Читать книгу Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson - Страница 8

Help me!

Maggie froze.

The old Maxwell House coffee can she used as a grain scoop slipped from her fingers. It hit the floor. Bam! Oats sprayed. Horses tossed their heads and neighed. Her legs buckled, and she grabbed hold of a rough-hewn post supporting the hayloft.

Maggie, please! Only you can help me.

“Mary Theresa?” Maggie mouthed, though no sound passed her lips. Was it possible? After all these years would her sister’s voice reach her? The barn seemed suddenly airless. Close. Cold sweat collected on her scalp though the mercury level in the old thermometer tacked onto the wall near the door dipped below fifty degrees.

It was Thane. He did this to me. The voice pulsed through her brain.

Thane Walker. Mary Theresa’s ex-husband and the one man Maggie never wanted to lay eyes upon again.

“Did what?” This time she spoke out loud, though her throat was as tight as dried leather, any saliva that had been in her mouth long gone.

Maggie, please, don’t let him get away with it…

“Where are you?” she cried, spinning, looking up to the ancient rafters where an owl had taken up residence. Feathers and dust motes swirled in the faint shaft of light from a lone, circular window mounted near the ceiling. She knew that spoken words were useless. Mary Theresa was hundreds of miles away. So far. So damned far. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to throw her thoughts to wherever her twin might be. But it wouldn’t work. It never had. Nonetheless, she tried screaming in her mind: Mary Theresa, can you hear me? Can you? What did that bastard do to you?

She waited.

Nothing.

A restless mare snorted.

“If this is some kind of sick joke…” she said, though her heart was pounding a million beats a second. “Mary Theresa, I swear…”

Anxious, as if picking up the tension in the air, the horses shifted in their stalls, hooves rustling the straw, muscles quivering under coats that were becoming shaggy as winter approached.

Maggie shuddered, the inside of her skin quivering as it always had when Mary Theresa had contacted her through their own special means. Mental telepathy. Instinct. Magic. Witchcraft. ESP. Clairvoyance. Maggie had heard all the terms and slurs, knew that most people considered her eccentric at best and just plain crazy at worst. Slowly, her fingers sliding down the post and gathering slivers, she sank to her knees and rested her head against the solid wood.

She concentrated, willing her breathing to return to normal. Come on, Mary Theresa, come on. One more time. Eyes closed so tightly they ached, she strained to hear, but the only sounds that reached her ears were the constant rustle of hooves in straw, hot breath blowing out of nervous nostrils, the scratch of tiny claws as mice scurried along the concrete floor, hiding in the cracks and crevices of the old barn. “Don’t stop now,” she whispered, her teeth sinking into her lower lip until she tasted blood.

Nothing.

“Damn you, Mary Theresa…or Marquise or whoever you think you are. Talk to me!”

The inside of the barn felt as if it were freezing, and yet cold perspiration broke out all over her skin. “Mary Theresa—”

“Mom?” Becca’s voice sounded far away. The door to the barn creaked open, and a shaft of fading daylight sliced into the musty interior. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Fine,” she forced out, climbing to her feet and dusting her hands on her jeans. She managed a weak smile, hoping it would mask her lie a little.

Becca with her freckled face, eyes a little too large and a lot too serious for the age of thirteen, was instantly suspicious. “What were you doing in here?” She motioned to the post. “Praying?”

“No—”

“You were on your knees, Mom. Did you, like, have a heart attack or a stroke or what?”

“I was just feeding the horses and I, um, needed…a rest.” Maggie cringed inside because the lie was so ridiculous, but what could she say? That her sister, whom she hadn’t heard from in months, was finally contacting her through telepathy? She’d learned from past experience that no one would believe her, especially not her nearly estranged daughter.

Becca eyed the empty coffee can that had rolled against a burlap sack of feed. “Right.”

“I was. I just…well, if you want to know the truth—”

“That would be a change.”

“Becca,” she reproached, then held her tongue. The strain between them was palpable. Mother and daughter. How had they grown so far apart when they had once been inseparable?

“I…” Oh, God, how would she explain this—this connection she had with her twin? This weird way of communicating when it hadn’t happened in years. “It…It was…just a little spell.”

“A little spell?” Becca repeated, nodding her head as if she had expected just such an answer from a mother she could no longer trust, a woman who had single-handedly ruined her life. Turning away, she didn’t bother hiding the fact that she rolled her eyes.

Frustration caused a headache to pound behind Maggie’s eyes, and her fingers curled into fists. She’d love to tell Becca the truth, but then her daughter would just think she was crazy. Anyone who had heard her try and explain about the odd connection she had with Mary Theresa did. “Yes. A spell. When you get older—”

“You’re only thirty-seven, Mom. You keep telling me it’s not exactly ancient.”

Thirty-seven and sometimes it feels like seventy.

“Maybe you should see a doctor. Another one.” Was there just the hint of concern beneath the sarcasm?

“Maybe I will.” Maggie bent down, picked up the can and found a push broom hanging from a nail. “Nothing to worry about.” She swept with long, sure strokes, though she was still shaken. There was a chance she hadn’t heard anything after all. Maybe she was just overworked—exhausted from the move and the emotional turmoil that she’d been through.

Becca lifted a thin adolescent shoulder. Beneath her baggy polar fleece sweater and faded jeans, she showed off the beginnings of a womanly figure. “I, um, thought I’d go for a ride.”

“The sun’s gonna set soon.”

“I won’t be gone long. What do you care anyway?”

“I care, okay?”

“But I’ll take Jasper. You said yourself he’s more sure-footed than any other horse you’ve ever seen.”

It was useless to argue. No reason to. Becca was right. “Just be back soon, okay? For dinner. Before it gets dark.” She hung up the broom and scooped another ration of oats.

“No one’s gonna get me out here in the middle of nowhere,” Becca said as she pulled down a bridle. “It’s not like when we lived in California, you know, in the middle of civilization.”

“Just be careful.”

“Always am.”

“Take Barkley with you.”

“He’ll come whether I want him to or not, but he’s not much of a watchdog.”

“Just take him.”

“Fine.”

“And let Jasper finish his dinner first, okay?”

Becca rolled her eyes again, then let out a theatrical long-suffering sigh, but she did as she was told, leaving the bridle draped over the top rail of the stalls and even going so far as to grab the pitchfork and toss hay into the mangers. They worked in tense silence, the argument simmering between them. It took all of Maggie’s willpower not to make small talk or criticize her daughter. Patience, she told herself. The resentment will fade. Give it time. Lots of time.

When Becca was in one of her the-world-is-against-me-and-it’s-all-your-fault moods, anything Maggie said would only exacerbate the situation. She had learned it was better to hold her tongue. Besides, Becca wanted answers, and what could Maggie say? I heard your flamboyant aunt’s voice while I was feeding the stock. It came to me right here in this barn, hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away from her? Yeah, right.

When Jasper had eaten his fill, Becca brushed and saddled him, then slid a bridle over his head and walked the gray gelding to the pasture. The rest of the small herd snorted, nipped at each other, and tossed their heads as if they, too, were restless within the confines of the barn. Maggie leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and watched as Becca climbed into the saddle. Whistling to Barkley, their adopted German shepherd, Becca rode through a series of gates to the Forest Service land, where scrub brush was interrupted by stands of jack and lodgepole pine trees. The dog, with his mangled right ear and bad hind leg, followed right behind, loping easily on three legs across the dry acres that were guarded to the east by the Bitterroot Mountains.

Maggie rubbed her arms. Today, her jacket didn’t seem to keep out the cold of coming winter; or maybe it was because she realized how very much she and Becca were alone. Just the way Maggie had wanted it. As far from the city and all the painful memories of L.A. as she could get.

Becca leaned low over Jasper’s shoulders and eased him into a gallop. The scruffy dog, despite the injuries he’d sustained in a losing battle with a raccoon, loped easily behind as they approached the hills. Becca and Barkley. Both broken souls, Maggie thought anxiously as she ignored the first mournful cry of a coyote hidden somewhere in the distance.

The moon, a smiling crescent that shimmered in opalescent tones, had already risen, though the sun was still undecided about settling into the western horizon where a jet’s wake sliced across the sky before disappearing into a thin veil of slowly gathering clouds. In the fields, cattle stirred, chewing their cuds, switching their tails, lumbering without much grace near a stream that sliced sharply through the fields.

Yes, it was peaceful here, she thought. And safe. The nearest neighbor was half a mile down the road, the closest town not much more than a stoplight, grocery store, post office, and gas station. Maggie considered Settler’s Ridge, Idaho, to be as close to heaven-on-earth as a person could find. Becca was sure the tiny town was the embodiment of hell.

Once Becca had disappeared from sight, Maggie checked the water in the troughs, then walked to the back porch to yank sheets she’d been drying off the line. She’d collected two pins in her mouth and was gathering the yards of percale when the phone jangled. “Great,” she mumbled around the pins.

A second, demanding ring.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming…I’m coming,” she grumbled, spitting out the pins and tossing the bedding into a wicker basket.

Brring!

She hauled the load into the old cabin, dumped it on the table, snagged the receiver, and heard the flat sound of a dial tone in her ear.

“Hello?” she said automatically, then started to hang up only to stare down at the instrument as she shrugged out of her jacket. Who had called? If only she lived in the city as before so that she could check caller ID. Or you could buy a new battery for the answering machine and plug it in. You don’t have to be a hermit.

That much was true. She eyed the mouthpiece of the receiver, then placed the handset into its cradle. So someone had called. Big deal. It could have been one of Becca’s friends. Though they didn’t get many calls here, there were a few, and just because she’d thought she’d heard Mary Theresa’s mental voice a little while ago was no reason to panic. Just calm down.

The truth was that Maggie had been hiding for nine months, turning her back on a world that had hurt her and her daughter one too many times.

Coward. Other people cope. Why can’t you?

Drumming her fingers on the checkered cloth that covered the table, she frowned at the telephone. Could the caller have been Mary Theresa? It had been so long since they’d spoken, too long…

She picked up the receiver again and dialed rapidly before she let her pride get the better of her. The long-distance connection was made and she waited. One ring. Two. Three. Click.

“Hi.” Mary Theresa’s breathy, upbeat voice brought a smile to Maggie’s lips as she nervously twisted the ring on her right hand. “This is Marquise. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. I promise.”

The recorder beeped and Maggie steeled herself. “Mary Theresa, this is Maggie. If you’re there please pick up…Mary Theresa?…Oh, okay, Marquise, are you there?” she asked impatiently, using her sister’s stage name, hoping that if Mary Theresa was within earshot she’d put aside her petulance and answer. A heartbeat. Two. Nothing. “Look, I, um, I got a message from you—you know the kind you used to send.” She glanced around the room and felt foolish. What if she’d dreamed up the whole thing? “Well, at least I think I did, and I need to talk to you, so please call me back. I’m still at the ranch in Idaho.” She rattled off the number, waited a second or two in the fleeting hope that her sister was listening, then, sighing, hung up. “Damn.”

The sun had finally set and the cabin felt cold and bereft, empty. Maggie checked the thermostat, then walked to a window and looked toward the mountains as if she could will her daughter’s image to appear from the shadows. All the while her sister’s cryptic message haunted her. What had Mary Theresa said? Only you can help me. It was Thane. He did this to me.

Did what?

Who knew? It was nothing. Had to be. She couldn’t let her wild imagination get the better of her. Just because Maggie wrote mysteries for a living and had delved into true-crime stories, didn’t mean she had to believe something horrible had happened to her sister.

With one eye on the clock, Maggie pulled out a serving bowl of stew she’d made earlier in the week, dumped the contents into a saucepan, and switched on the stove. She sliced bread, topped it with cheese, intending to broil the open-faced sandwiches as soon as Becca had put Jasper away for the night.

As the seconds ticked by, Maggie told herself not to worry, turned on a couple of lights, unloaded the dishwasher, and ignored her computer, which had been waiting for her all day, the monitor glowing with a screen saver of cartoon characters. The idea of working on any kind of story at the moment was about as appealing as day-old oatmeal.

She’d tackle chapter six after dinner.

No sign of Becca.

Don’t be a worrywart. She’ll be back. Sighing, she shut the door, snapped her hair into a ponytail and, as the cabin grew darker, flipped on a lamp near the front door.

Her thoughts crept down a forbidden path, a crooked trail that still led to Thane Walker. She hadn’t seen him in years but imagined he was just as sexy and irreverent as ever, a lone-cowboy type complete with a Wyoming swagger and enough lines in his face to add an edge of severity to already-harsh features. The kind of man to avoid. The kind of man who attracted trouble. The only man who had ever been able to make Maggie’s blood run hot with only one cynical glance.

“Forget it,” she told herself. She must’ve imagined the whole scene in the barn. She’d only thought she’d heard Mary Theresa’s “voice” because it had been so long, so many silent months without a word from her twin. She walked to the fireplace and plucked an old framed photo from the mantel. It had been taken nearly ten years earlier, when Mary Theresa, who had reinvented herself as simply Marquise, à la Cher or Madonna, was about to launch her own Denver-based talk show. The two sisters stood back to back, identical twins except that they were mirror images. Mary Theresa was left-handed, Maggie used her right; one side of Mary’s mouth lifted more than the other, the opposite was true of her sister. One of Mary Theresa’s pinkies turned inward—the right. On Maggie, it was the left.

Maggie felt a smile tease her lips as she ran a finger over the faded snapshot. She and Mary Theresa both had auburn hair that curled wildly, but Mary Theresa’s had been highlighted with gold and framed her face in soft layers while Maggie’s had been scraped back into her ever-functional ponytail. Mary Theresa had worn a short, shimmering black dress, a designer original, complemented with a strand of pearls, black hose and three-inch heels. She’d been on her way to a party with some once-upon-a-time celebrities.

At that same frozen moment in time Maggie had worn sneakers, jeans, and a flannel shirt with a tail that flapped in the wind and had balanced three-year-old Becca on one outthrust hip. With the snow-shrouded Rocky Mountains as a backdrop, the two sisters braced themselves on each other, then swiveled their heads to grin into the camera. Bright I-can-take-on-the-world smiles, rosy cheeks, a smattering of freckles and green eyes that snapped with fire had stared into the lens.

It seemed like ages ago.

A lifetime.

She set the photo on the mantel, where it had been, between pictures of all stages of Becca’s life as well as her own, then glanced outside. The evening was gathering fast, stars visible through the thin layer of clouds.

“Come on, Becca,” she worried aloud as she snapped on the exterior light and stepped onto the front porch. Silently she hoped for some sign of Jasper galloping toward the barn. But there was no sound of hoofbeats, no glimpse of a gray horse appearing over the slight rise of the field. Instead she heard a breath of wind sighing through the dry leaves that still clung to the trees and the clatter of a train rolling on far-off tracks. Again the howl of a coyote on some nearby hill.

Her gaze scoured the distance.

An answering soulful cry, lonely and echoing, reverberated across the land and put Maggie’s teeth on edge. Leaning one hip against the porch rail, she tried to find the sense of calm, of well-being that she’d been looking for when she’d leased this place at the first of the year.

Everything’s fine; you’re just letting your overactive imagination get the better of you. If you were smart, Maggie-girl, you’d use this to your advantage, go inside, pour yourself a cup of coffee and start writing. You’ve got a deadline in your not-too-distant future.

Nervously she fidgeted with the wedding ring that she still wore on her hand. It was a joke really, something she’d have to give up, but couldn’t quite. Not yet.

She’d reached for the door when she heard it—the muted rumble of an engine that got louder, then the crunch of gravel being flattened by heavy tires. Turning, she spied twin beams flashing through the night, the beacons broken by the trunks of trees as they passed, headlights from a truck that rolled to a stop not far from the barn. Black, slightly battered, sporting a canopy, the truck was unfamiliar.

A solitary man was behind the wheel—a man she thought she recognized.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

It couldn’t be. Or could it? Was her mind playing tricks on her? All the saliva in her throat disappeared.

The driver cut the engine and opened the door. “Maggie?”

She’d know that voice anywhere, even after more than a dozen years.

Thane Walker, big as life, stepped out of the cab.

Her throat turned to sand, and her stupid heart jolted.

“Well, well, well,” she said, forcing the words past lips that were numb. As he slammed the door of his truck, she told herself that the accelerated beat of her heart was way out of line.

He started toward the porch.

Looking every bit like the devil he was.

The memory of Mary Theresa’s “voice” haunted her again. It was Thane. He did this to me. Maggie swallowed hard. She gripped the porch rail with nervous fingers and told herself she wasn’t going to be taken in by him. Never again.

His slow Western saunter had disappeared, replaced by purposeful strides that ate up the gravel-strewn lot that separated the house from the barn. With a countenance as harsh as the windswept Wyoming plains he’d once called home, his features were grim and set, his jaw clenched, his eyes, even in the darkness, drilling into hers.

“Thane,” she said, not bothering with a smile as he stepped into the small circle of light cast by the porch light. “Will wonders never cease?” Somehow she hoped to cover up the fact that she was shell-shocked, that her heart was racing, and a dozen questions blitzed through her mind. “You know, Walker, you’re about the last person I expected to ever darken my door.”

He didn’t crack a smile. “Guess you’re still sharpening your tongue, eh, Maggie?”

“Always,” she lied.

His lips flattened over his teeth for just a second. “So that’s how it’s gonna be? We’re gonna trade insults?” After all these years, he still had the ability to make her feel like a fool. “Right now I don’t have the time, the energy, or the desire.”

“Neither do I.”

“Well, that’s a start.”

“What’re you doing here?”

The intensity of the man didn’t let up one iota. He hesitated just a second. “I need your help.”

“My help?” she repeated, not trusting him as far as she could throw him. He was trouble. She’d learned that painful fact a long time ago; the last person she wanted in her life in any way, shape, or form. “I can’t imagine why.” Already shaking her head, she forced herself to stay calm. Just because she thought she’d heard Mary Theresa’s “voice” was no reason to panic. But the fact that he was here had to be more than simple coincidence. Didn’t it? Besides, she wasn’t one to believe in coincidence. Folding her arms over her chest, she met his narrowed gaze with her own. “You know, Thane, you’ve got a helluva lot of nerve. After everything that happened between you and Mary Theresa, I can’t imagine why I would ever consider helping you.”

“Because, if I remember right, that’s the kind of person you are. Even after what happened.”

She stiffened, felt a jab of undeserved guilt, and refused to rise to the bait. Some things were better left dead and buried. She forced a cold smile. “Maybe you’d better explain.”

“It’s Mary Theresa.”

Her heart nearly stopped, though she’d expected as much.

“I don’t know how to say this but to do it straight out,” he admitted, rubbing his hand over a jaw that was in dire need of a shave. “Brace yourself.”

“Oh, God—”

“She’s missing, Maggie. Been gone at least three days. No one knows where she is, but…” He glanced away toward the shadowy hills, then took a deep breath. “It looks bad.”

“How bad?” She held on to the rail of the porch for support, felt the slivers in the tips of her fingers that she hadn’t bothered working out yet.

“Real bad. I thought she might be here.”

“No.” Her stomach twisted.

“I’m surprised the police haven’t called you yet.”

She felt the breath of something cold and sinister against the back of her neck. “You know Mary Theresa,” Maggie heard herself saying, denial running circles in her mind. “This could just be one of her stunts. It’s not like she hasn’t run away before.”

A shadow flickered in his gaze. “This time she doesn’t have a husband to run from.”

“For the love of God, Thane, listen to you. Mary Theresa is fine. She’s just…hiding.”

“But not here? Not with you?”

“No—”

He looked tired. Weary. As if he hadn’t slept in days. As if he really believed that this time Mary Theresa had gotten herself into thick, dire trouble.

“There’s more,” he said and his tone of voice—so flat and guarded—told her to beware.

“More?”

“The police and that television station she works for don’t think that she just ran off. At least they’re considering other possibilities.”

Dread sliced into her soul.

“They suspect that she’s been kidnapped or worse.”

A soft cry erupted from her throat. “No—”

He held her gaze with eyes that were, in the gathering darkness, a dangerous shade of midnight blue. “I’m sorry, Maggie.”

“Look, Thane, I don’t want to hear this. It’s nonsense. It…it just can’t be. Mary Theresa is fine. She’s in Denver and—”

“I was there. At her place. She wasn’t there. Hadn’t been for days. Thursday she stormed off the set, then Friday she didn’t show up for work and missed a meeting with her new agent.”

“New agent?” Maggie repeated. “She’s not with Merle?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard the news. Merle Lafayette’s out. Ambrose King is in.”

“But she was with Merle for years…”

“Until she fired her about six months ago. King made her promises. Anyway, she stood him up.”

“She could just be out of town. You know how she is.”

His teeth clenched and a muscle worked in the corner of his jaw. “The police will be calling.”

“Oh, God.” She shook her head. “No,” she said with new determination. “You’re wrong. Something’s going on, sure, but—”

“Why would I lie?”

The question stopped her cold. She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed.

“Why would I drive all this way just to tell you a lie?”

Her head thundered as night descended. She felt detached and alone, as if she were watching a drama that she was a part of. “I—I don’t know. You’ve lied before.”

“Not about this.”

“No, but—”

He grabbed her hand, held it in a strong grip that squeezed hard. “I didn’t come here to freak you out, Maggie. But I thought you’d want to know, to hear it from me face-to-face. So just hear me out.”

He looked so beleaguered she half-believed him, and then the pain began in earnest, the agony of what he was saying plunged deep into her soul. Tears burned in her eyes. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“And, believe me, I don’t want to say it, but Maggie, you’ve got to listen. There’s a detective with the Denver police who thinks that she…” His voice trailed off to be replaced by the sounds of a calf bawling for his mother.

“What?”

His lips turned down at the corners. “That she might be dead.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, no—” This was all happening too fast; Maggie was getting too much information, too much horrible information, too quickly. Her guts turned sour, and she thought she might be sick. “Why? What would lead him to believe…” She swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat.

“I don’t know. They haven’t found her body, at least not that I know of, but they keep searching.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I don’t believe you, Thane. This is all too crazy. Mary Theresa is alive, dammit! If something had happened to her, I would know.” She hooked a thumb at her chest and jerked it in the direction of her heart. “I would feel it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, but I would.”

“Because you’re twins?” He didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm.

“Because…well, yes. Yes! She and I are close.”

“You haven’t spoken in months.”

But I heard from her. Just a little while ago. She called to me. Maggie started to utter the words, then held her tongue. She’d learned her lesson long ago. No one would believe her. Not the psychiatrists she’d visited, not her parents, who were now gone, and especially not Thane Walker, her first love, her sister’s ex-husband. Stiffening her spine, she refused to break down. “I just think I would know. Don’t ask me to explain it, okay?”

He hesitated, then shoved his hair out of his eyes with both hands.

“Is there something else?” she asked, determined not to let this man with his wild allegations get to her.

“Oh, yeah.”

Her insides churned. “More speculation?”

“Maybe.” He mounted the steps. “As I said, it looks like I might need your help.”

“You?”

“The detective in charge—his name is Henderson—he thinks I had something to do with Mary Theresa aka Marquise’s disappearance.”

“You? But why—?”

A sharp woof heralded Barkley’s arrival. Three legs moving swiftly, the shepherd tore into the yard and raced up the steps. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, his fangs flashed an evil white, and his mangled ear lay flat and menacing against his head as he smelled the intruder. He growled low in his throat, his black lips curling back, eyes centered on Thane.

“Where’s Becca?” Maggie asked as if the dog could answer. Thoughts of her sister were thrust aside. Maggie’s heart pounded. She scanned the darkness, searching for her daughter.

Barkley snarled and barked.

“What?” Thane asked, then commanded, “Hush,” to the dog, who backed off but still growled from beneath the rusting porch swing.

Maggie, fear turning her heart to ice, walked down the steps and headed for the corral that opened to the trail Becca had taken. Her gaze pierced the night-darkened fields. “Becca. She went riding about an hour ago. Barkley was with her…” Maggie strained, hoping to see the horse and rider but spying nothing except a few head of cattle, dark shapes shifting against the grass. Why would the dog return alone? Goose bumps rose on her flesh. “I hope something didn’t happen…”

Brrring!

From the open door of the cabin the phone jangled.

Unnamed fear congealed deep in her soul. She turned on her heel, raced across the yard and up the steps to the house. Past Thane and through the screen door, she flew through the living room and snagged the receiver. “Hello?”

The screen door banged shut, and Thane, with the growling dog guarding him, stared through the mesh.

“Ms. McCrae? Margaret Elizabeth Reilly McCrae?”

Her heart hammered wildly. “Speaking,” she said, her eyes fixed on Thane’s as dread took a stranglehold of her heart.

“This is Detective Henderson with the Denver police.”

Her knees buckled, and she sank against the wall. “Yes?”

“Is Mary Theresa Gillette, also known by the single name of Marquise, your sister?”

Maggie began to shake. Her blood turned to ice. Biting her lip, she stared at Thane’s face visible through the screen and nodded slowly, as if the detective could see her. “Yes,” she whispered.

A beat.

She wanted to die.

Tears filled her throat.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Ms. McCrae,” Henderson said solemnly. Maggie’s head pounded, her fingers tightened over the receiver. “It’s about your sister…”