Heather Graham - Dying Breath

“Great!” Vickie told her mother, giving her a hug.

“Want to come?” Lucy asked.

“No,” Vickie said with a laugh. “Join you two lovebirds on a romantic trip? Nope, thank you, but no thank you. Besides, you two kids are retired now. You can come and go as you like.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” her dad, Philip, said. “It would really get you away from Jared.”

“That terrible man!” her mother said.

“Mom, he isn’t a terrible man. He’s just—not right for me.”

“Well, you could come to Italy for a few days. I mean, you’re writing now. You can write anywhere.”

“Ah, but I can’t find those persnickety Puritans just anywhere, can I? My research is here, in this area, Mom, you know that.”

“We’ve created a monster, Lucy,” her dad said, coming up behind her mom. “She has a work ethic, dear Lord!” he teased, kissing her cheek. “Seriously, though? You’d love this trip, Vickie. I know. You would absolutely love it! You could do research in Italy.”

“Dad, the Puritans came from England, not Italy.”

“Ahha! But later, Italians flocked in and now, we’re living in what they call Little Italy!” her father said triumphantly.

“That’s not the point. You two need to go on alone and have a wonderful and really romantic trip!”

Vickie smiled. She loved her parents deeply. They were so savvy in many ways, and just a little bit clueless in others. They sometimes reminded her of a pair of children—incredibly responsible children, but in their enthusiasm, they frequently appeared on fire. As parents went, they were comparatively young and in excellent health. The trip they were planning was to celebrate the fact that they’d both turn sixty that year. In her mind, her dad—the esteemed Dr. Philip Preston—was as handsome and cool-looking as a rogue pirate—he kept his head clean-shaven and wore a tiny gold stud in one ear. He was well over six feet tall, lean and wiry. Her mom, on the other hand, was about five-two with a froth of blond curls and cat’s eyes—a hazel color that changed constantly. Her parents were attractive and energetic and she could just see the two of them cuddling in the back of a gondola.

Nope—she definitely didn’t want to go with them!

“I’m excited for you two,” she said.

“Coffee is on—want some?” her dad asked.

“Love it!”

“Come see what we’re planning,” her mother told her, urging her over to the dining room table where they’d set up their computer.

“Venice!” her mom said. “We’ll stay right on St. Mark’s Square. And in Rome, well you won’t believe this, but one of dad’s old students works as a tour guide and he’s going to take us on a special tour of the Forum and the Coliseum, and we’re meeting friends at a little restaurant near the Vatican... You know, you could meet us for just part of the trip, if you wanted.”

“My darling parents, I’m delighted that your health is great and that you’re off on an adventure,” Vickie said. “It will be wonderful. How long are you going for?”

“Twenty-one days,” her dad said. “I know you love Italy. It was all you talked about after that college trip you took. But,” he said, smiling at his wife, “I think you’re right to stay home. We both love that you’re working with young people now. It’s great for them.”

“I do love Italy. And I’ll go back with you one day,” she promised them.

“You staying here...does it have anything to do with Jared Norton?” he mother asked.

Vickie was surprised by the question.

“Mom, no—I’m just busy right now. And you guys need time to enjoy each other. Italy, so romantic! You two need to go. I need to stay and work.”

Her mother sighed deeply, and then accepted her words.

“Come on, then! Coffee. And, of course, I’ve got a pie,” her mom said. “Oh, wait—we should have dinner first. You’re here! Oh, and don’t make faces at me. I know I can’t really cook, but I do make the best clam chowder to be found anywhere, even you say that!”

Lucy grinned at her daughter. And Vickie laughed. “Yep, your clam chowder is to die for, it is, Mom. I’m totally wiped out, though.”

Naturally, her mom served up the clam chowder anyway. Vickie had a spoonful almost to her mouth when the ghost of Dylan Ballantine came streaking through the walls with a trail of mist, not unlike a dust storm in a cartoon.

Vickie dropped her spoon, startled. Clam chowder hopped out of the bowl in little droplets.

Her mother and father stared at her; then her mother shivered and frowned and looked uneasily about the room.

“Sorry! Clumsy me,” Vickie said.

Dylan paid no mind to her words or her parents. He was intent on her attention.

“Vickie, Vickie, you’ve got to help, you’ve got to do something. Dammit, Vickie!”

She kept smiling at her confused parents, refusing to look in his direction.

“Vickie, that killer, that Undertaker. He’s taken my mother, Vickie. You’ve got to do something!”

She couldn’t help herself. She jerked around to stare at him, horrified.

“Yes! They found the last woman who’d gone missing and right after, my dad called in about my mom. We have to find her fast, Vickie. Somehow, we have to find her. Now. Before he kills her, too! Please, Vickie, don’t let this happen to my mother!”

He was still speaking when there was a knock at the door. A heavy knock, pounding and insistent.

“FBI! Folks, please open up!” came a voice.

“What in the world?”

Philip Preston rose and strode to the door; he looked through the peephole before frowning and opening it.

Two men stepped in.

The first was tall and dark and had the high cheekbones and golden skin tone of a Native American, along with striking blue eyes.

The second man...

Vickie had started to rise. She froze by the table.

She knew him.

He had aged nine years, of course. His features were still striking, but they seemed cleaner cut, leaner, more rugged. His shoulders were broader. He’d been wearing the blue uniform of the Boston Police Department that day; now he was in a blue suit he wore with casual ease.

Yet she remembered him so clearly. He’d seen her...and he’d warned her to get down. He’d taken a shot, and he’d disarmed the man who had been after her and little Noah on that fateful day. He’d been tall and strong and ridiculously macho and beautiful to her. Detectives had interviewed her, but he’d been there with coffee and a blanket, and he’d held her when she started to shake and had nearly fallen because she was so nervous. He’d been called to be there when she brokenly described everything that had happened that day.

She had thanked him for saving her.

“But it wasn’t really me, was it?” he’d asked her.

She hadn’t answered; she’d never known what to say, how much he knew, how much he had seen...if maybe he actually spoke to the dead himself.

She’d watched him interviewed on the news. He’d stopped a stone-cold killer. He had done nothing any man on the beat wouldn’t have done, he had told reporters. He’d just been there when escaped convict Bertram Aldridge had burst out of the Ballantine house.

She could have been brutally murdered that day. Bertram Aldridge had come after her with a gun. That wasn’t his customary means of murder. He liked to slice up his victims and write messages in their blood. He liked to write notes to the police and smear them with blood.

She had been lucky; so damned lucky. Time had allowed her to walk and talk normally again. To head down to NYC for college, to take work there as a researcher, but now...

She’d come home. And there he was. Griffin Pryce. He was standing next to the tall dark-haired man who was explaining that Chrissy Ballantine had been taken and they’d like to speak with Victoria for just a few minutes.