by Lisa Regan
Claire squatted next to Peyton. “What’s that, Peyton?”
“I saw D.J. pushing Mommy in the kitchen.”
Claire stayed very still. The whole world seemed to stop. She knew Peyton hadn’t talked to anyone since the accident. Now here she was telling Claire something that, from the sound of it, could be crucial to finding out what sent Leah spiraling out of control. Furtively, Claire looked back at the Holloway house, hoping Jim Holloway would not choose this moment to wake up and come looking for his daughter.
“Somebody pushed your mommy?” Claire coaxed.
“Yeah. D.J. I was supposed to be asleep, but I got thirsty. I went to the kitchen but then I saw him pushing her on the table.”
“On the table? You saw him push her into the table?”
“He was pushing her on it. He … he didn’t have any clothes on, and he kept pushing her. I thought it was a bad thing. Molly said he showed her and Maya his nub, and Miss Rachel said that was very bad and made him go away forever.”
Claire couldn’t have moved if her hair caught fire. She was trying to think of what to ask next. She wished Connor were there, but then again, he had attempted a few times to interview Peyton without success. So it was Claire, then.
“Peyton, did your mommy know that you saw her and this … D.J. on the table?”
Peyton shook her head. “No. Mommy didn’t see me. I got afraid. I went into my room and hided. I thought the police would come, but then Mommy woke me up and it was a new day, and she didn’t look like she was hurt.”
“Did you ever tell anyone?”
“No. It’s a secret.”
“When did this happen?” Claire asked.
“I don’t know, like five years ago or five days ago.”
Five years or five days. “Was it last week? Like, before your soccer game?”
“Yeah, it was before my game. Like three years ago.”
“Was it a long time ago? Do you remember how old you were when you saw it?”
“Sure. I was four or five or six.”
“Okay,” Claire said, resigning herself that pinning the time down was a dead end. “Did you know D.J.? Had you met him before?”
“Yeah. He lived with Miss Rachel and Maya and Molly and their daddy, except Maya and Molly said Miss Rachel made him live on the garage in the backyard.”
“You mean on top of their garage?”
“I guess.”
“Is D.J. related to Molly and Maya? Like a cousin or something?”
“I don’t know. I guess. Molly said when he showed his nub, Miss Rachel was mad ’cause that made it unrest.”
“Do you mean incest?”
Peyton shrugged. “I don’t know. What’s incest?”
Claire licked her lips. “Never mind. What else did Molly tell you?”
“Molly said D.J. is gross and that he’s mean too. Maya said his nub was big and gross too.”
Claire felt sick. “Okay,” she said. “Peyton, did D.J. ever show you his, uh, nub?”
“No,” she said simply.
Relief flooded Claire. Then she felt a prickle along her spine. A low thrum, the feeling of impending harm, started at the base of her spine and worked its way up to the base of her neck, where the fine, downy hairs stood straight up. Wilson sat to attention and growled. Peyton jumped back, but Claire caught the girl’s arm. “It’s not you, honey. He’s not growling at you.”
Peyton looked around until her eyes found him. The man from the bagel shop. Claire felt Peyton tense beneath her grip. “That’s him,” she hissed. “That’s D.J.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Connor moved to the doorway and took the call from Lena Stark. Once she had filled him in, he rejoined Stryker and Rachel in the sitting room. Stryker had his notebook in hand and was already firing off questions. Connor stood aside and watched the exchange.
“What’s D.J.’s last name?”
“North. His full name is Dylan John North.”
“How old is he?”
“Umm, nineteen. No, twenty.”
“Where is he?”
“Where? I, uh, don’t know where. He left like a year ago. I haven’t seen or heard from him since. We didn’t—we weren’t really getting along.”
“You have his phone number?”
“No. We had put him on our cell phone plan when he came here. When I kicked—when he left, I took him off. I didn’t get a forwarding number.”
“You have some kind of problem with him?”
“He was just—he used to curse a lot and say inappropriate things in front of the girls. When I asked him to stop, he became abusive toward me—verbally, I mean—so I asked him to leave. I didn’t want him here in the first place. I hadn’t seen him since he was five years old. We never had a relationship. It was a favor, letting him stay here until he found a job.”
“He ever find one?”
She shrugged. “Not that I know of.”
“How long did he stay with you?”
“Maybe six months?”
“You did him a favor letting him live here, but you put him on your cell phone plan?”
“Another favor. Only temporarily. Look, I tried with him. It didn’t work. He’s not … he’s not a nice person. He is out of our lives now, and I’d like to keep it that way. I’m sorry I can’t help you, but I haven’t seen him since he left over a year ago.”
“He’s your brother’s kid? Your sister’s?”
Her fingers twisted the charm. “Brother?” she asked, seemingly confused by the question. Then she gathered her composure, took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and said, “Yes, my brother. He’s my brother’s son.”
Stryker marked something on his notepad. “Your brother’s name?”
“My brother’s name?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, um, Sebastian.”
“Where does he live?”
“Pennsylvania, out on the East Coast.”
“I’m going to need his phone number and address.”
The charm twisted again. “Oh, I don’t have—”
Stryker raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have your brother’s address and phone number?”
She smiled weakly. “We’re estranged. Dylan—I mean D.J.—he called. He was out here. He needed a place to stay. So we let him stay above the garage in the back. It was temporary.”
“D.J. came here from Pennsylvania?”
“Yeah.”
“You haven’t seen him in over a year?”
She glanced at Connor. “Um, yeah. I mean I think so. I don’t really remember.”
Outside, a dog barked. The sound was strangely familiar. Connor walked back to the foyer. Something down the hall, in the kitchen, caught his eye. An overturned chair. Broken glass twinkled on the tile floor. Connor’s heartbeat thundered in his chest. He turned and stepped back into the room. “You saw him today,” Connor said. “Where is he?”
Rachel stepped back, away from him. Connor could feel Stryker’s eyes on him. The barking outside intensified. Stryker kept his eyes on Connor but moved toward the window.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rachel said.
“Stop lying,” Connor said. “Where is he? Tell me where he is right now.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Wilson’s growls had rapidly turned to barks. He put himself in front of Claire and Peyton and strained against his leash. D.J. was still several yards away, wearing the hat he’d given Brianna that morning. He had come from the direction of the Holloways’ neighbor. Claire prayed that Connor and Stryker really were nearby.
D.J. smiled at them as he approached. Welcoming, nonthreatening. Charming, even. But Claire was pretty sure she knew what lay beneath that smile. There was no doubt in her mind that Brianna lay in a coma because of this man.
As he moved closer, Claire tried to decide if he would really attack them in broad daylight. It was a huge risk, but so was attacking Brianna and putting her body in a dumpster in broad daylight. N
o, she decided. He cared little about risk at this point.
D.J. stopped about five feet away. The smile never left his face. “You better control your dog before I fucking kill it,” he said. He had to speak loudly to be heard over Wilson’s barking, but even his tone was without menace. Even so, Claire knew he was deadly serious. At the sound of profanity, Peyton turned her head and buried it in Claire’s hip. Claire held tightly to the girl with one hand and gripped Wilson’s leash with the other.
“Did you hear me?” he said. “Calm your fucking dog down. You want me to kill him or what?”
Peyton clung harder to Claire. Slowly, putting both hands on Wilson’s leash, Claire knelt and spoke into Peyton’s ear, hoping D.J. couldn’t hear her. “Peyton,” she said. “This is very important. When I say go, I need you to run as fast as you can into your house. Lock the door, wake up your dad, and tell him to call the police. Can you do that?”
The little girl nodded. Claire looked back at D.J., who was closing in. Claire didn’t see a weapon in either of his hands but that meant little. He was still a threat. Claire knew the damage a man could do with his bare hands.
She could scarcely hold Wilson back now. His hackles were up. Foam flew from his mouth with each fevered bark. She didn’t want to put Wilson in harm’s way. She didn’t want Wilson anywhere near this man, but she had little choice. She had to make sure Peyton was safe. Besides that, there would be no talking Wilson down if he perceived a threat to her. Either D.J. walked away or he got mauled. Claire was certain that his first line of defense would be a heavy kick to the dog’s side or head, which meant she needed to distract him before she set Wilson loose. She hoped Peyton running toward the house would draw his gaze away from the dog for the precious second that Wilson would need to get the upper hand.
“Go!” she shouted, her voice sharp and loud.
Like a starting pistol had gone off, Peyton sprinted toward the house. Claire released Wilson while D.J. watched Peyton. Wilson flew through the air. Large, furry paws hit D.J. square on the chest, knocking him to the ground. His hands flew up, trying to block Wilson from biting his face and throat. They rolled back and forth, a blur of golden fur and blue jeans. The whole confrontation lasted only seconds, ending when Wilson moved his bulk to the side in an effort to bite the arms that punched him. D.J. flipped onto his side and roundhouse kicked Wilson in the ribs. The dog yelped, and Claire’s whole body went loose with fear. She ran toward Wilson as D.J. stood on wobbly legs, holding his throat and face with both hands, and ran off, leaving droplets of blood behind him.
Claire dropped to her knees. Wilson lay on his side, his breathing labored. A small whine issued from him. Tears fell from her face as she touched him gingerly. He definitely had some broken ribs but she hoped that was all.
“Hold on, buddy,” she said, chest tight with anxiety. “Just hold on.”
At the Holloways’ door, Jim appeared, eyes misty with sleep, a phone pressed to his ear. Claire reached into her back pocket and pulled out her cell phone. With trembling fingers, Claire started to dial Connor, but the commotion had already brought him and Stryker outside of the house next door.
Connor knelt down next to her. “Oh my God, Claire!”
Claire looked up at Stryker. “He went that way. It’s the guy from Sammy’s. Follow the drops of blood. His name is D.J.”
Connor and Stryker exchanged a look. Then Stryker ran off in the direction D.J. had gone, and Connor followed. “Call 911,” he shouted over his shoulder.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
“Are you okay?” Jim Holloway asked.
He had wandered barefoot to the edge of his driveway, Peyton’s little hand in his. With his other hand, he held out his phone. “Peyton just told me what happened. I called the police.”
Claire looked up at him. Hot tears streamed down her face. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s my dog, he—” She couldn’t finish. Wilson shook beneath her hands. He wasn’t making any sounds now. But he was breathing. She turned back to him and stroked his face gently. “You’re such a good boy,” she told him. “You’ll be okay. You’re a good dog.”
I’m sorry.
“Daddy,” Peyton said in a tiny voice, “is the doggie going to die?”
“No, honey,” he said.
“I just need to get him to the animal hospital,” Claire said. “I have to go—to go get my car.” A sob shook her body as she realized how long it would take her to retrieve her vehicle.
Jim Holloway’s feet appeared next to Wilson’s head. “I can take you,” he said. He moved toward Wilson’s back and knelt down, his hands poised to slip beneath Wilson’s body. “I’ll put him in the back of my truck, okay?”
Claire wanted to throw her arms around the man, but there was no time. She managed a husky “Thank you” instead. A moment later, Wilson was safely stowed in Holloway’s truck bed, nestled in a Toy Story blanket that Peyton had brought from inside the house. Claire lay down in the back with him as Jim, wearing sneakers but no socks, hopped into the cab. He strapped Peyton in beside him and threw open the small center window between the truck cab and bed.
“You’ll have to give me directions, okay?” Jim called.
“Of course,” she said. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
EIGHTEEN MONTHS EARLIER
She tried to forget about it. Of course she did. It would never happen again. Of course it wouldn’t. It was a terrible mistake. One of the few things in her life she wished she could take back. Something she desperately wished she could undo. But D.J. didn’t make it easy. She didn’t see him at all those first couple of weeks after it happened, but then he was everywhere. He appeared whenever she was struggling with some task, like dragging her trash cans to the curb or carrying the huge box with Hunter’s new car seat in it from the back of her SUV into the house.
Then there was the day she herded the kids out to the car at seven thirty in the morning only to find that she had a flat tire. Jim was snoring away in their bedroom, just as he did every morning until ten or eleven, having worked the four-to-midnight shift—or three to midnight, as he now claimed—and gone to bed late. She wasn’t keen on waking him, but she couldn’t change the tire and watch the kids at the same time. Peyton, maybe—she’d sit in whatever spot Leah told her to and stay there until Leah released her—but Hunter was another story.
While Leah stared hopelessly at the flat, Peyton said, “Mom.” When Leah turned to her, she found her pointing down the street. Her two-year-old son was already halfway down the block.
“Shit,” Leah said. Then to Peyton: “You didn’t hear that.” She chased after her son, who giggled when she scooped him up and carried him back to her driveway, as if it were all a game.
D.J. seemed to materialize from nowhere, leaning against her car, looking like Mr. April from a hot-mechanics calendar. Not that he was a mechanic. As far as Leah knew, he did nothing and had never attended any college or trade school. Apparently, for now, he got by on his parents’ money and his good looks. He wore jeans and a clingy black T-shirt. His hair was mussed, and she saw small circles under his eyes, like he’d been up all night. He smiled, making her feel naked, dirty, and aroused all at once. She wished she could melt into the pavement. From the grass beside the driveway, Peyton stared up at him in perfect silence.
“I can fix this for you,” he said. “Have you on your way in no time at all.”
Leah swallowed. She said nothing. She couldn’t. Her mouth, her throat—none of it would work. Hunter squirmed in her arms, wanting down. D.J. just stared, that smirky, knowing smile on his face. Leah felt a tremble start in her legs. She hoped he wouldn’t notice. Why did he keep showing up? What did he want from her? He couldn’t possibly think she’d let him have sex with her again.
They’d never discussed what had happened. The last two or three times he’d appeared to help her in her time of need, he’d left without saying anything at all. Although he always made sure to touch her somehow, to brush ag
ainst her or accidentally grasp her fingers when she handed him something. It was like he was taunting her. Thank God Jim was never around when he showed up. Leah would never be able to keep her composure.
Today, D.J. simply laughed, shaking his head as though they were sharing some private joke. He held out a palm. “Leah,” he said, the sound of her name on his lips sending a shock through her entire body.
“Mommmeeee,” Hunter whined.
“Give me your keys,” D.J. said. “I’ll see if you’ve got a spare.”
She had no conscious control over her body. Her traitorous hand reached into her pocket for the keys and dropped them into his hand.
He said, “You look nice.”
She mumbled a thank-you, pushed Peyton back inside the house, and waited nervously until D.J. finished changing the tire. She’d driven over a nail, he told her when he knocked softly on the door to return her keys. That was it. That was all. He walked off. She was only ten minutes late for work, a minor miracle.
She had no idea what he was doing, what he was after. She hated seeing him, hated the way he made her feel, hated being reminded of what she had done, and yet …
“You look nice.”
When was the last time Jim had paid her a compliment?
What happened was nearly imperceptible. Leah didn’t see it, didn’t fully understand how it had happened until it was too late. D.J. waged a war of attrition, and Jim seemed to help D.J.’s cause at every turn, the two of them chipping away at her resolve—D.J. purposeful and Jim oblivious as always.
It started with D.J.’s good deeds, his general smoldering, and his compliments. They were far less crass than his initial “You’ve got great tits,” which only confused her more. But her fights with Jim, which were not unusual, were the nails in the coffin that housed her tenuous fidelity.
The first fight they had post-D.J. was after Jim called her at Rachel’s house because Hunter had woken from his nap. Another weekend, another coffee klatch with Rachel while Peyton played with the twins. Leah was growing increasingly uncomfortable around her best friend, especially after what Leah had done, but D.J. never appeared while she was there, and Rachel’s house offered some slight, desperately needed respite from her nonstop pace as a mother and wife. It was blessed grown-up time with someone who understood and sympathized with all the challenges of Leah’s daily life—her sordid sexual encounter notwithstanding. Plus, as she kept telling herself, avoiding Rachel would be extremely suspicious, and she was trying not to arouse suspicion in any way, shape, or form. So, she dealt with the raging discomfort by doing what she did with everything unpleasant: she tucked it away in a secret compartment in her mind and pretended it didn’t exist.
