“Just make sure she cleans her hands really well,” he advised. “And of course, call me right away if she develops any strange symptoms.”
“What kind of symptoms?”
“Symptoms? Symptoms of what? What is he talking about?” Caroline was hovering at her side, listening.
“The usual…headache, fever, chills…” He went on to explain that there’s a rare disease called rat bite fever, transmitted through rodent saliva and mucus. “Chances are that Caroline is fine, but you should keep an eye on her.”
Unfortunately, Caroline overheard that and was beside herself. Ever since she found out about her childhood illness, she’s been something of a hypochondriac. And really, who can blame her? She’s been through hell.
We all have. Including Annie.
Annie, the one bright spot in Marin’s life these days.
Maybe not just these days.
Caroline has always accused her of playing favorites, but of course Marin loves both her children equally. It’s just that Annie has such an easygoing temperament, and Caroline—like her father—can be…intense.
Please, God, let that be all it is. An intense personality and not another inherited genetic flaw, courtesy of the Quinn family tree.
“She’s such a drama queen.” Annie rolls her eyes.
“Eat your egg roll, Annie.” Marin pushes the waxed-paper pouch across the table to her.
“I did. That’s Caroline’s. Can I have it?”
“No.”
“She said she isn’t hungry.”
But one egg roll is enough—they’re fattening, and unhealthy.
“She might be hungry later. Here, have some broccoli.”
Annie wrinkles her freckled nose. “Can’t. I’m allergic.”
“You aren’t allergic to broccoli.”
“I think there’s something in the sauce. Last time I ate it, I got hives, remember?”
Maybe. Poor Annie has so many allergies that hives are a frequent occurrence.
Before Marin can reply, her cell phone, in the back pocket of her jeans, buzzes with an incoming text message. Probably Heather, wanting to see if she’s changed her mind about the beach, or France.
But when Marin pulls the phone out and checks it, she doesn’t recognize the incoming number.
She clicks on the message. “What in the world…?”
Jeremy first returned to the Northeast last autumn, after Dr. Jacobson had conducted a surgical follow-up and given him the green light to leave Texas.
There was still a little tenderness and swelling around his nose and eyes, reminding him of all the injuries that had shattered and bruised his features over the years. But the doctor assured him that it would eventually subside, and that he’d be left looking like…
Well, not like himself, that was for damned sure.
As long as he was going to have his long-broken bones repaired, he’d figured he might as well go all out. Having found his way to Texas after seeing Dr. Jacobson featured on a television documentary about facial reconstruction, he knew the plastic surgeon was capable of creating a whole new look. That was what he wanted: to look like a different person.
Maybe, he reasoned, he would actually feel like a different person, too.
He had no way of knowing, at the time, that he really was a different person: Jeremy Cavalon, and not Jeremy Smith, as he’d been called all these years.
Smith.
Maybe Papa just couldn’t be bothered with coming up with a better pseudonym for himself and thus, for Jeremy.
Or maybe it was his real name.
Jeremy might never know for sure, and he no longer cares.
By the time he had the surgery, Papa had been dead and buried for a year.
As he drove north from Texas, Jeremy occasionally caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the rearview mirror, and marveled at the change in his appearance. It was well worth the pain and the expense—though he’d be hard-pressed to think of a more fitting use for his inheritance.
Papa had smashed up his face. Papa should pay to fix it. Papa should pay for a lot of things.
There was plenty left over after the hospital bills. Enough to keep Jeremy from having to work for a couple of years, at least—though he figured when he got to where he was going, he’d find some sort of job to keep himself busy.
That was what normal people did, wasn’t it? And now, at last, he was going to be a normal person, living a normal life.
Jeremy took his time along the way. He spent an entire day winding along Virginia’s picturesque Skyline Drive, stopping at overlooks to take in the fall foliage. It was nice, but nothing compared with the scenery when at last he reached New England.
The leaves were at their peak in Groton on that dazzling Indian summer afternoon: a brilliant canopy against a royal blue backdrop that reminded him of a western sky.
But his home wasn’t out in California anymore, and it wasn’t in Texas. His home was with the Cavalons.
He’d known that ever since he’d first spotted Elsa on the news that day in the hospital. A dam had burst in his brain and his past gushed forth, flooding him with memories.
Suddenly, he knew he’d had another life, before Papa. He remembered Elsa; remembered Brett as well—but not as vividly. He wasn’t around as much.
No, it was Elsa who’d taken care of Jeremy; Elsa who always made him feel safe and loved.
The warm, cozy memories weren’t the only ones that came rushing back. There were others as well—gradually, a torrent of troubling memories he’d just as soon forget. He tried—but once they’d been unleashed, they floated around his brain like flotsam from a devastating wreck.
And I’m the survivor doomed to relive it, over and over again…
“Is this it? Are we there?” Renny asks Elsa from the backseat as Brett wedges the car into a tiny parallel space along the narrow brick sidewalk.
“Almost. We just have to go find the restaurant where we’re meeting Mr. Fantoni.”
“And then I can have ice cream.”
Elsa smiles faintly, remembering her earlier promise. “Yes, and then you can have ice cream.”
“Pink ice cream.”
“If they have it.”
“And can I watch a movie on Daddy’s iPad while you talk to your friend?”
“Daddy?” Elsa looks at Brett.
“Definitely.”
They don’t even discuss the decision to violate their own policy against using sweets and screens as bribes or rewards. In the grand scheme of things, anything they can do to keep Renny happily distracted—even if it means plugging her into headphones and plying her with sugar—is necessary in light of the situation.
The North End bustles with locals on their way to or from work, college students, school groups and tourists following the red-painted Freedom Trail through this ancient, historic part of town. Brett and Elsa navigate the narrow, winding sidewalks as swiftly as they can with Renny between them, holding both their hands and playing her favorite game.
“One, two, three, swing!” she shouts over and over, erupting with glee every time they simultaneously swing her into the air.
Elsa notices affectionate glances from passersby in a tour group led by a Paul Revere clone in period clothing. To them, she knows, she and Brett and Renny must appear to be just an ordinary family. No one would ever imagine that the parents are hanging on to the child for dear life.
They’re meeting Mike at the usual spot: an Italian café off Hanover Street. Elsa suspects he lives somewhere in the vintage neighborhood, but again, she never asked.
The café is quiet in the pre-dinner hour, occupied only by a couple of college students, a pair of elderly women in double-knit pantsuits, and Mike. He’s waiting in one of the red vinyl booths, sipping a cup of black coffee.
It’s been less than six months since she’s seen him, but Elsa is taken aback by the salt and pepper in the dark, wavy hair that brushes the collar of his Nike T-shirt.
Is Mik
e getting old? He was in his early thirties when she met him; a brash and hungry private eye who promised he’d do what the police wouldn’t—or couldn’t—to find Jeremy.
Closing in on fifty now, he’s still handsome, still has the muscular build of a much younger man, still exudes a roguish charm…
But those dark eyes of his have seen a lot, and it shows.
“Elsa…” He stands to hug her. He smells familiar, of cologne and coffee, and she’s swept by an unexpected wave of emotion. All those years, sitting here across from Mike, begging him to find her son…
And that’s what he did.
Elsa swallows hard.
“Good to see you again, Brett.”
“You too.” Clean-cut Brett shakes Mike’s hand, looking vaguely out of place here in his crisp white shirt, Brooks Brothers suit, and silk tie. “Renny, say hello to Mr. Fantoni.”
“Hello.”
“Don’t you look pretty today.”
“Yes,” Renny agrees demurely, hands buried in the pockets of her orange plaid shorts. “Do you know if they have pink ice cream here?”
Mike looks amused. “What flavor would that be? Bubble gum? Strawberry?”
“Um, it doesn’t really matter,” Renny tells him. “Just so long as it’s pink.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” she remembers to say, and glances to Elsa for a nod of approval.
They’ve been working on basic manners from the day Renny came to live with them. She’s come such a long way since then.
As soon as they settle into the booth, the waitress meanders over to take their order—espressos for Elsa and Brett, raspberry gelato for Renny.
When it arrives, she spoons it rhythmically into her mouth, her eyes riveted to the small screen of Brett’s iPad. Elsa explains the situation to Mike, well aware that Brett is leaving the talking to her.
“Spider-Man.” Mike slowly rubs his five o’clock shadow. “This isn’t something that was ever released to the public…unless either of you brought it up to the press during all the commotion last fall?”
“That Jeremy was playing with Spider-Man when he disappeared? Never.”
“And there was no mention in any of the missing person’s reports…” That isn’t a question. Mike is more familiar with those reports, perhaps, than they are.
“No.”
“Where’s the other one? The one you found on the grass when he disappeared? Do you still have it?”
“It’s in the cedar chest in our bedroom,” Brett speaks up at last. “Elsa keeps it there with some of Jeremy’s other things…his blanket, and a couple of his shirts…”
Elsa keeps it there. Not we keep it there.
Elsa feels a familiar flicker of resentment. Brett, the father who rolls over and goes right back to sleep.
“Are you sure it’s still there?” Mike is asking—her, not Brett, she notices. He gets it. Of course he does. He’s been around them for years. He knows that they both might have lost a child, but that she’s the one who clings to the memories.
“Because I’m thinking maybe it’s the same one you found in the parking lot,” Mike goes on, despite her nod. “Maybe Renny came across it and put it into the bag with her toys.”
“No way. I keep that chest locked. She couldn’t have gotten into it. And anyway, this Spider-Man is different.”
“Are you sure?” Brett asks her. “Spider-Man is Spider-Man.”
Elsa doesn’t bother to answer. Of course she’s sure. She spent years clinging to the last thing her son ever touched, even slept with it under her pillow. She knows exactly what it looks like: similar enough to the toy she found on the ground today, but certainly not the same.
“A lot of little boys are into superheroes,” Mike points out.
Elsa bristles. “So you think—”
Mike cuts in, “I don’t know what to think. I’m just trying to gather information. To the best of your knowledge, are there any pictures of Jeremy holding a Spider-Man toy, or wearing a Spider-Man costume…?”
Brett looks at Elsa, who again shakes her head. “He was never interested until that day at Wal-Mart. And anyway, I’ve spent fifteen years going through every photo album we have. There are no pictures anywhere of Jeremy in a Spider-Man costume.”
“What about before he came to you?”
“Before he came to us, there were no toys, and no pictures—other than the ones the foster agency took.” Maybe Elsa is exaggerating, but not all that much.
Jeremy bounced from one foster home to another before he landed in theirs, having been deprived of just about everything—toys, fun, love…particularly love.
“As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one way anyone would link Spider-Man to Jeremy…” She pauses meaningfully before delivering the bombshell: “And that’s by having been there when he disappeared fifteen years ago.”
“What is it, Mom?”
Marin frowns at the text message on her phone. “I don’t know…I just got this text. I guess it was meant for someone else.”
“What does it say?”
“It doesn’t say anything.”
“Is it porn?” Annie asks with interest.
“No, it’s not porn!” Wait—it’s not, is it?
“Can I see?”
Marin shrugs and hands over the phone.
Annie takes a quick glance and announces, “That’s an emoticon, Mom.”
“A what?”
“You know how people type a row of symbols—like, to show that you’re making a joke, you do a sideways smiley face made out of a colon for the eyes and a close parenthesis for the mouth?”
“Yes…so you think this is something like that?”
“Probably. See?”
Marin looks over Annie’s shoulder, trying to see the cryptic text message as an image.
~~(=:>
“What’s it supposed to mean?” she asks her daughter, still stumped.
“I have no idea.” Together, they silently study the symbols.
Annie gasps. “Whoa! I think I know what it is.”
“What?”
“Okay, don’t freak out, Mom…but that totally looks like a rat.”
“A rat?” She squints at the image. “I don’t see—”
The phone cuts her off, buzzing with another message. It’s from the same sender. Marin opens it, and her blood runs cold.
That was nothing, Mrs. Quinn. Stay tuned.
That first day in Groton last fall, Jeremy had found the Cavalons’ home with no problem. Incredible, what you can find on the Internet with a little bit of searching.
Yet somehow, no one ever managed to find me in fourteen years.
Once he got to the house, he wasn’t sure what to do. He sure as hell wasn’t going to march right up, ring the doorbell, and say, “I’m your long-lost son.”
Anyway, the place looked deserted; there were no cars parked in the driveway. So he sat in his rented pickup truck down the street and studied the house.
The long, low ranch was different from the home he remembered, back when they were living in Nottingshire. But this one was just as inviting. The yard was carpeted with leaves from the huge old trees surrounding the house, and potted mums and a couple of pumpkins sat on the front step. It looked like a wonderful, cozy place to live, and Jeremy was dizzy with homesickness by the time a car pulled into the Cavalons’ driveway.
Seconds later, she stepped out of the driver’s seat.
He braced himself for his first glimpse of Elsa in over fourteen years. His recent obsession with news footage of her must have lessened the impact, though. Seeing her in person brought a fleeting wave of nostalgia and comfort, and none of the anguish he’d anticipated.
Swept by the urge to run down the street and hurtle himself into her arms, he was about to do just that…
Then she opened the back door of the car and leaned inside as if to remove a bag of groceries or something.
Something? No. It was someone.
/>
Jeremy froze.
A child.
Elsa—Jeremy’s mother—was holding the little girl’s hand, just the way she used to hold his. She bent over and planted a kiss on the little girl’s hair, just the way she used to kiss Jeremy.
He knew, then, that it could never be the same; knew that he could never, ever go home again.
Someone had taken his place.
CHAPTER FIVE
Caroline can’t sleep.
That’s not unusual—not since her father left, anyway.
Left?
Oh please, Daddy was ripped from their lives without warning. He might as well have been gunned down in the street that day—in fact, maybe that would have been better. An assassination, or an innocent victim of a drive-by shooting…
An image of her father lying on the sidewalk, bleeding all over his Italian wool suit, flutters through Caroline’s head. She won’t let it roost there; she doesn’t wish Daddy were dead. Of course not. She loves him more than anything, and she knows he’ll be back one day.
It’s just…
Right now, it’s hard. On her. If he were dead, he’d be a hero. People would have pity for her, instead of contempt. Neighbors in the elevator, kids at school, strangers on the street—even now that the press coverage has died down and the photographers no longer stake out their building, Caroline can sense people watching her, recognizing her, whispering about her.
That’s why she’s starting to think that what happened today—with the rat—was no accident. That it didn’t just crawl into her bag. Maybe someone put it there, a cruel prank, because she’s Garvey Quinn’s daughter.
The coffeehouse was crowded, so many people jostling past her table, walking—or sitting—within arm’s reach of her purse. Anyone could have unzipped the bag as it hung on the back of the chair, dropped the disgusting creature inside, and zipped it up again.
Anyone?
Well, anyone with a seriously warped mind.
Not that cute guy, though—Jake. Caroline is pretty sure it wasn’t him.
For one thing, he’s not from here; he doesn’t even know who she is…
Or so he said. How do you know it’s true?
She tries to ignore the nagging little voice in her head. Why would he lie?
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