Sheâd spoken to the boy, and her soft voice had hit him like a blow to the stomach.
While he might not have recognized her body or face, he could not mistake that voice as hers; her voice had haunted him, too. Before he could recover, he turned his attention to the child, and reeled from another blow. With his curly black hair and dark green eyes, the child was even more recognizable than the woman. He looked exactly like the few childhood photos of Brendan that his stepmother hadnât managed to accidentally destroy.
He didnât even remember closing the distance between them, didnât remember reaching for her. But he held her, his hand wrapped tightly around her delicate wrist.
She lifted her face to him, and he saw it nowâin the almond shape and silvery green color of her eyes. What he didnât recognize was the fear that widened those eyes and stole the color from her face.
âJosie â¦?â
Goose bumps of dread rising on her arms, Josie Jessup slipped into a pew in the back of church. She hated funerals, hated saying goodbye to anyone but most especially to someone who had died too soon. And so senselessly and violentlyâshot down just as his adult life was beginning.
The small church, with its brilliantly colored stained-glass windows, was filled with her former studentâs family and friends. Some of them nodded in polite acknowledgment; others glared at her. They probably blamed her for the career he had pursued, the career that had cost him his life. At the local community college where she taught journalism courses, she had recognized the kidâs talent. She had even recommended he cover the story that had killed him, because it had been killing her that she couldnât cover it herself.
But she couldnât risk anyone recognizing her. Even though her appearance had changed, her writing style hadnât. If she had written the story, certain people would have recognized it as hers no matter whom the byline claimed had authored it. And Josie couldnât risk anyone realizing that she wasnât really dead.
That was her other reason for hating funeralsâbecause it reminded her of her own, of having to say goodbye to everyone she loved. She actually hadnât attended her funeral; her ashes hadnât been in the urn as everyone else had believed. But still sheâd had to say goodbye to the only life sheâd known in order to begin a new life under a new identity.
But apparently she wasnât making any better choices in this life than she had in her last, since innocent people were still getting hurt. She hadnât pulled the trigger and ended this young manâs promising life. But she blamed herself nearly as much as some of these people blamed her. If only she hadnât mentioned her suspicions regarding the private psychiatric hospital and the things that were rumored to take place there â¦
The gnawing pangs of guilt were all too familiar to her. The first story sheâd covered, back in college, had also cost a young man his life. But then sheâd had someone to assure her that it wasnât her fault. Now she had no one to offer her assurances or comfort.
Chatter from the people in front of her drifted back. âSince Michael was hoping to sell the Serenity House story to one of Jessup Mediaâs news outlets, I heard Stanley Jessup might attend the funeral.â
Josieâs breath caught with hope and panic. She wanted to see him. But she couldnât risk his seeing her. For his own protection, her father had to go on believing that his only child was dead.
âNot anymore,â the other person responded. âHeâs in the hospital. They donât even know if heâll make it.â
Josie leaned forward, ready to demand to know what had happened to her father. But before she could, the other person had already asked.
âHe was attacked,â the gossiper replied. âSomeone tried to kill him.â
Had all the sacrifices sheâd made been for naught? Had her father been attacked because of her? And if so, then sheâd done nothing to protect him except deprive him of what mattered most to him. She had already been guilt-ridden. Now that guilt intensified, overwhelming her.
If her father didnât make it, he would die never knowing the truth. She couldnât let that happen.
âJESSUP ⦠HOSPITALIZED in critical condition â¦â
The breaking news announcement drew Brendan OâHanniganâs attention to the television mounted over the polished oak-and-brass bar of OâHanniganâs Tavern. At 9:00 a.m. it was too early for the establishment to be open to the public, but it was already doing business. Another kind of business than serving drinks or sandwiches. A dangerous kind of business that required his entire focus and control.
But Brendan ignored the men with whom he was meeting to listen to the rest of the report: âNearly four years ago, media mogul Stanley Jessupâs daughter died in a house explosion that authorities ruled arson. Despite her fatherâs substantial resources, Josie Jessupâs murder has never been solved.â