
# SUPER DARK

By Tanith Morse
_To Elliot, thanks for your tireless support and dedication._

## About this Book

Who or what is Lee Weaver? That is the question in this gripping paranormal romance that reviewers and readers describe as "amazing", "super great" and "impossible to put down."

Haunted by her friend's long-ago disappearance, 17-year-old Sam Harper finds her world unraveling when an alluring stranger reveals a horrifying secret. A captivating tale filled with romance, suspense, and grotesque creatures, Super Dark is a seductive love story that will keep you guessing right until the final page.

## Praise for Super Dark

"First thing first this South London raised woman can write a book! Tanith Morse has left me waiting and wanting more more more! Super Dark is her first YA novel so far but I am here to say that I CANNOT WAIT for Super Dark two" _Nikki's Book Blog_

"Your book left me begging for more of your work! The book had equal parts romance, mystery, and horror, simply amazing. I loved the chemistry that Samantha and Elliot have together, flawless" _Amazon Review_

"This book was a total surprise. Super Dark is a sensational read from start to finish. With a first-class writing style throughout, Super Dark contains a marvelous plot to keep you intrigued from beginning to end. On the whole this was a magnificent read" _Goodreads Review_

"I loved discovering the secrets and reading as Sam figured it all out. It was a very interesting book and had a brand new supernatural creature in it, at least new to me. Major cliff-hanger ending" _YA Teen Readers Book Blog_

"4.5 Stars. A brilliant paranormal romance for Older YA. This is different to most books I have read, the premise is unusual and the book screeches at you from the start, like nails down a blackboard" _Goodreads Review_

"This is literally one of those can't put it down books. I was completely enthralled and I will definitely purchase the next book when it comes out!!!" _Amazon Review_

"I could not put this book down, I ended up staying up late one night to finish it. I can't wait for the next book. It was so refreshing for the supernatural to be something different from most everything else out there" _Goodreads Review_

"Can't wait for the sequel!! I am literally checking every day for the release date of part 2. Great story and keep the books coming!!!" _Amazon Review_

## Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

About this Book

Praise for Super Dark

ONE _Snatched_

TWO _Brief Encounter_

THREE _The Game_

FOUR _The Party_

FIVE _Saatchi_

SIX _Omen_

SEVEN _Transformation_

EIGHT _Muse_

NINE _Greg_

TEN _Revolution_

ELEVEN _Lifting the Veil_

TWELVE _Reconciliation_

THIRTEEN _Deception_

FOURTEEN _Home Alone_

FIFTEEN _Revelation_

More Super Dark

Thank You!

About the Author

Also by Tanith Morse

Copyright Page

##  ‡  
ONE

Snatched

"What are you reading?"

I glanced up from my book. The girl standing over me had a pleasant, open face, but I didn't return her smile. She was the willowy blonde from my English class who sat two seats back. She wore way too much make-up and her roots needed doing, but somehow she made it look right.

She'd tried to catch my eye a couple of times already, but I'd ignored her. If I'd wanted to make friends, I'd have spent lunch in the cafeteria with the others, instead of finding this nice, quiet spot on the benches behind the Science department.

I was hoping not to be disturbed. _Fat chance._

"It's George Orwell, _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ ," I answered.

"Any good?"

"Yes, it's one of the classics."

"What's it about?"

I rolled my eyes. Who the hell didn't know about the Thought Police, Big Brother, and Room 101? Had she been living on another planet?

Undeterred, the blonde sat next to me. She smelled of soap and chewing gum.

"I'm Becky," she said. "We've got English together."

"I know."

"You're Samantha Harper, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"You know, it's funny. When we first met last week, I could have sworn I'd seen you somewhere before. Your face looked so familiar. And then Mr. Maine introduced us and the penny dropped."

My stomach tightened. I knew exactly where this conversation was heading. It wasn't fair. I'd only been at St. Mary's High School a short time and already someone had recognized me.

"You're _her_ , aren't you?" Becky whispered. "You're that girl who was kidnapped."

For a moment, I let the question hang there. Then I nodded.

"Wow, I knew it!" she said. "Obviously, you're a lot older now. But I could still tell." Her face lit up with excitement.

I squinted at my book, trying again to immerse myself in the world of Winston Smith, but it was no use. I clenched my jaws, trying to contain my emotion. "If you don't mind, Becky, I'd rather not talk about this."

Her smile dropped. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. Hope I haven't offended you."

"Not at all," I said. "It's just... well, it's not something I like to think about."

"I understand. Bad memories and all that."

"Exactly."

In the awkward silence that followed, Becky began making little pleats in the hem of her skirt, then smoothed them out and tried a different tack. "Did the police ever find Elliot?" she asked. "You know, the little boy who was abducted with you?"

My mouth became a thin, tight line. I said nothing.

Becky kicked a pebble with the toe of her tennis shoe. "I remember seeing your picture in the newspaper. Must be weird being so famous."

My mind raced back ten years to a time when the world had seemed a safer place—a time before my innocence was cruelly shattered. I could see it all as if it were yesterday.

Elliot Marsh had lived next door to me since we were toddlers. We'd attended the same nursery and primary schools, and our parents were the best of friends. He was the type of kid who'd take a punch for you, lie for you, or share his last Snickers bar with you. He seemed tough, but he had a big heart. If anyone picked a fight with me at school, I always knew Elliot had my back. I knew I could depend on him, no matter what.

Elliot and I spent most summers together, climbing trees, having water fights, playing video games, watching cartoons, and teasing the neighbor's dog. We even went to Disneyland together once. We had the kind of friendship that only comes around once in a lifetime.

Neither of us could have imagined what was about to happen.

The snow had come early to London that dark Halloween night, as Elliot and I started trick-or-treating on our street. We were both seven, but he was six months older. The two of us had felt so grown up dressed as Batman and Batgirl, trudging from house to house in search of candy. By the time we'd finished the rounds, our buckets were nearly filled to the brim. People had been generous—but I wanted more.

"Let's start heading back," Elliot said.

"But I still have a little room in my bucket," I whined. "And I hardly got any chocolate."

"You know what our parents said."

"They'll never know. Let's try one more street."

"Do you reckon we should? Didn't my mum say we should stay where she can see us?"

"What are you, a scaredy cat?" I teased.

"No, I'm not scared of anything," Elliot retorted.

"Then let's go!"

"But dinner's gonna be ready soon. I'm hungry."

"All right. If you're too chicken, then I'll hit the next street on my own."

He hesitated, then relented. "Okay, okay, I'll come."

We took a left turn at the roundabout and started trudging up an unfamiliar street. Our boots, now ankle-deep in snow, made eerie, hollow sounds as they crunched on the pavement. We could see our breath in icy clouds.

Suddenly, I felt an odd sensation, as if something had thrown a handful of wet leaves at my back. It made me freeze in my tracks.

We heard the sputter of an engine—an old, tired sound, like the last chokes of a dying witch. We spun around and saw a battered, white van speeding in our direction, its headlights blinding us. When the vehicle pulled up alongside us, it screeched to a stop and an enormous man jumped out.

He was the most hideous creature I'd ever seen: seven feet tall, with bloodshot eyes, dirty brown overalls, and a matted beard that hung down to his waist. His bushy brows met in the middle, and his neck and hands were covered in thick, black hair. His lips scared me the most: they were purple and punctured with teeth marks.

What happened next was a kind of blur. One minute we were standing by the curb, clutching our trick-or-treat candy—and the next minute, this monstrous creature had scooped us up under his arms and shoved us into the back of his van. Candy spilled from our abandoned, overturned buckets, making a colorful stream in the snow.

Inside, the van was dark and damp. The floor was covered with large clumps of hay, as though it had been used to haul livestock. The putrid smell of rotten meat was overwhelming.

As the van rattled up the road, Elliot and I huddled together like a pair of scared rabbits, holding each other tight for comfort. I'll never forget the warmth from his tiny fingers as they interlocked with mine, or the way he tried not to tremble for my sake. Elliot was putting on a brave face, but I knew he was just as frightened as I was.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I noticed we were not alone. Sitting a couple of feet away was a silhouette; when we passed a streetlamp, I could see it was a woman with swarthy skin and long, dark hair that was gathered back in two big bunches. She was dressed in strange layers of embroidered cloth that reminded me of a Russian _Matryoshka_ doll. Chunky, gold bracelets weighed down her spindly wrists, and her calloused fingers sported an array of antique medallion rings.

I gasped when I saw her eyes: black, unflinching, and potently evil.

I burst into tears, and once I'd started, I couldn't stop. I was terrified. Elliot cradled me in his arms, stroking my hair to make me feel warm and protected, but I could tell he wanted to cry, too.

"What are you going to do with us?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound serious and brave.

The woman didn't answer.

"I want my mum," I whimpered.

Elliot continued trying to calm me. After a moment, he looked the woman dead in the eye, an expression of defiance on his face. When he spoke, his voice sounded much older. "Let my friend go," he said. "I don't care what you do to me. Just let her go. She doesn't want to be here."

The woman folded her arms across her chest and glared in reply, her face as grim and impenetrable as ever.

My sobs intensified. I believed now that we were going to die. This was it. We were Hansel and Gretel, about to be eaten by the witch.

"Let my friend go," Elliot repeated. "I promise I'll be good. I won't scream or anything. I'll do whatever you say. Just please... let her go."

Abruptly, the woman made a violent stabbing gesture with her hand, and then she turned toward the driver. " _Muzas gost!_ " she rasped. Her voice sounded unearthly.

The man hit the brakes and the van skidded to a halt. The woman continued muttering in a strange, foreign language as she wrenched me from Elliot, unbolted the back doors, and shoved me out onto the street.

The last image I had of my best friend was his sweet, tear-stained face, his tiny hand waving goodbye to me as the van doors closed.

I never saw Elliot Marsh again.

As I picked myself up, I saw that the snow had begun falling again. Huge, white flakes sifted down from a treacherous sky, like a terrible judgment from God.

I glanced left and right, trying to get my bearings. I was in the middle of nowhere, miles from home, alone and terrified.

The windows of the houses around me were dark and as empty as a skeleton's eye sockets. I just stood there, frozen, not knowing what to do. Then, wiping my nose on my sleeve, I took a deep breath and started walking up the driveway of the nearest house.

When I got to the door, I found I was too short to reach the brass knocker, so I had to call through the letterbox. "Help me, help me! My friend's been kidnapped!"

Instantly, the lights came on in the hallway and an old lady in a flannel dressing gown appeared. "What on earth's the matter, love?" she asked. "Has someone hurt you?'

I collapsed in her arms, sobbing. "Please miss, a man and a woman have kidnapped my friend. You've got to help me find him."

The old lady ushered me into her living room and told me to start from the beginning. I was talking so fast that everything came out in a jumble, but eventually, she got the picture. She phoned the police and reappeared moments later with a cup of hot cocoa. When I sipped it, I finally stopped shivering.

Thirty minutes later, a patrol car arrived to take me home. As my parents comforted me, a detective took a detailed description of my kidnappers. I told him as much as I could remember.

A nationwide search for Elliot was launched. The media got wind of the story, and before I knew it, my name and face were plastered all over the front pages. Everything just seemed to snowball from there. All the big news stations wanted a piece of me. I made televised appeals, posters went up everywhere, and hundreds of hoax sightings poured in.

Our abductors were dubbed the Gruesome Twosome on account of their hideous appearance. At one point, a famous tycoon even offered a £50,000 reward for Elliot's safe return, but it was never claimed.

Despite an extensive search, no trace of my best friend was ever found. Without any new information, public interest quickly waned and the police had to admit that they were no closer to solving the mystery.

My life would never be the same.

I had missed a lot of school because of all the media attention, and everywhere I went, people recognized me. Kids pointed at me in the street while their parents shook their heads and thanked God I wasn't their child. I felt like a circus freak.

Broken and traumatized, I wound up seeing a counselor every month until I was twelve, to help me cope with the situation. I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression. I had trust issues, insomnia, a fear of large crowds, and a dozen other problems I was barely even aware of.

Then, when I was fourteen, things got worse. My parents divorced, Mum was given custody, and we spent the next couple of years living like two hobos, moving from place to place and trying to make ends meet. Mum took what temp work she could to pay the bills and keep a roof over our heads, but nothing was ever permanent. Nowhere felt like home. I lost count of how many times I had to change schools. We were always on the move, always on the run, but the past was never far behind us.

"You still haven't answered my question," Becky said impatiently, bringing me back to the current moment. "Did the police ever find Elliot?"

The sun had gone behind a cloud and there was now a dark chill in the air.

"No, they didn't," I replied.

"How sad." Her icy stare never wavered.

I glanced at my watch and saw that my lunch time was over. I snapped my book shut. "Listen, I've got to go. My next class is in five minutes. Maybe I'll see you around." Before she could answer, I swung my bag over my shoulder and headed toward the foyer.

St. Mary's High School was a labyrinth of gloomy corridors and locked doors, a half-dozen Neo-Gothic buildings scattered across a wide expanse of badly tended grounds. There were so many rooms that I often got lost on my way to class. Armed with the crumpled floor plan I'd been given on the first day, I tried to find my last period history class.

I liked History with Mr. Treagus because it reminded me that there were people in the world with lives worse than mine. World War Two, the Black Death, and the Russian Revolution helped put my problems in perspective. The whole planet was screwed up. Somehow, I found this perversely comforting.

Mr. Treagus had a chronic smoker's cough, a middle-aged spread around the waist, and a penchant for old tweed jackets with suede elbow patches. But he was passionate about history. When he spoke, his dark eyes gleamed like those of an excited hamster, willing you to be as enamored with the facts as he was.

After calling for silence, Mr. Treagus scrubbed down the whiteboard and scribbled the words: _August 28_ th _, 1963._

"Right, does anyone know what happened on this date?" He rolled up his sleeves and faced the class. "Here's a clue: it didn't happen in the UK."

Someone raised their hand. "The great march on Washington?"

"Well done, Enid!" Mr. Treagus boomed. "At least I know I haven't been talking to myself all this time."

The class tittered.

"Okay," he said, "turn your textbooks to page twenty and we'll continue where we left off on Tuesday."

We were studying the American Civil Rights Movement, which was fascinating, but today I found it difficult to concentrate. I was nervous and on edge. Since my impromptu meeting with Becky at lunch, I felt sure everyone was watching me, maybe even laughing at my misfortune. _How many of my classmates have Googled me? How many of them are talking about me behind my back right now?_

I slumped down with my hood pulled low over my face, hoping I'd blend into the background. Now I was convinced that it was only a matter of time before someone else approached me and started asking stupid questions. _If that happens, the only answer they'll get is my fist._

"Everyone, I've got a special treat for you." Mr. Treagus pulled out an old tape recorder from his desk and played us Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech. The words were so uplifting, the voice so melodious and righteous, I forgot myself for a while. I started to calm down a little. Perhaps I _was_ over-reacting and being paranoid. Nobody was watching me, really. _Maybe I can do this after all._

When the bell finally sounded at the end of class, I packed up my things and slipped out the door before anyone got too close. After racing through the foyer, I left St. Mary's behind and made my way to the bus stop on the high street. It had started raining heavily, and I'd forgotten to carry an umbrella; within a few minutes, I was totally soaked. But I only lived twenty minutes away, and the buses home were as regular as clockwork.

Eventually, the bus arrived. After swiping my card, I climbed to the top deck and took a seat behind a couple of rowdy school kids. I stared out the window at the pelting rain and marveled at how similar Elmfield was to every other town we'd lived in: a grim myriad of high-rise blocks, industrial estates, and Victorian terraces. Like every other town, the occupants were as gloomy and miserable as the weather. Elmfield was non-descript, unremarkable. _The perfect place for me to remain anonymous._

When I arrived at my stop, I climbed off the bus and ran down the street like a mad person, holding my bag over my head for shelter. The rain was turning my books to papier-mâché, but I didn't care. It was worth the sacrifice to save my hair. I'd spent the whole previous night straightening it, and I had no intention of letting the frizz back yet.

Within a couple of minutes, I reached my street. Our apartment was a rental in the basement of one of those innocuous, run-down Victorian conversions you can find on any London street. The entrance was straight off the sidewalk and you had to climb down a few steps to reach the front door. We had two bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen. The apartment was pretty well-hidden, which I Iiked, but it also meant there wasn't a whole lot of light in the place, even with the curtains open.

I ambled down the grimy stone steps, barely noticing the pools of filth and litter strewn paving slabs. When I got to the front door, I glanced through the frosted glass and saw the hallway light was off. Mum wasn't home from work yet.

I let myself in, hung up my coat, and headed straight for my bedroom, which was at the back of the house. It hadn't changed much since we'd moved in; there was nothing in it but a wardrobe, a bed, and a cross-trainer. I didn't own a computer, and most of my belongings—weights, books, CDs—were kept in a suitcase by the window, because I couldn't be bothered to unpack. What was the point, when we'd probably be moving again?

I threw down my soggy bag, stripped off my wet clothes, and slipped into a Reebok tracksuit. Then I went to the bathroom, bathed my face at the sink, and took a long drink of water. For a moment, I gazed in the mirror and ran a critical eye over my reflection. Staring back at me was a pretty but tired-looking girl with large, hazel eyes and a dimpled chin. My short, black hair had lost most of its bounce from the rain, and my bangs hung loosely over one eye. _I look like a shaggy dog. I need a haircut!_

Since the age of fifteen, I'd been dying my hair and keeping it short in an effort to erase the memory of the little redhead whose photo had been splashed about by the media. When I was a little redhead girl, everyone had pointed at me and felt sorry for me. Not anymore. I didn't want anyone's pity. I just wanted to be a normal teenager and forget that horrible Halloween night had ever happened.

I walked back to my room to start my workout. I did an hour or so of exercise every day: forty minutes of cardio, twenty minutes of abdominal crunches, and thirty minutes with my weights. I'd started working out religiously about a year earlier, after my doctor recommended it was a better cure for depression than medication. She was right. During the time I spent sweating it out on the cross-trainer, I never thought once about my problems. That was the only time I felt free and completely in control of myself.

When I'd finished my work out, I rested the chrome dumbbells on the floor and dried off with a towel. Then I decided to grab something to eat. I padded over to the kitchen cupboard, took down a mug, and switched on the kettle to make some coffee. Just as the water reached a boil, I heard keys rattling in the front door. Mum was home.

"My god, that weather is abysmal!" She shook out her umbrella, showering the linoleum with raindrops. "The commute to work was an absolute nightmare. I never want to see another human-being for as long as I live."

I muffled a snicker. "Fancy a coffee? I've just put the kettle on."

"Love one, thanks."

I took down another mug from the cupboard and spooned in some instant coffee. Then I poured in the hot water, stirred it a little, and handed her the cup.

"Thanks, darling." For a moment, she stood in the doorway with a vacant expression, sipping her black, sugarless coffee. Her long brown hair clung loosely to her face in soft, fuzzy curls, and her usually immaculate make-up was smeared. But even a hailstorm couldn't have diminished her beauty.

My mother was slim and delicately put together, with eyes as large and as hazel as mine. Sadly, that was the only feature I'd inherited from her. Everything else I got from my dad: my pale complexion, my freckles, and even my dimpled chin. I'd always wished I looked more like Mum. Next to her, I always felt so short and stumpy, but she consoled me by saying she wished she had my "strong, athletic legs." I had another word for them: chunky.

"How was school?" Mum's question snapped me from my reverie.

"Okay," I said with a shrug.

"Make any new friends?"

"Nope, but a girl recognized me today," I replied sullenly. "A girl named Becky, from my English class. She started asking all sorts of questions."

Mum sipped her drink in silent reflection. "Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. It always does. Let me know if she keeps bothering you and I'll tell someone at the school to have a word with her."

"No need for that," I said hastily. "I probably just need to develop a thicker skin. But sometimes I get so sick of everything, you know? I'm tired of all the questions... tired of people dragging up the past."

"Tell me about it." Mum placed the mug on the sideboard and took out a packet of Pall Malls. She was seized by a sudden coughing fit, but a puff of the cigarette seemed to quiet it. "So, what do you have planned for the weekend? Anything exciting?"

I shook my head. "I'll probably go down by Anne and Neil. It's been a while since I've seen them and I keep meaning to go."

Mum looked uncomfortable. Anne and Neil were Elliot's parents. Despite everything, I'd managed to remain close to them. They regularly sent me Christmas and birthday cards, and twice a year, I traveled back to my old neighborhood to visit them. A couple of years earlier, Mum had severed all contact with Neil. I didn't know all the ins and outs of their quarrel, but from what I gathered, it had something to do with money.

When Elliot was abducted, Dad and Neil had set up an appeal fund, and thousands of pounds of public donations had poured in. Then, when some of the accounts didn't tally, Neil had accused my father of stealing. In the end, the matter was resolved, with Neil admitting he'd been wrong about Dad, but Mum still hadn't forgiven him.

I hadn't let my parents' quarrel affect my opinion of Anne and Neil, who had always been so lovely to me. I felt it my duty to stay in touch. I owed it to Elliot. His parents were alone and childless now, and they saw me as a sort of surrogate daughter. How could I deny them my friendship?

Mum chose her next words carefully. "Darling, I'm worried about you. Shouldn't you be spending more time with people your own age? I mean, Neil and Anne are great, but shouldn't you, well..." She paused to take a drag on her cigarette. "You hardly ever go out anymore. When you're not at school, you spend all day sleeping or on that blasted cross-trainer. I'm telling you, it isn't healthy. A girl your age should be going out, having fun, doing things other teenagers do."

I rolled my eyes. "You're just saying that because you don't like Neil."

"It's got nothing to do with that," she countered. "I just don't want you throwing your life away when there's so much you could be doing. I mean, when was the last time you went on a date?"

"Oh god, not that old chestnut," I groaned.

"I'm serious, Sam. When was the last time?"

"When was the last time _you_ had a date?" I retorted.

She stubbed out her cigarette in frustration. "This isn't about me. It's about you. And I say it's time you started acting your age. Do what other seventeen-year-olds do! Go out and get wild for once."

I drained the last of my coffee. "I feel a headache coming. I'm going to lie down for a while."

 * * *

The next day, I took the overland train from Elmfield to King's Cross, where I transferred to a fast train to Lansbury. The journey usually took an hour, so I brought _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ along to keep me company. Hard, wet rain against the windows blurred the outlines of the emerald hills we passed, and the rhythm of the wheels and the rocking of the carriage soon lulled me to sleep.

When the train finally pulled into Lansbury station, I shivered as I alighted on the platform. A fog of gloom hung over the place, a dark sense of abandonment. It was like a fairground out of season. At least the rain had stopped, so I avoided getting another soaking.

Anne and Neil's home was a five-minute walk from the station. They still lived on the quiet, tree-lined street with rows of identical houses made of dark sandstone. Number forty-seven was the only one with a purple door—but I would have known the way blindfolded.

For a few long moments, I stood by the front gate, deliberating over whether or not to go in. Then, with an odd sense of nostalgia, I glanced up at the house next door— _my_ old house. My parents had sold it after the divorce. A light shone in my bedroom window. Someone was in there, but I couldn't see through the blinds. _It must be the new owners._

It was always weird coming back to my old neighborhood. It felt like a century had passed since Elliot and I had played here so happily as kids, unaware of the terrible nightmares ahead. It gave me an odd, wistful feeling. _I wish I could turn back time._

Cautiously, I unlatched the gate and made my way up the gravel drive, taking care to walk quietly. I rang the bell and waited.

A minute passed.

Two.

Just as I was turning to leave, I heard the thump of approaching footsteps from inside. Then the door opened and Anne appeared.

"Sam!" she said happily, flinging her arms around me. "So lovely to see you again. Come in, come in, you must be absolutely freezing, poor thing."

She helped me off with my coat and hung it on the rack. Then she took me through to the living room. The place was decorated with a scattering of cozy Turkish rugs, a green corduroy sofa, and shelves stacked with books lining the walls. In the middle of the room, a silver tea set and a box of Twinning's tea sat on a table. The heavenly aroma of something baking wafted out of the kitchen.

As she joined me on the sofa, Anne asked, "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please."

"Two sugars?"

"Ha! You remembered," I laughed.

"I hope you'll be staying for dinner? I'm making lamb chops with parsnips and carrots followed by tiramisu."

"You bet!" I replied. "I hope you haven't gone to too much trouble."

"No trouble at all, my dear," Anne said, patting my hand gently. "It's not every day we get the pleasure of your company. Neil's just popped upstairs, but he'll be down in a bit."

She poured the tea and handed me a cup. Then she went to the kitchen and came back with a tray of freshly baked cupcakes—my favorite treats, ever since I was five.

I stared at the floor a while, munching my cupcake and sipping tea, listening to a barrage of questions about my personal life. I tried my best to appear upbeat, but inside I was crying. Anne had aged so much since I'd last seen her. She'd lost weight; through her blue summer dress I could see how painfully thin her arms were. Streaks of silver tainted her once-auburn hair, and dark circles had formed under her eyes. She was wasting away.

"Hello, poppet," said a gravelly voice from the doorway. "Come and give your old Uncle Neil a hug." I looked up and saw a tall man with wavy, iron-gray hair.

"Hello, Neil," I smiled, getting up.

He pulled me into a bear-hug and spun me round a couple times, making me shriek with laughter. As he put me down, I could detect the scent of alcohol on his breath.

"How's your mother?" he asked brightly.

"She's fine," I replied. "She just started a new job at a charity."

"Great, send her my regards."

"I will."

We went to the dining room where a table was set for three. Forcing a smile, I sat at the head of the table, with Neil and Anne on either side. From the way they kept fussing over me, I decided that they probably didn't entertain guests very often, which wasn't really surprising. The house had a deep melancholy feeling. On the other hand, the food was delicious. Anne was the best cook I knew—certainly better than my mother, whose signature dish was beans on toast.

After a while, we ran out of things to say and the three of us drifted into uncomfortable silence. Neil concentrated on his lamb chops, taking his time to cut the meat into tiny pieces. He rested his elbows on the table, chewing the meat methodically. He pushed a plate of carrots toward Anne. She pushed them back and shot a look of disgust at him. _Something is definitely wrong here._

"These parsnips are delicious Anne," I said, breaking the tension.

"Glad you like them," she replied, picking half-heartedly at her plate. "Oh, by the way, did Neil mention we've hired a private detective to review Elliot's case?"

"No, he didn't." I wiped my mouth on a napkin. "Wow. That's great."

"It's costing us a small fortune," Neil enthused. "But I reckon it'll be worth it. Harry's only been on the case a few weeks and already he's found some promising leads. He says there were loads of things the police missed the first time around. For example, did you know there was a sighting of a boy fitting Elliot's description in Liverpool, just a week after he was went missing? A motorist said he saw him at a petrol garage, but nobody's bothered to follow it up till now."

"You're kidding!" I exclaimed. "Why on earth didn't the police investigate it at the time?"

Neil's face darkened. "Because the motorist said the boy had brown hair, and Elliot's is blond. So the police dismissed it."

"But his abductors could have easily colored his hair as a disguise," Anne put in excitedly. "What do you think, Sam? It's possible, isn't it?"

"Anything's possible," I murmured.

Her face was filled with hope. I could tell she desperately wanted to believe in this "breakthrough" and needed my reassurance.

Gently, I reached across and patted her hand. "This is the best news I've heard all week! Seriously, guys. I'm so pleased."

I meant every word.

Their tenaciousness was astounding. After all this time, Anne and Neil still believed their little boy would be found. They still believed Elliot would one day be returned to them, unharmed. That was the reason they'd never sold this house. They'd kept Elliot's bedroom exactly as he'd left it, because they wanted their baby to know where to find them—if he ever found his way home.

It was sweet—and heartbreaking.

As Anne chatted away, I didn't have the heart to tell her what I really thought—what everyone thought.

Elliot was dead.

_How could a child go missing for this long and still be alive?_

Sure, there was a slim chance that maybe, just maybe, someone was holding him captive somewhere, living under an alias. Perhaps he'd been taken out of the country or given to adoptive parents.

But my gut instinct told me this was unlikely. Anne and Neil hadn't been there that night. They hadn't seen the evil on the faces of those two creatures or their cruel, hungry eyes. Only bad people snatched children. Wherever the Gruesome Twosome had taken Elliot, you can bet it wasn't Disneyland.

After dinner, we went back to the living room, where Neil presented me with two gifts wrapped in shiny gold paper.

"What's this?" I asked with a frown.

"Belated birthday presents," Anne replied, smiling.

"Oh guys, you shouldn't have."

Anne and Neil exchanged knowing glances. "Why don't you open them?"

I selected the biggest and tore the paper off. "A new hair dryer! It's just what I needed. Thanks so much, guys."

Their beams intensified. "Go on, dear. Open the other one." Anne was bursting with anticipation.

I stuck my finger under the paper and carefully un-wrapped the box. Inside was a beautiful, framed picture of me and Elliot, aged about six. We looked like two cherubs, smiling happily for the camera without a care in the world. I'd forgotten how cute Elliot's face had been, how striking his blue eyes were. I'd also forgotten how chubby he was. Anne was constantly feeding him.

Then I glanced at my younger self and felt a twinge of sadness. My face looked so innocent, so hopeful and alive. It was a face that hadn't yet been stained by the evils of the world.

"Thanks, guys. I'll treasure this forever." I felt tears rising in my chest. "Um..." I paused. "Is it all right if I go up to Elliot's room now? I'd just like to sit there for a while to—you know, reflect and stuff."

Anne and Neil looked at each other, then nodded in unison.

I followed Anne up the stairs and into Elliot's room, surrounded by a haze of bittersweet memories. There were so many little reminders of him everywhere. His Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. His Thomas the Tank Engine train set. Polaroid snapshots of us in happier days. On the far wall beside the window was one of his many helicopter paintings. Elliot had liked drawing helicopters and his artwork showed surprising maturity for his age. Had things turned out differently, I was certain he'd have grown up to be a great artist.

A lump formed in my throat.

I thought of all the times Elliot had stuck up for me at school, all the times he'd picked me up when I was down, all the jokes he'd told that made me laugh. And then, of course, there was his ultimate sacrifice: he had saved my life. For a seven-year-old kid, he had been pretty damned special.

Anne sat on the bed and gazed vacantly round the room. For a long while, she remained motionless, her eyes narrow and unreadable. Then her face lit up, as if she'd just remembered something pleasant. "In the beginning, I used to sleep up here every night. I'd hold onto that teddy bear of his, thinking about how beautiful he was as a baby. How soft his skin was..." She frowned and shook her head. "That was the only way I could feel close to him. Sleeping in his bed."

I nodded in sympathy. I knew exactly what she meant. Just being up here made me feel like Elliot was with us—in spirit, at least.

After a few moments, Anne left me alone. I went over to the bed and hugged the pillow. It felt soft and fluffy in my arms. "I'm so sorry, Elliot. Please forgive me," I whispered. "I didn't mean to do this to you."

The truth was, deep down, I blamed myself for what had happened that night. If only I hadn't been so pig-headed and greedy. If I hadn't insisted on disobeying our parents, Elliot might still be alive. He'd be all grown up and going to college, making Anne and Neil happy, and all would have been right with the world.

I lost track of time, and I was startled back to reality when Neil poked his head through the door and asked, "Would you like to spend the night, Sam?"

Through my tears, I looked up, but I was unable to speak. He walked over and touched my shoulder gently.

"It's getting late, and we don't want you traveling alone at this time of night. We've got plenty of space. Why don't I make up a bed for you in the guest room?"

"Thanks Neil, I...I think I'd like that." I wiped away a tear.

He ruffled my hair affectionately. "Come on, poppet, let's turn off the lights and go downstairs. We can watch a movie or something to lighten the mood."

Gratefully, I followed Neil to the door as he snapped off the light, plunging the room into darkness.

##  ‡  
TWO

Brief Encounter

"Can anyone tell me what the recurring animal motif means?" Mr. Maine asked as he pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with one knuckle. "Anyone?"

The class remained silent.

It was Monday morning, and our English teacher was discussing _A Streetcar Named Desire_ by Tennessee Williams.

Mr. Maine had a prematurely aged face, a crew cut, and a five-day growth of stubble on his chin.

"Sam," he said, looking at me. "Any ideas?"

"Sorry, could you repeat the question?" I stammered.

"You haven't been listening, have you?"

"Yes I have," I replied defensively.

"Then what did I just say?'"

"You were talking about motifs..." My voice trailed off.

Mr. Maine rolled his eyes. "All right, let me recap. Stanley Kowalski is a macho male with animal characteristics. Throughout the play, Tennessee Williams constantly references this. In your view, what does this represent?"

"It represents desire," I said softly. "Stanley Kowalski is a man ruled by his primal instincts. He can't help himself. He's the beast to Blanche's beauty."

Someone giggled.

"Very well said, Sam. The beast to Blanche's beauty. I like it. Excellent!" Mr. Maine turned to the whiteboard and wrote the word DESIRE in big, bold letters. Then he started handing out photocopied extracts from the play.

"I'm going to split you into groups and you're going to work on a little project for me," he said. "I expect you to have this done by Thursday, when you'll have to give a presentation of your findings."

Swiftly, he worked his way around the room, handing each of us a bundle of papers stapled together. He strolled back to the front of the class and then spun around to face us and began pointing at random students, assigning us to groups. I ended up in a group with Becky and some guy called Frasier Harrison.

Frasier was big and blocky with thick glasses and bad skin. He dressed like he was way older than seventeen, wearing a camel-colored trench coat that wouldn't have looked out of place in a '40s gangster flick. Frasier was the first to arrive at school in the mornings and the last to leave after the final bell.

I searched my brain for other trivia I knew about Frasier. He had once said he refused to drink diet soda because "Aspartame is bad for you." The only time I'd ever heard him sound excited, he was talking about Bill Gates and Microsoft.

Becky motioned to me to stand up and help her push two tables together. "Isn't it great we're going to be working together?" she trilled. "I think this is fate."

"If you say so," I replied noncommittally.

Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Sam, about the other day. I'm _so_ sorry. I feel like such a klutz for asking you about—well, you know."

"It's fine, Becky. I'm over that now. Forget about it."

"Less talking, please, girls," Mr. Maine snapped. "You've got work to do and I don't want to have to repeat myself."

He instructed us to take a scene from the play and analyze the themes and metaphors explored by Tennessee Williams, giving specific examples from the dialogue. Then he told us that the best group would win a prize on Thursday.

"What sort of prize?" someone asked. "I bet it's another packet of sweets."

Mr. Maine smiled mysteriously. "Well, you'll just have to wait and see. All I'll say is that it's _not_ sweets. It's something else."

"A Bentley?" another student quipped.

As the class laughed, I studied the papers in front of me. We'd been given the scene where Blanche reveals the dark secrets of her past to Mitch. It was one of the most dramatic scenes in the play, with lots of meaty dialogue and imagery. I was pleased.

I looked at Becky and Frasier and said, "So, how do you think we should tackle this? Should we read it together and then brainstorm afterward?"

Frasier twiddled his pen, his eyes fixed on his paper. I noticed that his skin had broken out in a particularly bad rash and one side of his cheek was red and puffy.

"Sounds like a good idea," Becky agreed. "Let's get started."

Silently, we began to read. Becky was the first to finish.

"Oh my gosh, this is the best scene ever! There's so much for us to talk about. So many themes and metaphors. Listen, I think we should do it like this..." She went on for five whole minutes without taking a breath, but most of what she said made no sense. I got the distinct feeling that she was trying to impress us.

She ended her speech with, "So what do you think?"

I glanced at Frasier. "What do you think? Got any ideas to bring to the table?"

"Oh, I've got plenty of ideas," he said. "But little Miss Chatterbox here won't let me get a word in edgeways."

"Rude!" Becky said, kicking his leg under the table. "Take that back."

Frasier's look of surprise at being kicked quickly transformed into a playful smirk and I knew that he'd only been teasing Becky. That made me smile, too—and it felt good.

Finally, the bell rang and everyone started to pack up. Over the noise, Mr. Maine shouted, "Alright, that's it for today. Next week we'll watch the film version of the play with Marlon Brando. It's a classic."

"Sounds like a blast," Becky muttered as she tossed her bag over her shoulder. Then she looked at me and asked, "What are you doing for lunch?"

"I don't know," I said evasively. "I might go out."

"Why don't you come with us to the cafeteria? They have pretty decent hamburgers." She looked at Frasier, who nodded in agreement.

"Okay," I said, shrugging.

Frasier trailed along behind us as we walked through the shadowy corridors, surrounded by the familiar smell of floor wax and pencil shavings.

The cafeteria was absolutely packed. For the first time, I truly appreciated how many students attended St. Mary's, and it made me feel a little out of my depth. We stood at the long serving counter, studying the steamy expanse of food and carefully weighing up our options. There was a lot to choose from, but most of it was unhealthy. In the end, Becky went for a burger and fries with a sticky toffee pudding. I had the same, but decided to skip the pudding.

"I think I'll be good today," Becky sighed, pushing a paper cup under the drink dispenser. "I'll only get a diet Coke. Got to be watching those calories." She patted her non-existent belly.

"Tell me about it," I muttered darkly.

When we'd finished paying for our food, we saw a group of Becky's friends sitting at a large table in the middle of the room that seemed to be reserved for the popular crowd. One of them called to us, and I reluctantly followed Becky through the maze of bodies to our destination.

"Guys, I want you to meet Sam," Becky said excitedly. "She just started at St. Mary's."

A chorus of half-hearted greetings reverberated across the table. I smiled blandly and pulled my head back under my hood, trying to avoid making eye contact. It was a difficult trick, and I didn't quite pull it off.

Becky made some hasty introductions: "Sam, this is Jermaine, his brother Joseph, Hannah, Elaine, Marie, and William."

The girl called Hannah waved at me, but her eyes betrayed hostility.

We sat at the end of the table and Frasier came over to join us, his solitary meal consisting of an apple and a bottle of Evian water.

"Is that all you're having for lunch?" Hannah asked with amazement.

"I'm a vegan, remember?" Frasier announced, taking a bite of his apple. "This school doesn't cater to anything remotely Bohemian. Out of all that slop at the counter, this was the best I could do. Oh well, guess I'll have to start picketing to bring this place into the 21st century." Then Frasier turned to me and asked, "So Sam, are you from around here?"

I kept my eyes fixed on my plate. "Uh, no. We just moved here from Wimbledon, actually."

"Wimbledon?" the boy called William exclaimed. "I love Wimbledon! Do you ever get to go to any tournaments?"

"Not really," I replied. "I don't like tennis much. I find it kind of boring."

William made a face, as if he'd tasted something sour. _I'm obviously not making any points with him_ , I thought.

We sat there another couple of minutes, making idle chitchat and picking at our plates.

I decided I really liked Frasier. We shared the same dry sense of humor. I discovered we were both _Star Wars_ fanatics and that we agreed the later prequels had been a huge mistake. "Nothing could beat the original trilogy," Frasier said.

But I still hadn't made up my mind about Becky. She seemed nice enough, but I was suspicious of popular people. Maybe that was because I'd always felt like an outsider. While I wasn't exactly a geek, my shyness kept people at a distance. I was happy in my own company and didn't gravitate toward large social groups. Girls like Becky were at the top of the food chain, loved and adored by all. _I wonder who she stepped on to get there. You don't get to number one by being a nice person. Maybe she just befriended me because of my dubious celebrity._

Only time would tell.

 * * *

After school, I went with Becky and Frasier to the Elmfield public library, a big, glass-plated building on Morella Road. The library had been erected in the late '60s, when the town thought it was going places.

We walked through rows and rows of reading desks, dusty bookshelves, and a set of automatic doors to the outer study area, where there were a couple of tables and six ancient computers. _Somehow, Elmfield hasn't quite made it to the 21_ st _century. Maybe that's why the place is half empty._

We chose a table at the back of the room, took out our notepads and began to hash out our ideas for our presentation so we wouldn't have to meet again before Thursday.

Within ten minutes, the conversation had somehow shifted from Tennessee Williams to conspiracy theories.

"But I don't get it," Becky frowned. "Why would NASA fake the Apollo moon landings?"

"Because," Frasier said, "they had that whole Cold War thing with Russia. Can't you see? It was an ingenious battle strategy. NASA was trying to intimidate Russia by pretending they'd won the space race."

In spite of wanting to stay on task, I joined in the discussion. "Okay, I get what you're saying, but this was the '60s, right? I've seen footage from the moon landing, and it looks pretty real to me. How could they fake it? Are you saying they had special effects that good back then?"

Frasier's face lit up. We were obviously in his territory. "Why not? Anything's possible. What about the pyramids? Or Stonehenge? There are so many unexplained mysteries in the world. I bet the government keeps us in the dark about everything. UFOs, vampires, teleportation... Can you imagine what it would be like to be Prime Minister for a day? Wouldn't that be great? Wouldn't you just love to know all the secrets he knows?"

Becky faked a yawn. "Actually, I reckon it would be rather boring being Prime Minister. All that political stuff would put me to sleep."

I smiled, but said nothing.

Frasier looked at me. "Laugh all you want, but everything I'm saying is true. We probably don't even know the half of it. Open your eyes. There's a whole secret world out there waiting to be discovered."

"Hottie at twelve o'clock," Becky whispered.

I followed Becky's gaze to a boy seated a couple of desks away, doodling in a sketch pad. He had his head down and his black baseball cap obscured his face, but from the curve of his bulging biceps under his long-sleeved sweater, it was clear that he did some serious weight lifting.

"How can you tell he's hot?" I whispered back. "You can't even see his face!"

"Yeah, but just look at that body," Becky murmured dreamily.

"What are you two whispering about?" Frasier demanded.

"Girl talk," she snapped. "You wouldn't understand."

Frasier looked in the hottie's direction, then rolled his eyes. "Oh, for heaven's sake."

Although I didn't say it, I was on Frasier's side. I'd never felt comfortable sharing "boy crazy" fantasies. I wasn't a girly girl. I didn't do boys, or make-up, or clothes shopping—they just weren't my thing. I tended to wear hooded tracksuits, and at school, I'd always preferred playing football to hanging out in some dark nightclub.

"Do you dare me to go up and talk to him?" Becky asked with a wink. "I'll ask him what he's drawing."

"Do whatever you want," I said.

I tried to avert my gaze as she got up and walked slowly over to the stranger's table, her hips swaying suggestively.

"Shall we get cracking?" Frasier asked, and I was glad to agree.

For the next five minutes, the two of us pretended to study, but all the time, our eyes kept flickering back to Becky, who had now pulled up a chair and was talking animatedly with the boy. At one point, she let out a shriek of laughter. I felt like screaming. I couldn't work like this. With a disgruntled huff, I angled my seat so I wasn't in their direct line of vision anymore.

Another five minutes passed before Becky and the boy got up and made their way toward our table. The boy clearly knew how attractive his body was, and so did just about every other girl in the room, whose eyes followed his every move. Becky was grinning. It was obvious she enjoyed being the center of attention.

"Guys, I want you to meet Lee," Becky said, making a grand, sweeping gesture. "Lee, this is Sam and Frasier. We all go to St. Mary's."

"Hello," Lee said with a friendly smile.

He couldn't have been more than twenty, stood about six foot two, with a flawless tan, full lips, and perfectly white teeth. On the right side of his face, just above his mouth, was a small beauty spot, the only blemish in an otherwise faultless complexion. His low-riding jeans and tight black sweater accentuated his muscles and, being a bit of a gym buff, I had to admit he had an amazing physique.

I turned away briefly, my cheeks burning.

"Pleased to meet you, Lee," Frasier said, nodding politely.

"Lee's studying fine art," Becky continued. "He goes to Summerwell Art College." She held up his sketch pad. "He's so talented. You'll never guess who he's been drawing!"

She opened the pad to the first page, and I was amazed to see a pen-and-ink sketch of the three of us as we sat in the library talking. The detail was astounding and the drawing had a level of realism that blew me away.

"Wow, you're fantastic!" Frasier told him. "I mean, that looks like a photograph or something. Seriously, you should get into comics or graphic novels. You'd make a killing."

"Oh I don't know about that," Lee said, looking down. "I'm not exactly Picasso, but thanks for the compliment."

My ears pricked up. His voice had a strange regional twang I'd never heard before. It was sort of like a Yorkshire accent, but unlike any I'd ever come across.

Becky pulled out a chair. "Why don't you sit with us, Lee?"

"Oh no, I wouldn't want to intrude."

"Don't be silly," she laughed. "We'd love to have you."

Lee sank into a chair next to me and I got a whiff of his cologne: _Davidoff's Cool Water_. Masculine. Alluring. Discreetly, I peeked at his hands resting on the table. They were large, but also somehow delicate, his fingernails short and clean. I also noticed he had a ring tattoo on the middle finger of his right hand, a band of five pointed stars. It was a very pretty design.

I had always loved tattoos. I had two myself: a butterfly on my ankle, and a heart on my shoulder. I'd wanted to get one across my collar bone, but Mum had said that would be a step too far.

"So where's your cute accent from?" Becky asked. "Are you from up North?"

Lee chuckled. "Not exactly. When I was growing up, my parents did a lot of traveling, so I've been all over place. I've also spent a lot of time abroad in countries like China and India. You name it, I've been there."

"Wow, that sounds amazing!" Becky enthused. "I've always wanted to go traveling."

As Becky babbled on, I tried to get Frasier involved in our project again. "So, who's going to type up these notes before Thursday? I don't have an Internet connection at my house yet."

"No problem, I'll do it," Frasier said as he started gathering our papers together. I was thankful for his calm attitude in the awkward situation.

I tried not to notice it, but I was strongly drawn to our table guest. When Lee's arm accidentally brushed against mine, I felt my back stiffen. Pursing my lips together, I retreated further into my hood to disguise the growing redness in my cheeks. Something about him was dangerously distracting. There was something to do with those lips – asking a question, giving an answer – that I just couldn't stop thinking about. I wanted to know how they would feel pressed against mine.

_I need to cool off and reclaim control of this situation. What's happening to me?_ I hadn't known this guy for more than two minutes and I was already mentally undressing him. It had to stop. This wasn't like me at all.

Trying to regain my composure, I stared down at my own fingernails. They looked terrible because I had a bad habit of chewing them when I was nervous. I wanted to chew them now.

Hastily, I plunged my hands in my pockets, feeling self-conscious. I didn't want the immaculate Lee to see how ratty my fingers were.

"So Sam, what are you studying at school?"

Lee had turned in my direction, and his question startled me. I answered flatly, "English, History, and Photography."

"You're into photography?" he asked eagerly. "What a coincidence. So am I. Who's your favorite photographer?"

"Annie Leibovitz," I murmured.

"My favorite's Robert Capa. His pictures are amazing. Have you ever seen any of his stuff?"

"Yeah, he's great," I said, although I had no idea who Robert Capa was.

"I like that Mario Testicle guy," Becky blurted.

"Mario who?" Frasier asked, frowning.

"You know, that man who does all the _Vogue_ and _Vanity Fair_ covers."

"Oh, you mean Mario _Testino_ ," Lee corrected her.

Frasier laughed so hard I thought he was going to choke. "What did you call him, Becky? Mario Testicle? Was that a Freudian slip or what?"

"I never said that!" Becky's face went beet red. "Sam, did you hear me use the word 'testicle'?"

I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. "I don't know. Maybe."

Lee flashed a dynamite smile at me. His teeth were so white, they looked artificial. I could see his eyes properly now, and they were beautifully dark and intense. I balled my hands into fists, trying to play it cool.

"What are you doing this Friday, Lee?" Becky asked, changing the subject.

"I'm not sure. Why?"

"A gang of us are going to the bowling alley. We're looking to meet around six o'clock, if you're interested."

"Sounds good," Lee replied with a nod. "Count me in."

Becky looked elated.

This was the first I'd heard of any bowling trip. _Becky's a fast mover, I'll give her that._

As if sensing my uneasiness, Lee turned to me and asked, "Are you guys coming bowling, too?"

"Yes, they are," Becky said before either Frasier or I could respond.

Frasier looked surprised. "Since when? I didn't know anything about a bowling trip."

Becky shot me a pleading glance, and I decided to play along. "Yeah, I'm going, too," I said.

Becky sighed, then mouthed the words "Thank you" at me.

Lee glanced at his watch. "Wow, look at the time. Sorry, guys, I have to go. I've got a life drawing class this evening." He stood. "It was nice meeting you all. Sam, Frasier. I'll see you on Friday."

Becky smoothed her skirt as she stood. "You _will_ definitely come? You aren't just saying that?" There was a distinct air of desperation in her voice.

"I never break a promise," Lee said. "You'll definitely be seeing me." With that, he tucked his sketch pad under his arm and made for the exit doors.

For a good two minutes after he'd gone, Becky stared at his empty seat, a faraway look in her eyes.

Frasier snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Earth to Becky. That... was one of the most sickening displays of sycophantic behavior I've ever seen!"

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"Come on, you were practically drooling all over his sweater," Frasier said, fluttering his eyelashes seductively. "Oh, Lee, you're so talented. Oh, Lee, you've got such a cute accent. It was embarrassing. You should never throw yourself at a guy like that."

Becky waved her hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, as if I'd take advice from _you_. And for your information, Frasier, I was _not_ throwing myself at him. I was just being friendly."

"Right." Frasier looked at me for support, but I just smiled. Friday was going to be very interesting.

We stayed at the library another half hour or so and then said our goodbyes at the bus stop. By the time I got home, it was past seven. Mum was working late again, and the house seemed eerily quiet—maybe too quiet. I quickly assembled a tuna and cucumber sandwich before I started my daily workout.

As I peddled the cross-trainer, working up a sweat, I examined myself critically in the mirrored wardrobe. I had mixed feelings about my body. I liked that I was toned, but I hated being so flat-chested. My waist was tiny, but no matter how much I exercised, my thighs stayed chunky. I hated them. I'd never have dared to wear a skirt as short as Becky's. In fact, I didn't wear skirts at all, because of my thighs. Feminine clothes just didn't hang right on my body.

When I'd finished my session, I took a long, hot bath. Every part of my body had been pushed to the limit, and the muscle soak really helped to soothe my aching joints. As the steamy water engulfed me, the unease I'd felt since my afternoon at the library evaporated. I started to feel a little more like myself again.

After my bath, I threw on an old dressing gown and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. The refrigerator purred softly as I felt around in the darkness for the light switch. When I found it, I went over to the sideboard and selected my favorite mug from the rack. For long moments I stood by the sink, staring into space, twirling the mug around and around under the cold tap. I fell into a trance as images from the library flashed before me: The alluring fullness of Lee's lips. The way his sweater clung to his body. The inviting scent of his cologne.

Finally, I shook my head, mentally telling myself to get a grip. I turned off the tap, opened the cupboard, took out the coffee jar, and stirred a scoop into my cup. Then I leaned against the wall, sipping my coffee and again thinking about Lee. His beauty spot was an imperfection that somehow made him seem even more perfect. I wondered what his hair looked like under that baseball cap.

The sound of a loud crash startled me from my daydream. I glanced down and realized that the mug had slipped from my fingers and smashed to the floor. Scalding coffee was seeping through my slippers. With trembling hands, I took out the dustpan and swept up the pieces, and then mopped up the coffee.

When the clean-up was over, I stood in the middle of the floor, listening to the sound of my own breathing and the rapid beating of my heart. _This isn't like me. Why should someone I spoke to for five minutes have such an effect on me?_ Plus, I knew Becky had already laid claim to Lee. I had no business thinking about him at all.

Shaking my head, I switched off the lights and went back to my bedroom. But I didn't get much sleep.

##  ‡  
THREE

The Game

All Star Bowling Alley was located on Elmfield High Street at the end of a long line of family-owned businesses. It was sort of a converted warehouse and, except for the neon sign out front, it wasn't anything special to look at. Inside, however, was a whole different story.

When you walked through the door, the place was decked out like a '50s American diner. Very swanky. On one side there was the bowling alley and a reception area where people checked in. On the other side was a bar with a half dozen tables where they served real American food all night: ribs, burgers, fried chicken, and corn on the cob.

I got there about six. Instead of my baggies I'd opted for a Fred Perry shirt and chinos—nothing too flashy, but a step up from the usual. Tonight, for some reason, I felt like making more of an effort. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I no longer felt self-conscious about people recognizing me. I decided that, tonight, I was going to be myself—and to hell with the consequences.

Becky and the others were waiting for me over by the reception area. I recognized a couple of people from St. Mary's: Jermaine, Marie, and sour-faced Hannah. I assumed the others were friends of Becky's from outside school. There were about fourteen of us—but Lee and Frasier hadn't arrived yet.

_Damn_. _I hope they're still coming. I don't like being stuck with a group of strangers._

"Hey, Sam!" Becky shouted, rushing up to me. "So glad you could make it. I love the new look. That shirt is so cute on you! Come on, let me introduce you to everyone."

She took my hand and led me toward the group of strangers. As she reeled off the names, I studied Becky closely. It looked as if I wasn't the only who had decided to make an extra effort—but Becky's was off the Richter scale. Her makeup was so heavy there were obvious lines of foundation between her face and neck. Her lips were shiny and her bleached blonde hair was swept up off her face in a French pleat. To top it off, her pink shorts were so tight they looked as if they were going to split any second.

"Come on," she said after the introductions. "Let's get you some shoes and a ball. And don't worry about paying for the game—I've already settled that for you. But you'll still need change for the cloakroom."

"Oh, right," I said, rummaging through my pockets.

I finally found some money, paid the girl at the desk, then handed her my coat.

"What shoe size are you?" Becky inquired.

"Four," I replied.

"Wow, your feet are so tiny! I'm a clod-hopping size eight." She scanned the rows of cubbyholes behind the desk, which contained dozens of pairs of red, blue, and white paneled shoes. "Can we have a pair of size fours, please?" As the girl went away to get them, Becky's voice lowered to a whisper. "Do you think he's coming?"

"Who?"

"Lee. It's quarter to seven and there's still no sign of him. I did tell him six o'clock, didn't I?"

"Yes, I think so."

Becky bit her lip as her eyes darted around the room. "Oh, I hope he doesn't let me down. I really want to see him again."

Before I could say anything, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw Frasier standing behind me. His face was sweaty, as if he'd run a marathon, and there were damp patches under the arms of his camel trench coat. On his feet were what looked suspiciously like black-and-white tap shoes. Typical Frasier.

"Sorry, I'm late," he panted. "The bus broke down and I had to run like a lunatic to get here."

Becky shook her head. "Well, at least you got here."

"Has Prince Charming arrived yet?" Frasier asked.

"Not yet," I replied.

"Don't worry, I'm sure he's on his way. He's probably just stuck in traffic or something." Becky sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than anyone else.

"Looks like you might have been stood up," Frasier said, taking off his coat and handing it to the girl at the desk. He didn't see the look Becky threw his way at that remark. When he turned around, he asked, "When does this game start? I've got to tell you, Becks, I haven't a clue how to bowl, so you're going to have to teach me."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "That makes two of us. We can support each other."

"Hi, Sam, how are you?" I heard one of the group say.

I turned and saw it was Hannah. "I'm fine thanks," I said, flashing my best fake smile.

Her small piggy eyes narrowed to slits. "Are you guys ready to start yet? Some of us have been here since six."

"Well, if we're taking up too much of your precious time, you can always go home, you know," Frasier snapped.

The expression on Hannah's face was priceless—like a stunned toad. Obviously, she wasn't used to being spoken to that way, but I loved Frasier at that moment.

Just as Hannah opened her mouth to respond, her eyes focused on something beyond me. I followed her gaze and saw Lee walking through the front door. He spotted me, waved, and started toward us.

"Holy mother of god," Hannah said, putting her hand over her mouth. "Who is that?"

I didn't answer. I was too busy trying to control my own breathing. Every female eye was on Lee, and even a number of guys stopped what they were doing to watch him walk across the room. He looked hot as hell in all black and his body had the pumped up glow you get when you've just finished a workout at the gym.

"Lee, you made it!" Becky squealed as she raced over. She seemed to want to hug him, but caught herself just in time. "Let me introduce you to my friends. They're absolutely dying to meet you. I've told them so much about you."

Lee flashed his amazing smile and said, "All good, I hope."

"Of course, silly," Becky scolded. "I told them what a wonderful artist you are. Did you bring any of your sketches?"

"No. I didn't know I was supposed to," Lee replied. Then he looked at me. "Hi, Sam. Hi, Frasier. Good to see you guys again."

I smiled weakly, hoping I didn't pass out from forgetting how to breathe. I turned away to hide my embarrassment and walked over to the orange chairs in our lane to put on my bowling shoes. Frasier followed close behind, carrying his ball, a hefty sports bag, and a pair of shoes.

"Well, Becky certainly looks happy, doesn't she?" he said quietly as he sat next to me.

"Yes, she does," I replied as matter-of-factly as possible.

I slid on the bowling shoes. They were a bit tight at first, but I quickly got used to them. As I took a few steps, my gaze turned briefly back to what was happening across the room. I just couldn't help myself. Becky was gesticulating wildly as she introduced Lee to everyone, touching his arm at every opportunity. Lee's back was turned, so I couldn't tell how he was taking it all, but I could picture the look of amusement on his face.

"Okay, let's see how this works." Frasier nodded toward the lanes on either side of us, where several of Becky's friends had begun bowling.

For the next ten minutes we sat watching the game, trying to figure out the rules. It did look like they were having fun, but I wasn't looking forward to making a spectacle of myself when my turn came. My sporting ability had always been a bit of a mixed bag. I was great at football, but I sucked at tennis and volleyball. Time would tell about my bowling skills.

"Hey, are you guys okay over there?" Lee said, prying himself away from Becky for a moment in the lane to our left.

Frasier smiled and gave him the thumbs up. "We're good, thanks."

"It'll be your turn in a minute."

"Can't wait," Frasier said, and I thought it sounded sincere.

We watched intently as Lee glided up to one of the lanes and rolled his ball with expert precision, his movements fluid and graceful. In one throw, he demolished all ten pins.

"Yes!" Lee punched the air triumphantly as everyone cheered. Then he turned to us and said, "Okay, it's your turn now."

I shrugged my shoulders and felt heat creeping up my neck like a snake. I hadn't really been watching Lee's approach. I'd been preoccupied with how well his jeans fit.

Lee handed me a ball. "Okay, Sam, give it your best shot."

I got up and walked up to the lane, acutely aware that everyone was watching me. The ball was much heavier than I'd imagined and I was having trouble just holding on to it. Then, trying hard to focus, I took two steps, dipped, and rolled the ball. It landed with a dull thud on the wood and crashed into the gutter.

I squirmed and glanced sheepishly at Frasier. "Um, I guess that didn't go too well."

"You can say that again," Frasier said, laughing heartily.

"Is this your first time?" Lee asked.

I nodded dumbly.

"I'm sorry," Lee said sympathetically. "You should have told me. No problem. I'll teach you."

"No, I'm okay," I lied. "I know how to bowl, really. I probably just had something in my eye."

"Uh huh! A likely story," Frasier laughed, shaking his head knowingly.

Lee walked over to the rack and found me a much lighter ball. He handed it to me, then turned me to face the lane, his hands on my shoulders. Looking at his hands, I noticed that he was wearing a gold medallion ring to cover his tattoo.

"Okay, to start with, your posture's all wrong," said Lee. "You've got to roll the ball. Don't throw it. That's a mistake all newbies make."

As he leaned forward to position my arms, his cheek softly brushed against mine, which sent my mind racing in every direction except bowling.

"Do you work out?" he whispered.

"What?" I said, my body stiffening.

"Do you work out at the gym?"

I could feel his breath against my earlobe. "Yes, a little. Nothing major."

"I can tell. Your arms feel pretty toned."

I smiled as the smell of his cologne filled my senses, struggling to think straight.

"Okay, now close your eyes and try to imagine there's no one else here but you. Not me, not Frasier, not anyone. Just focus on your target—those bowling pins at the end of the lane."

Taking a deep breath, I glided forward and rolled the ball. This time it sped down the aisle and knocked down six.

It was my turn to punch the air. "Yes!"

"That was really good for your first try, Sam," Lee said with a broad smile. "You see? That wasn't so hard, was it? All it takes is a bit of practice. You'll get the hang of it."

"I might need some help, too," Becky cooed, walking over and quickly placing herself between Lee and me.

She glared at me briefly then turned back to Lee and gushed, "You're such a good teacher. I think I could use a few lessons myself."

She linked her arm through his and led him to her lane.

Lee glanced over his shoulder as he walked away and called, "Just remember, Sam, stay focused on the target and you'll be fine."

"Now, do you think he can teach me, too?" Frasier joked as I sat next to him.

"Ha, ha, very funny."

"But all joking aside, that was actually quite good, Sam."

I smiled thinly, but I wasn't really listening. I was busy watching what was going on in Becky's lane. She was shrieking with laughter as Lee stood behind her, just as he'd done with me. I watched her flirting, giggling, and tucking her hair behind her ear. Then I saw his fingers drop to her waist—and my heart sank. There was nothing special about me. Lee would have done the same for anyone. I silently cursed myself for being so naïve.

Then I suddenly had a horrible sense of being watched. Instinctively, I turned around and saw—nothing. The seats behind us were totally empty. Perhaps I'd just imagined it, but it was an odd feeling—the same feeling I'd had all those years ago, just before the white van drove up.

_Am I just being paranoid?_

Fifteen minutes later, Lee returned to sit with us. It was now Hannah's turn to bowl, and she was doing a pretty good job of it after the coaching session she'd had with him. Becky, Marie, and now Hannah. Everyone had had their turn in Golden Boy's arms. I was so mad I could barely speak.

"Hey, Sam, want an apple?" Frasier asked, unzipping his sports bag.

I shook my head, so he offered the apple to Lee. Then he got out one for himself and continued watching the game. I lowered my eyes as Lee bit into his apple and tried not to listen to the loud noise as he ate. Glancing around, I saw a couple of girls watching him. The way they were staring it would appear as if they'd never seen someone eat an apple before. I shifted awkwardly in my seat, crossed my legs, and tried to focus on the game.

A couple of hours later, things were just about ready to wrap up. Frasier and I went to check in our shoes and grab out coats. As we waited for the reception girl to come back, I watched Lee and Becky link arms. They were so close, it was nauseating.

"What are you doing afterward?" Hannah asked me. She still wasn't talking to Frasier after he'd blasted her.

"I'll probably head home," I said, turning to go. "It's getting late and I'm tired."

Outside it was dark, as most of the shop fronts had their lights off. A cold, wet breeze stung my face. The group lingered in the parking lot for a few minutes, saying our goodbyes. There was a brief discussion about how people would be getting home. Most of them would be taking the bus.

Lee released himself from Becky's grip and dug through his pocket till he found his car keys. He pressed a button on the key chain and the doors to a yellow Lotus Esprit unlocked.

"Wow, that is one cool car!" Jermaine said. "What does she do zero to sixty in?"

"Four point eight seconds," Lee replied with a grin, adjusting his cap. "Well, I've got room for one of you. Who needs a ride?"

"Me!" Becky squeaked, and before anyone could protest, she'd crossed the parking lot and jumped in the passenger seat.

"Well, I guess that's decided, then," Lee said. Fleetingly, his eyes rested on mine as he waved goodbye and joined Becky in the car. Within seconds, they were gone.

"Come on, Sam, let's walk to the bus stop," Frasier said.

As we plodded up the street, I felt a drop of rain. The evening was about to get worse.

 * * *

"Sam, I've got Neil on the phone for you."

"What?" I said, pulling off my headphones.

Mum was standing by my bedroom door, holding out the white cordless phone, her lips tight with disapproval. "It's Neil. He says he wants to talk to you. He says it's urgent."

I checked the time on my iPod. Eleven pm.

_Whatever Neil wants, it must be pretty important for him to be calling me at this late hour._

I switched off the iPod and tossed it on the dresser. Then I pulled the pillows into a pile and slouched back against them.

"Here," Mum said, handing me the phone like it was something dirty. "Talk to him." With a scowl, she turned and hurried away.

"Sam?" Neil said when I answered. His voice sounded strange.

"Yes, Neil, it's me," I said. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know, to be honest," he replied. "I've got some bad news about Elliot."

My heart skipped a beat as I braced myself for the worst. A thousand scenarios flashed through my mind.

"Do you remember me telling you about a possible sighting of Elliot in Liverpool?" Neil asked.

"Yes, a boy was seen at a gas station several days after Elliot went missing," I replied.

"Well, Harry managed to track the boy down to Newcastle."

My pulse sped up. "And what did he find?"

"I'm sorry to tell you it wasn't Elliot. The boy the motorist saw that day wasn't my son. He was some runaway called Tommy Squires, who's now back safe and sound with his family." The line went silent for a few moments. I wondered if Neil was crying.

Finally, I asked, "Neil, are you still there?"

"Yes, poppet, I'm still here," he said, his voice breaking.

I felt so bad for him. "Oh, Neil, I'm sorry. I know you and Anne were really hoping it was going to be a breakthrough."

"Yeah, well, we have to stay positive, I suppose," Neil said. "No news is good news, right?"

"Of course it is," I said, trying desperately to think of something else to console him. "So what happens now?"

He sighed deeply. "Well, Harry says he's got some other leads, so we'll see where they take us." Then Neil paused before adding, "But that wasn't the only reason I called, Sam. There's something else bothering me."

"What?"

"It's Anne. I'm worried about her. She isn't coping with this very well, and I keep telling her she needs to see a doctor, but she refuses to. She won't eat, she won't go out, and I'm afraid that she might do something foolish."

"Oh, that's terrible," I gasped.

"Do me a favor, Sam," Neil said. "Talk to her and try to make her see sense."

"Do you really think she'll listen to me?"

"I definitely think she needs to hear it from you. I think she can relate to you better because you're a girl. Please. If you can only just get her to start eating again—"

Neil's voice trailed off and the line went silent again. I sensed that Mum was hovering by the door, eavesdropping.

"If that's what you want, I'll do my best," I said. "I'll call Anne tomorrow, okay?"

"Please do."

"Don't give up hope. The two of you just need to stay strong."

"Thanks, Sam, you're an angel. I don't know what we'd do without you."

The line abruptly went dead without any goodbyes. As I set the phone on the dresser, Mum appeared in the doorway.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" she asked, her voice cold.

"What did I do?"

"Why are you giving Neil false hope again? Why are you pandering to his crazy delusion that Elliot's still alive?"

"Mum, that's harsh. How can you ask a thing like that?"

Her face darkened. "I'm a realist. I don't live with my head in the clouds. Elliot has been missing for ten years. If he was still alive, don't you think the police would have found him by now?"

"That doesn't mean he's dead," I countered.

"Yes, it does," Mum said firmly, "and you know it as well as I do."

Still standing in the doorway, she continued glaring at me. "Sam, I want you to cut off all contact with Anne and Neil from now on. Your relationship with them isn't healthy. How can they ever find peace with you constantly reinforcing their hopeless fantasy?"

Tears stung my eyes. I hated Mum's unfeeling cruelty. "Would you have given up if it was me who was missing?" I asked, looking her straight in the eye. "What if I had been the one they took that night? Would you have given up on me?"

For the first time, Mum's eyes turned away. In all my seventeen years, I'd never seen her cry, but I sensed something in her expression. Not empathy exactly. It was despair.

"What would you have done?" I demanded again. "Would you have held a funeral for me, even if you didn't know for sure I was dead? Would you have gone on with your life as if nothing had happened? Would you have forgotten all about me, like you want Anne and Neil to forget about Elliot?"

"Sam, I—" Mum began, but caught herself. Then her voice became steely. "You don't understand the first thing about being a parent."

"Maybe I don't," I agreed. "But I do know you're starting to sound like you have a heart of stone."

Mum's eyes narrowed. "Do you really think I don't feel bad for them?" she asked. "Do you really think just because I don't cry in front of you, that I'm made out of stone? Well, let me tell you something about me, Samantha Harper. I've got a heart, whether you think so or not, but I'm all cried out. I've spent a decade beating myself up about Elliot, wondering what would have happened if it was you and not him—and I want my life back. If that's more than you can deal with, it's your problem, not mine."

She turned and slammed the door so hard it almost broke off the hinges. I rolled over, pounded the mattress with my fists, crying and swearing. When my fury and frustration had finally eased, I turned and stared up at the ceiling for a long time, trying to process everything. It was then that I realized I wasn't only miserable about my argument with Mum. I was also upset about what had happened at the bowling alley.

I didn't get a wink of sleep that night.

##  ‡  
FOUR

The Party

"I've decided I'm going to ask Becky out," Frasier told me on Thursday morning. We were standing by the lockers behind the gymnasium, killing time before our next class.

I stared at him, unable to believe my ears. "Say that again?"

"I'm going to ask Becky out," he repeated, the hall lights reflecting in his glasses.

"I don't understand," I stammered. "When did this come about? I thought the two of you are always bickering—"

"I've had a crush on Becky for years," Frasier interrupted. "Six long years of waiting for the right time to make my move—and I think that time is now."

I couldn't get my head around what I was hearing. Becky and Frasier? It was just too weird. "Well if that's how you feel, great—but aren't you forgetting something?"

"What's that?"

"Becky's got the hots for Lee."

"I thought you might say that," Frasier said, rummaging through his bag and pulling out a piece of paper. "That's why I thought it would be a good idea to do my homework first—to give me an edge. I need you to read through this questionnaire and find out as many of the answers as you can before tomorrow, okay?"

He handed me the paper and I scanned it. The title read: _The Acquisition of Becky Martin._

Under the title were a number of questions, such as:

1. Name three of Becky's favorite foods.

2. Name three of Becky's favorite movies.

3. Name three personality traits Becky requires in a boyfriend.

4. Name Becky's food allergies (if she has any).

5. Name two of Becky's favorite restaurants (nothing too expensive, please).

The list went on and on, and I couldn't help shaking my head. There was no doubt that Frasier had really been working on his plan of attack. I had to give him credit for that.

"So what do you think?" he asked, his eyes searching mine for approval. "Genius, right? I figured if I could get a handle on what Becky's looking for, she might be able to see past this." He pointed to his face, which had flared up with a particularly bad case of acne. "Tell me the truth, Sam. What do you think?"

I bit my lip, choosing my words carefully. "I think that if it's relationship advice you're after, you're talking to the wrong person. I'm totally clueless about matters of the heart—but I _can_ give you one little tip."

"Yes?"

"Stop treating Becky like a science project. Tear up this survey and just be _yourself_. Girls can tell when you're faking, so I can tell you that it won't go down well, if and when she finds out."

Frasier looked crestfallen. "Is my questionnaire really that bad?"

"Trust me, it's _that_ bad," I said, shutting my locker and turning to face him. Then I smiled and added, "But on a different note, do you _really_ think now's the right time? I mean, she's been all over Lee since they first met."

"Trust me, I've been thinking about that," Frasier said, "and I've got this great theory. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate Lee in the looks department?"

"Hmm," I said cautiously. "I don't know—"

As my voice trailed off, Frasier broke in: "Come on, Sam. We both know he's a ten—and Becky? Well, I'd say she's a six and a half."

"So?" I asked.

"So she's punching well above her weight class, don't you see? Lee could have any girl he wants, and Becky's just not in his league."

I laughed out loud. Only Frasier could give a girl such a backhanded compliment and get away with it.

Frasier smiled guiltily. "Come on! You know what I mean. I think I have as good a chance as anyone, especially if I can stop her from making a fool of herself with Lee."

"What makes you think she's fooling herself?" I asked, wondering why I was sticking up for Becky all of a sudden. "They seemed pretty cozy at the bowling alley the other day."

Frasier shot me a disdainful look. "Did they really? That wasn't the impression I got—and besides, I can tell that Lee likes _you_."

"Excuse me?" I said, my heart suddenly skipping a beat.

"Don't play Little Miss Innocent with me," Frasier said, stifling his own smirk. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"What makes you think he likes me?"

"I don't know. Call it a guy thing. I can see the way he looks at you, and I can tell that he definitely prefers you to Becky."

Startled, I fiddled with my bag straps and said self-consciously, "I—I don't think so."

"And you like him too, don't you, Sam?" Frasier grinned, his eyes on me. "Don't lie. I can see it in your face. So what's the big deal? Lee's a good-looking guy."

I decided to change the subject. "So, when are you planning to ask Becky out?"

"Tomorrow night, at Taffin Carter's birthday party," Frasier said. "You _are_ going to that, right? Please say you are, because I may need some moral support."

I'd vaguely heard someone in my photography class mention a party, but I didn't even know who Taffin Carter was, so I hadn't considered going.

"Actually, I probably won't," I said. "Parties and me don't mix, as a rule."

Frasier rolled his eyes. "Oh, give me a break, Sam. It'll be a good way to meet people."

"Who says I want to meet people? I think partying is grossly overrated. All you end up with is a bucketful of regrets and a hangover."

He laughed heartily. "Are you sure you're seventeen and not seventy? I've never heard such cynicism in anybody so young."

"I just don't think socializing's that important."

Coyly, Frasier added, "Oh, and Lee's going to be there. Becky invited him."

"Has she really?" I sighed. "Now there's a surprise."

I was sick of people going on and on about Lee and Becky. Since the bowling trip, that was all everyone ever seemed to talk about. It was stomach-turning.

"Okay," Frasier said, "but even if you don't come, could you at least do me a favor?"

"That depends."

"Go shopping with me and help me find something to wear. I need some female input on how to make the girls go wild."

I laughed again. "Frasier, you look great, just like you are. I love your quirky style. Don't let anyone ever change you." Then I looked at him and added, "The only thing you might want to do is get a haircut."

He touched his head self-consciously. "Really?"

"Oh, nothing drastic—just a trim. In fact, if you want, I could do it for you."

"You know how to cut hair?" he asked suspiciously.

"Yeah," I said, though it was only partly true.

I'd really only cut my dad's hair once, but I'd been dying for another opportunity to test my skills. "If you want, you came come to my place after school and I'll do it for you—no charge."

"Okay, great!" Frasier said excitedly. "And maybe while you're doing that I can get you to change your mind about going to the party."

"Don't hold your breath," I muttered, but in the back of my mind I could already feel myself weakening.

We got to my house around five-thirty. Mum wasn't home, so we had the place to ourselves—which was good, in a way. Having never seen me bring a boy home before, I could only imagine how hysterical she'd get if she saw Frasier. She'd probably start buying her wedding outfit and organizing my bridal shower.

"Wow, you're a gym buff, aren't you?" Frasier commented as he looked at the cross-trainer in my bedroom.

"Oh, I dabble a little," I replied bashfully.

He patted his pudgy stomach and sighed. "I wish I had your will power, but I can't seem to lay off the carrot cake."

I chuckled and cleared a space for him on the bed, discreetly tossing a half-eaten piece of pizza into the wastebasket. My room looked a mess and I silently cursed myself for not keeping Frasier in the living room until I had cleaned up a little.

"Do you want anything to drink?" I asked.

"What have you got?"

"Coke, water, tea—and there's a Budweiser, if you'd like. I can check the fridge."

"No, water's fine," Frasier said, smiling broadly.

As I turned to go, I saw him looking at the framed picture of Elliot on the dresser. He studied it for a second, then he glanced away, pretending he hadn't seen anything.

After a moment of silence, I said, "You _know_ , don't you?"

He shrugged. "Well, now that you mention it, Becky might have said something about it."

"And?"

"And it's none of my business. Whatever happened in your past has nothing to do with me. Besides, I doubt if you like people bringing it up all the time. I know I wouldn't."

I nodded silently, then turned and went to the kitchen. When I returned, we talked about school and _Star Trek_ and what we had planned for the summer holiday. Then I went to Mum's bedroom and brought back a pair of electric clippers.

"I think we should probably do this in the bathroom," I decided. "That way, the mess will be easier to clean up."

Frasier's eyes narrowed. "Just don't leave me with a bald patch, okay?"

"Frasier, do I look like someone who would leave you with a bald patch?" He opened his mouth to reply, but I cut him off. "Don't answer that. Relax. I know what I'm doing."

We went into the bathroom and I had him sit on a stool. Then I plugged in the clippers and carefully began to run them over his head, watching as locks of wavy brown hair cascaded to the floor. My plan was to cut the back and sides relatively short while leaving plenty of fringe on top.

Tilting Frasier's head back, I began to shape his sideburns, but my hand slipped and the clippers dug into the fringe I had so carefully crafted. Sighing, I switched off the clippers and surveyed the damage.

"What's wrong?" Frasier asked apprehensively.

I scratched the side of my nose, deliberating on how to salvage the situation. "Um," I said. "You know, I think you'd look better with a crew cut."

"A crew cut?" he asked in surprise. "You mean like the army guys wear? Give me the mirror! I need see what you've done."

He tried to stand, but I pushed him back down. "No peeking till I'm finished," I reprimanded. "If you look now, you won't understand what I'm trying to do."

"This is just what I'm afraid of," he muttered.

Sighing again, I proceeded to shave the rest of his hair off, and when I was done, I handed him a small mirror. There was a long silence as I awaited his verdict.

Unable to wait any longer, I asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"I don't know," Frasier replied, tilting his head from side to side. "It makes my nose look big, don't you think?"

"Not at all," I countered. "In fact, I think it suits you. It makes you look more edgy."

"Edgy?" he said dubiously, but before he could say any more, I heard the front door slam, followed by the clatter of Mum's high heels in the hallway.

"Darling, I'm home!" she called cheerfully. "And I've brought Chinese home for tonight."

"In here, Mum," I shouted.

When Mum finally poked her head through the bathroom door, she looked surprised, but quickly regained her composure. She touched her hair, like she did whenever she was around a man. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had company."

Frasier smiled, stood, and extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you." Then he added, "Wow! The two of you could pass for sisters."

That remark clearly made Mum's day. "Oh, flattery will get you everywhere, darling," she said coyly. "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name."

"His name is Frasier, Mum," I said, rolling my eyes. "He's in my English class."

"Lovely to meet you," Mum said, looking at the pile of hair on the floor. "I see my daughter's given you a haircut. It looks very... interesting."

Frasier blushed. "Thanks. We're going to a party tomorrow night, so I thought I'd make a bit of change."

Mum clapped her hands and gushed, "A party? How wonderful. Who's is it?"

"Some boy called Taffin Carter's," Frasier replied.

"Hold on," I interjected. "Just when did I agree to go? It's still undecided."

"Of course you're going!" Mum said, shooting me a look. "You haven't been out in ages." She returned her gaze to Frasier. "She'll go if I have to drag her there myself. She's becoming such a homebody, but you can help me liven her up, Frasier."

Frasier didn't know what to say. "I'll do my best."

"But I don't have anything to wear," I pouted.

"You can borrow something of mine," Mum said cheerily. "Now you've got no excuse."

"Well, I guess that's decided," Frasier said, winking at me. "I'll pick you up at nine."

"Perfect!" Mum said happily.

We shared our Chinese dinner with Frasier, and after he left, Mum ransacked her closet trying to find me something to wear. She threw several glittery skirts, tops, and dresses on the bed, asking me to pick out anything I liked.

"You know I don't wear this kind of stuff," I grumbled. "We have very different taste in clothes, and I just can't see any of these working for me."

Still rummaging through her clothes rack, she said, "You didn't tell me you had a boyfriend."

"Frasier's _not_ my boyfriend."

"And he's a lovely boy, too. So polite and sweet."

"We're just friends, okay, Mum? Nothing more."

She finally emerged from the closet. "Sam, there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

"What?"

"I've met someone."

I was stunned, and didn't really want to hear any more. "That's great, Mum. Who is he?"

"Oh, just someone from work. His name's Greg. We went out tonight and had a marvelous time." She paused a moment, then continued, "We haven't been seeing each other very long, but I think I really like him."

"That's great, Mum," I repeated, but my heart wasn't in it.

Despite my cynicism about romance, I'd always secretly hoped my parents would get back together, so the thought of Mum dating someone else was disturbing.

"Maybe I'll introduce him to you sometime," she said hopefully. "Perhaps we could all go out to dinner."

I rolled my eyes. "Let's just take one step at a time, okay? Like you say, it hasn't been very long, and who knows if it's even going to last?"

Mum pursed her lips, then turned back toward the closet. She pulled out a navy blue jumpsuit made of a chiffon-type material, held it up, and said, "What do you think of this?"

It was the first thing I'd seen that looked remotely interesting, but as I glanced down at the legs trailing on the floor, I shook my head. "Too bad it's too big for me."

"Never fear," Mum said, her face brightening. "I'll get out the sewing machine and we'll take it in for you. It won't take long."

"Cool," I smiled. And I meant it.

 * * *

Taffin Carter lived in a white, mock Tudor mansion off Priory Lane, a street in Elmfield where no house cost less than two million. His parents were seriously loaded, and rumor had it Taffin had been expelled from three private schools before ending up at St. Mary's. His father, John, was a newscaster for one of the big cable channels—I couldn't remember which one.

Frasier and I arrived at nine-thirty and I was stunned by how beautiful everything was. Hundreds of tiny fairy lights lit up the driveway as our taxi drove through the entrance gates. As we entered the backyard, we saw tables filled with barbequed meat and fruit punch, and there was a bandstand off to one side where a DJ was busy whipping the guests into a party mood.

Frasier was wearing a black fedora, a white pin-stripe jacket with wide shoulders, and a pair of shiny silver trousers that tapered at the ends. For my part, the adjustments Mum had made to the jumpsuit were perfect, and it hugged my body as if it had been custom designed just for me. My short black hair was gelled like someone from an '80s music video, and I had even let Mum put some make-up on my face—just a little mascara, lipstick, and blush.

Still, I'd never liked large crowds and there were so many people there it looked as if Taffin had invited the whole school. I wondered how we'd ever find Becky.

As I looked around, Frasier went and got us each a glass of peach-flavored punch. It was way too sugary for me, but I thanked him for the effort and smiled as I sipped it in tiny gulps.

For a long while, we stood observing our surroundings until a boy with a fluorescent pink mohawk came up to us. "Hey, guys! I'm so glad you made it."

"Hey, Taffin," Frasier said, giving him a high-five.

"Are you enjoying the party?" Taffin asked excitedly.

"Yeah, it's great," Frasier enthused. "Oh, by the way, happy birthday."

"Thank you!" Taffin turned to me and flashed a devilish grin. "Who's your friend, Frasier? I don't think we've met."

"She goes to St. Mary's with us," Frasier replied. "Sam, this is Taffin."

"Hello," I said flatly, not happy with the way Birthday Boy was ogling me.

Suddenly, Taffin snatched Frasier's fedora off his head and put it on his own, saying, "I think I'll borrow this for a while."

"Hey, give it back!" Frasier shouted above the noise of the DJ's PA system.

Without a reply, Taffin raced away and disappeared into the house.

"Great. Just great," Frasier said, shaking his head.

I bit my lip as I looked at him. His head looked like a shiny boiled egg. I then realized that his fedora hadn't been a fashion statement. It was a way to cover my botched barber job.

I leaned toward him and asked, "You don't like your haircut, do you?"

"I never said that."

"I'm sorry, I messed it up. Can you forgive me?"

"Don't worry, it'll grow back," Frasier replied stoically. "Eventually."

"Come on," I said, changing the subject. "Let's go find Becky."

We went inside the house and I marveled at the lush decor. Everything was done in white and beige, with marble floors and pillars, and ceilings so high they made me dizzy when I looked up. For the next hour we roamed from room to room, but there was no sign of Becky.

"Well, it's still early," I said, glancing at my watch. "She's probably on her way. You know how long girls take to get ready."

Frasier nodded glumly. Without his hat, his confidence seemed to have disappeared.

"I'm going to the bathroom. I'll see you in a bit," he said.

As Frasier walked away, I suddenly felt exposed and self-conscious. I didn't even have a glass of punch for company. I had set it somewhere during our search for Becky.

As I stood by the marble staircase, feeling like an idiot, Taffin reappeared clutching a half-empty wine bottle. He offered me a swig, but I politely declined.

Then, leaning into me, he said, "I've been watching you."

"Oh, really?" I said airily. "That's nice."

His eyes running up and down my body, he then said, "You're gorgeous." As I fiddled with my handbag, he added, "But I imagine you hear that all the time."

"Actually, I don't," I replied truthfully.

"Have you got a boyfriend?"

"No."

"Seriously?"

I nodded.

"Wow, this looks like my lucky night."

"Don't bet on it," I muttered as I deftly reached out and snatched Frasier's hat off his head.

"Hey! Give that back!" Taffin shouted.

"Sorry, but it doesn't belong to you," I said, hiding it behind my back and turning to make a swift exit.

As I walked away, I stuffed the hat onto my head as Taffin called after me, "Be back soon or I'll come looking for you."

Instead of heading back to the party, I slipped in through another door at the back of the house. I didn't know where I was, but I was intent on getting as far away from that creep as I could.

I wandered aimlessly through a network of corridors and then up a set of stairs, until I found a room where the lights were dim and another DJ was playing slow music. There were only a few people in there, most of them lounging on big Turkish-style floor cushions. I liked the vibe immediately and decided to stay a while. Taking a champagne flute from the drinks bar, I collapsed on a big velvet cushion in the corner of the room, feeling like falling asleep and wishing I hadn't let Frasier talk me into coming.

"Nice hat," said a voice from above me.

I glanced up and saw Lee leaning against a wall with his baseball cap so low I couldn't see his eyes—but I knew he was smiling. I could feel it.

"Thanks," I mumbled, staring down at the bubbles in my glass.

"Good party?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess."

"What time did you get here?"

"Around nine-thirty, and you?"

"I just got here."

For a moment neither of us spoke, but I could feel his eyes on me. I repositioned myself on the cushion, desperately fighting the urge to look at him.

"So did you come here alone?" Lee continued, his voice as sweet and lyrical as a song.

"No, Frasier's here somewhere," I said, my fingers playing with the stem of my glass. "Did you come with Becky?"

"No, I haven't seen her."

I felt a tinge of joy, but tried to remain calm. I took another gulp of champagne. As the liquid trickled down my throat, I found myself at a loss for what to say next. At that moment, I almost hated the way Lee made me feel. It was all so confusing.

Lee broke the silence. "What are you doing this Sunday?"

The question took me by surprise and for a moment I didn't realize he was talking to me. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" I stammered.

Lee smiled and said, "There's a photography exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery on Sunday. A group of us are going. Would you like to come?"

I pretended to deliberate for a moment. "Yeah, that sounds good."

"Fantastic. We're meeting outside Sloane Square station at twelve."

"Great! I'll be there."

Swallowing hard, I tried to focus on a boy and girl slow dancing by the DJ stage. They looked so absorbed in each other as their bodies swayed gently like a solo heartbeat. I envied them.

"Would you like to dance?" Lee asked softly, as if reading my thoughts.

"No, thanks," I said hastily.

The idea terrified me. I had never danced in my life and wasn't about to make a bigger fool of myself than I already was. Discreetly, I peeked up at Lee. He was wearing a white shirt and black jeans with a silver belt chain hanging from the pocket. His magnificent lips were pulled back in a smirk. Apparently, he found my discomfort amusing.

I stood and walked over to the table to get another drink. I needed to cool down and collect myself. As I decided which glass to take, I could feel Lee watching me, drinking me in. I exhaled deeply, momentarily lost in a fantasy world. Then I knocked over several champagne flutes, soaking the front of my jumpsuit.

"Damn!" I hissed, knowing Mum was going to kill me when she found out.

In a heartbeat, Lee was standing beside me. His voice filled with concern, he handed me a napkin and said, "Are you okay? You didn't cut yourself, did you?"

"No, I'm fine," I replied, running my fingers through my hair and feeling like an idiot. "I guess I need to find a place to get cleaned up."

Like Cinderella escaping the ball at midnight, I turned and raced into the corridor, and after trying a couple of doorknobs, I finally found a bathroom. When I came out, I ran squarely into Frasier as he was walking down the hall. His face was red and puffy and from the muddled look in his eyes, it was clear he was inebriated.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I'm fine," Frasier said, his words slurred. "I just—" He stopped midsentence, looking at my head. "Hey, my hat!"

I smiled, took off the fedora, and as I put it back on his head, I asked, "Did you find Becky?"

"No, I bumped into Hannah and she said Becky's not coming. Apparently she came down with a migraine."

"Oh, Frasier, I'm sorry. I know you really wanted to see her."

Frasier shrugged his shoulders, his eyes filled with sadness. "I guess it was for the best," he said, his lower lip quivering. "It wouldn't have made much difference anyway. Let's face it. What chance do I have with a girl like Becky? Just look at me. I'm ugly."

Gently, I placed my hand on his shoulder. "You're not ugly. Please stop saying that."

Wiping away a tear with his sleeve, he turned toward the wall and said, "What girl would want to date me? I look like a bloody freak."

"Stop saying that!" I said firmly. "You've got a lot going for you, Frasier. You're smart and funny and loveable. It's not _all_ about looks, you know."

"Would _you_ date me?" he asked, turning to look me in the eyes.

"Of course I would, because you're a great person—and that's what counts."

He gave a watery smile. "Thanks, Sam. You're a good friend. I kind of wish I was in love with you instead of Becky."

My eyes widened. "You're in love with her?"

"Yes," he said, nodding sadly.

"Oh, Frasier, I don't know what to say. I guess you've shocked me."

"Haven't you ever been in love before?"

"No, never," I replied, shaking my head.

"Well, don't do it," he said. "Love is a horrible feeling, Sam—especially if the one you love doesn't love you back."

I laughed nervously and lightly punched his arm. "Hey, this conversation's getting way too serious. Let's go downstairs and get some food. I think you need to sober up a bit."

He nodded and shakily followed me toward the staircase. As we descended, Frasier leaned on me, and I realized that I had never fully appreciated just how heavy he was until that moment. Then disaster struck—again. Only a few steps down, Frasier lost his footing and tumbled to the bottom of the stairs. There must have been at least forty steps, and it looked as if he hit every one of them on the way down.

Immediately a crowd of people gathered around him as I rushed down the stairs. I heard someone say, "This boy's hurt. Somebody call an ambulance."

Panic-stricken, I pushed my way through the crowd and knelt by Frasier's body. He looked up at me and moaned, "I think I broke my leg."

Taffin appeared above us. "Don't worry, old man. We've got an ambulance on the way."

Suddenly, Lee was crouching beside me, examining the damage to Frasier's leg, his face drawn with concern. He slid his arm under Frasier's shoulders and carefully raised him to a sitting position. Then, in one swift, fluid movement, he lifted him to his feet.

I was astounded by Lee's strength. Frasier was a big guy, yet Lee had just lifted him like he was picking up a feather—without a flinch.

Lee handed Frasier his glasses. One of the lenses was cracked.

"How are you feeling?" Lee asked gently.

Leaning on Lee's shoulder, Frasier took a wobbly step, then ran his fingers gingerly over his kneecap. Finally, he looked at Lee and said, "I feel okay."

"No broken bones?" Taffin asked, obviously relieved.

Frasier shook his head. "No, I'm fine, but I'm still a little dizzy."

"Don't worry, the ambulance is on its way," Taffin said.

Frasier shook his head. "Cancel it. I'll be fine. I just need to go home and get some rest."

"I'll call you a taxi," Lee said, pulling out his cell phone.

"Okay everyone, Frasier is fine! Let's all get back to the party!" Taffin shouted.

There were cheers of approval as the guests went back to what they had been doing before the interruption. I stood by Frasier in the hall as we waited for the taxi. His eyes were glassy and vacant from a combination of the alcohol and the fall. Lee stayed with us, but no one spoke during the ten minutes it took for the taxi to arrive.

After Frasier and I had climbed inside, Lee handed the driver some cash. "Take my friends wherever they want to go."

"Please, you don't have to do that," I said. "I've got money. I—"

Lee cut me off. "Don't worry about that now. All I want is for you guys to get home safely."

Before I could protest, Lee was waving the driver on. As we pulled away from the house, I found it hard to think straight. The night had been so strange and filled with so many twists and turns—and there was something about Lee that I couldn't quite put my finger on. It was just a feeling, but it bothered me, though I didn't know why.

Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted by a hard thud against my shoulder. I turned and saw that Frasier had passed out.

##  ‡  
FIVE

Saatchi

When my alarm clock went off on Sunday morning, I didn't want to get up. The bed felt so warm and snug that I happily could have stayed under my quilt forever. I hadn't slept well the night before, only managing to drift off in the early hours. In fact, I'd pretty much had no sleep at all since Taffin's party.

I'd spent all day Saturday drinking black coffee and nursing a killer hangover, to the point of doubting whether I'd be able to go on the Saatchi Gallery trip. But somehow I dragged myself out of bed and was ready by ten-fifteen. This time I was wearing my own choice of clothes: a gray hooded sweater with black leggings and my favorite red-and-white Converses.

In the kitchen, I put two slices of bread in the toaster and made a cup of tea along with scrambled eggs and bacon. When I'd finished cooking, I took my breakfast into the living room and turned on the TV to check the weather forecast. Then, as I sat on the sofa, absent-mindedly chewing my toast, my thoughts drifted back to Lee and what had happened on Friday night.

I kept replaying the events over and over, trying to decipher if there was anything I'd missed. I thought about the way Lee had looked at me, the way he'd smiled at me, how he'd asked me to dance, and the possible significance of him not bringing Becky to the party. Could it be that Frasier was right? Could someone as gorgeous as Lee really find me attractive?

It wasn't that I had low self-esteem—far from it. I knew I was pretty and knew how to make the most of my appearance, but I wasn't exactly supermodel material, and Lee was so perfect, I found it difficult to conceive that I'd even show up on his radar.

I closed my eyes and tried to make sense of the crazy state I was in. Why did Lee have such an effect on me? I'd always been so calm and reserved around the opposite sex, never once letting a boy get close to me—but somehow Lee was different. He got to me in a way no one else ever had.

A large part of his appeal for me was physical, which I found disturbing. When I was around him, it was as if my body took on a life of its own. I craved him in a way I couldn't control—and it was shaking me to my core. We barely knew each other, yet I felt an undeniable connection with him. Part of me was deathly afraid of getting hurt, but another part couldn't resist playing with fire. I was curious about all my new feelings and wanted to see where they would take me.

Around eleven, I left the apartment and took the overland train from Elmfield to Victoria, and then rode the Tube straight to Sloane Square. As I passed through the ticket barriers, I saw that I was early, so I decided to kill some time browsing the newspaper stand.

Ten minutes passed.

I started growing restless, wondering where everyone was. I pulled out my phone and thought about who to call. I didn't have Lee's number, so my best option would be Becky. If my call went to voicemail, I could assume she was on her way.

Just as I was about to dial the number, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I spun around and saw Lee standing behind me. Hastily, I stuffed the phone back in my pocket.

"Sorry I'm late," he said with a bright smile. "I had trouble finding a parking space and then I had to get change for the meter."

"You drove up here?" I said in surprise.

"Yes, I rarely ever take public transport," he replied. "Well, shall we get going? The Saatchi's just up the road."

"Hold on, don't you want to wait for everyone else?"

Lee looked at me strangely. "What are you talking about?"

"Aren't Becky and the others coming? You said there was a group going."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't remember saying that. It was always going to be just you and me." Then he smiled again and said mischievously, "Besides, I don't think Becky would appreciate this exhibition the way you and I will."

"But I could have sworn you said—" I broke off mid-sentence as I realized that Lee had planned it from the start.

My mind raced at the implications. If he'd wanted to be alone with me, it could only mean one thing—and I could hardly think the words. Was this going to be a _date_?

"Okay, perhaps I misheard you," I said, collecting myself as best I could. "Lead the way. I've never been to the Saatchi before."

"You're going to love it," he said eagerly, offering his arm.

We left Sloane Square and started up the street at a leisurely pace. It felt strange with just the two of us walking together and I wondered if anyone would think we were a couple.

Cautiously, I studied Lee from the corner of my eye. He was wearing a dark blue suit jacket with khaki jeans and a black woolen sweater with a matching baseball cap. It was a smarter look than I'd seen before—and it added further weight to my _date_ theory. Had he actually dressed up to impress me?

Within a few minutes we'd reached the Saatchi Gallery, a huge building on King's Road. The rooms were large and white with high ceilings devised to present the canvasses in the best light. The exhibition was entitled _Masquerade_ by a photographer I'd never heard of, Theo Esposito. The themes were suitably outlandish, the majority of them black-and-white portraits of women wearing fur and elaborate animal masks.

Lee led me from room to room, offering a running commentary on the exhibition and proving that he definitely wasn't just a pretty face. He had an extensive knowledge of the arts. From his honed appearance, I never would have guessed there was an art critic hiding inside—but Lee was full of surprises.

"What do you think Esposito was trying to say here?" he asked, pointing to a gigantic photo of a woman wearing a bizarre tiger mask.

I pondered for a moment, then said, "I think it's about deception—about the masks we wear as faces, and the faces we wear as masks."

"Nice," Lee agreed. "I couldn't have put it better myself. So you think the woman in the photo is hiding something?"

"Absolutely," I said. "The tiger mask is used to disguise a side of her character she doesn't want anyone else to see. Her secret dark side."

I wasn't entirely convinced of what I was saying, but it sounded good.

Then Lee surprised me again. He leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, "Is that why you always cover your face with that hood? To hide your own dark secrets?"

I looked at him, smiled, and said, "Is that why you always cover your face with that cap?"

He nodded, smiled, and said, "Touché."

I turned away and walked to the other side of the room, pretending to study another canvas, but I could feel my hands shaking. What had he meant by that comment? Was it a thinly veiled hint about my past?

The more I thought about it, the madder I got. How could I have been so stupid? Of course it wasn't a date. Obviously, Becky had told him about my past, just as she'd told Frasier. Either that, or he'd recognized me from the newspapers. He'd set this up so he could interrogate me—and I'd fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.

Lee walked over to me. "I'm sorry. Have I done something to offend you?"

"Don't insult my intelligence," I snapped, shooting him a scowl.

"I don't understand," he said, looking genuinely confused. "Please tell me what I've done."

"Becky told you, didn't she?"

"Told me what?" Lee asked, still looking puzzled.

I sighed, then turned to face him, my arms folded across my chest. "About the abduction."

"What abduction?"

I sighed again. If he wanted to play games, I'd play along.

"Ten years ago, a friend and I were abducted by a couple of maniacs. Everyone in Britain knows about it. Surely it couldn't have escaped your attention."

"Ten years ago, I was living in Hong Kong with my parents," Lee said with a shrug. "We only moved back to the UK two years ago—so, no. I don't know anything about an abduction. Until Becky introduced us that day in the library, I'd never seen you before in my life."

My eyes narrowed with suspicion as I studied his face. "Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes!"

"Swear on your mother's life."

"I swear on _both_ my parents' lives."

I ran my fingers through my hair, suddenly embarrassed. I hadn't realized just how loudly I'd been talking, and we had apparently attracted an audience.

"I'm sorry," I murmured. "I can get a bit emotional about it sometimes."

"No need to apologize," Lee said. "I'm the bloody idiot. I can see now why you were upset. It must have seemed insensitive, but I swear I didn't know. I'm the one who should be sorry."

"No, it's fine—really," I said, shaking my head. "You didn't know, but I've had so many people try to exploit the situation, you know, and it's made me a bit wary." Looking down at the floor, I added, "Anyway, it's not your problem, it's mine. I guess I've got to learn to be less paranoid."

Lee took a step forward, put his hands on my shoulders, and looked me squarely in the eyes. "Look, Sam, if I can help, I'd like to try. You say you were abducted? Do you want to talk about it?"

I shook my head again. "No, I don't want to go there. It's taken all this time just to be able to go out in public. You can Google my name tonight and read all about it. Type in Samantha Harper and Elliot Marsh and you'll have plenty of bedtime reading."

"I'm sorry," Lee sighed, removing his hands from my shoulders. "I seem to have upset you again. Shall we go grab something to eat? I think it's time to get out of here."

"Good idea," I agreed.

As we descended the gallery steps, it started to rain—light, gentle drops that quickly morphed into a heavy shower. Typical British weather.

"Where did you have in mind?" I asked, pulling my hood up.

"The Decadent Tea Room at the Winchester Hotel," Lee replied. "My parents took me there a few months ago and the food's fantastic. It's only ten minutes from here."

"Okay. You lead the way," I said, though I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

The Winchester was one of the most famous luxury hotels in London, and definitely not somewhere I could afford to eat. The last thing I wanted was to embarrass myself when the bill came.

As we walked into the grand entrance to the Winchester, I found myself in awe. I'd never seen a five-star hotel before and the place certainly lived up to its prestigious reputation. The foyer was beautifully decorated in red, black, and gold, reminding me of the interior of an old country house. On one side was a roaring fireplace, and on the other a man sat playing soft jazz on a grand piano.

As we approached the sculpted archway leading to the tea room, a smartly dressed waiter rushed up and offered to take our coats. Lee gave him his wet jacket but declined to remove his hat. I gave the man my coat, but refused to put the hood down on my sweater. The two of us were clearly set in our ways.

The waiter then showed us to a table in a secluded part of the room and handed us two oversized menus. When he'd gone, I scanned the price list tentatively to see what, if anything, I could afford. Everything looked delicious, but horribly overpriced. In the end, I resigned myself to a solitary cup of tea.

"Have you decided what you want?" Lee asked softly.

"Yes, I think I'll just have a tea," I said.

"Tea?" He looked surprised. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer wine, and don't you want something to eat?"

"No food, no wine. Just tea, please."

"Are you sure?"

At that moment, as if on cue, my stomach growled audibly. Lee rested his elbows on the table, leaned forward, and said, "Sam, this is my treat. Please feel free to order anything you want."

"Oh, no, I couldn't—"

Before I could finish, the waiter arrived and Lee ordered lunch for both of us while I sat numbly—but secretly flattered. I had never had a man buy lunch for me before. This was starting to look even more suspiciously like a date.

After the waiter walked away, Lee smiled at me and asked, "How's school?"

"Nothing new to report," I replied. "And you? How's your art course going?"

"Great! I'm really enjoying it."

"You study at Summerwell Art College, right?"

"Yes, that's right." Then he quickly changed the subject. "Did you and Frasier get home okay Friday night?"

"Yes, and thanks for the cab money. That was very kind of you."

"No problem."

For a second, my mind flashed back to Frasier's accident and the expression on Frasier's face when Lee helped him—but I quickly dismissed the thought.

"Why do you always cover your tattoo with that ring?" I blurted.

"What?" Lee said, looking startled.

"Your finger tattoo," I said. "It's so beautiful. I don't understand why you'd want to hide it."

He smiled enigmatically as he twisted the gold band between his fingers. "You're very observant, aren't you?"

"Not particularly. I just like tattoos, that's all."

"Really? Do you have any?"

"Two."

"Where?" he asked, leaning forward again.

"One on my ankle and one on my shoulder," I replied.

"Can I see?"

It was my turn to smile mischievously. "Only if you take off your cap."

"Why?"

"Because I'd like to see your face properly. What are you hiding under there? A bad haircut?"

Slowly, he took off the cap—revealing the full radiance of his beauty. His hair was dark brown, cropped short with a glossy fringe that hung loosely across his forehead. Seeing his full face for the first time nearly took my breath away. I thought I'd have heart failure.

For a moment, we stared at each other as if we were meeting for the first time. Then I reached under the table and rolled down one of my socks.

"Now I suppose you want to see my tattoos," I said, tilting my ankle so that he got a good view of the butterfly.

Then I rolled up my sleeve and showed him the heart on my shoulder.

"Very nice," he said, smiling warmly.

I realized at that moment that I wanted Lee to like me— _really_ like me—and the thought took me by surprise. I wasn't used to seeking praise or fishing for compliments from men, but at that moment, I was desperately happy that my tattoos had met with Lee's approval.

The waiter returned with a silver tray of tea, pastries, and condiments, and set them on the table with the finesse of a magician. Afterward, he uncorked a bottle of wine and filled Lee's glass halfway for him to taste. When Lee nodded his approval, the waiter filled the rest of the glass.

Then he reached over to fill my glass, but I cupped my hand over it and said, "No, thank you. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Lee asked.

"Yes, I'm sure," I grinned. "I'm still recovering from Friday."

The waiter smiled politely, placed the wine bottle in the center of the table, wished us _bon appétit_ , and left.

For the next few minutes we ate in silence, concentrating on our plates. The pastries were delicious and I fought the urge to calculate how long it would take to burn off the calories.

Finally, Lee broke into my thoughts. "So what are you planning to do after you finish school?"

"I guess it depends how well I do in my exams," I said matter-of-factly.

"Do you live with your parents?"

"Just my mum."

"And your dad?"

"My parents are divorced. Dad moved back to Ireland."

"Oh," he said simply. "How do you feel about that? Do you miss your dad?"

"What is this, twenty questions?" I quipped.

"No," he chuckled. "It's just that I want to know more about you. Is there anything wrong with that?"

"No," I replied, "but it feels kind of one-sided. After all, I know nothing about you, either, so I've got some questions of my own."

He put down his knife and fork. "Okay, shoot."

I glanced around, then said softly, "Okay. For one thing, you still haven't answered my original question."

"Which was?"

"Why do you wear a ring over your tattoo?"

"Oh," he said, laughing. "Is it really such a big deal?"

"No," I admitted, "but it sounds like you don't want to answer."

"Okay, it's simple," he said, leaning back in his chair. "My dad bought this ring for my birthday, and since I don't really like jewelry, sometimes I wear it and sometimes I don't. When I do wear it, it fits best on my middle finger, which just happens to be the same finger as my tattoo."

"Oh," I said, somewhat disappointed.

He smiled again. "I'm sorry. Were you expecting something more exotic?"

I shrugged. "I just thought maybe you were part of a secret society or something."

"Secret society?"

"Yeah, you know, like the gangster tattoos they have in prison. I heard some people wear them inside for protection."

Lee raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You thought I was in prison?"

Flustered, I quickly replied, "No, of course not."

Lee laughed again. "Sorry, Sam. I _wish_ my life was that interesting, but sadly, I've never been in prison."

I felt my cheeks reddening. If I was trying to impress him, I wasn't doing a very good job. I took a gulp of tea, then changed the subject.

"Have you spoken to Becky lately?"

"No, have you?"

I shook my head. "I was surprised she wasn't with you at the party on Friday."

"Why? We never planned to go together."

"I thought the two of you were—"

"An item?" Lee said, laughing heartily. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Well, it's just that you seemed very—"

"Look, Sam. Becky's a nice girl, but we're just friends."

I nodded thoughtfully. There were so many questions. I wanted to know what he thought of me. I wanted to know why he'd invited me to the gallery. But somehow I couldn't get the words out.

Slowly, Lee ran his fingers down the stem of his wine glass, his dark eyes hypnotizing me. Then he raised the glass to his lips, never breaking eye contact, and took a long drink.

I looked down and tried to focus back on my plate.

"What are we doing afterward?" he asked.

"What was that?" I mumbled.

When I looked up, Lee was staring at my mouth. As I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, he suddenly squinted his right eye and covered it with his hand.

"What's wrong?" I frowned.

"Nothing. Just my contact lenses acting up. Excuse me."

He got up, still covering one side of his face, and rushed off in the direction of the restroom. I hadn't noticed that Lee wore contacts.

Downing the last of my tea, I gazed out the window at the rain and wished I could stay warm and cozy in the Winchester forever—away from the storm and my troubles.

When Lee returned he seemed flustered. "Shall we get the bill?"

I noticed that his eye was bloodshot from rubbing. I glanced at his plate. He'd barely touched his food.

"Don't you want to stay a bit longer?"

"No, I should be heading back. I have some things to do."

"Did you manage to sort out your contact lens?"

"Yes, thanks," he said, putting on his baseball cap.

Then he signaled for the waiter to bring the bill. After looking it over, he pulled a roll of fifties tied in a rubber band from his pocket and counted out a huge wad of notes. I wondered briefly if it was dangerous to carry so much cash. I also wondered why he hadn't just paid by credit card.

"Do you want me to give you a ride home?" he asked as he put his jacket on.

"Yeah, I guess," I said, a bit disappointed that the day was coming to such an abrupt end.

I could have spent all day in Lee's company, but I knew the drive home in the afternoon traffic would take at least forty minutes, so that was some consolation. Oddly enough, it took us almost that long just to find his car. Lee said he'd parked somewhere behind Sloane Square station, but he couldn't remember the name of the street, so we had to trail around for ages looking for it. Eventually, we found his Lotus five minutes before the meter was due to expire.

I was about ready to collapse from exhaustion as I slid into the passenger seat. The interior of the Lotus was warm and smelled of expensive leather and lavender air freshener.

As we started home, neither of us spoke for a while. I kept my eyes on the road, watching the wipers dance back and forth across the windshield. Lee turned on the stereo and flipped through the tracks until he settled on what sounded like Irish folk music being sung in an odd language I'd never heard before. It was haunting and hypnotic, evoking images of blue skies, emerald fields, and merriment from centuries long past.

"Penny for your thoughts," Lee asked, breaking into my daydream.

"I love this music," I murmured. "What is it?"

"The album's called _Inagoul_."

"Ina what?"

" _Inagoul_."

"What language is that?"

He hesitated, then admitted, "I don't know. The CD belongs to a friend of mine."

"Well, whatever it is, I like it," I said. "It sounds very traditional."

I leaned back, relishing the soft, comfortable feel of the padded leather. The music was like a lullaby and soon the melody, combined with the rhythmic beat of the windshield wipers, lulled me into a semi-conscious state. For the first time in ages, I felt completely at ease—safe and content.

"I liked the way you looked at the party," Lee said softly.

"What?" I asked, half opening my eyes.

"I liked the way you wore your hair Friday night. It looked really pretty."

I smiled. "Thank you. It was just a bit of hair gel and a jumpsuit I borrowed from Mum."

"Well, whatever it was, I liked it," he whispered, his eyes still on the road.

Swallowing hard, I sank deeper into the seat. Lee knew exactly what he was doing, and he was clearly enjoying toying with me.

"Look," he said, "We're running low on fuel. Keep an eye out for a gas station, okay?"

"Okay," I said, leaning forward.

Moments later, we were approaching a Shell station. Lee got out and started to fill the tank. As he did, I noticed a black Ford with tinted windows pull up beside the next pump. There was nothing remarkable about the car, but something about it left me feeling uneasy.

"Do you want anything from inside?" Lee asked through the window before he turned to go pay the bill.

As I shook my head, I could still see the black Ford sitting with its engine running. Nobody got in, nobody got out. It was as if the driver was waiting for someone or something.

When Lee returned, he'd bought us each a Red Bull and a Snickers bar.

"Thanks," I said with a smile.

"No problem."

As Lee steered us back onto the main road, I peeked in the rear view mirror and saw that the Ford was still parked where it had been.

"So, where exactly in Elmfield do you live?" Lee asked.

"Roseberry Avenue."

"That's near the town hall, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's right. Where do you live?"

"An apartment overlooking Elmfield Park."

"You've got your own place?"

"Yeah. My parents are working in Lebanon for six months, so for the time being, I'm on my own. I wanted to go with them, but I had to stay behind to finish my studies."

"What are your parents doing in Lebanon?"

"They're working on a documentary for the BBC. Dad's a film director, Mum's an editor. They run their own production company."

"That's fantastic!" I enthused.

"Yeah, I suppose," he said, "although I hated it sometimes when I was a kid—all that traveling and moving around. We never stayed in one place long enough to settle."

"I know exactly what you mean."

He looked at me. "You do?"

"Sure. When my parents divorced, Mum changed jobs so many times that we never stayed in one place either. It's hard to connect with anyone when you're always on the road. You always feel like an outsider."

"I can certainly relate to that," he murmured.

As a bridge came into view, I suddenly felt a deep shudder, and I instinctively turned and looked in the rear view mirror again. I was shocked to see the black Ford behind us.

"Lee," I said quietly, "maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I think that car's following us."

He glanced in the mirror. "You mean that black Ford?"

"Yes. I saw it parked at the gas station." When Lee didn't respond, I quickly added, "Of course, I could be wrong."

"What makes you think they're following us?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's just a feeling."

Suddenly, he hit the accelerator and we shot ahead at a high speed.

"Hey, slow down!" I shouted.

Looking in the mirror, I was horrified to see the Ford in hot pursuit. I hadn't been hallucinating. It was really happening.

"I'm going to try to shake them," Lee said firmly, quickly turning onto a side street.

We swerved at the next corner, then the next, until we reached a cul-de-sac, where Lee hit the brakes and pulled the Lotus to the curb. For a few moments, we sat in silence, listening to the sound of our breathing as the windshield wipers continued to slap at the rain.

"Do you think we lost them?" I whispered.

"I don't think so," Lee said softly, nodding his head in the direction of the black Ford as it turned into the cul-de-sac and pulled up a short distance behind us.

Lee turned off the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. "Okay, I'm going to sort this out right now."

"Be careful," I hissed.

Lee got out and strode confidently toward the Ford, but as he approached, the car suddenly backed up and then sped away. Within seconds, it was gone.

"What the hell was that all about?" I asked as Lee eased back into his seat.

"I have no idea," he sighed. "London's full of crazy people." He glanced at me. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I lied, and I could sense that he was deeply troubled about something.

For the rest of the drive home, we rode in silence, listening to _Inagoul_. By the time we pulled onto my street, I was falling asleep again. It had been an exhausting day, and I was bitterly disappointed that it had ended on such a sour note. The car chase had blackened Lee's mood and he'd barely looked at me afterward—though, for the life of me, I couldn't understand why.

"Thanks for everything," I muttered as I unfastened my seatbelt. "I had a great time—overall."

"Is this where you live?" he asked, looking up at the building.

I nodded wordlessly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I haven't been very good company. You'll have to excuse me, but my mind's all over the place, what with college and stuff. There's so many things stressing me out. Don't think it's got anything to do with you. I really did have a good time today."

My arms fell limply into my lap. "I enjoyed it, too."

Only then did I look over at him. His cap was pushed back enough for me to see his face. His dark eyes held the same intense expression I'd seen earlier at the restaurant. His lips looked so inviting that I had to struggle mightily not to lean over and kiss him, but I managed to control myself—though just barely.

For a few moments, I lingered, wanting to prolong our time together as long as possible. I desperately wished he would say something that would give me a chance to stay—but he didn't.

Finally, I opened the car door. "Thanks again. I guess I'll see you around."

"Definitely. Today's been great."

Either Lee was purposely playing dumb or something had happened that I didn't know about. Without saying goodbye, I turned and darted down the stone steps. I fumbled for my house keys, listening for the sound of him driving away. Only after I was satisfied that he was gone did I step inside.

Why hadn't he asked for my phone number? Why hadn't he arranged another date? Had I done something wrong? With a sigh of frustration, I slammed my fist against the wall, sending a jolt of pain through my hand.

Then I stormed down the corridor to my room and flung myself on the bed. For a long time, I lay mulling things over, trying to make sense of it all. Lee had given me such mixed signals that I had no idea where I stood with him.

"This is why I don't do boys," I muttered to my empty room. "I hate all these mind games."

Rolling onto my back, I stared up at the ceiling. In the past, one of my counselors had told me that I needed to control my temper. Perhaps she was right.

At that moment, I heard the front door slam. I called out, "Mum?"

There was no answer.

"Mum, is that you?" I repeated.

Still no answer.

Slowly, I got up and peeked into the corridor to see where the noise had come from. Perhaps I hadn't shut the door tightly and it had gotten caught by the wind.

Then I felt an icy draft, as if a massive refrigerator had just been opened.

Cautiously, I made my way to the front door. It was locked and bolted from the inside, which meant it couldn't have slammed. Trembling slightly, I went into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. I needed something to calm my nerves.

After a shot of caffeine, I started to feel a little better, telling myself that I was being silly and that there had to be a logical explanation for the noise. Maybe it had been a neighbor coming home. The sound proofing in old houses was never very good. But deep down, I couldn't shake the ominous feeling I'd had since seeing the black Ford and the sense that I was being watched. Could it be the driver had followed me home?

Then there was a loud crash behind me. I spun round and saw that one of the plates had fallen off the rack and smashed onto the floor. With shaky fingers, I got out the dustpan and swept up the pieces.

I went back to the front door, double checked that it was locked, and then inspected every window of every room of the apartment. When I was satisfied that I was alone, I returned to my bedroom and tried to do some homework, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't concentrate. Since childhood, I'd possessed an ability to sense when something bad was about to happen—and I knew that _something_ was out there, waiting.

##  ‡  
SIX

Omen

I wasn't looking forward to seeing Becky again. I knew she'd want to discuss what happened at Taffin Carter's party, and I still hadn't gotten my story straight. Sure enough, she made a beeline for me first thing Monday morning, as the class waited for Mr. Maine to arrive.

"My god, Sam, where have you been?" she demanded. "I've been trying to get through to you all weekend!"

"Sorry," I said sheepishly. "I was a bit hung over, so I switched off my phone." I glanced at Frasier's empty desk. I hoped he was okay. "So how's your migraine?" I asked, changing the subject. "Hannah said you weren't feeling well."

But Becky wasn't letting me off that easily. "Never mind about that. Hannah said she saw you dancing with Lee at the party. How could you do that to me? You know how much I like him!"

"Hannah's lying," I snapped. "We just talked, that's all, for about ten minutes before Frasier's accident."

Concern shadowed her face. "Oh my gosh, I heard about that. He fell down the stairs, right? Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine. At least, I hope he is," I said as I glanced again at his seat.

Frasier was now seven minutes late. It was so unlike him that I began to worry. I opened my bag and began unpacking my books and a pen. I could feel Becky's eyes boring into me like an electric current.

"So, are you saying that you didn't dance with Lee?" she probed.

"Yes! I don't know why Hannah told you that. She must be trying to stir up trouble."

Becky's face broke into a smile. "It's all right, Sam, I believe you. I just needed to be sure you were still on my side."

A wave of relief washed over me as I realized she'd been bluffing the whole time. With all the other crazy stuff going on in my life, the last thing I needed was a major fall-out with Becky.

"It's a shame you didn't come to the party," I said. "It was fun, until Frasier's accident."

"I know, I'm so sad I missed it," she pouted. "I was ready to leave my house when suddenly I got this terrible headache. Honestly, it was so bad that I had to lie down the rest of the night. In the morning I felt fine again. It was so weird. I've never had a migraine before. Oh well, I guess it wasn't meant to be."

"I guess not," I said, tucking my hair behind my ear. Then I asked, trying to sound nonchalant, "How are things going with Lee anyway?"

"I'm not sure," she sighed. "He's so hard to read. Sometimes he acts like he's really into me and then he suddenly goes all cold. For example, I've asked for his number many times, but he keeps putting me off. He says he lost his cell and is waiting for the phone company to send him a replacement. That was two weeks ago, so I'm not sure I believe him anymore."

"Yeah, that does sound a bit strange," I agreed. My thoughts took me back to the party and I distinctly remembered seeing Lee use a cell phone to dial the taxi. _So Becky is right. Lee is lying to her. But why?_

Perhaps this was how he got his kicks. Perhaps he enjoyed flirting, playing hard to get, and pitting one girl against another. Whatever his game was, I decided I wasn't going to play it anymore.

At that moment, Mr. Maine hurried into the classroom carrying a bunch of folders under his arm. His hair was windswept and his clothes disheveled.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "I had to do some photocopying, but I have some good news—at least for some of you. Your grades are back for the Tennessee Williams project."

Groans reverberated around the room.

"I thought you'd be happy," he clucked. "Don't worry. Most of you did fine."

Frasier darted through the door and collapsed at his desk. "Sorry I'm late, sir," he panted. He was drenched in sweat and looked like he'd run the whole way.

"Are you all right?" I mouthed.

He nodded stiffly. For a second, his eyes fell on Becky, but then he quickly turned away. I figured he must have felt awkward because of the confession he'd made to me at the party.

"Right, time to put you all out of your misery." Mr. Maine stalked around the room handing back everyone's assessment papers. Luckily, I wasn't in suspense for long. I got a B+, which was better than I'd expected, considering I hadn't really put that much effort in. Frasier had virtually carried us through the whole presentation, so we had him to thank for that.

Mr. Maine turned to the whiteboard and wrote the words SCARLETT O'HARA in big, bold letters. "Today, we're going to compare Blanche Du Bois with Scarlett O'Hara from _Gone with the Wind_. It could be argued that Tennessee Williams picks up where Margaret Mitchell left off. Both Blanche and Scarlett are headstrong Southern belles fighting for survival in treacherous new landscapes..."

As he continued to ramble, my eyes kept flickering back to Frasier, who was sitting two rows ahead. He definitely wasn't his usual self. He seemed so subdued, almost vacant. I wondered if something was wrong.

"What are you doing after school?" Becky whispered, forming her words around a wad of gum.

"I'm not sure," I replied, trying to conjure up an excuse for what was coming.

"A few of us are going to the All-Star. Wanna come?"

"I'd love to, but I'm kind of broke at the moment."

"Don't worry, I can lend you a tenner," she said with a smile. I opened my mouth to protest but she silenced me. "I won't take no for an answer. It'll be fun. I love hanging out with you."

"A little less talking girls!" Mr. Maine snapped.

Reluctantly, I admitted defeat and agreed to go to the All-Star for an hour. After my clandestine "date" with Lee, part of me felt guilty, and Becky was holding out an olive branch. I would have been a fool not to take it. When the bell finally sounded, the class dispersed quickly, but I lingered to speak to Frasier.

"You seem a bit distant today," I said.

He looked at me strangely. "Meet me behind the science department at lunch," he whispered. "I need to talk to you."

"What about?" I asked.

"Later," he said simply. "We'll need some privacy."

Without another word, he gathered up his books and rushed out the room.

Thoughtfully, I ambled down the gloomy corridor toward my next class, a knot of anticipation twisting in my belly. What could Frasier have to tell me that was so mysterious?

The rest of the morning seemed to drag. My mind was buzzing and I could hardly think straight. All I could see was the expression on Frasier's face.

At one o' clock, I found him waiting for me at the designated spot, sitting on a bench and eating a rye bread sandwich. I sat beside him and he offered me a bite, but I declined, although it did look tasty.

"So what's this all about?" I asked eagerly. "What did you want to tell me?"

Frasier chewed methodically for a few agonizing moments, then turned, looked me straight in the eye, and said, "It's about Lee."

"What about Lee?"

"That night at the party, something weird happened," he said, swallowing the last bite, "and I haven't slept for days trying to figure it out."

"Can you please stop being so cryptic and just tell me what's going on?" I demanded.

He sighed. "Okay, it's like this. Remember when I fell down the stairs?" As I nodded, he continued, "Well, I hurt myself pretty bad. I'm talking a broken bone. When I tried to get up, I could actually feel the fracture. I think it must have been broken in two places."

I winced. "Go on."

"But when Lee touched me, I felt a spark of energy, sort of like electricity, and though I know you won't believe this, when I stood up, I was completely healed. No pain, no nothing. I felt like I was on morphine or something."

"Are you serious?"

"I've never been more serious in my life. Somehow, Lee healed me with his hands."

I sighed deeply, trying to think of the right words. Finally, I said, "Look, you were pretty tipsy that night, so you weren't thinking clearly. You can't seriously expect me to believe that Lee could heal a broken leg with just a touch."

"Why is it so ridiculous?" Frasier said indignantly. "I ran a search on faith healers online this weekend and there are people in China and India who can cure sickness using nothing but the power of their minds." As I rolled my eyes, he added, "This isn't some hocus-pocus, Sam. In China, they call it the Healing Tao."

In spite of myself, I burst out laughing. "Oh, please, Frasier. There's no such thing as faith healing."

"How do you know?"

"I just do, okay? You can't heal someone with just your mind. That's the craziest thing I ever heard."

"But it makes perfect sense," Frasier protested. "Lee told us his family spent time in China and India. Maybe that's where he learned how to do it."

"I think I've got a better explanation," I said, shaking my head. "You had too much to drink, you hit your head harder than you thought, and you imagined the whole thing." I put my hand on his arm gently, as if I was talking to a child. "Listen to me. Lee may be a lot of things, but a faith healer he isn't. Stuff like that only happens in fairy tales."

Frasier raised a bottle of water to his lips, took a long gulp, then huffed, "I thought you'd at least listen to what I had to say. I guess I was wrong."

My voice softened a little. "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I didn't mean to. On a different note, could you please come to All-Star tonight? Becky invited me and I don't want to go alone."

"Yeah, okay," he said dismissively.

We sat for a long moment in silence, and despite my repeated assertions to the contrary, I wasn't wholly convinced there might not be some truth to what Frasier had said. The idea of Lee—or anyone else—being a faith healer was preposterous, yet there was _something_ that didn't sit right with me.

I thought back to the incident and played the image in my mind like a slow-motion movie clip. The fluidity of Lee's movements and the ease with which he'd lifted Frasier up had seemed uncanny—and there was something else, too. As he was lifting Frasier, his movements had suddenly slackened, almost like he was deliberately toning down the level of his strength.

I told myself I was being silly. Lee was young and fit and clearly thought of weight lifting as more than just a hobby. Surely that alone could explain his remarkable strength. Then again, I was tipsy that night, too, so my memory couldn't totally be trusted, either.

When my thoughts returned to the present, I said, "Well, should we go back inside? I think it might rain."

 * * *

We got to the All-Star around five. There were six of us: me, Frasier, Becky, Jermaine, Marie, and William (thankfully Hannah hadn't been able to make it because of choir practice). We found a table in the back and Becky ordered a strawberry milkshake, pancakes, and barbequed ribs for me. I briefly wondered whether her secret plan was to get me fat. Still, it was nice of her to treat me to a huge meal, so I rolled with it.

Jermaine, Marie, and William ordered the All Star Special: a double cheeseburger with pancakes and chips. Frasier had a glass of water and an anaemic-looking veggie burger. I wondered briefly if it was fun to be a vegan. I had a pretty good relationship with most types of cuisine—except seafood, which I was violently allergic to. Once at primary school, I'd nibbled a piece of Elliot's prawn sandwich and had ended up in hospital—not an experience I planned to repeat again.

A couple of times I caught Frasier glancing at Becky wistfully, then quickly looking away. I wondered if he would ever muster the courage to tell her.

"How are you liking St. Mary's so far?" William asked me.

"It's all right," I said, licking barbeque sauce from my fingers. "Pretty much the same as every other school I've been to."

"Oh? Have you been through a lot of schools?"

"A few," I replied.

"Why do you change so often? Were you a problem child or something?"

"Jermaine, can you pass the ketchup?" Becky cut in, leaning across the table.

Frasier shot me a look and quickly changed the subject to football. Then, as the boys nattered away, I turned to Marie, who was sitting to my right, and tried to make conversation. She seemed sweet enough, but didn't have much to say beyond what she'd watched on TV the night before.

Every now and then, I noticed Becky glancing toward the automatic doors, as if she was waiting for someone. Then it hit me. I knew exactly what she was thinking—the same thing I was thinking. We were both hoping that Lee would walk through those doors, just as he had two Fridays earlier—but he didn't.

After a while, Becky grew restless. "I'm bored. Who wants to play a game?" She pointed toward the bowling alley.

William said, "You're on!"

She turned to everyone else. "Sam, Marie, Jermaine, Frasier, how about you?"

"Sure," Marie said, and Jermaine agreed.

"Let me finish my shake first," I said. "You go ahead. We'll join you in a bit."

"Don't be too long," Becky said, smiling broadly.

At that moment, I decided that Becky was far more attractive than I'd given her credit for earlier. Her quirks and imperfections only added to her uniqueness, and I'd always liked interesting faces.

As they walked away, I reminisced about the last time I'd seen Lee. The sound of the rain on the windshield, the wipers casting exotic shadows across his face. It had been just the two of us—all alone. I thought about how delectable his lips looked and how much I'd wanted to kiss them.

"Hello? Earth to Sam," I heard Frasier say, snapping his fingers in my face. "What is it with you girls? You're always daydreaming."

I blinked. "I'm sorry. I did space out there for a second." Then I looked at him and said conspiratorially, "Anything new with Becky? Are you going to ask her out?"

"I don't know," he replied, taking a drink of water. "I might have to put that on hold for a while. I've got other things to think about."

"Such as?"

"Such as that science exam on Wednesday. Girls are too much of a distraction. I need to focus."

"Hey, you guys!' shouted a voice from behind us.

I turned and saw Taffin Carter approaching the table, dressed in a white bomber jacket with drainpipe jeans and a pair of gray Nikes. His Mohawk was dyed a bombastic shade of green.

"Oh, no," I groaned silently. "Someone save me."

"Maybe if we pretend he's not here, he'll go away," Frasier whispered, but it was too late.

"Fancy seeing you two here!" Taffin said enthusiastically. "What you up to?"

"What does it look like?" Frasier deadpanned. "We're eating."

Taffin laughed and pulled up a chair. "How's your pretty friend?" he said, turning to me. "What's your name again? Sarah, right?"

"Sam," I replied glumly.

Taffin snickered and pushed his chair close enough for our elbows to touch. "So what are you doing after you're done eating?" he asked. "Want to go back to my place?"

"No, thanks, maybe some other time," I said, shaking my head.

"I'll make it worth your while," he smirked. "I've got something to show you."

I made a disappointed face. "Sorry, but I didn't bring my magnifying glass."

Frasier laughed so hard that he choked briefly on his drink. Blushing crimson, Taffin stood and made a hasty retreat.

"And on that note," I said, smiling victoriously at Frasier, "I think I'll call it a day."

"But we just got here," Frasier protested. "You begged me to come, and now you're just going to leave?"

"Oh, I'm sure you can find plenty to do," I said, glancing in the direction of the others. "Have fun. I'll see you tomorrow."

I quickly made my way toward the exit, taking care Becky didn't see me. I knew she'd try to convince me to stay, and I wasn't in the mood to make excuses.

When I got outside, the sky was as gray as cast iron and there was a sinister chill in the air. I hugged my jacket tightly at the neck as I stomped along the litter-strewn sidewalk toward the bus stop. Then something stopped me in my tracks.

As I approached the crosswalk, I saw the same black Ford parked across the street, its windows as dark and impenetrable as ever. An icy terror gripped my chest. It had to be more than just a coincidence.

For what seemed like an eternity, I stood waiting for the light to change, trying to decide what to do next. Then suddenly, my fear turned to anger and I decided to face the situation head-on. I decided to confront the driver and find out what the hell was going on.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I crossed the road and strode toward the vehicle. My heart was racing and my brain was screaming, "Do you _really_ want to do this?"

A few moments later, I was standing on the passenger side of the Ford. Drawing a deep breath, I lightly tapped on the heavily-tinted glass. The instant my knuckles touched the car, an ear-splitting alarm went off. I sprang back, my eyes darting around self-consciously. Across the street, several people outside the grocery store gave me a curious look.

As I stepped away from the car, the engine started and the Ford began to move. Picking up speed, it was soon gone, leaving me alone and frustrated. I hadn't even managed to get the license plate number. Cursing under my breath, I turned and started toward the bus stop.

When I got home, I found Mum on the sofa in the living room watching an old movie on TV. As soon as she saw me, she knew something was wrong.

"Darling, what is it? Did you have a bad day?"

"You could say that," I sighed, collapsing on the sofa. "I think someone's stalking me."

She picked up the remote and switched off the TV. "What?" she asked, her voice filled with concern. "Start from the beginning. I want to know everything."

I took a deep breath, then plunged into my story. "I've seen the same car twice now—a black Ford. The first time I didn't think much of it, but today I saw it again outside the All-Star, so I'm sure someone is following me."

"Whoa, sweetheart, slow down," Mum said. "You're not making any sense."

"Okay, Mum," I said. "On Sunday, I went out with this guy. We went to the Saatchi Gallery and then had lunch at the Winchester."

"You had lunch at the Winchester?" Mum said, her eyes wide with surprise. "You never told me about that! With who?"

"Just some guy."

"Frasier?"

"No, Mum, it was just some guy I know. His name is Lee. He's not exactly a friend. He's more of an acquaintance—but that's not the point. The _point_ is that when he was driving me home, we noticed a car following us. Lee pulled over and tried to speak to the driver but the car sped off before we got to see who it was. It had very darkly-tinted windows."

I took another breath, then added, "I saw that same car today as I was walking to the bus stop, and this time I went over to see who it was, but the car just drove away again."

"Do you think it's someone from the press?" Mum asked. "You know, someone from the tabloids, looking for a story?"

I chided myself silently. Why hadn't I considered that possibility? My mind wandered back ten years to when Elliot disappeared. Reporters had descended on our house like vultures and camped outside, making us prisoners in our own home. After a couple weeks, the buzz died down and the mob finally dispersed. Was it possible that after all these years somebody had decided to seek me out for a story?

"Why would a journalist want to talk me after all this time?" I said thoughtfully. "I'm not newsworthy anymore. All I do is go to school and come home, and there's been no breakthrough with Elliot, so what would be the point of following me?"

"No breakthrough we know of, darling, but do we know for sure?" Mum asked. "I think we should give Cliff a call and find out the latest. If one of the newspapers has decided to reopen the case, Cliff would be the first to know about it."

I nodded approvingly. Clifford Maxwell had been our publicist throughout the media frenzy. He was also Britain's best-known PR man and had given us endless support over the years. Dad and Neil had first recruited him to help with their fundraising activities, then later, when the police suspended their investigation, Cliff had worked tirelessly to keep the story in the media. This was important because Anne and Neil relied on public donations to continue funding the search for Elliot.

Mum went to her bedroom and came back with an address book, then sat on the sofa and flicked through the well-thumbed pages till she found what she was looking for.

As she dialed, she muttered, "I hope he hasn't changed his number." There was an agonizing pause, then her face lit up. "Cliff? Hi, it's Lisa Harper, Sam's mother. I'm great, thanks. I know it's been a long time. What have you been up to? Monaco, huh? Wow! That sounds lovely."

Mum rolled her eyes theatrically. We both knew how Cliff could talk once he got started. I stood up and began pacing the room. Knowing Mum was involved made me feel a little better. I listened as she outlined the situation and then asked Cliff if he could do some checking.

After a few minutes, she set the phone back on the table. "Cliff says he hasn't heard anything, but he'll keep his ear to ground."

"Well, that leaves us right back where we started," I sighed.

"Darling, are you sure the car was actually following you?" she asked carefully.

"Of course I'm sure!" I said firmly. "It followed us halfway across London."

"Did you manage to get the license plate number?"

"No," I replied glumly. "I wish I had."

"Well, try not to worry too much. There has to be a logical explanation. Let's wait to hear back from Cliff, okay? In the meantime, if you see it again, call the police."

I nodded and ran my fingers through my hair.

Mum had a way of making everything sound so simple. It was a quality I admired.

"I think we could both use a strong cup of tea," she said, getting up and heading toward the kitchen while I sat and thought about the events of the day.

When she returned she was carrying two mugs of tea. For a while we sat in silence, then Mum smiled and asked matter-of-factly, "So, apart from the stalking, how was your day?"

"Okay, I guess," I said, smiling for the first time that night. "How was work?"

"Fine," she replied, then hesitated before adding, "Darling, what are you doing on the twenty-fifth?"

"That's a Saturday, isn't it?" I frowned, thinking for a second. "I'm not doing anything, as far as I know. Why?"

"I've invited Greg for dinner. I'm going to make a roast, nothing too fancy, and I'd love it if you could be here."

I shook my head. "Oh, Mum, I don't know."

"Sam, it's been a month now. I think it's time the two of you met. I've told him so much about you."

"Does Dad know about this?" I asked.

Mum's eyes flashed dangerously. "Why on earth should that make a difference? We're divorced. Your father has no say over how I live my life, and it's time you accepted that."

"I'm sorry," I said, taking a sip of tea. "You're right. I guess if you really want me to meet this Greg, I can do the twenty-fifth."

"Excellent!" she said, leaning over and kissing my cheek.

Then I asked, "Oh, and by the way, did you say you're going to _cook_?"

"Yes. Why?"

"You're _really_ going to cook?" I asked again. "You mean, like actually making something that doesn't involve a microwave?"

"Yes!" she insisted, playfully throwing a couch pillow at me.

I caught the pillow and laughed, "Wow! You are getting brave—especially with a new man."

Mum joined in the fun. "Don't worry, if it all falls apart, we can always call for a pizza."

"Good idea," I grinned. "In fact, I think I'd better put that number into my speed dial."

##  ‡  
SEVEN

Transformation

Two weeks passed and life returned to comparative normality. I went to school, exercised, did my homework, and slept. I laughed when people told jokes in class, nodded at the appropriate times in the cafeteria, and became an even more conscientious student. I even paid back Becky's tenner. In short, I did everything to emulate the daily routine of a typical seventeen-year-old.

And it worked. For a while.

I kidded myself that everything was back to normal, but deep down inside, I knew that Lee and I had unfinished business. He was all I could think about. No matter which way I turned it, no matter what I did to blot out the memories, I just couldn't shake him off.

I hated myself for being so weak. I hated myself for letting a guy get to me like this, but it was impossible. I'd be sitting in class listening to a lecture, and suddenly his face would pop up, and I'd start fantasizing about our brief time together: the intensity of his gaze, the gorgeous way his lips curled when he smiled. I'd replay our conversations over and over again in my head, silently tormenting myself.

_Why did he cut me off after our first date? What did I do wrong?_ I obsessed over what I'd say to him if we ever met again—which, at the moment, seemed highly unlikely.

No one had seen or heard from Lee since Taffin's party, and we had no way of contacting him. Even Becky became uncharacteristically quiet on the subject. Lee was an enigma, a distant dream we'd all conjured up. It was almost like he'd never existed—and in some ways, I wished I'd never met him. This terrible longing inside me, this unquenchable thirst for something I couldn't have, was destroying my soul.

Then something mind-blowing happened.

It was a Tuesday afternoon and I was eating lunch in the cafeteria with Becky and some girls from my photography class, when Frasier walked in. Something about him instantly made me do a double take. He wasn't wearing his glasses, but the change was more than just that. As he got closer, it hit me: his skin was completely clear. Those torrid red acne blemishes that had been the bane of Frasier's life had miraculously disappeared, and his skin was now as smooth and supple as a baby's.

I was stunned.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, pulling up a chair.

Becky's mouth hung open. "What on earth have you done to your face?"

"Nothing. Why, what's wrong with it?"

She licked her lips and glanced furtively at me. I didn't say anything. I was too awestruck.

"I don't believe this," she said, faltering. "How did you...?" We were both completely lost for words. When his skin had been covered with blemishes, it had been like looking at him through a dirty lens. Now the glass was clean and his true attractiveness could shine through.

_Wow, Frasier, you're actually quite cute_. And from the admiring expression on the other girls' faces, it would seem they thought so, too.

"I don't know why you're all making such a fuss," he said, laughing as he reached into his bag and pulled out a plastic lunch container. He flipped open the lid and proceeded to unpack an array of healthy looking snacks.

Becky continued to gape. "I don't get it. This is just too weird. How did you get your skin to look like that? Are you wearing make-up or something?"

One of the other girls giggled.

"Don't be stupid," Frasier snapped. "I started using a new herbal cleanser last week. I guess it does what it says on the tin."

"Well, whatever you've done, it looks fantastic," I said.

He smiled and gave me a quick wink, and I intuitively knew there was more to the story.

"So who's up for going to the cinema next week?" someone asked. "That new Tim Burton movie's out."

"Oh, I love Tim Burton!"

The conversation switched to our favorite Tim Burton films and Frasier started cutting an orange into tiny little pieces, laying each chunk out symmetrically on a napkin. Throughout the rest of lunch, we made inane chit-chat, gossiping about our teachers and the holidays, carrying on as if nothing had happened. But Becky clearly saw Frasier in a new light.

Every so often, I'd catch her stealing glances at him, an expression of disbelief in her eyes. Her voice had softened toward him and she now hung on his every word like a faithful little puppy. If ever there was a time for him to make a move on her, it was now. Yet he seemed to enjoy teasing her, making a point of avoiding eye contact and directing all his questions at me.

I smiled inwardly. _Every dog has its day._

When the bell sounded, Frasier placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Meet me at our usual place at three-thirty. I need to talk to you."

A ripple of excitement shimmied through me. I knew this was coming.

When three-thirty came, I rushed to the benches behind the Science department and found him waiting patiently for me. His expression was placid, unreadable.

"What's going on, Frasier?" I asked eagerly.

"This morning, I woke up with twenty-twenty vision."

"Come again?"

He turned and looked me full in the face. His skin had an almost translucent glow.

"Since the age of ten, I've been as blind as a bat without my glasses. That is—until that night at Taffin's party. The next day, I woke up and noticed a small improvement. The furniture in my room seemed clearer somehow: the bed, the table, everything. Then when I put on my glasses, I found that the lenses weren't helping me to see—they were making things more blurry, like I'd been given the wrong prescription. Over the next week, my vision kept improving until I didn't need to wear glasses at all. Then I decided to go see my optician to get a professional opinion. He said he'd never seen anything like it. My sight was reverting back to how it was when I was a child."

I shook my head incredulously. "Go on."

"On Monday night, I noticed that my skin was improving, too. It started getting smoother, clearer, and firmer. Believe me when I say that I've tried everything under the sun to cure this acne. Clearasil, tea tree oil, a vegan diet, even acupuncture. But nothing's ever made even the slightest bit of difference. Until now."

"So what are you saying?" I asked, knowing all too well the answer.

"Lee did this. He did it with his hands. When he fixed my broken leg, he must have released some sort of healing energy into my system that's cured all my ailments. My bad skin, my dodgy eyesight—he's cured it all."

"I don't buy that," I snapped. "There has to be another explanation. You know I don't believe in all that magic crap."

"Open your mind, Sam. It's time to start believing. When you really think about it, this isn't as crazy as it sounds. Lee has some kind of healing power. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can find out what else he can do."

I fell silent, not knowing what to make of it all. My friend seemed sincere enough, and the proof was certainly there for all to see. But somehow, I just couldn't get my head around the idea of Lee being some kind of holy man. I'd never been particularly religious, and my mind-set was more scientifically inclined. There had to be another explanation—there just _had_ to be. _But right now I can't think of one._

Frasier shoved a piece of paper in my face.

"What's this?"

"Just read it."

Hesitantly, I unfolded the crinkled paper and saw a list written in his scratchy handwriting.

"I've compiled a directory of websites for you to check out tonight," he said. "Look them up and then tell me I'm crazy. People all over the world have experienced stuff like this, but it hasn't been publicized because the media don't want us to believe in miracles."

Dubiously, I tucked the list inside my breast pocket. "Okay, I'll look into it."

"You promise?"

"Yes!" My voice was tinged with exasperation.

Frasier grinned broadly. "Don't worry, you'll soon come round to my way of thinking. It's only a matter of time."

I wasn't so sure about that.

 * * *

Dark shadows were falling as I mounted the steps and pushed through the central revolving doors of Elmfield library. After checking in at reception and paying the librarian a small fee to use the computers, I ambled through the labyrinth of antique desks and dusty bookshelves to the study area, where I quickly found a free cubicle.

It was forty-five minutes before closing time, and I was glad to see that there weren't too many people in the library—just an elderly lady and two cherub-faced school boys fooling around a couple of desks away.

Hastily, I booted up my computer, typed in the password the librarian had given me, and launched the Internet. The connection was so slow that I almost slapped the side of the monitor to encourage it to get a move on. Eventually, the Google homepage came up and, running my finger down the list of websites Frasier had given me, I tapped in one of the addresses.

The first was called speaktoangels.com, and contained dozens of stories from people claiming to have been cured by faith healers: men and women who used their spiritual beliefs as a form of alternative medicine. A man from Australia claimed his snake bite was healed by an Aborigine in the outback; a woman from Mexico hit by a car alleged her husband brought her back from the dead. And so on and so forth.

After briefly glancing through, I had to admit that some of the tales sounded pretty convincing, but they weren't rooted in anything concrete. They were all anecdotal and ambiguous. Clicking my mouse, I continued scrolling through each of the websites till I'd exhausted Frasier's list. When I was done, I came away no more convinced of Lee's powers than I had been when I'd started.

Yawning deeply, I leaned back in the chair and stretched out my stiff legs. The night before, I'd had a particularly intense workout (fifty leg squats), and now I was paying the price.

I glanced at my watch. Five to seven. My, how the time had flown.

A rumble of thunder shook the building and heavy rain hammered against the window like a shrieking banshee. I shivered, thankful to be safe and warm inside. I wasn't looking forward to the dark bus journey home.

It was only then that I noticed how eerily quiet everything was. Everyone else had gone and the place was now deserted as a graveyard. Logging out of my computer, I headed briskly through the study area toward the reference library, which was a shortcut to the front door.

As I walked through the shadowy aisles, I heard someone calling my name very softly—so softly, in fact, that it sounded like it was being whispered in my head. I turned and saw Lee standing near a bookcase. He smiled and beckoned me to come to him. I froze, startled, but then summoned the courage to walk over to him.

"I thought it was you. How have you been?" His tone was warm and velvety.

"Fine," I said, stuffing my hands in my pockets. His face was so beautiful, I couldn't bear to look at him. "What are you doing here?"

He lifted up a book about Gauguin. "I've been doing some research for an art project. And you?"

"Huh?" My mouth hung open.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, right. I was just..." I glanced toward the exit doors. "I was just reading up some stuff on the Internet for Frasier. We're sort of working on a project, too."

"That sounds interesting. How is he?"

"He's good, thanks."

"Tell him I said hello."

"I will."

There was an awkward pause as both of us ran out of things to say. Fleetingly, our eyes met and a wave of heat crept up my neck. Absence had made the heart grow fonder, and my attraction to him was stronger than ever, like an invisible cord being pulled tighter and tighter.

Lee took a step closer, towering over me, making my five foot-four frame feel very intimidated. His sweet cologne teased my nostrils mercilessly, and for a second, I forgot entirely where I was. There was only him, and me, and the sound of our breathing.

"You know, it's funny," he whispered. "Just last night, I was thinking about you,"

"Really?" The strength evaporated from my legs, forcing me to lean against the bookcase to keep myself steady.

He licked his lips. "I was thinking about what a great time we had." He paused. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you."

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to play it cool. "What is it?"

The librarian stuck her head round the door and called, "Hello over there. We're closing, so if there are any books you want, you need to check them out now."

"I guess that's our cue," he murmured.

I nodded, furious that we'd been interrupted. _What does he want to ask me?_

The two of us headed toward the reception desk and he placed the Gauguin book back on the returns trolley.

"Aren't you going to borrow that?" I frowned.

"No, it wasn't that insightful. And anyway, I can always come back tomorrow."

Pursing her lips together, the gray-haired librarian hurriedly showed us out and seemed relieved when she locked the door behind us. I guess we'd overstayed our welcome.

A flash of lightening tore through the black sky. "Come on!" Lee shouted. "My car's just around the corner."

I followed him through a maze of rain-swept streets to his Lotus, which was in a secluded car park. Quickly, he unlocked the doors and I jumped in the passenger side. Then, for a moment, I just sat there, incredulous that I was really here, sitting beside him again. Only yesterday, this would have seemed like an unattainable dream. Yet somehow, here we were. Together again.

Lee turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking space. We drove for a couple of minutes in silence as I stared out the window at the sheeting rain. I tried to think of something profound to say, but couldn't. My mind had gone blank. All I could imagine was how soft his lips had looked back at the library.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said.

I kept my eyes on the road, my arms folded across my chest defensively. How could I tell him that every time I looked at him I wanted to devour him? How could I tell him that he caused such an emotional need in me that I found it hard to breathe?

Then, for some reason, I found the severity of my musings suddenly hilarious, and burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Oh nothing. Just something Frasier said."

"Would you mind sharing the joke?"

"No, forget it. It's silly."

"No fair! You've got me all curious now." He glanced over and I couldn't resist the smoldering gleam in his eyes.

"Okay, it's like this. You're gonna think this is really crazy, but, well, Frasier thinks you're some sort of holy man."

"What?"

"I know, I know, it sounds so silly, doesn't it?"

"Why does he think I'm a holy man?"

I took a deep breath. "That night at the party. He believes you healed his leg."

There was a long pause—so long I thought it would last forever. Then Lee burst into giggles. They were infectious. Soon, the two of us were having a full-on belly laugh.

"That's the funniest thing I ever heard!" Lee chuckled.

"I know, Frasier's really lost his mind, hasn't he? I mean, how drunk must he have been?"

"Very drunk," Lee agreed, wiping away a tear. "Who does he think I am? Superman?"

This got us both started again, and it was a good two minutes before we managed to regain our composures.

"It gets better," I giggled. "Now he's saying you fixed his bad eyesight and acne. I mean, how insane is that?"

"Totally insane. So now I'm the genie from _Aladdin_? Your wish is my command! Ha, I didn't know I was so special."

The weight of anxiety lifted. Somehow, hearing Lee confirm out loud that it was baloney made me realize just how ridiculous Frasier's theory sounded. This was real life, not an episode of _X-Men_. How could I ever have allowed myself to get sucked in?

"What was it you wanted to tell me?" I asked. "Back at the library. You said..."

"Oh that. Yes. How would you feel about being my muse?"

"Your what?"

"My muse. My model. I'd like to paint you."

"Oh." My voice betrayed an edge of wonderment. Obviously, I was deeply flattered. No one had ever asked me to model for them before. But then my old suspicions kicked in. "Why me? I'm not exactly your typical..." I faltered, finding it hard to describe myself.

"Please say yes. It would mean a lot to me. Honestly, if you want the truth, I've been wanting to paint you from the day we first met at the library. I'd already started sketching you when Becky came over and, well, I was sort of embarrassed, so I added her and Frasier to balance things. The truth is, I find your face astonishing."

"Astonishing? Wow, that's a new one. What's so astonishing about me?"

Lee's pearly white teeth gleamed brilliantly in the half-light. "Perhaps that's not the right word. Let me put it another way. I haven't seen anyone with a face like yours before. You're an artist's dream. When I look at you, I can tell there's a lot going on behind those eyes—but you mask it so well, I'm constantly intrigued."

I was struck dumb. That was the biggest compliment he'd ever paid me, and I had some trouble deciding how to respond. In the end, all I said was: "Thanks. That's nice of you to say."

I could have followed it up by complimenting him, but I restrained myself. Lee knew all too well how sexy he was, and I doubted his supreme self-confidence needed a further boost.

We turned onto Roseberry Avenue and parked across the road from my house. Lee killed the engine. Thankfully, the rain had calmed to a drizzle, and was now dotting the windshield with miniscule specks of water.

Adjusting his seat, he appraised me from a side angle. There was a teasing fire in his eyes. "So, is that a yes or no?"

"To being your muse?"

"Yes."

"Sure, it sounds fun." I shrugged, trying to make my voice sound casual.

"Can you do it this Saturday?"

"Saturday? Um, yes... actually no. My mum's having a dinner party. I could do this Friday, if that's any good."

"Yeah, Friday's cool," he purred, leaning back in his seat so that the top of his face was momentarily lost in shadow. "What time do you get out of school?"

"Five."

"Okay, so I'll pick you up at the gates at five-fifteen. Then we can grab some food before heading to my place."

"Your place?" I gulped. I hadn't seen that one coming.

"Yes, that's where my studio is. Why? Is that a problem?"

"Oh no, no problem at all." I laughed nervously.

Just then, my mother turned onto the street, and we silently watched her totter toward the house. She was dressed in a black, fur-trimmed coat and red high heels. As she reached the gate, she stalled to rummage through her bag, as if searching for her keys, and then disappeared down the steps to the apartment. For some reason, I felt no urge to call to her, perhaps because Lee was sitting next to me. I didn't feel ready to make introductions yet.

"Is that your Mum?" he asked softly.

I nodded.

For a second, an expression crossed his face that I couldn't quite place. Then, hastily, he smoothed it away with a smile. "So I'll see you Friday then?"

"Definitely." I unclipped the seatbelt and climbed out. After waving him off, I hurried inside.

Without greeting Mum, I raced to my bedroom and locked the door. I needed some time alone to think. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I kicked off my shoes and rubbed my temples. What the hell was I doing? I barely knew Lee, and here I was arranging to go to his apartment after just one date! What planet was I living on? This broke every rule in my book. Was a gorgeous face and charming personality really enough for me to gamble with my safety like this?

I went over to the mirrored wardrobe and stared blankly at my reflection. _Things are getting out of control._ After taking deep breaths to calm myself, I started to feel a little better. _Maybe I'm just over-reacting, as usual. All Lee wants to do is paint me. What's so sinister about that?_ This would just be a bit of harmless fun. And besides, I couldn't go through life not trusting people. No guts, no glory, as my dad used to say.

There was a sudden loud beep. Startled, I turned and saw my phone ringing on the dresser. I picked it up and saw the caller ID: Becky.

Closing my eyes, I answered. "Hey."

"Hey! How you doing?" Her voice sounded hyper, as always.

"Fine. How are you?"

"Good, thanks. What are you up to?"

"Oh, just this and that..." I felt an unexpected twinge of guilt. "Hold on Becks, I just need to plug in my charger."

Leisurely, I attached the phone to the wall socket, buying myself some time to get my head straight.

Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Is it me or was Frasier looking rather cute today?"

"Yeah, he looked hot," I agreed.

"Still a bit of a geek though. I mean, those clothes..."

"Actually, I think his sense of style is rather fetching."

"Fetching?" I heard the smile in her voice and instantly felt at ease.

"Yes, _fetching_ ," I repeated, emphasizing the word. "He's got that whole geek chic thing going on, like Brad Pitt in _Fight Club_."

"You think Frasier looks like Brad Pitt?"

"I wouldn't go that far, but he's definitely a hottie." Inwardly, I laughed at the inanity of this conversation. Becky's entire repertoire consisted of boys and cosmetics. Not my thing. But in another way, I was relieved. Perhaps some fluffy girl talk was just what I needed to lift my mood. Plus, it gave me the chance to play cupid.

"So, do you fancy him then?" I teased.

"Who me?" She laughed. "Not in the slightest."

"Not even a teeny little bit?"

"Okay, maybe a little bit. He's got lovely eyes, hasn't he? You'd never have guessed with those crazy fishbowls he wears."

"Because," I continued, "a little birdie tells me he might just have a thing for you."

"No way! Don't joke."

"It's true. I have it from a very reliable source that Frasier worships the ground you walk on." I winced. Maybe that was a bit too much?

"Really?" She couldn't contain her excitement. "Tell me more."

"Nope, that's all you're getting for the moment. But put it this way—if Frasier asked you out, would you say yes?"

"Not sure. I'm still messed up over this whole Lee thing."

My back stiffened. "Have you heard from him?"

"No, and to be honest Sam, I don't think he even likes me. If he did, he would have at least given me his phone number. It's ridiculous. I've got absolutely no way of contacting him. And there's something else, too."

"What?" For some reason, I felt afraid.

"Remember how Lee said he goes to Summerwell Art College? Well, I have a friend who goes there, too, and I asked her to check which class he's in so that she could pass on a message. That girl searched the entire register and she says there's no one by that name there."

"Maybe Lee's his nickname?" I ventured. "Or a middle name?"

"Come on Sam, don't be so naive. It's obvious he's been lying to us from the get-go. I mean, he doesn't exactly blend into the crowd, does he? Do you really think someone as gorgeous as that could go to Summerwell and not be known by people? I'm telling you, he's being mysterious. Lee's probably not even his real name."

There was a charged silence. It certainly sounded like he'd given us the run-around—but perhaps Lee had his reasons. Perhaps, like me, he was wary of giving too much away. Perhaps he'd been economical with the truth to protect his privacy. Still, lying about which school he attended seemed a bit much and I could relate to Becky's indignation. It made me wonder what else he'd lied about.

"Okay, so we've established you think Lee's a pathological liar. If so, then why even waste your time on him?"

"I know, I know. My head's telling me to forget it, but—oh, I hate feeling like this!"

"You and me both," I muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Look, do what you like, but I really think you should give Frasier a chance. He's a lovely guy and he genuinely adores you."

"All right, I'll think about it."

I made my excuses and ended the call. Becky's indecisiveness was starting to give me a headache. With a sigh, I collapsed on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. _So, the plot thickens_. Somehow, all this new information only made Lee seem even more intriguing. And now I felt especially nervous about Friday.

My mind searched through the conversations we'd had, looking for incongruities. There was something about the medallion ring he wore. _Lee told me he hated wearing jewelry. But his ears are pierced!_

I'd noticed his ears back at the library, but I hadn't made the connection. When I'd questioned him at the Winchester about his medallion ring, he'd told me he _hated_ wearing jewelry.

_Why would someone who hated jewelry have his ears pierced?_

Yet another contradiction.

The boy was a total mystery.

##  ‡  
EIGHT

Muse

Last period on Friday was double History with Mr. Treagus. We were working on an essay about the final days of Stalin—and as fascinating as it was, it just couldn't hold my interest. My mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of my impending meeting with Lee. Every couple of minutes, I'd glance up at the clock. I was counting down the seconds till five, wondering whether or not I was doing the right thing.

The past two days had been a nightmare of epic proportions, trying to evade both Becky and Frasier. I couldn't deal with any more of Frasier's hare-brained theories, and Becky was hell-bent on getting me to go to a party tonight. Using the cunning of an M16 agent, I'd managed to dodge them both by hiding out at the gym during lunchtime and leaving class early each day. They probably knew I was avoiding them, but I didn't care. All I could focus on right now was this date with Lee. Everything else would have to go on the back-burner.

When the bell finally rang, I packed up and raced to the bathroom to get changed. I'd brought a duffel bag containing make-up, hair gel, jeans and a black fitted sweater. I didn't want to overdo it, but I _was_ getting my portrait done, so thought I should at least make an effort. After applying a little mascara and lip-gloss, I worked some gel through my hair to create the same style I'd had at Taffin's party. _The one Lee had liked so much._

When I was satisfied that I looked the part, I headed out to the main hall, which led to the front of the building. A twinge of nerves hit me as I approached the reception desk. I was praying that Becky wouldn't still be lurking about somewhere. The last thing I needed was another interrogation.

As I turned into the hall, I was relieved to see the place mostly deserted, except for one or two teachers who were still in their classrooms working overtime. It seemed that on Fridays, most students wanted to leave the building as soon as possible to embrace the weekend and freedom.

Five minutes later, I was standing outside the steel entrance gates, scanning the street for Lee's Lotus. It was quarter past. Glancing left and right, I couldn't see any sign of a bright yellow vehicle. Then I heard a low, hollow beep and saw what I thought was Lee's car parked quite some distance away. Cautiously, I followed the direction of the sound until I was clearly able to see that it was, in fact, him.

"Why did you park so far up?" I demanded, climbing in the passenger side. "I could barely see you."

Without answering, he turned the wheel and set the car in motion. Within seconds, we were on the main road heading east.

"Well?"

"I didn't think you'd want everyone watching me pick you up," he replied evenly. "Plus, I'm sort of dodging Becky at the moment."

I snickered. "Right, so now we're on the run, are we? Sort of like Bonnie and Clyde."

"Bonnie and Clyde," he murmured, trying it out for size. "I like it. Yes, I suppose we are." He glanced at me. "I presume Becky doesn't know about us meeting?"

"No. Why should she? It's none of her business."

"I couldn't agree more." He turned sharply at a corner and I cursed myself for not fastening my seatbelt. "So nobody knows you're with me tonight?" He emphasized the word "nobody."

I shook my head. "No, I haven't told anyone." The instant I said it, all of my old paranoia came flooding back. Why was he so interested in whether I'd told anyone? Had I just climbed in a car with Jack the Ripper or something?

A slight smile crept across his flawless lips. "Don't worry, I won't bite."

We both laughed, but it didn't seem funny. I noted that we were now heading to a part of town I wasn't familiar with, and I wondered how easy it would be to find my way home, should a situation arise.

"Let's have some music, shall we?" He turned up the volume on the stereo. Thankfully, it was just some ordinary pop track from the radio and not that spooky Irish folk music he loved so much. _Inagoul_ combined with my deep misgivings would have been too much to take.

For twenty minutes, we journeyed in virtual silence, driving through the dark backstreets of Elmfield at a leisurely pace. Lee chose a convoluted route. _Is he purposely trying to confuse me about where we're going?_

Eventually, we pulled into the underground parking garage of a fancy apartment building located on the edge of Elmfield Park; it was ten stories of glass-plated perfection that wouldn't have looked out of place in somewhere like Canary Wharf. _Lee's parents must be loaded to afford a place like this._

We circled the half-empty garage for a couple of minutes before finding a free space next to a shiny red Volvo. He locked the car and led me across to the elevator, which took us up to the top floor. When the doors parted, I followed him down a long corridor with thick, pile carpets as green and shiny as a freshly mowed lawn.

We stopped in front of a door marked twenty-six, and he took out a bunch of keys to open it. He led me into a huge living space with an open plan kitchen cordoned off by a black chrome partition.

I drew in a sharp breath. The apartment was absolutely stunning, superbly furnished with angular, futuristic furniture complimented by a high glass ceiling that opened up into the night sky and windows that provided a panoramic view of the park.

On one side was a large seating area with a TV the size of a small cinema screen, and on the other a makeshift art studio, complete with white sheets and an expensive-looking easel. Off to the far right, a pair of glass doors led out onto a veranda where a telescope had been set up for star-gazing.

"Welcome to my humble abode," Lee declared, dropping his keys on the sideboard. "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful," I blurted. I just couldn't help myself. It really was.

"Thanks. Glad you like it." He slid off his jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door. Then he reached over and gently helped me off with mine. Smiling graciously, I kicked off my shoes and collapsed on the sofa, openly appraising my surroundings. Before me was a glass coffee table on which rested an expensive laptop nestled beside a stack of letters. Hanging on the wall was an enormous print of a monkey dressed in combat gear, throwing a hand grenade.

"Is that a Banksy?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"Yeah. Do you like his stuff?"

"I _love_ his stuff. That's one cool print."

"Thank you."

I continued my inspection of the room and noticed that one corner was almost entirely covered with boxes: a Kenwood stereo system, an Xbox, and coffee maker, among others. I got the feeling that he hadn't been living here very long.

"Do you want coffee?" he asked, crossing toward the kitchen area.

"Yes, please." I leaned against the plump sofa cushions, relishing the feel of soft leather against my skin. Then, for a moment, I felt completely at ease, listening to the steady grind of the coffee maker in the distance.

Presently, he returned carrying two steaming hot cappuccinos, which smelled heavenly. Taking a seat next to me, he handed me a cup, and I cleared space on the table for it to stand on. In my haste, I accidentally knocked some of the envelopes on the floor. As I stooped down to pick them up, I noticed a credit card sticking out from one. Hurriedly, I placed it back on the table, but not before getting an eyeful of the account holder's name: _Stuart Weaver_.

_Funny._

As soon as I saw it, I thought about the conversation I'd had with Becky about her snooping at Summerwell Art College. Did this finally prove that Lee was indeed a pseudonym? Was Stuart Weaver his real name?

I took a sip of cappuccino. It tasted delicious. "You make a great cup of coffee."

"Thanks." He took off his baseball cap and placed it on the table. Then, running his fingers through his hair, he picked up the remote and switched on the TV. After flicking through a couple channels, we settled for a cable show playing old hip-hop videos.

For a while, we just sat there, sipping our drinks and staring blankly at the TV screen. Occasionally, my gaze would drift to his hands, which were resting in his lap. They were so smooth and perfect-looking; so clean and strong. The thought of what they could do made me made go all tingly.

I also noted his star tattoo was displayed in all its glory. _No rings today._ I pursed my lips together. I so desperately wanted to sneak a peek at his face, but I had to restrain myself. That could wait.

"What sort of music are you into?" he asked.

"Oh, a bit of everything. Rock, Pop, whatever."

"But not much of a dancer, eh?" he teased.

"Huh?"

"When I asked you to dance at the party, you said no. Is that because you don't you like dancing, or because you're shy?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe if I'd had a couple more drinks..." I laughed like a moron. His eyes were on me now, watching, scrutinizing. I raised the mug to my lips and took a large gulp to calm my nerves, almost choking.

Discreetly, I stole another glance at him. He was dressed in a white, long-sleeved sweater with green combats. His short, dark hair was artfully disheveled, giving him the look of a brooding catwalk model. Slowly, my eyes traveled down the rest of his body, focusing on the way his clothes clung to every inch of his muscular frame. A wave of excitement shot through me. It wasn't easy being so close to him like this. It made me want to do things...

"Becky swung by your college the other day," I said, trying to regain my composure. "She says she asked around, but nobody had heard of you." I hadn't meant it to sound accusatory, but when I was fired up, all tact went out the window.

Lee didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the TV screen, focusing intently on the wild-haired rapper making stupid faces at the camera.

I studied my chewed-down cuticles, barely daring to breathe.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" He turned the full warmth of his smile on me, making my stomach do little cart-wheels.

Carefully, I rephrased what I'd said.

For a second, his dark eyes bore into me, making me feel totally naked. Then, turning away, his voice adopted an air of nonchalance. "So Becky came looking for me, did she? Wow, that girl's like the Terminator. She doesn't give up."

I laughed. "The thing is, she thinks you're giving her the brush-off. She says that's why you lied to her about where you go to school. To be honest, she's really quite upset about it."

"Is that so?" He shot me a shrewd sideways glance. I could tell he was reading between the lines, trying to figure me out. "Is Becky aware that Summerwell Art College has two campuses—one in Elmfield and one in Holborn, West End?"

"No," I stammered. This was news to me also.

"Well, as I'm mostly based at the Holborn campus, it's unlikely anyone from Elmfield would know me. That explains why she couldn't find me."

"Oh, I see."

So after all that, there was no big intrigue—no pseudonyms, no secrets. It was just Becky over-thinking the situation, as usual. The mystery was solved: she'd simply gone to the wrong campus! I suddenly felt bad for interrogating him like this. Awkwardly, I drained the last of my coffee and stood. "So, when do you want to start this painting?"

"There's no hurry. Chill out, relax. We've got plenty of time for that. Besides, I need to be in the right frame of mind to paint. My creativity is at its height late at night. Why don't we at least eat something first?"

"Whatever you want is fine by me," I shrugged. Slowly, I sat back down again, aware he'd won that round of the battle.

"I've got a little confession to make," he said slowly. "I _was_ going to get take-out, but now I've decided to inflict my fledgling culinary skills on you. Hope you don't mind?"

"You're going to cook?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Don't get too excited," he chuckled. "It's only a stir-fry."

"Sounds great."

He walked to the kitchen and I heard the clatter of pots and pans. Folding my arms, I tried to focus on the mindless noise coming from the TV. In truth, I wasn't hungry. My stomach felt too jittery to eat. But at least his cooking put some space between us, and I needed time to cool down.

For a few moments, I strained to think of something else to say. Then my eyes fell on the stack of papers on the table. Sneakily, I sifted through them and saw that they were letters addressed to other people: Zoë Townsend, Paul Butler, Jane Morris... The address was the same on all of them: 26 Falcon Mews, Elmfield.

It swiftly dawned on me that these must be letters for the previous residents. This wasn't unusual. When moving to a new home, it always took a couple of weeks to get the mail redirected by the post office. We were still getting gas bills for someone called John Redman. But on closer scrutiny, I noticed that none of the letters were addressed to Lee. Now _that_ seemed a bit strange.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked, slipping the bundle back on the table.

"Two, maybe three months," he shouted through the partition. "Why?"

"You've got a lot of mail for other people."

"Are you snooping through my stuff?"

"Sorry, didn't mean to pry."

"No worries, it's cool."

Reassured by his blasé tone, I decided to push my luck. "Why have you got a credit card for someone called Stuart Weaver?"

He didn't miss a beat. "Stuart Weaver's my dad. He left me his card in case of emergency, but I don't really use it. Just once in a while to make online purchases."

I didn't say anything. Once again, my over-active imagination had gotten the better of me. "So your surname's Weaver?"

"Yes. Lee Weaver. Why are you so interested?"

"No reason. Just making conversation."

I got up and wandered over to the kitchen. Resting my head against the partition, I watched him at work. It was a joy to see how he'd laid out everything like a pro. Carrots, mushrooms, garlic, spring onions, and peppers, were all separated into neat little piles along the sideboard. He added them to the wok at regular intervals. I suspected that he'd been a bit disingenuous when he talked of his "fledgling culinary skills." I knew a bad cook when I saw one; my mother was a bad cook and I wasn't the greatest. But Lee just didn't fall into that category. He had a cocky self-assurance that indicated he'd done this many, many times.

"Mmm, smells good. What are you putting in?"

"Oh, just the usual—chicken, ginger, cashews. No prawns though, as I know you're allergic to them."

It took a moment for what he'd said to sink in. "Hang on. How did you know I'm allergic to prawns? I don't remember ever..."

He cut me off. "That day at the restaurant, I distinctly remember you telling the waiter no seafood."

"Did I?" I knotted my brow. Usually, I had a pretty good memory about these things. I wasn't a fussy person and rarely ever brought up the subject of my allergy, so his description seemed unlikely, to say the least.

"Here, stir this while I get something." He handed me the spatula and opened the cupboard above the sink and took out a bottle of soy sauce.

"I don't remember telling anyone about my allergy," I persisted.

"Sam, _please_. It's no big deal. You don't remember saying it, fine. Let's just leave it at that."

I nodded slowly, still unconvinced, but there was a sternness in his voice that told me not to pursue the matter further. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I _had_ mentioned it to the waiter.

Lee tipped the watery black sauce into the fizzing concoction and took back the spatula. "This looks like it's almost done. Could you please get the plates ready?"

"Where are they kept?"

"Under the sink."

I stooped down, opened the cupboard, took out two china plates and lay them on the sideboard. Then I got some knives and forks out the drawer. Lee slid the wok off the flame and emptied its contents onto the plates. We carried our food into the living room and sat down to eat in front of the TV.

"This tastes so good! You'll have to give me the recipe."

"Anytime," he smiled. "So, what can you cook?"

I thought for a second. "Hmm. I do a pretty mean spaghetti. Just a few different things, really."

"You any good?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. Not as good as you, though, if this stir-fry's anything to go by."

He laughed pleasantly, and for a moment, we ate in silence. Then, picking up the remote, he flicked to a news channel where a poker-faced reporter was talking about war in the Middle East.

Lee's eyes narrowed. "This is so sad. Why do people always have to fight each other? Why must humans focus on their differences rather than their similarities?" He shook his head. "They say we have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another. Do you think that's true?"

"Definitely," I said. "Let's face it, most people are horrible. They lie and cheat and would sell their own grandmothers, given the opportunity."

"Really?" he said. "That's a pretty bleak outlook."

"I'm just telling it like it is. If Man is inherently good, then why is there so much bad news on TV? I'll tell you why. Because people don't like good news. People love to gloat over other peoples' misery because it makes them feel better about themselves. Sad but true."

He fell silent. I hoped I hadn't offended him with my outburst, but it was something I felt particularly passionate about. After years of living under the media spotlight, I knew better than anyone how mercenary humans could be.

"Finished?" he inquired, glancing at my empty plate.

I nodded, and he took both dishes to the kitchen. I noted that once again he'd barely touched his food. For such a big guy, he had a surprisingly small appetite.

I heard the sound of running water and the clink of china as he washed up. Breathing out slowly, I stretched out my legs, locking my fingers behind my head. My stomach felt very satisfied.

"Hey, do you want to see my portfolio?" he called.

"Sure!"

I realized then how much I liked his voice: deep and melodic with a kind of sing-song quality to it. True, it had taken me a while to get used to his accent—that strange twang that wasn't quite northern but something else—but now I saw it as part of what made him unique.

He returned carrying a heavy portfolio bound in black leather. He sat next to me and rested it on his knees as he zipped it open. Inside were a large sketch pad and a couple of brightly-colored paintings. Flipping through the sketch pad at a leisurely pace, he allowed me to study each page in turn. They were mostly pen and ink drawings of animals: birds, cats, foxes. Each drawing brought a creature to life in the most exquisite, breathtaking detail.

"Wow, these are amazing, Lee. You're so talented."

"Thank you," he said shyly.

When we'd finished going through the pad, he showed me a series of beautiful watercolor paintings depicting the English countryside: vast expanses of green fields, picturesque cottages, castles, and medieval churches. One in particular caught my attention: a sprawling Georgian house gripped by ivy with an exquisitely crafted clock tower; as beautiful and regal as anything out of a Jane Austen novel. But there was also something ominous about it, like terrible secrets lurked behind its dark windows.

"Is this a real place?" I asked tentatively.

"Of course. I always draw from life."

"Where is it?"

"Somewhere in Somerset. I forget where. It's an old courthouse. I painted it because I liked the architecture."

I shivered. "There's something about it I don't like. It scares me."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It looks like a place where bad things happen."

"You can tell that from a painting?"

"Yes." With a shudder, I moved on. "This one is much better. Much more upbeat. I love farm houses."

For the next ten minutes, we continued sifting through his artwork. Toward the end I came across a sketch of a shadowy-looking creature with serrated claws and jagged teeth. I'd never seen anything like it.

"What's this?" I asked. "Some kind of monster?"

"It's nothing," Lee said quickly, snatching the sketch away.

"I thought you said you only draw from life?"

"I do. But sometimes my imagination takes over." Hurriedly, he packed up the portfolio.

"I'm ready to start your portrait," he announced.

Nervously, I followed him into the studio and sat on an overstuffed chair while he brought out his art supplies. He placed the easel a few feet from me and adjusted its height so that it was level with him. Then he attached a large white canvas to the easel.

"How do you want me?" I asked, playfully tilting the chair from side to side.

"Just be yourself," he replied brusquely. "Feel free to move about, talk, and do whatever you feel like doing. Honesty is what I'm striving for. I need to capture the very essence of you."

My cheeks flushed as I spun the chair around so that I was facing away from him. I stared out the window at the dark sky, a thrill of elation coursing through me. For once in my life, I felt relatively happy. This had turned out to be a lot more fun than I thought it would be.

Then I heard the sound of a pencil being sharpened.

"Okay Sam, I'm ready for you," he said.

Dutifully, I turned back around. There was an expression of deep concentration on his face as he lowered his eyes and started sketching. For long moments, I sat perfectly still, my shoulders slack, my eyes fixated on the wall beyond him. The pencil made soft stroking sounds against the canvas, and I tried to imagine which part of me he was drawing.

"I Googled you last night," he said out of nowhere.

The words pierced me like an arrow. Snapping my head up, I glared at him, but he couldn't meet my gaze. For a while, he just let his words hang there, as if deliberating whether or not to continue.

Fury rose in my chest. "And...?"

"And I'd say you've been through a pretty rough time." His voice was calm, controlled. "Although there was one thing I didn't quite understand. You know when..." He broke off. "No, forget it."

"Please, don't stop on my account. Since you're obviously so keen to talk about this, we might as well finish it. What is it you don't understand?"

He looked at me with concern. "That night you were snatched... I never could figure out why those monsters let you go. It doesn't make sense."

My eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Well, think logically," he said. "You and your friend are snatched by a couple of maniacs. They bundle you into a van, take you a couple of miles up the road, and then suddenly decide to just let you go? Why would they do that? Why did they take Elliot and not you?"

"You sound as if you _wish_ they'd taken me," I snapped.

"Please don't take this the wrong way. I'm only trying to get a better understanding of what happened, that's all."

My throat tightened. The walls seemed to be closing in on me. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Guilt had temporally robbed me of speech.

"I'm sorry," he said gently. "I didn't mean to distress you. I just..."

"Do you think you're the first person to ask me that question?" I hissed. "I got it from everyone. Mum, the police, Elliot's parents. Everyone wanted to know the same thing: why was I was saved and Elliot wasn't? Can you imagine how that made me feel, having to justify why I was alive while he..." I faltered, tears clawing at my throat.

Lee's eyes flickered with emotion. "I'm sorry, I can see I've upset you. We won't talk about this anymore."

"But I want to talk about it." My voice grew shrill. "You want to know why those creatures freed me and not Elliot? I'll tell you why. Because he begged them to. He sacrificed his life to save mine. And I feel terrible because, deep down, I know I wouldn't have done the same for him. The truth is, I'm a coward. I hate myself."

Tears streamed down my face, making my mascara run, but I couldn't stop now. "And you wanna know something else? It's my fault what happened that night. I was the one who wanted to go wandering off from our parents. If we'd stayed near our homes, none of this would have happened. I thought I was so smart and, and..." Overcome with emotion, I took a few short, sharp breaths to steady myself. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this. You probably don't even care."

He stared at me, his face placid and unreadable. Then his eyes fell back to the canvas, and he resumed sketching.

"Do you miss him?" he asked, not looking up.

"Who?"

"Elliot."

"Of course I miss him! I miss him every day. It's like a part of me disappeared with him. The past ten years have been a complete living hell. I'm afraid to laugh, afraid to smile, afraid to do anything normal because my best friend could be out there somewhere suffering... because of me. I don't deserve to be happy." I ran my fingers through my hair. "And you know, sometimes I wish it had been me they took that night. I really do. I wish it was Elliot sitting here and not me. Then at least I might have some peace."

"You don't mean that," he said quietly.

"Yes I do. Sometimes I seriously think about ending it all, just so I wouldn't have to live with the pain. Just so there would be an end."

A long, somber silence followed.

I sat there looking at him through my tears and wondered where his thoughts had taken him. I'd never told anyone the whole truth before. Somehow, despite my misery, I found it deeply liberating. I felt as if a heavy burden had suddenly been lifted.

Lee went to the kitchen and came back with a box of tissues. He handed me one and I dabbed at my eyes with it.

"Are you are okay?" he whispered.

I nodded woodenly, my shoulders still trembling. "Yes, I think so."

For a moment, he gazed down on me like some kind of benign giant, and secretly, I longed for him to take me in his arms. I longed to bury my head in his chest and breathe in his gorgeous scent. I wanted him to comfort me.

But he didn't.

He stayed at a distance, as if he didn't quite know what to do with me.

"You can't go on blaming yourself, Sam," he said, his voice soothing. "You were only seven years old! We all make mistakes, and you can't spend the rest of your life beating yourself up over it. I'm sure Elliot doesn't..." He corrected himself. "I'm sure Elliot wouldn't want to see you so upset. I'm sure he'd want you to be happy."

I blew loudly into the hanky. "Can I use your bathroom? I think I need to clean up."

"Sure. It's upstairs, first door to your right."

Shakily, I raced through the living room to a staircase that led to the second level. Turning the first door knob to my right, I entered the bathroom. It was cool and white and spotlessly clean. Approaching the sink, I ran the cold tap and splashed some water on my face. My heart thudded in my ears. I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored tiles.

My eyes were all swollen from crying and my nose was redder than Santa Claus. Black streaks of mascara covered my cheeks, giving me a hollow, washed-out appearance.

As I bathed my face for a second time, I begged my fingers to stop trembling, but they wouldn't. I was a slave to my emotions. I was furious with myself for allowing myself to break down like this in front of Lee, but I just couldn't help it.

I peeked back at my reflection. _Damn it._ The mascara stains didn't seem to want to go. Cupping a handful of water, I aggressively rubbed the skin under my eyes, but this only made it worse. Now it looked like somebody had punched me in the eye. The soap dish was empty. _I need to find a bar of soap so I can wash my face properly._

Gingerly, I opened the medicine cabinet above the sink and peered inside. It contained the usual toiletries: mouthwash, aftershave, toothpaste. Then, at the far back, I spied a tube of apricot face scrub. Reaching for it, my gaze fell on a box of _Just For Men_ hair color in ebony. My eyes narrowed.

So Lee dyed his hair. Interesting. Very interesting. Seemed like we had more in common than I thought.

And then I noticed something else: a small, white box with blue writing on the lid. Picking it up, I saw that it was a prescription for colored contact lenses.

Flipping up the lid, I found five pairs of saline-filled disposables. The iris color of each was a blackish-brown.

Frowning, I put the box back in the cabinet and took out the apricot face scrub. Then, running the hot tap, I massaged the sweet-smelling cream into my skin, dispelling the last remnants of mascara from my face.

So, Lee wore colored contacts. Big deal. Loads of teenagers wore them. It was a fashion statement, pure and simple. So what if I didn't know what color his real eyes were?

_No big deal at all._

Then why did it bug me so much?

Reaching for the towel, I blotted my skin dry and switched off the tap. I peered into the mirror to check out my reflection again, but it was too steamed up. Sighing heavily, I sat on the edge of the bath, thinking. The pieces of the puzzle were there, but somehow they weren't fitting together.

And then it hit me.

Wearing colored contacts wasn't unusual. But wearing colored contacts together with all of Lee's other idiosyncrasies – his reluctance to take off his hat in public, his refusal to give out his phone number, dyeing his hair—all pointed to the same conclusion.

He was hiding something. But what? What could be so bad that he needed to disguise his appearance?

And then I remembered something else: that black Ford tailing us. Perhaps it hadn't been me they were after. Perhaps it was Lee.

I slapped my hand across my forehead. Of course! Why hadn't I seen this before? Maybe the police were tracking him. Or maybe he owed someone money and they'd sent one of their goons after him.

I chewed my lip, feeling perplexed. The idea of Lee being some sort a fugitive was actually quite a turn on.

_Careful_. _Don't get too carried away, you're beginning to sound like Frasier._

By the time I came out the bathroom and went back downstairs, I found Lee in the process of packing up his art materials.

"Hey, what's going on?" I asked, surprised.

"I'm taking you home," he replied coolly.

"But I don't understand. What about my portrait? Aren't you going to finish it?" Fleetingly, my gaze fell on the canvas, but he'd already covered it with a cloth.

"We'll have to do it another time. I'm not in the zone anymore." He seemed distracted.

My muscles tensed. So he wasn't in the zone anymore. That was pretty interesting, considering I was the one who'd just been reduced to a blubbering wreck. Resentment simmered through my veins. It was like he was punishing me for making him feel uncomfortable. _But he was the one who'd started the grilling in the first place._

"I knew this was a bad idea," he muttered, brushing past me into the hallway.

"What do you mean?" I asked, following him.

Handing me my jacket, he snatched up his car keys from the sideboard. "I'm sorry, Sam. I should never have brought you here."

"Why?"

He picked up his cap from the table. "I'm such an idiot. I had no right to question you the way I did. Please forgive me. Sometimes I get too carried away."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed. "When I paint a portrait, I strive to capture everything about the person; all their quirks, flaws, and imperfections." He spread out his hands. "I thought that by getting you to open up about yourself, I'd get a truer interpretation of you on canvas. I guess I misjudged how badly you'd react."

"Hold on. Are you telling me you put me through all of that just to get the perfect picture?"

"In a roundabout way... yes."

"I can't believe you did that!" I shouted. "It was so... so manipulative."

"I know," he agreed, "and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry." He placed his hand on my arm and I experienced the full force of his allure. Even through my sweater, I could feel the heat of his touch. Instantly, my fury was replaced by a wild rush of longing.

I hated the effect he had on me. I hated the fact that my body had no intention of following what I told it to do—because it was waiting for instructions from him.

Lee took a step closer. Now my head was almost level with his chest, which was making my heart do somersaults.

And then he smiled the most beautiful smile imaginable, and I couldn't stay angry at him anymore.

"Am I forgiven?" he whispered.

I pretended to deliberate. "Yes, but don't do it again, okay? I hate getting emotional."

For a second, we held each other's gazes. For once, it was he who looked away first. Then he cleared his throat and looked pointedly toward the door. "I don't want your mum to think I've kidnapped you. Shall we get going?"

"Okay."

He released my arm and placed the cap on his head as he moved toward the front door. Reluctantly, I trailed after him, purposefully slowing my footfalls to prolong our time together.

Before I knew it, we were back in his Lotus heading toward my neck of the woods. He played the _Inagoul_ CD throughout, turning up the volume so loud it canceled out any chance of us having a conversation.

By the time we pulled into Roseberry Avenue, my mind was a torrent of confusion. I just couldn't figure this guy out. One minute he acted like he wanted us to be the best of friends, the next he was so stand-offish it was like he wanted me to hate him. I wasn't used to such schizophrenic behavior.

Eventually, what little restraint I had evaporated and I decided to cut to the chase.

"Are you in some sort of trouble?" I asked bluntly.

"No. Why?"

"It's just a feeling I get."

"If this is anything to do with what Becky told you, then..."

"This has nothing to do with Becky," I interjected. "I just get the vibe you're running away from something."

"Can you be more specific?"

I nibbled my thumbnail. "Well it's different things, really. Things that don't totally add up."

"Such as?"

"That car that was following us. Are you a hundred per cent sure you don't know who that was?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh give me a break. Do you know how ludicrous you sound?"

"Just answer the question."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but no. No one's following me. I'm just as baffled about that as you are."

"Do you swear on it?"

"Oh god, this is getting silly. Why do you always have to read into things? There's nothing going on, I promise you."

I tasted something coppery on my tongue and saw that my thumb was bleeding. Hastily, I folded my arms to hide the damage. "Okay, let's say I believe you. Fine. But there's other stuff, too."

"Like what?"

I opened my mouth and closed it again. What was the point? I was fighting a losing battle. It was obvious he'd have an answer for every question I threw at him, so I decided to drop the subject.

"You know you can trust me, right?" I said quietly. "I mean, if you are in some sort of trouble, I'd like to help. I know how to keep a secret."

"Thanks. I'll bear that in mind."

"Are you sure everything's okay?" I asked again.

"Yes, everything's fine,' he said, no longer hiding his exasperation. "Like I said, if there was a problem I'd tell you."

He flashed that devastating smile and made my stomach to flip. For a second, I thought I saw something that resembled tenderness in his eyes. Then he snapped back to his usual self. "Okay, I guess I'd better be going. I don't know what the parking's like around here and I don't want to get a ticket."

"All right," I sighed, admitting defeat. Unclipping my seatbelt, I got out and took a couple of steps toward my gate. Then I backtracked, as a sudden thought struck me. "Hey, when do I see you again? You know, to finish off the portrait and stuff?"

"Not sure," he replied, stroking his chin. "I'm kind of busy this week, so I might have to get back to you on that."

I felt my face tighten. "Well don't leave it too long. I mean, it's not like I'm gonna be waiting around for you or anything. I've got a very busy schedule too, and it might not be convenient."

"I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now please, go inside. It's getting late." Without another word, he revved up the engine and sped off, leaving me dumbfounded by his rudeness.

For a long while, I stalled by the road side, staring into space as hate erupted through me with breathtaking force.

_Why, the patronizing little_...

That was it. I was through with boys. I wouldn't allow myself to be manipulated like this again. _It is over. Kaput._

Cursing under my breath, I kicked at a stone and sent it flying through the neighbor's window. There was a loud smash, followed by an eerie silence. Sheepishly, I scrambled into my house before anyone saw me and stood with my back to the door, catching my breath. I felt bad, but it wasn't my fault. Lee had made me do it. He'd made me so mad that I'd behaved totally out of character.

_Again._

I simply had to stay away from him. No matter how much my heart said otherwise, I had to get him out my system. He was unreliable, rude, and emphatically not good for me. Worst of all, he was a tease, and I hated teases.

No more mind games. No more jumping to his beck and call. I was going to take control of my life again.

##  ‡  
NINE

Greg

"Hey Mum, is something burning?"

No answer.

"Jeez, do I have to do everything in this house?" I switched off the cross-trainer. Mopping the sweat from my brow, I glanced at the digital clock on the timer. Quarter to seven.

Forty-five minutes to go before the arrival of this Greg character.

Scraping my hair back into a ponytail, I wandered out into the corridor to investigate the source of the stench. I realized it was coming from the kitchen, but just before I reached it, Mum raced out of the bathroom wrapped in a dressing gown.

"Oh no, I think it's the potatoes!" she shrieked.

Within seconds, the two of us were in the kitchen looking at the ruins of a dinner. Mum had left the food roasting for far too long. The beef was black as charcoal and crispy on top. "I think the roast can be saved," I said. "But the potatoes are screwed." The heat had turned them into rock hard, black pebbles.

Mum cupped her hands around a match and lit a cigarette. "Now what do we do? Greg's going to be here soon and the whole place smells like a bomb wreck."

"Calm down, Mother. We'll figure something out." I went around opening all the windows to let some air into the room.

"I know I said my fall-back plan was pizza," she mumbled, "but I did promise him a home-cooked meal."

"And he'll get one, don't you worry. Look, the meat's still fine, so all we've got to do is find something to go with it. He'll never know the difference." I went over to the freezer and took out a packet of French fries.

"You've got to be joking," she said, horrified. "Roast beef with French fries? Are you serious?"

"Beggars can't be choosers, Mum. Plus we don't exactly have time to go shopping for anything else, do we? We'll just have to make do with what there is." She opened her mouth to speak but I cut her dead. "Just leave this to me, okay? Now go finish beautifying yourself before he gets here. I know how long it takes you to do your make-up."

"Thanks darling, you're such an angel." She tossed the cigarette butt and hurried back to the bathroom, leaving me to salvage the wreckage of dinner. I couldn't understand why she hadn't just let me cook in the first place. _If she hadn't been so stubborn we could have avoided all of this hassle._

As I emptied the fries onto the baking tray, I felt relieved to at last be doing something. _Anything is better than thinking about Lee all the time!_

Twenty minutes later, the food was done, and I went to the living room to start setting the table. Mum had bought some silver candles with matching napkins, which added a touch of glamour to the otherwise Spartan set-up. Once I'd finished arranging everything, I had to admit the place looked pretty good.

As a final touch, I dimmed the lights and put some jazz on the stereo. Everything was perfect for a romantic evening. The only snag was that we didn't have enough chairs, so I'd have to sit on the stool from my bedroom. _Too bad we aren't loaded like Lee's family_.

And anyway, if Greg really was serious about Mum, he should be able to see past our hovel of a home. _Why am I even trying to impress him? This guy could destroy any chance of my parents have of getting back together._ _He can sit on the floor for all I care!_

At seven twenty-five, Mum emerged from the bathroom looking stunning in a black skirt, white top, and a pearl necklace. When she saw me, she looked horrified. "Darling, is that what you're wearing for dinner?"

I glanced down at my grubby tracksuit and shrugged. "Yeah. Why? Is there a problem?"

She sighed. "I thought you might want to make a bit more of an effort, Sam. First impressions and all that."

"He's not my boyfriend, Mum. He's yours, remember? Since when did the daughter have to look sexy to meet her potential step-dad?"

"Step-dad?" She laughed gently. "Let's not get too carried away, darling. It's still early. But I do see your point. Okay, so long as you're comfortable, you can wear what you want, I suppose."

"Thank you, your Majesty. Now please, can we stop fussing?"

The doorbell rang.

"Oh my god, he's here!" Mum gasped, patting her hair and smoothing down her skirt. "Be a dear and put the kettle on, will you? Oh, and make sure you don't use that blasted lion mug again. It looks so terrible. And make sure you..."

"Okay, okay, I get it. Just answer the door."

She nodded and sprinted off. I'd never seen her so rattled before. She was acting like a lovesick teenager, which I found kind of disturbing. _This guy really must be a big deal to make her behave this way._

I hid out in the kitchen and listened as a man's voice filled the house. He sounded deep and slow and measured, like a newscaster. Then Mum called to me and, swallowing hard, I walked tentatively to the living room.

Within ten seconds of meeting Greg Hammer, I understood exactly what all the fuss was about. The man had a colossal presence, a magnetism that was not easy to describe.

He was about forty with a prominent nose, handle-bar moustache and short, dark hair flecked with gray. His extraordinarily large eyes were coal-black and he was dressed in a smart suit with beautifully crafted shoes. He wasn't the best looking guy in the world, but there was _something_ about him. Whatever the X-factor was, Greg Hammer had it in abundance. Now I knew why Mum was so enraptured.

As soon as he saw me, he flashed a megawatt smile. "Hello! You must be Samantha. I'm Greg. Lisa's told me so much about you. It's so great to finally meet you."

"Likewise," I grinned, already captivated by him.

Greg slid his large hand into mine and held it there for a couple of seconds, his eyes almost hypnotizing me. "I hope my being here hasn't put you to too much trouble," he said. "I'm sure a pretty girl like you must have much better things to do on a Saturday night than hanging out with the old folks."

"Oh no, it's no trouble at all," I smiled, glancing at Mum, who had a permanent grin etched on her face. "I really did want to meet you."

Greg laughed softly. "Thank goodness for that. I kept telling Lisa not to arrange this unless you were completely comfortable with it. If you're happy, then I'm happy."

"Fancy a cup of tea?" Mum asked, moving toward the door.

"Oh, I'd love one," Greg replied. But before she could go any further, he placed his hand on her arm. "Tell you what—why don't you and your lovely daughter both put your feet up and I'll make the tea? I'm sure you're both tired from making that delicious dinner I smell cooking." He ushered us to the sofa and literally forced Mum to sit.

"Oh Greg!" she pouted. "I won't hear of it. You're supposed to be the guest. Please, let me..."

But he was already out the door.

"Well, what do you think?" Mum whispered.

"He seems lovely," I whispered back.

Her smiled deepened and she squeezed my arm affectionately. "You see, darling? Told you you'd like him."

I nodded vacantly, listening to the sound of the kettle boiling and the chink of cups and saucers coming from the kitchen. This guy really was something else.

Mum's face froze. "Oh god, what if he sees that awful lion mug?" She clutched her forehead in despair. "And what if he looks in the wastebasket and sees those burnt potatoes? What then? He'll know I messed up dinner."

"Stop worrying," I said, trying to calm her. "Everything's gonna be fine."

With a triumphant grin, Greg returned carrying a tray of tea and cookies. Placing it on the table, he took the chair opposite and proceeded to pour us each a cup. "I presume you both take milk and sugar?"

"Yes," we replied in unison.

"Two sugars," I said.

"None for me," Mum said.

"Already sweet enough, huh?" he joked.

She giggled. I raised my eyes heavenward. This was starting to get embarrassing.

After the teas were poured, Mum took hers to the kitchen to finish making dinner and left me to get better acquainted with Greg. We talked about many things: school, how bad TV was, and what good books we'd read lately. It turned out his all-time favorite novel was _Nineteen Eighty Four_.

At one point, he even asked me if I thought he was wearing too much aftershave and admitted that he'd had an unfortunate accident before coming over here.

"I was so jittery about meeting you that I spilled half a bottle of Hugo Boss down my shirt!"

I laughed. "You smell great to me." I was touched that he even cared what I thought. Most adults treated people of my age like we were invisible.

By the time Mum popped her head round the door to tell us the food was ready, he'd totally won me over. Greg was kind and sweet and attentive, hanging on my every word like he'd waited half a lifetime to hear it. He was, hands down, the most charming guy I'd ever met. Despite my allegiance to Dad, I started rooting for this relationship to work.

We took our places at the dinner table and Mum served the roast beef. She'd tried to make the meal classier by putting the French fries in glass dishes, but she was fooling no one.

The moment my teeth sank into the beef, I cringed. It was dry and leathery and tasted like burnt rubber. I struggled to keep any of it down.

Greg cleared his throat. "Um, Lisa, you wouldn't happen to have any salt, would you? I think mine might need a bit more seasoning."

"Of course, darling." She got up and went to the kitchen.

Greg shot me a knowing glance.

"I'm so sorry about this," I whispered. "We had a little mishap of our own before you got here. Don't worry, you don't have to eat it if you don't want to."

He placed his finger to his lips as Mum returned carrying a pair of condiment shakers. "There you go," she said. "Salt and pepper for anyone that wants it."

She sat back at the table and took a few mouthfuls of beef before pushing the plate away in disgust. "Oh my god, that's abysmal, isn't it? It's like eating cardboard! I'm so sorry I've tried to poison you both."

"Nonsense," Greg smiled. "I'll admit the meat is a bit on the tough side, but then, I do like my beef well done. All in all, I think it tastes rather good. All it needed was a bit of salt to bring out the flavor." And to demonstrate the point, he devoured an entire forkful without flinching. I followed suit, and for the next ten minutes, the three of us battled to finish what was on our plates.

Mum couldn't keep her eyes off Greg. Every few seconds, I'd catch them flirting with each other. I didn't mind, though. I really liked Greg, and Mum seemed happier than I'd ever seen her, so where was the harm? I wanted her to be happy.

"So, you guys work together, right?" I asked, picking a chunk of beef out my teeth.

"Yes, Greg works in the accounts department," Mum gushed.

He smiled indulgently at her and reached across the table for her hand. "Your mother was the one who interviewed me for the job. I knew from the moment I entered that office that she'd hire me. We got on so well."

Mum fluttered her lashes coquettishly. "Well, you _were_ the best applicant. The fact that you were so charming and funny and witty had nothing to do with it. Obviously."

"Obviously," I laughed.

"Right, time for dessert," Mum said, getting up to start clearing the table.

"Don't worry, I'll do it." Quickly, I stacked up the dishes and took them to the kitchen. I wasn't just being helpful. I wanted to ensure dessert didn't end in disaster, too.

After dumping the plates in the sink and leaving them to soak, I rummaged through the fridge and found a delicious-looking chocolate layer cake. Not much preparation involved, thank goodness.

I took a knife from the rack, cut three slices from the cake and distributed them on the silver dessert dishes Mum loved so much. Then, balancing it all on a tray, I kicked open the door and returned to the living room.

Greg beamed as I presented him with his slice. "Wow, this looks great. Thank you, Samantha."

"It's Sam," I said dryly. "I'd prefer for you to call me Sam. That's what all my friends call me."

"Well thank you, Sam. Nice to know I'm part of your inner circle." He winked at me and I smiled. I couldn't help it.

After dessert, Greg announced that he had a couple of surprises in store.

"The first one is just a little housewarming gift," he said. He reached into a canvas bag and withdrew a long, wrapped object shaped like a large bottle of wine. Tentatively, Mum pulled off the tissue paper to reveal a silver candle holder shaped like the Venus de Milo. The thing was huge, almost two feet in height, and beautifully crafted.

"Wow, it's heavy," Mum commented, placing the holder in the middle of the dining table. "I'll have to find a very big candle to put in it."

"Do you like it?" Greg asked.

"I love it!" she said. "Thanks so much."

Then he handed us each a blue bag. I opened mine and was shocked to see there was a Burberry handbag inside. I wasn't into designer accessories, but even I knew quality when I saw it. _Becky will be so jealous._

"Thanks Greg, this is lovely," I beamed.

Mum dove into her bag and pulled out an identical handbag. Then setting it on the table, she reached in again and took out a little black jewellery box. Carefully, she flipped it open. Nestled inside was a pair of gorgeous pearl stud earrings that matched the necklace she wore.

"Oh Greg, you shouldn't have!" she gasped. "These are simply divine."

He didn't say anything, just continued grinning that half-grin of his. For a second, they gazed into each others' eyes like two lovebirds. I decided to cut in before it got too intense. "Who's up for a game of Monopoly?"

"Me!" Greg said.

I went to the cupboard and brought back my tattered old box of Monopoly. Then for the next hour or so, the three of us sat around the table acting like excited children. It had been so long since I'd had fun like this, and it brought back all my good childhood memories – from a time before the dark shadows descended.

We played three games, and Mum thrashed us in all of them. Greg consoled himself by admitting this was the first time he'd played Monopoly in twenty years.

"I just need some practice," he said with a wink. "Next time, I'll be a force to reckon with!"

Just before ten, I turned in for the evening. I kissed Mum goodnight, said goodbye to Greg, and went to my bedroom. It was long while before I slept, though. Mum's shrill giggles and the sound of the TV kept me awake until sleep and I found each other.

It was nearly twelve when I awoke the next day. I showered and then went to make something to eat. When I got to the kitchen, I found Mum sipping a cup of black coffee at the breakfast bar, looking slightly hung over.

"How was last night?" I asked, refilling the kettle at the sink. "You look pretty rough."

She smiled mysteriously. "Oh last night was very interesting. Let's just say I had an amazing time."

Resisting the urge to interrogate her further, I took a mug down from the shelf and spooned in some instant coffee. "What time did Greg go home?"

She was silent.

"Must have been late," I continued. "He was still here when I finally fell asleep."

"All right ladies, I'm off," said a voice from the doorway.

We both turned and saw Greg standing there, adjusting his cufflinks, his coat folded over one arm like he was ready to go.

"All right, darling," Mum trilled, getting up and kissing him on his cheek.

"Good morning, Sam," he smiled. "Did you have a good sleep?"

"Um, yeah," I replied uncertainly.

He turned to Mum. "I'll call you later, my dear. I had a wonderful night." They hugged and she saw him off into the hallway. There was a lot of giggling and whispering, and then I heard the front door slam.

She came back to the kitchen with a dreamy expression on her face. "Isn't he just the best?" she gushed.

I didn't answer. The kettle had finished boiling and I poured myself a coffee. After a couple of sips, I turned to face her, my eyes flashing. The two of us had some serious talking to do.

"So is this going to become a regular thing?" I asked darkly.

"What do you mean?" Her face was the picture of innocence.

"Greg sleeping over."

She colored up. "Of course not! I didn't plan this, you know. It just sort of happened. We had a few drinks, it got late, and he wasn't in a fit state to drive. It made sense for him to stay over."

"You don't have to justify it, Mum. I'm concerned, that's all. I mean, aren't we moving a bit fast here?"

"Whoa! So now I'm getting relationship advice from a seventeen-year-old? Who's never even dated before?"

"I might be in a better position than you. At least I can still see straight." I tucked a damp hair behind my ear. "I mean, I really like Greg and everything, but you know how men are—even the nice ones."

"Actually I don't. Perhaps you'd enlighten me?"

I shifted awkwardly. "Most guys don't like women who give it up too easily. They want us to play hard to get. Or so I'm told," I added hastily. "Look, bottom line is, you're my mother and I love you to bits and I just think that maybe you should take things a bit slower, that's all."

"This is surreal. I feel like I'm the child and you're the parent."

"And I hope you're being careful," I added sternly. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

She almost spat out her coffee. "Oh no, now you're going too far. I'm not going to discuss my contraceptive arrangements with you."

"Well, if my boyfriend slept over, I'm sure you'd be asking me the same thing."

"Some chance of that," she muttered. "Darling, you do _like_ boys, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"There isn't anything you want to tell me, is there?"

"What the heck are you talking about?"

"Because I want you to know that I'll love and support you no matter what sexuality you are."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Mum, I'm not a lesbian, okay? Get that idea out of your head right now. Just because I don't going around hurling myself at every boy, that doesn't mean I'm gay. Jeez."

"Just checking," she said, grinning. "But even if you were, I wouldn't mind. You know how open-minded..."

"Leave it. You're only digging a deeper hole for yourself."

There was a moment of charged silence. I sipped my coffee and suddenly noticed how bitter it tasted. I realized I'd forgotten to add sugar.

"How much do you really know about Greg?" I resumed.

"Well, let's see: I know that he's funny and smart and one heck of a kisser."

I made a barfing gesture. "Urgh! Way too much information."

She cackled wickedly. "What else do you want to know?"

"How old is he?"

"Old enough."

"Does he have any kids?"

"He's never been married."

"That's not the same thing. Not being married doesn't mean he doesn't have kids."

"Well he never mentioned any to me," she sighed. "Although, he did say he'd like some. Look darling, I know this can't be easy for you. I know how much you miss your father, and it's obviously going to be difficult to adjust to idea of me having someone new in my life. But please, give Greg a chance. For my sake."

"You really like him, don't you?" I said.

"I do," she admitted. "And I want to do everything in my power to make this work. So if you don't want him staying round again—fine. He won't. Want me to take things a little slower? I will. I'll give you all the time you need, darling. We can take things one step at a time. Agreed?"

"Agreed. And Mum?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

We hugged and I felt unaccountably teary-eyed. She quickly pulled away from me and took her empty mug to the sink.

"What are your plans for today?" she asked with her back to me.

"Nothing much. I've got some History course work to finish but nothing too major."

"And how's the lovely Frasier?"

"Oh, he's fine."

"You really should invite him round again. Maybe we could make it a foursome. You, me, Frasier, Greg."

"Hello? I thought we were supposed to be taking things slowly?"

"Oh yes, I forgot."

"Plus," I said, emphasizing the word, "for the umpteenth time, Frasier is _not_ my boyfriend. Never was, never will be. He's just a friend."

"So you keep saying," she replied, grinning. "So what about the other boy?"

"What other boy?"

"The mystery boy who took you to lunch at the Winchester. What was his name again? Lee? You've been very, very secretive about him."

I shrugged. "There's nothing to tell. We just went out a couple of times as friends, that's all. Nothing more. Anyway, I don't think I'll be seeing him any more."

"Why not? Did he do something to upset you?"

"You could say that."

"What happened exactly?"

I clutched the back of my head, feeling a migraine coming. "Do we have to talk about this?"

"Not if you don't want to."

I sighed. "Basically, he said he Googled me and he started asking me loads of questions about Elliot and stuff. Poking his nose in where it didn't belong."

"Ah. Gotcha."

That was the last we said on the subject.

 * * *

"Does anyone know the meaning of the word irony?" Mr. Maine pressed his spidery fingertips together and surveyed the class. "Becky, any ideas?"

Becky glanced up from her notepad and gave him a goofy smile. "Um, is it when you say one thing but you mean something else?"

"Yes. But there's so much more to it than that. Frasier, what do you think? Can you give us a meatier definition?"

Frasier didn't miss a beat. "It's when you do or say something that has the opposite effect from what you intended."

"Better," Mr. Maine enthused. "Doesn't completely sum it up, but you're getting close." He pointed to a red-haired girl at the back. "Lucy, give us an example of irony."

"I go shopping, forget to carry my umbrella, and it rains."

Mr. Maine cocked a brow. "Well everybody, is that ironic or not?"

There was a long pause before someone answered, "Yes, definitely."

"Why?"

"Because she thought it wouldn't rain, and it did."

Mr. Maine's expression remained ambiguous. "We'll come back to that in a minute. Okay, someone else give me some irony. Sam? You got one for me?"

I bit my lip, trying hard to think. To be honest, I hadn't really been listening, as I assumed I already knew what irony was. Now I'd been put on the spot, my mind had gone totally blank. "Um, I really enjoy answering questions about irony—not!"

"Nope. That's sarcasm," he snapped. "Not the same thing. Sorry."

"Now I'm totally confused," Becky muttered. "Sam said one thing but meant something else. I thought that was irony?"

"No, and I'll tell you why in a moment." Mr. Maine marched up to Becky's desk, palms outstretched as if waiting for something. Reluctantly, she took the ball of gum out her mouth and handed it to him. He walked back to the front of the class and tossed it in the bin. "Believe me," he continued, "if you can grasp the concept of irony and learn how to apply it properly, you'll all be infinitely better writers. I promise you."

"Ironically, he's giving me a bloody headache," somebody whispered.

I held my breath to stop myself from laughing. Frasier turned around in his seat and stared at me, making my smile drop. Discreetly, he slid a piece of paper under my desk.

It read: _Are you avoiding me?_

I shook my head and mouthed, "No."

"Just checking," he whispered, turning back to the whiteboard.

Somebody else put their hand up. "Is irony like that episode of _The Simpsons_ where Homer crashes Bart's skateboard off a cliff, gets picked up by a helicopter, slams his head against a rock, and then his ambulance crashes into a tree on the way to the hospital?"

"Mmm, could be," Mr. Maine teased. "But is that irony, or just adding insult to injury? You decide. Still, that's a very good example, James. There's a hell of a lot of irony in _The Simpsons._ You folks should check out some re-runs."

He wiped down the board and started rambling about other examples of irony in pop culture, and I sort of zoned out.

I studied the back of Frasier's head, knowing I'd have to face him and Becky sooner or later. The two of them had spent the whole morning exchanging conspiratorial glances, which I could only guess had something to do with me. To be fair, I _had_ been avoiding them—but now that Lee was out of the picture, my self-imposed exile could finally come to an end.

The rest of English class passed quickly enough, and before I knew it, the bell rang for first break. Becky hovered by my desk as I packed up my things.

"Sam, are you okay?" she asked tentatively. "Have I done anything to upset you? You've seemed awfully quiet lately."

"No, no, I'm fine. Just had a lot going on, that's all," I smiled. "I've been bogged down all weekend with History coursework. By the way, how was the party on Friday?"

"Oh, that." She wrinkled her nose. "It wasn't great. There were hardly any boys and far too many girls. We spent the whole time standing by the wall swapping notes about how bad it was. Plus, they were playing bloody ABBA all night. Really kind of dull. But any who, enough of that. What happened to you? I ran all over school on Friday trying to find you. You really pulled a disappearing act on me."

"I had to leave early," I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Had to do something for my mum. Sorry, I just haven't been with it lately."

"Oh that's fine," she said. "Just as long as you're okay, that's all I care about."

I smiled wanly.

Frasier appeared behind Becky and began pulling stupid faces. Then he made a loud chimpanzee noise which finally got her attention.

She turned and elbowed him sharply in the stomach. "Oh, give it a rest, will you?"

Frasier laughed moronically. I studied his glowing complexion and still found it hard to believe to how different he looked. That herbal face scrub he was using had certainly worked wonders.

"Okay," he said when he'd regained his composure, "let's be serious now. What are you girls doing this Saturday?"

I stuffed my hands in my pockets and rocked back on my heels.

"Nothing. Why?"

"What's going on this Saturday?" Becky chirped.

"It's my brother's twenty-first and he wants to go out clubbing," Frasier explained. "He says I can bring a couple of friends along so I thought... do you guys want to come?"

Becky's face lit up with excitement. "I'm definitely up for that." She glanced at me and I nodded my head uncertainly. "Okay, so that's me and Sam in. I'll also invite Marie and Hannah. So, which club are we going to?"

"Some place called Revolution," he replied.

"I know Revolution," Becky said. "It's around the back of the shopping mall near where the old cinema used to be. Thing is, it's over twenty-ones only, and I've heard the bouncers there are harsh. How are we going to get in?"

Frasier tapped the side of his nose. "Don't worry. My brother's friend knows one of the promoters, so he'll get us on the guest list. And when you're on the guest list, the bouncers tend not to ask too many questions."

"Ah, I don't know," I muttered. "I think I look kind of young. I don't want to go all the way there only to get turned away. It'll be too embarrassing."

"Hold that thought." He took out his phone and snapped a photo of me. "I'll have you a convincing ID by Saturday. So no excuses, okay? You're coming."

"I want a fake ID too!" Becky squealed, even though it wasn't necessary. She could have easily passed for twenty-five, never mind twenty-one. "Please, please make me one, too. I don't want to take any chances either."

Nodding eagerly, Frasier took a snap of her and stored it in his phone along with mine. "Okay, two fake IDs coming up."

Becky clapped her hands together. "This is so exciting! Can't wait. I've never met your brother before. Is he bringing a lot of friends along?"

"Maybe two or three."

She turned to me. "You can come to my house beforehand to get ready. It'll be great! We can make a proper girly night of it."

"I'm not sure," I said, heading toward the door. "I don't really do girly nights."

"Oh come on, don't be such a spoilsport. It'll be fun. Hannah and Marie will be there."

"Whoop de do."

"Don't be like that. I won't take no for an answer. Remember, you still owe me big time for standing me up last Friday. This can be your way of making it up to me."

"Oh, all right," I groaned, raising my hands in surrender. "I'll come."

"Wicked!" she squeaked. "This is gonna be so much fun. You'll see."

_Great._ _A girly night with Hannah and Marie. It'll be "so much fun"... like a bullet in the head. Still, if it helps to keep my mind off Lee, then it might be worth the agony._

##  ‡  
TEN

Revolution

On Saturday, I got to Becky's around seven-thirty. Our girly night had been due to start at five, but I couldn't bring myself to get there any earlier and endure more time with them than was necessary. I took my overnight bag with me just in case I did wind up having to sleep over after we got back from the nightclub.

Becky lived in a large, three-story town house in Middleton Square, a more gentrified part of Elmfield than the neighborhood I came from. It was pretty dark as I swung up the well-kept drive, and I felt an unexpected pang of nerves, wondering what the evening had in store for me. Cautiously, I rang the bell, and then stood back and waited for someone to answer. A minute passed before the door opened.

"Sorry to disturb you. Is Becky at home?" I asked politely.

"You must be Sam."

"Yes."

"We've been expecting you. Please, come in."

Becky's mother was nothing like I expected. Becky was tall and skinny, but her mother was a tubby mouse of a woman, with a large head that didn't quite sit right on her shoulders. Old, too—I guessed around sixty. Either that or she'd had a hard life.

She gave me the kind of pitying glance I'd long grown accustomed to. It was a look that said she recognized me from TV and knew about my past, but was way too polite to say anything. I hated it when people did that.

"The girls are waiting for you upstairs. Follow me and I'll take you to them."

"Thank you."

"It's so wonderful to finally meet you. Becky's always talking about you. She says you're one of her very best friends."

"That's sweet of her."

Smiling broadly, she led me through the brightly-lit front hall to a staircase at the back of the house. Photos covered the walls depicting Becky throughout her life: Becky aged two, Becky aged five, Becky aged ten, Becky on a safari, Becky at Disneyland. Interspersed among the pictures were various framed accolades she must have picked up over the years, such as an award for tidiest Girl Scout and a certificate for coming in fourth in a relay race at a school sports day. _I didn't even know they gave certificates for coming in fourth._

Within seconds, I'd figured out that Becky was an only child and her mother was obviously one of those mollycoddling types who thought the sun shone out her daughter's behind and also had the audacity to inflict that notion on the rest of us. Too bad. The world was full of deluded people.

We reached the upstairs landing and were greeted by the heavy bass of an R'n'B song playing in one of the rooms.

"They're in here," she said, pushing a door open with her shoulder. Becky's bedroom was pink and fluffy, with an enormous, king-size bed covered with dolls and teddy bears. The environment was an homage to Malibu Barbie. A white book shelf covered one wall, and on the other a wardrobe was topped with a fluorescent pink stereo. In the corner sat a computer desk with a high-priced PC.

Becky was perched on the edge of the bed painting her toes with bright pink nail polish. Marie was sitting in front of the dresser, flat ironing her long, brown hair while Hannah was rifling through the wardrobe, comparing different outfits.

Becky glanced up and smiled. "Hey, what took you so long?"

"Sorry, I had some stuff to do," I mumbled.

"Are you girls all right for drinks?" Becky's mother asked. "And what about food? Are any of you hungry? There are sausage rolls and ham sandwiches if you're interested."

"Mmm, sounds great." Marie turned around. "Thanks, Mrs. Martin."

"No, no, we don't want any food yet," Becky interjected, waggling the cotton buds between her toes. "Maybe a bit later. We really should finish getting ready first."

"Okay, well, I'll leave you girls to it then." Her mother waddled from the room.

"Do you like my nails?" Hannah asked, shoving freckly fingers in my face. She was wearing the same garish pink polish as Becky.

"Yeah, they look good." I didn't have the heart to tell her that her fake tan had made her knuckles orange. With a heavy sigh, I slung my bag on the floor and collapsed next to Becky on the bed.

"Careful!" she squeaked. "You almost spilled my nail polish."

"Sorry."

Marie spun her chair to face me, still raking the flat iron through her hair. "What are you wearing tonight, Sam?"

"Let's see..." Bending over, I unzipped my bag and pulled out a plain black top and jeans.

Becky made a face. "God, that's a bit boring, isn't it? That's the same stuff you always wear to school. Why not shake it up a little? Wear a skirt or something."

"Yeah, we're all wearing skirts tonight," Hannah chimed in. "Why not join us? Then we can be co-ordinated, like a groovy girl group. It'll be so cool."

Becky's voice adopted an authoritative tone. "Marie, sweetie, open the second drawer on the dresser and bring out some of my skirts to show Sam. I'm sure she'll find something she likes."

"But I don't do skirts," I pouted. "I won't feel comfortable. Why can't you guys just let me be?"

"Nonsense, you've got a lovely figure. Why do you always try to hide it? Are you afraid of looking good? Come on, Sam, try being a bit adventurous for once. Remember, you only have one life."

Marie dutifully fished out a bundle of mini skirts and dropped them into my lap. Reluctantly, I began inspecting the skimpy pieces. Some of them were barely bigger than a belt! _What the hell is Becky trying to get me into?_

"So, what's the deal with you and Frasier?" Hannah asked.

"What do you mean?" I asked with a frown.

"Well, you know, I always see the two of you hanging out at lunch together, talking and stuff. It's pretty obvious there's something going on."

"I can assure you, there's not."

"Why not?" Marie cut in, her voice accusatory. "Frasier's looking great since he lost the glasses. I think the two of you would make a really cute couple."

"No way," I protested. "Trust me, he doesn't like me that way. He's a lovely guy, but he's got a crush on someone else."

Hannah mimicked a theatrical drum roll.

"Why's everyone looking at me?" Becky smirked, screwing back the lid on the nail polish. "So what if he likes me? He's obviously got impeccable taste." She stuck out her tongue and Marie giggled. "Okay, I agree that he's looking rather fetching these days, but I'll have to pass for the moment. I'm still holding out for you-know-who."

Hannah rolled her eyes. "Oh no, not _Lee_ again. I thought you'd gotten over that!"

"Nope," Becky said, strutting on the side of her heels to the full length mirror. "I'm not ready to give up yet."

"I don't blame you," Marie sighed. "He _is_ mind-blowing."

"Yeah, but he's also got one hell of a screwed-up personality," Hannah said, turning down the volume on the stereo. "All that business of him refusing to give Becks his phone number was just plain weird. I think he's a player. He's probably got a girlfriend, but he's still trying to keep his options open. That's the problem with good-looking boys. They always come with so much baggage."

"Maybe so, but I still think he's worth the fight." Becky's mouth became a small, tight line. "There must be some way of tracking him down. I mean, I've tried everything—I've been to his school, I've checked all the social networking sites, but it's impossible. It's like he's vanished into thin air. If only I knew his surname, that would be a start."

"Weaver. His surname's Weaver," I said.

Everybody looked at me.

"How do you know?" Hannah asked suspiciously.

"Simple. I asked him."

"Lee Weaver," Becky murmured, speaking to her reflection. "I'm coming to get you, Lee Weaver. Sooner or later, you'll be mine, I promise." She gathered her lank, blond hair into a bun and held it there for a second before letting it tumble around her shoulders. "Hannah, turn the music back up. It's time to party!"

A loud bass guitar flooded the room again, and Becky began gyrating in front of the mirror in time to the beat. Her moves were fluid and sexy, her body in complete tune with the music in a way I could never hope to be. I was so jealous. She was truly a great dancer.

"Have you decided what you're going to wear?" she demanded, rousing me from my trance.

I glanced down at the bundle of skirts cradled in my arms. "Um, no, they're not really my thing."

"What about a dress?" Marie suggested, proffering a slinky red number. "I think a dress would really suit you."

Gingerly, I took it from her, stood up and held it against me. It had a few too many ruffles for my liking. If I'd been taller, it would have been pretty short—but since I was considerably smaller than Becky, the hem came to just below my knees. I supposed it was tolerable. At least it covered my thighs. "This one looks all right, I guess," I said.

"Oh come on, it's not the end of the world," Becky chuckled. "We're going to a club, not a funeral. Just try it on, will you? I know it'll look amazing." She walked toward the door. "So, who wants a drink?"

"Have you got any lemonade?" Marie asked hopefully. "I like lemonade."

"No, silly, I'm talking about a _real_ drink. Vodka and orange cool with everyone?"

"Now you're talking!" Hannah said, rubbing her hands gleefully.

"Sam? That okay with you?"

I nodded. "Yes, vodka's fine with me."

Becky smiled and went downstairs to the kitchen.

"So, are you going to try on that dress on or what?" Hannah asked, turning her ferret eyes on me.

I scowled at her but didn't have the strength to argue this time. I could tell the best way to survive this evening was to just to go with the flow. And if that meant biting my tongue, then so be it.

I slipped out of my tracksuit and my sweater and slid the red dress over my head.

Marie's eyes widened. "Wow, look at your abs. It's not fair. I want those abs!"

I didn't answer. Silently, I shimmied my way into the tight material and then strutted over to the mirror to check myself out.

"Gosh, you look fantastic!" Marie gushed. "Red is so you."

Hannah didn't comment, just sort of grunted her approval.

I had to admit, it _did_ look pretty good. The dress was a little tight, perhaps, but I couldn't complain. The corseted waist gave me a real hourglass shape. Turning, I explored my reflection from the back, and wasn't totally comfortable with how huge it made my butt look. Still, at least my top half was sufficiently covered.

_Just go with it_. _You only live once._

Stepping away from the mirror, my eyes fell on the dresser and I noticed a framed picture of two pretty brunette girls. Picking it up, I recognized Becky's angel-like features. She must have been around six years old. I was shocked by the little girl standing next to her. The two looked almost identical.

"Wow, I didn't know Becky had a twin," I said.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Hannah and Marie exchanged glances.

"What's wrong?" I asked innocently.

"That's Becky's sister Kate," Marie replied. "She died four years ago."

"Got hit by a car," Hannah added solemnly. "The whole family went into meltdown. Becks took it hard. Off school for weeks. I think she had a mini breakdown."

"It's so sad," Marie resumed. "Kate was such a lovely girl. The two of them were inseparable. They did everything together. We miss her terribly. But please, Sam, don't tell Becky we told you about this. It's not that it's a secret, it's just—well, she'd probably like to tell you in her own time. I don't want her to think we've been blabbing."

I didn't say anything for a while. I was in shock, trying to absorb the fact that Becky had managed to conceal this from me for so long. I thought about the happy, smiling girl I'd come to know and wondered how she'd managed to maintain such a positive outlook in the face of such trauma. It was, in a strange way, deeply humbling. Both our lives had been touched by tragedy, yet we each had a different way of dealing with it. While I had retreated into my shell, Becky had faced the world with a propensity to live life to the full.

And then I thought of something else. That first time she'd asked me about the abduction, I'd thought she was just being nosey, trying to pry into my affairs. Now I saw things differently. Perhaps the reason she'd sought me out was because she saw me as a kindred spirit—someone who'd been through a similar ordeal, someone she could relate to. Perhaps, just perhaps, I'd misjudged her.

"Hey, why the long faces?"

We turned and saw Becky standing in the doorway, balancing a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice in one hand and fours glasses in the other.

We quickly dispersed to different sides of the room, our guilt an unspoken stain on the atmosphere. Becky put the drinks down on the dresser and blew her bangs out of her eyes. "What were you guys talking about? You all look really suspicious. What's going on?"

"We were just discussing Sam's dress," Marie blurted. "It looks really good, doesn't it?"

A slow, lop-sided grin spread across Becky's face. "Yes, it does. But then, I knew it would. I told you I've got an eye for fashion."

I flashed a weak smile. "Yeah, I guess I should listen to you more often."

"Only thing is," she continued, scrutinizing my bare feet, "what shoes are you going to wear? You can't wear flats with that dress. Did you bring any heels?"

"No," I said.

"Don't worry, my mum's about the same size as you. I'll check her wardrobe in a sec and find you something. Okay, so now that's sorted out, who wants a drink?" She unscrewed the vodka top and poured a generous portion into one of the tall glasses. "How much orange, Sam?"

"All the way to the top," I said, hoping to dilute the alcohol as much as possible. I didn't want to get too drunk. _Somehow, I think it might be a good idea to keep my wits about me tonight._

She handed me the glass and I took a tentative sip. It tasted more of orange than vodka, but it was just about tolerable. After nodding my approval, Becky fixed drinks for the rest of them and we spent the next hour or so getting increasingly inebriated. Despite promising myself to stay sober, I found I couldn't say no to the large quantities of vodka being slipped into my glass.

By the time nine o' clock came, we were dressed and ready to go, and I could barely see straight. As we headed downstairs to the hall, I felt so unsteady, Marie had to hold me upright.

When we reached the bottom of the staircase, Becky's mum rushed out a side door carrying a plate of sandwiches. "Goodness, you girls aren't leaving yet, are you? You haven't eaten a thing! I don't want you going out with empty stomachs."

Becky sighed patiently. "Mum, we don't have time for this. We're supposed to be meeting Frasier outside the club in twenty minutes. We can eat when we get back."

"Over my dead body," her mother said sternly. "None of you are leaving this house until you've eaten." Pursing her lips together, she began passing the plate around and we each took a sandwich to appease her.

Becky crammed the bread into her mouth and swallowed it down in two gulps. "Happy now?"

"Deliriously, sweetheart," her mum replied, planting a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek. "Thank you."

"Ew, Mum! You're smudging my foundation!"

"Ready to go, girls?" Becky's father shot down the hall like his pants were on fire. As soon as I clapped eyes on him, I knew where she got her height. Her dad was like a massive ostrich; a bald-headed man with stick-out ears who combed his side hair across the top. Fleetingly, my gaze landed on his feet, and I noted that he tucked his trousers into his socks. He had a very absent-minded professor kind of look.

"Becky, my darling, you look beautiful," he gushed, blissfully over-looking the fact his daughter was wearing the equivalent of two pieces of rope tied together. He squinted at me. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've met?"

I extended my hand. "My name's Sam. I go to school with Becky." His palms felt sweaty.

"Pleasure to meet you, Sam." He glanced at his watch. "Let's be off now so we can beat the traffic."

We nodded in unison and followed him out the house to a blue Range Rover that was parked outside. Becky jumped in the front with her dad and the rest of us squeezed into the back. The engine sprang to life and the radio greeted with Elvis crooning about _Suspicious Minds_.

Fifteen minutes later, we were cruising through a part of Elmfield where you could drive for ages without seeing a single bar or shop. The farther we got, the less I liked it. The whole place seemed like a ghost town. I couldn't imagine there being a nightclub anywhere in the vicinity. _Is this someone's idea of a joke?_

Suddenly, we turned into what looked like the back of an abandoned clothing factory and caught the tail end of a long line of people. I glanced up and saw neon lights spelling out the word "Revolution" in the night sky.

We had found it.

"Okay, out you go, girls," Becky's dad said as he pulled into a free parking space.

"Can anyone see Frasier?" Marie asked, squinting at the crowd. "He was supposed to meet us outside, wasn't he?"

"There he is!" Hannah slurred, pressing her face against the window.

I turned and saw a hulky figure waving frantically at us.

"Is that definitely him?" Becky's dad asked dubiously. "I don't want to drop you off with a stranger."

"No, it's him," Becky answered a tad snappily. She obviously couldn't wait to get out the car. Pecking him on the cheek, she opened her door and stepped out onto the pavement. I followed her and was hit with a blast of cold air that cut into my cheeks like piano wire. Not bringing a coat had been a bad idea.

Frasier jogged over to us with a group of boys who, despite being smartly dressed, looked worryingly like cast-offs from _Lord of the Rings_. The tallest, a rotund boy with a baby face and designer stubble, I took to be Frasier's brother. The other two were the closest to real life hobbits I've ever seen: short and stumpy with curly hair and elfin features.

I could see the disappointment in Becky's face even before they'd reached us. Maybe she'd been hoping to meet a bunch of hot guys tonight and this wasn't what she'd planned for.

"Hello, ladies," Frasier announced, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Are you all ready to have a good time?" He looked amazing in his tweed jacket, gray slacks, and knee-high hunting boots. _So wrong and yet so right. That's a look that only he could pull off._

Hannah uttered something that sounded suspiciously like a swear word and Becky tapped her foot impatiently. Only Marie maintained a dignified stance. "Hi Frasier, good to see you," she beamed. "Which one's the birthday boy?"

Frasier pointed to the baby-faced mountain and Marie went over to give him a hug. The guy blushed profusely and the hobbits snickered amongst themselves.

"Hey Sam, what's up?" Frasier asked, embracing me. "You ready to party?"

"Yup," I hiccupped. "Ready to parr-ddy!"

He frowned at me. "Oh boy. I can see I'm going to have to keep a close eye on you tonight. You stink of booze!"

I laughed maniacally.

Shaking his head, he turned away to make the necessary introductions. His brother was called Todd and the curly-haired hobbits were John and Duncan. Secretly, I christened them Pippin and Merry.

"So have you got our IDs?" Becky whispered, hugging her arms against the cold. "It's bloody freezing and I don't fancy standing out here all night."

"Thanks for reminding me," Frasier said as he began rummaging through his pockets.

"Where's mine?" I slurred, lurching toward him. He handed us each a piece of plastic the size of a credit card. Squinting in the half-light, I saw it was some sort of university ID that had my picture on it.

"Cool," I grinned.

There were two loud beeps from behind us. Startled, we all turned and looked across the road. Becky's dad was still parked there, scrutinizing the events as they unfolded.

"Everything okay over there?" he shouted.

"Fine Dad, just fine," Becky shouted back. "You can go now."

"Remember to call me before you're done, okay?"

"Okay. See you later."

The Range Rover disappeared out of sight and we followed Frasier to the front of the line, where two burly-looking bouncers prepared to interrogate us. I should have felt apprehensive, but I was so out of it, I didn't feel a thing as I flashed the fake ID and stepped over the ropes into the club. As it turned out, none of us had any trouble getting in. Frasier was clearly proud that he'd pulled it off.

"See, told you it would work," he whispered to Becky as we descended the stairs to the basement.

"Yes you did," she agreed. "I owe you one."

He flashed a devilish grin that implied he might just take her up on the offer.

Five minutes later, the eight of us were standing in the middle of a packed dance floor, surrounded by throngs of hot, sweaty bodies gyrating in time to a well-known anthem. It was the first time I'd been to a club, and I found the whole environment fascinating. It was like a school disco, but for older people. I suddenly felt really grown up, despite my tipsiness.

"Let's get a drink," Frasier said, leading our little procession over to the bar. As he stood negotiating to the bartender, Marie and Hannah slipped off to the bathroom, and Becky pulled me to one side.

"What say we lose them in a minute? There are so many hot guys here, we need to be free to explore."

"You can't do that to Frasier," I hissed. "We're here f-for Todd's birthday. Let's stay for a while and s-see how it goes. It might not be that b-bad."

"What are you stuttering for?" she snapped. "You sound like Porky Pig."

Before I could answer, she'd told Frasier to get me some water to sober me up. He handed me a bottle of Evian and I drank from it deeply. My head was still all over the place, but the cool liquid helped to bring a little clarity to things.

The music changed to a thumping house track and I realized how badly I needed the toilet. Tapping Becky's shoulder, I told her where I was going, and then made off in the same direction I'd seen Marie and Hannah heading.

It was a nightmare trying to navigate through the swarms of bodies, and I stepped on toes more than once. Eventually, I reached a door marked _Ladies,_ flung it open, and raced into one of the cubicles before I peed myself.

After I'd flushed the chain and washed my hands, I peered at my reflection in the basin mirror. I still looked pretty good, but my eyes held a certain blankness I found unsettling. Giggling hysterically, I took another swig from the Evian bottle, hoping to sober up once and for all. Then, sucking in my breath, I staggered out into the corridor that led back to the dance floor.

I froze.

A few feet away, leaning against the wall with his cap pulled down low, was Lee.

For a moment, my heart leapt—but then I remembered I was supposed to be mad at him and I continued walking. As I passed, he placed his hand gently on my arm.

"Hey, hey, Sam, it's me—Lee. Don't you recognize me?"

"I know who you are," I replied icily, shrugging him off. "What are you doing here? You following me or something?"

"Of course not," he said, laughing. "Why would I be following you?"

"You tell me." It was a struggle to keep my voice steady, but somehow I managed to. I couldn't let him to see how tipsy I was. "Every time I turn around, you're there. It's like if I look up the word 'stalker' in the dictionary, there'll be a picture of you there."

"I can assure you," he said through gritted teeth, "I am _not_ following you. This is a free country. Aren't I allowed to go to the same club as you without being accused of stalking?"

I cut him off. "Who are you here with then?"

"What?"

"Did you bring any friends?"

"No," he admitted.

"So you came out clubbing on your own? That's like really normal, right? What are you, Billy No Mates?"

He started to scowl but then shifted it into a laugh. "Ha ha! Very funny."

For a second, he stood there staring down at me, a broad smile etched across his perfect lips. I felt very intimidated, but refused to let it show.

"Look," I said, "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but it stops now, okay?"

"What are you talking about? I don't play any games."

"Yes you do! All this blowing hot and cold all the time. One minute you're nice as pie, the next you... you..." I trailed off, my vision growing blurry. "Listen, I've got to go. Becky's waiting for me."

Trembling inside, I pushed my way through the maze of bodies, hoping to get as much distance between us as possible. After a moment, I glanced behind me. No sign of Lee. Relieved, I pressed on, and soon I was back at the bar standing beside Becky.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, daintily sipping from a glass of wine. "Your head feeling any better yet?"

"Yes, I'm fine," I lied.

"Did you see Hannah and Marie in the toilet?"

"No I didn't. I don't know where they are." I placed the empty bottle on the bar.

Frasier came over and handed me another Evian. "Drink this. It'll help to soak up the alcohol."

"Thanks." I knocked it back in three gulps.

"Maybe we should go and look for them," Becky suggested. "I'm a bit worried. They've been gone for ages."

"Relax," Frasier said. "I'm sure they'll be fine. And anyway, they know where the bar is. Best we stay put."

"Excuse me," said a deep voice.

We turned and saw Lee standing behind us. I caught my breath, my heart pounding so wildly it momentarily drowned out the music.

"Oh my gosh!" Becky squealed, throwing her arms around him. "What a lovely surprise! I've missed you so much."

Frasier's mouth dropped open, his eyes wide with astonishment, like he was looking at a divine deity. And then it hit me that this must be the first time he'd seen Lee since Taffin's party. I hoped he wouldn't make a scene.

Gently, Lee pried Becky's fingers from around his neck and shook Frasier's hand. "Long time no see. How you doing?"

"I'm very good thanks," Frasier replied evenly.

Then Todd, John, and Duncan closed in, keen to be introduced to this stranger getting so much attention. Lee merely nodded at them, and then briefly glanced at me. There was a flash of something dark in his eyes that sent a ripple of excitement up my spine.

"Well, it was great seeing you all," he said. "Hope you have a good night. Frasier, Todd, I'm off."

"Aren't you going to at least stay for a drink?" Becky implored. "Please don't go yet! I need to talk to you."

"I know, and I'd love to, really I would—but my friends are gonna be wondering where I am. I can't leave them alone for too long. Let me go now and I'll come back and find you later."

"You promise?"

"I promise." He winked at her, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

I stared after him. _What friends?_ I'd thought he'd come alone. Or was that just an excuse to get away from her?

"Come on, let's go find the girls," Becky said, grabbing my arm and pulling me in the opposite direction. "Frasier, we'll be back in two secs."

She dragged me across the dance floor to some benches on the other side of the room.

"Can you believe Lee's actually here?" she said as we sat down. "I never thought I'd see him again. This must be fate. It has to be." She downed the last of her wine and put the glass on the floor. Then she leaned her head against my shoulder and spoke in a low, baby voice. "Tell me honestly, Sam, do you think he likes me?"

"I don't know. Perhaps you should ask him."

And then out of nowhere, Lee appeared again, gazing down on us like some sort of dark angel. Becky stared up at him, hypnotized. Slowly, he took her by the hand and led her across the dance floor, just as the music changed to a sexy hip-hop track with a deep, pulsating rhythm. Sliding his hands firmly round her waist, he rocked her back and forth in time to the beat, his hips grinding sensuously against hers with breathtaking finesse. Becky was a good dancer, but next to him, her movements looked positively sluggish. He had such control and energy, he could have put any music video dancer to shame. Theirs was a ritual of seduction—like a wolf leading a lamb to the slaughter and enjoying every second of it.

Open-mouthed, I watched Lee spin Becky around a couple more times before pulling her to him and leaning in for a kiss.

Almost. But not quite.

For what seemed like forever, those gorgeous lips of his remained suspended in mid air, teasing the corners of her mouth but not making physical contact. It was all so intense, so passionate, I could almost smell Becky's sweat. I could almost feel her anticipation and the depth of her desire.

And then, abruptly, he twisted her body around to face me, his black eyes boring into me over her shoulder, a mocking smile playing on his lips, almost as if he were taunting me, daring me to do something about it.

But I didn't. I just sat there gaping, paralyzed by conflicting emotions.

Then, with slow deliberation, his fingers traced the curve of her bare arms and traveled down to her waist, gripping it even more tightly. Becky's breathing appeared to quicken as she tilted her head back and closed her eyes in ecstasy.

I felt a rush of blood to the head. If his plan was to get me jealous, then he was succeeding, big time. Watching the two of them together made me feel like I was drowning and couldn't get up for air. I was dying a slow and painful death—and he didn't care.

_He just didn't care._

Hyperventilating, I stood.

I couldn't take any more. I had to get away from them before I did something stupid. Fighting back tears, I pushed my way through the crowd toward the bar, in search of Frasier and the others.

A large hand gripped my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. I turned and saw a tall man with a shaved head grinning down at me. "Hey baby, want to dance?" he drawled.

"No, thank you," I snapped, trying to extricate myself from his vice-like grasp. "Please let me go."

"Aw, what's the matter, sweetheart? You don't like dancing?"

In one swift movement, he'd swept me into his arms and pushed himself against me, forcing me to move in time to the music. I screwed up my nose. His breath smelled foul and there were pools of sweat trickling down his face. He was like a horrible, hairy ape.

"Let me go!" I shouted. "Get your dirty mitts off me."

But my cries fell on deaf ears.

Laughing cruelly, his meaty fingers ran down my spine and attempted to squeeze my bottom. That was it. With all my might, I swung my fist back and punched him full in the face, sending him flying.

"Why you...!" Clutching his hand across his injured cheek, his Neanderthal features twisted into a grimace. "You'll pay for that you little..."

"Back off!" Lee bellowed, stepping between us. "Just back off, okay? Be cool. We don't want any trouble."

The man's scowl melted into a gap-toothed grin. "Neither do I. Let's forget this happened." He strolled off, still holding his face, and Lee exhaled an enormous sigh of relief.

"That could have ended really badly," he said sternly. "What the hell were you playing at? You can't just go around hitting people."

"Excuse me, but he was trying to molest me," I spat. "He got what he deserved. I have no regrets."

Lee's eyes narrowed. "You're drunk, aren't you? Don't lie to me. I can smell it on you."

"I am _not_ drunk."

"Yes you are."

"Is everything okay, guys?" Becky cooed, skipping over. "What just happened? That skinhead looked absolutely furious."

Lee opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. Quite a lot of people were watching us, and not all their expressions were friendly.

"Let's get out of here," he said. "There's been enough drama for one night." Grabbing my arm, he started dragging me toward the cloak room, his fingers digging into my flesh so deeply it was painful.

"Where are you going?" Becky shouted. "You can't just leave me!"

"I'm taking Sam home," he shouted back. "She doesn't feel well. Tell Frasier we're sorry."

As soon as we got outside, a gust of cold air hit me, helping to sober me up. The street was virtually empty, as most of the clubbers were already inside.

"Goodnight folks," one of the bouncers said. "Make sure the lady gets home safe, okay?"

"I will," Lee muttered darkly.

"Let go, you're hurting me," I hissed when we were safely out of earshot. He released his grip and I rubbed my arm reproachfully. "Jeez, you're almost as bad as that ape. What is it with you men? Why do you always love throwing your weight about?"

"Excuse me, but I'm not the one who punched a skinhead stranger in a bar. Out of the two of us, I'd say you're the one who's violent."

"No I'm not. I just know how to take care of myself, that's all."

"Yeah, you were really taking care of yourself in there, weren't you?" he said sarcastically. "What would have happened if I hadn't intervened? Do you think that creep wouldn't have knocked you out?"

"Nobody asked you to butt in. I don't need you fighting my battles for me."

"Yeah, yeah. Look, can we please talk and walk? I don't want to spend the rest of the night arguing. My car's parked just around the corner."

We walked in silence to a little side alley around the back of the club where sinister-looking tower blocks surrounded us. The whole place seemed eerily deserted and smelled of old waste and urine.

I shivered as we stopped beside his Lotus. The air felt frosty and stale against my goose-pimpled flesh.

Lee fumbled through his jacket, searching for his car keys. "Damn, where did I put them?"

"You didn't drop them somewhere did you?" I asked fearfully.

"Ah ha!" His face broke into a smile as he retrieved them from his back pocket. "Now we're in business."

Then, out of nowhere, I heard the echo of running footsteps, and the bald-headed thug from the nightclub materialized from the darkness brandishing a knife. Before Lee had time to defend himself, the assailant lunged forward, knocking him to the ground. Back and forth the two of them fought on the pavement, Lee struggling to pry the knife from his opponent's hand. I heard a loud groan, a cry of agony, and I saw the blade skid across the ground, landing just beside my feet. Picking it up gingerly, I saw that the tip of it was covered with blood.

_One of them has been stabbed._

With a battle-cry, Lee's opponent continued the onslaught, raining blow after blow down on him with frightening rapidity.

"Get off him!" I screamed, throwing myself into the mix. Turning sharply, the thug elbowed me out the way, sending me sprawling into a brick wall. For a moment, I lay crumpled on the ground in a daze of horror, sweat dripping into my mouth, my nose, my chin. Then I scrambled to my feet and ran at him again. This time he whacked me full in the face, the blow stinging my jaw so badly it brought tears to my eyes. I doubled over and tried to catch my breath again, fighting the urge to throw up. My ears were ringing, my vision blurry with swirling images of what was unfolding around me.

As Lee struggled to his feet, the thug aimed another blow, but this time Lee was too quick for him. In one lightning quick move, he blocked the punch and slammed his knee into the thug's groin. Then, Lee gripped his opponent's shoulders and hurled him to the ground, in what can only be described as a magnificent Judo throw. I heard a horrid cracking sound, followed by a loud moan of pain, as the thug's body twisted and writhed on the pavement, blood gushing from a head wound.

The sight of the injury was the final straw and I threw up on the pavement, narrowly missing my feet. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and attempted to stand up straight. My right cheek hurt like hell and I realized I'd taken a real hammering.

Breathing heavily, Lee snatched up his hat and car keys and raced over to the Lotus. He kept his face turned away from me, as if he was trying to hide something.

"What happened? Did he hurt you?"

"No, I'm fine," he muttered.

I froze.

His voice had gone abnormally deep and raspy, like it was a different person speaking.

_Scary._

"Hurry up and get in," he growled.

Nodding dumbly, I jumped in beside him, still sick and shaky from our ordeal.

He turned the key, but instead of starting, the engine gave off a loud, spluttering noise.

"Sweet Jesus, don't tell me we're stuck here."

"Come on, come on!" Lee barked, his voice returning to normal. "This has got to be some kind of a joke."

_Thump!_

A bloody palm slammed against my window. Startled, I saw the thug's hollow eyes pressed up to the glass, leering horribly at me.

"Start the car!" I screamed.

"Don't you think that's what I'm trying to do?" Lee shouted back.

With a low roar, the engine returned to life and we started moving. Instantly, there was a loud thud from somewhere at the front, as the skinhead launched himself onto the hood, banging his fists viciously into the metal. Lee yanked the wheel from left to the right and sent the body flying off the car into the road. Without looking back we continued driving until the darkness had consumed all traces of the nightmare we'd endured.

"Keep driving," I breathed. "Just keep... driving."

##  ‡  
ELEVEN

Lifting the Veil

"Open the glove compartment and get me some tissues."

I did as Lee requested and pulled out a small box of Kleenex. Frantically tearing out a bunch, I passed them to him and he pressed them against his chest to help stop the bleeding. By now, the whole right side of his sports jacket was soaked with blood, and the leak didn't show any signs of abating.

"That looks really bad," I said. "We've got to get you to hospital."

"No hospitals," he snapped. "I'm absolutely fine."

"No you're not. Come on Lee, don't be silly. We need to get you an ambulance."

His hands tightened on the wheel. "No ambulance, no hospitals. Trust me, it looks worse than it is. It's only a scratch. I've suffered much worse in the past."

Folding my arms across my chest, I pressed my face against the cold window and gazed out into blackness. There were no more buildings or street lights, only grass. I suddenly realized that we'd passed my house long ago.

"Hey, where are we going?" I frowned. "I thought you were taking me home?"

"There's been a change of plan. We're going back to mine now. I can't bear to be alone tonight."

He spoke with a cool authority that made the hairs on my neck stand up. "I still think you should get that wound checked out," I persisted.

"Pass me some more tissues."

I gave him another handful of Kleenex and this time they seemed to halt the leak.

I breathed a sigh of relief. _Thank goodness for that._

We stalled at a set of traffic lights.

"You do know I hold you thoroughly responsible for what happened tonight?" He glanced at me severely. "You've really got to learn to control your temper."

"Excuse me?" I spluttered. "A psychopath attacks you and somehow I'm to blame? Explain how?"

"You can't just go around picking fights with men, Sam," he said. "Do you have a death wish or what? One day you'll start with the wrong person and wham! Who knows where it will end? I mean, just think what could have happened tonight if I hadn't been there to protect you."

"That's pretty rich, considering you're the one who started all this in the first place."

"What?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I said darkly. "All that flirting with Becky. You knew it would get to me. You wanted to create a drama."

"No I didn't," he retorted.

"Yes you did."

"Did it really bother you that much?"

I remained tight-lipped.

"Were you jealous?" he teased.

"Don't be absurd."

"Admit it. You were jealous, right?"

"Okay, I was jealous. Happy now?" I could see a smirk forming around his lips. "So is that how you get your kicks? Playing one girl off against the other? That's really low, you know."

"Do you want me to say I'm sorry?" he said. "Okay, I'm sorry. I know it was a silly, childish thing to do. But you really got me mad. You were being so rude, calling me a stalker and everything. I only wanted to teach you a lesson."

"Yeah, you sure taught me a lesson all right." I shook my head. "My god, this night's been a complete fiasco."

He smiled thinly, and I could tell the stab wound was hurting him more than he let on. He swerved the car at the next corner and Elmfield Park suddenly came into view, the trees barren and skeletal against the black sky. We waited for the light before Lee gunned the Lotus forward, turning onto the bridge. A couple of minutes later, we entered Falcon Mews and Lee drew the vehicle to a halt beside the elevator. He turned off the engine.

For a moment, the two of us sat shrouded in darkness, waiting for one of us to break the deadlock.

"I forgot to say thank you," he said at last.

"For what?"

"For trying to defend me. You took quite a knock, didn't you? It was a very stupid thing to do, and you could have got yourself killed. But it was also very brave of you. No one has ever done something like that for me before." His voice broke on the last word.

Licking my lips, I kept my eyes fixed on the dashboard, trying my best to remain calm. It wasn't easy. His velvety tone was playing havoc with my heartstrings. "Thanks. It was no big deal."

"Where did he hit you? Your cheek?"

I nodded solemnly. "Don't worry, I'll live."

"Your knee's cut quite badly, too."

Glancing down, I saw that he was right. The skin around my knee and thigh was horribly grazed. Somehow, in all the chaos, I hadn't even noticed. Or perhaps I'd just numbed myself to the pain.

Smiling, he reached over and tenderly caressed the side of my face, his fingers soft and warm against my skin. Then, slowly, his hand traveled down my cheek, stopping just at the corner of my mouth and lingered there for a while.

A shiver flashed down my spine.

In seconds, the soreness in my jaw melted away, replaced by the wild beating of my heart. I sighed, feeling temporarily lost, unable to concentrate on anything other than how intoxicating this sensation was. I wanted it to last forever.

"Sorry, I got blood on your face," he whispered, abruptly taking his hand away.

I didn't care about the blood. I didn't care if he covered my whole face in it. All I wanted was for him to continue touching me like that, to consume me with that divine heat of his.

Looking slightly flustered, Lee got out the car and stood waiting for me to follow. He seemed confused and agitated. I took a second to catch my breath, and then got out and walked with him to the elevator. As we approached it, he stood back and allowed me to enter first.

When we got to his apartment, I felt a sudden wave of nausea. I could barely walk straight. Just as I was about to stumble into a table, Lee swept me into his arms and carried me upstairs to his room. I tried not to think about how good his arms felt around me, how strong.

Kicking open the door, he carried me to a massive, king-size bed and lay me down on the pillows. Then, with extreme gentleness, he untied my shoes and placed them neatly at the foot of the bed. He stood gazing down at me, almost as if he were deliberating whether or not to take off any more of my attire. For one heart-stopping moment, I thought he would take off my dress, but the moment passed. _That was just wishful thinking on my part._

"But where will you sleep?" I asked.

"On the sofa," he said.

"No please, you take the bed and I'll take the sofa. I don't want you to..."

He cut me off. "Stop fussing. You're having the bed and that's the end of it."

I felt my body sinking into the comfort of the bed.

"Try to get some rest," he said softly. "It's been a long night and you must be exhausted."

"I don't know if I'm ready to sleep yet," I sighed. "I'm still so worried about you. Are you sure that wound doesn't need a proper dressing?" I glanced fleetingly at the dried blood stain on his jacket. "What if it gets infected?"

"Stop worrying. The bleeding's stopped, so everything's fine. I know a bit of first aid, anyhow."

"I'm not buying that."

"Okay, we'll do a deal. If it still looks bad in the morning, I'll go see a doctor. Agreed?"

"You'd better," I warned sleepily. "I don't want you dying on me."

"The level of your concern overwhelms me," he grinned, tucking me under the duvet. He walked toward the door and placed his hand on the light switch.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight," I whispered.

And then he plunged the room into darkness.

Within a couple of minutes, I slipped into a deep, troubled sleep, haunted by dreams more disturbing than any horror film. I was running through a deserted house, and the evil thug from the nightclub was chasing after me. No matter where I tried to hide, he always found me. Finally, he cornered me and his coarse hands wrapped around my throat, choking me tighter and tighter. I screamed, but no sound came out. My air supply was diminishing rapidly.

And then the thug's face became a shapeless, featureless pulp as he morphed from Frasier to Mr. Maine to Becky and then finally to Lee, all the while holding his fingers against my throat, trying to kill me.

And then everything went black.

I awoke with a start, my heart throbbing in my ears like a voodoo drum. I sat up, covered in sweat. My head hurt like hell, the inevitable consequence of my overzealous vodka consumption.

Squinting through the darkness, I tried to remember where I was and how I got here. The room looked so strange—the bed, the lamp, the large blinded windows were all alien to me. Then the events from the club came flooding back. It was the middle of the night. I was at Lee's apartment. In his room. _In his bed._

My throat was parched, and suddenly all I could think of was how thirsty I was. Throwing back the covers, I climbed out of bed and padded into the landing in search of the bathroom. The laminate flooring felt icy against my bare feet.

I got about halfway when I heard the sound of running water. Squinting, I saw the floor up ahead illuminated by a thin shard of light. As I drew closer, I saw that the bathroom door was slightly ajar. I sneaked up to it and cautiously peeped through.

The first thing I noticed was that bloody towels were scattered everywhere. The second was how hot the room was. And third and foremost, Lee was standing in front of the wash basin mirror, wearing only his jeans. It was the first time I'd seen him topless, and he was quite a sight to behold.

For long moments, I stood looking at him, completely overwhelmed by his beauty. I held my breath. I knew I should have turned away, but I couldn't control the urge that moved me to look. He truly had a marvelous body. Under different circumstances, I would have quite happily spent all night gaping at him.

But this wasn't the right time. The large pool of blood on the floor indicated that he'd started bleeding again. I feared for his life.

Filling the sink with hot water, Lee soaked another towel and patted it against his chest in an effort to clean the wound. Beads of moisture stood out on the taut muscles of his back. I desperately wished I was in a better position to assess the level of damage.

Then he tilted the mirror slightly and I was finally able to see his reflection. I blanched. A horrendous stab wound ran all the way from his neck to the hard contours of his lower abdomen. This wasn't the minor injury he'd led me to believe. He needed serious medical attention.

Silently, I crept back to the bedroom. I didn't want him to think I was spying on him. I knew I'd have to make do without that drink of water. As I slid back under the duvet, my mind was fraught with worry. Why was Lee being so stubborn? Why didn't he go to hospital? Why was he gambling with his life like this?

Tired and drained, I passed out the second my head hit the pillow.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of harsh winds and a tree branch banging against the window. With a groan, I buried my head in the pillow, trying to drown out the noise, but it was no use. I just couldn't get back to sleep.

I sat up on my elbows and scrutinized my surroundings. Lee's room looked quite different in the daytime. The shades were drawn, but the door was open just enough to illuminate the room. The walls were plain and white, the furniture as tasteful and understated as in the living room. There were no photos on the dresser, no little trinkets lying here and there to indicate anything about its owner. _There is something decidedly soulless about this bedroom._

Sliding out of bed, I felt the first pangs of a major hangover. My whole body ached and my mouth tasted like I'd swallowed a bitter pill. The red dress I'd borrowed from Becky was torn and clung to my body like a soiled bathing suit. I badly needed a shower.

Stumbling toward the bedroom door, I noticed a pile of fresh towels and a fluffy white dressing gown lying over a chair. My heart warmed at the sight of them.

_How thoughtful of him._

Gathering them into a bundle, I headed for the bathroom and was shocked to find everything spotlessly clean. The blood-soaked towels and pools of red had miraculously vanished. The whole place now smelled of bleach.

_How efficient of him._

Glancing in the basin mirror, I cringed when I saw how sunken my face was. Dark bags circled my eyes and there were smatterings of dried blood encrusted around my nose. The bruise on my cheekbone had turned a horrid purple color and would probably take weeks to heal.

Turning away in disgust, I filled the bathtub with water and took a long, hot soak. Then I toweled myself down, slipped on the dressing gown and went downstairs. As I entered the living room, my nostrils were greeted by the wonderful aroma of coffee and fried bacon.

"Morning," Lee called from behind the partition. "Did you have a good sleep?"

"Yes, thanks. How about you? How was the sofa?"

"Fine. Slept like a log."

"What time is it?"

"Around eleven."

I stepped into the kitchen. He was frying bacon and eggs in a saucepan and the coffee machine was cooking up something gorgeous.

"Hope you like bacon," he said, smiling. "They say it's the best cure for a hangover."

"I'll take your word for it." Slyly, my eyes took their time to travel down the length of his perfect physique. Even when Lee tried to pull off casual he still looked as if he'd stepped out of a TV commercial. This morning, he was dressed in his favorite black fitted sweater with a pair of gray tracksuit bottoms. I was astounded by how well he looked, considering the ordeal he'd been through. _In fact, this is the handsomest I've ever seen him._ His skin was positively glowing, his damp hair twisted in spiral curls from a recent shower.

For a second, I was so captivated by him that I forgot to breathe.

"Two eggs okay for you?" He took the pan off the grill and shook the contents onto a plate.

I nodded dumbly. Something wasn't right. I could feel it.

"Lee..." I faltered, my nerves getting the better of me.

"What's wrong?"

"Um, how's your chest? Are you still going to get it checked out at the hospital?"

"No need. I managed to bandage it up pretty good last night. Everything's fine now."

I swallowed hard and licked my lips. "You don't need to play the tough guy around me, you know. Sometimes it's okay to admit you're human, just like the rest of us."

"Are you trying to be funny?"

"I saw you in the bathroom last night. I saw the blood and I saw how badly that bastard cut you. That type of wound isn't gonna heal by itself. It needs proper medical attention. And shouldn't you be getting a tetanus shot or something? What if the knife was rusty?"

He smiled broadly, showing pearly white teeth. "Why don't you just lay off, huh? I told you I'm fine."

I folded my arms. "Prove it."

"Come again?"

"Prove it," I repeated. "Show me your chest. Show me this wonderful first aid job."

Lee moved over to the sink and took down a mug from the shelf. "I'm afraid that won't be possible." He ran the mug under the cold tap and downed the water in one gulp.

I was taken aback by the frostiness in his voice, but refused to back down. "I won't let this drop, you know. I'm gonna keep on at you till you set me straight one way or the other."

He slammed the mug down on the sideboard. "Okay." He turned and looked at me. "Okay, if you insist. _I'll show you_."

Slowly, he began to undo the top buttons on his sweater, his movements unhurried, sensuous, like he was performing a striptease for me.

My pulse thudded in my veins. There was a strange glow in his eyes; an intensity I found deeply overwhelming.

Watching me, studying me, holding me spellbound, he gradually lifted his sweater above his head and dropped it to the floor. There was a rumble of thunder as rain pounded against the glass. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn beeped.

And then there was only him and me. Two hearts beating as one.

_The only two people in the world._

Gulping painfully, I forced myself to look at him. I couldn't believe my eyes. There were no bandages. His chest was totally free from scarring, the skin around where the slash had been as smooth and flawless as his face.

There had to be some kind of mistake.

"B-but, I don't understand. How is this possible? This doesn't make..." My voice faltered, my eyes straying from his. "I'm not crazy, Lee. I know what I saw. Yesterday, everything was different. It was! There was a huge wound..."

"You'd had a lot to drink," he murmured. "And when you've had a lot to drink, sometimes your mind can play tricks on you."

"But all that blood in the bathroom. On the towels. Everywhere. How the hell...?"

"You ask too many questions." He took a step forward and put his face very close to mine, as if he were going to kiss me. Then he started talking in a soft, low voice that sent shivers through me. "Be honest. You just wanted to see me topless, didn't you?"

"No," I replied feebly. "You've got it all wrong."

"Don't lie to me." His beautiful, pouty lips were now half an inch away, tormenting the peripheries of my mouth. I didn't dare move. He was so close that I could feel his chest pressing into me, the firmness of his muscles scorching me through my dressing gown. My body was crying out for him; my knees felt so weak I thought they'd buckle from under me.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied," he said briskly, taking a step back. "You can clearly see there's nothing to worry about."

I started breathing again.

Stooping down, he picked up the sweater from the floor and started putting it on. He'd only got about halfway when my eyes suddenly widened.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

I didn't say anything. I just stood there, staring, adding him up point by point, trying to make sense of the insanity closing in on me. As he'd knelt down to pick up the sweater, I'd caught a glimpse of his bare arm which, until now, had always been covered by long sleeves.

_This is impossible! It can't be!_

"What is it?" he demanded again, his voice twisted with paranoia. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"That birthmark on your arm..." I said, shivering. I wanted to scream but no sound came. The birthmark ran from the top of his left shoulder to the tip of his elbow and resembled a large tea stain. It was so distinctive, so unique, that I could never have forgotten it.

And I hadn't forgotten. Not in the ten years since I'd last seen it.

"Lee... take off your contact lenses," I whispered. He opened his mouth to protest, but I silenced him. "I know that's not your real eye color. Enough with the games, already. Take them out. Now."

Conceding defeat, Lee turned to the sink and popped them from his eyes. I was almost afraid for him to show me the result, but managed to stand firm.

"Look at me," I commanded.

Hesitantly, he turned around to face me, his eyes tightly closed. And then he opened them.

"Jesus Christ!" I cupped one hand over my mouth.

His eyes were as deep and blue as the ocean, eyes that were more lovely than his dark ones ever could be. Seeing them against his other features was like slotting in the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Everything fit together so perfectly.

The sudden awareness of the truth, the sudden understanding of what was really going on, held me entranced and speechless.

_Perhaps deep down I'd always known._

"Elliot," I breathed.

He shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I continued to stare. They say the body goes through changes during puberty, but this was something else. The face staring back at me bore little to no resemblance to the chubby seven-year-old I knew. It wasn't just that he now had a man's features. Everything else had totally changed. The nose, the cheekbones, the jaw line... everything. It was like looking at a different person entirely.

Had it not been for the birthmark, I don't think I would ever have made the connection. But now that I had, I saw there _was_ something familiar there, the ghost of Elliot around his eyes and cheeks. The occasional way his brow creased when he was angry. Stolen glances in certain lights betrayed my best friend was in there somewhere. It was like him, and yet not him, all at the same time—a mind-bending paradox.

"You're not making any sense," Lee said, walking out the kitchen toward the living room. "Why are you calling me Elliot?"

"Because that's who you are," I answered fiercely. "Don't lie to me. It's written all over your face. You're Elliot Marsh. I just know it."

Smothering a sigh, he strode to the panoramic windows and stood there for a while, staring out at the sheeting rain, a blank expression on his face.

I slumped on the sofa, my arms folded protectively across my chest. I could only guess what was coming next.

Twenty minutes passed and neither of us spoke. He stayed by the window, I stayed on the sofa, gazing down at my knuckles, wondering when he was going to break the silence.

And then, out of nowhere, he started singing the theme tune from _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_.

Tears welling in my eyes, I finished off: "Heroes in a half-shell, turtle power." A crazy laugh escaped my lips, a twisted, bitter sound that ridiculed the incongruity of it all.

_Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ had been our favorite TV show as kids, and their theme song was our mantra as we walked to and from school, starting at the age of five. I was Donatello, he was Leonardo. Hearing it sung back to me now, under such altered circumstances, was strangely cathartic—and more than a little disturbing. It proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that my suspicions were right.

Numbly, I lay my body flat out on the sofa, my limbs splaying awkwardly over the arm rests. I couldn't get my head around the enormity of this revelation and what it meant in the bigger scheme of things. It was too much to comprehend, too much to even think about. All I could do was stare up at the sky-colored ceiling and focus on inhaling and exhaling. That was all I could do to stop myself from breaking.

And then I started talking erratically, more to myself than him, the words colliding into each other like a train wreck. "I don't even know where to start. How to start. What to say. What to feel. How do I begin to fathom... no, I'll stop, I'll stop. I can't take this right now."

"I wanted to tell you," he said softly. "Really, I did. So many times. I came so close to coming clean, but somehow it never happened. I don't know why. That day at the library, when I first saw you with Becky and Frasier, you weren't supposed to see me. I only wanted to look at you—that was all. I wanted to see how your life was getting on without me. Then Becky came over and started asking all sorts of questions, and I panicked. I hadn't planned on having to explain myself. So Lee Weaver was born. And from there, the situation kind of escalated."

_That is the understatement of the year._

I closed my eyes, listening to the rain hammering on the roof. Finally, I spoke. "Sometimes you can spend so long dreaming about something, trying to imagine how it will be, turning it every which way in your head—and then the reality comes and it's never quite how you thought it would be. Isn't that strange?" He didn't respond, so I continued. "All this time you've been laughing at me, playing me for a fool."

"I never laughed at you," he said. "Do you seriously believe I did this for a joke? Of course, I didn't mean for things to turn out this way. I wanted to tell you right from the start but somehow... I just couldn't."

"Do your parents know you're alive?" I asked. "Have you told them?"

"No, I haven't got around to it."

Something inside me snapped. " _You haven't got around to it_?" My voice was twisted with anger. "Do you have any idea what your parents are going through right now? For ten years, I've watched two of the loveliest people I know die a slow death from heartbreak—and you've got the nerve to tell me you just couldn't get around to it? Am I missing something here? Did it never cross your mind your parents might just want to know their beloved son is alive?"

I slammed my fists against the sofa cushions. "Did you know your mum's got an eating disorder because of you? She's slowly wasting away from grief. But no, you couldn't fit saving her life into your busy agenda. You prefer hanging out in nightclubs, flirting with people."

I ran my fingers through my hair. "Jeez, I'm so mad I could kill you, I really could..." I started counting to ten, focusing on my breathing again. I had to get hold of myself. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. The part about wanting to kill you. It was cruel and I didn't mean it. Forgive me."

"It's okay," he shrugged. "You were just letting off steam. I understand."

I drew myself back into a sitting position. Lee— _or should I now call him Elliot?—_ was leaning against the curved window sill, his face the picture of disquietude. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way. I really did want to tell you. Somehow it just never seemed to be the right time."

I shot him a reproachful look. "Where have you been? Who were you living with? Were you out of the country? Why couldn't the police find you?"

He paused. "It's complicated."

"Try me. I can do complicated. Whatever it is, you can tell me. Please, I need to know."

"I don't have to tell you a damn thing!" he exploded. "How about what I've been through, huh? You're so concerned about my parents, but what about me? Don't my feelings come into it? Ever stopped to think there might be a reason for why I've behaved this way? You have absolutely _no_ idea." He shook his head. "I'm not ready to talk about this. Not now, maybe not ever. Understand? Stop pressuring me!"

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to force back the inevitable tears that were coming. I only partly succeeded. Wiping the damp hair from my face, I managed to compose myself enough to speak again. "I'm sorry. You're right. I wasn't thinking properly. It's just been so much to take in, you know? But please, answer me this one question."

"Depends," he said through gritted teeth.

"Does anyone else know you're alive?" I asked. "The police?"

"Not a living soul. Only you."

I felt weirdly privileged. "Please Elliot, I'm begging you, tell your parents. I know I can't begin to imagine what you've been through. But do me this one favor." My voice broke a little. "Neil and Anne... they love you so much. Please put them out of their misery."

Elliot's face remained placid, his blue eyes distant. It was difficult to tell where his mind had taken him.

"I'll think about it," he said at last. "Give me a couple of days, and I might be ready. But until then, you've got to promise me you won't breathe a word of this to anyone. Not even your mother. Until I'm ready to move forward, this has to remain between us. Do I have your word?"

I hesitated, my heart riddled with indecision. This was way too big a promise to make. I didn't want to lie to him, but could I _really_ keep this to myself, knowing how many people's suffering I could end with just a few words?

"You're hesitating," Elliot snapped. "I guess that means you're undecided. Well, perhaps this will be a deal-clincher for you. Breathe a word to anyone, and you'll never see me again. I mean it, Sam. If I find that you've blabbed, I'll pack up and leave Elmfield for good, and you won't know where to find me."

"All right, I promise," I said.

"Good girl."

For a moment, we held each other's gaze, a thousand words unspoken between us: two frightened kids trying to fathom where all that time had gone.

And then I stood up and took a step toward him. "I need you to hold me."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Please don't make me beg."

He looked a little shocked by my boldness, but he relented and wrapped his arms around me. I nestled my face deep into his chest, my breath and my tears burning hot. For the first time in ten years, I felt human again. It was as if a heavy weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

"God, I've missed you," I choked. "It's been such agony. Always thinking the worst, never knowing what news the day would bring. And your parents were right all along. They have always said you were alive. They never, ever gave up hope."

He squeezed me more tightly to him, and I could feel the wild beating of his heart. His body felt so strong and powerful against mine, I knew he could have broken me in half if he wanted to. But he didn't. He held me with gentleness and restraint, as if I were some delicate china doll.

Words were not necessary. The intensity of his grip told me all I needed to know. Lost in his arms like this, so warm, so snug, it felt safe to let my barriers down, and allow myself to truly open up. I was that little lost seven-year-old again and he was shielding me from the cruelty of the world.

After a moment, I came up for air. He was staring down at me like some kind of tortured angel, a burning fire in his eyes that took my breath away. He'd told so many lies, tricked and deceived me in a way that was wholly unforgivable; by rights I shouldn't have wanted him anywhere near me. And yet, somehow I did. More than ever, in fact. All I cared about was that my best friend was _alive_. And that was all that mattered right now.

"Come on, I'll take you home," he murmured.

##  ‡  
TWELVE

Reconciliation

A little after one, we pulled back onto my street. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds still loomed ominously above. I hadn't wanted to leave Elliot, but he'd insisted on it. He said he needed time to think, time to get his head together—and in all honesty, who could blame him? It had been an intense twenty-four hours for the both of us.

I was still having trouble processing what had happened. And I knew it was important for me to carry on as if nothing strange had happened. Any major change in my behavior might arouse suspicion.

"So when will I see you again?" I asked.

"Don't worry, I'll be in touch," he replied brusquely.

"You're not gonna run out on me, are you?"

"Not if you keep your side of the bargain."

"Of course I will. I've given you my word."

"Then you'll hear from me in a couple of days."

For a moment, I sat silently, my hands folded in my lap." You _will_ think about it though, won't you?"

"Speaking to my parents?"

"Yes."

"Like I said, it's under consideration. I'll let you know my decision when I next speak to you." He clenched his lips and got the engine started. "Listen, you'd better go inside now. Your Mum's gonna be wondering what happened to you."

"Okay."

When I got in, I found Mum in the living room with Greg. As soon as I walked through the door, she stubbed out her cigarette and raced toward me.

"My god, darling, where have you been? I was just about to phone the police. We've all been worried sick. Frasier called earlier looking for you. He said something about a fight in a club, and how you'd disappeared afterward."

"I didn't disappear," I said. "He's being overly dramatic. A friend took me home and that's where I've just come from. No big deal."

"Which friend is this?" she asked sternly. "I thought you were supposed to be staying with that Becky girl."

"No, this is a different friend. You don't know them."

Her eyes narrowed into slits. "What the hell happened here?" She clutched my swollen cheek and tilted it toward her. "So Frasier was right. You _have_ been fighting."

"Mum!" I glanced pointedly at our visitor. "Can we do this another time? My head's so sore, I really need to lie down."

Her mouth became a taut, bitter line. "Can you give us five minutes, Greg? I need to have a word with my daughter. Alone."

"No problem," Greg said, getting up. "I'll go make us some tea." He hurried out to the kitchen.

I stood by the door, shifting my weight awkwardly. I really couldn't take a grilling right now.

"You might as well sit down," she said, gesturing to an empty space on the sofa. "You're not leaving this room till you tell me what's been going on."

Reluctantly, I obliged. "What do you want to know?"

"Well, let's start with what Frasier said this morning. Apparently you got into an altercation with a man and you were seen leaving the club in a hurry."

"So I got in one little argument. So what?"

"I'd say that mark on your face is the product of more than just a little argument, wouldn't you?"

"Okay, so I had a bit of a scrap. Big deal. It's done, so why's everyone making such a fuss?"

"Well, I haven't finished telling you what Frasier said, have I? He says about an hour after you left, a man was found lying in an alley behind the nightclub. He'd taken such a beating he's now in intensive care and they say his condition's touch and go."

A tremor ran through me, but I managed to remain calm. "So...? What does that have to do with me?"

"Your friend seems to think the man in the alley is the same man people saw you having the ruckus with. Frasier was concerned for your safety. He thought maybe the man had gone after you or something."

I held my breath. _The knife!_ I couldn't remember what I'd done with it. If the police had gotten hold of it, they'd find my fingerprints on it—and Elliot's. That might lead to some awkward questions.

I knew I had to distance myself from this as much as possible. At the end of the day, I had nothing to be ashamed of. That psychopath had tried to kill us, and we had only been defending ourselves. If he'd taken a beating that had landed him in hospital—well, too bad. He only had himself to blame.

I decided to play it cool. "I don't know anything about any guy in an alley. All I know is, some creep tried to grope me, so I slapped him. Then my friend stepped in and took me home. End of story. But," I continued carefully, "if this _was_ the same guy who groped me, then I'm not surprised he got beaten up. The way he was behaving, he was bound to pick on the wrong person."

My mother's face relaxed a little, but her eyes were still shrewd. "Well I'm certainly glad you stood up for yourself. You might have to start carrying a pepper spray around with you. But perhaps you'd better give clubbing a miss for a while, eh?"

"Well, you're the one who's always forcing me to go out. If I had my way, I'd have been at home on my cross-trainer."

"That's true," she agreed. "I only wanted you to do normal teenage things, that's all. It would appear no good deed goes unpunished."

I faked a yawn, stretched, and got up. "If that's all you wanted to say, then I guess I can go to my room now?"

"Sit down!" Mum commanded. Her voice was shrill.

Hastily, I obeyed. She didn't lose her temper easily, but when she did, she was a force to be reckoned with.

"You still haven't explained what happened to your face."

I looked away from her. "I... I fell over. It happened when I was running for the car."

"You're lying."

"No I'm not! Why would I lie to you?"

"And you're being very cryptic about this so-called friend you stayed with last night. Wouldn't happen to be that Lee person, would it?"

"Maybe, maybe not. What's it to you?"

"I thought you weren't talking to him any more?"

"Listen, I don't have to explain anything to you. It's my life and I'll do whatever I want. I'm not a child anymore."

"Look at your hands," she interjected. "You're trembling like a leaf. Something bad has happened, I can feel it. Why can't you just be honest with me?"

I buried my hands between my knees. She was right. I _was_ shaking. _Damn it._ "You're a fine one to talk about honesty. I mean, what exactly is Greg doing here? Did he spend the night again?"

It was now her turn to look awkward. "That's none of your concern."

"It's a simple enough question. Did he or didn't he?"

"Keep your bloody voice down. He might hear you." She felt around in her pockets and retrieved a packet of Pall Malls. Shakily, she lit another cigarette. "All right, I admit it. He stayed the night again. I'm sorry."

"Oh Mum, you promised! You promised to take things slowly. We agreed no more sleepovers till I was comfortable, and now you've gone back on everything you said."

"What can I do?" she shrugged, tapping the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. "I screwed up. At least I've the guts to admit it. You've got to understand I couldn't help myself. He's so... _good_."

"That's it!" I stood up and headed for the door. "You're a disgrace. I can't believe my own mother's behaving like a..."

"Oh, will you be quiet?" she shouted. "You're right. I think it's best you go to your room now. I don't want to see you for a while."

As I stormed into the hall, I was just in time to see Greg ducking back into the kitchen. He'd obviously been eavesdropping, but I didn't care.

I'd only half meant what I'd said. Most of my bratty speech had been just for show, a way of throwing Mum off the scent. The reality was, I had way bigger things to worry about than her boyfriend's sleeping arrangements. Still, if it got her off my case, then it was worth it.

When I got to my bedroom, the first thing I did was change out of Elliot's clothing. He'd had to loan me one of his T-shirts and some tracksuit bottoms because Becky's dress was ruined. This wasn't the greatest outfit, but it was better than walking around naked.

After I'd slipped into something more comfortable, I crashed out on the bed to meditate. I badly needed to gain some perspective on things. For the next hour or so, I walked three miles round my room, standing outside myself, trying to assess the situation from every angle possible. In the end, I'd narrowed it down to three main points—there were others, but my brain just couldn't handle more right now.

First, I wanted to know how Elliot funded his lifestyle. The Lotus, the flash apartment, the designer clothing—did he go to work, and if so, what sort of work did an eighteen-year-old do to earn that sort of money?

Second, how much of the "Lee Weaver" story was true? Did Elliot really go to art college? And what about these so-called parents who lived in Lebanon? Were they real people? I'd heard stories about childless couples having kids "snatched to order." Was it possible Elliot had been taken by the Gruesome Twosome and sold to some rich family who'd kept him abroad until the furor died down in Britain? Elliot _had_ mentioned he'd done a lot of traveling.

Third—and most important—why had his physical appearance altered so much? Had his captors forced him to have plastic surgery? Bizarre as that sounded, it was the only possibility I could think of.

Reaching across to the dresser, I picked up the photograph of six-year-old Elliot and studied it intently. Those cute, cherubic features bore no resemblance to the catwalk model he'd become. His nose was now straighter and more defined, his lips thicker and more accentuated at the Cupid's bow. Even his eyebrows looked different. And that beauty spot—where had that come from? Six-year-old Elliot's face was virtually blemish-free. Mentally comparing this image with the person I'd just been with convinced me that there must have been some cosmetic surgery involved. Nobody's face could change that drastically without a surgeon's hand.

This conclusion seemed to back up the theory that he'd been abducted to order for a wealthy family and been raised as their own. Strange as it sounded, that was the only thing that made sense.

On the face of it, whoever had taken him certainly hadn't treated him badly. He was in great shape. He'd obviously been clothed and fed, and had large sums of money put at his disposal.

But that opened another whole can of worms.

Was Elliot purposely protecting his captors' identities out of some misplaced loyalty? Was that the reason he was so reluctant to reveal his whereabouts? Did he feel some kind of warped allegiance to the people who'd taken him, which prevented him from speaking about his past?

_Stockholm Syndrome,_ they called it. I'd seen a movie about it once. A group of employees were held captive during a bank robbery, and when the police came, they switched sides and helped to defend the robbers. It was as if the employees had become emotionally attached to their captors to the point where they endangered their own salvation.

_Could this be what happened to Elliot?_

Placing the photo back on the dresser, I unplugged my phone from the charger and switched it on. I'd forgotten to take it with me to Becky's, so I hadn't checked any of my messages since yesterday morning.

The moment the screen lit up, about a dozen texts flashed up. Most were from Becky, sent at ten-minute intervals in the early hours of the previous morning.

Text one: What happened? R u ok? Plse call me.

Text two: R u still with Lee? Did he take u home?

Text three: Plse call me. Luv Becky xx

And so on...

For a while, I deliberated whether or not to respond. I decided she ought to at least know I was alive.

Unhurriedly, I texted back: Hi Becks, I'm fine thanks. Lee took me home and am now resting. Speak 2 u 2moro. Luv Sam xxx

About two seconds after I sent it, the phone started ringing and her caller ID flashed up. She obviously wanted to know what had happened between me and Lee (sorry, Elliot) after we left the club, but that was a conversation I wasn't ready for. Not yet. So I let it ring.

Then I dialed Frasier's voicemail to leave him a message. As he'd gone to the trouble of coming to my house to look for me, I figured he at least deserved to hear my voice, even if I wasn't quite ready to speak to him yet.

"Hi Frasier, it's Sam here. Listen, thanks for caring. My mum told me you came by today. That was really sweet of you. Just wanted to let you know that I'm home safe now, so you can stop worrying, okay? I'll see you in English tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, that whole guy in the alley thing, that has nothing to do with me or Lee. You hear me? We went straight home after the club. Nothing happened. Well... you take care, bye."

I snapped the phone shut and rested it temporarily on the pillow, wondering if I'd sounded convincing. Had I laid it on a bit thick perhaps? Would Frasier see through my charade?

I stared down brokenly at the handset with a dull, leaden feeling growing in my heart. I hated that I had to carry the burden of Elliot's secret alone. Keeping it to myself meant shutting off the people I cared about. The idea infused me with a loneliness that was almost too much to bear.

I desperately needed to hear a friendly voice; someone to tell me everything would be okay.

I needed my father.

Picking up the phone, I dialed his number, my palms sweating around the handset. "Hello, Dad?"

"Sweetheart, is that you? The reception's a bit fuzzy."

I shifted positions. "Is that better?"

"Yeah, I can hear you better now. How are you my darling? I haven't heard from you in a while. Hope everything's okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine." Dad's dulcet tones ensconced me like a warm, comforting blanket. "How's Dublin?"

"Same old, same old. Still looking for a job. Gran and Granddad send their love and want to know when you're coming up to see us again."

"As soon as I get some time off school."

"Well don't leave it too long. We miss you terribly."

"Me too, Dad, me too." I squeezed the phone against my chest, biting back tears.

"Sam, you still there?"

I nodded mutely. "Y-yes, I'm still here."

"Are you sure you're okay sweetheart? You sound as if something's wrong."

For a split second, I debated whether or not to tell him. "Um, Dad, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"If someone told you a secret, would you..." I trailed off.

"Go on. If someone told me a secret...?"

I rephrased the question. "If someone you cared about was hurting really bad, and you knew how to stop it, would you? Even if it meant breaking a promise?"

"Sweetheart, you're not making any sense. Is this about someone in particular?"

"No, hypothetically speaking."

"Okay." He paused, thinking. "Yes I would. Definitely. If I knew something that could end a loved one's misery, I'd tell them—even if it meant breaking a promise. That would be the right thing to do."

I felt sick. "Are you sure?"

"Sweetheart, what is this all about? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No. Just a silly tiff with a girl from school, that's all. Nothing major," I lied.

A long moment passed in silence, the two of us divided by the privacy of our thoughts.

"How's your mother?" he asked.

"She's great. Really great." I drummed my fingers on the bed, feeling increasingly anxious at the direction the conversation was heading.

"She still dating that work colleague of hers? What's his name, Glenn?"

"Greg."

"Ah, that's it. Greg." Dad enunciated the word with deep and utter loathing. "I trust all's well between the two of them?"

"Um, yeah, I guess. He seems like a nice guy." I faltered, realizing this wasn't what my father wanted to hear. "Dad, is it okay if I call you back in a bit? I think Mum's calling me."

"Okay, no problem. Love you."

"I love you, too."

As soon as I hung up, there was a knock at the door.

"Go away Mum, I don't want to talk to you," I shouted.

"It's me, Greg. May I come in?"

"Yeah."

Slowly, the door creaked open and Greg came in. His face looked anxious, his dark brow knotted in mental perplexity. His eyes quickly scrutinized my bedroom with uninhibited curiosity before settling warily on me.

"Is it okay if I sit down?" he asked.

"Sure."

Tentatively, he perched at the foot of my bed, the mattress caving under his weight. "I heard you and Lisa arguing earlier. I didn't catch all the details, but I got the gist. Now, I know this is probably none of my business, but I'll say it anyway, because I'm an upfront sort of person."

"So am I," I said quickly.

"Good, then you'll appreciate where I'm coming from when I say I don't want to come between you and your mother. I care about Lisa a lot, but at the same time, I don't want to do anything to upset you. Your mother's told me you're not happy about me spending nights here, which is understandable."

I was about to stutter a protest when he continued: "So it's agreed, no more sleepovers. That good with you?"

"Y-yes. But I didn't mean to cause any..."

"I'm not here to take the place of your dad," he said softly, intoning the words in a soothing chant. "No one ever takes the place of a girl's daddy. But I'd like you and me to at least be friends, okay? And I want you to know that if there's anything—and I do mean anything—that is bothering you, just tell me and we can resolve it like grown-ups. Deal?"

"Deal."

Greg pretended to spit on his palm. "Put it there, partner," he grinned, affecting an American accent. "Friends?"

"Friends," I replied, shaking his hand sedately. I was finding it very difficult to dislike this man. He was so damned charming.

"Glad we got that sorted. Well, I'd better go. I've encroached on your time enough." He stood up, winked at me, and motioned toward the door. "Oh, by the way, I'm taking Lisa out for dinner tonight. You're very welcome to come with us. In fact, we'd love to have you."

"Um no, I should give it a miss. I've got a lot of homework to do. Thanks for the offer, though."

He smiled crookedly, nodding his head as if that was the answer he'd been expecting all along. "Well, we're not leaving till six, so if you do change your mind, let me know."

"I will."

And then he was gone, and I was alone again.

For the next hour or so, I worked out furiously on my cross-trainer, trying to keep myself busy and not think too much about the situation. It wasn't easy. Every few minutes, Elliot's face would flash up, or I'd remember some other lie he'd told me and I'd get mad. And then I'd remember how intense he'd looked when he was holding me, the feel of his sweet breath fanning my face, and I'd miss him with every fibre of my being. Then I'd blot it all out and start again and try to focus on the task at hand: punishing myself with increasingly strenuous exercise to exorcise my demons.

Just before six, I heard the front door slam and I knew Mum and Greg had gone out for the evening. I was glad, because it meant there wouldn't be any more awkward questions or heart-to-heart chats.

Between seven and eight, I tried to get some homework done, but my head just wasn't with it. I decided to clean the kitchen instead. I washed and wiped down the dishes twice over, mopped the floor, and even polished in between the wall tiles. Then I tried to make a sandwich, but almost threw up at the first bite; my stomach couldn't hold any food. In the end, I survived on endless cups of black coffee.

The next morning I awoke early, showered, dressed and was out the door by eight. By rights, I should have been heading for school and first period English with Mr. Maine—but there had been a change of plans. I'd spent the whole night wrestling with my conscience, tossing and turning over the wretchedness of the situation. Now I knew there was nothing I could do but confront Elliot with my decision. I couldn't keep his secret anymore. It wasn't fair to Anne or Neil, or to anyone concerned. My intention was to reveal the truth, no matter what—even if that meant I would never see him again. For the sake of my sanity, it was what I had to do.

The day was cold and bright as I ambled along Roseberry Avenue toward the bus stop at the corner of Chestnut Grove, silently plotting out the route to Elliot's place. When the bus finally arrived, it was so packed I had to stand for the whole trip. I was relieved to get off fifteen minutes later and change to the bus which, according to my estimation, would take me all the way to Elmfield Park. Once up there, I figured I would recognize enough of the surrounding area to be able to find Falcon Mews.

The bus dropped me off beside a small footpath that ran through Elmfield Park and, after a brisk five-minute walk, I was at the back of Elliot's apartment block. I then had to do another five-minute stint, stomping through the tall grass and getting my shoes muddy before finally arriving at the front entrance.

Suddenly, a pang of nerves belatedly kicked in, and I started to doubt myself. Was I _really_ doing the right thing? I had no idea if he was home or not, but since I'd come all this way, there was no turning back now.

Hesitantly, I pressed the bell on the intercom and waited for a response. Two minutes passed. Three. It didn't seem that anybody was in, so I rang a couple of the neighbor's doors in the hope that someone would at least give me access to the building.

"Hello?" a female voice answered.

"Er, hello, it's the postman," I lied, putting my mouth to the intercom. "I've got a parcel for number twenty-six. Could you let me in, please?"

Immediately, the buzzer sounded and I strode through the glass entry doors to a posh-looking lobby. From there, I took the elevator all the way to the top. In no time, I found myself in front of Elliot's door. Cautiously, I tapped the brass knocker, the noise echoing in the ominously silent hall. Within a minute, it was clear there was no one home.

I realized I was in for a bit of a wait. Well, I didn't care. I had the day off school and I could stay around until he showed up.

Pulling my hood over my head, I sat down by the wall opposite, staring blankly at the front door. I glanced at the clock on my phone. It was still early. _Where could he be? School? If he went to school today, I'll be in for a long wait._

I shook my head dismissively. No, he was not in class. I was almost certain that whole story about Summerwell had been a lie to throw me off track—although he was such a brilliant artist that he wouldn't have any problem passing the entrance exams to any number of reputable London colleges.

_I wonder how Elliot managed to survive so long in the UK without the police detecting him?_ Was he using a fake ID in his day-to-day life? If, for example, he'd been taken out the country at some point, his captors would have surely had to get him a fake passport and possibly other fraudulent documents to avoid arousing suspicion. _I mean, he couldn't very well enrol in a school under his real name, could he?_

I glanced absently at my scuffed Converses and shivered a little. The hall felt drafty, despite my many layers of clothing, and I rubbed my arms vigorously for warmth.

I heard a low humming noise. I flipped open my phone and saw a text from Frasier: Where R U? Are U OK? Maine is asking after U. What should I tell him?

I'm fine thanks, I texted back. Just got some stuff to sort out. Will be back tomorrow. Don't tell Maine anything. I'll call U 2nite.

Chewing my bottom lip, I put the phone back in my pocket. Damn. I'd forgotten to call in sick and now ran the risk of one of my teachers telling Mum I'd played truant. Ah well, I had bigger concerns right now. School would have to stay on the backburner.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew it was after eleven and the sound of rattling keys brought me back to life. Elliot came around the corner carrying a shopping bag and listening to music on his iPod. The second he saw me, he sort of froze. Then he took out his headphones and continued heading toward me, an exasperated expression on his face.

"I didn't expect to see you again so soon," he said coldly. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be in school? I thought we agreed for you to act normal and not change your routine?"

I scrambled to my feet, dusting myself down in an attempt to look more presentable. "Yeah, I know. And I'm sorry. I would have called to let you know I was coming, but I don't have your phone number."

He walked straight up to his door and started turning the key in the lock. When he spoke again, his lips barely moved, like it was paining him to be civil. "Exactly why are you here? I thought we had an understanding. I need time to think this through before making a decision. You should have waited."

"I know and I'm sorry, but I just couldn't. You have no idea what this is doing to me, Elliot. I didn't get a wink of sleep last night. I feel so bad for Anne and Neil, the guilt is killing me, and... I've decided I've got to tell them, with or without your consent." I paused for a reaction, but he remained tight-lipped, so I continued: "If you only knew what this is doing to your mum, you'd understand why I've got to tell them. I can't leave them in the dark any more. It isn't fair."

By now he had one foot in the door. "You shouldn't have come. It was a mistake," he growled. "Do whatever you want with regards to my parents. I couldn't care less."

"How many times do I have to say I'm sorry?" I pleaded. "Look, I just want this over and done with. Come with me to Lansbury today and we can go see your parents together. I'll support you. You won't be alone, I promise. We can..."

Before I could finish, he'd slammed the door in my face.

For a moment, I stood in the hall, staring at the brass knocker, with heat creeping up my neck and coloring my cheeks.

"Open this door _now_."

Two minutes passed and the place was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Incensed by his rebuff, I took a couple of steps back and ran at the door, slamming down my foot so hard I thought I'd splinter it. But the wood was sturdy and didn't budge an inch. I took another shot at it, but once more failed to make even the slightest impact. Then an old lady down the hall poked her head out her door to see what the commotion was. She glared at me, but I ignored her and continued my attack with renewed vigor.

I ran at the door again and again, until my toes were so sore I could barely stand. But I didn't care. I had to vent my frustration somehow, and he wasn't going to get away with this. No way, no how.

"I've got all the time in the world," I shouted. "If it takes all day and all night, I don't care. I'm gonna stay right here till you open this door. I'm not a quitter, Elliot."

Muttering a swear word, the old lady disappeared back inside her apartment. I carried on knocking and shouting until my throat was hoarse. Then, with a strangled gasp, I collapsed to my knees on the doorstep, my shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

Just as I was about to give up hope, Elliot's door opened a fraction, and then opened all the way and he stood gazing down at me, a look of benevolence on his face.

Silently, he reached out and helped me back to my feet. As our fingers touched the warmth of his skin sent a tremor through me. God, his face was just so perfect. My anger evaporated immediately.

"Okay," he whispered. "I'm ready. Let's do this."

We caught the two forty-five from Euston to Lansbury and found a seat in one of the half-empty back carriages. We were traveling before the rush hour, so we avoided all the end-of-workday commuters. It was raining heavily, which didn't help to lighten the mood much, and we spent most of the journey in silence. Elliot clasped and unclasped his hands. He kept his cap pulled down low so I couldn't see the fear in his eyes.

I stared out the window at the hard, wet rain, my heart and stomach weighed down with apprehension. Before we'd left London, I'd phoned Neil to tell him I was coming over, but hadn't mentioned the reason. He'd been very inquisitive, but I'd said it was something we needed to discuss in person. Now, as I squinted through the glass at the emerald foothills, I wondered if I should have at least prepared him for what was coming.

Around four, the train pulled into Lansbury. When we got to the house, I rang the bell and waited for what seemed like eternity. We stood there, not knowing where to look, the shadow of uncertainty hovering over us. Then a shape appeared through the frosted glass and Anne opened the door. She seemed to have lost even more weight since we'd last met. She was as pale and bloodless as a vampire, her arms wiry and emaciated under her polka dot dress. It was obvious that her condition had deteriorated.

"Sam," she smiled, "so lovely to see you again." Then instantly she did a double take. "Darling what on earth happened to your cheek? It's all swollen."

"I fell over," I said.

"You poor dear! Please, come in out of the rain. You and your friend here must be absolutely soaked." She glanced briefly at Elliot, but her eyes bore no signs of recognition.

Neil met us in the hall. "Hello, poppet," he grinned, wrapping me in a familiar bear hug. "How was the journey up?"

"Wet," I replied, shifting my gaze uneasily between Anne and Elliot. She was staring at him a lot, with a puzzled sort of frown. "Look, can we all go and sit down?" I said. "There's something we need to talk about."

"What about your friend here?" Neil continued, glancing at Elliot. "Where are your manners, Sam? You haven't even introduced us yet."

"Please," I interjected, "everything will be clear in a minute. I think we all need to sit down first."

"Okay," Anne said. "Neil, put the kettle on for some tea."

He nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Anne hung up our wet jackets on the coat rack, and then we followed her into the living room. A fire crackled in the grate and the air smelt pleasantly of freshly baked scones. Elliot took the armchair closest the bookshelf while Anne and I sat together on the sofa.

There was a prolonged silence.

"Sam, what's going on?" Anne whispered.

"Tell you in a minute," I said. Silently, I mouthed to Elliot, "Don't worry, everything's gonna be fine."

He nodded woodenly. I could tell he was getting really worked up. His eyes were fixed on the floor, a sullen pout on those fabulous lips, and I wondered what was going through his head.

Neil returned carrying the silver tea set and placed it on the coffee table. Then he remained standing by the window with his arms folded across his chest like a Native American chief. "So, what's this all about, then?"

"Yes, to what do we owe this pleasure?" Anne chimed in.

I'd rehearsed this moment a thousand times the night before, but now the words felt awkward and heavy on my tongue. Rubbing my hands over my knees, I took a deep breath. "Okay, it's like this... Oh god, how do I say this? Basically, the reason we..." I faltered, looking across to Elliot for support. "Can you roll up your sleeve please?"

"What?" He looked startled.

"Show them your arm," I repeated.

With slow reluctance, he rolled up his shirt sleeve and revealed his birthmark.

"Oh my god!" Anne shrieked, gripping my arm so hard I thought she'd break it. "Oh my god, oh my god!"

Neil remained rooted to the spot, a grave expression clouding his craggy features. He glanced from me to Elliot and then back again. "Can someone tell me what the hell is going on? What is this, some kind of sick joke?"

"He's your son," I said tonelessly, slumping back against the sofa cushions. "He's Elliot."

"That is not my son," Neil hissed. "Don't you think I've got eyes? I know what my son looks like, and that person sitting there is _not_ my son. Why are you doing this to us, Sam? Don't you think we've suffered enough?"

"It's the truth," Elliot said, speaking for the first time. "I am your son. It's me, Dad."

Neil fell silent, visibly trembling.

Anne got up and crossed over to where Elliot was sitting. "Stand up and let me take a look at you," she whispered.

Wordlessly, he obeyed, and for a moment she stood running her hands gently over his face, staring at him hard, trying to reach beneath the surface and see what Neil couldn't. Then she let out a loud gasp and burst into tears.

"It's him, it's him!" she shrieked.

"Mum..." Elliot's voice cracked with emotion.

She collapsed in his arms and mother and son clung to each other like their lives depended on it.

I felt a lump in my throat. They looked so beautiful, I felt like crying myself. All that raw emotion, all that pain... it was like she was feeding off of him, and he was bringing her back to life, giving her a dose of vitality.

When they eventually parted, the color had returned to her cheeks and her lips, and the sparkle was back in her eyes. "My baby, my baby..." That was all she kept saying, and he kept stroking her thin shoulders, soothingly, lovingly, like a parent consoling a child.

"I love you so much," he said, this time directing his words at Neil. "Both of you. You don't know how much I've missed you."

"I still don't believe it," his father muttered. "You can't be him. You can't be!"

"What can I say to convince you?" Elliot asked, untangling himself from Anne. "Ask me a question. Any question you want and I'll answer it. Go on, ask me something that only I would know. I'll prove to you that I'm your son."

He waited to see if Neil had anything to say, but his father remained silent, so he continued: "You support Chelsea football club, your favorite singer's Patsy Cline, you don't like mushrooms, and when I was six years old I broke Mum's radio and you went and bought a new one from the shop before she got home so she wouldn't know the difference. We kept that little secret between us. Always."

Neil's face lit up, tears filling his eyes. Elliot had finally got through to him.

"My god, it is you," he breathed, shaking his head incredulously. "You're my son. _My son!_ " He moved forward, arms outstretched and Elliot embraced him tenderly.

There was a lot of crying, a lot of wringing of hands. Seeing father and son reunited like this was the most wonderful thing in the world.

"My son, my son, I've got my son back," Neil crowed.

"Yes Dad. I'm home," Elliot nodded, smiling.

For twenty minutes or so, the four of us stood in that room, living in a fool's paradise, hugging, crying, and drinking in the euphoria of the moment. But once the initial joy had subsided, the inevitable questions began.

"So where have you been, darling?" Anne asked cautiously. "You must tell us everything. Those creatures didn't hurt you, did they?"

Elliot shook his head. "No, they didn't."

Neil expelled a troubled sigh. "Do the police know you're okay? We really should call them and let them know you've been found."

"No police," Elliot said quickly. "I just want to forget about it."

His parents stared at him, slack-jawed.

"You can't be serious," Neil spluttered. "Son, these people snatched you. They stole you from us and they can't be allowed to get away with it. You must tell us who they are, where have they been holding you. Did they use violence? Don't you see, Elliot? We must bring these monsters to justice before it's too late."

A shadow flitted across Elliot's face, and his eyes became like two cold marbles. "I'll say this once and once only. No police, no media, no investigation. I don't want to talk about what happened to me. All I want is to look to the future and put the past behind us. Please. I know this is hard for you, but believe me, it's for the best. I won't answer any questions."

A throbbing silence descended over the room.

"But darling," Anne said, "you can't expect us not to ask questions. Don't you see that we need to..."

He cut her dead. "I said I don't want to talk about it, Mum! Why can't you just be happy that I'm home, huh? I've been to hell and back, and all I'm asking for is a little understanding. Love me, and help me to forget the past. That's all I want. If you can't do that, then... well, I can't stay."

"Please don't say that!" Anne cried. "Don't ever, ever say that. We've only just got you back."

Neil's face grew grim. I could tell he didn't like this one little bit, but he was holding his tongue for the sake of peace. "Okay son, we'll respect your wishes for now. Whether it stays that way remains to be seen. But for now, can one of you at least explain how the two of you met? How long has Sam known about this—and more importantly, why did no one tell us?"

"Yes," Anne agreed, turning to me. "Could you fill us in?"

Licking my lips, I glanced nervously at Elliot to gauge his reaction. His eyes were pleading with me not to make this any more complicated than it already was. I thought about everything that had happened, and wondered how much to tell them. Should I mention the whole Lee Weaver charade? The numerous times we'd met up over the past couple of weeks? The fight at the nightclub? It was difficult to determine how much to include and how much to leave out. Whatever answer I gave was sure to lead to more questions, and I needed to nip this in the bud as quickly as possible.

So I decided to keep it simple. "Basically, I only found out yesterday. I was in the library with some friends when Elliot came up and introduced himself. Obviously I was shocked, and it took me a few hours to recover. Then as soon as we could, we came up to see you. I promise we haven't been sitting on this longer than a day. We wouldn't do that to you."

A look of relief washed over Elliot's face, and he gave a small weak smile. I'd saved his bacon and he knew it.

"Is that the truth?" Neil demanded, eyeing his son suspiciously. "Did Sam really only just find out yesterday?"

"Yes," Elliot nodded. "Everything happened just the way she said it did."

"Does Lisa know?" Anne asked, looking at me with frightened eyes. "Have you told her yet?"

"Of course not," I replied. "My mum doesn't know anything. Anyway, it's only right that we told you guys first. You _are_ his parents, after all. Plus, as Elliot said, he doesn't want to involve too many people."

Anne and Neil exchanged glances. Then she walked across to Elliot and placed her hand on his arm. "So what's the plan, darling? Do you want me to take you up to see your room? I've kept it just the way it was the last time you were... were here." She continued rubbing his arm, gazing up at him for reassurance. "Obviously you'll need a bigger bed, so perhaps you'd be happier in the guest room tonight. But tomorrow we can all go out and choose you some new furniture. Then we can..."

"Hold on," Elliot interrupted, "you don't think I'm moving back in here, do you? I'm sorry, but I'm not."

Anne was thunderstruck. "Why not?"

"I can't," he said. "I can't just move back in here like nothing's happened. Things have changed, Mum. I've got my own apartment now, and that's where I'm staying."

"But darling, this is your home," she wailed. "This is where you belong. Don't you understand that we need to be with you? I can't bear to be away from you again." Her voice cracked with emotion. It was getting to be too much for her. "Please darling, say you'll stay."

"Anne, get a hold of yourself!" Neil reprimanded sternly. "Elliot's quite right. Things aren't what they were. We are going to have to take this one day at a time. He's not a six-year-old anymore. He's a fully grown lad, and he needs his own space. Perhaps in time we can..."

"I don't care about that," Anne snapped. "He's still my baby and this is his home. I want him under my roof. I can't bear to have him living somewhere else. We've got so much time to make up, so many things to talk about. I don't want to waste even a moment."

Elliot put his arms around her and gently caressed her back, speaking to her in a warm, low voice. They stood like that for a moment as he waited for his mother's sobs to subside. "It's all right, it's all right," he soothed. "I'll stay the night if you want me to."

"Really?" She perked up immediately. "Oh darling, you've just made me the happiest woman alive."

My eyes flicked to my phone. "Uh, guys, I really should be going. It's getting sort of late and my mum will be wondering what's happened to me."

"Why don't you stay the night?" Anne suggested. "There's plenty of space. We can always make up a sleeping bag for you."

"No, it's best I go. I've got school early tomorrow. And besides, you guys have got so much to talk about. I wouldn't want to intrude."

"You're not intruding," Elliot said. "Stay the night and we can travel back together tomorrow on the train."

"Thanks for the offer, but no. You guys need your privacy."

I turned and started walking toward the door, slowing my pace as I felt his eyes on my back. When I entered the hall, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

"Can't you stay?" he whispered, putting his face close to my ear. "I'm not sure I can do this alone."

"You've got to," I whispered back. "They're your parents, Elliot. You need time alone together as a family. I can't always be there to hold your hand. You've got to do this on your own."

He moved in closer. An electric current coursed through me. I had an overpowering craving to kiss him, but now was not the time to have those kinds of feelings—certainly not with his parents in the next room.

"When will I see you again?" There was an edge of desperation in his voice. "I really need you right now."

I glanced up and met his eyes. They were searching, pleading, begging me to stay. My heart broke for him. I couldn't begin to imagine what he must have been through, what horrors he must have endured living with the Gruesome Twosome. It must have been so horrible, so painful that he didn't want to speak about it. I wished there was a way I could take away his pain and suffering. I wished I could heal him.

I wanted to stay and support him, I really did. But at the same time, I knew he'd have to face Anne and Neil sometime, and now was as good a time as any.

I put my hand on his arm. "I really wish I could stay, but I can't. Don't you see? This is something you've got to do on your own." I paused. "But remember, I'll always be here, no matter what. You always know where to find me."

Elliot grasped my hand tightly and held it to his cheek, closing his eyes as he ran my fingers over his lips. Warmth stirred inside me, electricity that made me throb with longing. My heart battered against my chest and my knees felt weak.

"A-hem." Neil cleared his throat.

We turned and saw he was standing right behind us. Hastily, we drew apart, our cheeks stained with embarrassment.

"So I'll see you Wednesday?" Elliot said hopefully, looking away from me.

"Wednesday?" I stammered.

"Yes, Wednesday. I'll pick you up after school and we can go finish your portrait."

"Yeah, okay. That sounds great."

"Great."

"Right, I guess I'd better be going," I said, shrugging on my jacket. "Goodbye, Neil. I'll see you soon."

"Goodbye, poppet," he replied. "Safe journey. And remember to send me a text to let us know you got home okay."

"I will."

Neil's smile didn't reach his eyes. He was clearly onto us. He knew there was plenty we hadn't told him, and Elliot mentioning the portrait didn't help. It was only a matter of time before he'd want answers. I didn't want to be around to hear the questions.

Quickly, I unlatched the door and stepped into the driveway, where I was instantly hit by a blast of ice cold air. Shivering, I pulled on my hood and made off in the direction of the station, walking briskly up the slippery pavement. I hadn't gotten very far when I suddenly had the horrible sense that someone was following me. Instinctively, I turned around and surveyed the empty street. There was nothing. No one. The place was as quiet as the grave.

For a long moment, I stood there listening in the stillness, trying to figure out what had frightened me. It was a weird feeling, difficult to describe; like a dark presence hovering over me.

_A premonition._

Shaking my head, I continued walking again and didn't stop until I'd reached Lansbury station.

##  ‡  
THIRTEEN

Deception

Somehow, I made it to school the next day. Nursing what felt like the mother of all hangovers, I hauled myself to first period Photography with Mrs. Murphy, arriving ten minutes late and looking like death warmed up.

"So nice of you to join us, Samantha," Mrs. Murphy said icily as I shambled to a desk at the back of the class. "A phone call would have been nice."

"Sorry, I woke up late."

Mrs. Murphy squinted at me through her pointy designer specs. "Well, just as long as you don't make a habit of it."

"Don't worry, I won't."

Peering across the room, it was clear that I wasn't the only one who hadn't made it in. Photography had always been a small group, but today it had whittled down even further to just four pupils.

Mrs. Murphy dimmed the lights, switched on the projector, and began flicking through slides of Mapplethorpe nudes. I began to relax a little. The darkness helped to soften my throbbing headache. I couldn't have tolerated any glaring strip lighting after another sleepless night plagued by bad dreams.

_I'd give anything not to be here—but playing truant two days in a row just isn't an option. I'm lucky enough I got away with it the last time._

"As you can see," Mrs. Murphy said, pointing to a photo of a naked man, "Mapplethorpe's style was very provocative. He was fond of creating striking black and white images that make an impression."

_She can say that again!_ Just looking at that toned torso was enough to set my pulse racing, and inevitably thoughts of Elliot crowded into my mind. I tried to force back the memories by grinding my teeth together.

Switching positions, I clenched my fists under my arms, drifting in and out of a semi-conscious state. I recalled the last time Elliot had held me in his arms, how warm and safe it had felt. _I wish I could be with him now._

"You're not falling asleep back there, are you?" Mrs. Murphy asked.

I snapped my head up and widened my eyes to demonstrate how awake I was. "No, of course not."

"Good. I was worried we'd lost you there for a minute."

Someone giggled.

Stretching out my legs and flexing my knuckles, I forced myself onto autopilot for the rest of the lesson, trying to cultivate an interest in Mapplethorpe and the late '80s New York art scene. But it was no use. My head was just too weighed down with problems. Elliot had high-jacked my brain.

The hour seemed to drag on forever. I was relieved when the lights finally came on.

"Don't forget to leave your essays on my desk on your way out," Mrs. Murphy called as everyone packed up to go.

With a deep yawn, I gathered all my stuff together and walked toward the door. As I passed, I threw my essay down on her desk; it was something I'd hastily cobbled together the night before and hadn't even bothered to spell-check, but I was so out of it, I didn't care.

"Can you stay behind a minute?" Mrs. Murphy asked. She was rifling through some papers on her desk.

Reluctantly, I stalled by the door, waiting for the inevitable dressing down for being late.

She took off her specs, blew into them, and polished up the lenses with her cuff. "Take a seat please. You don't look very comfortable standing there."

I slid a chair across the room and sat down in front of her. "Can we make this quick? I'm gonna be late for my next class."

"It will only take a minute. I merely wanted to know if you're okay, that's all. You haven't seemed yourself lately and, well..." She glanced furtively at my bruised cheek. "I wanted to check that everything's all right with you at home."

"My mother's not beating me up, if that's what you mean."

"Don't be smart. That's not what I meant. I just wanted to know how you're finding the course." She appeared to weigh her next words carefully. "Obviously, I'm aware of your background and I understand the difficulties you must be facing. For example, I know you've missed a lot of school."

I raised an eyebrow. "Your point being?"

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm always here if you need me."

"Thanks, I'll bear that in mind." I stood. "Is it all right if I go now?"

"Yes," she said with a sigh. As I headed for the door, she handed me back my essay. "I'm giving you an extension. You've got till Friday to get this finished properly."

"But I _have_ finished it," I protested.

She made a face and I took the hint. She was giving me a lifeline, so I might as well take it. Smiling wanly, I tucked the essay back into my bag.

"Thanks, Mrs. Murphy," I said.

"Don't mention it. Now you run along. I don't want you to be late for your next class."

I smiled again, and this time it was genuine. _Poor Mrs. Murphy. She probably thinks I've got a boyfriend knocking me around._

Sadly the truth was a little more complicated than I could share with her. Still, she was trying to look out for me, which was sweet.

The rest of the morning dragged on interminably. I found it hard to concentrate on Mr. Treagus' History class. By the time lunch came around, I was almost ready to sleep.

A sense of foreboding flooded me as I walked through the shadowy corridor toward the cafeteria. Frasier and Becky would be waiting for answers, and now there was nowhere to hide. It was time to face the music.

When I reached the cafeteria, the whole place was packed. I quickly surveyed the room, but I couldn't see Becky or Frasier, so I picked up a tray and joined the line for food. My stomach felt like lead and I wasn't hungry, but I went through the motions anyway.

I glanced across the wide array of choices, but nothing on the menu was particularly appealing. In the end, I settled for a Diet Coke and a melon slice. After I'd paid, I found a quiet seat at the far end of the room and sat with my back to everyone in the hopes of fending off unwelcome attention. I'd only taken a couple of bites of my melon when a voice stopped me in my tracks.

"Hello, stranger."

I turned and saw Frasier standing behind me. He was wearing a green cravat with a tweed jacket and black army boots. "Scoot over," he said, pushing his tray on the table and pulling up a chair next to me. "God, what happened to you?" He stopped grinning when he saw my bruise.

"Don't ask," I sighed. "I've already had the third degree from Murphy."

"Did that man in the club do that to you?" he asked worriedly.

I shook my head. "No. It was just a stupid accident. I tripped and fell."

"Maybe you should get Lee to take a look at it. You know what he did for me. Maybe he can work his magic for you, too."

"Oh no, don't start all that again."

Frasier laughed. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You don't believe in all that healer mumbo jumbo. But one day, I'll make you a believer, I promise." He unscrewed a bottle of water and drank from it deeply. Then, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he scrutinized me from a side angle. "So what happened on Saturday after you left? You said you were going to call me, but you never did."

"Sorry, but I haven't been with it lately. I was meaning to call, but just didn't get around to it."

"So..." he drawled, popping a rye cracker into his mouth, "are you going to tell me what happened, or what? And don't give me any bull about how you went straight home, 'cuz you weren't there when I called on Sunday."

"Okay, okay, I stayed at Lee's," I admitted. Frasier smiled triumphantly. "But nothing happened," I added quickly. "He slept on the couch. In the morning, he drove me home. That was all, I swear."

"Uh-oh. Becky wouldn't like that one little bit."

"You're not going to tell her, are you?"

"Do you think I have a death wish? Of course not. She'll go mental. But on a different note, what is going on with you two, anyway? What is it you and Lee have between you? I sense a connection, but I'm not sure what it is."

I fiddled with my straw then took a large swig of Coke. The saccharine tasted strangely sour on my tongue. "It's sort of complicated," I said, echoing Elliot's favorite phrase. "There's a lot of personal stuff going on. One day I'll tell you about it, but right now, I can't."

"No problem." He nodded his head sympathetically. It was obvious he would have liked to probe further, but he decided not to push it.

There was a charged silence as our thoughts took us to different places.

"So, what's happening with you and Becky?" I asked, trying to lighten the mood. "Did you get to talk to her on Saturday?"

"About what?"

"You know, asking her out and stuff."

"Nope," he said. "And to be honest, I don't think I ever will. She's too obsessed with Lee. You should have seen how crazy she went after you two left the club. She kept trying to phone you and she got really worked up over it. So no, I won't be asking her out any time soon."

"I'm sorry. I know how you feel about her."

"Ah, well," he said, shrugging, "that's the way the mop flops. We don't always get what we want, do we? And anyway, I don't think I'd ever measure up to Lee in her books. I mean, look at him and look at me. How's a guy supposed to compete?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off. "But that's okay with me. I've got plenty of other good things going on in my life to focus on. I'm young, I'm healthy, and I'm saving buckets on optician bills and Clearasil. What more could a guy ask for?"

I laughed, despite myself. Frasier always had a way of making me smile, even when I was at my lowest ebb. _This guy is one in a million._

"So, where's Becky today?" I asked, glancing around the cafeteria. "I thought she would have been burning to grill me about Saturday."

"Good question. I haven't seen her today. Maybe she's playing hooky, like you did yesterday."

I smiled but didn't say anything. Taking the last bite of my melon, I dabbed the corners of my mouth dry with a tissue and pushed the plate away. "By the way, how did your science exam go?"

"Don't get me started," Frasier groaned, rolling his eyes.

The conversation then changed to school work, and I was glad to keep things mundane. When the bell sounded, we parted to go to our afternoon classes. The rest of the day flew by, and before I knew it, I was on the bus heading home.

"Neil called earlier asking for you," Mum said, as soon as I got through the door. "He wants you to call him back. Says it's urgent."

I paused, shaking out my wet hood in the hallway. "Did he?" I replied evenly. "I wonder what he wants." I tried to make my voice sound normal, but she was having none of it.

"When exactly was the last time you saw Neil?" she probed, her tone frosty with disapproval. "I thought we'd agreed to distance ourselves from them for a while."

"No, that's what _you_ decided," I countered. "At no time did I agree to cut ties with Anne and Neil. You know I can't do that. I care about them too much."

For a second, our eyes met. We were like two bulls about to lock horns. "Well," she said after a long pause, "do what you want—but don't come crying to me when it blows up in your face."

"Don't worry, I won't."

She paused, as if there was something else on her mind. "By the way, Cliff finally got back to me."

"Who?" I frowned.

"Clifford Maxwell," Mum said. "Remember you asked me to check with him about the black Ford?"

"Oh that." My heart raced. "Did he find out who the driver was?"

"No, but Cliff has confirmed that no one from the media has reopened Elliot's case, so that should put your mind at rest. No one from the tabloids is tracking you. Perhaps you _were_ just being paranoid."

"Oh," I said. I should have felt more relieved but somehow I didn't. All this proved was that it wasn't a journalist following me, but that still didn't rule out other more sinister possibilities.

After another awkward silence, Mum disappeared back inside the living room. Racing to my bedroom, I threw down my bag and braced myself for what was coming. With trembling fingers, I picked up my cell phone to dial Neil's number. My heart almost stopped as the line connected.

"Neil, it's Sam. Mum told me you called." I was pleased with the way my voice sounded: calm and cool and controlled.

"Yes, I did," he replied. "Sorry to phone your landline, but I had no choice. I couldn't get through to your cell."

"Yeah, I know. I always have it switched off during class. Sorry."

"Right, right..." His tone was tight, agitated.

A ripple of fear shot through me. "What's wrong? Has something happened?" I had to whisper because I was paranoid that Mum might be eavesdropping outside the door. "How are things with you-know-who?"

"Not perfect, obviously, but we're getting there. He's taken Anne out clothes shopping again. You should have seen how much he's spoiling her. Spent a fortune yesterday, took her to Harrods and Harvey Nichols. Bought her all this posh jewelry. He tried to buy me a suit and tie, but I refused. I'm not going to even ask where he's getting all that money from, but one thing I know is that he can't buy his way out of this. If he thinks a designer suit is all it takes for everything to be all right again..."

"Go easy on him," I suggested. "I'm sure there's no ulterior motive. Perhaps he just wants to treat you because you're his dad and he loves you."

"You say that, but how can I allow my son to spend so much money on me when I don't know where he got it from? And he pays for everything in cash. Carries a big wad of bills around in a rubber band. That's not normal."

"I suppose you've got a point." For a second, I cast my mind back to that time at the Winchester when he'd paid the bill in fifties. I had thought that was a little odd. And then there was his expensive apartment and car...

"All I know is, there's definitely something fishy going on, and I mean to get to the bottom of it."

I swallowed painfully, preparing for the worst. "So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

"I need you to start being truthful with me. I'm not a fool, Sam. I know there's a hell of a lot you haven't told me about Elliot. For a start, I don't believe that you only met him last Sunday. You've known about this longer than you're letting on. Which is fine, because right now, that's not my main concern."

"But Neil, I wanted to..."

"Let me finish!" His voice cracked with fury. "All I want you to tell me is this: has Elliot ever said anything to you about where he's been? Who's been holding him? Why he refuses to involve the police? And please don't lie to me. This is important, Sam—so no games, please."

"I swear to you, cross my heart, hope to die, I don't know any more than you do. He refuses to discuss it with me."

"This is really frustrating," Neil fumed. "I never dreamed it would be this way. I spent so many years wanting my son back, and now that he's here... well; it's not how I thought it would be. It's like living with a stranger. Obviously, I'm over the moon that he's alive. I know he's my son—but he's changed so much. When I look in his face, he's not the same boy I remember. I just don't understand how a person can change that much..." His voice trailed off.

"Neil, are you still there?" I could hear quiet sobbing down the line and my heart broke for him. "Please don't cry. Please, you're gonna make me start."

"Why won't he tell me, Sam? Why won't Elliot tell me who those bastards are? Those creatures who destroyed our lives... they must be punished. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't think of anything but revenge. If I could only get my hands on them, I'd kill them. I swear to God, I'd kill them."

"Please, you've got to stop talking like this, for Elliot's sake. I know how hard this must be, but can't you just focus on the fact that your son's alive? He must have been through so much, and he probably finds it difficult to talk about what happened. Give him some time, and I'm sure he'll open up to you."

"Time is a luxury we don't have," Neil bellowed. "Elliot must tell us who abducted him before it's too late—before they do it again to someone else's child. As long as they're free to roam, no family is safe. Don't you see? We can't let this go. He must tell the police everything he knows so that we can bring these monsters to justice."

"I don't know what to say." My throat had gone dry. "I wish I could help, but what can I do? He won't talk to me, either."

"Well, you can start by trying to get the truth out of him tomorrow," Neil said icily. "I know he's meeting you after school. See if you can coax some information out of him."

"What makes you think he'll talk to me?" I asked.

"Because he seems closer to you. I think he might be more likely to talk if it's coming from you."

"Oh, I don't know. I'll try, but please don't get your hopes up."

"That's my girl."

I hung up. The energy evaporated from my body and I collapsed on the bed, exhausted. Tomorrow was going to be a nightmare.

 * * *

The next evening at precisely ten past five, I headed to our usual meeting spot outside the school gates. It was very cold and crisp, but for once, there were no storm clouds on the horizon. I'd spent the whole day fretting, lost in a frenzy of anticipation at the thought of seeing Elliot again.

I went through each class in a subdued state, pretending to listen to what people were saying. Becky had finally caught up with me at lunch, but I'd managed to pacify her with the same story I'd told Frasier: that nothing had happened between me and Lee and that I'd gone straight home after the club. Thankfully, Frasier had kept his promise and not rat on me.

Becky had seemed a little suspicious at first. Eventually, I had to ask her to stop grilling me.

"Okay, no more questions—on one condition," she said. "I want you to come with me to a party at Taffin Carter's place on Saturday."

"It's a deal," I said, although I had absolutely no intention of going. I planned to think up a suitable excuse as the weekend got closer.

A beeping car horn snapped me from my reverie. Turning my head, I spied Elliot's Lotus backing into a parking space across the street. A tingle of fear shivered down my spine. Cautiously, I crossed the road and jumped in the passenger side.

"Hey," he said. "How are you doing?"

"Great. Oh wow..." My mouth hung open. Elliot looked so gorgeous, I was literally drooling. He'd finally ditched the cap and bleached his hair a luxurious, honey-blond color with peroxide streaks throughout. The sides were trimmed slightly shorter than before, with the fringe artfully combed across one eye. His tan skin glowed with health and contrasted beautifully with his startlingly blue eyes, giving him an almost ethereal appearance.

I lowered my lashes, trying desperately to keep my thoughts pure. _Looking this hot shouldn't be legal._

"How do you like it?" Elliot asked, grinning as he ran his fingers through his hair. "Mum took me to the hairdresser today and insisted I get it colored. She hated my hair dark. Said she wanted it lighter so she could have her little boy back."

"Well, I think it looks fantastic," I said.

"Better than the brown?"

"Definitely. Although, to be honest, everything looks good on you." I stopped short, realizing I'd paid him an inadvertent compliment.

_Damn_.

He smiled magnanimously. "Thanks."

He snapped the heater on high and pulled out into traffic, heading in the direction of Elmfield Park. "So, how was school today?"

"Oh, it was okay. Nothing special."

"How's Frasier?"

"He's good. Really good. But enough of that. How are you? How's everything going with your parents?"

"Not too great," he admitted.

"That bad?"

"Yep. Mum's been fantastic. She accepts me as I am. But I think Dad's having trouble adjusting. He still can't accept that I don't want to talk about the past, and it's eating him up. I wish he'd just get off my case. I can't deal with any more stress right now."

"Tell me about it," I muttered, thinking of the promise I'd made to Neil. The idea of coaxing information out of Elliot seemed more unlikely by the second.

Slumping against the window, I breathed slowly in and out through my mouth, closing my eyes, trying to blot out how delectable he looked. It felt so wrong to have such carnal thoughts about him when there was so much at stake. But try as I might, I couldn't deny my body _. My body wants him._ _Bad._

"What's wrong?" Elliot asked, shooting me a sideways glance. "You look a bit pale."

"I've got a headache."

"Sorry to hear that," he said. "Do you want aspirin? There's a packet in the glove compartment."

"No, I'll be fine. I just get a little travel sick sometimes."

"Poor baby. Don't worry, we're almost there."

I didn't say much for the rest of the journey.

When we got back to his place, I saw what Neil meant. Someone had been doing some serious shopping. Boxes of new shoes were scattered all over the living room floor, and there were at least seven new X-box games stacked up by the TV.

"Looks like you've been stocking up," I commented.

"Yeah, I took Mum to West End earlier."

I hesitated, wanting to probe further, but the words died on my tongue.

"Oh, by the way, I got you something." He went over to a cabinet near the TV. "Remember these?" he grinned, flashing a set of colorful trading cards at me.

I snatched one from him and saw it was a special edition X-Men Fleer Ultra trading card. We'd obsessively hoarded them as kids, but had never quite managed to complete the collection.

"Wow! These are so cool," I exclaimed.

"It's the whole collection," he declared proudly. "Every single last card in the series."

My eyes grew misty as I realized how much thought he'd put into this. Slowly, I examined each card in turn—so beautifully crafted and perfectly formed—and I felt a burst of joy. _How sweet of him._ "Where did you find them?" I asked.

"A little comic shop in Notting Hill."

"Thank you," I said in a small voice. "These are amazing. I always wanted the whole set."

"I know. That's why I got them for you."

"It's so lovely that you remembered."

For a moment, he stared at me, his face placid and unreadable. Then he walked over and sat on the sofa. "That's not all. That wasn't your main present. I also bought you something else."

"Oh Elliot, you shouldn't have!"

"Why don't you come over here and let me show you?" He patted the cushion next to him.

Clenching my fists, I obeyed, perching on the far end of the sofa to keep a respectable distance between us. I avoided his gaze, but I knew his eyes were on me, studying, drinking me in. "Sam..." He spoke my name so quietly I could barely hear him. "Why are you sitting so far away? Come closer. I want to give you your present."

Brushing the hair out my face, I reluctantly sidled up to him, my limbs heavy with embarrassment. Knowing the kind of thoughts circulating in my head, being this close to him surely wasn't a good idea.

Flashing a playful smile, Elliot reached inside his pocket, took out a small blue box and handed it to me. Gingerly, I opened it and saw a gorgeous topaz pendant encased in silver.

"Gosh, this is beautiful," I gasped.

"Turn it over. There's an inscription on the back."

Carefully, I flipped it over in my palm and squinted at the fancy writing.

_Dear Sam,_

_True friendship is hard to find_

_You'll always be one of a kind_

_Yours forever,_

_Elliot_

I cupped one hand over my mouth to stop myself from crying. "Thank you. This is the most beautiful present anyone's ever given me."

"Here, let me put it on for you," he whispered.

I felt light-headed as he took the pendant from me and gently fastened it around my neck. At his touch, I expelled a low whimper, eyes closed in rapture. His fingers burned into my skin, infusing me with a deep sense of relief, as if I'd been in pain my whole life and had just been healed.

Slowly opening my eyes again, I gazed lovingly down at the pendant and smiled. "Thank you. I absolutely adore it."

"I knew you would." Elliot leaned back and rested his arm behind my head.

I flinched.

Light rain hit the window, a rhythmic soundtrack to our conversation.

I stared blankly ahead, goose bumps sprouting up my back like bubble wrap. I had to concentrate on my breathing to help keep me sane. In and out, in and out. _Five, four, three, two, one._

"Do you remember when we were kids? We used to hate the rain," he mused, breaking the silence.

"I know, because it meant we couldn't go out and play," I said.

He chuckled. "Remember how we used to sneak into old Mr. Barnes' garden and steal his apples?"

"Yeah, that was funny," I smiled. "Remember how high that wall was? God, it was a nightmare to climb. We must have been crazy."

"Probably. Remember that one time we climbed over and you fell in those nettles? That was bad. Your thighs were all cut up. And then that pit-bull terrier chased us..."

"Please, don't remind me!" I groaned. "My legs were sore for weeks."

"Yeah, but we still went back the next day. And the next. We never stopped going back."

"I know, we must have been crazy! I don't know why we put ourselves through all that torment just for apples."

"Because the fruit always tastes sweeter when you've gone through such pain to get it." He leaned in closer, his breath disturbing the hairs on my neck. "Sometimes a person can want something so badly their skin burns, their whole body aches with longing, and they're willing to do just about anything to get it. Struggle and denial are part of human nature—but the rewards are so worth it."

I didn't respond. His words had stripped my thoughts bare and temporarily robbed me of speech. Sighing deeply, I snuggled my face against his chest, relishing the firm contours of his muscles through his T-shirt. I wanted to tear his clothes off. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to...

He stood up abruptly and strode to the other side of the room, shaking his head in frustration. He seemed suddenly vulnerable, edgy, pacing the floor like a lion with a thorn stuck in its paw.

I bit my lip. _What the hell was this guy's problem?_

"Did I say something to offend you?" I asked. "Why are you acting so funny?"

"I'm not acting funny," he growled, his voice adopting a dark edge that sent chills through me. "I'm absolutely fine." Then, checking himself, he smiled: "Are you hungry? Do you want me to fix you something to eat?"

It was a simple enough question, but he enunciated the words like he wanted to rip my head off.

"I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble," I snapped, furious that he'd spoiled the moment.

"It's no trouble at all. Just tell me what you'd like."

"I don't want anything. I'm not hungry. Maybe later."

"Suit yourself." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Okay, I'd better go upstairs now and get the canvas ready so that we can start your portrait."

He stomped out the room, leaving me wondering what on earth I'd done to deserve this kind of treatment. I just couldn't figure him out. One minute, he was so sweet and nurturing—and the next, he couldn't stand the sight of me. What was I doing wrong?

Hugging my arms across my chest, I stood up and went to the kitchen to make coffee. I needed a strong shot of caffeine to help me calm down. As I surveyed the utensils my gaze fell on a long, serrated knife lying on the sideboard. The blade was smooth and spotlessly clean. Picking it up, I realized it was the same knife the skinhead had used to stab Elliot.

Relief washed over me.

Thank god Elliot had taken it for safekeeping. Now at least I knew we were safe from a police interrogation – one less thing to worry about.

Putting the knife down, I reached up to the cupboard above the sink, took two mugs and placed them on the sideboard. Then I scrutinized the coffee machine, wondering how to operate it. There were so many buttons and knobs and levers, I didn't have a clue where to start. _Why doesn't Elliot didn't just buy a kettle, like everyone else?_

Glancing at the shelves above the sink, I searched through the bottles of herbs and spices to see where he kept the coffee beans. I couldn't find them, so I opened the cupboard below the sink and checked there.

"Eureka!"

Standing next to a bottle of fabric softener was a glossy packet of finest Impresso beans. As I reached down for them, I noticed a large black box that the coffee maker had originally come in. _Brilliant_. _Now maybe I can find the instructions and figure out how to operate the damn thing._

I wrestled out the box and set it on the floor. It felt surprisingly heavy. Tearing through the brown tape, I flipped open the lid. My jaw dropped. Inside was dozens and dozens of wallets of all shapes and sizes. I took one out and examined it.

The wallet was made of pink leather and clearly didn't belong to a man. Flipping it open, I was shocked to see a driving license and a passport photo of a young blond girl.

"Carly Joseph," I murmured, reading the name out loud. My eyes narrowed. Tucked behind the driving license were multiple debit and credit cards, all in the name of this Carly person.

I felt a sharp jolt of unease. There was something very wrong about this.

With trembling fingers, I reached back inside the box and continued rifling through the other wallets. From the names on the various credit cards and photo IDs it soon became clear that these were stolen items. Either that or Elliot was moonlighting as a lost property collector. _Yeah, right._

"What are you doing?"

I glanced up and saw him towering over me, his face dark as thunder.

Hastily, I dropped the box on the floor and scrambled to my feet. "I-I was just trying to figure out how to use the coffee machine, and I thought I'd..."

"You thought you'd start snooping through my things again," he finished. In one lightning movement, he snatched the box and flung it back in the cupboard. Then he squared up to me, turning on the full force of his aggression. It was very, very intimidating.

"I'm so sorry," I stuttered. "I didn't mean to pry."

"Then why do you? Why do you _keep_ prying? Again and again and again. Why don't you respect my privacy?"

A ripple of terror shot down my spine and settled in my stomach. The way he was glaring convinced me that right now he could quite happily murder me and feel no remorse.

Licking my lips, I forced myself to meet his gaze. "Look, I said I was sorry didn't I? What more do you want?"

"A promise that you won't do it again."

Fear turned to anger and gave me the courage I needed to stand up to him. "You know what? I'm sick of apologizing. Why should I feel bad? You're the one who's got some serious explaining to do. Why the hell do you have other people's wallets and credit cards? What kind of racket are you running here?"

He lapsed into moody silence, his blue eyes cold and unyielding.

"Tell me!" I shouted. My hands were shaking so much I had to hide them behind my back. I couldn't let him know how much he terrified me. Right now, the need for answers far outweighed everything else, including my own safety. I just had to know what was going on here.

"Are you sure you really want to know?" he asked ominously.

"Yes!"

"All right. I stole them."

"What?"

"You heard me."

I was dumbstruck. Even though I'd suspected that was the case, it was still shocking to hear him say it. Elliot was a thief? It didn't seem real.

I stood for a moment, trembling, one hand frozen in mid-air over my throbbing forehead. A thousand crazy thoughts raced through my mind as I tried to absorb the magnitude of this revelation. And then it hit me with gut-wrenching ferocity—something so disturbing it made me sick.

"My god, what did you do to them?" I breathed.

"Do to who?"

"All those people. You stole their wallets. How? Did you hurt them?"

He rolled his eyes. "Of course not. What do you take me for?"

"Then how? I don't understand. There must be sixty wallets in that box. How did you..."

"Okay, okay. For want of a better word, I'm a pick-pocket."

"A pick-pocket?"

"Yes. It's a habit I picked up on my travels. Each day I go out on the street, on the bus, anywhere—and I take people's wallets without them knowing. I've gotten so good at it, they don't feel a thing. They don't even realize they've been robbed until I'm gone. And you know what? I get a buzz from it. Not good, I know."

I shook my head incredulously. "I don't believe this."

"It doesn't always happen like that, though," he continued. "Sometimes I might see a pretty girl in the street. Make eye contact, smile a little. Make out that I want her phone number. But all the while, my fingers are in her handbag." He bowed his head. "I'm not proud of it, but it's what I do to survive. It's how I pay for this house, run my car, buy you nice things. It's just... something I do."

I wrenched off my pendant and threw it on the floor in disgust. "Well you can have that back, for a start. I don't want anything stolen."

"I didn't steal it," he hissed, crouching down to pick it up. "I paid good money for that, I'll have you know." He turned it over in his hands, looking at it to inspect the damage.

My eyes darted about suspiciously. "This still doesn't make sense. There must be more to this than you're letting on. This apartment and that fancy car of yours must be worth thousands and thousands. How are you able to...?"

"It's simple. Once I've got their credit card details, it's easy. Basically, I go online and..."

"Actually, I don't think I want to know," I interjected, rubbing my temples. "This is sick. How can you sleep at night, knowing you're living a lie? How can you steal from people and think that's okay?"

"Of course I know it's not okay!" he roared. "But like I said, it's what I've got to do to survive."

"I beg to differ. There are plenty of other ways of making money that don't involve stealing."

"Maybe so. But it's what I know. It's all I've ever known. And it pays well."

"Don't give me that! Why didn't you just go to your parents? If you needed money that badly, I'm sure they would have helped."

"You still don't get it, do you? It's so easy for you to judge. You in your ivory tower, who's been safe and warm and snug with your family, while I've been out there on my own. Alone. Let me tell you something..."

He paused for an instant, his voice twisted with pain. "You don't know what it means to be so cold and hungry that you'd happily eat leaves and drink rainwater. You don't know what it's like to be so weak, so lonely, so dead inside that every day you pray for the end to come swiftly. You don't know—but I do. And if you were in my shoes, maybe you'd understand that sometimes, just _sometimes_ , there is no right and wrong. There is only survival."

I was momentarily stunned into silence, the full magnitude of his confession finally hitting me.

"Is this what they've brought you to?" I asked quietly. "Is this what those creatures turned you into? A liar and a thief? What did they do to you Elliot? You have to tell me."

"You wouldn't understand," he muttered darkly. "It's complicated."

" _It's complicated_ ," I scowled, mimicking his accent. "You know what? I'm sick of hearing how bloody complicated it is. I'm sick of all the secrecy. Why can't you just be honest for once? I wanted to give you time because I knew you'd been through a lot. I knew you wouldn't want to talk about it. But this thing with the pick-pocketing—it's all gone too far, Elliot. If you want me to still support you, then you're gonna need to tell me everything. And I do mean _everything_. No more lies. No more games!"

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that," he said stubbornly.

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"Then we can't be friends anymore. True friends don't keep secrets from each another. Not secrets like this."

I pushed past him and stormed into the hallway. With lightning speed, he sprang forward, blocking my path.

"Move out the way, Elliot."

"No."

"Come on, don't make this hard for me. I've got to leave."

"Please don't go. I need you."

For long moments, I stared up at him, desire throbbing through my veins, begging me to give in to his pleas. His face looked ridiculously beautiful, his eyes so sweet and mournful they could have melted the coldest heart. But somehow, I managed to fight my desire. Mustering all my strength, I tried to push him out the way, but he was frozen solid, like an obnoxious totem pole.

"What can I do to convince you to stay?" he breathed, mesmerizing me with his delectable lips. "What can I do to change your mind?"

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I never meant to hurt you, but we can't go on like this. Unless you tell me the truth, I can't stay here. It isn't fair to either of us."

"Please stay," he begged, leaning in so close I could smell him. "I'll do anything you say. _Anything_."

"Anything?" Closing my eyes, I craned my neck back, subtly tempting him to bring his lips to mine. I waited.

And waited.

I blinked and looked up at him. His face was tilted away from me, a pained expression shadowing his exquisite features. I could sense an inner conflict, something tearing him up inside.

"Anything except kiss me," I said bitterly. "Well, you've certainly made your feelings clear. I think I'll be going now."

"Please... you don't know how hard this is for me."

"How hard this is for _you_? Have I missed something? Hello, I'm the one getting rejected here. There's only so much a girl can take, you know."

"I didn't reject you," he said quickly.

For a moment, we held each others' gaze, neither of us flinching. The raw hunger in his eyes was both a turn on and painfully confusing, all at the same time. He was a paradox of maddening proportions.

"What was that, then?" I demanded. "Did we kiss and I missed it? No, that was a whopper of a rejection if ever I saw one. I didn't realize I was so repulsive to you."

He bit down on his fist, visibly trembling. "Stop saying that! Of course I don't find you repulsive. It's not that, believe me. You know how much I care about you."

"Then show me. _Show_ me!" Overcome with longing, I sprang forward and tried to kiss him, forcefully pushing my mouth toward his. Gracefully, he disentangled himself from me just before our lips met and sent me sprawling into the front door. Hot tears streamed down my face as I picked myself up. _He's really done it this time. He's delivered a blow to my heart that I cannot see myself ever recovering from. He is cruel and sadistic and I hate him!_

I hated him so much, I thought I'd die from it.

"Screw you!" I shrieked.

"Sam, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean for that to happen. Please, I hope you're not hurt."

Without another word, I flung open the door and raced down the hall into the elevator, not stopping until I was safely back in the street. Then, shaking, I glanced behind me, almost expecting him to have followed me. But he hadn't. Everywhere around me was as dark and desolate as I felt.

Moodily, I crossed the street and trudged toward the bus stop. It must have been around eight, and the few people standing there didn't seem to notice my tears—and neither did the driver when the bus finally came. I kept my misery to myself, brushing my tears away with my sleeve at regular intervals. I felt like a zombie, operating on autopilot.

As soon as I got home, everything cracked. I cried, I screamed, I swore. I threw up in the toilet, dizzy from a yearning that could never be fulfilled. I wanted his touch so badly, I couldn't keep anything in my stomach. Then, without bothering to exercise or do my homework, I climbed into bed hoping to blot out my agony with sleep. But it was a long time before oblivion came.

My old depression was back with a vengeance, and I couldn't see past the blackness that now engulfed me. Round and round and round, dark thoughts tormented me all night long. All the lies Elliot had told and the secret, double life he'd been leading played on my conscience like a broken record. I couldn't believe how stupid I'd been to fall for it for so long. I must have been crazy to think my friend would come back from the wilderness intact.

Somewhere around eleven, I must have heard the front door slam and the clattering of Mum's heels coming in. She called to me from the hallway, but I pretended to be asleep. I couldn't talk right now.

Over and over, Neil's words echoed in the silence of my mind: "When I look in his face, he's not the same boy I remember. I just don't understand how a person can change that much..."

_Maybe Neil is right._ _It isn't just Elliot's face that's changed—it's his personality, too_. The boy that I had known, that faithful, wonderful child, would never have done the things this Elliot had done. He wouldn't have stolen from people, he wouldn't have lied to me again and again.

And yet, despite it all, the most painful part was his rebuttal of me tonight. His rejection of my advances was the hardest pill to swallow, and somehow everything else seemed pale in comparison. I was heartsick and stunned by his coldness toward me. It felt like the world had ended.

Eventually, I slipped into a coma-like slumber and slept through till morning.

##  ‡  
FOURTEEN

Home Alone

It rained all day Saturday, covering Elmfield in enough precipitation to last a month. I didn't mind, though, because I couldn't face going out and seeing people. All I wanted to do right now was hibernate, to stay hidden from the world and drown my sorrows in copious amounts of black coffee.

I'd refused to answer any of Neil's increasingly desperate phone calls, telling Mum to say I was out whenever he called the house. I knew he wanted answers, but I just didn't have the strength for that. Becky also kept calling. I'd told her I was ill so that I wouldn't have to go to Taffin's gathering. I still hadn't recovered from my last encounter with Elliot, and it felt right to stay holed up in bed until some of the misery had worn off.

I spent most of the day tucked under my faded duvet, watching _The Wizard of Oz_ on repeat, wishing I could swap places with Judy Garland and escape somewhere over the rainbow.

Mum had left early in the morning to visit my Aunt Jackie, who lived out in Sevenoaks with her new husband. She was having a housewarming party. I'd been invited along, too, but I pretended to have a headache, preferring to spend the day alone, feeling sorry for myself.

The afternoon passed in a blur of childhood memories. _The Wizard of Oz_ had been one of my favorite movies as a kid. I'd watched it with Elliot at Christmas. Now seeing it under such different circumstances left a lump in my throat. Every so often, I'd glance across at the dresser and see the X-Men trading cards staring back at me. In my haste, I'd forgotten to destroy them—and now, somehow, I couldn't bring myself to let them go. Seeing them lying there was a bittersweet reminder of how differently things could have gone if he wasn't so screwed up.

Morning swiftly turned to evening. Around seven, I went into the kitchen to fix something to eat. Mum still wasn't back yet, so I figured I'd make enough dinner for two and she could heat it up whenever she got in.

I decided to make my signature dish, Spaghetti Bolognese. I took meat out of the freezer and set it on the sideboard. Then I took out some canned tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, and cayenne pepper, my secret weapon to give the sauce its extra spicy flavor.

I'd just started frying the onions when the house phone rang. At first, I tried to ignore it, scared that it might be Neil again. But then it kept on ringing and I decided to answer it, in case it was important.

Turning down the heat on the cooker, I plunged down the hall into the living room and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi darling, it's Mum."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank god. I thought it was Neil. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. What are you up to?"

"Just making spaghetti. What time will you be back?"

"Well actually, that's why I called. There's been a delay to trains from Sevenoaks, so I'm probably gong to be another hour at least. Sorry, darling."

"Oh, that's okay. I'll put your food in the fridge. Oh, by the way, how was Aunt Jackie?"

"She's great," Mum enthused. "You should see their new house. The place is absolutely massive. They've got this beautiful conservatory and a brook at the bottom of the garden. I'm so envious."

"Sounds nice," I said. "Maybe I'll come up and see it next time."

"Definitely. Okay darling, my credit's running out. I'll see you soon. Bye."

I hung up and went back to the kitchen. For the next ten minutes or so, I busied myself adding ingredients to the pasta sauce, relishing the gorgeous aroma as it simmered to a boil on the cooker.

I was just about to add the meat when the doorbell rang.

"What is it this time?" I scowled, annoyed that I was being disturbed again. It was only as I got into the hallway that my footsteps slowed. _Who on earth can it be?_ I wasn't expecting any visitors and Mum had said she would be at least another hour.

Cautiously, I peeked through the spy hole.

It was Greg.

Without missing a beat, I opened the door.

He flashed an apologetic smile as he lowered the bouquet of roses he was carrying. "Hi Sam, sorry to disturb you. I'm here to pick up your mum."

"She's not here," I said.

"Damn. Any idea when she'll be back? We had a date for eight o'clock."

"She's in Sevenoaks, visiting her sister," I explained. "She rang a little while ago to say she's on her way back and will be about an hour."

"Damn," he repeated, peering beyond me into the empty hallway.

There was an awkward pause as he tried to decide what to do.

Discreetly, I scanned him from top to toe. He was dressed like he was going to the theatre or something: his black hair was swept back off his face like Valentino and he was wearing a black dinner jacket beneath a smart gray overcoat. Wherever he was taking Mum tonight was obviously very swanky.

"Look Sam, I don't want to intrude, but would it be all right if I came in and waited for her till she gets back? I've come a long way, and traveling home again isn't really an option."

I hesitated. I didn't like the idea of having company—but then again, it would seem rude to send him away.

"Sorry, I should never have asked," Greg said, turning on his heel. "It was too presumptuous of me. Maybe I can drive around for a bit to kill some time."

"Don't be silly, of course you can come in," I said with a smile, stepping aside for him to enter.

He flashed a crooked grin and followed me inside. "Thanks for this, I'm ever so grateful."

"No problem. You know, it's funny Mum never mentioned you were coming."

"She didn't?" He scratched the side of his mouth. "I guess it must have slipped her mind."

I led him into the living room and he took off his coat and draped it over the armchair. "Wow, something smells good," he commented, rubbing his hands together.

"I'm making spaghetti. Want some?"

He shook his head. "Oh, I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble."

"No trouble at all. I've made enough for three."

"Well, if you really insist—then yes, I'd love some."

"Great. Hey, do you want me to put those flowers in a vase?" I glanced at the roses he was carrying.

"Oh yes, please do."

I took them from him and got a whiff of their beautiful scent. "These are so sweet. Mum's gonna love them."

"Let's hope she does."

I smiled thinly at him and went back to finish cooking. Now that Greg was here, I actually quite liked the idea of playing hostess. He had such a calm presence, he always put me at ease.

About ten minutes later, the spaghetti was ready. While Greg set the table, I rummaged in the cupboard for some wine glasses. Mum had left half a bottle in the fridge, and I suddenly felt like having a drink. Now was as good a time as any to finish it.

Then the two of us sat down to eat, facing each other across the dining table.

"Mmm, this is delicious," he said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "You certainly didn't take after your mum in the cooking department, did you?"

"No," I laughed. "I guess not."

"So, where did you learn to cook so well?"

"My dad." I took a hasty sip of my drink. "We always used to cook meals together when he... when he was living with us. I miss those days. It used to be so much fun."

"Well, you must thank him from me. Because of your dad, I'm enjoying one of the best Spaghetti Bolognese dinners I've ever tasted."

"Stop it, you're embarrassing me," I said, blushing.

"Aren't I allowed to pay you a compliment?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Oh, all right," I laughed. "Yes. You can pay me a compliment."

He stared at me a second, his dark eyes openly appraising me. "I sense that you're a very self-deprecating person—someone who doesn't take praise easily. Am I right?"

I tilted my head from side to side, deliberating. "Yeah, I suppose."

"Do you suffer from low self-esteem?"

"I don't know. Never really thought about it." I squirmed inside. This conversation was getting way too personal for my liking. Taking another large gulp of wine to calm my nerves, I chewed my thumbnail. "So," I said, changing the subject, "where are you taking mum tonight? I must say you're looking very dapper."

He had his mouth full, but through the food he managed to say: "Why thank you. I do try."

For a moment he and I sat there and didn't say a word.

"So where are you taking Mum?" I persisted. "The opera?"

"Oh no, nothing like that," Greg chuckled. "I thought maybe we'd drive around town and find a nice bar somewhere. Maybe have a couple of drinks."

"That sounds nice. I'm sure Mum will like that." I scraped the last of the spaghetti off my plate. "Finished?"

He nodded, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. "Yes, thank you. That was superb."

I got up and carried our dishes to the sink and submerged them in hot water, adding a dash of dish soap to the mix.

"Here, let me do that," Greg offered, appearing in the doorway. "You've already spoiled me enough with that delightful food. Why don't you go and put your feet up?"

"Okay, if you insist," I said, drying my hands on a towel.

I stepped aside to allow him access to the sink and marveled at what a gentleman he was _. This guy really is a keeper._

Whistling a merry tune, Greg rolled up his sleeves and switched off the running tap. Then, tentatively, he slipped the numerous rings from his fingers and placed them, one by one, in a line on the sideboard.

"Can't get these wet," he said, grinning.

I nodded. _Funny. I hadn't noticed until now just how many rings he wears. And some of those large, chunky gold bands look expensive._

For a second, he stalled by the sink, trying to wrench the last one off his finger. "Damn, this one doesn't seem to want to budge. Ah! There we go."

He placed the medallion ring on the side next to the rest of them.

And then I saw it. A star tattoo identical to the one on the middle finger of Elliot's right hand.

A prickle of unease shimmied down my spine, as if someone had just stepped over my grave. Something wasn't right, I could feel it. But what? What did it all mean?

Stepping away from him, I tried to remain calm. I didn't want to show how rattled I was.

"Are you okay?" Greg asked, his voice silky sweet. "You've gone rather pale."

"I'm fine," I said. "You're right, I think I'll go and sit down for a while. The wine must have gone to my head."

"Do you want some coffee? Maybe that will make you feel better."

"No, I'm fine. You finish up here. I'll go sit down."

In a trance, I roamed into the living room and sat rigidly on the edge of the sofa. My body felt stiff with tension, my arms frozen solid. _What the heck is going on?_

Five minutes later, Greg sat down next to me. "Feeling any better?" he inquired jovially.

"Um yeah..." My voice trailed off.

"You still look a bit peevish. Shall I open the windows to let some air in?"

"No." I tucked a hair behind my ear, feeling strangely anxious. I wanted him to go, but the words wouldn't come.

He rubbed his thighs. "Gosh, it's quiet in here. Shall I put the TV on to liven things up?"

"If you want," I said.

Until now, I hadn't noticed his voice at all. He had a slight accent I hadn't picked up on. Every so often, on certain words, there was a definite twang of something else. An intonation not too different from Elliot's.

_How on earth could I have missed it? Why didn't I see this before? The two of them are linked in some way. But how?_

For several tense moments, the two of us sat staring at the TV, watching some inane cop drama. The temperature in the room was dropping rapidly, and soon my breath became visible in the air. It was sort of like sitting in a giant fridge freezer. _This surely isn't normal._

And then I got a horrible feeling of déjà-vu—the sense that the dark presence that had been following me all these weeks was finally here. With me. In my living room. I wanted to scream, but my vocal cords were paralyzed. I wanted to run, but my legs had turned to jelly.

"I wonder where your mum is," Greg mused, shooting me a shifty sideways glance. "It's been longer than an hour. Do you suppose she's gotten caught in traffic?"

"I don't know," I gulped. "Maybe."

He reached across and gently stroked the side of my cheek, the heat from his fingertips cutting through the cold like a knife. Slowly, slowly, his hand traveled down my cheek to my jaw and rested at the edge of my chin.

I heard him catch his breath.

"That bruise on your cheek has healed very well, hasn't it?" he purred.

"Uh-huh." I bit my tongue to stop myself from screaming. Pursing my lips, I kept my eyes fixed resolutely ahead.

"You've been very lucky," he continued. "That mark could have really ruined your face, and we wouldn't want that, would we?"

I shook my head.

He leaned closer, his fingers settling on the skin just beneath my eye. "You really are a pretty girl. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"

I shook my head again.

"So, how's your boyfriend?"

"What boyfriend?" I asked, puzzled.

"Come on. We both know who I'm talking about."

"I don't have a boyfriend."

"Don't lie to me, Sam. I've seen you out with him."

"Seriously, what are you on about?"

"Oh come, come," he whispered. "Lying doesn't suit you. He's told you, hasn't he?"

"Told me what?" I was really exasperated now.

"He's told you what he is."

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, you've lost me."

His voice took on a colder edge. "Let's cut the crap, shall we?"

Revulsion flooded through me, and I finally mustered the strength to stand. I couldn't take his pervy mitts on me anymore.

"Look, I think you'd better to go," I said quietly. "This is getting out of hand."

Greg rose and started walking swiftly toward me.

"Stay back!" I shouted. But he kept on coming.

I scrambled for the door, tried the handle but found it was jammed, as if by some supernatural force. I tugged desperately on the handle, willing it to open, but it stayed frozen shut. In a blind panic, I turned around—and got the shock of my life.

Greg's eyes no longer had whites or irises. They were a cold and unnatural yellow with vertical black slits for pupils. _Inhuman_. His head began to bulge and swell and elongate, his nose protruding into a hideous, upturned snout. Bright green fur sprouted out all over his body, and his ears became long and pointed like a jackal's. On the crest of his head were two brilliantly white horns, like those of a goat, and loose flaps of skin hung around his hideous jaws. His gnarled fingers stretched and grew longer, with serrated nails pushing through the bloody tips to replace the human ones.

I did not move. I couldn't even breathe or blink as I watched the unspeakable apparition unfold before me. Greg's face had vanished in a rapid remolding of features, his eyes bulging in a countenance that was quickly losing all trace of humanity, until he was a feral, demonic-looking creature unlike anything I'd ever seen. His appearance was so horrendous, so foul, that the sight of it made me queasy.

_Nothing on earth even comes close to this._

Then, with a wicked cackle, he opened his slavering jaws to reveal a double set of ferociously sharp teeth that were bigger than any creature's I'd ever seen.

I wanted to pass out. I wanted to flee, but I couldn't. I was rooted to the spot, my stomach churning with butterflies.

As Greg drew closer, my eyes widened and my breath came out in short, sharp bursts. I'd never been so terrified in my life. The crippling fear seeped through every pore of my soul.

I heard a low, trickling sound.

Glancing down, I realized I'd peed my pants. Greg followed my gaze and leered horribly, watching the urine collect in a steaming hot puddle on the carpet.

He gave a coarse, guttural laugh and reached for me, sweeping me clean off my feet. The strength of his grip was terrifying, his claws so tight I thought he'd snap me in two.

And then he started talking in a deep, throaty voice that seemed to shake the room to its very foundations. "Don't worry, I'll make this quick. You won't suffer for too long, I promise. I think I'm going to enjoy this..."

His fingers tightened around my throat as he shook my body to and fro, choking me slowly, like a rag doll.

And that was when I noticed the mist: a fluorescent purple vapor had begun filtering in under the door, rapidly filling the room in a smog as thick as pea soup. Greg threw me down and took a step backwards, his demonic eyes darting right and left. Within seconds, the mist had cleared and Elliot had materialized with a grim expression on his face.

I gasped for breath, unable to comprehend what was happening.

From my crouching position on the floor, I watched in horror as Greg swung his clawed fist, narrowly missing Elliot's chin. Elliot staggered back, then caught Greg in a headlock and rammed him into the wall, smashing a hole through the plaster.

I ducked as shards of wood and masonry showered down on me like a hailstorm. Greg quickly recovered and plowed forward; he kicked out at Elliot's knee, sending him sprawling. Elliot picked himself up and threw a long punch at Greg's face, which the monstrous creature dodged. In retaliation, Greg aimed a kick at Elliot's ribs, but missed. Elliot danced back and lunged forward, knocking his opponent to the ground with a powerful uppercut.

I winced.

Elliot rained blow after blow down on Greg's head, his fists moving at the speed of lightning. I heard the pounding of flesh against flesh, a muffled, wet sound that made me feel sick. For a second, Greg's body lay motionless, as if he'd been knocked out. But Elliot knew better. He snatched up one of the dining chairs and smashed it over Greg's head just as he was attempting to stand. The body lay there motionless, covered with splinters, as Elliot took a second to catch his breath.

Then another astonishing thing happened. Greg vanished into thin air.

I rubbed my eyes and blinked, unable to believe what I'd just seen.

"Don't be fooled, he's still here," Elliot warned, glancing warily around the room. "He's pulling one of his tricks."

My heart thudded as I looked about uneasily. _Greg could be anywhere. Absolutely anywhere._

"Look out!" I screamed as one of the dining chairs lifted and whacked Elliot hard over the head, sending him stumbling into the TV. With a cry of pain, he picked up the set and hurled it in the general direction of the dining table. The TV exploded against the door and lay in a tangled heap of wires on the floor.

Staggering, Elliot took a couple of faltering steps toward me. Suddenly, I felt hot breath against my face and a vice-like grip closing around my throat as an invisible force pulled me back against something hard.

"Stay back or the girl gets it," Greg's voice hissed. "Make one move and I'll break her neck, I swear it."

Elliot hesitated, his blue eyes staring at something beyond me that neither of us could see. He tilted his head and squinted, like he was trying to work out Greg's line of vision.

"Let her go," he bellowed. "Let her go _now_."

"No, I'm having way too much fun," Greg chuckled, and I felt his grip tighten on me like the coils of an anaconda.

I sucked in a deep breath, my cheeks puffed out in excruciating pain. I couldn't see straight. "P-please, he's c-choking me. Do something!"

Elliot lunged forward and the two of them grappled on the floor with me caught in the middle. Somehow, Elliot wrenched me out and I rolled across the carpet like a skittle. Blinking rapidly, I watched from the ground as he kicked and punched and struggled with an invisible force. Then he released all his coiled-up power and swung a blow that sent the sofa smashing into the far wall, presumably with Greg attached. There was a loud groan and a piercing crack that indicated a snapped bone.

I balled up in a fetal position, not able to move or think.

I watched as Greg's body materialized from the ether, flickering on and off like a faulty hologram projection. Moaning with pain, he stumbled to his feet.

"Muzas gost," Elliot boomed. "Ra cheeba meint golab."

A stream of saliva trickled from Greg's hideous jaws and his tongue lolled to the side in an impish smile. "Ra cheeba zool gorzarn ra," he replied. Then, with a demonic growl, he ran at Elliot again, his head bowed like a bull charging at a matador.

Elliot darted back and caught Greg in a headlock. They struggled for a moment, and then in one swift move, he lifted the creature clean off the ground and, using all his strength, slammed it onto the dining table.

Glass shattered and went flying everywhere. I could hear heavy breathing and moans of pain. Then... silence.

Greg's body lay rigid on the floor, the Venus de Milo candle holder sticking up though his chest like a sword. It had pierced him when he landed. Now a gooey, translucent liquid was gushing from the wound. Greg—that thing, that creature—was dead.

I stared and stared, my lips quivering with horror. This was like some awful nightmare I couldn't wake up from.

My eyes widened as Greg's body started to disintegrate. Within seconds, all that remained of him was a pile of green ash and a heap of soiled clothing.

Greg had been slain by the Venus de Milo: the goddess of love. The same Venus he had used to worm his way into my mother's heart.

_Oh the irony._

I blinked twice and felt the blood rushing to my face. It was so unreal, I had to pinch myself to be sure that I wasn't dreaming. I felt like I'd stepped into a horror film.

"Are you okay?" Elliot asked softly, turning to me. He held out his hand.

"Stay away!" I squealed, shrinking back.

"Sam, please. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"Stay away, stay away!" I grew hysterical, my body convulsing from shock. "Don't you dare come near me."

A pained expression shadowed his lovely features. "Sam, please. Don't do this to me."

I stumbled to my feet and started backing away from him, moving toward the door. _I have to get away from him._

"Can't we talk about this?" he pleaded.

"Stay back!"

Turning sharply, I reached the door—but I'd forgotten it was shut tight. Like a fool, I tripped and fell headfirst into the rock solid mahogany, knocking myself out.

##  ‡  
FIFTEEN

Revelation

When I awoke it was the middle of the night. I had no idea how long I'd been unconscious. My head and throat hurt like hell, and my pillow was bathed in a steaming halo of sweat. Glancing beneath the covers, I saw that I was dressed in freshly washed pajamas that smelled sweetly of fabric softener.

I scanned my surroundings. The bedroom was shrouded in darkness, but parts were bathed in shards of milky lamplight that filtered in through the net curtains.

I put my hand to my forehead. It felt pretty swollen and for a moment, I forgot what had happened.

"How's your head?" asked a voice. "Feeling better?"

Startled, I looked up and saw Elliot standing by the window. For a couple of tense moments, I didn't move. I could only stare at him, my mind trying to reconcile the madness of the past few hours.

Bizarrely, the most vivid memory I had was wetting myself. I wondered how I managed to smell so clean and fresh now. And come to think of it, what had happened to the dirty tracksuit I'd been wearing?

And then I realized, with a shock, that Elliot must have cleaned me up and changed me into the pajamas. The thought of him seeing me at my most vulnerable disturbed me.

"What time is it?" I whispered hoarsely.

"Just past midnight," he replied. "You've been out cold for two hours."

"That long?" I closed my eyes again for a second. "Is my mum home yet?"

"No," he said. "She left a message on the answer machine saying all the trains were canceled so she's spending the night in Sevenoaks. She'll be back tomorrow morning." His voice brightened. "But don't worry. I've tidied the living room and left some money to re-plaster the wall and buy a new dining table. The cash is in an envelope on the sideboard."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't understand how he could sound so calm about everything. Fixing up the living room was the least of my problems right now.

And then I remembered, and everything hit me like a slap in the face, infusing me with a sense of dread that was completely overwhelming. The horrible apparition I'd seen in the living room... More memories from earlier came flooding back, like fragments from a dream, and my confusion turned to terror. I thought of Greg's foul breath, his slavering jaws, and the pure venom in those cold yellow eyes.

I let out a low groan as a sharp pain suddenly shot through my temples. Grimacing, I clutched the side of my swollen head.

Elliot moved toward the bed, his brow knotted with concern. "Why don't you let me take a look at that?"

I raised my arms as if to block a punch. "Stay back!"

"Please let me look at it," he implored. "I can help to ease your pain."

"With your 'healing hands?'" I shot back sarcastically. "Frasier was right. You're not normal."

Not normal didn't even begin to scratch the surface, but it was all I could think to say.

I squinted at him through the darkness, trying to read his expression. "What the hell was that, Elliot?" I demanded. "All that stuff with the mist. What was it, some kind of crazy magic trick? And if you tell me 'it's complicated' one more time, I'll scream," I added sternly.

He sighed deeply and crossed back to the window. "I really don't want to talk about it."

"Don't give me that!" I hissed. "I was almost killed tonight. I think I deserve to know what's going on. You owe me that at least. What _was_ that thing in the living room?" I shuddered at the memory.

"Are you sure you really want to know?" he asked softly.

"Yes!"

"Because if I tell you, there's no going back, you know. I'll be putting your life in danger, and perhaps your mother's, too. Nothing will ever be the same again."

"Do you think it could ever be the same now, after what I saw?" I asked. "Elliot, I just saw my mother's boyfriend transform into something out of a Stephen King novel. How much crazier can things get? Whatever happens, I'm screwed, so you might as well just spit it out. So I repeat, what was that thing in the living room?"

"A Gresvelt," he replied quietly.

"Come again?"

"A Gresvelt."

"What the heck is a Gresvelt?"

Turning his back to me, Elliot stared out the window and was silent for a long time. Then he started talking in a soft, low voice, as if preparing me for a bedtime story. "I don't even know where to begin. So much has happened, it's unreal."

"Just begin at the beginning," I snapped.

"Okay." He paused to take another deep breath. "Basically, it all started that night I got snatched. After they let you go, the Gruesome Twosome drove me around for a while before heading into the country somewhere. I don't remember where. I was so terrified. I was convinced they were going to murder me or something. In a way, what they had planned for me was much worse." He swallowed hard and licked his lips. I could tell this was really difficult for him, and my heart went out to him.

"Go on," I breathed. "What happened next?"

"I spent the first night sleeping in the back of the van under a dirty blanket. My captors didn't speak English, so I had no idea what they wanted from me. The next morning, we drove to a field near one of the big highways. The woman, whose name I later learned was Saura, got me to stand by the roadside, waving to passing vehicles in the hope of flagging one down. She wanted me to pretend I was in trouble, to get their attention. The first time she told me to do it, I went along with it because I thought it might be a good opportunity to escape. How wrong I was..." He shook his head sadly.

"Why? What happened?" I asked.

Elliot exhaled slowly. "Eventually, one of the drivers stopped and came over to see if I was okay. I told him my parents had been involved in a car crash and led him to the field where the Gruesome Twosome were waiting. As soon as the man got there, they jumped on him." He hesitated. "That was the first time I saw them transform into Gresvelts. I think I must have fainted or something, because I don't remember much of what happened."

"Wait a minute,' I interjected. "You're saying the Gruesome Twosome were like Greg? They were Gresvelts?"

Elliot nodded grimly.

"But what exactly _are_ they?"

He shrugged. "Monsters. Carnivores. I don't know. How do you describe the indescribable?"

"This is insane." I reflected for a second, but then said, "So finish your story. What did they do to the man?"

"What man?"

"The guy you lured to the field. Did they hurt him?"

Elliot shifted his weight awkwardly. "Like I said, I don't remember a lot. All I know is, I woke up in the van and the whole place was covered with blood. It was everywhere. The man's blood. Everywhere. I believe they'd eaten every last bit of him, even the bones..." He spoke the last part so quietly, he was barely audible.

My stomach churned and I swallowed again and again, fighting to keep from throwing up. Words couldn't express how disgusted I was, and for a few minutes I was shocked into silence.

"He was the first, but he wasn't the last," Elliot continued. "They started making me do it all the time, at least once a week. Sure, they ate other types of meat: foxes, rabbits, sheep, whatever they could get their hands on. But nothing tasted as good as human flesh. They had a craving for it that could never be sated. They used me as bait. I'd stand by the roadside, flag down a car, tell some story about being involved in an accident—and lead them to their doom. And it worked, most of the time. After all, who could resist a cute little seven-year-old in distress?"

"But I don't understand," I said. "Why did they need to use you as bait? Surely the Gruesome Twosome could have done the slayings themselves?"

He shook his head. "They didn't like going out in public. They lived in the shadows, looking for victims to feed on, and I guess they figured a human child with a sob story was the perfect ruse. I also think they got some kind of a sadistic thrill out of it, like it was all a game."

Fury rose in my chest. "Didn't you try to escape?"

"Many, many times," he said. "But they always caught up with me. They beat me, tortured me, and starved me. Sometimes, I was so weak I could barely stand. For days on end, I had nothing to eat but water and dead leaves. I mean, I wasn't exactly going to partake in their diet of human flesh, was I?"

I shivered at the thought.

He continued even more softly. "After a couple of weeks, I started to pick up bits and pieces of their language. Ghunnaic, they called it. Soon, we were able to have full conversations. It was then that the man, Forntas, warned me that, if I ever tried to escape again, he'd slaughter my whole family. He swore that, wherever I ran to, he would track me down and kill every single person dear to me. And I believed him. I mean, I was just a frightened kid, and these were really terrifying monsters. What was I supposed to do?"

"I'd already seen what they were capable of, so I didn't try to escape again after that. But I'm not gonna lie. I thought about suicide, almost every day. I couldn't live with the guilt of what they were forcing me to do. All those innocent people losing their lives. It was sick..." Elliot broke off, his lips quivering with emotion.

Tears pricked my eyes, but I managed to hold it together. For some reason, one of the lines from _Streetcar_ came to mind: _Show me a person who hasn't known any sorrow and I'll show you a superficial._

I needed to hear this out to the end. I couldn't let myself cry in front of him—at least, not yet.

"It wasn't your fault," I said, keeping my voice level. "You were just a child, Elliot. A child! You weren't responsible for what happened. They forced you to do it. You shouldn't blame yourself."

"I know," he whispered, "but it doesn't make me feel any better. I guess it's something I'll have to think about for the rest of my life."

For a moment, our hearts connected with overpowering force. I felt his pain and misery, and I wept inside for him. _This could so easily have happened to me. Had it not been for Elliot's brave sacrifice, I could have been a pawn in the Gruesome Twosome's deadly game._

The mixture of relief and guilt I felt was overwhelming. Those two emotions would forever be entwined with my memories of Elliot.

He sat at the edge of the bed. I thought I could see tears in his eyes, but perhaps that was just my imagination. In the night gloom, it was difficult to tell what was real.

When he spoke again, his voice was stronger, more composed. "We moved around the country a lot, never staying in the same place twice. During the day, we stayed in the van. At night, we slept in fields and deserted car lots. The whole country was searching for me, and the Gruesome Twosome knew only too well how careful they had to be."

Elliot's eyes had a faraway look. "But after a while, the police stopped looking for me so intensely. My captors started to relax a little. They even started sending me out to shopping malls. They disguised me in a wig and gypsy clothing, pierced my ears and forced me to wear lots of jewelry, which I hated. They wanted me to look like them, be part of their warped family. I despised them for it but I didn't have a choice. I had to learn to steal for my supper. We needed fuel and other amenities to survive, and the money I stole helped to fund that."

He scratched the side of his chin. "You know, it's funny. One time a woman recognized me from a missing child poster and tried to call the police, but I swore that I wasn't the boy everyone was searching for. In the end, she believed me, but she took a lot of convincing."

My tears flowed slowly, bitterly. "Why did you keep going back?" I whispered. "You had so many opportunities to escape."

"Haven't you listened to a word I've said?" he shot back fiercely. "I told you, they threatened to kill my family. I couldn't take the risk. And after what I'd been through, I didn't feel I deserved my parent's love, or anyone's love. I felt tainted. I actually started to believe I truly was evil—that I somehow deserved the cruelty inflicted on me."

I flinched, the words stabbing me like a poker. "Oh Elliot... I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

He shrugged. "In the end, I got so sick of everything, I just didn't care anymore. I could have walked in front of a train and not felt anything. I looked to the future, and all I could see was blackness. I felt so dead inside, like a burnt-out husk. But one thing kept me going, and that was the thought that I might one day see your face again. Hear your laugh. See your smile. That was all I had to hold on to when I was at my lowest."

"I really meant that much to you?"

"Yes. You still do."

We stared at each other a long time, my heart battering in my chest.

Eventually, I cleared my throat: "So, where are the Gruesome Twosome now?"

He fell silent, his eyes on the floor, fingers tinkering with the hem of the blanket. "One night when I was about eleven, a sentinel broke into our van and slaughtered them both. Ripped their heads clean off." He shuddered at the memory.

"What's a sentinel?" I gulped. "Some kind of guard?"

He nodded. "Put simply, a sentinel is a Gresvelt assassin."

I raised my eyebrows. "You mean, there are more of these creatures?"

"Yes, plenty more," he said.

"Jesus." I wasn't sure how I managed to remain so calm. Maybe a part of me still thought this was all a dream.

"You see," Elliot continued, "Gresvelts live by a strict code of conduct dating back centuries. Despite their carnivorous urges, they made a pact not to feed on humans. Their communities dwell on the peripheries of society, and their anonymity is only guaranteed when they keep out of humanity's way. Killing a human is strictly forbidden because it draws attention. And Gresvelts don't like attention. Living by these rules is the only way they've managed remain a secret for so long, and they don't take kindly to anyone who goes against the grain."

"And that's where the sentinels come in?" I asked.

Elliot nodded. "The sentinels are sort of like M16: highly trained assassins entrusted to keep the community safe from detection. Their job is to destroy anyone who poses a threat to peace."

"So a sentinel killed the Gruesome Twosome to stop their killing spree?"

"Right. They were loose cannons, renegades, fugitives on the run long before they ever snatched me. Their craving for human flesh had made them outcasts from the community. I found out later that a price had been put out on their heads two years before I was taken."

I felt numb. This was an awful lot to take in, and I was having trouble keeping up. "So, what happened when the sentinel found you? What did he do to you?"

"He took me to Stoneheath."

My brows furrowed with confusion. "Stoneheath?"

"It's a village in Somerset."

"Never heard of it."

"I'm not surprised. You won't find Stoneheath on any map or travel guide of the United Kingdom. It's where most of the Gresvelts in England reside, sort of like their personal Mecca. Anyway, the sentinel took me to see his leader, a man called Lord Albion, and it was decided I'd have to go to court for my fate to be decided. The next day, I sat before a group of five councilors, who ruled I could live—but only on the condition that I never spoke about the Gresvelts to anyone. I was made to swear an oath of allegiance to them. And I've kept that promise... until now."

Disbelief cracked my voice. "Is that where you've been living all these years? In Stoneheath?"

"Yeah. But I never forgot about you. Or my parents. I really missed all of you. That's why I asked the Gresvelts to let me come back to see you one last time. They were reluctant at first, but I convinced them they could trust me." His voice faded and stopped. "So I tracked you down to Elmfield. In the beginning, all I wanted was to look at you, just to see how you were doing. I honestly had no intention of making myself known. But then, well, things didn't turn out quite like I planned."

_You can say that again._

"I became Lee Weaver because, in a way, I wanted to start over. I wanted to be a different person, to have a life free from bad memories and be the perfect guy to you. For a while, I actually believed I could make it work—but no one escapes the Gresvelts. I'd sworn an oath, and they wanted to see to it that I kept my side of the bargain. I was foolish to think they would allow me to ever live a normal life."

He swallowed hard and looked at me. "The first time I knew they'd sent someone to spy on me was that night at the bowling alley with Becky. I sensed a Gresvelt presence, but I couldn't be sure. Then when that black Ford started tailing us, I was certain."

"That was a sentinel?" I frowned.

"Yep."

My mouth dropped open. I remembered all those uncanny feelings I'd had over the past few weeks, the sensation of being watched. Had that been Greg all along? Had he used his power of invisibility to spy on me and my mum in the privacy of our own home? The thought of it made me physically sick.

"Hang on," I said. "You're telling me you knew Greg was a sentinel but you just sat back and did nothing? Why didn't you warn me? That creature slithered its way into my mother's life. Into her affections. Into her _bed_. And you did nothing to stop it?"

"Now that's not fair," Elliot retorted. "It wasn't like I'd ever met your mother's boyfriend or anything. How was I supposed to know he was an assassin? Sentinels are very crafty. They find all sorts of ways to ingratiate themselves to their targets, even forging romantic relationships to get the information they need."

I shook my head. "Why did Greg try to kill me? What did I ever do to him?"

"I don't know," Elliot admitted. "Perhaps he suspected you knew too much. Perhaps he thought I'd broken my vow of silence and confided in you and he wasn't prepared to take a chance."

"So because of that, I deserved to die?" My eyes narrowed. "How exactly did you know Greg was coming to kill me tonight? Were you following me?"

He shifted awkwardly. "This morning, I had a strong feeling you were in danger and I had an urge to drive up to your house. Even if I couldn't talk to you, I needed to be sure that you were okay. Then when I got outside, I could feel your spirit calling to me. I knew you were in trouble." His tone became low, apologetic. "But you're right. I should have done more to protect you and your mum. I shouldn't have allowed things to go as far as they did. All I can say is, I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

I became incandescent with rage. "Sorry doesn't cut it. I could have been _killed_. My mother could have been _killed_."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for things to turn out this way. I wasn't supposed to stay in Elmfield for so long."

"Then why did you?"

He hesitated. "Because of you."

The words stopped my breath and my heart. I looked away from him.

"I saw you and all my good intentions went out the window. I couldn't think straight. Thoughts of you consumed my every waking moment. I never, ever expected you to be so... perfect."

"I don't want to hear this," I said through gritted teeth.

"But it's true. You need to hear this, Sam. Being near you made me so crazy, I couldn't breathe. I was like a mad person. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. I wanted you so badly, it became an obsession. I had to be close to you, no matter what, and I didn't care about the consequences. But I see now that I was wrong. I've been very selfish. All I can do is beg you to forgive me. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

I felt a piercing stab of despair. "Please don't say these things! You're only making it worse."

Two days ago, I'd have given anything to hear him say those words—yet now it didn't feel right. Not after everything that had happened.

Elliot's eyes glinted in the darkness, burning through to the depths of my soul. "You have no idea how much I love you," he said softly. "Right from the beginning, it's always been you. My first, my only. And despite everything I've been through—the pain, the torment—I'd gladly endure it all a thousand times over if it meant being with you."

I had begun hyperventilating. I threw back the duvet and headed for the door, but in a flash he was standing in front of me, blocking my exit.

"Move out my way!"

"Where are you going?"

"I need some water. That a problem?"

"I'm not letting you go anywhere till you've heard me out. There's so much more I need to say."

"I don't want to hear it! Nothing you say can justify putting my mum's life at risk. I'll never forgive you for that." My voice rose an octave. "Why did you have to come back, anyway? Why couldn't you let me live in blissful ignorance? I'll never get over this. Never! My life's ruined. Why couldn't you just leave me be?"

"You know why!"

Something inside me snapped then. With a battle cry, I lunged for him, aiming a blow at his head. He ducked and I tripped, ramming my fist into the wall. It felt like every bone in my hand was broken, but I took another swipe at him, missing again. Then he grabbed me around the waist and, in one fluid move, had me up against the wall with my arms pinned above my head.

My heart thudded erratically against my rib cage. His strength was astounding. It felt like if I made one wrong move, my life would be over.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me that you hate me."

I couldn't. And I couldn't meet his eyes, either. I was too afraid of what I might see.

"Say it!" he roared.

Trembling, I opened my mouth to speak. And then he was kissing me. Deep, hungry kisses that robbed me of speech. Kisses that stole my breath away. Kisses so ravenous, so fierce, I felt like I was losing my mind. It was like the sound had been turned down on everything; or I was drowning. We kissed and kissed until my lips ached. We kissed until I couldn't take any more. And then, when I finally came to my senses, I realized my mouth was swollen.

I stared up at him, awestruck.

My throat had gone dry, my body weak with longing. No words could describe the feeling of euphoria pulsating through me at that moment. And then, all at once, I knew I would give anything to be with him like this forever.

Fighting back sobs, Elliot wrenched himself away and sprang to the farthest corner of the room. Consumed by shadow, his body started violently convulsing, his back growing more pronounced and hunched. Although I couldn't see his face, the rapid lengthening of ears and hair sprouting out his head told me all I needed to know.

_He was one of them._

"Oh my god," I breathed. "You've got to be kidding..."

"Don't look at me!" he bellowed, his voice an unearthly rasp. "Bring me a blanket from over there."

With quivering fingers, I tore the fluffy bed throw off the mattress and tossed it over to him. Hastily, he covered his face and neck with it, but still refused turn around.

Facing the wall, he made a low growling sound that sent goose bumps up and down my arms.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Do I look all right to you?" he snapped. "Damn, this is all your fault."

"How is it my fault?"

"You tempted me with those lips. I couldn't control myself anymore."

"I don't understand."

"This is what happens whenever I get aroused. I transform. I hate not being able to control it."

_Shit! This is insane._

Now I finally understood. Everything was starting to fit into place. This was the reason he'd always been so cool and reticent toward me. This was why he'd kept me at an emotional distance. He feared his longing would trigger a transformation.

And then I thought of something else. "But Greg was intimate with my mum loads of times. They did more than just kiss. Why didn't he change?"

"Because he's older than me," Elliot sighed. "It takes years of practice and restraint for Gresvelts to learn how to control the metamorphosis. Any strong emotion—lust, anger, fear—can trigger it. I'm still young, so it's gonna take me a while to get the hang of it. But I'm working on it. Believe me I am."

"My god, what did they do to you?" I felt the tears rising again. "How did they make you one of them?"

"I didn't exactly have a choice, you know," he replied bitterly. "When I went to court, the councilors gave me two options: join them or be executed at dawn. Well, needless to say, a frightened eleven-year-old doesn't take much persuasion."

"How horrible!" I breathed. "They're barbarians."

He shrugged his shoulders, his voice muffled beneath the blanket. "After the verdict, Lord Albion performed a secret ceremony to claim me."

"Claim you?"

"Yes. That's Gresvelt speak for turning someone."

"What happened at the ceremony? What did it involve?"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

I fell silent.

For long moments, we remained frozen in our positions: Elliot hunched in the corner, his face concealed in the blanket, and me leaning against the wall, my heart beating like it wanted to explode. If it wasn't for the darkness, I would probably have been much more terrified. But after a while, my fear was replaced by a morbid curiosity to know what he looked like under there. Was his face as hideous as Greg's had been? Would it make me feel sick? Would it make me faint?

"Why do you keep watching me?" he demanded, still keeping his back to me. "It's not very polite, you know."

"You always stare at me," I countered.

"That's different."

"What else am I supposed to look at? The furniture?"

"Just stop it, okay? I don't like it."

I looked at the floor. "Can I ask you something?"

"If you must," he sighed.

"Was Frasier telling the truth about you healing him? That night at the party, did you really heal his leg and fix his eyesight?"

Elliot hesitated. "Yes, I did."

I bit my lip. "But how? I don't understand."

"Many Gresvelts have the ability to heal sickness," he explained. "I don't know where the power comes from. I guess it's just something they're born with. Gresvelts also have the power to inflict illness but," he hastened to add," I've never abused my power in that way. I've only ever used it to do good."

"So Frasier was right," I said. "All that holy man stuff is true."

He nodded weakly.

Suddenly everything was falling into place: Frasier's miraculous recovery, the rapid healing of Elliot's wounds after the stabbing... His otherworldly gifts had been responsible for it all.

Then something else hit me.

The night of Taffin Carter's party, Becky had complained of a terrible migraine. It was so bad it had prevented her from attending, leaving the path clear for Elliot to spend time alone with me. A coincidence or something more sinister? I wasn't sure. Could it be Elliot had used his power to inflict an illness on her so that he could get me all to himself? I couldn't be certain, but the thought was more than a little worrying.

"How long's this thing gonna last?" I asked finally.

"How the hell should I know?"

Panic set in. _What if he stays like this? What if the morning comes and he's still a Gresvelt? My mum will have a heart attack!_

"What are we going to do?" I said quietly. "We can't spend all night here. What if you don't change back? What then?"

"Please, I'm thinking..." Suddenly, he sprang forward, grabbed my arm, and marched me toward the bedroom door.

"Wait! Where are we going?"

Gripping my hand so tightly I thought he'd break it, he didn't answer, but continued dragging me down the hall.

I gasped as a beam of light brushed his hand and I saw that the fingers locked in mine were covered in thick black hair, the knuckles rough and beast-like.

I shivered. "Stop, wait!"

But my cries felt on deaf ears. Within seconds, we were outside and climbing into his Lotus.

"Can you please tell me what's going on?" I shouted.

"We're going to Stoneheath," he replied, wrapping the blanket more tightly so his face was completely obscured. "I need to talk to Lord Albion. We need to make peace with him, to stop him from sending any more sentinels after us."

I shook my head. "No way! I'm not going to Stoneheath. That's like jumping from the frying pan into the fire. Can't you just leave me here?"

"No. It isn't safe for you to be left alone," he said. "Now that you know the truth, both our lives are in danger. There might be a hundred other sentinels lying in wait. The only safe option is for you to stick as close to me as possible, so I can protect you."

"I can't just up and leave," I protested. "What will I tell Mum? How on earth am I gonna explain all of this to her?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he growled. "Right now the most important thing is to keep you safe. To hell with everything else."

I made a face, peering down at my pajamas and bare feet. "Can't I at least get changed and put some shoes on? It's the middle of the night, for Pete's sake. I can't go out like this!"

"This is no time for vanity. We can get you clothes in Stoneheath."

Without another word, he started the engine. Bracing myself, I buckled up my seatbelt, a cold deadness growing inside.

"Are you sure about this?" My voice trembled.

"No. But what choice do we have?"

And then we drove down the street and out of Elmfield, and I wondered if I would live to see another day.

THE STORY CONTINUES IN THE STUNNING SEQUEL

SUPER DARK 2

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## Thank You!

Thanks so much for reading this book and trusting me to entertain you for a couple of hours. If you enjoyed _Super Dark_ I'd be thrilled to hear from you.

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Tanith Morse

## About the Author

Tanith Morse grew up in Wandsworth, south London. From a young age she developed a great love of horror films and gothic romances. Her favorite director is Tim Burton and her favorite authors include Charlotte Bronte, Stephenie Meyer and Lucy Christopher. When she isn't writing, Tanith enjoys directing short films for the festival circuit and looking after her cat, Mambo. An avid tea drinker, Tanith can be found hanging out in cozy London cafes in search of new brews to tease her taste buds. _Super Dark_ is her first YA novel.

## Also by Tanith Morse

Super Dark 2

Super Dark 3

Super Dark 3 Extended & Uncut Edition

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