Faces of Fear

tomorrow. “We’re good. I’ll leave a note for the morning crew to sweep up.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Caroline locked the door behind Ricky, then swept her gaze around the small coffee shop she’d managed for the last year. It looked good. If Corporate sent a shopper in for a cup of coffee in the morning, he — or she — would have nothing to complain about, especially with her numbers not only far better than those from a year ago, but going steadily up every single week. She might be only a single store manager now, but within two more years she intended to be running at least the whole district, if not the region itself.

For now, though, the long day was over. She turned out all the main lights, leaving only the two small fluorescents glowing behind the counter, and went into the tiny room that barely met the legal standards for an “employees’ lounge” to begin the process of getting the smell of coffee off herself and freshening up for her date. Terry — if that was even his real name — was probably already at Weasel’s, waiting for her. According to the clock on the wall, they were to meet in five minutes. She’d be late, which wasn’t good, and not like her at all. Besides, the later it got, the more crowded Weasel’s would be, which would just make it that much harder to find him. When they were chatting online last night, he said he’d be wearing a white button-down pinstripe shirt and jeans. Blond, blue-eyed, six feet tall, waiting for her at the bar.

She hoped he looked at least something like the photo he’d put up with his profile.

She taped a note to Sheila’s locker asking her to sweep up before opening tomorrow morning, then took a pink cotton sweater and jeans out of her locker, along with her makeup kit, and headed for the unisex restroom. She’d have to hurry: being a few minutes late would be all right, but if she was too late, Terry just might stop waiting and start looking around at whoever else was cruising the bar.

Caroline peeled off her white top and black slacks, and then, wearing only bra and panties, dampened a paper towel to wipe away the smudges under her eyes before freshening up her makeup. At the last minute she added a little dark eye shadow for some extra evening drama.

She was just pulling her favorite pink sweater over her head when she thought she heard one of the bathroom stalls open.

Who could still be here? Keisha? Impossible — her shift had ended an hour ago. Or had she been in the bathroom all this time?

Could Keisha be sick?

Caroline struggled with the sweater for a moment, trying to figure out what she could do if Keisha really was ill. If the girl couldn’t drive, then she would have to take her home, and that meant—

Before she could finish the thought, a rubber-gloved hand grabbed her hard around the mouth and jerked her head back. She barely saw the glittering flash of the blade before it sliced across her throat and she began to choke.

It took a moment — a half second or two that seemed an eternity — before she realized she was breathing in blood instead of air.

Her own blood.

But there was no pain — no pain at all! How was that possible? How could she be sinking down to the floor, feeling her own blood gushing from her throat, choking on the very fluid that gave her life, and not feel anything?

The light in the restroom began to throb in strange synchronization with her own heartbeat, and a terrible melancholy settled over Caroline as her life drained away onto the bathroom floor. Mutely — numbly — she watched as her assailant sliced through her sweater and her skin and laid open her abdomen.

And still she felt nothing.

She watched as a detached observer as her intestines were torn out and flung aside, as greedy hands reached deep inside her as if searching for some specific thing.

The blade glimmered once more in the now fast fading light of the restroom, and the awful spurting of Caroline Fisher’s blood slowed to nothing more than a dribble.

Her last thought was of Terry. Blond, blue-eyed Terry, waiting at the bar.

Waiting for her.

Waiting for eternity…

3

RISA SHAW REACHED OVER AND SPOONED TWO DOLLOPS OF YOGURT from the container in front of Alison into her own bowl, added some cereal, and topped her breakfast off with a large handful of blueberries, earning herself a quizzical look from her daughter.

“Mom! You don’t even like blueberries.”

But even with Alison’s words ringing in her ears, Risa could barely focus on the food in front of her. Rather, her entire consciousness had been filled with only two things since she’d awakened this morning: the fact that Michael had not only not come home for dinner last night, but still hadn’t been home when she finally fell asleep sometime after midnight; and Lexie Montrose’s words from the banquet the night before.

I could be Mrs. Happily Unmarried in a heartbeat if Conrad Dunn came on the market!

Had some ambitious young talent thought the same about Michael Shaw? The thought had begun to haunt her as soon as she got home and found not only that Michael’s side of the garage was empty, but that he hadn’t even called to say he’d be late until Alison already had dinner on the table and waiting for him. Indeed, it had still been on the table when she herself had come home, and instead of being worried that he’d been hurt in an accident or something, as she would have in the first years of their marriage, she found herself instead recalling Lexie’s sleazy comment.

Was it possible that Michael had spent the evening with another woman?

Of course it was possible — in this day and age, in fact, it was even probable.

Still, the thought was both infuriating and terrifying.

“Well, maybe I’ll just have to learn to like blueberries,” Risa said, gazing at her bowl morosely. “Maybe I’ll have to learn to like a lot of things I hate.” She poured a glass of juice for Alison and another for herself, pushing Alison’s across the breakfast bar.

“Aren’t you going to pour one for Dad?” Alison asked as Risa set the pitcher down, leaving the third glass conspicuously empty.

“If he wants it, he can pour it himself,” Risa said, and regretted her sharp tone when she saw Alison recoil. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” she went on, too quickly. “I guess I’m just a little cranky this morning. Plus I have an early appointment. I have to be at the marina in half an hour.” She gulped down her orange juice, decided to ignore the blueberries, then wondered if that could be symbolic of something, and blew on her coffee in hopes of cooling it fast enough to drink at least half a cup before she had to leave. “Are you coming home right after school today?” “Track practice,” Alison said. “I’ll be home by six. Why?”

“Just trying to keep up with you,” Risa said, forcing a smile.

“Keep up with me?” Alison shot back. “Give me a break, Mom — I’m the one who has to keep up with you.” The smile her daughter’s words brought to her lips faded when she heard her husband’s footsteps on the stairs, and she tried to renew it. The last thing she needed this morning was a confrontation with Michael, especially in front of Alison. Yet even as she told herself to let it go at least until she and Michael were alone, she felt the bitter anger rising in the back of her throat. Then Michael came around the corner — fresh from the shower, wearing an open-collared shirt and sport coat over chinos, and looking far younger than his forty-two years — and she knew she wasn’t going to be able to hold her temper in check.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He reached for the orange juice.

“Morning, Dad—” Alison began, but abruptly cut herself short when her mother reached out and clutched her father’s wrist, keeping him from the pitcher.