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Fortune
Erica Spindler






Also by Erica Spindler

BLOOD VINES

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

BREAKNECK

LAST KNOWN VICTIM

COPYCAT

KILLER TAKES ALL

SEE JANE DIE

IN SILENCE

DEAD RUN

BONE COLD

ALL FALL DOWN

CAUSE FOR ALARM

SHOCKING PINK




Fortune

Erica

Spindler











www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


The author of over twenty-five books, Erica Spindler is best known for her spine-tingling thrillers. Her novels have been published all over the world, selling over eleven million copies, and critics have dubbed her stories “thrill-packed page-turners, white-knuckle rides and edge-of-your-seat whodunits.”

Erica is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author. In 2002, her novel Bone Cold won the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence.


For three women

it has been my incredible good fortune to call friends:

Jan Hamilton Powell, Terry Richards McGee

and

Karen Young Stone




Acknowledgements


My heartfelt thanks to the following people for helping me bring Fortune to life:

Huge thanks to Roxanne Mouton of Mignon Faget Ltd for walking me through the jewellery-making process, from design concept to finished piece, and for patiently and thoroughly explaining the workings of a jewellery production studio.



Thanks, too, to the incomparable Mignon Faget, for allowing her staff to take time out of their busy day to make my tour possible, and to the staff themselves for answering my questions and putting up with a stranger peering over their shoulders while they worked.



Thanks to my sister, Stacie Spindler, for showing me the “real” Chicago and for her enthusiasm and support.



Big thanks also to the guys at Calvin Klein Camper Sales for letting me roam freely through their trailers; to Linda Weissert for the on-the-spot information about Pittsburgh; and to Drs Leslie and Bill Michaelis for giving me a crash course in veterinary medicine.



And, as always, thanks to my agent, Evan Marshall; my editor Melissa Senate; and the entire MIRA Books staff, particularly Dianne Moggy and Amy Moore-Benson.





Part I Butterflies




Chapter One


Chicago, Illinois,1971

Sunlight spilled through the nursery’s floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window, painting the floor the color of rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Installed in 1909 to herald the first Monarch baby to occupy the Astor Street mansion, the window depicted a hovering angel, golden wings spread, her expression beatific as she guarded the children below.

Since that first Monarch baby, the angel had protected sad few children. One tragedy after another had befallen this family, a family desperate for daughters, one seemingly doomed to watch bitterly as other families grew and multiplied.

Two weeks ago that had changed. Two weeks ago Grace Elizabeth Monarch had been born and come home, to this nursery and its waiting angel, to this desperate family. She had changed everyone’s life forever.

But no one’s more than her mother’s.



Madeline Monarch slipped into the nursery and crossed to the cradle and her sleeping daughter. She gazed down at her, love and a sense of wonder welling inside her. She reached out and stroked her baby’s velvety cheek, and the infant stirred and turned her head toward Madeline’s finger, sucking in her sleep, looking for a nipple.

A lump formed in Madeline’s throat. She was so beautiful, so incredibly…perfect. She still couldn’t quite believe Grace was hers. Madeline bent her head close to her daughter’s and breathed in her baby-soft scent. It filled her head, and she squeezed her eyes shut, nearly drowning in its sweetness.

What had she done to deserve her? Madeline wondered. Why had she been singled out for such a stroke of good fortune? Even Grace’s birth had been like a miracle. She had rocketed into the world, nearly painlessly and at a speed that had taken even Madeline’s veteran obstetrician by surprise. Madeline’s water had broken and less than an hour later there had been Grace, howling and red-faced but unbelievably, incredibly perfect.

Madeline shook her head slightly, unable to fully trust her sudden luck. But how could she? She had never done anything well, or easily, before. No, Madeline was one of those people destined to make mistakes, to choose poorly and to be hurt time and again.

In truth, the moment before the nurse laid Grace in her arms, Madeline hadn’t believed that anything in her life would ever be easy, or painless, or without flaw. She hadn’t believed that she was worthy of true love, of real devotion; she had thought she would go through life reaching for that elusive emotion but always coming back empty-handed.

The next moment had changed all that. Grace had changed it. Madeline loved her daughter almost more than she could bear. And Grace loved her back, the same way. Unconditionally. Completely.

Madeline threaded her fingers through her daughter’s silky dark hair. Grace needed her. Grace loved her. Madeline found that truth to be heady and shattering, but absolutely, positively the best feeling in the whole world. She would do anything, battle anyone or any evil, to protect her daughter.

If necessary, she would give her own life.

Madeline heard a sound at the nursery door and turned. Her six-year-old stepson, Griffen, stood there, his gaze fixed intently on the cradle, his expression strange, at once fascinated and wary, drawn and repelled. She breathed deeply though her nose, fighting back a feeling of resentment at his intrusion. Fighting back the distaste that left her longing for a drink of clean, sweet water.

She scolded herself for both her thoughts and her reaction to him. Griffen needed her, too. She had to remember that.

Yet even as the thought ran through her head, she acknowledged that something about her husband’s son unsettled her, something about him affected her like an icy hand to her back; it had from the first.

It wasn’t his appearance or demeanor. He was an uncommonly beautiful child. Bright, polite, at times even sweet. He didn’t seem to affect anyone else the way he did her. So why, when she looked into his eyes, couldn’t she suppress a shudder?

Madeline knew why. Because she was different; because she saw in a way others didn’t. All her life she had been troubled by uncannily accurate “feelings” and “visions”—about people, about events to come and about ones past. For as long as she could remember, she had been embarrassed by her ability. She had learned to manage the visions by ignoring them. Over time they had become less frequent and less vivid.

No longer. Like everything else in her life, pregnancy and motherhood had changed that. Grace had changed it. Now her sixth sense, if that was even what she should call it, neither rested nor would be ignored, as if the hormones raging through her body had kicked on a switch she didn’t know how to turn off.

And her extra sense warned her that there was something wrong with Griffen Monarch. Something terribly wrong.

Madeline chastised herself. Maybe she was the one with the problem as her husband and Adam Monarch, her father-in-law, insisted; maybe all those hormones were affecting her judgment, her sense of reality and balance.

She swept her gaze over Griffen, guilt pinching at her. His own mother was dead three years now, the victim of an “accidental” overdose of sleeping pills and booze. Madeline knew it couldn’t have been easy for him, growing up with a grandfather obsessed with having a female heir, a grandmother driven to the point of near madness by seven late-term miscarriages and a father who hadn’t the understanding or the patience for the needs of a young child. Then, as if those things hadn’t been enough, she had been introduced into the mix.

And now he had a sibling to deal with, a sibling who had stolen whatever attention and affection this austere household had to offer.

Poor child, Madeline thought, mustering resolve if not warmth. She would try harder. She would be a good stepmother to the boy. She would learn to care for him.

Madeline smiled and motioned him into the room. “Come in, Griffen. But quietly. Grace is sleeping.”

He nodded, and without a word to her, tiptoed into the room. He crossed to stand beside her and gazed silently at his half sister.

Madeline studied him a moment, then returned her gaze to Grace. In the past eighteen months, Madeline had come to understand just how deeply troubled a family she had married into. In fact, she had begun to fear that marrying Pierce Monarch had been another of her mistakes. He was not the man she had thought him to be—he was withdrawn, inflexible and, she had discovered, mean-spirited. So mean-spirited that she had wondered how she could not have seen it before.

Madeline frowned. She wasn’t being truthful with herself. She knew why she hadn’t seen it. She had been blinded by the Monarch name. By their wealth, their status in Chicago. She had been awed by Monarch Design and Retail, the jewelry-design firm started in 1887 by Anna and Marcus Monarch with the money they had inherited from their parents. Within a matter of only a few years, the brother and sister team had created a firm whose works rivaled Tiffany’s in beauty, quality and originality.

Madeline recalled the many times previous to meeting Pierce Monarch that she had wandered through the Michigan Avenue Monarch’s, aching to possess one of the impossibly extravagant, utterly fabulous pieces, a brooch or necklace or ring. Just one piece, she had wished. Any one at all.

Her wish had come true.

Oh, yes, she had been blinded by all that the Monarchs had and were. After all, she was a woman with no family and no pedigree, a woman Pierce had plucked off the sales floor of Marshall Field’s and transported here, to the old stone mansion in the heart of the city’s Gold Coast, to what she had thought of as a dream come true.

But the dream had the qualities of a nightmare.

She shook her head. That was over now. Here was Grace, a savior of sorts for the Monarch clan; already Madeline felt a lightening in the atmosphere of the house, a celebratory mood that affected all, even the household staff.

“Baby Grace is so pretty.”

Startled out of her thoughts, Madeline looked down at the boy, her heart melting at his awed expression. Rather than being jealous of his new sister, he seemed fascinated by her. He seemed to adore her.

How could she think such awful things about her stepson when he looked at Grace that way?

Madeline smiled. “I think so, too.”

“Grandfather Monarch says baby Grace has the gift.”

Madeline’s smile froze. “The gift?” she repeated.

He nodded. “The one the Monarch girls get. The one my great-great-grandfather Marcus saw in his sister and used to make our fortune. That’s why Grace is so special. That’s why we must always keep her close to the family.”

Although only parroting words he had obviously heard many times before, something almost fevered in his expression chilled her. “Grace is special because she is, Griffen. Not because of some…gift. Besides, just because only the girls in the family have been the artists so far doesn’t mean that someday one of the boys won’t be.” She smiled and tapped him on the end of his nose with her index finger. “Maybe you.”

“No.” He frowned and shook his head, looking adult and annoyed with her stupidity. “Grandfather says only the girls. That’s the way it’s always been. It’s why Grace is so important.”

Only the girls. Madeline shuddered and rubbed her arms. “Honey, Grace is just a baby. She might not have this…gift.”

“She has it. Grandfather says so.”

She frowned. “And your grandfather knows everything?”

“He’s the smartest person in the whole world. I’m going to be just like him when I grow up.” Griffen moved his gaze back to Grace. “Can I touch her?”

Madeline hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Only lightly. Like this.” She demonstrated, ever so gently stroking Grace’s silky dark hair.

Griffen watched carefully, then mimicked her actions. After a moment, he drew his hand away. “She’s so soft,” he said, looking up at Madeline in surprise. “How come?”

“Because she’s brand-new.” She nudged the cradle and it swayed. “When she gets a little bigger, I’ll let you hold her.”

Again he mimicked Madeline’s actions, nudging the cradle, making it swing. “How much bigger?”

“A little bigger. Newborns are very delicate. They can be easily hurt.”

For several minutes, they said nothing, just stood side by side, rocking the cradle and gazing at Grace. Then Griffen looked up at Madeline once again. “I’m going to marry her when I grow up.”

“Who, honey?”

“Baby Grace.”

Madeline laughed softly and ruffled his dark hair. “You can’t, sweetheart. She’s your sister.”

Griffen said nothing. One moment became several, then he narrowed his eyes, the intensity in them taking her aback. “I will,” he said softly, fiercely. “I will if I want.”

Madeline’s vision blurred, then cleared. She saw a dark, white forest and blood spilling across a gleaming floor. She heard a silent scream for help, and saw small arms flailing against larger ones.

A squeak of terror slipped past Madeline’s lips. She blinked, and she was once again in her daughter’s sunny nursery, once again staring into her stepson’s cold, angry eyes.

Fear choked her. She fought it off, fought off the premonition and its chilling image. Drawing herself up to her full five-foot height, she frowned at him. “You cannot,” she said sternly, though her voice quivered. “A brother cannot marry his sister. Not ever.”

His face pinched with fury. “I will,” he said again, grabbing the top rail of the cradle. “No matter what you say!”

He pushed as hard as he could. The basket swung wildly, almost capsizing. Madeline cried out and sprang forward, though it was too late. Grace was thrown against the side of the basket, her head against the wooden slats. The infant screamed.

Madeline scooped up her howling daughter and cradled her against her chest, rocking her and cooing, trying desperately to comfort her. Trying just as desperately to comfort herself. She shook so badly she could hardly stand. Grace was all right, she told herself. Just frightened; just a bruise.

It could have been worse. Much worse.

Blood spilling across a gleaming floor. A desperate cry for help.

She lifted her gaze. Griffen had retreated to the doorway and stood there watching her, his expression smug. Self-satisfied.

As she met his eyes, he smiled.

Madeline’s knees gave. She sank to the floor, clutching Grace tightly to her chest. She shook, but not with fear. With the truth.

Griffen meant his sister harm.

Grace would never be safe around him. Never.




Chapter Two


1976

Madeline stood at her bedroom window, heart pounding, mouth dry with fear. She watched Pierce and Adam, engaged in conversation in the driveway below. Both men were dressed for a day of business; they had been standing in the driveway, their cars idling, for just over ten minutes.

Madeline checked her watch again, swore softly, then returned her gaze to her husband and father-in-law. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed the men to finish their discussion and go.

Her silent plea didn’t move them, and she flexed her fingers, frustrated. Anxious. Why had they chosen today for a lengthy chat? Why today, when every minute counted? Every second?

She had everything planned. Adam was leaving for a buying trip; in moments Pierce would head to work; he had a cocktail reception to attend tonight and a racquetball match after that. The housekeeper did the marketing on Wednesdays, it was Nanny’s day off. Grandmother Monarch was quite ill and hardly ever emerged from her suite of rooms. Griffen was in school.

Today was the perfect day to run away.

Her stomach fluttered. Nerves. Disappointment. In herself, in her husband. He refused to see the truth about Griffen, about the boy’s intentions toward Grace. In the five years since the incident in the nursery, Madeline had countless times shared her fears, her premonitions about Griffen, with her husband and father-in-law. They had called her excitable. She was overreacting, they’d said. She was a neurotic, hysterical mother. They had even suggested that she was jealous of the boy.

Jealous! Of Griffen? Of the time he spent with Grace? It was worse than ridiculous. It was insulting.

Without support from the family, she had been forced to watch Griffen’s bizarre attachment to his sister grow. He became alarmingly jealous when she ignored him or chose to play with another child, or even a toy, or pet. He followed Grace; he was possessive of her time, her attention. Madeline had caught him gazing with pure hatred at other children, at Nanny, at her, for heaven’s sake.

But those had been nothing compared to what had come next.

Grace’s favorite toys destroyed, sometimes mutilated. Her kitten bludgeoned to death.

Griffen on top of Grace, holding her down, one hand covering her mouth, the other up her dress.

Even now, months later, the horror of what she had stumbled upon, caused her stomach to turn. He had not been playing a guileless child’s game with his sister. They had not been wrestling, as he had claimed with an innocent, beautiful smile.

Madeline had gone to her husband and her father-in-law; she had told them what she’d seen. She had begged them to believe her, had pleaded with them to trust her. Not only for Grace’s sake, but for Griffen’s, too. The child needed counseling.

Not only had they not believed her, her father-in-law had threatened her. If she didn’t cease this madness, Adam had warned, he would take Grace away from her. She was unbalanced, he had told her. Her delusions about Griffen, about being able to see the future, were unhealthy for the youngster. Any judge would see that.

Adam had struck her then, sharply, across the mouth. The force of the blow had sent her reeling backward, into a wall. Pierce had stood silently by, watching his father, allowing it to happen without even a murmur of protest.

Madeline brought a hand to her mouth, remembering, holding back a sound of pain. Any affection, any last, lingering warmth she had felt for her husband had died in that moment. And in that moment, she had begun hating him. Hating him so much, so ferociously, that she had been able to taste the emotion.

It had tasted like acid. It had eaten at her like acid.

It still did.

All these months, she had controlled her feelings. Because she’d known she couldn’t afford another of her “mistakes,” because she’d understood that this time it was Grace’s life at stake. Grace’s well-being.

With the Monarch power, money and connections, Adam could make good his threat to take Grace away from her. He could do it without even breaking a sweat.

Then her daughter would have no one to protect her. No one who saw the truth about Griffen.

So Madeline had begun the elaborate charade—pretending to be smitten with her husband, acting the part of devoted, adoring wife, the part of the perfect Monarch daughter-in-law. She had claimed to both men that she’d had a sort of epiphany, telling them that they had been right—she had been overreacting about Griffen.

She didn’t know what had gotten into her, she’d told them. She didn’t know why she had been so excitable. She had told them she was sorry, that she was embarrassed by her behavior.

Pierce had fallen for it right away; Adam had taken longer.

She had begun planning her and Grace’s escape.

Pierce looked up suddenly, catching her staring at him. He narrowed his eyes—with suspicion, with realization. Her heart stopped, then started again, thundering in her chest until she had to fight to catch her breath. He knew, she thought, completely panicked. Dear God…he had found her out.

What did she do now?

Madeline fought her panic. He didn’t know. He couldn’t. He didn’t even suspect. She had been very careful. That morning, as a bit of insurance, she’d even submitted to his hands and mouth, she had submitted to his every demand, no matter how abhorrent to her. She had moaned and writhed and sighed, knowing that he would go off to work content and cocky. Knowing that he wouldn’t give her another thought all day. All the while she had wanted to wretch; her skin had crawled at his touch.

But she would do anything to protect her daughter. Anything. This plan had to work. It had to.

Madeline forced an adoring smile and waved. Then for good measure, she blew him a kiss. He smiled, the curving of his lips confident to the point of arrogance, then returned to his conversation.

She backed away from the window, relief flooding her. He didn’t know. Neither did Adam. She and Grace were safe.

For now.

Madeline spun around, thinking of the past months. She had lived in fear, she had spent every waking moment walking a tightrope between acting as if nothing was wrong and protecting Grace, between appearing unconcerned about Griffen and being too terrified even to sleep, lest he use that opportunity to sneak into Grace’s room and violate her.

Living that way had taken its toll. She was tired and on edge. She had lost weight, so much that people had begun to comment. There had been times, as she paced the floor during the middle of the night, that she had wondered if she was crazy. If she was delusional, as Pierce had said.

But those times were few; they didn’t last long. She would recall Griffen’s expression when he looked at Grace, would recall the coldness of his eyes, the cunning of his smile, and she would know she wasn’t crazy.

Everyone else was blind.

Madeline crossed to the bed, bent and peered underneath—her suitcases were there, where she had left them, waiting. Hers was packed, Grace’s empty. As soon as Pierce was gone, she would remedy that.

Madeline stood, glanced around the room, mentally ticking off her few options, reassessing her decision. She had no family to go to and had lost touch with all her old friends. Even her once–best friend, Susan, who she had been so close to that she had believed them soul mates, had slipped out of her life. She had no nest egg to fall back on and no means to support her and Grace. Pierce had seen to it that she had no financial independence; everything she had, Pierce either gave her or she signed for.

Adam’s sister, Dorothy, was sympathetic, but only to a point. Dorothy’s allegiance would always be first and foremost to the Monarch family and the family business. And Dorothy, like the others, was obsessed with the notion that Grace had the gift, obsessed with the belief that Grace would one day succeed her as the artistic genius behind Monarch Design.

Having no other option, Madeline had pawned her engagement ring—Pierce thought she had taken it in for cleaning—and used the money to buy a car. A late-model Chevrolet, a junker compared to the Mercedes sedan she usually drove. But it had low mileage and the woman from whom she’d bought it had sworn it was absolutely dependable.

Madeline had parked it a dozen blocks away, in a transitional neighborhood where it wouldn’t scream that it didn’t belong. Everything was in place.

Madeline checked her watch, then twisted her fingers together. Dammit, when were they going to leave? Every moment counted. Because every moment meant another moment’s head start before Pierce and Adam realized what she had done.

As if in answer to her silent plea, Madeline heard the slam of car doors. She raced to the window in time to see Adam and Pierce drive off.

Finally! Heart in her throat, she flew to the door, into the hall and down the stairs. At the foyer she stopped, forcing herself to appear calm on the off chance someone was about. She made her way to the study, closing and locking the door behind her.

She leaned against the door, letting out a breath she hadn’t even realized she held. She drew another. Across the room hung a small, exquisitely rendered landscape. Behind it, a wall safe.

She stared at the painting, working up her courage. For four months she had used every excuse to be in here when Pierce opened the safe; she had even used an insatiable need for sex, all in an attempt to learn the combination. She had watched, she had listened and counted and prayed.

And she had learned it, number by excruciating number. Or she thought she had.

Dear God, please let me have the right numbers. Don’t let me be wrong.

Madeline crossed to the painting. She swung it away from the wall. Her hands shook. They were clammy, slick with sweat. She spun the wheel to the first number, then the next and next. She grasped the handle and pulled.

It didn’t open.

She almost cried out in disappointment, physically biting back the sound. Without money, she couldn’t go as far as the corner. Without money, there was no way she could get Grace away from here, no way she could hide and protect her.

Stay calm, Madeline. Take a deep breath and try again.

She did.

The safe opened.

Light-headed with fear and relief, she reached inside. She moved aside a black velvet pouch emblazoned with Monarch’s “M” logo, counted out five thousand dollars, enough, she thought, to get her and Grace far from here and settled, until she could find a job.

She stuffed the bills into one of her cardigan’s deep pockets, then moved the pouch back to its original position and started to close the safe door. Her gaze landed on that black velvet bag.

What was in it?

On impulse, she opened the bag and dipped her hand inside—and pulled out a fistful of sparkling, fiery gems. Diamonds, rubies and sapphires. She caught her breath, stunned. By their beauty. By their heat. For even though they were cold against her palm, their fire made them hot.

What were they doing here? she wondered, selecting a particularly large, brilliant stone and holding it up to the light. Why weren’t they in the store’s vault, where they belonged? There they would be both safer and fully insured. It didn’t make sense. Adam and Pierce were nothing if not shrewd businessmen.

Madeline frowned at her own thoughts. She didn’t have time for this; what Pierce and Adam did with the store’s property wasn’t her concern. It never had been. She dropped the stones back into the bag, then shoved the bag back into the safe.

Take them.

The thought raced into her head, and with it a feeling, sharp, overwhelming—that she would need them, that Grace would need them. Madeline shook her head, denying the thought, the feeling. She was overwrought and anxious; she wasn’t thinking clearly. If she took the stones, Pierce and Adam would be that much more determined to find her. They would have that much more to hold against her in a court of law.

She swung the safe shut, made sure it was locked, turned and started out of the study. Halfway across the room she stopped, frozen, blinded by an indistinct but chilling image. She saw snow. And blood spilling across a gleaming floor. She saw the twinkle of gems and the glitter of ice. Her mouth went dry; sweat beaded on her upper lip. She saw dark water sucking someone down, swallowing them whole.

She began to shake. Take the gems. Take them now.

With a cry of pure terror, Madeline spun back to the safe, reopened it and grabbed the pouch. She slammed the safe shut and as quickly as she could, twisted the dial, then eased the painting into place.

She couldn’t turn back now.

Clutching the pouch to her chest, she ran from the library. Hysteria tugged at her; she fought it. She had to stay calm if she was to protect Grace. Today she was taking the first step, but every day after would prove as much of a challenge.

No one was about. Madeline supposed the housekeeper had already left. She made her way up to the nursery. She crossed to Grace’s bed.

“Baby,” she murmured, shaking her daughter gently, “sweetheart, it’s time to get up.”

Grace whimpered and rolled over, crushing her favorite teddy bear to her chest. Madeline shook her again. “Come on, sweetie, we’re going on a trip. Time to wake up.”

Grace yawned. She cracked open her eyes. Her lips curved up. “Hi, Mommy.”

Madeline’s heart turned over. She never got enough of hearing her daughter call her that, never got enough of that sweet, baby voice or the way the little girl looked at her—as if Madeline were the most important, the best, person in the world.

She loved Grace so much it terrified her. She prayed she was doing the right thing.

“I need you to dress, baby. Your clothes are right over there.” She pointed to the rocking chair, where she had laid out her daughter’s garments. She saw that her hand shook. “Can you do that for me?”

Grace nodded and sat up; she stuck her thumb in her mouth—a habit Pierce couldn’t abide—and eyed her mother. “Mommy’s upset.”

“No, honey. Just rushed.”

“Where are we going?”

Madeline hesitated. What could she tell her daughter? That she planned to drive until she could drive no more, her only goal to put as much distance between them and the Monarchs as possible? Hardly. Instead, she tapped Grace on the nose. “It’s going to be so much fun. Just you and me.”

“Not Daddy?”

Madeline shook her head. “He has to work.”

Grace accepted her explanation without question or murmur. The truth was, Grace and Pierce weren’t especially close; he was always busy, and when he did have time for Grace he was critical—she was too loud, too messy, she didn’t pronounce words correctly. He hardly ever hugged or kissed her; he always spoke of her in terms not of love but of value. To the family. To the business.

“Not Grandfather or Grandmother?”

Madeline shook her head. “Nope.”

Grace curved her arms around herself. “Not brother?”

“Not brother,” Madeline answered sharply. Never brother. “We’re going to have such fun, just you and me.”

“Okay.” Yawning again, Grace climbed out of bed. “Clothes over there?”

“That’s right, honey.” Madeline went to the nursery door, stopping when she reached it. “You get dressed. I’ll be right back, then I’ll help with your socks and shoes.”

“Thanks, Mommy.”

Madeline squatted and held out her arms. “I think I need a hug.”

Grace trotted over. She wrapped her chubby little arms around Madeline’s neck and squeezed. Madeline hugged her back, hard.

“I love you, sweetheart. More than anything. I always will.”

“Me, too. More than anything.”

Madeline kissed her, then stood. “I’ll be right back. Get dressed.”

Madeline ducked into the hall, glancing at her watch again as she did. Time was slipping by. Too much time. She had to put as much distance between her and this family as she could, as fast as she could. When Pierce and Adam realized what she had done, they would use their every resource to find her.

She ran to her and Pierce’s bedroom. There, she raced across to the bed and, getting down on her hands and knees, yanked the suitcases out from under. With trembling fingers she unlocked hers, looked it over to make sure nothing had been moved, then tucked the pouch of gems inside. That done, she snapped the case shut, stood and bent for the bags.

Pierce knew.

The thought came to her suddenly, with it an overwhelming feeling of dread. A sense of foreboding. She looked over her shoulder, half expecting to see him standing behind her, the expression in his eyes murderous.

The doorway was empty.

Even so, a shudder moved up her spine. He knew. Dear Jesus, he knew.

But how could he? She shook her head. If he did, he would have disturbed the contents of her suitcase. He would have confronted her.

She had to get a grip, she told herself, hoisting up the bags. She had to keep her wits about her—for Grace’s sake. And her own. If Pierce caught her, she didn’t know what he might do.

He might even kill her.

Madeline took a deep, calming breath. Twenty minutes from now she and Grace would be on the road, and on their way to starting a new life, one free of this unhappy, twisted family. Everything was going according to plan.

After peeking into the hall to make sure no one was about, she returned to the nursery. Grace was dawdling, having gotten distracted in the bathroom.

“Mommy, I brushed my teeth really good. For a long time, every tooth.”

Madeline took another deep breath. Losing her cool with her daughter would not hurry her. “Good girl,” she said with elaborate calm. “Come on now, we have to hurry.”

Grace trotted back into the room. “Why?”

Madeline held out Grace’s jumper. “Why what?”

“Why do we have to hurry?”

“Because we do.” Madeline’s voice rose; she heard the edge of hysteria in it. She fought it back and smiled at her daughter. “I’ll help you dress.”

She did and within minutes Grace was ready to go. Madeline sat her on the rug next to the packed suitcase, handed her her favorite toy, then started filling Grace’s suitcase, throwing in clothes and toiletries and toys, only the essentials and a few of Grace’s favorites.

A knock sounded at the nursery door. Madeline swung toward it, heart thundering. The knock came again.

“Mrs. Monarch? I’m leaving for the market, is there anything special you need?”

The housekeeper. She hadn’t left yet.

As if reading her mind, the woman said, “I got hung up on the phone with the plumber. They’re sending someone by this afternoon. Is there anything you need?”

Madeline struggled to find her voice. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Mrs. Monarch? Are you all right?”

Madeline heard the question, the concern in the other woman’s voice. Panic pumped through her; if she didn’t answer, the housekeeper would come into the nursery.

“I…I’m fine, Alice. And no, there’s nothing I need. You…you go on, we’re just fine.”

“All right, Mrs. Monarch. Oh, Mr. Monarch’s office called, looking for him. Apparently, he forgot something and is on his way home.”

Pierce? On his way home?

Madeline struggled to breathe evenly. She thanked the woman, reminded her that she and Grace would be gone to the zoo all afternoon, then waited several moments to make sure the housekeeper had left before she jumped into action.

How long? she wondered, completely panicked. How long until Pierce walked through that door? She turned back to Grace’s suitcase and did a quick inventory. She would just have to leave the rest; they would have to make do. There was no time. No time.

“Mommy!” Grace squealed with delight. “Look!”

Madeline swung around in time to see Grace emptying the pouch of gems into her lap.

With a cry, Madeline leaped across to her daughter. “No! Bad girl!” She snatched the pouch from Grace’s hands. The jewels flew, scattering across the wooden floor.

For one moment, Grace stared blankly at her, as if in shock. Then she burst into tears.

Madeline hardly ever raised her voice with Grace. She could count on one hand the times she had yelled at her.

“I’m sorry, honey. Daddy wanted us to have the pretty stones for our trip. But they’re very special, we mustn’t play with them.” She hugged her daughter. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Come, help me pick them up. Can you do that?”

Still whimpering, Grace nodded and together they retrieved the stones, put them back into the pouch, the pouch into the suitcase, Madeline painfully aware of each passing moment. She snapped the case shut, locked it this time, then did the same to Grace’s. “Come on, sweetie, time to go.”

The nursery door opened. Madeline swung toward it and froze. Not Pierce on his way home, she realized. The other Mr. Monarch. Worse, much worse.

Adam took in the scene before him, realization crossing his features. His face went from passive to enraged. “Going somewhere, Madeline, dear? On some sort of a trip?”

Madeline wetted her lips. “This isn’t what it looks like. It’s—”

“Going on a trip,” Grace chirped up, happily playing with her baby doll. “Daddy can’t come. He has to work.”

“You lying, conniving bitch.” Adam took a step toward her, his expression murderous. “So this is what you’ve been up to. This is why you’ve been such a perfect little wife. So agreeable, so helpful. You’ve been planning to steal my granddaughter.”

Madeline took a step back, heart thundering. “She’s my daughter, Adam. Mine.”

“Pretty stones,” Grace said. “Daddy sent pretty stones for our trip.”

Adam looked at Grace, drawing his eyebrows together in question, then back at Madeline. “You’re not taking her anywhere.”

“You can’t stop me.” Madeline jerked her chin up and stiffened her shoulders. “I have to protect her. I’ve tried to tell you about Griffen, I’ve tried to make you—”

“Griffen’s her brother!” Adam’s face mottled with rage. “He’s my grandson. A Monarch, for Christ’s sake!”

“But he’s unbalanced!” she cried. “He’s dangerous! You have to see it! You have to believe—”

“Believe what?” he demanded. “The delusional ravings of a woman who believes she can see the future? Please.”

“I told you what I walked in on! I didn’t imagine that. He was holding her down, he had his hand—”

“Shut up!” he shouted, nearly purple with rage. “You’re the one who’s unbalanced. You’re the one who needs help.” He advanced on her, flexing his fingers. “Let’s get this straight. I don’t give a fuck if you leave, you crazy bitch, but you’re not taking my granddaughter.”

“I have to protect her. You can’t stop me.”

“I can. And I will. She belongs here, she belongs to Monarch’s.”

“She’s not property!” Madeline cried, putting herself between Adam and Grace. “She doesn’t belong to the family business. For God’s sake, she’s a person!”

He shook his head, calm suddenly, his eyes burning with a fanatical light. “She has the gift, Madeline. You know I can’t let her go. You know I won’t.”

Madeline took a step backward, frightened. “Adam,” she said, trying to reason with him, “be realistic. How do you know she has the gift? She’s just five years old. How can you be so certain—”

Because he was crazy, she realized. Obsessed with Monarch’s. Obsessed with the notion that a “gift” was passed from one generation of Monarch daughters to the next. Twisted by the belief that without Grace, without the one with the gift, Monarch’s would crumble.

Dear God, he was as disturbed as Griffen.

She pushed past him, intent on grabbing Grace and running; he caught her arm and spun her back toward him, his expression contorted with rage and hatred. “You’re not going anywhere, Madeline.”

She yanked free of his grasp. “The hell we’re not. You’ll hear from my lawye—”

Adam struck her. His fist connected with her cheek; stars exploded in her head. With a cry of pain, she stumbled backward. She hit the edge of the dresser, and the Mother Goose lamp crashed to the floor.

“Mommy!”

Adam snatched Grace up and started for the nursery door. She began to howl and kick. “Mommy! I want my mommy!”

Madeline dragged herself to her feet, though her head felt as if it might explode with the movement. “You’re not taking my daughter from me!” She launched herself at Adam’s back, clawing at him, digging her fingernails into the side of his neck.

With a grunt of pain, he loosened his grip on Grace. She dropped to the floor. Adam swung around and struck her again. Madeline flew backward, hitting the side of the bed, falling across it. Even as she struggled to sit up, she saw him advancing on her.

He meant to kill her.

With a cry, she struggled to her feet. He knocked her back again; then fell on top of her, closing his hands around her neck. “You demented bitch. Did you really think you could get away with this? Did you really think you could take our girl away from us?”

Madeline clawed at his hands, trying to free herself. She twisted and turned and kicked; he was too strong. She heard Grace’s hysterical sobbing and her father-in-law’s grunts of exertion. She heard her own silent pleas for help.

Her lungs burned; the edges of her vision dimmed. Above her the beatific face of the stained-glass angel gazed down at her. The angel that guarded the children. The angel that had been unable to guard her child.

Madeline flailed her arms. Her right hand connected with the cut-glass vase on the nightstand by the bed. The leadedglass vase that had been a baby gift from a family friend. The one she kept filled with pink tea roses. She closed her fingers around it and swung. It connected with the side of Adam’s head. He grunted with pain and eased the grip on her neck.

Oxygen rushed into her lungs; they burned and she gasped for air. She swung the vase again. This time when it connected she heard a sickening crack. Blood flew. Grace screamed.

Adam got to his feet. Red spilled down the side of his face and across his white dress shirt. He brought a hand to the side of his head, meeting Madeline’s eyes, his expression disbelieving. Then, as if in slow motion, he fell backward, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. Blood splattered Grace, who was still screaming, one piercing shriek after another, like a burglar alarm gone berserk.

Madeline stumbled to her feet and across to Adam. He lay completely still, face deathly white, blood pooling around his head, matting his dark hair. She had killed him. Dear God, she had killed Adam Monarch.

She reached out to him, intent on checking his pulse, then stopped, realization hitting her with the force of a blow. Her vision, the one from the library earlier and the one from five years before. Blood spilling across a gleaming floor. Madeline brought her hands to her mouth. Glittering ice and freezing water, a body being sucked down.

It wasn’t over.

With a cry, she snatched her hand back. She had to go, now; before someone discovered what she had done. Before Grace was taken away from her.

Madeline scooped up her daughter, grabbed the suitcases and ran.



Part II The Traveling Show




Chapter Three


Lancaster County, Pennsylvania,1983

The countryside gently rolled. It was lush and green and fertile. Nineteenth-century farmhouses nestled amidst those rolling hills; corn silos and windmills dotted the landscape, horse-drawn buggies the roads.

It was picturesque. Quaint and beautiful. Every day tourists flocked to Lancaster County to soak up the atmosphere and to relive—if only for an hour or two—the ways of an earlier century.

Seventeen-year-old Chance McCord had experienced all of living in the nineteenth century that he could stand. Quaint and picturesque made him want to puke. He feared if he spent one more day in this all-for-one, one-for-all, plain-ways hell, he would go completely, fucking out of his mind.

Chance strode across his sparsely furnished bedroom to the open window, stopping before it and gazing out at the evening. He wanted to wear his blue jeans. He wanted to listen to rock’n’roll and watch TV. He wanted to hang out with his friends—hell, or anyone else who thought and felt as he did. Dear God, he even longed for school. The Amish didn’t believe in schooling for children his age. By sixteen, Amish children were fulfilling their duty to the family and community by working on the farm. He had been fulfilling his duty for a year now; damn but he hated cows.

Chance braced his hands on the windowsill and breathed in the mild, evening air. A year ago he wouldn’t have believed it possible to long for the big, rambling high school in north L.A. where he had always thought of himself as a prisoner. He wouldn’t have believed it possible to wish to be sitting in first-period English with old man Waterson droning on about some poet who had died long before the birth of the electric guitar.

Now, Chance knew what it was to be a prisoner.

If he didn’t escape, he would shrivel up and die.

It wasn’t that his aunt Rebecca—his mother’s sister—or her husband, Jacob, were bad people. Quite the contrary, they were good ones—to a fault. They had taken him in when his mother had died and his wealthy father—if Chance could even call him that, he had never even acknowledged his existence—had refused to take him. They had made room for him in this house, though with four children of their own it hadn’t been easy.

And it wasn’t that they hated him, though it often felt like it. They simply had their beliefs, and those beliefs were ironclad. They expected him to believe, and live, as they did.

He couldn’t do that. It wasn’t in him.

Chance began to pace, feeling as he often did, like a caged animal. They had buggied to town today, he, Uncle Jacob and Samuel, his aunt and uncle’s ten-year-old son. There, Chance had seen it. A traveling carnival, complete with a Ferris wheel and a fortune-teller. A traveling show, the kind whose troupe went from town to town, the kind of show Chance didn’t even know existed anymore.

An opportunity, he’d thought. Maybe.

While Jacob had been completing his business, he had looked it over, taking Samuel with him. When Jacob found them, he had been furious, though he hadn’t raised his voice. The things he had said to Chance had hurt, though Chance had hidden it; the things his uncle had left unsaid, the way he had looked at Chance, had cut him to his core.

Later, Chance had heard his aunt and her husband arguing.

Chance crossed to the window, looking toward town. In the distance he could see the faint glow of the carnival’s neon light. Frustration balled in the pit of his gut. Regret with it. He had brought tension to this house, had brought friction—between his aunt and her husband, between the children and their parents, the family and a community that didn’t like or trust outsiders.

He was an outsider here.

He always would be.

Chance rested his forehead against the windowsill, thinking of freedom, thinking of traveling from town to town with no one telling him what he could think or how he should act.

A traveling show. An opportunity. A way out.

His heart began to pound. He didn’t fit in here, he never would. The feeling wasn’t a new one; he had never fit in, had always been an outsider, even with his mother in L.A. But he had big plans, dreams that he intended to make reality.

His mother. As always when he thought of her, her image filled his head. He pictured her pretty face and smile, remembered the faraway look she so often had, recalled her habit of staring into the distance just over his right shoulder. With her image came a tightness to his chest, a pinch, an ache. Chance fisted his fingers against the smooth, cool glass. Connie McCord had longed for so many things, things life had kept beyond her reach, things death had denied her ever obtaining.

They wouldn’t remain beyond his reach. He knew what he wanted, what he needed and deserved. He would grab it with both hands. He would not end up like his mother, always disappointed and unfulfilled, always on the outside looking in.

He would not die without having obtained all that he desired.

Chance swung away from the window. He would make his dreams a reality. Starting now, this moment. Somehow, he would find a way.

A traveling show. The chance, the opportunity he had been waiting for.

The time had come to go.




Chapter Four


Marvel’s Carnival was a seedy, tired affair, one of the last of its kind, a dying breed. Forty years prior, before the proliferation of high-tech, big-bucks amusement worlds like Six Flags, Marvel’s had been in its heyday. Part amusement park, part circus, the carnival and its troupe traveled from town to town during the summer months, staying a few days or a week, then moving on.

These days, a carnival like Marvel’s was in less demand than during that glorious heyday. Now the troupe only traveled to small rural areas. Places with little access to big, fancy theme parks, places where the kids—young and old—were hungry for something to do, some way to fill the long summer nights.

Marvel’s gave them plenty to do, plenty to gawk at. The fire-eaters and snake charmers were a big favorite with the preadolescent crowd, the teenagers gravitated toward the rides and games of chance, the adults to the food, acrobats and contortionists. Everybody loved the fortune-teller, especially this summer, as the show’s owner had managed to snare a really good one.

Claire Dearborn—known as Madame Claire on the circuit—was the real thing, the genuine article, not a scam artist or slick fraud like most of the other sideshow acts. If Abner Marvel had had any doubts about that when he’d hired her, those doubts had quickly disappeared as word spread and the towners began lining up to have their fortunes told.

Abner Marvel, one of the last of the born-and-bred showmen, had quickly given the woman and her daughter their own trailer and raised the cost of a five-minute reading from two dollars to five. Additional time could be purchased, of course. At a premium.

In twelve-year-old Skye Dearborn’s opinion, her mother could make a lot more money with her ability than she did working for this third-rate, traveling fleabag, but the one time Skye had suggested it her mother had said she liked traveling with Marvel’s and that money didn’t buy happiness.

Skye supposed she liked the traveling, too, but she didn’t follow the bit about money and happiness. From what she had seen of life, rich folks seemed a whole lot happier than poor ones.

Skye ducked out of her and her mother’s trailer and headed toward the midway. Living accommodations for the entire troupe, the trailers were positioned on the northernmost edge of the lot, as far as possible from the activity of the show. Even so, she could hear the carousel’s calliope and the screams of delighted terror coming from the Screamin’ Demon, the show’s rather modest roller coaster.

She and her mother were traveling with Marvel’s for the summer; come fall they would settle somewhere, some little town where her mom would get a job at the local diner or drugstore and where she would go to school. Skye made a face. School sucked. She hated everything about it except art class, and some of the schools she had gone to had been so small and backward they didn’t even have art. Then it totally sucked.

In truth, whether the school had art or not never really mattered, �cause she and her mom never stayed in any one place too long. Just about the time she had gotten her reputation as a smart-mouthed troublemaker good and fixed, they would move on. Skye could count more than a dozen schools she’d attended in the last couple of years.

She and her mom had been traveling this way for as long as she could remember. Her mom said they were nomadic adventurers; Skye kind of thought they might be criminals or something. All the moving around, to her mind, just didn’t add up.

Skye frowned and kicked at a discarded Coke can. Still half-full, the beverage spewed out, splattering her shorts and T-shirt. Making a sound of annoyance, she swiped at the drops of cola. If only her mom would tell her the truth. The few times Skye had confronted her, her mother had denied keeping anything from her; she had denied having any secrets.

She was lying; Skye was certain of it. She had the feeling that her mother was running, that she was constantly looking over her shoulder. That she was always afraid.

And that made Skye afraid, too. Her mother was all she had.

She climbed over the rope barricade that circled the perimeter of the show and separated what was called the front yard from the back yard, the towners from the troupers. Up ahead lay the midway, with its bright lights and raucous laughter, its frenetic mix of music, games and tasty treats. The rides flanked either side of the midway; the sideshow tents—including her mother’s—were located at its far end.

Skye didn’t have a set job with the troupe, but helped out as she was needed, filling in for troupers who were ill, helping set up and tear down, but mostly, she worked as a sort of shill on the midway, drumming up business for the various games of chance.

A “sort of” shill because Marvel’s was a one-hundred-percent Sunday-school show—no overcharging or shortchanging customers, no rigged games. Skye had played each game about a million times; she knew the trick to winning at each, so she made it look easy. So easy, in fact, that as she walked away, arms full of prizes, folks lined up, eager to win one of the big stuffed toys.

As Skye stepped onto the midway, the scent of popcorn hit her in a mouthwatering wave. Nearly 8:00 p.m., the carnival was in full swing, the midway packed, even for a Saturday night. Skye moved her gaze up, then down, the aisle of game booths, noting that most were busy.

All except the quarter toss.

She ambled over, stopped at the booth as if sizing it up, then dug in her pocket for a quarter. “What do I do?” she asked Danny, an obnoxious zit-face of a boy who seemed to have made tormenting her his life’s work. But still, this was business. She had to get along with him for the good of the troupe.

He sidled over. “See those platforms there?” He pointed at the three levels of platforms topped with round pieces of thick, slick glass. She nodded. “Just toss your quarter. If it lands and sticks to the low platform, you win a small prize, the middle platform a medium prize, and the high platform a grand prize.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s it.” He grinned slyly. “Easy as pie.”

Skye tried, deliberately missing twice for the sake of realism. The third time, she expertly flipped the coin so it would land flat on one of the glass tops.

It did, and she clapped her hands together. “I won!” she squealed. She swung, as with excited, disbelieving delight, toward the people in the aisle behind her. “I won! I can’t believe it!”

“Here you go, little lady,” Danny said, and handed her a stuffed parrot. “You wouldn’t like to give it another try, would you? And go for one of the grand prizes. You seem awful good at this.”

“Sure.” Skye grinned. “I’ll try again.”

A handful of quarters later, she walked away from the now-crowded booth, her arms loaded with stuffed toys. She went to the supply wagon to dump them—she never kept what she won, that wouldn’t be right—then skipped back to the midway for some more fun.

A commotion at the concession stand caught her attention. A teenager stood at the front of the line, clutching his stomach and holding out a half-eaten hot dog.

“This made me sick,” the boy said loudly. “I think it’s bad or something.”

Skye inched closer to get a better look. She saw Marta, a big woman with steel gray hair and a personality to match, eye the boy suspiciously. “What do you mean, it made you sick?”

“Sick. You know.” He groaned and clutched his stomach, then doubled over as with cramps. The people behind him in line stirred and moved backward. He raised his voice a bit more. “Isn’t it against the law to serve rotten meat?”

“We don’t serve rotten meat,” Marta said, her voice shrill. “We’re very careful.”

“Smell it.” He held it out. “It smells rotten.”

Marta leaned away, her face twisting with distaste. “I don’t want to smell it. If it’s a problem, I’ll give you back your money. Or another hot dog.”

“Another hot—” He moaned. “I want to talk to the owner or manager or something. This isn’t right.” He doubled over, groaning. “If I die, it’s going to be your fault.”

The line stirred again; several people turned and walked away. Someone said something nasty about carnivals. Skye frowned, studying the boy. He looked kind of weird. His jeans were strictly high-water, his hair cropped unevenly, as if done by hand with a pair of kitchen shears. The front of his T-shirt was emblazoned with the name of a rock group that hadn’t been popular in a year, and instead of tennis shoes, he wore some kind of funky work boots.

Weird, she thought again. This kid wasn’t for real. He was trying to scam Marta, no doubt about it. She had seen a hint of a smile tug at his mouth as he bent over the last time. Skye cocked her head, indignant. But why? What did he hope to gain?

Money, no doubt. She folded her arms across her chest, disgusted. The lengths some people would go to for money.

“Abner Marvel’s the owner,” Marta was saying, obviously anxious to get rid of him before he tossed his cookies. “You can probably find him at the little top. That’s the sideshow tent.” The woman pointed. “At the end of the midway. If he’s not there, try the main ticket booth.”

Still clutching both his stomach and the hot dog, the kid turned and hobbled in the direction she’d indicated.

Skye narrowed her eyes. She made it her business to know everything that went on at Marvel’s. She knew what all the members of the troupe were up to, including who was doing what and with whom. A person couldn’t burp on the lot without her finding out about it.

She meant to get to the bottom of this, too. Nobody was going to pull a fast one on Marvel’s, not if she had anything to say about it.

She started after him, keeping him in sight but keeping her distance, too. After he had gone some distance, he straightened, glanced back at Marta and the concession stand, then smiled. A moment later, he tossed the hot dog into the trash can and started walking again—this time both upright and quickly.

Skye made a sound of triumph. She knew it, the creep was up to something.

“Hey! Brat-face!”

Skye stopped and glared over her shoulder at Rick, the kid who ran the shooting gallery, a particularly odious creature. When she and her mother had first joined Marvel’s, he and a couple of his equally gross friends had tried to scare her by locking her in the fun house after closing. Instead of scaring her, he’d made her mad. When one of the roustabouts discovered her and let her out, she’d found Rick and popped him square in the nose, bloodying it. He had never forgiven her for that. But he’d never tried to scare her again, either.

She propped her fists on her hips. “What do you want?”

“I gotta take a break.”

“So take it. I’m busy.”

“Marvel sent Benny to cover the coaster for a while. If I don’t get to the john, I’m going to piss on one of the customers. Get over here.”

Skye looked at the mystery kid’s retreating back, then at Rick. She sniffed. “Do you always have to be so gross? You’re disgusting. Find somebody else.”

“If you don’t get your ass over here, I’m gonna beat the shit out of you.”

“Yeah, right. I’m so scared.” She cocked her chin up. “Pretty clever, the way you sneaked off the lot last night to meet that girl. Hardly anybody saw you. Except me. What do you think Marvel would say about that?”

His face turned beet red. He glanced at her, and shoved his hands in the back pockets of his blue jeans. “You’re such a little twit. I wish you’d fall off the face of the planet.”

“And you’re a brainless butthead.”

“You’re just jealous �cause no boy’s ever going to want to sneak out to meet you. You’re probably a queer, you act more like a boy than a girl.”

For a moment, Skye couldn’t find her breath. Her eyes burned and her chest ached. Horrified, she struggled for a comeback, struggled to keep Rick from seeing how much his comment hurt.

She tipped her chin up again, as much for show as to keep it from wobbling. Why should she care if Rick thought she was ugly and unlovable? So what if he thought she was a…queer. He was gross and stupid, and she hated him.

“You better watch it,” she said, “or I’ll get my mom to put a curse on you.”

Rick snorted with amusement, but only after a moment’s telling hesitation. Showmen were notoriously superstitious. They believed in bad luck and gris-gris and witches. And the truth was, her mother’s ability scared them silly. They thought that, somehow, if Madame Claire could see their future—which she could—she could also change it. For the worse.

Because of that, they kept as far away from Madame Claire as possible.

Skye grinned. Silly, superstitious delinquents. It didn’t work that way, of course. But if they wanted to believe it did, that suited Skye just fine. Her mother wasn’t interested in being one of them, and Skye liked being able to yank their chains every once in a while. Sometimes a girl needed a little threat to hang over a bully’s head; it was a way to even the odds a bit.

Skye knew using the other trouper’s fear of her mother’s ability that way didn’t make her too popular, but that was tough nuts. She was used to not being liked, to not having friends. Besides, when she and her mom left, she wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind. Goodbyes were a real bummer.

But detest Rick or not, she was part of the troupe. And he needed her help.

Skye took one last look at the direction the mystery kid had disappeared, sighed and turned back to Rick. “Go already. But hurry back. I’ve got things to do.”




Chapter Five


Chance had taken one last glance behind him—the woman at the concession stand appeared to have forgotten all about him—and tossed the remainder of his perfectly edible hot dog in the trash.

This had to work. Abner Marvel had to give him a job.

He had no contingency plan.

Chance wiped his damp palms on the thighs of his newly resurrected blue jeans. He had dug them, a T-shirt and the remainder of his pre-Lancaster County things out of storage, dressed, packed, then written his aunt and her husband a note. Then he had headed out into the night to hitch a ride.

From there he had winged it. The food-poisoning routine had been a last, desperate attempt to find a way to get to the carnival’s owner. Before he had come up with that scheme, he had asked a half-dozen carnival employees who the owner/manager was and where he could find him; each time, his inquiry had been met with surliness and suspicion. All had told him the same thing—no jobs available.

Then he had realized his mistake. He had done it all wrong—to get to the owner he needed something better than the truth, he needed a scam.

If there was one thing people understood, it was liability. If nothing else, Chance had learned that from his father. The bastard had considered Chance a liability. And nothing else.

Thus the rotten-meat routine had been born.

Determination swelled inside him. Confidence with it. Chance shifted the strap of his duffel bag, inching it higher on his shoulder, and picked up his pace, anxious to secure his future.

Chance made his way down the wide, crowded midway. People streamed around him, laughing with each other, jostling him as they passed. Garish pink, green and yellow neon lights illuminated the moonless night. The scent of popcorn made his mouth water. Rock music blared, a different song from every dizzily spinning ride. Carnies called out lewd greetings to one another; with each revolution of the hammerhead and tilt-a-whirl, girls screamed. The sounds blended together creating a strange, at once ugly and exciting mix.

A group of rowdy teenagers pushed past him. One of the girls giggled and glanced back at him, but not in admiration, Chance knew. He had grown taller in the year he had been imprisoned at his aunt’s, his shoulders had broadened, his chest thickened. Consequently, his denims were too short, his T-shirt too tight; he hadn’t even been able to get his feet into his old Nikes, so he’d been forced to wear his farm-boy work boots. He looked like a total nerd.

Chance stiffened, straightening his shoulders. Not for long, he vowed silently. He was going places; he was going to be somebody important. Someday, girls like those would look at him and wish, pray even, that he would look back.

Up ahead he saw the little top, as the woman had called it. Actually, there were several tents of varying sizes at the end of the runway. Chance decided to try the one dead center first. It was empty save for a man sweeping trash from ringside. Chance hesitated a moment, eyeing the burly man. It seemed doubtful that this was the carnival’s owner, but he might know where Abner Marvel was.

Chance moved farther into the tent. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I’m—”

“The next show’s not for an hour,” the man said, not glancing up. “Come back then.”

“I’m not here to see the show.” Chance swaggered toward the man. “I’m looking for the boss.”

“That so? The boss?” Chance earned a glance. The man’s face could only be described as battered. It looked as if his head had once played ball to someone’s bat and the exchange had left his entire face pushed in.

“That’s right. You know where I might find him?”

The man swept his gaze over him, head to foot, real leisurely-like. He was built like a gorilla, thick and strong, and he was looking at Chance as if he might want to flatten him. No doubt it had been his pleasure to have flattened many punks in his day.

“You already did,” he said.

“You’re Abner Marvel?”

At the obvious disbelief in his tone, the man’s mouth twitched. “None other. And who are you?”

“Chance McCord.” Chance held out his hand, but the man ignored it, going back to his sweeping.

“What can I do for you, Chance McCord?”

“I’m looking for a job.”

“Figured as much. What kind of job you looking for?”

“Any kind.”

“Figured that, too.” The man eyed Chance again, sizing him up once more, his expression openly doubtful. He arched his eyebrows. “You eighteen?”

“Just last month,” Chance lied. He would turn eighteen in October.

“Funny, I’d have guessed you to be younger than that.”

Chance squared his shoulders and stuck out his jaw. “Well, I’m not. And I’m a hard worker.”

“Your parents know you’re here? They know you’re wantin’ to run off and join the carnival?”

“I don’t have any parents.” Chance cocked up his chin. “I’ve been living with my aunt.”

The man cleared his throat, turned his head, spit out a wad of phlegm, then looked at Chance once more. “She know?”

“She doesn’t have to. I’m eighteen.”

“So you said.” Mr. Marvel shook his head. “What makes you think you can handle a job with my show? The boys here have been around. They play pretty rough.”

“So do I. I’ve been around.”

“Right.” He spit again, this time with flourish. “You Amish?” He pronounced the word with a short A.

“My aunt is. I’m not.”

“And I take it you don’t have any carnival experience?”

“No, sir.”

The man shook his head again. “Look, kid, I’ve seen a whole lotta shit during my years on the circuit. A whole lotta ugly shit. Been in the business as long as I can remember, my old man was a showman, his old man before him. I got this place from them. It’s in my blood. But if it wasn’t, I’d be outta here.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

He looked Chance in the eye. “There’re lots of other things a boy like you can do with your life. Go do one of �em. Go home. Go back to the farm. I don’t need any help.”

“I need a job.” Chance took a step toward the man, not too proud to beg. “I have to have one. I’ll work hard. You’ll see.”

“Everybody with my troupe works hard. Sorry, kid.” The man spit another wad of phlegm, this time directly into the pile of swept trash. “Maybe next year.”

He turned and walked away. Chance stared after him, stunned, disbelieving. Just like that, and he was screwed. Back to the farm with you, kid. Back to hell on earth.

“Wait!” Chance hurried after the man. “I’ll do anything, the dirtiest most low-down job you have. Just give me a chance.”

Abner Marvel’s ugly face actually seemed to soften. He shook his head. “Look, kid, I’ve got nothin’. No jobs. I’m sorry.”

“But…somebody might quit tonight,” he said, grasping at straws. “They might get fired. It’s good to have an extra person, just in case.”

“Can’t afford a �just in case.’” The momentary sympathy Chance had seen on the man’s face was replaced with annoyance. “Look, nobody quits midseason. Nobody in their right mind, anyway. We come all the way up here to God’s country from our winter quarters in Florida, and none of my boys wants to get caught without a way back. And the only thing that’ll get one of this crew fired is drinking, fighting and hittin’ on the local jailbait. None of my boys been doin’ that either, at least not that I’ve seen. They know better. Is that plain enough for you?”

He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Go on now. Get lost. I’ve got things to do.”

This time Chance did not follow Abner Marvel. The carnival’s owner had made it clear that he was not going to give Chance a job.

Unless one suddenly opened up. Unless a miracle happened.

A miracle.

Chance narrowed his eyes. There had to be a way. He wasn’t going to be like his mother and spend his life wishing for the things he didn’t have, the opportunities that had never come his way.

Sometimes in life, you had to make your own opportunities. Your own miracles.

His mother hadn’t understood that. He did.

Chance turned and headed back out to the midway. He wandered the wide aisle, aware of each minute ticking past. Tonight was the carnival’s last night in Lancaster County. Tomorrow would be too late.

From the shooting-gallery booth to his right, Chance became aware of arguing. He shifted his attention to the two carnies working it. One was taunting the other with a tale of a sexual exploit—with the girl the other wanted.

“You see this, asshole?” The uglier of the two boys held up a plastic sandwich bag he’d dug from his back pocket. “When Marlene gets a look at this, you won’t have another chance with her. So you better remember what she tasted like, �cause that’s the only taste you’re going to get.”

The second boy guffawed, “Yeah, right. Like one joint is really going to impress her.”

Several players stepped up to the booth, and the first boy tucked his bag behind the wooden ticket box. Chance watched the two as they helped the players, noting how, as each moved by the other in the booth, they delivered surreptitious blows, jabs and obscenities to the other.

Chance eyed the boys, an idea occurring to him. The two had been drinking; Chance was certain of it. Their tempers were short, their inhibitions dulled by drink. If the bag and joint disappeared, the first boy would blame the second and a fight was sure to break out.

Of course, if he got caught, they would beat the crap out of him and he would be tossed off the carnival lot. But if he didn’t…

This might be his only shot. He had to take it.

He watched. And waited. The opportunity presented itself—in the form of the fought-over Marlene. Personally, except for the pair of awesome hooters covered by a severely overextended tube top, Chance didn’t see what all the fuss was about.

While the two teenagers fell all over themselves, completely ignoring their crowded booth to compete for the girl’s attention, Chance reached over the partition and snatched the bag and joint. Heart thundering, he stuffed it into his right front pocket and moved as quickly as he could away from the booth.

But not too far away. He had to be around for the fireworks.

They weren’t long in coming. As soon as Marlene walked away, the two boys began bickering over who she liked best. Moments later, Chance heard a howl of rage and a shouted obscenity.

“Motherfuckin’ asshole! Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“My bag, you asswipe.” The outraged carny advanced on the other, fists clenched. “Give it back.”

“I don’t have your stupid little prize. I’m the one who doesn’t need it. Remember?” He smirked at his rival, then turned away. “Jerk.”

With a howl of fury, the first teenager leaped onto the back of the other. “Give it back or I’ll beat the shit out of you!”

“Get off me, you son of a bitch!” The kid threw his rider, turned and swung a fist. It connected, and the first boy stumbled backward, then righted himself and charged like a bull at the other boy. He caught him dead in the ribs and the two went careening backward into the booth’s shanty-style wall. It toppled. A woman screamed. A child began to cry. The two carnies rolled on the ground, tangled with each other in a death grip, shouting obscenities and delivering blows as best they could.

“That’s enough!”

The bellow came from Abner Marvel as he charged around the side of the booth directly across the midway, a baseball bat in hand. With him were two other men, as big and burly as Marvel, also wielding bats. How the old showman controlled his rowdy crew was obvious, and Chance took another step backward.

“Get up! Both of you.”

The boys immediately broke apart and scrambled to their feet. One’s nose was bloodied, the other’s eye had already started to purple and swell. From the way the teenagers cowered, Chance suspected that Abner Marvel wouldn’t hesitate to take a swing with that bat.

A trick he had probably learned from his father.

“He stole from me!” The first boy pointed accusingly at the second. “He deliberately stol—”

“I didn’t take nothin’! He’s just jealous �cause Marlene—”

“Shut up!” Abner Marvel bellowed, his face crimson with rage. “Both of you. Pack your things. I’ve taken all I’m going to from you two, you’re out of here!”

The two rowdies’ expressions went slack at the news, then in unison they began begging to keep their jobs. The old carny didn’t budge. “You’re out,” he said again, this time calmly. “You know the rules about fighting. Now get, before I decide I have to use this.” He slapped the wooden bat against his palm. “Stop by my trailer and collect your pay on your way off the lot.”

Chance didn’t even wait until the two ousted boys skulked off, to jump forward. “Mr. Marvel! Wait.”

Abner Marvel stopped and turned, his face fixed into a fierce scowl.

“I couldn’t help hearing what happened,” Chance said quickly, all too aware of Marvel’s beefy fist curled around the baseball bat. “It looks like you might need…I mean, it looks like a position has suddenly…opened up.”

“That it does.” Marvel narrowed his eyes. “You have a point?”

“Yeah.” Chance held the man’s intent gaze, never wavering or breaking eye contact. “I’m your man.”

Marvel reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a cigar. He bit off one end, spit it out, then lit up. Through a cloud of noxious smoke, he studied Chance.

“In the carnival,” the showman said after several moments, “you’re either with-it or you’re a towner. A rube. A sucker. There’s a term in the trade, called the First of May. You have any idea what it means?”

Chance scrambled to come up with a reasonable guess. “The beginning of the carnival season?”

“It means rookie. Outsider. Rank beginner. It means you have to prove yourself before you’re accepted. You won’t be with-it until you do. Initiation can be…rough.”

Chance squared his shoulders. “I’ve had to prove myself before. I can handle it.”

“And I won’t be able to protect you,” Abner continued, puffing on the cigar. “These boys will eat you alive.”

“You can’t scare me off.” Chance took a step toward him. “I need this job. I need it bad. If you give it to me, I’ll work my ass off for you. I’ll do the job of both those losers. You’ll see.”

Marvel laughed, the sound deep and rusty. “I’ll be damned. You’re one cocky piece of work, aren’t you?” He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. “The job of two, you say? I’d like to see that, I really would.”

“Give me the job and you’ll see it.”

“If you get caught drinking, you’re out. If I catch you fighting or fucking with paying customers, you’re out. Leave the local jailbait alone. No second chances.”

“I won’t need one.”

“You have to bunk in a trailer with five other roustabouts. If you can’t hack it, it’s not my problem, you’re out.”

“I can hack it.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Chance McCord.”

“I’ll tell you this, Chance McCord, you’ve got guts.” Marvel gave him one final, measured glance, then a smile touched his mouth. “What’re you standing around for? There’s work to be done. You can start by cleaning up this mess.”




Chapter Six


Skye sat cross-legged on her mother’s bed, her sketch pad laid over her knees. She moved her charcoal pencil across the page, enjoying the feel of the pencil in her hand and the soft, scratchy sound it made as the tip rubbed against the paper.

She smiled to herself, enjoying the quiet, this moment alone with her art. Their camper trailer didn’t afford many moments alone. Though luxurious compared to the ones the majority of the other troupers occupied, the trailer had exactly two interior doors—the one to the tiny lavatory and the one to this bedroom, located at the back of the camper. In the open area up front was the kitchenette, a booth-style dinette and a couch that folded out to make a bed.

Usually Skye took the couch. But not always. Sometimes they shared the bed, other times her mother offered to sleep on the couch.

Skye missed having her own space. Not that she was accustomed to a palace, or anything. But they had never lived in quarters this tight before; they had never had to travel this light before. Storage inside the camper was limited to two narrow wardrobes, one built-in chest of drawers and several cubbyhole-type compartments.

This summer, her big box of art supplies was a luxury.

Skye cocked her head, studying the image taking shape before her—a monarch butterfly. Skye moved the pencil again, this time automatically, quickly and with certainty, as if her hand possessed a will of its own. The image grew, changed. Within moments she had transformed one of the butterfly’s wings into an ornate, curvy letter.

The letter “M.”

Skye stared at the image, the letter, heart thundering against the wall of her chest, beating frantically, like the wings of a butterfly against the sides of a glass jar. Skye recognized the “M”; she had drawn it hundreds of times before, the first time three years ago. She recalled the day vividly. She had been in art class; her teacher had commented on it. Skye remembered feeling breathless and sort of stunned. She remembered staring at the “M” and thinking it both beautiful and ugly, remembered feeling both drawn and repelled.

The way she felt now.

Skye sucked in a deep, shaky breath. She had been drawing the image ever since, sometimes repeating it over and over, until she had filled the entire page of her sketch pad.

Why? What did it mean?

“Skye? Honey…are you all right?”

At her mother’s voice and the rap on the bedroom door, Skye looked up, startled. “Mom?”

Her mother opened the door and stuck her head inside. “I’ve been calling you for five minutes. It’s almost time for lunch.”

“Sorry. I didn’t hear you.” Skye returned her gaze to the image. “I’m almost done. I’ll be there in a second.”

Instead of returning to the kitchen, her mother crossed to stand beside her. She gazed silently down at the tablet, at the ornate butterfly, and Skye stiffened. She didn’t have to glance up to know that her mother’s expression was frozen with fear, stiff with apprehension.

It always was when Skye drew the “M.”

Skye swallowed hard, fighting the fluttery, panicky sensation that settled in the pit of her gut, fighting the beginnings of the headache pressing at her temple.

Skye moved her pencil over the page, starting on the other wing. Within moments, the drawing was complete.

Still her mother stood staring; still she said nothing.

Her mother’s silence gnawed at her. It hurt. Skye had asked her about the “M” about a million times. Her mother always answered the same way—she said she had no idea why Skye drew it.

Skye brought her left hand to her temple. If that was true, why did her mother act so weird about it?

Her mother touched Skye’s hair, lightly stroking. “What’s wrong, honey?”

She tipped her head back and met her mother’s eyes.

“I keep trying to remember where I saw this �M.’ There has to be a reason I’m always drawing it. There has to be.”

“I can’t imagine, darling.” Her mother smiled, though the curving of her lips looked forced to Skye. “It’s just one of those things.”

“One of those things,” Skye repeated, then frowned and returned her gaze to the sketch pad. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does.” Claire shrugged. “You saw the monogram somewhere and remembered it.”

“But where?” Skye balled her hands into fists, frustrated, hating the darkness of her memory and the feeling of helplessness she experienced every time she tried to remember.

Like now. Skye drew her eyebrows together, searching her memory for a recollection of anything before kindergarten, for a glimmer of where she had been born or of her father. They were linked to the “M”; she was certain of it.

But how?

She dropped her face into her hands, head pounding. Why couldn’t she remember? Why?

“Sweetheart, please…” Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her hands in hers. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Let it go.”

But it did matter. Skye knew it did. Otherwise she wouldn’t find herself drawing that letter again and again.

“I can’t,” she whispered, tears flooding her eyes. “I want to, I really do. But I just…can’t”

Her mother put her arms around her and drew her against her chest. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Skye rubbed her forehead against her mother’s shoulder, the pain behind her eyes intensifying. “Are you proud of me, Mom? Are you glad I’m…I’m the way I am?”

Her mother tipped her face up and looked her in the eyes. “How can you even ask, Skye? I’m more proud of you than you can imagine.”

But not of her artistic ability, Skye thought, searching her mother’s gaze. Her mother wished she didn’t like art so much, that she wasn’t so good at it. She wished her daughter would never pick up a drawing pencil again.

Why?

Skye whimpered and brought a hand to her head.

“It’s one of your headaches, isn’t it?” Claire eased Skye out of her arms and stood. “I’ll get your medicine.”

A moment later her mother returned with two white tablets and a glass of water. Skye took them, then handed the half-full glass back to her mother. Past experience had taught them both that if they caught the headache early enough, Skye could beat it. If they didn’t, the pain could become nearly unbearable.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Claire bent and kissed the top of Skye’s head. “Why don’t you lie down for a minute. I’ll finish making lunch, then come see how you’re feeling.”

Skye caught her mother’s hand. “Will you stay a minute? And rub my head?”

“Sure, sweetie. Scoot over.”

Skye did and her mother sat on the edge of the bed and began softly stroking her forehead. With each pass of her mother’s hand, Skye’s pain lessened. Each time she stopped, it returned, full force. And with it the questions that pounded at her.

“Feel a little better?” her mother asked.

“A little. Mom?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“My dad didn’t want me, did he?”

Her mother caught her breath. “What kind of question is that? Of course he wanted you.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. I know how it works. You probably didn’t even know who my father was.”

“That’s not true! Of course I know who—”

“Then why aren’t there any pictures of him!” Skye caught her mother’s hand, desperate, the pain blinding. “And why won’t you talk about him?” She tightened her fingers. “Please. Just tell me, Mom. I won’t cry. I’m not a baby anymore.”

For long moments her mother said nothing, just gazed at the floor, her expression troubled. Finally, she met Skye’s eyes once more. “He wanted you, Skye. I promise you that. But we can talk about this later. You need to rest—”

“No! Mom, I want to talk about it now. Please.” Skye squeezed her mother’s fingers. “If he really wanted me, where is he? What happened to him?”

“What happened to him?” her mother repeated, her voice sounding high and tight. She freed her hand, stood and took a step backward, toward the door. “I told you before. He’s dead.”

“Yes, but…how? What happened?”

“It was an accident.” Her mother reached the door. “I’ve told you that before, too.”

“What kind of accident was it? A car crash? A fire?” Skye lifted herself to an elbow and gazed pleadingly at her mother. She saw her mother’s hesitation, her wavering, and pressed her further. “Where did it happen? Was I there? Were you?”

For a moment her mother said nothing, then she cleared her throat. “It was very ugly. I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe someday.”

Her mother was lying to her, hiding something. But what? And why? A lump in her throat, Skye shifted her gaze to her sketch tablet and the curvy “M.”

Why wouldn’t her mother trust her with the truth? What could be so ugly that her mother…

“Did someone kill him?” she asked, eyes widening. “Is that it? Was he…murdered?”

Her mother made a sound, squeaky and high. She shifted her gaze, as with guilt, and Skye’s heart began to pound. “Was it the mob? Is the mob after us, too?”

“Don’t be silly.” Claire smiled stiffly. “It was an accident and nothing—”

“That’s why we’re always moving, isn’t it?” Excited, Skye sat up and pushed her hair away from her face. “Just like in the movies, we’re on the run from the mob!”

“That’s enough, Skye!” her mother’s voice rose. “I don’t want to hear any more of this ridiculous talk. Do you hear me? No more.”

Tears flooded Skye’s eyes, and she flopped back to the mattress, rolling onto her side and turning her back to her mother. “Forget it. Just go away. After all, I need my rest.”

Claire sighed. “Your father wasn’t a nice man, honey. And his family…” Her words faltered, and she drew what sounded to Skye like a careful breath. “I’ll only say that I’m glad they’re out of our lives forever. That’s why I don’t like to talk about them.”

Heart pounding, Skye turned and looked at her mother. “What do you mean, he wasn’t…nice? Did he, you know…did he hit you?”

Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Skye caught her bottom lip between her teeth, the pressure in her head almost unbearable. “Did he…hit me?”

“No. But—” She bent and cupped Skye’s face in her palms. “When we were with him, I was afraid for you.”

Skye swallowed hard. “Is that why you won’t even tell me where I was born?”

“Yes. I—” Claire sighed again and bent her forehead to Skye’s. “Trust me, sweetheart. When you’re older, I’ll tell you more.”

“Promise?”

She nodded, then smiled. “Our soup’s probably boiled over by now. I’d better check it.”

Skye caught her mother’s hand. “Mom? Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to have…you know, a real family? To live in one place and not…”

Her words trailed off at the sadness in her mother’s eyes.

“Yes,” Claire answered softly. “Sometimes I wish that with all my heart. This isn’t the life I wanted for you. It’s not the way I wanted you to grow up.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t have—”

Her throat closed over the words, and she cleared it. “I didn’t have that growing up and I always thought how nice it would be.”

Her mother had been an orphan. Skye couldn’t imagine that. She couldn’t imagine not having her mother. She would die without her. Feeling guilty for having brought up the subject, she hugged her. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry I bugged you about…you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Her mother stroked her hair again. “Sometimes the truth hurts, baby. Sometimes it’s better not to know the truth.”

Skye tipped her head back and met her mother’s eyes. Something in them, something dark and terrifying, made her tremble. “What is it, Mom? What do you see?”

Her mother pressed her lips to her forehead. “It’s only the past. And the past can’t hurt us as long as we make it stay there. Will you help me?”

Skye nodded, suddenly afraid. Of being alone. Of the past and the future. She clutched her mother. “Don’t ever leave me. I don’t know what I’d—”

“Shh.” Claire kissed her again. “Silly baby. I would never leave you. You’re my whole life. Didn’t you know that?”

Skye relaxed and smiled, remembering a game they had played when she was little—when she had still believed in monsters and bogeymen and things that breathed heavily in the dark.

Every night before bed, she had asked her mother the same thing: Would you fight the monsters for me? And every night her mother had searched out and destroyed the evil things for her. Only then had Skye been able to sleep. Only then had her nightmares retreated.

She tipped her face up to her mother’s and smiled, still remembering. “Would you fight the monsters for me?”

“The biggest and the badest. Always.” Claire smiled softly. “I love you, sweetheart.”

Skye hugged her tighter, nesting her head against her chest, though she knew she was too old to do so. Suddenly, miraculously, her head didn’t hurt. “I love you, too, Mom. More than anything.”




Chapter Seven


Claire closed the bedroom door behind her, then leaned against it, her knees weak. She brought a trembling hand to her mouth, shaken, relieved. Afraid.

How long could she continue to keep the past a secret from Skye? How long before her daughter simply demanded to know everything? Today, Skye’s wild imaginings had touched uncomfortably, even dangerously, close to the truth.

Claire shut her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose. There would come a time when she would no longer be able to put off her daughter with transparent evasions and vague promises. Today had proved that time was almost here.

She shook her head, shuddering. Monsters. What Skye didn’t know, what she must never know, was that her mother had already faced and fought the monsters for her, that she had looked squarely into the eyes of evil and had seen the future. Skye’s future. Her own.

And she had run. As fast and as far as she had been able.

But not far enough to stop her daughter’s curiosity, her questions. Not far enough to be finally free of fear.

Claire pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She was tormented by nightmares of huge, dark and distorted birds stalking her daughter. Some nights she awakened bathed in a sweat, heart thundering, certain she would find Pierce standing above her. Or worse, that she would awaken to find that he and Adam had swept Skye away while she slept.

For Adam was very much alive.

And he was searching for them. Still, after seven years, he hadn’t given up.

He wouldn’t, Claire knew. Not ever.

Claire dropped her hands and pushed away from the door, heading back to the trailer’s kitchenette and the soup she had left unattended on the range. The smell of scorched food hung in the air. The tomato soup had boiled over, the red liquid a vivid splatter across the white enamel top.

Claire stared at the pool of red, her mind spinning back to the morning she had run away with Skye, seeing Adam’s blood spilled across the wooden floor, the splatters of red on her daughter’s white pinafore.

And hearing her daughter’s howls of fear.

When she had first realized that Grace had no memory not only of the awful events in the nursery but of anything of her life as a Monarch, she had thanked God. Her daughter had gone to sleep and awakened without a memory—though Madeline hadn’t understood that at first.

No, at first she had thought her daughter was in a kind of shock, but as several days passed without her mentioning her father, the events in the nursery or home, Madeline had begun to suspect the truth.

Too afraid of being found out to see a doctor about Skye’s condition, Claire had done some research at the library of one of the towns they passed through.

There, she had learned that sometimes, when something was too awful, too painful to deal with, the brain simply chose to forget it, to reject the unpleasantness and go on as if nothing had happened. Repressed memory, the book called it. Though Claire knew she wasn’t qualified to make a diagnosis, she believed that’s what had happened to Skye. She had simply, on a subconscious level, chosen to forget.

Though grateful, initially, Claire had been worried by her daughter’s repressed memory. And frightened. But Skye had seemed so happy; she had acted so…normal. As if she didn’t have a care in the world.

That had changed in the last few years. It had changed with the emergence of that damned “M.” Skye’s subconscious had let that image push through to her consciousness.

Remember, Skye, it seemed to say. Remember.

And with the “M” had come Skye’s questions. Her discontent with Claire’s evasive answers. Her headaches.

Claire brought a hand to her throat. Dear God, what was she to do? How could she continue to keep the truth from her daughter?

The soup bubbled over again, sizzling as it hit the electric coils. Claire jumped at the sound, startled out of her thoughts. She grabbed a pot holder and took the pan from the burner, then turned off the heat.

The soup had made a mess, charring the burner and the pan underneath the coils. Claire turned to the sink for a sponge, wet it, then began cleaning up the mess, her thoughts still on Skye and their future.

She couldn’t tell Skye the truth, no matter how much she hated lying. At least not yet. She couldn’t, for Skye’s own safety. When she was older, when she could really understand what kind of people the Monarchs were, what kind of person Griffen was, then she would tell her. Maybe.

Claire began to mop up the worst of the soup. Today, Skye had offered her an easy solution. Why hadn’t she taken it? If she had told her she didn’t know who her father was, that Skye was the product of a one-night stand, her daughter’s questions would have stopped.

Why hadn’t she taken that easy out. Why?

Claire sighed. Because she hated lying. She had told so many of them over the past seven years—to Skye, to school principals, to employers, co-workers. The fabrications made her feel sick, deep down inside. They made her feel small and cheap.

Today, something had stopped her from telling Skye that lie. For, even as she had told herself to take the out, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. It would have been a big lie, one that would have been irreversible, with far-reaching consequences.

She supposed she wanted to have her cake and eat it, too.

But for now, her inability to commit to either the truth or a lie left her daughter with questions. And fantasies, some of them wild and romantic. She would have to tell her something soon. She would have to make up something safe. Something that would satisfy Skye’s curiosity forever.

It broke Claire’s heart. She hated being dishonest with her daughter, but she feared the truth more. The truth had a name. It had a face. It had evil intent.

Claire closed her eyes and pictured Adam as she had seen him that last day, flushed with fury, eyes bulging as he tried to squeeze the life from her. She pictured Griffen, remembering the way he had followed Grace around, the way he had stared possessively at his sister; she pictured him holding her baby down while he violated her.

The monstrous dark birds hovered over her.

Claire’s eyes popped open and she realized she was panting, her heart pounding. They were after her; Aunt Dorothy had told her so. Even if she hadn’t, Claire would have known by her dreams; her premonitions and visions.

She left the mess on the stove and began to pace. It had been Aunt Dorothy who had told her Adam was alive. Three months after she had run away with Grace, her premonitions had started. So, she had called Aunt Dot. Claire had told her nothing but that they were all right—not the names they had taken nor the direction they had gone. Dorothy had begged her to come back. She had told Claire of the depth of Pierce and Adam’s fury and of their quest to find Grace. But she hadn’t mentioned the missing gems. Not then or in any of their conversations since.

Claire had found that strange. She still did.

The gems. Many times she and Skye had been desperate for money, but she had been afraid to try to sell the stones. She had no idea how or where such a transaction would take place, but more, she had feared that Pierce would be able to trace her through their sale.

Claire crossed to the dinette, to the storage compartments located under the bench seats. She lifted out a carton of cookware, then dug carefully through it until she found what she had hidden there. A six-inch-square, antique cherry-wood box.

Claire looked over her shoulder, then unlocked it with the key she wore around her neck. Nestled inside was the pouch of gems. She’d had no reason to think it might be gone, but she breathed a sigh of relief anyway. They were her insurance policy, though against what she didn’t know.

She opened the pouch, dipped her hands inside and moved her fingers through the cool, smooth stones. As she did, she was assailed with the strongest sense that the gems were important, that they would someday help her. That they would help Skye.

She curled her fingers around the stones, absorbing their heat, their vibrations. Images assailed her, of the dark and of cold. Of ice and of a bird of prey stalking, stalking…

Claire made a sound of fear and released the stones. They slipped away from her, the frightening images with them. She closed the pouch, tucked it back into the box, then locked the box.

Someday, she thought again, someday, somehow, those stones would save Skye’s life.




Chapter Eight


Chance tipped his face to the bright, cloudless sky, squinting against the sun. Sweat beaded his upper lip and rolled down the center of his already slick back. Not even 8:00 a.m. and already hellfire hot. Appropriate, as his first couple of days with Marvel’s had been hell.

His first day, the troupe had traveled to Zachary, a town a hundred miles east of Lancaster County. As far as metropolitan pools went, the town of Zachary, Pennsylvania, was about the size of the average spit. Not quite the kind of opportunity Chance had been looking for, but just the type of town that appreciated a show like Marvel’s.

No sooner had the drivers positioned the trucks and trailers on the lot than the skies had unleashed a flood. No matter, in anticipation of clear skies later and a heavy opening-night crowd, the troupe had gone to work. Rides needed to be positioned, tested and inspected, booths set up and tents raised.

Chance hadn’t had much choice but to acclimate, and to acclimate fast. The rain had turned the low-lying patch of ground into a mud stew, thick, black and viscous. Some places the mud had been so deep, it had seeped over the top of Chance’s work boots. After that, with every step he’d taken, the goo squished between his toes.

Once the worst of the downpour had let up, Chance had begun hauling and spreading bales of straw. He’d worked until his muscles quivered, and he bowed under the weight of the wet bales. But still, he’d kept on. He had promised Marvel that he would do the job of two, and he meant to keep his word.

The sky had finally cleared; the customers had come, the night with them. Then Chance’s initiation into carnival life had really begun. As Marvel had warned, these boys were rough, coarse and brutal. Brutal in a way he had not been exposed to before. And they were loyal, blindingly loyal. To each other, to the show. And even to Marvel, though he ruled them with a baseball bat.

The others blamed Chance for their friends’ expulsion, though Chance knew they didn’t suspect the real part he had played in the two getting fired. He was a towner to them, an outsider. The one who had taken the place of their trusted buddies.

In the last two days, Chance had been harassed; he had been threatened. He brought a hand to his swollen and bruised right eye. He winced even as his lips twisted into a half smile. He supposed he should be grateful—the boy who had given him the shiner had also promised to slit his throat while he slept. Yet here he stood, throat intact.

Chance untied the bandanna from around his neck and dipped it into a barrel of cool water, one of many Marvel kept constantly filled for his employees to refresh themselves. Chance drenched the bandanna. He was going to have to earn the other guys’ respect. Unfortunately, he knew of only one way to do it—beat the crap out of somebody tough. These boys weren’t unlike L.A. street kids—violence was the one thing they understood and respected.

Chance brought the drenched fabric to the back of his neck and squeezed, sighing as the water sluiced over his shoulders and down his back. He could handle it, and anything else that was dished him. For, despite it all—the heat and mud, the exhausting work and the other boys’ animosity—Marvel’s was his way out.

And nobody was going to screw it up for him. Nobody.

“I saw what you did.”

Chance swung around. A scruffy-looking girl stood a couple of feet behind him, arms folded across her chest, head cocked to one side as she studied him. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high, untidy ponytail; her eyes were an almost uncanny blue.

He arched his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“I saw what you did,” she said again, obviously pleased with herself. “The other night, at the hot-dog stand. I heard what you said.”

“Yeah?” Pretending disinterest, he sent her a dismissive glance. “So what?”

“You were scamming Marta, weren’t you? To get this job.”

Damn kid was too smart for her own good. Too smart for him to even think about trying to deny it. He shrugged. “So? What if I was?”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll go to Mr. Marvel?”

“Why should I be? You’re just a snot-nosed kid. Besides, what’s the big deal about a bad dog?”

She huffed with annoyance, sounding very adult. “I am not a…snot-nosed kid. I’m twelve.”

“Twelve? Gee, that old?” Amused, he turned his back to her. He bent, splashed water over his face, then straightened and retied his bandanna.

“Okay, you’re right. Mr. Marvel wouldn’t care about that. It was a pretty cool scam. But the other one would really piss him off.”

The other one? Chance swung to face her, narrowing his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“You know. Benny and Rick. The shooting gallery, your trick, their fight.” She lifted her chin as if daring him to tell her she was wrong. “Mr. Marvel would fire you if he knew about that.”

Chance swore under his breath, then met her eyes. “Interesting fairy tale, kid. But I don’t have time for kiddie stories right now.” He moved past her. “See you around.”

She followed him, skipping ahead, then swinging to face him once more. “It’s not a fairy tale, and you know it.”

“Is that right? And what makes you such a big authority on everything?”

“I make it my business to know everything that goes on at Marvel’s.”

“And I’m sure your mother’s real proud. Now, could you please get lost? I’ve got work to do.”

He started off again; again she stopped him. “When I saw you at the concession stand, I thought you were up to something, so I followed you. I saw the whole thing.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s my word against yours, kid. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She tilted her head back and laughed. “Don’t look so worried. I hated those two guys. They were total pigs. I’m glad they’re gone.” She leaned conspiratorially toward him. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Just what he wanted, to be in cahoots with a snot-nosed, busybody twelve-year-old girl. Just great.

“Look, kid,” he said, “you want to buzz off? Like I said, I’ve got work to do.” He headed in the opposite direction; she followed him.

“My name’s Skye.”

“Whatever.”

“My mother’s Madame Claire.” At his blank look, she frowned. “You know, the fortune-teller.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Not if you don’t care about a curse being put on you.”

“I’m really worried.”

“She can do it. She made one kid’s hair fall out.”

He laughed. “And I bet she turned another one into a frog.”

“Laugh now. You’ll see.”

“You’re terrifying me, really. See you around.”

He turned and started for the supply tent. She hurried after him, and he muttered an oath. What was with this kid? What did he have to do to get rid of her?

“If I ask her to put a spell on you, she will.”

He made a sound of annoyance, stopped and swung to face her. “So, you’re saying your mom’s a witch?”

“No. She’s a fortune-teller.”

“A Gypsy fortune-teller?”

“No.” The girl propped her hands on her hips and sucked in a quick, frustrated-sounding breath. “She’s just a fortune-teller.”

Amused, he mimicked her, making an exaggerated sound of frustration and placing his hands on his hips. “Witches put curses on people. Fortune-tellers tell the future. Gypsies do both, at least in the movies. Of course, I don’t believe in that stuff. In fact, I think it’s all a bunch of crap, so why don’t you get lost?”

She ignored him. “Where’d you get the black eye?”

“None of your business.” He started off again.

“I bet it was one of the other guys.” She screwed up her face as if deep in thought. “My guess is Max or Len.” She cut him a glance. “But, probably Len. He’s a real badass.”

Chance supposed he would call Len that. He was the blade-happy bozo with dibs on his throat.

“They’re all pissed at you,” she continued, “because you took Rick and Benny’s place.”

“Yeah, well, that’s tough shit. They’ll get over it.”

She smiled. “Good thing they don’t know what I know.” He glared at her, and she smiled again. “I didn’t mean anything by that. I told you I wasn’t going to tell, and I’m not.”

This was just getting better and better. He stepped up his pace in an effort to shake her.

“I’ll tell you what to do about those creeps,” she said, hurrying to keep up. “Just give �em a good pop.” She nodded for emphasis. “They’ll respect that.”

He scowled, annoyed that she, a goofy kid, was saying the same thing he had thought only moments ago. “What do you know? You’re just a kid. And a girl, at that.”

“So what? Girls can know anything boys can.”

“Right,” he drawled.

“They can!” She lifted her chin, practically quivering with twelve-year-old indignation. “You know, I’ve been around. Besides, you don’t see any black eyes on me, do you?”

He stopped so suddenly she collided with his back. Exasperated, he turned to face her. “Is there some reason you’ve decided to single me out for torture?”

She laughed. “I like you, Chance. You’re funny.”

Funny to a twelve-year-old girl. Wow. Another great life accomplishment. “I’m out of here, kid.” He started walking away.

“I’ll go with you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

She ignored him. “Really, Chance, you can’t let those guys push you around.” She tucked a hank of hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear. “I meet a lot of smartasses in school. A lot of tough-guy types.”

“I’ll just bet.”

“I’m the new kid a lot, and you know what that means.”

He stopped and faced her again. “You seem intent on telling me this.”

“I am.”

“So do it, little-miss-know-it-all. Then leave me alone.”

“You don’t have to be so grouchy.” She cocked up her chin. “You have to be smarter and tougher. If they give you any crap, just give it back double. That’s what I do.”

“And I’m sure you’re very popular.”

“With the principal.” She shrugged.

“It’s cool.” “I’ll think about your advice. Okay?” Chance saw a couple of his bunk mates across the way, and he scowled, not wanting them to see him conversing with a kid. “Now, for the last time, will you please buzz off?”

This time, when he walked away, she didn’t follow or call out. Relieved, he took one last glance over his shoulder, just to make sure. She stood alone, looking out of place in the midst of all the activity around her; she looked lonely.

For a moment he almost felt sorry for her, then he shook his head. If the kid was lonely, it was because she was a know-it-all pest. Let her mother, the witch-Gypsy-fortune-teller worry about her, she wasn’t his problem. His lips curved up at the thought of actually being responsible for a kid like that. Forget sugar and spice, that girl was nothing but piss, vinegar and trouble with a capital T.

The farther away from her he stayed, the better.




Chapter Nine


The kid did not give Chance the opportunity to keep his distance. For the next week she dogged his steps. Morning, noon or night, it didn’t matter where he was or what he was doing, he could turn around or look up and there the know-it-all little pest would be, grinning at him. Asking questions, giving advice. Offering to help him, no matter what he was doing at the time.

He didn’t know why she was so interested in him; he didn’t care. Besides annoying the crap out of him, the kid was making things even more difficult for him than they already were. He was barely holding his own with the other roustabouts, as it was; now, because of her kiddie crush or whatever it was, he was the butt of their jokes, as well. He had heard the jeers of the other guys as he passed, their snickers, the little ditty they chanted every time he was near enough to hear.

Skye and Chance, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes little Skye riding in the baby carriage.

They all thought it very funny. A laugh-riot. He was not amused—not with their ditty or her interest in him. He was going to have to put an end to this. And soon.

The pest in question plopped down onto the picnic-table bench beside him and smiled. “Hi, Chance.”

He didn’t look up. “Go away.”

“Whatcha doing?”

Chance scowled and tossed his fork back onto his plate. “I was eating my breakfast.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” She drew up her knees and propped her elbows on them. “I ate in our trailer early.”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood. “Good for you.”

She popped up. “I’ll go with you.”

From across the tent, he saw two of the sideshow performers watching them, their expressions openly amused. One of them winked at him and began mouthing some words. Chance had a pretty good idea what those words were.

Skye and Chance, sitting in a tree…

He gritted his teeth. “Look, kid, what do you want?”

“I came to help you set up your booth. I thought you—”

“Go help somebody else.” He picked up his tray and carried it to the bus-station.

She scurried after him. “Wait. You know, it’s Saturday, and I thought you might nee—”

“I don’t.” Turning his back to her, he scraped the last of the unappetizing bacon and eggs into the trash then set his plate and utensils in a dish tub, his tray beside it. Without even a glance back in her direction, he hurried from the tent and out into the bright day beyond.

She followed, catching up in moments and tugging on his sleeve. When he met her gaze, she indicated his bruised cheek. “I see those creeps nailed you again.”

“It’s no big deal.”

She shook her head, screwing up her face in disgust. “Those guys make me sick.”

“Yeah, well, life’s rough all over.”

She skipped along beside him. “I tried to tell you before, if you’d just give �em a good pop they’ll leave you alone. Or, you could go to Mr. Marvel and tell him.”

“Gimme a break.”

“No, really. You could.”

Chance stopped and glared down at her, exasperated. “Are you enjoying this, kid? Is this fun for you? Ruining my life? Making me the laughingstock of the show? How many times and ways do I have to ask you to leave me alone before you actually do?”

“I’m not trying to ruin your life.” She shook her head, her expression hurt. “We’re friends, and I only wanted to hel—”

“You’re not helping. And we’re not friends.”

“We could be.”

“No, we couldn’t!” Enough was enough. He had tried to be nice, but he’d had it. Hands on hips, Chance faced her, looking her straight in the eyes. “I’m an adult and you’re a kid. We have nothing in common. In fact, I don’t even like you. You’re a know-it-all and a pest. I tell you what, I’ll give you five bucks to go ruin somebody else’s life for a while.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she took a step backward. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then shut it again without speaking. He muttered an oath, feeling like a total heel. She was just a kid, for Pete’s sake.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re a perfectly okay kid and all, it’s just that I’m—”

“Well, well…what do we have here, fellas? The farm boy and his little girlfriend.”

Shit, Len and his band of hick-thugs. Chance turned around slowly. The boy and his group stood just beyond the little top, their expressions twisted into amused sneers.

Len placed his hands on his hips. “And just look at the two of them, standin’ there all cozy. Isn’t that too sweet?”

The group of boys howled. Chance took a step toward them, fists clenched. “Go to hell, asshole.”

The group oohed in unison. Len laughed. “I think they make a real cute couple. You like �em young, farm boy?”

Skye took several steps forward. “That’s so gross! You guys make me sick. You ought to be ashamed of—”

“Shut up, Skye!” Chance caught her arm and dragged her back toward him. Her help was the last thing he needed; he would never live it down. He faced the group, eyes narrowed. “Get out of our way.”

The boys spread out, circling them, blocking their way in every direction. Len smiled slyly. “Make us.”

Chance felt a flush start at the base of his neck and move upward. Marvel’s rules be damned, he had taken all the crap he was going to from these losers. He wasn’t walking away until they backed down or he’d killed somebody.

“I said, move.”

The group hooted, and Len cocked his head to the side. “She the only piece of ass you can get, farm boy?”

Chance took a menacing step toward the other boy, adrenaline pumping through him. “You want to say that again?”

Len, too, took a step forward. “And if I do?” he mocked. “What’re you going to do about it? Ask your little girlfriend to beat the shit out of me?”

“No. I’m going to beat the shit out of you.” Chance clenched his jaw and waved the boy forward. “Come on. You first.”

Chance held Len’s gaze, unflinching. The other guy was older, bigger and meaner—plus he had three of his delinquent cronies to back him up. Chance didn’t care. He had reached the point of no return. He might go down, but not before he inflicted a little pain of his own.

Len hesitated; Chance waved him forward again. “Come on, asshole. Let’s rock �n roll. If Marvel catches us, we’re both out. But what the hell? I’m game.”

He saw the other boy waver, weighing his options. Len might be big and dumb as a stump, but he wasn’t ignorant of his options. If Marvel canned him, Len knew he was up shit creek without a paddle.

Chance smiled grimly and waved his opponent forward. He almost had him. One more minute and—

“Leave Chance alone!” Skye flounced forward, placing herself between him and Len. She propped her fists on her hips and lifted her chin. “He hasn’t done anything to you. I think you’re just jealous because he’s got—”

“You to protect him,” one of the guys jeered.

The group howled so loudly they nearly drowned out her sputters of indignation. Chance wanted to die. He was certain he would. He made a desperate grab for her. “Skye, don’t—”

She shook him off. “What you’re doing is just plain mean. You guys make me want to puke!”

That brought a fresh wave of amusement. A couple of the roustabouts laughed so hard, they doubled over.

“Tough guy has to have his little girlfriend protect him. We’re so scared!” They were all but hysterical with laughter. The boys began clucking their tongues, taunting Chance.

“Pussy,” Len said laughing. “Pussy needs a little girl to protect him.”

“That’s not nice,” Skye shouted. “You should be—”

“Shut up!” Shaking with rage and embarrassment, Chance grabbed a handful of Skye’s T-shirt and dragged her backward. “I can fight my own battles!”

“Come on, then,” shouted Len, and the circle of teenagers tightened around them. “Let’s party, farm boy.”

Just then, Abner Marvel came around the corner, bat in hand, expression murderous. The group froze. “What the hell’s going on?” he bellowed, slapping the bat against his palm. “We all on break here, or what? Did we forget it’s Saturday and the show opens in less than an hour?” He slapped the bat again. “Did we?”

The group scattered. Marvel caught Chance’s arm as he started past. “I’m watching you, McCord,” he said. “I’m watching you real close.”

Chance swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

“You’d better learn to fit in, because you’re running out of time.”

“That’s not fair!” Skye cried. “It wasn’t Chance who—”

Marvel’s face mottled. “And you, little miss, you stay out of business that doesn’t concern you. You’re going to get somebody hurt. Understand? I don’t want to have to go to your mama, but I will.”

Without another word, he walked away. Chance watched him a moment, then turned to Skye. “Get the hell away from me.” He all but spit the words at her.

“You should be grateful I—”

“Grateful! Don’t you get it? You don’t help. You make things worse. For me and everybody else.”

“I do not! You’re just saying that because—”

“I’m saying it because it’s true.” He grabbed her shoulders and forced her to meet his eyes. “If you hadn’t stuck your big nose in, I would have won that fight. I almost had him.”

“He would have beat your ass. And you know it!”

“You don’t know anything. Get lost.”

He started off; she followed. “At least I’m not mean,” she said, running to keep up. “At least I don’t—”

“Look!” he shouted, stopping so suddenly she plowed into his back. “You’re ruining my life. I want you to buzz off, scram, get lost. I can’t be any plainer than that.”

“Make me.”

He glared at her. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. It’s a free country, and if I want to follow you I will.” She folded her arms across her chest and cocked up her chin. “And you can’t stop me.”

“Like hell,” he muttered, so mad he felt as if the top of his head was going to pop off. “Like hell.”

He closed the distance between them, picked her up and swung her scrawny little body over his shoulder.

She squealed in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“Getting rid of you. Once and for all.”

“Getting rid of me? Put me down!” She tried to kick her feet, but he had her legs anchored at the knees. “I said, let me go!”

He kept walking. She pummeled his back with her fists, landing a few good blows to his ribs. “That hurt!” he shouted. “Cut it out!”

“Not until you put me down.”

“I asked you nicely, you didn’t listen. Now I’m taking you home. Where you and all babies belong…with their mommies.”

She made a sound of outrage. A moment later, he felt her teeth sink into his back. She’d bit him! He couldn’t believe it. “You are a spoiled brat!” He smacked her on the bottom, hard. She howled. “Bite me again, you little shit, and I’ll hit you again. Harder this time.”

He could tell by the way she tensed that she was thinking about it, weighing her options. She must have decided against it because he went unbitten, though she seemed to double her efforts to wiggle free.

He finally reached the trailer she shared with her mother. He pounded on the door. When Madame Claire opened it, he dumped her red-faced daughter at her feet. “Keep your little brat away from me. Do you hear? Keep her away.”

Madame Claire—a pretty woman who looked nothing like the devil-eyed witch the other boys portrayed her to be—moved her surprised gaze from him to her daughter. “I don’t understand, what…Skye, have you been bothering this boy?”

“No, Mom, I—”

“Yes, Mom,” he interrupted. “Skye has been bothering this boy.” He glared at mother, then daughter. “She’s been following me around. Today, she nearly got me killed. Keep her away from me.”

“I was only trying to help.” Skye looked beseechingly at her mother. “Really, Mom. I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

“But you did, anyway.” The woman looked down at her daughter, obviously angry. “Get inside. Now.”

“But, Mom—”

“Now!”

The girl obeyed, but not before sending her mother a petulant look. The fortune-teller turned to Chance. “I’m sorry. Skye is a bit strong-willed.”

“That’s what you call it. I call it spoiled. And selfish. Keep her away.”

He turned and started off. The woman stopped him. “What was she trying to help you with that almost got you killed?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Some of the other boys gave you that shiner, didn’t they?”

“What if they did?”

The woman’s lips lifted. “Skye always roots for the underdog. She can’t stand to see other people being mistreated. I think it’s because she’s been the underdog so often.”

“That’s her problem. I don’t need any help.”

“I can see that.” Her gaze seemed to see much more than his surface bruises as it settled on his face—she seemed to see clear to his soul. He shifted uncomfortably.

“There’s nothing wrong with needing help,” she said softly.

“I don’t need help.” He scowled as ferociously as he could. “Especially hers. Just keep her away from me.”

He took a step backward, then with a final glare, swung in the direction he had come.

“I’ll tell your fortune for free, if you’d like. To repay you for your trouble.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “No, thanks. I already know what my fortune is. I don’t need some sideshow huckster to tell me.”

She arched her eyebrows. He sensed, rather than saw, her amusement. “Really? Are you a clairvoyant?”

“I don’t need to be.” He tipped his chin up, daring her—or the whole fucking world, for that matter—to defy him. “I know what my fortune is, because it’s in my own hands. And I know I won’t let myself down.”

“And you’re the only one who won’t. Is that it?”

“That’s right.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose you’re going to tell me differently?”

“Not me. Life’s rough all over.”

Something in her knowing expression grated. He narrowed his eyes. “Screw you. Leave me alone.”

Again he turned and started to walk away. Again she stopped him, though she spoke so quietly he could hardly make out what she said. Even as he told himself to keep walking, he swung to fully face her. “What did you say?”

“Forgive the man with the long beard and plain ways, he was only doing what he thought best.”

She was talking about his uncle Jacob. Prickles ran up his spine. How did she know about him?

A trick, he told himself. She had looked him over; she probably knew about the circumstances of his coming on at Marvel’s and had figured out his background. People like her, who made their living tricking people, were adept at putting two and two together in a convincing way.

Hell, considering that they had been in the heart of Amish country, it wasn’t even that good a trick. He told her so.

She simply smiled. That small, knowing smile bugged him, and he stiffened, angry. Defensive. “You, lady, are a fraud, your powers are no more than a parlor trick. A sideshow gag. In life what you see is what you get. Period.”

At his own words, his mother’s image filled his head. With it, thoughts of her and all the things she had seen and wanted. All the things she had never obtained.

As he looked at Madame Claire, he thought—believed in his gut, startlingly—that she knew exactly what he was thinking. That she, too, could see his mother as clearly as he did.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he backed away, understanding now why all the other troupers steered clear of Madame Claire. Understanding her power over them.

“Just leave me alone,” he said finally when he had found his voice. “And keep your brat daughter away from me, too.”




Chapter Ten


Skye sat cross-legged on the bed, her sketch tablet before her, open to a drawing in progress. It was a drawing of a toad—an ugly one with warts and a distorted face. He was cowering before another creature, a princely, handsome frog, one complete with bulging muscles and a gold crown.

Skye selected an emerald green pencil and carefully added a few final strokes of color to her handsome frog. She had been working on the drawing for days. It was for Chance. A peace offering. An apology.

The toad was Len. The frog Chance.

And she was the pesky little fly, buzzing around his head.

Skye frowned, remembering the way she had acted and the things he had said to her. In truth, in the past week she had thought of little else.

You’re a know-it-all and a pest. You’re ruining my life. I want you to buzz off, scram, get lost.

Make me. It’s a free country, and if I want to follow you I will.

Skye moaned, her cheeks hot. How could she have acted that way? How could she have been such a jerk? Such a spoiled brat, just like he’d called her?

Skye moved her gaze over the drawing. She had only wanted him to like her. She had only wanted to be his friend.

She still did.

Tears stung her eyes and she tossed the colored pencil back into her box. She hated that. She hated that she cared what he thought about her. That she wanted him to like her. She had never given two flips what anybody thought about her before, and she didn’t like the way caring made her feel.

Really crappy. Like something that had crawled out from under one of the show’s Port-o-lets. Ugly and unlikable. No, she corrected herself. Unlovable.

That’s what she was—unlovable. The only person who had ever loved her was her mother. Even her father, despite what her mother said, hadn’t loved her. He hadn’t wanted her.

Skye squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the tears. The other day, after Chance left, she had told her mother everything. And her mother had sided with Chance.

That had hurt. Her mother had always sided with her before; she had always championed her daughter—even times when Skye had landed in the principal’s office. Skye had believed she always would.

That, more than anything her mother had said, made Skye see how badly she had behaved.

Skye drew her knees to her chest and pressed her face to them. She had been a bossy, little know-it-all pest. A big creep, she thought, her chest aching.

She didn’t like her either.

But she still liked Chance. She still wanted him to be her friend.

He wasn’t like the other boys with Marvel’s. He was smarter, for one thing. He worked harder, he didn’t drink or smoke pot or chase the local girls. And he always smelled good, even when he was working. She hadn’t figured that one out yet; the other boys sometimes smelled so bad she wanted to retch.

She liked his smile and the way he laughed. She liked the way he had faced down Len and his gross, toady friends—like the hero in a story would. Cool and kind of smart-alecky. As if he wasn’t afraid, not one bit.

She sighed. He was the coolest boy she had ever met.

Straightening, Skye cocked her head to the side, assessing her drawing. She labeled the toad, frog and fly, then, giggling, wrote at the bottom:

Frogs rule, toads drool. Or, once a toad always a toad.

I promise I’ll never act so stupid again.

That done, she rolled the drawing and secured it with a rubber band, wrinkling her forehead in thought. Now, how did she get it to Chance? She could slip it into one of his pockets or leave it someplace he would be sure to find it. That way, if he didn’t like it or if he was still mad at her, she wouldn’t have to face him.

Skye shook her head. She was a lot of things, but a chickenshit wasn’t one of them. No, she would wait for the perfect moment to approach him. A moment when he was alone but not working, a moment when she didn’t think she would aggravate him. The moment when he would be most likely to forgive her. She would hand him the drawing and hope for the best.



That moment arrived two days later, at just past 7:00 a.m. Since the carnival didn’t open till noon on Sundays, most of the troupers slept in. But not Chance. She saw him leave the deserted mess tent, screwed up her courage and followed him.

“Chance?”

He stopped and turned to her. He didn’t look exactly pissed to see her, but he didn’t look happy, either. Her cheeks heated, even as she fought the urge to look away in total embarrassment.

She held out the rolled drawing. “This is for you.”

“What is it?”

“A drawing. I…” She stubbed her toe into the dirt, wishing she had taken the chickenshit way. “I acted really…dumb. I’m sorry.”

He unrolled the drawing, stared at it a moment, then lifted his gaze to hers. “I’m the frog?”

She nodded, heart in her throat. “Len’s the toad.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “That’s cool.”

“Thanks. I just…I…” Her words trailed off. “Gotta go.”

She turned and started off, feeling like about the biggest nerd on the face of the planet. So much for their being friends. So much for—

“Hey! Kid? I have a question for you.”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

“You really think I look like a frog?”

She didn’t know how to answer. She thought he was the coolest, cutest boy ever. But she couldn’t say that. She stared at him, cheeks on fire, totally, completely tongue-tied.

He grinned. “Lighten up, I was just teasing. I like the drawing. Thanks a lot.” He tucked it into his back pocket. “See you around, kid.”




Chapter Eleven


Skye awakened with a start. Heart pounding, disoriented, she moved her gaze over the dark bedroom. Something had awakened her, some sound. Like a person clearing their throat or a lock clicking into place.

“Mom,” she whispered. “Is that you?”

Silence answered her. Skye lay back against the pillows, drawing the sheet up to her chin. She had probably been awakened by a sound from the road just beyond the lot, or by a dream she had already forgotten. Sure. It had happened before.

Skye twisted to glance up at the window above her head. She had left it open to let in the nonexistent breeze; she saw that the nearly starless sky still wore the deep black of midnight. From outside came the sound of crickets and cicadas, but little else. It was late, so late that even the rowdiest of the roustabouts had gone to bed.

She lay back against her pillow once more. Go to sleep, Skye. It was nothing. She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Even as she did, her head filled with thoughts: of Chance, of her mother’s jumpiness of late, and of what the end of summer would bring.

She rolled onto her side, then onto her back again, focusing on thoughts of Chance. She had been careful not to pester him. She would stop by to say hi, but she wouldn’t hang around offering advice and stuff. If he was busy, she left him alone. And she never tagged after him, though she had wanted to.

Little by little, things had changed between them. He didn’t get that annoyed look on his face anymore when he saw her; he had stopped telling her to scram. He even smiled at her, once in a while.

Not that she thought he really liked her or anything, but she didn’t seem to bug him anymore. She supposed he had just gotten used to her; maybe in the same way the other troupers seemed to have gotten used to him.

Secretly, she hoped he had decided she wasn’t a know-it-all, spoiled brat. Secretly, she hoped he did, at least, kind of like her. That, she had decided, would be about the coolest thing that had ever happened to her.

Skye sat up and turned on the bedside light. She retrieved her sketch tablet from the floor and flipped through the pages, stopping at the drawing of him she had done a week ago. Her favorite thing to do was sit and draw while he worked a game booth. She drew all sorts of things, but a lot of the time she drew him; this was the drawing of him she liked most.

In it, he looked out at the horizon, at nothing, yet the seriousness of his expression suggested he saw something, something important. She touched the drawing lightly, careful not to smudge the pencil. She traced her finger along the line of his strong jaw, then across his high cheekbone.

He liked her art. He thought she was good. Really good. He had told her so. And he hadn’t laughed when she told him she was going to be an artist someday, that she was going to be famous.

Skye’s cheeks burned as she remembered telling him that. Afterward, she had wished with all her heart that she could take the words back, but he had been really cool about it. He had told her to keep believing in herself. He had said that someday her belief in herself might be all she had to hang on to.

Skye drew her eyebrows together, recalling his expression. He had looked so determined. And so alone. Swallowing hard, she glanced back at the drawing of him and tilted her head to the side as she studied it. What was he looking at? she wondered. When he stared off in the distance that way, what did he see?

She would never know. Like her mother, Chance had secrets.

Chill bumps raced up her arms. Suddenly, the trailer was too quiet, the night too black. Suddenly, Skye was afraid. She moved her gaze around the room. The shadows in the corners seemed darker, fuller, as if they hid someone. Or something.

Something cold. Evil. Something that watched her.

With a squeak of terror, Skye threw aside her sketch pad, scrambled out of bed and out of the room. Her mother had taken the foldout that night. She would let Skye curl up with her; she would protect her from the dark things.

But her mother wasn’t there.

Skye stared at the empty couch, heart pounding. “Mom,” she whispered. Then louder, “Mom!”

Her voice resounded in the empty trailer. Her mother was gone.

She was alone.

The sound that had awakened her, Skye realized. The sound of their front door snapping shut. The sound of her mother leaving.

Her mother leaving. Skye thought of all the times they had picked up in the middle of the night and moved on. She thought of the things they had left behind each time—furniture, her toys, their food, no matter how full the refrigerator or pantry.

Maybe this time her mother had decided to leave without her. Maybe this time she had decided that it would be Skye she left behind.

Skye couldn’t breathe. She curved her arms around her middle, fighting hysteria. What did she do now? What did—

Her mother always took their clothes. Always. Heart in her throat, Skye raced back to the bedroom. She yanked open the narrow wardrobe, then each of the drawers in the built-in chest, riffling through the contents—her mother’s underwear, her favorite blouse, the housecoat she had worn so much the fabric was nearly transparent in places. Nothing was missing.

Nothing except her mother.

Skye wandered back to the open couch. She sank onto its edge. As she did, paper crackled. Frowning, she stood and dug under the rumpled bedding and pulled out a section of newspaper.

She flipped on the light to get a better look. It was the front page of the Philadelphia Inquirer, two days old. She stared at the newspaper, something tugging at her memory. That’s right. Her mother had picked up the paper at the Laundromat the other day. Skye remembered her taking a section of the paper with her when they’d left.

Skye screwed up her face in thought. After that, her mother had begun acting weird. Jumpy and distracted. Short-tempered.

She quickly scanned the page’s headlines: Reagan Sets Foreign Policy; Train Derails Outside City, Four Killed, Dozens Hurt; Jewelry Designer To Host Benefit; Mob Boss Set…To…Testify.

Mob boss. Skye’s legs began to shake, and she sank to the edge of the bed, rereading that last headline again, then the article accompanying it. The article detailed the start of the grand-jury investigation into allegations made against the head of the East Coast’s most notorious crime family.

She had been right. Her mother was on the run from the mob.

Maybe what she had heard hadn’t been the sound of her mother leaving, but the sound of her being taken away.

Taken away.

With a cry of terror, Skye jumped to her feet and ran to the bedroom to dress. She would get Chance. He would know what to do; he would be able to help her. She pulled on her denim cutoffs and a T-shirt, folded the piece of newspaper and stuffed it into her pocket, then raced out into the night.

Skye made it to the trailer he shared with the other guys, and not wanting to wake anyone but Chance, went around to the back side, to the window nearest his bunk.

She grasped the razor-thin ledge and stood on tiptoe. “Chance,” she whispered. “Wake up. It’s me. Skye.”

From inside she heard a rustle of bedclothes and a moan. She waited a couple moments, then tried again. “Chance, wake up. It’s Skye. Wake up, please.”

A minute later his face appeared at the open window. He looked as if he was still asleep. “Kid?” He passed a hand across his face and yawned. “What are you doing out this time of night?”

“I need your help.” She hugged herself hard. “I don’t know what to do!”

“What are you talking about?” He eased up the screen, stuck his head farther out and looked around. “It’s awfully late. Does your mom know you’re ou—”

“She’s gone!” Skye cried. “I woke up…I don’t know why, except I thought I heard a sound. But it was really quiet…and all of a sudden I had this feeling and…and I was really scared.” Her teeth began to chatter, and she rubbed her arms. “So I went to curl up with her, and she was…her bed was…” Skye burst into tears.

“Oh, geez. Don’t cry…” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. “Hold on. I’ll be right out.”

A couple minutes later, Chance emerged from the trailer. Skye stumbled toward him. “What am I going to do, Chance? How are we going to find her?”

Chance put an arm around her. “Come on.” He led her away from the trailer, to a grassy spot by a scrubby-looking tree. They sat down, facing each other.

Chance caught her hands and rubbed them. “You’re getting all upset about nothing. She probably went for a walk.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Here you are, and it’s the middle of the night. I bet she couldn’t sleep and decided the night air would help.”

Skye shook her head, wiping roughly at her tears. “But she’s never done that before! I know she hasn’t.”

“How can you be so sure? Maybe every other time you just didn’t wake up.”

Skye caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “At first I thought maybe she’d left me for good. But her clothes are all there. But now I…I think she might have been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” he repeated, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Skye, don’t you think that’s just a little far-fetched?”

“No. Look at this.” She leaned forward and dug the folded newspaper page from her pocket. She held it out. “Here.”

Chance took the paper, unfolded it, then met her eyes. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”

She reached around him and pointed. “This, about the mob guy.”

Chance read it, then shook his head. “You think this has something to do with your mother?”

Skye nodded, tears welling again. “I found it on the sofa bed. She must have been reading it and now…and now she’s…gone.”

She started to cry again, but softly this time. “What am I going to do, Chance? I don’t have anybody but her.”

He scooted forward, put his arms around her and patted her back. “Look, kid, your mom didn’t run away and the mob hasn’t kidnapped her. She went for a walk. Or to meet a friend.”

“She wouldn’t do that.” Skye pressed her face to his chest, the beginnings of one of her headaches pushing at her. “Besides, you don’t understand. I think she’s…that we’re…I think we’re in some sort of trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

Skye rubbed her temples. “I don’t know. She won’t tell me. But we’re…always moving around. We pick up in the middle of the night sometimes and just…go. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

For a moment he was silent, and Skye tipped her head back to meet his gaze. “Chance? You think it’s strange, too, don’t you?”

“What I think doesn’t matter. Ask your mom.”

“I did. She says we’re nomadic adventurers.”

He made a sound of amusement. “Sounds about right, kid. More right than the mob being after you.”

“It’s not funny!” She stiffened. “She won’t tell me where I was born or what my father’s name was. She says he’s dead, but that’s weird, too. If he’s dead, why won’t she tell me about him?”

“I don’t know, Skye. She must have her reasons.”

Skye moaned, the pain in her head intensifying. She pressed her hands to her temples and squeezed her eyes shut, battling it.

“What’s wrong?”

“I get headaches. Bad ones.” She drew in a sharp breath. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, right. Come on, I’m walking you back. You need some aspirin or something.”

“Wait!” She grimaced as pain knifed through her skull, and her vision blurred. “Did your mom keep that kind of stuff from you? Stuff about your dad?”

Chance laughed, the sound rough. “Hell, no. I wish she had, though. My father was a real prick.” He stood and pulled her gently to her feet. “Come on. I’m getting you home. I’ll bet your mom’s there, waiting for you. She’s probably worried sick.”




Chapter Twelve


But Claire wasn’t there. Chance stood in the center of Skye and her mother’s obviously empty trailer, working to hide his dismay, trying to decide what he should do next. Skye was beside herself, hysterical with worry, her headache nearly unbearable.

Even so, she refused to take her headache medicine, because she said it sometimes made her sleepy. She told him she was afraid to go to sleep. Finally, by promising he wouldn’t leave until her mother returned, Chance convinced her to take two of the tablets and lie down.

He sat on the floor beside the bed, the space so small he barely fit. He forced a breezy smile, all too aware of the time that had slipped past. “It’s going to be all right, kid. Any moment your mom’s going to walk through that door. And boy, are you going to feel silly then.”

She searched his gaze. “What if she doesn’t?”

“She will.”

“Where’s your mom?”

He hesitated a moment, feeling her question like a punch to his gut. “She’s dead.”

“Oh.” Skye drew her eyebrows together. “What happened? I mean, was it an accident or—”

“She got sick,” he said roughly. “And then she died.”

“Oh.” An awkward silence stretched between them. After a moment’s hesitation, she cleared her throat. “Chance?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s it like? Being without a mother?”

“I don’t think about it much. Not anymore, anyway.”

Tears flooded her eyes, and he knew she was thinking about her mother, thinking that she would never see her again. He leaned toward her. “It’s bullshit, Skye. She’s going to be home any minute.”

“But wha’if she’s not?” Her words slurred slightly, and he knew the medicine was kicking in.

“She will be.”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Don’t…leave me. You promised.”

“Yeah, I know. I promised, and I won’t.”

Within moments her eyes closed and her breathing became deep and even. He stayed beside the bed, anyway, watching her while she slept. Silly, sweet Skye. She liked to play the tough kid, the invincible one. But that wasn’t the way she looked now. She looked young. And soft. And lost. He lightly touched his index finger to her cheek, then drew his hand away, surprised by the rush of tenderness he felt for her.

He’d never had a brother or sister, though once upon a time he had wanted one. Someone to share things with, someone to belong to when his mother didn’t have the time—or inclination—to belong to him.

That had been a long time ago. So long he had almost no memory of it anymore. He’d been lonely, he supposed. Ages ago, back when he had needed people to make him happy. To make him feel safe.

He unwedged himself and crossed to the door. There, he stopped and looked back at her. What she had told him earlier, about her and her mom picking up and moving in the middle of the night did sound weird. But the mob? No way. That was just too Hollywood.

No, Claire was probably trying to stay a step or two ahead of the bill collector. She had probably refused to tell Skye anything about her father because she didn’t even know who he was.

Ugly but true. Too ugly, he supposed. Too true to tell a little girl who loved her mother.

After one last glance at Skye, he went to the front of the camper to wait. He sat. He paced. He checked—and re-checked—his watch. The minutes ticked past. Still Claire didn’t show.

He shook his head. She probably had a boyfriend and had sneaked off to fuck her brains out.

Even as the thought filtered through his head, he acknowledged to himself that it didn’t ring true. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know Claire well, hardly at all, in fact. She could be a raving nympho, for all he knew.

But he had seen the way she looked at her daughter. He had seen how much she loved Skye. Nothing meant more to Claire than her daughter, and certainly not some small-town, back-lot fuck. Maybe he was being naive, but he didn’t believe Claire would leave her daughter alone to go do that.

Then, what had she left her alone to go do?

Even as the question registered, he heard her at the door. A second later, she stepped into the kitchen, saw him and stopped dead.

“Hello, Claire.”

She looked past him, toward the back of the trailer where Skye slept, then back, her expression alarmed. “What are you doing here?”

“I think the question is, why weren’t you here?”

“I went out for a walk. I couldn’t sleep and—”

“It’s the middle of the night!” He jumped to his feet. “Jesus, Claire, Skye was scared to death. She came to get me, she was so scared.”

Claire paled. Her hand went to her throat. He saw that it trembled. “I’m sorry. Like I said, I couldn’t sleep, and I…” She turned her head toward Skye’s bedroom. “Is she asleep?”

“I think so. She took a couple of those headache tablets, but only after I promised her I’d stay. She was afraid to be alone.”

Tears flooded Claire’s eyes. “Thank you, I’ll…I need to see her. Excuse me.”

Chance thought about leaving, then decided against it. Something didn’t sit right with Claire’s explanation. Skye was right, her mother acted as nervous and jumpy as a cat. She was afraid of something. Or someone.

Chance took a seat at the dinette and waited. From the bedroom, he heard the sound of muffled voices. And of tears, though whether Skye’s or her mother’s he wasn’t sure. Maybe both.

Several minutes later Claire reappeared. She looked shaken. “I can’t believe I…I didn’t think she would wake up. She’s always been a sound sleeper and…”

Her voice trailed off. She met his eyes. “I need a drink. You want a beer?”

“Sure.”

She went to the mini-fridge and took out a couple of beers. As she opened the door, a shaft of light speared through the dark kitchen, illuminating her expression. Something was wrong. Definitely.

She handed him a bottle of beer. “Glass?”

He shook his head. “This is fine. Thanks.”

Without another word, she slipped into the booth across the table from him. She took a swallow of the beverage, her gaze on a place somewhere over his right shoulder. He was reminded so vividly of his mother he winced.

He shook the thoughts off and narrowed his gaze on Claire. “What the fuck’s going on?”

Startled, she swung her gaze to his. “Pardon me?”

“You don’t add up. Neither does Skye. Why are you traveling with this two-bit outfit?”

“Why are you?”

“It’s a way out. It’s not permanent.”

“It’s not permanent for us, either. It’s just for the summer.”

“Same question still applies.” He brought the bottle to his lips, tipped his head back and drank, his gaze still on hers.

She looked away first. “What question was that?”

“Please, give me a little more credit.” He set the beer sharply on the table. “Why are you here? You don’t belong. You’re too…” He cocked his head, studying her, trying to put his finger on what it was that had bothered him about her all along. “You’re too classy. These people are rough, they’re a breed all their own. You have other options.”

“Maybe I like it.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Thank you for helping Skye.” She slid out of the booth and crossed to the door. “Good night, Chance.”

He met her eyes but didn’t stand. “Skye thinks you’re on the run from the mob.”

She caught her breath. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“She brought me the front page of a newspaper. On it there’s this bit about a mobster set to testify day after tomorrow in Philadelphia. She found the newspaper on your bed and put two and two together. Is she right, Claire?”

“No.” She shook her head for emphasis. “Not even close.”

He gazed speculatively at her for a long moment. “Then, what is close?”

“This is none of your business, you know. I’d appreciate it if you left now.”

“It became my business tonight. When you weren’t here.”

“I made a mistake, Chance. I shouldn’t have left her alone. It won’t happen again.” She opened the door. “But thank you for your concern.”

He slid out of the booth and crossed to her. “Skye thinks you’re in some sort of trouble. She’s thinks you’re running from something. Or someone. If not the mob, Claire, who? Skye’s father?”

She opened the door wider, then motioned out with her half-full bottle. “I’d like you to leave now.”

“Fine. My pleasure.”

As he moved past her, she caught his arm, stopping him. “I love my daughter, Chance. More than anything. I’d move heaven and earth for her, I’d face the most unspeakable evil to save her. And that’s all you need to know.”

Something in her expression told him that she had already faced the unspeakable for her daughter. But that didn’t change what had happened tonight. He looked her square in the eye. “I’m sure you do love her, but she thought you either ran away or were taken away. And she was really scared. I think you need to face that. I think you need to deal with it.”

She dropped her hand. “Good night, Chance.”

He took her invitation to leave, turning back to her when he had cleared the stairs. “You know, Claire, Skye doesn’t buy what you’ve told her about her father. She doesn’t buy that you pick up and move in the middle of the night because you enjoy it. Frankly, I don’t buy it, either.”




Chapter Thirteen


The weeks slipped by. June became July; the Fourth came and went. The initial days of August brought both blistering heat and, unbelievably, the first tinges of fall’s golden hues. Marvel’s had traveled from Pennsylvania, through West Virginia, up to Ohio, and was now deep into small-town Indiana. From Indiana, the show would head south, winding its way through the Deep South on its way back to winter quarters in Florida.

Chance planned to be long gone before then. As would Claire and Skye, he knew. The question was, who would be the first to leave.

It didn’t really matter; either way, he would miss them.

Over the past weeks, the three of them had become friends, forming a kind of family. Chance supposed sharing that strange, emotion-charged night all those weeks ago had, on some level, connected them, for after that they had slipped into a familial role. They helped each other, they kept each other company, they filled the empty hours between gigs together. Chance took many of his meals with them, and always breakfast, as that was the one meal they all had at the same time during show runs.

Most mornings he would wander over to their trailer on the pretense of saying good morning, and Claire would offer him coffee and eggs. It had gotten to be a kind of joke with them, about how his morning stroll always ended up in a home-cooked meal.

In truth, he liked to check on them in the mornings, just to make sure they had made it through the night, to make sure that one or both of them hadn’t disappeared. For, as the weeks had passed, Claire had seemed to become jumpier, more nervous. She had lost weight; her eyes had taken on a hollow, hunted look.

And as those weeks had passed, Chance had come to believe that Skye was right about her mother. She was in some sort of trouble; she and her daughter were on the run from something. Or someone.

He wondered who. He wondered where Claire was from and what had happened to Skye’s father. Though when he did, he reminded himself that they, like his stint as a carny, were only temporary. He reminded himself that Marvel’s was only a means to an end; their friendship only a way to fill a few hours.

In truth, he was glad he didn’t know more about the mother and daughter, glad that Claire didn’t offer up personal information the way she did eggs and bacon in the morning. Because then he would feel compelled to share himself with them, then he would feel closer to them.

He preferred his isolation. He preferred some distance. He had never belonged, not anywhere or with anyone. He never wanted to worry about having to say goodbye.

Chance alighted from his trailer and tipped his face to the turbulent gray sky, the early-morning sun obliterated by the approaching storm. The weather forecast called for rain across the entire region for the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours. An extensive line of slow-moving thunderstorms, some possibly severe, was headed their way. The night before, Marvel had told them all to hold on to their butts, it looked like this one was going to be a doozy. For the first time in a decade, he’d ordered an early teardown. Depending on how the weather played out, they would either batten down the hatches and sit tight or pick up and try to outrun the weather.

Either way, the next few hours were going to be a real bitch.

“Chance!” Skye ran toward him, eyes wide. “Did you hear about the weather? A twister touched down in Fulton!” She skidded to a halt, then fell into step with him. “I can’t believe it.”

He cut her an amused glance from the corner of his eye. “You’re awfully charged up this morning.”

“It’s just so exciting! That twister touching down and all.”

“You’re right,” he teased, “we could all be killed in the blink of an eye. That is exciting.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she skipped out in front of him. “Do you think Marvel’s going to have us haul out early?”

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Chance shook his head. “All these trailers on the road? No way. I think we’re here for the duration.”

As they walked the rest of the way to her and her mother’s trailer, Skye kept up a constant flow of excited chatter. Her mother was making her favorite for breakfast, French toast; she mentioned that damned twister three more times and shared some gossip she’d heard about Len and a girl back in Florida. Then she mentioned that her mother had had a nightmare the night before.

“A nightmare?” he repeated. “What about?”

“I don’t know, but she screamed. And when I ran in to check on her, she was all sweaty and out of breath.” Skye pursed her lips. “She has nightmares a lot, but lately…lately they seem to be worse.”

Chance wanted to ask Skye more, but they had arrived at the trailer. They stepped inside just as Claire set a heaping plate of French toast in the middle of the table.

“’Morning,” she said, turning back to the range. “Get it while it’s hot. You know where the coffee is.”

Skye didn’t need to be told twice; she grabbed a plate, piled on several pieces of toast and drowned them in Aunt Jemima’s. Chance took his time. He poured himself a cup of coffee—a taste he had acquired in the past two months—took a seat at the table and filled his plate.

“So,” Claire asked, “what do you think? Are we going today or staying?”

“Skye asked me the same thing.” He poured syrup over his toast. “Staying, I’m certain of it. It would be too dangerous to be on the road.”

“I agree.” Claire sat across from him. “Better safe than sorry.”

She speared a piece of toast with her fork; Chance noticed that her hand shook. He shifted his gaze to her face, and made a sound of concern. She looked like hell.

He told her so, and Claire laid her napkin in her lap. “I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”

“I told him about your nightmares,” Skye said around a mouthful of food. “I told him you had one last night.”

“It’s no big deal. Really.”

Claire met his eyes, then motioned toward Skye and shook her head. He nodded, understanding that she didn’t want to talk in front of Skye.

Twenty minutes later, after sending Skye out for an updated weather report, Claire turned to Chance. “I need a favor.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I need you to watch Skye for a while. Tonight, after she’s gone to sleep.”

“After she’s gone to sleep?” he repeated, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.”

“No, really. It’s nothing, I just—”

He caught her hand and looked down at her nails. They were raw, bitten to the quick. He met her eyes. “You practically jump out of your skin every time someone speaks. You’re constantly looking over your shoulder, and you’re not sleeping. I don’t have to be a fortune-teller to know something’s wrong.”

She snatched her hand away. “You’re not a fortune-teller.”

“Exactly my point. You want to tell me what’s going on? Maybe I can help.”

For a moment he thought she was going to feed him the same line of bullshit she usually did. She opened her mouth, then shut it again. Turning away from him, she crossed to the sink and stared out the small window above it.

“I wish you could help,” she said softly. “But you can’t.” She swung to face him. “I have to go into town. I have to make a…phone call, and I…I don’t want to leave her alone. Especially with the storm.”

“Why can’t you take her with you, Claire? Who’re you calling? Skye’s father?”

“No!” She shook her head for emphasis. “No.”

“Last time, that night you disappeared, is that where you were? Making a call?” She shifted her gaze, and he had his answer. He held out a hand to her. “I know you’re in some sort of trouble, Claire. And I’m pretty sure it has something to do with Skye’s father.”

“Well, you’re wrong. It has nothing to do with him.” She caught his hands. Hers were like ice. “I need your help. I need you to do this for me. Will you? Yes or no?”

“Claire—”

“Yes or no? It’s important, Chance.”

He hesitated, not at all certain he was doing the right thing, then nodded. “What time do you want me here?”




Chapter Fourteen


Claire had asked Chance to come at ten-thirty. She checked her watch, thankful to see it was almost that now. She could hardly think for the terrible sense of urgency, of impending disaster, pressing in on her. She had to call Dorothy. Now, tonight. She had no more time, she felt that keenly, with every bit of psychic ability she possessed. She and Skye had run out of time.

Shuddering, Claire glanced toward the back of the trailer, at the closed bedroom door. Skye was asleep and had been for better than a half hour. Still, Claire worried about her waking, worried about how she would explain where she was going if she did.

The wind buffeted the camper, rocking it; several particularly strong gusts seemed to actually lift it off the ground. She crossed to the door and peered out, struggling to see through the driving rain, feeling suffocated in the tiny trailer. She thought back to her last call to Dorothy, to the way she had sounded—distracted and nervous. Guilty, even.

Claire froze, searching her memory. After seeing the bit in the newspaper about Monarch’s having hosted a charity benefit in Philadelphia, she had, on impulse, called Dorothy. But she hadn’t told the woman anything that would give them away. Had she? She’d been just as careful as always.

Claire checked her watch again. Ten-thirty. Finally. She collected her rain slicker and car keys and went to the door to wait. She had unhitched her car from the back of the trailer before the rain started; after lunch she had darted into town and filled up its gas tank. While there, she had bought a sack of nonperishable food for the car and two gallons of water. Her and Skye’s duffel bags were in the camper, stuffed into the storage compartment above the dinette. The pouch of gems was already tucked into her duffel, just in case. She couldn’t chance forgetting them.

That she and Skye might be leaving the carnival tonight was a very real possibility.

It all depended on what Aunt Dorothy said. It all depended on Pierce.

Claire drew in a deep, shaky breath. Even if Dorothy reassured her, she might choose to leave, anyway. The advent of the school year wasn’t that far off; if she and Skye left now, it would give them more time to get set up someplace. That would be good for Skye, it would be good for her, too.

She had laid the groundwork for her and Skye’s departure with Marvel already: she’d told him that they had friends nearby, and if he didn’t mind they would wait out the storm with them. She’d told him that she had asked Chance to watch their camper while they were gone, because of the storm. Marvel hadn’t asked any questions, he had merely nodded and muttered something about wishing he could wait out the storm elsewhere, as well.

Claire rubbed her arms, chilled. She couldn’t go on this way, not knowing, unable to sleep for the nightmares, for the horrible feeling of doom that hung over her and dogged her every waking moment.

Last night the nightmare had been particularly vivid. The monstrous dark bird had nearly had Skye, its great, sharp talons had closed around her. Claire had snatched her daughter away, a moment before the longest of the talons had pierced her daughter’s heart.

Claire had awakened out of breath and drenched with sweat. And she had known, just as she had known every time in the past, that Pierce was close to finding them.

He had never been so close before.

Chance arrived. They spoke little, though the silence between them was heavy with her anxiety and his unasked questions. For one moment, she considered telling him the truth, sharing her fear. The desire to lean on someone, to have someone support her, even if only a boy, was so strong it took her breath. It had been such a long time since she’d had someone to lean on, someone to be strong for her.

But in the end, she knew she could depend on no one but herself. It had always been that way; she feared it always would.

Promising Chance she would be back as quickly as she could, she headed out into the storm.

The trip to town took nearly three times as long as usual because of the wind and driving rain. She had planned to call from the pay phone in the tavern; she hadn’t planned on the place being so crowded. It seemed the entire town of Ridely had decided to wait out the storm drunk.

Claire picked her way through the crowd, heading for the back of the bar and the phone. A woman stumbled over to her and grabbed her arm, though Claire wasn’t sure whether to get her attention or to steady herself. The woman reeked of booze.

“You’re that psychic, ain’t you? From the carnival?”

Several people turned, and Claire averted her face. The last thing she needed was to have a roomful of people able to confirm having seen her.

“Please, leave me alone.”

“Aw, come on.” The woman swayed. “Tell my fortune. I need to know if that big stud over there is gonna take me home tonight.” She laughed and winked at Claire. “I could use a little premonition, you know.”

That’s precognition, Claire wanted to shout. Instead, she leaned closer to the drunken woman. “Leave here, now,” she whispered. “I see something terrible happening to you here.”

The woman paled. “Here?”

“Yes. You must hurry. Tell no one you saw me.”

The woman backed away, eyes wide.

“And don’t drive drunk,” Claire added, “just in case I’m wrong about where I see the terrible thing happening.”

“I live just around the corner.”

“Good. Go. Now!”

The woman turned and ran, stumbling, bumping into people, earning their glances of amused disgust. Feeling almost sorry for the woman, Claire went to the phone. She hated doing that, but she couldn’t chance the woman making a scene.

A stool was positioned in front of the phone; Claire moved it out of the way and after depositing a fistful of change, she dialed. Dorothy answered on the third ring.

“Dot, it’s me. Madeline.”

“Madeline? Thank God! I’ve been hoping and praying you’d call. You must come home. You must! If you do, I know he’ll go easier on you. I know he will.”

Claire’s stomach sank. She knew the answer to her next question, but she asked it anyway. She had to. “What’s happened?”

“He’s found you.”

A squeak of terror raced to her lips. Claire’s knees gave and she sank to the stool.

“Tonight, we all had dinner at the Astor Street house. Pierce was positively preening. He told us that a private investigator had found you. He said that within twenty-four hours Grace would be returned to the family and to Monarch’s, where she belonged. He said you were so close he could smell your stench.”

Claire squeezed her eyes shut, battling for breath. It was her every nightmare coming true; her every fear being realized.

“There’s more. He said he has everything in place and that you’re going to pay for what you did. That you deserved whatever you got.” Dot’s voice rose to a hysterical pitch. “He said you would never see Grace again. Never! I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Claire bowed her head, paralyzed by what she was hearing. The monstrous dark bird was almost upon them. She had been right. She should have trusted her premonitions and gone, weeks ago.

“It’s my fault, Madeline. All my fault. I didn’t mean to hurt you or Grace. I really didn’t. I only wanted you and Grace home, where you belong. I thought Pierce would bring you home and we’d all be a family again. It’s all I wanted.”

Dorothy’s words registered, and Claire straightened. “What are you saying? You didn’t know where I was. You didn’t—”

“Your last call, about the paper. Since you’d seen an article about the benefit, I figured you must be somewhere in the Philadelphia area. Then, while you were talking, someone yelled at you and I…I…”

Now Claire remembered. While she had been talking, a man had wanted to use the phone. He had been loud and insistent. He had called her carnival scum. How could she have been so stupid?

“I thought I would help all of us,” Dorothy continued. “I never believed Pierce would carry through on his threats, after all you’re Grace’s mother. She needs you and I…I…” Her voice trailed off miserably. “Come home, Madeline. Please.”

“How could you, Dorothy?” she whispered. “You know why I ran. I told you about Griffen. I told you what he…did. He means Grace harm, he—”

“You’re wrong about him, Madeline. You always were. He’s grown up, going off to college in a few weeks. He’s responsible and so handsome. Girls love him, Maddie. If what you thought was true, do you think girls would flock around him the way they do? Please, just come home. It’s not too late. I’m sure, if you did return of your own free will, Pierce and Adam would forgive and forget. Grace belongs here, with her family. With Monarch’s.”

Claire only half heard the last, her mind racing, scrambling to think of a way out of this, a way to escape.

“Madeline? Are you still—”

“Does he have pictures of Grace?” she asked, interrupting, a thought occurring to her.

“What? I don’t—”

“Does he know what Grace looks like?” Claire gripped the receiver tighter. “Does he?”

“I don’t think so. Because Griffen asked. He wanted to know what she looked like and Pierce said he didn’t. But why do you—”

“Griffen,” Claire interrupted, cold racing over her. “He was at dinner.”

“Of course.”

The line crackled. “He said he’s anxious to have his sister back. He’s been waiting for her, he said. He loves her, Madeline. He could never hurt her, he—”

Claire hung up the phone, her world crumbling around her. She never should have trusted Dorothy, she was given to fits of emotionalism and poor judgment. And she was a Monarch, after all. To her, the family and the family business were everything. Everything.

And Dorothy, like everyone else, hadn’t believed her. She hadn’t seen Griffen’s obsession as dangerous; she hadn’t witnessed the scene in the playroom; she hadn’t seen Grif-fen’s expression as he hurt Grace.

It had been like looking into the face of pure evil.

Claire began to shake. Pierce was close. So close he could “smell” her. They would take Skye away from her. Easily. She might even go to jail. She probably would.

Who would protect her baby then? Her head filled with the image of what she had stumbled upon all those years ago. Griffen holding Grace down, his hand over her mouth to silence her cries for help. His other hand up her dress. Inside her underwear. Touching her, violating her.

Claire brought a fist to her mouth, holding back her sound of horror. Griffen had not changed. She knew he had not. Dorothy’s words had said it all—he was anxious to have his sister back. He had been waiting for her.

She had to run. They had to run.

But they would be looking for her. Claire dropped her head into her hands. Except for her hair color and cut, she had changed little in the seven years she had been gone. And although Skye looked completely different, they would recognize them together. They would be looking for a mother and daughter—her and a daughter.

Together, because of her, they would recognize Skye. But apart…

If she left Skye, if she went on without her, Skye would be safer.

Claire shook her head, not believing what she was thinking. She couldn’t leave Skye. How could she live without her baby, even if only for a few weeks.

But if Pierce got her, she would never see her again.

Susan. The image of her oldest friend popped into her head. Though as different as two people could be, they had been as close as sisters, growing up. From the first grade on, they had seen each other through both triumphs and heartaches, through the upheavals of youth and the giddy fears of early adulthood.

Pierce had put an end to that. She and Susan had fought over Claire’s decision to marry Pierce; Susan had warned her about Pierce, she had said awful, ugly things about him, things Claire hadn’t been able to accept. Hurt and feeling betrayed, Claire had accused her friend of being jealous and bitter.

Susan had been right, of course. Claire should have known. Susan had always been right. Where she, Claire, had struggled through school and made one poor choice after another, Susan had sailed through both school and life.

Pride had kept Claire from calling her friend when she had realized the truth about her husband and marriage, it had kept her from calling her for help when she ran with Skye.

Until about a year ago. Claire had awakened one morning to realize that pride was a silly, stupid thing and that she needed her friend, that she wanted to talk to her. She had located Susan through her parents, and called. It had been like nothing had ever happened between them. They had both cried, so happy to talk to each other.

Claire had told her everything. Everything. About Pierce’s abuse and threats. About Griffen’s obsession with his half sister and the horror she had witnessed. She had told her about Adam’s nearly strangling her, and of how she’d escaped. Susan was the only person in the world who knew who Claire and Skye Dearborn really were.

It had been so good to talk to her again, so good to have someone she could share her fears with. Since then, they had spoken several times. Each time, Susan had begged Claire to come live with her. She was an English professor at St. Mary’s College in Notre Dame, Indiana. She would help her, she promised. And if Pierce found them, she would help Claire fight him.

Claire had declined each invitation. She had been too afraid. Susan didn’t understand the power of the Monarch family. She didn’t understand the lengths they would go to have their girl back.

And her friend didn’t understand the depths of Griffen’s dark obsession. No one did but Claire.

“Lady, you paying rent on that stool, or what? I gotta use the phone.”

She looked over her shoulder at the dripping-wet, red-faced man who stood behind her. “Sorry,” she murmured, sliding off the stool. “It’s all yours.”

Claire made her way to the bar, got a glass of wine then returned to the phone. The man was still talking, so she took a seat at the empty booth adjacent to it. She sipped the slightly sharp cabernet, her hand shaking so badly some of the wine sloshed over the side. She sipped again, then sagged against the booth’s ripped vinyl back. She couldn’t do what she was contemplating. Leave Skye? Even if only for a few weeks? How could she bear to be without her?

What other option did she have?

Claire closed her eyes, thinking again of Susan. Susan was the one person she knew well enough, the one person she trusted enough, to leave her precious baby with.

Susan would help her. If she asked her to come for Skye, if she asked her to keep her—hide her—for a while, she would. Claire could give Pierce and his private investigator the slip. She could run tonight, in the height of the storm’s fury; she had already laid the groundwork for her and Skye’s disappearance. Everyone would think that they had gone together. Of course they would. When Pierce’s P.I. showed up, Chance could point them in whatever direction she had asked him to.

She dropped her head into her hands. If Pierce caught them, he would take Skye away from her. He would take Skye back to that dark, joyless place. Skye would be at Griffen’s mercy.

The monstrous dark beast was almost upon them.

The red-faced man hung up the phone and walked away. Claire took a gulp of her wine, screwed up her resolve, stood and crossed to the telephone. She deposited some change, dialed Susan’s number, then said a silent prayer that her friend was home.

The phone rang once, twice, then three times. Answer, Susan. Please answer. And then she did, her voice thick with sleep.

“Susan, it’s me.”

“Madeline?” Claire could almost hear her come awake. “What’s wrong?”

Claire took a deep breath, dangerously close to tears. “I need your help.”

“You’ve got it.”

Claire glanced over her shoulder, then turned her back to the crowded room, hunching over the phone’s mouthpiece. “Pierce has found us. He’ll be here…soon. He means to take my…he means to take—”

Her tears spilled over so violently she couldn’t speak. Her friend waited out her tears, allowing her time to compose herself enough to finish. “He means to take Skye away from me. He means to see to it that I go to…jail. He said I would never see her again.”

“My God, Maddie, what can I do?”

“I need you to come get Skye. I need you to keep her for me, for a little while. I’ll give them the slip. I’m their only link to her.”

“I’ll leave now, Maddie. Don’t worry, your daughter will be safe with me. I’d die before I’d let that bastard get his hands on her.”




Chapter Fifteen


Chance opened his eyes. Claire stood in front of him, dripping wet, visibly shaking. He blinked, realizing that he must have fallen asleep. “Claire?” he said, glancing around the trailer, dark save for the intermittent flashes of lightning from outside. “What time is it?”

“I need your help,” she said, ignoring his question, squatting in front of him, taking his hands. Hers were as damp and as cold as death. “Please, Chance.”

He straightened, fully awake now. He searched her gaze, a sinking sensation in the pit of his gut. Something terrible had happened. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I need you to watch Skye for…for a while longer. Please, I—” Her words dissolved into tears. She bent her head to their joined hands, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.

“My God, Claire, what’s—” He drew in a ragged breath. “Of course I’ll watch Skye. Go do what you have to do. I’ll stay.”

“You don’t understand.” She lifted her tear-streaked face to his. “You don’t understand. He’s coming. He’s almost…I have to go.”

She looked lost. Devastated. Chance closed his fingers around hers. “Who’s coming? Where do you have to go?”

“There are some people after us. They mean us harm. They mean Skye harm.” She struggled, he saw, to compose herself. “Tonight I learned that they’re close.”

“I don’t understand…what do you mean they’ll hurt Skye? Who?” He sucked in a sharp breath, alarmed. “Claire, this sounds a little nuts. You’re exaggerating, right?”

She shook her head, her teeth chattering. “If they…find us…I might never see Skye again. They’ll take her away from me. And they’ll…there’s someone who’ll hurt…he’s hurt her before.”

“How close are they?”

“Very close. I don’t know what I…what I—”

Tears choked her, and she released his hands, stood and went to the window. Outside, the storm raged, vivid jags of lightning ripping through the night sky. She hugged herself, rubbing her arms as if to ward off the cold.

She turned to face him once more, her expression bleak. “They could be here tomorrow night. I’m hoping the weather slows them up. I need to put as much distance between us as I can.”

“Jesus, Claire.” He crossed to her. “Who are they?”

“I can’t tell you.” She caught his hands again, begging. “You’re safer not knowing. Skye’s safer. You have to trust me on this. Please?”

He nodded, and after drawing in a shaky breath, she continued, “I have to go away. Now. Tonight. I have to go as far and as fast as I can. And I—” She tightened her fingers on his. “I have to go without Skye.”

“Without Skye,” he repeated. “I don’t understand how—” But then he did, and he took a step backward, shaking his head. “Oh, no. You’re not leaving her with me. No way.”

“It would only be for the rest of the night and a few hours tomorrow morning. A friend’s coming for her. Someone I trust completely. She’s already on her way. She’ll be here by 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. Maybe sooner. Please, Chance. I have no one else to turn to.”

“I still don’t understand. Why not take Skye with you? Or meet this woman halfway?”

“These people have pictures of me. But not of Skye. And it’s Skye they want. It’s Skye they’ll hurt.”

“Son of a bitch. Claire, I…this isn’t a small thing. This isn’t—” He swung away from her, wishing he could think straight. Wishing he could block out her desperation, block out the way she looked at him, like if he didn’t help her she would be lost. “You can’t be serious about this, you can’t mean to go…without her. You can’t.”

“Skye’s all I have. She’s in danger. I have to protect her, even if it means—”

Her throat closed over the words, choking them off. She cleared it and took a step toward him. “I’m begging you, Chance. I have no one else to turn to. Skye has no one else. They’re almost here.”

He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes. This felt wrong, somewhere, deep down, in the pit of his gut. But he didn’t know what to tell her to do instead. He didn’t see what other choice she had.

He sighed and faced her once more. “What’s your plan?”

“I leave now, tonight. I slip out during the storm, tomorrow my friend Susan comes for Skye. I’ll rendezvous with them later, when I know it’s safe. It’ll probably only be a couple of weeks.”

“What if something goes wrong? What if this Susan doesn’t show up? What if these people show up before she does?”

New fear shot into her eyes. She shook her head, as if denying the possibility. “They won’t. They can’t. And I trust Susan completely. I’ve known her all my life, she won’t let me down.” Claire drew in a deep, uneven breath, catching his hands once more. “Will you do this for me, Chance? Will you do it for Skye?”

He looked into her eyes, knowing he couldn’t refuse her. She needed him; she had no one else. It would be for only a few hours.

He nodded and her breath caught on a sob. She brought his hands to her mouth. “Thank you, Chance. Thank you, I—” She drew away from him, looking almost frantically around her. “I have to pack now. I have to go as soon as I…I have to go.”

“Wait.” He caught her arm. “What about Skye? When are you going to tell her?”

She wasn’t going to. Even as Claire’s eyes flooded with tears, he shook his head. “You can’t do this. You can’t leave without telling Skye. I won’t let you.”

“I have to. If I wake her, I won’t leave without her. I won’t be able to, and she…she won’t let me. I have to do this, Chance. I have to. For Skye.”

He saw how close to falling apart she was. One nudge and she wouldn’t be able to go. One nudge and she would take Skye with her.

He couldn’t give her that nudge. Claire’s desperation was real; her terror was real. He was afraid for Skye.

Feeling helpless, he watched as she took an empty duffel from the storage space above the dinette, then went to the wardrobe, located right outside Skye’s closed door. She quietly and quickly took out her clothes, folded them and shoved them into the bag. From there she went to the bathroom for her toiletries, then the built-in chest for some folded clothing items. It took her less than ten minutes to pack.

“I have a couple of boxes in the outside storage,” she said, fastening the clasps on her bag. “I’ll get them on my way out.”

She scrawled a name and phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “It’s Susan’s number, just in case you…need to reach her. She’ll always know where I am.”

She carried the duffel to the door, dropped it and turned to him. Her eyes were bright with tears, and when she spoke, her voice shook. “Don’t tell anyone what’s going on. Not anyone. I’ve already told Abner that Skye and I were waiting out the storm with a friend. I had to have an explanation for unhitching my car. I told him you were watching our trailer through the storm.”




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