CHAPTER SEVEN

1

James Eastman unlocked the door to his small town house, walked inside, flipped on a bright overhead light, winced, and looked at a towering grandfather clock he’d brought from his former home to see that it was only 6:32. He felt as if it were midnight and he’d been digging ditches all day.

James ambled to the kitchen and fixed a double shot of bourbon. He took a sizable sip and carried the drink to the sparsely furnished living room, where he flung himself on the couch. He’d turned out the entry light, and the only illumination came from the halogen lamp across the street shining through the front window with its open draperies. He lay in the near darkness, rubbing the cool glass over his aching forehead and trying to blot out the image that seemed burned into his brain. How many drinks did it take to wipe out a memory? More than he could stand if he planned on going to the law office tomorrow. Maybe he should have taken off a week as Patrice advised.

James took another sip of bourbon and groaned. No. A week of idleness, a week without business to occupy his thoughts, would be unbearably depressing and give him far too much time to think. He wished he’d taken off today, though, instead of working even harder than usual. He felt almost weak with fatigue.

Earlier in the day, Chief Deputy Eric Montgomery had called James to tell him the dead woman’s fingerprints were not on record and as yet police had located no official identification of her from the cottage—no purse with driver’s license or Social Security card, and no car with license plate, vehicle identification number, insurance, or rental papers. The police could not reach the Moreaus in New Orleans. Otherwise, they could have come to Aurora Falls for next-of-kin identification. The autopsy had been completed by the medical examiner, and now the body lay at the morgue, unofficially identified but with no one to claim it.

Eric asked if James would consider visiting the morgue to take another look at the body. “I hate to ask you to do this, James, but I have a feeling the Moreaus aren’t unreachable—they’re just dodging us. If you can get hold of the Moreaus, they might come here and identify her.”

“I’ve tried,” James had told Eric with a mixture of dullness and anger. “If they’re just dodging you, they’re just dodging me, too.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?”

“I could use more colorful language, but I’m at the office. Anyway, you’ve only been her ex-husband for about a week. A formal identification by you might carry some weight. Also, you signing a few forms could expedite the release of the body when we’re finally able to notify her family,” Eric had said. “You’re under no obligation to put yourself through this ordeal, though. I don’t know that I would do under the circumstances. I just wanted to let you know the choice is yours.”

James had told Eric he’d think about it, certain he would be calling back in a couple of hours to decline seeing Renée again. Four hours later, though, he realized he was having trouble concentrating on anything else. The situation troubled James. He knew he could just let the matter drift—Renée was no longer his responsibility—but she had once been his wife and he couldn’t stop thinking about her lying unclaimed in the impersonal coldness of a morgue. If viewing her body again and signing release forms could help free her remains from the place, he would do it. If nothing else, she deserved to be laid to rest in New Orleans with family, he thought.

Finally, he’d told Patrice he would be leaving work half an hour early so he could go to the morgue. She hadn’t asked if he wanted her to go with him or even mentioned that he might prefer to go with someone else. She had simply announced she would be accompanying him—an act he knew she would loathe, but one she would do without thought for a friend she thought needed her.

At first, James had protested, telling Patrice he was capable of making quick work of the task and not letting it bother him; after all, he’d seen the body Saturday. Still, she’d insisted. Later, he was secretly glad not to be alone as the drizzling rain of the day stopped, followed by an unusually foggy dusk as they pulled up to the old morgue sitting on a damp, dreary piece of land nearly a quarter of a mile away from the new hospital on its beautiful, well-lighted grounds. The construction company promised they would finish the new morgue attached to the hospital by spring, but for now construction conditions were not optimum. In other words, the dead could wait.

Inside, the morgue showed every one of its sixty years with dark green and yellowish white tile floors, chipped institution green walls, and loudly buzzing, bluish fluorescent lights. A creeping chilliness pervaded the building—a chilliness James thought the mechanical efforts of a furnace could not dispel. The damp cold lingered stubbornly, as if it belonged to the place and heat did not. Chemical smells tingled in James’s nose and all he could think of was the intoxicating, exotic perfume Renée wore on special occasions—the perfume she’d worn on the night he met her. She never wore too much. She never wore the wrong kind of perfume for an event. She’d always known exactly how to lure and attract, even with scent.

But no longer. A young, dull-eyed lab assistant had slid open a drawer and unzipped a body bag. There lay the face and shoulders of a naked, bloated, cold, medicinal-smelling Renée Moreau Eastman, her glorious dark hair skinned back from her expressionless face, her lips white, her eyes mercifully closed. James heard Patrice draw in her breath. He managed to remain quiet and motionless. They simultaneously nodded to the lab assistant, and then each said aloud that the body was that of Renée Eastman. The cold little man had slid the cold drawer holding the cold body back into its place, firmly twisted a cold handle sealing the drawer, and turned away from them to do paperwork.

They’d barely spoken on the way back to the law firm, where Patrice had left her car. Before emerging from his, she’d asked if he’d like to come to the Blakethorne home for a while or even just go someplace quiet and get a drink with her. James had declined both invitations, thanked her for accompanying him to the morgue, told her he’d see her in the morning, and promised to call her if he was having a bad night. They’d both known he wouldn’t call no matter how miserable the next twelve hours were for him. Nevertheless, they each kept up the pretense of honesty and said a quiet, friendly good night.

James sat up straighter on the couch, took another sip of bourbon, and forced himself to focus on the business of what would have to be done for and to Renée rather than the horror of what had happened to her. It was time to be her attorney, not the man who had married her and thought they would be husband and wife forever. They now had a business arrangement, which he would honor. As far as he knew, the Moreaus were still unaware that their daughter was dead. At the moment, he considered informing them his most important obligation to his ex-wife.

He had tried to call Gaston Moreau on Saturday night but had been told by a servant that Mr. and Mrs. Moreau were “out somewhere.” The servant had sounded so vague James had not left details but instead just asked that they return his call as soon as possible. The Moreaus hadn’t called before he went back to the cottage prior to the fire, and he found no messages afterward. He had called several times Sunday and always been told they were not available. By Monday, he’d still been reluctant to announce Renée’s death to a servant over the phone, but he’d underscored the importance of at least one of the Moreaus returning his call. Now, over forty-eight hours after the body’s discovery, he’d still not heard a word from her parents.

James finished his drink and then once again called the Moreau home in New Orleans. Luckily for them, their large and historic house had not sustained irreparable damage when Hurricane Katrina ravaged New Orleans. He and Renée had not seen the home following the storm. After their impetuous marriage, James had been shocked to learn the Moreaus had carefully hidden a bad relationship with their only daughter. Later the three rarely even spoke on the phone. Renée refused to tell him what the trouble had been, but that didn’t change the fact that her parents had to be told she was dead. After all, they were her family. His own familial relationship with Renée had started at what he’d considered an ecstatic wedding and had ended with the emotionless signing of court documents.

When they were able to reach the Moreaus, the police department would inform them of their daughter’s murder. He could stay out of this completely, not speak to either parent. But he had been Renée’s husband. As far as he knew, she hadn’t remarried in the few days since the court had finalized their divorce. If she had any other family members who knew of her death, they hadn’t come forward. No matter how elusive the Moreaus were trying to be, he had to get in touch with them.

James sat up, emptied his drink, thought about having another one before trying to call New Orleans, and then decided he’d only be stalling. One more drink wouldn’t make the phone call easier, he thought tiredly as he reached for the phone and dialed the number he’d memorized since Sunday. The same vacant, middle-aged female voice he’d heard several times over the last three days said, “Moreau residence.”

“This is James Eastman from Aurora Falls calling again. I’d like to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Moreau.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but they aren’t home. They haven’t been home since Thursday. They’ve gone on a trip with friends.”

“Where?”

“Where? Uh … somewhere in California.”

“Yesterday you said they’d gone to Mexico.”

“I’m sorry, sir. You must have spoken to someone besides me.”

“I need to tell the Moreaus that their daughter has been murdered. If you don’t believe I’m who I say I am I’ll give you the number of the Aurora Falls Police Department, although I know they’ve tried to contact the Moreaus, too.”

After a pause, the maid said wearily, “I don’t need proof, at least of who you say you are. I can’t keep playing this game even if I lose my job. It just isn’t right.” She paused, and when she spoke again it was with spirit. “Mrs. Moreau is home. She has been ever since you started calling. She just didn’t want to talk to you. But I’ll make her talk to you. You can count on it!”

She sounded as if she’d enjoy the opportunity to make Audrey Moreau do anything, James thought. One of the few things Renée and he had agreed on was their disdain for the beautiful, haughty woman who had given birth to Renée at twenty-three, turned her over to nannies, and lived a hectic, aimless life of socializing, shopping, and travel. Audrey’s only halfway serious pursuit was acting, which she did very badly.

Renée, an only child, had spent most of her very young years with servants and a few socially acceptable little friends and her older years mostly in private schools. Her somber, humorless father, Gaston, almost old enough to be her grandfather, sometimes took her with him on his world travels concerning vague legal business he never liked to discuss because he considered the actual making of money to be crass. He found acquiring dated objets d’art much more to his liking and taught his young daughter, when he had the time, to do the same.

Reserved, intellectual Gaston and a gaggle of aging nannies raised a beautiful, introverted, almost psychologically shy girl who at sixteen abruptly returned to the family home in New Orleans and never again traveled with her father. By the time James had met her in his third year of Tulane Law School, she had turned from a wallflower into a beautiful, flamboyant, exciting woman who, to her family’s disgrace, lived on the edge of scandal.

In spite of her personality, or maybe because of it, James quickly had become enamored of Renée, and the Moreaus had provided them with a lavish marriage ceremony in a hasty two months. Over the next few years, the Moreaus invited James and Renée to visit the family home only three times, all stays cut short because of Gaston’s “unexpected” business demands abroad and only one visit including a social event—an extremely small dinner party made up mostly of relatives.

Nearly five minutes passed before Audrey Moreau’s annoyed voice said without so much as a greeting, “Why do you keep calling, James?” She still spoke with her fake southern drawl. “You’ve been told several times Renée isn’t here.”

Familiar irritation swept through James at the mere sound of Audrey’s voice. “I never asked to speak to Renée and I’ve been told several times that you weren’t home.”

“I simply didn’t want to talk to you,” Audrey returned without a touch of remorse or embarrassment. “You will not stop calling, though, and I’m getting extremely annoyed. You’re being a pest. What do you want?”

James wished he could make himself say something cutting and cruel, but he held in his anger. After all, Audrey was Renée’s mother. He turned down both his volume and the edge in his voice. “Something has happened to Renée.”

“I knew it when your local police called.”

“You didn’t speak with them, did you?”

“Of course not. They left a message with one of the maids asking me to call back, but I didn’t. I don’t consider Renèe part of this family anymore.”

“She’s your daughter, Audrey, whether you like it or not. Or she was your daughter. Renée is dead.”

James heard a sharply drawn breath before Audrey returned hotly, “Oh, she is not! The police would have said so.”

“They wouldn’t tell your maid and you didn’t talk to them. Neither did Gaston, I suppose.”

“No, he didn’t. I didn’t even tell him the police had called. I don’t want him bothered with her nonsense. I know she’s just gotten herself in trouble again, and we don’t want to hear about it. We have nothing to do with her.”

James inhaled and said evenly, “Audrey, Renée’s body was found Saturday afternoon here in Aurora Falls.” He paused. “The police have no doubt that her death wasn’t an accident. She’d been murdered, probably just over a week ago.”

Silence spun out and James could almost see Audrey marshaling her ability not to believe anything she didn’t care to believe. “That can’t be true. Why would Renée be in Aurora Falls? She hated it there. She ran away from that place and from you.” Audrey’s voice picked up its tone and pace. “I know you’re convinced she’s been living with us off and on ever since she left you, but I told her we wouldn’t take her back. She’s tried to come home three times, but I have literally turned her away at the door.

“Frankly, I think she is getting desperate for money,” Audrey continued. “Whatever the case, I’m certain she has not been murdered, and this is not funny. It’s a trick concocted by you or her, or both of you, and if you’re involved I can’t be shocked that you would stoop so low to either help her or find her, James. I know you loved her, God knows why, but I swear on my Bible that she isn’t here.”

“I doubt if you own a Bible, Audrey, although you claim to be a devout Christian, so that statement doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

Audrey sighed. “I don’t care what you believe about my religious beliefs.”

“I know and you’re right. I don’t give a damn about you or your religious beliefs. I want to speak to Gaston.”

“Gaston isn’t here, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“Why don’t you know when he’ll be back? Has he finally left you?”

The knife stabbed exactly where James had aimed. Indignation rang in Audrey’s tone. “Of course he hasn’t left me! Gaston would never leave me.”

“Then why are you getting so upset?”

“Because the very idea of him leaving me is … is…”

“Ludicrous?” James asked, trying to goad her into blurting out information. “Or would him leaving you merely be too socially embarrassing for him to stand?”

“Oh, you are so—” She broke off and he heard her take a deep breath. “Gaston has been in Paris and London for over a week.”

“Where can I reach him?”

“You can’t. I won’t let you upset him. He has a lot on his mind.”

“How considerate of you, Audrey. I guess I never realized you’re such a sweet, loving, protective wife.”

James could picture her scouring her mind for a scathing retort and she finally came out with, “I won’t have him bothered.”

“You’d rather he not be bothered while he’s out making money. But I repeat, Audrey—his daughter is dead. Someone has to tell him. He of all people should know. Or maybe I’ll talk to some of his friends.”

“Is that a threat?”

“What do you think?” James took a deep breath. “Audrey, he has to claim her body and make burial arrangements. Renée would want to be placed in the family mausoleum in New Orleans.”

“She’s not part of this family and she will not be placed in the family mausoleum.”

“She’s a Moreau, for God’s sake.”

“No, she’s an Eastman. Look, James, I don’t know whose body you’ve found. If it is Renée’s, she’s your responsibility. She’s your next of kin, after all.”

“Have you forgotten that I sent a letter when I started divorce proceedings? I sent another letter telling Gaston when the divorce would be finalized. As soon as I got the divorce decree, I sent a copy.”

“I’ve never seen any of those things.”

“I sent everything registered mail. Gaston signed for them.”

“Well, he didn’t tell me.”

“I’m certain that he did. He wouldn’t keep something like that from you.” James drew a deep breath. “I don’t know why you’re bothering to go through all of this feinting and dodging when you know it won’t work. I’m capable of tracking down Gaston myself, if I have to, and you know I will. Renée is your responsibility, no matter how you felt about her.” He surprised himself by having to swallow to open a tightening throat. “You wouldn’t love and protect her when she was alive, but I’ll see that you take a few days to look after her now that she’s dead. You owe her that much. So good night, Audrey. Sleep well knowing that Renée will never bother you again.”

He slammed down the phone handset and felt sick. He’d known Audrey Moreau almost as long as he’d known Renée, and he knew the type of person she was—selfish, grasping, shallow, conniving, perhaps even incapable of love. She’d married for money. She had no love for children and often joked with an edge of truth that she’d agreed to give birth only to satisfy Gaston.

Audrey was a seriously damaged person, James thought grudgingly. In so many ways she needed as much sympathy as her daughter.

But he couldn’t feel sympathy for Audrey Moreau, he realized. All he could feel for her was contempt.

2

“I can drive to James’s by myself!” Catherine nearly shouted into her cell phone as she descended the front steps of the Gray home and headed for her car, tightening her clasp on her umbrella. The wind had picked up force as if it were trying to carry her voice away. “I don’t need a bodyguard, much less my little sister.”

“It’s nearly dark and starting to rain again and there’s a murderer on the loose. Why can’t you just wait for James to call you? He will any minute.”

“It’s after seven, Marissa. He should have called half an hour ago. How much time can you spend in a morgue identifying a body?”

“You said his home phone line is busy,” Marissa reminded her, sounding frustrated. “He hasn’t called you because he’s talking to someone else.”

“Then why doesn’t he answer his cell phone?”

“It’s turned off?”

“Nice try.” Catherine dropped her car keys and stooped, fumbling in the wet grass to retrieve them. “I should have been the first person he called when he got home from the morgue. I wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t let me. He said it would be too upsetting for me. Patrice was going with him, though. I guess he thinks I have about as much strength as a crystal figurine.”

“Oh, he does not. It wouldn’t be as upsetting for Patrice because she didn’t find the body and the body didn’t happen to be that of her boyfriend’s ex-wife. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“I’m not. I just believe James taking Patrice instead of taking me with him for support is an indication of something wrong in our relationship. Anyway, I can’t reach Patrice, either, which just makes me worry even more. Something else—something bad—has happened.”

“Catherine, will you please go back inside and have a glass of wine and settle down? Nothing has happened.”

“You don’t know that,” Catherine said, picking up her keys from the rain-slicked grass. “Stop talking to me like I’m a child!”

“I will when you stop acting like one!” Almost immediately Marissa followed up with, “I’m sorry. It drives me crazy that you’re so rational about everyone except James. I have to remember that you’re in love with him, though. He’s not just anyone to you.” Marissa sighed. “I’m going to try one more time. I’ll leave work right now—not in half an hour like I said earlier—and I’ll be home in twenty minutes. If you haven’t heard from him by then, we’ll go together to his place.”

“You said you have to finish your story before you leave. You do what you have to do and I’ll do what I have to do.” As Catherine neared her car sitting in the driveway, another gust of wind pulled her umbrella sideways, blocking her view of the street, and she staggered, trying to keep a firm grip on the wet handle. “I’ll call you when I know anything. Bye.”

Catherine knew her sister felt only love and concern for her, but Marissa simply didn’t understand the situation. When James had told Catherine on the phone this afternoon that he’d decided to go to the morgue, she’d immediately volunteered to go with him. He’d said no. He’d tried to soften his flat refusal by saying putting her through such an unsavory task was unnecessary, he didn’t want her to get upset, on and on. Besides, Patrice would be with him. Catherine didn’t need to worry.

Catherine realized James was trying to protect her feelings, but she also knew he needed help getting through this nightmare. He was just so stubbornly independent and so unwilling to show her his vulnerability. She had to make him let her in, she’d thought after their unhappy phone call. She had to be more forceful, just as she knew Patrice must have been to make him let her go with him. Catherine had to make him see that she wasn’t a little girl in need of shielding. She loved him, he loved her, and they needed to lean on each other in times of trouble. That’s what she’d planned to tell him when he called her after the identification at the morgue.

Except that he’d never called.

Now, when she should have heard from him nearly two hours ago, Catherine had decided to take action. Maybe he’d been upset, gone back to his father’s law office to work, and not bothered to call her, except that such self-involvement was totally unlike James. Maybe he’d gone somewhere for a drink with Patrice, except that once again he wouldn’t have left Catherine waiting for a phone call. If for some reason he couldn’t phone, Patrice would have called her. At least, she thought Patrice would have called her.…

Abruptly the growing wind turned her umbrella sideways, blocking her view of the street. More darkness and rain accompanied the wind. Catherine felt like running back to the warmth and comfort of the house, but she knew she couldn’t find real comfort until she found James. No doubt, most people would think her concern ridiculous—after all, he was a man in his early thirties, smart, strong, capable. Today, though, he’d had to look again at the murdered body of his ex-wife, Renée—

“Miss Gray? Miss Catherine Gray?”

Catherine righted her umbrella and saw a large form hurrying toward her from the street before a swath of her hair blew across her eyes. She grabbed at it, missed, and jerked when she felt someone else’s fingertips brush against her forehead, moving the hair, while another hand closed over her shoulder. Startled, she dropped her cell phone.

“Don’t be afraid.” Blinking away rainwater from her eyes, she could blurrily see a tall man standing uncomfortably close to her. “I was on my way to your door when the wind blew up. You were struggling with your umbrella and didn’t see me. We almost collided!” He smiled and made a movement that resembled a slight bow. “I am Nicolai Arcos. I apologize for frightening you.”

He extended a hand to shake. Catherine blinked twice, clearing her vision, and looked up at a man who was at least six foot four with heavy black hair falling almost to his shoulders, deep-set dark brown eyes, a long, narrow nose, extremely high cheekbones, and sensual lips above a square chin. He was handsome in an unusual way, almost slightly unreal, like a character in a movie. And his name. Nicolai Arcos? Also slightly unreal. Yet familiar. He also smelled strongly of liquor and he was standing too close to her.

Catherine took a quick, firm step away from him. He’d done nothing except invade her personal space, but she sensed menace. She moved backward but decided she would not act afraid. She might not be armed, but many people lived on this street, people who looked out their windows, people who could hear a scream. “What do you want?” she asked with semi-calm.

“Only to talk.”

“I don’t have time to talk. I’m going somewhere.” She took a step to the right, planning to walk past him to her car, but he moved, too, blocking her. Then he stood still, grinning at her. “I don’t have time to talk to you, Mr. Arcos. I’m in a hurry.” He continued to grin. “Get out of my way, Mr. Arcos.”

He held up his large hands in a gesture of surrender. “You are offended because I touched you. Once again, I am so sorry. I should not have touched you, but you would have been more frightened if you’d simply run into a big, hulking man like me. Still, I mean you no harm. I only came here to talk to you.” He nodded vaguely toward a black car sitting at the curb. “See? That is my automobile. I pulled up just before you came out of the house. You are too intelligent to think I would park my car in front of your home if I meant to come in and hurt you.”

Catherine glanced at the cell phone lying on the wet autumn grass. She knew the connection between her and Marissa had been broken when she’d dropped the phone, jarring the battery, and she wouldn’t take her eyes off this man long enough to reach down for it, even if Marissa called her back.

He wore a long, black raincoat, and an extremely large tiger’s-eye ring glittered on the middle finger of his left hand. Squinting through the rain, she saw dark troughs beneath his eyes along with deep lines etched into his forehead and around his mouth. His skin was almost frighteningly pale. The man looked exhausted and sick. She could also tell he was drunk.

“Mr. Arcos, I told you that I have somewhere to go now,” she said stiffly.

Their gazes locked. He looked sincere yet amused. In his near-black eyes, though, Catherine detected an impishness that had nothing to do with the glitter of alcohol. Also, his Eastern European accent seemed practiced and exaggerated. He was trying to act charmingly innocent, even slightly buffoonish, because he’d had too much to drink, but his act wasn’t convincing. He was neither innocent nor a buffoon, and Catherine’s scrutiny of his eyes revealed dilated pupils. He’d had more than alcohol. He’d taken a drug or maybe more than one. The man was operating on alcohol mixed with God-knew-what chemicals. She wouldn’t underestimate him.

“I heard you visited the Nordine Gallery to see my paintings today. Ken Nordine described your strange reaction to Lady.” Nicolai raised an already-arched eyebrow. “May we not go into your home and talk about it?” He looked up at the lowering slate sky. “We can’t keep standing here in this weather.”

Catherine fought an urge to turn and run for her front door, but she knew he’d just follow her, and he was so big and strong. For a moment she panicked. Then she glanced across the street and saw alert, athletic Steve Crown’s face watching them intently from behind his front window. Steve and his wife maintained a deep concern for the safety of this street where they raised their three young children. Both kept close eyes on the activities. Catherine knew Steve already saw that she needed help. No doubt, his wife stood right behind him, calling 911, while Steve was pulling away from the window. Their presence gave Catherine courage.

“No matter how bad the weather gets, I’m not taking you into my house,” she said. “You need to leave.”

Arcos raised his shoulders. “Would you like to go someplace quiet to talk? A bar? Or perhaps my place. It isn’t far from here. You could look at more of my work while we have a drink, get warm, talk … art.”

“Get away from me.” Catherine made her voice cold and hard. “The police are coming.”

“The police?” He looked around and then laughed. “I don’t see the police. I think you’re drunk. Or delusional. Isn’t that one of the words you doctors of the mind use? ‘Delusional’?”

Catherine thought of running toward her house, but she stood firm. “Don’t play this stupid game with me. If you stop right now, nothing will happen to you. If you don’t—”

“What will you do, Miss Gray? Hit me? Or do you have something worse in mind? Are you capable of violence?” He leaned closer to her. “Are you capable of killing if someone stands in the way of what you want? I think you are. I think you already have.”

Deep inside her, nearly overwhelming alarm rose in Catherine. The fixed smile had vanished from Nicolai’s face, leaving it sharp edged and menacing. Even his lips drew back from the teeth in the near-feral position of a snarl. He was a big man charged on alcohol and drugs and he was someone to be feared—

Suddenly Nicolai’s large hands closed over Catherine’s shoulders and jerked her toward him. He held her so close they almost touched and she could feel his hot, sweet-sour alcohol breath on her face as he spoke just above an agonized whisper.

“What did you think when you looked at the portrait of my lady? She was my lady, you know. No matter what anyone else thought. No matter what she let them think or made them think or what she did, she was mine. I could have it no other way because it couldn’t be any other way. She didn’t always understand how it had to be, but I understood.” He nodded slowly, absently. “Yes, I understood.”

Catherine kicked with all her might, but he stood just an inch too far away for her boot to connect with his leg.

He glared at her. “She didn’t want him, you stupid woman. She never really wanted him, even in the beginning. She made a mistake, that’s all. And now—” A deep, strangling sound came from his throat before he jerked Catherine closer and said viciously, “But she will always be mine. Death cannot separate us. We were for each other. We were of each other. Renée and Nicolai—one person. Always. No matter how things looked. Didn’t you understand? Didn’t he understand? Is that why you killed her and then went to the gallery to get another look at what you destroyed?”

Steve Crown had appeared behind Arcos. Bent at the waist, Crown charged the artist. Crown’s shoulder drove into Arcos’s midsection, breaking his hold on Catherine and knocking him flat on the slick ground. Catherine barely had time to move before Arcos’s right leg rose and snapped out at his attacker. Crown’s left leg buckled and he fell to his knees, groaning. With almost unbelievable speed, Arcos jumped up and stalked toward Crown. Catherine screamed as Arcos kicked Crown in the ribs. He fell flat and rolled onto his back. Before he could cross his arms across his rib section, though, Arcos kicked Crown again, this time even harder.

As Steve Crown moaned and rolled into a fetal position, Catherine burst into an instinctive run for her house. She’d only managed a few steps before she slid. Arcos caught her before she fell flat. He jerked her to a standing position and then closed his hands around her throat.

“No, you will not escape me,” Nicolai Arcos hissed into her ear. “And you will not escape her. Renée will follow you to the grave.”

Arcos tightened his grip on Catherine’s neck. He held her at arm’s length. Again she kicked wildly, but she couldn’t make contact with his legs. She flailed her arms uselessly. She couldn’t scream—she had no air as Arcos’s hands tightened. In the background, she heard Steve Crown moaning, moaning.…

Then the sound of a police siren cut through the wet night air. Someone had called the police. Crown’s wife, Catherine thought dully.

Suddenly the pressure on Catherine’s neck loosened and she tumbled, limp as a rag doll. Blinking against the raindrops, she watched as Arcos dashed to his car. In what seemed one smooth motion, he’d climbed inside and begun speeding down the street.

Meanwhile, Catherine’s gaze had switched from Arcos’s car back to the patrol car just as in horror she saw a little boy run from his lawn into the street, directly in front of the police car. He froze and Catherine froze at the sight of the patrol car swerving violently, the sound of tires screeching audibly above the siren’s wail.

Miraculously, the car stopped about a foot from the little boy. A woman came shrieking into the street to clutch the child, both of them standing rigidly in front of the patrol vehicle, as Nicolai Arcos’s car disappeared around a corner.