Find Me (2 page)

New York City, Friday, February
27, 4:27 A.M.

Find me!

Sarah Newton's eyes flew open!

The air raged in and out of her lungs. For one endless second she felt paralyzed.

A dream. Just a dream.

She sucked in a ragged breath and sat up. Shoved the hair out of her eyes.

"Shit." She forced her respiration to slow. Long, deep breaths. Hold it. Let it go. Breathe in slowly, count to ten, let it go slowly… slowly… slowly.

Find the calm.
You're awake now
. No more dreams. Just relax. Pull it together.

Little by little her body responded to the technique she'd used half a lifetime. She stretched her neck, then rolled her shoulders. The digital numbers on the alarm clock taunted her. She slapped the off button despite having another thirty or so minutes of sleep coming to her. That wasn't happening. She might as well get up and get ready.

Kicking the covers back, she rolled out of bed. She needed coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

She stumbled to the kitchen in the dark. Guided by the glow of the streetlight invading her narrow-but-prized kitchen window, she went through the necessary motions to get her favorite Colombia blend brewing. On the counter next to the microwave, the answering machine's blinking red light warned that she had a message. Probably a lot more than one. A closer inspection confirmed her speculation.

Four messages.

Answering the phone at home was something she rarely did. Once locked away in her personal space, she preferred not to be disturbed. The rest of the world could just go away.

If only that was possible…

Knowing who had likely left the most recent message, she reached over and pressed the play button. Get it over with. If she failed to hear whatever instructions he'd left before she headed north, he'd bitch at her.

Hearing was vastly different from listening and she only listened when she really wanted to. One would think he would have learned that lesson by now.

"Sarah," her aunt's voice sang out, "you should be ashamed of yourself, dear. You never call anymore. I—"

Skip. Next was her shrink. Definitely skip. Then the airhead of a guy she'd made the monumental mistake of dating a couple of weeks ago. Permanently erase.

And finally the newest message.

"Newton, what the hell is wrong with your cell phone?" a booming male voice demanded.

She rolled her eyes. Yep. Her editor. Sometimes he treated her like a child. He should have had kids of his own decades ago. She was damned tired of him using her as a surrogate.

"Remember, this is February. You're going to Maine. There are certain essentials you will absolutely need. Pack your gloves and winter boots and wear your fucking parka, for Christ's sake. I don't want you coming back here sick. Call me when you get to Youngstown."

"Right." He would hear from her when he heard from her. Probably when he called her cell phone. And when she decided to answer, which was rarely at the same time.

Sarah hit erase then turned back to the only essential she absolutely needed right now.

Hot, steaming coffee.

The mere smell was like sex, only without the awkward postmortem chitchat.

Was it good for you?

Sure. You?

Cradling the warm cup, she sipped the stiff brew and moaned as satisfaction and the caffeine infused her blood, wiring her for the day. Youngstown. The Weather Channel had reported snow on the coast of southern Maine last night. Perfect. She hated snow. That was the one thing she deplored about living in New York, the winters. Still, she'd take a New York winter any day over a Maine winter.

"But we go," she muttered, "whenever and wherever the work takes us."

That was another thing she was beginning to hate. The work. She refilled her cup and hoped like hell a second shot of caffeine would get her on the way to feeling remotely human. Three or four more cups between now and flight time and she might just attain that elusive goal.

She trudged back to her bedroom. Pack, get dressed, then take the train to LaGuardia. A short flight to Portland, then a ninety-minute rental-car drive to Youngstown. Whoopee.

No doubt a welcoming committee would be waiting for her.

Something else she intensely disliked. Sarah downed the last of the coffee.
The people
. Wherever her work took her she could always count on being the passing freak show.

The locals would stare at her. Whisper behind their hands. Make up weird shit to say about her in their insignificant little newspapers. Bring up crap from the past and call her unreliable. Then, when she was finished, they would really go for the jugular.

A charlatan who just got lucky when she stumbled upon what no one else had found. A burned-out pessimist who got off on damaging the lives of others with her harsh, tell-all reports of truth in relation to so-called real life in small-town America.

The truth she worked so hard to uncover was never what anyone wanted to see or hear, no matter that the mystery was ultimately solved in the process.

Sarah's view on the subject of truth was simple. It was fact. No amount of steadfast determination, relentless hope, or desperate prayer changed it.

It is what it is.

Once she revealed the facts, her job was done. She left and then for months or even years the good citizens would blame her for their every misfortune.

She stared at her beat-up old suitcase and shook her head. "Man, I love this job."

Youngstown, Maine
, 6:00 A.M.
The Overlook Inn

From the broad expanse of windows in his parlor-turned-lobby Barton Harvey gazed out across the sleepy harbor below. Morning mist still shrouded the vessels docked there. Floating aimlessly in the chilly water like abandoned pirate ships, the schooners waited patiently for their protective covers to be removed. The scraping and painting and other maintenance work that had gone on the better part of the winter was finished now. The fishing boats were already venturing daily into the icy waters.

The peaceful village that had been his home from the day he was born clung to the side of the gently ascending cliff, rooftops jutted stubbornly through the lingering fog. Chimneys puffed the smoke of survival.

As stubborn as the houses their ancestors had built centuries ago, his friends and neighbors were ready to plunge into the work they loved—dredging the sea for its generous bounty and playing host to tourists from far and wide.

In a couple of months or so his inn would be filled to capacity. For most folks life would move smoothly into the tourist season as it did every year.

His jaw hardened. But not for Barton. Not this year.

A young girl was dead. Another was missing.

And
she
was coming.

Barton turned away from the picturesque view. He had duties to see to. No matter how he worried. The facts would not change.

Murder was murder… new or old. Didn't matter.

Someone would have to pay.

She
had a reputation for finding the truth, however crude and dispassionate her tactics.

Barton glanced at the blazing fire he'd meticulously prepared to chase away the morning chill. Guests loved arriving in the lobby of his inn to a glorious fire roaring in the massive stone fireplace. One guest or an innful, he never liked to disappoint.

He crossed the quiet room and stepped behind the two-century-old registration desk. His grandfather's grandfather had imported the intricately carved mahogany greeting-counter from Spain. The matching hutch that hung on the wall behind the counter and housed messages for guests and room keys had been designed and handcrafted by the same artisan. Every square foot of this inn echoed centuries of history from near and far. It represented all that Barton was. In good times and bad, he never neglected his responsibility to his heritage.

After slipping his reading glasses into place, he opened the leather-bound reservation book. He despised computers. Refused to use them to this day. He liked making reservations the old-fashioned way, the way his father had and his father before him.

Scrawled in the block for today's date was one name.

Sarah Newton.

He closed his eyes and fought to calm the emotions warring deep in his chest.

No matter how good she was, he had to make certain she didn't find the one secret he had kept carefully hidden for so very long.

No one could ever know.

No one.

Squaring his shoulders with determination, he dismissed the worry. Failure was out of the question. He would not allow her to destroy all that he had worked for his entire life.

All his forefathers had carefully preserved for those who came after.

He would stop
her
.

Whatever it took.