Faces of Fear

1

ALISON SHAW FELT GOOD. REALLY GOOD. SHE MADE THE FINAL TURN around the smooth cinder track with long, easy strides. She’d done six full laps, but with the cool breeze coming in from the beach four blocks away, there wasn’t even a hint of the choking exhaust that usually drifted directly from the Santa Monica Freeway onto the playing fields. She felt she could do at least three more laps when she heard the coach’s whistle. End of period; end of day; end of week. A shower, and she could go home. She slowed her pace so Cindy Kearns could catch up with her.

“There’s a party at the beach tonight,” Cindy said, catching her breath and wiping more perspiration from her forehead than was on Alison’s entire body. “Jeff Simmons is going to be there.” Cindy was pretty sure Alison had a crush on Jeff, but if she did, she wasn’t showing it. In fact, she was shrugging like she couldn’t care less.

“Can’t,” Alison said. “My mom has to go to some fancy banquet for one of her clients tonight and I’m fixing dinner for my dad.”

“How domestic of you,” Cindy said. “What about after dinner? It won’t even get dark until after eight, and it could go until midnight.”

Alison rolled her eyes. “And Jeff Simmons will bring a keg of beer, and everybody will get drunk, and the cops will come, and then we’ll all have to call our folks to come get us. Gee, it sounds like so much fun, how can I resist?”

Cindy decided to ignore her sarcasm. “So if you don’t want him, can I have Jeff Simmons?”

Alison glared at her best friend in not-quite-mock exasperation. Ever since she’d turned fifteen last month, all Cindy seemed to think about was boys — as if some kind of switch had been turned on. “I barely even know Jeff,” she said. “And I’m sure he’s no more interested in me than any of the other boys are, which means not at all, which is fine with me. Besides, even if I wanted to go, my dad’s bringing home a movie. So add Jeff to your list of conquests, and call me with all the details tomorrow.”

Once again Cindy ignored Alison’s tone, and pushed through the double doors into the girls’ locker room, which was even warmer than the air outside, and muggy from the showers that were already going full blast. Cindy quickly stripped off her sweaty gym clothes and dropped them in a dank pile on the floor.

Alison had just shed her shorts when Coach DiBenedetti walked through the locker room, a bra dangling from her fingers. “Lost and found,” she announced. “Who left a bra under the bench?”

Paula Steen, one of a half-dozen seniors in the class, snickered. “Well, we know it’s not Alison Shaw’s,” she called out, eliciting exactly the laugh she was looking for from her friends.

Seeing Cindy open her mouth to take a shot at Paula, Alison spoke first. “Is it a training bra?” she called out to the coach, loud enough for everyone to hear. “’Cause if it isn’t, Paula’s right — can’t possibly be mine.” When even Paula’s friends giggled, she decided to push it a little further. “I’m still looking for the pretraining model!”

The coach smiled at Alison. “You’re just a late bloomer,” she said. “And the last blossoms are often the best of the season.”

In the silence that followed, it seemed to Alison that everyone was staring at her.

“You’ve got a model’s body,” Cindy Kearns put in a second before the silence would have gotten awkward. “In fact,” she said, turning to stare straight at Paula Steen, “you’ve got exactly the body Paula’s always wanted.”

“But she doesn’t have the face I have, does she?” Paula shot back, tucking her own gym clothes into her backpack.

“I’ll see you in my office, Paula,” the coach said, sternly.

“It’s okay,” Alison said, suddenly wishing she’d just kept her mouth shut. “Really.”

“It’s not okay,” Marti DiBenedetti said. “My office, Paula.”

Paula glowered at Alison. If she was already in trouble, she figured, she might as well get the absolutely last word. “The longer you stay a little girl, the less competition for the rest of us,” Paula sneered as she hefted her backpack and followed the coach to her office. “Only gay boys like bodies like yours!”

“Just ignore her,” Cindy said as Paula disappeared around a corner.

“Ignore what?” Alison countered, forcing a tone far lighter than she was feeling. She undressed quickly, still smarting from Paula’s ridicule, and self-consciously wrapped herself in the skimpy gym towel. “I don’t know what’s so great about big boobs anyway. I’ll either get them or I won’t — it’s not like I have anything to do with it.” She followed Cindy to the cavernous shower room, which was empty except for Gina Tucci, who was leisurely washing her hair at the farthest showerhead.

And who was Paula Steen’s best friend.

Alison hung her towel on a hook, braced herself for whatever Gina might say, and stepped under a showerhead. She rinsed off quickly, then wrapped the towel around herself again before returning to her locker. Gina was still washing her hair. Maybe everyone wasn’t staring at her after all.

She was almost dressed when Cindy came back from the shower. Alison tucked her blouse into her jeans and buckled her belt, then sat on the bench brushing her hair while Cindy dressed and rummaged in her backpack. Then, using the mirror she’d affixed to the inside of her locker door, Cindy erased smudges of mascara around her eyes and carefully applied dark pink lipstick.

“Want to get a Coke?” Alison asked her.

“Can’t. My mom’s picking me up.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Call me,” Cindy said, picking up her backpack. “I’ll give you the full report on tonight.”

Then Cindy was gone and Alison was alone in the locker room. She stuffed her dirty gym clothes into a plastic bag and shoved them into her backpack, then caught glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors on the locker room wall. Rising to her feet and carrying her backpack with her, she moved closer to the mirror and took a look at herself.

And what she saw wasn’t bad. In fact, she looked fine. She didn’t need a lot of makeup, and she didn’t need pounds of hips, and breasts, either. And she sure didn’t need to compete for one of those idiot boys who Paula — and even Cindy — seemed to think were so hot. So what was she worried about? Paula and all the other girls like her could have all the boobs and all the boys, if that was what they wanted.

She looked just fine, and felt good.

And she knew she’d keep telling herself that until the sting of Paula’s comments wore off and she once again truly felt as good as she had half an hour ago, when she’d come off the track.

MARGOT DUNN SAT at her vanity table, her hand trembling as she gazed at the diamond earrings that lay on her palm. She could hear her husband cursing in his dressing room as he fumbled with the bow tie to his tux, but his voice sounded oddly muffled, as if coming from much farther away than the few yards that lay between them. But even if she’d heard him clearly, there was no way she could help him. Not the way she always had before. The gulf between herself and Conrad Dunn — between herself and everyone else in the world — had grown too wide.

The hairdresser had come, done his job perfectly, and gone; her makeup man had come and done his best. And she had actually been able to slip into the gray silk Valentino that Conrad had chosen for her to wear to the banquet tonight.

The Dunn Foundation banquet.

The single event where everyone she knew was certain to be present, and certain to be opening their checkbooks, if not their hearts, for her husband’s charity.

The event at which she herself had always been the crown jewel.

Yet when it came time to actually put on the glittering diamond earrings and pronounce herself ready to go, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t find the energy, just as she couldn’t find the energy to help Conrad with his tie.

Right now she didn’t even have the energy to cry.

But she had to find the energy, had to dig deep within herself and find the resources to get her through the evening. Taking a deep breath, she twisted her head to the right and lifted her eyes from the earrings to her reflection in the mirror. For a brief moment, when all she could see was the left side of her face, she felt her spirits rise ever so slightly, and seized the moment to attach one of the jewels in her hand to her left ear.

But even as her fingers worked to slip the post through the tiny hole in her earlobe, she caught a glimpse of the puckered sag of her right eye, and almost against her own volition found herself turning her head to expose the other side of her face to her gaze. Where once she had beheld on the right side of her face only the perfect reflection of the left, now three thick jagged scars sliced from the lower edge of her jaw up through the plane of her cheek, their upper extremity pulling her lower eyelid down so a red semicircle always glowed beneath the deep blue of her iris.

Her eye, formerly so beautiful, was now as hideous as the rest of that side of her face.

Red, white, and blue. Like some fucking Fourth of July bunting, hanging from her ruined face.

Ramón, her makeup specialist, had done his best, but no amount of makeup could cover those shining purple gouges, and no mascara could mask the bloodred semicircle that underscored her eye.

Her face — the face that Conrad Dunn himself had worked so hard to make perfect — looked utterly incongruous with the elegant simplicity of the dress and the perfectly coiffed hair.

She closed her eyes and willed herself the strength to finish dressing, to accompany her husband to this fund-raiser, to eat, to drink, to smile and greet his clients, friends, and donors. To pretend to be oblivious to the fact that while the left side of her face still looked like it belonged on the cover of Vogue, the right side of that same face now made people turn away, trying to hide not only their revulsion at how she looked, but their pity as well.

Nothing could hide the damage their yacht’s propeller had done to her face last summer.

It all seemed so impossible. It had been such a perfect day. They’d been on the foredeck, and she was enjoying the single drink she allowed herself on Saturdays and Sundays, and all she’d done was stand up to get a better view of Catalina. And the boat hit a wave, and pitched, and she felt herself lose her balance, and the next thing she knew, she was in the hospital with her entire face bandaged.

And after that, nothing had been the same again, and now, tonight, she could no longer pretend that it was.

She just couldn’t do it.

Feeling Conrad’s warm hands on her shoulders, she opened her eyes and saw his reflection in the mirror, concern in his eyes. “We have to go,” he said softly, as if feeling every agony she was going through.

“I can’t.”

His grip tightened, as though merely by touching her he could transfer his own strength and character into her. “Of course you can,” he urged, his voice gentle. “You must. I need you with me. You look wonderful, you know — that dress is perfect.” His lips curled up into a playful smile and he lifted a single brow in a comical leer. “Shows just the right amount of your exquisite cleavage.”

Margot turned from the mirror to look up into his soft eyes. “Conrad, stop lying. You can’t be seen with me looking like this. Not tonight. Your father would turn over in his grave.”

“My father loved you, Margot, and he would want you to be there, adding at least a little class to what has always been nothing more than our family begging for money with the unspoken threat of not keeping the women looking as young and beautiful as they like if they don’t cough up enough money so our real work can go on. My father would have wanted you there, and I do want you there. You belong with me.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I’m going to fix your face. You know that. I made you perfect once, and I can do it again. You know I can, and you know I will.”

Margot turned back to the mirror and dabbed at the moisture that continually leaked out of the sagging lid of her ruined right eye. “I am the worst possible advertisement for a plastic surgeon,” she said.

“Think of yourself as the ‘before’ model,” Conrad said, keeping his voice as light as he could. “Next year, you’ll be the ‘after’ model, and knock them all dead. Think what they’ll cough up when they see what I can do! Now just put on your other earring, my darling, and let’s go.” He gave her shoulders another reassuring squeeze, and Margot, knowing that his will that she accompany him was stronger than her will to stay at home and hide, found the strength to add the other diamond to her right ear.

Conrad took her hand and drew her lightly from the vanity stool. He turned her to face him, and she flinched as he touched the terrible scars that had destroyed her once flawless face.

“You will always be beautiful to me,” he said, and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Now come on, let’s head for the banquet and make the grandest entrance anyone’s ever seen.”

Margot closed her eyes and nodded. She had a job to do tonight. She was Conrad Dunn’s wife, and she would not fail him. She took a deep, determined breath, and let her husband lead her from her room.

Somehow, she would get through the evening.

2

AS FAR AS RISA SHAW — AND PRACTICALLY EVERYONE ELSE IN LOS Angeles — was concerned, any excuse to go to the Hotel Bel-Air was a good one, and as she gave her Lexus to the valet and she and Alexis Montrose crossed the small stone bridge onto the perfectly groomed hotel grounds, she decided that the air in Stone Canyon smelled sweeter than it did anywhere else.

Discreet signs bearing the Dunn Foundation logo directed them past the gracefully floating swans and through a courtyard with a bubbling fountain to the Garden Room, where members of the Dunn Foundation staff waited, offering each guest a small card bearing their table number, and directing them toward the bar if they wanted more than the champagne the waitstaff was deftly carrying through the throng that had already gathered. For half an hour Risa followed Lexie though the crowd, then found her seat at a table only three away from the one at which Conrad Dunn and his wife were sitting.

An hour later, as the staff cleared the empty plates with quiet efficiency, Corinne Dunn introduced the mother of the last recipient of her brother’s expertise and her family’s generosity. As Rosa Alvarez spoke, so softly that everyone in the room had to strain to catch her words, images flashed on the huge screen behind her.

First came photographs of the tiny baby that had been born to her only ten years ago. José was born with a cleft palate so severe that he couldn’t nurse from his mother’s breast; he was fed through a tube until he was two years old. For years after his birth, his life had been lived in the shelter of his home and his mother’s love, the rest of the children in his village unwilling even to look at him, let alone play with him. But then, by the grace of the Dunn Foundation and “St. Conrad,” as Rosa called Conrad Dunn, her son’s defect had been repaired, until all that remained was a tiny scar from his nose to his lip.

Now, even that small mark was quickly fading away.

As the photos on the screen dissolved from the baby’s twisted face to that of a beautiful, smiling, brown-eyed ten-year-old, Risa saw that she wasn’t the only one who took out her checkbook to divert or mask the tears glistening in eyes at every table. Then José Alvarez himself appeared, his face illuminated by both a spotlight and an enormous smile. Running to his mother, he threw his arms around her.

“It is a miracle,” Rosa said, gathering her son to her. “Thank you. Thank you all for making this possible.”

As Corinne Dunn rose to lead the applause for her and then led Rosa toward the garden where the party would continue, Conrad Dunn and his wife rose to follow his sister and their guest of honor. Responding to that cue, the crowd quickly began drifting from the Garden Room into the garden itself, and Risa quickly wrote out her check, adding an extra thousand dollars to the sum she’d initially decided to contribute.

Lexie Montrose, leaning over her shoulder to peer at the check, whistled softly. “Wow! Really? That much?”

“If ever there was a good cause,” Risa said, “this is it. Let’s go find the Dunns — I want to give this to Conrad personally.”

The two women followed the flow of people until they spotted Conrad, standing next to an extravagant dessert buffet. Rosa Alvarez was at his side, and they were surrounded by his guests. Risa and Lexie joined what had become a simple reception line, as tuxedoed waiters circulated with trays filled with yet more champagne glasses. The garden glowed with subtle lighting that made it seem as if the huge old oak trees were illuminating the evening.

Conrad Dunn managed to greet each guest by name, find a few words for every one of them, accept their checks with an appreciation that was heartfelt but not cloying, and keep the line moving as if by some kind of social magic. He also managed to keep shaking hands while simultaneously passing the checks to Margot, who seemed intent on staying in the deep shadows behind her husband as she discreetly slipped each check into a silk wallet. Even in the soft and flattering light, Risa could see not only how unhappy Margot Dunn was about being on display, but also the scars that no doubt were the cause of her unhappiness.

“Risa?”

The soft voice came from behind her, and Risa turned to see Danielle DeLorian. “Danielle! How nice to see you!” Risa kissed the air just far enough from Danielle’s cheek so the gesture wouldn’t disturb the perfect makeup that was not only Danielle’s hallmark, but her trademark as well.

A year ago, even Risa had begun using DeLorian cosmetics, despite their outrageous price. “What the hell?” Lexie had told her. “So it costs a million to look like a million — the way you’re selling these days, you can afford it.”

Drawing back from Danielle’s cheek, Risa introduced her former client to her best friend.

“Risa navigated me through an absolute nightmare of a deal a couple of years ago,” Danielle told Lexie in a soft southern drawl that belied her sharp intelligence. “I’ll be forever grateful.”

“I’m so glad it worked out for you,” Risa said, then turned to see that the line had moved and Conrad Dunn, a bemused expression on his face, was waiting for her.

Flushing, she quickly moved forward. “Conrad!” she said, handing him her check as she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you so much for including me in this. I’m just—” She hesitated, searching for the right word, then shook her head helplessly. “I’m just overwhelmed. What you’re doing is wonderful, and I’m so happy to be able to help.”

“And I’m just as happy to have you here. You know we built the new clinic on that piece of land you helped us buy.”

“Actually, I did know that,” Risa replied. “I’m just glad I was able to help.” She turned toward Lexie. “Do you know my friend Alexis Montrose?”

Conrad turned his warm gaze on Lexie. “Thank you for coming.” He smoothly eased them toward Margot to keep the line moving, and Risa extended her hand, which Margot seemed hesitant to accept. Even when she finally did, she still hung back so her face was deep in shadow.

Clearly, Margot Dunn wished she were elsewhere, and was eager for the evening to be over. Risa couldn’t blame her. As far as she knew, this was the first time Margot had been out in public since the accident a year ago, which had received far more publicity than Risa thought it deserved. Still, she, along with everyone else, was finding it hard not to stare at Margot’s scars, and as she and Lexie moved away from her toward the dessert table, Risa heard one woman whisper to another, loud enough to be heard by everyone within twenty feet, “Did you see those horrible gouges in Margot’s face?”

“There’s Mitchell Hawthorne,” Lexie said, dropping half the chocolate truffle she’d been nibbling onto the table. “You should meet him. He’s in the industry.” She took Risa’s elbow and began steering her through the crowd. “Absolutely tons of money,” she whispered, bringing her lips close to Risa’s ear, “and living in a terrible piece of crap out in the Valley.”

Risa winced at Lexie’s habitual crude directness. “Always happy to meet a potential new client,” she said, following her friend to a tall, silver-haired man holding a glass of champagne and speaking with two other men, one of whom had a familiar face.

Like the two women who had brushed by Risa a few moments ago, the men were talking about Margot’s scars. “Frankly, I don’t see how she can show herself in public,” the silver-haired man said as Lexie reached out and took his arm to draw him around.

“Mitchell,” she said, greeting him with a warm hug. “I want you to meet Risa Shaw. When you decide it’s time to buy something decent to live in, she’s the one to call.”

Risa took Mitchell Hawthorne’s extended hand, but before she could say a word, one of his friends cut in.

“Christ, Lexie,” the familiar face — who turned out to be a minor TV actor — said. “What was Conrad Dunn thinking, letting Margot show that gargoyle of a face tonight? Who’d want to contribute after seeing her? If I were him, I’d lock her up where no one could ever see her again.”

Risa glanced nervously around, hoping Margot Dunn was nowhere in the area, but as she scanned the crowd she realized that it wouldn’t matter where Margot was; everywhere she looked, she could see people whispering to each other, then looking guiltily toward the Dunns, obviously hoping they weren’t overheard. After forcing herself to chat a moment longer with the three men — and pocketing three business cards — Risa aimed Lexie toward the ladies’ room. There, at least, she might not have to overhear any more talk about their hostess.

As they passed the bar, they saw Corinne Dunn standing alone, sipping a martini. “You make a terrific emcee,” Risa said, pausing to introduce herself and Lexie.

Corinne smiled warmly. “I can’t tell you how gratifying it is to see all these children go on to lead normal lives,” she said. “You’d be amazed at how many of them stay in touch with us for years afterward.”

“It’s a wonderful thing the foundation does,” Risa said, then followed Lexie into the ladies’ room, where her friend bared her teeth in front of the mirror to make sure not a fleck of anything was marring their whiteness.

“Boy,” Lexie said as she fished in her bag for her lipstick. “This is the place to schmooze the rich and famous, isn’t it?”

“It’s an admirable charity,” Risa observed archly, even though she knew at least half the people in attendance were there for exactly the reason Lexie had just stated. “But I’m worried about Margot. She doesn’t look well.”

“I wonder why her husband hasn’t fixed those appalling scars yet?” Lexie said. “Everybody — and I mean everybody—is talking about it.”

“I’m sure he will,” Risa replied in a tone that clearly told Lexie she didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

As usual, Lexie ignored her tone. “I mean, how long has it been? A year? Don’t you think he would have done something by now if he could have?”

“I don’t know,” Risa said, freshening her own lipstick. “And I don’t think we need to talk—”

“She’s probably just going to have to learn to live with it,” Lexie broke in, carefully adjusting her studiously casual hairdo. “How awful would that be?”

“Very, very awful,” Risa replied. “And she certainly seemed depressed. I feel so bad for her.”

Lexie’s brow rose sardonically. “Well, she better get undepressed or she’s likely to lose that gorgeous husband of hers. Every woman in this place would kill to take him over.”

Risa gave her a sidelong glance in the mirror. “Including you, Mrs. Happily Married?”

“I could be Mrs. Happily Unmarried in a heartbeat if Conrad Dunn came on the market!”

A toilet flushed, and a moment later Margot Dunn emerged from one of the stalls. Risa’s cheeks burned as she quickly replayed in her mind everything she and Lexie had said while standing in front of the mirrors, and wished she could drop through the floor.

Not even acknowledging their presence, Margot walked directly to the sink, calmly washed her hands, then dried them and left the room.

Risa slumped against the wall, her stomach churning, her face still burning with embarrassment.

Lexie, though, only shrugged. “So what if she heard us?” she asked, reading Risa’s mind. “It’s not like any of it was news to her.”

Risa said nothing, but made a mental note to call Margot in the morning and apologize.

If, that is, Margot Dunn would even take her call.

CAROLINE FISHER BALEFULLY EYED her last customer of the evening, who was still sitting at the round table in the corner, still sipping his decaf, and still reading the paper. He’d been there for at least an hour and seemed in no hurry to leave, even when she’d made a fairly unsubtle show of locking both doors and turning off the OPEN sign in the window.

Now, at seven minutes past her ten o’clock closing, Rick was cleaning the espresso machines while she finished straightening the displays of coffees, mugs, and other caffeine-related accoutrements the shop sold, then began to put the chairs up on the tables.

“Oh,” the man said, finally folding his paper. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

Caroline gave him a smile she hoped looked warm. “You can just leave your mug there,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks,” he said, tucking his paper under his arm as he waited for her to unlock the door to let him out into the warm Encino evening.

“Some people have no place to go,” Ricky said as he gave the countertops a final desultory wipe-down.

“Well, I do,” Caroline said, “and I don’t want to be late.”

“Yeah, me, too. I think I’m finished here.”

Caroline nodded, looking at the clock and deciding that whatever else needed to be done could wait until tomorrow. “We’re good. I’ll leave a note for the morning crew to sweep up.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Caroline locked the door behind Ricky, then swept her gaze around the small coffee shop she’d managed for the last year. It looked good. If Corporate sent a shopper in for a cup of coffee in the morning, he — or she — would have nothing to complain about, especially with her numbers not only far better than those from a year ago, but going steadily up every single week. She might be only a single store manager now, but within two more years she intended to be running at least the whole district, if not the region itself.

For now, though, the long day was over. She turned out all the main lights, leaving only the two small fluorescents glowing behind the counter, and went into the tiny room that barely met the legal standards for an “employees’ lounge” to begin the process of getting the smell of coffee off herself and freshening up for her date. Terry — if that was even his real name — was probably already at Weasel’s, waiting for her. According to the clock on the wall, they were to meet in five minutes. She’d be late, which wasn’t good, and not like her at all. Besides, the later it got, the more crowded Weasel’s would be, which would just make it that much harder to find him. When they were chatting online last night, he said he’d be wearing a white button-down pinstripe shirt and jeans. Blond, blue-eyed, six feet tall, waiting for her at the bar.

She hoped he looked at least something like the photo he’d put up with his profile.

She taped a note to Sheila’s locker asking her to sweep up before opening tomorrow morning, then took a pink cotton sweater and jeans out of her locker, along with her makeup kit, and headed for the unisex restroom. She’d have to hurry: being a few minutes late would be all right, but if she was too late, Terry just might stop waiting and start looking around at whoever else was cruising the bar.

Caroline peeled off her white top and black slacks, and then, wearing only bra and panties, dampened a paper towel to wipe away the smudges under her eyes before freshening up her makeup. At the last minute she added a little dark eye shadow for some extra evening drama.

She was just pulling her favorite pink sweater over her head when she thought she heard one of the bathroom stalls open.

Who could still be here? Keisha? Impossible — her shift had ended an hour ago. Or had she been in the bathroom all this time?

Could Keisha be sick?

Caroline struggled with the sweater for a moment, trying to figure out what she could do if Keisha really was ill. If the girl couldn’t drive, then she would have to take her home, and that meant—

Before she could finish the thought, a rubber-gloved hand grabbed her hard around the mouth and jerked her head back. She barely saw the glittering flash of the blade before it sliced across her throat and she began to choke.

It took a moment — a half second or two that seemed an eternity — before she realized she was breathing in blood instead of air.

Her own blood.

But there was no pain — no pain at all! How was that possible? How could she be sinking down to the floor, feeling her own blood gushing from her throat, choking on the very fluid that gave her life, and not feel anything?

The light in the restroom began to throb in strange synchronization with her own heartbeat, and a terrible melancholy settled over Caroline as her life drained away onto the bathroom floor. Mutely — numbly — she watched as her assailant sliced through her sweater and her skin and laid open her abdomen.

And still she felt nothing.

She watched as a detached observer as her intestines were torn out and flung aside, as greedy hands reached deep inside her as if searching for some specific thing.

The blade glimmered once more in the now fast fading light of the restroom, and the awful spurting of Caroline Fisher’s blood slowed to nothing more than a dribble.

Her last thought was of Terry. Blond, blue-eyed Terry, waiting at the bar.

Waiting for her.

Waiting for eternity…

3

RISA SHAW REACHED OVER AND SPOONED TWO DOLLOPS OF YOGURT from the container in front of Alison into her own bowl, added some cereal, and topped her breakfast off with a large handful of blueberries, earning herself a quizzical look from her daughter.

“Mom! You don’t even like blueberries.”

But even with Alison’s words ringing in her ears, Risa could barely focus on the food in front of her. Rather, her entire consciousness had been filled with only two things since she’d awakened this morning: the fact that Michael had not only not come home for dinner last night, but still hadn’t been home when she finally fell asleep sometime after midnight; and Lexie Montrose’s words from the banquet the night before.

I could be Mrs. Happily Unmarried in a heartbeat if Conrad Dunn came on the market!

Had some ambitious young talent thought the same about Michael Shaw? The thought had begun to haunt her as soon as she got home and found not only that Michael’s side of the garage was empty, but that he hadn’t even called to say he’d be late until Alison already had dinner on the table and waiting for him. Indeed, it had still been on the table when she herself had come home, and instead of being worried that he’d been hurt in an accident or something, as she would have in the first years of their marriage, she found herself instead recalling Lexie’s sleazy comment.

Was it possible that Michael had spent the evening with another woman?

Of course it was possible — in this day and age, in fact, it was even probable.

Still, the thought was both infuriating and terrifying.

“Well, maybe I’ll just have to learn to like blueberries,” Risa said, gazing at her bowl morosely. “Maybe I’ll have to learn to like a lot of things I hate.” She poured a glass of juice for Alison and another for herself, pushing Alison’s across the breakfast bar.

“Aren’t you going to pour one for Dad?” Alison asked as Risa set the pitcher down, leaving the third glass conspicuously empty.

“If he wants it, he can pour it himself,” Risa said, and regretted her sharp tone when she saw Alison recoil. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” she went on, too quickly. “I guess I’m just a little cranky this morning. Plus I have an early appointment. I have to be at the marina in half an hour.” She gulped down her orange juice, decided to ignore the blueberries, then wondered if that could be symbolic of something, and blew on her coffee in hopes of cooling it fast enough to drink at least half a cup before she had to leave. “Are you coming home right after school today?” “Track practice,” Alison said. “I’ll be home by six. Why?”

“Just trying to keep up with you,” Risa said, forcing a smile.

“Keep up with me?” Alison shot back. “Give me a break, Mom — I’m the one who has to keep up with you.” The smile her daughter’s words brought to her lips faded when she heard her husband’s footsteps on the stairs, and she tried to renew it. The last thing she needed this morning was a confrontation with Michael, especially in front of Alison. Yet even as she told herself to let it go at least until she and Michael were alone, she felt the bitter anger rising in the back of her throat. Then Michael came around the corner — fresh from the shower, wearing an open-collared shirt and sport coat over chinos, and looking far younger than his forty-two years — and she knew she wasn’t going to be able to hold her temper in check.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He reached for the orange juice.

“Morning, Dad—” Alison began, but abruptly cut herself short when her mother reached out and clutched her father’s wrist, keeping him from the pitcher.

“What time did you roll in last night?” she demanded, a hard edge of anger in her voice.

“Late,” Michael said.

A little too smoothly? Risa wondered.

“I worked until after midnight,” he explained, “then went out for a nightcap.” Risa stared at him until he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

He was lying — she could see it in his eyes. “Alison stayed home to make you dinner, and you didn’t even bother to call until it was already on the table.” “Oh, cupcake, I’m sorry,” he said, and walked around the bar to kiss the top of his daughter’s head. “Sometimes the newsroom just doesn’t care that I have a real life.” “She was home alone until I got back from the banquet about ten,” Risa said.

“Mom, I’m fifteen!” Alison protested. “It was no big deal.”

“That’s not the point!” Risa snapped.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Michael said. “What can I say? You know the news doesn’t stop for my convenience.” “But apparently your daughter can be ignored.”

Michael sighed heavily. “Maybe we should have this conversation another time.” “Fine,” Risa said. “How about tonight? Or won’t you be home tonight, either?” Alison’s eyes glistened as she looked up at her parents. “Come on, you guys. Don’t fight.” “We’re not fighting, honey,” Michael said, his eyes pleading with his wife to let it go, at least until they were alone. “I was inconsiderate, and your mom has a right to be mad.” Risa took a deep breath, checked her watch, and decided she had neither the time, the energy, nor the stomach for whatever might happen if they kept talking right now. Without responding to Michael, she poured a fresh cup of coffee into a traveling mug, though she was certain her stomach was already far too upset for her to drink it. “I’ve got to run.” She looked directly at her husband. “You’ll be home tonight?” Michael nodded. “As usual.”

“’Bye, Mom.”

“’Bye, honey.” Risa grabbed her briefcase and hurried through the house to the garage.

A wife always knows, her mother had told her.

And Risa knew.

Michael was having an affair.

MARGOT DUNN SAT quietly in the tiny glass chapel overlooking the Pacific where she and Conrad had been married a dozen years ago. The joy of that day — when her own beauty exceeded even that of the setting she had chosen for her wedding — was only a faint memory now, but the serenity of the Wayfarer’s Chapel imbued her spirit as much today as it always had. Through all the years since she’d married Conrad, this small church had been her refuge, the single place where everything else in her world could be shut out, and today, with the bright sun of the clear morning pouring through the great glass panels and filtering through the branches of the redwoods outside, Margot knew she was at last going to be all right.

For the first time since the accident, her soul was truly at peace.

Uttering a final silent prayer, Margot rose from the pew and left the chapel, threading her way though the crowd around the front door, paying no attention to the glances and whispers of the people who recognized her.

She found her Lexus parked in the lot, drove it down the hill to the Pacific Coast Highway and turned right. After less than a mile she turned off the highway and made her way through a maze of small cul-de-sacs until she pulled up in front of a tiny park she’d discovered a few years ago when she came to look at one of the houses across the street.

She hadn’t particularly liked the house, but had fallen instantly in love with the park. She’d come back the very next day, bringing Ruffles with her, and the dog had liked it as much as she did. The best thing about it — aside from the view and the thunder from the surf that constantly crashed at the base of the cliff — was that it was almost always deserted. Now, already anticipating an hour of running loose on the lawn, the little white terrier was peering eagerly out the passenger window of the Lexus, as if struggling to get his tiny nose through the glass itself to suck in the tangy salt air beyond the confines of the car.

Margot braked to a stop, turned off the engine, and let her hands drop to her lap as her head fell back onto the headrest.

Peace.

She took a deep breath and then gazed out over the cliffs to the glistening ocean spread out in front of her. A haze lay over the sea this morning, hiding the distant form of Catalina. The horizon had all but vanished, the sea and sky blending so perfectly that there was barely a hint of where they met.

Nothing but blue for as far as she could see.

Ruffles whined to be let out of the car, but Margot only reached across to give his flank an affectionate rub. “Hush,” she whispered.

Sensing something, the little dog instantly quieted.

Again Margot gazed out at the sea, quieting her mind, concentrating on her breathing, using the yoga she had learned years before.

Then she pulled down the visor, flipped open the lighted mirror, and faced her reflected image.

The scars, uncovered by makeup today, were far worse than she had made herself believe. With neither the magic of Danielle DeLorian’s line of cosmetics nor the subdued lighting with which she had surrounded herself for the last year, the scars looked even worse to her now than on the day the bandages were removed. Clearly reflected in the mirror, fully exposed by the glare of morning light, Margot Dunn gazed silently at what other people saw whenever they looked at her: the hideous purple gouges that had ruined her face forever.

The peace she had found in the chapel and the serenity of the vast sea were abruptly shattered by the voices she’d overheard at last night’s banquet.

How could she live, looking like that?

Why hasn’t her husband fixed those dreadful scars?

If he could, he would have, wouldn’t he?

I’d never show my face in public if I looked like that.

Margot turned her eyes from the hideous vision in the mirror and gazed at the beautiful ocean before her, sparkling in the sun.

Beautiful. Beautiful and eternal: the sea would be forever enchanting.

How could she live, looking like that?

How, indeed?

She reached into the backseat and took one of the fashion magazines from the stack she’d put in the car just before she left the house. She gazed at the cover: the magazine was Elle, and that issue had been one of her best covers ever. She’d worn leather and fur for the shoot, and the camera had caught the seductive little wink she offered as she showed off not only her perfect face, but her flawless legs as well.

Perfect no more, she thought as she looked again to the mirror in the visor.

She snapped it closed, and flipped the magazine over so she could no longer see the image on its cover. But in the backseat there were at least a dozen others, each bearing testament to what she had been. She hadn’t brought them to look at — they were there as nothing more than evidence, so people would understand.

So Conrad would understand.

The ocean stretched before her, shimmering in the sun.

I’d never show my face in public if I looked like that.

The remark resounded in her memory so clearly that Margot actually jumped, startled, as if the woman who had uttered it last night were right here in the car with her.

Consciously settling her rattled nerves, she fished in her purse for her cell phone. Just as her fingers closed around it, it began to ring.

Conrad’s name and phone number glowed on the small screen.

After a moment’s hesitation, she answered. “Conrad?”

“Margot, where are you?”

“Palos Verdes.”

“P-V? What are you doing way out there?”

“Just…taking a day,” she said.

The pause before Conrad spoke again was a little too long, and when he finally did speak, she could hear the worry in his voice.

“Are you okay?”

Margot considered the question, and found the one answer that would not only ease his worry but was absolutely true as well: “I’m fine.” Another hesitation, but not nearly as long. “Should I worry about you?” Margot felt her lips curl into a wry smile. There was nothing for anybody to worry about. Not anymore. Not ever again. “Not at all, darling.” “Okay, then. I’ll be home at the usual time.”

“Okay.”

“I love you,” he said.

“Love you, too,” she said, then clicked off the phone before the emotion in her chest made it to her voice. “I love you so very, very much,” she whispered, holding the phone to her cheek, pressing it against the scars.

What had that woman in the restroom said? Something about snapping Conrad up if he ever came back on the market?

She dabbed a tissue at the moisture leaking from her damaged right eye, then opened her phone again and pressed the MEMO button.

“I’m so sorry, Conrad,” she said, her voice soft. “I can’t go on this way and I can’t subject you to my misery for the rest of your life. Please give Ruffles to Danielle — she’s never had anyone to love her. And you take good care of yourself. Never forget that I love you.” Checking off items on a well-rehearsed mental list, Margot phoned the police to report an abandoned, locked Lexus parked at Vanderlip Park with a dog inside. She rolled down the window far enough so Ruffles would have plenty of cool ocean air but not enough so he could wriggle out. She set her cell phone on the dashboard, then got out of the car, pressed the button on the key that would lock the doors, and dropped the keys back into the car, through the slightly opened window, to the floor behind the driver’s seat.

The ocean breeze lifted strands of her hair as she looked out to sea, walked to the bench overlooking the sea, and sat down on it.

A hundred or so feet below, the surf pounded at the base of the cliff, spray shooting high into the air as the waves exploded against the rocks of the shoreline.

A few hundred yards offshore, a sailboat was cruising southward, its foredeck crowded with people.

Beautiful people.

The world belonged to the beautiful people, and nobody understood that better than she did.

She rose to her feet and stepped to the edge of the precipice. She gazed down upon the rocks thrusting up from the ocean floor.

The rocks that would be her salvation.

If Conrad couldn’t, or wouldn’t, fix her face, the rocks would.

She stood a little straighter, closed her eyes, and raised her arms in embrace of her final act.

Then she took a deep breath and dove, headfirst — face-first — into oblivion.

MICHAEL SHAW SCANNED the news release about a group of disabled veterans opening a new restaurant for no more than three seconds before scrawling BR on the top with a red felt pen. The story would be perfect for Barry Rivers’s first week on the job — if he was the kind of reporter who wrote off human-interest stuff as fluff beneath their reportorial standards, better to find out about it right now. Dropping the release into his out-box, he picked up the next one from the stack that just seemed to keep on growing, no matter how often he attacked it.

“Michael!”

Tina Wong’s voice startled him as much as her sharp rap on the door. How was it possible that a woman who could produce perfectly modulated tones on the air always sounded like fingernails scratching on a chalkboard in real life? And why could she never — not once in the five years she’d worked for him — wait for even an acknowledgment of her presence before wading into his office, let alone an actual invitation? But here she was, already changing the video input on one of his monitors and stuffing a DVD into the player on his credenza.

“The Starbucks manager who was murdered in Encino?” she began. “The kid who opened the store and found the body shot some footage with his cell phone before the cops got there.” The screen that normally monitored CNN went blank, and a moment later, shaky, poorly lit images came on the screen: a bathroom mirror, a sink, some stall doors.

Then a woman’s body.

She lay sprawled on the floor, her clothes torn away, her torso ripped open from the groin almost to her throat.

The organs that should have been inside her body were now strewn across the floor around her, black blood pooling on the tiles of the floor and seeping into the grouted cracks between them.

Flies had already found the corpse, and seemed to be creeping everywhere.

The carnage was so complete that there was no way of telling what color the woman’s clothes might have been. The camera slowly panned the grisly scene. Whoever took the footage had even knelt down and shot under the wall of one of the stalls. For a moment Michael didn’t understand the point of the shot, but a second later saw it. There was an almost shapeless mass of bloody tissue lying near the base of the toilet, which he realized had once been the woman’s heart. Then the camera moved in on the young woman’s face. Impossibly, it was utterly unblemished, and unmarked by even a single spatter of blood.

“Jesus,” Michael Shaw whispered.

“The kid wants ten grand for the footage,” Tina Wong said, her voice betraying no emotion in response to the carnage on the television screen.

“Tina, I can’t authorize—”

“Of course you can,” she cut in. “And you not only can, you have to. If we don’t buy this, he’ll only sell it down the street. And we have”—she glanced her watch—“exactly seven minutes left to make up our minds.” Michael stretched his neck, buying a few seconds.

Did he want Risa to see this?

Worse, did he want Alison to see this?

No way.

“If it bleeds, it leads,” Tina said, reading Michael’s hesitation and punching the remote control to show the twenty-second clip again. “Who taught me that, Michael?” He sighed heavily, knowing the decision was already made, but still wishing he could turn his back on the carnage that riveted his eyes to the screen. “I know, I know.” He’d taught that phrase himself, not only to Tina, but to every young reporter who came to work for Channel 3.

“Well, this bleeds,” Tina said, setting the remote down on his desk. “This bleeds more than anything since Nicole Simpson, and I want it to lead the noon news. In fact, I want to break into regular programming with it in”—she checked her watch again—“ten minutes.” “We’re not interrupting programming for a murder in Encino,” he said.

“Noon news, then?” Tina countered, and Michael understood too late that her asking him to break into the schedule had been no more than a bargaining ploy.

He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. Tina Wong had already come to the attention of every other station in Los Angeles, as well as the network headquarters in New York, and he’d been told more than once, and in no uncertain terms, to keep her happy. But in the long run he knew there was no way of keeping her happy. She would eventually make a career move, and everyone wanted it to be up the line to national, and not to a competing network.

She was valuable because she knew her stuff, worked eighteen hours a day, and both looked and sounded great on camera. Plus, she had instincts; she knew what made a story and how to present it. And, perhaps most important, she never missed an opportunity to ask the hard questions and keep at them until she got answers.

Yet he still hesitated. Was this the kind of carnage people really needed to see on their lunch break?

“Think of the ratings,” Tina said, again reading his mind.

She was right, of course; this would be the footage all the big guns would want to buy from them after their noon broadcast. He’d parlay that ten grand into fifty before the day was out. Bottom line: business was business, whether he wanted Alison to see something like this or not.

“Okay,” he said.

Tina Wong put the form, already filled out, on his desk in front of him.

Michael scribbled his signature with the red Sharpie he still held in his hand.

Bloodred, he thought.

Tina snatched the paper off the desk as if he might yet change his mind. “Thanks,” she tossed back over her shoulder as she disappeared out the door.

Michael picked up the remote and started the footage one more time, once again unable to turn away from the horror unfolding on the screen. He tried to imagine what kind of nightmares the poor kid who found that mess would have for the rest of his life, but already knew what they would be.

Endless replays of the horror he was watching.

A shiver ran through him as he played the clip yet again.

This was no murder of passion by a jealous lover, and this was no random robbery.

This was something only a monster could have done.

A monster who was on the loose right now somewhere in the vastness of Los Angeles.

Jesus God.

Tina was right. The public had a right to know. This was a big story.

The phone rang. For a moment Michael thought of letting it ring through to voice mail while he watched the footage one more time, but instead he picked up the receiver. “Hello?” “Hey, sexy.”

Michael smiled and relaxed back into his chair. “Hi, yourself.”

“I’m thinking we should have a drink after work tonight.”

He glanced over at the frozen last frame of carnage on the television screen. “I think I’m going to need more than a drink.” “In that case, how about my place at six-thirty?”

“See you then,” Michael said, and replaced the receiver, making a mental note to call Risa and tell her he’d be home late.

4

CONRAD DUNN FINISHED DICTATING THE DAY’S SURGICAL NOTES, then checked his watch. Two-thirty: plenty of time for the afternoon rounds before heading home.

He paged Twyla to let her know he was on his way, then took the stairs down to the second floor of Le Chateau. As usual, the nurse was already waiting for him in front of the Rose Suite, apparently having once more anticipated his page. As he approached, she attempted a dance step the choreographer she’d been named after would have been ashamed of, and handed him Patricia Rothstein’s chart.

The kind of routine facelift that kept the place going, but in which he had little interest. Still, Patricia Rothstein had as much right to his full attention as anyone else, so he scanned the chart quickly to make sure nothing negative had happened since he’d seen her early this morning, knocked twice on the door, then opened it and walked in. Patricia Rothstein gazed up at him in obvious misery. Bruised eyes and a shock of dark hair were the only things visible amid the bandages that swathed her head.

“How are you doing today?” Conrad asked, resting a reassuring hand on the woman’s shoulder.

Patricia’s daughter sat in a chair next to her mother’s bed, holding a cup of water with a drinking straw, but the dinner tray was untouched, which didn’t surprise him.

“No appetite?” he asked.

“Not kosher,” the woman mumbled through swollen lips. “Not Atkins.”

Conrad turned to Twyla, who stood just behind him with a clipboard. “Make a note for the kitchen,” he said. “Kosher and lean.” Then he turned back to his patient. “I’m sorry about the confusion. I’ll have a fresh meal brought up right away. How’s your pain level, on a scale of one to ten?”

“Twenty,” the woman said.

Conrad flipped through the pages on her chart. “Well, we can certainly fix that. And tomorrow we’ll get those bandages off your face.”

The woman grunted, and he smiled at the daughter, who smiled back.

Next door in the Magnolia Suite, Conrad found Imee Abeya looking far tinier than the average thirteen-year-old in the big hospital bed. The lower half of her face was lost behind massive white bandages, but her mother — not much larger than Imee — smiled and stood as Conrad entered, taking the doctor’s hand in both of hers and bowing.

Conrad gently disentangled his hand from Mrs. Abeya’s. “How’s our patient this afternoon?”

“She good,” Imelda Abeya said in her recently acquired and still very uncertain English. “Very good.”

“That’s what we want to hear.” He turned to the girl. “Imee, I’m going to take your bandages off now and we’ll see how everything looks, all right?”

The girl nodded, her eyes showing both excitement and fear.

Conrad wheeled over a stool, and as Twyla opened a sterile tray of instruments, he pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. Picking a pair of scissors from the tray, he carefully cut the bandages and gently unwound them. The gauze was stained with a little seepage, but the girl’s bleeding had completely stopped, which was unusual for a cleft palette reconstruction.

He gave Mrs. Abeya an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up before proceeding.

The woman only kept chewing nervously on a knuckle.

Very slowly, Conrad unwrapped the gauze, and bared the repaired face of the young Filipina. Imee’s lips were still bruised and swollen, and a dark scab covered the stitch line from her nose to her lip, but the wound was healing very well. He peered inside the girl’s mouth with a small mirror and even smaller flashlight, then smiled at Imee.

Imee tried to return the smile, wincing when her lips moved.

“Easy,” Conrad cautioned, then turned to Imelda Abeya. “Much better.”

“Ah! Sí!” The woman wiped a tear from her cheek.

“She’s beautiful,” he said, eyeing Imee appraisingly.

“Beautiful,” the girl whispered.

“Sí,” the mother said.

“I’m going to rebandage this,” Conrad said quietly to Twyla, then went on speaking as he worked. “Keep her on liquids and pain meds for the rest of the night. Tomorrow I’ll have her start on a liquid diet, and she can go home the next day, so Sandra can go ahead and get their plane tickets. Make an appointment for her follow-up with Dr. Sabayán in Manila. Fax him and have him bill the foundation. Arrange for the translator to come tomorrow to explain all the post-op instructions to Mrs. Abeya, and make certain she understands that she must send us good, clear photos in three months.”

As Twyla finished with her notes there was a soft knock on the door and the office manager stepped into the room. “Dr. Dunn?” she said softly.

“I’m with a patient, Sandra,” Conrad said.

The woman bit her lip but didn’t move. “You’re needed in your office right away.”

Conrad Dunn frowned darkly. “I’m with a patient,” he repeated.

“I can finish bandaging,” Twyla offered.

“I’ll do it,” Conrad said. Sandra knew as well as the rest of the staff that he was never to be interrupted when he was with a patient. What was she thinking? “Whatever is in my office can wait five minutes.” Refusing to be hurried by even so much as a second, he carefully finished the bandaging, then smiled at the young girl and checked her IV drip. Only after a few last words with Imelda Abeya did he finally leave the room and head for his office on the third floor.

Sandra was waiting outside his door, her face pale, her expression strained. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered as she held the door open for him to go in.

A man stood looking out the window at the view that swept down from Le Chateau over the hills above Westwood then on to encompass most of the greater Los Angeles basin. The morning haze had cleared, the outline of Catalina Island was barely visible on the horizon.

“May I help you?” Conrad asked.

The man turned around, and it wasn’t simply the grim expression on his face that told Conrad Dunn what had happened.

Rather, it was the sight of Ruffles in the man’s arms.

“Lieutenant Dickson, Dr. Dunn,” the man said. “LAPD.”

Conrad felt the blood drain from his face. He knew. Oh God, he knew.

He sank to the edge of the sofa.

The lieutenant set Ruffles on the floor, and the little white dog ran to Conrad and jumped up into his lap, whimpering and licking at his face.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Dunn,” the policeman said, “but we found your wife’s body on the beach below Vanderlip Park in Palos Verdes.” He hesitated, but when Conrad only looked mutely at him, finally spoke again. “She’d called in a report that a locked Lexus with a white dog had been abandoned there. She…” His voice trailed off as he drew a cell phone from his pocket.

Margot’s cell phone — the one studded with diamonds — that he’d bought her only last month.

“She left a message on this for you,” Lieutenant Dickson said.

“Margot,” Conrad whispered as a cold numbness began to spread through his body.

“I’m so sorry,” the lieutenant murmured, and set the phone down on the corner of the desk.

Starting to tremble, Conrad pressed the little dog to his chest as if to transfer the warmth from its body to his own, barely aware of the voices around him as Sandra spoke with the policeman.

“Margot,” he whispered again, grief burning inside him.

Grief, and something else.

“Why did you do it?” he whispered. But of course he already knew why.

Now the guilt began to burn hotter than the grief. He should never have made her go to the banquet last night. She’d told him she wasn’t up to it, but he’d insisted. And it had been too much.

It was all his fault. If only he’d begun the repair work on her face…

He looked up and saw her, stunning in a red Versace gown on the cover of Vanity Fair. He’d had the cover blown up, framed, and hung on his office wall. “How can I go on?” he whispered. “How can I possibly go on without you?”

But the calm beauty on the cover offered him no answers.

ALISON HEARD the garage door rattle open and checked the time. Eleven-thirty, which meant her mother thought she was asleep instead of talking with Cindy on her cell phone about going to a party Friday night. If her dad had seen her light on and told her mother, she could lose the phone for a week. On the other hand, so far her father had either never noticed her light on late or, if he had, hadn’t told her mother. And that thought led to another idea.

“My dad’s home,” she said, “gotta go. But when he comes in to say good-night, I’ll ask him about Friday night. That way I can tell my mother that Dad already said yes when I talk to her in the morning.”

“Okay,” Cindy said.

“I’ll call you back.”

“Tell me tomorrow,” Cindy said. “I’m going to bed.”

“Okay.” Alison clicked off her cell phone, moved from her bed to her desk — might as well at least look like she’d been studying — and waited.

And waited.

As the minutes ticked by and she still didn’t hear her father coming up the stairs, she went to the door, opened it, and listened.

Though she couldn’t quite make out the words, she heard her mother’s voice coming from the kitchen in that low, you-better-understand-what-I’m-saying voice her mother used when she’d done something wrong.

Maybe she’d wait and ask her dad about Friday night in the morning, at breakfast.

But before she closed the door to her room, she heard her mother’s voice rise abruptly and a single word resound clearly up the stairwell: “Lying!”

She froze.

Lying? Who was lying? What was going on?

She crept to the head of the stairs, where she could hear both of them clearly, then hesitated, wanting to find out what was going on but also to go back to her room, close the door, and pretend nothing was happening.

Knowing she should go back to her room, she sat down instead.

Sat, and listened.

“I CALLED the station, Michael,” Risa said, trying hard to control the anger that had been simmering inside her for the last two hours. She didn’t want to shout at him, and she certainly didn’t want to cry — whatever was going on wouldn’t be solved by either of those reactions. “They said you left the office at six.” Michael sank onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “So please don’t tell me you were at work until eleven. I’m not stupid.”

“Of course you’re not—”

“And I can smell liquor on your breath, so you’ve been drinking.”

Michael nodded. “I had a couple of drinks,” he agreed. “But I’m not drunk — nowhere near.”

“So who were you with?” Risa sat on the stool next to him. Before he could reply, she went on. “And please don’t tell me it was ‘a business associate.’ If it was, you’d have said so in the message you left.”

Michael looked at his hands. “It’s not what you think,” he finally said, still failing to meet her eyes.

Risa took a deep breath, forcing herself to keep her voice calm, to betray none of the anger that was rapidly coming to a boil. Of course it was what she thought it was; what else could it possibly be? “For God’s sake, Michael,” she said when she could trust her voice not to tremble. “We’ve been married for almost twenty years. We’ve been best friends — partners!” She took another breath, which escaped in a sigh of defeat only a second or two later. “My mother told me that a woman always knows when her husband is having an affair, and it turns out she was right. I know you’re having an affair — I can feel it.”

She saw Michael’s body tense, but still he said nothing.

She laid a hand on his arm, and at least he didn’t pull it away. “Michael, I know our sex life hasn’t been everything it could be. And I’m more than willing to take at least some of the responsibility for that.” A sob caught in her chest, and she paused before continuing. “For God’s sake, Michael, don’t just sit there saying nothing at all! At least tell me who she is!”

He finally turned to face her, unconsciously straightening on the stool, and when their eyes at last met for the first time since Michael had come into the house from the garage a few minutes ago, Risa felt a cold terror begin to spread through her body. Her husband betrayed no anger at all, or defensiveness, or anything other than two simple emotions.

Love and sorrow.

Whatever had happened, she knew with absolute certainty that it wasn’t just an affair.

“There isn’t another woman, Risa,” he said softly, taking her hands in his own.

Risa gazed at him in puzzlement. If there wasn’t another woman—

The truth came to her just as he spoke the words:

“It’s a man.”

As she tried to come to grips with what her husband — the man she’d lived with and loved for almost two decades and thought she knew as well as she knew herself — had just told her, the other shoe dropped.

“And we’re not having an affair,” he went on, his voice quiet but clear. “We’ve fallen in love.”

Tears sprang to Risa’s eyes and overflowed her lids. But even as her tears flowed, she realized she had absolutely nothing to say. Of all the things she had imagined over the last couple of weeks, this—this—had never even entered her mind.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Michael said, and put one hand on her cheek. His words and his voice were gentle, and his hand felt warm.

She jerked away. The last thing she needed was his affection or — worse — his pity. Not now. The pain of betrayal seared through her guts, and suddenly she could barely breathe.

“I wish it were different,” she heard him saying, and now his voice sounded as if it was coming from far away, from a place she already understood she could never go. “I’ve wished that for years now.”

“Years?” she demanded, snatching at the single thing she could grab onto to save herself. Her voice took on a hysterical edge. “You’ve known for years?”

Michael bit his lips, nodding silently.

“You’ve been carrying on with another…a man for years?”

He looked at her as if she’d slapped him. “Of course not!” He tried to take her hands again, but she pulled them away from him. “I still love you, Risa,” he said. “I’ve always loved you, and I always will. Just not…” His voice trailed off. “Oh, God, Risa. I’m so sorry.”

Sorry. Sorry! What the hell did that mean? And yet she could see in his eyes, in his expression and body language, that he was, indeed, sorry.

And all it did was make her feel helpless, more helpless than she’d ever felt before. “What’s his name?” she finally asked while she tried to assimilate his words, tried to look back and find clues to this inconceivable news, this unexpected body blow from which she wasn’t sure she could ever recover.

“Scott,” Michael said. “Scott Lawrence.”

“How long?”

“A couple of months. One month, three weeks, and two days, actually.”

“Which is almost a week longer than it took you to propose to me,” Risa said, making no effort to keep the edge out of her voice anymore. “At least I know you waited to tell me until you were absolutely sure.” Finally the sorrow in her husband’s eyes was replaced by pain, and she almost detachedly noticed that his pain somewhat assuaged her anger. And knowing that, she realized how much she wanted to inflict the pain and anger within her on him. But if she gave in to it — gave in to her own desires as readily as Michael had obviously given in to his — the fight wouldn’t be contained, and it wouldn’t hurt only Michael.

Alison was in the house, and if she woke up and heard them fighting and understood what it was about—

“You’d better go,” she said, her voice quiet as her eyes instinctively flicked toward the ceiling and Alison’s bedroom on the floor above.

Reading her upward glance, Michael nodded. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“Me, too,” Risa said, her voice cracking. She got off the stool and went into the den, leaving him alone.

A moment later she heard the door from the kitchen to the garage open, and a second later the garage door began grinding upward. As she heard him start his car, then pull out of the garage, close the garage door, and finally drive away from the house they’d shared so long, she pulled a pillow to her stomach, held it close, and began to cry.

All the plans they had for the future began streaming through her mind: seeing Alison off to college, being empty-nesters, and traveling the world. Alison’s college graduation, and her marriage, and the birth of their first grandchild. All the future Christmases and Thanksgivings with the family around the table. Growing old together.

She and Michael.

And all of it was gone. All her dreams, everything she had counted on, shattered in a single ten-minute conversation.

As her tears flowed, she thought she could actually hear her heart breaking.

A warm hand rested on her shoulder, and Risa opened her arms to let Alison slip into them, then gently rocked both of them together.

“It’ll be all right, Mom,” Alison said, and though Risa knew she was trying to be reassuring, her words were belied by the catch in her voice, her red face, and her swollen, streaming eyes.

Risa smoothed Alison’s hair away from her warm forehead and brought her back close again.

“I know,” she sighed. “It’s just that right now, it doesn’t feel like it’s going to be all right. It doesn’t feel like it’s ever going to be all right again.”

SCOTT LAWRENCE PUNCHED the pillow under his head, rolled over, then gave up trying to go to sleep and clicked the bedroom television on to the news on Channel 3, which he hadn’t watched until he met Michael Shaw a little less than three months ago. Now he usually went to sleep with the newscast Michael produced, since he couldn’t go to sleep with Michael himself.

Tonight the entire newscast was centered around the murder in Encino, and though every channel was playing it, Michael’s network had by far the most graphic — and the most compelling — pictures.

Scott shivered, wondering what the carnage the killer had left meant. Maybe a former boyfriend had killed the woman, but from what he could see in the shaky cell-phone footage Channel 3 played again and again, it looked like the man had to be some kind of nutcase.

Which meant this might only be the first of what was going to be a series of killings, which was exactly the theory that the reporter — a pretty but shrill woman named Tina Wong — was not only promoting, but actually seemed to be hoping for. Freaking ghoul, he thought as he clicked over to Comedy Central.

Just as the channel changed, the doorbell rang.

A chill ran through Scott. Who in the world would be ringing his bell after midnight?

Should he open the door?

He looked again at the television, and thoughts of a homicidal maniac going through the neighborhood with a hunting knife in his hand, ringing doorbells and waiting to see who would be foolish enough to open their door, ran through his mind. “Stop it!” he said out loud, turning the TV off and silently cursing Tina Wong for so successfully spooking him. Nobody was going to come all the way up to the Hollywood Hills to slaughter him.

As the bell rang again, he pulled on his robe, went down the hall and through the living room, then turned on the porch light and peered through the peephole.

Michael Shaw stood on his doorstep.

Scott threw the dead bolt and opened the door, a surge of happiness welling up in him that he didn’t try to hide as he grinned at Michael. But as he saw the look on Michael’s ashen face, his grin faded. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I told Risa,” Michael said, his voice catching. “She threw me out.”

“Oh, Christ,” Scott said, pulling the door wide. “You okay?” Michael seemed about to lose his balance, and Scott reached out and took his arm, drawing him in and closing the door behind him. “Stupid thing to say — of course you’re not okay. Sit down and I’ll get you a drink.”

Michael collapsed on the sofa, and Scott poured each of them two fingers of scotch, handed one of the glasses to Michael, then sat down next to him.

Michael drained half his glass, then finally managed a weak smile. “Thanks. You have no idea how much I needed that.”

“Actually, I probably do,” Scott said. “I went through the same thing fifteen years ago. So, what happened?”

“I hurt her so badly,” Michael said, choking as a sob rose in his throat. “And I never meant to — I never wanted to hurt anyone at all.”

Scott gave Michael’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “She was going to find out sooner or later,” he said. “Better to get it over with now than drag it out.”

Michael nodded. “I guess.” He took a deep, ragged breath. “Can I stay here tonight? Tomorrow I’ll move into a hotel until I can find a place.”

“First you have to tell me why you didn’t call before you came over,” Scott countered.

Michael turned to look directly at him, hesitated, then blurted, “Because I was afraid you might tell me not to come.”

Scott’s brows arched. “So at least I know you’re not quite as smart as I thought you were, which is good. Puts us on more of an equal footing. And of course tomorrow you can do whatever you like,” he went on, “but it sort of seems like moving into a hotel is going to cost you a lot of money you might not be able to afford, at least if Risa turns as mean as my ex did.”

“So I can stay until I find a place?” Michael asked, sounding to Scott like a little boy who’d just found a puppy under the Christmas tree.

“Why not just move all your stuff in here?” he said, doing his best not to sound as anxious as he was suddenly feeling. But when Michael turned to face him, the look in the other man’s eyes and the tone of his voice told Scott all he needed to know.

“You really mean that?” Michael asked. “I mean, the way I hope you mean it?”

“I would have meant it the day we met if I’d had the guts to say it, but I was sure if I did, it would only scare you off. So, yes — I really mean it now. We’re going to end up together anyway.” The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment, and then something in Michael’s eyes changed.

The love Scott had been certain he saw there only a moment ago had shifted into a look of uncertainty. “Oh, God,” he whispered, the happiness draining out of him. “I’m an idiot. What am I pushing you for? Just forget what I said. Do whatever feels right to you. If you don’t want to live here, that’s fine. We’ll find you somewhere else—”

Michael shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s Alison—” He fell silent. How could he tell Scott what he was thinking as he imagined Risa telling Alison that her father was gay and now living with another man? Would he lose Alison, too? He couldn’t! Suddenly he wanted things to be the way they’d been only a few hours ago, when he’d had a family. He liked having a daughter, and he liked having a wife. Alison had been the center of his world since the day she was born, and Risa his best friend for more than twenty years.

Except, he realized, that wasn’t quite true. If she’d truly been his best friend, wouldn’t he have told her the truth about himself years ago? And if she was truly his wife, why hadn’t they acted like more than roommates for more than half of those twenty years?

Now he looked at Scott, at the face of a man whom he loved more than he could ever have imagined loving another human being even three months ago. A man who was not Alison, but who had become every bit as important to him as his daughter.

And he knew he couldn’t go back to being Risa’s husband. He’d gone way past that a long time ago, and there was no turning back, even if he wanted to.

Scott let the silence hold. He knew exactly what Michael was going through, and it was a process Michael had to go through himself. Though he was already certain that, in the long run, Alison would love her father just as much as she ever had, he also knew how hard that idea might be for Michael to accept right now. Scott knew that all he could do was let Michael know that whatever he was going through, he was not alone. “I love you,” he finally whispered.

Michael’s tortured eyes fixed on him. “It seems like I hurt everyone who loves me.”

Scott smiled. “I’m willing to take that risk.” He reached over and took Michael’s hand. “I know you won’t believe me right now, but everything really is going to turn out all right. Risa’s not going to kill you, and Alison’s not going to hate you, and you and I are going to be just fine.”

Michael closed his eyes and felt Scott’s warmth next to him. Was it possible? Could he finally live with no more lies, and no more wondering if everyone knew about him? But as he felt Scott’s arms slip around him, he suddenly knew as much as he could know, at least right now, that he was with the person he wanted to be with, needed to be with.

“Come on,” Scott said, pulling Michael to his feet. “Let’s go to bed.”

An hour later, with Scott’s arms still wrapped around him, Michael fell into the deepest sleep he’d had in years.

He was home.

5

CONRAD DUNN STARED DOWN INTO THE SMASHED FACE OF HIS WIFE, and all the love he’d ever felt for her dissolved into a cold, dark fury.

On purpose. Margot had done this on purpose.

Diving head first onto the rocks below the bluff in Palos Verdes was one thing, but diving face first was entirely another.

What Margo had done wasn’t simply a matter of killing herself. No, she had taken it much, much further, deliberately destroying the best work he’d ever done.

Sabotage. After all he’d done to make her so beautiful — to turn her face into a work of art — her dying act was to destroy not only herself, but his work — his brilliant work — as well.

The last of his grief and his guilt evaporated as he gazed down at the pulpy mess Margot had made of his greatest, most perfect creation, and he had to grip the edges of the stainless-steel table to maintain his balance.

Danielle DeLorian, already wearing a rubber apron, took the dress he’d brought from Margot’s closet from his hand before he dropped it, hung it carefully on a hanger the mortuary had provided for that purpose, then stood next to Conrad as he fixated on the ruin that had been his wife.

“She did this on purpose,” Conrad breathed, his voice trembling.

“You don’t know that,” Danielle countered.

“I know,” Conrad assured her, his eyes boring deeply into hers. “Believe me, I know.”

“Well,” Danielle said, looking up at the clock, more to break the lock Conrad held on her gaze than because she needed to know the time, “we have a lot of work to do if you’re still going to insist on an open casket.”

“Oh, we’re having an open casket all right,” he said, his voice grim. “I told her I would make her beautiful again, and by God I intend to do it right now.”

The act of putting on an apron and a pair of rubber gloves gave Conrad a moment to reject his rage and put both his brain and his emotions into professional mode. This was a reconstruction job, nothing more. He’d been doing those all his life, and as he looked down at the wreckage that lay on the table, he knew exactly what needed to be done to repair it.

All of it.

He gripped the chin and moved the head back and forth.

The head, not her head.

“Fortunately, most of the damage was done to the right side,” he said. Much of the scarred skin was missing, along with the underlying tissue. Bones had shattered, and what skin was left had blackened at the edges.

The eyeball was missing.

He turned the head and probed with practiced fingers. “On the left, it’s mostly abrasions and contusions.” His fingers probed further. “There’s an orbital fracture here, but that’s relatively simple.”

“Perhaps there’s a way to orient her in the coffin so her good side—” Danielle began as she tested the iron in preparation for curling Margot’s newly washed hair into gentle waves.

“When I’m finished,” Conrad cut in, “there won’t be a good side. There will be two perfect sides.”

He set to work, first filling Margot’s mouth with cotton, so her cheeks wouldn’t appear so sunken, then doing the same with the empty eye socket. The lids would be closed anyway, so there was no need to replace the eyeball itself. Next he trimmed off the black, curling edges of skin with a pair of surgical scissors and began cutting away the mess of crushed flesh and shattered bone beneath. When the last of the debris had been cleared away, he picked up a jar of putty from the tray of instruments and began to sculpt one half of Margot’s face.

“Be careful not to tug,” he warned Danielle as he smoothed putty around the cotton-stuffed eye socket.

She nodded silently and continued working as efficiently and expertly as Conrad himself, laying the flowing waves of hair around Margot’s head so they would neither be soiled by his work nor be in his way. Only when the face was finished would she finally lay the hair over Margot’s shoulders.

Two hours later the reconstruction was finished. Conrad stood back, regarding his work with the detachment of the complete professional. The face looked smooth and blank, like a freshly fired ceramic doll’s head.

Danielle opened her cosmetics case and laid everything out on a tray. “Go get a cup of coffee or something, Conrad,” she said, looking up at the big clock on the wall. “Or lie down for a while. You’re exhausted.”

“Not until she’s perfect,” he replied.

With an expertise in her own field that was equal to Conrad’s in his, Danielle began applying makeup to the colorless putty from which he had rebuilt Margot’s face, and as Conrad watched, his wife slowly began to emerge from the blank, expressionless facade he had created.

He could no longer pretend that this was just another head, just another face.

This was Margot, the love of his life, dead and lying on a slab.

“Conrad?”

He tore his eyes away from his beautiful wife and looked up at Danielle. Perspiration dotted her forehead.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes drifting back to Margot’s face.

“We need to dress her.”

Conrad stripped the plastic off Margot’s favorite dress, a burgundy Versace. He had also brought black lace Oscar de la Renta lingerie; Margot would be as perfectly dressed in death as she had always been in life.

As Danielle carefully peeled away the sheet that covered Margot’s body, Alston Bedwell, the funeral director, pushed the mahogany coffin through a set of big doors and into the cool preparation room where they had been working.

Conrad pulled the sheet back up to cover his wife’s nakedness as Bedwell wheeled the coffin next to the table where she lay. The funeral director stopped short when he caught sight of the classic beauty of Margot Dunn, lying in graceful repose as if ready for a photo shoot.

“Oh, my,” he said. “You’ve done an extraordinary job. She looks…” He paused, searching for the right word, but only one would do. “She looks alive,” he finished.

Conrad’s gaze shifted from Margot to Bedwell. “For me, she’ll always be alive,” he said softly.

The funeral directer stepped forward and laid a professionally gentle hand on the grieving man’s shoulder. “We need to take her upstairs now.”

“Conrad?” Danielle said.

Reluctantly, Conrad drew the sheet back, and the three of them began to dress Margot Dunn.

Twenty minutes later they were finished and Margot looked utterly flawless.

Danielle flicked her blush brush over Margot’s décolletage one last time and smiled gently at Conrad. “She’s ready to meet her guests.”

Conrad’s heart ached as he gazed at the face of the woman he had vowed to love until death. But it wasn’t long enough — he would love her far beyond something so fleeting as death. “You see?” he whispered to her. “I’ve made you perfect again. You should have trusted me. You should have waited for me.”

But she hadn’t waited, and now he had to figure out what to do with the rest of his life.

RISA SHAW PULLED a simple black crepe dress from the back of her closet and carefully examined it for spots or other flaws. “I guess I should have sent this to the cleaner’s after the party at the Wilmingtons’,” she muttered ruefully, more to herself than to Alison, who idly sprawled on her mother’s bed.

“It looks okay from here,” Alison said.

Risa picked a bit of lint from the hem and turned it around. “Well, it’s going to have to do.” She held it up and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. “It’ll pass,” she decided, rehung the dress on the hanger, and started rummaging through her lingerie drawer. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

Alison hesitated. “Dad’s picking me up,” she said. “We’re just gonna hang out.”

Risa froze as cold fury rose inside her, but she bit back the angry words that came to her lips. Though the wound Michael had inflicted on her still oozed bitter anger, she had decided that no matter how she felt, she wouldn’t let her anger or her pain drive a wedge between Alison and her father. What had happened was between them, and Alison had no part in it at all.

She found the bra and panties she was looking for but kept rummaging anyway, buying time while deciding how to respond to her daughter. Alison had a perfect right to spend time with her father. She wasn’t about to deny that, and she certainly wasn’t going to be jealous about it. Be casual, she told herself. Don’t say anything you’ll wish you hadn’t. “Going to a movie?” she finally ventured, struggling to sound as if nothing was wrong.

“I’m not sure…” Alison said in a tone that told Risa she was sure, and whatever they were doing, they wouldn’t be going to a movie.

Risa turned and looked straight at her daughter. “You’re going to his place?”

The stricken look on Alison’s face gave it away so quickly it was almost comical. Alison had never been able to lie, and obviously still couldn’t. “I didn’t want you to feel bad,” she said, her voice quavering and her eyes glistening with tears. “Dad — well, Dad wants me to meet Scott.”

Scott. So there it was. Every instinct in Risa wanted to scream at her daughter, to demand that she refuse to be a party to Michael’s betrayal of her. But even as the words rose in Risa’s throat, she pushed them away, reminding herself once more what she already knew to be true: that Michael hadn’t betrayed her at all. Falling in love with another woman would have been a betrayal. But it hadn’t been another woman. It was something Michael had been struggling with for years, and she knew, in her heart, that it was something he could in the end do nothing about. Indeed, if he’d told her he was gay before they’d married, they would still have been friends.

Good friends.

And she’d believed him when he said he hadn’t known he was gay all those years ago.

She’d seen the genuine torment in his eyes when he told her the other night what had been going on. It wasn’t torment for having been caught, but at the pain the truth was causing her.

The pain she was still feeling.

Now, as she saw the pain her daughter was suffering just at the thought of hurting one parent by seeing the other, Risa decided that she and Michael had borne enough pain for all of them, and that whatever happened, she wasn’t going to put any of hers onto Alison. Not onto Alison, and not onto Michael either. “Of course he wants you to meet Scott,” she said. “He wants to share his life with you, and he always will.” A tiny tear dropped off Alison’s lower lid and landed on her cheek. Risa sat on the edge of the bed and wiped it away. “He loves you, honey. Nothing will ever change that. Nothing.”

Alison nodded and brushed tears from her eyes with both hands. “So you won’t be mad at me?”

Risa thought quickly, wondering how many hurdles she could make it over in one day. The one she’d just jumped had seemed far too high a few moments ago, but she’d made it. And felt exhausted.

She slipped her arm around Alison’s shoulders. “Honey, I’m going to ask you for a huge favor.”

Alison tensed. “What kind of favor?”

“I’m wondering if it would be too much to ask you to let me meet Scott first. That way, I’ll at least know who you’re spending time with.”

Alison frowned. “You don’t trust Dad?”

“Of course I trust him,” Risa hurriedly assured her. “But you have two parents for a reason, because parents balance each other out. Would it be a terrible thing for you to go with me this afternoon and meet Scott another time?”

Alison shifted away from her mother. “I never even met Margot Dunn. Why would I want to go to her funeral?”

“Well, she was an international supermodel, and there will probably be lots of famous people there.”

Alison looked more interested, but not much. “Like who?”

“How would I know?” Risa countered, frantically searching for the name of someone, anyone, who would not only interest Alison, but be likely to show up at the funeral. “Probably some movie stars,” she finally ventured, hoping it might be enough.

“Really?”

Risa shrugged casually, then stood up and went back to her lingerie drawer. Pulling out the underwear she’d already chosen, she laid it out on the bed.

“Yeah, but a funeral?” Alison said, still obviously unconvinced.

Risa decided to lay her cards on the table and trust her daughter. “I have to go because Conrad Dunn is a client and a friend, and he needs all the support he can get right now. And I gotta tell you, hon, right now I could use some support, too.” As Alison wavered, she played her last card: “Please? For me?”

Her daughter hesitated, then uttered the words that told Risa she’d given in: “What am I supposed to wear?”

“You have that black skirt you wore when you sang in the Christmas chorale. Just wear that with a simple white blouse.”

Alison shrugged. “Okay. I’ll call Dad and tell him I’ll meet Scott sometime next week.” She eyed Risa, waiting for an answer. “Okay?” she pressed. “Next week?”

“Next week,” Risa promised. “We’ll make it happen, okay? Now jump in the shower. Lexie will be here to pick us up in an hour.”

“I have to call Dad first.”

“I’ll call him,” Risa said. “I’ll explain everything. He’ll understand.”

“Okay,” Alison said, but made no move to get up.

Risa waited.

“Are you and Dad going to fight?” Alison finally asked. “Are you going to hate Scott no matter what he’s like?” Another tear rolled out of the corner of her eye, trailing toward her ear.

“No, honey.” Risa said. “We are not going to fight. Your father doesn’t want to fight, and neither do I.”

“But it seems so weird, Dad living somewhere else, and with a guy.” Alison took a deep, quivering breath.

“I know, sweetheart, but it will be all right. Trust me. It’s going to be hard for a while, for all of us, but we’ll get through it. And we’ll get through it without fighting, okay? I can’t say I’m happy about all this, but I know there’s nothing I can do to change the way people are. Your father is who he is, and I’ll just have to get used to it. I’ll do my best not to get angry, but if I ever do — and I probably will — you’ll just have to forgive me, okay?”

Alison nodded. “Life is weird,” she finally said.

“Indeed it is,” Risa agreed. She hugged her daughter and silently vowed to keep the peace with Michael and Scott.

No matter what.

THE DOORBELL RANG just as Scott poured himself and Michael a second cup of coffee, the remains of a Belgian waffle feast still on the dining room table. As the bell rang again, Scott sighed in resignation. “There goes our lazy Saturday morning.”

“Not necessarily,” Michael replied. “Maybe it’s just the postman. Isn’t he the one who always rings twice?”

Abandoning the coffee, Scott headed for the front door. “Mine never rings at all — he just leaves things on the porch and hopes for the best.”

He opened the door to find Tina Wong hovering impatiently, her finger poised to press the bell a third time. She spotted Michael sitting at the table in the dining room, and ignoring Scott, walked right in, brushing past him as if he didn’t exist. “You turned your phone off,” she said accusingly.

“It’s Saturday,” Michael said. “And good morning to you, too.”

Scott shot a questioning look at Michael. “Shall I offer her a cup of coffee?”

Tina didn’t wait for Michael to respond, and either didn’t catch his sarcastic tone or chose to ignore it. “Black, with one sugar.” She turned to eye Scott as if he were a recalcitrant waiter. “Not Splenda, or Equal, or any of that crap. Sugar.” Then she set her briefcase on the dining room table, snapped open the locks, and sat down next to Michael. “I’ve got a lot of stuff on the Caroline Fisher murder.”

Michael shrugged a helpless apology to Scott as Tina pulled a folder from her briefcase and opened it. She spread the contents out on the table as Scott disappeared into the kitchen.

“Not only was she mutilated,” she said, “but the killer stole parts of her.” She spread out five eight-by-ten photos.

Michael was still looking at the pictures a minute later when Scott reappeared and set a mug of coffee in front of Tina. “Jesus,” Scott breathed as his eyes fell on the images, “isn’t it a little early in the morning for that kind of stuff?” He touched Michael’s shoulder. “How about I leave you two to your business? I’ll be out by the pool.”

“The killer not only mutilated with apparent glee,” Tina said as soon as Scott was out of earshot, “but took the breasts, vagina, and — get this — glands.”

Scott quickened his step, disappeared into the kitchen, and closed the door behind him.

“Glands?” Michael repeated hollowly.

“Glands. Both adrenals and the thymus.”

Michael sat back. “Okay, I’ll grant you that’s pretty weird. But how does it merit interrupting my Saturday?”

“Because,” Tina said, riveting him with her trademark piercing stare, “this is not the first time that glands have been taken from a murder victim.” She handed him two faxed autopsy reports. “San Diego, and San Jose, one week apart, fifteen years ago. And now again, Caroline Fisher in Encino.”

“Fifteen years, Tina?” Michael said, handing her back the pages without so much as a glance. “That’s a long time. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Wrong!” Tina declared, pushing the papers back at him. “We’ve got a serial killer here, Michael. Right now we’re ahead of the other stations, and I don’t even think the cops have put it together yet. But they will.” She leaned toward him, a posture he’d seen her use during many an effective interview. “Before they figure it out, I want to run a special that will blow the roof off our ratings.”

Michael shook his head. “Two murders fifteen years ago is no longer news,” he said.

But Tina wasn’t about to be put off that easily. “I’m telling you, Michael — there’s a monster out there. And right now I’m the only one who knows this isn’t his first kill. The murderer, me, and now you — we’re the only ones who know.”

“Then shouldn’t you be taking this to the police?”

“Oh, I will,” she said. “I’ll go to the police with the tape of my special precisely one hour before we air it.”

Michael leaned back in his chair and gazed at Tina speculatively. “Are those other two murders still unsolved?”

“Yes!” Tina leaned even farther forward, sensing impending victory.

“Do you have crime scene photos?”

Tina nodded.

“Is the M.O. the same?”

Tina hesitated. “I don’t know yet. I’ll have to go to San Diego and San Jose to find all that out. That’s why I need a budget.”

Michael sighed, sagging like a tire losing its air. “Sorry. The whole thing’s way too weak. I can’t authorize a budget for something that goes back fifteen years without any kind of connection at all.”

“Women murdered for their glands, Michael,” Tina said, leaning in again. “This is going to be big. This isn’t just going to be news — this is going to be a book and a movie, and the whole ball of wax. And I want it.”

“You can want it all you want, Tina,” Michael said, unimpressed by her theatrics. “Maybe there is a book, and a movie, and a ball of wax — whatever that is — but at least for now, it’s not a news special. Not in a newsroom I’m running.”

“You’re going to regret it. I’m telling you.”

He smiled thinly. “I’ve regretted decisions before, and I’m sure I will again. But for the moment, I don’t think this will be one of them.”

“What will it take to convince you?” Tina put her files back into her briefcase.

“One more body,” Michael said. “More recent than fifteen years ago, and the same M.O. If you can give me one more body, and prove that the M.O. on all four is the same, I’ll get you a budget and you can have your special.”

“One more body.” She nodded. “If it’s out there, I’ll find it.” She stood up and grabbed her briefcase, her coffee still untouched.

He followed her to the door and opened it.

“I’ll find it, Michael.”

“I have no doubt,” he said, then watched her walk across the porch and down to her car, parked next to a fire hydrant in front of the house.

He knew that if there was another body out there, Tina would find it, even if she had to make it herself.

He closed the door and went to find Scott.

They had a leisurely Saturday morning to resume.

6

ALISON HAD NO IDEA HOW MANY TIMES SHE MUST HAVE PASSED THE old mission-style church at the corner of Bedford and Santa Monica Boulevard, but as her mother searched for a parking spot, she found herself looking at it as if for the first time. Gazing up at the twin towers that flanked the main sanctuary, and the three crosses that surmounted the entire structure, she wished she weren’t coming here for a funeral. The whole idea of someone’s body lying in a coffin for everyone to stare at made her skin crawl, and for a moment she wished she’d found a way to beg off. But when she saw two familiar faces in the crowd moving up the steps and through the doors — two faces she’d seen just last week in a movie — her misgivings vanished.

By the time they got inside the church itself, it was almost overflowing, not only with people, but with more flowers than Alison would have thought the place could hold. Perfect arrangements filled tier after tier behind the altar, and were banked around the casket as well, and whoever had arranged them had managed to combine the rainbow of colors into gentle waves that seemed to cradle the coffin and the beautiful woman who lay inside it, her head resting on a satin pillow that raised her face high enough to be clearly visible even from the back of the church.

Even though they were half an hour early for the service, the only space they could find was on a pew way in the back. As she waited for the service to begin, Alison scanned the congregation, searching for more familiar faces. And just as her mother had promised, they were everywhere, some of them so close that she could have reached out and touched them.

Finally the service began, and as the music swelled, Alison tried to prepare herself for a long, dull hour or two. But it didn’t happen. Instead, two people talked about Margot Dunn for no more than ten minutes each, the priest recited a mass for the dead, and then a woman who looked vaguely familiar sang, “You Are So Beautiful.” When the priest finished the final prayer, a classical guitarist began to play softly, and everyone stood up. But instead of leaving the church, Alison followed her mother and Lexie Montrose down the aisle to file past the coffin in which Margot Dunn lay, her beauty on display for the last time.

“I heard that Danielle DeLorian herself did Margot’s makeup,” Lexie whispered to Alison as they slowly made their way toward the front of the church. Alison stared at Lexie. How was that possible? The head of DeLorian cosmetics herself? Doing a dead person’s makeup? Alison shuddered, just imagining someone putting makeup on a corpse. Yet when she finally reached the casket and got a clear view of Margot Dunn’s face, she could barely believe what she was seeing. The woman looked as if she had merely fallen asleep on her white satin pillow while reading or watching television in bed.

Everything about Margot Dunn’s face was flawless, and appeared so lifelike that for a moment Alison couldn’t believe she was dead at all. She found herself looking for a flutter of eyelashes, for the rise and fall of the woman’s chest as she took a breath.

But there was nothing. No movement at all.

Yet the face was perfect. There was no mark, no scar, not even any discoloration — no evidence that she had fallen onto the rocks last week, or that a propeller had gouged chunks of flesh from her right cheek a year ago. It was as if they were about to bury someone who was still alive, and Alison stood rooted to the spot until she felt a tug from her mother to move along.

For the five minutes it took to walk the four blocks to the reception at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, she couldn’t get the vision of Margot Dunn’s body out of her head, and was certain that from now on her face would haunt her dreams. Even now, in broad daylight, she could imagine the woman waking up in her coffin, desperate, gasping for air, screaming for help and clawing at the satin lining of her coffin with her perfectly manicured fingernails. Alison shivered yet again, and once more wished she hadn’t agreed to come along.

Following the crowd moving through the hotel, they made their way to the International Terrace, where servers wearing white shirts and black bow ties strolled by with trays of hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne, as if it were a wedding instead of a funeral.

At least a dozen poster-sized photographs of Margot stood on easels that dotted the perimeter of the ballroom. Wherever Alison looked, the image of the woman in the coffin gazed back at her, and it occurred to her that Margot Dunn had looked as perfect in her coffin as she did in all these pictures. She tried to pay attention as her mother introduced her to people, but her eyes kept straying toward the photographs, particularly one near the bar. Finally, she went over to get a closer look. It was a larger-than-life black-and-white photograph of Margot looking directly at the camera, chin on her hands.

But she wasn’t just looking directly into the camera. Margot was also looking directly into her eyes.

Alison stood as if transfixed, gazing at the clear eyes, perfect skin, exquisite features, and thick, luxurious hair. How was it possible that someone could ever have been this beautiful? Or that anyone this beautiful could have been so unhappy over anything that she killed herself?

She was still staring at the photograph when she sensed someone standing beside her. “Magnificent, wasn’t she?” Lexie Montrose said.

An unexpected sadness flowed through Alison. “Why would she kill herself?”

Lexie squeezed her shoulder. “She was afraid she was never going to look like that again, sweetheart. When she first got here, Margot couldn’t even get an agent. Then she met Conrad, and the rest was — shall we say — the stuff of plastic-surgery legend.”

Alison finally tore her eyes away from the photograph. “Where’s Mom?”

“Waiting in the reception line to meet Conrad and his sister. C’mon.”

With one more glance at the photograph, Alison followed Lexie back to the other side of the terrace, where the crowd had gathered, and wished she didn’t have to stay to meet Conrad Dunn or anyone else.

All she wanted to do was go home.

RISA HAD a moment of déjà vu when she approached Conrad Dunn, who stood with his sister Corinne, quietly receiving the murmured condolences of his guests. Was it possible that it hadn’t even been a week since she had stood in line to greet him in a different hotel at the Dunn Foundation banquet with his wife at his side instead of his sister?

“Risa!” A wan Conrad took her hand warmly and kissed her cheek. “So good of you to come.”

“I’m so terribly sorry about Margot,” Risa said.

He nodded. “Thank you.”

“You remember Lexie Montrose, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Conrad nodded to Lexie, then his eyes shifted to Alison. “And who is this?”

“My daughter, Alison. Alison, this is Conrad Dunn.”

Conrad took Alison’s hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“It — It’s nice to meet you, too,” Alison stammered, instantly certain she’d said the wrong thing, but having no idea what the right thing might have been. She felt herself blushing, then breaking into a cold sweat of embarrassment.

“Is your husband here?” Conrad asked Risa.

Now it was Risa who blushed. “I’m afraid not,” she began. “We’re — well, we—”

“They’re separated,” Lexie Montrose said softly when it became clear that Risa was just going to go on stumbling.

“Oh,” Conrad said, his voice shifting from the impersonal tone of social platitudes to something much warmer. “I’m so sorry. I hope it won’t be permanent.”

Risa bit her lip. What was she supposed to say? But again — and to her own further mortification — Lexie jumped in again.

“It will be,” Lexie said. “Some things can’t be fixed.”

Risa felt her embarrassment deepen, but this time it was Conrad Dunn himself who stepped in to rescue her.

“Then we’re all in mourning today,” he said softly, and turned to Alison. “I’m so sorry — it has to be hard for you.” His gaze shifted back to Risa and he put a hand on her shoulder. “If there’s anything I can do, please call.”

“I’ll be fine, Conrad,” Risa said. “And today we’re here for you.”

Conrad smiled at her, and then his tired eyes moved on to the next guest in line.

“YOU CERTAINLY SHARED a lot of personal information that wasn’t necessarily yours to share,” Risa said as the three of them walked the few blocks back to her car.

“Hey,” Lexie said, dismissing her words with a wave of her black-gloved hand. “He’s single now, and so are you, and in Beverly Hills there is no such thing as a decent interval.”

“As I recall,” Risa said coolly, “last week you were the one who talked about getting divorced the minute Conrad was ‘back on the market,’ as you so graciously put it.”

“And I could be,” Lexie said, refusing to rise to Risa’s bait. “But he doesn’t have eyes for me.” She paused to let the meaning of her words strike home. “I think you should call him, just like he said.”

“Are you kidding?” Alison demanded. “He’s creepy — the whole thing was creepy. What they did to his wife’s face — I mean, it was like they were trying to make her look like she was still alive! And all those photographs! She was beautiful, but it was all fake, like you said, Lexie. She didn’t look like that at all until she met him!”

“Oh, sweetie,” Risa said. “He’s not creepy. He’s just a plastic surgeon, and fixing faces is what they do. And Conrad is not only a very good plastic surgeon, but a very good man as well.”

“Maybe so, but you still don’t need to call him,” Alison replied.

“Okay,” Risa said, giving her daughter’s shoulder a squeeze. At this point, she knew there wasn’t a man anywhere that Alison wouldn’t resent, but if Lexie was right, she wouldn’t have to call Conrad Dunn. If Conrad wanted to get in touch with her, he already knew her number.

If Lexie was right.

But of course she couldn’t be, given that Conrad Dunn wasn’t even over the shock of his wife’s death yet, and wouldn’t be for many weeks to come. Still, just the thought of hearing his voice on the other end of the telephone gave her more pleasure than she’d felt since the night Michael had moved out.

Perhaps, after all, there would be life after her divorce was final.