by Lisa Jackson
“Really?”
“Sure. Give me your number. I’ll call you.”
She did give it to him…but her expression told him that she doubted he’d dial it.
He doubted it, too.
Then again…he did give her his number when she asked for it.
After all, he and his high-school girlfriend, Elisa, had been broken up for months now—ever since she came home from St. Bonaventure over Christmas break and told him she wanted to see other people.
Which meant she was already seeing other people. More specifically, one other person, Leo suspected.
Turned out he was right.
Oh, well. He and Elisa were mostly a comfortable old habit by that time, anyway. Moving on was the right thing to do.
As for pretty, red-haired, green-eyed Sarah Rose…
Maybe he’d call. Maybe he wouldn’t.
Right now, the only woman on his mind had dark hair and eyes and a dimple to match his own.
“See you,” he told Sarah Rose and hurried toward the subway, unaware that he was being watched from the shadows beside a campus bus shelter.
“Kristen?”
“No…this is her daughter.”
“Oh. May I please speak to Kristen?” Lindsay held her breath, hoping her old friend was at home. It was around noon in Portland. She had tried the work number first, at the newspaper, only to get her voicemail. She hung up. She couldn’t just leave a message after twenty years.
You did when you called Aurora back, she reminded herself.
But that was different. She couldn’t leave a message about something like this.
“Who’s calling, please?” asked the teenaged voice on the other end of the line, sounding polite, efficient, and bubbly—very much like her mother had twenty years ago.
“It’s an old friend…about the reunion.”
“Okay, hang on,” the voice said politely. There was a clatter, then a bluntly bellowed, “Mom! Phone!”
Lindsay would have smiled if she weren’t still so shaken by the doctored photograph in her hand.
“Hello?” The voice that came on the line was a decidedly grown-up version of the one that had just left it.
“Kristen?”
“Yes…?”
“It’s Lindsay.”
There was a gasp on the other end. “Oh my God. I was going to call you later.”
Yeah, sure you were, Lindsay found herself thinking reflexively. She’d heard that before, senior year, when they were both trying halfheartedly to cling to a doomed friendship, pretending they still cared about each other, that they were still making an effort.
Then she reminded herself that this wasn’t high school anymore. Kristen was no longer holding a grudge against her over Jake…she couldn’t be.
Really? Then why did she disfigure your picture?
Lindsay told herself, yet again, that it had to be some kind of accident. Kristen couldn’t possibly be that immature even if she hadn’t gotten over Jake.
Maybe somebody had spilled some red nail polish on Lindsay’s photo, or…
Something.
That was why Lindsay had decided to call her old—perhaps former—friend. To find out what was up. To reassure herself that there was nothing sinister behind the red slash.
“Listen,” she began, “I just got the reunion invitation, and for some reason my picture was—”
“You heard about Haylie, right?” Kristen asked simultaneously.
“What?” they both said, after a brief, startled pause.
“Lindsay…your picture was…what were you about to tell me?”
“There was a red mark slashed through it.”
“Across the face, right? I didn’t do it,” Kristen said in a rush.
“The envelope had your name on the return address.”
“I know, I put the packets together, but the picture didn’t come from me. Somebody tampered with the envelopes and put them in. We all got them.”
“All…who?”
“Me, you, Rachel, Bella, Aurora, Mandy…and Haylie.”
All our old friends, Lindsay thought incredulously. What was going on?
When she asked Kristen, she said, “We think Haylie sent them. She had just lashed out at all of us at the last reunion meeting.”
“Why?”
“Same old thing. Ian. Jake.”
“Still?”
“Some things never change, apparently. She was still a real nutcase.”
“Did you guys confront her and ask her if she sent those pictures, then?”
“We would have if she hadn’t—”
“What?” Lindsay prodded when Kristen cut herself off.
There was a pause. “So you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Haylie’s dead, Lindsay.”
She gasped.
Somehow, even now, with years and miles separating her from her old life, her old friends, she was sickened, shocked, at the untimely demise of the girl she once knew. “How…when did it happen?”
“I don’t know exactly when, but the police think it’s been a couple of days at least. She, uh, lived alone, except for a bunch of cats, so nobody found her right away. One of the neighbors noticed a smell…”
“Oh my God.”
“I know. It’s horrible. Lindsay, I’m scared.”
“You’re…scared? Because Haylie died?”
“She didn’t just die. She was murdered—”
“What?”
“—and the police don’t know who did it.”
Murdered. Just like Jake. Lindsay’s thoughts whirled madly as Kristen’s shocking words sunk in. Somebody killed Haylie? And got away with it?
And now somebody is calling me in the middle of the night, and sending me pictures with my face crossed out…
“They think it might have been a random thing.” Kristen’s voice broke through her frantic thoughts. “It wasn’t the greatest neighborhood, and her apartment had been burglarized…”
“But you don’t think so?”
“I…I don’t know.”
Lindsay pondered that.
“Listen,” Kristen said briskly, “you’re not home, are you?”
“No, I’m in New York,” she replied, before she realized that New York was supposed to be home.
But Kristen was talking about Portland, as if she sensed how Lindsay felt about it even now, after all these years. Home. Portland was home.
“Good. You still live there, right?” When Lindsay murmured an affirmative, Kristen said, “You should stay put, then, Lindsay. Just in case you were thinking of coming back for any reason.”
“I was going to come to the reunion.”
“It’s not until July. Hopefully by then the police will have figured out what’s going on with Haylie’s death. But if I were you, I’d stay as far away from Portland as possible until they find out who did it. I’m not even living at home right now. I’m too scared someone will come after me next.”
“Then…what are you doing there now?”
“We just happened to be here packing up some more stuff because there’s no telling how long we’ll have to be away.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I’m at—” Kristen broke off suddenly.
Then she said, her voice laced with trepidation, “I’m afraid to say over the phone. It might be tapped or something.”
“You’re not serious…are you?”
“Yes, I’m serious. Listen, somebody broke into my house and my car, stole some of my old stuff, and tampered with those reunion invitations…”
“I thought you said it was Haylie.”
“I’m pretty positive it must have been. But…well, what if it wasn’t?”
Lindsay shuddered with renewed consternation about those wee-hour phone calls she’d been getting.
“I guess with Haylie gone, we might never know for sure who sent the pictures,” she said slowly.
But she did know that the phone calls co
uldn’t have come from her. Not if she had been dead for several days.
“I should go. Somebody’s at the door. But listen, Lindsay, if you need to reach me, just try me at work or use the e-mail address on the reunion invitation.”
“But…what should I do about the picture? Do you think I should call the police here in New York?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, what would they do about it? They’d just think it was some stupid, childish prank. Which it probably was. And Haylie probably did it…”
Lindsay could hear the rumble of a male voice in the background, and Kristen said, “Wait, Linds, hang on a second.”
Linds.
She found herself swept by nostalgia at the sound of the familiar nickname. What she wouldn’t give, in this moment, to go back to those innocent high-school days—before everything fell apart. Before Jake’s murder, and New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day, and the baby…
But there was no going back. Especially now.
Jake was dead, and now Haylie was dead, too. Murdered.
“Lindsay?” Kristen was abruptly back on the line, her friend’s formal name back on her lips. “Ross said a couple of detectives just got here and they want to talk to me about Haylie. I’ve got to go.”
“Why do they want to talk to you?”
“I don’t know…because of the picture? Because we were friends years ago? Because I just saw her?”
“Oh, right. You said she came to the reunion committee planning meeting. So she was still spouting off about Ian and Jake?”
“Still. After all these years.”
Lindsay considered that. “You don’t think her death has anything to do with—”
“I don’t know what to think, Lindsay. All I know is that I’m going to be really careful until the police figure out who did this. And you should be, too. I know you probably feel safe in New York, but you never know, even there.”
“Right,” Lindsay agreed absently, thinking about the phone calls, wishing she could tell Kristen—tell someone—about them.
But that would mean revealing that she’d had the baby.
Maybe I should…especially now. Maybe the calls are connected to Haylie’s death. Or Jake’s. Or both. Maybe everything is connected. Maybe I’m not dealing with just a crank caller, but a killer.
“Kristen,” she heard herself say impetuously.
“Yeah?” Kristen sounded impatient; Lindsay heard someone talking in the background on her end again.
The moment, the impulse, were lost.
“Never mind. I’ll let you go. Just be careful, okay?”
“You, too. And listen, quickly, Aurora is supposed to be in New York City sometime this month for a mother-daughter weekend with her oldest—that’s her wedding present.”
“Aurora got married again?”
That probably shouldn’t have been surprising, considering that she’d wed her high-school sweetheart not long after they’d graduated. Those marriages rarely lasted—but Lindsay assumed that if anyone could make it work, it would be Aurora and Eddie.
“Are you kidding? Aurora’s marriage is still going strong,” Kristen said with a snort. “But their daughter just got married and now she’s expecting a baby. Aurora’s wedding gift to her was a girls’ weekend in New York, which they were going to do this fall. But now she wants to do it before her daughter is too pregnant to get around.”
Aurora…a grandmother.
“Wow,” Lindsay murmured. “That’s hard to believe.”
“A lot of things that have happened are hard to believe. So…should I tell Aurora to look you up when she’s there?”
“Yes…make sure that you do.” It would be good to see her, Lindsay thought, suddenly longing for her old friend’s zany sense of humor.
“Just watch your step, Lindsay,” Kristen advised her again. “Whatever you do, wherever you go…watch your step.”
With that final warning, the call was disconnected and Lindsay’s pathway to the past was severed once again.
Close up, in person, the boy looked just like his mother…but not much like his father at all, she noted in mild surprise, stealing a furtive glance over the top of the open New York Post in her hands.
They were on the eastbound number seven train that ran on elevated tracks above Queens Boulevard. At this time of the afternoon, it wasn’t very crowded. Rush hour wouldn’t begin for another hour.
There were plenty of seats, and she had chosen one diagonally across from his, facing him. She wanted to get a good look at the son of Lindsay Farrell and Jake Marcott.
Yes, he looked very much like Lindsay, with hair and eyes more black than brown, and features that were almost too delicate for a man. All except his jawline. His was squared off and rugged where Lindsay’s was gently rounded.
But Jake’s jaw hadn’t been that pronounced, and there was a deep cleft in the boy’s chin. Jake had had none. Jake’s hair had been a lighter shade of brown. And he had been broad where this boy, his son, was lean and lanky. Yes, they were both tall—but Jake had towered at six-four in his socks. This boy was, by her estimation, about six-one.
So? He didn’t have to look like his father, or have his father’s height and build.
But she was expecting to be reminded of her late nemesis when she came face-to-face with his son, and that hadn’t happened.
No, instead, she was reminded solely of that bitch Lindsay.
The train jerked to a stop. The conductor announced the station: Eighty-Second Street in Jackson Heights. An elderly Asian woman, who had been dozing beside Leo, jumped to her feet and headed for the door rustling several white plastic shopping bags.
Something—an apple—dropped from one and rolled across the floor.
Leo jumped up, snatched it, and handed it to her with a fleeting smile before she darted from the train with a muttered thanks.
That smile…
There and gone in a flash, it had revealed a familiar dimple, she realized, pretending to be engrossed in her newspaper as he settled back into his seat and the train rumbled on.
Lindsay’s dimple.
And there was something else…something familiar about Leo’s smile.
Yes, in the unique way that he tilted his head, curved his sensitive lips, and bared a row of even white teeth for a mere instant before resuming his straight face…
Leo reminded her of someone from the past.
Someone other than Lindsay.
And it wasn’t Jake.
She just couldn’t put her finger on who it was…
Oh, well. It would probably come to her eventually, she thought.
For now, she’d just keep an eye on him…and on his mother. It was almost Lindsay’s turn…
But not yet.
Not until I’ve had my fill.
It was still too much fun to taunt Lindsay Farrell, to imagine the nightmares those late-night phone calls must inspire, to imagine her growing trepidation as she comprehended that somebody was in on her deep, dark secret.
Did she realize yet that somebody wanted to watch her suffer, see her die?
She’d definitely become aware of that in time. But not yet.
The train jolted around a curve in the track and the power shorted out.
Under the unexpected cover of darkness, she took the luxury of smiling to herself, thinking of Lindsay’s impending demise. She relished the knowledge that she alone was aware of Lindsay’s fate. She alone was in control of it.
Oh, yes. This was more fun than she’d had in years.
Or ever.
When the lights flickered back on a moment later, her face was carefully masked in neutrality once again.
Chapter 17
“Why did you leave me? You have to pay for what you did.”
Terror pulsed through Lindsay’s veins as she faced the shadowy stranger who held a loaded gun in two outstretched hands, pointed right at her.
“Please…please don’t hurt me.”
“Sorry, but you have
to pay, Mommy.”
The stranger stepped into the pool of light and she saw that he was an adult-sized, squinty-eyed, red-faced newborn with tufts of black hair.
“No! Please!”
There was a shrill ringing sound then, and her creepy tormentor abruptly evaporated.
A dream. It was only a dream, Lindsay realized, sitting up.
Yes, and it was morning. Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains that covered her window, an eastern exposure high on the thirty-fourth floor.
She reached for her alarm clock before realizing that the ringing was coming from the telephone.
Her stomach roiled as she picked up the receiver. It wasn’t the middle of the night, but it wasn’t a reasonable hour yet, either.
Was she in for another eerie prank phone call? A couple of days had passed now since she’d had one, but it was taking her a long time to fall asleep every night. She kept tossing and turning, her body tensed, as if waiting for the inevitable call.
Now, as she pressed the Talk button and said a tentative hello, she braced herself all over again.
She could hear only heavy breathing on the other end of the line.
“Stop calling me,” she said tightly, clenching the phone.
“What?”
The voice was masculine. Not an unearthly falsetto.
“I’m sorry…who is this?” she asked quickly, glancing at the clock again as she stood up. It was just past seven. Who would call at this hour?
A client might…but none of them had her home number, thank God.
So who was on the line?
She lowered the receiver to check the Caller ID window.
“You don’t know me,” the voice was saying when she raised the phone to her ear again, “but my name is Leo Cellamino, and I live in Queens…”
Her gaze automatically shifted to the window. From it, she could see the East River and the sprawling rooftops of the outer borough beyond. The caller lived there, in Queens.
You don’t know me…
So who was he?
Oh.
Oh my God.
Somehow, she knew. Before he even said it, she knew.
It was partially because of the voice—the voice was vaguely familiar.
But it wasn’t just that.
Maybe it was some long-suppressed maternal instinct as well. Some connection that had been forged twenty years ago, and never fully detached.
