closed her eyes briefly. “It doesn’t matter. He can’t find me here. And as long as I’m out of the picture, Mother and Dad are safe. And so are you.”
Nathan said nothing for a moment, and in the ensuing silence, Darian heard another door open and close somewhere in his house. Then a whisper. Someone had come back into the room with him. Someone who was trying very hard not to make her presence known.
“I’ve interrupted something,” she murmured. “I should let you go.”
“No, no, I was up. I do my best work after midnight.”
Darian climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. “So how was the latest exhibit?”
“Not bad. I sold four paintings, and the gallery has commissioned a dozen more.”
“Nathan, that’s wonderful.” Darian was still astonished by the way her brother had turned his life around. The troubled young man who’d dropped out of college at nineteen, who’d refused back then to even consider his future, was on the verge of becoming a phenomenon in the art world. Dani had even read a write-up about him in Art in America.
She had to admit that at times she envied him. She’d once wanted to be a journalist more than anything in the world, but she’d had to give up that dream when she disappeared. Dr. Gaines had advised her that the first thing her stalker would look for was her professional affiliations.
“I’d offer to send you a painting, but you’d have to give me your address. And you can’t do that, can you?”
“No.” Darian didn’t mention the fact that she’d already acquired one of Nathan’s paintings. She’d bought it from a local gallery, but she couldn’t tell him because that knowledge might give him a clue to her location.
Sometimes all the deception and subterfuge got to her, but she always tried to keep in mind that her isolation wasn’t just for her own protection, but for her family’s, as well.
“I’m sorry, Nathan.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, of course, but it’s still hard. Especially on Mother.” He sighed. “I drove out to see her the other day.”
“How is she?”
“The anxiety attacks are getting worse. She can’t leave the house at all these days. Or won’t. She doesn’t even keep her appointments with Dr. Gaines anymore.”
Her father and brother were confused and frustrated by her mother’s agoraphobia, but Darian understood it. Sometimes she wished she had the luxury of remaining behind the same four walls. It was a scary world out there. No one knew that better than she.
“And Dad? How’s he doing?”
Nathan gave a harsh laugh. “You know Dad. He makes a point of keeping himself busy when I come around.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that.” Nathan sounded almost angry with her. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. I hope you know that.”
“I do.” But sometimes Darian still wondered what she had done to bring all this on her family? Had she smiled at the wrong person? Led someone on?
Dr. Gaines had made it clear from the start that her stalker could be someone she didn’t even know. Or someone with whom she’d had only the briefest of contact. Someone who’d seen her in the store one day perhaps. Or someone who had sat behind her in class. Someone who was now convinced that she belonged to him.
“It’s late,” she said. “I’d better let you go. I…just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Promise you’ll stay in touch?”
“As often as I can.”
“And call Mother. She misses you.”
Darian swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. “I miss her, too. I miss all of you. I love you, Nathan.”
“I love you, too…sis.”
The line went dead then, and Darian tossed the phone into the trash can where she would get rid of it first thing in the morning, just as she’d disposed of all the other connections to her past.
Turning off the bedside lamp, she snuggled down under the covers, but it was a long time before she fell asleep. Sometime after she finally dozed off, she was jerked awake by a strange sound.
Darian lay listening in the dark, her heart pounding in fear.
The noise had come from Mr. Delgado’s empty apartment. It was an odd, muted rasp that sounded as if something was being pulled through the walls.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GREG MELCHER ANXIOUSLY checked his watch. It was already after midnight, and he still had another hour or so before his plane touched down at Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston. He’d hoped to be on the ground by now—checked into his hotel and plotting his next move—but a severe storm front had delayed his flight out of LaGuardia.
His pulse quickened with excitement. Seven years of searching was about to come to an end, and he couldn’t wait to see Dr. Darian West’s face when he confronted her with what he knew.
But that meeting was still hours away, and Melcher had more pressing concerns. Like getting off the damn airplane in one piece. As he watched lightning flicker in the distance, he gripped the armrests. The bad weather had followed them south, and he hoped like hell the storm wasn’t some kind of omen.
Like a lot of other Americans, Melcher hadn’t really enjoyed flying since 9/11. Before that, he hadn’t thought twice about getting on a plane, and had usually been able to sleep through most flights. Nowadays, he was a nervous wreck during takeoffs and landings, and he never fully relaxed until the plane taxied up to the gate.
As his gaze remained fixed on the window, he decided the lightning was getting closer. The flashes seemed to be just beyond the wing tip now, and the plane dipped ominously as it hit a patch of turbulence.
Damn, he needed a drink. He was flying first class, so he could have whatever he wanted. All he had to do was press the call button, but he suppressed the urge. As soon as he landed, he’d have to get behind the wheel of a rental car, and he remembered from prior trips to Houston that the heavy traffic didn’t abate much after midnight. He’d need all his faculties to navigate the clogged freeway systems that crisscrossed the city.
Besides, Melcher had learned the hard way that drinking and driving didn’t mix. If two broken legs, a broken back and a fractured skull hadn’t taught him that lesson, then nothing would. Luckily, he’d wrapped his car around a tree instead of another vehicle, and had managed to avoid, through a complicated series of back-room negotiations, a license suspension. He was six months on the wagon and counting. He could do this.
Closing his eyes, he gulped in several deep breaths and tried to relax. Tried to remind himself that he’d escaped death once before, and he could do it again.
What
