Until I Die Again [On The Way To Heaven] (Soul Change Novel) (38 page)

“I’ve been renting a room from your daughter, Paula.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about you. Hallie, right?”

She nodded, her jaw tight from her attempt to keep her emotions from her face, he guessed.

The woman smiled. “She thinks a lot of you. We’re all inside now, pretending to be happy. It’s pretty pitiful, if you ask me. Why don’t you come in for hot cocoa and Christmas songs? We can be pitiful together. I’m sure Paula would love to see you.” She sighed. “Being with family is what the holiday is about. As crazy as it sounds, I’ve felt my daughter’s presence lately.” She looked up at the flurries coming down. “We’ll toast to our loved ones, both here and gone.”

Jamie glanced at Hallie and saw the subtle shake of her head. He turned back to Mrs. Copestakes. “We’d love to. Thank you for asking.”

Hallie shot him a chastising look. “We probably should—”

He squeezed her hand. “We have time.” Time to talk to the police, to sort through the tangle of truth and lies. No one would be going across that bridge anytime soon, and Randy was no doubt dead. With all the snow, if they fudged the time the accident had happened, no one would know. “Let’s make a toast to family, both lost and found.”

Hallie’s hand in his, he followed her mother to the house. The Copestakes family was about to get the most amazing Christmas present. He had already gotten his.

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I hope you enjoyed my book! Jaime Rush is a pseudonym for Tina Wainscott, and as Tina, I am the bestselling author of eighteen novels for St. MartinsMartin’s Press and Harlequin.
 
My books garnered several awards, including The Golden Heart (Romance Writer’s of America) and the Maggie (Georgia Romance Writers) as well as Top Pick reviews from
RT Book Reviews
. In 2009, I moved to Harper Collins and began a new career as Jaime Rush.

Because my Jaime fans are always clamoring for more books (music to an author’s ear…), I’m re-releasing the books originally published under the Tina Wainscott name.

If you haven’t read my Jaime books, they’re also paranormal romantic suspense. I missed the romance, relationship drama, and action of my favorite television shows,
X-Files
,
Roswell
, and
Highlander
, so I created my own mix in the Offspring series.

The Offspring: Sexy…dangerous…outcasts. They possess extraordinary abilities, and they’re being hunted by the government. Together they must find the truth and fight an enemy out to destroy them. The first book in the series garnered a Reviewer’sReviewer’s Choice Award from
RT Book Reviews
, and the most recent, BURNING DARKNESS, won three Top Picks.

Contests, sneak peeks and more at
www.jaimerush.com
or
www.tinawainscott.com
.

Sneak Preview for STRANGER IN THE MIRROR

PROLOGUE

The carat diamond on her wedding set sparkled as Hallie DiBarto ran her fingers across the black velvet surface of the sofa. Not the appropriate distraction to avoid her husband Jamie’s eyes, she realized, and shifted her vision to her silk stockings. She deserved the bitterness those blue depths radiated at her. But if she didn’t go through with this, who knew what Mick would do to her. Or to Jamie.

“I want a divorce,” she said softly, her words absent of emotion. She would have to put more meaning into them to convince him. If only her migraine would subside enough for her to summon her acting skills.

As it turned out, she didn’t need to.

“Absolutely,” he told her.

That word sent a chilled rush to her bones in spite of the warm California sun pouring through the windows.

Her voice quivered. “Just like that?”

Jamie sighed, running a hand through his blond hair in frustration. It was a gesture she had seen many times, had
caused
many times, if she was honest with herself.

“What do you want me to do, Hallie, drop down on my knees and beg you to stay, to stop seeing that maniac? No, I’m done. Done with you, this marriage, and the farce it’s become.”

Pain shot through her skull like an iron lance. She’d had horrible headaches all her life, but this sense of fear enveloping her was new, the pain sharper. She dropped her head into her hands, and her thoughts scattered like ants on a trampled hill. Jamie’s words were unintelligible, as if spoken through layers of gauze. Her body convulsed under tremors of cold, and she slid onto the tile floor, unable to stop herself from falling.

“Make it stop. Make it stop!” she cried out through a fog of pain.

The touch of Jamie’s hand, tight on her arm, seemed to tingle, then disappear. She tried to move her hand, her arm. In sheer horror, she realized she could not. Black dots clouded her vision, and she heard her heartbeat slowing to nothing as the darkness closed in. She heard a whistling sound, like a faraway train. As the pain lessened, she welcomed the dark cloud of death as it took her away. Anything to make the pain go away.

CHAPTER 1

Hallie DiBarto had come back from the brink of death a changed woman. That in itself was not unusual. Coming back in a different body was.

And not just a different body, but a different life. Someone else’s life. Marti, they kept calling her. Who was Marti? Hallie felt the surge of panic that enveloped her every time she realized that
she
was Marti. Before she’d had a chance to ask where Jamie was, or tell them they’d made a mistake in her identity, she realized something was terribly wrong.

She glanced down again at short fingers and stubby nails, at the body of a stranger. She took a deep breath, willing away the panic. How had she ended up in Chattaloo, Florida? In this bruised and aching body? She remembered dying as if it were years ago, remembered jagged pieces of a life in California. During her stay in the hospital, those memories melded together to form a past that did not coincide with what she’d found here.

She had never before been to Florida, been a brunette, or been short. She had never seen the tall man who helped her out of the wheelchair after they went through the hospital doors, watching her with a worried expression. The man who claimed to be her husband, Jesse.

Jesse’s thick, brown hair lifted in the fat breeze as they bid the doctor farewell and walked into humid sunshine. He was twenty-five years old; she’d seen his date of birth on a form. He studied her openly, and for that she could not blame him. After all, he’d been told that his wife had been assaulted, nearly raped, and hadn’t spoken to anyone since the attack. She didn’t know how the man with those dark green eyes would take her crazy story: that a tall, blue-eyed, blonde stranger lived inside his wife’s petite body. Hallie had to cling to the only truth she knew: that woman still existed.

For now, playing the part of silent trauma served her best. She looked to the cloud-riddled sky.
God, I know I’ve made mistakes. Okay, I was awful, hating myself and taking it out on the people closest to me. Looking back, I see how much anger I held inside me. Lord knows—okay, You know I haven’t prayed often. But I guess you gave me this second chance—or is it punishment? I’m not sure yet. Give me a sign, God. Tell me what to do.

It was not God who spoke, but Jesse.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, softer than she thought a man of his size could speak. He held out a hand to her. “But let me help you.”

A sign? His hand remained in mid-air, unwavering as she contemplated. Then, very slowly, she reached a thin arm toward him. Somewhere deep inside her, down where she still existed, a small coal of warmth sparked to life as his fingers wrapped solidly around her own.

“The truck’s parked over there.”

She nodded, maintaining the silence that had seen her through the ordeal of being questioned by Deputy Thomas, the doctor, and Jesse. It bought her time, if nothing else. She stuck her finger in her mouth to nervously chew on a nail, but found with dismay she had none to chew; they were already clipped short. Jesse helped her climb into a dusty, red pickup truck.

“Marti, if you want to talk about”—he glanced uneasily at her, then looked ahead—”what happened, I’m here. Dr. Toby said not to press you, and I won’t.” He reached over and grazed a spot on her cheek where she knew a violet bruise blossomed. “I want to make it better, but I don’t know how. Tell me.”

Give me back my body and my life!
she wanted to scream out but clamped her lips shut instead. Keeping the panic from her eyes was harder than keeping her mouth shut. Could he see the confusion she saw whenever she looked in the mirror?

Jesse sighed as he turned back to the steering wheel and started the engine.

After spending most of her life nestled between the Pacific Ocean and the mountains of Southern California, the small town of Chattaloo seemed flat, boring. She picked at the lace on her jean shorts. A thin scar edged along the top of one knobby knee. How had that gotten there? She loosened the scarf Jesse had bought to hide the bruises around her neck. The sight of them had aroused a queer sense of fear in her, even though she had not suffered the attack herself.

Trying not to look overly interested, she pulled the worn-out wallet from the vinyl purse lying next to her. Not leather or alligator, but
vinyl
. Even when she was dirt poor, she at least owned leather. Maybe from the thrift store, but still. One library card and a driver’s license. The brunette gave the camera a forced smile. Next to the photo read, “Marti Jeane May.” Marti was twenty-three years old, four years younger than Hallie. Marti had an identity, a life, a husband. Now Hallie had those, and she didn’t want them.

“Is anything missing?” Jesse asked, breaking into her thoughts.

A strangled laugh escaped, which she disguised as a sob. Only her life and identity! At his concerned look, she shook her head, keeping her silence.

The orange groves flanking the two-lane highway grew gradually into downtown Chattaloo. Tiny frame houses were snuggled under oak trees, kids raced each other on bicycles, and groups of teenagers gathered around trucks and Jeeps. Normal life, going on as if the strangest thing in the world hadn’t just happened to her.

Jesse turned onto a dirt road. Distant barking materialized into one of the ugliest dogs she had ever seen, speckled, stocky, and, worse yet, large. It ran alongside the truck as they passed under a canopy of oak trees to a house in the middle of the hammock. Its tail was wagging, so that meant it wouldn’t eat her… she hoped.

The dog jumped all over Jesse when he got out of the truck, but he didn’t seem to mind the grubby paws. He opened the passenger door and held out his hand, but she didn’t move. The dog looked hungrily up at her, flinging its tail, heck, it’s whole rear end, from side to side.

“What’s wrong?” He followed her stare to the dog. “You’re not afraid of ole’ Bumpus, are you? You’ve been living with him for two weeks.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then caught herself. Yes, she was afraid of ole’ Bumpus. But that ugly dog was the least of her problems, she thought, trying to put him in perspective. Bumpus cocked his head, his wrinkled brow looking thoughtful as he waited for some acknowledgement. Jesse whistled, then gestured. Bumpus moved to where he pointed and sat down with an whine.

“He’s just concerned about you, is all.”

She took Jesse’s outstretched hand and climbed down. He led her up the stone walkway to the small gray house washed pink by the dying sunlight. Bumpus followed, his tail wagging wildly as he sniffed around her ankles. She moved away, but he followed, trying to jump up in front of her.

“Bumpus, what’s your problem?” Jesse turned to her. “Maybe he knows you’re hurting.”

Maybe he does, she thought, eyeing him. And maybe he knew she wasn’t Marti.

Inside, the house looked larger than it seemed from the exterior. A ceiling fan whirred above, barely moving the wilted leaves of an ivy. Marti obviously hadn’t had much of a chance to feminize the place, and a brief glance at Jesse left Hallie little doubt as to where the bride’s time had been going. Probably enjoying marital bliss. He was a kicker, as she used to call the good looking ones. In a country sort of way.

The blue plaid couch looked lumpy, but it reminded her how little sleep she had gotten last night. Jesse was watching her, perhaps thinking she might faint, cry or worse. She tried to put herself in his place.

His wife is almost raped and nearly strangled. When she wakes at the hospital, she is so traumatized, she appears not to recognize either him or the doctor. And she has not spoken a word since. He might reasonably expect her to fling herself out the nearest window.

“You look tired,” he said.

Again, he held out that large, strong hand of his. She only hesitated a moment before reaching out and letting him lead her someplace where she could hopefully let sleep wrap her in the comfort of familiarity. Would she dream Hallie dreams or Marti dreams? The thought was disturbing.

He led her to a room that held a king-size bed, one long dresser and not much else. She sat on the edge of the bed while he dug through a disorganized drawer and pulled out a long nightgown splattered with blue flowers. She hadn’t worn a nightgown like that since she was five years old, but she wasn’t in the mood to be picky.