H
e had been born superior to others.
At the tender age of five, he knew that already. In kindergarten, he was smarter. In elementary school, more cunning. Other kids cried when they got hurt or because they didn’t want to leave their mothers dropping them off at school.
He
never did. His intellect was too strong for that. Emotions were secondary.
Now, thirteen hours after he’d had to kill, he celebrated his success as he ate a roast beef and cheese sandwich for lunch. The police had questioned him twice last night — along with everyone else — but with so many people around, so many possible suspects on the tour and working locally, the interview had been less than thorough. Within two minutes he’d outwitted the slow detective.
They found the gun, of course. He knew they would. It could never be traced to him. They had not found the elbow-length glove he’d worn when he pulled the trigger. He knew all about blow-back — microscopic particles emitted from a gun when it was fired. Just in case the police decided to test the hands of everyone in the vicinity for gun residue, he’d slipped on the glove before the murder, then thrown it underneath a row of seats on the arena’s first tier after the encore. With all the fans milling around, no one noticed, and he knew the arena would soon be cleaned while the police concentrated on containing the backstage area.
The job was done. It had taken far too many days to plan. Still, when the timing was right, it was brilliantly executed. Naturally.
But deep within him, jealousy burned on.
He took another huge bite of his sandwich. A swig of Coke.
For a while he had denied the jealousy, or at least tried to call it by another name. How could a man as superior as he be weighted down by such an inferior emotion? As time passed and the feeling grew stronger, he realized what an asset it could be. Emotions aren’t weak in themselves; it’s all in how they’re handled. He would stoke the fire of his jealousy, keep it burning bright, as he protected the Special One.
He finished the sandwich and wiped his mouth and fingers with a napkin. Then he laced his hands and cracked every knuckle. How good it sounded, the popping of his bones. Made him feel so
alive.
A yawn sagged his mouth open. Last night’s adrenaline rush had afforded him little sleep. But no time to rest now.
He had duties to perform.
B
rittany stood over me, fingers to her mouth, staring at the rose. My hands hovered above the box, unable to draw back, fearful to touch the flower lest it crumble away like the one in my dream.
Mom, myself, Brittany. We were the
only
ones who knew the significance of this gift. Other than my father.
I stared at the box, my vision blurring.
“Isn’t that a card?” Brittany whispered. “Underneath.”
Could this
really
be …? “He’s not supposed to even know who I am.”
“I know.”
Slowly my trembling fingers reached inside the box. I touched the soft velvet of the petals, heard the crinkle of cellophane as I reached beneath for the card and pulled it out.
Across the front in hand-printed letters: SHALEY. “Preston Floral” read the business name on the envelope.
I pressed my fingertips to the printed letters. Had my father written them? Was I now touching something he had touched?
Holding my breath, I slid my finger underneath the flap.
All the times I’d wished for my father, all the tears I’d shed. My daydreams never told the story this way. In my fanciful wishing he always showed up in the flesh, magically walking into my life as if he’d never left it. Never to leave again.
The envelope slit across the top. I reached inside for the card. It was folded over, white, with a calligraphy
S
on the front.
Throat tightening, I opened it.
Shaley,
I’m watching over you.
I read the words five times.
What
was
this? Why would my father write such a message?
Brittany leaned over to see, and I tilted the card toward her. She spoke the message aloud.
“You think that’s your dad?”
“I don’t know.”
She sat down on the bed. “Doesn’t it have to be? No one but your mom knows about the white rose.”
My fingers rubbed the smooth card. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”
“Some coincidence. I mean, just a white rose, maybe. But the green cellophane
and
a red ribbon — “
“Why wouldn’t he say so then? Why this vague message?” I swallowed. “I’m not even sure I like what it says.”
Brittany’s eyes lowered to the card. “I know. After what happened last night, it’s almost kind of … creepy.”
I stared at the rose. “If Mom saw this, she’d freak.”
“You going to tell her?”
I shook my head. “Not now. Tom’s death is upsetting enough. She’s interviewing this afternoon, and tomorrow we have to travel. Then she performs again tomorrow night. Why lay this on her?”
“But maybe she’d have some idea who sent it if it wasn’t your dad.”
“Oh, she’d
insist
it wasn’t him.” My voice edged. “He’s not supposed to know I exist, remember?”
Truth was, I didn’t want Mom to crush my hope. Even if the note did feel kind of creepy, it wasn’t meant to be, I told myself. Not at all. My father had sent it, and when he was ready, he’d tell me his name. He’d arrange to meet me.
Please, God.
“I need to find out about the person who brought this.”
I put the card down and walked over to the phone. Punched 0 for the front desk.
“Yes, Miss O’Connor.”
It was the woman who’d called me. I recognized her voice.
“Hi. I just wanted to ask about the person who left this rose for me. Did you see him?”
“A cab driver brought it.”
“A
cab driver?”
Brittany twisted her mouth.
“Yes. He just said it was a delivery. He put it on the counter and left.”
My heart sank. “Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
I clicked off the line.
Disappointment rippled through me. The note could still be from my dad. But if so, he obviously didn’t want me to find him. Delivery by a cab driver. How impersonal could you get?
I glared at the phone, then pushed
talk
to dial outside the hotel for 4 – 1 – 1. “What’s the name of the florist, Brittany?”
She picked up the envelope. “Preston Floral.”
From the operator I got the number and punched it in. My pulse snagged as I listened to the line ring. Did I really want to find out who’d sent the rose? As long as I didn’t know, I could hope — “
“Good afternoon, Preston Floral.” A cheery woman’s voice.
“Hello. My name is Shaley O’Connor. I just received a beautiful white rose sent by cab from your shop. Could you tell me anything about the person who bought it from you?”
I glanced nervously at Brittany. She stood nearby, arms clutched, watching my face.
“Yes, Miss O’Connor. I’m glad you like the rose. But the purchaser didn’t come into the shop. It was ordered over the phone.”
My shoulders slumped.
On the phone,
I mouthed to Brittany. “Was it a man’s voice?”
“Yes, I took the order myself.”
“How’d he pay for it?”
“By credit card.”
“Then you must have a name for the card.”
“Oh, goodness, with all the orders we get, I couldn’t possibly remember. This is a big shop. Besides —”
“Can’t you look it up?”
“As I was about to say, we have a store policy against giving out that information.”
“Please.
It’s really important.”
“I can’t, really.”
“But you
have
to. I
need
to know.”
“I’m sorry. I cannot break store policy.”
Heat flushed my cheeks. “Just this once can’t hurt.”
“Miss O’Connor.” Her voice firmed. “I
cannot
give you that information.”
I knew the tone. She thought I was being a brat just because of who I was.
Shaley O’Connor thinks she can get anything she wants because she’s the spoiled rich daughter of a rock star.
Normally I would have cared. Normally I would have bent over backward to be nice.
“Great. Thanks for nothing.” I punched off the line and slammed down the phone.
Anger and fear sloshed around inside me. I balled up my hands, tears biting my eyes.
“Shaley, I’m sorry,” Brittany said.
“Yeah, me too.” Pain over my father mixed with grief about Tom. What was
happening
in my life? Why all this stuff at once?
And if my father sent the rose,
why
would he want to torture me like this?
With a small cry I stalked to the bed, snatched up the card, and stuffed it back beneath the rose. I clamped on the box’s lid, threw the thing in my suitcase, and closed the top.
There. Now I didn’t have to look at it.
The phone rang. My head jerked toward it, all anger whisking into sodden hope. Was it the woman, changing her mind?
I picked up the phone, my hands jittery. “Hello?”
“Hi.” Bruce’s deep Lurch voice. “The car’s out front. You two ready?”
I let out a long breath. “Oh.” Shopping. I’d forgotten all about it. “Yeah.”
“All right. I’ll be at your door in thirty seconds.”
B
rittany and I sat on one seat in the small limo, facing Bruce on the other. I was still half numb. The driver had recommended going to the Valley Fair Mall — a large shopping center not too far from our hotel.
“Great,” I said. “Whatever.”
Bruce shot me a searching look. I turned away and looked out the window.
The driver dropped us off in front of a main entrance and said he would park under the shade of the buildings to wait for us. When we called, he’d return to that entrance within minutes.
“Hope you have a book to read.” I slid from the limo as the driver held open the door. “We’ll probably be awhile.”
He shrugged. “That’s what you hired me for.”
At the door to the mall I took a deep breath. Thoughts of Tom and the white rose pulsed in my head. I craved distraction. I wanted those thoughts
out
of my brain.
“Brittany, we’re going to have a good time, right?”
She nodded firmly. “Right.”
Inside the mall we stopped at an information map, checking out store locations. I ran my finger down the list of women’s stores. Near the top — Abercrombie and Fitch.
Brittany grinned. “Let’s go.”
The mall was crowded. We wove through shoppers, Bruce on my right and Brittany on my left. Every now and then Bruce would slowly run his thumb and fingers down his goatee — a habit that
made him look even more formidable. Anyone who noticed our trio was eyeing him, not me in my black wig. Bruce was hard to miss.
Brittany’s cell phone kept going off. Mine too. The calls were from friends at home who’d heard the news, asking if we were okay. And pumping us for information. The very thing we came to forget for a while, we couldn’t seem to get away from. We answered the questions quickly—
yeah, we’re okay, thanks for checking
— and said we had to go. Brittany’s mom called too.
“Yes, Mom, we’re fine,” Brittany told her. “We’re shopping and being guarded by the
biggest
guy you ever saw in your life.”
Bruce heard but didn’t crack a smile. His eyes roamed the wide mall, watching people. Sometimes I think he has a computer for a brain, and every face he sees goes into a data file.
We bought a couple of shirts at Abercrombie. The hot guy behind the counter (they’re
always
hot at that store) flicked a look at me when he saw the name on my credit card. I was prepared to give my typical disclaimer response — oh,
yeah, I share the name of a famous person
—but he said nothing.
All the same, when we left that store, I threw a look back at him. The guy was on his cell phone, staring at me. He blinked away.
“Something wrong?” Bruce didn’t break stride, but I saw the tension in his muscles.
I hesitated. So what if the clerk recognized me? He hadn’t made a scene.
“Guess not.”
I didn’t dare look back again. Apprehension hovered about me like a cold fog. The way that sales guy looked at me while he was on the phone …
No.
We were here to have fun. I
would not
think about it.
Brittany and I headed for the Savvy section in Nordstrom.
We ended up trying on one pair of designer jeans after another, plus a whole stack of tops. For every piece of clothing, we checked
each other with a critical eye. Only pure honesty works when we’re shopping. No point in saying something looks great if it doesn’t.
“The color’s perfect for you.”
“Those jeans make you look really skinny.”
“Well, it’s just
okay.”
“Uh-uh. That shirt looks better on the hanger.”
Bruce hung around outside the dressing room, probably scaring half the customers to death. More than once I heard his deep voice say to some inquiring sales person, “I’m just waiting for two girls in there. They’re trying on every piece of clothing in the place.”
I told Brittany I’d buy her whatever she wanted. Mom’s accountant would take care of paying my monthly credit card bill without even blinking. Mom never cared how much I spent.
We didn’t exactly buy out the store, but we did get three pairs of designer jeans each, plus a total of fifteen tops. Bruce offered to carry the bags (he already held the one from Abercrombie), but we said, “No thanks.” It wasn’t really fair to make him lug around all that stuff. I shoved my purse on my shoulder and took two bags, giving Brittany the third.
Bruce stroked his beard, then made a point of looking at his watch as we walked away from the cash register. “You two done yet? You’ve worn me out.”
Brittany made a
tsss
sound. “Worn
you
out?
We’re
the ones who had to try on everything.” She gave him a look, trying to coax a smile out of him. He just flicked his eyes at the ceiling and sighed.
“Where to next?” I asked as we crossed out of Nordstrom into the busy mall.
That’s when I heard my name called — and saw the first flash go off.