The Blackstone Chronicles - By John Saul Page 0,30

to the brittle pages within.

The first described the suicide of Elizabeth Conger McGuire, despondent over the premature birth—and death—of her son.

Nowhere had the newspaper account mentioned the beautiful doll that arrived at the McGuires’ a few short days before Elizabeth’s death, returning at last to the house from which it had been carried so many years ago in the arms of a child who had entered this very building, never to leave it again.

The second article, lovingly pasted into the album, had appeared three days later, noting the burial of Elizabeth McGuire and listing all the people who had gone to the cemetery to mourn her.

People who, soon enough, would be mourned themselves.

Closing the album, the dark figure caressed its cover once again, shivering with anticipation as he imagined the stories it soon would contain.

Then, as the moon began to drop in the sky and dark shadows edged up the walls, he touched again the object he had decided to deliver next.

The beautiful heart-shaped locket, in which was contained a lock of hair …

Prologue

“Lorena.”

It wasn’t her real name, but it was a name she decided she liked. For today at least, it would be hers.

Perhaps she would use it again tomorrow, but perhaps not.

And no last name. Never a last name.

Not even a made-up one.

Too easy to make a mistake if you used a last name. You could accidentally use your real initials, and give yourself away. Not that Lorena would ever make such a mistake, since she hadn’t even risked using a first name that started with her real initial since she’d come here.

They’d told her it was a hospital, but the moment she saw the stone walls, she knew they were lying. It was a prison—and dressing the guards as doctors and nurses hadn’t fooled Lorena for a minute. It hadn’t fooled the people who were watching her either. They were already there, waiting for her. She’d felt their eyes on her from the moment she came through the huge oak door and heard it slam shut behind her—imprisoning her.

Over the months she’d been here, though, Lorena developed a few tricks of her own. She’d never spoken her real name out loud; trained herself even to keep from thinking it, since some of her enemies had learned to read her mind. She’d learned to make herself inconspicuous, doing nothing that would draw attention to herself, barely moving, never speaking.

She spent most of her time simply sitting in the chair. It was an ugly chair, a horrible chair, covered with a hideous green material that felt sticky when she touched it, which she tried not to do: that sticky stuff might be some kind of poison with which her enemies were trying to kill her. She thought about finding another chair to sit in, but that would only let them know she’d caught on to what they were trying to do, and inspire them to try something else.

Lorena sat perfectly still. The slightest movement, even the blink of an eye, could give her away almost as quickly as using her real name. Some of them had been watching her for so long that she was certain they could recognize her by the slightest gesture.

The way she brushed her hair back from her face.

Even the way she tilted her head.

Her enemies were everywhere. And still they came.

Ever watchful, never letting down her guard, today she’d spotted a new one.

This time it was a well-dressed woman—exactly the kind of woman who used to pretend to be her friend back in the days before she’d caught on to the plot. This woman was younger than her, forty, with long dark hair that she had swept into an elaborate French twist at the back of her head. She wore a silk dress in the darkest shade of midnight blue. Lorena immediately recognized its distinctive cut and flair, which could only have come from Monsieur Worth in Paris. Lorena herself had been fitted in his salon when she’d traveled on the Lusitania to Europe the year before they sank it.

The woman was talking to the warden, who still pretended he was a doctor even though Lorena had made it perfectly clear to him that she knew exactly who he really was. Every few minutes the woman’s eyes flicked in her direction. Each time, Lorena wondered if the woman was truly foolish enough to think she didn’t notice.

Another surreptitious glance.

Lorena felt the familiar fear quicken inside her. They were watching her, talking about her. Despite