Skin Tight

by Ava Gray

  After you thought I’d died.

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to feel closer to you. I wanted to love what you loved, if I couldn’t be with you.”

  Her smile frayed around the edges, tears swelling. It will not change. Death will not alter it.

  “Then you know how I feel and why it is so important that we do this.”

  “I do.”

  Mia exhaled slowly. “Well, we can’t sit here all afternoon. Let’s go.”

  She slid from the Infiniti and rounded the front. He got out less eagerly, weighed down with the memory of other failures. In his mind, this was a futile endeavor and she could never make his family believe. Mia knew he’d come to the door more than once and tried to tell them. For him, this was a nightmare, an unwanted affirmation of his ghost life. As she took his hand, she felt it trembling.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked hoarsely. “I don’t want them hurt. They’ve grieved. Accepted my loss.”

  “And they shouldn’t have. You’re here. Right here. Watching your mother through the glass. Hell, you missed her so much you went out and found a surrogate. She loves you, Søren. Trust me when I say, this is the kind of miracle a mother prays for.”

  Not letting his fear cloud her certainty, Mia led him up the icy walk. A bright, festive holly wreath hung on the red front door. She rang the bell.

  After a moment, a plump, gray-haired woman answered the door. Her eyes were bright as a summer sky, cheeks creased with smiling. She wore a polite, puzzled look. “Yes?” Her voice carried the faintest accent, despite her years in the U.S.

  “Mrs. Frost,” Mia said. “There’s someone here you need to meet.”

  “I don’t understand. Who are you?”

  “May we come in?”

  It took nearly an hour of endless question and answer. At one point, Mia refused to leave when the older woman demanded she go. Her determination to give his family back to him would not yield, even in the face of Mrs. Frost’s grief. The tears didn’t move her, but she was lucky the other woman didn’t call the police.

  “No,” Mrs. Frost said. “You’re a madwoman. I don’t know what you hope to achieve by tormenting me with this impostor, but my son is dead.”

  “Is he?”

  Søren made a small sound of protest. Judging by the tension in him, it seemed he was ready to call it a hopeless cause and go. Mia refused to give up.

  An angry sheen lit Mrs. Frost’s eyes. “If this is my son, he would know. What happened when we went on vacation when he was ten.”

  Mia glanced at Søren, who answered quietly, “We took a road trip. We were supposed to see the Grand Canyon, but Grete was whining about feeling sick, driving everyone crazy. She eventually puked down my dad’s back, and he ran the car into a ditch. We never got further than the Minnesota state line.”

  The other woman rubbed her eyes as if awakening from a terrible dream. “Søren,” she whispered. “Can it be you? We never told anyone that story. Your father was too embarrassed. Was it . . . It was a mistake? It was not really you in that car?”

  That seemed the simplest explanation, so he nodded, and then his mother swept him into her arms, sobbing. At length, she demanded, “Jer skidt djævel, why did you not call us? Why did you not come home?”

  There was no accounting for those lost years, so Mia said softly, “He couldn’t remember where he belonged before now.”

  “Is this true? You had . . . something wrong in your brain?”

  “Yes,” he said, arms coming around his mother slowly. “I did. After Lexie died, I wasn’t the same man. I forgot . . . so many things.”

  Pain flared in his mother’s face at the mention of her grandchild, but for her, it was an old loss, and she was too happy to grieve long. “Your father will not believe this. Elle and Grete will be overjoyed! I have prayed and prayed. Something in me, it said you were not truly gone, and that if I just believed hard enough, you would come home.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I have an apple strudel on the stove and fresh coffee. You need to eat. Come.” She took a step back and wiped her eyes. “This is your young lady?” She inspected Mia head to toe. “As she brought you here, it goes without saying, I approve.”

  He wore a disbelieving smile as he trailed his mother into the kitchen. Mia took a moment to gaze around, her throat tight. The Christmas tree threatened to burst through the ceiling, and the ornaments didn’t match. Five different kinds of tinsel had been used to decorate it, and clearly, judging by the concentration of icicles on the lowest branches, childish hands had helped. That meant he had nieces or nephews. God, he was going to be so thrilled.

  Remembering Lexie, the pleasure might be bittersweet at first, but he was too good with children to divorce himself from them entirely. And who knew what the future might hold? Tearful laughter came from the other room. She knew she needed to give them a few minutes.

  So Mia stood, breathing the place in. There was warmth here, such glorious warmth. As Søren had promised, the house smelled of cinnamon and apples, nutmeg and allspice. It smelled of home. After all this time, they had both come home.

  Turn the page for a special preview of

  Ava Gray’s next novel

  SKIN HEAT

  Coming January 2011

  from Berkley Sensation!

  All the animals were gone.

  Stolen, Zeke guessed. Or he hoped so, at least. He didn’t like to think they might’ve wandered off and died. At one point, he had some chickens and a cow. He’d planted what he could tend and harvest by himself; he’d never been able to afford laborers, not even the migrant kind. He grew most of what he ate. So he’d never had much money—just enough to pay taxes and keep the lights on. It was a simple life, but it had suited him well enough.

  But he’d been gone a long time—and not by choice—so the farm carried a desolate air, the land bleak with winter. Standing in the drive, he had a clear view of the dead fields and the pine and oak forest that framed them. The earth still showed the last furrows he’d dug, and the rotten harvest he hadn’t been here to bring in.

  He couldn’t see the road, but he heard vehicles passing now and then. The detail unsettled him. Zeke knew when a car had a loose muffler, what engines needed the timing adjusted, and which ones could use a change of spark plugs. The surety made him sick because it wasn’t right. With a faint sigh, he started toward the steps.

  The house, in all its Depression Era glory, had seen better days. Posts supported a sagging porch, which had been charcoal gray, but the months of neglect and a hot, dry summer had left it looking worse than ever. It was lucky nobody had broken in—not that there was anything worth stealing. Maybe they’d even scouted the place through the windows and come to that conclusion themselves. A few panes were cracked—vandals, most likely, or just bored kids. Those repairs would keep.

  His shoes crunched on loose gravel as he went up the drive. He’d walked the last two miles, after being dropped off by a friendly truck driver. The man hadn’t done anything to set off the prickly way Zeke felt about sharing the cab with him, but he hadn’t been able to stop watching him out of the corner of his eye, every muscle tensed. Every time the guy moved, Zeke felt like defending his territory. Stupid, considering he’d occupied the passenger seat in an eighteen-wheeler that didn’t belong to him.

  With a tired glance, he took in the filthy gutters and the patchy roof. He didn’t like to think about how long it had taken him to get home. No wonder things were in such a mess. The place required regular upkeep and six months ago, he’d put things off because he needed to finish the planting. If he didn’t, then he didn’t eat, come winter. It was just that simple.

  Too clearly, he remembered going to a bar over in Akerville with a friend. A local band he liked had been playing and he’d had a beer or two while they ran through their sets. When he came out for some fresh air during the intermission, two men had grabbed him. Everything went dark, and when he woke up, it felt like a nightmare—only it
had no end. Just pain.

  But he was here now. He’d escaped, and he had to forget, or he’d go nuts. Zeke pushed the past from his mind.

  The spare key was still buried in a plastic bag to the side of the steps. He knocked it against the post, and chips of graying paint flaked away along with the loose dirt. Zeke dug out the key and let himself into the house. It smelled musty, felt damp, and was beyond cold. If he’d taken any longer, the pipes might have froze.

  There was no power, of course, and he needed money before he could get it turned back on. Same with the phone. At least he’d never had cable, so one less thing to miss while he tried to put the pieces back together.

  In the kitchen, it smelled worse than musty. In the twilight, he located a box of matches and lit some candles. Everything in the refrigerator had to be tossed. Though he was exhausted—and starving—he found a garbage bag in the cupboard and pulled all the rotten stuff out. He fought the urge to hurl it out the window in a burst of rage.

  Control, he told himself. If he started yielding to those impulses, it would lead down a slippery slope. This he knew. If he wanted to live in the human world, his instincts couldn’t rule him. He hadn’t eaten in the last twelve hours, and it was a miracle he’d made it back to the farm with no money in his pocket. Hitchhiking was dangerous, but he hadn’t had much choice. Though he’d stolen the shoes and clothing, he’d refused to take any cash. He’d just needed to get out of the institutional garb or he would never have found anyone willing to give him a ride. Three kind souls had gotten him where he needed to go, and he didn’t even know their names.

  He made himself carry the bulging bag out to the rusty silver can behind the house before allowing himself to look for food. Rituals mattered. They would keep him sane and drive away the voices in his head. Like a mental patient, he had to focus on one thing at a time. Baby steps.

  Zeke studied the contents of the cupboard. Sparse. He didn’t buy a lot of food at the grocery. He usually canned his own vegetables, but he hadn’t been around to do it this year. The food had rotted in the field. Black despair weighed on him, and he forced that away, too. A can of ravioli should still be good. But he couldn’t make himself wait for it to heat. Instead he popped the top and ate from the can. It wasn’t until he’d finished that he realized he should’ve used a fork. People did.

  Because the farm had its own well, he had water at least. It wasn’t until after he’d showered that Zeke realized he hadn’t noticed the cold. Not like he used to. He wasn’t shivering when he finished. That was a blessing since without power, there would be no hot water, but it was hard to wrap his head around.

  He pushed the confusion down as he dried off and found “clean” clothes in his closet. They’d been hanging for a while and the smell bothered him more than he thought it should. Dust all but choked him. The whole way home from Virginia, he’d been troubled by the sense the world didn’t fit: smells were too sharp, colors too bright, noises too loud. And he was hanging on by a thread.

  Grimly, Zeke dressed. The jeans hung loose on his hips. If he could ever afford new ones, the waist needed to be three inches smaller. T-shirts mattered less, but he had lost some bulk in his arms and shoulders as well. Where he’d once been strong, his shadow self in the dark mirror looked thin and desperate.

  Zeke turned away and headed downstairs, seeking the candles he’d left burning in the kitchen. Most of them needed to be put out. It was then he heard the sputtering cough of a car on the road. But he shouldn’t have.

  It was too far away. He’d never heard engines inside before. Not through the windows and across the fields, through muffling trees. In silence, he listened to the vehicle choke and die. He could hear what was wrong with it. Zeke fought the urge to shove his fingers in his ears.

  Not crazy.

  Then he heard a woman’s soft curse.

  With every fiber of his being, he wanted to crawl in bed, regardless of how the sheets smelled, and sleep. Without worrying about what would happen to him. He’d escaped that awful place, and he’d prefer to pretend it never happened.

  Only he couldn’t leave the lady out there alone on a country road. That was how most horror movies started. With a low growl, he slammed out of the house.

  The last step bowed a little under his weight, but he leapt clear before it snapped. Fast. Too fast. Should’ve taken some damage there. But he balled that up and refused to think about it. Instead he’d focus on doing something good. He realized he should’ve gotten a jacket, but he didn’t need one and there was no point pretending.

  Zeke covered the distance at a run, even with weariness weighing on him. When he ran around the bend where his driveway met the county road, he saw a car pulled off on the dirt shoulder. This time of day, with the headlights on, he couldn’t tell what color it was. The woman he’d heard cussing must have gotten back inside.

  He jogged toward the vehicle and then slowed, so he didn’t frighten her. Scents of gas and oil, burned rubber and hot metal nearly overwhelmed him. Zeke took a few seconds before he approached. God only knew how he looked to her, probably a crazy mouth-breather appearing on a lonely road.

  “You okay?” Clearly she wasn’t. But he didn’t have the command of words he wanted or needed.

  She was smart, cracking the window only enough to reply. “Car trouble.”

  “Call somebody?”

  “The battery in my phone died. Do you have a cell I could borrow?”

  He shook his head. “Wish I did.”

  Not that he had anyone to call, or the money to pay for one. But it’d be nice to help her right now.

  “Service station’s three miles that way,” he said, jerking his head. “I’ll go.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  Damn. He did. The truck might not run, after sitting for six months, but he’d left it parked at the farm. It hadn’t even occurred to him to drive. He’d wanted to run. The realization sent tension coiling through him again.

  “Kinda. Be back soon.”

  He turned then and headed back the way he’d come. The farm was closer. It made no sense that he hadn’t thought of checking things out in the truck. Maybe they’d broken his brain.

  It took him a little while to find the keys, and then a bit longer to coax the old Ford into motion. Eventually the motor caught, but he didn’t find driving natural anymore. He felt tense and scared, wrestling the wheel as he sent it down the drive. Sickness rose in his belly, and by the time he got to the service station, thankfully still open, he was covered in cold sweat.

  Tim Sweeney, the owner, recognized him, leathery face creasing in a smile. “Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age, Zeke. Where you been?”

  “Traveling,” he muttered. “Lady down the road a piece needs a tow.”

  “Scooter!” Tim called. “Mind the front. I’m taking the truck out.”

  A kid made some noise of affirmation and Tim headed for the parking lot. Zeke followed, hands shaking. He tried to hide it, though the jingling of his keys gave it away.

  “I’ll show you.” He got back in the cab and pulled out onto the empty road.

  The fear scaled up. He had no place behind the wheel. It was all kinds of wrong. He wished he’d just run for help. By the time they reached the site, he barely had a grip on his emotions.

  He flashed his lights, and the woman had the presence of mind to signal back, showing Tim where she was. Zeke turned off into his driveway then and brought the truck to a ragged stop before the farmhouse. For long moments he leaned his sweaty forehead on the wheel and listened to the knocking of the engine.

  Distant car doors slammed. Voices whispered in the wind.

  Too far away. I can’t . . . This ain’t possible.

  “Who was that?” the woman asked. “I didn’t get to thank him.”

  “Zeke Noble. He ain’t been back long.”

  Their voices bled away, swamped by nearer noises. He caught squirrels in the dark trees, and the rustling of bird wings as they settled in fo
r the night. Crazy. How he wished it wasn’t true, but normal people didn’t hear this stuff. Maybe he hadn’t been kidnapped. Maybe there had been no secret underground facility, just a mental institution he’d managed to slip away from. Maybe he’d simply been locked up for his own good because he was nuts. Just like his mother.

  Blood stained Geneva Harper’s gloved hands. That wasn’t unusual. She’d just finished operating and her patient looked like he’d be fine. Since he was a big fellow, he was already shaking off the anesthetic. Julie, her assistant, rubbed his head, and his tail gave a weak, corresponding thump. Duffy, a black Labrador, was still groggy, but soon he’d need a cone to keep him from worrying his incision site.

  “Dogs eat the strangest things,” she said, not for the first time.

  Julie nodded her agreement. “But at least you saved him.”

  That was her job, after all, and she was good at it. Leaving Julie to clean up, she went to wash her hands and then she checked her schedule; the day looked pretty full. In ten minutes, she had a poodle coming in for routine vaccinations, but Kady didn’t like needles. She’d need the muzzle.

  Most places had a couple of vet techs, a receptionist, and an office manager, maybe even a couple more doctors in the rotation, but Paws & Claws ran on a skeleton crew, which meant it was pretty much herself and Julie, five days a week. And she stayed on call for weekend emergencies, too. It was exhausting, but this was what she’d always wanted, and she didn’t regret any of her choices. There had been problems, of course, but she didn’t want to think about her string of bad luck today.

  She did regret that she couldn’t seem to keep an attendant on staff. It would be nice for someone to clean the cages and kennels, wash the pets, take the dogs out for walks, and handle general maintenance, like replacing light bulbs and painting lines in the parking lot. But two men had quit in the last three months alone. It wasn’t glamorous work, admittedly—it was tough and menial, but if you liked animals, it could be rewarding.