by Nora Roberts
He pocketed the scissors long enough to take the sketch and study it. "I can't say for certain, but I don't think she's been in my chair. I'd have talked her into shortening that hair—it draws down her face. Does she belong to you?"
"In a way. Maybe I could show it around, even leave a copy of it here? Someone might recognize her."
"Absolutely. Nan!"
The ever-efficient Nan zipped by, took the sketch. Reece refocused on herself long enough to blink. '"Wow. That's, ah, that's a lot of hair falling off my head."
"Not to worry. Look at you! Gorgeous!" He stopped again to turn and admire the newly redheaded Linda-gail.
"I love it!" She spun a circle, showing off the bold red in her sassy new cut. "I'm reinvented. What do you think? What do you think?" she demanded of Reece.
"It's wonderful. It's really fabulous." The bold red turned her from pretty little blonde to hot, hip and happening. "Linda-gail, you look seriously amazing."
"I hit up the makeup samplers." She peered around Reece to admire herself in the mirror. "And I do look amazing. When we get back, I'm going to track down Lo and make him suffer." She turned, angled her head. "I love the highlights, subtle but effective. And I think I see where Serge is going here. Your eyes look bigger—as it they needed to—and your face is more out there. Kudos on the bangs, Serge. Sexy."
"Damn right, frame those gorgeous eyes. All that weight's off your shoulders, your neck. Still, nice, long layers. You'll find it easy to style yourself, I think."
Reece stared at the picture emerging in the mirror. I almost recognize that woman, she thought. I almost see me again.
When her eyes filled, Serge lowered the scissors, glanced at Linda-gail with alarm. "She doesn't like it. You're upset. You don't like it."
"No, no, I do like it. I do. It's been a long time since I looked in the mirror and saw something I did like."
Linda-gail sniffled. "You need makeup samples."
Serge patted Reece's shoulder. '"You're going to make me cry in a minute. At least let me blow it out first."
SHE WANTED TO show off. She'd had the most fantastic day, and looked the part. Of course she shouldn't have let Linda-gail talk her into buying that shirt, even if it was the most delicious shade of yellow. Still, she'd given the salesclerk a copy of the sketch—as she had done in every store Linda-gail had dragged her into.
And she'd been right, the leather jacket looked better on Reece. Though it wasn't quite a zillion dollars, it might as well have been. It was just as far out of her reach.
A great haircut and a great new shirt were enough reward.
She intended to go straight home, admire herself, put the new shirt on, spruce up. Then she'd call Brody and see if he was interested in coming over for dinner.
She'd found some lovely field greens in a market in Jackson, and some nice diver-harvested scallops. And saffron, which she couldn't really afford either, but it would be nice to make a saffron and basil puree for the scallops. Then the Brie and porcini for wild rice.
While Linda-gail might have drooled over the boutiques, Reece had quivered with pleasure in the markets.
She all but danced up the steps as she carted the bags to her apartment. Humming, she unlocked the door, and was so carefree she told herself she could wait until she'd put the bags on the counter to lock it again.
"Gee, Reece, you're going to be a real girl again before you know it." She waltzed to the door, locked it. Then decided everything else could just wait until she'd taken another look at her happy self.
She did pirouettes toward the bathroom just for the pleasure of feeling her shorter, lighter hair swing.
And all the blood in her face drained, all the muscles in her body went saggy with shock as she stared at the mirror.
The sketch was taped to it so that she stared at the face of a dead woman instead of her own. On the walls, the floor, the little vanity, written over and over again with red marker, bright as blood, was the single question.
IS THIS ME?
Shivering, she sank down in the doorway and curled into a ball.
HAD TO BE home by now. Brody thought as he drove around the lake. How long did it take to have somebody whack at her hair anyway? She didn't answer the phone, and he felt ridiculous as he'd called four times in the last hour.
Goddamn it, he'd missed her. And that was even more ridiculous. He never missed anyone. Besides that, she'd only been gone a few hours. Right and a half hours. Plenty of days went by without him seeing her for longer than that.
But on those days, he knew she was right across the lake, that he could wander over and see her if he wanted.
He hadn't yet lowered himself to trying her cell phone, like some pussy-whipped idiot who couldn't be away from a woman for a day without dialing her number. Without hearing her voice.
He'd just go to Joanie's for a while, hang out, maybe have a beer. And keep an eye out for her car. Casually.
Nobody had to know about it.
He spotted her car in its habitual place, and figured his luck was in. He'd just go on up, tell her he'd had to run into town for… what? For bread.
Did he have bread at home? He couldn't remember. Bread would be his story, and he'd stick to it.
He wanted to see her, to smell her. He wanted his hands on her. But she didn't have to know he'd been pacing around his cabin like a lost puppy for the last hour.
He was playing games, he realized as he parked. Making up excuses to come into town and see her.
And. that made him feel like that pussy-whipped idiot.
Best way to offset that, in his opinion, was to be annoyed with her. Because it felt better, he had a scowl on his face as he went up her steps and banged with some impatience on her door.
"It's Brody." he called out. "Open up."
It took her so long to answer, the scowl had turned into knitted brow concern.
"Brody, sorry. I was lying down. I have a headache."
He tried the knob, found it still locked. "Open the door."
"Really, it's moving into migraine territory. I'm just going to sleep it off. I'll call you tomorrow."
He didn't like the sound of her voice. "Open the door, Reece."
"Fine, fine, fine." The lock turned, and she yanked open the door. "Do you have trouble understanding the language we speak here? I have a headache; I don't want company. I certainly don't feel like heating up the sheets."
He let it roll off him because she was pale as wax. "You're not one of those women who get weirded out if they get a bad haircut?"
"Of course I am. I, however, have a great haircut. An outstanding haircut. To get it involved a very long day and some considerable stress. Now I'm tired, and I want you to go away so I can he down."
His gaze tracked over, passed over the bags sitting on the counter. "How long have you been back?"
"I don't know. Jesus. Maybe an hour."
Headache, his ass. He knew her well enough by now to be sure she-could have severed a limb and she'd still have put her groceries away the minute she walked in the door.
"What happened?"
"God, would you back off ? I fucked you, okay, and it was great. The angels cried buckets. We'll do it again real soon. But that doesn't mean I'm not entitled to some goddamn privacy."
"All true," he said in mild tones to contrast to her furious ones. "And I'll give you plenty of privacy as soon as you tell me what the hell's going on. What the hell did you do to your hands?"
He grabbed one, terrified for a moment it was blood smearing her fingers and palms. "What the hell? Is this ink?"
She started to weep, silently. He'd never seen anything more wrenching than the tears simply raining down her cheeks while she made no sound at all.
"For Christ's sake. Reece, what is it?"
"I can't get it off. I can't get it off, and I don't remember doing it. I don't remember, and it won't come off."
She covered her face with her smeared hands. She didn't resist when he picked her up an
d carried her to the bed to rock her in his arms.
* * *
Chapter 17
PORTIONS OF the walls and the floor were smeared where she'd gone at them, Brody could see, with the wet towel now heaped in the tub. He imagined the towel was toast, which would upset her when she was calm enough to think about it.
She'd torn the sketch off the mirror, leaving ragged triangles of paper and tape behind, and had balled it up, tossed it in the wastebasket beside the sink.
He could visualize how it must have been for her, frantically grabbing the towel off the rod, dumping it into the sink to soak. Scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing while the water dripped and sloshed and her breath came out in gasps and sobs.
And still the message was clear a dozen times over.
IS THIS ME?
"I don't remember doing it."
He didn't turn to where she stood behind him, but continued to study the walls. "Where's the red marker?"
"I… I don't know. I must have put it back." Fogged from the headache and tears, she crossed back into the kitchen, opened a drawer
"It's not here." On another spurt of desperation, she pawed through the drawer, then yanked open another, another.
"Stop it."
"It's not here. I must have taken it with me, thrown it away. I don't remember, just like the other times."
His eyes sharpened, but his voice stayed exactly the same. Calm and very firm. "What other times?"
"I think I'm going to be sick."
"No, you're not."
She slammed the drawer, and her eves, red-rimmed from weeping, burned fury. "Don't tell me what I am, what I'm not."
"You're not going to be sick," he repeated as he walked over and took her by the arm. "because you haven't told me about the other times. Let's sit down."
"I can't."
"Fine, we'll stand up. Got any brandy?"
"I don't want any brandy."
""I didn't ask you what you wanted." He began opening cupboards himself until he found a small bottle.
Under other circumstances, he'd have offended her sense of aesthetics by pouring brandy into a juice glass.
"Knock it back, Slim."
She might have been angry, might have been in the grip of despair, but Reece knew when it was pointless to argue. She took the glass, swallowed the two fingers of brandy in one gulp. And shuddered.
"The sketch. It could be me."
"How do you figure?"
"If I imagined it… I've been through violence."
"Ever been strangled?"
"So it took another form." She set the glass down with a snap. "Someone tried to kill me once, and I've spent the last two years waiting for someone to try again. There's a resemblance between me and the sketch."
"In that you're both female and you both have long, dark hair. Or you did." Frowning a little, he readied out to touch the tips of her hair that fell several inches above her shoulders now. "It's not your face."
"But I didn't see her very well."
""But you did see her."
"I don't know.
"I do." Since he knew she wouldn't have coffee, he opened her refrigerator and was pleasantly surprised to see she'd stocked his brand of beer. He took one out, popped the top. "You saw those two people by the river."
"How can you be sure? You didn't see them."
"I saw you." he said simply. "But let's get back to that. What other things don't you remember?"
"I don't remember marking up my trail map, or unlocking my door and dragging it open in the middle of the night, putting the damn mixing bowls in the closet and my hiking boots and pack in the kitchen cup board. Or packing my clothes in my duffel. And there are other things, little things. I need to go back."
"Back where?"
She scrubbed her hands over her face, left them there. "I'm not getting better. I need to go back in the hospital."
"Bullshit. What's this about packing your clothes?"
"I came home one night—the night I went out to Clancy's with Linda-gail, and all my things were packed up. Everything packed in my duffel. I must've done it that morning, or on one of my breaks. I don't remember. And once the flashlight I keep by the bed was in the refrigerator."
"I found my wallet there once. Weird."
She let out a sigh. "It's not the same. I don't put things in the wrong place. Ever. At least… not when I'm aware, not when I'm healthy. It's certainly not normal for me to take bowls out of the kitchen and move them to the shelf in the clothes closet. I don't misplace things because I can't function if I don't know exactly where everything is. And, the point is, I'm not functioning."
"More bullshit." Idly, he poked in the grocery bag. "What're all these leaves and grasses?"
"They're field greens." She rubbed at the headache drilling into her temple. "I need to go. It's what I was telling myself when I packed. I must have been telling myself that all along, back on the trail, pretending everything was on its way back to normal."
"You saw a woman murdered while you were on the trail. Not so normal. I had doubts about that at the time, but now—"
"You did?"
"Not that you saw her—them. But that she was dead. It was possible she got up, walked out of there. Marginally possible. But she's dead as Elvis."
"Are you listening to me? Did you see what I did in there?" She flung a hand toward the bathroom.
"What it you didn't?'
"Who the hell else? "she exploded. "I'm unstable, Brody, for Christ's sake. I'm hallucinating murders and writing on walls."
"What if you're not?" he repeated in the same implacable tone. "Listen, I make a pretty decent living on what-ifs. What if you saw exactly what you said you saw?"
"And what if I did? It doesn't change the rest of it."
"Changes everything. Ever see Gaslight?
She stared at him. "Maybe that's why I'm attracted to you. You're as crazy as I am. What the hell does Gaslight have to do with me regressing to fugue states and writing all over my bathroom?"
"What if you're not the one who wrote all over the bathroom?"
Her head hurt; her stomach was raw from churning. Since she was too tired to walk to a chair, she just sat on the floor and leaned back against the refrigerator. "If you think someone is doing a Charles Boyer on me, you are as crazy as I am."
"Which scares you more, Reece?" He crouched down so their faces were level. "Believing you're having another breakdown, or that someone wants you to believe it?"
Everything inside her trembled. "I don't know."
"Since it's a toss-up, play along with me. What if you saw a
