the notebook were more than a dozen clippings, most of which had been

pa.s.sed on to her by Teresa and other equally curious cla.s.smates.

The first was of herself, and Michael, from the summer before. She

smoothed it carefully, battled embarra.s.sed delight as she studied her

face and form, depicted so clearly in newsprint. She looked wet and

disheveled, and unfortunately for her ego, didn't fill out the bikini

very interestingly.

But Michael looked wonderful.

Michael Kesselring, she thought. Of course the paper hadn't printed his

name, hadn't bothered to find it out. It had been her the press had

been interested in. But all the girls had squealed over Michael and

demanded to know who he was and if Emma had had a summer romance.

It had made her feel very grown-up to talk about him. Of course, she'd

embellished the tale more than a little, about how he'd carried her in

his arms, given her mouth-to-mouth, pledged his undying love. She didn't

think Michael would mind-especially since he'd never know about it.

With a sigh, she replaced the clipping and took out another. It was the

one Teresa had brought over the night Emma had had her ears pierced. She

couldn't count the number of times she had taken it out, stared at it,

studied it, tried to dissect it. Her eyes were constantly drawn to her

mother's face, frightened as they searched and searched for some

resemblance. But not all heredity could be seen, she knew. She was a

very good student, and had taken a special interest in biology when

discussions of heredity and genes had come up.

That was her mother, and there was no dienying it. She had grown inside

that woman, had been born from her. No matter how many years had

pa.s.sed, Emma could still smell the stink of gin, she could still feel

the pinches and slaps and hear the curses.

It terrified her-terrified her so that just looking at the picture had

her digging bitten-down nails into her palms, had the palms themselves

sweating.

On a choked cry, she tore her gaze from Jane's picture and looked at her

father's. She prayed every night she was like him-kind, gentle, funny,

fair. He had saved her. She had read the story often enough, and even

without the printed words, she remembered. The way he had looked when

she'd climbed out from under the sink, the kindness in his voice when he

had spoken to her. He'd given her a home, and a life without fear. Even

though he had sent her away, she would never forget the years he had

given her. That he and Bev had given her.

It was hardest to look at Bev somehow. She was so beautiful, so

perfect. Emma had never loved another woman more, never needed one

more. And to look at her made it impossible not to think of Darren.

Darren who had had the same rich dark hair and soft green eyes. Daffen

whom she had sworn to protect. Darren who had died.

Her fault, Emma thought now. She was never to be forgiven for it. Bev

had sent her away. Her father had sent her away. She would never have

a family again.

She put it away, and spent some time going through older clippings.

Pictures of herself as a child, pictures of Darren, the wide, stark

headlines about the murder. These she kept hidden deep in her drawer,