See Jane Die

Nearly killed as a teenager by a hit-and-run boater, Jane Killian is a woman with everything to live for. A series of surgeries restored her lovely face. She's the toast of the Dallas art community, her sculptures lauded as both disturbing and beautiful. And Jane and her husband, plastic surgeon Dr. Ian Westbrook, are expecting their first child.

Then a woman with ties to Ian is found brutally slain and, unbelievably, the police make him their prime suspect. At first determined to prove her husband's innocence, Jane cannot escape her own growing doubts. Then her nightmare escalates. She begins receiving anonymous messages and quickly becomes convinced they're from him—the boater she always believed deliberately hit her and got away with it.

Now Jane must face a terrifying truth. Her tormentor knows everything about her—her likes, her dislikes, her daily routine and, most frightening of all, her deepest fears. And he will use them mercilessly until he sees Jane dead.

Sunday, October 19, 2003 Dallas, Texas

Jane Killian awakened with a start. Light from the video monitor flickered in the otherwise dark room. She blinked and lifted her head. It felt heavy, thick. She had fallen asleep in her screening room, she realized. She'd been editing one of her interviews, readying for her upcoming art exhibition, Doll Parts.

"Jane? Are you all right?"

She turned. Ian, her husband of less than a year, stood in the doorway to her art studio. Several emotions hit her at once: love, wonder, disbelief. Dr. Ian Westbrook—smart, charming and James Bond handsome—loved her.

Jane frowned at his expression. "I screamed, didn't I?"

He nodded. "I'm worried about you."

She was worried, too. She had awakened screaming three times in recent weeks. Not from a nightmare. Not from a manifestation of her subconscious, but one of her memory. The memory of the day that had changed her life forever. The day that had transformed her from a pretty, popular and happy teenager to a modern-day, female Quasimodo.

"Want to tell me about it?"

"Same old thing. Boater runs down teenager. The boat's prop chews up half her face, takes her right eye, comes damn close to severing her head. The girl survives. The boat captain is never caught and the police classify the incident as an accident. End of story."

Except in the dream, the boat captain doubles back to make another pass at her.

And she awakens screaming.

"Far from the end of the story," Ian murmured. "Not only does the girl survive, she triumphs. Over years of painful reconstructive surgeries, years enduring the stares of strangers, their whispers."

Their expressions of horror at her face. Their pity.

"Then she meets a dashing doctor," Jane continued. "They fall in love and live happily ever after. Sounds like a made-for-TV, triple-hankie special event. I'm thinking the Lifetime channel."

Ian crossed to her, drew her to her feet and into his arms. The cold night air clung to him and she rubbed her cheek against his sweater, realizing he'd been outside.

"You don't have to be flip with me, Jane. I'm your husband."

"But it's what I do best."

He smiled. "No, it's not."

She returned his smile, pleased. Acknowledging that every minute she grew to love him more than the last. "Would you be referring to an ability passed in great secrecy from one generation of Dallas debutante to the next? A subject not fit for proper society?"

"I would, indeed."

"Glad to hear that, since it happens to be one of my favorite subjects, Dr. Westbrook."

He sobered, searched her gaze. "Typical Dallas deb, you're not. Never will be."

"Tell me something I don't know, stud."

He frowned at her reply. "You're doing it again."

"Sorry. Sometimes I breathe, too."

He cupped her face in his palms. "If I had wanted a perfectly coiffed doll in pearls and a little black dress, I could have had one. I fell in love with you." She didn't reply and he trailed his thumbs across her cheekbones. "You did triumph, Jane. You're so much stronger than you know."

His belief in her made her feel like a fraud. How could she have beaten the past when the memory of that day still had such power over her?

She pressed her face to his chest. Her rock, her heart. The man, the love, she had never thought she would be lucky enough to find.

"It's probably the baby," he said softly, after a moment. "That's what's going on. That's why the nightmare's back."

Just yesterday the doctor had confirmed what she'd suspected for weeks—that she was pregnant. Eight weeks along. "But I feel great," she protested. "No morning sickness or fatigue. And it's not like we weren't wanting a baby."

"All true, but early pregnancy is tough. Your hormones are going haywire. The HCG level in your blood is doubling every couple of days and will continue to do so for another month. And as thrilled as we both are, a baby means major lifestyle changes."

Everything he said made sense and Jane found a measure of relief in his words. But still she wasn' t convinced, though she didn't know why not.

As if he knew what she was thinking, he bent his forehead to hers. "Trust me, Jane. I'm a doctor."

She smiled at that. "A plastic surgeon, not an obstetrician or a shrink."

"You don't need a shrink, sweetheart. But if you don't believe me, call your buddy, Dave Nash. He'll back me up."

Dr. Dave Nash, clinical psychologist, occasional consultant for the Dallas Police Department, and her closest friend. They'd been friends since high school—he had stood by her when the other teenagers had treated her like a leper, had taken her to the homecoming dances and senior prom when no other guy would come near her. He had counseled her, laughed with her, provided a shoulder when necessary.

They had even tried dating during their twenties, only to slide back into a comfortable friendship.

The years between the accident and her eventual recovery would have been much more difficult without Dave Nash.

Maybe she would call him.

Jane laid her cheek on Ian's chest. "What time is it?"

"Just after ten. Past your bedtime, little mama."

She flushed with pleasure at the term of endearment. She had always dreamed of being a mother, now it was happening.

How much luck could one woman have?

"How about a cup of chamomile tea?" Ian asked. "It'll help you sleep."

Jane nodded and stepped out of his arms, though she was loathe to do so. Reaching across the table, she popped the interview out of the player and shut down the machine.

"How's the editing coming?" he asked, flipping off the light as they stepped out of her screening room and into the studio proper.

"Good. Though the show's getting close."

"Excited?"

"Scared."

"No need to be." He led her out of the studio and up the circular staircase to their adjoining loft apartment, again flipping off the lights as they exited. "I predict all the art world will fall at your feet in adoration. And properly so."

"And you're basing this prediction on what?"

"I know the artist. She's a genius."

Jane laughed. He settled her onto the overstuffed couch, bent and dropped a light kiss on her mouth. "Be right back."

"Let Ranger out of his kennel," she called after him, referring to her three-year-old retriever mix. "He's whining."

"Biggest baby in the great state of Texas."

"Jealous?" she teased.

"Hell, yes, I'm jealous." He said it seriously, though his eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. "You scratch him behind the ears way more than you do me."

A moment later Ranger bounded out of the kitchen. Outrageously ugly but uncommonly smart, she had adopted him from the SPCA as a puppy. Truthfully, she had chosen him because she'd known no one else would. With the size and shape of a retriever, coloring of a springer spaniel and a smattering of dalmatian spots, he was truly one of a kind.

The dog skidded to a halt beside her and laid his big head on her lap. She stroked his head and silky ears; his eyes rolled back with pleasure.

"So, what's your opinion, Ranger?" she murmured, thinking of the past, the way it had begun intruding on her sleep, eroding her feelings of safety and contentment. "Has...