The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips (Housewife Assassin Series Book 9) (11 page)

Mary is scanning the carpool line for Jack’s Lamborghini. Her eyes widen with surprise when she spots my mommy mobile instead.
 

“Oh! ...I thought Jack was picking me up today.” When she hops in and realizes that she’s the only passenger on the Donna School Express, her eyes narrow suspiciously. “You didn’t have to worry about me. I’m sure Wendy’s mom would have dropped me at the house.”

I smile and nod. “It was no problem at all. Jeff has basketball practice. It’s Penelope’s turn to carpool. And Trisha went to ballet after school. I had errands to run out this way. You don’t mind taking a little detour with me, do you?”

She purses her lips, but nods anyway.
 

It’s a thirty-minute ride to our destination. The whole time, Mary’s declarations to my innocuous questions and polite asides are only either yes or no. To fill the void, she takes control of the car radio, clicking around from one rock station to another.

I’m surprised that she doesn’t ask about our destination. Even more so, I’m disappointed that she is so oblivious of our route and her surroundings. Only when we turn onto the placid street in Santa Monica where we find the tiny cottage we owned prior to moving to Hilldale do her eyes register the memory.

It’s the first time I’ve driven by since we moved to Hilldale, just before she turned eight. From the way in which she tears up, my guess is that she hasn’t seen it in some time either.

Nor has she forgotten it. Instinctively, her eyes move to the window of the room that was once her bedroom.

Ah, good times. Simpler times. Happy times.

I park across the street, and turn off the engine.
 

At first, neither of us says a word. Finally, she turns to face me. “Why are we here?”

“Because it started here. At least, I presume it did.”
 

She doesn’t say anything, but she knows what I mean:
 

The beginning of the end of our happiness as a family.

“Your father had just returned from one of his business trips. While he was in the shower, I picked up his phone, by mistake. The man at the other end of the line spoke German. It was a language I’d never heard your father use, and it surprised me. By the time the man asked for someone named Peter, your father was out of the bathroom. He grabbed the phone out of my hand. He was angry.” The memory makes me wince. “No, in truth, he was terrified. It was a few weeks later that he suggested we look for a new home, in Hilldale. I presume he felt it would be safer for us.”

“From his enemies,” she mutters.

“Yes. I’ve no doubt he knew he’d have to leave us–to disappear. It was several years later that I joined his old firm, Acme. I did it to avenge his death. I did it because–because I felt we needed more than a panic room and a security system in a gated community to keep us safe. At the time, I hadn’t known what he’d become.”

She nods slowly.
 

“Mary, I’m leaving Acme. His death made it possible for me to put aside my concerns–my fears–that he can harm us, or break us apart as a family, physically or legally. I’m resigning because I want to be here for you and Jeff and Trisha–always.”

There is no relief in Mary’s face, only wariness.
 

I’ve got to make her understand that I’m doing what I can so that we can heal and move on, as a family. “I think you’re old enough to know this. Should you have other questions about your father or me, I will answer you truthfully.” I pause, then add, “In return, I’ll always want the truth from you too.”

The blood goes out of her lips, as if stunned from an unexpected blow.

“Mary, where do you go at lunchtime? Who’s the boy?”

My openness isn’t enough to win her trust. I realize this when she slumps down into her seat and turns her head toward the window to avoid my eyes. “To the mall. He’s just...a guy.”

“Tell me about him. In fact, I’d like to meet him.”

She shrugs. “When the time is right.”

“The time is right, now. Before…before you both do something you’ll regret.”

Like being teased into having sex–and getting pregnant.

Or being urged into trying pot, or Oxycontin, or worse–say, coke and heroin–and end up with a lifelong addiction.

Or letting her depression over her father’s death get the better of her, so that she ends up hating herself–and if she hates herself enough, she may also end up dead.

Mary’s head whips around in my direction. “How about you, Mother? Do you have any regrets?”

Right about now, I regret having this conversation.
 

Keep calm.
“Let’s stay on topic. If I can’t trust you, I’ll have to–”

She turns back around. Her eyes glitter with scorn. “You’ll have to what, Mother? Track me via my cell phone’s GPS? Initiate satellite surveillance? Embed a tracker in my wrist?” She laughs cruelly. “That’s okay. To tell you the truth, it doesn’t bother me in the least that you don’t trust me–
because I don’t trust you
.”

I slap her cheek–hard.

Instinctively, her hand rises to the heat she feels on her face.

My face feels as if it’s on fire too. Anger can do that to you. So can shame. “I’m sorry, Mary. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You want the truth?” Her voice quivers–from fear or rage, I can’t tell. “Okay, you asked for it! I’m glad I made you angry with me! At least it’s an honest emotion–not like the lies I’ve heard from you my whole life.”

“I’ll admit it–I didn’t tell you everything. But at the time, I had legitimate reasons. Sometimes it was the privacy conditions that went along with my job. At other times, you were too young to comprehend what was happening.”

“I’m not too young now. So, tell me the truth! Who killed my father? Was it you, or was it Jack?”
 

Her tone says it all:
Do you want to earn my honesty? Do
it here and now.

Okay, then–let’s see if she can handle the truth.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” I say coolly. “Your father rigged it so that Jack would die in an explosion in a cabin. When I came looking for Jack, your father promised to let him live–if I went with him on a boat. As we were out to sea, the cabin blew up anyway. I thought Jack had died. I threw the item your father wanted so badly overboard. He was so angry that he tied me up and threw me off the boat. He didn’t know it was rigged to blow up if it went above a certain speed.”

Truth walks a tightrope. It can tilt too much toward disbelief on one side, or hatred on the other. No need to shoot the messenger when the odds are she’ll stumble into the bottomless abyss of distrust on her own accord.

From the ice in Mary’s eyes, it seems I’ve shot myself in the foot and am in a free fall–and that I may never crawl out of it.

Finally, she growls, “I knew it! I knew you killed him.”

He was a terrorist; a killer; a deserter of his company, and his family.

And a deadbeat dad.

And yet, somehow, I’m the bad guy. Well, to hell with that. “You’re grounded. Hand me your phone.”

She sits there, stone-faced.

“Now,” I warn her.

She reaches into her school bag and tosses it into my lap.
 

I growl, “And just to be clear, no Facebook or texting, either,”
 

She slumps further into her seat.

On the way home, neither of us says a word.

Neither of us cries either.

And we certainly don’t say we’re sorry.

Like mother, like daughter.

“Delicious,” Jack declares, as he digs into a second chocolate cherry brownie heart.

I’m not surprised that Mary skipped dinner, pretending that she wasn’t hungry. As for Trisha and Jeff, they gobbled down my spaghetti and meatballs. By now, Mary’s moodiness is taken for granted by everyone. I guess I should be relieved that my younger children have less pressing issues. In Trisha’s case, whether or not she’ll be chosen as the ballet recital’s fairy queen. On Planet Jeff, I can’t tell if he’s more concerned whether he’ll be the starting forward in his next basketball game, or if this competition over the infamously well-endowed Gabrielle Mathews bothers him.

Frankly, I hope it’s the former. The last thing the Family Stone needs is more relationship drama.

Eventually, they’ll ask questions about Carl’s death. Mary’s reaction is good preparation for when that time comes.

“So glad you enjoyed my little treat.” It’s nice to be appreciated, even for something as small as a homemade dessert. “And…thank you for picking up Trisha and Jeff.”

“And for putting up with you, too, as you go through separation anxiety with Acme,” Jack adds as he licks his fork clean.

I nod grudgingly. “Call it what you will.”

“What would you call it?”

“Not jealousy, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I declare primly. “I have complete trust that you know exactly what you’re doing as it pertains to Tatyana.”

He drops his fork with a clatter. “Oh, yeah? Since when?”

I can’t exactly tell him,
Since you crushed her pinky and stripped the skin off her back
. So instead, I say, “Let’s just say I’ve known you long enough to trust your actions, motives, and instincts.” I slump down in my chair. “Which is more than I can say for my daughter, as it pertains to me.”

Jack pulls me into his lap. And in a totally unnecessary attempt to turn my frown upside down, he spoon-feeds me a bite of brownie. As I chew on it, he murmurs, “I suspected that Mary’s grief over Carl’s death would explode somehow. I’m sorry it was directed at you, Donna.”

“Better me than you.” I wince. “Although, to be honest, you’re right alongside me in the Mary’s mad-at-mommy doghouse.”

He kisses my forehead. “I can’t think of a better place to be.”

That gets a laugh out of me, but my smile fades as I hand him back his fork. “Doesn’t she get it? What if we’d died instead of Carl? That was the alternative!”

“Donna, remember, she’s still a kid. If Carl had succeeded, believe me, she would have been beating him up over it–or he would have beaten her into submission, emotionally if not physically.”
 

I shudder at the thought. As for Jack, his hands curl into fists. After a moment of silence, he takes a deep breath. When he releases his fist, it’s to stroke my palms. “She’s lashing out,” he murmurs. “We have to bite our tongues and wait it out.”

“We should do more than that,” I insist. “Jack, I think we should go to counseling, as a family.”

He nods slowly at the thought. “Good suggestion. It will clear the air about Carl, and maybe about other things as well. Just name the day.”

“Janine gave me the name of someone she trusts,” I murmur sadly. “Ha! And all this time, I thought I was the perfect mother.”

He laughs. “You’re the perfect lover. Isn’t that enough?”

“It means a lot that you think so, yes.” I’m being serious. “But if I’ve let my children down in any way, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“You haven’t. And the sooner we get Mary beyond her anger, the sooner we can get on with the rest of our lives.”

“Agreed.” I hesitate and add: “You know, I was thinking…about Tatyana.”

Jack groans and closes both eyes.

“Please, Jack, don’t jump to conclusions! What I have to say is strictly professional.”

He opens one eye. “Okay, let’s have it.”

 
“I was just thinking…I mean, I don’t know how your surveillance has been on her since she left Club Dread, but considering the few facts we–
you
know about her mission, I hope you realize that she’ll be back here on U.S. soil as soon as she can.”

“We already have all ports of entry being watched,” he assures me.

“Good”–I take a deep breath–“because we both know that no one with a ticking clock is going to sit too long in one place.” I smile up at him innocently.
 

Despite his attempt to keep a poker face, I see the corneas of his eyes grow as it dawns on him that Tatyana’s stay in Mosul is now going on its second day.

This is not the norm.

I kiss him before jumping out of his lap. “I’ve got to clear the table. Afterward, I’m going to leave a message with the family counselor Janine suggested, so that we can get the first available appointment.”

He nods absentmindedly. Not that I blame him, with all that’s on his mind right now. I could have easily predicted his next step: walk upstairs to the bedroom to call Ryan and ask all the right questions:

Did Tatyana somehow discover she was tagged with a GPS chip?

And, if so, what other surveillance does Acme have on the area, to determine if she lost her tail?

Fifteen minutes later, when Jack is back in the kitchen, he isn’t smiling–not a good sign. I guess my hunch was right, which is unfortunate for Acme.

He takes my hand and leads me out into the backyard, where a hammock awaits us, as does a night filled with glistening stars. I fall into it first, and he follows.
 

As I lay snug in his arms, we stare up into the sky, but neither of us says anything. Instead we stare up at the cosmos of constellations far over our heads.
 

Finally he murmurs, “You were right. Tatyana must have realized she’d been tagged with a GPS chip, and dug it out before leaving Mosul.”