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  It was some sort of perfume or cologne.

  Such an unusual bottle, Reva thought, admiring the smooth red glass, examining it curiously.

  It’s so heavy, it must be very expensive, she figured.

  She carefully removed the glass stopper and started to raise it to her nose.

  She stopped when she saw the drops of dark red liquid clinging to the bottom of the stopper.

  Suddenly suspicious, Reva put the stopper down, then tilted the bottle onto her outstretched finger.

  It’s not cologne—it’s blood!

  Reva uttered a low cry.

  The bottle slipped from her hand, hit the hard countertop, and shattered.

  Two customers, women leaning on the other side of the counter, also cried out in alarm as blood from the bottle splashed over the front of Reva’s white cashmere sweater.

  Chapter 12

  IS HANK GUILTY?

  When Reva was five and attending a private kindergarten in a luxury building in the hills overlooking the Conononka River, she had a run-in with another little girl that she never forgot.

  The other little girl, Reva remembered, was a troublesome, willful blond girl named Sara. One day Reva and Sara were painting on easels, using large sheets of white paper and wide brushes that they dipped into open cans of paint.

  An argument developed between Reva and Sara, a territorial dispute of some kind. Reva couldn’t remember which of them started it.

  But it ended with Sara hoisting up the big can filled with red paint and pouring it over Reva’s head.

  The thick red paint ran down Reva’s face, oozed down her sweater and white jeans. And somehow in her mind the paint, as it oozed and soaked into her clothing, became blood.

  She was only five, after all, and had never been the victim of any kind of violent attack.

  And standing helplessly, in a kind of shock, seeing—and feeling—the paint roll down her body, cover her skin and her clothes, Reva began to scream.

  And scream.

  And according to what her mother later told her, it took hours to get her to stop. Long after her clothes had been changed and the paint had been scrubbed away, Reva still begged her mother to “wash away the blood.”

  Twelve years later, standing behind the perfume counter as the blood splashed up onto her sweater, the violent scene in the kindergarten flashed vividly into Reva’s mind.

  But this time, after uttering a silent cry of surprise, of disgust, she didn’t scream.

  Other people were screaming.

  Reva clamped her teeth shut as if trapping in all emotions, shutting away all feeling. She held her arms straight out, away from her sides, not wanting to touch her sweater, not wanting to touch the blood.

  No, she thought.

  No screams this time.

  She clenched her teeth so hard it hurt and silently stared down at the oozing red mess.

  No screams.

  I don’t feel it, she told herself, concentrating with all her strength.

  I don’t feel anything.

  “I’m okay,” she assured the horrified customers clustered at the counter. “Please—I’m okay.”

  She was still trying to reassure them, to quiet them, wondering how to get the mess cleaned up, wondering what to do about her ruined sweater, when she saw the small envelope, half covered in blood on the floor at her feet.

  She bent over quickly and picked it up, surprised to realize that she was out of breath, gasping for air, her heart pounding in her chest.

  It was a gift card. It must have fallen out of the package.

  Reva ripped open the envelope with trembling, bloody fingers. A small white card tucked inside had a message printed on it in red ink: HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM A FRIEND.

  Some friend, Reva thought bitterly.

  The same friend who hid the needle in my lipstick.

  Some friend with a very sick sense of humor.

  Hank.

  Yeah. Probably Hank.

  This is the kind of dumb juvenile thing that would really appeal to him.

  His stupid way of paying me back.

  What a dork! Reva thought, feeling the anger rise up from the pit of her stomach. What a total creep. Does he really think I’ll be terrified because he pulls a couple of dumb jokes like this?

  Does he think I’ll go screaming hysterically out of the store and never return?

  Does he think I’ll be frightened out of my wits or something?

  This just proves I was right about him, Reva decided. This just proves that he doesn’t know me very well.

  In fact, he doesn’t know me at all.

  Because I’m not going to scream and cry. No way.

  What I’m going to do is go right upstairs and get him fired.

  You’re out of here, Hank, Reva thought, allowing a smile to cross her face. No more idiotically cruel jokes. You’re out of here.

  Ignoring the cries and worried conversations of the alarmed customers, Reva hurried from the booth, jogging quickly down the aisle, past staring, startled onlookers, to the employees’ elevator.

  She rode up to the sixth floor and stepped out into the reception area. “Hey, Reva—” the receptionist behind the wide oak desk called to her. But Reva was already halfway down the hall to her father’s office in the corner.

  She came to an abrupt halt in front of the tall bank of security monitors, surprised to see several blue-uniformed workers there. Somewhat to her relief, Hank wasn’t at his post. The tall stool in front of the monitors was empty.

  He’s probably goofing off somewhere, Reva thought. Or maybe cooking up another joke to ruin more of my clothes.

  But then she saw him, on his back on the floor behind the bank of monitors, attentively attaching several cable wires. The other workers were fitting what appeared to be VCRs into new shelves beside the monitors.

  Hank looked up as she started to pass. “Reva?”

  She glared angrily at him, her blue eyes clear and cold as ice, her teeth clenched. She wanted to accuse him. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to let him know why she was on her way into her father’s office.

  She wanted to hit him and tear at his blond, spiky hair and make him hurt, make him hurt bad, for embarrassing her, for frightening her—for tricking her.

  But she didn’t want to make a scene in front of all of these workers.

  Instead, she leaned over Hank, who was still on his back hooking up cables, and in a low voice said, “I know it was you.”

  He sat up with a start, his dark eyes wide with surprise. “Huh?”

  “Don’t act dumb,” she said, forcing herself to keep her voice low and calm.

  “What happened to you? You’re a mess,” he said innocently, his eyes narrowing with concern. “Are you okay?”

  “You never were a very good actor,” Reva insisted. “I know it was you, Hank. And it’s going to cost you.”

  “Listen, Reva—I’m kind of busy here,” Hank said impatiently, ignoring her threat, gesturing to the swarm of workers in the area. “We’re installing a VCR for each monitor. We’ll have everything the security cameras pick up on tape every day.”

  “Thrills and chills,” Reva said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. The blood had soaked through her sweater to her skin. It felt wet and sticky and uncomfortable.

  She studied his face, trying to decide if he was putting on the innocent act or if he really didn’t know what she was talking about. Staring at him, she began to feel less certain.

  “You’re saying you didn’t leave a package for me at my perfume counter?” Reva asked.

  He shook his head. “I’ve been here since morning. Haven’t even had lunch yet. Ask these guys.” He gestured to the workers, who were fitting the last of the VCRs onto the shelves.

  “You’re lying!” she shouted.

  Several of the workers turned to gape at her, startled by her bloody appearance and loud outburst.

  “You’re lying,” she repeated, this time in a whisper.

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nbsp; “I heard you the first time,” Hank said dryly.

  “Look at my sweater!” she cried, feeling her anger rise again, feeling herself slipping out of control despite all of her attempts to hold herself together.

  “Is that blood?” he asked, sliding out from under the console. “Or is it paint?”

  “You know what it is!” she cried and, unwilling to let him see her out of control, fled. Past the other executive offices. Past the wide balcony that looked over the five floors below. Without stopping to see how bad the stain was, without stopping to try to wash it off, she ran to the end of the hall and her father’s office.

  You’re out of here, Hank.

  I don’t care if you play dumb or not.

  You’re out of here. One word to my dad, and you’re out of here.

  And happy holidays to you too.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall outside her father’s office and gasped, seeing all of the blood-smeared sweater for the first time.

  How could he do this to me? she wondered.

  Mr. Dalby’s office door was closed. Reva raised her hand to knock just as Josie, her father’s secretary, came out. “Is my dad in there?” Reva asked breathlessly.

  “Yes, but he’s in a very important meeting,” Josie told her. “I’m not allowed to interrupt him for anything.”

  “Oh.” Reva sighed. She could feel her energy begin to drain. Her conversation with her father would have to wait. She knew better than to interrupt him while he was in an important meeting. “Guess I’ll go home and change,” she said.

  Josie stared back at her, her eyes on the huge, dark stain. “You might be able to bleach that out. Is it paint?”

  “No, it’s blood, and it’s ruined,” Reva muttered.

  She headed back to the elevator, walking slowly, dispiritedly now. She had just passed the balcony when a terrifying sound—a deafening pop-pop-pop—shattered the air.

  “Oh!” Reva cried out and froze in fear.

  She knew that sound from TV.

  The sound of machine guns.

  Chapter 13

  SQUEALING TIRES

  Reva heard screams from the floors below.

  Fearing more gunfire, she dropped to her knees beside the low balcony wall.

  Everything seemed to stop. All sound. All movement. Even her breathing seemed to stop as she waited, too terrified to look over the balcony railing.

  She was still on her knees, still holding her breath, when the door to her father’s office burst open. Mr. Dalby bounded through the door in his shirtsleeves, his face red, his eyes wide with fear.

  “What was that noise?” he called out. “Was that gunfire?”

  Reva climbed quickly to her feet. “Daddy—”

  She didn’t get another word out. Mr. Dalby had fixed his eyes on Reva’s blood-splattered sweater. He gaped in horror. “Reva—you’re shot!” he managed to cry. Then his eyes rolled up in his head, and he uttered a low moan and slumped to the floor.

  “Daddy—!” Reva repeated, overcoming her fear and rushing toward him.

  Josie got to him first, dropped to her knees, lifted his wrist to find a pulse. “Help—somebody!” she cried. “Get help!”

  Reva dropped down on the other side of her father, her heart pounding. She felt helpless and frantic.

  Silenced footsteps hurried across the carpet. People were running out of offices, making hushed phone calls, huddling over her father.

  “Daddy?” Reva grabbed his hand. “Is he okay? Is he breathing?” she asked Josie.

  Mr. Dalby stirred. He opened his eyes and fixed them on Reva, his expression dazed, confused.

  “Daddy—?” She squeezed his hand.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “Were you—shot?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Reva said, squeezing his hand. “I’m okay. Really. I’m okay.”

  Mr. Dalby sat up and rubbed the back of his head. “Ouch. Did I faint or something?”

  Josie nodded her head.

  “It was the blood,” Reva’s father said. “First I heard the gunfire. Then I saw Reva—”

  “I—uh—I spilled something,” Reva explained, deciding not to tell the truth, deciding that her father had had enough of an upset for one day.

  He stood up shakily, holding on to Reva’s shoulder for support. His face, which had gone as white as cake flour when he fainted, began to get its color back. He ran a hand back through his graying hair.

  Suddenly a blue-uniformed store worker pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers. “Mr. Dalby, that sound you heard—”

  “Yes?” Mr. Dalby, his strength seemingly restored, released Reva’s shoulder and stepped eagerly toward the man.

  “It was the Christmas tree lights,” the man reported nervously.

  “What?”

  “A power surge, sir. A string of lights shorted out,” the worker explained. “I guess it started a chain reaction. The lights started to pop, dozens of them all at once. Then the whole thing just shorted out.”

  Mr. Dalby, obviously somewhat relieved, took a deep breath, then blew the air silently out through his mouth. “These electrical problems are driving me nuts,” he said, shaking his head. “Is this power surge connected to the other problems we’ve been having?”

  “Probably, sir,” the worker replied, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “We’re not sure.”

  “Any idea what caused the power surge?”

  “We’re checking,” came the reply.

  “Let’s all get back to work,” Mr. Dalby told the crowd of onlookers. “I’m okay. Everything seems to be okay.” He told the worker to get the tree lights back on as soon as possible, then started back to his office, rubbing the back of his head.

  Reva followed him to the door. “You sure you’re okay?” she asked.

  “You gave me a real scare,” he said, suddenly looking very old. “What on earth did you spill on your sweater?”

  She was tempted to tell him but held herself back. “I’ll tell you later,” she said.

  “You came up to see me?” he asked, glancing at his watch.

  “I—I just wanted to tell you I was going home to change,” Reva replied.

  “Why don’t you just pick out a new sweater here in the store?” he suggested.

  She laughed. “Shop in this tacky store?” she asked with exaggerated horror. “Please, Daddy! Give me credit for better taste than that!”

  He chuckled, kissed her on the forehead, and headed back into his office to resume his meeting.

  Always leave ’em laughing, Reva told herself as she waved goodbye to Josie, who was back on the phone, and headed past the low balcony, past the bank of security monitors without even looking to see if Hank was still there, to the employees’ elevator. She was eager to get her coat and go on home.

  The afternoon sun was high in a cloudless sky. The air was brisk but not uncomfortably cold. Reva started up the Volvo, then sat listening to the steady hum of the engine for a short while before pulling out of the employee parking lot.

  “What a day,” she said out loud.

  She snapped on the radio, listened to a few seconds of a loud commercial, then snapped it off again.

  The silence felt good. She turned the corner, shielding her eyes from the sudden burst of sunlight that spread over the windshield.

  She thought about Mitch. About kissing Mitch. About kissing him hard and long.

  She pictured Lissa bursting in again, catching them. The expression on poor Lissa’s face.

  Everything was worth it just for that one look of horror, that one look of . . . defeat.

  Too bad Mitch was such a wimp.

  But, Reva thought, I can amuse myself with him for the time being.

  Her thoughts had turned to Hank and to the cologne bottle filled with blood when she noticed the car behind her. It was a white Taurus.

  Had it been right behind her the whole way home? Staring at it in the rearview mirror, Reva felt a sudden stab of fear.
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br />   She made a quick right turn onto a narrow street she’d never been on before. Small, close-together clapboard houses lined both sides of it.

  That white Taurus, she thought. It didn’t turn too—did it?

  One glance in the mirror told her that it had.

  I’m being followed, she realized. This isn’t possible. This doesn’t happen in real life, does it? This only happens on TV shows.

  Her heart pounding, she sped up, then made a quick left turn without signaling.

  Reluctantly she checked the mirror, hoping that the car wouldn’t be there. But it was still there and close behind.

  “Go away. Please! Go away!”

  Reva roared through a stop sign, studying the mirror, trying to see the driver. But the bright sunlight formed a curtain over the Taurus’s windshield.

  She made a right and found herself back on a crowded main road. The Taurus, she saw, was staying close behind.

  This isn’t happening. It isn’t.

  Who can it be?

  She caught a glimpse of a man’s face, a dark mustache, a cap pulled down over his eyes.

  What does he want?

  She immediately thought of kidnapping. Sometimes, she knew, the children of very wealthy people were kidnapped and held for huge ransoms.

  He’ll drag me to some abandoned house and tie me up. And if my dad won’t pay, he’ll kill me and leave me there.

  No!

  She floored the gas pedal.

  And made a decision.

  She’d be safer at home. She’d pull right up the drive, into the garage, and run into the house through the garage entrance.

  That was her best chance.

  Struggling to calm her breathing, struggling to hold back her terrified thoughts, Reva made another sharp turn and headed for home.

  The white Taurus squealed around the corner and followed, only a car length behind.

  “What do you want? What do you want?” Reva screamed over the roar of the car engine. She swerved around a school bus. A horn honked loudly. The Taurus kept the pace.

  Did this guy send the bottle of blood? The thought flashed into her mind, sending fresh fear down her spine.

  Is it possible that it wasn’t Hank? That whoever’s following me sent the blood and put the needle in my lipstick?