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  Followed him home? Panicked nausea rose in Dereon’s throat. “He knows where I live? Where my wife and kids are?”

  “Don’t worry. He won’t kill you unless he needs to.”

  “That’s reassuring!” Dereon said sarcastically, too alarmed to care how he was talking to his superior.

  “It is, actually.” Al heaved a weary sigh. “If he wanted you dead, you already would be. You have to understand how Xavier thinks. He didn’t let us in on that little secret to scare you shitless—though evidently he succeeded in doing that anyway.”

  Being Forge, he couldn’t let Dereon’s panic pass by unremarked. He expected his people to be in control—of their jobs, of the situation, and most of all, of themselves. “He let us know that he’s on top of us, and he also knows that we now have to spend a lot of time and effort trying to find out exactly how he found out. We have to run security checks, we have to put fresh eyeballs on everyone who works here, and we have to turn our vehicles and homes inside out, looking for bugs.”

  Dereon took a deep breath, forcing himself to look at this strategically, the way Forge was doing. “Will we have to move locations?”

  “Possibly, but there’s no guarantee that he doesn’t have physical eyes on us and will simply have us followed to the new location, in which case we’ve gained nothing and wasted resources. There’s also the possibility that by reacting the way we now have to react, he’ll be able to learn even more about us by watching what we do.”

  In other words, Xavier had them by the short hairs, and had his own reasons for letting them in on the secret.

  Chapter Four

  Lizette lay quietly in bed, her mind racing. It was weird, but she felt okay, as if the awful sickness had never happened. She was a little shaky from throwing up so much, but overall … okay. No headache, no nausea, just an almost overwhelming sense of urgency. But, an urgency to do what? She had no idea, unless it was to act as normal as possible.

  Something was seriously wrong when she felt as if acting normal were crucial. She felt well enough to get up, but lying in bed seemed the safest thing she could do right now. Wouldn’t someone who was really sick be lying down? Act normal.

  So many alarming things had happened in such a short space of time that she could barely catch a thought to examine it before another one booted it out, demanding attention. She’d worked at Becker Investments for five years … maybe. She didn’t know. Maryjo had said she hadn’t had a sick day in three years, so did that mean she’d worked there only three years, or had Maryjo simply pulled “three years” out of her hat without any reason? People did that; Maryjo had probably been rushing around, getting ready for work, her mind half on the day ahead of her, so she’d already mentally disconnected from the conversation and “three years” had popped out. It didn’t mean anything.

  Rather, it might not mean anything; taken in context with the fact that she didn’t actually remember going to work for Becker Investments, it could mean a lot.

  Going to work somewhere wasn’t something that would be forgotten. You might forget the last date you went to the dentist; you didn’t forget the first day at a new job—or getting the job in the first place. That was the biggest gap. She had no memory of putting in an application, of talking to anyone. All she could remember was simply living in this house and working at Becker, her routine set and unremarkable, going about every day as if it were exactly like the day before.

  Living … in this house. Dear God, she didn’t remember moving here, either, didn’t remember choosing to live in this suburb of D.C. She just did. She’d simply accepted it, without curiosity, the way she accepted that grass was green, but now that she truly thought about it the gap was terrifying.

  Item: The face in the mirror didn’t match the one in her memory. That was somehow the most important one, yet she quickly shied away from examining it more closely right now.

  Item: She thought she’d worked at Becker Investments for five years, but if it was really three, what had happened to those other two years?

  Item: She didn’t remember starting work at Becker Investments, period.

  Item: She didn’t even remember moving to this little house.

  Item: She was suddenly, inexplicably certain that she was being watched, that her calls were being monitored, that there might even be cameras in the house watching her.

  The most likely explanation for all of those things was that she had either become seriously mentally ill—and overnight, too—or she’d developed a degenerative brain disease, a tumor, something logical even though the possibility was terrifying. A tumor would also explain the nausea, the headache, even the paranoia. The idea was weirdly comforting, because that meant she was sick instead of crazy—

  The phone rang, interrupting that line of thought, and she rolled over to grab the cordless unit from the charger on her bedside table. Diana’s name and cell number showed in the caller ID window. Quickly she thumbed the talk button. “Hi,” she said. Her voice still sounded thick and nasally.

  “How are you feeling? Maryjo said you have that stomach virus.”

  Startled, Lizette glanced at the clock and saw that it was after eight. She’d been lying in bed worrying over what had happened—what was happening—for a lot longer than it seemed. Diana was already at work, and of course would have talked to Maryjo when Lizette didn’t show up on time.

  “The vomiting has eased off, at least for right now,” she replied. “But I think the headache was the worst. It was so bad I thought I might be having a stroke, so I did the stroke test on myself—you know, checked that I could smile, then that I could raise both arms, recited numbers to see if I could remember them.”

  Diana laughed. “I’m sorry, I know you must feel terrible, but I can just see you doing that. Smile—check. Raise arms—check. Remember numbers—check. Even when you’re sick, you make all of your ducks get in a row.”

  “Ducks are unpredictable; you have to crack the whip over them or they go renegade and cause all sorts of trouble.”

  “Your ducks are the most well-behaved ducks I’ve ever seen,” Diana assured her, still laughing a little. “Now, have you called your doctor?”

  “No, I went back to bed and must have dozed off. I don’t have a regular doctor, anyway. If I don’t start feeling better, I’ll go to a pharmacy and pick up something for nausea. Or see a doc-in-a-box.”

  “You need a regular doctor.”

  “Doctors are for sick people. I don’t need one when I’m healthy.” And yet … she’d had a regular doctor, Dr. Kazinski, when she was younger. She’d had regular checkups and flu vaccinations, Pap smears and mammograms, the whole be-responsible-for-your-health deal. But then she’d moved, and for some reason she hadn’t gotten a new primary care physician. Why hadn’t—pain speared her temples, and she leaped off that train of thought like a hobo. Sure enough, the pain ebbed, and she could concentrate on what Diana was saying.

  “But you aren’t healthy now, and here you are, without a regular doctor.”

  “It’s just a virus. It’ll wear off on its own. The only danger is if I get dehydrated, and I’ll be on the watch for that.”

  Diana sighed. “Well, I can’t make you go. But I’ll check on you again when I get off work, okay?”

  “Okay. And—thanks.” Thanks for caring. Thanks for taking the time to check on me. It struck Lizette as she disconnected the call that, other than Diana, there was literally no one else in her life who would do these things.

  How had that happened? When had it happened? Growing up, and in college, she’d had a multitude of friends around her. Family, not so much, not since her parents died. She had an uncle in Washington state … maybe. She hadn’t had any contact with him in years, so he might have moved—hell, might have died. There were also some cousins she hadn’t seen since she started grade school; she wasn’t certain she could remember their names, had no idea who her female cousins might have married or where they lived. She wished she’d made more of