Wherever She Goes (ARC)

by Kelley Armstrong

  That’s when I remember thinking his voice sounded familiar. It is familiar. I heard it just last night, through a closet door. He’s the guy from Zodiac Five. Denis Zima’s friend.

  Stay calm. Just stay calm.

  I look over at him. “Are you a reporter?”

  His surprise is almost comical. “Hell, no. I just remember seeing that on the news, and thinking it was a helluva thing. That chick getting bumped off for her kid. That’s what it seemed like—some sicko killed her for her little boy. Some pervert. But when I looked it up later, seeing if they found the kid, I find out the police didn’t believe you. That pissed me off. They do that sometimes, with women. They don’t believe them.”

  “Well, in this case, they were correct. I was mistaken.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I glance at him. “What difference does it make?”

  “I’m curious, okay,” he says, and there’s a faint growl to his voice, one that warns he’s just about done playing nice.

  “I saw a woman with a boy,” I say. “It wasn’t the same woman. She just had a similar look—young, blond, slender.”

  “And she had a son?”

  “Maybe? She was with a kid. About eight or nine.”

  “Eight or nine?”

  I shrug. “Maybe older? I don’t have kids, so I can never tell.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The chick and her kid. What were they doing when you saw them?”

  I’m about to say they were on the swings—just make something up. But when I see his expression, I realize I don’t want to give anything away.

  “Look,” I say. “I get it. You don’t want me to know you’re a reporter. But it’s obvious you are. No one else asks me these kind of questions.”

  “Except the police.”

  “Yes.”

  “So the police asked you?”

  I turn another corner. The diner is a block ahead. I only have to get that far.

  “The police didn’t ask me much of anything,” I say. “Because they didn’t believe there was a child, and it turns out they were right. I made a mistake. An embarrassing mistake. Now, if you’ll just leave me alone please—”

  He elbows me. It’s so fast and sharp that I never see it coming. His elbow strikes my bad shoulder and I stagger with a gasp. Then he grabs that same shoulder and shoves me hard into a narrow passage between two buildings.

  “What the hell?” I say as I recover. “This is not the way to get a story.”

  His hand goes to my throat. Again, I don’t see it coming. I don’t expect it. He may have knocked me into this alley, but that was just a fit of temper, and he’ll see he’s made a mistake and cover it up.

  Did I bump your shoulder? I’m so sorry.

  That’s what I expect. Just stand firm, and he’ll back down and regroup. Instead, there’s a hand at my throat, and then he’s slamming me into the wall, my feet barely touching the ground.

  “Let’s try this again,” he says. “I want to know everything about that kid. Understand?”

  I glower at him, and he lifts me by the neck until I’m on tiptoes . . . and his T-shirt rises up over his waistband.

  I wheeze for breath and nod frantically.

  “Good,” he says.

  As he lowers me down again, I grab the gun. Grab it and jab the barrel into his stomach. He grunts in shock and jerks back, like I’ve sucker punched him. Then he sees the gun.

  “What the—?” he begins.

  “Did I mention that I’m not worried about running at night? I can take care of myself. Now step away.”

  He grabs for the gun. I do hit him in the stomach then. A hard jab to the solar plexus that has him bent over, gasping.

  “You said you thought that boy was grabbed by a pedophile,” I say. “Well, maybe that’s because you know all about them.”

  “Wh-what?” he manages between gasps.

  “You’re taking way too much interest in a missing kid.” I start backing out of the alley, gun still aimed at him. “I think maybe I should call the police. Have them find out why you’re so interested in little boys.”

  He makes a run at me, but the gun—or the look in my eyes—stops him.

  “There is no little boy,” I say. “I made a mistake. I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to stay away from me, or I will make that call.”

  I keep backing from the alley. When I reach the sidewalk, he makes another run for me. A car comes around the corner just then. My back’s to it—the driver can’t see the gun—but he does see Zima’s thug. He hits the brakes. The thug stops short. I continue backing toward the car. When I hear it coming my way, I lower the gun and hide it.

  The whir of a window rolling down.

  “You okay, ma’am?”

  It’s a teenager wearing a fast-food-restaurant uniform.

  “Someone’s following me,” I say. “Would you mind giving me a lift for a block or two?”

  “Uh, sure. Hop in.”

  He shoves a backpack off the passenger seat. I climb in, never turning my back on Zima’s man, who stands there, watching and seething.

  I shut the door. “Drive past him, please.”

  The kid nods and does that. Zima’s man stays on the sidewalk and watches us go.

  “You okay?” the kid asks.

  “I was out jogging, and that guy decided he wanted to run alongside me. I wasn’t looking for company. He really wasn’t taking the hint.”

  “Jerk.”

  “If you could just turn right at the next intersection, I’ll get out there.”

  He does and then insists on driving another block before pulling over. I thank him and try to give him twenty bucks. When he refuses, I start getting out and tuck the money under the seat. Then I thank him again and take off.

  I head to my apartment building. I keep an eye out, but there’s no sign of Zima’s thug. I hover inside the door to be sure no one has followed. Then I zip up the stairs and to my apartment and . . .

  Someone has tried forcing open my door, but I installed a double-cylinder jimmy-proof dead bolt. I used to rob homes; I know how to secure one. The intruder couldn’t break that. Still, I open it with care, and when I move inside, I have the thug’s gun in my hand.

  My apartment is empty.

  I secure it behind me. As soon as I step in, though, I don’t feel like I usually do, the dead bolt turned, the world shut out, me safe behind the door. I feel vulnerable, as if I’ve trapped myself by locking that door, and any minute now, whoever tried to break in will return with someone more capable.

  There’s a moment where I wonder how they found my apartment. I’m still in shock from what happened in the alley. Having one of Zima’s thugs pump me for information while pretending to be a fellow jogger is reasonable. Having that same guy toss me into an alley and slam me against a wall is not. So I’m still reeling from that, which explains why I don’t see the obvious right away.

  How did they find my apartment? Well, I’m pretty sure that thug didn’t just happen to be wandering around my neighborhood when he spotted me. I gave my name on TV, and they’ve tracked me to my apartment. That thug wasn’t just pumping me for information—he was distracting me while others broke in.

  I pack an overnight bag. Then I clear my apartment of every sign that I have a daughter. I told the thug that I don’t have kids, and he didn’t argue, which suggests they haven’t dug that deep. So I hide evidence of Charlotte, and I take everything that suggests I was investigating Brandon’s disappearance. Then I climb into the car, and I drive.

  I intended to go to a hotel.

  This is not a hotel.

  I’m sitting in a driveway, staring at a house that used to be mine. I see a car in the drive that used to be mine. And inside that home is a family that used to be mine.

  I sit in that drive, and I cry. I can’t help it. I slump over the steering wheel, forehead against it, and I cry.

  I think of all the
times I pulled into this drive and took it for granted. Pulled in and just wanted to get Charlotte out of the car, because she was fussing, and it’d been a long day of errands. Wanted to get her out and put her down for a nap and rest, just rest.

  I loved my life, but I’d be lying if I said there weren’t times I wanted to escape it, too. Times when I longed for Charlotte to sleep so I’d have a few moments to myself. Times when I’d be making dinner and wish someone would cook it for me, wish I’d be the one coming home from work. Times when I even thought, Dear God, what have I done?

  But that despair and regret never lasted long. The pressures and, yes, the loneliness of being a stay-at-home mom piled up, and I caved under it for an hour or two. Felt sorry for myself. Envied other lives. Far more often, though, I’d be in the yard with Charlotte, and I’d see other mothers hurrying to work, herding kids into the car, and I’d be so glad that wasn’t me. I’d be in the park with her, see the snarl of the morning commute, and I’d count my blessings. Staying home wasn’t for every parent, but it’d been what I wanted. Just give me a few years with my daughter—with all my kids, including those yet to come—and then I’d happily return to the workforce and find satisfaction there.

  I had that. And I didn’t lose it. I gave it up. Now I sit in the car and look at that house, and I cry.

  I came here to warn Paul. Tell him what’s going on and make sure he realizes the danger.

  That’s it.

  No, that’s not it. I came here for sanctuary. To tell Paul of the danger, yes, but then hope he’ll ask me to stay. Hope he’ll let me stay, just for the night.

  I am afraid, and this is my home, and I desperately want to be here, where it’s safe. With Paul, where it’s safe. With Charlotte, where I know she’s safe, where I can watch out for her.

  Too bad.

  I can’t put this on Paul. I do need to warn him, but that can be accomplished with a phone call.

  As I put the car into reverse, the front door opens. Paul steps out. His shirt is half-buttoned, his feet are bare, and his state of undress reminds me what he’d been doing earlier. Taking Gayle’s daughter to the train station. Presumably with Gayle, who might be in the house right now.

  I start to back out. He raises his hand for me to stop. I put down the passenger window as he walks over.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I wanted to talk to you, but I should have just called.”

  He leans down to the open window. “Come inside.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to interrupt your evening.”

  “I’m working, Bree. Interruptions are welcome.”

  “Gayle isn’t here?”

  His brows knit.

  “You looked . . . I thought Gayle might be here.”

  He glances down at himself, and it takes a moment for him to realize what I mean. “No, Aubrey, you didn’t ‘interrupt’ anything. Charlie’s in the house. I got comfortable because the office is stuffy. The air conditioner isn’t working right again.”

  “You need to clear the weeds from the unit. They choke the fan. Here, let me do that, and then I’ll go.”

  I turn off the car. When I get out and head for the backyard, Paul steps into my path.

  “You aren’t here to fix the air conditioner, Bree. Come inside and talk.”

  “I’ll explain while I fix it.”

  He sighs but follows me into the yard. I’m glad for the darkness. It hides the play set and the sandbox and everything that will remind me of Charlotte and our life here. As I’m making my way to the air-conditioning unit, I smack into something in my path. It’s a hammock. My hammock, still stretched between two trees.

  Paul bought it for me to read on while Charlotte played. I remember laughing at the thought that I could laze out here, reading, instead of chasing her. I did use it, though, when she was napping. I’d read and relax with the baby monitor beside me.

  I remember Paul reading outside in a chair, and I’d tried to convince him to use the hammock.

  “That takes far more motor skill than I possess,” he’d said.

  Yet it’s still here. As if I never left it. As if I could grab a book and settle in—

  I push past the hammock as Paul flips on the deck lights. Sure enough, vines choke the AC unit. As I pull them off, Paul says, “I can do that.”

  “Got it.”

  I keep tugging.

  “Bree?” he says.

  I don’t look up.

  “I know you came here to explain,” he says, “and you know I don’t want to hear it.”

  I’m about to say no, that’s not it, but he continues.

  “I really don’t,” he says. “I need some time. But if you’re worried that I’ll keep Charlie from you, don’t be. Please. I already said I wouldn’t and . . .”

  He exhales and leans against the deck railing, as I untangle vines below.

  “I know who you are,” he says. “Who you were.”

  I try not to tense.

  “I don’t just mean what you did,” he continues. “When we talked this morning, you said you gave away the money.”

  “Not all—”

  He continues as if he didn’t hear me. “That made me dig where I told myself I wasn’t going to dig. Into your life. Who you were. You didn’t get that shoulder scar from an accident that killed your parents. But they are gone. Both of them.”

  I go still.

  “You didn’t lie,” he says. “Not entirely. Your mother died in a car accident when you were two. You were found in the car a day later. I think of Charlotte and try to imagine—” He inhales. “I can’t imagine. I only know that something that . . . horrific . . . would have an impact. A huge one.”

  “It’s not an excuse—”

  “You grew up on army bases. No siblings. Your dad never remarried, and he was often deployed. I remember all the times you’d fly into a panic, worrying that you weren’t a good parent, that you didn’t know how to be, and I never understood why you’d get so worked up. Now I do.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I say. “I’d stay with good people when he deployed. I wasn’t neglected or abused. My dad loved me. We were close.”

  “Until he took his life.”

  I stiffen.

  “I’m sorry,” Paul says quickly. “That sounded harsh.”

  “It was harsh. There’s no nice way to put it. I was away at college, and he came home from deployment, and he was worse than usual. I kept telling myself talking to him on the phone was enough, that I’d get him help when I got home on break and then—”

  I snap a vine so hard it slices into my finger. Blood wells. I wipe it off before Paul notices.

  “That’s when it happened, isn’t it?” Paul says. “You dropped out of college, and Ruben took advantage—”

  “No.” I meet his gaze. “There aren’t excuses, Paul. I wasn’t tricked into what I did. I chose it. I was angry, and I was stupid, and I chose it.”

  “Who’d you give the money to?”

  I flail, hands flapping, before I quickly return to the vines. “It doesn’t—”

  “Bree?”

  “I kept a third.”

  “And the rest?”

  I hesitate. Then I say, “One-third to a PTSD group. The rest was anonymous gifts to people who needed it, mostly around the base.”

  “Rob from the rich, give to the veterans?”

  He smiles, but I shake my head vehemently, my eyes filling with tears.

  “Don’t,” I say. “I was young. I was angry. I was stupid. I didn’t do it for others. That’s just how I used the money, because it wasn’t about the money. Young. Angry. Stupid. That’s all.”

  He nods. “Okay.”

  I resume pulling vines. “I knew the statute of limitations had run out before I married you, Paul. No one suspected me. I wasn’t fleeing anything but my own mistakes.” I look up at him. “I wasn’t looking for safe haven.”

  He shifts, as uncomfortable as I was discussing the money. He opens his mouth, and I
know he’s going to tell me not to pursue this, so I quickly say, “I left because I thought you were unhappy. We were drifting apart, and that’s a lousy reason for ending a marriage, but I didn’t want it to get worse. I thought if I mentioned the problem, and you agreed that it wasn’t fixable, then I’d leave. I took the risk that you’d agree. I felt like I had to. For you and for Charlie. Now I know why you weren’t happy, and I wish to God I could go back to the day we met and tell you the truth, but I can’t.”

  I rip off another vine, my attention back on that.

  “You couldn’t,” he says after a moment. “Not when you’d first met me. It was too soon. But I wish you had, at some point. At any point.”

  “I know. I just . . . the further it went, the more afraid I got. The easier it seemed to just become someone else.”

  “Were you?” he asks softly. “Were you actually someone else, Bree? Or were you just pretending to be?”

  “Was I pretending to be your wife? Charlie’s mommy? No.” I look at him. “Pretending to be happy? No. But the person you fell in love with, the one you married, you had a child with, that wasn’t the whole me, and I’m sorry.”

  He says nothing. I bend and snake out a last bit of vine.

  “So, MIT, huh?” he says, and when I look over, he’s smiling. It’s not his usual smile—it’s a little sad, a little confused—so I just nod.

  “When you’re done with the AC, my desktop has been acting up,” he says. “Think you can fix that, too?”

  I find a half smile for him. “Probably.” I straighten. “Let’s see if this works.”

  “It should.” A long pause. “Will you stay for coffee?”

  “I will, but only because all this isn’t what I came to talk to you about. Let’s go inside.”

  We sit at the kitchen table, and I tell him everything, as succinctly as I can. I explain how I identified Kim Mikhailov, linked her to Denis Zima, went to Zima’s club and overheard that conversation . . . and then had Zima’s thug menace me on my jog tonight.

  “So, my concern is . . .” I begin, and then I trail off as I catch his expression and realize he’s no longer hearing me. He’s just staring.