helped her through her heartbreak. He’d demanded her full attention, and the work had been a balm. Although he could be arrogant at times, he was also generous to her and hardworking. He seldom criticized or blamed when she made a mistake.
The only problem was that skating was all he really cared about. She wanted more. She’d always wanted more.
She wanted a home and family. She couldn’t imagine Paul as a homebody and father. He genuinely loved the spotlight and travel and glamor. He wouldn’t understand her compulsion to help capture someone who had almost killed her, who might well kill again.
Neither would her mother. To them, the gold medal was the only trophy worth pursuing.
As the two pressed her to take the flight, she wished MacKay hadn’t left. She wanted his support. Then she questioned whether he’d left because he was forcing her into making a decision.
“Marise?” her mother said, obviously believing the silence meant she was reconsidering.
“I’m going to stay,” Marise said. “It’s not just my safety. Nor other women he might attack. It’s me. He assaulted me. He tried to kill me. I…owe him. I want to help put him away. I want to look in his face when it happens.”
Paul and her mother stared at her as if in shock. But then, she had never been this angry before. She hadn’t realized how angry she was.
A knock came at the door, and the detective entered again, this time with a man with an overlarge briefcase.
“This is Alan Greene, our artist,” he said, as both her mother and Paul looked at him with disapproval.
Greene looked around. “Can we do this alone?” he asked.
Cara Merrick started to bristle.
“I think I should stay here with her,” Paul said, taking a defensive stand next to the bed. “She’s had a second shock in as many days.”
“She’ll be more helpful if she can concentrate,” the police artist said politely but firmly.
“Please wait outside, Paul,” Marise said.
“If that’s what you want…”
“It is, and you, too, Mom.”
Her mother frowned, obviously reluctant to leave. “If you need us…”
“I know,” Marise said. Her mother had been right outside for eighteen years, ever since she’d lost her husband and son. She’d accompanied Marise everywhere as her daughter won competition after competition, then became her business manager and agent.
Guilt about that accident so many years ago had kept Marise from suggesting another manager. And her mother did a good job. After she’d given up skating herself so many years ago, she and Marise’s father had run a skating school. Cara Merrick had been the business manager and deserved much of the credit for its financial success. She’d sold it years later and used the proceeds to finance Marise’s lessons and competitions and costumes.
Marise owed her.
She owed her—and her father—an Olympic Medal, the one shining goal neither of her parents had achieved. She and Paul actually had a shot at it. But first they needed a good showing in the Sectional and, hopefully, the U.S. Championships.
Her mother and Paul left reluctantly. Their coach had already flown ahead to Seattle with the costumes and equipment. One less mother hen with which to contend.
“Can the detective stay?” she asked.
The police artist nodded as he took out his computer and plugged in a modem.
Marise’s heart beat faster.
“Close your eyes,” the police artist said. “Think about impressions. Think about the night before last. What do you see?”
“Darkness. There was a street light, but he came from behind and dragged me into a dark corner. He wore a mask.” Her throat was dry. Her voice sounded scratchy.
“How big a man?”
“He seemed large.” She was picturing his bulk now. Her eyes were still closed, and she willed herself back to those moments. Back to the terror.
“His clothes?”
“Dark. Black, I think.”
“And the ski mask?”
“Black. Yes, black.”
“All right. Thin, fat?”
“Powerful,” she said. “Muscular. His arm was strong. I know muscles. I could feel them around my neck. I think he must work out.”
“Good. Very good,” the artist said.
“Height?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s between five-ten and five-eleven. I’m five-three, and he was about six inches taller than I am, about an inch shorter than Paul.”
He let out a surprised breath.
“I skate next to Paul every day. I know his height.”
“Good. Now his face. What did you see?”
“I didn’t exactly see it. It was too dark, and it happened so quickly.”
“Broad face?” he asked. “Narrow?”
“I don’t know,” she said desperately.
“Open your eyes,” he asked gently. His computer screen was turned toward her. He ran through several facial types. None of them brought any flash of recognition.
“Don’t try too hard,” he said. “Just watch and see if any ring a bell in your head.”
He had an easy way about him, and she found herself nodding and relaxing. Several more pages, then an impression…nothing more.
“Stop,” she said. “I’m not sure, but something about that face…”
It was a square face, heavy jowled. She stared at it for a moment, trying to remember more, to see more. Fear was crawling up her spine. What was it about that facial type?
The artist waited a few more moments, then suggested quietly, “Why don’t we try some eyes?”
A half-hour later, they had a picture. But she couldn’t say whether it was actually her assailant or a mishmash of memorable features that lingered in her mind. “I’m just not sure,” she admitted.
“You’ve done very well, Miss Merrick,” the artist said. “I’ll bet anything that when we find this man, there will be a resemblance.”
When we find him. If they found him.
Detective MacKay had not uttered a word during the entire time. Perhaps he had not wanted to break her concentration. But she had known he was there, and that had made
