"I want to hold you. I wanna have my fun with the finger condoms."

  Elena turned the hot water off. "You can, sure. Knock yourself out with the condoms. But remember that I don’t allow vaginal penetration."

  Frances wrinkled her forehead. "I thought that was for--I never thought about fingers. Right. Forget it."

  Elena took pity on her. She did not want Frances’s newfound buoyancy draining away so soon. "Please touch me. Touch my pussy. Touch my clit."

  "You’d fake."

  Yes. Yes, I would.

  "Look at me. Look at my breasts. Touch my breasts."

  Frances stayed still, so Elena guided Frances's hands to her breasts. Puppet master. She let go of Frances.

  Frances's hands stayed on Elena's breasts, but her touch was timid. So was her gaze. Her magic was gone. She probably thought Elena was lying about being wet. Thought Elena was a mannequin, and it was destroying her self-confidence. Illustrating starkly that Elena was a prostitute, only a prostitute. Elena brought Frances's hand to the slickness of her pussy. "See, Frances. I’m wet."

  "Wow. That's--I didn't think you could feel that in water. Ahhh. Yes. You're wet." Amazement. Admiration.

  "Okay, now. I'm going to put the condoms on you." After that was accomplished, Elena returned Frances to her pussy and did some maneuvering. "This is my clit."

  Felicianna. Pretend she's Felicianna.

  "Rub my clit. Gently."

  Elena would still fake, but Frances would never know the difference.

  "I can't--the angle is--"

  Elena shifted. "Better? Use your thumb."

  "Yes. Okay. How do I rub? Up and down, or clockwise, or--"

  "Just do it. I’ll tell you if it’s not working."

  "Okay." Frances did something, Elena was not sure what--what the hell was she doing, it was pretty good, actually, think, think, think, don't feel--

  Frances’s breaths were hot and quick. Elena’s, too.

  Elena squeezed her vaginal muscles. Okay. Fake. Shudder. Fake it. Then go home. She would not have an orgasm with a client. Nope. Never had.

  She would be convincing but would not make a spectacle of herself. Not like Frances had. No burying her head in Frances’s neck, no screaming.

  Elena really liked fireworks. She and Felicianna saw them every Fourth of July. Amanda knew she was not available these nights. Elena perched herself in a lawn chair and folded her hands behind her back. She took in the exploding blue stars, the American flags in the sky. Never left early to beat the crush of people. Orgasms were like fireworks. Sometimes starting with a lone aerial shell, sometimes quickly joined by several others. Up and up they went, exploding in a downpour of green, purple, red, blue and orange.

  Time to leave this show early. Right now. Elena leaned forward, tensing and squeezing her vaginal muscles. She let a moan escape. More tensing, more pressing. Faking contractions. Another moan. She dug her nails into Frances’s back. Nice, personal touch. She brought her face near Frances's, readying herself for the grand finale. She removed herself from her body and tiptoed to the doorway. She would watch the conclusion from a distance. Every time she faked, no matter which client she was with, a piece of her withered inside.

  She saw Frances, figure shadowy, kiss her. The kiss was like a whisper, a brush of mouth against mouth. Frances’s lips were soft, and Elena saw herself sink into them, all the while thinking My God, my God, you can’t do that, Frances, you can’t, you must stop.

  Elena saw herself marveling at how…whatever the word was, how ___________ Frances’s lips were. Unlike Felicianna’s. Unlike anyone else’s.

  And then a second kiss, longer, hungry. The taste of the wine on Frances’s tongue was bracing. Startling. Jolted Elena to her senses.

  "You can't kiss me! Jesus Christ!"

  Frances flinched. "I…I…"

  Elena shook her head. "Oh, Frances. Didn’t the agent tell you my--"

  "I didn't mean to. I got caught up. I’m sorry. You were going to…"

  "I was going to what?"

  "Nothing," Frances whispered. "I got caught up. I apologize."

  Elena pressed her hand to her forehead. I think I kissed her back. Maybe. Perhaps. Right, we’re done for tonight. "I better go." Elena got out of the Jacuzzi and ran a towel over her body. She threw her clothes on.

  "I'll tip you tomorrow," Frances said weakly. "I’m sorry. I really am."

  Chapter 12

  "I'll dial," Markie said.

  "No!" Victoria yelped.

  "You'd think that phone was your boyfriend, the way you keep mooning over it."

  "Markie."

  Markie flipped her shiny purple hair back. "Fine. Let's go over this again."

  Victoria flashed her best friend a grateful smile. "I don't know how we can be absolutely sure the call won't be traced to me."

  Markie ticked off the reasons on her fingers. "Prepaid. Paid in cash. By me, when my hair was blond. Disposable. Minutes already on the phone. You'll stay on the line maybe fifteen seconds. You'll disguise your voice. The phone's never been with you. It's been at my house, always. We'll wipe our prints off and toss the phone in the Wal-Mart dumpster. No information whatsoever to connect the phone to you. Or to your father."

  The last part was the most important. Victoria did not want her father in trouble. Absolutely not. He had done the right thing. Back then, anyway. Now…now was a different story. She felt like his prisoner. But she was still his daughter.

  Problem was, she was someone else's daughter, too.

  "I can't do it," Victoria said. "They must have some secret tracing way or…"

  "I'll call. I'll say I'm a friend of yours and that you're okay."

  Victoria's stomach churned with anxiety and frustration. Markie had had the phone two weeks, and their conversation was nothing new.

  "I have an idea," Markie said. "Let's practice your call."

  The suggestion was appealing. "Sure."

  Markie retrieved scissors from her desk and wrangled the phone out of the box. She frowned. "I think we need to charge it and activate it."

  "Later. That way there’s no risk of the call going through." The phone was black, and Victoria did not let herself look at the brand. The less she knew about the phone, the better. Victoria knew the toll-free number by heart, and she pressed the digits. She stopped at the next-to-last button. Because this was practice.

  Markie nodded encouragingly.

  Victoria held the phone to her ear. "Uh, hello, I…" She snapped the phone shut. "I feel silly talking to no one."

  "I'll pretend to be someone from the hotline."

  "Okay. Yeah." Victoria erased the numbers she had dialed and repeated their sequence.

  "Ring, ring," Markie said. She answered herself. "Hello, this is the Marissa Dourne hotline. Your call is being recorded. Thank you for calling. What is your news?" She did a decent imitation of a man's voice.

  "Why'd you answer like that?"

  Markie shrugged. "It sounds right."

  Victoria's heart pounded. She should not be doing this, not for practice, not for real. They would find her father. He would spend the rest of his life in jail. A small part of her did not object. She was fourteen years old, and her cabin had not gotten a TV until last year. Her father did not let her have a phone. He denied her much access to the world while he had men in and out, some staying as long as a month. Sometimes her father's friend Rick, a doctor, came and checked her out. He did not stay nights, though. No man had stayed nights in a while, not since her father got fat and drunk and passed out so much. Before this school year, the extent of her access to the outside world consisted of dentist runs, a weekly trip to the movie theatres and to the library, monthly trips to the grocery store, sometimes a shopping mall, and the occasional hotel in winter when it was too cold to stay in the cabin. Her father had home schooled her until he saw something in her eyes last summer and relented. Or maybe the liquor relented for him.

  So, she was fourteen years old, and freshman year of high school was the first time she had been with kids her own age on a regular basis. The first time she heard of Facebook. The first time she realized she might one day live in a world that existed outside of library books.

  Markie was her only friend, the only person her father let her hang out with, and even that had been accidental.

  "Say something," Markie hissed in her own voice. "Hurry up!"

  The time. Right. The time. Some Internet sites said that traces could start at twenty seconds.

  "Hello, how may I help you?" Markie was a man again.

  Victoria closed her eyes. Forgive me, Daddy. Please, forgive me. "H-h-hello. I am Marissa Dourne. I think I am. I'm pretty sure I am." Her voice was little and weak. She forced herself to speak up. "I'm calling to--will you--I'm just calling to ask you to please tell my mother I'm okay. I'm okay." And to stop searching for me, to leave my dad alone, so he won't be paranoid and maybe we can have normal lives.

  Or to keep searching for me, to take me away from his prison.

  Victoria realized she wanted to stay on the line. The pretend line. A hatred, deep and disgusting, for her father, welled from her depths. "I live in--my address is--I live in…Tell her. Tell my mother I'm okay."

  Victoria snapped the phone shut.

  "You forgot to disguise your voice," Markie said. "Good thing we were practicing."

  *****

  In this very house, downstairs, Victoria had begun to realize she might not be who she thought she was.

  The first time she was at Markie's house, actually. It was the end of August, a couple of weeks into the school year. Victoria's father had not been at school to pick her up. She figured his truck had broken down; the ride from their place to school was thirty minutes on a good day, and bumpy. Or maybe he was passed out drunk.

  Victoria waited and waited. Markie, who lived next door to the school, noticed her. "Come on in," Markie said.

  "Thanks," Victoria replied, ignoring the inner voice that said her father would kill her. She felt intimidated for another reason, too. She was small and wiry, looked closer to ten than fourteen. Markie was all young woman, already five feet eight inches and with real breasts.

  Humans were funny; impossible to believe she and Markie were both fourteen.

  Victoria could tell Markie's parents found her and her father interesting. His ways. His introversion. His homosexuality. Their questions made her uncomfortable, so she said she had to pee. She was not exactly fibbing--she had a trickle's worth.

  Bathroom reading consisted of a book. The picture of the blond woman on the cover captured her right away. This woman was easily the most magnificent Victoria had seen.

  Her eyes!

  Beautiful, alien eyes. Victoria had never seen eyes like these. Or had she? A faint stirring of deja vu began inside her.

  She looked at the title: Gay Is a Choice.

  Uh-oh. Her father was gay, although he did not fit the limp-wristed, flaming queen stereotype the high school kids used to act out a gay man. His in-and-out boyfriends did, however. Her father was a hunter, a lumberjack who recited Shakespeare, who made his living off their land, who was quiet, reserved--and, yes--eccentric.

  Now an alcoholic, too.

  Drunk or sober, he could have an awful temper. The temper had chased away many boyfriends. He especially hated people who thought being gay was a sin or was a choice. Victoria would not tell him about this book or this woman.

  She opened the book, never mind that she had finished peeing. In the middle were six pages of color photographs.

  The first photo showed a little girl, maybe two or three years old. She was cute, in the way Victoria supposed little girls were, but kind of plain. She had brown hair and brown eyes. She looked nothing like the exotic woman on the cover.

  The last photo of Marissa before her kidnapping, the caption read.

  Another photo showed the same girl, in the arms of the woman from the cover. The girl's mother.

  Victoria wondered yet again what it was like to have a mother. Her own mother had died in a fire when Victoria was six months old. The fire destroyed their house, photos, everything, but her father said Victoria looked like her mother.

  Her name was Susan, and she was from her father's "straight" days. She'd had no living relatives.

  Daniel, the week before he kidnapped Marissa read another caption. Victoria did not recognize the man, but then why would she? The man looked like the little girl. Same brown hair, same brown eyes, same nose.

  Victoria turned the page.

  Age progression of Marissa, age 11.

  Victoria blinked and thought: "Wow, she looks like me." Especially since Victoria looked ten.

  Age progression 1 of Daniel.

  Age progression 2 of Daniel.

  Nothing noteworthy.

  Victoria replaced the book and wiped. She washed her hands.

  She ate dinner with Markie's family. She noticed how different the family was from her father, the only family she knew. They had TV. Computers. They talked about traveling and their old life in San Diego. About enjoying life close to shopping malls.

  "Bet it’s peaceful being in the middle of nowhere," Markie's mother said.

  No. Not at all.

  Her dad never showed up, and Markie's father took her home. Her father was passed out on the couch. Markie's dad pretended not to see and left. Whatever had driven Timothy Cove to be a control freak was finally catching up to him, Victoria supposed. The next time Victoria was at Markie's house, she did not need to pee. She locked herself in the bathroom anyway, and scoured the photos again.

  She saw him now, she saw her father in the picture of Daniel Dourne. Oh, he had a beard now, bushy and wild, and he was about seventy-five to a hundred pounds heavier and was years older, but they were the same guy.

  She thought.

  She could not be a hundred percent sure. The two age progression pictures of Daniel were far off the mark, but the computer program people could not know how Daniel Dourne might disguise himself.

  She took the book upstairs. "I think I might be Marissa Dourne," she told Markie.

  *****

  Over the next couple of weeks, they read the book together, cover to cover, inspected the photos, and explored the Find Marissa website for updated age progression photos. Victoria told Markie all about her odd life, her odd father, and they came to the same conclusion: She was, quite probably, Marissa Dourne. Her father's former boyfriends could be accomplices to the kidnapping. Some of them, anyway.

  The prospect that she was Marissa filled Victoria with a trembling excitement. She felt like a princess, like a long-lost heir.

  The next time her father passed out, she fished the keys from his pocket and opened the safe he kept in his closet.

  Nothing. Except one picture. Taken outdoors. Could be anywhere. Bunch of trees, blue, cloudless sky. The sole person in the picture was a younger Frances Dourne, her hair bleached blond, her smile white.

  This sealed it. Had to. Frances Dourne was her mother; Victoria was the child of one of the most famous women in the country. She was no silly pretender to the throne, nope, no way.

  *****

  You forgot to disguise your voice.

  The line rang through Victoria's head while her father drove them home. He never came in to meet Markie's parents. He did not meet anyone's parents. Tried his best not to meet her teachers.

  She had been relieved when she figured out why. Relieved because there was a method to his rudeness. Dismayed because--because, well, she was a kidnapped child. Probably.

  She reached for him and squeezed his shoulder. Her good old daddy. She belonged with him, not with her closed-minded mother. He had not been drinking today, and he smelled good. Of pine trees.

  "The school is taking a trip to Little Rock on Monday," she said. "To see the Capitol."

  "Oh."

  "Sign my permission form. Please?"

  Her father heaved one of his not-again sighs. "I don't like the idea of that, honey."

  "Nothing will happen to me."

  "You're not going. That's final."

  Victoria sat back in her seat and watched the dark night pass her by. No more. This could work both ways. "I'm going, Daddy," she said. "Because if you don't let me go, I'll tell people who you are. Who I am. We can work on this together, can't we? We can be in this together."

  Chapter 13

  Frances lay in bed, her nightstand lamp on its lowest setting. At her side was the plastic bag that held her sex toys. Not that they got much use. She drew out a purple silicone dildo. It formed a looming shadow against the wall. Washington Monument. Shame--and excitement--burned her insides. I kissed her. I kissed the prostitute. And ruined everything.

  What the heck had Frances been thinking in the first place, asking the prostitute what she wanted? Of course the prostitute did not want anything. Except money.

  Frances tossed the Washington Monument dildo aside. Hard to imagine just how caught up she had been in the afterglow euphoria of a good--okay, no, good was a weak, weak word for this--amazing, exuberant, brilliant, alive, so alive, sexual encounter and orgasm.

  The prostitute would not be back. The horror in her expression, the speed of her departure said as much. Frances would get a call tomorrow saying she was to be reassigned. Or perhaps dropped from the service.

  Frances truly had not meant for the kisses to happen. They just had. The prostitute felt so good, had been so close, that was all. Frances was not disrespecting the prostitute’s boundaries or developing feelings for her. Okay, maybe she was, but nothing unhealthy. She knew her role: client. She could handle whatever little crush she had on the prostitute. A crush on a prostitute was safe.

  "Come off it, Frances," she muttered. You planned the kisses. The first one, anyway. Perhaps she had. While Frances had held the prostitute, as the woman’s movements and moans got more intense, a shadowy corner in Frances’s brain had been thinking: She’sgonnafake gonnafake abouttofake…