“I was going to tell Eve soon. Too much was happening.”
“I’ll accept that. I’ll just take care of it.”
“Did you identify that fingerprint you pulled from the stairwell?”
“Not yet. But I’ll get Quinn to push it through Interpol, and we’ll see what happens. He has a hell of a lot of contacts. By the time I get to Nice, he might have a name for me.”
“Nice?”
“You said that was where Felicity Jordan lives. I’ll be on a flight there this morning. That way I won’t have to rely on phones or secondhand information. I have to know what’s happening. I want this over quickly.”
Jock was moving with lightning speed, Cara realized. Well, when did he ever do anything else when he was motivated? That easy, almost radiant, charisma was completely deceptive, and only existed when conditions were also easy and nonthreatening. She should have known that he’d take control when she’d picked up her phone tonight. And that was okay when it only concerned information gathering.
It was not okay if she had to worry about his running into men like the one who had nearly throttled her last night. But her attacker was not in Nice, he was in New York. Jock might actually be safer in Nice. “You’ll be careful?”
“I don’t believe an overambitious stage mother will pose a real threat to me. But I’ll promise to be especially careful of her.” His voice was suddenly gentle. “Go to sleep, Cara. I’ll call you later and let you know what’s happening. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.” He hung up.
She slid the phone back in her pocket. She had no more information than when she’d called Jock, and he was far more skeptical than she had been. Yet she felt warmer, less helpless, more able to cope than before she’d spoken to him.
You’ll never be alone. I’ll always be here.
If she was careful, if she didn’t demand too much, that could be true.
She turned and headed for the door. And for now she still had people who cared about her. She was far luckier than Darcy, who had just lost the one person who had completed her.
So reach out and help her. Show Darcy that she was not alone either …
*
There was someone in the room …
It was all right.
No one to fear …
Darcy slowly opened her eyes. The room was dim, the first rays of dawn were streaming softly through the window and falling on the foot of the bed and the rocking chair against the far wall.
And shining on the chestnut hair of the little boy who was sitting in that rocking chair. He smiled at her. “Hi, I’m Michael. Want to have breakfast with me? Mama’s not awake yet, and she doesn’t like me to use the stove if she’s not around. But she wouldn’t mind if you were around to help, in case I set myself on fire.” He chuckled. “That’s what she always says. No way are you going to set yourself on fire today, Michael.”
Darcy shook her head to clear it. “I’m afraid that I’m not qualified in that department. I don’t cook. I usually stock my pantry with Apple Jacks cereal.” She noticed for the first time he was barefoot and dressed in blue-and-white-striped pajamas. “Shouldn’t you go back to bed? Maybe it’s too early for you to eat. And don’t you have to go to school or something?”
“Saturday.” He stood up and headed for the door. “It’s not too early if you’re hungry. And it’s good that no one is up yet. Come on, Darcy.” He smiled coaxingly at her over his shoulder. “We’ll get to have breakfast with Sylvie.”
He was gone.
And she was lying there in total shock. It was the last thing that she’d expected the child to say, and he’d said it with complete naturalness and eagerness. Maybe it was totally natural when you were the son of a forensic sculptor of the stature of Eve Duncan. And that sculptor was Darcy’s hostess, whose son had just run out of here to whip up some breakfast when he’d been forbidden to do it on his own.
Not a time to lie in bed.
She threw off her blanket, grabbed her robe, and ran out of the room and down the hall toward the kitchen.
“I don’t think we have Apple Jacks.” Michael’s head popped up from behind the counter, where he’d been going through the pantry. “Mama says all that sugar isn’t good for you. We have cornflakes. Is that okay?”
“Fine.” And didn’t require cooking, or any fire hazard for either of them. “You get the milk out of the fridge, and I’ll get down bowls and find some spoons.”
“That drawer beside you.” He was already at the refrigerator. “Let’s sit on the couch in the living room. It will be better in there.”
“Whatever you say. Though I thought maybe the porch?”
“Not this morning.” His luminous smile lit his face. “Okay?”
She had an idea that women were going to say okay to this heartbreaker for the rest of his life. “I was thinking your mother might not like us to risk the mess.”
“No mess. We’ll be careful.” He was carrying his bowl into the living room. “Come on. It’s better…”
“Whatever.” She found herself settling herself on the couch and dipping her spoon into the cereal. “How did you know what my name was, Michael?”
“My dad told me when he took me to Burger King last night. He said not to bother you because you were sad and needed some time.” He put down his bowl and spoon on the coffee table. “But I knew you needed to have breakfast.”
“It was nice of you to think of me.” She added dryly, “At five in the morning.”
“It had to be early.” He was moving across the living room toward Eve’s worktable. “She’s beautiful with the sun touching her. I wanted you to see her.”
She went rigid as she saw the little boy reaching across the pedestal toward the reconstruction. “I don’t think your mother would like you to touch—”
Too late. He’d pulled the black velvet cloth from the reconstruction and tossed it on the pedestal. He turned and ran back to the couch. “See. The sunlight comes in that window and it makes her…” He started to eat his cereal. “You know.”
Yes, she knew. Darcy stared, breathless. The diffused glow of light was forming an aureole around Sylvie’s head, highlighting every feature and making the skin appear to be illuminated from within. She had never seen Sylvie look more beautiful or more sharply defined and full of vitality. This wasn’t the look of the dreamer or the butterfly Darcy had known through the years. This was … different.
“Your cornflakes are getting soggy,” Michael said.
The pragmatic statement made her jerk her gaze away from Sylvie to Michael. His expression seemed sober, but was there the faintest hint of mischief in his face? Six years old. It had to be imagination. “How did you know that she’d look like this, Michael?”
“I came out early sometimes when Mama was working on her. She didn’t look this good all the time, until Mama fixed her, but I liked looking at her anyway. And I think she liked me being here. But she’ll like your company better.”
“Because we’re twins?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because she’ll like you knowing how good she’s been fixed.”
“By your mother?” Darcy nodded. “She’s certainly done a wonderful job.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I told Mama the inside was already fixed, so all she had to do was the outside. But she matched it really good, didn’t she? Anyway, I thought that you’d like to have breakfast with Sylvie. And maybe she’d like it, too.” He scooted back on the couch and took another bite of cereal. “Was I right?”
It was totally bizarre sitting here on this couch with this strange, endearing child who took it for granted that she’d want to get up at the crack of dawn to have breakfast with a skull named Sylvie. Who spoke not of murder but of fixing, healing, and how Sylvie would want her to know that healing had taken place. It had not even occurred to him that there could be darkness, not sunlight, in what he’d shown her.