Chapter Three
Mollie settled into the embrace of a well-padded, adjustable, leather chair on the midsize Cessna Citation jet and buckled her seat belt.
The burger and fries had satisfied her hunger, and Reba had anticipated her sweet tooth with a tiramisu trifle.
The incredibly competent woman in the hangar lounge had also wrangled a royal blue Cessna T-shirt, a windbreaker and two pairs of socks.
The shower in the locker room had been no-frills but served the purpose of washing away the dirt and sweat from Mollie’s menial but not unpleasant job at the flower shop and nursery.
Feeling like a new woman, she peered through the porthole window as they taxied to the runway. The mountains west of town spread across the horizon, and the skies above took on a peach glow. With no one to wave goodbye to on the tarmac, she was ready to soar into her drastically changed future.
Across the narrow aisle in a comfortable chair of his own, Spence rapidly tapped into a laptop that rested on a fold-down table. He closed the computer, slipped it into a side pocket of the chair and turned toward her. “You don’t have a problem with flying.”
More a statement than a question. “How do you know?”
“Research,” he said. “None of your records mentioned aerophobia.”
Not fair. She hated that he had so much of her history at his fingertips. The man was borderline arrogant. “You think you’ve got all the answers, don’t you?”
“On the contrary, Mollie. I’m not well informed about your life in WITSEC. I’d appreciate if you’d fill me in.”
“Why do you need to know?”
“The more information I have, the better I can anticipate the threats to you and deal with your protection. I want to keep you safe.”
“Why?”
“It’s my job.”
When he smiled—for the second time since they’d met on her doorstep—his dimples relaxed his features.
The mood transformed from extreme tension to something gentler, like going from an itchy hair shirt to a velvet gown.
He pushed his neatly trimmed, dark brown hair off his tanned forehead.
His green eyes sparkled, and she wondered how he got the scar.
Arrogant? Yes. But he was definitely on her team. It was to her advantage to cooperate. She smiled back. “You already know the background. My sister and I lived with my aunt Irma since we were thirteen and my mother died from a brain aneurysm. My father, Dr. Hiram Harper, taught art history.”
“And published four books on Western and European art,” he said.
Once again, he showed off his insider knowledge.
The guy couldn’t help himself. She continued, “After Mom died, Dad focused almost entirely on his career. Not that he neglected me and Madison, but losing the love of his life so suddenly nearly killed him. He tried to be a good father, remembering our birthday—only one for the both of us—and spending holidays together. He called at least once a week, usually on Sunday morning. We knew he loved us, even when he took a job at Berkeley and moved six hundred miles away.”
“It must have been hard to be separated from him.”
“Only a long day’s drive.” She shrugged—a practiced gesture designed to cover the pain of abandonment. First, her mother. Then, her father. All she had left was her sister until her cousins became a new family when the Four Clovers were in high school. “Madison and I preferred Cloverdell, anyway.”
The Cessna lined up on the runway, and she braced herself for takeoff. She’d never flown in a noncommercial, small aircraft before and wasn’t sure what to expect. The rush of air beneath the wings and liftoff exhilarated her as they swooped into the sky. “Cool.”
“Charter flights are one of the perks of my job. Makes it easier to get around in the Pacific Northwest,” he said. “I’m taking lessons to learn how to pilot a helo.”
“Super cool.” Just when she’d decided she didn’t particularly like Spence, he popped up with a surprising revelation. A helicopter pilot? “How long will it take to get to Cloverdell?”
“We’ll arrive at nightfall. From there, we’ll go to a safe place.”
“Not Aunt Irma’s house?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Back to your story. Tell me what happened when your father went into WITSEC.”
“Dad’s only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He witnessed the head of the Peligro Cartel receiving a drug shipment and killing someone in cold blood. When Dad agreed to testify in federal court, he was offered protection for himself and his family. WITSEC stepped in.”
“I know your sister was in Cloverdell at the time, attending culinary school part-time in Salem.”
“And discovering she pretty much hated cooking. The only part she liked was the wine tasting in a sommelier class.”
“And you were going to college in New Mexico,” he said.
Majoring in art history like her father, but Mollie’s dreams didn’t include teaching. She hoped to someday curate in a museum. “I had a paid internship in Santa Fe, and I decided to stay there and finish out the two months I had left. Madison went with Dad to their first WITSEC location.”
And then, Mollie’s life went to hell.
Outside her porthole window, she distracted herself by watching as a bevy of clouds danced through the faded blue and vibrant orange and yellow.
None of the artwork she’d seen rivaled this natural beauty.
She wished she could share the thrill with her sister.
Madison would have loved a private plane.
When she was younger, she imagined Madison could see through her eyes. And feel what she felt.
Mollie sank into her ultra-comfortable chair and closed her eyes, allowing the sound and rhythm of the turbine engines to soothe the turmoil inside her.
When this was over, she hoped there would be no more nightmares.
She wished she could return to a serene, peaceful life, laughing with Madison when she talked about a date with the captain of the football team or used her hairbrush as a microphone to accept an imaginary Oscar.
Her sister had always dreamed big and loved glamor.
“Mollie, are you okay?” Spence called her back to reality.
“You know what happened next,” she said. “It’s been thoroughly documented.”
“I want to hear your version.”
She bolted upright, unfastened the seat belt and lurched out of the chair.
The cabin in the Cessna was only a few inches over six feet, which wasn’t a problem for her, but Spence had to duck to avoid bumping his head.
She stumbled toward the rear of the plane to the toilet, entered and locked the door.
Despite the deluxe furnishings in the cabin, the bathroom was basically the same as every other plane she’d been on.
She clung to the countertop, bracing herself.
The inside of her head whirled with unspoken memories and bewildering fears that had been growing for five years.
When she looked in the mirror over the sink, she saw Madison looking back.
Mollie could almost hear her twin’s voice telling her to “chill out” and “get a grip.” She reached toward the glass, remembering times when they had copied each other’s moves.
“We’re not playing games, anymore,” she mumbled to herself.
“I’m not going to run anymore. I’m going home. ”
And what will I find? Much as she wished that her sister would be at the airport in Salem waiting to welcome her with a fresh-picked bouquet of dahlias and lilacs, that was not to be. Madison had been declared dead.
The thugs in the Peligro Cartel abducted her, acting under the orders of Julio Flores—a high-ranking leader who had seen Madison from afar and imagined himself to be in love with her.
According to an undercover FBI informant, Julio never harmed her.
The opposite, in fact. She was pampered and gifted with elaborate jewelry and clothing.
Madison had written Mollie a letter while being held captive, telling her not to worry.
Julio treated her like royalty. The members of the cartel had started calling her Princesa Peligrosa, which translated to Dangerous Princess.
Two days after Mollie had received the letter, disaster struck.
Julio had taken Madison for a pleasure cruise near Mazatlán.
Filmed footage from an FBI undercover operative showed Flores and his Dangerous Princess standing together on the upper deck, drinking from champagne flutes and kissing while the beautiful seventy-foot yacht skimmed the gentle waves.
He had scooped her off her feet and carried her down to the lower deck and presumably to their cabin.
A violent explosion had shattered the idyllic, romantic scene. A blazing orange ball of fire had erupted from the spot where Madison stood only seconds earlier. Debris flung across the waters. A cloud of black smoke consumed the yacht. There were no survivors.
Mollie confronted her own reflection in the bathroom mirror and saw tears streaking down her cheeks. Angrily, she dashed them away.
She didn’t believe the filmed evidence or the witness statements or the report from the undercover FBI operatives. Never would she believe her twin was truly gone.
From the moment they were born, they were connected by an invisible thread that they called twin-intuition.
Madison said they were two halves of one whole.
Madison called herself the Twin Heart because passion and emotion ruled her behavior.
Mollie represented Twin Vision with her sensitivity and keen appreciation of beauty.
Each knew what the other was feeling and thinking. They had no secrets from each other. Though Madison had been declared dead, Mollie still felt her twin’s energy tugging at their connection—the intuition of twins. She’s not dead. Someday, they’d be together again.