Samantha Morgan settled down at her desk, breathing in the warm scent of her lemon and chamomile tea. Checking the time again, she saw that she had about twenty minutes before her first client of the day. She breathed a sigh, trying to flush the chaos of the morning from her thoughts. Sean had been more difficult to rouse and get out the door that morning, stalling and dallying until he was nearly too late to catch the bus for school.
What is it with him sometimes?
She was willing to attribute some of it to predictable adolescent resistance, but sometimes it lapsed into outright defiance. While that too was often a commonplace trait of mid-adolescence, the expressions and gestures that he exhibited during those outbursts sometimes resonated just a little too much with those of his father. While it was not those eruptions of anger that had caused Samantha to leave him, a chill knifed through her whenever she witnessed them in Sean.
The clatter of something hard against ceramic tile sounded from the kitchen, pulling her from the potentially treacherous currents of that stream of thought. Alex smiled, contented and amused, picturing easily in her mind Alex’s routine to fill a travel mug with coffee—French roast, one sugar, no creamer—before beginning the drive to the law office where Alex interned. The commute sucked, but the opportunity was fantastic. If Alex could secure a permanent position there as a junior partner, it could mean so many good things for all of them.
Samantha clicked over to her e-mail and scanned the scrolling list of messages that had arrived during the night. Most of them, as usual, she saw that she could ignore or automatically delete; a few she flagged for later reading—mainly links to newsletters and journal articles. A small handful, from close friends and clients that she found genial and supportive, she began to read immediately.
The fifth one she came to was from one of her small number of male clients. Unlike some of her clients, he rarely sent her more than maybe two or three messages between their weekly sessions. Those that he did send tended to be, if not insightful, at least wittily humorous. She selected the message, prepared to smile in appreciation.
A cold chill washed through her. She felt the blood drain from her face. Above the keyboard In front of her, her hands trembled. The world took on an odd, distant feel. Sounds receded to distant whispers.
“Sam?”
Alex’s voice penetrated the swirling mental fog that threatened to engulf her.
“Sam?”
Her name was repeated, this time with an even higher pitch of concern. She was aware of Alex’s presence at her shoulder.
“Sam?” Alex repeated, this time almost demanding in tone. “What’s wrong?”
Samantha wanted to the turn away, to look at Alex, at view anything other than the image that she now saw on her screen.
She tried to take a breath, but it caught, coming out as a shudder. Unable to turn away, she willed her eyelids to close, to shutter her away her sight.
Darkness descended before her, although it required a focus of inner strength that she would not have imagined in order to achieve it. She took a short, experimental breath. When she found that she was able to take one, she breathed deeper. Between that, and the self-imposed darkness, her head began to clear. For a brief moment, she wondered if she looked ridiculous. Still, she was unwilling to open her eyes. Not yet.
Samantha felt Alex’s hand come to rest on her shoulder. “Sam.” When she did not respond, the hand tightened its grip. “Sam!”
With tremendous effort, Samantha turned in her chair to face Alex. Her eyelids flickered and she could not be certain whether her unwillingness to open them was a conscious one or not.
Alex’s worried face stared down at her. One hand still rested on Samantha’s shoulder; the other held a steaming commuter mug. The acrid aroma of the coffee helped to steady her, although only slightly.
“Sam,” Alex repeated with sharp concern. And then, almost angrily, “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
The quasi-accusatory tone of Alex’s question swept away the last of the paralysis from her. A hollow knot formed in her stomach. She felt as though she wanted to weep with despair, but neither tears nor cries would come.
Samantha swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight and she nearly coughed. She looked up at Alex, but found herself unwilling to speak. Managing a ragged sigh, she turned her head back toward the computer screen. After a moment silent puzzlement, Alex’s tracked along with hers.
They both stared at the bright display for a long moment. Samantha’s gaze glided past the image itself. She was unable—unwilling—to focus on it, fixing on a point somewhere past it.
“I don’t get it.”
Alex sounded genuinely perplexed.
Of course, said a voice within her head. It sounded unlike her own. She couldn’t know . . .
“It a sign,” Samantha whispered. “A message,” she went on, her voice still soft. “A warning.”
“A warning?” Alex sounded incredulous. “It’s just a—“
A sharp blast interrupted her. Samantha recognized it as the horn from the Acura SUV from Alex’s carpool.
“Shit!” Alex’s hand released its hold on Samantha shoulder. Alex moved away quickly, almost stumbling. The commuter mug jiggled unsteadily in Alex’s other hand.
“Look,” Alex said, looking sincerely apologetic. “I’ll call you from the road.” Bending down, Alex placed a light kiss on Samantha’s cheek. “You can explain it to me then.”
Samantha watched, mute, as Alex bustled out the front door, now juggling both the commuter mug and a briefcase.
The sharp tang of a cold autumn morning cut through the room before the door closed again. It was enough to bring Samantha back almost wholly to her senses. Samantha almost cried out for Alex not to call, realizing that she would probably be working with her client by then, but knew that it was too late. She would have to ignore the call, if it came.
Bree, she realized with a renewed sense of horror. I need to tell Bree.
#
Sabrina Duncan glanced at the flashing amber-colored icon at the bottom of her screen, trying to decide whether she should pause in her work to find out who it was. The project that she was working on was not particularly difficult, but it did require a lot of focused attention. It was also already more than a day overdue.
She sighed, lightly rubbed her closed eyelids with the tips of her fingers, and decided that she deserved a short break. As it was, her tea was cold, and she wanted a fresh cup of it. She ran a hand through her short, russet-colored hair—currently sporting a broad streak of deep maroon—and failed to fully suppress a yawn.
Tapping on the glowing icon, Sabrina waited as it restored itself to a standard-sized chat window. Several people had tried to get her attention while she had been working. Most of them she did not want to talk to right now. She was surprised, however, to see that one of the notifications belonged to Samantha.
It was not that she never chatted with Samantha. Since her friend’s business had grown, and she had taken on more and more new clients, it was rare to hear from her during the day. They tended to talk more at night, when their respective family obligations allowed for it. It had been several months since she had consulted with Samantha on a professional basis.
A tight knot formed in her gut when she read Samantha’s message:
SENDING YOU SOMETHING. NEED TO TALK ASAP.
Sabrina glanced at the ancient mariner’s clock mounted into the bulkhead. It read less than two minutes before the hour.
She must have a client right now.
Sabrina resisted the urge to answer anyway. While Samantha was did not always begin her sessions promptly, she did try to be on time. She was not going to be the potential source of her tardiness this time.
Frowning at the short, and fairly cryptic, message, Sabrina brought up her e-mail program. She manually instructed it to check for new messages and waited for any to appear. At first, she thought none were forthcoming, that perhaps Sam’s client had called before she could send it, and then four appeared in her inbox. The second one was from Samantha.
Sabrina opened it, noting that it held an attachment. She saw then who the original sender had been, and, of course, had recognized the name instantly. Something stirred within her as she opened the attached file. It then turned cold, as if someone had plunged an icicle into her belly.
Fuck.
And then, as thought and memories returned.
Finally.
#
He stares at the computer screen. His hands still rest lightly upon the keyboard. He has done what he had promised to do. The warning has been sent. Now, it was up to them to decide to stop him—or decide whether or not he should be stopped. He had finally reconciled himself to the understanding that what he wanted was not justice, except perhaps on a very personal, limited scale. It was revenge.
Tapping on an unremarkable icon, just one among many neatly aligned across his virtual desktop, he brings up the list of names once again. He studies them, reliving for an instant the crimes and sins that each of them had committed against him. Very little of the pain and anger has been dulled with time and repetition. If anything, the wounds feel fresh again each time he revisits them.
From the list, he selects a single name. And then he begins to write.
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