The Line Between Here and Gone by Andrea Kane Page A

still following us?” she asked Claire as she headed up East Sixty-seventh Street toward Park Avenue, en route to Tribeca and the FI brownstone.
    “I don’t know.” Claire spread her hands wide, palms up, in a gesture of sheer uncertainty. “Maybe. Their presence isn’t as strong as it was on the expressway. But they’re out there. I just don’t know where. Or why. Or who. I’m not getting any flashes. Only vibes. Which makes this all the creepier.”
    * * *
    One block behind Casey and Claire, a black sedan cruised slowly by Sloane Kettering. The driver paused, watching intently as Amanda disappeared into the hospital. From the passenger seat, his colleague peered through his binoculars, focusing on the FI van until it disappeared from view.
    “They’re gone,” he announced.
    The driver nodded. Then he punched a number into his cell phone to make his report.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Despite the brisk weather, Marc took a five-mile, predawn run through Westhampton Beach—down Main Street to Dune Road and around the beautiful beaches of Moneyboque Bay. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was overlapping any part of the loop Paul Everett had taken during his own morning runs—the ones that had followed those nights he’d stayed over at Amanda’s place. Had anyone seen him? Talked to him? Or had he made sure to limit himself to private areas where he could ensure himself the solitude he needed for his private phone calls?
    There was no way to know. Not unless Marc had the time to locate and interview every Westhampton Beach resident. Which, clearly, he didn’t.
    He’d spent the night at Amanda’s vacant Main Street apartment, rather than a motel, out of sheer convenience. At least that was the part of his decision he’d conveyed to Amanda. The truth was, he also wanted to take a private look around their client’s residence. He didn’t plan on violating Amanda’s privacy. He just planned on focusing on the areas of her apartment that he hadn’t had the opportunity to scrutinize in her presence. He wouldn’t open drawers, closets or cabinets—not unless something he saw compelled him to do so.
    He didn’t get very far in his endeavors. He’d barely had time to shower, pull on the standard pair of jeans and a T-shirt he brought along as his emergency change of clothes, and guzzle down two bottles of water while sifting through Amanda’s unopened mail in the kitchen, when the doorbell rang. He stayed very still, not moving as he heard the thump at the front door, the retreating footsteps and the roar of a truck as it pulled away from the curb.
    A delivery. He didn’t need to look to know that. Nor did he need to guess who the package was from.
    With a hint of a grin, Marc crossed over and opened the front door. Bending down, he retrieved the large box from the stoop. He couldn’t wait to see what Ryan had come up with this time.
    Taking another belt of water, he carried the box inside and opened it.
    A suit, tie and shirt were folded neatly inside. In an envelope was a driver’s license issued to Robert Curtis but bearing Marc’s photo, along with falsified press credentials from Crain’s business magazine in the name of Robert Curtis. Last, there was a note telling Marc to check his email ASAP.
    Quickly, Marc laid his business clothes out on the sofa. Then he sat down beside them and opened his laptop, checking his email box as instructed, and seeing the email from Ryan that had arrived seconds ago. The damned genius even knew the exact time when the FedEx truck would show up.
    The email was strictly an audio attachment. Marc clicked on it, and Ryan’s voice filled the room.
    “Good morning, Mr. Curtis,” he said soberly, in true Mission Impossible style. “Your assignment today, should you choose to accept it, is to interview John Morano and learn all you can about him, his real-estate development project and anything he knows about Paul Everett. If there are any leads to be gotten, you’re the guy to