Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

“Just be prepared. Her name is Karalee Rierson, a redhead.”

He froze. The little worry that had been with him since he’d overheard Acacia’s phone call was growing, squirming, wriggling through his brain. He glanced down at the pile of photographs he’d collected over the years, spreading them out until he saw the driver’s license picture of Karalee Winters. No. . it couldn’t be! He swallowed hard, started searching through the old documents. He should remember this. Wasn’t her maiden name Karalee Falcone. . Yes, he found it. “What do you know about her?” he asked in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own.

“I think she lived in Oregon when she was married, but I’m not sure. And then there was something about a brief, like ten-minute marriage, which Mom will gloss over.”

Hence the surname of Winters.

“But she doesn’t have any kids. I’m sure Mom will have all the details and will regale you with them when you see her.”

His stomach seemed to drop to the cold tile floor. Everything was crumbling apart. “No doubt,” he said. “Look, I’ve got to run.”

“Okay, okay. Always busy, I get it. But after you see Mom and Dad and convince them to move, give me a call.”

“I will,” he promised and hung up. He stared at the photo of Karalee Falcone Winters Rierson. He’d messed up. Somehow missed that important tidbit of information. And now she knew his parents… so, so dangerous. He crushed the copy of her driver’s license in his fist and told himself he had to up his game, move faster.

And he’d have to start with Acacia freakin’ Lambert, then zero in on Karalee, with all her last names.

He didn’t have a choice.

Not only had Riza come through, but Kacey had gotten some information from the hospitals as well. Armed with her new, sketchy details, she drove to Helena. Riza, who also had a way to get into the DMV files, promised more information to come, birth and death notices, pictures, whatever she could find. “I could get fired,” she warned Kacey.

“Or we might both end up looking for a good defense attorney.”

She barked out a laugh. “Doesn’t matter. I love this stuff. I watch CSI and Bones and all those crime shows. I’ll see what I can come up with, but just keep everything on the down low.”

“I will,” Kacey promised but wondered how long she could keep that vow. She hung up and started to dial again, then replaced the receiver, figuring another phone call with her mother would be useless. Whether she liked it or not, she had to see Maribelle face-to-face.

It was nearly dusk when she cruised into Helena, down familiar streets where the asphalt was bare, the sidewalks shoveled, and new snow was falling softly. She guided her Ford past the Cathedral of St. Helena, its Gothic facade bathed in lamplight. Twin spires rose, seeming to pierce the darkening sky. This was the town in which she’d grown up, where she’d felt secure, and now, with twilight lurking, she felt somehow betrayed by it. Something wasn’t right.

Glancing into her rearview mirror, she got a jolt when she saw a dark truck, one similar to the pickup that had hit her and sent her spinning a few days earlier.

The huge, weird grille was similar, but she couldn’t catch a glimpse of the license plate, not even to note if it was from Montana or somewhere else. Her throat went dry as she watched the vehicle’s reflection in the mirror, and then she let out a sigh of relief when it turned, heading off in the opposite direction.

Don’t be so paranoid.

No one’s following you.

Just because Elle Alexander was forced off the road according to the latest reports, you’re not a target.

“Yet,” she said, still nervous.

With a final glance telling her there was no truck with a massive grille tailing her, she relaxed a little. Before she headed out of town, she took one more side trip, slowing for a stoplight near Valley Hospital, a few blocks off Broadway. The sprawling glass and steel structure rose four stories, its windows reflecting the city lights as they winked on. As the light changed and she stepped on the gas, Kacey wondered what part Valley Hospital, where at least three women who resembled each other had been born, played in her own private mystery.

She would have to follow up on that later, however, she thought as she drove through the heart of the city and on toward Rolling Hills Senior Estates, where Maribelle and all her lies resided.

Trace had waited for Eli to get off the bus, then had driven him into town, where they picked up Sarge, complete with one of those cone things to keep him from licking his wound or tearing out his stitches. The dog was improving, thank God.

“He looks like an alien!” Eli said as he scared up a smile for the dog, and Sarge, running on three legs, nearly knocked the boy down in the reception area of the vet’s office.

“Now you both have extra equipment on,” Trace teased, lifting an eyebrow at Eli’s blue cast. There were a few names scrawled on the surface and some grime near the edge that he hadn’t been able to scrub off.

“I’d say it was a raccoon, maybe more than one,” Jordan Eagle said as Trace paid the bill.

“I’m just glad he’s going to be okay,” Trace said. “Thank you.”

Jordan patted Sarge’s head and then Trace whistled for him and the dog raced after them in his ungainly way. Trace helped him into the truck, and they were on their way.

At the house, though his spirits had lifted upon retrieving Sarge, Eli crashed on the couch. He’d complained of feeling crummy from the minute he’d gotten off the bus, and though usually he was up for doing the afternoon chores, today he was spent. He fell asleep on the couch almost instantly, with Sarge curled up on the floor at his feet.

It was a bit of a worry as the boy was usually so active, but then he was still fighting the cold or flu or whatever it was, dealing with Jocelyn’s death, and healing from the playground incident. At least he hadn’t brought up Leanna for a few days.

Maybe the couch wasn’t such a bad idea.

He let the kid sleep, but Sarge did deign to come with Trace for the afternoon rounds of feeding. He’d let the animals out during the day, but now, as the sky began to darken, he fed and locked them inside.

By the time he returned to the house and scrounged up a skillet dinner, Eli was awake. They ate in the kitchen, but Eli picked at his food and ignored the apple juice his father had poured and insisted he drink.

Afterward Trace stacked the dishes in the sink; then together he and Eli tackled a little bit of homework. They gave up when Eli, coughing and listless, just wanted to go back to the television. Trace took his son’s temperature, which was still hovering around a hundred. He ran him through the shower, then allowed him a soda with no caffeine and put him to bed. The boy didn’t protest, even though the digital clock on the bedside table read 7:15. Usually Eli would have protested loudly. Tonight he zonked.

It was definitely a worry.

And his son’s health was just one issue, one of many.

It wasn’t until he’d returned to the downstairs that he noticed the light flashing on the answering machine.

Listening to the one call, he heard Kacey’s voice as she asked about Eli. “Nice,” he thought aloud and played the message a second time, as much to hear her voice as to commit her number to memory. He thought about calling her just to talk, but as he picked up the phone, he stopped.

What are you going to talk about? The weather? Your kid’s blue cast? The woman you dated, the one that looks like her? Jocelyn’s death? Or are you going to admit to dreaming about her last night and waking up hard as hell?