Now You See Her Page 0,72
elegant staircase.
Two small children suddenly came crashing against Marcy’s legs, a sweet-faced girl of about eight, followed by her more rambunctious, towheaded younger brother, triggering memories of Devon and Darren when they were little. The girl apologized immediately and profusely, her big eyes shooting toward the front door, her little face growing tense as she waited for her mother, who was struggling with a bunch of shopping bags, to catch up. Her brother, oblivious to everything but his own fevered imagination, continued running in increasingly ragged circles around them.
She’s so serious, Marcy thought, aching to reach out and stroke the young girl’s cheek, to reassure her that everything would be all right. Except how could she offer such assurances when she was sure of no such thing? Hadn’t she offered the same empty promises to Devon?
Marcy moved slowly toward the elevator. It had been an exhausting, frustrating day, full of surprises—first the trip to Youghal and the meeting with Claire and Audrey, followed by the drive back to Cork, the kiss in the car, the discovery of the ransacking of her room, and the indignity of her repeat visit to the garda station. The last eight hours had been a veritable roller-coaster ride of anticipation, disappointment, accusations, and despair. Was this how Devon had felt most of the time? Marcy wondered, feeling utterly drained both physically and emotionally. It required all her strength to push one foot in front of the other.
“Hold the lift,” a voice called out in crisp British tones. Seconds later, the woman with the shopping bags ushered her two children into the elevator, inadvertently forcing Marcy against the back wall of the tiny space. “Sorry,” the woman said. “Simon, settle down,” she instructed her son, who was still spinning around in circles like a top. “Jillian, what’s wrong, pumpkin?”
The little girl said nothing, her lower lip quivering.
“What is it? Don’t you like the new dress we bought you?”
“That’s just it. The dress is perfect,” the child said, gazing imploringly at her mother.
“I don’t understand,” the woman responded.
“Where will we ever find a pair of shoes to match it?” the young girl wailed.
Her mother laughed. She was still laughing as the elevator doors opened onto the second floor.
Had Marcy ever felt the freedom to laugh at her daughter in such a casual way? Or had she interpreted Devon’s every frown as a potential harbinger of impending doom, an intimation of coming disaster? And had she unconsciously transferred those fears onto Devon, creating doubt and turmoil where none had previously existed? Had she read too much into things … or not enough? “Excuse me.” Marcy wiggled her way around the still-spinning boy, touching the top of his blond head as she made her exit.
“Mummy,” she heard the boy exclaim as the elevator doors shut behind her, “she touched me.”
Mommy! she heard Devon cry, her voice cutting through the past like a hook to grab at Marcy’s heart. She spun around, already knowing there was no one there.
Her room was only steps from the elevator. Marcy opened the door to find a wall of leaded windows overlooking a private garden, and a beautiful marble bathroom with a large tub and separate shower stall. The bed was king size, the sheets crisp and white, the walls a pale apricot. A fluffy white bathrobe hung in the closet. “I think I’ll stay here forever,” she said, lying down on top of the bedspread and gazing up at a portrait of two young women that hung over her head. She closed her eyes, picturing Vic lying beside her, imagining his arms tight around her. Seconds later, she was asleep.
She dreamed she was in the shoe department of a large store, her feet bare, piles of discarded shoes spread out on the floor around her. “I need something to match my dress,” she told the hapless salesclerk, pulling on the sides of the emerald-green apron covering her blue, flower-print dress.
“There’s nothing here,” the clerk told her. “You should go home.”
“I’m not leaving. Not until I find my shoes.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” the clerk told her in John Sweeny’s voice.
A man came running toward her, holding out a pair of black stilettos, their leather scratched, their heels broken. “How about these?”
It was Vic Sorvino.
“Vic!” Marcy exclaimed, her arms reaching for him.
“Don’t touch him,” Liam cautioned, appearing out of nowhere to snatch the shoes from Vic’s hands. “I don’t trust him.” Liam tossed the shoes to the floor. They ricocheted off the wood and bounced toward