“Brett, say something.”
“Don’t worry,” he says automatically. “It’s going to be okay.”
“You don’t know that.”
He opens his mouth to contradict her, but thinks better of it. She’s right. He doesn’t know that. Christ, right now he doesn’t know anything.
“Did you discuss this with anyone?” he asks, releasing her.
“Not yet. I didn’t want to make any calls until I’d talked to you.”
“We have to report the break-in now…don’t you think?”
“Yes.” She pauses. “I mean, I think so.”
They stare at each other, and Brett is glad Elsa can’t read his mind.
Just because she had some problems before, years ago—that doesn’t mean she’s unbalanced now. It doesn’t mean she herself is responsible for the Spider-Man doll being here. It doesn’t mean that, fueled by Renny’s nightmare, Elsa imagined the intruder, and there’s a logical explanation for footprint and the broken branch—if they do exist.
He wants desperately to believe that they don’t, even if it means accepting that his wife is still suffering the psychological fallout of Jeremy’s kidnapping—or that learning of his death triggered a relapse into dissociative behavior.
Anything is better than believing that Renny is in danger.
“What’s Roxanne going to say, Brett? If we call the police and she finds out?”
“She will find out, and what do you think she’ll say? It’s her job to make sure that Renny’s in a safe environment.”
“That’s our job, too.”
“And we’re doing it.”
“Roxanne might not agree.” She shrugs, hugging herself, her thin arms bared by a simple, butter-colored dress.
Even now, Brett finds himself marveling at his wife’s striking beauty: black hair and eyes offset her flawless complexion and delicate French features.
Before Jeremy came, and after he was gone, Brett had convinced himself that he could be happy if it were just the two of them for the rest of their lives. Yes, they longed for parenthood, but they had each other. Maybe that was enough.
Now he knows that it can’t be; that their lives wouldn’t be complete without Renny. Now that he’s had a true taste of what it’s like to love a child so completely…
He would never admit to Elsa that it was different with Jeremy. Maybe she knew, deep down, that try as he might, Brett couldn’t quite connect with him, couldn’t quite…
Love him?
Even now, acknowledging it only to himself, shame sweeps through him.
He’d cared for his son, had tried to protect him, had thought he was doing everything in his power to help Jeremy overcome all his problems. Even after what happened that day at Harbor Hills Country Club…
Brett rarely allows himself to think about that particular incident. But whenever the memory rears its ugly head anyway, he’s swept by the same sense of helpless foreboding he experienced when he saw what his son had done to the sweet, innocent little girl with the big blue eyes and blond braids.
“I didn’t mean it,” Jeremy had said, standing there with a red-streaked seven-iron in his hand. “She laughed at me, and I got mad.”
Mad.
Violently so. All that blood…
He’ll never forget those terrified blue eyes, dilated with shock, staring up at him as he stood over her holding his son’s shoulders—holding him back.
The child survived, thank God. Miraculously, her wealthy parents didn’t press charges, reportedly wanting to avoid a messy lawsuit.
Even after what Jeremy had done that day, Brett would have given anything to find him after he vanished.
But maybe you didn’t really love him. Not enough. Not like you love Renny.
“Sometimes I think it’s a miracle that we were even approved as foster parents after what happened.”
Brett looks up, startled, wondering if Elsa really has read his mind, or if she’s known all along about Brett’s secret failure as a father.
“That wasn’t our fault,” he tells her. “Jeremy.”
Elsa says nothing to that; of course she disagrees. She was the one who was home the day he was abducted, not Brett. She was in the kitchen making dinner as Jeremy played in the fenced backyard, same as every sunny afternoon. She kept an eye on him, same as always—but not every second.
And in a split second, a child can disappear forever.
Brett always wondered if Jeremy had run away. He was a troubled child. It wouldn’t be all that far-fetched.
Intuitive Elsa never bought into the runaway theory. She was certain he’d been kidnapped, and she blamed herself. But when she finally found out why Jeremy had been taken, and by whom…
It wasn’t her fault, can’t she see that? No parent spends every moment of every day standing guard over a seven-year-old. Every mother has to turn her back at some point. And someone was there, watching, waiting for Elsa to do just that.
Jeremy never had a chance.
“This is unbelievable, Brett. Spider-Man…” Elsa clutches his arm, and he can feel her body quaking. “Spider-Man just appearing out of the blue on the day after someone broke into our house, and was in Renny’s room—”
“That was probably—”
Your imagination.
“—just a burglar,” he says instead. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with what happened to Jeremy.”
“Just a burglar? You’re sure? Come on, Brett, you’re not sure of anything.” She keeps her voice low, but he has a feeling that if Renny weren’t sleeping a few feet away, she’d be shouting at him.
“So you think that it does have something to do with Jeremy?”
“Or with Renny. Who knows? Her birth mother is a lunatic, and her birth father might be out of jail again. What if—”
“Elsa, come on. They signed away their rights without batting an eye. Do you really think they’re going to track us down and—and do you really think they know about Spider-Man?”
“I don’t know. I’m not saying it’s them. It could be anyone. It’s no secret around here who we are. Maybe someone saw the coverage on TV or in the paper about Garvey Quinn and Jeremy, and decided to look us up.”
She might have a point. Sensational stories like theirs must bring all kinds of kooks out of the woodwork.
Still, he shakes his head, unable to grasp—or maybe, accept—that one tragedy could possibly beget another.
“So what do we do?” he asks her. “Call the police? Even though Roxanne will have to know, and something like this…”
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. She knows.
Something like this could destroy their fragile new family. If the agency decides it’s in Renny’s best interest to remove her from their custody, they’ll lose her forever.
It happened to Todd and Zoe Walden, for a far less compelling perception of threat. The agency zoomed in and snatched away their daughter without warning, almost as if…
She’d been kidnapped. Or had died. One moment she was there, a part of Todd and Zoe’s lives; the next, she was gone.
Brett can’t let that happen to his own family. It’s absolutely in Renny’s best interest to stay with him and Elsa; her parents. They would never let anyone harm her. Ever.
But if Elsa is right, then what is he supposed to do to keep Renny safe? Hire a private, armed bodyguard until they figure out what the hell is going on?
Yeah, right. Like that would escape Roxanne’s attention the next time she pays one of her unscheduled visits—which, come to think of it, is long overdue. She’s going to pop up any second now.
So, no bodyguard, no police. No proof, even, that this is real. But Brett will be damned if he’s going to take a chance with his kid’s life.
“I know what we can do,” Elsa tells him. “We can go see Mike, and tell him about what’s going on.”
“Elsa, that’s—”
“If you don’t come with me, then I’m going myself. With Renny.”
“You’re going to just show up there? Why can’t you call?”
“I’ll call and tell him we’re coming, but we need to go in person.” She holds out the Spider-Man figure. “We have to show him this. Maybe there are fingerprints or something.”
“I don’t know…”
“Brett, if we don’t do anything, and something terrible happens, I couldn’t live with myself.”
Looking at her, he realizes she means it. He managed to keep her from taking her own life once before. Next time, he might be too late—for her, and for Renny.
“Okay,” he tells her. “Let’s go.”
Caroline Quinn’s bloodcurdling scream seems to reverberate even after she’s been hustled off to a back room by the mortified Starbucks manager.
Amid the chaotic mass exodus of rodent-fearing customers, a skittish employee quickly gathers Caroline’s scattered belongings and expensive leather shoulder bag and disappears into the back room as well.
God only knows what’s going on back there. Is she crying hysterically? Threatening a lawsuit?
How I’d love to slip back there to see what’s going on. Do I dare?
A quick glance around reveals that the hipster baristas behind the counter are probably too caught up in rehashing the rat event to notice the lingering customer who’s reluctant to trail out the door after the others.
Still…no matter how tempting it is to get another glimpse of the stricken Caroline, it would be foolish to risk arousing anyone’s suspicion.
Then again, who would ever imagine that the rat didn’t find its way into her bag on its own, but was planted there by a human hand?
Why would anyone want to scare the living daylights out of a beautiful young girl?
Why, indeed.
It was supposed to be enough just to shake them up, to see them suffer, the way Jeremy had.
Somehow, though, it isn’t nearly enough.
Now that the line has been crossed…
Now that I’ve felt human blood on my hands…
Now that I know what I can do…
This is only the beginning.
Back out on the street, a quandary: where to go next?
Find a concealed spot nearby and watch for Caroline to emerge? Head back to the alley across from the Quinns’ building?
Now that there’s been contact, though, why bother? It’s only a matter of time before the apartment itself will be accessible, and then—
A sudden pocket vibration suitably curtails the thought.
That can mean only one thing…
Frustratingly, the glare of the midday sun obliterates the small screen. But a few steps away, beneath the shade of a bodega awning, the alert is instantly visible.
One of the Cavalons’ vehicles has just traveled beyond the designated area.
No question, now, where to go next.
They’re heading north.
And so will I.
CHAPTER FOUR
The drive up I–95 through Rhode Island and Massachusetts is long and silent, other than the necessary calls Brett has made to—and received from—the office. There’s much to be said, but Elsa and Brett don’t dare say it in front of Renny.
Maybe it’s better that they can’t talk right now. Elsa didn’t miss the dubious expression on Brett’s face back there in the gas station parking lot; she knows he isn’t entirely taking her seriously. She doesn’t have the energy to argue with him now. All that matters is that they tell Mike what’s going on.
“Is this Boston?” Renny asks from the backseat.
“Almost.” Elsa turns to see her gazing out the window at the billboards and strip malls, redbrick schools and chain hotels, clusters of Capes and saltbox Colonials.
The landscape is foreign territory for Renny, but achingly familiar to Elsa and Brett. They lived in Nottingshire in the south suburbs of Boston fifteen years ago, with Jeremy.
“Boston drivers are the worst,” Brett mutters, and Elsa has to agree. At high speed on the highway, or flying through the city streets, drivers in this part of the country tend to careen unpredictably, or tailgate.
Glancing into the rearview mirror, Brett shakes his head. “Look behind you.”
Elsa glances back to see an SUV hugging their bumper. “Just pull over and get out of his way.”
“There’s no place for him to go.”
“No place but into our backseat with Renny,” Elsa tells him pointedly, and he flips on the turn signal and moves into the other lane without a word.
Predictably, traffic slows to a rush hour crawl. Anxious as she is to get to Mike’s, Elsa decides there’s something to be said for sitting in a traffic jam—a momentary reprieve from harrowing drivers and concern about shadowy intruders.
But the longer they sit, the more restless Renny becomes. “Did we forget my Barbies at the gas station?”
“No, they’re in the trunk,” Elsa tells her reluctantly.
“Can we get them out?”
“Not now.”
“Why not?”
“Because…”
Because that bag and everything in it might be evidence.
“Just because.”
For the moment, Renny seems satisfied. Then she asks, “How long until we get there?”
“About another half hour.” Brett jerks the wheel, moving from the slow lane to the less slow lane—which promptly grinds to a halt in front of them. He slaps the wheel in frustration and leans his head back against the headrest.
He’s more anxiety-ridden than Elsa, if that’s even possible. She knows the reaction from Lew when Brett tried to explain why he’d left the office so abruptly—blaming it on Renny being sick—was definitely not sympathetic. Elsa, who’s never held a corporate job in her life, had to bite her tongue to keep from telling Brett to tell Lew to shove it. If he gets fired, they’re screwed.
“How long are we going to be there when we get there?” Renny asks.
“We don’t know,” Elsa replies, looking over her shoulder at the traffic as Brett tries to merge back into his original lane, which naturally is now full speed ahead.
“Why do we have to visit this man now?”
“Because he’s our friend.”
“Do I know him?”
“Go ahead, Brett, he’s going to let you in,” Elsa tells her husband, as a driver in the next lane waves them to get in front of him.
Or maybe he doesn’t. A horn blasts angrily as Brett begins to merge. With a curse, he swerves, narrowly avoiding an accident.
In the backseat, Renny asks again, as though nothing has happened, “Do I know him?”
Brett swears again and shakes his head at Elsa. “I thought you said he was waving me in!”
“I thought he was!”
“Mommy?”
“We could have been killed,” Brett tells her. “All it takes is a split second, and—”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” She presses her palm against her pounding heart.
“Mommy!”
“What?” she snaps. “What do you want?”
“Never mind.”
Elsa turns to meet her daughter’s reproachful gaze. “I’m sorry.”
Renny shrugs, wounded, and Elsa finds herself thinking of Jeremy.
What? What do you want?
How often did those words spill from her mouth in the past? Jeremy was such a demanding child, so needy, so impetuous. He constantly tried her patience.
Renny isn’t anything like him, and yet, just now…
But you didn’t mean to be short with her. You’re only human, Elsa reminds herself. You can’t be the perfect mother, and…
And history doesn’t have to repeat itself.
That’s what’s really bothering her, isn’t it? That’s why she’s on the verge of falling apart here.
She reaches over the seat and touches Renny’s arm. “Remember, I told you before—Mr. Fantoni came to see us in the winter, so he could meet you. He brought you something.”
&
nbsp; “What?”
“I’m not sure…it was a toy.” Something age-inappropriate, Elsa vaguely recalls, and remembers noting at the time that Mike seemed to know very little about kids. He doesn’t seem to have any, though she’s pretty sure he’s married—at least, he had been at one point during the long search for Jeremy.
In all those years, she never felt comfortable asking the details of his personal life. Or maybe it was more that she was so absorbed by her own trauma, she didn’t care enough to ask.
Funny how you can know so little about someone who played such a pivotal role in your life. If it hadn’t been for Mike, she’d never know what happened to Jeremy.
Brett has always preferred to keep Mike at arm’s length. He tends to do that with anyone he hasn’t known all his life—a Yankee tradition, he claims.
While it’s certainly true that many New Englanders tend to keep a polite distance, Elsa always wondered whether it was more than that, with Brett. She wasn’t convinced Brett really believed in Mike.
And right now, she’s not convinced he believes in her, either.
“I really think she’s overreacting, Mom. I mean, listen to that.”
Marin looks up from the congealed vegetable chow fun on her plate to see Annie across the table, shaking her head. “What?”
“That.” Annie points over her shoulder in the general direction of the hallway.
Oh. That.
In her room, Caroline is loudly sobbing on the phone long-distance with one of her friends, once again rehashing this afternoon’s dramatic rodent encounter.
“I don’t know…” Marin picks up her chopsticks again. “If I reached into my purse and found a rat, I think I’d be pretty upset, too.”
“Upset. But hysterical?”
Marin shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, Annie.”
She didn’t know what to tell an inconsolable Caroline, either, when she burst through the door sobbing frantically a few hours ago.
It took Marin several minutes to even comprehend what was wrong.
Not sure what to do, and worried about rabies though Caroline hadn’t been bitten, Marin called the doctor. To her relief, he assured her that rats don’t carry rabies—not in this country, anyway.
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