Allison frowned and plopped the bite of scone into her mouth. Allison believed in food as comfort, which was probably one of the reasons she was overweight or, as Len liked to say, “pleasantly rounded.” Even though Diana thought Allison was rushing things with Len, she was happy Allison had finally met a man who could look past her weight and appreciate her quick smile and sparkly brown eyes. There was no doubt that Len was good for Allison.
“Mia must mean something to him,” Diana said. “Why else would he call out her name?”
“She could be anyone from his high school sweetheart to . . . I don’t know, his grandmother. What strikes me as more important, is the fact he was able to speak at all. That’s a good sign.”
“I thought so too, but the doctor wasn’t impressed.” Diana took a sip of coffee. It tasted bitter and sharp, although she suspected it was her taste that was off and not the coffee. “What will I do if he doesn’t make it?”
Allison’s expression clouded. She wrapped her shoulder-length curls around her hand, then let them fall loose again. “You’ll cry a lot,” she said after a moment, “and then you’ll move on.” Allison spoke from experience. She’d lost her husband in a boating accident when Becca was only three. “But chances are, he’ll be fine. Try not to worry about the what-ifs.”
“Easier said than done,” Diana said with a wan smile.
“You have to be strong for Jeremy. Becca kept me going. I might have given up if not for her.”
“It’s not just that Roy was shot, but that he lied to me. Telling me he was going to play golf when he wasn’t. Why would he lie if he didn’t have something to hide?”
For once, Allison didn’t have an answer.
Chapter 6
Chloe made sure the water running from the faucet was good and hot before she started on the dishes in the sink. When she was living in the group home, there’d been a couple of girls who never washed dishes properly. They’d just start in with the sponge the minute they turned on the faucet. Cold water and hardly any soap. Sometimes no soap at all. The dishes—especially glasses—were pretty disgusting when they’d finished. Ironically, these were the same girls who used all the hot water when they took a shower, and left their wet towels on the floor and their hairs in the sink. They didn’t think about anybody but themselves.
She didn’t miss the group home, but she really hadn’t minded it all that much at the time—except for the few girls who got on her nerves, and the fact that the TV was always on, and there was no place to be alone. Whatever else the home had been, it was better than what Chloe had known before.
Chloe finished with the morning’s breakfast dishes, then tackled yesterday’s dishes, now caked with the remains of a bacon and cheese omelet. She didn’t usually let the dishes pile up like that, but there hadn’t been time before they took off for the concert Sunday morning, and by the time they’d returned home that afternoon, dirty dishes had been the last thing on her mind as she tended to Trace’s wounds.
God, was that only yesterday? She felt a terrible weight in her chest. How could things have gone so wrong?
Trace worked a lot of weekends but he’d had yesterday off, and he hadn’t even wanted to spend it hanging with his friends, drinking beer. It had been Trace’s idea, in fact, to go to the local bands concert at the Shoreline Amphitheater. Just the two of them. Chloe didn’t actually care where they went, she just enjoyed being with Trace. It made her feel whole, like a complete person in a way she didn’t feel when she was alone.
And then he’d gone into that convenience store and everything had changed in an instant.
Chloe dried the breakfast dishes and put them away so the counter was clear. She liked having a tidy kitchen.
She thought about taking another shower. She’d taken one first thing, the minute she got up, even though she’d taken one last night after Jerry left. She still felt dirty, and all the scrubbing in the world wasn’t going to make her feel clean.
She had to remind herself she’d done it for Trace.
All morning she’d been checking on him in his sleep. When he’d woken up complaining about the pain, she’d given him another of the pills Jerry had left and fixed him a piece of toast, which he ignored.
“I’m not hungry,” he grumbled, folding the pillow over his face.
“You should eat. You haven’t had any food for almost twenty-four hours.”
“Lay off, Chloe. I said I wasn’t hungry.”
And she’d helped him into the bathroom several times. He would have stumbled if she hadn’t had hold of him. And then he’d crawl back into bed, cursing.
Now he was once again sleeping, fitfully. He’d waken, moan and call out something she couldn’t understand, and then slip back into sleep. Chloe decided the grogginess was because of the pills. At least she hoped it was the pills and not some raging infection.
Earlier, she’d called Trace’s supervisor at Costco and her own at the Craft Connection, in both instances pleading the flu. She realized afterward that she should have come up with a different excuse for Trace, something that might account down the road for his injured shoulder. It was a mistake that would make Trace angry. He was always after her to use her brain and think things through instead of living in some fantasy world, an unfair criticism because her world was hardly a fantasy.
As if to prove to herself that she did think ahead, Chloe checked the fridge, which offered little in the way of dinner choices. After looking in on Trace one more time, she made a mad dash to the corner market, where she almost never shopped because the prices were so high.
She picked up canned soup and packaged macaroni and cheese—both foods she thought might appeal to someone who wasn’t feeling well. And then, because Trace liked meat with his meals, she added a couple of frozen hearty-man dinners and a frozen beef burrito to her basket. Although there was beer at the apartment, she knew Trace would appreciate something stronger. She’d have liked to get it for him, but did she dare? She was barely eighteen, although she did have a fake ID. Feeling torn, she lingered in the alcohol aisle long enough that the clerk began watching her with suspicion. Finally, she picked out a package of the chocolate fudge cookies Trace liked. She didn’t want to risk getting busted now, on top of everything.
The clerk was an older guy with a big belly and tufts of hair growing out of his ears. Her mind flashed to the young kid behind the counter at the convenience store. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than she was, and now he was dead. She felt a wave of nausea wash over her. It had happened so fast, so unexpectedly, she could almost convince herself she’d been watching a movie. But the brutal reality was, she had been there.
The big-bellied clerk had been yammering about problems with the cash register and Chloe hasn’t really been listening, but now he said, “Did you read about the convenience store clerk and DA that got shot yesterday in the city?”
Chloe jumped. It was almost like he’d been reading her mind.
“Guess I shouldn’t complain about a stupid machine,” the clerk continued. “At least I’m not working in a neighborhood like that. We may be a little down at the heels and all, but that there’s a whole different scene, know what I mean?”
Chloe nodded. She wanted to get her groceries and leave.
“Sad thing is, stuff like that happens all the time in bad neighborhoods. It only made the news ’cause of the DA. A big-time, important guy from the right part of town gets shot and it’s hot news. The rest of the folks can shoot each other right and left and you don’t hear much about it.”
“Yeah, it’s not fair,” Chloe agreed, because she knew some response was called for. She handed over her money and began bagging her groceries herself. She wanted to get out of there.
“On the news they said there was a witness. Someone who got a description and partial plate. Maybe this time they’ll actually find the creep that did it.”
“A witness?” Chloe almost dropped the can of soup she was holding. “I hadn’t hea
rd that.”
“Yup. The same guy who called nine-one-one.”
“How good a description did he get?” Her heart raced. Would they be able to put together a police sketch? She had a sudden, horrible vision of turning on the TV and seeing a sketch of Trace’s face plastered across the screen. Or her own.
The clerk shrugged. “Enough that they mentioned it on the news.” He added the last items to her bag. “Here you go, miss. You have a nice day, now.”
“You, too,” Chloe mumbled. Her day was anything but nice, and had just gotten a whole lot worse.
The store was only two blocks from their apartment and Chloe walked quickly, conscious the entire time that her face was exposed to the public for anyone to recognize. Or had the witness only gotten a description of the car? She wished she’d thought to ask. Not that it mattered. A partial plate along with make, model, and color—wouldn’t the cops be able to find them based on that?
For a moment she was furious with Trace for getting her into this mess. Getting them in this mess. Trace lived in a fantasy world, not her. And sometimes he was so stupid she wanted to throttle him. But mostly, Trace was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She didn’t want to forget that.
They’d met at a movie theater. Well, just outside the theater really. She’d gone to a matinee with a couple of other girls from the group home. One of the girls started flirting with Trace in the popcorn line, and then after the movie, when they were all hanging around the plaza outside, he started talking to Chloe. Not to her friends, but her. Chloe was never the girl guys noticed. She wasn’t slender and dainty, or stacked and curvy. She didn’t have full lips or long lashes or straight, blond hair. She was just kind of there in a nondescript, mousy-brown way. And Trace had noticed her. He’d smiled at her and offered her a sip of his Coke.
Three months later she walked away from the group home and moved in with him. She was only seventeen and was still a few months short of graduation, which might not have happened anyway unless she brought up her grade in math, so she’d been worried the authorities would come after her. But they hadn’t. Not the cops, not her social worker, not even the supervisor of the group home who claimed to care so much about Chloe’s future. It had surprised Chloe to discover she was disappointed no one had made any effort to track her down. Not disappointed exactly, because she didn’t want to go back, but hurt. It was frightening to realize that no one really cared.
No one but Trace, that is.
*****
By evening, Trace had improved enough that he was able to get out of bed and sit at the table. He still looked tired and he held his shoulder at an odd angle. He ate a bowl of soup and one of the frozen dinners Chloe had picked up at the store. When she was washing dishes afterward, he came up behind her and stroked the back of her neck.
“You’re the best, Chloe. I like having you take care of me.”
“Good thing,” she joked, “’cuz that’s what I’m going to keep doing.” Inside, she glowed with the warmth of Trace’s words. It felt so good when he was sweet to her.
“You taped up the wound really nice, too.”
Chloe felt herself stiffen. She didn’t like lying to Trace, but she couldn’t tell him about Jerry. What she’d done made her feel dirty, and even though she’d done it for Trace, she knew he’d be angry. So she simply nodded.
“How’s it look?” he asked. “Is it bad?”
“I still think you should see a doctor.”
He managed a laugh. “I got you, babe. I don’t need a doctor.”
She dried her hands and turned to face him. “That man you shot, the customer who came into the store, he’s a lawyer, a district attorney.”
Trace sneered. “Guess he deserved what he got, then.”
“He’s somebody important,” Chloe explained, not that she agreed he’d deserved being shot, either. “What happened is going to get a lot of attention.”
“Did he die?”
She shook her head. “He’s in critical condition.”
Trace rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Shit. I hope he won’t be able to identify us.”
“He may not have to.” Chloe’s voice was growing thinner, the fear inside her truly unleashed for the first time since yesterday. “They say there’s a witness. Someone who saw the car and got part of the license number. He may have seen us, too.”
“Fuck it.” Trace kicked the cabinet door.
“We can’t go out in public. We can’t go anywhere. Somebody might see the car and turn us in. What are we going to do?”
“You’re going to get us some new plates, as a start.”
“Me? How?”
“Grow up, Chloe. You know how to use a screwdriver, don’t you?”
She’d only be making things worse for herself if she went along with stealing plates. Digging herself in deeper. She hadn’t shot anyone. She wasn’t really part of what happened yesterday.
Except she was. Trace was right, she was an accessory. She’d watched enough TV to know that in the eyes of the law, she was as guilty as he was. She had to do what she could to keep them from being found out. For the baby’s sake if nothing else.
“As soon as it’s dark,” she said. And even though he hadn’t asked, she added, “I’ll be careful.”
Chapter 7
By eleven o’clock, Chloe had run out of excuses. It was as dark as it was going to get, and the neighborhood was quiet. That wasn’t to say the streets were empty, but even if she waited until later, there was no guarantee someone wouldn’t be coming home from a late date or out walking his dog. And she didn’t really want to be out prowling the streets alone at three in the morning.
She pulled her hair into a ponytail and tucked it up under an old baseball cap. She’d dressed in black, including her shoes, and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her cap.
Outside, she checked the street for activity, then jammed her hands into her pockets and started walking. The area was a mix of small homes and apartment buildings. Most of the residents parked on the street, but a few of the larger complexes had parking lots, and Chloe figured that was her best option. She needed a place where she wouldn’t be spotted removing the plate. She walked half a long block before she even started looking for a possible target. Every place she considered had some drawback. Too bright, too exposed, too many windows facing the parking area. Three blocks later, Chloe was getting desperate. She couldn’t walk around all night. She chose an apartment building at random and headed for the parking lot. But just as she got to the farthest row of cars, a pair of headlights swung into the driveway. Keeping her back to the car that had just pulled in, Chloe walked toward the apartment entrance like she lived there, and then walked past the door onto the sidewalk away from the driveway.
Her heart pounded. She put her hand on her belly and patted it reassuringly. “It’s okay, Carly. That wasn’t even a close call.”
No, not Carly. It sounded too much like Curly, and even though she knew Carly Simon was a famous singer, the name didn’t sound right to Chloe once she’d said it aloud. She tried again. “We’re doing fine, Abigail. We’ll go home soon.” Abigail or Abby? Definitely Abby. But she wasn’t sure that was a keeper either.
She felt her eyes fill with tears. What did it matter? She wasn’t doing fine, and she couldn’t go home until she had a stupid license plate. A stupid, stolen license plate.
Chloe felt the sudden urge to throw herself onto her bed, pound her fists into the mattress, and kick like the devil, the way she’d done when she was a kid. Life was so unfair. But screaming hadn’t solved any of her problems then, and it certainly wouldn’t help her now. True, things were kind of a mess at present—no, not just kind of, they were a real stinking mess—but she had to remember they could be worse.
Chloe had never known her father, only the series of men her mother would bring home—some for a night or a week, some for months on end. Two of the men had stuck around long enough to become stepfathers, although Chloe didn’t see
that marriage made any difference. The only things her first stepfather cared about were booze and sex, but at least he’d confined the sex to her mother. That was more than Chloe could say for her second stepfather. Chloe was eleven when her mother married him, thirteen when he drove the car, with her mother in it, across the center line, killing them both, as well as the woman and child in the oncoming car. That was the beginning of foster homes, which, despite the glowing enthusiasm from a string of social workers, weren’t the wonderful homes she’d been led to believe they were. They weren’t all bad, they just weren’t homes.
The group home had actually been the best of the lot, what Chloe imagined living in a college dorm might be like—only with more rules. Most of the girls likened it to living in a prison, but Chloe didn’t mind rules. It was kind of nice to know what you could and couldn’t do. Knowing the rules made it easier to stay out of trouble.
The hardest part for Chloe was that girls cycled through the house so often it was almost impossible to make friends. And at school, the other kids knew which girls lived in the home, and kept their distance. So she’d had no real friends, no parties or sleepovers, no one to go to the mall with except for the other girls in the house. But that was all behind her now.
Chloe put her hand on her belly. “You’re pretty lucky, Abby. I’m going to take good care of you and make sure nothing bad happens to you. Ever.”
Finally an apartment building across the road caught her eye. The parking spaces were beneath an overhang with shrubs growing between them and the street. And the main light at the center of the lot had burned out.
She walked to the end of the block and crossed, casually, as though she were out on an evening stroll. Then she walked toward the lot like she belonged there, and hid in the shadows near the fence separating the building from the one next door. She double-checked to make sure no one was coming, then crouched down and started to remove the front license plate on an older car. She worried the spot where the license had been would stand out as bare. She was sure the car’s owner would notice it was missing, but Trace said most people hardly ever looked at the front bumper. She hoped that if the owner did notice, he’d think it had fallen off.
Lying With Strangers Page 4
