Final Masquerade Read Free Page A

had warned her about Stefano. Not because of what he did for a living—she didn't know—but because his aura was bad. Paige should've listened to her mom. The letter simply said, ‘going away for a while, will call as soon as I can.'
    This time, the tears flowed unchecked.
* * * *
    Fresno's narrow streets were heavy with workday traffic. Although the once thriving raisin producing community was history, Fresno maintained its aura of hard working, dedicated people. A history of old, established businesses, a town reluctant to let go of the past. The past, whose original Spanish architecture was nearly hidden beneath an amalgamation of German, Italian, and Armenian influences. All were a reflection of the heritage and stylistic passions of their creators, but somehow similar in so many ways, from the oft-used brick to the steeply arched windows.
    Paige maneuvered through the city with the sun in her eyes, air conditioner blasting lukewarm air, fingers thumping on the steering wheel, eyes roving often to the mirrors. It took nearly an hour to find a parking garage with an available space, but she was unwilling to leave the stolen vehicle where police might be likely to spot it.
    She found a place on Tulare and paid the middle-aged attendant, who leered at her through her open window, holding onto the ticket until she was forced to yank it from his fingers. His raspy chuckle followed her up the ramp.
    Her space was on the top level. She backed in, wedging the car between a Sebring parked atop her space's dividing line and a purple La Mans. Paige got out and appraised the deserted surroundings. She sighed and leaned her elbows on the cement retaining wall, gazing out over the city. The buildings, packed tightly for fifteen or twenty blocks, gradually thinned toward the east, then faded into the vast expanse of the Sequoia National Forest.
    Undulating waves of hot air flowed upward, as if pushed by an unseen fan, carrying city scents, the almost pleasant smell of burnt bacon, the sick-sweet yet somehow irresistible odor of fresh donuts, and the intoxicating aroma of someone's freshly mowed lawn. Paige stiffened as a siren wailed below, closer, closer, and then screamed past.
    She brushed sandy grains from her sleeves, opened the trunk, and laid her overnight case inside, balancing it on the bald spare tire. She slid back the clasps and the scent of lavender wafted up, melding with the aromas of oil and automobile exhaust. She wrinkled her nose and unfolded a worn pair of Levi's that she'd taken from Carlotta's laundry pile. Paige slipped off her shoes. The cement floor was gritty and warm on her bare feet. She quickly put on the jeans and flung the slacks that had cost Stefano ninety dollars, into the trunk. The denim sent a shudder through her, reminding her they were the maids’ clothes. She shook the folds from a T-shirt sporting a black #3 Winston Cup racecar.
    An engine approached, roaring up the ramp to the right. She ducked behind the Taurus. Heart hammering at her ribs, she pulled the trunk lid down as a beige Toyota zoomed into an empty space directly across from her.
    Paige opened the trunk enough to slide out the case. She thrust it under the Sebring, into the shadow of the right rear wheel. She gripped the bumper with white knuckles, watching the car's occupant speak on his cell phone, now and again nodding or shaking his head. Twice he glanced in his rearview mirror at the elderly Ford.
    For more than a minute he listened. That minute produced spasms of consternation in her limbs. He was talking to Stefano, she was certain of it. Still in a crouch, she slipped on her shoes and stole behind the neighboring Pontiac, then a Celica, and then a dust-covered green car sporting blue and white Connecticut plates. She fleetingly wondered if its owner had stashed it here, on the run as she was.
    She crept between the Celica and Connecticut vehicles until she could see the Toyota. She swallowed dryly. The car was empty! She