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  I did understand. I understood that he could pretend nothing had changed. He could kiss me as if nothing had changed. He could say all the right things to convince me nothing had changed.

  But act as if nothing had changed? No.

  I wanted him to say he didn't give a rat's ass what anyone thought. Didn't care if it put his political future in jeopardy. He loved me and he was marrying me now or a month from now, as we planned.

  That's what I would do if the situation were reversed. To hell with the road of caution. I'd go my own way.

  But he just stood there, frustrated and impatient. Wanting me to meekly accept his reasoning, tell him I understood. I'd go away and hide until this was over. Then I'd wait until he was ready to marry me.

  Like hell.

  "You want to save your political future? Here, let me help you." I wrenched off the engagement ring and whipped it at him. "You're free. Go find a sweet little wife and get yourself elected."

  "Olivia..."

  I stalked to the door.

  "Olivia!"

  The cool night air slapped me so hard my eyes stung. I jogged until I reached the end of the garden walk.

  The front door creaked open behind me.

  "Olivia?"

  I raced across the lawn. James's sigh wafted across the quiet yard. Then he padded back into the house, leaving the door open. Getting his shoes. Because the grass might be wet and running after me in stocking feet was foolish.

  I wouldn't have stopped for shoes.

  I circled back into the shadows beside the house and waited there, hidden. He came out, looked around, then jogged in the direction I'd been heading.

  When he disappeared through the hedge, I exhaled and glanced toward the road. My cab was long gone. If I went out there, I'd have to face the reporters.

  I really wasn't in the mood to face more reporters.

  But I wasn't sticking around here, either.

  As I shifted my purse, my keys jangled inside. Keys to my house. Keys to my gym locker. And keys to...

  I glanced toward James's bedroom window and remembered lying in his bed a month ago, as he handed me a garage key and a car fob. "Yes, I know you love mixing it up with your dad's old cars, but I'd really like to see you in something with air bags, Liv. Take my car out a few times. If you like it, I'll know what to get you for a wedding present."

  I'd never actually driven his car. It was a Volvo. Very nice but really not my style. Now, though...

  I pulled out the keys and sneaked around the house to the garage.

  Chapter Nine

  I walked into O'Hare airport, stopped in front of the departures board, and thought, What the hell am I doing?

  Honestly, I had no idea. I'd driven here on automatic and now, looking at the board, I think if I hadn't been too late to catch a flight, I might have proceeded on autodrive and boarded one. Done exactly what James wanted. Fled Chicago.

  What good would it do to lie low for a few weeks? I couldn't escape this. I shouldn't try. Now that I was alone, my adrenaline had plummeted, and all I could do was stare at the board and think, Now what?

  I had no idea.

  After I checked in to the airport hotel, I called Howard. I wasn't surprised when it went straight to voice mail. I asked him to tell my mother that I needed some time to process all this. Please trust that I'd be fine and I'd call tomorrow.

  I was heading to the elevators and saw a sign for the bar. I didn't know if it would be open, but I considered checking. I've never drunk for the sake of getting drunk, but there's a first time for everything. There was just one problem--I didn't know how much alcohol it would take to pass out. That's what I wanted really. Oblivion. For all I knew, I'd have a few drinks and drift off into nightmares.

  Instead I went into the gift shop. Not many gifts in it--just lots of overpriced items for travelers, including over-the-counter sleeping pills. I bought a bottle, went up to my room, took a double dose, and prayed for a dreamless night.

  I'd lived the first years of my life with Pamela and Todd Larsen. I'd been there at the heart of their killing spree. What living nightmares had been shoved deep into my subconscious, ready now to worm their way out when I surrendered to the deepest sleep?

  Or dark desires. Deeply buried lusts and needs and fantasies, coming to the fore when my conscience slumbered. What did I--?

  Nothing.

  That night, I dreamed of nothing.

  Even with the pills, I was up by six. I waited until seven to call my mother. I had my speech all rehearsed.

  She didn't answer her cell phone.

  I hung up and told myself I'd call back in an hour. I lasted five minutes. I got her voice mail again and spilled my speech onto it instead.

  I told her I'd decided to stay away for a while. For her sake. I knew how hard this would be on her and I didn't want to put her through even more by hanging around. I'd stay away until things died down. I didn't know what I'd do or where I'd go, but I'd figure out something.

  That last part hadn't been part of the rehearsal. Even as I spoke the words, I felt ashamed of myself. It didn't sound strong. It sounded like a little girl, desperately hoping for Mummy to call back and tell her not to be silly. I belonged at home. With her. We'd handle this together.

  Two minutes after I hung up, my phone rang. I hit the answer button so fast, it didn't connect and I had to hit it again.

  "Olivia." It was Mum. "Howard says to tell you that you shouldn't be using your cell phone. These tabloid people can get your records. They might even be able to record your calls."

  "Right." I swallowed. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking. Do you, um, want me to call back on the hotel line?"

  "Yes, and I'm going to give you the number of the new cell phone Howard gave me, in case they're monitoring my usual one as well."

  She did. I phoned it.

  "I'm sorry," I blurted when she answered. "I'm so sorry about all of this."

  I waited for her to insist it wasn't my fault. Instead, she said, "It's out now. There's nothing we can do except deal with it."

  I nodded. "That's what I want to do, Mum. Deal with it. Maybe hire a media consultant or a PR firm. We'll figure out how to handle this head on. Get past it."

  Silence. Then, "I thought you were going to sit it out. That's what your message said."

  "Sure. I could. If that's what you want. But I really think it's best that we face this--"

  "I was nearly killed by those reporters last night, Olivia."

  I bit my tongue before continuing, "All right. I'll handle it. Tell Howard to phone--"

  "Howard thinks you were right. You should go someplace. Wait this out. I agree. That's best for everyone."

  Now it was my turn for silence.

  Mum didn't seem to notice, pausing only a moment before saying, "I suppose you'll need money."

  "Suppose?" A white-hot grain of fury ignited behind my eyes. "My God. You hand cash to street people more graciously than that."

  "Then I misspoke." Did I imagine a chill in her voice? "You'll have whatever you need. I'll write you a check today."

  "Write me a check? I thought that was our money. Family money. No, wait. That doesn't apply now, does it? If I want an allowance, I'll need to visit the Larsens."

  "Don't be ridiculous. Of course you're family. This business has no effect on that. Your trust fund is intact. Along with ... everything else."

  Everything else. The store. The estate. I remembered sitting in Howard's office after Dad died, struggling to listen to him read the will. With the exception of my trust fund--which I'd get when I turned twenty-five--everything went to my mother for use during her lifetime. When she passed, it went to me. All of it. At the time, I'd been so numb with grief that the arrangement had only sparked a faint, "Why did he do that?"

  Now I knew.

  She knew it, too. After Dad had found out who my parents were, he'd made sure my mother couldn't decide part--or all--of the estate was better off going to charity.

 
"I don't want your money," I said. "I'll have my trust fund in a year. In the meantime, I'll get a job. I'll pay my own way."

  "A job?"

  "Mmm, yeah. It's that thing people do to make money."

  Definite frost in her voice now. "I'm well aware of what a job is, Olivia, but I fail to see how you would get one, under the circumstances."

  She had a point. Just yesterday I'd been wondering what sort of career I'd be qualified for with no paid experience. Today, that was the least of my worries. Even if someone didn't mind hiring the daughter of serial killers, they wouldn't want the kind of publicity that might come with having me on staff.

  "I won't use my full name. Or my volunteer references."

  "Then how on earth do you expect to find a decent position?"

  "I don't. I'll take what I can get. Just like everyone else. I'm sure there's a McDonald's hiring somewhere."

  "I hope you're joking, Olivia. This is silly. When you decide where you're going, I'll wire you money."

  "No."

  "I understand you're upset, but if you think I'm going to let a Taylor-Jones--"

  "But I'm not a Taylor-Jones, am I? Not really. I think a Larsen would work at McDonald's. Mmm, yes. Pretty sure she would."

  My mother started to sputter. I hung up. Then I stood there, holding the phone, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. Smash it to bits. Better yet, put a hole in that wall, on a bill that would go to my mother. Damage a hotel room so she'd have to pay for it? Was I really that petty?

  Petty? The one time you really need her, she tries to shove money at you. And tells you to go away. Just like James.

  But they were right--I did need to stay away. Only that didn't mean holing up in a French chateau. That was something Olivia Taylor-Jones might do, but I was no longer Olivia Taylor-Jones. I needed to make choices for me, whoever I was. I'd say I needed to find myself, if that didn't sound like I was heading into the Himalayas, taking only a backpack stuffed with angst and clean underwear.

  I was twenty-four. I had a master's from Yale. It was time to do exactly what I would have done if I was not Olivia Taylor-Jones. Get a job. Get an apartment. Live a regular life.

  I checked out of the hotel. I'd put it on my credit card and it was only a matter of time before someone traced me there. I should have thought of that.

  I went to the hotel ATM and withdrew the maximum on my bank card and the maximum cash advance on my credit card. That gave me two thousand dollars. Enough to pay first month's rent on a small apartment and tide me over until I got a paycheck.

  Next I texted James. Car at O'Hare. Parking garage A. Level 3. Row D. Ticket on dash.

  I stared at the message. Short. Precise. No anger. No hurt. No regret. No trace of all the things I was feeling.

  I'd woken thinking of James. I'd reached for him and found a cold bed instead. A cold, unfamiliar bed. The rest had come rushing back, but James stayed there, front and center in my brain.

  I could be quick to judge, quick to take offense, quick to get angry. Had I expected too much of him?

  Maybe.

  Did I expect to wake up to apologetic voice mail and text messages?

  Maybe.

  There were messages. Brief ones. Liv, call me. Liv, we need to talk. Yes, even, Liv, I'm sorry. But I didn't want apologies. I wanted ... I don't know what I wanted. Him, I guess. Here, supporting me through this. But he wasn't and that wasn't his fault. I'd been the one who left, and right now, as much as it hurt, it still felt like the right thing to do. I needed time and distance, to get my head on straight. If that meant I'd lost him--really lost him--then...

  I took a deep breath and tried not to think about that.

  After I sent James the message, I got rid of my phone--removing and destroying the SIM card and resetting it to the factory defaults. Then to the business center, where I put my bank and credit card through the shredder.

  And it was done. My ties with the old world were cut. My journey to a new life begun.

  Chapter Ten

  I watched the floor numbers flit past. Of the five people in the elevator with me, three were staring. All three were male and over forty, and any other time, I'd have chalked it up to the fact that I'm young and female. But today, my heart raced and I struggled to keep breathing.

  Had my picture been in the paper? I'd grabbed only the classified section at the hotel. I hadn't checked the rest. I was afraid to check.

  Even if my photo was there, I didn't look like it. Not anymore. Before leaving the hotel, I'd chopped my hair off at my shoulders, blow-dried it straight, and pulled the sides back in a severe style I'd never worn before. Also, I was wearing glasses. I've worn contacts since I was twelve, but always carried a pair of glasses in my purse, just in case. Between those, the impromptu haircut, and the Sears-special suit, I was no longer Olivia Taylor-Jones. I was--as my business-center-printed resumes proclaimed--Liv Jones.

  So the men in the elevator shouldn't recognize me. But I could feel them staring. It seemed to take forever to reach the twentieth floor.

  ----

  "H-How long?" I asked the man behind the reception desk.

  He was young, thin, and impeccably dressed, perched on the edge of his chair, narrow-eyed gaze flicking past me to the others in the waiting area, as if he expected to catch them stuffing the year-old magazines into their briefcases.

  I repeated the question. From his look, he'd heard me the first time--he just wasn't rushing to answer. At least not until he'd ensured that the waiting room was safe from larceny.

  "At least a month before we have our short list," he said. "Likely six to eight weeks before the position is filled."

  I must have looked stunned, because his thin lips pursed.

  "The advertisement only went in the Sun-Times today," he said. "It takes time to receive and process the resumes. I'm sure you're not finding anything different elsewhere in your job search."

  "Um, no. Of course not. A month is fine. Thank you."

  I now needed a prepaid cell phone, so I could receive callbacks for interviews. That took 5 percent of my stash. I'd had to buy the outfit and shoes, too, though both were a tenth what I normally paid for clothes. I'd picked up a cheap briefcase, which doubled as a clothing bag, to hold my jeans and shirt from yesterday and a backup dress shirt. It didn't seem like much, but I was down three hundred dollars, and it wasn't even lunchtime.

  "You look familiar," said the receptionist.

  Receptionist number six of the day. Five minutes later I couldn't have told anyone what she looked like. They'd all blended into a homogeneous mush of dour gatekeepers.

  I couldn't have said anything about the reception area, either, except that I was sure it had at least one green plant in the early stages of slow death and a picture of a healthy, flower-bearing one. A desk calendar with a 50 percent chance of displaying the correct month. A bowl of candy. And sporadic voices, maybe even a laugh, from the depths of the offices beyond, teasing me with hints of actual people who could give me an actual job. People I'd never see.

  Six receptionists. Six resumes. Six variations on "I'll pass this along" with six expressions that suggested it wouldn't get past the nearest shredder.

  And yet, in those first five, not one with the reaction I'd feared. Until now.

  "Do you live in Evanston? I grew up there," I lied.

  "No, I've seen your picture someplace. Recently. Weren't you in the paper--?" Her mouth formed a perfect O, eyes widening to match. She snatched up my resume. "Jones? As in Mills & Jones? You're--"

  "Sorry to have wasted your time." I retreated as fast as I could.

  Six stops. Six rejections. I was not getting a job today. Or this week. At least, not the kind of position I'd envisioned. Like the women I'd helped at the shelter, I didn't have experience. Like them, if I wanted to work, I had to take what I could get.

  I'd redo my resume to highlight my transferable skills, and start a new search tomorrow. In the meantime, I'd find a place to stay.


  I stared at the apartment. Two rooms--a bath and a combined kitchen/living/sleeping area. Carpet a half century old, patchy, as if something had been snacking on it. Sofa held up at one corner by a stack of newspapers. The overwhelming stink of cat piss. The smell made me rub my arms, goose bumps rising, anxiety bubbling in my gut.

  "I think this is the wrong place," I said to the woman. "I'm looking for the one advertised--"

  "In today's paper. This is it. Four hundred a month. Take it or leave it."

  I left it. How many times had I helped women find apartments for under five hundred a month? Had I ever seen one of them? Of course not. I just made the arrangements, then someone else took them out to look, and they found one that would do, and I'd ticked another task off my list.

  Now, as I tromped through a parade of pest-infested holes, I wondered what kind of place Cathy had ended up in. She'd taken what she could get. It was all she expected from an apartment. All she expected from life.

  Finally, I decided I could go as high as six hundred, and found a place that, while tiny and shabby, was in a decent neighborhood, and didn't stink of anything except air freshener.

  "I'll take it," I said. "That's six hundred up front, right?"

  "Twelve hundred," the portly man said. "First and last's month. Like always."

  I quickly calculated. I'd only have a few hundred left, and I had no idea when I'd get a job and--

  I could do this. I'd have a place to sleep, and I'd already bought clothing and toiletries. I'd only need food and cab fare. No, bus fare. I could figure out how to use public transport.

  "Twelve hundred then. Okay. So--"

  "There's the damage deposit, too. Another six hundred."

  Another six hundred that I didn't have. Another apartment that I didn't get.

  The next one on my list was the same price, but also required first and last month's, plus a thousand dollars damage deposit.

  "You don't seem like the kind of girl who'd cause a lot of trouble, though," the landlord mused.

  "I'm not. Could we do it another way? Take the second month's rent as a damage deposit, then as soon as I can, I'll give you an actual deposit."

  "I don't think we need to make it that complicated. You look like a good girl. Pretty, too. I'm sure we could work something out," he said, gaze sliding to my chest.

  There was a surreal moment where I reflected that this, too, was something new. I'd always escaped roaming hands at crowded parties, alcohol-fueled invitations from college boys. I suppose something about me said I wasn't the type. But that had changed.