Part I

'Wrapped inside a twisted world

I can't decide what is even real anymore

As though I ever knew . . .'

1

i.

It had rained hard the night before. Lying motionless in the big four-poster bed, she'd listened as the drops hammered the roof, her heart thundering in her chest. Finally, in desperation, she'd smothered her ears with the pillow.

It didn't help.

She could still hear them—the staccato beats reverberating relentlessly through the night, like endless rounds of gunfire. Gritting her teeth, she swallowed back the screams that involuntarily rose from her throat.

But terror, like the rain, vanished at the first light of dawn. Unable to stay closed up in the house any longer, she filled a mug with coffee, threw on her windbreaker and trudged the short path to the beach. It was only here, in this wide, untamed space, that she felt able to breathe again.

Taking her customary seat on the beached log, she let her gaze wander. The morning was unusually still; barely a ripple marred the glass-like surface of the big lake that stretched as far as the eye could see. The cold, wet sand squishing between her toes was the only memento of Mother Nature's nighttime melee. And soon even that reminder would be gone. The red-orange ball of sun rising up out of the water would quickly see to that.

"Hey there."

She set down her coffee and turned in the direction of the shouted greeting, smiling at the tall figure of a man approaching from down the beach, tennis shoes in hand. Moving over, she made room on the log.

"You're up awfully early."

He grinned and shrugged. "I felt an uncontrollable urge to take a walk this morning."

She lifted her eyebrows. "A walk?"

"Yeah, a walk." He lowered himself to sit beside her and playfully nudged her shoulder. "Can't a guy take a walk on the beach every now and then?"

"Sure," she laughed, "just usually not a guy who barely functions before noon."

"Yeah, well, I hear rising at the crack of dawn is good for you."

"Uh-huh." Shaking her head, she smoothed his tousled, sandy-brown hair with her fingers. "It's not that I don't appreciate the thought, but I really am okay."

"Sure you are." He stilled her trembling hand and brought it to his mouth for a light kiss. "You don't have to be strong for me. I know how much you hate storms."

She eased her fingers from his grasp and picked up her mug. Sipping deliberately at her coffee, she dug a small hole in the sand with her toes. "I'm okay."

"All right, you win. I'll back off." He ran his hand through his hair in a short, jerky motion. "You really are the most exasperating woman I know."

The gesture made her feel oddly comforted, and she smiled in spite of herself. "I really am okay, sweetheart." Scooting closer, she tried to reassure him. "I can deal with it."

"I know you can." Leaning in, he placed a tender kiss on her forehead. "I just wish you wouldn't insist on dealing with it all alone."

Glancing over her shoulder at the cabin snuggled amid the tall pine trees, she let out a small sigh. "It's getting late—Annie will be waking up any minute."

"Avoiding the subject won't make it go away."

"I know." Rising stiffly, she extended her hand. "Come on up to the house. I'll fix you a big breakfast you can pretend to eat, and then we can both walk Annie over to Mrs. MacKensie's."

She started toward the cabin but he planted his feet in the sand and pulled her against him. She felt herself relax as he cradled her in his arms. Her body had a will of its own, it seemed, completely separate from her mind. As his lips brushed through her hair, she snuggled deeper into his embrace, allowing him to kiss away her last uneasy feelings. "I love you, Mandy," he mumbled. "Even with all your exasperating stubbornness."

She breathed deeply against his chest. "I know, Brad. I know."

ii

Dr. Bradley A. Stevenson had a flourishing medical practice. That it was the only medical practice in Harrisville was beside the point; the residents of the tiny northern Michigan hamlet truly esteemed him.

As was evidenced by his overflowing waiting room. Young, old and in-between, they all came—children, for his unending stash of lollipops, the elderly, because he always listened to their catalogue of aches and pains, and the women . . . well, there was no denying it—Brad Stevenson was a very good looking man.

"So, Mrs. Keane, when are you two finally going to tie the knot?"

Mandy looked up into a pair of teasing eyes. "Now, Mrs. Johnstone," she answered with a short laugh, "you know Dr. Stevenson only has eyes for you. You are his favorite patient, after all."

The woman blushed to a becoming shade of scarlet. "Oh, dearie, how you do go on. Same time next week okay?"

Mandy smiled. "I have you down. Goodbye, Mrs. Johnstone. Say hello to Herman for me."

"And you say hello to that precious little daughter of yours."

As the door clanged shut, Mandy shook off the odd feeling of déjà vu that always accompanied an encounter with Edith Johnstone. The short, plump woman, whose hair was perpetually done up in a bun, conjured the image of a cherished aunt—a whole bevy of them, actually. Uncles, too. And if that wasn't odd enough, there was a sensory component as well—the flavorful aroma of bread, fresh from the oven. Of course, the mind was a complex instrument, capable of twists, turns and offbeat connections; she'd learned that all too well over the past five years.

"Is that the last patient for today?" At the sound of Brad's voice, she involuntarily clutched the desk. "Sorry," he chuckled. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't." She leaned back in the chair, making a conscious effort to relax. "I heard you coming. I don't know what's gotten into me today."

"You're really tight," Brad said as he began to massage her neck.

Mandy squirmed beneath his fingers. "Nothing that a good night's sleep won't cure. I'm just tired, that's all."

He leaned closer, his lips tickling her ear. "Then why don't you call it a day?"

"You've still got the Taney twins at four-thirty."

"I think I can handle giving tetanus shots to a pair of sixteen year olds."

"I don't know about that. They have a pretty big crush on you, in case you haven't noticed."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. They think you're pretty cute."

"I am cute." Brad laughed, the low, throaty one that always warmed Mandy deep inside. "But don't worry, there's only one woman around here whose opinion matters to me. In case you haven't noticed," he added, nibbling her earlobe.

"Brad, come on." She jumped up, quickly putting some distance between them. "We've talked about this—"

"Mandy—"

"I mean it. When we're at work, we have to behave like we're at work . . ." Biting her tongue, she turned away.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she whispered.

Brad expelled a deep breath. "It happened again, didn't it?"

Shivering, Mandy hugged herself. "They said at the clinic that it would occur from time to time. I should be used to it by now, but . . ." She shrugged, the light soprano voice of the sympathetic clinic doctor echoing in her ears. Sensory memories, the woman had called them, imprinted on her mind. Vague impressions of things that might—or might not—have been. "I guess the storm last night must have triggered it."

Coming up behind her, Brad wrapped her in his arms. "Honey, you shouldn't be alone at night, especially when it rains. If you'd only agree to marry me—"

"We've been over this time and time again, Brad." She sighed. "I can't marry you—not until I know for sure who I am."

"I know who you are. You're the woman I love—a sweet, wonderful, gentle woman who goes out of her way to avoid stepping on a bug."

She twisted out of his arms. "Then tell me how that sweet, gentle woman ended up with all these scars." Shuddering, she trailed her fingers across her chest to her shoulder, fingering each puckered mark. "Not exactly scratches—"

"Mandy—"

"They're bullet wounds."

"People are victims of crime every day."

"Yeah, right."

Brad gave her a thoughtful look. "You know, maybe it was raining when it happened—that could explain your fear."

Mandy bit her lip. "You make it all sound so reasonable, I almost believe you."

"I don't give a damn who you were, Mandy Keane—do you hear me?" His expression grew even more purposeful. "I love the woman you are. That's what matters."

"I wish that was true."

"We'll make it true." He took her by the arms, shaking her lightly. "Just stop thinking and let yourself feel. Marry me, Mandy."

"I can't, Brad." Her voice cracked. "I can't marry anyone. It wouldn't be fair."

He stiffened. "And if you never discover who you were?"

"I . . . just . . . don't . . . know." Turning away, she paced the small receptionist's office. "I'm sorry. You've been so good to me. You were a friend when I really needed one, even gave me this job—"

He snorted. "You make me sound like some kind of saint. Believe me, I'm far from it. I happen to love you, emotional baggage and all. You and Annie both."

She sent him a soft smile. "Annie adores you; you know that."

Crossing the room, he cupped her face and brushed his thumbs across her jaw line. "And Annie's mother? Does she adore me, too?"

"You know how I feel."

"I do." He touched his mouth to hers. "But I'd still like to hear you say it."

She closed her hand over his. "I don't have the right."

He started to say something then changed his mind. Crushing her to him, he claimed her lips, his tongue possessively seeking entrance to her mouth. His body, so firm against hers, demanded a response. This much she couldn't deny him. She kissed him back, hard and long, the sensation sending the pit of her stomach into a swirl. It would be so easy to give in to Brad's heady persuasion. She needed him, needed someone in her life who was good and pure and uncomplicated . . .

The titter of adolescent laughter broke the moment. Disentangling herself from his embrace, she met his gaze with shining eyes. "I think we have an audience."

Grinning, he wiped her lipstick from his mouth. "The Taney twins, no doubt."

"No doubt." Smoothing her hair back into some semblance of order, she bent to retrieve her purse from her desk drawer. "I think I will take you up on your offer and get out of here. I need to spend some time with Annie."

"Mandy . . ." He reached out, his fingers leaving a tingling excitement in their wake as they trailed down her bare forearm. "Can I come over tonight? Later? After Annie's asleep?"

The hopeful look in his eyes touched a chord deep inside, a wellspring of feeling longing to come back to life. Brad was right; maybe she did think too much. "I guess I'll see you later, then," she whispered as she slipped out the door.

iii

"Mommy, come see my picture!"

Mandy tucked the dish she was holding safely into the cupboard then walked to the kitchen table to bend over the tiny wisp of a girl. "That's wonderful, sweetheart."

The child nodded her agreement as she pointed to each stick figure. "That's you . . . and me. . . and Uncle Brad."

"Yes, I can see that."

"I didn't do it all myself," she admitted, with a deep sigh. "Miz 'Kensie helped with the writing part."

"It's beautiful, Annie." She smoothed her daughter's fair hair, the soft curls slipping easily through her fingers. A summer on the beach had bleached the wavy ends blonde, and she couldn't help but compare it to her own dark hair, whose blunt tips barely brushed her shoulders. "Shall we hang it up?"

The child nodded, and Mandy affixed the colorful drawing to the smooth surface of the refrigerator with a magnet, then stood back to admire her child's handiwork once again. The three figures stared blithely at her—man, woman, and child—their stick hands almost touching. Across the top of the page, Annie had scribbled the words, "My Family." It should have made perfect sense, but Mandy couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was missing.

At length, she tore her eyes away from the picture. "Come on, Munchkin, it's past your bedtime."

"Aww, Mommy, can't I stay up just a little longer? I want to say goodnight to Uncle Brad."

"Uncle Brad isn't coming over until late, he has rounds at the hospital. Tell you what—I'll read you one story before you go to sleep. And not that one," she warned before Annie could say anything. "It's too long."

"Please, Mommy," she begged, "just the end."

Mandy relented as Annie pinned her with her ardent, four-year-old gaze. "Oh, okay, but just the last chapter. Hop into bed while I find it. Go on now, scoot." Patting the child's little round bottom, she hustled her daughter toward the bedroom and went in search of the beloved book.

She finally found it, half under the sofa, next to a white t-shirt and the pair of black patent leather dress shoes Annie had been searching for all week. She'd have to have a serious talk with that young lady—it was high time she stopped mistaking the living room for a clothes hamper.

It was hard to be firm with her, though, as she lay angelically in her "big girl" bed, her tiny face sticking out from the covers she'd pulled up under her chin. Just like a little doll. Mandy remembered thinking that very thing in the hospital, as she'd held the sweet, new life in her arms. When the nurse had inquired about the name for the birth certificate, she'd answered without hesitation, "Lois Anne." It was an offbeat name in a nursery full of Meghan's and Brittany's, and as time passed, her small daughter had become simply "Annie" to all who knew her.

Smiling at the memory, Mandy eased herself down, leaning against the headboard as she began the nightly bedtime ritual. "Okay, here we go."

"Here we go," the little girl echoed, her big hazel eyes lighting up her small face. Those were the features that had first struck her—not Annie's perfect cherub nose, nor the soft, delicate curve of her porcelain cheek—but her eyes. Big eyes, expressive eyes . . . really beautiful eyes. They called out to her, spoke to something buried deep within her heart.

Clearing the lump from her throat, she began to read. "'Before they went to see Glinda, however, they were taken to a room of the Castle, where Dorothy washed her face and combed her hair, and the Lion shook the dust out of his mane, and the Scarecrow patted himself into his best shape, and the Woodman polished his tin and oiled his joints . . .'"

Annie loved to hear her stories over and over again. This past summer she'd latched onto "The Wizard of Oz." Mandy was in a fair way of knowing it by heart, and she had a feeling Annie was as well.

Taking a deep breath, she read on. "'My greatest wish now is to get back to Kansas, for Aunt Em will surely think something dreadful has happened to me, and that will make her put on mourning; and unless the crops are better this year than they were last, I am sure Uncle Henry cannot afford it.'"

Stifling a yawn, Mandy continued, "And the Woodman didn't have a heart . . . he was the heartless one . . ."

A little hand tugged on her shirtsleeve. "That's not in the story."

"What?" Mandy looked up. "Oh, sorry, honey. I guess my mind wandered for a minute. Where was I?"

Annie folded her arms across her chest. "Skip to the part where they say goodbye. I like that best."

Mandy's eyes darted over the pages until she found the right spot. "'She threw her arms around the Lion's neck,'" she read quickly to cover the catch in her voice, "and kissed him, patting his big head tenderly. Then she kissed the Tin Woodman, who was weeping in a way most dangerous to his joints . . .'"

The words blurred before her eyes. She forced herself to continue. "'But she hugged the soft, stuffed body of the Scarecrow in her arms instead of kissing his painted face, and found . . .'"

"Mommy . . ."

"What, sweetie?" she croaked.

"You're crying."

"No, I'm . . ." Mandy frowned as she touched the tears that were streaming down her face.

"It's all right," the child said, shaking her honey-colored curls. "It all turns out okay. Dorothy finds her way home just fine."

Wiping her wet cheeks, she let out a deep sigh. "I know. Come on now," she forced a cheery voice, "let's get some sleep. We'll read some more tomorrow night, I promise."

"'Kay." Annie scooted down and squeezed her eyes shut. "'Night, Mommy. Sleep tight . . ."

"Don't let the bedbugs bite," she finished then placed a kiss on the smooth forehead. She sat patiently on the edge of the bed until the child's even breathing told her she was close to sleep. Tucking the covers around her daughter one final time, Mandy tiptoed from the room.

iv

An undefined restlessness permeated the crisp fall air tonight. Glancing at her watch, she noted for the third time that Brad was late. Blowing out a sharp breath, she grabbed a magazine, flipping through the pages as she kept one eye on the door. Giving up, she tossed the "Ladies Home Journal" back on the coffee table and abandoned her seat on the couch.

Arms folded across her chest, Mandy paced the small area that served as living room, dining room and den, all rolled into one. The tiny cottage on the shores of Lake Huron had been winterized just prior to her arrival in Harrisville. The living space, sufficient for summer tourist rentals, was clearly inadequate for the year-round market, and the owner had been unable to rent it. The lack of space didn't matter to Mandy. The cabin suited her needs perfectly—separate bedrooms for her and for Annie, a kitchen to cook their meals and square footage that didn't require much upkeep.

But it was the view that had compelled her to take the house. Off the main room sat a spacious pine deck and beyond the deck—the lake. There was something hypnotic about the big expanse of blue-green water, ever in motion, never stagnant. It wove its spell around her, working its way into her weary soul, helping her to heal again.

She'd barely left her seat by the window that first year, brooding silently as she awaited the birth of her child then later rocking her small daughter as she sat, watching, watching, watching . . . as the summer breeze billowed the colorful sails that floated by . . . as the November gales whipped the waves into frothy white caps . . . as the bitter winter winds forced giant flows of ice against the snowy shore . . . as, bit by bit, the frozen chunks broke loose and drifted away, to melt into yet another summer season.

The second year brought Brad Stevenson to her. Mesmerized by the sunlight as it danced upon the water that cool, August morning, she hadn't seen him until it was too late. Straining to catch her after their collision, he'd lost his own balance, and they'd both tumbled into the lake. Even now the sequence of events was still cloudy in her mind—one minute they were sitting waist deep in the water, waves crashing over them, and the next, on the veranda of the fashionable Au Sable Inn, a waiter in a starched white jacket serving Long Island iced teas as she tried in vain to explain that she simply didn't "date." She didn't know why Brad succeeded where others had failed—maybe it was the chivalrous way he'd taken responsibility for their mishap; or the way those dimples deepened in his cheeks each time he smiled; or maybe it was simply that, after a year alone with a baby, she'd been starved for some adult conversation.

"Penny for your thoughts."

Mandy smiled. "It'll cost you a dime. Inflation."

Brad tossed his jacket over a chair then brushed his lips across her cheek. "I think I can handle it—I'm a doctor, you know."

"Whose last patient paid him with a barrel of Granny-Smith apples." She shot him a wry grin. "I'm the one who keeps the books, remember?"

"There's no putting anything over on you." He wandered away in search of wine glasses. "Did you hear me come in? You seemed lost in thought."

"Your aftershave. I must have caught a whiff."

"How do you always manage to do that?" His voice floated to her from the kitchen.

Mandy shrugged. "Just talented, I guess." She always seemed to sense when someone approached from behind. It was only one of a number of odd talents she was at a loss to explain.

Evidently aware that they were treading on shaky ground, Brad abruptly changed the subject. "Annie asleep?"

"Like a log. She conked out almost as soon as her head hit the pillow." Mandy sighed as she sank down on the couch. "Something I wish I could do these days."

He materialized at her side, wine glasses in hand. "Maybe this will help."

"Ah, what is it?" she asked cautiously. Brad had returned from his trip to the wine festival in Paw-Paw with some pretty exotic samples.

"Don't worry," he laughed. "This is a harmless little Beaujolais I discovered last week. Like it?"

She took a sip. "Hmmm, it's to die . . . for," she finished in a whisper. Setting her glass on the coffee table, she stood and walked to the window. Damn, there it was again—that awful feeling that she'd been there, done that, one time too many. "Do you think all amnesiacs feel this way?" she wondered aloud.

"What way?"

Tension had crept into his voice, but she couldn't stop herself. "Like they're on a television show perpetually stuck in reruns."

"Mandy, honey—"

"I'm serious, Brad." She swiveled to face him. "I'm asking for a medical opinion here."

"Okay." He placed his glass on the table with slow deliberation then stood to face her. "If you want my professional opinion, I'll give it to you, but I don't think you're going to like it."

Furrowing his brow, he slowly approached her. "You're pushing yourself so hard to remember something—anything—that you're seeing and hearing ghosts where they don't exist. Even the most mundane exchange takes on a familiar quality." He stepped closer, taking her face in his large hands. "They call it the past for a reason, Mandy. Leave it there, where it belongs. It's over and done with. It can't hurt you anymore."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's easy for you to say, Brad. You have a past to leave behind." Hugging herself, she turned back to the window. Tiny dots of light twinkled far out on the horizon—freighters, most likely, making their way back to their home ports. "I don't even know when my birthday is," she said, in a small voice, "or how old I am, for that matter."

"I know, honey, I know." Brad swung her into the circle of his arms, gently rocking her back and forth. "How many times do I have to say it? It doesn't matter. We can face the questions together."

Pushing away, she tried to make him understand. "You said I seemed lost in thought when you came in," she began. "Well, you were right. I was thinking about that first dinner we had together, and what we talked about afterwards—"

"You mean when you took me for a walk by the Paul Bunyan Monument and tried to dump me?" Brad's mouth split into a wide grin. "How could I forget?"

"I didn't want to hurt you. I still don't."

"Mandy—"

"Don't you see, Brad, nothing's changed. I'm still the woman without a past, the woman who woke up in a clinic one fine morning, pregnant, with no idea who . . ." She drew a tremulous breath. "So you see, I don't have the right to get involved with anyone. I have to think about Annie—"

"Yes, you do." Crossing to her, he took her by the arms. "Doesn't she deserve to have a father?"

"She has a father, Brad." Mandy's voice fell to a whisper. "She must have—somewhere."

"A father who very likely abused her mother!"

"Brad—"

"The evidence is right there in front of you, if you'd only see it."

Shivering, she cast her eyes to the floor. They'd all told her—the admitting physician at the clinic, the consulting psychiatrist, and later, Brad—that in all probability she'd been a victim of abuse. She knew she should believe them; they were professionals, after all. But something inside her resisted the idea, maybe the small part of her mind that refused to be relegated to just another domestic violence statistic.

"Mandy . . ." Brad tilted her head up, forced her to look at him. "I know it's hard, sweetheart. I know you're scared—that's why you've had such a hard time committing to me. In your subconscious, you equate love with pain. But it's time to let go. You can't remember the past—so what? Maybe it's better that way. There's a lifetime of memories ahead of you. With me."

"Brad—"

"No, Mandy—no more excuses. I'm done waiting. You need to decide what you want."

"I . . . don't . . ."

With one bold step, he pulled her to him. His arms held her fast, yet his touch was so tender that all her uncertainty suddenly melted away. Apprehension gave way to shock as she felt her body respond with an eagerness she didn't know she possessed. Had Brad been right? How long had she been aching to be touched like this?

Breaking contact as abruptly as he'd initiated it, he stepped back, holding her at arm's length as he looked at her. No apologies, no coercion—just the earnest entreaty of his eyes, asking her to make up her mind, once and for all. Mandy knew she was at a crossroads. She could turn back, toward a painful void, or move forward with the man who loved her.

Unable to speak, she simply nodded. Her pulse quickened as their breathing synched, and she returned his gaze with wonder. Stepping forward, she pressed her lips tentatively to his, a slow, drawn-out moan of pleasure emanating from the back of her throat. She caught another fleeting glimpse of his beautiful hazel eyes as he responded to her gentle pressure—no, that couldn't be right, Brad's eyes were brown—then even that misplaced thought faded as she gave herself up to their kiss.

"Oh, Mandy . . ." He swept her, weightless, into his arms. She moaned softly again, a delightful shiver of desire pulsing through her. It felt so good to be wanted. Brad loved her; this must be right.

Even the short distance to the bedroom seemed too long to wait. They fell onto the couch, their movements infused with a delicious sense of urgency. His touch, firm and persuasive, invited more. She settled back, enjoying the pleasurable weight as he pressed against her, the tantalizing stroking of his fingers as he slipped his hand beneath her shirt.

But instead of responding, she found a knot of fear growing colder and harder in her stomach as each second passed. A voice screaming inside her head ordered her to open her eyes. Blinking against the light, she almost missed it—the tiny dot of red piercing Brad's shoulder.

Mandy didn't hesitate. In one quick motion, she pushed him to the floor then slipped down beside him. Quick, sharp sounds rent the cushions where, only seconds before, they had been lying together.

"What the—"

"Shhh," she commanded harshly, instinct taking over. "Stay down." Fumbling for the lamp cord, she gave it a sharp tug, plunging them into darkness.

Another thwack and the mirror shattered, showering glass over them. Patting her head, Mandy felt a sticky wetness in her hand. "Get Annie," she hissed, shoving Brad in the direction of the crying child as she simultaneously tossed a pillow at the window, redirecting the fire. Swallowing hard, she watched Brad disappear into the darkened hallway.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Mandy knew something bad was happening, but she couldn't allow the thought to take hold. Vainly, she searched the room for any movement, but the penetrating darkness of the woods seemed to be inside as well as out. She couldn't see Annie's room; she could only pray that Brad had reached her in time.

Taking a deep breath, she paused, evaluating the silence. Though the spitting bullets had ceased, the hairs on the back of her neck were prickling up and she suddenly knew—without a doubt—that the inside of the house had been breached.

She needed a weapon. Taking a mental inventory of the room, she quickly dismissed the electric cord as too clumsy. She needed something light, something that would allow her to react—and quickly. The dishes . . . Annie had distracted her earlier with that picture, and she hadn't put away all the dishes.

Belly crawling into the kitchen, she cautiously reached up, feeling along the counter until she found it. She gave her relief only the briefest second to register as her fingers closed over the sharp knife. She could hear noises from the other room, the stealthy movement of bodies creeping ever-closer, cutting her off from Annie. Her only hope now was to make her way outside, then circle around to the front of the house. Holding her breath, she crept across the kitchen floor.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a quick blur of motion. Without hesitation, she sprung, cat-like, and snapped her wrist. The satisfying sound of a loud groan informed her that the missile had found its mark in the intruder's leg.

Now!

Seizing the moment, she threw herself out the back door, tucking and rolling as she hit the ground. Still in motion, she scrambled to her feet, running forward, into the woods.

Not a moment too soon. The ground rocked and sent her crashing down as, seconds later, the cabin exploded into a ball of fire.

Sharp pine needles prickled the sensitive skin of her cheek. Shaking herself, she staggered up on hands and knees, taking in the air in great, heaving gulps. "Annie!" Screaming the name, she jerked her head up, her eyes wildly searching the night. "Annie!"

Her mind in a whirl, she started around the side of the house, but a familiar strong hand drew her back. "Mommy," a small voice sobbed in her ear as two tiny arms transferred from Brad's neck to hers.

"Annie," she cried, clutching the precious bundle to her. "Are you okay?"

"Y-yes-s-s," the child stuttered, her tears mingling with Mandy's. "I'm ok-k-kay."

"Mandy." Brad's voice rang urgently in her ear. "We have to get out of here. Look!"

Twisting away from Annie's grip, Mandy looked up. The flames from the explosion had spread, threatening a disaster feared by all who lived along the lake's wooded shores. "Forest fire," she rasped, instantly comprehending the extent of this new danger. "We've got to get to the car."

"It's too late." Brad tightened his grip on her arm. "We're cut off."

Mandy's eyes widened in alarm as the fire line expanded, as if by magic. She suddenly remembered the stories the old-timers told, about the great conflagration that had destroyed a nearby town over fifty years ago. "This way," she urged, heading for the beach. "We have to go out into the lake."

Running through the sinking sand, they made their way into the water, stopping just short of the sandbar. The lake was freezing, but Mandy barely noticed as she stared at the shore. The fire seemed to grow larger and brighter, while in the distance, the wail of sirens split the night. The volunteer fire department must be on its way, as surely as the Coast Guard boats would have already left the Harrisville docks. They shouldn't be hard to spot; the beach was glowing bright as day.

Shifting Annie up out of the numbing water, she glanced at Brad. His cheeks were streaked with soot and his eyes bore a startled, haunted expression, so different from the passion they'd exhibited earlier. Mandy glared back at the burning woods. For almost five years, she'd struggled to escape the horror of an unknown hell; it had taken less than five minutes to plunge her back into its depths once again.