Prologue
The Fog
September
There had been rain the entire time Finn Douglas skirted New York City. The Jersey Turnpike, never the easiest driving on the East Coast, was slowed to a torturous crawl, and with drivers becoming more impatient, fender benders lined the way. After crossing the Hudson, he nearly missed the sign that led to all of New England. Maine was still a hell of a long way away, and by this point, he was already exhausted.
He'd figured he might have at least made the state line that night, but it wasn't going to happen. By the time he crossed through Connecticut and followed the Mass Pike eastward, he realized he was becoming a hazard to himself, and everyone else on the road. At twenty, he could have stayed awake a solid forty-eight hours, and not felt a desperate need for sleep. That hadn't been all that long ago, and he taunted himself that at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, he should still be in decent enough shape. Strange.
Once he crossed the line into Massachusetts, he didn't feel just tired—he felt as if he were being drawn to leave the road. By the time he neared the signs that told him he was coming up on the city of Boston, the urge had become a compulsion. He had to stop, and he had to stop there.
It was stupid to stop in Boston. The city lived in a constant state of "under construction." The roads all went one way. The congestion was terrible, and the motels, hotels, and restaurants would be higher here than anywhere north. But still…
Off. Get off now. It's imperative.
It was almost as if there were a voice inside his head. That of a state trooper, he thought wearily. One warning him that he would kill himself, and someone else, if he didn't rest a while.
He should have gotten off the highway in Connecticut, before hitting the Mass Pike and the highway in the city.
There was an exit ahead. He was somewhere in the north of the city, near the old turnoff for the airport.
He didn't know exactly where he was when he followed a ramp and naturally, found himself on a one-way street.
Boston. He'd never even find a parking space.
Ah, but Boston. A great city. Food.
A drink.
Those were of the essence. He had left Louisiana during the wee hours of the morning, and driven straight, allowing himself pit stops only when the car was nearly on empty. How the hell many hours had he been driving? He was simply a fool. An idiot for taking so long to come. After he had sat home so many nights, telling himself that she would come back, that he hadn't done anything wrong, Megan would know it, and come back to him.
But she hadn't done so.
And there had been a moment of startling clarity and panic when he had realized it didn't matter that he was right. He had allowed certain perceptions to grow because of his pride, and since he had furiously refused to deny any of those perceptions, he'd given her little choice. He lay in their bedroom, feeling the breeze from the balcony, hearing a muffled version of the cacophony that never really left the streets of New Orleans, and noting every little thing that was a piece of Megan. The beige drapes that fluttered in the night, the headboard and canopy of the large bed, the antique dressers, not yet refinished. One of her drawers remained open, and a trail of something made of silk and lace streamed from a corner of it. He could swear he smelled her perfume.
And if he were to rise, it would be to turn on the CD player, and listen to the sound of her voice.
He had almost called, but then, he hadn't. They had exchanged too many harsh words. He could see the fall of her long blond hair in a clear picture in his mind, the passion, and the tears, in the endless blue of her eyes. Calling wouldn't do it, not after the way he had shrugged when she had warned that she needed to leave, go home…
He was parked, he realized. He squinted. He thought he was somewhere near Little Italy, and thanked God that he somewhat knew Boston, since he had played it, though he knew almost nothing of the surrounding area—he had flown in and out before. There was a neon light blinking almost in front him. It was like a flipping miracle—he had gotten a parking space in the city of Boston right in front of a restaurant. Or a bar. Or something.
He couldn't make out the name. It wasn't just his exhaustion. There was a fog sitting over the city.
He stumbled out of the car and straightened, blinking. Wherever he was, it didn't matter. He needed something to eat, and something to drink. And no matter how desperate he had become to reach Megan in person, he was going to get some sleep, somewhere very near. Even if he paid too much for a hotel room.
He'd die on the road, for sure, and take someone else with him, if he didn't get some sleep.
But first… food.
And a cold beer.
Theresa Kavanaugh left the bar late, and, admittedly, a few sheets to the wind. However, she was deeply unhappy to realize that she would be walking home; George Roscoe was supposed to have given her a ride home, but that was before George hooked up with the pretty blond bartender. It hadn't mattered at the time, because Theresa had found the guy at the pool table to be totally fascinating, and she had been certain that he intended to give her a ride home. She had been rather careful not to introduce him to either Sandra Jennings or Penny Sanders, because though they were all coworkers at the office, they weren't really best friends, and even best friends, she had discovered, might hone in on a cute guy a girl met at a bar. She had seen him standing by the table first, chalking a cue stick. But he had no partner.
"I'm pretty good," she had told him. "Want to take me on?"
"What are the stakes?"
"We'll gamble a twenty."
"I had been hoping for something a little… more worth gambling on," he'd said, laughter in his eyes.