Her eye landed on the strange smooth patch next to Annette’s name. A mistake? she wondered again, and then she realized: that was the space for Charles. It must have been prepared when Lynne had gotten pregnant again. Maybe the baby’s name had even been chiseled in, before the whole area had been erased to cover up Charles’s existence. Jane felt a pang of sadness, even pity for the family that had been touched by so much tragedy. It wasn’t that Lynne hadn’t earned her karma in spades—she had, and more—but it was still more sorrow than Jane could comfortably wish on her worst enemy.
The thought of Charles, living his whole life in the attic, left her somewhere between pity and fear. Since the night she had spotted him in the kitchen, every creak and shadow in the halls had made her jump at the thought that Malcolm’s troubled younger brother might leap out and attack her again. Although he was supposedly safely closed in the attic, she kept smelling the stale, rotten air that had filled her lungs that horrible night when he had grabbed her.
A floorboard groaned behind her, and Jane spun toward the door, a scream dying in her throat. The shape that blocked the light was much too small to be Charles. The hall light glinted off a silver-streaked bun, and Jane had the figure narrowed down to one of two.
“What are you doing here?” the newcomer snapped brusquely.
Belinda, definitely.
“I had a headache,” Jane improvised. “I just wanted a little peace and quiet.”
Belinda Helding sniffed disapprovingly. “You’ll skip dinner, then. Have something sent to your room.”
Jane suppressed an unexpected smile. She doesn’t want me here any more than I want to be here, she realized. By the Doran standards, Belinda was practically an ally. Jane was seized by an irrational urge to giggle. “That sounds good,” she replied instead, trying to make her voice sound appropriately weak and faint. “Thank you for your concern.”
Belinda’s head tilted quizzically, as if she honestly couldn’t understand why anyone would imagine that she was concerned about Jane. Jane plastered a half-grateful, half-apologetic smile onto her face and made her way to the door.
Jane got close enough to smell the dusty-violet scent of Belinda’s perfume before the older woman budged at all. With a sigh that would be more appropriate to a mother dealing with an exasperating child’s temper tantrum, Belinda took one reluctant, shuffling step to the side, leaving only barely enough room for Jane to pass through. Lynne would tell me to diet, she reflected. Then Belinda’s trailing gray sleeve brushed Jane’s arm. A static shock—or maybe a shock of another kind—passed between them, and Jane cringed involuntarily.
She snapped her default smile back onto her face as quickly as she could, but she could still feel Belinda’s eyes, like hard little chunks of pewter, boring into her back as she forced herself to walk, not run, back to her suite.
Ten days. Just ten more days. The wedding couldn’t possibly come soon enough.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The day before the wedding, Lynne Doran had officially entered crisis mode. Sitting on her favorite perch at the kitchen table, thumbing through a pages-long to-do list, she threw up her hands in disbelief. “Then he tried to say that it wasn’t in our contract, as if I give a damn what his middle-school-educated brain thinks our contract says. How he thinks he can run a business going around contradicting clients the day before their weddings is beyond me, but come Monday he won’t be able to give his so-called creations away.”
Jane wondered idly where in the printer’s contract it could possibly say that the man had to hire an acceptably attractive staff to hand out programs at the church, but decided that asking would only invite trouble. It was clearly too late to save the printer’s reputation; Jane could simply focus on saving her own skin. And in a backward sort of way, Lynne’s tirade was comforting: she wasn’t planning on ruining the printer until next week because she still needed him for the wedding tomorrow.
I’m safe so long as she needs me, too, Jane told herself over and over, like a desperate sort of mantra. As long as she thinks she can use me. As long as she thinks I want nothing more in the world than to marry Malcolm and have his babies. And Lynne’s relentless drive to keep up appearances guaranteed that she would do almost anything to ensure that this massive, crème-de-la-crème wedding would happen as planned. She would need irrefutable proof, a one-thousand-percent certainty that her family’s reputation was unsalvageable, before she would make an overt move against Jane.
It was T minus twenty-eight hours until Jane and Malcolm would leave their wedding reception hand in hand. Malcolm was probably packing his bags now, preparing to fly out of some foreign airport to find his way back to her.
Malcolm. She hoped he hadn’t hit any snags in his preparations, or made some kind of mistake, or slipped in a bathtub in Prague and broken his neck. Someone probably would have called here about that last one.
Jane fidgeted with the enormous stack of response cards on the table, turning the “yes” card from Mr. and Mrs. Henry Sondmeyer—whoever they were—over and over in her hands. True to form, Lynne had invited five hundred of her nearest and dearest friends and family members, along with a few select individuals from the media. She had even gone so far as to express relief that Jane had no living family, as that might have forced them to consider a larger church so as not to risk choosing between the Piaggias (who were, technically, more important) and the Byrne-Chaitworths (who were known for holding a grudge). Jane had gritted her teeth, nodded along, and let her thoughts return again and again to Malcolm.
Maybe he’s at the airport already? But that was probably wishful thinking. He wouldn’t be able to come back until the very last minute before the wedding. He couldn’t afford to be around his mother for a moment longer than necessary; there was only so long that he could studiously think about unimportant things under Lynne’s intense scrutiny.
“And I’m so glad you came to your senses about those Montagues.”
Jane snapped to attention at the mention of Maeve’s and Harris’s last name. Since the night of the collision, Jane had been careful to give the impression that Maeve was as over their friendship as Jane claimed to be. She had been sure to mention that she hadn’t seen Maeve since the accident and didn’t care to.
“You’re too new to New York to know this,” Lynne rattled on, oblivious to Jane’s sudden interest, “but they’re an absolutely wretched family. That mother of theirs is just horribly vulgar, and the father’s no better. Always putting on airs and trading on his family name when everyone knows he’s all but disinherited and no one with any sense will so much as have them over for lunch. If I had known their girl worked at the MoMA, I never would have let you accept that job there.” Lynne sniffed rudely. She still hadn’t managed to let the fact that Jane was working go entirely, and it showed clearly every time she puckered her mouth and spat out the word “job.” “You are absolutely better off dropping them,” she declared. “I dare say the world would have been a better place if that cab had just . . .” She waved her long-fingered hand eloquently, like Maeve was no more than a pesky fly that needed swatting.
Jane gaped and tasted bile at the back of her throat.
Lynne smirked to herself obliviously, clearly enjoying what she believed to be a private joke. Jane’s entire body trembled and saw red, her boiling rage overriding all of the control she had spent the last month learning. The recessed lights in the kitchen ceiling began to flicker, on, off, on, off, on, off. The microwave glowed to life, and a KitchenAid mixer began to whir and then rumble on the green marble countertop.
Jane clamped her hands down on the counter. Shit! Shit! Shit!
She closed her eyes and fought with the magic that coiled through her body and radiated off her in hot, uncontrollable waves. She breathed in and out, trying as hard as she could to force the electricity down to its resting state. The entire kitchen faded to nothing as she centered her mind, imagining the power receding like waves back into her body. After a few tense
heartbeats, she felt the power begin to shift and subside, following the path that she visualized for it. Through her eyelids, she could tell that the lights were steady again, and when she heard the mixer shut down, she opened her eyes.
Lynne’s dark stare was cold and appraising.
Jane’s head started to buzz and her heart pounded wildly as the reality of the situation crashed down on her. What had she just done? Why hadn’t she just pretended there was some kind of wiring problem in the kitchen? Lynne would still know it was her, but all that mattered was that Jane not know. Instead, she had controlled her magic, which was as good as announcing that she knew she had it. And if she knows I know . . . and that I’ve been practicing . . .
It would all be over. Maeve’s injuries, Malcolm’s absence, all of the help Dee and Harris had given Jane, Jane’s own work and effort over the last month . . . none of it would mean a thing.
She tried to arrange her features in the most innocent possible expression. “Sorry,” she chirped brightly, although she could hear the strain in the high pitch of her voice. “Power surges kind of freak me out. From when I was little and there were these thunderstorms. And I just remembered that I wanted to get a new manicure before tomorrow, so I’ll be back tonight and if there are any problems just call, okay?” It sounded hopelessly inane, and she didn’t wait for Lynne’s response.
Instead, she shoved her heavy wooden chair back and bolted out of the kitchen, saying silent thanks that the door to the back stairwell was so close: it took her only moments to reach the street.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Still breathing hard from her flight down the five flights of stairs, Jane hailed the first cab she saw on Park and gave the driver Dee’s address in Brooklyn. “No,” he said firmly. “My shift is over in—”
“Your shift is over as soon as you get me to where I’m going,” Jane snapped. “I’ve got a cell phone and a close personal friend on the Taxi and Limousine Commission.”
The driver sighed but started moving without another word of protest. A month in New York—during which she had been willing to go to great lengths to avoid riding with the Dorans’ creepy driver—had clearly hardened her, Jane reflected grimly.
She tried to relax against the cracked leather seat, but couldn’t help glancing in the rearview mirror every few seconds, a learned habit from the few times she’d had to go somewhere with Yuri. The fourth time she checked the mirror, she saw something.
I know that car.
It was ridiculous, obviously. Manhattan was packed with black sedans, and there was nothing special about the one three cars back. But four blocks and a turn later, there it was again. Jane’s hands started to shake. There are only so many ways to get downtown, she tried to tell herself, but the whole thing just felt wrong. Jane’s phone began to vibrate, and she felt like she was about to jump out of her skin. The call was coming from the Dorans’ mansion, and Jane tapped “Ignore” a little harder than necessary.
A minute and a few nervous checks of the rearview mirror later, her voice-mail alert dinged with unnerving cheerfulness.
“Jane, dear, the couturier is having an absolute fit,” Lynne’s voice purred, making Jane’s skin crawl. “We have an emergency fitting in fifteen minutes, so your nails will have to wait. Please come back to the house. Immediately.”
Like hell, Jane thought, her heart racing. The sedan was still behind them.
“Hey—um, excuse me?” she croaked to the sullen driver. She cleared her throat awkwardly. “I know I should have said this sooner, but can we take the FDR?”
“It’s crowded this afternoon,” the driver grunted.
“Oh.” Jane eyed the encroaching sedan, replaying Lynne’s message in her head. What would Lynne do? “Look, my husband hired this detective guy to follow me around because he thinks I’m cheating on him. So could you, you know, go in a big square or something, like they do in the movies? I promise you that if you help me out here, I’ll be the best tipper you’ve ever met.” She fished a hundred-dollar bill out of her wallet and waved it for emphasis. “It’s my husband’s money—what do I care?”
The driver raised an eyebrow. “Fine,” he sighed, and cut a sharp left.
She tensed as she stared into the rearview mirror.
“Is he still there?” the cabbie asked, avoiding a bike messenger by inches.
“I don’t know,” Jane admitted. Was that the same sedan? Did the car have circular or square headlights? I suck at this cloak-and-dagger bullshit. Why didn’t I look at the license plate? But then she saw the bald head behind the wheel just before the car disappeared behind a Hummer. “Yeah. He’s still there.”
Without signaling, the driver spun the wheel, cutting off a city bus and careening across three lanes of traffic before bumping over a curb to turn onto 50th Street. He made several more turns before flying onto the FDR.
She spied a black sedan—the black sedan?—two more times before they left Manhattan, but by the time she reached Dee’s block, it seemed her driver’s wild risks had paid off: it had been over fifteen minutes since Jane had seen any hint that they might still be pursued. She tossed some bills at the driver without looking at them, and ran up the concrete steps to Dee’s place. She burst into the tiny apartment, gasping for breath.
Dee had a plate of cookies ready and waiting, but Jane was in no mood for comfort food. “I think I blew it,” she almost sobbed.
Dee set the plate down and checked the deadbolt on her door. “Start from the beginning.”
Jane opened her mouth, but instead of her voice, a loud, booming knock filled the room. Jane felt a hysterical scream rising in her throat. “It’s Yuri,” she whispered. “He followed me here. Lynne knows!”
Dee’s hand closed around Jane’s wrist with a surprisingly strong grip. Jane could barely blink before her friend was dragging her toward the open door of her bedroom. She had just enough time to register a patchwork bedspread and giant pentacle on the wall before Dee had opened the small window at the back of the room. Dee shoved her out onto a rusty fire escape that quaked and swayed beneath Jane’s weight.
“Whoa,” she gasped, clinging to the rail. It left orange flakes on her palms. Since Dee was only on the second floor, it was just one flight down and a short, five-foot drop to the alleyway below.
Still, the shock of the fall knocked her to the ground, and sent stabbing pain up her right shin. Rolling to her feet, she saw that Dee had made a much more graceful landing, and was beckoning her to the mouth of the alley. She followed Dee’s back as fast as her aching feet could carry her.
A moment later, Dee jolted to a stop right at the sidewalk, and Jane grabbed Dee’s shoulders to keep from crashing into her.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Yuri.”
He stood before Dee, blocking the entire alley. He was dressed head to toe in black, and the March sun reflected off his bald head.
“Miss Boyle,” he said.
Jane tightened her grip on Dee’s shoulders. She had never heard Yuri speak one single time in the entire time she had been here. His tone was courteous and pleasant and not at all like the voice of someone who had just been chasing her all over New York.
“Missus Doran sent me to find you for a dress fitting. Excuse us, please,” he added, with a polite nod to Dee.
For a half-second, Jane fully intended to go with him. He sounded so reasonable that she almost doubted her own sanity. But then his meaty hand reached for her shoulder, and her instincts kicked in fiercely, propelling her back into the alley.
“Right this way, Miss,” Yuri prompted in the same pleasant tone, closing the distance between them with alarming speed.
“No!” Jane shouted, stumbling out of his reach.
“I’ll drive her!” she heard Dee yell from the sidewalk. She knew it was a bluff—Dee didn’t have a car—but Yuri didn’t even seem to hear it.
“The car is right here,” he announced, his hand finally closing hard around Jane’s elbow.
; At his touch, Jane’s body went rigid. Her mind was flooded with image after image of terrified girls, begging, crying, running. She felt the sickening rush of Yuri’s enjoyment as his mind savored his favorites. A blonde with enormous brown eyes, a deep gash running across her sternum. A teenage boy passing out as Yuri severed his hand with a machete. A woman, young and beautiful and familiar-looking, her mouth forming a terrified O as Yuri wrapped his fingers around her throat. Jane’s scream rattled the windows above them.
“Get off her!” she heard Dee shout, but the pictures kept coming. A strawberry blonde bled from a cut on her cheek, clutching at her torn clothes as she staggered backward. Madison Avery’s arm twisted up painfully behind her back. Sobbing and pleading filled Jane’s ears.
When Yuri let go of her arm, Jane was so unprepared that she fell to her knees. Expecting an attack, she jumped up, but the space directly in front of her was empty. A few yards away, Yuri’s back was to her, and he was moving, catlike, in a crouch. She could see three fresh, bloody scratches on the side of his neck, and on the ground in front of him . . .
“Yuri! Stop!”
The driver had pinned Dee to the pavement, his knees on either side of her prone body. He was lifting something made of metal—a tire iron, Jane recognized in a nauseating flash of comprehension. He swung it at Dee’s head. Jane screamed, but Dee managed to twist out from under him just in time, narrowly avoiding the weapon in Yuri’s meaty hand. She didn’t get far, though, and Yuri pinned her down again, wrapping his free hand around her throat this time. She thrashed violently, trying to wriggle free, but she didn’t seem to be able to use her right arm properly, and Jane knew that she had used up all of her luck dodging the first blow.
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