Fade to Black (10 page)

But only for a harsh, fleeting moment or two.

Then she realized that her life was worth living, even if she had to permanently abandon everyone she cared about, and the career she had worked so damned hard to build.

It still hurts, she thinks as she stares vacantly at the television, where Andy Rooney is commenting on some inane topic. She desperately misses acting, if not the media circus that surrounds a successful performer’s career. She always relished stepping into character, savoring the challenge of transforming herself into somebody else, somebody whose mannerisms and speech and body language were utterly different from her own.

Well, the challenge is still on
, she tells herself with an inner sigh.
You get to be somebody else for the rest of your life
.

And hopefully, it will be a long performance.

I
t’s steamy out here tonight, especially for New England in late August.

Yet despite the unusually sultry night, her house is sealed as tightly as leftover fish under Saran Wrap. Every window on the small Cape Cod house is tightly closed.

And she definitely doesn’t have central air-conditioning.

She
being Elizabeth Baxter …

Who’s so sure that nobody knows her true identity.

Well, she’s wrong.

It’s time to circle the house again, cautiously, sticking to the shadows amid the foundation shrubbery. Maybe this time something will have changed....

But no.

The blinds are drawn in every window, leaving not even the slightest crack that someone might peer through.

She’s a clever, cautious woman, this so-called Elizabeth Baxter. She’s not taking any chances, is she?

Doesn’t want anyone to figure out who she really is.

A car door slams in the distance, somewhere down Green Garden Way, and an engine starts.

There’s little chance that it’s going to head in this direction, toward the end of the cul-de-sac.

Still, it’s not a bad idea to crouch low behind a rhododendron bush until the sound of the car has faded in the opposite direction—and for a while after that, just for good measure.

Finally, it’s safe to stand again and look up at the darkened window above.

What is she doing in there, beyond the closed blinds and locked doors?

Imagining the possibilities is almost as interesting as actually spying on her would be.

Almost
.

There’s no need to stay out here sweating in the mosquito-infested, overgrown grass on the off chance that she’ll slip up on her security measures. It’s getting late.

She might even be asleep already, her dark hair tousled on the pillow, her breathing deep and even.

Wouldn’t it be something to see her that way? To tiptoe up to the bed, to reach out and touch that famous flesh, to …

No
.

Not tonight
.

But soon …

“W
ow, traffic jam,” Elizabeth murmurs, braking for the light at a North Main Street intersection. Several cars are in front of her, which is unusual.

The small town is certainly teeming with activity for high noon on a Monday. Most restaurants aren’t even open on Mondays in Rhode Island. Maybe the bustle is due to tourists spilling over from the Newport Jazz Festival this past weekend—although Windmere Cove isn’t usually a tourist destination. It’s generally a quiet, sleepy place where people keep to themselves in typical Yankee fashion.

Which, of course, is precisely why Elizabeth chose to live there.

That, and its proximity to the Atlantic Ocean.

She had so loved living by the beach in California.

The coast is rockier; the water far colder here. But there’s still that salty-fresh smell in the air, the distant sound of waves crashing, and the cry of gulls overhead. And sometimes, if she closes her eyes on a warm summer day as she sits by the bay, it’s almost like being back in Malibu.

But you’ll never see Malibu or the Pacific again
, she reminds herself. She’ll never be able to go back to the West Coast … or to travel anywhere beyond this relatively isolated strip of eastern Rhode Island. She hasn’t dared to venture beyond the ten-mile radius surrounding Windmere Cove since she arrived in the East Bay nearly five years before.

She adjusts her dark glasses so that they sit higher on her nose and glances at the people strolling past the old sea captains’ mansions, most now converted to stores, that line the tree-shaded street.

What is up with this crowd?

Then she sees a white banner stretched across the street ahead, and realizes why there’s so much action here today.

F
IRST
A
NNUAL
B
ACK
-T
O
-S
CHOOL
S
IDEWALK
S
ALE
D
AYS,
A
UGUST
24–29

No wonder.

The sooner she gets home, the better.

She eyes the crowds of strangers with trepidation.

Not that a stalker seems likely to be hunting for back-to-school bargains.

The thought nearly makes her smile before she catches herself and remembers that there’s nothing funny about a stalker. Nothing funny at all about the premise of her would-be killer lurking somewhere in this innocuous small-town street scene.

The light changes and the cars in front of her move forward. Elizabeth makes a right onto Center Street, breathing an audible sigh of relief as she leaves the business district behind.

She notices whitecaps out on the water today. How she longs to roll down her car window and let that brisk ocean breeze whip through her hair, the way she used to back in California.

But that would be far too dangerous.

It would leave her vulnerable to anyone who wanted to reach inside the open window and grab her.

Even before the card and the phone call, she had never gone anywhere with the windows rolled down or the car doors unlocked. She isn’t about to start now, not after what’s happened.

She chews her lower lip as she continues along Center Street, not willing to let the fear suck her in again.

She had been doing so well all morning, at the fabric store on Route 136 in neighboring Warren. It had been fun, picking out the fabric for Manny’s costumes, along with purple sequins to jazz up the prince outfit and black felt to make into spots for the frog suit.

She had taken a course in costume design back when she’d first arrived in L.A., young and eager to learn the business from the ground up. Of course, Brawley had been irritated about that, and she hadn’t enrolled in any other classes after the costume one was over. It was too expensive, he said, and it cut into their time together. Then he talked her into earning some cash to help pay her share of the rent....

God, why did I ever listen to that jerk?
she wonders now, then shakes her head.

Brawley Johnson is long ago and far away, literally part of another lifetime—the one
before
Mallory Eden, even. It’s amazing that she can still look back on their time together and feel so angry, so frustrated, at the way he had treated her—and the way she had put up with him for so long.

But he had been her first love—her only love, really. There had been no one after him; at least, no one serious. She was too caught up in her career by then, and besides, where did a wealthy, famous woman meet a nice, normal man?

Lord knew, she needed
nice
and
normal
after Brawley, with his jealous rages and accusations and smothering attention.

But he was all she had after Gran died. They were two kids alone together in a strange place, and she had clung to him in the beginning as fervently as he had clung to her in the end.

Brawley Johnson.

God.

What got her started thinking about him anyway?

She makes a right-hand turn onto Green Garden Way and frowns, filled with a growing sense of uneasiness as she follows the curving street around toward her house.

Something’s wrong
.

The knowledge takes hold despite the reasonable voice in her head that says there’s nothing to worry about.

It’s broad daylight, a beautiful, sunny summer afternoon.

She passes a neighbor hanging clothes on the line in her side yard, and another putting his garbage cans by the curb.

Children are romping on a front lawn, and an elderly woman is walking her black Labrador retriever in the street.

Still …

Something’s wrong
.

She pulls into her driveway, knowing that she should be reassured by the sight of her house looking exactly the way she left it two hours earlier.

She really should mow and water the lawn, she thinks vaguely, noticing that it’s looking straggly and brown. She’ll do it later … if she can convince herself to leave the safety of the house again.

She can’t shake the feeling of apprehension as she parks the car in her usual spot, grabs her shopping bag with a shaking hand, and opens the door to step out.

She glances toward the Minellis’ house, almost hoping to see Pamela bounding toward her across the grass.

But it appears deserted, though the windows are open, as always, and the back door is probably unlocked, as Pamela has told her it often is.

“Frank’s always bugging me about leaving it open, but Windmere Cove couldn’t be any safer. And I just don’t like to bother bringing keys with me when I go out. I have enough stuff to lug around with the two kids,” Pamela has said to Elizabeth.

Pamela would be at the sidewalk sale if anyone would be. She loves to shop.

And Frank must be at work.

Normally, she’s thrilled when she can come and go without risking a run-in with her neighbors.

And you are today
, she tells herself firmly.
The last thing you need is for Pamela to come buzzing around, chattering about this, that, and the other. For all you know, she’ll mention one of those newspaper articles or television segments about Mallory Eden and then what will you do?

Well, okay,
that
isn’t very likely. Her neighbor’s conversation always revolves around herself, her kids, and her husband.

Pamela has never shown the slightest interest in current events or the entertainment industry. For all Elizabeth knows, she doesn’t even know who Brad Pitt or Sharon Stone are, and she’s most likely never even heard of Mallory Eden.

Her sandals make a hollow clicking noise on the blacktop as she moves from the car to the door, her key ready in one hand, her purse and the shopping bag tucked under her opposite arm. She unlocks the first dead bolt, then sticks a second key into a second dead bolt with expert efficiency. Finally, she puts the last key into the knob, turns it, and pushes the door open.

She’s taken several steps into the kitchen before she realizes that she was right.

Something is very, very wrong.

Elizabeth lets out a high, shrill, involuntary scream.

M
anny’s worn sneakers practically skip along the cracked sidewalk of Pine Street as he hurries home from day camp.

He can’t wait to call Elizabeth and tell her about his first day of rehearsal for the Labor Day play. It went great, and afterward, two of the teenage drama counselors told him he was doing a fantastic job. He promised them he’d know all his lines by the weekend and have his costume ready in time for dress rehearsals next week.

He still can’t believe he will get to be the star of the show after all—and it’s all because of Elizabeth.

He wishes he could do something nice for her, to show her how grateful he is … not just because she’s making his costumes, but because she really cares about him.

Maybe he should pick her some flowers in the vacant lot behind the house. There used to be a factory there, but it burned down a few years ago. Manny was glad when that happened. The factory was a big ugly yellow brick building with broken windows, and it blocked the view of the water from Manny’s bedroom.

Now he can see, in the distance beyond the rooftops of of Center Street, Narragansett Bay. And in the vacant lot, growing among the scattered bricks and shards of glass from the factory, are the most beautiful wildflowers. They continue to grow even though the ground is getting dry and dusty because it hasn’t rained in weeks.

Elizabeth would probably like a nice bouquet, Manny decides. She always smells like flowers, so she must like them.

He never knows when he’s going to see her, but he’ll pick some flowers just in case she shows up at the park later today.

He wishes he knew where she lives, but she has never told him, and he hasn’t dared to ask. There are a lot of things she doesn’t seem to want to talk about, and Manny knows enough not to be nosy about her life.

Sometimes he wonders if she’s some kind of magical fairy godmother who appears only to him, like the one in the Labor Day play. He wonders about it even though he knows it’s not true, because after all, he doesn’t believe in magic.