She scanned the spines of books in a built-in shelf until she found a couple of photo albums. As she took them down and carried them to the coffee table in front of the sofa, she realized that she hadn’t downloaded her own photos in months. Digital albums were nice, but she really preferred the old-fashioned way.
“I knew there’d be pictures,” he said.
“Do you remember those journals I used to make? I’d take an old book with an interesting cover and replace the pages with my own sketches and poetry and photos.”
“I remember.” His voice was as soft as a caress. “The Engagement Journal was the best present you ever gave me.”
“What about the watch, the super-expensive, engraved wristwatch?”
“Also treasured.”
She went back to the bar, snatched up her beer and returned to sit on the sofa beside him. “I’m an excellent present giver. It’s a family trait.”
“How are they, the Peterson family?”
“My oldest sister had a baby girl, which means I’m an aunt, and the other two are in grad school. Mom and Dad moved to Arizona, which they love.” She took a taste of the zombie beer, which was, as she’d expected, excellent, and gave him a rueful smile. “I don’t suppose Aunt Hazel told my mom that she was calling you.”
“Your mom hated me.”
Emily made a halfhearted attempt to downplay her mother’s opinion. “You weren’t their favorite.”
Her parents had begged her to stay in college and wait to get married until she was older. Emily was her mom’s baby, the youngest of four girls, the artistic one. When Emily’s divorce came, Mom couldn’t wait to say “I told you so.”
“Toward the end,” he said, “I thought she was beginning to come around.”
“It was never about you personally,” she said. “I was too young, and you were too old. And Mom didn’t really like that you did dangerous undercover work in the FBI.”
“And what does she think of your current profession?”
She took a long swallow of the dark beer. “Hates it.”
“Does she know about the murder?”
“Oh God, no.” She cringed. If her mother suspected that she was actually in danger, she’d have a fit.
Emily opened the older of the two albums. The photographs were arranged in chronological order with Emily and her sisters starting out small and getting bigger as they aged. Nostalgia welled up inside her. The Petersons were a good-looking family, wholesome and happy. In spite of what Sean thought, they weren’t really rich. Sure, they had enough money to live well and take vacations and pay for school tuitions. But they weren’t big spenders, and their home in an upscale urban neighborhood in Denver wasn’t ostentatious.
Like her older sisters, she had tried to be what her parents wanted. They valued education, and when she told them she was considering becoming a teacher, they were thrilled. But Emily went to UC Berkeley and strayed from the path. She was a poet, a performance artist, an activist and a photographer. Her marriage and divorce to Sean had been just one more detour from the straight and narrow.
Aunt Hazel was more indulgent of Emily’s free-spirited choices. Hazel approved of Sean. She’d invited him to be a bodyguard. Maybe she knew something Emily hadn’t yet learned.
He stopped her hand as she was about to turn a page in the album. He pointed to a wintertime photo of her, wearing a white knit hat with a pom-pom and standing at the gate that separated Hazelwood Ranch from public lands. She couldn’t have been more than five or six. Bundled up in her parka and jeans and boots, she appeared to be dancing with both hands in the air.
“This picture,” he said. “You put a copy of this in the journal you gave me. I must have looked at it a hundred times. I never really noticed the outline of the hills and the curve in the road, but my subconscious must have absorbed the details. Seeing that photo is like being here.”
His déjà vu was explained.
She asked, “What are we going to do to protect Hazel?”
“How does she feel about Willis? Do they have a little something going on?”
She and her aunt hadn’t directly talked about who Hazel was dating, but Emily couldn’t help noticing that Willis had stopped by for a visit every day. Sometimes twice a day. “Why do you ask?”
“We could hire Willis to be a bodyguard for Hazel. They might enjoy an excuse to spend more time together.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” she said. “His performance tonight—tromping around in the snow looking for a house key—wasn’t typical. Usually he’s competent.”
“I wouldn’t want to throw him up against an army of thugs with automatic pistols,” he said, “but that shouldn’t be necessary. If you settle here and keep a low profile, there’s no reason for Wynter to track you down. You’re sure he doesn’t know you’re the witness?”
“I was careful, bought my plane tickets under a fake name, blocked and locked everything on my computer, threw away my phone so I couldn’t be tracked.”
“How did you learn to do all that?”
“Internet,” she said. “I read a couple of how-to articles on disappearing yourself. Plus, I might have picked up a couple of hints when we were married.”
“But you didn’t like my undercover work.” He leaned back against the sofa pillows and sipped his beer. “You said when I took on a new identity, it was a lie.”
At the time, she hadn’t considered her criticism to be unreasonable. Any new bride would be upset if her husband said he was going to be out of touch for a week or two and couldn’t tell her where he was going or what he was doing. She jabbed an accusing finger in his direction. “I had every right to interrogate you, every right to be angry when you wouldn’t tell me what was going on.”
His dark eyes narrowed, but he didn’t look menacing. He was too handsome. “You could have just trusted me.”
“Trust you? I hardly knew you.”
“You were my wife.”
It hadn’t taken long for them to jump into old arguments. Was he purposely trying to provoke her? First he mentioned the age thing. Now he was playing the “trust me” card. Damn it, she didn’t want to open old wounds. “Could we keep our focus on the present? Please?”
“Fine with me.” He stretched out his long legs and rested his stocking feet on the coffee table. “You claim to have covered your tracks when you traveled and when you masked your identity.”
“Claimed?” Her anger sparked.
“Can you prove that you’re untraceable? Can anybody vouch for you?”
“Certainly not. The point of hiding my identity is to eliminate contacts.”
“Just
