Popular television reporter Hallie Moore seems to have it all. She's young, single, attractive, and her signature "best of" segments -- Hallie's Comets -- seem primed to send her career sky-high. Yet Hallie is haunted by the unsolved rape and murder of her identical twin, Heather. On the first anniversary of the brutal crime, Hallie visits her sister's memorial and -- suddenly, inexplicably -- experiences her twin's memories of the murder.
Convinced she's been touched by Heather's spirit, Hallie recalls the near telepathic bond the two shared during childhood. Is it possible that bond persists -- even from beyond the grave? Compelled to solve her twin's murder, Hallie finds herself drawn to Heather's husband and six-year-old son and, unknowingly, puts herself into the killer's lethal orbit. For in his twisted mind, he believes he's been given a chance to commit the perfect murder...again.Chapter One
Hallie Moore looked into the camera lens, a wireless microphone in one hand and a generous strawberry ice cream cone in the other. A crowd was gathering behind her, drawn by the inevitable magnetism of fleeting fame promised by the Channel 7 News Van. And if the truck wasn't conspicuous enough, with its "NBN-7 NEWS" logo -- complete with the stylized lightning bolt seven -- painted on the front, sides and rear, the microwave dish was raised at the end of the mast, extended to its full height, around forty-two feet, in preparation for their live shot.
Hallie smiled when she realized the only way to draw more attention to their location shoot would be to fly a "NBN-7 NEWS" flag beneath the dish like the skull and crossbones of the Jolly Roger. Maybe she'd suggest that at the next story meeting. Not that she begrudged the attention. Her Hallie's Comet segments always worked better with an enthusiastic crowd behind her, even if someone eventually gave in to the overriding compulsion to shout, "Yo, Hallie!" Simple, but direct and to the point, in Rocky country. Expected variations would be "Hallie, whassup?" or "Rock on!" or the old standby maternal acknowledgment, "Hi, Mom!"
Her regular cameraman was lanky Danny "Trips" Horton, his nickname arising from his somewhat unfortunate and ungainly relationship with his camera's tripod or any other potential tripping hazard. Most of the station's reporters, those who fell into news director Eugene Marshall's "hard news corps" (his "troops"), had rotating camera operators, but Hallie usually made her "Comet" rounds with Trips Horton. Maybe Marshall was punishing one of the "softies" -- his derisive name for the feature reporters left over from the previous regime -- with the "clumsy" cameraman, but Hallie enjoyed Horton's company on the road and, despite his proclivity for unintended pratfalls, he had a homing pigeon's unerring sense of direction, possessed good story sense, and was a wizard at Avid, the digital video editing console.With Trips at the wheel and the console, I never have to worry about missing slot,she thought.
What worried her at that moment was the unusual June heat. Her strawberry ice cream cone was beginning to resemble a Dali clock.
"Oh, Miss Hallie! Is no good!" wailed Rocco DiFranco, owner of Rocco's Ice Cream Collisions. "You gotta droopy cone!"
"Least of her problems," Trips Horton said, his mischievous smile a brief flash of white framed by his dark goatee.
"Don't expect an autograph on your next cast, Trips," Hallie said. Horton was three days out of his second ankle cast in two years. Each time he'd broken his ankle, he'd had the entire on-air staff sign his cast. "You think I don't know what you get for those on eBay."
"Hey," he said defensively. "They're legitimate collector's items."
"Like Jim's sweaty tube socks?" James Whittaker was the station's six o'clock coanchor.
"I had nothing to do with that," Trips said.
"Please...Miss Hallie?" Rocco wrung his hands together within his rainbow-staine
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