The Search

there. A break would be good, I think. And a break with two of my favorite women, the best. Plus I’m feeling conflicted about Simon since he kissed me.”

“What?” Sylvia’s eyes popped open as she sat up. “You tried to sneak that by me. When did he kiss you?”

“The other day, after you and the others left. It was just an impulse of the moment, and the circumstances. And yes, before you ask, it was very, very good.”

“I suspected it would be. What happened next?”

“He went home.”

“Why?”

“Probably because I told him to.”

“Oh, Fee, I worry about you. I do.” Shaking her head, Sylvia rose, reached for her bottle of water.

“I wasn’t ready for the kiss, much less any follow-through.”

Sylvia sighed. “See? No wonder I worry about you. Not being ready is part of the thrill. Or should be. The unexpected and the passionate.”

“I don’t think unexpected works for me. At least not right now. Who knows, maybe it will after a spa break.”

“Clear your schedule and we’re gone. I can work mine around yours and Mai’s.”

“You’re the best.” Fiona gave her a quick hug. “I’m going to see what classes I can juggle. I’ll e-mail you and Mai.”

“Wait. I’m going to get you some of this tea. It’s all natural, and it should help relax you, help you sleep. I want you to take a long bath, drink some tea, put on some quiet music. And give those meditation exercises I showed you a chance,” she added as she got the tin out of a cupboard in the adjoining kitchen.

“Okay. Promise. I’m already relaxed just thinking about the spa.” She moved in for another hug. “I love you.”

“I love you back.”

She should have thought of it before, Fiona realized. An indulgent break with good friends was the perfect prescription for restlessness and stress. Then again she rarely felt the need for a break as she considered her life on the island the best of all possible worlds.

She had independence, reasonable financial security, a home and work she loved, the companionship of her dogs. What else was there?

She remembered the hot, unexpected kiss in her kitchen and Simon’s rough, proprietary hands on her.

There was that, she admitted. At least now and again there was that. She was, after all, a healthy woman with normal needs and appetites.

And she could admit she’d considered the possibility of a round or two with Simon—before he’d shut that down in no uncertain terms. Before he’d opened it up again. Blew the lid off it again, she corrected.

Which only served to prove any sort of relationship with him promised to be complicated and frustrating and uncertain.

“Probably best to leave it alone,” she said to the dogs. “Really, why ask for trouble? We’re good, right? We’re good just as we are. You and me, boys,” she added and had tails thumping.

Her headlights slashed through the dark as she turned onto her drive—and reminded her she’d forgotten to leave the porch light on again. In a few weeks, the sun would stay longer and the air would warm. Long evening walks and playtime in the yard, porch sitting.

The approach had the dogs shifting and tails swishing in excitement. The trauma of the exam room was forgotten in the simple pleasure of coming home.

She parked, got out to open the back. “Make your rounds, boys.” She hurried inside to hit the lights before making her own. She checked water bowls and the feeder, got a smile from her new planters.

While the dogs circled outside, stretched their legs, emptied their bladders, she opened the freezer and grabbed the first frozen dinner that came to hand.

While it buzzed up she started checking her phone messages. She’d set up her laptop, she decided, go over the schedule while she ate, find the best hole, check out the website Sylvia had recommended.

“Get the party started,” she murmured.

She took notes on her pad, saving or deleting messages as necessary.

“Ms. Bristow, this is Kati Starr. I’m a reporter with U.S. Report. I’m writing a story on the recent abduction murders of two women in California that seem to parallel those committed by George Allen Perry. As you were the only known victim to escape Perry, I’d like to speak with you. You can reach me at work, on my cell or via e-mail. My contacts are—”

Fiona hit delete. “No way in hell.”

No reporters, no interviews, no TV cameras or mikes pushed at her. Not again.

Even as she took a breath the next message came on.

“Ms. Bristow, this is Kati Starr with U.S. Report following up on my earlier call. I’m approaching deadline, and it’s very important that I speak with you as soon as—”

Fiona hit delete again.

“Screw you and your deadline,” she murmured.

She let the dogs in, comforted by their presence. Dinner, such as it was, didn’t hold much appeal, but she ordered herself to sit down, to eat, to do exactly what she’d planned to do with her evening before the reporter flooded her mind with memories and worries.

She booted up her laptop, poked at chicken potpie. To boost her mood, she checked the resort’s website first—and in moments was cruising on anticipatory bliss.

Hot stone massages, paraffin wraps, champagne and caviar facials. She wanted them all. She wanted them now.

She took the virtual tour, purring over the indoor pool, the posttreatment meditation rooms, the shops, the gardens, the lovely appointments in the guest rooms. That included, she thought, a two-story, three-bedroom “villa.”

She closed one eye, glanced at the cost. Winced.

But split three ways... it would still sting like hellfire.

But it had its own hot tub, and, oh God, fireplaces in the bathrooms.

In. The. Bathrooms.

And the views of the waterfall, the hills, the gardens...

Impossible, she reminded herself. Maybe when she won the lottery.

“It’s a nice dream,” she told the dogs. “So, now we know where. Let’s figure out when.”

She brought up her class schedule, calculated, tried some juggling, re calculated, shifted.

Once she’d settled on the two best possibilities, she e-mailed Sylvia and Mai.

“We’ll make it work,” she decided, and shifted over to check her incoming e-mail.

She found one from the reporter.

Ms. Bristow:

I haven’t been able to reach you by phone. I found this contact on the website for your canine training service. As I explained, I’m writing a story on the California abduction-murders which echo the Perry homicides. As you were a key witness for the prosecution in the Perry trial that resulted in his conviction, your comments would be very valuable.

I can’t write a salient or accurate story on the Perry angle without including your experiences, and the details of the murder of Gregory Norwood, which resulted in Perry’s capture. I would prefer to speak with you directly before the story goes to press.

Fiona deleted the e-mail, including the list of contacts.

Then simply laid her head down on the table.

She was entitled to say no. Entitled to turn her back on that horrible time. She was entitled to refuse to be fodder for yet another story on death and loss.

Reliving all that wouldn’t, couldn’t bring Greg back. It wouldn’t help those two women or their grieving families.