Is she on the phone to the police?
Why would she tell the police I’m in the basement?
She wouldn’t, and she hasn’t been on that phone long enough to explain the situation. She’s barely had time to place a call . . .
She hasn’t placed a call. Because she left her phone on the kitchen counter. She put it down before answering the door and never returned to the kitchen.
Which means . . .
I figure out what it means one second before I hear the murmur of another voice.
Hugh Orbec.
Beth just told him I’m in the basement. There’s no other explanation.
There’s no way I can get to the back door without them seeing me. I quickly shut the basement door and hightail it down the stairs. I race into the TV room. Turn on the light. Shut the door. Sprint down the hall. Open another door to find a laundry room with a window.
I shut that door and leave the light off. The window is right over the washing machine. I climb up onto it. It gives a creak, and I freeze, but the sound is covered by the thump of feet on the stairs.
The window is fixed, no way to open it. I grab a towel from the top of the dryer; then, with one eye on the door, I wrap the towel around my gun and force myself to wait.
The TV room door opens. As Beth calls “Aubrey?” I smash the window with the towel-wrapped gun. I wince at the noise but I clear the sill as fast as I can. Beth calls my name again, casual, not having heard the window break. I toss the gun out and hoist myself up and . . . Damn it, this is one time I wish I hadn’t kept those extra pounds.
My hips stick in the window. Beth calls again, but Orbec has already figured it out. He lets out a curse. I’m wiggling as hard as I can, pushing hard, trying—
My hips pop through just as the laundry door slaps open.
“You—” Orbec begins.
I don’t hear the rest. I’m sure he’s not complimenting me on my ingenuity.
As Orbec snarls curses, I spring to my feet and run. He comes after me, but for him, that means going through the basement, up the stairs, past Beth—who I’m sure will demand an explanation—and out the back door. By that time, I’ve vaulted over the fence and reached the street. From his footsteps, he presumes I’ve gone the way he saw me run—for the back fence. Instead, I’ve climbed the front one, and I’m already jogging down Beth’s road.
My gun’s put away, and I have my cell phone in hand instead, my fingers poised over the emergency button. If I hear anyone running behind me, I’ll push it. I take every turn I come to until I reach a small market.
The shop reminds me of the one in my old neighborhood, the kind that sells overpriced organic staples for those who can’t bother driving into the city. Which means it’s not like the corner stores in my new neighborhood, where Orbec could barrel in, grab me by the hair, and haul me out, and the clerks would busy themselves checking the cigarette stock.
Before I walk inside, I fix my ponytail, straighten my shirt, and then check for blood and dirt. There is some of both. I hadn’t done a perfect job clearing that windowsill, and I cut my bare arm. My hands and knees are filthy from crawling out into Beth’s garden. Fortunately, this is also the sort of shop that has a dog tap outside for thirsty pooches. I quickly clean my hands and knock dirt from my jeans. Then I go inside and call for a taxi.
Maybe I should be phoning the police, but honestly, I expect the taxi will come faster. I feel safe enough now, and the Chicago police would require a full explanation. If I gave it, they’d probably figure I was high on meth or oxy. So a taxi it is. As I wait I pick out a snack I won’t eat—gourmet soda and veggie chips—and then chat with the cashier until my cab pulls up.
I call Ellie next. According to the text she’d sent, she’s only a few blocks away, but I can’t risk leading Orbec to her. I tell her to take my car back to her hotel and stay there until I can get in touch again.
“Is Beth all right?” she asks.
It takes me a moment to remember that I’d gone back to “save” Beth. I stifle a snort at that. I haven’t even processed what Beth has done. I haven’t had time.
“Beth is fine,” I say. “But she’s working with Denis.”
“What?”
“That’s why Denis’s thug was there. Remember how long it took Beth to get to the door when we arrived? I think she was calling him. That’s why she didn’t want us leaving so soon.”
“Oh my God.” A pause. “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure she called him? No. Am I sure she’s in on it all? No. But she told me to go in the basement while she got rid of him. She pretended to do that. He pretended to leave. Then she told him I was in the basement. I escaped out a basement window. “
“Oh my God.” She inhales. “I keep saying that. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . Kimmy was so afraid, and I kept telling her she was overreacting. We’d fight about it. I told her she was ruining her life and damaging Brandon’s out of pure paranoia. Once, I even suggested she see a therapist. Kimmy didn’t always make the best choices, but I could not imagine she fell in love with any guy who frightened her that much. She’d never talk about him, though. She’d shut me down and say it didn’t matter, that Brandon was in danger. Serious danger. And I didn’t believe her.”
Her voice breaks. I tell her the important thing is that she’s here for Brandon now. That she believes Kim now. And, understanding the danger, she’ll stay in that hotel room, right?
“I will. I absolutely will.”
“Good. Put the keys under the car mat, please. I’m going to swing by and take it. I’m also getting the police involved. I know that’s not what you wanted, and if you insist, I’ll leave you out of it . . .”
“No, you were right. This is a matter for the police. Tell them everything.”
“Okay. For now, get to your hotel. Park. Don’t contact me again. I’ll find the car. You stay safe.”
I have the taxi circle, so I can be sure Ellie parks and leaves before I arrive at the hotel. I find the car easily enough—at midafternoonthe lot is almost empty. I drive straight to Paul’s office. I want him with me when I contact Laila. At this point, I’m starting to feel like legal representation might be wise. No, that’s an excuse. I just want to be with Paul. I’m holding it together and faking calm, but inside, I’m freaking out.
Part of me doesn’t even want to speculate on what’s going on here. Just shove aside any need to interpret and take the facts to Laila. But I can’t help trying to figure it out. Trying to make sense of it.
Beth Kenner is working with Hugh Orbec, which means she’s working with Zima. If Kim had handed over Brandon, as planned, Ellie still wouldn’t have gotten that call to come get the boy. He’d have gone straight to Denis.
But now Denis is looking for Brandon, which means he doesn’t have him. Kim didn’t give Brandon to Beth. Did she figure out that the one person she trusted in Chicago wasn’t trustworthy at all? Was Beth telling the truth about that—Kim called and pretended everything was fine, said she didn’t need Beth’s help after all? I think so. Something tipped her off, and she changed her plans.
But what did she change them to? Did she find someone else to take Brandon? Or did she turn over her insurance policy . . . and then pay for that mistake with her life?
I want to believe she found someone else, and Brandon is safe, and as soon as Denis is arrested for Kim’s murder, Brandon’s caretaker will decide to contact Ellie. Everyone lives happily ever after.
Thinking back to that day when Brandon was taken, I can find evidence to support my theory. Kim must have told Brandon to play for a while and then gave him a time to meet his guardian in the parking lot.
Then why did he fight it? He ran over, as if expecting to see someone he knew. Yet the man who came out of that SUV was a stranger, and Brandon fought.
Maybe in her haste to make new arrangements, Kim forgot to tell Brandon it wouldn’t be Beth picking him up. Or maybe Brandon just expected a woman.
It doesn’t
matter who has the boy. He’s safe. I’ll take what I have to Laila, and the police will pick up the investigation from there.
I call Paul to let him know I’m coming. His cell goes to voice mail. I try his office instead.
“He’s not here, Mrs. Finch,” his admin assistant says.
“It’s Aubrey, please. He stepped out?”
“No, he’s gone for the day. He said if you called or stopped by, I should let you know he’d left and tell you to call his cell.”
I’d expected he’d wait for me to be done. Which is silly. As far as we knew, I was on a completely safe mission to interview a friend of Kim’s. No need for him to stay in Chicago, and if I’m disappointed, that’s personal. I wanted him to be waiting for me. He isn’t. Too bad.
“All right,” I say. “He’s not answering his cell, but I’ll leave a message. Did he say he was heading home?”
“He . . .” She goes quiet, and then says quickly, “He was looking for Ms. Lansing.”
“Gayle?”
“Yes. He came in looking for her, but she’d just left. She was planning to work from home for the afternoon. He went after her.”
“Ah, okay. Thanks.”
I disconnect and idle at a green light until someone lays on the horn behind me.
Paul lied to me. He said he was picking up files. Instead, he was looking for Gayle. When I asked how Gayle felt about him helping me, he said she was fine with it . . . and then changed the subject.
Gayle must not be fine with it, and he went to the office to speak to her. Now he’s followed her home. That’s okay. It’s time for me to tackle this on my own and not screw up his new life any more than I have.
I’ll call Laila before I get to Oxford and meet her at the police station, where I’ll tell her and Cooper the whole story. I don’t need Paul to hold my hand for that.
I do call him, though. Just a quick one to say I have everything under control. The phone only rings once. Then someone answers. Only it’s not Paul.
“Hello, Aubrey.” The woman’s voice is ice cold.
“Gayle?”
“Yes.”
“Is Paul there?” I hurry on with, “This will only take a moment.”
“Haven’t you taken up enough of his time?”
I should wince. I should apologize. I’d just been thinking that very thing. But it’s not as if I strong-armed Paul into helping me. Or sobbed on his shoulder, begging for his assistance.
“Yes,” I say, injecting an equal dose of ice into my voice. “Paul comes with some baggage, and that baggage is me. But if you know him—at all—then you understand that this is how he is. I’m having a problem that affects our daughter, and he is helping me resolve it. I am very sorry if that has upset or inconvenienced you, but it is almost over. Just let me—”
“It’s over now, Aubrey.”
“Where’s Paul?”
“Here. He’s asked me to handle this.”
I snort a laugh. “Uh, no. He hasn’t. Let me guess, he’s temporarily out of the room, and you grabbed his phone.”
Her silence tells me I’m right. In that silence, I hear the ticking of a grandfather clock. The one at our—Paul’s—house. So they’ve gone there, and he’s stepped into the bathroom, and she’s seen me call and answered.
“Paul wants me to tell you—” she begins.
“Like hell. Paul is a nice guy. A good guy. A guy who doesn’t particularly like confrontations, but he’s not a coward. If he has something to say to me, he’ll say it himself. Just like he would have asked me about horseback riding last Saturday. I thought that seemed odd. Turns out you lied to me, which—by the way—I haven’t told him. Now hand the damned phone to Paul.”
“Gayle?” Paul’s voice sounds in the background, underscored by the smack of his loafers along the hall. “I thought I asked you to leave—”
Gayle hangs up.
You bitch.
You royal bitch.
I start to call back. Then I stop myself. I’m not getting into a tug-of-war between them. I don’t know what’s happened, but Paul’s tone and his words tell me they’ve had an argument. If it’s about me, then I’m sorry for that, but I’ve done nothing wrong.
I know Paul’s at home. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, and I’ll talk to him in person. By then, Gayle will be gone.
I call Laila and leave a message saying I’m coming to the station to speak to her. I’ll be there in an hour.
Whatever’s happening with Beth, it’s not an urgent situation. No more urgent than it has been since Kim’s death. I lost Orbec back at Beth’s place, and I’ve seen no sign of him or his car since then. I’ve been watching for them. Back when I walked away from Ruben’s operation, I educated myself on Fugitive Life 101—everything I needed to rest assured that no one was after me. So I know how to spot a tail. I don’t have one.
As I round the corner to Paul’s house, I see Gayle’s car in the drive. I let out a curse, and I slow.
If they’re still arguing, I don’t want to walk into that. And if they’re making up, I definitely don’t want to walk into that.
I will admit that it takes some effort to decide I’m not going into that house. I know it’s the right stance—the selfless choice I should make if I care about Paul. If Gayle makes him happy, he should be with Gayle. But that’s me making a conscious effort to do the right thing. There’s still a little part of me—okay, not too little—that wants to barrel in there and have it out with her and let Paul know what she did on the phone.
I love him. I would love to have him back. I’m not denying that. I just need to keep my distance until he figures out what he wants. I owe him that much.
As I pass the house, I slow. I’m looking at Gayle’s car, and something’s prickling the back of my mind, pushing through the warring voices of “stay out of this” and “get in there and fight for him.” Those voices are loud enough that the niggling really has to push hard to break through. But it does, and I realize what I’m seeing.
The car from the playground video.
I squeeze my eyes shut and give my head a sharp shake. I’m angry at Gayle. Outraged and fighting the overwhelming urge to show her why messing with my family is a very bad idea. In that state of mind, I’m jumping to ridiculous conclusions that paint her as something far worse than a woman who wants my ex-husband.
I take out my phone and find the still image of that car. I enlarge it. I compare the two.
It’s definitely Gayle’s. There’s a scrape on the front bumper that matches. I saw her car at the daycare and thought it looked like the vehicle of a woman who belonged with Paul. That’s why it stuck in my mind.
I remember Paul seeing this picture. I remember him hesitating. This is why he wanted to stop by the office. Not to pick up files. According to his admin assistant, Paul went there to see Gayle. True. He went to confront her about this.
The fact that Gayle’s car is in the video is not proof that she sent it. A court would see it as circumstantial evidence. But there is no other logical reason for Gayle’s car to be near that park. She doesn’t even live in Oxford.
Paul said she was working from home Monday. He’d considered sending Charlotte there and then changed his mind and left her with the neighbor instead. Had he told Gayle that? If so, she’d know exactly where to find Charlotte. It would be easy to follow them to the playground and shoot the video.
Shoot a video of our daughter and send it from a prepaid phone with threatening texts? Why the hell would Gayle do that?
I don’t care. I’m not going to sit at this curb and ponder her motivation. This woman scared the life out of me and cost me my job. She also scared the life out of Paul—a man she supposedly cares for.
I march to the house.
I glance at her car as I pass. I even run my finger down that scrape, to be sure I’m not hallucinating it. I’m not. This is the car in the video.
The rear gate is ajar, and I swing it open and continue through onto the deck. The
back sliding door is also not quite shut, as if someone marched through this way, too angry to close gates and doors behind them. I’m reaching for the sliding door handle when I see something smeared across the glass.
That smear gives me pause. Paul might have a three-year-old, but he also has a housekeeper three days a week. He’d be quick to clean it himself, too.
It looks like jam or candy. A light smear of red . . .
Red.
Blood. There’s a smear of blood on our back door. I grab the handle and have to forcibly stop myself.
I take out my phone to dial 911. Then I reconsider, pocket the phone, and pull my gun instead. I slide the door as carefully as I can.
Inside, it’s cool and dark. Quiet, too. Completely quiet. My heart thuds faster.
What have I done?
What the hell have I done?
Led Orbec to Paul, that’s what I’ve done. I traipsed off after my escape at Beth Kenner’s, and I’d been so pleased with myself. No need to rush and call Paul. No need to rush and call the police. The situation is under control.
I take a deep breath. Plenty of time for self-recriminations later. Right now, I need to focus.
Ahead, I see a lamp on the floor, the shade knocked off. Signs of a struggle.
Don’t run. Just keep moving. Be careful and keep moving.
I continue into the living room. And there is Gayle, sprawled on the carpet. I race to her. There’s no sign of blood. No sign of injury either. She’s breathing fine, sound asleep.
I grab Gayle by the shoulder. She wakes, flailing, her eyes wide.
“Where’s Paul?” I say.
She looks around, as if expecting to see him standing there.
“Where is Paul?” I repeat.
She blinks. “He-he took him. The man. The one who broke . . .” She seems to lose her train of thought and rubs at her temple, wincing.
“Where is he now?”
“I have no idea,” she snaps. “You’re the one who brought that man into his house.”
“What man? Describe him.”
She describes Hugh Orbec. Then she goes on to say that Orbec broke in and knocked her out, and the last thing she remembers, he was telling Paul to come along. Orbec was taking him hostage. That’s when she lost consciousness.
Wherever She Goes (ARC) Page 21
