Lisa Jackson - Shiver

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SHIVER LISA JACKSON

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KENSINGTON BOOKS http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

For Jack and Betty Pederson, incredible parents, great friends, and people who believed I could do anything. Thanks Mom and Dad!

Acknowledgments

There were many people involved in getting this book to print, all of whom were intregral. I want to thank my editor, John Scognamiglio for his insight, vision, input, support, and ultimate patience. Man, did he work hard on this one. As did my sister, Nancy Bush, who was not only my cheerleader and personal editor, she picked up the other balls of my life and juggled them effectively, never once losing her cool. Thanks,Nan .

Also, I have to thank my incredible agent, Robin Rue, and everyone at Kensington Books, especially Laurie Parkin, who also worked very hard on this one.

In addition, I would like to mention all the people here who helped me: Ken Bush, Kelly Bush, Matthew Crose, Michael Crose, Alexis Harrington, Danielle Katcher, Marilyn Katcher, Ken Melum, Roz Noonan, Kathy Okano, Samantha Santistevan, Mike Sidel, and Larry Sparks.

If I've forgotten anyone, my apologies. You've all been wonderful.

Author's Note

For the purposes of the story, I've bent some of the rules of police procedure and have also created my own

ctitious police department.

This book was written pre-Hurricane Katrina, before the incredible city ofNew Orleans and the surroundingGulfCoast were decimated by the storm. I hope I've captured the unique essence ofNew Orleans , what it once was and what it will be again.

PROLOGUE

Twenty years earlier Our Lady of Virtues Hospital Near New Orleans, Louisiana

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he felt his breath. Warm. Seductive. Erotically evil. A presence that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to lift, her skin to prickle, sweat to collect upon her spine.

Her heart thumped, and barely able to move, standing in the darkness, she searched the shadowed corners of her room frantically. Through the open window she heard the reverberating songs of the frogs in the nearby swamps and the rumble of a train upon faraway tracks.

But here, now, he was with her.

Go away, she tried to say, but held her tongue, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't notice her standing near the window. On the other side of the panes, security lamps illuminated the grounds with pale, bluish light, and she realized belatedly that her body, shrouded only by a sheer nightgown, was silhouetted in

their eerie glow.

Of course he could see her, find her in the darkness.

He always did.

Throat dry, she stepped backward, placing a hand on the window casing to steady herself. Maybe she had just imagined his presence. Maybe she hadn't heard the door open after all. Maybe she'd jumped up from a drug-induced sleep too quickly. After all, it wasn't late, only

eight in the evening.

Maybe she was safe in this room, her room, on the third floor.

Maybe.

She was reaching for the bedside light when she heard the soft scrape of leather against hardwood.

Her throat closed on a silent scream.

Having adjusted to the half-light, her eyes took in the bed with its mussed sheets, evidence of her

tful rest. Upon the dressing table was the lamp and a bifold picture frame; one that held small portraits of her two daughters. Across the small room was a fireplace. She could see its decorative tile and cold grate and, above the mantle, a bare spot, faded now where a mirror had once hung.

So where was he? She glanced to the tall windows. Beyond, the October night was hot and sultry. In

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the panes she could see her wan reflsmall-boned frame; sad gold eyes; high cheekbones; lustrous auburn hair pulled away from her face. And behind her... was that a shadow creeping near?

Or her imagination ? That was the trouble. Sometimes he hid. But he was always nearby. Always. She could feel him, hear his soft, determined footsteps in the

hallway, smell his scent-a mixture of male musk and sweat-catch a glimpse of a quick, darting shadow as

he passed. There was no getting away from him. Ever. Not even in the dead of night. He received great satisfaction in surprising her, sneaking up on her while she was sitting at her desk, leaning down behind her when she was kneeling at her bedside. He was always ready to press his face to the back of her neck, to reach around her and touch her breasts, arousing her though she loathed him, pulling her tightly against him so that she could feel his erection against her back. She wasn't safe when she was under the thin spray of the shower, nor while sleeping beneath the covers of her small bed.

How ironic that they had placed her here... for her own safety. "Go away," she whispered, her head pounding, her thoughts disjointed. "Leave me alone!" She blinked and tried to focus. Where was he? Nervously she trained her eyes on the one hiding place, the closet. She licked her lips. The wooden door

was ajar, just slightly, enough that anyone inside could peer through the crack. From the small sliver of darkness within the closet, something seemed to glimmer. A reection. Eyes? Oh, God. Maybe he was inside. Waiting. Gooseesh broke out on her skin. She should call out to someone, but if she did, she would be

restrained, medicated... or worse. Stop it, Faith. Don't get paranoid! But the glittering eyes in the closet watched her. She felt them. Wrapping one arm around her middle, the other folded over it, she scraped

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her nails on the skin of her elbow.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

But maybe this was all a bad dream. A nightmare. Wasn't that what the sisters had assured her in their soft whispers as they gently patted her hands and stared at her with compassionate, disbelieving eyes? An ugly dream. Yes! A nightmare of vast, intense proportions. Even the nurse had agreed with the nuns, telling her that what she'd thought she'd seen wasn't real. And the doctor, cold, clinical, with the bedside manner of a stone monkey, had talked to her as if she were a small, stupid child.

"There, there, Faith, no one is following you," he'd said, wearing a thin, patronizing smile. "No one is watching you. You know that. You're... you're just confused. You're safe here. Remember, this is your home now."

Tears burned her eyes and she scratched more anxiously, her short

ngernails running over the smooth skin of her forearm, encountering scabs. Home? This monstrous place? She closed her eyes, grabbed the headboard of the bed to steady herself.

Was she really as sick as they said? Did she really see people who weren't there? That's what they'd told her, time and time again, to the point that she was no longer certain what was real and what was not. Maybe that was the plot against her, to make her believe she was as crazy as they insisted she was.

She heard a footstep and looked up quickly. The hairs on the backs of her arms rose. She began to shake as she saw the door crack open a bit more. "Sweet Jesus." Trembling, she backed up, her gaze ngers scraping her forearm

xed on the closet, her like mad. The door creaked open in slow motion. "Go away!" she whispered, her stomach knotting as full-blown terror took root.

A weapon! You need a weapon! Anxiously, she looked around the near-dark room with its bed bolted to the oor. Get your letter opener! Now! She took one step toward the desk before she remembered that Sister Madeline had taken the letter

opener away from her. The lamp on the night table! But it, too, was screwed down. She pressed the switch. Click.