“A legacy from your brother. Touching, but not terribly original, although I suppose it is different from the dead-uncle or maiden-aunt story, or that of the parents who were tragically killed in an automobile accident.”
“My parents are alive and well and living in Bennington, Vermont. Check it out in a phone book. Colin and Nadine Stevenson.”
The man on her left was silent.
“Howelsewould I get money to open that shop? I’ve never had anything of my own like that before.”
“Oh, please.”
“I did?”
“How quickly you forget.”
“What was it? What did I own?”
“A charming little boutique in Westwood Village. Actually, you were running it into the ground. After you died, the boss put one of his own men in charge, and it’s begun to turn a pretty profit.”
“Idied?” Lauren felt as if she were in the middle of a slapstick comedy, only nothing was funny. She was totally bewildered. “But if I died, what am I doing here and why are you after me?”
The man on her left seemed to weary of her questions. “You didn’t die,” he growled. “You just made it look like you’d died. You took off with the jewels and furs, changed your face, bought your shop and your house and thought you could get away scot-free.” His expression grew even darker. “Well, let me tell you, no one does that to the boss and gets away with it. And no one does it tome!”
“What did I do to you?” she whispered fearfully.
“You made a fool of me. I was the one who reported that you burned to death in that car.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, ‘oh.’ It’s been a sweet pleasure putting you through hell these past couple of weeks. What was it like, Susan, knowing someone was on to you?”
“Ididn’t.I told you—”
“I’ll bet you didn’t believe it at first. You always were arrogant, with your pretty little nose stuck up in the air.”
“It’s not my nose—”
“When you finally admitted to yourself that you’d been found out, did you think of running? It wouldn’t have done you any good. We’d have been right on your heels.” He sniffed loudly. Lauren decided he had a deviated septum of his own. “I’ve enjoyed it. And the best is yet to come. What I’ve got planned for today will singe your hair. I meanreally,this time. Think aboutthatwhile we take our little drive.”
Their “little drive” had already taken them to the outskirts of Lincoln. Lauren stared out the window and swallowed hard.Singe?She began to shake. What was he planning? Did he intend to kill her? She had to escape. And soon. But how?
They turned off Route 2 and began the drive down the street she took each night. She would have stiffened in her seat, or sat straighter, but she had precious little room to move in and barely more strength. Her arms and legs were beginning to ache from a combination of tension and the steady pressure applied from both sides. Her face hurt. Her stomach was knotting.
“Where are we going?” she asked in a small voice.
“Don’t you recognize the streets?”
At that moment they turned down the very road that would lead to her house.
“Thought you might want to take a last look.”
“A … last look?”
The man on her left said nothing.
“This is a mistake. It’s all a mistake. I really am Lauren Stevenson.Really.”
“Sure.”
She took a quick breath. “Look, you can come inside the house and I’ll show you everything. I have identification—a birth certificate, college diplomas, even pictures of my family.” Her captor’s snort told her what he thought of the validity of that identification. She barely had time to wonder how one could possibly forge family pictures when another thought hit her. “I have a passport! Picture and all!” It didn’t take a snort from her left for her to realize she’d struck out again. The passport would do her no good. If there’d been various point-of-entry stamps recorded over a period of time, she might have proved that Lauren Stevenson had existed long before Susan Miles had supposedly died. But Lauren’s passport had been issued shortly before her trip to the Bahamas. Ironically, she hadn’t needed it; it had never even been stamped. And yes, the picture was of her “before” face, but the files in the clinic had contained a similar picture, which these men had written off.
