“All right,” I say. “Clearly I have made a horrible mistake, and I hallucinated the fact that I spoke to this woman and her son in Grant Park last week. My daughter hallucinated it, too. It must be hereditary.”
“I don’t doubt that you spoke to someone who looked like Kim Mikhailov.”
“Yep, wasn’t her, though. Which is weird. I mean, this woman and I talked about her job, and she said she worked at a pizza place, and that’s how I found Kim. Oh, and I heard that woman talking Russian on the phone, and both Kim and Denis come from Russian families, but hey, just a coincidence.”
“You got the pizza parlor lead from the woman in the park?”
“No, I pulled it out of my ass. How else would I have known the dead woman worked at a pizza place?”
No change in her expression, as if my sarcasm bounces right off her. She just looks at me. After a moment she says, “Then you did speak to Kim.”
“Kinda said that.”
“Which means the boy who was with her must not have been her son.”
“He called her mama. Why the hell is it so difficult for you people to believe she had a son? A son she was hiding—which is why no one knows about him. You just keep explaining away everything I say—” I cut myself short. “No, never mind. I don’t care. There’s a boy, and he’s safe, and that’s all that matters. Now if you guys can stop Denis Zima, my imaginary boy will stay safe. I have more important things to do than bash my head against this wall.”
I turn and stalk back to my apartment building. Laila Jackson doesn’t follow.
I try to forget about Brandon and Kim. I really do. But thinking about them has temporarily distracted me from the crash-and-burn of my life. When I try to return to composing that letter for Paul, I keep feeling Brandon’s tug.
There is a child. I can entertain doubt, when I get pushback from Laila Jackson, but it only takes a hard reality check to realize there is no other explanation for what I’ve seen and experienced. So why is Laila pushing back?
Is she lying about Ellie Milano?
Why would she?
She would if she’s covering something up. If she’s complicit in all this. If she’s on the payroll of Denis Zima or his father.
Oh my God. Did I really just think that? I sound like exactly what the police have accused me of being: a lady who watches way too much crime TV. I don’t, actually. Sure, I can enjoy a classic or modern mystery novel, but I know that fiction isn’t reality. Ruben didn’t run an international ring of superthieves, able to break through the highest security to steal world-class art. The fact that he employed a hacker meant he was, for his field, very high-tech. Yet we were still breaking into houses with cheap security systems, stealing valuables left lying in drawers and closets. Easy pickings. Ruben selected his targets with care, too, and most times they never even called the cops, because if they did that, they’d invite more scrutiny into their income than they wanted.
When I suspect Laila of being in the Zima family’s pocket, I feel like that layperson who watches too many police dramas. I also know, from living with Paul, that corruption happens. Police, politicians, lawyers . . . Most are good people, but if there’s a way to make a little extra in any profession, someone will.
I want to call Ellie Milano myself and be sure she told Laila she doesn’t have a nephew. I know I shouldn’t. If Ellie calls the Oxford PD to complain, Laila will know it was me. Since there is no missing child, though, I can’t be interfering with the investigation into a missing child, right?
It’s not just idle curiosity that compels me to call. If Ellie is hiding Brandon for Kim, then she needs to know about Zima.
I have Ellie’s number from Kim’s phone records. She answers on the third ring.
“I’m a friend of Kim’s,” I say. “I’m calling about Brandon.”
There’s a pause. Such a long pause. Then a cautious “Brandon?”
“Her son.”
No response. I swear I hear her breathing across the line. Swear I hear that breathing pick up speed.
She says nothing. She just waits, and this tells me what I need to know. There is a Brandon.
An oddly muffled voice speaks in the background. I hear other sounds, too, as if she’s in a busy place.
“I met Kim in Oxford,” I say. “I know she was hiding her son—”
“My sister didn’t have a son.”
“I met Brandon. He’s about five. Blond hair—”
“I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken. I understand there was a woman on the news who said she saw my sister with a son. She was wrong. Kim didn’t have a child.”
“I’m that woman. I know Kim had—”
“Stop. Please. I just lost my sister. I’m going to hang up now.”
“Denis Zima,” I blurt.
Silence. Then, “I don’t know that name.”
“He’s Brandon’s father. Or he thinks he is.”
“I’m hanging up and phoning the police.”
“Denis knows about Brandon. He’s looking for him. He thinks Kim put Brandon someplace safe. I realize now that I saw a rescue, not a kidnapping. If you have any way to warn the people who have Brandon, please do. Denis Zima is looking for his son. If Kim didn’t want Denis finding him, then I know you don’t either.”
The line disconnects. But she heard me. I know she did.
I’m finishing dinner when Paul texts.
Charlie would like to Skype with you.
She wants to tell you about yesterday.
I stare at the texts and draw a blank. Yesterday? What . . .
The party. The horseback riding. The fact that my daughter was supposed to be here with me today, and I canceled, and I never even said, “Hey, I’d like to talk to her.”
I text back quickly and ask him to have Charlotte call whenever she wants. I’ll have my laptop ready.
I’ve barely got Skype open when she connects, and guilt churns my stomach. My daughter has been waiting, eager to talk to me, and I’ve been caught up in my own concerns.
I forgot her last week for the princess tea. Now I’ve done it again.
“Hey, baby,” I say when she appears. She’s someplace I don’t recognize, with people passing behind her. “Where are you?”
“Train house,” she says.
An announcement sounds in the background. She’s in the Chicago train station. My gut goes cold with a sudden image flashing of Paul bustling her onto a train, out of my life forever.
I push back the panic. Paul would never do that. Even if he tried, seized by a sudden fit of madness, he would hardly have Charlotte call me from the station.
“What are you doing there?” I ask, as casually as I can.
Paul’s voice comes from the background. He doesn’t lean in to the camera, as he usually does. He remains a disembodied voice.
“Gayle’s daughter is going on a school trip,” he says. “We were dropping her off.”
“Ah, did she catch her train okay?”
He doesn’t answer. I’m asking a polite but meaningless question, and he’s not going to bother responding. This is where we stand.
“How Mummy tummy?” Charlotte asks.
“My . . . ?”
“Daddy say Mommy sick.”
I exhale. Thank you, Paul. I’d wondered what excuse he’d given. The easy one would be to say I was busy, and I’d really hoped he hadn’t—I’d never want Charlotte to think I was too busy for her. But he did the right thing, as always. No matter how upset he was with me, he rose above it.
I assure her that I feel much better—probably something I ate—and then I ask about the party. As she regales me with her day of excitement, another announcement blares, and it pokes at my brain. Then I remember the background noise on my call with Ellie. That muffled voice had been an announcement.
She’d been in a train station. Or an airline terminal.
Was she traveling to see Brandon? To take him back from whoever had him?
“Mommy?”
&nbs
p; I scramble to remember what Charlotte said. I’m replaying her words when Paul leans down, just for a second, to be sure I’m still there.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s a bad connection. What did you say, sweetheart?”
She repeats it, and I respond appropriately. I push aside thoughts of Ellie.
Repeat after me, Bree. This is what matters—your daughter. Let Ellie take care of Brandon. If she’s going to fetch him, that’s a good thing.
Charlotte keeps talking, and I corral my thoughts. It’s a struggle, and that gnaws at me. I lost my weekend with Charlotte, and now I can’t afford fifteen minutes to listen to her talk about her day?
I focus until Paul says it’s time to go. This is the point where, normally, he’d come on for a quick exchange of parental information, like telling me she has a dental appointment or that she’s really enjoying a certain book. Today, Charlotte says goodbye . . . and he disconnects the line.
I text him: I can have her next weekend, right?
He replies: Of course.
And that’s it. Conversation over.
I need to get Kim and Brandon out of my head. They aren’t my concern, and they’re interfering with things that are. After that Skype call, I plan my next weekend with Charlotte. We have tea reservations for Sunday. I’ll get her a new dress. We’ll do that on Saturday. Maybe I’ll ask Paul if I can have her Friday to make up for my last weekend.
No, not maybe. I will. In fact, I’m going to do that right now. At the very least, it’ll help me gauge how dire this situation with him is.
I send the text. Then I spend the next twenty minutes freaking out because he’s not replying.
Things have changed. He might have found out the truth over a year ago, but this has brought it all back. Maybe he was holding out hope that I had another explanation.
Robbery? Is that what Ruben said? Not at all. He’s a guy I knew back home. Yes, that shoulder injury is a bullet. It was a stupid thing—me and some friends—and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea, think you married a redneck. Ruben’s just being a jerk.
He hoped for an explanation. I didn’t give one. So now he must accept that he married a thief. A woman who robbed homes and got shot and went on the run and hooked up with him to reinvent herself.
He’s going to take Charlotte away.
I’m not the person he wants raising his daughter.
He hasn’t quite decided that yet, but the idea is forming. He has the ammunition he needs to take her. As for depriving her of a mother, well, Gayle is a much better role model.
Stop that, Bree. Just stop.
He’s slow in responding because he’s considering my request. I had Charlotte for an extra night this week, and it was my choice not to have her today, so he’s thinking he doesn’t owe me Friday. He just doesn’t want to refuse and sound pissy.
I need to tell him that I have something planned. That ups the ante. If he still refuses me then, I’ll know something’s wrong.
As I pull up the calendar of local events, I remember there’s a pizza party at the library.
Pizza. Maybe Kim’s employers know—
I thrust the thought aside and compose the text to Paul.
Me: My library is having a pizza-and-jammies evening Friday. I’d love to sign Charlie up, if that’s okay with you.
Hit Send. Wait five minutes, counting it on the clock. Then I send another.
Me: I could give up Sunday night if it’s a problem. I’d drop her off after our princess tea.
Giving her up early Sunday defeats the purpose of having extra time with her. This is another test, though. Is he not answering because I’m asking for extra time? Or is he going to start blocking me when I request off-schedule hours with Charlotte, even for something special?
Five more minutes. Send another text.
Me: I understand if you already have plans.
Two minutes. I’m going to call at the five-minute mark. I’ll—
My phone buzzes as a text comes in.
Paul: Just got back from city.
Paul: Let me put Charlie to bed and check the calendar.
I curse myself. Of course it’d taken him a while to text back. He’d been at the train station in Chicago when I talked to Charlotte.
I make myself a tea and try not to obsessively watch the clock. It takes about fifteen minutes to settle Charlotte in. More if he gives her a bath, but it’s almost nine, so he’ll probably skip—
The text comes in at fourteen minutes.
Paul: Friday’s fine.
Paul: Sunday is your call.
I send back that I’d love to keep her until Monday, dropping her at daycare as we usually do. I just didn’t want to cut into his time. He replies that Friday through Monday is fine—he had her this weekend.
I want to say more. I want to tell him that I spent the afternoon composing letters. I want to tell him he’s wrong, so wrong. I want to tell him my version of the day we met, that yes, I might not have noticed him before, but when he smiled at me, I noticed, and I never stopped noticing. When he asked me out, I did think it was a mistake, but only because guys like him never asked girls like me, and if they did, maybe it’s because they were expecting something he wasn’t going to get from me on a first date. When he continued asking me out, I kept waiting for the other shoe to fall, kept looking for his angle.
I want to tell him all that.
I start composing texts, and I don’t get past a few words.
Finally, before he can put his phone away, conversation over, I text.
Me: I’m sorry.
He doesn’t reply. He’s already gone.
He’s been gone for a very long time.
* * *
I go for a run after that. Laila Jackson’s visit had aborted my earlier attempt, and I really want that jog now. I need to clear my head, run until my legs wobble and my lungs burn and I can no longer think about Paul or Charlotte or Kim or Brandon. Run until it takes every ounce of mental energy just to drag myself back to my apartment and collapse into dreamless sleep.
I’ve barely gone a couple of blocks when a voice at my shoulder says, “Where’s the fire?”
I give a start and look over to see that another jogger has joined me. His voice sounds familiar, and I think immediately of the guy in the park, the fellow jogger who pestered me the day Brandon disappeared. It’s not him, though—this guy is about my age. But that reminds me that I never did try to find that guy, get him to corroborate my story about Brandon.
Stop that.
No new evidence will make the police believe me now, and what difference would it make if they did? Brandon is safe unless Zima catches up with him. Zima, though, is going to be the police’s top suspect in Kim’s murder, so he won’t have time to look for his son.
Brandon is safe. The only thing to be gained by proving he existed is repairing my public reputation.
See, I was right. I’m not a delusional attention-seeker.
Clear my name . . . and put Brandon in more danger. As it stands right now, Zima only thinks Brandon exists because I said so. If everyone believes I’m wrong, then while that hurts my pride, it’s better for the child.
“I asked, where’s the fire,” the guy says, and it takes me a moment to mentally snap back to him.
He’s smiling at me, friendly. A little too friendly? Maybe. It happens. It’s like sitting in a public place, trying to read a book. Some guys take that as a hint that you really need something better to do with your time. Headphones help, but in my rush to get out tonight, I left mine at home.
“Fire?” I say.
“You’re running like there’s someone on your tail. Or are you just trying to get done before dark?”
He jerks his chin up, and I see that the streetlights have come on. It’s almost nine, and dusk is falling fast.
I glance at him. He’s smiling at me again, and I don’t like the smile. No more than I like him pointing out that it’s getting dark.
I laugh. “N
o, I’m not afraid of the dark. Just trying to burn off a big Sunday dinner.”
I cross at the light, veering off my usual course to make a sharp left. He follows.
“You shouldn’t be out after dark in this neighborhood,” he says. “That’s just asking for trouble.”
“It’s never been a problem before,” I say.
I kick it up a notch. He does, too.
“I keep thinking I’ve seen you somewhere,” he says.
“I work downtown here.”
“No, it’s . . . Wait. I know. The news. You’re the one who said you saw the boy. That murdered chick’s kid.”
The way he says “murdered chick” makes my hackles rise. It also nudges a memory, but it flits by before I can catch it.
I take the next right, heading back. That seems to be the only way I’ll lose this guy. Except I don’t want to lead him to my front door.
Damn.
Where can I go . . . ?
Coffee. That’s the first idea that springs to mind, not surprisingly, given that I spent most of yesterday in coffee shops. There’s a twenty-four-hour diner a block from my place. I’ve been there often enough that I know most of the servers. If this guy follows me in, they’ll see my “problem” and help me shake him.
“So you think she had a kid?” he says.
I start to say yes. Then I remember what I was just thinking. Squelch my pride. Protect the boy.
“No, I made a mistake,” I say. “The woman who died didn’t have any kids.”
“How do you know that? The cops haven’t ID’d her.”
I freeze. Then I shrug. “That’s what they told me.”
“So the police have ID’d her?”
“They never said that. They just told me there wasn’t a boy. I was mistaken.”
I cross the road. He keeps pace.
“You’re sure?” he continues.
“Yes, I’m . . .” I trail off as I look at the guy. As I really look at him.
He’s not a jogger. He’s wearing sweatpants and sneakers, but they’re leisure pants and designer high-tops, both meant for style, not running. There’s a bulge in his waistband. The bulge of a handgun.
Wherever She Goes (ARC) Page 14