Innes? Innes, it's Isabella. Isabella Velasco ... Don't ask me how I got hold of you ... We live quite close, you know, would you believe? God, you sound just the same. Just the same! ... I need to talk to you ... see you. Can you call me as soon as you can?

Innes Haldane, who as a teen was deemed out of control both physically and sexually, has made every attempt to put that stage of her life behind her. Until a voice from the past leaves a message on her answering machine and an obituary with a familiar name interrupts her quiet life.

In 1977, Innes was one of seven dysfunctional teenagers incarcerated in the Unit, an avant-garde psychiatric hospital on the outskirts of Edinburgh. She and her fellow inmates -- Danny, a rapist by age fourteen; Carrie, whose mother's boyfriends always found her more attractive than her drug-addict mother; Lydia, who as a grossly overweight teenager retreated into a severely manic-depressive world; Simon, whose domineering mother blamed him for the death of his twin; Alexandra, a member of thesocial upper class who revolted against her parents; and Isabella, who suffered at the hands of a prominent yet highly abusive father and a vain, jealous mother -- were forced into one another's lives, exposed to one another's pasts, and now share a collective memory.

Since then, they have spent their adult lives trying to forget the unspeakable acts that sent them to the Unit and the terrible secret that occurred behind its walls. But a murderer is stalking the former patients and the only way to save themselves is by reuniting -- no matter what the emotional cost. If the killer doesn't shatter their new lives, the memories being brought back to life just might.

Now Innes must contact the others before someone else finds them first ...

The Reunion

By Walker, Sue

William Morrow & Company

ISBN: 0060726091

Chapter One

Half-seven. Early home for a Monday night. Keys and shoppingwere dumped at the kitchen door as she wandered overto open the living room windows. Let some of the precious,hint-of-spring air from Primrose Hill wash into her home. The answeringmachine blinked once. She hit the message button andturned up the volume, heading back to the kitchen for a well-earnedice-cold glass of white from the fridge.

The hesitant, familiarly deep voice boomed throughout thehouse.

"Innes? Innes, it's Isabella. Isabella Velasco. I ... I ... don't ask me how Igot hold of you ... I ... we live quite close you know, would you believe? God,you sound just the same. Just the same! Look ... please don't be angry ... I needto talk to you ... see you. Can you call me as soon as you can? My number isseven fi -- "

She smashed a bleeding hand on the stop button and threw herselfinto the window seat, blind now to the beauty of the evening outside,watching instead the blood dripping its way onto the rugbeneath her. She staggered to the kitchen for a tea towel to act as bandage, ignoring the broken glass on the floor, the overturned winebottle by the sink.

Back at the phone, she put trembling fingers to the message button.And played the tape back. Six times.

To make sure that she wasn't in a nightmare.

Chapter Two

She'd always preferred the suited, smart, self-contained corporatecases to the individual, down-at-heel, outwardly sadones. Like the man sitting before her this morning.

"So if you'll just hand over all your credit cards, the checkbooks,and your debit card, and sign here."

She watched as he took his great rough paw -- a builder's handand irreplaceable tool of his (former) trade -- and signed his financialaffairs over to her for at least the next three years. Not for the firsttime did she scent the mixture of a Dutch-courage-stiff-whiskey andtoo many cigarettes for eleven in the morning. The man's handshook slightly. It had to be the worst day of his life. And she wasn'tenjoying it much either. It had been some time since she'd had to dealwith a "client" face-to-face. She eschewed, indeed forbade, in herhearing, her junior staff using their preferred "our next victim" forthose sorry souls who found themselves in this building. It was disrespectful,she told them.

She decided to close the interview with this particular sorry soul."All you need to know about your bankruptcy and dealing with the Official Receiver's office is in this leaflet. We have a lot of staff longtermsick at present so I'll be handling your affairs for the time being,although that will change when my assistants get back. Any queriesin the next few weeks? My number's written at the top there. Next tomy name. Innes Haldane."

She gathered papers and stood up, directing the man from the interviewroom toward the lifts, nodding at his mumbled thanks.

Back in the privacy of her office, she poured herself a cup of overstewedcoffee, allowing herself a couple of minutes to glance at themayhem that was midmorning Bloomsbury, five floors below. Busesand cars nose-to-tail. Tourist hordes heading for the nearby BritishMuseum in much the same formation as the traffic, the neverendinghum of pneumatic drills buzzing up their vibrations fromstreet level. Perfect! She had the beginnings of a killer headache already.

She turned away and sat down heavily at her desk, surveyingthe lists of tasks for the overworked day ahead. She ran tentativefingertips over the two-week-old scar on her left hand. The wineglasshad cut deep. Funny she'd never felt any pain until hourslater.

She shoved the memory from her mind -- she was good at that -- and turned to her diary. She was beginning to heartily despise thisjob. True, it wasn't to be sniffed at. Dealing with the debtors of theworld in the ordered, usually distant way that was incumbent on a seniormember of the Official Receiver's office was structured, clinical,and, at her level, very well paid. Though the junior staff absencesmeant she'd be having quite a few face-to-face encounters withclients. Too close for comfort perhaps. During this past year or soshe'd already forced herself to admit that she was becoming less andless able to cope with the "people side" of her job. And that wasmaybe why she enjoyed her seniority. The more paper-pushing andremote decision-making, the better.

Three hours later she allowed herself a stroll to the British Museumcourtyard, taking one of the last vacant benches, warmed bythe sunshine. She pulled her sushi box and a copy of her local newspaperfrom her bag, checking her watch and generously allottingherself precisely twenty-five minutes for lunch.

A quick scan-read of the local paper was all she usually made timefor, but for some unknown reason today, she managed to linger onthe news section. On the third reading, she was sure there was nomistake.

SWIMMING POOL DEATH -- INQUEST DATE SET

The body of a woman was found floating in the swimming pool of theBelsize Sports Centre last Tuesday evening. Staff were alerted by ayoung mother who had attended her regular women-only swimminglessons.

The dead woman has been named as 42-year-old Isabella Velasco,of 12 Belsize Park Square, a Scots-born leading dental surgeon workingin various practices across London and a university departmentalhead. Both her wrists had been cut and there had been a significantloss of blood. The pool is now closed for the foreseeable future as policeand sports centre staff examine the area.

A police spokeswoman refused to confirm reports of suicide butstated that 'we are not looking for anyone else in relation to this incident.'

An inquest is to be held at St Pancras Coroner's Court on Fridaymorning.

Continues...

Excerpted from The Reunionby Walker, Sue Excerpted by permission.
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