mind survived?
With everything he’d read about the attack, he couldn’t exactly blame her if she wasn’t the same afterward. The newspapers had bled all the terror out of her story, leaving only the ugly, sensational words guaranteed to sell papers—phrases like severe head trauma and blitz attack, coupled with entire paragraphs about how the Surgeon had carried her into the Atchafalaya and sliced off her dark business suit with a sharp knife, leaving shallow cuts marring her once-perfect skin. He’d seen the photos. Nightmare didn’t even begin to describe it. That she’d managed to escape said a lot about how strong she was.
But then there were the rumors he’d heard—whispers of paralyzing fear and even agoraphobia echoed in the classrooms and auditoriums where she’d conducted her famous lectures. For two years, there had been no more books from Maggie Reyes. No more talks. She’d simply disappeared without a trace.
Until now.
Although he’d been deliberately vague about how he’d found her, to avoid freaking her out any more than he already had, he’d actually been looking for Maggie Reyes for some time.
Billy could find just about anyone, as long as the person used a computer hooked up to the outside world. Most people, he’d learned, simply trusted that no one was watching when they logged on. A few months ago, he’d released some specially modified search bots into the Internet, where they’d floated out in the ether, just waiting for one Maggie Reyes to log on anytime, anyplace, and enter her name and address. A few weeks ago, she’d purchased a copy of Through the Looking Glass from an online bookstore, and the bots had come running back to daddy with the news. Child’s play.
And now that he’d found her, practically in his backyard all this time, could he get her to trust him? Her assumption that he was Monterey PD had bought him an invitation inside her home and enough time to assess her state of mind, but it probably hadn’t been such a great idea if he wanted her to warm up to him. Truth was, he wasn’t supposed to be poking his nose in cases that had nothing to do with Computer Crimes, and he needed someone outside the system to help him get the man who’d attacked his sister. He needed Maggie Reyes.
But he hadn’t expect her to be so—
The cars ahead of him suddenly lurched forward, and he abruptly shoved aside thoughts of the woman he’d left behind. Jenna was all that mattered. The image of his sister, her pale, crumpled body covered in blood and grime, came to him in mercilessly clear focus, just as it always did whenever he said or thought her name. Jenna. Jenna. Jenna.
How that image had haunted him, haunted him still. He’d gotten distracted by a case in Silicon Valley. He’d been so close to bringing down the CEO of a high-powered software company on computer embezzlement. So he’d postponed a trip to New Orleans to see his sister, the only remaining member of his immediate family. Then he’d gotten the phone call.
Blitz attack…. He turned down Van Buren Street, the words coming back to him with so much more force than they had when they’d merely been black ink on newsprint. …heavy blood loss…so sorry…. With a sharp twist of his hand, Billy jerked the steering wheel, threading through the line of cars to get to his Mission Street exit ramp. A few minutes later, he pulled the Crown Vic into the driveway of his turn-of-the-century bungalow near the heart of the city, his jaw clenched so tight, it felt like his teeth would shatter. No, he couldn’t ever forget.
He looked up at the house, all but oblivious to the peeling white paint on the wooden siding and the riot of unruly flowers surrounding the walkway. Taking a deep breath, he shoved open the car door and climbed out.
When he reached the house, he batted aside a climbing vine and pulled open the screen door. Inserting the key in the lock, he pushed through and entered. A gaunt, pale woman greeted him at the doorway, wrapped in a thick, worn quilt even though it was 80 degrees outside. Her large blue eyes, red-rimmed from constant tears, had dark hollows beneath them. Despite the air of pure despair that surrounded her, so sharp he felt it cutting into his own skin, she smiled weakly at him. “Hey, Billy,” she said in a voice that sounded as if it hadn’t been used in decades.
“Jenna,” was all he could say in reply, as part of him begged her not to disappear. Again.
BACON. With a single-mindedness only the house-bound possess, Maggie meticulously searched the contents of the freezer for bacon to go with the Cobb salad she’d just tossed. Shoving aside microwave dinners, plastic bags of vegetable medley and a box of frozen peach yogurt pops, she finally found the package of bacon and tossed it on the counter with a frozen clatter. She’d cook it up fresh, of course, because there was no way she’d have those horrible crumbled bits that came in a bottle and tasted like small shards of plastic.
For now, she ignored the package, carefully piling the frozen foods she’d displaced back into the freezer—TV dinners she had for lunch went on one side, and the packaged foods requiring more preparation on the other. Dessert boxes and vegetable bags went on top of the entire arrangement, since they were the least stable.
A faint, icy mist caressed her face, sending a chill down her entire body and raising goosebumps on her forearms, exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of her sweatshirt. She took her hand away, letting the freezer door fall shut.
So cold. That night in the swamp, so long ago. Naked, alone, and so cold. With only the sounds of cicadas and owls and the smell of the dank, fetid waters of the Atchafalaya to keep her company. Until he came back to the decaying cabin, with a sharp knife and the look of a starving man in his dark eyes—things she’d only read about in her books before that spring night. The chill had gotten worse while he studied her, his mouth forming the words that would haunt her long after that night: “Why don’t you run?” But that was the joke, with her hands and feet completely immobilized by fishing line, she couldn’t run. Not even when he’d started cutting.
She slammed the heavy frying pan she’d taken off the stove onto the counter, the force of the blow reverberating up her entire arm. Bacon, dammit.
A little bit of cooking spray. A dash of oil. Bacon. She defrosted the package in the microwave, then peeled a few tepid slices off, tossing them into the pan with shaking hands. Breathe, Maggie. After adding a couple of extras in case Adriana wanted a salad when she came over with the week’s supply of groceries, she turned on the stove burner. Bacon. She could do this. Bacon, bacon, bacon baconbaconbaconbacon…
Whump. Maggie whirled around at the sound, like a hand smacking the glass panes of one of the windows in the next room. Hard. Operating on pure instinct, she focused her senses on pinpointing the potential danger, only noticing that she was brandishing the frying pan over her head when she felt a slice of slimy, lukewarm meat slide down her arm. It fell to the floor with a soft smack and was soon followed by a larger clump. Warm oil slid down the pan and dribbled onto her hand and wrist.
The sound of laughter drew her gaze outside the bay windows. A young couple walked near the rocks by the ocean, tossing a tennis ball for their Irish setter, which scampered ahead of them, tongue lolling out of its mouth as a breeze blew back its shiny red coat. Grinning sheepishly, the man—a sandy blonde wearing a backward Angels cap and baggy shorts that went down to the middle of his tanned calves—held the ball in the air and shrugged apologetically at her.
“Maggie, you paranoid idiot,” she muttered through her teeth, smiling back at him and raising the frying pan in salute. She deliberately relaxed her shoulders, feeling some of the tension leave her body while she watched the boy throw the ball again for the dog. His girlfriend ran to catch up with them and grabbed the brim of his cap, starting a laughing game of tag that continued until they were out of the range of Maggie’s window.
She set the pan down on
