Scared to Death

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Elsa sniffs the air for a waft of Parisian perfume, but smells only the Chinese food in the bag she’s carrying.

  “Maman!”

  Silence.

  She closes the door, again wondering uneasily why her mother left it open. After a moment’s hesitation, she slides the dead bolt.

  Immediately, she wonders if that was a mistake.

  What if her mother isn’t the only one who’s waiting for them here? What if Renny’s stalker somehow found his way to the apartment, and broke in, and…Oh God, what if Maman showed up and surprised him?

  “Where is she, Mommy?”

  “I’m not sure. Come on, let’s go see.” She gingerly moves toward the hall, her hand firm on Renny’s shoulder. Again, she calls to her mother, wondering if the doorman might have been mistaken.

  Renny chimes in with a singsong “Mémé! Mémé!”

  In the kitchen, Elsa flips on a light. Again, everything is just as she left it: the untouched cookies on a plate, the juice in a glass.

  Remembering every horror movie she’s ever seen, she glances at the knife block. All the handles are accounted for. Good. That’s good.

  See? Everything is fine.

  She sets the bag of Chinese food on the counter beside the knives. “Maman! Are you here?”

  “That man said she is, Mommy. I bet the walls are so thick she can’t hear us.”

  “I guess so,” Elsa agrees, not bothering to point out that it’s the walls between the apartments that are soundproof. Most of the interior ones are just regular drywall partitions installed over the years as the rooms were reconfigured.

  They resume the search in the dining room, the living room, the library. Back in the entry hall, she looks again at the locked door. If Maman isn’t here, who left it open while they were out? Elsa distinctly remembers closing it earlier, before they left.

  “Do you think she’s sleeping, Mommy?”

  At this hour? Even with jet lag, Maman stays up late.

  Then again, she’s getting older, and anyway, where the hell else could she be?

  “Probably. Let’s go look.”

  But when they reach the master bedroom, it’s not only dark; it’s deserted.

  “Maybe she’s in the shower,” Renny suggests.

  “I don’t hear the water running.” Elsa can’t hear anything at all, in fact, but the distant hum of the refrigerator. “Anyway, Maman takes baths.”

  Chanel-scented bubble baths—but never in the middle of the day.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” For Renny’s sake, Elsa tries to sound playful as they cross the master suite toward the adjoining bath.

  “Do you think she’s playing hide-and-seek?”

  Maman is hardly the playful type, but…“You never know,” Elsa tells Renny as she knocks on the door. No reply.

  “Ready or not, here we come!” She opens the door.

  The bathroom, too, is empty. Renny jerks back the shower curtain to make sure.

  Visibly disappointed, she says, “I thought she was going to jump out and yell surprise.”

  “I know, sweetie, but I just don’t—”

  Suddenly, Renny clutches her arm. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “Shh, I just heard something in the other room.”

  They stand absolutely still.

  After a moment, Elsa whispers, “I don’t hear any—”

  And then she does. She hears…something. A faint thumping sound.

  “See? She’s here!” Renny takes off running through the bedroom to the hallway, calling, “Mémé!”

  Elsa follows, relieved.

  But not for long.

  There’s no sign of her mother. Elsa trails Renny from room to room until they end up in the empty foyer again.

  “I really thought I heard something.”

  “I heard it too,” Elsa assures Renny, “but this is an old building. It makes noises. Or maybe it was someone walking around in the apartment upstairs.”

  “I thought it was soundproof.”

  Yeah. So did I.

  Elsa glances again at the door. If no one was here, then why was it ajar when they got back?

  And why, she wonders in alarm as she takes a closer look, is it no longer dead-bolted from the inside now?

  Jake is just as good-looking as Caroline remembered. Maybe better-looking, with his hair all damp and kind of spiky from the rain, as if he ran his fingers through it. Caroline wouldn’t mind doing just that, she decides, watching him walk toward her again, this time carrying the cup of coffee he just bought.

  His rain jacket is already draped over the chair opposite her, and his backpack is resting on the floor at her feet where he left it, after saying, “Be right back.”

  Now he sits down, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

  “Why can’t you believe it? I told you I come here sometimes,” she reminds him, hoping she doesn’t look as stale and wilted as she feels. Too bad she didn’t think to put on some lip gloss when she last visited the ladies’ room, about twenty minutes ago. By then, she’d all but given up hope that he’d show up.

  But he’s here! He’s here!

  He shrugs. “After what happened to you yesterday, I can’t believe you’d ever come back.”

  “You did.”

  “I’m not the one it happened to.”

  “Whatever. It was random. I’m fine.”

  Yeah, sure. Fine. Totally laid back about a rat crawling out of her purse.

  But his being here really does make it seem all better.

  “You know”—Jake sips the coffee, and makes a face like it’s too hot—“I tried to wait around for you for a little bit after they took you into the back room, but then I thought that might seem weird, so I left.”

  “Why would it seem weird?”

  “You don’t think it would have?”

  “No.” She smiles at him. “I think it would have been sweet.”

  “Oh…too bad I didn’t do it, then. Because I really am a sweet guy.”

  “Yeah?” She gives him a flirty little smile.

  He smiles back, and for the first time, Caroline notices his eyes.

  With his blond hair, you’d expect them to be blue, or maybe brown.

  But they’re dark—as dark, perhaps, as her own.

  The door was dead-bolted. Elsa is sure of it.

  Now it isn’t. She’s sure of that, too.

  Numb with fear, she calls out to her mother, hearing the doubt in her own voice. There will be no reply, because Maman isn’t here.

  But maybe she was here, and she unlocked the door on her way out just now…

  No. If Maman had been here, she’d have heard them calling her. She’d have answered.

  But if she wasn’t here…then who came into the apartment while they were gone, left the door ajar, and now unlocked it?

  “Mommy, what are you doing?”

  Opening her mouth to answer Renny’s question, she can’t seem to find her voice.

  Okay, don’t panic. Just stay calm and think this through. There must be an explanation.

  Elsa rests a hand on Renny’s shoulder, as much to steady herself as to reassure her daughter.

  Think. Think.

  Tom said he saw Maman. Was he imagining things? Or lying? But why would he lie?

  Who is Tom, anyway? A doorman. A stranger. He wasn’t even in the lobby, she realizes, when they came and went. He was standing outside. He could have been anyone.

  Oh God. I can’t trust him. I can’t trust anyone.

  Someone knows she and Renny are in Maman’s apartment. Someone was waiting for them just now.

  Yet she’s positive they weren’t followed here from Connecticut, or even from Penn Station.

  And she didn’t even decide they were coming to New York until this afternoon. She hasn’t discussed it with anyone but Brett. They didn’t even buy tickets until right before they boarded the train.

  Yet som
eone found them.

  That means they weren’t just being watched and photographed. Someone must have been listening to their private conversations. Someone heard them talking about the trip in their kitchen, or over the phone. Either the line is tapped, or the house is bugged. Maybe both.

  She has to call Brett and tell him—

  No! You can’t call Brett. You can’t call Maman, either.

  You can’t call anyone. You can’t talk about it to anyone, not even Renny.

  Someone might be listening right now. Someone might hear her shallow breathing, her heart pounding like crazy, blood roaring through her veins…

  “Mommy?”

  “Shh!”

  Whoever was here might have wanted her to think he was leaving. But he might still be here, hiding, watching, listening.

  Clutching Renny’s shoulder, she glances warily around the foyer.

  Dear God, someone is there—standing right behind her.

  Elsa cries out—then realizes it’s her own reflection in an enormous gilded mirror. She looks like hell: hair straggly from the rain, pupils dilated in sheer terror, yesterday’s mascara rendering her gaunt, almost otherworldly.

  “Mommy!”

  “It’s okay, Renny.” She hugs her shaken daughter. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  But someone is sure as hell trying to scare her—and doing a damned good job of it.

  Arriving home after an agonizing day of going through the motions at the office, still with no word from Mike, Brett is relieved to see that Meg’s car is no longer parked in the driveway next door. He’s definitely not up for another round of Q&A.

  Reminded that Elsa’s car is still sitting at the Sunoco station—or, by now, in a tow yard somewhere—he wonders again about that Spider-Man toy she’d found lying in the parking lot. Even if it had fallen out of the car…

  What if Elsa herself had been the one who was carrying it around? Caught in the throes of acute stress disorder, she’d done that back in the beginning, for months after their son disappeared. She’d clung fiercely to that toy, even talked to it, as if it were Jeremy himself. The day she’d tried to kill herself, when he’d found her unconscious, she’d been clutching the toy in her hands.

  So, what? You think she lied to you about how it might have gotten into the car and onto the ground next to it?

  No. Her terror was too real. She didn’t lie.

  But maybe her subconscious mind is up to something again. Losing touch with reality. Dissociative behavior. Maybe learning of Jeremy’s death really did push her over the edge, and Brett was just too distracted or busy to notice the signs.

  But it isn’t just that she thought someone was in Renny’s room, or that she thought she saw a footprint, and found that Spider-Man by the car.

  What about the envelope of pictures?

  Wait a minute.

  She wasn’t in any of them.

  Could she have taken them, and mailed them, herself?

  It would mean his wife is seriously mentally ill.

  No. I can’t accept that. I won’t.

  He strides toward the house, casting a wary eye across the surrounding landscape, relieved to see nothing unusual. It isn’t until he’s reached the front door that he spots the small rectangle of paper stuck to the frame.

  Heart racing, he grabs it.

  Mr. and Mrs. Cavalon: I’ll be Renata’s new caseworker, and I came by this afternoon to introduce myself. Please give me a call to schedule a meeting at your earliest convenience.

  The ink is wet and smeared in spots, particularly at the bottom, making the scrawled signature difficult to read. It looks like Melissa—or perhaps Melvin?—Jackson, or Johnson. The phone number is legible, though.

  Brett hurriedly unlocks the door and shoves the keys into his suit coat pocket along with the note, wondering why the new social worker didn’t just call in advance to introduce herself.

  Then again—why would she call? Pop-in visits are a necessary evil when it comes to foster care, and a heads-up would obviously ruin the spontaneity.

  After stepping over the threshold, Brett locks the dead bolt behind him and leans against the door, head tilted back, eyes closed.

  The threat of an unexpected visit from Roxanne was bad enough. Now another new caseworker breathing down their necks? That’s the last thing he and Elsa need right now.

  What they do need right now is help. But Mike seems to have fallen off the face of the earth, and the only other person to whom he can consider reaching out is Elsa’s therapist, Joan.

  There must be some kind of patient privacy protocol, but he can only hope that Elsa signed a release in the beginning that would allow him access to her mental health records.

  He has to call Joan. He knows he does. He dreads the thought of it, but it’s time.

  He pulls his cell phone from his pocket and checks to make sure he didn’t somehow miss a call. Nope.

  He finds Mike’s number and hits redial, wanting to give it one more try before he gets in touch with Joan.

  This time, someone answers the phone with a gruff-sounding hello.

  “Mike?”

  “No,” the unfamiliar voice says.

  “Sorry, I must have the wrong—”

  “Are you looking for Mike Fantoni?”

  “Yes…”

  “This is the right phone. Who is this?”

  “I’m…a friend of his.”

  “Yeah. So am I.”

  Wondering what’s going on, Brett asks, “Can I please speak to him?”

  There’s a long pause. “I’m sorry. They just gave me his phone, and I heard it ring, so…”

  “They?”

  “The nurses. I’m at the hospital. Mike is…he’s been in an accident.”

  Elsa desperately wants to believe she and Renny are alone in the apartment.

  If they are, then the safest thing to do would be to barricade the door and stay right here until this is over…

  Whatever “this” is.

  But if that isn’t the case—if whoever unlocked the dead bolt is still here—then they have to escape, before—

  No. Don’t even think about that. It’s going to be fine. You can get through this. Just stay calm.

  Okay. An escape. The door is just a few yards away. It would be so easy to grab Renny and run for it…

  Her eyes go to the coat closet beside the door. What if someone is hiding in there, watching them through the crack? Or that tall armoire positioned against the curved wall between the door and where they’re standing now: Someone could be lurking in the shadows on the far side of it. If she makes a move to leave with Renny, he’ll pounce, and then what?

  Elsa could scream for help at the top of her lungs…

  And no one would hear.

  Soundproof. Oh God.

  Her eyes are starting to sting.

  How could she have thought it was a good idea to leave Brett, to travel so far from home alone with Renny, to a city filled with strangers who—

  “Can we eat now?” Renny’s voice startles Elsa.

  She blinks, takes a deep breath, tries to focus. Her throat dry with fear, she repeats Renny’s question slowly, as if it had been spoken in a foreign language. “Can we eat now?”

  Can…we…eat…now…?

  Can…we…?

  The words aren’t registering. All she can think of is fleeing this gilded cage, getting her daughter to safety…

  “Mommy?”

  Food. She’s talking about the Chinese food in the kitchen.

  “No, we…”

  Wait a minute. The kitchen…

  The knives are there, right on the counter. If she were armed, she’d at least be able to fight back if someone attacked.

  Yes. That’s what she’ll do. She’ll grab a knife and then make a break for the door with her daughter.

  “Come on,” she tells Renny, trying to keep panic from edging into her voice. “Let’s go eat.”

  Peering into every shadowy nook along
the way as they move toward the kitchen, Elsa keeps one firm hand on Renny’s shoulder and the other in her pocket, clamped around her cell phone. If she had to, she could probably dial 911 blindly, with her thumb.

  But how long would it take for help to arrive?

  Too long.

  And no one will hear their screams.

  Oh God…Oh God…

  In the kitchen, the Chinese food waits on the counter.

  Keeping Renny close beside her, Elsa walks over. Her hand is shaking like crazy, her thumb poised on the 9 button, as she starts to reach past the bag…

  Calm down. You have to calm down. If he’s watching, he’ll think you’re going for the takeout, and—

  Stunned by what she sees, she involuntarily loosens her grip on her phone. It clatters onto the granite counter as she stares in disbelief at the knife block.

  Minutes ago, the handles were all accounted for.

  Now one of the slots is empty.

  Stunned, Brett listens as Joe, the man who answered Mike’s phone—his neighbor, and a witness to the accident—explains the situation.

  Mike Fantoni is in a coma.

  “It was a hit-and-run in front of his building. This car came barreling out of nowhere. Hit him, and kept on going.”

  “Did you get a look at it?”

  “Not a good look, no. I was in a state of shock, trying to help Mikey…” He pauses, clears the emotion from his throat. “A couple of other people saw it, though. The cops found the car abandoned a coupla blocks away. Stolen.”

  “Do they have any idea who was driving it?”

  “Probably some crazy-ass kid out joyriding.” Joe sighs heavily. “You know, another few seconds, and he woulda been outa there, on his way to the airport.”

  “What? The kid? How do you know—”

  “Not the kid. Mike!”

  “Mike was going to the airport?”

  “Had his bags all packed and everything.”

  “Do you know where he was going?”

  “On vacation.”

  “Do you know where?” Brett repeats, his heart pounding.

  “Nah. Why?”

  “Just…he was working on something for me. Is there any way you can find out where—”