The phone clicked off. Seth grabbed the handheld from the glove compartment. There she was, five kiloms ahead, almost out of range, blipping away. He dropped the monitor to his lap and concentrated on driving too fast, a skill at which he fortunately had a great deal of practice. He wove through traffic, ignoring the cacophony of offended horns, hoping like hell that no cops would spot him.
The cell phone rang. His stomach sank lower than he ever knew a stomach could go. “Yeah?”
“It's a bad scene at Templeton Street.” Connor's voice was hard and tense. “Your lady's got company in the garage. Black ski mask and gun. You're closer than any of us. Floor it.”
She'd thought that getting away from Seth's taunts and jeers would make her feel better, but surprise, surprise ... she felt worse.
She shivered in the back of the cab. Just the short dash to the shelter of the bus stop had drenched her. The beautiful Prada boots were clammy from splashing through puddles, but she barely felt the chill. She couldn't register that sensory information and still think about Victor's revelation.
Her father. How was it possible?
One thing was certain. She didn't dare tell Seth. His reaction to learning that she was Victor's niece had been bad enough. She cringed at the thought of his reaction to finding out she was Victor's daughter.
She stared at the lights that blurred through the rain-streaked glass, hoping that Seth wouldn't storm into her house tonight. She didn't have the strength to deal with his anger. It was all she could do to process the shocking knowledge that touching the Corazon pistol had revealed to her.
She had told Seth that she'd faked her reaction to the gun, but she had lied. The gun had vibrated in her hand, like a trapped animal. Both hot and hideously cold. The memory made her queasy. She wrapped her arms around her waist and tried to think of something else. Eagles swooping, snowcapped mountains at sunrise, the ocean.
No image of tranquil beauty was strong enough to cleanse her of the remembered sensation, like a blow to the solar plexus. And the images, racing through her mind: white carpet, spattered blood, tulips scattered across the floor. Screaming. Oh, God. She pressed her hand against her stomach, wondering how long this would last. It was worse than the dreams, because there was no waking from it. She just had to grit her teeth and endure.
Being with Victor on Stone Island had tuned her like a radio to this awful new frequency. She felt raw, torn open. Too much information pouring in. Maybe it was her overwrought imagination, she told herself bracingly. A chorus of sarcastic voices cackled and hooted in her head at the lame attempt to deny reality.
She was Victor's daughter. She had to avenge her uncle against her father, not the other way around. She could go crazy, reasoning it out, but nothing had changed, really. Murder was murder.
The cab pulled up at her house, and she sighed with relief. It would be dark and cold, but at least it would be private. Her stiff hands could barely handle the money. The bills and coins kept sliding from her numb ringers. She got out of the cab.
The house looked desolate, almost menacing. The untrimmed hydrangeas spread out long branches, dripping with rain. The windows that flanked the front door regarded her like cold, unfriendly eyes.
She spun around to tell the cabbie to stop, but his tail-lights were already receding, picking up speed. Too fast now to chase him down. He turned the corner, and was gone.
Don't be fanciful. Don't be ridiculous. Don't let your imagination run away with you. Alix's scolding tone echoed in her head as she moved slowly up the walk. It was just an empty house, and her car was parked in the garage. If she didn't like the place, she could go in, get her car keys, pack her suitcase and check into a hotel.
That was a great idea, in feet. That was exactly what she would do. She approached the house so slowly that raindrops began to sneak into the collar of her coat, like chilly little fingers.
After today, it would be a miracle if she weren't paranoid, Raine told herself, fumbling with the key. The phone was ringing inside, but there was no use in hurrying. Her fingers would not cooperate.
She had been an idiot to run away from Seth. He might be rude and difficult, but she would have given anything to have him beside her right now, saying something sarcastic and infuriating. His warm, solid presence would drive away any goblins that inhabited this murmuring darkness.
How embarrassing. The first big tantrum she'd ever had in her whole, decorous, polite life; and she had to end up feeling like a fool. She dropped her key for the third time, and almost yelled with frustration.
Finally, she made it inside. It was cold and dark, but nothing jumped out to bite her, thank goodness. She stripped off her coat, turned the thermostat up and flipped on light after light on her way to the bedroom. The phone rang again as she perched on the wingback chair and started unlacing the soggy boots. She'd left muddy footprints all over the beige carpeting. Should have taken them off in the foyer. She let the phone ring, unable to contemplate talking with her mother.
She peeked at the machine. Five messages.
Strange. She never had so many. It wasn't like Alix to call obsessively, and no one else knew she was here. None of her far-flung friends had this number. Her stomach did a slow, lazy flip.
The machine clicked on, the outgoing message played. The beep sounded. “Raine, are you home? Pick up the phone. Now! Move it!”
She lunged for the phone, weak with relief. “Seth?”
“Christ, Raine, you turned off your fucking cell phone!”
“I'm sorry. I—”
“Never mind. No time. What room are you in?”
“The bedroom,” she faltered. “Why—”
“Does the door lock?”
She was shaking so hard she wanted to fall down. “It has a flimsy little lock, yes,” she said, teeth chattering.
“Shit,” Seth muttered. “Lock it. Get a weapon. A lamp, a bottle, anything. Then get into the bathroom, and lock that, too. Move it.”
“Seth, please, what's happening? Why—”
“Get off the fucking phone and do it!”
The strength of his will leaped through the wires like a blast of hot wind. The receiver flew out of her fingers like a live thing, pulling the cradle off the table, thudding onto the floor in a tangle of wires.
In the silence that followed, she heard it. The swinging door that led from the dining room to the stairs. The squeak was quickly silenced.
There were no more doors to squeak. The stairs were thickly carpeted There would be no more warnings.
She lunged for the door. Bright, metallic panic pumped through her body. Step one, lock bedroom door. Done. Step two, find a weapon. Her umbrella was in the basket in the foyer. Her pepper spray was in her purse, next to the cell phone on the table in the foyer. The knives and the cast-iron skillet were in the kitchen. Bedrooms yielded a pitiful household arsenal.
He was coming up the stairs. This was not her imagination. It was horribly real, and she had to react, right now. She rummaged across her dresser. Hair sticks, too small and fragile. She grabbed the hairspray, the hair dryer. Her eyes fell on the bedside lamp, made of brass. She grabbed it just as the doorknob turned. Rattled.
She dove for the bathroom with her armful of makeshift weapons. The stuff crashed to the floor, the bulb of the lamp exploding across the tiles. She flipped on the light, yanked the door shut, locked it.
Three loud, awful, crunching thuds and she heard the bedroom door splinter and give. She was huddled on the floor next to the toilet, shaking so hard she could barely move, tears of panic streaming down her face. White, all around her, white tiles, white fixtures ... it was the curse of the Corazon, she should never have touched the hellish thing; it was speeding through time and space, coming to get her, and there would be crimson spattered all over the bright white—