by Lisa Unger
“Nearby,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
“The kids—I’ve arranged for them to be picked up from school for sleepovers with friends.” She takes a shuddering breath. “I’m leaving him, Poppy. It’s worse between us than I’ve told you. So much worse.”
I don’t know how to tell her that it’s even worse than that, however bad it might be.
“I’m on my way,” I say instead.
“Don’t, Poppy.” There’s something strange in her voice: fear. “I think he’s coming here. He’s so angry. I have no idea what he’ll do. I need to be gone before he gets here.”
“What are you saying, Layla?”
A picture starts to coalesce, like an image emerging in the chemical bath of a darkroom lab.
“He’s dangerous,” she whispers. “There are so many things I’ve never told you. I’ve been so ashamed. God, I’m just like her. I’m just like my mother. How could I have let it get this bad?”
Her voice, she’s that teenager afraid and angry in the back of my dad’s car. And my whole body vibrates with the urge to rescue her. How could I not have known? How could I have missed Mac and who he really is?
“Go to my place.” I get up and start to move. “I’ll get the Jeep and pick you up.”
“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
Then I hang up the phone and start to run.
* * *
My apartment is empty when I arrive. I wait and wait, but she doesn’t come. I pace the rooms, calling her over and over. Desperate, I phone Mac. The sound of his voice on the message makes my stomach churn but I keep my voice steady and light.
“Please call me, Mac. Let’s talk.”
Finally, I ring Carmelo, but only get his voice mail. I resist the urge to hurl the phone in anger and frustration. Where is everyone?
“Carmelo,” I say, trying to sound calm. “I’m looking for Layla and Mac. Do you know where they are? It’s—an emergency.”
Grayson’s phone goes straight to voice mail, as well.
“I think Layla’s in trouble,” I tell him. “I think he has her. He’s dangerous. Please do something.”
Panic wells, the walls are closing in. I’m so damn helpless. I can’t just stand here, waiting for Grayson. Should I call 911?
I almost call Noah, but then I don’t. How can I ask more of him? How can I pull him deeper into this mess?
Then I remember Layla’s favorite trick, how she tracks me and her children all over the city: Find My Friends. I quickly open the app and there she is, her little blue dot, pulsing. She’s on the Henry Hudson, heading north. Relief makes me weak; that blue dot—it feels like proof of life.
But where are they going?
And, then, before my eyes, the dot stops pulsing, seems to freeze.
I refresh the screen and a message pops up. Final and cold: Layla Van Santen is unavailable.
No matter how many times I refresh, the message stays the same. I remember how Layla described her despair when she couldn’t find me. It was like my lifeline to you had been cut.
Think, think.
Where would they be heading up north?
Mac’s fishing cabin. The place he goes to unplug, no internet, no phone. Jack spent some time up there with him. Mac’s had it for ages, even before they had money. It’s a little shack of a place, sitting on acres in the woods—just a single room with a couch that turns into a bed, a galley kitchen, a sleep loft for the kids.
It reminds us how little you really need—just love, your family and friends, a place to be warm, good food. What else is there really, at the end of the day?
Yeah, I quipped. Because only rich people need to be reminded of how little they really need.
“I’m coming,” I say out loud. “I’m coming.”
There’s only one problem. I’m not totally sure where that cabin is, don’t have an address to punch into my GPS. It wasn’t Layla’s favorite place and it has been years since I was up there.
Still, I run to the parking garage where I left the Jeep and plan to head in the right direction, hoping to find my way. I burn out of the lot, only to get caught in a crush of traffic headed toward the highway. I snake through cross streets, practically crawling out of my skin and finally, finally get on the Henry Hudson, head north.
When my phone rings, it’s Carmelo.
“Miss Poppy,” he says, sounding concerned. “Something up?”
“Carmelo, where are they? Mac and Layla?”
There’s a pause. “I don’t know,” he says. “Mr. Van Santen, he gave me the day off. He, uh, I guess he didn’t seem like himself. I took him to the garage where he keeps his other car. And he told me he wouldn’t need me for a couple of days probably. Which is, you know, kind of out of the ordinary.”
“Where’s the cabin?” I ask. “The old fishing cabin.”
There’s a pause where I think I’ve lost him. Then:
“It’s not my place to tell people where Mr. Van Santen is, Miss Poppy. I’m sorry. Part of my job for him is discretion.”
“I’m not looking for Mr. Van Santen,” I snap. “I’m looking for Layla. She’s in trouble, Carmelo, and I need you to help me.”
He clears his throat. “What kind of trouble?”
“Please—” I’m desperate enough to beg. “Tell me where the cabin is.”
I’m leaning on that feeling of friendship between us, hoping it’s not just me, that I’m not just the friend of his employer—someone he tolerates politely.
The speedometer pushes past seventy as I weave between lanes, the phone on speaker—no Bluetooth. I can barely hear him over the sound of rushing wind through the poorly insulated Jeep.
“I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t important. Please.”
“Okay,” he says with a reluctant sigh. “I’ll text you the address.”
Then he hangs up. A moment later, my phone pings with the address. I tap on it and bring up the map and directions.
The isolated cabin buried deep in the woods is more than an hour away. I’m coming, I silently tell my friend, press my foot to the gas.
31
Mac was right.
How well do we ever really know each other? As children, we lay ourselves bare—we run around naked, blurt out anything that pops into our minds. We can’t keep secrets. We can’t hide without laughing. But as we grow older, something changes. Somewhere along the line we step behind a veil, create one facade for the world and live another life inside. The modern world lets us construct avatars of ourselves, post a curated version of our lives for everyone to see. Supposedly, this keeps us connected. But maybe, just maybe, it keeps us apart, keeps the world at arm’s length, only allowing people to see what we want them to see.
Jack. Layla. Mac. Alvaro. They all had secret selves. Some of those secrets got my husband killed. The Seven of Swords; all along I was holding the card of deception. And I had no idea.
The cabin sits small, surrounded by a stand of trees. The night is dark and moonless, the air icy cold. I bring the Jeep to a skidding stop and kill the lights. I don’t have a plan, my whole body vibrating with fear. I just jump out of the car and race to the front door. Reckless. Thoughtless. Acting out of fear for Layla. And something else—that dark rage that comes after betrayal.
But the door is locked tight, and inside the cabin is dark. It’s bigger than I remember it, much bigger, as if rooms have been added on. Layla never mentioned a renovation, but then, this was always Mac’s place.
I peer in the window and only see the shadows of covered furniture. Then I move around back.
The sky is pitch-black, moonless, stars obscured by clouds and the trees all around me. It’s so quiet that my footfalls are loud on the soft ground, fallen leaves rustling. I come to a glass-paned back door that seems to lead into a kitchen. It’s locked tight, too. I stand listeni
ng but there’s only the hush of things gone quiet around me.
All my anger wells and I start pounding on the door.
“Layla!” I yell, my voice ringing out in the silence. “Layla!”
I realize that I didn’t see Mac’s car—or any vehicle—when I arrived. My stomach bottoms out. Oh my god. I’ve come all the way out here and they’re not here. Maybe I’ve driven hours away from the place I need to be to help her.
I reach into my pocket for the phone to try Grayson again and find that I’ve left it in the car.
I hear something then, something muffled and far away. A voice. A cry. Every nerve ending in my body is tingling.
That’s when I do something crazy. Okay, crazier. I grab a large rock from the ground, walk over to the back door and use it to smash the pane, shattering the glass. I reach inside the hole I’ve made, my jacket protecting me from the sharp edges, and unlock the door. Then I push inside, the glass crunching beneath my feet.
But there’s only silence and I begin to feel the weight and foolishness of my actions.
“Layla!” I call.
Then, he stands there in the doorway leading to the rest of the house, his dark shadow blocking my path. For a second, my heart pumps. The hooded man? But no, it’s Mac. As I draw closer, his face comes clear—a deep scowl darkening his features.
“What are you doing here, Poppy?” he says. His eyes move past me to the door. “Did you break the fucking glass? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Where’s Layla?” My eyes fall on a gleaming row of Wüsthof blades; I keep the long marble counter between us.
“She’s my wife, not yours,” he says, his tone dark.
“Where is she?” I say again, louder. “Layla!”
The silence that follows expands and fills me with dread.
“You don’t need to know where she is every single fucking second, do you? What’s with you two, anyway? It’s not normal, you get that, right? Your friendship.”
I stare at him, the dark expression on his face, the cool edge of his tone. He seems like a different man, not my friend—a person I have loved and trusted for so many years. He’s a stranger.
“I know what you did,” I say. “I know about Elena. I know about Jack.”
The words burn my throat.
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
The electricity of bad possibilities thickens the air between us. I’m frozen, not sure what to do. Then he laughs. It’s a strangled, unpleasant sound.
“You know—you’re just like him.” He shakes his head slowly. “Relentless. You guys—you were well suited.”
The words knock me back like a hard slap to the face. But I edge closer. He stands firm, a guard at the door.
“How could you do this to us, to him?” I wonder briefly if this is what Detective Grayson meant by not doing anything stupid. Anger flashes across Mac’s face, widening his nostrils, pressing his mouth into a grimace.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” His voice is a growl. “You’re a wreck, Poppy. You always have been. You’re out of your mind and everyone knows that.”
His voice is cold, his words so cruel.
“There are pictures. I think you know that.” My voice is calm and steady, though I’m anything but. “I saw them.”
There’s a flicker of uncertainty, then he blows out another disdainful laugh. “Another dream. Another hooded man in the shadows. You don’t even know what’s real anymore, do you?”
Layla was always the wild one, the one to stand up to bullies, the one most likely to throw the first punch when necessary. But the disdain in his voice, what I know about him now, the fact that I can’t hear Layla, something hot and red takes over. All that rage that has been brewing since I lost Jack, its release is volcanic.
I rush for him, with a kind of warrior’s yell that blasts from some place deep inside. But I just hit him like a wall. His flesh is as unyielding as brick. I reel back, stunned. He grabs me hard by the shoulders, shakes me like a doll.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” he says again, teeth gritted. “Why did you come here?”
He’s so fast, so strong. The blow, when it comes, is a backhand to the jaw—shocking, disorienting. It knocks me on the ground where I lie, my mouth filled with blood that spills out down my chin, onto the ground. A hard kick to the ribs bends me over with white-hot pain, radiating, taking my breath away. I look up at him, this man, my friend, and his face is so twisted with rage, I don’t even know him.
“Mac,” I breathe. The pain, it’s not just in my body. My heart is broken, too—again. “Please.”
He bends down, his face a mask—or maybe the mask is gone. He raises his fist one more time, and then there’s nothing.
* * *
The ground beneath me is cold and hard as I come ragged and disoriented back to myself.
There is nothing but pain—my back, my shoulder, my jaw. Blood and saliva mingle, a metallic taste in my mouth. A hardwood floor, bunk beds. I recognize it immediately. I’m in the sleep loft. Layla lies still, just feet from me, her face swollen and purple, her arm twisted. I try to move to her but the pain, it’s a lightning strike through my body, and my arms are bound behind me. What the fuck? Is this another dream, another hypnagogic nightmare? No. It’s brutally, miserably real.
“Layla,” I whisper. “Layla, wake up.”
She moves at the sound of my voice, issues the faintest groan. Relief is a river, giving me a rush of adrenaline. She’s alive, we’re alive. There’s still hope, isn’t there?
My phone? Where is it? The fucking car. What an idiot. Who would do this? Come bursting in here without a cell phone, without a plan to take on a monster, without letting anyone know where she was going. That electronic tether that Jack so disdained would really help us now.
The only person who knows I’ve come here is Carmelo. How much does he know? Whose side will he be on? I didn’t tell Detective Grayson because I thought he’d try to stop me, or Noah—because—I don’t know why, maybe because this is not his battle to fight. And I’ve asked too much of him already.
Or maybe the truth is that I’m inviting darkness with my high-risk behavior. Maybe on some level I am purposely bringing this kind of mayhem into my life. Isn’t this what I wanted all along, why I kept chasing after the hooded man? I wanted a showdown. A confrontation. Well, I got one and lost.
Voices. Male voices, low and deep, rumble downstairs. Or maybe not. Now there’s just silence, the wind outside, the scratching of a branch at the small octagonal window.
“Poppy.”
Layla, voice weak and scratchy, eyes swollen nearly shut and trained on me. Her lids are an unsettling purple, there’s a gash from her forehead to her eyebrow. I want to rush over to her, clean it, hold her and tell her we’re okay. But I can’t because we’re both bound. And we’re not okay at all.
“You’re not the whole rescue party, are you?”
“In fact,” I say, “I am.”
“Seriously?” She tries to move but issues a groan of pain. “You didn’t call anyone? Did you at least dial 911?”
There’s no good explanation for my reckless stupidity or lack of foresight, so I just stay quiet, trying despite the pain to wiggle free from the bonds at my wrist. What is it? Duct tape?
“What happened?” I ask. “What’s happening? Did he do this to you?”
She makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “This is what happens to you when you try to leave Mac. He always told me that he’d kill me if I tried to leave him. In my heart, I didn’t believe him.”
I can hardly believe that he’d hurt her so badly. But then I remember his face as he stood over me, an ugly twist of rage, the face of someone unhinged, detached from consequence. Had I ever seen it in him before? In all these years—where we ate together and drank to
gether, where he helped Jack and me with the business, when his children were born, when we all traveled together. No, I am ashamed to say. Never. Maybe only in the way he couldn’t really be photographed, how he always looked hulkish and strange, his features poorly defined, a shadow over Layla.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was hurting you?” I whisper. “How could you keep this from me?”
“You want to do this now?” Even beaten and bound on the floor, she still manages to have an attitude.
“Layla—I could have helped.”
She groans, starts shifting toward me. “The twist of it—the violence, the kids, the shame. It’s so fucking complicated.”
“I know,” I say. “But I could have been there for you.”
“It starts small, you know. Comes out of nowhere. In fact, the first time he ever touched me in anger was here in this cabin. I can’t even remember what we were fighting about—something stupid, like I’d forgotten to get something at the store. It just escalated, got hotter. This was before the kids. He pushed me against the refrigerator and I hit my head. He cried and cried—he was so sorry. It was years before it happened again.”
She blows out a breath. There are bruises all up and down her bare arms, just like the ones she had as a kid. She hid them under her sleeves.
“I was so hard on my mom, so angry at her for her weakness. I get it now, how it starts small, how every single time it happens you just get weaker and weaker. That sometimes I’d goad him into it, just because it sort of becomes the only way you connect—which is sick. But I used to hit him, just to make him mad so he’d seem human. We’d throw things, break things. Afterward, the tearful, passionate making up. It’s a drug. Then the kids come, and it’s a secret you think you’re keeping from them. All the apologies, the promises, you just keep hoping it will go back to the way it was.”
She looks at me through her swollen lids. “What a cliché I am, right? And here you are saving me from another abuser.”
I fight back angry tears. There’s more to tell Layla about her husband—so much more—but I’m not sure this is the time. But there may not be another time.
