Scared to Death (18 page)

“How'd your math final go?” Lauren asks.

“Oh, you know…”

“Mmm, actually, I
don't
know, or I wouldn't have asked.”

“I would say that it went as well as could be expected,” Lucy replies, with all the confidence of a surgeon delivering dubious news.

Lauren points to the stairway. “Then get moving. Go on up and study for the physics final.”

“It's not until Monday. I have all weekend to study.”

“Dad's mother is coming, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” Clearly, Lucy isn't thrilled by the prospect of meeting her grandmother for the first time. “Well, can't I have, like, two seconds to decompress, Mom?”

“Sure. One, two…go.”

Lucy goes, with a groan.

Lauren looks at Marin. “It's never easy.”

“No,” Marin agrees with a faint smile, “it never is. Listen, I really need to get going, so…”

“Wait, Marin, before you do…is everything okay?”

Marin shifts her weight on the sofa. “Everything is…” Not
okay
. That would be a ridiculous claim, and Lauren knows it.

She settles on, “Everything is as well as can be expected.”

“Are you sure?”

Should I tell her about the e-mail, and the rat?

Will she think I'm crazy and paranoid if I do?

Or, even worse, will she think that Caroline is crazy and paranoid?

“I'm positive, Lauren. I'm hanging in there. We all are. But thanks for asking.” She stands up, her car keys already in hand.

“Wait, I know you didn't just come here to drink coffee and check out my new kitchen. I know something's bugging you…and I think I know what it is.”

Marin raises an eyebrow. “I doubt it…but try me.”

 

Meg Warren's car is sorely in need of some routine maintenance—not that she'll be needing it anymore, but still…

It's a wonder the thing even made it to New York City, what with the horrible creaking beneath the pedals every time the steering wheel makes the slightest turn.

Oh well. This Bronx neighborhood is the end of the road. Other than being a great place to abandon a stolen car, the area has very little going for it. But at least it's right off the highway, and there's a subway station with a southbound express train.

Oh, and one more perk: On this rainy day, the streets are teeming with furtive-looking, backpack-carrying young people wearing baggy jeans and hoodies. It's easy to blend into the crowd here and on the downtown Number Five train.

It won't be the same in Manhattan, though. Rush hour will be under way on this summer Friday; well-dressed office workers will have begun their mad dash toward home. That means it'll be a good idea to slip into the bathroom at Grand Central Terminal and swap out the black hoodie and baggy jeans for something more suitable for midtown.

And after that…East Side, to Marin, or West Side, to Elsa?

Guess I'll just have to start walking uptown and see which way the wind blows
.

 

Elsa looks at her watch.

Does she dare call Brett at the office again? She'd spoken to him when they first arrived at Penn Station, just before hailing a cab to take them uptown. The conversation was harried, and she could tell he wasn't alone in the room on his end. Maybe he is now.

She settles Renny at the table with the fresh orange juice and organic granola cookies they picked up at the Fairway.

“Wait, Mommy, where are you going?” Renny protests as Elsa starts for the hallway, fishing her cell phone from her bag.

“Just into the bedroom to…to make sure there are clean sheets on the beds. I'll be right back.”

“Can I watch TV?” Renny gestures at the flat screen mounted in the custom cabinetry.

There are probably a dozen good reasons not to park her daughter in front of the television again, but Elsa decides they're far outweighed by the need for some semblance of familiarity to put her at ease.

As the silence gives way to the reassuring cartoon commotion, even she finds herself breathing a little easier.

“Okay, holler if you need me.”

Fixated on the screen, Renny barely nods.

In her childhood bedroom, Elsa sits on the white Matelasse coverlet—something she'd never been allowed to do as a girl—and takes out her phone.

Uh-oh—she's down to one battery bar. Did she even remember to pack her charger? She thought of it, amid the scramble to get out of the house—but did she actually do it?

She dials Brett's cell phone, promising herself she'll make it a quick call, then check her bag for her charger. If it's not here, she's going to have to go buy one.

He picks up on the first ring. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. No.” The sound of his voice makes her homesick. “I mean, nothing happened to us…I just want this to be over. It's crazy.”

There's a pause before he says, “I know,” and she wonders if he's not alone.

“Did you hear from Mike yet?”

“No. I've left him a couple of messages now, but he hasn't called back.”

“That isn't like him, Brett.”

“I know.”

“When you left those messages for him, did you say where Renny and I were going?”

“No!”

“I was just worried you might have left it on his voice mail, or…”

“All I told him was to call me, and that it was important.” Brett clears his throat. “Listen, I'm in the middle of something, so…”

Oh. Okay, she gets it. “Is someone right there?”

“Yes.”

“Call me when you get home.”

“I will.”

As she hangs up, frustrated, her gaze falls on an antique Mardi Gras eye mask sitting on top of a gilded bombé chest across the room. She remembers being severely reprimanded at Renny's age for parading around wearing it. Like so many of Maman's objets d'art, the mask was meant to be admired, not touched.

Back in the kitchen, she finds Renny staring bleakly off into space, cartoon gone to commercials, cookies and juice untouched.

Time for a new distraction. “Hey, Renny, want to see my old bedroom? I had a collection of dolls when I was your age, and they're still here.”

“Can I play with them?”

“Definitely,” Elsa tells her with a touch of smug satisfaction. When she herself was young, Maman insisted on keeping the antique Jumeau porcelain dolls displayed well out of her reach, behind protective glass.

She leads Renny back down the hall to her room and shows her the dolls. “What do you think? Should we take them out and play with them?”

“I don't know…maybe later.”

“I guess Barbies would probably be more fun, huh?”

“Pro'ly.”

Renny is equally unenthusiastic when Elsa points out the row of first edition leather-bound storybooks in her bookcase, offering to read to her.

“Maybe later.” She wanders across the room.

Watching her stop abruptly at the bombé chest, Elsa sees that she's staring at the Mardi Gras mask. She can't recall ever having mentioned that she herself got into trouble once for touching the mask, but she must have, because her daughter takes a wary step back, dark eyes troubled.

“Don't worry, Renny. You can touch it if you want to.”

“No, thank you.”

“What's wrong?”

“The monster.”

“What?” Startled, Elsa looks around. The room is empty, and Renny is fixated on the mask.

“Renny? What monster?”

“The one in my room, back at home.” She shudders, and Elsa feels sick inside. “He had on a mask.”

“Are you sure? You mean it covered his eyes?”

“No, it covered his whole face. Like a scary monster on Halloween.”

“You mean he was wearing a rubber mask?”

Renny nods vehemently.

Dear God. It never occurred to Elsa that the intruder really
was
masquerading as a monster.

“I'm afraid, Mommy.”

“Don't be afraid.” The words are automatic, but it's such a stupid thing to say.
Don't be afraid?

“You
are, and so is Daddy.” As if sensing that Elsa is about to deny it, Renny adds, “I heard you talking.”

Oh no. How much did she hear? There's no use denying anything now. Renny's a smart kid. Smarter, perhaps, than Elsa even suspected.

“Tell me about the monster, Renny. What was he wearing?”

“A mask.”

“What else?”

“A jacket.” Renny responds so readily that Elsa realizes the vivid image is fresh in her mind, poor little thing.

She wants more than anything to drop the subject, but now that it's out in the open, she has to get as much information as possible. She has to let Brett know, and Mike, too, as soon as they reach him.

“What kind of jacket was he wearing?”

“The kind with a zipper and a hood. It was black.”

“Did you see his hair?”

“No. The hood was up.”

“Was he tall or short?”

“Tall.”

That doesn't help. Anyone would seem tall, looming over a child in the dead of night.

And anyone who would do such a thing really is a sick, twisted monster
.

 

Last October, around Halloween, Jeremy found his way from Groton back to Nottingshire, in the Boston suburbs.

Thanks to all the news accounts that recapped his kidnapping, he knew where he'd lived—not just the town, but the street as well. He was pretty sure that if he drove along Twin Ponds Lane, he'd recognize the two-story house where he'd lived with the Cavalons.

He didn't know why it seemed so important to return to the scene of the crime, but it was all he could think about.

He drove around and around Nottingshire that day, checking street signs, looking for landmarks. He
found a few that seemed familiar: a big blue water tower, a redbrick library, a Shell gas station.

The gas station had—and still has—an attached mini-mart where Elsa once bought Jeremy an ice cream Drumstick on a hot summer day. She told him it wouldn't drip out the bottom of the cone because the point was plugged with a chunk of fudge.

“I always loved to eat my way down to it,” she told him. “It was like a bonus treat at the end.”

Intrigued, Jeremy couldn't wait; he bit off the bottom of the cone first. Somehow, it didn't taste as good as he'd expected. He spit it out on the ground, dismayed.

When they went to get back into the car, Elsa saw the melted ice cream dripping all over his hands and realized what he'd done.

He'd expected her to get angry. But she didn't. She just seemed disappointed that he hadn't saved the fudge for last the way she used to, and that he hadn't even liked it. Her disappointment made him feel worse, probably, than he would have if she'd yelled at him for making a mess.

It was so long ago, it's pretty amazing that he even remembers the incident—especially since he didn't even remember her until recently.

But ever since the dam burst, he'd been piecing together his childhood, the only childhood he ever had, even though it was another decade—an endless, excruciating decade—before he actually became an adult.

That day, his first back in Nottingshire, Jeremy parked the car and went into the mini-mart. There, he found a freezer full of Good Humor novelties…but no Drumsticks.

“Can I help you find something?” asked the middle-
aged woman behind the register, who was eyeing him suspiciously, as if he were going to shoplift a Popsicle or something.

“Just this.” He grabbed a chocolate chip sandwich and plunked it down on the counter.

“Sure that's all?” she asked, obviously wary of a grown man who'd wander in for ice cream on a blustery autumn day.

“Actually, there is something else you can help me find—but it's not in the store.”

“What's that?”

He hesitated. What if something clicked when he mentioned it, and she recognized him?

That's nuts. You don't even recognize yourself these days when you look into the mirror.

“Twin Ponds Lane,” he told her, and she looked relieved that he only wanted directions. “I thought it was around here someplace, but…”

“Oh, it used to be. But that's been gone for a few years now. They tore down all those houses and built a new development back there. McMansions…you know.”

Maybe that was just as well, Jeremy decided as he drove away, eating his ice cream sandwich. He'd already figured out that you can't go home again.

Funny, the things you remember—and the things you forget.

On his way out of town that day, he passed a sign that read “Harbor Hills Golf.” It jogged something in his brain.

Harbor Hills…

Something had happened here.

Something important.

Something
bad
.

 

“You're thinking about divorcing Garvey, right?”

Seeing Marin's salon-arched brows disappear beneath her blond bangs, Lauren immediately wishes she hadn't said it.

Judging by Marin's expression, her hunch is way off base—and even if it isn't, she, of all people, has no business doling out advice on the state of Marin's marriage to a cold-blooded murderer. What was she thinking?

She
wasn't
thinking. She was feeling—feeling sorry for Marin, and worried about her.

“At some point, I will—but I can't deal with it just yet.”

“I don't blame you. One day at a time—that's all you need to face.”

Marin nods, picks up the pillow, begins twisting the fringe again.

“Look, you don't have to tell me what's bothering you, but it might help. Does it have to do with the girls?”

Bingo. Marin looks up at her and nods. “Caroline.”

“What's going on?”

“Yesterday, she was out, and she thinks someone put a rat into her handbag.”