The stranger gave her his address, somewhere in Maine, and went on his way, and Mother never said a word about it.

Laura waited until Mother left the house to run errands, then searched the house until she found-under Mother's mattress-the papers that proved the stranger correct.

Standing there holding the proof that she had been bought, as an infant, like a piece of livestock, Laura sobbed.

Not sorrowful tears.

Tears of sheer relief.

And the blanket of guilt that had smothered her for as long as she could remember-guilt for not loving her own mother- began to lift at last.

Now it all made sense.

Now she was free to run away and never look back.

She huddles deeper into the blanket, trying to forget what she'd had to do in order to make that happen.

Stealing all that money from Mother was probably wrong.

Probably?

Of course it was.

But it was her only option. She had no money to her own name. Mother demanded that she hand over every cent she earned at the data-entry job she'd been working since high school graduation. Laura had always been well aware that all that cash was hidden around the house. Mother was much too paranoid to keep it in a bank.

When she helped herself to thousands of dollars from the stash, Laura reminded herself that she was only reclaiming what was rightfully hers.

Without it, she couldn't have fled to New York City, found an apartment, bought a decent wardrobe so that she could find work.

Before she left, she went to see her old friend, Father Donald.

"I'm leaving,"she told him. "Please don't tell my mother if she asks."

He nodded with understanding. "Where are you going, child?"

"To New York City. I have to get away from her. I just found out-she's not even my real mother."

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask for an explanation, and she didn't offer one. The less he knew, the better.

"I just wanted to thank you for all you've done for me,"she told him, "And to say good- bye."

He hugged her, then blessed her, praying over her with a gentle hand on her forehead.

She went into the confessional on her way out. It made her feel a little better about stealing the money.

Still, it's bothered her ever since- and not just because of a guilty conscience.

For all she knows, Mother reported the theft to the police. They could very well be looking for her now.

She was convinced Mother herself was looking for her until the day she read about Sharon Logan being jailed for murder in Florida.

That doesn't mean Laura won't be found by the authorities and arrested for stealing the money. Or, at the very least, stripped of the fragile new life she's attempting to build here, three-hundred- odd miles and a world away from Geneseo.

That can't happen.

She can't let that happen.

For the first time, she's living life on her own terms.

Sleep. . . . I need to sleep.

But it's so cold.

Shivering even beneath the weight of two blankets, Laura contemplates getting out of bed to turn up the thermostat. It was already on seventy-two when she went to bed, though. How much warmer can she set it?

The strange thing is . . .

It doesn't feel like seventy-two in this room. More like a good thirty or forty degrees colder.

Curling onto her side in an attempt to use her own body heat for warmth, Laura spots something a few feet away from her.

Not something.

Someone.

A male figure is standing in the shadows near the foot of the bed.

Even as Laura lets out a blood- curdling scream, she recognizes him.

It's her father.

Her real father: Tom Leolyn.

Paralyzed with fear, she stares at him.

How did he get in?

What does he want?

Is he here to hurt her?

No. He can't be.

Somehow, she senses that he doesn't mean her any harm.

But that doesn't make it any less disturbing to find someone standing over your bed in the middle of the night.

Summoning every shred of courage she possesses, Laura manages to speak at last. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

"She's looking for you."

"But-she's in jail."

"No."He shakes his head vehemently. "Not-"

The piercing ring of the telephone shatters the night.

Laura instinctively looks toward the receiver on her bedside table.

As she reaches for it, she glances back at her midnight visitor.

He's gone.

How can it be?

She flips on the lamp, looks wildly around the room, leans over the edge of the bed to see if he's dropped to the floor; looks under the bed to see if he's hiding there.

No sign of him.

And the phone is still ringing.

You must have been dreaming. You fell asleep without realizing it, and you dreamed he was here.

Of course.

That makes perfect sense.

Rather, it would make perfect sense . . . if she hadn't felt as though she were wide awake the whole time.

Well, that's how it is with some dreams, she reminds herself as she picks up the phone at last. They seem so real you could swear they actually took place.

She looks at the Caller ID window. It's a local 212 number.

"Laura, it's Liz,"a voice says in her ear. "Are you okay?"

Liz . . . ?

"I heard you scream!"

Oh. Liz Jessee. The landlady.

Her apartment is right across the hall from Laura's.

"I'm fine. I just saw . . . a roach."

"A roach! Oh, no! Please tell me you didn't."

But then Laura would have to come up with some other reason she'd be screaming in the night.

"It's New York,"she murmurs. "These things happen."

"Not in my building."

As Liz Jessee a.s.sures her that she'll send an exterminator to take care of the problem first thing in the morning, Laura looks again at the spot where she saw the stranger who claimed to be her father.

Still empty.

Of course it is.

And, she realizes, the room is comfortably warm now.

Now?

It was always warm.

Of course it was.

Because she dreamed about the chill, and she dreamed about the intruder.

Just as she keeps dreaming about the argument between those two women, and the little Victorian cottages by an unfamiliar lake, and the fragrant white flowers.

TWENTY-ONE.

Lily Dale

Friday, October 12

12:33 a.m.