Faces of Fear

“And I’m really sorry if it got awkward,” Conrad said. “Believe me, that was the last thing I wanted.”

“And apparently it turned out all right,” Risa pressed when Alison still said nothing. She waited a moment, then spoke again, her voice sharper. “Didn’t it, Alison?”

“I guess,” Alison finally whispered, knowing her mother wasn’t going to let up until she backed down.

“I really am sorry if you were uncomfortable,” Conrad said. “But my intentions were good, and I can guarantee there won’t be any more surprises. From now on I’ll check with your mother before I do anything. Okay?”

Alison hesitated, then nodded and picked up her fork. Before she could take a bite, though, she was sure she knew where the blouses and pants in her closet had come from. She put the fork down again and looked at Conrad. “What about the clothes?” she said.

“Clothes?” she heard her mother repeat, and Alison knew without a doubt she’d been right.

“Caught again,” Conrad groaned. “I had Maria put some stuff in your closet—”

“Stuff?” Risa asked. “What kind of stuff?”

“Just some clothes of Margot’s. Maria found them in the basement, and Alison’s about the same size as Margot, and I thought…” His voice trailed off and he offered Risa a helpless shrug. “Obviously I was wrong. Again.”

“What kind of clothes are they?” Risa pressed, turning back to Alison.

“Designer stuff — Roberto Cavalli.”

“Roberto Cavalli?” Risa repeated, her eyes widening. She turned to Conrad. “Good God, Conrad — Cavalli costs a fortune!”

He spread his hands. “How do I know what they cost? Margot used to just buy what she wanted, and I thought maybe Alison might like to have them, that’s all.”

“And wear them where?” Alison asked, rolling her eyes.

“Well,” Conrad said, even though it was clear Alison wasn’t expecting an answer, “I can think of one place right off the bat.” When neither his wife nor his stepdaughter said anything, but looked expectantly at him, he went on. “Alison’s sixteenth birthday is coming up, right? I thought we should throw you a party.” He smiled at her. “You can invite all your new friends.”

Before Alison could utter the single curt word that came to mind, her mother spoke.

“That’s a wonderful idea — a Sweet Sixteen party!”

“I thought we’d have it here at the house,” Conrad said, “maybe out in the garden. We’ll get a band, and have it catered — you two can put your heads together about the menu.”

Alison’s eyes swept the formal dining room and she tried to imagine having a party there.

Tried, and failed. This was definitely not the kind of place Cindy and the rest of her friends hung out. “I don’t think so,” she finally said. “Maybe next year.”

“But you won’t be sixteen next year,” her mother protested. “This is a rite of passage.”

Suddenly Alison’s appetite fled and an image of her father’s house popped into her mind. If she were there right now, Scott would be cooking in the kitchen while she and her father sat at the counter, all of them teasing each other. And if she were going to have a party, that’s where it should be — in her father and Scott’s nice, small, casual house, where her friends could hang out, and they could all be who they were and dress the way they wanted to. In fact, maybe she’d ask him. At least if it was there, and all her old friends from Santa Monica were there, it would be a good party. But if it was here—

“I’m sorry,” Conrad said, reading the expression on her face. “Forget it. It was just an idea.”

“And it’s a great idea,” Risa declared. “Come on, Alison,” she went on, her eyes fixing on her daughter, reading what was going on in Alison’s mind as easily as Conrad had. “What’s the problem? You can invite anyone you want, and it will be warm enough to use the pool. We can have a barbecue, and keep it low-key.”

Alison hesitated, remembering everything her father had told her about giving her new life a chance. But why did everything have to change at once? Still, there was no reason she couldn’t have the same party here that she could have at her father’s. “Can I invite all my friends from Santa Monica?”

“You can invite whoever you like,” Conrad said. “It’s your party.”

“Anyone? All my old friends?”

“Anyone,” Conrad agreed. “You can invite as many people as you want.”

Still Alison hesitated, but finally nodded. “All right then, maybe. It might be fun.”

“Excellent!” Conrad said.

“But you won’t call anybody’s parents and have them tell their kids to come?” Alison asked.

“Alison!” Risa gasped, but Conrad only laughed and raised three fingers over his heart.

“Scout’s honor,” he promised.

“And I don’t have to try to wear any of those clothes you put in my closet?”

“Well, you could at least try them on,” Conrad said. “Then, if you still don’t want to, go to Neiman-Marcus. If you can’t find something for a party there, you’re not a teenage girl at all.”

Risa reached over and squeezed Conrad’s hand, and Alison watched as they smiled at each other. Then she went back to her salad, moving it around on her plate until Maria finally took it away.

• • •

The fingers deftly manipulated the mouse, and the screen saver on the computer monitor dissolved to reveal a series of images that the eyes devoured almost in the instant it took for the information to appear on the screen.

In the upper left-hand corner of the monitor was an image the eyes had studied for so long that every feature was imprinted on the retina with such clarity that the eyelids were no longer even required to be open for the mind to conjure up those perfect forms. But now the lids were open, and the eyes were fastened on a single feature of that perfect face.

The lips.

Those lips were blown up in a second window, and as the eyes watched in fascination, a stream of photographs of other lips — anonymous lips — flew through yet a third window on the screen as the program the mind had devised compared and then rejected thousands — millions — of them.

And in the bottom right-hand corner a high school yearbook photograph waited.

For a moment the fingers of the right hand drummed impatiently on the desktop.

The eyes flashed to the clock on the wall.

Seconds ticked by.

And finally a fourth window flashed open:

6 MATCHES FOUND

The fingers moved to the mouse and clicked rapidly through all six photographs.

Each was dismissed.

Wrong! They were all wrong!

The fingers closed hard on the mouse, almost breaking the button as the search was aborted.

So much time wasted!

Then the mind overcame the raging emotions, and the body calmed, the fingers relaxed. Moving rapidly now, the hand manipulated the mouse, the fingers tapped quickly, and the image in the upper left corner expanded to fill the screen, then kept expanding until the lips alone dominated the monitor.

Perfect.

The upper lip curving in perfect symmetry, a cupid’s bow poised above the soft, gentle swell of the lower.

The right arm lifted and the tip of the right forefinger touched the cold screen of the monitor,