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She smiled gratefully at the tall, balding man. Randy was a sweetheart and he never failed to make her feel better, no matter how badly the day had gone. If she let him, she suspected he’d give his right arm to make her happy, although he’d never come out and asked her for a date or made any kind of obvious move. He was too professional for that, but even more importantly, he sensed the wall Alex kept around herself and respected it.
“I’m too tired to go home and go to bed,” she lied. “I think I’ll just hibernate here like some big old bear until January. Is that okay?”
He strolled into her classroom and perched on the edge of her desk. “No fancy trips this year? No big vacation?”
Alex shook her head and explained Ben’s situation.
“I’m sorry to hear he’s so ill.”
“I am, too.” She sat down at one of the tables in front of her desk. “Ben’s a nice guy.”
“Your divorce was amicable, I take it?”
“Very. The last thing Ben Worthington would do is make a fuss over a divorce. He’s too much of a gentleman.”
“But the marriage didn’t work?”
Alex didn’t discuss anything personal with anyone. She couldn’t. “No,” she said in a curt voice. “It didn’t work.”
Her sharpness brought him to his feet. “I guess I’d better head home. If you get bored during the break, give me a call. There’s a new Mexican place over on Guadalupe Street. We could hit it.”
Alex felt a sweep of guilt—she shouldn’t have been so harsh—but she kept her face noncommittal. “Sure.” She nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. It sounds like a lot of fun.”
Then their eyes met and both of them knew she wouldn’t call.
He left a few minutes after that. Relief washed over Alex as she picked up her purse and briefcase to follow his path out the door. Randy was the kind of guy any woman would be thrilled to have. Any woman but Alex.
She didn’t want anyone in her life, so it was always best to head off relationships before they started: You never knew when the other person might up and disappear.
GABRIEL O’ROURKE watched the bartender flick his rag at the caged parrot hanging over the bar. The sight provided the most entertainment Gabriel had had in the past two days. There wasn’t much to do in Baja this time of year. Or any time of year, but that was exactly why Gabriel came here, or so he told himself.
He’d left the Agency the year before, and he hadn’t given a damn about anything during that time. Caring cost more than he had to give, emotionally and physically. Burned out and disillusioned, when he needed money he did contract work for the government.
He took a sip of his lukewarm Dos Equis and listened to the conversation of the people sitting behind him in the bar. They’d come in late last night, two couples from Denver. The men had talked incessantly about fishing, but Gabriel had the feeling they’d already been hooked. One blonde, one redhead, the women were much younger than the men and their jewelry outshone the lights above the bar. Gabriel wondered idly if the men’s wives knew where they were.
“Well, pecan is my favorite.” One of the women behind him spoke in a deep Southern accent, the words drifting over Gabriel’s shoulder along with cigar smoke from the man at her side. Gabriel glanced at her in the mirror above the bar—it was the blonde. “We always had it on the table when I was growing up. It’s just not Thanksgiving without pecan pie.”
The redhead said something, the men guffawing at her reply, but Gabriel didn’t hear her. His brain was still trying to absorb what the first woman had said.
Until that very moment, he hadn’t realized tomorrow would be Thanksgiving.
A shadow glided across his memory, the whisper of a young woman with a pale face and stunned expression. He blinked and tried to send her away, but he failed as always. Standing up, he threw a handful of pesos on the bar and left, the cool breeze from the ocean hitting his face as he walked outside.
The ghost of Alexis Mission followed him.
Opening the screen door to his bungalow, Gabriel stepped inside the one-room shack. He grabbed another beer from a cooler he kept stocked, then he turned and went back outside to the porch. Fifteen yards away the Pacific Ocean rolled endlessly, the sky beyond it so dark and deep it made him dizzy just to look at it. He’d been on the sandy strip of beach for a week, his original reason for coming the same as the men in the bar—the fishing. He had yet to rent a boat though, and when he was honest with himself, he knew he probably wouldn’t. He’d come to Baja to recuperate, not to fish.
The month before, he’d finished another job for the Agency…and another relationship, and he’d wanted somewhere private to lick his wounds. Usually he missed the former more than the latter, but this time had been different.
He’d met the woman in a bar and Gabriel had been shocked when she’d come to his table and sat down to strike up a conversation. Like men everywhere, he’d kept his mouth shut and let her do her thing, his ego inflating with each admiring glance she’d sent his way. She’d been beautiful and smart and ambitious. Younger than him, too, a helluva lot younger, but then again…weren’t they all?
She’d moved in two weeks later and out after two months. He’d packed up his shit and left San Diego. It wasn’t home anyway—no place was home. He’d come down here.
And now it was almost Thanksgiving.
Gabriel stared at the water but Alexis Mission’s face formed in the waves and mocked him. Like still photos framed inside his mind, he saw snapshots of her life, times when he’d been there and she’d never known. The rough period right after Los Lobos. The emergency room, then the recuperation. The paintings. Her wedding. The divorce. Her job. Each event had brought him close to her…but never too close.
Gabriel had told so many lies in his work he couldn’t remember them all, but he’d never forgotten the ones he’d told Alexis Mission.
Back then, though, catching Guy Cuvier had been his only goal. The man had gotten away with stealing American technology for years and Gabriel had been so determined to stop him that nothing else had mattered. The result had been disastrous and the deception still haunted him: Alexis Mission’s parents hadn’t been killed. And Richard Mission hadn’t witnessed a murder.
He’d committed one.
It’d been self-defense, of course, but Richard had shot Guy Cuvier. Gabriel had worked quickly, knowing nothing but a total disappearance could keep the Missions safe afterward. He’d been wrong about that and regretted the decision as much as he now regretted telling Alexis that her family had died. The idea had seemed like a bad one at the time; in retrospect, it was the worst thing Gabriel could have done.
In the past few years, it seemed as if things had begun to smooth out for Alexis. The new name had become her own, the town her home, the life, one she liked. Deep down, however, Gabriel often wondered if her adjustment was genuine. In his eyes, she wore her past like a mask she couldn’t take off. The divorce had set her back, too. Before she’d even married the guy, Gabriel had predicted the outcome. Ben Worthington had been too old for Alexis. He was incapable of giving her what she searched for, what she needed.
Truth be told, Gabriel had actually thought at one point about making contact with her, but he’d held back. Why disrupt her life a second time? Six months after Los Lobos, part of the lie he’d told her had actually come to pass, but there was no good reason to revive her sorrow. She’d already grieved for her parents and brother—unearthing an empty grave just to dig a real one was too cruel to even consider. Gabriel carried enough guilt as it was.
He told himself she wouldn’t have listened to him, anyway. Before leaving the cold mountains outside of Los Lobos, Alexis Mission had made herself perfectly clear; he was the last person on earth she ever wanted to see again. She hated him.
Gabriel hadn’t felt the same way about her. He’d made a promise to watch over her, but for the past ten years that pledge had meant nothing to him.
He’d kept vigil over Alexis Mission because he couldn’t stay away.
THEY SAID they heated the pool, but the water still felt icy to Alex. She stuck her big toe into the deep end and tried not to think about it, choosing instead to simply dive in and swim. As it was with most things, that seemed to be the best policy. With even, steady strokes she sliced through the water and quickly reached the other end. Touching the cold tile with her fingertips, she sucked in a breath then flipped over to head back the way she had just come.
The natatorium wasn’t usually empty but it might as well have been tonight. Only two other swimmers occupied the lanes to either side, their strokes splashing loud enough to keep her company. Everyone was sleeping off their Thanksgiving feasts; going to the YMCA was the last thing on their minds.
In general, Alex liked it when no one else was around and she was the only one in the water. Tonight, though, she welcomed the other swimmers. There was something creepy about the echoing walls, something unnerving about the size of the room.
She was nervous and edgy, more behind her anxiety than just the holidays: For the past few days she’d been sure someone was following her. Every time she’d stepped outside her apartment, she’d experienced the horrible sensation of eyes on her back. Her neck would tingle and she’d look around sharply, but so far she’d spotted no one. The feeling refused to leave, however.
Thrusting these thoughts away, she swam for almost forty minutes, her arms and legs growing heavy toward the end. A half-hour workout was her usual maximum, but tonight she wanted to tire herself out completely. She finished the final lap then clung to the edge of the pool and fought to regain her breath. When her huffing and puffing slowed and she looked around, she realized everyone else had left. She was all alone.
Paddling quickly to the edge of the pool, Alex climbed out and grabbed the towel she’d draped over a chair. She made her way to the ladies’ locker room and within fifteen minutes, she’d showered and dressed and was on her way to the parking lot.
The day had been a repeat of Alex’s other Thanksgivings. Over the years, she’d developed a finely tuned ritual, a way she both remembered then walked away from her past. The rite was never completely successful of course, but one day it might be. One day she might find herself unable to recall every single detail.
As she always did, she’d started the morning by writing a letter to Toby. There were ten of the white envelopes now, sitting in a box, just waiting. He would never read the letters, of course, but they weren’t for her little brother anyway. They were for her. She didn’t want to forget him. When she finished that task, she sat back and closed her eyes. The memories she kept tightly guarded the rest of the year were then allowed out.
The empty house. The icy road. The look on Gabriel O’Rourke’s face when he’d told her her family was dead. As soon as she could, rendering the images with sharp, swift strokes, Alexis had re-created the photo that he’d ripped from her hands that night. Holding that sketch, she sat in the middle of her bed and let the past flood her. At first, the ritual had almost killed her, but lately, the mental pictures had begun to dim. If she hadn’t had her charcoal memory, her mother’s eyes would be a blur now, her father’s expression a dim relief. Alex wasn’t sure if this was good or bad.
She immersed herself in the pain for an hour and then she stopped. The ghosts went back into the lock-box she kept inside her heart. The framed drawing returned to its position on her nightstand and she forced herself through the day.
The YMCA had been a last-minute addition to her routine. Because of her anxiety about being followed, the ritual hadn’t cooperated and the past kept breaking in, flashes of the night she wanted to forget coming back. Reaching her car, Alex knew she’d have to think of something else to do to keep it all at bay. She’d pick up some movies, she decided impulsively, throwing her gym bag into the car and starting it. Something that would keep her mind more occupied than the book she’d been saving for that evening.
She stopped at the video store down the road from her apartment and grabbed two mindless films. The Thai place next door was open, so she went in there as well and ordered takeout. By the time she reached home, she’d managed to kill another hour. Glancing down at her watch, she figured she only had four more hours to endure. She’d allow herself a single sleeping pill then hopefully wake up to a day with fewer memories.
The parking lot of her apartment was almost as empty as the YMCA’s pool had been. The complex was a small one near the University of Texas campus and a lot of the university people lived there. Students and professors alike, they were a transient bunch, coming and going with each semester, a fast turnover of neighbors who fled during the holidays and summer. Some people wouldn’t have liked it for that very reason, but that was exactly why Alex had selected the apartment. She didn’t want long-term neighbors who had to know your life’s history. When you didn’t have one you could talk about, conversation turned stilted.
Tonight, though, just like at the pool, she would have welcomed a few more souls. The hollow echo of her tennis shoes slapping the sidewalk was too reminiscent, the cold too chilling, the empty feeling too familiar. She had friends she could have called, other teachers, people from church… A number of them had even invited her to their homes for the holiday meal, but she’d turned down all the offers as she always did at Thanksgiving. She needed to be lonely on Thanksgiving.
But knowing this didn’t diminish the emotion. Or the feelings of being frightened that were mixed with the loneliness. She ordered herself to buck up. She’d get through this year just as she had the other nine. By sheer grit and determination.
Alex climbed the stairs to her second-floor landing, then shifted the gym bag and the two plastic sacks to her left hand so she could unlock her door. Stepping inside, she closed the door behind her and locked it once more.
Then she froze.
Something wasn’t right.
Someone had been inside her apartment.
Her glance shot to her right, into the well-lit living room. Her apartment was close to the pool and the lights from the patio came through her blinds at night. Bright lines sifted their way through the open slats to reveal the sofa and two chairs. They were empty. To her left, behind a wall, was a small kitchen.
Alex carefully emptied her arms, the sacks going to the floor, her gym bag dropping silently to a nearby table. With her eyes still sweeping the room in front of her, she felt behind her for the bat she kept by the front door. Gripping the taped handle with both hands, she advanced into the entry, her back to the wall, and lifted the bat to her shoulder as she stepped around the wall.
The kitchen was as empty as it had been when she’d left.
Her pulse ringing, Alex returned to the hallway that led to the guest bedroom. The room served as her studio and was filled with art equipment, a worktable and a potter’s wheel, a small loom and drawing supplies. As she eased around the doorway, her eyes jerked to one corner, her heart stopping with a violent thump. A tall shadow was poised by the window. A second later, her scream died in her throat.
She was looking at her easel.
Sick with fright, she returned to the corridor and forced herself to continue. The guest bath was empty, too. The only rooms left were her bedroom and bath.
She crept toward the back of the apartment, her palms so wet her grip on the bat was slipping. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t done the extra laps at the pool. The polished piece of oak felt as if it weighed fifty pounds. She wasn’t sure she could swing it if she had to.
But her bedroom was just as empty as the rest of the place, the white matelassé bedspread smooth and pristine, her slippers tossed carelessly beside the bed, her robe in the chair on the right. Her chest eased slightly, her fear starting to fade.
It wouldn’t have been the first time on Thanksgiving that she’d imagined the presence of another person in her home.
Her bathroom was as empty as the rest of the place.
She was alone and no one had been in her apartment. The day had gotten to her, that’s all. Her imagination—and her memories—were conjuring ghosts.
Her shoulders slumped and Alex leaned weakly against the tiled wall, taking a deep breath. Then the heat came on, and all at once she caught a whiff of gardenias. Her mother’s favorite fragrance.
Alex knew what she smelled wasn’t really there—it couldn’t be—but her body went cold, her blood refusing to go through her veins. She held her breath for as long as she could, then she slowly released it and inhaled again. The scent was gone.
Letting the bat slip from her fingers, she waited for her heart to slow, the beats gradually subsiding from a pounding rhythm to a steady pulse. After a bit, she looked into the bathroom mirror and shook her head at what she saw. Her face was an oval of white, her expression frightened and anxious. She lifted her hands and nervously fingered her hair, the strands still limp and damp from her shower at the pool.
Returning to the living room, she sent her glance to the corner of the room. For years, she’d had nightmares after Los Lobos. She dreamed the same thing each time; she’d come home, unlock the door, and there would be a man waiting in the living room. Grabbing her by the arms, he would pull her toward the wall, then the wall would disappear, a huge hole replacing it. Looking straight into her eyes, he would pitch her into the darkness. Before she hit the bottom, she always woke up, shaking and screaming.
The man was faceless. But she knew who he was.
Turning abruptly, she went into the kitchen. She grabbed a plate from the cabinet above the sink and dumped the container of pad thai into its center, sticking it into the microwave and punching the buttons with a trembling finger. She forced her mind into a blank state that didn’t allow for any thinking.
Hours later, she woke up on the couch, her neck stiff from the hard cushions, her legs cramped. The clock read one-thirty, her dirty dishes were spread across the coffee table and the movie she’d rented had stopped on the DVD. She stumbled to her feet and thought about cleaning up, then rejected the idea. The mess would be fine until morning—she didn’t want to wake up enough to deal with it. Her mind would grab the opportunity to go into high gear again and she’d never get back to sleep.
Feeling her way to the bedroom, Alex peeled off her clothes and dropped them at the foot of her bed, reaching for the nightgown she’d left on the chair. Her eyes half-closed, she found the silky garment and slipped it over her head. She didn’t bother to wash her face or brush her hair. She simply yanked back the covers and fell into bed, her gaze flicking automatically toward the frame on her bedside table. Looking at those long-ago lost faces was the last thing she did every night and the first thing she did every morning.
She blinked once, then once again, her groggy brain not understanding the message her eyes had just sent. Finally, she reached out with a trembling hand and turned on the bedside lamp.
The nightstand was empty. Her sketch was gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
PARALYZED BY WHAT she didn’t see, Alex held her breath and tried to understand. She was sure the drawing had been there that morning. She distinctly remembered sitting in the bed and holding it in her hands, staring at it, in fact.
Had she dropped it? Knocked it off the table? Put it somewhere else? Her heart lurched as she recalled the perfume she’d thought she’d smelled earlier, but she instantly pushed the idea aside. She was crazy to even think about it. Her mother was dead.
Throwing off the covers, Alex fell from the bed to the floor where she began to search. Looking around to the back of the table and then underneath the bed frame, she found nothing but dust balls. No glint of silver, no paper with charcoal smudges…nothing.
She jumped to her feet and ran into the bathroom. The countertop was as uncluttered as always, a box of tissues and her makeup bag taking up one corner, her toothbrush, a can of hair spray and some jewelry clustered at the other end. Feeling foolish, she drew back the shower curtain. The empty tub gleamed.
Her consternation grew, but as Alex made a quick circuit of the apartment, she realized the rooms were exactly as she had left them when she’d gone to sleep on the sofa. Not a thing had been touched, not even the cash she kept in a jar in the kitchen for emergencies. Nothing was missing. Except for the sketch.
Panic swept over her. She fought the crushing weight, but it was stronger than she was and all at once she couldn’t breathe. Nausea came with the suffocation. She clawed at her throat, then gave up. Half running, half stumbling, she made it into the living room and grabbed the phone at the end of the couch.
She meant to dial 911, but her fingers punched out a different number. It was already ringing when she realized what she’d done.
“SEÑOR! Señor Bradford…”
Gabriel halted his unsteady progress across the hotel lobby as the clerk behind the counter called out his current alias. Sunburned, cranky and more than halfway tanked, Gabriel had actually gone fishing late that afternoon. By the time he and his guide had cleaned their catch, cooked it and finished the beer, midnight had come and gone. Glancing to where the clerk stood, Gabriel decided to blow him off. Then he looked at the man’s face. He wore such an anxious expression Gabriel immediately changed course and went straight to the desk.
“You have a message.” The clerk reached behind the counter. “Several of them. A woman has been calling you more than one times. She did not believe me when I told her you weren’t here. It is not good news, señor. You have my condolences…”
A ripple of unease went down Gabriel’s spine and the bit of buzz he’d had left instantly.
Without a word, he took the pink message slips from the clerk. There were three of them and they each had the same message.
Grandmother has died. Call home immediately. Your loving sister, Samantha.
Gabriel stared at the writing and willed the words away, but when he looked again, they hadn’t disappeared. He had no sisters by that name or any other. His grandmother had been dead and gone for twenty-five years, his father for five. His mom had disappeared when he was seven and no one had seen or heard from her since.
This message was from his drop number. Someone had called him.
With the clerk’s repeated sympathies still ringing in the lobby, Gabriel made his way to his bungalow. He never left the country without calling the Agency and giving them his itinerary. It was a good thing old habits die hard, he guessed, his heart beating against his ribs.
Once inside, he went straight for his bags. Digging into his duffel, he found his phone—a palm-size unit that used an encoded satellite line. He dialed the number from memory then glanced at his watch as it rang. It was almost one-thirty in the morning, but where he was calling they didn’t sleep.
The woman who answered didn’t acknowledge him in any way. She simply began to speak.
“You had a call at 1:40 a.m. central standard time.”
He calculated quickly. The south of Baja was an hour behind CST. The original call had come into the center more than forty-five minutes ago. He waited for the operator to continue, but she said nothing else.
“No message?”
