Sarabess wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she bit down on her bottom lip instead. Her eyes filled again. Everything Rif said was true. Tomorrow she would think about everything he'd just said. Everything she'd been thinking about for the past fifteen years. Tomorrow. Then again, maybe she wouldn't.

Today was Emily's day. Today she had to go to the cemetery to talk to Emily.

Tomorrow was another day. Rif would come around; he always did.

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MR. AND MISS ANONYMOUS

A Kensington hardcover on sale in May 2009.

Prologue

Nineteen hundred eighty-six
University of California—Berkeley Campus

Peter Aaron Kelly stared out of his grungy apartment window not caring that he was running late. His roommates had gone home for the Christmas holiday, so he had the sparsely furnished apartment to himself. Maybe he should just blow off his appointment at the clinic and go straight to his job at the cafe where he worked as a waiter for the three-hour lunch period. But, he needed the last payment from the clinic. Needed it desperately to pay the final installment on his tuition for his last semester. In the end, what the hell difference did it make one way or the other? He shrugged his shoulders, reached for his Windbreaker and baseball cap.

Thirty-five minutes later, Pak, as he was known to his friends, entered the Apex Clinic thirteen minutes late. The unlucky number didn't go unnoticed by him. For one crazy moment he wanted to bolt, but the last reminder from the billing office told him he had no other choice. He signed in using his donor number of 8446. He turned his baseball cap around so the bill could tickle his neck as he sat down and picked up a magazine. Like he was really going to read Field & Stream.

His eyes glued to the glossy magazine cover, he didn't look up when a steady stream of guys paraded past him, some leaving, some entering. He'd done this gig eleven times. Everyone entered and exited this place with eyes downcast just the way he did. No one spoke, no one made eye contact. All they wanted was to get the hell out of there so they could try to exorcise their personal shame and spend the guilt money. He should know because he was one of them. He took a moment to wonder how many of the donors walking through the clinic's doors went to the counseling sessions that were so strongly recommended each time a donor signed a contract. He took another moment to wonder who owned the place. Probably some very rich person. More guilt piled up on his shoulders as he waited patiently for his number to be called.