ran a finger along the inside edge and gasped an “Ouch” when something pricked her skin. On the tip of her index finger stood a splinter of clear glass. She drew it out and sucked on the bead of blood left behind.
Doesn’t mean anything, she told herself. Could be from anything—a mirror, a lightbulb or a glass. Pocketing the bloody splinter, she willed her racing heart to slow. She left her hand balled inside the pocket of her blazer to dampen its shaking.
“Obviously, you’ve had too much coffee.” She shouldn’t have stopped for that last large cup. Bad for her nerves. Bad for her heart. Hadn’t the doctor warned her just last month to cut back to stop the palpitations?
She’d probably read about the vase incident during her research and it had stuck in her mind. Wouldn’t be the first time. This feeling of déjà vu happened to her more often than she liked to admit. She’d read something, see a photograph, and then, once she got on location, she’d have that feeling of having been there before.
But never this real. A tight feeling coiled in her gut.
“Get a grip.” Nothing to get spooked about. One of her high school teachers had called this ability of hers to recall almost everything she’d ever seen eidetic memory and seemed fascinated by it. Of course, that was after he’d accused her of cheating on a test, and she’d had to prove to him that everything on the page had come straight from her brain and not Mark Peach’s paper.
Spinning away from the scene of the mirage, she forced herself to concentrate on the collection of Currier & Ives prints, showing off the same scene of a country lane and pond in four seasons. The house in the background looked remarkably like Moongate Mansion. Maybe she could use them as a montage to show the passage of time.
“That’s better.” Work was her salvation. When it came to work, her fate was in her hands, not in some monster’s from a dream. She could do this. She’d done it hundreds of times before. The only pressure on her was the one she was putting on herself. “Stick to the plan.”
Houses, according to a psychologist she’d once interviewed for a segment on dream analysis, were a metaphor for the human psyche. This one seemed rusted in time. Haunted almost, like a restless mind. Maybe that’s what Rita wanted by looking back into the past—a cure. If she understood what had happened to Valentina, then she could let go of her child and finally find peace.
The floor of the hall thundered, and Nicolas Galloway reappeared, long, determined strides making short work of the distance between them.
“About time,” she mumbled, tugging her blazer back in place with her free hand.
His expression remained frozen in the feral position, and instead of an apology, he barked, “Follow me.”
Sheesh, he didn’t even pause to see if she followed, just assumed she would. She was used to following directions, but unbending commands were another thing. And she’d had just about enough of going through an intermediary to get to her appointment. “I really need to speak with Ms. Meadows.”
“You’re in luck. You’re getting your wish.”
As she scrambled after Nick, the raspberry brambles on the hall wallpaper shifted as if rustled by a breeze. The smell of burned toast stung her nose. The scraping of a knife against dry bread scratched at her brain.
“It’ll be just fine. See?” A woman’s voice. “Now, which do you want, strawberry or blueberry preserve?”
Valerie stopped and peered into the dining room, set with Lenox china, Pairpoint crystal and silver-plated dinnerware.
“What are you doing?”
At the boom of Nick’s voice, the image vanished, leaving behind an empty table and chairs. Valerie swiveled her head to look at Nick frowning at her from the library entrance. At least this time she remembered where the flash of memory had come from—the photograph from Victorian Homes of a Thanksgiving dinner at Moongate the year before Valentina disappeared. “I thought I smelled toast burning.”
“Someone’s bringing tea.” He disappeared into the room.
Valerie hurried to catch up with him. Tea was good. Tea meant Rita Meadows would let her see the archives. Tea meant that Nicolas Galloway owed her an apology—not that she was holding her breath for one. And maybe it also meant food. Which made her think of Mike. He was going to be royally cranky that she was taking so long. A well-fed Mike was a happy Mike, and a happy Mike got her good footage. Payback from Mike, on the other hand, was never a good thing.
“Sit,” Nick ordered.
Arguing right now would be a waste of breath, so she chose a wing chair that gave her width and height, and deposited her portfolio and purse on the floor at her feet and the empty coffee cup on the side table. She didn’t play games, but she didn’t make easy prey, either.
Nick paced the marble hearth of the fireplace as if he was drawing up some sort of war plan, and she pulled back her shoulders readying her defenses.
“We need to set some ground rules,” he said. “One, you are not to wander unaccompanied on the grounds or in the house at any time. That goes for your friend with the camera outside, too. I’ve already sent someone to detain him.”
Detain Mike? Good luck to anyone who tried to separate Mike from his camera. “Ms. Meadows has already given her permission to shoot.”
“This is nevertheless Ms. Meadows’s private home and intrusion into her privacy will not be tolerated. We do not want a tabloid exposé that will exploit Ms. Meadows’s pain at the tragedy of her daughter’s kidnapping.”
What bug had crawled up his butt? “Look, you’ve made it clear you don’t want me here, but if you think you can intimidate me into leaving, you’re wrong.”
He rounded on her with High Noon intensity. “Right now, I’m cooperating, but don’t cross me, or you’ll regret the day you showed up on our doorstep.”
Jeez, Louise, what did he think she was going to do? Blow her career by ticking off the man who paid her salary? “An exposé is certainly not our intention. At his niece’s request, Mr. Meadows asked his executive producer to put together these segments on Valentina’s kidnapping. Mr. Meadows expects clean and true reporting any time his station airs a package. This will be no exception.”
“Ms. Meadows is the constant target of people who would prey on her pain for gain. There are certain facts we would rather not make public in order to protect the family from scam artists.”
Okay, she could see why he might be a tad touchy on the subject. Her task was to mollify him and wow him with her ability to present a fair and balanced portrait of the family’s misfortune. “I understand your point, Mr. Galloway. As I said, we’re not out to prey on Ms. Meadows. But she was the one who asked that we tell her daughter’s story with the hopes of bringing her home.”
“It’s been twenty-five years.” The statement sounded remarkably like a trick question.
“I understand. But finding the child’s…location would allow Ms. Meadows closure, don’t you think?”
His presence was an iceberg in a room too small to contain him, and she was uncomfortably aware of his proximity, of his stark and
