She did not kill coldly, however efficiently. She killed in desperation, and with the fervor of a warrior defending the innocent.
For this death, she wore a stark black suit custom-tailored for her in Italy. Money was no problem. She'd stolen half a million before she'd run. Since then, she'd accessed more. She could have lived well, avoided any detection. But she had a mission. In all of her life, she had only one.
And was well on the way to accomplishing it.
The starkness of the suit only made her look more feminine, and it set off the bright red of her hair, the deep green of her eyes. She'd spent an hour that morning subtly changing the contours of her face. A slightly rounder chin, a fuller nose.
She'd added a few pounds to her body, all of them curves.
The changes would be enough, or they wouldn't.
She wasn't afraid to die, but she was terrified of being taken. So she had what she needed in a capsule should she be identified and captured.
The father had allowed her to come in, had granted her audience, had believed her claim of loneliness and regret. He hadn't seen his death in her eyes.
But here, in this prison, they would know what she'd done. If they recognized her, her part was over. But there were others who would step forward if she fell. Too many others.
If there was fear in the back of her throat, her face was calm and serene. She'd learned that, too. Show them nothing. Give them nothing.
Her eyes met the driver's in the rearview mirror. She worked up a smile, nodded.
They paused at the gates for the security scan. Her heart tripped now. If it was a trap, she'd never go out those gates again. Dead or alive.
Then she was inside, winding through the lovely grounds. The trees, the gardens, the sculptures.
The main building loomed in front of her, five stories. Soft, soft red brick bedecked with ivy. Sparkling windows and gleaming columns.
The girls, she thought, and wanted to weep. Young and fresh and lovely, walking alone or in pairs, in groups, to other buildings. For instruction, for recreation.
For tests. For improvements. For evaluation.
She waited for the driver to park, to come around and open her door. Offer a hand. And hers was cool and dry.
She showed no reaction other than a small, polite smile when Evelyn Samuels stepped out of the great front door to greet her.
«Mrs. Frost, welcome to Brookhollow. I'm Evelyn Samuels, the head of the Academy.»
«A pleasure to meet you at last.» She offered a hand. «Your grounds and buildings are even more impressive in person.»
«We'll give you the full tour, but please come inside for tea.»
«That would be lovely.» She passed through the doors, and her stomach curdled. But she glanced around, as a prospective parent might when visiting a school she considered for her daughter.
«I'd hoped you'd bring Angel, so we could get acquainted.»
«Not yet. As you know, my husband has doubts about sending our daughter so far away to school. I prefer coming alone, this time.»
«I have no doubt that between us we can convince him that Angel will not only be happy here, but benefit from a superlative education and community experience. Our great hall.» She gestured. «The plantings were developed and nurtured through our horticultural programs, as are all our gardens. The art you see was created by the students themselves over the years. In this building, on this level, we have our administrative offices, our dining hall, solarium, one of our six libraries, the kitchens and culinary science areas. My day quarters are here, as well. I'd be happy to show you through now, if you like.»
Her mind was screaming to get out, to run, escape, hide. She turned, smiled. «If you don't mind, I'd love that tea.»
«Absolutely. One moment.» She took out a pocket 'link. «Abigail, would you see that tea is set up in my quarters here for Mrs. Frost? Right away.»
As Evelyn guided her, she gestured, explained.
How much the same she was, Deena thought. Starched and handsome, boasting of her school in her cultured voice. Moving efficiently, always efficiently. She wore her hair short and soft now, and in a quiet brown. Her eyes were dark and sharp. The eyes were the same. Ms. Samuels's eyes.
Eva Samuels's eyes.
Deena let the words buzz in her ears. She'd heard all of it before, when she was a prisoner. She saw girls, neat as dolls in their blue and white uniforms, speaking in undertones as was expected in the great hall.
Then she saw herself, so slim, so sweet, coming gracefully down the steps from the east wing. She trembled once—only once was allowed—and deliberately looked away.
She had to pass the child, so close she could smell her skin. She had to hear her voice as she spoke: «Good morning, Ms. Samuels. Good morning, ma'am.»
«Good morning, Diana. How was your cooking class?»
«Very good, thank you. We made soufflés.»
«Excellent. Mrs. Frost is visiting us today. She has a daughter who may join us at Brookhollow.»
She made herself look, made herself look into the deep brown eyes that were her own. Was there calculation there, as there had been in hers? Was there the rage and the determination, bubbling, boiling under that serene surface? Or had they found a way to smother it?
«I'm sure your daughter would love Brookhollow, Mrs. Frost. We all do.»
My daughter , she thought. Oh God. «Thank you, Diana.»
There was a slow, easy smile, and their eyes held one more instant before the child said her good-byes and walked away.
Her heart bounded. They'd known each other. How could they not? How could you look into your own eyes and not see?
As Evelyn led her away, she glanced over her shoulder. So did the child. Their eyes locked again, and there was another smile, a full one, a fierce one.
We'll get out, Deena thought. They won't keep us here.
«Diana is one of our treasures,» Evelyn said. «Bright and questing, Quite athletic, too. While we focus on giving all our students the most well-rounded of educations, we do comprehensive testing and evaluations so we're able to showcase their strengths and main areas of interests.»
Diana, was all she could think with emotions cartwheeling through her. But she said the right things, made the right moves, and was shown into Samuels's quarters.
Students were only admitted to this sanctuary when they were particularly good, or had committed some major infraction. She'd never been through the door.
She'd been very careful to blend.
But she'd been told what to expect, had been given the precise layout and specifications. So she concentrated on it now, on what needed to be done now, and forced all thought of the child away.
The suite was decorated in the school colors—blue and white. White walls, blue fabrics. White floor, blue rugs. Two windows west-one double window south.
It was soundproofed, contained no cameras.
There was security, of course, windows and door. And Samuels wore a wrist unit that held a communicator. There were two 'links, one for the school, one private.
A wall screen, and behind the screen a vault that held files on all students.
Tea was spread on a white table. Blue dishes, white cookies.
She took the chair she was offered, waited until Samuels poured tea.
«Why don't you tell me more about Angel?»
Despite her efforts, she thought of Diana. «She's my heart.»
Evelyn smiled. «Of course. You mentioned she shows artistic abilities.»
«Yes, she enjoys drawing. It gives her great pleasure. I want her happy, more than anything.»
«Naturally. Now—«
«What an interesting necklace.» Now, she thought, do it now, before you sicken. «May I?»
Even as Evelyn glanced down at the pendant, Diana was rising from her chair, leaning forward as if studying the stone. The scalpel was in her hand.