I'll Be Watching You Page 3

  End of childhood. On to adolescence—and to her tight friendship with Steph.

  Her cousin's life was pretty much a carbon copy of hers. Not a surprise, since Anderson and Frederick Halstead were more like clones than brothers. Ambitious, self-absorbed clones. Steph had grown up in a palatial manor in Bronxville, New York, where her parents still lived, when they weren't abroad. They'd stayed married—probably because neither one wanted the monetary hassles of dividing up their assets.

  The two families hadn't gotten together much when Taylor and Steph were kids, even though the girls were both only children and the same age, and the drive from Bronxville to Manhattan was less than an hour. Even so, they'd bonded during those sporadic get-togethers. They used to tease each other about being City Mouse and Country Mouse, except that neither of them really wanted to go home.

  Their relationship was, hands down, the best thing to come out of both their childhoods. So when their parents decided to send them off to the same boarding school, they viewed it as a chance to solidify their friendship, maybe even to become surrogate sisters. Heaven knew, they both needed some constancy in their lives.

  And, in Steph's case, some stability.

  Emotionally fragile, Steph was starved for attention. Always looking for something to fill the void, she was impetuous, wild, besieged by more highs and lows than Taylor could keep up with—traits that seemed to intensify as the years went by. Her drop-dead beauty didn't help—it just ensured that she was continuously hooking up with the wrong crowd, getting herself into trouble. And Taylor was always there to get her out. Funny, sometimes she felt as if Steph were a kite and she the one at its strings, constantly yanking her cousin back to safety.

  Steph's one healthy outlet was her acting.

  She'd wanted to be an actress since playing Pippi Longstocking in her fourth-grade play. "It's not just because I'm a redhead," she'd confided to Taylor back then. "It's because I'm good. Honest, Taylor, it's like I become Pippi. It's kinda hard to explain. But when I'm up there, everything else goes away."

  Taylor understood, better than Steph realized. The need to escape was as real as her hair color.

  Motivation aside, the truth was, Steph was talented. Taylor saw that firsthand in boarding school, where her cousin snagged the lead in every play—and became every character she portrayed. When they graduated, she'd gone on to study at NYU's Tisch School of the Arts. She was dead set on becoming a Broadway star. She probably would have succeeded, too, if her life hadn't been snatched away.

  Taylor sighed, sinking back in the armchair as she waited for Dr. Phillips. She gazed out the window of the expensively appointed office, watching the snow flurries blow by—tiny white flecks in the darkening sky—and the commuters hurrying toward Grand Central as rush hour hit its peak. She felt wistful. In the past she used to be full of that kind of energy. These days, the only energy she could muster was for her students and her radio audience. When it came to her own life, she was treading water.

  "Hello, Taylor. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting." Dr. Eve Phillips strolled in, wearing a tasteful camel suit. She gave Taylor a friendly smile as she went over to her desk and flipped open Taylor's file. She was a top-notch psychiatrist with an extensive and impressive client list. No shock there. Taylor's father had selected her. And Anderson Halstead always chose the best.

  Taylor hadn't planned on involving her father in the process of finding a therapist, or even telling him she intended to see one. But, as luck would have it, he'd called to discuss some aspect of Steph's estate and caught Taylor at a weak moment. Her voice had been quavery, her mind unfocused and far away. Oh, she'd held it together; breaking down to her father was unthinkable. But he was acute. He'd pressed her until she admitted that she still wasn't herself.

  Her father had been all over that like tar. He'd insisted on finding Taylor the best psychiatrist in New York and paying for her sessions. Taylor hadn't had the strength to put up a fight.

  So here she was.

  "No apology's necessary," she assured Dr. Phillips. "I arrived early. I enjoyed the five minutes of downtime."

  Dr. Phillips nodded, perching at the edge of her desk. "You look tired. Rough night?"

  "That's an understatement." Taylor rose, massaging the back of her neck and walking over to the cream-and-taupe love seat, where she enjoyed sitting during these sessions. "I feel like I survived a

  train wreck."

  "More nightmares?"

  Taylor nodded.

  "Anything different?" Dr. Phillips didn't mince words. She knew Taylor had a master's degree in family counseling. There was no point in implementing standard techniques that her patient would see right through.

  "Not different. More intense." Taylor sighed, crossing one leg over the other. "I kept hearing Steph scream. I tried to get to her, but something was weighing me down, stopping me from going."

  "Something or someone?"

  "Either way, it was Gordon, whether symbolically or actually. He's the reason I couldn't reach Steph in time." Taylor inclined her head in the doctor's direction. "The reason it was so bad last night is that I got

  a copy of the final accident report. Detective Hadman faxed it to me."

  "Really." Eve Phillips propped her chin on her hand. "And what did it say?"

  "Just what the coast guard suspected. Their investigation suggests there was no terrorism—just a malfunction of the bilge fans. Gordon's new yacht was as flashy and live-on-the-edge as he was—a seventy-foot Hatteras, gasoline-powered for speed. Gasoline is highly combustible, much more so than diesel. The malfunction let gasoline vapors accumulate, and when they started the engine, the yacht

  blew to bits." Taylor's voice trembled as she spoke, but she didn't avert her gaze from the doctor's.

  "Now you're going to ask if seeing that report brought me some measure of closure. The answer is,

  not really. The 'how' was never my thing. My thing is the 'why.'"

  One of Dr. Phillips's brows arched. "Actually, it never occurred to me that a piece of paper filled with engineering details would bring you closure. Your cousin's dead. You feel responsible. You also feel afraid, impotent, and angry. All those emotions tie in to one person—Gordon Mallory. Unfortunately,

  he's not around to vent your anger at."

  "Then why do I feel like he is?" Taylor asked helplessly.

  "For the same reason you feel no closure about Stephanie. Because there are no bodies. If there were, you'd be forced past denial and shock and into acceptance. And, in Gordon's case, into relief. He assaulted you, Taylor. Even without rape, he violated you. Yes, he was indirectly responsible for your cousin's death. But this isn't only about Stephanie. It's about you. Gordon Mallory attacked you. You're allowed to feel angry for yourself, not just for Stephanie."

  "I know," Taylor said quietly. "And I do. I can't stop reliving what went on in my bedroom that day.

  He was only there for a little while, but it felt like an eternity. I hated that I had no control. I couldn't do

  a damned thing to stop him. He would have raped me if Steph hadn't shown up." A painful pause. "On the other hand, maybe if he'd stayed and finished, he'd have missed the boat trip and Steph would still

  be alive." Taylor broke off.

  "More likely, he'd have left you a physical and emotional wreck, then taken the boat trip an hour later," Dr. Phillips replied calmly. "Then you'd be in worse shape than you are now and Steph would still have been killed."

  Taylor squeezed her eyes shut. She knew what Dr. Phillips was saying was true. "I feel like he's a ghost that won't stop haunting me," she whispered. "That's why I did that background check. I felt like I

  needed something tangible. And I got nothing."

  Nothing but a bio fit for the National Enquirer.

  Gordon Mallory had grown up on a palatial estate in East Hampton, Long Island—an estate owned by millionaire investment banker Douglas Berkley. His mother, Belinda Mallory, now deceased, had been

&
nbsp; a maid at the Berkley estate, and his twin brother, Jonathan, was some hotshot international trade consultant—no surprise, given that Douglas Berkley, though not their father, had bankrolled both guys through school. An M.B.A. from Harvard for Gordon, and a B.S. from Princeton and a Ph.D. from the London School of Economics for Jonathan. The end result was that Gordon became an investment adviser and Jonathan became a specialist in international trade.

  The bio made for great gossip. But Taylor wasn't looking for gossip. She was looking for ... she didn't know what. Prior complaints filed. A history of violence. Incidents involving other women. Anything.

  None of those things was there.

  That should have brought her comfort. It didn't.

  Background checks only revealed facts. They didn't delve into a person's psyche, or explore the impact

  of childhood events. No one understood that better than Taylor. The kids she saw in her office each day

  were living proof. Background checks didn't touch on emotion. They didn't describe a person's mental profile. Not unless that state of mind propelled him to act in a criminal manner. Criminal and documented.

  She wanted to assemble a full and objective picture of Gordon Mallory. Maybe then she could move on.

  Speaking with Gordon's colleagues revealed nothing. He was ambitious, fast-track, launching his way to the top at supersonic speed. He loved great-looking women, fast vehicles, and taking risks. Close friends? Nope. Trusted business associates? It appeared not. Just a fast crowd—one that changed from month to month.

  At her wit's end, Taylor had driven out to East Hampton and tried to speak with Douglas Berkley or his wife, Adrienne, after reading about the private service they'd held for Gordon. She'd given her name to the butler, explaining that her cousin Stephanie had been one of the passengers who died in the boat explosion and that she just wanted a few minutes of the Berkleys' time. But the servant had shaken his head, saying that the Berkleys weren't seeing anyone regarding this matter. He then offered her his condolences and bid her good day.

  Another dead end.

  She was on the verge of going online and looking up Jonathan Mallory through his Manhattan-based consulting firm when she found an archived newspaper clipping that mentioned that he and Gordon

  were identical twins. The very thought of facing a mirror image of Gordon was more than she could bear. Besides, from all accounts the brothers traveled in completely different circles, so she wasn't even sure they stayed in touch. And, even if they did, even if she mustered up the nerve to meet Jonathan Mallory, what would she ask him: Forgive me, but did your brother ever display any aggressive or unbalanced behavior? That would certainly go over well. Jonathan would have her tossed out of his

  posh Chrysler Building offices in record time.

  So where did she go from here?

  She was beginning to obsess. It was unhealthy, and she knew it. She had seen it in others.

  But how could she explain to Dr. Phillips—or anyone—the impact Gordon's final words had had on her? It was bad enough she could still see him, still smell the Scotch on his breath, still feel his hands on her body. But those words, the way he'd said them, the look in his menacing dark eyes when he told her he'd be watching her—they haunted her, awake and asleep. Sometimes she even found herself peering over her shoulder, as if he could still be out there—somewhere—somehow—watching her as he'd promised.

  Of course that was impossible.

  "Taylor." Dr. Phillips's voice cut into her thoughts. She was studying Taylor, searching her face with a knowing look. "Christmas is next week. What are your plans?"

  Christmas? That seemed like an alien concept. "None in particular."

  The doctor sighed. "Look, I know how committed you are to your jobs—both of them. But like all schools, yours will be closed until mid-January. So there'll be no kids to counsel. As for your radio talk show, I'm sure the station can do without you for a few days. Why don't you spend some time with

  your family?"

  Her family. Taylor felt the usual bittersweet twinge at that word. Her mother didn't "do" Christmas; she spent the holiday season at the Canyon Ranch in Massachusetts, renewing herself. Her father, as per usual, was on a business trip, this time in London. Her uncle was somewhere in Japan, solidifying some big corporate merger. And her aunt, who owned an elite travel agency that catered to the Park Avenue crowd, was in Acapulco, checking out a new resort—for her clients, of course.

  Nope. A family Christmas was out, even under the best of circumstances. And this year, it was the last thing she wanted.

  "I appreciate the thought, Dr. Phillips," she said. "But I really need some time alone. And not just to think. To unwind. Racing from one job to another is exhausting. I'm looking forward to sleeping late, catching up on some reading, and then hanging out with the gang at the radio station before and after

  my show. Besides, there'll be tons of call-ins that week. You, better than anyone, know that the

  holidays are a source of major depression for lots of people."

  "I do indeed." Dr. Phillips nodded ruefully. "I'll be seeing patients most of the week as well. I'm just taking off the twenty-fourth and the twenty-fifth." A quizzical look. "So we can have our regular Thursday-evening session if you'd like." Seeing Taylor's confirming nod, she added, "I'll bring you a

  piece of my famous banana-walnut loaf. In fact, I'll bring you a whole loaf—you can take it with you

  to the station. I'm a once-a-year baker. And that once-a-year is Christmastime. The problem is, I tend

  to get overly enthusiastic. My family complains that they can't move until mid-January. So you'd be

  doing them a favor if you'd take the bread."

  A slight smile touched Taylor's lips. "You don't have to twist my arm. I accept, with thanks. My WVNY coworkers are eating machines. They scarf down everything that isn't moving. They'll be thrilled."

  "You're a pretty close-knit group, aren't you—friends as well as colleagues?"

  Close-knit? The gang at WVNY had been her lifesavers these past few months. No, they hadn't been in her face, showering her with sympathy like everyone else she knew. They hadn't sent flowers, made donations, baked cakes. They'd simply squeezed her arm, or murmured their condolences, or offered to fill in for her, or just to bring her a sandwich or a cup of coffee. Little things, all of them, but offered

  with a wealth of sincerity. Funny, the bunch of them who worked there were all so different; they had different backgrounds, different personalities, certainly different shows—from Bill's macho Sports Talk

  to her own Teen Talk, a family counseling show focusing on adolescents' issues that elicited phone-ins from teens and parents alike and that aired every weeknight from eight to ten. Still, the whole staff

  cared about one another.

  "We're pretty tight," she admitted. "Like a little radio family."

  "Good. So make some extra plans with them outside the studio," Dr. Phillips advised. "Maybe even for Christmas Day. Time alone is fine. Too much time alone isn't."

  "Message received, loud and clear."

  And it was.

  Taylor didn't have close friends, only "friendly friends." With the exception of Steph, arm's distance was her motto. It was safer. Dr. Phillips disagreed. She'd been encouraging Taylor to deepen her relationships, romantic ones included. Fine. Maybe someday—if the right someone came along. But so far, that someone hadn't shown up. So she counted on one person—herself.

  "Taylor," Dr. Phillips prompted.

  "Okay, okay. This holiday season I'll become a master mingler." Taylor tried to sound upbeat. But she knew she wouldn't take Dr. Phillips's suggestion to spend Christmas Day with anyone, and she knew

  the doctor knew. That day would be quiet. She'd spend it alone, working through her emotions, trying

  to get her life in order. She had a pile of real-estate ads to go through. That would be the first step. Time to get a different, smaller apartment. Time to stop sp
inning in neutral. Time to do something definitive to move on.

  Christmas Day. A day of peace. Perhaps it would bring her some.

  * * *

  It didn't happen that way.

  On Christmas morning, Taylor awakened, flipped on her computer to check the current real-estate postings, and found an e-mail greeting card waiting for her. It was a Christmas e-card, complete with falling snow, a brick chimney, and Santa Claus, cast in shadows, preparing to climb down the chimney and into the house.

  As the card appeared, Taylor's speakers began to cheerfully play "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town."

  In sync with the tune, the lyrics to one of the song's verses appeared on her screen:

  He sees you when you're sleeping

  He knows when you're awake

  He knows if you've been bad or good

  So be good for goodness' sake.

  Beneath that was a personal message. It read:

  Like Santa Claus, I'll be watching you.

  There was no signature.

  CHAPTER 4