Dark Memories

by

Linda Hope Lee

© copyright by Linda Hope Lee  July 1997
cover art by Ricky Mallory
New Concepts Publishing
http://www.newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter One

      Deborah Kent smiled with satisfaction as she drove along the country road connecting Castletown to Fairfield, Vermont.  As she had hoped, the flea market in Castletown had been an excellent place to find old furniture to fix up for the bed and breakfast she planned to open in January.  The small oak rocking chair and mission-style end table she had purchased were secured in the rear of her hatchback car.
       She had purposely chosen this route home instead of Highway 89, so that she could enjoy the beauty of the autumn countryside.  It was worth the extra miles, she thought, as her gaze took in fields of golden wheat and maple trees glowing with red and yellow leaves.
       Without warning, Deborah's car began to lose power.  She pressed the accelerator, expecting to bolster her speed.  The car jolted forward a few yards, then it slowed again.  Deborah quickly guided it to the shoulder of the road.  Her tires crunched gravel just as the vehicle gave a weary sigh, and died.
       Deborah stared dumbly at the steering wheel.  Why would her car quit so suddenly?  Then a chill rippled down her spine.  Could this problem be related to the note she'd found stuck in her screen door last week? Closing her eyes, Deborah pictured the note's bold block printing:
       GET OUT OF TOWN OR YOU'LL END UP LIKE CARLA CASSIDY.
       No, Deborah did not want to end up like Carla Cassidy, for she was dead.  Her tragic death was the reason Deborah had left Fairfield seven years ago.
       She had no idea who had written the note.  Obviously, someone who didn't want her living in Fairfield again.  But who and why were a mystery.
        The thought that an unknown person wished her harm soured Deborah's stomach.  How could she protect herself when she didn't even know who the person was?
       Right now, though, she must push aside her fears and deal with her immediate problem.  There was no use looking under the hood; she knew little about cars.  She would have to go for help.
       Peering through the windshield, she glimpsed the silver silo and red barn of a farm no more than a mile away.  She decided to walk there and ask to use the phone to call for a tow truck.
       She took her keys from the ignition and climbed out of the car.  A wave of frustration rolled through her as she locked the door.  She didn't need this.  She had enough to cope with already.
       As she headed up the road, she noticed a man on horseback coming toward her.  The sleek, black horse loped along as if he and his rider were out for a lazy afternoon ride.  When the man caught up with her, he reined his horse to a halt.
       Shading her eyes with her hand, Deborah looked up at large brown eyes set in a square-jawed, olive-toned face.  Thick, black hair swept across his ears to dip low in the back.  A white T shirt fit smoothly over muscular arms and a broad chest.  Blue jeans and scuffed brown boots completed the man's casual attire.  She guessed that he lived nearby, perhaps at the very farm she was headed for.
       "Hello," he said.  "I saw you leave your car by the side of the road.  Is anything wrong?"
       "Yes, it suddenly quit on me."
       "I'd be glad to take a look at it," he offered.  "I'm no mechanic, but if it's something simple, I might be able to fix it."
       His deep voice rang with friendliness, and, if Deborah's instincts were on target, his gaze held more than a hint of male interest.  Despite her annoyance with the car breakdown, a little tingle of excitement rippled through her.
       She said, "That would be great, but I don't want to trouble you."
       He shrugged his broad shoulders.  "It's no trouble.  Black Magic and I are just out for an afternoon ride.  We have no particular destination."
       "All right."  Deborah offered up a smile, relieved to find help so quickly.
       The man swung his leg deftly over the horse's back, and dismounted.  Reins in hand, he and his horse fell into step beside Deborah as they headed toward her car.  He was about six feet tall, she judged, sturdily built, and probably in his mid thirties.  She couldn't help noticing what a marked contrast her flaxen hair and fair skin made to his dark coloring.
       "Do you live around here?" the man asked.
       "In Fairfield."
       He nodded.  "I get the feeling you're new in the area.  Am I right?"
       "Sort of.  I used to live in Fairfield seven years ago.  I've been back only a few weeks."
       "I see."
       Before he could ask any more questions, they reached her car. Deborah gave an inward sigh of relief.  She didn't want to share details of her absence from Fairfield with a stranger, no matter how friendly and attractive he was.
       "So what exactly happened when your car quit running?" he asked.
       "I was driving along fine when it lost power.  I hit the gas pedal, but it didn't do any good.  A few seconds later, as I was heading for the side of the road, it quit completely."
       "I'll take a look inside."
       Deborah unlocked the door, and the man climbed in and settled himself behind the wheel.  She couldn't help noticing how his broad shoulders filled the seat.
       He turned to her and held out his hand.  "Keys?"
       "Oh, sure."  When Deborah handed them to him, their fingers brushed, sending her an electric tingle of awareness.  Come on, she chided herself, quit over-reacting.
       The man tried to start the engine, but it made only a dull, rasping sound.  "I'll check under the hood," he said, reaching below the dashboard to pull the hood release.
       Deborah watched the man inspect the car's innards.  After poking around for a few moments, he straightened and said to her, "I don't see anything that could have caused your problem.  It may be a bad fuel pump, but if so, that will require someone else's expertise."
       Deborah nodded.  "I'll have it towed to a garage in Fairfield.  I was on my way to that farm down the road, to use their phone.  Is that your place, by chance?"
       He pulled a handkerchief from his back jeans' pocket and wiped his hands.  "No, that belongs to the Hansons.  I saw them head into town in their pickup awhile ago.  But my place is nearby, too.  You can come home with me.  I'll phone for a tow truck, then I'll drive you home."
       "I don't want to put you out like that."
       "I'm glad to help you," he said, offering her a persuasive smile.
       "Well . . ."
       The man's gaze settled on her car.  "If you're worried about leaving your car and that furniture here, don't.  This road isn't traveled much, and I'm sure everyone who lives around here is honest."
       "I'm not worried about that."
       "You're afraid to go off with a stranger," he guessed, a light of understanding glimmering in his dark eyes.  "So, let me introduce myself. I'm Milo Jordan."
       Milo Jordan, Deborah repeated to herself.  A strong, masculine name that suited him perfectly.
       "I'm Deborah," she offered, purposely omitting her last name.
       "Pleased to meet you, Deborah.  So, how about it?  Shall we go to my house?"
       Deborah hesitated.  The warning note, the car breaking down, the sudden appearance of a handsome man to help her.  Coincidence?  Or part of a plan engineered by whoever wanted to torment her?
       Looking at Milo's open and friendly face, she had a hard time believing he could be involved in any plot against her.  Perhaps the note and the car breakdown were connected, but surely this man had nothing to do with either of them.  Deborah decided to take a chance.
       "All right," she said, "I'll accept your generous offer."
       Deborah locked her car, then joined Milo as he stood by his horse. "You take the saddle," he said, "and I'll sit behind you."  He paused to cock his head at her.  "You have ridden before, haven't you?"
       "Yes, I'm quite familiar with horses."
       Soon they were settled on the horse.  Milo's chest pressed against Deborah's back as he stretched his arms around her to hold the reins.  The contact set her heart to thudding, and she had to remind herself once again to calm down.
       They started off, the horse's hooves clip-clopping on the asphalt, the leather trappings creaking with the animal's movements.  A fresh breeze ruffled Deborah's hair and the sunshine warmed her cheeks.  In the distance, beyond low, rolling hills, the Green Mountains offered a dark backdrop for the colorful countryside.
       As they traveled along, Milo kept up a running commentary, pointing out sights and landmarks as a tour guide might.  Although she was interested in what he said, his warm breath fanning her cheek made concentrating on his words difficult.
       Just past the Hansons's property, they turned onto a narrow lane that led them through a grove of maple trees to Milo's farm.  The two-story house looked like a comfortable country home, Deborah thought, with its white clapboard siding, pitched roof, and porch across the front.
       Bypassing the front entrance, they went around to the back. Flowers spilled from a wire-fenced garden, and several ducks squawked a greeting from a pond rimmed with white-painted stones.  A large, peaked-roof stable stood nearby, and next to that, a pen filled with bales of hay.
       Milo dismounted, then reached up to help Deborah down.  "You can wait for me in the kitchen, while I take care of Black Magic."  He pointed to the back door of the house.
       Deborah went inside and down a short hallway to the kitchen.  A fiftyish, gray-haired woman wearing jeans and a print overblouse stood at the sink.  The paring knife in her hand fairly flew as she peeled potatoes and dropped them into a large pot of water.  She looked over her shoulder as Deborah entered.
       "Hello," Deborah said.  "I'm Deborah.  I had car trouble and Milo's helping me."
       "I'm Katie, his cook and housekeeper.  Sit down, won't you?"  She gestured with her knife to a round wooden table surrounded by four chairs.
        Deborah pulled out a chair and sat down.  Katie was friendly and talkative, and they chatted about the wonderful Indian summer they were having, until Milo came in.
       "I called Johnson's Auto Repair from the stable," he told Deborah. "They'll send a truck out right away.  Now, how about a cup of coffee and some of Katie's banana bread?  Or are you in a rush to get home?"
       The intense look in his dark eyes telegraphed volumes to Deborah. Earlier, she had been eager to get home, but now the only thing that seemed to matter was spending more time in Milo Jordan's company, here in his cozy farmhouse.
       She said, "No, I'm not in any hurry."
       "Great!" Milo replied.
       Katie put down her paring knife and wiped her hands on a tea towel. "Go sit in the front room and I'll bring in your banana bread and coffee."
       The front room had a homey look, Deborah thought, with overstuffed furniture, lots of decorator pillows and several hassocks.  The ebony baby grand piano that filled one corner  added a note of elegance.
       Deborah crossed to one of the windows and looked out.  Several horses grazed in a pasture near the stable.  The rest of the property appeared to be a combination of woods highlighted by pale yellow aspen, and fields glazed with brown.
       "What a charming place you have here," she said.  "What all do you raise?"
       Milo came to stand beside her.  His nearness put her senses on the alert.  "Just horses.  Horses, for riding, not racing," he amended.
       Deborah watched a group of half a dozen or so riders trot up to the stable.  The leader was a young man, while the others appeared to be teenaged girls.  Their red cheeks and windblown hair indicated they had just come from an exhilarating ride.
       "Who are they?" she asked Milo.
       "Some students from the Wainwright Academy.  It's an exclusive girls' school a few miles outside of Fairfield.  Maybe you've heard of it?"
       The Wainwright Academy.  Deborah stifled a gasp.  She'd more than heard of the Wainwright Academy; she'd taught there seven years ago.  Until Carla's death.
       "Yes, I have," she barely managed to mumble.
       Milo continued, "I recently contracted with Jay Grant, the headmaster, to give their students riding lessons."
       Deborah knew Jay Grant, too, although he had been a fellow teacher, not the headmaster, when she had been there.
       Seemingly unaware of Deborah's discomfort, Milo continued, "Jim, my manager, is bringing them back from a lesson."
       Deborah tried to push away the disturbing images the girls from Wainwright brought to her mind.  You see, an internal voice mocked, it was a mistake to come back to Fairfield.  You'll be tortured like this at every turn.
       Fortunately, just then Katie breezed in with their coffee and banana bread.  Deborah carried her cup and a piece of the bread to one of the overstuffed chairs and sat down, settling into the cushions at her back.
       Sitting across from her, Milo began to tell her about himself. "I've always loved horses," he said, "so after I got out of the Army, I returned to Fairfield and bought this farm."
       He kept up a continual stream of conversation, mostly about the farm and raising horses.  As Deborah listened, the students from Wainwright faded from her mind and she began to relax.
       She even allowed herself to daydream a little.  He seemed such a congenial person.  Perhaps they could forge a friendship.  Dare she think ahead to a possible romance?  Her spirits lifted, and the car breakdown took on a fortuitous rather than a negative aspect.
       After a while, Milo paused to level his dark eyes thoughtfully on Deborah.  "I've been going on about myself and haven't learned a thing about you.  What brought you back to Fairfield?"
       Deborah studied her coffee cup as she considered how much she wanted to divulge about herself.  She must be careful not to say too much. She was afraid he wouldn't be interested in her anymore if he knew what she had done.
       "The woman who was my guardian died and willed me her house," she finally said.  "I came back to turn it into a bed and breakfast."
       "I see."  He waited, head cocked, obviously expecting more.
       But Deborah had frozen inside.  She looked pointedly at her wristwatch and said, "This has been really pleasant, but I should be going."
       Disappointment shadowed Milo's eyes.  "If you say so.  But I hope you'll come again.  I'll give you a tour of the farm, and we can go riding."
       "I'd like that."
       Their eyes met and held for a long moment.  Deborah's heart hammered so hard she was sure he must be able to hear it.  Perhaps there was hope of establishing at least a friendship with this man yet.
       Milo stood, his tall, sturdy body filling the space between them. "Wait here while I get my car keys, then we'll be on our way."
       After Milo left, the room seemed very empty.  Still thinking about him and the effect he had on her, Deborah wandered over to the baby grand piano and stood in front of the keyboard.  A Beethoven sonata, its pages dog-earred from use, sat on the music stand.  With her right hand, she idly played out the melody, enjoying the instrument's full, rich tone.
       As she looked up, she noticed a gold-framed portrait of a teenaged girl sitting on the piano.
       Carla Cassidy.
       Deborah's hand flew to her mouth just in time to stifle a scream. No!  This can't be happening.
       Perhaps she was mistaken.  With shaking hands she picked up the picture and held it closer.  Dark curly hair framed an olive-toned face. Large brown eyes gazed at Deborah, and a wide, expressive mouth smiled at her.  Not a beautiful face, but one full of youth and vitality.
       Yes, it was Carla Cassidy.  No doubt about it.  But why was her picture on Milo's piano?  Then realization dawned on Deborah.  Milo and Carla had the same dark hair, the same large eyes and expressive mouth. They belonged to the same family.  Brother and sister, maybe?  Nausea churned Deborah's stomach.  She had to get out of there.
       "Okay, I'm ready to go."  Milo's cheerful voice rang out from the doorway.
       Deborah stood frozen in place as he crossed the room and came up behind her.  "Deborah?" he said, his voice full of puzzlement.  She wheeled around to face him, gripping the picture so hard the embossed gold flowers on the frame cut into her fingers.
       Milo's smile faded.  "What's the matter?  You look as though you've seen a ghost."
       When she didn't reply, his gaze left her face and traveled to the picture.  His dark eyes clouded and all the life seemed to go out of him. "That's my sister, Carla.  She died in an accident while she was attending the Wainwright Academy.  She and some other girls were on a field trip to Rainbow Falls.  Carla fell off a cliff and crushed her head on a rock at the bottom . . ."  He looked away to gaze out the window.
       "I know," Deborah choked out as a black cloud of despair settled over her.  There was no use pretending.  He would find out sooner or later, anyway.
       Milo turned back to Deborah.  He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes as he studied her.  She felt like an insect trapped by a collector's pin.
       Finally, he spoke.  "I think I just figured something out.  You're Deborah Kent, the teacher who was responsible for my sister's death."    

       Deborah held her breath until she heard the front door close, then she let it out in a long whoosh.  Ever since she learned Milo was Carla's brother, she'd been a nervous wreck.  She still could hardly believe it. She thought she had put the past behind her, and then he turned up.  And he wanted her to tell him about the accident.
       No way.
       Yet, she understood why he wanted to know everything he could about it.  Carla was his sister, and he obviously had been very fond of her.  She remembered the pain in his dark eyes and the deepening of tension lines around his mouth when he spoke of Carla's death.
       But no, she couldn't go through it again, not even for Carla's brother.  He would have to be satisfied with what he had been able to glean from others and from reading the official accident report.
       Deborah sagged against the back of the sofa for another five minutes, then she forced herself to get up.  She was not going to be scared off by the notes or by Milo's sudden appearance and outrageous request.
       She had been on the run for the past seven years.  It was time to stop running and get on with her life.  That life was here in Fairfield, in this home that was now hers, thanks to her dear guardian, Rose Dobson.  She would turn this lovely old Victorian home into a successful bed and breakfast, as she had planned.
       Her gaze fell on the notes, still lying on the coffee table.  The reminder of their hateful message set her stomach churning.  How dare someone threaten her!  She wanted to toss the notes in the wastebasket.
       However, she fought the urge, thinking that sometime she might need them for evidence.  Folding the slips of paper neatly together, she placed them in the end table drawer.
       She had just finished dinner when the phone rang.  The caller was a mechanic from Johnson's Auto Repair.  "Your car has a bad fuel pump," he told her.  "Luckily, we have one in stock that will fit.  I can have the car fixed and delivered to you sometime tomorrow morning."
       "That would be great," Deborah said.  "Did the pump just go bad? I mean, did it wear out?"
       "The vacuum hose had a hole in it.  I couldn't say for sure how it got there.  Looks like something ate through it, like, maybe, acid."
       Acid?  That sounded sinister.  "Is there any acid nearby that could have dripped onto it?" Deborah asked.
       "None that I know of," he said.  "But, anyway, we'll have the car up and running for you tomorrow.  Just need to replace that hose."
       The mysterious hole in the car's vacuum hose set Deborah's nerves to jangling again.  Should she assume someone did tamper with her car, and that it was the same person who sent her the notes?
       Then she reminded herself that she was not going to heed the notes. It didn't sound as though she would ever know for sure what happened with the fuel pump, so perhaps she should ignore that problem as well.
       Resolutely, she sat down with her list of projects for the house renovation.  At first, the list had been so daunting, she had almost given up before she started.  But when she decided to concentrate on only one step at a time, the project became manageable.  So far, anyway.
       The remodeling would consume most of her savings and the cash from Rose Dobson's estate, left to Deborah along with the house.  She had set January of next year as her opening date.  That gave her a little over three months to get everything done.
       Deborah's planning session took her mind off the day's unsettling events.  For a while, at least.  Then her thoughts strayed to Milo Jordan. The image of the tall, olive-skinned man filled her mind.  The way he'd so masterfully come to her rescue. The easy, friendly smile with which he'd first greeted her.  The moments of camaraderie they'd shared at his home.
       Those pleasant images suddenly vanished, and she saw once again the cold, hard look in his eyes when he'd learned her identity.  Deborah shivered and hugged her arms.  What an awful moment that had been.
       Why, oh why did he have to be Carla's brother? her heart cried out. Of all the men in the entire world, why that particular man?
        That night, a dream disturbed Deborah's sleep.  It began with her standing on the cliff at Rainbow Falls, gazing down at Carla lying on the big, flat yellow rock at the bottom.  Terror clutched Deborah's heart at the sight of the inert body.  The young woman lay prone, her arms outstretched, her black hair spread out around her head like a wreath.  Was Carla dead?  Deborah must go down and find out.
       She ran down a narrow and winding dirt path.  When she was about halfway down, Deborah suddenly stopped running.  Why?  Had she seen something?  Heard something?  She didn't know.  It was all so confusing.
       She started off again.  She went a short distance, then tripped over an exposed tree root sticking out over the path.  She fell forward, her head slamming into a large rock.  Everything went black.
       She woke up from the nightmare with a scream tearing out of her throat.
       When Deborah realized she was only dreaming, she calmed down a little.  Raising herself to a sitting position, she hugged her knees and thought about the dream.  She'd had it often during the past seven years. It depicted what really occurred that day:  Deborah had been searching for Carla and saw her body lying on the rock at the bottom of the falls.  She ran down a path, trying to reach her.  She tripped, hit her head, and lost consciousness.
       But tonight's dream added something new, the part where Deborah had stopped running.  Now she remembered that really happened, too; but she could not recall what interrupted her flight down the path.  Her memory of those moments had been somehow erased.
       Deborah pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to remember. She tried until her head began to hurt and her nerves felt tied in knots.
       Finally, she gave up and sank back against the pillow.  She lay there recalling how she had told the police investigators about her lost moments, but they had not considered it important.  She also mentioned it to the psychiatrist who counseled her after the accident.  He, too, attached little significance to the few seconds she could not remember.  He focused instead on helping her through the post-traumatic anxiety she was experiencing.
       Tonight's dream made Deborah aware of those forgotten moments again.  Maybe something important had happened then.  Maybe she had seen someone or heard something.
       If she had seen a person, and he or she had been involved with Carla's fall, then that might explain the threatening notes she had received.  Of course, that person would not want her back in town, would not want her around in case her memory suddenly returned.
       Perhaps that person was outside her house now, lurking around the yard.  Deborah climbed out of bed and crept to the window.  Edging aside the pull-down blind, she peeked out.  Moonlight's soft yellow glow illuminated the backyard, the roof of the porch, the stone walkway that led to the holly bushes bordering her property.
       A movement by the bushes caught her eye.  Her heartbeat leaped to her throat, her hand holding the blind shook.  Someone was out there!
       Then a long, skinny black cat ambled into view.  High-stepping across the walk, tail waving, he disappeared into the shadows.
       Deborah breathed a sigh of relief and crawled back into bed.  She pulled the covers up around her chin and told herself to relax.  She was letting her imagination run away with her.  Carla's death was an accident, as the inquest had determined.  An accident for which Deborah was ultimately responsible, but an accident, nonetheless.  There were no forgotten moments, and the notes were simply a prank engineered by a spiteful, though harmless, person.
       Deborah had returned to Fairfield with a goal, which she was determined to reach.  Despite her mistake, she had the right to make a life for herself.
       Still, the dream haunted her all through the long night.
        The next morning, while Deborah ate her cereal and toast, she thought about Milo Jordan.  Would she ever see him again, or would he give up trying to convince her to discuss his sister's death?  She realized she wanted to see him again, despite the painful circumstances.  Being in his arms yesterday, even for those brief moments, had filled her with a warmth she couldn't forget.
       As Deborah stacked her dishes in the dishwasher, the doorbell rang. Her heart thudded.  Could it possibly be Milo?
       But no, her caller was the mechanic from Johnson's Auto Repair, delivering her car.  She thanked him for his prompt service and wrote out a check for the bill.
       After he left, she unloaded the furniture she had bought at the flea market.  With that stowed in an empty room upstairs, she made a list of errands to run in town.  Last, but certainly not least, would be lunch with Jay Grant's wife, Lacey.  The two women had become friends when Deborah and Jay both taught at Wainwright.  Deborah looked forward to getting together with Lacey, whom she had seen only briefly since she'd been back in town.  Today they would have time to talk and renew their friendship.
       She was on her way to the front door when the doorbell rang again. Milo?  No, this time her visitor was Albert Healy, a young salesman from the Healy Realty and Development Company.
       In his mid-twenties, Albert had a long, thin face and reddish-brown hair combed straight back from a high forehead.  His company uniform of navy blue suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie, hung on his lanky form.
       Albert peered at her through the screen door.  "Hello, Miss Kent. I hope I'm not calling too early?"
       "I'm just leaving.  What did you want to see me about?"
       "Just wanted to remind you that we're still very interested in purchasing your property."  He shoved his hands in his slacks' pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet.
       Deborah could have guessed as much.  Since her return to Fairfield, Albert had been pestering her to sell out to the Healy Company, owned by his father, Damon.  They had developed an area of attractive saltbox homes behind the cul-de-sac.  Now, they wanted to expand the development to include her acreage.
       "I haven't changed my mind, Albert," Deborah said firmly.  "The answer is still no."  Car keys in hand, she opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch.
       "I don't understand why you won't sell," Albert pursued.  "We're making you an offer no one else would refuse."
       "As I've told you repeatedly, I intend to use this house as my livelihood."  Without looking at him, Deborah crossed the porch and descended the steps.
       "This town doesn't need another bed and breakfast," he argued, close on her heels.  "Besides, your old Victorian will be out of place next to our new houses."
       "I don't care.  I'll plant a border of tall trees behind my house so no one from the development will see it."
       "Trees take years to grow."
       Not wanting to continue the argument, Deborah bit her lip to keep silent.
       "My father wants to meet with you," Albert said.
       Deborah definitely did not want to meet with Albert's father, Damon.  He had been on the Wainwright Academy's Board of Directors when she taught there.  Although he enthusiastically had favored her hiring, he was very vocal in recommending her dismissal after Carla's death.  And now he wanted her to sell her property to him.  Of all the nerve.  If she did want to sell, it certainly wouldn't be to Damon Healy.
       "I'm too busy for any meeting," Deborah said.  As they passed by the twin maple trees, a few leaves dropped, were caught in the light breeze, and fluttered slowly to the ground.  Deborah reached her car and bent to unlock the door.  "I want to open my B and B by next January, and I have a lot to do yet."
       "You'll be sorry," Albert said.
       Deborah whirled around and stared at him.  His eyes bored into her and his thin lips had a cruel twist to them.  A shiver rattled down Deborah's spine.  This was a side of Albert she hadn't seen before.
       "Are you threatening me?" she demanded.
       His silence radiated tension into the crisp autumn air.  Then he slipped his hands into his jacket pockets and said, calmly, "I'm not threatening you.  I just know you'll really be sorry if you don't accept our generous offer.  It'll take years to make as much with your bed and breakfast operation."
       "I'm sticking to my decision, Mr. Healy," she said firmly.
       "I'll check with you another time," he said, apparently determined to have the last word.
       As Deborah watched Albert Healy drive away in his blue BMW, it suddenly occurred to her that he or his father might have written the threatening notes she had received.  They obviously were eager to acquire her property, and annoyed that she refused to sell to them.  And of course they knew all about her involvement with Carla's accident.
       If they were behind the notes, she wondered how far they would go before they took no for an answer.

Chapter Two

       Albert's unpleasant visit followed Deborah liked a dark cloud over her head as she carried on with her errands.  It was difficult to concentrate on what she wanted to do.  But, at Ripley's Paint and Wallpaper store, she managed to choose a brown stain and a flowered print wallpaper for the parlor.  By the time she added paintbrushes, thinner, and cheesecloth, she had enough to fill several bags.
       As she loaded her purchases in the trunk of her car, she looked up to see a young couple walking by.  The woman stopped in her tracks and stared at Deborah.  "Miss Kent?" she said, tentatively.
       "Yes, I'm Deborah Kent."
       A mixture of emotions flooded through Deborah as she recognized Piper McCaffrey.  Piper had been one of Deborah's students at the Wainwright Academy.  She had also been Carla Cassidy's best friend, and was on the field trip that fateful day seven years ago.  Deborah remembered how Carla and Piper had sat together in the back seat of the school van.
       Piper certainly looked different now, though.  The chunky, baby-faced teenager Deborah remembered had developed into a slim, attractive young woman.  She looked chic and professional in her  stylish green wool pantsuit and brown pumps.  A green ribbon held her long, chestnut brown hair at the nape, and a large leather shoulder bag was slung over one shoulder.
       "I heard you'd come back," Piper said.  She gestured to her companion.  "You remember Doug Jaspers, don't you?"
       Deborah's gaze shifted to Piper's companion.  Unlike Piper, Doug Jaspers hadn't changed at all since the days when he had been Fairfield High's star pitcher.  He still had the same thick neck, broad shoulders, and narrow hips.  He still looked like a jock, too, in his jeans, sweat shirt, and red baseball cap.
       "Yes, I do.  Hello, Doug."
       "Hello, Miss Kent," Doug said.  His voice sounded distant and cold, and his mouth barely turned up at the corners.
       Although Deborah couldn't help recoiling a bit, Doug's cold reception did not surprise her.  He had been Carla's boyfriend at the time of her death, and afterward was very outspoken in laying the blame for the young woman's accident on Deborah.
       Piper said, "Are you going to stay in Fairfield, Miss Kent?"
       Deborah nodded.  "Rose Dobson willed me her house.  I'm turning it into a bed and breakfast.  I have lots of work to do, though."  She nodded at her trunk full of paint supplies, then slammed the lid shut.  "What are you doing these days?" she asked Piper.
       Piper pulled the strap of her bag more securely onto her shoulder. "I'm a journalist."
       "Really!"  That pleased Deborah.  She had taught Piper English for only a couple of months, but she had quickly seen the girl's talent for writing.
       Piper continued, "After graduating from Wainwright, I went on to the university.  I got my bachelor's degree, enrolled in graduate school and have almost finished my master's."
       "Good for you!" Deborah enthused.  "Then what are you going to do?"
       "I'm not sure.  I'm most interested in investigative journalism, but there's not much opportunity for that in Fairfield.  I'd have a better chance in a larger city."
       "Someplace like Burlington, I suppose."
       "Yes, but I don't know whether or not I want to leave Fairfield . . ."  Piper's glance in Doug's direction gave Deborah the distinct impression that the two were having a relationship.
       "What about you, Doug?" Deborah asked, determined to be polite to him, even though he had given her an icy reception.
       "I'm working at Bryan's TV and Appliances.  I'm also manager of the Fairfield Falcons."  He pointed to his baseball cap, where "Falcons" was stitched in white across the front.
       Deborah nodded, remembering the town's baseball team.
       Piper spoke up.  "Would you like to have lunch sometime, Miss Kent?"
       Deborah was so accustomed to being the pariah in Fairfield, that Piper's overture of friendliness caught her off guard.  "Why, yes, I'd like that," she managed to say.  "When would be good for you?"
       From the corner of her eye, Deborah caught Doug's frown.  Before Piper could reply, Doug grabbed her hand and pulled her forward.  "We don't have time to discuss that now, Piper."
       Piper opened her mouth, as though she wanted to chastise Doug for his rudeness.  However, she trotted along obediently beside him.  "I'll call you," she said over her shoulder to Deborah.
       "Please do!" Deborah returned.  "My phone number is listed." 
Deborah spread another brushful of walnut stain on the parlor wainscoting, then paused to look at the clock on the mantel.  Five p.m., already.  Time had certainly flown since she'd begun painting after lunch. Were it an ordinary day, she would take a short dinner break, then resume work for a couple of hours into the evening.
       But today was Saturday, and the Grants's dinner party started in one hour.  She'd better stop working and get ready.  She closed the paint can, cleaned her brushes in a jar of thinner, then went upstairs.
       Half an hour later, she trotted back down, dressed in navy slacks and a bright red sweater with a navy flower appliqued on the front.  She was studying the directions Lacey had given her to the Grants's new home when the doorbell rang.
       Peeking through the lace curtains, Deborah saw Milo Jordan standing under the glow of the porch light.  Her heart began to thud.  She had been thinking about seeing him at the party tonight, and now he turned up at her door.  What did he want?   Had he come here expecting to escort her to the party?  If so, that was awfully presumptuous of him.
       When Deborah opened the door and saw him up close, her breath caught in her throat.  He looked devastatingly handsome in black slacks, beige pullover sweater, and black suede jacket.  His hair was as thick and dark as she remembered, sweeping across his ears to dip toward his collar in the back.
       "Hello, Milo," she said when she gained control of her breathing.
       "Hello, Deborah."   His hands rested casually on his slim hips, but his deepset brown eyes were full of challenge as he gazed down at her. "I've come to take you to the Grants's party."
       "I thought that might be the case, but why didn't you call first?"
       "I figured if I called, you'd refuse, so I decided to just show up."
       Deborah lifted her chin.  "I could still say no."
       "But you won't," he said, drawing his well-shaped brows together in a disapproving frown.  "Not after I've made the trip all the way here to get you."
       He was right; despite his boldness, she couldn't be that rude. Besides, she wanted to be in his company again, no matter what.
       "All right, I'll go with you," she said.  "Come in while I get my purse and jacket."  She opened the door and he stepped inside.  His large presence filled the foyer, and his nearness set her heart to pounding like a trip hammer.  "Wait here a minute, and I'll be right back."
       "Sure."
       Milo watched Deborah turn and head toward the parlor, leaving a faint trail of perfume behind.  Her red sweater hugged her small waistline and the navy slacks showed off nicely rounded hips.
       However, as much as her looks pleased him, he knew he was crazy to have come here, especially unannounced.  But when Jay told him Deborah was attending their dinner party, he immediately visualized them going together.  Unable to purge the tempting image from his mind, he had detoured over here on his way to the Grants's.
       You just want to be with her so you can talk her into investigating Carla's accident, an inner voice accused.  And she knows that.  You're not fooling anyone.
       So what? another voice challenged.  She owed it to him; he wasn't going to forget that.
       Deborah returned, carrying a white nubby wool jacket, a white clutch purse and a piece of paper.  "Directions," she said, waving the paper.  "Do we need them?"
       He shook his head.  "I know the way.  But you'd better put on your jacket.  It's cold outside."
       Lifting the jacket from her hands, he held it out for her. Obligingly, she shrugged into the sleeves.  He pressed the coat against her shoulders, letting his hands linger on the textured wool.  Underneath the fabric, he could feel the outlines of her slim shoulders.  She reached back with one hand to prevent her hair from snagging on the upturned collar, sending out another whiff of her perfume.
       Milo now had serious doubts about the wisdom of this venture.  The moment he was in her presence, he had trouble corralling his attraction to her.  Like now, for instance.  He had the sudden urge to suggest they skip the party, have a quiet, intimate dinner for two somewhere, and spend the rest of the evening getting to know one another better.
       "Let's go," he said gruffly, giving her shoulders a final pat.
       Deborah allowed Milo to tuck her into his car and make sure she had her seatbelt fastened properly.  Despite her uneasiness around him, his attention to these small details made her feel pampered and protected.
       They sped through the night, the car's headlights cutting a wide swath in the heavy darkness.  Milo turned on the heater, and a cozy warmth enveloped Deborah.
       Still, she cautioned herself not to relax too much.  She must remain on guard, for any minute now, he would start probing about Carla's accident.
       But he didn't.  Instead, he said, "So, what have you been up to since I last saw you?"
       "I've been busy working on the house.  I painted the parlor wainscoting today.  Wallpaper is next."
       "Sounds like you're making progress."
       "Yeah, slowly.  How about you?"
       "I bought another thoroughbred, this one from a guy in Dayton."  He went on to tell her more about the horse and his plans to breed him to one of his mares.
       Deborah enjoyed the conversation, but had trouble keeping her mind on it.  Her gaze kept straying to his profile, so masculine-looking, with his blade of a nose and firm chin.  She loved the way his dark hair swept over his ears and grazed his collar.  She had a sudden urge to run her fingers through it.
       She looked at his arms and remembered their tender, sustaining strength the day they had found the note in her screen door.  What was happening to her? she wondered.
       Time passed quickly, and they soon arrived at the Grants's. Deborah gazed at the huge white colonial, set in the midst of an exclusive subdivision.  "Well, this is quite a bit bigger and more elegant than the house Jay and Lacey lived in seven years ago.  Becoming the headmaster of Wainwright must have really put Jay in the money."
       "I'm sure he makes a very generous salary," Milo agreed.
       He parked the car behind a line of late-model vehicles in the circular driveway and they got out.
       As they mounted the steps to the porch, Deborah's stomach suddenly began to churn.  She had been pep-talking herself since Lacey's invitation, so that she would not be nervous about coming.  But now that she was here, apprehension pushed to the surface.  What if someone mentioned the accident?  Would Milo bring it up?  Surely not.  No matter what he might feel toward her, she did not think he would intentionally embarrass her. Still, someone else might.  Damon Healy, for example.
       The urge to turn around and run home made her knees so weak she could barely continue climbing the steps.  If she had driven her own car, she would have given in and made a hasty retreat.  But with Milo as her escort, that was impossible.  It took all her courage to stand calmly while he pushed the doorbell.
       He must have sensed her distress, as he gazed down at her and touched her elbow lightly with his fingers.  "Are you all right?"
       "Of course, I am," she said staunchly.
       A maid wearing a black uniform admitted them.  She took their jackets, then led them into a large, high-ceiling room resplendent with brocade-covered chairs and sofas, and gilt-framed pictures and mirrors.  A cheerful fire crackled in a white marble-faced fireplace.  Lacey, Jay, and six other people stood in small clusters, drinking cocktails and eating hors d'oeuvres.  Their conversation mingled with the light classical music coming from the stereo console against one wall.
       A tall, older man with reddish-white hair caught Deborah's eye. Damon Healy.  Her stomach did a flip-flop.  He didn't see her, though, because he was busy talking to another man.
       Deborah's gaze moved on to Lacey.  She looked stunning in dark brown slacks and a tan silk blouse with long, full sleeves.  One hand clutched a martini glass.  Spotting Milo and Deborah, she left the group and came toward them.  Was she teetering? Deborah wondered, or was it her ridiculously high heels on the plush carpet that created that impression?
       "Deborah and Milo," Lacy said, as her gaze swept them.  "What a coincidence, your arriving at the same time."  Her penciled eyebrows arched in a way that encouraged, if not demanded, an explanation.
       Deborah glanced at Milo, who said smoothly, "We came together."
       Lacey's eyebrows peaked even higher.  "You did?"
       "That's right," Deborah said, sending Lacey a look that begged her to drop the subject.
       "Well, isn't that nice."  She paused to gulp her drink.  "Come join the group.  Oh, Jay," she called, "Deborah and Milo are here."
       Jay, standing near the mantel, looked their way.  A smile lighted his angular face.  "Deborah!"  He set his drink on a coffee table and with long strides rushed over and enveloped Deborah in a big bear hug.  Happy to see her old friend, Deborah hugged him back.
       "Let me look at you," Jay said as he released her and held her at arm's length.  "You haven't changed a bit, only grown prettier."
       "Thank you," Deborah said.
       Deborah didn't know what to say in return, for Jay Grant had changed considerably.  Seven years ago his hair had been a healthy brown; now it was thinning on top and streaked with gray.  His cheeks showed deep grooves between nose and mouth, and his eyes, although still a compelling midnight blue, reflected a curious sadness.  Or perhaps it was a weariness; Deborah wasn't sure which.
       Fortunately, she didn't have to comment on his appearance, for he was greeting Milo with a hearty handshake.  Then he said to both of them, "I'll introduce you to our other guests."
       Two couples, the Thurmans and the Foxes, were associated with the various agencies for which Lacey volunteered.  They seemed open and friendly.  But when Deborah tried to exchange small talk with them, Damon Healy's steely gaze made it difficult to concentrate.
       Hang on, she told herself, as her stomach started to churn.  You can handle this.
       Then Jay was saying, "You remember Damon and Ester Healy, don't you, Deborah?"
       "Of course."  Deborah turned to meet the eyes of her old adversary.
       "Hello, Deborah," Damon said, in that rumbling voice she had heard so often around the Wainwright Academy.  Most of all, she remembered hearing that voice denounce her as an unfit teacher after Carla's accident. Memories of that day crowded into her mind, and she struggled to push them away.  Now was not the time to wallow in the pain of the past.
       "So Rose Dobson left her property to you."  Ester, Damon's plump wife, launched into a subject Deborah hoped would not be brought up this evening.
       Deborah had barely nodded when Ester went on, "Rose was such a nice person.  I felt bad when her husband, Hank, ran off.  Did she ever hear from him again?"
       "Not that I know of," Deborah said.
       Ester pushed back a lock of the gray hair that framed her dainty-featured face.  "Well, Rose was a strong person, and she apparently got along just fine without him."
       "Yes, she did," Deborah agreed.
       Milo and Damon were talking, but Deborah felt Damon's gaze still on her.  How would she survive the evening if he kept staring at her like that?  Thankfully, Jay soon swept her and Milo off to the bar at the other end of the room.
       "Is anything wrong?"  Milo grasped her elbow lightly as he whispered in her ear.
       "Everything is fine," she said.
       Deborah wished she could confide in him.  But even if she could, now was not the time.
       A few minutes later, Deborah sipped from a glass of white wine and munched a shrimp hors d'oeuvre.  Jay and Milo were deep in conversation about horses, and she looked around for someone else to talk to.  Out of nowhere, Damon Healy appeared at her side.  Deborah heaved a sigh.  Okay, she might as well get their confrontation over with.
       "I'm sure my son Albert has told you how much we want to buy your property," he said.
       "He has," Deborah said.  "And I'm sure he's told you that I'm not going to sell."
       "Oh, I don't pay any attention to that."  Damon waved his hand, signifiying the unimportance of Deborah's refusal.  "You'll come around."
       Deborah shook her head.  "You're wasting your time.  And I don't want to talk about it anymore."
       "Very well."  Damon shrugged his shoulders and rubbed his large nose with one forefinger.  "But, sooner or later, I always get what I want."
       Damon's menacing tone sent a shiver skittering up Deborah's spine. First Albert had threatened her, and now Damon.  She said firmly, "Not this time.  Now if you'll excuse me?"  Deborah steeled herself to stroll away as if she hadn't a care in the world.
       She glanced around and immediately caught Milo's eye.  He was still talking to Jay, but he was watching her, and she had the feeling he had witnessed the exchange between herself and Damon Healy.
       Milo quirked one eyebrow in a questioning way, as though asking if everything was all right.  He certainly was perceptive, Deborah thought. He seemed to sense her every emotional nuance.  She nodded and smiled. Then she headed for the fireplace, where Lacey and the other women were discussing the landscape painting hanging over the mantel.
       Dinner was served in the spacious dining room, under a crystal chandelier that set the room aglow.  Much to Deborah's relief, the Healys were at the opposite end of the long table from her and Milo.
       Tension seeped from her, and she relaxed enough to enjoy the excellent chicken cordon bleu, as well as the frequent gazes from Milo sitting across from her.  Whenever their eyes met, her heart began to hammer.
       Then Elaine Fox looked at Deborah and asked, "So, Deborah, how do you come to know the Grants?"
       Unfortunately, the question came during a lull in everyone else's conversation, and all ears were immediately tuned for her answer.  A lump formed in Deborah's throat.  She didn't want to reply, because Elaine might probe with more questions, but she knew she must.
       "I met them when I lived in Fairfield seven years ago," she said.
       As she had feared, Elaine asked, "Were you working here, then?"
       Deborah hesitated, then lifted her chin. "Jay and I both taught at Wainwright."  There, it was out.  Deborah prayed that would be the end of it.
       Unfortunately, it wasn't.
       "My mother was an English teacher," Trina Thurman said.  "We need good English teachers who will encourage kids to read more.  Most kids watch too much TV and play too many video games."
       The group nodded in agreement.
       "We always read to our son Albert when he was little," Ester Healy said from her end of the table.  "But I made sure they were stories I liked, too."
       Everyone laughed, including Deborah.  Now that the conversation had veered away from her, she relaxed and took another bite of chicken.
       Then she noticed Gary Fox stroking his beard and looking thoughtfully at her.  Oh oh, she thought, what now?
       "You taught at Wainwright seven years ago, Deborah?" Gary said. "Then you must have been there when one of the students was killed up at Rainbow Falls.  Elaine and I moved here about six months afterward and we heard about it then.  We were told a teacher was responsible for the girl's death."
       Everyone's attention was glued to Deborah as they waited for her to speak.  She took a deep breath, and said, "Yes, I was here when it happened.  In fact, I was the teacher who took the girls on the field trip that day."
       A silence spread over the room like a cloud of poisonous gas. Heartsick, Deborah wished the floor would open up and swallow her.  Why had she ever come this evening?  She should have known it would be a disaster. She should have known she couldn't come back to Fairfield and lead a normal life.  A life in which her past would remain hidden.
       She saw that Milo's lips had thinned and his eyes looked like dark thunderclouds.  He said, in a strained voice, "The girl who died was my sister, Carla Cassidy."
       Gary's mouth fell open.  "I'm sorry, I didn't know."  He tugged nervously at his beard.
       For several long seconds, the clinking of sterling silver against gold-rimmed plates was the only sound in the high-ceiling room.  Deborah dared to glance at Damon Healy, saw the triumphant gleam in his eyes.  He's happy the subject came up, she thought.  He knows I'm still vulnerable about the accident.
       Deborah shifted her gaze to Milo.  Her heart plummeted when she saw the bleak way he was looking at her.  Obviously, the mention of the accident had destroyed any warm feelings he might have had toward her.
       Well, what had she expected?  Didn't this incident prove Carla's accident would always be between them?  She had been a fool to ever think they might have a normal relationship.
       Finally, Lacey said loudly, "So, who's going to win the vacant town council seat in November's election?" and conversation blossomed again.
       Deborah tried to finish eating, but the food stuck in her throat. She set her fork down and buried her hands in her lap, twisting them together nervously.  She couldn't wait for the evening to end.  What a mistake it had been to come here tonight.
       At last they adjourned to the living room for coffee and after dinner drinks.  Lacey, martini glass in hand, approached Deborah and whispered in her ear, "I'm sorry Gary put you on the spot, honey.  I was hoping we'd get through the evening without your being embarrassed."
       "It's all right," Deborah reassured her friend.  "If I'm going to live here, I'll have to get used to it."
       But it wasn't all right.  Although no one said any more about the accident, Deborah felt increasingly uncomfortable.  Whenever two of the guests put their heads together to discuss something, she imagined they were talking about her.  She desperately wanted to leave, but didn't want to be the one to break up the party.  Everyone would think she was running away out of shame and embarrassment.
       Just when Deborah thought her battered nerves couldn't take another minute, Elaine Fox looked at her wristwatch and said, "My goodness, it's ten-thirty already!  We'd better be going.  I told our babysitter we'd be back before eleven."
       The Thurmans echoed Elaine's words, and Lacey sent the maid for everyone's coats.  A few minutes later, Milo helped Deborah slip into her wool jacket.  He kept his distance, she noticed, withdrawing his hands as soon as she had her arms in the sleeves.  His aloofness made her even more miserable.
       Deborah turned to Jay.  "Thank you for a lovely evening," she forced herself to say.
       "Glad you could come," Jay said.  "We must get together again soon."
       "I'd like that," Deborah said.
       Lacey suddenly burst out with a loud peal of laughter over a remark from Ester Healy.  She waved her martini glass and some of the contents sloshed onto her sleeve.  A large stain spread along the fabric, but she didn't seem to notice.
       Deborah saw Jay's brows gather into a frown as he looked at Lacey. He opened his mouth as though to say something, then clamped his jaws shut. When he turned back to Deborah, he was smiling again, driving the creases deeper into his cheeks.
       "Why don't you two return home by Ridge Drive?" Jay said to her and Milo.  "It has a great view of the city."
       "We might do that," Milo said.  
As they put miles between them and the Grants's, Deborah hoped she would unwind.  She settled as far into the leather seat as she could and leaned her head back.  Opening her window a couple of inches, she allowed the cool night air to flow over her hot cheeks and ruffle her bangs.
       Still, her insides were coiled as tightly as baling wire.  As they passed under a streetlamp, she glanced at Milo.  His jaw was set, his hands gripped the wheel.  He had not uttered a word since they left the party. Well, she wasn't going to be the one to break the silence.  There was nothing she could say that would relieve the situation, anyway.  The evening had been a total disaster.
       She had expected him to ignore Jay's suggestion that they return via Ridge Drive.  It was longer than the way they had come, and undoubtedly he would want to get rid of her as soon as he could.  But, to her surprise, Milo turned onto the scenic road, after all.
       Any other night, Deborah would have enjoyed gazing at the lights of Fairfield twinkling below them.  But tonight, sadness filled her.  She had looked forward to coming back to the town, to getting her life together. But at this moment she was very sorry she had.
       Deborah was surprised again when Milo pulled off at a viewpoint bordered by a low rock wall.  He cut the engine, and its hum soon faded into the night.  Leaning his head back against the seat, he stretched his arms, then straightened and gazed out the windshield.
       "Jay was right," Milo said.  "There is a good view from here."
       "Uh huh."
       Silence again.
       Deborah shifted in her seat, absently running her fingers over the smooth surface of her white clutch purse.  Why had he stopped here?  She wanted to get home, away from everyone.  Most of all, away from Milo.
       Milo watched the city lights glow through the atmosphere, trying to think what to say to Deborah.  Before he spoke, he wanted to be sure what was going on inside him.
       But he wasn't sure.
       On the one hand, he nursed the angry feelings toward Deborah raised by the mention of Carla's accident.  Feelings that had festered inside him for so long they had taken root.  He was a fool to think he could ever forget them just because she was pretty and soft and kissable.
       On the other, he wanted to put the past behind them and get on with his life, too, the way Deborah said she wanted to get on with hers.
       He cleared his throat.  "Deborah, about what happened tonight . . . I saw how much it hurt you to admit you were the teacher involved in Carla's death."
       She nodded.  "It always hurts to tell people."
       "But you didn't have to tell them."
       "I thought it should come from me, rather than from someone else." Such as Damon Healy, she thought to herself.
       "It was still a brave thing to do."
       He acted like he understood, Deborah mused.  A little glimmer of warmth cut through the coldness that had wrapped around her heart.
       "You were upset, too," she said softly.
       "We're both feeling a lot of pain about Carla."
       "I suppose so."
       Milo stretched his arm along the back of the seat.  He wanted to touch her shoulder, pull her close to him, let their feelings mingle together.  But he was afraid.  He didn't want to start something he might not want to finish.  It wasn't fair to Deborah, or to himself.
       Deborah glanced at him to see if she could read his thoughts. Moonlight illuminated his expressive mouth and square jaw, but deep shadows hid his eyes.  She wished she could move closer to him, curl up, and put her head on his shoulder.  But of course, that was out of the question.
       She heaved a sigh.  "Well, the party is over and I'd better be getting home."
        "Yeah," Milo said.  He withdrew his arm from the back of the seat and started the car.  Feeling suddenly cold, Deborah shivered and hugged her arms.
       They finished the ride with a few remarks of small talk.  When they arrived at her house, Milo walked her to the door.
       "Have you received any more threatening notes?" he asked.
       "No, thank goodness."
       Should she invite him in? she wondered.  If she did, he'd probably refuse, perhaps with a lame excuse that would embarrass both of them.  Then she'd feel even more rejected than she did right now.  But he was leaning toward her, looking at her in a way that she could swear meant he intended to kiss her.
       He reached out and put his hands on her shoulders.  His warm breath glided over her cheek as he came nearer.
       Abruptly, she turned her face away.  "Milo, no . . . I . . ."  What was wrong with her?  Now, he would think she was rejecting him.
       "Deborah . . ."
       While he was speaking, Deborah slipped the key into the lock.  The door glided open, but neither of them stepped over the threshold.  Deborah was still at war within herself about what to do.  Milo's fingers kneaded her shoulder.  Clearly, he was not willing to let her go just yet.
       Then, as seconds stretched to a minute, Milo tipped back his head and sniffed.  "Hey, I think I smell something burning."
       "Burning?"  Deborah took a big gulp of air.  "So do I!"  Alarm sent her heart into a spin, made her forget whether or not she wanted to extend the evening with Milo.
       Breaking away from him, Deborah ran inside.  The smell seemed to be coming from the back of the house.  Aware that he was close behind her, she hurried down the dimly lighted hallway.
       In the kitchen, smoke curled from the open door to the basement. "It's downstairs!" she exclaimed.
       Waving away the smoke, Milo peered into the basement.  "I don't see any flames.  It's more like something smoldering.  I'll take a look."
       Before Deborah could protest or even think if that was the right thing to do, he started down the steps.  Fear clutched her heart as she followed him.  Maybe there weren't any flames now, but there might be by the time they reached the bottom.
       In the cellar, moonlight from a window near the ceiling shone down on a big pile of something in the center of the room.  The smoke came from the pile.  They hurried over to it.  Deborah saw that it was newspapers, some old curtains she had taken down from the bedrooms, and some cardboard file boxes of Rose Dobson's.
       Just then a flicker of orange arose from the smoke.  Quickly Milo grabbed a piece of carpeting lying nearby and began to beat at the flame. Sparks flew and smoke billowed.  Deborah picked up another piece of the carpet and batted the spot, too.
       In seconds, it was out.
       "Whew!" Milo said through a cloud of smoke.
       Deborah ran to a table next to the wall, climbed up on it, and pulled open the window.  She went to the other two windows and did the same.  The cold air wafted in and began to chase away the smoke.
       "I'd say we got here just in time," Milo said.  "A few minutes later and this would have been a job for the fire department."  He looked at the pile.  "Why is all this stuff together like this?"
       "I don't know," Deborah said.  "That's not the way I left it."  She walked to the ceiling light and pulled the cord.  The room flooded with light.  "The newspapers were closer to the wall, and the curtains were on that table over there."  She pointed to the table against the wall.  "And I'm sure the boxes were under the stairs."
       "So someone else shoved them together like this."
       "And set them afire," Deborah said slowly.  "But how?  And when? I'm sure I locked all the doors and windows before leaving tonight."
       "It could have been set with a timing device," Milo said, "to ignite long after the arsonist had come and gone."  Pulling away the charred curtains, he bent to examine the space between them and the newspapers.  "Hey, what's this?" he said, as he picked something up.
       Deborah leaned forward to see.  Without thinking, she placed her hands on his shoulders to help keep her balance.  His corded muscles were firm and solid under her fingers.  Maybe she shouldn't be touching him like that, she thought.  But Milo seemed not to mind, so she remained where she was.  It was nice, leaning against his solid body.
       Milo held what looked like a piece of red rubber.  "This appears to be part of a balloon," he said.  "See, here's the rolled end.  Did you have any balloons down here?"
       "None that I know of.  Maybe it came from one of the cartons."
       "Maybe."
       Together, they searched the space between the curtains and the newspapers.  Bits of charred paper broke off and drifted on the air currents as they pawed through the rubble.  This time Deborah found something interesting, a hollow square made of small lengths of wood. Several pieces were broken where the wood had burned away.
       "I think this goes with the rubber," Milo said.  "See, there's a piece of red rubber attached to one edge."  He pointed to the telltale bit of red impaled by a small tack.
       "I can't imagine what this is," Deborah said.  "Can you?"
       "I'm not sure, but it might be what the arsonist used to start the fire.  Let's take it to the kitchen where we can get a better look."
       The kitchen smelled of smoke, so Deborah took a moment to open a window.  They hung their jackets over chairs and sat down side by side at the table.  Milo put the bit of rubber and the wooden square on the table between them.  They stared at the items for a few moments, then Deborah said, "How could someone start a fire with these things?"
       "The fire department's investigators would be able to tell," he said.  When Deborah didn't respond, Milo added, "You can still call them, even though we put out the fire."
       "I don't want to."  Deborah knotted her hands together in her lap. "They're sure to ask me if I know who might want to set my house on fire."
       "What's wrong with that?" he asked gently.
       Milo leaned closer to her, so close she could reach out and run her finger over his lips, over his faintly bearded jaw.  She wanted desperately to confide in him.  Fighting the near-fire together seemed to have created a bond between them.  It was a tenuous connection, but a connection, nonetheless.
       "Deborah, is there something you're not telling me?"  Milo unclasped her knotted hands, took one and gently rubbed the back of it. "You can trust me."
       His touch blew away Deborah's remaining willpower like dried leaves in an autumn wind.  She heaved a deep sigh, then began, "Okay, Albert and Damon Healy are pressuring me to sell my property to them.  They built the housing development on the other side of the cul-de-sac, and they want to expand it to take in my place."
       Milo's eyebrows raised in surprise.  "I didn't know that.  So that's what you and Damon were talking about so seriously at the party."
       "Yes.  Albert has come by several times to talk me into selling, and Damon waylaid me tonight for the same reason,"
       "What did you tell them?"
       "No, of course.  I'm not the least bit interested in selling."
       "Is there anyone else you can think of who might have set the fire?" he asked, continuing to stroke the back of her hand.
       "Maybe Doug Jaspers.  He was Carla's boyfriend at the time of her accident.  Did you know that?"
       Milo nodded.  "I remember my mother telling me she and Doug were dating."
       "He was very outspoken in blaming me for her accident.  He and Piper McCaffrey appear to be going together now, but he still might want to avenge Carla's death."
       Milo looked thoughtfully at the bits of wood.  "Deborah, you need to call in the fire investigators--and the police.  This might be connected to the notes you've received."
       Deborah shook her head.  "No."
       "You just want to risk being attacked again, is that it?"  Milo's voice rose in irritation.  "Well, you might not be so lucky the next time."
       "Please, Milo, let's drop it."
       Milo gave an exasperated sigh.  "Okay, it's your shot."  He was silent a moment, then he said, "I know a retired fireman who is knowledgeable about arson.  I'm going to show him this stuff, in confidence, and see what he says.  At least then we'd know if my theory is correct."
       "I guess that's okay."
       Her agreement seemed to raise his spirits, and he offered her a brief smile.  "Good.  Do you have a bag I can put this stuff in?"
       Deborah reluctantly pulled her hand away from his, and retrieved a plastic bag from a kitchen drawer.  Milo stuffed the rubber and wood inside.  He stood and picked up his jacket from the chair.  As he gazed down at her, she saw tenderness in his eyes.
       He said, "I don't like the idea of you staying here alone.  Come home with me tonight.  I have a guest room you can use."
       Deborah hesitated.  It would be so easy to give in and place herself in Milo's capable hands.  So easy to allow someone to help her through all this trouble.  But even if she did accept help from someone, it couldn't be Milo.  Never Milo.
       Deborah shook her head.  "Thanks, but I'll stay here."
       Milo hesitated for a long time, one hand stuck in his slacks' pocket jingling his car keys.  Finally, he said, "I suppose there's no use arguing with you."
       "No, there isn't."
       They went down the hall to the foyer, where Milo paused to put on his jacket.  He stuffed the plastic bag into a pocket.  As their eyes met, Deborah felt a strong tug on her heartstrings.  She didn't want him to leave.  Not because she was afraid to be alone, but because she simply wanted to be near him.  His presence both comforted and excited her. Perhaps she should have accepted his invitation to spend the night at his house, after all.
       Milo must have had similar feelings, for he suddenly took a step forward.  With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, he reached out and gathered her in his arms.  He bent his head and nuzzled her neck.  "Oh, Deborah, what are you doing to me?"

Chapter Three

       With a moan, Deborah settled against his broad chest, resting her cheek on his suede jacket.  Being close to him like this put her in heaven. They both reeked of stale smoke, but she didn't care.  She relished his solid warmth, the security his arms provided her.  "I don't know what to say . . ."
       "You don't have to say anything."  He stroked her back until she was completely relaxed against him.  Grasping her chin, he slowly lifted her face to his.  He smoothed her hair from her brow, then intimately rubbed his thumb along her cheekbone.
       In the next moment, Milo's soft, warm mouth settled on hers in a kiss.  A kiss so sweet and tender that Deborah thought she would melt into a puddle at his feet.  He rubbed his lips back and forth, then with his tongue traced the contours of her lips.  A delicious warmth spiraled through Deborah and she opened her mouth, inviting his entrance.  Milo deepened the kiss, probing, delving, stroking.
       She was making a terrible mistake, Deborah thought, as she leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and threading her fingers through his thick hair.  But her attraction to him had grown enormously in the hours they had spent together this evening.  And all the touching they had done earlier had ignited little fires of desire that refused to be ignored, a desire that had led, ultimately, to this moment.  Deborah knew her emotions were dangerously involved; but right now, there was nothing else to do but surrender to his sweet kisses.
       Milo hadn't meant for this to happen.  After what had occurred at the Grants's party, reminding him of Deborah's involvement with Carla's death, he'd intended to drop her off at home and quickly leave.  But the fire had put a new perspective on things.  It emphasized the fact that Deborah was in danger.  Someone was trying to scare her away from Fairfield.  Still, he'd wanted only to help her put out the fire, make sure she was all right, maybe comfort her a little.  He'd even offered his home as a refuge.
       But now, as the velvety softness of her tongue and mouth thrilled him to the core, he realized this situation had escalated far more than he'd ever dreamed it would.  The truth of the matter was, he wanted her. All of her.  Not just her mouth, or her arms around him.  He wanted her in bed.  He wanted her naked body next to his, to explore, to taste, to fill with his own.
       Gently, he caressed the smooth, graceful curves of her back, down to where her hips flared.  She was so vibrant, so beautiful, so incredibly female.  He was fairly sure that she wanted him, too.  She might not admit it, but the desire was there.
       What were they to do? he wondered.  The accident loomed between them, creating a gulf as wide as the Grand Canyon.  How would they ever overcome such an obstacle?
       He realized that Carla's accident haunted her as much as it did him, and seemed to cause her just as much pain.  If only they could put Carla to rest forever, then something might develop between them.
       It was worth a try.
       Milo gently pulled away, although he still kept his arms around her.  "Deborah," he whispered in her ear, "I'm sure you're aware that something is happening here between us."
       "Ummm," she murmured thickly, as though she were not quite alert. "Just physical attraction."
       "That, for sure," he said wryly.  "But maybe it could be more than that.  Look, if we can solve our problem--the problem of Carla--something might develop between us."
       "Never," she said.  "Carla will always be between us."
       Her words stabbed him with doubt.  She might be right.  Still, he believed they had to try.  He said, "I'm  asking you again to help me look into Carla's accident.  Especially since you won't involve the police. Maybe together we can figure out if it's connected to what's happening now."
       When she remained silent, he said impatiently, "Look, it's not just that I want to know what happened to her, you're in danger!  Something has got to be done about that."
       Still, Deborah remained mute.  The seconds stretched into long, tension-filled minutes.  However, Milo felt stubborn enough to stand there all night, if he had to, until she made some response.
       Finally, she spoke, in a voice barely above a whisper,  "There is something about that day that's been nagging me."
       A glimmer of hope sparked inside Milo.  "What?  Share it with me." He leaned his head down eagerly to listen.
       She told him about the lost moments on the path, when she had been trying to reach Carla.  "I had forgotten about it," she said, "because the authorities and my psychiatrist didn't think it was important.  I decided I must have imagined I saw something that I couldn't remember afterward.  But maybe I did see something."
       Deborah raised her head to look at Milo, saw the excited gleam in his dark eyes, the accelerated pulse in the hollow of his throat.  She shouldn't have told him.  Now his hopes would be raised, and maybe nothing would ever come of this.  Then what?  All his talk of something developing between the two of them would have been for nothing.
       But Milo's excitement increased as he said, "Maybe you did! Deborah, we've got to go up to the falls and retrace what happened that day."
       Deborah hesitated.  Could she go through that terrible day again? Even for Milo?
       But she knew Milo was right; she was in danger.  She did not want to wait passively to be attacked again.  She would fight back, and God willing, someday find the peace of mind she so desperately desired.
       "You win," she said softly.  "We'll go to Rainbow Falls and I'll tell you what happened that day."
       "Tomorrow?"
       "Yes, tomorrow."  Having agreed to his request at last, the sooner she got it over with, the better.
       Milo's lips brushed against her cheek in a feathery-soft kiss. "Thank you, Deborah.  You've made the right choice.  And don't be afraid. I'll be with you every step of the way.  I won't let anything happen to you."
       Deborah looked up at him and returned his smile.  But at the same time, icy fingers of fear closed around her heart.   
The following morning, as she waited for Milo, Deborah worried that she was making a big mistake.  Nothing good could possibly come of today's outing.  Milo's tender embraces and kisses last night had mesmerized her. Captured like a poor insect caught in a spider's web, she had finally given in to his demand.
       She was willing to admit her attraction to him.  But was she willing to put herself through a day of emotional pain just to keep him by her side for a few more hours?  For she was sure that once she had told him all the details of that fateful day, he would never want to see her again.
       Promptly at ten o'clock, he appeared at the front door.  Her heart leaped uncontrollably at the sight of him, dressed in jeans, a navy shirt, and leather vest.  Why did he have to be so appealing and handsome?  Why did his masculine aura have to reach out and surround her like no other man's ever had?
       "Hi," she said.  She felt shy, and more than a little embarrassed as she thought about all the kisses they had shared last night.
       "Hi."  Milo smiled with a warmth that put her at ease.
       As he entered, she noticed that he carried a gray metal toolbox and a large paper sack.  "What's that stuff for?" she asked.
       "We're not going to the falls until I install new locks on your doors.  I also brought along a couple of motion detectors.  They will do until you can have a more sophisticated alarm system installed by a security company."
       "Oh, Milo, I can't let you do all that for me."
       "Why not?"
       "You've already done enough.  I can put new locks on myself.  I can probably install the motion detectors, too."
       Milo set the box and the bag down in the entryway and put his hands on his hips.  "I don't care what you say, I'm going to do it, so you might as well save your breath.  I hardly slept last night worrying that someone might break into your house again.  I don't want to spend another sleepless night.  So, humor me, will you?"
       Had he really worried about her all night?  She hadn't slept particularly well last night, either.  But she thought her restlessness was due more to their upcoming trip to the falls than to the fear that her intruder would return.
       "All right," she said, "I'll humor you.  But you must let me  help."
       "The best way you can help is by bringing me a cup of coffee.  I had time for just one quick cup before I left my house.  My day doesn't begin until I've had at least two cups."
       "Coffee coming right up."
       Deborah made a fresh pot, and soon carried two steaming mugs to where he was working on the front door.
       Their eyes met and held as he reached to take one of the mugs.  For a moment, amber lights warmed the dark brown depths of his, causing Deborah's breath to catch in her throat.  She wanted to say something to him, something warm and intimate and personal, but she still felt a little tongue tied.  Milo too looked as though he wanted to discuss more than just new locks and motion detectors.
       Finally, he turned away and sipped his coffee.  "Mmm, this hits the spot."
       Sipping her coffee, Deborah watched Milo change the locks.  His air of confidence indicated he was experienced in this kind of work.  His strong hands assembled the parts of the brass doorknob without faltering, then gripped the screwdriver to fasten the knob in place.
       Deborah's gaze moved to his thick, black hair.  She liked the way it curved over his ears and dipped in back to brush the collar of his shirt.  The two top buttons of his shirt were open, revealing dark chest hair.  His jeans fit snugly over muscular thighs, tapering at the ankles to cover the tops of his brown work boots.
       His rugged look appealed to her, churned up feelings she didn't want to have toward him.  Dangerous feelings.  She took another swallow of coffee, then hurried back to the safety of the kitchen, leaving him to finish his work alone.
       Plunging herself into the routine of cleaning up the breakfast dishes allowed Deborah to distance herself from Milo.   When he entered the kitchen to change the back door's lock and install the motion detector, she thought she had herself well in hand.  Then he handed her the shiny new keys, each one thoughtfully labeled as to which door, and the physical contact sent her senses into a spin again.
       "Okay, let's go," he said.
       Deborah had half hoped a rain storm might postpone their trip; but when they went outside she saw that the day had turned out to be one of autumn's most beautiful.  The sky was a clear, indigo blue, glazed with bright yellow sunlight, and the breeze so light it barely stirred the leaves that were left on the twin maple trees.  It was a perfect day for a ride in the country.  Still, when Deborah's mind focused on the purpose of their journey, a cold chill quickly settled over her.
       "Shall we go directly to the falls?" Milo asked as they headed out to his car.  He carried his toolbox in one hand, while the other rested lightly in the small of Deborah's back, guiding her along.
       Deborah allowed herself to savor his touch a moment, then answered his question.  "Let's start from the Wainwright Academy, just like the students and I did the day of the field trip."
       "The Academy it is."
        Judging by how compatible they had been earlier, Deborah expected them to talk as they drove along, but Milo remained silent.  She soon became aware of a tension radiating from him.  Glancing at his profile, she saw a firmly set jaw and furrowed brows.  He was gripping the wheel tighter than he needed to for the light traffic.
       She said, "Milo, you seem tense.  If you don't want to go through with this . . ."
       Milo gave her a thin smile.  "I guess I am tense.  But I want to go through with it.  I've waited a long time for this."
       He noticed that Deborah's hands were knotted together in her lap. She was as keyed up as he was, he realized.  What he had told her about lying awake most of the night worrying about her was true.  But some of his worry had been about today, too.  Knowing he would be going to Rainbow Falls today had churned up a lot of the old pain and sadness over Carla.
       Maybe kissing Deborah last night had been a mistake.  He was so torn.  A part of him wanted to have positive feelings for Deborah, but another, still very strong part, wanted to remain hard and cold.  Whenever sympathy began to worm its way into his awareness, the steely part of him pushed it away.  What Deborah felt couldn't possibly be compared to his pain.
       As they drove along the road to Castletown, Deborah watched for the spot where she had met Milo.  When they passed it, she recalled her first sight of him, sitting tall and straight on his horse.  She remembered how the attraction had sparked between them, before they had known who the other was.
       She glanced at him, wondering if he, too, would notice the place of their meeting.  But he seemed lost in thought.  She didn't mention it, and instead gazed at the scenery.
       At Castletown, Milo turned onto a side road leading into the foothills.  The road wound and dipped and climbed through groves of towering trees, silver streams and green meadows.  At they rounded one bend, Deborah glimpsed a familiar tower with a clock face.
       "There's the Academy," she said.  "But please don't get too close. I don't want to go on the grounds."
       Deborah had not set foot on Wainwright Academy property since being dismissed from her teaching job, and she certainly didn't want to on this day.
       "There's a viewpoint up ahead," Milo said.  "We'll stop there."
       A few moments later, Milo parked the car against the low stone wall that bordered the viewpoint.  Deborah opened the door and stepped out.  The sun warmed her skin, and the breeze, stronger here than it had been in town, ruffled her short hair.  She walked over to the wall, placed her palms on the cool, rough stones, and looked down at the school, nestled in a valley.
       Memories flooded her as she gazed at the Tudor-style brick buildings.  The one with the clock tower housed the administrative offices and a few classrooms.  To either side of this sat two L-shaped buildings, and behind them a grassy athletic field with covered bleachers.  Partially hidden in a grove of white birch trees, their leaves now in full yellow glory, was a three-story dormitory.
       "My classroom was on the top floor of that building."  Deborah pointed to the L-shaped structure on the left.  "From my window I could see that little stream that winds through the school property."
       "Yes, I can see the stream from here," Milo said.  "It's like a tiny silver thread weaving off into the woods."
       Deborah smiled as memories continued to crowd her mind.  "I remember getting ready for the school year to begin.  I was excited, yet scared, too.  Would the girls like me?  Would I be a good teacher?
       "I put up a bulletin board of cardboard characters from Shakespeare's Hamlet, that we were going to read right away.  I looked at my class list and tried to imagine what each girl would be like.  And after the first day I took home my first set of papers to grade and showed them to Rose Dobson.  She was as excited as I was."
       She felt Milo's hand on her shoulder.  "You really liked teaching, didn't you?" he said softly.
       "Yes.  I had wanted to be a teacher ever since I can remember."
       "Do you know why?"
       "Not exactly, but maybe it was because I always liked being a student.  I was probably the only kid in my high school class who actually looked forward to doing homework.  Anyway, at Wainwright I thought I had fulfilled my dream."
       A happiness spread through Deborah as she thought of the days she had spent at the academy, few though they were.  The halls crowded with the girls, the camaraderie of the other teachers, the exhilaration of teaching.
       Then Milo's deep voice jolted her back to the present.  "We'd better be on our way," he said.
       Deborah's joy fled, and a coldness invaded.  She was a teacher no more.  That part of her life, that she had worked so hard for, was over.
        When they were back in the car and underway again, Milo said, "Why don't you tell me how you came to take the girls on the field trip?"
       Deborah heaved a deep inward sigh.  It was time for her to get on with her story.
       She said, "A month or so after school began, Jay and I were scheduled to take a group of students on a hike to Rainbow Falls.  He planned to give a lesson on the different kinds of trees we would find there.  My lesson was on Thoreau's Walden Pond."
       "But Jay wasn't with you that day."
       "No, he wasn't," she said ruefully.  "Maybe if he had been, things would have turned out differently.  But Jay called in sick.  When I heard that, I thought the trip would be canceled, but Dr. Hamner, who was the headmaster at that time, told me to go ahead and take the girls on the outing.
       "Dr. Hamner hadn't been able to get a substitute teacher for Jay, and I guess he thought I could handle the students by myself.  I thought I could, too. . . ."  Deborah's stomach tightened as a sign that said "Rainbow Falls, Next Exit" came into view.
       "Go on," Milo said, turning at the exit.
       "We all piled into the school van.  There were ten girls, including Carla and Piper McCaffrey."
       "Sounds like a handful."
       "They were a lively bunch, and enthusiastic about the trip.  Except for Carla.  She seemed to have a chip on her shoulder.  I remember that for a long time she sat with her arms folded and stared out the window."
       Milo said, "I'm not surprised.  Carla hated Wainwright.  She wanted to stay in the public school, to be with all the friends she had made over the years.  Especially her boyfriend, Doug Jaspers."
       "I didn't know that at the time.  I wasn't aware of how she hated Wainwright until after the accident.  Her enrolling there had something to do with your mother's remarriage to Ed Cassidy, didn't it?"
       "Yes, Ed had a lot of money, and when he married my mother, he wanted Carla to attend Wainwright.  Mother supported him, but Carla didn't want to go there.  She was furious and threatened to run away.  Mother and Ed told her that if she did, she could stay away forever.
       "So, Carla gave in and enrolled in the Academy.  She was miserable, so I was told.  Then Mother wrote to me that Carla had finally found a friend at Wainwright, and things seemed to be going better for her."
       "That must have been Piper McCaffrey."  Deborah gazed out the window.  They were climbing through a thickly wooded area.  Occasionally, she glimpsed the golden wheat fields of farms nestled in the foothills.
       Presently, Milo swung the car onto another, narrower road. "Rainbow Falls is so isolated," he commented, as the thick, towering trees swallowed them up.  "Why did you choose to go there?  Why not Dover Falls or Blue River Falls?"
       "Jay chose the destination.  He said we would be able to find the trees there that he wanted the girls to learn about.  Besides, we didn't want to be bothered by a lot of tourists taking the autumn colors tour that goes by the other falls."
       A few minutes later, the road ended at a small turn-around. Nearby was a parking lot, empty today, for half a dozen or so cars.  Milo pulled the car into a space and cut the engine.
       The sudden silence roared ominously in Deborah's ears.  Now that they were here, a big lump lodged in her throat and her heart began to thud.  Could she go through with this, after all?
       She felt Milo's heated gaze on her, and for a moment thought she would burn up under it.  Perhaps he, too, was having second thoughts about this trip.  In a minute, he would suggest they return to Fairfield.
       Instead, she heard him say, "Okay, let's get out."
       Opening her door, Deborah stepped out.  At this elevation, the air was sharp and crisp, hinting of colder days all too soon to come.  But the sky was still a deep blue, and the sun a bright yellow ball.  In the distance, she could hear the faint roar of the falls.
       "There's the path we took."  Deborah pointed to a sign that said "Rainbow Falls, 1/2 mile."
       Milo took her hand and led her toward the path.  Under other circumstances, the warmth of his touch would have thrilled her, but the contact was all but lost on her now.  Now all she could think about was what lay ahead.
       Deborah trudged along willingly for a few yards.  Then, as fear welled up within her, she suddenly dug her heels into the dirt.  "No!  I'm sorry, but I can't go through with this!"
       "Please don't lose your courage now."  Milo gently pulled her forward.  "Talk to me, tell me what happened."
       Deborah sighed.  He was right; there was no use coming this far and then chickening out.  Still, it took great effort for her to form the words and make them come out of her mouth.
       "W-we walked along this path, like we are doing now.  I was leading the way, with the girls behind me.  I remember one of the girls left her notebook in the van.  I gave her the keys and she went back for it.  She caught up with us just as we reached the falls."
       "Where was Carla?"
       "She and Piper were bringing up the rear.  Carla seemed to have come out of the bad mood she had been in on the bus, and they were whispering and giggling."
       The path Deborah and Milo were on ended at a cliff protected by a high chainlink fence.  Several wooden picnic tables and benches were scattered about, and nearby sat a large wooden gazebo, that served as a lookout over the falls.
       "We walked over to the gazebo," Deborah said, leading the way.
       They mounted the steps to the gazebo and crossed to the side that looked out over the falls.  The silvery water thundered into the canyon below with a force that vibrated the plank floor beneath them.  A fine mist floated through the air, landing on Deborah's skin in cold droplets.
       The power of the falls never failed to impress Deborah.  "Awesome" was what the Wainwright girls had said as they gazed at the cascading water on that fateful day.
       "Have you ever seen a rainbow here?" Milo asked, bringing Deborah back to the present.
       "Yes, once when I was in high school.  It arced from the left side--"she pointed to the top of the falls--"across the water and down into the canyon.  I took a picture of it that I entered in a contest."
       "Did it win?"
       "Uh huh.  A first prize of fifty dollars."
       "Good for you."
       After looking at the water for a few more moments, Milo said, "Well, we'd better get on with it.  What did you and the girls do next?"
       "We went back to the van, got our picnic lunch, and headed for the meadow."
       From the gazebo, Deborah led Milo up a narrow trail that skirted the parking lot.  Soon they reached a meadow of rich green grass sprinkled with yellow wildflowers and surrounded by a thick woods.
       "We sat under that maple tree and ate our lunch."  She pointed to a tree with enormous girth and an umbrella of dark red leaves.  "I read aloud from Walden Pond.  We talked about how we would feel if we lived alone and isolated, as Thoreau had."
       Milo put his hands on his hips and surveyed the setting from under furrowed brows.  "Did Carla say much?"
       "No, she seemed preoccupied.  I remember she fussed a lot with her hair.  It was tied with a ribbon at the nape, but it kept coming undone. She had such beautiful, thick black hair."
       Like yours, Milo, Deborah wanted to say, but bit back the words in time.
       "After lunch, I gave them Jay's instruction sheet for gathering leaves.  I cautioned them about watching out for poison ivy, and I remember they chanted back at me:  'We know, leaflets three, let it be.'  Deborah smiled at the memory of the girls with their youthful, laughing faces.
       "They paired off and went to get their samples," she continued. "Carla and Piper were partners."
       "And what did you do?" Milo asked.
       Deborah quickly averted her eyes as a wave of shame washed over her.  "I sat under the maple tree and read Thoreau," she admitted in a low voice.
       "You didn't go with the girls?" he asked, sounding incredulous.
       "No.  It never occurred to me that I should.  They were paired up and would be nearby.  I could hear their voices, and whenever I looked up from my book I could see them weaving in and out among the trees."
       "Did you ever count heads, to see that all of them were still there?"
       "No, I didn't."  She added in a whisper, "But if I had it to do over again, I would have."
       "But you don't have it to do over again, do you?" he said in a hard-as-steel voice.
       Deborah cringed inside.  His censure stung more than she cared to admit.  "No, I don't," she said.
       The tightness in Milo's chest threatened to cut off his breathing. He realized he had hoped she would tell him something else, something that would exonerate her.
       But there was no getting around the fact that she shirked her duty. Why did it have to turn out this way?  How could he ever forgive her for being so negligent?
       With great effort, he said, "All right, what happened next?"
       "I told the girls to come back at two o'clock," Deborah said. "That would give them one hour to complete their assignment.  And, at two o'clock, they began to drift back.  They were laughing and giggling, having a good time.
       "I was happy, too.  I considered my first field trip a great success.  I was proud that I had been able to pull it off on my own.  It was almost over; all we had to do was climb back into the van and be on our way."
       Deborah bent down and idly picked up one of the fallen red maple leaves.  Thin and brittle, it broke into jagged pieces in her hands.  She let the pieces drift slowly back to the ground.
       "Then Piper came back alone.  When I asked her where Carla was, she said she had disappeared about half an hour earlier.  Piper hadn't come and told me at the time because she figured Carla would return on her own when it was time for the assignment to be over.
       "I asked the others if they had seen Carla.  No one had.  We all spread out to the edge of the meadow and called her name into the woods." Deborah raised her gaze to the border of trees, as if the girls were there now, running back and forth calling Carla's name.
       "When that didn't get a response, I herded the girls back to the van.  I got them all settled in their seats and instructed them to stay there while I searched for Carla myself."
       "Why didn't you let them search, too?"
       "I didn't dare.  What if someone else had become lost?"
       That seemed to satisfy Milo, so Deborah went on.  "I decided I'd look only for a few minutes, then we'd leave and find help.  I left the girls and hurried to the falls, thinking perhaps Carla had gone there."
       Time suddenly slipped away from Deborah, and it was seven years ago.  Carla was missing!  She must find her!  Unmindful of Milo, she ran across the meadow and back down the path toward the gazebo, calling as she had that day:  "Carla!  Carla!"
       She pounded up the gazebo stairs and across the wooden floor, her heavy steps all but drowning out the roar of the falls.  She ran to the railing and looked down.  "Oh, no!" she cried in anguish.  "There she is, lying on the rocks at the bottom!"  In her mind's eye, Deborah could see Carla lying in a crumpled heap with her black hair fanned on the flat yellow rock.  "I've got to go down to her.  She may still be alive!"

Chapter Three

       Deborah ran past Milo and out of the gazebo, toward a winding dirt path that led to the bottom of the falls.  Pushing aside some low-growing tree branches, she started the downward trek.  She took only a few steps, then lurched to a stop.
       "What's the matter?" she heard Milo ask behind her.  His voice mingled the present with the past.
       "I don't know, but something is wrong."
       Deborah's narrowed eyes searched the surrounding woods as she tried to think what it was, but her mind was a blank.  Moments elapsed, during which she struggled unsuccessfully to grasp the elusive memory.  Then she gave up and began to run down the path again.
       Several twists and turns later, she again stopped.  "Here's where I tripped and fell.  It's gone now, but there was a big root sticking up that I caught my foot on.  And there's the rock where I hit my head."  She pointed to a large, rounded rock partially obscured by an overgrown laurel bush.
       "When time passed and I didn't return to the van, the girls decided to ignore my command to stay there.  They got out and began to search for me.  Piper found me just as I was returning to consciousness.  I wanted to go down to Carla, but I was too dizzy and disoriented."
       Deborah's stomach twisted into a knot as she remembered the anguish of not being able to reach the body lying on the flat yellow rock at the bottom of the falls.
       "One of the girls hiked out to the main road and flagged down a couple on their way to Newport.  They had a car phone and were able to call for help.  The police and medics finally arrived.  When they reached Carla, she was dead."
       Deborah paused as a sob caught in her throat.  She didn't dare to look at Milo.
       Finally, she was able to continue.  "The girls were returned to school.  I was taken to the hospital.  I had a concussion, and they kept me overnight for observation."
       Milo was silent for several moments, as he appeared to digest everything Deborah had told him.  Then he said, "I remember the police report said they didn't think Carla had fallen from the area by the gazebo."
       "No, they thought from one of the other lookouts that are along the path."
       "Let's go down and take a look at them," Milo said.
       Deborah shook her head.  She felt drained and on the verge of collapse.  Her hand shook as she reached to push back a lock of hair.  "No, I don't want to."
       "Our investigation isn't complete without seeing where she might have fallen from," Milo persisted.
       "I'm not making an investigation," she reminded him.  "I'm doing this because you wanted me to.  I never made it all the way down the path on that day, and I'm not going to go down there now."
       Milo regarded her from under furrowed brows for a few moments, then said, "Okay, you can stay here while I go check."
       "I'll wait for you at the gazebo."
       Deborah watched Milo head down the path, his dark hair shining in the sunlight, his broad shoulders swinging as he loped along.  Even after he had disappeared around a bend in the path, she heard his footsteps thudding along the hard-packed ground.  Then all was silent, save for the relentless roar of the waterfall.
       Deborah climbed back up to the gazebo and hunkered down on the bottom step.  Putting her head in her hands, she let the tears fall.  

       Crying released some of Deborah's pent-up tension, and after a few minutes she began to feel better.  By the time Milo returned from the bottom of the falls, she had composed herself and dried her eyes.  He looked at her suspiciously, but he didn't say anything.
       "Did you see the other lookouts?" she asked.
       Milo propped one foot on the bottom step of the gazebo and crossed his arms over his chest.  "Yes, I did, and they're protected by chainlink fences, like this one.  I don't see how anyone could fall from them."
       "She might have been off the path when she fell.  I'm sure there are plenty of dangerous, unprotected places she could have gone."
       Milo nodded thoughtfully, then reached out his hand.  "Let's get out of here."
       They both were silent as Milo drove away from the falls and out to the main road.  Deborah huddled on her side of the seat, feeling miserable. The past couple of hours had drained her, emotionally and physically.
       Deborah sneaked a glance at Milo and saw with dismay the tight, thin line of his mouth, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel.  He must really hate her now, she thought, and in despair turned farther away from him.
       Milo was struggling with a mixture of emotions.  Earlier, he had wanted to help her through the recreation of the accident.  But when she had told him that she sat under the tree reading rather than supervising the girls as they hunted for their leaves, his wanting to help dissolved into cold anger.  Clearly, she had been negligent.
       Why hadn't she watched them more closely, or gone with them on their search?  If she had, perhaps the afternoon would have turned out differently.
       Glancing at her, he saw that she was looking out the window. Sunlight through the glass shimmered on the tip of her nose, on the strands of flaxen hair curving over her forehead.  She looked so small and vulnerable that he suddenly wanted to stop the car and put his arms around her.  He wanted to kiss her and comfort her, tell her that everything was all right, that he understood.
       Then he reminded himself that she had been irresponsible, and that her mistake had cost his sister her life.  How could he ever have warm, positive feelings for such a person?
       Yet, when Milo reached the road to Castletown, instead of continuing on to Fairfield, he found himself turning off toward his farm.
        "Where are we going?" Deborah asked.
       "I thought we'd go to my place for a while," he said casually.
       What was wrong with him? he wondered.  Why didn't he take her straight home and be rid of her?
       "Why?" she asked, as though she wondered the same thing.
       "I thought you might like to go for a horseback ride," he heard himself say.  "We've had a tense day, and I've always found riding to be relaxing."
       A smile tugged at Deborah's lips, pulling her out of the doldrums. She loved to ride.  As a child, she and some friends had gone through what their parents and Rose Dobson called their "horse stage," in which they had practically lived at a nearby stable.
       "That sounds nice," she said.
       Milo flashed his own smile, exposing white teeth to contrast with olive skin, and Deborah experienced a sudden warmth in the pit of her stomach.  Perhaps he didn't hate her so much, after all.
       At Milo's ranch, they found Katie in the kitchen making an apple pie.  "The apples are from trees here on the farm," she told Deborah, as she lined a glass pie plate with a freshly rolled out crust.  A dish of sliced apples and one of sugar and cinnamon sat nearby.  "Will you be around for a piece of this when it's baked?" she asked them.
       Milo said, "You bet.  We're going riding, and we'll be gone just about as long as it takes that pie to bake."  He gave Deborah a wink.
       Out in the stable, Milo showed Deborah his horses.  There were a dozen in all, a mixture of proud thoroughbreds, exotic Arabians, and elegant Morgans.  Each stood in its hay-filled stall, with its name over the door.
       "Which one would you like to ride?" he asked her.
       "Why don't you pick one for me?  You know them better than I."
       "All right, you can have Sabrina.  She's an Arabian; lively, but with a sweet disposition."
       He led her to a stall holding a nutmeg brown horse with the wedge-shaped face Deborah knew characterized the breed.  "She's lovely," she remarked.
       For himself, Milo chose Black Magic, the horse he had been riding when Deborah had met him.
       Deborah stood by while Milo saddled the horses, and soon they riding along, following a dirt trail that led down to the stream.  The peacefulness of the farm wrapped around Deborah like a comforting blanket. Her tense muscles began to relax with the rhythm of Sabrina's easy gait.
       A line of yellow birch trees, their bark peeling in tight little curls, their golden, heart-shaped leaves shimmering in the sunlight, lined the bank of the stream.  Willows dipped their graceful branches into the water.  In contrast to the roaring Rainbow Falls, the stream made only a trickling sound as it meandered along.  The trill of a bird floated out from the deep shadows of the woods.
       "It's beautiful here," Deborah said, as they stopped beside the stream.  Sabrina and Black Magic both ducked their heads to sip the cool water.
       "I think so, too."  Milo gazed at Deborah as though his words might have a different meaning.
       Companionably, they wandered across an arched wooden bridge that spanned the stream, the horses hooves clop-clopping on the heavy planks, then along a narrow trail that led through a meadow with red and yellow wildflowers.
       Milo broke the silence.  "I used to take Carla horseback riding. There was a stable near Castletown where we rented horses.  I think she was only about six or seven when we first went.  I remember we got her a gentle pony, and I held onto the reins while she had her first ride around the yard."
       Deborah heard the wistfulness in Milo's voice.  She was just beginning to relax; but now, with the mention of Carla, her nerves tensed up again.  She didn't know how to reply, either.  She was afraid that whatever she said would be wrong.
       Perhaps just listening was the best.  Even though seven years had passed, she sensed Milo might harbor some grief he still needed to heal. Talking might help.  She remained silent while, for the next several minutes, he talked about his sister, how despite their age differences, they shared a love of horses.
       Milo reined Black Magic to a halt and turned to her.  Distress shadowed his eyes.  "Deborah," he said in a low voice, "I want to talk about the accident again."
       No! Deborah wanted to scream.  Hadn't he had enough of it yet?  She knew she had.  But she couldn't tell him that.  For whatever it cost her, she must go along with him.  If a little more discussion might put the matter to rest once and for all, she guessed she could live through it.
       "All right," she said resignedly.
       "I've been wondering why Carla went down that path to the bottom of the falls."
       "Maybe she just wanted to be on her own for a while."
       "Maybe.  But could she have sneaked off to meet someone?"
       "That question was raised at the time, but nothing turned up to prove that was the case.  The other girls, especially Piper, were asked if they knew anything about Carla meeting someone, but no one did."
       "What about Carla's boyfriend, Doug Jaspers?"
       "Doug was at Fairfield High.  Although he couldn't account for every minute, records showed he attended all his classes that day."
       Milo reached forward to stroke Black Magic's sleek neck.  "Maybe a stranger accosted her."
       "That could have happened, but no evidence of another person's presence was ever found."
       They turned the horses around and began the meander back to the stable. "What about those moments just before you tripped and fell, that you can't recall?" Milo asked.  "Could you have seen someone then?"
       "I don't know.  Whenever I try to remember, my mind goes blank."
       "Maybe you've repressed the memory of whatever or whoever it was that you saw.  You've heard of repressed memories, haven't you?"
       "Yes."
       "And you know that if you did repress something, it was probably because it was so shocking your conscious mind didn't want to accept it."
       Inexplicably, a cold chill washed over Deborah.  "I really don't want to talk about this," she said.
       Milo, who was riding a few feet ahead of Deborah, twisted around in the saddle to regard her with dark, suspicious eyes.  "Why?"
       "I don't know.  I just don't, that's all.  Could we drop the subject, please?  Haven't I told you enough about that day to satisfy you?"
        Milo studied her for a long, tense moment.  Then he finally said, "Okay . . . for now."
       But later, after they had eaten their apple pie and were on the way back to Deborah's house, she felt the accident hanging between them again. It always would, she thought.  It would haunt their relationship just as it haunted her.
       But did they have a relationship?  Now that Milo had gotten what he wanted from her, and she had told him her version of the accident, what would keep them together?
       When they reached her house, Milo parked at the curb, then turned to her.  "Deborah, I know a doctor in Burlington, Robert Baumgartner, who works with repressed memories.  I want you to talk to him."
       Talk to a doctor in Burlington?  She had gone through counseling after the accident and it hadn't done much good.  "No," she said flatly.
       Milo gave an exasperated sigh.  "You are the most stubborn woman I've ever known.  Look, you won't have to go alone.  I'll go with you."
       Milo would go with her?  Then they would still be together, at least, for a while.  She wanted to see him again, and if this was the only way . . .
       But, she also knew that, deep down, she did want to find out the truth about Carla's accident.  If there was any more truth to be found. She owed it to herself, and to Carla's memory.  And to the man sitting beside her.
       "All right," she said with resignation.  "I'll talk to your doctor."
       "Thank you, Deborah," Milo said solemnly.
       Minutes later, as they stood on the porch, Deborah held her breath as she opened the screen door.  When no white slip of paper fluttered out, she exhaled a sigh of relief.  Milo nodded and smiled, then he said, "I'll call you when I've made arrangements with my doctor friend.  Until then, take care."
       "I will."
       Milo took a step toward the stairs, then stopped.  For a moment, Deborah wondered if he was going to take her in his arms and kiss her.  She wanted him to, but she knew that the events of the day had driven a wedge between them, just as she had feared.  If only she could close the gap, regain some of their former closeness, she would, but she didn't know how.
       As his gaze lingered on her, she thought she saw a glimmer of warmth in his brown eyes; but then, with a groan, he turned and headed down the stairs.  Her heart ached unbearably as she watched him climb into his car and drive away.
        Later that evening, Milo went out to the stable to check on his horses.  Although he was confident his manager and stablehand did a thorough job, he liked to maintain a personal hand in the farm's operation. Besides, the stable provided a good place to think.
       As he entered the dimly lighted building, the horses recognized their master and soft nickers echoed up and down the brick walkway.  Milo stopped at each stall and reached in the open top half of the wooden door, offering personal greetings and patting warm, velvety noses.  He liked the smell of the stable, a mixture of horse, hay, and leather.  He liked its nighttime coziness, with only the light from the single overhead bulb in the middle of the walkway.
       When he had finished greeting all the horses, he entered the small tack room tucked away in one corner of the building, where bridles and leads and saddles and other gear were neatly stored.  Methodically, he checked to see if anything needed replacement or repair.  As he worked, he thought about what had happened that day.
       Deborah had finally gone up to Rainbow Falls with him and recreated the accident.  He should be satisfied to have got his wish at last.
       But he wasn't.  Instead, a restlessness had seized him.  He felt more convinced than ever that there was unfinished business regarding his sister's tragic death.  He must find out the truth before Carla's memory could be completely put to rest.
       He strongly suspected that Deborah's lost moments on the path held the answer.  He was glad she had agreed to see Dr. Baumgartner in Burlington, and hoped that would help her to recover her memory.
       His thoughts turned to what the events of the day might have done to his feelings for Deborah.  He tried to sort them out, only to realize he was more confused about her than ever.  He knew he still wanted her; there was no doubt about that.  Before he had left her this evening, it had taken all his willpower not to take her in his arms and crush her mouth with kisses.
       He wanted to tell her that he could forgive her.
       But he couldn't forgive her.
       Not yet.
       Maybe not ever.
       The realization that he might not ever be able to put the accident and Deborah's involvement in it behind him sent a cold chill over him.  Was he really that heartless?  He supposed he could be.  For seven years, the hurt and anger over Carla's seemingly senseless death had been festering. There was no way he could just brush his feelings aside in the matter of a few hours or a few days.
       Replacing the bridle he had been examining on its hook, Milo turned out the overhead light and left the tackroom.  The horses nickered their goodnights as he left the stable.
       Outside, his frosty breath glowed in the floodlight attached to the roof.  Soon, the season's first snowfall would cover the earth with a blanket of white.  Would he and Deborah have their answers before then?
        At her house, Deborah cooked a light dinner of broiled halibut, baked potato and broccoli.  As she ate, she reflected on the day's events. Revisiting the scene of the accident hadn't been as bad as she thought it would be.  Yes, reliving the day and viewing the yellow rock where Carla's body had lain filled her with pain.  But she had survived.
       She put on a kettle of water for tea, thinking about those lost moments on the path, before she tripped and hit her head on the rock. Perhaps she had seen something--or someone--as Milo had suggested.
       She squeezed her eyes shut and visualized herself heading down the path to the bottom of the falls.  She slowed the action as though she were viewing a movie in slow motion.  But, as soon as she came to the place where she felt something was wrong, her mind clouded, then went blank.
       Deborah opened her eyes.  No use trying that any longer.  She would wait and see if Milo's doctor could help her over the hurdle.
       Deborah took her cup of tea into the newly painted parlor and sat down on the worn brown sofa.  She picked up a folder of paint samples lying on the coffee table and leafed through it, intending to pick out colors for the upstairs bedrooms.  But she had trouble  concentrating.
       She kept thinking about Milo, seeing again in her mind's eye the disappointment--no, outright disgust--that had fallen over his face when he learned she had not supervised the girls on their leaf hunt.
       What were his feelings for her now?  Did he hate her?  Was he hanging on to their relationship only because she had agreed to visit his doctor?
       Relationship? she thought wryly.  What relationship?  They'd shared a few heated kisses, a few passionate embraces, that was all.  Thinking of Milo's kisses made Deborah hug her arms in loneliness.  What she wouldn't give to feel those strong arms around her again. . . .
       The phone rang.  Welcoming the interruption, Deborah went to answer it.
       "Deborah?" Lacey said.  "I've been trying all afternoon to call you.  I wish you'd get an answering machine so I could leave a message."
       Deborah sank back against the sofa.  "I will.  I just haven't gotten around to it yet."
       "I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about last night.  But I must say, you handled it really well."  Deborah heard the tinkle of ice, indicating Lacey was drinking something.  Probably something alcoholic, Deborah thought, distressed at her friend's apparent reliance on alcohol.
       "I appreciate your sympathy, Lacey, but that wasn't the worst thing that happened last night."  She went on to tell her about the fire in the basement.  When she finished, the other end of the line remained silent, except for the clink of ice cubes.  "Lacey, are you there?" Deborah asked.
       "Yes, I'm just speechless, is all.  I simply can't imagine who is harassing you like this.  A fire is serious.  Did you call the fire department or the police?"
       "No, because I'm afraid they would want to question me about the accident again, and I don't want that."
       "I understand your reasoning, but I'm not sure it's a good idea to keep them in the dark about such a serious thing."
       "You may be right, but for now, that's my decision.  However, I did go to Rainbow Falls today with Milo."
       Lacey gasped.  "You're kidding!  I thought you weren't going to talk to him about Carla's death."
       "I wasn't, but after the fire, he asked me again to go there with him.  I guess he caught me in a weak moment and I agreed."
       He certainly had caught her in a weak moment, Deborah thought to herself, as memories of his warm embrace and fiery kisses burned a trail through her mind.
       "So what happened at the falls?"
       "I went step-by-step through that day with him.  It was draining, but I survived."
       "Did anything special happen while you were there?" Lacey asked.
       "I'm not sure what you mean by special; but, no, nothing happened that did not happen on the day of the accident."
       "So, what are you going to do now?"
       Deborah absently wound the telephone cord around her finger.  "Milo wants me to see a doctor he knows in Burlington.  A psychiatrist named Robert Baumgartner."
       "But you've been through counseling."
       "I know.  But Milo thinks this doctor might help me to find out if there really were some lost moments before I tripped and fell."
       "I can't tell you what to do, of course," Lacey said, "but I wonder how much good it's going to do to keep digging into something that's so painful for you."
       "I don't know, either.  I guess I'll just have to find out."
       "Well, promise me you'll be careful."
       "I will."
       "And promise you'll call me or Jay immediately if you need help with anything."
       "I will do that, too," Deborah said.
        A couple of hours later, Deborah decided to give up trying to be productive and to go to bed.  She went through the house, checking the locks on the doors and windows, closing blinds and drawing curtains.  In the kitchen, as she reached over the sink to close those blinds, she looked idly out the window.
       And saw something move.
       Her heart thumping, Deborah stared out into the dark night.  Now, she didn't see anything.  In fact, she wondered if she had truly seen something move a moment ago.  Perhaps she had seen only a reflection of her arm in the window.
       Deborah crossed to the lightswitch and turned off the overhead lights, plunging the kitchen into darkness.  She crept back to the sink and peered between the slats of the blind.  Her gaze swept the yard, settling on the holly bushes near the wooden fence.  They looked awfully thick. Could someone be crouching behind them?
       Sure enough, in the next moment a person slunk from the bushes into the open.  He--or she--wore black clothing, gloves, and a knit ski mask with only slits for eyes, nose, and mouth.  The person looked up at the window.  Deborah shuddered and ducked out of sight.  Her heart continued to hammer and her throat felt as dry as a dead leaf.
       Deborah didn't know what to do now.  Should she call the police? But then, she'd have to go into why someone might want to scare her.  Even if she told them she didn't know why anyone would be after her, they would go digging into her life and ultimately find out about the accident.
       She thought about calling Milo, but what could he do?  It would take him at least half an hour to drive to her house.  Besides, after today, she was unsure where she stood with him.  Would he want to come to her rescue again?
       No, she couldn't go running to him.  She must cope with this herself.  The doors and windows were locked.  She was safe unless the person used force to break in.  If he did, the motion detectors' alarm would sound.  Surely, that would scare the intruder away.
       Cautiously, she raised back up, edged toward the window and peeked out between the blind's slats again.  Yes, the person was still in the yard.  He was prancing around, waving his arms, kicking his feet through the piles of leaves she had raked up earlier that week.  He made no effort to hide.  It was as though he wanted her to see him.
       Oh, oh, now he was heading toward the back door.  Footsteps thudded up the steps and across the porch.  The doorknob rattled.  Deborah stared at it, transfixed.  What if the door wasn't locked, after all?
       The knob shook as though he were trying to yank it from its socket. She wanted to scream, "Go away!" but the words stuck in her throat.  She could run out the front door, but what if he came around the house and followed her?  What if he caught up with her?  What would he do?
       Terror had nearly reduced Deborah to mush when the knob suddenly stopped rattling.  Footsteps thudded across the porch again.  Was he leaving?  Or going to find another entrance?
       Deborah ran to the kitchen window.  To her surprise, he was headed back to the holly bushes.  He plunged into the dark foliage.  Moments later, he emerged on the other side and sprinted across the vacant lot toward Damon Healy's housing development.  She watched until he disappeared in the darkness.
       Deborah kept a vigil for a few more minutes.  When he didn't reappear, her racing heartbeat gradually slowed to normal.  She went to the sink and ran a glass of cold water, anything to soothe her dry, constricted throat.  She drank the entire glass, her senses tuned for the return of her intruder.  But something told her he wouldn't come back.  Not tonight, anyway.  All he wanted was to terrorize her.
       Well, she thought grimly, his plan had worked.  Her palms were clammy and her knees as weak as jello.  She staggered to the table and slumped into a chair, wondering how much more of this she could take.  

       After a sleepless night, Deborah decided she must do something to find out who was terrorizing her.  She refused to sit around and be the target of some insane person.
       She remembered Piper McCaffrey and her lunch invitation.  Perhaps she knew something that would help Deborah discover the identity of her tormentor.  Piper hadn't called to make a date for their lunch yet, but that might be because she was too busy.  Deborah decided to take the initiative and call her to see when they could get together.
       She looked up Piper's name in the phone book and dialed the number. Piper's recorded voice answered.  Deborah was in the middle of her message when Piper picked up the receiver and said hello.
       "I'm working this morning," Piper explained, "so I'm monitoring my calls."
       "I didn't mean to interrupt you," Deborah said apologetically, "but I wanted to know when we can get together for lunch."
       "How about today?"
       "Today is fine," Deborah said, pleased that they could get together so soon.  "Where do you want to meet?"
       "Why don't you come over to my apartment?  I'll fix us some sandwiches and soup.  I'd like to show you my place.  I'm really proud of the way I've fixed it up."
       "That sounds great."
       They decided on noon, and Piper gave Deborah directions to her apartment.
       After Deborah hung up, she took out the sanding machine she had rented the other day.  For the rest of the morning, she sanded the floors in the upstairs bedrooms.
       As the machine droned on, Deborah thought more than once about Milo.  She had hoped he would call today, perhaps with some news of her appointment with Dr. Baumgartner, but, so far, she had not heard from him.
        Should she call him and tell him about her mysterious visitor last night?  But what could he do about that?  He'd put new locks on her doors and installed motion detectors.  What other precautions could be taken? Bars on the windows?  Dig a moat? she thought facetiously.
       Thinking about the person dressed in black sent chills down her spine all over again.  Perhaps she was stupid not to have called the police.  But no, she didn't want them nosing around, asking questions.  She wanted to be left alone and to live in peace.  Hadn't she paid enough for what had happened to Carla?
        At eleven thirty, Deborah changed her clothes and left for her lunch date with Piper McCaffrey.  Piper lived in the Fairfield Arms, a newer, five story apartment building overlooking the town Commons.
       All the buildings that made up the Commons, including the town hall, the library, and the museum, faced a pleasant rectangular park that had winding paths, huge shade trees, and a pond filled with geese and ducks.  Wrought iron benches surrounded a large bandstand with a shake roof and ornate wood trimming.
       Deborah saw that workmen were constructing a circle of wooden booths around the bandstand.  She recalled that the annual Autumn Leaf Festival was approaching, a time when local artists displayed their works, and there was a big, old-fashioned picnic and a dance.
       At the Fairfield Arms, Deborah rang the bell beside Piper's name. "Who is it?" Piper called down.  Deborah identified herself, and heard a click that released the front door.
       Inside the lobby, Deborah distastefully eyed the two elevators. When she was in college, she had been stuck for two hours in an elevator. Since then, she avoided the conveyances when possible.  Piper's apartment was on the fifth floor.  That wasn't too far to walk up.  She headed for the sign that said Stairs.
       A few minutes later, Piper opened the door to apartment 501 and greeted Deborah.  She wore jeans and a red sweat shirt appliqued with a large blue flower, and Indian-style moccasins.  A red ribbon tied her chestnut hair at the nape.
       Piper took Deborah's jacket and hung it on the hall tree.  "Let me show you around," she said.
       The apartment was decorated with modern furniture and Piper's collection of embroidered tapestries.  The living room had a balcony overlooking the Commons.  The bedroom included a cozy alcove Piper had set up as an office with a desk and a computer and printer.  The bedroom included a balcony, too, that faced the alley behind the apartment building.  Across the way was the windowless wall of a warehouse.
       Over lunch of split pea soup and ham sandwiches, they talked about the series of articles on population growth that Piper was writing for The Burlington Banner, and Deborah's progress on remodeling her house.
       "When do you expect to open your bed and breakfast?" Piper asked Deborah.
       "By January.  I hope so, anyway.  Renovations are not going as fast as I had planned."
       "Really?  What's holding you up?"
       Deborah quickly jumped into the opening Piper had created.  "Some things about the accident have come up."
       "The accident?" Piper repeated.  "You mean Carla's?"
       Was there any other accident of importance? Deborah wondered, but said simply, "Yes, Carla's."
       "What sort of things?" Piper asked in a tone that sounded suddenly wary.
       Deborah paused to sip her soup, then said, "For one, I met Milo Jordan the other day."
       Piper's brow wrinkled.  "Oh, dear, Carla's brother."
       "Yes.  We met by chance when my car stalled on the road to Castletown.  He was out horseback riding and stopped to help me.  He took me back to his house.  We were getting along quite well until he found out who I was."
       "What a coincidence, that you two should meet like that."
       "Yes, it was a shock to both of us.  Anyway, he wanted to hear my account of what happened at Rainbow Falls.  As you can imagine, I didn't want to talk about it, but, during the followings days, he finally convinced me that if I did, it might help both of us."
       "How could reliving that awful day possibly help you?"
       Deborah sat back in her chair, her food forgotten for the moment. "I've suffered a lot of guilt over Carla's death," she told Piper soberly. "You can't imagine how much."
       "Oh, I think I can," Piper said softly, and looked away.
       "Milo apparently has some feelings to work though, too.  I thought it might help us both to heal if I agreed to go up to Rainbow Falls with him and go through what happened that day."
       Piper's soup spoon clattered onto her plate.  "You didn't!  How could you possibly put yourself through that?"
       "It took a lot of courage and heartache, but I lived through it."
       Piper shook her head.  "I have never been back there since that day.  I don't think I'll ever go there again, either.  Every moment of that tragedy is etched forever in my memory."
       Ah, Deborah thought, Piper had given her another opening.  "It's etched in my memory, too--most of it."
       "What do you mean, most of it?"
       "You remember, of course, that when I was trying to reach Carla I tripped on a tree root and lost consciousness."  Piper nodded.  "Well, oddly enough, there are a few moments before I fell that I can't remember."
       "I don't understand."
       Deborah smiled and shrugged.  "I don't, either.  That's the problem.  It's as though those moments are missing from my memory.  Milo thinks maybe I saw someone or something, and that it was so shocking, I repressed the memory.  You've heard of repressed memories, haven't you?"
       "Yes, I did an article on that subject for a magazine.  I interviewed proponents for both sides, and came away still not sure whether I believe in the phenomenon or not."
       "I know what you mean; it is a controversial theory.  But, I was wondering, Piper, did you see anyone up there that day who wasn't part of our group?
       Piper's jaw dropped open.  "Surely, you remember that at the inquest I said I saw no one else up there.  Are you suggesting I lied?"
       Fearing she'd gone too far, Deborah spread her hands apologetically.  "No, of course not.  I just thought you might have remembered something new since then.  I know it's a farfetched idea.  I probably shouldn't have brought it up, but I must admit I've been caught up in Milo's hunch that Carla's death may not have been an accident."
       "That's preposterous," Piper said.  "Of course, it was an accident. Listen, Deborah, if I were you, I would forget about Carla's death and get on with my life."
       Deborah shook her head.  "I can never forget it.  And as for getting on with my life, I'd like to, but that's pretty difficult right now."
       "Then perhaps you shouldn't have come back to Fairfield, after all," Piper said.
       The threatening tone in Piper's voice sent a shiver rippling down Deborah's spine.  Could Piper be involved in the attacks on her?  Could she have sent her the notes, tampered with her car, set the fire in her basement?  Could she have been last night's stalker?
       If so, Deborah had obviously come to the wrong place looking for help.
       Deborah lifted her chin and said, "But I did come back.  And I intend to stay and make my life here."
       "I see," Piper said.
       An awkward silence followed, then Piper said brightly, "Are you planning to attend the Autumn Leaf Festival?"
       From there on, they talked about the festival and other impersonal topics.  However, there was a tension between them that hadn't been evident before.
        Back at home, Deborah thought about Piper's strong statement that she had reported everything she knew about the accident.  Deborah didn't believe that.  Piper's actions today indicated she did indeed know more than she had told.
       But how could Deborah ever find out what it was that Piper knew?
       The doorbell rang.  Who could that be? she wondered.  She hoped it wasn't Albert Healy.  She certainly didn't feel like dealing with him today.
       As she hurried down the hall, she could see the outline of the person through the lace curtain covering the oval glass.  A tall person. Male.  Broad shouldered.  Her heart beat a hectic tattoo against her ribcage.  Could it really be Milo?
       It was.  When she opened the door, there he stood, one hand propped against the doorjamb, the other arm holding a large, bulging sack.  A smile curved his lips and mischief danced in his dark eyes.
       "Hi," he said.  "I was going to tell you a story about just being in the neighborhood and deciding to stop by; but since you're so isolated here, I knew that wouldn't wash."
       So, he had come especially to see her.  Pleased beyond words, all she could do was smile up at him.  Finally, she came to her senses.  "Come in, come in."
       "What did you bring this time?" she asked, as he entered.  "Can't be new locks or motion detectors."
       "Chinese take-out," he said.  "It's dinnertime.  I hope you don't already have plans."
       "No, you're in luck," she said, trying to match his casual mood.
       "And you do like Chinese?"  He quirked an eyebrow at her and waited expectantly.
       "Love it.  Come on in the kitchen and we'll set things up."
       They chatted easily as he followed her down the hall.  He'd picked up the food at a new restaurant just outside of town, he said.  He'd never tried the place, but some friends had recommended it.
       In the kitchen, he set the sack on the counter and unloaded the contents.  "Just the usual stuff, almond chicken, chow mein, fried rice."
       "Sounds wonderful."
       Deborah crossed to the cupboard and pulled out plates, cups and saucers.  Soon the room was filled with the aroma of the spicy food.
       Deborah couldn't believe this was happening.  Ten minutes ago, all she had to look forward to this evening was Lean Cuisine and working on her projects.  Now, the house was alive with Milo's presence.  His deep laughter rang out in response to something she said; she wasn't even aware of what it was.  Her mind was awhirl.
       She set the table while he opened and arranged the various cartons. "Forget about any serving dishes," he said.  "We can eat from the cartons just as well.  And with these, of course."  He held up two pair of chopsticks.
       "Oh, no," she said.  "Unless you want dinner to take a couple of hours, I need to use a knife and fork.  Every time I try those blasted things, I end up with more food on my lap than in my mouth."
       He insisted they at least start out with the chopsticks, and to be a good sport, she agreed.  Actually, she did better than she thought she would.  Her napkin caught only a couple of chow main noodles and one small piece of chicken.
       Over dinner they talked about his horses--naturally.  She reflected that there were few conversations in which they weren't mentioned.  But that was all right.  She was interested in his farm and what went on there. She was interested in anything that had to do with Milo.
       After dinner, she proudly showed him the upstairs floors she had sanded. "You're pretty talented," he commented, looking at the newly prepared surfaces.  "And ambitious.  Remodeling a house is a big undertaking."
       They took their coffee out to the front porch and sat in the glider.  The crickets were chirping.  Their chorus sounded so lively that Deborah imagined they were cheering for her.  Her spirits hadn't been this high in a long, long time.
       And all because of Milo.
       Deborah placed their coffee on the small wicker table, thinking how this was the first time she had sat on the porch since she had returned to Rose Dobson's house.
       "I used to sit out here a lot when I lived here before," she told Milo.  "Especially in the summer.  This was always a good place to cool off."
       "I enjoy my porch, too," he said.  "It's a good place to sit and think."
       She meant to leave a big space between them on the glider, but somehow they ended up close together.  Milo started out with his arm lying casually on the back of the seat, but it wasn't long before his hand rested on her shoulder.
       Neither made mention of their nearness, or of their touching.  They kept talking away, on subject after subject.  Absently, he kneaded her shoulder, drawing her closer.
       Eventually, conversation slowed, then stopped altogether.  With a sigh, her head dropped to his shoulder.  It felt so natural there, she thought.  Moments of silence followed, but that, too, seemed natural.  The silence drifted along like a gently flowing river.
       At last, Deborah said, "I'm glad you came by tonight.  It's been a really nice evening."
       "Yes, it has," Milo said.
       "After the other day at the falls, I didn't know what to expect from you.  Or from myself," she added.
       Did she really want to bring up that subject?  But it was too late now.
       "I know what you mean," he said.  "And I still don't know where we're going with all this.  But whatever happens, this has been a night to remember."
       "Yes, a night to remember."
       If only it could always be like this between them, she thought wistfully.  This was how a relationship between two people who were attracted to one another should develop.  Time spent together in easy companionship.  Sharing meals and thoughts.  Getting to know one another.
       "Deborah . . ."  Milo's lips were close to her ear.  His warm breath flowed over her cheek.
       "Yes . . ."
       He reached up and turned her face to his.  She knew what was coming, and when his lips came nearer, she had hers parted and waiting for him.  The kiss began as a warm, gentle covering of her mouth with his.  He rubbed his lips back and forth over hers, nibbling, licking, teasing.
       He suddenly deepened the kiss, stroking the inside of her mouth with his tongue.  Blood throbbed through Deborah's veins, her pulse pounded with the insistence of desire.
       Milo pulled Deborah tightly againt him.  She could feel his heart pounding underneath his shirt.  She gave herself up to the pleasure of him, and Milo feasted, taking what she offered and giving of himself in return. He filled a lonely, empty spot inside Deborah that she hadn't known even existed until this moment.
       Milo's lips left Deborah's and followed a warm and wet trail down her neck, over her collarbone, to the V of her breasts, just barely revealed by the open neck of her blouse.  He could drown in her.  He felt a fierce need to protect her as well as to possess her.
       Deep in his heart, he had known their being together tonight would lead to this.  Yet, he couldn't stay away from her.  He'd purposely arranged to be here this evening.  Although he did have something to tell her, he easily could have telephoned.  But his need to be with her had overpowered all his reason, and here he was.
       He'd decided early on not to talk about Carla and the accident.  To see if he could pretend Deborah was just a woman he was attracted to.  It had worked, at least for a while.  He'd enjoyed the evening immensely.  She was as intelligent and interesting as she was beautiful and desirable.
       But now, as he thought about making love to her, something stopped him.  No matter how much he might want to, he wouldn't.  Sex was not something Milo took lightly.  Sex may not mean total commitment, but it certainly meant something more than a one-night stand.
       He still didn't know if he would ever be able to resolve his troubled feelings for her.  There were so many unanswered questions, so many issues to deal with.
       So, with much effort, just as she leaned more firmly into him, Milo pulled away from her.  "Hey, let's put this on hold, okay?"  He gently placed his hands on her shoulders.
       "On hold?" Deborah asked.  Did that mean that at some future date there would be more?  Or did that mean forever on hold?  Aloud, she said carefully, "Sure, you're right.  We shouldn't be getting so carried away."
       "Easy to do," he said.
       They sat in silence for a few moments, then Milo said, "I did have something to tell you tonight."
       "Oh, what's that?"
       "I talked to Bob Baumgartner today.  Are you available next Monday at eleven for an appointment with him?"
        "Yes, I can be," she replied.
       "Good.  I'll pick you up at ten."
       "There's no need for you to go with me.  I'm perfectly capable of going alone."
       "I know you are," Milo said, with a hint of impatience.  "But I'm the one who suggested you see him, and I'll go with you.  You might need some moral support."
       He had a good point, she thought.  But she didn't want to become too dependent on him when she knew there was no future for them.
       "Have you received any more threatening notes?" Milo asked a few minutes later.
       "Thankfully, No."
       Should she tell him about her mysterious visitor?  She wanted to confide in him, but that would start everything up again and spoil the warm glow that still surrounded her.  Some other time she would tell him about that.
       After he left, Deborah marked her appointment with Dr. Baumgartner on the calendar.  That was what really kept Milo coming back, she thought, as some of her glow faded.  He just wanted to keep pursuing his obsession with the accident.  She had the feeling that she was the one who was going to suffer for it, too.  Not a happy thought.
        The following morning, as Deborah finished sanding the upstairs floors, Lacey telephoned.  "Just checking in to see how you're doing," she said.
       "Pretty good."  Deborah told her about having lunch with Piper McCaffrey and her feeling that Piper might know something more about the accident.
       "I really doubt that," Lacey said.  "She's always been a totally honest person, as far as I know.  Perhaps she's uptight because of her insecure job situation.  Is anything else happening?"
       "Milo made an appointment for me to see Dr. Baumgartner in Burlington on Monday."
       "So you're still going through with that?"
       "Yes."
       "Well, I hope some good comes of it."
       "Me, too."
        After lunch, Deborah returned the sander to the rental shop.  She paid her bill at the counter and was preparing to leave when she spotted Doug Jaspers coming out of the manager's office.  He wore blue coveralls that had "Bryan's TV and Appliances" written on them in red letters.
       Deborah's first impulse was to duck her head so that she would not have to face Doug.  Then she thought, why should I hide?  Chin high, she strode briskly across the store, knowing that her path and Doug's would soon coincide.
       Sure enough, in the next moment, she heard him call out, "Oh, Miss Kent!"
       Deborah stopped and turned to face the athletically-built young man.  "Hello, Doug."
       "I'm glad I ran into you," he said, but his furrowed brows belied his words.  "I was going to call you."
       "You were?"  A little tingle of apprehension rippled through Deborah.  Why would he want to call her?
       "Yeah.  But let's get out of here before we do any more talking."
       Outside, his long strides led them several yards away from the big cement building.  Then he stopped and moved to stand in front of her, as though to block her way.  His blue eyes glinted chips of ice as they bored into her.
       "Piper told me you and she had lunch yesterday.  She was really upset that you accused her of lying about Carla's accident."
       Doug's statement was such a gross twist of the facts that Deborah couldn't help becoming defensive.  "I didn't accuse Piper of anything," she said sharply.  "I merely asked her if since the accident, she had remembered anything new."
       "Why would she remember something since then?  That doesn't make sense."
       Deborah thought about going into the theory of repressed memory with him, but decided not to.  Instead, she said, "I'm really sorry if what I said upset Piper.  I hope she and I can still be friends."
       "I guess that's up to her," Doug said with a shrug of his broad shoulders.
       "I know how much Carla's death must have upset you, too, Doug," she said.  "After all, you and Carla were going together at the time, weren't you?"
       Doug shoved his hands in the pockets of his uniform.  "We dated a few times.  I don't know if I'd call it 'going together.'"
       "You were at your school when she had her accident, isn't that right?"
       She felt him bristle, like a dog with its hackles up.  His brows knit as he glared down at her.  "Of course, I was.  Why do you ask?"
       "Milo Jordan, Carla's brother, and I are looking into Carla's death.  Milo thinks maybe she was meeting someone that day."
       "And you think it was me.  Well, that's ridiculous!  I knew nothing of what happened until later that afternoon.  I saw it on the TV news."
       "Doesn't it seem strange to you that Carla would go off alone?"
       Doug snorted.  "No.  Carla did pretty much what she wanted to do. And she hated Wainwright.  I'm not surprised at all that she disobeyed your orders and left the group.  But so what?  You're still responsible for what happened to her."
       Yes, Doug, Deborah thought bitterly, be sure you let me know I'm to blame.
       Aloud, she said, "Well, I am sorry Piper's upset."
       Doug said gruffly, "Okay.  But knock it off, will you?  If you want to live here, let the past--and Carla--rest in peace."
       He turned and strode toward a silver van.  Deborah watched him roar from the parking lot, leaving a cloud of exhaust in his wake.  Clearly, Doug Jaspers was an angry young man.  But why?  Because she had upset Piper?  Or for some other reason?   

Chapter Four

      "Now I've got both Piper and Doug upset with me," Deborah told Milo on Monday morning.  They were driving along the road to Burlington, headed for Deborah's appointment with Dr. Baumgartner.  She'd just finished telling him about her lunch with Piper and the tense scene with Doug outside the rental store.  She added, "Maybe I'd better leave well enough alone, as they suggested."
       Milo threw a glance in her direction.  "And continue to be harassed?  No, we've got to find out what's going on, even if it does alienate a few people."
       Deborah fell silent.  Milo seemed aloof today.  Oh, he'd been polite enough, but without the intimate warmth of the other evening when they'd shared Chinese take-out, and later, those heated kisses.  Today he seemed all business.  A little tense, even.
       Well, she was tense, too.  She was having more than second thoughts about talking to his doctor friend.  Why had she agreed to go along with this, anyway?
       An hour later, they arrived in Burlington, parked the car in a lot, and walked to a nearby brick office building.  When Deborah saw by the directory that Dr. Baumgartner's office was on the fourth floor, she asked Milo, "Could we walk up, please?  I have a fear of elevators.  I was stranded in one when I was in college."
       "Sure," he replied, and guided her to the door marked "Stairs."
       When they reached the doctor's office, Milo introduced Deborah to Alma, the receptionist sitting behind a glass window.  Alma was an attractive redhead with a ready smile.
       But not even Alma's friendliness could put Deborah at ease.  As she waited for the doctor, she perched on the edge of her chrome chair and knotted her hands in her lap.
       Milo, who was perusing a magazine, stopped reading and reached over to cover her hands with one of his.  "Relax, Deborah.  Everything's going to be all right."
       She let her fingers twine around his.  Their eyes met and he smiled.  A warmth spiraled through Deborah.  If only they had met under different circumstances.
       At last Alma admitted Deborah to Dr. Baumgartner's office.  The doctor peeked out to greet Milo, then he closed the door and he and Deborah were alone.
       Deborah looked around, trying to stop her knees from shaking.  The office resembled a cozy living room, with a modern sofa and chairs grouped around a fireplace where artificial gas logs burned quietly.
       "Sit down, Deborah."  Dr. Baumgartner gestured to the sofa.  As Deborah complied, he headed for a high-backed leather chair with a footstool.
       Dr. Baumgartner was a large man, broad-shouldered and over six feet tall.  He had black hair touched with gray at the temples.  Dressed in navy corduroy slacks and shirt, and a gray, V-neck sweater, he resembled a college professor more than a psychiatrist.
       He said, as he rested his loafered feet on the footstool, "Why don't you tell me a little about yourself and why you're here.  Milo sketched in a few details, but I'd like to hear them from you."
       Deborah took a deep breath, then launched into her story. Occasionally, Dr. Baumgartner interrupted to ask a question.  Half an hour later, she finished with, "I guess I'm here to see if I have a repressed memory about that day.  And if I do, to discover what happened during that time."
       Dr. Baumgartner made a tent with his fingers.  "The theory of repressed memory is very controversial among mental health specialists."
       "I'm aware of that," she said.  "So, if you don't think this will do any good . . ."
       He cocked his head at her.  "You don't want to be here very much, do you?"
       Deborah spread her hands in apology.  "It's not that so much, but, as I told you, I had counseling after the accident."
       "And you're just doing this to please Milo."
       "It was his idea," she admitted.  "But I do want to know if something else happened that day.  And I do want to stop whoever's harassing me."
       "Then listen to what I have to say about repressed memory.  I've worked with clients who have recovered memories that have proved to be true.  And I've had clients whose so-called memories had no basis whatsoever in reality."
       "So they mistook imagination for memory?"
       "Apparently.  Anyway, I'm sensitive to the criticism that a therapist may unintentionally lead a client's thinking in a direction that indicates a recovered memory.  I don't want to risk that, so I proceed very carefully when treating clients in this regard."
       "I understand."
       "However, I believe it's worth a try.  But if you don't agree, it probably won't work.  My main method is hypnosis, and if you're not able to be a willing subject, there's not a lot I can do for you."
       Deborah stared at the fireplace where the gas flames made the same red and yellow patterns, over and over.  "I've come this far, and I want to go ahead."
       "Good.  Do you want to begin today?"
       She shrugged.  "If there's enough time left."
       Dr. Baumgartner pushed back his sweater sleeve and looked at his wristwatch.  "Officially, we've about fifteen minutes, but I can give you some extra time today.  We'll try a light hypnosis, to see how you handle it."
       "All right."
       Even as she agreed, Deborah had the sudden urge to jump up, run out of the office, and beg Milo to take her away from here.  She wanted to find out the truth, yes, but whenever she took a step in that direction, a strange fear seized her.
       Dr. Baumgartner was speaking again, and she struggled to focus on his words:
       "First, I want you to keep in mind that nothing you encounter while you're under hypnosis can hurt you.  You're going back to that day only as an observer.  Okay?"
       Deborah nodded.  Yeah, right.  Only an observer.
       "Get comfortable but keep your back straight.  Rest your hands in your lap."
       Deborah wiggled around until her spine pressed solidly against one of the sofa cushions.  She lay her hands, palms up, in her lap.  They were hot and moist with perspiration, and the sudden exposure to air made her skin feel strangely cool.  A little shiver slithered down her spine.
       "Close your eyes and take a deep breath."
       Deborah lowered her eyelids, felt her lashes flutter against her cheek.
       "Now, breathe normally but concentrate on your breath as it flows in and out."
       Deborah sucked in air, felt her lungs expand, then deflate, as she expelled her breath.  She breathed out and in again and again, until she established a methodical rhythm.  Her surroundings faded as she drew farther inside herself.
       After a while, she heard Dr. Baumgartner say, "I want you to visualize yourself standing at the top of a flight of stairs.  Tell me when you're there."
       "Now."
       "All right, step by step, descend the stairs.  As you go down, you're also going back in time, and when you get to the bottom, you will be at Rainbow Falls on the day of the accident."
       Rainbow Falls.  The day of the accident.
       A lump of anxiety gripped Deborah's stomach, but by concentrating on descending the mental stairway, she managed to keep her fears at bay.
       "Tell me when you get to the bottom," Dr. Baumgartner instructed.
       After a few moments, Deborah murmured, "I'm at the bottom now."
       "Good.  Now, tell me what happened.  Take your time and give me as many details as you can remember."
       Deborah related the events of the field trip.  When she came to the part where she ran down the path to reach Carla's body, she suddenly cried out, "Oh, no!  I feel sick, like I'm going to throw up.  I want out of here!"
       "Take it easy," Dr. Baumgartner's soothing voice rolled over her like balm.  "Remember, nothing there can hurt you now.  Breathe deeply."
       Deborah swallowed against the lump in her throat, then gulped in air.  Still, nausea gripped her.  Clutching her stomach, she doubled over. "I want out of here," she said through clenched teeth.
       "Okay," Dr. Baumgartner said, his voice as calm as it had been throughout the entire procedure.  "I want you to turn away from whatever is making you sick and walk back to the steps that are waiting for you.  Tell me when you're there."
       After a couple of seconds, Deborah nodded and straightened to a sitting position.
       "Start climbing the steps.  Keep your breathing even and relaxed, in, out, in, out.  As you climb, time is passing and you are returning to the present.  When you get to the top of the steps, open your eyes."
       Although Deborah wanted to hurry, her feet felt as though they were weighted with lead.  She thought she'd never reach the top of the stairs, but finally, she did.  She opened her eyes, fluttering her lashes in an attempt to return to total consciousness.  Everything looked blurry; then she made out Dr. Baumgartner.  He was leaning forward in the big leather chair, his gaze riveted on her.
       "Hello, there," he said.  "How do you feel?"
       Deborah managed a wan smile.  "Okay, but it didn't work, did it?  I got stuck, just like I do when I try to remember without being under hypnosis."
       "Don't worry about it not working this time, Deborah.  Sometimes it takes many sessions under hypnosis to recover a lost memory."
       Dr. Baumgartner's words did not reassure Deborah.  She felt let down and discouraged.  She hadn't realized how much she was counting on this visit to provide her with the answer to those lost moments.
       "Keep in mind, too," the doctor was saying, "that if there is a memory to recover, it might return to your consciousness at any time.  It doesn't have to be while you're under hypnosis.  In fact, sometimes a visual clue will prompt memory recovery."
       "A visual clue?"
       "Yes, you'll see something that you also saw during the repressed event, and the memory will come rushing back.  Depending 
on what it is, that might be pretty traumatic."
       "Oh, great.  That's all I need, another trauma."  Deborah couldn't help the sarcasm that crept into her voice.  She looked at the undulating red and yellow flames and shook her head.  "I don't know whether I want to go on with these sessions or not."
       Dr. Baumgartner rose, signaling the end of the appointment.  "I understand, and I'm not going to pressure you to continue.  It's entirely up to you.  But I do hope to see you again."
       "I'll let you know what I decide," she said.  Deborah left, relieved that the ordeal was over at last.
       Milo waited until they were on the street to question her about the session.  "How did it go?" he asked, looking at her with concern.
       Deborah shrugged.  "Okay, I guess."  She explained how the doctor had hypnotized her.  "But I still got that big blank spot when I was running down the path.  I still couldn't remember what happened then.  I'm beginning to think pursuing this is a waste of time."
       Milo patted her arm.  "Have patience," he said. "Now, let's go have some lunch.  You must be famished.  I know I am."
       They walked several blocks to an open-air shopping mall with brick streets, fledgling shade trees, and wrought iron benches.  They located a restaurant Milo knew, went in, and sat in a cozy booth.  The table was covered with butcher paper, and the menu was displayed on a chalkboard.
       When the waiter came, they ordered New England clam chowder, tossed salad, and sourdough rolls.  Lunch was a sober affair; Deborah didn't feel like talking, and if Milo did, he respected her need for silence.
       Afterward, they strolled the mall, stopping in stores that caught their interest.  In a bookstore, Milo bought a book on horses and Deborah purchased a volume of poetry.  Although they avoided discussing the accident, Deborah felt it hanging over them like a black cloud.  It always would, she thought, feeling discouraged.
       Back in Fairfield, as they pulled into her cul-de-sac, Deborah saw a familiar blue BMW parked in front of her house.  "Uh oh," she said, "there's Albert Healy.  Damon's son.  Remember, I told you about them wanting to buy my property to expand their housing development."
       "I certainly do remember," Milo said grimly.  "Let's see what he's up to."
       Milo parked behind Albert's car.  As he and Deborah got out, Albert also emerged from his car.  "Hello, Deborah," he said, a smile on his long, thin face.  As usual, he wore his uniform of navy blue suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie.
       "Hello, Albert."
       Albert's gaze roved questioningly to Milo.
       "This is Milo Jordan," she said, and the two men shook hands. Deborah felt a tension radiating from Milo.  Although Albert wore a grin, she sensed he was not as relaxed as he would have them believe.
       "I stopped by to see if you changed your mind about talking to my father," Albert said.
       "No, I haven't," Deborah said.  "In fact, I saw him at a party recently and told him in person that I wasn't interested in selling my place.  Didn't he mention that to you?"
       "He might have.  But I wanted to check with you, again, anyway."
       "What made you think Deborah might have changed her mind?" Milo asked.
       "Why . . . nothing special."  Albert tossed back his head in a defensive gesture, then lowered it again as a frown wrinkled his forehead.
        "Well, since Deborah has told you definitely she doesn't want to sell, why are you still hanging around?"
       Albert's face flushed.  "I don't call stopping in occasionally to check on a potential client 'hanging around.'"
       "Yet when you found she wasn't here today, you waited for her.  You hung around."
       Deborah's stomach tensed as the two men stared at one another. Albert opened his mouth to say something.  Then he turned to Deborah and said brusquely, "I'll come back another time."
       He climbed in his car and sped off.
       Deborah expelled a shaky breath that released some of her tension.
       "I don't like that guy," Milo said.
       "I think he got that impression," Deborah said dryly.  "I don't particularly like him, either.  But I suppose he's just doing his job."
       "He can do it elsewhere.  There are plenty other properties in Fairfield to buy.  He doesn't have to bug you to sell yours."
       As they walked up the stairs to Deborah's front porch, Deborah said, "Do you think Albert is the one who's been harassing me?"
       "I don't know, although I'm still inclined to think what's happening to you has to do with Carla's death.  But in case it doesn't, and this Healy character is responsible, we'd better keep an eye on him."
       "Would you like to come in for a while?" Deborah asked when they reached the door.
       Milo looked at his wristwatch.  "I'd better not.  I have to get back to the farm."
       "That's right, you do have a farm to run."  To hide her disappointment, Deborah bent to put her key in the lock.
       "I didn't mean that to sound as though I didn't want to spend more time in your company," Milo said.
       "You don't need to explain . . ."
       Milo placed a firm hand on her shoulder and wheeled her back around to face him.  Their gazes met.  Deborah felt a heat flowing back and forth between them.  Her throat was dry, her heart beat wildly against her ribcage.
       Reaching up, Milo cupped her chin and held her fast while lowering his mouth to hers.  Eagerly, Deborah drank in his tender kiss.  He locked his arms around her, pulling her tightly against him.  Deborah's hands fluttered nervously at her sides for a moment.  Then, with a moan of submission, she gave in and wrapped her arms around Milo.  They stood locked in their embrace for long, exquisite moments.
       Finally, Milo drew away.  "Oh Deborah," he breathed against her hair, "I just had to see if kissing you was as good as I remembered."
       "Was it?" she asked.
       "No."
       Deborah's heart sank.  "No?"
       "It was better."  Seeing the stricken look on her face, he laughed. "I shouldn't tease you like that."
       "You can tease me.  I'm not as fragile as you may think."  But she knew she was fragile where he was concerned.
       He hugged her tighter and buried his face in her hair again. "Mmmm, maybe I'll take you up on that invitation to come in, after all."
       Sudden apprehension knotted Deborah's stomach.  She was always so torn when it came to Milo.  Torn between wanting their relationship to progress and by wanting to keep her distance, for fear he would ultimately reject her.
       "You've already made your decision," she said, gently pushing him away.  "You have a farm to run, and I don't want to be responsible for your neglecting your duties."
       "I'll take a raincheck, then."
       "Sure."
       "I'll drive you to your next appointment with Bob," he said, as he fished his car keys out of his slacks pocket.
       "You don't have to.  I can go alone now."
       "We'll see."  He ran a finger along her cheek and down across her bottom lip.  Tingles of pleasure rippled through Deborah.  She leaned in to him; he to her.  His lips came close to hers.  But he said, before their mouths meshed again, "No, I'd better not.  If I kiss you again, I'm a gonner."
       He patted her cheek, then crossed the porch and went down the steps.  At the bottom, he turned and said, "Take care."
       "I will.  You too."
       She watched him climb into his car, wave at her, and drive away.  A cold blanket of disappointment settled over her as she went in the house.  

      During the next week, Deborah refinished the upstairs bedroom floors and removed some damaged tile in the bathroom.  An electrical crew came in and replaced her basement switchbox, bringing the house's wiring up to code.  The sudden spurt of progress raised Deborah's spirits.  Her dream of turning Rose Dobson's boarding house into a Victorian-style bed and breakfast was well on the way to becoming a reality.
       On Friday, Deborah received a thick envelope in the mail.  She wondered who could have sent it, because there was no one with whom she corresponded.  The return address showed a Fairfield Post Office box, but that didn't provide any real clue as to the sender.
       Deborah took the letter into the parlor and sat down on the sofa. Slitting it open with her silver letter opener, she removed two typewritten, single-spaced pages, and another, smaller envelope that was sealed.  Looking at the second of the typewritten pages, Deborah saw that the writer was Piper McCaffrey.
       What did Piper have to say that she could not tell Deborah over the phone or in person?   It must be something to do with Carla's accident. Apprehension slithered down her spine as she picked up the letter and began to read:
       Dear Deborah,
       I hope you don't think I'm a coward for writing this letter instead of telling you what I have to say face-to-face.  At our lunch the other day, you asked me if I've remembered anything new about the accident.  I told you I have not, and that was the truth.
       What I didn't tell you was that I do have information about that day that I knew from the beginning, yet shared with no one.  This has weighed heavily on me for the past seven years, probably just as heavily as your guilt has weighed on you.
       On the way to Rainbow Falls, Carla told me that Doug Jaspers had written her a note asking her to sneak away from our group and meet him on the path down to the bottom of the falls.  There are all sorts of hiding places there where they could spend some time together.
       I don't know if she actually met Doug.  I didn't see him, and that's the honest truth.  But because I had a crush on Doug at the time, I kept quiet.
       You're probably wondering how Doug could have been with Carla when he was said to have been at school.  I can't prove how he accomplished that, but I do know that his first class after lunch was a geology lab, in which a buddy of his took roll for the teacher.
       Doug could have asked this buddy to mark him present when in fact he was absent.  I know that he arranged this on other occasions when he and Carla met on the sly.
       After the accident, I went through Carla's belongings and found the note Doug had written to her.  I've kept it all these years.
       I've never confronted Doug with my knowledge.  When we got together recently, and I came to know him better, I realized he is not the man for me.  He appears to be a perfectly nice guy, but our interests and lifestyles are too different to ever be compatible.
       So, I am turning the note over to you, to do with what you will. There's just one restriction.  Don't talk to me about it.  Should the time come when you need me to verify all this, I may just categorically deny everything.
       Anyway, Deborah, although you may not believe it, I do want the truth about Carla's accident to be revealed.  You're right, it does hang over us, unfinished business to be put to rest before we truly can get on with our lives.
       I am following up another lead, prompted by something Carla gave me shortly before her death.  But I'm not going to say any more about that until I discover something conclusive.  If I do, I'll let you know.
       Whatever you do about this matter, be careful!

     

     

       Piper McCaffrey
       When she had finished reading the letter, Deborah laid it aside and picked up the sealed envelope.  She slit it open and reached in to pull out the enclosed paper.
       Then she drew back her hand.  Perhaps she shouldn't put her fingerprints on the note.  What if this were all a hoax, and Piper were laying some kind of trap for her?
       She went to the bathroom, retrieved a pair of tweezers and used them to pull out the paper.  She managed to unfold it with the tweezers and hold it flat so that she could read it.  The message was simple:
       Hi, Carla!
           I can get away from school on Friday.  Meet me on the path that goes down to the bottom of the Falls.  I'll be there about 12:30.
 
        Doug

       Deborah had no way of knowing if the note was authentic, but the possibility of Doug being at the falls that day added a new perspective to the accident.  Had Deborah seen Doug as she had run down the path? Perhaps he had threatened her, frightening her so badly that she had repressed the memory.
       If that were so, then Doug might be afraid that if Deborah did remember seeing him there that day, she would tell the authorities.  That gave Doug a good reason for wanting Deborah to leave town.
       Was Doug her stalker?  Was he the one who had tampered with her car, set the fire in her basement, sent her the notes, and skulked around her yard in a ski mask?
       But wouldn't Deborah have recognized Doug by his distinctive athletic build?  Probably not, as the person who had invaded her yard had been bundled up in bulky clothing.  It could have been Doug, she decided.
       Now what should she do?  First, she must share Piper's letter and the note with Milo.  He had a right to know about this.  Perhaps he would know what they should do next.
       Deborah picked up the phone and dialed his number.  Katie answered. "He's gone to Edington," she said, "to see about some horses."
       "Please have him call me as soon as he returns," Deborah requested.
       It was nearly seven p.m. before Milo returned her call. "I'm glad you phoned me earlier," he said, "because I need to talk to you.  I have some information about those pieces of rubber and wood we found in your basement after the fire.  Remember, I told you I was going to talk to my retired fireman friend about them?"
       "Yes, I remember.  What did you find out?"
       "It'd be better to tell you in person, then I can show you what it's all about."
       "All right, can you come over?  I have something to share with you, too."
       "I'll be there in an hour."

Chapter Five

       The pot of coffee Deborah made had just finished perking when Milo rang the front doorbell.  "Mmm, that smells good," he said as he stepped into the entry.
       The welcome sight of him set Deborah's heart to thudding.  She wished this were just a social call like they had had last week instead of one in which they needed to discuss the subject that was so painful to both of them.
       In the kitchen, while Deborah poured them mugs of coffee, Milo removed a small paper bag from the pocket of his suede jacket and set it on the table.  Then he took off his jacket and hung it over his chair.
       Milo sipped his coffee, looking at her with a concerned expression. "How have you been?"
       "Okay."  She wanted to add that she'd missed him.  However, she was not sure how he would take that, so she bit back the words.  "How about you?"
       Milo shrugged.  "Can't complain."  He heaved a sigh, then said, "We'd better get down to business.  Who goes first?"
       "Why don't you?  I'm eager to know what your friend told you."
       Milo poured out the bits of red rubber and wood fragments they had found in the basement.  He said, "My friend confirmed that this balloon and wood were probably used to start the fire."
       "How so?"
       "He made me a drawing that will explain it."
       Milo took a small piece of paper from the sack.  Unfolding it, he slid it across the table to Deborah.  The drawing showed a square-shaped frame about three inches in size.  The rim of a balloon had been stretched so that it attached to all four sides of the top of the square.  The full end of the balloon hung down into the open frame.
       "That's a weird looking contraption," she commented.
       "But quite effective for our arsonist's purpose," Milo said.  "What my friend thinks is that this contraption was set on the pile of newspapers.  A flammable chemical was poured into the balloon, while another chemical was spread onto the newspapers, directly under the full end of the balloon.  When the acid ate through the balloon and dripped onto the chemical on the newspapers, it ignited, and there was your fire."
       "Who would think of a thing like that?" Deborah said in wonder at the creativity of diabolical minds.
       "According to my friend, this is a fairly common way to set a fire. By knowing how long it would take the acid to eat through the balloon, the arsonist would know when to set it up.  He could then be far away from the scene when the fire actually started.  A full-fledged fire would have destroyed the balloon and wood, and, usually, all traces of the chemicals.
       "But, since we put out the fire, these pieces were left.  I bet if we had the newspapers tested we'd find traces of the chemicals, too."
       Deborah shivered at the thought of someone so calculatedly attempting to burn down her house.  Why?  What stakes could be high enough for someone to resort to arson?
       Milo sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee.  "So, that's my news.  What's yours?"
       "Mine's pretty startling, too."  Deborah reached over to the counter, picked up Piper's letter, and handed it to Milo.  "I'll let you read this for yourself."  At his quizzical look, she added, "It's from Piper McCaffrey."
       Deborah watched Milo as he read the letter.  His eyes widened, as though he couldn't believe what he was reading.
       When he finished, she took her tweezers and removed Doug's note from its envelope.  "I thought it best not to add any fingerprints to this," she explained to Milo.
       After he had read Doug's note, he looked up at her.  A scowl deepened the furrow between his brows.  "I'm having a hard time believing Piper would withhold this kind of information from the authorities."
       "I can believe it.  She had a crush on Doug at the time.  She didn't want to think that he could be involved in Carla's death.  She wanted to protect him."
       "And now she's an investigative reporter?"  He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head in dismay.
       They both were silent for a few moments, then Milo said, "So, was Doug there, or wasn't he?"
       "Maybe we'll never know that for sure.  If we confront him with this note, he could always deny it, even if it was true.  There's not a date on the note, to tie it to that particular Friday."
       "If he's part of your repressed memory, we might be able to prove he was there."
       "If I have a repressed memory," she reminded him.  "I still have some doubts about that."
       "Why would Doug want to murder Carla?" Milo mused.
       "He may not have murdered her.  Her fall still could have been an accident.  I don't know of any motive he could have had for murder."  Then a thought occurred to her, and she said, "Was Carla pregnant at the time?"
       Milo shook his head.  "Nothing like that was in the autopsy report."
       "Then wanting to get out of fatherhood wouldn't have been Doug's motive."
       Milo drummed his fingertips on the table for a few moments, then he said, "I think we should contact Piper and persuade her to tell us about the other lead she's working on.  We'll assure her that we'll help her, that she doesn't have to be in this alone."
       "But she says in her letter not to talk to her about this."
       "I don't care.  This is too serious for her to play games with us. Call her up and tell her we're coming over."
       "Now?"  Deborah looked at her wristwatch, saw that it was nearly nine.
       "Yes, now."  Milo set his jaw stubbornly.
       Deborah looked up Piper's number in her address book and punched it into the phone.  The phone at the other end began to ring.  After six or so rings, she expected Piper's answering machine to switch on with Piper's recorded message.  But it didn't.  The phone kept ringing.
       "She's not answering and her machine's not on, either."   Deborah gave up at last and put the receiver back in its cradle.
       Milo drummed his fingers on the table for a couple more minutes, then he jumped up.  "Come on, let's go over to Piper's apartment."
       "But why?  If she's not home . . ."
       "We might catch her as she comes in.  I have a strong feeling that this can't wait."
       "Okay," Deborah said.  "Just give me a couple of minutes to lock up the house."
          When Milo and Deborah reached the Town Commons, Deborah saw that the park was brightly lighted and full of people.  In the gazebo, a band played lively dance music, while couples swirled around the floor.  The smell of popcorn and hot dogs drifted into the open car window.
       She said, "This is the weekend of the Autumn Leaf Festival.  I remember seeing the booths being built the day I had lunch with Piper. Maybe that's where she is tonight."
       "Perhaps," Milo said, slowing the car to gaze at the busy scene. "But let's check her apartment before we try to find her in such a big crowd."
       The other end of the Commons, where the Fairfield Arms sat, appeared deserted.  The apartment building itself seemed empty, too, Deborah thought, as she and Milo entered the dimly lighted lobby.
       "This place feels creepy tonight," Deborah remarked, hugging her arms.
       "I assume you want to walk up?" Milo said, remembering Deborah's aversion to elevators.
       "If you don't mind."
       Milo nodded and they headed for the stairs.  They encountered no one going up or down.  When they reached apartment 501, Milo grasped the gold-plated door knocker.  As he hit the door with it, the door swung open. Milo and Deborah exchanged puzzled glances, then Milo stuck his head inside.  "Piper!" he called.
       No answer.
       Milo and Deborah both leaned inside the apartment and called Piper's name several more times.  But no one answered.
       "Do you think we should go in?" Deborah said.  Her creepy feeling had intensified, sending shivers up and down her spine.  Something was wrong.
       "Yes, I do.  This doesn't look good."  Milo pushed the door farther open.
       Piper's apartment was brightly lighted, and did not appear to be a place someone had left for the evening.  Deborah and Milo went from room to room, calling Piper's name.  In the kitchen, a pot of coffee sat on the coffee maker.  Its red On light was shining.  In Piper's alcove office, her computer was on and papers were strewn across the desk.
       Deborah leaned over and read a few sentences on one of the sheets. "It looks as though she was working on her article on Burlington's population growth.  She mentioned it the day we had lunch."
       But there was no sign of Piper.
       "She's got to be around here somewhere," Deborah said.  "Unless she went to the festival."
       Deborah saw that the door to the balcony off the bedroom was open. She and Milo stepped out onto it.  A stepladder lay tipped on its side, with a light bulb lying nearby.  Had Piper been changing a lightbulb?
       Deborah walked to the railing.  Across the way was the solid yellow wall of the warehouse.  Music and laughter from the festival drifted down the dark alley.
       Something made Deborah look down.  "Oh no!" she exclaimed, pressing her palm to her cheek.
       Milo rushed to her side.  "What is it?"
       Deborah pointed below to where a body lay in the alley.  Although it was quite dark down there, she knew instinctively that it was Piper. She lay on her stomach, with her arms outstretched.  A trail of something black snaked out from the side of her head onto the pavement.  Blood?
       A feeling of deja vu coursed through Deborah.  Time slipped away. It was seven years ago, and she was in the gazebo at Rainbow Falls, looking down on Carla's body lying on the big flat rock below.
       "You call 9-1-1," she heard Milo say.  "I'll go down and see if she's still alive."
       Deborah continued to stare at the body, but her mind continued to see Carla.
       "Deborah!"  Milo gave her shoulders a gentle shake.  "You've got to help me.  Please get a grip on yourself.  Can you call 9-1-1?"
       Deborah forced herself to comprehend what Milo was asking. "Yes, of course, I can.  You go see if . . . if she's still alive."
       That was what she had wanted to do when she had seen Carla's body, Deborah remembered.  But she had never made it to the bottom of the falls.
        Milo ran out the front door while Deborah headed for the phone in the kitchen.  Somehow, she managed to make the call and repeat Piper's address to the operator.
       Afterward, she hurried back to the balcony.  Leaning over the railing, she peered down.  The alley was still very dark, but she could see Milo bending over Piper's body.  "Milo," she called.
       He looked up at her, his expression grim.  "I can't find a pulse. Did you get hold of 9-1-1?"
       "Yes."
       "Good.  I'll be up in a minute.  There's broken glass down here, too.  It appears to be from a light bulb."
       Milo looked down at Piper again, then back up at the building.  His eyes roved over the various apartments.  "I don't see lights in any of the other apartments."
       "All the residents are probably at the Festival," Deborah said.
       A few minutes later, Milo joined her in the apartment.  "I wish we could search through Piper's things," he said, "to see if we could find what it was she spoke of in her letter to you, that Carla gave her before she died.  But I suppose we'd better not touch anything."
       "No, we'd better not."
       They sat down on the sofa to wait.  Deborah couldn't stop shaking. Milo put his arm around her shoulder, gently kneading her muscles.  "Hang in there," he told her.
       "I feel awful," she murmured, leaning her head against his chest.
       "Me, too."
       "But I'm glad you're here with me.  I would hate to cope with this alone."
       "I'm glad I'm here, too," he said, nuzzling her hair with his lips.
       Deborah wished she could focus on Milo's nearness, but the image of Piper lying in the alley kept intruding.  Whatever she and Milo might have together would have to wait, she knew that.  But now the situation was more complicated than ever.
       In no time at all, it seemed, the medics arrived, along with Officer Noble, from the Fairfield Police.  He was tall and blond, and looked no more than twenty-five.  As he took statements from Deborah and Milo, more police personnel arrived.
       They all went out to the balcony where Deborah and Milo related their discovery of the body.  Deborah could hear the festival band still playing its lively songs.  How incongruous, she thought, that a celebration should be taking place at the same time as the tragedy in apartment 501.
       Milo said to the policemen, "My guess is, she fell off the ladder and over balcony railing when she was changing a light bulb."  He pointed to the tipped over ladder and the bulb, then up to where an empty light socket hung from the balcony roof.
       "There was a broken bulb by her body," Milo went on.  "That was probably the bulb she was going to put in the socket.  And that one"--he pointed to the one that lay on the balcony floor--"was the burned out bulb she took out of the socket."
       "We'll check it out," Officer Noble said.
       Finally, after answering some more questions, Milo and Deborah were allowed to leave.  Officer Noble told them they would be contacted by someone from the police force again, probably the following day.
       Back at her house, Deborah warmed up the coffee and they drank it sitting at the kitchen table.  Deborah still felt sick to her stomach.  "I just can't believe what happened," she murmured.
       Milo reached over and put his arm around her shoulder.  "I think you're in shock, Deborah.  Do you want me to take you to a doctor?"
       "No, no, I'll be all right.  But do you think Piper's death was an accident?"
       "It looked that way.  What do you think?"
       "I don't know.  I'm so confused.  And I have this funny feeling . . ."
       Milo nodded.  "I know.  Me, too."
       "Milo, what if someone murdered Piper and made it look like an accident?  Couldn't someone have pushed her over the balcony, then arranged the ladder and bulb to make it look as though she were changing bulbs?"
       Milo stared thoughtfully at his coffee cup.  "I suppose that's possible."
       "I feel somehow responsible."  Deborah stood and began to pace from the table to the sink.  "What if her death is connected to my visit, to the letter she wrote me?"
       "Now, Deborah," Milo warned, "don't go jumping to conclusions."
       "I can't help it," Deborah cried, near tears.  "I should have left well enough alone.  I never should have probed into Piper's affairs."
       Milo leaped up and came to stand beside her.  He drew her close to him and gently hugged her.  "Deborah, stop it.  You're assuming responsibility where none has been established.  Don't punish yourself like this."
       "But poor Piper!  She had her whole life ahead of her!  She had her career to look forward to."
       "Yes, her career," Milo said thoughtfully.  "If there was any foul play about her death, maybe it had to do with her career.  Didn't you say she was an investigative reporter?"
       "She wanted to be.  I don't know if she was working on anything other than the Burlington population article, or whatever she was doing that related to Carla.  Do you think we should tell the police about the letter Piper sent me?"
       "Not unless you want to tell them everything else that's been happening to you."
       "I don't."
       "I didn't think so.  Look, let's just wait and see what happens regarding her death.  We can always come forward later with our information, if we think that would be best.  In the meantime, we'll continue our own investigation.  What do you say?  Are you still with me, Deborah?"
       "Yes, I'm in too far now to turn back."
       "Thank you, Deborah," Milo said solemnly.
        He held her close to him, stroking her back in a soothing, intimate way.  Deborah began to relax, and when he lifted her chin to kiss her, she made no protest.  All the touching they had done this evening had been leading up to this.  She had known it, waited for it, wanted it.  His mouth was gentle and patient, as though he knew she needed tenderness now, more than anything else.  Tenderness and reassurance.
       She reached up and laid her hand on his cheek, felt the hard jaw muscles underneath the stubble of beard.  He smelled of soap and suede, and a maleness all his own.  A yearning began deep inside her, a yearning so intense and strong she could barely contain it.
       After several minutes of long, exquisite kisses, he drew away.  He traced the line of her lower lip with his forefinger.  "I don't want to leave you alone," he whispered.  "Let me stay the night."
       Let me stay the night.  The words themselves, the husky tone, sent shivers coursing down Deborah's back.  Images of the two of them lying in her bed upstairs blazed across her mind, followed by waves of white-hot desire.
       Deborah pushed the images from her mind.  "I--I'm not ready for that," she said, her eyes downcast.
       "We don't have to sleep together, although I must admit I'd like that.  It's just that I'm very concerned about your safety.  If Piper was murdered, there is a murderer running around loose.  Until we know what's going on, I'm going to worry about you."
       His concern touched her, but then she reminded herself that he'd said, "Until we know what's going on."  What would happen after that? Would he still be concerned about her?
       Although she wanted with all her heart to say yes, staying under the same roof at night, when temptations for intimacy would surely run high, was too big a risk to take.
       "I appreciate your concern, Milo," she said.  "Really, I do.  But no, I can't let you stay."
       She felt the intake of his breath and then his chest pushed against her as he expelled a heavy sigh.  A sigh of resignation, or of relief?
        A few minutes later, Milo guided his car onto the road leading to Castletown--and home.  Home was usually a place he was eager to be.  But tonight, the image of his empty farmhouse made him feel lonely.  The taste of Deborah was still on his lips, her sweet, subtle scent still clung to him.  Although he still wanted to make love to her, he told himself that her refusal to let him stay was for the best.
       But what he'd said about being concerned for her safety was entirely true.  He was concerned, and he would have been content to sleep on the couch, even the old one down in her parlor.  Well, maybe content wasn't the best word.  But he would have done it.
       Yes, he was concerned about her, but he wished he could figure out the other, confusing emotions that ricocheted through him.  Sometimes it was the old anger and disgust, making him never want to see her again.  And sometimes he wanted to just hold onto her and never let go.
       When he thought about the anger, he realized it was toward the teacher who was responsible for Carla's death, the teacher who for so many years had been without features or personality.  Did he still feel anger against the woman he now knew as Deborah Kent?  But weren't she and the faceless teacher one and the same?  It was all so confusing, he thought, as he drove on into the dark night.
        The following day, Sergeant Jurgens came to see Deborah.  He was older than Officer Noble, with a weathered face and a more jaded attitude. His questions appeared to follow an established routine in which he had little personal interest.  She told him the same things she had told Officer Noble the evening before.
       "What do you think happened to Piper?" she asked when he seemed to have run out of questions for her.
       Sergeant Jurgens shut the small black notebook he had been writing in.  "We don't know at this point.  The results of the autopsy haven't come back yet.  But it looks like an accidental death."
       Not too long after the sergeant's departure, Deborah received a phone call from Lacey.
       "Oh, Deborah, I just heard on this morning's news that Piper McCaffrey is dead!"
       "I know, Lacey.  Isn't it terrible?"
       "Yes, I can hardly believe it."
       "Milo and I found her."
       There was silence at the other end of the line.
       "Did you hear me, Lacey?"
       "Yes, I heard you.  I'm just stunned, is all.  You say you and Milo found her?"
       "Yes."  Deborah quickly sketched in the details.
       "That must have been awful," Lacey said when Deborah had finished.
       "It was so much like what happened at Rainbow Falls . . . looking down and seeing Carla's body.  It was just like that.  I got the same sinking feeling in my stomach."
       "I'm sorry you had to go through that again.  Is there anything I can do?"
       "No, thanks, Lacey.  I'll be all right.  How is Jay taking it?" Deborah remembered that Piper had been a favorite pupil of Jay's.
       "He doesn't know yet.  He's at a headmasters' convention in Boston. I tried to reach him, but he's been out of his room.  I left a message for him to call me."
       "I bet he'll be upset."
       "I'm sure he will.  He was so fond of her."  Lacey gave a sigh. "I'll be anxious to hear what the police decide happened to Piper.  But it certainly sounds like it was accidental.  What do you think?"
       "I don't know.  I just don't know."
       "Deborah, surely you don't think, well, that someone killed Piper. Why would anyone do that?"
       "I don't know," Deborah said again.  "I guess we'll just have to wait and see what the police decide."
        In the days that followed, Deborah kept glued to the TV and radio news reports.  Phone calls flew back and forth between her and Lacey and Milo, as they waited for the official word.
       Finally, it came:  Piper McCaffrey's death was accidental.  As Milo had suggested, the police concluded that she had fallen over the balcony railing while attempting to change the lightbulb on the balcony roof.
       Deborah and Milo attended the memorial service for Piper, held at the Jamison Funeral Home.  At first, Deborah did not want to go; but in the end, she decided it would be a good way to say a final good-bye to Piper.
       Still, when they entered the hushed atmosphere of the funeral home, and she saw the sad faces and heard the mournful organ songs, she almost broke down.  It was a good thing Milo was at her side, to sustain her with his ever-present strength.
       Deborah and Milo signed the guest book, then they followed an attendant down the chapel aisle to a pew.  As they sat down, Milo reached over and clasped her hand.
       Looking around, Deborah judged that about a hundred people were in attendance.  In the front row were Piper's parents, an attractive, well-dressed couple in their late forties.  Deborah remembered meeting them at Wainwright's Parents' Night, seven years ago.
       Sitting with the McCaffreys was a younger couple with two small children, a girl and a boy.  The woman had Piper's dark chestnut hair, which made Deborah surmise that she was Piper's older sister, Lisa.
       Doug Jaspers sat a few rows behind the McCaffreys.  He turned suddenly and his gaze riveted to Deborah's.  His eyes narrowed and he sent her a look full of daggers.  Deborah winced.  Did he think she had something to do with Piper's death?
       She quickly averted her eyes.  Looking around, her gaze landed on Lacey and Jay, who were sitting behind them.  Jay's head was bowed, revealing a bald spot on the top.  Lacey's carefully made-up face held a blank expression.  Then she caught Deborah's eye and her lips slowly curved into a melancholy smile.  Deborah smiled back, then turned to face the front.  The service was about to begin.
       Afterwards, in the reception hall, they were served coffee and crustless sandwiches and cookies.  The food stuck in Deborah's throat so much that she finally gave up trying to eat and just sipped her coffee.
       "How are you holding up?" Milo asked.
       "Pretty good."  She mustered a wan smile.
       "Let's go talk to Piper's parents," he said.
        After saying a few words of condolence to Mr. and Mrs. McCaffrey, Deborah and Milo were introduced to the young woman with the chestnut hair. She was indeed Piper's older sister, Lisa.
       "Oh, yes, I remember you," Lisa said to Deborah.  "You're the teacher who was involved with Carla Cassidy's accident."
       "Yes," Deborah said, as the familiar pain that comment always brought stabbed her once again.  "And Milo is Carla's brother."  She glanced at him and saw the bleakness that always came into his eyes at the mention of Carla.
       "Oh," Lisa said, her expression softening.  "So you've lost a sister, too."
       "Yes, so I know how terrible you must be feeling now," Milo said.
       "I'm so sorry about Piper," Deborah told Lisa.  "We had renewed our acquaintance, and I was looking forward to us being friends."
       Lisa nodded, and pushed back a strand of her hair.  "Piper would have made a good friend," she said.  "She was extremely loyal."
       They reminisced for a few minutes about Piper, then Milo said, "Perhaps this isn't the time to talk about it, but Piper was helping Deborah and me with something."  He paused to shoot Deborah a look that said, "Go along with me on this."  Deborah responded with a slight nod.
       "You mean she was investigating something for you?" Lisa asked.
       "Sort of," Milo said.  "She was going to give us some information she had discovered, but didn't have a chance to do so before she died.  Do you think there's any way--"  He left the question hanging.
       Deborah held her breath as Lisa's green eyes appraised first Milo and then Deborah for so long that Deborah was sure their cause was lost.
       Then Lisa finally said, "I'm going to be at Piper's apartment next Wednesday, going through her things.  A job I don't relish, but one that has to be done.  Why don't the two of you come up, say, about one o'clock?"
       Milo looked at Deborah, triumph shining in his dark eyes.  "Would that suit you?"
       Deborah nodded.
       "I'll see you then," Lisa said.  

Chapter Six

The following Wednesday, Deborah worked on her house projects, as usual.  But from noon on, she waited anxiously for Milo to pick her up for their appointment with Piper's sister.  She had been thinking about this meeting all weekend, wondering if she and Milo would learn anything from the young woman that would help them.
       Milo arrived promptly at twelve-thirty.  Deborah's concern about meeting with Lisa faded as she watched him unfold his long legs from his car and head up the walk.  The sight of him never failed to stir her senses, no matter what the circumstances.  Today he made a stunning appearance dressed in jeans, a blue and white sweater, and a white windbreaker that contrasted with his dark coloring.
       She opened the front door and waited for him.  As he bounded up the steps, he looked up and caught her eye.  A grin spread across his face. Her heart thudded in her ribcage as she smiled back.
       "Hi," he said.   Taking both her hands in his, he leaned forward to drop a light kiss on her forehead.  She caught a whiff of shaving soap. "Ready to go?"
       "Yes, I've been waiting for you.  Just let me grab my purse and jacket."
       He tucked her into his car, then went around to the driver's side and climbed in.  His closeness kept her heart racing.  But as they sped away from the house, Deborah urged her thoughts from Milo to their upcoming meeting with Lisa.
       "Should we have a plan for how we're going to approach Lisa?" Deborah asked Milo.  "For example, should we tell her that Piper believed Carla was to meet Doug Jaspers at Rainbow Falls the day of the accident?"
       Milo slowed the car at the end of the cul-de-sac to merge with traffic.  "We'll just play it by ear.  She seems trustworthy, but we don't know that for sure.  I sense she'd be very upset by any suggestion that her sister might have withheld information in an accident investigation."
       "I think you're right.  We'll tread carefully."
       Fifteen minutes later, Lisa admitted Deborah and Milo to Piper's apartment.  She was dressed in jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. One look at her red-rimmed eyes and Deborah's heart went out to her.  Going through her dead sister's belongings must be an agonizing task.
       "I've been sorting Piper's clothes," Lisa said, as she led them into the living room.  "I don't think I could bear to wear any of them, so I guess I'll give them to her favorite charity."
       As Deborah looked around the living room, she couldn't help but remember being here to have lunch with Piper.  The day had started out on a happy note, with Piper proudly showing off her apartment.  They had eaten Piper's split pea soup and ham and cheese sandwiches at the dining room table.  The bowl of red poppies still sat in the center.
       She and Piper had been on the way to changing their relationship from student and teacher to peers, to friends.  But Deborah's probing about Carla's accident upset Piper, and the day ended on a bitter note.  Hot waves of regret washed through Deborah now, regret for not being able to smooth things over with Piper before she died.
       "I hope we're not interrupting you too much," Milo said to Lisa.
       Lisa shook her head.  "I needed a break.  This is so difficult, I have to do it in small doses.  But I'm the only one who can cope with this part of saying good-bye to Piper.  Mother said she couldn't bear to come over here.  She volunteered to stay with the children while I came.  But I can't leave them with her too long, because they get on her nerves after a while."
       "We won't take much of your time," Milo said.  "But, Lisa, were you satisfied with the verdict that your sister's death was accidental?"
       Lisa's green eyes darkened with wariness.  "Why do you ask?"
       Milo shot Deborah a glance that said, "Don't tell too much," then turned back to Lisa.  "Deborah and I have some doubts about the police's conclusion."
       Lisa's gaze moved from Milo to look questioningly at Deborah. Deborah nodded, but didn't offer any more information.
       Finally, Lisa said, "At first, I accepted that it was an accident. But I guess I must have some doubts too, because when I came here today I tested the lightbulb she apparently had been going to put in the socket. Let me show you."
       Lisa led them into the bedroom.  She picked up a bulb from an end table, then continued out to the balcony.
       Deborah tried to avoid looking down, but like a magnet, the alley drew her.  There was a dark spot on the asphalt, the same spot she had seen near Piper's body.  Her stomach churned.  Had she suffered?  Or been killed instantly?  What terror had she experienced during those fleeting moments between the beginning of the fall and the end?
       As if he had sensed her inner turmoil, Milo came to stand beside her.  She felt his arm around her waist, the gentle pressure of his fingers through her clothing.  She took a deep breath, and the tension in her stomach uncoiled.  Turning back to Lisa, she focused on what the young woman was saying.
       "She was supposedly changing the bulb in that socket, right?"  Lisa pointed to the empty socket fastened to the edge of the roof.
       "So we understand," Milo said.
       Lisa went over to the step ladder propped against the wall and began to drag it to the railing.
       "Here, let me do that."  Milo jumped forward to take the ladder from of her hands.
       Milo set up the ladder near the railing and under the light socket. "Let me have the bulb," he said to Lisa.  She handed him the bulb and Milo climbed the ladder.
       "Be careful," Lisa cautioned.  "I don't want you to fall over the railing."
       "I will," Milo promised, looking down momentarily to flash both Lisa and Deborah a reassuring smile.
       When Milo was halfway up the ladder, he could reach the socket.  He screwed in the bulb, which remained unlit.  He said to Lisa, "I take it there's a switch somewhere?"
       "Yes."  Lisa disappeared inside the apartment, and in a couple of moments, the bulb that Milo had installed burst into light.
       "See?" Lisa said when she had rejoined them on the balcony.
       "You're sure that's the same bulb?" Deborah said.
       "I'm sure."  Lisa's emphatic nod confirmed her words.
       Milo climbed down from the ladder.  "Maybe there was a short in the switch that night."
       "Maybe," Lisa said.  "But this bulb raised a doubt about Piper's death being an accident.  If it worked, why was she changing it?"
       "Maybe the new one was brighter than the bulb already in the socket," Deborah suggested.
       Lisa shook her head.  "This bulb and the one that fell with her into the alley were the same wattage."
       Milo folded up the ladder and propped it against the wall.  He turned to Lisa.  "Do you know anyone who would want to murder your sister?"
       "No, I don't."  Lisa put her hands on her hips.  "What is this all about, anyway?" she asked sharply.
       Deborah glanced at Milo, saw his slight nod.  She said to Lisa, "Could we go inside and sit down?  Then we'll tell you."
       Inside, Lisa perched on the edge of the sofa, twisting her hands in her lap.  Milo and Deborah each took a chair across from her.
       Milo said, "First of all, Deborah and I have reason to believe that my sister Carla's accident was not an accident at all."
       "You mean someone might have killed her?" Lisa asked in disbelief. "But after the inquest, her death was ruled accidental."
       "That's true," Deborah said, "but as Milo said, we have reasons to believe otherwise."
       "What are your reasons?" Lisa asked bluntly.
       Milo shot a warning look at Deborah, then said quickly, "We're not at liberty say right now."
       "You don't think Piper was involved, do you?"  Lisa's voice rose. "She was Carla's best friend!"
       "No, we don't think your sister was involved," Milo said.  "But she gave Deborah some information that raised some questions about the accident."
       "What information?
       "I'm afraid we can't tell you the details," Milo said.  "We must keep things confidential until we have everything figured out."
       Deborah said, "The problem is, Piper had some more information that she was going to give us."  She paused, hoping Lisa could not detect that she was stretching the truth.  "But we never got it."
       "So you think Carla may have been murdered," Lisa mused, her gaze roving to the sliding glass doors.  She jerked her head back around to look at them again, her green eyes shooting sparks.  "And you think Piper was murdered, too?  Don't you?"
       "We don't know for sure about either of them," Milo said.  "We're only speculating."
       "You have no right to upset me like this!" Lisa's eyes glistened with tears and she twisted her fingers together in a tight knot.
       "I'm sorry," Deborah soothed.  "We don't mean to upset you.  But from what you told us about the lightbulb that works, you have misgivings about her death, too.  Isn't that right?"
       Lisa sighed deeply and pushed back a tangled lock of hair.  "All right, yes, I did have a hard time accepting that her death was an accident.  I never liked the idea of her being an investigative reporter. I always wanted her to do something safe.  Why couldn't she just find a nice guy, get married, and raise kids, like I'm doing?
       "But no, she had to have a career.  Anyway, I couldn't help but think she might have dug up something someone didn't want her to write about, and that they, well . . . "   She waved a hand, apparently unable to put the rest of her fears into words.
       "But I never thought what she was doing might be connected with anything in the past, like Carla's accident."
       Milo said, "Will you let us to take a look at Piper's office and what she was working on?"
       Lisa's defensiveness returned as she eyed them coldly.  "I don't know.  Why should I trust you two?  Maybe you're out to frame Piper for Carla's death.  Then you wouldn't have to bear the responsibility anymore, would you?"  She aimed this last remark at Deborah.
       Deborah winced, but kept her expression neutral.  "We just want to find out the truth," she said firmly.  "Don't you believe the truth is important?"
       "That depends," Lisa said in a tone that showed she clearly did not.
       No one spoke.  Deborah's gaze roamed to a clock on the brick fireplace wall.  Black Roman numerals showed the time to be 2:00.  The hour they had been there had flown by.
       Finally, Lisa said with a sigh, "Okay, you can look at her office."
       Lisa led Milo and Deborah to Piper's alcove office.  It looked just as it had the night they found her body, with papers strewn about the desk, except that the computer was turned off.
       Milo searched the two-drawer file cabinet while Deborah riffled through the papers.  Lisa, arms folded across her chest, looked on.  After a few minutes, Milo closed the bottom drawer.  "Nothing of interest," he said.  "Did you find anything?" he asked Deborah.
       Deborah shook her head.
       "What about the computer?" Milo asked.  "There might be something on it."  He looked questioningly at Lisa.
       "Go ahead and check it," she said.
       Milo turned the machine on and scanned the contents of the hard disc.  "I don't find anything of interest here," he said.  One by one, he inserted the floppy discs and checked them.  "I'm drawing a blank again," he said as he removed the last one and tucked it away in its oaken storage box.
       "Is there any other place Piper might have kept projects she was working on?" Deborah asked Lisa.  "Maybe she didn't want to leave something really sensitive lying around for someone else to see."
       "I don't know of any other place," Lisa said.  "But I haven't gone through everything in the apartment, either."
       "If you find anything you think might be of interest to us, will you let us know?" Milo said.
       Lisa hesitated, then said, "I suppose so.  But I think you're making a mistake to dig up the past.  You should leave well enough alone."
        "Do you think she really will pass anything she might find about Carla on to us?" Deborah asked when she and Milo were on their way back to her house.
       "I don't know," Milo said.  "She doesn't trust us, not that I blame her.  Despite our reassurances, she's worried that Piper might have been involved in my sister's death, and, understandably, wants to protect Piper's reputation."
       "Well, even if she doesn't trust us, I guess we'll have to trust her."
       "Mmm hmm.  Right now, we have no other choice."
       Deborah was silent as they left the downtown behind and entered the residential area.  Then she said, "I wish we could find out if Doug really did write that note and if he skipped school to meet Carla at the falls, but I don't see how we can."
       "We'd have to find out who the buddy was who might have marked him present for class when he was absent.  But even if we did, he'd probably still cover for Doug."
       "We could confront Doug with the note and see what he says about it."
       Milo frowned.  "Yeah, and if he did see Carla that day, knowing we're on to him will really set him off.  I don't want you to be in any more danger than you already are."
       He glanced at her, and the tender look in his dark eyes made her heart skip a beat.  Was he beginning to care for her?
       "I appreciate your concern," she said.
       As they turned the corner into her cul-de-sac, a blue car sped past them on its way out.  Deborah caught a glimpse of a red-haired driver.
       "That looked like Albert Healy," she said.  "He must have paid me a visit again.  He certainly doesn't discourage easily."
       "He'd better not have tampered with anything," Milo said grimly.
       Milo insisted on coming in and inspecting Deborah's house from top to bottom.  She went to the kitchen and made coffee, listening to his steps marching from room to room.  It was nice to have a protector, she thought, even though she prided herself on being independent.
       After Milo was satisfied there had been no intruders, he sat down in the kitchen and drank a cup of the freshly brewed coffee.
       They made small talk for a while, but Deborah sensed something else was on Milo's mind.  She felt strangely distracted, and whenever their gazes happened to coincide, the intensity in his eyes left her breathless.
       When she brought the coffee pot over to pour him a refill, he gently took it from her hand and set it on the table.  Then he drew her down onto his lap.  For a moment, she hesitated, but her willpower was worn down to near nonexistence.  He put his arms around her, cradling her against him.  She laid her cheek against his chest.
       They sat there for long moments, neither speaking, yet volumes passing between them.  His hand stroked her back in tender caresses. Boldly, she pressed her lips against his neck, tasting the salty tang of his skin.  After a while, he raised her chin with his forefinger, and their lips met in a gentle, sweet kiss.
       The kiss went on for a while; then, with a deep groan, Milo pushed his tongue between her lips.  Once again, Deborah offered no resistance, allowing her tongue to mingle and dance with his.  He tasted sweeter than anything she could ever dream of.
       Milo reached up and cupped her breast, rubbed his thumb over it. His touch sent streaks of fire coursing through Deborah.  With his other hand, he freed the top button of her blouse,  "Let me make love to you, Deborah.  We'd be so good together."
       It would be so easy to give in and make love with Milo, Deborah thought.  But she forced herself to consider the consequences.  So they gave in to their passion and made love.  Would that change anything about their situation?  She was still the teacher who was responsible for his sister's tragic death.  That would be between them forever.  And afterward, he would probably resent and perhaps even hate her.  He would push her aside and not have anything more to do with her.
       No, she didn't want that.  Better to not make love with him  at all, than to know ecstasy for only a few moments, and then never again.
       She shook her head.  "No, Milo."
       Taking her by the shoulders, he gazed at her with an incredulous expression.  "No, what?  No, you don't want me?  No, this isn't the right time?"
       She lowered her eyelids.  "Neither of those is the reason," she said in a quiet voice.
       "What, then?"
       "You ought to know.  Carla.  She's between us like a big wedge. She'll always be between us.  No matter what we find out about the accident, it won't change the fact that I didn't supervise the girls as closely as I should have."
       Milo remained silent, absently making circles on her shoulders with his thumbs.
       "I'm right, aren't I?" she insisted.  Her insides were shaking, but she had to hear his answer.
       Milo said nothing, but began to button her blouse.  Deborah's spirits sank.  Yet, what had she expected?  Did she want him to lie to her and say, no, Carla was not between them?  Of course not.
       Still, his backing off cut her to the core.  There would be no love making between them this night.  Or ever.
       Deborah slid back onto her chair and stared dumbly at the coffee pot.  It had all started when she had come over to warm up his coffee.  She placed her palm against the pot's glass side.  "The coffee is cold now," she announced, more to fill the silence than to pass on information.
       Milo smoothed his shirt.  "That's okay.  I guess I've had enough anyway."
       "I can warm it up, if you want," she pursued.  She didn't want him to leave.  The house would be too empty without him.
       "No, thanks."  He pushed up his shirt cuff to look at his wristwatch.  "I'd better be going now, anyway."
       "Oh, right.  Since we're not going to have sex, there's no need to hang around, is there?"  She was surprised at the bitterness in her voice.
        "You don't need to be cruel, Deborah."  Milo spoke calmly, but she noticed a muscle twitching in his jaw.  "You know that's not the reason I'm leaving.  It is getting late and I really should be going."
       "You're right, Milo," she said, modulating her tone to hint at apology.  "But, please don't think I didn't like what we were doing just now. . . "
       He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.  "I know you enjoyed it as much as I did.  And, don't worry about it, okay?  Everything will work out."
       But would it? Deborah wondered.  Somehow, his words did not reassure her. 
For the next few days, it seemed to Deborah that her life was almost normal.  She received no notes and saw no one sneaking around her property.  Could the harassment be over?  If so, had Piper been the culprit?
       Deborah did not want to believe Piper would do such evil things. Probably, it was only a coincidence that the harassment had ended at the same time Piper had died.
       On Saturday, just a little over a week after her and Milo's visit to Piper's apartment, Deborah was to have her second appointment with Dr. Baumgartner.  She had decided to go ahead with the sessions, despite her doubts about their effectiveness.
       Deborah debated with herself whether to remind Milo of her appointment or to say nothing and make the trip alone.  She really wanted his company, but whenever they were together lately, their attraction to one another led to trouble.
       As it turned out, she didn't have to make a decision, because on Tuesday Milo telephoned.  After a few minutes of small talk, he brought up the subject himself.
       "I won't be able to go with you to see Bob this time," he said.  "I have to deliver a mare to a guy in Chesterton.  I tried to arrange another time, but he insisted I come on Saturday."
       "That's all right," Deborah said, keeping her tone light to conceal her disappointment.  She had a niggling suspicion that perhaps this was just an excuse, that he really didn't want to go with her.
       "I'm really sorry," Milo said.  "I wanted to be with you for all of your appointments.  Do you think you'll be all right alone?"
       "Of course, I will," she assured him.  "I've been taking care of myself for quite a few years now."
       "I know you have, but not under these dangerous circumstances."
       "Nothing has happened for over a week now.  Maybe Piper was the one behind all the harassment."
       "I suppose it could have been Piper, although she didn't seem the type to be devious or cruel.  But if she wasn't the one, and your stalker is still out there, it could be he has backed off hoping to catch you with your guard down.  That worries me a lot.  Promise me you'll be careful, Deborah."
       "I will," she said.
       However, the idea of her stalker waiting to catch her off guard sent a chill down her spine.  Could Milo be right?
        The following Saturday, Deborah drove alone to Burlington.  She allowed herself an extra hour, so she could spend time in the open-air shopping mall she and Milo had visited on their first trip there.  She soon realized she missed Milo more than she thought she would.  The thirty miles, which had sped by when they traveled them together, seemed like sixty today.  Not even listening to the radio helped to pass the time.
       The glowing colors of the countryside were beginning to fade, reminding Deborah that winter was not far off.  She dreaded the thought of gray skies and ice and snow, and wished autumn could last forever.
       In Burlington, she located a parking space halfway between Dr. Baumgartner's office and the open-air mall.  She browsed for a while in the bookstore, looking at the poetry books, then wandered over to the section on horses.  She wondered if there was a book Milo would like, perhaps as a birthday present.  But that was silly; she didn't even know when his birthday was.  And it wouldn't be appropriate to give him a gift anyway.
       She left the store without making any purchases and soon entered the revolving doors of the Cobb Building.  Since it was Saturday, no one was around.  This is kind of spooky, Deborah thought, as she headed for the stairs.  She climbed them as fast as she could without getting too winded. Again, she wished Milo was with her.  Perhaps she should have changed today's appointment to another time when he could have come, too.
       In Dr. Baumgartner's office, Alma greeted Deborah from her windowed cubicle.  After a short wait, she was ushered into his cozy room, to sit on the sofa in front of the gas fireplace.
       Even though the doctor tried to relax her with gentle conversation, Deborah sat rigidly and twisted her hands in her lap.  What if today was the day she finally recovered her lost moments?  Did she really want to?
       Finally, Dr. Baumgartner got down to business and guided Deborah into a trance, again using the mental staircase to help her access the past.
       With Milo's image so near the surface of her mind, Deborah had trouble concentrating.  It took several tries before she could reach the bottom of the stairs.  However, once there, she solidly rooted herself at the falls, where she reviewed every moment with more clarity and detail than she had the last time she had been under Dr. Baumgartner's guidance.
       But, when she reached the part just before she tripped and fell, she came up against the usual mental blank wall.
       "Linger there awhile," she heard Dr. Baumgartner gently instruct. "Remember, nothing can hurt you.  You're only an observer now.  Do you see anything?  Hear anything?"
       Deborah concentrated on observing the scene.  She saw herself running down the path in her attempt to reach Carla.  The landscape flew by, trees and underbrush and ground blurring like watercolors running together on a painter's palette.
       Suddenly, something caught Deborah's eye.  "I do see something," she said aloud.
       "What is it?" Dr. Baumgartner asked.
       "Something round and shiny."
       "Where is this round and shiny something?"
       "In the trees."
       "Hanging in the trees?"
       "No . . . oh, the sunshine hit it.  It's really shiny now."
       "Do you know what it is?"
       Deborah grimaced as she tried to think about the round, shiny object.  Then nausea rushed from her stomach up into her throat.  "No!  No! I don't know what it is!"
       "That's all right, Deborah," Dr. Baumgartner soothed.  "Walk away from it."
       "I--I--"  Tears streamed down Deborah's face and dripped onto her hands lying in her lap.
       "Take a deep breath, Deborah," the doctor said.  "Then turn your back on whatever it is you're seeing and return to the staircase."
       Deborah finally calmed down enough to do as Dr. Baumgartner instructed.  When she opened her eyes, he was leaning forward in his leather chair, a tissue in his outstretched hand.
       "Thanks."  She took it and wiped her face.
       She leaned her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes.  Whatever had happened while she was under had panicked her.  She felt as though she had got too close to a fire and had almost been burned.
        After awhile Deborah raised her head and offered Dr. Baumgartner a wan smile.
       "I think you had a breakthrough," he said.  "Do you have any idea now what the shiny object might be?"
       "No," Deborah said emphatically.  "And it hurts my head to think about it."
       "Then don't.  Just forget about it and wait to see if your unconscious pushes anything to the surface."
       "I don't know if I want whatever it is to push to the surface.  I feel so . . . so threatened."
       "Keep in mind that you're an observer, and whatever happened then cannot hurt you now."
       But Deborah wasn't so sure of that.
       However, Deborah's "breakthrough," as the doctor called it, encouraged her.  When the session was over, she made another appointment with Alma before leaving the office.
       Still shaken by what had happened, she was more loathe than ever to take the elevator and headed directly for the red neon Exit sign and the stairs.  My, this building is spooky today, she thought as she hurried along the deserted hallway.
       She opened the heavy steel door and entered the stairwell.  The door closed behind her with a loud clank.  When she and Milo had used these stairs, she had not noticed the cold atmosphere or the ugly green walls.
       Why didn't building owners make their stairwells more attractive? Deborah wondered idly, as she headed down.  Her flat-heeled shoes clattered hollowly on the cement steps.
       On the floor above her, a door opened and slammed shut.  She expected to hear footsteps echoing either up or down, but all was silent. Perhaps the person had only peeked in the stairwell, then changed their mind about using the exit.
       Nervous and jumpy, Deborah made her feet go faster.  She had reached the third floor and rounded the turn to the second, when the door behind her opened with a whoosh.  A blast of cold air washed over her.
       Before she could glance over her shoulder to see who would be joining her, heavy footsteps rushed up behind her and an arm seized her around the neck.
       Deborah's head was jerked back against her assailant's chest.  She had the sensation of bulky clothing and something rough covering the person's face.  A ski mask?  The choke hold tightened.  Deborah gasped, trying to suck in air as her windpipe closed.
       Her arms flailed, then her right wrist was captured and twisted behind her.  But her left hand was still free.  Wildly, she groped for something to hang on to.  Just as spots danced before her eyes, she managed to grab the iron stair railing.
       Her sudden stop put a couple inches between her and her attacker. She bent her leg at the knee aim a backward kick.  Her heel connected with something solid, like a shin.  A muffled oath sounded close to her ear.
       Her effort threw her assailant off balance, but not enough to to make him release her neck.  Pressure to her windpipe increased and blackness curled around the edges of her vision.
       I'm done for, Deborah thought.  This is what it feels like to die. 

Chapter Seven

       Just when Deborah knew she would die if she couldn't gulp in some air, the arm around her throat loosened, then fell away.  Deborah felt a sharp thrust, like that from a knee, in the middle of her back.  Her feet flew out from under her and she tumbled head over heels down the stairs. Her screams bounced off the walls and echoed throughout the stairwell.
       Each contact her body made with the hard cement sent pain stabbing through her.  Finally, she hit the bottom, slid across the landing, and banged into the wall.  Stars whirled before her eyes and everything went black.  Vaguely, she was conscious of footsteps climbing above her, of the opening and shutting of a door, then silence.
       Gradually, the blackness cleared and Deborah was able to raise herself to a sitting position.  She didn't think any bones were broken, but at the moment she couldn't be certain.  Her left wrist throbbed, and warm blood trickled down her cheek.  Her neck and her throat ached.
       She knew she couldn't stay there for long, though.  Her assailant might return.  Looking around, she saw her shoulder purse lying nearby. Why hadn't her attacker taken it?  Wasn't that what he--or she--was after? But why the choke hold, as though the person were trying to strangle her? Why not just grab the purse and run?
       Deborah managed to stand, but a wave of dizziness washed over her and she had to lean against the wall for support.  With great effort she reached down and picked up her purse.  Leaning over brought more dizziness. She propped herself against the wall again until it passed.  While she could still concentrate on it, she looped the purse strap over her shoulder.
       Gripping the iron railing, taking each step slowly and carefully, Deborah made her way down the remaining flight of stairs to the lobby.  As she pressed her hands against the cool metal of the Exit door handle, a sharp pain shot through her left wrist.  How am I ever going to drive home? she wondered.
       In the still-deserted lobby, she spied a row of pay phones.  She wanted desperately to call someone.  Her first thought was Milo, but he was out of town.
       What about Lacey?  What were best friends for if not to rescue one another in times of need.  Deborah was sure that if Lacey were available, she would be more than willing to drive to Burlington and pick her up.  She fished in her purse for the necessary quarter and reached to slip it in the phone's slot.  Then she slowly lowered her hand.  No, she would not call Lacey; she would take care of herself.
       A man rounded the corner of the hallway.  Deborah tensed, ready to run.  Then she saw that he wore the blue uniform of a security guard. Still, she must be careful.  She had no idea who her assailant was; for all she knew, it was this man.
       He looked to be in his sixties, with white hair peeking out from under the black bill of his cap.  As the man's gaze landed on Deborah, his bushy white brows drew together in a frown.  "Are you all right, Miss?"
       Deborah pushed back a lock of hair and smoothed her jacket.  She smiled and tried to look casual.  "Yes, I am."  When his look lingered, she added, "I fell in the stairwell--when I was coming down."
       That brought him hurrying to her side.  "You did?   Then you'd better come with me to our first aid room.  I'll call someone to check you over, and you'll need to fill out an accident form."  He reached out to grasp her elbow.
       Deborah jerked away.  "No!"  Then she took a deep breath and said in a calmer voice, "I mean, no, thank you.  I'm all right.  I don't need any first aid."
       The man's blue eyes darkened with concern.  "I'm not so sure I agree with you.  That looks like a nasty gash on your cheek."
       Deborah reached up to touch the sticky blood.  "I'll be fine, really.  I live only a couple of blocks from here."  As she spoke, Deborah backed rapidly away from him, toward the revolving front door.
       "Management don't like accidents to go unreported," he said.  "They worry about law suits, you know."
       "I'm not going to sue anyone.  Falling down was my own fault."
       "You have to come with me," the man said firmly.  "I've got to do my job."  He reached out for her again.
       Deborah whirled and began to run, which wasn't easy, due to the pain spiraling through her left leg.  Still, she was out the revolving door before the security man could catch up to her.  Looking over her shoulder, she saw him standing on the top step.  His feet were planted apart, his arms were akimbo, and a scowl twisted his face.
       But he didn't try to follow her.
       On the drive back to Fairfield, Deborah made her right hand do most of the steering.  Her left wrist still throbbed.  So did her leg and her neck.  Her throat felt sore and dry.  A drink of water would be wonderful, but she did not want to stop anywhere to find one.
       As she drove, Deborah contemplated her response to the security guard.  Why had she refused help?  First, she had wanted someone to come to her aid; then, when help was offered, she adamantly turned it down.  And, as he had said, he was only trying to do his job.
       She decided she had refused help because of a niggling doubt that the attack was random.  If the attacker had been after her, personally, then she didn't want to involve the security officer, or building managers, or any other strangers.  She didn't want to linger in the building to be checked over.
       But how could the attack have been planned?  Who could have known she was going to be in the office stairwell at just that moment?
       If someone was following you, they would have known, whispered an internal voice.
       But that was impossible.  She wasn't being followed.  Just the same, she frequently checked the rearview mirror the rest of the way to Fairfield.
       Oh, Milo, Milo, she cried out silently.  Why weren't you with me today?  Why aren't you here at this moment?  Her ache for him was almost as fierce as the physical pain of her injuries.
       When she reached the City Limits, a wave of relief washed over Deborah.  Yet the thought of going home to her empty house left her cold. More than anything, she wanted to see Milo and tell him what had happened to her in Burlington.
       Yes, she would go to his house instead of going home.  She leaned forward and peered through the windshield, so she wouldn't miss the turnoff to his farm.  At last the road appeared.  She turned, and a few minutes later saw the tip of his roof peeking through the trees.  Just the thought of being with him again calmed her jangling nerves.  Milo would know what to do.
       A few minutes later, Deborah staggered up the porch steps and punched Milo's front doorbell.  She sagged against the doorjamb and waited. She expected Katie to answer, but the woman did not appear.  No one came.
       Leaving her car in the driveway, Deborah limped around to the stable.  She passed the pond, where the ducks glided along, oblivious of her distress.  And the garden, with its cheerful nest of flowers.
       Deborah headed for the stable.  Perhaps one of Milo's employees could tell her when he would be home.  But no one was in the stable, either, except the horses, who whickered softly at her.
       Back outside, she considered walking down to the stream, just for something to do, but her leg was throbbing and she decided she'd better stay off it.
       Not finding Milo at home made her sick with disappointment. However, she would would wait for him.  She crept back to her car, got in, and curled up on the seat.
       The next thing she knew someone was gently shaking her shoulder. "Deborah!  Deborah!" a voice called.
       She opened her eyes and raised her head.  "Milo?"  Was he really here at last, or was she only dreaming she saw his dark, handsome face?
       "Yes, of course, it's me.  What are you doing here?  Your cheek looks like it's been bleeding.  What happened?  Never mind, let's get you inside."
       "I knew you were out of town," Deborah said, relieved beyond words that he had finally arrived.  "But I thought Katie would be here."
       Milo supported her with a strong arm around her waist as they headed for the house.  "Katie went to visit relatives in Castletown," he explained.
       Inside, he led her down the hall to the bathroom, where he sat her down on a padded stool.  "Let's get that cut on your cheek fixed up," he said.
       While Deborah leaned against the black-and-white tiled wall, Milo opened the mirrored medicine cabinet and took out a plastic bottle of disinfectant.  He wet a washcloth, gently wiped the scrape, then applied the medicine with a Q-tip.
        "Ouch!" Deborah said when the liquid stung her wound.  "I really didn't come here for you to doctor me," she added, as he covered her gash with gauze and tape.
       "Then why did you come?"
       His heated gaze warmed her insides with all sorts of pleasant sensations.  "I--I'm not sure," she said, suddenly shy.  "I guess it's just that after what happened, I didn't want to go home to an empty house."
       He traced his finger along her other cheek.  Her skin sizzled under his touch.  "I'm glad you came here.  I'm only sorry you had to wait so long, but I'm late getting back because I drove by your house on the way home.  Ironic, isn't it?  I wanted to see how your appointment with Bob had gone.  I was worried when I saw you weren't there yet, but I thought perhaps you'd stopped to do some errands on the way.  I waited awhile, then came on home."
       "Thanks for your concern."
       "You're welcome."  He paused to smile warmly, then asked, "So, do you have any other injuries?"
       "My wrist"--she help up her left hand--"and my leg."
       Milo gently probed her wrist, bending it this way, then that. "It's not broken, only sprained."
       "How can you tell?"
       "My Army training," he said.  He turned his attention to her leg, where he found some bad bruises.  "These will heal with time," he said. "The wrist, we'd better wrap."
       Opening the medicine cabinet again, he took out a beige ace bandage, which he proceeded to bind around her hand and arm.
       When he had finished, Milo helped Deborah to the kitchen and sat her down at the round table.  Then he made them some coffee.  After they had sipped the hot brew in silence for a few moments, Milo asked, "Now tell me what happened to you."
       She did, beginning with her visit to Dr. Baumgartner and finishing with, "Do you think I did the right thing by not going along with the security officer?"
       Milo shrugged.  "I don't know, Deborah, although I certainly understand why you didn't go with him."
       "Do you think it was a random attack, or someone who was after me, specifically?"
       Milo sat back and pursed his lips in thought before answering. "Although a mugger could have panicked and not taken your purse, my gut feeling says the person was after you.  Someone could have followed you to Bob's office and waited till you came out.  Then he--or she--saw you head down the stairs and came after you."
       A sudden chill swept over Deborah and she hugged her arms.  "That gives me the creeps."
       Milo shrugged.  "Well, someone sent you threatening notes, tried to set your house on fire, and stalked you at home.  So why couldn't they attack you in the stairwell, too?"
       "You've got a point.  But whoever it is gets bolder all the time. The fire was a bold enough move, but this was an assault on my person."
       "Yes, that's what worries me.  We thought Piper might be responsible for the attacks, but with her gone now, it's got to be someone else."
       "I wish I knew who."
       "Wouldn't that be nice!" Milo said wryly.  He got up and refilled their mugs with coffee.  "Maybe it's Doug Jaspers.  He's afraid Piper told you about the note he wrote to Carla, and that now you think he was involved in her death."
       "It could be Damon Healy, or his son, Albert," she reminded him.
       Milo snapped his fingers.  "Albert.  That reminds me of something I found.  I'll be back in a minute."
       He set the coffee pot on the stove and hurried out of the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned carrying a large, slim book with a green padded cover.  He sat down and slid the book over to Deborah.  On the cover was written, Fairfield High School 1989.
       Milo said, "This yearbook was among Carla's things that were given to my mother and stepfather, then passed on to me when they died.  It's not Carla's book, because she didn't attend Fairfield that year.  Doug, or one of her other friends, must have given it to her.  Anyway, I was looking through it and here's what I found."  Milo retrieved the book and flipped through the pages.  When he found what he was looking for, he put his finger on one of the portraits and turned the book in Deborah's direction.
       The picture Milo indicated showed a young man with red hair and a long, thin face.  "Albert Healy," Deborah said.  The name below the picture proved she was correct.
       "Yes.  He was in Doug's class.  And look here."  He flipped over some more pages.  "Here's a picture of Albert as the geology teacher's assistant."  He showed Deborah a shot of Albert and several other students above a caption that read: "Teaching Assistants Toe the Mark."
       "I remember Piper said it was geology class that Doug might have skipped," Deborah said, grasping what Milo was aiming at.
       "Uh huh.  Plus, Albert and Doug were both on the baseball team. So, chances are they were buddies.  Albert could be responsible for the attacks on you, not only to get you to sell your property, but to protect Doug Jaspers as well.  Maybe Doug has something on him and is forcing Albert to do these things to you."
       "The more we dig into the matter, the more possibilities we come up with," Deborah mused.
       "Yes," Milo agreed.
       During the silent moments that followed, Milo reached across the table to grasp Deborah's hand.  She liked his way of making physical contact with her even when his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.  During their discussion she had not for one minute forgotten her awareness of him. It was as though two levels of her mind were at work simultaneously; one level able to carry on a rational discussion, while the other reacted to every movement and expression he made.
       Presently, Milo said, "Why don't you tell me more about your session with Bob?  What do you think the shiny object was that you saw?"
       Deborah shook her head.  "I'm sorry, but I haven't a clue.  Maybe it was just my imagination."
       "But maybe not," Milo said, stroking the back of her hand.
       Deborah smiled.  "You have such faith."
       "I have faith in you, Deborah.  Faith that you will find the answer."
       "I wish I could believe that," she said with a sigh.
       He leaned closer and kissed her cheek, very gently, just below where the bandage ended.  A heat spiraled through her.  His mouth moved lower, grazing the curve of her chin, landing on her neck just below her ear.  "This doesn't hurt you, does it?" he whispered.
       "No--I--"  Panic tore through her; a totally different kind than she'd experienced earlier, but panic, just the same.  What had she been thinking about to come here?  She'd wanted him to comfort her, which he did, more than adequately.  She'd wanted to talk to him, which she did, at length.  Now, they were moving into lovemaking again.  It always happened. What made her think this time would be any different.
       "I--I'd better be going home," Deborah said.
       "No," Milo said firmly.
       "But I must.  I just wanted to talk to you for a while, tell you what happened."
       His hand tightened around her fingers.  "Let me at least look after you tonight.  You've had a pretty upsetting day."
       "But--"
       "You don't need to worry about me seducing you.  I would never take advantage of you, and certainly not while you're injured and in pain.  Even though I might like to."
       Milo's dark eyes twinkled wickedly, then he continued,  "As I told you before, I have a guest room you can use.  Plus, Katie left spaghetti, garlic bread, and a salad for dinner.  All I have to do is heat it up."
       Milo's offer was so tempting that Deborah's defenses melted away. "How can I refuse a deal like that?" she said, trying to be light and casual.
       "Hmmm, I notice that when I offered dinner, you finally agreed," he teased.  "I was hoping it was my company that compelled you to stay."
       "That, too," she said.
       Milo put the pot of spaghetti on the stove and soon the aroma of meatballs and tomato sauce filled the air.  Deborah offered to help, but he insisted she relax.  She watched him set the table, bring out the salad, and pop the garlic bread in the oven.
       While they ate, they talked about books they had read.  When the subject of movies came up, Deborah admitted it had been a long time since she had been to one.
       "We must go one of these days," Milo said, and she agreed.  At the moment, an evening at the movies sounded like a wonderful diversion.
       After dinner, Milo built a fire in the living room fireplace.  They sat on the sofa, basking in the glow of the crackling flames.  Milo put his arm around Deborah's shoulders.  Deborah curled her legs up under her and lay her head on his shoulder.  They watched a couple of TV sitcoms, and Deborah forgot her problems as she laughed at the actors' antics.
       But when it came time to go to bed, a renewed tension churned in Deborah's stomach.  Would Milo change his mind about letting her sleep alone in the guest room and try to persuade her to join him in his bed?
       They climbed the stairs, Milo supporting her heavily, so that she did not put too much weight on her injured ankle.  She held her breath as they headed down the hall, let it out when they stopped at the guest room. He pointed out extra pillows and blankets in the closet, towels and toothbrush in the adjoining bath.  When he finished, he said, "Oh, I just thought of something.  Wait here."
       Deborah sank onto the bed, wondering what errand he could possibly be on.  A few minutes later, he returned carrying an oversize T shirt. "Will this do for a nightgown?"
       "That will be fine," she said, although she thought it might make her uncomfortable to wear something of his.  Maybe it would be better to sleep in her underwear.
       "I guess it's time to say goodnight."  He laid the T shirt beside her then leaned down and grasped her by the shoulders.  His face came nearer to hers, as though he were going to kiss her.
       A alarm sounded inside Deborah.  If she gave in and kissed him, she would be done for.  But she wanted to kiss him in the worst way.  She realized that she had wanted to all evening.  Okay, she was going to let him kiss her and not worry about the consequences.
       To her surprise, Milo's soft lips landed not on her own, but on her forehead in a feather-light, totally chaste kiss.
       "That's all I'm going to do," he told her gravely.  "Because I don't want to risk getting carried away.  It doesn't take much to make me want you, Deborah."
       "Oh, Milo--"  She leaned toward him.
       He smiled down at her.  "I like knowing you want me as much as I want you.  But now is not the right time, my dear."  He stroked her cheek, letting his fingers graze the edge of the bandage that covered her wound. "Sleep well," he whispered, and was gone.
       As soon as Milo shut the door behind him, Deborah picked up the T shirt and stumbled into the bathroom.  She truly didn't understand herself. She had panicked when he had made advances in the kitchen, but now that he wasn't going to carry them any farther, she was disappointed.
       She stared at his T-shirt, then impulsively lifted it to her face. It was full of his masculine scent, which she found surprisingly comforting.  At first, she hadn't wanted to wear it.  Now, she looked forward to having something of his close to her.  Peeling off her clothes, she pulled the shirt over her head, finished her preparations, and went to bed.
        Milo lay awake for a long time, watching shafts of moonlight drift and glide across the hardwood floor of his bedroom.  This was more difficult than he'd ever thought it would be.  Only a wall separated him from Deborah.  He wanted with all his heart and soul to be holding her in his arms right now, making love to her.  Would there ever be a time for them?
       Finally, he fell asleep.
       Sometime later, a sound awoke him.  He jerked upright.  What was that?  He heard it again.  It was a woman's cry.
       Deborah!
       Leaping out of bed, he grabbed his jeans and shoved his legs into them.  Then he ran from the room, down the short stretch of hallway that separated their rooms, and burst into hers.
       Deborah was sitting up in bed, clutching the sheet to her face.  He hurried over to her.  "Deborah, what is it?  Are you in pain?"
       Moonlight shining through the cracks in the blinds showed tears streaming down her face, and eyes wide with terror.  He sat down beside her, reached for her.  "What happened?"
       She looked at him without recognition.
       Alarm coursed through Milo.  What on earth was wrong with her?  He rubbed her shoulder reassuringly.  "It's me, Milo.  I heard you cry out."
       "Milo?  Oh, Milo."  She seemed to come to her senses.  "I had that dream again.  The one about Carla . . . where . . . where I'm trying to reach her at the bottom of the falls.  Oh, it was so awful!"
       "There, there," he soothed.  Putting both arms around her, he drew her close.  Her skin felt feverish and damp.  Her hair was a tangle around her face.  He smoothed back her hair, and with his knuckles wiped the tears from her cheeks.  "It's okay.  It was only a dream," he said.
       "You can't imagine how horrible that dream is," she murmured against his shoulder.
       "I know.  I understand.  But it's over now.  In a little while you'll be able to go back to sleep."
       As he sat there holding her, he became aware of how thin the T-shirt was.  How was he ever going to endure this?  She needed his comfort and understanding, which he was more than willing to give, but a man could take only so much.
       She heaved a deep sigh, indicating that she was settling down.  He continued to hold her and stroke her back.  After awhile, he whispered, "Think you're ready to try going back to sleep?"
       "I . . . I guess so."
       "Here, get under the covers again."  He moved slightly so she could wiggle down into the bed.  He caught a glimpse of long, slim legs, and the curve of her bottom, where the T-shirt didn't reach.  His blood pressure shot up a notch.  He pulled the sheet, then the quilt over her.  "Okay now?"
       "Yes, but I'm afraid to go back to sleep.  Sometimes I dream it more than once."
       "You do?"  He'd had no idea she had been so plagued by the dream. "Should I stay awhile?"
       "No . . . not unless you really want to."
       Want to?  Of course he wanted to, but not just to monitor her sleep.  Yet, he knew he must put his own desires aside and take care of her.  "Move over," he said, without stopping to think how he was going to accomplish this.
       She scooted over and he slid under the covers.  Turning half on her side, she curled up with her back against his chest.  He put his arm around her, carefully, and nestled his face in her fragrant hair.
       "Thank you, Milo," she murmured, and gave what sounded like a contented sigh.  Soon her even breathing told him she was asleep.
       After awhile, miraculously, he slept, too.
         The following Monday, back at home, Deborah maneuvered the vacuum cleaner with her right hand, while holding the cord lightly in her left. Her wrist still ached, and so did her leg, but she was determined to do as much as possible.  She knew she would heal in time, but right now being handicapped was frustrating.
       The doorbell sounded over the roar of the vacuum.  She shut off the machine and hurried to answer it.
       When she reached the entry, she saw Lacey peering through the lace curtain that covered the door's oval window.
       "Thank God, you're all right!" Lacey exclaimed, when Deborah opened the door.  As Lacey threw her arms around her, Deborah thought she detected the odor of alcohol, but Lacey's perfume was so heavy, she couldn't tell for sure.
       Lacey drew away and looked into Deborah's eyes.  "I've been so worried about you.  I called you several times Saturday night and again on Sunday, but you didn't answer."
       Lacey stopped and gave Deborah a studied look.  "Heavens, what happened to your cheek?"  Her gaze moved downward.  "And your arm's in a bandage.  Were you in some kind of accident?  Tell me what happened."
       "I'll tell you over a cup of coffee."
       Actually, Deborah needed time to think.  Was she going to tell Lacey the complete truth about what had happened in Burlington, or not? She wanted to, because she was used to sharing confidences with her good friend.  But then she remembered Milo's warning that they should keep as much of their investigation as possible to themselves.
       Lacey looked at her gold wristwatch.  "I can stay for coffee, if it's already made, but only for about fifteen minutes.  I'm on my way to a meeting of the museum board and don't want to be late."
       "It's made.  Let me take your coat."
       Lacey shrugged out of her brown wool, mink-collared jacket, and Deborah hung it in the foyer closet.  In the kitchen, Lacey insisted on helping Deborah retrieve cups from the cupboard and pour the coffee.
       When they were seated at the kitchen table, Lacey said, "Now tell me what these injuries are all about."
       Deborah decided to stick as closely to the truth as she could without giving away information Milo would want to remain secret.   She said, "When I was leaving Dr. Baumgartner's office building yesterday, I fell down some steps.  You know I avoid elevators when possible."
       Lacey nodded.  "That's too bad about your fall.  But you weren't home last evening.  Did you go to a hospital?"
       "No, I went to Milo."
       "And you were with him all night?  Are you and he having an affair?"  Lacey leaned forward to peer at Deborah.
       Deborah's cheeks burned at the memory of sharing a bed with Milo, so chastely, yet so intimately, too.  "No, but what if we were?  We're both adults."
       "But he's Carla's brother."
       "I know," Deborah said sadly.  "There's not much we can do about that, is there?"
        Lacey asked a few more questions, which Deborah deftly fielded. After awhile, Lacey looked at her watch.  "I've got to run."
       As Lacey was putting on her coat, the doorbell rang.  When Deborah opened the door, the mailman stood there, holding out a large manila envelope.  "This was too big to put in the box," he told her.
       Deborah accepted the envelope, wondering who could have sent it.
       Lacey was looking over Deborah's shoulder.  "What's that?"
       "I don't know."
       Then Deborah saw that the return address said Lisa Marshall.  Had Piper's sister found something among Piper's things that she thought Deborah and Milo would be interested in?  Deborah's heart beat faster.  She quickly pressed the envelope to her chest, hoping Lacey had not had seen Lisa's name.  This wasn't something she wanted to share just now.  Then she felt guilty again.  She didn't really want to keep things from Lacey.
       Lacey smiled at Deborah as though she hadn't noticed anything amiss.  "Well, I'm sure glad you're all right.  Please let me know if anything comes up that I can help you with.  I want the best for you.  You know that."
       "I know, Lacey.  I will let you know.  But that works both ways. You must tell me if there's anything I can help you with, too."
       "I will," Lacey promised.
       Deborah gave Lacey a hug, and then she was gone, leaving the faint scent of her perfume behind.
       Deborah took the envelope into the parlor and sat down on the sofa. She looked at the envelope but she wasn't ready to open it yet.  She was still thinking about Lacey.  The house seemed so quiet now that her friend had gone.  A tornado of nervous energy seemed to surround Lacey today. Something wasn't right, but Deborah didn't know what it was.
       She thought Lacey's trouble might have to do with her and Jay's relationship.  Perhaps the two were going through a mid-life crisis. Whatever it was, she hoped they worked things out.  She would hate to see them split up after they had achieved so much together.
       Finally, Deborah opened the envelope Lisa had sent her.  Inside were six typewritten sheets of paper, stapled together.  A note attached to them said:
        Dear Deborah and Milo,
       I found this in Piper's safe deposit box at her bank.  I have no idea whether or not it will help you, but since it concerns Carla, I am passing it along.

     

     

     
        Best,  Lisa Marshall
       In the upper left-hand corner of the first page of the typewritten sheets was Carla's name, U.S. History, and September 15, 1984.  After quickly perusing the contents, Deborah decided this was an assignment Carla had done for Jay's history class, in the form of a newspaper article.  The headline was "Boys Murder Step-brother," and the dateline was Chicago, August 1, 1970.  The text related a chilling tale about two twelve-year-old friends named Dean Standifer and Peter DeWitt.  Dean had decided to murder his new step-brother, Bobby Martin.
       Peter helped Dean carry out his plan by leading Bobby to a cabin in the woods where Dean waited for him.  Dean stabbed Bobby to death.  Dean was arrested and charged with murder.  Peter was held as an accessory to the crime.  The article did not tell the fate of the boys.
       On the last page was a handwritten note that said:
       Carla, the assignment was to write a newspaper article based on an event in history.  Apparently, you misunderstood and created a work of fiction.  We'd better discuss this.  Please drop by my office for an appointment.  Mr. Grant.
       Deborah wondered why Piper had secured this story in her safe deposit box.  It must have great importance if it had to be hidden away. She wished there was a note from Piper indicating the significance of the article, but there was nothing else in the packet Lisa had sent her.
       Deborah put down the papers and picked up the phone to call Milo. Two heads might be better than one for figuring out what this was all about.
       Fortunately, Milo was available to come directly over to Deborah's. She had a fresh pot of coffee waiting when he arrived.  He took a moment to give her a hug, which she welcomed, and returned.  She was still unsure of their relationship, and any sign of affection always reassured her that he did care, even a little.
       In the kitchen, she handed him a mug of coffee and the story.  "See what you make of this," she said.
       Milo poured intently over the papers, not even taking his eyes away when he sipped his coffee.  His brows drew together as he concentrated.
       When he finished he raised his head and looked at Deborah.  "What a strange story."
       "Yes, and so evil.  Twelve-year-old kids plotting to kill another kid.  Thinking about it gives me the chills."  She hugged her arms.
       "So, Carla was supposed to write an account of an historical event," Milo mused.  "I would agree with Jay's comment that this hardly fulfills what he must have had in mind.  Why would she write something like this?"
       "And how did Piper get it?  And why did Piper think it needed to be kept in her bank safe deposit box?"
       "So many unanswered questions," Milo said.
       They were silent for a few moments, then Milo said, "Suppose what Carla wrote about really happened."
       "Okay, suppose it did.  Then what?"
       "Then we need to know why she wrote it for this particular assignment."
       "We may never be able to determine that."
       "I know, but this is the only lead we have.  We'll follow it the best we can.  First, we need to find out if this is a true story."
       "And how do we do that?"
       "I think the library is the logical place to start," Milo said. "Come on, grab a coat and let's go."
       When they reached the Fairfield Library, located on the town Commons, Deborah couldn't help but glance to the other end, where the Fairfield Arms stood.  She thought of Piper, and wished she were here now, to help them with their task.
       Milo explained their purpose to the reference librarian seated behind a large, semi-circular desk.  She was a pleasant young woman in her thirties.  She wore her long brown hair in a single braid down her back, and had large, intelligent-looking hazel eyes.
       "We don't have Chicago newspapers at this library, of course," she told them.  "But we can certainly contact the Chicago Public Library and have someone there research this."
       "Great," Deborah said.
       Milo added, "Will you also have them search to see if either Dean Standifer or Peter DeWitt ever made the news again--providing those are real people."
       "Sure," the librarian said.  "I'll instruct Chicago to fax us copies of any articles they find.  Give me a couple of days to get back to you."  She took down both Deborah's and Milo's addresses and phone numbers.
         Several days later, the reference librarian phoned Deborah.  "I have received some articles for you from the Chicago Library," she said. "Would you like to pick them up, or shall I send them to you?"
       "I'll pick them up," Deborah said.
       She called Milo, to see if he wanted to accompany her to retrieve the articles.  He did, and an hour later they were seated at a cafe not far from the library, with several photocopied newspaper articles spread out on the table between them.  They had spent the past few minutes reading the material.
       Milo leaned back in his chair.  "So, the murder Carla wrote about really happened."
       "Yes, the names are the same and so are the details."  Deborah picked up one of the sheets of paper.  "In fact, her story follows this article so closely it makes me think she must have read it."
       "But where would she get an article from an old Chicago newspaper?"
       Deborah shook her head in puzzlement.  "This whole thing is a mystery to me."  The bell on the cafe's front door jingled, and Deborah watched a noisy group of teenagers tumble in and race to the counter to place their orders.
       She turned back to the articles.  One of them followed up the initial story by stating that Dean Standifer had been found guilty of murder.  He was sentenced to a juvenile correctional facility until he was twenty-one.  As an accessory to the crime, Peter DeWitt had gone to the same facility for four years.
       Another article, dated ten years later, said that Dean Standifer had died in an adult prison where he was serving time for armed robbery. He was stabbed to death in a fight with another inmate.  How ironical, Deborah thought, that Dean would die by the same method he used to murder his step-brother.
       "I wonder what happened to Peter DeWitt?" Milo mused.
       "Maybe we could hire a private investigator to find him."
       "Maybe.  That might take a long time, though."
       "We still don't know why Carla used this story to fulfill her assignment for Jay's class."
       Milo shrugged.  "Maybe she wanted to do something different from what the other kids were doing."
       Deborah picked up the first article again and idly fingered the paper.  "We could ask Jay about it.  He might be able to give us some insight into why Carla wrote it."
       Milo shook his head.  "Uh uh.  Like I said before, I think we should keep all this stuff to ourselves for the time being."
       "But I'm sure Jay wasn't involved in your sister's death.  I would trust him with my life.  He's one of the finest, truest men I have ever known."
       "Maybe so, but let's not go to him just yet.  Agreed?"  Milo reached over to take her hand.
       "All right," Deborah said, as the warm pressure of his fingers turned her thoughts in another direction.
       Later, when they had returned to Deborah's house and were standing on the porch, Milo put his arms around her.  "Did I tell you how pretty you look today?"
       "No, you didn't.  But in jeans and a sweatshirt?"
       "You look pretty in anything."  He reached up to tenderly caress her cheek with his knuckles.  "I get so preoccupied with our problem that I forget to tell you, but that doesn't mean I haven't noticed, or been thinking about it with another part of my mind."
       "Well, thank you for telling me just now," Deborah said, reaching up to cover his hand with hers.
       Deborah liked the warm, gentle stroking of his fingers against her skin.  Their gazes met.  His eyes were dark pools she could drown in.  Why couldn't they have met under different circumstances? she asked herself for perhaps the hundredth time.
       "I wish I'd met you long ago," he said softly, voicing her thoughts.  "Before you became a teacher."
       "I wish you had, too," she said.
       "Then we could just get on with our lives, without all these problems."
       "But you didn't meet me long ago," she said.
       "No, and nothing can ever change that, can it?"
       She shook her head.  He was right.  Nothing would ever change what had happened.  And because of that, there was no future for them.  No future at all.
         Deborah tacked the last piece of yellow brocade onto the arm of the chair, then stepped back to view her work.  Her wrist had finally healed enough for her to resume her upholstering, and she had spent the past few days recovering two chairs purchased at a garage sale.
       She was making good headway on the house, she thought, as she picked up her material scraps and tools.  But there still remained a lot to do before she could open her bed and breakfast.  She didn't know if she would meet her self-imposed January deadline or not, but she would keep trying.
       As she placed the last tool in the toolbox, the doorbell rang.  Who could that be? she wondered.  She wasn't expecting anyone.
       Deborah hurried to the door, hoping her visitor was Milo.  Several days had passed since she had heard from him, and she longed for the sight of his handsome face, the sound of his deep voice.  Whenever they parted, she worried they might not ever see one another again.  Her insecurity--and her guilt over the past--kept her on edge where Milo was concerned.
       Through the lace curtain covering the oval window she could see the outlines of two men, one considerably larger than the other.  Who could they be? she wondered as she headed down the hall toward the door.
       When she opened the door, she immediately wished she hadn't, for one of her visitors was Damon Healy.  His companion was someone she did not recognize.
       "We must speak to you, Deborah," Damon Healy said.
       Deborah drew herself up and said firmly, "Mr. Healy, I've told you, and Albert, too, that I do not want to sell my house."  No way was she going to be intimidated by him.
       A sly smile crossed Damon's face.  "I think you'll change your mind when I introduce you to Hank Dobson."  He gestured to the other man.
       Deborah's mouth dropped open.  "Hank Dobson!" she repeated when she had recovered from the shock.
       "Yes, this is Hank Dobson," Damon Healy confirmed.  "Rose's long lost husband."
       "How'd ya do?" said the man.
       "Now then," Damon continued smoothly, "don't you think you'd better let us come in and talk?"
       "All right," Deborah said grudgingly.  She opened the door wider to admit the men.
       What a contrast the two made, Deborah thought, when they were all seated in the parlor.  Damon Healy was tall, immaculately groomed and distinguished-looking in his gray suit and black topcoat.  Hank Dobson was short and skinny in jeans and a brown parka with a ragged sheepskin collar. A vinyl cap with sheepskin flaps dangled from one hand.
       Deborah's heart thudded with the realization that this visit was going to be unpleasant.  She could think of only one reason why Hank Dobson--if that was who he really was--had returned to Fairfield, and that reason boded no good for her.  She thought about offering them coffee, then quickly dismissed the idea.  Since they had come uninvited, she owed them no courtesies.
       Hank Dobson looked around.  "This place looks really good," he said.  "A lot better than when Rose and I lived here."
       "I've been working on it," Deborah admitted.
       "Damon tells me you're fixin' to open a B and B."  Hank leveled dull, smallish eyes at her.
       "That's right."  She turned to Damon and said bluntly, "What do you want to see me about?"
       Damon cleared his throat.  "I'll come right to the point.  Hank and Rose never got divorced.  Were you aware of that?"
       "No, I didn't know that, but I guess I'm not really surprised.  He ran off.  She didn't know where he was so she could divorce him."
       "That's right.  But after he had been gone seven years, she could have.  But she didn't.  Now he's returned to Fairfield and wants to settle here."
       Sure, he does, Deborah thought.
       Aloud, she said, "Let me see if I can guess the rest of this scenario.  Mr. Dobson wants to claim this property so he can sell it to you.  Isn't that right, Mr. Dobson?"
       Hank jutted out his pointed chin.  "Well, now, I haven't made up my mind.  I just might want to live here myself."
       Deborah said, "But the house belongs to me.  Rose left it to me in her will."
       "It wasn't hers to leave," Damon said.  "Not all of it anyway.  You see, Hank's name is on the deed, along with Rose's.  That means half of the house belongs to him.  So, unless you're prepared to buy him out . . ."
       "Buy him out?"  Deborah gripped the arms of the chair to keep her temper.  "I could never offer him as much as I'm sure you already have."
       "I'm prepared to make you both a generous offer," Damon said, and named a sum.
       Deborah gasped; his offer was generous.  Nevertheless, she said, "I don't want your money.  I'll never give up what's rightfully mine, be it half the house or all of it, without a fight.  You can both count on that. And now if you'll excuse me?"
       Deborah stood and, hands on her hips, faced the two men.  She wanted them out of her house.  She couldn't stand them being there a minute longer.
       Damon and Hank exchanged glances, but Deborah couldn't tell what, if any, message passed between them.  Damon looked up at Deborah, opened his mouth to speak.
       "I don't want to discuss this any further," she said pointedly.
       Damon pushed himself off the sofa and to his feet.  Hank jumped up in a quick, nervous movement.  "I hope you don't regret your decision, Deborah," Damon said.  "A legal fight will be costly."
       "I know.  But for starters, you'll have to prove this man is who he says he is."
       Damon smiled.  "That's the least of our worries.  Hank has solid identification."
       She shifted her gaze to Hank Dobson.  He was looking out from under bushy eyebrows with a glower that sent a shiver down her spine.
       He's really serious about his claim, she thought.  He really believes half of this house should be his, even though he deserted Rose years ago.
       "We'll be in touch," Damon said, as the two men went out the front door.
       Deborah shut the door on her unwelcome visitors, then leaned her back against it and let out a whoosh of breath.  She needed a lawyer to help her cope with this latest development.  The only lawyer she knew in town was Stanley Kaslow, who had handled Rose Dobson's estate.  Well, why not call him?  She hurried to the phonebook and looked up his number.
       When she had him on the line and had explained the situation, Stanley said, "First, as you pointed out to Damon, the man will have to prove he is Hank Dobson.  If he is, then we'll have to see if his name is in fact on the deed to the house.  Since Rose didn't have a copy of it, I've requested a copy, but I haven't received it yet.  If he's right, and his name is on the deed, then his claim might very well carry some weight."
       "That wasn't what I wanted to hear."
       "I know.  What a mess.  When I made Rose's will I had no idea she had a husband somewhere who she had never divorced.  I wonder why she didn't mention it?"
       "I guess she thought he was either dead or would never return," Deborah said.  "But Rose wasn't one to take care of legal matters.  I guess I'm lucky she left a will."
       "Yes.  Well, I'll get right on this for you.  If either Hank or Damon contacts you again, refer them to me.  You don't have to put up with their hassling you."
       "Thank you, Stanley," Deborah said.  "I really appreciate your taking over like this."
       "That's what lawyers are for," he said.
       After Deborah hung up, she went to work on sewing curtains for one of the bedrooms.  But she couldn't get her recent visitors out of her mind. So Hank Dobson wasn't dead, after all.  She wondered where he had been living all these years, and when he had returned to Fairfield.
       Then a chilling thought occurred to her:  Maybe Hank Dobson was the one who had been harassing her.  He could have known about her involvement with Carla's death, and tampered with her car and written those threatening notes.  He could have somehow gained entrance to the house and set the fire.  He could have dressed in black and come in the yard that night.  And yes, he could have followed her to Burlington and attacked her in the stairwell.
       He did all those things to get her to sell to Damon Healy.  When none of them worked, he decided to come out in the open with a legal claim. Yes, it all made sense.
       But now that she had still refused, what would he do?  Would he attack her again?
       She picked up the phone to call Milo and tell him this latest development.  "I think our stalker has come out of hiding," she said when she had him on the line.
       "What?" he exclaimed.
       She related her visit from Damon Healy and the man who said he was Hank Dobson.  "What do you think?" she asked when she had finished.
       "Your reasoning certainly sounds possible, but we'd better not jump to conclusions.  I am glad you called, though, because I have some news for you, too."
       "What's that?"
       "I'd rather tell you in person.  Would you like to come over to the farm?  We could take a horseback ride, then go out to dinner."
       "That sounds lovely."
       "Good.  I'll come pick you up," he said.
       "No, I'll drive over.  My arm is much better now."
       "If you're sure . . ."
       "I'm sure.  What time?"
       "The sooner the better.  I'm crazy to see you."
       I'm crazy to see you.  His words sent a thrill up her spine. "It'll be good to see you again, too," she managed to mumble before hanging up.
       Deborah didn't waste any time preparing to leave.  She ran upstairs and quickly changed into a pair of brown slacks, a tan, long-sleeved blouse, and a brown print scarf, an outfit she thought would be suitable both for riding and for going out to dinner afterward.  Milo hadn't said where they would eat, but she assumed it would be someplace casual.
       When she pulled into his driveway he was standing on the porch waiting for her.  Her heart leaped at the sight of him, dressed in jeans, a green plaid shirt and a leather vest.  His hands rested on his slim hips, his booted feet were planted slightly apart.  He smiled and waved, then sprinted down the steps and opened her door.
       "I didn't know you had valet service," she joked, as he helped her out of the car.
       "Only for you," he said.
       He took her hand in both of his, and they stood for several moments gazing into one another's eyes.  The intensity in his look took Deborah's breath away.
       "It's good to see you," he said.
       "It's only been a few days."
       "It seems like forever."  He reached up to gently stroke her cheek with the back of his hand.  "Come on, let's go take our ride."
       Out in the stables, Milo saddled Sabrina for Deborah and Black Magic for himself.  They ambled through the meadow, to the stream and across the wooden bridge.  Deborah found the farm just as peaceful and relaxing as always.
       However, the countryside had changed.  The maple trees had lost their brilliant red leaves, leaving only the birch's and aspen's yellow foliage to provide autumn color.  Once again, Deborah was reminded that winter was lurking just around the corner.
       "What is your news?" she asked Milo as they trotted along.  In the background, the leaves rustled in the breeze, and the stream burbled as it tumbled over rocks and twigs.  Somewhere deep in the woods, birds sang to each other.
       "I think I'll save it till later.  Why don't we just enjoy the day?"
       "It's bad news, then?"
       "Not particularly.  I just don't want to bring it up now.  Tell me what you've been doing on your house remodeling instead."
       "Okay."  Deborah launched into a description of her latest project. In truth, she was relieved not to be discussing The Problem; still, a niggling voice told her they were just prolonging the inevitable.
       After finishing their horseback ride, Milo drove them to Castletown, where they ate baked trout at a restaurant called The Homestead.  The conversation drifted from topic to topic.  Milo told her stories of being a paratrooper in the Army, and she told him about some of the places she had lived while away from Fairfield.
       When they finished eating, they lingered over coffee.  He held her hand, and conversation trailed off more than once as they gazed into one another's eyes.
       The drive back to Milo's passed in companionable silence.  Yet Deborah felt a tension in the air, too.  Anticipation mingled with vague apprehension kept her senses tingling.  She was acutely conscious of the man sitting beside her.  In fact, she could hardly keep her eyes off him.
       Her glance kept straying to his handsome, masculine profile, with its strong blade of a nose, firm jawline, and rounded chin.
       She loved him.
       The realization struck Deborah like a bolt of lightning.  She had been fighting her feelings for him since they met; but tonight she had no more fight in her.  Tonight, she must admit, at least to herself, that she loved him, had probably loved him for a long time.
       Deborah experienced a curious mixture of exhilaration and depression.  Exhilaration because love for someone brought with it an enormous energy.  Depression because her love had nowhere to go, and would probably die before it could ever be celebrated or shared.
       Back at Milo's house, they went to the kitchen to make coffee. Leaning against the counter, Deborah watched Milo measure beans into the grinder.  He turned the machine on, and soon the beans were ground into a semi-fine dust.
       "This is a new blend," he said.  "I hope it's good."
       While the coffee dripped, Milo glanced in Deborah's direction. Their gazes met and lingered.  Deborah sucked in her breath as her heart thudded a loud tattoo against her ribcage.  Before she knew what was happening, he came over and put his arms around her.
       As Milo kissed her, Deborah opened her mouth eagerly to allow his tongue to mingle with hers.  "I want you," he murmured against her lips.
       "I want you, too, Milo."
       He smiled deeply into her eyes.  "Is that a yes?"
       "Uh huh."
       Many times they had come to the brink of lovemaking, then turned away because of their problem over Carla.  Tonight, Deborah was not going to turn away.  She was going to go forward, for better or worse.
       Milo took her hand and began to lead her from the kitchen.
       Deborah glanced at the glass carafe as they passed by.  "What about the coffee?"
       "I don't want any coffee just now.  Do you?"
       "No."
       Upstairs, Milo led Deborah down the hall past the guest room where she had slept before.  There would be no sleeping in the guest room tonight, she thought, as excitement sent the blood coursing through her veins.
       Milo's bedroom was one door down.  The large room lay in shadows, with only faint yellow moonlight sifting through closed Venetian blinds. Deborah was vaguely conscious of a dresser, a couple of chairs and a king-size bed.  When Milo switched on a bedside light, the glow illuminated a dark green bedspread.
       Milo gazed at her with a hunger that took her breath away.  He reached for the buttons on her blouse, while she found those on his shirt. He unbuttoned her blouse and slid his hands inside, stroking her skin.  She fumbled with his buttons, finally succeeded in opening a couple.  She ran her hands over his chest.  He was so very male, she thought, all bone and muscle.
       From there things speeded up.  Milo pushed the blouse and bra straps from her shoulders.  His mouth dug gently into her shoulder, his teeth making tender dents in her skin, his tongue spreading warm, wet trails along her collarbone and down the V between her breasts.
       Working his fingers deftly, he eased the bra down around her waist and leaned forward to capture one nipple with his lips.  Deborah gasped as desire spiraled through her.  Had anything ever felt so exquisite?   "Ahh," she moaned, and clutched his hair.
       After more delicious moments, Milo raised his head and their mouths met, wide open and with tongues eager to dance.  Then everything started to blur and spin for Deborah.  Her surroundings faded as she focused on Milo and the wonderful sensations they were creating for one another.
       Blouse and shirt, slacks and jeans, then undergarments were flung with careless abandon onto the floor.  She next was conscious of cool sheets, a pillow under her head, and Milo lying next to her.  She wrapped her arms around him, threaded her fingers through his thick hair, traced the corded muscles in his neck, the angled planes of his face, the soft flesh of his lips.
       "I've dreamed of this moment many times," he murmured in her ear. "And now it's finally a reality."
       "Oh, Milo, I've wanted this for a long time, too.  You know that, don't you?"
       "Yes, I know."
       Milo's mouth and hands deftly explored Deborah's body, from her slender neck to her long, slim legs.  He delighted in the smooth, gentle curve of her back and the flare of her hips; in the fullness of her breasts, the firmness of her thighs, the graceful arch of her dainty feet. He had wanted her so much and for so long, he could hardly believe that at last she was about to be his.
       Yet he didn't want to rush.  He wanted this first time to be one neither of them would forget.  Taking his time, he kissed and caressed her. He drank in her scent, marveled at how delicious it was to glide his tongue over her silky skin.
       After awhile he paused to gaze down at her.  Her eyes were exotic and mysterious in the moonlight.  "Take me now," she said.
       "Oh yes."
       He reached to open a drawer in the bedside table, to get his protection.  No way would he put either of them at risk.  When he was ready, he lowered himself onto her and slid inside.  He would have stayed awhile, kissing her and stroking her, but all that had gone on in the last few minutes had worked them both up to a fever pitch.  As he began to move, Deborah quickly matched his rhythm, and soon they were moving as one.
       Deborah felt like she was on a merry-go-round whirling faster and faster.  Then she lost all contact with the world as her desire climaxed in an explosion of white light.  "Yes oh yes," she heard Milo say, just before his own climax.
       Afterward, Milo gathered Deborah in his arms and cradled her against him.  They lay like that for long minutes, their hearts pounding, their breath coming in gasps.  Slowly, the world returned to normal.
       "You'll stay the night, won't you?" Milo murmured against Deborah's tangled hair.  "I couldn't bear to let you go home now.  I want to hold you in my arms all night long."
       And he did.   

Chapter Eight

       The following morning, Milo awoke before Deborah.  He gazed at her lying next to him.  Her eyelashes were soft feathers against her milk-white skin.  Her pale blond hair lay in tangles over her forehead, and her cheeks and full lips had the pink tint of sleep.  Above the sheet rose the soft swell of her breasts.
       As he watched her, his breath quickened and a familiar heat filled him.  He reached for her, thinking to enjoy the delights of being in her arms yet one more time.
       Then he thought better of it, and pulled back.  Last night, they had been swept away by their physical need for one another.  A need that had been building since they first met.
       But now, in the cold light of day, Milo decided he'd better think carefully about where all this heavy involvement might be leading.
       Leaving her still asleep, he slipped quietly out of bed and took a quick shower.  He put on jeans and a blue turtleneck shirt, then went downstairs to the kitchen.  His gaze landed on the pot of cold coffee, sitting on the counter where they had left it.  He thought about reheating it, then decided fresh would be better, and poured it down the sink.
       As he brewed a new pot, he thought about Deborah.  Intimacy was not something Milo took lightly.  Did he have any serious intentions about her?
       There was no denying he wanted her, was captivated by her.  But whenever he let himself think about how careless she had been the day of Carla's accident, his stomach twisted into a painful knot.  How could he ever forget that she was responsible, even if only indirectly, for his beloved sister's tragic death?
       Was that why he wanted to prove Carla was murdered?  Because it would make Deborah less responsible?
       But would it?  If Deborah had kept a tighter rein on her students, a murderer wouldn't have been able to get to Carla.  Not that day, anyway.
       No matter which way he looked at it, Deborah ended up being responsible.
       And yet, he knew he had strong feelings for her.  He never would have taken her to bed, had he not.  No, he was not toying with her affections.  He just knew there were still serious problems between them. And at this point, he had no idea how to solve them.
       Coffee made, he poured himself a cup and, still deep in thought, sat down at the table to drink it.  Presently, he heard the rattle of the upstairs plumbing as the water was turned on.  That meant Deborah was up. Time to get breakfast going.  He rose, went to the refrigerator and took out eggs, milk, bacon, and a loaf of bread.
       A few minutes later, Deborah came into the kitchen.  Her flaxen hair, wet from the shower, was slicked back from her face, emphasizing her exquisite bone structure.  She had on her slacks and blouse, open at the neck, and no shoes or socks.  She looked fresh and relaxed, and utterly adorable.
       Milo's feelings for her surged to the surface, and he went over and took her in his arms and kissed her soundly.
       "Mmmm, what a nice good morning!" she said when the kiss was over. "Hope I didn't sleep in too late."
       He dropped another kiss onto her pert, upturned nose.  "Not at all. Coffee's made.  Help yourself."
       "Thanks."
       Deborah poured herself a cup of coffee.  "What can I do to help?"
       "You could make the toast."
       "Right."
       As Deborah fed slices of bread into the toaster, Milo watched her from the corner of his eye.  It felt so good, so natural, he thought, to be working side by side with her in the kitchen.  She seemed so happy, humming a little tune as she spread butter on the toast.
       "How do you feel this morning?" she asked.
       "Great," he said, although he wasn't sure that was entirely true. Still, he couldn't spoil her good mood.  Maybe, just maybe, a miracle would happen, that would wash away all his doubts about their relationship.
       Over breakfast, she brought up a subject that helped him to put these worries aside, at least for the time being.  "You never did tell me your news," she reminded him.
       "Yeah, I'd better let you in on what I've been doing the last few days."  Milo finished eating a forkful of egg, then leaned back in his chair.
       "A few days ago, I hired a private detective in Burlington, a guy named Jensen.  I wanted him to find Peter DeWitt.  You remember, the guy who was an accessory to murder in the article Carla wrote?"
       "Of course."
       "I thought that if we could find him and talk to him, it might help us to understand why Carla picked that particular incident to write about."
       Deborah reached for another slice of toast and the pot of strawberry jam.  "So, did your man find him?"
       Milo shook his head.  "Uh uh.  After DeWitt was released from juvenile prison, he lived with his mother for a while--his father had died years before.  He held a couple of jobs, then disappeared.  There's no record of his death; he seems to have vanished into thin air."
       "Maybe he left the country."
       "That's possible.  Jensen asked if I wanted him to work that angle."
       "And what did you tell him?"
       "I told him I'd think about it.  At first, continuing the investigation sounded like a good idea.  I really wanted to talk to DeWitt. After all, he's the only one of those three who might be still alive.  The only one who might be able to shed some light on this matter.
       "But then you told me about your visit from Damon Healy and Hank Dobson and your theory that Dobson is the one who's been harassing and attacking you."
       "And?"
       "I think you're probably right.  It makes sense that he's the culprit.  Like you suggested, at first, Hank tried to scare you into selling.  When that didn't work, he decided to come out of hiding and use the legal route."
       "Why do you suppose he didn't use the legal route in the first place?"
       Milo got up, retrieved the coffee pot, and refilled their cups. "Probably because of the cost.  Damon Healy is undoubtedly in on it with Hank.  If they can get your property without lawyers, so much the better."
       "And the notes mentioning Carla?"
       Milo shrugged.  "Hank heard about the accident and your connection with it.  Damon or Albert, or someone else in town, could have told him. He used Carla's death as an added scare tactic, that's all."
       Deborah said, "But what about the article Carla wrote?  Why was it in Piper's safe deposit box?"
       "Maybe Piper just wanted to preserve something of Carla's.  Maybe she found the story intriguing and wanted to write a sequel to it.  She might have been searching for Peter DeWitt, too.  You told me she wanted to be an investigative reporter."
       Deborah thought a moment.  "Yes, that's true."
       "So, it all fits together and makes sense."  Milo put down his cup, reached over and covered Deborah's hand with his. "Let your lawyer handle the matter now.  Hank and Damon can probably make things uncomfortable for you for a while, but I'm confident you'll win out in the end.
       "I don't think Hank will stalk you anymore, now that he's come out in the open.  Nothing's happened since the stairwell incident, has it?"
       "No.  And nothing since he and Damon came to the house that day."
       Deborah wanted to add, "Where does this leave us?" but she was afraid to.  They'd had such a wonderful time making warm and passionate love last night.  She didn't want to spoil it by bringing up the future.
       Some of her distress must have shown on her face, because Milo said, "Hey, don't look so defeated.  You'll be okay."
       A coldness washed over Deborah.  Was it only her imagination, or was there something different about Milo today?  Had making love changed the way he felt about her?
       Deborah's doubts cast a pall over her earlier good mood.  She wanted so much to get all their feelings out in the open and discuss them, but Milo seemed to have built a high wall around him that kept her out.  It made her feel frustrated and helpless.
       Later, as she left, Milo leaned over and gave her a kiss on the forehead.  "I'll call you soon," he said.
        He did call, as promised, and in a few days they were together again.  They spent time horseback riding and otherwise enjoying his farm. On one occasion, he helped her lay new carpet on her stairs.  They made love, too, and each time Deborah thought it was better than the last, although she didn't know how that could be.
       But never did Milo say he loved her.
       Deborah's love for Milo still burned brightly, but of course she did not tell him of her feelings.  She tried to push aside worries about the future and just enjoy each moment they spent together.
       Still, she couldn't help but wish sometimes that she'd never returned to Fairfield or met Milo, no matter how wonderful a friend and lover he had turned out to be. 

       One day a couple of weeks later, when Deborah retrieved the mail from its box on the porch, she found an envelope from the Fairfield Library.  Curious, she put the other mail aside and opened it first.  The top sheet was a note from the librarian.
       Dear Deborah and Milo,
       Here is yet another article on the matter you are researching, turned up by my librarian contact at Chicago Public.  Hope you find it useful.
       Let me know if I can be of any further help.
       Sally Johnson, Fairfield Librarian
       Deborah slid the letter aside to reveal a photocopied newspaper article.  "Teens Convicted in Murder of Step-brother" read the headline. While none of the other articles Deborah and Milo had received included pictures, this one did.  Deborah studied them before she read the text.
       There were three separate portraits, one of each of the boys involved.  Dean Standifer, the boy who committed the murder, had blond hair, cold-looking eyes, and an arrogant tilt to his chin.
       The victim, Dean's step-brother, Bobby Martin, appeared younger than his twelve years.  He was a cute kid, Deborah thought, with a cowlick, freckles sprinkled across his nose, and a mischievous grin.
       Then Deborah looked at the third picture, that of Peter DeWitt, who had led young Bobby to the cabin where Dean attacked him.  She stared at the picture of the brown-haired youth, who had a hint of a smile and intelligent-looking eyes, thinking there was something familiar about him. The seconds ticked by and recognition finally dawned.
       So did horror.
       Peter DeWitt was the man she knew as Jay Grant.
       The article slid from Deborah's hands and drifted to the floor as she tried to make sense of her startling discovery.  Piece by piece, she went over everything she knew about Carla and her accident, about Piper, and the article Carla had written about the crime.  Gradually, she put together a chilling scenario.
       She must call Milo immediately.  Fortunately, he was at home.  When she had related her news, he said, "I think it's time to confront Jay with this."
       "But, Milo, what if he is involved in Carla's death after all?"
       "Then all the more reason for us to talk to him.  We'll go together to the Wainwright Academy and confront him there.  He won't dare try anything in such a public place.  If he's not involved, then perhaps he can shed some more light on this matter.  Can you be ready in half an hour?"
       "Yes, I guess so."
       "Good.  I'll be over then."
       Deborah gathered together all the articles she had received from the library, and the article Carla had written, and put them in a large manila envelope.  Then she quickly changed from her work clothes into navy slacks, a white blouse, and her plaid wool jacket.
       When Milo arrived, he took a moment to hold her tightly in his arms.  "Don't be afraid," he said.  "This will all work out.  You'll see."
       But Deborah was afraid.  And not just for Jay; mostly, for Milo. She had a feeling that what Jay would tell them would not be good news for him.
       Half an hour later, they reached the Wainwright Academy.  It stood among the trees, as secluded and serene as always.  When they rounded the drive, rays of sunlight turned the slate roof from gray to silver.
       Milo pulled into the Visitor's Parking Lot just as the clock on the tower struck one o'clock.  A group of girls were perched on the steps of the main building, enjoying the last of autumn's warm days.  They stopped chatting to look curiously at Deborah and Milo as they hurried past them up the stairs.
       At the big double door, Deborah suddenly ground to a halt.  She had not been inside this building for seven long years.  She thought she would never enter it again, and yet here she was.  A lump burned in her throat, and her palms felt clammy.  Did she really want to go in?
       What if she saw someone who recognized her?  The students wouldn't, of course, for they were all different.  But surely some of the teachers and the clerical staff were the same.  Would they speak to her?  Or would they regard her with horror and disgust?
       Milo put his hand under Deborah's elbow.  "Are you all right?" he asked with concern.  "I'm sure being here again after so many years is difficult for you.  Would you rather I saw Jay alone?  You could wait in the car."
       Deborah took a deep breath and lifted her chin.  "No, I'm fine. This is no time for my foolish pride.  And of course I want to go with you. I haven't come this far to back down now."
       They entered the building and walked down the marble-floored hallway filled with students heading for their next class.  Milo and Deborah found the door that said Headmaster and went in.
       Deborah gave an inward sigh of relief to see that Jay's secretary was not the same woman who had been Dr. Hamner's secretary.  This woman looked up at Deborah with no sign of recognition.
       "May I help you?" she asked pleasantly.
       "We want to see Dr. Grant," Milo said.
       "But you don't have an appointment--"  The woman paused to slip on a pair of gold-framed half glasses and consult an open appointment book on her desk.
       "No, we don't," Deborah said.  "But it's important.  We must see him.  Just tell him Milo and Deborah are here."
       "We'll make an appointment," the secretary said firmly, her gold-plated pencil poised over the book.  "Let's see, I believe he has some time tomorrow afternoon."
       "No--" Deborah protested.
       Fortunately, just then, the door to Jay's private office opened and he stepped out.  "Oh, Lori," he began, then stopped when he saw Deborah and Milo.  A wide grin spread across his face.  "Deborah, Milo, hello!  This is a surprise."
       "We've got to talk to you, Jay," Deborah said.
       His brows knit in puzzlement, but he said cordially, "Well, okay. Come on in and sit down in my office."  He held the door open for them, then said to his secretary, "Hold all my calls, will you, Lori?"
       "Yes, Dr. Grant," Lori said.
       Being in Jay's office reminded Deborah of the times she had met here with Dr. Hamner.  The first occasion was when she was a newly hired teacher.  The last was the day he told her she was dismissed.
       Jay hadn't changed the decor.  There were the same yellow and maroon leather chairs for visitors; the same floor to ceiling bookshelves; the same ugly brown draperies.
       However, Jay had hung his framed degrees on the wall and placed a picture of Lacey and the boys on his desk.  Deborah remembered how Dr. Hamner's shell collection had been his personal signature.
       "Sit down."  Jay pointed to the leather chairs.
       Deborah chose the mustard yellow one, leaving the maroon one for Milo.  The maroon one was where she had sat when Dr. Hamner had dismissed her.
       Jay walked around his desk and eased into his leather swivel chair. It squeaked as he leaned back.  "Now," he said, "what's troubling you two?"
       Deborah looked at Milo, hoping he would take the lead.  Her stomach felt queasy, now that they were finally here.  Milo shot her a look of understanding, then turned back to Jay and began, "Our being here has to do with Carla's death."
       Jay nodded.  "I had a feeling it did.  I know you two have been trying to drum up a different scenario from the official one.  Well, have you succeeded?"  He sat back and folded his arms across his chest.
       Deborah finally mustered the courage to speak up.  "I'm not sure we've 'drummed up another scenario,' as you put it, but we did uncover something we need to talk to you about.  Piper's sister, Lisa, gave Milo and me an assignment Carla had written for one of your History classes."
       Deborah opened the envelope, removed the sheaf of papers, and pulled out Carla's essay.  Leaning forward, she slid it across the desk to him.
       Jay put on a pair of reading glasses, then looked at the papers. She saw his eyelids flicker, but heard impassivity in his voice as he said, "Hmmm, I don't remember this.  I wonder why Piper had it?"
       "That's what we want to know," Milo said.  "We thought perhaps Carla had written about a real crime, so we had the librarian at the Fairfield Library contact the Chicago Library, to see if they had any newspaper accounts of a crime involving kids with these names."
       Jay said, "My, my, you were determined, weren't you?  Does being responsible for Carla's death bother you that much, Deborah?"
       The barb stung Deborah and took her momentarily off guard.  That kind of rudeness was so unlike Jay, but perhaps being on the defensive had unleashed another side of him.  A potentially dangerous side.  Inwardly, she shivered.  Maybe it had been a mistake for her and Milo to come here, no matter how public the place.
       Nevertheless, she leaned forward and plunged on.  "The Chicago librarian sent us some articles that indicate Carla wrote about a real murder."  She handed the rest of the papers from her envelope to Jay.  He perused them with the same unrevealing expression as before.
       Finally, he took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair. "Well, this is all very interesting, but I don't see the point--"
       Milo said impatiently, "Come on, Jay, quit playing games with us. Look at the picture of Peter DeWitt.  That's you, isn't it?"
       Deborah held her breath as they waited for Jay to answer.
       Instead of looking at the picture, Jay swiveled around to gaze out the tall window behind him.  Several moments of tense silence passed. Deborah clutched the arms of her chair and looked at Milo.  He expression seemed to say, "Wait a while longer."
       Finally, Jay said, in a voice so low Deborah barely heard it, "Yes, I am, or was, Peter DeWitt."
       Milo raised his eyebrows as he and Deborah exchanged glances again. So, Deborah thought, with a surge of both fear and triumph, they had been right.
       Then Jay wheeled around from the window to impale first Deborah, then Milo with his midnight blue eyes.  "So, what do you think of me now?"
       Instinctively, Deborah shrank into the depths of her chair.  Was Jay a murderer?  Oh God, please, no.  Not Jay.
       "We'll reserve judgment until you tell us your side of the story," Milo said.
       Jay picked up a pencil and tapped the end of it on the desk.  He seemed to be in deep thought.  Deborah's nerves jangled with each tap of the pencil.  At last, Jay heaved a deep sigh and said,  "All right.  But not here.  Let's get out of the office and go for a walk around campus."
       In the outer room, Jay told Lori he was taking Deborah and Milo on a tour of the campus and that they would be back in awhile.
       The three of them strolled down the long, now empty hallway toward double doors leading outside.  Before they reached the doors, Jay stopped in front of a huge glass display case standing against the wall.
       "Look at all the trophies," he said, and Deborah heard the pride in his voice.  "Last year we won the regional debate tournament for private schools.  Two years ago, our basketball team came in second in the state playoffs."  He went on to point out other awards.
       "And all these awards have occurred since you've been headmaster," Deborah said.
       "Yes.  In fact, this trophy case wasn't even in existence during Dr. Hamner's time.  I had it built."
       They continued on through the double doors to the outside. Deborah immediately noticed a courtyard set with wrought iron tables and chairs.  "This is new," she remarked.
       "Yep," Jay said.  "The student council voted to develop this area five years ago.  We had several fund-raisers to foot the bill.  And see the gym?"  He pointed to the large square building on the other side of the courtyard.  "Remember, Deborah, how the roof used to leak?  Well, we got a new roof five years ago.  That was the first major upgrade under my leadership."
       As they walked around the gym, Deborah was surprised to see that quite a large section of land had been cleared, and a foundation dug. Wooden pegs and rope kept the area protected from trespassers.
       Jay said, "This is our most ambitious project to date.  Can you guess what it's to be?"
       "A theater," Milo said.
       "Not just a theater, but a performing arts center.  With an arts center, we'll be able to attract many talented students and give them the very best opportunity to develop their skills."
       "You've done a lot since you've been headmaster," Deborah said.
       "I want you to keep all this in mind when you hear my story," Jay said, looking at them solemnly.
       Jay led them back to the courtyard to one of the wrought iron tables.  When they were seated, he began his story.  "I was an abused child," he said.  "But I'm not using that an excuse for what I did.  I'm just telling you how it was with me."
       "Abused by both parents?" Deborah asked.
       Jay shook his head.  "Just by my father.  He beat on both my mother and me.  My mother escaped into alcohol.  Her drinking finally killed her when her liver failed.  But that was a long time later, and after my father had passed away, too.
       "Anyway, I was a pretty mixed-up kid.  I trusted few people, but once someone was decent to me, I would do anything for them.  That was how it was with David Standifer.  He befriended me, and I started palling around with him.  I knew he had a mean streak, but so what?  I was used to that, and he treated me okay.
       "When David's divorced father remarried and Bobby Martin became his stepbrother, David nearly freaked out.  He didn't want any other kid competing for his father's attention.  He almost ran away from home," Jay said ruefully.  "He should have.  Then things would have turned out differently."
       Jay paused to watch a group of girls dressed in white gym shorts and blouses trail from one of the dormitories to the gym.  A slight breeze lifted a strand of his thinning hair.  He looks old, Deborah thought.  Old and worn out.
       Jay took a deep breath, and said, "It's true Bobby was a brat.  He used to do awful things to David, like putting mice in his bed.  But what really pushed David over the edge was when Bobby took David's beautiful golden retriever out in the woods and let him loose.  The dog never came home.  David was heartbroken.  He vowed he would teach Bobby a lesson.  He asked me to help him set up a trap for Bobby so that he could give him a good licking.
       "So, I did.  I led Bobby to the cabin where David was waiting, just like the newspaper article said.  I never dreamed David was going to kill Bobby, and that's the honest truth."
       He paused to look first at Milo, then at Deborah.  She saw the anguish in his eyes.  "I believe you," she said solemnly.
       "After I delivered Bobby, I took off.  I didn't want to hear him screaming when David beat him; it would remind me too much of being beaten myself, by my father.  You know what happened after that; we got caught, tried and convicted, and sent to a juvenile prison."
       "That must have been an awful experience," Milo said.
       "It was.  But, amazingly enough, something good came from it.  A councilor I met there made me realize that although I was responsible for what I had done, I could still make something of myself.  I was a changed person when I came out of that place.  Sadly, David wasn't.  He got into trouble again, and you know what eventually happened to him.
       "But even though I decided to do something useful with my life, I thought I would have a better chance as someone else, not as Peter DeWitt. So, I changed my name to Jay Grant.  I went to college, studied to become a teacher, met and married Lacey, and here I am."
       "Does Lacey know about your past?" Deborah asked.
       "Yes, Lacey knows.  She's always been very supportive.  I'm lucky to have her as my wife."
       "So where does Carla enter in?" Milo asked.
       Jay ran a hand through his hair.  "Yes, Carla.  Stupidly, I kept all those newspaper articles at home, in a desk drawer.  Carla baby-sat for us when the boys were little.
       "The boys would get into stuff, the way kids do.  One night when Carla was taking care of them, they dug out those articles.  Carla saw them and, like you, she recognized the picture of Peter DeWitt and put two and two together.  The kids didn't know, of course; they were too young to read or to realize the picture was of their dad when he was a teenager.  So Carla tried to blackmail me."
       "No!" Milo said, half rising from his chair.  "She wouldn't do something like that.  Not Carla!"
       Deborah was shocked, too, even though she realized that for quite some time now, that idea had been lurking in the back of her mind.  But to actually hear Jay voice it made her insides reel.  Her heart went out to Milo.  This would be hard for him to take.
       "I'm sorry, Milo," Jay said.  "I know how you must have loved your sister.  But it's the truth.  She wanted desperately to get out of Wainwright.  But your mother and stepfather wouldn't hear of it.  You know that, don't you?"
       "Yes, that's true," Milo admitted.
       He sank back down into his chair.  Deborah saw that his hands were clenched into fists, as though he didn't want to hear what Jay had to say next.  She reached out and put her arm around his shoulder, trying to comfort him.
       Jay went on, "She did everything she could think of to get expelled, including sloughing off on her school work.  But Dr. Hamner, not wanting to upset the Cassidys, still wouldn't expel her.
       "I didn't know she knew my secret until she turned in that article to fulfill an assignment I gave the class.  I have to admit, she was clever."
       "There was a note from you on the last page, asking her to meet with you," Deborah said.
       "Yes, and we did meet.  She made it clear that she would expose me unless I somehow convinced Dr. Hamner to expel her.  I tried to reason with her, telling her I didn't have that kind of clout with Hamner.  But she wouldn't listen.  She gave me an ultimatum of two weeks."
       "This is so hard to believe," Milo said, shaking his head.  "But go on.  What happened then?"
       Jay lowered his eyelids before speaking, then said in a low voice, "She died in the accident before the two weeks was up."
       For several seconds, no one spoke.  Deborah risked a glance at Milo.  His face was ashen.  She tightened her arm around his shoulder, but he seemed unaware of her attempt to comfort him.
       "But I didn't kill her," Jay continued.  "I know you're both still thinking that maybe I did.  I was at the doctor's office when she fell off that cliff.  If you don't believe me, you can check up on it."
       "I believe you," Milo said, in a choked voice.  "I remember your alibi was part of the official report and seemed to have been verified thoroughly."
       "I believe you, too," Deborah said.
       It was true.  Deep down, Deborah knew Jay could never do such a terrible thing to Carla.  Not after what had happened with David Standifer and Bobby Martin.  No, Jay had learned his lesson.
       "Thanks," Jay said.  He turned to Milo.  "I know this is hard for you to take, Milo.  But Carla was a very mixed-up youngster.  Don't think too harshly of her.  I don't.  I just wish I could have done something to help her."
       "Me, too," Milo said, looking downcast.  "I had no idea she was that disturbed."
       Just then, a bell rang somewhere inside the main building.  "That's the end of fifth period," Jay said.  "I'd better be getting back."
       They walked in silence awhile, each lost in thought.  Then something occurred to Deborah, and she asked Jay, "Did Lacey know about Carla's attempt to blackmail you?"
       "No, I never told her.  I didn't want to upset her.  I was confident that somehow I'd be able to convince Carla not to go through with her scheme.  But I made a mistake by giving her back the article she wrote. After Carla's death, I wondered what became of it, but I didn't dare ask.
       "When nothing happened to indicate anyone else had seen it, I assumed either Carla had destroyed it, or her parents had gotten rid of it without knowing its awful importance.
       "Obviously, it wasn't destroyed, and it came into Piper's possession.  I suppose we'll never know exactly how that happened."
       "I wonder if Piper was on to you?" Deborah mused.
       "I'm sure she wasn't.  She probably hadn't had time to do any investigating on those articles, if that's what she intended.  I saw her shortly before her death, and her manner toward me was the same as it always was."

       When they reached the main building, Jay stopped and, hands on his hips, surveyed the campus.  "I've been happy here.  I feel my life has been useful and productive.  Oh, I probably would be happier if I were still a teacher.  My being headmaster was Lacey's idea, you know."  He looked thoughtful.  "But that's neither here nor there.  I am the headmaster, and I'm doing a damned good job of it."
       "You are, Jay," Deborah agreed.
       Jay's eyes clouded with wariness as he looked at them.  "So what are you two going to do about all this?"
       "Absolutely nothing," Milo said.  "Isn't that right, Deborah?"
       She nodded her agreement.  "We don't even want those articles back. Why don't you destroy them?"
       "All right."  Jay was silent a moment, then he added, "I truly believe that Carla's death was an accident.  I hope you two can come to grips with that and get on with your lives."
       "I hope so, too," Milo said, but Deborah thought she heard doubt in his voice.
       Just before Jay went back into the building, he stopped and snapped his fingers.  "I just remembered something.  We're having a little gathering at our house on Saturday night for Lacey's and my twentieth wedding anniversary.  Will you two come?"
       "I'd like that very much," Deborah said.  She looked at Milo.  He nodded, but she saw no spark of enthusiasm in his eyes.  He's still in shock, she thought.
       When they were back in his car, Deborah said, "Oh, Milo, I'm so sorry about all this.  Are you okay?"
       "I don't know yet," he said, starting the car and heading out of the parking lot.  "It's going to take some getting used to.  It's hard to accept that Carla would have done such a terrible thing.  She could have ruined Jay's career, and all for her own selfish reasons."
       "I know.  But, please, like Jay said, don't be too hard on her. She was unhappy.  She was mixed up."
       "That doesn't excuse something like blackmail."
       Milo had such high standards, she thought.  And he was so reluctant to forgive.  He couldn't forgive Deborah for her negligence, and he couldn't forgive Carla for her error in judgment.  It made her sad, but there was nothing she could do about it.  That was the way he was.
       Back at her house, Deborah asked him to come in for coffee.  He gave her a wan smile.  "I wouldn't be very good company right now, I'm afraid.  I need to be by myself for a while, and work through this."
       Deborah nodded, but her insides twisted with hurt and disappointment.  She wished he would let her help him through this bad time.
       "I'll see you Saturday," he said, as she got out of the car.
       Deborah watched him drive away, feeling more alone than she had in a long, long time. 

Chapter Nine

       The following day, Milo phoned.  They talked for a few minutes, then he said, "I'm afraid I won't be able to go to the Grants's party with you.  There's an important horse auction in Rockville this weekend that I need to attend.  I've had it on my calendar for months, but didn't remember it when Jay mentioned the party."
       "That's okay," she said.  "I can go to the party by myself."  But deep down, she knew it wasn't okay; she would miss him terribly.
       "We'll be out of touch for a while. . . ." he continued, sounding as though he wanted to talk more about their relationship, but was hesitant to say whatever was on his mind.
       What was he leading up to? she wondered.  Then, suddenly, she couldn't keep all her worries and frustration under wraps any more.
       She asked, "Do you still need time alone to come to grips with what we learned about Carla?"
       "Yes.  And I've been doing a lot of thinking . . . about us."
       Compelled to plunge ahead, she said, "I know what you're thinking, too, Milo.  That even though Carla tried to blackmail Jay, it doesn't change the fact that I'm still the one responsible for her death."
       Milo's silence confirmed Deborah's words.
       "Why don't you just come right out and say it, Milo?" she challenged.  "You can't forgive her for what she did, and you can't forgive me for what I did."
       "Perhaps you're right," he conceded.  "But neither can you forgive yourself.  So, we're both in the same bind, aren't we?"
       "Good-bye, Milo," Deborah said, and hung up.
       Tears welled up and streamed down her face.  She felt hot all over, and sick to her stomach.  Wishing she'd never come back to Fairfield, or met Milo Jordan, she put her head down in her arms and cried.
        For the next few days, Deborah concentrated on putting Milo Jordan out of her mind.  It was easier said than done, and on more than one occasion, she gave in to the urge to cry.
       She told herself that the passage of time would heal her, but time passed, and she still felt lonely and miserable.  Time made no difference, she concluded.  Seven years had passed since Carla's accident, and still she had not healed from that tragedy.
       On Saturday morning, Deborah looked out the window to see the first frost of the season.  The lawn and the trees looked as though someone had sprinkled them with silver glitter.  The street out in front of her house glistened like diamonds.  Winter was indeed around the corner.
       As the day wore on, bright sunlight rapidly melted the frost, and the temperature hovered in the high thirties.  Deborah spent the morning working indoors, thinking about the Grants's party she was to attend that evening.  Since the occasion was an anniversary, she made a trip downtown to a gift boutique where she purchased a white porcelain clock to give to them.
       That afternoon, Lacey called.  "I'm so glad you're coming to our party tonight," she told Deborah.  "But I'm sorry Milo had to cancel."
       "Me, too," Deborah replied.
       "Is everything all right between you two?" she asked.
       "Everything is fine," Deborah said.
       For the first time, she realized she didn't want to confide in Lacey.  And of course she couldn't discuss her and Milo's visit with Jay, not when Jay had never told Lacey about Carla's blackmail attempt.
       "It's supposed to freeze again tonight," Lacey said.  "I hope the roads won't be too slick for you to drive out here."
       "I'll manage," Deborah assured her.
        When it was time to get ready for the party, Deborah changed from work clothes into a forest green cocktail dress and matching high heeled shoes.  She brushed her flaxen hair until it shone and highlighted her cheeks with blusher and her mouth with a bright red lipstick.
       The crisp night air made Deborah's skin tingle as she unlocked her car and climbed inside.  Up above, a bright moon hung in a glossy black sky.  Deborah headed out of town, following the same route she and Milo had taken when they had attended the Grants's dinner party.
       The thought of Milo brought a rush of sadness and longing.  She wondered what he was doing tonight.  Would there be social activities at the horse auction?  People to have dinner with, to party with?  She wished she were with him.  Wherever he was, she wanted to be, too.
       At the Grants's the maid took Deborah's black wool jacket, then showed her into the sitting room where the party guests were gathered. Looking around, Deborah saw many of the same people who had been at the dinner party she and Milo attended.  But this was a much larger gathering, probably twenty-five or thirty people.
       Lacey came over to her, martini glass in hand.  "So glad you could come, Deborah."
       Although Lacey looked lovely in her white dress, Deborah didn't think her friend was happy.  Her smile looked forced and her voice had a false ring to it.
       Jay, handsome in black slacks and gray silk shirt, gave Deborah a hug.  But he, too, appeared to be putting on a show, laughing loudly at a guest's inane joke, and waving his glass of Scotch as he talked.
       Damon Healy and his wife, Ester, were there, as Deborah had expected.  Their son, Albert, and Doug Jasper were with two young women Deborah recognized as former Wainwright students.  Deborah made sure she greeted all of them politely.  She was no longer afraid of any of them, now that she was certain Hank Dobson was her stalker.
       At first, it was a chore to circulate among the guests, but as the evening wore on, mingling became easier and Deborah relaxed.  Even when someone mentioned her former teaching career and the accident, she didn't flinch.
       It occurred to her that she finally was getting used to living with her past.  Yes, she had made a mistake.  Made it and paid dearly for it. Even if Milo hadn't forgiven her, she was going to forgive herself and get on with her life.
       All in all, Deborah enjoyed the party.  The only thing that could have made her evening more complete would have been having Milo by her side.  No use thinking about that, though, she chided herself.
       At eight o'clock, Jay and Lacey led the guests into the dimly lighted dining room for an elegant buffet supper.  Card tables had been set up for the guests, and after Deborah filled her plate, she found a place with an older couple and a woman teacher from Wainwright.
       While they were eating their chocolate mousse dessert, Jay rose and tapped his coffee cup with his spoon.  "May I have your attention, please?"
       When conversation died down, he continued, "I'd like to thank you all for coming to help Lacey and me celebrate our twenty years of marriage."  He smiled down at Lacey, who looked up at him over the rim of her martini glass.
       "I have a gift for Lacey; but first, I want to tell you a story about it.  On our honeymoon, Lacey and I toured Europe," Jay began.  "When we were in Paris, we went into a jewelry store, and I saw something I wanted Lacey to have.  I hadn't bought her a wedding present yet, and this would be just the ticket.  Luckily, she liked it, too."  He paused while the guests laughed appreciatively.
       Deborah was following Jay's story with interest when something flickered in the corner of her eye.  Something round and shiny.  She turned and looked, but didn't see anything.
       She focused on Jay again, but had trouble keeping her mind on his words.  Something had happened just a moment ago, but she wasn't sure what.
       Cautiously, she let her gaze sweep the room.  Some of the guests had risen from their seats and were standing so that they could see Jay and Lacey better.  Deborah's gaze passed over several of them, including Damon, Albert, and Doug.  Damon had unbuttoned his suit jacket and had his hands in his trousers' pockets.  He turned to speak to his son, and something caught the light from a nearby lamp.
       It was Damon's tie clasp, Deborah realized.  She stared at the large gold circle resting on his dark brown tie.  It was as though a locked door in her mind suddenly edged open, and she remembered with stunning clarity a shiny gold circle reflected in the light from an autumn sun beaming down through the trees at Rainbow Falls.
       Had Deborah seen Damon Healy at Rainbow Falls that day?  Did he have something to do with Carla's death?
       Deborah blinked, trying to expand the picture in her mind.  Yes, she was sure she had spied someone wearing something round and shiny, but the person's features were hazy.  Try as she might, she couldn't bring them into focus.
       Just then, Damon, as though he sensed Deborah's eyes on him, swung his head around and sent her a fierce look that chilled her bones.
       Danger hummed along the air waves, surrounding Deborah, suffocating her.  She had to get out of there.  Now.  Vaguely, she was aware that Lacey was opening her anniversary present from Jay, but she could not wait, even for that.
       "Are you all right?" the teacher whispered to Deborah.  "You look pale."
       "I'm a little queasy," Deborah managed.  "Something I ate didn't agree with me.  I'd better go home."  With a shaky hand, she laid her napkin on the table.
       Not daring to look anymore at Damon, Deborah rose from the table and headed toward the downstairs guest bathroom.  She tried to walk casually, as though she hadn't a care in the world.  But inside, she was quaking like aspen leaves in the wind.
       As soon as she was around the corner, she veered off to the kitchen, pushing through the wooden swinging doors.  The cook and the maid were washing dishes.
       "I need my coat, please," Deborah told the maid.  "It's a short black wool with a red lapel pin."  The maid nodded, put down her dish towel, and hurried from the room.
       The cook peered at Deborah through large black-framed glasses. "You don't look so good.  Are you sick?"
       "I'm not feeling very well," Deborah confirmed, holding her stomach to emphasize her discomfort.
       "I hope it wasn't my cooking," the woman said.  She rinsed a large copper pan and set it in the drainer.
       Deborah glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see Damon push his way into the kitchen.  But no one appeared.
       "No, your dinner was wonderful," Deborah assured the cook.  "I wasn't feeling well earlier today.  I shouldn't have come to the party."
       Thankfully, the maid returned then with Deborah's coat.  She held it while Deborah slipped her arms into the sleeves.  "Is there a back door I can use?" Deborah asked the women.  "I don't want to bother Jay and Lacey."  No way did Deborah want to return to the party.
       "You can go through there."  Holding up a spoon dripping soap suds, the cook gestured to an open door leading to the back of the house.
       "Thank you," Deborah said, and hurried toward it.
       "Deborah!" a voice called.
       Deborah turned cold with fear.  Damon?  But no, it was Jay coming through the swinging door.  "Oh, Jay," she said, "I have to leave.  I'm not feeling well."
       Jay rushed to her side and laid a hand on her shoulder.  "Then you'd better stay here till you feel better.  You can stay all night, if necessary."
       "No, thank you.  I must get home.  I'm sorry to run off like this, but I didn't want to interrupt your party.  I was going to call you tomorrow and explain."
       "I wish you'd stay here," Jay said, concern wrinkling his forehead.
       "No, I can't.  Good-bye, Jay."  Before he could say any more, she slipped through the back door.
       Outside, the cold air hit Deborah's face like a splash of ice water.  She ran around to the front of the house, to the driveway where her car was parked.  She kept looking over her shoulder, expecting to see Damon, or perhaps Albert, coming after her.  But neither appeared.
       When she reached her car, she jumped in, started the engine, and roared down the driveway.  At the intersection with the main road, Deborah braked.  And skidded.  So, the roads were icy, as predicted.  She'd better be careful.
       Still, in her eagerness to get away from the Grants's, she pressed the gas pedal harder than she should have.
       The sound of another car starting up back at the house sent her heart racing.  Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw bright headlights swerve onto the road and bobble along in her wake.
       That doesn't necessary mean you're being followed, she told herself.  Perhaps someone else had decided to leave the party early.
       Despite her efforts to calm herself, Deborah's mind reeled so crazily that she was hardly aware of where she was going.  Too late she realized she had taken a wrong turn and was headed back to town by Ridge Drive, the way she and Milo had taken the night of the dinner party.  She'd have to be doubly careful, because this was a winding road with sharp curves and steep cliffs on her side.
       A car was still behind her, and she was sure it was the same one that left the party right after she had.  When she speeded up, the other car increased its speed.  And when she slowed, it slowed.  She passed several turnoffs, but the other car stayed relentlessly behind her.
       The cold truth finally sank into her muddled brain.
       She was being followed.
       Deborah pressed the accelerator, but she dared not speed up too much, for her headlights showed a layer of ice glazing the entire road. Gradually, the other car gained on her, shortening the distance between them.  Deborah wished she could tell what kind of car it was, but the glow of the headlights was all she could see.
       As the car came closer, Deborah's palms turned clammy and her heart knocked against her ribcage.  Would this road never end?  She should be descending to the main thoroughfare into Fairfield, but the curves and dips kept on and on.  It had never seemed this long the night she and Milo had driven it.
       She passed the lookout where she and Milo had stopped to view the lights of Fairfield.  How long ago that night seemed now.
       Oh, Milo, where are you?  Why couldn't things have worked out for us?
       A sharp curve lay ahead, with a steep ravine on her side of the road.  A shiny metal guard rail protected the shoulder at the ravine's steepest level, but the first part of it had no barrier.
       As Deborah reached the curve, the car behind her suddenly closed the gap between them and came up directly to her back bumper.  Its bright yellow headlights blinded her when she glanced in the rearview mirror.
       Deborah thought the car was going to ram her bumper, but it swerved around to her left side instead.  When they were side by side, Deborah felt a jolt and heard the scrape of metal as their vehicles collided.  Oh Lord, he was trying to run her off the road and over the cliff!
       The other car slammed into her again.  Deborah careened onto the shoulder.  She would have to brake or hit the guard rail.  If she hit her brakes, she would skid.  She had only a second to make the decision.
       She jerked her foot from the gas pedal and pumped the brake lightly, as she remembered you were supposed to do when braking on ice.
       But it didn't work the way it was supposed to.  As the car beside her whizzed by, Deborah's car spun around in a complete circle.  The front of the car took a dive and Deborah knew she was headed over the cliff.
       This is it, she thought.  I'm going to die.
       The car suddenly ground to a halt as though a giant hand had grabbed it from behind.  The back seemed anchored to the ground, but the front bounced up and down like a rubber ball.
       Deborah looked over her left shoulder.  In the blackness she couldn't see much, but she sensed that her left rear fender had somehow caught on the guard rail when she had smashed into it.  The car was hanging half off the cliff, and half on the shoulder of the road.
       Her heart was hammering so fast she thought she was going to pass out.  She gulped in great draughts of air, trying to keep her equilibrium. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance she could get out of this predicament alive.  But she had to keep her head.  She must not panic.
       She groped for the door handle.  She found it, but the door was caved in and would not open.  Cautiously, she edged to the rider's seat. With the shift of her weight, the car lurched downward.  Deborah held her breath.  She was so close to freedom!  But how much movement could the car take before it fell the rest of the way into the ravine?
       Inch by inch, she moved to the rider's seat.  The door on this side appeared undamaged.  As she reached for the handle, headlights appeared on the road, coming from the direction in which she had been headed.  The car slowed as it neared her car, then passed by.  Surely, someone wouldn't drive by the scene of an accident, she thought with dismay.  Wouldn't they stop to see if anyone needed help?
       When the car made a U turn, hope surged within Deborah.  The vehicle returned, stopping so that the headlights beamed on her car.  She waved.  She even managed to open the door an inch or two.  The car creaked ominously, but the rear wheels held to the shoulder of the road.
       The driver's door of the other car opened.  A figure emerged and passed in front of the headlights.  Deborah saw light-colored, swept-back hair and a long coat, unbuttoned and flowing in the slight breeze.
       Lacey!
       What was she doing here?  She hadn't been the one who forced Deborah off the road.  Perhaps she had seen Damon leave the party after Deborah and had followed them both.
       Deborah opened her door a little wider.  "Lacey!" she called. "It's me, Deborah!"
       But Lacey only stood there staring at Deborah.  Finally, she called across the chasm between them, "Why'd you have to come back to Fairfield, Deborah?  Why didn't you just stay away?"
       Deborah started to say, "Just get me out of here," but then Lacey turned so that the headlights illuminated something dangling from her neck. Something round and shiny.  A pendant, Deborah realized.  A round and shiny pendant. 

       The memory that had only partially returned at the party now flooded Deborah so fast it took her breath away.  Once again, Deborah was breathlessly running down the path at the falls, on her way to Carla. Something shining in the woods caught her eye.  She stopped to see what it was.  It was this pendant, then as well as now, worn by Lacey Grant.  Lacey looking wild-eyed and disheveled back then, and clutching Carla's dark green knapsack.
       What was Lacey doing with Carla's bag?  What was Lacey doing at the falls, period?  The conclusion Deborah reached was too shocking for her mind to accept.  No, Lacey couldn't have anything to do with Carla's death. Not Deborah's best friend, Lacey Grant.
       Deborah must go to Lacey and find out why she was there and why she had Carla's bag.  She stepped off the path, felt her toe catch on something.  That was the last thing she remembered until Piper found her.
       Now, with her memory of those moments finally restored, Deborah felt a sense of relief, of completion.  Finally, she knew what had happened during that missing time.
       However, her relief lasted only a second or two, for Deborah quickly realized that tonight she, not Carla, was Lacey's target.
       Tonight Lacey was going to kill Deborah.  Deborah knew that as surely as she knew she was trapped in this car.  Her teeth began to chatter and panic rose up within her in wave after horrible wave.  Calm down! she told herself.  If she was to stay alive, she must keep her head.  There must be some way she could get out of this.
       Then it occurred to her that if she could somehow keep Lacey talking, help might arrive before she could carry out her diabolical plan.
       Deborah stuck her head out the crack in the door and called out, "Lacey, I know you were up at Rainbow Falls the day Carla died."
       Lacey walked over to the edge of the cliff and stood with her feet planted apart, arms akimbo.  She was close enough to reach out and grasp Deborah's hand, if she had wanted to.  "So you finally got your memory back, did you?" Lacey said.  "Too bad, because it won't do you any good now."
       "Seeing your pendant just now brought it all back to me.  But I haven't seen you wear the pendant since that day at Rainbow Falls.  And I didn't see it earlier tonight."
       "You didn't see it tonight?" Lacey echoed, a trace of dismay in her voice.  "I thought you saw it when I unwrapped it, and that was why you ran away.  It was Jay's anniversary present."
       "Jay's present?  Then how could you have been wearing it at the falls?"
       Lacey fingered the ornament.  "When you told me you saw something shiny at the falls, I figured it must have been my necklace.  I threw it away and told Jay I lost it.  I had no idea he would find another one just like it to give me as an anniversary present tonight.  But if it wasn't my pendant you saw earlier, what made you bolt from the party?"
       "I caught a glimpse of Damon's round tie clasp.  It started to bring my memory back.  I thought he was the one I saw at the falls."
       "Oh no, then I didn't have to run you down like this."
       "I would have remembered the truth eventually, Lacey.  You killed Carla, didn't you?"
       Lacey was silent a moment, then she said, "I couldn't let her ruin our lives.  She was ready to blab Jay's secret."
       "Did you kill Piper, too?" Deborah asked.
       Lacey's mouth turned down.  "I had to.  She was close to finding out about Jay, too."
       "Then you're the one who's been attacking me?"
       "Not at first.  I didn't tamper with your car, or write you the notes, or set the fire.  That must have been Hank Dobson.  But after you and Milo started investigating the accident, I got worried that your memory might come back.  When you went to the psychologist, I was terrified.  I couldn't allow you to remember you saw me that day."
       "You pushed me down the stairwell, then?"
       "Yes, but obviously not hard enough."
       "And you stalked my house at night."
       "Clever, don't you think?  You didn't recognize me in my disguise." Lacey sighed.  "If only Hank Dobson had let you alone, we wouldn't be in this situation now."
       They both were silent for a moment.  Enough cold air had seeped into the car to chill Deborah to the bone.  Overhead, a silver moon slipped into view, making icy spots on the road glitter like diamonds.
       How could she save herself? Deborah wondered.  Would appealing to Lacey do any good?  "Lacey," she began.
       But Lacey interrupted her. "Your car should have gone off the cliff just now.  Since it didn't, I guess I'll have to give it some help."  She took a step toward Deborah's car.
       "Lacey, please. . . ."
       "Shut up!  I don't have time to talk anymore.  Someone might come by."
       Terror gripped Deborah as she watched Lacey stumble around to the back of her car.  Was Lacey strong enough to push the car the rest of the way over the cliff?  She saw Lacey hunch down and put her shoulder against the bumper.  The car lurched forward, knocking Deborah against the dashboard.  She had to get out of the car.  Now.  No matter what.
       She leaned into the open door and looked down.  All she saw was blackness.  She had no idea how far down the ground was.  She didn't want to jump.  Then she asked herself, which would be worse, to jump, or to stay in the car as it tumbled over the cliff?  But what difference did it make; she was going to die anyway.
       The car rocked crazily as Lacey pushed it.  Deborah took a deep breath and rolled herself out the door.
       Blackness sped before her eyes.  It seemed like forever before she crashed to the ground.  Her left leg fell against something hard, and she heard the sickening crack of breaking bones.
       Moments later, a scream rent the night air.  Deborah looked up just as her car flew by, nose forward like a dive bomber.  From the rear, arms and legs flailed.  Lacey had gone over with the car, Deborah realized with horror.  It looked as though she were somehow attached to the rear bumper.
        Deborah's car plowed into the ground, then tumbled over, tossing Lacey into the air like a giant rag doll.  The car rolled over several times more, then lay still.
       "Lacey!" Deborah called.
       No answer.
       Deborah called Lacey's name several more times, but she heard nothing but the wind in the trees.
       Now what should she do?  She tried to get up but her injured leg wouldn't support her.  The pain was so bad she feared she would lose consciousness.  She told herself she must stay awake.  Somehow, she had to get herself out of this hole.
       She looked up at the road.  The headlights of Lacey's car still beamed into the black night.  Maybe someone passing by would stop to see what was going on.  Shivers raked Deborah from her head to her toes.  The cold had already penetrated her clothing.  She would never survive the night out here.  Neither would Lacey.
       If she were still alive.
       Deborah managed to drag herself to the embankment.   By clawing at the earth, she climbed up a few feet.  Every inch took enormous energy. She had lost her shoes and the cold ground quickly numbed her stockinged feet.  Her leg throbbed, and her head felt muddled.
       Still, she hadn't fallen more than fifty feet down the ravine. With determination, she ought to be able to make it to the road.
       About halfway up, her energy finally gave out, and she couldn't climb another inch.  She lay exhausted on the sloping ground, her head cradled in her arm.  She would rest a few minutes, then resume her efforts to reach the road.  Lying still made her aware of fingers and toes numb from the cold, and of her throbbing, useless leg.
       In the distance, she heard a car engine.  Was someone coming?
       The sound ceased; her mind drifted.  Then, a bright light swept down into the ravine, and someone called, "Hello!  Is anyone down there?"
       She opened her mouth to call for help, but only a low moan came out.
       "Is anyone there?" the voice repeated.  It sounded familiar.  In fact, it sounded like Milo's.  But no, it couldn't be Milo.  He was gone. Gone forever.   Maybe it wasn't even a real voice at all, but part of a dream.
       The light swept over her.  "I see you!" called the voice.  "Hang on, I'm coming!"
       She heard a crackling as shoes skidded over the frost-laden slope. The light wiggled and jerked, leaving her, only to find her again.  The person and the light came closer.
       "Deborah!" said that still-familiar voice.
       "Milo?" she murmured weakly.  "I--I can't believe it's really you."
       "Believe it, my darling."  He hunched down and cradled her head in his strong arms.  His warm breath flowed over her frozen cheeks.
       "My leg . . . broken.  W-what are you . . . doing here?  I thought . . ."
       "Shhh, explanations later.  I've called for help on my car phone. Since you're injured, I'll let the experts get you out of here.  Till then, I'll keep you warm."
       Milo lay down beside her and put his arms around her.  A wonderful warmth seeped through Deborah, and she began to thaw.
       "My car's down below," she managed to say.  "Lacey, too.  I called, but . . . no answer."
       "I'll tell the police when they come," Milo said.  "Now, save your energy."
       Presently, Deborah heard the wail of sirens.  Soon the road above teamed with people.  Red and yellow lights flashed and twirled.  Then she must have lost consciousness, for her next awareness was of lying in the aid car, sirens roaring as they sped through the night.
       Later, at Fairfield Hospital, she looked up into bright lights and doctors hovering over her.  A shot in her arm, the image of Milo peering into the emergency room cubicle.  No sight had ever looked so good.  Then, oblivion.
        Several days passed before Deborah was able to talk to Milo.  She was aware that he had visited her each day, but she was too sedated to say much more than hello and to hold his hand for a while.
       Today the doctor had allowed her to sit up and eat her first real meal.  She was just finishing the last bite of vanilla pudding when Milo came in.  Her heart took an unexpected leap at the sight of him.  He looked as handsome as always in jeans and a brown suede jacket.
       "Hello!" he said, a big smile on his face.  "It's great to see you sitting up.  How are you doing?"  He pulled a chair close to her bed and sat down.
       "Pretty good.  The doctors thought I might have some internal injuries, but all the tests and examinations came out negative.  The only thing I have to contend with is my broken leg."  She nodded at the big cast that took up most of the bed.
       "You sure were lucky," Milo said.
       Deborah couldn't wait any longer to ask the question that had been burning in her mind.  "Milo, what happened to Lacey?"
       Milo's dark eyes clouded as he reached over and squeezed her hand. "She passed away yesterday.  Too many injuries that the doctors couldn't fix."
       Although Deborah wasn't surprised at his news, a deep sadness stole over her.  She was still having trouble adjusting to the fact that her good friend was a murderess.  She bowed her head for a moment, and said a little prayer for Lacey.  Then she asked Milo, "Was she able to talk about what happened before she died?"
       "Yes.  She confessed to killing Carla.  Lacey read the article Carla wrote when Milo brought the assignments home to grade.  She realized what Carla was up to.  She planned to meet Carla up at the falls and try and talk her out of blackmailing Jay."
       "But what about the note signed by Doug, asking Carla to meet him? Did Lacey write it?"
       "It will take a handwriting expert to decide that.  But Jay says he remembers taking away from Carla a note from Doug that said the same thing. The note was not dated.  Lacey could have gotten it and sent it to Carla, making her believe it was a new note from Doug.
       "Anyway, she went up there that day to meet Carla. We'll never know everything that happened between the two of them, but Lacey told the police investigator that Carla refused to back down in her plan to expose Jay if he didn't see that she got expelled from school.
       "Lacey lost her temper.  They struggled and Carla went over a cliff.  Lacey said that at the last minute she tried to grab Carla, but caught only her backpack, which slipped off as Carla fell.  That's how Lacey came to be holding it when you saw her."
       "I see," Deborah said.
       "Lacey was trying to get away when you saw her.  After you tripped and fell, she was going to hit you over the head with a rock, but heard Piper coming before she could."
       "So Lacey was going to kill me, too," Deborah mused.
       "Yes, because she expected that when you regained consciousness, you would say that you saw her.  When you didn't mention it, she thought you didn't see her, after all."
       "What about Piper's death?"
       "Not long ago, Piper went to see Jay, to ask him about Carla's article.  Jay wasn't home and she talked to Lacey instead.  Lacey wormed out of Piper what she wanted to see Jay about.  Lacey realized Piper was close to finding out about Jay's past.
       "She went to Piper's apartment that night on the pretext of having new information for her, when in fact she really wanted to get her hands on the article Carla wrote.
       "She and Piper argued, and she hit Piper over the head and dumped her over the balcony.  Then she set up the scene to make it look like Piper fell when she was changing the lightbulb.  Since all the apartment dwellers were at the Autumn Festival that evening, and there was only that windowless warehouse across the way, no one witnessed Piper's fall."
       Deborah said, "But Lacey didn't find the article Carla wrote, because Piper had put it in her safe deposit box."
       "Correct."
       Deborah picked up her plastic water glass and sipped from the straw.  "Poor Lacey.  She never was happy, even with all her wealth and social position."
       "No, she wasn't," Milo agreed.
       "Do the police know how she went into the ravine with my car?"
       "Apparently, as she bent over to push the car, her pendant caught on your license plate."
       "So the pendant caused her death," Deborah mused.  "How ironic." She was silent a moment, then said, "You haven't told me why you were driving along that road that night."
       Milo leaned forward to gaze into Deborah's eyes.  "I was coming to the party to be with you.  I'd finally come to my senses and realized what a fool I was to let the most beautiful and wonderful woman I'd ever known slip through my fingers because of something that happened in the past.
       "You were right, Deborah; it is hard for me to forgive.  But I've worked through all that now.  I know that you did the best you could the day of the accident.  We don't live in a perfect world, even though I wish we did.  I have to accept that mistakes will be made and accidents will happen."
       "I've forgiven myself, too," she told him.  "I realized that to continue beating myself for that mistake will accomplish nothing.  Now, I can go on with my life."
       "I'm relieved to hear that, Deborah.  I'm darn glad I decided to go to the party, too.  I only wish I could have arrived at the scene of your accident a few minutes earlier."
       "I'm thankful you were there at all," Deborah said.
       "I wanted to surprise you at the Grants's.  I hoped you'd be happy to see me."
       "I would have been ecstatic to see you.  I've missed you terribly."
       Milo reached out and caressed Deborah's cheek.  "And I've missed you.  There is a future for us together, isn't there?"
       The warmth of his touch flowing through her was better than any medicine.  "I want there to be, but what about Carla?"
       "Carla will not come between us again.  She made some poor choices that put her in a vulnerable position.  She didn't deserve what happened to her, but she certainly played a role in her fate."
       "Does knowing she was a blackmailer hurt a lot?" Deborah asked.
       "You bet it does," Milo said sadly.  "I just wish I had known how mixed up she was.  I'd have gotten some psychological help for her.  But I didn't know.  And I'm sure neither Mother nor Ed knew, either."
       "I'm sorry for Carla."
       "I know you are, my dear.   But let's not let anything more stand in the way of our happiness.  I love you, Deborah.  Will you marry me?  As soon as you can walk to the altar, I want to make you my wife."
       Milo's declaration of love brought indescribable joy to Deborah's heart.  "I love you, too, Milo.  And nothing would make me happier than to be your wife."
       Milo leaned over and cupped her face in his hands.  Then he tenderly kissed her.  They were still locked in an embrace, gazing into one another's eyes, when the nurse came in to tell Milo visiting hours were over.  
April of the following year:
       "That was a wonderful wedding," Deborah said, snuggling against her new husband's shoulder as he drove down Fairfield's Main Street.
       Two hours ago, Deborah and Milo had been married at the Congregational Church.  A gala reception, complete with a three-tiered cake, dancing, and picture taking, had followed the ceremony.
       Milo took his eyes off the road long enough to favor Deborah with a loving smile.  She had changed from her white bridal gown into a golden yellow, linen pants suit that complimented her flaxen hair and porcelain skin.  His heart swelled with love for her.
       "You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen," he told her.
       "Thank you, my love.  And you are the most handsome and sexy groom."  She reached over and slid her fingers between the buttons of his gray silk shirt to caress his bare chest.
       "Better watch that," he teased.  "We still have many miles to go before we get to our hotel."
       "I know," she said with a sigh.  "I'll be good."  She pulled her hand away and settled back in her seat.
       "By the way," she said, "I'm glad Jay could be your best man."
       "Yes.  And I'm happy he decided to remain headmaster of Wainwright, even after the story of his past and what his wife did came out in the open."
       "He was going to quit," Deborah reminded him, "but he received so many supportive letters from the board and the parents that he decided to stay on."
       Milo changed the subject.  "Are you sure you left enough instructions for Mrs. Baron?"
       Deborah nodded.  "Two typewritten pages.  She's quite capable, and I trust her implicitly."
       Deborah took a moment to reflect on the success of her bed and breakfast, which she had named Rose Manor, in honor of Rose Dobson. Because Deborah now would live on the farm with Milo, she had hired Estelle Baron, an older woman with hotel experience, to manage the place.
       The property was Deborah's, free and clear.  She and Milo had turned the notes and evidence from the fire over to the police.  Hank Dobson's fingerprints were found on the notes.  Since he had been convicted of petty theft before running away from Fairfield, his prints were on file and easy to match.
       Hank pleaded guilty to writing the notes, tampering with her car, and setting the fire in her basement.  He was convicted and sentenced to serve time in the state prison.  His dropping all claims to her property was part of his lawyer's plea bargain.
       Without Hank's claim, Damon Healy also dropped his attempts to get Deborah to sell.  The last she heard, he had turned his attention to a new housing development in Castletown.
       Milo broke into her reverie.  "Have you thought about Jay's offer to teach at Wainwright again?"
       "Yes, and I'm going to turn it down."
       Milo took his eyes off the road long enough to cast his wife a surprised look.  "What about your great desire to teach?"
       "I haven't lost that, but I just can't go back to Wainwright."
       "Well, I have an idea.  How would you like to teach the girls from the academy to ride our horses?"
       "You mean, you'd trust me with them?"
       "Of course, I would!  Now, what do you say?"
       "I'll think about it."  But Deborah knew that when the time came she would say yes.
       A few minutes later, Milo said, "Do you mind if we stop by Rainbow Falls?  I know we've decided to put that part of our past to rest forever, but I have the urge to see the spot where Carla died one more time."
       "No, I don't mind," Deborah said, experiencing none of the queasiness she once had at the thought of visiting the scene of the accident.
       Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the falls parking lot. Deborah saw raindrops hit the windshield.  "Oh, no!" she cried.  "It can't rain on our wedding day."
       "It's just a little shower."  Milo pointed to a dark cloud passing through the otherwise clear blue sky.
       Sure enough, after several minutes, the rain stopped.  Deborah and Milo left the car and walked across the parking lot toward the gazebo.  The air carried a fresh, after-the-rain smell.  Buds and blossoms were everywhere.  Trees whose leaves had died with such splendor the fall before now sported bright green foliage.
       And so the cycle begins again, Deborah thought; birth, growth, and death, all over again.
       Deborah and Milo stood inside the gazebo, watching the falls spill over the cliff.  Swelled by spring runoff from the snow-covered peaks above, the water thundered to the bottom of the canyon.
       Unable to resist, Deborah looked down at the rock where Carla's body had lain.  She felt profoundly sad that a young life had been lost. But no longer guilty.  Her guilt had been laid to rest.  At last, she had forgiven herself, and she knew beyond a doubt that Milo had forgiven her, too.
       Then she thought of something and turned to Milo.  "I want to leave a flower from my wedding bouquet for Carla."
       He looked puzzled a moment; but when she pointed to the flat yellow rock at the bottom of the falls, he nodded with understanding.  "I think that's a great idea."
       They returned to the car, plucked a large red carnation from Deborah's bouquet, and hiked down the path to the bottom of the falls. When they stood on the large stone slab where Carla had lain, Deborah knelt and placed the flower in the center.
       "I feel like Carla is here too," Deborah said after a while.
       "Me, too," Milo said.  "But she's not between us; she's with us. She'll always be a part of us, Deborah, because she brought us together.  I know she'd approve of our marriage."  Milo put his arm around Deborah and drew her close.
       Deborah looked up to see a wide band of muted colors arcing across the cascading water.  "Look, Milo, there's a rainbow!"
       Milo followed her gaze.  "A lucky sign, don't you think?"
       "Yes, definitely a lucky sign."
       Their arms around one another, Deborah and Milo watched the rainbow until it faded away.  Then they headed back to the car, their honeymoon, and their life together.   

 The End