LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter 2

      Liv drove home from the office during her noon hour, even though there really wasn’t enough time, even though she would probably skip lunch entirely. She’d left the package opened and spread across the coffee table. She couldn’t look or touch any part of it when she’d left for work this morning, but the way everything was exposed had haunted her inner vision all morning.

      Now, she took the steps up from the apartment parking lot to the second level of the L-shaped building where her apartment lay one in from the end unit. She threaded the key in the lock and pushed open the door before she felt someone behind her.

      She screamed. One short, aborted shriek and stumbled into the apartment, turning, facing the intruder.

      “Whoa, whoa! Sorry!”

      It was her neighbor, Trevor or Travis or something. He was standing there in shock, holding up his hands. Liv felt the energy drop out of her and she leaned against the wall, near collapse, quivering inside.

      Worried, he grabbed for her and said, “Geez, sorry.”

      She flinched away. “I’m okay. What . . . are you doing?”

      “Come on.” His arm was around her shoulders and he started to help her to the couch against her protests, her legs moving forward, but feeling detached from her body.

      “What do you want?” she asked, trying to keep all traces of fear from her voice.

      The pictures from the package were scattered across the coffee table as was her birth certificate and the note from her mother. She glanced at them, then at him, but he was only looking at her. “Just wanted to invite you over tonight,” he said apologetically. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

      “Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. She was working to get her pulse under control.

      Then his gaze swept over the photos and he focused on one where an angry-looking man was stalking toward the cameraman, his hand up as if he were about to rip the offending camera away. The same man was in several other photos with Liv’s mother, but he was always turning away, frowning, as if he didn’t want his picture taken.

      “Who’s that?” he asked.

      “I don’t know,” Liv said stiffly.

      “Looks really pissed. This an old photo?”

      The color had leached out of the print and the women’s permed hair and over-the-shoulder tops and black stretch pants, straight out of Flashdance, spoke volumes about the date of the picture. “Yeah.”

      “Huh.” He turned back to her. “So . . . Jo and me . . . we’re just havin’ some drinks and pizza. We don’t get goin’ till late. That work for you?”

      “Thanks, but I’ve already made some plans.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She’d determined over the course of the morning that she was going to show her brother the contents of the package. Hague had his issues, but he was strangely insightful as well.

      He’d only been a baby when their mother died, but maybe there was something buried in his psyche that could offer some explanation. “Another time, maybe? I’ve gotta run. I’m on my lunch break.”

      “If you change your mind, just stop by,” he said.

      “I’ll do that.” And she hustled him out the door.

      The apartment where Liv’s brother, Hague, lived was on the third/top floor of an older, industrial building on the east side of the Willamette River that had been converted into loftlike units during the ’60s. Those lofts had subsequently grown tired and in need of maintenance over the intervening years, but the place still had a spectacular view toward Portland’s city center, its westside windows looking back over the river. Hague’s unit was in the northwest corner and would have commanded an amazing slice of Portland skyline had he ever opened his blinds.

      Liv parked her blue Accord a block and a half from Hague’s building, the closest spot she could find. She hurried toward his apartment, the package tucked beneath her coat, feeling unseen eyes following her, though there were probably none. It was more likely her own paranoia, always on the prowl. She usually could hold it at bay, but there were times when it simply took over and she was powerless to do anything but feel its paralyzing grip.

      She wished fervently, like she always did, that she could change the past, but it was impossible. She’d lost her mother and huge parts of her life—days, weeks, months, years—and there was no getting them back. She could still remember the policeman’s probing questions after she’d woken from her trauma-induced coma. She was in a hospital with its bad smells and gray walls.