What a difference a day made.

Quentin’s comment rang in her head. What if the Artist wasn’t a creation of Yvette’s imagination, but was real? That would mean he had Yvette also. That all three lives hung in the balance.

What did she believe? Was Yvette another of the Handyman’s victims, or a damaged young woman for whom the lines between reality and fantasy had become blurred?

Patti parked in the drive and climbed out. She intended to grab a shower and a change of clothes, then head back to John Jr.’s. Spencer was doing the same. They would rendezvous after and design a plan of action.

If nothing else, it would keep them busy, keep them from focusing on “what ifs.”

Patti reached her porch steps and stopped. A small cooler sat in front of her door, the kind you could buy at any gas station or convenience store, one big enough for a six-pack. The top had been taped shut with silver duct tape.

Patti stared at the cooler, a tingling sensation stealing over her. Followed by dread. Deep, debilitating dread.

There could be any number of things in that cooler, all innocent. A friend dropping by some fresh shrimp. Or fish. Her neighbor Mrs. Wonch sending leftovers.

Patti’s mouth went dry. But that wasn’t what was in it. She didn’t have to open it to know for certain.

Now you begin to regret your interference.

Patti forced herself to act. Quickly she returned to her car. From the console storage she retrieved a flashlight and scene kit. She fitted the gloves on as she strode determinedly back to the porch, heart hammering, hands beginning to sweat inside the latex.

Patti reached the cooler. She squatted in front of it. Taking a small knife from her kit, she carefully cut the tape. Lifted the lid. Peered inside.

She hadn’t been wrong.

A severed hand, nestled in ice packs.

Patti launched to her feet and swung away, fighting for composure. She squeezed her eyes shut. It had been the logical next move-for a psychopath.

Patti took a deep breath. Get a grip, O’Shay. Divorce yourself. Do the job.

She returned to the cooler, squatted beside it. She snapped on the flashlight and, forcing thoughts of Stacy and Shauna from her mind, visually inspected the hand.

Female, she saw. A right hand; the real deal. It had been brutally hacked off.

She swallowed hard. Judging by how well-preserved it was, it had been frozen or stored on ice. But whose hand was it?

Please, God, not Shauna’s. Not Stacy’s. And what of Yvette? Could it be hers?

Patti carefully replaced the lid. She had calls to make. The crime lab. Dr. Elizabeth Walker. Spencer.

Dear God, how was she going to tell Spencer? The rest of the family? What was she going to say?

With a heavy heart, she flipped open her cell phone.

67

Friday, May 18, 2007

10:20 p.m.

Spencer couldn’t breathe. His heart beat so heavily against the wall of his chest, he feared it would burst through. He stared at the cooler, afraid to move. Afraid of what could be inside.

His sister could be dead. Or the woman he loved.

He loved Stacy. He had realized it the moment he’d had to admit she was missing. That she was most likely in the grasp of a lunatic.

He had been playing a game of chicken with himself this whole time. He had been so afraid of loving Stacy and losing her, of being vulnerable to that kind of pain, that he’d denied his feelings.

Idiot. Like that had made one iota of difference. He loved her, anyway. And now, along with grief and fear, he felt a great, yawning regret. For what he could have had. What he had stupidly denied himself.

Patti’s call had sent them all into a panic. Spencer worked to control his. Quentin and Percy stood on either side of him, also fighting for calm; John Jr. and Mary had stayed behind with spouses and children.

The morgue was eerily quiet. He jumped when Patti asked, “Are you ready?”

He nodded, though every fiber of his being wanted to scream “No!”

Quentin laid a hand on his shoulder. He heard Percy draw a fortifying breath. Patti lifted the lid.

Relief was immediate, dizzying. “It’s not Stacy’s,” he said.

“What about Shauna?”

The brothers leaned forward to get a better look. Percy let out his pent-up breath. “No…no way. Look at the nails.”

Shauna was an artist. She worked with oil paints and turpentine every day. Nails would get in the way, so she kept hers very short.

These nails were long. Unpainted. Stained around the edges.

Spencer gazed at the hand, those nails. Long, square-tipped nails. Medium-size hand. Looked to him like it hadn’t belonged to a petite woman. Even in its postmortem state, he could see its owner had certainly been out of her twenties. Maybe her thirties as well.

Not Shauna’s or Stacy’s, and he would bet not Yvette’s, either.

Patti looked his way. “Are you thinking what I am?”

“Messinger,” he said, then turned to the lab technician. “Are Tonya Messinger’s remains still here?”

He checked the computer. “Nope. Autopsy was completed this afternoon, next of kin notified.”

“How about photos?”

“Got ’em. You want the real deal or are the digitals okay?”

“Digitals work for me. I’m looking for photographs of her remaining hand.”

The technician navigated their system, then opened Messinger’s file. Moments later the image filled the screen.

“It’s Messinger’s,” Spencer said. “Her nails were painted. It threw me off.”

Patti stepped in. “The bastard knew exactly what he was doing. The bright red nails would have immediately given the identity away, so he removed the polish before making his delivery to me.”

“Son of a bitch wanted us to be afraid.”

That had come from Quentin; Patti corrected him. “He wanted me to be afraid. Wanted to terrorize me. This is my fault. My responsibility.”

Percy squeezed her arm. “We’re in this together, Aunt Patti. We’re family.”

“And they’re still alive,” Spencer said. “If they weren’t, it wouldn’t be Tonya Messinger’s hand in that cooler.”

“I agree,” Patti said.

“We’ll need Elizabeth Walker to confirm.”

“Already contacted her. She’ll be here first thing tomorrow.”

“What now?” Percy asked.

Spencer moved his gaze around the circle. “We catch this bastard. And we do it fast.”

68

Saturday, May 19, 2007

Midnight

The first thing Yvette became aware of was a stabbing pain in her head. She moaned and opened her eyes-to complete black. No glowing clock face. No ambient light from the street outside her bedroom window or gentle glow of the moon.

She blinked and rolled onto her side. The bedding was rough. It smelled musty. Sour.

Not hers. Not home.

She remembered then. Grabbing her clothes and ducking out of the Hustle. Into the alley.

How long ago had that been?

The bum. The one who had followed her home once.

Yvette struggled to remember. She had pulled her shirt on first, then shimmied into her pants and stepped into the flip-flops.

And looked up to find him there. Staring at her. Her skin crawled, recalling the look in his eyes. Heart pounding, aware of every moment that passed, she’d told him to fuck off and hurried toward the alley entrance.

He had attacked her from behind. Hit her with something, then dragged her into the shadows.

And done what to her? How had she ended up here? Where was “here”?

The Artist. That’s how he had known where she lived, how he knew the route she took home. Because he had followed her.

Dear God, that’s how he had known about Marcus owing her money. How much he owed her. He had been in the alley the night she and Marcus fought about it. Watching. Listening.