“In the player. Want to watch some of it? Lacey Lovett is the soccer mom’s daughter—and growing up just like her.”
“Sounds good,” Philip said enthusiastically, then, as if catching himself at being friendly, added coolly, “I guess so. Doesn’t matter to me.”
At the hospital, before Tristan remembered who he was, Philip had been instinctively drawn to him. Ivy was hoping that Philip would now perceive some sign of Tristan inside Luke; it would reassure Tristan that the same soul was still shining within him. But that wasn’t going to happen, she thought, not as long as Philip saw this stranger as competition for the Tristan he had loved so.
“It was just getting interesting,” Tristan told Philip, clicking on the remote.
While the frames of horror, so bizarre they were comical, flitted across the screen, Ivy saw a different set of scenes: Philip and Tristan on the floor of her music room, playing checkers; Tristan wearing a party hat as Philip’s guest of honor at his family birthday dinner; Tristan and Philip in tuxes, the first time they met.
At the wedding reception for Andrew and her mother, both of them had slipped away to the kitchen storeroom. Tristan, having showered the bridal party with a tray of fresh vegetables, had been fired from his job as server, and was waiting for his friend, who was still working. Philip, upset, afraid, wanting no part of his new life with Andrew and Gregory, had found the same hiding place. When Ivy pulled open the storeroom door in search of Philip, there was the big sports hero from school, the famous Tristan Carruthers, entertaining her brother—unbelievably—by wearing salad greens on his head and olives on his teeth, a stalk of celery protruding from each ear, a shrimp tail stuck in his nostril.
Ivy laughed to herself.
“What the heck?” Tristan exclaimed, pointing to the big screen and the strange thing emerging from a movie sewer to stalk zombie Lacey. “What’s that supposed to be?”
Philip, forgetting his coolness, chortled. “He’s not very scary.”
“Looks like someone fertilized him,” Tristan said.
Philip nodded. “Looks like dead celery’s growing out of his ears.”
“Got a salad on his head.”
“Shrimp sticking out of his nose,” Philip added.
“Gross,” said Ivy.
“Some black olives—” Tristan began.
“On his teeth,” Philip interjected quickly.
Ivy felt her brother shifting in his seat next to her, leaning forward, looking across her to Tristan. Tristan turned his head slightly to the right. The profile was Luke’s, but the memory, the boyish humor, was someone else’s.
Philip got up and stood in front of Tristan. Bending forward, he peered into Tristan’s eyes as if he was trying to see beneath the surface of a pond.
Tristan gazed back at him steadily. At last he spoke. “I’ve been wondering what inning it was when Mark Teixeira hit the grand slam.”
“Tristan!” Philip said softly, breathing the name like a prayer.
Tristan nodded.
“Tristan!” Philip’s face was alight with wonder.
“Hey, buddy.” Tristan’s voice shook. “I’ve missed you. Still beating people at checkers?”
Philip broke into a grin. “Not anymore. I’m learning chess.”
“Chess! No! Now I’ll never win!” Tristan exclaimed. “Unless, of course, Lacey helps me cheat.”
Ivy’s brother laughed as if this was the funniest joke in the world. Tristan laughed with him, then laughed harder when Philip forced his own chuckle to sound deep.
Tristan put his arms around Philip. Philip hugged him tightly and squeezed his eyes shut, but Ivy saw the tear escape down her little brother’s cheek.
TRISTAN HADN’T REALIZED HOW RAW HE’D FEEL when seeing Philip again. Philip talked about a million miles per hour—summer camp, California, his year in school since Tristan had left. Finally, the question Tristan had expected and dreaded was asked: “How come you came back as another person?”
“We’re not sure,” Ivy said quickly, covering for him.
“I fell,” Tristan replied, then told Philip exactly what had happened.
Afterward Philip sat quietly for a very long minute, as if thinking things through. “It was because you love Ivy. Me too.”
“You too? No kidding!” Tristan quipped.
“I would have kissed her and brought her back to life.”
Tristan almost cried: Philip’s understanding felt like forgiveness.
He saw Ivy quickly wipe the corner of her eye, then she rose to her feet. “Philip, we have to go. Remember, if anybody asks, we were just exploring. No one can know Tristan—or Luke—is here.”
Philip nodded. He gave Tristan a solemn hug good-bye and followed Ivy to the vestibule. At the door he turned and looked up at Tristan searchingly. “You came back after a long time,” the little boy said. “Can Gregory?”
Ivy and Tristan exchanged glances. Philip saw them and answered his own question: “He can.”
“If you think you see Gregory, do you know what to do?” Tristan asked.
“Run.”
“Good. And call out to Lacey,” Tristan said. “After that, if you can do it safely, call Ivy, and she’ll call me. Beth and Will are also on the lookout. You’ll be okay, buddy.”
“And Ivy will be okay?”
“Hey,” Ivy said lightly, “it’s all of us and just one of him.”
But Philip wasn’t so easily convinced. He looked to Tristan for confirmation that their numbers would be enough.
Tristan couldn’t lie to him. “I’ll do my best to keep her safe, I promise.”
After they left, Tristan felt on edge and paced like a caged animal, moving from room to room. He tried to distract himself, playing another round of his detective game, piecing together the story of the family who spent their summers there. Nicholas and Sarah—he had found their names on framed certificates for sailing and gymnastics—were close to Philip’s age. Michael, the victim of Gregory’s lightning strike, had shared a room with Nicholas. What had it been like for those kids to lose their big brother? Tristan had felt Philip’s tears against his arm and for a moment thought his own heart would break. If Philip lost Ivy—
It didn’t have to be this way, Tristan thought. Right now he had the advantage, knowing who and where Gregory was. When Gregory possessed Beth, his growth in power was gradual, but the night she tried to kill Ivy, Beth’s grasp had far exceeded her natural strength. Tristan needed to find out what kind of powers Chase had now, and take him on before Gregory’s strength grew. He had to protect Ivy—he had promised Philip.
Checking the map in the living room and estimating the walk would take close to two hours—too long to chance being recognized—Tristan decided to borrow some clothes. From Mr. Steadman’s closet he chose slacks and a preppy-looking shirt with long sleeves that could be rolled up: the guise of a lawyer on vacation. He debated whether to add a pristine-looking baseball cap. Where was Lacey when you needed wardrobe advice? But ever since the night she, Ivy, and he had hashed things out—and he’d rejected her theories—she had been giving him the cold shoulder.
Tristan’s hair was still dyed a dark color, but he was clean-shaven now, not like the police artist’s rendering of Luke with a scruffy beard. Bareheaded was better for his new image, he thought. On his way back from the closet, wearing a pair of boat shoes that were just a little snug, he passed Mrs. Steadman’s bureau. The beam of his flashlight caught on something shiny: Gold hoop earrings. Tristan grinned and snatched one, slipping it on the ring finger of his left hand. Twentysomething, successful, married, he thought, hoping he could fake it if he met a few dog walkers or a touring police car.
As soon as it was dark, he headed out. Almost two hours later, Tristan stood at the edge of a cobblestone drive, studying a house that matched Ivy’s description of Chase’s. The name on the mailbox, Holloway, confirmed that Tristan was in the right place.
There were lights on upstairs and down, and the second-f
loor windows were open. A dog’s deep woof was answered by a woman’s voice: “Hush, Plato.”
Tristan crept to the garage, a large building with three bays. Quietly opening the side door, he stepped inside and clicked on his flashlight. The only vehicle was a Mercedes sedan, not the kind of car Chase was likely to drive. The garage was neatly maintained, with garden tools, clamming rakes, bikes, and windsurfers hanging from the walls and ceiling, leaving space for two other cars.
The sound of an engine caught Tristan’s attention. Suddenly, there was a click above him. The garage light went on, and one of the three automatic doors began to rise. Tristan quickly extinguished his flashlight and stepped back into the frame of the side door. As soon as the car’s headlights entered the garage, he exited and hid in the shadow of the building.
Chase emerged and stood looking at his house across the stone driveway. Was he seeing it as Gregory would see it? Tristan wondered. How much control over Chase did Gregory have at the moment?
Something stirred by a lamppost at the end of the house path, and after a moment Tristan realized a cat was moving toward them. The gray-striped tabby trotted in Chase’s direction, then stopped, stretching its head forward, sniffing, as if uncertain. Tristan suspected that it belonged to the Holloways.
Chase hissed at it.
The cat remained where it was, though its eyes were wary now.
Chase, standing by the garage’s downspout, glanced around, then leaned over and picked up a fist-size rock. He called the tabby, which walked slowly toward him. Images of Ivy’s cat, the one Gregory had killed, flashed through Tristan’s mind. When Chase raised his arm to hurl the rock, Tristan couldn’t hold back. He charged him.
“What the—” Chase swore aloud.
They grappled and rolled on the cobblestones. Lights came on—floodlights, Tristan realized. Chase scrambled to his feet, but Tristan didn’t let go. He dragged Chase through the open bay of the garage.
“Chase?” It was the voice of the woman who had shushed the dog. “Is that you?”
Tristan had him in a stranglehold. “Answer her,” he commanded. “Tell her you’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Just me,” Chase called back. “I’ll be in soon.”
“Tigger is still out,” the woman replied. “See if you can find him. G’night.”
Tristan relaxed his grip and Chase wriggled free. “I ought to hang that cat,” he said, then looked Tristan up and down in the dim light that came through the open garage bay. “Well, look at you,” he mocked. “I didn’t know they wore Tommy Hilfiger in River Gardens.”
So Chase had guessed that he was “Luke.”
“You know,” Chase said, “you’re barely recognizable in the police photos, the enhanced ones they distributed to the media. If I were you, I’d be insulted.”
Tristan responded with a sardonic smile.
“I checked the old photos, of course.” Chase picked up a folding chair, snapped it open, then set a second one next to it and gestured for Tristan to sit down. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“So I heard,” Tristan replied. “What do you want?”
“To help you.”
At that, Tristan laughed.
“Don’t be so cynical. I believe in justice—you, getting what you deserve. Others, getting what they had coming. What did she do to you, your old girlfriend Colleen?”
“Corinne,” Tristan corrected, moving his chair a foot away from Chase before sitting down.
“She definitely got under your skin.”
Tristan nodded and continued to play the role of Luke. “She cheated on me. She cheated and lied to my face.”
“Left you pissing mad. Left you with no choice.”
Tristan lifted his flashlight beam as far as Chase’s neck. His tendons looked like tightened cords. He was being eaten up by anger—Gregory’s anger.
Chase pushed the light away. “Girls betray,” he said. “It’s in the genes.”
“No kidding!”
“And then there was Alison. You’ve had some bad luck.”
“Alicia,” Tristan corrected.
According to Ivy, Chase prided himself on knowing more than anyone else; he would have gotten these details right. But Gregory wouldn’t care—wouldn’t bother to learn the names of people he thought irrelevant to his own happiness. Gregory was in control.
“What’d Alicia do to you?” he asked.
Tristan shrugged off the question. “More of the same. It’s over now.”
“It’s never over.”
Not when you hunger for revenge, Tristan thought.
Chase leaned forward. “They both deserved to die. You know that as well as I.”
Tristan gritted his teeth, struggling to stay in his role as Luke. “Unfortunately, others don’t see it that way.”
“Screw them!” Chase dismissed the others with a flick of his hand. “Screw them all!” He moved his face close to Tristan’s. “You made out okay. The dead girls, they’re nothing compared to Ivy.”
Tristan stood up.
“A jock like you,” Chase continued, “you know hot when you see it. The other girls, they were okay . . . for lower class. But sexy little Ivy—”
“I’m not stupid!” Tristan said. He hated hearing the soft, insinuating voice talking about Ivy. It was like a snake’s tongue wrapping around her name.
“Of course you’re not.” His tone was patronizing. “All the same, I’ve got some advice for you, Luke—one guy to another: Grab hold of that gold hair, give it a good yank, and don’t let go. Teach her who’s boss.”
For a moment Tristan saw Ivy’s glorious yellow tangle in his hands. The next instant he felt pressure inside his skull. Chase’s body went rigid, as if Gregory was focusing all his power on breaking into Tristan’s mind. A hot orange burning behind Tristan’s eyes made his blood feel like fire. He staggered and dropped his flashlight, then sank to his knees. The pressure inside his head grew until he thought his mind would explode.
He pushed back. The pain was excruciating, his strength pitched against Gregory’s, with Luke’s skull a flimsy wall between them. Tristan shut his eyes and bore down with his spirit, praying for strength. Angels—
Suddenly, Gregory’s force gave way. Tristan sat back hard on the concrete floor. He saw wires of light leave his splayed fingers and climb the walls, burning like long-tailed fuses. An overhead lamp exploded, then plunged them into darkness again. Tiny pieces of shattered plastic and glass rained down. Inside the Holloway house, the dog started barking.
Too weak to stand, Tristan crawled across the greasy floor to his flashlight. Hanging on to a door of the Mercedes, he pulled himself up and saw Chase slumped in his chair.
Chase raised his head slowly, staring at Tristan. “Who are you?” he asked. “What are you?”
Tristan leaned against the car, one hand rubbing his aching temple. “I thought you would have guessed by now.”
Chase frowned, then cocked his head. “Do you hear that?”
“The dog?”
But a more ominous sound, murmuring voices, flowed over the deep throb in Tristan’s brain. So Gregory heard the voices too!
“They’re chanting Tristan.”
The voices grew louder.
“God damn you! Tristan!”
“Hello, Gregory.”
Gregory didn’t attempt to hide his amazement. “You used to slip inside minds, but this is something different.” He stood up and circled Tristan. “When I tried to break in, I felt just one mind, one soul—and it wasn’t Luke McKenna’s. He would’ve been an easy mark for me. Tell me how you did it.”
Tristan remained silent.
“The voices taught you,” Gregory guessed, his voice husky with desire. “The voices taught you something they haven’t taught me! Tell me how”—a smile spread slowly over his face—“and I’ll spare Ivy.”
“You’ve always been a liar, Gregory.”
“Not now. Now we’re on the same side, Tristan. The dead side.
” His laughter ended in an electric hiss.
Beyond the garage, the driveway grew brighter; the floodlights had been switched on again.
“Chase?” the woman called. “Is everything okay?”
He grimaced, then punched a button on the wall, lowering the garage door. Tristan followed Gregory out the side entrance but remained in the shadows.
“Get out of our lives, Gregory,” he said. “Go back to where you belong.”
Gregory laughed at him. “Don’t you know? I bring hell with me wherever I go.” Then he sauntered across the lawn. “Coming, Mother.”
Eight
“HEY, BRYAN, YOU MADE IT!” MAX CALLED OUT, Monday afternoon.
Ivy, who had been following Max down the long dock where the Moyers kept their boats, stopped in her tracks. Bryan was stretched out, sunning himself on the bench of a powerboat tied up near the end of the walkway.
“Bryan!” Kelsey exclaimed, sounding as pleasantly surprised as Max.
“Hey, babe. You know I wouldn’t miss a chance to be on the water with you. And Ivy.” He sat up, spreading his arms over the back of the padded bench. “Where’s Beth and Will?”
Good old Mr. Congeniality, Ivy thought. “Stand-up paddling,” she answered aloud, and resumed her inventory of the Moyers’ fleet.
She figured that Bryan wouldn’t have used anything with a sail the night he murdered Luke. And the cigarette boat, like an expensive sports car, would have attracted too much attention. The cabin cruiser, with its fishing lines, would have been clumsy and hard to wash down. But the boat that Max had described as a twenty-four-foot bow rider, the one Bryan was lounging on now, would have been perfect for the job.
Bryan took an ice chest from Max, then offered a hand to Kelsey, who leaped lightly into the boat. Reaching next for Ivy’s hand, he held it too long and squeezed her fingers hard enough to hurt. She got his message: He was in control—at least, he wanted to be.
“Hey, Maxie, can I drive?” Bryan asked. “I know where Ivy wants to go. Lighthouse Beach.”
“No, there’s been a change in plans,” Ivy told him breezily. “Kelsey wants to hang out at South Beach.”