Now You See Her Page 0,53

length of her cheeks. They stung where her flesh was bruised and tender, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Christopher Murphy said with a sigh. “I believe it is.”

“Good. Then I can go?”

“You can go.” He reached toward the pile of paperwork on his desk, retrieved Marcy’s passport, and handed it to her along with the pictures of Devon.

Marcy tucked them into her purse as she rose to her feet. “Thank you.”

“Would you like us to call someone for you, Mrs. Taggart?” Colleen asked gently.

Marcy thought of Liam. She could use a friendly face about now, she thought, shaking her head. “No. There’s no one.”

“Actually, I believe there’s someone waiting for you in the hall,” Christopher Murphy said, reaching for the old-fashioned black rotary phone on his desk. “Jenny, is that gentleman still waiting for Mrs. Taggart?” he asked. “He is? Good. Tell him she’ll be out straightaway.”

Marcy made an effort to smooth down her hair as John Sweeny opened the door to the hall. Thank God for Liam, she was thinking, hoping he wouldn’t get in trouble for taking off work or that he wouldn’t be held responsible for the damage she’d caused. Mostly she hoped she didn’t look too awful.

She stepped into the dust-lined, narrow hallway, her head turning from side to side, looking for Liam.

She saw the blue eyes first, the rest of him only gradually coming into focus as he pushed himself off one of the folding chairs lining the wall.

“Marcy,” Vic Sorvino said, rushing to her side. “My God, look at you.”

FIFTEEN

WHAT HAPPENED?” HE ASKED, his eyes darting from her black eye and bruised cheek to the tops of her scuffed shoes and then back again. “Are you all right?”

“Vic! What are you doing here?”

A sheepish grin crept onto his sweet mouth. “You left without saying good-bye.”

“What?” Was he serious? What was he saying?

“I was worried about you. The way you just took off …” He paused, took a long, deep breath. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Then they told me you’d been in a fight—”

“Who told you? I don’t understand. What are you doing here?” Marcy asked again.

“I stopped by Grogan’s House. The waitress told me what happ—” He looked around. Officers Sweeny and Donnelly were listening to their exchange from the open doorway. “Look, why don’t we go somewhere more private?”

Marcy wasn’t sure this was such a great idea in light of what had happened the last time they’d gone somewhere more private. Still she allowed him to lead her by the elbow out of the station and onto the busy South Mall.

“Take care,” Colleen Donnelly called after her.

“Did they hurt you?” Vic was asking. “Because if they laid a hand on you, we can contact the American embassy—”

“I’m Canadian,” Marcy said, reminding him. “And no, the police were really very kind. I don’t understand. What are you doing here?” she asked a third time, stopping in the middle of the busy street. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Italy?”

“I decided Italy could wait a few more days.”

“But why?”

A flush of embarrassment stained Vic’s cheeks, visible even in the growing darkness of the early evening. “I would have thought that was pretty obvious.”

What was he saying? “I’ve never been very good with the obvious,” Marcy admitted as pedestrians surged by them on both sides. “I’m afraid you’ll have to spell it out.”

Vic took a quick glance over both shoulders. “Look. Why don’t we go grab a beer or get something to eat? It’s almost six o’clock.”

As if on cue, the bells of St. Anne’s Shandon Church began ringing out the hours.

“I’m really awfully tired,” Marcy said. “It’s been one hell of a day.”

“Where are you staying?”

Should I tell him? Marcy wondered. Vic Sorvino was a thoughtful, decent guy who’d been nothing but nice to her. So why was she hesitating? She tried not to recall the tenderness of his touch, the way his hands had gently caressed her body. Yes, they’d been good together. Maybe even great. Still, a one-night stand was a one-night stand. What was he doing still hanging around? “At a little bed and breakfast over on Western Road,” she told him.

“Lead the way.”

SHE WAS FIFTEEN years old the day she walked into her parents’ bedroom and found the now-familiar scene of her mother standing naked in the middle of the room, the contents of her closets strewn across her bed, the drawers of her