Wherever She Goes (ARC)

by Kelley Armstrong

  “I do, but I really think the police—”

  “No,” she says firmly. “I need to know what went wrong. Why Brandon isn’t with Beth. If we call in the police, we might spook Beth. Especially if she knows what kind of person Brandon’s father is. If you can’t come with me, I understand. Just give me her address.”

  I tell Ellie I’ll get back to her. Then I hang up and go into the study, where Paul is working. I tell him everything.

  “If you’re comfortable going with her, that’s probably a good idea,” he says. “It would help to have a witness to whatever this woman says. I don’t see any danger. This is the person Kim trusted with her child.” He gets to his feet. “And I know you’d like to hear the answers firsthand.”

  “I would.”

  “I’ll go with you and wait in the car.”

  I shake my head. “This is just an interview. I can handle it.”

  He hesitates. Then he nods. “All right. I do kind of wish you’d kept the gun, though. I’m not a fan of firearms, but this is one time when I can see the appeal.”

  “I do actually have one, in a storage locker in the city. It’s even registered. But I don’t have a concealed carry permit.”

  “Right now, I don’t care. If you’re already heading to Chicago, I’d like you to swing by and grab it.” He pauses. “I’ll drive into the city with you. I forgot a few files at the office.”

  Paul and I drive to Chicago in our own cars. I told Paul that he could follow me to the locker, if he wanted, and he does. There’s no reason for him to come along. No practical reason, that is. The invitation is symbolic—this locker is what remains of my old life, the repository of my secrets. If he’d like to see that, he’s welcome to. I’m not hiding anything. Not anymore.

  When I open my locker, I see him looking about.

  “Yes, it’s kinda sleazy,” I say. “This is what you get when you pay cash.”

  “Actually, I was thinking it’s very small. This is everything you have?”

  I nod and turn on the light. He walks to a rickety dresser.

  “This is . . . a family piece, I’m guessing?”

  I smile. “No. It’s just junk. I bought the furniture to hide what’s inside it, in case of a break-in.”

  I take out the gun and place it on the dresser. He leans in to examine the firearm without touching it, and I struggle not to laugh at that.

  “You can poke around if you like,” I say. “There’s money. That’s my inheritance, not my ill-gotten gains.” I pause. “Though, considering I was living off the stolen money while saving this, I’m splitting hairs.”

  “It’s not actual stolen cash, which is the main thing.” He takes out a bundle. “If it’s an inheritance, then you’ve already paid taxes on it. There’s no reason to hide it.”

  “I was saving it for a condo. Then we got married, and I couldn’t bring it out without raising questions, so . . .”

  “So you’ve been living in a crappy apartment rather than use this?”

  “I didn’t want—” I clear my throat. “I was concerned about the custody implications.”

  He seems confused for a moment. Then he says, “You thought if you suddenly had money, I could unearth your past and use that to get full custody of Charlie.”

  I nod.

  He sets the money down. “I would never do that, Aubrey. No matter how angry I got, I never considered stealing her from you. You are free to bring out this money and put a down payment on a house or a condo or whatever you want. If you need help making the mortgage payments, I’ll pitch in. I’ve said before that you gave up your earning potential to care for our child. You are owed money for that.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “Yes, I know. You feel guilty, and you want to be fair. This is fair.”

  “I have enough for a good down payment, and once I get a new job, I’ll be able to cover the mortgage.”

  “New job?” He pauses. “Ah, one that uses your tech skills. Good. I was going to suggest that.” He catches my expression and says, “Which isn’t what you meant at all, is it?”

  “I’ll be fine. Now, I’ve got my gun so—”

  “What’s happened with your job?” He pauses. “This better not have anything to do with you rushing off after Charlie on Monday.”

  I don’t need to answer. Again, he sees it in my face.

  “They can’t terminate you for that,” he says. “Legally—”

  “I don’t want to work someplace that doesn’t want me. Legal termination or not. If they fire me, I’ll wave around the threat of a lawsuit, but only to negotiate a decent reference. I appreciate the outrage, but I’ve got this. Now, if you’re ready to go . . .”

  He looks around. “Money and a gun. Is that everything you have here?”

  I shrug. “There are a few mementos.”

  “May I see them? If you have time?”

  “I do.”

  * * *

  I’ve spoken to Ellie by phone, and I’ve seen her on Facebook, so it’s hard to remember that we haven’t actually met. She is what I saw online—an older, more full-figured version of her sister. I meet her in her hotel lobby, and we head out.

  Chicago is the third-largest city in the U.S., and I’d be lying if I said I got to know it well in my few years there, before I moved to Oxford with Paul. I got to know my apartment neighborhood and my work neighborhood. That’s normal for me, after a life spent moving around army bases. I focus on my narrow sphere. It’s only in Oxford that I feel I “know” the city.

  So I set my GPS for Beth Kenner’s address, without knowing where it’ll lead. As it turns out, it takes me to a neighborhood that was probably a former suburb. Winding streets. Massive trees. Post–World War II houses that look mass-produced from two basic molds.

  We park around the corner from Beth’s place. I know there’s no danger here, but I’m being careful. I can’t help it. The address leads us to a cute bungalow with a steep roof and massive front picture window. There’s a car in the drive, which I hope means she’s home.

  When I knock, I hear sounds within, but no one answers. I put my ear to the door. It’s gone quiet.

  I knock again. Ellie leans to look through the picture window, and I reach to pull her back.

  “Careful,” I whisper. “I don’t like the sounds of—”

  Footsteps patter across the floor inside. A lock turns. Then another. A small, white-haired woman throws open the door with, “Ellie!”

  She opens the screen and ushers us in. “I was out back reading. Then I heard the bell and saw your friend through the peephole. I thought she was selling something. Come in, come in.”

  She keeps prodding us until we’re in the living room. Then she hugs Ellie.

  “It is so good to see you,” she says. “Are you here visiting Kimmy?”

  Ellie looks at me. I wince. The older woman looks from me to Ellie.

  “Is something wrong?” she asks, her words slow, her back tightening.

  “When did you last year from Kim?” I ask.

  She settles onto the sofa, her hands fluttering. “Oh, I’m not even sure. We get together now and then. But it’s been a few weeks. Is she all right?”

  “She . . .” I look at Ellie, but she’s frozen. “I’m sorry, but she’s been killed. That’s why Ellie’s here. We thought you knew.”

  Beth stares at us. “Killed? An . . . accident?” Her voice rises in a way that says she hopes that’s what I mean, but she knows better.

  “She was murdered,” I say. “It was in the news.”

  She looks at me blankly, and I remember we’re in Chicago, not Oxford. I’m sure Kim’s death made the news here, but not the way it had at home. Kim hasn’t been identified officially either. There’s no reason Beth would know.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “So you haven’t heard from her in weeks?”

  She nods, but even if I didn’t know better, I’d see the lie in her expression.

  “I know that’s not true,”
I say gently. “I have phone records. I know she spoke to you twice before her death. Once on the Friday before she died and once the Sunday before.”

  I can’t prove the number was Beth’s. Not yet. But I must sound convincing, because she goes still.

  “It was about Brandon, wasn’t it?” I say. “You were supposed to take him.”

  She glances at Ellie.

  “I know about the house,” I say. “Your country place. That’s the address Kim gave Ellie for picking up Brandon if anything happened to her.”

  Beth exhales. “Yes,” she says. A moment of silence then, again, “Yes. I was supposed to take Brandon in an emergency. Kim called me two weeks ago. She was worried, and she wanted to make sure I was around, in case she needed me to take Brandon. Then she called back a few days later and said she’d found another way. She said everything was okay, but she was taking Brandon away for a while, just until . . . his father left town.”

  “His father was in town to open a new club.”

  She nods and seems relieved that I know who Brandon’s dad is. “Denis Zima, yes. She was worried with Denis being in Chicago, but she found a solution. She said she had something Denis wanted, and if she gave it to him, everything would be fine. She’d do that and then take Brandon on vacation until Denis left Chicago, just to be safe. That’s the last I heard from her.”

  Beth offers coffee after that, but neither of us is in the mood to socialize . . . and I don’t think she is either. Ellie tells Beth that she’ll let her know about funeral arrangements.

  Beth has no idea who might have Brandon. We’re all holding out hope that Kim really did make alternate arrangements. Better and safer ones that she didn’t dare tell Beth, for fear even that would endanger Brandon.

  That is our hope. That he is with someone, and that person has Ellie’s number but has chosen not to contact her until they know what’s going on with Kim’s murder. Solve that first. Put Denis Zima behind bars. Then Brandon will be safe.

  Yet, according to Beth Kenner, Kim thought she already had a way to keep him safe. She said that Zima wanted something from her, something that was presumably not Brandon himself. If she handed that over, Zima would stop pursuing.

  I’ve presumed that Kim was on the run all these years to hide Brandon from his father. What if, instead, she was in danger because she took something else when she left.

  When I broke ties with Ruben, I’d considered preventative measures against future blackmailing. Hack his own computer. Tape an incriminating conversation. Gather some intelligence I could use if he ever came after me . . . as he eventually did with Paul. I’d decided against it because that is a dangerous game. I already knew things I could threaten Ruben with. Gathering extra would only make him all the more determined not to let me walk away.

  What if Kim took out her own insurance policy? Her getting pregnant was like me getting shot—a wake-up call, probably fueled by a generous dose of panic. We needed to escape. Immediately. Yet neither of us was a wide-eyed naïf. We knew who we’d gotten mixed up with, and we knew our past could come back to destroy us. So we went into hiding. But I’d left knowing I had a small insurance policy against Ruben and deciding against a larger one. What if Kim—being younger and more desperate—grabbed the big insurance policy before she left . . . only to realize later that having it further endangered her child.

  If Kim took something incriminating, she thought it’d be insurance. What she would have discovered is that Denis Zima would happily kidnap his own son and use him to get what she stole. Then he’d keep the boy and kill Kim.

  That means whoever is holding Brandon might want the same thing: Kim’s insurance policy. And if they don’t get it? We’re not talking about a father taking his child. We’re talking about a bargaining chip that will lose its value once no payoff appears.

  This must go to Laila Jackson and the police. Once I get away from here, I’m pulling over and calling her. I’m thinking this as I climb in the car, having not said a word to Ellie since we left Beth Kenner’s. I’m about to tell her when I’m idling at a four-way stop and see the driver in the vehicle across from us.

  It’s the man who accosted me Sunday night.

  Hugh Orbec.

  There’s a moment, of course, where I think I’m wrong. I catch a glimpse of a man who resembles him, driving a Dodge Charger, and I think I’m mistaken. Then he looks over—not at me, just a casual glance toward my vehicle as I pass—and there is no question.

  That’s Hugh Orbec . . . and he’s heading in the direction I just came.

  Toward Beth Kenner’s house.

  At first, I’m sure he’s followed me. But that makes no sense considering he drove right past. Even if he knows what I drive, this isn’t my car—Paul insisted we switch vehicles after the storage locker, giving me an extra layer of privacy.

  If I’ve led Orbec to Beth Kenner, it’s not physically, but in another way—he’s following my virtual footsteps or tapping my phones or he’s arrived at the same conclusion independent of me. He’s been doing amateur detective work of his own, and he thinks Brandon is with Beth.

  How Orbec got here doesn’t matter. The important thing is where he’s going—to the home of a retired woman who lives alone, who tried to help a young woman in need, and is now going to suffer for it. If Orbec thinks Beth has Brandon, he’s not going to take “Sorry, you’re mistaken” for an answer.

  I watch as Orbec turns the corner behind me. Then I stop at the curb and throw open my door, startling Ellie from her own thoughts.

  “Take the car,” I say. “Drive to . . . to a coffee shop. The first one you see. Text me the address.”

  “What—?”

  “I just saw one of Denis’s men heading for Beth’s. They think she has Brandon.”

  Ellie’s mouth opens in an O, her eyes widening. “Shouldn’t I come with you?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve got this. You get someplace safe.” I want to tell her to call Laila. Call Paul. Call someone and tell them where I am. But I don’t have time to explain. I have my phone. I can text her as soon as I get a second. And if I don’t get one? Ellie knows where I went and why. Good enough.

  I call Beth. She gave us her number but warned she no longer carries her cell phone around, now that she’s retired. It rings three times. Then her cheerful voice invites me to leave a message. As I ask her to call back, I remember she’d been reading on the back deck when we arrived, and I curse under my breath.

  I remind myself that she hadn’t been quick to open the door for us. She only did so when she saw Ellie. This isn’t a naive senior citizen—she was a social worker, and she knows to be cautious. That won’t help, though, if Orbec forces his way in. Or if he surprises her in the rear yard.

  I zip to the street behind hers. I can’t see her yard from there, not with privacy fences and hedges everywhere.

  I sprint down three houses. The driveway behind Beth’s is empty, the house dark. I race into the yard. There’s a six-foot fence between that yard and Beth’s. I hop onto the lower rail and peek over.

  She’s not on her deck.

  I’m about to hop the fence when my phone rings. It’s Beth. I jump into her yard and then spot her at the kitchen window, phone to her ear. I answer as I cross the yard.

  “One of Denis Zima’s men is here,” I say.

  “Here?”

  “I think so. Is your front door locked?”

  “Of course.”

  She spots me as I hop onto her deck. She opens the door for me and starts stepping out, but I wave her back inside and follow. I go straight to the front door and double-check it. Both the dead bolt and key lock are engaged.

  “We can leave out the back,” I say. “I’ll call Ellie and have her pick us up.”

  “If you’re suggesting I hop that fence, I’m not your age,” she says. “I don’t even think I could climb it.” She looks around. “Do we need to leave? I’d feel better staying here and dealing with it.”

  “This isn�
�t the sort of person you can deal with.”

  She smiles at me, the kind of smile you give a very sweet but misguided child. “I was a social worker for forty years. I’ve talked drug dealers into putting down their guns. I’ve talked homicidal fathers into handing me their children. I can get rid of him, dear. He’ll walk away and rethink his strategy, and while he does that, we’ll contact the police.”

  “Okay. But we can’t let him see me. Can you pull the front blinds?”

  “That’ll seem suspicious, won’t it?” She looks around. “Why don’t you wait in the bedroom . . . no, those blinds are open. Maybe the back—” Footsteps sound on the front steps.

  As she looks around again, Orbec rings the bell. Beth spins me toward a door off the kitchen. “The basement. Go down there and wait for me.”

  “I’d rather—”

  “I can handle this.”

  I let her prod me onto the steps.

  “There’s a TV room at the bottom,” she says. “Wait there.”

  The door closes behind me as the bell rings again. As soon as her footsteps retreat, I creep back to the top step and crack open the door.

  Orbec is knocking now. The dead bolt clanks. Then the front door squeaks open.

  I have my gun in hand.

  “Miz Kenner?” Orbec says. “Elizabeth Kenner?”

  “Yes, that’s me, and whatever you’re selling—”

  “I’m a friend of Kim’s.” Orbec goes on to weave a story about how he knows Kim and Brandon, and he was told that if anything ever happened to Kim, he’s to come to this house and ask for Elizabeth Kenner.

  As he drones on, I relax. Beth was right. He’s not going to force his way in at gunpoint. It’s broad daylight in a residential neighborhood. He’s playing it cool with a plausible story. When that fails, he’ll retreat to formulate a new strategy.

  That’s exactly what he does. Beth insists she has no idea what or who he’s talking about, and when she asks him to leave, he does.

  The door closes. The house goes quiet, as if she’s watching him leave. Then I hear her voice, low, murmured. Something about . . .

  A basement?

  Did she just say something about a basement?