Center of Gravity (33 page)
Everything.
Everything my dad's told me.
Everything my dad's told me is a lie.
FRIDAY, APRIL 30
My head hammers with every step. Storm clouds brew in the distance. The rain falls hard as I reach the door of Mitchell's place, a blessing and a curse. My socks are soaked through, they squish water as I pound my shoes on the pavement.
The lightning flashes across the wet parking lot. Mitchell's truck is gone. For now. There's a single bulb burning in the apartment window. Thunder booms and crashes, nearer now. The wind whips my hair. A gust tosses tree branches to the ground. Birds cry and flutter to safety. Soda cans spin in circles on the blacktop, their clatter like broken cymbals in a marching band.
I race up the stairs, pausing under the shelter of the porch roof to draw a ragged breath and call Graham. He's only minutes away.
“Where the hell are you?” he shouts.
“The apartmentâ” I cough out the words.
“Dammit, Ava!”
I bend over, chest heaving. “Get over here. And call Mike Kennedy.”
The wind howls and Graham's question gets lost in the crackle of the connection.
“What?” I yell.
“What about Mitchell?” he repeats.
The phone goes dead.
I shove it back in my pocket and turn.
The apartment door is shiny-slick with water and humidity. I knock with my knuckles. Once, then harder. Mother Nature drowns me out.
“Jack,” I call out, my cheek pressed to the metal frame. “Can you hear me? Open up!”
With my palm open wide, I slap at the barrier between my children and me. In the darkness, I feel for the bell.
Do I have the wrong apartment?
When no one answers, I creep around the corner, try to peer inside. Mitchell's tie and sport coat lie across the sofa. I shade my eyes and see Sam's blocks and his pretend radio. Jack's comic books. I rap against the glass. “Jack? Are you there, babe?”
Through the fogged-up glass, I think I see a figure crouched on the floor in the kitchen. Too small to be Mitchell. My fingertips wipe at the window, trying to see better. It has to be Jack. I tap again and wave, trying to get his attention.
“Jack, please.” I whisper. The wind carries my plea down the street, out of sight.
Finally, movement. A leg, then an arm. I see the edge of a head. With red earplugs in. Jack's earplugs for his iPod.
It is Jack. And he can't hear me between the music and the storm. I race back to the front and steady myself in front of the apartment. I take a few steps running start and hit the door with my shoulder. It creaks and gives a little, I can feel it. One more time. I ball up my fists, clench them across my chest, and summon all of my strength. This time the lock breaks apart. The door flies open.
Jack races into the living room, earphones flying. “Ava!” He yells.
He falls into my arms, buries his face.
“Oh, thank God.” I gasp and clutch him to me. “Jack, are you
okay? I'm so worried about you both. Is your brother okay?” We're both shaking.
“Yes,” he answers and begins to sob. “Mom.”
Mom.
I ease the door closed behind me. It won't shut all the way. The air-conditioner blasts a chill through my skin. I shiver and hold Jack close.
“I'm sorry I didn't believe you.”
“No need to apologize, honey. There's nothing to be sorry about.” I squeeze his hand. “I'm here.”
Jack snuffles. “But he's taking us. We're leaving.” He glances at the clock, wipes his eyes. “He's supposed to be back by now. I don't know where he is.”
I knowâat least, I pray I do.
He continues. “I called Grandpa Frank a little while ago. He answered but I hung up. I would have called you on the cell phone, but Dadâ”
He gestures wildly to the open suitcase, chin trembling. “He took it and smashed it to pieces. He knew you gave the phone to me. He was really, really mad. And then I couldn't remember your new phone number. Andâ”
Finger to my lips, I shake my head. “We'll have time to talk later. I don't want you to worry about it. But we need to get your brother and get out of here now. Is he in bed?”
Jack nods and points to the back bedroom.
Hurry up, Graham, please. You should be here by now
. I calculate the logistics. One motorcycle. Two adults, one kid, and a baby.
A gust of wind pushes the door open. A floorboard creaks. “It's about timeâ” I spin around, ready to scold Graham for making me worry.
But it's Mitchell.
FRIDAY, APRIL 30
Before I can cry out or react, Mitchell jerks me to the wall, his breath hot on my face.
I shift my gaze to Jack, signaling for him to leave the room. His face pinches in worry, but Jack moves quickly toward the kitchen. He can't leave the apartment and wouldn't leave Sam, but at least he'll be out of the line of fire if things get ugly.
With Jack out of sight, Mitchell pushes his forearm against my neck, cutting off my supply of air. I choke as he hisses at me. “Ava, this isn't just trespassing. It's attempted kidnapping. Punishable by law.”
When he stands back, I grasp at my throat and suck in air, staring into Mitchell's dark eyes. Chest heaving, I manage to spit out six words. “I heard you're the one leaving.”
Mitchell glowers at me and yanks my arm. “Your phone. Where is it?”
I grit my teeth and pluck it out of my pocket. Though it feels like betrayal, I hand it over. It's no use to me now, anyway. Mitchell fumbles it, pressing the On button to no avail.
“It's dead, Mitchell,” I whisper. “I can't call anyone.”
His lips curl, and he tosses it onto the sofa, sending it bouncing
across the cushions. “Jack,” he snaps, shouting into the next room. “Get your brother.”
My heart spasms.
Snatching his keys, Mitchell hustles me out the door. We wait there for the boysâJack in just a T-shirt and jeans with his backpack on, Sam, bleary-eyed and wrapped in a fleece blanket. Rain drums on the roof, pooling on the walkway. As Mitchell prods us down the stairs and toward the parking lot, I yank off my own jacket, holding it over the boys' bare heads, letting the rain pelt my face in tiny needles. An icy rivulet of water trickles down the back of my neck as I help buckle the boys inside the Range Rover.
Sam is fussy from being woken up, and I stroke his head, murmuring to soothe him. Our eyes lock. My breath quickens. Today I want to lie. I want to tell Jack there's a backup plan. That everything will be fine, there's an elaborate escape route planned.
But I stay silent, give Jack an encouraging smile, and listen for the wail of sirens. For the roar of Graham's Harley rivaling the bellow of the storm. Neither come. As my seat belt clicks in place, the air around me crackles. My body tremors. And I send up a silent prayer. To the angels, to the heavens, to all that is good and true in the universe.
I am strong. I am scared as hell. But this isn't over yet.
FRIDAY, APRIL 30
Rain pummels the Range Rover, beating the roof and windshield in a frantic pattern. We hydroplane, and my stomach lurches when the vehicle suddenly slides right. Gripping the armrest, I squint through the windshield, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of the road as the wipers strain to keep pace with the downpour.
Mitchell pulls at the wheel, slows, and turns. We're heading toward our own house now, not away from it. I blink, trying to filter all of the reasons he'd run here instead of Dallas, Atlanta, or Miami, cities so large it might be possible to disappear for a day or two.
Our headlights shine on the driveway, and I jump out and punch in the new code to open the garage. As Mitchell pulls into the sheltered space next to the Jeep, I squint at the glare from the fluorescent bulb overhead, rubbing at my eyelids with my fingertips.
As I open the passenger doors to let the boys out, Mitchell motions for me to wait. “I want to talk, Ava.” His voice, now steady and restrained, is almost kind. I hesitate, letting my hand rest on my thigh.
Thoughts pummel my brain in a constant beat of questions. Will Graham think to look here? Will Mike?
“Jack,” he continues, “take your brother to his room. I'll be up in just a few minutes. Your mother and I need to talk.”
I swallow and look back at the children. Jack doesn't say a word, just unbuckles Sam, pulls him onto his shoulder, grabs his backpack, and eases out of the SUV. With a last look at me, face pale, brow furrowed, Jack disappears inside.
An eerie calm falls over Mitchell. He backs out of the garage, parks outside, and cuts the engine.
“Let's go,” he says, motioning that I should get out and head for the house.
Lightning bursts through the sky, illuminating the house and yard in an eerie glow. I don't move. “Are you leaving, Mitchell?” I ask. Moisture prickles the small of my back. My hands grow damp. “Whatever it is you have planned, it's not going to work.”
Mitchell scoffs and shakes his head. He steps out, shuts the door, and jogs toward the soft yellow glow from the garage. The rain falls, silver, on his silhouette, water soaking his sport coat and skin.
Damn him.
The boys are in the house. After a moment, I follow. Stepping over downed twigs and small, gnarled branches, I pick my way up the driveway. When the wind picks up, leaves swirl around my feet. Three steps later, I'm inside the garage, wiping the water from my cheeks.
Mitchell is waiting next to my Jeep. When he flexes his hands, an image of Dr. Bennett's face flashes in front of my eyes. Her neck with the finger marks.
I twinge with nausea but steady myself. My voice comes out stronger and clearer than I expect. “What is it that you want, Mitchell?”
He laughs, a stilted sound that reverberates in the garage. “I have what I want, Ava. Custody of the boys.”
My heart twists like ribbon. “It's not over,” I retort. “Nothing's been decided.”
“Ah, but it has,” he replies evenly. “Your little stunt tonight.”
I exhale, trying to slow my racing pulse. I force my eyes to his.
They're dark as charcoal, hot at the edges. “So now you're judge and jury?”
Mitchell smiles and walks over to the garage wall but doesn't answer. I follow his gaze to the smaller tools, neatly lined on a small shelf above my head.
My skin prickles. “You lied to me about your father. Frank's very much alive.”
Mitchell whirls on me, and I jump. His face is purple-furious, contorted in pain. “That man is dead to me.”
“He cares about you. And Jack,” I protest.
“That's bull,” he spits, clenching his fists. “He left us. He left my mother.”
The rain slows, the thunder softens.
“Maybe he did,” I say, my hand stealing to my back pocket. “But Karen wasn't leaving, was she?”
“Yes, she was,” he argues. “Everyone leaves.”
“She was going on a book tour, Mitchell.” I keep my voice low, steady, and firm.
Mitchell's eyes flicker over me. “You're a liar. Just like she was.”
I slide the paper from my back pocket. “Karen planned a trip for you, right after the book tour. It was a surprise.” I hold it out. “Take it.” The paper shakes.
He snatches it, scans the type. “Where did you get this? Frank?” Mitchell scoffs. “The old man made it up.” His face betrays him, though. He can't take his eyes away from the page.
“Mitchell, your father doesn't have a computer.” A surge of frustration wells up and crests like an ocean wave. “Think about what you're saying.”
Mitchell lashes out a whip-curl of outrage. “I know what I'm talking about.” He rips the page in half, tears it again, and lets the pieces drift to the floor. “You're so naive. She was in love with Will Harris.” He spits out the name.
I shake my head. “Will Harris has a partner. I met him.”
Mitchell chortles. “That's the same thing Karen said. The two of you are just alike. Always plotting and lying.” He's seething with fury now, starting to perspire. I back away, nearly tripping over my feet. In four quick strides, Mitchell catches up to me. He catches my shoulder, pushes me back, and punches the wall next to my head.
I ball up, cross my arms to cover my face. But when I lower my elbows, lift my chin, and meet his gaze, the action fuels his rage. He shakes his fists, bits of white drywall flecking his knuckles. A needle-thin shiver shoots up my back.
He can kill me, but he's not going to touch the kids. I'll die first.
I make a run for the door to the house, ducking under his arm. Mitchell grabs me by the back of the head, balling my hair in his fist. My scalp burns, and I claw at his body, trying to wrestle away from his grasp. Mitchell lifts me off the ground and pushes me against the Jeep. I cough and kick wildly, trying to catch my breath.
“I didn't want it to come to this, Ava.” Keeping one hand on my arm, he pulls a bottle of pills from his pocket and a silver flask.
He releases my hair. My chin falls forward and I shake my head vigorously.
“Drink it. Take the pills,” he murmurs, popping the lid. “You're depressed. You don't have your children. Everyone will understand that you decided to take your own life.”
I gasp and start shaking. The room tilts. Mitchell means to murder me. He cups a hand under my chin, gripping the skin with his fingers.
“Do it,” he growls, “or the children get it too. I'll make sure it looks like you decided if you couldn't have them, I wouldn't be able to either.”
“I called the police,” I cry out. “They're coming.”
Mitchell laughs. “While you were in the truck, debating whether or not to come in the house, I called the sheriff's department. A little
bomb threat on campus,” he adds. “All of those students. They're on their way.”