have been. Money had been tight, and his coat too small. Where other boys were hoping Santa would bring them toys, he’d wanted new boots to keep his feet warm. He remembered squirming on the hard plastic seat while he waited to talk to the sheriff. Finally, the man had motioned him into his office. He hadn’t been condescending, at least not at first. The sheriff had sat and listened to him pour out his fears over his mother’s fate.

When the rush of words had finally come to a stop, the sheriff had pursed his lips. “Do you know what a prostitute is?” “No, sir,” Jared had answered. “It’s a woman who sleeps with men who aren’t their husbands, and they do it for money.” “Okay.” The sheriff had taken a deep breath. “Son, your mother--” “No!” Jared had shouted before the man could finish his sentence. Without waiting to hear any more, he jumped up from the chair in front of the desk. It clattered to the floor behind him as he fled. “You didn’t believe him, right?” Lia asked. “Believe that my mom was a prostitute?” Jared cut his gaze over to Lia. “Of course not, not as I got older, anyway. My daddy drank his paycheck every week. If my mother had been earning money on her back, I’d have had a new winter coat and a decent pair of shoes. But, God help me, when I was ten, I believed the sheriff, and I believed my dad.” Jared fell silent as he remembered the day he’d come home from high school and saw the backhoe in the yard and the sheriff’s truck parked out front. “Until?” Lia prompted. “We had a new recruit at the sheriff’s department who got a wild hair to solve a few cold cases. Enough time had passed that he figured my mom would have resurfaced somewhere. He did a nationwide search on her name and social security number and came up with nothing. He started going through the missing persons report and saw all the holes everyone else ignored. He talked to people in town and then someone mentioned the new garage my lazy-good-for-nothing father put in right after she disappeared, one that just happened to have a concrete floor.” “Oh, God.” Lia put her ice cold hand on Jared’s arm “They found her. The excuses he made were ludicrous. First, he claimed her death was an accident. He said they’d argued and he’d locked her out of the house where she froze to death. When the autopsy came in that she’d been killed by a blow to her skull, he made the most absurd accusation.” “What?” Her voice shook as if she already knew the answer. “He claimed I had killed her, and he’d covered it up to protect me.” “No!”

“Yeah. Luckily, no one believed that.” “How old were you when they found her?” “A few months shy of eighteen. Old enough to live on my own. It helped that there was a life insurance policy my father didn’t know about. As soon as the money was released, I went off to college and never looked back.” “Until today.” Lia nodded. “Until today,” Jared echoed. He pulled into the hotel lot and the brakes again made a grinding sound. As an afterthought, he glanced in the mirror, expecting Mark to pull in after him. No one followed them now. “What’s up with your brakes? They’re grinding.” Hand on the door handle, she turned toward him as if reluctant to leave. Jared checked the clock on the dash and sighed. “I don’t have time to take it in tonight, but I’ll make an appointment with the mechanic tomorrow.” Lia’s brows furrowed as she gazed at something. Jared followed her line of sight to see a pile of broken glass stacked neatly on top of the tall concrete wall surrounding the hotel parking lot. Nothing she should be studying so intently. “Penny for your thoughts?” he finally asked. “You’ve convinced me to stick around for a day or two. I still want to talk to Margaret before I leave.” “I teach a class in the morning, but can come over right afterward. Do you want to meet me for lunch?” “How about a nooner?” Lia’s voice took on a sultry edge, and desire shot straight to his groin. “Just like old times.” Jared leaned over and captured her mouth in a kiss. Their lips moved together, and sensation and pleasure coursed through his veins. He slid his hand through her hair and pulled her closer, drinking deeply of the passion she offered. Lia matched him kiss for kiss, and her hands slipped up over his shoulders where she dug her fingers into his muscles. It would be so tempting to take her here, now. The chirp of his watch made pulled him back to reality. He’d given in to Lia’s temptation once. If anyone at the university had found out he’d been screwing one of his students, he’d have been fired. Although he didn’t have that threat hanging over his head now, he did have maturity

and responsibility, two bigger weights to carry. And he had a class to teach. With a sense of regret, he pulled away. Her gaze swept over his face and she gave him a small smile. As if she’d read his mind, she said, “Sucks when life gets in the way, huh?” “I’ll be back tomorrow.” “I’ll be waiting.” Lia stroked his cheek and then gave him one last soft kiss. Cold air rushed into the car when she opened the door, and he shivered. “Oh, have you had the tires on your car checked lately?” For a second, he stared at her, trying to figure out the context of her question. First, she’d been worried about that odd sound when he’d braked and now she turned her attention to his tires. “I had the whole car serviced about a month ago, but like I said, I’ll try to take it back in tomorrow. My mechanic’s shop is on the way to work and I can have him look at it while I teach, if you’re worried about me being late.” “No.” Lia shook her head and then smiled. “Drive carefully, okay?” “Sure.” Despite his determination to do the right thing, his body tightened as he watched her making her way across the parking lot to the front awning. He ached for release. One word and she’d come back. Watching the seductive swing of her skirt, he forced himself to think about his job, the university, his students, anything but making sweet love with her. At the entrance, she turned and waved before disappearing inside. The moment had passed. With a sense of regret, he pulled out of the lot and aimed his vehicle for the university, willing his body to relax before he had a permanent imprint of a zipper on his cock. As he merged onto the interstate, the steering wheel pulled violently to the left. He jerked it back and felt it slip through his grip. Oh, damn. This could be bad. Very bad. Horns blared as he fought to maintain control, and he braced himself for impact. Glancing in the mirror, he could see cars dropping back to give him room. Great. Allowing the car to follow its nose, he shot across all the lanes and onto the shoulder where he slammed on the brakes. As he pushed the pedal to the floor, the car screamed to a stop. He turned off the engine and then dropped his head onto the steering wheel while he tried to calm his raging heartbeat. The sound of ragged breathing filled the compartment. His own. Shit. He looked over at

the congested lanes to his right. How in the hell had he managed to get over here without crashing his car into a dozen others? A miracle. Had to have been. Once he’d caught his breath and felt as if his legs would hold him, he opened the car door and slid out. As he looked at the front of the car, he saw the problem. A shredded front tire. Shit. He’d never make it back to school in time for class now. He had put his hand in his pocket to pull out his cellphone when he saw flashing yellow lights approaching. A tow truck pulled up behind him, and a huge, beefy man with a long, white beard flowing down the front of his gray jumpsuit got out of the cab. “That was some driving, Tex,” the man drawled as he approached. “I thought for sure you were going to eat pavement when your tire exploded. You ever thought about driving NASCAR?” Jared chuckled. “No, thanks. This nearly scared me to death.” “I can imagine.” The man hiked up his pants. “I’m sure you’re pretty shook up. I’ll change the tire for you if you have a spare.” “I should have.” Jared reached back into the car and unlatched the trunk. While the man worked and talked, Jared leaned against the side of his car, trying to still his shaking nerves. “There you go.” “What do I owe you?” He reached for his wallet. “Twenty-five bucks if you’ll let me put the video on the internet, fifty otherwise.” “Video?” “Camera phone. I’d pulled over on the side there,” the man motioned to the opposite shoulder of the freeway, “picking up my voicemails. I heard the bang and managed to catch the whole thing on video.” “You heard the bang first?” The man nodded. “Wanna see?” “Sure.” Jared leaned over the tiny screen and watched his car come up onto the freeway. The bang sounded more like an engine backfire than the gunshot he’d imagined. But watching his car careen across the tarmac, missing collision after collision by mere fractions of an inch, made him queasy. “Damn.”

“That’s what I said. Well, what do you say, mister? Can I post it?” “Sure.” “Oh, and you only had that there doughnut tire. Make sure you drive slow and get a new tire ASAP.” It only took another minute for the man to take his credit card number and write up a receipt. He also handed Jared a business card, if he ever needed further assistance. Jared prayed he never would. The driver went back to his truck, whistling, and Jared took a look at the card. A cartoon of a man who looked amazingly like the driver waved from a small red tow truck. The name of the company, along with a phone number, e-mail address, website and Facebook address followed. Facebook. Amusing that a towing company would be concerned with social networking. The rest of his drive to the university was uneventful, if one didn’t count the honking and finger flipping he endured from drivers not concerned with the speed limit. Darkness had fallen by the time he pulled up in front of his building. The dimly lit parking lot held a handful of cars and a few lights still shone in the offices. Jared glanced up and saw a shadow pass across the window. Damn, although he’d missed class, his student had shown up for tutoring. His watched beeped. If he ran up the stairs instead of waiting for the decrepit elevator, he’d only be a minute or so late. He slid his access card into the slot and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as the gate took its own sweet time opening. Resisting the urge to gun the engine, he circled through the lot. Finally, at the far end, he found an open space and made a mental note to argue harder for assigned parking spaces at the next staff meeting. Halfway across the lot, the squall of sirens made him stop and turn. Three squad cars skidded to a stop in front of his building and the officers got out of their cars with guns drawn. Jared looked up at his window, expecting to see the frightened face of his student. Instead, something dark marred the glass. The officers crouched behind their doors and one officer lifted a bull horn to his mouth. “Professor Jared Trimble, this is the police. Come out with your hands up.” What the hell? ****

He walked through the house. Neat and orderly, like its owner. Why the hell couldn’t he find the manuscript? According to his sources, she hadn’t turned it in yet. The date circled on the calendar indicated it was due on Tuesday. When the book didn’t turn up, people would assume Sylvie had simply never finished it. Freeing him to pass it off as his own. As he flipped on the light in her office, he spotted Sylvie’s laptop case propped on its side under the desk. The mother lode. He resisted the urge to rub his hands together in glee. That would simply be too cliché. But it would certainly sum up his ecstasy. Everything was coming together as if he’d planned it for years. Oh, but then he had. Three years ago. Had the failed assassination attempt really been that long ago? At times it seemed like only yesterday. Especially since he’d also planned for years while cultivating the right contacts, paying off the right people, garnering IOUs for favors. He thought back to that day. Sweden. The home of the Nobel prize and soon-to-be site of the most memorable assassination in history. Crazy Eights, that’s what the team called itself. The official name was classified secret by a government organization that denied its existence. There had been four team members, each with complex parts to play to pull off kidnappings and hits on notorious government officials in eight days. Two days of planning, two days of reconnaissance, two days of integration and two days to kill. The mission had gone wrong from the start. Of course it had been designed to fail. He’d been infuriated to find out he’d underestimated the team. Sylvie had been the first to recognize the anomalies. She sent the computer guy, Bill something-or-other, off sniffing through the security tapes. Margaret started asking more and more questions. And Krazy Keith had put all the pieces together. They’d uncovered the assassination plot to kill the president of the United States. He’d shut them down, hard, expecting them to simply follow orders. They had only pretended to obey. It had been a fiasco. Three dead Secret Service men and a South African general. The president, damn his soul to hell, had lived. And he, Mark Powers, had been ruined. The blame came to rest fully on his desk. Luckily, everyone assumed he’d just fucked up big time. No one suspected he’d been the driving force behind the assassination. He’d retired, somewhat gracefully, gone back to his ranch and

started writing a book. A tell-all that would blow the lid off secret organizations within the government and destroy the belief of an entire generation in their president. After shopping the manuscript around for almost a year with nary a nibble, he read an article in the newspaper that started rage boiling in his blood. Sylvie had garnered a one-point-five million dollar contract to write a trilogy of fictional spy thrillers. Bullshit. She was going to go public. He hefted the computer up onto the desk and pressed the power switch. It booted up with a whir. A few flicks of his fingers and the entire hard drive opened for his perusal. None of the file names shouted the book. He opened a text file at random. Gibberish. Shit. She’d encrypted the files. Well, he didn’t have time to fuck around with this. He had a woman and son to kill. Good thing he’d taken care of Margaret earlier, and with that one act, framed the only other man who had ever stood in the way of his success. Professor Jared Trimble, crossword puzzle enthusiast and champion. Six times he’d entered the crossword puzzle championship and every single time he’d been bested by the same man. Jared. Well, not this year, baby. He reached into his pocket to extract his thumb drive. The lanyard caught on his keys. Copying the files would be absurd. Might as well just take the whole laptop and peruse it at his leisure, which he would have tons of very soon. As he slid the laptop back into the case, he heard a loud click and froze. He’d been in such a hurry to find the book that he couldn’t remember if he had locked the front door behind him. Anxiety turned to dismay when he heard a voice call out from below. “Hello. Margaret? Anyone home?” Damn. He didn’t want to get caught stealing the laptop. Sitting the case on the floor, Mark gave it a nudge with his foot to tuck it farther underneath the desk. The stairs creaked. A glance around revealed another door. He slipped through it and found himself in the bathroom. But not a dead end. A Jack and Jill bathroom with two entrances. He sidled through and found himself in the boy’s room. Teddy bears and trains marched across shelves. A miniature bed designed to look like a sports car cruised along one wall. A dresser and a train table sat on either side of a large window. On the third wall, a closed door was decorated with the poster of a large mouse holding a vertical

ruler in his hand. “Margaret? Are you here? Is anyone here?” the female voice called, all too close. He crept across the floor toward the door, hoping it would lead to a closet, or perhaps, another bathroom. When the door opened, he found a small set of stairs leading down. A plan formed in his mind. **** Perhaps coming here hadn’t been such a good idea. There had been no yellow crime scene tape blocking her entrance. And when Lia had tried the knob, the front door had swung open. Lights blazed in various rooms, so she walked right in. She still hadn’t been able to contact Margaret, and when she’d cruised past her apartment, it had been dark. Unlike Sylvie’s house. Was Margaret hiding here as Mark had insinuated? “Hello?” she called. A creak sounded from above and a trickle of discomfort slid down her spine. She pulled out her key chain, from which hung a small canister of mace. Another creak made her jump. “Margaret?” she called again. Taking a deep breath, she strode purposefully into the house and found herself in a small living room. Lia glimpsed a small alcove off to the side and expected to find a small dining area, or perhaps an attached office. Her breath caught in her throat as she walked into another large living room and straight into the past. Positioned under the window were the couch and loveseat she remembered from growing up. A recliner sat in the corner, a newspaper already opened to the comics on the seat. She shivered. A tall enclosed bookcase, the one that had resided in Lia’s bedroom, stood next to the window. If she stepped closer, she knew she’d recognize every title on its shelves. A small wooden rocking chair sat next to the recliner. A Raggedy Ann doll vied for seat space with her twin, Raggedy Andy. “Oh, God,” Lia said. The memorial to her family should have been macabre. Instead, it brought tears to her eyes. Even the antique desk Sylvie had thrown a fit to own and then despised when computers became popular and her father wouldn’t let her buy a more functional desk had a place in the room. A smile tugged at the corner of Lia’s mouth. She could almost hear Sylvie’s famous whine, “But, Dad…” As memories flooded her mind, she had to blink back a sudden rush of tears. She took a step back, turned and nearly ran back to the hallway. A light dimmed and brightened in another

room. Lia didn’t need to count the pulses to know there would be eight. A short walk found her in the kitchen. The stainless steel appliances sparkled and even the floor seemed to have been freshly waxed. She wished her kitchen looked this good. A towering pile of newspapers indicated they were sisters, after all. The stack teetered on the corner of the kitchen table. All of them were opened and folded to reveal the crossword puzzle. Had Sylvie left these here? She couldn’t remember her sister having a penchant for crosswords, but she obviously didn’t know Sylvie as well as she’d thought. Or had someone else brought these in and put them there? Speaking of which, where was Margaret? She headed upstairs, calling as she went. Just as empty as downstairs. And just as neat. A small blue plastic item on the floor of Sylvie’s office appeared to be the only thing out of place. Lia scooped it up. A thumb drive. She went to put it on the desk when a loud creak sounded behind her. She shoved it into her pocket and fumbled for her keys. Heavy footsteps approached up the stairs. Lia turned as a shadow fell across the doorway. She bit back a scream as the man appeared. Mark. Probably here looking for answers, too. Relief poured through her and she resisted the urge to put her hand over her pounding heart. “I thought Margaret might be up here.” “Me too. I stopped by her apartment first, but no one answered my knock. A neighbor told me he saw her leave around noon.” “That’s about when I got the call from her,” Lia said. “Damn. I wanted to say goodbye before I took off tomorrow.” “You’re leaving?” Lia’s heart sank. “I take it you heard about the police theory.” Mark nodded. “I heard it on the news. Unbelievable, in a way. And yet…” “And yet what?” “Well, I don’t want to say anything bad about your sister, but she seemed to have lost her edge. She made some security mistakes at work that attracted attention. Then came the foiled assassination. Her mind wasn’t on her job. I don’t know what to believe. The Sylvie who worked for me wouldn’t run from an appearance in court, but it’s obvious I don’t know her as well as I thought I did.” Mark’s words so closely echoed Lia’s earlier thoughts that she felt a sudden connection

to the old man. They were both here looking for answers. Jared didn’t believe Sylvie had voluntarily disappeared, but one of the men who knew her best did. Perhaps she should give up the search and go home. “Are you leaving soon?” Mark asked. “I thought I’d stick around a couple more days, just in case. I’m going to have to figure out what to do with all of this if she really has gone underground.” “True.” Mark nodded. “I figured I’d start by taking an inventory of everything in the house. Especially as the police did such a poor job of locking the house. They left the front door open. Luckily it doesn’t seem as if anything is missing.” She remembered the errant thumb drive lying on the floor. Had she disturbed a thief? She stepped back and surveyed the room. Nothing seemed to be missing, except she hadn’t found a computer yet. She couldn’t imagine her sister not having one. Then she spotted a laptop case under the desk. “I’m going to double check all the locks before I leave, but I think I’ll take her computer. I’d like to take a look at it before the police subpoena it.” “Do you think you should remove it? It is evidence.” Mark’s voiced sounded strained, and Lia glanced up at him in surprise. “Hell, yes. If Sylvie had gotten as careless as you say, Lord only knows what sort of personal information is on this thing. I’d rather they didn’t have anything more to fuel the fire.” “Your choice, I guess. I’m simply saying…” Lia didn’t stop to listen to his argument, but pulled the case out from under the desk and threw the strap over her shoulder. She had a sudden vision of her sister sitting alone and afraid in the dark. If Sylvie were missing of her own accord, she’d figure out a way to live with that knowledge. But if she were to turn her back now and discover Sylvie and Deion really had been kidnapped, she’d never be able to live with herself. “I still have hopes that Jared will be able to find some answers in those crossword puzzles.” “Oh,” Mark said. His voice sounded so odd that Lia turned to look at him. “What?” “Didn’t you hear? Jared’s been arrested for murder. I heard it on the radio news driving

over here.” “What?” Lia felt as if someone had punched her in the gut. The radio had been on in the car while she drove, but she hadn’t been focused on it. Instead, she’d been reliving an afternoon of passion in Jared’s arms. How had she missed all that? Besides, she’d seen clues to car trouble, not murder. “Yes, seems he killed someone in his office at the university.” “Who?” “I don’t know,” Mark replied. “The police were withholding identification, pending notification of the next of--” The phone on the desk rang.

Chapter 7 She screamed until her throat hurt, and then she screamed some more. She’d never seen so much blood. Finally, her frozen legs took a step back and then another until she found herself standing beside her desk without a clue as to how she’d gotten there. Help. She needed to call for help. Her mind seemed to be functioning in slow motion. Averting her eyes from the horror in Professor Trimble’s office, she picked up her receiver. With trembling fingers she called 9-1-1 and tried to explain the emergency to the patient woman on the other end. A woman who seemed to get more and more exasperated with each sentence. “I followed him, tonight. It was the first time, I swear.” “You followed who?” “Professor Trimble. Haven’t you been listening?” Anger swamped her terror. God, she needed help here, not the third degree. “Are the police on their way?” The faint wail of sirens answered the question before the emergency operator could reply. Relief surged through her, then embarrassment. When the first officer rushed through the door, she almost dropped to the floor and hid under her desk. “Priscilla McIntyre?” he asked. She nodded. “Someone’s been murdered?” Priscilla pointed toward the only open office door. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been following him. I--” She took a deep shuddering breath. “I lied to the operator. This wasn’t the first time.” “I’m not sure we understand what the situation is. We had an anonymous emergency call come in saying Jared Trimble had murdered a woman in his office. Almost immediately, your call came in disputing that.” The officer pulled up a chair and leveled a stern blue-eyed gaze at her. “Professor Trimble didn’t hurt anyone. I saw an old man with a woman. At first I thought they were one of the student’s parents. I started down the hall to ask them if I could help them when the woman screamed. I stopped walking, but I didn’t hide until I heard the horrible sound

she made after.” Priscilla sniffed. The officer looked down at his notebook. “I think we need to start at the beginning.” Now that the police were here, she felt calmer and more in control. However, watching all of the uniformed officers coming down the hall made her think of a circus where the funny men just kept popping out of a tiny car. There was no way all of them would fit in Professor Trimble’s tiny office, especially with all his books. Hysteria bubbled up and she stifled a giggle. The officer looked over his shoulder to see what had captured her attention and then with a nod to another officer nearby, he asked directions to the nearest pot of coffee. Priscilla took a sip of the fiery, black liquid she’d poured in the break room. It had probably been there since morning, but a copious dollop of cream and several spoons of sugar made it almost potable. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” She would have, if she’d known where the story started. Instead, she started at her beginning. “I started following him about a month ago. Not every day, just on the days when his phone would ring off the hook. I wanted to know who he was dating.” Her face felt hot, but the officer didn’t seem to notice. “When his phone rang earlier, I told the department head I felt ill, and I followed him.” “Where did he go?” “To a coffee shop in Camel Cove. He met with a man there, first. Then a woman joined them. She’s very beautiful.” “The woman he killed?” “No. Dr. Trimble didn’t kill anyone.” Priscilla looked around. Now she’d lost her train of thought. “Go on. At the coffee shop.” “Oh, yes. Then, well, he went back to her hotel.” Tears welled up in her eyes and overflowed. Not that Jared would have ever noticed her, but she’d had hopes that one day… She swallowed, hard. “After I saw them go in, I drove around for a bit. I was angry and a bit hurt.” “Were you dating him?” “No, nothing like that. I just, well…” She wasn’t quite sure how to explain it. “That’s okay. You drove around for a while.” “I sat in the parking lot.” Her hands looked so pale and she noticed, for the first time,

how ragged her nails were. “They were in there for hours, and I simply couldn’t sit there any more, knowing they were, well, you know, doing it.” “What did you do?” “I started to go home, but then I remembered I had an article to proofread. The deadline is tomorrow, so I drove back here to pick it up. The building seemed to echo with silence.” She shuddered, remembered how spooky it had felt to be there alone. Which was why, when she’d heard people’s voices, she’d felt safer. Safe. What a laugh. Would she ever feel safe again? “I heard a man’s voice, and I could see into Professor Trimble’s office. He normally keeps the door shut, so I thought that was odd. Especially since he was with her, not here.” She paused, remembering the horrible gurgling scream that had cut short her curiosity. “I only caught a glimpse of the woman, then I heard her scream. It ended in this horrible gargle and I…” “What did you do?” The officer scribbled something and then turned the page in his notebook. He looked up at her expectantly. “I took my shoes off and ran over here to hide behind my desk.” “Was that when you called 9-1-1?” Priscilla felt her eyes widen. “No, I couldn’t. He would have heard me.” Her voice shook and she took another gulp of the sludgy coffee. “I didn’t think the man would ever come out of the office. When he finally did, I wished he hadn’t. I thought he’d surely be able to hear my heart pounding. He stopped right there. I could have reached out and touched him. I don’t know how he didn’t see me, but he didn’t.” Sobs overcame her. The man had simply walked away. A warm hand touched her shoulder. “Did you call for help then?” Pulling herself together, she sat up a bit straighter and swallowed her last sob. “No, I waited until he’d gotten on the elevator. And then I waited some more. I didn’t want him to come back and find me.” “How long did you wait?” “Five minutes, an hour, maybe? I didn’t look at the clock, and I certainly didn’t go back over there.” She met the officer’s sympathetic gaze. “You got a good look at the man?”

Priscilla closed her eyes and the killer’s visage floated into sight. Oh God, would she ever forget his face? “Yes, I did.” “Good. We’ll get a sketch artist.” “You’ll catch him, right?” The officer didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up his radio. Static squawked. “Oh, and officer?” He let go of the button on the radio and shot her an inquiring glance. “Do you have to tell the professor that I’ve been following him?” “Stalking is a crime,” he replied cryptically. “But I’ll see what I can do.” Her heart pounded erratically while fear warred with embarrassment. She’d rather go straight to jail than to face Jared and the rest of the staff with her confession. “I won’t ever do it again, I promise.” Her gaze strayed down the hall to the open office door. This time, she even believed herself. **** What else could go wrong? Before the police even took his statement, they read him his rights, searched him and settled him into the back of the police car. Jared sat on the hard plastic bench and stared out at the flurry of activity in his building--a huddle of shadows in his office and the occasional flash that indicated an officer taking crime scene photos. The seat was even more uncomfortable than the orange plastic one he’d sat on years ago. However, that didn’t bother him nearly as much as the police not telling him who he’d supposedly killed. An officer, who didn’t look old enough to drive let alone carry a gun, opened the door of the squad car and slid into the driver’s seat. He turned on the dome light and shifted in his seat to focus on the suspect. Namely Jared. “So, professor. Do you want to tell me your story?” Jared debated with himself. Give his statement to an officer of the law without a lawyer present, even if he wasn’t guilty? Would asking for a lawyer, assuming he could even figure out who to call, make him look guilty? “I arrived less than a minute, okay, maybe a minute and a half before you guys did. I parked my car, got out, looked up at my office and saw a shadow. Frankly, I cursed, because my student had shown up early, and I must have forgotten to lock my office door. I had a bunch of paperwork out that I didn’t want my students to see. I started toward the door right as you all

pulled up.” The officer had half an eye fixed on him and the other on the notebook where he scrawled notes. “What’s the name of the student?” Jared’s heart sank and emotion rose in his throat. Suddenly he found it hard to speak around the lump. Dominic, a rich and troubled kid, in fact, a major pain in the butt, had charisma. Jared saw politics in Dom’s future, if his powers of debate were any indication. “My only appointment tonight is with Dominic Kennedy. Is that who…” “Dominic?” The officer fixed him with a steady stare. “That’s who I said. Dom has a standing appointment for tutoring. Either that or he fails my class.” Jared could tell by the man’s bored expression he’d given out more information than the officer wanted,. Must have been his nerves talking. Thankfully, after he’d run through his class schedule, but before he started to tell the man about Mark Power’s call, the crosswords, Lia and her missing sister, the radio rasped. The officer snatched up the handset. “Did you get a statement?” “The suspect claims the victim is a male student.” “Wait, I didn’t--” Jared interrupted, then silenced when the officer shot him a furious look and shook his head. “The victim is female.” The tinny disembodied voice stated. The officer reared up in his seat and gave him a once over. “I don’t see any blood on the suspect. Hold out your hands,” he demanded. Jared held them out and even flipped them over for good measure. “Where were you fifteen minutes ago?” “On the interstate. My car had a blowout on the way here. A tow truck driver changed it for me, but he had to put on the donut tire, at least that’s what he called it. I drove fifty-five miles an hour the rest of the way here. I’m sure there are drivers along the way that will vouch for that, they all seemed mighty peeved.” Babbling, again. This time, the officer seemed to be paying attention. “Got a name for that tow company?” “Yeah, he gave me his card. I think it’s on the passenger seat of my car. Also, he taped my blowout on his phone to post on the internet.”

The officer’s eyebrows shot up, but he shifted in his seat and reported Jared’s story over the airwaves. “Release him,” came the reply. “His story checks out according to witnesses.” What witnesses? Had there been anyone around when he pulled in? Well, if there hadn’t been then, there certainly was now. A crowd of people gathered on the far side of the building, pressing against the yellow crime scene tape strung from a tree. “You’re free to go. Sorry for the inconvenience.” The officer opened his door and slid out. Then he opened Jared’s door. A few moments ago, he’d have paid ready money to be sitting anywhere but in the back of the squad car. He felt a strange reluctance to leave. “That’s it?” “That’s it.” “Who died?” “I’m sorry, it’s an ongoing investigation, and we can’t discuss it with you.” “You’re telling me I’ll have to read it in the paper like everyone else?” The officer shot him a wry smile. “Yep.” “Thanks, I think.” Feeling strangely disconnected, Jared followed the officer toward the yellow crime scene tape. A tall, thin young man came running up the walk. He skidded to a stop when he saw the lights flashing. His brown eyes seemed to light up when he saw Jared walking toward him. “I am so sorry I’m late, professor. It won’t happen again.” Dominic babbled. “No problem.” Jared glanced up to where he could see multiple shadows crossing and recrossing the window. A woman wearing a mask and gloves wiped at the glass. He shuddered and then looked over at his student. Relief washed over him. He was damn glad to be spared that conversation with a student’s parents. “I’m really glad to see you.” “What happened?” someone called out from the crowd around the car. “Haven’t a clue,” Jared replied. “But you were in the back of the squad car. Were you arrested?” Dominic asked. “No.” Jared shook his head. “And they didn’t tell me anything except to say it was an ongoing investigation. Sorry.” “S’okay,” Dominic looked over his shoulder. “Hey, isn’t that Priscilla?” He took a step, then two.

Jared followed the young man’s progress, but didn’t see anything except a crowd of people. “Glad you’re not dead, man. See you in class,” Dominic called over his shoulder as he moved to join the crowd that had gathered near a news van. The temptation to join him and find out more information was strong. But if he did, he’d be obliged to make some sort of comment. Yeah, he’d look really smart on television with his lack of knowledge. Instead, he slid his hand in his pocket. His car keys jangled. Hanging around wouldn’t serve any purpose other than to feed his frustration and cool his temper. If he walked across the street and then around, he could get to his car and head home. Besides, he had some crossword puzzles to solve. No one stopped him as he pulled out of the lot and headed to his apartment. After several fruitless minutes, he ended up parking a few blocks away. He gathered the newspapers and locked his car before walking back to his building. He looked up at his window, fearing once again to see it lit up with some unknown stranger lurking there. Thankfully, all he could see were dark panes. Still, trepidation slowed his footsteps. Jesus, why didn’t the landlord install more lights in the foyer? Dark shadows seemed to lurk everywhere. At this moment, he’d even welcome the strident tones of old Mrs. Suh, the manager, if only to complain about the dim lighting. Elevator or stairs? Visions of horror movies where the attack had come from the hatch in the top of the elevator car vied with the fear of being caught in a dark stairway and having no escape, except to jump off the roof. An exaggeration, but after what had just happened, Jared didn’t want to take any chances. Before he could make a decision, the door behind him blew open and a small posse of students filled the building foyer with noise. “Heya, professor,” someone called. Jared returned the greeting. Like a flock of starlings at a feeder, the youths descended on the mailbox. Jared’s unease evaporated. A normal night. However, he, too, collected his mail and lurked until they all crowded into the elevator. Then came the long walk down the hallway to his apartment. If someone or something awaited him there, he’d welcome a witness or two. He turned the knob. Locked. Just the way

he’d left it. When the door swung open, he found his belongings in the same state of disorder as when he’d cruised out this morning. God. Had it only been this morning? So much had happened that he felt as if he’d been gone for days. The feeling of being watched persisted, and for good measure, he performed a cursory search through his closets and even peeked under his bed. He found no one. Which meant that nobody had broken in and left food in the refrigerator. He’d have to order pizza again. Jared ordered a large pan of cheesy pepperoni goodness and a six-pack of soda. It had been a long day and would be an even longer night, if those crossword puzzles were the least bit challenging. While he waited for the food to be delivered, he cleared a spot on his desk, got out a few reference books and unearthed several mechanical pencils. A few of his friends swore only ball point pens should be used to fill in the squares. But Jared liked to keep his options open. The same way he had with women. He sat staring at the first clue and drew a blank. Lia dominated his thoughts. Their time together today had been as heated and passionate as any of their previous encounters, more so on his part, as she’d been a figment of his fantasies for far too many years. Yes, there had been other women in his bed since Lia. Quite a few. Enough to know they weren’t the woman for him. The one. He’d always scoffed at the idea of anything mystic. Ghosts were errant electromagnetic readings playing on the human physique and psyche. Soul mates had also rated right at the top of his skeptical scale, followed closely by dreams and premonitions. Dreams. Why did that word make him feel uncomfortable all of a sudden? It had something to do with Lia. But what? Hadn’t they discussed something about prescient dreams the day before she left seven years ago? It had been a circular argument as he remembered, neither one of them convincing the other of their beliefs. Circular. Tires. Jared’s spine straightened as an odd sensation jangled his nerves. Lia had asked about his tires. Why? His first suspicion, that she’d done something to the tires of his car, didn’t make sense. Why would she have sabotaged his tire? She’d come to California to find her sister, not kill an old lover. But she’d known something…

He glanced at the clock before he reached for the phone. Still early enough to call. But what would he say? How’d you know I had tire trouble? He picked up the receiver and then put it back down. Heck, he wanted to call her, anyway. Just to hear her voice. He’d missed her more than he’d ever admitted to himself. She seemed like a missing piece of him. Her smile lit up his day and her laughter… The clatter of his pencil falling to the floor brought him out of his reverie. Damn, he’d sounded like a lovesick teenager writing really bad poetry. He reigned in his emotions and looked down at the first puzzle. One down… He blew through the first three puzzles before something niggled at his consciousness. The puzzles didn’t make sense. They weren’t too easy, as he’d expected. Granted, they were nowhere near the challenge of the New York Times crosswords, but they weren’t uncomplicated, either. Worse, they seemed familiar somehow. He did a lot of puzzles, mostly online. Were these, perhaps, lifted from one of the sites? He looked back over the clues. He didn’t recognize the style as any of the puzzle creators he normally encountered. Cruciverbalists, like authors of other works, had their own voices and styles. They used pet clues in many of their puzzles. He paged back through the pages he’d completed. There were very few clues in common. Interesting. He looked at the fourth puzzle. Again, no repeated ones, except for the woman’s and child’s name clue. And they rotated in sequential order. In the oldest paper, the clue appeared as one across. In the latest, the name Sylvie provided the answer to eight across. Mark had said the newspaper publisher thought the puzzles were submitted by the same person. Kris Kross. Margaret’s pseudonym? She’d denied it, but she could have lied. He had no way to confirm or deny the supposition. He narrowed his eyes as he stared at the puzzle. Granted, the same person might have submitted them, but he’d bet money they hadn’t. He finished the eighth puzzle in record time. Still buzzing from the caffeine in the soda, he wrote a program to analyze the clues, their frequency and appearance. What he found seemed to confirm his suspicion that the puzzle writer had gone through online puzzles, looking for ones that could be tweaked appropriately. Say the first across answer should have been water. However, only the A appeared in the down answer. The writer had

changed the first clue to a woman’s name. Thus, any woman with a five letter name where the second letter was A would fit. The author only had to change two clues for each puzzle. With one puzzle per month, which seemed to indicate there had been eight women and children--sixteen victims in all--he couldn’t understand why the police didn’t take this seriously. He booted up his computer, thinking to do a search to confirm the names of the missing women and children. With no last names, that would be an impossible task. He could check for something else, though. Hacking into the crossword puzzle championship contestant database made him feel uncomfortable, but he did it, anyway. He ran a quick search for competitors in the San Francisco area. A handful of names popped up. He skimmed them quickly and then his heart skipped a beat. His name appeared, of course. But so did another familiar one. Margaret Fletcher. **** “Murder?” The phone continued to ring, but Lia seemed strangely disconnected from her body and her hand wouldn’t obey her brain’s command. Jared had been arrested for murder? Finally, on what was probably the last ring, she snatched up the receiver and hoped she could actually speak. “Hello?” “Is this Sylvie Morgan?” the caller asked. “No, Sylvie isn’t, um, home at the moment. This is her sister, Lia. Could I take a message?” “One moment, please,” the woman said, then a badly composed instrumental version of Mission: Impossible Theme played in Lia’s ear. Her dad used to whistle that song, which annoyed her sister to no end. Why? She looked over at Mark. His face looked pale, washed out, and his wide-eyed gaze fastened on her. The tune repeated. Okay, if they kept her on hold until it played eight times, she was going to be pissed. She got it. Eight. Eight something. Crazy! The room faded as the tune repeated yet again. Her mind latched on to the phrase. Crazy Eights. Hadn’t her sister once called the team she worked with something like that? She should

ask Mark. She tipped the receiver and opened her mouth just as a man’s voice came on the line. The question would have to wait. “Ms. Morgan. This is Mike O’Shaunessey. I work for the management company hired to maintain your property on Main Street.” “Yes?” “According to my files, it is still being rented by Margaret.” “What?” “Yes, according to my records, when the previous lease ran out, a woman named Margaret Fletcher took over. I have it listed here that it’s her residence and a photography studio. She pays the rent on time and maintains adequate insurance on the property. Is that all you needed?” “Um, yes. I think so.” Lia hung up the receiver. “What?” Mark prompted. Lia felt behind her for the desk chair and sank into it before her legs collapsed. “That was the property management company that leases out our old house.” “And?” “It used to be a bed and breakfast. We didn’t, well, at least, I didn’t get any notification that the lease had changed. It seems Margaret has been renting it for almost a year now.” Mark shook his head. “I don’t believe it. Margaret? But then…” Lia gave him a questioning look. “From what I understand, she and Sylvie didn’t part under the best of terms. Perhaps this has all been some sort of sordid revenge plan to get back at Sylvie for getting pregnant with Deion.” “You stopped by Margaret’s on the way here, right? Is she living in a big pink Victorian on Main Street?” “No, I mean, I stopped by the address that I had.” Mark dug into his pocket and pulled out a torn envelope. “But maybe she moved.” “But the neighbor said he’d seen her, right?” Mark simply nodded. Lia chewed on her bottom lip. “Oh well, I can’t do anything about it until morning. I

might as well keep working here. Maybe I’ll find something to explain all this. I don’t think I can leave without clearing up some of the mystery.” “Do you need any help? I can cancel my flight.” “No. Please go. There’s no sense in putting your life on hold. You have your wife to get back to. I’m glad you came to help out, and sorry you got dragged into this mess.” Lia stood and took a deep breath. Mark seemed to take that as his cue to leave. “Lia, I’m sorry to have to leave. Please know I hope Sylvie shows up safe and sound.” “Thanks, Mark.” She didn’t know whether to hug him or shake his hand. She felt comfortable doing neither. So, in the end, she simply walked him to the front door and waved as he walked away. She closed and locked it, then she walked through the downstairs, checking all the doors and windows. When she paused at the bottom of the stairs, she realized she hadn’t asked Mark about the Crazy Eights. Damn. He’d be long gone by now. She didn’t have a phone number, or any way to contact him, either. Well, double damn. Had he even mentioned at the name of his hotel? Or his flight number? Shaking her head at her own ineptitude, a flicker of light caught her eye. Oh, not again. Aggravated, she followed it, anyway. It never paid to ignore the signs. The desk lamp flicked on and off. Too bad some paranormal group didn’t have a camera set up here to catch this on film. No one would believe it otherwise. She ran her hand over the smooth wood. She loved this desk. When their grandmother died, Sylvie had thrown a huge fit to have it. Lia suspected the tantrum had less to do with whether Sylvie liked the desk than with her desire for Lia not to have it. Even after Sylvie grew up and moved out, the desk stayed in her old room. Looking out of place among the rest of Sylvie’s Swedish modern furniture, the antique bureau desk had been painted with large red cabbage roses, or perhaps peonies, on the slanted top. Old-fashioned, it had probably held more than a few secrets, for hidden inside was not just one secret drawer, but three. Lia pulled out the center drawer and stared. The false bottom had been pried up, splintering the wood. “Oh, no.”

Sylvie hadn’t done this--she knew how to open the secret compartment. With shaking hands, Lia took out all the little boxes along the back. Bending down, she saw where someone had simply broken through the thin wooden panel instead of sliding it out. The destruction brought tears to her eyes. She knelt on the floor and peered at the underside of the desk. This looked intact, but… After rotating a hinge on one side and then the other, she held her breath. Her sensitive fingers finally found the little latch. She pushed it and the flap swung down. Papers rained out. Jiminy. There must have been a whole ream of paper in the compartment. And a CD. Lia sat back on her haunches. Someone had been looking for this. Probably not the police. They would have simply destroyed the entire desk, not pried into hidden compartments and then replaced everything to hide the damage. Margaret? Maybe. But Lia had the feeling Sylvie would have shown her lover the desk’s secrets. No. It had been someone else. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. She shivered and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Looking over her shoulder, she saw nothing suspicious. However, if someone were to come knocking at the door, they would see the mess. Quickly, she closed the compartment and gathered up the papers. Eight, one hundred and eighty-eight. Stop it with the eights already. She gathered and sorted until she finally had the page numbers in the proper order. What was this? A book? She turned over the upside down title page to read it. Crazy Eights by Morgana Sylvester. Sylvie’s name and address appeared under the title and author credit . She was either brokering the document for someone else or… “A pseudonym, of course,” Lia murmured. This explained some, but not much. The light flickered again. “I’ll read it, but, dammit, Sylvie, where are you?” **** She awoke to the sound of footsteps. Heavy, angry. For one long moment, Sylvie’s thoughts returned to her troubled teenage years, hearing her father come down the hall. What mischief had he caught her in this time? Reality filtered back through the drugs and haze. Resisting the urge to open her eyes, she used the rest of her senses to assess the situation. Deion still slept next to her, he’d snuggled close to her for warmth on the cold, hard floor. His breathing sounded loud in the room. The dust

and stress had been hard on his asthma. Hopefully he wouldn’t have an attack and need his inhaler. That too had been lost along with her purse. A floorboard creaked. Breathing evenly, she tried to locate the person in the room. Evil seemed to permeate the atmosphere. “I know you’re awake.” A soft, female voice. Sylvie opened her eyes. Whatever she’d been drugged with still lurked in her system, for the room swayed and pitched as if caught in an undersea current. Tall. Blond hair. Sunglasses hid her eyes, but Sylvie knew they were blue. Margaret. “Why?” Sylvie asked. Struggling into a sitting position, she flung the accusation like a dagger. “You owe me that much. Tell me why?” Instead of answering, Margaret turned her back and walked away. Warning bells rang in Sylvie’s head. Oh, the dress was Margaret’s, but not one she liked. In fact, Sylvie hadn’t seen her in it for years. And despite the drugs, nothing could hide that when viewed from the back, the woman didn’t have Margaret’s generous curves. Now that she saw through the disguise, the differences were numerous. The door slammed, and Deion woke up with a whimper. Sylvie shushed him, trying to disguise the joy she felt at finding out her lover hadn’t betrayed her. Oh, her blurry vision might have betrayed her; however, the kidnapper made a huge mistake by leaving the room. Margaret never walked away from a fight. If Margaret wasn’t involved, the situation escalated. If she didn’t get out of here and soon, she would die. And Deion? She couldn’t even bring herself to think about his fate. Killed or sold to the highest bidder. She shuddered. The drugs had begun to wear off a little. She needed to focus. For ten years, she and a highly trained team of assassins had coordinated and assisted in overthrowing governments and drug lords world-wide. They used deceit, deception and disguises. Of course they also had full control of the facilities, state of the art equipment and three other team members. But if her instincts were correct, this SOB was pulling the strings single-handedly, which evened the odds substantially. To her credit, she knew the house. She’d lived here for eighteen years. Too bad she knew

so little about it. Lia had been the little explorer. Pounding on walls, prying up floorboards. Her parents had tolerated it, even encouraged it. When Lia had discovered the secret passageway in the study, Mom and Dad had listened with indulgent smiles while she informed them that someone had died in there. When they asked why she thought that, Lia had explained that she’d seen several dead black widow spiders, and that made her think something else might have been dead inside. Not surprising, their parents’ indulgent smiles had turned to expressions of dismay when the crew her father hired to shore up the walls found a corpse stashed behind a crumbling brick wall. No one had ever told Lia about the body. A child with a vivid imagination, her parents didn’t want to scare her. Thinking about her sister’s discoveries, Sylvie wished she’d paid more attention to Lia’s babbling. Sylvie looked around carefully. Her prison was on the second floor, she knew that much. But that didn’t narrow it. There were nine bedrooms in the house. The master bedroom sat at the end of the hall, farthest from the main staircase. Since she’d been able to hear the stair creak, that meant she was at the other end of the hall. All the walls had been painted black, those of the room, the small attached bathroom and the tiny closet. Of the four bedrooms near the stairs, it would be hard to narrow down the exact room without visual clues. The bedroom next to hers had been an odd shape and didn’t have an attached bathroom. Her mother had turned it into a craft room. So that left one of three bedrooms that this could be--hers, Lia’s or the guestroom that her mother had decorated with sea shells and lighthouses. Lighthouses. She’d always wanted to go to Maine. Thinking about blue sky, thick forests and moose… Damn it! The drugs had her slipping into daydreams at the drop of the hat. Concentrate! Hadn’t there had been something about Lia’s closet? Deion switched on the television and Jimmy Neutron started up again. She didn’t think she could take much more of that inane soundtrack. But the music might cover up the sounds of her movements. If she were being watched, it would be another matter. Her first duty: identify and disable the cameras. That would serve two purposes. Not only would it give her cover to do some clandestine investigating, it would also tell her how closely

she was being observed by her captor. Feeling too woozy to walk, she crawled to one wall and pulled herself up. Then she began the slow, meticulous search of the walls, looking for a sign of a lens. Nothing, nothing and more nothing. She collapsed against the wall and stared numbly. Where? A shadow, darker than the others caught her attention. The heating vent! She crawled across the floor to the metal grate. Her captor had made a big mistake. The screw heads were still exposed. That gave her pause. Her team had always selected extra long screws. After they were fastened in, the heads were cut off so the screws could not be removed. She couldn’t undo the fastening with her fingers. Now what? She looked down at her clothing. It only took a few minutes to separate the zipper pull from her slacks. As she started on one screw, the room swam crazily, and for a moment, she thought she would be sick. After a few minutes, the nausea passed. She celebrated that her captor hadn’t come to confront her about her actions. Moving slower to keep from setting off the vertigo, she set to work on the screws. After what seemed like hours, the metal piece pulled away from the wall. Ah-ha! A camera and small speaker sat right inside the vent. A green light glowed at the base of the speaker, but Sylvie could find no indication of the camera’s operational state. She didn’t want to raise the suspicions of her captor, so she propped the vent back into place. The bathroom consisted of four walls, a toilet and a sink. Inside the tank, she knew there would be a ball joint and a lever-pulley mechanism. Not much to work with, but a start. Lastly, she investigated the closet. Finally feeling well enough to walk, Sylvie pulled open the door. The walls were flat black, but as she ran her hands over it, she could tell that whoever had painted hadn’t removed the wallpaper below it. She sank to the floor and felt along the baseboard. Within seconds, the sensitive tips of her fingers had found a loose edge. She pulled gently and exposed floral wallpaper, something her mother would have cringed at. Hazarding a guess that it had been installed by the bed and breakfast, Sylvie picked at it. Hopefully, those redecorators had been lazy too. Grasping an edge, she pulled it up. Underneath the insipid roses were…pirates.

She recognized the wallpaper with a rush of triumph. Lia’s room. Now that she had her bearings, she could pull up the floor plan of the house in her head. A new wave of dizziness overtook her and she crawled back into the room to lie next to Deion. She closed her eyes for a moment. “Sylvie, guess what I found!” Lia had been nearly jumping up and down in excitement. Aggravated, Sylvie had tried to ignore her little sister. Finals week approached and she needed to get the best grades ever. A recruiter had come to the school a few weeks ago from the government. Oh, they’d had the typical armed forces recruiter, but this guy came from an organization he’d referred to as The Agency, an organization so secret it didn’t even have initials to identify it with. As he talked, her desire had grown. A fire had lit in her soul when she found out they had a student internship program. Agents-to-be attended college during the school year and worked on projects during breaks. The best thing of all, she’d be required to move to Washington, DC Two thousand miles away from her small-minded high school and her parents’ expectations. Just thinking about his spiel made her all tingly inside. She wanted to see the world and the government would give her the ticket. “I got to thinking the closet in my room isn’t deep enough. Daddy thought the architect must have made a mistake on the measurements, but that can’t be. There’s eighteen inches missing. Eighteen!” “Please, Lia. I’m trying to study.” Sylvie had gotten up from her chair and pushed her pouting sister out into the hall. “Tell me about it next week. After final exams.” Sylvie woke with a start. Had Lia mentioned her closet again? Not that she could remember. Eighteen inches. Just a fluke? Maybe, but she knew secret cupboards, even a secret staircase that led from the attic to the master bedroom, riddled the entire house. An eerie silence hung in the air. She couldn’t see or hear anyone, but she felt the presence of someone lurking in the shadows. A cold finger of fear slid down her spine at the thought of dying and leaving her son to a fate worse than death. She shivered. A goose walking over her grave, as Margaret used to say. Was it a premonition of death? Perhaps. She thought about Lia and sent out another mental cry for help.

Chapter 8 Mark slid behind the wheel of his car and looked around. All his planning and sacrifice would finally pay off. All the people who had beaten him down and stifled his success were taken care of. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Only eight o’clock, the night was still young. The engine turned over smoothly and he pulled out onto the quiet street. While he drove, he mentally tied up the last few loose ends. Margaret was dead, and Jared would be blamed for her death. The child pornography he’d planted on the professor’s computer would tie him to Sylvie and the boy. By midnight tonight, Sylvie, too, would be dead. He’d hide her body amongst the fourteen others that a real-life serial killer had disposed of. As for Deion, the sale of the boy would fund Mark’s new start. Mark had also left enough evidence in Sylvie’s house to implicate the professor and send him to prison for a very long time, if he didn’t get the death penalty. Now, wouldn’t that be a hoot? A small niggle of doubt danced at the back of his brain. What about the sister? He shrugged off thoughts of Lia. Once he’d presented the police with their case all tied up with a pretty bow, she’d go back to her life in New York. But what if she didn’t? Her involvement with Jared worried him. Perhaps he should turn the car around, get rid of her, too… He gave himself a mental shake. No, that wouldn’t do. With the professor in custody, he couldn’t count on the ineptitude of the coroner to bungle Lia’s time of death. No, he had to let her go. For now, anyway. If she started causing trouble at a later date, he’d deal with her then. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he drove. The feeling of disquietude increased, To calm his nerves, he switched on the radio. It seemed as if the radio announcer had read his mind, cheering him up with an oldie but goodie. Feeling Groovy. He whistled the tune as he drove, hoping to imbue his thoughts with the feeling eschewed by the song. To his dismay, his nervousness increased as he approached Main Street. To distract himself, he began planning his comeback. The book tours, perhaps an interview with Barbara Walters. Not much in the way of a reporter, but damn, she looked good doing it. The air seemed close, heavy. Perhaps he’d better concentrate on finishing the job first.

A melodic scale of chimes peeled from the radio. The news. He turned up the volume and bit back a smile as he listened. “A murder on campus tonight has caused panic and consternation among the students,” the reporter said. “Earlier this evening, a woman’s body was found in the office of a popular instructor. The woman has not been identified, but witnesses have placed her at the scene in the company of an older gentleman and the police are hoping to have a sketch of the suspect prepared in time to be broadcast on the evening news. We’ll keep you updated with further details as they come in.” Mark stared out the windshield, unseeingly. Unbelievable. Why hadn’t they arrested Jared? The clues were all there. As for witnesses? He hadn’t seen anyone around. There were no witnesses. No one had seen him. Perhaps there had been two murders on campus this evening? With a sense of unreality, he punched the station buttons on the radio, searching for another news broadcast. All the other stations delivered the same terse statements. A murder, a witness and a sketch. He pulled down the vanity mirror and glanced at his own reflection, suddenly glad that at the last moment he’d thought to slap a fake beard over his face. Too bad he hadn’t used a more complex disguise. Why hadn’t he? Oh, because he wanted Margaret to know exactly who had killed her and why. He’d only worn the beard to give himself a passing resemblance to the professor. He shuddered when he thought about the sketch. He hadn’t seen a soul, so how had someone seen him? Hopefully it had been from a distance and the rendition of his face would be vague and unrecognizable. When he thought about it, most of those pictures were so vague no one would recognize their own mother. Nothing to worry about. Nothing. Despite his pep talk, he worried. Worried enough to head straight back to his lair. His first impulse was to kill Sylvie before the news broke. But if the sketch did resemble him, there could be trouble when handing over the boy. The man, SodaPop, didn’t do pickups. Mark had arranged to deliver the boy to a daycare center in the morning. From there…who knew? He certainly hadn’t asked any questions. Were the women who worked at the center complicit in the plan? Were they friends of SodaPop? It didn’t matter. If a reward was offered for identifying the man in the sketch, they’d turn him in. He knew their type. Hell, he was their type. They’d do anything for money. A headache formed behind his right eye and throbbed. Wait. He would have to wait. And

plan. Planning was vitally important. Planning was what would get him out of this mess. And above all, don’t panic. **** Jared stared at the results of the computer program. The puzzles had looked so promising to begin with, but were actually nothing more than an elaborate red herring. Margaret was the clue and the answer. Had she, alone or with Sylvie’s help, concocted all of this as a convoluted scheme to cover Sylvie’s disappearance? It sure seemed that way, and yet…Mark had called him in to help with a serial killer. Both scenarios couldn’t be true. Sylvie had disappeared with her son. Lia had contacted Margaret, albeit on a bad connection. That woman, too, had vanished. Had Mark met with Margaret? He thought back through the conversations, but hit a dead end. His focus had been concentrated on Lia. He could call and find out. Except he didn’t have Mark’s number. Hopefully Lia would have it. This time, he allowed himself to pick up the phone and called Lia’s hotel. After six rings, the call switched over to voice mail. With a feeling of discontent, he left a message. He glanced at the clock. Not even ten yet. Damn, where had Lia gone? She hadn’t mentioned going out. Had she, too, gone missing? Perhaps she was in the shower, or…his mind alternated between thoughts of her being carried off by a masked assailant or picking up a man at the bar he’d noticed next door to the hotel. Disconcerted by both thoughts, he decided on a course of action instead of sitting and worrying. He gathered up the newspapers and tried to fold them back into the neat packages they’d been in before he’d assaulted them with his pencil. Despite following the creases, he couldn’t wrangle them back into shape. Giving up, he folded the papers into halves and quarters, then stacked them in order of appearance with Sylvie’s on the top. Since they were the only clues he had, he took them with him. The feeling of being watched had diminished. Perhaps the loud bass pulse from the apartment next door had scared it away. However, once outside, he felt vulnerable, even with the car doors locked. Looking around, he saw no one conspicuously out of place. It had to be his imagination. Despite that, he turned the radio on more for the noise than for information. No new

information had turned up in the last few broadcasts, but every time he heard the jingle that preceded the announcement of breaking news, he tensed. A quick calculation of the time it would take to get to Lia’s hotel and back made it impossible to catch the nightly television broadcast. It would be interesting to see a sketch of the suspect. A serial killer, perhaps? Or the missing Sylvie? Hopefully it would be someone he recognized and help to tie up the loose ends. He pulled into the lot of Lia’s hotel, parked the car and looked up toward her room. A light shone in her window. Had she come back to the room while he drove, or had she left a lamp blazing to chase away the shadows? His confidence flagged until he saw a shadow pass her window. Lia. It only took a few minutes to get up to her room, but he still fought off his trepidation. Just knock. Noticing the newsprint had stained his sweaty palms, he resisted the urge to wipe them on his pants. His nerves were shot. He had a right to be nervous. Hell, he’d almost been arrested for murder tonight. As he raised his hand to knock, the door opened. Lia took one look at him and then stepped back, her face a mask of fear. “What?” Jared asked. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder, for she certainly couldn’t be afraid of him. Could she? Then another suspicion danced through his brain. Perhaps she wasn’t alone. “Hi, I’m sorry if this isn’t a good time. But I thought I should show these to you.” He lifted the papers he carried. She flinched and inched back toward the bedside phone. “Lia, what’s wrong?” Instinctively, he realized that if he stepped toward her, it would just increase her panic. He stepped back and held his hands up in mock surrender. “Are you okay?” “You were arrested for murder.” Lia’s voice shook. “I wasn’t arrested.” No surprise that she knew about the murder, it had been on the news non-stop for the last few hours. Why didn’t she know the details? All the newscasts had been clear that he’d been released and another suspect identified. All those reporters were waiting with bated breath and a hot microphone for the sketch. He saw the fear in her face falter. “You weren’t? Mark said you killed that woman.” “Mark heard wrong.” A large plasma television dominated one wall; however, it hadn’t

been turned on. “A lady was murdered in my office, but--” “Your tire,” Lia interrupted. “What do you know about this?” Jared’s suspicions flared. Nonsense. Lia hadn’t sabotaged his tire, dashed to his office to kill someone in order to frame him. Besides, the newscasts were clear on one thing. The suspect was a man. She didn’t answer him, only shook her head and reached for the table. Her hand hovered over the spot and a look of confusion crossed her face. “What?” “The remote. Where in the hell did it go?” Lia’s shoulders sagged. “Perhaps you carried it with you to…” Jared motioned toward the bathroom. “No.” Lia looked around the room. Jared followed her glance. The only thing on the bed was a tasteful blue chenille bedspread. The nightstands were bereft of anything except lamps. Lia opened the drawers in each of them and then closed them with a snap. She stood in the center of the room, frowning. “Did you find it?” “The closet,” Lia said motioned toward the only part of the room she hadn’t searched. Jared felt her frustration. He often left items in the most unlikely of spots. Lia tugged on the closet door, but it didn’t budge. “Oh, come on, now,” she murmured. She yanked the door, and it opened with a groan. Inside, her suitcase was wedged between the door and the wall. It came loose with a sudden movement and one of the wheels tore a large chunk out of the wallpaper. “Oh,” Lia said, her voice sounded both alarmed and pleased. “What is it?” he asked. “Well, here’s the remote.” She picked it up and handed it to him. When she continued to stand there, he took a step forward to look over her shoulder. The hole in the wallpaper had exposed another pattern. On a black background, various sizes of Jolly Rogers--old-fashioned pirate flags--flaunted skulls and crossbones. “I had paper like this in my room as a child,” Lia said. “Believe it or not, I was quite the tomboy. Yo ho, yo ho, the pirate life for me,” she quoted. “Instead, I grew up to be a photojournalist.” Lia turned and pointed the remote at the television. Although he wanted to ask her more about her childhood, she didn’t give him the chance.

The sudden blare of voices made him jump. Luckily, local newscasters had jumped all over the story. A perky brunette with a surprisingly husky voice announced that the police sketch of the suspect had been completed. The reporter then recapped the investigation. A body had been found but not identified as yet. A witness had come forward, clearing the professor whose office had been the site of the gruesome attack. The witness had been working with a police sketch artist on a rendering of the suspect. The release of the sketch was imminent. Lia’s gaze shot over to where he still stood in the doorway. She stood and came over to him. Without hesitation, she pulled him into her arms. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. What happened?” She felt so good and comforting, but her earlier comment about his tire still haunted him. He let her pull him into the room. After she had shut the door behind them, he sank down into a chair. He recounted his experiences earlier and then finished with his own question. “Why don’t you tell me?” “Tell you?” Lia’s voice sounded casual, too casual. “You knew about my car tire.” Silence filled the room. This had all been a waste of time. Disappointment vied with anger. He’d just started to really get his life back together and she’d reappeared, only to start playing the same games. He’d had enough. He started to get up, to leave, to walk out of her life the way she had walked out of his. She reached out and caught his arm. “You’re right. I did know something would go wrong with your car’s tires. But I didn’t have anything to do with it.” “You’re not making sense. What are you trying to say?” Her eyes darted around the room as if searching for something, or trying to compose a lie. Then her face cleared and she leaned forward to meet his gaze. “In the past, I would have cared what you thought about what I’m about to say. Now I can’t afford to care. Someone has taken my sister, and I’m determined to get her back. It all started the summer I turned thirteen. I began seeing things, hearing things that led me to make conclusions about events that are about to happen.” “What? Oh, don’t tell me you think you’re psychic?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief and disdain out of his voice. “I…” Lia closed her mouth and met his gaze steadily. Then, as if she’d made a decision,

she continued. “Yes, I’m psychic.” She paused and gave a small laugh. “Honestly, that’s the first time I’ve ever admitted that to anyone out loud.” Looking at her as she had struggled to find the words to say, he got the feeling she had been honest with him. Or at least what she believed to be honest. That didn’t dispel the facts. Psychic abilities had no scientific basis. In fact, he’d read about a recent study using neuroimaging to study supposed psychic ability. It had found nothing, nada, zilch, proving psychics were frauds. She must have seen something in his expression. “I don’t see dead people, nor do they speak to me. In fact, I’m not sure where I get the impressions I do. I see patterns, they repeat over and over again until I can’t ignore them anymore, until I start looking for meanings in the patterns.” Oh, now this he could explain. “That’s not psychic. It’s normal. The human brain is wired to look for patterns, repeating numbers, words, images. It’s nothing special.” She gave a short laugh. “Normal? Oh, I could only wish. If that’s your contention, then how did I know something would happen to your car, specifically the tire?” That stymied him. “Okay, how?” “Well, when we were driving, I kept hearing the brakes squeal. At first, I thought perhaps they were about to go out. But you said they’d been checked not long ago.” “So?” Although that explained why she’d asked about his car maintenance, it still didn’t prove any precognition. “Go on.” “When you pulled up and parked, I got a clearer indication when I saw broken glass.” “Glass?” “When I stepped out of the car, I noticed a trail of shards leading past the tire to the wall surrounding the lot. I saw a pile of broken soda bottles topped by a rusty nail. That’s when I knew the danger involved your tire.” Jared snorted, unable to hold back his disbelief. “All this from a bit of broken glass? Come on.” “You had a flat tire on the way home.” A statement, not a question. “Yes, but…” He jumped at the most obvious conclusion. “I obviously drove over that broken glass, that’s what caused the blowout.” “No. A nail caused it,” Lia asserted.

“The tow truck driver didn’t say. I’d have to look at the tire in my trunk to find out.” “A nail.” She sounded absolutely sure of it. “Because of a tower of glass and a rusty nail? Come on, Lia. You sound like--” “Like what? Like a crazy witch. Isn’t that what you called Ms. Hampton, the paranormal studies instructor?” Her words were like a blow. Yes, that’s exactly what he had said about the instructor. “Yeah, but she wanted to deliver a message from my mother. My dead mother.” Lia shook her head and looked away. “What?” “Nothing.” Jared resisted the urge to sigh heavily in frustration. “No, not nothing, tell me.” Lia’s eye’s narrowed. “Okay, then tell me why you’ve come over here so convinced of Margaret’s guilt, especially when she’s dead.” His expression must have been one of absolute shock, for there had been no mention of Margaret, or what he’d found out about her. He looked down at the papers in his hand, thinking perhaps he’d written something telling on them. However, they were exactly what they appeared to be--completed crossword puzzles. “I--” “Yeah, exactly what I thought. You can’t explain it. I could walk you through all the signs I’ve seen pointing to that conclusion, but they are all just patterns. Normal insight, according to you.” She hadn’t swayed his opinion, but she had shaken it up a bit. “You’re right.” He put the papers on the small table by the window. “I went through and solved all the crosswords. They weren’t all written by the same person. I recognized one of them. After a bit of research, I realized they were ones that had been used in the crossword competition. I did a search to find out if there were any contestants in the area. I found one. Margaret.” Lia pushed the papers aside one by one, an odd expression on her face. “I seem to remember Sylvie giving Margaret puzzle books for Christmas the year I spent the holidays with them. The whole scenario makes some sick sort of sense. Margaret is either Sylvie’s conspirator in her disappearance, or she’s the kidnapper. Unfortunately, I don’t think

she’s either. I think she’s dead.” “Dead?” Lia nodded and looked over at the television screen. The buxom blond reporter stood poised with a microphone, her hand to one ear. In unison, they moved to sit on the edge of the bed to listen. “A statement from police is imminent in the case that has rocked this quiet campus. This evening, an unidentified woman was found murdered in the office of a popular instructor. Although Professor Trimble was suspected of the crime, an eyewitness cleared him. We have heard, however, that police found child pornography on the professor’s computer. Police investigators discovered the images were all loaded at the time of the murder and seem to be an effort to frame the professor.” A roar of crowd noise interrupted the woman and the camera turned off her to focus on a tall black man standing in front of a microphone. A placard under the man identified him as the Dean of Students. “Tonight, a woman was found brutally slain on a local campus. Despite rumors to the contrary, we believe this is an isolated incident. The woman was not, I repeat, was not affiliated with the university. However, alerts have been sent out to all the students informing them of the event and precautions they should be taking. Classes have been cancelled for tomorrow. Counselors will be available at the main student union all day tomorrow to provide counseling to students and instructors. Thank you.” He stepped back. A burly police officer took his spot. “It is our primary objective to find the perpetrator of this murder. In the process of the investigation, an eyewitness placed a man and the victim together around the time of the murder. The victim has been identified as Margaret Fletcher, aged thirty-nine. In a twist of fate, Margaret reported her partner, Sylvie Morgan, author of Safe and Sane Rules for Single Women missing early in the week. We are currently investigating whether these two cases are connected.” “Oh, poor Margaret.” Lia’s voice caught in a sob. “I hate being right.” Jared put his arm around her. To his relief, she didn’t resist as he drew her close. Shouted questions from the reporters were ignored. “An eyewitness has worked with a sketch artist to come up with this rendition.” The camera flashed to a full screen view of a man’s face.

Lia gasp and grabbed the remote. She froze the image on the screen. “What? Do you recognize him?” Jared asked. “I--” She scrambled off the bed and reached for a small black case on the floor by the bed. After pulling out her camera, she adjusted the settings and then aimed it at the screen. Her reaction puzzled him. A beard obscured the suspect’s features. “You still don’t think that’s me, do you?” “No, but there’s something familiar about it. I’d like to download it to my computer and do some photo manipulation and see what the face looks like under the beard.” He helped her set up her laptop computer and watched while she downloaded the photo from the camera to her hard drive. What would have taken him hours took her only minutes, and soon a clean-shaven perpetrator gazed out from the monitor. Lia shifted her head from one side to the other. “That’s still not quite right. The hair, it looks fake, too. Like a wig. I wonder,” she murmured to herself. With a few more keystrokes, she removed the hair. “Did that help?” he asked. “I’ve seen this man before,” Lia cocked her head from one side to the other. “But do you think it looks like a woman or a man?” Jared studied the shot. “It’s hard to tell when it’s bald. And there’s really not a lot of detail to go on now. The beard overshadowed the entire sketch.” “Could it be Sylvie?” “What?” “It’s just, well, something about the face looks like my sister. Or do you think I’m imagining it?” “The witness said the murderer was a man.” “The witness also said the murderer wore a trench coat. Sylvie’s six feet tall and if she wore loose-fitting men’s clothes, it’s possible she could pass for a man.” “Yes, but you said yourself, she’s black. The witness said--” “I know what the witness said,” Lia groaned. “But see for yourself.” She reached for her purse and dug out her wallet. Withdrawing a small picture from a plastic sleeve, she gazed at it sadly before handing it to him. He looked from the monitor to the photo. “I can see the resemblance, but is it possible

that you unconsciously altered the chin to look like your sister? You have to admit you were going on a hunch, removing all that hair. Besides, your sister is the one missing, she’s not a killer.” “Oh, but she is.” Lia’s voice shook. “After you left, I went over to her house. I…I found a manuscript.” She opened a drawer to reveal a stack of papers. “Sylvie had written about her years as an agency operative. It’s very enlightening.” Jared walked over and read the title. “This says it’s fiction.” “Poorly disguised fiction, I suspect. I recognized my sister and Margaret. According to the book, they were assassins. Oh, they worked for the United States, so I guess you could say they were good guys, but they were killers, nonetheless. Oh, Sylvie, what have you done?” Tears filled her eyes. “Now I’m even more convinced you’ve let your imagination fill in the blanks on that picture.” Jared shook his head. “Oh, I’ll admit it’s possible. But those cheekbones and nose look like hers, kind of. Don’t you think?” Jared had to agree to the resemblance. “I guess it does tie everything up into a neat package. Your sister disappears, and although Margaret reports it, there’s still a logical explanation for Sylvie taking off. She wanted to avoid the court appearance. Perhaps Margaret found her, confronted her and Sylvie killed her. Crimes of passion do happen, you know.” “Could be. However, that doesn’t explain why someone killed Margaret in your office. If you hadn’t had a flat tire, and if an eyewitness hadn’t been so sure the murdered wasn’t you, you’d have been arrested for murder.” The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine. “Almost sounds as if I’m a target as well.” “You must know something.” Jared shrugged. “Well, if I do, I don’t know what it is. I’ve never met your sister, and would never have gotten involved if Mark hadn’t called me.” “There’s something we’re missing. Were the serial killer and the crosswords just red herrings?” Lia asked. “Lord, it’s like a puzzle, but it all makes sense in a sick sort of way. Sylvie wanted to get rid of Margaret and start a new life. Perhaps she’s been so caught up in the fiction she lost touch with reality.”

She shook her head, a puzzled look on her pretty features. For a moment, Jared wished for a more complicated solution. As soon as the case was solved, Lia would head back to New York, to her own life. He put his hand over the picture in front of her. “Hey!” She looked up at him, her expression exasperated. “I know you’re frustrated, but it’s getting late and I’ve always found that things are much clearer after a good night’s sleep. How about we get up early, go through this all one more time, then turn it everything over to the police?” She stood, stretching her back like a sensual cat. Intoxicated by her scent, he stepped closer and put his hands on her shoulders. As he massaged the tight muscles, she moaned. “That feels so good.” “I know what else would feel good. You, in my arms.” **** Lia had to agree that it would. But should they? She didn’t have any regrets. Making love to him had been like reliving the relationship they’d had years ago. But what about now? She studied him with new eyes. He looked much the same as he had then--the changes had been subtle. A few more laugh lines around his eyes. What had struck her the most had been his attitude when she’d admitted her psychic abilities. Oh, he’d been sarcastic. However, when she’d confronted him with the evidence about Margaret, he’d been able to let the subject drop. He certainly still thought it was a bunch of hogwash, but he hadn’t argued the issue the way he would have seven years ago. Back then, there had been venom in his voice when he’d spoken about Ms. Hampton’s offer to put him in touch with his mother. Had age softened him? Or had his life experiences changed his perspective? Had there been a wife? Children? He’d made no mention of them, but then, neither had she. It had been as if they’d stepped out of the past into the present with no experience in between. On her part, she’d learned a lot in the intervening years about tolerance and acceptance. If they were to continue this relationship, there were things they’d have to discuss and learn about each other. Then, she did a mental smack. What was she thinking? Begin something? Like a relationship? She lived in New York, he lived here on the opposite coast. In her experience, long-distance relationships were doomed--she’d had enough of them to speak from experience.

But… None of them had been with Jared. Eleven o’clock. Exhausted, her mind refused to rest. Into the quiet of the room, a foreign sound insinuated itself. The boom of a bass beat from the bar next door. “Would you like to get a drink? Catch up on…things?” she asked. For a moment, she thought she saw disappointment flash through his eyes. Perhaps he only wanted another roll in the hay before she headed back to New York. His smile wiped away all her doubts. “Sure. I’ve often wondered about you over the years. What have you been up to?” Lia laughed and took the arm he offered. While they made their way down to the lobby, she told him about her work as a freelance photojournalist. “I notice you don’t wear a ring. You’re not married?” Lia asked around the lump of emotion in her throat. As hard as it had been to ask the question, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. She’d never been married, never even come close. In fact, the years had flown by in a flurry of travel to exotic places and occasional lovers in foreign lands. What if he just didn’t wear a ring? Oh, why hadn’t she thought to ask before she jumped into bed with him? “No, I’ve never been married. In fact, despite being the most popular bachelor on campus, I can’t even keep a girlfriend.” His wry expression and self-deprecating laugh led her to believe he told the truth. Relief washed over her. “But you’ve been busy, teaching, competing in that crossword puzzle competition, anything else?” She pushed open the swinging door to the street. Cool air washed over her and she shivered. Darn, why hadn’t she thought to put on a coat, or at least, a sweater? Only a few more steps. She could already feel the boom of the bass vibrating through her cells. Perhaps this hadn’t been the best place to select to talk. “Well, other than the fact that I’ve set the entire campus on edge with the changes I’ve made to my curriculum. I keep expecting to have my tenure revoked.” “Really?” “Well, it might not be that bad, but I know the dean had a conniption fit when I starting discussing serial killers in my anthropology class.” “Do you think that’s why Mark called you?”

“You know, now that I think about it, I’m not sure why he called me. I only started competing six years ago, and even then, I’ve only won half those competitions. Margaret won the other three. The finalists all stand at the front of the room to solve the puzzles, but I never knew her name.” “Really? What an odd coincidence.” “I’m beginning to not believe in coincidences, and it’s obvious that you don’t either, do you?” Jared asked. Lia felt her face heat. “No, I don’t.” Jared reached to pull open the door to the bar. They both paused to study the sketch of the kidnapping suspect taped to the glass. That had been quick. Lia shivered. Speaking of signs, since she’d finally skimmed through Sylvie’s manuscript, all of the signs indicating the number eight had gone away. Why? Had Sylvie killed Margaret while wearing a disguise? She and her sister had never been close, but she thought back to her memories of the young woman who had helped her with her homework, babysat for her and let her sleep in her bed after a nightmare. The thought of Sylvie on the run from a murder charge made her feel ill. Then angry. Then…sure, surer than the facts allowed, that her sister wasn’t the killer and that she was still in danger. The song the band played supported her assertion. “Burning down the house,” the lead singer belted out while behind him pictures of flames burned down a variety of houses. Jared led the way to the bar. Thankfully, with that song, the band finished the set and the volume in the room lowered to a low hum of conversation. “What’ll you have?” Lia perched on a barstool and swiveled to look at the room. The room was full of locals, young and old. Groups of college-aged students gathered at tables in front of the stage, fans of the band, no doubt. A few couples were scattered along one wall and at a table in the back, two old men played chess. Memories of her childhood flooded her. Back then, this had been a small diner. Rosie’s, or perhaps Dina’s? They’d eaten here quite often. In fact, she could almost remember the same men, younger then, playing chess at a back booth. What would it be like to come back here? Live here? If Sylvie really had disappeared, the pink house would have to be dealt with. Seven years ago, there had been no question of selling

the house, nor of living in it. What about now? “You look lost in thought,” Jared remarked. “I grew up right around the corner from here in the big pink Victorian house on the corner. My mother ran an antique shop out of the front parlor. When my parents died, Sylvie and I inherited the monstrosity. I haven’t been back there since.” “Why not?” “I blamed myself for their deaths. I saw all the signs. For a long time, I thought I should have picked up the phone, told them my fears.” “But?” Lia fought back a wash of tears and shook her head. “My mother used to say that she had a touch of the gypsy and had passed it down to us. We all loved to travel. Daddy grounded us. It took a lot of convincing to get him to celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary abroad. Now, I know they would have gone, anyway.” She struggled to hold back a sob. “I’ve often wondered why, why I’ve been given this gift when I can’t influence the outcome.” “That’s part of the paradox.” Jared lifted his empty glass of beer to signify to the bartender for a refill. “The paradox?” “In order for a clairvoyant to see the future, the future has to have happened. If you somehow change it and the event no longer happens, then it wouldn’t have been seen.” It made sense, but it didn’t stop her heart from hurting. Her parents were long gone, she no longer felt their loss like a fresh wound. But her sister and the nephew she’d never met? She wouldn’t lose them without a fight. The band took the stage again. This time, their sound had softened and they played a set of slow songs from the eighties. Songs Lia remembered from her childhood. These Dreams, originally sung by Heart. Tears in Heaven, which Eric Clapton wrote, never realizing it would affect him so profoundly after the death of his young son in a tragic accident. When the band broke into the strains of Our House, by Crosby, Stills, and Nash, Jared held out his hand. He led her out onto the dance floor. She looked at the other swaying couples. With a little imagination, she could almost picture her mom and dad doing their slow foxtrot along the edge of the dance floor. She smiled and blinked. In that moment, she saw a tall black woman lurking near the door. Sylvie?

Lia started and broke free of Jared’s embrace to follow the woman. Unfortunately, the crowded dance floor proved to be more of an obstacle course, and by the time she reached the door and burst out into the darkened street… Empty. Had the woman gone into the hotel? Lia glanced in that direction, but her instincts pulled her the other way. She quick-walked down the sidewalk. At the corner, she paused to look all around. No one. She listened. A rattle to her right startled her, as a bunch of dead leaves skittered down the street. “What?” Jared arrived beside her, breathless. “I thought I saw Sylvie. But, now I’m not so sure. I was lost in memory back there. It might have been my imagination, or perhaps wishful thinking.” “Come on, there’s no one out here now. Let’s go back. It’s cold.” “I expect you’d like to warm me up?” Lia teased. “Well, I must admit I had thought about it.” She laughed. They turned and made their way back toward the hotel. As they passed the bar, the strains of A Groovy Kind of Love wafted out. Once back in the hotel room, their joining lacked the urgency it had once had. Slowly, he undressed her. Her insides shook. His touch was tender, and a hot, deep wonder gleamed in his eyes. His lips covered hers, a soft caress at first, then a burst of hunger and his tongue delved deep into her mouth. Amazingly intimate. She would not have complained if the kiss had lasted an eternity. But then the heat of his hands traveled from her shoulders to her breasts. She felt the swish of fabric against her skin. With shaking fingers, she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Skin against skin, flesh against flesh, heat against heat. His heart beat with hers, his breath hitched as she slid her hand down his chest. They fell upon the bed in a tangle of arms and legs, locked in a passionate kiss. Every inch of her felt alive as he caressed her breasts, her ribs, her inner thighs. He entered her with infinite slowness until she thought she would scream aloud with her need for him. However, once he had filled her, she found she needed to lay still and reflect upon what had just happened. Amazement enveloped her. This joining had been different from all of the ones before. With a shock, she realized what they had wasn’t just sex anymore. It was love.

Chapter 9 A door slammed. Sylvie took a deep breath and slid her fingers desperately along the edge of the baseboard. Her last chance. She’d woken up an hour or so ago with a sense of panic. No reason, no explanation, but she knew if she didn’t find a way out of this room and fast, she would die. First, she had used a torn strip of wallpaper to block off the camera’s lens. When no one came to repair it, she had scrambled to the closet and knocked on the walls. The back sounded hollow. Ignoring the niggle of doubt, she continued to probe and prod, looking for a loose panel or hidden catch. Deion had joined her in the closet. Whether he sensed the impending danger, or the lure of the Jimmy Neutron video had gotten old, she didn’t care. It felt good to have his warmth against her thigh. Her knees ached and she shifted, then froze as she felt rather than heard heavy footsteps approaching. “No,” she moaned. Tears flooded her eyes and she blinked them back angrily. She simply would not lose hope. Would she beg? Hell, yes, she didn’t care how much the perpetrator got off on it…for Deion, she would beg. A small child’s voice, sounding surprisingly like Lia’s, seemed to whisper in her ear. “It lifts like a window.” Had the sound been real, or a memory? She glanced at Deion. He looked up at her, his eyes large and scared and his breathing labored. “Did you say something, honey?” she whispered. He shook his head. The floor shook as the bastard ran up the stairs, probably taking them two at a time. Sliding her hands along the baseboard, she pushed up. The wall moved. Oh my God. Giving it one last push, she slipped her arm around her son and dove into the hole in the wall. As she pulled the panel back down, she tried not to think about what might be hiding with her. She shivered. But before she could think about creepie crawlies, she had to find a way to secure the panel. If she could figure out how it opened, so could the kidnapper. Shuddering, she ran her hands along where she thought the panel ended. Her fingers touched something hard and she bit back a shriek. Relief washed over her when she realized it was a sliding latch. She began to push

it into place and froze when it made a metallic scraping sound. A loud crash startled them both. The noise provided enough of a distraction to cover the squeal of the bolt as she pushed it into place. That would hold the wall for a bit, but it wouldn’t be any defense if their captor took an ax to the wood. Pushing thoughts of spiders out of her mind, she felt first to the right, then to the left. Nothing. Were they in a narrow corridor running parallel to the hallway? She stood up and helped Deion to his feet. As quietly as she could, she took one step, then two to her right. It would be wise to put as much distance as she could between them and the panel, just in case… “Sylvie,” a man yelled. “I know you are in there. You can’t run, and you can’t hide.” Bet me! The loud pounding made Deion whimper, but Sylvie shushed him and continued to hustle him away. A wham startled both of them. It sounded as if the man had body slammed the wall. Probably thought the barrier nothing but drywall…well, he’d be sore after that impact. She took one more step and walked into something solid. A wall. Damn it. Sinking to her knees, she tried to lift the panel. It didn’t move. Now what? She stared into the pitch darkness, fearing to breathe. Deathly silence seemed to press against her eardrums. No way her captor had knocked himself out when he’d hit the wall. More likely he’d gone to get an ax or a crowbar. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she felt Deion trembling against her. “Mommy,” he said quietly. “Shh…” She sank down next to him and gathered him close. He pressed his face against her and she felt his warm, wet tears. “Me scared.” “Me, too, baby. But we’re going to get out of here.” “Promise?” Promise? She’d never lied to Deion, even about Santa Claus. Lying went against the moral code she lived by since she’d left The Agency, where it seemed as if every facet of her life had been a lie. She couldn’t bring that horror back into her life, into Deion’s life. Of course, she’d glossed over the truth about the big man in red, explaining that Santa Clause embodied

generosity and giving. She’d then stressed the importance of giving and not receiving. However, she’d seen the way his eyes lit up at the sight of a decorated tree and how anxious he’d been to get his gift list to the North Pole. Despite her assurances that Santa wasn’t real, Deion still believed. She pulled him closer and nuzzled his soft cheeks. “Promise.” Perhaps by stating their escape as a fact, she, too, would believe it. **** An insistent buzzing interrupted the best dream of his life--one where he held Lia in his arms while he made sweet love to her. The sound ceased, but try as he might, Jared couldn’t recapture the dream. When the loud hum started up again, he opened his eyes. At first, he didn’t know where he was. The vibrant prints on the walls certainly weren’t the ones hanging in his grungy apartment. Then the memory of last night came rushing back. He slid his hand to the other side of the bed. The sheets were cold. Lia! He sat up, his heart pounding. It hadn’t been a dream after all. Lia? The sound of running water slowed his heart rate. The shower. His cellphone danced across the nightstand, buzzing like an angry hornet. Three calls in the space of as many minutes. It couldn’t be good news. He flipped it open and cleared his throat. “Professor Trimble?” a voice snarled in his ear before he even had a chance to greet the caller. “Speaking.” “This is Martin Spencer, head of the governing board of the university. We have convened an emergency meeting this morning and your attendance is mandatory.” “Can I ask what this is about?” As if he didn’t know. A murder had been committed and pornography found on his computer. Could the meeting be about anything else? “You’re expected in the dean’s office at nine-thirty, sharp.” A click signified the end of the call. Jared flipped the phone shut and then stared at the time read out. Almost nine. Lia came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her hair, and wearing nothing else.

“Good morning,” she said and raised one eyebrow in a silent question. His body answered affirmatively; however, he also realized the importance of keeping his job and his reputation. “I got a call from one of the bigwigs at the college. I have to go into work this morning for an emergency meeting of the governing board.” “Oh no, does that mean they’re going to fire you?” Jared shrugged. “I sure hope not. I just got tenure last year.” He pulled on his pants and shook out his shirt. A bit wrinkled, but it would have to do. “Do you want me to go with you?” Lia turned and began pulling clothes out of her suitcase. Jared watched while she pulled on a sheer pair of red lace panties and a matching bra. “Do you?” Lia repeated. “Do you what?” he replied stupidly. His mouth had gone dry and every blood cell in his body had rushed south. “Want me to go with you?” She gave him a sultry smile. “Nice to know that even after last night I can strike you speechless.” Jared sighed. With fumbling fingers, he buttoned up his shirt. “I have to be there, like, now. It’d be better if I went alone. Having you along might complicate matters, especially since your sister’s partner was murdered in my office.” “True.” Lia pulled on a pair of dark slacks and topped the outfit off with a bright red silk blouse. “Why don’t you go on to the police station this morning and discuss the sketch? I’ll call you when my meeting is over.” “Sounds like a plan,” she replied. With a seductive wiggle, she slinked over and pressed up against him to give him a soft kiss. He groaned, and for a moment flirted with the idea of throwing it all away, tenure, his reputation, everything. As if she’d read his mind, she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him backward toward the door. “Go. I know this is important.” Jared reached behind him and twisted the knob. He stepped back into her as he pulled the

door open. Her soapy scent enveloped him and he had a sudden vision of them in the shower…together. She pushed harder and he stepped back, one step, then two. Lia, too, took a step backward and before he could react, she shut the door in his face. With a sigh, he turned and walked away. The snick of the door had him turning back. She peered out at him and gave him a small wave. “Hurry back,” she said with a smile. Oh, he would…he definitely would. **** Lia leaned against the door. Although she couldn’t see her own reflection, she knew she wore a very Cheshire-type of smile. Like a cat who ate the canary, or the woman who ate… Without finishing the thought, she straightened up the room. Wasn’t it ironic, at home, she’d leave her clothes and belongings strewn about, but while traveling, she’d clean up for a maid. Go figure. She folded her dirty clothes. As she lifted the pants, a blue object fell to the floor. The thumb drive she’d found at Sylvie’s house. She placed it on the desk next to her computer before finishing by tucking the folded outfit into a laundry bag that she then placed into her suitcase. Okay, now she was ready to face the police. First things first, the crossword puzzles. Did they really mean anything? Mark had already taken them to the police and they’d dismissed them out of hand. She stacked them, then paused. Where before they had all been folded to expose only the crossword puzzle, they were now haphazardly doubled and then quartered. She unfolded one, and using the creases in the paper, tried to recreate the neater packages. It took several minutes, but she finally had one done. She sat it next to the others and studied them. Back in New York, she’d found a whole bin of papers folded to expose the crossword puzzles. Whether it had been real or imagined didn’t matter, they represented something. But what? She thought back to the serendipitous meeting at the small cafe. The newspapers had been in front of Jared, so she’d assumed he’d folded them. However, he’d done a haphazard job of the papers after completing the puzzles. He hadn’t been the one to crease the pages so neatly.

That left Mark. Did Mark have information that she needed? Too bad if he did, he’d be back in Texas by now. She glanced at the clock. He’d said his plane left this morning. If she had his number, she could leave a message for him. Have him call her when he got in. She booted up her computer. Luckily, the world was at one’s fingertips these days. When it had finally finished its internal diagnostics, she launched a search engine, typed in Mark’s name and scored thousands of hits. She narrowed down the search. Mark Powers, Texas, The Agency. This time, she scored with the first result. A biography for Mark Powers. After double-clicking the link, she scanned the page. Damn. No address listed, but she paused as she read, after the death of his wife. Wait a minute. Hadn’t he talked about getting back to her that day in the cafe? She shrugged off the odd feeling and kept reading. Perhaps he had remarried. Further reading didn’t disclose any discussion of a remarriage. Now what? She typed in his name, looking for a phone listing. There were over a hundred Mark Powers in Texas. Scanning the article again, she found mention of Houston. Perhaps he lived there. That narrowed the search substantially, but there were still over twenty Mark Powers listed in Houston. Unfortunately, those were only the listed numbers. Hadn’t he made mention of an unlisted fax number? She didn’t have all day to chase down might haves and have nots. A sense of urgency seemed to lodge deep in her spine and she tapped her fingers impatiently on the desk. Time to call in a couple of favors. Flipping open her cellphone, she scrolled through the listings, and dialed the number of a friend who worked for the IRS. Handy to have, if she did say so herself. If Mark Powers filed income taxes, Crystal would be able to find him. Crystal didn’t answer her phone, so Lia left a voice mail. Then she turned her attention to the picture she’d altered on her computer. Should she turn it over to the police? She pulled it up and looked at it again. Although it resembled Sylvie, the eyes weren’t right. However, much as she had disliked dealing with the police, she owed it to Margaret to turn over every bit of information she had in order to catch her killer. She started to retrieve her own thumb drive from her laptop case, but spotted the blue one

already out. She should probably turn it and the computer over to the police, too, so they’d have all the information in one place. A window displaying the drive contents launched automatically. Lia glanced at the file names and then paused. Boy love? Not quite believing her eyes, she double-clicked on one of the pictures. Oh, God. She quickly closed out of the photo, sure the horrible scene had been permanently burned onto her retina. What in the world had Sylvie been into? Still shuddering, she perused the file names again, looking for some identifying information. Then, she saw a folder at the bottom of the listing. Trimble’s thumbs. Trimble? As in Jared. The police had found pornography on Jared’s office computer. She wracked her memory, trying to recall what the police officer had said. He’d insinuated that the photos had been planted on Jared’s computer by the murderer. But had they? She pulled the drive out of the USB port. The university had called Jared in this morning. To discuss the pornography? She stared down at the blue rectangle in her palm. Was this Jared’s thumb drive? And if so, why was it at Sylvie’s house? Her mind went back to the previous evening. She’d been surprised to find the door to Sylvie’s home open. Jared had claimed to be on the road, heading for the university. The police obviously believed his alibi. But what if he hadn’t really had a flat tire? What if he’d been at Sylvie’s house, going through her things? Perhaps looking for the drive he’d dropped there. It felt as if a hand squeezed her heart. Jared? Could Jared have set all this up? If so, why? Her cellphone rang and she picked it up. “Hey, lady. It’s been a while. How have you been?” Crystal’s low, sultry voice greeted her. Lia smiled. She often thought her friend should work for a phone sex company, not the most feared government agency in the nation. “Doing well. How about you? Gearing up for tax season?” Crystal laughed. “Honey, it’s always tax season here at the IRS. What can I help you with?” “My sister used to work with a guy named Mark Powers at The Agency. I met him for

lunch recently. Unfortunately, he left his hat behind. I’d like to get hold of him and return it.” “Hmm, sounds like a lot of trouble for a hat,” Crystal teased. Lia grimaced. “Yeah, just a hat.” She crossed her fingers, hoping Crystal wouldn’t see through her deceit “Well, what do you know about him?” “Mark Powers, lives in Texas, retired from the government.” “Spouse’s name?” “Rose,” Lia replied, remembering the name mentioned in the internet article. The sound of rapid-fire typing filled the silence. “Is your Mark Powers sixty-seven years old?” She nodded, although Crystal couldn’t see it. “Yes, about that.” “He filed his taxes from Texas two years ago. However, last year, after the death of his wife, looks like he moved. He filed his most recent return in California.” “California?” Lia thought back. Had Mark mentioned returning to Texas, or only going home? And why hadn’t he mentioned that his wife had died? “I only have a post office box for him.” “I’ll take it, anyway.” Lia wrote down the box number. However, when Crystal said the name of the city, she asked for it to be repeated. “Camel Cove,” Crystal reiterated. Here? “I do have his phone number listed as well. Would you like that?” “Sure.” Lia wrote it down, her mind still reeling from the previous piece of information. Mark lived in Camel Cove? “Great hearing from you, but I’ve got to get back to work.” “Thanks, Crystal.” “No problem. Hey, don’t be such a stranger, okay?” Lia hung up after promising to call soon. For several long moments, she sat and stared at the pad of paper in front of her. She picked up the phone and dialed. As she pressed each number, she recognized the tone

associated with the numbers. The tune she’d heard over and over on her phone in New York. She dialed the last number and then paused. Before the first ring, she hung up. She had been going to ask about the newspapers, thinking there might have been an additional clue in them. However, learning that Mark lived here and had lied about it, the meaning of those papers took on a sinister aspect. Still not quite believing the evidence staring her in the face, she turned back to her computer. Using a reverse lookup directory, she typed in Mark’s phone number. It seemed to take forever for the page to load. But when it finally did, she stared at the address, unwilling to believe her eyes. Her house. Music erupted from her cellphone. She jumped and then stared at it. Her phone didn’t have that ring tone, but she did recognize the tune. The band had played it when they’d entered the bar last night. Could Jared be calling so soon? She picked it up and glanced at the caller ID display. Unknown, but she recognized the number. Mark. Shit. Now what? Should she answer it? A shudder ran through her. Could she disguise her suspicions? No. Better to let it ring. She let the call go to voicemail while she picked up a pen. On the small pad of paper provided by the hotel, she began to sketch out a rough timeline of the crimes. Where to start? A breeze ruffled her hair and caused the papers of Sylvie’s manuscript to flutter. A fictionalized account of the assassination attempt that had ended Sylvie’s career. Had that been the beginning of all this? She picked up the manuscript and began reading. It didn’t take her long to find the answer she sought. Could the answer really be this simple? She grabbed her purse and her cellphone. Only one way to find out.

Chapter 10 No need to panic. Mark forced his finger not to tremble as he rewound the surveillance tapes. It would be so easy to beat himself up about things he should have done, but he refused to let his mind drift in that direction. Focus. He scanned each of the video displays he’d set up in the kitchen of the house-cumphotography studio and looked for anything out of the ordinary. Four of the cameras showed the outside of the building. People walked down the sidewalk out front, but no sign of movement in any of the other views. A darkening of one of the screens caught his attention. There, Sylvie had covered the lens of the camera. He made a note of the time stamp. Four o’clock this morning. He started to berate himself for falling asleep, but stopped. The goal. Think about the goal. Now that he knew what time she’d covered the lens, he could determine whether she’d been able to escape the house. If she had, he needed to disappear--fast. Not a problem. He had several identities he could easily pull on in pinch. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to be Rolf White or Jeremy Kindle. He wanted to be himself. Mark Powers. He wanted to salvage his reputation and show the world he hadn’t screwed up. It had been Sylvie and her team who had botched the operation. Then, and only then, would he have his revenge. Suddenly, he realized he’d been lost in the past. With a huff of irritation, he rewound the tapes and watched again. More closely this time. Nothing. No indication that Sylvie and her bastard had escaped. A slight creak from somewhere deep in the recesses of the house caught his attention. He felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips as he pictured his captives. They were still trapped like rats in the wall of a rotting tenement. Sylvie would die. No way could he simply walk away from this. Not an option. Three years ago, he’d been forced to walk away from everything. Well, not this time. The house was huge, four thousand square feet if it was an inch. He could search for days and still never find them. They had to die. He couldn’t bear the thought of Sylvie breathing the

same air as he did for any longer than necessary. Could he suffocate them? Perhaps gas them to death? However, that would require the purchase of chemicals that could possibly be traced. He needed something simpler, something already onsite. Too bad photography had gone digital. In the old days, he would have had bottles of highly flammable chemicals to play with. One of the video sweeps revealed a small storage shed on the side of the house. He’d never explored it. Casting one last look at the video displays, he punched the button that released the alarm to the back door. A calculated risk, but one he felt justified to take. He grabbed the set of keys provided to him when Margaret had rented the house. Hopefully the shed key hung on the ring. As he pulled the back door shut behind him, a chill wind whipped around the building and whistled mournfully in the eaves. Shivering, he wished he’d been able to put this off until summer. Summer didn’t guarantee warm weather in this state. Mark Twain had said it best. The coldest winter he’d ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. Well, he’d be back to the sunny warmth of Texas soon enough. Perhaps even tonight. Smiling a bit as he thought about going home, he scurried over to the shed. After glancing at the padlock, he sorted through the keys on the ring. There were a couple of potential fits. His fingers trembled a bit, whether from nerves or the cold, as he tried first one, then another. As the second key slipped into the lock, a rustling noise caught his attention. He stood and turned around. Although he didn’t see anything, the hair on the back of his neck tingled and a shiver ran down his back. A sudden gust of wind picked up a handful of leaves and sent them scurrying across the yard. It sounded like the same sort of rustle. Had the wind been blowing, or had someone gone through the door, left it open? Torn between opening the shed to look for a spare gallon of gasoline, or walking back through the yard, he opted to get the job done first. The lock sprang open at the turn of the key, and he shoved on the door. It fought him every inch, but he finally managed to wrest it open far enough to sidle inside. In the dim light, he picked out the details of chairs, tables and a large bed frame. It seemed as if lady luck wasn’t with him today. However, mixed in with the dust of decades, the greasy smell of gasoline pervaded. He shoved the door further. A loud bang startled him and he jumped. Nothing appeared to have

fallen, and it almost sounded as if the bang had come from behind him. He stepped out of the shed and looked back toward the house. As he watched, the back door swung open and then shut with a bang. He stared at it with narrowed eyes. The humid weather had warped all the doors and windows of the house, and obviously, that of the shed as well. But he’d been certain he’d pulled the door to the house securely shut. Or had he? He looked around again. Dark gray clouds scudded across the sky, bringing with them the scent of rain. Better get a move on, old man. A torrential downpour would certainly put a damper on the destruction of the house. With one last look over his shoulder, he went back inside the shed. Behind the door lurked a rusted lawn mower. He foraged around the base of it, following his nose. A hollow pop and the sound of sloshing liquid rewarded him. He closed his hand around the handle of the old gas can and then gasped. Pain like an electric shock shot up his arm, and he dropped the can and cursed. A glance at his palm revealed a small red mark, but no blood. Flexing his hand several times, the pain seemed to subside. With his feet, he pushed the can to the door and then gave it one last shove outside. A quick inspection showed no sharp edges that would account for the injury. Had he been bitten by something? He poked his head back into the shed and gazed around. Nothing. Above his head, he saw a large mass of webbing with several large spiders hanging from the strands. Black widows. He flexed his hand again. The pain had subsided to a low throb. The door to the house banged shut again, bringing his focus back to the job. He reached down and grabbed the gallon of gasoline. That should be enough to set the fire. All the furnishings and the dry wood would complete the job. All he needed to do was disconnect the fire alarms and let nature take its course. Just thinking about it made him smile. **** No cars, no pedestrians, no students hurrying to class. Jared shook off the feeling of being in a really bad horror film and pulled into the empty parking lot. On most days, he had to park at the far end of the lot. Today, he had his pick of close spaces. He endeavored not to look up at his office window as he locked the car. Thinking about the murder made him feel ill, and from what he knew about violent crimes, it would probably still be a gory mess. The police didn’t clean up crime scenes. With a shudder, he turned his back

on the building and headed toward the center of campus where the administrative offices were located. Classes had been canceled for the day, but there were still a few die-hard students walking around. Most seemed to be headed for the Student Union, where counselors awaited to help deal with the trauma they might have experienced. Heck, after he’d been reamed by the dean and the governing council, he might just need counseling himself. He wondered how Lia had fared at the police station. Hopefully they would take her clues more seriously now that Margaret was dead. A chill gust of wind brought a sense of fear along with it. Lia. He flirted with the idea of calling her and telling her to stay at the police station until he got there. He glanced at his watch. Late. Again. He jerked on the door to the administration building, but it didn’t open. Locked? Not quite believing it, he pulled on it again. The door didn’t budge. You’ve got to be kidding me? He stepped back and looked to the left and then the right. Another set of entry doors sat on the far side of the building. Since they were closer to the parking lot, that’s probably where he needed to enter. Pulling his coat a little tighter, he set off into the wind, more jogging than walking. The building did nothing to block the gusts. One tug on the handle confirmed his worst suspicions. This door, too, was locked. What the fuck? Three miserable minutes late. Had they locked him out of his own meeting? Panic momentarily possessed him, and he pounded on the door, resisting the urge to shout to be let in. Just as he gave up hope, a shadow darkened the frosted window. Thank God! Jared impatiently stamped his feet as the door opened. The large shadow had been cast by a huge man. Standing at least seven feet tall, the guy could have played basketball, except it looked as if he’d swallowed the game ball. His gut hung over an ill-fitting rent-a-cop uniform. Despite his size, he didn’t look mean. He shot a bland smile at Jared. “Yeah?” Jared opened his mouth to introduce himself when the man, with a loud roar, lifted his arms and seemed to fly through the air. Taken by surprise, Jared scrambled back a second too late. The security guard’s bulk hit him like a truck and he fell backward. Pain bloomed from the back of his skull and a wave of heat and nausea overcame him. Just before the world went dark,

he felt liquid sprinkling his face as if it were raining. **** They’d been creeping through the dark crawlspace for what seemed like hours, but had probably only been half of one. “Me scared, Mommy,” Deion whispered. His breathing sounded labored, and Sylvie slowed down against her better judgment. Push, pull, move a foot, push, pull. It was getting monotonous and the thought of being trapped in this small dark area frightened her more than she wanted to admit. So far, she had crept all the way down one side of the tiny tunnel, looking for a way out. All to no avail. Nerves made her hands sweat, and several times she’d encountered sticky, silky spider webs and had to stifle a shriek and quell her fears. Push. Wait. Did that board give a little? She pushed again. Yes! It moved. She scrabbled along the baseboard, hoping to find the sill-like indent that had indicated an opening in the closet panel. Her fingers encountered something sharp and she pulled back, her breath hissing loud between her teeth. Cautiously, she explored it and felt a wash of relief when she discovered it to be a metal latch of some sort. She tried to pull it out, but it wouldn’t budge. She pushed on it. It disappeared. For one long second, hope bloomed in her chest and then faded. Nothing happened. Tears flooded her eyes and she leaned her head against the wood, glad that Deion couldn’t see her cry. The wood gave under the pressure. She pushed on it, lower this time, and with a screech, the board swung out like a cat flap. Light flooded in and then disappeared as the board closed again. “Aw,” Deion sighed. When Sylvie pushed again, he pushed with her. This time, they were able to swing the flap open far enough for Deion to stick his head through. “Stairs,” he whispered. Sylvie knelt and peered over his shoulder. To the right, a set of stairs not more than a foot in width led up. Damn it. She didn’t want to go up. Up had to lead to the attic. They needed to go down, to escape. Unfortunately, fate didn’t hand them a choice. “Crawl on through baby. I’ll be right behind you,” Sylvie whispered. Deion nodded and slipped through the opening. Jesus. It didn’t look big enough for a grown person to fit. Should she step through, or go head first as her son had done? And what

would happen if she got stuck? Only one way to find out. She pushed the board with her shoulder and began the arduous task of fitting her six-foot frame through the tiny opening. For one long moment her hips wedged tight and she silently cursed the process of childbirth that had widened them. But after wiggling and shimmying, she finally slipped through. But oh, the noise she had made. Once through, she froze and listened. The building creaked. From the wind, or footsteps of the kidnapper tracking their progress? Scraped and sore, she sat with her eyes closed for a long minute. After being in the dark for so long, the light had been almost blinding. When she finally opened them, she took stock of their situation. They were still somewhere inside the walls of the house, so where was the light coming from? A window? “Let’s go, baby.” Sylvie nodded at Deion. He turned and scampered up the stairs, making far too much noise. “Stop stomping!” she hissed, anger overcoming her caution. Deion turned, and his eyes filled with tears and he opened his mouth as if to bawl. She slapped her hand over his mouth much harder than she’d intended. He swallowed and hiccupped. Immediately, she berated herself. He was only two, almost three, and had been cooped up far longer and behaved far better than she’d ever imagined. “We have to be quiet,” she finally whispered, cuddling him close. “I don’t want the bad man to find us, okay?” He nodded. After Sylvie’s heart had stopped pounding overtime, she decided to move. “Let Mommy go first,” she said. Easier said than done. The stairs were tiny, the treads only three or four inches deep and the entire staircase couldn’t have been more than a foot wide. She had to stand sideways and creep. The stairs moaned under her weight. With each noise, she felt her hope of escape fading. That bastard would hear them. It had been worth it, though she could now see the source of the light and knew where they were. An air vent at the top of the stairs allowed in slats of bright yellow. She remembered asking her father years ago about those mysterious vents on the side of the house. He’d explained that architects often left room between the walls and the floors to allow for ventilation, especially when the house had been built before the advent of central heating and air conditioning. Thinking about that conversation, she wondered if her father had had any clue as to what

had been hidden in the walls of this old house. She took another step, and the light failed. A long dark shadow fell across the grate and her heart stood still. He’d found them!

Chapter 11 Lia looked down the narrow stairs. Sylvie’s eyes were wide with horror and she could tell her sister had poised to flee. “Oh my God, Lia!” Sylvie exclaimed. “Shh,” Lia hissed desperately. She’d last seen Mark outside, but no telling where he was now. Worse, she knew exactly how he planned on getting rid of Sylvie and her son. “You sound like a pack of elephants. Come up here, quietly.” Sylvie and the little boy crept up the stairs, but Lia cringed with every step they took. There was no way Mark could not hear them. “Hello, ladies!” someone with a hearty male voice echoed. “Lia, my darling, so good of you to join us. At least, I’m assuming it’s Lia.” Sylvie froze, but Lia shook her head and motioned them on. “Hurry!” She spoke in a low voice, not a whisper, knowing that it would carry less. “He won’t be able to get into the crawl space here, but we have to get out of the house.” “Because it certainly isn’t Jared.” Lia cocked her head, listening. She still had high hopes that perhaps, just perhaps, Jared would put it all together and call the police. They certainly needed the cavalry about now. “No, I can definitely say our new arrival isn’t Jared. Because Jared is dead, dead, dead. Oh, boo-hoo.” Inside, Lia screamed in denial. He couldn’t be dead. Still, part of her accepted that he could be. Mark was a murdering scumbag along with being a liar and a cheat. If telling her Jared had died would ruin their chance of escape, he’d play that card. She couldn’t believe anything Mark said. Nothing. “Seems that a bomb went off on campus and blew poor ol’ Jared to smithereens.” A sob caught in Lia’s throat. She would not thing about that. She had to get them all out of the house before… The scent of smoke tickled her nose. “Fire?” Sylvie gasped. Lia, tomboy and adventurer extraordinaire, had faced many perils on her photo journeys.

Gunfire, insects, even a river full of piranha hadn’t fazed her, but fire. Fire terrified her. They all huddled on the tiny landing. “What now?” Sylvie asked. Lia couldn’t think, couldn’t move. All the signs had pointed to this moment. Still, her mind and body refused to move. They were all going to burn to death. Through her mind flitted pictures of the burn victims she’s seen in a small African village. Men, women and children, their skin charred and blackened, and the smell. She gagged. “Lia.” Sylvie’s fingers dug into her arms and brought her back to the present. “Focus. We need to get out of here.” “But that’s it.” Lia forced the words out through stiff lips. “This is just a series of passages that run through the house. It simply leads back to the main staircase.” “Oh, God. Are you sure?” Was she? Lia thought back to her childhood. She’d found the tunnel off the parlor that had once led to the house next door, but had long been bricked shut. Wearing a miner’s light, she’d explored the series of passageways that opened from her closet. This one led to the attic and gave access to the secret staircase down to the master bedroom. It ended there. The only entrance into and out of the house was via the front and back doors. Or the windows. “You used to sneak out.” Lia turned to Sylvie. “When you were in high school. How did you do it?” Sylvie flushed. “I’d almost forgotten. I’d climb out my window onto the back porch and shimmy down the drainpipe.” She looked down at the little boy beside her. “Deion wouldn’t be able to do that. And if he figured out we were out on the roof, he could pick us off one by one as we hit the ground. There has to be another way.” “But there isn’t. Unless--” “Unless what?” “Unless I distract him so you and Deion can escape.” Sylvie shook her head. “No. I’m not sure how you got here or why you’re here, but I’m not leaving you behind.” “I can’t think of any other way,” Lia replied. “He’s gone awfully quiet. Do you think he’s left?” “We need to find out who he is and figure out his next move.” “Sylvie, it’s Mark Powers, your old boss.”

Sylvie stared at her. “You didn’t know?” Lia asked. “No, but, oh God, we are in deep shit.” As if just remembering Deion’s presence, Sylvie put her hand over her mouth. “Mark is a wily son of a bitch. He wasn’t a Crazy Eight, but he knew all our tactics, all our tricks.” Sylvie closed her eyes as if in pain. “No wonder he could fool me.” “Mommy,” Deion whimpered through a wheeze. “I know you’re scared, baby. But this is your Aunt Lia, and she is going to help us get away from the bad man.” Smoke hung thick in the air, and Lia tried to quell her panic. She choked on a cough, tried to suppress it and then couldn’t catch her breath. Pain seared across her cheek, and she gasped in a lungful. “Get a grip,” Sylvie snapped. Lia figured she’d be wearing her sister’s handprint for a day or so, but the slap had been worth it. She took a few deep breaths, her mind more focused than it had been. In the corner of the vent hung a raggedy spider web that, damn it, looked exactly like a human hand. Taking a second look, her impression remained the same. Either a drunk spider had built it, or it was the lair of Lia’s favorite spider. The black widow. A low moaning sound echoed through their prison. “Me scared of ghosties,” Deion whispered. “No, that’s not a ghost, it’s just the wind, baby,” Sylvie answered. Her brown eyes were filled with remorse as she looked at Lia. “I’m so sorry I hit you.” “No, you had to. That sound isn’t the wind. It’s a man in pain.” “What?” “The air vents.” Lia motioned toward the one beside her and then down the tiny passageway in front of them. “Didn’t you ever listen to Mom and Dad’s conversations through the air vents in your bedroom?” Sylvie shook her head. Lia rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, you weren’t a goody-two shoes.” “Okay, I listened.” Sylvie admitted. “But only around Christmas, or if I had gotten in trouble and wanted to find out the punishment ahead of time.”

“He can hear us and we can hear him. Am I right, Mark?” Lia called. A low sound followed her question, but she couldn’t tell whether he said yes, no, or fuck you. “See, he can hear us.” Lia waggled her eyebrows at Sylvie. Then her sister’s eyes lit up. She lifted her right hand and slowly and painstakingly spelled out the alphabet in American Sign Language. When younger, Lia had been enchanted by the story of Helen Keller. The young woman, although blind and deaf, had managed to become the sweetheart of the world, learning sign language and reading lips by touch alone. Lia had taught herself the alphabet from a guide at the back of the novel. One day, Sylvie had made fun of her about reading aloud with her fingers. For once, their parents had intervened. For her punishment, Sylvie had had to learn the alphabet as well, and had to give a presentation to her parents using only her hands. Lia watched as Sylvie spelled out her name. It looked as if the knowledge had stuck. They now had a weapon to use against their captor. Painstakingly, Lia spelled out her plan. **** He’d lit a fire in the sink using all his personal papers and receipts. A few hours ago, he would have trusted to fate to take care of the evidence, but now, he didn’t have a choice but to personally erase any evidence of his existence. Within minutes, the kitchen had been filled with caustic smoke traveling across the room to the vent over the stove. He’d chuckled, thinking that would give Sylvie and company something to think about. He’d heard their voices echoing around and had shouted a few taunts in their direction until a cough caught in his throat and his chest tightened. A nearly electric shock of pain shot up his arms to an area under his scalp and cut short the exhilaration of having his plan solidify. A heart attack? Collapsing into a chair, he stared down at his hands. Oh God, he could now see a small red mark on his right palm. He had been bitten by one of those damn spiders. Could he lance it and suck the poison out? He reached for a knife, but his hands were shaking so hard he’d probably end up doing more damage with the sharp edge than the spider had done with its poison. He should go to the hospital. But if he did, he’d have to produce an insurance card. He did not want to leave a paper trail behind. He could pay cash. How much did a visit to the

emergency room cost for a private pay patient? Hundreds? He had some cash left, he’d budgeted very carefully throughout the last year and only had his emergency one-hundred-dollar bill left. He’d counted on the payment for the boy to pay the incidentals involved in his getaway. Damn it. Nothing had gone right since the moment he’d put this plan into action. He’d been so careful, not even setting out this path while his desire for revenge blazed hot. No, he’d waited three fucking years to get even with the bitches who had destroyed his life. Well, at least he’d managed to kill Margaret. The look on her face when he’d come around the counter dressed as her twin had been priceless. She’d panicked, but he’d taken care of that with an injection of ketamine mixed with rohypnol, the date rape drug of choice. Margaret had been like putty in his hands. He’d kept her doped up until time to go to the professor’s office. The pain under his scalp peaked off the chart. No ten here, a hundred, maybe. He ran his fingers through the hair at his temples, hoping to massage away the ache. Instead, he came away with a wad of his own hair. He didn’t think anyone ever died from the bite of a black widow. He simply had to wait until the poison passed out of his system. Lord knew he was good at waiting. Hadn’t he waited all this long time for revenge? He’d planned it all down to the hour. Where had it gone wrong? With Margaret’s murder? But how? Jared had been the perfect patsy for the woman’s murder. An antisocial anthropology teacher and crossword puzzle aficionado. Jared had fit the perfect profile of a serial killer. Why hadn’t the police seen that? Why hadn’t they found all the trophies from the other crimes he’d left behind? For there really had been a serial killer at large. Mark had discovered the crimes almost a year ago and finally tracked the scumbag down a month ago. Murdering the real killer, stealing his trophies and getting in touch with the man’s contacts had been the key to putting his plan into action. Why hadn’t the police seen any of it? He growled and swiped at his head again. This time, his hand came away bloody. He would not flush all his work down the crapper. After standing, he weaved his way to the kitchen cabinet and fumbled inside for a bottle of pain killers. He flirted with the idea of injecting himself with a bit of ketamine. That would certainly give him some respite from the pain. He pulled out the bottle and a syringe and slipped it into his pocket. Soon, he’d go outside, give himself a shot and then make his escape. Before he did that, he had one more thing to accomplish --burning down the house.

**** Jared struggled weakly but his arms and legs wouldn’t cooperate. He tried to open his eyes, but it felt as if ten-pound sand bags clung to his lashes. Finally, he managed to crack them open and immediately wished he hadn’t. A hundred or so bass drums boomed in his head, setting off a reverberation of nausea that made him groan. “He’s conscious,” a voice called. Did the man have to yell? What had happened? Jared tried to think back. The last thing he remembered was kissing Lia’s sweet lips goodbye. Where had he been going? He closed his eyes and drifted on a sea of pain. “Hello?” someone trumpeted. “Shhh,” Jared begged. “Oh my God.” Someone settled down next to him and shouted in his ear. “Jared? This is Dr. Sri. Could you open your eyes, please?” This time, the sandbags didn’t put up quite the resistance they had before. Sunlight flooded in, blocked by a smiling, round brown face. “Welcome back to the living, Jared. Do you remember where you are?” He started to shake his head and then thought better of it. “No.” The word came out as more of a moan. Despite not being able to remember the immediate past, he could recall bits of trivia. Like the fact that he’d probably be lucky if he ever remembered any of what had happened during a traumatic event. “A bomb went off. The security guard, Normal Walters, shielded you from the majority of the blast. It’s a miracle you’re alive.” “Miracle,” Jared repeated. He let his eyes drift shut. Over the grumble of engines and a spitting, roaring sound he heard a radio playing. The Pointer Sisters were belting out the lyrics to Fire. For a moment, it felt as if a music video played in his head. He saw himself knocking on a window, a second floor window? Below him, Mark opened the door with a goofy smile and stepped back, beckoning him in. Flames licked around the door frame, reminding Jared of a hoop of fire at the circus. The impulse to step through was almost too strong.At the last minute, he lifted his foot and stepped back. The scene changed. This time, he stood in front of a large pink Victorian house while flames danced up the front sidewalk. Lia lay on the front porch, trussed up like a heroine of old

on a train track while the flames crept closer and closer. She let out a scream that would wake the dead. Well, it woke Jared. He glanced around. An ambulance had arrived, probably to take him to the hospital. He wiggled his toes and fingers. Everything seemed to be working. He tried lifting his head. Although pain flashed behind his eyes, it had dimmed a bit. Jared looked around. Thick white smoke poured from the windows of the building. Steam created from the fire hoses. The scent of burning plastic singed the inside of his nostrils, and the fire crews yelled commands and encouragement to each other over the squawking of their radios. A paramedic hopped out of the ambulance and went around to the back. Lia was in danger! It was only a dream. Lia had gone to the police station. He closed his eyes and tried to picture her there. Instead, a vision of fire and panic flickered behind his closed lids. He saw Lia banging helplessly on a window before being overcome by smoke. She had been very concerned about the unannounced change in the tenant of her old house. Had she gone over there to investigate instead of going straight to the police with her findings? Had Mark set a bomb at Lia’s old house the way he’d set one here? Jared couldn’t prove Mark was responsible, but he knew it. And Lia was in danger. He struggled into a sitting position. Another paramedic had joined the first at the rear of the ambulance as they maneuvered the gurney out of the back. No one looked in his direction. The pain behind his eyes had lessened to a dull throb. Going first to his knees, he pushed up to his feet. He probably looked as if he’d been through a war, and smelled of fire and death. But he had to get to Lia. He started off toward his car, grateful his keys were still in his pocket. Although the mind was willing, his legs were weak and he lurched more than walked. “Mister!” A voice called from behind him. Damn. He tried to pick up the pace and nearly fell. “Mister, stop.” Jared could hear footsteps behind him, but just when he thought he would be caught and

forced to go to the hospital, another explosion rocked the ground and a loud scream split the air. Jared glanced over his shoulder. One of the fire fighters stumbled away from the building, his suit in flames. Someone screamed again. This time, Jared thought it sounded like Lia calling his name. Weaving with weakness, he made it to his car unmolested. In the driver’s seat now, so to speak, he doubted the practicality of driving. Tipping down the vanity mirror to look at his face gave him a start. Macabre freckles peppered his skin. Blood. The security guard who had given up his life while shielding him. An overwhelming sadness overcame him. Life was all too fleeting. One minute, a man had been smiling at him, the next, he’d been torn to shreds by the bomb. It could have been him. Should have been him. Why? While he drove, he pondered the situation. He’d never met Mark that he could remember, and he only had a very vague recollection of the woman who must have been Margaret at one of the contests. The puzzles were his all-consuming interest, not the people. He’d not noticed anyone much, but someone had obviously noticed him. The thought of someone watching him and planning his demise gave him the creeps. But he had to stop thinking about himself and get to Lia. The more miles he put behind him, the more he was convinced of Lia’s dire predicament. Pulling out his cellphone, he placed a call to the police station, praying that Lia was there. The chirpy voice at the front desk informed him that she had not signed in as a visitor that day. “Um, could you check and see if Mark Powers has been in?” “That old crackpot? I don’t think we’ve seen him today.” He heard a rustle on the line. “No, he’s not signed in either, which is surprising. He’s been here two, sometimes three times a day with leads about a woman’s disappearance. Can I help you with anything else?” “No, but thanks.” Jared disconnected the call. Damn it. He dialed her hotel room, but the call went to the switchboard. He left his name and number, for the little good that did. Panic was screaming in his ear by the time he pulled onto Main Street. However, when he pulled up in front of the house, nothing looked out of place. He studied it, looking for any sign that Lia had been here. The upstairs windows all reflected normally, except for one. He gazed at it for almost a full minute before he realized it had been

painted black. Even though it wasn’t anywhere close to five o’clock, the closing time listed on the door, the photographer’s studio on the ground floor looked dark and unoccupied; however, the Open sign flickered eerily and the letters seemed to illuminate from left to right. Odd. His legs had stiffened up and his back ached as he swung out of the car and limped up to the front window. Luckily, no one seemed to be out and about right at the moment, so he peered in the window and then tried the front door. Locked up tight, despite the assertion of the sign, which still flashed its letters, one by one, from left to right. Left to right? He stepped backward and looked up. Two security cameras, one on the left and one on the right, perched up under the eaves. The red lights glowed on both units. Someone was watching. Trying to look casual, despite the blood on his clothes and the panic in his chest, he limped down the sidewalk. He glanced over his shoulder and took note of another security camera perched on a fence in the back. He wouldn’t be able to enter the house unobserved. Which meant Lia hadn’t, either. If she’d entered, Mark knew it. He had no doubt that Mark had killed Margaret, and probably Sylvie and Deion as well. Well, he’d be damned if he’d let Mark kill Lia, too.

Chapter 12 Are you sure this is the way out? Sylvie spelled with her fingers into Lia’s palm. Lia didn’t answer, which didn’t give Sylvie a boost of confidence. In the dark, Deion whimpered and wheezed. They’d been crawling too long and still hadn’t found the way out. And now they were several twists away from the relative roominess of the staircase head where the vent provided fresh air. If the fire caught up to them here, they’d roast or die of smoke inhalation. However, since that first big scent of smoke, there had been nothing more. Had Mark changed tactics? Or had he been overcome by the spider bite Lia had assured her that he’d sustained based on some evidence of seeing a spider web? Sylvie stifled a snort. She, for one, wasn’t going to bet her life and the life of her son on a damn spider bite. But if they didn’t find a way out soon… Just when Sylvie was on the verge of giving up hope, Lia stopped. Sylvie bumped her nose against her sister’s backside and resisted the urge to curse. Mark could clearly hear their movements inside the metal shaft, and even a whisper would give him too much information. What would she do? While Lia sat back on her haunches and fumbled around in the dark, Sylvie used her best skill. Her brain. If this had been one of their missions and her target had escaped, what would she do? Burning down the house would get rid of the evidence, but she wouldn’t leave the actual death to chance. No, the fire would have to be set after the target was dead. Which meant Mark had traced their movements from the very start. A small screech indicated that Lia had found a way out. Too late, Sylvie scrabbled to keep her from opening it. The panel opened and light flooded in. Sylvie shaded her eyes, but not before she caught a glimpse of a big, black shadow. “Hello, there.” Mark’s voice sounded old and oddly warbley, an old man’s voice. Of course, he was an old man, but the last time she’d heard him, he sounded vibrant. Lia tried to pull the panel shut, but Mark waved a gun in her face. “Please, join me. It’s a beautiful day to die. I wouldn’t want you to miss it.” ****

For the few minutes Jared had stood in front of the house, trying to come up with a plan of attack, an occasional car drove by. But despite his haggard appearance, no one stopped or offered any help. Nor had Mark come out of the house. Did that mean Mark hadn’t seen him on the security cameras, or that he was occupied elsewhere, perhaps torturing Lia? Mark couldn’t be everywhere at once, and Jared couldn’t continue to stand staring up at the house. He thought about throwing a brick through the front window, but decided that would be too visible from the street. He certainly didn’t want to be arrested for vandalism. A six-foot tall board fence surrounded the back of the house. Jared walked up to the gate. A large, shiny silver padlock hung at eye level. A pair of clippers could take care of that, but it would take time to find a hardware store, buy them and get back. Time that he, and Lia, didn’t have. If he hadn’t nearly been blown to smithereens earlier, he would have simply jumped over the fence. However, even walking set off shooting pains throughout his body. The thought of running and leaping in this shape was ludicrous. If he couldn’t go over the fence, could he somehow get through? He inched closer and peered between the slats. A lock hung from the gate latch; however, he could see several panels along the side and back that were damaged. An errant breeze caught one of the two-by-four slats and lifted it open. Now to figure out how to get to that portion of the yard. The house next door had a similar fence, only in much better repair. Jared limped up the block. Instead of more houses on the cross street, a small building sat alone in a large field. Jared strolled up to it. The front windows of the shop were full of vases and ceramic tiles. A sign identified it as an art studio. On the other side of the building was a small parking area bordered by an alley. Hallelujah. A chain-link fence surrounded the glassblower’s yard, which only contained a couple of large recycling bins. He easily spotted the fence surrounding the house next door to Lia’s. Unfortunately, it was whitewashed and in good repair. As he walked along, the fence suddenly took on a dilapidated state. A thumping sound came from the direction of the house hidden behind the rotting wood. The broken board practically waved at him in the breeze. Although loose at the bottom, it was firmly fastened at the top with screws. He pushed on the board next to it. It didn’t give. Nor

did the one on the other side. Even if he could push this one board off, he couldn’t slither through that small of an opening. Damn. He walked a little farther, all the while hearing that odd thumping noise and hoping it wasn’t Mark somewhere in the yard with an ax. At the corner, he spotted his first real reason to hope. An entire panel with the boards secured by nails. He kicked one of the boards as hard as he could. Pain shot up his foot and seemed to lodge in his right temple. Damn. But he couldn’t stop now. Jared looked up and down the alley. No one seemed to be taking any notice of him. Taking a deep breath, he stepped back and launched himself bodily at the fence. This time, instead of only the board coming loose, the entire panel lurched forward and they both fell to the ground. He lay for a minute, endeavoring to catch his breath. Finally, with a gasp, he filled his lungs. Jesus, that hurt. A loud thud caught his attention and he lurched to his feet. When the sound occurred again, he stared in surprise as the back screen door swung open and then slammed shut. Jared hobbled across the yard, expecting to be shot at any moment, but if Mark didn’t get him, the ground he walked on might. The area by the fence had once been tilled for a garden, and even now, huge chunks of upturned soil threatened to tip when stepped on. He’d be lucky if he didn’t turn an ankle or break a leg. Finally, he made it to the small patch of dead grass by the back patio. Pausing to catch his breath, he watched as the screen door swung open again. Amazingly, he had an unobstructed view into what had once been a kitchen and now looked like a video surveillance room at a Las Vegas casino. In the monitor on the middle, he could clearly see a close-up of his face. He looked as if he’d been in a fight for his life and had lost. He quickly jumped to the side of the doorway. When the door swung open again, he caught it and then stepped into the room. Empty, although the smell of smoke lingered in the air. Sidling farther into the room, he took stock of the contents. A sink sat off to one side and a refrigerator hummed beside it. On the counters, twelve monitors marched around the room. Only a tipped-over chair indicated something amiss. Well, not the only sign. What he saw in one of the monitors made his blood run cold.

While he watched, Mark herded Lia, then another woman and a small boy out into the middle of the room. While Mark covered them with a large black pistol, the unidentified woman tied the small boy to a chair. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. The canister of gasoline sitting to the right of Mark’s leg was. **** Mark would have felt more like celebrating if his head didn’t feel like it would explode if he made any sudden movement. Hell, any movement at all. Sylvie took too long to tie the others to their chairs, and he flirted with the temptation of shooting them to get this over with. Unfortunately, the gun wasn’t loaded. For the tenth time, he mentally kicked himself for not going after the gangbanger who had sold him the damn thing. The transaction had taken place in the alley behind the house. The kid’s hands had shook as he handed over a tin lock box, and before Mark could react, a man hidden in the shadows along the fence had suddenly appeared by his side. He’d demanded the money, which Mark hadn’t had any intention of keeping, anyway. After he’d pulled it out of his pocket, the kid had snatched the plastic-wrapped stack of bills and run up the street. After a second, his gun-toting companion had followed. Once inside, Mark discovered there was no ammunition for the gun. He’d considered going out and purchasing some, but here in California he’d be required to leave a thumbprint behind. Feeling betrayed, he stashed the gun in a cabinet and hoped to never have to use it. Luckily, the threat of being shot seemed to be enough to convince Sylvie and her sister to cooperate. He sat on a straight-backed chair identical to the one they were being tied to. His gun hand rested on his thigh, as much as to look casual and uncaring as to hold it steady so they couldn’t see his it trembling. “You really don’t want to do this, Mark,” Lia said. “Oh, but I really do,” Mark mocked her. “You can’t believe how good it’s going to feel to know she’s dead and gone. Now granted, Lia, you’re collateral damage. This wouldn’t be happening if you’d stayed in New York like you were supposed to.” Lia’s eyes narrowed. “Why aren’t you tying us up yourself?” Lia asked. Sylvie shot her sister an impatient look. “Why don’t you shut up before I shoot you?” Mark responded.

“Because I don’t think you can tie us up, nor do I think you’ll shoot us.” “Lia,” Sylvie said through gritted teeth. “Yeah, you tell your flakey sister to be quiet.” It had taken all of his waning strength to carry the four chairs up to this room, and the pain had made it impossible to even consider juggling the huge roll of duct tape he’d purchased. Now he wished he had made the extra effort. “Flakey? You called me flakey?” Lia looked up at Sylvie, a look of disbelief on her face. “You’re the damned flakey one.” Lia raised her voice. Before he could stop it, he’d grimaced with pain. “Watch your language in front of Deion.” Sylvie shouted. Mark resisted the urge to throw down the gun and put his hands over his ears. Lia rolled her eyes. “We’re going to die, and you’re worried about a few damns?” she practically shouted. “Shut the fuck up,” he screamed, and stood. The chair tipped over and the resulting clatter seemed to echo around the empty room. “See?” Lia tipped her head in Mark’s direction. “Look at his hands shake. And did you note he’s sensitive to loud sounds? I told you he’d been bitten.” As if that were some cue, Sylvie charged toward him. He stepped back and the canister at his feet tipped. Liquid sloshed over his shoes, soaking his socks and splashing up the leg of his pants. The scent of gasoline wafted through the air. Although in pain, he stopped Sylvie with a well-placed jab to her jaw. She dropped and laid still. “Mommy!” Deion sobbed. Lia rocked back and forth in the chair, her eyes wild. He’d picked these chairs for their sturdy construction, she couldn’t break free, especially since Sylvie had tied her good and tight. Mark backed toward the door. “I’d say parting was such sweet sorrow, but I’d be lying,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a lighter. “I gave up smoking during my agency days, but I always keep one of these in my pocket in case I ever decide to take it up again.” Over in one flick of his Bic. He almost chuckled, remembering the old commercials. The advertising morons who wrote them had never envisioned putting their product to this use. The wheel sliding against the flint made a soft but deadly sound. Lia’s eyes widened.

Mark would have laughed, but at that moment he walked into the door. What the heck? He’d purposefully left it open behind him so he could make a quick get away. He glanced over his shoulder and then gasped. Jared stood there. Or at least, it looked like Jared. But Jared was supposed to be dead. Blown to bits. “H-h-how?” he stammered. This could not be happening. Once again, revenge slithered out of his grasp. Fury blazed inside him and he lunged forward. Luckily, Jared hadn’t expected that. Head pounding, he moved as fast as he dared to the far side of the row of chairs and felt a warm rush of success. Glaring at Jared over the heads of his captives made him realize he moved farther away from the gasoline. Luckily, these old houses either weren’t built level, or it had sunk unevenly. A small rivulet of wetness flowed toward him. He just needed thirty seconds. “Put the lighter down,” Jared commanded. “I don’t think so.” Mark glanced down. Almost there. If he knelt and stretched out his arm, he could almost reach it. He counted to three and knelt down. Flicking the lighter on, he leaned forward and something heavy knocked him back. He fell with a grunt, pain consuming him. He rolled to his side and saw Lia’s chair had tipped over. She had rocked into him. Well, this was only a momentary distraction, he could still get to the gasoline. He glanced over and saw orange flames licking along the floor. Disbelief shot through him and then relief. Heck, even the pain grinding through his joints and head seemed to abate a bit. He’d done it. He had finally gotten the better of everyone who had wronged him. Struggling to his feet, he planned his escape. Jared was occupied with trying to put the flames out with his shirt, and Sylvie swayed beside him, working on the ropes securing her son to the chair. “Good luck with that.” Mark chuckled and hobbled toward the door. The pain had returned with a vengeance, dancing all the way from his ankle joints to his scalp. He glanced down and then gasped. Instead of feet, all he could see were flames licking up his legs. “No,” someone shouted. Was that his voice? Well, if he died, they were all gonna go with him. He shifted course and headed toward the gasoline. He never made it. With a roar, Jared came out of nowhere and embraced him in a bear hug, carrying him backward. He heard the sharp sound of shattering glass. Mark grabbed at Jared, but the man’s skin, slick with sweat, evaded his grasping hands. For one long moment, he thought he’d found purchase by grabbing hold of the window sill. Then

he glanced at his hands. They were red with blood. He’d grabbed the broken glass. He scrabbled to get a better hold, but felt pressure on his legs and toppled over backward. His last sight was of Jared staring down at him as he fell.

Chapter 13 Jared turned from the window. Even if Mark survived the fall, he’d probably die of complications from the burns. The influx of oxygen from the window made the flames dance along the floor. Sylvie had dragged Deion, still tied to his chair, out of harm’s way while she worked on the bindings. A scraping sound caught his attention. Lia desperately wiggled away from the flames only moments away from reaching her. A slick of fire separated him from her. He’d dropped his charred shirt when he’d charged Mark, so he didn’t even have that to beat the flames with. Steeling himself, he quickstepped through the flaming liquid to reach Lia. He hadn’t caught fire, although the soles of his feet felt warm, and the bottoms of his sneakers had probably melted. They had a few moments of breathing room. He stooped over to untie Lia’s bindings. With a tug, one came free, then another. Sylvie had tied the ropes using slip knots. “Hurry,” she urged, her gaze fastened on the fast approaching fire. Not a moment too soon, he had her loose and pulled her to her feet. “I’d kiss you, but we don’t have time. How are we going to get out?” Lia asked. She sounded a hell of a lot calmer than he felt. He looked around. To his relief, Sylvie could escape. She had finally freed Deion, and pulled him up into her arms. He lay limply, overcome by either fear or smoke. Sylvie tried to speak, coughed, then coughed some more. Finally she managed to croak out something that sounded like “I’m going for help,” then she disappeared. “The window?” Lia pulled him over. At least the fresh air coming in prevented them from being overcome by the smoke. Jared leaned out the window. No one appeared below on the sidewalk, and he could only pray Sylvie had made it out and could summon help in time. That’s when he noticed something else. Mark’s body had disappeared. “Shit.” “What?” Lia asked. “Mark. I thought for sure he would have died from the fall. But he’s not there.”

“Oh no,” Lia moaned. At that moment, Sylvie came into sight, staggering a bit under the weight of Deion. Then she, too, disappeared from sight. Jared’s skin felt blistered and he didn’t want to look behind him to see how high the flames were, nor how close. “It’s going to take too long for the trucks to arrive,” Lia said. “Even if Sylvie gets to a phone, it’s going to take them five minutes to get here.” Tear dripped down her cheeks. “Don’t think like that. We’ll jump out of the window if we have to.” Jared pulled her into his arms and she snuggled in tight against his chest. “I’m so scared.” “Lia, would you marry me?” “What?” “I said--” With a shuddering scream, the ceiling of the room collapsed. Lia’s answering scream echoed. She struggled out of his arms and would have leapt out the window if he hadn’t dragged her to the floor. Well, at least they would die together. **** The neighbor hadn’t been home, and Sylvie had had to run almost a full block before she flagged down a car and convinced them to call 9-1-1. Then, she made her way back to the front yard of the house, praying every step of the way. Deion’s breathing was labored. The smoke had triggered an asthma attack. She’d had enough experience with them to know that if she didn’t get him to the hospital for a treatment and soon, he would die. Gazing up at the window, she held back a sob. She couldn’t see either Jared or her sister, only a horrible orange glow. The sirens of the fire engine made her jump. The trucks skidded to a stop and men piled out. Chest tight, she waited impatiently for the most important vehicle. The ambulance. “Hang in there, honey,” she whispered to her son. “You need to step over here, ma’am,” someone said in a low sexy voice. “My sister and her friend are still trapped up there,” Sylvie screamed. “Please save them.” “We’ll do our best. But I need you to stay out of the way.”

Sylvie looked into the most beautiful blue eyes she’d ever seen. They were set in a gorgeous face that tugged at Sylvie’s heart. “And my son needs an ambulance,” Sylvie added. She didn’t put up any resistance as the fire fighter drew her off to the side.” “They should be here in less than three minutes, ma’am. We have oxygen in the truck.” “It’s asthma. The smoke and stress set off an attack.” “I’ll call that in so they know.” Sylvie peered around the woman to watch a man scale the ladder. He looked strangely graceful, even while wearing all the heavy garb. Another siren approached and an ambulance came into sight. Sylvie realized she’d been holding her breath. Relief surged through her and she moved to meet them. “Ma’am,” a voice called from behind her. She turned and then screamed as a flaming figure ran at her from the side of the house. “You bitch,” the figure roared. Sylvie took a step back, not a moment too soon. A fire fighter knocked the flaming human torch to the ground and wrestled to put out the flames with a fire retardant blanket. A paramedic rushed to her and relieved her of Deion’s weight. She stumbled after him, but not before taking one last look at Mark. That he had survived the fall was a miracle. Had his hate for her kept him alive? A shout went up. In a panic, she rushed over to the gurney where they had laid Deion’s tiny body. The paramedic turned from busily hooking up the nebulizer. “Is he going to be okay?” “We’re going to transport him. Are you his mother?” “Yes.” “Then come with me.” Another paramedic came over. “You can ride in front to the hospital.” “Wait.” Sylvie looked back over at the house. “My sister…” Her voice failed her as she saw flames licking up the side of the house toward the roof. “We got your sister out. There’s another ambulance on the way.” “And her friend?” “I don’t know,” the paramedic replied. “But please, if you are going to come, we need to leave now.”

Epilogue Sylvie felt Deion roll over. Since they’d been rescued, she’d had him sleeping in her bed, more for her own comfort than for his. Tonight, she’d move him back to his own bed. As if he sensed her thoughts, he snuggled against her. She sighed contently and then her eyes shot open as she remembered. Christmas! Oh no, she hadn’t done any of her normal decorating, she hadn’t even put out Deion’s gifts. She tried to slide out of bed. Perhaps she could do it before he fully woke up. However, Deion must have remembered as well. He rolled up onto his knees and bounced. “Mewy Krisses!” he shouted and then started to get out of bed. Oh no! She had to delay him somehow. She snatched him back and tickled him. “Stay here a minute.” “Santa!” He squirmed out of her arms, wiggled away and padded off down the hallway. Sylvie sobered and felt a horrible tug on her heart. Despite everything she’d told him, he still believed. What had she been thinking, not allowing him this piece of childhood? Especially after all they’d been through. Deion had taken the news of Margaret’s death better than she’d expected. And she was eternally grateful he had been unconscious when Mark had tried to grab them. No telling what having a flaming monster attacking them would have done to his immature psyche. Mark, too, was dead. He’d been burned so badly the hospital hadn’t even been able to transfer him to a burn unit. They’d made him comfortable on pain killers until he passed away. Sylvie had wanted to see him, confront him, ask him why. Could she ever accept that she might never learn the reason behind his animosity? Lia and the man who had saved them all were to be released from the hospital today. She should be grateful. Instead, she felt like a louse. With a heavy heart, she rolled out of bed and reached for her robe. An odd squealing sound came from the living room. Visions of her son in trouble assailed her, and her heart flipped into overdrive. This time, she would be prepared. Her hands shook as she hurriedly

unlocked her gun safe and then foraged in her dresser for the ammunition. She slammed the clip in with the base of her hand. “Momma!” Deion yelled. She walked down the hall, mentally preparing herself to defend her home and her family. The lights in the living room eerily flickered on and off, and she could hear an odd rustling sound. She peered around the corner and then gasped. In front of the living room window stood a six-foot-tall Christmas tree with the lights sparkling. From the top, a serene angel smiled down upon them. She recognized the tree topper from her childhood memories. A sob filled her throat. At the foot of the tree, packages were piled high. A tow truck vied for space with a large stuffed red Elmo who probably giggled or danced. Deion had already dumped a huge pile of wooden logs on the floor and was endeavoring to build a fort. He hadn’t seen her yet, so she quickly retreated to her room and put away her gun. As she walked back into the living room, emotion once again assailed her. “What’s all this?” she asked through a throat full of tears. “Toys!” Deion chortled. “Lots and lots of toys.” He turned back to the tree. Sylvie knelt down and watched him play. She eyed all the packages. Some she recognized as things she and Margaret had bought for Deion, but all the rest? Could Lia have done this? She might have, but Sylvie was a light sleeper, wouldn’t she have heard the rustling of the packages? Or the cursing as the decorator tried to untangle the lights? A large flat package stood propped against the trunk of the tree with her name printed in bold letters. What in the world? She turned it over in her hands and then shook it. Things shifted, but nothing sounded threatening. “Open it, Momma,” Deion urged. With a flourish, Sylvie ripped open the paper. In her hands was a board game where the players acquired their perfect date. However, something about this box looked different. She opened the first door. What she saw made her laugh out loud. Instead of pictures of men hidden behind the door, these were women in various professions. A doctor, a fire fighter, an astronaut. She put the lid back on the game and ran her hand over it. Tears flooded her eyes. Deion looked up at her. Seeing her tears, he dropped his toy and came over to hug her.

“Santa real, Momma,” he whispered. Sylvie smiled through her tears. **** Footsteps creaked overhead and Lia wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. Crime scene tape hung across the stairway, and the smell of damp smoke still lingered in the air. The hospital had released her last night as an early Christmas gift. She and Jared had been lucky to come away with only first and second degree burns. Her sister hadn’t been injured and her nephew had recovered fully from his asthma attack. She really couldn’t wish for a better Christmas. Gifts, dinner, family. She hadn’t planned on the early morning call from the fire inspector asking to do a walk through. “On Christmas?” Lia had asked. “I’m on shift today, so I might as well. If we get this done early enough, I’ll make it back to the station in time to enjoy Christmas dinner without the hassle of cooking it,” the woman had replied with a laugh. A knock sounded at the door and Lia jumped. Before she could go to it, Jared poked his head into the room. “Hey there,” he greeted her. “I saw your car out front. Everything okay?” “The fire inspector is here doing the walk-through to make sure it’s safe for us to come back in. I’m anxious to get this place fixed up.” Jared walked over and put his arm around her shoulders as he looked up at the scorched wallpaper lining the staircase. “Are you going to sell it?” His voice sounded casual, but she could tell he wanted to ask her what her plans were. Lia bit back a smile. “I thought about it,” she hedged. “Too bad the housing market is in a bit of a slump.” Jared said. “But since you own it outright, you’ll still make a nice profit.” “Maybe, but even though I thought about selling, I’ve decided not to.” Jared whirled around to face her, and she could read the hope in his eyes. “You’re going to live here?” “I think so.” “What about your job?”

“I’m freelance. I can live anywhere. But with all that’s happened, nearly losing my sister and the nephew I didn’t know I had, I’ve decided that a slight career change might be in my future.” Jared gave her a curious look. God, she loved teasing him, leading him on. He made it too easy. She laughed, deciding to put him out of his suffering. “I took a survey of the businesses here in Camel Cove. It’s an art mecca. There are studios housing glass blowers, pottery throwers and a ton of artists, but there really is a need for a photography studio here in town.” She saw the look on his face and hastened to add, “I know, it seems like I’m giving tribute to Mark, but I’m not. He was turning a good profit. I think I could expand on the idea. Lord knows I’ve had enough practice taking pictures.” “I think that sounds wonderful.” Jared kissed her temple. Thumping steps announced the reappearance of the inspector. She came down the stairs, flipping through the papers on her clipboard. Lia noted that that report looked massive and her heart sank. The damage must have been a lot worse than she’d anticipated. “So? What’s the news?” Jared asked. The fire inspector looked up and grimaced. “Well, there’s lots of water and smoke damage, of course.” Her expression brightened. “But the good news is that most of the building is structurally sound, except for that one room upstairs. As soon as the police clear it, you can begin repairs.” Lia let out a whoof of breath. “Wow, I thought it would be much worse.” “Why is that?” the inspector asked. “Because your report is so thick.” Lia motioned toward the clipboard. “Oh, this.” The woman’s face cleared. “I found this on the floor. I’m not sure how it escaped the fire.” She slid the stack of papers off her clipboard and handed them to Lia along with a business card. “Here’s my card. I’ll call you when I have the full report completed and filed, but if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call.” “Thank you,” Lia said. The woman left, and Lia turned her attention to the papers in her hand. At first, she thought it was Sylvie’s manuscript, then she noticed the name on the title page. Mark Powers. Jared read over her shoulder as she flipped through the pages. The story mirrored

Sylvie’s, but with a male protagonist. Interesting. “Didn’t Sylvie write a book with this same title?” Jared tapped the top page. “Yes, I think she’s supposed to turn in the manuscript right after the new year,” Lia replied. “What was Mark doing with her book?” “It’s not hers.” Lia pointed at a misspelled word. “This one is riddled with misspellings and poor grammar.” She flipped through to the end. The last page felt different. Good quality letterhead. A rejection letter. “This is dated about a year ago.” Jared remarked. Lia shivered. Jared pulled her close, and she snuggled against him. His clean, fresh sent enveloped her and sent a surge of desire through her. She bit her lip. They’d seen one another in the hospital several times, but Jared hadn’t ever mentioned his last-minute proposal, nor had he repeated it. Her heart sank a little. Perhaps it was simply a reaction to facing their death that had prompted him to propose. She blinked back tears and took a deep breath. “What are your plans for Christmas?” she asked. “I didn’t have any. You?” Jared replied. “I’m heading back over to Sylvie’s. I’ll tell you, my sister is a scrooge. I spent an hour there in the middle of the night decorating a tree for Deion. Luckily, the fire fighters donated toys for him. Even the fire inspector donated a gift for Sylvie. I feel bad that I didn’t get her anything. Maybe I’ll stop by and pick something up on the way back to her place.” Jared pulled a face. “Sorry to tell you, but the stores aren’t open.” “Well, I’ll make do with what she has then.” Lia shrugged. “Would you like to join us for dinner? That’s the one thing Sylvie had planned right.” “Sure.” Lia took one last look around. Visions of what the house had been like when she was a child danced around in her head. Her mom had always put the tree right in the front window. Lights and garland had been woven into the staircase balustrade, and there would be mistletoe right over the front door. She sighed. Hopefully by next year the house would be back to its festive grandeur. But would it be worth it just to live here herself? She turned to leave. “Ahem.” Jared cleared his throat. He stood in front of her, holding something high over

her head. She looked up. “Mistletoe?” “I’d like my Christmas kiss, please.” Lia rose on tiptoes to kiss him. His lips captured hers and her heart jumped in her chest, and she was pretty sure she’d let out a moan of longing. She angled her head and sank into him. Their tongues tangled, and his kiss tasted like hazelnut coffee. She clutched his shirt in her fist, tugging him closer as if trying to absorb him. She wanted to feel his bare, sleek skin against hers again. Well, the skin that wasn’t bandaged, anyway. His hands, braced at the lower part of her back, molded her to his body, and she felt his need, the hunger, the wild lust. Perhaps they had time to go to her hotel room before she had to prepare a suitable celebratory meal. However, the smoke gathered in her throat and to her dismay, she stifled a cough into his mouth. He let her go, the look in his eyes tender. A fit of coughing overcame her and she stumbled toward the door, opening it and letting the fresh morning air fill the room. Finally, her lungs stopped spasming, but not until her eyes were flooded with tears. She turned to look at Jared. He stood where she’d left him. “Are you ready to go?” she croaked. “No,” he replied. To her amazement, he sank on one knee and held out a small velvet box. On the top was the tiniest red bow she’d ever seen. “Will you marry me?” Emotion flooded through her, and although she tried to speak, her voice failed her. She could only nod and open the box. A three-diamond engagement ring rested against the velvet. “It’s beautiful.” Lia gasped. “I picked one with three diamonds. One for our past, one for the present and one for our future.” “What a wonderful sentiment.” Jared blushed. “That’s what the salesman told me it meant.” “I still think it’s lovely,” she slipped it on her finger. When had he had time to go out and buy a ring? She looked at him speculatively, wondering how to ask. Then she decided that it

wasn’t important when he’d gotten it, only that he had. She held out her hand. “Look, it’s a perfect fit.” Jared took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “Now I’m ready to go.” Amazingly, so was she. If only because she knew when she returned, she’d be coming home.

Bibliography For more information about camels in California: Camel-o-Rama http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m1216/is_5_210/ai_100805571/ Benecia California’s Camel Barns http://www.beniciahistoricalmuseum.org/

About Ericka Scott http://www.lyricalpress.com/ericka_scott Ericka Scott is a multi-published, bestselling author of seductive suspense. She's written stories for as long as she can remember and reads anything under the sun--including the back of cereal boxes in a pinch. She got hooked on romantic suspense in her college days when reading anything but a textbook was a guilty pleasure. Now, when she’s not chauffeuring children around, wishing she had more than 24 hours in a day, or avoiding the bane of her existence— housework--she’s spinning her own web of fantasy and penning tales of seduction and suspense. She currently lives in Southern California with her husband and three children. She also loves friends, so come friend her at http://myspace.com/erickascott She's also on Facebook at http://facebook.com/ericka.scott and Twitter @ErickaScott Ericka’s Website: www.erickascott.com Reader email: [email protected]