He glanced up but saw she wasn’t listening. She’d gone on a side trip again, Bobby thought. A new habit of hers. He’d just about given up on getting his mentor into a healthier lifestyle. But he decided to give it one more shot.
“You’ve been living on coffee and cigarettes again.”
“Yeah.” She was drifting, half asleep where she sat.
“That stuff’ll kill you. And you need an exercise program. You’ve dropped about ten pounds in the last few weeks. With your height you need to carry more weight. And you’ve got small bones—you’re courting osteoporosis. Gotta build up those bones and muscles.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You ought to see a doctor. You ask me, you’re anemic. You got no color, and you could pack half your equipment in the bags under your eyes.”
“So nice of you to notice.”
He scooped up the biggest shards, dumped them in her waste can. Of course he’d noticed. She had a face that drew attention. It didn’t matter that she seemed to work overtime to fade into the background. He’d never seen her wear makeup, and she kept her hair pulled back, but anyone with an eye could see it should be framing that oval face with its delicate bones and exotic eyes and sexy mouth.
Bobby caught himself, felt heat rise to his cheeks. She would laugh at him if she knew he’d had a little crush on her when she first took him on. That, he figured, had been as much professional admiration as physical attraction. And he’d gotten over the attraction part. Mostly.
But there was no doubt that if she would do the minimum to enhance that magnolia skin, dab some color on that top-heavy mouth and smudge up those long-lidded eyes, she’d be a knockout.
“I could fix you breakfast,” he began. “If you’ve got something besides candy bars and moldy bread.”
Taking a long breath, Jo tuned in. “No, that’s okay. Maybe we’ll stop somewhere and grab something. I’m already running behind.”
She slid off the stool and crouched to pick up the mail.
“You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to take a few days off, focus on yourself. My mom goes to this spa down in Miami.”
His words were only a buzzing in her ear now. She picked up the manila envelope with her name printed neatly on it in block letters. She had to wipe a film of sweat from her brow. In the pit of her stomach was a sick ball that went beyond dread into fear.
The envelope was thicker than the others had been, weightier.Throw it away, her mind screamed out.Don’t open it. Don’t look inside.
But her fingers were already scraping along the flap. Low whimpering sounds escaped her as she tore at the little metal clasp. This time an avalanche of photos spilled out onto the floor. She snatched one up. It was a well-produced five-by-seven black-and-white.
Not just her eyes this time, but all of her. She recognized the background—a park near her building where she often walked. Another was of her in downtown Charlotte, standing on a curb with her camera bag over her shoulder.
“Hey, that’s a pretty good shot of you.”
As Bobby leaned down to select one of the prints, she slapped at his hand and snarled at him, “Keep away. Keep back. Don’t touch me.”
“Jo, I ...”
“Stay the hell away from me.” Panting, she dropped on all fours to paw frantically through the prints. There was picture after picture of her doing ordinary, everyday things. Coming out of the market with a bag of groceries, getting in or out of her car.
He’s everywhere, he’s watching me. Wherever I go, whatever I do. He’s hunting me, she thought, as her teeth began to chatter. He’s hunting me and there’s nothing I can do. Nothing, until . . .
Then everything inside her clicked off. The photograph in her hand shook as if a brisk breeze had kicked up inside the room. She couldn’t scream. There seemed to be no air inside her.
She simply couldn’t feel her body any longer.
The photograph was brilliantly produced, the lighting and use of shadows and textures masterful. She was naked, her skin glowing eerily. Her body was arranged in a restful pose, the fragile chin dipped down, the head gently angled. One arm draped across her midriff, the other was flung up over her head in a position of dreaming sleep.
But the eyes were open and staring. A doll’s eyes. Dead eyes.
For a moment, she was thrown helplessly back into her nightmare, staring at herself and unable to fight her way out of the dark.
But even through terror she could see the differences. The woman in the photo had a waving mass of hair that fanned out from her face. And the face was softer, the body riper than her own.
“Mama?” she whispered and gripped the picture with both hands. “Mama?”
