me."
"Most people are afraid of death," he said.
"I'm not most people. I've known death would come for me, sooner rather than later, and I thought I'd made peace with my fate. But when I was alone in the woods, I was suddenly terrified." She seemed embarrassed by her sudden confession. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."
"Because I'm a stranger?" he said.
She looked up, startled. "I suppose so. And yet, I know what Maria meant when she thought she knew you. You must remind me of someone, but I can't figure out who."
He smiled faintly. "It will come to you."
She looked uncertain. "I suppose so." She gave herself a brisk little shake. "I still can't get over my father's recovery. He's been in a coma for weeks, and now he's talking, making sense. It's a miracle."
"I don't expect it will last," he said.
"No, I suppose it won't. If people can jump off the Empire State Building and survive, then my father's perfectly capable of cheating death for a few more days."
"No one cheats death. They only think they do."
He moved past her to push open the doors to the balcony. The wind was very strong, gusting into the room, and he felt it riffle through his hair, tug at his dark clothes. He loved the wind, the damp scent of rain on the air. He half hoped she would go away. He wanted her so badly he was afraid of scaring her again. She'd been afraid this afternoon, she'd said. He didn't want her frightened. Too many people were terrified of him.
But she moved past him, out onto the balcony, and the wind picked up her hair and tossed it away from the delicate, clean lines of her face as she tilted it upward, drinking in the wild night. "What do you think death is like?" she murmured, half to herself.
He heard the words with a kind of shock—and the knowledge that he couldn't avoid answering her. He leaned back against the glass doorway, folding his hands across his chest to keep from touching her.
"I don't know," he said deliberately. "Most people think death comes with a cloud of angels and harps, heavenly choruses and songs of praise."
"I don't think so," she said in a meditative voice. "Do you believe in hell?"
"No," he said flatly, truthfully.
A faint smile crossed her face. "Neither do I. But I'm not too sure about heaven either. What do you think?"
"I try not to think about such things at all. Life is to be lived. The present is what matters, not some obscure afterlife."
She glanced at him over her shoulder, and her smile was rueful. "I suppose I'm a little morbid. It comes from living with death for most of my life."
"It sounds unpleasant," he murmured.
She turned and moved closer to him, and the wind caught her hair and blew it against him. It smelled of rain and wind and flowers, and he wanted to put his mouth against it. Against her.
"It hasn't been. It's actually been rather comforting." She managed a shaky laugh. "My family thinks I'm crazy. Death isn't supposed to be a friend."
"What about a lover?" He spoke the words so quietly that she could have missed them. But she didn't. She looked up into his dark, hidden face, and her eyes were clear and honest. And startled, as if she were considering the notion for the very first time.
"Laura?" Jeremy stood in the doorway, his solid bulk radiating disapproval. "We wondered where you'd gotten to."
"We were just having a philosophical discussion about the nature of life and death," she said with a faint laugh, but Alex could see the guilt stain her pale cheeks, and he wondered where the guilt came from. He wondered how he would stop himself from striking Jeremy Fitzpatrick dead the first chance he had.
"You haven't seen Cynthia, have you?" her step-brother asked in a casual voice, but his eyes swept the room, dark with suspicion.
"I think she might have gone back to the guest house."
"Great," Jeremy said. "Ricky's passed out cold, Justine's having a weeping fit, and you're up here... that is, you're here..." Words failed him.
"Yes," she said, in a
"Most people are afraid of death," he said.
"I'm not most people. I've known death would come for me, sooner rather than later, and I thought I'd made peace with my fate. But when I was alone in the woods, I was suddenly terrified." She seemed embarrassed by her sudden confession. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."
"Because I'm a stranger?" he said.
She looked up, startled. "I suppose so. And yet, I know what Maria meant when she thought she knew you. You must remind me of someone, but I can't figure out who."
He smiled faintly. "It will come to you."
She looked uncertain. "I suppose so." She gave herself a brisk little shake. "I still can't get over my father's recovery. He's been in a coma for weeks, and now he's talking, making sense. It's a miracle."
"I don't expect it will last," he said.
"No, I suppose it won't. If people can jump off the Empire State Building and survive, then my father's perfectly capable of cheating death for a few more days."
"No one cheats death. They only think they do."
He moved past her to push open the doors to the balcony. The wind was very strong, gusting into the room, and he felt it riffle through his hair, tug at his dark clothes. He loved the wind, the damp scent of rain on the air. He half hoped she would go away. He wanted her so badly he was afraid of scaring her again. She'd been afraid this afternoon, she'd said. He didn't want her frightened. Too many people were terrified of him.
But she moved past him, out onto the balcony, and the wind picked up her hair and tossed it away from the delicate, clean lines of her face as she tilted it upward, drinking in the wild night. "What do you think death is like?" she murmured, half to herself.
He heard the words with a kind of shock—and the knowledge that he couldn't avoid answering her. He leaned back against the glass doorway, folding his hands across his chest to keep from touching her.
"I don't know," he said deliberately. "Most people think death comes with a cloud of angels and harps, heavenly choruses and songs of praise."
"I don't think so," she said in a meditative voice. "Do you believe in hell?"
"No," he said flatly, truthfully.
A faint smile crossed her face. "Neither do I. But I'm not too sure about heaven either. What do you think?"
"I try not to think about such things at all. Life is to be lived. The present is what matters, not some obscure afterlife."
She glanced at him over her shoulder, and her smile was rueful. "I suppose I'm a little morbid. It comes from living with death for most of my life."
"It sounds unpleasant," he murmured.
She turned and moved closer to him, and the wind caught her hair and blew it against him. It smelled of rain and wind and flowers, and he wanted to put his mouth against it. Against her.
"It hasn't been. It's actually been rather comforting." She managed a shaky laugh. "My family thinks I'm crazy. Death isn't supposed to be a friend."
"What about a lover?" He spoke the words so quietly that she could have missed them. But she didn't. She looked up into his dark, hidden face, and her eyes were clear and honest. And startled, as if she were considering the notion for the very first time.
"Laura?" Jeremy stood in the doorway, his solid bulk radiating disapproval. "We wondered where you'd gotten to."
"We were just having a philosophical discussion about the nature of life and death," she said with a faint laugh, but Alex could see the guilt stain her pale cheeks, and he wondered where the guilt came from. He wondered how he would stop himself from striking Jeremy Fitzpatrick dead the first chance he had.
"You haven't seen Cynthia, have you?" her step-brother asked in a casual voice, but his eyes swept the room, dark with suspicion.
"I think she might have gone back to the guest house."
"Great," Jeremy said. "Ricky's passed out cold, Justine's having a weeping fit, and you're up here... that is, you're here..." Words failed him.
"Yes," she said, in a
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