Shadowkiller (15 page)

“No. Someplace quieter. I can't do this tonight.”

Visibly relieved, she nodded and held out her hand. She didn't say she was glad to get out of here, and she didn't say that everything was going to be okay.

She didn't say anything at all, and for that, he was grateful.

A
llison was smiling when she walked into her apartment just after midnight.

Who'd have thought Justin the biologist would turn out to be such an accomplished kisser?

Or that this blind date would lead to plans for Sunday?

He'd actually asked her out for tomorrow night, but she told him she was busy, which was the truth. She didn't elaborate, though. No reason to tell him that her plans involved seeing the new Julia Roberts movie,
Erin Brockovich
, with her best friend. Why not let him think he might have some dating competition?

“How about the next day, then? Brunch?”

“Sure,” she said, and after one last kiss, she sailed into her building.

As she turned on a light and kicked off her shoes, she noticed that the answering machine was blinking across the room. She made her way over to the phone, shrugging out of her coat and draping it over a chair as she went.

“You . . . have . . . three . . . new . . . messages,” the machine's electronic voice informed her.

She guessed that at least one would be from Luis, and she was right.

“Allison, I cannot
wait
until tomorrow night! My friend Thomas just saw the movie and he said Julia
is a-may-zing
! I swear she's going to win an Oscar for this one! Call me if you don't get home too late!”

This wasn't too late by Luis's standards, she knew, but after her pleasantly surprising romantic evening, she wasn't in the mood to listen to him gush over his movie idol. She erased the message and listened to the next one.

“Allison, it's Brett.”

Her brother? Why was he calling?

All he said was “Give me a call when you can.”

She erased that message, too, and moved on to the last.

“Allison, it's Brett again. It's past ten o'clock. Are you there? . . . Allison? . . . No? Okay, I left you a message a couple of hours ago and I thought maybe you didn't get it. Call me back.”

It was definitely too late on Brett's end, even though his time zone was an hour behind. He'd be getting up in a couple of hours to milk the cows, and would probably be eating lunch by the time she rolled out of bed.

She toyed with the idea of returning the call now regardless of the hour, curious about what he might want to say.

Then again, no one welcomed a wee-hour phone call.

And he probably just wanted to rehash their conversation Tuesday about her trying to find her father. But what else could he possibly want to say about that? He'd advised her to forget about the search, and she'd agreed.

A return call, she decided, would just have to wait until tomorrow. Why dredge it up now and ruin what was left of her afterglow?

T
he all-night diner was just down the block from the PATH station, and crowded at this hour on a Friday night. There were groups of teenagers, couples, cops and senior citizens. Several limo drivers sat at the counter, chatting with the waitresses and each other—obviously regulars who came here to kill time while they were waiting for their customers to call for a pickup, or on their way to Newark airport and back.

At a table in the very back of the restaurant sat a group of men. Most wore dark shirts under their suit coats, and some had on pinky rings or gold chains. They could have stepped off the set of
The Sopranos
, that new HBO series about Jersey mobsters.

Sitting in a booth nearby with Mack, Carrie was still trying to absorb all that had happened this evening.

She didn't know which had caught her more off guard: Mack's willingness to walk out of his parents' house with her in the midst of the festivities, or her own reaction to what had happened there; not her utter dismay at the party pandemonium, but the fact that she liked this guy enough that she hadn't bolted the moment that crazy lady pinned a green flower to her coat—or sooner.

It had been bad enough when Mack was swallowed up by the crowd right after they arrived, leaving Carrie alone in a sea of strangers. But when that woman popped up shouting, “Happy Saint Patrick's Day! I'm Aunt Nita!” and stuck a corsage on her without asking . . .

At first Carrie had merely been stunned. By the time she found the presence of mind to protest, Aunt Nita had moved on to assault someone else.

What on earth am I doing here?
Carrie wondered as she stood alone by the door, desperately scanning the crowd for Mack. She didn't belong here in this house, with these people  . . .

And that meant she didn't belong with him.

Or did she?

So many possible scenarios had crossed her mind when she thought about what might happen to her in New York, but this—falling for Mr. Nice Guy who had a nine-to-five job and a big circle of friends and a close-knit family—this was not one of them.

She wasn't used to that kind of life, by any means. Growing up in the middle of nowhere, miles from the closest town, she'd gladly kept to herself. So, for the most part, had her mother. As for her father . . .

What her father had done, or hadn't done, didn't matter.

The point was, Carrie wasn't comfortable in crowds. Not at parties, anyway. She was fine on the subway or on the city street, where people minded their own business and largely ignored each other. But when you were supposed to mingle with strangers who asked nosy questions that could lead to trouble . . .

“Are you here with Mack?” a freckle-faced, ginger-haired woman about her own age had asked, right after he left her side.

“Yes.”

“From the city?”

She nodded.

“Did you grow up there? Or are you from someplace else?”

It was none of her business where Carrie had grown up, and she almost said it. Instead, she just ignored the question and turned her back on the redhead.

She knew she should get out of there, and fast—but she also knew that if she did, she'd never see Mack again.

She should want that—should want to put as much distance as possible between them as possible, because this was dangerous territory. But she didn't want it. She didn't want to leave.

Always listen to your gut.

Her gut was telling her to stay, so she stood in the spot where he'd left her, avoiding eye contact with everyone else, waiting for him to find her again. Just when she'd all but given up hope—there he was. He took her arm, and suddenly, everything was okay again.

Until
he told her he wanted her to meet his mother.

To his credit, he didn't push her. Still, she immediately regretted going upstairs with him, too far from the escape hatch for comfort. Especially when he told her she wasn't allowed to have a cigarette, which might have taken the edge off her nerves.

A grown man who hid his smoking habit from his parents didn't sit well with her. She'd taken it as a good sign that he didn't live under his parents' roof, but he might as well.

Waiting there on the bed in his boyhood room as the minutes ticked by, she had grown increasingly uncomfortable. She reminded herself that she could still be out of the house—even down the block and back on the PATH train—in a matter of minutes.

She was about to flee when suddenly, she spotted it.

A dream catcher, just like the one her father had hung in her window when she was a little girl.

“Only good dreams can get through that web,” Daddy had told her, and somehow, as she sat there on Mack's bed staring at it, that was exactly what happened.

A dream—just a daydream, a pipe dream, but it was definitely good—drifted into Carrie's head. She saw herself with Mack. He had his arms wrapped around her from behind, holding her against him. It was so real she thought she could feel his heart beating against her back and feel his chin resting on her shoulder; so real she dared to think that it could actually come true.

But of course, it couldn't. He could never love someone like her.

Why not? He asked you out, not once, but twice. He likes you. Like can turn to love. That's how it's supposed to happen, isn't it?

For ordinary people, maybe. People who didn't have terrible secrets buried in their distant—and not so distant—past.

Carrie would never be free of what had happened to her. What her father had done. What
she
had done.

She stood up, walked to the door, stepped into the hall—and there, she saw Mack.

The way he was standing, with his head tilted back against his mother's bedroom door and his eyes closed, caused something to shift deep within Carrie.

He seemed utterly alone, radiating emotional isolation. That might have been off-putting to some, but to Carrie, it was a beacon. She had assumed Mack was vitally connected to all those other people, those insufferable, nosy people.

But perhaps his life wasn't irrevocably intertwined with the others'. His mother wouldn't be around for much longer, and he'd mentioned that his father, too, was ailing . . .

Maybe there was hope after all, she thought. If he wasn't a package deal . . .

Once again she was ensnared in the happy dream-catcher vision of her future.

She
might
be able to handle a relationship. Just with Mack—as opposed to the many new ties she'd have had to make—or fake, or fend off—with his friends and family members.

Yes. It could work, if it was just the two of them.

Dipping his last French fry into ketchup, he said, “I've done all the talking here. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. You have a lot going on.” He'd told her about his mother's illness, and his father's, and feeling as though his life was on the verge of changing forever.

She had listened intently and made sympathetic comments here and there, but inside, she rejoiced. He was clearly coming to a crossroads.

Just like I did, before I came to New York.

Mack was going to have to build a whole new life for himself, whether he wanted to or not.

Just like I did.

But what about her new life?

What about finding Allison and making things right?

Somehow, that had mattered less to her these last few days. Why?

Because she'd met Mack?

Or because she'd met Ralph?

Ah, Ralph. Maybe taking care of him had allowed her to get it out of her system—maybe for the long run, now that she'd found Mack and dared to dream of a future with him.

Ralph's body had been found, though it wasn't yet identified. There had been a small article in yesterday's
New York Post
, easy to miss if you weren't looking for it.

Carrie had been looking.

She wasn't worried. She had gone over every scenario—every possible way anyone could ever connect her to that crime—and come up with absolutely nothing. She'd covered her tracks well. Much better than the last time.

But that was years ago. She was older now, much wiser. She'd done her homework.

Thanks to you, Daddy.

Wasn't
that
ironic.

The waitress appeared to clear away the remains of Carrie's sandwich and the empty plate that had held Mack's burger and fries.

“Would you like coffee and dessert menus?” she asked.

“I'll have coffee,” Carrie said. “No dessert.”

“Want to share a piece of pie?” Mack asked.

Imagine that. Imagine sharing a piece of pie with him, like boyfriend and girlfriend. The vision that popped into her head was so cozy that it unnerved her, and she stammered, “No—no, thanks.”

Mack ordered a piece of apple pie and told the waitress to bring two forks anyway, “Just in case.”

“Coffee for you, too?”

“At this hour? No, thanks.”

“Does it keep you up?” Carrie asked him when the waitress had stepped away again.

“It doesn't help. I haven't found anything that does. I've had insomnia most of my life. Especially lately. I can't remember the last time I slept through the night.”

“That's understandable, with all that's been going on.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He sighed. “I don't want to talk about that stuff anymore. It's your turn now. Tell me about you.”

Just like that, she was uncomfortable again, filled with misgiving.

Why am I here?

What am I supposed to say to him?

She cleared her throat. “There's not much to tell, really.”

“Don't be shy. You're not the only good listener at this table.”

“I just . . . I don't know what you want to know.” She'd already told him, on their first date, that she'd lost both her parents years ago. He didn't press her for details. Maybe he sensed that it was a painful subject. Or maybe, facing that loss himself, he just didn't want to know.

Now he said, “Start with the easy part. Where are you from?”

Easy? Ha. None of it was easy.

If she told him the truth, even just the name of the rural South Dakota county where she'd been born, she'd be opening the door to more questions. If she didn't answer them, he'd be suspicious. And if she did, and they continued to see each other, and he ever decided to go poking around in her past . . .

No, she couldn't tell him the truth.

“Carrie?”

“It's a long story.”

“Where you're from is a long story?”

“Yes.”

“I've got all night.” He rested his chin on his hand.

“My parents and I . . . we moved around a lot. So I'm not really from any one place.”

“Was your father in the military or something?”