Mr. and Mrs. Johnson: I’m not sure if you’ll remember me—my name is Sarah Wintuck, I was your daughter Allie’s fourth-grade teacher. Having left New Jersey myself several years ago, I never heard about what happened to her until recently. I’m so terribly sorry. My heart goes out to you. I will be visiting Memphis all this week, and would love the opportunity to meet with you.

Allie thought for a moment, then added:

I have some fond memories of your daughter that I know she would have wanted me to share with you.

Sincerely,

Sarah Wintuck

Now there was nothing to do but wait.

Within five minutes the mailer-daemon sent back her father’s e-mail as “undeliverable” and “nonexistent.”

Allie’s heart sank in the old woman’s chest as she stared numbly at the screen. It was her mother who had relatives in Memphis. Could it be that her father died in the crash? She tried to dismiss the notion and see the glass as half-full. Her mother’s e-mail was not bounced back. That was a positive sign.

She waited for a response from her mother, filling her time by tending to all those mewling cats who kept jumping up on the table, competing for her attention. By six o’clock no response had come, and Allie knew she couldn’t stay much longer. She lay down on the bed, peeled out of the woman, and the shock of it jarred the woman awake. The cat woman bolted up in bed, then once more chastised herself for sleeping the day away, and checked all the locks again.

* * *

The next day when the cat woman lay down for her nap, she set her alarm clock for one hour. It did no good, because the moment Allie skinjacked her, she turned the alarm off.

There was a single e-mail waiting for [email protected].

Allie felt the woman’s body become lightheaded in nervous anticipation. She took slow, deep breaths, waited until the wave of dizziness passed, then Allie opened the e-mail.

Mrs. Wintuck: Thank you for your note. It would be wonderful to catch up with you. Anytime after five, any day this week would be fine. Perhaps you could come over for dinner. The address is 42 Springdale Street—let me know if you need directions, and when you’d like to stop by.

Sincerely,

Andrea Johnson

Allie pushed away from the computer so quickly, she nearly fell over backward in the chair. A cat jumped up on the laptop, opening several random windows. It must have hit the reply button as well, because the top window was an empty reply, just waiting for Allie to fill in the words.

Allie told her mother she would be there at six thirty tonight.

Then she went out to buy hair color and a curling iron.

CHAPTER 26
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