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PROLOGUE
1980
Needles of hot water pounded upon her bare back. Steam filled the large, tiled stall, fogging the glass doors. Kat Danvers stood beneath the spray, hoping the shower would clear her mind, help her shake the feelings of lethargy and dizziness brought on by too many drinks that had washed down a handful…was it two?…of her favorite pills.
The three V’s.
Valium
Vicodin.
Vodka.
No wonder her mind was sludge, her vision blurry, her every movement seeming exaggerated. A bad taste crawled up her throat and she had the feeling she was slogging her way through quicksand. She let her breath out slowly. Wondered if she’d throw up.
Come on, snap out of it, Kat. Pull yourself together! Her conscience never seemed to miss an opportunity to nag.
She closed her eyes and leaned her arms against the slick tiles. The water was so hot it nearly scalded her. She needed to sober up, and fast. As quickly as she could, she twisted the faucet hard. Immediately the hot water turned to ice and she gasped, sucking air in through her teeth. Her mind cleared for an instant.
She felt it then, an odd sensation. As if something stirred and she heard a faint, indistinguishable noise over the rush of cascading water. Her eyes flew open and she tried to peer through the misty glass. Did she see a shadow pass through the open doorway to the bedroom? Or was it her imagination? A trick of her tired, overdrugged mind and blurred vision? She needed her contacts or her thick glasses.
It was probably nothing.
And yet her skin crawled beneath the frigid spray; tiny goose bumps of fear pebbled her smooth, wet skin.
“It’s all in your mind,” she muttered, but turned off the water anyway and stood, shivering and dripping, while her ears strained to hear anything out of the ordinary.
There was nothing. Just the steady drip of water from the showerhead, the soft rumble of the heater, the strains of Christmas music drifting from hidden speakers—and farther away and muted, the quiet hum of traffic in the city. But nothing else. No sound of a shoe scuffing over the thick carpet of the presidential suite, no rattle of the room-service cart, no click of keys in the lock…nothing out of place.
Sluggishly, she clicked open the glass door and reached for her robe.
“Mama…”
A tiny voice. A girl’s voice.
Kat’s heart clutched. She froze.
No! It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t believe it. No toddler’s voice had spoken. Her mind was playing tricks on her again…that was it. The drugs and booze had combined to—
“Mama?”
Oh God.
Kat’s knees nearly buckled.
Frantically she stepped out of the shower and nearly fell on the slick marble as the notes of “Silent Night” filled the room. “Baby?” she whispered.
