by Karen Rose
“They are. Phoebe’s just taken them under her wing like they’re her own grandchildren.”
“She’s good at that.” Phoebe Hunter had accepted Ethan into the Hunter clan as well. “She reminds me of my grandmother. Who would have loved you, by the way.”
Dana twisted to look up at him, a smile in her eyes. “Thank you.” She glanced down at her ring. “I showed it to Caroline last night. She said that I should keep you.”
“I’m so relieved,” Ethan said, only half in jest. He owed a lot to the woman who’d insisted Dana have dinner with him that night more than two months ago. That day in August changed his life, gave him Dana, gave him Alec. “Will they come today?”
Dana resettled her body against him, burrowing closer, and as always, the feel of her against him sent his body into overdrive. Dana gave an extra little wiggle to let him know she hadn’t missed a thing. “Probably not. It’s a little too chilly for the baby.”
The baby Caroline had given birth to barely a month before. Two weeks early and, thankfully, healthy. Caroline and Max had named the little girl Mary Grace. Dana told him that had been Caroline’s name before Dana had given her a new identity. That the baby carried Caroline’s old name was a fitting tribute to both women’s courage, Ethan thought. He splayed his hands across Dana’s midsection wondering when they’d have a child of their own. But child of their own or not, they were destined to have a house full of children.
“I saw the realtor this morning,” he said, not sure which was more exciting—the realtor’s news or the fact that he’d driven himself to the appointment. He’d been episode free for nearly two months now. It was amazing what the capture of a homicidal maniac could do to reduce a man’s stress level.
Dana jerked around, her eyes wide. “The realtor? Why didn’t you say something?”
“You were busy showing everybody your new ring, that’s why. The realtor said we can get the house for the price we offered.”
Her face lit up like sunshine. “Oh, Ethan.”
He kissed her smiling mouth. “Soon you’ll be able to take on another six or seven foster kids.” After soul searching, Dana had decided to shift her life path. No longer would she be meeting battered women in bus stations in the middle of the night. No longer would she be a target for irate husbands. Together, they’d decided to offer shelter to children victimized by domestic violence. Ethan didn’t think there was another person alive who could fill that vision better than the woman who now looked up at him as if he’d hung the moon. “And,” he finished, “I got that new client yesterday. They’ve had their server hacked by high school kids three times in the last month, so they want me to get started right away. The advance will cover the down payment on the house.”
“I love you, Ethan.”
The simple sentence hit him hard, just as hard as the first time she’d said it, shortly after that day he’d almost lost her. She’d visited him in D.C. and they’d gone to the Eastern Shore. He’d shown her the place where he’d grown up and in the quiet of a sunset on the bay he’d held her and she’d said it. And it had been so natural to say it back. Just as it had been every day thereafter, and every day for the rest of his life.
“I love you, too, Dana.” He gave her a nudge. Alec was at third, a hopeful look on his face. “It’s your turn at bat. Hit it out of the park so Alec can make home.”
She did and Alec ran, his face one big grin as he crossed the plate. “I did it,” he said.
“Yeah, you did.” Ethan slapped him on the back. Watched Dana round the bases. And so did I.
About the Author
Karen Rose fell in love with books from the moment she learned to read, with Jo from Little Women and Nancy Drew becoming close childhood friends. She started writing stories of her own when the characters started talking in her head and just wouldn’t be silenced. When she’s not writing, she’s teaching chemistry, physics and creative writing to high school students. She lives in sunny Florida with her fantastic husband, an avid fisherman, and two wonderful daughters who also love to read—and write! Karen would love to receive your e-mail at [email protected], and be sure to check out her Web site at www.karenrosebooks.com.
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You Can’t Hide
available soon from Warner Books.
* * *
Chicago, Saturday, March 11, 11:45 P.M.
“Cynthia.” It was the barest of whispers, but still she heard.
No. Cynthia Adams clenched her eyes shut, pressed the back of her head into her pillow, its softness a mockery to the rigidity of her tensed body. Her fingers dug into the sheets, twisting until she grimaced in pain. Not again. A sob rose in her throat, wild and desperate. Please. I can’t do this again. “Go away,” she whispered harshly. “Please, just go away and leave me alone.”
But she knew she was talking to no one. If she opened her eyes she’d see nothing but the darkness of her own bedroom. No one was there. But still the whisper taunted, real. Hideous.
As it had for weeks. Every night she lay in bed . . . waiting. Waiting for the voice that was her worst nightmare. Some nights it spoke. Some nights she merely lay tensed, waiting. It was wind, it was shadows. It was nothing at all.
But it was real. She knew it was real.
“Cynthia? Help me.” It was the voice of a child calling for comfort in the night. A scared little girl.
Who was dead. She’s dead. I know she’s dead. She placed the lilacs on Melanie’s grave herself every Sunday. Melanie was dead.
But she was here. She’s come for me.
“Cynthia? Please . . .” It was real. So real.
I’m losing my mind. God, help me, please. I’m losing my mind.
“Cynthia, why did you do it?” The whisper drifted. “I need to know why.”
Why? She didn’t know why. Dammit, she didn’t know why. She rolled over, burying her face in her pillow, drawing her body into the smallest possible space. Held her breath. And waited.
It was quiet. Melanie was gone. Cynthia let herself draw a breath, then sprang from the bed as the scent of lilacs assaulted her senses. Lilacs.
“No.” She backed away from the bed unable to take her eyes from the pillow where just the tip of a single lilac was visible.
“It should have been you, Cynthia.” The whisper was harsher now. “I should be putting lilacs on your grave.”
Cynthia drew a breath. Made herself repeat what her psychiatrist had told her to say when she was afraid. “This isn’t real. This is not real.”
“It’s real, Cynthia. I’m real.” Melanie was no longer a child, her voice now adult. And angry. Cynthia shuddered at the sound. Melanie deserved to be angry. I was a coward. “You ran away once, Cyn. You hid. You won’t hide again. You’ll never, ever hide from me again. You’ll never, ever leave me alone again.”
Cynthia backed away slowly until she came up hard against her bedroom door. Closed her eyes tight as she gripped the hard, reassuringly real doorknob. “You aren’t real. You are not real.”
“It should have been you. Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me with him? How could you? You said you loved me. But you left me alone. With him. You never loved me.” A sob shook Melanie’s voice and tears burned Cynthia’s eyes.
“It’s not true. I loved you,” she whispered, desperately. “So much.”
“You never loved me.” Melanie was a child again. An innocent child. “He hurt me, Cyn. You let him. You let him hurt me . . . again and again. Why?”
Cynthia yanked the doorknob and tumbled backward into the hall where a single light burned. And stopped short. More lilacs. Everywhere. She turned slowly and could only stare. They mocked her. Mocked her sanity.
“Come to me, Cyn.” Melanie coaxed now. “Come. It’s not so bad. We’ll be together. You can take care of me. Like you promised you would.”
“No.” She covered her ears and ran for the door. “No.”
“
You can’t hide, Cyn. Come to me. You know you want to.” She was sweet now, so sweet. Melanie had been so sweet. Then. Now she was dead.
My fault. It’s my fault.
“Cynthia, please. I’m scared. I need you. You left me once. Don’t leave me again.”
Cynthia jerked open the front door. And stifled a scream. Then slowly leaned over and picked up the picture at her feet. Stared in horror at the lifeless figure hanging from the rope. And remembered the day she’d found her. Melanie had just been . . . dangling there. Swinging . . .
“You made me do that,” Melanie said coldly. “You don’t deserve to live.”
Her hands shook as she stared. “I don’t,” she whispered.
“Then come to me, Cyn. Please.”
Cynthia backed up again, groped for the phone. “Call Dr. Chick. Call,” she muttered. She’ll tell me I’m not crazy. But the phone rang and startled, she dropped it. Stared at it as if it were alive. Waited for it to sprout fangs and hiss. But it just rang.
“Answer it, Cynthia,” Melanie said coldly. “Now.”
Hands shaking, Cynthia bent over and picked up the phone. “H-hel-hello?”
“Cynthia, it’s Dr. Ciccotelli.”
Gasping in relief at the solid, familiar, live voice, Cynthia’s shoulders sagged. “I hear her, Dr. Chick. Melanie. She’s here. I hear her.”
“Of course you do. She’s calling you, Cynthia. It’s what you deserve. Go to her. End it. End it now.”
“But . . .” Tears welled, spilled. “But . . .” she whispered.
“Do it, Cynthia. She’s dead and it’s your fault. Go to her. Do what you should have done years ago. Take care of her.”
“Come, Cynthia,” Melanie ordered, her voice again adult and full of authority. “Come.”
Cynthia dropped the phone, backed away, wearily now. I’m tired. So tired. “Let me sleep,” she whispered. “Please let me sleep.”
“Come to me,” Melanie whispered back. “Then I’ll let you sleep.”
Melanie had promised it so many times. So many nights. Cynthia turned and stared at the window. Dark night was outside the glass. But what else? Sleep. Peace.
Peace.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Epilogue
About the Author
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