And so did she. Or had. Once upon a time.

All that was going to change.

Tony pulled his cell from the belt clip and dialed his voice mail. He'd already listened repeatedly to the anonymous snitch's messages, but there was always the chance he'd hear something he hadn't heard before. A clue to the snitch's identity. A hint at the motive for the calls.

The first tip had come in as a voice mail message, which Tony had saved. After that, he'd inserted a modified subscriber identity module, otherwise known as a SIM chip, in the Global System for Mobile Communications slot on his cell. The spy-tech gadget, which he'd learned about during his FBI training, had allowed him to record conversations and permanently save each call. But right now he was only interested in the last message.

He touched a key to play it back.

"The police got everything wrong," the whispering voice said. "Two people died on February second. Marnie Hazelton didn't kill Butch. She was murdered, too, and then framed for killing him."

The caller went silent, and Tony remembered thinking the call was over. But the real motive had been to create anticipation, he'd realized.

"Mirage Bay's real monster is an old friend of yours," the voice said. "Alison Fairmont Villard is the double murderer. She did them both."

Tony clicked off the phone. He didn't smile, but he wanted to. He had a very personal stake in this case, and he hadn't told anyone yet, including local law enforcement. Considering how they'd handled the investigation so far, he didn't trust them with information this vital. He had more work to do first. With the tipster's help, he hoped to break this case before he told the cops anything.

Unfortunately, the tipster had never once mentioned motive. No one would be able to make a case against Alison without that, and Tony had no idea what her motive might be. No idea in hell. That's why he was here.

He closed his eyes, imagining the face of the woman he'd just confronted. The accident hadn't made her less beautiful, but it had changed her. He'd watched her throat blotch and her hands shake like anyone else's. That could not have happened to the preaccident Alison. She'd been above it all, supernatural. Now she knew what it was like to be human, and breakable.

She hadn't walked the same earth as everyone else. She'd floated on a cloud of perfection. Her whole family had. And if Tony couldn't have been the one to bring her down, he was glad something had. Maybe there was some justice for those born less fortunate than Alison Fairmont, which was almost everybody.

By southern California standards, Mirage Bay was neither an upscale beach town like La Jolla or a funky art enclave like Laguna Beach. There were no brick streets lined with fashionable boutiques, no monogrammed awnings or oceanfront hotels with five-star restaurants and expensive art in the lobbies.

Despite the skyrocketing value of California coastal property, the town had managed to stay small, dusty and decidedly unglamorous. Kids drove from all over to surf the mostly gentle waves, and on weekends, small gangs of rough-and-ready marines from Camp Pendleton took over the main beer joint and pool hall.

"Beach shabby chic" was how one L.A. restaurant critic had described the local ambience. Alison wouldn't have used the word chic in any context, although the weekend flea market did boast fresh-grown organic produce, a variety of handmade items-and Gramma Jo, who was something of a legendary local fortune-teller.

And Mother Nature had been good to Mirage Bay. Cliffs and tidal pools abounded. The towering palms were said to be over a century old and planted by the Franciscan missionaries. And of course, Sea Clouds, the Fairmont compound, was considered one of the most beautiful pieces of real estate in the area.

For serious shopping, you drove to La Jolla's famous Prospect Street or farther south to San Diego, which was rich with malls. It was her mother's favorite way to while away an afternoon, but Alison had never been a power shopper. She'd had another preoccupation back in the days when her family had come to Mirage Bay each winter. Alison had had a secret yearning for fame and fortune, for love and attention. She'd desperately wanted to be a rock star, to put it mildly.

Thank God her needs were much more basic today. All she wanted to do was get to the drugstore, which sat between the supermarket and the dry cleaners in a busy strip mall that was the town's main hub. She'd had to wait for Tony Bogart to drive away before she could leave. He'd sat in that ridiculous Corvette, parked outside the gates, for nearly two hours. It was an obvious attempt at intimidation, but rather than have him following her around, she'd decided to outwait him.

She'd also been debating whether to make a side trip, but had talked herself out of it. The risk of being seen was too great, especially with Bogart skulking around. She'd taken Andrew into her confidence, and he'd promised to help her find out why her phone calls weren't being answered. For now, she would have to trust him.

Alison was relieved not to find the store crowded as she slipped inside and walked straight back to the aisle where the topical cortisone cream was shelved. In most drugstores, the shelves were periodically rearranged, supposedly to confuse the customers and keep them in the store longer, but not in Mirage Bay. Nothing ever changed here.

Until six months ago, when everything had changed.

Alison had claimed her skin condition was surgery-related, but she'd actually been using the cream for years. The rash had nothing to do with her many operations, but that wasn't something she could easily explain, so she'd used a convenient excuse. Near fatal accidents, multiple surgeries and transient amnesia were all very handy for explaining away just about anything.

She picked up one of the tubes and read the ingredients. Not the brand she normally used, but close enough, as long as it was effective. This was the worst reaction she'd ever had, probably because her nerves were shot. The encounter with Tony this morning had left her shaken, even though she'd been trying to convince herself that he was only baiting her, payback for the past. It was still hard to believe that he actually worked for the FBI.

"Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else."

Alison felt a hand on her bare arm and veered away. She hadn't realized the comment was meant for her-or worse, that the young woman gaping at her was LaDonna Jeffries. If the town had a gossip, it was LaDonna. She was the last person Alison wanted to see right now.

"Oh, did I frighten you?" LaDonna said. "It's just that, except for your hair, you look a lot like someone who used to live around here. Alison Fairmont? Anyone else ever tell you that? We called her the ice princess. Funny, huh?"

Not to Alison. LaDonna must not have read the newspaper, which meant Alsion could probably get away with denying everything.

LaDonna peered at Alison, narrowing her eyes and shaking her head. "Wow, you really do look like her. It's almost creepy. Sorry, I'm losing it here. Is there something I can help you with?"

"You work here?" Alison could hear her voice giving out. The intense scrutiny made her feel almost ill, especially since she knew this was only the beginning. Once LaDonna spread the word, everybody would be whispering and staring at Alison as if she were some kind of sideshow freak.

"Is something wrong?" LaDonna asked.

"Yes." She began to laugh softly. This was all so absurd, trying to pretend everything was fine, that she and Andrew were fine when they were anything but. Trying to remember-and to forget-and holding so much inside. Sometimes it felt as if she were going to crack like a pinata.

"What is it? Are you all right?"

Hysteria bubbled in Alison's throat. The laughter turned into a coughing spasm when she tried to quell it. "You were right," she gasped at last. "I am Alison, but it's Villard now. I got married."

LaDonna nodded, apparently absorbing the news. "I knew it," she whispered. "The darker hair threw me off, but I knew I was right."

Nowhere to hide, Alison realized. Open season.

"And you got married," LaDonna said, nodding. Tendrils bounced free of the claw clip that held her curly auburn hair. "I heard about that. You married that hot French guy, huh? Congratulations."

Alison nodded, fighting against her body's need to erupt in some terribly messy way, laughing or coughing. "Thank you, but we were married four years ago."

"Are you sure you're all right?" LaDonna said. "Your voice sounds strange."

Alison cleared her throat. "It's the surgery. It affected my vocal chords."

"Oh, yeah, the accident. You look great, though. No one would know you lost most of your face-or anyway, that's what I heard. Sorry, that must have sounded gross."

Alison just stared at her, helpless. She wasn't about to discuss the devastation to her face. She still felt like a complete freak no matter how good people said she looked. And this one seemed willing to go where angels feared to tread. No sense of boundaries at all.

"Are you sure I can't help you find something?" LaDonna offered. "Please? I can't just stand here and yack, they'll fire me."

Alison realized she was still holding the tube of cortisone cream. She put it back on the shelf behind another larger tube of something else. "I'm looking for hand cream. Where would I find that?"

A smile replaced LaDonna's worried expression. "Come with me," she said. "We're actually overstocked right now. I like the colloidal oatmeal, myself. It's very soothing, and if you have sensitive skin like I do, it's a must have."

LaDonna shot Alison a pleased look. "Don't take this wrong, but I didn't think people like you shopped in stores like this. I mean, regular old drugstores. I think it's great. Oh, are you sure you're all right?"

Alison had stopped and clapped a hand to her chest. She was still fighting off what felt like a coughing fit. It burned through her lungs like fire. Maybe she really was sick.

"Excuse me, I need to go," she said, brushing past LaDonna. It was incredibly rude, but if she didn't get out of the store, something terrible was going to happen. She struggled not to cough as she ran.

"What about the hand cream?" LaDonna called after her. "Did I tell you it has colloidal oatmeal? It's great stuff. Alison, are you all right?"

Alison shot through the drugstore door and froze, momentarily paralyzed at the sight of the unfamiliar parking lot.

Where was she?

Mirage Bay, the strip mall in the center of town.

How did she get here?

The black BMW convertible that had once been hers. It was parked not twenty feet away from her. The keys were in the pocket of her dress.

Who was she?

Alison had no answer to that one as she plunged her hand in her pocket and grabbed the keys.

February second, six months earlier She liked the black water best of all. A leafy canopy of oak trees blocked the afternoon sun, and something about the tide pool's glassy surface seemed to smooth all the imperfections from her reflection. She looked serene and peaceful. It was almost a normal face gazing back at her, not freakish at all. The times she bathed here were like a meditation on her own solemn beauty. For a little while, she was whole.

She was about to rise from the water when a rustling sound caught her attention. She hesitated, crouching down and searching the shadows. A whimper of despair formed in her throat. Someone was watching her. Him. She knew even before she saw him step out of the bushes.

That bastard. The sick bastard had found her.

"Ugly slut," he hissed at her. He crashed into the shallow pool, black spray exploding in every direction. Slowly, as if in shock, she rose from the water and watched him come thundering toward her. She was naked, dripping.

He was the one who tormented every pathetic moment of her pathetic life. He called her names and crudely groped her. He and his friends chased her everywhere she went, surrounding her like dogs in a pack, laughing and jeering at her disfigured face. Once, they'd tripped her, knocked her to the ground and peed on her, and no one had stopped them.

He had made the whole town loathe and despise her. And now he was going to rape her and leave her for dead. He would have to get rid of her, wouldn't he?

You fucking bastard! I won't let you destroy me!

Tears soaked her face. She couldn't run anymore. Hatred locked her in place. Maybe it was time to die. Time to be free of him-and the crippling shame. He had turned her into a cowering animal.

"Slut," he said under his breath. "You're the ugliest slut I've ever seen."

A pitchfork was stuck in the hard dirt and sand at the edge of the pool. She used it for cleaning out the seaweed and debris. It was her only chance, but it was too far away.

"You're a fucking birth defect," he snarled. "You should never have been born. How the hell did a freak like you end up with a hot body and those incredible tits?"

He lunged at her, but she sank down, evading him. She was fast, but he had brute strength on his side. And animal lust. His jeans were unzipped, his hard penis exposed. She knew what he was going to do, and he knew that she was alone and defenseless. He'd been watching her the entire time.

He threw out his arms like a wrestler, preparing for the takedown. Her mind was running a hundred miles an hour, calculating the odds of getting away. Suddenly he lunged again. She tried to duck, but he caught her by the hair and dragged her to her feet.

It hurt like hell, but she forced herself to relax, to go limp. She waited until he yanked her around and kissed her, and then she slammed her knee into his groin.

He howled with pain and flung her away. They both ended up in the water. Veins bulged in his neck as he gripped her by the throat and held her under. He was going to strangle her! She was going to die. She gasped for breath, sucking black water into her mouth and nostrils. It flooded down her throat and into her lungs. Her wild thrashing only made it worse. Within moments, her mind was fuzzy. Everything was as black and murky as the pool.

She lost consciousness, but something brought her back. The pressure was gone. His hands had fallen away from her throat. Maybe he thought she was dead. Her will to live gave her the strength to heave herself up, but she slammed into something solid. It was his body, and she hit him hard.

He went over backward. She must have caught him off guard. As he floundered, she crawled to the side of the pool. But by the time she got to the pitchfork, he was on her again, fangs bared, rearing up like a grizzly bear to finish her off.

She got him in the stomach with the prongs.

He grabbed the pitchfork and ripped it away from her, trying to get free. But the handle hit the ground and dug in. It threw him forward and impaled him like a fish on a spear. His eyes bugged out, and one of his flailing arms clubbed her alongside her head.

That was the last thing she remembered. She must have passed out, but not before heaving him over backward with the pitchfork and stabbing him again and again, seventeen times. They said he'd died of multiple wounds. Horrible wounds. Only a monster could have mutilated a human body like that.

Was it guilt or horror that drove her to flee over a mile down the beach, scale the sea wall and run all the way out to the edge of the cliffs, to Satan's Teeth? Was it guilt or horror that made her plunge into the roiling waters below?

Alison sat up, breathing hard. Sweat soaked her trembling body. She'd had the dream again. It was coming more and more often and with greater detail each time. Gruesome and graphic detail. Tonight she'd heard him grunt and seen the blood gush from the wounds. She'd felt his body resist the prongs, and the horrible release when his flesh tore.

Her stomach rolled, and she sprang from the bed, knowing she might wake Andrew. She was going to be sick, and she had to get out of the room. She headed for the French doors to the balcony, hoping the air outside would cool her drenched body and slow her spinning mind.

Moments later, as she bent over the balcony railing, breathing deeply, she came to grips with several terrifying realities. It was no wonder she was having nightmares. This was where the nightmare had started. Right here in Mirage Bay, six months and how many days ago? She didn't know. She'd lost track, but that was when her miserable life had taken a fatal turn.

She couldn't stay here, not in this house or this town, and the reason was simple. She wasn't-and had never been-Alison Fairmont.

She was Marnie Hazelton.

8.

It was Marnie Hazelton's body that Andrew had found, battered and bleeding from the reefs. He'd assumed it was his wife because of the charm bracelet. He'd had no way of knowing that Alison had lost the bracelet when she'd taken it in for sizing, or that Marnie, who had always secretly idolized Alison's golden perfection and had innocently stalked her like a starstruck teen, had found it.

Andrew hadn't known any of that, but he had known that Alison didn't have a ruby birthmark on her throat, or anywhere. That was when he'd realized it might be the wrong woman in the operating room, but he'd said nothing to the doctors. It was too late, or so he'd told Marnie. All the major work had been done.

The breezes off the ocean were cool, and Marnie shifted gently from foot to foot, trying to warm herself. The rocking motion calmed her. She'd done it since earliest childhood, and her Gramma Jo had insisted it was because Marnie was a gift from the ocean. Gramma swore she'd found her as a baby being rocked by the sea in the wicker basket. She'd also insisted in mysterious tones that the sea might one day call Marnie back.

Marnie had never believed any of it. Gramma Jo loved to tell tales, but the rocking motion did seem instinctive, and she'd always been drawn to the sea, especially when life had seemed hopeless. She'd stood for hours on the cliffs overlooking the ocean, and watched the waves crash against the rocks below, watched and swayed to the eternal rhythms.

Maybe she had actually jumped from the cliffs the night Butch died. Maybe the sea had called her back. She couldn't remember.

When she'd returned to consciousness in the recovery room, she'd told Andrew that she'd killed someone and didn't want to live. Andrew had known immediately that she was Marnie Hazelton. Everyone knew about Butch Bogart's murder and Marnie's disappearance, but Andrew had shocked her with his reaction. He'd not only questioned the reliability of her memory of the incident, he'd made it clear that he considered her the victim and Butch the criminal.

"Whatever that bastard got he deserved," Andrew had assured her. "I should have killed him when I had the chance."

They'd both known what he was referring to. This was not the only time Andrew Villard had intervened in her life. When she was still a gawky kid, he'd come upon her cornered in a back alley by Butch and his friends. They'd already ripped her blouse, and they were egging each other on. If not for Andrew, she would probably have been assaulted by every one of them.

Butch was big and beefy even then, a varsity wrestler on the high school team, and clearly the ringleader. Most people were cowed by his size alone, but Andrew had been an accomplished boxer in college. Poor Butch was swaggering one minute and on his butt the next. His friends had scattered like rats from a garbage can.

Andrew had tried to talk to Marnie afterward, but she'd been too ashamed and confused. Why would a man like Andrew Villard take on that bunch of thugs for her? She wouldn't have expected him to look at her, especially compared to a beauty like Alison, who was six years older than Marnie. He and Alison were royalty. The whole town watched them from a distance, enraptured.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Marnie froze. It was Andrew behind her on the balcony. She rubbed her arm, aware of her chilled skin. How long had she been out here?

"A bad dream," she said, surprised at the pang she felt. She didn't want to feel pangs. It was idiotic. She resented bitterly the possibility that some part of her might want a relationship with a man who would actually care enough to ask about her bad dreams.

Impossible. Andrew already knew about this dream. He knew about everything, her darkest secrets.