by Sylvie Kurtz
“Um,” Cecilia said, eyebrows scrunched pensively over the page. “Look at all these tiny lines. I need a magnifying glass to see them.” She walked over to the shelf and picked up a brass looking glass. With a grin, she telescoped it out and put the large end to Olivia’s eye. “This is what you’re trying to do.”
Through the glass, Olivia saw a row of mountains as tiny and as rough as the flakes of cereal Cari had dropped on the kitchen table this morning.
“Now,” Cecilia said, turning the glass around to the narrow end. “This is what I want you to try.”
This time, one mountain loomed large, each rock and tree a wide brushstroke. Smiling, Cecilia turned the page and handed Olivia another pencil. Cecilia was not looking for what Olivia could not do, but rather sought to bring out what she could. There was no judgment in her midnight eyes—only encouragement. Olivia accepted the pencil and tried again.
The elements of the design slowly fell into place, giving her a sense of strength for the first time since she’d arrived here.
Some time later, the door to the studio opened. Looking up, she saw Sebastian hesitate, one hand on the curved brass handle. Wanting to make up for running from him earlier, she beamed a smile at him and held up the sketchpad. Instinct told her she wanted—needed?—to please this man. What better way to do that than to give him a part of Olivia he remembered? “Look.”
She liked the sureness in his stride, the power of it, as he came toward her. Had that confidence pleased the old Olivia, too? The heat of anticipation warmed her skin as he crouched beside her and took the sketch pad. She held her breath. Please let this be right. The scent of him, fresh like winter, wrapped a secure arm around her. And for a moment, she let herself believe everything was right.
“That’s the mountain right outside the window,” he said. His approval glowed a fuzzy warmth inside her.
Then the tiny seed of fear took root again as his gaze shifted to the trunk sitting on the black iron holder and back to her crude drawing. Was that disappointment shuttering his eyes?
Blackness erased every trace of warmth. She took the sketch pad from him. “I have a headache.”
“Tension.” Cecilia directed Sebastian to move behind Olivia. “Sit here. I will show you how to work the knots from her shoulders.”
He did as he was told, and Olivia was glad she couldn’t see his eyes. She couldn’t bear the sadness in them, the soul-deep sorrow of wanting one woman and being stuck with another. Did the aura of strength around him draw her simply because he was the key to her past?
With Cecilia’s instruction, his sure fingers unknotted the hard gnarls of tension in her nape and shoulders. His touch didn’t feel like a slap as Paula’s had…it felt somehow soothing. Her neck, her spine, her knees, jellied. Fear again? Would it be a constant companion from now on? Except that this fear didn’t have a cold edge. It was warm and sweet and made her lick her lips with longing.
The spin of yearning reminded her of the picture on the bureau in the bedroom. Sebastian and Olivia on their wedding day. Would his eyes ever shine for her the way they had for that Olivia? She could still feel the sharp bite of jealousy as she’d looked at herself and him and not been able to recall how love had felt between them. A knot formed in her chest and the sting of tears burned her eyes.
She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder and tried to explain the turmoil roiling inside her. “I’m not Olivia.”
He kissed her temple and it tasted of regret. “Give it time.”
She leaned into the warm strength of him. Please let me remember. Let me be the Olivia he wants. I promise, I’ll never ask for anything again.
AFTER MIDNIGHT, THE FAMILIAR bing of online companionship chimed. Under the cover of ether, all needs were answered. He smiled and greeted Okie.
Sk8Thor: Hi!
Okie: I’m in.
Sk8Thor: Good going!
Okie: U owe me.
Sk8Thor: I’ll take care of u.
Okie: Darn right u will.
Sk8Thor: I need the security blueprints.
Okie: It’s going to be tough. There’s always someone there.
Sk8Thor: Distract.
Okie: Got anything on the skinny guy? He’s holed in there like a mole.
Sk8Thor: Blind him with your wit.
Okie: Ha, ha! No guarantees.
Sk8Thor: Just do it.
Okie: Can’t u just hack yr way thru?
Sk8Thor: It’s all about finesse.
Okie: I thought it was about revenge.
This was more than revenge. This was proof. You could bully your way through the world or you could finesse. He’d show them all that he was worth more than the animal who’d stolen everything from him. He wouldn’t do it with muscle and brute force. He’d do it like he’d done everything else—with brains and style.
Sk8Thor: Revenge and more.
He thought for a moment then added:
Sk8Thor: Here’s how to give ’em something to think about.
SEBASTIAN WAS COMING TO HATE the inside of his own office. The space had once seemed large, a cocoon to shift from hunter to husband. Now Kingsley had crammed the electronic instruments of his trade over every surface. Even with Skyralov still on surveillance, the three remaining men on his team made the room appear too small.
Stale coffee perfumed the air as heavily as the frustration steaming from his own skin. He wanted a drink— Glenlivet straight from the bottle. Hell, even Old Smuggler would do. But he had to keep a clear head. Punching his handheld computer, Sebastian brought up his notes. He forced himself to concentrate on the situation at hand and not on wishing for the impossible. “Reed, what’d you find on the van driver?”
Jacket off, but still styling, Reed posed in the epitome of relaxation. “Just a kid. Nineteen. Got scared when he thought he’d hit the two of you and punched the gas instead of the brakes. Then he kept going because this citation would’ve put him over on points and the state would’ve yanked his license.”
“You believe him?”
“Everything checked out. He’s got a baby and a wife to support. Losing his license would’ve meant no transportation, and he’d have lost his job. He’s trying to do the right thing and screwing up at every turn.”
That, Sebastian could empathize with. “No ties to Kershaw?”
“None that I could see. Kid’s been to Nashua only a handful of times and most of those at the mall.”
“That doesn’t prove no ties.”
“The responsibility for that baby’s got him too scared to have time for the likes of Kershaw. He’s been home or at work for the past six months. It checks out, Falconer.”
Reed bit out the words with his customary smile, but they bore a hard edge. If you don’t trust me, why am I here? they seemed to ask. Sebastian nodded. Letting go was like handing out little pieces of himself. “Mercer.”
Mercer’s voice floated from somewhere in the shadows of the room. “I’m following a lead.”
Sebastian ground his back teeth. “I need more details.”
The feral green of Mercer’s eyes seemed to glow in the shadows where he stood. “Found a city cop, tinned him and got a scoop on the local drug scene. Took less than ten minutes to spot a street vendor. Swapped a C-note for ten names. Paid the local jail a visit.”
Imagination. Sebastian had always liked that in a cop. Mercer could have gotten the same information from the local authorities, but official channels would have taken longer. He’d picked someone in jail for leverage. Junkies in jail were always dying to help. “What’d you get?”
“The brother’s in a transitional-living facility in Nashua. Nathan Kershaw was in-pocket at the time of the escape.”
Transitional-living program translated to a halfway house for paroled drug addicts seeking recovery.
No suspect. No lead.
Sutton wanted daily updates. He wasn’t going to like this one. Sebastian massaged the back of his neck and the feeling of Olivia’s skin this aft
ernoon steamrolled over him. So smooth. So soft. So warm. He’d wanted her then, wanted the woman wearing Olivia’s skin, wanted the illusion he could have the past again. He shook his head and tore the unfaithful desire to shreds.
“He was released two days ago,” Mercer said. “I’m working the triggers.”
Maybe all wasn’t lost after all.
“I want a look at Greco’s Blazer,” Reed said, hand in pocket at an angle that couldn’t possibly feel as relaxed as it looked.
“Any particular reason?”
Reed cocked a boy-next-door smile. “Well, now, seeing as how they’re all specialists down there at the Bureau, I want to be sure they didn’t miss something. You know how those obvious places aren’t a challenge enough to warrant a thorough inspection.”
Rocky laughter peppered the room. “Search your heart out.”
“The special agent-in-charge okayed it,” Reed said, “but the Bureau’s regional crime specialist turned me down flat.”
“Did he give you a reason?”
Reed shook his head and not a hair moved. “No, but the SAC’s willing if you could find a way to skip the chain of command.”
Sebastian nodded. “I’ll have Sutton call his Bureau counterpart.”
“Let’s talk security,” Kingsley said, flipping the cover of his reporter’s pad open and hooking his left thumb around a red suspender. “This here’s a nice place, but it’s full of holes.”
Sebastian crossed his arms over his chest. “It wasn’t meant as a prison.”
“Maybe not, but we’ll have to turn it into a fortress to keep Olivia safe. Those windows—”
“I can’t ask her to stay in the dark. She’s already too afraid.”
“A couple of days of fear are better than ending up dead.”
Was watching the light in her slowly fade from the inside out any better? He wanted Olivia back, not to drive her deeper into the shadows of her mind. Sebastian closed his eyes and tried to pinch the fatigue thumping between his eyebrows. “Find a way to work around her. I don’t want to take more away from her than she’s already lost.”
Through his wire-rimmed glasses, Kingsley shot him a speculative glance. “How long have you been up?”
Too long. Not long enough. He remained silent.
“That’s what I thought. I’ll take first shift tonight. Get a few hours of sleep.”
Sleep was the last thing he wanted, but Kingsley was right. To be competent, he needed a well-rested brain. “Mercer, find the brother and squeeze him. Reed, I’ll get permission for you for that search by morning.” He turned to Kingsley. “Skyralov check in?”
“So far, the mother’s not giving anything away. I pulled her phone records for him. She got a couple of calls from Allenwood. Got a couple more from pay phones in the area. Want me to have him pour on the charm?”
He nodded, wanting to be the one out there asking the questions. Skyralov knew the drill. But trust had never come easily. “Let’s hope she’s into cowboys.”
THERE WAS NO PLACE LEFT to be alone in the house, Sebastian thought, as he climbed the steps to the upper part of the house. Kingsley had taken over his office. Someone occupied every bedroom. The studio held too many memories of Olivia. Cari wandered the halls at all hours like a ghost dragging chains, bemoaning her fate. Paula claimed the kitchen as her territory, asking him what he wanted every time he walked in. He couldn’t even pour his own cup of coffee anymore, and his favorite mug had gone missing.
What he wanted was his home back—the peace, the quiet, the healing of it. Paula couldn’t give that back to him. No one could.
That left the bathroom. He flipped on the switch and sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on knees, chin resting on his upturned palms. Then he spied the counter with its double sink and swore silently.
No escape.
The Olivia he remembered was here, too, in bottles and tubes lined up like sailors in the blue and cream basket that served as their boat. He rose and picked up a bottle of lotion. Sniffing the thick light pink cream brought Olivia back—the summer freshness of her, and the smile that went all the way to her eyes and lit up her whole face.
What he’d loved best about her was the way she was still awed by simple things—the flight of a hawk on a cold winter morning, the feel of thick sweaters on the first crisp day of fall, the scent of maple sugaring in the spring, the taste of summer sun-warmed tomatoes right off the vine. She could make him see the beauty of this world even when evil lurked right around the corner. She was his balance, and without her, he was afraid he would get stuck on the wrong side of the hunt.
The bottle suddenly weighed a ton. He put it back in the basket and weariness settled deep in his bones. He was losing control of his life, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Standing in the glare of the bathroom light, he looked toward the bathtub. No, he wasn’t sleeping there. The sofa in the living room was too short. He was tired. He needed sleep. He was not going to be pushed out of his own bed. Olivia would just have to deal with it.
“Olivia?”
She turned her head toward him.
“There are no beds left. I need sleep. I won’t touch you. I just need some rest.”
She nodded and dropped her head back to the pillow.
He undressed in the dark and slipped between the flannel sheets. Having her curl away from him was an insult sharper than a blade.
He reached for the extra quilt folded at the foot of the bed and rolled it. He tucked the roll between their bodies and pulled the blankets up again. Turning his back to her, he closed his eyes and willed sleep. Perverse creature that it was, it refused his command.
“Tell me about Olivia,” his wife’s voice whispered in the dark.
Having her ask about herself brought the truth too close to home. He thought of all Olivia was, of the artist, of the lover, of the friend, and could think of only one way to describe all she meant to him. Olivia was home. Would this woman who wore Olivia’s skin understand?
He wondered at the use of the past. Had he already accepted Olivia was gone? No, he decided as he punched the pillow. There was still hope. He had to believe that. “I’m really tired, Olivia.”
“Why did she want to leave?”
He wished Paula wouldn’t have mentioned that fact first chance she got. Now he was going to have to explain his shortcomings, justify them, and that itched like raw wool. “My work takes me away from home a lot. Waiting was hard on Olivia. She wanted…”
What had she wanted? Had he ever asked her? Had he ever tried to slip into her skin, the way he did with the fugitives he pursued, and see his work from her eyes? He’d expected so much from her. What had she wanted from him? He tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “She wanted a baby, and I couldn’t give her one.”
Another shortcoming. Stress, the doctor had told them, had affected his sperm count. But he couldn’t give up his job. He had to hunt. He had to put scum back in the prison where they belonged. He had to make the world safe. It was his reason for living. Olivia was a selfish indulgence. One he couldn’t give up, either.
“If she doesn’t come back,” she said, “what will you do?”
Having her voice his fear that the Olivia he knew might never come back, that all his hope might be just that—vain hope—made the possibility too real.
Emptiness whistled through him as the past flashed back in living snapshots. Olivia’s shy smile the first time he’d seen her. Olivia’s laugh when he’d taken her sailing on Trotter’s Pond while they were dating and they’d ended up in the water. Olivia’s pleasure when he’d held her in his arms as he carried her over the threshold of the Aerie. The hundreds of memories they’d created here echoed against the walls and clamored for his attention, choking him.
Looking ahead, the future was nothing but a hunt in the night with no light. Strength, control, had gotten him where he was in life. They were of no use to him now. His hand fisted around the corner of the pillow. H
e swallowed hard. No, he wasn’t ready to give up yet. “We’ll work it out.”
He could not admit she was his weakness and that her departure would kill what little was left of his heart. He would not beg her to stay. He could not tell her that the sight of her worked better than drugs to relax him, that the scent of her was more soothing than his favorite scotch, that touching her kept him sane and centered.
“You would let her go?”
He closed his eyes and heard the thunder of his heart slap against his ribs, felt pain stab at his chest. “I would do anything for her.”
“You would let her stay?”
He tried to swallow the knot at his throat, to breathe around the bubble of hope. “Yes.”
“Even if she couldn’t be the person you wanted her to be?”
He had tracked thousands of fugitives. He had cuffed thousands of felons. He had faced evil a thousand times and won. Nothing had ever cost him as much as answering this one question. “Yes.”
Silence had a weight, he discovered, as he waited for her to lift it, waited for some sort of reassurance. But if he didn’t know exactly what he expected, how could she give it to him?
“I don’t know how to be myself.”
“We’ll work it out.” Air gushed from his lungs as if they’d collapsed. That was the best he could do right now. He had no easy solutions. She had become someone different than the wife he knew. Everything, including him, was new to her.
Soon the tension eased from her body and her breathing shallowed. Sleep still escaped him.
Even in the dead of night there was no pure quiet. Sounds crept through the double panes of the window—the drone of an airplane flying overhead, the moan of wind as it wrapped itself around the house, the brittle bone clack of dry oak leaves still clinging to a branch.
And somewhere out there was Kershaw.
In her sleep, she turned. Her body and the roll of blanket separating them curved to spoon around his body. Her hand—as it had a thousand times—cupped the space above his heart possessively. He was still hers. Always would be. Placing his hand on top of hers, he tucked her in closer. He floated on the wave of his exhaustion and her warmth. The gravity pull of their ebb dragged him toward sleep.
