Shadow Lover (6 page)
"You want her to spy on me, is that it?"
Warren
demanded huffily.
"I want you to behave yourself," Sally said, her voice fading. "I just wish I felt well enough to throw a party—"
Carolyn felt sick horror fill her at the
very
thought. "Don't worry about parties, Aunt Sally," she said swiftly. "Just concentrate on getting better."
"Don't be absurd, child. I'm not going to get any better and we both know it."
"I don't know any such thing—"
"Keep your fantasies if it makes you feel better," Sally said with a weak wave of her hand. "At least Alex can face the truth."
It shouldn't have hurt, Carolyn thought, allowing no expression to cross her face. She'd worked that all out years ago. She stood quite still as the imposter moved past her to take Sally's band in his strong, tanned one. Sally loved her, she knew that. There was no reason to feel bereft, abandoned.
"Get some rest, Mother," the liar said softly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "I'll be here in the morning."
Sally sighed happily. "You don't know how long I've wanted to hear someone call me Mother again. Good night, dearest." She reached up and touched his face with a gentle caress.
And Carolyn slipped quietly out the door.
* * *
It was a still, cold night, with the quarter moon hanging low in the sky. In a few days the unnatural cold would lift, the heavy wet snowfall would melt away into nothingness, and spring could once more begin its slow assault on the bleak, frozen fields of
But for now all was an icy silence, spreading out over the snow-shrouded landscape. The tree limbs were black against the whiteness, and in the distance the mountains hovered over them, an ancient, protective presence.
Carolyn moved behind the house, her down coat bundled tightly around her as she walked along the neatly shoveled paths. Her booted feet made soft, crunching noises on the cold snow, and somewhere in the distance she could hear an owl cry. There were creatures out there in the darkness, wild ones who lived their lives with stunning simplicity and freedom. Someday that freedom would be hers.
She'd never been fool enough to think she'd been free during her
Boston
years. Sally was the only mother she'd ever known, a calm, dispassionate figure who had always been there. If there hadn't been much outward affection or involvement, at least Carolyn had felt Sally's caring and stability.
And she'd felt that caring over the years and the miles.
She owed Sally. Not on a physical level—that debt had been paid. She owed her emotionally, for giving her someone to belong to. No one else among the mighty
MacDowells
had even noticed the quiet girl child growing up in tempestuous Alexander's wake, but Sally had noticed, and watched over her, and loved her in her own way.
And Carolyn owed her everything in return. For a few months she could put her life on hold. For a few months she could stay.
Until Sally died.
All the denial in the world wouldn't change what would happen—Carolyn had learned that lesson long ago. She would mourn her deeply, but finally her life would be her own.
She would even have money. Nothing like the huge sums that the real
MacDowells
would inherit. Nothing like the kind of money the imposter would be trying to con out of a dying old lady.
It didn't matter. It would help reclaim her tentative independence. Despite her affection for the extended
MacDowell
family, even including stuffy Uncle Warren, Aunt Patsy, and her diverse offspring, once Sally died her ties would be severed. Her debt of loyalty and love would be paid, and she would be completely, gloriously free.
She supposed she should feel guilty about that, about the longing for freedom, but she couldn't. If she could change things, give years off her life to keep Sally happy and healthy she would gladly do so. But God didn't make those kinds of bargains, and Sally was dying. And Carolyn would be gone.
She could see her breath in the night air, soft puffs of vapor spilling out, as she made her way down the path to the frozen pond. She used to skate there, years ago, when the
MacDowells
had come to
Carolyn stood on the edge of the ice, staring out across the glassy surface, a sudden absurd urge rushing through her. She didn't even own a pair of skates, though a pair would be produced almost immediately if she expressed an interest.
She stepped out onto the ice gingerly, the tread on her flat boots keeping her from slipping. The ice was almost a foot thick, and she tried to push along against it, but her boots gave her too much traction.
She moved to the center of the pond, gathering the stillness about her. It had been years since she'd tried to skate. It was so long ago she couldn't even remember when she'd last worn skates.
Yes, she could. Christmas, twenty—two years ago, when she'd been nine years old. She'd gotten new skates, and a surprisingly patient Alex had brought her out to try them. She should have known better than to trust him. She'd ended the day with a fractured wrist, courtesy of Alex's attempts to teach her the niceties of ice hockey, and she'd never picked up her skates again.
Even now she could remember the cool, taunting expression on Alex's face as Sally had blistered him, then forgiven him, as she always had. But somehow, in her memory, Alex's face looked exactly like his imposter.
"Done much skating lately, Carolyn?"
His voice came across the ice on a whisper of smoke. She barely moved. She knew he would come, she realized belatedly. She knew he would follow her.
She lifted her head to look at him across the expanse of ice and snow. He was standing at the edge of the woods, silhouetted in the moonlight, and he was dressed lightly, in a thin jacket and no gloves. He didn't look cold.
She huddled deeper in her down coat. "Not for twenty years," she said.
"You should try it again," he said. "Maybe I'll give you another lesson."
He'd been told about that, had he? She shouldn't be surprised. "I don't think I need any lessons from you about anything."
"Sure you do," he said gently. "You need lessons in not giving a damn about anybody yourself. You need lessons in telling people you don't like to fuck off. You need lessons in fighting back instead of being used."
"Fuck off."
She could see his alarmingly sensuous mouth curve in a wry smile. "So maybe you don't need lessons in that. How about learning how to stop caring? They'll hurt you, Carolyn. Even an outsider can see that."
"You admit you're an outsider?"
"I haven't been here in eighteen years. That hardly makes me intimate with the workings of this household. I can tell you one thing, though. You haven't changed."
"Haven't I?" she said, not moving from her spot in the center of the ice.
He was coming toward her. His running shoes were covered with snow, and he skidded a bit on the slick ice. He seemed to enjoy it. "You're still the little girl with her nose pressed up against the storefront window," he said, his voice cool and unfeeling like the hard ice beneath her feet. "You still want what you can't have."
He was coming too close to her, but she stood her ground, refusing to back away. "And what is it I can't have?"
"A real family."
She took a sharp intake of breath. "Is the ability to hurt people part of being a con man?" she said. "Or is it just an added gift? I'm afraid you've been misinformed—I have a real family. Sally."
"I don't want to hurt you, Carolyn," he said. "I never have. Are you afraid to face the truth? You never were before."
"I'd say your acquaintance with the truth is superficial indeed."
"You wound me," he protested.
"I would sell my soul," she said meditatively, "for the ice to crack beneath you."
His smile was wintry bright. "Not a good way to kill someone, I'm afraid. Someone might hear my calls for help. And chances are
,
you'd fall in as well."
"It might be worth it," she said.
"You want me dead?" There seemed more than casual interest in his question.
"I want you gone where you can't cause any more harm," she said.
"And you're willing to kill me to ensure that?" She sighed. "Don't flatter yourself. I need a better motive for murder."
She started past him, suddenly claustrophobic. He moved, blocking her way, as somehow she knew he would. "Maybe I could convince you I am who I say I am."
"And maybe pigs will fly, but I don't expect either thing to happen in the near future. May I go?"
"Am I stopping you?" He was standing uncomfortably close, but his arms were crossed over his chest, and he made no move to touch her.
The night was bitter, and she could hardly keep from shivering inside the protecting folds of the down coat. He stood there, barely dressed, seemingly comfortable.
"Aren't you cold?" she asked suddenly.
"Don't worry about me," he said. "I learned how to take care of myself more than eighteen years ago."
And on that point, at least, she believed him.
Chapter 4
T
he dream came again that night, when it hadn't come to her for years. She'd thought, hoped it had gone forever, but she should have realized that the return of Alexander
MacDowell
would trigger her recurring nightmares. And the ever-shifting memory of the night he died.
She'd lost the ability to separate truth from her dreams. There had been a time in her early twenties, when she'd been in her final year at
Bennington
and the nightmares had grown to unmanageable levels, that she'd finally sought help. The therapist had suggested she write down her
dreams,
and then write down everything she remembered from that night, and compare the two. The effort had proven a dismal failure. She had gotten to the point where she doubted everything that she ought to remember; where reality, memory, and nightmares all blended into one psychedelic swirl. Finally she'd just learned to let go of it, refusing to think about it all. There was no way she could make sense of
it,
no way she could ever learn the truth of what happened that night. She wasn't even sure she wanted to know. She just wanted to be free of the dreams.
And she had been. Until a man claiming to be Alex
MacDowell
had appeared out of a freak storm and set her life on end.
The dream started as it always had. They were in the old house in Edgartown, on
Martha's Vineyard
. It was late at night, after
, and she was asleep in her small bedroom at the back of the house, over the kitchen—part of what used to be the servants' rooms. But in the summer
Constanza
and Ruben stayed in an apartment over the garage, and the rooms had been made over into cheery little bedrooms. Carolyn slept in one of them.
She was almost fourteen at the time. She'd heard them arguing, the sound muffled through the walls and ceiling, but they hadn't bothered to lower their voices. Alex must have done something wicked again, she'd thought sleepily, putting the pillow over her head.
He was the bane of her existence, a spoiled, selfish creature
who
was utterly wild. He drove Aunt Sally to distracted tears, he tormented his cousins, and he taunted Carolyn with a lethal combination of casual bullying and seductive charm that was far too potent for a young girl to handle. And she wasn't sure which she hated more—the charm or the bullying.
She heard him in the room. He was silhouetted against the moonlight flooding in her
uncurtained
window, and he looked taller, almost like an adult in that shadowy light. He was standing at her dresser, rummaging through her things.
"What are you doing?"
He turned at the sound of her voice, but she hadn't managed to startle him. "I'm getting the hell out of here, Carolyn," he'd said in a strange voice. "I need money."
"I don't have any."
"You have this." He held a handful of gold jewelry in one fist, and she sat up, a cry of protest strangled in her throat.
"You can't," she said. "Those were presents from Aunt Sally. Listen, I'll see if I can get you some money—"
He shook his head. "I don't have the time. She'll buy you more. My mother has no problem buying love with her checkbook." His voice was cool and bitter.
"At least leave me the charm bracelet." She shouldn't have admitted that weakness. Each year Sally had added a new charm, something whimsical, charming. It had marked her years with the
MacDowell
family, and it was the most precious thing she owned.
"Can't do it. Sorry, kid. If you have any sense you'll get the hell away from here as soon as you're old enough. They'll destroy you." He sounded odd to her, distant, as if he'd already left.
