ERICA SPINDLER.

SEE JANE DIE.

PROLOGUE.

Friday, March 13, 1987.

Lake Ray Hubbard.

Dallas, Texas.

Heart thundering with exertion, fifteen-year-old Jane Killian treaded water. Sunlight reflected off the

lake's gla.s.sy surface, blindingly bright. She squinted against it as a single, wispy cloud trotted across the

postcard-perfect blue sky.

Jane looked back at the sh.o.r.e and waved her arms triumphantly. Her half sister, Stacy, two years her senior, had dared her to swim in the frigid water. Stacy's know-it-all friends-and fellow truants-had joined in, clucking their tongues, taunting her.

Jane had not just taken the dare, but had swum out past the raft, past the finger of land used as the

demarcation point between the swimming and boating areas of the lake.

Not only the older sibling, Stacy was the more athletic, stronger, faster. Jane tended to be a bookworm and dreamer-a tendency Stacy enjoyed goading her about.

Take that, Jane thought. Who's the weakling now? Who's the chicken?

At the rumble of a motor, Jane turned her head. A sleek powerboat raced across the surface of the

otherwise deserted lake, its path set to cross hers. An accomplished water-skier, Jane waved her arms to signal the boat's captain of her presence.

The craft veered away, seemed to falter, then angled back toward her.

Jane's heart lurched to her throat. She signaled again, this time frantically.

Still the boat came. As if its captain was deliberately aiming for her.

Panicked, she glanced back at the sh.o.r.e, saw that Stacy and her companions were on their feet, jumping

up and down and screaming.

Still the boat came.

He meant to hit her.

A terrified cry ripped past her lips; the roar of the engine drowned it out. The boat's hull crowded, then

filled, her vision.

A moment later terror was obliterated by pain as the motor's prop tore into her.

ONE.

Sunday, October 19, 2003.

Dallas, Texas.

Jane Killian awakened with a start. Light from the video monitor flickered in the otherwise dark room.

She blinked and lifted her head. It felt heavy, thick. She had fallen asleep in her screening room, she realized. She'd been editing one of her interviews, readying for her upcoming art exhibition, Doll Parts.

"Jane? Are you all right?"

She turned. Ian, her husband of less than a year, stood in the doorway to her art studio. Several emotions. .h.i.t her at once: love, wonder, disbelief. Dr. Ian Westbrook-smart, charming and James Bond handsome-loved her.

Jane frowned at his expression. "I screamed, didn't I?"

He nodded. "I'm worried about you."

She was worried, too. She had awakened screaming three times in recent weeks. Not from a nightmare.

Not from a manifestation of her subconscious, but one of her memory. The memory of the day that had changed her life forever. The day that had transformed her from a pretty, popular and happy teenager to a modern-day, female Quasimodo.

"Want to tell me about it?"

"Same old thing. Boater runs down teenager. The boat's prop chews up half her face, takes her right eye,

comes d.a.m.n close to severing her head. The girl survives. The boat captain is never caught and the police cla.s.sify the incident as an accident. End of story."

Except in the dream, the boat captain doubles back to make another pa.s.s at her.

And she awakens screaming.

"Far from the end of the story," Ian murmured. "Not only does the girl survive, she triumphs. Over years

of painful reconstructive surgeries, years enduring the stares of strangers, their whispers."

Their expressions of horror at her face. Their pity.

"Then she meets a dashing doctor," Jane continued. "They fall in love and live happily ever after. Sounds

like a made-for-TV, triple-hankie special event. I'm thinking the Lifetime channel."

Ian crossed to her, drew her to her feet and into his arms. The cold night air clung to him and she rubbed her cheek against his sweater, realizing he'd been outside.

"You don't have to be flip with me, Jane. I'm your husband."

"But it's what I do best."

He smiled. "No, it's not."

She returned his smile, pleased. Acknowledging that every minute she grew to love him more than the

last. "Would you be referring to an ability pa.s.sed in great secrecy from one generation of Dallas debutante to the next? A subject not fit for proper society?"

"I would, indeed."

"Glad to hear that, since it happens to be one of my favorite subjects, Dr. Westbrook."

He sobered, searched her gaze. "Typical Dallas deb, you're not. Never will be."

"Tell me something I don't know, stud."

He frowned at her reply. "You're doing it again."

"Sorry. Sometimes I breathe, too."

He cupped her face in his palms. "If I had wanted a perfectly coiffed doll in pearls and a little black dress,

I could have had one. I fell in love with you." She didn't reply and he trailed his thumbs across her

cheekbones. "You did triumph, Jane. You're so much stronger than you know."

His belief in her made her feel like a fraud. How could she have beaten the past when the memory of that day still had such power over her?

She pressed her face to his chest. Her rock, her heart. The man, the love, she had never thought she

would be lucky enough to find.

"It's probably the baby," he said softly, after a moment. "That's what's going on. That's why the nightmare's back."

Just yesterday the doctor had confirmed what she'd suspected for weeks-that she was pregnant. Eight weeks along. "But I feel great," she protested. "No morning sickness or fatigue. And it's not like we weren't wanting a baby."

"All true, but early pregnancy is tough. Your hormones are going haywire. The HCG level in your blood is doubling every couple of days and will continue to do so for another month. And as thrilled as we both are, a baby means major lifestyle changes."

Everything he said made sense and Jane found a measure of relief in his words. But still she wasn't convinced, though she didn't know why not.

As if he knew what she was thinking, he bent his forehead to hers. "Trust me, Jane. I'm a doctor."