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 fitting 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 firstβ¦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 fide
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?"
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