Cover image: The Bridge in the Dark © Supercel7, courtesty istockphoto.com
Cover design copyright © 2016 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2016 by Stephanie Black
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect
the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
First Printing: November 2016
ISBN 978-1-52440-222-8
To Amelia Kathleen Black, my firstborn. I knew those
two-and-a-half hours of pushing would be worth it.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Sue McConkie, Jean Newman, Amy Black, and Dianna Hall, who kindly gave of their time to read the manuscript and provide feedback.
Huge additional thanks to Amy Black, who answered my endless questions about the work of a psychologist and didn’t even block my messages, change her phone number, or move to Antarctica to get away from me. She deserves eight million awesomeness points, plus chocolate. Thank you also to Sarah Lucas, Suzanne Lucas, Irene Klinger, Jennifer Clark, Laure Ginestet, and Marshall McConkie for the information they provided.
As always, much gratitude goes to my editor, Samantha Millburn; working with Sam is a delight. Thank you also to cover designer Christina Marcano and to all the marvelous people at Covenant Communications. I appreciate all you do for me.
Chapter 1
Wincing, Lacey Egan released her grip on the fence and thumped down onto the sidewalk a couple feet below. After ten minutes of trying, that was how far she’d made it up the fence? Her tennis shoes couldn’t secure stable toeholds, and the wires gouged her fingers. She couldn’t risk injuring her hands. Jonas would watch her work tonight, and if her fingers were bruised, fumbling with the tiny glass tiles and scattering them across her worktable instead of arranging them perfectly in place, he’d ask questions. “What happened to your hands? You look nervous. Is something wrong?”
She massaged her fingers and scanned the fenced-in renovation site. Framed by a storm-gray sky and dampened by drizzly rain, the Victorian office building reminded Lacey of a haunted mansion. Ghostly souls, cold with hate, drifting through cobwebbed corridors. Vampires craving blood. Murderers with axes and knives.
She batted those fantasies away. Camille Moretti wouldn’t stew about monsters. Lacey pictured Camille’s confident stride as she’d walked toward the trailer that had to be the construction office. Lacey wished she could have crept through the gate after Camille, but the security guy had closed the gate after Camille had driven inside. Lacey had to find another way into the site so she could witness Camille reporting to multimillionaire Robert Chapman.
He must have arrived before Camille; Lacey had spotted an electric-blue Volkswagen Beetle convertible, sparkly and eye-catching even in the rain. That had to be Chapman’s car. She’d heard rumors that he drove a wacky assortment of cars, everything from million-dollar Lamborghinis to Honda minivans and Ford trucks. What would it be like to have as much money and power as he did? Could he do anything he wanted? Did anyone ever try to stop him?
Lacey clutched the phone in her sweatshirt pocket. If she could record even a snippet of Camille’s conversation with Chapman, it would be gold. She could get over this fence; she had to. Anyone could climb a chain-link fence.
She backed into the middle of the street, inhaled, and sprinted toward it. As she neared the wire, she leaped and reached upward. Her fingers caught the links; her toes slammed into the fence and slipped. The fall jerked at her shoulders, and the wire scraped her chin. Hanging by her fingers, she kicked at the fence, trying to push herself up, but she couldn’t do it. She crashed to the sidewalk, this time losing her balance and landing on her backside.
She remained hunched on the wet sidewalk, catching her breath, her burning fingers shielded under her arms. Her chin stung. She didn’t dare touch it; she didn’t want to know if she’d given herself a visible welt or a scrape deep enough to bleed.
Maybe creeping around the renovation site after Camille had been a dumb idea from the start. With the rain, the site wasn’t as busy as it had been when she’d walked past here before. If she’d made it over the fence, someone might have noticed her and gotten suspicious, even if she’d tried to look official by carrying the clipboard and wearing the reflective workman’s vest and hard hat she had hidden in her backpack. Maybe it was better to observe Camille from outside the fence. Even if Lacey couldn’t hear the conversation, she could still gather information: Camille’s posture, what she did with her hands while she talked, whether or not she smiled.
Lacey stood and wiped her glasses on the lining of her sweatshirt, relishing a tingle of rebelliousness. Jonas would be shocked at her appearance—costume-shop glasses with thick black rims, a big, grubby sweatshirt she’d pilfered from the back of his closet, her platinum hair in a tight braid hidden under a knit beanie. Nobody would recognize her. She poked her earbuds into her ears, pulled the rain-dotted hood of Jonas’s sweatshirt farther over her face, and ambled along the fence. Ignoring the pain in her tailbone, she imitated the gait of those teenagers who’d swaggered out of their classroom after her visiting-artist presentation, not thanking her or even glancing at her. Lacey was now an oblivious kid surfing on her own coolness.
She rounded the corner and passed the closed gate. The office trailer was near the fence on the opposite side of the grounds from where she’d tried to climb in. Casually, she advanced to the next corner and turned left to walk past the trailer. Spying on Camille here was riskier than observing her through her office window or at her house or the gym or the grocery store. Lacey’s heartbeat clobbered her eardrums, the noise trapped by earbuds that weren’t playing any music.
It was kind of a thrilling sound.
The chance to see Camille report to real-estate mogul Chapman—Chapman had hordes of people working for him in Ohneka . . . in the whole Finger Lakes area, actually. Probably in all of New York, maybe even across the whole country. How often would he meet personally with one of his property managers? It was crazy lucky that the call from Chapman’s secretary—Lacey assumed Chapman’s secretary—had come while Camille had been sitting on a bench in the park near her office, eating lunch in the afternoon’s prestorm sunshine. Lacey, on the grass behind the bench, dressed in jogging clothes and pretending to do stretches, had overheard most of the conversation.
The back of the trailer had two windows. The blinds were half closed over one window and completely open on the other. She slowed her pace and peered through the windows. The view wasn’t great—the trailer was too high off the ground, and rain beaded the glass—but she could see inside. Camille stood next to a man who must be Chapman. He was the same height as short Camille in her heels; Lacey had expected him to be bigger than that. His longish white hair was so tousled that she wondered if he’d driven over here with the top of his convertible down despite the rain.
Neither Camille nor Chapman was facing the windows, so Lacey felt safe stopping and studying Camille. Camille’s shoulders were straight—not stiff, not bowed forward. One arm was bent—was she pointing at something? Her head was slightly tipped toward Chapman, and the gloss and color of her hair made Lacey think of the citrine quartz she’d used in that vase she’d made for Jonas’s mot
her.
Lacey leaned her shoulder against the fence, pulled out her phone, and pretended to text. If Camille or Chapman glanced out the window they’d see only an anonymous skinny figure—probably a teenager—in an old hoodie and ratty jeans, ignoring everything but her smartphone. No one to notice or worry about. She nudged her hood back far enough that she could keep watching Camille out of the corner of her eye.
Camille pivoted, and Lacey caught a profile view of her face. The corner of her mouth was raised but not too far. Eyebrow a little arched—was she asking a question? Doubting something, even? Challenging Chapman? Would she dare?
Lacey tried out the expression, but shaping it on her own face felt like creating a portrait with awkward chunks of glass. She could shape a smile, but it was a surreal Picasso smile. She relaxed her face and tried a second time.
Camille turned so she was fully facing the window. Hastily, Lacey bowed her head lower and tapped frenetically at her phone screen. A texting teen, part of the background, uninterested in the lit windows of the trailer.
Around the edge of her hood, she could barely see Camille still standing there. Was she looking at Lacey or gazing absently at the misty rain? She wouldn’t turn her back on Chapman to stare at the sky. She must be looking at Lacey.
Lacey wanted to run, but if Camille saw her fleeing, she might be alarmed. Still pretending to text, Lacey meandered along the fence, passing the trailer and continuing until she was out of sight of the windows. Once she was confident Camille couldn’t see her, she sprinted around the block to the back of the construction site and stopped to catch her breath.
Hot under her sweatshirt, she leaned against a telephone pole and turned her face up toward the rain. Her chin still hurt. It must have a scrape—one big enough for Jonas to notice. She’d have to think of a way to explain it.
Loitering and trying for another glimpse of Camille was too dangerous; she’d better get out of here. She started to walk away, but the elbow of her sweatshirt snagged on something—a rusty staple sticking straight out of the telephone pole. She ripped her sleeve loose and hurried toward the plaza where she’d left her car. Jonas wouldn’t notice the tear in the sleeve. He used to wear this old sweatshirt for yardwork, but she hadn’t seen him wear it in years.
For long, dreary minutes, she sat behind her steering wheel and watched rain trickling down the windshield. She’d been wildly reckless today for only a tiny amount of information, but she didn’t regret trying.
She didn’t think she regretted it.
She twisted the rearview mirror so she could assess her chin. A red mark marred the bottom of it, but it wasn’t bad. She could conceal it with makeup. It was time to slump back home, clean up, hide the wet, dirty clothes, and go back to being worthless Lacey Egan.
No . . . today’s research didn’t have to end yet. Jonas had a meeting in Buffalo, and he wouldn’t be home until around eight. She had time to go to Camille’s house. She could sneak through that garage side door with the broken lock. She could hide, wait for Camille, and study her as she got out of her car. Seeing her arrive home wouldn’t be as useful as seeing her with Chapman, but it would still be valuable. Confidence, triumph, satisfaction—whatever showed on her face, it would be an expression Lacey could practice in front of the mirror tomorrow while Jonas was at work.
Reenergized, she drove to Camille’s neighborhood, parked a block down the street, and strolled toward the two-story house with unblemished white siding and yellow shutters. Camille had decorated her porch for autumn with a scarecrow in a wooden rocking chair, pumpkins, and a basket of apples.
The wind blew harder, scattering maple leaves across the grass. Most of the tree was still green, but soon the whole thing would be red-gold fire. When the color peaked, she’d have to take pictures of it; it would make a breathtaking mosaic. If she was careful not to get the house in the background, Jonas would never know she’d taken the picture at Camille’s. There were plenty of sugar maples around Ohneka.
Taking strong, confident steps, she followed the flagstone pathway along the side of the house. At the side door, she paused, opened it, and stepped into the dim garage. Noiselessly, she settled into the spot she’d staked out two weeks ago when she’d discovered the unlocked door: a snug hiding place between bins labeled Christmas decorations and wall shelves holding camping equipment. When Camille drove into the empty bay of the garage and stepped out of her car, Lacey could get a view of her face, illuminated by the bulb on the garage-door opener.
From her backpack, Lacey took her pen and fabric-covered notebook and started recording what she’d observed today, lighting the pages with her phone flashlight. Huddled on the concrete in her damp jeans and damp sweatshirt, she grew colder and colder. What if Camille had gone out to dinner after work?
The grumble of the garage door opening heated her discouragement into glowing anticipation. Instantly, she stowed her phone and notebook. Peeking between the boxes, careful to keep her breathing silent, she watched Camille’s car glide into the garage and stop the perfect distance from the back wall.
With her face angled away from Lacey, Camille stepped out of the car, a leather briefcase in her hand. Lacey flexed and relaxed her arm, imagining carrying a case like that. Camille walked toward the house, her face still averted as though she was examining the hood of her car or checking out the shelves on the opposite wall. Lacey glared at the back of Camille’s head, eagerness breaking into fragments of anger. After the time spent hiding and shivering, this was all she got?
She could make Camille look in her direction.
Using one knuckle, Lacey rapped twice against the nearest plastic bin. It wasn’t a loud noise, but Camille started and wheeled around. Lacey flinched, startled herself at Camille’s expression—mouth gaping and ready to scream, eyes bugging. Camille scanned the boxes, gripping her briefcase like she planned to swing it as a weapon.
“Is someone there?” Camille yelled. “I have a Taser.”
Lacey crouched, dead artwork instead of living flesh. She hadn’t expected to frighten Camille. She’d thought Camille would glance in her direction, then shrug off the tapping noise as raindrops.
Camille scanned the garage for another moment, then rushed toward the door to the house, unlocked it, and disappeared inside. She slammed the door, and the dead bolt clacked.
Lacey wormed between boxes, slipped out the side door, and closed it. It made a slight thump; had Camille heard it? It would be . . . a little fun if she had.
She’d never planned to scare Camille; she’d never planned to let Camille know anyone was watching her at all. Was she calling the police? Or was she now persuading herself the sudden noise had been the rain?
Lacey had scared her. Scared her. With a couple of taps of her knuckle against a storage bin, she’d shaken a woman who thought it was nothing to hobnob with a multimillionaire. An intelligent, strong, independent woman.
Two taps of her knuckle.
Chapter 2
“Morning, Nat.” Skyler Hudson settled into a chair in the break room. “Curls today, huh?”
Natalie Marsh bent her head and shook her brown hair forward so she could see it around her face. It hadn’t been this wavy when she’d left her house. “Apparently,” she said. “It’s the humidity. My car’s in the shop, so I was waiting at the bus stop in the rain this morning.”
“What’s wrong with the car?”
“Old age. It’ll be done this afternoon.” She pushed the napkin dispenser toward Skyler. “You might want to wipe that chocolate off your chin.”
“Eh, my clients won’t care. They’ll be too busy developing their Jedi mind powers.”
“Is that what you do in biofeedback? You should charge more.”
“Free light saber with every ten sessions.” Skyler took a napkin and cleaned his chin. “Though if it’s Jedi we’re talking about, it’s you who should be seeing them. They’re prone to mental instability, right?”
Natalie swallowed the last bite of he
r yogurt. “I don’t feel good about seeing clients who could strangle me with their minds if I annoy them.”
“It’d make a good research topic though. ‘Anger Management Issues in Jedi Knights: The Lure of the Dark Side.’ You should write a paper.”
“I’ll make you second author,” Natalie said.
Kirk Valdez walked through the door, sleeves rolled up, insulated travel mug in his hand. “Good morning, youngsters.”
Skyler tipped back in his chair and squinted at Kirk. “The humidity didn’t curl his hair.”
Kirk patted his bald head, then stroked his graying black beard. “The beard’s not curlier?”
“The beard is still a sad imitation of Freud’s facial hair, revealing your insecurities as a psychotherapist.”
Kirk unscrewed the lid on his travel mug. “Better Freud’s beard than the hair of some tweenage boy band.”
Skyler touched his auburn hair, short on the sides and long on top, drooping to his eyebrows. “Eh, you’re jealous because you’re an old bald guy. Nat, settle this. The hair is better than the beard, right?”
“If you think I’m getting involved in this, you’re delusional.” Natalie’s phone buzzed. She checked the screen. “Camille will be here in a moment. She wanted to stop in and chat before the office opens.”
“Drawn by my hotness,” Skyler said.
“To chat with me,” Natalie said. “How does Vicki put up with you?”
“She considers it a privilege.”
Natalie believed it. Skyler’s easygoing charm and sense of humor made up for his cocky vanity; everyone liked him. Even her mother had adored him—despised her own daughter but adored the biofeedback and physical therapist who’d eased her pain in the last year of her life.
A year in which Natalie had played no part.
Natalie smoothed and folded her napkin as though it needed to be tidy before she dropped it in the trash. She was glad Skyler had joined the practice, and she was over feeling awkward around him—mostly over it. Sometimes she still wondered if her mother had told him horrible stories about her, but after nearly a year of working in the same office with him, she hoped he knew she was a decent person notwithstanding whatever her mother had said.
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