Every Little Thing

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EVERY LITTLE THING

LindaWinstead Jones

Contents:

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Chapter 1 ^» It was a smell John remembered from childhood: cotton candy and sausages and onions mingling with sweat and dust to create the unique aroma that could only be found at a carnival. The odor wafted past, sweet and pungent, almost nauseating—and still oddly comforting. The dusty pathway he walked was crowded with happy people who strolled shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. Bobbing heads were lit by the red lights of the Ferris wheel and the multicolored sparkle of strand after strand of Christmas lights that hung haphazardly above the path. Here it really was Christmas in July. He saw a lot of familiar faces in the crowd, many of them people he'd known all his life. Born and raised in the small town ofRed Grove,Alabama, he knew most of the carnival-goers well. He'd eaten at their tables, dated their daughters, delivered their newspapers and mowed their lawns. More recently, he'd written them parking tickets or let them off with a warning, broken up their fights or escorted their unruly teenagers home. He'd changed countless flat tires and driven one very pregnant woman to the hospital. And now when they saw him their bright smiles faded and they turned away, some of them shunning him with open animosity, others obviously embarrassed to catch his eye. In the beginning he'd tried to defend himself—for all the good it did. When his protests had been ignored or scoffed at or met with barely veiled disbelief, the rage buried deep inside had built to the boiling point. It hadn't taken him long to realize that giving in to that rage would only convince the townspeople that they were right; that Deputy John Quaid—ex-Deputy John Quaid—was off his rocker. It had been a stupid idea, following the whispered instructions that had come to him over the phone. I

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know the truth.Meet me at the carnival . No name, no details. The phone call was someone's idea of a prank, someone who no doubt watched right now, having a good laugh at his expense. "Tell your fortune?" He turned his head toward the husky voice and saw her standing in the open entrance of a small red and yellow and green striped tent lit with tiny yellow lights; more Christmas lights, it seemed. She stared right at him, ignoring the other carnival patrons. The crowd poured past and around John, those who passed closely taking care not to brush against him. She didn't move, not to motion to her tent, not to turn her gaze to another, more welcoming prospect. For a few long seconds he didn't move either, as if she'd paralyzed him with those eyes. Well, his feet were paralyzed; his heart, on the other hand, beat furiously. He returned her stare; maybe because she wasn't afraid, maybe because she was so damn pretty. Her face was finely sculpted, flawless from his vantage point. Dark hair hung over her shoulders, and wispy bangs brushed a pale forehead. She looked like a Gypsy, wearing a flowing purple and green caftan and red lipstick as bright as the stripes on the tent that framed her. "No." He shook his head and glanced at the sign planted at her side, a sign shaped like a giant hand. The wordsLady Lucretia were painted on the palm in an elaborate script, red on yellow. When he returned his gaze to the Gypsy, her knowing smile flustered him a little, and he turned away from her to rejoin the flow of the crowd. He ignored the hawkers and their racket games, as he'd tried to ignore the fortune-teller. Exhausted children cried, and teenagers walked arm in arm or sprinted past with a joyous shout. People, strangers and folks he knew well, looked at him and then turned away. Calliope music from an old-fashioned merry-go-round contrasted sharply with the other sounds, discordant and dreamlike. Horses in every color carried small, laughing children as they circled and rose and clipped. The synchronized screams of the brave patrons who rode the roller coaster reverberated in his brain, the noise piercing and oddly distant.This is a mistake . He knew that to be a fact, and still he searched the crowd, hoping to spot and miraculously recognize the anonymous caller. "Change your mind?" Somehow he'd come full circle to stand once again in front of the fortune-teller's tent. The Gypsy woman looked as if she hadn't moved, but had been standing there waiting for him to return. He shook his head. She crossed her arms over her chest, and the full sleeves of her bizarre outfit fanned out, wing-like, as she observed him with casual indifference. Exotic and mysterious, she was unlike any woman he had ever seen. He couldn't take his eyes off her. After staring for a moment too long, he stepped forward and away from the disturbing woman … and right into a little boy who held a giant paper cup of orange drink in one hand. The drink exploded up and out, soaking John's pants and splashing into the kid's face. Crushed ice crept under the tongue of John's shoes as the soda saturated his jeans and dripped to the ground, as orange liquid dribbled down the boy's cheeks.

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Worst of all, the kid started to bawl. "My drink!" he screamed. "I spent my last two dollars on that drink and now it's all gone! Mom! Dad!" No parent appeared, but the child looked up at John with huge, accusing eyes. "This man knocked my drink right out of my hand!" Even on his best day he wasn't good with kids, especially unhappy ones. He definitely didn't need a bellowing kid accusing him of assault; he was surrounded by a crowd who would just as soon lynch him as look his way. The fortune-teller was there before he could decide what to do or say to calm the noisy child. "You poor baby," she crooned, squatting down beside the little boy in a fluid motion, all grace and brightly colored silk. She reached into the folds of that silk, into a hidden pocket of her caftan, and withdrew a five-dollar bill. "It's not so bad. A little orange soda never hurt anybody." As she offered the bill to the boy with one hand, she wiped the offending liquid from his cheeks with the pale, red-tipped fingers of the other. "Get yourself another drink, and some cotton candy, too." The kid sniffled and studied the bill in his hand. The end to his wailing was strangely sudden. "Okay," he said sullenly as he turned away. "Ungrateful brat," John said under his breath as he reached for his wallet so he could repay Lady Lucretia. She reached out and took his hand as if he were yet another child to be dealt with, and the simple contact—her hand at his wrist—sent a flash of warmth shooting through his entire body. Without a word she led him toward the striped tent. Long fingers tipped with brightly painted nails wrapped around his wrist in a subtle yet firm manacle. As they reached the entrance she spoke. "I've got a towel inside. We'll get you cleaned up." John drew his hand away, easily breaking the attachment. "No, thanks. I'll be fine." She laughed, an unexpected sound as husky and smoky as the words she spoke. "You're soaking wet, and you've got orange soda in your very expensive tennis shoes." She turned to confront him. The eyes she fixed on him were bright and unflinching. "You're not afraid, are you?" She looked like a woman who hadnever been afraid. "No." "Then it would be silly of you to stand here dripping wet when I have a towel in my tent." She must have seen his surrender, because she turned her back to him and walked into the tent without taking his hand again. He followed obediently. She took a seat at a round table that was covered with large scarves in many bright, colors. More soft yellow lights were strung high in the tent, bathing Lady Lucretia in a warm glow. She reached beneath the table and snapped out a white towel emblazoned with a chain motel logo, and she tossed it at him. John snatched the towel from the air and rubbed it briskly over his soaked leg, against hopelessly drenched denim from thigh to ankle. He had to sit down in the chair that placed him directly opposite the palm reader, to remove the sneaker that squished with every step. The metal folding chair was flimsy and not firm on the ground. One leg rocked perilously, and the seat creaked. Tiny ice crystals fell to the grassy floor of the tent as he shook his shoe. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the woman

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watched his every move with a serene and knowing smile. This entire night had been a complete disaster. He should've ignored the taunting call and stayed home; he should be accustomed to isolation by now. Ready to escape, he stepped into his damp shoe and handed the towel across the table to Lady Lucretia. "Let me tell your fortune," she said, her sultry voice a soft caress. "Let me read your palm." John shook his head. "I don't think…" She flashed a smile, white teeth sharply brilliant against blood-red lipstick. "Come on, it's been a slow night. The place is full of kids, and kids don't care about the future. They're too busy with right now. I get terribly bored on these hot, slow nights. You don't want me to be bored and restless, do you?" He hesitated, and her bright smile faltered. Just a little. "Trust me," she whispered in a smoky voice John was certain he'd dream about tonight. He sat down and placed his hand on top of the table. He wanted to leave, he told himself, to escape the smells and the noise of the carnival, to leave behind the happy screams that were muffled and distant as he sat before the fortune-teller. But there was something about her smile that made him stay; something in her eyes that made him obey as if she were the teacher and he the student, eager to please. Besides, he reasoned, what would it hurt to let a pretty girl hold his hand for a few minutes? She took his hand in hers as if it were an inanimate object, unattached and lifeless, cradling it with warm fingers that brushed across his wrist. She studied his palm for a moment before she lifted her head and looked into his eyes. Her eyes, he noticed, were a very fetching shade of pale green, and heavily lined with black. The too-long lashes that framed those eyes were certainly false. "You're unhappy," she said, and then she turned her eyes to his palm once again. "Your life is in turmoil." "Isn't everybody's?" He tried to sound casual, but she was a difficult woman to fool, this Lady Lucretia. She lifted her eyes to his to deliver a censuring glance he felt to his bones. "Maybe. But yours is in turmoil most of the time." She cocked her head and stared at him boldly. "That's not normal." He'd heard enough. He pulled his hand out of her grasp and reached for his wallet. "How much? I don't have any tickets." "On the house." He opened his wallet and pulled out a crisp five-dollar bill. "For the clumsy kid," he explained as he dropped it onto the scarf-covered table. She pushed the five toward him, an inch or so. "Keep it." "I can't—" "He's the owner's son. I paid him to run into you," she explained matter-of-factly. "So keep your

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money." John raised his eyebrows. He shouldn't be surprised. This was just a carnival con, as rigged as the racket games that lined the dusty path beyond the brightly striped tent where Lady Lucretia dazed and amazed unsuspecting innocents. He'd come here blindly searching for answers, and had found a cheap swindler. But why had she told him the truth? Why wouldn't she take the lousy five bucks? That was the surprise, the unexpected move on her part. "Why?" "I wanted a look at your palm," she explained, as if that made everything all right, as if her curiosity justified any action. "I did ask nicely the first time. And the second time, as well." He left the five-dollar bill in the center of the table and stood, trying to ignore the fact that his shoe squished uncomfortably when he put his weight on it. "Did you see everything you wanted to see? Was it all you expected?" She seemed not to notice his sarcasm as she rose to her feet with a satisfied smile on her painted face. It would be ridiculous to say that they stood face-to-face, because he was just over six feet tall and she couldn't have been much more than five-five. "Come back tomorrow," she said, her voice whisky smooth. "I can't…" "Of course you can," she said, preempting his refusal. "I'll expect you." She cocked her head, and a strand of black hair fell across one cheek. "You didn't even tell me your name." He really shouldn't. Maybe she'd heard of him, and when he told her his name those luminous eyes would change. Then again, maybe not. "Why do I have the feeling that if I don't come back tomorrow night you're going to bunt me down?" She smiled. Not a sultry, exotic smile this time, but an unexpected wide and steady smile set in a Gypsy face. How long had it been since a woman had smiled at him like this? A very long time … too long … forever. It was worth the five bucks. It was worth more, much more. "Maybe I will," she said softly. "John," he said. "John Quaid." He waited for the change to come, for her smile to fade and her eyes to fog over in distaste or fear or curiosity. It didn't happen, and he felt his mouth form an answering smile, or at least the beginning of one. "And you're Lady Lucretia." She wrinkled her nose in obvious distaste. "Lucy. Lucretia is just better for business—more mysterious than plain old Lucy." He looked into pale green eyes and studied, too closely perhaps, lush red lips. The flowing caftan that should have disguised her body completely molded to her skin when she moved quickly, hinting at a perfectly shaped form beneath. Her smile made his heart damn near stop, and her voice was huskily enticing, the sleepy whisper of a seductive woman.Plain old Lucy? Not likely.

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"You'll be back tomorrow night?" she asked, as he turned away. "Maybe," he muttered. He glanced over his shoulder just once before he stepped out of the tent and into the humid night, fragrant with the smell of sausage and cotton candy. *** John had known, as he'd walked away from the carnival, that he would dream about the fortune-teller. He had. Strange, the things you hold onto when your life is falling apart. His hobby-turned-profession had saved his sanity in the past eight months; that and the knowledge that no matter what anyone else thought, he was innocent. The truth was cold comfort, but dreams of a pretty woman who smiled at him … ah, they were anything but cold. He stepped across the wide porch and into a bright morning to collect the newspaper from the walk, drawing fingers through his hair and squinting still-sleepy eyes to keep out the sunlight. It was too damn early to be up and out, but he hadn't been sleeping well lately, not even when he dreamed of beautiful Gypsies. John scooped the rolled-up newspaper from the walk as he heard the surly "Good morning." He straightened as he turned to face his neighbor. Danny Neil was dressed for work in his cheap suit and striped tie and polished shoes. What did he sell now? Insurance or something like that. Danny Neil had always been a salesman. "Morning," John said, trying not to sound too hostile. Danny, like everyone else in Red Grove, believed the worst. That in itself didn't bother John overmuch; Danny had never liked either of the Quaid boys, and they'd known one another since grade school. But lately Danny had been coming up with offers for John's house. No one wanted to live next door to an accused murderer. If Danny went to the trouble to say "Good morning," he most likely had another offer to present. Sure enough, Danny crossed the grass, moving from his own neatly mowed lawn to the ankle-high weeds that marked the dividing property line. He had his own newspaper in his hand; it had been opened and sloppily refolded. "Listen," Danny said, "my sister's looking to buy a house, and when she came by here the other day—" "No." John turned his back on Danny and the offer. "The least you can do is listen to me!" Danny said indignantly. John shook his head as he climbed the steps to his front porch. "You made the paper again!" Danny shouted. From the porch, John turned to see that Danny waved his newspaper like a black-and-white banner; Sir Danny, defending this suburban realm from encroachers and black knights and wife murderers and people who didn't treat their lawns for weeds. Bad press was the worst sin of all.

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"It's a follow-up story on the murders," he said. "There's a lovely picture of you and Claire on the front page." The bastard actually smiled; he was enjoying this. "I believe it's a wedding photo," Danny added. John dropped his newspaper carelessly onto the front porch. He had no desire to open it up and see an ancient photograph of himself with an arm around Claire. He had even less desire to read the article that accompanied the photo. "Thanks for the warning." He stepped into the house, leaving the newspaper on the porch and Danny Neil fuming on the walk. He thought about thecarny one more time, about her husky laugh and her fetching eyes. Then he went to the telephone to cancel his subscription to the newspaper. *** A mother with two small children, one captured in each hand, walked past the tent, her steps shortened to match the strides of the little boys. With their hands clasped, their arms swinging as they hurried along, they made a strangely heartwarming sight. From out of nowhere, a man carrying two pink, cloud-like servings of cotton candy appeared to swing the smallest of the two boys into his arms. A burst of giggles reached Lucy as she turned her head. Lately there were happy families everywhere she looked. Well, seemingly happy families, anyway. Some days she wondered what she was missing, if she would ever have laughing children of her own. At thirty-one, her time wasn't exactly running out, but it definitely marched on. What a senseless and melancholy thought! The carnival was no kind of life for a child. A familiar figure stepping out of the parking lot caught her attention. John Quaid was back. Lucy watched his approach from the entrance to her tent, a smile blooming on her face as she dismissed her strangely morose thoughts. Did he own anything but jeans and T-shirts? she wondered. It didn't matter; they suited him, dark and snug, casual and comfortable. What was it about John Quaid that got to her, that made her smile? She didn't know, exactly; she only knew that he was different from the others. She stored that fact away carefully. Lucy was nothing if not careful. If she was smart she'd get rid of him tonight. But of course, if she wasreally smart she would've sent him on his way last night as soon as she'd realized her mistake. He met most of her qualifications. He had money; the watch on his wrist was an expensive one. He looked lost, like a man who could use a friend: someone to gaze into his eyes and promise him a good future. The way the others at the carnival looked at him, out of the corner of a wary eye or suspiciously or not at all, told her he had secrets. A man with secrets made easypickin's for a phony clairvoyant. But she saw more. John Quaid was too smart to fall for her fortune-teller bit, too cautious to be taken in. The eyes he'd turned to her as she'd taken his hand hadn't been desperate and calculating, but honest. Honest and sad and just a little curious. Anger burned there, too, deeply buried anger that should've made her run from him with every ounce of strength she possessed.

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She should've sent him on his way last night without an invitation to return. He wasn't the type to fall for her simple scam, and it wasn't in her nature to approach strangers at the carnival, or anywhere else for any other reason. It had been years since the sight of a man had made her heart flutter like this. She'd learned to be cautious where the opposite sex was concerned. While April and Janet, the carnival workers who shared a trailer with her, ogled the more attractive men who either worked at or frequented the carnival, Lucy turned away, mentally and physically. John Quaid was definitely attractive, if a little rough around the edges. He looked as if he hadn't been sleeping or eating well—a look Lucy was well-acquainted with. But he had thick dark brown hair that hung just a little bit too long, and a way of moving that made her certain there were hard, interesting muscles beneath those casual clothes. He moved like a runner, all grace and power. The world was full of muscled bodies and slightly tousled beads of dark hair, and Lucy had learned to ignore them all. But she couldn't ignore JohnQuaid's eyes. A magnificent shade of silver-gray, they compelled her to tell him the truth about using Kenny to get him into her tent; they forced her to ask him to come back to see her. More than sad, they were haunted and deep and ancient. When she looked into those eyes, she knew without a doubt that he needed her. None of this made any sense—not the attraction, not the certainty that John Quaid needed her. For a while she'd been so sure that he wouldn't come back. She'd pondered the possibilities until dawn, when she'd convinced herself, with a resulting mixture of relief and distress, that she'd never see him again. But here he was, making his way toward her tent with a determined purpose in his slow step, as if he were walking down death row. It wasn't very flattering, but she couldn't say she was surprised by his trepidation. She felt too much of it herself. She straightened the blue costume she'd chosen for the evening, smoothing the silky fabric over her stomach and lifting her arms to shake out the voluminous sleeves. This caftan was a solid color, not wildly bright as many of her working outfits were. Maybe she hadn't been so convinced that John wouldn't come back, after all. She had a feeling—no she knew—that he would like her current attire better than the bright costume she'd worn the night before. He was a bit conservative. She threw back a strand of black hair that was rather stiff in her fingers. She hated the wig. There was no getting past it, though. It was a part of her guise. By the end of the night her head would itch; the damn wig was definitely too hot to be wearing on a summer night in Alabama.North Alabama, she reminded herself, as if that made any difference. It was hot as Hades, and humid to boot. If one more person said, "It's not the heat, it's the humidity," she was likely to do murder. Lucy sat at the table and pretended to give her full attention to the tarot cards she spread before her. It wouldn't do for her to be waiting for John in the entrance. Not again. She held her breath and waited, and even managed to glance up in mild surprise when he appeared before her. Evidently she wasn't as prepared as she'd thought she was. Her heart skipped a beat. "So, you decided to come back, after all," she said with a forced indifference as she gestured to the seat across the table. She took a slow, deep breath she shouldn't need.

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He shrugged his shoulders and took the offered seat, waving his hands over the cards. "You believe all this crap?" he asked, disbelief in his gruff voice. Once again, she had to be honest with him. "Sometimes. Sometimes not." She put the cards aside; they made John nervous. If he walked out now, she'd never see him again; she knew it. Impossibly, that knowledge gave her a chill. She reached out to take his hand. His skin was cool, and she tried to warm the hand by rubbing her palm against his. More than anything she wanted to ask him why he'd come back, but she didn't. She bent over his palm and ran the tip of a red fingernail over his heart line. "You're much more sensitive than you would have others believe," she whispered. "You feel … deeply, but you go to great trouble to hide your good heart." He scoffed, actually snorted beneath his breath. "You expect a lot from those you love," she continued, "but not more than you're willing to give." "What are you looking at?" he snapped, and she half expected him to jerk his hand from hers. He didn't. "Your heart line." He sighed deeply. "Can we move on?" Lucy relented and studied his life line. "You are blessed with good health, but you have a tendency to overdo, to take your well-being for granted." She glanced up, briefly, and then returned her attention to his palm. "The anger you keep inside will eat away at you, if you don't acknowledge and control it." "Aren't you going to tell me that I'm going to live a long and happy life?" he asked sarcastically. Lucy lifted her head and gazed into John's eyes. He didn't believe any of this, not the cards nor the palm reading nor the possibility that she might see into his heart. He was the type of man she rarely saw in this business: a skeptic, a realist. His type usually passed by the palmist's booth without so much as a second glance. Her usual clients believed, or at leastwanted to believe. "Why are you here?" She held her breath as she waited for an answer to the question she'd been afraid to ask. The air in the tent stilled, becoming so quiet and motionless that she felt almost certain John held his breath as she did. When he finally answered, his reply was far from satisfactory. "I don't know." His hands were no longer cold, but almost hot. They were hands that suited him, as perfectly shaped and masculine as his body; beautiful hands that were long-fingered and well formed. She would've thought guitar, but he had no calluses. He had hands of a piano player. She took a chance. "Do you still play?" she asked softly, and immediately she felt the telling jerk of his hand in hers. "No, not for years," he said in a low voice.

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Lucy had no real powers that every other human didn't possess, and she knew it well. All she had to call on was her intuition and powers of observation. That, along with the occasional tidbit Kenny fed her—a snippet of a conversation—was usually enough to make an impression. It didn't take any magical power to read troubled eyes, or to feel a tremble so deep it almost wasn't there, or to see helplessness in a face too young to have given up on life. Of course, some people were harder to read than others, and in some instances, in one case in particular, she had suspected the soul was dead, or else so dark that it might as well be. John loomed before her more open than he knew, exposed and honest. His face was rather harsh, with its sharp features and interesting angles. His build was masculine, his bearing unbending and raw. If he were sketched, the result would be a work of powerful, austere, straight lines. And yet, she saw a hint of softness deep in his eyes, almost as if he offered himself up to her; his hopes, his fears, his very soul. She released his hand and leaned back slowly. This was too much, too fast. Dammit, when she'd seen him coming she should've run the other way. Now it was too late. "Are you all right?" He leaned forward and watched her closely. She searched for all the signs she knew had to be there: the touch of fear, the morbid curiosity. But that wasn't what she saw. Concern and confusion—that's what she saw as she searched John's eyes. And as she looked deeper, a hint of longing. She shook her head. "No, dammit, I'm not all right. I need some time to think this through." John leaned back in his folding chair, assuming a pose much like her own. They were as far apart as they could get without one of them leaving their seat. In a moment the concern on his face died, and he watched her with a cynical smile forming on his lips. The eyes narrowed. "You want me to come back tomorrow night? And the next? And every night until the carnival pulls up stakes and leaves town? How much is this going to cost me, Lucy?" She took a deep breath. He was too close to the truth, and she couldn't formulate the calm, cool answer she needed to deliver. For once her silver tongue betrayed her, and she found herself speechless. John shot to his feet, and his soft, misty eyes turned to cold gray stone. "I've had enough, Lady Lucretia." Lucy rose slowly to her feet. She couldn't let him leave this way—angry and resentful. If he walked away now and never looked back, she'd always wonder what had drawn her to this particular man, after all this time. His eyes? The deep loneliness that reminded her so much of her own? Maybe something as simple as the annoying tick of her biological clock? If she didn't find out for herself, unanswered questions would haunt her dreams and her daydreams, and she'd see John's face in every crowd. She had to know. A loud, clay-faced teenager burst through the entrance to her tent and saved her, as she searched for the right words. "I want my fortune told!" he demanded, shoving half a hot dog into his mouth. Mustard was smeared at

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the corner of a wide, soft mouth, and dribbled down the front of a faded T-shirt that sported the image of a bottle of beer and a well-endowed woman in a red bikini. Lucy gave the offensive teenager an imperious look she'd perfected, as she slowly raised her hand and pointed to him with a wicked red fingernail. "You will wait outside, young man," she said, deepening her already throaty voice. She interrupted his stumbling compliance with another command. "You willnot leave. I will have my time with you." The boy paled. His intent to run had been so clear on his face that any fool could have seen it, but now he believed she had the power to read his mind. He would wait, and she would make up for scaring him by bestowing a good fortune he didn't deserve. She didn't look at John until the young man had left the tent. He smiled, and for a moment there was no pain in his eyes. "You're very good," he conceded. He was going to leave, this time for good. His curiosity had been satisfied; he knew her for what she was. There was no reason for him to return. "John," she said tentatively, as he was about to leave her tiny tent. "There's a Waffle Hut about a half-mile down the road." He turned to face her, and he stood so near he had to look down to meet her stare. She could see the dark stubble on his stubborn jaw; she could feel his body heat. It would be so easy to lift her hand and lay it on his arm, to very lightly touch his chest. She wanted to hear his heartbeat, to feel his heat. She couldn't touch him, didn't dare, but she didn't back away. Neither did he. "I know," he finally answered. "Meet me there at two a.m.," she said softly. "Or don't." The choice was his, and for once Lucy couldn't read the answer on his face. She watched him leave; tonight he didn't look back. She took a calming breath, squared her shoulders, and told herself, not very convincingly, that it didn't matter. Outside the tent, Lucy wrapped slender fingers that ended in long, bright red fingernails around the rude boy's wrist. He wanted to cry out; she could see that so clearly on his pimply face. But he didn't even try to pull away from her, much less protest aloud. The yellow lights strung around her tent made his face look sallow and sickly, and she tried to comfort him with a smile. It didn't work. His eyes widened and he dropped the bite-size piece of hot dog bun that had been grasped in fat fingers. With a sigh, Lucy released the boy and gave him a tender shove into the tent. For all his size, he was just a child, defiant and full of energy—indestructible one moment and scared to death the next. He was a child as far from being a man as Lucy was from the innocent girl she'd been at sixteen. A palm reading that promised pretty girls, found money and good luck would make him forget that for a while he'd been terrified of Lady Lucretia. Chapter 2

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«^» Two-fifteen. Maybe she wasn't going to show. John didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. He decided to be relieved, and asked himself again what the hell he was doing in Waffle Hut after two a.m., sipping coffee with the strangest bunch of people he'd ever seen. On the opposite side of the restaurant, in a booth situated against one of two glassed walls, sat a couple of burly truckers in plaid shirts and worn blue jeans. They wore ratty baseball caps, and it had been a while since either of them had seen a razor or had a haircut. Seated behind the oldest of the two truckers was a young person of questionable gender who had a gold loop through one earlobe and a diamond stud in his or her nose. He, or she, ate alone, yet still managed to carry on a soft chat, complete with body language and the occasional chuckling nod of the head. The large man in the booth John faced had a number of tattoos; most notably an eagle on a muscular bicep that was displayed beneath a ripped-out sleeve, and a coiled cobra on a tanned forearm. Judging by his relaxed attitude and the conversation he carried on with the waitress, he was a regular. She called him Tank; given the man's size it was a fitting appellation. John had arrived early. Was he really this desperate for what Lady Lucretia had to offer? Hell, no. He didn't expect her to look at his palm and offer answers. It was all mumbo jumbo, a con, entertainment for the mentally challenged. What he wanted, what he needed, was to look at a pretty face that wasn't tense with fear; to see a woman—even a phony carnival fortune-teller—smile at him. He'd been sitting in this red vinyl booth since 1:45, sipping decaf and waiting. He'd never been good at waiting. The blonde who came strolling through the glass doorway caught his eye, and he looked her over appreciatively even as he wondered what she was doing out alone at this time of night. Long-legged and shapely, she wore a pair of faded blue jeans and a plain black T-shirt that hung halfway down her thighs. She had pale blond hair, and even from a distance he could see that it was baby-fine and soft. It hung just to her shoulders without a hint of a curl, and wispy bangs brushed her eyebrows. She walked toward him with a smile on her face. The smile and, as she got closer, those green eyes gave her away. "Sorry I'm late." She dropped onto the padded seat on the opposite side of the table. "Lucy?" The makeup had been scrubbed from her face, and she looked nothing like the Gypsy lady who'd read his palm. No, notnothing like. There was the smile, and the eyes, and that husky voice. When she placed her hands on the table, he saw the long, red fingernails that had traced the lines on his palm. She must have seen his eyes light there, because she wiggled her fingers and tapped her nails against the white Formica tabletop with a sharp, clicking beat. "The wig, the makeup, the costume—they come off. The nails are mine." She grinned. "I didn't know if you'd be here or not." "Neither did I." The waitress appeared and asked Lucy if she wanted a cup of decaf. Lucy made a childishly disgusted face, screwing up her nose and pursing her lips. "Decaf? No way. I want the real thing, strong as you've got it."

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After the waitress moved away, John spoke. "You'll never get to sleep tonight." Lucy shrugged her shoulders and glanced around the room, her bright eyes taking in everything. "I don't sleep much, anyway. Usually I sleep from sunup until aboutnoon." The waitress, a tall woman with her name, Helen, embroidered above one breast, placed Lucy's coffee on the table. Lucy grabbed three packets of sugar, ripped them open, and dumped the contents into her white mug. "Do you have any pie?" she asked huskily. Helen seemed unconcerned with Lucy's caffeine-and-sugar fix; but then, she didn't seem concerned about much of anything except waiting on this table without standing any closer to John than was absolutely necessary. "We got lemon, strawberry, blueberry and pecan." "Strawberry," Lucy said without hesitation. She turned her attention to John as Helen walked away, latching incredibly radiant eyes on his face. "I guess you're expecting more information about what I saw in your palm." She lifted the heavy white mug to her lips and watched him over the rim as she drank. Deep inside his gut something unexpected came to life. It twitched and teased. "Not really," he said calmly. Lucy's green eyes danced as she cradled the coffee mug in both hands. "Good." She seemed pleased with his answer. "I'm not certain that I'll he able to tell you anything." A lopsided wedge of pie, more whipped cream than strawberries, was plopped onto the table. Lucy picked at it and asked the waitress for a refill on her coffee. "You really won't sleep tonight," John said. Lucy just shrugged her shoulders, and kept her eyes on him as she ate. She didn't speak until she had her third cup of coffee in front of her and the empty pie plate had been taken away. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable, not for him and apparently not for her, either. She wasn't outwardly apprehensive; she didn't fidget or hem and haw. She seemed to be studying him, in fact, and he … well, hell, he just watched her drink her coffee, as he'd watched her pluck whole strawberries from the fork with her teeth. Every now and then his insides tightened and his heart beat too hard, as his body instinctively responded to the woman across the table. He wanted her intensely, this woman he barely knew, but for now he had to be content to watch. Finally, she clasped her hands together and rested them on the table, straightened her spine and lifted her chin in a move more friendly than defiant. "What do you do, John?" Ah, how did he answer that one? Carefully, he supposed. "I'm in investments." She smiled brilliantly. "Now, that's a vague answer if ever I heard one."

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Most people just nodded and changed the subject when he told them about the hobby that had become quite profitable for him. They either weren't interested or didn't understand and didn't want to appear foolish by admitting it. Not Lucy. "I buy and sell stocks. You know—buy low, sell high." "That doesn't sound like a real job to me." He'd had a real job not so long ago—that of deputy sheriff. He decided not to mention that fact; it would require more explanation than he was willing to attempt at this point. God, he didn't want to ruin this moment. "Not a very tactful response," he said with a grin. Her answer was serious. "I don't do tact. I tried it once or twice and it doesn't work for me." He half expected a smile to follow this remark, but it didn't. "You're right," he admitted. "It's not a real job. I work at home and I do it when I damn well please, trading over the Internet and over the phone. Call me a gambler, if it makes you feel any better." He'd made a bundle in the past three years, but not very many people knew that. His lifestyle was simple. Once upon a time he'd had the nice house and the fast car he'd had to bust his butt to pay for, and they hadn't made him happy. Besides, Claire had gotten most of it in the divorce. He had no desire to start all over again, to invest inthings that meant nothing. "A gambler," she said. "That sounds much more exciting than 'I'm in investments.'" "Same thing," he assured her. "I play with money. Sometimes I win big, sometimes I lose big. Some days luck is with me, others days I feel like I have a black cloud hanging over my head." Lately that black cloud had become a permanent fixture in his life, but he didn't want to discuss that with Lucy. He wanted toforget with her. "And what do gamblers do for fun?" The sparkle returned to her eyes, a laughing luster that brightened the night. "They go to the carnival." Her grin came back. Oh, he liked it, he liked it a lot. Dammit, he liked that grin too much. "What else?" "Go to the movies," he said. "Read." She cocked her head so a strand of pale hair swayed, and he watched, fascinated by the sight of that silky hair brushing the perfect curve of her cheek. "What do you like to read?" "Most anything." She sighed, apparently losing patience with his generic answers. "Okay, what was the last book you read? Oh, let me guess," she said before he had a chance to respond. "A mystery with a drunken PI and a quirky sidekick."

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He shook his head. "A steamy romance," she said quickly and with a widening grin, "with lots of rich people betraying one another and having a wonderful time all around." He shook his head again. "Some fortune-teller you are. The book I just finished was the newest horror by—" he wracked his brain for a moment "—what's his name, the guy who was in that vampire movie of his own novel last year." "Oh, I know," she said. "The book about the werewolf." "That's it." She placed both elbows on the table and leaned her chin into her hands. "I love the werewolf," she said. An odd admission, but she seemed to mean it. "You do?" She nodded slowly. "When I was growing up, every Saturday night there was a horror movie on television after the late news. Not the gross stuff that's out there now, but the old black-and-white classics.Frankenstein. The InvisibleMan.AndTheWolfman , of course. My father, my sister and I would stay up late and make popcorn and watch the movie in our pajamas." "What about your mother?" he asked, noting the omission. "Was she around?" Lucy shook her head. "My mother never liked to be scared. Just the creepy music would send her scurrying from the room, and when there was too much screaming, she'd always yell at us to turn the television down." She smiled, the soft smile of a woman lost in a pleasant childhood memory, and she was, at that moment, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She snapped out of her trance quickly, and signaled the waitress for yet another cup of coffee. John shook his head. Her energy was obviously caffeine-induced. "I liked the werewolf best," she said after the waitress moved away from the table. "It was very sad, really. He didn't want to be a monster. I mean…" She shook her head slowly, and fine, pale hair danced above her shoulders. "Dracula enjoyed himself much too much, and Frankenstein waskinda hard to identify with, but theWolfman —the werewolf—he always ended up killing the people he loved the most. He had such haunted eyes." She seemed to snap to, and she looked at him strangely. "You have eyes like that, John. The eyes of a wolf." What did she see? She looked at him as if she could see all his secrets, from the smallest white lie to the darkest memory. She looked at him as if she knew him well, as if they'd spent a thousand nights just like this—talking and laughing. Her lips parted slightly, as if she were thinking of speaking again, but no sound came. Ah, yes. John's cynical tendencies rose to the surface. Lucy was very good at what she did. All she had to do was look at him this way, and he wanted to tell her everything; he wanted to hold her hand and gaze into those wide green eyes and spill his guts.

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He didn't, of course, and the conversation turned absurdly normal. John knew why he was here, but what had brought Lucy to the Waffle Hut in the middle of the night? Why had she asked him to meet her here? He had his suspicions, but in truth he didn't care. Not really. It was enough that she sat with him and talked of such inconsequential things as the weather and the latest summer movie releases. He tried not to wonder too hard how Lucy knew he needed this friendly conversation. He paid for their coffee and Lucy's pie, and then he walked her to the parking lot. All was quiet at four in the morning, and the thin light from a single street lamp made him feel as if his existence had suddenly shrunk, and there were just the two of them in a simple world. At this moment, nothing mattered. He liked it. He liked it so much that he was already dreading the moment she would walk away and it would be over. "Your car?" Lucy leaned against his battered old Ford. He nodded. "Where's yours?" "I walked." "You didwhat?" He tried to disguise the alarm in his voice, but he couldn't fool her. She smiled at his censure. "I walked," she repeated. "You can't do that again," he said sharply. The very idea of her alone on that road made his heart beat hard and fast, and he was almost overwhelmed by the desire to touch her, to reach out and lay his hand on her face. "Why not?" Much as he wanted to, he didn't reach for her. He didn't need to. She lifted her hand, grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward her, just a little. Her fingers brushed his chest through the soft cotton, and he was instantly hard. He'd never kissed Lucy, he'd never touched her; but at this moment he wanted her more than he'd ever dreamed of wanting any woman. "It's not safe," he said. He didn't want to tell her anything more, didn't want her to look at him the way everyone else in town did. And if she knew what he'd been accused of, she surely would. "There have been three murders in the past eight months. All women." She drew him to her, as much with her smile as with her gentle hand. And he knew he wouldn't tell her anything more. He wouldn't spoil this moment for anything so crass as the truth. "Then maybe you should give me a ride home," she whispered. He laid his hand on her arm, skimmed his fingers over her shoulder to touch the bare skin of her neck. Damn, it felt good. With a very gentle persuasion, he tilted her head back so that her face was washed in a diffused ray of light from the street lamp. He knew that when he kissed her, it would he powerful, so he hesitated when his lips were inches from hers. He was hanging on to his sanity by such a thin thread; he couldn't afford to get involved with a

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woman, especially not Lucy. But he couldn't have stopped if his life depended on it. He settled his lips over hers and kissed her, thinking that if he pressed his mouth to hers hard enough he would be able to convince himself that she was no different from any other strange and beautiful woman. It didn't work that way. Ah, he loved the taste of her—coffee and sugar, hot and sweet. He loved the feel of her—soft and warm. A deep tremble rocked through her lips and her hands. She yielded herself to him completely with that kiss, wrapping her arms around his waist and parting her lips, pressing herself against him from knee to mid-chest. He wondered if she could feel his arousal pressing against her; he wondered if she cared. He wanted to take her home with him and lay her in the center of his bed; he wanted to taste her, and touch her and lose himself inside her. He might never let her go. They broke away at the same time, moving slowly and peeling their bodies apart. Judging by the wary look in her eyes, Lucy was as dazed as he was. "I think I should walk, after all," she breathed. "No, I'll…" Lucy slipped past him and stalked toward the two-lane road that led to the fairgrounds. It was just over half a mile from here to there, the stretch was lit with sporadically placed street lamps, and there was no sign of life, and still… She disappeared around the bend, blending into the shadows and disappearing from sight. Unease rose up in his gut—unease, hell, it was undeniable fear—as he jumped into his car and started the rumbling, noisy engine. He followed her, breathing a sigh of relief when the glow of his headlights illuminated her. She didn't turn around, didn't even step from the blacktop. But of course, she must've known he was the one creeping along behind her. He pulled up beside her and leaned across the front seat to roll down the passenger window. "Hop in," he insisted. "I'll give you a ride back to the carnival." Lucy shook her head and pointedly refused to look at him. "No, thanks. I'm fine." She wasn't fine. Her voice trembled and she wouldn't even glance in his direction. What had scared her off? It was just a kiss. An earth-shattering experience, a sensation to get lost in—but still just a kiss. She took long strides down the side of the road, and with one hand on the steering wheel John let the car creep along, keeping pace with her. "All right," he finally conceded. "I'll just follow you until I'm sure you're home safely." Lucy shook her head. "Get lost or I call the cops." John laughed, and the sound wasn't pretty. The noise that came from his throat was harsh, with no humor in it. If only she knew how much the sheriff would enjoy receiving that call. "And tell them what? That your date insisted on seeing you home safely, rather than allowing you to walk down a deserted road at four in the morning? That's ahangin ' offense, I'm sure."

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He stopped the car as Lucy finally turned to face him. "You just don't get it, do you?" she whispered. "I guess I don't." He couldn't see Lucy nearly well enough, but it seemed that her jaw tightened, that her entire face hardened. This wasn't the same woman who'd laughed and talked with him over coffee, who'd held his hand in the privacy of an absurd tent and looked into his eyes and made him feel, for the first time in months, that he wasn't alone in the world. "It's a con. You were right all along." She took a single step closer to the car. "If everything had gone well, I would've seen you at the carnival every night, and by the end of the week I would've seen you parted from some of your money. Cross the fortune-teller's palm with silver if you want atrue reading. Twenty bucks a pop. It's what I do." "I know." He knew he'd managed to surprise her with his quick answer. She winced, her entire body jerking softly. "Now get in and let me drive you home." She opened the back door and slid in, placing her arms across her chest defiantly. "All right," she snapped. "Go." He didn't have far to drive, and he did it in silence. He might as well have been alone. Lucy didn't say a word. All he could hear was her breathing, a little fast and a little unsteady, in the back seat. As soon as the car came to a stop near the community of trailers, she threw the door open. Instead of running away, as he'd expected she would, she crossed in front of the car, walking through the headlight beams, and then she leaned in his open window. "It wasn't a date," she said belatedly. "If you say so." "It was business, that's all." She sounded as if she was trying to convince herself, as well as him. "Just business," he repeated. "Yeah." He kept expecting her to break into a run, but she stood at the window, looking in, looking at him. "Why did you tell me the truth?" he asked, not quite ready for her to leave. "About your fortune-telling scam." She gave the car a quick and scornful once-over. "One look at this Ford, and I knew you didn't have nothin ' to take, darlin'." Her voice seemed purposely hard, but a faint quaver gave her away. "The gold watch had me fooled, but it looks to me like you need cash more than I do." Her face hovered close to his, a few inches away, and he wanted to kiss her again. He wanted it with an intensity that surprised and frightened him. "Are you sure that's the only reason?" She sighed heavily, but to his surprise she didn't move away. All he had to do was tilt his head and list

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forward slightly, and his lips would be against hers. "Yes," she whispered, her lowered voice an homage to the night and the darkness. He leaned forward to brush his lips against hers, moving slowly and giving her plenty of time to back away, if that's what she wanted. She did take her mouth from his, eventually. "Don't come to the carnival tomorrow," she ordered softly as she took a step back. "The Waffle Hut, two a.m." She walked away from the car and into the shadows without a backward glance. *** Lucy closed the trailer door silently. The light above the sink blazed, bathing the kitchen and living room area in a soft glow. Her roommates knew better than to leave the trailer dark. One of them had left that light burning, but it wasn't enough. Lucy snapped on the lamp on the end table and plopped herself down in the circle of light. "I was getting worried." Lucy turned toward the soft voice and did her best to smile. April was just a kid, but she mothered Lucy and Janet as if they were her children. It had been a year since April had joined them. She worked the games on occasion, or the concessions when money was tight and Martin didn't want to hire any locals. April looked even younger than her nineteen years, with her baby face and pale brown hair that was usually pulled back into a ponytail high on her head. The fact that she was given to clothes that were much too large for her completed the picture; she usually looked as if she dressed in an older sister's hand-me-downs, and she slept in a huge blue-and-gold football jersey that hung to her knees. Lucy kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her, as April sat on the opposite end of the small sofa. "You should be asleep." "I was worried." April reached out and patted Lucy's knee. "I met a…" Lucy floundered. "He's just a nice guy, and I let him buy me coffee. That's it." It sounded good, so why was she still scared? April smiled brightly. How many times had she advised Lucy to find a nice man and settle down? Settle down, what a joke. Rampant biological clock or no, Lucy knew damn well that would never happen. "Is he cute?" she asked, whispering so as not to wake Janet. The tattooed lady was a light sleeper. Lucy didn't mean to return April's smile, but she found herself doing just that. "Very." Cute didn't begin to describe John Quaid, but the word would do for the moment. Power wasn'tcute , sexy wasn'tcute , and goodness knows there hadn't been anythingcute about that kiss. But for April,cute covered a lot of ground. "I was beginning to worry about you and your hostility toward men," April revealed. "Beginning to?"

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"You know what I mean." April was so transparent, so unerringly optimistic. She still believed in love and happily-ever-after. She should know better. Lucy didn't know how the young girl had ended up at the carnival, but it wasn't the ideal life for anyone. The road to this place was bumpy and hard, and they never talked about it. Never. "It was just coffee," Lucy said softly. "I'll probably never see him again." "If he comes back tomorrow night, will you point him out to me? I'll ask Martin if I can work the balloon game—it's close to your tent. You can just, you know, give me the 'high' sign when you see him coming." "He won't be back tomorrow night," Lucy whispered.Tonight , she amended silently. For most of the world the day had already begun. "How can you be so sure?" April sounded more disappointed than she should have. "I told him not to come." April sighed, a very young, very hopeful sigh. "What did you do that for?" Lucy shrugged, and the conversation was over. April rose from the couch, reached over and switched on another lamp. "Thank you," Lucy whispered. April glanced over her shoulder as she disappeared down the hallway to the room they shared. "Good night." Lucy knew that when she finally rose from the couch and made her way to that room, to the narrow bed nearest the window, there would be a light burning, a small bedside lamp that April switched on each night before she crawled into her own narrow bed and turned her face to the wall. Sitting on the couch in a pool of light, Lucy hugged her arms to her chest. To most of the world, she was Lady Lucretia. In her wig and costume, she could smile and take charge and become someone else—someone strong and in control. John Quaid made her feel like Lucy again. He stripped away the facade and bared her soul, and while that should scare her senseless … somehow it didn't. Lady Lucretia was a role she played, a person who didn't exist. It was as if Lucy had been sleeping too long. How long had it been since she'd craved a kiss from a man, since she'd been bold enough to lean forward and take what she wanted? Who was she kidding? She'd never been so bold—until tonight. Until not knowing what the kiss would be like became more horrible than the possible consequences. She laid back on the couch and stretched out, grabbing a pillow to hug to her chest. But the kiss had been too powerful. It had touched her too deeply. No matter how connected she felt to John Quaid, she couldn't possibly get involved with him. After five years of being cautious and distant, she felt vulnerable again, all because of a single kiss. She should hate John Quaid for that … but she didn't. Right now her thoughts of him were nothing but tender. Not that it mattered. In a few days the carnival would pull up stakes and leave town, and John would be nothing but a memory. A good memory. Oh, she didn't have nearly enough good memories.

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The next hour or so would drag, she knew. The last hour before the sun came up passed slowly, but she always waited. Surviving that last hour was a little like trying to swim to the surface of a deep dark lake, reaching toward the sun, struggling against the weights that tried to pull her down. Her greatest fear, her worst nightmare, was that there would come a night that wouldn't end. *** It was too damn hot for him to be running, but that didn't stop John. Usually he ran in the morning when it was still cool, but then he usually got home well beforefive a.m.He didn't usually toss and turn until the sun came up, wishing that he wasn't alone in his big bed… The afternoon sun beat down on him, and sweat poured down his back, soaking his T-shirt and shorts. His feet pounded against the asphalt almost without his being conscious of the act; he was on automatic. These were the moments when he came closest to forgetting the disasters of the past eight months. He heard the car behind him and moved to the curb, hugging the side of the road so the car could pass. It didn't. With a muttered curse he stopped and turned around. The vehicle that came to a stop was a sheriff's patrol car. Lonnie Phillips sat behind the wheel, and when his eyes lit on John he smiled widely and put the car in Park. Maneuvering from the car always seemed to be an effort for Lonnie, even though he wasn't exactly fat. Yet. He was getting there, though, and he was definitely clumsy. "Good afternoon, Quaid," Lonnie said in an overly friendly tone of voice. "Lonnie," John said in a tone that was not quite so friendly. "What do you want?" Lonnie leaned against the fender of his car. "Now, you ain't one of us anymore, and while I'm on the job I expect you to call me Deputy Phillips. Show some respect for your betters, Quaid." Lonnie Phillips didn't deserve respect—John's or anyone else's. "What do you want?" "I just want you to know I'm keeping an eye on you," Lonnie said. Maybe he thought his casual pose and squinted eyes made him look tough. He was wrong. "I wish I could say I'll sleep better at night knowing you're on the job, Deputy Phillips," John said with thinly veiled sarcasm. "I'm surprised you can sleep at all," Lonnie countered. John wasn't going to allow Lonnie to bait him into an argument he couldn't win. The inept deputy would be ecstatic if he could goad John into a fight and then toss him in jail on a charge of assaulting an officer. "Will there be anything else, Deputy Phillips?" John asked calmly. "I reckon not." Lonnie made no move to return to the driver's seat of his patrol car. John turned his back to Lonnie and jogged away. The moment of peace he'd been enjoying a few minutes earlier had evaporated. In spite of the heat, he would run a few extra miles today.

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Chapter 3 «^» The overhead lights had been dimmed, and some of the flashing lights that marked the rides had been turned off completely. Lucy walked briskly through the half-light toward the trailer. She should've left the tent an hour ago, rather than sitting at her table mooning over John Quaid, wondering if it was such a good idea to meet with him again. No one else was in sight as she made the trek between the carnival rides and what she called 'home', her gaze focused unerringly straight ahead. Several beat-up old trailers were parked close together, and dim yellow light through frosted windows marked the transient village in the distance. Even in the dark it was clear the trailers had seen better days, but this was the only home Lucy had known for years. Her fear of the dark wasn't as overwhelming outdoors. Here she had the moon, the stars, city lights or street lamps. In fact, she rather liked the silent, cool air, and the wash of a full moon. Inside, trapped in a prison with four walls, complete darkness surrounded her. Worse, there was nowhere to run to. Tonight a prickle, of nervousness danced down her spine. She couldn't explain it, unless she wrote it off to anticipation. Silly. She didn't know John well enough to anticipate anything from him. Still, most of the time she was an excellent judge of character, and she liked John, dammit. She liked him more than she should, more than she'd allowed herself to like a man for a very long time. That in itself was reason to avoid him. What had possessed her to ask him to meet her again tonight? She'd known from first glance that he wasn't like the others—the lost innocents she'd learned to play like a worn deck of cards. Lucy didn't think of herself as a con artist. All she did was provide entertainment, a story for her clients to tell their friends. Sometimes she provided hope for those who needed it. When she found before her a man she knew, from Kenny's reports, to he aggressive and even abusive, she always did her best to scare the meanness out of him. When a man was told that what he gave would come back to him a hundredfold, and hebelieved it, there was always a chance he'd change his ways. Of course, Lucy never stuck around long enough to know if her ploy worked. She never felt so much as a twinge of guilt, not even when she saw a spark of true fear in a man's eyes. When she looked into their frightened faces, she saw Paul. She remembered how he had lied to her, and it made her own lies easier. She hadn't been able to lie to John, hadn't been able to slip into the role of Lady Lucretia. How long had it been since she'd mentioned her family to anyone? Her childhood? Last night she'd babbled on about long-ago Saturday nights and her mother's dislike for horror movies. Maybe she was getting soft, growing too old for the game. Dammit, she didn't want to get involved again, not even with John Quaid. A dark figure shot out of nowhere. She caught a glimpse of a shadow, heard the crush of brittle grass beneath rushing feet, and then something—someone—crashed into her back. She hit the ground hard. Air left her lungs suddenly, driven from her chest in an explosive rush. The world started to close in on her, as if she might faint, and her panic grew. No! It wouldn't happen again. She wouldn't allow it to happen again. She focused on the pain—on the ache in her lungs and a. sharp twinge in her shoulder—and her mind cleared. A great weight pressed her into the ground, and she could barely breathe, much less scream.

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Dry grass bit into a tender cheek, rough and sharp. She lifted her head from the ground and inhaled deeply, readying a scream, but before she could make a sound, a gloved hand closed over her mouth. The assailant tossed her roughly onto her back. Blood ran cold through her veins, the sight of her attacker stealing her breath away again. Illuminated in the moonlight, a creature—amonster —hovered above her. A monster mask, she corrected herself as the initial panic gave way to reality. A mask with spiked hair, plastic grimace, sharp pointed teeth, and eyes lost in deep, dark sockets. Her attacker's breath came hard and fast in the confines of the mask, and he crushed her against the hard ground with his massive body as he held his hand clamped over her mouth. Suddenly a knife loomed, catching a flash of the carnival lights behind them. A broad blade and a wickedly pointed tip glittered near her face. The man in the mask touched the tip of his knife to her throat, and she felt the bite of that sharp edge against her skin. The slightest movement would send the blade into her throat. "Make a sound, and I'll slit your throat," he whispered, his breath echoing inside the mask. The pressure at her mouth lifted away slowly, and the weight crushing against her body lessened. The hand that had silenced her slid slowly down her neck, gloved fingers slipping over her skin, across her shoulder, down her arm—like a lover's touch as gentle as the breeze that washed over them. Surely the knife in his hand would falter; she held on to that hope with a silent desperation. The masked face turned to watch the gloved band against her silky costume. Lucy remained perfectly still. The blade at her throat wavered with a tremble of the attacker's hand, and the pain that followed came sharp and clear. A drop of warm blood trickled down Lucy's neck. "So beautiful," he whispered, his voice muffled behind the mask. The knife slipped again, away from her skin this time, and Lucy took her chance. She grabbed the attacker's arm, pushed the knife away from her throat, and she screamed. The knife returned to her throat instantly, and the grotesque monster grabbed her by the hair and cursed at her. The black wig came off in his grasping hands, revealing her own pale hair. He stopped to stare for one hushed moment at the wig he held. But the knife at her throat didn't waver, not even when he tossed the wig aside and turned that hideous rubber face to her. Sunken eyes stared down at her as the knife bit into her neck, ever so slightly. "It really doesn't matter," he whispered. A trailer door flew open, spilling light onto the dark ground. A familiar voice called Lucy's name.April . Then someone, more than one someone, was running toward her and the man who pinned her to the ground. Lucy closed her eyes and waited for the knife to slice into her skin. With a final vow the attacker leapt up, and the sudden sensation of being free of his weight left Lucy light-headed. A beam of light flashed across her face, blinding her. One deep voice cried out as a group of men—six or more carnival workers—rushed forward. The monster in the mask vanished, disappearing into the darkness of the thick growth of trees that surrounded the carnival grounds.

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A familiar face bent over hers, and Lucy looked up at an unkempt beard, more gray than brown, and a pair of beady eyes narrowed to slits. "Lucy? Are you all right?" She grasped Martin's hand and held on tight, finding an unexpected comfort in the steady strength her boss offered. She couldn't speak—not yet. But with Martin's hand in hers she managed to take a deep breath. The rest of the men followed her attacker into the woods, but Lucy was certain they wouldn't catch him. At least, she hoped they wouldn't, because the man who had jumped her wouldn't hesitate to use that knife against them. "I'm fine," she said shakily. Heaven above, she wasn'tfine , she wasn't anywhere close to fine, but Martin looked at her so intently, with fear and concern, that she had to try to reassure him. "Call the police," she said, as he helped her to her feet. Her legs trembled, her arms shook, and she couldn't make them stop. "The last thing he said was … I'll be back for you." *** John sat in the same booth he'd occupied the night before, sipping decaf and glancing at his watch again: 2:45. Lucy had been late last night, but not this late. Still, he wasn't ready to give up on her, not yet. He'd been tempted to make an appearance at the carnival again, in spite of Lucy's orders—just to catch a glimpse of her, to see what her reaction to him would be. Was she still wary? Or would he get another of those dazzling smiles? She was an admitted con artist who laughed and kissed with abandon one minute and ran from him the next, who declared with finality that their get-together was not a date, and in the next breath asked him to meet with her again. He didn't understand her. Maybe his confusion was part of the con, a kind of distraction. 2:57 a.m.He started to get worried. What if she'd decided to walk again? Red Grove had always been a quiet, peaceful place, but in this town it was no longer safe for any woman to be out alone at night. John leaned back against the red vinyl seat, trying to relax. The customers in the Waffle Hut were much the same as the night before; different faces, same eccentric type. Only one face was actually the same: that of the big tattooed guy, Tank. John waited as long as he could before glancing at his watch again:3:15. She wasn't coming. He drained the last of his coffee and decided to go looking for her. At the very least he could check the side of the road between the restaurant and the carnival site. He leaned forward, suddenly and truly concerned. She could've sprained her ankle, or been hit by a car… You've been stood up. John calmed himself and slid down in his seat. He'd never waited an hour for a woman before, not even Claire. But then, he'd never known a woman like Lucy. No woman had ever looked at him the way she did, smiled at him as if nothing else mattered but the moment they lived in. Foolish thoughts. He couldn't expect anything of her. In a few days the carnival would move on to the next town, and Lucy would look into another man's eyes and touch his soul. And probably his wallet, as well. The waitress poured another cup of coffee without asking if he wanted it. "Youwaitin ' on that girl who

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was in here last night?" she asked in her normal, toneless voice. John nodded. "Doesn't she work at that carnival down the road?" "Yes, she does." John looked up at the waitress, a tall woman with brown over-permedhair and dark red lipstick. Some of that lipstick had somehow ended up on her teeth. Helen hadn't said two words to him last night, and he'd gotten the same treatment so far this evening. Being a pariah did have its advantages. "Lonnie Phillips was in here before you showed up." John didn't even try to hide his disgust. "He said a woman got attacked tonight, one of the carnies." Helen's eyes glittered as she indulged in her favorite pastime: gossip. "Somebody came at her with a knife right there on the fairgrounds, and they figure it was the same guy who … you know." She looked him over with a healthy dose of curiosity and skepticism, wondering what everyone else wondered, speculating and coming to her own conclusion. "If you hear any details, let me know." At the moment John didn't care what Helen thought, didn't care what anyone thought. "She's dead?" The question was a whisper, a hesitantly spoken nightmare. He should've known, dammit, he should've known . It took him a moment to realize that Helen was shaking her head. "No, she fought him off, but he got clean away. Lonnie said Sheriff Maples was going to—" "Why didn't you say something sooner?" John snapped, throwing a couple of dollars on the table. Helen shrugged her broad shoulders. "I didn't know the girl you were with last night was acarny . Tank just mentioned it a minute ago." She nodded her head to the tattooed man. He practically pushed Helen aside as he left the booth. There was a gnawing in his gut, a blinding, aching light behind his eyes. Heknew it was her. He knew that somehow Lucy had become a victim of the man who was making a career of carving up the women in JohnQuaid's life. *** Lucy took a deep breath to calm herself, as she told her story for the tenth time. The telling hadn't changed, it was just delivered in a voice steadier than it had been when she'd first leaned against the trailer and told a deputy what had happened. Her hair was matted to her head, and she sat before Sheriff Maples wearing a costume ripped at the shoulder and covered with tiny bits of grass and dirt that reminded her of her brief struggle. She didn't want to be reminded. All she wanted to do was go back to her trailer, make a pot of coffee, take a long shower, and try to forget that a man had attacked and tried to kill her. She might as well forget about John, while she was at it. The clock on the wall behind the sheriff's desk told her it was nearly three-thirty. Surely he'd gone home by now, dismissing her as a flake who couldn't make up her mind.

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A man like John wouldn't take kindly to being stood up. She could probably find him and explain why she hadn't shown up at the Waffle Hut—but she wouldn't. No, her problem with John Quaid had taken care of itself. Just as well. For a moment she thought she'd conjured up a vision of John just by thinking about him, but she realized in a heartbeat that he was all too real. He pushed his way past a couple of deputies and stopped in the doorway to the sheriff's office, staring at her as if Maples and his deputies didn't exist, as if there were no one else. "Are you hurt?" he asked gruffly. Lucy shook her head, and John closed his eyes for a moment. He leaned against the doorjamb and relaxed; it looked as if the tension left his body all at once. "Well, isn't thisinterestin '?" the sheriff said, placing his forearms on the littered desk and pushing his face forward. The overhead light shone down on a bald head, and Lucy had an inappropriate stray thought that skin shouldn't be so shiny. "Miss Fain." He addressed her—as he had all night—with the kind of tone a patient man might use with a child. "Are you acquainted with Mr. Quaid?" "Yes." "Could it have been Mr. Quaid who attacked you tonight?" "No!" She answered fervently, coming out of her chair. Sheriff Maples wore a satisfied smile, and he leaned back with his hands linked together behind his bald head. "What makes you so certain?" "For one thing," Lucy snapped, "the man who jumped me was much heavier than John." "How much heavier?" She didn't know—she only knew that the man had weighed a ton … suffocating her, smashing her into the ground. "I'm not sure. A bit." "How much is 'a bit,' Miss Fain? Ten pounds? Twenty? Fifty?" He asked the questions sharply, relentlessly. "I don't know!" Lucy barked, her normally husky voice growing rough. "And besides that, the creep was surprised to find that I was wearing a wig. John knows that I wear a wig when I'm working." "Oh, he does, does he? How does he know that?" Suddenly Lucy decided that she disliked the smug sheriff. She placed her hands on his desk, pushing aside a short stack of forms, and leaned forward. She was tired, she was dirty, and the only man she'd cared about in five years waited in the doorway, watching intently as she stood over the sheriff's desk with smudged makeup and matted hair and a neon-yellow bandage sporting the image of a prancing duck on her throat.

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"We had a date, Sheriff," she said softly. "We had coffee." "And pie," John muttered. She looked over her shoulder to see that the fear had faded from his eyes. He watched with a trace of wry amusement on his face. "Don't make me out to be cheap," he added. "And pie," Lucy said unnecessarily as she returned her attention to the sheriff. "I'll swear on a stack of Bibles, if you'd like, that it was not John who attacked me. I don't know who it was. Finding that out is your job, not mine." The sheriff looked from her to John and back again. Lucy didn't like the calculating gleam in the older man's eyes. He drawled lazily, and slumped his shoulders now and again, but he was no slouch. He saw everything. "Well," he finally drawled, "I want to put you up in a motel so I can keep a close eye on you, for the time being." "Like hell you will. I'm going back to my trailer, and I don't want to talk about this anymore." She didn't want to talk about it or even think about it. After five years of practice, she was darn good at ignoring the facts. Lucy Fain was the queen of denial. "If you refuse to cooperate—" Maples stopped and took a deep breath. "Well, I'll just be forced to make a visit to that carnival. I seem to recall that there were several safety violations. Small things, mostly, but I can't overlook infractions. And those racket games, well, they just—" "We'll move on to the next town," Lucy interrupted, suddenly afraid that the sheriff might decide to run a background check on her if she didn't cooperate, if he didn't like the answers she gave. "I have friends in the next town," the sheriff countered. "And in the next, and in the next." His countenance was suddenly deadly serious. "This man has killed three women in the past eight months. This is my county, Miss Fain, my home—and Iwill catch him. You know what they call him?" He stared her down. "The newspapers call him the Red Grove Ripper. Much as I dislike sensationalism, Ripper is a fitting name, Miss Fain." He was trying to scare her. He succeeded. "He said he's coming back for you," he added, "and I aim to be there when that happens." Behind her, John cursed under his breath. Newspapers. A new fear gripped her. This was a sensational story. What if someone put her picture in the newspaper? What if a wire service picked the story up and her picture went out in papers all over the country? She shivered "You can't be sure it's the same man…" Lucy finished her protest weakly. The sheriff's argument had taken the wind out of her sails. The creep—theRipper —had said he'd be back. What if he didn't stop when the carnival moved on? Lucy Fain knew how to disappear, but Lady Lucretia would be easy enough to find.

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"It's the same man," Sheriff Maples said. "I know in here—" With two fingers he tapped the massive chest above his heart. "And here—" He pointed to his bald head. "I can't tell you why I know this to be fact—not right now—but Miss Fain your life is at serious risk. A motel for a few days, that's all I ask." "All right," Lucy said tiredly. "Can I pick up some things from my trailer?" "I'll send a deputy to fetch your stuff for you." The sheriff stood and looked over Lucy's shoulder to John. "Where were you tonight atmidnight?12:15?" John hesitated before he answered. "Home." The sheriff nodded knowingly. "Alone, I reckon." "Yes." "That's a shame, Quaid." He shook his head slowly. "You ought to get out more. Socialize. Why, every time I ask you where you been and who you been with, the answer's always the same. 'Home. Alone."' The tension in the room had climbed the moment Sheriff Maples started speaking directly to John, and Lucy couldn't stand it anymore. She turned from the sheriff and walked right into John's arms. It was a move made without thought. She needed the comfort of another human's heartbeat, and John was her only ally. She needed him. Dammit, she wasn't supposed to need anyone. For years she'd embraced her solitude, her independence, her separation from the rest of the world.Don't get involved, and you won't get hurt. Don't rely on anyone, and you won't be disappointed. How could one man change all that so quickly? Right now she didn't want to ask questions she couldn't answer. John closed his arms around her protectively, and she buried her head against his chest. He was firm and warm and real, and she could spend all night right here… "So now it's a date," he whispered with a touch of humor, his mouth near her ear—and for a moment she and John were all alone, and the night, the horror, faded to nothing. She closed her eyes and drank in the sensations of having John so close. His scent, his warmth, his strength—she absorbed it all. This was dangerous, but right now it was the only comfort she knew, the only comfort she wanted. "Miss Fain?" Lucy lifted her head and glanced at the sheriff, but that was her only move. She wasn't yet ready to release John, wasn't nearly ready to step from the shelter of his arms. Heaven help her, would she ever be ready? Sheriff Maples waited until she looked directly at him before he spoke again. "Be very careful, Miss Fain." *** Lucy slid her body deeper into the motel's deep bathtub, rinsing the shampoo from her hair. The water was cool, now, but when she'd first stepped in, it had been steaming hot. She still wasn't ready to leave the tub. She wanted to soak until she forgot what that creep's hands had felt like on her mouth and her neck, what the prick of the knife had felt like at her throat.

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She couldn't understand why the sheriff believed John might be responsible for attacking her, for murdering three women. The very idea was incomprehensible to her, an impossibility—and she barely knew John Quaid. Surely she wasn't so addle-brained as to dismiss a warning because John's arms comforted her, because his kiss aroused a part of her she'd thought long dead. No, it was more that that. Lucy trusted her instincts. That was what made her a good palmist. She opened herself to whatever the person across from her emitted—fears, loves, insecurities. People were usually so easy to read. She would bet her life that John was no killer. She had to remind herself that her instincts were not infallible. She'd had no inkling that Paul was any different from the kind, loving man he'd presented to her and the rest of the world—not until it was too late. She'd been wrong about him. Was it possible that she was wrong about John? When the water was too cold to bear, Lucy stepped from the bathtub and wrapped herself in a coarse, white motel towel. She dried herself vigorously, rubbing life into her chilled limbs and towel-drying her hair. Why was it that even in the middle of summer, motel rooms were so damn cold? The air conditioner ran, noisily and efficiently. Her skin felt like ice. She grabbed a thin blanket from the top shelf of the closet and wrapped it around her chilled body, hugging the stiff wool to her chest like a child's security blanket. She made her way to the air-conditioner unit in front of the wide window. With a twist of her wrist, apop and a low roar, the icy air stilled. Lucy parted the drapes slightly. A patrol car was parked directly in front of the window, and the deputy who sat in the driver's seat lifted a hand and waved to reassure her. Another deputy—an older, heavier man—slept in the passenger seat. The only way into this room was past those deputies and through the door. Still, she didn't feel safe. The sun was coming up, and that meant it was time for her to get to bed. Even with the bathroom light on and the sun in the sky, sleep would not come easily—not with the knowledge that some pervert was just waiting to get his hands on her again. She looked past the patrol car to the other side of the parking lot, to an old blue Ford with a dented fender and a rust spot the size of a baseball on the hood. A dark figure hunched behind the steering wheel. She couldn't make out his features at this distance and in this dim light, but that dark figure was John. She knew it. A smile crept across her face and she felt, for the first time that night, a calm that rushed through her body like the blood through her veins. She let the drapes fall closed, and she turned to the bed. Suddenly she felt tired, and she knew that she could sleep, after all. The blanket dropped to the floor, and she slipped between the crisp white sheets and closed her eyes. No damn Ripper would dare to bother her while John Quaid was on watch. Chapter 4 «^» Saturday night was usually the busiest time for the carnival in any case, but tonight every curious citizen of Red Grove wanted a look at the woman who had fended off the serial killer who'd been terrorizing their small town. Peering into morbidly inquisitive faces and remaining calm exhausted Lucy. A young deputy had been posted inside the tent with her. He tried unsuccessfully to be inconspicuous. Deputy Mark Hopkins looked as if he should be playing high school football instead of wearing a gun

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and trying to appear rugged. He was too young and much too pretty to pull offrugged . Two others watched from a distance, she'd been told, and one stood near the entrance—as if they expected a man in a Halloween mask to get in line. John's car had been gone when she'd finally awakened late in the morning. She couldn't really expect him to watch over her twenty-four hours a day, could she? But when she'd looked into the parking lot and seen the waiting patrol car and no John, she'd been afraid. Dammit, she wasn't supposed to be afraid of anything anymore. Nothing scared her. Her strength had faltered since the carnival had arrived in Red Grove. She smiled when John appeared in the tent entrance, even though he glowered. Without even glancing at the deputy, he sat across the table from her. Her smile widened, for him. "What's wrong?" she asked. "I had to wait in line. Forty-five minutes," he added. "I'm a popular lady tonight." John finally looked over her shoulder to the deputy. "Does your watchdog have to stay?" "Take a break, Mark." Her eyes never left John. "Sorry, Miss Fain. I got my orders—" "I told you to call me Lucy," she said impatiently. "Now, would you get me a soda? Please?" "I can't leave you alone with him," Mark said, and the intensity of his words made it clear that he might leave her alone with someone else, but not with John Quaid. Lucy shrugged. "I guess he does have to stay." "Are you all right?" John asked, his voice soft and for her alone. "I was surprised when I drove by the motel this afternoon and you weren't there." "I couldn't stand to just sit," Lucy admitted. "Besides," she added with a smile, "this is good business." John laid his hand on the table, and Lucy took it. She didn't bother looking at his palm. "Thank you," she whispered, rubbing her thumb over his palm in an easy rocking motion. It was too instinctive, too deep—this need for his touch. The need scared her as much as any Ripper, but at the same time she wanted it more than she'd ever wanted anything. "For what?" For making me feel this way. She couldn't very well tell him that. "For waiting in line forty-five minutes. For watching over me last night. I looked out the window and saw your car in the parking lot, and it really did make me feel better. Safer." John's unwavering attention gave her a chill, a prickle of caution that crept down her spine. The chill was quickly replaced by a rush of warmth, an intense sensation that should've warned her much more clearly than the sheriff's words of caution. She had so many questions to ask John—about the murders, about the reason they suspected him, about the way he'd sent her life

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into a tailspin. She had a glib tongue with her customers; she could spin a yarn without stammering once. The truth came much harder. "I don't like this," John finally whispered. "What's that?" His hand tightened around hers. "You're vulnerable here." He glanced around the tent. "It would he too easy for someone to slice their way through the back of the tent, or charge past everyone to get to you." "Has he done that before?" Her heart skipped a beat. It had never even occurred to her that the Ripper might try to attack in the open. He was a coward who wore a mask and jumped women from behind. "No," John whispered. Kenny, Martin's youngest and her orange-soda partner in crime, poked his head into the tent. "Pop said hurry it up in here. The line's clear to the sausage stand." Never shy, Kenny turned a wide grin to John. "Your little friend," John said with a trace of sarcasm. Lucy ignored the comment. Tongue-tied as she was, there just wasn't enough time for the questions she needed to ask, much less another defensive explanation of her actions the night they met. "I meant what I said. Last night, this morning, I didn't rest until I saw your old clunker." John shrugged his broad shoulders, but he was far from casual. Tense and tight, he looked as if he were ready to spring from his chair at any moment. "These days the Sheriff's Department in this county is next to worthless." He glanced past her to the deputy who, amazingly, remained silent as he and his department were insulted. "You'd better get used to seeing that old clunker around, because I don't trust them to keep you safe." "And you can?" She waited, without breathing, for the answer. John's eyes latched to hers, and once again it was as if they were alone. Mark faded into the background, insignificant. "I'm going to try." There was no way they could sit here all night holding hands like smitten teenagers, even though that was exactly what Lucy wanted to do. A line of customers—clear to the sausage stand—awaited, tickets in hand, to have their palms read by the woman who had bested a serial killer. She lifted John's palm to her lips and lightly kissed the sweat-dampened skin there. Then she rubbed her thumb against the spot she had kissed and lifted her eyes to his. He looked at her so damn hard that her heart skipped a beat. "I trust you, John," she whispered, not knowing exactly why she felt the need to say those words, or how she knew he needed to hear them. *** Lucy felt oddly defenseless, looking at the two glass walls of the Waffle Hut and the night beyond. She was well-guarded, so there was no reason for her unease. John sat across from her, and two deputies,

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Mark and a Deputy Phillips, sat in a booth on the other side of the restaurant. Their eyes never left her. "They don't like you much, do they?" she asked softly. She tried to make her tone light, playful, but John didn't smile. "No, they don't," he answered her simply. "Why do they think you're the—a suspect?" She'd been about to saykiller , and then thought better of it. The smile he gave her was crooked and cynical, a poor attempt at making light of the subject. The attempted smile made him appear suddenly cruel. "They don't think I'm a suspect—I am one. The only one." Lucy waited for him to say more. When he didn't, she prodded. "Why?" John hesitated, staring at her all the while with those storm-cloud-gray eyes as if he were trying to look through her. A muscle in his cheek twitched, and Lucy thought for a moment that he didn't intend to answer. But finally, he did. "My ex-wife was the first victim, eight months ago. The second murder took place two months later, the third after another four months had passed. But the first attack was by far the most brutal. Claire and I were divorced four years ago, and it was a rather messy divorce. It all started with her." Husbands and ex-husbands and boyfriends were always considered suspects in a woman's murder, Lucy knew. She shivered. With good reason. "And that automatically makes you a suspect." "That and the fact that I—" He hesitated, and she saw a flicker of frustration on his face. "I found her, not long after she was killed." "I'm sorry," she whispered. He shrugged as if it didn't matter, but she could see that it did matter, very much. Knowing that they called this killer the Ripper gave her an idea of what John had found, how horrible it must have been for him. "If there had been a murder weapon at the scene, I'd be in jail awaiting trial right now," he explained. "But there was no weapon, no physical evidence to connect me to the crime. They tried, though, the Alabama Bureau of Investigation detectives, the sheriff. They tried." "But the other victims…" "They think I'm trying to throw them off the scent by making it look like Claire was the random target of a serial killer." He frowned, and no longer looked directly at Lucy. "The other two who died? I knew them, too. That's not really remarkable," he said gruffly. "I was born and raised here in Red Grove, and so were they." "Couldn't there be two or even three different killers?" Lucy leaned forward over the table that separated them. "I mean, in a good-size city, three murders in less than a year wouldn't be considered unusual."

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There were moments when John was handsome and easy to read, an open book, and she felt nothing but safe in his company. There were other moments, like this one, when his face and his eyes turned hard and unyielding, and he closed himself off from her. From everyone, she suspected. "Three divorced, dark-haired women," he said in a lowered voice, "of about the same age, are murdered in their homes. They're all killed with a large knife." He watched her closely, perhaps waiting for her reaction, perhaps waiting for her to tell him to stop. "There's no sign of forced entry. There's no rape, and nothing's taken from the house. The killer slices his victims up, and then wipes the house clean of prints, and locks the door on his way out." "That doesn't mean that the man who attacked me—" "The knife that was used on these three women matches your description, length and breadth, of the weapon you were threatened with. Add that to the fact that this sort of thing just doesn't happen here in Red Grove," he said, "and you have the same man. Mix in the fact that you have the misfortune to know me," he added sarcastically, "and there's no doubt that this is the same man. It's been two months since the last murder. Everyone's just been waiting—" The conversation stopped when Helen appeared. The waitress bubbled with enthusiasm tonight, smiling as she poured Lucy yet another cup of coffee and set before her a complimentary wedge of strawberry pie. "It's just so horrible." Helen breathed heavily through her mouth. "You must've been terrified." "Yes, I was," Lucy said, even though she had no desire to talk to the woman. Helen ignored John and glanced at the deputies, then she leaned over the table to whisper conspiratorially. "The word is, you can identify the Ripper." Lucy shook her head, and John cursed under his breath. "No," Lucywhispered ."I can't." Helen shook her head as though Lucy didn't know her own mind. "No wonder they're keeping such a close eye on you." She spared a suspicious glance to John. "Lord, if I was in your shoes I'd be a nervous wreck." "Thank you, Helen," John said sharply, and the woman straightened and took two steps back, giving him a hate-filled glare before she turned away. "You don't have a lot of friends in this town," Lucy said, trying to forget what the formidable Helen had said. "Can't you get along with anybody?" "No, apparently I can't," he snapped. "Do you know what this means? It means Sheriff Maples is spreading the word that makes you a sure target. It's no longer a matter of the killer making up for a fumbled attempt. He'll be after you because he thinks there's some way you can identify him." "But I can't." "He doesn't know that, does he?"

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"How could I possibly identify him? He was wearing that awful mask, and gloves, and he whispered…" "Lucy Fain might not be able to identify him, but what about Lady Lucretia?" "Nobody really believes—" she began. Ah, but they did. Some of them, anyway. Lucy dragged her fork through the whipped cream on top of her pie. She didn't have much of an appetite tonight. The little girl inside her—the child she tried to ignore—told her it was time to run again. She ignored the voice, and lifted her eyes to John. "There's something you're not telling me." He didn't answer, so she leaned forward slightly and looked deep into his eyes. "There's something you're not telling me," she repeated in a softer voice. "A piece of this puzzle is missing, and I have a feeling you've got it tucked in your pocket for safekeeping." "You're not making sense," he said. "At the Sheriff's Office," she said, thinking aloud. "His whole attitude changed when he spoke to you. He was so angry, I thought he was going to lose it, and I have a feeling Sheriff Maples doesn't lose his cool often." "I'm suspected of—" "It's more than that," Lucy interrupted, sure that she was right. "It was somehow personal. Was he related to one of the victims?" "No." "Then what? I would swear…" "Until eight months ago, I worked for him." It wasn't what she'd expected to hear. "For Sheriff Maples?" "Yep." His face was hard, his eyes cold. "You can imagine how embarrassing it is for a straight-arrow like Sheriff Maples to have one of his boys the prime suspect in a case like this one." She was momentarily stunned. "You were a deputy?" He nodded once. "And the sherifffired you after your ex-wife was killed? Is that legal?" "He didn't fire me," John said coldly. "I quit." It took her a few moments to come to terms with this revelation. "Why did you quit?" John spared a quick glance for the deputies across the room. "Sheriff Maples asked me to take a leave of absence until the investigation was complete, and at that moment I could see that he believed I was guilty. I worked for that son of a bitch for ten years, I was next in line to be Chief Deputy—and without a shred of evidence he's ready to convict me. Of course, I quit." He pressed two fingers to his temple and closed his eyes. "Sorry," he said softly. "This particular subject

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brings out the worst in me." He dropped his hands to the table and smiled tiredly. For a long moment, he looked like a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I'm sorry I asked," she whispered, reaching out to take his hand. She slipped her fingers through his, entwined their hands so they were connected, as they should be. "Why are you here with me, Lucy? Why do you trust me when everyone else is convinced I'm a cold-blooded killer?" "Surely not everyone…" she began. "Everyone," he said in a low voice. "Maybe in the beginning there were a few who believed in my innocence, but as time goes by and no other suspect is found, that leaves me. This is a small town where everything is black and white, good and bad. They need answers, and here I am." Could she trust him? It occurred to Lucy that she could literally be placing her life in this man's hands. She'd been warned—by the sheriff, by the accusing eyes of the deputies and the residents of Red Grove. In spite of all that, she couldn't believe John was capable of any violent crime. In the end, she came back to the same question: Did she trust him? As much as she could trust any man. More, and more quickly, than she'd ever thought she'd trust anyone again. This unlikely faith was an instinct that came from her heart, and it assured her that John would never hurt her. But her heart had lied to her before. *** With obvious reluctance, the deputies allowed John to drive Lucy to the motel. He drove along the deserted streets at a snail's pace, and the patrol car stayed on his tail. He checked the rearview mirror frequently, and seemed almost amused by their dedication. When he pulled his car into a parking space near Lucy's room, he killed the engine and twisted to face her. She could've said good-night and hopped out of the car, but the way he looked at her—possessively, hungrily, with barely contained craving—made Lucy's heart beat faster, and the blood roar through her veins. Whatever initial attraction she'd felt for him grew stronger with every passing day. "I owe you an apology," he murmured. "I wasn't very good company tonight." Lucy glanced over her shoulder to the car beside them. Two deputies watched her closely. She decided to ignore them. "You were wonderful company." He narrowed his eyes and gave her a fixed look of disbelief. "I thought you didn't do tact." Lucy cocked her head and smiled at him. "Occasionally, I make an exception." She scooted across the seat to sit, thigh to thigh, with him. "And I do appreciate you sticking around. I feel safer when you're with me." John put his arm around her, as she had known he would, and she tipped her face up to look at him. He was hard and angry and lonely—everything she should be avoiding in a man. He was also, if she believed what she heard, dangerous.

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"You shouldn't," he whispered. "I shouldn't what?" Lucy moved her lips closer to his. "Feel safe." Their lips met, and her caution faded. No warning could keep her from this man, no suspicion would keep her from seeking his touch. She parted her lips, and he teased her with the tip of his tongue. Warming pleasure shot through her body. Oh, she'd been a long time without this kind of closeness, without any closeness at all. He slipped his hand behind her head, spearing his fingers through her hair, pulling her to him with a desperation and a wonder that matched her own. He feathered small kisses over her lips, then pressed his mouth to hers for a ravenous kiss. Her arms snaked around his neck, and she held on as her body was assaulted by forgotten sensations that made her feel boneless and on fire from the inside out. The hand at the back of her neck was replaced by an arm, as John caught her tight and deepened the kiss. Their bodies pressed as close as possible in the confines of the car. Her breasts were crushed against his hard chest, her right leg was somehow entangled between his legs, so that they were linked by more than their searching, voracious mouths. She was growing more and more heated. It was wonderful, uplifting, exciting … it was too much. Slowly she took her mouth from his, breaking the kiss. Instead of immediately moving away, she placed her head on his shoulder. She needed a moment to gather her strength. "You almost made me forget that we have an audience," be whispered. She breathed in deeply, taking in as much of him as possible—his scent, his heat. "Me, too," she breathed. John placed a finger under her chin and lifted her face. A shaft of light from the blue neon motel sign fell across his face. "I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you," he said. Lucy heard the disbelief in his voice, the hesitancy that told her he was as surprised by this quick connection as she was. He kissed her again, lightly this time, pulling away while Lucy savored the taste of his lips. "Nothing will happen to me," she said lightly. "I have my own personal staff of bodyguards." John frowned down at her. "But they won't stay with you forever. Eventually they'll have to give it up, if the man they're looking for doesn't come after you." "Maybe he won't," she said, hoping but not really believing. John opened his door and gently dragged her after him. He didn't say anything, but she could see the doubts on his face, the same doubts she felt but refused to voice. What if the creep never gave up? What if he was just waiting patiently for the sheriff and his men to move on to more pressing, more important duties. The deputies were standing on the sidewalk, frowning with obvious disapproval, as she and John

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emerged arm in arm from the car. "You are going to check her room before she goes in, aren't you?" John snapped, as the deputies waited dumbly for Lucy to proceed. "Well, Lonnie?" He directed his anger to the heavyset deputy. "That's Deputy Phillips to you, Quaid," the man answered. "Don't make me tell you again." "Fine," John said in a low, menacing voice. "Check her room, Deputy Phillips." Lucy fished the key from her purse and handed it to Phillips. He searched the room, but Mark stayed close to her and John. She didn't have to be a fortune-teller to know that the young deputy thought the search was a waste of time, that he was certain John was the serial killer. "All clear," Phillips called, stepping outside just moments after he'd entered the small room. The two deputies stood side by side, their arms crossed in an identical pose of childish impatience. It didn't matter that one was older and one was younger, that one was hefty and the other was trim. They were the same in one way; they were little boys at heart, playing cops and robbers. No wonder she felt so much safer when John was with her. John ignored the deputies and bent to kiss her one more time, a light brushing of his mouth against hers. His lips didn't linger, hut teased too quickly, reminding her of the kiss they'd shared just a few minutes earlier. Her heart twisted, and her toes tingled. It was a good-night kiss, but it was also much, much more. There was promise here. "Be careful," he whispered just before he steered her into the room. It was, she thought as he closed the door on her, a fitting statement with which to end the evening. *** Lucy lay on top of the made bed, her hands behind her head as she stared at the ceiling. Only the bathroom light burned, filling the room with a soft light. It was enough. She could still feel John's lips on hers, could still remember how safe she'd felt when he'd held her close. Safe! In spite of the fact that she'd been attacked by a murderer, in spite of the fact that it had been years since she'd truly felt secure. It had been nearly two hours since John left, and she felt as euphoric as she had when he'd kissed her that last time. She wondered if he slept tonight, if he had already forgotten what it was like to kiss her. Foolish thoughts for a woman thirty-one years old, but she couldn't drive them away. Several times she'd peeked past the drapes, looking for John's old Ford in the parking lot, but if he was close by, he was not in her line of vision. The patrol car was parked near her window, and vehicles that belonged to the other patrons of the motel filled the lot. There was just one deputy on duty now—Lonnie Phillips, the one John seemed to dislike so much. Mark had left about an hour ago. She'd heard an approaching vehicle and had gone to the window half expecting to see John's car, but had instead seen a young woman in a red hatchback that was almost as old as John's Ford. Mark's wife, maybe, or a girlfriend. Mark had smiled widely as he'd slipped into the passenger seat, and at that moment Lucy had envied the girl in the red hatchback, just a bit.

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After a little reflection, she could actually see John as a deputy. It explained his need to watch over her, his almost military bearing, those eyes that seemed to watch everything and everyone. Oh, he would look good in a uniform, wouldn't he? She smiled. Yes, he would. Lucy sprang from the bed. What a fool she was for lying here mooning over the mental picture of John Quaid in a sharp tan uniform. Coffee! She needed a huge cup of very sweet coffee and she needed itnow . She pulled back the drapes and looked into the sheriff's patrol car. The lone deputy was sound asleep, his head fallen back and his mouth hanging open. She could see the convenience store not a full block from the motel. Its bright neon sign declared it open twenty-four hours a day, and she just knew there was a pot of hot, strong coffee waiting for her there. In half an hour, it would be dawn. Surely even the man in the Halloween mask was asleep by now. Besides, what kind of idiot would hang around when there was a patrol car right outside her door? Nothing stirred on the other side of the window—not a bird or a car and certainly not a human being. Even if the creep they called the Ripper had been watching, he wouldn't expect her to take an unescorted walk to the convenience store in the predawn hours. He was probably in his own bed, sleeping like a baby. She slipped the key into her pocket, and quietly removed the chain from its latch. The door opened noisily, and she held her breath, waiting for the deputy to jump to attention. He didn't. He snored on, slightly working his slack jaw. It was a straight shot through the parking lot, down a short sidewalk, to the convenience store and her coffee. She walked at a brisk pace. In a matter of minutes she'd be inside the store, surrounded by bright lights and at least a single clerk. She needed people around when she was this restless. She'd taken just a few steps when she heard an unexpected sound, a faintshush , like a hard-soled shoe scraping across asphalt. She glanced over her shoulder and saw no one—nothing but dark shadows, cars to hide behind.Nothing's there , she told herself.Your imagination is working overtime . Still, she increased her pace until she was jogging through the parking lot. Her feet pounded against the pavement steadily, comfortingly, and then she heard it—thethud of another footstep that matched her own, an echo just slightly off cadence. Their footsteps created a strange sort of rhythm, but his seemed to grow louder, closer with every beat. She couldn't turn to look back again. In her mind's eye she saw the man who'd attacked her—the repulsive mask, the strong hands, the knife. Sweat trickled down her back, and she ran faster. Looking over her shoulder would slow her, and God help her if she saw that creep in a rubber mask bearing down on her—the sight would paralyze her, stop her in her tracks. She focused on the lights ahead. Suddenly, over the sounds of their footsteps, she heard him breathing, hard and heavy—deep breaths expelled through his mouth, just like those of the man in the mask. She increased her pace. So did he. Down the short sidewalk and around the fence at the corner, and she'd be in the parking lot of the convenience store. She'd be safe there. She no longer listened to the footsteps behind her—she couldn't. Instead, she listened to her own footsteps and the increasing beat of her heart. She turned the corner, focusing on the entrance of the store. There were two cars in the parking lot, other people there. She would've screamed for help, but she was too winded. And she didn't dare stop. Not now. She was almost to the door when she felt the hand on her shoulder—

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She screamed. The sound she made was weak and breathless, more of a whimper. The strong hand that grasped her shoulder spun her around. "What's wrong?" "John." She had never been so happy to see another human being in all her life, and she grabbed the front of his shirt with what little strength she had left. Damn him, he hadn't even worked up a sweat. Her relief allowed a small smile. "Why didn't you say something?" "I did." He stared down at her, a frown forming on his face. "I asked you what was wrong." She could hardly catch her breath, and the clutch she had on John's shirt was the only thing keeping her on her feet. "You could have said something sooner. Why were you chasing me?" John's face paled in the fluorescent glow of the lights at the store's entrance. "I wasn't chasing you," he said in a low voice. "I didn't see you till you came around the corner." He pointed to the sidewalk, and the fence she'd rounded. His Ford was parked there, the driver's door open. "It wasn't you," Lucy said in a small voice, and she felt the blood drain from her face. John pushed her into the store with a command to stay there, and then he ran back toward the motel. Lucy wanted to follow him, but she didn't move. That creep was out there, maybe watching her, maybe watching John. With unsteady hands, she poured a cup of coffee and dumped four packs of sugar in, then stirred the liquid shakily with a tiny spoon. The clerk behind the counter busied himself straightening packs of cigarettes and a candy bar display. Occasionally, he glanced Lucy's way, but he didn't say a word as she sipped coffee and waited. She wouldn't leave the bright lights of the store until John came for her. He was back minutes later. How many minutes, she couldn't guess in her frazzled state of mind. But he was back, and he took her arm almost roughly. "I couldn't find any sign of him, and that useless bastard Lonnie Phillips is sound asleep." "I know," Lucy said in whispery voice. "I … I wanted a cup of coffee." It sounded like a lame excuse, and the expression on John's face told her he was thinking the same. "W-why are you here?" The grip on her arm had relaxed, but he still held her firmly. "Your bodyguards ran me off, so I parked over here and walked around the motel for a while. Everything was quiet, so I decided to get a bite to eat. I was sitting in the car when you came around the corner, running to beat the devil." "He was right behind me. I could hear him." She could hear him still, her memory kicking into high gear. "Running, breathing hard." "Are you sure you didn't just panic? Maybe it was an early morning jogger." "Then where did he go?" Lucy snapped. Her normally husky voice was harsh, her throat strained. "Why didn't he come around the corner behind me? Even if he decided to turn and jog in another direction, you'd have seen him. Unless he was hiding because he didn't want you to see him."

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John hovered over her protectively, one arm gently encircling her, his body on alert, the firm grip on her arm possessive and steady. "Dammit, this isn't working," he said softly. "What isn't working?" She resisted the urge to fall against him. John released her arm and took her chin in his hand, lifting it so she was forced to look him in the eye. He stared at her with determination and certainty, with a strength she'd longed for all her adult life. "You're coming home with me." "I can't—" Lucy began. "Of course, you can," John said, taking her arm and steering her toward the door, tossing a dollar bill on the counter as they passed. He was angry still, his posture tense, the fingers on her arm too tight. They didn't even get into the car, but walked down the sidewalk and turned into the motel parking lot. Halfway to the building, John slowed his pace. The fingers that gripped her arm relaxed, and he pulled her against his side. His arm went around her shoulder. "Sorry." His apology was soft, reluctant, and Lucy allowed herself to relax against his side. "I didn't mean to take it out on you, but you scared me half to death, running around the corner looking like that." "Looking like what?" "Scared." She wanted to say,Not me. Fearless Lucy is afraid of nothing . But she didn't. She was tired of lying to everyone. Most of all, she was tired of lying to herself. John remained calm until they reached the patrol car. His entire body tensed, muscles tightening, the arm at Lucy's shoulder holding her firmly, until he finally released her so he could bang on the sleeping deputy's window. Deputy Lonnie Phillips came awake with a start. He glared at John as he rolled down his window. "What's this?" He eyed John suspiciously, and cast a startled glance at Lucy. "You fell asleep on the job, Lonnie," John said softly, the undertone of his gentle voice so furious that it gave Lucy chills. "And Miss Fain almost got herself killed." Phillips bounded out of the car, moving agilely for someone so bulky. He looked skeptical as he listened to John tell him about the man who had chased Lucy, and relaxed visibly as the story finished. Then he dismissed the episode as a figment of her imagination. "You shouldn't have left your room, Miss Fain." He reprimanded her as if she were a naughty child who'd stayed out past curfew.

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"She's coming home with me." John stepped between Lucy and the condescending deputy, another protective move on his part that seemed to come instinctively. "She can't—" Phillips began. "Is she under arrest?" John asked, as Lucy stepped to the door of her room and inserted the key in the lock. "Well, no," Phillips conceded. Lucy pushed the door open. "You can't force her to stay here," John said angrily. "She could've been killed, dammit, while you took a nap!" Lucy stood in the doorway, afraid to take another step, afraid to breathe. "John." She could barely speak—his name came out in an almost inaudible rush of air. "Pack your—" "John." She forced her voice to carry, even though she felt as if she couldn't make a sound. He joined her in the doorway. Every light in the place was on, and clothes were strewn on the floor. Dresser drawers were opened wide, jeans and T-shirts tossed about, and one brightly colored costume had been cut neatly in half. One half was on the floor by the closet, the other was draped over the end of the bed. John advanced cautiously, stepping over clothes and a dresser drawer that had been left in the middle of the floor. He looked into the bathroom, and then into the tiny closet. Lucy stood in the doorway, Deputy Phillips at her back, until John returned to her. "He's gone," he said as he took her hand. Lucy moved silently forward until she stood at the end of the big bed, the one she'd been lying on before her craving for coffee had lured her from the room. When she'd left, the bedspread had been rumpled, the pillow on top of the spread. But now the bed was neatly made; there was not so much as a tiny wrinkle. She pulled away from John, dragging her fingers along his strong hand as she moved to the head of the bed. She wasn't certain what she'd find, but she knew something was here. She wrapped her fingers around the bedspread, grasped a handful of cool, shiny synthetic fabric in colors so bright they rivaled her brightest costume—orange, green, deep red like fresh blood. "Lucy, don't touch anything," John said softly. "That's right," Phillips said sternly. "There might be fingerprints." Lucy ignored them both. John called her name, but he could've been far away, the sound of his voice was so distant. It was muffled by the roar of blood in her ears, the roar of blood that rushed too fast, too hard, stealing her reason. She didn't want to know. Shehad to know. John called her name again—and with a burst of courage Lucy threw the bedspread back.

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The sheets had been neatly and methodically sliced by a razor-sharp blade that had once been held to her throat. Chapter 5 «^» Lucy continued to tremble as John pulled into the driveway; she hadn't stopped shaking since she'd pulled those covers back and seen the neatly sliced sheets. John had tried to comfort her, making her look away, ushering her out of the room quickly, but nothing could wipe the picture of that motel room, those sheets, from her mind. He'd been there; the bastard hadbeen there . As John shut off the engine, she looked through the windshield to the pale gray house before her, and for a moment forgot her terror. It was possibly the ugliest house she'd ever seen. The surrounding homes had been renovated, but this one, a large one-story box-like structure with a wide, deep front porch, had definitely seen better days. This was the kind of old neighborhood young and moderately prosperous couples liked to take over, landscaping and painstakingly renovating the homes that had fallen into disrepair. John appeared to be the last holdout on the street. The paint peeled, the roof warped, and there were harsh bare spots interspersed with tall weeds on the front lawn. Weeds grew unchecked along the side of the house and by the front steps, and the flowering bushes at the corners of the house grew wildly untrimmed. In the blue house to the left, a ruffled curtain moved, though Lucy couldn't see the face of the neighbor who watched her arrival. "Change your mind?" John asked in a monotone. Lucy took her eyes off the monstrosity before her and gave him a very small smile. "Your neighbors must love you." John threw the car door open and grabbed Lucy's duffel bag from the back seat. "You'd be surprised." He very neatly ignored the patrol car that was already parked at the curb. "They keep coming up with interested buyers, friends and relatives who would just love to restore thiscrackerbox to its original glory." Lucy ignored his sarcasm. "Well, a coat of paint wouldn't hurt, maybe a bush here by the front steps." John stopped in the middle of the driveway and stared at her with a cool expression on his face. He didn't care, she realized, or else he only saw what he wanted to see. The house could fall down around his ears and he wouldn't lift a finger to repair it. John Quaid was definitely not a nester—not a Mister Fix-It. Lucy climbed the front steps onto the spacious front porch. Okay, so the house needed a little work. But there was something quaint about it, something warm and welcoming. The screen door squeaked when John opened it; it was a strangely comforting sound. He unlocked and shoved open a front door that opened into a spacious, square living room filled with dark furniture. An old rug—faded burgundy roses against a dark green background—covered most of the hardwood floor. The ceilings were high, the light fixtures were antique, and there was not a bit of John Quaid in the room.

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The interior was definitely in better shape than the exterior, but much of the furniture was shabby, and the house had a closed-up, musty smell. Lucy wondered if the windows had been painted shut or if John simply never took the time to air the place out. A slice of morning sunlight peeked through a gap in the curtains and fell across a dusty piano and the framed family pictures arranged there. "Your mother's house?" Lucy asked as she sat on a firm sofa with dark curling feet and a flowery pattern of a thousand colors. "You're very good, Lady Lucretia." Why had he insisted on bringing her here? She'd followed obediently, but she'd been terrified beyond rational thought at the time. Did John really think he could watch over her better than the Sheriff's Department? Why would he want to? She put on a serene mask, displaying none of the emotions that flooded over her, and patted the seat beside her. "It doesn't take a psychic to see that you didn't pick out this couch." He actually smiled at her. "I don't spend much time in this room, but to pass through. You're right. This was my mother's place. I moved in a couple of years ago, after she passed away." He walked her through the house, giving her a quick tour. There were three bedrooms—three large, square rooms, off a hallway—and one had been converted into an office. That was where she finally saw John. Books were piled everywhere, along with newspapers, magazines, and what looked to be charts of some kind. The furniture was spartan and efficient, and included a computer in one corner, and a fax machine. She couldn't help but notice that when John worked at that computer, he faced a bare wall. There were two windows in the room, one with mini blinds the same color as the neutral wall, and another with a small air conditioner. Both would be at John's back when he worked. No photographs or prints broke the creamy expanse of wall he faced when he sat at that computer. The largest bedroom was his. His clothes were spread around the room, tossed over a chair or onto the bed or the floor. Even here she didn't see much of his influence. The bedcover was a well-worn, dark blue comforter that had been haphazardly thrown over the mattress. The curtains were a plain white over more mini blinds. John dropped her duffel bag in the third—the smallest—bedroom. She couldn't suppress a smile as she entered. It was a child's room—a little boy's room—complete with a twin-size bed covered with a spread in a masculine plaid: red and blue and green. Shelves lined the wall, and there was not an empty inch of space on those shelves. They were filled with comic books, baseball cards, bottle caps—the treasures of a young man. "I really need to clean this place out," John muttered, and she detected a note of embarrassment in his voice. "This was your room, wasn't it?" Lucy turned on him, and she thought for a moment that he actually blushed. "Yeah, well, my mother never threw anything away." He picked up a comic book from the top of a small stack, and dust fell between them, tickling Lucy's nose and making her sneeze viciously. She opened the closet and tossed her bag inside. There was little inside the bag that would wrinkle. Besides, she still didn't know if she would be here long enough to unpack.

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When she turned around, she came face to face with a hideous image, and nearly jumped out of her skin. "KISS," John said as he tapped the poster, and Lucy realized that it was not one, but four painted faces glaring at her. "For about a year—most of my sixteenth year, if I remember correctly—my life's plan was to play keyboard for them. I practiced every day, and my mother was mortified." Lucy glanced warily at John. He smiled—that had to be a good sign. "I can't say that I blame her." She cringed as she glanced one more time at the poster pinned to the inside of the closet door. "Every mother's nightmare." John swung the closet door closed on KISS. The kitchen was the best room in the house—large and clean and lit by sunlight pouring through two tall windows. A carryover from the days when women really cooked, this room had spacious counters and a big double sink and lots of cabinet space. The gas stove and the refrigerator were nearly as ancient as the furniture, and the table that butted up against one window looked like cone her grandmother had owned: gray Formica and stainless steel. It was well past the time when she normally went to sleep, but her stomach was growling. She opened the refrigerator and poked her head inside. "You should be wasting away." She swung the door shut and turned to John, her hands on her hips. "There's nothing in there but beer and condiments." "I eat out a lot," he said defensively. "There's bread." He grabbed a loaf and tossed it onto the table, apparently realizing at the same time she did that green mold had begun to grow at the edges. He snatched the loaf up and tossed it into the garbage. After exploring mostly bare cupboards, he came up with a can of soup. He heated it on the stove, while Lucy sat at the table. John hovered over the small pot and stirred, unaware that she watched him. He had such a nicely shaped torso, such wonderfully long arms and legs, and everything fit together in a kind of natural perfection. Even his hands were fascinating—capable and powerful. There was strength in that body that was all muscle and sinew. She felt that strength when he touched her. Lucy closed her eyes. Her thoughts were taking a dangerous turn. Strength was certainly not something she needed to be looking for in a man. If anything, she should be avoiding it—avoiding strength and men in general. She'd done it for years, and her life had remained simple and unfettered, just as she wanted. "You going to sleep at the table?" Lucy's eyes flew open. John leaned over her, a bowl of soup in his hands. Chicken noodle. He set the bowl and a spoon before her, then sat across the table to watch her eat. "You're not hungry?" she asked between bites. John shook his head. "No. Just tired. Will you be able to sleep?" She knew exactly what he was asking. For a while her heart had been beating so fast, and the adrenaline had been pumping so hard, that sleep had seemed an impossibility. But the time that had passed, and the soup and John's company—even this old house—combined to make her feel safe. "Yes, I can sleep." He nodded his head, obviously relieved. Was he already regretting his impulsive decision to watch over

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her? As relaxed as they claimed to be, they both jumped when the doorbell rang. The chime was followed by insistent knocking on the front door. John instructed Lucy to stay in the kitchen, but she ignored him and followed closely, through the formal dining room and into the living room. He peered through the front window, then grunted in disgust and threw the door open. "Sheriff Maples." John stepped back and allowed the burly man to enter. The sheriff's eyes lit on Lucy, and she saw what appeared to be a light of relief in his eyes. "This is not a good idea, Miss Fain," Maples said brusquely. She didn't know what to say, but it didn't matter, since she didn't get a chance to speak. "Did you get a good look at her motel room?" John snapped, stepping to the side to place himself between Lucy and the sheriff. He'd done this before, and again it seemed to be a purely instinctive action. She wondered if he saw that as clearly as she did. "Did you see her bed?" "Yes, and I'm very sorry—" "Sorry. You're very sorry," John said angrily. "Are you aware that someone chased her through the parking lot while your deputy took a nap? He walked right past that dimwit Lonnie, and turned her room upside down, and sliced up the sheets on her bed. How the hell did he get into her room?" The sheriff looked properly contrite. "There's a service hallway that runs between the rooms. Apparently, a lock was broken. We're looking into it." "While you're looking into it, Lucy's staying here." Maples cocked his head so he could get a better look at her. Lucy kept her face calm. "Is this what you want?" he asked. "I have to tell you, Miss Fain, I don't recommend it." "The carnival moves out tomorrow morning," she said in a small voice that was gruffer than usual. "Maybe I should just move on." "No." Both men responded at the same time, but John's voice was the most insistent. "Since the sheriff has seen fit to circulate the rumor that you can identify this man," John said, "it won't be safe. He'll come after you, wherever you go." The blood drained from Lucy's face, leaving her feeling faint. She'd had the same thought, but hearing it spoken aloud was so much worse. The sheriff stepped around John. "We didn't start that rumor." "But you didn't try to stop it." Maples glared at John, and Lucy could see the anger in the old man's eyes, the suspicion. It was difficult

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to believe that these men had once worked together. "You could've been the one to sneak into her room and cut up those sheets, just to scare her into coming here." John silently stared the sheriff down, refusing to defend himself against that ridiculous charge. "Deputy Phillips told me what happened." Maples looked to Lucy, and the anger swiftly left his eyes. "Was there a time, Miss Fain, when Mr. Quaid could've entered your room without your knowledge, between the time you left the motel and the time the two of you reentered the room together?" "No," she answered quickly. "Yes." John's voice was sharp as he stared at Lucy with mildly condemning eyes. "You remember?" he said softly. "I went looking for the man who chased you, while you waited at the store." "But you weren't gone that long." "Long enough, isn't that right, Sheriff?" he asked, continuing to stare at Lucy. He'd done nothing wrong, and he didn't want her lying to defend him against something he didn't do. Wouldn't do. "But, of course, I wasn't the only one there with the opportunity to slip into Lucy's room. Lonnie screwed up the evidence when Claire was killed, tramping through the house like a damn blind bull. He's a moron, but I occasionally wonder if he's really that stupid, or if he had something to cover up." The accusation hung in the air—the spoken and the unspoken. That poor, bumbling Lonnie Phillips? Had he really been sleeping? "How…" Her voice was little more than a rasp, and she cleared her throat and started again. "How did that man get into my room?" Sheriff Maples pulled his attention away from John. "The service hallway I mentioned runs between the rooms on either side of the motel. There's a panel under the sink in the bathroom to be used in case of an emergency." "So he could've come in at any time, while I was asleep or taking a bath…" "It was an oversight, Miss Fain." John uttered a filthy curse just beneath his breath, and the sheriff's head snapped around. If either of them had been less civilized, she felt certain they already would have come to blows. It didn't matter what they thought. This was her decision, one her very life depended on. You shouldn't make a decision like this with your heart, she tried to tell herself, but with your head. Any fool would choose an entire sheriff's department over a man who watched her with haunted eyes and was himself a suspect—the suspect. But in the end, it took no time at all for Lucy to make her decision, and she made it as she'd made all her decisions since seeing John at the carnival—instinctively, with her heart and her soul. "I'd prefer to stay here," she said softly.

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The sheriff glared at her in disapproval. "There's your answer, Sheriff," John said, his voice much too calm to suit his hardened face. "My men will be parked right outside," Maples assured her, ignoring John. "If you need anything, anything at all, they'll be—" "Sleeping," John finished for him. Sheriff Maples turned to face Lucy several times as he made his way to the door. He said nothing, but his expression warned her. He was worried for her, and a little scared himself. It occurred to Lucy, as John stepped past the sheriff and opened the front door wide, that Sheriff Maples looked somewhat like her father, and was of the same generation. Some days she was grateful her parents hadn't been forced to witness her decline. They'd seen her married to a man they believed to be stable and loving. And they'd died in a car accident before they'd known any different—before Lucy herself had known any different. They'd never had to see their daughter in costume, telling some poor sap what he wanted to hear just to make a few bucks. They'd never had to see their sweet little girl become a survivor. She missed them so much it hurt. Lucy said nothing as Maples stepped onto the front porch, and John slammed the door with a resoundingthud . *** He was beginning to worry about her. It was nearnine o'clock, and Lucy had slept all day. John had even surprised himself by sleeping for several hours. Lucy slept in the room next to his, and he was so tense he could feel the strain in every muscle and bone in his body. She was in danger because of him. Every window in the house was closed tight and locked, though he knew it wouldn't take an expert burglar to break into this old place. Still, it was safe enough for the moment—safer than that motel, to be certain. The air hung muggy and still, though there was a small fan in Lucy's room—his old bedroom—stirring the hot air around. The window unit in his office ran at full blast, but not enough of the cool air reached Lucy's room. He'd checked on her several times in the past couple of hours, pushing the door open just a crack and watching her sleep. She took deep, even breaths, and apparently didn't move at all. A cold shower had relieved his discomfort, cooling his sweat-dampened skin and almost taking his mind off what he wanted and couldn't have. He'd stood beneath the chilling water longer than he should have, letting the cold needles of spray pelt his skin. Hell, he'd better get used to cold showers as long as Lucy was in the house. No matter how much he wanted her, he couldn't allow himself to get any more involved than he already was. Everyone knew what happened to the women who made the mistake of getting involved with John Quaid. When he finished showering, he stepped half dressed from the bathroom into the hallway. He couldn't very well tramp around the house naked with Lucy staying here, so he'd slipped into a pair of jeans. His

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hair was still damp and so was his skin. He carried a dark green T-shirt in one hand, and tossed it over his shoulder as he pushed Lucy's door open once again. Most of the room was lost in darkness, but the bed was lit by the distant glow of a street lamp through blue curtains. John stood outside the room as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Lucy was no longer peaceful. She twisted and turned on the bed, and the plaid bedspread that had covered her all day lay crumpled on the floor where she'd thrown it off. She slept in a T-shirt not much different from the one he had thrown over his shoulder. Plain, soft with wear, it was a pale green that matched her eyes. It had crept up to her hips, and her slender legs kicked at the top sheet that had pooled around her ankles. John quietly stepped into the room until he stood over his old bed looking down at Lucy. She was caught in a nightmare, perhaps running from the Ripper, or remembering how it had felt to step into her motel room only to find that he'd been there. Whatever her nightmare, it had her in its grip. Her face contorted as she fought it. He took the sheet she'd kicked away and covered her to the waist. Nightmare or no, she looked too damn good sleeping in the bed where he had once dreamed of beautiful girls like Lucy Fain. What made him want, so badly, to protect her? Maybe it was the simple fact that he hadn't been able to do a damn thing about the others. Could he really change what was happening? Could he do what Sheriff Maples and his men had been unable to do? Maybe it was more than guilt that drew him to her. He liked her, he wanted her; he felt compelled, too often, just to watch her. In another time and another place… He almost laughed at that cliché. In another time and another place, he and Lucy wouldn't have crossed paths, unless he had arrested her for running her scam. She was a palm reader, acarny , a woman who painted her long fingernails bright red and looked into a man's eyes as if she could read his thoughts. A woman who spoke her mind, and ate chicken noodle soup for breakfast without a word of complaint. She seemed calmer now, though her breathing remained ragged and the serene look she'd had on her face earlier that evening was gone. John picked the thin bedspread off the floor and leaned over the bed, intending to lay it at Lucy's feet. Before he could do so, Lucy shot straight up into a sitting position. Her hands were at her throat, and she looked at him with an unmistakable terror more bone-chilling than the fear he'd seen on her face when she'd seen the devastation in her motel room. Light slashed across her face, touching her eyes, and those eyes were wide and locked on him. "Don't touch me," she whispered harshly. "I won't," John assured her. "You kicked your covers off the bed." He held the bedspread aloft—his only proof. Dammit, if she was afraid of him, why was she here? The change that came over her was easy to see. Her fear slowly turned to wariness, and then to relief. "John." She breathed his name. He realized that she hadn't known until that moment that he was the one hovering over her bed. Her hands dropped from her throat, and she hugged her arms to her body as if she were chilled. That was impossible in the too-warm house.

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When she lifted her head to look up at him, he saw the accusation in her eyes. "Why didn't you wake me sooner? I didn't intend to sleep this long." "I slept for a while myself, and you looked like you needed your rest." "It's dark," she said, her voice small and lost as she turned her face to the window. *** Lucy closed her eyes against the brightness when John switched on the overhead light fixture, but she was grateful for the harsh light. It soothed her. She'd actually felthis hands around her neck and had remembered what it was like to think she was going to die. It wasn't the Red Grove Ripper who gave her nightmares. That assault was more recent, and yet she could put it from her mind. She couldn't dismiss Paul so easily; she couldn't forget what it had been like to wake up in the middle of the night with his hands around her throat. He'd been drunk and angry that night, but by then, that was how he spent much of his time. And the drunker Paul was, the more he hated her. That night she'd been certain she was going to die. It was now five years since she'd seen Paul, and she still couldn't bring herself to go to sleep in the dark. She drank coffee and waited for dawn to arrive—dawn, when she'd be safe from the creatures of the night like her ex-husband. John had moved to the doorway, where he stood watching her. He was only partially dressed, his hair damp, his brow creased with a frown as he tried to lean casually against the doorjamb. But his eyes and the set of his jaw gave him away. There was nothing casual about John Quaid. He was tense—wound so tight he looked as if he might go off at any moment. "Are you all right?" It was a question of concern, but his voice was sharp, almost biting. She nodded her head, not trusting her voice just yet. At least he would think she'd been having a nightmare about the man who had attacked her here in Red Grove, and not about a past she refused to talk about. That was another time, another Lucy. She brushed the hair away from her face with both hands.Get a grip, girl , she challenged herself.That was a long time ago, and you have more pressing problems. "I could use a shower," she said when she felt in control enough to speak. "And something to eat." "I think I have another can of soup." Lucy smiled at the man in the doorway, and it wasn't as forced and unnatural as she'd thought it might be. She'd been right about the muscles; they played across his chest, hard and distinct—very nice. April would be impressed. How did he do this? Somehow she was able to push away her demons when John Quaid was with her—against all reason, and in spite of the fact that she was sometimes certain he was more of a threat to her than any pervert in a monster mask. She felt better—breathed easier—simply because he was here. He pulled on his shirt and raked his hair back with both hands, his every move leisurely and graceful, powerful and confident. Yes, April would really be impressed. But cute? No way. There were a lot of words to describe this man, but cute was much too … ordinary. "Can we go to the grocery store?" She pulled the sheet around her and stood with it gathered at her waist. It draped down to the floor, covering her bare legs and feet. "I'll cook if you buy."

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"You can cook?" he asked with a healthy dose of skepticism, raising his eyebrows and crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, it's been a long time since I cooked anything that didn't just heat up in the microwave," she admitted. "I don't have a microwave," John said gravely. Lucy pursed her lips. "That complicates things, but I'm willing to try, if you are. Just how brave are you?" He looked at her so intently that she half expected him to cross the room and kiss her, to lower her to the bed and make love to her until they both forgot who they were and why they were here. Oh, when he looked at her this way, long-dead feelings came to life and she felt them to her bones. If he came to her, she wouldn't push him away, wouldn't so much as whisperno . No matter that she knew it was wrong, no matter that she had sworn never to fall for a man's lies again. But John hadn't lied to her, hadn't sworn that he loved her or wanted her or needed her. He just looked at her with eyes that spoke more clearly than a thousand words. Lucy wanted him to hold her, to step into the room and wrap his arms around her, and just hold her. She wanted to feel safe again, if only for a little while. Nothing so wonderful lasted for very long, but if she could have that feeling just once more… After staring at her for a moment longer than was comfortable for either of them, John turned away. "There are towels in the bathroom linen closet. Help yourself," he said, and as he left he didn't look back. Chapter 6 «^» Lucy bent over the hot stove, examining the omelette with unnecessary intensity. So far so good. The one-dish meal was almost finished, and it was utterly beautiful. It had been a long time since she'd really cooked anything, even a simple omelette, and she wanted it to be perfect. The scene was absurdly normal: John watching from his seat at the kitchen table, while she prepared a hugemidnightomelette filled with ham and cheese and red peppers. Their walk through the grocery store, with sheriff's deputies at their heels and curious late-night shoppers staring, had elicited the same absurd feeling that together she and John were right and impossible—magic and potential disaster. She had insisted on buying fresh fruits and vegetables, a loaf of whole-grain bread, and a bottle of multivitamins. She felt an intuitive maternal concern for a man who didn't stock anything in his kitchen but beer and ketchup and moldy bread. Strange, since she hadn't felt anything resembling maternal concern for anyone in a very long time. In spite of fleeting moments when she almost convinced herself that this was a normal relationship, she knew better. None of this was normal—not her presence in John's life, not his insistence that she stay with him, not her willingness to do as he demanded. He seemed, at times, as dubious about this whole mess as she was. One minute she was sure that he felt the same attachment she did, and the next minute his face became as unreadable as stone and he turned his back on her.

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Maybe, once again, her instincts had failed her. Maybe he didn't want her at all; it certainly didn't make sense that he would. Lucy knew what she was; what she had made herself. She was a carnival huckster, a charlatan who took money from naive men and women and pulled them into a fantasyland of her own making. People were so gullible. They tended to believe anything that was told to them with enough assurance, especially if it was what they wanted to hear. Perhaps she was as gullible as every sap who'd ever walked into her tent, as stupidly hopeful as the most starry-eyed teenager. She was a fool. There was no real connection here with John, no invisible bond, no soul mate waiting to be found. Not for her. She slid the omelette onto a large plate. It was perfect, unbroken andunburnt . She set the plate in the center of the table and sat down opposite John. He'd poured them each a glass of red wine, and she lifted her glass slowly and took a long sip as she settled herself comfortably in her chair. "It's so hot in here. Haven't you ever heard of air-conditioning for the entire house? It's a radical new invention made especially forAlabamain the summertime." John smiled and ignored her tease. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, though, and that made it look a little uncertain. He nodded to the omelette. "You really can cook." Lucy took the first bite, and then John lifted his own fork to his mouth. They ate from the same plate, each working from one end toward the middle. He refilled her glass whenever it got half empty, and she soon lost track of how much she'd actually consumed. She knew good and well that she shouldn't drink wine; it went straight to her head. She decided, as they finished the last of the omelette, that it really didn't matter. A few hours of fuzzy comfort, the ability to forget for a while, was well worth the price of a morning headache. It had been a wild week, and the return of her nightmare hadn't helped her already shaky peace of mind. When the meal was over, since she'd cooked, John did the dishes. The man didn't have a dishwasher, either. No dishwasher, no microwave, no air conditioner except the tiny window unit in his office. "You don't believe in the modern conveniences," she said to his spine, leaning back in her chair and taking another sip of wine. He glanced over his shoulder, an unconcerned expression on his face and soap suds on his hands. It struck her, as if she'd never seen him before, how beautiful he was. "I have a computer," he said."Anda fax machine." "But no air conditioner." She poured another glass of wine, held it up to the light and studied the broken rosy-colored rays through one barely opened eye. "You're obsessed with air-conditioning." "I am not," she said haughtily. "I'm just—" she grabbed the front of her pale pink T-shirt and beat her hand against her chest, fanning herself as best she could "—hot." John turned to her, drying his hands on a red-and-white checkered dish towel. He tossed the towel aside and gave her his full attention, not only with his eyes but with his entire being. It was chilling and heated at the same time, to have a man watch her so intently. Oh, why did he insist onlooking at her like

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this? "Come on." He grabbed Lucy's hand and pulled her to her feet, steadying her with one arm and grabbing the bottle of wine with his free hand. "Not much of a drinker, are you?" he asked, surveying what remained. There was a little over a third left, but as far as Lucy could remember, John had only had two glasses. It was an awfully big bottle, she thought. "Not really." She leaned against John as he led her through the dining room and down the narrow hallway to his office. He felt solid and real, and she didn't mind the warmth from his body, even though she'd been complaining about the heat all night. Touching him made her wonder if the heat had anything at all to do with the fact that it was summertime inAlabama. The air conditioner in his office hummed at full blast, chilling the room—not like the icy motel, but like the first autumn day after a long hot summer. "Ahhh." Lucy broke away from John and spread her arms wide. She let the cool air wrap itself around her, let it wash over her. "I will concede that you're a civilized man, after all," she said as she turned to face him. He stood in the doorway, almost as if he were afraid to follow her in. Just as he'd stood in her bedroom doorway and in the doorway of the sheriff's office, keeping himself on the outside, afraid or unwilling to make himself a part of her life. Lucy wanted to know why, but she couldn't ask. She found herself wishing that she really did have unearthly gifts, that she had the power to heal the wounds John Quaid hid from the world. Oh, she knew in her heart that he had wounds to hide as surely as she did. She lifted her hand and crooked her finger slowly, inviting him into the room. "Let me read your palm." "No, thanks." He shook his head slowly. "What are you afraid of?" She locked her eyes on him. "It's just for fun. We'll pretend we never met, and I'll give you the generic angry-gentleman routine." John hesitated, but he finally entered the room and walked straight to her. He moved slowly but unwaveringly, and his silver-gray eyes—eyes too old for his face, eyes that had captivated and haunted her from the moment she'd first seen them—never left hers. Lucy sat on the floor and crossed her legs Indian-style, placing her wineglass beside her. The jeans she wore were baggy enough to allow freedom of movement, and her pink T-shirt was so long that it pooled around her hips and between her legs. John lowered himself to the floor, facing her, folding his long legs like hers so that they sat knee to knee. He placed the bottle of wine to the side and reluctantly offered her his hand. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, trying to ignore the spark that ignited inside her when her skin met his. Pulling his hand closer, she leaned over to study the palm intently. "See?" she whispered. "This isn't so bad." "Better than having orange drink dumped all over me," he said in a soft, gruff voice.

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Lucy lifted her head and smiled. "My method was crude, but it worked, didn't it?" John made a noise, a grunt that said he wouldn't argue with her but that he didn't care for that particular memory. "Do you do that often?" he asked. "You were the first." She ran a fingernail over his life line. "Now be quiet and pay attention." Oh, she liked the feel of his hand in hers, the beat of his pulse at the wrist, the warmth beneath her fingers. The wisest thing to do at this point, she knew, would be to drop his hand and change the subject. Maybe she could ask him to teach her how to use a computer, or tell a gross joke to ruin the mood. She didn't. Heaven help her, she liked touching him too much. "Someone broke your heart," she whispered huskily. "A woman. She betrayed you." His hand trembled, a deep tremor that anyone else would have missed but that she felt to her toes. Still, he didn't pull away from her. "Painful as that betrayal was, it was for the best. She was not good for you. She would only have made you unhappy again and again." Lucy glanced up to judge John's reaction. His eyes were cold, his jaw set tight. A muscle twitched there. "There is another woman in your future, a woman who will make you forget." She brought his palm to her lips and kissed it lightly before she released her hold on him. "That's the generic angry-gentleman routine?" "The beginning of it," Lucy answered, reaching for her wineglass. "It's really pretty safe, if you think about it. Every man over the age of sixteen has had his heart broken, and any man who's had his heart broken feels betrayed. After that, I just judge the reaction—how strong the anger or the hurt is—and I ad-lib from there. But no matter what, I always leave my customers with hope for the future, love waiting around the corner … possibilities." Love, hope, and possibilities were for other people, she reminded herself, not for her. "And a kiss on the palm?" Lucy raised her glass and smiled. "No. That was another first." John refilled her almost empty glass. "What kind of routine did I get that first night? The generic life-in-turmoil routine?" Lucy's smile faded. "What would you say if I told you that was no routine." "I'd say you're very good at what you do." He obviously didn't believe her, and perhaps it was just as well. It was more difficult for her to accept the fact that she trusted this man, and had since the moment she'd touched him, than to accept the dangers she faced. Life was uncertain and dangerous, and she had prepared herself to face whatever it offered. Everything but this. Complete trust only led to pain and heartache.Trust no one but yourself , she'd whispered a thousand times,and you won't get hurt again . Putting her complete faith in any man's hands would be too much like standing naked before him and asking him to hurt her.

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She had to turn the subject around, somehow, had to get back on safe ground. "Why do you think he came after me?" Lucy tilted her chin up so she could look John in the eye. "I mean, you said the other victims were from Red Grove, had lived here all their lives, I was just passing through. What made that creep come after me?" "Who knows? A man who puts on a rubber mask and kills women like some kind of animal—how can we know what he's thinking?" John dropped his eyes. Lucy licked her lips. "You don't even have a theory?" He glanced up at her briefly. "No." Knowing this was dangerous, knowing she should run like hell, she found a strange sort of peace in John's presence. Needing it, knowing he needed it as well, she rocked forward and placed her arms around his neck. "Would you just hold me?" His arms stole around her, and Lucy buried her head against his shoulder. Oddly enough, against all reason, she felt safe—even though she knew, had seen in John's eyes, that he was lying. *** John held Lucy for a moment longer than he should have. It was harder than he'd expected to let her go. She melted against him, and he could feel her warm breath against the side of his neck, her heart pounding against his. His arms encircled her completely, and he pressed one hand against her shoulder, another around her waist. Beneath his hands she was pliant and giving, and yet she didn't move at all, just rested there as if this was where she belonged. God help him, he didn't want to tell Lucy that she was in danger because of him. He didn't want to tell her that she'd almost become a victim of the Ripper simply because he'd bought her coffee and pie. How would she look at him if she knew the truth? A change crept over Lucy, a new tension working its way through her body. He recognized the tautness as reluctant desire, closed his eyes and reveled in it, and then he did his damnedest to ignore it. If she hadn't had too much to drink. if he wasn't certain that the closer they became the more danger she was in, if he wasn't somehow sure that Lucy would bolt if this went too far … he would kiss her again, and lay her on the floor and make love to her all night long. He'd bury himself inside her and kiss her and stroke her body until the sun came up. He dropped his arms, and she backed away slowly until she knelt before him, her hands on her knees, a wayward strand of hair so pale that it looked almost white falling across one cheek. She looked more like a lost little girl than a Gypsy. Which was the real Lucy? "Sorry," she said softly, lifting her chin to stare at him with wide eyes. "I shouldn't drink wine at all. It goes to my head and I just don't think straight." John didn't know how to answer that.That's all right. Apology accepted. No big deal. Get back here where you belong. None of those responses were appropriate. It wasn't all right, she shouldn't have apologized, and it was a very big deal. And it didn't matter how certain he was that she belonged next to him, with her heart against his and her breath brushing his neck. If he could stand to let her out of his sight, he would send her away, far from Red Grove and from him. But he wasn't ready to let her go, and

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he couldn't be positive that she'd be safe if he did. The time to respond to her unnecessary apology came and went, and Lucy backed away to sit and cross her legs again. "Cards," John said, taking the bottle and her almost empty glass as he stood. "I think there's a deck in the kitchen junk drawer." "Sure," she said softly. "I can tell the future with a Piquet deck. Take out the twos, threes, fours, fives and sixes." A new expression stole across her face, a playful look that wiped away some of the vulnerability he'd seen there moments earlier. "You are the King of Clubs, and I am the Queen of Hearts." John stared down at her. "The Queen of Hearts?" Fitting. "Yes. A young fair-haired woman is represented by the Queen of Hearts in simplecartomancy . The King of Clubs represents a young dark-haired man." "What about anold dark-haired man?" he asked wryly. God knows, he felt ancient at the moment. "The King of Spades." She gave him one of those bright smiles. "The cards will tell us about your future. They will tell us about power, fame, bad luck, travel. Love." He didn't particularly care about the future right now, and he sure as hell didn't intend to sit here while Lucy discussed his destined love life. "How about gin rummy?" Lucy placed her palms on the floor beside her and leaned back. "Chicken?" The plain shirt she wore molded against her breasts, bugging her body so he could see every breath she took in the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Surely she didn't know how delectable she looked. "Yep." "Gin rummy it is." John left Lucy sitting on the floor, taking the wine bottle and her glass with him. She didn't need any more, and if he joined her, if he lost his inhibitions and asked her to hold him, he wouldn't be able to let her go. He found a deck in the drawer of odds and ends. As he walked back to his office, he shuffled the playing cards. They were so old that they were ragged and faded, and a number of them had been damaged: a turned-down corner, a crease across the middle. When he reached his office, he found Lucy waiting for him, her eyes, soft and content, on the doorway. "Janet will sometimes sit up with me, but she prefers poker." "Who's Janet?" "Janet is—was one of my roommates. She's the tattooed lady. Did you see her show? It's amazing. There's not an inch of skin on her body that's not tattooed, and she can make some of them move by flexing her muscles."

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"The tattooed lady," John repeated, lowering himself to the floor to face Lucy. "Somehow I missed that one." "Too bad," she said with a teasing smile. John dealt the cards but he watched Lucy, unable to take his eyes off her. He felt the urge to toss the cards aside and run his fingers through her fine, silky, white-gold hair, to see if it felt as soft as it looked. It brushed against skin so pale that it might never have seen the sun, but Lucy wasn't colorless. There were roses in her cheeks, and her skin was luminous with an unearthly glow. Even a skeptic could look at a face like that one and believe in magic—believe in the future she promised. But she hadn't promised him anything, had she? She was only here because he'd insisted, because he'd dragged her here while she was in no shape to protest or even to think clearly. Maybe she did respond to his touch the way he responded to hers. That didn't mean anything. Lucy beat him soundly, hand after hand, and they played until faint morning light touched the window and the floor. She didn't ask him again to hold her, and even though his hands all but itched to touch her, he didn't suggest it, either. He didn't reach out to push back that one stubborn strand of hair that fell across her cheek, didn't even allow his fingers to brush hers as they played. As the night passed, he finally admitted to himself that he wasn't going to stop wanting her just because he knew he should. The admission didn't help the pain. By the time she tossed her cards on the floor between them and stood in the filmy morning sunlight that streamed through the window, he knew that if she so much as touched him, if she brushed past him on her way to bed or laid those pale fingers on his arm, he would lose what little control he had left. She passed by him carefully, as if she knew, and John forced himself up from the floor to follow her. "You wouldn't have an old robe I could borrow, would you?" she asked as she entered the hallway. "Mine wasn't in the duffel bag. Janet probably swiped it," she said lightly. "She always did like my bathrobe." "In my closet," he said, pointing toward his room. "There are a couple of robes in there that I never use." She didn't hesitate to enter his room, to open the closet near the door. She rummaged through the clothes, working her way quickly to the back before she found what she was looking for. When she spun around, John backed up a single step to allow her to proceed into the hallway without passing too closely. "Thanks for staying up with me," she whispered as she stepped around him, leaving plenty of space between them. "It was fun," he lied. It had been torture. "And besides, I wasn't tired. Slept too much yesterday, I guess." "Thanks, anyway." She turned away from him, and he had an uneasy feeling that he'd missed something: a clue to the real Lucy, a chance that would never come again. "Lucy?"

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She stopped in the middle of the hallway and glanced over her shoulder, waiting. She looked so damn defenseless, wide-eyed and sleepy, trusting and still afraid. "Sleep well," he said, wondering if he would be able to sleep at all. *** An increasingly loud and insistent pounding on the front door woke her, and a glance at the clock on the bedside table told her it was nearlynoon. Lucy rolled up and grabbed the bathrobe she had placed at the foot of the bed, wrapping it around the long green T-shirt she liked to sleep in. She'd grabbed the monstrous robe from John's closet sometime after dawn, barely looking at the thing until she was safely in her room with the door closed behind her. She couldn't imagine that John had ever worn this. It must have been a gift, she decided. It was made of a satiny synthetic fabric, a bright paisley in shades of green and blue and purple, and it was as wild as any costume she'd ever worn at the carnival. Whoever had given it to John didn't know him very well. Since it was obviously a gift from a woman, she found some satisfaction in that fact. She'd never buy anything so bright for him to wear; she already knew him too well. John stepped into the hall from his bedroom at the same moment Lucy entered the hall from her end. "Good morning," she said, smiling. He'd slipped into a pair of jeans and nothing else. Damn, he looked too good, big and powerful and still coming awake. His hair was slightly mussed; it looked as if he'd combed it inexpertly with his fingers again. "Wait right here," he ordered, emphasizing the point with a stern finger wagged in her direction. Lucy waited until he was out of sight, and then she slipped down the hallway and stuck her head around the corner. She heard raised male voices, but she couldn't see John and his visitor. "What the hell is wrong with you?" The shouted question was delivered with a superior, condescending tone. "What do you want?" John's voice was softer, muffled at this distance. "Is it true that you've got that—that woman here? In this house? In our mother's house?" The voice seethed, indignantly arrogant. "Everyone's talking about it. For God's sake, John, I don't need another scandal to explain away. It's bad enough that your reputation has been ruined. Don't you ever think about my standing in the community?" The visitor sighed loudly enough for her to hear, a long-suffering, loud sigh. "Where is she?" Footsteps headed her way—loud, hurried footsteps. She had nowhere to go, so she steeled herself to come face-to-face with John's visitor. His brother, apparently. The tall, fair-haired man was obviously startled when he rounded the corner and saw her there. He stopped abruptly, took a step back, and looked her up and down. Lucy didn't bother to smooth her untidy hair, or even to blush. "Good morning," she said coolly. He was starched and stiff, a beauty straight from the pages ofGQ , with his manageable hair and an expensive suit, and he stared at Lucy with dismay and surprise.

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"I can't believe you did this," he said, turning to John. "Get out," John muttered. "Don't you have a job anymore?" "Of course, I have a job," GQ said, his eyes returning to Lucy. "For God's sake, John, we can't all sleep untilnoonon a Monday. I'm on my lunch break." When the man turned back to Lucy with a distraught expression on his pretty face, she smiled and offered her hand. "We haven't met. I'm Lucy Fain." "I know," he said, taking her hand briefly in an almost automatic manner. "I'm Adam Quaid." "John's brother," she said softly. Adam nodded, and John practically growled. The strain between them was almost tangible, going well beyond any sibling rivalry she'd ever seen. Lucy slipped past Adam, taking his arm and then John's. She led them through the dining room, one Quaid brother on either side. Large men, both of them, they were strangely obedient. "I'll make us some coffee and something to eat," she said. The brothers were ominously silent, until Adam glanced down at her. His eyes widened as if he saw her for the first time, as if she had magically appeared at his elbow. "For God's sake!" he snapped. "Claire gave you that robe!" Lucy looked up at John. He was calm—stoic even—but she could see the tension in the set of his features and feel it in the tautness of his arm. "Your ex-wife," she whispered, and John nodded once. "She had atrocious taste. In bathrobes, anyway," she added. The words were soft, meant only for John, but it was Adam who responded. "She's dead," he said coldly. "I don't think we need to criticize her taste." He disengaged himself from Lucy's hold as they entered the kitchen. She seated John and Adam on opposite sides of the kitchen table, and they were silent as she made coffee and toast. She saw Adam's eyes light on the almost empty wine bottle and the two long-stemmed glasses that had been left on the kitchen counter. He was drawing his own mistaken conclusions, and she saw no need to get defensive at this point. He wouldn't believe her, anyway. When three mugs were filled with hot coffee, and toast and jelly and sliced apples sat in the middle of the table, Lucy took the chair next to John. Adam and John shared some of the same features—the shape of their noses, the sensuous mouths—and they were about the same height. There the resemblance ended. Adam was fair in coloring, blond and blue-eyed with lightly tanned skin. He was immaculately well-groomed, and she doubted that the hair on his head would dare to grow below the ears. Wider in the shoulders than John, Adam had the look of a man who might carry some fat in later years. He was younger than John, but by no more than three or four years. She'd put him at thirty, maybe thirty-two. He stared at her with open suspicion, as easy for her to read as John had always been.

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"So," she said, smiling. "You don't think I should be here." "No, I don't." Lucy nodded her head and reached for an apple slice. "I can understand your misgivings—" "It's none of his business," John said sharply. Lucy took John's hand under the table, silently and gently grasping his fingers with her own. Would he accept the gesture or would he push her away? She didn't know how he would react; she only knew that he needed her beside him. After everything that had happened, it was all she could be sure of—that he needed her. Did he realize that yet? John didn't reject her. He took her hand, threaded his fingers through hers, and held on with a gentle but firm grip. "I grew up in this house," Adam began. "And I bought you out when Mom died. You had no interest in this house, and you needed money at the time. For your very active love life, if I remember correctly," John added harshly. "You packed up your old junk and you washed your hands of this place, and that means you have no say—" "That's not necessarily true." Lucy interrupted John in a soft voice. He looked down at her, narrowing his eyes. Still, his hand gripped hers. "A childhood home is filled with memories, good and bad, fuzzy and crystal clear, and always very strong," she said. "I can understand Adam's reluctance to have me here." She turned away from John to look directly at Adam. "So, what do you suggest?" Her straightforward question caught him off guard. "What do you mean?" "If I can't stay here, what do you suggest? I suppose you heard that the man who tried to kill me broke into my motel room. I can't go back to the carnival. John and Sheriff Maples both assure me that wouldn't be safe. I know my safety isn't your responsibility, but…" She shrugged her shoulders. "Don't you have any family who can take you in?" Lucy hesitated briefly, then shook her head. "None. Not enough money to get very far away from Red Grove, either." "Surely Sheriff Maples…" Adam began. "I was in protective custody when that creep broke into the motel. You can't blame me for having no confidence in the Sheriff's Department." "She's not going anywhere," John insisted, his stone-gray gaze fixed on Adam. Adam ignored his brother and stared at Lucy. She could see his fury slowly being replaced by indecision; his defenses breaking down one by one; his anger evaporating. He lifted a steaming mug to his

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lips and sipped slowly. When he set the mug down, he actually smiled at her. It was a half smile laced with defeat and sufferance. Lucy smiled back automatically, acknowledging his surrender. When she did, his smile widened into a real golden-boy grin, complete with twinkling blue eyes. Beneath the table, John released her hand, slowly extricating his fingers from hers. "So you forgive me for intruding in your childhood home?" "How could I not? You're very persuasive." "I don't expect I'll be here long," she said. "The sheriff's bound to catch the killer." "I'm sorry if it seems I overreacted," Adam began. "My position at the bank is very important, and Red Grove is an oddly old-fashioned place. You know how people talk in a small town. Lately, handling the endless gossip has been quite difficult." He looked pointedly at John as he spoke. "I just don't need another 'situation' to explain away." John shot to his feet. "I'm going to take a shower," he snapped. "You two can get acquainted." He was gone before Lucy could say a word. She fidgeted, a little uncomfortable to be left alone with John's brother, sipping coffee in a warm kitchen, Adam in his conservative suit, she in John's paisley robe. Adam remained silent, apparently as uncomfortable as she was. She kept expecting him to jump to his feet and make a quick getaway … but he didn't. John had been gone several minutes when Lucy heard the muffled roar of the shower. Adam cleared his throat and slipped a finger between his tight collar and his throat, as if he had grown suddenly more uncomfortable. "I don't know how to say this, but I feel it my duty to warn you, Miss Fain," he said in a low voice. "Lucy," she said, staring into her coffee cup. "Call me Lucy." When he didn't respond immediately, she looked up. He was giving her his full attention. "You're not safe here. Surely you've heard about the murders, about the suspicions directed at my brother. I can give you the money to get away, if that's the problem. You have to get out of this house, out of town. I don't have a fortune, but—" "John isn't capable of the crimes he's suspected of," she interrupted. "I'm perfectly safe here." Adam shook his head in sad disbelief. "I wish I could believe that." He rose from his chair, straightening his suit jacket and tie as he stepped away from the table. "But I don't. I think he killed Claire, and then he decided he liked it and he killed the others." He locked his eyes on her. "If you stay here, he'll kill you, too." She shook her head. "You're wrong," she whispered. "I don't think so," he answered in a voice almost as soft as her own. It was clear that Adam was among those who had already tried and convicted John. It didn't make sense that someone who knew him so well, his own brother, could believe John capable of murder.

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"I'll check on you now and again, if you don't mind," Adam said with just a trace of his earlier anger. "It's not necessary…" "For my own peace of mind. If you won't listen to my warnings, the least you can do is allow me to keep an eye on you, when I can." She didn't look forward to more confrontations between John and his brother, but she reluctantly agreed. "Here." He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew his business card. "Call me, anytime." She sat at the kitchen table with his card in her hand, as Adam walked through the house. And when he slammed the front door on his way out, she breathed a sigh of relief. Chapter 7 «^» John stayed in his office most of the day. Each time Lucy stuck her head into the room, she saw him diligently reading a magazine or a newspaper or typing something on his computer. He'd been silent and withdrawn since his brother's visit. The moment he'd taken his hand from hers was the same moment he'd mentally distanced himself from her. Adam had put him in this state, she told herself, not her. She tried to forget the events of the past week, shutting her brain down, losing herself in an activity she hadn't thrown herself into for years; she cleaned. Every window in the house was opened. It wasn't easy. They weren't painted shut but they were definitely stuck. It took every bit of muscle she had to pry them open. Each window gave with a resoundingcrack , disinclined as they were to open and allow fresh air to rush through the house. The air that wafted through was warm, but it was also fresh and clean. She dusted, first the living room and then the neglected dining room. The furniture there was rich and dark and rarely used. How long had it been since a family had gathered at that round table? This was a place for laughing and talking, arguing and making up. It had been ages since any activity had taken place here, judging by the layer of dust. The kitchen was in great shape, surfaces shining and floor clean enough to eat off, before Lucy tackled her own room. A warm but refreshing breeze drifted through the screen at the open window. This had been John's room. She could see him—a dark-haired, serious boy collecting his comic books and bottle caps, trading baseball cards. She could see him—sitting cross-legged on the narrow bed, his treasures spread around him. He'd been a sweet and confident child, no doubt, without an inkling that the future held times like this. She looked at every comic book and other treasure as she cleared the shelves. This was by far the dustiest room, long untouched. When the shelves were dusted and the treasures replaced, she opened the closet. She grimaced at the poster on the inside of the door, and resisted the temptation to remove it. When she turned, those devilish musicians were watching her back.

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There was nothing on the floor of the closet but her own duffel bag, empty now since she'd placed her meager belongings in a drawer. In the back corner there was a stack of books, old and musty, yellowed pages sticking together. After a quick glance she put them back. She rifled through the clothes that were hanging there, no longer making a pretense of cleaning, but Snooping boldly. The gold-and-purple letter sweater caught her eye first, and she spent a moment wondering if John had played football or basketball or been on the track team. His sport was probably track, she finally decided; John didn't strike her as a team player. Even more interesting, at the back of the closet was a small cowboy outfit that had probably fit him when he was about ten. It was complete, with a checkered shirt, a suede vest, even a black holster and a cap gun. She discovered an out-of-style suit that was much too small for John today, but might have fit him as a teenager. It didn't look as if it had suffered much wear. Everything here had some significance. She could imagine well John's mother placing these things here for safekeeping—her own treasures, remembrances of happier times and momentous occasions. Lucy ran her hands along the sleeve of the sweater. "Having fun playing mistress of the house?" John asked, his voice dark and much too sharp. Lucy's heart jumped at the sound of his voice, but she managed not to show her surprise as she turned to face him. He glanced around the room with eyes that saw everything, studying the open window and the neatly arranged shelves. "Funny, you never struck me as the domestic type." "What's wrong with you?" Lucy snapped. Coming here had been wrong, she realized, yet another mistake to add to her long list of transgressions: She'd imagined something that didn't exist—a connection that was a figment of her imagination. She'd created that connection in her own mind because she needed it, but it wasn't real. Maybe John had felt something fleeting for her once, but it had been physical attraction, nothing more. Now, apparently, he didn't even feel that. He stepped into the room and came straight to her, and when he was close, too close, he lifted his hand to touch her face, to force her to look at him. "Didn't Adam sweep you off your feet? Didn't my little brother offer to take you away from all this?" His words were harsh, but the thumb that brushed her cheek was tender. "I expected you'd be long gone by now." "Do you want me to leave?" He stared at her and brushed his fingers along the side of her face, but he didn't answer her question. "Do you want me to leave?" she repeated, her voice rising. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. His hand moved slowly, shifting to cup the side of her head. "I want you to do whatever the hell you please," he muttered. Lucy realized that she was grasping the sleeve of the purple-and-gold sweater, and she dropped it as if she'd been burned. John stood close; he hovered over her protectively yet threateningly. With a subtle shift of his body, he could easily kiss her. His words were harsh; his touch gentle. Standing before her, above and around her, he radiated heat and an almost unbearable tension. His eyes were hard; something that cautioned her to be very careful flickered there.

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She ignored it. "I'm here," she whispered, "because I want to be. Against the advice of the sheriff and your own brother, against every shred of common sense I have. But if you ask me to leave, I'm gone." "If I thought you'd be safe anywhere else, I'd do that." Lucy stared up at him, at the cold eyes and the hard features of his face. He might have been a completely different person from the one she'd spent an entire evening drinking wine and playing cards with. There was no anger, none of his dark passion—just cold indifference. "Maybe I can talk to Sheriff Maples about another place to stay. Surely there are options." She didn't want to leave John just yet, but she'd never again make the mistake of fooling herself. They had no future together—just a spark it would be much too dangerous to explore. His hand dropped and he backed away. "We'll see," he said, and then he left her alone. *** He shouldn't be angry with Lucy. She didn't know the reason for the friction between the Quaid brothers, and if he had his way, she'd never know. God knows, he'd done his best to make sure that no one did. Still, it had taken him all day to come to terms with the vision of Lucy flashing one of her brilliant smiles in Adam's direction. He never should have brought her here. There were moments he was sure this was all wrong, but when he tried to list alternatives he could live with, he came up with zero. Nothing could happen to Lucy, dammit. If he had to keep her close and torture himself night and day to protect her, well, that was the price he had to pay. He was determined to keep her safe. The house looked better than it had in years. It smelled fresher, seemed brighter, and even now—long after dark—every corner was filled with light. During the afternoon it had been brilliant summer sunlight that streamed through open windows, but tonight the windows and the blinds were closed and it was the bright artificial glow of damn near every light in the house that brightened the rooms. Lucy sat in a wing chair in the living room, golden in a pool of that artificial light. She held and pretended to read a book she'd found while cleaning. It was the werewolf book he'd recently finished, and he knew she only pretended to be engrossed because she hadn't turned a page in fifteen minutes. "What do you think?" He stepped into the living room as he asked the question, and he wasn't at all surprised that Lucy jumped when he spoke. He'd been behind her as he watched, all but hidden in the dining room entryway. She recovered quickly. "It's very good," she said brightly. "A little gross here and there, but very beautifully written, too." As he moved to stand directly in front of her, she lifted eyes that were much too bright. "He made me cry," she said with a wan smile, explaining away the sheen in her eyes. "Right from the beginning, the werewolf doesn't want to be a monster. He wants to protect the woman he loves, but I can already see that he's not going to be able to save her or himself." She placed the book on an end table. "Maybe I won't finish it."

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John offered Lucy his hand as she began to rise from the chair. She didn't need his help to stand, but took his hand anyway, laying her fingers trustingly on his palm. When she stood before him, he didn't let go, not even when she tugged gently. He wanted to apologize for being a jerk this afternoon, but the words caught in his throat. Apologizing would require explanations, and he wasn't ready to offer any. So he kissed her, hard and fast, drawing her body up against his and laying his mouth over hers. She trembled, deeply and completely, and he held on even tighter as she answered the kiss with a gentle sway of her lips. He forgot everything ugly when he held Lucy. Everything. For the moment he knew only goodness and bright light and endless possibilities. His hands settled in her silky hair and at her back, and she slipped her arms around his waist, holding on gently and tightly. Her fingers brushed against his back—firm, exploring fingers. He wanted her, he needed her with an intensity unlike anything he'd ever known. A minute more and he'd have her, in the chair or on the couch or on the floor. He didn't care where, as long as it wasnow . Lucy dragged her lips from his and settled her head against his shoulder. "What are you doing to me?" "Kissing you, that's all," he whispered. She laughed; a husky breath against his neck. "That's all. You turn my life upside down, make me question every ounce of my resolve to stay away from men like you, swear to protect me one minute and talk about sending me away the next, and when I ask you what you're doing to me you sayKissing you, that's all ." "It could be more," he whispered. This was wrong, risky, but right now he didn't care. "We could be more, Lucy." She lifted her head and looked square at him, and the tears that sprung to her eyes weren't caused by any fictional werewolf. "No," she whispered. "We can't." *** Lucy sat on the twin bed, her back against the wall. She had read nearly every comic book in the room, and had riffled through a shoe box full of baseball cards. It would figure that a man who didn't have a microwave wouldn't have cable TV, either. At least the light outside her window was gray, and not the complete black that had surrounded her all night. She'd made herself as comfortable as possible here in John's old room, leaving on the overhead light and a bedside lamp, and she'd refilled her coffee mug several times. It was a quirk she figured she'd never outgrow. At first she had thought her fear of sleeping in the dark would eventually go away. She'd even tried it a few times, but the results were always the same: she woke up feeling Paul's hands around her throat, and she couldn't breathe. John finally slept. She'd heard him, tossing and turning half the night in the room next to hers, the bed creaking when he rolled from it to make a trip to the kitchen. She'd almost followed him, then, but had stopped herself short. She knew what he wanted. If she joined him in the kitchen, if she encouraged him, she knew what would happen, because, impossible as it was, she wanted it, too. Now he rested, quiet and alone in his bed.

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She couldn't possibly stay here. This afternoon it had been clear that John regretted his impulsive invitation, and tonight, tonight she'd come too close to following her heart and the natural responses of her body.Never again . She wouldn't make herself that vulnerable, wouldn't hand herself to any man on a silver platter with her heart exposed. She might as well bare herself and say "Hurt me." She was already much too close to falling in love with John Quaid, and that would never, never do. Sheriff Maples would find a place for her to stay until his case was solved. Or she could run away; she could disappear, and with a little luck no one would find her, ever—not the sheriff, not the creep in a monster's mask, and not John Quaid. She grabbed the duffel bag and filled it quickly and sloppily. She had nothing to pack but jeans and T-shirts, underwear and socks and a couple of her costumes. The other costumes were with the carnival. April would be wearing them, along with the dark wig, and she'd be using every trick Lucy had taught her to get by. Lucy knew she couldn't go back to the carnival, at least not yet. It was the first place they would look for her. There was a schedule to keep, and she would be too easy to find there. It didn't matter. She had a little money, and a talent for getting people to help her. The promise of good fortune was appealing to everyone. She could disappear, change her name, get lost, blend into the crowd wherever she went. She knew she could because she'd done it before. The closet door was open, and the long sleeve of John's gold-and-purple sweater caught her eye. She slipped it from the hanger and put it on. It hung nearly to her knees, and she had to push the sleeves up so her hands were free. She lifted the sleeve to her nose. Even after all these years it smelled like John—John and … British Sterling. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe he wouldn't miss it, and if he did, well, he would never see her again so it didn't matter. Slipping down the hallway, she stopped to peek through the open door to John's room. He was asleep, his dark head barely peeking out from beneath the dark comforter. She resisted the urge to slip quietly into that bedroom and kiss him goodbye. She'd really wanted to help him, and for a while she'd believed that she could. In the end she'd failed once again, adding to his burdens, complicating his life. She opened the front door silently and stepped onto the dark front porch. The sky had turned gray, but the covered porch was still in shadowed darkness. A sheriff's patrol car sat across the street, and she could see that two men sat there. They talked, not even looking toward the house. Escape would be easier if they were asleep, but they weren't. She crept to the side of the porch where an overgrown forsythia hid her from the street. Slowly and carefully, she climbed over the banister and dropped into the grass without making a sound. She stole through the neighbor's front yard, glancing over her shoulder every couple of seconds to the patrol car. The deputies were waiting for someone to try to break in, not expecting her to escape. Sheriff Maples would have their hides, but she couldn't muster much sympathy for them. Now she was certain she could look out for herself without these clowns. Florida, she thought as she stepped onto the sidewalk and turned the corner.One of the tourist towns. She could dye her hair—red maybe—and disappear. Hide in plain sight. He came out of nowhere, dropping onto the sidewalk and into her path from behind a clump of thick

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bushes. She shouldn't have been shocked by the mask again, but she was. It covered his whole head, the insubstantial rubber twitching, the painted-on snarl vicious, the eyes lost in the shadows. She turned to run, dropping her duffel bag onto the sidewalk. She screamed, a loud, hoarse scream that was cut short when a strong arm snaked around her waist, cutting off her air, as the attacker pulled her back against his chest. He spun her around and painfully grabbed a handful of her hair. Silent and fierce, he tightened his grip on the knife and prepared to strike. Lucy dropped and jerked away from him. He swung out at her, hitting her in the side. Sharp pain shot through her fleetingly, and she fell to her knees. Before she could rise again, he was there, yanking her head back, exposing her throat. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the blade, caught the flash of the rising sun on brilliant metal. The sound of footsteps intruded, the staccato beat breaking the silence of the morning and approaching fast. Her attacker lifted his head to look down the sidewalk. While he was distracted, Lucy rolled away from him and his deadly blade, putting all her strength into a surge of energy. She ended up several feet away, on her back. The attacker glanced at her briefly and then turned and ran … through the grass, toward a tall fence laced with a flowering vine. Two deputies rounded the corner together. One followed the Ripper, drawing his weapon as he approached the fence, vaulting over easily. He shouted, "Stop!" A second later a gunshot exploded, the crack so loud Lucy jerked slightly. The other deputy was Mark, she saw as he stepped closer. He bent over her cautiously. Suddenly cold, Lucy grabbed the purple lapels of John's sweater and gathered them to her chest. In the near distance, dogs began to bark frantically. "Are you all right?" Mark asked, repeating the question several times before Lucy answered. "I'm okay." She gave a weak smile to the deputy who hovered over her. "Just a little scared." Mark looked from her to the duffel bag and back to her with a censuring expression on his guileless face. "We heard you scream. Jeez, that was close." As she rolled into a sitting position, Lucy grabbed her side where the man had hit her. Everything swam before her eyes, as Mark helped her to her feet. The other deputy appeared at her side, shaking his head. "I lost him," he said, looking disappointed. He was a young man, as young or younger than Mark. Lucy almost laughed out loud. She was being guarded by the varsity. "Son of a bitch went around a corner and just disappeared, I swear," he said. She didn't hear John coming, but suddenly he stood before her. Wearing nothing but his jeans, with his hair tousled and his eyes still sleepy, he looked like he'd just awakened from a nightmare. For some reason that struck Lucy as funny, and she started to giggle. He just frowned at her. He glanced at the bag on the sidewalk and back to her, and her already weakening laughter died. He

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didn't have to ask; she could see that he knew she'd been trying to sneak away. John was so transparent that she could see the comprehension in his face. She saw betrayal, and confusion, and the knowledge that she would risk her life to get away from the Ripper, and Red Grove, and most of all from the way he made her feel. And he wouldn't stand still. He swayed back and forth right in front of her. "For God's sake, John," she said, her normally husky voice weaker and raspier than usual. "Stand still." "I am standing still." John took her free arm, and Mark released his grip on her. "You're the one who's weaving like a drunk." "I am not," she insisted, and then she closed her eyes to make the earth stop revolving so fast. Her side hurt like hell where the man had hit her. It hadn't ached and throbbed this way a moment ago. She glanced down, pulling John's sweater away from her injured side. The knife hadn't touched the sweater, had somehow slipped inside the open garment, but it had cut neatly through her yellow T-shirt—a T-shirt that was now stained with dark blood, her own blood. She stared at that bloody stain, and heard, in the distance, John swearing. Lucy looked up at him, into his swimming and angry face. "I'm sorry, John," she whispered. "I got blood all over your sweater." His face was all she could see as the darkness closed in and she fell forward, knowing he would catch her. *** Lucy fell into his arms, lifeless and pale. John held her tight and pressed his hand against the wound at her side, not knowing if his efforts would do any good at all, not knowing how deeply her skin had been pierced. He lifted her easily and was trying to get down the sidewalk when Mark Hopkins, that diligent deputy, blocked his path. "Put her down," Mark ordered. "Like hell, I will. She needs a doctor." Mark stood firm while his partner, a new addition to the Sheriff's Department, did his feeble best to keep the growing crowd of neighbors back. Danny Neil, superior as always, demanded to know what had happened. "I'm going to radio for an ambulance," Mark insisted, "as soon as you put her down." "Get out of my way." John saw the indecision, the doubts, in the kid's eyes. Mark's fingers danced over the weapon in his holster. Dammit. They'd worked together, he'd helped to train the kid, and now they were seconds from an old-fashioned showdown. "I'm not going to lay her on the sidewalk, and I'm not going to wait for any damn ambulance," John said, trying to remain calm. "Shoot me, or get the hell out of my way." The hand that had flirted briefly with the revolver dropped. "She's hurt. I can't just let you walk off with

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her like this." "What the hell do you think I'm going to do? Take her home and slap on a couple of bandages? She needs to get to the hospital. Now." Standing here arguing with the boy wasn't doing Lucy any good at all. "You want to drive?" John suggested. It was a compromise Mark could live with, and John found himself in the back seat of the patrol car that had been guarding his house, Lucy's head in his lap. Mark drove at full speed, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The car rocked at every turn. John stroked Lucy's hair back with one hand, while keeping pressure on the wound with the other. "Why the hell did you run?" he whispered. But he knew the answer. It was his fault; he'd driven her away. He'd pushed too hard, moved too fast. "I'm sorry," he whispered, bending down to place his face close to hers. "I'm sorry." *** Lucy opened one eye, barely a slit. John leaned over her with a damning frown on his face. "It's about time," he muttered. She glanced around the small curtained area in the emergency room of the smallRedGroveCommunity Hospital. "Are you insane?" John continued. "What did you think you were doing?" "Young lady," she murmured. That stopped the tirade, and a puzzled expression passed over John's face. "What?" "You forgot to add 'young lady' to the end of your last question.What did you think you were doing, young lady? You would have sounded just like my father if you'd—" "This is nothing to joke about. You could've been killed." John practically collapsed into the chair by her narrow bed. Someone had provided him with a plaid button-up shirt and a pair of tennis shoes that had seen better days. Perhaps they didn't allow gorgeous half-naked men to roam about the hospital. "I know." She reached out and took John's hand, the one that rested on the chrome bed rail. He looked so distraught as he released his anger that she felt as if she were comforting him. "I just thought it would be best if I left." "Promise me you won't do that again," he demanded. Lucy squeezed his hand lightly. "That's a promise I can't make." For a moment he didn't press her, but simply watched her over the bed rail. "If you leave again, I'll have you arrested for theft," he said after a long pause. "What did I steal?" "My sweater." John actually smiled at her, a small, tired smile that showed relief and weariness.

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"My word against yours. I'll just say that you gave me that sweater, that we were going steady." "I'm a little old to be going steady." She had twelve stitches in her side, and had spent all morning sleeping. They'd given her something for pain, and she didn't remember much after that. Maples was on the warpath. Warned by radio about what had happened, he'd been waiting for them at the hospital. He'd shouted in the emergency room lobby, as they'd arrived, that both young deputies, as well as John and Lucy, were on his increasingly long black list. Mark, for letting arookie chase the Ripper, the rookie forlosing the Ripper, Lucy for running, and John—well, John was always on his black list, she imagined. Then a nurse had placed Lucy in a wheelchair and rolled her away, leaving John and Sheriff Maples engaged in a shouting match she'd listened to all the way down the long, cold hallway. "Did you go home while I slept?" she asked. "I hope you got something to eat…" "I did not go home," he said testily, and she imagined she'd insulted him by suggesting that he would leave her here. "Mark went to the house and picked up a few things for me and locked the place up." "That was very sweet of him." The expression on John's face told her that he didn't agree, but he didn't argue with her. She wondered if he and Mark had ever been friends, before this mess with the murders had changed everything. Too restless to sit for long, John came to his feet quickly to hover over her. "Promise me you won't leave," he demanded again. "I can't."I don't make promises anymore. He sighed, sounding tired and exasperated. "Fine. Promise me that you won't leave in the next three days." "Why three days?" He took her hand again and held it gently. "I can rest easy for a couple of days, and then I'll ask for another three days…" "How long does this go on?" "Until he's caught." He looked and sounded perfectly serious. "And if he's not caught?" Panic welled up in her heart, but she pushed it away. "I can't hide in your house forever. I won't hide from anyone forever." She recognized the lie as it left her mouth, but that was a secret she would never tell—not even to John. He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose with two long fingers. "We can go home in a couple of hours," he said, trying to change the subject. "You're to rest for a few days anyway, so I want that promise. Three days, Lucy. Three days that I can turn my back or get a couple of hours of sleep

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without wondering if you're going to disappear. I don't want to wake up again in a cold sweat and find you gone." Lucy didn't answer immediately. Why did he care? She'd been so certain a few hours ago that he didn't, but now he looked at her with those haunted eyes, and he was clearly worried. He waited for her answer, watched her expectantly without so much as moving a muscle. Maybe he blinked … maybe he breathed. "Three days," she whispered. "I can handle that." It was an agreement, not a promise, she reasoned. A truce, not a vow. Promises were too easy to break; vows were just words. They meant nothing. "Three days." She sounded confident, but she wasn't. Could she really handle three more days with John Quaid? Chapter 8 «^» Lucy hadn't seemed to mind coming home from the hospital in a patrol car. In fact, she'd fallen asleep in the back seat, her head resting easily on John's shoulder. Mark and his partner, brand new recruit Peter Woodward, should have been off duty hours ago, but they'd stayed around the hospital and waited to hear that Lucy was all right, and then they'd driven her, and John, home. And now she slept like a baby. John stood in the doorway to her room and watched, as he had often during the day. She was here where she belonged, the danger was past for the moment, and still he felt this strange need to look in and assure himself that she was all right. Something had to be done, and, dammit, the sheriff wasn't doing anything but keeping an eagle eye on his one suspect. He knew what had to be done. Somehow, he had to gather the proof himself. He had to find the Ripper and clear his own name, because no one else would … and until the Ripper was caught, Lucy wouldn't be safe. It all started with Claire, he knew that much. The others were an obvious device to pin the crime on him, a neon finger pointing in his direction. Two women had been killed because someone wanted to make damn sure he fried. *** John was in the shower when the doorbell rang, and Lucy hesitated. He wouldn't want her to answer it, she knew that. Her curiosity got the best of her, though, and she peeked through the window by the front door. Feeling safe enough—with Lonnie Phillips standing by the patrol car and watching the house—Lucy opened the door to reveal a pert little brunette with big hair and enough makeup to last Lucyand April three months. She clutched a pan of brownies. "Hi." The brunette flashed a wide smile, revealing a perfect set of white teeth in that heavily made-up face. "I'm Sally Neil. My husband and I live next door." She nodded to the blue house. "John's in the shower," Lucy explained. "When he gets out I'll tell him you stopped by." "Oh, no," Sally said, balancing the pan of brownies in one hand and opening the screen door with the

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other. "I just brought over these goodies for you. I know you've been having a lot of trouble lately, what with the man that's been trying to kill you and all? Not that I'm a gossip or anything," she said quickly, "but people do talk. Anyway, I figure there's no trouble a bigol ' pan of chocolate won't fix." Lucy stepped back to let the woman enter, and Sally Neil headed for the back of the house. She held her spine straight, and walked without even a hint of a feminine wiggle in her hips. Her eyes searched every corner of the house as she marched straight to the kitchen. Sally set the pan of brownies on the kitchen table, and turned to face Lucy. Once again she flashed that wide smile that was so forced it made Lucy a little sad. She was tired of being an oddity. The only friends she'd had in the past five years were women like herself: loners who were running away from something or someone. That way of life made everyone wary of getting too close. No one had ever brought her brownies before. John stuck his head in the kitchen, his hair still damp from the shower, his expression somber, until he got a good look at Sally. He nodded and said hello, flashed a sympathetic smile in Lucy's direction, and then excused himself, saying he'd be in his office if she needed anything. Lucy turned back to her guest. "How about a cup of coffee?" At the very least it was a change of pace to sit in the kitchen and share a cup of coffee with another woman—even the proverbial nosy neighbor. Sally accepted the invitation enthusiastically, and Lucy poured them each a full mug of strong coffee. When Lucy set Sally's mug on the table, the woman took her hand, holding the fingers andoohing over the fingernails. "Who does your nails? They're divine." As simply as that, the first near normal conversation Lucy had had with another woman in more than five years began. They talked about unimportant things: their hair, Lucy's nails, the weather. They got into the brownies, and Lucy made another pot of coffee. Before long she had developed a strange sort of friendship with John's neighbor, a woman with whom she could honestly say she had nothing in common. The time got away from them, and finally Sally uttered a high-pitched whelp as she glanced at her watch. "I have to pick the kids up from my mother-in-law's in fifteen minutes, and she'll skin me alive if I'm late." She leaned in as if divulging a secret. "Chris is a tad hyperactive." Sally rose stiffly and stepped with purpose toward the living room. She glanced around, appraising everything. "I hope you'll stay, Lucy," she said as she stopped by the front door. "This place could use a woman's touch." She lowered her voice, giving it a conspiratorial edge. "I swear, John hasn't changed a thing since his mother passed on, and it's been more than two years. I always thought this house would look simply divine painted a pale lavender." Lucy nodded her head. "Lavender?" "Lavender." Sally nodded in time with Lucy. "With lilacs and pansies planted around the steps, and maybe some forest-green rockers on the front porch. And ferns," she added. She'd obviously given the remodeling of John's house a lot of thought. "I don't expect to be here very long," Lucy said. "But I'll pass the suggestions along."

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"Would you?" Sally looked little surprised. "Oh—" she rolled her eyes "—I have to ask something else, too. I promised my Danny I would." She flashed a small, apologetic smile. "If there's any way John would sell this house, see if you can't give him a little push in that direction. There, I said it, and when he asks I can tell him I said it, and that will be that. You see, Danny's sister was divorced a few months ago, and she'd like to live in the neighborhood." In a move that was unexpected and startling, Sally crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. "Like I want her living right next door! She's got four kids, and not a one of them can behave for more than five minutes at a time. You tell John to hunker down and stay right here." "I'll tell him that, too," Lucy said. "Great." Sally pushed her way through the front door, glancing back once. "Maybe I'll see you again before you go." "I'd like that," Lucy said, but Sally was already marching across the porch, that strange unyielding gait making her look like a suburban soldier. *** John woke with a start, shaken by a dream he couldn't remember.Lucy , that's all that came to him. He was trying so hard to watch her and keep his distance at the same time, to keep her safe and not get too close. It's what she wanted; it's what he needed. So why was it so damn hard? She didn't seem to mind that he kept that distance. In fact, she had settled in quite nicely. She'd even made a new friend, Sally Neil. He rolled up slowly, certain he wouldn't get back to sleep anytime soon. For three days he'd been walking a fine line, keeping her at arm's length, trying not to drive her away again, trying, unsuccessfully, not to dream about her. Three days. John swung his legs over the side of the bed, running his fingers through his hair and reaching for the old bathrobe he'd tossed over the end of the bed. Damnation, it had been three days, and he hadn't asked Lucy to stay for another three. She'd fulfilled her promise, and now … now she could be gone. He listened to the quiet house, trying to place her. That was usually easy to do. She moved around a lot, tapped her long fingernails on every surface in the house, and every now and then he caught her talking softly to herself. But right now he heard nothing. He slipped his arms through the sleeves of the thick blue bathrobe and stepped quietly into the hallway. Just a quick peek into her room to see that she was still here, that she was where she was supposed to be. If he was very quiet and very careful about where he stood, she'd never know he was looking in on her. The lights were on in her room, and he had a clear view of an empty, rumpled bed. His heart thudded hard in his chest, once, as he turned around. Maybe she was in the kitchen brewing another cup of coffee, or curled up on the couch in the living room reading an old comic book. He took a few steps in that direction, but stopped when he saw soft light spilling into the hallway from his office. Without making a sound, he moved to stand just outside the doorway. Lucy wore one of his old dress shirts, borrowed from the closet in her room. She sat on the floor in a pool of light from his desk lamp, with her legs crossed Indian-style, and her head bent to read the novel she grasped in both hands. She was reading the werewolf novel she'd put aside because she'd been so

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sure there would be an unhappy ending. Since it appeared she was nearly finished with the thick book, she was either a very fast reader or she'd been reading it every night while he slept. Pale hair swept across her cheek, hiding her face from him as she carefully turned a page. He was doing the right thing, keeping his distance from her. It didn't matter bow tempting she was, sitting in his office bare-legged and half dressed—she wasn't right for him and he certainly wasn't right for her. He couldn't take the chance that he might scare her away again. She needed to be here; she needed to be safe. All that drew them together was a shared loneliness and a need to catch the Ripper. Nothing deeper, nothing more than that. As if to prove him wrong, Lucy took the collar of his shirt in one hand and turned her face to it. She closed her eyes as she took a deep breath, and nuzzled her cheek against the old cotton. She looked so fragile sitting there. So lost, so unlike the confident Lucy he was accustomed to. Reason and right be damned, he wanted to hold her the way he had that first night when she'd had too much wine. With her fair hair and skin and that white shirt, she looked like a ghost. Not a real woman at all, but a wraith who had come into his life to steal what little sanity he had left. One day he'd wake up and she would be gone, spirited away in the night like the ghost she resembled at the moment, taking with her his reason, maybe even his heart. After she was gone he would regret what they hadn't done, and God knows, he had enough regrets in his life. She lifted a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, and he saw the tears streaming down her face. An impatient hand swiped them away, red nails against pale, damp cheeks. He stepped into the room. "Tears for a werewolf'?" Her head snapped around, and arresting green eyes in a pale face fastened on him. "It's very sad," she said softly. John sat down beside Lucy so that they were hip to hip, their legs pointing in opposite directions. This way he could be close and still be face-to-face. He reached out to wipe away her tears with his own fingers. "Yes, it is." "I like happy endings," she whispered. "Me, too." She placed the book on the floor, and he reached out to touch the frayed collar of the shirt she wore. "This looks familiar." "I hope you don't mind," she said quickly. "I spilled coffee on my T-shirt, and this shirt was … well, it was there, hanging in the closet." "I don't mind," he said. "It's too small for me, anyway. I think I wore that shirt when I was sixteen, seventeen years old." His hand dropped the collar and brushed across her neck. She shivered, deeply. "It looks good on you. Keep it." If she jumped up and ran away, if she kept her eyes glued to the floor, he would let her be. Painful as it would be, as much as he wanted her, he would let her go.

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But she didn't run. She faced him with wary eyes and slightly trembling lips that he had only to lean forward to kiss. *** She had forgotten what it was like to want a man to touch her, to crave a kiss and a caress, and dream of much, much more. John's mouth on hers was gentle and demanding, warm and promising. He parted her lips with his tongue and deepened the kiss. She quivered to her bones, and reached out to touch his shoulder for support and warmth and another small connection. It wasn't enough. Her hand rose to touch his neck, to rake her fingers across his flesh. He moaned, and she took that moan into her mouth as if she were capturing a part of him. For the moment John was hers, all hers, and she was able to put aside every fear, every vow, to have him. Her fingers threaded through the hair at the base of his neck to hold him close as her tongue imitated his invasion, explored his mouth, savored the taste and the feel of him. John moaned low in his throat as he took his mouth from hers. "If we're going to stop, it has to be now," he growled. His hands held her close, his lips hovered a hairsbreadth from hers. "If you don't want this—" She silenced him with a kiss, assuring him silently that she wanted this as much as he did. It had been such a long time since she'd responded to a man this way. As John kissed her, years of mistrust fell away, and she allowed herself to listen to the reawakening of her body, the thrum of her blood, the heat in her loins. He flicked open the top two buttons of the shirt she wore and slipped his hand inside to caress her chest, to cup her breast tenderly. His thumb raked across her nipple, and she felt the force of his touch shooting through her body as long-forgotten sensations came to life. The heat in her body and the sudden calm in her heart told her she was right to trust John, to forget the past for the present. To allow herself, at least for tonight, to simply feel. He lowered her to the floor slowly, never taking his mouth from hers. She drifted backbonelessly , strangely contented to have this man's long, hard body hovering so closely over hers. He commanded her, he protected her, he cherished her, and she felt it all with every brush of his body against hers, with every breath they shared. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on, relishing every graze of his skin against hers, every hot, wild touch. "Lucy," he whispered as he took his mouth from hers. "I want you." So simple, so complicated… She raised a hand to the back of his head: "I want you, too." It was impossible, it was foolish. It was inevitable. John lowered his mouth to her throat to kiss her gently there, and she let him. His lips were gentle and warm—it was a healing kiss and he didn't even know it. His mouth lingered there, sucking tenderly, brushing across her throat to the hollow at the base, his tongue flicking teasingly across her flesh. She shivered, deep and hard, and closed her eyes as she cradled his head with one hand. He raised up slowly to unfasten the rest of the buttons of his old shirt and lay it open. A touch of cool air washed over her. She wasn't cool for long. John laid his mouth over a hardened nipple and sucked gently, and a multitude of new sensations curled through her body—sensations that elicited a low moan from her throat and an involuntary arch of her back. His tongue laved across her breast, his teeth nipped

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and his lips kissed before he closed them over the nipple and sucked again, harder this time. The warmth and the quiver between her legs intensified, and she threaded her fingers through John's hair and held on tight. When he raised above her to kiss her mouth again, she answered that kiss with a passion and a demand she'd thought herself incapable of. She needed him like this, above her, all around her. Inside her. Reaching between their bodies, she found and loosened the sash that held his robe closed. She pushed the fabric from his shoulders and laid her mouth against that warm shoulder to kiss and suck gently. Her mouth on his warm, salty skin was another connection, another link in a fiery, fragile chain. John raised up to shrug off the bathrobe and toss it aside, and to slip his fingers into the waistband of her panties, to touch her where she was already throbbing for him. He stroked and teased her, locking his mouth to hers as he tormented her until she was beyond words, beyond all rational thought. When she could stand it no more, he slipped the panties down and off. She cradled him between her spread legs, unable to breathe as he touched her damp folds, unable to think of anything but this as he slowly pushed inside to fill her, to stretch her to the very limit. Now the connection was complete; they were finally joined, finally one. He rocked above her, stroking easy and plunging deep, becoming, completely, a part of her body and soul. Wrapping her legs around him, she answered with a purely instinctive response. They moved together in this ancient dance that became quicker, deeper and more exacting with every sway, with every soft moan. She reached her peak hard and fast, with tremors that shook her body to the core and made her cry aloud. She clutched John to her, holding on for dear life as the quake gave way to a gentle quiver. John drove deep inside her one last time, and she heard and felt the deep groan in his throat as he found his own completion. She was weak, unable to move, more completely satisfied than she'd known was possible. A soft tremor still claimed her, deep inside, reminding her in a remarkable way that she was alive. John came to life slowly with a mellow kiss on the side of her neck. When he lifted his head he smiled at her—a small, intimate smile that warmed her heart. He glanced at the window. "The sun is coming up, Lucy," he said in a low voice. "Time for you to go to bed." "Yes," she breathed. "Come to bed with me," he whispered, and he locked his eyes on her as he awaited her answer. She had lost herself with John, had wanted and needed him, had let him work his way into her mind and her body and her soul. Heaven help her, she was falling in love with John Quaid, and that was much more terrifying, much more heartbreaking, than any fictional werewolf. Still, she draped her arms possessively around his neck as she answered. "Yes." John carried her to his bedroom and laid her in the center of the bed, joining her there as she sank into the big, soft mattress. She didn't want to look him in the eye at the moment, but she did want, to touch him, so she lay on her side and nestled her back against his chest. He dropped one arm over her, but before he had a chance to get settled he popped up. "Your stitches," he whispered. "Dammit, I forgot." His hand skimmed slowly down her side. "Did I hurt you?"

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"No," she said softly, and he immediately relaxed. "I forgot about them myself." His fingers danced over her arm. "The sun is up, Lucy. You can go to sleep now." "Will you watch over me, John?" she asked, a strange childlike quality creeping into her voice. "Yes," he breathed, his lips against her shoulder. "Always." Lucy closed her eyes.Always . Did he even realize what he'd said?Always . A concept she'd given up on long ago.Always . She hadn't believed in "always" in a very long time. "John?" she whispered. "Hmm?" he murmured, already half asleep. What would he think if she told him, right now, that she was falling in love with him? Would he run in horror? Laugh at her foolishness? Kiss her on the shoulder again and whisperI love you, Lucy? Any one of those responses would terrify her. "Don't let me sleep too late," she said. He gifted her with another of those soft kisses on her shoulder. "Don't worry, I won't," he said drowsily. She pressed her back more snugly against his chest, and his grip tightened. Yes, she was safe here, she knew it deep down, where instincts rule. Love and trust—she'd never thought to feel either one again, but she had found both in the haunted eyes of a man who had somehow put her in the middle of this dangerous situation. Love and trust, rediscovered in exchange for risking her life. Was it worth it? Yes. She waited until she was certain John was asleep. The arm that encircled her was heavy, and his breathing was deep and even. She mouthed the words first, testing them on her tongue as her mouth moved silently. And then she whispered, "I could love you, so easily." It felt good to say the words aloud, even knowing that only she could hear them. "Love," she breathed, her voice even softer than before, and then she closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep. Chapter 9 «^» Lucy pressed her face into the pillow, shutting out the light and the voice that hammered at her, calling her name. A warm hand settled on her back and shook her slightly. That touch was familiar, and she smiled into the pillow, a secret, unexpected smile. She rolled away from the cool comfort of the pillow, her eyes drifting open. John sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed. "Come on, Lucy," he said softly. "Wake up." She pushed the hair away from her face and rolled into a sitting position, blinking away the dream that

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was still with her—a dream about John. "I know I said not to let me sleep too late, but I didn't mean…" Her words trailed away to nothing as she noted the frown on John's face, the tense set of his jaw. "What's wrong?" He took her hand and ran his fingers over her palm. "Sheriff Maples is here. He wants to talk to you." She came instantly awake. Maybe Maples had finally caught the Ripper. If that was true, this would all be over and she'd be free once again. The thought chilled her. For John's sake, she hoped that was the reason for the sheriff's visit. "I don't have any clothes in here." And she didn't particularly want to run down the hall naked, either—not with Maples just a few steps from the hallway entrance. John had already thought of that. He tossed her a pair of jeans, a red T-shirt and the appropriate underwear. It looked to have been hastily gathered from the chest of drawers in her room. "What does he want?" she asked as she slipped off the bed and dressed quickly. John shook his head. "He won't tell me, but whatever it is, it isn't good news." Then they hadn't caught the creep, after all. "Why do you say that?" John watched her closely as she dressed, but she didn't feel shy or embarrassed. Not after last night. "He's madder than a hornet." Lucy raised her eyebrows. Sheriff Maples had appeared to be madder than a hornet on several occasions, as if it were asemipermanent condition. John was probably accustomed to the sheriff's moods, so if he took note of the sheriff's anger this morning, it must be bad. As she finished dressing, John stood and placed his hands on her shoulders. Those steady hands were gentle and bracing, and for a split second Lucy thought,Together we can withstand anything. It was a fanciful, fleeting thought. "Whatever it is," he said softly, "it'll be all right." She could see the promise in his eyes, feel assurance in the firm touch of his hands. Whatever was wrong, he would make it right. At least, he would try. He kept a hand at her spine as he walked with her into the living room, where Sheriff Maples wasted no time in getting right to the point. "We can't provide twenty-four-hour protection for you anymore, Miss Fain," he said sharply. "What?" John brushed past her to confront the sheriff. "She was attacked for a second time just three days ago, and you're backing out?" The sheriff glared at John. "It wasn't my decision. The county commission has cut our budget again, and that means we have to cut down on our overtime. The boys have put in a lot of overtime to keep an eye on Miss Fain, and we just can't justify it any longer." "Can't justify it?" John exploded. Sheriff Maples ignored John and looked at Lucy. He appeared to be as distressed by the development as John was. "I can have a car drive by—"

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"That's great," John mumbled. "That's just great." He turned to her with a deep frown. "We'll have to get you away from Red Grove somehow, find a place you can hide out." "I'd still like her to stay in town." "That's crap," John said in a low voice. "If you can't protect her, you damn well better let her go." Amazingly, the sheriff had an argument for that. Lucy wanted to cry,I don't want to leave! But she remained silent, allowing John and the sheriff to argue until their words had no meaning for her. They shouted and muttered gibberish, angry words she heard but didn't understand. "It's all right," she said. They both heard her soft voice, even though they were shouting at the time. Their argument came to an abrupt end. "It's a nice idea, but no one can protect me forever. Either you'll catch him, or he'll catch me, or he'll go away." The last possibility was the worst: to never know, to have this nightmare never end, to always be glancing over her shoulder, waiting. "Miss Fain." The sheriff stepped around John to face her, a deepening frown on his face. "I strongly, very strongly, recommend that you find another place to stay. I'll provide what protection I can—" "No." She and John answered at the same time. Her voice remained soft and assured, while John's was harshly insistent. Sheriff Maples narrowed his eyes and all but glowered. He still believed that John was the Ripper; that he was a danger to her. That he had killed and would kill again. How could she make him understand that was impossible? "One of the female officers can—" he began. "No," Lucy said again, and this time she managed a reassuring smile for Sheriff Maples. His intentions were good, she'd give him that. He was dedicated, and took pride in protecting the citizens of this county. Three brutal murders in his quiet jurisdiction had shaken him. His inability to find the man responsible had to be frustrating. Maples took a deep breath. He obviously wanted to scream at her, to force her to do as he wished. She could see that in the reddening of his face and the narrowing of his eyes. But he was a man who was always in control; mad as a hornet or not. "If you stay here, I can't guarantee your safety," he said in a low voice. He made the statement a warning. Lucy ignored him. "No one can. I'll take my chances, Sheriff. Would you care for a cup of coffee?" The session was over. Lucy had dismissed his warning and his worry, and she refused to listen to any more. "It'll just take a few minutes to make a pot." She turned her back on both men and padded toward the kitchen on bare feet. Before she was halfway through the dining room, she heard the front door slam.

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She knew John stood behind her long before she turned around and raised her head to look at him. He was angry, still, but tried to hide the fact with cool eyes and an expressionless face. "I can get you out of town," he said calmly. "But you can't go back to the carnival." She pushed back the impulse to tell John that she had no intention of running away—not from some murdering pervert and certainly not from him.Not yet . "I don't have anywhere to go." She hadn't intended to sound so pitiful, but she heard the despair in her own voice. "No family at all? No close friends you could hide out with for a while?" He sounded desperate to be rid of her. "No, no close friends. And my only family is my sister." Lucy steeled her spine and lifted her chin, ready for his accusation that she'd been lying all along. She'd told Adam that she had no family living, had allowed John to believe that the father and sister she'd watched old horror movies with were both dead. It was just another lie. "But I can't go there." "Why not?" Lucy turned her back to him. "I just can't." John grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. "I can buy you a plane ticket to anyplace in the world, give you enough money to hide out for a very long time. But the idea of sending you off alone terrifies me." He reached out to touch her face. "I'd come with you, but I can't leave until I find out who's doing this. So, why can't you go to your sister? Dammit, Lucy, it's not safe for you here." She met his cold gray eyes and steeled herself again. "It's not safe for me at my sister's, either." She hadn't meant to tell him even that much, and immediately regretted the impulse. "Why not?" he whispered. Lucy tried to turn her back on him again, but he held her firmly in place. A tingle danced down her spine, a prickle of fear and apprehension and danger. "Because my ex-husband lives near there, in the same town. The last time I ran to my sister, he threatened to kill us both. She's got her own family—she doesn't need my problems." John took her chin in his hand and lifted her face so they were nose to nose. "I want to hear it," he whispered. "What did he do to you?" Lucy felt old unwanted fears rising to the surface. They always surged up when she least expected it, like an old wound that reopened on occasion without warning. She didn't want this. She wanted to bury the memories so deep that they'd never appear again … but she couldn't. And John wouldn't let her. He poked and prodded at that old wound, and at the moment she hated him for that. Remembering Paul made her ashamed and frightened and helpless. She wasn't helpless anymore. She refused to be. "I'll give you the short version," she snapped, meeting his gaze with unflinching strength. "He hit me. I left. He didn't take it too well." "Lucy." Her name was a breath against her lips, and John kissed her lightly. "I'm sorry."

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"Don't be sorry," she said as coldly as she could. A faint tremor in her voice threatened to give her away. "I learned my lesson. The first time he hit me I was so surprised—" her voice had a bitter edge "—and when he cried in the morning and swore it would never happen again, I believed him." She laughed, a harsh, bitter laugh. "He even gave up drinking, for a while, but before I knew it he was his old self again, coming home drunk and smelling of other women, giving me a shove or a smack when I got in his way or did something he didn't like. You want to know why I didn't leave then? I don't know. I've asked myself that question a thousand times. More. Maybe I was afraid of being alone. Maybe I thought it was all my fault, that if I just loved him more, if I was just a better wife, I could change him—and everything would be the way it was supposed to be. I don't know." John gathered her against his chest and rubbed her back with his strong hands. Here she was warm and protected, safe from Paul at last. Since she'd started telling the tale she'd sworn never to share, she couldn't stop. The words poured out of her, poison that needed to be purged. "One night I woke up and he was on top of me with his hands around my throat, squeezing. I screamed, and he squeezed tighter." She shivered. "I screamed and screamed until I couldn't breathe anymore, and he squeezed tighter and tighter until everything went black—" Her voice broke. "It was so dark, and just before I passed out, I knew I was going to die." "Oh, baby, I'm sorry," John mumbled, his mouth against her hair, his hands holding her tighter than before. "The next morning he apologized, just like before. He cried, and said he loved me and would never hurt me again." She pressed her face against John's chest. "When he asked if I forgave him, I just nodded my head. I couldn't speak, not even a whisper. When he left for work, I packed that duffel bag and I left. I went to my sister's house, but he found me there and threatened to kill us both. She's got three kids, John—I couldn't stay there." "So you ran away and joined the carnival." She nodded. "I hid out with old friends until the divorce was final, and then I hit the road." "And you haven't been back?" She shook her head. "That was five years ago, and I'm still afraid to. I call Millie every now and then, just to check on her and the kids, but I don't dare go there." John lifted her face and kissed her gently. "When this is all over," he whispered, "I'll take you to your sister's for a visit. You'd like to see her, wouldn't you?" "Yes." "And I promise, no one will hurt you." Lucy couldn't speak. She was afraid she'd start to cry. "Besides," John said, "I'd like to see where you grew up, and I'd love to know what your sister's like. Is she anything like you?" "Millie?" Bless him. She knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to make her forget, to make her

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remember good things and good people. "No, Mime's very conventional. People tell us we look a lot alike, but neither of us could ever see it." John held her close, and as Lucy described her sister the fear faded away. She hadn't thought it possible, but his ploy worked, temporarily. For a few moments, neither of them spoke. He held her so tightly that she felt as if she might actually become a part of him. She clung to him, wanting this closeness more than she'd ever wanted anything. "That's why you don't sleep at night, isn't it?" She could hear the newfound realization in his voice. "That's why you woke up that first night here, so afraid. I thought it was the Ripper who gave you nightmares, but it wasn't, was it?" Lucy shook her head. "No. You're right. Paul Staley is a real monster. He still frightens me more than any pervert in a Halloween mask." She had always been afraid of letting her guard down, but now, as John held her in his arms, Paul seemed a little less powerful, a little less real. *** Lucy was finally sleeping again. It had taken her a while to wind down after the sheriff's visit, but once she had she'd crawled into bed and gone right to sleep. In his bed. John took the quiet opportunity to look over his notes. They were pathetically inadequate, but they were all he had. The newspaper articles about the murders filled a manila envelope, along with a few pages of scribbled notes in his own chicken scratch. He dumped the contents onto his desk and stared at the top sheet. His short list of suspects. Claire never would have admitted a stranger to her home, and she had always been downright paranoid about making sure the doors and windows were locked tight at night. Since she'd been murdered sometime between ten and eleven p.m., and there was no sign of forced entry, he was certain the murderer was someone she knew and trusted. A lover, most likely, which didn't narrow the field nearly enough. Why had she called him that night? He hadn't been to the house since the divorce, had barely spoken two civil words to Claire in the years since. But that night she'd called.Johnny, I need to talk to you . The memory of that voice over the phone sent chills down his spine, and he wondered if she'd still be alive today if he hadn't been determined to make her wait. He hadn't headed over to the house until well after eleven. When he'd gotten no response to his knock, and then found the front door unlocked, he'd sensed something was very wrong. Claire didn't leave the door unlocked. He didn't know anything about the nighttime habits of the other two victims, but he imagined they had been cautious, as well. It was likely that they also knew and trusted the killer. There were a number of names on the list. Lonnie Phillips was at the top, along with a couple of local bad boys he'd had a few run-ins with over the past ten years. John wondered if bumbling, inept Lonnie was really capable of murder, or if the name topped the list because he and Lonnie had never gotten

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along. They simply didn't like each other. No, it was more than that. Lonnie had contaminated the crime scene when Claire's body was discovered, possibly destroying or obscuring evidence. He'd had a thing for her since their high school days. She hadn't given him the time of day, then, but now … she had become a lot less discriminating in her later days. Besides, who wouldn't trust a deputy? Beneath the names was a question mark. There were too many maybes. He skimmed the articles again, looking for clues but finding nothing. What he really needed was a look at the investigation files. Problem is, he knew exactly where they were. One set was in the office of the Alabama Bureau of Investigation inMontgomery, and another was locked up tight in the file cabinet in SheriffMaples's office. John slid the papers into the manila envelope and dropped it into the bottom drawer of his desk, glancing at the window as he closed the drawer easily. He'd have to wake Lucy soon. After what she'd told him, he knew he couldn't let her sleep past dark, to wake in a dark room. Moving quietly, he left his office and the futile investigation to cross the hall and look in on Lucy. She was sleeping hard, curled up in the center of his bed. His marriage to Claire had been bad, but compared to what Lucy had endured, it had been a walk in the park. Claire had been miserable and unfaithful almost from day one, and he had been angry and confused and unhappy. But their misery had been civilized. The calamitous marriage had forced John to give up a lot of things: his belief that love solved everything, his hope that life could be simple and uncomplicated, his foolish expectation that if he gave Claire enough she would change. Enough love and devotion, and enough of the things she loved—things like the house he wouldn't have been able to afford without his sideline in investments, and the flashy car she'd squealed over. When he'd finally been forced to admit that the marriage was a mistake, he'd handed everything over to Claire without question, even though legally he could have kept it all. He'd given up the fancy car for his Ford, the big house for a small apartment. He hadn't wanted those things then, and he didn't want them now. He'd given up romantic notions and attachments to things that in the end meant nothing. What had Lucy given up? Everything, he suspected. Damn near everything. He sat on the edge of the bed and very gently touched her back, running his fingers down her spine. She still wore the red T-shirt he'd grabbed from her chest of drawers this morning, but her jeans were folded over the chair by the bed. "Lucy, it's time to get up," he whispered. She rolled over toward him and gave him a sleepy smile. "Hi," she mumbled, her voice husky and dreamy. John hadn't intended to do anything but wake her, but he found himself listing forward to kiss her. She snaked her arms around his neck and kissed him back, coming more fully awake. Instantly he was hard and aching, and he forgot everything but the fact that he wanted this woman. He dismissed the suspicions of an entire town, his faltering investigation, and the bitter memories of dreams he'd given up long ago. Lucy slid her hands beneath his shirt, raking her fingers along his flesh. He returned the favor, lifting her shirt and brushing his hand along her abdomen and then across her breasts. Her nipples hardened when he touched them, and she arched her back delicately. She slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans, and again he copied her, slipping his fingers

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into the waistband of her panties. She unfastened the button there and lowered his zipper, then very slowly dipped her hand lower to stroke him. His hand slid lower to cup her femininity, to touch her where she was already wet for him. They didn't rush. One by one, pieces of clothing hit the floor until there was nothing left between them. He reached out and switched on the bedside lamp. He didn't want Lucy to worry about the coming darkness. Opening the drawer of the table the lamp sat on, he reached to the back for a foil-wrapped condom. Glancing down at Lucy while he put it on, he found that she smiled widely at him. "Isn't that a little like locking the barn door after the horses are gone?" It had not escaped his notice that they hadn't used protection last night, though it had been late in the day before the thought had occurred to him. For both their sakes he'd be more careful from now on. "I have more horses," he whispered as he lowered his mouth to kiss her throat, to gently caress the flesh that had been abused. She didn't even flinch. Ah, she did trust him, perhaps more completely than she'd ever trusted anyone. He didn't deserve it, it wouldn't last, but for now … for now… Lucy wrapped her legs around him as he plunged into her. As he surged inside her again and again, she arched to meet every thrust in a rhythm that forced the rest of the world to disappear. There was nothing but Lucy, embracing, stroking, giving and taking more completely than he'd thought possible. She squeezed him tightly, using her legs, her arms, her inner muscles, until she was a real and true part of him. He watched her face as she shattered beneath him, trembling and crying out softly, throwing back her head and moaning gently, and he allowed himself the same release as he rocked into her again and again before sinking down to cover her weakened body with his. For a few wonderful seconds, all was right with the world, and nothing mattered but here and now. But it didn't take long for doubts to creep in. Needing Lucy this way was dangerous, for her and for him. Still, he wouldn't sacrifice this night, or last night, or the nights they might have to come, for anything. A limp arm encircled his neck, and amazingly enough he heard a very soft giggle. "You're laughing at me?" he asked, lifting his head to look down at her. "Oh, this can't be good." "Horses?" she said, and then she laughed again. "You have morehorses? " "Baby," he said, kissing her lightly. "I have lots more horses." He'd never laughed in bed before, but he found himself responding to Lucy's throaty giggles. She lost herself in wild kisses, outrageous jokes and exploring hands. She touched him as if she'd never touched a man before—hesitantly, curiously; he searched her body for those most sensitive, secret places—the crook of an elbow, the hollow of her throat, a sensitive spot just above her navel. And before much time had passed, he was reaching for the bedside table drawer again. Chapter 10 «^»

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"Ilove kudzu," Lucy said dreamily as she stared across the desolate park to a wildly climbing expanse of the green-leafed, stubborn weed that took over much of the South in the summertime. "Werewolves and kudzu." John placed a familiar hand on her shoulder. "You have strange inclinations." The picnic had been her idea. She was going stir-crazy roaming John's house all day and all night, even though he did his best to keep her mind off her troubles. During the past week she'd found a new way to pass the dark nights until dawn lit the sky, and with John at her side she was never afraid. The hour before dawn flew by so fast that she was often surprised to see the sun coming up. Wonder washed through her body and her mind every time John touched her and she responded. After leaving Paul, she'd sworn no man would ever touch her again, but John made everything different. Perhaps even after she left this place, she'd sleep a little easier. Lucy had written a reassuring letter to April, mailing it to Martin's post office box inBaton Rouge, where the carnival would be in two weeks. Strangely enough, when she'd written "I'm fine," she'd meant it. Today's short trip had taken them through the small town of Red Grove and then over a deserted two-lane road that twisted and curved up steep hills. This old park was definitely off the beaten path, and showed signs of long-term neglect. The picnic tables were warped and cracking, and the garbage cans were rusted. There was no playground equipment and no baseball field—just a shaded walking path, a small picturesque pond and a parking lot empty except for John's car. This was just what Lucy needed. "It's like green snow," she said, pointing to the kudzu, "covering everything in dense hills. It should be planted at junkyards and landfills." She looked over her shoulder to smile at John. "And maybe at your house." He brushed aside her hair and kissed her neck, ignoring the tease. He hadn't been out of touching distance since they left the house, had seemed to find some kind of assurance with his hand on her arm, or his fingers trailing over her denim-clad thighs. He hadn't thought leaving the house was such a great idea, but he'd given in to her pleas. She got the feeling surrender was a rare move for John Quaid. No matter how wonderful the past week had been, she knew she couldn't stay with him forever. She couldn't leave, either. Until the Ripper was caught, her life was not her own. The sheriff had had months to catch the man, and he was no closer to solving the murders than he had been the night Claire Quaid had been killed. It was no wonder, since he concentrated all his energies on John. Sheriff Maples made an appearance now and again, showing up at the house at all hours. Once they'd even run into him at the store. They'd rounded a corner and there he was, holding a jar of peanut butter and pretending to read the nutritional information on the lid. No one had been fooled. Maples had been following his prime suspect and the woman he expected to be the next victim, and they all knew it. Adam had stopped by the house a few times, too, as he'd said he would. He never stayed long, and he always looked so relieved to see her, as if he'd fully expected to come through the front door and find her dead on his mother's floral sofa. He'd tried, several times more, to convince her to leave Red Grove. She couldn't convince either of her watchdogs that she was perfectly safe with John. More than safe. Meanwhile, her life was in limbo. She couldn't move forward and she couldn't go back. As wonderful as this was, living with John, staying in one place for a while, she knew it wouldn't last. While it did last, she planned to enjoy every moment.

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"Do you miss it?" she whispered. "Being a deputy." "Yes," he said without hesitation, without pretending that it didn't matter. "I imagine you were very good at it," she said sincerely. "And it's not an easy job." "You don't always see the best side of people, that's for sure." He tried for a lighthearted tone, and fell a little short. "Being a small-town deputy is nothing like being a cop in a big city. You know just about everybody, and they know you. You don't investigate crimes, you take care of people. There's a problem, call the Sheriff's Office. Traffic accidents, problems with neighbors and kids, dogs running loose, I handled it all, at one time or another. It wasn't very exciting, most days, but it was … important." He took a deep breath. "I would've done anything to keep the people of this county safe, and they…" John didn't finish his sentence, but he didn't have to. Lucy could almost read his thoughts. The people he'd protected had turned on him; they'd believed the worst, convicted him in their minds. Somehow, some way, he had to make his way back to the way things had been. He stood so close behind her that she could feel his body heat, could feel his breath in her hair. "I have an idea," she said, turning to face him and hitching herself up to sit on the edge of a rickety picnic table. He leaned in close, looking as if he already didn't like her idea, and she lifted her arms to drape them around his neck. "We could find the killer ourselves." Whatever he'd been expecting her to say, that wasn't it. His eyes narrowed and he grasped her arms just a little too tightly. "Absolutely not." "Why?" she asked innocently. John's grip on her arms loosened a little, as if he'd just realized he was being too rough. "It's too dangerous," he said in a low voice that held no room for argument. "If the sheriff can't find him, what makes you think we can?" "You and I have an advantage over Sheriff Maples. We can use me for bait," she said calmly. "No," he said, his answer delivered with finality and a touch of horror. Lucy drew John's face down and she kissed him lightly. "You can't change my mind about this, Lucy," he said, breathing the soft words into her mouth. "What are you going to do? Watch my back forever?" No anger touched her voice as she tried to reason with him. "If I have to." It sounded like a vow, a dark promise he felt compelled to offer. "As attractive as that sounds," she said wryly, "it's a flawed plan. The day will come when you can't be right beside me. Maybe with time we'll forget about the threat. Maybe we'll relax just a little. Maybe someone or something will draw your attention away from me for just a minute, and he'll be there." She touched the tips of her fingers to John's face. "I want this to be over."For you and for me . She knew that once the Ripper was caught, she'd have no excuse to stay, no reason to cling to John the way she did now. He knew it, too, she could see

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that in his eyes. But she couldn't live like this, looking over her shoulder, jumping at every nighttime creak of John's old house. "It's too dangerous," he said with finality. Lucy wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest. She stared silently at the expanse of kudzu, that quick-growing vine that covered everything in its path. When John breathed easily again, she knew he thought she'd given up. *** Dialing the familiar phone number took more courage than John had expected it would. He glanced at the closed door of his office just once. Lucy expected Sally Neil any moment, and that would keep her occupied for a while. Besides, this might be a very short phone call. "Hello?" Thankfully, a gruff male voice answered the phone. His ex-father-in-law had always been more reasonable than his ex-mother-in-law. "Hello, Willis," John said, and then he waited for the phone to be slammed in his ear. It wasn't. "This is—" "I know who you are," Willis said, his voice soft and terse. "What do you want?" "I'd like to ask you a few questions about Claire's death." Surely her parents had been given information that wasn't provided to the newspapers and television stations from all over the state. Something that might help him find the real killer. "You must be kidding," Willis whispered. "How dare you call my home and—" "I didn't kill her," John interrupted. "Dammit, Willis, I didn't lay a hand on her when we were married and she was…" He hesitated. Willis was Claire's father, and even though he knew she was less than perfect, he didn't need to be reminded of the details. "I didn't kill her," John repeated. "I'm tired of waiting for the police to find the man who did, so I'm trying to investigate her death myself. I don't have much to go on, and I thought—" "Just a minute," Willis whispered into the phone, and then he called out, "Just a salesman, hon." Dorothy Roberts would have a conniption if she knew her husband was talking to John Quaid, John thought. She'd never liked him, so it was a sure bet she was convinced of his guilt. "I can't talk right now," Willis said when he returned. "Meet me tomorrow afternoon.One o'clockat Claire's house." "At the house?" His stomach did a sick flip. He hadn't stepped foot in that house since the night he'd found Claire's body. If he had his way, he'd never step in it again. The memories of that night and the years before were too painful. "One o'clock," Willis repeated, and then he hung up. *** Lucy laid three sheets of paper on the round dining room table, spacing them evenly. She walked around

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the table staring at each one, circling like a predator. There was a name at the top of each page—Claire Quaid, AnnFanton , Sylvia Smith—and beneath that a list of statistics.Age. Hair and eye color. Marital status . One of the women, AnnFanton , had been the mother of two small children. She glanced toward the hallway. If John knew what she was doing he would have a fit. Sally had been happy to help with the details she knew he wouldn't provide. Dammit, she had to do something! She glanced at the table again. Two of the profiles had a photograph to one side. One of them was of John's ex-wife, Claire. Lucy tried to keep her eyes from lingering on that photo, but she couldn't. Claire Quaid had been a beautiful woman. Lucy should have expected no less, but she hadn't been prepared for the stunning brunette. Even in a simple snapshot, it was clear that she'd been a real Southern lady. Her dark hair was shoulder length and perfectly styled. Her makeup was tasteful and flawless. She held herself with a practiced and queenly posture, and she smiled, but not too broadly. The snapshot was several years old and clearly had been taken in happier times. Lucy wondered if John had taken the photo. She felt intimidated by the woman in it, even though Claire was dead. John had loved her. Sally knocked primly on the front door, then entered the house without waiting for Lucy to respond. It had just taken her a few minutes to retrieve the last photograph. She clutched it in her hand as she walked into the dining room, barely containing her excitement. "I found this," she said. "Debbie Haynes took it at the big town picnic last year." Sally carefully laid the photo beside the sheet of paper with Sylvia Smith's name at the top, and Lucy studied it carefully. There were several women in the photograph. They stood in a straight line, shortest to tallest, and they all smiled as if they didn't have a care in the world. "This is her." Sally tapped the victim's image, then withdrew her hand quickly as if it were bad luck. It wasn't necessary. Lucy had known the moment she saw the photo which of the women was Sylvia Smith. Like the other two, she was a stunning brunette, petite and confident. "What are you looking for?" Sally asked, her voice rising in excitement. "I don't know." Lucy circled the table, her eyes on the victims' faces. What could they tell her? "Tell me about Claire," she said, never lifting her eyes. "Claire was so sweet," Sally said without enthusiasm. Lucy felt an unwanted stab of jealousy deep in her gut. Ridiculous. The woman was dead, murdered in the most horrible way, and she wasjealous? "She was president of the Garden Club, and secretary of the Red Grove Historical Society. Her father is a lawyer, retired now, and her mother is quite active in—" "I don't want her resume," Lucy snapped. "What was she like?" Sally sighed, and when Lucy lifted her eyes she found her new friend chewing her bottom lip. "I didn't know her very well. She was in Adam's class in high school, I suppose. My Danny dated her for a couple of years. You know, teenage romance and all that—"

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"Wait a minute." Lucy jumped in before Sally could continue. "Your husband dated Claire?" Sally fluttered her hand in agitation. "Yes, but that was a long time ago." Her face flushed a deep red, though she apparently tried very hard to act as if everything was perfectly normal. She clasped her hands together to keep them still. "To tell the truth, I never liked Claire much, but I suppose it's just because my Danny likely would have married her if she hadn't dumped him for Adam." Adam?"You said she was sweet." "Well, everybody said she was sweet. And she is dead, after all, and I hate to speak ill of the dead. I mean, she was awfully … fickle." Sally's flush was gone, and she leaned in close to Lucy, lowering her voice. "She did sleep with an awful lot of men. I know I shouldn't spread tales—Claire is dead. But the word is, she was awfully easy, even when she was married to John." Lucy was losing her patience. None of this made any sense. Claire and Adam. Claire and Danny. And after the marriage, apparently, Claire andan awful lot of men . The woman had cheated on John. How could she have done such a thing? "Which was it, Sally? Was she sweet or was she a slut?" Sally gave the question proper consideration before she answered. "Well, I suppose she was both." Lucy looked at the snapshot again. The woman in the picture was almost regal. John had loved her, Lucy kept coming back to that. Had Claire broken his heart with her faithlessness? They didn't hear him coming down the hallway. Sally jumped when John entered the dining room, spit out a word that might have been goodbye, and left before he had a chance to speak. He joined Lucy at the table and glanced down at her carefully arranged papers. "What are you doing?" he asked in an even voice. "I told you I was going to find the real killer." He lifted his eyes to her, eyes that were as haunted as they'd been on the night they met. "I can't talk you out of this?" She shook her head. John took a deep breath and moved to his ex-wife's photograph. "Claire Roberts Quaid," he said emotionlessly. "First victim. Thirty-two years old. Stabbed seventeen times. Throat cut. My ex-wife." He moved to the next picture. "AnnFanton . Twenty—nine already dead when her throat was cut. We dated a few times years old. Victim number two. Stabbed eight times. She was after my divorce was final. She was recovering from her own divorce, and it was never anything serious. A movie. Dinner." John spoke as if he were alone, never looking at Lucy, ignoring her as he moved to the next picture. "Sylvia Smith." Thankfully he didn't bother to recite the facts surrounding her death. They were there for him to read in the information Lucy had gathered from the newspapers Sally had saved. "I took her to the senior prom." There was a distant, detached quality to his voice, as if he didn't believe what he was saying. He laid a finger on Sylvia Smith's image as hesitantly as Sally had. John lifted his head and looked directly into her eyes. He hadn't forgotten about her, after all. "And you, Lucy. So, now what do you think? Do you understand why the sheriff warned you to stay away from

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me? Whether he believes I'm responsible for these murders or not, I'm a dangerous man to be around. If I thought you'd be safe, I'd tell you to run as fast and as far as you could. Hell, I'd take you away from here myself, if I thought it would do any good. But I don't think it will. He'll follow you." "Why?" "Because you're with me." *** John could hear Lucy behind him. He'd turned his back on her and walked away, after finally telling her the worst. Those women were dead because he had a history with them. Lucy was in danger because she was with him now. He busied himself with the coffeemaker, measuring out the grounds, filling the decanter with tap water. He heard Lucy behind him, almost silent as she followed him into the kitchen. "I never should've gone to the carnival that second night," he said tersely. "I never should have met you for coffee. He was watching. He was just waiting for me to look at someone, to let my guard down so he could choose his next victim." "It could be a coincidence…" Lucy hesitated, and John glanced over his shoulder to look at her. "I don't believe in coincidence." She murmured beneath her breath. "Neither do I." Lucy frowned as she stepped forward to place her arms around his waist. "It's not your fault," she whispered. "It is." He was certain in his heart that it was. "No." Lucy ran her hands up and down his back, a comforting gesture. "You're not responsible for what somesicko does. You haven't hurt anyone." She placed her palms flat on his chest and looked up. "We can stop this, if we catch him. It's all we can do." We. She used the word so easily. And she meant it. "It's too dangerous." "It's our only option." She placed her chin on his chest. "We may need help, though. It might be hard to set a trap for the Ripper with just the two of us. Surely there's someone we can trust to help us. I know Sally would." "No," John said sharply. And then he almost smiled. "God, no." Lucy nodded in agreement. "What about Adam?" John shook his head. "No. Even if I asked, he wouldn't help. We aren't close." "No kidding," Lucy said sarcastically. "But he is your brother, and if we can just convince him of your innocence, he has to help. Why wouldn't he?" He wondered how much he should tell her. "Because of Claire," he whispered. "Adam was sleeping with her, and as long as he blames me—"

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"Adam was seeing your ex-wife?" she interrupted. Should he tell her every sordid detail? John placed his hand at the small of her back and drew her close. She was soft and warm and she was making him feel good for the first time in months. "Adam and Claire were involved for a very long time before she became my ex-wife. I don't make a very good husband, Lucy. I get involved in my work … with the investments and my duties as a deputy. Claire was always very social. She couldn't stand to sit at home alone when I was on night shift. I can't be sure, but I think Claire and Adam were involved almost from the time of the wedding until her death." Lucy pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. "Your own brother." John managed to smile down at her, a small half smile that wasn't nearly the effort he'd expected it to be. For once, it didn't hurt so much to think about it. The smile didn't last. "Adam always had a jealous streak." Something John had never been able to understand. "Our father left when I was eight and Adam was six, and Adam always blamed himself He was a rowdy kid, always into something, and he got yelled at a lot. One night he broke a vase. It was a stupid thing, really. He was throwing a ball in the house, and it just happened." Sometimes he could still hear the sound of that shattering vase. "Dad was watching television, and when the vase broke he jumped like he was shot. A few minutes later he left to walk to the store for cigarettes. He never came back." For a while John had been certain his father had a really good reason for not coming home. He was hurt; he had amnesia; he was a secret agent on an important mission and he couldn't contact anyone. John had fooled himself with these fantasies until the day he'd come home from school to find his mother crying over divorce papers. "Oh, John, that's awful." Lucy ran her hands up and down his back again. Her attention made him a little uneasy. No one had consoled him this way since he was eight years old. "But a man doesn't leave over a broken vase." "Tell that to a six-year-old. Adam spent weeks trying to put that damn vase back together. He used glue and modeling clay and tape, but it just kept falling apart. I tried to help him, once, but he pushed me away." It was the last time he remembered seeing Adam cry, as the vase had fallen apart, again, on his bedroom floor. "I don't know why he shifted the blame to me, but he did. Somehow it became my fault that he'd broken the vase, and therefore my fault that the old man left. There's always been friction between us. Eventually I realized that whatever I had, Adam wanted. Especially Claire. I can't ask Adam for help. As long as he even suspects that I might be guilty, he's more of a threat than an ally. We haven't talked about it, but when I ask myself who would want to see me fry, my little brother is at the top of the list." "John." She lifted her head slowly. "The morning Adam came here and you left us alone, he said it was you. He tried to convince me to leave because he thinks you killed Claire and the others. He warned me to stay away from you." He wasn't surprised. "And you didn't listen?"

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She shook her head and then laid it against his chest. "Of course not. I didn't believe him. Do you think I'd be here now if I did?" Something inside him broke—a dam, a stone wall, a block of ice. She believed in him, had believed in him all along. The sheriff had warned her, Adam had warned her, and yet she'd listened to her instincts and trusted him with her life. "Why? You barely knew me then." She lifted her head to look at him with soft green eyes that somehow punched clear through him. "I look into your eyes and see darkness, and pain, and anger, but I never see violence. I never see hate, and it takes a lot of hate to do what this man has done." He threaded his fingers through Lucy's pale hair. "I don't want you involved in this." "We don't have any choice." Lucy looked up at him, her eyes wide and deceptively innocent. "I'm already 'involved' in this. All we can do is try to catch the killer ourselves." "No." "You're so stubborn." "No," he said again. Lucy didn't argue with him anymore, but she gave him a small, sad smile that warned him she hadn't given up. Chapter 11 «^» Lucy washed the last of the dishes and set them in the drainer to dry. It was a natural and ordinary chore, strangely domesticated. She'd found an old radio on the top shelf in John's closet, and it now sat on the kitchen counter. A real dinosaur, it only picked up two stations: one country and one that played a little light jazz and some old, mellow pop music. At the moment, a piano rendition of "My Funny Valentine" was playing. Soft and easy, it suited her mood. John was still being stubborn about her idea that they try to catch the Ripper themselves. It made perfect sense to her, but he wouldn't even listen. She suspected that he had plans of his own, plans he didn't share with her. She didn't want to think about it right now, didn't want to dwell on unpleasant thoughts of the Ripper or Claire Quaid or those other women who had died. Live for the moment—that's how she'd made it through the past five years. Moment to moment, day to day. And right now, right this minute, she wanted a bag of microwave popcorn. "John Quaid!" she shouted. "I can't believe you don't have a microwave!" He was supposed to be in his office working, but his answer came from directly behind her. "I'm not deaf." She turned around and smiled at him, a smile that came naturally. "You're supposed to be working.

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Gambling , I should say. Isn't that why I got stuck doing the dishes?" He took two steps to close the distance between them, slipped an arm around her waist and kissed the side of her neck, there in just the right spot. She closed her eyes and relaxed completely, melting in his arms. "You're not getting off that easily," she said, not as sternly as she'd intended. "I can't work," he muttered into her neck, and the warmth of his breath against her skin made her tingle from the top of her head to her toes. "You're distracting me." "I'mdistractingyou?" Lucy wrapped her fingers through the hair at the back of John's neck and pulled him gently away so she could look into his eyes. They were soft and silver-gray, and they touched her heart. "I think you're the one who's distracting me, so you won't have to discuss your inclination to dismiss anything technologically advanced." "You've found me out," he whispered, feathering kisses over her mouth. She was drawn up so close to his body that she touched him everywhere: her hand on his shoulder, her legs brushing against his hard thighs, her belly pressing against his arousal. Just like that, she needed him. Her entire body responded to his touch, throbbing and aching and reaching. She could never be close enough. She was lost in the moment, until a new song came on the radio. It was The Carpenters singing "Close To You," and she involuntarily turned her eyes to the radio. Why now? She didn't need even this small piece of reality infringing upon her illusion of perfection. "What's wrong?" John whispered. "Nothing," she said, turning back to him for another kiss to make her forget. "No." He pulled his lips away slowly. "Notnothing . What is it?" Lucy took a deep breath. "I sang that song at my sister's wedding." "You can sing," he said with a small smile. "No. I used to sing, but I don't anymore." "Why not? You have a very sexy voice. If you ever give up fortune-telling you can get a job as a torch singer in a smoky nightclub." He smiled, touching her lips with his and tracing his fingers down her arms. She laid her head on his shoulder. "A sexy voice, huh?" A bubble of hysteria rose to the surface, but she fought it back. "Glad you like it, but this wasn't always my voice. It's rougher, now. I don't know if it was the choking or the screaming—"or a trick of the mind "—but after that night my voice was different. I thought that with time it would change back, but it didn't. This sexy voice you like so much reminds me, every time I open my mouth…" "Sorry," he muttered against her hair as he squeezed her tight. "I didn't mean to bring that up, not now." "It's okay," she whispered, and strangely enough it was. "I was a pretty good singer, but I didn't have any aspirations to go professional or anything like that. I just sang at weddings and in the church choir, and in the shower and while I was cleaning house. A real amateur."

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"Have you … tried?" he asked hesitantly. There was no need for him to addsince that night . "No." "Why not?" She lifted her head and looked at him. "Because I'm afraid of what will come out of my mouth if I try. I'm afraid I'll find out that Paul took something else from me that I'll never get back. Not knowing is better." "I want to kill him," John whispered softly. "I've never wanted to hurt anyone before, but this guy…" He took a long, slow breath. "It was a long time ago," she said softly. John lifted her off her feet, and she wrapped her legs around his hips. He kissed her long and hard as he walked from the kitchen with her in his arms. He would make everything better, he would make her forget … he already had. As they stepped into the hallway the phone began to ring. Lucy lifted her head, but John didn't even slow his step. "They'll call back," he muttered, taking advantage of her turned head to devour her neck. Lucy tilted back slightly. Relaxing in John's strong arms, she allowed him to cradle her and kiss her and make silent promises. They entered the cool, dark bedroom, and he stopped at the side of the bed— The phone rang … and rang … and rang… "Damn!" John mumbled as he turned around slowly. Lucy expected that he'd set her on her feet, but he carried her down the hallway, walking very slowly. She expected each jarring ring of the phone to be the last, but it went on and on. John stepped into his office, propped Lucy on the edge of his desk and picked up the phone. "What!" he barked. He waited a couple of seconds and then replaced the receiver gently. "They hung up," he muttered, lifting her again. "Imagine that." Lucy clasped her hands behind his neck and wrapped her legs around his hips. "And you're such a charming conversationalist—" He silenced her with a kiss that lasted down the hall and into the bedroom. John very slowly lowered her onto the bed, staying close so that he always held and caressed her, so that they were never separated. She sank into the mattress, and he came with her, his arms tucked around her and his body sheltering hers. Oh, she could stay here forever, lost between John's hard body and the folds of this soft bed. Her legs spread to cradle him. Fully dressed, they kissed until she was breathless. His arousal pressed against her insistently, through two layers of thick denim. Her body reacted intensely as she lifted her hips to grind her body against his. He moaned into her mouth, and she knew he felt the same sense of abandon, the same force she did. She wondered if he felt as if he were flying.

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When the phone began to ring again, they ignored it. As he reached for the bedside table, she popped open his jeans and slid the zipper down. "For Christmas," she promised huskily, "I'm getting you an answering machine." *** John sat in the car with the engine turned off and the summer sun beating down. Willis was already here; his car was parked in the driveway. A For Sale sign sat crookedly in the yard, and the curtains to the living room were parted to display a bare room with white walls. Claire had fallen in love with this white ranch-style house that spread in a leisurely fashion over a large lot. It was a fine dwelling that was far above what any deputy could afford. Back then he'd just begun dabbling in stocks, making a little extra money now and then—almost enough to keep Claire satisfied. Four bedrooms were more than they had ever needed; the huge dining room rarely had been used, and she'd spent a small fortune decorating the living room in a white so delicate that she'd cringed every time he sat on the damn couch. Flowering azaleas and dogwoods had been planted to brighten the spring, and two red maples for color in the fall. God, he hated this place. His mind flickered to a vision of Lucy as he'd left her, sitting at Sally Neil's kitchen table. She'd insisted indignantly that she did not need a baby-sitter, but she'd finally agreed, insisting as they walked across the lawn that she did this only for him. The image soothed him a little, but it didn't last. He had to return his attention to the house. He hadn't been here since the night he'd found Claire's body displayed obscenely on her own bed. He would never completely wipe the hideous picture from his mind, no matter how hard he tried. His time in this house before that night hadn't been exactly cheerful. He'd been through hell here, trying to make something work that was never meant to be. So, of all the places in Red Grove to meet, why here? Throwing open the car door, he stepped into the street. Why had Willis insisted on meeting in this damn place? How could he bear to stand in the house where his only child—his daughter—had died so violently? The front door was open, and John let himself in, calling Willis's name as he closed the door behind him. The room had an empty, eerie feeling that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. "Willis!" he called again, stepping into the kitchen. The room was vacant, white countertops scrubbed and bare, refrigerator door open. The smell was sterile: disinfectant with a touch of underlying insecticide. The car was in the driveway, so John knew his ex-father-in-law was here. He stepped into the hallway and called for Willis again, looking down the hallway past open doorways to empty rooms. His eyes fell uneasily on the partially closed door at the end of the hall. Surely the man wasn't waiting in the master bedroom—the bedroom John had shared with Claire for years, the room where she had been killed. Something was wrong. He felt it, knew it with every fiber of his being. The door to the master bedroom stood open about two inches. His heart thudded, and he pressed himself against the wall to peer inside that small opening. Claire had been murdered there. Was another body waiting? Willis, the next victim? Lucy? He barreled through the bedroom door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something coming fast, a blur headed straight for him. He ducked instinctively, escaping blunt trauma to the head by no more than

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two inches. Without pausing, he snapped up and kicked out in the direction of the attacker's black-clad legs. The attacker grunted and dropped heavily to the floor. The baseball bat came loose and fell, landing with a softthud on the carpeted floor. A beefy hand shot out, reaching for the end of the bat. Too slow. John stamped his foot down onto the man's wrist, bringing a sudden end to the attempt. He kicked the baseball bat aside, away from the man on the floor, and then he dropped to his haunches and rolled the man over. "Hello, Willis," he said calmly. *** Sally's house was laid out much like John's, but everything was new: new floors, new appliances in the kitchen, new furniture. Everything was light and airy, and the entire house was done in cream and pale blue. Lucy sat at the round oak table in the kitchen, and Sally placed a dainty blue coffee cup in front of her. Three cupfuls might have come close to filling a decent-size mug. "I'm so glad you finally came over," Sally gushed. "I can kind of understand why John doesn't want to leave me alone, but did he really have to walk me all the way to the door?" Lucy asked with just a hint of disgust. "I'm not completely helpless." "He's so considerate," Sally said as she took her seat across the table. "I mean, he's really quiet most of the time, but that's a good quality in a neighbor, don't you think?" That was what the neighbors always said when a serial killer was caught, Lucy recalled.He was a quiet man . "I do wish he would mow his lawn more often, and a coat of paint on that house wouldn't hurt, but all in all…" "So you're not one of the ones who thinks he killed his ex-wife and the others?" Sally hesitated, but then she shook her head. "No. I did, at first," she admitted. "But the more I think about it, the more it just doesn't seem right, you know? He's so protective of you, so … sweet, in a guy kinda way. I used to think that maybe he did it, but I changed my mind." "Good," Lucy said softly, relieved by Sally's admission. John needed to know that he was wrong when he saideveryone believed him to be guilty. If Sally had doubts, surely there were others. And as long as she was here… "You were telling me about Claire, yesterday, and we were interrupted." "She was so…" "Sweet," Lucy finished. "I don't want you to be polite. I don't want to know how many women's clubs she belonged to, or how nicely she dressed, or how many cavities she had. I want to know why someone would want to kill her." Sally sighed, placing her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. "Well, I suppose it could've been

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a man." "We already know it was a man," Lucy said patiently. "I mean, one of her men." Sally frowned. "Men liked her. She was so pretty, and she had a way of attracting them. Claire didn't really have many close women friends. I mean, if there were twenty women and one man in the room, Claire would gravitate to the man and that would be the end of that. She would smile and flirt, and if she decided she wanted him, he was a goner." Lucy's frown was as deep as Sally's. She'd thought John too smart to fall for a woman like that. Of course, he must've been very young when they'd married. When a person was young and thought themselves in love, they did stupid things. She knew that too well. "You said she had a lot of affairs. How, many?" Sally shrugged her shoulders. "Who knows? She was, well, she wasn't discreet, exactly, but she didn't flaunt her infidelity, either. There was talk, that's all. I heard of three, while she and John were married, and several others after they were separated." She leaned forward. "A couple of them were married." Lucy sighed. "The list of suspects is growing as we speak." She wondered if it was possible that the Ripper was a woman. The body had been large and had moved like a man, the whisper had sounded like a man—but it was possible. An angry wife, perhaps. But why the other two? Why Lucy? Why didn't the killer stop after Claire? In spite of the others, in spite of the attempts on her own life, Lucy was certain Claire was the key. "Sounds to me like there are a lot of people who might've wanted her dead. An old flame, a new lover, a very jealous man." Sally lifted her eyes and glared at Lucy. "You know, if it wasn't for Ann and Sylvia, I'd probably still think John was the one. I wouldn't blame him." "Any of those other men…" Lucy began. "Them, too, I guess," Sally said softly. "Claire was easy to love, and easy to hate. I hated her," she said in a voice so low Lucy almost couldn't hear. Lucy was afraid if she said a word, made a sound, Sally would stop. She held her breath. "I'm glad she's dead. Red Grove is a better place without her." Sally looked as guilty as if she'd just confessed to the murders. "What happened to the paragon who was president of the Garden Club?" "No one else would run for office last year. She did. Everyone, including me, ignored what she really was and accepted her as the nice lady she pretended to be. I guess we thought that was the civilized way to handle the situation." Sally attempted a smile that came off rather sickly. "See, the thing about Claire is, she didn't care. She would sleep with a woman's husband and not feel guilty at all, cheat on John and try to turn it around and make it seem like it was his fault. As long asshe was happy, nothing and no one else mattered." Sally absentmindedly dipped her spoon into what was left of her coffee. "Selfish bitch," she muttered beneath her breath. "Shoot, if the Ripper had stopped after Claire, a few of us might've chipped in and bought the guy a medal."

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*** They stood on the deck, since neither of them could stand to be in the house a moment longer than necessary. No other houses were in view from this angle; there were just trees and a tall fence and the remnants of a once well-tended flower garden. Willis rubbed his wrist. "Youcoulda killed me in there," he said sheepishly. "You damn near did kill me," John snapped. He held the baseball bat, not trusting Willis enough to hand it over. "Is that why you agreed to meet me? So you could bash my head in?" "Yes," Willis said, looking and sounding much older than his sixty-odd years. "I decided that if I killed you, this would be over. My baby could rest in peace, and I could sleep at night, and my wife would stop crying all the time. You killed my baby, and I—" "I didn't kill her," John interrupted, lifting the baseball bat in his hand. "Dammit, Willis, I thought you knew me better than that." Willis's eyes were on the bat, and he looked resigned, ready to die. With a curse, John tossed the bat far into the backyard, venting his rage and putting everything he had behind the swing. After the bat landed near the garden, Willis lifted tired eyes to John. "You hated her." "Yes, I did." "You hated her enough to kill her." "Maybe, but I didn't do it." Nobody deserved to die the way Claire had died. John headed for the wooden steps, preferring to walk around the house rather than step in it again. He wasn't about to stand here and argue with Claire's father all afternoon. What a waste of time this had been. He reached the bottom of the steps as Willis spoke again. "Why did you call me? What the hell do you want?" His voice was stronger now, but still unsteady. John turned and looked up. "I thought maybe the sheriff shared information with you that wasn't made public. I don't know what I'm looking for. Clues, red flags, anything to point me in the killer's direction. The sheriff can't find him, so I'm going to try. I have to try." Willis's face softened. "You're either a damn good actor, or you're telling the truth." "I'm telling the truth," John said, his voice steady. Willis grasped the banister and leaned forward. "Were you seeing Claire?" he asked. "Before she died, were you two … together again?" "No." He nodded slowly, and a new pain crept over his face. "She was pregnant. We didn't know until after the autopsy, and Sheriff Maples asked us to keep the news to ourselves. For now." Tears filled the old man's eyes. "Dorothy always thought that if Claire had a child she'd settle down. Children make you look

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at the world differently, and we just thought…" His words faded away. "I wasn't seeing her." Willis nodded once. Maybe the old man believed him. "I thought maybe it was you, because Claire spoke to me one night just a few days before she died, and she mentioned you. She hadn't talked about you at all since the divorce, but that night she did. She said, 'Daddy, did you know Johnny had money?'" A chill worked its way through John's body. Claire had only called him Johnny when she wanted something. At least he knew now why she'd called him that night, why she'd wanted to see him. She'd found out about the money he'd made after the divorce, and she'd decided to seduce him and claim the child she carried was his. That would explain the sexy black thing she'd been wearing at the time of her death. She would have been disappointed. "I told her I didn't know any such thing, and she just laughed and changed the subject." John wondered what the father of Claire's child thought about the plan, or if he even knew about the baby. "Thank you for telling me," he said as he backed away from the deck. "I wish I knew more." "So do I." *** Lucy refilled the coffee cups while Sally contemplated her confession. "Did you hate her because she and Danny dated in high school?" Lucy asked. That didn't make any sense, but then neither had most of this conversation. Sally shook her head. "No, that would be silly." She stared down at her steaming coffee. "It was last year, actually, a couple of months before she died. Danny swears it was only the one time. He ran into her at the grocery store, and they started talking about old times and ended up back at her house. At least, that's what he says. I don't know if I believe him or not. I mean, if Chris hadn't needed stitches, and if I hadn't tried so hard to find Danny that night, I never would've found out that he wasn't at a meeting inBirminghamlike he said he was. It could've been going on for years, for all I know." She became silent, as she contemplated this possibility. "I'm sorry," Lucy whispered. Sally lifted her eyes. "We don't talk about it anymore. It's better that way, especially since she's dead." A plea touched her eyes. "No one else knows, and I don't want anyone else to know. I can't believe I actually told you." She sounded truly dismayed. "I won't tell anyone," Lucy said. She took the lid off the blue sugar bowl, and found it empty. Sally's gaze followed. "Oh, no," she said emphatically. "I'm so sorry." "I'll get it." Lucy stood up. "Where do you keep the sugar?"

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"In the pantry." Sally pointed to a narrow door behind Lucy. Lucy swung the door open and immediately saw the bag of sugar. She also saw, there on the back of the door, several keys. They hung from a row of hooks, and each key was clearly labeled with a round paper ring.Buick. Mom's front door. Quaid . "You have a key to John's house?" "Sure," Sally answered. "His mom was always walking out without her keys, and I used to water the plants when she went toFloridaon vacation. She was afraid John and Adam would forget, if she asked them to do it." Probably right, Lucy decided, since she hadn't seen a single potted plant in John's house. Whatever plants his mother had once nurtured were long gone. "There's a key to our house over there, somewhere," she said. "Mrs. Quaid used to get our mail and feed the cat when we were away for the weekend." Lucy refilled the sugar bowl, and Sally seemed to realize with a start that a guest was doing her job. She took the bag. "You must think I'm a terrible hostess," she said, back to her old self again. Understandably, Sally didn't seem to want to talk about Claire Quaid anymore. But that was all right—Lucy had plenty enough to digest, for the moment. Their talk turned insanely normal, considering the conversation to that point. Sally was determined to get her hands on Lucy's hair. A perm, she suggested, some vigorous teasing, and lots and lots of hair spray. Lucy laughed it off. Sally gave her a recipe for meat loaf, writing it down on a three-by-five card so nothing would be forgotten. With the recipe tucked in her pocket, Lucy showed Sally her heart line and her life line. That was how Danny Neil found them. Lucy glanced up, Sally's hand palm up in hers, and saw a brown-haired man staring at the two of them from the kitchen doorway. He was losing his hair, and had developed a widow's peak that gave him a vaguely vampire-ishlook. "Danny." Sally jerked her hand from Lucy's and jumped to her feet. "You're early, honey." Danny Neil stared at Lucy, obviously displeased to find her sitting in his kitchen. "You'reQuaid's friend," he said, no hint of welcome in his voice. "Lucy Fain." She ignored the man's bad manners and stood, stepping forward to offer her hand. He ignored her gesture and turned to an empty stove as he loosened his tie. "You haven't even started dinner?" he asked, annoyed. "You're early," Sally said quickly. "I didn't expect you home so soon." The tension in the room was thick and unpleasant. Danny Neil continued to stare down at the stove, and Sally's eyes were plastered to his back. Lucy backed toward the door that led to a bright dining room. "Look, I'd better go."

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"John's not home yet," Sally protested softly. "You can't—" "He won't be long. I'll wait on the porch." She spun around quickly and hurried through the dining room and the living room. Before she reached the front door, voices were raised. She couldn't hear everything that was said, but as she opened the door Danny's voice was crystal clear. "Dammit, you know how I feel about John Quaid!" Lucy gratefully shut the door behind her and closed her eyes. What she'd just seen was too much like her own married days: the tension and the anger, Sally's carefully measured words as she tried so hard to keep the peace. John pulled the noisy Ford into his own driveway moments after she stepped from the Neil house. She walked briskly down the front steps, so glad to see him as he stepped from the car that her heart thudded and she broke into a run. Chapter 12 «^» She was beginning to feel comfortable, and a warning bell sounded in her brain, faint and deep. Lucy rinsed her coffee cup and placed it in the sink, and then she tightened the sash of her robe—John's paisley robe. There had been no real comfort in her life for a very long time. Living on the road was hard, but it was the life she had chosen. She had been willing to sacrifice the comfort of a home for her freedom, telling herself that she really wasn't a nester at heart. She was a hunter. No, that wasn't right, either. She was a wanderer. Always afraid that Paul would somehow find her, afraid changing her name and constantly traveling with the carnival wasn't enough to keep her safe. And now, everything was different. She was at home here in John's house. She could find her way down the hallway with her eyes closed, if she had to. She knew where he kept the coffee cups and the silverware, and where he stored the spare rolls of toilet paper. There was a creak in the dining room floor, faint but undeniable, three steps out of the kitchen. The back door squeaked; there was a crack in one of the front steps, the second from the top, to be exact; and the faucet in the bathroom dripped if you didn't twist it just a little to the right. She hadn't learned all these things at once, but in the course of the two weeks she'd been living here. If it had happened all at once, it would have terrified her. As it was, she was feeling a bit wary. Because she was going to have to leave. Sooner or later, she would leave it all behind: the house, her new friend, Sally, and John. Oh, leaving John was going to be hard, probably the hardest thing she'd ever done. In spite of her dark thoughts, she smiled when she heard the hesitant notes from the living room. Piano keys, softly touched, sent a silvery vibration through the house. She heard a missed note, a muttered curse, and a fresh start: "My Funny Valentine." Lucy slipped quietly through the dining room and halted beneath the archway that separated the two large rooms. John was bent intently over the keys, but after the first missed note he was flawless. She

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watched him silently, watched those strong hands on the ivory keys, those long fingers dancing tentatively. He wore his old navy-blue robe, and powerfully muscled, tanned legs peeked out. He lifted his head to look at the wall before him, to study the family pictures on the piano, and the notes became smoother. They flowed beautifully. He had remembered. "For every rock 'n' roll song I learned to play, my mother made me learn one of her favorites," he said, the rhythm of his fingers never broken. Lucy smiled at his back. How had he known she was here? She'd been silent on bare feet. "I'm glad," she answered in a voice as soft as his own. "I never was a KISS fan." She crossed the room silently and sat on the piano bench beside John. In a move that came much too naturally, she laid her head on his shoulder. His skilled hands floated over the keys with no apparent effort. "I think it's time for me to leave," she said softly, her eyes riveted to his hands. He didn't look at her or stop playing. "Where will you go?" "I don't know." "When you have a plan, we'll discuss it," he said with finality. "Until then, there's no need to talk about leaving." Lucy lifted her eyes to the photographs on the piano. Framed in gold and silver, plain and fancy, she saw John's life there. John as a baby, chubby-cheeked and solemn, and Adam, too, looking as if he'd just finished a good long cry. A dark-haired John and a fair-haired Adam, maybe ten and eight, dressed as cowboys and holding paper bags bulging with Halloween candy. One photograph showed a handsome couple: a man who looked a lot like John—the father who had deserted his family—and a smiling woman, John's mother. There were graduation photos of both the boys, and a picture of Adam and a teenage girl with pale hair and a gown made for a princess, headed for the prom. "I don't belong here," she whispered. The confession broke her heart, but it was no less true. John lifted one arm and circled her waist with it, stopping the music for a few seconds as he gathered her into his lap so that her legs straddled his hips and her face was close to his. She was trapped between his arms as he began to play again. He looked her up and down, his gaze traveling slowly. "You come in here dressed in nothing but that robe, and tell me you want to leave?" There was no anger in his voice, just a touch of bitter humor.Want to leave? Never. She would be happy to sit here forever, to learn to be content for more than a moment or two, to let John hold her when the demons threatened. "Not that I want to leave, that I … Ishould leave," Lucy said hesitantly. "I can't stay here forever." John locked his eyes on hers. "Why not?" She didn't have an answer; she just knew the time to leave was near, was nearer with every passing second. He didn't press her for an answer, just continued to play soft and slow. "Sing for me, Lucy," he whispered.

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"What?" She stiffened in his arms. Dammit, she'd told him, just last night… "Sing for me," he repeated. "I can't." He smiled gently. "Well, it's either this or "Hard Luck Woman" or "Calling Dr. Love." I can't seem to remember anything else." "It's not the song," she said, exasperated. "I told you I can't—" "Try," he whispered, his smile gone. "You think not knowing is better, but it's not. There's nothing worse than not knowing." "I can't." He stopped playing, and after a short pause began again. "One word," he whispered. She took a deep breath and complied, whispering, certain that the single word she sang would come out as a croak or a raspy, horrible noise. It didn't, and John smiled again. "See? Not so bad, after all. How about three words." She tried, singing the title words when the tune was right. It wasn't the voice she remembered, not exactly, but it wasn't bad, either. John didn't have to ask her again to sing. She rested her forehead against his and sang, softly and clearly, in a voice that was smoky and hesitant and different, but not the disaster she'd always assumed it would be. John smiled as she sang, and in that moment she knew she loved him. There were no longer any doubts in her mind, no maybes or limitations. This man had given her more in two short weeks than anyone else ever had or would. As she finished singing, she threaded her fingers through his dark hair and kissed him, deep and hard. The air still reverberated with the lingering song of those last notes as his fingers left the piano keys to touch her back, to hold her close. "John," she whispered as she hesitantly pulled her mouth from his. "What are you wearing beneath that robe?" "Nothing," he breathed. "That's what I thought." *** John rested his head in the palm of his hand, propped up beside a sleeping Lucy. She was especially beautiful tonight. A shaft of moonlight that broke through the window touched her serene face and turned her pale hair silver. The clock on the bedside table glowed a bright 3:15. It was dark, and Lucy slept soundly with a peaceful smile on her face. John wanted to wake her, wanted

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to touch her, but he wouldn't, not for anything in the world. He had been the one to put that peace there. Amazingly, she trusted him, and even felt safe enough to put aside her fears. She'd said once, when he'd first met her, that she didn't sleep much. Since coming to his house, she'd sometimes slept long and deep, as if she were making up for lost time, reclaiming lost sleep. Even in the dark. No one had ever trusted him this way. Certainly not Claire. Nothing he'd ever done had been quite good enough for his wife. She'd claimed he was a selfish husband, had said this so often that he'd begun to believe it. When he'd found out about Adam and all the rest, she'd defended herself, claiming that he had ignored her, brushed her aside because he didn't love her. Maybe she was right, maybe it was his fault. After all, he'd never wanted her the way he wanted Lucy Fain; he'd never stayed awake at night just to look at her. He'd been bitter after the divorce because he felt betrayed, not because he regretted losing Claire. They'd both known early on that their marriage was a mistake. He couldn't help but wonder about the father of Claire's child, if she even knew who the father was, and if she'd told the guy. Willis had thought having a child would save Claire, but John knew differently. Claire was too selfish to be a decent mother, too self-centered to place a child's needs before her own. One day Lucy would make a wonderful mother. She stirred, and John held his breath, wondering if she'd come awake terrified as she had the first night in his house. But she opened her eyes just slightly, and smiled as she turned her face to him. "Why are you awake?" she asked, her voice purring. "I'm watching you," he whispered. She grabbed his arm and pulled him down beside her, then nestled her head against his chest. "I was having the most wonderful dream. You were there. I was singing to you, and we were dancing." Her voice was breathy, still more asleep than awake. "I'm not sure, but I think we were inNew Orleans. How do I know that? Hmm." She snuggled closer to him. "Maybe we can go there someday." John whispered in her hair. "Whatever you want." She murmured something, and it sounded affirmative but he couldn't be sure. Her breathing had already settled into a deep, even rhythm. John closed his eyes and Lucy snuggled against his chest as if she were made to fit there. "Anything you want," he whispered, and then he drifted into a deep sleep. *** Lucy frowned down at the photos and notes on the dining-room table and tried to ignore her growing, pounding headache. Something should be here—a clue, a hint of something as yet unnoticed. Anything. That's the way it worked in television and movies. But everything was the same as it had been the day before, and the day before that. Nothing—not one thing—jumped out and screamedclue . "Where'sColumbo when you need him?" she muttered.

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Adam had just left, after dropping in on his lunch break to check on her. She'd tried to be civil, but she wondered if he sensed her anger. She hadn't been able to meet his eye, and she hadn't been able to work up a smile, either. He had betrayed John. Brothers should love each other more than that. What a pity they'd allowed a scheming woman to come between them. In a fit of muted anger, Lucy turned ClaireQuaid's picture facedown. She rested her head in her hands and closed her eyes. This wasn't as easy as it looked. From the office down the hall, she heard the fast clacking of computer keys. John was researching some new company he was thinking about buying stock in, but he'd left the door open, and it seemed that every fifteen minutes or so he sneaked up behind her for a quick kiss or to snake his arms around her waist. She wasn't fooled; he was checking up on her as surely as Adam and Sheriff Maples did. Twice now she'd slept through the night. There had been no nightmares, no panic, no invisible hands around her throat. As long as John was beside her, she would continue to sleep at night. After she left … well, she wasn't ready to think about that just yet. She did love John, but it wasn't enough. The mistake she'd made with Paul had filled her with rage and pain and a fear of ever letting another person control her life. That control was hers now, and she intended to keep it that way, even if it meant sacrificing love and security and warmth. She couldn't have it all. Besides, it would be unfair to John for her to even think about staying. She'd lost the ability to give herself completely to another human being. Inside, where it counts, she always held some of herself back. You couldn't build a lasting relationship on that. And if any woman was ever going to undo the damage Claire Quaid had done, she had to be willing to give John everything. If she thought John wanted her to stay, it would be harder. He didn't, of course. She wasn't blind to the way he lived—the old house, the battered car, and no more personal possessions than he could throw in that old Ford in fifteen minutes or less. He had nothing—wanted nothing—that he couldn't walk away from. And that included her. Lucy forced her eyes open and looked down at the pictures again. She even turned Claire's photo over so that the woman stared up at her. Damn if these women weren't starting to look alike, to blur into one woman. Dark hair, small build, bright. Happy. They all smiled without fear, without knowing what awaited them. Lucy remembered a time when she'd smiled like that. The phone rang, and she jumped out of her chair, grateful for the chance to leave the pictures and her thoughts behind. "I'll get it!" she shouted. There was a phone in John's office, and he usually answered. But in the past few days he'd been interrupted by several hang-ups; she assumed it was curious people calling, listening to him say hello a couple of times, and then hanging up. It would figure that a man who didn't want air-conditioning or a microwave wouldn't have caller-ID, either. She walked to the old-fashioned telephone table in the corner of the dining room and brought the receiver of the plain black phone up slowly. "Hello." Silence, but a presence at the end of the line. A faint whisper of breath.

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"Hello," Lucy said, a little louder. There was no response but light breathing in her ear. She should hang up, the way John did when he got one of these calls. "Listen up, pervert," she snapped. "I have better things to do, so—" "Hello, Lucy," a raspy whisper interrupted. Her heart jumped into her throat. She'd recognize that whisper anywhere, anytime. It was the Ripper. "Have you missed me?" he whispered. She couldn't move the phone away from her ear, even though the sound of that voice made her want to scream. She was frozen, cold to the bone. She couldn't put the phone down and she couldn't call out. A second passed, maybe more, before the man on the end of the line chuckled—a low rumbling in her ear. "I've missed you, but I'll see you again soon. Very soon, Lucy." *** John grabbed every photo, every scrap of newsprint and notepaper, off the dining room table. He crushed the papers with impatient hands, and one photograph drifted to the floor. The snapshot landed face-up on the hardwood floor, crumpled, one corner torn. Claire Quaid. "That's it, dammit," he muttered under his breath, and it seemed to Lucy that he was talking to himself, not her. When she'd told him about the phone call, he'd lifted the receiver of the phone and punched in three numbers to redial the last call. He cursed a few seconds later as he slammed down the receiver and told her he'd gotten a pay phone that didn't accept incoming calls. Lucy trembled, even though she tried to stop, tried to force the shivers down by grabbing her arms and hugging herself tightly. "I didn't mean to upset you," she said shakily. "Maybe I shouldn't have told you…" John pulled her into his arms and held her. "You didn't mean to upset me," he repeated softly, his fury subdued. "The only thing that would have made me angrier is your keeping this from me." The terror melted away, but in her mind she could still hear the rasping voice that had tormented her. "I was right," she said. "It's time for me to leave." John lifted her chin and forced her to look him in the eye. "Don't you dare. That's just what the bastard wants—he wants to scare you into running again. He can't touch you here," he assured her. "You don't know that." She had a feeling the Ripper was toying with her, that he could catch her anytime he chose to. Even here, while John was working, or in the shower, or asleep. No place was safe. "If you run, by God, I'm coming with you." Lucy shook her head. "No, you're not." "We can get lost, move to a remote place where no one will ever find us."

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"You can't leave," she insisted. "If you just up and disappear, everyone will think you're running away because you're guilty." "They already think I'm guilty." "Besides, that would take an awful lot of money." She knew; she'd disappeared before and it hadn't been easy. John stared at her, unflinching. "I have an awful lot of money." Maybe now was the time to begin the painful break that had to happen. John spoke of leaving with her when the time came, a move that would be permanent, binding—a marriage of sorts. In the back of her mind the vision was beautiful and warm, a dream come true. But this wasn't a dream, it was reality. "You can't come with me," she said. "Why not?" She'd been lying every day for the past five years, so this should be easy. It should come without the knot in her throat and the weight in her heart. Still, she couldn't force her voice above a whisper. "Because I don't want you to." Chapter 13 «^» John experienced a flash of anger, but it didn't last. Lucy's whispered voice was so soft, so hesitant. He didn't believe her. "He really did a number on you, didn't he?" he asked, stepping back. "What are you talking about?" She lifted her head bravely. Her chin was steady, her lips were set, but something lurked in her eyes, a darkness that spoke of panic and suspicion. "Your ex." "Paul?"Her eyes widened. "He has nothing to do with this. Just because I said I don't want you with me when I leave—" John ignored her. "I'm not him, and I won't hurt you." "I know that," she whispered, but again he didn't believe her. A smart man would stop here, salvage what he could of his dignity and ignore what had just happened. He should walk way, leave this alone… He couldn't. "I think in the back of your mind you're always waiting for everyone to hurt you," he said gently. "Even me. Especially me." She stepped forward to poke him in the chest with one stiff finger. "Don't stand here and try to analyze me, you jerk," she said heatedly.

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Good. Anger was much better, much healthier, than fear. "Just because I happen to think I can get on with my life without you, just because I want to leave Red Grove and everything and everyone in this hellish town behind, that doesn't mean I'm some wounded, frightened, helpless female." He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and stilled her attack. "I never said you were," he whispered. "You did," she said, her anger weakening. "You said—" "I said I would never hurt you," he interrupted. Her body was so close to his that she practically skimmed him from knee to chest. He had become so accustomed to her that he needed her like this. Near, beneath him, all around him. She lifted her face and met his gaze defiantly. "I wish I could believe you." John wrapped his arms around her. "So do I, Lucy. So do I." *** She'd found the delicate china in the long, heavy buffet in the dining room. Several pieces were chipped, but she was able to set the table for three. There were mixed flowers from Sally's garden in the center of the table, and meat loaf in the oven. Meat loaf wasn't a very fancy dish, but John had to be getting tired ofomelettes and spaghetti, and there wasn't much else Lucy could make. As she straightened the knives and forks, she glanced at the telephone. Sheriff Maples had dismissed the phone call as a prank, but he'd also suggested that John have caller-ID installed. John had done as the sheriff suggested. That had been two days ago, and there hadn't been a single hang-up since. She returned her attention to the perfectly arranged dining room table. She'd had some pretty stupid ideas in her life, and it was possible that this one ranked near the top of the list. John and Adam definitely did not get along, and with good reason. Getting Adam to agree to a civil supper for the three of them hadn't been easy. She'd practically had to beg him to come, putting aside her personal feelings for the man who had betrayed John. Perhaps there was nothing she could do or say to change the situation, but she had to try. "What's the occasion?" John startled her and she nearly jumped out of her skin. "No occasion," she said, turning to face him. "Just dinner." He looked her up and down, smiling as he raked his eyes from the top of her head to thestrappy white sandals on her feet. "Where'd you get the dress?" Lucy glanced down at the pale yellow dress she wore, at the tight bodice with a scooped neck and the full and flowing skirt that hit her just above the knees. There was a pattern of tiny pastel flowers on the gauzy material. She smoothed the skirt as John continued to stare. "Sally gave it to me. She said Danny hates it, so she doesn't wear it anymore, but I think she just wanted to see me in a proper dress for once."

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"I like it." Lucy tilted her head and met his gaze. "She wanted to do my hair, too." She smiled widely. "Apparently it's not big enough. I passed on that offer." "Thank God," John said as he came to her, his eyes never leaving her face. He placed one hand at her back and the other under her skirt, and molded his body to hers. He was warm and overpowering, sheltering and possessive. "I'm not very hungry," he said, nibbling at the side of her neck and running his hand along her bare thigh. "Well, you'd better get hungry," Lucy said, trying to sound stern but falling far short. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes, and…" "Smells good," he muttered, nuzzling her skin. "Honestly, John," she reprimanded him halfheartedly, trailing her fingers through the softly curling hair at the back of his neck. "You're hopeless." He silenced her with a kiss, his mouth claiming hers hungrily. Lucy closed her eyes and let the fire consume her, let the passion he ignited drive away every fear, every doubt. The kiss ended abruptly, and Lucy's eyes flew open. John stared at the table set for three. "Who's coming for dinner?" "Adam," she said softly. Of course, she should have told him earlier, but she'd known all along what would happen if she did. He'd forbid it, demand that she call Adam and call it off, and when she refused he'd call and cancel himself. The dinner for three had to be a surprise; otherwise it would never happen. "No," he said darkly. "It's too late to change the plans now…" John shook his head slowly. "No, it's not too late." At that moment the doorbell rang. John cursed under his breath and released Lucy so suddenly that it made her dizzy. *** To an outsider, this might have looked like a perfectly ordinary gathering. Adam was nicely dressed in a gray suit and burgundy tie—banker's clothes only slightly rumpled at the end of a busy Friday. Lucy had gone to great pains to make herself presentable, with her yellow dress and sparsely applied makeup. Her fingernails were a pale pink, instead of their usual red. John was handsome as always, even though he hadn't dressed for the occasion; his jeans and denim shirt suited him. Yes, they all looked lovely and quite civilized. Appearances could be deceiving. Every bite Lucy took stuck in her throat. Adam was the only one of the three who really ate. John played with his food, pushing it around on his plate and keeping his eyes down. When he did bother to look up, he glared alternately at her and his brother. Lucy couldn't tell who he was angriest with—Adam for being here or her for inviting him. John looked furious, eyes narrowed and jaw tense, but he didn't say a word.

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Adam had made a few purely social comments, about the weather and Lucy's dress, about the meat loaf and the overdone vegetables that he said were perfectly prepared. But he soon gave up the effort and became as silent as his brother. The silence grated on her already raw nerves. She could hear the tick of a clock in the living room, and Adam's silverware scraping against his plate. She could hear John breathing, slow and steady in spite of his anger. It was unbearable. She couldn't stand this. Placing both hands firmly on the round table, she stood without warning. "Let's get this over with," she said huskily. She did, at least, have the full attention of both Quaid brothers. "Adam." She looked down at the fair-haired brother. "When I first met you, you made it very clear that you believed John was involved in the murders that have taken place here in Red Grove." He pushed his plate away. "I wondered if you'd told him what I said." "I told you then that you were wrong. I feel even more strongly about that now." "Lucy, you don't know—" "I know more than you can imagine," she said. John hadn't said a word, but he watched her closely. She cut her eyes to him before she continued. "I know about you and Claire." Adam shot to his feet. "I don't have to sit here and endure—" "Sit down," Lucy ordered calmly, and he did. "That's in the past, and you two have to get past it, somehow. Adam, John needs you now. He needs you to believe in him and stand by him. You're brothers. You shouldn't be forever at each other's throats because of her." She reached into the roomy pocket of her yellow dress and withdrew a crumpled photo she'd rather not have touched or seen again. The snapshot of Claire she'd retrieved from the floor practically burned her fingers. "All because of her," she said softly, tossing the wrinkled photograph onto the table. It landed between John's plate and Adam's. "You both loved her—" She hadn't meant for her voice to crack, but it did. Just a little. John no longer looked at Adam but stared at her, so penetratingly that she couldn't bear it. She turned her eyes to Adam so she wouldn't have to meet that stare. "She's driven a wedge between you, fueled this jealousy that lives on even though she's dead." Adam stared down at the photo, and a single tear fell down his cheek. "I'd loved her since I was seventeen," he said sadly. "I planned to marry her, but I never even got the chance to ask. We dated for a while, and I know she was beginning to love me. But when John came home from the army, everything changed. Claire said we were just friends. She wanted John." He lifted his head and glared at his brother. "So you took her, and you treated her like dirt. She would have been happy married to me. I know I could have made her happy if you'd just left us alone…" "I didn't know," John said softly. "Not until it was too late." "From everything I've learned about Claire, it seems unlikely that she would have been happy married to any one man," Lucy said unkindly. "She used the two of you, and you were both too blinded by love to see it." She finally worked up the nerve to look at John. "Don't let her keep you apart; even now. Family is … family. You should be able to argue and disagree and even fight, but in the end you have to be

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willing to forgive." John stared up at her with wary gray eyes. "You can't make the past disappear by telling us to kiss and make up." "You're angry with Adam because he betrayed you with Claire." "That's not—" he began. "Put the blame where it belongs," Lucy said harshly. "I know you, John. When you married Claire, you didn't know Adam was in love with her." "No," he muttered. "She said they were just friends, and he never told me anything different." "But I'll bet she knew," Lucy whispered. "I think everything was a game for Claire. I never met the woman, but I'd bet my life that after you were married she went to Adam, not the other way around. Am I right?" She looked at a silent Adam. "How did it start? An accidental meeting in a public place that turned into something else? Maybe a late-night phone call when John was working night shift." Adam flinched, and Lucy knew she was right. John remained silent, and Lucy felt a wave of misery wash over her. "Adam wasn't the only one," she said. "Are you blind? Or are you still in love with her?" John stood, gripping the sides of the table as if only that kept him from flying apart. "Still in love with her? I hate her. I didn't shed a tear at her funeral. Do you have any idea how guilty I felt when I couldn't even rouse an ounce of sympathy that she was dead? Nobody should die the way Claire died, nobody. But I didn't feel any more pain than I would have for a stranger. It's no wonder everyone thinks I killed her." He raked a distracted hand through his hair. "Claire's gone, and she's still in the center of it all, still trying to destroy me. I hated her," he said again, quietly, and this time he looked down at Adam. "But I didn't kill her." Adam lifted a tear-streaked face. "I want to believe you, really I do. But I know she was afraid of you, afraid of what you might do." "I never gave Claire any reason to be afraid of me," John said. "You have to believe that." Adam didn't immediately reject the idea. He stood slowly, shakily, and with great care placed the crumpled photo of Claire in his pocket. "Then who did?" "We're working on a plan to find that out," Lucy said. "Lucy," John seethed. He never had agreed to let her participate in anything. She ignored him. "But we need help. We needyour help." Adam looked from John to Lucy and back again. "Sure," he said after a moment's thought. "Why not?" *** John locked the door behind Adam, and then he turned around and gathered a surprised Lucy into his arms. He took a couple of awkward steps but didn't get very far, sitting in an overstuffed chair that was

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upholstered in a muted floral fabric. With his arms locked around her, Lucy had no choice but to follow, falling onto his lap. "You never cease to surprise and exhaust me," he said tiredly. "Thank you, I think," Lucy said. She held her body away from his, stiff and uncomfortable. "Is that a compliment or a complaint?" "I haven't decided." "When you figure it out, let me know." She tried to stand, but John pulled her back into his lap. "Why don't you sit here while I try to decide." She relaxed and laid her head against his shoulder. "I thought you would be angry with me." "I was," he admitted. "You got over it fast enough." John slipped his hands beneath her knees and swung her legs over the arm of the chair, rotated her body so that she had no choice but to look him in the eye. He wondered what Lucy would do if he said he could forgive her so quickly because she meant more to him than anyone he had ever known. The very idea startled him. "Only because you're so damn pretty in that yellow dress," he said lightly. He slid a finger inside the low-cut neckline and touched warm, soft skin. "You should have more dresses like this." He brushed his hand over the delicate material, his fingers skating over her breast. "I've never bothered much with pretty dresses. You know what they say," Lucy said lightly. "Can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear." He wondered if that lowlife ex-husband of hers had told her that, if the bastard had tried to beat her down with words as well as with his fists. "Baby," he whispered. "You're all silk." "Sweet words," she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. "I think someone is planning to get lucky tonight." He took her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever known." "Don't be silly…" "And I think I'm falling in love with you." He held his breath as he waited for a response. "Don't say that," she finally whispered. "I don't know if it started when you admitted to paying that kid to dump orange drink on me just so you could read my palm, or tonight when I realized that you were trying to fix my screwed-up life, or if it happened somewhere in between." He didn't know when, but he couldn't deny his feelings any longer.

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"You're not falling in love," she insisted. "You feel responsible for me, and we've been thrown together in these close quarters, and we do have great sex, but—" "I am falling in love with you. All the rest comes with it, I suppose, but that doesn't make it any less real." "Love isn't real," she whispered. A few weeks ago he would have agreed with her, but not now. "Yes, it is. Maybe it's the only thing that is real." He held her tightly so she couldn't slip away. "If you say that again, I'm going to have to leave." There was a hint of hysteria in her voice. "I can't stay here if you insist on—" John silenced her with his mouth over hers, and as he kissed her passionately, she responded, slowly, at first, and then with a silent desperation. She snaked her arms around his neck and held on as the kiss consumed them both. Lucy flicked her tongue against his, nibbled at his lower lip and gasped when he drove his tongue deep into her mouth. He wanted to hold her like this forever, to protect her from physical danger and harsh words and the low moments of her life. He wanted to laugh with her, to watch her face light up when he touched her, and to share the high moments of her life. Lucy's place was here; in his heart he knew this was the way it had to be. Convincing her would not be easy. His hand slipped beneath her flimsy skirt and settled on her thigh, where his fingers raked over her skin. "Silk," he whispered against her mouth. She trembled, shuddering in his arms and shifting her body so they were even closer than before. She deepened the kiss and squirmed in his lap as if trying to get comfortable. His fingers moved higher to slip beneath a thin strip of satiny fabric and touch her intimately. She answered his caress with a low moan that he caught with his mouth. When he slipped a finger inside her, she moaned again and her thighs fell instinctively apart. The way she responded to his touch, so openly and intensely, fed his own increasing desire for her. He wanted more than to be inside her; he coveted the small catches deep in her throat, the subtle and intuitive rock and arch of her body as he stroked her. She dropped her hand to his waist to pop open the snap of his jeans and lower the zipper. Her palm settled boldly over his arousal, and then her fingers began to move, to stoke the hard ridge that strained beneath his briefs. When she slipped her hand into the waistband and grasped him, he could think of nothing but the way she touched him, the way she felt in his hand. He removed her panties quickly as he moved her to the floor, keeping their bodies entwined during the quick, easy process. He freed himself, and as he did, she wrapped her legs around him. With a gentle push he entered her. "Silk," he whispered against her hungry mouth as her body embraced his. Slowly, he filled her, reveling in the sensation of her welcoming body wrapping around his, savoring the caress as he began to withdraw. She came to him when he plunged deep again, rocking into his thrusts as they found the gentle rhythm that was theirs and theirs alone, as if they danced to a distant tune no one else could hear. He loved her the only way he knew how, the only way he knew she would allow, until she was frantic and he could wait no longer. He drove deep once more, and she began to tremble around him, to milk and stroke him with her body. When she arched her back and moaned aloud, he found his own release, sinking inside her trusting warmth with a whispery growl of her name. He covered her sated body with his own, and for a long while they simply lay there, her arms slack around his neck, his face

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buried against her shoulder. Finally, he lifted his head to look down at her. "Why won't you let me—" She silenced him with a finger across his lips. "Love won't fix your life," she whispered. "It just muddles your mind so you can't think clearly. It ruins everything." "Muddle me," he answered softly. "I want to be ruined." He waited for a heated "I don't" that never came. "Love isn't enough," she whispered, and he could see the sadness in her eyes. She wanted to believe differently, but she couldn't quite pull it off. "For tonight," he said, lowering his lips to hers. "Let's pretend that it is." Chapter 14 «^» The three of them sat around the kitchen table and hatched their plan. If Lucy wasn't mistaken, some of the tension between John and Adam had evaporated over the weekend. Maybe they would never have a great relationship, but this was … yes, this was definitely better. Their plan was simple, but John wasn't going to leave anything to chance; he went over every detail again and again. Adam paid close attention, and now even seemed anxious to help prove his brother's innocence. John hadn't told her again that he was falling in love with her, and for that she was grateful. How could he say he wanted his brain muddled and his life ruined? Like most men, he didn't know what he wanted. It was the sex, she reasoned, messing with his mind. And they said women confused sex with love. Ha! Lucy tried not to be cynical about John's declaration. Maybe he really did feel deeply, maybe he really wanted more. She'd made the mistake of falling in love, but at least she knew it wouldn't last. Too bad. In weak moments she wanted to believe that John was right, that love was enough… She knew better. "Where are you going to be?" Adam asked, looking sideways at the rough plan John had drawn. "Here." He stabbed a pencil point at the square box that represented the window of SheriffMaples's office. "Between one andtwo o'clockevery afternoon, Agnes is gone for lunch. There's no one near the office but Maples, and if Lucy can get him out of there…" He shot her a sideways glance. He still wasn't sure about this. "Do you doubt me?" she asked lightly. "No," he said softly, and then he smiled. Dammit, she thought, he shouldn't be able to do this to her so easily. Her body burned, her heart ached, and she doubted everything she knew to be true when he smiled at her like this. Everything.

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She didn't know how long they stared at each other, but surely just a few seconds passed. John was somehow inside her—in her blood, in her mind, in her heart. They didn't say another word until Adam awkwardly cleared his throat. "Umm, shouldn't we be going?" John's smile faded. "Yep." *** She'd done this a thousand times, Lucy reminded herself as they approached the Sheriff's Office. A lie or two or three, a performance, a con. Why was she so nervous this time? Simple—this time she had more than herself to worry about. If she screwed up, John would pay. The office of the Sheriff's Department, and the attached county jail, was situated in a plain, square concrete block building on the edge of downtown Red Grove. The blocks had been painted a sickly mustard color, and the parking lot was gravel. All in all, it was a very uninviting place. She kept glancing at the rearview mirror on the passenger side of Adam'sPontiac. John followed close behind them, as he had since they'd left his house. She would have preferred to ride with him, but this way was simplest. As Adam turned into the parking lot, John pulled his car off the road to hide behind a stand of trees. Lucy glanced at Adam. "Three minutes," she said, reminding him of how long they had to wait before the show began. He looked down at the expensive watch on his wrist. "Are you sure you want to do this?" A simple nod was her answer. Adam turned slightly in his seat so he faced her. "I'm not sure this is such a wonderful idea. What if John gets caught? We'll all end up in jail, and I can't afford to be arrested. I'll lose my job." Even though she'd encouraged John to forgive Adam, she hadn't been able to manage complete forgiveness herself Helping in this venture was going a long way toward Adam's redemption. If he blew it now, there wouldn't be any redemption in her eyes. Not ever. "You'd rather see your brother go to jail for something he didn't do? We're talking capital murder here. They could send him to the electric chair, or to prison for the rest of his life." "I don't want that to happen," he said softly, giving her a crooked grin that made him look boyish and vulnerable. At the moment, GQ was gone, and Lucy saw a real man. She remembered John's story about the broken vase, and in her heart she forgave Adam a little. "Okay," he confessed, "I'm a little nervous. I'm a banker, not an actor. What if I make a mistake? If Sheriff Maples can tell I'm nervous, he'll suspect that something's up, and—" "How about if I toss you out before I really get started?" Lucy suggested. "I'll ask Maples to clear the room, and you can wait outside."

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He nodded. "That might be a good idea." "Time," she said softly. Adam glanced at his watch and nodded his head as he opened his car door. Lucy didn't move. Well, she wouldn't have to pretend to be agitated when she confronted Maples. Her heart beat too fast, and she was shaking all over. She twitched slightly when Adam opened her door, and when he offered his hand, she took it. The outer office was busier than it had been the night of her attack. A heavyset woman busied herself at the reception desk, and two deputies, Mark Hopkins and Lonnie Phillips, filled out paperwork at small, utilitarian desks. They all lifted their heads as she and Adam entered the room. Lucy turned anxiously to the receptionist, twisting her hands together and gnawing on her lower lip before she worked up the nerve to speak. "I need to speak to the sheriff." Her voice shook; most of the trembling was real. Mark stood and smiled at her. "Come on back this way, Lucy, I'll…" Lucy lifted a hand to her head and swayed slightly. Adam offered his arm, and she grabbed it. He led her gingerly to the green vinyl couch that was butted against one wall. "Sit down," he ordered gently, and then he turned to Mark and lowered his voice. "I went by the house on my lunch hour and found her like this. I don't know what's wrong. She hasn't said two words to me since she got in the car." Lucy lifted wide eyes to Mark. Oh, she hated lying to him. He'd been good to her, caring and protective and kind. Still, what choice did she have? "I know," she whispered shakily. "I know who the Ripper is." *** John crouched beneath the window and listened for movement in the sheriff's private office. It was a bit of luck that the window was cracked open; he wouldn't have to use his knife to slip the lock, and that would give him a few more minutes with the files. Because the window was open, he heard everything: the rustle of papers, the occasional grunts as Maples shifted his bulk in his chair. "Sheriff—" John recognized Mark's eager voice. "—Lucy Fain is here, and she says she knows who the Ripper is." "Bring her on back," Maples said, much too calmly. "Uh," Mark began awkwardly. "Shekinda collapsed on the sofa in the front room." A drawer opened and closed, the chair creaked, and a moment later the office door slammed shut.

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John rose slowly and took a peek into the office before standing up straight and lifting the window. He threw one leg over the windowsill and slipped quietly into the office. He knew exactly where to look for the files he needed. The sheriff's file cabinet was in the corner where it had been for the past ten years, and the key was in the top right-hand drawer. Most of the evidence had been compiled by a couple of ABI investigators. They'd questioned John several times, and when he'd looked into their eyes he'd seen that they believed in his guilt as surely as everyone else. They knew the stories, of his bad marriage and a bitter divorce; they knew how he felt about Claire. They'd tried every trick in the book: intimidating him, befriending him, commiserating with him on the difficulties they all had with women. There had to be something in the investigation that pointed a finger in the right direction. The sheriff had missed it—the ABI investigators had missed it, but it had to be there. Otherwise, what chance did he have? He found the thick files he was looking for, laid them on the sheriff's desk, and began to read as quickly as possible. He had ten to fifteen minutes, if he was lucky. *** "I can't breathe," Lucy gasped, holding one hand to her chest and making terrible wheezing noises. "Mary," Sheriff Maples said calmly to the receptionist. "Get Miss Fain a glass of water." He sat on the sofa beside her as the woman scurried to do as he asked. "I saw him," Lucy whispered hoarsely. "I saw his face." She leaned forward, placing her head in her hands. "It was h-hor—horrible." Sheriff Maples placed a paper cup of cold water in her hands and instructed her to drink. She did, knowing that every second she delayed was another second John had with the files. She closed her eyes and counted to ten. "Take your time," Maples said calmly. "And then tell me what you saw." Lucy finally had to look at him. His voice was calm, but there was thunder in his eyes, and he was wound so tightly that she could see the anxiety in the set of his jaw and his mouth. She glanced warily at the others in the room, at Mark and Lonnie and Adam. Adam was so nervous he'd begun to sweat. Droplets ran down his face and dampened the collar of his shirt. Beneath that jacket he was probably dripping wet. She had to get him out of here before he ruined everything. "I want everyone to leave," she whispered. "All of them. I can't say this in front of anyone but you." "Let's come back to my office—" Lucy shook her head furiously. "I'm shaking all over, my knees are weak, and I can't … I can't catch my breath. I can't move … not just yet." Maples smiled tightly. "Can Mary stay? She'll sit at her desk and answer the phone, so we won't be interrupted."

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Lucy nodded slowly. Adam made his way to the door. "I'll wait outside." Maples gave curt orders to the two deputies at hand, instructing Mark to hit the road and Lonnie to stay close. Lucy could only hope that Adam would have the sense to keep Lonnie occupied and away from the rear of the building. As they were leaving, she heard Adam ask the deputy, "Do you have a cigarette?" As they exited the room, Lucy looked up at Sheriff Maples. He waited expectantly. "There was so much blood," she whispered. "And a knife—" she gestured with her hands, and water from the paper cup splashed over the green vinyl sofa "—this long." She glanced down at the puddle on the sofa. "Oh, dear, do you have a paper towel?" "Forget the water," Maples said, finally losing his patience. "You said you saw his face?" Lucy nodded once. "It was horrible. Twisted and ugly and … and…" "You'd recognize him if you saw him again?" After a short pause, Lucy nodded again. "It's not the kind of face anyone is likely to forget." The ringing of the phone interrupted her, and Lucy turned her attention to Mary and the reception desk. Every second she bought was for John, every heartbeat that passed was more time for him to finish his work and get away. "Sheriff," Mary said, holding her palm over one end of the phone, "it's Mrs. Walters. ThoseDawsonkids have been harassing her dogs again, and now they've—" "Send Lonnie over there to take care of it," he snapped. As soon as Mary assured the caller that someone was on the way, she hung up the phone and stepped outside to deliver the message. Lucy covered her face with her hands and took two deep breaths. How long could she keep this up? Sooner or later Maples was going to want specifics. "Go on, Miss Fain," he encouraged her. "You are fine. No one's going to hurt you here." She felt a little guilty for trying to pull a fast one on a lawman who was only trying to do his job, but not guilty enough to give up now. If John was caught, they'd throw him in jail for sure. "He came at me again," she said softly. "Just like before." She lifted one hand and stared at it. "He had blood on his hands, and I don't know where it came from. He was dressed all in black," she said dreamily, "and that mask…" She shuddered. She remembered the mask too well, had seen it too closely. "That masked face looked down at me, so close … so damn close." "You said you saw his face," Maples said tersely. Lucy nodded. She wasn't going to be able to buy much more time. Maples was losing his patience, and she was running out of wind. "I reached up," she said with a jerk of her hand, "and there he was … long black hair, black eyes, a long nose and a wide mouth, and he smiled—"

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"How did you get away?" Maples asked, and she heard the cynicism in his voice. The jig was just about up. "He swung at me with the knife, and I rolled away, and then he came at me again." She provided almost unconscious body language as she told the story, tilting her shoulders and barely lifting her fingers. "He almost had me, and then I woke up." She looked at Maples with wide, innocent eyes. "You woke up," he repeated, his voice much too calm. She could see the anger and frustration in his eyes growing to a frightening level. "It was a dream?" He shot to his feet as he yelled, "You come in here and tell me you know who the Ripper is, and it was all a damndream?" She tried, very hard, to maintain her aura of innocence. "It was the most realistic, vivid dream I've ever had. The Ripper wasreal , as if I could reach out and touch him. I've been telling fortunes for the past five years—I know a vision when I see one." "A vision," he said, placing his hands on his hips and leaning threateningly toward her. "Dammit, I ought to have you arrested. This is serious business, Miss Fain, not a game we're playing." "I know it's serious," she said calmly. "I also know that if I saw this man again I would recognize him. Don't you have books of mug shots? Criminals I can look at?" He headed for the hallway. "I won't waste your time. I'd appreciate it if you don't waste any more of mine." Lucy jumped from the couch and followed Maples. "But, Sheriff," she called loudly. Her voice should carry well enough to act as a warning, in case John was still in the office. "How can you dismiss my vision so lightly?" He turned on her. "Miss Fain, if you don't get out of my office right now, I will arrest you." "For what?" she challenged. He narrowed his eyes. "I'll think of something." *** John closed the files when he heard Lucy shout for the sheriff. They were close, too close, and he wasn't nearly finished. What he needed was a couple of hours with these notes, but stealing them was much too risky. He returned the files to the cabinet, locked it, and placed the key back where it belonged. Silently, he slipped out of the window. There were few facts in the files he hadn't already known, but seeing the details compiled that way brought everything together. Claire had been killed on a Wednesday, the other two each on a Friday. Significant or minor detail? AnnFanton had called a girlfriend on the afternoon of her death to cancel a movie date because, she said, she had made other plans. Had she unknowingly made plans with the Ripper? Claire's murder had been the most vicious of the three, and John was certain that wasnot a coincidence. He headed around the back way to his car. Lucy and Adam would be leaving shortly, if they hadn't already, he knew, and he'd meet them back at the house. Much as he wanted to see Lucy, it wouldn't be

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smart for them to be seen together right now. *** Adam's car was in the parking lot, but Adam was nowhere to be seen. Lucy made her way to his black Pontiacand tried the passenger door. It was locked, of course. She glanced toward the stand of trees a block or so away, where John's car had been parked, and wondered if he'd already made his getaway. Anxious as she was to learn what he'd found, she had to be patient. Fat chance. She'd given up on patience years ago. She wanted to know what John had found, and she wanted to know right now. Where the hell was Adam? Lucy. The whisper came so softly that at first she thought what she heard was just the wind, or a trick of her mind. And then it came again.Lucy . She rounded the corner, looking for Adam or John. Maybe something had happened, and John needed her. Maybe he thought he'd been seen and was hiding. There was nothing at the side of the concrete block building, nothing but sparse weeds growing against a windowless wall, and a battered blue Dumpster at the rear of the building. "John?" she whispered as she picked her way slowly through the tall weeds. The window toMaples's office was at the very back of the building, and she made her way to the corner to see if John was, for some reason, still at that window. She never made it to the corner. As she passed the Dumpster, a dark, masked figure rose up with lightning speed and clamped a gloved hand over her mouth. "Hello Lucy," he whispered. "Are we having fun yet?" The mask hovered over her shoulder, so close the rubber brushed her cheek. She threw back an elbow. It landed solidly, but had little effect on her attacker. "Be nice," he said without anger. "If you don't, I'll have to hurt you." She saw the knife, as he raised the arm that had been cinched around her waist. The pressure at her mouth locked her head against the man behind her, so that even though he held her with only that one hand, she could barely move. He sighed deeply within the confines of the mask. "I don't want to hurt you," he said as if he meant it, his voice a slithering, ugly caress. "You've been hurt enough. Paul hurt you, almost killed you. Maybe when I'm finished here, I'll go toNorth Carolinaand kill him for you." She could barely breathe, and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Her hands were sweating, and for no apparent reason her throat began to ache. This wasn't right; it was impossible. She'd never told anyone about Paul. No one knew about her past.No one but John. "I'm falling in love with you," he whispered. "Isn't that enough for you, Lucy?" The knife danced near her face, and the man behind her began to sing "My Funny Valentine," softly, his voice a mere whisper and

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just slightly off-key. Tears she couldn't stop ran down her face. This was worse than any nightmare. John—her John—wasn't the man he'd pretended to be. She'd trusted him with her secrets, her body and her heart. She'd fallen in love with him in spite of herself, even though she knew better. He might as well kill her now. She was dead inside, anyway. Dead and cold. There was nothing left, nothing left to murder but her body. She went slack against him, no longer struggling. Dammit, dead shouldn't hurt so bad. Without warning, he let her go. "I can't do it," he whispered as he backed away. "I love you too much." She dropped to the ground and buried her head between her knees as she fought for her breath and her sanity to return. It couldn't be John, itcouldn't be . He was good and innocent, and … dammit, and she couldn't ignore the fact that no one else knew about Paul. And what about "My Funny Valentine," the song she'd sung to him a few nights ago. When she lifted her head, he was gone. Shaking, she stood and made her way to the front of the building, only occasionally touching the concrete block wall for support.It couldn't be John , she thought with hazy relief. The Ripper had called her and John had been … her relief died. John had been in his office, where he had a fax machine on a separate line. Now what?she asked herself as she stopped to lean against the wall and catch her breath. Should she run back into the Sheriff's Office and tell him, again, that she knew who the Red Grove Ripper was? She very slowly finished the trip to the front of the building, her legs shaking and threatening to give way with each step. Adam was leaning against his car, waiting for her. Where the hell had he been? Sheriff Maples, obviously still angry with her, stepped from the front door of his headquarters. He could have slipped out the back window, just as John had slipped in. Lonnie Phillips pulled his patrol car into the gravel parking lot, sweaty and huffing—like a man who'd just slipped quickly out of a very warm disguise. She suspected them all. There was just one problem: they didn't know about Paul. "Lucy, are you all right?" Adam asked, coming away from the car. "What the hell are you doing still here?" the sheriff asked angrily. Lonnie stepped from his patrol car. "What's going on?" They all looked at her, waiting for answers, waiting for the answer she couldn't give them. Not now. Her eyes cut to the overgrown brush not fifteen feet away. Anyone could be hiding there, watching and laughing.Are we having fun yet? She turned and ran from them all. Chapter 15 «^» John hadn't been home five minutes before he started to worry seriously. Lucy and Adam should have beaten him here, not be lagging behind. After pacing in front of the living room window for another five

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minutes, he moved to the front porch where he could watch the driveway. Maybe Maples had realized something was wrong and delayed their departure. John shook his head; he didn't like that scenario at all. Dammit, he never should have allowed Lucy to participate in this. His heart skipped a beat when he heard the hum of a motor, but a quick glance to the side showed it was just Sally, headed out of her driveway in her burgundy minivan. Maples would have thrown Lucy and Adam in jail without a second thought, if he'd found them out. John was almost positive he hadn't left any evidence of his visit behind, but as he waited he wondered what might have gone wrong. He breathed a sign of relief when he saw Adam'sPontiacspeeding down the street … then held an anxious breath when he saw that his brother was alone in the car. "Where's Lucy?" John stalked down the steps and onto the walk as Adam parked at the street. Adam slammed his car door and faced John, raising his hands in a universal sign of confusion. "She just took off," he said. "I was waiting at the car when she came around the building looking like a ghost, and then she ran." John stopped in the middle of the walk. "What do you mean she camearound the building?" Tossing his coat jacket over his shoulder and cocking his head to one side, Adam managed to appear sheepish. "I wasn't there when she came out of the office," he admitted. "Why the hell not?" Adam stared back defensively. "I had to take a leak. Undignified as it was, I walked around the building to relieve myself." Anything could have happened while Lucy was alone. Anything. "I'm going to look for her." John reached into his pocket for the keys to his Ford, and dismissed his brother's blunder—for the moment. "I'll stay here," Adam volunteered. "In case she comes back before you do." He headed for the front door. "I just have to call the bank and tell them I won't be back this afternoon." John repeated his drive to the Sheriff's Office, watching the sidewalks and peeking into alleyways as he made the slow trip, looking for flashes of pale golden hair or that bright blue T-shirt she'd been wearing. Dammit, she couldn't have gotten very far. Something had frightened Lucy. Somehow the Ripper had known what they were up to, and he'd been waiting. At least she'd managed to get away. But where was she now? What if the Ripper had been behind her as she'd run from Adam? What if he was with her now? "No," he said softly, trying to talk himself out of complete panic. He recognized Sally's minivan coming toward him, and gave it only a fleeting glance. As he neared the van, he saw a familiar fair head in the passenger seat—Lucy's head resting against the window. He knew it was her even though he couldn't get a good look at her face. Relieved and confused, he pulled into a convenience store parking lot and turned the car around. She

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was all right, thank God, or at least appeared to be. As he drove, questions plagued him. Why had she run from the Sheriff's Office, and why had she called Sally to come pick her up, and not him? He didn't like this, he didn't like it at all. He pulled the Ford into his driveway as Lucy stepped from the minivan. Two small front yards separated them, and even from here he could see that she was shaken, pale and unsteady. She didn't come toward him, didn't even look his way, but headed straight for theNeils ' front door. "Lucy!" he called as he left his car. She stopped, but didn't turn to look at him. Something in the set of her shoulders warned him, and with every second that ticked past, his apprehension grew. He walked toward her, but when she turned around she lifted a hand to stop him "Just stay right where you are," she said shakily. John stopped at the precise property line where well-manicured lawn became unkempt patch. "What's wrong?" Lucy lifted her eyes to him, and he could see her strength return, inch by inch. "How can you ask me that after what you've done?" she whispered. Very slightly, barely moving at all, he shook his head. "I haven't done—" "No more lies," she interrupted, her voice angry and weak at the same time. "No more sick games, no more … no more gullible Lucy." He'd known all along that involving her in this investigation was a mistake. Dammit, he should have taken his chances and broken into the Sheriff's Office in the middle of the night. He would have, if he hadn't been reluctant to leave Lucy alone. "I don't know what happened, but…" He took a step forward, and she answered with a quick step back. "Stay away from me," she said as she placed one foot on the bottom step that led to theNeils ' front porch. Even from this distance, John could see the sheen of tears in her eyes. They didn't fall; they just hung there, bringing a too-bright sparkle to her green eyes. "Tomorrow morning there's a bus out of town, and I'll be on it. Don't even think about trying to follow me," she added. "I know how to disappear. I've done it before." John stood very still as his worst nightmare came true. Lucy's lack of suspicion, her ignorance about the crimes he'd been accused of, had attracted him to her in the first place. He'd been so grateful to look into those eyes that were bright and wide and clear, to grab on to every smile and laugh, every touch, innocent and not so innocent. But right now he saw only fear in her eyes and in the rigid pose she struck. Lucy was afraid of him; she was finally looking at him the way everyone else did, as if he were a monster. He'd been a fool to tell her how he felt, to think that love would make everything better.

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"What about your things?" he asked coldly. "Keep them, burn them, I don't care," Lucy said as she backed up the stairs to the front door where Sally waited. She didn't even want him close enough to toss a duffel bag at her feet. He should let her go without another word. He shouldn't waste his time trying to defend himself to Lucy, the one person in the world he thought he'd never have to explain himself to. She had believed in him completely, he knew it. Dammit, something terrible must have happened to make her react to him this way. "Lucy," he tried again, stepping into theNeils ' front yard. "Come any closer," she said, raising a hand and pointing a shaking finger, "and I'll call Sheriff Maples and tell him everything. I swear it." John stopped and watched Lucy back into the house. The door slammed, and even from this distance he heard the dead bolt driven home. *** Lucy sat at Sally's kitchen table with her head in her hands and a cup of untouched coffee at her elbow. Sally proved to be efficient in time of crisis, shuffling the kids off to her mother's and offering coffee and chitchat and the occasional comforting pat on the back. And Sally didn't even know what had happened. Lucy couldn't say the words aloud, not to the sheriff, not to her friend, not even to herself. Sally knew there was a crisis, and that was enough for her. There should be more people like her in the world. Lucy knew she really should tell the sheriff. At first, she'd decided to wait until she'd regained control, until she stopped shaking. Then she reasoned that the sheriff wouldn't believe her anyway, not after this afternoon's escapade. Finally, she had to admit that she couldn't bring herself to turn John in. She didn't want to be the one to send him to prison, maybe even to the electric chair. In the morning she'd think it through again. Deep down, she knew she couldn't ignore what had happened, that she couldn't keep this knowledge to herself, let John move on to another woman—another victim. Through the agony, there were moments when she dug deep within herself and searched for another explanation to the words the Ripper had spoken to her this afternoon. She couldn't find one, and as she admitted that again and again, it made her pain more acute. All she had was a few dollars in her pocket. Sally had offered to loan her whatever she needed to get out of Red Grove, and though Lucy didn't like the idea, she had accepted. A bus ticket, a few dollars for food, and she was out of this hellish town. To where, she didn't know. *** John stared at the glass of whiskey—his third—before tossing the fiery liquid back. "Are you sure you should be drinking that?" Adam sat at the opposite side of the kitchen table, stone-cold sober and wearing a sickly expression of concern. "Damn sure," John muttered. Why wouldn't his little brother just go home? He'd never cared before,

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why start at this late date? Adam shook his head in wonder. "I've never seen you like this before." "Well," John said bitterly, "I've never felt this way before." Like he was dying inch by inch, like he was more dead than alive. Like he carried the weight of every mistake he'd ever made in his heart, where it sat heavy and fierce. "You love her, don't you," Adam whispered. John splashed more whiskey into his glass. He didn't feel any better than when he'd started, but he was beginning to sense a hint of numbness. Good. Numb would be a definite improvement. "Lucy? What difference does it make?" Adam reached across the table and took the whiskey, the bottle and the glass, and before John could stop him he emptied what remained into the sink. "You don't need any more of this." "Self-righteous son of a bitch," John mumbled without even attempting to leave his chair. "Why don't you go home," he said harshly. Adam sighed and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. "I might as well," he said. "You obviously don't want me here." It was the truth, John conceded silently. He didn't want anyone here. He wanted to be left alone with his misery. How pathetic. Adam was stepping into the dining room when John's voice stopped him. "Thank you." Adam turned slowly in the doorway. "For what?" John glanced up at his brother. "For trying to help." Adam flashed a small, half smile. "I'll be by in the morning to check on you." John started to tell Adam not to bother, but the words never made it out of his mouth. Even after the front door slammed and he heard Adam's car drive away, John continued to sit at the kitchen table, alone. He couldn't do anything about Lucy's change of heart; he couldn't march across the lawn and demand that she trust him again. So he concentrated on the case against him, on the evidence he'd scammed atMaples's office. Claire had been murdered on a Wednesday night, and her death had been more savage than the other two. That fact only convinced him further that this had all begun with Claire, somehow. The other two victims had died more quickly, without the passion and anger so evident at Claire's murder scene. They'd been killed on Friday nights almost four months apart. Coincidence? What was significant about Friday? The end of the week. The beginning of the weekend. Party night for some. Payday for a lot of people. Payday. He lifted his eyes to the doorway where Adam had stood just a few minutes ago. Ann and Sylvia were both customers at Adam's bank. No surprise, since there were only two banks in town, but still … had his little brother seen them that day? Had he spoken with them? Had he…

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John shook his head and closed his eyes. Hell, he really had had too much to drink. *** The rooms in Sally's house were a stark contrast to the dark richness of John's. Bright lights lit every corner, chasing away the shadows. There was color, every shade of blue, the occasional splash of a pastel green or yellow, and here, in this little girl's room, pink. Yards and yards of pink, bright and pastel, surrounded Lucy as she sat through the night. On the walls and the double bed, in the carpet and the canopy above her head. Hanging by the light switch was a wooden plaque with the little girl's name, Jennifer, in fat balloon-like letters the color of pink lemonade. The abundance of varying shades of pink was almost enough to make her want to turn out the lights. Almost. It would soon be morning. Lucy expected that at any moment she would see a touch of gray light through her window. She waited, as she always waited, for sunrise. Now that she'd discovered there were nightmares in the daytime, when would she sleep? Maybe she'd never sleep again. All was peaceful, for a while, and then she heard Danny Neil's grating voice hissing at his wife in the bedroom next to hers. They'd argued half the night, probably about her presence here. Danny yelled, and Sally shushed him. At times Lucy placed her palms over her ears and tried to shut out the noise, as she waited for the blows that never came. And now he was at it again, quarrelsome and hateful. Lucy knelt on the bed and lifted the window to let a fresh breeze in. She leaned forward, trying to drown out the voices with outdoor silence and soft wind and the occasional chirp of a bird in her ears. It worked. John's house was so close that she could almost reach out and touch it. A light shone in the living room, and she stared at that spot of brilliance in the night. Maybe if she looked hard enough, she'd be able to see through the blinds, to see what John was doing right this minute. Sleeping, probably. No matter what some men did, they had no trouble sleeping peacefully at night. It wasn't fair. She leaned her forearms against the windowsill and breathed deep. Well, life wasn't fair, was it? Particularly not to her. She'd fallen in love twice in her thirty-one years, and both men had tried to kill her. What was wrong with her that she was drawn to these men? John had seemed so different from every other man she'd known, so loving and genuine andreal . She'd discovered Paul's nature early on in their marriage, but John … he'd fooled her completely. A few faint piano notes reached her ears. Ah, he wasn't asleep after all. "My Funny Valentine" drifted to her, and she closed her eyes as a shudder wracked her body, shaking her to her bones. A wonderful memory, a terrifying memory, they were wrapped into one sensation that she didn't want or need. She heard the notes so clearly, so very clearly. Her eyes flew open. The windows of John's house were shut, and still she heard every note. How hard would it have been for someone to stand at an open window and listen? Especially if they happened to live right next door. Danny had been involved with Claire, long ago and in the not-so-distant past. He hated John and made no secret of the fact. He had a temper, and he might be capable of anything—violence, deceit … murder. She'd searched for an explanation all night, and now she had one. Was she kidding herself? She wanted so desperately to believe that John was innocent, that she hadn't fallen in love with a man who was capable of the violence that terrorized the residents of Red Grove. She hadn't seen that kind of hatred in

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him, but she had seen it in Danny Neil. Without another thought, she slipped farther through the open window. Sally had insisted that Lucy borrow a plain white nightgown, and she had to hike the almost-sheer length to her thighs so she could straddle the windowsill, slip the last leg through, and jump to the ground. On bare feet she hurried through the yard toward John's front porch. The grass was cool beneath her feet, and tall weeds in his yard tickled her calves. Lucy held the hem of the nightgown away from the dewy lawn with one hand as she ran. The porch lamp was out, but enough light spilled from the living room window to illuminate her way. Faint lines of light slashed across a porch that was badly in need of painting. She hesitated at the door, listening to the notes John played so joylessly. Would he even listen to what she had to say? How do you apologize to someone for believing them capable of the most horrible crimes imaginable? How do you tell someone you love them when you've given up on love? Lucy opened the screen door and laid her hand on the doorknob. If it was locked, she didn't know what she'd do. Did she have the nerve to knock, to ring the bell? She wasn't forced to test her courage; the door was unlocked, and it swung open with a screaming squeak. John stopped playing and snapped his head around. She waited for him to say something. Anything. Close the door. Get out . Where have you been? But he remained silent, waiting for her to make the first move. "I heard…" she began haltingly. "The music was beautiful, and you know I can't sleep." John looked her up and down, his expression giving away nothing. "Am I dreaming?" he asked in a low voice. "You look like an angel, all dressed in white." Lucy looked down at the long, white nightgown Sally had loaned her. She'd forgotten, hadn't even wondered what John would think of her in the nearly transparent sleepwear. He was used to seeing her in baggy T-shirts, or that paisley robe … or nothing at all. "John, I…" She stepped toward him, and he turned his back to her and began to play again. "Brave little thing, aren't you?" he asked bitterly, staring down at his own hands. "You're taking a real chance coming in here without backup. What, no bodyguards? Where's Mark and Lonnie and Sheriff Maples? Are they waiting outside?" She didn't answer, and he played a few uninterrupted notes. "Maybe you're finally getting to bait the Ripper, like you wanted all along," he said in a low voice. "Am I supposed to try to kill you and then be stopped at the last minute by an army of vigilant deputies?" His voice grew stronger and harsher with every word he spoke, and when Lucy laid a hand on his shoulder, he flinched. "I'm sorry, John, really I am," she said softly. "Apology accepted," he said crisply. "Have a nice life." So smoothly, he dismissed her and her lame attempts at apology. It would be best, she knew, if she just turned around and walked out. He would forget her more easily if he was angry. He would get on with his life more quickly if he hated her.

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But she didn't walk away. She laid her hands on his neck, brushed her thumbs against the nape. Her touch was tentative; she wondered if he'd move away from her, if he'd reject her completely. He didn't. "He came at me again this afternoon," she said. John stopped playing, and after a short hesitation laid a warm hand over one of hers. "What happened? Why didn't you say anything?" "He let me go," Lucy said weakly, as if she still couldn't believe it. "But not before he said…" John turned on the bench and pulled her onto his lap. He took her face in his and looked deep into her eyes. "Tell me," he whispered. "He said he was falling in love with me," she said, her eyes locked to his. "He said Paul had hurt me enough, and he didn't want to hurt me more. And then he sang 'My Funny Valentine'—" Her voice broke as she whispered the title. "John, I haven't told anyone about Paul—no one but you." How could he ever forgive her for believing the worst? He couldn't, surely, but he had to know the truth. "I thought it was you," she admitted. "For a while I was sure it was you. No one else knows about Paul, and the song, and the talk about … about love." He would hate her for thinking he was the man who had tried to kill her, for believing that he'd killed and would again. She waited for him to shout, to dump her on the floor. Something inside her was broken, something essential to forming a real, true bond with another person. She expected everyone to hurt her, especially the man she loved. He didn't shout or dump her on the floor. His thumb at her cheek moved back and forth in a tender caress. "You know it wasn't me, don't you?" he whispered. She nodded once. "I do now." "I'm so sorry—" he kissed her cheek, there where his thumb had brushed her skin "—that you had to go through that alone." He raked his lips over hers. "You must've been terrified." "I wanted to die," she admitted, "when I thought it was you. It hurt—" He silenced her with a deep kiss, wrapped his arms around her and held her close, worked one hand into her hair and cradled her in his arms as if he'd never let her go. How could he forgive her so easily?Because he loves me . When he took his mouth from hers, she laid her head on his shoulder. She had thought she'd never be in his arms again, and now she didn't want to move, ever. "How did he know," John whispered, "about your ex and the song?" His body tensed. "He's been spying on us, all this time. Son of a—" "I think it's Danny Neil," Lucy said quickly, spitting out the words. "From an open window in his house you can hear almost everything, and…" She hesitated. "He had an affair with Claire last year." She lifted

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her head to look at John's face. "I think we should go to the sheriff." John shook his head. "I don't like Danny, but what you have is circumstantial evidence even weaker than what they have on me." "I know, but he's so … so…" "He reminds you of your ex, doesn't he?" Lucy shuddered. It was the truth. Danny was a salesman, just like Paul. He was occasionally unpleasant, and foul-tempered, and loudmouthed, but none of those bad qualities made him a wife beater or a murderer. Did she want to make Danny the bad guy because he was so much like Paul? "It's not enough to take to the sheriff, is it?" she said. John narrowed his eyes at her, but his touch remained loving and tender. "You didn't tell Sheriff Maples about what happened this afternoon, did you?" "No," she whispered. "Why not?" She shook her head slowly. "I couldn't do it. Even when I thought it was you, even when I was certain…"Because I love you . She didn't say the words aloud, but he knew. She could see that knowledge in his suddenly satisfied eyes. "I just couldn't." He laid his mouth on hers and held her tight. His mouth moved over hers in a kiss of forgiveness and longing, of healing and promise. She kissed him back with everything she had, and if a woman could sayI love you with a kiss… The light in the room was suddenly broken by flashes of red and blue. There were brisk, sharp footsteps on the walkway approaching the porch. The insistent ring of the doorbell was followed by a furious pounding on the door. Lucy jumped off John's lap to go to the window, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her to his side. "I'll get it," he said, as he stood and made his way to the door. "Don't," she whispered, as John laid his hand on the doorknob. But it was too late. As soon as he swung the door open, Sheriff Maples strode in forcefully. "We have a search warrant," he said, slapping a piece of paper into John's hand. "And you feel the need to take care of this beforesix a.m.," John said without emotion. "Go ahead." He gestured carelessly with one hand. "I've got nothing to hide." Lonnie Phillips snapped on a pair of rubber gloves as he made his way down the hallway. Maples followed, and John and Lucy were directly behind him. "The ABI investigators are gonna be pissed that you did this without them," John said lightly. He wasn't worried; Maples wasn't going to find anything here. Lucy heard more activity in the living room, and when she looked over her shoulder, Mark was there, closing in with a very serious expression on his

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face. She didn't know what had prompted this visit, but they expected to findsomething . Lonnie walked directly to the back bedroom, John's old room. Without pausing to check anywhere else, he opened the closet door and dropped to his haunches. After moving the old books out of the way, he pulled out a cardboard box. When he looked inside, he whistled low. "Boys, we've hit the jackpot." With cautious, gloved fingers, he withdrew the first item. It was a knife …the knife. Lucy's legs went weak, and she would have dropped to the floor if John hadn't been holding her arm. Next, Lonnie lifted a quivering rubber mask from the box, and Lucy emitted an involuntary groan. For a moment she thought she might actually faint. The brightly lit room swam, and her vision narrowed until all she saw was that mask—painted-on snarl, empty eyes. She held on to John for dear life and took a deep breath, and he cupped the back of her head and pressed her face against his shoulder, so she wouldn't have to look at that mask for another second. Hiding in the darkness, she pushed her fear aside, forced herself to be strong. It was just a mask, a Halloween novelty. "I don't know how that got here," John said evenly, and Lucy lifted her head. The sheriff smiled. "John Quaid, you're under arrest." Lucy didn't hear any more. They took John from her, and she watched numbly as Mark fastened handcuffs at John's back, and the sheriff led him from the room. They were all so cocky, certain that they had their man at last. "Wait," she called weakly as they left the room. She followed Lonnie and Mark down the hallway. They were moving too slowly, and seemed to weave in front of her when she tried to pass them. By the time she did, Sheriff Maples already had John outside. "Wait!" she called from the front porch. John's eyes found and held hers for a long moment before Maples took his arm and tried to force him into the back of the patrol car. "Hold it," he said, shrugging easily out of the sheriff's grasp. "This is some kind of trick to get me away from Lucy. Dammit, you can't do this." Maples backed John up against the car and leaned threateningly over him. "I can do whatever the hell I want." They exchanged words Lucy couldn't hear, and when she tried to make her way down the steps, Mark stopped her. "It's best if you stay here, Lucy," he said in a consoling voice. She turned to him, looking up into that young, somehow ever-hopeful face. "I know he didn't do it. I hung a few things in that closet out a few days ago, and there was nothing there but a bunch of old junk, do you hear me? Nothing!" "Was that another dream?" he asked, and he actually looked hurt, disappointed in her. She worked her way past a surprised Mark to the car as the sheriff started the engine. John was sitting in the back seat, his hands behind him, a worried expression on his face. He was worried for her, she knew, not for himself. He mouthed something at her, the same words again and again. Finally, she made them out.Stay here . The sheriff's car pulled away, and Lucy watched with a sinking heart as the first light

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of day brightened the commotion that surrounded her. There were half a dozen deputies on the lawn, and neighbors congregating to see what was going on. Danny Neil stood on his front porch, superior-looking even in a pair of striped pajamas. Lucy ran to Mark and confronted him just as he stepped from the porch onto the sidewalk. "How the hell did you know right where to look?" she asked, though she knew there could only be one answer. "The sheriff got an anonymous tip." Anger boiled up inside her. "That doesn't strike you as being just a bit too convenient?" He gave her a sad smile. "I'm sorry, Lucy. I know you didn't want it to be John." In utter frustration, Lucy stamped her foot. "It'snot John," she insisted. "You know him. How can you even think that he would do this?" "Sheriff Maples said you never know what a man is capable of, that the nicest man you ever met might lose his temper one day and kill his next-door neighbor for looking at him the wrong way." "I don't believe that," Lucy whispered. Mark shrugged. There were moments when he looked so youthful, as if he'd just stepped from high school. "I didn't either," he said, "till this happened." Squealing tires grabbed her attention, and she spun around in time to see Adam's blackPontiaccoming to a sudden stop in the street. He jumped out, looking as if he'd been interrupted in the midst of a shower. His hair was damp, and he'd pulled on trousers and a shirt, but no tie or jacket. "What's going on?" Lucy grabbed his arm as he reached her. "They've arrested John." He cursed under his breath. "When Sally called and told me the entire Sheriff's Department was in John's front yard, I was afraid—" He patted her arm consolingly. "I'm sorry, Lucy. I had hoped we were right, that John was truly innocent, but…" She stared unflinchingly into his face. "John is innocent, and I can prove it." His eyebrows lifted slightly. "How is that?" "I cleaned this house inside out, and there was no box of convenient evidence waiting to be found." She glanced at Danny Neil, who continued to stare. A key to John's house hung in the man's pantry, for God's sake. Sneaking in to plant evidence and then making an anonymous phone call would be so damn easy for him. "You're sure?" Adam asked in obvious relief. Lucy nodded once, and then she caught Adam glancing at her breasts with a mixture of dismay and interest. She looked down and discovered that by the light of the rising sun the white nightgown was

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shockingly revealing. "I'm going to get dressed," she said, her panic replaced by an awkward moment of embarrassment. "Will you take me to the Sheriff's Office?" Adam gave her a wan smile as she backed into the shadows the porch provided. "Sure." Chapter 16 «^» John leaned forward as far as he could. "You can't leave Lucy unprotected—not now." He tried to keep his voice calm, but it wasn't easy. Sheriff Maples didn't answer, didn't even turn his head to acknowledge that John had spoken. Maples had made a soft promise, just before John had climbed into this car. He'd said Lucy would be fine—he'd see to it himself. Now John wondered if the sheriff had just been easing him along so he'd go peacefully. "Whoever set this up knows she's alone. Dammit, Buford, if anything happens to her…" He was wasting his time, arguing with Maples. His twisted shoulders and cuffed wrists ached, and when he closed his eyes he could see the furious pounding of his heart behind the eyelids. White light. Shooting stars. The Ripper—Danny Neil or Lonnie Phillips or … or Adam or whoever he might be—would surely go after Lucy now. John felt a final crushing heartache, knowing that he wouldn't be there to watch over her. Even Mark would leave her unguarded, believing her safe at last. "Mark," he said as his eyes flew open. "Radio him at the house, and tell him to stay with Lucy. Tell him not to leave her alone, not even for a few minutes." He waited for a response from Maples. "Lucy trusts him, and so do I." Maples didn't move, didn't respond. They were almost to the station, and John knew once he was locked up, it would be hours, days, weeks, before he was released—if he ever was. I thought you were smarter than this," he said darkly. "Is that a fact?" The sheriff's answer sounded lighthearted, but there was a biting edge. "You knew right where to look. Let me guess—" John leaned forward "—an anonymous phone call from a pay phone. A law-abiding citizen who just happened to know that box was in my closet. What a stroke of luck," he muttered. Maples didn't answer as he drove at a snail's pace toward his office and the county jail. "Arrest her," John said quickly. "Arrest Lucy and throw her in jail." She'd be safe there. "What for?" "She stole my sweater."

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Maples glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "She stole your sweater. That's a good one." John closed his eyes again. All his efforts had been for nothing. He should have gotten Lucy out of town weeks ago, but he'd been so sure he could watch over her better than anyone else, that only he could keep her safe. It was a mistake that could end up costing her life. The car came to a stop, and Sheriff Maples eased himself from the driver's seat and threw open the back door. "Come on, Quaid," he said, grabbing John's arm and gently assisting him from the patrol car. Before John was completely out of the car, Maples assured him, "Run, and I'll put a bullet in your foot before you get ten feet. You won't do Miss Fain much good if you're laid up in the hospital." "I'm not likely to do her much good in jail, either," John countered. He weighed his options. Right now there were just the two of them. Yes, the sheriff had a gun, and yes, John's hands were handcuffed behind his back. But he was younger and faster, and with enough of a head start… "Who says you're going to jail?" Maples retrieved a small key from his back pocket and spun John around. A moment later the restraining handcuffs fell away. "What the hell's going on?" John asked as he turned to face the sheriff. Maples stood by the open driver's door, radio in hand. He held up a stilling hand to command silence. "What's happening?" He spoke directly into the radio. Mark's voice, edged with excitement, answered. "You were right. They just left the house. Lonnie's following at a distance, like you said, and I'm not far behind." "Don't let him see you," Maples ordered. "What's this?" John asked as the sheriff signed off. "I'm not stupid, Quaid." Maples gave John a tired smile and a goodol ' boy wink. "You knew all along the evidence was planted." The pieces of the puzzle started to fit, and John didn't like the way they were coming together. "I guess Icoulda let you in on it sooner, but you've been such a pain in the ass lately, I just couldn't resist." His smile faded. "Besides, I didn't figure you'd go for this plan at all." "Who has Lucy?" John asked, stepping away from the car. From the beginning, she'd wanted to be the one to lure the Ripper out. Now she was getting her wish. Sheriff Maples leaned against the patrol car. "I'm sorry, John. It's your brother." His heart sank, but this time the pieces fit too well. "Are you sure?" Maples nodded. "At first I didn't think much about the second and third murders taking place on Friday. But you know what? Ann and Sylvia both stopped by the bank that afternoon. Your brother spoke to them, but he never mentioned that fact to us. And just a few days ago I got a call from one of the ABI investigators. It's been two months, but you know how the lab inMontgomerygets backed up. Anyway,

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some fibers were found at the Smith scene—such a tiny piece of fabric you wouldn't think anybody could make use of it as evidence. Ever hear of twill factor?" John nodded once. "Well, Quaid." Maples smiled grimly. "I know where you shop, and you don't own a shirt that expensive." John ran a hand anxiously through his hair. Right now only one thing mattered, and that was keeping Lucy safe. The rest would have to wait. "Now what?" he asked impatiently. "We wait for word from Lonnie. As soon as we know where they're headed, I go after them while you wait here." John was shaking his head long before Maples finished his sentence. Lucy's safety, trusted to that moron Lonnie Phillips? "No. I'm going with you." "You wait here. Agnes will make you a pot of coffee and keep you—" "You'll have to arrest me to keep me out of that car." John bore down on the sheriff. "I've beenitchin ' to arrest you for months, and you want to stand there and tempt me?" "If I have to." "Hellfire," Maples mumbled. "I figured you'd want to tag along. I guess you might come in handy." The radio came to life again, and John rounded the car and jumped into the front passenger seat before Maples could place himself behind the wheel. They pulled out of the parking lot, tires throwing up gravel. John turned to the sheriff. "If anything happens to Lucy, somebody will have to arrest me, because I'll kill you." Maples kept his eyes on the road. "I figured that, too." *** There was little traffic on the streets of Red Grove at this hour, just the occasional pickup truck and a car speeding toward the avenue that led to the interstate. Lucy watched the green landscape fly past, a gray-green blur in the faint light of the rising sun. There was no way to focus on the trees and the bushes and the lines on the road that flew by so quickly. Adam moved fast. Not fast enough. Lucy kept thinking that she could reason with Sheriff Maples, that she could convince him that John was innocent. But what if she couldn't? "I know the box wasn't there a few days ago," she said, wondering if that little bit of information would be enough. She doubted it. "John didn't kill anyone." She knew it in her heart, as well as her head. Finally, she was able to admit it, to trust her heart.

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"You must love him very much," Adam said distantly. Lucy didn't respond. "Otherwise, you would've told the sheriff what happened yesterday, you would've told him that John was the Ripper." "I suppose you're—" Her stomach lurched, and all of a sudden she couldn't take a deep breath. How did he know? She'd just told John what had happened; she hadn't told anyone else. Lucy took her eyes off the road and stared at Adam. His profile was stern and perfect, golden in the rising sun as he reached between his legs and pulled out a revolver. Her hand settled over the door handle. "I don't think so," Adam said, his eyes remaining on the winding road. They passed by the turn that would take them downtown, and instead headed up a narrow two-lane road. "If the fall doesn't kill you, this will." He motioned with the gun. "Adam?" He turned to her and smiled. "Are we having fun yet?" *** "When did you know?" John asked as they traveled over the winding and ascending road. "I didn't know anything for certain until just now when Mark radioed in." Maples took an S-curve much too fast. "I didn't even suspect Adam until the ABI guys shared that twill-factor thing with me. We don't have many snappy dressers in Red Grove." He shot a quick glance at John. "That wasn't in the files just yet, by the way." So Maples knew about the break-in. How, John didn't know, would probably never now. Right now, it wasn't even vaguely important. "Anyway," Maples continued, "when the anonymous phone call came in, I decided to play along and see what happened." "If he hurts Lucy…" "I know, I know," Maples said impatiently. They drove a short distance in silence before Maples spoke again. "I'm sorry, John," he said sincerely. I'm sorry. It wasn't much, but what else do you say to a man who's just found out his brother is a murderer who tried to frame him for three crimes? "We've always had problems," John said, "but I never thought he'd do something like this."

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Maples nodded his balding head. "You never know what a man is capable of. In my years in law enforcement, I've seen things that make it tough to trust anyone—even a man who's earned it. Maybe I've been in this business too long…" His sentence trailed off. "Well, most of all, I'm sorry I didn't believe you when you said you didn't kill Claire. I shoulda known better, but knowing what she'd done to you, how you felt about her, it was the logical conclusion." Logic be damned, John thought, there was nothing logical about this. "If you want your old job back, it's yours." John shook his head. He couldn't think about this now. He couldn't think past the knowledge that his brother had killed three women, and that if everything didn't go perfectly, Lucy would be number four. The radio came to life, and Maples exchanged harsh words with Lonnie, words that ended with "What do you mean you've lost them?!" *** Lucy sat on the edge of a warped picnic table, facing Adam. He seemed almost indifferent as he watched her closely, gun in hand. "Think about it," she said calmly. "If you kill me, the sheriff will know John's not the Ripper. He'll know John's innocent." Adam smiled, flashing perfect white teeth. "You're not going to be a victim of the Ripper. You're leaving town. Permanently." "When they find my body—" Adam shook his head. "They won't." He lifted his eyes, and Lucy glanced over her shoulder to see what he was looking at. The kudzu. He was going to kill her and bury her beneath that lush growth, and no one would ever find her body. John had said that this place was infrequently visited. Even in the winter, when the kudzu died, it was unlikely she'd be discovered. No one would look for her here; no one would look for her at all. Lucy folded her hands in her lap, wondering why he didn't just shoot her and get it over with. Her heart thudded and her breath caught in her throat. If he killed her, John was finished. No one would believe in him—not without her testimony. "Why?" she asked. "At least tell me that." Adam's smile faded. "I decided weeks ago that I didn't want to kill you, even though you're one of them." "One of them?" "John's women." Adam cocked his head. "You're different from the others, and I don't mean just the way you look. You're smarter than they were. You didn't let yourself be completely taken in by him, and that's smart." He nudged the barrel of the revolver against her chest. "I could've killed you yesterday, but I didn't want to. If you'd just done what you were supposed to do," he said, growing slightly agitated,

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"none of this would be happening." "If I'd told the sheriff that John was the Ripper." Adam nodded. "How did you know?" she asked, looking into blue eyes that were as innocent and beguiling as they'd always been. She still couldn't see what had to be there: the violence, the hate. "How did you know about Paul and all the rest?" she asked, stalling for time. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she harbored the ridiculous notion that John would save her, that he wouldn't allow Adam to kill her. Silly thought, since he was probably being fingerprinted right about now and had no idea she was in trouble. Adam smiled sweetly, every bit the golden boy. "Bugs," he said, obviously pleased with himself. "Ordered from a catalog so I could keep tabs on my big brother. It wouldn't do for him to have an alibi when I killed another woman he had dated or slept with or smiled at on the street. I lured John out of the house with a phone call, and while he was gone, I planted a listening device in his kitchen and another in his living room." He leaned slightly closer. "That was the night he met you, I suppose, because the next night he returned to the carnival and went straight to your tent. When I got a glimpse of you, as he left, I knew you had to be next." He lifted his free hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She winced at the feel of his fingers. "If I'd known you were going to move in, I would've planted a bug in the bedroom, too." A burst of fury—at the violation of privacy, at the unmitigated gall—flared through her. She slapped his hand away. "So you were listening to us all the time." "Not all the time, but enough." His smile faded. "Enough." "He's your brother," she said angrily. "How could you do this to him?" Adam dragged the gun down until the barrel rested heavily between her breasts. "I hate him. I can't remember a time in my life when I didn't hate him. He always had everything he wanted, and it came so easily. Mom adored him because he looks like our father. Women fall head over heels for him if he even glances in their direction. And then there was the money…" "But Claire," Lucy said desperately. "Even when she was married to John, she loved you." Obviously it was what Adam craved, to be loved. Adam shook his head. "She just slept with me to make John jealous. It didn't work out exactly as she'd planned, though." His eyes shone bright with tears. "It was all for John. We'd be lying together at night, after the divorce, and she'd tell me how she missed him sometimes. And when she found out about the money, she went crazy." This was the second time he'd mentioned money. "What money?" Adam smiled, a lost, tired smile. "You don't know? John's made a fortune in the stock market. I found out about it a year ago, completely by accident. I ran into a friend fromHuntsville, and apparently he'd handled a transaction. After that, I did a little investigating on my own." He shook his head. "John got lucky again." Stall. Keep him talking. "How much money are we talking about here?"

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Adam smiled. "At close of business yesterday, the stocks, savings accounts and checking accounts total four million, six hundred fifty-four thousand, four hundred sixty-four dollars—" he winked at her "—and seventy-two cents. Soon it'll all be mine." "How do you figure that?" Adam waved the gun under her nose. "John won't have anyone to turn to but his brother. He'll sign a power of attorney so I can take care of his business for him, and then I'll disappear. I'm thinking of the Caribbean," he said casually, as if he were planning a vacation. "You didn't have to kill three women to steal John's money," Lucy said angrily. "Dammit, if you'd asked, he probably would've given it to you!" Adam cocked his head. "It just happened. Claire tried to turn me out that night, said she was going to try to patch things up with John. She was wearing this really sexy black negligee that I'd given her, and I knew she'd already called and asked him to come over. Once he was there, she'd seduce him, work her way back into his life, and in a matter of weeks she'd become Mrs. John Quaid again." "You should know John better than that," Lucy said. "He never would've taken her back." "Oh, when she'd convinced John that her baby was his, he'd have married her," Adam said. His eyes narrowed. "I asked her that night if she expected me to stand back and watch while John made a family ofmy woman andmy baby." His entire face hardened. "She laughed at me, and said it probably wasn't mine, anyway, and then she told me about the man she met inDecaturwho was probably the father." He tilted his head in a strangely childlike nod. "She didn't even remember his name." Lucy swallowed hard. "Baby?" she whispered. She was looking at a man who was capable of anything—a man for whom rejection had finally become unbearable. How do you reason with a lost soul who's capable of killing the woman he loves and her unborn child? *** "Dammit!" John shouted. "How the hell could you let this happen?" Maples slowed his patrol car on the winding mountain road. "Where could he have taken her?" he said, thinking aloud. "A turnoff we passed, an old cabin, some clearing or camping grounds…" John's heart started beating again. "The park," he said. "He's taken her to the park." Maples made a sharp turn on the road and picked up his radio. "Son, I pray you're right." "So do I." *** Lucy's heart hammered in her chest. Adam had wanted, all this time, to share his triumphs with someone, and now he was getting his chance.

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"Claire was a crime of passion," he said almost proudly. "I didn't intend to kill anyone else, until Ann Fanton came into the bank one afternoon a couple of months after Claire's death. She saw me and came to my office, and asked after John.Is he all right? Is he holding up well after the tragedy? Give him my love. Her love," he scoffed. "When I asked her out on a date for that very night, she smiled and said yes. I did have the presence of mind to suggest that we keep this date to ourselves, since she's a bank customer, and I wanted to avoid any impropriety." "And Sylvia Smith?" Lucy prodded. "She made the mistake of asking after John, too. By then he'd been unemployed for months, and since there were no other suspects, people were beginning to look at him differently, wondering if he'd really killed Claire and then Ann, gradually becoming convinced that it had to be him." He shook his head. "The angrier he got, the more sure people were that he was guilty. It was great. But Sylvia had to tell me how she knew John wouldn't hurt anyone. Then she started in on a list of his many attributes," he added bitterly. "I went to her house that night, pretending I was there to correct a bank error. She let me right in." Reasoning was probably a waste of time, but it was all she had. She looked deep into Adam's eyes, searching for a hint of sanity, a spark of hope. "Adam," she said softly. "You have to end this. It's gone too far." "It's too late." "John loves you," she whispered. "Don't—" "Shut up," he said, punching the barrel of the gun against her chest for emphasis. "You're his brother," Lucy continued, sounding calmer than she felt. "Surely somewhere deep inside, you love him, too, in spite of everything." The gun dropped a little. "Since you came along, things have been better, but it's too late…" "Remember when you were little boys?" she asked dreamily, calling on her most soothing voice. "I saw the picture of the two of you at Halloween, dressed like cowboys. Y'all were so cute." The gun fell farther, dipping away from her chest. "I remember that year," Adam said equally, "On our last trip around the block, I dragged my bag on the wet ground and it ripped. My candy ended up everywhere, all over the ground. John gave me most of his. He said he didn't want it, but I knew that was a lie." "He loved you then and he loves you now," Lucy said. Some of the vigor vanished from Adam's demeanor. "I was always breaking things when I was a kid," he said. "Toys, dishes … vases." She wondered if he'd been listening the day John told her about the broken vase Adam had always believed drove his father from home. "I'll bet John tried to help you fix things, didn't he?" Adam's resolve was flagging, she knew it. Just a few more minutes— Tires squealed as a patrol car turned into the parking lot, and the gun popped back up. Two other cars

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were right behind the first one. Coming to a sudden halt, they filled the small parking lot. John and Sheriff Maples jumped simultaneously from the lead car. Adam dragged Lucy from the table, trapping her neck in the crook of his arm. She could barely breathe, and her body shielded him from the men who advanced. There were a number of uniforms behind John, but he was the only one she saw. "Stop or she's dead!" Adam shouted. The barrel of the gun brushed her temple. John stopped dead in his tracks. Behind him, the sheriff and his deputies crouched in the tall grass, weapons drawn. Maples hissed an order of some kind, but John ignored him. "Let her go," John said calmly. "I can't do that." Adam's voice shook slightly. "This is between you and me." John took a single step forward. "We'll finish it here and now, but you have to let Lucy go. She's not a part of this." John's eyes were on Adam's face; he seemed to avoid looking directly at her. She, on the other hand, looked at him so hard that she was sure he had to feel the force of her gaze. "Oh, she's a part of it, all right," Adam retorted. "She loves you, and so she has to die." John took another step forward, but Adam didn't seem to notice or care. "Lucy doesn't love me," John said. She wasn't going to die with another lie on her lips. "Yes, I do." John looked at her then, and she could see his frustration, his anger and his love. "Dammit, Lucy, not now." "It's the truth," she rasped, barely able to speak with the tight arm locked around her neck. "I love you. And we love Adam, don't we, John? Family sticks together, always. We can help him through this." "I'll do what I can," John promised. "Lawyers, doctors, whatever it takes." He moved gradually forward until he stood just a few feet away. "But you have to let Lucy go. Now." The arm at her throat relaxed a little. "It's too late." "Don't do this," John whispered tersely, moving ever closer. "This is between you and me, Adam. Let hergo ." His forced patience was fading. She saw anger and tension in the way he moved, in his balled fists and the set of his jaw. Adam's breath brushed her ear, ragged and hesitant. "What comes next, Lucy?" he said menacingly. "There's no way out of this, not now. Tell my future, Lady Lucretia. A scandalous trial? Prison? The electric chair?" He laughed in her ear. "I don't think I can fix this one." A new shudder wracked her body. She knew what Adam was thinking. A sudden death now was

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preferable to what awaited him—better than the humiliation he would suffer in the months and years to come. But who did Adam plan to take with him in this violent downfall? His hostage? His brother? Without warning, John shot forward. He grabbed Lucy's wrist with one hand, and reached for the gun with the other. He wrenched her from Adam and pushed her away so suddenly and violently that her head swam. She staggered back and watched in horror as John and Adam struggled for possession of the gun, as the sheriff and his men crept steadily forward. John jerked the gun away from Adam and, almost simultaneously, delivered a punch that knocked his brother to the ground. He tossed the weapon aside, and as the sheriff and his men descended, he dropped to his knees to restrain Adam. "You stupid son of a bitch," John muttered, sad and angry. With Adam unarmed and down, Maples and his men moved in quickly. They surrounded the Quaid brothers, weapons trained on Adam. Maples touched John's shoulder and delivered an order Lucy couldn't hear. A moment later John shot to his feet and allowed the sheriff and his deputies to take custody of the Red Grove Ripper. He turned his back on them all and walked straight to Lucy. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Did he hurt you?" She'd managed to remain calm through the ordeal, but suddenly she felt as if she were spinning away, falling apart. "I'm fine," she said, her voice shaky. John wrapped his arms around her and held on tight. She melted against him and closed her eyes, and the shaking and spinning went away. How could she have been so wrong? She thought herself a good judge of character, but she'd missed the signs of Adam's insane jealousy. One after another, in her mind, she'd convicted the wrong men. Danny—because he had the misfortune to remind her of her ex-husband. John—if she'd loved him enough, she would have known… "Quaid!" The sheriff shouted, fierce and frantic. Without releasing Lucy, John jerked around. Lonnie Phillips lay on the ground, disarmed, and Adam backed away from the lawmen with Lonnie's revolver in his hand. "Drop it!" Maples shouted, raising his own weapon. Adam ignored the sheriff. As he backed away, his eyes were trained on John and Lucy. What was he thinking? He was outgunned, outmanned; there was no way he could escape. The gun in his hand rotated slowly until it was aimed at Lucy again. John forced Lucy behind him, shielded her with his body. "Put it down, Adam. What the hell do you think you're doing?" Everyone shouted at once—everyone but Adam and Lucy. The sheriff and Mark, at the front of the contingent of deputies with their weapons drawn and trained on Adam, shouted for him to drop the gun. Lonnie Phillips, struggling to his feet, cursed and rubbed his head. John tried to reason with his brother … a man who was beyond reason. With a jerk, the weapon Adam held changed directions to point directly at the sheriff. His grip on the gun changed as he prepared to fire, and Adam's fate was sealed. Mark and Sheriff Maples both fired, and John's brother crumpled to the ground. Chapter 17

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«^» John rolled over, expecting his progress to be halted by Lucy's warm, naked body. He hadn't been able to sleep much, in spite of the fact that it had been more than forty-eight hours since he'd rested. The day following Adam's death had been long and foggy and unreal; they'd spent hours at the Sheriff's Office answering questions, and then later made arrangements for the funeral. Lucy had been beside him every step of the way, her hand on his arm or his shoulder as she gave him a strength he'd never needed before. She stepped in when the questions became too much; she took his hand when he needed to touch her. In her own way she'd protected him. John had always been the protector. No one had ever tried to protect him before. She'd been beside him later, too, when people who hadn't spoken to him for months started coming to the door. They came to apologize and to offer sympathies. The women brought food and lots of it; the men brought beer. It was a Southern thing, he supposed. His refrigerator was currently as full as it had ever been, packed with casseroles and ham and beer, and the dining room table was laden with cakes and pies. Lucy said the guiltier they felt, the more food they brought. Maybe she was right. When he'd finally crawled into bed, she'd been there to hold and love him, to offer her body and her heart. To protect him again, this time from memories that wouldn't allow his mind to rest. He'd fallen asleep with his body over hers, as he returned the favor and protected her from the night. He listened, expecting to hear her in the kitchen making coffee, but all was silent. Too silent. He closed his eyes tightly but there was no relief. He saw Adam behind the lids, smiling, threatening—dead. And now Lucy was gone. He knew it, as surely as he knew that he would be miserable without her. John left the bed, and without bothering to grab the bathrobe he'd taken to wearing while Lucy was here, he wandered through the house. He'd always liked his solitude, had cherished it after his divorce, but the house was so damn empty without Lucy. It was the quiet, he decided. Lucy was never still; she thrummed her fingernails on a tabletop or tapped a restless foot against the floor. He'd gotten accustomed to the radio she left on all the time, and lately she'd taken to occasionally singing along, very softly. He'd gotten used to those little things, the sounds of Lucy bringing life into his house. He flipped on the radio, just for the noise, and started a pot of coffee, mainly to hear the gurgle of the old machine. The house was still too quiet. John made his way through every room, trying to drive away the silence. The television, the air conditioner in his office, the fan in his old bedroom—he turned them all on, knowing long before he was finished that it would do no good. The house would always be silent and empty without Lucy in it. She was gone, disappearing without a word of goodbye. Perhaps she thought her departure would be easier that way, but it didn't feel particularly easy at the moment. He wandered around aimlessly, and ended up in his old bedroom again, the room Lucy had called her own for a while. He threw open the closet door, hoping that he would see her duffel bag on the floor. If it was there, be would know his worries were for nothing. She would be back. But the floor of the closet was empty, as he had known it would be.

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He started to slam the door shut, but caught it before it closed. There was a screaming expanse of cream-colored door where KISS should have been. He stared at the blank space on the closet door, and then, impossibly, he smiled. *** "Ms. Nelson," an overly tired voice droned. "Aren't you finished with the filing yet?" Lucy glanced over her shoulder to smile wearily at Mrs. Brill, the office manager. "Almost." It had been three weeks since she'd returned to her hometown, and she still couldn't get used to answering to her maiden name. Fain, plucked from aGeorgiaphone book years ago, felt more like her true name. But it wasn't. "There," she said, dropping in the last file. "Finally." Mrs. Brill sighed. "Mr. Webb has some dry cleaning that needs to be picked up, and you can get everyone lunch while you're out." Her job as gopher for a busy real estate office was definitely no woman's dream career, but it was a start. Jim had pulled a few strings to get her this job. He was no doubt anxious to get his sister-in-law out of the guest room and into her own place. No, the job was pretty crummy, but it was a start. In a few weeks she'd sign up for classes at the community college. Basic stuff first, she imagined, and then psychology classes in a year or two. Maybe she couldn't have everything she wanted. Maybe she wasn't yet completely healed. But she could help other women; she knew she could. She grabbed her purse from a bottom file cabinet and headed for the door. Maybe one day she'd be able to quit thinking about John. Maybe one day she would forgive herself for not believing in him when he needed her the most. Brundidge,North Carolina, had grown in five years. Bigger than Red Grove, it now hadtwo grocery stores, a new Dairy Queen, and a rejuvenated downtown. She picked up the boss's suit and shirts from the cleaners, and then headed for Manny's. Mrs. Brill had assured her that Manny's made the best sandwiches in town, and the old battle-ax had a craving for one of their roast beef specials. Lucy stared at the list of orders as she waited in line. Things were moving slowly. The sandwiches had better be damn good; she was starving. When she finally reached the counter, she kept her head down and read the orders slowly, and then she lifted her eyes to the menu board to choose her own lunch. And suddenly, her appetite died. "Paul," she whispered. He wore a paper hat over his pale hair, and looked weary far beyond his years, but it was Paul. His eyes widened. "Lucy. I … I didn't recognize you." He quickly looked over her gray slacks and matching silk blouse. "I heard you were back in town. You look good." Paul Staley, the ultimate salesman, the charmer with the disarming smile, the man who'd managed to fool everyone in town, was working behind the counter at a sandwich shop. Millie had said he'd gotten fired from his last two sales jobs: medical supplies and used cars. He'd lost his temper too many times,

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offended the wrong people. After that, Millie said, she didn't know what had happened to him, and she swore she didn't care. From the look of Paul, the past five years had not been kind. There were bags under his eyes, his color wasn't good; features that had once been handsome were soft, paunchy Maybe she'd been right all along. Maybe there was a kind of cosmic justice at work. You give out bad vibes, you get them back. Eventually. She hated him, still, for what he'd done to her, but she wasn't afraid of him. Not anymore. He wasn't a monster, he was just a bully. A creep. A worthless excuse for a human being. She crumpled the list in her hand. "I should have sent you to jail five years ago," she said. Paul paled, and glanced over her shoulder to the people waiting in line. "Lucy, not here. I can't lose this job." "I should've pressed charges when you tried to kill me." She could see the moment Paul tried to turn on the charm. He looked directly at her, not at those in line behind her, giving her the full force of his attention. "I loved you. I never meant—" Lucy lifted a hand to silence him. Fearless, she looked him square in the eye. She pointed one long, pale pink fingernail at him. "Don't lie to me," she said huskily, as much Lady Lucretia at the moment as Lucy Nelson. "I see right through you. You're a vicious, little, lonely man who never loved anyone but himself. Your heart is small. Your soul is dark." The entire place had gone quiet. No matter how quietly she spoke, everyone was going to hear. She didn't care. "If I ever see or hear of you lifting a hand to a woman again, I'll go straight to the police and tell them everything I know about you." She leaned slightly over the counter, and Paul backed up. "Everything," she whispered. "What goes around, comes around," she added as she stepped back and tossed the crumpled list of orders at him. As she stalked out of the sandwich shop, her appetite returned with a vengeance. A strange sense of rightness settled in her gut as she got into the car Jim had loaned her until she could afford her own. She knew what that strange sense was: she wasn't afraid anymore. She smiled as she backed quickly out of the space. No matter what Mrs. Brill craved today, she was getting a burger. *** It was almostfive o'clockwhen he found the real estate office. Quitting time, according to Millie. Lucy and her older sister did look something alike, but Millie was … softer, somehow. She didn't have Lucy's edge, and John's heart didn't do strange things when he looked at her. It had taken a while to find Lucy; he hadn't had much to go on. Her ex-husband's name, Paul Staley. Her sister's first name, Millie. The fact that they lived in a small town inNorth Carolina.If they hadn't moved. Luckily for him, they were both right here in Brundidge. When he had doubts, he remembered the KISS poster Lucy had swiped and taped to the inside of the closet in her sister's guest room. She wouldn't have taken it if she didn't want him to come after her.

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He almost didn't recognize Lucy when she walked out of the front door in her slim tan skirt and soft white blouse, a beige handbag slung over her shoulder and matching sensible shoes on her feet. According to Millie, she'd started working here less than a week after she'd leftAlabama, almost four weeks ago. John threw open the car door and stepped out, moving slowly, afraid, deep inside, that Lucy would bolt when she saw him. She didn't. Instead she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and turned in his direction. "Whose car?" she asked, almost calmly. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, he knew everything would be all right. "Mine," he said, leaning against the brand-new red Mustang. She lifted her finely shaped eyebrows in surprise, cool as always. "So the old Ford finally gave out?" He shook his head. "Nope. I just decided it was time for a new car." She shifted uncomfortably, hitching the strap of her handbag higher on her shoulder. "Why are you here?" Right to the heart of the matter, no more polite enquiries, no more dancing around the issue. "When you left, sneaking out without so much as a goodbye, you took something that belongs to me," he whispered. Lucy cut him a biting glance as she opened her handbag and reached inside, never taking her eyes from him. "Here," she said. "I didn't know it was valuable." She pulled out a bent and faded baseball card, and when he offered his hand, she slapped the card into his palm. "Thank you, but that's not what I came for." As he slipped the card into the front pocket of his jeans, she reached into the bowels of her purse once again, coming up this time with an old RC bottle cap. She flipped it to him, and he caught it in the air. He couldn't suppress a smile. They were little things, and she kept them with her. Strange remembrances, but meaningful, just the same. "Sorry," he said. "That's not it, either." "Your stupid poster's at my sister's house," she snapped. "I'll get it and meet you…" John shook his head slowly. "That's all I took!" "What about my reason? My peace of mind? Those wonderful moments when I touch you and nothing else in the world matters?" To make his point, he pushed away from the car and stepped toward her. She didn't back away. "I came here for you, Lucy." Moving cautiously, he reached out to take her in his arms. "I love you." "No," she whispered, denying the truth to herself as well as to John. He was tempting, too tempting, but she knew what he needed and it wasn't her. "I love you," he said again.

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"Don't say that." He smiled in response. "I want to say it, every day, every night…" "John," Lucy muttered under her breath. "Don't." "I bought a microwave," he said. "And an answering machine. I'm having central heat and air put in next week. Air-conditioning, baby." "You're trying to bribe me," she accused. He seemed to hold her closer and tighter, and yet so very tenderly. John raised his eyebrows, but he didn't deny it. "I'm having the house painted in two days. If we're not back by then, Sally will choose the color." "John!" Lucy snapped. "She'll paint the house lavender!" He rubbed his hands along her arms, fingering her blouse. "Silk," he said hoarsely. A memory so sharp that she could almost feel John inside her brought on a jolt that coursed through her like lightning. "Lavender," she said again, to remind him of the seriousness of the situation. "Then we'd better leave tonight." "I can't—" "I love you." "I'm scared," she said huskily. "You don't—I can't—I'm not right for you." "I love you." She looked into John's eyes—eyes that were clear and gray and honest. There was no more wariness; there were no more clouds. She sagged slightly, wanting to give in, and he pulled her against his chest. "I didn't believe in you when you needed me," she confessed. "I let Adam trick me into thinking, into knowing that you were…" She couldn't say it aloud, but she didn't have to. He knew what she meant. "If I had enough love inside me, if I'd trusted my heart, I would've known you'd never hurt me or anyone else." "Oh, baby." He held her and comforted her, running his hands down her back and through her hair. "You had good reason for doubting me. I understand." "How can you ever forgive me?" He sighed, in her hair, in her ear. That long sigh touched, her to her bones. "In my mind there's nothing to forgive, but if it's forgiveness you want, you've got it." "It's not that easy," she said softly.

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"Yes, it is. Marry me." It was too much to hope for, that he could really love her, that he could want to marry her. Lucy looked up, no longer hiding her face against his chest. She'd relied for years on her instincts, her talent for reading people. Sometimes those instincts failed her miserably, but not now. She saw love in John's eyes—a love she'd done her best to deny, to kill. A love that was as frighteningly strong as hers for him. "John, I'm not—" "I love you," he interrupted her in a soft voice, not even giving her a chance to argue. "I love you, too," she said, and it wasn't so hard, after all. In fact, it felt so good that she said it again, with a smile this time. "I love you." "I knew it," he whispered, and then he kissed her, a long, slow, deep kiss that curled her toes and warmed her heart. "I should warn you," he said as he drew his mouth slightly from hers. "I'm going to run for Sheriff in the next election. Buford's retiring…" "Buford?" she asked. "Maples," he amended. "And he said he'd back me." "You'll make a wonderful sheriff," she said, and even though it was the kind of thing a wife was expected to say, she meant it. "And I should warn you," she said. "I'm going to school in the fall, wherever I am. I'm going to get the proper training, and learn to help women who've been abused, women who are stuck in bad marriages like I was and don't know how to get out." He kissed her again, quickly this time. "You'll make a wonderful counselor." "And babies, too," she said with a smile, wanting it all, determined to take everything wonderful life had to offer. John. Her newfound freedom. Babies. "I want children, at least three." "Then you'll have them," John replied. "Ms. Nelson," a whining voice interrupted. Lucy didn't let go of John, but turned her head to smile at the office manager. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Brill." "This is apublic place," Mrs. Brill hissed. Nothing, not even this old sourpuss, could spoil her mood today. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to quit my job," Lucy said lightly. Mrs. Brill pursed her lips. "Youwill give two weeks' notice, won't you?" Lucy shook her head. "I can't. Sally's going to paint our houselavender . Can you imagine?" She ignored Mrs. Brill's huff and smiled up at John. "I love you," she whispered. "Take me home." Epilogue

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«^ Five years later

There was nothing quite like the smell of a carnival to conjure up fond memories. The look on Lucy's face, well-lit by a strand of colored lights as she passed by the merry-go-round, was priceless. Warm. Happy. A little lost in thought. John wondered if she ever missed the carnival, late at night. Probably not. "Daddy, Daddy, I want to ride!" Dylan tugged on John's pants and pointed at the carousel. "The black horse!" Was there anyone more persistent, more energetic, than a four-year-old? According to Lucy, Dylan was just like his father in looks and in temperament. John would concede that the child had his coloring, but surely he'd never been so obstinate. Surely not. Tyler, who was a mere two-and-a-half and had inherited his mother's fair hair and green eyes, had his older brother's tenacity, but it was tempered by a gentle heart. Sometimes when John looked at the two of them, they reminded him of two other brothers, years ago, bittersweet memories washing over him when he least expected it. He was determined that his sons would never turn on one another. He'd never give them reason. They'd never doubt that they were loved. He gave the attendant his tickets, placed Dylan on the black horse andTylerin a red wagon, and then he stepped back to watch the carousel begin its journey. The people who walked past smiled and said hello, but then everyone wanted to be on good terms with the sheriff. Those who scowled and distrusted John these days had usually done time in his jail—or soon would. The carnival-goers had wide smiles and kind words for Lucy, who was everyone's darling of the moment. Her schooling over, she'd twisted arms and harassed large companies and state agencies until she had the money to build the county's first shelter for abused women and their children. She could be very persuasive. Danny and Sally stopped and said a quick hello. Their kids were anxious to move on, so they didn't stay long. Sally and Lucy were still the best of friends, and while John and Danny were not exactly chummy, they had learned to be good neighbors. He even caught sight of Lonnie, who had wisely retired from the department after John won the election. The ex-deputy, his own kids in tow, did not smile or wave or say hello. Last John had heard, Lonnie was working for his brother-in-law's roofing company. The county was a safer place for everyone with Lonnie Phillips out of uniform. "They're so beautiful," Lucy said softly, watching their boys go round and round, smiling and laughing and waving each time they passed by.

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John put his arm around her, pulled her close, and reached his free hand across to rest on her still-flat belly. "This one will be, too." She smiled. "Have you been thinking of names? I'd love to name him for Maples, but I just can't imagine calling a child Buford. I know you don't want a Junior or a Johnny or a Little John in the house, but maybe we can name him John Buford and call him J.B." Lucy wanted a girl, but was afraid to say so out loud. There hadn't been a female Quaid born in this branch of the family in four generations. As John stood there, his hand resting on Lucy's stomach, be felt a strange sense of certainty that she would get her unspoken wish, that this child was their daughter. "It's a girl," he said softly and confidently. Lucy looked up at him and smiled. "Oh, really. How on earth do you know that? Did you just have a psychic moment?" she teased. John took her chin in his hand and stared into her eyes. He loved his beautiful wife, he loved his life, he loved his boys. Unable to resist, he planted a quick kiss on her tempting mouth. As he pulled his lips from hers he whispered, "Trust me."

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