The Van Alen Legacy

It was like coming back to life after being trapped in a coffin. She wobbled like a newborn colt. It was as if the world was coming into focus after years of watching a grainy, fuzzy movie version. She could smell the hollyhocks outside her window, she could taste the salt in the sea air. Her hands—her hands were her own. They felt light and strong, not weighed down and heavy. Her legs were moving; she was walking! She tripped over the rug. Ouch! She pushed herself up and walked more carefully.

But her freedom came at a price, for she sensed him, a presence, in the space just behind (that rear passenger seat), waiting, watching. This is a test, she thought. He wants to see what I’m going to do. I need to pass. . . . Get rid of Henri. But Henri must not suspect anything odd has happened to me.

She opened her bedroom door, savoring the feel of the cold bronze doorknob in her hand, and ran down the stairs.

“Wait! Manuela! Let him in!” she called, running to the foyer. It was a joy to hear her voice out in the world again— her wonderful throaty voice carrying in the air. It sounded different inside her head. She felt like singing.

“Bliss! Bliss!” the bald man cried. Henri looked exactly the same: the same rimless eyeglasses, the same monochromatic wardrobe. He was dressed all in white, in his summer uniform: a linen shirt and matching pants.

“Henri!”

Henri engulfed her in a flutter of air-kisses. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for months! Everyone feels terrible about what happened! Oh My God! I still can’t believe it! I’m so glad to see you’re okay! Can I come in?”

“Of course.” She led him into the sun-drenched sitting room where the family received guests. BobiAnne had gone a little overboard with the nautical theme. Scull oars were hung on the walls, the blue-and-white pillows were trimmed with rope, and there were miniature lighthouses everywhere. Bliss asked the maid to bring refreshments, and settled into the cushions. Playing the grand hostess came easily; it helped that she had been raised to do this all her life. It stopped her from rubbing her bare feet against the throw rug and from bouncing up and down on the cushions.

She was alive! In her own body! Talking to a friend! But she composed her face as carefully as her thoughts. It would not do to look delirious and ecstatic when half her family was dead or missing. That would certainly arouse suspicion.

“First of all, I’m so sorry about BobiAnne,” Henri said, taking off his fancy eyeglasses and cleaning the lenses with the edge of his shirt. “You did get our flowers, right? Not that we were expecting a thank-you card or anything. Don’t even worry about it.”

Flowers? What flowers? Henri looked concerned when Bliss didn’t answer, and she immediately covered up for her confusion, reaching for his hand. “Of course! Of course— they were beautiful and so thoughtful.” Of course the agency had sent flowers for BobiAnne’s memorial.

Through their conversation, Bliss gathered that the papers had explained the deaths of the Conclave by way of a fire at the Almeida villa. Arson was suspected, but with the slow-moving ways of the Polícia, there was little hope that justice would ever be served.

The maid returned bearing a pitcher of BobiAnne’s favorite: Arnold Palmers—half iced tea, half lemonade (made from lemons picked fresh from their orchard).

“I can’t believe it’s been a year since I’ve seen you!” Henri said, accepting a frosty glass filled with the amber drink.

A year!

That was a shock. Bliss almost dropped her glass, her hands were shaking so badly. She had had no idea so much time had passed since she was last in control of her body, of her life. No wonder she had so much trouble trying to remember things.

That meant she had missed her last birthday. The year she turned fifteen, her family had celebrated at the Rainbow Room. But there had been no one around to mark her Sweet Sixteen. Not even herself, she thought dryly. I wasn’t even there for my own birthday. A whole year had gone by while she fought to hold on to a semblance of consciousness. She would never get it back, and time was more and more precious now.

A burning anger rose within her—she had been robbed of an entire year!—but again, she suppressed it. She couldn’t allow the passenger in the backseat to know how she felt. It was too dangerous. She would have to remain serene.

She turned to her agent, her friend, and tried to pretend she didn’t feel like he had just punched her in the stomach.





FOURTEEN

Mimi


Dawn was breaking over the hillsides. Another fruitless night in the slums. They had scanned every man, woman, and child in the designated area. Tomorrow they would do the same, starting in the northern slums in Jacarezinho. The team’s spirits were starting to flag. Mimi didn’t think they were ever going to find Jordan. At least not in Rio. Kingsley put on a good show, but Mimi could tell he was frustrated. “My instinct tells me I’m right, that she’s here,” he said as they walked quickly down through the maze of makeshift stairways cut into the hillside. The narrow streets were empty, save for junkyard dogs and the occasional random rooster.

“The glom says you’re wrong, boss,” Mimi said. She knew he hated it when she called him that.

He spit out a wad of tobacco, a brown spittle that arched out of his mouth. Impressive, if it weren’t so disgusting.