“Take good care of my opus. Marnie.”
“I will,” she told him. “I promise your opus is safe with me.”
His smile went kind of sentimental and satisfied and serene at that, and his expression softened to the point where he looked almost lucid. Relief, Marnie realized. He looked profoundly relieved about something. As if by taking the manuscript from him, she had just freed him of a burden that had been almost too much for him to bear.
He leaned in close again and said quietly, “I knew not to believe what they were saying about you, Lila. I knew you could never do what they said you did. I trust you completely. I always have. And I’m so glad you’re back. They need you.”
Strangely, there was something about the way he said it, and the way he looked at her, that made Marnie feel honestly grateful for his trust. Something that made her want to promise him she would do anything for him in return. Suddenly, he didn’t seem mad at all. In fact, he seemed quite sane, and quite sincere. Before she realized what she was doing, she reached out to touch his shoulder, the physical contact feeling surprisingly nice. Surprisingly comfortable. Surprisingly comforting. It was the oddest thing.
“I will take care of this,” she told him as she held up the manuscript, “whatever it is.” And she was astonished to discover that she meant exactly what she said. “You don’t have to worry about it anymore, okay?”
He nodded and smiled again, then lifted a hand in farewell. “I’m glad it’s with you…Marnie,” he said. And without another word, he turned and walked away.
Marnie stood motionless in the middle of the deserted parking lot as she watched him go, mesmerized by his steady, purposeful stride. Not once did he look back, clearly content with how their exchange—whatever it had been about—had gone. She waited for him to approach one of the half-dozen cars still scattered in that direction, but he kept walking until he reached a hedgerow at the edge of the parking lot. She watched, amazed, as he pushed the branches of two bushes aside and stepped through them.
On the other side of that hedgerow was a park, she knew, which eventually spilled into woods. All the houses near the mall were in the other direction—and none was within comfortable walking distance for a man his age. She couldn’t imagine where he was going.
Strange. Very strange.
She looked down at the thickly stuffed envelope in her hands and, for the first time, noticed writing on the outside of it. Nothing intelligible, mostly a bunch of doodles that didn’t make sense. Turning it over, she saw the flap was fastened with one of those winding cotton cords that was whipped into a figure eight over and over again. Marnie told herself to go back into Lauderdale’s and call mall security. Instead, she took the end of the string between thumb and forefinger and began to unwind it.
She was just freeing the final figure eight when she heard the scuff of a shoe over the asphalt behind her.
When she turned, she saw a man standing there who was much larger, much younger and much more menacing than the one who had just left. And where the first man’s smile had been sentimental and satisfied and serene, this man’s smile was feral and forbidding and frightening.
“Hello, Lila,” he said. “You naughty girl, where have you been? Opus has been looking all over for you.”
CHAPTER TWO
ACID HEAT SPLASHED through Marnie’s belly at the man’s words, spoken in a velvety voice she might have found appealing in another situation. His sophisticated good looks, too, she might have rather liked under other circumstances. A situation or circumstances like, oh…she didn’t know…like maybe if she wasn’t standing in the middle of a dark, deserted parking lot with her car still a good ten yards away. Like maybe if she didn’t feel as if she’d slipped into the Twilight Zone. Like maybe if he hadn’t come up out of nowhere like a deranged movie murderer. Like maybe if she wasn’t a complete sissy about things like deserted parking lots and surreal life and deranged murderers.
Stuff like that.
But since Marnie was the proud owner of a sissiness that rivaled some of the greatest sissies in history, she wasn’t much impressed by the man’s good looks and velvety voice. Especially since he was calling her Lila, something that jerked her right back into that distorted—and soon to be sordid—reality, and, well, suffice it to say that her day just wasn’t turning out to be anything like she had anticipated when she’d rolled out of bed that morning.
“And OPUS isn’t the only one who’s been looking for you, sweetheart,” he added, the endearment dripping not with affection, but with what sounded very much like animosity. “I’ve been looking all over for you, too.”
Too frightened now to even move, Marnie tried to at least mentally catalogue the man’s features, so that she could give an accurate description to a police artist later. Providing, of course, she survived. Somehow, though, she didn’t think she could ever forget his face, so arrestingly handsome was he, in spite of his malevolence. His dark auburn hair was groomed to perfection, his amber eyes reflected intelligence and, incongruously, good humor. His clothing was faultless and expensively tailored; dark trousers and a dark T-shirt beneath a jacket that was darker still. All the better to hide in the darkness with, my dear. Nevertheless, had Marnie seen him inside Lauderdale’s instead of out here, she would have thought him a very attractive, wealthy businessman on the way home from happy hour. Out here, there was nothing happy about him. And she didn’t even want to think about what kind of business he might be up to.
“I’m not Lila,” she said before she even realized she’d intended to speak, amazed at how calm and level her voice was. “I seem to have one of those faces that resemble a lot of others. I’m not who you’re looking for.”
In response to her assurance, the man smiled and said, “Of course you’re not. Your name is Marnie, right? This week, anyway. Of course, the last time I saw you, you were going by the delightful moniker of Tiffannee. With two f’s, two n’s and two e’s.”
Oh, please, Marnie wanted to say. What kind of woman actually claimed such a name? “That wasn’t me,” she insisted politely. “I’ve only gone by the one name all my life.”
But the man seemed to have stopped listening to her. Because his gaze was fixed on the battered manuscript she was hugging to her midsection, as if it were a magic shield that might shelter her from harm.
“Well, just give me what Philosopher gave you,” he said, “and I’ll forget all about that pesky episode in Indianapolis. Fair enough?”
Philosopher? Marnie wanted to ask. Indianapolis? What was he talking about? She hadn’t been to Indianapolis for years. And what kind of name was Philosopher? Obviously the guy was talking about the little man who’d given Marnie the manuscript, but how did this guy know him? And if he knew him, then why hadn’t he asked for the manuscript before Marnie ended up with it? And why had both men mistaken her for the same woman?
Just what was going on?
He brought his gaze back up to hers, his smile in place again, then extended his hand, palm out, in a request for the package. “Come on, Lila, hand it over.”
Having no idea why she did it, Marnie clutched it more tightly to herself. Very slowly, she shook her head. “No.”
He didn’t seem surprised by her answer. Which was funny, because Marnie sure was. The smart thing would be to forget about protecting it, since she didn’t
