Exposure

by Brandilyn Collins

  “Yeah. True.”

  The underboss paused, letting his unspoken words sink in deeper. “See you in the morning.”

  Bear’s house. The million-dollar drop-off would force Nico to prove he’d removed the money from the storage unit. At least Bear hadn’t ordered him to take Denny along with him. That would have signaled the nail in Nico’s coffin.

  On the other hand Denny could be waiting for him at the warehouse.

  “I’ll be there.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  In the apartment Lorraine could barely breathe. The smell hit her as soon as she walked in the door. Coppery mixed with sweet — and something utterly horrible.

  Death?

  Her mind turned inward. She wasn’t here. Not really. She wasn’t smelling her husband’s blood, seeing the stained hallway flooring from the corners of her eyes.

  She looked toward the kitchen — and saw red spots on the wall.

  The black chasm within her yawned open. Terror and grief wrapped skeletal fingers around Lorraine’s throat. She couldn’t stay in this place. Not for a minute. Never again for a night. No matter how much professionals cleaned, even if every bit of carpet and floor and every piece of furniture was replaced — none of that could erase what had happened here.

  Get what you need and get out!

  Heart drumming, Lorraine edged toward the hall, both hands drawn to her chest. Part of her wanted to wail out her pain. Part of her wanted to scream with rage. But she did neither. Once she started she wouldn’t stop.

  At the edge of the living room carpet she stared at the stained floor. The bright red she remembered had muted to rust. Tears squeezed from her eyes. For a crazy moment she nearly dropped to her knees and raked her fingers through the gore. Yes, it was blood, but it was Martin’s blood, and right now it was all she had left of him —

  Stop it, Lorraine.

  Holding her breath she lifted one shaking foot and made a wide step over the blood.

  In her bedroom she pulled a small suitcase from the closet and threw in two changes of clothes. She hurried into the bathroom to snatch up toiletries. Then she carried the suitcase into Tammy’s room and threw it on the bed. In went two pairs of pants, underwear, and two tops. Tammy’s hairbrush and an old pair of pajamas. The pink pair lay in the corner where Lorraine had thrown them this morning, stained with patches of red.

  Lorraine yanked the zipper shut and lugged the suitcase from the room.

  At the end of the hallway, clutching the suitcase with both hands, she pressed against one wall and skirted around the stain on the floor. After peeking through a window to check the lot, she rushed out the door and slammed it behind her without looking back.

  Spent, she sagged against the doorpost and breathed.

  As she carried the suitcase to her van, Lorraine’s eyes pulled toward storage unit seven.

  With the bag stowed in the passenger seat, Lorraine found herself staring at the unit again. She narrowed her eyes, biting one side of her cheek. Had those robbers stashed that money in there? Then come back to kill her husband?

  She could call Detective Tuckney right now and tell him her suspicions. But that would only drag Martin into the robbery. No way would the detective think the money being hidden on this property was a coincidence. Besides, right now she could at least hope Martin’s killer wouldn’t come back for her. If she talked, her life wouldn’t be worth two cents. Then what would happen to Tammy?

  A series of insane thoughts catapulted through Lorraine’s mind. Slowly her head pulled back.

  Her gaze raked toward the office.

  An unseen hand pulled Lorraine across the concrete toward unit seven. She looked up and down the street running along the far side of the lot but saw no sign of someone parked and watching. At the unit, glancing around again, she moved in close to examine the lock. She lifted it up in her palm. It was a strong padlock. The best.

  Her gaze rested on the door’s hasp.

  Lorraine strode back to the van and snatched her purse from under the front seat. She pulled out the key to the office and returned the bag.

  As she entered the dim office, Lorraine told herself this was as far as her crazy idea would go. Tomorrow she would come to her senses.

  The cabinet door squeaked as she opened it.

  Mr. Houger’s long-handled, powerful bolt cutter sat on the bottom shelf. She should use it, he’d told her, only when a renter defaulted long enough on payment that the contents of his storage unit could legally be put up for sale. In that case an auctioneer would come in, people bidding on the contents of the unit as a whole. Some auctioneers brought their own bolt cutters for the padlock. Others expected him to furnish it. Mr. Houger showed her how to work the tool, its long handles providing leverage to move the blades together. “Takes some power,” he said, “but it works. Most padlocks are less strong than the hasps on our doors. But if the padlock’s impossible to break this way, go for the hasp.”

  Lorraine didn’t tell him she’d used a bolt cutter before. In high school one of her friends lost the key to a padlock she’d used to chain up her bike. Her father had a bolt cutter, but he was at work. Lorraine had managed to break through the lock.

  She lifted Mr. Houger’s tool from the cabinet, plus a pair of thick gloves lying beside it.

  At the office door she poked her head out and looked around, heart beating in her ears.

  Holding the items close to her body, Lorraine pulled the door shut. She hurried to the van and opened up the expansive, empty back. From every direction eyes seemed to follow her. But she saw no one.

  “This guy’s in the mob . . .”

  Lorraine laid the items on the floor of the van and closed it up.

  Her hands trembled as she started the engine. Pulling out of the parking space, she stopped for a long, aching look at Martin’s abandoned car.

  She drove back to Michelle’s house to pick up Tammy, telling herself how stupid she was. She’d never go through with this. Not in a million years.

  Even so, her rebellious mind sifted through details of a plan.

  PART 3

  Do not take counsel of your fears.

  George Patton

  THIRTY-NINE

  Nearly midnight. Clouds had clustered in, gobbling up the moon and stars.

  Restless and nerve-ridden, Kaycee huddled in her den on the old brown couch she’d inherited from her mother. Both arms were wrapped around her drawn-up knees. She stared unseeing at some rerun of a legal drama on TV. Every room in the house blazed with light. The porch lamps in front and back were on. All blinds and curtains were drawn.

  Hours ago she’d watched as Officer Statler dusted her front and back doorways, the kitchen table, and her office desk. Of course he lifted fingerprints. But how many would be her own? In her heart Kaycee knew her watchers would not be so careless as to leave such evidence behind. They were far too cunning for that.

  Heart skidding and palms moist, Kaycee then had walked through the house with Officer Statler, checking every room. All clear, he pronounced, but she didn’t believe it. As she watched him drive away, the living room seemed to close in on her, vibrating with unseen evil. For a wild moment she pictured alien eyes in the framework of the walls, watching.

  We see you.

  This plan was crazy. If they were watching, they’d know full well who Mrs. Foley’s visitor was. The civilian clothes and baseball cap wouldn’t throw them at all. Plus, they’d know another officer was hiding in the black barn. These people were all-seeing, omniscient. They even messed with her dreams.

  What would happen if they didn’t show up tonight? How many nights would she have to go through this?

  Kaycee snatched up the remote and hit the channel button. A crime show blitzed on. Great, just what she needed.

  Mark had called Kaycee’s cell an hour ago as she paced her kitchen. “Just want you to know I’m here and set up.” He spoke in low tones with a certain hesitation, as if his concentration lay elsewhere.

>   “Where are you?”

  “In the kitchen, watching your backyard. I can see this side of your house from here, but not the front door. Officer Nelson’s got that and his side of your place covered.”

  Officer Nelson, from the State Police. He also carried a cell phone — on vibrate. Police radios were too loud.

  “Where is . . . she?” Kaycee didn’t want to say too much. What if they’d rigged her house and were listening right now?

  If Mark caught her paranoia, he didn’t let on. “Upstairs in her bedroom. The chief asked her to stay up there.”

  Anger flashed through Kaycee. Maybe by now the old woman finally believed Hannah was in trouble. “She’s actually doing what she’s told?”

  “Ah, she’s not so bad. Just set in her ways. I got a great aunt like that.”

  “Aunt Battery Acid?”

  He chuckled.

  “I was in her living room once,” Kaycee said. “She’s got so many colors in there it probably glows in the dark.”

  “Close to it.”

  Silence. She could hear him breathing.

  “How you doing, Kaycee?”

  “Fabulous. I’m thinking about taking up espionage for a living.”

  “No room for fear in that.”

  “Hey, after tonight, I could do anything.”

  “Stand in a hive of bumblebees?”

  Yikes. “Sure, why not?”

  “Walk across High Bridge?”

  A railroad bridge not too far outside Wilmore, stretching across the Kentucky River Palisades — once the highest of its kind in the world. People told horror stories of getting caught up there when a train went by — mere feet from the railing. The thought of that bridge’s dizzying height, train or no train, sent Kaycee’s stomach dropping. “Going up there hasn’t been allowed for years, Mr. Policeman.”

  “It’s the willingness that counts.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be watching out for me, not trying to make me panic.”

  “You don’t sound panicked.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  They fell silent again.

  “Everybody’s got fears, you know,” Mark said. “You’re just more honest about yours. Most people don’t have the courage to be that honest.”

  Kaycee blinked. It was one of the nicest things anyone could say to her. She’d never thought of her honesty as courage. She’d never thought of a single bone in her body as courageous.

  “Thank you for saying that.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Kaycee stared at the kitchen table where the camera had sat. “Why’d the chief want you to bring . . . that certain thing with you?”

  “Uh, my laptop?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know those cameras around town? We can review any film from our own computers.”

  Kaycee processed the information. “Oh.”

  Another pause. Kaycee floundered for something to say. She didn’t want to hang up. Never had she realized how good Mark’s voice sounded.

  “Kaycee, when this is all over, I’m taking you out. To celebrate.”

  She blinked in surprise as her heart did a little dance. Had he even had one date since his fiancée left him three years ago? Rumor had it the answer was no. “Let’s hope we have something to celebrate.”

  “We will.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “Kings Island. I’m taking you on the biggest rollercoaster they’ve got.”

  Kaycee’s eyes closed. “You rat.”

  “Okay, maybe I’ll think of something else.”

  Please, Kaycee thought but couldn’t form the word.

  Mark cleared his throat. “I should go. You got me on speed dial, right?”

  “Yeah, but only if I need you. I’ve got Tricia standing by. She’s promised to talk on the phone all night if I want.”

  “That’s what a friend’s for.”

  Long after they hung up, Kaycee’s thoughts hovered on the conversation. “Most folks don’t have the courage. ” And he’d asked her out. No, not asked, told her. Mark Burnett wanted to take her out!

  If she survived the night.

  Time ticked on. The tingle of the conversation faded, and Kaycee was left alone with her fear. Every minute seemed a lifetime.

  Where was Hannah on this dark night? Was she even alive?

  God, save her.

  Kaycee had called Tricia and tried to talk but couldn’t find much to say. The last thing she wanted to discuss was her terror, and spilling the beans on her date with Mark just might jinx it. Who knew, maybe it would never happen.

  Now hours later Kaycee hunched on her couch, limbs atremble, and watched the crime drama, barely registering.

  A loud creak sounded in the office.

  Kaycee whipped her head around. She froze, muscles tight, eyes probing the visible part of the room. Her desk and computer, the arm chair, the door to the hallway off her kitchen. Some detective on the TV was droning on about mitochondrial DNA. She punched the mute button on the remote, then listened. She heard nothing but the whoosh-whoosh of her own pulse in her ears.

  It was nothing. Her old house always creaked.

  Kaycee’s fingers curled around her cell phone. She slipped off the couch and straightened, head cocked. Slowly she approached the arched office doorway, neck craned to gaze around it to the left.

  Empty.

  She walked to her desk and stared at the black screen of her monitor. Biting her cheek, she surveyed what she could see of the hall. They couldn’t possibly be in here. For all her paranoia, she knew that. Two officers had all four sides and every entrance to her house covered.

  She sidled into the hallway. Peeked in the laundry room and bathroom. Then forced herself into the kitchen. The dining area. Living room. Back to the den.

  There, see, Miss Courage?

  Kaycee sat back down on the couch. On the TV a dark-haired actress in a white lab coat was silently positioning a thread on a microscope slide. Kaycee put her phone down on the table and picked up the remote.

  Her skin prickled from the heat of unseen eyes.

  “No one is here,” she said aloud.

  She checked her watch. Not even twelve-thirty. This night would last an eternity.

  Her nerves writhed.

  The silence would swallow her. Kaycee pressed the mute button again, and TV voices kicked to life. Feverishly, she channel-surfed, looking for something light to occupy her mind. She blipped through the History Channel, a cell phone commercial, cable news, a car ad, an I Love Lucy rerun —

  And a full-screen shot of the dead man in vivid color, his eyes half open, lying on the dark yellow floor.

  FORTY

  Lorraine lay in the motel bed, staring up through the darkness. Dim light from a streetlamp filtered through the curtains, splotching the ceiling with vague patterns. Cars passed on the street. A dog barked. Lorraine had listened to latecomers pass in the hall and enter their rooms. Finally the motel settled into quiet. But sleep had not come. Like the world outside, her thoughts refused to still. Memories, fear of the future, emptiness, and grief jumbled in her head. And the crazy plan. The idea that would not die.

  Beside her, Tammy sighed the even breaths of sleep. Such innocence. Such peace.

  What would they do in the morning? And the next day, and the next?

  Lorraine had never called Mr. Houger about cleaning up the apartment. While she was there, she’d forgotten. Then how to have the conversation at the motel with Tammy in the room? She closed her eyes. But those were just excuses, weren’t they? Deep inside a voice whispered that making sure the apartment was cleaned would no longer be her problem.

  Over and over Lorraine had sifted through her choices. She could return to the apartment with Tammy after it was cleaned and resume their lives — without Martin. Somehow she’d have to live each day and endure each night with the fear that any moment Martin’s killer would come back to silence her. Maybe he’d kill Tammy too. Maybe he
’d let Tammy live — to wake up alone and find her mother bloodied and dead.

  Lorraine’s fingers dug into the bedcovers. It was too awful to imagine. And to think after all that killing, those evil men would be living it up, spending their millions.

  Choice two: she could tell the police what she knew to be true. Martin had been involved in the robbery. The money may even be sitting in storage unit seven. They’d investigate the renter of the unit. Maybe break in and check it out. If the money was there, or if it wasn’t, Martin’s name would be dragged through the mud. Word would leak that he’d been linked to the Mafia. All those people at the bank who’d treated Lorraine and Tammy so nicely, who’d called Martin a hero? They’d turn on him. Plus, she and Tammy would really be in danger. The police would have to protect them. How long would they do that?

  And how did she know she could even trust the police? Who on that force might be reporting everything to those Mafia men, including where she was hidden? Lorraine tried to tell herself she’d seen too many movies. But was she willing to bet her daughter’s life on that?

  Tammy sighed in her sleep and turned over. Lorraine gazed at her through the darkness, just making out the back of her head, the tangled hair. Her heart constricted. Above all else, more important than anything in this world, she would protect her daughter.

  Choice three: carry out her own vengeance and run.

  But the price she would pay. Leaving Martin’s body behind, not even able to attend his funeral. Forever living with her secrets . . .

  Restlessness vibrated through Lorraine. She slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. Leaving the door ajar she flicked the light switch. Tammy wouldn’t wake up. The little girl slept soundly at night. Lorraine’s eyes squinted, blinking at the floor until they adapted to the light.

  Resting her hands on the sink, she stared at herself in the mirror. Could she do it?

  If she didn’t, what then? Choice one or two? She’d rejected both of them.