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Her guess was that Thomas's hired gun had not yet confirmed that she wasn't who she said she was. A seamstress who did alterations on rich people's clothes and lived with a fireman while they raised their son. And if he worked for Thomas, he wasn't going to take any chances on being wrong.

Thomas was not a forgiving man.

Really, she could understand not being recognized. Kate Whitehead hadn't stepped outside her bedroom without full makeup, including enhanced eyebrows and
a mouth artistically painted to make it fuller, more succulent than the one she'd been born with, since she was fourteen years old. Kate Whitehead had been well-taught.

Tricia Campbell was named after a soup can.

 

“The old man says you had Kate followed.”

Unafraid, Thomas Whitehead met this latest inquisition head-on. Before coming down to the station, he'd agreed to let Douglas speak for him, but once he knew that the line of questioning included the hermit, Walter Mavis, he indicated with a brief shake of his head that he'd handle the interview.

He'd expected the questions to be about the fact that, at one point, his wife had had a lover—not this that was so uncommon in California. He hadn't seen recent statistics, but he'd bet more than half the married population had affairs.

“I did have her followed.”

Prosecutors Holm and Black exchanged a glance and he didn't have to be a scholar in human relations to know he'd surprised them, just as he'd planned.

“Why?”

“Kate's pregnancy was hard on her.” Thomas's answers came easily; they were the truth. “She was…upset…a lot of the time.” There was only so much a man in the public eye could reveal about a family member, particularly his wife, so he chose his words carefully.

But he chose them. He wasn't going to jail out of loyalty to a missing wife.

“You're saying she suffered from depression?” Amy Black asked, eyes narrowed.

He'd have put it more delicately. “Yes.”

“Was she treated for it? On medication?”

Hands clasped loosely on the table, Thomas shook his head. “She was one of those women who become obsessed with everything they put in their bodies from the moment they find out they're expecting. She wouldn't accept any kind of medication.”

“Did you notice erratic behavior?”

“Not erratic, really, but melancholy, which can be even worse. I worried constantly that she'd take her own life. Not at home, of course—the servants were around—but she had that damn mountain she always ran to. There was no telling what she might do there. Or somewhere else, for that matter.”

“So you had her followed.”

“Naturally.”

David Holm stepped forward. “I'm wondering then, Senator, why she wasn't followed the day she disappeared.”

He'd thought all of this would come out two years ago. He'd been prepared ever since.

“We'd had a talk the night before,” he said. “A disagreement, really, that turned into a compromise. My man got careless, and Kate figured out that I was having her followed. She insisted I call him off. I refused
at first, but she became so upset I was afraid that knowing she was being watched might send her over the edge. I told her I'd fire the private detective if she promised not to go anywhere alone.”

“So you'd just called off the detective that day that she went missing?”

“Yes.”

“And you can provide us with the name of that detective?”

“Yes. Alan Klein.” It occurred to Thomas that he had his college buddy Mike to thank for the fact that this hadn't come up before.

Amy Black, an older woman with graying hair, drab-colored suits and glasses that were too big for her face, sat on one corner of the table in the otherwise empty room. “Why, Senator, since you'd hired a professional, did you also ask Walter Mavis to watch out for your wife?”

“Have you been up on Miner's Mountain?” he asked.

“No.”

“It's off an old mining trail barely wide enough for a single vehicle. The last quarter mile up is reachable only by foot. Not an easy place to follow someone undetected.”

“I guess not,” Holm said with a smile. Thomas resisted the urge to sit back, to get too complacent, regardless of the fact that he knew he'd already done his job that day.

“I loved my wife to distraction, ma'am.” He pulled
from deep within to address Holm's partner. “And she spent a lot of time up on that mountain top. She used to say she got her inspiration there. She'd take her drawing pad and pencils and be gone for hours. It was a natural conclusion for me, when I discovered that the old hermit lived up there and often heard Kate's car on the old mining trail, to ask for any added protection he might be willing to give her.”

“Did you pay him for his services?”

“I did not.” Thank God no cash had ever exchanged hands. It could have, so easily. The angels of heaven were still smiling on him. Compensation for his miserable youth.

“Mavis says he heard Kate's car go by the day she disappeared, but that she didn't stop,” Black said, her mouth a thin line. She needed some good hard sex. If she could find anyone who could get it up for her up-tight ass.

“Not at all unusual. She stopped to say hello only about half the time.”

Holm nodded, putting his pen in his pocket, closing his leather notepad. Douglas closed his as well.

“Since you obviously know about your wife's last trip up the mountain, why didn't you tell investigators about it—or about the existence of Walter Mavis—when she disappeared?”

Kilgore Douglas stood. “You are out of line, Ms. Black.” His voice was firm, confident; it hinted at power without arrogance, an effective ploy, successful
enough to earn him the generous salary Thomas paid him. “My client is not on trial for his wife's disappearance.”

Kilgore held the door and Thomas walked through with his head high. He was going to stop for a drink on the way home, after all. One stiff bourbon should take care of the unease left inside him by the unsightly face of Prosecutor Amy Black.

S
he talked to Scott twice a day, stopped in to see him a couple of times, had Taylor constantly in her sight. She kept her back to the wall and looked over her shoulder whenever it wasn't. And always, every waking moment—and the sleeping ones, too, huddled in bed with her son snuggled against her, listening to the house while she tried to rest—she lived in a bubble of darkness.

Should she run? But where? And wouldn't she just be followed again? If they'd found her this time, they'd find her again.

At least here she had a full life, a disguise. And she had Scott's protection. He was someone she trusted to watch out for her son, to raise him if anything happened to her.

Here she had moments of love.

Here she was swimming in a sea of guilt.

Scott had started a four-day-off rotation that morning. He'd called to say he was bringing home a surprise
and asked her to have Taylor up, dressed and fed. Just like a real dad. In a real family.

Except that Taylor Campbell had a real dad. One who believed himself powerful enough to get away with murder.

Her heart sank when she saw Scott's surprise.

“Dog! Dog! Daddee, dog!” The baby, dressed in denim overalls and a blue-and-white collared shirt with navy-and-white tennis shoes, jumped up and down, his soft dark curls bouncing with his delight.

One knee on the grass in the backyard, Scott kept an arm poised, as though ready to catch the toddler if he lost his balance. Both of them were intent on the squirming little ball of fur at Taylor's feet. “He's yours, sport. What should we call him?”

“Dog, Daddee!”

The puppy, a six-pound Dalmatian mix, darted off after a butterfly, tripping over his own feet. Taylor ran after him, giggling and squealing. “Dog, Daddee!”

“The dog's running, Taylor.” Scott's grin made the moment bearable, but nothing could assuage the guilt knotting in her stomach. The puppy was one more thing for Taylor to get attached to. One more thing a little boy should be allowed to get attached to. Like a dad. One more thing Taylor might very well have to leave.

“Wun!” Taylor yelled.

Scott and Tricia exchanged a startled look. “He said run!” Her smile wasn't as painful, suddenly, as she
watched her son gallop along as drunkenly as his new puppy, screaming “Wun, Dog, wun!”

For three months, no matter how she'd coaxed, encouraged, worried, Taylor had adamantly held to his repertoire of five words. He'd just added a sixth.

Thanks to Scott. And Dog.

 

“You shouldn't have done this.” Half lying on an old maroon-and-white quilt on the kitchen floor Saturday evening, propped up against the counter, Tricia held out both hands, ready to catch the puppy cavorting on her chest should he slip and fall.

Scott, on his side next to her, leaning on one elbow, reached over to scratch the little guy behind one comically pointed ear. “He was free.”

“He's going to pee in the house.” There was only a momentary twinge at the vulgarity she would never have uttered in her other life.

“We'll wipe it up.”

Dog pounced on Scott's finger, digging in sharp puppy teeth. “Ouch! You little rat.” Scott laughed, playing keep-away with the puppy just beneath Tricia's unbound breasts. Hoping to go to bed, she'd undressed an hour ago, and pulled on the violet nightshirt and panties when it became obvious that Dog had other ideas than sleeping in a cardboard box by himself in the kitchen.

Or the bedroom.

Or any room.

The box was now outside, next to the trash can. And Scott and Tricia were facing a possible night on the kitchen floor—with a light on over the sink because Dog whined as soon as they turned it off.

“He's going to chew on stuff.”

“Only for a while.”

Dog rolled off her, settling between them while Scott continued to pet him gently. “And what happens when we call it quits?” She asked the question that had been torturing her all day. “How do we tell Taylor that Dog isn't his?”

She and Scott shared a bed, shared their bodies and their grocery bills. They did not share possessions.

His hand on the puppy's back, Scott, still in the jeans he'd worn that day, rubbed one bare foot against the other. He didn't look at her. His chest provided distraction for her restless gaze. But only for the second it took her to want to be there, her fingers buried in the dark wiry hair.

“You planning to go soon?”

Oh, God, I don't know. “I have no plans.” Just a bunch of secrets and lies piling so high on top of me that I'm burying myself with no hope of rescue.

“Well, then…”

“Scott.” She spoke firmly. And waited for him to look at her before she went on. “Things aren't great here.” One of them had to acknowledge the truth—and as it was the only truth she
could
acknowledge, she figured she was the one. “We haven't made love in more than a week.”

“Couples go through times of adjustment.”

“Couple implies two people who have made a commitment to each other. That's not us. We're two people who are together for the moment. Period.” The words hurt so much.

His green eyes were completely serious as he peered up at her. “Do you want to be a couple?”

Tricia swallowed, her mind skittering around his question. “It's not an option.”

“Why?”

Dog was asleep. “We have an understanding.”

“Made by us, so it can be changed by us.”

It just didn't stop—the knife twisting inside her, the guilt growing heavier and heavier.

Her hands on the floor on either side of her, holding up the weight of her life, she stared at her bare feet. “The reasons we made them still exist.”

She didn't even realize, or at least admit to herself, that she'd half hoped he'd argue with her until he didn't.

“Do you want to leave?”

Her gaze darted to him. “No!” It wasn't something she could lie about. That truth was just too strong to be denied.

His dark hair hanging over his forehead, he studied her silently, until all Tricia wanted to do was press herself against him. Lose herself in the only thing that made sense anymore…

“Do
you
want me to leave?”

“I brought Taylor a puppy, didn't I?”

They both looked at Dog, sleeping soundly now that he wasn't in a box by himself.

“Yeah.”

“Hardly the sign of a man itching for his freedom.”

“I guess not.”

“On the contrary…”

Tricia met his eyes as he paused.

“It's more the sign of a man desperate enough to use bribery to get you to stay.”

His love was clear to see, as he stared openly, breaking her heart, and filling it up at the same time, giving her strength when she had none left to give herself.

“Then why haven't you made love to me?” Her words were whispered, not because she feared waking either of the babies in their household, but because that was all she could manage.

“Too many walls between us.”

Here it comes.
He was going to push again. And take away her choices. Until she decided to blow her cover, she couldn't be anyone but Tricia Campbell. For her son's safety and her own. But for Scott's, too. If he knew nothing, he'd be innocent later.

If he knew something, he wouldn't be able to let her go on this way, a fugitive, hiding, looking over her shoulder. He'd charge forth to fix the whole mess. To make it right. Because that was the kind of man he was. He couldn't live with himself if he did any less.

It was one of the traits she loved most about him.

It was also the one that frightened her.

“So what do we do about that?” she asked, her vision starting to blur in the dim kitchen light.

“We could try talking.”

She couldn't stay. This wasn't going to work. He had to have answers. He
deserved
answers. He was a good man and she was using him and—

“If I could ask you just one question, completely unrelated to the past or any future you might have that does not involve me, I'd be doing a hell of a lot better.”

On the verge of standing, darting out of his life, Tricia settled back onto the floor. He'd confused her. “What?”

“Are you pregnant?”

“Of course not! I'm on the pill. You know that.” She got them for a nominal fee every month from a clinic associated with the women's shelter.

“You aren't?”

“No!” And then, studying him as best she could in the dim light, said, “You sound disappointed.”

Scott sat up slowly, one hand still close enough for the puppy to feel his warmth. “No! I'm not! At all!” His eyes traveled over her face, down her body, and then back up. “Well, maybe I am, just a little.”

“Scott, we can't…” She was going to leave this time. She had to.

“Wait.” One hand on her shoulder, he shook his head. “I know we can't. And the largest part of me doesn't want to. At all. I always take the biggest risks on the job so the other guys don't have to. I couldn't do that if I knew I had—”

“I know….” Tricia put a finger to his lips. She couldn't bear to hear him spell it out any further. “I understand.”

He believed his life was dispensable, owed to make up for the life he'd inadvertently taken in a few seconds of teenage abandon. Guilt had a way of exacting its toll. And the price was eternal.

Scott lifted a hand to her face, running his fingers lightly down her cheek to her collarbone. Her skin absorbed his touch with a thirst that left her gasping. Moving carefully around the sleeping puppy he settled on her other side, sliding off his jeans and underwear before pulling her on top of him.

“That's it then?” she half teased, pushing away all the worry that haunted her. “No baby so we're back to normal?”

Scott sighed, raising his hips against hers, stroking her back lightly. “I have no idea what we are,” he said. “I just know that whatever it is, I want it.”

“Me, too.”

“Then we'll leave the rest to take care of itself, okay? For now?”

Tricia nodded, allowing the passion she felt for him to consume her.
For now
might only last this hour, this night, and in spite of that, or maybe because of it, she gave herself completely to that moment. Sliding her panties down to her ankles she slipped one foot out and then, with the silky material hanging off her other ankle, mounted Scott, riding him slowly, watching the expression on his face change as he gave himself up to the fire burning inside him.

Long into that night she loved Scott, in ways she'd
never before loved a man, giving him everything he asked for, things she hadn't even known she had.

And all the while Dog slept beside them, seemingly unaware that the earth was shaking.

San Francisco Gazette
Tuesday, May 3, 2005
Page 1

An idyllic night of lovemaking led to a three-day reprieve while Tricia played house with her lover, baby
son and new puppy. She didn't let herself think beyond the moment, tending to practical concern only as needed—like grabbing Taylor's blue, hooded sweatshirt the evening they went to the zoo or thawing one pound of hamburger or two the day they invited Cliff and his wife for a cookout. Vera and Cliff were in high spirits, as they waited hopefully to find out if the most recent session of artificial insemination had succeeded.

She didn't read a paper. Didn't ask herself what she was going to do about anything. Didn't think of the future. Or the past. It was almost as if her spirit, knowing that she was depleted past the point of carrying on, took the reins of her life out of her hands long enough to let her rest.

Which was why it was Wednesday morning, Scott's first day back at the station, when she finally saw Tuesday's
San Francisco Gazette
headline, alongside a similar San Diego headline.