Kitabı oku: «Fortune»

Also by Erica Spindler

BLOOD VINES

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

BREAKNECK

LAST KNOWN VICTIM

COPYCAT

KILLER TAKES ALL

SEE JANE DIE

IN SILENCE

DEAD RUN

BONE COLD

ALL FALL DOWN

CAUSE FOR ALARM

SHOCKING PINK

Fortune
Erica
Spindler

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The author of over twenty-five books, Erica Spindler is best known for her spine-tingling thrillers. Her novels have been published all over the world, selling over eleven million copies, and critics have dubbed her stories “thrill-packed page-turners, white-knuckle rides and edge-of-your-seat whodunits.”

Erica is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author. In 2002, her novel Bone Cold won the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence.

For three women

it has been my incredible good fortune to call friends:

Jan Hamilton Powell, Terry Richards McGee

and

Karen Young Stone

Acknowledgements

My heartfelt thanks to the following people for helping me bring Fortune to life:

Huge thanks to Roxanne Mouton of Mignon Faget Ltd for walking me through the jewellery-making process, from design concept to finished piece, and for patiently and thoroughly explaining the workings of a jewellery production studio.

Thanks, too, to the incomparable Mignon Faget, for allowing her staff to take time out of their busy day to make my tour possible, and to the staff themselves for answering my questions and putting up with a stranger peering over their shoulders while they worked.

Thanks to my sister, Stacie Spindler, for showing me the “real” Chicago and for her enthusiasm and support.

Big thanks also to the guys at Calvin Klein Camper Sales for letting me roam freely through their trailers; to Linda Weissert for the on-the-spot information about Pittsburgh; and to Drs Leslie and Bill Michaelis for giving me a crash course in veterinary medicine.

And, as always, thanks to my agent, Evan Marshall; my editor Melissa Senate; and the entire MIRA Books staff, particularly Dianne Moggy and Amy Moore-Benson.

Part I Butterflies

Chapter One

Chicago, Illinois,1971

Sunlight spilled through the nursery’s floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window, painting the floor the color of rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Installed in 1909 to herald the first Monarch baby to occupy the Astor Street mansion, the window depicted a hovering angel, golden wings spread, her expression beatific as she guarded the children below.

Since that first Monarch baby, the angel had protected sad few children. One tragedy after another had befallen this family, a family desperate for daughters, one seemingly doomed to watch bitterly as other families grew and multiplied.

Two weeks ago that had changed. Two weeks ago Grace Elizabeth Monarch had been born and come home, to this nursery and its waiting angel, to this desperate family. She had changed everyone’s life forever.

But no one’s more than her mother’s.

Madeline Monarch slipped into the nursery and crossed to the cradle and her sleeping daughter. She gazed down at her, love and a sense of wonder welling inside her. She reached out and stroked her baby’s velvety cheek, and the infant stirred and turned her head toward Madeline’s finger, sucking in her sleep, looking for a nipple.

A lump formed in Madeline’s throat. She was so beautiful, so incredibly…perfect. She still couldn’t quite believe Grace was hers. Madeline bent her head close to her daughter’s and breathed in her baby-soft scent. It filled her head, and she squeezed her eyes shut, nearly drowning in its sweetness.

What had she done to deserve her? Madeline wondered. Why had she been singled out for such a stroke of good fortune? Even Grace’s birth had been like a miracle. She had rocketed into the world, nearly painlessly and at a speed that had taken even Madeline’s veteran obstetrician by surprise. Madeline’s water had broken and less than an hour later there had been Grace, howling and red-faced but unbelievably, incredibly perfect.

Madeline shook her head slightly, unable to fully trust her sudden luck. But how could she? She had never done anything well, or easily, before. No, Madeline was one of those people destined to make mistakes, to choose poorly and to be hurt time and again.

In truth, the moment before the nurse laid Grace in her arms, Madeline hadn’t believed that anything in her life would ever be easy, or painless, or without flaw. She hadn’t believed that she was worthy of true love, of real devotion; she had thought she would go through life reaching for that elusive emotion but always coming back empty-handed.

The next moment had changed all that. Grace had changed it. Madeline loved her daughter almost more than she could bear. And Grace loved her back, the same way. Unconditionally. Completely.

Madeline threaded her fingers through her daughter’s silky dark hair. Grace needed her. Grace loved her. Madeline found that truth to be heady and shattering, but absolutely, positively the best feeling in the whole world. She would do anything, battle anyone or any evil, to protect her daughter.

If necessary, she would give her own life.

Madeline heard a sound at the nursery door and turned. Her six-year-old stepson, Griffen, stood there, his gaze fixed intently on the cradle, his expression strange, at once fascinated and wary, drawn and repelled. She breathed deeply though her nose, fighting back a feeling of resentment at his intrusion. Fighting back the distaste that left her longing for a drink of clean, sweet water.

She scolded herself for both her thoughts and her reaction to him. Griffen needed her, too. She had to remember that.

Yet even as the thought ran through her head, she acknowledged that something about her husband’s son unsettled her, something about him affected her like an icy hand to her back; it had from the first.

It wasn’t his appearance or demeanor. He was an uncommonly beautiful child. Bright, polite, at times even sweet. He didn’t seem to affect anyone else the way he did her. So why, when she looked into his eyes, couldn’t she suppress a shudder?

Madeline knew why. Because she was different; because she saw in a way others didn’t. All her life she had been troubled by uncannily accurate “feelings” and “visions”—about people, about events to come and about ones past. For as long as she could remember, she had been embarrassed by her ability. She had learned to manage the visions by ignoring them. Over time they had become less frequent and less vivid.

No longer. Like everything else in her life, pregnancy and motherhood had changed that. Grace had changed it. Now her sixth sense, if that was even what she should call it, neither rested nor would be ignored, as if the hormones raging through her body had kicked on a switch she didn’t know how to turn off.

And her extra sense warned her that there was something wrong with Griffen Monarch. Something terribly wrong.

Madeline chastised herself. Maybe she was the one with the problem as her husband and Adam Monarch, her father-in-law, insisted; maybe all those hormones were affecting her judgment, her sense of reality and balance.

She swept her gaze over Griffen, guilt pinching at her. His own mother was dead three years now, the victim of an “accidental” overdose of sleeping pills and booze. Madeline knew it couldn’t have been easy for him, growing up with a grandfather obsessed with having a female heir, a grandmother driven to the point of near madness by seven late-term miscarriages and a father who hadn’t the understanding or the patience for the needs of a young child. Then, as if those things hadn’t been enough, she had been introduced into the mix.

And now he had a sibling to deal with, a sibling who had stolen whatever attention and affection this austere household had to offer.

Poor child, Madeline thought, mustering resolve if not warmth. She would try harder. She would be a good stepmother to the boy. She would learn to care for him.

Madeline smiled and motioned him into the room. “Come in, Griffen. But quietly. Grace is sleeping.”

He nodded, and without a word to her, tiptoed into the room. He crossed to stand beside her and gazed silently at his half sister.

Madeline studied him a moment, then returned her gaze to Grace. In the past eighteen months, Madeline had come to understand just how deeply troubled a family she had married into. In fact, she had begun to fear that marrying Pierce Monarch had been another of her mistakes. He was not the man she had thought him to be—he was withdrawn, inflexible and, she had discovered, mean-spirited. So mean-spirited that she had wondered how she could not have seen it before.

Madeline frowned. She wasn’t being truthful with herself. She knew why she hadn’t seen it. She had been blinded by the Monarch name. By their wealth, their status in Chicago. She had been awed by Monarch Design and Retail, the jewelry-design firm started in 1887 by Anna and Marcus Monarch with the money they had inherited from their parents. Within a matter of only a few years, the brother and sister team had created a firm whose works rivaled Tiffany’s in beauty, quality and originality.

Madeline recalled the many times previous to meeting Pierce Monarch that she had wandered through the Michigan Avenue Monarch’s, aching to possess one of the impossibly extravagant, utterly fabulous pieces, a brooch or necklace or ring. Just one piece, she had wished. Any one at all.

Her wish had come true.

Oh, yes, she had been blinded by all that the Monarchs had and were. After all, she was a woman with no family and no pedigree, a woman Pierce had plucked off the sales floor of Marshall Field’s and transported here, to the old stone mansion in the heart of the city’s Gold Coast, to what she had thought of as a dream come true.

But the dream had the qualities of a nightmare.

She shook her head. That was over now. Here was Grace, a savior of sorts for the Monarch clan; already Madeline felt a lightening in the atmosphere of the house, a celebratory mood that affected all, even the household staff.

“Baby Grace is so pretty.”

Startled out of her thoughts, Madeline looked down at the boy, her heart melting at his awed expression. Rather than being jealous of his new sister, he seemed fascinated by her. He seemed to adore her.

How could she think such awful things about her stepson when he looked at Grace that way?

Madeline smiled. “I think so, too.”

“Grandfather Monarch says baby Grace has the gift.”

Madeline’s smile froze. “The gift?” she repeated.

He nodded. “The one the Monarch girls get. The one my great-great-grandfather Marcus saw in his sister and used to make our fortune. That’s why Grace is so special. That’s why we must always keep her close to the family.”

Although only parroting words he had obviously heard many times before, something almost fevered in his expression chilled her. “Grace is special because she is, Griffen. Not because of some…gift. Besides, just because only the girls in the family have been the artists so far doesn’t mean that someday one of the boys won’t be.” She smiled and tapped him on the end of his nose with her index finger. “Maybe you.”

“No.” He frowned and shook his head, looking adult and annoyed with her stupidity. “Grandfather says only the girls. That’s the way it’s always been. It’s why Grace is so important.”

Only the girls. Madeline shuddered and rubbed her arms. “Honey, Grace is just a baby. She might not have this…gift.”

“She has it. Grandfather says so.”

She frowned. “And your grandfather knows everything?”

“He’s the smartest person in the whole world. I’m going to be just like him when I grow up.” Griffen moved his gaze back to Grace. “Can I touch her?”

Madeline hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Only lightly. Like this.” She demonstrated, ever so gently stroking Grace’s silky dark hair.

Griffen watched carefully, then mimicked her actions. After a moment, he drew his hand away. “She’s so soft,” he said, looking up at Madeline in surprise. “How come?”

“Because she’s brand-new.” She nudged the cradle and it swayed. “When she gets a little bigger, I’ll let you hold her.”

Again he mimicked Madeline’s actions, nudging the cradle, making it swing. “How much bigger?”

“A little bigger. Newborns are very delicate. They can be easily hurt.”

For several minutes, they said nothing, just stood side by side, rocking the cradle and gazing at Grace. Then Griffen looked up at Madeline once again. “I’m going to marry her when I grow up.”

“Who, honey?”

“Baby Grace.”

Madeline laughed softly and ruffled his dark hair. “You can’t, sweetheart. She’s your sister.”

Griffen said nothing. One moment became several, then he narrowed his eyes, the intensity in them taking her aback. “I will,” he said softly, fiercely. “I will if I want.”

Madeline’s vision blurred, then cleared. She saw a dark, white forest and blood spilling across a gleaming floor. She heard a silent scream for help, and saw small arms flailing against larger ones.

A squeak of terror slipped past Madeline’s lips. She blinked, and she was once again in her daughter’s sunny nursery, once again staring into her stepson’s cold, angry eyes.

Fear choked her. She fought it off, fought off the premonition and its chilling image. Drawing herself up to her full five-foot height, she frowned at him. “You cannot,” she said sternly, though her voice quivered. “A brother cannot marry his sister. Not ever.”

His face pinched with fury. “I will,” he said again, grabbing the top rail of the cradle. “No matter what you say!”

He pushed as hard as he could. The basket swung wildly, almost capsizing. Madeline cried out and sprang forward, though it was too late. Grace was thrown against the side of the basket, her head against the wooden slats. The infant screamed.

Madeline scooped up her howling daughter and cradled her against her chest, rocking her and cooing, trying desperately to comfort her. Trying just as desperately to comfort herself. She shook so badly she could hardly stand. Grace was all right, she told herself. Just frightened; just a bruise.

It could have been worse. Much worse.

Blood spilling across a gleaming floor. A desperate cry for help.

She lifted her gaze. Griffen had retreated to the doorway and stood there watching her, his expression smug. Self-satisfied.

As she met his eyes, he smiled.

Madeline’s knees gave. She sank to the floor, clutching Grace tightly to her chest. She shook, but not with fear. With the truth.

Griffen meant his sister harm.

Grace would never be safe around him. Never.

Chapter Two

1976

Madeline stood at her bedroom window, heart pounding, mouth dry with fear. She watched Pierce and Adam, engaged in conversation in the driveway below. Both men were dressed for a day of business; they had been standing in the driveway, their cars idling, for just over ten minutes.

Madeline checked her watch again, swore softly, then returned her gaze to her husband and father-in-law. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed the men to finish their discussion and go.

Her silent plea didn’t move them, and she flexed her fingers, frustrated. Anxious. Why had they chosen today for a lengthy chat? Why today, when every minute counted? Every second?

She had everything planned. Adam was leaving for a buying trip; in moments Pierce would head to work; he had a cocktail reception to attend tonight and a racquetball match after that. The housekeeper did the marketing on Wednesdays, it was Nanny’s day off. Grandmother Monarch was quite ill and hardly ever emerged from her suite of rooms. Griffen was in school.

Today was the perfect day to run away.

Her stomach fluttered. Nerves. Disappointment. In herself, in her husband. He refused to see the truth about Griffen, about the boy’s intentions toward Grace. In the five years since the incident in the nursery, Madeline had countless times shared her fears, her premonitions about Griffen, with her husband and father-in-law. They had called her excitable. She was overreacting, they’d said. She was a neurotic, hysterical mother. They had even suggested that she was jealous of the boy.

Jealous! Of Griffen? Of the time he spent with Grace? It was worse than ridiculous. It was insulting.

Without support from the family, she had been forced to watch Griffen’s bizarre attachment to his sister grow. He became alarmingly jealous when she ignored him or chose to play with another child, or even a toy, or pet. He followed Grace; he was possessive of her time, her attention. Madeline had caught him gazing with pure hatred at other children, at Nanny, at her, for heaven’s sake.

But those had been nothing compared to what had come next.

Grace’s favorite toys destroyed, sometimes mutilated. Her kitten bludgeoned to death.

Griffen on top of Grace, holding her down, one hand covering her mouth, the other up her dress.

Even now, months later, the horror of what she had stumbled upon, caused her stomach to turn. He had not been playing a guileless child’s game with his sister. They had not been wrestling, as he had claimed with an innocent, beautiful smile.

Madeline had gone to her husband and her father-in-law; she had told them what she’d seen. She had begged them to believe her, had pleaded with them to trust her. Not only for Grace’s sake, but for Griffen’s, too. The child needed counseling.

Not only had they not believed her, her father-in-law had threatened her. If she didn’t cease this madness, Adam had warned, he would take Grace away from her. She was unbalanced, he had told her. Her delusions about Griffen, about being able to see the future, were unhealthy for the youngster. Any judge would see that.

Adam had struck her then, sharply, across the mouth. The force of the blow had sent her reeling backward, into a wall. Pierce had stood silently by, watching his father, allowing it to happen without even a murmur of protest.

Madeline brought a hand to her mouth, remembering, holding back a sound of pain. Any affection, any last, lingering warmth she had felt for her husband had died in that moment. And in that moment, she had begun hating him. Hating him so much, so ferociously, that she had been able to taste the emotion.

It had tasted like acid. It had eaten at her like acid.

It still did.

All these months, she had controlled her feelings. Because she’d known she couldn’t afford another of her “mistakes,” because she’d understood that this time it was Grace’s life at stake. Grace’s well-being.

With the Monarch power, money and connections, Adam could make good his threat to take Grace away from her. He could do it without even breaking a sweat.

Then her daughter would have no one to protect her. No one who saw the truth about Griffen.

So Madeline had begun the elaborate charade—pretending to be smitten with her husband, acting the part of devoted, adoring wife, the part of the perfect Monarch daughter-in-law. She had claimed to both men that she’d had a sort of epiphany, telling them that they had been right—she had been overreacting about Griffen.

She didn’t know what had gotten into her, she’d told them. She didn’t know why she had been so excitable. She had told them she was sorry, that she was embarrassed by her behavior.

Pierce had fallen for it right away; Adam had taken longer.

She had begun planning her and Grace’s escape.

Pierce looked up suddenly, catching her staring at him. He narrowed his eyes—with suspicion, with realization. Her heart stopped, then started again, thundering in her chest until she had to fight to catch her breath. He knew, she thought, completely panicked. Dear God…he had found her out.

What did she do now?

Madeline fought her panic. He didn’t know. He couldn’t. He didn’t even suspect. She had been very careful. That morning, as a bit of insurance, she’d even submitted to his hands and mouth, she had submitted to his every demand, no matter how abhorrent to her. She had moaned and writhed and sighed, knowing that he would go off to work content and cocky. Knowing that he wouldn’t give her another thought all day. All the while she had wanted to wretch; her skin had crawled at his touch.

But she would do anything to protect her daughter. Anything. This plan had to work. It had to.

Madeline forced an adoring smile and waved. Then for good measure, she blew him a kiss. He smiled, the curving of his lips confident to the point of arrogance, then returned to his conversation.

She backed away from the window, relief flooding her. He didn’t know. Neither did Adam. She and Grace were safe.

For now.

Madeline spun around, thinking of the past months. She had lived in fear, she had spent every waking moment walking a tightrope between acting as if nothing was wrong and protecting Grace, between appearing unconcerned about Griffen and being too terrified even to sleep, lest he use that opportunity to sneak into Grace’s room and violate her.

Living that way had taken its toll. She was tired and on edge. She had lost weight, so much that people had begun to comment. There had been times, as she paced the floor during the middle of the night, that she had wondered if she was crazy. If she was delusional, as Pierce had said.

But those times were few; they didn’t last long. She would recall Griffen’s expression when he looked at Grace, would recall the coldness of his eyes, the cunning of his smile, and she would know she wasn’t crazy.

Everyone else was blind.

Madeline crossed to the bed, bent and peered underneath—her suitcases were there, where she had left them, waiting. Hers was packed, Grace’s empty. As soon as Pierce was gone, she would remedy that.

Madeline stood, glanced around the room, mentally ticking off her few options, reassessing her decision. She had no family to go to and had lost touch with all her old friends. Even her once–best friend, Susan, who she had been so close to that she had believed them soul mates, had slipped out of her life. She had no nest egg to fall back on and no means to support her and Grace. Pierce had seen to it that she had no financial independence; everything she had, Pierce either gave her or she signed for.

Adam’s sister, Dorothy, was sympathetic, but only to a point. Dorothy’s allegiance would always be first and foremost to the Monarch family and the family business. And Dorothy, like the others, was obsessed with the notion that Grace had the gift, obsessed with the belief that Grace would one day succeed her as the artistic genius behind Monarch Design.

Having no other option, Madeline had pawned her engagement ring—Pierce thought she had taken it in for cleaning—and used the money to buy a car. A late-model Chevrolet, a junker compared to the Mercedes sedan she usually drove. But it had low mileage and the woman from whom she’d bought it had sworn it was absolutely dependable.

Madeline had parked it a dozen blocks away, in a transitional neighborhood where it wouldn’t scream that it didn’t belong. Everything was in place.

Madeline checked her watch, then twisted her fingers together. Dammit, when were they going to leave? Every moment counted. Because every moment meant another moment’s head start before Pierce and Adam realized what she had done.

As if in answer to her silent plea, Madeline heard the slam of car doors. She raced to the window in time to see Adam and Pierce drive off.

Finally! Heart in her throat, she flew to the door, into the hall and down the stairs. At the foyer she stopped, forcing herself to appear calm on the off chance someone was about. She made her way to the study, closing and locking the door behind her.

She leaned against the door, letting out a breath she hadn’t even realized she held. She drew another. Across the room hung a small, exquisitely rendered landscape. Behind it, a wall safe.

She stared at the painting, working up her courage. For four months she had used every excuse to be in here when Pierce opened the safe; she had even used an insatiable need for sex, all in an attempt to learn the combination. She had watched, she had listened and counted and prayed.

And she had learned it, number by excruciating number. Or she thought she had.

Dear God, please let me have the right numbers. Don’t let me be wrong.

Madeline crossed to the painting. She swung it away from the wall. Her hands shook. They were clammy, slick with sweat. She spun the wheel to the first number, then the next and next. She grasped the handle and pulled.

It didn’t open.

She almost cried out in disappointment, physically biting back the sound. Without money, she couldn’t go as far as the corner. Without money, there was no way she could get Grace away from here, no way she could hide and protect her.

Stay calm, Madeline. Take a deep breath and try again.

She did.

The safe opened.

Light-headed with fear and relief, she reached inside. She moved aside a black velvet pouch emblazoned with Monarch’s “M” logo, counted out five thousand dollars, enough, she thought, to get her and Grace far from here and settled, until she could find a job.

She stuffed the bills into one of her cardigan’s deep pockets, then moved the pouch back to its original position and started to close the safe door. Her gaze landed on that black velvet bag.

What was in it?

On impulse, she opened the bag and dipped her hand inside—and pulled out a fistful of sparkling, fiery gems. Diamonds, rubies and sapphires. She caught her breath, stunned. By their beauty. By their heat. For even though they were cold against her palm, their fire made them hot.

What were they doing here? she wondered, selecting a particularly large, brilliant stone and holding it up to the light. Why weren’t they in the store’s vault, where they belonged? There they would be both safer and fully insured. It didn’t make sense. Adam and Pierce were nothing if not shrewd businessmen.

Madeline frowned at her own thoughts. She didn’t have time for this; what Pierce and Adam did with the store’s property wasn’t her concern. It never had been. She dropped the stones back into the bag, then shoved the bag back into the safe.

Take them.

The thought raced into her head, and with it a feeling, sharp, overwhelming—that she would need them, that Grace would need them. Madeline shook her head, denying the thought, the feeling. She was overwrought and anxious; she wasn’t thinking clearly. If she took the stones, Pierce and Adam would be that much more determined to find her. They would have that much more to hold against her in a court of law.

She swung the safe shut, made sure it was locked, turned and started out of the study. Halfway across the room she stopped, frozen, blinded by an indistinct but chilling image. She saw snow. And blood spilling across a gleaming floor. She saw the twinkle of gems and the glitter of ice. Her mouth went dry; sweat beaded on her upper lip. She saw dark water sucking someone down, swallowing them whole.

She began to shake. Take the gems. Take them now.

With a cry of pure terror, Madeline spun back to the safe, reopened it and grabbed the pouch. She slammed the safe shut and as quickly as she could, twisted the dial, then eased the painting into place.

She couldn’t turn back now.

Clutching the pouch to her chest, she ran from the library. Hysteria tugged at her; she fought it. She had to stay calm if she was to protect Grace. Today she was taking the first step, but every day after would prove as much of a challenge.

No one was about. Madeline supposed the housekeeper had already left. She made her way up to the nursery. She crossed to Grace’s bed.

“Baby,” she murmured, shaking her daughter gently, “sweetheart, it’s time to get up.”

Grace whimpered and rolled over, crushing her favorite teddy bear to her chest. Madeline shook her again. “Come on, sweetie, we’re going on a trip. Time to wake up.”

Grace yawned. She cracked open her eyes. Her lips curved up. “Hi, Mommy.”

Madeline’s heart turned over. She never got enough of hearing her daughter call her that, never got enough of that sweet, baby voice or the way the little girl looked at her—as if Madeline were the most important, the best, person in the world.

She loved Grace so much it terrified her. She prayed she was doing the right thing.

“I need you to dress, baby. Your clothes are right over there.” She pointed to the rocking chair, where she had laid out her daughter’s garments. She saw that her hand shook. “Can you do that for me?”

Grace nodded and sat up; she stuck her thumb in her mouth—a habit Pierce couldn’t abide—and eyed her mother. “Mommy’s upset.”

“No, honey. Just rushed.”

“Where are we going?”

Madeline hesitated. What could she tell her daughter? That she planned to drive until she could drive no more, her only goal to put as much distance between them and the Monarchs as possible? Hardly. Instead, she tapped Grace on the nose. “It’s going to be so much fun. Just you and me.”

“Not Daddy?”

Madeline shook her head. “He has to work.”

Grace accepted her explanation without question or murmur. The truth was, Grace and Pierce weren’t especially close; he was always busy, and when he did have time for Grace he was critical—she was too loud, too messy, she didn’t pronounce words correctly. He hardly ever hugged or kissed her; he always spoke of her in terms not of love but of value. To the family. To the business.

“Not Grandfather or Grandmother?”

Madeline shook her head. “Nope.”

Grace curved her arms around herself. “Not brother?”

“Not brother,” Madeline answered sharply. Never brother. “We’re going to have such fun, just you and me.”

“Okay.” Yawning again, Grace climbed out of bed. “Clothes over there?”

“That’s right, honey.” Madeline went to the nursery door, stopping when she reached it. “You get dressed. I’ll be right back, then I’ll help with your socks and shoes.”

“Thanks, Mommy.”

Madeline squatted and held out her arms. “I think I need a hug.”

Grace trotted over. She wrapped her chubby little arms around Madeline’s neck and squeezed. Madeline hugged her back, hard.

“I love you, sweetheart. More than anything. I always will.”

“Me, too. More than anything.”

Madeline kissed her, then stood. “I’ll be right back. Get dressed.”

Madeline ducked into the hall, glancing at her watch again as she did. Time was slipping by. Too much time. She had to put as much distance between her and this family as she could, as fast as she could. When Pierce and Adam realized what she had done, they would use their every resource to find her.

She ran to her and Pierce’s bedroom. There, she raced across to the bed and, getting down on her hands and knees, yanked the suitcases out from under. With trembling fingers she unlocked hers, looked it over to make sure nothing had been moved, then tucked the pouch of gems inside. That done, she snapped the case shut, stood and bent for the bags.

Pierce knew.

The thought came to her suddenly, with it an overwhelming feeling of dread. A sense of foreboding. She looked over her shoulder, half expecting to see him standing behind her, the expression in his eyes murderous.

The doorway was empty.

Even so, a shudder moved up her spine. He knew. Dear Jesus, he knew.

But how could he? She shook her head. If he did, he would have disturbed the contents of her suitcase. He would have confronted her.

She had to get a grip, she told herself, hoisting up the bags. She had to keep her wits about her—for Grace’s sake. And her own. If Pierce caught her, she didn’t know what he might do.

He might even kill her.

Madeline took a deep, calming breath. Twenty minutes from now she and Grace would be on the road, and on their way to starting a new life, one free of this unhappy, twisted family. Everything was going according to plan.

After peeking into the hall to make sure no one was about, she returned to the nursery. Grace was dawdling, having gotten distracted in the bathroom.

“Mommy, I brushed my teeth really good. For a long time, every tooth.”

Madeline took another deep breath. Losing her cool with her daughter would not hurry her. “Good girl,” she said with elaborate calm. “Come on now, we have to hurry.”

Grace trotted back into the room. “Why?”

Madeline held out Grace’s jumper. “Why what?”

“Why do we have to hurry?”

“Because we do.” Madeline’s voice rose; she heard the edge of hysteria in it. She fought it back and smiled at her daughter. “I’ll help you dress.”

She did and within minutes Grace was ready to go. Madeline sat her on the rug next to the packed suitcase, handed her her favorite toy, then started filling Grace’s suitcase, throwing in clothes and toiletries and toys, only the essentials and a few of Grace’s favorites.

A knock sounded at the nursery door. Madeline swung toward it, heart thundering. The knock came again.

“Mrs. Monarch? I’m leaving for the market, is there anything special you need?”

The housekeeper. She hadn’t left yet.

As if reading her mind, the woman said, “I got hung up on the phone with the plumber. They’re sending someone by this afternoon. Is there anything you need?”

Madeline struggled to find her voice. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Mrs. Monarch? Are you all right?”

Madeline heard the question, the concern in the other woman’s voice. Panic pumped through her; if she didn’t answer, the housekeeper would come into the nursery.

“I…I’m fine, Alice. And no, there’s nothing I need. You…you go on, we’re just fine.”

“All right, Mrs. Monarch. Oh, Mr. Monarch’s office called, looking for him. Apparently, he forgot something and is on his way home.”

Pierce? On his way home?

Madeline struggled to breathe evenly. She thanked the woman, reminded her that she and Grace would be gone to the zoo all afternoon, then waited several moments to make sure the housekeeper had left before she jumped into action.

How long? she wondered, completely panicked. How long until Pierce walked through that door? She turned back to Grace’s suitcase and did a quick inventory. She would just have to leave the rest; they would have to make do. There was no time. No time.

“Mommy!” Grace squealed with delight. “Look!”

Madeline swung around in time to see Grace emptying the pouch of gems into her lap.

With a cry, Madeline leaped across to her daughter. “No! Bad girl!” She snatched the pouch from Grace’s hands. The jewels flew, scattering across the wooden floor.

For one moment, Grace stared blankly at her, as if in shock. Then she burst into tears.

Madeline hardly ever raised her voice with Grace. She could count on one hand the times she had yelled at her.

“I’m sorry, honey. Daddy wanted us to have the pretty stones for our trip. But they’re very special, we mustn’t play with them.” She hugged her daughter. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Come, help me pick them up. Can you do that?”

Still whimpering, Grace nodded and together they retrieved the stones, put them back into the pouch, the pouch into the suitcase, Madeline painfully aware of each passing moment. She snapped the case shut, locked it this time, then did the same to Grace’s. “Come on, sweetie, time to go.”

The nursery door opened. Madeline swung toward it and froze. Not Pierce on his way home, she realized. The other Mr. Monarch. Worse, much worse.

Adam took in the scene before him, realization crossing his features. His face went from passive to enraged. “Going somewhere, Madeline, dear? On some sort of a trip?”

Madeline wetted her lips. “This isn’t what it looks like. It’s—”

“Going on a trip,” Grace chirped up, happily playing with her baby doll. “Daddy can’t come. He has to work.”

“You lying, conniving bitch.” Adam took a step toward her, his expression murderous. “So this is what you’ve been up to. This is why you’ve been such a perfect little wife. So agreeable, so helpful. You’ve been planning to steal my granddaughter.”

Madeline took a step back, heart thundering. “She’s my daughter, Adam. Mine.”

“Pretty stones,” Grace said. “Daddy sent pretty stones for our trip.”

Adam looked at Grace, drawing his eyebrows together in question, then back at Madeline. “You’re not taking her anywhere.”

“You can’t stop me.” Madeline jerked her chin up and stiffened her shoulders. “I have to protect her. I’ve tried to tell you about Griffen, I’ve tried to make you—”

“Griffen’s her brother!” Adam’s face mottled with rage. “He’s my grandson. A Monarch, for Christ’s sake!”

“But he’s unbalanced!” she cried. “He’s dangerous! You have to see it! You have to believe—”

“Believe what?” he demanded. “The delusional ravings of a woman who believes she can see the future? Please.”

“I told you what I walked in on! I didn’t imagine that. He was holding her down, he had his hand—”

“Shut up!” he shouted, nearly purple with rage. “You’re the one who’s unbalanced. You’re the one who needs help.” He advanced on her, flexing his fingers. “Let’s get this straight. I don’t give a fuck if you leave, you crazy bitch, but you’re not taking my granddaughter.”

“I have to protect her. You can’t stop me.”

“I can. And I will. She belongs here, she belongs to Monarch’s.”

“She’s not property!” Madeline cried, putting herself between Adam and Grace. “She doesn’t belong to the family business. For God’s sake, she’s a person!”

He shook his head, calm suddenly, his eyes burning with a fanatical light. “She has the gift, Madeline. You know I can’t let her go. You know I won’t.”

Madeline took a step backward, frightened. “Adam,” she said, trying to reason with him, “be realistic. How do you know she has the gift? She’s just five years old. How can you be so certain—”

Because he was crazy, she realized. Obsessed with Monarch’s. Obsessed with the notion that a “gift” was passed from one generation of Monarch daughters to the next. Twisted by the belief that without Grace, without the one with the gift, Monarch’s would crumble.

Dear God, he was as disturbed as Griffen.

She pushed past him, intent on grabbing Grace and running; he caught her arm and spun her back toward him, his expression contorted with rage and hatred. “You’re not going anywhere, Madeline.”

She yanked free of his grasp. “The hell we’re not. You’ll hear from my lawye—”

Adam struck her. His fist connected with her cheek; stars exploded in her head. With a cry of pain, she stumbled backward. She hit the edge of the dresser, and the Mother Goose lamp crashed to the floor.

“Mommy!”

Adam snatched Grace up and started for the nursery door. She began to howl and kick. “Mommy! I want my mommy!”

Madeline dragged herself to her feet, though her head felt as if it might explode with the movement. “You’re not taking my daughter from me!” She launched herself at Adam’s back, clawing at him, digging her fingernails into the side of his neck.

With a grunt of pain, he loosened his grip on Grace. She dropped to the floor. Adam swung around and struck her again. Madeline flew backward, hitting the side of the bed, falling across it. Even as she struggled to sit up, she saw him advancing on her.

He meant to kill her.

With a cry, she struggled to her feet. He knocked her back again; then fell on top of her, closing his hands around her neck. “You demented bitch. Did you really think you could get away with this? Did you really think you could take our girl away from us?”

Madeline clawed at his hands, trying to free herself. She twisted and turned and kicked; he was too strong. She heard Grace’s hysterical sobbing and her father-in-law’s grunts of exertion. She heard her own silent pleas for help.

Her lungs burned; the edges of her vision dimmed. Above her the beatific face of the stained-glass angel gazed down at her. The angel that guarded the children. The angel that had been unable to guard her child.

Madeline flailed her arms. Her right hand connected with the cut-glass vase on the nightstand by the bed. The leadedglass vase that had been a baby gift from a family friend. The one she kept filled with pink tea roses. She closed her fingers around it and swung. It connected with the side of Adam’s head. He grunted with pain and eased the grip on her neck.

Oxygen rushed into her lungs; they burned and she gasped for air. She swung the vase again. This time when it connected she heard a sickening crack. Blood flew. Grace screamed.

Adam got to his feet. Red spilled down the side of his face and across his white dress shirt. He brought a hand to the side of his head, meeting Madeline’s eyes, his expression disbelieving. Then, as if in slow motion, he fell backward, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. Blood splattered Grace, who was still screaming, one piercing shriek after another, like a burglar alarm gone berserk.

Madeline stumbled to her feet and across to Adam. He lay completely still, face deathly white, blood pooling around his head, matting his dark hair. She had killed him. Dear God, she had killed Adam Monarch.

She reached out to him, intent on checking his pulse, then stopped, realization hitting her with the force of a blow. Her vision, the one from the library earlier and the one from five years before. Blood spilling across a gleaming floor. Madeline brought her hands to her mouth. Glittering ice and freezing water, a body being sucked down.

It wasn’t over.

With a cry, she snatched her hand back. She had to go, now; before someone discovered what she had done. Before Grace was taken away from her.

Madeline scooped up her daughter, grabbed the suitcases and ran.

Part II The Traveling Show

Chapter Three

Lancaster County, Pennsylvania,1983

The countryside gently rolled. It was lush and green and fertile. Nineteenth-century farmhouses nestled amidst those rolling hills; corn silos and windmills dotted the landscape, horse-drawn buggies the roads.

It was picturesque. Quaint and beautiful. Every day tourists flocked to Lancaster County to soak up the atmosphere and to relive—if only for an hour or two—the ways of an earlier century.

Seventeen-year-old Chance McCord had experienced all of living in the nineteenth century that he could stand. Quaint and picturesque made him want to puke. He feared if he spent one more day in this all-for-one, one-for-all, plain-ways hell, he would go completely, fucking out of his mind.

Chance strode across his sparsely furnished bedroom to the open window, stopping before it and gazing out at the evening. He wanted to wear his blue jeans. He wanted to listen to rock’n’roll and watch TV. He wanted to hang out with his friends—hell, or anyone else who thought and felt as he did. Dear God, he even longed for school. The Amish didn’t believe in schooling for children his age. By sixteen, Amish children were fulfilling their duty to the family and community by working on the farm. He had been fulfilling his duty for a year now; damn but he hated cows.

Chance braced his hands on the windowsill and breathed in the mild, evening air. A year ago he wouldn’t have believed it possible to long for the big, rambling high school in north L.A. where he had always thought of himself as a prisoner. He wouldn’t have believed it possible to wish to be sitting in first-period English with old man Waterson droning on about some poet who had died long before the birth of the electric guitar.

Now, Chance knew what it was to be a prisoner.

If he didn’t escape, he would shrivel up and die.

It wasn’t that his aunt Rebecca—his mother’s sister—or her husband, Jacob, were bad people. Quite the contrary, they were good ones—to a fault. They had taken him in when his mother had died and his wealthy father—if Chance could even call him that, he had never even acknowledged his existence—had refused to take him. They had made room for him in this house, though with four children of their own it hadn’t been easy.

And it wasn’t that they hated him, though it often felt like it. They simply had their beliefs, and those beliefs were ironclad. They expected him to believe, and live, as they did.

He couldn’t do that. It wasn’t in him.

Chance began to pace, feeling as he often did, like a caged animal. They had buggied to town today, he, Uncle Jacob and Samuel, his aunt and uncle’s ten-year-old son. There, Chance had seen it. A traveling carnival, complete with a Ferris wheel and a fortune-teller. A traveling show, the kind whose troupe went from town to town, the kind of show Chance didn’t even know existed anymore.

An opportunity, he’d thought. Maybe.

While Jacob had been completing his business, he had looked it over, taking Samuel with him. When Jacob found them, he had been furious, though he hadn’t raised his voice. The things he had said to Chance had hurt, though Chance had hidden it; the things his uncle had left unsaid, the way he had looked at Chance, had cut him to his core.

Later, Chance had heard his aunt and her husband arguing.

Chance crossed to the window, looking toward town. In the distance he could see the faint glow of the carnival’s neon light. Frustration balled in the pit of his gut. Regret with it. He had brought tension to this house, had brought friction—between his aunt and her husband, between the children and their parents, the family and a community that didn’t like or trust outsiders.

He was an outsider here.

He always would be.

Chance rested his forehead against the windowsill, thinking of freedom, thinking of traveling from town to town with no one telling him what he could think or how he should act.

A traveling show. An opportunity. A way out.

His heart began to pound. He didn’t fit in here, he never would. The feeling wasn’t a new one; he had never fit in, had always been an outsider, even with his mother in L.A. But he had big plans, dreams that he intended to make reality.

His mother. As always when he thought of her, her image filled his head. He pictured her pretty face and smile, remembered the faraway look she so often had, recalled her habit of staring into the distance just over his right shoulder. With her image came a tightness to his chest, a pinch, an ache. Chance fisted his fingers against the smooth, cool glass. Connie McCord had longed for so many things, things life had kept beyond her reach, things death had denied her ever obtaining.

They wouldn’t remain beyond his reach. He knew what he wanted, what he needed and deserved. He would grab it with both hands. He would not end up like his mother, always disappointed and unfulfilled, always on the outside looking in.

He would not die without having obtained all that he desired.

Chance swung away from the window. He would make his dreams a reality. Starting now, this moment. Somehow, he would find a way.

A traveling show. The chance, the opportunity he had been waiting for.

The time had come to go.

Chapter Four

Marvel’s Carnival was a seedy, tired affair, one of the last of its kind, a dying breed. Forty years prior, before the proliferation of high-tech, big-bucks amusement worlds like Six Flags, Marvel’s had been in its heyday. Part amusement park, part circus, the carnival and its troupe traveled from town to town during the summer months, staying a few days or a week, then moving on.

These days, a carnival like Marvel’s was in less demand than during that glorious heyday. Now the troupe only traveled to small rural areas. Places with little access to big, fancy theme parks, places where the kids—young and old—were hungry for something to do, some way to fill the long summer nights.

Marvel’s gave them plenty to do, plenty to gawk at. The fire-eaters and snake charmers were a big favorite with the preadolescent crowd, the teenagers gravitated toward the rides and games of chance, the adults to the food, acrobats and contortionists. Everybody loved the fortune-teller, especially this summer, as the show’s owner had managed to snare a really good one.

Claire Dearborn—known as Madame Claire on the circuit—was the real thing, the genuine article, not a scam artist or slick fraud like most of the other sideshow acts. If Abner Marvel had had any doubts about that when he’d hired her, those doubts had quickly disappeared as word spread and the towners began lining up to have their fortunes told.

Abner Marvel, one of the last of the born-and-bred showmen, had quickly given the woman and her daughter their own trailer and raised the cost of a five-minute reading from two dollars to five. Additional time could be purchased, of course. At a premium.

In twelve-year-old Skye Dearborn’s opinion, her mother could make a lot more money with her ability than she did working for this third-rate, traveling fleabag, but the one time Skye had suggested it her mother had said she liked traveling with Marvel’s and that money didn’t buy happiness.

Skye supposed she liked the traveling, too, but she didn’t follow the bit about money and happiness. From what she had seen of life, rich folks seemed a whole lot happier than poor ones.

Skye ducked out of her and her mother’s trailer and headed toward the midway. Living accommodations for the entire troupe, the trailers were positioned on the northernmost edge of the lot, as far as possible from the activity of the show. Even so, she could hear the carousel’s calliope and the screams of delighted terror coming from the Screamin’ Demon, the show’s rather modest roller coaster.

She and her mother were traveling with Marvel’s for the summer; come fall they would settle somewhere, some little town where her mom would get a job at the local diner or drugstore and where she would go to school. Skye made a face. School sucked. She hated everything about it except art class, and some of the schools she had gone to had been so small and backward they didn’t even have art. Then it totally sucked.

In truth, whether the school had art or not never really mattered, ‘cause she and her mom never stayed in any one place too long. Just about the time she had gotten her reputation as a smart-mouthed troublemaker good and fixed, they would move on. Skye could count more than a dozen schools she’d attended in the last couple of years.

She and her mom had been traveling this way for as long as she could remember. Her mom said they were nomadic adventurers; Skye kind of thought they might be criminals or something. All the moving around, to her mind, just didn’t add up.

Skye frowned and kicked at a discarded Coke can. Still half-full, the beverage spewed out, splattering her shorts and T-shirt. Making a sound of annoyance, she swiped at the drops of cola. If only her mom would tell her the truth. The few times Skye had confronted her, her mother had denied keeping anything from her; she had denied having any secrets.

She was lying; Skye was certain of it. She had the feeling that her mother was running, that she was constantly looking over her shoulder. That she was always afraid.

And that made Skye afraid, too. Her mother was all she had.

She climbed over the rope barricade that circled the perimeter of the show and separated what was called the front yard from the back yard, the towners from the troupers. Up ahead lay the midway, with its bright lights and raucous laughter, its frenetic mix of music, games and tasty treats. The rides flanked either side of the midway; the sideshow tents—including her mother’s—were located at its far end.

Skye didn’t have a set job with the troupe, but helped out as she was needed, filling in for troupers who were ill, helping set up and tear down, but mostly, she worked as a sort of shill on the midway, drumming up business for the various games of chance.

A “sort of” shill because Marvel’s was a one-hundred-percent Sunday-school show—no overcharging or shortchanging customers, no rigged games. Skye had played each game about a million times; she knew the trick to winning at each, so she made it look easy. So easy, in fact, that as she walked away, arms full of prizes, folks lined up, eager to win one of the big stuffed toys.

As Skye stepped onto the midway, the scent of popcorn hit her in a mouthwatering wave. Nearly 8:00 p.m., the carnival was in full swing, the midway packed, even for a Saturday night. Skye moved her gaze up, then down, the aisle of game booths, noting that most were busy.

All except the quarter toss.

She ambled over, stopped at the booth as if sizing it up, then dug in her pocket for a quarter. “What do I do?” she asked Danny, an obnoxious zit-face of a boy who seemed to have made tormenting her his life’s work. But still, this was business. She had to get along with him for the good of the troupe.

He sidled over. “See those platforms there?” He pointed at the three levels of platforms topped with round pieces of thick, slick glass. She nodded. “Just toss your quarter. If it lands and sticks to the low platform, you win a small prize, the middle platform a medium prize, and the high platform a grand prize.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s it.” He grinned slyly. “Easy as pie.”

Skye tried, deliberately missing twice for the sake of realism. The third time, she expertly flipped the coin so it would land flat on one of the glass tops.

It did, and she clapped her hands together. “I won!” she squealed. She swung, as with excited, disbelieving delight, toward the people in the aisle behind her. “I won! I can’t believe it!”

“Here you go, little lady,” Danny said, and handed her a stuffed parrot. “You wouldn’t like to give it another try, would you? And go for one of the grand prizes. You seem awful good at this.”

“Sure.” Skye grinned. “I’ll try again.”

A handful of quarters later, she walked away from the now-crowded booth, her arms loaded with stuffed toys. She went to the supply wagon to dump them—she never kept what she won, that wouldn’t be right—then skipped back to the midway for some more fun.

A commotion at the concession stand caught her attention. A teenager stood at the front of the line, clutching his stomach and holding out a half-eaten hot dog.

“This made me sick,” the boy said loudly. “I think it’s bad or something.”

Skye inched closer to get a better look. She saw Marta, a big woman with steel gray hair and a personality to match, eye the boy suspiciously. “What do you mean, it made you sick?”

“Sick. You know.” He groaned and clutched his stomach, then doubled over as with cramps. The people behind him in line stirred and moved backward. He raised his voice a bit more. “Isn’t it against the law to serve rotten meat?”

“We don’t serve rotten meat,” Marta said, her voice shrill. “We’re very careful.”

“Smell it.” He held it out. “It smells rotten.”

Marta leaned away, her face twisting with distaste. “I don’t want to smell it. If it’s a problem, I’ll give you back your money. Or another hot dog.”

“Another hot—” He moaned. “I want to talk to the owner or manager or something. This isn’t right.” He doubled over, groaning. “If I die, it’s going to be your fault.”

The line stirred again; several people turned and walked away. Someone said something nasty about carnivals. Skye frowned, studying the boy. He looked kind of weird. His jeans were strictly high-water, his hair cropped unevenly, as if done by hand with a pair of kitchen shears. The front of his T-shirt was emblazoned with the name of a rock group that hadn’t been popular in a year, and instead of tennis shoes, he wore some kind of funky work boots.

Weird, she thought again. This kid wasn’t for real. He was trying to scam Marta, no doubt about it. She had seen a hint of a smile tug at his mouth as he bent over the last time. Skye cocked her head, indignant. But why? What did he hope to gain?

Money, no doubt. She folded her arms across her chest, disgusted. The lengths some people would go to for money.

“Abner Marvel’s the owner,” Marta was saying, obviously anxious to get rid of him before he tossed his cookies. “You can probably find him at the little top. That’s the sideshow tent.” The woman pointed. “At the end of the midway. If he’s not there, try the main ticket booth.”

Still clutching both his stomach and the hot dog, the kid turned and hobbled in the direction she’d indicated.

Skye narrowed her eyes. She made it her business to know everything that went on at Marvel’s. She knew what all the members of the troupe were up to, including who was doing what and with whom. A person couldn’t burp on the lot without her finding out about it.

She meant to get to the bottom of this, too. Nobody was going to pull a fast one on Marvel’s, not if she had anything to say about it.

She started after him, keeping him in sight but keeping her distance, too. After he had gone some distance, he straightened, glanced back at Marta and the concession stand, then smiled. A moment later, he tossed the hot dog into the trash can and started walking again—this time both upright and quickly.

Skye made a sound of triumph. She knew it, the creep was up to something.

“Hey! Brat-face!”

Skye stopped and glared over her shoulder at Rick, the kid who ran the shooting gallery, a particularly odious creature. When she and her mother had first joined Marvel’s, he and a couple of his equally gross friends had tried to scare her by locking her in the fun house after closing. Instead of scaring her, he’d made her mad. When one of the roustabouts discovered her and let her out, she’d found Rick and popped him square in the nose, bloodying it. He had never forgiven her for that. But he’d never tried to scare her again, either.

She propped her fists on her hips. “What do you want?”

“I gotta take a break.”

“So take it. I’m busy.”

“Marvel sent Benny to cover the coaster for a while. If I don’t get to the john, I’m going to piss on one of the customers. Get over here.”

Skye looked at the mystery kid’s retreating back, then at Rick. She sniffed. “Do you always have to be so gross? You’re disgusting. Find somebody else.”

“If you don’t get your ass over here, I’m gonna beat the shit out of you.”

“Yeah, right. I’m so scared.” She cocked her chin up. “Pretty clever, the way you sneaked off the lot last night to meet that girl. Hardly anybody saw you. Except me. What do you think Marvel would say about that?”

His face turned beet red. He glanced at her, and shoved his hands in the back pockets of his blue jeans. “You’re such a little twit. I wish you’d fall off the face of the planet.”

“And you’re a brainless butthead.”

“You’re just jealous ‘cause no boy’s ever going to want to sneak out to meet you. You’re probably a queer, you act more like a boy than a girl.”

For a moment, Skye couldn’t find her breath. Her eyes burned and her chest ached. Horrified, she struggled for a comeback, struggled to keep Rick from seeing how much his comment hurt.

She tipped her chin up again, as much for show as to keep it from wobbling. Why should she care if Rick thought she was ugly and unlovable? So what if he thought she was a…queer. He was gross and stupid, and she hated him.

“You better watch it,” she said, “or I’ll get my mom to put a curse on you.”

Rick snorted with amusement, but only after a moment’s telling hesitation. Showmen were notoriously superstitious. They believed in bad luck and gris-gris and witches. And the truth was, her mother’s ability scared them silly. They thought that, somehow, if Madame Claire could see their future—which she could—she could also change it. For the worse.

Because of that, they kept as far away from Madame Claire as possible.

Skye grinned. Silly, superstitious delinquents. It didn’t work that way, of course. But if they wanted to believe it did, that suited Skye just fine. Her mother wasn’t interested in being one of them, and Skye liked being able to yank their chains every once in a while. Sometimes a girl needed a little threat to hang over a bully’s head; it was a way to even the odds a bit.

Skye knew using the other trouper’s fear of her mother’s ability that way didn’t make her too popular, but that was tough nuts. She was used to not being liked, to not having friends. Besides, when she and her mom left, she wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind. Goodbyes were a real bummer.

But detest Rick or not, she was part of the troupe. And he needed her help.

Skye took one last look at the direction the mystery kid had disappeared, sighed and turned back to Rick. “Go already. But hurry back. I’ve got things to do.”

Chapter Five

Chance had taken one last glance behind him—the woman at the concession stand appeared to have forgotten all about him—and tossed the remainder of his perfectly edible hot dog in the trash.

This had to work. Abner Marvel had to give him a job.

He had no contingency plan.

Chance wiped his damp palms on the thighs of his newly resurrected blue jeans. He had dug them, a T-shirt and the remainder of his pre-Lancaster County things out of storage, dressed, packed, then written his aunt and her husband a note. Then he had headed out into the night to hitch a ride.

From there he had winged it. The food-poisoning routine had been a last, desperate attempt to find a way to get to the carnival’s owner. Before he had come up with that scheme, he had asked a half-dozen carnival employees who the owner/manager was and where he could find him; each time, his inquiry had been met with surliness and suspicion. All had told him the same thing—no jobs available.

Then he had realized his mistake. He had done it all wrong—to get to the owner he needed something better than the truth, he needed a scam.

If there was one thing people understood, it was liability. If nothing else, Chance had learned that from his father. The bastard had considered Chance a liability. And nothing else.

Thus the rotten-meat routine had been born.

Determination swelled inside him. Confidence with it. Chance shifted the strap of his duffel bag, inching it higher on his shoulder, and picked up his pace, anxious to secure his future.

Chance made his way down the wide, crowded midway. People streamed around him, laughing with each other, jostling him as they passed. Garish pink, green and yellow neon lights illuminated the moonless night. The scent of popcorn made his mouth water. Rock music blared, a different song from every dizzily spinning ride. Carnies called out lewd greetings to one another; with each revolution of the hammerhead and tilt-a-whirl, girls screamed. The sounds blended together creating a strange, at once ugly and exciting mix.

A group of rowdy teenagers pushed past him. One of the girls giggled and glanced back at him, but not in admiration, Chance knew. He had grown taller in the year he had been imprisoned at his aunt’s, his shoulders had broadened, his chest thickened. Consequently, his denims were too short, his T-shirt too tight; he hadn’t even been able to get his feet into his old Nikes, so he’d been forced to wear his farm-boy work boots. He looked like a total nerd.

Chance stiffened, straightening his shoulders. Not for long, he vowed silently. He was going places; he was going to be somebody important. Someday, girls like those would look at him and wish, pray even, that he would look back.

Up ahead he saw the little top, as the woman had called it. Actually, there were several tents of varying sizes at the end of the runway. Chance decided to try the one dead center first. It was empty save for a man sweeping trash from ringside. Chance hesitated a moment, eyeing the burly man. It seemed doubtful that this was the carnival’s owner, but he might know where Abner Marvel was.

Chance moved farther into the tent. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I’m—”

“The next show’s not for an hour,” the man said, not glancing up. “Come back then.”

“I’m not here to see the show.” Chance swaggered toward the man. “I’m looking for the boss.”

“That so? The boss?” Chance earned a glance. The man’s face could only be described as battered. It looked as if his head had once played ball to someone’s bat and the exchange had left his entire face pushed in.

“That’s right. You know where I might find him?”

The man swept his gaze over him, head to foot, real leisurely-like. He was built like a gorilla, thick and strong, and he was looking at Chance as if he might want to flatten him. No doubt it had been his pleasure to have flattened many punks in his day.

“You already did,” he said.

“You’re Abner Marvel?”

At the obvious disbelief in his tone, the man’s mouth twitched. “None other. And who are you?”

“Chance McCord.” Chance held out his hand, but the man ignored it, going back to his sweeping.

“What can I do for you, Chance McCord?”

“I’m looking for a job.”

“Figured as much. What kind of job you looking for?”

“Any kind.”

“Figured that, too.” The man eyed Chance again, sizing him up once more, his expression openly doubtful. He arched his eyebrows. “You eighteen?”

“Just last month,” Chance lied. He would turn eighteen in October.

“Funny, I’d have guessed you to be younger than that.”

Chance squared his shoulders and stuck out his jaw. “Well, I’m not. And I’m a hard worker.”

“Your parents know you’re here? They know you’re wantin’ to run off and join the carnival?”

“I don’t have any parents.” Chance cocked up his chin. “I’ve been living with my aunt.”

The man cleared his throat, turned his head, spit out a wad of phlegm, then looked at Chance once more. “She know?”

“She doesn’t have to. I’m eighteen.”

“So you said.” Mr. Marvel shook his head. “What makes you think you can handle a job with my show? The boys here have been around. They play pretty rough.”

“So do I. I’ve been around.”

“Right.” He spit again, this time with flourish. “You Amish?” He pronounced the word with a short A.

“My aunt is. I’m not.”

“And I take it you don’t have any carnival experience?”

“No, sir.”

The man shook his head again. “Look, kid, I’ve seen a whole lotta shit during my years on the circuit. A whole lotta ugly shit. Been in the business as long as I can remember, my old man was a showman, his old man before him. I got this place from them. It’s in my blood. But if it wasn’t, I’d be outta here.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

He looked Chance in the eye. “There’re lots of other things a boy like you can do with your life. Go do one of ‘em. Go home. Go back to the farm. I don’t need any help.”

“I need a job.” Chance took a step toward the man, not too proud to beg. “I have to have one. I’ll work hard. You’ll see.”

“Everybody with my troupe works hard. Sorry, kid.” The man spit another wad of phlegm, this time directly into the pile of swept trash. “Maybe next year.”

He turned and walked away. Chance stared after him, stunned, disbelieving. Just like that, and he was screwed. Back to the farm with you, kid. Back to hell on earth.

“Wait!” Chance hurried after the man. “I’ll do anything, the dirtiest most low-down job you have. Just give me a chance.”

Abner Marvel’s ugly face actually seemed to soften. He shook his head. “Look, kid, I’ve got nothin’. No jobs. I’m sorry.”

“But…somebody might quit tonight,” he said, grasping at straws. “They might get fired. It’s good to have an extra person, just in case.”

“Can’t afford a ‘just in case.’” The momentary sympathy Chance had seen on the man’s face was replaced with annoyance. “Look, nobody quits midseason. Nobody in their right mind, anyway. We come all the way up here to God’s country from our winter quarters in Florida, and none of my boys wants to get caught without a way back. And the only thing that’ll get one of this crew fired is drinking, fighting and hittin’ on the local jailbait. None of my boys been doin’ that either, at least not that I’ve seen. They know better. Is that plain enough for you?”

He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Go on now. Get lost. I’ve got things to do.”

This time Chance did not follow Abner Marvel. The carnival’s owner had made it clear that he was not going to give Chance a job.

Unless one suddenly opened up. Unless a miracle happened.

A miracle.

Chance narrowed his eyes. There had to be a way. He wasn’t going to be like his mother and spend his life wishing for the things he didn’t have, the opportunities that had never come his way.

Sometimes in life, you had to make your own opportunities. Your own miracles.

His mother hadn’t understood that. He did.

Chance turned and headed back out to the midway. He wandered the wide aisle, aware of each minute ticking past. Tonight was the carnival’s last night in Lancaster County. Tomorrow would be too late.

From the shooting-gallery booth to his right, Chance became aware of arguing. He shifted his attention to the two carnies working it. One was taunting the other with a tale of a sexual exploit—with the girl the other wanted.

“You see this, asshole?” The uglier of the two boys held up a plastic sandwich bag he’d dug from his back pocket. “When Marlene gets a look at this, you won’t have another chance with her. So you better remember what she tasted like, ‘cause that’s the only taste you’re going to get.”

The second boy guffawed, “Yeah, right. Like one joint is really going to impress her.”

Several players stepped up to the booth, and the first boy tucked his bag behind the wooden ticket box. Chance watched the two as they helped the players, noting how, as each moved by the other in the booth, they delivered surreptitious blows, jabs and obscenities to the other.

Chance eyed the boys, an idea occurring to him. The two had been drinking; Chance was certain of it. Their tempers were short, their inhibitions dulled by drink. If the bag and joint disappeared, the first boy would blame the second and a fight was sure to break out.

Of course, if he got caught, they would beat the crap out of him and he would be tossed off the carnival lot. But if he didn’t…

This might be his only shot. He had to take it.

He watched. And waited. The opportunity presented itself—in the form of the fought-over Marlene. Personally, except for the pair of awesome hooters covered by a severely overextended tube top, Chance didn’t see what all the fuss was about.

While the two teenagers fell all over themselves, completely ignoring their crowded booth to compete for the girl’s attention, Chance reached over the partition and snatched the bag and joint. Heart thundering, he stuffed it into his right front pocket and moved as quickly as he could away from the booth.

But not too far away. He had to be around for the fireworks.

They weren’t long in coming. As soon as Marlene walked away, the two boys began bickering over who she liked best. Moments later, Chance heard a howl of rage and a shouted obscenity.

“Motherfuckin’ asshole! Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“My bag, you asswipe.” The outraged carny advanced on the other, fists clenched. “Give it back.”

“I don’t have your stupid little prize. I’m the one who doesn’t need it. Remember?” He smirked at his rival, then turned away. “Jerk.”

With a howl of fury, the first teenager leaped onto the back of the other. “Give it back or I’ll beat the shit out of you!”

“Get off me, you son of a bitch!” The kid threw his rider, turned and swung a fist. It connected, and the first boy stumbled backward, then righted himself and charged like a bull at the other boy. He caught him dead in the ribs and the two went careening backward into the booth’s shanty-style wall. It toppled. A woman screamed. A child began to cry. The two carnies rolled on the ground, tangled with each other in a death grip, shouting obscenities and delivering blows as best they could.

“That’s enough!”

The bellow came from Abner Marvel as he charged around the side of the booth directly across the midway, a baseball bat in hand. With him were two other men, as big and burly as Marvel, also wielding bats. How the old showman controlled his rowdy crew was obvious, and Chance took another step backward.

“Get up! Both of you.”

The boys immediately broke apart and scrambled to their feet. One’s nose was bloodied, the other’s eye had already started to purple and swell. From the way the teenagers cowered, Chance suspected that Abner Marvel wouldn’t hesitate to take a swing with that bat.

A trick he had probably learned from his father.

“He stole from me!” The first boy pointed accusingly at the second. “He deliberately stol—”

“I didn’t take nothin’! He’s just jealous ‘cause Marlene—”

“Shut up!” Abner Marvel bellowed, his face crimson with rage. “Both of you. Pack your things. I’ve taken all I’m going to from you two, you’re out of here!”

The two rowdies’ expressions went slack at the news, then in unison they began begging to keep their jobs. The old carny didn’t budge. “You’re out,” he said again, this time calmly. “You know the rules about fighting. Now get, before I decide I have to use this.” He slapped the wooden bat against his palm. “Stop by my trailer and collect your pay on your way off the lot.”

Chance didn’t even wait until the two ousted boys skulked off, to jump forward. “Mr. Marvel! Wait.”

Abner Marvel stopped and turned, his face fixed into a fierce scowl.

“I couldn’t help hearing what happened,” Chance said quickly, all too aware of Marvel’s beefy fist curled around the baseball bat. “It looks like you might need…I mean, it looks like a position has suddenly…opened up.”

“That it does.” Marvel narrowed his eyes. “You have a point?”

“Yeah.” Chance held the man’s intent gaze, never wavering or breaking eye contact. “I’m your man.”

Marvel reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a cigar. He bit off one end, spit it out, then lit up. Through a cloud of noxious smoke, he studied Chance.

“In the carnival,” the showman said after several moments, “you’re either with-it or you’re a towner. A rube. A sucker. There’s a term in the trade, called the First of May. You have any idea what it means?”

Chance scrambled to come up with a reasonable guess. “The beginning of the carnival season?”

“It means rookie. Outsider. Rank beginner. It means you have to prove yourself before you’re accepted. You won’t be with-it until you do. Initiation can be…rough.”

Chance squared his shoulders. “I’ve had to prove myself before. I can handle it.”

“And I won’t be able to protect you,” Abner continued, puffing on the cigar. “These boys will eat you alive.”

“You can’t scare me off.” Chance took a step toward him. “I need this job. I need it bad. If you give it to me, I’ll work my ass off for you. I’ll do the job of both those losers. You’ll see.”

Marvel laughed, the sound deep and rusty. “I’ll be damned. You’re one cocky piece of work, aren’t you?” He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. “The job of two, you say? I’d like to see that, I really would.”

“Give me the job and you’ll see it.”

“If you get caught drinking, you’re out. If I catch you fighting or fucking with paying customers, you’re out. Leave the local jailbait alone. No second chances.”

“I won’t need one.”

“You have to bunk in a trailer with five other roustabouts. If you can’t hack it, it’s not my problem, you’re out.”

“I can hack it.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Chance McCord.”

“I’ll tell you this, Chance McCord, you’ve got guts.” Marvel gave him one final, measured glance, then a smile touched his mouth. “What’re you standing around for? There’s work to be done. You can start by cleaning up this mess.”

Chapter Six

Skye sat cross-legged on her mother’s bed, her sketch pad laid over her knees. She moved her charcoal pencil across the page, enjoying the feel of the pencil in her hand and the soft, scratchy sound it made as the tip rubbed against the paper.

She smiled to herself, enjoying the quiet, this moment alone with her art. Their camper trailer didn’t afford many moments alone. Though luxurious compared to the ones the majority of the other troupers occupied, the trailer had exactly two interior doors—the one to the tiny lavatory and the one to this bedroom, located at the back of the camper. In the open area up front was the kitchenette, a booth-style dinette and a couch that folded out to make a bed.

Usually Skye took the couch. But not always. Sometimes they shared the bed, other times her mother offered to sleep on the couch.

Skye missed having her own space. Not that she was accustomed to a palace, or anything. But they had never lived in quarters this tight before; they had never had to travel this light before. Storage inside the camper was limited to two narrow wardrobes, one built-in chest of drawers and several cubbyhole-type compartments.

This summer, her big box of art supplies was a luxury.

Skye cocked her head, studying the image taking shape before her—a monarch butterfly. Skye moved the pencil again, this time automatically, quickly and with certainty, as if her hand possessed a will of its own. The image grew, changed. Within moments she had transformed one of the butterfly’s wings into an ornate, curvy letter.

The letter “M.”

Skye stared at the image, the letter, heart thundering against the wall of her chest, beating frantically, like the wings of a butterfly against the sides of a glass jar. Skye recognized the “M”; she had drawn it hundreds of times before, the first time three years ago. She recalled the day vividly. She had been in art class; her teacher had commented on it. Skye remembered feeling breathless and sort of stunned. She remembered staring at the “M” and thinking it both beautiful and ugly, remembered feeling both drawn and repelled.

The way she felt now.

Skye sucked in a deep, shaky breath. She had been drawing the image ever since, sometimes repeating it over and over, until she had filled the entire page of her sketch pad.

Why? What did it mean?

“Skye? Honey…are you all right?”

At her mother’s voice and the rap on the bedroom door, Skye looked up, startled. “Mom?”

Her mother opened the door and stuck her head inside. “I’ve been calling you for five minutes. It’s almost time for lunch.”

“Sorry. I didn’t hear you.” Skye returned her gaze to the image. “I’m almost done. I’ll be there in a second.”

Instead of returning to the kitchen, her mother crossed to stand beside her. She gazed silently down at the tablet, at the ornate butterfly, and Skye stiffened. She didn’t have to glance up to know that her mother’s expression was frozen with fear, stiff with apprehension.

It always was when Skye drew the “M.”

Skye swallowed hard, fighting the fluttery, panicky sensation that settled in the pit of her gut, fighting the beginnings of the headache pressing at her temple.

Skye moved her pencil over the page, starting on the other wing. Within moments, the drawing was complete.

Still her mother stood staring; still she said nothing.

Her mother’s silence gnawed at her. It hurt. Skye had asked her about the “M” about a million times. Her mother always answered the same way—she said she had no idea why Skye drew it.

Skye brought her left hand to her temple. If that was true, why did her mother act so weird about it?

Her mother touched Skye’s hair, lightly stroking. “What’s wrong, honey?”

She tipped her head back and met her mother’s eyes.

“I keep trying to remember where I saw this ‘M.’ There has to be a reason I’m always drawing it. There has to be.”

“I can’t imagine, darling.” Her mother smiled, though the curving of her lips looked forced to Skye. “It’s just one of those things.”

“One of those things,” Skye repeated, then frowned and returned her gaze to the sketch pad. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does.” Claire shrugged. “You saw the monogram somewhere and remembered it.”

“But where?” Skye balled her hands into fists, frustrated, hating the darkness of her memory and the feeling of helplessness she experienced every time she tried to remember.

Like now. Skye drew her eyebrows together, searching her memory for a recollection of anything before kindergarten, for a glimmer of where she had been born or of her father. They were linked to the “M”; she was certain of it.

But how?

She dropped her face into her hands, head pounding. Why couldn’t she remember? Why?

“Sweetheart, please…” Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her hands in hers. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Let it go.”

But it did matter. Skye knew it did. Otherwise she wouldn’t find herself drawing that letter again and again.

“I can’t,” she whispered, tears flooding her eyes. “I want to, I really do. But I just…can’t”

Her mother put her arms around her and drew her against her chest. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Skye rubbed her forehead against her mother’s shoulder, the pain behind her eyes intensifying. “Are you proud of me, Mom? Are you glad I’m…I’m the way I am?”

Her mother tipped her face up and looked her in the eyes. “How can you even ask, Skye? I’m more proud of you than you can imagine.”

But not of her artistic ability, Skye thought, searching her mother’s gaze. Her mother wished she didn’t like art so much, that she wasn’t so good at it. She wished her daughter would never pick up a drawing pencil again.

Why?

Skye whimpered and brought a hand to her head.

“It’s one of your headaches, isn’t it?” Claire eased Skye out of her arms and stood. “I’ll get your medicine.”

A moment later her mother returned with two white tablets and a glass of water. Skye took them, then handed the half-full glass back to her mother. Past experience had taught them both that if they caught the headache early enough, Skye could beat it. If they didn’t, the pain could become nearly unbearable.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Claire bent and kissed the top of Skye’s head. “Why don’t you lie down for a minute. I’ll finish making lunch, then come see how you’re feeling.”

Skye caught her mother’s hand. “Will you stay a minute? And rub my head?”

“Sure, sweetie. Scoot over.”

Skye did and her mother sat on the edge of the bed and began softly stroking her forehead. With each pass of her mother’s hand, Skye’s pain lessened. Each time she stopped, it returned, full force. And with it the questions that pounded at her.

“Feel a little better?” her mother asked.

“A little. Mom?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“My dad didn’t want me, did he?”

Her mother caught her breath. “What kind of question is that? Of course he wanted you.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. I know how it works. You probably didn’t even know who my father was.”

“That’s not true! Of course I know who—”

“Then why aren’t there any pictures of him!” Skye caught her mother’s hand, desperate, the pain blinding. “And why won’t you talk about him?” She tightened her fingers. “Please. Just tell me, Mom. I won’t cry. I’m not a baby anymore.”

For long moments her mother said nothing, just gazed at the floor, her expression troubled. Finally, she met Skye’s eyes once more. “He wanted you, Skye. I promise you that. But we can talk about this later. You need to rest—”

“No! Mom, I want to talk about it now. Please.” Skye squeezed her mother’s fingers. “If he really wanted me, where is he? What happened to him?”

“What happened to him?” her mother repeated, her voice sounding high and tight. She freed her hand, stood and took a step backward, toward the door. “I told you before. He’s dead.”

“Yes, but…how? What happened?”

“It was an accident.” Her mother reached the door. “I’ve told you that before, too.”

“What kind of accident was it? A car crash? A fire?” Skye lifted herself to an elbow and gazed pleadingly at her mother. She saw her mother’s hesitation, her wavering, and pressed her further. “Where did it happen? Was I there? Were you?”

For a moment her mother said nothing, then she cleared her throat. “It was very ugly. I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe someday.”

Her mother was lying to her, hiding something. But what? And why? A lump in her throat, Skye shifted her gaze to her sketch tablet and the curvy “M.”

Why wouldn’t her mother trust her with the truth? What could be so ugly that her mother…

“Did someone kill him?” she asked, eyes widening. “Is that it? Was he…murdered?”

Her mother made a sound, squeaky and high. She shifted her gaze, as with guilt, and Skye’s heart began to pound. “Was it the mob? Is the mob after us, too?”

“Don’t be silly.” Claire smiled stiffly. “It was an accident and nothing—”

“That’s why we’re always moving, isn’t it?” Excited, Skye sat up and pushed her hair away from her face. “Just like in the movies, we’re on the run from the mob!”

“That’s enough, Skye!” her mother’s voice rose. “I don’t want to hear any more of this ridiculous talk. Do you hear me? No more.”

Tears flooded Skye’s eyes, and she flopped back to the mattress, rolling onto her side and turning her back to her mother. “Forget it. Just go away. After all, I need my rest.”

Claire sighed. “Your father wasn’t a nice man, honey. And his family…” Her words faltered, and she drew what sounded to Skye like a careful breath. “I’ll only say that I’m glad they’re out of our lives forever. That’s why I don’t like to talk about them.”

Heart pounding, Skye turned and looked at her mother. “What do you mean, he wasn’t…nice? Did he, you know…did he hit you?”

Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Skye caught her bottom lip between her teeth, the pressure in her head almost unbearable. “Did he…hit me?”

“No. But—” She bent and cupped Skye’s face in her palms. “When we were with him, I was afraid for you.”

Skye swallowed hard. “Is that why you won’t even tell me where I was born?”

“Yes. I—” Claire sighed again and bent her forehead to Skye’s. “Trust me, sweetheart. When you’re older, I’ll tell you more.”

“Promise?”

She nodded, then smiled. “Our soup’s probably boiled over by now. I’d better check it.”

Skye caught her mother’s hand. “Mom? Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to have…you know, a real family? To live in one place and not…”

Her words trailed off at the sadness in her mother’s eyes.

“Yes,” Claire answered softly. “Sometimes I wish that with all my heart. This isn’t the life I wanted for you. It’s not the way I wanted you to grow up.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t have—”

Her throat closed over the words, and she cleared it. “I didn’t have that growing up and I always thought how nice it would be.”

Her mother had been an orphan. Skye couldn’t imagine that. She couldn’t imagine not having her mother. She would die without her. Feeling guilty for having brought up the subject, she hugged her. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry I bugged you about…you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Her mother stroked her hair again. “Sometimes the truth hurts, baby. Sometimes it’s better not to know the truth.”

Skye tipped her head back and met her mother’s eyes. Something in them, something dark and terrifying, made her tremble. “What is it, Mom? What do you see?”

Her mother pressed her lips to her forehead. “It’s only the past. And the past can’t hurt us as long as we make it stay there. Will you help me?”

Skye nodded, suddenly afraid. Of being alone. Of the past and the future. She clutched her mother. “Don’t ever leave me. I don’t know what I’d—”

“Shh.” Claire kissed her again. “Silly baby. I would never leave you. You’re my whole life. Didn’t you know that?”

Skye relaxed and smiled, remembering a game they had played when she was little—when she had still believed in monsters and bogeymen and things that breathed heavily in the dark.

Every night before bed, she had asked her mother the same thing: Would you fight the monsters for me? And every night her mother had searched out and destroyed the evil things for her. Only then had Skye been able to sleep. Only then had her nightmares retreated.

She tipped her face up to her mother’s and smiled, still remembering. “Would you fight the monsters for me?”

“The biggest and the badest. Always.” Claire smiled softly. “I love you, sweetheart.”

Skye hugged her tighter, nesting her head against her chest, though she knew she was too old to do so. Suddenly, miraculously, her head didn’t hurt. “I love you, too, Mom. More than anything.”