Scared to Death (29 page)

Not because of the high speed, or anything. That doesn't bother her.

No, she's just feeling like something is wrong, and she can't put her finger on it.

For some reason, she keeps thinking about that rat in her bag; remembering how one minute, she was sitting there at the table with Jake and everything was fine; the next, she was screaming bloody murder.

At the table with Jake…

Jake.

She knows he didn't do it.

If she thought he had, she wouldn't be going up to Boston to see him, right?

Right. He's a good guy. You like him. And he likes you, too.

If he didn't, he wouldn't have told her to come, right?

Right.

But then again…

Did you really give him much choice? You sort of invited yourself, don't you think?

Um, sort of?

Face it. You
did
invite yourself.

But he didn't say no.

He sounded like he wanted to, for a minute. But then he seemed to think it over, and he got into the idea. He's even going to meet her at the station.

Everything's going to be fine. Maybe she'll stay
in Boston with Jake, or they'll go out to California together or something—someplace where they can surf—and they'll live happily ever after, and she'll never have to see her mother or Annie again.

She thinks things like that all the time, yet today, the thought is oddly disquieting.

Okay, so maybe she
will
see them again.

Who knows? Maybe someday, she'll even want to.

She pictures herself introducing her mother to Jake, and smiles. Mom would probably like him.

 

Waiting for her call to be routed through the agency's automated phone system, Elsa can feel an irrational wave of panic building in the pit of her stomach.

Maybe she wouldn't be so uneasy about Renny's safety if she thought Brett was still assured of it.

But he's looking pale, thrumming his fingertips on the tabletop.

At last, Debra Tupperman, an office administrator, comes on the line.

“Hi, Debra, it's Elsa Cavalon.” She does her best to sound breezy.

“Elsa! How funny—you were on my list of people to call this morning.”

“Really?” She looks at Brett, who raises a questioning eyebrow. “Why were you going to call me?”

That news—and the resulting expression of concern on Brett's face—do nothing to ease her anxiety.

“I just wanted to talk to you about Roxanne Shields.”

“Oh…right.” Relieved, Elsa gives Brett a thumbs-up. “We were sorry to see her go,” she lies.

“Go?”

Elsa frowns. “She left the agency…didn't she?”

“No, she's just been sick for a few days. You were on her schedule, so—”

“Wait, she's
sick
? She didn't
leave
?”

“Leave? No.”

Shaken, Elsa sinks into a chair, her head spinning. “So you haven't replaced her?”

“Replaced
her? Not at all.”

Vaguely aware of Brett beside her now, clutching her arm, Elsa struggles to form her next question.

“But what…who…oh my God. Oh my GOD!”

Brett grabs the phone from her. “Debra, has a woman named Melody Johnson been assigned to our case?”

Elsa can't hear the answer above the full-blown panic screeching through her brain, but she knows.

She
knows
.

It's happening again.

Her worst nightmare has come true: Renny has been stolen away, just like Jeremy.

 

Her given name was Amelia.

When she was little she couldn't pronounce it, and so, her parents told her years later, she called herself La La.

It stuck.

It was the perfect nickname, because she was always singing. She would use anything at hand as a pretend microphone—a Barbie doll, a carrot, a bottle from her parents' liquor cabinet—and she'd perform.

As she grew older, she told anyone who would listen that she was going to be a huge star when she grew up, like the favorites she mimicked in her “act”: Mariah Carey, Gloria Estefan, Madonna…

Isn't that nice
, they would say politely—the substitute teacher, the woman in the supermarket checkout line, the new babysitter…

Then she would sing for them, and their eyes would widen, and sometimes, they'd even call other people over to listen.
You gotta hear this kid
, they'd say, and La La would sing for them all.

“That's my girl,” her doting father would say. “She's going to be a huge star. You just wait and see.”

Everyone believed in her—especially Daddy. He even built a small, soundproof voice studio in the basement of their home in Nottingshire.

Then, one day on the golf course, Jeremy Cavalon came at her with a seven-iron. He beat her head, her face, her neck.

The tracheal intubation saved her life, her parents were told. But it resulted in vocal cord paralysis. The condition was temporary, the doctors promised. One day very soon, she'd be able to talk again.

They were right.

She could talk.

But she couldn't sing. Not the way she used to.

La La's voice was never the same after the attack.

Nothing
was ever the same.

Her parents got her into piano lessons. They figured playing an instrument might help make up for her lost voice.

It didn't.

She was talented. Not so talented that people would stop what they were doing when she played, and say,
You gotta hear this kid.

But it was something. She admitted as much to Jeremy when he found her years later, still living in her childhood home. By then, her father had died of liver failure brought on by alcoholism. La La knew he wouldn't have drunk so much if it hadn't been for her injury. The brutal attack might not have killed her, but in the end, it was what killed him.

For La La, college was a welcome reprieve. She went to Tufts—close to home, but she lived on campus—and she majored in music.

After returning to Nottingshire after graduation last summer, it didn't take her long to conclude that being around her mother was more depressing than being alone.

Never a particularly warm woman, Candace Montgomery had grown increasingly brittle over the years. She didn't live life so much as she endured it, armed with dry martinis that rendered her a dismal drunk, as opposed to the slaphappy one her husband had been.

La La was planning on moving out last fall when Jeremy found her.

At the time, she wasn't sure where she was going, or what she would do when she got there—and she didn't really care. All she wanted was to get away from her mother, far from the pall that had shrouded the brick Colonial mansion on Regis Terrace since her father's death.

If Jeremy hadn't come along, La La might have had a chance to get away, make something of herself.

But, like so many other things in this life, it wasn't meant to be.

W
hy aren't you talking?” she asks the child strapped into the passenger seat of the Mercedes.

Yes,
strapped in
. She's in a hurry to get back up to Boston, and the last thing she wants right now is to have an accident in a car that belongs to her, with a kid who doesn't.

No answer.

Renata just sits staring straight ahead like a zombie. She's been this way for miles now—for over an hour.

At first, she asked a few times where they were going.

“For a ride,” she was told. “To get…berries.”

“My mommy said berries never last long enough.”

Nothing does, kid.

“How about ice cream?”

“Pink ice cream?”

Oh, for God's sake. “Sure, why not?”

The kid is breathing loudly, and every time she exhales, the breath trembles.

Yeah. Maybe she's figured out by now that this is a hell of a long drive to get pink ice cream.

It's okay. They've reached the Boston suburbs. It won't be much longer.

It's a relief to be back in the Mercedes after driving around in rentals all week—and Meg Warren's piece of shit car.

Suddenly, the kid reaches for the door handle.

“Hey, what are you doing?” She hits the brakes. A car behind her honks loudly and swerves around her. Furious, she gives the driver the finger as he passes.

“I was just putting down my window,” the kid says in a small voice.

“It's already down!” Yeah, she allowed that, trying to make her feel at ease from the moment they got into the car in her parents' driveway.

“I need it more open!”

Right. Because she's desperately claustrophobic. Her worst fear is being trapped in close quarters. That information came from the file folder Roxanne Shields so conveniently brought home the night she died—along with other interesting tidbits.

Like her photo ID.

It was so easy to create an identical one, complete with a recent photo and the perfect alias.

Melody.

Such a shame no one can really appreciate her cleverness.

And Johnson—the second most common surname, after Smith.

As in Jeremy Smith.

As in
Jeremy Cavalon
.

As in the child whose life was destroyed—

Before he went and destroyed mine.

And all because of Elsa Cavalon and Marin Quinn.

“I said cut that out!”

Dammit, the kid's hand has strayed back to the controls on the door handle. The doors are locked, and flying up the interstate at sixty-five miles an hour, she's
probably not going to try to throw herself out of the car through the window, but you never know.

Up it goes, all the way, courtesy of the driver's side control. Luckily, there's also a lock button.

“No!” Renata Cavalon screams. “Put it down!”

“If I were you, little girl, I'd settle down and shut up right now.”

She calmly pulls the gun from her pocket.

Using it right here and now wouldn't be nearly as much fun as what she has in store for Little Miss Claustrophobia…

But then, it's been such a long, exhausting day already.

It might be a good idea to get it over with and go home.

Home to Jeremy.

 

“Mom! Mom!”

Marin opens her eyes to see someone standing there, shaking her awake.

Something's wrong.

Annie…something about Annie…she's supposed to be worrying about Annie.

But Annie is here…

Isn't she?

That
is
Annie standing over her bed, isn't it?

She tries to sit up. Her body is too heavy to move.

The person says something, but it's as if Marin's head is swathed in layers of gauze—she can barely see, can barely hear.

“…police!”

The word cuts through the fog, jolting Marin like a knife. “
What?
”

“The police are here.”

The police? The police…no. Please, no.

“Caroline…where's Caroline?”

“I don't know, in her room, I guess, but Mom…you have to get up. They want to talk to you, now!”

 

Elsa refuses to lose herself in the miasma of fear swirling around her. Not like last time, with Jeremy.

If she doesn't stay strong, stay focused, Renny will be gone for good, just like Jeremy.

So she sits stoically with Brett on the couch as police officers move around them, radios squawking, taking photos, dusting the doorknob and the kitchen chair and table for Melody Johnson's fingerprints.

Was it like this last time, when Jeremy went missing? She doesn't even know. She was too far gone, by the time the police arrived, to notice their specific movements.

She does remember that Brett somehow managed to hold himself together back then. He was always the strong one, the one who kept his head amid chaos.

Not this time. He's trembling, crying on and off, his head buried in his hands as Elsa sits here like the eye of a hurricane.

She can't let it sweep her away.

She won't.

I'm Renny's only hope.

 

“Keep your head
down
, I said!”

Crouched on the floor of the Mercedes, the kid obeys with a whimper.

Turning on to Regis Terrace, she sees that the neighborhood has stirred to life since she drove away earlier. Kids on bikes and skateboards, pedigreed dogs on leashes, gardeners tending to lush landscapes…

Good Lord, the whole world is awake to see her come home. She carefully slips the gun back into her pocket and waves from the driver's seat as she passes people she knows. People who saw the hearse come to remove the body after that deadly stairway accident last fall; people who later came to her door with casseroles and sympathetic hugs for the sole survivor of the Montgomery family.

“We're so sorry,” they all said. “We're here if you need us.”

But La La doesn't need them.

She needs only one person—and he's here right now, waiting for her.

 

Elsa watches Detective Gibbs, a no-nonsense African-American man with graying temples and kind brown eyes—the one who seems to be in charge here—hang up his phone.

“Mrs. Cavalon, I know I've asked you this already”—he crouches in front of her, resting his hand on the arm of the sofa—“but is there anyone…anyone at all…who might want to hurt your daughter?”

“Just Marin Quinn, but—” She shakes her head. “She's the one, the one who called us.”

But Elsa has played her message over and over since they realized Renny had been abducted.

It was so easy, given their situation, to interpret Marin Quinn's message as an admission of guilt.

Elsa is no longer convinced.

I need to talk to you…Over the phone or in person, whatever…I, um, understand if you'd rather not talk to me after…after all this. But I hope you will. I'm sorry.

After all this.

After her husband was arrested for his role in Jeremy's kidnapping and murder?

Yes. It makes sense now.

But Elsa is even more frightened to think that she isn't the one behind Renny's disappearance.

Temporarily insane or not, Marin Quinn is still a mother. A grieving mother. She could still be harmless.

“We've got someone over at the Quinn place now,” Detective Gibbs is saying. “She's there—at her apartment in Manhattan.”

Elsa nods, unsurprised “The only other person—people—I can think of are Renny's birth parents.”

“They've also checked out. He's in jail again on drug charges. She's in a mental health facility.”

Elsa shakes her head, imagining what would have become of Renny had she been left in their custody.

Then it hits her—Renny wouldn't be wherever she is now.

No.

No, I can't blame myself. Not this time
.

 

La La left home this morning not long after Jeremy arrived, having driven up from New York.

She'd wanted him to catch the shuttle with her, but he's afraid to fly.

He's afraid of a lot of things.

Poor Jeremy.

All these years, she's hated him, and yet…

The day he showed up on her doorstep, it was love at first sight. She fell for him before she even realized his identity. He had such kind eyes, and a warm smile, and he looked at her as though he really cared…

“Don't you know who he is?” her mother had screamed at her when she came home to find him there.

Of course La La knew who he was. He'd told her.

Told her everything. Begged her to forgive him for what he'd done to her.

How could she
not
forgive him? He was a victim, too.

He understood, unlike anyone else. He knew what it was like to feel like a lost soul, to have your life shattered.

“He's the one who did this to you!”

Candace Montgomery was incredulous that she'd even let Jeremy past the door. She had no idea, of course, that he'd gotten much further than that. By the time she got home, they'd already fallen into La La's bed.

“How can you even look at him? He ruined your life!”

“Well, now he's here to save it, okay?” La La shot back. She knew she had to do something. Her mother was going to ruin things with Jeremy.

I tried to fight it. Really, I did.

But in the end, it was no use. It took precious little effort to shut her up. Just one swift and mighty shove, and over she went, tumbling down the steps…

That was it.

La La was left alone.

Alone with Jeremy. He was all she had, and she was all he had. That's how she wants it to be. That's how it is.

They take care of each other. Tell each other everything.

That's how she found out about all the horrible things that had happened to him.

The more he poured out his anguished memories, the more furious La La became. Her heart broke for the frightened little boy who still lived inside this beautiful man, the lost child who had been replaced by Renata and Caroline and Annie…

Replaced, as if he'd never even mattered.

He confessed that he dreamed of meeting them—the family he'd lost.

“I'll help you,” La La promised. She meant it.

Jeremy didn't even realize that there should be retribution for what they'd done to him—and thus, to her.

But La La knew. And she's going to make them all pay. For his sake, and for her own.

She presses the automatic opener, raising the middle door of the three-car attached garage. She pulls the Mercedes in, parks, and closes the door behind them.

“Home sweet home,” she informs the kid. “You can get up now.”

The little girl raises her head just in time to see the door close, sealing them in.

She screams.

“Oh, shut up. This is nothing compared to what I have waiting for you. Let's go.”

 

“Mom, drink this.”

Someone presses a glass into her hand. Marin raises it to her lips, sips. Water. Cold. Wet. Good. So simple.

“Here, I'll take it so you don't spill it.”

“Caroline.” She smiles as her daughter takes the glass away, leaning back against the chair cushion and closing her eyes, exhausted. “Thank you.”

“No, Mom, it's me, Annie. Caroline is gone, remember? We're trying to figure out where she is.”

Marin's eyes open again.

“Gone?” she echoes, confused.

There's Annie.

There are several men she doesn't recognize, men in uniform.

Police.

She grabs the arm of the nearest man. “Something happened to Caroline?”

“We don't know where she is, Mrs. Quinn.”

“She takes off sometimes,” she hears Annie say. “Like, a lot.”

“Caroline! You're here because Caroline—”

“No, Mrs. Quinn, we're here because we're looking for Brett and Elsa Cavalon's daughter, remember?”

Daughter?

No.

Son
. Her son is missing.

“Jeremy. You're looking for Jeremy.”

“No. Not him.”

She remembers, and grief wells up inside her.

“Where is Renata Cavalon, Mrs. Quinn?”

“Who…?”

Why won't they leave her alone? Why won't they let her mourn her own child?

“Dead…oh God.”

“Did you say ‘dead'?

“Yes…dead…all my fault.”

“Are you saying you killed Renata Cavalon?”

“No! No! Jeremy. My son. Jeremy is dead.”

 

Caroline spots him right where he said he'd be, next to the Dunkin' Donuts kiosk.

He doesn't see her yet, though. He's on his cell phone.

She walks over to him.

Still, he doesn't notice her. Should she say his name, or touch his shoulder? Or should she just let him finish his conversation?

He looks upset, she realizes.

“I know you are,” he's saying into the phone, “but I
had no choice. No…no, I didn't invite her, it was her idea…”

Clearly, he's talking about Caroline.

Oh my God. Why am I here?

“Yes, because I thought I should tell her…No, I couldn't do it that way…No, I need to tell her in person…”

Tell her what?

That he has a girlfriend? Is that who he's talking to?

Don't worry, you jerk. You don't have to tell me anything, in person or otherwise. I'm out of here.

She turns to walk away.

“Caroline!”

Too late.

Jake is hurrying toward her, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “Hey, you made it.”

Tell him. Tell him right now that you know he doesn't want you here. Tell him you're going back home.

Caroline opens her mouth.

He smiles at her. That smile…