He knew she spoke the truth; the sex would have been spectacular. He had long considered himself a man of few foibles, but he had his limits: knowingly screwing his wife’s mother—or twin sister, whatever she was—was out of bounds for him, no matter how appealing the prospect of another roll in the sack.

“I want you out of my house,” he said.

“Do you?” She clucked her tongue. “Poor little Troy. Everyone wants Nana to stay except for him.”

“I’ll call the police,” he said.

“Oh?” Grace grinned. “What would Monica think of that, eh? Calling the authorities to eject her long-lost mother from her home?”

His shoulders sagged. She had him beat, and both of them knew it. Without Monica’s support, anything he did to get his woman out of their lives would probably destroy his marriage. Monica wasn’t hearing a word he said, wouldn’t tolerate any criticism of Grace. He’d need something damning to bring her on his side, something believable that even she couldn’t deny.

The telephone rang: the landline. Troy checked Caller ID, and it was a number that he recognized. It was the old guy, the pastor they had met at Lily’s funeral. He’d called at least once before to ostensibly check on Monica, but hadn’t he alluded to something that he’d refused to confide to Troy? Troy vaguely recalled taking a message to pass along to Monica. So much had happened recently that he’d forgotten all about it.

Why did the pastor keep calling?

“Are you going to answer the phone?” Grace asked.

“I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone,” he lied.

Grace’s eyes narrowed, gaze traveling between him, and the ringing telephone. She stepped to answer it.

“Stephens residence,” she said.

The reverend must have immediately hung up at the sound of her voice, because Grace returned the handset to the cradle. She stared at Troy, gaze edged with suspicion.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Tread lightly, doctor,” she said. “I’m wise to your ways.”

She picked up her snifter, flicked her tongue in it again—leaving no doubt about its inhuman length—and strolled out of the room.

49

Monica barely recognized herself.

Still wearing her nightgown, trembling hands braced against the vanity, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. It was like gazing into an enchanted looking glass that provided a glimpse of her in the far off future—thirty, forty years away.

“This isn’t me,” she whispered, her voice cracking on the words.

A web of fine lines and wrinkles had spread across her face. Much of her hair had turned gray by then, as if she were the victim of a bad dye job, and a good amount of it had thinned, too, exposing the shadow of her scalp.