LITMIR.BIZ

      The afternoon was dark gray and the wind was shrieking around and under the eaves of Becca’s condo. She’d finished up some work on the computer for Bennett, Bretherton, and Pfeiffer, and had luckily not lost any of the documents when the lights had flickered. Climbing out of her desk chair, she worked the knots out of her neck while Ringo, who’d been sleeping curled under her desk, climbed to his feet and stretched. Becca grabbed her now-tepid cup of tea and tossed it down the sink. She was cold inside and out and the storm wasn’t helping.

      Deciding to take a bath to warm up, she ran the taps. The lights flickered again. Grabbing her battery-powered radio, she lit the three candles she had arranged in a pewter holder on the tile countertop, just in case. Ringo watched her machinations with interest, his head cocked this way and that.

      She’d turned off the lights, opened the shades high over the window of the tub for a view of the sky, and was just climbing into the steaming water when the lights quit altogether, plunging the condo into total darkness aside from her flickering tapers.

      Great.

      Through the window she saw the limbs of shivering birch trees as they scratched the glass. She gazed past them up at the threatening clouds, then looked over to the fir trees across the way, the same trees that Ringo had barked at on Valentine’s Day as if he’d sensed a mass murderer lurking in the shadows. That had been the same day she’d had her vision, the same day she’d learned of the bones discovered at St. Lizzie’s.

      Shuddering, she switched on the radio and caught sight of bottles of bath oils displayed on the counter. She’d bought them primarily for their colors, glowing aqua and deep gold, but now she picked one up, opened it, and poured the liquid underneath the faucet. She was just sinking down into the water again when she felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air on the wetness of her skin. Glancing out the window, she focused on the fir trees.

      Was someone there?

      Watching her?

      Seeing the candlelight on her skin?

      Instantly she yanked down the blind, her pulse rocketing. Was her imagination running away with her? She seemed to feel eyes watching her at every turn.

      “At least you’re not going nuts,” she murmured to the dog.

      Turning off the taps, Becca sat quietly, almost suspended, in the hot water. The bath oil was scented, and a light, airy aroma filled her nostrils. It was soothing and after a couple of minutes she relaxed again, listening to the muted classic rock music filtering through the room.

      Ringo tiptoed over to the bath mat and curled himself down into a ball. She was glad for the company, because there was no more vulnerable feeling than to be in a bathtub, naked and wet. But was there a more glorious feeling than to practically feel each tightly wound muscle individually loosen?

      Becca closed her eyes and let her mind wander. It went to its most natural place: Hudson Walker with his chiseled features and slow-spreading smile, irreverence showing in his expression. Before she could fantasize about him for the most fleeting of seconds, Jessie’s visage appeared, clouding her image of Hudson, coming between them now as she had so long ago. Absently Becca picked up a washcloth and ran it over her neck.

      Twenty years earlier Becca had been asked by McNally about the last time she’d seen Jessie Brentwood, had been quizzed like all the others about any and all details they could remember about Jessie the week before she ran away. “Ran away,” Becca repeated to herself now. She’d believed that’s what had happened to Jessie. Even with all the speculation, she’d truly believed Jessie had just run away. It was the most logical explanation. She’d done it before; everyone knew it. Jessie made no secret of the fact.

      But if the bones in the maze were Jessie’s then she hadn’t run away. She’d been at St. Lizzie’s all along. Just under the ground. At the feet of the Madonna. Something had happened there that had ended her life.

      Becca’s brows furrowed. She didn’t like this new perspective. What did she know about Jessie? She clearly remembered the last time they’d spoken. It had been at school. And it had been about Hudson. Jessie had been standing on the front steps of the school as Becca headed outside, juggling her backpack as she’d shouldered open the glass doors to the gray day beyond.

      “Hey, Becca,” Jessie said, kind of quietly, thoughtfully.

      Becca had looked at her askance. She and Jessie weren’t exactly close friends, though they ran in the same crowd. And because Jessie was Hudson’s, Becca always felt a bit awkward around her. They hadn’t ever taken their friendship to any meaningful level. In fact, they rarely spoke directly to one another. She waved a hand in the general direction she was heading. “I’m…late…”

      “I know something,” Jessie said. “Something I shouldn’t, maybe.” She was eyeing Becca closely, as if waiting for something to happen. A gust of wind blew up, teasing Becca’s hair, making her aware that no one else was around. The walkways and lawns leading up to the front doors were empty, not a soul visible.

      “What do you mean?” she’d asked and tried not to notice how eerie the late afternoon sky was—steel gray clouds with burgeoning purple bellies hanging low in the sky.

      “Sometimes you have enemies you never even knew existed. Sometimes they’re right in front of you.”

      “I’m not sure…what you mean…” Becca felt a jolt, slightly alarmed. It was as if Jessie were reading into her mind about her feelings for Hudson.

      “And sometimes they’re not,” she said abruptly, looking away, across the parking lot, her gaze off to a middle distance that probably had nothing to do with the dented Chrysler parked too close to a fire hydrant. “I just have this feeling, you know. Like a storm’s coming. Do you ever think that way? That you get feelings and they come true?”

      “A storm is coming,” Becca said, glancing up at the dark heavens and playing dumb. Didn’t Jessie know about Becca’s visions? Hadn’t someone told her?

      Jessie skewered her with a disbelieving look. “Not that kind of storm, Becca. You know what I mean.”

      Oh, God. Fear curled through Becca’s blood. “I, uh, I’ve gotta go. Really.”

      Jessie didn’t look away, though her hair blew over her face. “Don’t be too trusting, Becca,” she warned. “Watch your back.”

      Becca had practically run down the steps away from Jessie.

      And then Jessie had disappeared. Mysteriously. The runaway back on the road. Or so everyone had thought, including Becca. But Becca’s parents had become overly frightened and even more protective of their daughter. They’d never really known Jessie; Becca and she hadn’t been that close of friends. But they knew Jessie was a runaway and they seemed to think Becca might have picked up some of Jessie’s ways because they constantly checked to make sure Becca was happy after Jessie’s disappearance.

      Happy…

      Now Becca thought back to her latest vision. How Jessie had mouthed something to her, something Becca couldn’t hear. How she’d been at the edge of a cliff, her toes over the rim, how she’d been frozen in time, the same age as when she’d disappeared. Was that because that’s how Becca remembered her? Or because that’s the age she’d been when she died…

      The wind threw the birch branches at her window, clattering and tapping. The radio switched songs and Rick Spring-field started singing about how he wished that he had Jesse’s girl. Becca’s mouth twisted at the irony. How she’d wished that she had Jessie’s boy.

      And how she wished that she still had Jessie’s boy’s baby.

      She pushed that thought aside with an almost physical effort. No good would come from her wishing and hoping for the past to realign itself. It just wasn’t going to happen.

      The electricity switched on, bedroom lamps showing through the open door to the bathroom.

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