Public Secrets

doesn’t matter.”
“It was the music,” Johnno said, then settled beside her. “The music upset you.”
“Yes.” She moistened her dry lips. “Yes, it was the music. It was playing that night. When I woke up and heard Darren. It was playing when I started down the hall. I’d forgotten. I’ve never been able to listen to that cut, but I didn’t know why. Tonight, I guess with the party, it all rushed back.”
“Why don’t I start clearing people out?”
“No.” She took Johnno’s hand before he could rise. “I don’t want to spoil it for Marianne. I’m all right now, really. It was so strange. Almost as if I were there again. I wonder if I’d gotten to the door, if I’d have seen—”
“No.” Brian’s hand clamped down on hers. “It’s over and done with. Behind us. I don’t want you to think about it, Emma.”
She was too weary to argue. “I think I’ll just rest awhile. No one’s going to miss me.”
“I’ll stay with you,” Brian told her.
“No. I’m fine now. I’m just going to sleep. Christmas is only a few weeks away. I’ll come to London, like I promised. We’ll have a whole week.”
“I’ll stay until you sleep,” Brian insisted.

H E WAS GONE when she woke from the nightmare. It had been so real, so horribly clear. Just as the reality had been over twelve years before. Her skin was clammy with sweat as she reached for the light. She needed the light. There was so much that could hide in the dark.
It was quiet now. Five A.M. and calm, quiet. The party was over and she was alone, behind the glass walls of her room. Painfully, like an old woman, she rose out of bed to strip off her clothes and pull on a robe. She slid the door back, hit another light.
The room was a jumble. There were scents—beer going stale, smoke trapped near the ceiling, the lingering breath of perfumes and sweat. She glanced up the stairs to where Marianne slept. She didn’t want to disturb her by tidying up now, though her ingrained neatness rubbed at her. She would wait until sunrise.
There was something else she had to do, and she wanted to do it quickly before cowardice could take over. Sitting by the phone, she dialed information.
“Yes. I’d like the numbers for American, TWA, and Pan Am.”

Chapter Twenty

S HE WASN’T GOING to feel guilty. In fact, at the moment, Emma didn’t want to feel much of anything. She knew if her father discovered she’d flown to California, without her guards, he’d be furious. She could only hope he didn’t find out. With luck, she would have her two days in California, catch the redeye Sunday night and be in New York again, attending class, Monday morning, with no one but Marianne the wiser.
Bless Marianne, Emma thought as the plane touched down. She hadn’t asked any questions once she had seen that the answers would be painful. Instead, she had roused herself barely past dawn, tossed on a blond wig, sunglasses, and Emma’s overcoat and had cabbed it to early mass at Saint Pat’s. With the guards trailing behind her.
That had given Emma enough time to dash to the airport and catch her plane to the Coast. As far as Sweeney and his partner would be concerned, Emma McAvoy would be spending a quiet weekend at home. Marianne would have to do some fast talking if Brian or Johnno called, but then Marianne was nothing if not a fast talker.
In any case, Emma decided while she deplaned, the die was cast. She was here, and she would do what she had come to do.
She had to see the house again. It had been sold all those years ago, so it was doubtful she could wangle her way inside. But she had to see it.
“The Beverly Wilshire,” she told the cab driver.

Exhausted, she let her head fall back, let her eyes close behind her dark glasses. It was too warm for her winter coat now, but she couldn’t find the energy to shrug out of it. She needed to rent a car, she realized, and let out an annoyed breath. She should have taken care of that already. With a shake of her head, she promised herself she would arrange it through the concierge as soon as she had unpacked the few things she’d tossed into her bag.
There were ghosts here, she thought. Along Hollywood Boulevard, in Beverly Hills, on the beaches at Malibu and throughout the hills looking over the L.A. basin. Ghosts of herself as a young girl on her first trip to America, of her young, heroic father hoisting her on his shoulders in Disneyland. Of Bev, smiling, a hand laid protectively over the child she