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Chapters (86)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Booklist
  4. Dedication
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. 76
  81. 77
  82. 78
  83. 79
  84. 80
  85. 81
  86. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Clarice paid no attention. She concentrated on Faith’s still seemingly unconscious form, and she gave instructions in a firm tone. “Wrap her ankles first. But don’t be fooled. She’s got a wicked kick that could knock you across the room.” Her gaze flashed up at Elle. “Believe me. I know.”

Elle held the loop of cord and tassel in her hands.

In the midst of the spills, of the eyes of newt and the broken glass snow globes, was Faith’s knife.

Elle used the razor-sharp edge to cut off the tassel. Then, moving with the speed of a rodeo calf-roper, she wrapped Faith’s ankles and leaped back before Faith could kick.

The window shattered. The door burst open. People—Ludwig, Señor Alfonso, Gregoire and Sarcha—spilled into the shop.

“My God!” Gregoire exclaimed in horror.

Faith remained still.

“Clarice, no!” Sarcha said. “It’s Faith Moore!”

Clarice sneered. “Don’t trust her. Never trust her. She—”

Faith lunged at Clarice.

Clarice slapped her in the throat with the staff.

Faith’s hands flew to her throat and she held it, choking. As her paroxysm of pain faded, she looked up at Clarice. “I tortured you into submission.”

“You didn’t.” Clarice pointed the staff right between Faith’s eyes. “Bitch, that’s why they call it acting.”

70

WISELY, ELLE AND CLARICE had stayed well back while the police applied the handcuffs to Zsóke, aka Faith Moore. It was only when they were strapping her to the stretcher and loading her into the ambulance that Elle stepped close enough to look down at Stephen Penderghast’s henchwoman.

Zsóke’s face was swollen, her eyes were slits, her throat bruised.

There was justice in that.

“Is he alive?” Elle asked.

“Stephen Penderghast will never die.” She used each virulent word the same way she had used the knife: to instill fear, to cause hurt. “He will haunt you to the end of your days.”

The EMTs shoved the stretcher through the open doors. One climbed in to secure the stretcher. The other turned to Elle. “Scary, that one, and I wouldn’t believe a word she said.”

Elle nodded and hoped he was right, then went to join Clarice on the curb. She cautiously lowered herself—her new bruises were making themselves known—and they sat, arms propped on their knees, and watched the ambulance take Faith away.

“She really is a famous acting coach,” Clarice informed her.

Gregoire and Sarcha squatted behind them, holding staffs as if to make up for their previous negligence, and both murmured, “Yes, famous. Always gets results. Thought it was an honor to work with her.”

“I know. We looked her up, Adam and I.” Elle shifted uncomfortably. Her hip hurt.