Shadow Woman A Novel

Chapter Six



Two hours later, her stomach now settled enough that she could tolerate putting something in it, Lizette sat on the floor with a cup of coffee—lightened, sweetened, and warmed in the microwave—sitting on the coffee table within reach and the only photo album she could find open in her lap. There were baby pictures, photos of her with her parents, school pictures—not from every grade, but from most. Toward the end of the book there were some snapshots from college, always with friends with whom she had since lost contact. After that, nothing.

When had she stopped taking photographs? Not that she was a particularly good photographer, but still, who didn’t take pictures of…

Of what? She went to work, she read, she watched television. She didn’t participate in sports or join clubs or even date—at least not in a long while, which was weird, because she could remember a time when she’d had an active social life. But that was then, and this was … this was pitiful. What would she take pictures of now? Lunch at her desk?

Over the past two hours she’d been experimenting, exploring the boundaries of this weird crap that was happening to her. Now she could recognize the signs that the headache and nausea were coming, and she no longer doubted that it was any thought of the missing two years that brought on the pain. She had no explanation for that, not even a plausible theory, but she did have the good sense to believe what she saw—or rather, what she felt.

Thinking about—or trying to think about—why she’d stopped taking pictures brought on the first, very recognizable signs of distress, so she stopped trying to figure it out and turned back in the album to photos of her childhood. Halloween, Christmas, a summer vacation at the beach. Damn, she’d been skinny. Look at those beanpole legs! Concentrating on things she definitely remembered did the trick, and once again she was in control of her own body.

The doorbell rang, and she almost jumped out of her skin. Her shoulder bumped against the coffee table, her mug shook, and caramel-colored liquid splashed close to the rim. She steadied the cup, set the photo album aside, and stood.

The hair on the back of her neck was standing up. She could feel alarm like a cold chill all over her body, shouting a warning.

Who would come to her door in the morning, when anyone who knew her would know she was normally at work at this hour? It was too early for the mail, not that she expected a package or anything that would need to be signed for, which would be the only reason the mailman would knock. Door-to-door salesmen were kind of rare these days, and the only friend she had who would check on her—Diana—already had.

Lizette approached the door cautiously, her hands opening and closing as if seeking a weapon that wasn’t there. She eased around to the side, so if anyone shot through the door—shit! Quickly she hummed a song under her breath, concentrating on the tune, warding off the hammer of pain that had drawn back in preparation to knock her block off.

The sickening sensation ebbed, but she still eyed the door uneasily. Her heart was suddenly pounding, as if she expected a snake to be on the other side, waiting to strike when she opened the door. Her reaction was … new, and definitely disturbing. On any other day she’d have answered the door like a normal person, with curiosity but also confidence. Now she was very wary of who might be on the other side, and she couldn’t bring herself to relax. What should she do now? Maybe if she was quiet, whoever was on the other side would go away. On the other hand, maybe it was a burglar checking to see if anyone was at home before circling around to the back and breaking in, in which case she could yell Who is it? or even look through the peephole, if she could steel her nerves to take that chance.

But before she could do either, a familiar voice called out, “Yoo-hoo. Lizette, are you home?”

Her heart returned to a normal rhythm; her muscles uncoiled. Not a snake, just a busybody—a busybody who actually said “yoo-hoo,” for God’s sake. Who did that, outside of old sitcoms?

With a different kind of dread, Lizette blew out a breath, resigned herself, and opened the door. Her next-door neighbor stood on the porch. Maggie Rogers lived in the house on the left, and she’d been there as long as Lizette could remember—which, evidently, was only about three years. Maggie was a widow, too young for retirement but living well enough on her late husband’s insurance money. She had silvery gray hair cut in a short, slightly edgy, and definitely fashionable style, a pretty face that looked younger than her hair said she was, a trim and athletic figure, and a small yapping dog that was, oddly enough, almost exactly the same color as her hair.

The dog was in her arms, peering at Lizette with beady dark eyes. Lizette normally liked dogs. She just didn’t like dogs that looked as if they had rodent DNA. To keep from being hypnotized by that beady gaze, she forced herself to look only at Maggie.

“Are you all right?” Maggie asked. “I saw your car in the driveway and I was so worried.” Maggie stepped forward and Lizette automatically stepped back and, bingo, just like that, Maggie was inside without having been invited. Lizette was annoyed with herself for not standing her ground, though she had to admit her normal modus operandi was to avoid confrontation, to not speak up, to be … passive.

Maggie held the dog close in her arms, to keep the little varmint from jumping down and playing “can’t catch me” throughout Lizette’s house. Her gaze scanned the room, but that was nothing unusual. Every time Lizette had encountered Maggie, the other woman had checked out everything, as if looking for some little clue that Lizette had a secret bondage fetish, or drug addiction, or anything else salacious. She was doomed in that, because Lizette couldn’t think of even a tiny salacious detail in her life—damn it. “You never miss work,” Maggie said almost accusingly, as if Lizette had disrupted her life by being sick.

Okay, it was kind of creepy that Maggie knew so much about her schedule, but not surprising. Maggie was the type of woman who sat where she could see out her windows and keep tabs on all her neighbors, a champion curtain-twitcher. Lizette managed to keep her expression neutral. Even if she did have enough money that she never needed to work, this woman needed a job in the worst way. Her day revolved around watching her neighbors and monitoring their every move; she gave real meaning to the phrase “get a life,” because the only one she seemed to have belonged to everyone around her.

Still…“I don’t feel well,” Lizette found herself explaining. The sweatpants and tee shirt she wore, along with no makeup and a face that had been, at last glance, much too pale, should have given that away. Give Maggie an F in observation skills.

“I was afraid of that. What can I do to help?” Maggie finally looked directly at Lizette, her pale blue eyes probing, alight with curiosity. “God, you do look awful,” she added, sounding sincere.

Gee, thanks, Lizette thought sarcastically, then felt guilty because, even if her main motivation was curiosity, Maggie had come over to check on her and offer to help. “Nothing major, just a bug. I’m feeling somewhat better now. I still haven’t tried any solid food, but I’m keeping liquids down. As a matter of fact, I was about to change clothes and go to a pharmacy or Walmart to pick up a few things.”

“I’ll be happy to do that for you. Just give me a list.”

Aspirin, Pepto-Bismol, an ice bag, a throwaway cell phone… The items ticked off in her head. She shut that inner voice off before it triggered another attack.

“Thanks, but I think the fresh air will make me feel better.” That was a polite enough way of saying “Thanks but no thanks, and bye-bye.”

But Maggie didn’t take the hint. She went to the sofa and sat down; the dog squirmed to get down, but she held him tighter. Glancing down, she saw the photo album that was open on the floor near the coffee table. “Oh, you’ve been looking at old pictures.”

“Yes.” Lizette stood at the end of the couch and looked down at her neighbor, who had made herself comfortable and showed no sign of taking the hint and going home. An idea niggled at her; maybe she could ask Maggie if she remembered exactly when Lizette had moved in—was it three years ago, or five?—but that was a strange question to ask anyone. Not only that, what if the house was bugged?

Maggie gave her a strange look. “Are you all right?”

“Hmm? As well as I’ve been all day, so far. Why?”

Maggie made an odd sound in her throat, one of either concern or curiosity; sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between the two. “You were humming. Not that humming is strange,” she added hastily, “just that you had the weirdest expression on your face.”

“Sorry,” Lizette said, though she wondered why she was apologizing for humming. When one of those thunderbolt headaches threatened, switching her thoughts to the song she’d heard yesterday had become so automatic, she’d barely been aware that she’d started to hum. “You know how annoying it is when you hear a song and then can’t get it out of your head? Like that old Oscar Mayer wiener song? That kind of thing.”

Suddenly she found herself wondering exactly why Maggie was here. Why had she come over, instead of just calling? Before, she’d simply accepted the woman as the stereotypical nosy neighbor, but what if she wasn’t? Lizette covertly studied her visitor. Exactly how old was she? Fifty, maybe? She could be younger than that; the silvery gray hair made her look older, but she wasn’t what anyone would call elderly. Her skin was smooth, a lot smoother than her hair color should indicate. She didn’t wear a lot of makeup, and what she did wear was tasteful and almost undetectable, which took skill. And beneath the baggy, nondescript outfit she wore, she was trim. Was she also muscular? In good physical shape? Maybe. She didn’t move as if she had any problems with arthritis or worn-out joints.

Maggie’s hands were all but hidden in the thick, long hair of the yapper. Lizette studied what she could see, because hands could say a lot about someone’s age. What little she could see seemed to be smooth and spotless.

And the dog. The ornate collar could be hiding anything—a camera, a voice recorder—

Lizette grabbed her coffee cup and stepped back. This time she didn’t sing or hum aloud, but she let the song play in her mind, concentrating on the words until they drowned out everything else. Normal, her mind shouted behind the lyrics, be normal.

“I’m sorry,” she said swiftly. “My manners are terrible. I’ll blame it on the bug; I haven’t been sick in so long I can’t remember the last time. Thank goodness these things don’t last very long.” She headed for the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee? I’m going to make a fresh pot.”

“That sounds great,” Maggie chirped, killing Lizette’s hopes that instead of accepting she would say she’d just wanted to check that everything was all right, and now she’d get back home.

Lizette breathed deeply as she stepped into the kitchen. Normal.



Almost an hour had passed before Maggie finally took herself and the yapper—whose name happened to be Roosevelt, which came close to taking first place for the most incongruous name for a tiny dog she’d ever heard—back to her own house. What kind of woman would have such a lengthy visit with someone who’d had such a recent bout with a nasty bug? A hypochondriac who wanted to really be sick for a change? Someone who was so hungry for companionship she’d run the risk of catching the bug herself? Just a nosy neighbor? Or was she snooping around trying to find out … what?

Every time Lizette reached that point in her thought loop, a headache would threaten and she’d have to mentally back away.

While she was getting ready to go out, Diana called to check on her. Lizette dutifully reported that she was feeling better, hadn’t thrown up in several hours, and was about to go pick up some OTC stuff in case things got worse. It was weird, but she felt as if she had to carefully choose every word, that everything she said was being analyzed and weighed—

Quickly she began humming, and the pain faded. Dang, she was getting good at this. Paranoid, but good.

What was the saying? Just because you’re paranoid, that doesn’t mean people aren’t out to get you. But if you were paranoid, how did you know which enemies were real and which were imaginary? Look how suspicious she’d been of Maggie; would she have been as suspicious if Maggie didn’t insist on taking that rodent-dog with her everywhere she went? Was dislike of the yapper coloring her thoughts about Maggie?

Well, sure. But that didn’t mean she was wrong.

Being paranoid was a lot of work; she had no idea what to think.

But she knew what she knew, and she knew what she didn’t know. She didn’t know when she moved into this house. She didn’t know when she went to work for Becker Investments. She didn’t know anything that had happened during that two-year gap in her life.

The most alarming fact of all was that she’d spent three years not noticing any of this stuff, not even that she had a different face.

Until she knew exactly what was going on, wouldn’t the safest thing be to assume that all of her paranoid thoughts were true? If they weren’t, no harm, no foul. But if they were, then she should do her best to protect herself … from whatever.

She locked up and went to her car, which was parked in the driveway between her house and Maggie’s, very deliberately not looking up at Maggie’s windows in case the other woman was standing there watching. Her car was a silver Camry, with all the bells and whistles available, reliable, unremarkable. A chill went down her back when she realized she didn’t know how long she’d had it, that she had no memory at all of buying it. She didn’t even know what model year it was.

The insurance card and registration were in the glove compartment. She started to open it up and take the paperwork out, but remembered that Maggie would have a very good view of what she was doing if she did it there, so instead she started the engine and smoothly reversed to the end of her driveway, where she stopped completely and checked in both directions, as she did every time she left, before continuing to back out.

It was as if caution, routine, and a complete lack of curiosity were as much a part of her as her blue eyes. And it felt wrong—not the blue eyes, those were definitely unchanged, but everything else about this life she was living. She didn’t let herself actively think about it because she didn’t want to bring on one of those killer headaches while she was driving, but deep inside she accepted that everything about her life now was just wrong. The car was wrong, the house was wrong, her job was wrong—she was wrong.

She didn’t know what she could do about it, but there had to be something, damn it. Maybe she should stop trying to reason everything out, which gave her nothing except a headache—with vomiting thrown in as a bonus—and just go with her instincts.



She was on the move.

Thanks to the extra electronics installed in her car, he’d be able to tell exactly where she went. So would Forge’s people, but with luck, they wouldn’t bother putting extra eyes on her. They knew where she was, what she was doing, and why. Besides, right about now Forge had his hands full trying to figure out how Xavier had gotten so much information on Forge’s people, and plugging the hole in his security. That should keep them busy for a while.

In the meantime, he had things to do.



When she stopped at the first red traffic light, Lizette leaned over and opened the glove compartment to pull out the registration papers and the original sale papers. She’d known they were there, but she’d never read them before—again, there was that lack of curiosity that now seemed so foreign to her. The traffic light turned green almost right away; before, Lizette would have either laid the papers on the seat beside her and waited until she stopped the next time or pulled into a parking lot to read them, but now she swiftly unfolded the papers and held them against the steering wheel, flipping through them, checking the date.

Three years. Everything went back three years, as if the person she’d been had ceased to exist five years ago, then after a gap of two years she’d come back to life as this new cautious, unexciting, routine-bound woman who hadn’t even had a real date that she could remember during those three years.

Maybe the reason was nothing more sinister than some sort of accident, which would explain the cosmetic surgery on her face and the gap in her memories. What it wouldn’t explain was the fact that she’d evidently been functional enough to buy a house and a car and get a job, which didn’t jibe with the whole not-remembering thing. People with brain injuries severe enough to cause that kind of amnesia didn’t just go forth again as a fully functional person; there would be all kinds of intense therapies that she’d remember, because as far as she knew amnesia happened from the time of injury backward, not the time of injury forward. Operating on sheer logic, the reason for all this couldn’t be a physical injury.

Mental illness, paranoia—that was more likely than an accident, which was a bummer because she didn’t want to be paranoid. But did mentally ill people ever consider that possibility, or did they simply assume the opposite?

She was doubting herself again, after deciding to go with her instincts.

The navigation screen in the dashboard caught her eye. The car had a GPS. That meant it was possible to monitor the position of her car, wherever she went. This was a car she didn’t remember buying, and it didn’t feel as if it were a car she would buy. Maybe it had been picked out for her, and came to her with all sorts of bugs and tracking devices installed. She didn’t know how to check for anything like that, but she knew it was possible.

Act normal. She just had to act normal.

She pulled into the parking lot of the Walgreens pharmacy closest to her house. There was an open parking slot right beside the door, the premium spot, the one everyone wanted. She started to wheel into it, then abruptly changed direction and circled around the interior parking spaces until she found two end-to-end empty ones. She pulled in and through, so she was facing out of the parking slot and could simply pull out and drive away. If she had to leave suddenly, not having to back out of the parking space would save precious seconds, and maybe her life.

A chill went down her back, prickled over her skull. Her instincts were suddenly shouting at her, and she didn’t like what they were saying.

They’re watching.

They’re listening.

They know where you are.