by Lisa Jackson
Since the day her father died, Rachel had devoted herself to one goal—becoming the kind of law enforcement officer he would have been proud of.
After entering the kitchen, she clicked on the lights, then punched the ON button of her coffeemaker. As the coffee began to brew, she disarmed her security system, opened the back door, and stepped onto the sidewalk that led around the house to the driveway. The nearby streetlight radiated through the early-morning darkness, allowing her to locate her newspaper where it lay in the middle of her concrete drive. She liked her friendly neighborhood in the Harvest area, loved her neat three-bedroom brick house and appreciated the variety of nice guys she’d met since moving here. She was actually beginning to enjoy dating again. She wasn’t seriously involved with anyone, but she kept hoping the real Mr. Right would come along one of these days. But if he didn’t, she’d be okay on her own. She had a pretty good life, hadn’t she?
When Rachel went back inside her house, she removed the half-filled coffeepot, poured a mug of the steaming black brew, and carried it, along with the newspaper, over to the kitchen table. After sitting down, she spread the paper apart to the front page and took a sip of coffee. Scanning the headlines, she noted that there had been another Beauty Queen Killer murder—this time in Alabama, in a little town south of Huntsville. Cullman. A former Cotton Queen had been brutally killed, her head chopped off.
Rachel shuddered.
The poor woman.
Zipping through the brief article, Rachel shook her head. She had been in law enforcement over sixteen years, and she still couldn’t understand what drove a person to murder. Self-defense, she understood. Cold-blooded, brutal murder, she didn’t understand.
She had been keeping tabs on the slew of Beauty Queen Killer murders for the past few years. The perpetrator was a vicious serial killer who had struck throughout the South over and over again. An old friend of hers from their days with the Chattanooga P.D. was working for a private PI firm that had been hired by a victim’s family to independently search for the killer. She and Lin McAllister kept in touch on a semi-regular basis. Mostly e-mails, but a few phone calls once or twice a year.
As Rachel flipped through the newspaper, she finished off her first cup of coffee. The caffeine stimulated her into full consciousness. A second cup should make her even more alert. But alert for what? Another day of crossword puzzles, watching The View and Oprah and As the World Turns? Trying to concentrate on the most recent Sandra Brown novel?
Two cups of coffee later, with her fourth cup in hand, Rachel sat down in front of her laptop computer, which she kept at the built-in workstation in the corner of her kitchen. When she downloaded her e-mails, she deleted several, then paused when she saw a couple from old friends, high-school classmates from St. Elizabeth’s. Her index finger hovered over the Delete key, itching to erase the messages without reading them. It wasn’t that she had anything against her two old friends—friends she hadn’t seen in twenty years—but she knew both e-mails would be about the upcoming reunion. Rachel had no intention of returning to Portland. Not now or ever. Although she had some wonderful memories of her high-school days, those good memories were overshadowed by two tragic losses. A boy she had adored—Jake Marcott—had been murdered at the St. Valentine’s Day dance their senior year. A part of her still mourned him, although she had long ago stopped loving him. And less than two years after Jake’s unsolved murder, her father—the lead detective on Jake’s murder case—had died of a sudden heart attack. Everyone who knew Mac Alsace suspected that being unable to solve Jake’s murder had literally worried him to death.
Just read the damn e-mails.
Rachel hesitated. A week ago, she had received her packet of information about the high-school reunion, a combined St. Elizabeth’s and Western Catholic High reunion. When another classmate, Aurora Zephyr, had phoned her several months ago, she’d made it clear that she wouldn’t be attending. But Kristen Daniels Delmonico had mailed her the packet and the invitation.
And what an invitation it had been! The very special invitation had included her senior picture cut out of their high-school yearbook. A cute idea—with a sinister twist. A vicious red line marred her smiling face. A bloody slash. Somebody’s idea of a sick joke? She’d known Kristen well enough, way back when, to know despite the fact the packet came from her, she wasn’t the type to do such a despicable thing. She’d never do anything to desecrate Jake Marcott’s memory, not when she’d been in love with the guy, just as Lindsay Farrell had been. And only God knew how many other girls, including Rachel herself, had been fools over him.
You weren’t in love with Jake. Not really. You were infatuated with him. Dreamed of what it would be like for him to kiss you, make love to you, pay you the kind of attention he paid Lindsay and Kristen.
If not for the fact that he’d been murdered that long-ago February night, he would be little more than a vague memory, along with so many other memories of her high-school years. But because of Jake’s death at the hands of a still-unknown assailant, no one who had known him as well as Rachel had would ever be able to forget him.
No more procrastination. Read the e-mails!
Rachel opened Kristen’s e-mail first and read it hurriedly.
Her stomach muscles knotted painfully.
Hi Rach,
I hate like the devil to be the bearer of more terrible news. I can hardly believe it myself. It was only last month that I felt compelled to let you and Lindsay know about Haylie Swanson dying and that a homeless man was arrested for her murder. Now, we’ve just found out that Aurora Zephyr died while on a trip to New York City. She and Lindsay had gotten together while she was there and…No one knows for sure what happened, but it looks like she tripped and fell onto the subway tracks. She didn’t have any ID on her at the time, so it took a while for the police to identify her.
I know you are opposed to our having the class reunion, but with two more classmates gone…
Look, Rach, I wouldn’t say this to just anybody, but my gut instincts—maybe my reporter instincts—are screaming that there’s something just not right about Haylie and Aurora dying within weeks of each other, and both dying violent deaths. I’ve pointed this out to others on the reunion committee and suggested we consider canceling our plans, but everyone else thinks I’m overreacting. What do you think?
Kris
The Kristen Daniels that Rachel had once known was not the nervous, hysterical type, and she doubted that the thirty-eight-year-old Kristen Delmonico was either. So, if Kris’s gut instincts were warning her that something was off center about the recent deaths of two old classmates, then Rachel believed her.
So, what could she do? She wasn’t in Portland or New York City. She hadn’t seen either Haylie or Aurora in twenty years. Although she was sorry to hear about their deaths, their dying had no effect on her life.
Or did it?
Get real, she told herself. Don’t buy into some weird theory that Kristen has concocted in her imaginative reporter brain.
Rachel scrolled down to the e-mail from Lindsay, opened it, and read rapidly through the brief message.
Hello Rachel,
I’m sure by now someone has contacted you with the sad news that Aurora Zephyr died accidentally while visiting here in New York City. I still can’t believe she’s gone. We had such a nice visit while she was here. Like old times.
Strange, isn’t it, that two of our old gang have died recently under such tragic circumstances. I know it’s stupid of me to even think it, but I can’t shake the idea that somehow their deaths are connected to the reunion Kristen and the others are planning. It’s as if fate is trying to warn us not to have a reunion.
What’s your take on this? You were always the sensible, levelheaded one. If anyone can sort through this craziness, you can.
XOXOXO…Lindsay
Rachel took a deep breath, then released it. The corners of her mouth lifted in a tentative smile as she remembered that the sweet, emotiona
l Lindsay always signed all her notes with Xs and Os. Hugs and kisses.
Staring at the computer screen, Rachel read part of the last line. If anyone can sort through this craziness, you can.
Rachel stood, carried her mug of cool coffee to the sink, and dumped it in; then she poured herself a fresh cup. Glancing at the clock on the microwave, she realized it was nearly six. Her stomach growled. She needed to eat a bite of something before she took her medication. More antibiotics. But no more pain pills. Those damn things made her brain fuzzy. She hated that. Being a bit of a control freak, she didn’t like the idea that the drugs influenced her brain.
Pacing in her small kitchen, she thought about the basic facts. From what she’d been told, Haylie Swanson had been slightly unbalanced for the past twenty-plus years, ever since her boyfriend, Ian Powers, had died in a car crash their senior year of high school. It was unfortunate that she hadn’t been able to pull her life together, and just as unfortunate that a homeless guy had robbed and killed her. But how could her death have anything to do with Jake’s murder or the upcoming reunion? And poor Aurora. Rachel remembered how much the dark, curly-haired girl had longed to be an actress. Instead she’d married young and had a baby. Tragic that she had lost her footing and wound up crushed to death by a subway train. But her death had nothing to do with the reunion or with Jake. Accidents happened every day, every hour.
Yeah, so why are you questioning the facts about how they died? It’s more than just your normal policewoman curiosity. Maybe you’re letting your imagination run wild because Kristen and Lindsay are.
But why would three intelligent women have the same doubts?
Because of Jake Marcott. Because one horrible night years ago, a boy all three of them had loved was murdered at the school dance, and this reunion was stirring up memories all of them would prefer to forget.
She knew what she should do—e-mail Kristen and Lindsay to tell them how sorry she was to hear about Aurora, then add that she hoped the reunion came off without a hitch but she wouldn’t be there.
After all, she had the perfect excuse, hadn’t she? She was recuperating from a near-fatal gunshot wound.
Before daylight, while others slept peacefully in their soft beds inside their safe homes, she made yet another pilgrimage to the shrine she was constructing in the basement of St. Elizabeth’s, now abandoned and awaiting demolition. This was her secret place, one she had created for her eyes only, not to be shared with anyone else. Except maybe Jake’s ghost. Sometimes she felt his presence down here in this dark, dank basement. A whiff of the aftershave he’d worn often scented the musty air. And she would swear that every once in a while, she could hear his laughter. She had both loved and hated Jake’s laugh, as she had both loved and hated him.
If only things had been different…If only Jake had been different. He had loved her. She knew he had. But he had been cruel to her and had allowed those bitches to be mean to her, to ignore her, to treat her as if she were nobody.
They thought he had loved them—Lindsay and Kristen. Even Rachel thought he’d cared about her. Fools. All of them. She was the only one he’d ever loved.
Shining the flashlight over the row of lockers in the basement, she smiled. One item at a time. Adding one memento here and there, building this monument to Jake, to his death, to the past. And all the while planning the next execution. They had to die. If she could kill all of them before the reunion, fine. If not, she would find a way to end their lives that night.
She ran her hand over her side, recalling the feel of the knife slashing through her clothing and into her side. Thank God, it had been a superficial wound. And although her hand was healing nicely, it had caused her a great deal of pain. Since she was a gourmet cook, it was easy enough to explain that a paring knife had slipped and slit open the fleshy skin and tendon between her thumb and forefinger.
You’ll pay for the pain you caused me, Lindsay.
She giggled.
Jake had been hot after Lindsay.
All these years she had believed Lindsay’s baby was Jake’s. Boy, had she been wrong! She was glad the child hadn’t been Jake’s. Lindsay was not worthy of being a mother to Jake’s child.
If only she had known the truth years ago. The truth could have saved her from such anguish, such torment, thinking Jake had a child out there somewhere. Alive and well.
Her plans to eliminate Lindsay in New York City had failed. But there was more than one way to accomplish a goal. The reunion was less than six weeks away. If she was lucky, Lindsay and Rachel would come home for the big event. And if not?
Just wait and see.
Was there a way to entice both Lindsay and Rachel back to Portland? Think. What would bring them back here early? Everyone had a weak spot, didn’t they, an Achilles’ heel?
Lindsay’s weakness was her son. Wyatt Goddard’s bastard.
She giggled again.
Do you hear that, Jake? She asked the question in the stillness of the basement beneath St. Elizabeth’s. He’s not your son. He’s Wyatt Goddard’s. Lindsay was screwing around on you and you didn’t even know it. Her son’s name is Leo Cellamino. And I came this close to killing him.
She held up her thumb and index finger to indicate just how close she had been to murdering Lindsay Farrell’s child.
Oh, what a fitting punishment that would be for Lindsay, if her son died. But even more so if the child had been yours, Jake.
It wasn’t fair that Lindsay’s child was alive. Not when her child was dead.
If she could somehow use Lindsay’s child to lure Lindsay back to Portland…But how? If not her son, then what?
The death of a good friend?
She smiled at the thought of killing another of Jake’s women.
What about Rachel Alsace? She was a cop now, in some small city in Alabama. At least that’s what Kristen had told them. So what would draw a policewoman back to Portland? Maybe a twenty-year-old unsolved crime.
Giggling as she danced around in the dark, her feet smacking against the concrete surface, she imagined what it would be like to kill them. One by one. Kristen. Lindsay. Rachel.
Lindsay Farrell and Wyatt Goddard sat side by side in the private detective’s office. Wyatt reached over and clasped Lindsay’s hand, which rested at her side. He gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“A minute since the last time you asked,” Wyatt told her.
“He’s not coming.”
“He’ll be here, Ms. Farrell,” Gene Lester said. “His mother”—he glanced sympathetically at Lindsay—“his adoptive mother is coming with him.”
Wyatt had hired one of New York’s top PIs to locate their son. Although Lindsay had wanted him to wait, to give Leo the time he needed to come to them, Wyatt told her that they had been waiting nearly twenty years.
“But after what happened to him, being abducted by some crazy person the way he was and thinking that when he talked to me, he was talking to her…” Lindsay swallowed the emotion threatening to choke her. She had tried not to think about how close her son—their son—had come to dying, but the very thought plagued her day and night.
Wyatt squeezed her hand again. “Who knows how such a terrible thing happened, but it could be as Gene suggested and someone found out that Leo was my son, knew I was wealthy, and intended to kidnap Leo.”
Before Lindsay could reply, a soft rap sounded on the closed office door. Gene Lester’s secretary opened the door and announced, “Mrs. Betty Cellamino and her son Leo are here.”
“Show them in,” Gene told her.
Lindsay’s heart stopped. For one endless millisecond, she didn’t breathe. The young man entered the room first, and he was all that Lindsay saw. The sight of her son filled her world.
Leo was tall, lanky, and handsome, very much his father’s son in that respect. But his dark hair, his eyes, his nose, the shape of his face were all Farrell. God, he looked so much like her. Except the mouth. His m
outh was a replica of Wyatt’s.
Her son stared at her, his dark eyes filled with questions. Their gazes met and locked. She released a tight, chest-clutching breath and rose to her feet. Wyatt came up off the sofa and stood beside her as they faced the child their one night of wild teenage passion had created.
“Hello,” Leo said.
Wyatt made the first move, taking a step forward and holding out his hand. “I’m Wyatt Goddard. I’m your father, your biological father.”
Leo stared at Wyatt’s hand for a minute, then took it, and they exchanged a cordial shake. Wyatt reached back and pulled Lindsay forward and to his side, his arm resting around her waist.
“This is Lindsay Farrell, your birth mother,” Wyatt said.
Lindsay stood frozen, speechless and unable to move.
Leo nodded, then turned and motioned to the woman still standing in the doorway. “This is my mother, Betty Cellamino.”
Betty shook hands with Wyatt and then with Lindsay.
She looked right at Lindsay when she said, “Thank you for Leo. He’s been a good son, a true blessing.”
Tears gathered in the corners of Lindsay’s eyes. Damn! Don’t do this.
“Thank you.” Lindsay cleared her throat. “I prayed that my baby would go to a loving family, that he’d have a good mother.”
“Ma is the best,” Leo said, as if he needed to defend Mrs. Cellamino.
Lindsay focused solely on her son. “I’m sure she is. It’s what I wanted for you when I…It wasn’t easy for me to sign the papers, to relinquish my rights to you, but I was just a teenager and my parents didn’t know I was pregnant.” She looked at Wyatt. “And neither did your father.”
“Look, I know this is awkward for all of us,” Wyatt said. “Especially after what happened with the fake limo driver. God, what a nightmare for you, son.” Wyatt hazarded a glance at Leo as if questioning his right to call the young man son.
