The door to the restaurant swung open and she reached for the gearshift, ready to pull out of the parking spot, when she saw a man hold the door open. A family of four, middle-aged mom and pop with two preteens in tow. The kids were fighting, the girl swatting at her brother, only to have him hit back, making her scream bloody murder.

As they walked to their vehicle, the father said something sharp to his son, then opened the door of a minivan. The pinch-lipped mother, ever the wiser, narrowed knowing eyes on her blond daughter. The girl was playing it up, putting on a beatific, almost angelic smile.

That’s it, girlie, play the part. Just like all the hypocritical bitches from St. Elizabeth’s.

Caught up in the family’s tiny drama, she almost missed the last two alumnae emerge from the restaurant. But she didn’t. And she couldn’t keep a smile from crawling across her face. Aurora and Kristen, the eager and the reluctant organizers, hiking up the collars of their jackets as rain began to fall.

Showtime, she thought, and her blood pounded in her ears. She hazarded a glance at the passenger seat beside her, at the yearbook, extra photos, and scissors. Some of the pictures had been cut from the pages and she’d been careful as she’d extracted them, wanting to slice each color photo to ribbons. Fury heated her blood. White-hot rage, fermented by twenty years of waiting, raced through her veins.

Stay cool.

Chill out.

Don’t blow this.

Not now.

Not when you’re so damned close!

You’ve waited too long to wreck everything now.

She bit hard on her lip. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself with the scissors gripped in her hand. Stalking her prey. Chasing her down. Catching her. Then, as the two-faced bitch recognized her attacker, she would panic, beg for mercy, cry out that she was sorry. Her victim would grovel. Promise to do anything the killer wanted to save her pathetic life. She would pretend remorse, but it would all be just an act.

Then the killer would strike.

Quick and fast and deadly.

She would plunge those razor-sharp blades deep into Kristen’s chest, piercing her heart.

Not just once.

But again.

And again.

Over and over.

Watching the blood spurt.

Hearing Kristen’s gurgling screams.

Feeling her go limp.

Witnessing the light go out of Kristen Daniels’s eyes forever.

“You damned bitch,” she whispered, then tasted blood where her upper teeth had sunk hard into her lower lip.

So caught up in her fantasy she was shaking, she almost missed Kristen’s Honda pull out of the parking lot and onto the side street.

Almost.

Slowly, letting a truck pass, the killer put her car into gear, stepped on the gas, and eased the car away from the curb. She zeroed in on Kristen’s vehicle, one back taillight blinking as it turned onto the main road.

Silently, with dark intent, she followed.

“I think you should break up with Zeke.”

“What?” Lissa looked at her father as if he’d just lost what had been left of his obviously feeble mind. They were seated at the bar that separated his small kitchen from the living quarters of his high-rise condominium, the place he’d moved to after Kristen requested him to leave. The eating bar was slab granite, the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, the Willamette River, and snowcapped Mount Hood, and the real estate agent had assured him he would love it.

She’d been wrong.

He hated everything about the place.

The quiet.

The air of sophistication.

The chic pseudo-elegance.

Even the damned view was lost on him.

It seemed a shell, just a place to crash. He’d rented enough furniture that he could sleep and watch television and that was it. He spent as little time here as possible.

“I’m not breaking up with Zeke.”

“I don’t like the way he treats you.”

“Wait a minute. You’re telling me how someone should treat me, when you’re not even around?” Lissa leaned back in her bar stool and ignored the half-eaten hamburger and basket of fries that they’d picked up on the way.

“I was just giving your mother her space.”

“Yeah, right.” Lissa scowled.

So she didn’t buy it. The truth of the matter was that he’d gladly packed his bags, that he’d thought they both could use a cooling-off period. Kristen had been certain he was cheating on her and he’d thrown it in her face that she’d married him on the rebound, that she’d never gotten over Jake Marcott, the kid who had been killed her senior year of high school. In the time that had followed his death, she had not only made Jack a martyr but a saint as well. Ross had done some digging and, as far as he could see, Marcott hadn’t been a candidate for canonization. Whether it had been guilt or love or some other deep, primal emotion, Kristen had never let go of him. Ross had seen it coming, even before they’d married, but he’d been young enough to believe that she would get over the murdered boy and that she would start living. With him. He’d thought he could make her love him because he’d fallen so hard for her: the athletic girl with the red-brown hair, sad hazel eyes, and throaty laugh.

Intellectually Kristen had tried to move on.

But emotionally she’d never let go.

The ghost of Jake Marcott had never quit haunting her. Haunting them. Sometimes, late at night, after they’d made love, he’d catch her staring at the shadows on the ceiling or looking through the diaphanous curtains that moved in the summer breeze.

Maybe now, with the damned reunion, she’d be able to get some closure. He sincerely hoped there was a chance that she could finally be free.

“You can’t tell me what to do, okay?” Lissa said, still trying her best to push his buttons.

“No, it’s not okay.”

“So now you’re going all authoritarian on me?” She sighed loudly, tipped her chin down, and glared at him.

“I’m your father.”

“Big effin’ deal.”

“It is.”

“Hey. Don’t be that guy.”

“What guy?”

“The father guy. I’m not one of those kids that you have to…I don’t know, throw a baseball to, or take hiking, or spend”-she made quote marks with her fingers-“‘quality time’ with or even relate to. I’m fine. And I’m fine with Zeke.” She grabbed her soft drink and chewed on the straw. “You don’t even know him.”

“I know he doesn’t have the respect to walk you to the door, that he’s got his hands all over you, and that I haven’t heard you’ve even gone on a real date together.”

“A ‘real date’? You want me to go on a ‘real date’? What? Like where he comes to the door in a suit and tie and smiles at you and Mom and brings me home by ten. That kind of date?”

“Sounds about right,” Ross said equably.

“Dad, that was fifty years ago, and even you and Mom didn’t do anything so stupid. If you haven’t noticed, our family is not exactly Aussie and Harriet.”

“You mean Ozzie.”

“I mean we’re more like the Osbournes than the Neil-sons.”

“Nelsons…Oh, I get it. You’re putting me on.” Beneath her act of boredom, the crazy-colored hair and make-up, was the little girl who had often run to him, her arms in the air, the ribbon in her dark hair always falling out, bandages on her knees. She’d been thrilled to see him and had always announced wildly, “Daddy’s home…Daddy, put me on your shoulders…Daddy!” That girl was still there, just buried in anger, sadness, and too much make-up. “Should I be flattered that you think I’m like Ozzy Osbourne?”

“Why are you doing all this now?” she asked on a huge sigh. “Acting like you care or something.”

“I do care.”

She snorted her disbelief.

“I mean it, Lissa, and I’ve missed you.”

“Save me,” she whispered, arms folding over her chest, chin jutted forward in rebellion.

“Okay, I screwed up. Is that what you want to hear?”