Synopsis:

One year ago, Sarah Palmer's husband died in a tragic car crash. Suspicions over her husband's death landed her in a maelstrom of vicious gossip, and she was soon labeled as the black widow of Seattle, Washington. Despite proclaiming her innocence, the police still believe otherwise, and Sarah's credibility is even more in doubt when she takes over as chairman of the board for her husband's company, and returns to her hometown, Anchorage, Alaska.

Detective Steven Quaid is the Anchorage Police Department's top investigator. When he's called in to protect Sarah from a mysterious stalker, he's not entirely sure she isn't behind the scheme herself. Before long, the beautiful widow has him wound up tighter than barbed wire. Is Sarah a victim or a very skilled manipulator?

All too soon, Steven has fallen in love with Sarah, and he needs to decide where his loyalties lie. But one of the police department's best and brightest detectives may just be in over his head, especially when the facts start pointing to a conclusion he isn't willing to face. With a killer on the loose and a climbing body count, Steven can't afford to hedge his bets—or his life.

For your enjoyment read the first chapter below and then send me an e-mail I would love to hear what you think!  yolandarenee@hotmail.com

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CHAPTER I

November 14^th -- 10:00 PM   

          Debra pulled up the collar of her jacket and stared out at the arctic gale battering the city.

          "It's do or die, and this is my chance to prove I can do this. I'll see you tomorrow," she told her best friend, Ginger.

          "Deb, you don't have anything to prove." Ginger's words were barely audible over the sound of the storm as she opened the door to leave.

          She stepped into the blowing snow. Leaning into the wind she almost wished she had listened to her friend and waited for the worst of the tempest to pass. Instead she braved the stinging wind and sleet, resolved that Alaska's elements would not beat her this time. Yet her mood quickly changed from accomplishment to irritation when the cold air tore at her clothes. Sharp fingers of ice cruelly touched her in places familiar only to warmth. "God, I hate this place!" she shouted into the storm.

          Determination pushed her forward when common sense should have won out and sent her back inside. I won't back down. Halfway through the alley she spotted her car. A co-worker had cleared it of snow. Thank God, for friends. She pushed the remote button on her key chain to start it. Now all she had to do was get in and drive home. Her joy only lasted a second. Someone grabbed her tightly around the shoulders from behind.

          "Hey, wait a minute!" She barely got the words out before a gloved hand clamped her mouth. A muffled scream, cold steel slicing deep, all registered in her mind. "Oh my God," she wanted to cry, but it was too late. Her stifled screams became gurgles as Debra choked on her own blood.

          The arms that held her vanished. Her hands, finally free from the fear that kept her immobile, grabbed for her throat. Life dripped from between her fingers, and her final seconds moved in slow, deliberate steps. She fell backwards, and before she even hit the soft snow, she knew she was dying. "Help! Please, someone help me," she screamed in her mind because her larynx no longer worked. A shadow appeared. She raised her leaden arms skyward, reaching for rescue, but quickly realized that it was her attacker that stood above her. "Why? Why me? At least tell me that," she tried unsuccessfully to voice. Critically weakened she fought to hold tightly to the life being violently stolen from her.

          She stared up into the falling snow but could no longer feel the sting of its coldness. The Arctic air rapidly extinguishing the last embers of her life, while she silently bid farewell to the people she loved.

          Tears froze on her eyelashes, and snowflakes, numerous and unrelenting, began to cover her with an icy blanket. Blood poured from her open wound sending spirals of steam, and her essence heavenward. Under cover of the season's first snowstorm, Debra went silently to her death.

*                      *                      *

11:00 PM

          Sarah stood at the window spellbound by a furious storm of winter brightening snow. In its fury to leave the heavens, several feet had fallen, making it difficult for her to concentrate on anything else. A stack of papers lay untouched on her desk, a testament to her original goal. Like a child seeing it for the first time, she was hypnotized by the snow, and could not resist its inviting whispers. After hours of blizzard-like conditions, it was beginning to taper off and fell gaily, like weightless sparkles of light. Seemingly, by magic, the city lights reflected off the clouds and helped to vanquish the blackness of winter to another time. Sarah's newfound joy began to lift the grief that gripped her heart and for the first time in a long time, she felt adventurous.

          The unnatural light gave the park across the street a fantasy appearance where snow angels sang and gnomes and fairies danced. The clock chimed 11:00 pm, breaking the spell and spurring Sarah to action. She dressed warmly and hurried to the park to make the season's first snow angel. Twenty-three of her twenty-eight years fell away. She marveled at the snowflakes caught on her sleeve. Joyfully she played. She fell backwards on a snow bank, waved her arms and legs to displace the snow around her body, and then jumped to her feet to admire the impression created. Pleased with herself, she smiled, gazed skyward, and opened her mouth to taste the cold, wet flakes.

          Wishing for her sketchbook, she carefully recorded the scenes on the canvas of her mind. With an artist's eye, she noted the snow-laden trees and bushes, the children's empty swing and slide, the park benches and the ball field. For the first time in over a year, Sarah experienced life, but more importantly, her creative energy reemerged. The death of her husband, Michael, a year earlier had left her empty and feeling uninspired. The snowfall and the sudden unbridled play had filled the black hole inside her heart with longing. She wanted to capture the scene, the city's night lights, and the reflected colors of red, green, and orange. She imagined the blue and gray she would need to portray the evening's eerie brilliance, and on a whim, she created a choir of angels on a snow bank.

          The fun ended abruptly when a flashing light and screaming siren interrupted her fantasy. Startled into reality, she noticed how cold she was and realized she had played much too long. She headed home, the joy gone. Despair took hold again. She tried shaking off the darker mood, imagining it going away with the clouds moving east overhead, but through the window of his unmarked truck she caught sight of the officer whose presence had dared to remind her that unhappiness was always within reach. He nodded to her, but she ignored him. She trudged defiantly home.

*                      *                      *

Midnight

          Detective Steven Quaid had definitely caught the young woman's attention. The siren and light meant to scare her into getting out of park had worked. She stopped playing and began to walk—he hoped—toward home. Midnight was not a suitable hour to be alone anywhere in the city. He understood the draw of the season's first snowfall, but he knew firsthand the craziness it inspired.

          "Go home. Just go home!" he wanted to yell. She looked straight at him and he found himself smiling and nodding, despite his concern. Then he saw her clearly. She was not a teenager. Her eyes held a sparkle that was obvious even in the subdued light, and he was sure he saw a look of confident defiance in them. He slowed and turned in his seat to get another look, but all he saw was long hair turned white from the snowflakes caught in the curls. "Damn." Had he just caught a glimpse of the woman of his dreams?

          Minutes earlier, he had spotted her from his apartment window. He smiled once or twice at her innocent play, his own memories of childhood fun tugging at him. A telephone call from the dispatch center ended any thoughts of a snowball fight. The department needed Steven downtown. A body discovered under the freshly fallen snow required his expertise, but in answering the call, he detoured through the park to warn the young woman playing alone.

          A native Alaskan, Quaid could trace his family's heritage back to the gold miners who had settled the Alaskan frontier in the late 1800s. His father kept reminding him of it, insisting that a political responsibility existed simply because of his ancestry. His father, Daniel Quaid, a retired statesman, never lost hope that Steven would one day change his mind about being a cop and aim for a more prestigious occupation.

          However, Steven's mother, a member of the Tlingit tribe, admired his success and secretly gave her blessing for whatever choice he made. Steven had been a detective for more than ten years, and had decided long ago that he would never tire of the challenge each case brought.

          When he stopped at the intersection on the far side of the park, he noticed the young woman was no longer in sight, and he relaxed. Confident that she would be safe, his mind was on the case before him. Within minutes of discovering the body, the department had called him. He maneuvered his truck through a maze of aid cars and black-and-whites, and his frame of mind became one of unalterable determination.

          Persistent and shrewd, Steven had unequaled success in solving mysteries. While he got his unyielding determination, quick anger, and dry wit from his Irish father, his beautiful, sophisticated mother contributed to his good looks, sharp intellect, and thoughtful manner. Steven stood six feet, had a muscular build, covered by well-worn jeans and a blue sweatshirt, but it was his long black hair tied in a ponytail that gave him an unconventional appearance. The long hair and individualistic dress made him stand out, but the sweatshirts he wore, were what labeled him in the department, as eccentric. Blue and white, with the words "Seattle Seahawks" across the chest, these sweatshirts were his trademark. He had worn a similar one the night he solved his first murder case almost ten years earlier.

          Thoughts of that case haunted him as he approached the scene of this crime. Was Anchorage in for another bloody winter? Was this snowstorm the precursor to more death storms?

         Steven located the officer in charge. "Anderson, you the first one on scene?"

            "Hawk...I mean, Steve. Yes, I was," Sergeant D. J. Anderson said, shaking Steven's hand.

          "How'd they ever find her in this blizzard?" Steven asked.

          "A city worker getting ready to clear the alley did his usual walk through for drunks. That's when he noticed his tracks were bloody. He called it in immediately. She was hidden well by the snow, but with some probing and a snow blower, we quickly uncovered the body. We're lucky this is a busy alley; otherwise, she might have been here until the spring thaw."

Sergeant Anderson continued, "With her throat cut and the blood loss, well, you can see the mess we have here." He pursed his lips.

          Steven realized words could never describe such a scene. The snow that had buried her was gone. She rested in a puddle of red slush. The spilled blood stood out sharply against the whiteness of the freshly fallen snow, and Steven experienced an eerie sense of déjà vu.

          He could tell from her clothes that this was her first winter in Alaska. The thin leather jacket gave her away. Seasoned residents knew better. Anchorage is a city of some two hundred and seventy-five thousand residents. During the summer, many seeking adventure came to enjoy the novelty of the midnight sun, but when the termination dust (snow) on the surrounding mountains appeared in early September, a quick migration south was the result. Newcomers unprepared for the Alaskan elements quickly lost their desire for adventure once the temperatures changed. Long, dark hours and biting cold took their toll, and arctic storms gave witness to the ferocity of the weather. Steven knew that few newcomers could survive nature's worst, which required serious determination, common sense, respect for nature, and a definite love for Alaska's uniqueness—traits few possessed.

          "Were you able to find out anything about her?" Steven asked.

          D. J. Anderson was a five-year veteran of the force. He was determined to make detective. A native Alaskan from the Inuit tribe and the first member of his family to graduate college, he was sharp and dedicated. With a round bright face, he gave the impression of being a young college student than a seasoned officer. Steven knew he was a hard worker who sought out the cases he knew would get him the experience he needed to meet his goal. Having worked on a few other assignments with him, Steven knew he could rely on his skills and attention to detail.

          "The victim is Debra Johnson, a twenty-eight-year-old cocktail waitress." Anderson read from his notes. "She's married to Mathew Johnson. The chaplain is on the way to see him. They live in Wasilla and have two children. She's worked for The Piano Bar since last July. She left at ten o'clock, four hours before the end of her shift, because of the snowstorm. Her purse and car keys were in the snow alongside her. She was still wearing her jewelry, and her wallet was full of cash. So the motive wasn't robbery. I have all her personal details here." Anderson handed Steven her driver's license.

          "Excellent." He read the card and handed it back. "And the coroner?"

          "He's on his way."

          Steven stared intently at the body. His attention continually diverted to her eyes. Her license told him they were green. Now they stared heavenward, a muddy gray reflection of the drab concrete buildings that sat like silent sentinels to her horrific death. The expression on her face was one of surrender. They knelt next to her, careful to avoid any contact with the blood.

          "The footprints belong to the city worker," Anderson explained.

          Steven nodded. They were marked evidence, but he saw no others. "The snow that's fallen is wet and heavy, probably obliterating any evidence of the killer's footprints. Notice the blood on her thigh?"

          "Yeah, like he cleaned his knife there," Anderson surmised.

          "Exactly, and although she took a few minutes to die, she didn't have a chance to fight. Looks like he came up from behind her. The direction of the cut, left to right—one deep, deadly cut was all it took, and it wasn't a small blade. The coroner will tell us the weapon and with a bit of luck pull some evidence off her gloves." Steven stood and looked around taking in the whole scene.

          "Her car was running when we arrived. Looked like it had been cleared of snow once. You think she did all that and then decided to go back inside?" Anderson asked.

          Steven pondered the question. "She was definitely on her way to the parking lot when she was attacked. We'll find out. What else?"

          Anderson continued his report. "We've cordoned off the entire alley and parking lot, and I've got two men gathering evidence, one searching the general area and the other the vehicles parked here. You've worked with them before, Andy Right and Don McNaught. We're collecting film from all the security cameras in the area, but not one camera is located back here—that would have been too much to ask for—but the others will give us the comings and goings on the main thoroughfare."

          "Good work. I don't usually get such detail so quickly. Are you interested in seeing this one through to completion? That is, if you've made up your mind where you want to serve. I know you've been looking at accident investigation and a few other departments."

          "Yes, sir," Sergeant Anderson said. "I've been working hard to learn investigative techniques, but homicide is where I want to be."

          "Good. I'm going inside to start the questioning. You stay on top of what goes on out here and with the coroner. I'll see you later, with the rest of the team."

          "You've got it," Anderson said. His stature suddenly heightened by Steven's request.

          Steven turned to leave. The police photographer began recording the grisly scene.

          "Beautiful girl," the photographer commented.

          "Yeah," Steven grumbled, "they always are."

          "Notice how she fell," he pointed out. "Like she was going to make a snow angel. Ironic, isn't it?"

          At the photographer's comment, Steven took one last look. He recalled the young woman he had seen playing in the park earlier. She made a choir of snow angels. He almost smiled when he recalled the fun she was having. He had wanted to join her, but a telephone call killed that idea. He left the scene. Snow angels with green eyes occupied his thoughts as he made his way to the bar.

          Steven knew The Piano Bar to be a classy joint. He knew Chancy Forest, the owner and that the bar was frequented by the upper class but commonly called Menopause Alley by the younger generation. A murder on Fourth Avenue, known for its topless entertainment, would not have been a surprise, and he wondered how The Piano Bar patrons would receive the news of this crime.

Chancy and his employees were gathered together near the kitchen. The customers were at the back giving their names and addresses to several officers. Steven joined two other members of his homicide team, Helen Gabble and Joe Donner. They divided the work and began questioning the co-workers and customers individually. First, they collected basic information from the owner, who claimed the victim was a happily married mother of two and the sweetest person in the world. No one could understand why anyone would want to hurt her. She was a favorite with the customers, evidenced by the size of her nightly tips. She planned to work only long enough to save for a down payment on some property that her husband wanted in Wasilla. No one noticed anything or anyone unusual that night or any other night. She never complained of harassment. Everyone liked Debra.

          Steven listened to these comments, but he knew differently. Someone had chosen her for a reason; otherwise, she would not be dead in the alley, her blood spilled on dirty concrete.

          Although clearly upset, her co-workers were willing to help, except one young woman who sat in silence. He tried to question her about the evening. She sat motionless, hardly blinking.

          He got her a glass of water and several napkins. He put the water in her hand. "Drink, it will help." She was pretty, a petite redhead, her hazel eyes scarlet from crying. "Are you Ginger?"

         "Yes...I'm sorry, I can't think, I just keep seeing Deb."

          "Seeing her?" He asked.

          "At the door, just before she left. It's just so hard to believe. I can't... are you sure she's dead?"

          "I'm sorry, but yes. There's no question."

          "Horrible. I just want go home, lock the doors, and never leave again," she whispered. "It's just so...unbelievable." She shivered but continued talking. "Deb, she's...was my best friend. We traded hours all the time. What if I left early? What if I served a drink to the man...to that monster?"

          She grabbed his forearm. Her fingers were like ice. He could see the terror on her face.

          "I mean, if someone could kill Deb...." A tear rolled down her cheek.

Steven's first instinct was to reach out to her. He wanted to assure her that he would find the person responsible, because he knew he would. Yet, the task before him was not something to take lightly, or arrogantly. He gently removed her hand from his arm, continued the interrogation.

          "Can you tell me about your best friend?"

          "Sure." Ginger used the napkins he gave her to blow her nose, took a deep breath, and settled herself. "I tried to stop her. I told her to wait until the storm was over. I knew the road crews would have their work done by the time her shift was over, but she wouldn't listen. She insisted on leaving early. Why'd she have to leave early?" She said thoughtfully.

Ginger looked at Steven as though he would be able to tell her. "That's a good question. Why did she leave before her shift ended?"

          "Deb was unhappy. She was having a hard time adjusting. She finally wanted to tell Mathew. That's why she left early, she wanted to talk with Mathew. Chancy said she could go because it was so slow. Their schedules didn't always allow them a lot of time together, Matt's and Deb's," she said for clarification. "She wanted to be honest with Mathew."

          "Was she getting ready to leave him?"

          "Oh, no, you misunderstand. Deb loved Matt. She would have followed him to the ends of the Earth; she was determined to make it work here. She just wanted them to take some of the money they'd been working so hard to save and go home for Christmas. She wanted to see her family. She was homesick but afraid to tell him."

          "Why was she afraid?"

         "She didn't want to disappoint him. She knew how much he loved it here, and she was afraid he'd know she hated it."

          "What would've happened if he found out?"

          "I'm sure Matt would've understood. He'd have given her time. It'd only been eight months. She just wanted to take the little ones home for the holidays. Oh dear, those poor little ones," she said wistfully. Tears fell again.

          Steven gave her another cocktail napkin and waited. "Were you the last person to talk to Debra?"

           "I think so...no wait a minute. Jim. He spoke to her. He has a crush on her and would have driven her home if she'd asked him to."

           "Which one is Jim?"

           She glanced around the room and pointed him out. "He's the guy at the corner table with his head in his hands. He's devastated."

          "Thank you. Miss...Ginger Hardin, right? You've been a big help. Please be patient awhile longer. We may need a formal statement."

         He moved over to where Jim was sitting. Pulling out a chair, he straddled it backwards and stared coldly at the young man. Jim glared at him; his eyes red from tears, he blew his large nose on a used-up hanky, and waited for Steven to begin. Steven looked him over. He was average, pudgy, about twenty-two years old. His dark hair stuck out messily from under an Ohio State baseball cap, and the apron he wore had a variety of stains on it. Quaid motioned another officer over.

          "Son, can you give me your apron." The young man removed it and gave it to the officer, who placed it in an evidence bag.

           "You think I killed Deb? Honest I didn't."

           "Jim, can you give me your last name?"

          "Lawrence, James Lawrence, sir."

          "You spoke to Debra before she left?"

          "Yes, sir, just before she left. I even cleared her car of the snow. It was the least I could do. She barely had the clothes to get her to the car. I didn't want her out in that mess for very long.

          "That was generous. You really cared about her didn't you."

          "She worked hard, long hours, here and at home. She deserved a break. I don't think I've ever met anyone more determined. She just wanted to buy that land and raise her kids the right way."

          "When you were outside cleaning her car off, did you see anyone?"

Jim thought for a moment. "No sir, it was blowing real hard, there wasn't a soul in sight."

          "What about in the bar, right before she left. Anyone leave right before or after her?" Steven asked while watching the young man closely.

          "There was only one patron in the bar. Mr. Jacobs, he's sixty something, comes in everyday on his way home from his janitor's job, and gets a shot and a cup of coffee. Nice guy too, he couldn't hurt Deb. Besides, he was here till 10:30 teasing the other girls. That's why Chancy let Deb go home. The place was empty. I should've driven her home. I never should've let her go out there all by herself!" Jim clinched his hands, and rubbed his temples.

          "You were in love with her?"

          Jim blushed. "Yeah. Sort of. I liked her. Deb was the kind of person who'd go out of her way to make you feel good. She just cared about people. I really admired her, but she loved Matt. Whenever someone here gave her a hard time—you know, tried to make a pass at her or ask her out—she'd tell them she was married to an Army Ranger who served in Desert Storm and he wouldn't be pleased to learn she was being harassed on the job. That statement alone got her the biggest tips around, and when folks learned of her goals or saw pictures of those two young towheads, well, Deb was quickly earning the money for their new home. She was someone special. Why do they always take the special ones?" He wiped a tear from his cheek.

          "Sorry, son. I wish I knew." Steven gave Jim a minute and then continued. "Is there a particular customer that might have given her a hard time?"

          "I've thought over and over about every customer who ever gave her any reason for grief, and I can't picture any of them doing to Deb what they say was done...I just can't." He buried his head in his hands, but no tears fell.

          "Tell you what, give me those names. Let me make that determination." Steven gave him a pen and a piece of paper. "Write down every name you can think of, and we'll check them all out."

          "Yes sir."

          "Thank you, son." Steven patted him on the shoulder.

          After an hour of questioning the staff and customers, he gathered his team and compared notes. "I have a young man suffering from unrequited love. He was one of the last people to speak to her. He needs to go to the station to give a formal statement, and that apron he was wearing, I want it tested for blood. Helen, what've you got?"

          "There may have been an affair, Debra's husband, and her best friend. Ginger, the young lady you talked to." Helen said proudly. The only woman on the homicide team, Helen worked hard to prove herself, more due to her own lack of confidence than what others thought of her. Steven knew she was well respected and admired for her background. She was a former MP with the air force. She was wiry and strong, with a sense of humor that kept her in good standing with the other team members. She kept her shoulder-length, dirty blond hair in a tight ponytail, but it was so fine that wispy tendrils were always falling into her eyes.

          "That would explain why they traded hours instead of working the same schedule." Steven added.

          "Exactly, from what I understand, they used to work the same schedule, but a few months ago, Ginger asked for different hours."

          "Bring her in too, and get on the phone to the chaplain; I want the husband brought in tonight. Tell him it's to make the ID. Just make sure there's someone to look after the children."

          "I'm on it," Helen told him.

          Good work, maybe we'll have this one solved before morning." Steven closed his notebook and looked directly at Joe. "Well, Joe, what did you get from the customers?" Joe was a fifteen-year veteran, a former beat cop from New York. He brought a good perspective and worked well with large crowds, and his observances were uncanny. Joe was all brawn and bald, but call him Mr. Clean and you would regret it instantly. He had a Brooklyn brogue that left no doubt about his origins.

          "Sorry, Steve, not much, just the usual night out for a drink, first date, or standing dates. Only two people were new to the place and the rest are regulars, but I have information for follow-up if we need it. Most surprisingly, no one can imagine anyone threatening the girl—at least that's what they all say."

          Sergeant Anderson joined the group. "So, do we have this one solved?"

          "Joe, Helen, meet D. J. Anderson. He was first on scene, and I've asked him to join us in solving this case."

          They each nodded their acknowledgment and Steven continued. "We do have a few good leads. What did the coroner say?"

          "The coroner's taken her to the morgue, and the alley has been searched and cleared. No footprints, no trace evidence—at least not yet. The body may give up something. Oh, and no weapons have been located, but the coroner is almost sure it's some sort of hunting knife; he'll let us know later. All businesses in the surrounding area have been contacted for their security tapes, and the cars in the lot have been searched. Chancy, the bar's owner has given us his consent to go over the entire establishment. Forensics is on scene."

          "Good work. Let's get this place cleared out."

          On the way back to his office, he began planning his next step in anticipation of a long night. The computer would be helpful in finding background and financial information about the victim and suspects. Forensics would give him specific information about her death, but those reports would not be back for hours, maybe even days or weeks. The husband, always the first suspect, claimed to have an alibi. He was babysitting while she worked. He knew that a face-to-face interview would tell him much more. Tonight he would find out just how happy the Johnsons were and just how good that alibi was. If there had been an affair, he would discover if Debra's unhappiness, or maybe unrequited love, played a part in her death.

          He knew it would be a long night, because he was having a hard time getting those haunting green eyes from his thoughts.

*                      *                      *

          A gust of wind reminded Sarah of the frigid air, when it invaded the warm confines of her fur-lined jacket. In the warmth of the lobby, she removed her jacket and gloves while she waited at the elevator. She stepped inside just as a dark figure passed through the lobby. Sarah took little notice until right before the elevator door shut. She thought she recognized the person and fumbled with the button to open the door again, but the elevator was already on its way to her floor. She decided it was not important and relaxed for the ride to the top.

She opened the door of her apartment and a flash of red caught her eye. She was kneeling to pick up the bright envelope when the telephone rang. She lost her balance and almost fell headfirst into the living room, but she caught herself and raced to answer it. A sense of dread filled her. It was after midnight, and telephone calls at that hour usually meant bad news.

          Cautiously she said, "Hello." There was no sound on the line. "Hello," she said a little louder. The individual on the other end waited a few moments and hung up without saying a word. She checked her caller ID: Caller Unknown, with no number. She put the card on her desk and walked to the fireplace to turn on the gas fire logs. She removed her boots and hung her jacket to dry. Still captivated by the weather she continued to watch the clouds sail toward the east over the city's skyline and toward the mountains. The panoramic view of Cook Inlet to the north and the city to the east gave Sarah a feeling of being on top of the world, and she would often stand for hours contemplating life. Now she watched the flashing lights converge downtown, and a sense of trepidation filled her.

Yet even that momentary distraction could not divert her attention from the envelope. Convinced that it was an invitation to a neighbor's party; she sliced it open with a silver letter opener from her desk. Inside was a card. She pulled it out, and a cocktail napkin fell unnoticed into an open file.

          Sarah was unable to take her eyes off the red Valentine heart with the words "YOUR DEAD VALENTINE" printed in large block letters. The words struck her like an arrow, and an anguish she thought she would never feel again stole her breath. Standing, suddenly took too much effort. She settled onto the arm of the sofa. She looked the card over carefully, and tried to figure out who had sent it and why. Cut from construction paper, it bore letters that were practiced and neat. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to create the simple card. She checked, but there was no signature, no clue to whom the sender could be.

She stared at it, unable to grasp its meaning. She went back to the windows and gazed out at the inlet, realizing she could see the Sleeping Lady Mountain in the distance.

          She had formed a connection with the mountain; its presence gave her peace. Mt. Susitna was given the name—sleeping lady, because it appeared to be a maiden at rest. Legend said the young woman was from a tribe of giants that occupied the land in a bygone age, and when warring factions required her groom to negotiate a peace settlement, she lay down to sleep and awaited his return. He died in the war, and no one wanted to awaken her to give her the news. Sarah empathized with the story.

          When she first visited the condominium, it was the view of the Sleeping Lady that convinced her to buy it. Tonight the view was breathtaking. The sky had cleared of clouds and the aurora borealis was shimmering brilliantly above her. The beauty of the aurora's colors reflected off the mountains new white wedding dress of snow.  

          She's dancing with her groom. Sarah smiled at the thought. In Sarah's heart, she believed that when the northern lights appeared, which was rare this far south, that the maiden and her groom danced among the stars. Sarah identified with her, because she had also lost the love of her life, and now only danced with Michael in her dreams.

          The telephone rang. She reluctantly picked up the receiver because "unknown caller" flashed on the screen.

          "Hello." All she heard was silence and then the click of a disconnection. The Valentine and the mysterious calls concerned her. The thoughts racing through her head were too frightening to consider. She pushed them aside and convinced herself she was being paranoid, but she disconnected the telephone anyway. Whatever the reason for the card, its intrusion brought back a deep, piercing sadness, just as the police siren just minutes earlier in the park.                 

          Forgotten memories pounded their way back to the forefront of her mind. Her energy drained by an act of hate, she carefully put the offensive thing on her desk. With the movements of a woman clearly defeated, she tried to warm herself by the fire. She removed the rest of her wet clothes. However, she could not rid her thoughts of the Valentine. Every minute or two she would stare at it. She half expected it to transform into something even more sinister. A series of chills brought on by a deeper cold within her would not let go, and despite the fire, she shivered. She wanted the Valentine out of sight. She put it back in its envelope and dropped it into her briefcase, along with the files that were lying on her desk in preparation for tomorrow's meeting.

          Determined to fight her sorrow, she moved to the bathroom to fill the tub. A bubble bath always chased away the blues. She finished undressing and put a warm terrycloth robe around her chilled body. While the tub was filling, she went back into the living room and poured a brandy. Gulping instead of sipping, she winced from the alcohols warmth and taste. The liquid coated her throat, but it failed to chase away the chill. She stared out at the snow-filled night, which only moments ago she had been enjoying.

          Remembering her bath water, she checked the locks on her door and tried to relax amid bubbles, steam, and the scent of roses, but she got out quickly. Relaxation was not possible. After putting on a warm flannel nightgown, she wrapped herself in a blanket, and settled down in front of the fire. She slowly sipped another snifter of brandy. Finally warm she fell asleep, in dreamland she was with Michael.

          The distant ringing of a telephone startled her, but it was not the

disconnected telephone on her desk. The ringing telephone that insisted she

answer was in her bedroom. She glanced at the clock and shuddered when she

realized the time was exactly 2:14 am.

 -----------------

This isn't the end folks -- but if you want to know what happens next, please buy the book.

 on the ezread  or smashwords website

www.ezread.com or

www.smashwords.com

Or anywhere books are sold!