Coop gave them a flat smile as he walked up. “I’m finished here unless you need something else, Jack.”
“We’re done. You driving straight home?” Jack gave him a pointed look that said he, too, had noticed Coop had been drinking.
Anger flashed in Coop’s eyes, then he returned a curt nod. “Sure.” He turned to Carlotta. “It was nice to meet you, Ms. Wren.”
“Ashford,” Jack corrected.
“Right,” Coop said. His gaze lingered on her for a few seconds, then he turned and strode away, his long legs eating up the ground.
“Ready to go?” Jack asked her.
She nodded, suddenly nervous about being alone with him. When they exited, a TV reporter jogged up the sidewalk. He shoved a microphone in Jack’s face. “Detective, is it true the notorious fugitive Duke Thornhouse was taken down in a gunfight during an attempted armed robbery?”
A muscle worked in Jack’s jaw. “No comment.”
Carlotta smothered a smile—they both knew it was only a matter of time before the fifty or so women dining in the club restaurant circulated the story about her and Hannah foiling the robber’s escape.
He hustled Carlotta into a familiar dark sedan—how many times had she been in Jack’s car? She settled into the seat, noticing it seemed much the same. From the empty coffee cup in the console, it appeared he was riding solo.
Jack slid into the driver’s seat and clicked his seat belt into place.
“You don’t have a partner?” she asked.
His jaw hardened. “My partner, Detective Marquez, is in the hospital recuperating from a gunshot received in the line of duty.”
Her pulse bumped. Detective Maria Marquez had perished in the other place, at the hands of a killer. “Is Maria going to be okay?”
That garnered her a sharp look. “How do you know my partner’s first name?”
She caught herself. “I must’ve heard it on the news.”
“She’s going to be okay… but she has a long road back. What was your address again?”
She told him.
“Nice part of town,” he offered.
“I suppose.”
She studied his profile and allowed the electricity bouncing between them to charge the interior of the car. After a stretch of loaded silence, he looked over at her.
“Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
Her lungs squeezed. “Why do you ask?”
He shook his head. “I can’t explain it. You just seem… familiar.”
She couldn’t resist toying with him. “How so?”
His gaze swept over her with the leisurely pace of a lover. “Maybe we should change the subject.”
He looked back to the road and her mind clicked with the possibilities and fallout of telling Jack the truth about their “past.” Would it send her hurtling back?
“Jack,” she said carefully, “what would you think if I told you that we do know each other… in another life.”
He laughed. “No offense, I don’t believe in all that reincarnation jazz.”
“I’m not talking about reincarnation, I’m talking about a parallel life. And you and I do know each other in that life—intimately.”
He snorted. “Sorry, I don’t buy it.”
Carlotta turned sideways in her seat. “What if I could prove it?”
“How?”
“I know things about you.”
“Like?”
“Like that you’re from Alabama.”
He scoffed. “You can tell that from my accent.”
“And when you’re not on the job, you prefer jeans, black T-shirts, and western boots.”
“Also not a stretch.”
She wet her lips. “I knew your partner, Maria, in the place where I came from. She’s beautiful, tall and willowy, with a mane of light brown hair.” She had been jealous of the woman’s interaction with Jack.
He blinked, then scoffed. “You could’ve seen her picture on the news.”
“I didn’t—I only arrived here today. In fact, I’m relieved to hear she’s alive. She was killed in the place where I’m from, by her ex-husband.”
He looked angry. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“It was terrible… he drowned her in her bathtub. His last name was Garza.”
Jack looked alarmed. “This isn’t funny anymore. I don’t know where you got personal details of Maria’s life, but—”
“Is he stalking her here, too? He’s a dangerous man, Jack. You have to stop him from hurting her—”
“That’s enough,” he cut in. “I’m starting to think you’re the dangerous one.”
“I’m not dangerous,” she said calmly. “I’m from another place where our lives are taking different paths than the way things are here. In the other place, Tracey and I aren’t best friends—Hannah and I are.”
“The tattooed waitress?”
“Yes. She and I work for Coop, moving bodies.”
“In this ‘other place,’ you and that Goth chick work for the morgue?” His disbelief was clear.
“Actually, Coop isn’t the M.E.—he lost his job because of his drinking. He contracts to move bodies for the morgue, and he hired us to help him.”
“Oh, really?”
“And the fugitive you’re after isn’t the bank robber we stopped today, it’s my father.”
His eyebrow shot up. “Your father, huh?”
“Yeah… in the other place, he skipped bail on a white collar charge and was a fugitive for over ten years.”
“Was?”
“Right. You caught him, um… yesterday.”
Now he looked amused, as if she were a small child. “Good for me.”
She swallowed hard. “Look, I know this is a lot to take in, but it’s true. You and I and everyone else are living another life in the place where I came from.”
He pursed his mouth. “And how did you get here?”
“In my car.”
“You drove across the space-time continuum?”
A flush worked its way up her neck. “Not exactly. My car hasn’t run in years. This morning I climbed into it and fell asleep, and when I climbed out… I was here.”
He nodded solemnly. “I hate when that happens.”
She turned back around in her seat. “Forget it. I wouldn’t believe me either.”
They drove in silence for a few moments. Carlotta stared out the window, looking for differences in this place, but the sky was the same color of blue, the grass just as green, the cars just as noisy. They entered the upscale community of Martinique Estates where Peter—and she—lived. The guard at the security gate called her Mrs. Ashford and waved them through.
“So where do I live?” Jack asked.
She looked over. “I’m sorry?”
“If you know so much about me, then where do I live?”
She pressed her lips together. “Actually, you’ve never told me. You’re pretty closed-mouthed about your personal life.”
“That’s the first thing you’ve said I can believe.”
She angled her head. “But I know what you look like naked.”
He squirmed in his seat. “That’s impossible.”
“You have a hairy chest.”
“Okay, that’s not a leap.”
She leaned closer. “And your um, pride hangs left.”
He looked up as if he had to think about it to confirm. “You had a fifty/fifty chance of getting that one.”
“And you have a cute little mole on your right—”
“Whoa,” he said, tapping the brake as if he could stop her from talking. “Lots of guys have moles under their shorts.” He gave her a skeptical look. “If you know what my body looks like,
where’s my tattoo?”
“You don’t have one.” Unless he’d gotten one in this world?
But from his grunt she could tell she’d answered correctly. “Lucky guess,” he said as he pulled the car into the driveway above the palatial home that sat below street level. Construction vehicles filled up the driveway.
“You’re remodeling?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” she answered honestly. “Where I’m from, I live in a small townhouse around Lindbergh.”
Jack looked over at her. “Even if I could wrap my mind around what you’re saying, there’s a flaw in your story.”
“What’s that?”
His bold gaze raked over her again, skating over erogenous zones he traveled many times. “No matter what universe I’m in, I don’t mess around with married women.”
Her body warmed under his scrutiny, strained toward his magnetic pull. “I know,” she murmured. “But in the other world, I’m not married.” She held up her left hand. “Which is why I’m not used to wearing these rings.”
His lips parted and she could see the confusion again. He wanted to believe her, but he simply couldn’t.
“Goodbye, Jack,” she said with a little smile. “Take care of Maria.”
She opened the door and stepped out onto the driveway, then lifted her hand in a wave. When his car pulled away, Jack was still staring at her. Her heart shook until his taillights disappeared. Then she turned back to the house where she lived.
With her husband.
Chapter 10
As Carlotta walked down the driveway to the house she shared with Peter, dread billowed in her chest. She hadn’t had time to think about her marriage and her life with Peter since he’d picked her up this morning, but she could no longer ignore it. Her husband had seemed cheerful enough earlier, if a little distant—had he been planning to meet Angela for a lunchtime tryst?
She checked her watch, then pulled out her phone to call Peter, but got his voice mail. She left him a breezy message to call her when he got a break. She ended the call and stowed the phone with worry gathering. According to Tracey and Bette Noble, the Ashford marriage was in deep trouble. Perhaps the house they shared would shed more light on their marital issues.
It was, by all accounts, a lovely home, stately in intricate brick and wrought iron. A turnaround in front of the flaring steps circled a large fountain. The two-story entryway rose to glorious palladium windows. On the left was a four-car garage. To the right of the house, workers swarmed the pool area that was being overhauled. She could see the beginnings of a manmade waterfall and a guest house—it seemed that she and Peter were building the identical home he and Angela had built in the place she’d come from.
So perhaps it was Peter’s home, and she and Angela were simply accessories?
She walked up to the front door, hoping one of the keys on her key ring would open the door. It did. But as soon as she crossed the threshold, the beeping of the security system sounded, warning her she had mere seconds to enter the personal code. She walked through the foyer to the keypad on the far wall and punched in the code she had used at Peter’s house before… and it worked.
She stood in the silent house and turned a full circle, taking in the familiar layout of the first floor—great room, enormous kitchen, den, and sunroom—and the furnishings, which were also familiar. Apparently her and Angela’s taste in decorating was as similar as their taste in men.
She wandered around other rooms of the first floor, filled with awe that she lived in all of this luxury, before climbing one of the two stairways that led to the second floor. The master bedroom was an expansive suite, furnished with oversized dark furniture. The ceiling featured an elaborately trayed inset and skylight. The bedroom gave way to a sitting room with a massive fireplace, wet bar, and large-screen TV, and a verandah beyond sets of French doors. In another direction, a mirrored dressing room serviced large his and her closets…. although “her” closet was suspiciously sparse.
On a table sat a black and white photo of their wedding portrait. Carlotta picked it up, ran her fingers over their smiling faces, hoping she had been as happy that day as she looked. She was wearing Vera Wang, of course, a brilliant white halter dress with a full skirt, a long crystal-studded veil. Peter was meticulous in a black tuxedo. They were as perfect as any picture in a bridal magazine. They had so much history and so much in common, by all rights, they should have a perfect marriage.
She turned over the frame and found what she was looking for—the date of their wedding. In a few days, they would be married for seven years.
The Seven Year Itch.
So had all of the love flowed out of their relationship, or had they simply grown bored with each other?
A thought struck her that had her returning the framed picture and crossing the hall. When she’d stayed with Peter during the time her life had been in danger, he’d put her in the guest bedroom across from his. She’d realized that Angela had slept in the room, that Peter and his wife had maintained separate bedrooms, at least at the end of their marriage before the woman’s life had been taken.
Carlotta opened the door and her heart sank to see signs she occupied the lighter, airier room. On the nightstand sat some of her favorite beauty products, and a desk in the corner was cluttered with things that probably belonged to her. She opened the door to the walk-in closet/dressing room and confirmed its vast space was jammed full of clothes and shoes in her style and size.
She walked in and ran her hands over the lavish outfits, pulling out a few gowns to hold in front of her in the three-way mirror, wondering to what event she’d worn the dresses. She and Peter must have an active social life.
Then she frowned at her reflection… at what point had she moved into her own bedroom? After rehanging the dresses, she made her way to the maple desk, hoping to glean more information about herself and the state of her marriage.
It was a beautiful, large piece of furniture, with numerous drawers and cubby holes. Her desk at the townhome was crammed with overdue bills and correspondence. But she suspected Peter took care of their household bills… a fact that did not make her proud. Tracey’s comment today about neither one of them having a schedule plucked at her. If she was a vapid do-little woman who served as a society placeholder, no wonder Peter was bored with her… she’d lived here for one day and was bored with herself.
Okay, so she was a drag… but was she a murderer? Had Tracey been telling the truth about a how-to list for offing Angela? If so, where did she keep it? She flipped through notepads and notebooks, scanning every piece of paper and scrap she found, alert for something incriminating. She found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter jammed into a cubbyhole, proof she was still smoking on the sly. And to her delight she found her pink leather-bound celebrity autograph book, the one that had been ruined from a dip in a swimming pool in her world. But this one was still intact. She flipped through, curious to see if she’d added any interesting names. To her amazement, she had autographs from big name rock stars and world-renowned entertainers, politicians and sports figures who were household names, even a member of the royal family. And she had a feeling she hadn’t had to resort to crashing parties to get these high-profile signatures. Her lifestyle with Peter had obviously afforded her remarkable access.
A bottom desk drawer was locked, but she couldn’t find the key in any of the little containers that held paperclips and other odd items. She checked her key ring and found a small key that fit. Her heartbeat sped up when she saw a stack of journals inside. She opened the first one and saw it contained entries for recent dates. Her skin tingled to see words in her own handwriting she had no memory of putting to paper.
From the entries, it seemed clear she was concerned about her relationship with Peter, that he had become more distant of late, and his normal easy-going patience had been replaced with a short fu
se. She skimmed in reverse, going back four journals until she found the first hint of real problems in their marriage starting over a year ago. Peter had become consumed with work, leaving early and working late. It was he who had suggested she’d be more comfortable in her own bedroom, so he wouldn’t disturb her sleep with his erratic schedule.
Carlotta was gratified to see his suggestion had hurt her deeply at the time—it indicated she loved her husband and mourned what she saw as a loss of intimacy. She had moved across the hall to spite him—no surprise there—certain he would miss her lying next to him and would insist she move back.
And he had.
But she’d refused, still bruised from his rejection, determined to make him suffer. It was, apparently, the beginning of a standoff that had morphed into polite coolness as each of them had retreated to their own corners of the house. Still mired in gloom, she’d begun to suspect Peter was having an affair, although she hadn’t been able to catch him in any lies. There had been times, however, when he’d ended phone calls abruptly when she entered the room, or excused himself to his home office and closed the door.
She had pondered the list of possible mistresses—coworkers, clients, friends. But during an encounter with Angela Keener at a club function, she thought she’d detected something more than friendship emanating from the woman when she looked at Peter. Angela was still single and working as a salesperson at a luxury car dealership, although racy rumors persisted about her personal life.
Carlotta bit down on the inside of her cheek. In the other place, Angela had led a double life: Angela Ashford, well-heeled socialite, and Kay, high class call girl. Had Angela’s life followed a similar trajectory here?
She continued to read and gathered that in the last few weeks, she’d become convinced Peter was having an affair with Angela, and had begun to wonder how long it could’ve been going on. Carlotta’s pulse climbed higher as the entries began to increase in intensity and anger toward Angela. She wrote if she couldn’t be Mrs. Peter Ashford, she didn’t know what she’d do with her life. The last entry of four days ago read, I will kill that woman before I let her take my husband.
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