Mirror Image

the spring and the two disks parted. She gazed at the photographs inside. One was of her father. In the photograph, he was dressed in battle fatigues, a 35-mm camera draped around his neck. It was the last picture taken of him. He had been killed a few weeks later. The other picture was of her mother. Rosemary, lovely and dainty, was smiling into the camera, but sadly.
    Hot, salty tears filled Avery’s eyes. She closed the locket and squeezed it in her palm. Not everything had been taken away from her. She still had this, and she still had Irish.
    “I hoped you had it,” she told him gruffly.
    “It was in the dead woman’s hands.”
    Avery nodded, finding it difficult to speak. “Mandy had noticed it around my neck. I had given it to her to look at. Just as we were about to take off, Carole became annoyed because Mandy was twirling the chain. She took it away from her. That’s the last thing I remember before the crash.”
    He showed her Carole’s jewelry. “Shook my gizzard when I opened that envelope you sent. You
did
send it, didn’t you?”
    She told him how that had come about. “I didn’t know what else to do with it.”
    “Why didn’t you just throw it away?”
    “I guess I secretly wanted to make contact with you.”
    “You want her jewelry?”
    She shook her head no, glancing down at the plain gold band on her left ring finger. “Its sudden reappearance would require an explanation. I have to keep things as simple as possible.”
    He cursed with impatience and apprehension. “Avery, call it off—now. Tonight.”
    “I can’t.”
    “Hell and damnation,” he swore. “You’ve got your father’s ambition and your mother’s compassion. It’s a dangerous combination—lethal under these circumstances. Unfortunately, you inherited a stubborn will from both of them.”
    Avery knew he had capitulated completely when he asked regretfully, “What do you want me to do?”
    * * *
    Tate was standing in the hallway when she returned. Avery thought he’d probably been waiting and watching for her, but he tried to pass it off as a coincidence.
    “Why are you so late?” he asked, barely looking in her direction.
    “Didn’t Zee give you my message? I told her I had some last-minute things to get for the trip.”
    “I thought you’d be back sooner than this.”
    “I had a lot of shopping to do.” She was loaded down with shopping bags—purchases she had made before her meeting with Irish. “Could you help me get this stuff to the bedroom, please?”
    He relieved her of some of the bags and followed her down the hall. “Where’s Mandy?” she asked.
    “She’s already asleep.”
    “Oh, I was hoping I’d get back in time to read a bedtime story to her.”
    “Then you should have come home sooner.”
    “Did she get a story?”
    “Mom read her one. I tucked her in and stayed until she’d gone to sleep.”
    “I’ll check on her in a while.” She noticed as she passed the hall windows that Nelson, Jack, and Eddy were conversing over one of the patio tables in the courtyard. Zee was reclined in a lounger reading a magazine. Fancy was cavorting in the pool. “You’re missing the conference.”
    “Eddy’s going over the itinerary again. I’ve already heard it a thousand times.”
    “Just set those bags on the bed.” She slid off her linen jacket, tossed it down beside the shopping bags, and stepped out of her pumps. Tate hovered close, looking ready to pounce.
    “Where did you go shopping?”
    “The usual places.”
    He had asked a dumb question, since the glossy sacks had familiar logos on them. For one horrifying moment, she wondered if he had followed her to Irish’s house. He couldn’t have. She had taken a circuitous route, constantly checking her rearview mirror to make sure she wasn’t being followed.
    Safety measures like that, which would have seemed absurdly melodramatic months ago, had become second nature. She didn’t like living dishonestly, being constantly on guard. Tonight, especially, after the emotionally draining visit with Irish, her nerves were shot. Tate had picked the wrong night to interrogate her and put her on the defensive.
    “Why are you giving me the third degree about going shopping?”
    “I’m not.”
    “The hell you’re not. You’re sniffing like a bloodhound.” She came a step closer to him. “What did you expect to smell on me? Tobacco smoke? Liquor? Semen? Something that would confirm your nasty suspicions that I spent the