The only difference between the saint and the sinner
is that every saint has a past,
and every sinner has a future.
—OSCAR WILDE

Gigi Lafferty startled awake, choking back the scream that rose automatically in her throat, and clutched the edge of her blanket. Then she forced herself not to move and to breathe steadily ten times. If she could get to ten, the panic of the dream would subside. And if, by the time she got to ten, Neil had not woken up, she knew he would remain asleep.

She got to ten. Her panic subsided. Neil stirred once, but did not awaken to ask her what was wrong—had she been dreaming again?—and suggest she should see someone about her dreams.

Already the substance of the dream had faded, leaving only a sense of something wrong, something or someone in pursuit. That explanation would not have satisfied Neil. And certainly she couldn’t tell him that the dreams didn’t matter, that she knew what troubled her sleep as well as her waking hours. The security of her marriage to Neil was based upon him believing certain things about her, and upon him not knowing certain other things.

Usually Gigi could drift back into a restless sleep, but this morning she was wide-awake. She had had a terrible time getting to sleep in the first place, because she couldn’t stop thinking about her morning appointment with Patricia Delaney, an investigative consultant. Now the recollection of the appointment ensured she would stay awake. Gigi glanced at the illuminated digital clock on her nightstand: 5:09 A.M.

Slowly, carefully, Gigi moved back the covers and inched to the edge of the bed. She moved quietly to the balcony; its porch door had been left partially open to allow fresh air to circulate at night, something Neil insisted was necessary for his health no matter what time of year. It was mid-September and, mercifully, unseasonably warm. Gigi dreaded winter.

Gigi stood out on the balcony, looking down at the pool. It reflected a partial moon and a few branches of the trees on the little hill just behind the pool. She considered an early-morning swim, the pool to herself, then rubbed her bare arms and decided against it. Neil would be upset if she were far away when he woke up. She opted for a soak in the Jacuzzi.

Gigi went into the master bathroom, being careful to shut the door quietly, and started the water running as hot as she could stand it in the pink Jacuzzi. Then she settled into the frothing hot water until her chin touched the surface, and closed her eyes.

Gigi’s thoughts turned back to Patricia Delaney. It had been nearly fourteen years since she’d seen Patricia. She wondered what Patricia was like now. Confident, assertive, a little bullheaded, probably—she’d been like that at Poppy’s Parrot. Patricia had been a bouncer at the club, where Gigi had been an exotic dancer. She remembered Patricia as an unlikely candidate for a bouncer, even unlikelier as the dancer she’d been before that. Although Patricia was nearly six feet tall and statuesque, she had a look of heartland innocence: round face scrubbed shiny clean and free of makeup; short cap of dark brown, natural curls; youthful garb of an oversized white T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers; wide green eyes a little distant, a little amused, a little too sad for someone just barely over twenty-one and obviously from a solid middle-class, Midwestern background.

Whenever they saw each other, Gigi (who had gone by the name Loretta King) was in her feather boas, satin bodice, sheer skirt, heavy makeup, tiara of paste jewels, stiletto heels—ready to go onstage, a fantasy queen in the featured act. Somehow, it always made her feel at a disadvantage to Patricia. But Patricia always greeted her with a direct, honest smile. They became more than acquaintances, but not close enough to be considered friends. And Gigi had helped Patricia once back then; the memory of it was part of the reason she was choosing to trust her now.

Gigi wondered if Patricia would remember her. She hoped not. Only one person in her life now knew she had once been Loretta King, and Gigi needed to know if that person could really prove it, as claimed. So much, thought Gigi, so much hinged on that she needed to know how successfully she had changed, how well she had put distance between the person she had been and the person she was now. And if Patricia did recognize her, she believed she could still trust Patricia to help her. Patricia was the only person she knew who owed her a favor.

Finding Patricia again had been an unintentional, simple act; Gigi searched the phone directory for private investigators, not knowing that Patricia had become one. She had not, in fact, even thought about Patricia in years. But when she saw Patricia Delaney’s name, her heart clenched like a fist as she wondered if this could possibly be the same Patricia she had known so long ago. It was possible, she had told herself, for someone else with the same name to be in the Cincinnati area now.

But when she called Patricia’s office, she knew this was the same Patricia. Even after all the time passed, even over a phone line, she recognized the voice: smooth; confident; low, slightly husky register, but well-modulated with full tones; relaxed but professional. This was the same Patricia Delaney.

Gigi had called feeling confident and in control, but the sudden shock of really talking to someone from her past had made her own voice quaver, her speech falter. In response, Patricia became careful and gentle without being condescending—qualities that the Patricia of fourteen years before had not possessed.

Gigi answered a few questions, without giving details about what she wanted, and set the appointment with Patricia. She was afraid that Patricia—or any other investigator—would refuse to meet with her if she explained exactly what she wanted over the telephone.

But Patricia would take the case. Gigi felt confident of that, just as she now felt certain that reconnecting with Patricia after all these years was somehow fated. She smiled at that thought, remembering Patricia once saying she did not believe in fate.

Gigi swished her hands through the water in the Jacuzzi, returned to the question of whether Patricia would recognize her. Gigi’s hair was back to its natural deep brunette color, cut in a short, simple, but sophisticated style. She wore her makeup artfully, making her nose seem longer, her eyes deeper. And she dressed and acted the part of an upper-middle-class, somewhat pampered woman, who had been to the manor born. Which, in fact, she had been. As Loretta King, she had done everything—physically and emotionally—to distance herself from that birthright.

Now, as Gigi Lafferty, she had resumed that birthright, and her only physical reminder of her days as Loretta King was the parrot tattoo on her left shoulder. Neil found the tattoo erotic, as long as no one else saw it, and accepted Gigi’s explanation that she’d gotten the tattoo on a college dare. So Gigi had never investigated the possibility of removing or permanently covering it. She simply wore clothes that hid it from public view.

The bathroom door swung open. Gigi startled, her heart racing, her mind tense and alert. Then she saw it was just Neil. Of course. Neil. Who else did she think would come though their bathroom door?

Neil stood by the Jacuzzi, looking tired and irritated, like a little boy who has just been gotten out of bed early. Damn, she thought. She had crept out of bed quietly and carefully, but Neil, a light sleeper, could rarely stay asleep if she moved too much. Sometimes, when Gigi awoke and lay still and stiff next to him, unable to sleep, she imagined them someday buried side by side, their smooth, fleshless, bony fingers eternally reaching to each other but never touching.

“You’re up early,” Neil said. His voice was carefully modulated, sounding as she imagined it did when he gave orders at his company, but his mouth was puffed in a little pout.

Still, Neil was a handsome man, an advertisement for the organic personal products his company sold: medium height and build; tan and trim; hair combed back from a slightly receded hairline; temples edged in gray as casually but effectively as if a stylist had added the graying for him; eyes a light clear blue like water, quick, easy smile. Now he wore his white terry-cloth robe, letting it hang open to reveal his stomach, kept flat and solid from an hour a day on a stationary bike, his hairless chest and nearly hairless legs, his slight erection. Even after eight years of marriage, the fact that Neil walked around with his robe undone embarrassed Gigi.

“Why are you up so early?” Neil said.

“I couldn’t sleep. A bad dream,” she said.

“Another of those?” Neil sounded irritated. “You really ought to talk to Gregory about them.”

At Gregory’s name, Gigi’s heart clenched, then released with a panicked fluttering. Her throat tightened. The Jacuzzi, and Neil hovering over her, suddenly seemed too confining. Gigi wanted to jump up and run from the bathroom, but of course, such a sudden movement would alarm Neil. She held herself very still.

“Yes, perhaps I will,” Gigi said carefully. “He—he might be able to help.”

“I can arrange it for you,” Neil said.

“No, no—I will. Or maybe I should talk to someone outside of the company—”

“Suit yourself,” Neil said brusquely, turning abruptly, and Gigi felt a sudden need to pull him back, to smooth the ripple of discontent.

“In fact, I’m going to see someone today,” Gigi said quickly, and immediately regretted the words.

Neil turned and looked at her again. “You are? A psychologist?”

“A—a dream therapist. She—works out of her home.” Gigi forced herself to smile brightly at Neil as if she really were going to a dream therapist and was eagerly anticipating the appointment. She clenched her hands. How long had she been in the Jacuzzi? Twenty minutes, twenty-five? The longest she had ever stayed in before was about twenty, and when she got out, she had crumpled to the floor, nearly passing out.

Neil frowned. “Where did you hear of her?” Neil liked to know these things.

“From—Rita.” Rita Ames, who lived in their former neighborhood and worked for Neil’s company, was a friend of Gigi’s.

Gigi’s answer seemed to satisfy Neil. Gigi was relieved when he said, “You know I can’t sleep when you move around.”

“I know, dear, and I’m sorry. Listen, just give me a few minutes to finish up in here, and I’ll come downstairs and make you and Allen blueberry pancakes.”

For a long second Neil just looked at her and again panic clutched at her—had she said the wrong thing? Allen was Neil’s son from his first marriage, a twenty-six-year-old who worked for his daddy these days and had set up camp in the walkout basement. For a second she felt confused— were Allen and Neil on the outs or close these days? It was important to keep track, to know what to say. Allen loved pancakes, and the offer would seem traitorous if Neil and Allen weren’t speaking just now.

“That’s nice, Gigi,” Neil said. He knelt down beside the tub, put his hands around her neck so that his thumbs pressed in hard at the tender spot at the bottom of her throat. For a moment she wanted to fight to claw his hands away, but she kept still, even though as he pressed gently with his thumbs—in, out; in, out—her instinctive reaction was to gag. But she kept her throat still, her eyes wide and blinking to hold back the tears that automatically sprang to them.

Neil leaned forward and kissed Gigi’s throat, his kiss covering both her throat and his thumbs. Then suddenly he released her throat. Gigi gasped and coughed, inhaling sharply, saliva and air catching in her throat. She coughed again before regaining her breath and composure. Neil held his face close to hers, his eyes in line with hers, so that all she could see was their blue flatness.

“That’s nice,” he repeated. His breath was warm and stale. “I’ll get Allen up. We’ll be waiting for you.”

Gigi watched Neil as he slowly stood and left the bathroom. His actions had been, if not uncharacteristic, then at least harsher than usual when he wanted her to sense his displeasure. What did he know? How much could he, or anyone else, find out if he wanted to? That’s what she needed to learn from Patricia. And once she had that figured out, she could know what to do from there.

Gigi turned off the Jacuzzi and slowly got out. She leaned with her palms into the vanity, waiting for the dizziness to pass, fighting back the urge simply to give in to it and collapse on the floor. Then she rubbed her temples with her fingertips in a slow, circular massage. It was no good, though; overheating and tiredness and tension had given her a headache. The prescription painkillers wouldn’t help her this morning; lately, she kept needing more and more to kill a headache, and the pills left her disoriented and tired. Maybe a little wine while she made the pancakes; it was early for that, but it was just for her headache, she told herself, and she needed to be as alert as possible for her meeting with Patricia.