“I don’t know why you think I’ve seen Angela,” he said in as steady a tone as he could manage, “but even if I had, I’m your father, Rachel. I don’t have to report to you.”

“Obviously not,” she said, “given the number of times I’ve heard from you since summer.”

He stared. “Is that what’s really bothering you? Rach, I thought you were just as busy as I’ve been. I didn’t think you’d miss hearing from me. I’m sorry. Really, I am.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Rachel said. “It’s not about the e-mail, Dad. It’s about all those years when you didn’t have time for me because you were so busy fawning over Angela. You think that didn’t hurt? You think kids don’t see those things, no matter how young they are?”

“Rachel, that was years ago. Why are you bringing it up now? I thought—God, all that time working with Victoria, and you’re still hurting about those things? What does it take for you to get over it?”

“Maybe not having it start all over again,” she snapped. “Maybe getting her out of our lives once and for all!”

“If you like Mary Higgins Clark, you’ll love Meg O’Brien!”

—Armchair Detective

Also available from MIRA Books and MEG O’BRIEN

GATHERING LIES

SACRED TRUST

CRASHING DOWN

Crimson Rain
Meg O’Brien

www.mirabooks.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to…

Cathy Landrum, for her valuable research, and to Al Wilding, retired Seattle police officer, for checking my police scenes for accuracy.

Immeasurable thanks and love to my family, who generously helped me to finish this book during a period of immobility by shopping for me, cleaning for me, running to the post office, keeping my computer going and even seeing to it that my birds in the garden got fed. Bless you all…Kevin, Robin, Kaiti, Greg, Darrell, Tiffany and Scott. Thanks also to Peggy, who makes me proud, and to her mom, Amy, who recently put herself through college and deserves huge huzzahs! Finally, a very special hug and kiss to Courtney and Jonathan, whose visits add light to our lives, and to Emily, the “Little One,” who helps by just being here and keeping me laughing!

It seems I thank my MIRA editors in every book, but that’s only because I love every one I’ve ever worked with. Many thanks to Dianne Moggy and Amy Moore-Benson, and this year in particular to Miranda Stecyk, my editor through the Crimson Rain revisions. Her insight, hard work and enthusiastic support for this book made the job of revising seem easy, at a time when I wondered if I’d ever be able to finish.

Finally, I extend my utmost gratitude to my many wonderful readers who have written such beautiful letters about my books, and whose support for my writing keeps me going. Please stay in touch. I value each letter and e-mail, and even if my writing schedule keeps me from answering each one, I will always treasure your kind words. You can reach me now in two ways: by e-mail (megobrien@earthlink.net) or through my Web site (www.megobrien.com).

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Prologue

Seattle, Washington

Christmas Eve, sixteen years ago

Life, some say, is only an illusion—an illusion we create ourselves, in our own minds, then project onto the screen of our days. Paul Bradley would wonder, later, if he had indeed, by some strange quirk of mind, created the hellish thing that happened to his family that long-ago Christmas Eve. Until then, he and Gina had seemed to have so much going for them. How, in one devastating moment, could it all have fallen apart?

A miracle might have saved them. Miracles, some say, are another thing we create ourselves. By choice, they say, we abide in either heaven or hell.

Paul might have made different choices in the years to follow. Gina might have, too. Neither of them could possibly know, however, the evil that lay in wait for them. Nor did they know that by the simple matter of making different choices, they might have been spared.

The vicious act that brought everything to a head—though no one could say it was the “true beginning”—took place sixteen years ago on a night that was supposed to be holy, but into which crept the very soul of sin. Paul Bradley stood that night with Gina, his wife of six years, in the kitchen of their historic home on Queen Anne Hill. Larger and with more property than most on the hill, it had the kind of architectural appointments the Bradleys loved. Finding it on Queen Anne Hill, one of the oldest and most desirable areas in Seattle, had been a bonus. Though some referred to the hill these days as a queen in a faded petticoat, there was talk of future gentrification on Lower Queen Anne. New and luxurious homes, apartments and businesses were going up every day.

The Bradleys had chosen this particular house because it stood in a quiet area above the fray and had a fabulous view. On good days they could see the Sound and most of West Seattle. On foggy days, the top of the Space Needle seemed to float on the clouds, like a hovering spacecraft or a ship at sea.

Never had Paul felt so content with the way his life had turned out. He had his own business, selling antiques to millionaire software executives, and Gina was on her way to becoming a successful interior designer. The Life Plan they had put down on paper before they married was working out—albeit with a few glitches here and there.

One of those glitches was that Gina hadn’t been able to have children, something they had discovered shortly after they married. Since they both wanted a family, and the sooner the better, they saw no reason to wait before adopting. Rachel and Angela, fraternal twins, had come into their lives one warm August day when they were a year old, about the same time as Paul and Gina’s first wedding anniversary. It seemed the Bradley family was now complete.

To be honest, there had been a few rough moments in the past year with Angela, who had shown signs of anger and hostility that seemed unusual for a four-year-old. Paul and Gina had been warned by the psychiatrist at Saint Sympatica’s orphanage that the girls might have problems due to a lack of sufficient maternal bonding in their first months. They had been left on the steps of the orphanage nine months before the adoption, with nothing but a note saying that they were three months old and their names were Rachel and Angela. Nothing was known about their mother, the psychiatrist had told them.

Though the twins were not identical, they both had brown hair and clear hazel eyes that seemed to connect with Gina and Paul from the first time they held them. The Bradleys had fallen in love with them on sight, and readily agreed to provide them with all the professional care they might need.

Everything had seemed fine until, at the age of four, Angela had begun to exhibit symptoms of what Victoria Lessing—the Seattle psychiatrist they had taken her to—tentatively labeled as RAD: Reactive Attachment Disorder. Angela seemed to have no real feelings for people, and no remorse when she hurt someone, as children often did while playing. Victoria had continued to work with Angela, often including Paul, Gina and Rachel in the sessions. The therapy had seemed to be helping, and in recent months they had actually begun to relax with their child.

As for Rachel, they thanked God that she had always been quiet and shy, showing no signs of RAD.

“You might want to keep an eye on Rachel,” Victoria had cautioned. “This kind of thing can suddenly appear in the teens, and even later.”

So far, so good, Paul thought that Christmas. Angela seemed to be getting better, while Rachel still showed no signs of the kind of syndrome Angela suffered from. Gratefully he took Gina into his arms, and together they listened to the sounds of carols on the stereo in the living room, the twins making small noises as they played around the Christmas tree.

“How did we get so lucky?” Paul murmured against his wife’s hair. She smelled of apples and cinnamon, and he loved her more than life itself. He wanted to take her to bed right then and there, and thought: If we could just get the girls in bed early…

That probably wouldn’t happen, of course. They were too excited about Santa coming. Paul was looking forward to it, too. The twins were at an age where they understood the Santa Claus story, and he and Gina looked forward to getting up in the morning and seeing their delight over the toys Santa had brought them.

Paul smiled and slid his lips down to Gina’s, pulling her against him and rocking slightly back and forth. Excitement began to build in him, and he could feel her shudder and melt, her arms tightening around his neck as their lips moved. He took her tongue inside his mouth and began the gentle searching that he knew would send her over the top. Gina’s arms tightened and she pressed herself so close there was little room left to breathe.

She did that, Paul knew, when she began to feel weak with arousal, hanging on to him as if to an anchor. He loved that feeling, the one of being needed, and his own arousal became a growing force, taking him over. Neither of them heard as the noises from the twins in the living room became louder and more intense.

The crash brought them back. That, and Rachel’s earsplitting scream.

“Good God, what did they do now?” Gina half laughed as she pulled away from Paul’s arms and ran for the kitchen door. Paul was close behind her, but was caught up short as Gina stopped in her tracks, her hands going to her mouth, eyes wide.

“No!” she screamed, running toward the twins.

Paul couldn’t say, later, if he’d fully understood what was going on. The tableau that met his eyes was too shocking, too unbelievable.

The eight-foot Christmas tree had been knocked over and lay on its side, surrounded by puddles of water. Ornaments had fallen off and broken; fragile shards were scattered everywhere. Foil icicles glittered on the carpet, and the toy train beneath the tree had jumped its tracks.

Angela, in her white Christmas dress with its bright red sash, stood over her sister, a sharp kitchen knife in her hand. Rachel lay on her back on the floor, her arms up in a feeble attempt to fend her sister off. Her screams cut into Paul, sending pain straight through him.

Angela never looked up, nor showed any sign at all that she’d heard when Gina yelled out, running toward her. Paul ran, too, but felt as if he were moving in slow motion. His legs were like lead, and his mind could barely take in what he was seeing.

Before they could reach her, Angela thrust the knife down. Paul somehow miraculously moved ahead of Gina and barreled into Angela, pushing her to the ground and wresting the knife from her hand. She fought him with the ferocity of an animal, her teeth biting into his arm, feet kicking at his groin.

Paul closed his mind to the red-hot pain and held his ground. Looking back quickly, he saw that Gina knelt beside Rachel and was holding the child in her arms. Blood seeped through Rachel’s pink Christmas dress and onto Gina’s blouse.

In the background, carols continued to play. “Joy to the world, the Lord is come…”

Paul looked down into Angela’s five-year-old hazel eyes and saw nothing but evil there. No fear, no remorse. Their color now seemed darker than her hair—huge, black orbs filled with hatred. She opened her mouth and spit into his face.

Paul’s heart plummeted to his feet. To him, it seemed as if Satan, not the Lord, had arrived that night.

1

Seattle, Washington

December 20, sixteen years later

She walked into the bedroom dressed in a gold satin gown so tight Paul could see every sinewy muscle as she moved toward him. Her hips swayed, and she touched the tip of a finger to her mouth, wetting it, then pushing it farther in, sucking on it as her eyes met his in a familiar promise. The fabric of the dress was so thin, so tight, it was little more than gold sweat outlining her breasts and the deep V between her thighs.

God, she looked good. How many hours a day did it take to stay in such great shape?

Momentarily he thought of Gina, his wife, and felt a pang of remorse. He remembered the way they had been together the first year of their marriage.

But that was more than twenty years ago, and no matter how hard they had tried to hold things together, no matter how they had honestly wanted it, nothing had been the same since that terrible Christmas when Angela…

As fast as the thought came, Paul turned it off. He had learned to do that—to compartmentalize and not dwell on the bad times. Instead he turned his attention to his groin, and the fact that he was growing hard. It was almost painful, the excitement his mistress, Lacey, could invoke in him by the merest look. It was a good pain, though, telling him he was still alive. Rational thought flew out the window as she reached the side of the bed and raised one long, slender leg, straddling him. Leaning down, she swept his cheeks with her waist-length blond hair, teasing and laughing softly as her full breasts nearly fell out of their satin shield.

Paul reached up and yanked the low-cut neckline apart, his arousal intensifying as he heard the buttons pop, the thin fabric rip. Lacey gave a soft laugh. He had bought her the gown so that he could do this, playing out a fantasy that Lacey enjoyed. He could never bring himself to actually hurt her, nor did she ask for that. This pretense at roughness had become part of their foreplay, one his mistress had suggested, and the lingerie was a one-time purchase he could well afford. She threw back her head, shaking her hair in buttery waves as her body began to move over his. Reaching for him with one hand, she slid him inside her while remaining upright and giving him access to her breasts. Rocking back and forth, she moaned.

The tightness in Paul’s throat grew as he grabbed her breasts firmly, the way she liked it. Squeezing her nipples until they were stiff, hard nubs he could fix his mouth around, he stroked the soft fullness of them, letting the feel of her overtake him until all coherent thought left his mind. Only a blank slate was left. A blank slate with nothing written on it—no unhappy past, no painful present, no pallid future.

When it was over, it was as if a job had been done, a commitment met, if only to himself. He had managed to hold the memories at bay.

Spent, Paul stared at the ceiling. For three months, holding the bad memories at bay had been Lacey Allison’s only job. He had rescued her from a string of temporary positions as an assistant to various Seattle CEOs and had put her up in this luxury apartment. For the past three months she had waited for him every evening, whether he was able to come here or not. Even during the day, when she went out to shop, she would take a cell phone with her so that he could reach her at any time. This, too, was her suggestion. She wanted to be with him every possible moment.

As for Paul, from the day he’d made the decision to be with her—unthinkable up until then—he couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted to drink her down, make her a part of him that would never leave, never go.

He reached for her, and this time an aeon passed that he wouldn’t remember later. He had gone into another world, a world where nothing mattered, not even the sex. Lacey did that for him. She took him to that blank slate where, for a few moments, at least, nothing existed—not even Lacey herself.

Gina Bradley opened her front door and stood for a moment, listening for signs of movement. Shifting the bags of groceries in her arms, she shook her head and sighed. For heaven’s sake, who did she listen for?

Certainly not Paul. It was only five, and he had been coming home later and later these past few months. In the beginning, she would hold dinner for him, warming it in the oven at seven, eight, nine. In recent weeks she hadn’t bothered, taking a sandwich for herself up to their room and watching television or reading until he came home. Often it was after midnight when she would hear his car pull into the driveway. The Infiniti’s headlights would sweep the room quickly, leaving as faint an impression as Paul’s presence when at last he would tiptoe quietly into the bedroom with a mumbled apology.

His excuse, always, was that he’d been working late, and Gina had no reason not to believe it. Paul became moody and withdrawn every year before the Christmas holiday. Losing little Angela sixteen years ago had changed her husband in ways even she couldn’t comprehend.

Not that she herself didn’t still miss the child. But it was a long time ago, and Gina had tried to move on, to build a career she could exist inside, like a hermit crab. If her work as an interior designer didn’t always satisfy, she accepted that as natural, given the circumstances. Losing a child—even a child one had adopted and lived with for only four years—had left a hole in her heart. Not just a break, the kind country-western songs were written about, but an actual hole as seen in medical journals, the kind that led to death, or at the very least, drastic surgery.

For a while, Gina and Paul thought that, because of their grief, they might actually die. However, they had somehow pulled themselves together and had been saved—if saved was the right word—by the surgical removal of memories. Clean, antiseptic cuts were called for, as in the giving away of clothes and toys, the burning of photographs, the removal of everything that might remind them of Angela.

Everything, that is, but Rachel, her twin.

They had wished for identical twins at first, little girls they could dress in the same outfits, a cutesy look that would have people stopping in the street to coo over two-seater strollers and rhapsodize, “Oh, how precious.” They came to be grateful, however, that Rachel and Angela had been fraternal twins instead. The fact that they didn’t look alike helped after Angela was gone. And as Rachel grew, she took on more of Gina’s and Paul’s traits, so that eventually the reminders of Angela were diluted in that way, as well.

Except at Christmastime. If they lived to be a thousand, they would never be able to wipe away the memory of Angela in her new white dress with the wide scarlet sash, the knife in her hand as she stood over Rachel, a look of pure evil on her face. Then, as Paul and Gina had screamed in unison, there was that awful, unbelievable moment as Angela had thrust the knife down, slicing at Rachel’s tiny five-year-old chest, while tree lights twinkled and carols played.

As Paul had said later, it was as if the devil himself, not the Lord, had arrived that night. The devil in the form of a five-year-old girl, a girl they had raised in almost exactly the same way as her twin, whom they had adopted, too, thinking that keeping the girls together would be a blessing for all concerned.

That one of those girls would turn out to be a killer, they could not have foreseen. A “bad seed,” to coin a term. But one didn’t coin terms when one loved a child. One simply stood by in horror and disbelief as signs of evil began to show themselves, growing in intensity until that evil reached a crescendo on a holiday night that was supposed to be a warm, loving, family occasion.

It was all Gina and Paul could do to survive the shock—and then to remove all traces of Angela from their home.

Unpacking groceries, Gina wiped away tears. Often, when she allowed herself to remember Angela, tears sprang to her eyes and her collarbones ached from the emptiness in her heart. The last sight of that child as they turned her back over to the people at the orphanage was frozen in memory for all time.

That was the hell of it. Angela could be so sweet, so affectionate, convincing everyone who knew her that it wasn’t possible she could have done something so terrible. Then there would be an incident, like Rachel falling down the stairs, or rat poison from the garden shed ending up mysteriously in Rachel’s milk.

More than once, they’d had a scare like that with Rachel. And more than once, Angela had been nearby. They’d had no proof that she’d caused these “accidents” in any way, and Rachel herself said she had tripped over stuffed animals on the stairs. But the question remained, who had put those stuffed animals there, in a corner of the stairs that was so dark they were unlikely to be seen? And though it was hard to believe a five-year-old would think to take rat poison from a high shelf in a garden shed and put it in her sister’s milk, who had placed the step stool by that shelf and forgotten to put it back? Who, but someone short enough to need it?

On the other hand, to suspect Angela of such monstrous deeds was, at first, unthinkable.

It wasn’t until that terrible Christmas Eve that Gina and Paul were forced to admit they had a killer on their hands. That Rachel hadn’t died that night was a miracle. Paul had gotten to her in time, saving her from more than a shallow wound. It was enough, though, to convince them that Angela could never be trusted alone with her sister again.

They’d had to make a decision, and it was the most difficult one they’d ever faced. On the advice of Victoria Lessing, the psychiatrist they’d been consulting for months, they took Angela back to the orphanage.

Though on the surface it seemed cold to do that, Saint Sympatica’s was known for its private funding by wealthy patrons, and for having psychiatric care for its children. It was because of the high quality of care that it had been recommended to Gina and Paul when they first announced to friends their intention to adopt a child. The long flight to Minnesota to apply, then the following investigation and paperwork, were well worth it when they finally got to hold the twins in their arms.

Gina could remember the first time she realized that Angela was Paul’s favorite. They both did their best not to choose favorites, but there was some link, some bond between Paul and Angela that drew them together. Angela was outgoing and could make Paul laugh with her antics, while Rachel was timid and reserved, standing back and watching while her sister danced like a windup bear and made funny faces that stole the show.

This, of course, had the effect of making Gina show more attention to Rachel so that she wouldn’t feel left out. When Angela was old enough to notice this, she became angry over Gina’s preference for her twin, as she perceived it. At first she threw tantrums, stamping her feet or kicking things. Around the age of four, however, she began to hit Rachel. When she blackened one of her sister’s eyes, Gina and Paul began consulting Victoria Lessing. Victoria at first told them that, though a black eye seemed a bit extreme, fighting amongst siblings was normal. Perhaps Angela hadn’t realized what the consequences of her actions would be? Now that she did, her love for her sister might temper her actions in the future.

The problem, as Gina saw it, was that Angela did not seem to have the usual twin’s love for her sister. There were times, in fact, when Gina was sure that Angela hated Rachel.

She tried to talk to Paul about this but, blinded by love, he couldn’t see it. Angela was too good at hiding her darker side when he was around, and consequently he would defend her hotly, arguing that she simply had a stronger, more assertive personality than Rachel. Paul felt this would serve her well in the future.

In all fairness, not even Gina could have foreseen the kind of terror that future would bring.

The phone rang, and Gina came back to the present with a start. Rolling her eyes, she sighed, sensing who was on the other end of that ring.

“Hi, Mom,” she said, picking up the kitchen phone.

“How’d you know it was me?” Roberta Evans asked. “Oh, you’ve got that caller ID now, right?”

“Right, Mom,” Gina lied. It was easier than explaining that she’d developed a sixth sense for trouble. “What’s up?”

“Rachel’s coming home tomorrow, isn’t she? I forgot when her plane comes in.”

“Five-oh-five in the afternoon, Mom. You want to come with us?”

“Sea-Tac at that hour, the week before Christmas?” Her mother’s tone was one of exaggerated horror. “I’d rather wrestle a polar bear! How come you didn’t make it at a better time?”

Gina could hear the puff-puff of her mother’s cigarette, and saw in her mind the dyed red hair, the dark-lined lips. She loved her mother like crazy, even with all her eccentricities. Truth be told, she loved the eccentricities too—even more than she let on.

“That was the only flight we could get her on, Mom. She’s having tests at school today.”

“Well, that’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of! Tests, with Christmas only five days away? What are they trying to do to young people these days?”

“It’s something special, Mom. The term ended officially on the fourteenth, but she had to take some test for a special class.”

Gina sighed and changed the subject, taking a box of cereal from a bag and putting it in the cupboard. “We’re taking her to dinner on the way home,” she said. “We probably won’t get back here till late.”

“You keep saying ‘we,’” her mother commented blandly. “Does this mean Paul will be with you?”

“Of course. We always pick Rachel up together, you know that.”

“On the contrary, I don’t know a thing about Paul these days. Seems to me he’s never home when I call you at night.”

“Well, maybe you don’t call on the right nights,” Gina said, defending her husband out of habit.

“He’s not there now, I’ll bet.”

“No, but—”

“And he wasn’t home last night when I called, either.”

Gina took down a heavy cut-crystal tumbler and pulled a spicy Chardonnay from the fridge, pouring it to the tumbler’s halfway mark, then shrugging and filling it clear to the rim. What the hell.

“Mother,” she said patiently, taking a sip, “you know Paul always works late during the holidays. It’s his way of coping.”

“Well, it may be none of my business, but if you ask me, it’s not his only way of coping.”

Gina frowned. “You’re right, Mother. It’s none of your business.”

“Don’t Mother me, Gina Evans Bradley. He wouldn’t be the first man to stray.”

“No, but as I’ve told you before, Paul isn’t the type.”

“Ha! All men are the type.”

This was not a discussion Gina wanted to have. But to simply let it go would only add more fuel to her mother’s fire.

“Paul is too tired these days,” she said quietly, “to have an affair. He’s worn-out, Mom. I’m worried about him.”

“Are you saying he’s worn-out when he’s with you? You don’t have sex anymore?”

Setting the tumbler of wine on the counter with a thud, Gina snapped, “Mom, that’s enough! I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Because if he is, that might very well prove my point, you know.”

Gina clicked the flash button on the phone. “Mom, there’s another call coming in. It could be Rachel. I’ll talk to you in the morning, okay?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! You can just stop clicking that thing. I know there’s not a call coming in.”

“Bye, Mom.” Gina smiled as she hung up the phone. Her mother was still sharp at sixty, and at times almost psychic.

About Paul, however, she was completely off base. Paul would never have an affair. Gina knew him too well, and the one thing she knew for certain was that he simply wasn’t the type.

Paul watched Lacey as he dressed, who lay on the bed and followed his every move, a mock lewd grin turning up the corners of her mouth. Her lips were swollen now from lovemaking, and with her bright red lipstick rubbed off, she looked like a little girl—an innocent child, though he knew she was neither a child nor innocent, but a woman who knew things that other women never even thought about.

Pulling his pants on, he shoved in the tail of the white dress shirt he’d worn to Soleil Antiques that day. His hands fumbled. He was depleted from their lovemaking, and she was beginning to get to him again. Lacey played with a nipple, her eyes smoldering. Incredibly, she was ready for more.

Paul was tempted, but he had to get home. Gina could never know what he was doing; it would hurt her to the core, and he didn’t want that. Keeping a mistress was something entirely apart from his marriage to Gina. It was like—well, like living two different lives, each of them necessary and valid but for entirely different reasons.

Lacey sat up and reached for him. He dodged her, laughing.

“Enough! What are you trying to do, put me in cardiac arrest?”

She slid from under the satin sheets and pulled bikini briefs over legs so long, they seemed two-thirds of her height. Bending over, she let her full breasts hang as she placed them in a more comfortable position inside her bra. Paul’s mouth went dry.

“Cardiac arrest?” Lacey chuckled, straightening. “Not you! You’re a bear. A big, strong bear.” Then, squinting, she studied him through the most beautiful green eyes he had ever seen. “No…you’re too tall and thin to be a bear. More like a handsome black panther. An aging panther, of course, with that gray hair popping out along your temples—”

He couldn’t help himself. Reaching over, he slid a hand inside the bra and cupped one of her breasts. Stepping closer, he pulled her to him, closing his eyes and resting his chin on her head. “Oh, God, you feel so good.”

Despite himself, he began to grow hard again. He glanced at the little clock decorated with hand-painted cherubs on the night table, one of the few things Lacey had brought with her from her own apartment. She hadn’t owned much, having just moved to Seattle in the summer. When he’d offered to help her pack to come here, she had said, “I don’t have enough to bother with. I think I’ll just put most of it in storage.” It had made him feel good to be able to give her a better life than she’d had in Atlanta, growing up in a home where her hardworking parents could never quite make ends meet.

It was ten forty-five, according to the clock. He calculated quickly. It would take him twenty minutes at the most to drive home, and if he left here by eleven-thirty he could be there before midnight. That gave him another forty-five minutes.

He pulled Lacey down on the bed, his tongue seeking hers, his body working quickly against her, the bra and bikini panties slipping off easily as he molded himself to her skin.

When the phone rang again, Gina thought it was Paul. Gina muted the sound of the television and picked up the cordless phone by the bed.

“Hi, Mom.” Rachel’s high, young voice came over the wires.

“Honey?” Gina sat straighter as alarm bells went off. “Why are you calling so late? Is something wrong?”

“No…just nervous, I guess. Flying, you know.”

Gina went into automatic mother mode. “Well, but think how many times you’ve done it, and you’ve always arrived safe and sound! I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

She couldn’t let Rachel know how anxious she herself always felt when her daughter was in the air.

“I made reservations for dinner at the Space Needle,” she said. “You can look forward to that, at least.”

Rachel’s smile seemed to carry through the phone. “Great! I’ll get my first solid meal in days and a view of Seattle, too. Is, uh—is Dad coming?”

“Of course he is. He wouldn’t miss picking you up with me. He never has, has he?”

“No. I just thought…he’s pretty busy lately, isn’t he? I haven’t had many e-mails from him in the past few weeks.”

“Well, you know how busy your father always is at this time of year.”

“Sure, I guess that’s it. Hey, Mom? I really need to shop for some clothes. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. We’ll go on Saturday.”

“There’ll be Christmas crowds, though.”

“I’ll fend them off the same way I did last year,” Gina said, smiling. “They won’t stand a chance.”

She had expected Rachel to laugh, but all she said was, “Mom, really,” in a tone that sounded like disgust.

Last year, while cleaning off the front steps, Gina had slipped on a patch of ice, spraining her ankle. When she and Rachel had gone shopping, she was recovering but still used a cane. Much to her delight, she discovered that the crowds in the stores had parted for her as if she were Moses parting the Red Sea. She had thought Rachel had enjoyed that, too, but now she wondered if her daughter had been embarrassed by her.

“I, uh…I could wrap an Ace bandage around my ankle, if that would make you feel better,” she tried with a hint of humor. “No one would ever guess there was nothing wrong with me.”

Rachel’s voice took on an edge. “For heaven’s sake, who are you, my mom’s evil twin? Watch out, or we might have to cart you away—”

She bit the words off, as if suddenly realizing what she’d said. Not before her remark had shocked Gina, however. Rachel was always so careful not to talk about her twin, or say anything that might even remind Gina of her.

“Sorry, Mom,” Rachel said softly.

“Oh, honey, it’s all right. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

But was that true? she wondered. They had never really known how much Rachel had suffered over the loss of her sister. She was too silent, keeping too much inside. Not even Victoria had been able to bring much out. The best Gina and Paul could do was provide Rachel with all the love they had to give. And, of course, reassure her that what had happened to Angela would never happen to her.

Gina talked with her daughter a few minutes more, and then said goodbye. As she turned off her reading light, she pulled the down comforter up over her shoulders, feeling a chill. It was bad enough that Paul withdrew every year at this time. What if Rachel began to do that, too?

As Paul drove home, he automatically began the mental transition from Lacey’s chrome-and-glass apartment to the elegant house on Queen Anne Hill. Often he would relax by listening to classical music on a CD, but tonight, as he drove past homes decorated to the hilt with Christmas lights, the usual holiday depression set in. He couldn’t keep himself from wondering how things had turned out this way, after such great hopes for the future. Hadn’t he started out life with all the usual excitement of a college graduate with an MBA? And hadn’t he thought, like most, that he had the world by the tail?

Even meeting Gina had required little effort. They’d run into each other in a campus café during their last year at the University of Washington, begun dating and were married shortly after graduation. They wrote down their goals for themselves and their marriage on crisp white paper, and mapped out their lives in the way of young couples in the eighties: Gina would work for a while until Paul became established and they had a nice nest egg. Then she would quit to stay home and raise children. They would have two children—a good number in an age where having too many was frowned upon as not being politic, in a world where populations had exploded and having big families was an environmental no-no.

They wouldn’t get bogged down in work for work’s sake, they agreed, the way their parents had. Having been born in the sixties, they remembered fathers who wore business suits and ties, fathers with gray faces who trudged back and forth to the office every day and kept their noses to the grindstone to buy a house with a mortgage that wouldn’t be paid off until long after they were dead. They remembered mothers who from the age of eighteen had stayed home and been housewives, who had so many children to raise they’d become more and more worn-out as the years went by, their dreams turned to so much dust.

Paul and Gina swore they would never end up like that. Life in the eighties was going to be different. These were the Reagan years, the years of renewal, a good economy, the years when he who had the most toys won. Paul and Gina would have well-paid jobs that would give them time off to travel through Europe, take vacations, go skiing at Aspen. When Gina finally did leave her job, it would be only after they had a solid nest egg. And she wouldn’t take off forever, the way her mother had. She’d get the children to a certain age and then reenter the work force while she was still employable and could command an excellent salary.

As the first months of their marriage passed, however, Paul and Gina’s Life Plan had taken sharp, unexpected turns. Gina learned she was infertile—a congenital defect, the doctors said. As for Paul, though his antique business brought in the kind of money they’d dreamed about—enough, along with Gina’s work as an interior designer, to enable them to buy the house on Queen Anne Hill—their work took up so much time that he and his wife barely knew each other six months after the honeymoon. They had the house of their dreams but rarely lived in it, except to sleep after the long commute home each night. They had the prerequisite two cars, but traveled in them only to work and back on bogged-down freeways.

After eight months of this, Gina began to have an itch. She wanted a baby. She didn’t want to wait. They had enough money to take care of a child, and she needed more in her life than just work.

So they adopted the girls, a move that was supposed to change their lives. And it did. The hell of it was, it had changed a dream into a deadly nightmare—one from which, Paul knew, he would never awaken, as long as he lived. Was it any wonder he couldn’t fully live in that world—couldn’t participate in a place of so many dark memories, without some kind of light shining through?

Every day he thanked God for Lacey, who had brought him light, as well as laughter. Without her, he would never have survived. In fact, there were moments when he felt she was all that kept him alive.

2

Gina buttered a piece of toast, put it on a plate and slid it across the black granite breakfast bar to Rachel, who gobbled it down as if she hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks.

Which she apparently hadn’t, except for last night at the Space Needle. Gina studied her with a worried frown. Rachel had clearly lost several pounds since summer vacation. She had never been overweight, but was blessed with a trim, athletic figure that was largely from all her years of rowing. Rachel had been a rowing fanatic, latching onto the sport in her first year of high school. Gina and Paul had thought she would go to the University of Washington on a scholarship, but Rachel had surprised them in her senior year by stating that she was no longer interested in rowing, and wanted to go to college in a warmer climate. She had chosen Berkeley, in Northern California. Gina had thought at the time that her daughter simply wanted to spread her wings, put some distance between herself and home. And she had to admit, the change would probably do Rachel good.

Now, however, Gina wasn’t so sure. Sitting there on the stool, with her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and no makeup on, Rachel looked much as she had in grade school. Gina remembered how they would sit this way in the mornings, the two of them chatting companionably till Rachel’s ride arrived. Her eyes would light up at the idea of going to a movie on the weekend, or planting spring bulbs with her mother, the two of them digging in the moist earth side by side, no words needed between them.

Where had that easy companionship gone? Rachel had come home this time seeming sullen. Detached. Gina felt the loss like a shaft through her heart.

“Rachel, what’s wrong?” she said now. “You’ve changed somehow since summer.”

“And?”

“And I’m not sure I like all of it. Last night, at the airport, for instance—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I was just tired. I didn’t mean to snap. And why didn’t Dad come? You said he was going to.”

“I thought he was. But I told you, honey, something came up.” Gina ran her fingers through her short-cropped brown hair, inadvertently messing up the style she’d worked at so carefully this morning.

“Came up? At Soleil?” Rachel rolled her eyes.

“Yes, at Soleil,” Gina said, annoyed. “Where else?”

Rachel shrugged and studied her toast, picking off tiny pieces and putting them in her mouth one at a time, chewing slowly. “Nowhere, I guess.”

Gina sighed. So far, this visit was not going at all well. “Rachel, if you’ve got something to say, please just say it.”

Her daughter slid off the stool and took her plate and coffee cup to the sink, grinding the rest of her toast in the disposal. With her back to Gina she said, “I just think there’s something wrong.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know…like maybe Dad is sick, or something.”

“Is that what you think? That he’s sick?”

Rachel came back and slid onto the stool. Her eyes held a glint of anger. “Well, he’s not acting at all like himself. Haven’t you even noticed?”

“No, I haven’t.” Gina’s brow furrowed. “What would make you say that?”

Rachel shrugged again. “For one thing, he hasn’t been e-mailing me hardly at all this semester. One of my friends at school found out her father had cancer, and the only way she knew was that he stopped talking to her on the phone. He was too sick to call the way he always did.”

“Well, sweetheart, I can assure you that your father does not have cancer. He’s perfectly well, and when he gets down here you can ask him for yourself.”

“That’s another thing. Why is he sleeping so late?”

Gina gritted her teeth. This was worse than when her daughter was seven and asked so many questions that it drove her crazy, especially in the morning before she’d fully woken up.

“It’s only ten o’clock,” she said briskly, looking at her watch. “And speaking of time, we should be leaving soon if we want to beat at least some of the crowds.” She piled her coffee cup and silverware on top of her toast plate.

“Mom, you aren’t—”

“No, I’m not taking the blasted cane!” Gina took her dishes to the sink. “Now stop annoying me, Rachel, and go get dressed. Maybe you’ll meet your father on the stairs, and you can pester him for a while.”

She tempered her words with a smile and crossed over to her daughter, kissing her lightly on the cheek. Rachel gave her a half smile and slipped away, her ponytail bobbing behind her as she went through the door. A scene from childhood, Gina thought. Yet it’s not. It’s all wrong today.

Rinsing the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher, Gina gazed out on the back lawn. The skies over Seattle could be gray in winter, but the rain at least kept the grass and the cedar trees green. Unfortunately, the flower beds were all dead, except for a chrysanthemum here and there. Gina yearned for spring, like a sailor at sea too long yearns for land.

They were lucky, though, to have this beautiful home, and to have bought it before prices went sky-high. From the front, one could see the Space Needle, and the view of the Sound was exquisite. Even with the problems they’d had with Angela, she and Paul enjoyed a life that most would give their right arms for.

As for the problems, they were over now. In the past. They had finally reached that place they had talked about and looked forward to when they were younger—an early retirement, possibly travel, and an easing of the pressures of life.

Gina felt a wave of depression sweep over her, a feeling of being dead inside. Quickly she shook it off and went to get ready to leave. She and Rachel would stop at a drive-through espresso stand along the way to the stores. Another jolt of caffeine, that’s all she needed. She and millions of other Washingtonians—victims of the barometer, and addicts all.

Paul stood at his bathroom mirror, taking in the lines of strain that had appeared around his eyes since Rachel had come home. He had seen her only briefly, arriving home himself at ten—early, for a change—just as Gina and Rachel had pulled into the driveway themselves. That had meant leaving Lacey’s apartment early, and now he felt bad that he’d gone there at all, instead of helping Gina pick up Rachel. He had told himself he would stay only an hour or so, and that Gina would be fine going to the airport alone. He would meet them at the restaurant.

But that had all flown out the window once he was with Lacey. The lines of strain deepened. He felt torn between his daughter and his mistress, and weak because he hadn’t chosen well.

What he didn’t understand was why Rachel was so different this time. During her visits home in her freshman year, she had been the young woman he’d always known. Now she looked at him with eyes that seemed to cut right through him. It was as if she had the ability to reach inside his soul and pull all his secrets out.

Though he felt ashamed to even think this way, it almost made him not want to be around her.

Bracing himself to walk into the kitchen, Paul planted a smile on his face. Rachel was there, talking on the phone, and he crossed over to her, kissing her on the cheek.

“It’s great to have you home,” he said when she hung up. He hugged her.

“Is it?” She pulled back and looked up at him, her eyes narrowing. “You know, Dad, I saw a show on TV at school, called ‘The Human Face.’ John Cleese—you know, that guy who used to be on Monty Python?—he showed how when the muscles around the mouth don’t go up and the ones around the eyes don’t widen, a smile is a fake.”

He stared at her, nonplussed. “What are you saying?”

“That I don’t know whether to believe you when you say you’re glad to have me home.”

“Of course I am, honey!” he insisted. “You know that!”

“Then why didn’t you come to the restaurant last night?”

He flinched at her cold tone. “I’m sorry, Rach. I meant to, but things came up.”

She turned and busied herself at the fridge, taking out a bottle of water.

“What things came up, Daddy?” she asked, twisting the cap off the bottle with a loud snap.

It was almost as if she were making a double entendre of a sexual nature, Paul thought with a start. What things came “up?” But he couldn’t believe Rachel capable of that. Even if she knew anything about his being with Lacey last night—which was impossible—she would never say something like that.

There was something about Rachel this time, though, that made him feel uncomfortable, off balance.

He poured himself a full cup of steaming coffee and changed the subject. “How was school this semester?”

“You want to see my report card?” she answered.

“Well, of course I’m always interested in that, but I didn’t mean—”

“Because my grades are okay,” she interrupted, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Rachel…” He sighed as she leaned against the refrigerator and glared at him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I don’t hear from you anymore. We used to write back and forth all the time—” Rachel’s voice broke slightly. “We used to write about things that were funny, and I got so I looked forward to it.” Turning her back to him, she added, “I guess that was my mistake.”

He set down his coffee cup and reached for her. His hands light on her shoulders, he turned her around so that she met his eyes. There were tears in hers, and he couldn’t stand it. “Rachel…oh, honey, it wasn’t a mistake. I don’t know why I haven’t been writing as much, except that I’ve been so busy the past few months.”

“I thought you were going to slow down now, spend more time with Mom. That’s what you said when I was home last summer.”

The tears brimming in her eyes ran down onto her cheeks. Paul wiped them away with his thumb, just as he had when she was a child. “Honey, your mom’s been busy, too. We did talk about retiring, but it seems that she’s been getting more work than ever. She hasn’t been home much.”

He didn’t mean that to sound like a criticism, or to put the blame on Gina for his own frequent absences, but Rachel took it that way.

“According to her, you’re the one who’s been too busy to retire,” she said testily.

Paul sighed. “Things are never one-sided, Rach. It takes a lot of work to make everything come together in a home.”

“Yeah? Well, it looks to me like both of you would rather work on other people’s homes.”

“Rach,” Paul said softly, determined that this not evolve into an argument, “I don’t understand what’s gotten into you. You’re entirely different from the girl you were last summer. And I’m sorry, but it’s hard to believe that you’re this angry just because I haven’t been e-mailing as much.”

“Well, in the first place,” Rachel said, mimicking his composure, “I’m not a girl, Daddy. I’m twenty-one, and I’ve been away from home almost two years now. I think I’ve reached a point where I can make my own mind up about some things.”

“Of course you have,” he agreed. “Just…honey, tell me what you want me to do. How can I make things better for you?”

He recalled having asked that same question far too many times over the years, always with the nagging feeling that he was becoming the kind of parent who didn’t know or care about his child’s feelings. Yet he did care. He apparently just wasn’t at all good at showing it.

If that was the truth, however, it was also true that Rachel had never seemed able to tell him, clearly, what she needed from him. Like a runner who sees the finish line ahead, he had always fallen just short of it—and the race, after so many years, had left him feeling winded. Inept.

Rachel had turned her back on him again, and Paul looked at her, so fragile-seeming, so young. His heart did a flip-flop. He loved her so much. Why had they never been able to reach each other?

And what might he be able to do about that now?

“Your mom wants us all to pick out the tree tomorrow,” he said. “Would you like to go to lunch, first? Just you and me? We could catch up on all the things you’ve been doing since summer.”

She didn’t answer immediately. But he saw her shoulders ease from their stiff, almost military posture, and when she turned back to him she put her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Sure, Daddy,” she said, her words muffled against his shoulder. “Let’s do lunch.”

The next day, Paul left Soleil Antiques early, determined to reach the Four Seasons before Rachel. They had planned to meet in the lobby, and he was afraid she would read too much into it if he were late. When he arrived right on the dot of noon, however, Rachel was already there, and she had other plans.

“I can’t stand this place anymore,” she said nervously, with a sharp look that scanned the lobby. “Let’s get out of here.”

Giving him no time to ask questions, she turned quickly and headed for the front doors. Out on the sidewalk, Paul said curiously, “The Georgian Room used to be a favorite of yours when you were little. What happened?”

“It’s just too…much,” she said. “All those chandeliers and things, I mean, after living on cheese puffs and burgers at school. Besides, I don’t think the Georgian Room is open for lunch.”

“You’re probably right,” Paul agreed. “It’s been a while since I’ve been there. Well, we could go to any number of restaurants. I’m not in a hurry, are you?”

For a moment, Rachel didn’t answer. Finally, she shoved her hands into her pockets and said, “I’d just as soon get this over with.”

The chill in her tone was almost as bad as the way she turned on her heel and left him to follow her down the street. Paul had to hustle to keep up with her pace, and the ring of her boots as they tap-tapped ahead of him on the sidewalk seemed to sound an alarm. He noted how thin her shoulders looked in the old camel’s hair coat that she’d refused to part with for years. It got shabbier and shabbier, and the more it did, the more she seemed to like it.

She looks so thin, he thought. When did she lose so much weight?

And then, Dear God, don’t let her be anorexic.

His fears on that score, at least, were laid to rest when Rachel stopped in front of a hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon and said, “This’ll do.”

The narrow little place had a green see-through shade on the front window, with aging black booths running along one wall and a bar along the other. The five men and one woman sitting at the bar looked as if they’d come in years ago and just never left. They eyed Rachel and Paul suspiciously, and Paul wondered if he and Rachel looked like cops. Inwardly he smiled. If I had a badge, I’d pull it out and flash it, he thought, just to clear the room. God knows, at least three of America’s Most Wanted could be sitting right here in downtown Seattle, drinking away the days till they were found.

Rachel took a seat in one of the booths. Paul hesitated, looking at the cracked vinyl seat. Carefully he dusted crumbs from it with a paper napkin. Looking at Rachel, he noted the slightly mocking grin.

He gave her a rueful smile. “And to think I wore my best suit to have lunch with you.”

She made no comment.

The bartender dried his hands on a stained towel he’d tucked into his waist and called out, “What can I get you?”

Rachel ordered a Pepsi and a chili dog with all the trimmings. Paul ordered a beer and a bag of chips.

“Aren’t you eating?” Rachel asked.

“Not anything that human hands have touched,” Paul said, smiling.

There were pool tables in the back, and the clicking of balls hitting each other resounded down the long, narrow room. Paul couldn’t resist saying, “You come here often?”

Rachel shrugged. “There are all kinds of dives like this in Berkeley. Students learn to seek them out. They’re cheap.”

“Rach, you know you don’t have to do that. We send you enough money to eat well. What are you spending it on?”

“What makes you think I’m spending it? Maybe I’m saving it for a rainy day.”

“Are you predicting rain?” he asked, attempting a smile again.

“You never know,” Rachel said with a tone of finality.

Paul wanted to follow up on that, but decided to change the subject instead.

“Come to think of it, I remember eating burgers and pizza when I was in school. I didn’t have much money, and—”

“You’ve told me all about that before, Dad,” Rachel interrupted. “Must we go through it again?”

Paul felt hurt at her flippant tone, but answered, “I was only going to say that I thought you’d want something a bit…oh, fancier, when you came home.”

“The setting doesn’t matter, Dad. Not for what we have to talk about.”

Paul turned his attention to the napkin that was still in his hand. If he could remember how to do it just right, he might be able to make the figure of a bird out of it, the way he had when Rachel was a child. Maybe that would somehow help to make this day right.

The napkin, however, was too flimsy, falling apart in his hands. It seemed a metaphor for this place, this day, and the way his relationship with Rachel was going.

The bartender brought their food and Rachel devoured her chili dog in record time, washing it down with the Pepsi. Paul toyed with his chips, but drank the full mug of beer, wishing he’d ordered whiskey or almost anything that would kick in fast. The beer didn’t at all help the nervousness that was growing as he waited for Rachel to speak her peace.

It finally came.

“So, Dad…what’s on your mind these days? Or should I say who?”

Paul thought he had braced himself for whatever was coming, but even so, he was shocked by the frontal attack. He set down the empty mug and tried to keep his expression bland. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please. Mom may be too busy to see it, but when you’ve been away, like I have, it’s plain as the nose on your face. You haven’t been spending all those hours at night at Soleil, have you? You’ve been…shall we say, with someone else?”

His mouth was suddenly so dry he could barely speak. Taking a sip of water, he managed, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Her voice became icy. “You must think I’m really dumb. Mom, too.”

“Rachel, I have no idea—”

“Oh, come off it, Dad. You’ve been paying good money to send me to college. Give me some credit for not being stupid.”

“I have never once thought of you as stupid, Rachel.”

“Then why don’t you just tell me how long this has been going on?”

He couldn’t answer. That Rachel knew about Lacey was bad enough. That she expected him to talk about it was worse. Casting that much light on his affair—his betrayal of Gina, and yes, Rachel, too—made it impossible for him to think of it as anything but sordid.

Rachel gave a snort that broke the silence. “I know she was always your favorite, but I never thought you’d let her back into your life. Or ours.”

“Favorite—?” Paul began, confused. Then it dawned on him, and he felt as if his entire body, having prepared for a long-term, drawn-out war, had suddenly ceased fire.

“You’re talking about Angela?” he said, relaxing back against the booth. “Rachel, what on earth ever gave you an idea like that? I haven’t seen Angela since she was six years old!” Paul half laughed, the idea was so preposterous.

“You lie pretty good now, too,” Rachel said with a strange smile that gave him chills. “Nice going, Dad. I’m almost proud of the way you’ve grown.”

Paul shook his head, so bewildered he couldn’t speak. What had become of his daughter? Why was she saying these things?

“I don’t know why you would think I’ve seen Angela,” he said in as steady a tone as he could manage, “but even if I had, I’m your father, Rachel. I don’t have to report to you.”

“Obviously not,” she said, “given the number of times I’ve heard from you since summer.”

He stared. “Is that what’s really bothering you? Rach, I thought you were just as busy as I’ve been. I didn’t think you’d miss hearing from me. I’m sorry. Really, I am.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Rachel said. “It’s not about the e-mail, Dad. It’s about all those years when you didn’t have time for me because you were so busy missing Angela. You think that didn’t hurt? You think kids don’t see those things, no matter how young they are?”

Paul, who at first was too thrown to stand up for himself, began to get angry. “Rachel, that was years ago. Why are you bringing it up now? I thought—God, all that time working with Victoria, and you’re still hurting about those things? What does it take for you to get over it?”

“Maybe not having it start up all over again,” she snapped. “Maybe getting her out of our lives once and for all!”

“But she isn’t in our lives,” he argued. “I’m telling you, I have not seen Angela since she was six years old.”

Rachel studied him. “You really haven’t?”

“No. I swear to you. I have not seen or heard from Angela since the last time your mother and I went to Minnesota to see her. That was fifteen years ago.”

“So you haven’t had a phone call from her, or a letter, or anything?”

“No, Rachel. Not a thing. If I had, I wouldn’t have kept it from you.”

“Ha,” she said scornfully.

“And what does that mean?”

“It means you never wanted me to know anything. You took her away and you never even let me go visit her.”

Paul sighed. “We thought that was best. We’ve always just tried to do the best for you, Rachel. Your mother and I love you. We really do. I wish you could believe that.”

Rachel fell silent. He thought she was going to argue the point, but she shrugged back into her coat and said, “Let’s blow this place. Mom’ll be waiting to get a tree.”

Paul didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. He half wanted to continue the conversation, while the other half didn’t want to go near it.

He put enough money on the table to cover the food and a tip. Again he found himself following his daughter as she breezed out the door. The door came swinging back and almost struck him in the face.

It was as if she were deliberately erecting a wall between them. I can’t let that wall get too high, he thought miserably as they walked back to the Four Seasons, where they had both parked. If she makes it any higher, I might never be able to breach it.

At home, Gina was already cleaning out the trunk of the Crown Vic, which was big enough to put a tree in with a bungee cord holding the lid down.

“Let me help you with that,” Paul said, taking a heavy flat of bottled water from her.

She threw him a grateful look and pulled her red scarf closer around her throat. She looks like she did in college, Paul thought. The cold, misty air had softened the few lines around her eyes, which were bright with anticipation. She’s like a kid about Christmas. How could I have forgotten that?

They began the rounds of the tree farms in Snohomish, where the traffic was thinner and they could enjoy the drive. Since it was two days before Christmas, a lot of the better trees had been taken long ago. Gina insisted they make the tree shopping spree as much fun as possible, singing songs in the car as they always had, to pass the time. She seemed not to notice that Paul and Rachel were more quiet than usual. Their search spread farther and farther away from the city, until, finally, they came across a farm that hadn’t been too stripped. It was their fourth try, and Gina and Rachel stood together in the mud amongst rows of Douglas firs, shivering.

“What do you think of this one?” Gina asked.

“Too skinny,” Rachel complained. “I like this one better.” She stood holding a branch of a wide nine-footer.

“That won’t even fit through the door!” Gina said, smiling.

Paul was three rows over when he called out, “Hey, look at this!” They trudged valiantly over the rutted ground, expecting to reject this one as they had the past five.

“I love it!” Rachel said when she saw the tall, perfectly shaped fir. She cocked her head to the side and smiled. “No holes, no broken limbs. You always were the best at picking them out, Dad.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s only taken me—” Paul pushed back his jacket sleeve and looked at his watch “—two hours and four tree lots this time.” But he smiled, grateful that she seemed to be getting into the spirit of things. Maybe this day would turn out all right after all.

Finding the “perfect” Christmas tree had been a tradition ever since he could remember. There had been times over the years when he’d thought about leaving Gina, when it had seemed as if there was so little left of their relationship it hardly made sense to go on. Even the bad Christmas Eve memories, however, couldn’t spoil the fact that there was something solid and safe about doing things like this together, and knowing they would be doing them year after year.

When it came right down to it, there hadn’t been any good reason to break up his marriage. Gina might have distanced herself from him, but she still maintained a surface relationship, keeping up the house, being there for Rachel. He’d never even thought of straying…not until Lacey came into his life, offering boundless energy when he was weary, and light at a time when his very existence seemed to grow darker every year.

“Earth to Dad!” Rachel was saying. “Hello?”

Paul came back to the matter at hand. “So you really like this one? Should I start cutting?”

“Absolutely,” Rachel said. “Okay with you, Mom?”

“Cut away,” Gina replied, blowing into her hands for warmth. “And fast. Let’s get the heck out of here!”

“Darn it,” Rachel said, “I told you to wear gloves. But not to worry.” She put an arm around her mom as Paul began to saw through the trunk of the fir. “We’ll be at the tearoom soon. You can warm up there.”

The tree fell, and Rachel cried, “Attaboy, Dad! You’d put Paul Bunyan to shame!”

Paul grunted. Looking at Gina and his daughter, at the smiles on their faces and the way they both rose to the occasion when good spirits were called for, he could only think: I wish I were a Paul Bunyan, a giant possessed of superhuman powers. Maybe then I could figure out a way to fix this moment in time forever.

After dragging the tree into the house and changing clothes, they drove down the hill to the tearoom. In an old Victorian house with several differently decorated rooms, it was warm and toasty from a huge fireplace in the large front room. Taped chamber music was soft and soothing, and the scents of cinnamon, apples and other holiday treats stimulated the appetite and brought back memories of traditional Christmases Paul had enjoyed as a child.

This, too, was a tradition that Paul, Gina and Rachel had followed. First the cutting of the tree—from a lot where trees were specifically grown for Christmas, to ease Rachel’s concern over the destruction of the forests—and then tea, to warm themselves up.

Over the subdued murmur of voices and the gentle clinking of bone china cups against saucers, Paul looked at his wife and daughter. Rachel’s cheeks were still pink from the cold, and the bright pink scarf she wore mirrored them. Her eyes shone in the candlelight. Without warning, a memory rushed in: Angela, and the way her eyes had been so like Rachel’s in color, that clear, lovely hazel, yet always with a flicker of mischief in them.

Rachel was wrong in thinking he’d had some sort of contact with Angela. Yet her instincts were right. Everything about this season combined to form a gunnysack of immense proportions that he seemed destined, always, to carry on his back. He knew that if he opened that sack, more bad memories than he’d ever be able to live with would spill out.

It was one of the reasons, he admitted to himself, that he’d become involved with Lacey. In September, the stores had already been bringing out the Christmas toys and decorations. They were everywhere, and Paul had begun to dread the coming holiday even more than usual this year. There were times when he felt certain his life was over, and other times when he wished it were.

This past summer, he and Gina had barely seen each other for weeks on end. She was working on a house up on Camano Island, more than an hour away, and she often came home late. Finally he had stopped going home after work, and had begun to have dinner in the city. His favorite place was the Gordon Biersch Brewery Restaurant, because there were always plenty of people there—young people, active and happy, or at least seemingly happy as they laughed and drank together after their day’s work. Sitting in a bar drinking wasn’t Paul’s idea of a rousing good time, but having dinner at the bar and watching everyone around him enjoy themselves made him feel less lonely.

He hadn’t started out with the thought that he might meet someone. At least, not consciously. He told himself he was merely passing the time. Then one night, a young blond woman at the other end of the bar began to make eye contact with him. At first, he was embarrassed. He hadn’t been with anyone but Gina since they’d met in college. On this particular night, however, Paul found himself wanting someone to talk to. That was all, he swore to himself—just talk.

So when the woman smiled at him the third or fourth time their eyes met, instead of looking quickly away as she’d done at first, Paul took that as an invitation to move to the stool beside her and join her for a drink.

It had been awkward at first. Paul found himself at a loss for words. Funny, he thought. All this time I’ve been wanting someone to talk to, and now I don’t know what to say.

But the woman made it easy for him.

“Hi, I’m Lacey,” she said softly, holding out a hand. “May I buy you a drink?”

Paul smiled and shook her hand. “I thought the man was supposed to buy the woman a drink.”

Lacey laughed and tossed her head, shaking back the lush blond hair that fell over her face on one side. Her eyes were a deep, deep green, so deep that when Paul looked into them he felt like a teenager striving for just the right poetic phrase. What he came up with was clichéd, he knew, but he honestly did feel as if he were falling into the depths of some long-forgotten, ancient sea. As for her complexion, it was creamy and flawless, except for a small half-moon scar at the corner of her right eye. She had covered it with makeup, making it less noticeable, but when she turned into the light from behind the bar, it stood out in sharp relief.

Paul was glad she had a flaw. Without it, he might have been intimidated by her beauty.

“What old-fashioned world did you come from,” Lacey teased, “thinking the man has to buy the drink?” Nodding to the bartender, she pointed a finger at his nearly empty drink glass. “Don’t tell me. You’re married, and you haven’t dated in years. And you don’t want to get involved. Well, that’s perfect, because I don’t want to, either.”

The bartender set the drink before him, and Paul relaxed. They began to talk. At ten o’clock they were still talking, and Paul, shocked at the time, said that he had to go.

“Maybe I’ll see you here again,” he said tentatively, unwilling to commit to an actual meeting, but hoping she would be here, nonetheless.

“Maybe,” she said. “I stop by after work now and then.” She touched him on the cheek with a fingernail that was bright red, like her lips. “We’ll see.”

That had been in August. Four short months ago, but he felt, now, as if he’d known her forever.

Their first conversation had carefully skirted personal information. Instead, they had talked about Microsoft, the Huskies, the Mariners, Boeing, the traffic…endless minutiae. In succeeding talks he told her about Gina and Rachel. She told him she had moved to Seattle in June and was working temp jobs. It had been difficult at first, but now she was established with one particular temp company, and in demand as an assistant to local CEOs. She living frugally, but was doing all right.

She seemed to want nothing from him but companionship, and that eased Paul’s mind about what he was doing. By the time a month had passed, however, Paul couldn’t tear himself away from the three- or four-times-a-week meetings at Gordon Biersch’s. He began to tell Gina he was working late, and she had accepted that.

But then, why wouldn’t she? he thought now as he looked across the table at his wife. He had never before given her any reason to doubt him.

And here she was, holding the family together as usual over the holiday—keeping the traditions and maintaining a brave facade for Rachel, even though she must know, as he did, that their marriage was falling apart.

Or was it a facade? Had Gina actually convinced herself there was nothing wrong? Was it possible she couldn’t see how much their relationship had deteriorated?

There were times when Paul hated himself for the betrayal of his wife, and he prayed for the strength to end it.

“Can we decorate the tree tonight?” Rachel asked from the back seat as Paul swung the Infiniti into the driveway. “That tea really hyped me up.”

Gina restrained a yawn. “Oh, I don’t know…”

“C’mon, Mom. Talk her into it, Dad.”

They had left the tree standing in a bucket of water in the front bay window of the house, facing the Sound and the city. When it was decorated and lit, it looked “awesome,” as Rachel said every year, when they drove up the hill.

“We’ve still got two more days till Christmas,” Paul said, wanting only to go to bed. “Can’t it wait?”

“Boy, you two are party poopers this year.” Rachel pouted. She slid from the car and ran up the front steps. “Last one in has to untangle the lights!”

She slid her key into the lock and disappeared through the doorway. Lights appeared in the hallway and living room. Gina looked at Paul and shrugged. “What do you think?”

He sighed. “At least she’s smiling now. I was beginning to think—”

“I know what you mean,” Gina said. “She’s been a bear this trip.”

“Maybe we can convince her just to put on the lights tonight. You think she’d be okay with that?”

“We can give it a try,” Gina said.

Rachel’s cry from inside hit them as they came up the walk. “Mom! Dad!”

Gina and Paul ran the rest of the way, following Rachel’s voice into the living room. There they found the Christmas tree lying on its side, a pool of water surrounding it. The bucket lay empty on the hardwood floor.

Gina rushed forward, whipping off her woolen scarf and kneeling, trying to mop up the water before it did any more damage to the wood. “For God’s sake, Paul, I told you to make sure the tree was secure enough so it couldn’t fall!”

“I did,” he said, bristling at the criticism. “I’ll go get some towels.”

“Never mind. Rachel, get me that throw cover over there.”

Gina motioned to a heavy throw lying over a chair, but Rachel didn’t move. Her face was pale as she stared at the tree, her eyes dark and frightened.

“Rachel?” Gina’s tone was one of concern more than irritation, but Rachel’s head snapped up and she took a step backward.

“Don’t touch me! Get back!” Her hands rose as if to protect herself.

Gina started, and Paul stopped in his tracks to stare at his daughter.

“Rachel?” he said softly. “Rach, it’s okay.”

Gina rose slowly and moved carefully toward her daughter. “Shh. Shh, honey, it’s all right.”

Rachel’s gaze rose from the fallen tree to her mother. For a moment she barely moved. Then her face crumpled and tears filled her eyes. “It’s not all right!” she cried. “Nothing is ever going to be all right again!”

3

The next day, Rachel sat across from the psychiatrist who had treated her from the ages of six to sixteen. Victoria Lessing was older, of course, her hair graying now, but only a bit at the temples. Otherwise it was the same pale blond, pulled back into a twist. She still had that look in her violet eyes, too—the one that said, I know your every thought. You can’t hide a thing from me.

“It’s been a while, Rachel.”

Rachel sighed. “You said it. I thought we were through with all this.”

“Well, your parents are worried.”

Rachel gave a shrug.

“You don’t think they should be?”

“No. I just had some bad memories last night. After all, today is Christmas Eve. I think that’s pretty normal.”

“Normal being a relative term,” the psychiatrist said, smiling.

“I suppose.” Rachel fell silent.

“Have you been thinking more about your sister lately?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel said. “Maybe.”

“Do you know why?”

“No.”

“I think you do,” Victoria said softly.

Rachel shrugged again. “I just thought I saw her, once. At Berkeley.”

Victoria leaned forward, resting her arms on her desk. “Really?”

“Well, I was walking around on the campus, and there was this woman. She had dark hair like Angela’s and mine, and…oh, I don’t know. There was just something about the way she looked at me.”

“Did you think she was following you?”

Rachel narrowed her eyes. “You mean, am I getting paranoid again?”

“No. I didn’t mean that at all.”

“But you were thinking it. Rachel’s imagining things again.”

“No, I was not,” Victoria said firmly. “You were a lot younger when you had nightmares that Angela would come back. Now that you’re older, I’m sure you know the difference between being paranoid and feeling something real.”

“Well, I didn’t think this woman was following me, anyway. I just thought it was odd, the way she looked at me. I thought maybe Angela—” Rachel stopped talking and studied her hands.

“You thought that because she was your twin, she might have ended up at the same college as you,” Victoria guessed. “The way identical twins who are separated seem to do similar things in life?”

“I…yes. I guess the thought crossed my mind.”

“Of course you and Angela aren’t identical.”

“No. But does that matter?”

“I’m not sure. You don’t have the same DNA, of course. As for other possibilities…did you try to find out if she was a student at Berkeley? Through the registrar’s office, for instance?”

“No,” Rachel said abruptly.

“You didn’t really want to know,” Victoria guessed again. “Because if it was Angela, you’d have had to do something about it. You’d have had to look her up and talk to her.”

Rachel frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t read my mind that way.”

“That bothers you?”

“Of course it does! You’ve always done that, and it drives me nuts.” Rachel paused, then laughed. “I guess that’s not the sort of thing to say to a psychiatrist.”

Victoria smiled. “We’ve known each other a long time, Rachel. You should know by now, you can say anything to me.”

Rachel hugged herself with her arms, feeling cold even though the room was warm. “I just think it’s silly, Vicky, my parents getting all worried like this. I warped back into the past for a few minutes when I saw that tree on the floor. Doesn’t everybody do that sometimes?”

“Your mother said you were up pacing all night, and you didn’t eat any breakfast this morning.”

“Well, duh! I was upset, for heaven’s sake. I’m over it now.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, dammit!” Rachel gave the therapist a mutinous glare.

Victoria laughed. “I haven’t seen that look since you were…oh, seven or eight.”

The glare faded into a grin.

Victoria reached behind her chair and took a plate from a low mahogany filing cabinet. “Cookie?’

“Geez. I can’t believe you’re still plying patients with chocolate-chip cookies.”

Victoria smiled. “It seems to work.”

Rachel took a cookie. “This is supposed to make me more willing to open up, right?”

“Right.”

She rolled her eyes. “Does psychiatry still work, even when the patient is smart enough to figure out all the moves?”

“Only when the cookies are merely a distraction, to keep the patient from figuring out the real moves.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing to me all these years?” Rachel asked. “Playing mind games?”

“Why would you see it as mind games?” Victoria asked. “Why not simply as a way to help you? A way to get to the truth?”

Rachel snorted. “That assumes there’s any such thing as truth.”

“Are you saying there isn’t?”

Carefully Rachel set the cookie back on the plate. “Let’s approach this from another direction. Do you think you’ve helped me over all these years?”

Victoria hesitated. “I…well, you’ve been going to college, preparing for the future. I certainly think you’re better now than you were when you were sixteen, for instance. Or right after Angela left.”

Rachel’s mood changed in an instant. Jumping to her feet, she clenched her fists at her sides. “Angela left? For God’s sake, Vicky, my sister did not leave! She was sent away—returned to the store, like a defective toaster oven. Why does everyone say she left? Does it make it easier somehow to sweep the truth under the rug?”

“So we’re back to truth,” Victoria said calmly, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. “What is your truth, Rachel?”

Rachel threw up her hands. “How the hell do I know?”

“Do you want to know?”

“I…of course I do!” But she had paused before answering, and Victoria picked up on it quickly.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked.

Rachel sat again, rubbing her face and taking a deep breath. “I don’t know. I think…I think I’m afraid of Angela. Of what I might find out if I saw her again.”

“Have you been wanting to see her again?”

“I haven’t even really thought much about her since I’ve been away at school. Then all of a sudden, I thought for sure she was there, and it all started up again.”

“What started up?”

Rachel gave Victoria a shaky smile. “The fear. It was like déjàvu. It just washed right over me, like some awful wave. I started to shake, and I actually thought—”

“What? What did you think?”

“It’s…it’s silly.”

“Nothing about fear is silly. Remember when I taught you to turn around and face the monster in your nightmares? What happened?”

“It went away,” Rachel admitted. “The nightmares stopped.”

“So you know you can trust me, right?”

“I guess.”

“Then tell me, Rachel. What did you think when you saw—or thought you saw—Angela?”

“I guess I thought, what if she came here to kill me?” Rachel said, looking down at her hands again. They were shaking.

Victoria rested her chin on tented fingers. “And how does it feel now that you’re home? Safer?”

“God, no! It feels worse. Vicky, I keep thinking something awful is about to happen. And my parents—” She paused.

“What about your parents?” Victoria pressed.

“Oh, hell, they aren’t even here anymore. They’re both doing their own thing, and they hardly talk to each other.”

“I see. When did you first feel this about them?” Victoria asked.

“Last summer, I guess. It was so weird, I couldn’t wait to get back to school.”

“So let’s think about this. Do you feel your parents are no longer around to protect you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Victoria was silent. Finally, she said, “Rachel, let me pose a theory. You’re feeling vulnerable, unprotected, exposed. That could bring up old memories of the night when Angela—”

“Don’t say it,” Rachel interrupted. “I don’t even want to think of it.”

“—when Angela tried to kill you,” Victoria finished, ignoring her. “Look at it, Rachel. See it. Remember it. Then you can let it go.”

Rachel flushed. “You think I haven’t been remembering it all these years? For God’s sake, Vicki!”

“No, what I think is that, as you’ve gotten older, you haven’t been remembering it the right way. We need to work on that.”

“So what you’re saying is that I imagined I saw Angela, because I’m feeling afraid again? My fear conjured her up?”

“Not her, Rachel. A woman who looked like her—” Victoria broke off. “Not even like her, for that matter, since you don’t know what Angela looks like now. Perhaps just some of the same qualities you remember from childhood. Rachel, what does that sound like to you?”

Rachel closed her eyes. “Like I imagined the whole thing. It wasn’t Angela, and she hasn’t come back to try to kill me again. There. Is that better?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know!” Rachel’s eyes flashed, and the mutinous glare came back. “Why do I have to do all the work? You’re the one getting paid for this!”

Victoria shook her head and smiled. “You may be a beautiful, grown-up twenty-one-year-old, Rachel. You may be smart, intelligent, all those good things. But I’m still seeing shades of that little girl in front of me. The one who stuck her chin out and told me to go to hell when she was ten.”

Rachel hesitated, then laughed. “I did do that, didn’t I? God, I must have been a handful.”

“Still are, apparently,” Victoria said with a smile. She picked up her appointment book and a pen. “Okay, now. Do you want us to work together while you’re home on vacation, or not? Shall I put you down for the day after tomorrow?”

“Mom likes to hit the stores the day after Christmas,” Rachel said. “How about the day after that?”

“Right.” Victoria wrote it in.

“Uh…can I have that cookie back?”

Victoria had picked up the plate and was putting it on the file cabinet. She swung back and laughed. “Sure. Maybe it’ll sweeten your mood.”

Rachel stood and gathered up her coat, slipping it on with the cookie between her teeth. Then, taking it in her hand, she said, “Vicky…I know we’re making light of this right now. And to tell the truth, I’m kind of relieved that we are. But I still feel, down deep, that something bad is going to happen.”

Victoria got up and came around the desk, wrapping an arm around Rachel’s shoulders and walking her to the door. “You could be right, of course. But let’s not jump the gun. Let’s look at all sides of it first. Okay?”

Rachel nodded, drawing her pink scarf tighter as Victoria opened the door into the hallway. “God, it’s raining again,” she said, looking back toward the office window. “Now that I’m living in California most of the time, I get so depressed up here when it rains.”

“Espresso,” Victoria said, patting her shoulder. “Get yourself some espresso. Better yet, a mocha. The chocolate will do you good.”

“I don’t know,” Rachel said. “Maybe I need some Prozac or something.”

Victoria studied her, meeting her eyes. “Maybe you do. But let’s start slowly. We can talk about that later, after we meet some more.”

Rachel sighed. “Okay. See you in a few days, then.”

“Right.” Victoria touched her cheek lightly with a pale, slender hand. “Rachel…try to have a happy Christmas.”

“You, too,” Rachel said, stepping away.

Going down the long, carpeted hallway to the elevator, she felt awkward, as if she were stumbling. As if the hallway had shrunk, and there wasn’t room now to put her feet anywhere. Or the way it felt during the occasional California earthquakes, even when they were only small tremors. It seemed for days afterward that the ground kept moving—but only slightly, so that it was hard to know whether what she felt was real or not.

She hadn’t told Vicky about these “spells,” which had come and gone several times over the past few weeks. She didn’t want anyone to know. It was probably irrational, but the old fear was back: If I tell them too much, they might send me away, too.

4

Sacred Heart, the Queen Anne Hill church that Paul and Gina had been married in, was wall-to-wall with parishioners. Seats were always in demand for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, and ten minutes after they’d arrived it was standing room only. Gina had insisted on arriving early to assure their getting a seat, hurrying everyone along. They had made it with half an hour to spare before Mass began, and had landed a pew two rows from the front.

It was hot in the crowded church, and Gina fanned her face with the printed pamphlet containing words to the carols they would sing throughout the service. The beads of perspiration on her forehead reminded her of her wedding day and the heat wave that had come tearing through Seattle that July. She had been sure her gown would melt before the long ceremony was over. As it was, the white satin stuck to her skin when she tried to peel it off that night.

The heat hadn’t dimmed her passion or Paul’s, however. Gina almost blushed now, just thinking of how wanton they were on that honeymoon night.

She sighed. Where had it all gone, that passion? Had it simply dissipated with so many years of familiarity? Was that the natural order of things? Perhaps. Paul’s mother and father didn’t seem all that passionate about each other any longer, yet after some rocky years when Paul was a child, they seemed contented enough. Right now they were on a cruise through the Caribbean, and after that they were flying to Paris, then Rome—an anniversary gift from her and Paul.

As for Roberta, her own mother, who knew? At times, Gina thought Roberta might still be dating. Certainly that wouldn’t be unusual at her age. She was only sixty, and there had been mysterious evenings lately when Roberta wasn’t at home and wouldn’t tell anyone the next day where she’d been. Why she’d be shy about telling anyone she was dating, Gina didn’t know.

For that matter, as she looked around, Gina didn’t see her mother in any of the front pews. Roberta had never, so far as she knew, missed Midnight Mass. Of course, she might have arrived late and had to settle for sitting somewhere in the back. That wasn’t like her, but sometimes the traffic coming over from Gig Harbor was unusually heavy.

Roberta and Gina’s father, Tony, had grown up in this Seattle parish. They had lived their lives in the old-world Catholic way, following the exhortations of the priests in those days to sacrifice and suffer. There would be stars in their crowns in heaven, they were told. Tony had suffered, all right, living for several months through a siege of cancer when he was fifty. Gina wondered if he were somewhere “up there,” and if the stars in his crown were worth it.

She knew that what had happened with the twins had taken its toll on Paul’s parents as well as her own. She was glad all three remaining parents were thinking of themselves now, rather than focusing on that time when nothing made much sense and everything around them seemed to be falling apart.

When Gina met Paul, who was raised Baptist but no longer attended church, he had agreed to marry her in the Catholic church. They were both very young then, in their early twenties. Following a particular faith didn’t seem to matter as much as the fact that they believed in each other. It mattered to Gina’s parents, however, who insisted that being married outside the church was no marriage at all. Paul, to keep the peace, had gone along with their request.

Even so, Gina’s mother had spoken of misgivings. “A man who will leave his faith behind will one day leave his wife,” she had warned Gina. But that was Roberta Evans; she saw the darker side of things, always. If something could go wrong, it would—at least in Roberta’s mind.

Unfortunately, in the case of the twins, she had turned out to be right. Roberta had warned Gina that adopting a child without knowing its background, both medical and familial, could be trouble. Angela and Rachel had been placed at Saint Sympatica’s shortly after birth, and little was known about the woman who had given birth to them. The note she left with them in the cardboard box, on the steps of the orphanage, had said nothing that would give anyone a clue as to her whereabouts. She never went back to Saint Sympatica’s to reclaim them, and the twins ended up being there several months before Paul and Gina adopted them.

“Why weren’t they adopted right away?” Roberta had wanted to know. “Babies have always been in demand.”

Gina had asked this question of Anita and Rodney Ewing, the couple who owned and directed the orphanage. Mrs. Ewing had seemed uneasy at the question, but had given them a perfectly good explanation. “We wanted to keep them together, and not everyone wants the responsibility of twins. Also, we’ve been very particular. Because the girls have been without a mother or father so long, they may need special care.”

That special care was a watchful eye as the girls grew older, to ensure that they hadn’t suffered from being abandoned by their mother at such a young age. For that matter, they might have been abused or neglected while in the care of their mother. If they had indeed suffered damage, they would need the best possible psychiatric treatment. This could end up costing quite a bit over the years, Paul and Gina were told, and they had assured Mrs. Ewing that they were able and willing to provide the twins with that.

Finally, they themselves went through several interviews with the Ewings and Saint Sympatica’s child psychiatrist, interviews that had included psychological tests to assess their level of maturity and ability to carry through with raising the girls. They were young to be adopting, and had been married less than a year.

“Who will take care of the girls if you both work?” Mrs. Ewing had asked.

“I will,” Gina had replied. “I plan to work from our house, and only part-time until they’re both in school. After that, I may work longer hours, but I’ll still be at home most of the time. I’ll be working for myself, and I’ll be able to plan my schedule to accommodate the girls.”

The day they brought the twins home had been the happiest one of their lives. They did everything possible to give the girls tons of love and make them feel secure in their new home. Paul and Gina both thought they had been extremely lucky—at least for the first four years. The girls played like other children, and they seemed loving, both to each other and to their friends. It appeared that, miraculously, they had gotten through their first year of life without emotional damage. Paul and Gina attributed that to the excellent psychiatric care the orphanage afforded to the children in its care.

Then all hell had broken loose.

Gina sighed. Her thoughts had a way of drifting in church, when she should be praying. Sometimes, when making the sign of the cross she would say to herself “one, two, three, four,” instead of “in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” It was odd how her spirit seemed to have become a matter of rote over the years. Odd how her marriage had become that, too.

Here in this church that was so familiar to her, however, Gina sat between Paul and Rachel and felt protected with them on either side. The church was warm, and the familiar statues, poinsettias and votive candles lent a cozy air. In the crowded pew they were squeezed together, and with Paul’s and Rachel’s bodies touching hers, it felt as if they were truly bonded together, and that nothing bad could ever happen again.

It was therefore all the more strange when thoughts of something threatening them crossed her mind. It was a thought that had been nagging at her, actually, the past few days—ever since Rachel had come home.

Gina mentally shook herself and turned her attention to the swelling sounds of the pipe organ. Everyone rose as the altar boys came down the aisle, the lead one carrying a cross. The priest came behind them, and the choir began to sing “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” their voices swelling to a crescendo at the end.

The Mass began, and Gina whispered to Paul, “Do you see Mom anywhere?”

He turned and scanned the crowds. “Can’t tell. It’s hard to see, it’s so packed—”

He broke off and his face paled as he saw the blond woman in an aisle seat, five rows behind and across from theirs. Lacey? My God, what is she doing here?

His eyes met hers, and he thought he saw the beginnings of a mischievous grin. Confusion and a feeling of disaster flooded him. He couldn’t let Gina and Lacey meet. Gina would know right away the place that Lacey held in his life.

Would his mistress force a meeting? Did she just want to see his wife and daughter, find out what they looked like?

As if hearing the question, Lacey gave a shrug and looked away. The procession in the middle aisle came between them as it neared the altar. Paul turned back to Gina as she tugged at his arm. “Do you see her?”

“No,” Paul said, his mouth dry. “I don’t see her.”

From that point on he barely noticed the Mass going on in front of him. Instead, he worried about what Lacey would do.

During Communion, as parishioners filled the aisles and walked to the altar railing, Paul risked a look back again. If she met his eyes, he would try to indicate to her in some way that she shouldn’t speak to him after the Mass. Perhaps just a small shake of the head would do it. Surely she’d understand.

But Lacey was gone, her seat taken by an elderly man.

Paul felt his entire body sag with relief. Then, quickly, his eyes scanned the pews in case she had simply moved to another seat. He didn’t see her anywhere. Thank God.

But why would she leave in the middle of Mass? To avoid having to see him with his family any longer?

That could be it.

It was several minutes before he was able to breathe normally again. He would have to talk to Lacey, though. In the three months that she had been his mistress, they had never discussed what they would do if they were seen together by Gina or anyone else who knew him. Now he would have to make sure that Lacey knew what to say if such an occasion arose: that they knew each other through Soleil. She was a client; nothing more.

Paul turned his attention back to the Mass. The priest was saying the Agnus Dei. “Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.”

Paul had little faith that anyone, God or priest, could take away his sins. He thought that he would probably go to hell by the time all this was over. He did pray for mercy, however—understanding, if not forgiveness. “Have mercy on us,” he whispered, along with the congregation. “Have mercy on us.”

They were on the way home when it happened. A car behind them followed too closely, blinding Paul with its headlights.

“Damn tailgaters,” he muttered.

“Golly, Dad, must you swear right after Mass?” Rachel complained from the back seat.

He was too tense to answer. Between seeing Lacey in the church, and now this, the holiday was turning out to be even worse than he’d anticipated.

Paul stepped on the brake and tapped it lightly, slowing down gradually. Maybe the car behind would take the hint and pass. The street was dark here, but there was plenty of room on either side, whereas farther up the hill, it narrowed dangerously.

But the driver behind him stayed on his tail. Dammit, why didn’t it pass? Was it someone unfamiliar with the streets on Queen Anne Hill?

Paul sped up, and the other car did, too. He couldn’t shake it, and now he was beginning to worry. What if this was some nut, hoping to cut them off at some point and carjack them? Or what if he was following them home to grab them in the driveway?

Even as he thought it, the car pulled out into the middle of the road and came closer, its front end nudging the left rear bumper of the Infiniti. Paul felt the bump and then heard a loud, metallic screech. The steering wheel began to slip from his grasp, and he clenched his fingers around it. “Hang on!” he yelled as the Infiniti swerved from side to side.

“Oh, my God!” he heard Gina cry.

“Daddy, what’s he doing?” Rachel yelled.

Ahead was a large old cedar tree that stuck a couple of yards into the road, its trunk easily three feet in diameter. Paul saw it looming ahead of him and jammed his foot on the brake. The street was slick from the rain, however, and he could do nothing to stop the Infiniti from skidding and barreling straight into the tree.

Metal careened against wood. Glass crashed. The front air bags deployed, and Paul felt as if he’d hit a wall as the bag on his side slammed against his chest and face. Gina screamed, and Rachel flew forward. Paul felt her impact on the back of his seat.

It was over within seconds that seemed like hours. Paul sat shaken, nauseated, and as the air was automatically sucked out of the bags he looked over at Gina, who sat upright with a dazed expression on her face.

“Are you all right?” he managed.

Gina nodded. “Rachel?” she said, her voice shaking.

Rachel was crying, and though Paul was still in shock and felt weak, he managed to unbuckle his seat belt and get out, opening the back door. Rachel sat crumpled over, her face in her hands.

“Honey, are you okay?” he asked, his voice not much more than a harsh whisper. His legs shook, and he could barely hold himself upright. He grabbed hold of the door to keep himself from falling.

“Mommy,” Rachel said in a strange, hollow voice. “Is Mommy okay?”

She sounded like a little girl, and tears came to Paul’s eyes. He looked at Gina, who was feebly trying to reach back to Rachel.

“Yes. I think she’s fine,” he said, though he wasn’t sure at all.

Gina began to unbuckle her seat belt and slide out. Moving slowly around the car and holding on to it for support, she reached Paul. He took her arm to steady her. Gina leaned into the car. “I’m fine, honey,” she said. “Just shaky. What about you?”

“I think I’m okay,” Rachel answered, unbuckling her lap belt. “My head hurts. It hurts real bad. So does my tummy.”

Gina touched her gently, feeling her forehead and scalp. “I don’t see any cuts. You do have a pretty good lump starting on your forehead.”

“She didn’t have her shoulder harness on,” Paul said. “She slammed into the back of my seat. I felt it.”

“Rachel, for God’s sake, how many times have we told you—!” Gina broke off. “Honey, it’s okay. You’re safe, that’s all that matters. We should get you to the hospital, though. You need to be checked out.”

“No, I’m okay,” Rachel said, though she clearly was not.

“We just have to be sure,” Gina insisted, starting to cry.

“Your mother’s right,” Paul said briskly. Looking at the front of the car, he saw for the first time the full extent of the damage. The hood was crunched like an accordion, and glass from the driver and passenger side windows was all over the place.

It was a miracle, he thought, that he and Gina hadn’t been badly hurt, if not killed. The windshield, made of safety glass, had held in one piece. It looked like a thousand spider webs against the beam from the headlights, which oddly enough still worked, outlining the tree.

With a shaky hand Paul took his cell phone out of his pocket, and punched the speed dial for 911. After asking if everyone was all right, the dispatcher told him it might be ten or more minutes. “We’re short-staffed because of Christmas Eve, but there’s a car and paramedics on the way.”

Paul slumped to the ground, his back to the rear tire. Gina sat on the edge of the back seat with the door open, holding Rachel’s hand and making mothering noises.

“Whoever that was,” Rachel said in a tight voice, “they did that on purpose, didn’t they, Dad?”

Paul hesitated. “I…we can’t know that for certain. It’s dark, it might have been someone who didn’t know the road.”

When the police and paramedics arrived, the medics checked Gina and Rachel for injuries as a young officer talked to Paul.

“This isn’t the first time somebody ran into this tree,” the officer said. “You see how the street starts to narrow, down there a block? People aren’t prepared for it, and they think they can make it around you. You get over to the right to let them pass, but then that tree looms up and there’s not enough room for both of you.”

“I drive this street every day,” Paul said impatiently. He wanted this to be over, and he wanted Gina and Rachel safe at home. He still felt shaky himself, and he needed a drink, a bed, some sleep. “I know precisely where this tree is,” he said, “and I also know that we’ve asked for years to have it taken out.”

“I agree with you, it’s a hazard,” the young cop said. “Especially at night. Seems to me I heard the city’s trying to do something about it.”

The uproar over this tree had been in the Seattle papers for months. The owners of the property wanted to preserve the ancient tree, and were being supported by a local preservation society.

“You know,” the cop said, “maybe the person behind you was new around here. Maybe he or she didn’t know the street all that well.”

Paul’s voice hardened. “They didn’t stop to see if we needed help.”

“Right. Well, I’m writing it up as a hit-and-run. You remember what the car looked like? Did you get a glimpse of the driver?”

“No. It all happened too fast, and like I said, I knew the tree was there. I was trying to keep from hitting it.”

“Yeah. It’s a hazard, all right.”

Paul nodded. Something in his gut, however, told him that what had happened here tonight was no accident. Someone had deliberately tried to run them off the road.

At the hospital, Rachel was given a near-clean bill of health. “She may have headaches for a couple of days,” the weary E.R. doctor said to Paul. “Also, since she wasn’t wearing a shoulder harness, the lap belt caused some bruising in the abdominal area.” He shook his head. “Lucky for her, you must have been able to slow the car before impact. Lucky for all of you, for that matter. If you’d hit that tree at any real speed, you might not be standing here talking to me now.”

Gina shuddered. She didn’t want to think of what might have been. All she wanted to do was get home and go to bed.

I am so tired of Christmas Eve, she thought. Would they ever have a happy one again? One not fraught with some terrible event, or the kind of gloom that event left them with, like a perverse gift of some evil Magi?

Oh, stop complaining. Like the doctor said, one or all of us could be dead now.

As it was, her neck hurt, and there was a vague pain in the area of her collarbone. “Whiplash,” the doctor said. “Also, probably the force of the seat belt holding you back. There’s a bruise on your collarbone. It should go away in a few days.”

He had wanted to take X rays of her neck, and Paul had wanted that, too. But the X-ray department was backed up with holiday revelers who had fallen down stairs, slipped on a dance floor, rear-ended another car. It would take hours of sitting here, waiting.

“If I don’t feel better, I’ll come back the day after tomorrow,” Gina promised.

Paul shrugged off his back pain as something he experienced now and then, and begged off from the X rays as well. “I really just need to get home and sleep,” he said. Foremost in his mind, however, was that there wasn’t any Scotch in the hospital, and he needed a drink—bad.

The Infiniti had been towed to a shop to be repaired, if possible, after being checked out at the site of the accident by the police. They had taken samples of paint that didn’t match the Infiniti, and anything else the forensics lab could use.

After picking up muscle relaxants and painkillers at the hospital pharmacy, Paul, Gina and Rachel rode home silently in a cab, each deep in his and her own private thoughts.

The next morning they all slept in. When they got up sleepily around eleven and poked without appetite at eggs that Gina managed to scramble, they barely remembered it was Christmas Day. In the afternoon they watched movies on tape. Around five o’clock, when the sun had gone down, they lit the Christmas tree and made an attempt at celebration by opening each other’s presents.

“Thank you, Mom, I love it,” Rachel said, opening a glittery gold box and holding up a pink cashmere sweater. She didn’t try it on as she normally would, but put it back in the box, on the floor.

Gina knew how she felt, and simply accepted the thank-you, telling Rachel the same when she opened her own gift of perfume.

Paul did his best to raise their spirits by putting on his new dark green fleece jacket and modeling it, as if on a runway. He looked handsome—like a movie star, Rachel said, smiling—and Gina smiled, too, and agreed. Soon, however, they fell back into sitting silently, watching rain beat against the windows that looked out on the city of Seattle.

It’s the muscle relaxants, Paul thought. They’ve turned us into zombies. Or maybe it’s post-traumatic stress.

But he knew that wasn’t the reason for his mood, and maybe not for Gina and Rachel’s, either. He’d bet that they, too, were thinking: Who would want to hurt us so much, they could do a thing like that?

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