Bone Cold

Act or die, she reminded herself, trembling. Kurt intended to kill her. At least if she ran she would have a chance.

A chance. Her only chance. Harlow climbed out of the bed, swaying slightly as she stood. She pressed on anyway, creeping toward the door. She inched it open. The room beyond appeared to be empty. The TV was on, sound muted. A cigarette burned in the ashtray on the arm of the easy chair, a curl of acrid-smelling smoke wafting toward the ceiling.

She had to go now. She had to run.

Harlow reacted to the thought, darting toward the front door. She reached it, fumbled with the dead-bolt lock, then grabbed the handle and yanked it open. With a small, involuntary cry, she stumbled out into the dark, starless night. And began to run. Blindly. Sobbing. Across scorched earth, through a thicket. She pitched headlong into a ditch, then clawed her way out and back to her feet.

And onto a deserted road. Hope exploded inside her. Someone, there had to be someone…

As the words made their way through her head, a car crested the hill ahead, its headlights slicing through the darkness, pinning her. She stood frozen, trembling, too weak and exhausted to even wave. The lights grew closer; the driver blew his horn.

“Help me,” she whispered, dropping to her knees. “Please, help me.”

The vehicle screeched to a stop. A door opened. Footsteps sounded on the pavement.

“Don’t, Frank,” a woman begged. “What if—”

“For God’s sake, Donna, I can’t just… Oh my God, it’s a kid.”

“A kid?” The woman emerged from the car. Harlow lifted her head and the woman caught her breath. “Dear Lord, look at her red hair. It’s her, the one they’re searching for. Little Harlow Grail.”

The man made a sound of disbelief, then apprehension. He glanced around them as if suddenly realizing he could be in danger.

“I don’t like this,” the woman said, obviously frightened. “Let’s get out of here.”

The man agreed. He scooped Harlow up, his grasp strong but gentle. “It’s all right, it’s going to be all right,” he murmured, starting for his vehicle. “You’re going home. You’re safe now.”

Harlow shuddered and slumped against him, though even as she did, she knew she would never feel safe again.

1

Wednesday, January 10, 2001 New Orleans, Louisiana

“Timmy! No!”

Anna sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in a cold sweat, Timmy’s name, her screams, reverberating off the walls of her bedroom.

With a squeak of terror, she dragged the blankets to her chin. She looked wildly around her. When she’d drifted off, her bedside light had been on—she always slept with a light on. Yet her bedroom was dark. The shadows in the corners mocked her, deep and black. What did those shadows hold for her? What could they hide? Who?

Kurt. He was coming for her. To finish what he’d begun twenty-three years ago. To punish her for escaping. For spoiling his plans.

“Ready or not, here I come.”

With a cry, Anna scrambled out of bed. She ran from the bedroom to the bathroom, located down the hallway. She raced to the commode, flipped up the seat, bent and threw up. She heaved until she was empty, until she had nothing left to expel but memories.

She yanked off a length of toilet tissue, wiped her mouth, then dropped the tissue into the commode and flushed. Her right hand hurt. It burned, as if Kurt had just done it. Severed her pinkie finger to send to her parents as a warning.

But he hadn’t just done it, she reminded herself. It had happened a lifetime ago. She’d been a child, still Harlow Anastasia Grail, little Hollywood princess.

A lifetime ago. A whole other identity ago.

Turning, Anna crossed to the sink and turned on the faucet. Bending, she splashed the icy-cold water on her face, struggling to shake off the nightmare.

She was safe. In her own apartment. Except for her parents, she’d cut all ties to her past. None of her friends or business associates knew who she was. Not even her publisher or literary agent. She was Anna North now. She had been Anna North for twelve years.

Even if Kurt came looking for her, he wouldn’t be able to find her.

Anna muttered an oath and flipped off the water. She snatched the hand towel from the ring and dried her face. Kurt wasn’t going to come looking for her. Twenty-three years had passed, for heaven’s sake. The FBI had been certain the man she’d known as Kurt posed no further threat to her. They believed he had slipped over the border into Mexico. The discovery of Monica’s body in the border town of Baja, California, six days after Harlow’s escape had supported that belief.

Disgusted with herself, she tossed the hand towel onto the counter. When was she going to get over this? How many years had to pass before she could sleep without a light on? Before nightmares no longer awakened her, night after night?

If only Kurt had been apprehended. She would be able to forget then. She would be able to go on without worrying, without wondering if he thought of her. Her escape had upset the ransom pickup. Did he curse her for spoiling that? Did he wait for the day he would make her pay for spoiling his opportunity at wealth?

She looked at herself in the mirror, expression fierce. She couldn’t control her nightmares, but she could control everything else in her life. She would not spend her days—or nights—dodging shadows.

Anna stalked back to her bedroom, grabbed a pair of shorts from her bureau drawer and slipped them on under her nightshirt. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well work. A new story idea had been kicking around the back of her brain and now seemed as good a time as any to start it. But first, she decided, coffee.

She made her way to the kitchen, passing her office—a desk tucked into a corner of the living room—as she did. She flipped on the computer then moved on, past the front door. Out of habit she stopped to check the dead bolt.

As her fingers closed over the lock, someone pounded on the door. With a small cry, Anna jumped back.

“Anna! It’s Bill—”

“And Dalton.”

“Are you all right?”

Bill Friends and Dalton Ramsey, her neighbors and best friends. Thank goodness.

Hands shaking, she unlocked the door and eased it open. The pair stood in the hallway, expressions anxious. From down the hall she heard the yipping of Judy and Boo, the couple’s Heinz 57 mini-mutts. “What in the world…you scared the life out of me.”

“We heard you screa—”

“I heard you scream,” Bill corrected. “I was on my way back in from—”

“He came and got me.” Dalton held up a marble bookend, a miniature of Michelangelo’s David. “I brought this. Just in case.”

Anna brought a hand to her chest, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She could picture fifty-something, mild-mannered Dalton winging a chunk of marble at an intruder. “Just in case of what? That my library needed tidying?”

Bill chuckled; Dalton looked irritated. He sniffed. “For protection, of course.”

Against the intruder who would have made his escape by the time her friends had gathered their wits about them, selected a weapon and made their way to her door. Thank goodness she had never actually needed saving.

She bit back a laugh. “And I appreciate your concern.” She swung the door wider. “Come on in, I’ll make coffee to go with the beignets.”

“Beignets?” Dalton repeated innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Anna wagged a finger at him. “Nice try, but I smell them. Your punishment for coming to my aid is having to share.”