True Colors Part 12

At her parents' front door, Alex paused to check her sneakers for mud. Wouldn't help with her goal if she tracked something in on the clean floor. As she perused the bottoms of her shoes, her eye caught on the word scrawled prettily across the mat in front of the door: WELCOME.

When they were teenagers, Charlie had explained irony to her by using their mother's welcome mat as an example. "It says *welcome,'" Charlie had said, "but have you ever seen Mom throw open the door with a cheery h.e.l.lo and a great big smile? Nope. That's ironic. A black fly in your chardonnay? That's just bad luck. And unsanitary."

Tears welled in Alex's eyes, and she shook her head. Why was she even crying about a stupid welcome mat anyway? But it wasn't the d.a.m.n welcome mat. A b.u.t.terfly could have landed on the tip of her nose, and she'd probably burst into tears. She honestly couldn't imagine a day when her life wouldn't suck now that she had super-turbo bulls.h.i.t empathy.

Maybe, though, just maybe, her mother could help. Charlie had said their cousin, the one they'd had no idea they had, was empathic. That meant there was an aunt or an uncle, and perhaps more cousins. If empathy were indeed genetic, and it appeared to be, maybe someone somewhere on some branch of their family tree knew how to get it under control. Singing a song in her head-Charlie said that worked for her-wasn't going to do it. Alex feared that if she was going to survive her new ability . . . gift . . . curse, then she needed answers. She needed coping mechanisms.

With a deep breath and a swipe at her wet lashes, Alex opened the front door and walked into her parents' house. It smelled like warm chocolate chip cookies or perhaps chocolate cake. Someone was baking, which surprised her, because her mother had never been one to bake when Alex was a kid. She had been too busy lunching with her high-society friends and arranging charity events.

Alex paused in the foyer to peruse the family photographs artfully arranged on the wall. Just like in real life, no extended family existed there.

"Mom? Dad?"

The door to her father's office whipped open within seconds, and her father ambled out with a huge grin on his face that eased the tight band encircling Alex's chest. She walked right into his arms and received his engulfing hug and peppermint scent without a second thought.

After he set her back from him, his hands on her arms, she realized her mistake. Luckily, she wore a long-sleeved T-shirt (on purpose), and he'd pressed his kiss to the top of her head. No skin-on-skin contact, thank G.o.d. She really didn't want to know her father's darkest nightmare, and it shocked her to realize that she had no idea what that would even be. Perhaps the moment six months ago when it hit him that he'd gambled the family newspaper's future, and that of everyone who worked there, and lost.

He hadn't stopped grinning. "How's my littlest angel?" he asked.

She couldn't help but smile. Losing the paper, in her opinion, had been the best thing that ever happened to Reed Trudeau. He looked healthy for the first time in her memory. And smiling! It helped that his loss had been a bored billionaire's gain, and the Lake Avalon Gazette lived on. No harm, no foul.

He c.o.c.ked his head and would have cupped her chin in that way he did when he was concerned about her if she hadn't stepped back. "I'm fine," she said, and felt her lips quirk on the lie. A Trudeau tradition. No matter what happened, the answer was always the same. She and Charlie got that from their mother. The queen of "fine."

"You don't look fine," her father said as she walked to the large windows that looked out on a rolling green hill that sloped down to the bank of the peaceful Caloosahatchee River. "You've been crying. Come into my office and talk to me."

Her father, the king of the pensive silence, wanted to talk. Alex tried to rub the chill out of her arms. She didn't think she'd ever be warm again. "Is Mom here?"

"Last time I saw her, she was in the kitchen supervising her latest protege in the art of the perfect chocolate chip cookie. The DAR is having a bake sale."

A laugh bubbled into Alex's throat. As if Elise Trudeau had any idea how to make the perfect chocolate chip cookie. Any fresh-baked cookies she and her sisters had had as children had come from their Nana's oven. It amused her, too, that her mother appeared to still be angling for the perfect daughter, one who baked and wore frilly dresses and belonged to the Daughters of the American Revolution. The exact opposite of her own girls.

Elise walked into the living room from the kitchen, a pristine white ap.r.o.n tied around her narrow waist and a sunny yellow dish towel in her hands. She saw Alex and paused, clearly not planning to bestow a bear hug similar to her husband's. "h.e.l.lo, Alexandra. I thought I heard voices."

Alex had learned long ago not to wince at the stilted use of her full name. "Hi, Mom."

While the past few months had been freeing for her father, her mother seemed even more distant than usual. She looked tired, too. Worn and haggard. As though her secrets had begun to wear her down.

Reed started to move away. "Well, I'll just get back to reading the paper and let you girls chat." He stopped suddenly. "Oh, and Alex, fantastic photo yesterday of Officer Logan. I'm not surprised national media s.n.a.t.c.hed it up. It's Pulitzer-quality work."

Alex managed a small smile. She'd take Logan over a Pulitzer any day. "Thanks, Dad."

Once they were alone, her mother watched her with a question in her eyes. "You wanted to chat?"

"I want to know about my relatives."

Elise blinked at the uncharacteristic bluntness. Or perhaps it was the actual statement that shot her eyebrows up toward her hairline. "We don't-"

"Yes, we do. I want the truth, Mother." Alex hadn't intended to be so undiplomatic, but her nerves were frayed. And her life among people hung in the balance. Without some way to control her empathy, she faced a life in seclusion. She was so not the recluse type.

Her mother's complexion heated, and her lips thinned. If she'd been a cartoon, steam would have billowed out of her ears. Instead of answering, she pivoted on her heel and started to stalk back to the kitchen.

Alex lashed out with one hand and grabbed her mother's bare arm.

And felt the world shift into a different reality.

The grungy hallway smells like urine and garbage, and I can't believe Mr. Nelson lives in such a rank apartment when he can afford to live somewhere with hardwood floors and arched ceilings. Kind of a dumbo, if you ask me. If you've got it, flaunt it. There isn't anything that makes it more obvious he's a moron than what he let me do to him.

Mr. Nelson isn't the only moron here. I let him get to me. Dad warned me. So many times. "Think with your head, not with your heart."

Well, I thought with my heart. And now it's good-bye, carefree existence living off the laurels of others. h.e.l.lo, shame.

I used to think Dad knew everything. I used to think he could save the world. I was a stupid little girl then. Eager to please. Eager to make Dad proud of me. Look what I can do, Daddy! I can trick unsuspecting good Samaritans out of their cash as easily as the next girl. See how well I've listened and learned? From the best, Daddy. You're the best.

And now the guilt . . . it's eating me alive. I can't sleep, can't eat. And instead of walking away like the good little grifter I was raised to be, I'm walking down this stinking hallway, hoping I can make everything that's wrong right again.

I hesitate before Mr. Nelson's door. I can do this. Come on, I can do this.

I don't want to.

I have to.

It's my own stupid fault. I reveled in the success of my first solo con, high on my power to manipulate. I wanted to see the aftermath. I wanted to point and laugh when Mr. Nelson realized that all his savings was gone forever, that he fell for a pretty teenager's sob story, and had no idea that while I twisted his heart around my little finger, I was sifting through his thoughts and emotions, searching for the one vulnerability I needed to get my job done.

I found it fast: a missing daughter about my age. Money sitting in the bank, earmarked for a high-priced private detective to find her and bring her home. Bingo. Almost too easy for a first time.

Afterward, Agnes and Rena begged me to walk away without looking back. That's how we do things. Con and run. There's a good reason for that, it turns out.

I didn't listen to my older sisters, and it changed everything. Now, the absolute devastation on Mr. Nelson's face when he realized what happened is burned into my brain.

I stole a desperate man's hope.

But I'm going to fix it. Dad's going to hate me. Maybe Mom and Agnes and Rena will hate me, too. But I can't do this. I'm not like them.

I'm not like them.

I can make it on my own. I'm smart and resourceful. Dad says so every day. All his girls are the smartest and most resourceful.

And I have Ben now. Wild and wonderful Ben. As soon as I'm done here, I'm going to ask him to run away with me.

What we did last night . . . oh my G.o.d. He felt so good inside me, and I must have felt amazing to him, considering how quickly he finished. I can't wait to make love with him again, can't wait for it to feel so good I lose control like he did. I'm the one, he said. None of the others matter to him anymore. Agnes and Rena are so wrong about him. They'll see soon enough.

Taking a breath, I raise my hand to knock on Mr. Nelson's door. There's no response. Maybe he's not here. But his car is downstairs, so I try again.

Another knock goes unanswered, and I start to get antsy, standing in the dark, possibly unsafe, hallway, a plastic Winn-Dixie bag filled with twenty-dollar bills bound together by rubber bands. I try the k.n.o.b, and it turns. I can leave the cash on his table. I won't even have to face him again.

I push open the door and step inside. There's a lamp on in the living room, but it's not very bright. I glimpse the back of Mr. Nelson's head where he sits in the recliner in front of the turned-off TV. Oh, so he's here after all.

"Mr. Nelson? It's me. Eli-" I break off. No, not Eliza. "It's Jenny," I amend. "I brought your money back." I stop behind the chair, uncertain now, because he hasn't acknowledged me.

"I . . . I'm sorry," I say. "I made a mistake. I . . . um . . . I hope you're able to find your daughter."

He doesn't move.

I take a step closer. "Mr. Nelson?"

Nothing. Not even a grunt.

"Should I just leave the money right here? On the floor by the door?"

Silence.

"Look, Mr. Nelson, I understand that you're upset, but I'm trying to fix this. You don't have to say anything, okay? I'll just leave the money and go. Um, good luck, okay?"

I can't stand not seeing his face, not seeing the relief in his eyes as I return to him the key to finding his lost child. Even if he's still mad, I still want to see that I've given him back his hope. Everyone should have hope.

I set down the bag of money and walk over to the chair, noticing for the first time the odd metallic scent in the stale air. I don't recognize it until I'm staring at Mr. Nelson and what's left of the lower half of his face. The gun is still in his limp, pale hand.

Oh, G.o.d, oh, G.o.d, oh, G.o.d, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead.

I try to scream but instead end up on all fours, gagging and choking. Sobbing.

I killed him. I killed Mr. Nelson. I killed- Alex opened her eyes and blinked blearily up at the woman hovering over her. Her mother had fear in her dark brown eyes. And knowledge. As if she knew where Alex had been and it scared the absolute living c.r.a.p out of her.

Alex raised a hand to the throbbing in her cheek.

"You weren't responding," her mother said, voice low and strained.

Alex pushed herself to a sitting position, surprised that she'd been flat on her back in her parents' foyer and hadn't even known it. Her mother made no move to help her as she shakily shifted to her knees, her head light and dizzy, then to her feet.

"How long?" Alex asked. Her throat felt raw, as though she'd been screaming. But if she had, her father would have come running, and his office door remained firmly closed.

"About a minute."

Alex met her mother's gaze and wondered why the woman didn't try to get help from her husband. Her child had been in distress. Catatonic for a full minute, an eternity during an emergency, and she'd done nothing. Except slap her out of it. As if she'd known exactly what to do.

Alex walked slowly, carefully, into the living room and sat on the white sofa. She swallowed several times, fighting back the urge to be sick. Wouldn't be good to puke all over Mom's white carpet.

Starting to shiver, she looked up to see her mother staring at her with lips pressed together so tightly they'd turned white. Her mother said nothing, asked no questions, not even: Are you all right?

"Don't you want to know?" Alex asked.

Her mother gripped the towel in her hands, the towel she'd hung on to despite her daughter's catatonic state. She'd twisted it into a tight, narrow column of cloth. "You should leave now." Steady, unblinking.

Alex closed her eyes, so tired she couldn't shake the vague nausea that clung to her system. She didn't have the energy to argue, barely had the energy to stand on wobbly legs and walk to the door.

Her mother shut it softly behind her, and Alex paused on the front porch, one hand braced on a freshly painted column, and breathed in the humid air.

She couldn't think straight enough to sort through what had just happened. But she knew she'd learned far more about her mother's past than any "chat" would ever reveal.

For now, she needed to get herself home before she fell flat on her face.

And then she'd find Charlie.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Paint the mother pink," Logan drawled as Noah parked the SUV in front of prime beachfront property occupied by a wreck of a tiny little windowless house.

Noah cast him a tolerant glance. "Whatever you might think as you walk in there, try to remember that AnnaCoreen deserves some respect."

Logan rolled his eyes. As if he would disrespect an old lady just because she knew how to shake down gullible tourists. This was crazy. His lieutenant was already irked that he'd requested some personal time at the last minute. But Noah had insisted, and Logan wanted answers. Logical answers, though, which he most likely would not get from a beachside psychic who, if Noah's end of the fawning cell phone conversation Logan'd just heard was any indication, knew how to snow the best.

"Try to keep an open mind," Noah said. "I know that'll be tough for a dips.h.i.t like you, but try."

Logan's first instinct was to defend himself. But instead he rubbed the back of his neck, remembering how sick Alex had looked last night and still this morning. Wrung out and pale and exhausted. And he'd walked out on her. But, d.a.m.n it, what was he supposed to do? First, she wouldn't talk to him, and then when she did, she offered him an unbelievable story.

They got out of the car, and Logan followed Noah around the side of the pink shack to the back where a small sunshine yellow house with white trim sat on the beach. They walked through a garden filled with flowers and green gra.s.ses that smelled fresh and crisp. The waves of the Gulf rolled ash.o.r.e a short distance away.

Now this was a nice place.

The woman who answered Noah's knock surprised Logan. He'd expected a wicked bloodred manicure, too much eye makeup and flyaway, Farrah Fawcett hair. This woman had soft strawberry blond curls and tastefully made-up eyes and lips. Her pretty blue eyes sparked with affection when they landed on Noah. She received his kiss on the cheek with a sunny smile.

"I was so pleased to hear from you, Noah," she said, then smiled at Logan. "h.e.l.lo. You must be Alex's significant other."

He forced himself to smile back at her as he took her hand. "Nice to meet you, too, ma'am." Ma'am. Jesus. He felt like a third-grader caught in the little boys' room with a p.o.r.n magazine.

Her eyes crinkled at the corners with genuine amus.e.m.e.nt. "So you say."

Logan reclaimed his hand, irked at the knowing look the other two shared.

AnnaCoreen stepped back and swept her hand toward the interior of the house with a flourish. "Please come in, boys."

The doorbell rang, startling Alex awake and bringing a horde of noisy pooches barreling into the living room. Blinking several times, she was surprised at the gloom of the house. Her head felt fuzzy and full, and it took her a moment to realize she'd apparently slept for several hours. And she'd slept so deeply that even the usual antics of the rambunctious pack hadn't disturbed her.

Pushing herself up, she pulled a hand through her hair and stumbled-sheesh, it was like she was hung over-to the front door.

She checked the peep hole and saw a clean-cut late-thirtysomething guy wearing a friendly smile on the other side. She pulled open the door. The man, with short wavy brown hair and a slim physique, started grinning like he'd just bluffed his way to a huge poker pot.

"Alex Trudeau?" he asked.

He looked downright ecstatic, and Alex had the muzzy thought that maybe he worked for Ed McMahon and she'd just won the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes. That'd fit right into this bizarre week. She'd use her winnings to build a time machine so she could go back and change . . . something. Hey, if super-duper Doppler empathy 3000 existed, why not time travel?

"Yes, I'm Alex," she croaked. She needed coffee. Strong and black. "Can I help you?"