She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and took out her brown-tinted contact lenses, storing them carefully in their case. She glanced into the mirror over the sink and grimaced at her blue-eyed reflection. She often had the unsettling feeling that the ghost of a past life was looking back at her from behind the glass.
She spent the remainder of the evening ensconced on her sofa with a paperback novel and a bowl of strawberry ice cream. The television was on, but she paid no attention to the program. She’d turned it on only for the comforting sound of human voices.
It was the only companionship she had allowed herself for more than two years.
IT INFURIATED GABE that his hand wasn’t quite steady when he reached across his desk to accept the photographs Blake offered him. He would have liked to believe that Blake didn’t notice, but he suspected that very few details escaped the man’s deceptively lazy-looking gaze.
Gabe studied the photographs closely. They were candid snapshots, taken without the subject’s knowledge. The woman pictured was hardly spectacular. She appeared to be in her early to mid-thirties. She looked stern and humorless. Mousy hair. Brown eyes. Heavy glasses. Unflattering clothing.
Page would be almost twenty-eight now. Her hair had been a rich honey-blond, her eyes the pure blue of a clear summer sky. She’d had a weakness for pretty clothes in bright colors. Her smiles had been sweet, a bit shy, and while there’d occasionally been shadows in her beautiful eyes, she’d never looked as unrelentingly grim as the woman in these photographs.
It had been two and a half years since she’d walked out on him.
“Well?” Blake prodded from across the desk, a hint of sympathy in his voice.
Gabe sighed and nodded, his gaze riveted to the pale face in the photograph he was holding in his left hand. The hand on which he still wore the ring Page had put there on their wedding day.
“Yes,” he said heavily. “This is my wife.”
He lifted his head to look fiercely at the blond man. “Where is she?”
PAULA WAS ALWAYS tense when she looked through her mail, never knowing what she would find, but this Saturday morning seemed worse than usual for some reason. She tried to reassure herself that there was no reason for more than the usual concern. But there was one small detail that worried her.
Blake Jones had disappeared.
Without even calling his employer, he’d simply not shown up for work two days ago—the day after Paula had declined his invitation for lunch. No one had heard a word from him since.
Being someone who knew all about disappearing without notice—and the many reasons a person could be driven to do so—Blake’s vanishing act bothered Paula. Mostly, she worried that it had something to do with her.
She didn’t waste time calling herself paranoid. She, more than most, had every reason to be anxious.
The fact was that Blake had seemed unusually interested in her. And, since she’d determined he wasn’t after her body, she couldn’t help but worry about what he had been after.
Distracted by her nervous speculation, she flipped through the junk mail without interest, tossing the colorful flyers away without bothering to read them. She set the water bill and cable bill aside to pay later. Since television and books were the only entertainment she allowed herself, she ordered as many channels as she could afford.
The final envelope made the blood drain from her face.
It was addressed to Paula Smithers, complete with apartment number and correct zip code. There was no return address, but the oddly slanted handwriting was sickeningly recognizable to her.
She knew exactly what she would find inside. Photographs. Nothing else. No note of explanation or identification.
Her hands were shaking so hard she could hardly open the flap. Two snapshots tumbled out when she finally ripped the envelope apart.
The photos blurred in front of her eyes as she reached out to touch a fingertip to a face she hadn’t seen in two and a half years. And then she recognized the subject of the other photograph. Her breath caught in a painful sob.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, groping for the back of the nearest chair for support. “Oh, God.”
It took several long moments to fight off the dizziness and the nausea. And then she leaped into action, snatching up the photographs and hurrying into her bedroom.
She pulled out the large suitcase that was always kept in readiness, and began to fill it haphazardly, going through motions that had become all too common in the past thirty-odd months. She didn’t bother with the few plain suits and other work clothing, but grabbed jeans, tops, sweatsuits, socks and underwear. Practical, sturdy, easy-care clothing that required little attention, and could be donned swiftly.
/> Paula Smithers, aka Page Shelby Conroy, was on the run again.
GABE ALMOST MISSED her.
He’d been sitting in his pickup for at least fifteen minutes in the parking lot of the apartment complex Blake had directed him to. He’d been trying to get up his nerve to knock on her door, mentally rehearsing the questions he would ask her, the scathing words he wanted to say to her.
Taking advantage of the nice weather on this April weekend morning, two buff, young guys were meticulously washing and waxing a classic’67 Mustang in a corner of the lot. Gabe was aware that they had noticed him sitting there. They probably wondered why he hadn’t gotten out of his truck.