Текст книги "The Perfect Stranger"

Автор книги: Wendy Corsi Staub

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Snapped.

Yes, snapped, like a turtle, when someone gets too close.

Now someone is suffering.

Because of me.

No—that’s wrong. This isn’t my fault. It’s his.

“You know, I told you I didn’t have a light! Why didn’t you let me walk away? Why did you have to try to make conversation? Who does that at this hour on a deserted street? Who are you? Who are you?”

Unlike Meredith, this person is a stranger in every sense of the word.

Unlike Meredith, he’s suffering terribly.

All that’s visible of his face in the predawn shadows is his mouth, surrounded by a stubbly growth of beard. Just a few minutes ago the mouth was smiling and forming questions, far too many questions. Now, it’s contorted in agony, and blood is beginning to gush from it.

I can’t stand to see him in pain, whoever the hell he is.

He’s a human being.

I’m a human being, for Pete’s sake. I have a heart. No matter what anyone thinks . . .

But who would think anything different?

No one in this world knows what really happened to Meredith, and no one is going to figure it out.

As for this stranger . . .

I have to do something to help him. Out of the goodness of my heart.

But . . . ugh. The lower part of the knife handle is covered with blood that’s still gushing from the wound.

I wish I had gloves. From now on I should never go anywhere without gloves in my pocket.

Gloves were an integral part of Saturday night’s plan.

But this, today, wasn’t planned by any means. This was a spur of the moment impulse, an instinctive reaction.

Turtles only snap because they’re trying to protect themselves.

That’s the reason I snapped. It’s the reason I was even carrying the knife in the first place.

This is a relatively safe part of town, but no neighborhood is immune to crime. At this hour, before the world has fully stirred to life, it would be foolhardy to walk the streets alone without some form of protection. You just never know what kind of lunatic might be lurking around the next corner.

That’s why the knife was such a great find when it turned up in a secondhand store a while back.

“Now this here’s a great tool,” the shop owner said, demonstrating how the knife’s four-inch blade opened and closed. “See how it folds up so that it’ll fit right into your pocket?”

Yes. It was a great tool. But hardly worth the asking price.

The owner begged to differ. “That’s a valuable antique, my friend. The handle is the real thing, not imitation. You can’t buy something like this anymore. They outlawed using tortoiseshell a hundred years ago.”

“Not a hundred years ago. Not even fifty. It’s old, but technically it’s not an antique. Tortoiseshell was banned in 1973 under the Convention of International Trade on Endangered Species.”

The owner’s eyes widened. “You know your stuff, don’t you?”

A lot better than you know yours.

In the end, the man was willing to bargain the price down.

And he was right. The knife is a great tool.

A great tool that is now sticking out of a stranger’s abdomen.

I need to get it back. I need to get out of here.

In the distance a dog is barking.

If it’s the puppy, still running loose with a leash dangling from its collar, there’s no telling what might happen. Someone might already have found the animal; might come looking for the owner right now.

Gloves or no gloves, it’s time to act.

The knife handle is slick with blood. But with one firm tug the blade lifts right out of the man’s bleeding torso.

The morning light seems to have shifted; his eyes are visible now, focused with surprising clarity, pleading, pleading . . .

“All right. I really am sorry about this, and . . . and I’ll help you. Okay? I’ll make it easier for you.”

The man turns his head and closes his eyes as if he knows what’s coming next—as if he can’t bear to watch, or perhaps, as if making it easier for everyone, granting access by turning his neck at just the right angle for the blade to slice neatly through his jugular.

This time, blood spurts.

This time, mercifully, it’s over. No more suffering.

The dog is still barking in the distance as the knife snaps closed.

What a mess. The blade and the tortoiseshell handle are covered in blood, but that’s okay. It will wash off and be good as new.

One last thing . . .

“Here. I always carry one of these in my pocket for luck. Now . . . it’s for you. I’m sorry. Really.”

The tortoiseshell guitar pick goes into the front pocket of the man’s jeans, the one where he keeps his wallet. In fact . . .

I’d better grab that.

If the man’s wallet is missing, it will take a while for the police to identify him, and when they do, it’ll look like he was mugged while out walking his dog.

It’s time to get out of here, fighting the instinct to run every step of the way. It isn’t far, just around the corner, but . . .

Slow and steady.

Always, always, slow and steady.

Part II

Saturday, June 8

Happily Ever After

When I was growing up in a landlocked antebellum home across the highway, I used to pedal my bike past the charming raised cottages and graceful southern homes along Mobile Bay, daydreaming about what it would be like to live in one of them.

Now I do.

This lovely home my husband and I bought as newlyweds isn’t my only childhood dream come true.

As a girl, skirting sandy ruts and ducking low over my handlebars as I passed beneath low-hanging bows of massive live oaks, I liked to time my Saturday afternoon bike rides so there’d be a good chance I’d find a wedding in progress in the bayside garden at the Grand Hotel.

I’d park my bike in a secluded spot where I could spy on the beautiful brides in white lace with their dashing, tuxedo-clad grooms. Eavesdropping as they exchanged age-old vows, I made a vow of my own: “Someday, I’m going to meet Mr. Right and be married in that very spot.”

A decade later—over twenty years ago now—I met Mr. Right at a Labor Day barbecue.

He was drastically different from the good time Charlies I’d found so captivating that summer after graduating from the University of Alabama. No longer a sorority girl, I was still drawn to frat boy types—until I met Rob. He was a few years older, quiet and earnest, with strong southern roots and a law degree from one of the top universities in the Northeast. He’d just passed the bar and was newly employed by the Mobile law firm where he’s long since been made a partner. He proposed a few months after our first date and we were married the following spring—right on the spot I’d picked out as a little girl, in the garden at the Grand Hotel amid blooming azaleas and magnolias.

We exchanged those same vows I’d eavesdropped upon and sighed over as a hopelessly romantic preteen. We promised to stay together for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health . . .

Sickness.

Health.

Those weighty words don’t make much impact when you’re a starry-eyed twelve-year-old dreaming of fairy-tale endings—or even when you’re a lace-clad bride embarking on happily ever after.

Sometimes, dreams come true.

Sometimes, your worst nightmare becomes reality . . . then fades away, the way nightmares do the morning after.

My husband and I will celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary tomorrow. Some years have been better than we expected, and a few of them have been much worse, but I choose to believe the best are yet to come.

—Excerpt from Landry’s blog, The Breast Cancer Diaries

Chapter 6

Early Saturday morning—before the sun comes up—Rob drives Landry to the airport.

Sitting in the front seat beside him, clutching the full stainless steel coffee mug he handed her back in the kitchen, she gazes at the darkened landscape through the passenger’s side window, resting her temple against the glass.

She wants to tell him to turn around and go home.

I’ve changed my mind.

I don’t want to go to Cincinnati.

I never wanted to go.

I’m only doing it because I feel like I have to. Because it’s the right thing, the brave thing—the hard thing. Because that’s the role model I want to be for my children.

In this case, for her daughter. Addison is the one who’s interested in what’s going on with her right now. Tucker is in his own little adolescent world, caught up in video games, friends, his first job, and, most likely, summer girls. He knows Landry lost a friend, knows she’s flying up North for the memorial service today, but asked no questions and has said very little about it, other than to look up from his iPhone long enough to offer an obligatory, “Sorry about your friend, Mom.”

That’s okay. He’s a kid.

So is Addison, really. But Addie keeps asking if she’s all right. She always does her chores without being asked, but the last couple of days she’s gone out of her way to take care of things around the house, to make things easier.

It reminds Landry of the morning, years ago, when Addie made her breakfast in bed while she was in the midst of treatment. French toast. Landry’s never been fond of sweets in the morning, and she’d woken up terribly nauseated that particular day. But she choked down the syrup-and-powdered-sugar-drenched French toast and asked for seconds.

Addison beamed. “I’m so glad you like it, Mommy. I knew a good breakfast would make you feel better.”

My sweet, kind, caring girl, Landry thought then—and thought it again late last night, when she went into her daughter’s room to kiss her good-night and good-bye for the weekend.

“I just got paid, so I bought you some magazines at work this afternoon,” Addie said, handing over a bag from the hotel gift shop. “Good Hollywood gossipy ones, the kind you like, to keep you busy on the plane.”

“You didn’t have to do that, sweetie. Don’t spend your money on me.”

“I like to. You spend your money on me. Oh, and I made you this. Wear it with your black dress tomorrow.”

Addison handed her an onyx bracelet featuring two silver beads etched with the initials MH.

She could barely thank her daughter over the lump in her throat, and gave her a long, hard hug.

“She loved jewelry,” she told Addie. “Meredith did. She blogged about that. She said that’s how she got into the habit of wearing earrings and necklaces to bed, because it made her head feel less naked after she lost all her hair.”

“Oh, Mom . . . Poor Meredith. I wish I could have made that bracelet for her instead of . . . well, I was thinking of it as a memorial bracelet for you, but now . . .”

“I know. You’re so sweet, Addie.”

“So are you. You’re being a good friend. Meredith would be glad you’re going to be there for the service tomorrow.”

“I’m sure she would be.”

If the tables were turned, Landry knows, Meredith would be the first to get on a plane. That knowledge has been a motivating factor.

“Who all is going for sure?”

Landry told her the two she’s certain about: A-Okay and Elena. Jaycee has a business commitment in New York and can’t possibly get away.

“I know it’s going to be a sad weekend for y’all, but it’ll be nice to meet your friends in person, Mom—don’t you think?”

“I’m sure it will be,” she said, because that was the easiest answer.

In truth—she’s not so sure.

Everyone’s ambivalent about meeting under these circumstances. All this time, whenever they’ve talked about arranging an in-person get-together, Meredith was at the heart of the discussion. It’s impossible to imagine meeting at last without her there.

Landry spoke to A-Okay again on Thursday, and to Elena as well, after Meredith’s daughter posted the weekend funeral arrangements on her mother’s blog.

Elena, with her thick New England accent, was a pleasant surprise when she called that afternoon. They don’t have much in common—Elena is a decade younger, never-married schoolteacher—yet they chatted for over an hour, not just about Meredith, but about Landry’s kids and Elena’s first grade class, about travel and food and clothes and books and the sad state of Elena’s love life.

“When you live in a small town and work in a small town elementary school, it’s not easy to find a decent, eligible guy without baggage—especially when you have more than your share of it.”

“Of . . . ?” She was having a hard time following Elena’s rapid-fire speech and thick New England accent.

“Baggage. It’s hard for a guy to deal with the fact that I’m scarred—in more ways than one.” She pronounced hard and scarred as “hahd” and “scahd.”

“Everyone has baggage,” she said. “And the right guy will be able to deal with it.”

“I guess. But I haven’t found him yet.” Elena sighed, then changed the subject back to the memorial service. “If you go, I’ll go.”

“I’m going.”

“Then I’ll get a flight. There are some great fare sales out of Boston right now. I just can’t go until Saturday morning. I have a staff banquet Friday night.”

Landry assured her that was fine, then hung up and called A-Okay, who picked up this time on the first ring.

That conversation was more stilted, but only because Kay isn’t as outgoing a person as Elena. She’s friendly in her own reserved way, though, and before they hung up, she said she’d drive down to Cincinnati on Saturday.

“Drive? Really?”

“It’s only a couple of hours from here.”

“Wow. I guess I don’t know my midwestern geography very well.”

“It’s okay. I don’t know my southern geography either. I’ve never even been south of Indiana.”

“Really? You’ll have to come down and visit sometime,” Landry heard herself offering.

Kay was noncommittal. “That would be nice. I’ll have to do that sometime.”

All they have to do is get through this weekend in Cincinnati. If the three of them hit it off, great. If they don’t, they can go back to being online acquaintances, as long as the lack of anonymity doesn’t change things going forward.

“Jittery about flying?” Rob asks, glancing over at Landry as he flicks the turn signal for the airport exit.

“Me? No! I’m not afraid to fly.”

She used to be, years ago, for a while. After September eleventh.

Before cancer.

Once you’ve had cancer, phobias over mundane things like commercial air travel tend to fall by the wayside. You no longer worry about being killed in a plane crash. In the grand scheme of things—when you’re in the midst of fighting cancer, uncertain about what lies ahead—that might seem like the more merciful option.

Thank goodness those dark days are over.

As far as I’m concerned, remission is the same thing as cured, Meredith wrote once on her blog.

It isn’t really. Not as far as most doctors are concerned. Cancer is a complicated disease; far too complex to be discussed in simplistic terms.

But Landry knew what she meant.

And now that she’s been in remission for years, and her odds for a recurrence are low and shrinking by the day . . .

Yes. She’s as cured as she’s ever going to be. Her illness is behind her now. She’s stronger than she’s ever been.

She refuses to live the rest of her life looking over her shoulder as if a deadly predator is gaining on her. She’d rather focus optimistically on the future, with every reason to expect to live a long, healthy life just as her grandmother did.

Family history is in her favor. So are medical statistics for stage one cancer detected as early as hers was.

“Good,” Rob is saying as he guides the SUV onto Airport Boulevard. “You shouldn’t be afraid to fly. We’ve done enough of it over the years.”

Yes. All those winter ski trips to the Rockies, spring beach breaks in the Caribbean, long weekends in Mexico, summer vacations in Europe . . .

They may not be jet-setters, but they’ve certainly done their share of traveling.

Together, that is.

“I’m just not used to going off alone,” she tells him.

“I know you’re not. But it will be good for you. All you ever do is stay home and take care of the kids and me and the house . . .”

“I like doing those things.” Ordinary days. Ordinary nights. They’re a blessing.

“I know you do,” Rob says, “but everyone needs a change of scenery.”

“It’s not just that. It’s not like this is a pleasure trip. It’s something I need to do.”

Every time she feels a hint of misgiving about what lies ahead, she remembers something she learned in Sunday school as a little girl, and later taught her own children as well.

When faced with a difficult decision or challenging situation, it can be helpful to ask yourself what Jesus would do if he were in your shoes. The answer might just guide you to the right path.

Now, for Landry, the question had become not just, What would Jesus do? but also, What would Meredith do?

Meredith was no saint—Landry knows she’d have been the first to laugh at that notion. But she was centered, and judicious.

Five minutes later she and Rob are out of the car in front of the terminal, the rear flashers blinking red in the darkness. Rob wanted to park and come in with her, but that seems silly.

She already checked in for the flight online. The printout containing her boarding pass is folded in her pocket, along with all the details of her car rental and the hotel reservation for Cincinnati. All she has to do inside is go through the TSA checkpoint to the gate. It’s not as if Rob can accompany her down there and wait until she boards.

“I’d rather you get right back home to the kids,” she tells him, as if the kids aren’t going to sleep for at least another couple of hours, even Addison.

Now that she’s leaving, she just wants to leave. A prolonged good-bye would make it even harder.

Rob takes her rolling bag out of the back, sets it on the ground, pulls up the handle. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” She removes her boarding pass from the packet of papers and shoves the rest back into her pocket. “Tell the kids I said good-bye, and I’ll call y’all when I land.”

“Call me when you get to the gate,” he says. “Just so I know you got through security okay.”

“I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. Don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worried,” she returns, but allows herself to lean on him, briefly, when he hugs her good-bye.

“I’ll miss you,” he says as she starts to lift her bag up over a puddle by the curb. “And Landry—be careful.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got it. It’s not heavy.”

“I don’t mean with the bag.”

For a moment their eyes connect. “I know,” she tells him.

He’s still worried that what happened to Meredith is no random crime. Yet there’s been nothing in the news reports to suggest otherwise. The police are still investigating. No mention of questioning suspects or anything suggesting that an arrest might be imminent.

Whoever killed Meredith is still, presumably, out there somewhere.

Rob doesn’t like that.

She doesn’t like it either, but . . .

It has nothing to do with her. It doesn’t make her less safe.

Chin up. Strength training.

“I’ll be fine,” she assures Rob, “and the next thing we know, you’ll be picking me up right here. I’ll only be gone for two days. Well, less than that. Really, it’s just a matter of hours, when you think about it.”

But a lot can happen in a matter of hours.

A lot can happen in a matter of minutes, in a matter of seconds.

Suddenly, it all seems so . . . precarious.

Why on earth is she leaving her husband and children to spend a weekend with a bunch of strangers in the wake of a murder?

Rob looks at his watch. “You’d better get going. I love you, Babe.”

“I love you, too.” Landry turns away quickly so that he won’t see the uncertainty—or the tears—in her eyes.

Kay had left home early—much earlier than necessary—in the hope that there wouldn’t be much traffic heading south out of Indianapolis on Interstate 74 at this hour on a Saturday morning.

She should have known better. This was a busy corridor at any hour on any day of the week. Headlights constantly bear down in her rearview mirror; taillights whiz past at dizzying velocity.

How do they all drive so fast?

Glancing at the dashboard, she’s astonished to see the speedometer hovering at forty-two miles per hour.

Maybe the better question would be why are you driving so slowly?

It felt as though she was going the speed limit, if not above.

She presses the gas pedal.

The needle goes up, up, up . . .

Now it feels as though the car is careening dangerously.

Oops. She hits the brake.

Behind her a car honks. Its headlights swerve out around her, and even in the darkness she sees the silhouetted driver giving her the finger.

“What?” she shouts. “What do you want from me?”

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

She used to be such a competent driver, unfazed by darkness or traffic or weather. She drove to work in Terre Haute and regularly transported her mother to and from the specialist’s office up in Chicago without batting an eye.

Now her eyesight is worse, thanks to advancing age. All these headaches . . . she probably needs glasses for distance, too, not just for reading.

Plus—because she didn’t sleep a wink last night, thinking about Meredith and about the weekend ahead—her nerves are shot and her reflexes are slow.

But you’d better get your act together. Now is not a good time to fall apart.

In the rearview mirror Kay sees an unbroken string of headlights in the left lane and the glare of a semi bearing down behind her in the right.

Her hands tighten on the wheel. She holds her breath as the lights come closer, blinding her. The truck is about to barrel into her car . . .

But then the lights swoop away as the driver cuts off someone in the left lane to get out around her.

More angry horns, more rude gestures.

This is a mistake. She’s much too exhausted, too frazzled, to be driving. She’s risking her life to go to a funeral.

She’d told BamaBelle—Landry—that it was only a couple of hours away, as if it were no big deal to get behind the wheel and hit the highway.

It’s not as if she’s never done it before. She spent all those years commuting a full hour in each direction from the western suburbs to the prison, sometimes in harsh winter blizzards or tornado weather.

The drive to Ohio was the least of her worries—at that point, anyway, when she was on the phone with Landry.

She was far more concerned with the prospect of coming face-to-face with BamaBelle and Elena, and whoever else might show up in Cincinnati. Concerned . . . but not enough to say no.

That sweet southern drawl was so convincing.

And Landry’s right: they do owe it to Meredith.

Oh, Meredith . . .

Tears sting Kay’s eyes, blurring the string of taillights through the windshield.

She wipes them away, and notices the first tints of pink sky, low above the flat horizon.

Okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s only one day. Twenty-four hours from now she’ll be heading in the opposite direction. The nightmare of Meredith’s funeral will be behind her.

She reserved a room at the same hotel where Landry and Elena are staying, about a mile away from the funeral home where Meredith’s service is being held. She prepaid the reservation on her credit card, even, because the rate was considerably cheaper that way and frugality is a hard habit to break.

Mother always said not to waste dollars or even pennies today because you might need them tomorrow. She lived that rule to her dying day. Never treated herself, let alone her daughter, to a vacation or even dinner in a nice restaurant. Never spent money on anything but cigarettes. She didn’t consider that a waste.

As for Kay . . .

God knows she can well afford to squander a couple hundred bucks if it turns out the others don’t like her in person.

But she really hopes that they do. Desperately hopes so.

That’s why you’re going, isn’t it? It’s why you said yes when you meant no. Because the thought of friends—seeing friends, friends who care . . .

For the past few days the idea of coming face-to-face with her fellow bloggers seemed a lot less threatening than she’d imagined. Maybe because she misses Meredith so much, and needs to fill the aching void.

There’s alone, and then there’s lonely. One is safe and comfortable; the other . . .

Well, it never bothered her so much before. But the last few days haven’t been easy. She keeps thinking of Meredith, remembering Meredith, knowing what Meredith would want—expect—her to do.

She was such a good person. So strong. So much stronger than she ever knew.

She was always making self-deprecating comments in her blog, masking her insecurities behind humor. She didn’t allow herself to crawl into a hole and hide, not even in the face of the worst news imaginable.

If I could just be more like her . . .

But this is a start.

She has crawled out of her hole. It’s the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, and what’s the worst that can happen?

When the doorman calls up to tell her she has a visitor, Jaycee has just thrown on a pair of yoga pants, a tank top, and of course her blond wig. She doesn’t wear it around the apartment when she’s home alone, but Beatrice, her cleaning lady, comes on Saturday mornings.

Usually not until later, though. Jaycee was about to sit down with her first cup of coffee and her laptop to enjoy a few moments’ peace.

“Who is it?” she asks Mike, the doorman.

“It’s Mr. Wallace.”

Cory. Of course. Always Cory.

She tells the doorman to let him up, then opens the laptop to quickly see if there were any overnight developments on Meredith’s murder.

Nothing, other than a death notice in a small suburban Ohio newspaper, with mention of today’s memorial service.

By now Jaycee knows that the others are either in Cincinnati or on their way: Landry, Elena, and A-Okay.

She got Landry’s e-mail with all the arrangements—I’m cc’ing you just in case you can join us last minute, Jaycee!—and knows they’re staying in a hotel out where Meredith lives.

Lived.

There’s a knock on the apartment door. Jaycee quickly deletes the browser history, closes the laptop, and goes to answer.

Cory is standing there.

“What’s going on?” she asks, stepping aside for the one person in this world who always knows exactly where to find her, even when she’s hiding.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be up.”

“So you came anyway? Were you going to wake me up?”

“Absolutely.”

He’s clean-shaven, wearing jeans and a polo shirt beneath a rain jacket, his reddish hair spiking up over his forehead to make him look like a boy rather than a grown man. On a good day, he reminds her of Kevin Bacon—young Kevin Bacon, from the Footloose days—and she adores him. On a bad day . . .

On a bad day, she doesn’t want to deal with him, period. Because she only wants to be left alone.

But most of the time Cory refuses to allow that. And once in a while she winds up grateful for his persistent presence in her solitary life.

“It’s a crappy day out there,” he announces. “Humid as hell, and it’s supposed to rain.”

Yeah, well, it’s a crappy day in here, too—this being the anniversary and all. That fact won’t have escaped Cory, she knows.

“Thanks for the weather report,” she tells him. “Is that why you’re here? Because I usually just check Accuweather online if I want—”

“I brought you a newspaper,” he says, thrusting it at her, along with a white paper bag, “and a bagel.”

“Thank you.” She opens the bag, peers inside to see that it’s sesame, toasted, plain, cut into four pieces. Just the way she likes it. “I’d say come in . . . but oh, look, you’re already in. As usual.”

“Love you, too,” he says easily on his way to the kitchen.

She closes the door behind him, locks it, and follows him.

He helps himself to a cup of coffee from the pot she just brewed. “Did you use the Costa Rican beans Adam gave you the other day?”

Adam is Cory’s longtime boyfriend. A travel agent, he’s always jetting off to exotic places and bringing back gifts for his friends. Jaycee is touched that he considers her one of them—even now, after all these years, after . . . everything.

She wonders, sometimes, whether he knows . . . everything. But the past never comes up. Nor does the future. Usually, they just talk about his travels, and food, books, films . . .

Things normal people discuss.

Right. Because you like to pretend you’re a normal person. It’s a nice . . . escape.

“I haven’t used the Costa Rican beans yet,” she tells Cory. “This time, I used good old American beans I bought myself.”

“Where, at Starbucks?”

“How did you guess?”

“You’re a fan.” He makes a face. “And it’s so . . .”

“Ubiquitous?” she supplies. They’ve had this conversation before. Ad nauseam.

“Exactly.”

“Some of us appreciate that.”

“Some of us don’t.” He opens the fridge to look for milk.

“So tell me . . . what’s the point of this visit?”

“Open the paper,” he says without turning around. “Page eight.”

Uh-oh.

I should have known.

She puts the paper down on the counter.

Opens it to page eight.

Scans the page, then looks up at him, shaking her head. “I thought you said we were going to get past this. It’s been—”

“I know how long it’s been. What you need to do is—”

“I know what I need to do, Cory,” she says grimly. “I’ve been trying to do it. It’s impossible, okay?”

“Nothing is impossible.”

He’s wrong about that.

If only she could go back in time and erase not just the past seven years, but the past twenty—pick up where she left off in that dreaded, dismal little town she left behind years ago . . .

It would be easy, then, to change the course of her life, become someone else.

Someone whose name had never been heard beyond a five-mile perimeter; someone no one imagined was capable of becoming a success, or making a fortune, or . . .

Or committing a murder, even when you’re only doing what has to be done . . .

The alarm goes off, jarring Elena from a sound sleep.

Lying in her bed in that split second before she opens her eyes, she knows that something is off, but what is it?

She forces her eyelids open. The room is dark—rainy day dark, though, not night dark. According to her digital alarm clock, the time is wrong. It’s an hour later than she usually gets up, which is . . .

Wait a minute. This isn’t a weekday, it’s a Saturday.

She usually sleeps in on weekends, but this morning she only gets an extra hour because she has a flight to catch because she’s going to—

Starting to roll over, Elena gasps.

That’s it. That’s what’s off. Not the time or the dreary light that’s falling across her bed, but the fact that someone is sharing it with her.

Lying absolutely still so as not to wake whoever it is, she thinks back to last night. She was at the staff party, held at a banquet hall located about halfway between the school and the town where she lives. She remembers the speeches—she even delivered one, in honor of the retiring Betty Jamison—and she remembers the dinner, but not the dessert, and . . .