LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter Three

      She’d known it was going to be bad. What she hadn’t been able to imagine was just how bad it could be.

      Numb with disbelief, Jenna shivered involuntarily. Despite the steamy heat in the coffee shop, she felt as if a cold wind was cutting through her, numbing her to her very bones.

      “They had to have made some mistake in identification.” Even to herself, her protest sounded foolishly stubborn, as if she was insisting that the world was flat. “How do they know for sure it was Carling’s body?”

      Matt rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, not meeting her pleading glance. Under the harsh fluorescent lights the lines of weariness around his mouth were thrown into stark relief, and his eyes, when he opened them, were unreadable. He sighed like a man trying to hide his frustration.

      “Forensics didn’t make a mistake, Jenna. That’s why they haven’t released the news of his death to the media yet—because they wanted to make damn sure their suspicions were right.”

      “But even experts can—”

      He cut in on her abruptly, as if he couldn’t allow her to keep hoping any longer. His voice was low and emphatic.

      “It’s very important that you understand this. Rupert Carling is dead. He’s been dead for over forty-eight hours—ever since someone turned his Mercedes into a ball of fire with a car bomb the night before last.” His words were vehemently distinct and his gaze held hers with what seemed like desperation. “The man was a financial titan, so when word of his death gets out later tonight, Wall Street’s going to tremble, Jenna—and with that much at stake, nobody could afford to make any creative guesses on what was left of his body. They located a Dr. Borg, Carling’s dentist, and had him working alongside the forensics team to make absolutely certain that the dental records matched up with—” He saw the convulsive swallow that she tried to hide, and changed what he’d been about to say. “With what was found at the crime scene,” he ended quietly.

      “So I didn’t see him today at Parks, Parks.” Her voice was barely audible.

      “There’s no way you could have.”

      “And if I didn’t see Rupert Carling, then there’s no reason for anyone to try to make me look crazy,” she went on. It was as easy as connecting the dots, she thought. One fact led to another, and although she knew she wouldn’t like where this was leading, she had no choice but to follow the logic. “And if no one’s trying to make me look crazy, the only explanation for what’s been happening to me is that I really am crazy. Even Zappa was only part of my fantasy.”

      Her face was pale and the strands of hair feathering onto her forehead seemed to have lost their vibrancy and fire. Her eyes were dull. “Paranoid delusions. When I started using phrases like ‘vast conspiracy,’ it should have tipped me off right then. But of course, refusing to believe that they’re delusions is part of the problem, isn’t it?”

      “You saw somebody in that corridor at work. It just wasn’t who you thought it was,” Matt said uncomfortably. The coffee shop was nearly empty now, but he lowered his voice. “There’s got to be some other explanation for what happened tonight besides immediately jumping to the conclusion that you’re suffering from paranoia.”

      “Another explanation for anyone else, maybe. Not for me!”

      The unequivocal reply escaped from her like a cry of pain and her eyes squeezed shut, as if she couldn’t bear to face his carefully phrased questions. Alarmed by her reaction, Matt reached across the table for her hand, but she drew away from his touch. A shudder ran through her and for a moment he tensed, ready to catch her if she fainted; but even as he watched, he saw her quell the trembling with a visible effort.

      A few hours ago she’d made him think of caramel sauce and whipped cream, he thought slowly—lush and desirable and frivolously disconcerting. Who would have guessed that that almost confectionery-like exterior hid a will as tough and unyielding as stainless steel? Whatever other problems Jenna Moon had, the woman had an inner strength that was imposing a rigid control on her.

      When she spoke again, her words were delivered in a flat, dead whisper that sounded as if it was being wrenched out of her. “Let me tell you about my father. Then you’ll understand.”

      She folded her hands carefully in her lap, pressed her lips together tightly for a moment, and then continued, the normally husky edge to her voice harsh with pain. “Franklin Moon was a student radical in the ’60s—passionately committed to making the world a better place through peaceful protests and demonstrations. He was typical of the best of that era, and he should have become one of the most influential people of his generation. But no one’s ever heard of my father—and no one ever will now.”

      A car sped by on the rain-slick pavement outside, throwing up a sheet of muddy water against the coffee shop, and she flinched as it slapped loudly against the window beside them. Her shoulders hunched forward. “Sometime during his last year at Berkeley, Franklin Moon became convinced that ‘they’ were out to get him—a sinister enemy or enemies who would stop at nothing to destroy him. He left without completing his degree. My mother, Sara, was his girlfriend back then. She loved him enough to throw away her life and her future—she cut all ties with her family and disappeared with him. They lived like nomads, never staying in one place for more than a few months, sometimes packing up their Volkswagen van and moving on after only a day or two. Franklin would have seen or heard something that convinced him that ‘they’ were on his trail again.”

      She couldn’t completely disguise the rawness in her voice, and this time when Matt reached forward he was too fast for her. His hand, strong and warm, encircled her wrist. “You don’t have to go on.”

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