Mirror Image

by Sandra Brown

  “She was told,” Tate said.

  Surprised reaction went through the group like an electric current. Jack was the first to speak. “By whom? When?”

  “When I was in the hospital,” she replied, “while I was still bandaged and being taken for Carole.” She explained her involvement from that time up to the moment the night before when she had rushed up on the stage. When she finished, she glanced at Bryan and apologetically said, “I thought you were a hired killer.”

  “So you did notice me?”

  “I have a reporter’s trained eye.”

  “No,” he said, “I was personally involved and not as careful as usual. I took tremendous chances of being recognized in order to stay close to Tate.”

  “I still can’t distinguish the voice, but I believe it was Nelson, not Eddy, who spoke to me that night in the hospital,” Avery remarked, “though I’ll admit it never occurred to me that he would be the one.”

  On her behalf, Bryan said, “Ms. Daniels couldn’t say anything to anyone at the risk of putting her own life in danger.”

  “And Tate’s,” she added, shyly casting her eyes downward when he glanced at her sharply.

  Jack said, “You probably thought I was out to kill my brother. Cain and Abel.”

  “It did cross my mind on more than one occasion, Jack. I’m sorry.” Because he and Dorothy Rae were still holding hands, she refrained from mentioning his infatuation with Carole.

  “I think it’s freaking wonderful how you pulled it off,” Fancy declared. “Pretending to be Carole, I mean.”

  “It couldn’t have been easy,” Dorothy Rae said, slipping her arm through her husband’s. “I’m sure you’re glad that everything’s out in the open.” She gave Avery a look that conveyed a silent thank-you. It made sense to her now why her sister-in-law had been so compassionate and helpful recently. “Is that all, Mr. Tate? Are we free to go and let Avery rest?”

  “Call me Bryan, and yes, that’s all for now.”

  They filed out. Zee moved to Avery’s side. “How can I ever repay you for saving my son’s life?”

  “I don’t want any repayment. Not everything was faked.” The two women exchanged a meaningful gaze. Zee patted her hand and left under Bryan’s protective arm.

  The silence they left behind was ponderous. Tate finally left his position against the wall and moved to the foot of her bed. “They’ll probably get married,” he remarked.

  “How will you feel about that, Tate?”

  He studied the toes of his boots for a moment before raising his head. “Who could blame them? They’ve been in love with each other for longer than I’ve been alive.”

  “It’s easy now to understand why Zee always seemed so sad.”

  “Dad kept her an emotional prisoner.” He gave a dry laugh. “Guess I can’t refer to him as Dad anymore, can I?”

  “Why not? That’s what Nelson was to you. Whatever his motives were, he was a good father.”

  “I guess so.” He gave her a lengthy stare. “I should have believed you yesterday when you tried to warn me.”

  “It was too unbelievable for you to accept.”

  “But you were right.”

  She shook her head. “I never suspected Nelson. Eddy, yes. Even Jack. But never Nelson.”

  “I want to mourn his death, but when I hear how cruel he’s been to my mother, and that he hired my best friend to kill me… Jesus.” He exhaled loudly, raking his hand through his hair. Tears came to his eyes.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Tate. You’ve got a lot to deal with all at once.” She wanted to hold him and comfort him, but he hadn’t asked her to and, until he did, she had no right to.

  “When you do your story, I have one favor to ask.”

  “There won’t be a story.”

  “There’ll be a story,” he argued firmly. He rounded the foot of the bed and sat down on the edge of it. “You’re already being hailed as a heroine.”

  “You shouldn’t have revealed my identity during the press conference this morning.” She had watched it on the set in her hospital room while it was being broadcast live from the lobby of the Palacio Del Rio. “You could have divorced me as Carole, as you planned to.”

  “I can’t begin my political career with a lie, Avery.”

  “That’s the first time you’ve ever called me by my name,” she whispered, left breathless from hearing it on his lips.

  Their gazes held for a moment, then he continued. “So far, no one but the people who were in this room, and I guess a few FBI agents, know that Nelson Rutledge engineered the plot. They’ve surmised that it was all Eddy’s doing and have attributed it to his disillusionment in America after the war. I’m asking you to keep it that way, for my family’s sake. Mostly for my mother’s sake.”

  “If anyone asks, I will. But I won’t do a story.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  Tears started in her eyes again. Fretfully, she groped for his hand. “I can’t stand having you think I did this to exploit you, or that I did it for fame and glory.”

  “I think you did it for the reason you told me yesterday, and which I stubbornly refused to believe—because you love me.”

  Her heart went a little crazy. She threaded her fingers through his hair. “I do, Tate. More than my life.”

  He gazed at the bandage on her shoulder and, shuddering slightly, squeezed his eyes closed. When he opened them again, they were misty. “I know.”

  Epilogue

  “Watching it again?”

  Senator Tate Rutledge entered the living room of the comfortable Georgetown town home he shared with his wife and daughter. On this particular afternoon, he caught Avery alone in the living room, watching a tape of her documentary.

  The story she had produced, at Tate’s insistence, aired on PBS stations across the country six months into his term. The facts were presented fairly, concisely, and without any embellishment in spite of her personal involvement.

  Tate had convinced her that the public had a right to know about the bizarre chain of events that had started with the crash of Flight 398 and culminated on election night.

  He further stated that no one could report the events with more insight and sensitivity than she. His final argument was that he didn’t want his first term as senator to be clouded by lies and half-truths. He would rather have the public know than speculate.

  The documentary hadn’t won Avery a Pulitzer prize, though it was acclaimed by viewers, critics, and colleagues. She was currently considering the offers she had received to produce documentaries on a variety of subjects.

  “Still basking in the glory, huh?” Tate laid his briefcase on an end table and shrugged off his jacket.

  “Don’t tease.” She reached behind her for his hand and kissed the back of it as she pulled him around to join her on the sofa. “Irish called today. He made me think of it.”

  Irish had survived the heart attack he had suffered in the elevator at the Palacio Del Rio. He claimed that he had actually died and come back to life. How else could Paschal have failed to feel a pulse? He swore that he remembered floating out of himself, looking down and seeing Paschal drag his body into the alcove.

  But then, everybody who knew Irish well teased him about his Celtic superstition and closet Catholicism. All that was important to Avery was that she hadn’t lost him.

  At the conclusion of the piece, before the tape went to black, a message appeared in the middle of the screen. It read, “Dedicated to the memory of Van Lovejoy.”

  “We’re too far away for me to put flowers on his grave,” she said huskily. “Watching his work is how I pay tribute.” She clicked off the machine and set the transmitter aside.

  Nelson’s machinations had impacted their lives and they would never be completely free from the memories. Jack was still grappling with his disillusionment about his father. He had chosen to stay and manage the law firm in San Antonio rather than join Tate’s staff in Washington. Though they were apart
geographically, the half brothers had never been closer. It was hoped that time would eventually heal the heartache they had in common.

  Tate struggled daily to assimilate Nelson’s grand scheme, but also mourned the loss of the man he’d always known as Dad. He adamantly kept the two personas separate in his mind.

  His emotions regarding Bryan Tate were conflicting. He liked him, respected him, and appreciated him for the happiness he’d given Zee since their marriage. Yet he wasn’t quite prepared to call him father, a kinship he could never claim publicly, even if he acknowledged it privately.

  During those moments of emotional warfare, his wife’s love and support helped tremendously.

  Thinking on it all now, Tate drew her into his arms, receiving as much comfort as he gave. He hugged her close for a long time, turning his face into her neck.

  “Have I ever told you what a courageous, fascinating woman I think you are for doing what you did, even though it placed your own life in jeopardy? God, when I think back on that night, to when I felt your blood running over my hands.” He pressed a kiss onto her neck. “I had fallen in love with my wife again, and I couldn’t understand why. Before I really ever discovered you, I almost lost you.”

  “I wasn’t sure it would matter,” she said. He raised his head and looked at her quizzically. “I was afraid that when you found out who I really was, you wouldn’t want me anymore.”

  He pulled her into his arms again. “I wanted you. I still want you.” The way he said it left no doubt in her mind. The way he kissed her made it a covenant as binding as the marriage vows they had taken months earlier.

  “I’m still finding out who you really are, even though I know you intimately,” he whispered into her mouth, “more intimately than I’ve known any other woman, and that’s the God’s truth. I know what you feel like inside, and how every part of your body tastes.”

  He kissed her again with love and unappeasable passion.

  “Tate,” she sighed when they drew apart, “when you look into my face, who do you see?”

  “The woman I owe my life to. The woman who saved Mandy from emotional deprivation. The woman who is carrying my child.” Warmly, he caressed her swollen abdomen. “The woman I love more than breath.”

  “No, I mean—”

  “I know what you mean.” He eased her back against the sofa cushions and followed her down, cradling her face between his hands and touching her mouth with his. “I see Avery.”

  About the Author

  Sandra Brown is the author of over sixty New York Times bestsellers, including most recently Low Pressure; Lethal; Rainwater; Tough Customer; Smash Cut; Smoke Screen; Play Dirty; Ricochet; Chill Factor; White Hot; Hello, Darkness; The Crush; Envy; The Switch; The Alibi; Unspeakable; and Fat Tuesday, all of which jumped onto the New York Times list in the numbers one to five spots. There are over eighty million copies of Sandra Brown’s books in print worldwide and her work has been translated into thirty-four languages. In 2008, Brown was named Thriller Master by the International Thriller Writers Association, the organization’s top honor. She currently lives in Texas. For more information you can visit www.SandraBrown.net.

  Bellamy Lyston Price was just twelve years old when her sister was murdered on a stormy Memorial Day.

  Eighteen years later, she writes a novel about the horrific experience—and a new nightmare begins…

  Please see the next page for a preview of

  Low Pressure

  Prologue

  The rat was dead, but no less horrifying than if it had been alive.

  Bellamy Price trapped a scream behind her hands and, holding them clamped against her mouth, backed away from the gift box of glossy wrapping paper and satin ribbon. The animal lay on a bed of silver tissue paper, its long pink tail curled against the fat body.

  When she came up against the wall, she slid down it until her bottom reached the floor. Slumping forward, she removed her hands from her mouth and covered her eyes. But she was too horror-stricken even to cry. Her sobs were dry and hoarse.

  Who would have played such a vicious prank? Who? And why?

  The events of the day began to replay in her mind like a recording on fast-forward.

  * * *

  “You were terrific!”

  “Thank you.” Bellamy tried to maintain the rapid pace set by the publicist for the publishing house, who functioned as though her breakfast cereal had been laced with speed.

  “This show is number one in its time slot.” Her rapid-fire speech kept time with the click of her stilettos. “Miles ahead of its competition. We’re talking over five million viewers. You just got some great national exposure.”

  Which was exactly what Bellamy wished to avoid. But she didn’t waste her breath on saying so. Again. For the umpteenth time. Neither the publicist nor her agent, Dexter Gray, understood her desire to direct the publicity to her best-selling book, not to herself.

  Dexter, his hand tightly grasping her elbow, guided her through the Manhattan skyscraper’s marble lobby. “You were superb. Flawless, but warm. Human. That single interview probably sold a thousand copies of Low Pressure, which is what it’s all about.” He ushered her toward the exit, where a uniformed doorman tipped his hat as Bellamy passed.

  “Your book kept me up nights, Ms. Price.”

  She barely had time to thank him before being propelled through the revolving door, which emptied her onto the plaza. A shout went up from the crowd that had gathered to catch a glimpse of that morning’s interviewees as they entered and exited the television studio.

  The publicist was exultant. “Dexter, help her work the crowd. I’m going to get a photographer over here. We can parlay this into more television coverage.”

  Dexter, more sensitive to his client’s reluctance toward notoriety, stood on tiptoe and spoke directly into Bellamy’s ear to make himself heard above the Midtown rush-hour racket. “It wouldn’t hurt to take advantage of the situation and sign a few books. Most authors work their entire professional lives—”

  “And never receive this kind of media attention,” she said, finishing for him. “Thousands of writers would give their right arm for this. So you’ve told me. Repeatedly.”

  “It bears repeating.” He patted her arm as he steered her toward the eager people straining against the barricades. “Smile. Your adoring public awaits.”

  Readers who had become instant fans clamored to shake hands with her and have her sign their copies of Low Pressure. Being as gracious as possible, she thanked them and smiled into their cell-phone cameras.

  Her hand was being pumped by an enthusiastic fan when she spotted Rocky Van Durbin out of the corner of her eye. A writer for the daily tabloid newspaper EyeSpy, Van Durbin was standing slightly apart from the crowd, wearing a self-congratulatory smirk and giving instructions to the photographer accompanying him.

  It was Van Durbin who had uncovered and then gleefully disclosed that the writer T. J. David, whose first book was generating buzz in book circles as well as in Hollywood, was, in fact, Bellamy Price, an attractive, thirty-year-old woman:

  “Why this native Texan—blue-eyed, long-legged, and voluptuous, and isn’t that how we like them?—would want to hide behind an innocuous pen name, this reporter doesn’t know. But in spite of the author’s coy secrecy, Low Pressure has soared to the top of the best-seller charts, and now, apparently, Ms. Price has come out of hiding and gotten into the spirit of the thing. She’s eschewed her spurs and hat, abandoned the Lone Star state, and is now residing in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park on the Upper West Side, basking in the glow of her sudden celebrity.”

  Most of that was a lie, having only filaments of truth that kept it from being libelous. Bellamy did have blue eyes, but she was of average height, not noticeably tall, as his description suggested. By no one’s standards could she be considered voluptuous.

  She did have a cowboy hat, but it hadn’t been on her head for years. She’d never owned a pair of spurs, nor ha
d she ever known anyone who did. She hadn’t abandoned her home state, in the sense Van Durbin had implied, but she had relocated to New York several years ago, long before the publication of her book. She did live on the Upper West Side, across from the park, but not in a penthouse.

  But the most egregious inaccuracy was Van Durbin’s claim that she was enjoying her celebrity, which she considered more a harsh glare than a glow. That glare had intensified when Van Durbin wrote a follow-up, front-page article that contained another startling revelation.

  Although published as a novel, Low Pressure was actually a fictionalized account of a true story. Her true story. Her family’s tragic true story.

  With the velocity of a rocket, that disclosure had thrust her into another dimension of fame. She abhorred it. She hadn’t written Low Pressure to become rich and famous. Writing it had been therapeutic.

  Admittedly, she’d hoped it would be published, widely read, and well received by readers and critics, but she had published it under a non-gender-specific pseudonym in order to avoid the spotlight in which she now found herself.

  Low Pressure had been eagerly anticipated even before it went on sale. Believing strongly in its potential, the publishing house had put money behind its publication, placing transit ads in major cities, and print ads in magazines, newspapers, and on the Internet. Social media outlets had been abuzz for months in advance of its on-sale date. Every review had been a rave. T. J. David was being compared to the best crime writers, fiction and nonfiction. Bellamy had enjoyed the book’s success from behind the protective pseudonym.

  But once Rocky Van Durbin had let the genie out of the bottle, there was no putting it back. She figured her publisher and Dexter, and anyone else who stood to profit from sales, were secretly overjoyed that her identity and the backstory of her book had been exposed.

  Now they had not only a book to promote, but also an individual, whom they had deemed “a publicist’s dream.”