Lisa Jackson - Most Likely To Die

“Are you kidding? Aurora’s marriage is still going strong,” Kristen said with a snort. “But their daughter just got married and now she’s expecting a baby. Aurora’s wedding gift to her was a girls’ weekend in New York, which they were going to do this fall. But now she wants to do it before her daughter is too pregnant to get around.”

Aurora…a grandmother.

“Wow,” Lindsay murmured. “That’s hard to believe.”

“A lot of things that have happened are hard to believe. So…should I tell Aurora to look you up when she’s there?”

“Yes…make sure that you do.” It would be good to see her, Lindsay thought, suddenly longing for her old friend’s zany sense of humor.

“Just watch your step, Lindsay,” Kristen advised her again. “Whatever you do, wherever you go…watch your step.”

With that final warning, the call was disconnected and Lindsay’s pathway to the past was severed once again.

Close up, in person, the boy looked just like his mother…but not much like his father at all, she noted in mild surprise, stealing a furtive glance over the top of the open New York Post in her hands.

They were on the eastbound number seven train that ran on elevated tracks above Queens Boulevard. At this time of the afternoon, it wasn’t very crowded. Rush hour wouldn’t begin for another hour.

There were plenty of seats, and she had chosen one diagonally across from his, facing him. She wanted to get a good look at the son of Lindsay Farrell and Jake Marcott.

Yes, he looked very much like Lindsay, with hair and eyes more black than brown, and features that were almost too delicate for a man. All except his jawline. His was squared off and rugged where Lindsay’s was gently rounded.

But Jake’s jaw hadn’t been that pronounced, and there was a deep cleft in the boy’s chin. Jake had had none. Jake’s hair had been a lighter shade of brown. And he had been broad where this boy, his son, was lean and lanky. Yes, they were both tall-but Jake had towered at six-four in his socks. This boy was, by her estimation, about six-one.

So? He didn’t have to look like his father, or have his father’s height and build.

But she was expecting to be reminded of her late nemesis when she came face-to-face with his son, and that hadn’t happened.

No, instead, she was reminded solely of that bitch Lindsay.

The train jerked to a stop. The conductor announced the station: Eighty-Second Street in Jackson Heights. An elderly Asian woman, who had been dozing beside Leo, jumped to her feet and headed for the door rustling several white plastic shopping bags.

Something-an apple-dropped from one and rolled across the floor.

Leo jumped up, snatched it, and handed it to her with a fleeting smile before she darted from the train with a muttered thanks.

That smile…

There and gone in a flash, it had revealed a familiar dimple, she realized, pretending to be engrossed in her newspaper as he settled back into his seat and the train rumbled on.

Lindsay’s dimple.

And there was something else…something familiar about Leo’s smile.

Yes, in the unique way that he tilted his head, curved his sensitive lips, and bared a row of even white teeth for a mere instant before resuming his straight face…

Leo reminded her of someone from the past.

Someone other than Lindsay.

And it wasn’t Jake.

She just couldn’t put her finger on who it was…

Oh, well. It would probably come to her eventually, she thought.

For now, she’d just keep an eye on him…and on his mother. It was almost Lindsay’s turn…

But not yet.

Not until I’ve had my fill.

It was still too much fun to taunt Lindsay Farrell, to imagine the nightmares those late-night phone calls must inspire, to imagine her growing trepidation as she comprehended that somebody was in on her deep, dark secret.

Did she realize yet that somebody wanted to watch her suffer, see her die?

She’d definitely become aware of that in time. But not yet.

The train jolted around a curve in the track and the power shorted out.

Under the unexpected cover of darkness, she took the luxury of smiling to herself, thinking of Lindsay’s impending demise. She relished the knowledge that she alone was aware of Lindsay’s fate. She alone was in control of it.

Oh, yes. This was more fun than she’d had in years.

Or ever.

When the lights flickered back on a moment later, her face was carefully masked in neutrality once again.

“Why did you leave me? You have to pay for what you did.”

Terror pulsed through Lindsay’s veins as she faced the shadowy stranger who held a loaded gun in two outstretched hands, pointed right at her.

“Please…please don’t hurt me.”

“Sorry, but you have to pay, Mommy.”

The stranger stepped into the pool of light and she saw that he was an adult-sized, squinty-eyed, red-faced newborn with tufts of black hair.

“No! Please!”

There was a shrill ringing sound then, and her creepy tormentor abruptly evaporated.

A dream. It was only a dream, Lindsay realized, sitting up.

Yes, and it was morning. Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains that covered her window, an eastern exposure high on the thirty-fourth floor.

She reached for her alarm clock before realizing that the ringing was coming from the telephone.

Her stomach roiled as she picked up the receiver. It wasn’t the middle of the night, but it wasn’t a reasonable hour yet, either.

Was she in for another eerie prank phone call? A couple of days had passed now since she’d had one, but it was taking her a long time to fall asleep every night. She kept tossing and turning, her body tensed, as if waiting for the inevitable call.

Now, as she pressed the Talk button and said a tentative hello, she braced herself all over again.

She could hear only heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

“Stop calling me,” she said tightly, clenching the phone.

“What?”

The voice was masculine. Not an unearthly falsetto.

“I’m sorry…who is this?” she asked quickly, glancing at the clock again as she stood up. It was just past seven. Who would call at this hour?

A client might…but none of them had her home number, thank God.

So who was on the line?

She lowered the receiver to check the Caller ID window.

“You don’t know me,” the voice was saying when she raised the phone to her ear again, “but my name is Leo Cellamino, and I live in Queens…”

Her gaze automatically shifted to the window. From it, she could see the East River and the sprawling rooftops of the outer borough beyond. The caller lived there, in Queens.

You don’t know me…

So who was he?

Oh.

Oh my God.

Somehow, she knew. Before he even said it, she knew.

It was partially because of the voice-the voice was vaguely familiar.

But it wasn’t just that.

Maybe it was some long-suppressed maternal instinct as well. Some connection that had been forged twenty years ago, and never fully detached.

In any case, she knew, before he said it, that she was talking to her son.

She sank down onto the edge of the bed again as his next words confirmed her suspicion.

“I think you might be my birth mother.”

Leo heard her gasp on the other end of the line.

He shouldn’t have called.

He should have just gone over there in person. He had her address.

But when he’d Googled it, he had seen that it was a fancy high-rise near Sutton Place. There was undoubtedly a doorman. It wasn’t as though Leo could walk right up to her door, knock, and introduce himself. And explaining the situation to a uniformed sentry in an effort to see her in person seemed much too awkward.