A weapon! You need a weapon!
Anxiously, she looked around the near-dark room with its bed bolted to the floor.
Get your letter opener! Now!
She took one step toward the desk before she remembered that Sister Madeline had taken the letter opener away from her.
The lamp on the night table!
But it, too, was screwed down.
She pressed the switch.
Click.
No great wash of light. Frantically, she hit the switch again. Over and over.
Click! Click! Click! Click!
She looked up and saw him then. A tall man, looming in front of the door to the hallway. It was too dark to see his features but she knew his wicked smile was in place, his eyes glinting with an evil need.
He was Satan Incarnate. And there was no way to escape from him. There never was.
“Please don’t,” she begged, her voice sounding pathetic and weak as she backed up, her legs quivering.
“Please don’t what?”
Don’t touch me…don’t place your fingers anywhere on my body…don’t tell me I’m beautiful…don’t kiss me…
“Leave now,” she insisted. Dear God, was there no weapon, nothing to stop him?
“Leave now or what?”
“Or I’ll scream and call the guards.”
“The guards,” he repeated in that low, amused, nearly hypnotic voice. “Here?” He clucked his tongue as if she were a disobedient child. “You’ve tried that before.”
She knew for certain that her plight was futile. She would submit to him again.
As she always did.
“Did the guards believe you the last time?”
Of course they hadn’t. Why would they? The two scrawny, pimply-faced boys hadn’t hidden the fact they considered her mad. At least that’s what they’d insinuated, though they’d used fancier words…delusional…paranoid…schizophrenic…
Or had they said anything at all? Maybe not. Maybe they’d just stared at her with their pitying, yet hungry, eyes. Hadn’t one of them told her she was sexy? The other one cupping one cheek of her buttocks…or…or had that all been a horrid, vivid nightmare?
Scratch, scratch, scratch. She felt her nails break the skin.
Humiliation washed over her. She inched backward, away from her tormentor. What was happening to her was her own fault. She’d sinned somehow, brought this upon herself. She was the one who was evil. She had instigated God’s wrath. She alone could atone. “Go away,” she whispered again, clawing more frantically at her arm.
“Faith, don’t,” he warned, his voice horrifyingly soothing. “Mutilating yourself won’t change anything. I’m here to help you. You know that.”
Help her? No…no, no, no!
She wanted to crumble onto the floor, to shed her guilt, to get away from the itching.
Fight! an inner voice ordered her. Don’t let him force you into doing things that you know are wrong! You have will. You can’t let him do this to you.
But it was already too late.
Close to her now, he clucked his tongue again and she saw its pointy, wet, pink tip flicking against the back of his teeth.
In a rough whisper, he said, “Uh-oh, Faith, I think you’ve been a naughty girl again.”
“No.” She was whimpering. There it was…that horrid bit of excitement building inside her.
“Oh, Faith, don’t you know it’s a sin to lie?”
She glanced to the wall where the crucifix of Jesus was nailed into the plaster. Did it move? Blinking, she imagined Jesus staring at her, his eyes kind but silently reprimanding in the semidarkness.
No, Faith. That can’t be. Get a grip, for God’s sake.
It’s a painted image, that’s all.
Breathing rapidly, she dragged her gaze from Christ’s tortured face to the fireplace…cold now, devoid of both ashes and the mirror above it, now an empty space, the outline visible against the rosebud wallpaper. They said she broke the mirror in a fit of rage, that she’d cut herself. That her own image had caused her to panic.
But he’d done it, hadn’t he? This devil whose sole intent was to torture her? Hadn’t she witnessed the act? She’d tried to refuse him, and he’d crashed his fist into the looking glass. Mirrored shards sprayed, hitting her, then crashed to the floor like glittery, deadly knives.
That’s what had happened.
Right?
Or not? Now, feeling the blood beneath her nails, she wondered.
What’s happening to me?
She stared at her bloodied hands. Her fingernails, once manicured and polished, were broken, her palms scratched, and farther up, upon her wrists, healed deep gashes. Had she done that to herself? In her mind’s eye she saw her hands wrapped around a shard of glass and the blood dripping from her fingers…
Because you were going to kill him…trying to protect yourself!
She closed her eyes and let out a long, mewling cry. It was true. She didn’t know what to believe any longer. Truth and lies blended, fact and fiction fused, her life, once so ordinary, so predictable, was fragmented. Frayed. At her own hands.
She edged backward, closer to the window, farther from him, from temptation, from sin.
Where was her husband…and her children, what had happened to her girls?
Terror burrowed deep into her soul. Confused and panic-stricken, she blinked rapidly, trying to think. They were safe. They had to be.
Concentrate, Faith. Get hold of yourself! Zoey and Abby are with Jacques. They’re visiting tonight, remember? lt’s your birthday.
Or was that wrong? Was everything a lie? A macabre figment of her imagination?
She took another step backward.
“You’re confused, Faith, but I can help you,” he said quietly, as if nothing had happened between them, as if everything she’d conjured was her imagination, as if he’d never touched her.
Dear Lord, how mad was she?
She spun quickly, her toe catching on the edge of a rug. Pitching forward, she again caught her reflection in the window and this time she saw him rushing forward, felt his hands upon her.
“No!” she cried, falling.
Glass cracked.
Blew apart as her shoulder hit the pane.
The window broke, shattering. Giving way.
With a great twisting metal groan, the wrought-iron grate wrenched free of its bolts.
She screamed and flailed at the air, trying to reach the windowsill, the filigreed barricade that hung from one screw, the bricks, anything! But it was too late. Her body hurtled through the broken panes, pieces of glass and wood clawing at her arms, ripping her nightgown, slicing her bare legs.
In a split second, she knew that it was over. She would feel no more pain.
Closing her eyes, Faith Chastain pitched into the blackness of the hot Louisiana night.
Dear Reader,
Lisa Jackson, Beverly Barton, and I have more in common than the New York Times bestseller list and a passion for spine-chilling suspense fiction. We happen to share one of the most creative editors in the business: John Scognamiglio. It was John’s idea to team us up for this novel, and I wholeheartedly welcomed the chance to collaborate, under his wing, with two of the industry’s foremost romantic-suspense writers. I’m honored to have known Lisa and Beverly for many years. Not only am I a longtime fan of their writing, but I adore them both as down-to-earth, generous, and genuine women…who just happen to be famous authors!
So I had definitely been looking forward to this collaboration, and was particularly inspired when we settled on a class reunion theme, because it rang true to my own life. To this day, I remain close to a tight-knit circle of high school friends back in my hometown, and I could envision myself in these characters’ shoes as they reconnect with each other and their past. In fact, I happen to be facing a milestone class reunion myself this year…but I’m not saying which one!
Living in the New York City area, I could easily relate to Lindsay’s character in particular. I thoroughly enjoyed making her-and my favorite city-come alive within these pages. My loyal readers will recognize some of my trademark elements in her segment, including an unexpected twist and a couple of secondary characters who aren’t quite what they seem to be.