"Why did you bring her here?"

"Shut up, Kaitlan."

"Why?"

"I said shut up!" He shoved her backward.

Kaitlan stumbled two steps and turned away from Craig. Crossing her forearms, she laid her palms on opposite shoulders. She focused out the sliding door to the black forest beyond. Was the woman buried out there?

If the body wasn't found, what could she and her grandfather do? They'd have nothing for the police.

"I'm leaving." Craig jerked her around to face him. "Tomorrow you'll go to work as normal. Tell the door story to anyone who asks about your face." His eyes narrowed. "Do you fully understand the situation you're in, Kaitlan? Telling anyone, anyone anyone, will do no good. Because no one will believe you. Even if they did, they'd be as powerless as you to prove it. And then"-he pushed a finger against the base of her throat-"I'd have to take care of both both of you, wouldn't I." of you, wouldn't I."

He was going to get away with this. And there wasn't a thing she could do. Her grandfather's schemes-useless.

Craig exhaled and ran a hand down his face. "Please, Kaitlan, don't even think of running away. Don't ruin us us. If you try running, I'll have to stop you. Before you know it, you'll have a warrant on your head for drugs found in your apartment." Determination flattened his features. "That is, if if I don't catch up to you first." I don't catch up to you first."

He surveyed her. "Plan on running?"

"No."

"Telling someone?"

She shook her head.

"Good girl."

Abruptly he turned away. "I'm taking your cell phone with me. And your car keys."

"No! How am I supposed to-"

"Supposed to what?" He halted in the doorway. "Call someone tonight? Go somewhere?"

If she couldn't phone her grandfather ... "No, I wouldn't. But how do I get to work in the morning?"

"My shift starts at six. I'll drive by on patrol and give them back to you. Just for the day."

Kaitlan stared at him, picturing the face of her childhood friend as he gloated over the pinned and dying moth.

"See you then." Craig shot her a tight smile. "Sleep well."

OBSESSION

CHAPTER twenty-nine

In the weeks that pa.s.sed after that infamous night, my mind dulled out. Scenes of what happened after the party sank to the bottom of my memory. Not gone. Just covered by the daily issues of life. Sometimes when I fell into a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic mood, I'd fish out the memory, turn it over in my hand. Examine it like some disinterested onlooker, barely able to connect myself to the events.

I hid the black and green silk fabric in the bottom of a box of books in my bedroom closet. Out of sight, out of mind.

It was some months before the cloth called to me again.

One night I came across an envelope of old family pictures. Didn't even know I had them. I dumped them out on a table, started flipping through the stack.

One stabbed my attention.

I felt the pierce go right through me-even before my brain registered what I'd seen. Mouth open, unable to move, I stared at the photo. Sweat popped from my pores, chilling on my skin.

The picture taunted me.

Thoughts flitted and knocked through my brain. Why was I rendered so helpless at the sight of that photo? Why did it have such power over me? I couldn't find the answers, only knew the strength of the questions. This picture held the key to who I'd become, what I'd done. And it wasn't about to give up its secrets.

It was as if the thing had some ethereal power all its own. The power to lead me to the envelope, make me open it. The colors of the photo looked overbright. Greedy. They wanted more of me, and they would get it.

I racked my brain for understanding. None came.

My initial shock gave way to anger ... bitterness... and finally, the dread of a soul inevitably bound for h.e.l.l.

There would be no end to this. To what I'd become.

Strange, how I knew that just from seeing the picture. I can't explain how-and certainly still couldn't fathom the whys. But I knew.

The fist of this reality clutched me for over an hour. I paced from room to room, trying to shake it off, telling myself I could overcome. Eventually the anger returned. I never asked for this. Never expected to be some unwilling and hapless p.a.w.n. Was it my fault I was born?

What about the other people on this earth? Didn't I see scarred and struggling slobs every day? They were all around me, fish floundering on a dry beach, shriveling in the sun. If, indeed, a perfect G.o.d created the world-was this the way he intended it to be?

Something, somewhere had gone terribly wrong.

I pitched and whirled around my place, cursing G.o.d, cursing my own futile existence. Emotions built up inside me until I thought I would explode. My muscles were steel tight, heart ramming against my ribs like a frantic prisoner.

Then-just when I thought my head would burst, I found myself in my bedroom, standing before my closet.

I stared at the door. It beckoned me to open it.

I spread both hands and shook my head. Backed away.

Left the room.

Retraced my steps.

Despairing, I gazed at the door.

My hand went to its k.n.o.b.

I stood there, feeling the cold, hard metal in my fingers. And a voice in my head whispered, "That's your heart. Cold and hard." But the words were oddly encouraging. They said-you're indestructible. You can handle this.

Next thing I knew, the door stood open.

I pushed through clothes to the back of the closet. Stooped to pick up the box.

On my bed I dumped out the contents, books scattering everywhere, some falling to the floor.

And, of course-the fabric.

It beckoned to me.

I picked it up.

The cloth radiated heat into my palms. Soothing, a.s.suring. What an amazing, wondrous feeling! How had I left it in that box for so long? How had I lived these months without it?

Folding it three times, I wrapped it around my shoulders like a blanket. I walked around the room, feeling its lightness and warmth envelope me. This was right. right. This was This was good. good. Not a curse. This was Not a curse. This was life life.

Humanity has its own calls. Out of nowhere hunger hit. I had to eat-now, as if that fabric heightened the mortal needs of my body. I ended up in the kitchen, slapping together a roast beef and cheese sandwich with lots of mayo, the cloth knotted around my waist.

I sat down on the couch to eat, staring out the window. Watching darkness fall.

I gulped down the sandwich, my mind entertaining strange and wild thoughts about how lucky I was. How some power in the universe had chosen to give the fabric to me me.

Sandwich gone, I strode to the kitchen sink and washed my greasy hands, longing to touch the fabric, not wanting to dirty it.

My fingers reached to unloosen it from my waist. But at the knot, they lingered.

How fascinating. I rubbed over the knot's smooth, silky strength. Gazed down at it, marveling. How enticing the green stripes looked, taunting, teasing. Appearing only to disappear, winding in and out over the sleek black background.

Understanding came over me slowly.

A bow was too prettified. Too flimsy. Worse, it had been an afterthought. This fascinating knot could be the act itself.

New tingling warmth spread through me.

When I could stand the knot's beauty no more, I untied it and pulled the fabric from my body. I bunched it to my chest, stroking.

Preparations needed to be made.

From a kitchen drawer I pulled a pair of scissors. Cut a ten-inch strip of the cloth.

Folding the strip, I smelled its silky scent. I headed out to put it in the glove box of my car.

Just outside the door, I hesitated. Logistics and details rolled through my mind.

Back inside, I pulled a pair of leather gloves off the shelf of the coat closet. These I placed in my glove box along with the strip of fabric.

Even as I returned to the kitchen I felt felt that cloth in the recesses of my car. Calling. Singing to me. that cloth in the recesses of my car. Calling. Singing to me.

The rest of the fabric I returned to the bottom of the box. I covered it with the books and hid the box in my closet.

The rest of the evening was fine. I watched TV. Laughed at sitcoms. I felt right with the world. Properly placed. Worthy of the s.p.a.ce I took on the planet, the air I breathed.

By the time I went to bed that night, the strip of fabric in my car had settled down in my mind. Some of its glow had waned. I recalled the sensations of the knot and found the memory pleasant but no longer felt its pull. Sort of like a starving person given food, now satiated.

In fact I felt so right it seemed to me I was done with the cloth. For some reason that strip just needed to be in my car. I wouldn't really do anything with it. Maybe take it out once in awhile, look at it, run it through my fingers. Nothing more.

As for that fascinating knot, just remembering it would be enough.

Yes, just remembering would be enough.

CHAPTER thirty

Kaitlan shivered in the front hallway as she listened to Craig's Mustang turning around in front of the carport. She clutched both arms to her chest, loneliness and vulnerability spinning a web around her head. Every heartbeat banged in her cheek.

Why hadn't Craig killed her?

The sound of his car engine dwindled, then roared once more. Craig was headed down the long driveway.

Kaitlan edged into the living room and peeked through the window. The twin beams of his taillights glared demon eyes.

In a little over seven hours he'd be back.

If only she had a land line phone in her apartment. But she'd been trying to save money, using only her cell. Not that it mattered. Craig would have pulled out the cord and taken it as well.

She turned from the window and focused on the red throw blanket on the back of the couch. The blanket that Craig's last victim had grabbed in desperation as they fought. Kaitlan could never use that throw again. Or sleep on her bed. Or even lie on the bedspread, now stained with the smells of death.

She lowered her face into her hands.

When her grandfather and Margaret didn't hear from her tonight, they'd panic. They didn't even have her address to come looking for her. Only one thing left for them to do: call the police. Some officer on night patrol would come out here. What excuse would she give for her grandfather's worry?

She could think of none except for labeling him an old man, half senile after his auto accident. The thought of such betrayal cut deep.

Tomorrow Craig would hear that Darell Brooke had called the station. That he was her grandfather. And Craig would know she'd told him. She and her grandfather both would die. Margaret too.

I can't believe this. Craig, what happened to you?