Young Ladies of Mystery

By Stacy Juba

Features Stacy Juba's acclaimed adult mystery/romantic suspense novels Twenty-Five Years Ago Today and Sink or Swim, and her young adult psychic thriller Dark Before Dawn, in one bargain-priced download. Solve a cold case with aspiring reporter Kris Langley; discover the downside of fame with former reality show contestant Cassidy Novak; and meet teenage psychic Dawn Christian, who discovers that ESP spells D-A-N-G-E-R. More on the three books included in the download:

 

Twenty-Five Years Ago Today - A GalleyCat Mystery and Thrillers Bestseller. For twenty-five years, Diana Ferguson's killer has gotten away with murder. When rookie obit writer and newsroom editorial assistant Kris Langley investigates the cold case of the artistic young cocktail waitress who was obsessed with Greek and Roman mythology, not only does she fall in love with Diana's sexy nephew, but she must also fight to stay off the obituary page herself.

 

Sink or Swim - How do you change the channel when reality TV turns to murder? After starring on a hit game show set aboard a Tall Ship, personal trainer Cassidy Novak discovers that she has attracted a stalker. Can she trust Zach Gallagher, the gorgeous newspaper photographer assigned to follow her for a local series? As things heat up with the stalker and with Zach, soon Cassidy will need to call SOS for real.

 

Dark Before Dawn - A fun read for teens and adults alike. When teen psychic Dawn Christian gets involved with a fortuneteller mentor and two girls who share her mysterious talents, she finally belongs after years of being a misfit. When she learns her new friends may be tied to freak "accidents" in town, Dawn has an important choice to make - continue developing the talent that makes her special or challenge the only people who have ever accepted her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thunder Horse Press
• Release date: Apr 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781507026618

Stacy Juba

Stacy Juba has written about reality TV contestants targeted by a killer, an obit writer investigating a cold case, teen psychics who control minds, twin high school hockey stars battling on the ice, and teddy bears learning to raise the U.S. flag: she pursues whatever story ideas won’t leave her alone. Stacy’s titles include the adult mystery novels Sink or Swim and Twenty-Five Years Ago Today, the children’s picture books The Flag Keeper and the Teddy Bear Town Children’s E-Book Bundle (Three Complete Picture Books), and the young adult novels Face-Off and Dark Before Dawn. She is also the editor of the essay anthology 25 Years in the Rearview Mirror: 52 Authors Look Back. She is a former journalist with more than a dozen writing awards to her credit.

Book preview

YOUNG LADIES OF MYSTERY BOXED SET

By Stacy Juba

Published by Thunder Horse Press

Copyright 2012 by Stacy Juba

Features the adult mystery/romantic suspense novels Twenty-Five Years Ago Today and Sink or Swim, and the young adult psychic thriller Dark Before Dawn, in one download. Solve a cold case with aspiring reporter Kris Langley; discover the downside of fame with former reality show contestant Cassidy Novak; and meet teenage psychic Dawn Christian, who discovers that ESP spells D-A-N-G-E-R.

Draft2Digital Edition, License Notes

Names, characters and incidents depicted in these books are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

The ebooks in this boxed set are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Twenty-Five Years Ago Today

Sink or Swim

Dark Before Dawn

About the Author

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO TODAY

By Stacy Juba

For twenty-five years, Diana Ferguson’s killer has gotten away with murder. When rookie obit writer and newsroom editorial assistant Kris Langley investigates the cold case of the artistic young cocktail waitress who was obsessed with Greek and Roman mythology, not only does she fall in love with Diana’s sexy nephew, but she must also fight to stay off the obituary page herself.

Copyright 2010 by Stacy Juba

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

Kris Langley stared at the bright newsprint lit up on the microfilm reader. The top headline leaped off page one. Missing Barmaid Murdered. She squinted over the story of Diana Ferguson, a young woman found bludgeoned to death in the woods. In little over a week, it would be the twenty-fifth anniversary. A quarter of a century ago, Diana must've dressed and driven out as always. An evening like any other. By the end of the night, she was dead, her life extinguished like the other victims on fate's hit list.

Most people had forgotten Diana by now. In the black and white yearbook photograph, she didn't smile. Straight dark hair curtained her serious oval face. Diana had her arms crossed on a table, slender fingers too delicate to protect her from a killer.

Kris flipped to a blank page in her notebook, scribbled Diana Ferguson and stopped writing. Resurrecting the tragedy in her 25 and 50 Years Ago Today column would catch readers’ attention, but it seemed inappropriate.

She jumped as Dex Wagner, the seventy-year-old editor-in-chief of the Fremont Daily News, slapped a rolled-up newspaper against someone’s desk. Jacqueline, why the hell didn’t we have this theater group feature? The Fremont Community Players are in our own backyard.

Suppressing a grin, Kris swung around in her seat. She could use a distraction right about now. Dex waved the competition paper in the air, red circles and slashes marking half the page. In her three weeks as editorial assistant, Kris had enjoyed Dex’s tantrums. So far, none had been directed at her.

Managing Editor Jacqueline McCormack tossed back her blonde ponytail, gathered in a tan fabric scrunchie. She owned a world class selection of ponytail holders that complemented her designer wardrobe. Kris couldn't help thinking of her as a thirty-five-year-old cheerleader. Corporate Barbie.

We ran a story last week in our entertainment section, Jacqueline said. They got the idea from us. Gosh, Dex, are you trying to blind me with that underlining?

Dex paced to the oak bookshelves and back to Jacqueline's neat desk. His stomach bulged under a rumpled gray suit and his wrists hung out of jacket sleeves a couple inches too short. I think we missed it.

Trust me, Jacqueline said. I put a headline on it myself. You do read beyond the front, don’t you, Dex?

Grumbling under his breath, Dex opened The Greater Remington Mirror, a large daily that covered the ten towns in their readership area and more. Kris saw another column ballooned in red marker.

He pressed his index finger against the lead paragraph, his penguin-patterned tie flapping as he stooped forward. What about the stabbing of that Miles kid? We should be talking to his family and we haven't even contacted them. For Christ's sake, do I have to keep track of everything?

Relax, I'm working on that, Bruce Patrick, the police and court reporter, said from the doorway. He swaggered over and hopped onto the edge of Jacqueline's desk.

I just got off the phone, he said. The parents are basket cases, but the siblings said I could come by tonight. And it's an exclusive.

A 19-year-old college student had murdered his classmate, Scott Miles, in a fight that went too far. Kris had edited the obit, stomach queasy as she cut beloved son and brother out of the text. Dex insisted such phrases only belonged in paid death notices.

Unlike the Diana Ferguson case, there was no mystery to this homicide. Many young people had witnessed the brawl, which started over a girl. It had lingered in her memory, though, a teenage boy who went to a party and left dead in an ambulance. Another individual singled out by fate, never suspecting he had no future. He picked the wrong girl. For that, he died.

Kris shuddered despite the heat in the newsroom. The family members must feel like their world had spun out of control. She remembered the grieving process well: walking around as if in warm Jell-O, arms and legs heavy, head difficult to hold up, and crying until numbness froze the tears. Forgetting had disturbed her the most, slipping away into the calm relief of sleep, then jolting awake in cold horror.

Jacqueline's ponytail bounced in glee. They'll talk? She turned to Bruce. Terrific. Have you assigned a photographer?

Bruce rested his notebook on his thigh. You bet. I didn't mention the photos, but once we're there, I'm sure they'll go along with it.

Get two or three color shots for the front, Jacqueline said, a lilt in her voice.

Kris abandoned her quiet corner of the newsroom and strode over to the group. Bruce and Jacqueline had never suffered tragedy in their lives, or they wouldn't act so blasé.

No one noticed Kris’s presence. She spoke quickly, before she lost her nerve. I know you want a good story, but have a little sympathy. Sending a photographer unannounced would be taking advantage of these poor people.

Her co-workers regarded her with blank expressions.

Why? Bruce asked. The kids are of age. It’s not like we’re exploiting pre-schoolers.

If they're inviting a reporter into their home, they should realize we intend to play up the story, Jacqueline said.

They'll be emotional, Kris said. A photographer will make them feel worse. The least you could do is prepare them.

Jacqueline folded her arms, covering a horizontal row of gold buttons on her biscuit-colored blazer. I'm sure they expect it, but Bruce was smart in setting it up this way. If they have doubts, they'll be more likely to say yes once our staff has had a chance to develop a rapport. If the pictures bother them, the family can always decline.

They'll feel pressured, Kris said. They have enough to deal with right now. You’ve got your exclusive. Why can't you just run photos of the boy who died?

Kris, this is our job, not yours. Coldness had replaced Jacqueline's lilt. This paper tells it like it is. If you can't accept that, then maybe you shouldn't work in a newsroom.

Maybe you should treat your sources like human beings.

Why don't you stay out of things that don't concern you? As I recall, you have no news experience. I'm not even sure why you were hired in the first place. Jacqueline glared at Dex.

They all knew the answer to that. The previous editorial assistant had quit on Jacqueline's vacation. Dex grew impatient and placed a classified ad. Kris admitted she preferred the dreaded four-to-midnight shift, and he hired her on the spot. His judgment wasn't good enough for Jacqueline, who had reminded him of the three-month probation for all employees.

Dex's shaggy salt and pepper eyebrows curled downward. Kris does fine. She's bright and talented. Give her a chance to learn. He glowered at Bruce. Next time you're working on a hot story, check with me.

He stalked to his desk, leaving the others gaping after him. Her neck and shoulder muscles tense, Kris released a deep breath. She needed this job. Like it or not, she was stuck working with Barbie. Sorry if I offended you, Jacqueline. I just wanted to give you another perspective.

Jacqueline ignored her and gestured to Bruce. Come on, let's discuss tomorrow's budget.

He snapped to attention and followed her into the conference room. Jacqueline carried herself with the posture of a model, her back straight and an upward tilt to her chin. Jacqueline and her budget. Kris had once asked Dex if the paper was in okay shape, money-wise. She’d assumed Jacqueline was obsessed with the editorial department’s finances. Dex just laughed and said, That’s news lingo for story line-up.

As others in the newsroom headed out, Kris drifted back to the microfilm machine and her research. Her editors demanded eight historical facts per issue. Dex told her to play up light local fluff as people liked seeing their names in print, while Jacqueline said to emphasize hard news. Kris found herself trying to please them both.

At first, she had enjoyed exploring the older editions. Fifty years ago, chunky blocks of type took up the front page. Most articles came over the wire and staff-written pieces had no bylines. Dex had explained how reporters worked for the paper in those days, not for the recognition. But now if Kris spent too much time on the machine, the scrolling of the film gave her motion sickness. The focus lever didn't work right, so she'd press her finger over the tape, holding it in place.

Frowning, Kris stared at the bold black headline splashed above the subhead Body Found In Fremont State Woods. For the second time, she skimmed the article about Diana Ferguson.

FREMONT - A 21-year-old cocktail waitress reported missing was found bludgeoned to death Saturday night in the woods behind the Fremont State College baseball field. Police have identified the victim as Diana Marie Ferguson of 22 Hutchins Circle.

Ferguson, daughter of Irene and the late Joseph Ferguson, had been missing for two days. She waited tables at Rossi's Bar, and apparently left work early Thursday night to meet friends at Campus Pizzeria on Robinson Avenue, police said.

She was last seen alive shortly after 9 p.m., when witnesses said she left the pizzeria with a former boyfriend, Jared Peyton, a senior at Fremont State College.

A student discovered the body while walking in the woods. Police responded to a call at 11:30 p.m. and removed the body, which was wrapped in a garbage bag.

Ferguson's car, a 1975 Chevy, was found behind the former Salvatore's Restaurant on Purchase Street. The restaurant has been vacant for a year.

According to Detective Gerald Frank, Ferguson had been hit in the head with a blunt object. Police believe she was killed at another location. There were no traces of sexual assault, police said.

She wanted to be an artist, said her sister, Cheryl Soares, a substitute teacher at Fremont High School. She had all these plans. Diana was such a good person. I can't believe she's dead.

According to Soares, her sister had been due back Thursday at midnight and never stayed out late without calling. By 2 a.m., her mother grew worried, telephoning friends and co-workers.

Ferguson is survived by her mother, sister, several aunts, uncles and a nephew. Funeral arrangements are incomplete and under the direction of the Bellwood Funeral Home. Police are investigating the case. Frank says he does not recall any other murders in the history of the town.

Dex cleared his throat from behind Kris. Sorry you dislike the pictures of that kid’s family, but most readers want this. It sells papers.

Rubbing her blurry eyes, she turned to face him. Another month of poring over old news stories and she’d need reading glasses.

I realize I'm in the minority, she said. Thanks for sticking up for me. I don't think Jacqueline is too happy.

Miss High and Mighty will get over it. Let me know if she gives you a hard time. Leaning forward, Dex read over her shoulder. He had pulled off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Is that the Ferguson case? How the hell did you dig this up? Christ, has it been twenty-five years already?

You remember it?

Who do you think covered the story?

Kris peered up into his grizzled face. You're kidding.

"Reporters swarmed the scene. The cops brought us back to the police station and issued a statement. I was ticked off because Saturday's paper had gone to press and we didn't have a Sunday edition back then. We got scooped by the Globe, the Herald and the TV guys on our own territory."

Dex touched the first line of the article, his palm shadowing the light. Liver spots stamped his swollen knuckles. I'll never forget how the editor changed my lead, calling her a twenty-one-year-old cocktail waitress. And then that headline, 'Missing Barmaid Murdered.' It put a negative slant on her. I made them take off my byline.

Wasn't this a big story?

Yeah, but my daughter, Sadie, knew Diana in elementary school. Diana used to bring her dad to father-daughter banquets. She was shy, but she'd jabber when her dad was there. Used to amaze Sadie.

Kris stared at Diana's photograph. Did Diana stay shy as she got older? As a teenager?

I don't know. Sadie went to Fremont Catholic so the girls lost touch. Dex combed a finger through his mussed white hair. It was tough calling Diana's house after the murder. Her mother was a wreck, couldn't get out a word without crying. Diana's sister took the phone away and gave a comment. I told her I'd known Diana as a little girl. The sister trusted me.

Did the police solve the murder?

Nope. For a long time, the mother would run an obit page ad on Diana's birthday. I can almost remember it word for word. It said something about how life would never be the same without her, but that Diana’s soul and spirit would live on. She wrote that the family wouldn’t give up until justice prevailed. It was the same boxed ad every year.

It’s amazing the desperate measures that will make you feel better, Kris murmured. It’s like the friends and relatives who leave wooden crosses and flowers at an accident scene. You can’t demonstrate your love to the person directly, so you find other ways.

Silence dropped over them, not awkward, but Kris didn’t know how to fill it. Dex scrutinized her with the intensity of a lifelong journalist. How you doing, Kid? You like this job? Even the nutty hours?

Kris gave him a rueful grin. Something about Dex made it easy for her to open up. That's the best part. It’s so quiet. Plus working late makes the night go faster. I'll go home, read or do housework, then go to bed around 6 a.m. I have trouble sleeping at night.

Insomnia? That's too bad. Ever tried medication?

Nothing helps.

Don't let Jacqueline work you too hard. Make sure you take a dinner break. Dex rustled his New England Patriots jacket off a plastic hanger in the closet.

Hey, Dex? Is it okay if I don’t put the Ferguson case in my column? I know it ought to be included, but I’m worried about Diana’s family seeing it. If the mother stopped running those ads, maybe she’s finally come to terms with it.

He stuffed his arms into the coat and shrugged. Hell, I’m probably getting to be a softie in my old age, but I don’t see the sense of dredging it up either. Not for a blurb in the ‘25 Years Ago Today’ column.

Thanks, Dex. Have a good weekend.

Kris reached over and straightened the pile of obits and press releases on her desk, right beside the microfilm machine. She’d better finish up with her historical anecdotes and get back to the present. Ten obits had trickled in via e-mail. The 11 p.m. deadline would sneak up fast.

Dex hadn't exaggerated when he'd warned that the staff would consider her the newsroom slave, asking her to handle a five-page Department of Public Works announcement for the next edition, or answer their telephones if they went to the bathroom. She also hadn't expected such a demanding public. People complained about front-page stories, police logs and crossword puzzles that had wrong answers in the solution box.

Yet poor as the pay was, and despite her lowly status, Kris loved her new job. Her old one, as administrative assistant for a Manhattan investments firm, had exhausted her. She'd never slept well, but over the past six months it had gotten much worse. At night, Kris would bury her head in the pillow, unable to drown out the cars, yells and sirens outside her Morningside Heights apartment.

It was either be a zombie, or come home to quiet Fremont, Massachusetts.

That was quite a scene you made. Bruce, the cop reporter, leaned against her desk and the obits slid to the floor.

He enjoyed the women in the front office raving about his bedroom eyes and russet gold hair, but Kris couldn't stomach his annoying cockiness. Besides, she’d bet a month’s salary that his vibrant blue eyes were courtesy of Bausch & Lomb.

Bruce made no effort to collect the papers. I've never seen you talk to anyone like that. He winked. In our short acquaintance, anyway. We'll know each other better soon.

I was just expressing my opinion. She bent to gather the scattered sheets.

You're a passionate gal.

Kris rose and blocked the microfilm reader with her back. She didn’t want Bruce getting wind of Diana Ferguson. He probably wouldn’t care anyway, but Kris felt protective of Diana somehow. She adjusted the heap of paperwork on her overburdened desk. I hope this disagreement doesn't come back to haunt me with Jacqueline.

Don't worry. If she's pissed at anyone, it's Dex. Is the old man driving you crazy yet?

I like him. He acts crusty, but if you look past that, he's a sweetheart.

Sweetheart? Dex? Bruce chuckled. You're gonna find that dear old Dex is past his prime.

If Kris had to waste precious minutes talking to Bruce, she may as well fish for information. What's the deal with Dex and Jacqueline? I don't get who's in charge. I thought he oversaw the day shift and Jacqueline the night, but I heard she's always here. Who has final control?

Jacqueline's top dog, although Dex tends to forget it. She and I worked together at a weekly on the South Shore. She came here six months ago and called me when a reporting job opened.

I didn't know you two had worked together, Kris said.

That explained why Bruce and Jacqueline meshed. Other reporters griped about the managing editor. Tension drained out of the newsroom on Tuesdays, Jacqueline's night off.

She was my editor, Bruce said. Listen, don't take Jacqueline personally. She'd sleep in the newsroom if they let her, and expects everyone else to do the same. She was married to her job more than her husband. Now they're getting divorced.

That's too bad. Do they have children?

Bruce snorted. Jacqueline? Never. She won't admit it, but she's stressed out about this job, too. A daily was a big step. Dex is another pain in her ass. Jacqueline has full editorial control, but the company allowed Dex to keep his title. Temporarily.

What do you mean?

The publisher's pushing him to retire, and Dex said he'd consider it within the year. But the year's over. If the old man doesn't smarten up and leave on his own, they're gonna force him out.

Kris gazed at Dex's desk with its dogeared towers of Fremont Daily News issues. He'd told her that he had started as a paper boy. He lived and breathed the news business.

That's awful, she said. At least he has a chance to keep his dignity. I hope Dex takes it.

Don't give management any credit. They're just bridging the transition. There's a bunch of senior citizens who read the paper and don't want to see changes.

Poor Dex.

Poor us. We've got to listen to his complaining. Want to blow this place and get something to eat? I have time before my police rounds.

Bruce flirted with every woman at the paper. No sense feeling flattered.

I can't leave, Kris said. Too many obits.

How about lunch Monday before work?

She hesitated.

Come on, it's not a date, Bruce said. I'll fill you in on everyone. I've got all kinds of gossip. What do you say?

Kris knew she could use an introduction to the oddities of the staff. Already, he'd provided an eye-opener. Okay, sounds good.

He watched her with amusement. You'll be glad you said yes, darling.

Darling? Oh, please.

She waited till he left, then rewound the microfilm to a date shortly after Diana Ferguson had disappeared. The paper had run a description of Diana and a police telephone number. Kris turned off the machine.

The yearbook picture remained imprinted in her mind. She’d read many articles about murder victims over the years, but Diana Ferguson’s story affected her more than usual. She had a sense that Diana was misunderstood.

Kris knew that feeling well.

Chapter Two

25 Years Ago Today

Jennifer McGreggor wins the speech contest sponsored by the Fremont Women of Today.

Man, it was early. Kris gulped orange juice at Lucy's Lunchbox Diner, hoping the sugar would pep her up. Her older sister had talked her into meeting at the ungodly hour of 8 o’clock. As usual, Holly was fashionably late.

Heat whooshed from beneath the table, warming Kris’s frosty toes. Maybe she should eat on the floor near the vents. Holly did all the yakking, anyway. She probably wouldn’t even notice. Kris leafed through the laminated menu and squinted out the window. Hardly any traffic crawled down Main Street. Everyone must be sleeping in on this glorious Saturday. Lucky stiffs.

Her reverie ended when she spotted her sister by the entrance. Holly stomped slush off her boots and removed the wool hat that covered her shoulder-length honey blonde hair. Kris had the same deep amber shade. She wondered why her sister’s hair fell in perfect curls while her own mane would’ve made a decent nest for a robin.

Holly pulled out a chair, her diamond ring flashing under the fake Tiffany lamp suspended over the table. She unbuttoned her three-quarter length Anne Klein wool coat and slipped off her fleece gloves. Hey, stranger.

You look too damn good for 8 a.m., Kris said.

For now. I've got another twelve-hour shift in the ER, so I'll be dragging soon enough. How are you doing? Your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been sleeping okay?

Kris raised a skeptical brow. The question had flown off her sister's tongue too easily. I get by with naps.

You should avoid napping. It's important to establish a regular pattern at night. Holly spoke in her Dr. Know-It-All voice. She worked in the hospital where their physician mother oversaw the Women's Pavilion. Holly, also a MD, rode the helicopter to the site of bad accidents and stabilized victims until they reached the medical center. During transport situations from one facility to another, she went along in case of emergency.

In other words, that qualified her as an expert on every medical issue. Gritting her teeth, Kris scanned the list of specials. A pattern is no good when you keep waking up.

Have you cut down on caffeine?

Eliminated it.

You don't exercise right before bed, do you?

I work out in the afternoon.

How about warm milk?

Kris rolled her eyes. Try wine. Sometimes I even kick back with a few beers. Why don't you report that to Mom? She sent you to pump me, didn't she?

Blushing, Holly opened her menu and feigned interest in the selections. I'm worried your new job will make sleeping harder. You must be wired when you get home. You're not taking sleeping pills again, are you?

Ah, the underlying reason for the inquisition. Kris clenched a wadded napkin in her lap. Her senior year in college, she'd abused sleeping medication. Once the pills stopped working, she weaned herself off them. Occasionally she experimented, but the medication lost its effectiveness after a month.

Not in a long time, she said. They're useless.

Holly shot her a glance over the menu. Mom's put you through every medical test and they've come out fine. Maybe you should see a therapist. It must be some type of anxiety disorder.

Look, Holly, I don't need a counselor. All I needed was to work different hours. Thanks for your concern, but I've got everything under control. Kris appreciated the change in topic as the freckled teenage waitress arrived with a notepad.

Holly ordered a fruit cup and bagel without cream cheese. Kris pointed to the Lumberjack Special. This comes with pancakes, bacon and eggs, right?

Her sister’s eyes bulged. You’re not really getting that, are you? Do you know how unhealthy that is?

Yeah, I may as well go all out. Could I have a side of hash browns, too? Thanks. Kris handed the menu to the waitress. Her sister would be salivating in the ER all afternoon. Despite her rabbit food dieting, Holly liked bacon and eggs as much as the common folk.

Shaking her head, Holly poured a packet of Sweet ‘N Low into her coffee. Anyway, Mom wants us both to come for dinner tomorrow. You'll have guaranteed entertainment. R.J. and I got our wedding albums back two days ago, and she's already bugging us about grandchildren.

If she wanted to invite me, why didn't she ask me herself?

She was busy and knew I'd see you.

Yeah, right. Kris tightened her grip around her glass. Her mother was avoiding her. What else was new? It’s pretty short notice, isn’t it?

Holly sipped from her steaming mug. You don’t have a boyfriend. I guess she assumed you wouldn’t have plans. You need a man, Kris.

Huh?

You're twenty-six years old. You spend too much time alone. No wonder you're depressed.

"I'm not depressed, Kris said. I like my privacy."

I'll say. You withdrew from your friends in high school. You spent college in the library. I thought moving to New York would be good for you, but you must've been a loner there, too. You've never mentioned anyone.

Just because you drone about yourself doesn't mean we're all that way.

Holly flushed as the waitress delivered their orders. She glared into her miniscule fruit cup and sneaked a longing look at the Lumberjack Special.

Suppressing a smirk, Kris drizzled maple syrup over her mound of golden brown pancakes. She gestured to her crisp bacon strips as a peace offering. Want some? I can’t eat all this.

See, I knew you shouldn’t have ordered that. Holly grabbed two pieces and crunched one between her teeth.

Listen, I'm sorry for snapping at you before, Kris said. You were just pushing me too hard. If you want me to open up, ask me about my job. I love it.

You love writing obits? A smile hovered on Holly's lips. Kris hoped it was a bacon high and not amusement over her career choice.

I do other things, like researching stories on the microfilm. Yesterday, I came across a twenty-five-year-old unsolved murder. A girl was found dead in the woods near Fremont State and they never caught her killer. She was twenty-one.

No offense, but that sounds as depressing as obituaries. That reminds me, I heard from Aunt Susan the other night. She sounded lonely.

Frowning, Kris sliced into a pancake. She called Aunt Susan a few times per year and sent gifts for holidays. Her aunt never made the first move herself. Kris figured she probably didn’t want to be a burden. Why was she contacting Holly?

She adopted another stray cat, Holly went on. What is it now? Six? Seven?

Maybe she needs someone to take care of, Kris said.

Aunt Susan couldn't resist the skinny felines that wandered to her front step as if the scent of tuna had left a permanent imprint. Kris, too, liked having a furry companion snuggle on her bed. She had adopted a stray cat after moving into her new apartment. Her aunt, though, took it to the extreme.

Yeah, but seven meowing someones? Holly asked. This one is even worse. She says it looks like Marmalade. Isn't that spooky?

If you were in Aunt Susan's boat, you might have a tough time adjusting, too. Nicole was her world.

It's been fourteen years since Nicole died. Uncle Neal got on with his life. Aunt Susan should, too. I wish she and Mom would start talking again. They didn't even acknowledge each other at my wedding.

You know Mom, Kris said. She's judgmental.

Aunt Susan's stubborn.

Holly moved onto another subject, her new home. Kris didn't bring up Nicole again. Maybe the dead had it easy. It was the living who went through hell.

Kris trudged down the hallway of her rambling 19th century apartment building. The Greek Revival-style house boasted a gabled roofline, wide columns fronting the porch and elongated windows. She unlocked her door, and Chipmunk scurried through the living room, a chocolate blur with a thick swishing tail. He spent most days shedding over the carpet and batting Tender Vittles across the kitchen floor, but Kris didn't mind. She liked the warm welcome. She could have used a cat in New York.

She carried the purring Chipmunk into her bedroom and sprawled onto the quilt for a nap. The room satisfied her eyes, filled with the furniture of her childhood, knickknacks and books.

Kris gazed at the silver-framed picture of Nicole on her bureau. Flaxen braids pressed against her cousin's ears, freckles dotted her cheeks. Nicole hadn't taken off her horn-rimmed glasses as she usually did for photos. How she'd hated those glasses, thick wide ones she insisted made her look like an owl.

Born three months apart, Kris and Nicole had grown up in the same neighborhood. Kris tried picturing the happy times, like kindergarten. She'd been shy back then and would whisper in Nicole's ear. Another cookie, more crayons, whatever she wanted, she counted on Nicole to be her voice.

After school, Aunt Susan would fix snacks as Kris, Holly and Nicole entertained themselves. They'd space kitchen chairs into rows and play Airline. Holly took the pilot seat while Kris and Nicole served each other baggies of peanuts.

Unbidden, the memories were replaced with the image of Nicole in her beige crepe casket, high-necked blue velvet dress covering the rope grooves.

Kris had stared at the mahogany coffin, numb, afraid there might have been a mistake. What if Nicole wasn't dead, but in a deep sleep. What if she were buried alive? Kris had stood against the Pepto-Bismol pink wall of the funeral home, praying Nicole would sit up in the casket. She promised God that she'd be a good person if only Nicole would awaken.

Her head had fogged at the sickly sweet perfume of orchids. Nicole would have hated the cloying scent. She couldn't pass a flower garden without triggering her allergies. Her nose would twitch and she'd give three muffled sneezes, quiet as a kitten.

But Nicole didn't sneeze. Allergies would never bother her again.

Kris had run out of the funeral parlor and hugged her knees on the front step. Her mother followed and crossed her arms over her black dress. I told you not to come. I went to my mother's wake when I was four, and it was no place for a child.

Holly had stayed home for the calling hours. Kris begged her father to attend, and he convinced her mother. She needed to tell Nicole goodbye in person, to apologize for the secret she could never reveal, not even to her parents.

Kris shivered. The memory rolled toward her like an icy wave, numbing her insides. She couldn't hold it back. She could never hold it back.

Kris looked up at the gray stormclouds, hoping she and Nicole would make it home before the rain. The last bus pulled out of the school parking lot and disappeared around the corner.

It would've been nice if she and Nicole lived on the bus route, but they had to walk three blocks, except for the times Aunt Susan took pity and played chauffeur in her station wagon. Aunt Susan had gone out with a friend, leaving her and Nicole to fend for themselves.

Meredith Ames crossed the road in her denim jacket and miniskirt. She sidled up to them on the sidewalk, her auburn curls bobbing. Hi, Nikki.

Her Texas drawl reminded Kris of melted butter, smooth, the kind of voice that never stammered. Kris scuffed her sneakers in the dirt. She never knew what to say around Meredith, the most popular girl in seventh grade. Meredith had moved to town six months ago.

Beaming, Nicole shifted her bookbag to her other shoulder. Hi, Meredith.

I'm having a birthday party next Friday night. My mom's letting me have boys over. Can you come?

Nicole's big hazel eyes magnified behind her glasses. I'd love to. Thanks.

Kris's breathing quickened. Nicole must have forgotten the plan for next Friday, Chinese food with their parents, then a movie. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out, her tongue dry as sandpaper.

Cool, Meredith said. Donnie Hastings will be there.

Donnie Hastings? He's cute.

I know. I'm gonna play music so we can dance. Meredith examined the braids that fell to Nicole's shoulders. The girls are sleeping over afterwards. Could I curl your hair? I'll bet it would look good.

That'd be great. I'm tired of braids.

Meredith clapped. A makeover. How fun. She turned to Kris. You're invited to my party, too.

Heat rushed to Kris's face. She couldn't dance with boys. She’d look like a female Pinocchio bouncing around with her strings pulled.

I ... I can't make it, Kris mumbled.

Oh, that's too bad. Well, I've got to get home, y'all. See you, Nicole. Meredith strolled in the opposite direction.

Nicole waited until she was out of earshot, then placed her hands on her hips. Meredith must think you're a snob. Why would you say no?

Kris stepped back, startled by her cousin's bitterness. She didn’t seem upset.

Then you’re lucky. You didn't even give her an excuse. You could've thanked her for the invitation.

I'm sorry. I froze. But you know I can't go to a party with dancing and boys.

We can't play 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' forever. We're gonna be in eighth grade next year.

What about the movies next Friday?

Nicole rolled her eyes. We can go out with our parents anytime. Why can't you be more like Holly? She says I shouldn't feel guilty about wanting to do my own thing, and that you and I don't always have to be together.

They had talked about her? Holly and Nicole? Kris's ears burned. She'd noticed her sister and cousin hanging around more often.

Yeah, well, Holly told me that she feels sorry for you. Kris blurted out the words before she could stop herself. She feels bad that you have to wear ugly glasses and that your mother makes you wear stupid braids, like a mountain girl.

You're making that up. Holly and I are friends. We might go roller skating with Nancy and Shannon Welles.

Nancy was Holly's best friend. Her younger sister, Shannon, was in Kris's grade and belonged to the in crowd.

She's with Nancy and Shannon right now, Kris said. They walked to Ice Cream Cove after school. If you guys are so close, why don't you go?

I can't just show up. Holly didn't invite me.

If you're as chummy as you say, she'll be happy to see you.

But it's gonna rain, Nicole said.

Relief flooded over Kris. Good, Nicole wouldn't accept the challenge. What was she thinking, making up that story? Holly and Nancy were at the library, researching a science project. It would be mean to have Nicole sit at Ice Cream Cove, waiting for them. Still, she couldn’t resist saying, Fine, chicken out.

I'm not chickening out. I'm going.

What?

I'll prove Holly doesn't think I'm a stupid kid. If my mom's looking for me, tell her where I went.

Nicole strode down the sidewalk.

Kris hesitated.

Her cousin would be okay. Nicole would walk a half-mile, order a chocolate cone, then call her mother for a ride. Aunt Susan would be home by then. Maybe Kris could worm her way out of it, pretend she had misunderstood Holly's plans.

But her mother would know Kris was lying. They'd discussed Holly's science project, the brilliantly sculpted clay model of a catfish with an accompanying report, at the breakfast table.

Kris turned into her neighborhood. That weird guy, Mr. Coltraine, waved as he unlocked his car door. Mr. Coltraine had moved in a few months earlier. He had no wife or kids, so she didn’t know why he needed such a big house. Mr. Coltraine would show up at the park and bowling alley, watching with a strange smile. He gave Kris the creeps.

Chipmunk meowed in Kris's lap, and she jumped. She patted the cat, feeling the rise and fall of his gentle purrs. Sharp pain throbbed between her eyebrows, signaling one of her headaches.

It was her fault Randolph Coltraine lured Nicole into his car and trapped her in his cellar for three days. He dumped her body in a gully off the highway. Nicole’s glasses lay cracked at her side. Police found a pail in Coltraine’s bedroom brimming with souvenirs: necklaces, bracelets, barrettes and locks of hair. All belonged to his child victims, whom he had killed in small towns throughout New England. From Nicole, he saved her favorite ring, dull purple and pink stones on a silver band.

Kris withdrew a Tylenol bottle from the nightstand drawer, swallowed two pills without water and fought to shake her nagging headache and her black mood. She couldn't. Nightmares had plagued her on and off for years, disturbing visions of Nicole in her casket. Nicole glaring. Nicole screaming. Kris told her family she couldn't remember her dreams, but she recalled every horrible detail.

She and her cousin had both been little girls together, but the wrong one grew up.

Chapter Three

25 Years Ago Today

Mr. and Mrs. George R. Mann of Fremont are honored with a surprise party for their 35th wedding anniversary.

Kris drank a glass of red wine, the alcohol warming her insides and relaxing her groggy brain. She shouldn't mix Tylenol and alcohol, but hell, maybe the combination would doubly knock her out.

She drifted into a restless slumber at 10 a.m., thinking about Nicole, and awoke unrefreshed at 12:30 p.m. from a dream of Diana Ferguson. The yearbook photograph stood out as real in her mind as the picture of her cousin on the bureau. She shuddered under the flannel blankets.

An age gap had separated Nicole and Diana, the years that brought first dates, prom corsages and graduation parties. Kris couldn't imagine Nicole as a college student; couldn't picture her without the braids that hung straight down like exclamation points; couldn't envision her as one of Holly's bridesmaids, in a clinging teal sheath with off-the-shoulder straps and a slit up the back that made R.J.'s grandmother arch her eyebrows.

Kris munched an apple, half-heartedly swept cat food off the floor and opened a true crime novel she'd been meaning to read. Yet Diana continued to haunt her.

She grabbed her car keys. She knew a place to learn more about Diana Ferguson.

Twenty minutes later, Kris scoured crowded shelves in the Fremont Public Library’s local historical section. She pulled out Diana's yearbook and a dusty film caked her hand.

Flipping through the pages of teachers in the chemistry lab and teenage girls in formal gowns, Kris looked for Diana's dark hair and sober expression. She didn't spot Diana in the prom court, nor on the pages that commemorated a class trip to an amusement park, the senior banquet or graduation day.

Had Diana skipped those events? Dex said she was quiet. Kris had attended private school, and had therefore never walked the Fremont High halls, but she felt a kinship with Diana. Neither of them had been part of the in-crowd. Kris hadn’t belonged to any crowd, for that matter.

Although she had expected to run across it, shock rippled through Kris when she found the photograph from the newspaper. Underneath the caption, students could note their nicknames. Diana had written Di.

Die.

Kris pored through the remaining pages. An unsmiling Diana appeared in a shot of the History Club. She stood between the teacher and a classmate named Yvonne Harper. The striking thing about the photo was the History Club adviser, a Brad Pitt look-alike, hardly older than his students.

Alex Thaddeus, Kris murmured. Wow.

All that wavy blond hair and the profile of a Greek god. That must be why the club attracted a dozen girls.

At the end of the book, Kris skimmed the personal information about the graduates. Diana had belonged to the National Honor Society. Kris flipped to review the photos again. This girl seemed the type to attend college, or work in a professional job.

Kris turned back to the information page, where most seniors had included a paragraph acknowledging friends or family. Diana wrote, Thanks to Mom, Cheryl, Mr. T and most of all, to my beloved father.

Cheryl. That was probably her sister, Cheryl Soares. Maybe Alex Thaddeus was Mr. T. Kris jotted his name on a pad with the other facts she had gleaned about Diana Ferguson.

Hoping to discover more, Kris examined the yearbook from Diana's junior year. She identified Diana only once, in the History Club photo. Even in black and white, Kris could tell Diana's dark eyes had crinkled in the corners with a laugh. As a junior, Diana looked like a different girl.

Kris slid the books back onto the shelf and returned to the main library. She hesitated by a stack of telephone directories, then picked up the Fremont area one. She riffled through the white pages for Ferguson. And froze.

There it was, Irene Ferguson, Diana's mother. Mrs. Ferguson had moved to nearby Remington. Kris added the phone number to her notes. She looked up Soares, and found M & C above six other listings with the same last name. Cheryl?

She left the library, her thoughts focused on the dead girl she could never meet.

Kris sat cross-legged on the plush white carpet, scanning her sister's wedding album. A gilded bridal portrait of Holly alone graced the deep crimson wall of their parents' living room. Rose bouquets brightened her sparkling train, the flowers borrowed from her bridesmaids, and the velvet green lawn rolled toward the gazebo. The portrait hung over the marble fireplace, overlooking framed wedding day snapshots, graduation photos and school pictures on the mantel.

Holly and her husband curled on the recliner, sharing a wheat cracker smeared with cheddar cheese. In the background, a football game played on the wide-screen TV. Kris had expected her sister to marry an athlete or a fraternity guy, but she'd picked R.J., a pediatrician not much taller than his patients. He kissed Holly's cheek, and she giggled from his lap.

Kris closed the photo album a little too hard. She would never find love herself. She didn't deserve it.

Her mother closed the French doors to her office, a medical textbook pressed against her red blazer. Crisp gray locks fluffed around the gold studs in her ears. Hours of swimming and tennis had made her trim in her pleated khakis. She wore a line of copper lipstick, her only concession to makeup.

She passed the volume to Holly and ruffled her hair. Here you go, hon.

Thanks, Mom. I'll keep it to read when things are slow at work. Not that it’s slow very often. Holly placed it aside and spread another cracker.

Their mother looked at Kris. I'm afraid I don't have reading material for you ... unless you'd like to see the obits from my college alumni publication. Her tone made obits sound as distasteful as curdled milk.

Mom, do you know how important an obituary is? Kris asked. It's a tribute, the last impression a person will ever make. You can focus on the triumphs, or the notoriety.

It's morbid. At this point in your life, you should concentrate on settling down, not dead people. Everyone else your age is getting married, or is at least in a relationship.

How do you concentrate on settling down? Is there a seminar?

Holly snickered.

Kris will be fine, her father said from the camelback sofa. I, on the other hand, could use a class on the Psychology of Wives. For example, when a married couple goes out to dinner, why does the wife insist on calling it a date? I thought I had given up dating.

R.J. pushed down the brim of his Boston Bruins cap. He wore baseball caps to hide his receding hairline. I'd like to know why my wife squeezes the toothpaste from the middle, he said, hugging Holly's slim waist. You'd think a doctor could brush her teeth without making a mess.

Holly jabbed him in the ribs. Don't talk to me about bathroom etiquette. When was the last time you left the toilet seat down?

Very funny, R.J. said. Hey, Kris, will we see your byline soon?

It might be awhile, Kris said. I'm in a new field, remember.

Her mother's lashes fluttered, reminding Kris of her late grandfather. She sensed a dig coming. Her grandfather would blink fast when displeased, a muscle in his jaw stirring.

An image filled Kris's mind, her grandfather in the stiff brown suits he wore even on the rare days off from his medical practice. He would loom over her and Nicole, despite his rounded shoulders. On Easter, he'd press cellophane-wrapped popcorn bunnies into their hands, but his penetrating blue eyes wouldn't soften. Kris and Nicole would scurry into the other room and unwrap the bunnies in private.

She had only seen his eyes tender in the sepia wedding photograph they'd found after his death, tucked in the sock drawer of his scarred walnut bureau. He'd had his arm around his bride, Rosalie, a young small-boned woman with flowing dark curls and a sheer veil. They'd been married seven years before her death. Kris often wondered whether her mother would've been different if she'd had a feminine influence growing up.

Her mother leaned against the bay window. How could we forget? You left a well-paying job, with growth potential, in a New York high-rise. Now you're typing obits till midnight, like some kid out of college, maybe even high school. I've told my friends that you're a copyeditor. At least that sounds better.

Kris stared at the gold-fixtured fan on the cathedral ceiling. I wouldn't spread that story too far. If I run into any of your 'friends,' I'll tell them exactly what I do.

Kristine, they wouldn't understand. Who would? You're not a kid. You-

Hey, it never hurts to have a newspaper contact, her father cut in. I'm sure your pals will take advantage of that. It'll be useful for us when we announce the birth of our first grandchild.

Oh, Daddy, Holly groaned.

Their mother turned the disapproving look on him. He crossed his arms over the Michigan State sweatshirt that concealed his soft paunch. After a few long seconds, she smiled. Always thinking, aren't you?

You should bring Kris to that outlet store you and Holly found, Kris's father said. She can get decorations for her apartment.

Her mother lifted her glass off the window ledge and pushed the lemon crescent deeper into the ice water. She's been on her own for years. She doesn't need anything.

What about curtains, or-

They don't sell many curtains. I'm sure Kris would be bored. R.J., how's that little boy with diabetes? She strolled over to her son-in-law, ice cubes clicking against the sides of her glass.

Kris dumped the wedding album back into its box. God forbid, her mother should spend time with her. The shopping trip would've been hell, anyway. She joined her father on the sofa. Gray dusted his sideburns, but as he joked behind Holly's back, at least he had a heck of a lot more hair than R.J.

Her dad pulled off his bifocals. Don't mind your mom. We're thrilled to have you home. I missed you, Kid. I worried about you in New York.

Kris felt a painful and unexpected jolt. How empty her life would be if she lost her father. When she’d lived in the city, they had e-mailed each other daily and spoken weekly. I missed you, too, Dad. I know you're glad to have me back, but I'm not sure about Mom.

She's your mother. Of course she's glad. Mom's just concerned whether you made the right decision. As long as you enjoy the newspaper, nothing else is important.

It is interesting. A newsroom is a whole different environment from an office. My editor, Dex, says if reporters sit at their computers all day, they're not out finding news.

Her father patted her shoulder. Sounds exciting. Maybe you've found your calling.

I'll have to pay my dues, but that's okay. The obit page is the most important section of the paper. One typo can compound a family's grief. I do my best to make the obits flawless. I'm in a unique position to protect the survivors. Kris gnawed her lower lip. That probably sounds strange.

Strange? Do you know how proud I am of you?

Thanks, Dad. That means a lot. Her mind jumped to her library trip of the previous afternoon. Hey, do you remember reading about a girl who was murdered twenty-five years ago? Diana Ferguson? I came across a story on the microfilm.

Diana Ferguson, her father repeated. Is she the poor girl they found in the woods?

You do remember her?

Vaguely. What was she, a bartender?

Cocktail waitress.

Right. Her father pondered a moment. The consensus was that she brought it on herself by working in a sleazy place like that.

You're kidding. That's ridiculous. Kris sat up straighter. The pretty, sober face of Diana flashed through her mind. It's terrible to die so young, and disgusting that people said she deserved it.

Blaming her made everyone feel better, her father said. They didn't have to worry about their own children.

I guess you're right.

Her dad knew worry. He'd made Kris and Holly take self-defense classes in high school. He bought them pepper spray for college. Kris still carried a canister attached to her keychain. Every couple of years, he gave her a refill for Christmas.

They never solved that case, did they? After the initial excitement, I don't recall hearing much about it. Her father glanced at the television. Hey, what a play. Did you see that, R.J.?

I guess whoever killed her got away with it, Kris said. Unless someone digs up the trail twenty-five years later.

At least Nicole's murderer had been punished with life imprisonment.

But it wasn't enough.

It would never be enough.

Kris retreated into the kitchen and wiped her welling eyes on a paper towel. The aroma of roast chicken drifted from the oven. Her dad had prepared the main course while her mom would contribute a store-bought cake to the meal.

She regarded the polished wood floor, oak cabinets and breakfast bar with high-backed stools. Her parents had remodeled the house last year and painted the white exterior a shade of sky blue. Kris used to dread seeing the furniture and decor leftover from her childhood, like the round table where she and Nicole played Monopoly, or the couch they crawled behind for Hide and Seek.

Although the remodeling made visiting the house easier, driving into the neighborhood remained tough. Before their divorce, Aunt Susan and Uncle Neal had moved to Cape Cod. Their former house stood on the corner, unchanged by the new owners, who weren't new anymore. Kris's chest tightened whenever she passed the familiar yellow gambrel, once her second home.

Randolph Coltraine's old house was down an adjoining side street that she hadn't traveled in