Hurt shadowed Julia's expression for just a fleeting moment before her angular face turned hard. "As you wish," she said, and left.

31.

Tony surveyed the contents of the vending machine with a jaundiced eye. If he was looking for flavor he might as well go with bottled water. He fished some quarters from his pocket, fed them into the slot, and moments later he was sitting in Vince Connelly's office, nursing his bottled water and waiting for Connelly to get his wide-load ass off his land-line phone. He hadn't even acknowledged Tony with a nod and that was just plain rude.

At last the detective hung up the receiver. "An interesting turn of events in the LaDonna Jeffries case," he said, looking like the cat that had the canary by its tail feathers. He was practically licking his chops. "That was the prosecutor. James Brainard is no longer Alison Villard's attorney."

"Who's replacing him?"

"No one. Ms. Villard will have to hire her own attorney or use a public defender. It seems mother and daughter had a spat and mother has withdrawn her financial support, including a request to revoke the bail bond. But that's not the best part."

Connelly sipped carefully from a steaming mug of what looked like real coffee. Apparently there was an employee lounge somewhere around, and no one had bothered to tell Tony.

"The prosecutor's office thinks they have another reason to revoke bail."

Tony set the water down. "Really?"

"The morning after the murder, she was in her car heading south on the San Diego Freeway when her brother caught up with her and convinced her to turn herself in. It may have been a flight attempt. Plus, now there's news footage of her trying to run down a reporter."

"I guess that leaves you no choice," Tony said.

Connelly grinned, obviously thinking this was the case that would get him the media attention-and the promotion-he so richly deserved. "I guess it doesn't."

He muffled what sounded like a giggle, and Tony felt queasy hearing it. Men who carried guns should never be allowed to giggle. It was unseemly.

Tony hated the guy, and it would give him great pleasure to be the monkey wrench in Vince Connelly's machinery. But Tony also hated Alison. Seemed it came down to a question of which one he hated more. Not as easy a decision as the bottled water.

Marnie groped for the remote while she was still lying in bed, half-asleep. She'd heard TV news could be addicting, but that was a gross understatement when your own life was flashing before your eyes. It had to be like shooting heroin. She had the television on before she lifted her head off the pillow.

Last night's local news had shown video of her trying to drive around the reporters at the gate, and it had made her look reckless and crazy, despite the crowd surging at her. After watching it, she'd gotten hooked trying to find other stations with a more balanced version. She'd listened carefully to each word of commentary, hoping to hear something condemning the paparazzi-type onslaught, but it was the same footage on every station and the same raised eyebrows by the news anchors.

Now she was a double murderer and a bad driver.

She propped herself up with pillows, wincing at the brightness slicing through the glass doors. The sound that groaned out of her was closer to despair than laughter. Yesterday's clouds seemed to have passed. Too bad, actually. They suited her mood better than blinding sunlight.

She could hear activity downstairs, which was probably Rebecca in the kitchen. Marnie wasn't going to subject herself to Bret and Julia this morning. Maybe Rebecca would take pity and bring a cup of coffee up to her.

All Marnie could find were the usual morning talk formats and game shows as she clicked through the stations, which was probably a good thing. Maybe her fifteen minutes of infamy had passed with the weather. She had spent the night trying to figure out how to prove her identity without involving Julia or Andrew, but it didn't seem possible. Without Julia's cooperation, Gramma Jo might be her only choice, but Marnie hated the idea of putting her through that, and as her grandmother had pointed out, there was no guarantee anyone would believe her.

Marnie's greatest concern was Gramma Jo's health. Julia might have been paying the bills, but she didn't give a damn about Josephine Hazelton. Marnie wanted her grandmother safely back in her cottage, where she'd lived her whole life. But sadly, Marnie couldn't even help herself, much less Gramma Jo.

Every fiber seemed to ache as she sat up and swung her legs out of bed. But at least her body brought a comforting sense of familiarity. She didn't always recognize her reflection, and it was bizarre to be trapped in someone else's life, in their identity. Possibly she should just turn herself in. They must have figured out the prints didn't match by now. That would prove who she wasn't, but she still couldn't prove who she was, and she had no way to explain taking Alison's identity without involving Andrew...although protecting him should be her last concern right now.

Her feet touched the icy marble floor, and for an instant she wasn't aware of anything except the almost painful cold. She crossed the room, intending to open the balcony doors, but a sparkle of light from the liquor cart caught her attention.

She'd left the earrings there.

Those are the Villard diamonds. They're cursed, you know.

Marnie wondered how anything so beautiful could be evil, but the gems' lavish perfection was slightly sinister. They gave off a blushing light of their own, and the yellow diamond border had an aura-like glitter. Nearly constant movement in their depths made them seem alive.

She had to put them away, but she wasn't exactly anxious to pick them up. Curses were nothing but superstition, she told herself as she scooped them up, quickly returned them to their black-velvet box and tucked the box in a drawer of Andrew's jewelry case. They were his now, for better or worse.

That accomplished, she crossed the room with a sense of relief and threw open the balcony doors, enjoying the warmth that flooded in and the quiet outside. There were no reporters stationed at the gate. Maybe the furor was over.

As she entered the bathroom and turned on the faucet, she heard an announcement of breaking news. Half listening, she splashed some cool water on her face and grabbed the hand towel. The only thing she caught was a reference to a body washing up on shore. She couldn't hear what shore or any of the other details. Curious, she walked back into the bedroom, drying her face with the towel.

On the screen was a helicopter shot of a deserted beach. The headline running across the bottom said that the remains of a body had been found on a deserted beach in the Baja Peninsula. The next shot showed a crew of investigators going over the scene and the insert was a photo of what might have been the remains.

The female commentator said the body was a woman's and blond hair and black fibers had been found, but no identification had been made.

Blond hair and black fibers.

Marnie thought immediately of the photo journal she'd found on the boat, and all those snapshots of Alison, the ones Andrew said he was comparing. She'd been wearing a black bathing suit. Of course, millions of women had blond hair and wore black bathing suits, but how many of them were lost at sea?

Marnie stared at the screen long after the special report was over. Her head was still buzzing, and she hadn't heard why the discovery was receiving national attention, but she couldn't talk herself out of the possibility that this was about Alison. Marnie needed to talk to Andrew, but he still hadn't called or returned any of her messages. She had also never heard from the P.I. he'd supposedly hired.

Outside, the entry gates creaked and clanked. It sounded as if they were opening and a car was driving into the compound. She could hear the engine noise. Her heart began to race, and she ran for the balcony doors with the unreasonable hope that it was Andrew coming back.

What she saw as she burst out onto the balcony was two patrol cars and an unmarked sedan driving through the gates. Marnie's heart froze. No one had to tell her why they were here or who they'd come for.

From the window of her third floor bedroom at Sea Clouds, Rebecca watched the deputy sheriffs take Alison away in handcuffs. Apparently the county felt that six men, four in uniform and two wearing suits, were required to apprehend one slender, dazed woman.

Rebecca assumed the men in suits were detectives assigned to investigate the case, and she actually felt a stirring of sympathy for the woman being led away like a sacrificial lamb. Nothing that would change Rebecca's mind about what she herself had done, but still, she was human. Alison wasn't any worse than the other two, just convenient. If Rebecca had had her choice, the deputies would be taking all of them away.

Bret was a practicing sociopath, and Julia hadn't even come out of her room when the law arrived. Rebecca had let the men in and shown them to Alison's room, and then she'd gone to Julia's door and knocked. Julia had shouted at her to go away, said she wasn't well. Rebecca had figured she was drunk, and left her alone. She hadn't bothered going to Bret's room. She was fairly certain he hadn't come back the night before. He probably had some new girlfriend to torture.

The deputies had let Alison get dressed, but she looked like a gypsy in the black prairie dress she wore. Her hair was flying loose and uncombed, and her feet were bare. Rebecca wondered if it was shock or defiance that had made her dress like that. She also found herself wondering what Alison had been like before the surgery. It seemed to have changed everything but her looks.

At least the media was nowhere around. There would be no witnesses to this part of the slaughter, except Rebecca herself, and her guilt was already subsiding. She had convinced herself that what she was doing was necessary for survival. She was taking advantages of the opportunities that came her way, and she'd been taught by the best-the Fairmonts themselves.

The prints were a perfect match.

Marnie sat on a concrete slab in a holding cell, wearing a jumpsuit the color of neon-orange roadwork signs, and waiting for the public defender the court had appointed to represent her. She'd been locked up all morning, and all anyone would tell her was that his name was Paul Esposito, and he would show up when he showed up. It was a little different than the last time she'd been booked.

James Brainard had already withdrawn from the case, claiming Alison herself had fired him. That was bullshit, but Marnie couldn't very well argue the point. Nor could she tell the female officer who'd fingerprinted her for the second time that the prints couldn't possibly match.

They did match, both times. A mix-up once, perhaps. Not twice.

The prints on record for Alison Fairmont matched Marnie's-and it only got worse from there. The CSI team had found Marnie's sweater, missing a button, in the garbage at Sea Clouds, and the crime lab had matched the sweater's cotton thread with the residue on the button and with the fiber they'd found under LaDonna's fingernails. LaDonna had apparently pulled the button off while she was struggling with her killer.

And now Marnie was being framed for her murder. But that wasn't why the court had revoked her bail and ordered that she be incarcerated. Someone had convinced them she was a flight risk. Probably the same person who was trying to frame her: Tony Bogart.

Marnie was convinced of it. How difficult would it be for a law enforcement officer to set someone up? Tony knew exactly what he was doing, and he wouldn't rest until he'd avenged himself on Alison. Either whatever Alison had done to him had turned him into a monster, or he'd been one all along. It ran in his family. Butch had been crazy-mean, and Marnie had heard the rumors about Butch and Tony's mother, how she'd tried to kill herself with them in the car.

Marnie rose from the slab and roamed the small cell like a zombie. Nothing felt real, least of all her. None of the Fairmont family had been there when the police handcuffed her and took her away. The house was still, and she hadn't seen any sign of Julia, Bret, or even Rebecca. It was as if they didn't exist.

Marnie touched her throat. It was a reflex, but it always felt as if she'd been caught in a net when she realized nothing was there. It was a hot, suffocating feeling. Her best hope now was that the body found in Mexico would be identified as Alison's. If she could endure this cement cage and stay quiet a little longer, perhaps she wouldn't have to prove anything. It would be done for her.

Bret wasn't in his room, but Julia knew something was going on when she saw the open dresser drawers and the clothing laid out on his bed. There were two summer suits hanging on the valet stand, and he'd pulled several pairs of shoes out of his closet.

He was leaving. "Bret? Bret! Where are you?"

She found him in the kitchen on his cell phone, madly talking to someone. He gave her a thumbs-up as she entered the room, and mouthed, "I got the job."

He was beaming as he talked on the phone. Julia couldn't remember seeing him so happy, and her heart ached at what she had to do.

"I need to talk to you," she whispered, using rudimentary sign language to get her meaning across.

He nodded and said his goodbyes to whoever was on the other end of the line. Even before he'd hung up the phone, he began to eagerly fill Julia in on the details of his new job on the magazine, which included moving to New York.

"One of my frat brothers from U.S.C. lives in Manhattan," he told her. "He's going to let me stay with him until I find a place of my own. That is so cool of him. It's almost impossible to find housing in Manhattan. I've already started packing, and I have a flight..." His head tilted quizzically. "What's going on? You don't look overjoyed about my good news."

"Bret, I'm thrilled about your job. Really, I am, but you'll have to push back the start date. We have a crisis, and I need you here in California."

He threw his arms up in exasperation. He opened a cabinet and slammed it shut, nearly breaking the glass panes in the door. "You can't keep doing this to me. You constantly nag me about not working, but every time I get a job you sabotage it. I want this job. I deserve it, for Christ's sake."

He turned on his mother, seething with anger and hurt. "It's Alison, right? Rebecca told me the cops came and got her. She's the fucking crisis, as always."

"No, it isn't Alison. She isn't Alison. Bret, you were right about her."

His glare turned suspicious. "What are you talking about?"

Julia desperately wanted a drink to stop her voice from shaking, but she'd given up booze an hour ago. She was done with it. No more booze, no more pills. Somehow she had to get through this sober.

"Sit down," she told him, no longer pleading. He was the only family she had left that she could-or would-acknowledge, and he was going to stay with her because that's what family did.

Bret's face furrowed with frustration, but he hoisted his butt onto the island countertop and listened, brightening only when she told him about the imposter in their midst. Julia described Andrew and Marnie's deception in great and gory detail, starting with Butch's attack on Marnie and ending with the confrontation with Marnie yesterday. The only thing Julia left out was the part about her indiscretion years ago and the tragic result. That she could never admit. That she would take to her grave.

Bret wasn't quite as glum by the time she'd finished.

"I knew it wasn't Alison," he said softly.

"How could you have known? She was so like your sister," Julia said.

"You were oblivious to all of it." Bitterness crept into his tone. "You wanted to believe Alison had returned from her watery grave and that you two could hug and make up and all would be forgiven."

"I suppose so," Julia said, just as glad he thought that was the only reason she'd blinded herself to the obvious. It always surprised her how naive and gullible men could be about women.

"You haven't heard the worst, Bret. I'm going to need your help with damage control. This Marnie Hazelton person is crazy. She's making outrageous claims, and they're all untrue."

"What kind of claims?"

"She's trying to extort me into helping her get out of the murder charges. When she told me who she really was, she also threatened to say that she was my illegitimate daughter. Isn't that absurd?"

He shook back the blond curls that were forever tumbling onto his forehead. "Why would she do that?"

"She claims there's no other way to prove she didn't commit the crimes that her alter-ego, Alison, has been accused of. Marnie Hazelton could hardly have killed herself, but she swore to me that she has no way to prove her identity. She made up some ridiculous story about having no birth certificate or any other records. She wants my financial support, of course, but I'm not going to be blackmailed."

Julia couldn't tell by his puzzled expression whether she'd convinced him or not. "Bret, please stay. I don't know whether your sister's alive or dead, and I can't lose all my children at one time."

Still silent, he gazed at the floor.

"Bret?" she repeated.

Julia was startled when he slid off the counter and came over to her. He pulled her into his arms and gave her a hug that was completely unexpected. Tears stung, catching in her lashes and threatening to turn into a flood. She couldn't remember the last time he'd done that-just swept her into his arms and hugged her-and she really wanted to remember, for some reason.

"I'll talk to the magazine's editor and see if I can get more time," he said, his arms locked around her. "I'll tell him there's a family crisis. He'll figure it out for himself when the news hits the papers."

Julia shuddered. "I'm trying not to think about the media." She hugged her son back, thanking him profusely, and hoping this nightmare didn't put his new job in jeopardy.

In truth, Julia wasn't at all certain Bret could help her-or that anyone could. But she was going to fight to the bitter end. Deny deny deny. No matter what they tried to accuse her of, and she was certain the media would accuse her of everything from Butch Bogart's murder to her own daughter's disappearance, she would deny it all. She would wear black and comport herself with the dignity of a grieving mother, because that's what she was. She would behave as only Eleanor could have behaved in a situation like this, because she had no other choice. There was nothing left to hide behind now except the family bond, even if it was an illusion. She was a Fairmont only by marriage. By blood she was a Driscoll, and she would go down a Driscoll.

She imagined Eleanor was sitting up in her grave and howling by now. Julia didn't know if it was with approval or rage, and to her surprise, she found that she didn't really care. It was a good feeling, not caring. It might be the only pure and honest feeling she had.

32.

Marnie sat across the interview room table from her court-appointed public defender, wondering if the ink was dry on his diploma from law school. Paul Esposito was a twenty-something kid who clearly had no interest in her or her case, and did not want to be there. As far as she could tell, his only goal was to close her file as quickly and as permanently as possible, even if that meant throwing her to the lions.

"The prosecutor's talking death penalty," he said in the tone of someone discussing inclement weather. "I think she'd come down to life without possibility of parole, if we played her game."

"Life, that's a long time."

Paul shrugged, and Marnie realized irony was wasted on him. Probably any effort to enlist Paul to her cause would be wasted. Of course, he thought he was dealing with Alison Fairmont, whose case had all but been crushed by incriminating physical evidence and no financial support. But he probably wouldn't have cared if he'd known who she really was.

"And what is her game?" Marnie asked him.

"We plead guilty to the first count, and they reduce the second to manslaughter. I'll hold out until they drop the second charge. There isn't enough evidence to make it stick."

"And I spend the rest of my life in maximum security?"

"It's better than death row." Paul shrugged again. Someone should tell him that was bad for the posture.