LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter Two

      Now . . .

      Come home.

      Jamie sat straight up in bed, heart pounding, half awake, fumbling for the light switch.

      She’d heard the words plain as day. In her mother’s voice.

      The light switched on, flooding her bedroom with warm, yellow illumination. She could see the worn, marred chest of drawers at the end of her bed, with its untidy array of makeup items, ones she’d used, ones she’d set aside to throw away.

      No one there. The room was empty.

      Her pulse still rocketing, she sank back against the pillows, eyes wide open. She was no stranger to fear. She’d lived with it ever since the babysitting attack eighteen years earlier.

      Five a.m. Too early to call Mom to make sure everything was all right with her.

      Maybe it had something to do with Emma.

      Jamie was swept once more by her age-old guilt. More than half her life had passed since her sister had been changed forever. Closing her eyes, she drew in a shuddering breath and blocked out the memory, but it was etched into the curves and whorls of her brain, never to be forgotten or even diminished. She could push it away, but it was never gone. Just out of reach every time she sought to kill it entirely.

      Throwing back the covers, she jumped out of bed, grabbing up the robe she’d tossed over the end bedstead. She walked to the window and stared out. Beneath the yellowish streetlights, she could see the roofs of other apartment buildings and the cluster of other residences, houses, and condos, all jammed together in this part of Los Angeles. Wires overhead. The beat of helicopter rotors seemingly a daily occurrence. The roads and alleyways crammed with parked cars. She had a designated parking spot for her aging Toyota Camry, but more times than she liked to admit she had to shoo somebody out of her spot. The only positive was that the school where she mainly substitute taught was a quick drive away. She’d been trying to get on full-time, but it was almost fall and she’d yet to be called. Over the summer, she’d been working at a nearby Vietnamese restaurant, serving up banh mi sandwiches and hearty bowls of Pho to make ends meet. She was trying not to dip too far into her meager savings. It was barely enough to get by, and her daughter, Harley, was doing her part by babysitting as well.

      Babysitting . . .

      Everything came back to the night of Emma’s attack. Sometimes Jamie felt a spurt of pure fury. Why hadn’t the police caught the guy? There’d been three attacks that summer and fall. One in Vancouver, one in Gresham, and one in River Glen. Maybe they were connected. Maybe they weren’t. But why didn’t somebody know? Emma’s attack was a cold case, but damn it, whoever did it was still out there.

      “Emma deserved better,” she muttered, fully aware that she’d run away from the problem.

      After a few moments, she crawled back in bed, still in her robe. She drew the lapels up to her chin and watched the digital clock work its way to six. Her cell phone was on the nightstand. She unhooked the charger and picked it up, scrolled through her favorites list. Her mother’s number was fourth, just below the two school districts she worked for most often. After that, she had the number for CPK, California Pizza Kitchen, Harley’s favorite restaurant, which made great salads along with pizza, one with easy pickups.

      She put a call in to her mother and braced herself for the icy reception she was sure to receive. Mom loved Harley and was always eager to see her, whenever Jamie returned to River Glen, which wasn’t often. But Jamie’s relationship with her mother was fraught. It had been ever since Emma’s attack.

      The phone went to voice mail. As soon as it clicked on, she cleared her throat and said, “Hey, Mom. It’s Jamie. Just wanted to see how things were going.” She cringed at the sound of her voice. So light and careful. “I’ll call back later.”

      She hung up and got out of bed again. Shrugging out of her robe, she pulled off her sleep shirt and headed for the shower. She let the hot water stream down her face. In her mind, she pictured how Emma had looked that last year of high school. A cheerleader with a bright smile, glinting blue eyes, and long, lustrous, light brown hair. Her attacker had carved a jagged line down her shoulder blade that looked like a jack-o’-lantern’s mouth. The scar had faded, but it was still easy to see. Had he meant to kill her? A murder gone wrong? Emma was running from him and likely slipped and—

      A dark, shadowy figure appeared on the other side of the frosted glass.

      Jamie shrieked and dropped the soap.

      “God, Mom, it’s just me,” Harley said, half-annoyed. “Sorry.”

      “It’s all right.” Her pulse raced.

      “Your phone’s ringing. It’s probably the school.”

      Harley didn’t like it much when Jamie substituted at her school. But then, Harley didn’t like much of anything when it came to school. She’d asked to be homeschooled by Jamie. Ha. There was no way Jamie was going to put herself through that living hell. Harley was smart, capable, and tough as nails. Like her father. She just wasn’t good at taking directions.

      But then, neither was Jamie at her age.

      Harley left and Jamie toweled off and hurriedly found her phone, on the bed where she’d tossed it.

      It was indeed the school district, and she quickly called back and said she would take the job. It was at Harley’s school, of course. Well, too bad. Jamie needed to put food on the table. Paul Woodward might have been Harley’s father, but he was more of a teenager than his daughter could ever think of being.

      “Her name’ll be Harley,” he’d insisted, christening her after the motorcycle company, Harley-Davidson. Paul had been a motorcycle freak from the get-go, who’d moved Jamie and his young daughter from place to place around Los Angeles, where he’d attempted to be a stuntman. Jamie had worked as a waitress and finished up her aborted college career with night classes, finishing her fifth year literally weeks before Paul’s death on the 405 freeway. Paul had pooh-poohed her outrage at the motorcycles that would drive between the cars during traffic tangles, maniacally changing lanes, careless of when the stalled cars would start moving again. “It’s legal,” he kept saying.

      And then he’d become a victim of that very same thing. Clipping a car as it suddenly slowed, unable to stop himself from flipping end over end to his death.

      Spooky Karma.

      Jamie quickly dressed and called to her daughter as she headed out the door to her car. When Harley climbed in and learned Jamie was subbing at her school, she groaned. “Tell me you’re not in my classroom.”

      “I’m not in your classroom.”

      “Good.”

      Jamie squeezed the Camry into a spot in the school lot. She only had five more payments on it. That would help.

      Briefly, she thought of the house

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