up before she could respond.
"Kesseiring, if you've finished talking to your sweetheart-"
"Let's move." Michael interrupted his partner's complaint and started
for the door at a run.
"What the-"
"Move," Michael repeated. He was already peeling out when MeCarthy
jumped in the car.
WHEN EMMA WALKED into the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire, it was nearly
four. During her long afternoon on the beach, she'd made one decision.
She was going to call her father. He would have heard about Jane's
death, and Emma had no doubt he would have tried to contact her.
It wouldn't be an easy conversation, but a necessary one. It was time
she told him that she had left Drew. Perhaps it was also time to take
advantage of the press that was always so eager for gossip. Once the
separation was made public, she might break out of her perpetual daze.
Maybe she'd stop being afraid.
As she walked down the hall toward her room, she dug in her bag for her
key. Her fingers brushed the warm metal of the gun. She was going to
stop carrying it, she told herself She was going to stop looking over
her shoulder.
She opened the door of the suite, and frowned. The drapes shut out all
but the faintest light. She hated the dark, and silently cursed the
maid. Pushing herself forward, she let the door close behind her as she
went toward the lamp.
Then the music started. Her fingers froze on the switch. That eerie,
unmistakable intro that haunted her dreams. The murdered Lennon began
to sing in a crisp staccato.
Across the room the light flashed on. She could only whimper and
stumble back. For a moment a face floated into her mind, blurred, but
almost, almost recognizable. Then she saw Drew'
"Hello, Emmy luy. Have you missed me?"
She broke out of her trance and raced for the door. He was quick.
He'd always been quick. One sweep of his hand knocked her aside and
sent her bag flying. Still smiling, he turned the security lock and
fixed the chain.
"We want our privacy, don't we?"
His voice, pleasant, quietly loving, sent ice skidding up and down her
back. "How did you find me?"
"Oh, we have our ways, Emma. Let's say there's a bond between you and
me. Didn't I tell you I'd always find you?"
Behind her the music kept playing. It was a nightmare. She wanted to
believe it. She had them often, the music, the dark. She would wake
up, sweating cold as she was sweating now. And it would be over.
"Guess what I received, Emma? A petition for divorce. Now, that wasn't
very nice, was it? Here I've been worried sick about you for two weeks.
Why, you might have been kidnapped." He grinned. "You might have been
murdered like your poor little brother."
"Don't."
"Ah, it upsets you to talk about him, doesn't it? The music upsets you,
too. Shall I turn it off ?"