Now You See Her Page 0,97

voice instantly softened. “Of course there were.”

Marcy thought of the weeks immediately preceding Devon’s disappearance, times when her daughter had seemed not only happy but almost serene, her smile genuine and steady, her voice soft and calm. Had she already solidified her plans to flee the country?

Of course, Judith would argue, as Peter had, that there was another reason for Devon’s apparent serenity: that people on the verge of suicide were often at peace once they’d actually made the decision to end their lives.

“Will you or will you not send me the money?” Marcy pleaded, trying to block out the unpleasant thought. Don’t think, she told herself.

“Where do you want it sent?” Judith asked after a pause of several seconds.

It was Marcy’s turn to hesitate. She was reluctant to reveal her exact address. But what choice did she have? “Send it to the Hayfield Manor Hotel in Cork.” Marcy grabbed the notepad beside the phone and read Judith the hotel’s address. She pictured her sister scribbling the information across the top of the columns listing Toronto’s recently deceased.

“You’re in Cork? I thought you were in Dublin.”

“You’ll courier me the money order overnight?” Marcy said, more demand than question.

“I’ll go to the bank first thing tomorrow morning. You should have the money by Tuesday.”

“Thank you.”

“Marcy, please—”

“I have to go,” Marcy told her sister before hanging up the phone. She sat for several minutes in silence, feeling her heart ticking down the seconds like a metronome, her mind purposely blank. Then, accompanied by her new mantra—Don’t think; don’t think; don’t think—she jumped up, took one final look at the rain pummeling her window, grabbed her new peacoat and purse, and headed out the door.

SHE SAW HIM as soon as she reached the lobby.

He was standing, half-hidden, behind a pillar near the grand mahogany staircase and she might have missed him had she not stopped to ask the concierge whether she might borrow an umbrella.

“You’re not thinkin’ of goin’ out in that, are you?” the concierge asked incredulously.

But Marcy was already walking away from him and toward the man behind the pillar. Clearly sensing her presence, the man took several steps back, as if trying to disappear into his surroundings, his eyes staring resolutely at the floor even as she stopped directly in front of him. “What are you doing here?” she asked without preamble.

Vic Sorvino raised his eyes to hers with obvious reluctance, clearly embarrassed at having been discovered. “Marcy,” he said, the sound of her name on his lips causing her to go immediately weak in the knees.

What is the matter with me, for God’s sake? she wondered impatiently. “What are you doing here?” she asked again.

“That’s a good question.”

“What’s the answer?”

Vic suddenly looked as confused as she felt. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.”

They stood this way for several seconds, Marcy unable to turn away. It wasn’t that he was all that much to look at, she tried to tell herself. Liam was far more handsome; hell, even Peter was better looking. There was just something about Vic. Maybe it was the way he looked at her, the blistering intensity of his blue eyes, the way they latched on to her own and refused to let go, burning into the secrets in her brain. The threat of real intimacy. Was that why she was being so mean to him? Because she knew that once he saw her—really saw her—the yearning on his face would be replaced by disgust and he’d run screaming for the nearest exit?

As had almost everyone she’d ever loved.

Her mother.

Peter.

Devon.

Don’t look at me, she wanted to tell him. Some secrets are best left undisturbed. “Have you been following me?” she said instead, suddenly reminded of yesterday’s sighting at the mall.

“Not exactly.”

“What exactly? Was that you yesterday, at the mall?”

“Maybe we should sit down.” He led her toward a nearby sofa, sinking into the overstuffed, apricot-colored velvet seat beside her, taking her hand in his.

“Was that you or not?” she asked again, trying to ignore the tingling in her arm.

“Yes.”

She quickly brought her hand back to her lap. “I don’t understand. Why?”

He shook his head, a deep whoosh of air escaping his lungs, then shook his head again, as if he himself didn’t quite believe what he was about to say. “After I was questioned by the gardai regarding the break-in at your hotel room, I decided to stick around for a few more days. I asked Detective Murphy to keep me informed.” Vic cleared his throat,