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target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#uc6dce962-2e1d-5941-89d6-d07c42218a33"> CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Flight
January 2012
LAX
VICTORIA VILANIE CURLED into a ball, trying to make herself small, trying to disappear. Her black hair spread around her like a cape but couldn’t protect her.
All the sounds in the airport were like drums playing in a jungle full of predators. Carts with clicking wheels rolling on pitted tiles. People shuffling and shouting and complaining. Electronic voices rattling off numbers and destinations. Babies crying. Phones ringing. Winter’s late storm pounding on walls of glass.
Victoria, Tori to her few friends, might not be making a sound, but she was screaming inside.
Tears dripped off her face, and she didn’t bother to wipe them away. The noise closed in around her, making her feel so lonely in the crowd of strangers.
She was twenty-four, and everyone said she was a gifted artist. Money poured in so fast it had become almost meaningless, only a number that brought no joy. But tonight all she wanted was silence, peace, a world where she could hide out.
She scrubbed her eyes on her sleeve and felt a hand touch her shoulder like it were a bird, featherlight, landing there.
Tori turned and recognized a woman she’d seen once before. The tall blonde in her midthirties owned one of the best galleries in Dallas. Who could forget Parker Lacey’s green eyes? She was a woman who had it all and knew how to handle her life. A born general who must manage her life as easily as she managed her business.
“Are you all right, Tori?” Parker asked.
Tori could say nothing but the truth. “I’m living the wrong life.”
Then the strangest thing happened. The lady with green eyes hugged her and Tori knew, for the first time in years, that someone had heard her, really heard her.
The stone-blue days of winter
February
Dallas, Texas
PARKER LACEY SAT perfectly straight on the side of her hospital bed. Her short, sunny blond hair combed, her makeup in place and her logical mind in control of all emotions, as always.
She’d ignored the pain in her knee, the throbbing in her leg, for months. She ignored it now.
She’d been poked and examined all day, and now all that remained before the curtain fell on her life was for some doctor she barely knew to tell her just how long she had left to live. A month. Six months. If she was lucky, a year?
Her mother had died when Parker was ten. Breast cancer at thirty-one. Her father died eight years later. Lung cancer at thirty-nine. Neither parent had made it to their fortieth birthday.
Longevity simply didn’t run in Parker’s family. She’d known it and worried about dying all her adult life, and at thirty-seven, she realized her number would come up soon. Only she’d been smarter than all her ancestors. She would leave no offspring. There would be no next generation of Laceys. She was the last in her family.
There were also no lovers, or close friends, she thought. Her funeral would be small.
The beep of her cell phone interrupted her morbid thoughts.
“Hello, Parker speaking,” she said.
“I’m in!” came a soft voice. “I followed the map. It was just a few miles from where the bus stopped. The house is perfect, and your housekeeper delivered more groceries than I’ll be able to eat in a year. And, Parker, you were right. This isolated place will be heaven.”
Parker forgot her problems. She could worry about dying later. Right now, she had to help one of her artists. “Tori, are you sure you weren’t followed?”
“Yes. I did it just the way you suggested. Kept my head down. Dressed like a boy. Switched buses twice. One bus driver even told me to ‘Hurry along, kid.’”
“Good. No one will probably connect me with you and no one knows I own a place in Crossroads. Stay there. You’ll be safe. You’ll have time to relax and think.”
“They’ll question you when they realize