 
# AN EQUAL MEASURE

# By

# Bliss Addison

# Published By Bliss Addison

#

# All rights reserved.

# Copyright © 2010 Bliss Addison

# First Electronic Publication August 2010

# Second Electronic Publication May 2012

#

# *Previously Titled Foxy and

# Previously Published by Write Words, Inc.*

This book is a work of fiction based entirely on the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental. Real places mentioned in the book are depicted fictionally and are not intended to portray actual times or places. All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

#### Smashwords Edition

#### License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

##### Other Books by Bliss Addison:

#####

##### A Battle of Wills (Shannon Murphy Series – Book I)

##### With Malicious Intent (Shannon Murphy – Book II)

##### Restless Souls

##### Wolfe, She Cried

##### Murder at the Villa Maria-Sedona Retirement Home

##### A Waning Moon

##### Deadly Serum

##### Prophesy

##### One Millhaven Lane

##### Sleight of Hand

##### Watching Over Her

##### A Silver Lining (The Monahans – Book I)

##### A Little Rain Must Fall (The Monahans – Book II)

##### A Mistaken Belief (The Monahans – Book III)

Summary:

(A Novella (Humor/YA)

Journalist Josie Fox lives a solitary life. When her half-sister Amy crashes her beloved car and suffers severe head trauma, later lapsing into a coma, Josie rushes to her side. Amy's neurosurgeon is not optimistic in his prognosis. Josie is then faced with the more than likely possibility that Amy will never regain consciousness. Josie investigates the car accident and learns, much to her dismay, that Amy had tried to take her own life.

Josie uses her investigative skills and uncovers the reason for Amy choosing to commit suicide – her boyfriend reneged on his promise to marry her after his divorce became final.

While Josie sits at Amy's bedside praying for her recovery she comes up with a plan to pay back Amy's boyfriend for his callous disposal of her sister.

Josie has her revenge and a lot more she hasn't bargained on.

###### Acknowledgement

A special thank you to 'Christine' for pointing out what I did not see.

_Contents:_

Chapter One – The Accident

Chapter Two – Plan of Attack

Chapter Three – Into Gear

Chapter Four – The Seduction

Chapter Five – Amy Wakes

Chapter Six – The Apology

Chapter Seven – Panic Attack

Chapter Eight – Lost Minutes

Chapter Nine – Police Escort and Murder

Chapter Ten – Earth to Josie

Chapter Eleven – Jackson and Trish

Chapter Twelve – Dinner with Jackson and Madeleine Fairweather

Chapter Thirteen – Guilty or Not Guilty

Chapter Fourteen – Thump Ding Thump

Chapter Fifteen – Safe Haven in Any Storm

Chapter Sixteen – Big Bertha

Chapter Seventeen – Holing Up at Lou's

Chapter Eighteen – Thrice Lucky

# Chapter One

In Devil's Creek, folks knew me as Josie Fox. In Freedom, a mid-size city thirty miles northwest of the Creek, I was Joe Fox. After all, who'd read a sports column written by a girl. I didn't venture into the city often, twice a month at the most. For the remaining days, I holed up in my little cottage, writing my column. As either Joe or Josie, I stood five-two, weighed one hundred and ten pounds, and the color of my eyes – brown – matched my hair. My editor quipped my tongue could cut through granite. He was right. My social skills were atrocious, but not only that, I was an unremarkable woman.

Currently, I was in Freedom.

Two nights ago, at around ten-fifteen, I received a call from traffic cop Curtis Dempsey of the Freedom Police Department. He sadly informed me my half-sister Amy Lenihan was in a single vehicle mishap and was presently being prepped for neurosurgery.

After throwing a few things in a carry-all, I called my boss to explain my intended absence and to arrange a pinch writer for my column. I left for Freedom then, making the forty-five minute drive in thirty.

Amy survived the surgery, but sank into a coma. Her prognosis was not good.

The next two days, I spent at her side, waiting and praying. In one of the frequent intervals where I was requested to leave while health care professionals examined her, I'd made two telephone calls – the first to arrange a bedsitter and the other, to Officer Dempsey to obtain more details on the accident. Amy was an excellent driver. I couldn't believe someone didn't cause the accident and declared as much to the patrol cop.

"What happened?" I'd asked.

"Are you familiar with Blind Man's Curve?" he asked.

"I am," I said, having spent two-thirds of my life there. "After twenty-six years, Amy would be, too."

"That's strange," he said.

"What is?"

"There were no brake marks. It's as though she came into the turn unaware of the danger."

"The road was dry at the time of the accident?"

"Uh-huh."

"If she had tried to stop, there would be evidence on the asphalt," I said more to myself than Dempsey. "You checked the brakes on her car?" I still couldn't believe something or someone hadn't caused the accident.

"Yeah."

I said what he was thinking. "You're suggesting my sister attempted suicide." I shook my head. The movement jarred loose another question. "Was the car a rental?"

I could hear paper shuffling on his end of the phone.

"No. The car's registered to her. A 1969 robin egg blue Mach 1. It's a write-off, by the way."

I came to the conclusion I'd desperately tried to avoid making. Amy had tried to kill herself. She loved the Mustang and gave it more care and love than some mothers did their children, which went to show her state of mind that night.

After bidding the cop farewell, my thoughts turned to Amy. The sister I knew would not take her life.

Now here I was, snooping around her apartment, hoping to uncover the reason she wanted to die. I looked under the sofa – like dust balls would tell me why an upbeat and chronically happy person like Amy would choose to end her life. They didn't, so I ran down the short list of possible reasons for suicide: job; health; depression; addiction – alcohol, gambling, drugs; a man. Since Amy was an exemplary and healthy employee who didn't suffer from depression or any addiction, the most likely culprit was a love gone wrong. I still couldn't see Amy becoming so distraught over a failed relationship she wanted to kill herself.

I looked around for her address book, but couldn't find it. She probably had it in her handbag, which was now in her personal effects at the hospital.

Her apartment was neat and tidy, everything in its place.

Her computer was password protected. Why, I didn't know. A friend, a computer guru, had shown me how to get past the safeguard, but I knew where to draw line on snooping.

I moved on to her telephone and checked the last number called. She phoned for Chinese food three nights ago. We shared a passion for take-in. The menu didn't matter as long as we didn't need to cook.

Amy and I didn't speak to each other every day, but we kept in close touch either by text messaging or email, never letting thirty days pass without a personal visit. It was as though any longer and the distance would grow wider. It was an unspoken pact between us. We were all the family we had. Sometimes, nearing month's end, she'd appear at my door, worn out from a buying trip or just plain worn out. We'd drink wine and roast marshmallows in the fireplace and reminisce. Come morning, Amy would hop into her rental or Mach 1, whichever she was driving at the time, blow me a kiss, mouth 'I love you' and leave as abruptly as she'd arrived twelve hours before. That's my Amy. Now, the task was on me to find the person or reason that wiped the smile from her face and took away her reason for living.

"Knock, knock," a female voice said behind me. Like I'd been caught with my hand in my mother's purse, I whirled around. Amy's landlady, a woman who I never met but recognized from Amy's description – short, round and dimple-cheeked, stared at me from the doorway.

"Hello," I said, smiling to let her know I was a friend and not a burglar. "I'm Josie. Amy's sister." Amy told me they often chatted and I knew my sister would have mentioned me in conversation. I waited for Marie Palter to remember. She regarded me through narrowed eyes. I knew the minute she placed me. Her face burst with friendliness.

"I heard someone rummaging around up here and thought it was Amy. Sometimes, we have tea after she gets home from a trip."

"You don't know," I said.

"Don't know what?" She brought her fingers to her lips then, opened her eyes wide like she'd had a revelation – an upsetting one. Before she could assume the worst, I said, "Amy's had an accident. She's in the hospital."

"Will she be all right?" she asked.

I saw that Marie genuinely cared for Amy, which didn't surprise me. Anyone who knew her did. Amy was that kind of person.

"It's too soon to tell. I'm optimistic." I still would not admit the truth, the more than likely possibility that Amy would never recover from her injury. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"I'd like something stronger, if you don't mind. Amy has a bottle of whiskey in the cabinet above the fridge."

"Whiskey?" Amy never drank hard liquor.

"She bought it for me," Marie said, artfully telling me what I needed to know.

I nodded. It sounded like Amy. She was always gracious and attentive to the needs and desires of others.

"How do you like it?" I asked, looking at the cabinets.

"Straight up," she said. "I'll get it."

While water for tea boiled, I sat with Marie at the kitchen table and proceeded to question her about Amy. "When was the last time you saw her?"

"The night before last. I noticed her taking her car from the garage."

"Amy told me how kind you were to let her use your garage." I pictured her behind the wheel of her Mach 1 and smiled. "She loves that car."

Marie looked at me.

"She loves you more."

Amy and I were all we had. Maybe soon I'd be the only one left. Tears clouded my vision. If I started crying, I wouldn't stop. I stood and walked to the counter and unplugged the kettle. I filled the teapot with water and threw in two teabags, figuring Marie liked her tea as much as she liked a nip.

"Was Amy seeing anyone? Seriously, I mean." I brought the teapot, milk and sugar and two cups to the table.

"There was someone." Marie nodded. "He owns an antique store. I think he's in the middle of a divorce."

"Amy never told me about him." I grimaced. "She knew I would be against the relationship."

"He was here that night."

"The night of her accident?"

"Yes. They had a terrible fight." She looked at me. "I didn't make a habit of listening to her conversations."

I put my hand over hers and squeezed. "I'm sure you didn't. Walls are thin in these old homes." I filled our cups with tea.

"They are." She poured a generous shot of whiskey in her cup and sipped.

"Do you know what they were fighting about?"

"He'd promised Amy they'd get married after his divorce became final. From what I heard, he changed his mind." She looked at me. "Amy had been a play thing for him."

I thought so, too. Love hurt, but rejection, lies and deceit could cause someone to do something they wouldn't normally contemplate. Like killing themselves.

More and more, Amy's accident looked like attempted suicide. Why didn't she come to me? I would have told her no man's love was worth her life.

Amy's lover obviously possessed a great power over her. The worst, though, was that he'd known his effect on her. How could he not?

My temper flared. I couldn't let him get away with what he'd done to my sister.

Soon he would know how it felt to be deceived and manipulated.

Minutes after Marie left, I fingered the business card for Carlisle Antiques sitting atop the hall table. I figured it was as good a place as any to put myself into play.

Twenty minutes later, I was strolling down East Avenue in downtown Freedom, feeling like a minus-one among the businessmen and women dressed in tailored suits and designer dresses. I tucked my T-shirt tighter into the waistband of my department store jeans and lifted my chin. If I didn't bring attention to myself, no one would notice me. I'm foxy, I told myself. The mantra served me well for all of two seconds. There were no two ways of looking at me. I was out of place and underdressed. If I wanted to make the man who broke my sister's heart pay, which I did, I would need to play and dress the part of a sophisticate. First, though, I needed to check out his antique store, which would help me determine how to handle the attack on his heart.

Where I've been done wrong, I went for the jugular. The practice wouldn't serve me well with Carlisle. I needed to apply patience and discretion, two qualities anyone who knew me wouldn't say I possessed in abundance.

I had a moment of apprehension, thinking I overestimated my ability, then I remembered the cause. I needed to do this; besides, how difficult could seduction be?

On holey Reeboks, I strode over the cobblestone street toward the sign marking Carlisle Antiques. Even from the distance, I recognized the opulence of the establishment. I wasn't intimidated, though. My mission was to take down this Carlisle fellow and take him down I would.

#  Chapter Two

From the several minutes I peeked through the front window of Carlisle Antiques, I deduced the brawny man dressed in a three-piece expensively tailored navy suit walking through the high-priced antique pieces was the insect who broke Amy's heart.

I could see how she'd fall for him. He fit her type to the letter – handsome, educated, refined and financially set. Yes, I gleaned all of this from the sidewalk.

Throughout my life, I've had some dastardly things done to me and because of it I could read people like I would a bio. I came away from the window knowing several things. The one which struck me most was that I needed a top-to-bottom make-over if I wanted to interest a man like Carlisle.

Clothes wouldn't present a problem. Amy and I were the same size, though our tastes in clothing were miles apart. For her, I would sacrifice comfort for glamour. I'd do whatever it took for the cause.

Hair and make-up were something else. I usually dined on the back porch of my cottage with squirrels, rabbits and deer for company. They never complained about my pale cheeks, dry lips and plain eyes, so I never prettied up for them.

Before I tested the skill of a beautician, I went to visit Amy.

The John Howard was located next to the YMCA on a side street off Charlotte, the main artery in downtown Freedom. There was talk in the capitol about building a new hospital, one better equipped to meet today's needs for patient care. So far, it was just that – talk. Many citizens wanted to keep it that way. I had been one of those people, and still was, and now that I frequented the hospital daily, I appreciated the amenities the downtown hospital afforded me. If I needed quick, inexpensive and convenient lodging, the Y was next door. If I wanted something with frills, hotels such as The Stratta were within walking distance. The shopping district was two short blocks away. For reading material, the library was across the street and, for those who needed a break, the museum, located on the corner of nearby Pine and Coburg Streets, provided a welcome diversion to those grieving and waiting, like me.

Given the enormous number of pros for keeping the hospital in its present location, Freedom citizens had questioned the reason for the government's proposal. An investigative journalist – not me – uncovered that the mayor of our fair city owned four hundred acres of land ripe for cultivation, coincidentally where the government intended to erect the new hospital.

It seemed we all had our share of agendas and ulterior motives.

Take what I was doing, for instance. I should feel guilt for my plot to intentionally hurt another human being. That I don't, didn't guilt me either.

There would be time to repent later.

I hurried through the hallway, taking a moment to smile at the patients who turned their heads to look into the corridor upon hearing my footsteps, waiting perhaps for a visitor, a nod, or a kind word to brighten their day.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed a white-coated presence dash around a corner and thought it might be Amy's doctor. He had a habit of running the other way when he saw me.

I caught up to him outside a door marked 'Hospital Staff Only'.

"Dr. Coville. May I have a word?" I called at his back.

He increased his pace.

I broke into a sprint. Five seconds later, I toed his heels. He had no choice but to stop when I grabbed hold of his white coat.

He turned and sighed. "What is it now, Miss Fox?" he asked, removing his glasses and massaging his eyes.

So, he had noticed me. I thought so. Dr. Coville and I hadn't hit it off. He'd said I wanted a miracle and gave me no reason to hope for my sister's recovery. He wished he could, but didn't want me to believe in something which wasn't going to happen. I said I understood. I didn't. False hope was better than no hope. Besides, I wouldn't turn my back on a miracle happening. I was a romantic in only that way, which reminded me how out of my depth I was playing a seductress.

"Has there been any change with my sister?" I hated to harp on the subject, but if I didn't ask, no one would say.

"None."

"Not one little bit? Her temp is the same as it was yesterday – slightly elevated? Not a fraction more, not a fraction less? And the same goes for her blood pressure?" I sounded like a lunatic. Judging from the expression on the doctor's face, he thought I was.

"Well," he said, peering at the floor, "there has been one little change."

My hopes took a giant leap. "Really?" I asked, smiling like an ape.

"Don't get your hopes up. It's not a significant change."

Instantly, I became suspicious he was telling me what I wanted to hear. I hung my head. "I understand," I said, without asking what the miniscule change was, fictitious or not. "Have a good day." I turned and headed for Amy's room.

She was the same as I'd left her. Her eyes were closed, her long lashes fanning her high cheekbones. At her sides, her arms lay still.

I took her left hand in mine and sat. "Hi, hon. It's me again. You really have to wake up soon. I'm creating quite a disturbance. Your doctor is scared of me. In fact, he's probably preparing a strait jacket for me right now. I fired the bedsitter Angels of Mercy assigned to you. Hopefully, the new one will be more attentive to you and less attentive to wiggling her ass in front of the doctors."

I brushed her bangs to the side, like she preferred them. At one time, heads were shaven for Amy's type of surgery. Not so anymore. When Amy woke, she'd be relieved her hair hadn't been buzzed off.

"Shamus and Shawn say, 'Hi'. I told them you had an accident. They wish you well. I left some nuts on the porch for them before I left. I knew you'd want me to, even though they can fend for themselves. They answer to their names, now." I sat, remembering the first time she'd seen the squirrels.

"Did you see the size of their cojones?" she'd asked.

"No," I said, keeping a stern face.

Amy gawked at me and said, "How could you not notice? They're quite impressive." She giggled.

Bringing my thoughts back to the present, I turned sober, realizing how much I'd miss Amy. My life would be empty without her.

Amy couldn't die.

She just couldn't.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed someone hovering outside in the corridor. Using my fingers as a tissue, I rubbed the tears from my eyes, walked to the door and peered out. "Ah," I said to Beulah Watson, Amy's day shift nurse.

Beulah and I hadn't hit it off, either. I'd simply inquired whether there was any change in Amy's condition. There was no need for her snarky reply, "I don't know your sister from a hole in the ground." I pointed out then she knew Amy was my sister, so she wasn't just any hole in the ground, to which she replied, "Miss Fox, the entire hospital knows you're her sister!"

I followed Nurse Watson into the room and watched her record Amy's readings – vital signs, I concluded.

"Any improvement?" I asked sweetly.

"She's stable."

Stable, but no improvement, I took that to mean.

Beulah checked Amy's shunt for the IV. Apparently satisfied with the connection, she let Amy's hand fall to the bed.

I didn't care what the 'entire hospital' said or thought about me, I wouldn't let Beulah or anyone mistreat Amy. "You're handling my sister very roughly," I said.

"She doesn't feel a thing," she responded, double-checking the IV drip.

Beulah's cavalier attitude toward patient care and lack of social skills – I should talk – rated a two on a scale of ten.

Perhaps I expected too much. Not long ago a sixty-eight-year old man died from starvation while recuperating in the hospital from pneumonia. I didn't want anything like that happening to Amy. I was responsible for her. I was her only living relative. I let her live her life and didn't butt in, not even when she would have benefited from my wisdom. This was something different, though. If I didn't butt in and fight for Amy, no one would. I couldn't sit back and believe Amy would be in capable and compassionate hands in the hospital. Cruelty, intentional or not, occurred all the time, even in hospitals and more than realized. It was left to me to ensure Amy would not become a statistic, or the young woman someone talked about – The Lenihan girl. You remember her? A while back.... she died because no one cared.

I stubbed my finger in the air and took on a haughty attitude. "My sister is comatose not a paraplegic. If you read her chart, you'd know it. Besides which, a patient's condition does not give you the right to treat them like they're rutabagas. I want you off my sister's case."

"You don't have the authority – "

"No?" I came to within two inches of her face. "Exchange Amy for another nurse's patient – hopefully one with compassion who is attentive to the needs of the sick – or I'll have this matter brought up with the board. The director is a personal friend of my boss, the managing editor of The Freedom Times & Transcript."

She huffed. "Nurse Edith Robinson will take over Amy's care."

"Be thankful I'm not reporting you to the ANA."

The incident would stay in my memory forever. I hoped to share the occurrence with Amy one day soon. Right now, I had payback to deliver. Before I left to find a Freedom telephone directory, I smoothed Amy's blankets around her and fluffed her pillows, all the while praying for her recovery. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

I knew bupkiss about beauty salons, so choosing one came down to marketing design. At the payphone in an alcove outside Amy's room, I searched the yellow pages. The First Lady caught my eye, mainly because the woman modeling a trendy do in the full page advertisement reminded me of Amy – blue-eyed, perky nose, full lips, and dimpled chin. Luckily, the salon was within walking distance. I memorized the telephone number.

Back at Amy's bedside, I phoned the First Lady. By chance, Vanessa had a cancellation and could take me if I could be there in five minutes.

I left a note for the new bedside sitter that I'd call in an hour and placed the prepaid cell phone I'd purchased for her predecessor across the paper. I kissed Amy on the forehead, not goodbye but farewell until tomorrow, and ran from her private quarters into the corridor.

An empty elevator car opened the instant I stepped in front of it. The car shot to the lobby, where I burst through the open doorway and onto the street.

I made it to the salon with one minute to spare. Panting for breath, I stood in reception, looking more like a psycho than a client intent upon a make-over. "Josie Fox," I said between gasps for air. "I have an appointment with Vanessa."

The hostess, a redhead too beautiful to sit a desk for any reason, ran a perfectly manicured nail down the page of appointments. "Ah yes, here you are. You're lucky. Katrina van den Haag never misses her weekly appointment."

I raved my good fortune and sucked up a little. "I've heard so many good things about the First Lady. Everyone says your establishment is the finest in the city."

The hostess, obviously a trained professional, smiled and escorted me to an area enclosed within silk screens. She invited me to sit. I sank onto the richly textured leather, admiring the lush tan color and losing myself in the luxury. Music – Mozart, I thought – came faintly through speakers expertly camouflaged in lush ferns placed at strategic places throughout the area. I noticed the absence of chatter, ringing telephones, laughter, sounds commonplace to a beauty parlor. The elite laughed. I knew they did. I listened intently for hushed voices, a manner of speaking I assumed the rich shared. Nothing. No sounds of happiness, sadness or displeasure. I closed my eyes to think on the subject and didn't become aware of Vanessa until she stood before me. Without a thought to decorum, I yelped my surprise. I felt silly, sure my lack of sophistication was written across my forehead in letters that spelled 'hick'.

I said the first thing that came to mind. "Howdy."

All business, my 'handler' opened my dossier. Imagine, me who kept an eighty-year-old barber in Devil's Creek in business, had a file at a beauty salon. And not just any beauty salon, but one frequented weekly by Madame Katrina van den Haag, who I assumed was one of the elite of Freedom. Amy would be impressed. First, though, she'd snicker at the absurdity. The thought made me want to laugh. I remembered where I was and considered that guffaw-ing was probably frowned upon in this enterprise that probably only the affluent of Freedom frequented on a regular basis. I should feel blessed.

Vanessa ran her fingers through my hair. I wouldn't have noticed her grimace if I hadn't expected it. Her reaction was not one I never experienced before and took no offence.

"Pretty bad, huh?" I said, unintentionally sounding prissy-missy like.

"How much time do you have?" Vanessa asked, frowning at the frizzed ends of my hair.

I didn't know what she meant. "Excuse me?" I said.

"Are you free for the remainder of the day?" she asked.

"It's that bad, huh?" I waited for her answer, but she didn't respond. Obviously, the outrageous condition of my hair was not something to joke about. I opted then for directness and more suck-up.

"I see you have a vision for a hairstyle for me." She rewarded my perception with a smile. "All right, then. You have license to do with it what you will, with one stipulation."

"What's that?" she asked, like the floor had disappeared from beneath her feet.

"That you leave it long enough to tie back." Vanessa's cocked eyebrow prompted me to add, "My schedule gets pretty hectic at times. I don't always have time to fuss with my hair."

Vanessa nodded, like she understood. I knew she didn't. What was important to one might not be important to another. Just as I wasn't an image of loveliness, Vanessa wasn't a slump. Heck, she probably came into the world applying lip gloss. I could only wish for such self-confidence.

I knew Vanessa's type. Long ago, I stopped being envious of women like her. I was what I am, and no amount of make-up or fashion would alter the fact.

Suddenly, another operator, this one wearing lavender scrubs, appeared at my side. Her stealth arrival startled me. I searched the floor for a hidden foot buzzer. Next, I checked Vanessa's frock for a call button. Again, nothing. I figured they must have built in radar.

Lavender Scrubs placed her hands at the nape of my neck and swept her fingers upward through my hair. She removed her hands. My hair stayed in place.

All three of us cocked our brows.

Lavender Scrubs ushered Vanessa to a corner where she probably issued her instructions on the best method to handle my case. She looked over her shoulder at me, perhaps hoping to see an empty chair. I winked. She averted her eyes.

Moments later, Lavender Scrubs left the strategy room as covertly as she'd arrived.

"What's the verdict?" I asked, injecting cheerfulness in my voice. It occurred to me Vanessa had not allowed enough time for my do-over.

"Step this way, please," she said. "Carlo will assist in the prep work."

The words "prep work" momentarily froze me in place.

## Chapter Three

Through the first and second shampoos and the subsequent mineral bath for my hair, I kept telling myself I did this for Amy.

For my sweet sister Amy.

I had never been professionally, or otherwise, slapped, pampered, massaged, plucked or tucked before. I liked it. I was made up like a starlet. I had to admit – I looked hot. At least, I thought so. With a little luck, I could pull off this seduction.

Not once did any of my handlers issue a word of reprimand for my lack of care to my nails, skin and hair. It was as though I challenged their abilities, and they appreciated the opportunity to test their skills. The attention made me feel special, like I was worth their hard work.

The bill bulged my eyes, but only briefly, until I remembered the problems I'd presented them with and the level of their professionalism. No doubt I'd go down in the history of the First Lady as its most challenging client.

I left the spa at six-ten, my shopping bag filled with items that Vanessa, Carlos, Penelope, Candace and Tiffany guaranteed would maintain my hair, skin and nails in the manner which our Creator had intended. My reflection in store windows promoted the high level of expertise of First Lady, but the person staring back wasn't me. I could never be that woman with the smoky eyes and trendy inverted bob. In my heart and soul, I was unmaterialistic and laid-back and if it weren't for Amy's cause, I would never pretend to be anything else. This was only temporary. The red highlights would wear out. The make-up and mascara would wash off and the sleek straight do would grow long. Once Carlisle paid for his callous disposal of my sister, I'd be back to my old ways faster than I could turn around counter-clockwise.

In the few minutes between my pedicure and manicure, I'd called the prepaid cell. Linda, Amy's new bedside sitter, had answered on the first ring, which I took as a sign of her efficiency. I was tempted to call again to check on her and my sister's condition. If I did, Linda might resent the intrusion and distrust. I called Carlisle Antiques instead and learned the shop was open until eight. Again, everything seemed to fall into place. With a nod to kismet, I tucked my cell back in the pocket of my jeans and continued on my way down the sidewalk.

Several minutes later, I let myself into Amy's apartment with the key under the pot of marigolds gracing a corner of the larger than normal stoop. I remembered reading that marigolds kept away flies and mosquitoes. Amy probably read the same article. She loved the sun, but hated the insects that flocked to her sweet blood.

I had no idea how to dress for a seduction, but figured something in Amy's wardrobe would suit my purpose.

From the bedroom doorway, my gaze lingered on the double clothes closet before I strode to the five-drawer armoire. Knowing the middle drawer – the one easily accessed and opened most – would hold Amy's close-to-the-skin undies, I checked what she kept in the other drawers. She reserved the top one for slips, chemises and silk stockings. Nothing to blush about there. I didn't know what I expected to find. Amy was feminine, not kinky. The second from the top stored her frilly, girly stuff. I turned my nose up at them until I remembered the cause and reminded myself to do whatever it took to give Carlisle what he'd given Amy.

I yanked open the bottom drawer and got the surprise of my life.

Oh Amy, what were you up to, sweetie?

I fell to my knees and took the whip, handcuffs, spiked dog collar and mask in my hand. Amy, Amy, Amy. I threw those items aside and picked up the black leather bustier peeking out from the back of the drawer, still with the price tag attached.

At least, I didn't need to worry about Carlisle recognizing Amy's clothing on me. I wasn't a gambler, but I'd take a bet I'd find newly purchased leather pants hanging in her closet.

In three long strides, I peered at the matching pants and, like the bustier, the price tag was still attached.

Without foresight, Amy had created my seduction ensemble.

She'd love the irony.

***

Several minutes later, I set out for Carlisle Antiques. At the last minute, I'd added a red leather bolero to my ensemble and was glad I did. The early evening air had turned chilly.

It was my first time on stilettos and I wobbled from side to side, never quite able to gather a comfortable momentum. I watched how women on similar height heels maneuvered the cobblestones and determined the confident walk came from practice. Hopefully, I would only need to carry out this charade for a few days. Two, preferably. One, if I got really lucky.

Feeling unsophisticated and about to drown in my duplicity, I hobbled along, devising a good come-on line for Carlisle, coaching myself not to appear too eager, be aloof but coy, and smart but only to a degree.

The bustier was so tight I couldn't take a full breath. Amy must have lost weight; either that, or I'd gained a few pounds in my upper body. I hadn't been able to stuff all of my bosom into the cups. Without the bolero, I'd look like a woman ready to party.

I arrived at Carlisle Antiques and took a moment to primp and pull the seat of my pants out of my crotch. The ladies had snuck upward a little, I noticed. I yanked the bustier higher onto my chest. Then with a confidence unusual for me, I waltzed into the shop.

At the door, I looked around, noticing the exquisite pieces of antique furniture, china and crystal and no Carlisle. I'd assumed he'd still be here. I hoped it wasn't my first mistake. I remembered my eleventh grade teacher telling us assumptions were for asses.

A young lady, wearing a peasant skirt and a black off-the-shoulder blouse came from a back room, her bronzed skin gleaming in dusk's light. I returned her bright smile, thinking there was still time for me to back out. No, I couldn't. I needed to do this for Amy as well as myself.

"May I help you?" she asked.

I quickly improvised my come-on line. "Has the McFuggey Ana I ordered come in yet? It's been weeks, and I haven't heard a thing." From one of my rare visits to the paper, I remembered a reporter mentioning the doll. Good thing, too, otherwise I'd be stammering like a buffoon.

The clerk frowned.

I'd been getting a lot of that lately and wondered what I'd said or done this time.

"You must mean McGuffey Ana."

I covered up my faux-pas with a giggle. "I did say McFuggey, didn't I? I've just flown across two continents without layovers, and my brain is still somewhere over the Atlantic, I'm afraid."

She laid her fingers on my arm. "I know what you mean. If I don't get eight hours of sleep, my brain only wakes at noon."

I laughed. "That can't be good for sales."

She leaned in close to me. She smelled like strawberries and peaches. I inhaled the intoxicating scent, mesmerized by her soft voice.

"Don't tell anyone, but it helps me deal with unruly clients."

"Did you sleep well last night?" I asked. "I tend to misbehave when I don't get what I want." I didn't know where this playfulness came from. Banter was unlike me. Perhaps I was more into the role than I thought.

She threw her head back and laughed.

I didn't know how to respond, so I simply stood there like a statue, looking adorable, I hoped.

"I'm Trish, by the way," she said, extending her hand. I clasped the ends of her fingers and gave them a little shake. "Josie Fox. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"I love your outfit," she exclaimed.

"Thanks. Yours is pretty special too."

"I wish I could afford leather, but on my salary..."

"I know someone who's a buyer for a clothing store. Sometimes, she stumbles onto deals and shares them with her friends," I said.

"Lucky you. I haven't seen you around before." She ushered me by the elbow to a desk in the corner. "Are you new to the area?"

"I lived here once. A long time ago."

"Are you planning to stay for awhile?"

I watched her flip through the pages of a large journal-type book. Orders, perhaps. "It depends on my current assignment," I said.

She let the pages fall over her hand and looked at me. "Are you a journalist?"

I shook my head. "Nothing so important. I'm a troubleshooter for Jorrock Jorrock Pax. Perhaps you've heard of it?" I'd drop to the floor if she had.

"Sorry," she said.

Trish sounded genuinely upset for not knowing the company I worked for. "It's okay. Not many people have. We're the experts behind the experts." When she gave me an absent look, I explained, rolling my index finger in the air, "You know the saying behind every good man there's a good woman?"

"My mama used to say it all the time."

"Well, that's us. We keep everything functioning at a premium for our clients and they reap the benefits."

"I understand," she said.

My lies accumulating, I was anxious to switch topics and asked sweetly, "Did you find my doll?"

"I can't find any record of the order," she said, flipping pages over and back again.

I kept with the charade. "Perhaps Mr. Carlisle might know. I saw him here earlier. At the time, I was on my way to an appointment and couldn't stop."

"Jackson isn't here right now, but he'll be back to close up. You can wait, if you'd like."

"I will, if you don't mind." Tomorrow was a different day. I might not feel as revengeful as I did today. If I didn't, I'd be shrugging at Carlisle's mistreatment of my sister. No man should get away with treating women like they were play toys to be thrown to the side when they tired of them.

"Not at all," she said. "I'd enjoy the company. Friday nights are so boring. Everyone's out partying."

Yes, I knew what she meant. I wished I were somewhere else too, contemplating a gin and tonic rather than the best method to get Jackson Carlisle out of his pants.

While Trish made tea, I called the bedside sitter on my cell. She answered the phone on the first ring again. Right on the ball, this one.

"Linda, it's Josie. How's my sister doing?"

"There's been no change. I'm sorry."

I forced myself to sound positive. "Would you tell her I called, and I'll be by to see her later?"

"I will."

"Thanks. You're a sweetheart."

Feeling lost and alone, I closed my cell. Amy will recover, I told myself. She will. I raised my eyes upward. Did you hear me?

I cleared my throat, dried my eyes with my fingers and looked around. The shop was filled with treasures. Jackson Carlisle seemed the Yank Azman of antiques. From what I could tell on a quick glance, Carlisle sold everything from decorative hair pins to papyrus plants. I examined a crystal chandelier, then moved on to bowls and vases and from there, to glassware and stemware. A china cabinet filled with dishes, plates and cups caught my eye just as Trish returned with our tea.

"I could spend hours in here just looking," I said.

"I know what you mean. Old things call to me, as well," she said, gesturing for me to sit at her desk.

Sitting in the tighter-than-tight leather pants proved a challenge, one too great for me to overcome without causing bodily damage. Improvising, I rested my buttocks on the corner of Trish's desk.

"This is good tea," I said after a couple of sips.

"It's a blend I get from the woman down the street." Trish smiled. "I'll give you some."

"I couldn't, but thank you."

"I can get more. Besides, Jackson pays for it."

In other circumstances, I might think this Jackson fellow was a nice man.

She looked at me and became quiet for a moment. "Would you like to get a drink after I get off work?"

My response came natural. "I'd love to." I'd never had a female friend and appreciated that Trish wanted me as one. I remembered then my plans for Jackson Carlisle. "I'll have to make it for tomorrow, though. I've a previous engagement tonight." Optimistically speaking.

Chapter Four

Jackson Carlisle was even more handsome up close. For a moment, his superior good looks robbed me of good sense. He probably affected all women like that. Moreover, he'd probably grown accustomed to the response.

I regained my composure and feigned indifference to his broad shoulders, slim waist and slender fingers. I closed my eyes to the black curl dangling tantalizingly across his forehead, otherwise I would not have been able to resist brushing the hair away from his smoky blue eyes. I could understand how Amy fell in love with this man. He wouldn't affect me the same way. If not for the cause, I might react differently, though. Or not. I guess I would never know. Once I disposed of him like he did Amy, I wouldn't have any further contact with him.

Trish took over after the introductions. She performed her duties well, and I particularly appreciated that she'd forgotten my mispronunciation of the doll. No one liked being made a fool. Amy hadn't, and neither would Carlisle.

"You're absolutely sure there isn't any record of Ms. Fox's order?" Carlisle asked.

Wordlessly, I stood to the side, letting Carlisle and Trish sort out the business matter.

Trish looked at me, then at her boss. "Absolutely. I triple-checked."

"I'm sorry for the mix-up, Ms. Fox," Carlisle said, turning to me. "Perhaps I can interest you in something else." He gazed into my eyes and added, "At a generous discount, of course, to make up for your inconvenience."

The shop grew warm suddenly, an intense heat that caused my armpits to dampen. I didn't know what instigated the panic attack – my guilty conscience, or the fear my agenda might be found out. Nonetheless, I clasped his outstretched arm and let him lead me to his office. "I should warn you. I'm not easy to please."

Carlisle threw back his head and laughed. "What I have in mind for you will put a smile on your pretty face. I guarantee it."

I realized I was no longer the predator but the prey. Carlisle's prey. I was way out of my element. What had made me think I could pull off a seduction?

My first inclination was to run from the store, forget about this crazy idea of making him pay for what he'd done to Amy and never look back. I thought then of other young women who Carlisle would take advantage of, whose hearts he would crush. He needed to know what it was like to be led on, then dumped. It wasn't too late. I could still carry out my plan. Judging from the gleam in his eyes, Carlisle was interested in me and not in a customer kind of way. Strangely enough, yesterday, the Jackson Carlisles of the world wouldn't have looked at me. On the walk here today, I'd turned heads of both men and women. Surely, I could carry out a simple seduction.

Yes, I could.

I would.

I caught Carlisle looking at me and smiled the same sweet smile I gave to puppies and kittens. He grinned, then turned his attention back to his files, obviously searching the whereabouts of what he had guaranteed would replace the McGuffey Ana and put a smile on my pretty face.

"Ah, here it is," he said, hitting the page with his index finger. "Excuse me a moment while I retrieve it from inventory."

"Of course." I waited until he closed the door leading, I presumed, to where he kept his stock, before I whipped off my bolero jacket. Quickly, I mopped my armpits with tissue from the box on Carlisle's desk. The last time I'd perspired like this was when I ran the one-hundred yard sprint in middle school in ninety degree weather. Back then, I hadn't yet been introduced to an antiperspirant. Now I know it wouldn't have made a difference. Nothing could restrain a waterfall.

Carlisle returned before I could put my jacket back on. Beneath my bustier, I could feel the traitorous ladies peaking at his presence.

He glanced at me, then lowered his gaze, taking a long look at my bosom.

I gave him a half-smile, not that he noticed.

He hesitated a moment, then strode to his desk and laid the box he carried on the surface.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

I nodded.

As though opening a box of explosives, he lifted the cover and beckoned me over.

On shaky legs, I walked to him. He seemed not to notice my wobbly stride. If he did, he was too much of a gentleman to say. At his side, I peeked into the box. The doll was exquisite, I had to admit. Before I knew it, I was gushing over her fat rosy cheeks, her dress and lace-trimmed underwear, which appeared original.

"She's absolutely gorgeous and in almost pristine condition," I exclaimed. Like revenge on Carlisle, I had to have the china doll for Amy. "How much?" I asked around a catch in my throat.

He pulled the invoice tucked against the side of the box and opened it for me to see.

"And my price is?" Whatever the cost, Amy would have it.

"What I paid. You saw the invoice."

I sputtered and coughed. "I couldn't."

"Yes, you can." He smiled. "It's the least I can do."

His generosity almost shamed me into admitting the truth. Almost. Until I remembered he'd put my sister in a hospital bed, comatose, and without a will to live.

"It's a deal," I said. While I bent over the desk to write the check for the purchase, I observed Carlisle admiring my cleavage. I recognized the look in his eyes – lust. He wanted me. God forgive me, but I intended to take full advantage of his desire. I mentally thanked Amy for the black leather bustier, for without the garment Carlisle might not feel the way he did about me. Obviously, he was a boob man.

This was all new territory for me. I'd never captured a man's attention before, let alone lusted for. Of course, that was the before Josie. The after Josie was hot. Dressed like I was, men would flirt with me. Men would want me.

Working toward my goal, I edged closer to him, all the while I gazed into his eyes like a woman suffering sex deprivation. I knew how seduction worked. It was the mechanics of the process I was shaky on.

But I shouldn't have worried I'd need to do the preliminary work myself.

The gentlemanly Carlisle turned aggressor.

He swept his arm around me and yanked me against him.

"Oooof," rushed from my mouth, my neck almost whip lashing.

"Surprised?" he asked.

"A little," I said, placing my hands against his chest. I could feel the ridges of his muscles beneath my fingers. My first instinct was to pull back, but I not only kept my hands in place, I wiggled closer.

"Why? Surely, you know your affect on men." He brushed his lips against mine. "I've been wanting to kiss you from the moment we met."

The scoundrel. "You seemed oblivious to my charms," I said, leaning my head back and staring deeply into his eyes.

In response, he captured my lips within his.

I leaned into him, pressing my breasts against him.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring and probing.

Thank goodness for my one-track mind where situations concerned a cause as this one did. Carlisle's kiss had no affect on me at all.

His ardor, however, pushed against my mid-section. I imagined Carlisle ripping off my clothes and positioning my legs on his hips. My fingers shook at the thought. I had no intention of letting the seduction go that far.

I broke off the kiss and patted his chest. "Trish," I said, hooking a thumb over my shoulder.

"Huh?"

If there was a word to describe the weird look on his face, I didn't know it. Apparently, Carlisle was a one-woman-at-a-time guy. Before he changed his mind and decided having Trish participate might be fun, I said, "Should she be out there while we...um.... you know." I turned my eyes downward and played with the buttons on his shirt.

"She's gone for the day, and the store is locked up."

"Oh?" Well, it seemed there were two of us in this room who had agendas. Now that there were no witnesses, I'd bring this seduction to a quick conclusion. "The ladies room?" I recognized his look this time. He thought I'd gone mad.

"Huh?"

"Is fatherhood a dream of yours?" I asked, not believing how flirtatious I sounded.

Within seconds and from nowhere it seemed, a condom materialized at the tips of his fingers.

"Great." I thought quickly. "We can't be too cautious, though. The ladies room?"

Looking like a spoilt child, he pointed to the door on the opposite wall from the stock room.

I threw off my stilettos and stood on tiptoes to reach his lips. "Remember where we were," I said, running my tongue across his lips. "Make yourself comfortable while I'm gone." I winked, hoping he'd take the suggestion literally. Feeling the blood rush to my face – I'd never been so bold – I turned and pranced to the washroom.

I left the door ajar and, as I'd hoped, watched Carlisle strip.

God, the man was an Adonis. An Adonis, I reminded myself, who had professed to love my sister, promised her marriage, then reneged on that promise, throwing her aside like a day-old newspaper.

When Carlisle had stripped down to his skin and made himself comfortable on the pleather sofa, I waited for him to close his eyes and relax, which only took a moment. I bolstered my confidence with a deep breath before re-entering his office. Quietly, I removed the cord from the telephone. On the way to the door, I swiped his clothes and my borrowed heels from the floor and the doll from his desk. He didn't notice my presence until I yanked the skeleton key from the old-fashioned keyhole.

"Hey," he said, his voice raising to a shout. "What in hell do you think you're doing?"

I could hear his feet hit the floor, then his rapid footsteps. I opened the door, darted through the doorway then slammed the door closed. I shoved the key in the lock and turned it.

"Now you know what it feels like to be used!" I banged my fist against the door. "You deserve worse for what you did to my sister."

At the exit, I threw the telephone cord and key into a miniature marble fountain and sped from the shop. On the stoop, I spotted a refuse container chained to a lamplight and jammed Carlisle's shoes and clothes past the swinging door on top.

Pleased with myself, I put on the bolero and strolled down Queen Street, barefoot and hugging Amy's stilettos and the doll tightly against my bosom. A few people stared, but I didn't care. What I set out to do, I'd done and felt good about it.

At the corner, I turned right and walked a few steps before a car pulled to the curb on my left. Whoever was behind the wheel tooted the horn.

No one who knew me would recognize me in my ensemble, make-up or hair-do. My first thought was that the ladies had finally found relief from their tight enclosure and bared themselves to the world, and the driver was trying to get my attention to tell me. Quickly, I glanced at my breasts. No, everything was in place for the most part. Then I thought my ass had busted loose from their confinement. I didn't feel a draft, but ran my hand over my buttocks anyway and found nothing unusual there, either.

The horn tooted again.

Peripherally, I peeked at the driver.

Oh crap.

Of all the luck.

Didn't I just know it.

I walked over to the car and smiled at Trish.

She put down the passenger window.

"Fancy this," I said, attempting to determine from her expression whether she knew what I'd done to her boss.

"Hop in," she said. "I'll drive you to where you're going."

I leaned into the car a ways. "I couldn't impose on you," I said, hating I'd used Trish to get at Carlisle. She was too good and nice a person. No one should take advantage of her sweet nature.

"I've nothing better to do," she said.

The loneliness in her voice tugged at my heart. I couldn't disappoint her. "Put that way," I said, opening the car door and plunking down on the seat, not caring what happened to the leather pants, "I'd appreciate the lift."

"Where to, Ma'am?" she asked, flicking on the blinker and turning into the traffic.

"John Howard's," I said, putting on the stilettos.

She looked at me. "You're not sick, are you?"

I shook my head. "My sister is recovering from a car accident." I still could not admit the truth – that she would not recover.

"She'll be all right, won't she?"

I smiled. "She will, indeed."

Chapter Five

"Anywhere along here is fine," I said as Trish turned into the drive leading to the hospital.

"I'll wait. Maybe we can have that drink later."

I looked at her and smiled. "Sure." Truthfully, all I wanted was to crash at Amy's and sleep for twelve hours.

"It is."

"I won't be long."

"Take your time. I'm in no hurry."

I hopped from the car, watched where she parked the car, then walked into the hospital.

I made it past the duty station without the Hun Watson noticing. Not that another confrontation with her scared me, but I was pooped. It took all of my remaining strength to make it to Amy's room. Seduction was energy-consuming.

I sighed with relief when I spotted the comfortable chair at my sister's bedside. Turning toward the corner where the bedsitter sat, I said, "Hi, Linda. I'm Josie. We spoke on the phone earlier."

Linda stood, like a soldier at attention. "Yes. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks. If you'd like to take a break, I'll sit with Amy."

Linda ran from the room. Was it something I said, or something she heard about me? I'd take bets on the latter.

I planted the doll on the windowsill and sat. I took Amy's hand and kissed it. "Hiya, sweetie. I had a very eventful and productive day." I told her about my seduction of Jackson Carlisle. "I still can't believe I pulled it off. It was the bustier that cinched it, I think. Imagine me who went to the high school prom with the school's biggest geek, convincing a rogue like Jackson Carlisle out of his clothes. It was priceless. I wish you could have been there." I giggled, picturing him standing naked in his office, a sheet of paper covering his genitals while firefighters came to his rescue. "I imagine someone liberated him by now. I would have liked for the entire city to see his bare ass, but we can't always have our way, can we? The ingrate. He deserved worse for what he did to you."

Amy's eyes fluttered open.

"Oh my God." I jumped to my feet and yelled her name. "Oh my God. You're awake." I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed.

"Josie?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

I stepped backward, making no attempt to stem the flow of tears rolling from my eyes. Understanding the reason behind her frown, I said, patting my hair, "I had a do-over."

"It's totally you," she said.

That's my Amy. Supportive to a fault. Then I thought to alert someone. "A nurse. I should get you a nurse. Doctor Coville needs to know you're awake. He has some explaining to do." I reached the door before she stopped me. I turned and walked back.

"They already know. I woke a little while ago. A nurse called your cell, but you didn't answer. She left a message."

I smiled, remembering what I was doing at the time.

Amy shielded her eyes with the back of her hand.

"What is it?" I asked, worrying she was experiencing a setback. "Do you have a headache? Of course, your head would be sore. You had brain surgery. I'll get you medication." I was babbling, but couldn't stop myself. I was so happy to have Amy back. I never wanted anything to happen to her again.

"It's your teeth. They're so glossy...and white."

"They are, aren't they? I smiled at myself in the elevator and almost set the car on fire." Amy was well on her way to a full recovery if she could tease me.

She pointed at the windowsill. "What's in the box?"

"A doll. For you." I lifted the box lid and stood the Hertwig China on her feet.

"She's beautiful."

I knew she would love her. Amy's eyes shone like the moon, her smile growing wider with each passing second.

"I'd like to hold her."

I put the apple-cheeked doll in Amy's hands and watched her examine the intricate details of the black taffeta dress, delighting in her delight.

She looked past the doll's head and asked, "Jos, who's Jackson Carlisle?"

I sputtered a moment, thinking she'd lost her short term memory. From research on cases like Amy's, I'd learned some memory loss sometimes occurred. If that were the case, Amy wouldn't remember Carlisle. She wouldn't feel the hurt from his rejection either.

I didn't know how or if I should even approach the topic of the man who was responsible for her accident. Should I say nothing, tell a lie or the truth? I decided on the latter. "He's the man you were dating at the time of the accident."

Amy shook her head. "I was going out with Chris Roberts."

"What?" I all but yelled. "I thought it was Jackson Carlisle." I was sure, in fact. "I found his card on your hallway table."

"Not his card, but Sy Taylor's. He works for Carlisle and was helping me locate a pair of antique cufflinks for Chris. I wanted it to be a surprise."

I couldn't think of anything to say but, "Oh". Oh my. I humiliated someone for no good reason. How would I live with myself? First thing in the morning, I'd head straight to Carlisle Antiques and apologize to Jackson.

"We broke up," she said.

I noticed her face turning sad and waited for the memory to catch up to her. It didn't. "Do you remember what happened after?"

Her fingers fiddled with the fold of the blanket covering her. "I was upset and went for a drive."

"And?

She closed her eyes. Amy always did that when she brought memories back from the past. After a moment, she shook her head. "I can't remember."

I patted her hand. "It's okay, honey. Don't force the memory."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about him. We kept our relationship a secret, because..."

"It doesn't matter now. It's in the past."

Amy looked at me, opening her eyes wide, like she experienced an epiphany. "I remember. How's my car?"

I didn't know any other way to tell her but direct. "Totalled."

"Damn. I'll never get another to replace it."

"Amy, why didn't you come to me? We could have talked. I could have helped. I can't imagine how distraught you must have felt to want to take your life, but – "

She gaped at me. "You think I tried to kill myself?"

"You didn't?" But all the evidence pointed to suicide. What was I supposed to think? The cop said there wasn't anything the matter with the brakes on her car and she made no attempt to stop.

She shook her head. "Something happened to the steering just as I came into the turn. I had no control over the car. My stupid fault for not tending to the maintenance, as I should. The last time I drove the car, I noticed the wheel tightening up a few times."

"Oh." Oh God. Could I have gotten the truth more twisted?

She looked at me. "Where'd you get the outfit? I never saw you wear leather before."

"They're your clothes. Don't you recognize them? I found the bustier in your armoire and the pants and bolero in your closet." When Amy was fully recovered, I intended to talk to her about the whip, handcuffs, spiked collar and mask I'd also found in her dresser.

"The tags were still attached?"

"Yes!"

She nodded. "There were some ...er paraphernalia too."

"Yes!" Amy and I could always talk to each other about anything, or at least anything not involving an affair with a married man.

"They aren't mine. On my last buying trip for the store, I bought those items at a discount for a friend. You thought they belonged to me, huh?" Amy squeezed her lips together, apparently trying not to laugh.

"Laugh, go ahead. I know you want to."

Over the course of the last few days, I learned several significant lessons. The most important of which was never to take anyone or anything for granted – life could fold on us in an instant. The second was never to assume anything – assumptions were for asses. What might seem correct was not necessarily right, as with the facts leading me to believe Jackson Carlisle was the culprit responsible for Amy's heartache.

The most valuable lesson I learned from this experience was that vengeance was not mine to take.

"Did you lose weight?" she asked.

"No. Why?"

"Barb is a size smaller than us."

"Oh." That explained the snug fit. I never thought to check the label. Another assumption gone awry. Feeling like a pod short a few peas, I looked everywhere but at Amy. The second time my gaze traveled around the room, I noticed Trish loitering in the doorway. What the hell? With a wave, I welcomed her into the room.

"I'm sorry to intrude," Trish said. "I left the car to get a coffee and worried I'd missed you."

"How did you find me?"

"You told me," she said. "In the car. On the way here."

I remembered then. I'd babbled Amy's story, like a loon.

Trish introduced herself to Amy. "Josie and I met tonight."

"She works for Carlisle Antiques," I said, rolling my eyes.

Amy nodded. "Ah." She looked at me. "She doesn't know...."

I shook my head. "Nope."

Trish looked from Amy to me. "Know what?"

"It's nothing important." That had to be my biggest understatement of the year.

"Okay," Trish said, looking at me. "I'll let you two catch up." She turned to Amy. "I'm glad you're back. Josie was very worried about you. I hope we meet again." She looked at me. "I'll wait for you in the car."

"Thanks." I said, smiling.

After Trish left, I stared at the specks in the floor tiles, thinking how much I'd like to keep her as a friend. She, obviously, felt the same way, but she might feel differently once I tell her what I'd done to her boss. I didn't look forward to the task, which spoke to the fear I presently experienced.

If Trish understood my motivation and could overlook my lapse in better judgment, I hoped she wanted to hang with the real Josie, because I intended to revert to her forthwith.

Chapter Six

News stops for no man, my boss Lou Stryker often said, hence I knew I'd find him in his office at the Freedom Times & Transcript on this sunshiny Saturday morning.

He sat facing the window overlooking Scholar Bay. I could barely see the top of his bald pate rimming the high back of the chair. Lou did his best thinking looking out at the water. I wondered what problem he was presently contemplating. With Lou, it could be one of a dozen things. He always had something on his mind.

I cleared my throat.

He raised his eyes to my reflection in the glass.

"I hope you're not here to tell me you need more time off." He lifted his feet from the window ledge and turned to face me.

Lou came off sounding like a hard-ass. Truthfully, he was, but he could also be generous and compassionate.

"Josie Fox here to request immediate reinstatement, sir." I clicked my heels together and saluted.

"It's about damm time," he said, chomping down on the unlit cigar between his lips.

"It hasn't been that long. Only a week. Less than I'd take for a vacation."

With a waggle of his forefinger, he called me over.

I didn't know what Lou had in mind. Regardless, I walked to the front of his desk and leaned in close to him. He stared at me. I waited. Several seconds passed before he spoke.

"I hope a man isn't responsible for the goofy look on your face," he finally said.

I frowned.

"Don't give me that. I know when you're hiding something. What's this talk I'm hearing around the news room?"

The only gossip about me, which my colleagues would consider remarkable enough to talk about, was my seduction of Jackson Carlisle last evening, but the few people who knew wouldn't say anything. My sister wouldn't tell, and neither would Trish. True, I'd only met her yesterday, but since she liked me and worked for Jackson, she'd keep the secret, if not for my sake then Jackson's. I couldn't imagine Jackson telling anyone.

"What talk?"

"That you willed your sister from a coma." He looked at me, bringing his bushy eyebrows together. "What did you think I meant?"

I could see from his expression he'd become suspicious and probably thought I'd lied to him. Once a top-rate reporter, he could still sniff a good story, not that my finding a love interest would be newsworthy.

"That, of course." I wanted to look away, but forced myself to hold his gaze.

A half-minute later, he broke eye contact.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'm happy you're back," he said. "One more day and I would've flushed your replacement down the toilet. Nut bar. He couldn't write two words without seeking my approval. Then, once he had it, he not only second-guessed himself, but me. Nut bar." He grinned. "You don't suppose it was you he was afraid of?"

"Little ol' me?" I laughed and sat in the leather tub chair at the front of Lou's desk. "I'll be working from Amy's," I said. "She'll need someone with her after she's released from the hospital. It's too long a commute from the Creek to here."

"Any idea when that'll be?"

"Maybe as soon as the end of the week. Her doctor says she's making excellent progress." Given our heated discussions about Amy's prognosis last week, I couldn't determine whether Dr. Coville had told me the truth, but I didn't need to be a neurosurgeon to know Amy was doing marvellously well.

"She's a lucky young woman. People have died after sustaining an injury like hers."

I nodded, tearing up at the thought of how close I came to losing her.

Lou stared at me. "She's fortunate to have you."

"Thanks." I looked over my shoulder. A half-filled newsroom stared at me, the hot topic of the day. If they speculated from my happy demeanour, as did Lou that I'd met a guy, they'd be wrong. Or maybe they weren't thinking that at all. Maybe they liked the new me, my new look. Maybe I surprised them. Transformations always did.

Lou frowned again. "Did you get contacts?"

"I don't wear glasses, Lou."

He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, studying me. "Something's different."

I'd been made over from top to toe, but Lou never had an eye for the ladies. "It's the same old me." On the inside, anyway.

Before I left, I remembered to thank Lou for the flowers the paper sent Amy. I doubted the thought was his, or he'd personally placed the order, of course, but he would have okay-ed the requisition.

Descending the stairs to the staff parking at the back of the building, I peeked sideways through the balusters on the handrail. Production had ceased and my colleagues were as I anticipated – watching, speculating and undeniably making assumptions about me. Fingers fiddled with lips, pens drilled desktops, hands supported chins and gazes stared, all the while their minds ran unbridled with theories. If they guessed my makeover was to attract a man, they'd be right, but not for the reason they might think. True, I did myself over, but only to capture the interest of Jackson Carlisle, so I could exact revenge on him for his heartless treatment of my sister. Unfortunately, I hadn't gotten my facts straight and mistook Jackson for Chris Roberts, the real culprit. Poor unsuspecting Jackson Carlisle had endured humiliation because of it.

At the exit, I flung the door wide and walked toward my car, squinting in the brilliant sunshine until my eyes adjusted to the light. As I unlocked my car and hopped behind the wheel, my mind skimmed through the errands I needed to run – clothes and laptop from home; nuts for Shamus and Shawn; lock windows and doors; set the alarm; groceries – don't forget tea, Amy's almost out; – pick up mail; do laundry; apologize to Jackson Carlisle.

Crap.

He deserved an apology for what I'd done to him and sooner rather than later. What had I thought when I put that thing-to-do at the bottom of the list – that it would disappear? Hopeful thinking, perhaps. In this case, procrastination would only prolong my anxiety.

My three-year-old Mazda started on the third try. Yesterday, it had taken two. Tomorrow, it might not start at all. I added another thing to-do: have new starter installed. I remembered Amy's inattention to a problem with the steering on her Mach I had almost cost her life. While starter problems weren't in the same category, not addressing the issue could leave me stranded somewhere dark and dangerous. I didn't anticipate involvement in anything over the next few weeks that didn't require a remote and a laptop, but who knew?

I turned left out of the parking lot, heading downtown, more specifically toward Carlisle Antiques. Last evening when I'd confessed to Trish I'd seduced her boss and left him naked and locked in his office, Trish said Jackson would be tending the shop today, if I wanted to apologize to him then.

Trish thought highly of Jackson, and said he was a good and decent man, one who wouldn't treat a woman like Roberts had treated Amy. While she understood my motivation for wanting payback on the man who'd hurt Amy, she wished I'd taken a little time to think before I acted. I wished I had too.

I caught sight of myself in the rear view. For the most part, I looked the same as I did yesterday. My eyes were less smoky, and my cheeks less rosy, but my teeth still sparkled – and would for awhile – but my lips were the same glossy pink. Jackson should have no problem recognizing me.

Today, I'd traded my leather ensemble for designer jeans and an off-one-shoulder red blouson top, compliments of Amy. Flat strappy sandals kept my feet firmly on the ground.

No more stilettos for me.

Or leather bustiers, either.

Or seductions...definitely no more seductions.

Parking in downtown Freedom always proved a trial, thus the reason for me walking where I went. But like yesterday, everything seemed to fall in place. A space opened up in front of the antique store as I approached and my car fit into the spot without extra maneuvering.

From the street, I looked through the windows on either side of the entrance of Jackson's shop and saw no one inside.

Kismet.

Meant to be.

I took a deep breath and got out of the car, thinking I could still back out. No, I couldn't. I'd wronged an innocent man. At the least, he deserved my sincere apology.

I entered the shop, closed the door quietly and waited with my hands clasped together in front of me.

Jackson came out of his office, the smile on his face quickly turning to a scowl when he recognized me. "I have nothing to say to you."

One decibel higher and his voice would be a holler. If I didn't blurt the apology, I feared another opportunity would never come. I relaxed my pose. "I mistook you for someone else. I'm sorry, Jackson. What I did was inexcusable. If there's anything I can do to make up for the embarrassment I caused you, I'll do it."

"Will you walk naked down the Avenue?"

"No, of course not."

"Then there isn't anything you can do for me."

I said again how sorry I was and turned to leave.

"Did you know I was caught crawling out my office window by a seventy-two-year old woman out for a late night walk with her bull terrier?"

"No, I didn't know. I'm sorry." I hung my head and stared at the floor, thinking how upsetting the situation must have been for him.

"It gets better from there."

I looked up at him. "Oh?"

"The biddy phones the police on her cell. She has them on speed dial, by the way." He made air quotes, and his voice turned shrill. "Never know when you're going to come across some pervert, showing off his pecker to all of Freedom, she says."

"Oh." Oh my God. I opened my mouth to apologize again, but clamped my jaws together when he held a finger in the air.

"There's more."

I was afraid to ask, but did. Jackson continued his story and I listened intently.

"The cops arrived, drew their guns and ordered me to put my hands in the air. I explained I was simply going to my car for my gym bag, but they didn't believe me. The old biddy yakked non-stop to the cops about indecent exposure and how the streets of Freedom weren't safe to walk anymore. The police assessed the situation and obviously determined I was a danger to society. They ordered me to put my hands in the air. Thinking they were prepared to shoot if I didn't comply, I threw my arms in the air, the hands I might add I'd been using to cover my genitals." He took a deep, slow breath. "It was then that Skippy, the bull terrier from Hell, made his move."

Jackson filled in the gap between us. He brushed his fingers across my cheek and stared into my eyes. "Eight stitches," he said, "it took to close the wound those sharp little teeth made. The incision burns like acid when I urinate."

I backed away from him, covering my mouth with my hand and wishing the floor would open and swallow me. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea...."

"How would you?" He took a deep breath. "If I'd waited two more minutes before climbing out the window..." His voice trailed off to nothing before it picked up again.

"I always wanted children – "

"Oh my God. You can't father children now?"

He raised his eyebrows a notch and gave me a woebegone look. "Maybe not."

I couldn't stomach a moment more of Jackson's sufferings. The wrong I'd done him would guilt me forever. I solemnly promised myself that somehow, someday, I'd right the wrong.

I cleared my throat. "I've got to go. I'm sorry. If there's ever anything I can do for you," I turned and grabbed hold of the door knob, "let me know." He called my name. I hesitated, wondering whether to keep running or hear him out. A coward would run.

"There is something," he said.

I turned and looked at him. "Name it."

"Have dinner with me tonight."

Chapter Seven

I couldn't believe I heard him right. "After what I did to you, you want to have dinner with me? You're out of your mind." He had to be. Either that or he wanted payback. Given his state of mind, I'd take bets on the latter.

"Didn't you offer to make up for the embarrassment you caused me?"

"Yes," I said, my voice barely a squeak. "Dinner with you and you'll call the score even?"

He nodded.

"Okay." I shrugged. "If that's what you want. But so's you know, I'm suspicious."

He threw his head back and laughed. "Of course, you are."

I didn't like that Jackson read me so well, but I couldn't back down. "Where and when?"

"Let's make this a proper date. I'll pick you up."

I grabbed a card from the holder on the counter and wrote Amy's address on the reverse side.

"How shall I dress?" I asked.

Our fingers touched when he took the card from my hand. I looked at him. He looked at me. The moment stood still, the air surrounding us fizzing with electric energy. Jackson Carlisle was a gorgeous man. A leading man, if ever there was one.

"Casual," he said.

"What time?" Just then my inner voice whispered Jackson was too calm and composed for a man who almost lost his manhood. In response, I argued he was a good and decent man, not a rapist. I shouldn't be afraid. No, I shouldn't.

"Eight."

"I'll be ready."

"I know you're a woman of her word."

"Ah." I didn't know what else to say, so I left the store with my earlier apprehension of Jackson's motives resurfacing in my mind.

On the drive to Devil's Creek, I thought of the different ways he could take his revenge – every one of them too childish for an educated and sophisticated man like him.

"I'll just have to wait and see and pray for the best, I guess."

What was the worst he could do?

***

At eight o'clock, Amy's upstairs apartment virtually vibrated from the rumble of an engine. I ran to the window and looked out. "Oh dear Lord," I said, staring at the monster motorbike, and the guy who lifted his leg over the machine. I held my breath while he took off his helmet, hoping and praying he wasn't my date.

"Oh my. It's Jackson." Why I thought it could be anyone else, I didn't know.

As though sensing someone watched him, he peered upward and waved at me in the window. It was too late then to turn out the lights and pretend no one was home. I returned his wave and his smile.

He raised his hand and motioned me outside.

I didn't budge. I was absolutely positively afraid of riding on a motorbike. Never so much as sat my ass down on one and I didn't intend to do so tonight. Before I could change my mind and hide out, I opened the kitchen door and ran down the stairs. Two seconds later, I stood in front of Jackson.

"I'm not going anywhere on that thing."

He stared at my busted-out knees and holey Reeboks, then at the threads hanging from the frayed cuffs and hem of my denim jacket, lifting and falling with an on-and-off breeze.

"No?" His eyebrows raised a notch.

The gesture was getting annoying, but I hid my irritation and answered, "No."

"Didn't you say – "?

"I know what I said, but an equal measure of settling the score didn't include anything having to do with motorcycles."

"You should have put exceptions on your offer."

"Damn straight. Doesn't the movement hurt your...you know. " I nudged my chin at his crotch.

"I have a high pain threshold."

"Ah." I believed he did. My heart raced like an over-revved engine at the thought of riding on the bike. I'd probably suffer cardiac arrest if I actually did. I thought of an alternative solution. "We can take my car." He looked at me. "You can drive," I said, like that would entice him to cooperate.

"It won't work," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because any other means of transportation are not allowed where we're having dinner. It's an exclusive club, strictly for bikers." He grabbed his helmet from the seat. "I'll have to think of another way for you to repay me."

Something equally as frightening, probably. I could either take the bike ride or hold out for whatever other plan he might come up with. Since I had my druthers, I decided to go with the terrifying I knew than the terrifying I didn't. Jackson Carlisle would have his due. Tonight. It was only fair after what I'd done to him. I can do this. Yes, I could.

"Okay, let's do it."

"All right." He handed me a helmet. "I guessed your head measurement. I hope it fits."

"I'm sure it will." I pushed my hair back and put on the helmet. It fell to the bridge of my nose.

"Little too big, huh? Guess I overestimated the size of your head."

"Ha. Ha." I watched him rummage inside a side compartment on the back wheel. Seconds later, he held something round in his hand.

"Maybe this will help," he said.

The helmet, with all of its pieces, turned out a perfect fit. The lime green ear imprints I could do without. Apparently, Jackson intended to humiliate me in measures. I'd go along with him. Once my debt was repaid, I'd have no further contact with him.

He took his time straddling the bike, then looked over his shoulder at me. "Getting on?"

I swallowed my fear, took a gulp of air and climbed on. After I got seated, he said, "You can hold on to me, if you want."

Needing no further encouragement, I wrapped my arms around him, laced my fingers together and tightened my hold. I thought he chuckled. I couldn't be sure. He took that moment to start the bike.

We blasted from the driveway. I clenched my teeth, laid my head hard against his back and closed my eyes, thinking about all the questions I should have asked, like how much experience he had riding a bike, the distance to this exclusive club, should I turn with him into a turn... I shook my head. Someday, I'd find my place in life.

On the highway, Jackson handled the motorbike like someone used to the machine, employing due caution merging into traffic and driving the center of our lane. He was full of surprises. More and more, I believed Trish was correct in her estimation of him. A good and decent man, he was. Still, though, being made a fool could change a person. I shuddered to think what else he had in store for me tonight.

Twenty minutes later, Jackson signaled a right turn and slowed, turning onto a rough path between a row of spruce and fir trees.

If I weren't so frightened, I'd enjoy the clean, fresh air on my face and take a moment to savor the scent of pine needles and dampened earth. The moon was spectacular, full and bright. Unfortunately, there would be no sky gazing for me.

I loosened my grip around him when we arrived at the end of the path.

In the middle of a clearing stood the club. I stared at the broken timbers balancing an overhang, the few remaining asphalt shingles on the roof and the weather-beaten cedar siding which paint chips seemed to be holding in place. A dozen or so motorbikes parked like horses lined the front of the building. Country music, something about a party, streamed through the open windows on both sides of the entrance. Though there were no power lines running to the building, the inside was well lit.

Jackson shut off the motorbike.

Multiple parts of my anatomy vibrated and my ears hummed.

"You get off first," Jackson said.

I didn't move.

He turned in his seat. "Remember my injury?"

"Oh God. I'm sorry. I forgot." I whipped my leg up and over, stepped to the ground and landed firmly on my butt in a mud puddle. I stared up at him, wondering how the devil he'd orchestrated that. I was sure he had.

"I forgot to caution you the ground is slippery. I'm sorry." He got off the bike and offered me his hand. "Now, you're going to feel uncomfortable the entire night."

I grabbed his hand and squeezed hard, my nails digging into the skin on the top of his hand. He pulled me up like I weighed nothing. I only stopped propelling forward when I smashed against his chest.

"Nonsense," I said, brushing off my derriere. "I'll be dry in no time."

"That's good. I wouldn't want you suffering because of my lack of foresight."

"No, we wouldn't want that," I muttered beneath my breath.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, cupping a hand around his ear.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I asked, chuckling.

He drew his brows together and pursed his lips, as though the question deserved a great deal of thought.

I waited. A full minute passed before he spoke.

"Yes. Yes, I am. Very much, in fact."

I patted his shoulder. "Don't get used to it. All good things come to an end, sometimes unexpectedly and drastically." I walked toward the entrance. A few seconds later, he caught up to me.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I detected trepidation in his voice. After what I had done to him last night, his dread was warranted. But he had nothing to worry about. My revenge-taking days were behind me.

"Nothing." I stuck my tongue out at him.

Before I could deflect his advance, he held me in his arms, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that robbed my equilibrium. I didn't know where my breath ran off to, but if it didn't return soon, I'd suffocate. Mistaking my discomfort for rapture, he deepened the kiss, pressing his lips harder against mine, his tongue exploring my mouth. Streaks of lightning flashed in my mind. My legs folded. I opened my eyes. A black curtain came down then, blocking everything in my sight. I fell to the ground for the second time tonight, the image of Jackson's puzzled expression imprinting itself in my brain.

I woke to find myself stretched out on a makeshift table amidst beer bottles and shot glasses and looking at the sun-ravaged and unshaven faces of men who seemed vaguely familiar.

"She's coming to," a voice at my head said.

I twisted around and looked at the man, noticing the clerical collar encircling his neck. I panicked. "You gave me the last rites?"

Chapter Eight

"You're fine," the old priest said. "I'm a friend of Jackson's and the only reason I'm here."

I laid my hand against my thumping heart. I'd assumed the worst and thanked God I wasn't always right.

"What happened?" I sat upright and peered around the bar, searching for Jackson. I couldn't see him and wondered if leaving me stranded with a roomful of men in the middle of a forest was his revenge on me.

A bearded man puffing a cigar and holding a stethoscope in his hand walked up to me. "What's the last thing you remember?" he asked.

I relaxed and called up the last thirty minutes in my mind – the rumble of a motorcycle, trees, clearing, bikes, dilapidated building, mud puddle, Jackson's helping hand, Jackson's muscled chest, Jackson's lips...I was having difficulty breathing. The room was spinning –

"She's hyperventilating again," a loud voice said at my right.

Someone cupped a paper bag around my mouth and ordered me to inhale and exhale deeply.

Minutes later, I returned to my normally unflappable self. "Where's Jackson" was my first question. "What happened?" my second, and "How long was I unconscious?" my third.

"He stepped out for a few minutes. You fainted, probably from anxiety. A couple of minutes."

I peered at the speaker, the bearded man of earlier. "And you are?"

"Thomas Hayes, Veterinarian. At your service, madam."

"You tended to me?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, grinning.

"That's fitting." My head hurt. I massaged my temples.

"Why's that?" he asked.

"Because I'm a horse's heinie." I had to be for letting Jackson take vengeance on me. "Do you always carry a stethoscope? I didn't know vets did."

He laughed. "We don't, but on my way here I'd stopped at Miller's farm to check on a new foal and had my kit bag with me."

I could feel someone's gaze on me and turned toward the source. Jackson was leaning against a far wall, watching me, his hands jammed in his jean pockets.

I looked him in the eyes. "Have you had enough fun? Can we go now?"

He shoved off the wall and walked over to me. He brushed a strand of hair from my eye. "But we only got here. Don't you want a beer?"

How could I refuse such a gracious invitation? "Sure." Whatever Jackson wanted he'd get – up to a point.

"Why don't I introduce you first?"

"Yes, why don't you."

"Josie Fox, I'd like you to meet my friends. The old geezer standing next to me, looking like he should be mopping stalls is Wight Allaby, my lawyer."

I shook his proffered hand. "Nice to meet you."

He kissed the back of my hand.

"The pleasure is mine," he said.

Jackson moved on to the next gentleman. "I believe you've already met Thomas."

"Yes. My doctor," I said, smiling. "Hi, again."

I looked at Jackson. "You got me. I believed you when you said you were taking me an exclusive club." Honestly, if he smiled any wider, he'd split the corners of his mouth. I surveyed his friends. For those whose names escaped me, I knew of them and their areas of expertise. A lawyer, doctor, judge, veterinarian and chiropractor. Dentist, priest, architect, social worker and psychiatrist. Jackson Carlisle had influential friends.

I stared up at the water-soaked roofing boards. "How did you find this place?" I asked.

"That part was easy. I own it. Bought it last winter."

"I'm glad I didn't put you to too much trouble. What are your plans for this architectural find?"

Country music blasted at my back. I looked over my shoulder and saw Thomas walking away from a portable boom box. He tipped the beer bottle he held in his hand toward me and nodded as he walked to his friends converged in a circle just inside the door. I smiled and turned back to Jackson.

"Fix it up, of course."

Fix up the fixer-up-er. Somewhat like me. Feeling a little peevish and bold, I stared at the bulge in his crotch and wondered how far Jackson had taken this joke. There was only one way to know. "True or false?" I asked, not diverting my gaze.

"That's all me, baby." He grabbed two beers from an ice-filled washtub and handed me one. "You should know. You saw me naked."

"Yes, but at the time, I had other things on my mind, so I couldn't truly appreciate your...um... assets." What a lie. I remembered his tight abs and butt with extreme clarity.

"Maybe you'll have another chance."

"Maybe." I didn't think so. Jackson had his revenge on me and now we were even. After tonight, we'd have no further contact.

***

In Amy's apartment the following morning, I woke, opened my eyes a slit, and then squeezed them closed. The sun shining in through the window put an intolerable pressure on the back of my eyes. I ran a thick tongue over my lips, the inside of my mouth feeling like a dry sponge.

I pulled the comforter to my chin and settled calmly against the satin sheets.

Usually, I started my morning reliving the previous day and setting out my schedule for the day. This morning was no typical morning, however. As much as I tried, I couldn't remember yesterday. I found it strange not to recall at least one detail and told myself to relax. The memories would come. Give them a moment.

My first remembrance was how anxious I'd felt last night. Then I remembered the panic attacks. The recollections came then like a bullet train speeding toward its final destination. Jackson Carlisle, motorbike, woods, broken-down camp, bikers, businessmen, professionals, boohoos – mine – empty beer bottles – dozens of them, probably mine too – cigars, pizza – mushroom and pepperoni – Jackson's lips, hips grinding against hips – mine and someone else's.

I also remembered how much I enjoyed Jackson's kisses. Unfortunately, I'd ruined any chance of a relationship with him, if he'd wanted one with me. I recalled our moments together in his office last evening. His ardor seemed genuine. Maybe he never refused an offer for sex. That would make us worlds apart, because I wasn't the type to give anything away without a good reason. Self-satisfaction wouldn't be one.

I lifted the comforter and peeked at myself.

Naked.

Not a stitch of clothes.

I never slept in the nude.

A lump under the covers next to me moved.

My heartbeat accelerated drastically. What had I done? Apprehensive, I held my breath and waited for the body to emerge. After a moment, a head popped out.

"Morning, sweetheart."

Chapter Nine

"What are you doing in my bed?"

"It's not what you think," Trish said.

"How do you know what I think?" I sat upright, yanked the sheet loose and covered myself before jumping to the floor.

Trish sat up and ran her fingers through her curly hair.

I saw she was fully clothed. "Why am I naked?"

"Relax. Nothing happened," she said. "You had too much to drink..."

I blocked out what she said next, wondering how I could over-imbibe. I was not a drinker. A glass of wine sometimes at dinner, a gin and tonic, perhaps or an occasional beer was the most I ever drank. As I was trying to recall what all happened last night, someone pounded on the door.

Trish looked at me. "Expecting anyone?"

I shook my head and walked from the bedroom into the hallway. At the archway leading to the kitchen, I peeked around the corner and ducked back, surprised by the uniformed officers of the Freedom PD who stood on the stoop. The police at anyone's door at any time of the day was never good news. The one and only other time I'd answered my door to the police, I was informed my parents' car had been highjacked and they, murdered. My last remaining relative was presently in the hospital, recuperating from a car accident, so I knew they weren't paying me a personal visit to deliver that bad news. Maybe they were here to discuss Amy's car accident, which didn't make sense. Maybe they were at the wrong address. How often did the police knock on the wrong door?

"Who is it?" Trish asked, walking toward me.

"The police."

"Don't answer the door," she said.

Puzzled by her response, I studied her, noticing her perfect facial features had turned ugly. "Why not?"

"Cops are always bad news. The harbingers of death and chaos. Exploiters of the truth. Manipulators of the law." She shook her head. "Don't open the door."

I was sure there was a good story behind her proclamation, but the question would have to wait.

"I didn't do anything wrong. Besides, it can't be about me. Only a few people know where I'm staying." Lou knew, as did Amy and her landlady Marie. Trish knew, of course, since she'd driven me here Friday night. Jackson knew. "They probably assume Amy's been released from the hospital and want to question her about the car accident. They should have gotten their facts straight, though." I was a fine one to talk.

Trish let out a deep breath.

I looked at the sheet covering my nakedness, hoping Trish might offer to answer the door. She didn't move, which I more or less expected given her opinion of the police.

A fist pounded the door again.

"Impatient buggers," Trish muttered.

"Hold your horses," I yelled into the kitchen. "I'll be there in a minute." I used one hand to hold the sheet firmly around me and the other to hold the hem in the air while I sped to the bathroom.

Thirty seconds later, I answered the door wearing Amy's silk cranberry-colored dressing gown. "What can I do for you, officers?" I asked.

"Josie Fox?"

I looked at the fuzz-faced uniformed cop and frowned. "Yes," I said, surprised they didn't ask for Amy. What could they want with me? I didn't drive last night or break any laws.

"We're here to escort you to the station."

"Why?"

"Detective Vail will explain why."

My brain was still fuzzy, but I recalled the cop's name from a sensational case he solved about six months ago. "Nathaniel Vail, the homicide detective?"

"Yes, ma'am. Now if you would come with us."

"I'll get dressed." I backed away from the door, and then thought to ask, "Who was murdered?"

Jackson Carlisle's handsome face flashed in my mind.

Chapter Ten

With an officer on either side of me, I walked into the Freedom Police Department, wearing the same clothes I'd worn the night before and feeling I was on my way toward my own execution. I'd done nothing wrong, yet I felt I had. Then I remembered the water running rust-colored in the sink when I washed my hands before I left with the policemen. The stain under my nails was definitely blood and not mine. Maybe I wasn't as innocent as I presumed.

Fuzz-face politely ordered me to take a seat in the waiting area, which was several metal chairs set against the outside wall.

I sat, noticing the empty squad room directly in front of me. It appeared a slow day for law enforcement.

I generally donated Sunday mornings to crossword puzzles and coffee in bed. Alone. Before my mind could wander to the ass I made of myself after waking up in bed with Trish, I turned my thoughts to my present predicament.

On the short drive here, I tried to trick the police officers into divulging the victim's name, but they remained tight-lipped and professional. Whoever trained them, had taught them well. As with many police departments, Freedom's finest didn't always get a glowing recommendation. After this experience, I'd be the first to boast their proficiency.

My thoughts turned then to Detective Nathaniel Vail. He was new to this part of the country. Where he came from was known only by his superiors, and they weren't talking. With the exception of his excellent investigative skills, everything about him remained a mystery. The secrecy piqued interest and curiosity, of course. Everyone had a story. Some more boring than others. But there were those who preferred no one knew their history. Vail, apparently, fell into that category. As a result, the town folk had speculated. The general belief, depending on whom you asked, was Vail was a single-married-divorced-separated academic turned lawman. He either had a brood of kids or none at all, which resulted from him being an only child or a childhood accident involving a steel bar and a free fall.

Myself, I didn't care to speculate. The few times I had, led to disastrous consequences. Take my most recent debacle, for instance. I'd assumed Jackson Carlisle had been the schmuck who seduced and deceived my sister, a horrible misunderstanding which could have cost a good and decent man his manhood. My high school English teacher had been right. Assumptions were for asses.

I wondered how long Vail would keep me waiting. A ploy, no doubt, to make me anxious. His strategy was working. I couldn't quiet my knees, and my fingers shook too much to tap.

If Vail considered me a suspect, I'd need to retain a lawyer. They cost plenty. I hated the thought of using any of my inheritance – one part my mother and stepfather's insurance and the other part a civil suit settlement for their wrongful deaths. The money ensured me a financially independent retirement. It would bum me out no end to have to spend any part of it on legal fees. Maybe the Times & Transcript would provide assistance. I pictured the paper's legal counsel and thought better of the idea. Clients placed their lives in the capability of their lawyers. I couldn't see myself willingly surrendering my life to an attorney who should have had the good sense to retire long ago. No, if I needed a lawyer, he or she – I wasn't gender biased – would be a hotshot in criminal law. Just as I wouldn't employ a boy to do a man's job, I'd hire a lawyer whose area of expertise met my legal requirement. Many made the mistake of hiring a lawyer who dabbled in all areas of law, thinking an attorney who did would provide exceptional representation.

My stomach recoiled at the odor of burnt coffee. Acid rose in my throat. I swallowed the rancid taste and, to keep my mind from my queasy stomach ran down the short list of competent criminal defense lawyers in Freedom. Any one of them would serve me well, but how would I choose?

Maybe I was getting ahead of myself.

Maybe this interview would not result in an arrest.

Better prepared than not, though.

A door opened on the opposite wall from where I sat. I could hear two men talking. Then Jackson strode from the room. Following behind was a stoop-shouldered forty-ish man who I assumed was Vail. I knew at once there was a good story tucked within the folds of his craggy skin. He appeared more history professor than homicide detective. I reminded myself that looks and first impressions could deceive the unsuspecting. I was hardly an innocent where matters concerned politics and bureaucracy, but those who didn't know my new look, like Detective Vail, might think I was someone different from my image. A point to my advantage or not, I didn't know.

I smiled, catching Jackson's eye.

As he neared, he mimed zipping his lips. Oh crap. That meant the police considered me, and possibly Jackson as well, serious suspects in the murder. When I wasn't writing for the newspaper, I was either doing research or writing my detective novel. From what I'd read, lawyers gave that precise advice to their clients, along with 'yes' and 'no' answers only, and not to, under any circumstances, elaborate or volunteer information.

Pleased to see Jackson alive and apparently well, I stood to greet him, wanting to wrap my arms around him and aching for him to assure me that everything would be all right. As I leaned toward him, Vail moved in between us, offered his hand to Jackson and said, "I'll be in touch."

"I wish I could say it was a pleasure," Jackson said.

I hoped for some indication from Jackson's face how difficult I'd find the interview, but he was unreadable.

Jackson looked at me and said, "I'll call later."

"Okay." I watched him until he disappeared out the exit.

I sensed someone's gaze on me and turned to find Vail evaluating me. If he'd looked up an old photograph of me, he was probably comparing this me to my Attila-the-Hun look-alike on file at the newspaper. "What do you say, Detective? Am I a killer or not?"

"Josie Fox, I presume," he said.

If I were easily intimated by a look, his penetrating stare might make me fidget. I noticed he'd adeptly sidestepped my question.

"You presume correctly," I said.

"Shall we go to my office?"

Vail made the suggestion sound like a question, but it was anything but. He was clever, a man no one should underestimate. I needed to remember that.

Rather than follow behind me, as most gentlemen would, Vail led the way. From that, I deduced he was a detective interested only in business and not a man to appreciate a woman from the rear. As for me, there was nothing to appreciate. That said, I was curious about Vail, but only in a story angle way.

He stood to one side of his office door. "After you," he said.

I crossed the threshold into a space as sterile as a doctor's examining room. Stretched before a credenza set against the far wall, sat Vail's broad metal desk. The walls were as bare as the tops of the two pieces of furniture that comprised his office. Nothing littered the brown commercial carpet. Not a box, a speck of lint or a scrap of paper. Nothing.

Files on every available surface could either suggest a worker who couldn't get any one thing done or a worker bearing a heavy workload. The absence of files and litter could speak to Vail's efficiency. I'd bet he was a man who got things done.

"Sit," he said, closing the door quietly. He walked behind his desk and took his seat.

I sat on one of the two metal chairs in front of him and watched him turn page over page in a file. He was purposely stalling. Intrigued by his performance, I continued to observe him, believing everything he did served a purpose. I wouldn't let him daunt me. So, I made myself comfortable as best I could on the cold metal seat, which I was sure came direct from the gathering room of an asylum for the criminally insane, and focused my thoughts on last night.

All of the events still hadn't surfaced in my mind yet, but I knew myself well enough to know I couldn't murder anyone. Seduce them, yes. Kill them, no.

Five minutes went by before Vail turned his bluish-green eyes on me. "Aren't you the least bit curious why I asked you here?"

His direct approach worried me, but I kept composed. "I'm sure you'll get around to telling me."

"Most people would ask."

"I'm not most people." I had a lot of questions – Who was the victim? Time of death? How? Where? Witnesses? Suspects? – but I wouldn't ask one. He expected me to inquire. I'd at least thwart that part of his strategy.

"I'm beginning to realize it." He sat back in his old wooden chair, twirled a HB pencil around his fingers and stared at me.

It took all my strength not to turn my gaze from his. He wanted to study me. I'd let him. Eighty-one heartbeats later, he spoke.

"You don't look at all like your photo on file at the paper," he said.

As I anticipated, he'd investigated me. Vail was a man who prepared himself. He probably didn't like being outdone or the outspoken, either.

"I'm not photogenic." I awaited his response.

"It's more than that," he said.

"Oh?" I put on my best innocent face.

"Yes." He opened his mouth, then closed it, as though he reconsidered the thought.

If I were to guess, I'd say he was about to ask if I'd had a makeover. Vail was a gentleman, or at least, his mother taught him not to ask a woman certain questions. Age, for one. Weight, for another. I could see why he hesitated to ask. The question would appear rude, and he probably determined that before the question slipped out.

While he reviewed his notes again, I waited. Normally, I'd be losing patience about now and suggesting he move along, but I couldn't do that. Not with Vail. He had the power. I shouldn't upset him.

He looked at me over the rim of his glasses.

I held his gaze.

"Thomas Hayes was murdered last night," he said.

"What?" I asked, knowing Vail wouldn't make something like that up, but at the same time disbelieving him. Strange, how the mind worked. I remembered his kind looking face and how considerate he'd been. His soft-spoken voice played in my head. I could almost feel his tender touch taking my wrist and checking my pulse as he'd done last night.

"Why would anyone want to kill him?"

"I'm hoping you can help me with that," he said. "What motive would someone have to kill him?

Vail took a different approach to an interrogation by soliciting my help. He probably used several different techniques and applied the one best suited to the interviewee. Obviously, he'd recognized my willingness to please and chose the direct, no-nonsense approach.

"I'll do what I can to assist you in your investigation," I said.

"Great. Why don't we start with you answering a few questions and taking it from there?"

"Okay." I suspected Vail already knew the answers to the questions he was about to ask. He was on a fishing trip, hoping to reel in the big one, the one from which yarns were spun and convictions made.

"How well did you know Dr. Hayes?"

"I only met him last night."

"Where?"

"At Jackson Carlisle's camp."

"Where's that?"

I realized a couple of things, then. One, I didn't know the precise location of Jackson's camp. On the motorcycle ride there I was too busy being scared to take notice. Two, I couldn't answer Vail's questions with a single word response, like defense lawyers advised their clients to do. "In the woods off 130. Detective – "

"Lieutenant."

I tired of Vail's act. He was shrewd, but I wouldn't lose momentum. "Lieutenant Vail, if I didn't miss my guess, you already know the answers to all of the questions you have on that legal foolscap you keep fiddling with. Ask me something you don't know."

"Did you kill Dr. Thomas Hayes?"

I yelled my response. "No."

"Do you know you did?"

"No." A quick, sharp answer.

"Where were you between the hours of three and five o'clock this morning?"

"At my sister's. Sleeping." A definite response.

"Alone?"

"No."

Vail expected a different answer. His pause gave him away.

"Who were you in bed with?" he asked.

"Didn't your momma tell you it's impolite to ask a lady that question?" I hedged, and Vail knew I did. I could see the truth in his eyes.

"If you can provide me with an alibi, I'll cross you from my suspect list and this might be the last time we'll meet like this."

"An offer too good to refuse. Trish. Her name's Trish."

"Does she have a last name?"

"I'm sure she does, but I don't know it."

"Do you always take women you don't know into your bed?"

"No."

He cocked a brow and shook his head.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"I didn't see that one coming."

I took offence. "You don't think I'm gay?"

Vail held a finger in the air. "I'll take your word for it."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Vail's questions reminded me I didn't know how Trish and I ended up in bed together. I didn't know, either, how she and I met up last night, or how I got home. Things moved too quickly for me to ask once the police arrived at Amy's door this morning. Even sloshed, as Trish said I was last night, I should remember driving back to Freedom on the back of Jackson's Harley. Maybe Jackson felt sorry for me and decided not to subject me to the terror of the return trip and called Trish, asked her to come to his camp to take me home. I couldn't remember seeing her car parked on the street, but then again, I didn't look for it.

My thoughts focused then on Jackson. I enjoyed his kiss. Not that I remembered clearly, but I sensed we shared more than one heated moment. A memory surfaced in my mind, then vanished before I could grab hold. I took a deep breath and released it slowly. The recollection came again, but plainly this time. I envisioned hands fondling breasts – my breasts – then hot, passionate kisses, Jackson's heavy, labored breathing... Did I? Did we?

I groaned.

Vail looked up from the murder file. "Is something wrong?"

Nothing other than I might have had sex with a man I barely knew. "I'm fine." Jackson apparently thought so too.

Maybe this was a seduction, one better devised than mine on Jackson.

Maybe I shouldn't trust either Jackson or Trish.

"Earth to Josie Fox."

Dimly, I could hear a masculine voice. I looked at Vail. "I'm sorry. My mind fell asleep. Did you say something?"

He turned photographs toward me.

Instinctively, I looked at them. When what I peered at registered in my mind, bile rushed into my throat. Poor dear Thomas. Slaughtered like a boar, he'd inhaled his final breaths laying in a pool of his blood. His face, what I could see of it, grotesquely contorted by the pain he'd endured the moments before his death. I turned away, stuttered and coughed, my eyes watering. What Vail had done was a typical police maneuver. He wanted to see my reaction to gauge my guilt.

Angered, I looked at him sternly. "I hope you have what you wanted."

"Yes. That's it for now. Don't leave town."

"You don't want to ask me more questions?"

"Most people would jump at the chance to leave."

"I want to get this over and done with and never return."

Vail stood. "You might not have a choice."

Chapter Eleven

I huffed out of the police department into the bright morning light, catching the attention of pedestrians with prayer books in their hands and dressed in their Sunday best. I smiled and walked among them toward the Cathedral and eleven o'clock mass, wondering when I last attended church. I couldn't remember and decided now was as good a time to renew my faith. Maybe He could give me the answers I sought. If He couldn't, I'd manage on my own.

On the two-block walk, I fished my cell from my backpack and called Amy. She answered on the second ring.

"Hi, sweetie," I said. "How're you doing?"

"I'm going stir-crazy, Josie. I need to get out of this place before I lose my mind. Please, please, bust me loose, Jos."

Amy was much like me – impatient. Unable to wait for due process, she usually made things happen. With the proper motivation, she could wrangle a snake out of its skin.

"Amy – "

"Please, Jos. The food sucks and so does housekeeping. I changed my own bed this morning and these nightshirts are the twenties. Please, Jos, talk to my doctor. See if you can't convince him to spring me earlier than Friday. I know how persuasive you can be."

To avoid an unwinnable argument, I said, "I'll see what I can do."

"Super. I can always count on you. Now, tell me what's got you down."

I could never hide anything from her. She always seemed to know my feelings better than I.

"I apologized to Jackson yesterday."

"Tell me everything," Amy said.

In my mind, I pictured her throwing aside the sterile white bed sheet and sitting cross-legged on the bed, her hand pressing the telephone hard against her ear as though that would make her closer to me.

I found a doorway sheltered from the sun and sat on the top step, making myself comfortable.

Twenty minutes later, I ended with, "And that's when I called you."

"Don't trust Vail," she said. "Oops, I'll have to talk to you later. Dr. Coville and a bunch of doctors-in-training are here."

Making a mental note to bring Amy clothes from her apartment, I closed my cell and stood. A car driving past caught my attention. I should say, the passenger in the black BMW captured my gaze, just as she'd done in Carlisle Antiques Friday evening. I'd recognize those burnished copper curls anywhere.

The driver stopped for a red light at the intersection.

Weaving around pedestrians, I hurried toward the car. I was close enough now to make out the license plate: ANTIQUES. I studied the back of the driver's head and realized I knew the driver, as well. Neither one of them would blend in easily in a crowd.

What were Trish and Jackson doing together on a Sunday morning? Trish said she would wait for me at Amy's.

Something wasn't kosher. I suspected they were in cahoots and I was the mark.

It could be something different, but I doubted it.

Again, Jackson had set me up.

This time, for murder.

I wondered whether they saw me. Probably not. The alcove where I'd sat sheltered me from the public. Still, though, if they'd been looking...My cell rang. I took the phone from my backpack. I checked call display and flipped over the cover.

"Hi, Amy."

"So, who do you think killed the vet?" she asked without preamble.

I could hear the excitement in her voice. "I'd probably have an opinion if I could remember last night."

"Bummer, huh? Not knowing what you did and who you did it with. I can't imagine. I remember every one of my sexual experiences." She paused. "That's strange. The bad experiences leapt to the front. Why is that?"

"What?"

"That we remember the bad more vividly."

"It strikes a deeper impression."

"Really?"

"I don't know, Amy. Why do we bad talk someone rather than say something nice?"

"Jealously. Revenge. Hate."

"It's probably our way of learning not to repeat our mistakes."

Amy sighed. "I keep repeating the same mistakes over and over again. I've had lovers who didn't need me in bed at all, they were so in love with themselves."

I neared the Cathedral. "I'd like to continue this conversation, but at another time. Mass is about to begin."

"You're going to church? Jos, is there something you're not telling me? You're not sick, are you? Oh please God, don't tell me you're sick."

"Amy, slow down. I'm fine. Father Francis is the priest at the Cathedral."

"So?"

"He was also at Jackson's camp last night."

"Oh. You planning on talking to him?"

"I am."

"Good luck. Call me later."

"Will do." I closed my phone and shoved it in the pocket of my jeans.

Eleven o'clock mass turned out to be ten o'clock mass and those hordes of parishioners I'd guessed rushed to get a good pew were either on their way toward the coffee shop or catching the last thirty minutes of Sunday mass.

According to the schedule posted on the billboard at the entrance to the church, daily Sunday mass, in the singular, was now at ten o'clock and Saturday mass, which served as Sunday mass, was at four o'clock rather than at five.

I walked into the church. My years of nonattendance came down on me like only guilt could. I dipped my fingers in holy water and signed the cross, surprising myself I remembered how, then took a seat in a pew at the back.

The churchgoers had left. A blond-haired young man about twelve refreshed the altar with clean linens. A moment after he exited through the side door to the vestry, Father Francis, disrobed and dressed in black trousers and shirt sans tie, came through a door on the opposite side. If anyone would tell me the truth about my activities last night, I figured a priest would. To catch his attention, I cleared my throat. As I anticipated, he peered toward the source of the noise. When his gaze found me, I smiled.

It took a moment for him to recognize me.

He walked around the altar, turned and genuflected.

I met him halfway down the aisle. Father Francis didn't resemble the image in my mind. Last evening, I found him short, overweight and serious-minded. Now, I saw him for the medium built, honorable man and devout priest he was.

"Hello, Father," I said, smiling.

He returned my smile. "How nice of you to attend my mass."

"Er...I didn't...I wasn't..."

"I know. Just poking fun."

I relaxed. "There's a wee bit of the devil in you," I said, chuckling. "You had me for a moment."

"I get a lot of people that way. Are you here to reaffirm your faith in our God, or are you here to grill me on the goings-on last night at Jackson's camp?"

I opened my mouth, then snapped it closed when he held a finger against his temple and closed his eyes. Wondering what the old priest was up to this time, I watched him.

"Just a sec," he said. "The answer is coming to me...coming..." He smiled. "Oh yes. The latter. Having some memory loss, huh?"

Father must be a hoot at a party. If I could remember last night, I'd know that firsthand.

"You heard?" I asked.

"About Thomas?"

I nodded. "Such a shame. He seemed a really nice man."

"He's with our Savior now."

"Have the police contacted you?"

"Not yet."

"Then how did you find out?"

"Jackson called me."

"Oh." Jackson thought to let a priest know and not me, the woman who he apparently liked to kiss. Then I remembered Trish and Jackson in his car.

It could mean nothing.

It could mean everything.

"I imagine the police will be getting in touch with me some time today," he said.

The police would undoubtedly show Father more courtesy than they had me. For one, they wouldn't haul his ass downtown. They'd ask and be courteous when they did, unlike me.

"You're here to do the same, I suspect," Father said, his knowing eyes studying mine.

I smiled. "But not as diplomatically as they will."

"Nonsense."

"This is foreign to me." I swept my hand in a wide arc, darting from one statue to the next, past the Stations of the Cross and stained glass windows.

"Time is irrelevant in the eyes of Our Lord. He will embrace you and welcome you back in His arms."

"Thank you for saying, Father, but that's not what I meant. I was talking about relationships and interaction with people." My youth flashed before my eyes – kids ridiculing me, snickering behind my back and calling me names, their hands cupping their mouths as they whispered cruel stories. Hey, pig snout. Here suey suey suey. This little piggy went to market... I wasn't ugly and my nose wasn't large or hideous. I know it now.

"Is it nature to scorn those who have wronged us?" Nothing changed inside me. I was the same person today I always was. I thought more on that and decided it wasn't true. Everything about me was different. My hair, my face, my demeanor, but most of all, my approachability. Two weeks ago, if the purpose weren't job-related, I wouldn't have carried on a conversation with anyone, even a priest, let alone seek them out. Self-confidence made it possible for me. I should have made myself over long before this, less the drama of the last few days, of course.

Father took a moment to answer. "For some."

I agreed. "Tell me what happened last night. If I murdered Thomas – "

"Why would you think that?"

I grimaced, remembering my revenge on Jackson, and the blood on my hands this morning.

"I've changed." I ran my hand through my hair, then smoothed a finger over my brow.

"In here," he rested a bony hand against his heart, "you haven't. A new look doesn't change who you are inside."

Obviously, I'd told Father Francis about my makeover. Nothing was sacred to me anymore. I wondered what else I'd babbled last night to a roomful of men.

"It did me."

"For the better, don't you think?"

"How well do you know Jackson?" Father Francis peered at me, as though he awaited the imperative question – the one I didn't know how to phrase – before he answered. "Is he capable of..." I hesitated.

"Murder," Father considerately filled in for me. Strange, but that Jackson might be the killer the police sought had never occurred to me until now, which didn't make sense. Since I'd entertained the possibility that Jackson had set me up for murder, it should also have struck me, subliminally or otherwise, that he killed Thomas.

Father's trouser pocket sang Boot Scootin' Boogie. He shook his head. "Young Robbie is having fun with me again. Dennis the Menace has nothing on this child, believe me. Excuse me a moment, Josie."

"Certainly, Father." I watched him walk toward the altar. A moment later, he closed his cell and walked back to me. "The law has caught up to me. Lieutenant Vail will be here in ten minutes."

"I should go. He might misconstrue our meeting."

"He might." Father turned thoughtful. I became suspicious, not knowing who to trust. "If there's something I should know, please tell me."

He smiled. "Peace be with you, Josie."

"And with you, Father."

"Now scoot out the side door while the getting's good."

Outside, squinting against the bright sun, I smacked into Jackson.

Chapter Twelve

Jackson lived in a hi-rise. Figure that. A man who dealt in antiques should want to surround himself with antiques. Right. Nothing about the man made sense. He was definitely up to something. For self-preservation, I needed to find out what it was, which was the only reason I agreed to have dinner with him.

Since I'd seen Trish with him this morning, I could think of nothing else. A storm of emotions surged through me – anger for letting myself believe someone wanted a relationship with me, the homely one, the one who stood on the sidelines while schoolmates played sports and went on dates; a double dose of jealousy for seeing Jackson with another woman; hatred for them for not only hurting me but making a fool of me as well.

I started it when I seduced Jackson and humiliated him, but enough already. I had sincerely apologized, then allowed Jackson to exact his revenge. Tit for tat. My debt to him was paid in equal measure.

If I had a friend in my current position, I'd advise her to run...not walk...from Jackson Carlisle and Trish Whoever-She-Was. Nothing good will come of this situation, I'd say. They're up to something. Don't find out after it's too late.

Wise words.

Sound advice.

Tomorrow, I'd cut Jackson and Trish loose and forget about them like they never existed.

Tonight, I'd find out what Jackson knew about Thomas's murder and if I was involved in his death.

Feeling manipulated and confused, I walked across the street and entered the building. I gave my name to the desk attendant and learned Jackson had efficiently prepared my way.

"Fourteenth floor, Ma'am. Mr. Carlisle said to send you up when you arrive."

"Thank you," I said, smiling. "Have a good night."

I walked to the bank of elevators. A car awaited me. I checked myself out in the mirror. I was a bundle of nerves, but it didn't show.

On the fourteenth floor, I strode from the car to Jackson's apartment. I raised my hand to press the buzzer and the door swung open, startling me.

"Josie!" Jackson said, wrapping me in a hug that robbed my breath.

He kissed me on the cheek, then set my feet back on the floor.

"I thought you weren't coming," he said, kicking the door closed.

"Why would you think that?" I asked, my voice sounding natural. Despite my suspicions, I found myself enjoying his wide smile and hearty welcome. Once again, I questioned my instincts. Maybe I'd read him wrong.

"First, we eat," he said. "Then we talk."

I nodded.

Jackson led me from the foyer into a modernly furnished living room and to a black metal dining table intimately set for two. Through the expansive window, I looked across the street to Coronation Park. Lovers strolled the tree-lined paths. Beyond the park on the western horizon the sun, a ball of fiery orange, sank into the earth.

"The view is spectacular, isn't it?" Jackson asked.

I turned, expecting him to be looking out the window and found him admiring me instead. "It is." In fact, the sunset virtually took away my breath it was that beautiful, so was the handsome man standing at my side.

He held out a chair for me. I sat and watched him walk into the kitchen noticing, not for the first time, that Jackson looked as good from the back as he did from the front. He was an all-around superior male specimen. What in hell was he up to? I wish I could read minds, Jackson's in particular.

"Your timing's great," he said. "Dinner's ready."

"You cooked?"

"There's a lot you don't know about me," he said, wheeling in a cart.

He said it so well, I couldn't argue.

"It'll be fun getting to know each other, don't you think?" He placed our plates on the table and sat, unfolding the white linen napkin and spreading the cloth across his lap.

The spaghetti and meatballs looked delicious, and I couldn't wait to sample the cheese garlic bread grilled to perfection. I eyed the parsley delicately arranged on a rectangular plate. Jackson had thought of everything!

I followed his example. My usual dinner companions weren't large on etiquette. With that thought, I wondered how Shamus and Shawn fared in my absence. Well, I expected. They were squirrels, after all, and used to forging for themselves.

"I hope you like pasta," Jackson said.

"Yes, very much." I stared into his eyes, hoping to find the truth behind this dinner invitation. After a half-minute, I broke eye contact. Another second and I'd be sitting in his lap, confessing all my sins and bawling my guilt for every wrong I perpetrated in my entire life.

"Why did you want to have dinner with me?" Judging from his wide-eyed expression, he hadn't expected the question. Jackson wasn't a man often caught off-guard.

I'd done so once, and just now. I wouldn't go three for three.

After a moment, he countered. "Why not?"

His reaction and response seemed genuine. Maybe he was truly interested in me. Maybe there was no ulterior motive. And maybe if I reached out, I could touch the moon.

I shrugged.

He turned serious. "You're a beautiful woman, Josie. You're funny, cutely naive, intelligent, sexy, and from the moment you smiled at me, I wanted you." He cocked a brow. "Hence, my over-eagerness to make love to you that night in my shop."

"Sex not love," I said. "There's a difference."

"Love," he said, taking my hand. "I know the difference." He kissed my fingertips.

My traitorous heart reacted to his touch. My insides turned to mush, and my limbs tingled.

He set my hand on the table. "I can see I took you by surprise. I'm moving too fast. Truth is, I never met a woman who inspired me the way you do."

"Really?"

"Really."

One part of me – the love-starved part – believed him. The other part – the pragmatic part – harbored doubts. Serious doubts. _Don't be a fool, Josie. Don't trust him._ I would be a fool, wouldn't I, to trust a man who could have his choice of beautiful women but chose me instead?

I wanted to call him out on the lie, confront him, make him admit his game, but couldn't muster the courage. The problem was I liked the attention. I hoped I wouldn't regret not walking away.

Jackson, true to his word, ushered me into the living room after dinner to talk. I sat on the sofa, a French Provincial that looked new, or at least, unused. A man-about-town like Jackson wouldn't spend much time at home. I wouldn't imagine, anyway. My cottage was well used, but then I spent almost every living hour inside it.

I studied him, sitting on the wing chair opposite me. He didn't appear a man who struggled with the death of a good friend. We didn't all handle grief the same way, though. Some of us lashed out. Some wallowed in self-pity.

Maybe he formulated a story. Lies were easily fabricated. Truth, especially self-incriminating, on the other hand, was difficult to admit.

I couldn't continue this way. I needed to know the truth.

"Dinner was delicious," I said. "My compliments to the chef. Why didn't you call to warn me the police might be knocking down my door? That's what they did, you know. A heads-up would have been nice. I would have shown you the courtesy. How could you think I wouldn't want to know Thomas had been murdered? Or was it another of your ways to get revenge? If it was, then you got it. I can't tell you how frightening it was for me to see the police on the stoop. And why did I have dried blood on my hands when I woke this morning?"

"I – "

"I've had all day to rationalize your inadvertence and quite honestly, there's no excusing your insensitivity. If you thought anything at all about me, you would have called to tell me Thomas had been murdered, and that the police would probably want to question me." I stopped. Something bothered me, a tiny detail that under normal circumstances I would have questioned immediately. What was it? The elusive fact came to me then. "How did they know where to find me? No one knew where I was staying except for you and Trish. You told them, didn't you? You told them where I was." I waited for him to answer.

"I called you. Check your messages."

I took my phone from my pocket and confirmed what Jackson said. Six messages relaying the same point: Urgent. Call me. Need to speak to you asap. Josie, it's Jackson again. Please call. It's extremely important we speak.

How had I not noticed those messages?

I was seeing only what I wanted to see. It was difficult admitting I was wrong, but I had to. For myself and for Jackson. "I'm sorry," I said. "Forgive me?"

"Of course. It was a simple misunderstanding."

I liked Jackson more and more. "How about the talk you promised."

His cell rang.

"Excuse me," he said, checking call display. "I have to take this."

"Okay." I watched him walk into the kitchen where he spoke secret agent-like into the receiver. I became suspicious again. Who was he talking to? At the first opportunity, I'd snatch his phone and find out who called.

With Jackson occupied, I walked around the expansive living room. There wasn't a speck of dust or smudge anywhere. I doubted Jackson did his own cleaning and must have someone come in daily. A stack of envelopes bundled within an elastic band sitting atop a secretary desk caught my attention. A lot could be learned from someone's mail. I chewed the inside of my cheek, dickering whether I should invade his privacy. If Jackson was up to something, something which might hurt or jeopardize my safety, I should know. Of course, I should.

I peeked at him. He was still consumed with the telephone call, paying me no attention whatsoever.

Humming, I walked to the desk and casually glanced at the addressee: Madeleine E. Fairweather.

Who was she?

Jackson's wife?

Jackson's mistress?

Jackson's mother? No, a grown man, certainly one as sophisticated as Jackson, wouldn't live with his mother.

Wife or mistress, then.

Neither answer would relieve me. I had no hold on him and no relationship with him to speak of, yet like before, I experienced a moment of jealousy, which made no sense. None at all.

"Would you like more wine?" Jackson asked, re-entering the living room.

I turned and peered at him. He didn't look like a womanizer. Or an adulterer, either. Nor a murderer. Truth was, Jackson could be all of those things for all I knew.

I couldn't let him know I was on to his charade, so I smiled, letting on everything was fine.

"I'd love some, thank you." I walked to the sofa and sat, watching him refill our glasses. "Who was that on the phone?" I asked.

"A client looking for a Louis XV armoire."

"Oh." I doubted he told the truth.

Jackson set his cell on the end table.

I saw my opportunity and faked a sneeze. "Excuse me," I said, placing my finger across my nostrils. "I couldn't trouble you for a tissue?"

"Of course." He strode from the room.

I grabbed his cell, checked the identity of his last caller and realized I wasn't paranoid.

Jackson had lied to me.
Chapter Thirteen

Trish and Jackson.

Jackson and Trish.

In cahoots.

Man, didn't I call it.

I hadn't forgotten about Madeleine Fairweather, either, and wondered how she fit into their scheme.

My hands trembled. My heart beat erratically, and my legs turned spongy. But I forced them to carry me from the suite.

At the door, I heard an astonished Jackson ask, "Josie, where are you going? What's the matter?"

I didn't stop.

In the corridor, strength returned to my legs. I sprinted toward the stairwell.

Jackson entered the hall and called out to me. I didn't stop that time, either.

I yanked open the stairwell door and ran down the steps two at a time, never once fearing a misstep. I knew what I wanted – freedom. I also knew what I didn't want in my life – Jackson or Trish.

I ran to Amy, the one person who wouldn't betray me, use me or frame me for murder. On the four-block jaunt to the hospital, I drew curious stares from pedestrians. I could only imagine the picture I presented.

Before I entered her room, I took a moment to regain my breath and compose myself.

"Hi, honey," I said, smiling. I didn't need to ask how she was feeling. Amy looked the picture of good health. She wore floral lounging pajamas and OluKai Paniolo flip-flops, a pink ribbon holding her ponytail in place. I suspected she cut the hole through her gauze skull cap to accommodate the hair-do. Only Amy.

"I hope you're here to tell me I'm being released tomorrow," she said, throwing aside the glamour magazine she was flipping through.

"No, I'm sorry." I noticed her face was a bit flushed. "You're not overdoing it, are you?" Amy wouldn't like me hovering, but I couldn't stop myself. A few days ago, she was comatose with no hope for recovery. That something equally health threatening would result from her not taking proper care of herself horrified me. Amy had always respected her body and what she put into it, which I suspected had contributed tremendously to her rapid recuperation. Still, though, she shouldn't take unnecessary chances.

"Please, no lectures," she said, crossing her eyes. "Dr. Coville's amazed with my recovery. Did you talk to him about releasing me earlier than Friday?"

I shook my head. "Did you?"

"Yes, and he won't budge. I even put on my pouty face." She grimaced and rolled her eyes.

"And still he said no?" Her pouty face never failed to win me over. But then the matters I gave in to Amy weren't about anything which might jeopardize her life.

"All my tests are coming back good. What more does he want?"

"To know for certain you'll be okay when he releases you. You should want that, too."

She bit her bottom lip. "I do, but I want to get on with the rest of my life."

"Releasing you too soon may result in a set-back and land you back in here. You don't want that."

"Four whole more days, though. Five more sleeps." She threw herself back against the pillows. "He's keeping me prisoner. I want out of here, Jos. Now."

"Amy." I injected the right amount of reprimand in the tone.

She looked at me, then hung her head. "You're right. I'm behaving like a spoilt child."

"A teensy bit." I used my forefinger and thumb to measure a fraction. Keeping a spirited young woman like Amy tethered, bordered on inhumane but in this case, the reasoning was just.

"But you'll talk to Doc Grumpy?"

"Yes, I will. Don't hope for too much. I'm not his favorite person."

"Good Lord, why not?" Amy laughed.

My sister knew my outspoken ways well. My sincerest efforts at diplomacy sounded like condescension, and politeness usually turned into sarcasm. I couldn't win. Long ago, I realized in order for me to lead a happy life, I needed to be myself. For those who didn't like it, too bad.

"Sure, make fun of me." Seriously, I agreed with Dr. Coville. Amy would overdo it once she was released. I knew it and likely so did he. She lived life, which was more than I could say for the multitude. Pessimists, pragmatists, romantics, you name them, all live their lives ruled by something or someone. I hoped Amy would find someone to share her life, someone who could understand and enjoy what she treasured, someone devoted to her and only her.

My cell rang. I let it ring.

"Aren't you going to answer?" Amy asked.

"Nope."

"It could be work."

"It's not." I knew who was calling. Jackson wanted to diplo-talk the truth. I wasn't interested.

Amy frowned.

"What?"

"You never dodge anything or anyone." She narrowed her eyes. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that. It's me. Amy. The one who knows you better than anyone." She made herself comfortable on the bed and said, "Kibitz."

Amy wanted me to dish and would keep at me until she knew everything. So much had happened in a short while, I couldn't remember what she knew and what she didn't. Thoughts, details, facts and lies spun in my mind like a wheel.

"I told you I was having dinner with Jackson tonight?"

"No. The last I knew of your whereabouts was when you were about to enter the Cathedral. How'd that go, by the way? Communing with God."

"Don't knock it. There's truth to the saying, 'the power of prayer'." I ignored her when she pursed her lips. "We might not be talking right now if not for God." This was something sitting peripherally in my thoughts, something that would always be there nagging me until I fully believed in God again.

She mimicked gagging.

"Amy." I gave her a stern look. "How do you explain your recovery then?"

"A miracle worker doctor."

"After the surgery, your miracle worker doctor told me you were in God's hands and you would never wake from your coma. Dr. Coville had given up on you."

I could understand Amy's negativity. After our mother and my stepfather were killed, our faith in God was tested. We believed He'd failed us miserably. A part of me believed we'd be making a mistake turning our backs on Him. Another part of me wondered how He could take our parents from us. Life could knock us down but only if we let it. Amy's close call with death caused me to reevaluate my priorities, convictions and faith in man and God.

"You didn't."

"And neither did God." Before she could brush me off the subject, I said, "All I'm saying is not to close any doors and to keep your mind open to possibilities." There was a higher power. Amy was a testament to it. When faced with the certainty she might never wake from her coma, I turned to God for help. He was my first thought. He didn't turn His back on me.

I noticed Amy's eyes glazing. Time to get back on subject. "Where was I?"

"Leaving church."

"Right, and I ran smack into Jackson coming in through the back entrance." From her wide-eyed look, I determined Amy's level of attention had soared.

She sat upright and curled her legs under her. "And?"

"He invited me to his place for dinner, only I don't think it was his place."

Thirty minutes later, parched throat and heady, I came to the end of my story. "Then I ran."

"Who do you think this Madeleine woman is?"

I shrugged. "Mistress, wife...your guess would be as good as mine."

"When he invited you to dinner, did he say come to his place?"

"I believe he did." I massaged my temples. There was so many details in my mind, I was having difficulty sorting through them. "Maybe not." I groaned. "I don't know."

Amy grabbed her cell from the table.

I panicked, thinking she was about to call Jackson. "What are you doing? Who are you calling?"

"I'm googling her name." She looked at me. "What did you think I was doing?"

"I didn't know. That's why I asked."

She giggled. "You thought I was calling her, didn't you?"

"Maybe."

"Ha. Okay, here she is. Madeleine Elizabeth Carlisle Fairweather, nee Henderson, born August eighth, nineteen fifty in London, England. Arrived here in sixty-nine, married banker Lewis J. Carlisle in seventy-two. He succumbed to cancer in eighty-one, leaving behind his wife and two children, Jackson and Jessica. Madeleine remarried two years later to Philip Fairweather, insurance for all of your needs Fairweather and Fairweather. My store is insured through them."

"Yeah. Old money in Freedom." I noticed her typing again. "What are you doing?"

"Googling Jackson." She opened her eyes as wide as they could open. "He's a hottie. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I hadn't noticed."

"Like I believe you."

"What's his story?"

"Probably nothing you don't already know. Thirty-two, unmarried, antique dealer, uni grad, St. Xavier's, marketing...a lot of the same info – "

"Where does he live?"

"It doesn't say." She laughed. "You're worried he lives with his mother."

"No, I'm not. Doesn't matter to me. Not in the least."

"Me thinks thou doth protest too much."

Wisely, I kept silent. I didn't want her fired up any more than she was.

"Let's see what else is in mama's boy's dossier." Using her thumbs, she hit the keys on the cell. "Hmm. That's strange."

"What is?" Various scenarios flashed in my mind – Jackson in handcuffs; Jackson wielding a tire iron; Jackson washing blood from his hands... But I was the one with blood on her hands.

"Your Mr. Carlisle is persona non grata where news is concerned. How was the vet killed?"

"From what I could tell, a blow to the back of the head. In one of the photographs Vail showed me, Thomas was laying face down in the dirt alongside a four-by-four. It looked like he stopped to fix a flat."

"Maybe whoever killed him used the tire iron."

"Maybe."

"Who do you think killed him?"

"I don't know." Jackson entered my thoughts, but I dismissed the idea.

"Do the police have any suspects?"

"Besides me and Jackson, you mean?"

Amy looked at me. "The police can't seriously believe you killed him?"

"It's where the evidence leads them."

"That settles it. You have to get me out of here. You need my help to investigate."

"Investigate?"

"Yes. We need to prove your innocence."

And if I weren't innocent?

Chapter Fourteen

Amy looked over my shoulder and smiled. "Hiya, Doc. Oh, aren't you sweet. You remembered."

I turned and looked at the doctor carrying a strawberry sundae.

"Kyle, this is my sister Josie," Amy said, taking the plastic dish from him. "Josie, Dr. Kyle Barbour."

I shook his proffered hand and nodded. Amy made friends easily and anywhere. Obviously, she'd put treacherous Chris Roberts in her 'mistake' column and was moving on.

"Your sister is difficult to refuse," Kyle said.

"Don't I know it," I said, making a mental reminder to get the 4-1-1 on Dr. Barbour. He didn't wear a wedding band, but not every married man did. Amy would never have a relationship with a married man again but could, if she didn't know differently. My sister took everyone at their word, and sometimes was too naive for her own good.

While Amy ate her sundae, I used the time to interview Kyle. "Are you from Freedom, Doctor? I don't recall any Barbours in town."

"I'm from Meade, a small town southwest of here."

"That's farming community, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Your parents are farmers, then?"

He shook his head. "My dad's a firefighter, and my mom's a hairdresser, but my paternal grandparents are farmers."

"Ah. Any sisters or brothers?"

"Yes, Ma'am. One of each."

"Are you on staff here?" I directed the question at Kyle, but Amy answered.

"Kyle will soon be the newest pediatrician in Freedom." Amy made a production of cleaning the last bit of ice cream from the plastic cup. "Are you satisfied Kyle's not a serial killer?"

"I was just about to ask him for his mama's phone number," I said not missing a beat.

"You weren't!"

"No." I laughed. So did Kyle.

"Your reputation precedes you, Josie," he said.

"Huh?"

"The Burton matter. The foster parents who were using kids in child pornography. Didn't you uncover their scheme?"

"I wouldn't say 'uncover'."

"Instrumental in their incarceration, then."

"How'd you know about that?"

"Your sister."

"Oh." I didn't know Amy bragged me. I smiled, feeling darn pleased with myself.

"Not to worry, sis. I only told him the good stuff."

My high bottomed out. Our definition of "good stuff' didn't always coincide, so I didn't know whether Amy referred to my seduction of Jackson or the time I'd made my views known to His Honor the Mayor over upping his salary by ten grand a year — Who gets a two hundred dollar a week raise? Or the time I found ninety-two of the one hundred and ten lawnmowers at the homes of city employees, or the time –

"Earth to Josie."

I followed the direction of the voice and found Amy smiling at me. "What?"

"Kyle was talking to you. Where were you?"

I turned to him. "I'm sorry. My mind drifted. What were you saying?"

"I read your article on a country without a senate. I found it very thought provoking. Really – "

"Dr. Barbour. Dr. Kyle Barbour to the second floor nurses station, please," a female voice sounded from a speaker outside Amy's room.

Kyle grabbed the ends of his stethoscope hanging from his neck. "Gotta go." He looked at Amy. "I'll check in on you later." He turned to me and smiled. "It's been a pleasure."

Amy and I watched him leave, his hard sole shoes slapping the highly polished tile floor.

"He's nice," I said.

"So you approve?" Amy asked.

I nodded. "Of course. What's not to like?"

"He's a cutie."

"Are you interested in him?"

Amy shook her head. "He's married. Been there. Done that. Ain't gonna do it again."

Good girl. It was one thing to make mistakes; not to learn from them was another matter entirely. I didn't give Amy enough credit. I would always worry and watch out for her, just as she would always do for me. We were family. It's what family did for each other.

"I'm not ready to rodeo again yet, so you can relax, Jos."

I mentally thanked her.

"He cut the hole in the bandage and pulled my hair through." Amy swiveled her head to show me. "See?" She turned her face toward me again. "He even tied the ribbon around it."

"Where'd he get the ribbon?"

"From some flowers. Don't worry, the patient won't miss it."

"Oh." Amy acted like it was every doctor's practice to accommodate the whims of patients. "How did you meet him? This isn't his floor."

She giggled. "He came up to take a break with his wife, a nurse on this floor. I called out to him when he passed by. I mistook him for housekeeping. What's our first move?"

"What?" No one could shift gears faster than Amy.

"Our investigation. I'm so excited. We're going to be working together."

In my recent research on head trauma and comas, I learned it wasn't unusual for a patient to want to make the most of every second of life after realizing what they'd almost lost. I couldn't say Amy's behavior was out of the norm since she'd always been bouncy and bubbly. Truthfully, she shouldn't be so energetic, though. But maybe it wasn't unusual, either. I couldn't remember reading anything on the subject. It was time I had another talk with her doctor.

"What's our first course of action? Look into the vet's life, probably," she said, answering herself. "We should check out his profile." She stared into space a moment. "He's a doctor right? Maybe his murder was drug related. Or maybe he was a gambler and owed money to loan sharks."

"No chance of recovering a debt with the debtor dead. Besides, he was a vet."

"Oh yes, right. Maybe it was a mob hit."

"Hits are usually two the chest and one between the eyes, forming a triad."

"Really?"

I laughed. "It's how it's done in mobster movies."

She hit keys on her cell phone. "Oh my God, you're not going to believe this."

"What?" I felt as giddy as Amy. Whatever infliction she had, I had too.

"He's on Best Friends Forever."

"Get out of here."

"See for yourself."

I took her cell in my hand and read the screen. Sure enough Tom's name stared back at me. Something yanged at me. After several seconds, I remembered. Tom had jokingly said, Hayes with an 'e', not to be confused with the smugglers of Jaffer's Bay.

"This is not our Thomas." I explained the difference.

Amy hit her thumbs against the key pad again. "Let's see what we have for Hayes with an 'e'."

My legs were killing me. I doubted my muscles would ever recover from my stint with sophistication. I sat in the recliner next to Amy's bed.

"That's strange," she said, biting on her thumbnail.

"What?"

"There's nothing on him. Zip. Nowhere."

"Did you spell the name right?"

"See for yourself."

I did. "Where did you check?"

"Everywhere. Thomas without an 'e' Hayes comes up but nothing for the poor fella who got knocked off."

"Maybe he kept to himself."

Amy nodded and let the cell drop from her fingers. She laid her head back on the pillows.

I wanted to stay and talk more, but she was tired and needed to rest. Tomorrow, she'd feel even stronger than today. By the end of the week, she'd be ready for discharge. Dr. Coville was right. Not that I thought he wasn't.

"I'm going now," I said, looking at my watch. "I have something to pitch to Lou."

"What's that?" she asked from behind closed eyelids.

"An idea for a column. I'll tell you all about it if he gets on board." I wasn't lying. I'd been tossing around the idea for a few days now. Sane Rants. Okay, the title needed some work, but the premise showed promise. At least, I thought so. I hoped Lou would, too.

"When he gets on board, not if."

Amy's voice was barely audible and her mind was letting go, but she still had the presence of mind to bolster my ego. She always had faith in me even when I had none in myself.

"Sleep well, honey," I said and tucked her in for the night. I flicked the switch for the overhead light and turned, taking my time to walk to the door. What might await me outside Amy's room frightened me. I peeked into the corridor. The lights had been dimmed for the evening and nurses were seated at their stations, heads bent, pens between their fingers. No one paid me the least attention when I walked past.

I don't know what I'd expected. Jackson, perhaps, rushing toward me when I emerged, telling me I'd misconstrued everything and I'd been wrong to think he and Trish were conspiring against me. But I knew what I'd seen. He lied to me. The caller hadn't been a customer. He was talking to Trish and they certainly weren't discussing eighteenth century armoires. They were probably conferring how to tighten the police's case against me. Truth was, I wanted Jackson to take me in his arms and tell me not to worry, to protect me and not let anyone hurt me.

My body trembled at the thought of going to jail.

I was innocent. I would be innocent among thieves, murderers and tax offenders. Me, who paid her taxes months before the due date. Me, who fainted at the sight of blood. Me, who'd paid a driver to return to the corner store to pay for a chocolate bar I'd eaten while waiting in line and walked out without paying for it.

Feeling someone watching me, I looked over my shoulder. There was no one behind me. I turned, but couldn't shake the notion I was being observed.

I walked faster. Seconds later, I jabbed the button for the elevator. I heard a noise around the corner from a wing closed for renovations.

"Hello, is anyone there?" I asked, turning sideways toward the unlit corridor.

The elevator responded to my question.

Ding.

I jumped. I'd asked but apparently, I hadn't expected anything or anyone to answer.

The hair on my forearms bristled.

Something heavy hit a solid surface nearby.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

My heart hammered.

The sound crept closer.

Thump.

And closer.

I dashed into the elevator car and beat my finger on the close door button. Why did these damn things always hesitate? "Close. Close. Close." The doors swished shut in my face. I let out the mother of all sighs, then jumped against the back wall when someone on the other side of the doors pounded them.

Chapter Fifteen

"Go away," I screeched. The pounding ceased and the elevator moved non-stop downward.

It wasn't my imagination. Jackson was out to get me. He wouldn't let up until he got what he wanted, me dead or behind bars for a crime I didn't commit. It had all been about payback.

When I reached the lobby, I bolted from the elevator car like hell's demons bit at my heels and darted toward the exit.

No one shouted my name.

A hand didn't clamp down on my shoulder.

No gunshots pierced the silence.

I ran into the night.

As I hastily made for the street, my cell rang in my pocket. I stopped to check call display. Jackson.

He was probably calling from the hospital lobby wanting to know where I was. I found a bush to hide behind and answered his call.

"What do you want?" I looked through the branches, waiting for him to show himself. He didn't.

He was cagier than I would have thought.

"Josie, my God, where did you run off to? If it was something I said or did, I'm sorry."

He was good. I gave him that.

"Tell me where you are, and I'll come to you."

I just bet he would. "It's not a good idea."

"You come to me, then."

Footsteps echoed in the air.

"That's not a good idea, either." I ended the call, set the cell to vibrate and moved deeper into the evergreen shrub, using the branches to hide me. The phone quivered in my hand. The footsteps I'd heard stopped. I looked at the screen. Jackson. I peeked through the foliage but saw no one. It didn't mean he wasn't out there somewhere, though.

A full sixty seconds passed in silence. Not the sound of a car, a bird, a voice, the crunch of gravel. Nothing. Just dead air.

Time seemed to stand still.

Then my ears popped, and I heard an owl hooting, a car starting, a cell ringing and a siren squealing. If I waited any longer, I would have another panic attack and Thomas wasn't around with a paper bag. I was on my own.

I sprang from my hiding place and ran through the parking lot and onto Pine Street, not knowing where to go from there. I knew where I couldn't go – Amy's. Jackson knew I stayed at her apartment for the time being.

Then it came to me, the one place I'd be safe.

Of course.

***

I unlocked the rear door and let myself in. I'd backtracked several times and was reasonably sure no one had followed me. It seemed paranoid, but better to err on the side of caution.

I walked upstairs to Lou's office but, just in case someone had trailed me, I didn't turn on any lights. The lighting from the parking lot provided sufficient illumination, enough for me to navigate without stubbing a toe or ramming into something. Walking toward the leather sofa, I called the Freedom PD and asked for Detective Nathaniel Vail. I took a chance he'd still be at work. He seemed the married-to-his-work type.

"Vail," the homicide detective said in my ear.

"This is Josie Fox."

"What can I do for you at a minute before midnight on a Sunday night, Ms. Fox?"

His voice was different than I recalled, but then I might not be remembering accurately. This morning, I was literally dragged by the police from Amy's apartment and spirited downtown. Frightened and apprehensive as I'd been, it made sense my recollections of certain events and things might not coincide with the actuality.

"Have you made any progress on the Hayes murder?" I asked.

"You know I can't discuss an on-going investigation."

"I'm not asking for specifics, Lieutenant. I'm asking whether you consider me a person of interest, a suspect, or neither. If you feel you can't answer that question, tell me whether I can leave town."

"Have a good trip, Ms. Fox."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"One more thing..."

"Yes."

"You may want to stay out of Dodge for awhile."

"Why's that?"

"It seems participants of Carlisle's soirée Friday evening aren't fairing well. Wight Allaby was murdered tonight."

"Who'd want to kill him?" I sat down before my legs gave out. I couldn't take much more of this active life. Clearly, sociability would kill me.

"He is a lawyer."

"Yeah, a really old one."

"Sixty-two."

"Is that all he was? He looked older."

"Too many years on the juice and too many cigars."

"Where was his body found?"

"Outside the Oyster Shell."

I'd never been there, but heard of the restaurant. I ran my fingers through my hair. "Is there any link between the murders? How was he killed?" I sensed Vail hesitating and said, hoping to put him at ease, "It isn't anything I'm not going to find out from the morning paper."

"A gunshot to the back of the head," he said finally.

I didn't know how Thomas had been killed. After seeing the tire iron next to his body in the photograph Vail had shown me, I'd assumed the cause of death was blunt force trauma. If the same killer murdered these men, it made sense the same weapon would have been used. "Like Thomas?" I asked. Vail didn't answer. I took that as a yes. "Same type of weapon?"

"I can't say."

Things are not always as they appear. "Can't or won't?"

"Can't as in I don't know and won't speculate."

"What's the time of death?" Before Vail could tell me again he wouldn't speculate, I rephrased my question. "When was his body found?"

"Six-thirty."

"The restaurant would have been hopping at the time, so I'm assuming someone heard the gunshot and came out to investigate, setting the time of death precisely."

I wondered why Vail didn't want me in for questioning on this murder too. "There's a reason you're not hauling me downtown. What is it?"

"I can send a squad car for you, if you're feeling left out."

"You have evidence pointing to someone else," I said more to myself than Vail and realized how perfect the theory was.

"Have a safe trip, Ms. Fox."

"Thanks, Lieutenant. Can Jackson leave town as well?"

"Good night, Ms. Fox."

Chapter Sixteen

What had I gotten myself into?

Caught up in the attention, I'd forgotten to watch my back. A wise old man once told me to look after myself because no one else would. Usually, I lived by the advice. Until Jackson. Until a man showed me interest.

My mind flicked through the people in my life. Amy would never do me wrong, but aside from her, the field was open to shysters, perverts, liars and manipulators like Jackson Carlisle and Trish What's-Her-Name.

It was easy for me to fall prey to a scheme. It always was. Time and again, I thought it would be different. Maybe this time there were no agendas or ulterior motives, and no one trying to do me harm. Maybe – just maybe – someone could like me for who I was. Apparently, it was too much to ask.

Disgusted, I laid back on Lou's sofa, staring at the ceiling.

Hours later, my eyes closed and I could feel myself surrendering to merciful sleep.

***

Early the next morning a noise awoke me. Whatever caused it, stopped. If someone was here, he or she was hiding. From my position on the sofa, I could see every crevice and corner of the spacious office. The room was still dark. Five-twenty, my watch said. Great. Two hours sleep. I needed at least seven, otherwise I was prickly as a cactus.

I heard a door squeak open and close in the hallway and knew for sure then I wasn't alone.

On the defense, I wouldn't wait for the intruder to make a move on me. I jumped from the sofa and ran to the doorway, snatching one of Lou's bowling trophies from the credenza on the way past. Just in time, too. A gorilla-size man came into the office. I charged. My hand high in the air, I prepared to strike.

The overhead lights came on and Lou strode in, taking a sideways look at me. He growled.

"This is my office," he said gruffly. "I should be the one on the attack."

"You scared the crap out of me."

"I could say the same."

"Sorry." I set the trophy back in place, walked to the sofa and strapped my borrowed sandals on my feet. "I thought you were someone else."

"Who?"

Good question. "I don't know for sure."

He brought his bushy brows together and narrowed his eyes. "What mischief did you get into this time?"

"It's more serious than a prank."

Lou walked to his desk and sat. "Talk."

He needed to say nothing more. I babbled like a loon for twenty minutes non-stop. "And tonight when I left the hospital, someone followed me."

"You seduced a man?" Lou asked.

I couldn't believe that from all what I'd told him, me seducing a man seemed an idea too preposterous to conceive. Amid that thought, I could hear someone walking outside Lou's office. "Did you hear that?" I asked.

"Hear – "

"Shh," I said, holding a finger in the air and turning my head toward the doorway.

The sound of footsteps came again.

This time, Lou heard them. He opened a bottom drawer and came out with a device used to lock a steering wheel. Big Bertha, he called the gadget.

Big Bertha or not, I became alarmed he would get hurt or worse. These people, these murderers played for keeps. Two corpses testified to it. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to Lou because of me.

"Don't go out there." My heart beat so hard I was sure the motion could be seen through my dress.

"I can look after myself," Lou said, moving toward the door.

"Call the police," I said from the edge of my chair.

Lou peeked into the corridor. "I don't see anyone," he said, his voice a whisper.

"He's probably gone. Call the police." I moved to where Lou stood. "This isn't a good idea."

"Are we sure we heard something?"

"Maybe it was a homeless person using the facilities."

Lou cocked a brow.

"What? It happens." I closed and locked the door. Lou probably had my identical thought: If the footsteps belonged to an employee, he or she would have stopped and said good morning. But whoever it was, had left and in another hour or so, the place would be filled with workers. No one would dare make a move with people around. Maybe then I could relax. Yes, maybe.

At Lou's desk, I said, "If there was someone, you probably scared him off." I motioned at the steering wheel lock.

The door knob rattled.

Lou and I stared at the door.

Then came a knock.

"Who is it?" Lou asked much calmer than I would. He was rock solid under fire.

"Jones, sir. Why is the door locked?"

Lou rolled his eyes. "It's the nut bar." He groaned. "It's too early in the day for that."

"I'll take care of him." I reached the door before Lou could stop me.

"Just let him in. With any luck, your presence will frighten him off."

"Gee, thanks, Lou." I threw the lock and pulled open the door.

Jones held a box of doughnuts in his hand.

"For me?" I asked. "How sweet. How'd you know I skipped breakfast?"

Jones stuttered and gasped. Obviously, he hadn't expected me to be in Lou's office.

"Cat got your tongue?" I grabbed a doughnut and bit into it. "Yum. Strawberry filing. My favorite. How'd you know?"

"I-I-I – "

"I hope you're not going to tell me these are for Lou."

"I-I-I – "

"If you'll excuse us, Lou and I have important matters to discuss." I inched the door closed, then re-opened it. "By the way, I'm back." I closed the door. For the final time.

On my way to Lou's desk, I dusted icing powder from my hands.

"That was diplomatic," Lou said.

"And you would have shown more diplomacy?" I grinned.

"I say, thank the lord you're at the paper infrequently."

I chuckled. For a moment, I actually forgot someone held me in their sights, waiting for the right time to pull the trigger. Reality came crashing down on me then like a tidal wave. It took me another moment to find my breath and my voice.

"About my problem? What do I do?"

Lou fixed coffee. "What can you do? As I understand the situation, you think Carlisle is out to get you, but you haven't presented any facts to support your theory. Has it ever occurred to you he may genuinely care about you? God help the poor man."

I thought about it. On the one hand, Jackson's kisses seemed real. On the other, his considerable charm could make me think he was sincere.

I was the outcast.

I would always be the outcast.

"It was all an act for Jackson," I decided.

Lou studied me. "If you're sure."

"I am, and I also think I'm next on his hit list."

"What about the girl? How does she fit into all this?"

"Maybe they're partners."

"In what?"

I shrugged. "Take your pick. There're all sorts of crime and money's at the root of many of them."

Lou pulled his lip between his teeth and let go. "This could be drug-related."

"Could be." I knew where Lou's thoughts had gone and hated that my situation had dredged up unpleasant memories for him. I wanted to smooth things over, tell him that one day his son would find his way back to him, but couldn't find the appropriate words.

"How was the vet killed?"

"A bullet to the back of the head, I think. Execution style."

"You're watching too many movies."

"That I do probably saved my life more than once in the last few days."

"Was the lawyer killed in the same fashion as the vet?"

"I don't know. Vail wouldn't say."

Lou picked up the phone and punched a series of numbers on the keypad. "Allie, how was the lawyer killed that was found outside the Oyster Shell last night?...Time of death?...Any witnesses?...Was anything found at the scene?...What are the police saying?...Keep me informed." He hung up and looked at me.

"The vet and lawyer were killed in the same manner. Allie overheard Vail say it looked like the same weapon used in both killings. Vail wouldn't make an official statement. They found something but Vail's tight-lipped on what it is. What time did you arrive at Carlisle's?"

"About seven-forty-five." I knew where Lou was going with the question. "You're trying to put Jackson at the scene of the lawyer's murder at six-thirty. Supposedly, he was home cooking dinner for me at the time." Although, how long did it take to cook spaghetti and heat sauce? For all I knew, which was turning out to be very little, he could have gotten take-out from the Oyster Shell.

"If Jackson is trying to kill me, what's his motive?" This had to be something bigger than payback for my revenge on him.

"Maybe you saw something you shouldn't have or know something you shouldn't. You still can't remember all of Friday night?"

"The memories come and go in bits and pieces. One thing I don't remember at all is getting back to Amy's." That bothered me. Really bothered me. I wasn't feeling like they did, but those men could have done anything to me and I wouldn't know differently.

"How did you feel when you woke Saturday?"

"Hung over."

"Do you think you could have been drugged?"

"It's possible." From what I'd read on date rape drugs, the effects last a period of time. Days of feeling wrung-out, nausea within the first twelve hours of ingestion, flu-like symptoms, hot flashes. I hadn't experienced any of those maladies. Other than a second-degree headache, my body returned to normal by mid-day Sunday, after I visited with Father Francis.

"Did you want a blood test?"

"No." I sat across from Lou, ate another doughnut and drank cold coffee. A bad feeling settled in my gut about Jackson. That Trish was involved in whatever caper Jackson had going added fuel to the slow burn in my stomach.

"How could I have been so stupid?" I ran my fingers through my hair.

"We all make mistakes," Lou said.

"Not like mine. Not like this one."

"Where are you going when you leave here?"

"Amy's. I have a column to write."

"Is that wise? Going to Amy's, I mean."

Right. Jackson knew to find me there. "Maybe I'll go to the cottage." The isolation was what had attracted me to the structure when I stumbled onto the quaint home. Now, the remoteness frightened me. No one would be around to help me.

Lou opened the pencil drawer in his desk and took something in his hand.

"Here," he said, handing me a key. "Stay in my guest house. You'll be safe there."

Lou was right. No one could get at me there. His property was as secure as the Federal Reserve. "Thanks, Lou." My quaking limbs settled already.

"Tell Baby I sent you."

"Who's Baby?"

"You'll see."

Chapter Seventeen

Lou suggested I take one of the paper's delivery vans. My first instinct was to refuse – he'd already done too much for me – but when he pointed out the vehicle would be less conspicuous in his driveway than my car, I agreed.

From the paper, I drove straight to Amy's, circling the block a few times searching for suspicious cars. I didn't know what a suspicious car looked like but I was certain I'd recognize one when I saw it.

After the quiet and almost empty block satisfied me, I pulled into Marie's driveway behind my car and gazed up at Amy's apartment. Nothing appeared out of place. Everything in the apartment seemed as I'd left it. The window blinds were still closed. That went for the windows, as well. But it didn't mean there wasn't anyone in the apartment waiting for me.

At the thought of coming face to face with the someone who wanted me dead, my legs turned elastic and my hands trembled. I told myself to get a grip and grabbed the can of pepper spray from my bag and hopped from the van. I never had the opportunity to test the effectiveness of the spray and had to trust the police officer who advised the spray could reach up to a distance of thirty feet and temporarily blinds. The tip might save my life.

Marie came out of the house, wiping her hands on a tea towel. "I wondered who that was," she said. "Nice ride."

I smiled at Amy's landlady and looked at the white van advertising The Freedom Times & Transcript in black chancery script and grinned. "Do you mind if I leave my car here? I'll be using the van for a few days."

"It's not in my way."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

Marie helped me transfer my belongings from one vehicle to the other.

"Did that nice man get in touch with you?" she asked.

I stopped fast, like I'd been shot. "What man?"

"The biker. He said it was imperative he speak with you."

"Did he say what about?"

She shook her head. "Just that it was urgent. Extremely urgent, I believe were his exact words."

Extremely urgent, like life and death, namely mine urgent. "Did he say anything else?"

"Nothing." Marie stared at the ground, as though she remembered something. I prompted her to tell me. "He seemed impatient," she said.

"How so?"

She shrugged. "It was just a feeling. Are you in trouble, Josie?"

I shook my head. "I'm working on a story." What a crock. If I weren't careful, some hot shot reporter would be writing my story and the paper running my obit in the next day or two.

"I'm going to visit Amy this afternoon," Marie said. "Would you like me to give her a message for you?"

"Tell her I'll be in to see her tonight. Thanks."

"Okay."

Marie concerned me. I didn't want her telling Amy about any of this. Not even God knew what Amy would do if she thought I needed her. I waved my hand toward the van and twirled my fingers in the air. "This stays between us. Can you do that for me?"

"Sure."

"Thanks."

"If the biker comes back, what would you like me to tell him?"

I couldn't ask Marie to lie. "That you gave me his message, and I had no comment."

Marie looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "But that's the truth."

"It is." From the expression on her face, she'd hoped to take part in my story. I couldn't disappoint her. "On second thought, maybe we should give the man something to think about."

I rapped my finger against my lower lip and paced, the crushed rock beneath my feet crunching. I could virtually feel Marie's suspended breath.

I stopped and looked at her. "Tell him...tell him I will never carry his child, not for any amount of money."

Marie slapped her hands together. "I knew it. Men today they want the babies, but not the mother. Good for you."

I crooked my finger, beckoning her closer. When our faces were inches apart, I lowered my voice and said, "There's more." I hesitated to build suspense. My plan worked. Marie's face lit like a hundred watt bulb.

"Tell me," she said.

"He's gay."

"No way."

I measured her reaction. If her eyes grew any larger, they'd explode. "Uh-huh. Frootie-tootie. And not only that, he wanted a ménage-a-quatre – him, his two boyfriends and me.

***

Shutters the color of a honeydew melon softened the façade of Wisterlawn, a stone and brick structure, featuring covered porches, arched doorways, raised ceilings, stone hearths and walls of glass. The massive six-bedroom house never failed to amaze and impress me. The Stryker family was old money in Freedom and generations of Strykers had taken up residence in the ancestral home over the years. If Lou Jr. didn't free himself from drugs and man-up, there was a good chance Lou would be the last of his line.

On the drive to Wisterlawn, I kept a periodic watch in the rear view. I didn't think I was being followed, but what I knew about these things could fill a thimble. I found myself thinking about all the reasons to say alive – Amy; Lou; Cletus, my eighty-year-old barber in the Creek; my work; Shamus and Shawn. There were so many things I had yet to experience, and I didn't want to miss out on any of them.

I parked in the circular drive at the front entrance, gathered my laptop and backpack in my arms and jumped from the van. I caught a flash of gray in my peripheral vision. In the next instant, I was on my back on the ground in the flower garden wedged between a rose bush and a hydrangea, my belongings scattered around me.

"What the hell?"

Two monstrous and hairy paws landed on my chest, pinning me to the earth. I looked into eyes as large as chestnuts.

"Baby?" I asked timidly, staring at the long tongue dangling from the side of his mouth.

"Woof."

I laughed. Before I knew what was happening, Baby slapped his paws on either side of my head and washed every bit of skin on my face. I wiggled and scrunched my face, which excited him even more. I attempted to get out from under him, but the dog had me overpowered.

"Baby, please. Enough." HHHHe didn't stop. Apparently, my face needed a thorough cleansing. I grabbed the strap of my backpack and pulled it over. "I've got something for you." I reached inside and grabbed a granola bar.

Baby devoured the chewy treat within seconds, time enough, though, for me to get out from under him and stand. I brushed myself off, wondering why I always landed in the dirt on my butt in the company of a male.

"Woof, woof." Baby bounced around me, obviously wanting more play time.

"I can't," I told him. "I'm too tired."

One look into those baby brown eyes and I caved. "All right, but I have to unpack first. I'm in the guest house."

Baby ran to the front door and waited.

"I said, the guest house not the main house."

I led the way around back. The trees seemed more towering than I remembered, but everything else appeared the same since the company picnic a few months ago.

The guest house was a two bedroom two full bath brick bungalow more elaborate than any of the houses in Devil's Creek.

I let us in. Baby lunged toward the sofa.

"Not on the furniture," I said.

Baby stopped and looked back at me with a, say what? expression.

"You heard me."

He whined.

"Don't give me that. I'm sure Lou doesn't let you on the furniture."

Baby bounded to the window and looked out, his stub of a tail twitching.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned his name. He'll be home later."

He looked over his shoulder. " _A-ouah_?"

"How about some cable?" I switched on the television.

Baby watched the screen, his full concentration on the changing scenes as I flicked through the channels. "Tell me when."

"Woof."

"Excellent choice."

I left Baby watching a commercial for Angus beef and took a quick tour of my temporary home. The place was spotless, and the refrigerator was well stocked. Lou employed full-time help and must have arranged for Mabel to spruce up the place after I accepted his offer.

I checked the back door and found the dead lock bolted. All the windows were closed and locked.

If I weren't in trouble and needing help, Lou would never have offered me his guest house. He was a sucker for lost souls and women in trouble. At the moment, I was both.

The telephone in the living room rang.

"Woof. Woof."

"I'm coming." I sped through the hallway and into the living room and answered the phone on the third ring. Call display said: Stryker.

"Hi ya, boss," I said, smiling at Baby.

"I see you made it there in one piece. Everything in order?"

"Yes. Mabel did her magic. The place is immaculate. Give the woman a bonus. She deserves one." I sat beside Baby on the sofa and scratched the top of his head.

"I'll take it under advisement. Any problems? Did you set the alarm? You remember the code, right? Did you check the locks on the windows and doors?"

"I did. I feel safe here." Safer than I had in a long, long while, in fact.

"No problems?"

Lou was fishing. I'd make him ask. He should have warned me about the horse-size hound he'd adopted.

"None," I said, smiling. "Everything's A-okay."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

Baby whined.

"What was that?" Lou asked innocent-like.

I grunted. "As if you don't know. Why didn't you warn me about him? I could have gotten seriously hurt. He tried to plant me in the garden at the front entry." My voice was stern but inside I was laughing. "How big's this guy going to grow?"

Lou chuckled. "About one-twenty. He's a Bullmastiff."

Even the name of his breed sounded monstrous. "He seems docile enough."

"Don't be fooled by those puppy dog eyes. He's a great guard dog. What're your plans for the rest of the day?"

"Get some work done. I'm way behind. Tonight, it's to the hospital to see Amy." That worried me. Jackson didn't know me well but he knew my attachment to my sister and that I'd never let a day pass without visiting her.

"Is that wise?" he asked. "Jackson knows your routine."

"I'll be careful." Jackson didn't know Amy's name or that our last names weren't the same, but Trish did. And if they were in cahoots...

"Be doubly careful. It'll piss me off to run your obit."

"No more than it would me."

I could hear someone talking to him. Lou came on a few seconds later.

"Gotta go. Chaos in the cage."

"Okay." I hit the 'off' button on the cordless and let the phone drop from my fingers.

My cell rang. "I wonder who that is," I said, reaching into my backpack. "Oh look, it's Trish." I showed the screen to Baby. He wasn't impressed. "Think I should answer?"

"Woof woof."

"No way. You're right." I checked my messages. Jackson, Jackson, Jackson, Trish, Jackson, Jackson, Jackson. Delete, delete, delete...I deleted them all, hating I hid out, hating feeling scared, hating looking over my shoulder. The time had come to put that behind me. I called the Freedom PD.

"Lieutenant Vail, please," I said to Officer Crawley who answered.

"He's not in. Did you want his voice mail?"

"His cell number would be nice," I said.

"I'd like it myself."

"When I get it, I'll pass it on to you." I was serious.

I phoned my cyberspace wizard. "Hey, what's cranking?" I said when Voortz answered.

"Yo, Josephine."

Voortz was the only person who got away with using my given name. "I need a cell number."

"Sing it to me, sweet cheeks."

"Nathaniel Vail." I could hear nails clicking against keys, A second later, he gave me the number.

"You're the best."

"I know. Later."

Voortz and I went way back. I did him a favor, and he'd been repaying me since. He never complained, asked questions or severed the tie that bound us. I expected one day he'd cut me loose. I'd miss him and his expertise.

Beside me, Baby cocked his head. I felt compelled to keep him abreast of my activities. "Now, I'm going to light a fire under the police."

Vail answered my call on the first ring.

"Lieutenant, it's Josie Fox."

"Twice in the same day. To what do I owe the honor?"

Technically, it wasn't the same day. Today was Monday, and I'd called him a minute or two before midnight last night. On another note, I found it strange he didn't ask how I latched onto his cell number. Maybe he knew I had resources too. "Have you made an arrest yet in Thomas's murder?"

"My prime suspect went off the radar."

"If you're referring to Carlisle, I may be able to help."

"How so?"

"He's been calling me. Maybe I could set up a meeting." I thought about my temporary lodging and didn't want to bring this nasty business to Lou's. "Some place public, with lots of people."

"Why's he calling you?"

Honestly, did everyone think of me as a plague on man? If I survived this murder investigation, improving my profile would definitely head my to-do list.

"I don't know. I didn't answer his calls."

"Why not?"

"The answer should be obvious."

"You think he killed those men."

"You do, too." Or did he? Maybe I'd made a mistake. "Don't you?"

"He has some questions to answer, yes."

Vail played his hand very well, but I wouldn't let it concern me. "I can bring him to you."

"I can't involve a civilian in an investigation. The chief would come down on me like an avalanche."

"I'm offering."

"Doesn't matter."

We moved in circles, never once coming close enough to each other to reach an agreement. Tiring of the antics, I decided to go for a straightforward approach. "You have until Friday to solve this murder."

"What's happening then?"

"My sister's being released from the hospital and intends to help me apprehend the bad guys, I believe were her exact words. She's still recovering from brain surgery. I can't be sure if something's not misfiring up there. All I can say is that she's different, nothing I can identify, but there's definitely something not right about her."

"Should I be scared? Is that why you're calling me? To warn me?"

"Oh God no. My motives are purely selfish."

"Bear in mind, interfere with a murder investigation and dire consequences could ensue."

"Yeah, yeah, obstruction of justice, interference and all that." Truthfully, those charges sounded tame compared to what I'd face if Amy helped solve this case. "I'm returning Jackson's call and arranging a meet. Are you on board or not?"

***

Lou wasn't home from the paper yet when I left for the hospital at six o'clock. Despite my new best friend's attempts to tag along, I delivered him to Mabel and asked her to tell Lou I'd see him later.

I hoped it would be the case. If Jackson murdered those men, I could be setting myself up for the same fatal ending.

Jackson agreed to meet me at Della's Café across from the Freedom Police Department at eight o'clock. He'd wanted to come to me right then, which told me two things: Either he was in a rush to kill me, or his concern for me was genuine.

My heart wanted to believe the latter.

Vail's cell had gone straight to voice mail. I left a message setting out the details of my plan to lure Jackson out from hiding and finesse him into my confidence. A confession seemed too much to expect, so I didn't mention it.

Hopefully, Vail would accommodate me. If he didn't, I might find myself with a bullet between my eyes. It would play hell with my makeover. Vanessa at the First Lady Beauty Salon and Spa would be livid. I imagined Carlos fluttering his hand and saying, "Girl, what have you done to yourself!"

I drove the van to the hospital. Wisterlawn was country living within city limits but still a twenty-minute drive to downtown Freedom.

Surveillance and self-protection came natural to me now. Before getting into the van, I'd checked for unwanted passengers, then surreptitiously scanned the street for anything and anyone out of the ordinary. As I drove, I kept a close watch out the rear view and side mirrors.

Everything seemed normal.

At the hospital, I parked under four two hundred and fifty watt lights suspended from a twenty-foot metal pole and walked with a group of seven teenagers who, I took from their giddy conversation, were paying a visit on their friend and classmate who'd given birth to a ten-pound baby boy.

Once inside, I pulled my baseball cap hard down on my ears, picked up my pace and made for the stairs. By the time I entered Amy's room, my breath came in episodic gasps, a culmination of anxiety and fatigue. I stuffed my cap in my back pocket.

Amy was napping.

I let her sleep. When she rested, her body healed. I checked the dinner tray and saw she'd barely eaten. Hospital food was the pits but healthy nevertheless, and Amy needed proper nourishment to regain her strength.

She'd been doing so well. I wondered whether her spirit had taken a hit when Dr. Coville refused to consider an earlier release from the hospital. That, combined with my hesitation to interfere with his orders, might end in a depression. Still, Amy couldn't always get her way. True, though, patients healed faster at home. Dr. Coville would know that. Perhaps, he wasn't telling me everything.

Amy stirred. I walked to the side of her bed.

"Hi, honey," I said when she opened her eyes. She yawned and stretched. "I must have dozed off. How long have you been here?"

"Not long. How are you feeling?"

She took a moment to answer. "Fine, but I get really tired sometimes."

I patted her hand. "It's normal after surgery, sweetie."

"Even for someone my age?"

"Of course. Your body underwent a trauma and needs time to rejuvenate. Kind of like a bad sprain. It'll take time to heal."

She nodded. "If you say so."

"Have I ever lied to you?"

She rested her head against the pillow and closed her eyes. "Remember when we were kids and you told me that mud puddle was only a half-inch deep?"

"I was eight and still learning measurement."

"I loved those sandals."

From a child, Amy was fashion conscious. That she became a buyer for a major chain of women's apparel didn't come as a surprise.

"Who was in to see you today?" I asked, knowing she would have had a parade of visitors. Everyone loved my sister.

"Marie. She gave me your message. Carrie dropped by. You remember her, don't you?"

I scrunched my eyes as though that would help conjure a face to match the name. It didn't. Amy helped me out.

"The brunette with the two shades of brown eyes."

I recalled her now. "One darker brown than the other." I'd heard of a person having two different colored eyes but never heard of anyone having lighter shades of the same color.

"She's pregnant."

"She's married to the gym teacher at Freedom High, isn't she?"

"Uh-huh."

I noticed a change in Amy's demeanor. Something troubled her. "Was the pregnancy planned?"

"Uh-huh. They're ecstatic."

I wondered why Amy wasn't. It was unlike her not to share in a friend's happiness. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

There was something, and Amy was either too shy, ashamed or embarrassed to say. We could always talk about anything. I wouldn't let that change.

"But."

"I'm feeling a little envious." She looked at me. "Is it wrong of me?"

"No," I said. "It's a totally natural reaction."

"Would you feel that way about a friend of yours?"

"First of all, you're my only friend, and I know I'd be deliriously happy for you if you became pregnant, if it's what you wanted. Of course, I'd prefer the socially acceptable order of these things."

"Guy, courtship, love, marriage, white picket fence, babies. Times have changed, Josie."

"Some principles never do, and some traditions are meant to be upheld."

"I don't need love and marriage to have a baby."

I saw that logic coming. "Isn't it like telling the father of your child he's not good enough for you to marry but an acceptable sperm donor?"

"He doesn't need to know."

Obviously, Amy had given this matter serious thought. That gave me the willies.

"The father has the right to know," I said.

Amy fell silent.

Tomorrow was another day. I didn't want her coming to a decision she might later regret and needed to divert her thoughts. I played on her weakness for dumb blonde jokes.

"Did you hear about the redhead who complained to her doctor her body hurt wherever she touched it. She pushes her finger against her shoulder and screams, then pushes her elbow and screams even louder. She stabs her knee and screams again. "See?" she says. Her doctor looks at her and asks, "You're not really a redhead, are you?"

"Well, no. I'm really a blonde." The doctor says, "I thought so. Your finger is broken."

Chapter Eighteen

It was seventeen minutes to eight o'clock, and I sat in a window booth in Della's Café, trying to appear composed and calm when I was anything but.

Patrons dribbled in to grab a sandwich and a coffee and leave again, but other than that, the café was quiet. There was no sign of Jackson. Or Vail, either. I checked my cell for a message from him. Nothing. Damn. I had no way of knowing whether he'd received my message.

Where were the police when they were needed?

I should have arranged the meet at the local doughnut shop.

The waitress walked over to me, order pad and pencil in hand. "What'll it be, sugar?"

I read her name tag. "Just coffee, Daisy. Thanks." I was getting pretty good at this social stuff. Given half a chance, I'd become better. Diplomacy would come later, I was sure.

When she left, my thoughts ran back to last week and Amy's accident and what all had transpired as a result. It was remarkable how one incident led me here.

I looked through the window onto the street, then to the Freedom PD and the darkness beyond. The evening seemed like any other. The moon shone brightly. Buses transported workers to their homes. Men and women dressed in tailored suits and carrying expensive attaché cases wandered in and out of the police department. Lawyers, perhaps or business people, paying fines and tickets.

Occasionally, a car drove past. None I recognized.

No one loitered that I could see. I wanted to know Vail was out there looking out for me and watching for Jackson and ready to apprehend him when he surfaced.

Daisy brought my coffee with fresh cream.

"Thanks."

"Enjoy."

I dumped both tubs of cream in the coffee, added two teaspoons of sugar and stirred, keeping a vigil on the parking lot in my peripheral vision. Still, no Jackson. The wall clock read seven fifty-eight. Maybe he was a no-show. Or maybe he was here, sensed a set-up and ran. He wasn't a stupid man.

There was something I was missing. I experienced this feeling before and like then, couldn't determine what the errant piece was. The entire memory of Saturday night might never surface in my mind. Father Francis had given me his word nothing untoward had happened to me, and that I hadn't behaved inappropriately. If I couldn't believe a priest, who could I believe?

Jackson surprised me by entering the café through an entrance at my back. He sat across from me without any noise whatsoever. He was dressed casual – jeans, T- shirt and tan suede bomber jacket – and brought with him the scent of autumn.

I smiled.

He grabbed my hands in his and squeezed. "I couldn't believe it when you called," he said.

At the sound of his voice, my arms broke out in goose flesh. Before I could say anything, he fired questions at me.

"Why did you run from me last night? Where have you been? Did you get my messages? Why didn't you answer my calls? My God, I've been so worried about you."

"Jackson, what happened at your camp Saturday night?"

"You still can't remember?"

"Not everything. I'm hoping you can help me." I took a sip of coffee to appear composed. Beneath the table, my knees shook like they had while I'd waited for Vail to interrogate me. This time, I wouldn't let fear deter me.

"Start talking, Jackson." I gave him a stern look. It worked on Baby when I left him with Mabel. Maybe I'd get lucky twice tonight.

He stared at the table a second, then turned his gray-blue eyes on me. "Do you remember a tall, slender twenty-ish ponytail-wearing man from the cabin?"

I searched my mind and came up empty. "No. Who is he?"

"That's it. No one knows. Only we didn't know it till later. At the time, we each thought he was a friend of one of us."

"Thomas or Wight aren't speaking," I said.

"Exactly."

That took a moment to make sense to me. "You think flagpole was into some nefarious scheme with Thomas and Wight, he followed them to the cabin, things didn't go his way and snuffed them."

"It looks that way."

"We're all at risk, then. We've all seen him. I can't remember him, but he doesn't know that." I was on the verge of another panic attack.

"Don't panic," he said.

How could he tell me not to panic? Wait. Something wasn't right. Why wasn't he concerned? If a killer was after him, he should be frightened.

He signalled to Daisy. "Coffee, please?"

A few seconds later, she stood at our booth, coffee pot in one hand and a cup and saucer in the other.

Jackson moved his hands to his lap while she poured his coffee and refilled mine.

"Thanks," he said when she finished.

"If you need anything else, holler," she said before walking back behind the counter.

"Why didn't you simply tell the police the truth?" I asked.

"I didn't add everything up right away."

"Vail suspects you."

Jackson nodded. "My card was found in Wight's car."

"You were friends, and he was your lawyer. It's not unusual he would have your business card."

"With his time of death and location on the back written in my handwriting?"

"What?"

Jackson took a deep breath and exhaled. "Yesterday, I'd opened my shop to accommodate a customer. Wight apparently saw my car out front and came in wanting to talk to me. He seemed agitated, but I couldn't talk, not with the customer in the store. Without thinking anything about it, I took a business card and wrote that I'd meet him at the Oyster Shell at six-thirty."

"That's where his body was found," I said.

"Yep."

"He had your card on him and from that the police...Vail deduced you set up Wight to get killed, or killed him yourself. You need to go to the police. Honesty is the best policy."

Jackson's eyes crinkled at the corners, then he burst into laughter.

I realized what I'd said. "How lame was that?"

"On a scale of one to ten – a twelve."

"Thanks." My face flamed. I couldn't remember the last time I blushed.

"You're adorable." He took my hands in his. "Do you believe me?"

"Yes." I did and truthfully, I'd wanted to believe him all along.

"I want a future with you, Josie. Tell me you want it, too."

"I do. I really do." I hadn't been this happy in...I couldn't remember when. I grabbed my bag. "Let's go to the police."

He reached out and grasped my arm, holding me back. "No," he said.

"No?" My heart dipped, and my knees weakened. I was such a loser. And a fool. If it seems too good to be true, chances are...

"I've already been there. Vail has my statement and knows what we know. I gave him a description of flagpole."

I let out a huge sigh of relief. "So, it's only a matter of time before the police make an arrest?"

"If there's any justice at all."

I looked up when a man entered the café. It took me a moment to recognize him. I yanked my hands from Jackson's and leaned my back against the booth.

Vail strolled over to us, all happy like. He was here to arrest Jackson. The truth pulsed through me like an electric current. Josie, the loser. _Loser. Loser. Loser_.

"What's the matter?" Jackson asked.

Just as I'd figured, Jackson had been lying. Oh sure, make fun of the wall flower. This little piggy went to market. _Suey, suey, suey._ Those snippy little voices of my classmates rang mercilessly in my mind.

Vail threw a Polaroid picture on the table in front of Jackson. "Recognize this guy?"

Jackson picked up the photo and studied it. "That's him."

"Who?" I asked.

"Flagpole," Jackson said.

"Where is he? Do you have him in custody?" I looked at Vail, crossing my fingers.

"He's a temporary guest of the city. He's in the morgue. A couple of fishermen fished him from the pier earlier tonight." Vail took the picture and put it in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He sat next to me.

Jackson ordered him a coffee.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"Trevor Robert Duncan with a history the length of Main. B&Es, possession, DUIs, you name the crime, this guy's done it. Any idea what Hayes and Allaby were into?" Vail directed the question to Jackson.

"None."

Vail eyed him. "You're not holding back on me again, are you?"

Jackson shrugged. "Wight had a gambling problem years back, but he'd gotten the better of the addiction. As for Thomas, I always considered him a straight shooter. Obviously, I was wrong."

I believed him.

Daisy brought Vail a cup of coffee and offered to refill mine.

"I'm good. Thanks."

Jackson placed his hand over his cup. "I'm good, too."

I waited until she was out of hearing range to ask Vail if we were in danger.

"Are you involved in what Hayes and Allaby were?"

"No." I spoke for Jackson and myself.

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

"You've uncovered something, haven't you?" I doubted he would tell us anything. We, like everyone else, would have to hear the story in the news or read about it in the newspaper. I wondered who Vail gave his exclusives to, if he did. The Freedom Times & Transcript wasn't the only paper in town.

Vail took a gulp of coffee, set the mug down and stood. "Good night, folks."

Jackson turned and watched Vail leave.

"Do you believe him?" I asked.

He turned and faced me. "Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

I shook my head. "None I can think of." I still had unasked questions and now was as good a time as any to get answers. "Jackson, why did I have dried blood on my hands Sunday morning?"

He lifted the cuff of his jacket and showed me the Band-Aid. "I hit my wrist against a nail and ripped the flesh. The gash bled like a river. You tended to me, even kissed the booboo."

"I did?"

"You can ask Father Francis."

I blushed again. "It won't be necessary. How'd I get home?"

"I called Trish."

"Why?"

"Because you wouldn't have been able to ride on the back of the bike."

"I was that drunk?"

"You had a few beer."

"But not enough to get sloshed." I knew what Jackson was afraid to tell me. "You think someone slipped me a drug, don't you?"

He brought his eyebrows together. "I thought you were drugged. Now that I know what I do, I'd say it was the guy who killed Thomas and Wight. No one else in the camp that night would have. I can vouch for each one of them."

"Why would he drug me?"

"Kicks, probably. The guy was scum."

"Or maybe he mistook me for a stripper or prostitute." The evening could have ended on a worse note. I was thankful Jackson had looked out for me. "One more question. At dinner last night, what was that call really about?" At his furrowed brow, I said, "I checked your phone when you went for a tissue."

"A client looking for a Louis XV armoire, like I said. Trish called to inquire for him. Satisfied?"

I'd assumed it was the customer calling. Another misunderstanding. "One more question. Sunday morning, I saw you with Trish. You were driving past the Cathedral. What were the two of you up to then?"

"Looking for you. When you didn't come back to your sister's apartment, Trish got worried and called me."

"How'd Vail know where to find me?"

Jackson looked sheepish. "I'm afraid I told him. He has a way with an interrogation."

"Unorthodox, isn't he?"

Jackson took my hand. "Where were we?"

I leaned across the table. "You were about to kiss me."

"How could I forget?"

He touched his lips to mine, softly at first, then he deepened the kiss.

We both heard Daisy clearing her throat and broke apart, grinning.

Jackson never took his gaze from my mouth. "What do you say we take this elsewhere?"

"Great idea," I said, then remembered his living arrangements. "Please tell me you don't live with your mother."

"How'd you know – "

"I looked at the mail on the desk."

Jackson threw back his head and laughed. "I don't live with my mother. It was a roof over my head while my condo underwent renovations." He dangled a key in my face. "Care to check out the finished product?"

"An offer I cannot refuse." Thrice lucky.

THE END
