“I have to buy tickets.”
“You know I don’t like their music.”
“And you know I do.”
“Fine. But same curfew.”
He rolls his eyes, brushes a shock of uncombed hair away from his forehead. My phone buzzes on the table, an incoming text. I glance at it, feeling a surge of hope that it’s Marta calling back, finally.
Number unknown.
Have you made a decision?
The text feels intrusive, invasive, like he’s back here in my home, uninvited. It’s Jackson, I’m sure of it. I have the sudden, disturbing sense that we’re being watched. But no one’s looking at us, of course; we’re safe inside, the blinds drawn, the alarm set.
“Are you okay?” Zachary’s face is brimming with concern. I realize he’s been talking and I haven’t heard a word. And I don’t know how to answer his question, because I’m not okay—we’re not okay—not in the slightest.
“Just a lot on my mind.” I watch him take another bite of food. Then I look back down at the phone, at the text.
Have you made a decision?
I don’t know. Have I?
* * *
—
I change into running clothes and slip out of the house, start off at a slow jog. The air is cool tonight, but there’s no wind. It makes the night seem especially quiet. All I hear are my feet pounding the pavement. I pick up my pace, running faster.
I’m heading north, away from the city, away from the Mall and the monuments. Seven miles, fourteen round-trip. I know exactly where I’m headed.
I pass the sign for Friendship Heights, and as usual, my mind turns to Marta. That sense of worry runs through me again, leaves me unsettled.
I need to track her down, make absolutely sure she’s safe.
I run faster. I can feel a tightness in my legs, muscles protesting, warning me I’m running too fast, too hard. There’s sweat on my brow, and it’s cool against my skin.
I’m in Bethesda now, in that neighborhood I know so well. Vivian’s. Without thinking, I take a right onto her street, still running hard. Everything’s hushed here. There are cars in driveways, light peeking through curtains and blinds, families tucked away for the night.
I catch sight of her house. Dark, like usual. But there’s a car out front, idling, taillights and brake lights glowing. I feel a shiver at the nape of my neck.
A few strides more, close enough to see the shape. A hatchback. Virginia plates.
The same kind of car that drove away from Mom’s condo, minutes after her fall.
Chapter 46
The brake lights blink, then the car starts moving. Away from me at first, but suddenly it swings around in a U-turn, headlights washing over where I stand. Instinctively I back away, into a thicket, hide myself there, heart thudding.
It continues on, and I watch it go. It’s red. A red hatchback.
In my mind’s eye I see that security footage from Mom’s condo, the man in the dark cap exiting the elevator right after her fall, hustling out into the parking lot, sliding into a hatchback.
And now there’s a hatchback in front of Vivian’s house.
This isn’t a coincidence.
It could be, scolds the voice in my head. The psychiatrist.
It’s not, I tell her. And I feel it with every fiber of my being. Mom’s fall wasn’t an accident. The hatchback being here, that’s not a coincidence.
You’re getting paranoid, the voice jeers.
I need to see who’s driving this car. I need to see where it goes.
I take off, feet pounding the pavement, eyes never leaving the taillights. I’ll follow it as long as I can. There’s a bigger road up ahead; maybe if the car gets stuck in traffic…
I’m at a sprint now, desperate to catch up to it, desperate not to lose it. It’s stopped up ahead, at the intersection. There’s a steady stream of cars whizzing down the cross street. I’m gaining ground while it waits, getting closer.
A break in traffic. The car turns right. Shit.
I’m almost there, almost at the road. If I can just keep it in my sights a little bit longer…
A taxi. I see it, out of the corner of my eye. Light on top, lit. I thrust my arm up as I approach the intersection, pray that I’m close enough that the driver will see me—
It veers sharply over to the curb, slows to a stop.
I slide into the taxi, pull the door shut. “Straight ahead,” I gasp to the driver.
“Where to?”
“I’ll direct you as we go.”
This is insane. I’m wheezing, scanning the traffic, desperate for a flash of red. The taxi swoops into the left lane, picks up speed.
And then I see it.
About four cars up, right lane. Red hatchback. A surge of hope bolts through me. I’m not paranoid.
The car shoots right at the next intersection. “Right here,” I instruct the driver.
We continue to follow behind, traveling at forty miles per hour. Deeper into Maryland. North Bethesda. We’re almost into Rockville when the hatchback turns again. Left this time, into a neighborhood.
“Left here. But hang back a bit.”
The driver eyes me in the rearview mirror. He knows I’m following the car. But he turns anyway. Slows, so the car is just in our sights.
The hatchback winds up a hill, down another. It’s a wooded neighborhood, larger homes, mostly colonials. And we’re the only two cars on the street. It’s going to spot the tail, for sure. I need to peel off.
“Can you take a right here?”
The driver turns.
“If you could just idle here a moment…”
He pulls off to the side of the road, and I strain forward in my seat. Brake lights glow red. The car slows, driving at a crawl. Then unexpectedly picks up its pace again, continues on, until it’s out of sight.
The driver’s watching me in the mirror again, relishing this game, waiting for the next move. And I don’t know what to tell him.
I want to tell him to step on the gas, to catch up to the hatchback. But I’m unarmed. Vulnerable. So’s the taxi driver, and it’s wrong to put him in jeopardy.
I study the street, that stretch where the hatchback slowed. If I can figure out why it was here…
“Can you drive down there?”
The driver complies.
One house in particular draws my attention. A two-story colonial, wide front porch. Minivan in the driveway.
There’s a warm glow coming from inside. The windows are bare, no curtains, no blinds, nothing to block the view.
I see a woman, standing in front of her kitchen window, drying dishes.
Just as the car pulls even with the house, she looks up. We lock eyes, just for an instant.
And I feel my breath catch in my throat.
It’s her.
Chapter 47
“Ma’am, which way?”
We’re at an intersection. I look around, but there’s no sign of the hatchback. But maybe, just maybe, I’ve found something even more crucial.
Two years. I’ve searched in vain for this woman for almost two years.
And here she is.
She’s connected to Jackson somehow. She’s the whole reason I’m in this mess, isn’t she? It’s all because I had this obsession to know if she was safe.
“Ma’am?” The driver’s eyeing me again in the mirror. I hear the suspicion in his voice. I’ve pushed this too far.
“Dupont Circle.”
He turns on his blinker.
As I listen to the sound, watch the blur of headlights around me, I think: Vivian’s here. She’s safe.
I close my eyes and take a breath. But all I can see in my mind is that hatchback. I see it pulling out of the parking lot after my mom’s fall. Idling in front of Vivian
’s house. Now here, in front of this house.
Whoever’s driving that car was involved with my mom’s fall.
And now he’s tracking Vivian. Spying on her.
And I was wrong. She’s not safe after all, is she?
* * *
—
I stare at the chess set in front of me, still untouched, waiting for Zachary’s move. But all I can think about is my next move.
Vivian Miller knows Jackson. Jackson is the one who resettled her after the incident in the row house; that’s what Barker told me. And now she’s back. Am I right? Is she in danger, another target, another victim of blackmail?
Or is she working for him, for the Russians?
My brain urges me to wait. Wait for Jackson to approach me again, record a confession, get him sent away. Each time I’ve dug around, searching for proof, I’ve dug Zachary deeper into a hole. I don’t know Vivian Miller’s story. I don’t know how she fits into all of this. And without knowing that, approaching her would be a risk.
But my heart tells me she’s a victim. That she’s vulnerable.
Can I let that go?
* * *
—
Zachary’s alarm blares at six. I listen to the shower as I sit at the table, coffee untouched, watching the clock.
Zachary swings around the corner, dressed in jeans and a hooded black sweatshirt. He blinks when he catches sight of me, shrugs, and heads for the pantry. Comes out a moment later, shoving protein bars into the back pocket of his jeans. About to dash. The sadness that hits me makes my eyes tear.
“What do you have going on at school today, honey?”
“Nothing.”
“After school?”
“Nothing, Mom.”
Frustration ripples through me. “Zachary, Grandma told me you visited last week.”
“And?”
“And you never told me.”
“So?” he challenges.
“She mentioned you brought Lila.”
“Yeah? What’s your point?”
“Zachary, you won’t even talk to me about her.”
“Why do you care?”
Why do I care? Why am I itching for a fight right now? “Because I’m your mother! Because I should know what’s going on in your life.”
“You never tell me what’s going on in yours!”
“That’s completely different.”
“Why?”
“I’m your mother, Zachary. I should know who you’re hanging around with, what you’re doing. It’s up to me to keep you safe.”
“You don’t think I feel the same way about you?”
Speechless, I stare at him. What’s he talking about?
Before I can find words to respond, he stoops and kisses my cheek. A moment later, the front door slams shut.
* * *
—
The name on the mailbox says Lane. Not Miller. Lane.
There are lights on in the house, but I don’t see anyone moving inside.
I ignore the doorbell. Instead I knock, hard. And I wait, breath held. Moments later, she’s visible through the narrow window beside the door. We blink at each other through the glass. She looks like she’s just seen a ghost. She remembers me.
A dead bolt unlocks, and the door swings open.
“Can I help you?” Vivian Miller asks, regaining her composure.
“Steph Maddox, FBI.” I flash my credentials, and I can see the wariness return in her eyes. “Do you have a moment to chat?”
She studies my credentials carefully before she looks up and nods. “Yeah, of course. Would you like to come in?” She opens the door wider.
She ushers me into a living room. There’s a worn couch against the wall, an overturned toy lawnmower in the corner. I sit down on the sagging cushions of the couch; a doll with a tattered dress is propped up on the opposite chair, regarding me unblinkingly.
“Viv? Everything okay in there?” A man’s voice, from deeper within the house. There’s a clang of pots and pans. The fridge door opening, shutting.
“Yeah,” she calls back. She doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t mention me. And she doesn’t take her eyes off me, either.
A toddler walks into the room, finally draws her attention away. “Chase, thumb out of your mouth,” she orders, reaching out for the child. But her voice is tender.
Another boy walks in. A twin? They look around the same age, though this one’s smaller. He heads for the toy lawnmower, grabs it, pushes it out of the room. The first boy pounds after him. I hear the lawnmower in the kitchen, along with more clanging.
“Sorry, it’s a bit crazy in here,” she tells me, with a brief smile. She sits, folding her hands in her lap. She’s in a loose cream-colored top and slim black pants, black flats. Her hair is shorter than last time I saw her. “You have kids?”
“One. A son.”
“How old?”
“Seventeen.” It seems like only yesterday I was saying five.
“You don’t look old enough to have a seventeen-year-old.”
“How old are yours?”
“Nine, six, and the twins are three.”
“Four kids. Wow.”
I can see from her face she’s used to hearing that.
“Viv, can you—” A man steps into the room. He’s tall, with thick dark hair and square features, holding a spatula in one hand. He catches sight of me, stops. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know…” He trails off, glances at Vivian quizzically.
“This is Special Agent Maddox,” she tells him. “From the Bureau.”
He smiles at me, completely at ease. Almost too much at ease, like having FBI agents pop by in the morning is a regular occurrence. “Nice to meet you, Agent Maddox.” There’s a screech from the other room, and then a girl’s shriek. Dad! Luke’s cheating! “Apologies for the commotion. Mornings are a bit chaotic around here.”
“No problem at all.”
His smile broadens and he steps out of the room. I hear him refereeing the kids’ squabble, tamping down their protests in a calm tone.
“Sorry. Okay.” I see no apprehension in her face, no indication she’s concealing any sort of treasonous secret. But she’s watching me carefully. “What can I do for you, Agent Maddox?”
“Call me Steph.” I hesitate. There’s more clanging in the kitchen. “We met once before. Years ago. The night—”
“I remember.” Her gaze stays even. Her tone, final. The message is clear: I don’t want to talk about that day.
“Are you still at the Agency?”
“I am.”
“Still working on Russia?”
For the first time, something changes in her face. It was a shot in the dark, but I can tell from her expression that I’m right. I keep pressing.
“It’s just that…Do you know a woman named Marta Markovich? She works for the Agency, too, and she’s an old friend of mine, and I haven’t been able to get in touch with her recently.”
“Marta, yes, of course.” The suspicion loosens, but doesn’t leave her eyes.
“She doing okay?”
“I think so.”
“You don’t work with her anymore?”
She picks up the doll, smooths its collar down. “I can’t really get into that sort of thing. I’m sure you understand.”
Right. I know that from my conversations with Marta, about her. Another clang from the kitchen, footsteps, general breakfast-making chaos.
“Is there something I can help you with?” Vivian asks.
“Actually, yes. I want to talk to you about someone you’ve worked with in the past. A colleague of mine, actually. Deputy Director Jackson.”
Does that surprise her? I can’t tell. “I know him well.”
“Do you have any reason to believe he could be
involved in any illegal activity?”
The sounds from the kitchen go quiet.
“Jackson?” She says it almost with a laugh. “Definitely not.”
She looks like she’s telling the truth. Like there’s not a shred of truth to the accusation, in her mind at least.
“I’d trust him with my life,” she adds, firmly. “In fact, I have.”
She looks completely sincere. And it fills me with confusion, because I remember that night. I remember the look on her face, and on his. The bite of his fingers on my arm—
I hear some sort of utensil against the side of a pan. The fridge door opening again, thumping shut.
“In that row house, the night of…that incident…you were keeping a secret.” I’m not sure where I’m going with this. But I need to understand what it was, what she’s hiding. “You were with Jackson. And ever since—” The house seems suddenly quiet. A shiver runs through me. “Ever since, I’ve been worried about you.”
If she’s surprised by this, she doesn’t reveal it. “I’m fine.”
Is she really? I try to read her expression, but all I see is that look of bone-deep fatigue. A woman doing her best to juggle kids, a marriage, a home, and a demanding job. I remember that feeling, from when Zachary was young. Like there weren’t enough hours in the day. “Why’d you leave the country? You and your family?”
“How do you know that?”
“Why did you?” I press.
She gives me a searching look, and for a moment I think she’s not going to answer. “There was a threat. I can’t say more than that.”
“And now you’re back?”
“It’s cooled down.” Her tone is clipped. She wants to cut off this questioning, be done with it. She wants me out of her home, not reopening old scars.
I lean forward. “Do you feel safe? If someone’s threatening you, if something’s wrong…” I search for the right words, and settle for the simple truth. “I’d believe you.”
She holds my gaze. I can tell from her expression that she remembers our last conversation, every word of it. But she doesn’t reply.
I reach for a business card, scribble my personal cell on the back. And then, as an afterthought, my address. “If you think of anything,” I say quietly, “or if you’re ever in trouble, find me.”
Keep You Close Page 21
