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  Horror movies! The answer popped into Marissa’s mind so quickly she almost shouted it. Susan hated horror movies. She wouldn’t allow Gretchen to see horror movies at the theater or on television, certain they’d give her nightmares. Gretchen had pretended to obey her mother’s ban on horror movies and watched the movies on videos at Marissa’s house. But what horror movie with numbers had Gretchen particularly liked? What had they watched over and over…

  The Omen. 666.

  Marissa’s hands trembled as she turned the padlock, going to 6 one time, two times, three times until the padlock popped open. Marissa lifted the lid and looked at the single sealed manila envelope inside labeled in Gretchen’s hand: Gretchen Alice Montgomery—The End.

  Chapter 16

  1

  Marissa stuffed the envelope into her tote bag, shut the padlock on the metal storage box and shoved it back in the cabinet, and then dashed into the upstairs bathroom. When she glanced in the mirror, a combination of tears, nerves, and triumph almost made her laugh. Black mascara streaks ran down her face, her bright lip gloss had smeared around her mouth, and her nose was pink. Now it matches Gretchen’s room, she thought, and almost burst into flustered giggles.

  She splashed her face with warm water, guiltily wiped away the remains of mascara with one of Susan’s snowy white washcloths, brightened her face with lip gloss she applied with jerky fingers, and combed her hair back from her face. She decided the result was rather pathetic, but Susan Montgomery wasn’t expecting a beauty queen. Just as Marissa dropped her comb back in her tote bag and zipped it so Susan would be certain not to see the manila envelope, the woman called from downstairs.

  “Are you all right, Marissa?”

  Marissa jerked open the bathroom door and nearly ran down the stairs. “I’m sorry I took so long. I just got lost in my memories.”

  Susan smiled. “Sometimes I sit in her bedroom and I do the same thing. My husband wants to remodel the room, but I won’t allow it.” She paused. “I hope your gingerbread and coffee haven’t gotten cold, but if they have, we’ll stick them in the microwave.”

  Ten minutes later Marissa and Susan sat at the kitchen table, eating gingerbread and talking comfortably as if the last four and a half years hadn’t existed. As Marissa picked up the last bite of her second piece of gingerbread and sauce, Susan reached out and took her hand. She looked intensely at the moonstone ring.

  “You still have it!” she exclaimed.

  “I wear it every day.” Marissa said, recalling that part of her mission at the Montgomery home was to look at photographs taken shortly before Gretchen died. In spite of her newfound ease with Susan, though, Marissa couldn’t think of a graceful way of asking to see pictures of that time. Her link with Susan was too new, too tenuous.

  “I had two made in Mexico and gave one to Gretchen when she finally passed her driver’s test,” Marissa said quickly. Susan nodded, indicating she clearly remembered, but Marissa needed more information. She smiled and tried to sound light, offhand. “I know she wore hers for years. I can’t remember if she still wore it after her concert years started.”

  Susan looked at her in surprise. “You can’t? Why, Marissa, I saw her cleaning it just a couple of days before…she died. It meant so much to her, she wore it even when she was performing. She told me she’d wear it all of her life.”

  2

  After Marissa finished her interview with Susan, she went home instead of back to the Gazette. She would write the story the next day and Pete planned to run it in the Sunday edition. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was five thirty. Jean had asked them to visit Mitch at six thirty, which meant Eric would be picking up Catherine and her around six ten. Just like his mother, Eric was a stickler for punctuality.

  Marissa had no time to change clothes, but she ran upstairs to the bathroom to fix her face, Catherine and Lindsay pounding right behind her. “How did things go?” Catherine asked. “Was she mean? You’ve been crying.”

  “Yes,” Marissa answered to the last question. “I went on a real bender with the tears. I’m probably dehydrated.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “No. It wasn’t because she was cold to me, though. She really couldn’t have been nicer after the first few awkward minutes.” Marissa looked at Catherine in her forest green wool slacks, matching sweater, and a beautiful cameo hanging from a single gold chain. “I see you’re ready to visit Mitch and Jean.”

  “Yes. Looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time. Eric should be here soon.”

  “Which is why I’m trying to repair the ravages of my visit to Susan’s. Will you hand me my eye shadow?”

  “Which one? You must have twenty shades in this makeup box.”

  “Not twenty. I want ‘Vanilla Shake.’ I don’t want to look like I’m going to a party.”

  Catherine began diligently looking at every eye shadow container and Marissa had an overwhelming urge to tell Catherine about her search of Gretchen’s room. She knew Catherine wouldn’t approve, though. Marissa immediately grabbed the right container. “I don’t know how you find anything in this mess….” Catherine began organizing the eye shadows.

  Marissa swallowed her irritation. “I can do this faster with a little privacy. Do you mind?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m sorry. I was just worried. You don’t have time to take a shower, though,” Catherine called, stepping out of the bathroom just as Lindsay slipped in holding a stuffed lion. Lindsay always oversaw Marissa’s makeup and hair sessions, as if she didn’t trust Marissa to do things right.

  The doorbell rang just as Marissa emerged from the bathroom, makeup replaced, waves added to the hair around her face, and Lindsay racing along behind, stuffed lion still firmly clenched in her teeth. Catherine had already opened the door and Eric stood in the family room, his expression a bit uncertain.

  “Hi. Catherine says your visit with Mom went okay, but when you got home you looked like you’d been crying—sobbing, actually—and you had to run upstairs for repair work. Did Mom hurt your feelings or wasn’t she nice to you or…”

  Or didn’t you find anything to help us find out what was going on with Gretchen the summer she died? Marissa could read the question in his eyes.

  “Everything went fine, Eric. Your mother couldn’t have been nicer. I just cried because I hadn’t seen her for so long. I’ve missed her.” She paused and looked meaningfully at Eric. “I think the visit may have been successful.”

  “May have?” Catherine looked confused. “What does that mean? You didn’t get your interview?”

  “I did. A very nice interview.” Marissa smiled brightly at her sister. “I think we’d better be on our way, though. Jean is holding off Mitch’s morphine injection until we get there and have a chance to talk with him a little. We don’t want him to be in pain because we’re dawdling.”

  3

  To Marissa’s relief, they were able to leave the surveillance deputy behind because Eric was the escort. Marissa hadn’t realized how much safer she’d felt today knowing her every move had been watched, especially after the spectacle someone had made of her mother’s grave. She had thought the surveillance would be annoying; instead, it had been just the opposite.

  “I took Lindsay for a walk today,” Catherine suddenly announced from the backseat.

  Marissa craned her neck to look at her sister. “I thought you didn’t like her.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “You never play with her—”

  Catherine drew herself up. “I would like to defend myself on the grounds that you’ve never seen Lindsay and me alone. We get along marvelously and today we had a wonderful time. When you’re home, you expect all of her attention and she’s very obliging.”

  The day had been a strain on an already-exhausted Marissa and a lightning bolt of irritation shot through her. “I do not expect all of Lindsay’s attention! And you’re starting to talk like James.”

  “Who called today to see how
we’re doing after last night and to explain his behavior the other day when he saw me having lunch with Will Addison.”

  “What behavior?” Marissa burst out. “What did James do?”

  “Nothing. That was the problem. He wasn’t friendly. At all. Today he told me he was just tired when he saw us, but I think he was a little jealous,” Catherine finished with a small, satisfied smile. “We’re going to a movie at an actual theater on Saturday evening. I think it’s much more fun to watch a movie at a theater than a DVD on television.”

  “So does Lindsay. You two have become such friends, you can take her on your date,” Marissa sniped.

  “I don’t think James is the only one suffering from jealousy,” Catherine muttered, just loud enough to make sure Marissa heard her.

  “Girls, would you please try to behave yourselves,” Eric said in a harassed voice but obviously trying not to grin. “I can’t separate you any farther unless I stick one of you in the trunk.”

  Mitch and Jean Farrell lived near the edge of the city limits in a small green house on a knoll overlooking Falls Way and the Orenda River. As they neared the house, Marissa looked at the bank leading down from the highway to the river. She knew the state road crew could not fix the guardrail so soon in the bad weather they’d suffered. For now, two reflective barrels blocked the hole left in the rail along with a tall slow sign.

  “Do you think my car is still down there or has it moved with the current?” Marissa asked.

  “It’s probably on its way to Florida. Much better climate.” Eric smiled at her. “Are you thinking of saving it?”

  “No. Too much water damage by now. I’ve decided to let the insurance company buy me a new one.”

  “Not a convertible!” Catherine ordered firmly.

  “The car being a convertible had nothing to do with the wreck,” Marissa said. “You simply never know when a monster is going to wander out in front of you, whether you’re driving a convertible or a hardtop.”

  Marissa thought many people would believe their sporadic joking and jibes during the drive was unfitting, but she knew they were all trying to brace themselves before they faced the morbid sight of Mitch Farrell dying. A minute later, they turned into the Farrell driveway leading to the house. In the summer, Jean’s beautiful flower beds nearly buried it in a plethora of rich color. In the winter, the house looked small and lonely and bleak. Jean stood on the porch, wrapped in her large, flapping coat, waving to them. When they emerged from the car and reached her, she hugged each of them, tears in her eyes.

  “I’m so glad you’re a little early. Mitch will try to put on a good show, but he’s not at all well today. I hate to be rude, but could we make the visit short?”

  “Of course, Jean,” Eric said. “We didn’t intend to stay more than fifteen or twenty minutes anyway. Is that all right?”

  “Yes. I think that will be fine. If not, I’ll give you a signal.” A tear ran down her cheek. “Or you’ll see for yourself.”

  Jean’s father had owned a hundred acres of prime land at the other end of the city. Many people said handsome Mitch Farrell married plain, shy Jean Curtis because Jean was an only child and Mitch knew someday she would inherit the land. After six years of marriage she did inherit the land, but she didn’t sell a bit of it, saying she had a special plan for all hundred acres.

  If Mitch had a problem with her refusing to sell the land, no one knew of it. He seemed content in his marriage and happy with Jean, if not madly in love with her. She, on the other hand, adored her husband, and everyone knew she wanted desperately to give him a child. After eight years of marriage she finally conceived, and no one doubted Mitch was delighted. At age thirty, Jean gave birth to Elizabeth Amanda Farrell—Betsy—who people said was just about the most beautiful, sweet-tempered toddler they’d ever known. Betsy died five days after her third birthday.

  They still lived in the house Mitch’s parents had left to him after they were killed in a car wreck, the house where he’d lived when he and Jean married. She still owned the hundred acres of land and everyone knew she regularly got offers for part or all of it, but she wouldn’t sell.

  As Marissa stepped into the small, claustrophobic two-story house, she saw that it looked as it had the first time she’d seen it, years ago. The old-fashioned furniture remained in exactly the same spots, the same faded rug covered most of the hardwood floor, and the walls were painted bisque that had begun to turn slightly yellow with age. Only two nondescript pictures hung on the walls, both looking as if they’d been bought at a discount store. The only difference Marissa noticed was the absence of a twenty-eight-inch-screen portable television that used to sit on a small rolling cart across the room from Mitch’s lumpy beige recliner. As always, not a mote of dust dared show itself and Marissa smelled a medley of cleaning agents.

  “We turned the dining room into Mitch’s room,” Jean said softly, as if preparing them for what they were going to see. “He has a hospital bed, and the IV hook, and a window right across from his bed. He wanted the television in there, too. He likes to keep it on all day and half the night. It drives me crazy, especially because I know Mitch can’t really concentrate on it, but he wants it. He’s allowed me to turn it off for your visit. I keep a baby monitor beside his bed when I try to sleep upstairs in our old bedroom, but lately he’s not having good nights, so I sleep on the couch.”

  Jean lowered her voice even more and they all leaned toward her, trying to hear. “Now I want to prepare you for how he looks. Mitchell Farrell was the most handsome man I ever saw—even more handsome than a movie star—but he’s lost a lot of weight. I think he’s lost five or six pounds just in the last week. His cheeks have sunken and he’s lost all of that beautiful black hair—well, it was turning gray, but it’s gone. He’s very pale. Sometimes he talks straight and other times he mumbles and doesn’t make much sense. You’ll have to tell him who you are. He doesn’t always recognize people right away.”

  “We won’t look or act surprised when we see him, Jean,” Eric said. “Marissa has had recent experience with this kind of thing.”

  Although my mother’s appearance didn’t change much until the last few weeks and she never had trouble recognizing people, Marissa thought. Mom went to the hospital seven days before she died, which is where Mitch should be. Jean says he wants to die at home, though. She’s putting herself through hell to satisfy him, which doesn’t surprise me at all.

  Mitch moaned in a ragged, muted voice from the other room. Jean managed a pained smile. “His voice is especially rough tonight.” She took a deep breath. “Well, he knows you’re here. We’d better go in.”

  Marissa had felt anxiety earlier in the day when she went into Gretchen’s room, but the dread had mingled with the sense of a mission. Going into Mitch’s room filled her only with pure dread. She had not seen him for almost six weeks, not for lack of trying but because Jean had discouraged her, saying she thought seeing Mitch would disturb Marissa and Mitch. Eric told Marissa he hadn’t seen Mitch for a month. They’d both wanted to visit, but now that the time had come, their steps lagged and the skin of their faces tightened with tension. Catherine took Marissa’s hand in a firm hold.

  Darkness already closed around the small house and two lamps emitted soft light in Mitch’s room. He was propped on three bed pillows, and he wore a burgundy and blue pajama top buttoned as high as it would go. Jean hadn’t wanted them to see his reed-like neck, Marissa thought. His hands—always large, strong, and rough from all the woodworking he did—now lay pale and quivering atop a patchwork quilt. He wore his wedding ring on the index finger of his left hand. Clearly, his ring finger had shrunk too much for it.

  “Come in; come in.” He motioned to them with a shaky arm. “So glad to see you.”

  “It’s great to see you, too,” Marissa said, vaguely wondering if he knew she was lying. The man looked like the cartoons of a caped, stalking Death.

  Eric reached Mitch first, bent down, and hugged the man whose p
ale hands trembled above Eric’s back. “You’re a fine, strong man. Good-looking, too, Bernie. You still a doctor?”

  “Mitch, this isn’t Bernard Gray,” Jean said quickly, clearly seeing that Eric was flustered by Mitch’s first words. “This is Eric Montgomery.”

  Mitch squinted. “Well, I must need new glasses. Bernie doesn’t have blond hair! Keepin’ yourself busy these days?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. I’m a lawman, like you.”

  Mitch frowned and looked at him even more closely. “Well, I’ll be damned. I think I’m getting senile. You worked for me!”

  “I sure did. Still do, really. You’re still the sheriff, Mitch.” Eric laughed. Marissa wondered if Mitch heard the strained, false edge of the laughter.

  “I am.” Mitch looked as if he’d just remembered something. “Oh lord, I’ve been forgetting to go to work! Jean, why didn’t you remind me?”

  Jean hovered at the foot of the hospital bed looking agitated and limp at the same time.

  “I won’t tell,” Eric said quickly, and stepped aside. “Here’s Catherine.”

  Mitch narrowed his eyes and Marissa knew he didn’t remember Catherine. “My goodness, you’ve gotten as tall as Jean.” He sounded as if Catherine were still a growing girl, not a twenty-eight-year-old woman. Then knowledge seemed to creep into his eyes. “Catherine. So pretty. You look like your mother, Annemarie.”

  “Thank you, Mitch, but I’ll never be the beauty Mom was.” Catherine bent and hugged him, holding on to the man for a few extra seconds, and Marissa saw a tear drip down his face onto his pajama collar.

  When Catherine pulled back, Mitch tried to cock an eyebrow at her. The effect was pitiful. “Still get seasick, honey?”