Down the Rabbit Hole

“What?” Molly couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d been hit by a bus.

“And you’re right, by the way—about that guy, John? He was sort of charming, but he texts during movies. It made me crazy. And Max—you’re right about him, too. He is nice and sweet and smart and funny and serious. He does like me—I can see it when he looks at me, too. He loves me, in fact. And I love him.”

“What?”

“Look, I know you left Roger at home to feed the kids tonight so you and I could eat at Ferdinand’s, but I need to take a rain check. I’ll buy. But I have to leave right now. I have to find Max and tell him that I’m not a dope anymore. I’ve never been much of a groveler, but . . . well, it’ll be a new adventure, won’t it?”

“What?” Apparently, she’d stunned Molly speechless.

Elise laughed and hurried over to take Molly’s face between her palms—then laughed again, threw her arms around her and squeezed tight. “I love you, too! I know I don’t say it often enough—but that’s going to change. And I want you to know that while I’ll never understand why you married Roger, I’m so very, very glad you did.” She giggled at Molly’s wide-eyed expression and kissed her cheek. “Give my love to him and the kids and tell him thanks for being a great brother. And—ha! Do you hear that? My stomach’s growling. I’ll take Max out to eat . . . I can be dessert.”

“Elise, honey, are you feeling all right? I can drive you home if—”

She chuckled and started to leave, but then stopped. She looked back at the dark display of the dishonored Jedi knight and, despite what she knew to be the truth, she felt a deep and warm gratitude. Risking a tacky straitjacket in a shade outside her color wheel, she walked over to stand before him and murmur softly, “Thanks, Martin.”

“Elise?”

When she turned back to Molly’s fretful expression, she paused a moment to calm down and gather her wits.

“Listen,” she said. “Tell your friend Liz that I’d rather swallow a piano than play one at her party but I am looking forward to attending the event. And tell her, too, that if she can think of something reasonably sane . . . er, more traditional, more inside the box or . . . dull, probably. I don’t know. Just tell her if she decides to do another fund-raiser for dyslexia research I’d like to help.”

“What?”

“Ha! Poor Molly. I promise you, I’m fine. I’m better than fine. I’ll explain everything later, but right now I have to find Max.” She stopped short. “Oh! I have it! I’m brilliant! Your costumes are Roger and Jessica Rabbit—goofy and gorgeous. Max should be Dick Tracy—intelligent, steadfast and fearless. And I’ll be his Tess Trueheart—because I am.”





FALLEN


R. C. RYAN





For all who believe.



And for Tom, who believed in me always.





PROLOGUE




NEW YORK, 1990

“Highlands?” The four-year-old girl lifted wide, trusting eyes to her grandmother. “Why do they call it that, Gram?”

“It is high country, and very rugged. It’s where my ancestors in Scotland lived, my darling. It’s also wild and grand and beautiful.”

“I love your story about the Beast of the Highlands. Why was he called that?”

“A spell had been cast upon him. At the dawn of each new moon the man was turned into a huge, wild stag, with great, punishing antlers. No one ever saw the creature, though many claimed to have heard his dangerous hooves pounding the earth as he raced through their villages. Of course, it was all a myth.” The old woman smiled. “Now, to finish the story. Thanks to the wonder of magic, the beast was once more turned into a handsome man who embraced the lovely woman who saved him, and they lived happily ever after.” Evelyn Campbell’s voice lowered to a purr as she glanced down to see her little granddaughter’s eyes closing.

As she started to get up, little Beth’s hand shot out, stopping her. “More, Gram. Did the beast ever return?”