LITMIR.BIZ

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was a long time ago.”

      Becca lifted a shoulder. “Isn’t it kind of like riding a bicycle?”

      “Not quite,” Maggie said, chuckling a little as the effects of her nightmare faded away. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

      Becca offered a shy smile. “How about that hot cocoa now?”

      Maggie wasn’t so groggy that she didn’t realize she was being conned, but she couldn’t help herself. If this was Becca’s self-centered and manipulating way of bonding, so be it. “Okay, okay, but then back to bed, and don’t try and talk me into this trip to Denver, okay? I’ll decide on my own.”

      She helped her daughter into the living area of the house, where Becca curled on the sofa with an afghan tossed over her shoulders. The fire had burned low until only red embers glowed behind the screen and the house was taking on the chill of night. Maggie, barefoot and shivering, took the time to throw on a fleece robe and slippers, then quickly heated water for the instant cocoa. As the cups circulated in the microwave, she rummaged in the pantry for marshmallows whose shelf life had expired eons before. “Perfect,” she thought aloud. Culinary creativity had never been one of her attributes. She considered herself the Sergeant Friday of the kitchen: “Just the facts, ma’am.”

      Plopping the hard mini-marshmallows into the cups, she asked, “What makes you think if I do go to Denver that I’ll send you to—L.A.? Why wouldn’t you stay with a friend here?”

      “Who?”

      Maggie stirred the cocoa. Becca had a point. They didn’t know anyone well enough to leave her with for more than a night. “I don’t know.”

      “This way I could see my friends.”

      “And miss school?”

      “I’d make it up.”

      “Promise?” Maggie carried a cup to Becca, who, for the first time in weeks, grinned up at her. An eager spark lit her eyes as Maggie sat on the far corner of the couch, tucked her knees up inside the voluminous folds of her dressing gown, and pulled the edge of the afghan over her feet.

      “Promise.” Becca blew over her cocoa.

      “I’ll think about it,” Maggie said, though her mind was half–made up. Something had to give. She and Becca were always at each other’s throats, the cryptic messages from Mary Theresa, real or imagined, had to be dealt with, and finding out what had happened to her twin was a priority, whether she wanted it to be or not.

      Maggie had never been one to sit back and let everyone else handle her problems and, now, it seemed, Mary Theresa needed her.

      “Mom?” Becca’s face was serious again, worry evident in the way she chewed on the corner of her lip.

      “Yeah?”

      “Is something wrong with you?”

      “You mean other than the fact that I can’t seem to get along with my daughter?” she teased, as the marshmallows melted into a gooey white mass. She took a swallow of the sickeningly sweet brew.

      “No. I mean like are you sick?” Becca swallowed hard and her gaze shifted away. “You know…”

      “No, honey, I’m not sick. Not physically. Not mentally.” She sighed and wished she could confide in her daughter, tell her the truth about hearing Mary Theresa’s voice, but that would only add fuel to the fire, scare Becca and bring back all the old, painful memories and concerns that her mother might not be sane, just because Maggie had seen a psychiatrist after her husband’s death. It hadn’t been a big deal, but Connie and Jim had insinuated time and time again that Maggie’s mental health was an issue. Clearing her throat, she said, “Drink up, then we’ll go back to bed.”

      “So what’re you gonna do?” Becca asked. She took a final swallow, then handed her half-drunk cup to her mother.

      “I wish I knew,” Maggie admitted. There wasn’t an easy answer. None. Life was getting much more complicated than she’d ever imagined. She carried both cups to the sink, where she noticed the mug Thane had used earlier. Touching the rim with one finger, she wondered why he’d chosen to show up at her doorstep. He could have called and told her about Mary Theresa, yet he’d decided to drive hundreds and hundreds of miles to see her in person.

      Drumming her fingers on the edge of the counter, she stared through the kitchen window. Snow covered the ground and bowed the branches of the trees. Without any light from the moon, the night was eerie, the solitude that she usually found so comforting oddly disturbing.

      “Mom?” Becca’s voice caught her up short. “What’s really going on?”

      Maggie shook her head and sighed. Instead of acting as if she didn’t know what Becca was talking about, she said, “That seems to be the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question right now.” Running her fingers through her hair, she walked back to the living room and silently offered to help her daughter down the hallway. “I wish I knew the answer, Becca. Damn, but I wish I knew.”

      Chapter Four

      Detective Reed Henderson didn’t like being played for a fool, and in this case, the one involving Marquise or whatever the hell she wanted to be called, he was certain that someone was out to dupe him.

      He picked at his teeth with his thumbnail, reached into his top desk drawer for his cigarettes, and found, instead, a pack of nicotine gum. He hated the stuff but wadded a piece into his mouth and thought it a damn poor substitute for a Camel straight.

      A picture of Mary Theresa Reilly Walker Gillette aka Marquise was pinned over his desk. She was a looker, no doubt about it. Model slim with thick red-brown hair, eyes as green as jade, straight nose and perfect teeth surrounded by lips that were stretched into a smile that would light up any man’s day, she carried herself with the confidence of a truly beautiful woman who knew and calculated her effect on every man who happened to cross her path. Looking into the camera as if intent on seducing the man behind the lens, she exuded a sexual radiance that even he, after nearly twenty years on the force and the cynicism that came with the duty, recognized.

      Marquise had star quality. Few men would be able to resist her.

      Married twice, with a string of lovers, she didn’t seem particularly stable in her love life, but then, who could blame her? Men would’ve been salivating, their tongues dragging out of their mouths, if she so much as gave them a wink or a smile. Her first husband was a cowboy—a loner who had a temper that had put one man in the hospital. That was years ago, of course, when Thane Walker was barely sixteen, but Henderson believed that a man didn’t change. Once a hothead, always one. In years past, it seemed, Walker was forever just one step in front of the law.

      Then there was the second man to make the mistake of marrying Marquise—an older guy who liked his women young and flashy, but had trouble keeping this one under his thumb. Mary Theresa had become the third Mrs. Syd Gillette for a period of less than a year. He’d moved on, been married and divorced since. It was a wonder the guy still had any money.

      Her last boyfriend was ten years younger than she, a model with long, curly hair and a brooding, dark look that women seemed to find sexy. As far as Henderson was concerned, Wade Pomeranian was a spoiled pain in the butt.

      So what had happened to her? The question rattled around in his head like rocks in a hubcap—irritating and damned hard to dislodge. Was she dead? Murdered? Had she committed suicide? Had she just taken off on a lark? Or was this all just a publicity stunt, the actions of a desperate woman whose star, albeit not in the caliber of a Hollywood celebrity, had once flared bright but now had begun to fade?

      “Hell if I know,” he admitted, leaning back in his desk chair until it groaned in protest. He fingered his old baseball, the one that had been signed by Sandy Koufax when Henderson was just a kid, then gave it a toss. It arced perfectly one inch below the fluorescent lights before dropping into his open, waiting fingers.

      What

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