The rush in her head became louder. “You’re my—”

“I used you to get out of prison,” Marla cut her off. “You did it because this is the only way you’ll get any chance at the Amhurst money. That’s all there was to it.”

“No!”

Marla let out a disgusted puff of air. “Sorry if I destroyed any of your fantasies.”

Diedre didn’t realize she was reaching into her purse, her fingers fumbling for the gun. She pulled it out and lifted it, pointing it straight at Marla.

The woman who was supposed to be her mother gazed at her with disgust. “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t go all overly dramatic on me.”

“I risked everything for you,” Diedre whispered, her hand shaking as she held the gun. “Everything.” Tears slid down her face. “And you didn’t care about me at all.”

“Put the gun down.”

“Say you love me.”

“What?”

“Tell me that you’re my mother and that you love me,” she said, the damned gun wobbling all over.

“Diedre…oh, for the love of God, you don’t have the guts to pull the trigger,” Marla said as a car backfired on the street. Marla turned, faced the window, and Diedre fired. One quick shot to the back of her mother’s head. “I loved you,” she whimpered. “I always loved you…so beautiful…why…Mama…Why…?”

Now, at the Amhurst house, with the wind rising and screaming outside, Diedre stared at Jack. She blinked. Shook the image out of her head. It had been a dream, only a dream. A nightmare.

Right?

She’d visited Marla plenty of times since then…and…and…Her throat tightened. In her mind’s eye, she remembered falling to her knees, holding the dead woman, crying and rocking. “You’re not dead,” she’d whispered over and over, “You are not dead. We have so much to do…” And she’d carried her mother downstairs to the room she’d prepared and Marla had slept and…and…she’d gotten better…that was the way it was. Diedre had visited her and spoken with her and fed her and…surely…oh…of course Marla was alive! She was just confused. And Jack, he was using it against her for a reason she didn’t understand. She focused on him now, standing in front of her, half-crazed with anger. “Why are you lying to me?” she demanded, furious with him.

“Goddamn it, Diedre! She’s dead, and I think she has been for a long time.”

She was shaking her head, but the headache, the fog, returned. Through the rising mist she remembered the argument, the gun in her hand…a loud bang and Marla falling, spinning, turning, her face twisted in shock. Now she blinked rapidly, clearing her head. That was a dream. Surely. But Jack was reaching into his jacket, pulling out a videotape wrapped in a plastic bag.

“I thought you would try to deny it,” he muttered, turning on the older model television and VCR, shoving the tape in the recorder. She stared at the snowy screen as he adjusted some of the knobs. “Here we go.” He hit the play button, and a jerky image of a woman reporter standing in front of the bungalow showed on the screen.

The newswoman was holding a microphone in the rain, wincing a little with the blast of wind. “…prison escapee Marla Cahill was found dead this afternoon in the house you see behind me…”

“That’s not right,” Diedre murmured. She had dreamed of killing the bitch, but she’d never actually pulled the trigger…right? She hadn’t killed Marla….

“…partially decomposed body from the house…”

A stretcher covered by a body bag appeared rolling from the back of the house, the rear porch Diedre recognized, to a waiting van from the coroner’s office.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head.

“She wasn’t supposed to die yet, not until we could frame her for the murders. You stupid, stupid bitch, what were you thinking? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

She glared at him. Instead of being proud of her for all the things she’d done for him, he was pissed as hell. Furious, he snapped off the television and the VCR. The house was suddenly silent. Still.

“You were not supposed to kidnap my grandson,” Jack said, so angry he was shaking. “He’s the link. I fought like hell for my son Jack to meet Cissy, and then when they were married, I thought I’d won the lottery. Then she started talking divorce, and you…you messed things up but good. I don’t know why I ever bothered with you.”

“Jack—”

“It’s Jonathan,” he said coldly, denying her the nickname she’d given him, the one like his son’s. She’d thought it cute and playful, and he’d put up with it. Until now.

She leaned against the bed. Everything was changing, swirling in her mind. Did she actually kill the bitch then delude herself into believing that the corpse was actually alive? God, her head ached. She rubbed her temples, trying to think. She remembered several conversations with Marla. Her mother had sat in her chair or on the bed, not speaking, either smirking or pouting…or was it decomposing? But they’d had conversations, about the baby, about Rory, about her damned hair. Diedre remembered trimming her nails, listening to Marla whine in her low voice…that was it…always in the low voice. And only after she was in the room in the basement. That’s when she’d started whispering. Was it possible she hadn’t been complaining? How many times had Diedre wondered why Marla’s voice had been so soft, why she’d spoken when Diedre’s back was turned, why her lips had barely moved.

Oh, God!