LITMIR.BIZ

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of the bride standing beside her. “I’m afraid a lot of people would disagree with you, Mrs. Ramirez. But thank you. I’m glad I could help Veronica.”

      Across the crowded, flower-bedecked fellowship hall of the Dupont Circle All Saints Church, her former client, Veronica Hernandez, and her new husband posed for the photographer while one of the bridesmaids artfully arranged the drape of the classic wedding gown.

      Veronica’s mother, a compact woman in her fifties, smiled, tears in her eyes. “It will be different this time. Juan is not like Nicky. He is a good man. He will treat my daughter well.”

      Larsen gazed at the newly married couple, at the glowing joy in the bride’s face, and remembered the first time she’d seen Veronica. Bruises had lurked beneath her heavy makeup like stones in a still pond, and fear had haunted her eyes. Now adoration lit those same eyes, an adoration mirrored in her new husband’s.

      The signs were good that this marriage would be a far cry from Veronica’s last, but Larsen had long ago quit believing in fairy-tale endings.

      “I must see to the cutting of the cake,” the older woman said shyly, and slipped away, leaving Larsen standing alone. A place she was all too used to.

      Larsen didn’t mind her mostly solitary path through life, but there were times, like now, when she remembered other plans, other dreams. A man to love her. A wedding of her own.

      But that was before she’d realized she was different—that love and family could never be hers.

      She took a sip of the dark, sweet punch and grimaced inwardly, wishing Veronica had splurged on a few bottles of champagne. Nearby, a man eyed her with interest, earning her standard, back-off look. The man next to him leaned closer and said something that Larsen was pretty sure ended in bitch. The first man stiffened and turned his back on her in a hurry.

      The encounter neither amused nor disturbed her. She wasn’t the man-hater everyone thought she was, though it was a miracle she wasn’t, given her line of work. Day after day she saw the disasters men made of their marriages and the pain they caused those who loved them. No, she didn’t hate them. She just didn’t let anyone get that close.

      Unfortunately she’d been cursed with looks that invited nearly continuous male attention. Unwanted attention. So she’d developed a haughty manner that kept even the most determined at bay. She was perfectly happy on her own. No one making demands on her time or asking too many questions. She didn’t need anyone. She certainly didn’t need a man.

      Larsen tossed back the rest of the sickly sweet punch.

      If only her hormones agreed. She groaned at the memory of Jack Hallihan watching her from the deck of his friend’s boat yesterday, those laser-sharp blue eyes boring into her. An unwelcome rush of heat spiraled deep inside her.

      She’d never actually met him before, but she’d known who he was. One of her law clerks had pointed him out in the courthouse last fall. Tall and broad-shouldered, with gorgeous blue eyes and a thatch of dark hair that appeared perpetually mussed, he’d walked with an easy confidence and casual strength that had drawn her attention and refused to let go, especially when he’d flashed a grin that had sent her pulse through the ceiling. She’d found herself watching for him every time she went to court for months afterward. She never again caught a glimpse of him.

      Until yesterday, when she’d found him staring at her.

      A flush of embarrassment rose into her cheeks as she remembered the way she’d dropped her papers at the touch of his hand, like a schoolgirl with her first crush. He hadn’t called her on it. She’d seen no amusement in those blue eyes, no knowing smile that said he knew she’d been affected by the touch. He’d barely reacted at all.

      A day later and she was still reacting. Even the memory of their brief meeting had turned the air in her lungs warm and heavy. With a groan of self-disgust she headed for the punch bowl and a cool refill, her heeled sandals clicking on the bare linoleum floor.

      She didn’t want to be attracted to a man. Attraction led to wanting and to wishing for things that could never be.

      The conversation in the room eased as the guests’ attention turned toward the cutting of the cake.

      As she poured another ladle of the dark red punch into her cup, she heard a soft sound of laughter and glanced up to find a girl standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her pretty, delicate features awash with a poignant wistfulness.

      A tiny thing, barely five feet tall, she was far too thin. Larsen guessed she was in her late teens, maybe early twenties. She wore a pair of jeans and a Redskins T-shirt that were both miles too big for her as if she, and not they, had gone through the dryer and shrunk. Her skin was a deep tan in color, her head shiny and bald like a chemo patient’s.

      Larsen’s heart twisted with sympathy and she took a step toward her. “Hi, there. May I bring you a piece of cake?”

      The girl started and turned to Larsen with a guilty, wide-eyed gaze. “I…nay, m’lady.” The words stumbled out in a charmingly accented rush. “I should not have…nay.”

      “It’s all right,” Larsen assured her. “There’s a piece for me and I really don’t want it. I’d be happy to bring it to you.”

      The girl cocked her head as if pondering Larsen’s offer…or Larsen herself. The girl’s eyes, an amazing shade of violet, looked suddenly older than her years.

      “My thanks,” she said shyly. “But I cannot.” Then she turned and fled into the kitchen.

      Larsen sighed, sorry she’d chased the girl away. She turned back toward the festivities, but as she took a sip of the too sweet punch, her vision suddenly went black.

      Pain shot through her head and she grabbed for the wall, cool punch splashing her bare legs even as her sight returned. Except…she wasn’t seeing with her eyes.

      She could feel the hair on her arms leap upright, her heart beginning to pound with a terrible dread. For the first time in fifteen years she was about to watch someone die.

      The scene unfolded in front of her—the same, yet altered. Though still in the fellowship hall, she watched from above now, as if she’d been plastered to the ceiling. Time had lurched forward. The cake was gone, the bride and groom stood near the door, ready to leave. Women gathered around the bride, preparing to catch the bouquet.

      Mouths moved, shoulders shook with laughter, but Larsen heard none of it—like watching a silent movie. Then suddenly everyone went still, their expressions sliding off their faces, leaving them looking like mannequins…or wax figures.

      No, not everyone. A man, the strangest man she’d ever seen, appeared to be talking. He was dressed like something out of a medieval play. His tunic was a shimmering forest-green, his leggings brown with metallic gold flecks that caught the light. But the strangest things about him were his long, lank hair and his skin—both a matching, startling white.

      As she watched, he motioned to one of the bridesmaids. The plump young woman left the throng of women and went to him, her dark ringlets brushing the shoulders of her cobalt gown. When she reached him, she turned her back to him, pulled up her tea-length skirt to her waist, and bent over. The odd-looking man started to untie his leggings.

      Shocked realization jolted her. Larsen opened her mouth to yell at him, but nothing came out. As she watched in helpless frustration, two people strode angrily into the premonition—a man in a suit and a woman in the same apple-green sheath dress Larsen wore even now.

      It was her! She was watching herself.

      The albino in the tunic stared at the two of them with surprise, even as he pulled his distended penis from his leggings. He scowled, then flicked his free hand. Like an army of well-dressed zombies, the wedding guests surrounded the pair and attacked. Without hesitation. Without mercy.

      With horror, Larsen watched her other self crash to the bare floor and disappear beneath a barrage of kicking, stomping feet, her apple-green dress turning a sickly, purplish

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