Chapter 11

At Belle Coiffure, Rachel was cutting a client’s hair when a sharp pain burst in her head, as if she’d been bludgeoned.

Her client was a regal, forty-something black woman named Maxine. Maxine was a principal at a high school in College Park, and she had a standing weekly appointment with Rachel to get her hair washed and styled, or trimmed.

Rachel had been Maxine’s stylist for over a year, and they had developed an easy, though superficial, camaraderie. That afternoon, they were discussing holiday plans—or rather, Maxine was discussing her plans for the holidays. Rachel kept her own business private, an ingrained habit, but she listened closely and asked good questions.

Although Rachel’s listening skills made her a client favorite, she had difficulty following Maxine’s stated worries about planning Christmas dinner for her extended family. Rachel was consumed by her own troubles: worry about her ever-growing number of lies to Joshua, natural worry about her pregnancy.

Most of all, worry about him—the man from her past whom she refused to think of by name, as if doing so would conjure him out of the atmosphere like an evil spirit.

Surfing the Web late last night, she’d confirmed his recent release from prison in Illinois. It didn’t require psychic talent to predict that he would be looking for her.

He blamed her, after all, for his incarceration.

Although she’d heard that some people who went to prison learned forgiveness, he did not possess a heart that had the capacity for such an emotion. Actually, she was convinced that he didn’t possess a heart at all. He was as cold and soulless as an android in a sci-fi movie: a machine that mimicked humanity, but didn’t hold genuine feelings for anyone.

Except to hurt them.

“—and I was hoping you could give me your recipe before I leave today,” Maxine said.

“Recipe?” Rachel lowered her scissors. She’d missed Maxine’s last few sentences. “Recipe for what?”

There was a wall-length mirror in front of them. Maxine frowned at Rachel’s reflection in the glass. “For your pound cake, girl. Of course.”

“Right.” Rachel laughed. “Sure, I can—“

Then the pain hit. Like a mallet cracking against her skull.

Rachel gasped. Her scissors popped out of her fingers and clattered to the floor.

Maxine twisted around in the styling chair to look at her. “Are you okay?”

The salon had fallen silent. Every stylist and client looked at Rachel, alarmed.

Rachel felt the area of her head where the pain had erupted. She glanced at her fingers, expecting to see blood. But there was none.

It’s not me. It’s Aunt Betty.

The knowledge rose in her, and she knew it was accurate. She been exposed to such phenomena her entire life and had learned to accept it without question.

In seconds, the ache passed, but it left behind questions. Was the pain a premonition of something soon to befall her aunt? Or had Rachel experienced the pain in real-time?

She wasn’t sure, but of one thing she was certain: he was responsible.

“Rachel?” Tanisha came to her side. She touched Rachel’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I need to go in the back. Can you get someone to finish Maxine’s cut?” She glanced at Maxine, who stared at her, concerned. “I hope you don’t mind, Maxine, and I promise to get that pound cake recipe to you soon.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Tanisha said. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Migraine,” Rachel said. “Hit me all of a sudden. I’m going to take an Advil and lie down for a little while.”

Although Tanisha frowned, clearly disbelieving her story, she didn’t question Rachel further. Rachel made a beeline to the back office and shut the door, locked it.

Hugging herself, she sat at her desk. Stared at the telephone.

One of the rules of running away and starting a new life was simple: never contact the loved ones you’d left behind, except under the most carefully controlled conditions. For three long, lonely years, Rachel had managed to abide by that critical rule.

She’d last spoken to Aunt Betty earlier that year, on her aunt’s seventieth birthday. She’d phoned her aunt with a calling card she’d had one of her stylists purchase while on vacation in Orlando. Rachel had used the card only once, and then she’d cut it up. Being super careful had become a way of life.

But she didn’t have time to take those extreme precautions. Her aunt was—or soon would be—in grave danger, and every second was crucial.

She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer. Then she reached for the phone.