Center of Gravity

by Laura McNeill

  “She has asthma. I can’t find her medicine.”

  Where’s the inhaler? On my hands and one good knee, we search the room. Ava starts opening drawers. I dump her purse, scattering pens and lipstick in all directions. Her wallet falls out last, a wad of cash stuffed in the pocket.

  Though I don’t say it to Ava, a voice in my head shouts. This was no random break-in.

  “An ambulance is on the way, sir. Stay on the phone with me until the paramedics arrive, please.”

  “Of course.” I keep my fingers on her pulse. Check her arms and legs for bruising. Anything unusual.

  Dr. Bennett groans, shifts her neck. And I see the marks. Big enough to match a man’s hand and fingers. Around her throat.

  My brain jolts. “Look.” I motion to Ava.

  When she sees where I’m pointing, her face drains of color. She shrinks back, and her shoulders fold in.

  Ambulance sirens blast. Doors slam. Voices yell.

  “Mitchell,” she mouths.

  Footsteps drum in the hallway, but Ava doesn’t move. She’s in a trance, body rigid, eyes fixed on Dr. Bennett’s face. I move out of the way, stand up, then reach over and jostle Ava’s arm.

  She clambers to her feet, pushes her hair back from her face. Her voice is low and strangely calm. “Graham, I have to do something.”

  The EMS team jogs into the room.

  I frown and glance over at her. “What are you talking about? We did. The paramedics are here.”

  Ava shakes her head.

  One throws down a duffel bag and kneels next to Dr. Bennett. The rest jostle for room in the tight space. The first medic bends down his shaved head to check her vitals. His partner, a slight, dark-haired female, slips an oxygen mask over her face and starts an IV.

  Ava pulls at my arm and motions toward the hallway. When we step out of the room, she starts pacing, her green eyes ablaze. “He’s going to hurt the boys,” she whispers. “That message from Dr. Bennett. She was scared.”

  I shake my head and lower my voice. “Look. No matter what happened here—whoever they find out is responsible—I don’t think Mitchell will go so far as to hurt the kids. They’re all he can hold over your head. He’s using them to manipulate you. Why would he take his best weapon out of the mix? This way, he’s in control, you’re suffering. And he knows it.”

  Ava sets her jaw. “I don’t know.”

  “Sir?” One of the paramedics calls out.

  “Let me talk to them,” I plead. “Then we’ll call the police, do whatever we need to do.” I reach down and squeeze her forearm. “But we have to be careful and do this right. There’s too much at stake.”

  “Sir?” the voice repeats, this time, louder.

  Ava bites her lip. “Go. I need some air.”

  She frowns, zips up her jacket, and jogs down the hallway. When I get back to the paramedics, they’re loading Dr. Bennett on a stretcher. It’s another five minutes before I realize Ava is gone.

  CHAPTER 64

  AVA

  FRIDAY, APRIL 30

  I walk away from Dr. Bennett’s office. My hands tremble. I find my cell, punch in Mitchell’s number, and pray. The battery is dangerously low. Enough to eke out a few minutes? I hit Send. The sharp ring jars my heart.

  “Dr. Carson,” he snaps.

  I force my lips into a smile. Soften my voice. “Mitchell. It’s me. Ava.”

  Nothing.

  “Do you have a moment or two?”

  I can hear the breath expel from his lungs in a deep gust. Music plays in the background. Shopping carts rattle by. A loudspeaker announcement blares.

  He’s out somewhere. Where are the boys?

  “I’m pretty busy.” He coughs, clearly distracted by the bleep-bleep of a checkout scanner.

  “How are the children? They with you?”

  Mitchell clears his throat. “Fine, fine. Home with Isabel.”

  She’s at Friday night Bingo. Unless the kids are sick. But I just saw them. They’re fine. I picture them in the apartment. It strikes me then. They’re alone.

  “Great!” I squeak, trying not to sound desperately chipper. “Then you could meet me. So I can just, you know, share some things with you. I need to tell you . . . um, I want to say this . . . in person. Apologize.”

  He’s intrigued. “It’s a little late. I don’t know if it’s going to change anything.” Gruff. Stubborn. Typical Mitchell. But appealing to his sense of control definitely seems to be working.

  “I know,” I gush a little. “It’s probably just to make me feel better. But I need to see you in person. It would be a huge favor to me. I’d owe you.”

  This gets him.

  I scramble to think. Somewhere private. Somewhere safe for Mitchell, but not me. “How about the college? Your office?”

  “Give me ten minutes.”

  I calculate the distance to Mitchell’s apartment. If I sprint, I’ll be there in a few minutes. I have to try. Once he realizes I’ve tricked him, it’s all over.

  I start to run.

  CHAPTER 65

  JACK

  FRIDAY, APRIL 30

  The computer hums to life under my fingertips. If Dad comes home and finds me on his laptop . . . But I can’t think about that right now. I google my grandfather’s first and last name, then Birmingham, Alabama. The usual Internet garbage pops up. Sites with flashy graphics that promise to find anyone, anywhere, and want you to pay money. With a credit card I don’t own.

  I try his name again with the army, Vietnam. Nothing.

  Combine his name and my dad’s. Add “Karen Carson.” Hit return. A newspaper article. And my mother’s obituary. I open the news story and read it. A few paragraphs sum up the last minutes of my mother’s life. Dry, sunny day. Car accident. Investigation closed.

  The obituary’s twice as long. Karen Carson. Beloved wife, mother, daughter. Her picture stares back at me, empty, haunting, like a ghost. I’d almost forgotten the color of her eyes, the texture of her thick, shiny brown hair. She smelled like apples, crisp and fresh. Seeing her helps me remember what I’ve buried so deep inside my chest.

  Graveside service at four o’clock. The memories zoom back, sharp and biting. Donations in lieu of flowers.

  I check the name of the cemetery. I’ve never been back to the gravesite since the day she was buried. Dad refuses to take me. Won’t talk about it. Acts like it never happened. We used to have photo albums and scrapbooks. Where are they now?

  I can’t look at my mother’s face any longer. I force myself to scan the words, look for clues. Anything. We’re all listed as next of kin. Wait. The obituary lists Grandpa Frank as from Moulton.

  I close the window, try the Internet white pages. Type in Frank Carson with my wobbly fingers. In seconds his information pops up on the screen. I write down the number, wonder if he’s home, guess at what he’s doing. Eating dinner? Watching TV?

  I grip the scrap of paper, carry it to the kitchen, and stare at the phone. As if it’ll dial itself. One hand out, I reach a little further and punch the buttons with a shaky finger. I can always pretend it’s a wrong number. Except I’m a terrible liar. With stomach cramps and a headache.

  “Carson,” the voice barks. An older version of my father, rough around the edges.

  I choke on my fear.

  “Hello?” he says. “Hello?” he snaps, then his voice deepens a few octaves. “I don’t appreciate these prank phone calls—”

  “Do you have a son?” I croak out. “Mitchell?”

  The man stops his angry tirade. He’s breathing hard. “Jack? Is this Jack? Talk to me.”

  But I cut him off. Hang up. Sink to the floor, pull my knees to my chest, bury my head.

  Everything.

  Everything my dad’s told me.

  Everything my dad’s told me is a lie.

  CHAPTER 66

  AVA

  FRIDAY, APRIL 30

  My head hammers with every step. Storm clouds brew in the distance. The rain falls hard as I reac
h 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 apartment—” 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 know—at 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 Dad—”

  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. And—”

  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 time—” I spin around, ready to scold Graham for making me worry.

  But it’s Mitchell.

  CHAPTER 67

  AVA

  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 boys—Jack 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.

  CHAPTER 68

  AVA

  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?r />
  “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?”