A Stranger at the Door

by Pinter, Jason

  “Wait, are you serious?” Megan said.

  “I’d never joke about something involving Sadie Scout.”

  “You’re the best.” Megan leaped up and hugged Rachel.

  “Now, get back to your story,” Rachel said. “I need to know if Sadie makes it across that moat.”

  Megan gave her a thumbs-up and turned back to her pages. Rachel went to ease the door shut but instead left it open a crack.

  Downstairs, she took a beer from the fridge. She was in the mood for wine but didn’t think she could finish a whole bottle herself. A month ago, she would have called John Serrano to come share it with her. Tonight, the thought didn’t cross her mind before she’d taken her first sip.

  It was when she took her second that her cell phone rang. The ID registered John Serrano. Rachel picked it up.

  “Hey, John,” she said.

  “Rach. How are you?”

  “Having a beer. Why don’t I drink more beer?”

  “I’ve wondered that about you,” he said. She could practically hear him smiling on the other end. “Any chance you have an unopened cold one in the fridge?”

  “Sorry,” she said, “only had the one.”

  The lie came shockingly easy.

  “Too bad. I’m thirsty.”

  “Drink some water. Any updates on Gabrielle Vargas?”

  “Pleaded not guilty.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Between us? She’s got a case. Given everything that’s come out about Brice and the Spivak brothers, sympathy is on her side. Especially when Tony testifies about how he got that scar. DA says it’d be hard to find a jury member who couldn’t see themselves doing the same thing, given the circumstances.”

  Rachel let out a breath. “That makes me happy. We both know that family doesn’t deserve to suffer any more.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “Listen, Rach. I know things between us have gotten tangled lately. Maybe neither of us realized how tough it would be to mix, you know, business and pleasure. But I care about you. A lot. More than I’ve cared about anyone in a long time. And I don’t want this—us—to end.”

  Rachel slipped a fingernail underneath the label on the beer bottle and slowly pried it away. It left adhesive residue on the bottle, which she ran over with her thumb.

  “I care about you too,” she said. “A lot. And I don’t want us to end either.”

  “I’m glad we feel the same way,” Serrano said. “If now’s not a good time, what are you up to this weekend? Want to have dinner? With or without Megan and Eric.”

  “Actually, I planned to take a little trip with the kids this weekend.”

  “Oh yeah? Any room for a stowaway? I’m great at carpool karaoke.”

  “Any other weekend, I’d welcome your terrible singing voice in a heartbeat. But this is a trip that we need to do as a family. It’s something I should have done a while ago, and it needs to be the Marin family. And just the Marin family.”

  Serrano paused for a moment, then said, “I understand. Have a great time. Call or text me when you get back.”

  “I will,” she said, and she meant it.

  “Tell the kids I miss them. Tell Megan I want to read the next Sadie Scout book. And tell Eric we’re overdue for a Lord of the Rings marathon.”

  “I will. They’d like that. Talk to you soon, John.”

  Rachel hung up. She wished she had invited him over for that beer.

  CHAPTER 51

  Megan and Eric were thrilled when Rachel told them they were taking the car as opposed to flying. Rachel wasn’t quite sure why—the flight itself would have been barely an hour and a half, whereas the drive would need to be split up over two days. But Rachel wanted the kids to see the outside world, different cities and towns, to remind them there was more out there than just Ashby.

  “Road trip! Road trip!” they chanted as they loaded up the car. Megan had her pens and markers and a ream of fresh paper. Eric had an iPad, e-reader, four print books, and a pair of Bluetooth headphones. He had enough entertainment to keep him busy for at least a week, maybe two.

  They spent the night at a Marriott outside Pittsburgh. The skies were gray and rainy, and the three of them curled up in bed and watched a superhero movie. Rachel didn’t care for it much, but at the end the dazzling and daring female superhero kicked the snot out of an army of computer-generated space creatures, which seemed to make both Megan and Eric happy, so for those reasons she enjoyed it immensely. The next morning, after nearly emptying out the breakfast buffet, the Marin family hit the road.

  As the hours passed and they got closer to their destination, Rachel felt a palpable sense of fear and anxiety. She had tried to forget about this place, to push it from memory, because all it had brought her was sadness. But she had finally realized that she’d been making a decision for her children without their consent, keeping them from their past.

  Pretending a wound was nonexistent was not the same as letting it heal.

  “Mom?” Eric said, a whisper of fear in his voice. “Are we going . . . home?”

  “In a way,” Rachel said.

  “Where’s home?” Megan chimed in.

  “Darien,” she replied. Megan had been just a baby when Rachel had uprooted the family, and for better or worse she did not remember their lives, did not have the same memories her brother did. But Megan deserved to know more about that life. About who her family once was.

  “We’re not going to our old house,” Rachel said, assuaging Eric’s fears. That would be too much, too triggering.

  “So where are we going?”

  Rachel did not answer. Ten minutes later, she pulled the car into the lot of a self-storage company called UR-STUFF.

  “Uh, you drove us halfway across the country to see a storage unit?” Eric said as they got out of the car, stretching their arms and legs.

  “Just come with me,” Rachel said.

  Rachel led them inside the facility. A young man behind the desk did not look up from his cell phone when he said, “Help you?”

  “We’re good,” Rachel said, “but thanks.”

  They took an elevator to the third floor. Storage units with orange garage doors, most of them padlocked, lined the corridors. Rachel led them down the hallway. They stopped at unit 314B.

  She took a key chain from her purse, selected a key, and opened the large padlock. Then, taking a deep breath, she rolled the door up and flicked a light switch on the side of the interior wall. The light flickered for a moment—it had not been used in several years—then illuminated what was inside.

  “It’s not a storage unit,” Rachel said. “It’s a treasure chest.”

  Eric’s eyes grew wide. Megan’s mouth opened.

  “Oooh,” she said. “Can I . . .”

  “Yes. All of this is yours.”

  The storage unit was filled with duffel bags and trunks, pictures, heirlooms, jewelry, clothing, books, toys, and random bric-a-brac. Everything from their old lives that Rachel had stored because she couldn’t bear to look at it. Dresses she’d worn on dates with her husband. A blue “power” tie he wore the day he got a promotion. Onesies once worn by the children who were now looking at them with the awe of reawakened memory.

  It felt like Rachel had opened the door to a world she had pushed aside and her children never had a chance to experience.

  I need to remember. They deserve to know.

  She remembered packing all these bags and boxes in the weeks after Bradley was murdered, tears dripping onto torn strips of duct tape as she sealed off her life. Ghosts of love and loss, but also mementos of joy.

  Rachel felt a tug at her heart. A pain, but not an unwelcome one, like the feeling of a strenuous workout after a long sedentary period, where your muscles ache but it feels good to know they still work.

  “Hey, Mom?” Eric said. “What’s this?”

  “That,” Rachel said, sliding her way over to where her son was standing, “is a record player.”

>   “A what, now?”

  “Record player. Back in the Stone Age, when me and your dad were younger, he used to play actual records. They were old fashioned even then, but he insisted that vinyl sounded better than CDs.”

  “What’s a CD?”

  “God, I’m old,” Rachel said. “Come. Look at this.”

  Rachel pulled off a plastic covering to reveal about two dozen records, all sheathed in their jackets. She took one out.

  “The Rolling Stones. Exile on Main Street. You have no idea what this album sounded like on this record player. It was like . . . life. Eric, you probably don’t remember this, but your dad could dance.”

  “Dad could dance?” Megan said, no less shocked than if Rachel had told her that her dad had been born with four heads.

  “He most certainly could.”

  “That must have been really hard for him,” Eric said, smirking. “I mean, I’ve seen you dance.”

  Rachel gave him a playful punch in the shoulder.

  “Megan, come here. There’s something I want you to see. This is part of the reason we came here.”

  Rachel maneuvered between bags and boxes until she stopped, knelt down, and picked up a red shoebox. She blew a layer of dust off it and opened the lid.

  Immediately Rachel felt her heart clench. Tears welled up and trickled down her cheeks. Her children peered inside.

  It was still in good condition. A little frayed. A little worn. It had some of its original texture, but the original gray was now more of a light silver, the rich brown faded to the color of sand. But when something was worth loving, it didn’t matter if it looked loved. And until she’d met her husband, Rachel had never loved anything the way she’d loved what she now held in her hands.

  Rachel took the stuffed rabbit from the box and gently handed it to Megan. Her daughter accepted the bunny with an “Oh!” that was so full of love and wonder that Rachel could have floated away. Megan cradled the bunny in her arms and rocked it like a baby, gently stroking its ears.

  “It’s beautiful,” Megan whispered, as though not wanting to wake the stuffed bunny. The sight of her daughter holding the rabbit made Rachel’s heart swell in a way that reminded her of the first time she held each of her children, how it expanded to a size she never thought possible.

  “That was mine,” Rachel said, holding back tears. “I got it when I was a little girl just a little younger than you are now. I used to hold it the same way you’re holding it.”

  “It’s so soft,” Megan said, petting it gently. “Can I . . . have it?”

  “Yes. That’s why I brought you here. I wanted you to have it,” Rachel said. “That little rabbit is worth more than everything else in this place combined. Times a hundred. Times a thousand.”

  “No way,” Megan said, eyes wide. “Did it belong to a princess?”

  “It does now,” Rachel said.

  Rachel knelt next to her daughter and stroked the bunny’s ears. Its button eyes were frayed, the threads coming loose, but it was nothing a sewing kit couldn’t remedy. The seams were still tight. If it was taken care of, which Rachel knew it would be in Megan’s hands, the rabbit had many, many years of love ahead of it.

  “This little bunny holds so many memories,” Rachel said. “It was there for me when I needed love the most.”

  “Don’t you still need love, Mommy?” Megan asked.

  “I do. Everyone needs love. And I’m lucky to have you and your brother.”

  Megan looked up at her mother, wide eyed, tears beginning to form at the corner of her small, perfect eyes even if she didn’t fully understand why.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, sweetie?”

  “What’s the rabbit’s name?”

  Rachel smiled and said, “Marin. Its name is Marin.”

  Megan smiled. “Like us.”

  Rachel leaned in and pressed her forehead against her daughter’s.

  “Yes. Like us. I got Marin at the time when I was happiest in my life. I named it Marin, because that’s where I was when I got it. So I always associated its name with joy. That’s why when we needed to leave our sadness behind, I thought of how much happiness Marin had brought me. And I hoped that name would rub off on us. Give us happiness like it had given me.”

  “If you got Marin when you were little,” Megan said, “why did you put it in here? Why didn’t you show it to me before?”

  “Oh, baby, I should have. But I thought leaving all this behind meant I could leave all my sadness behind too. I was wrong. Sometimes even the sad memories are worth remembering. I want you to take the very best care of Marin.”

  “I will,” Megan said. Her eyes twinkled. “Mom, I just had the best idea ever.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In my next book, Sadie Scout is going to get a new rabbit friend.”

  “I think that’s the best idea ever too.”

  “I have a question, though. If Marin is the rabbit’s first name, and Marin is also our last name, then wouldn’t the rabbit’s name be Marin Marin?”

  Rachel laughed and said, “I guess you’re right. Welcome home, Marin Marin. Welcome home.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The second book in a series might be the most difficult one to write. With the first book, you have the element of surprise. Readers are meeting these characters for the first time and, if you’re fortunate, will want to invite them back into their lives again. I’m indebted to many people who helped mold and shape this book, allowing me to deepen and enrich the characters and expand the world of Ashby.

  My editor at Thomas & Mercer, Jessica Tribble, has been an ongoing champion for me and these books, and for that I am eternally grateful. I once sent Jessica a gift of Writers’ Tears whiskey (yes, there is such a thing, and I wholeheartedly recommend you try it). But in reality, working with Jessica has been an absolute joy. Maybe one or two tears of joy, but I swear that’s all.

  Kevin Smith, my brilliant developmental editor, has worked his magic yet again. He pushed me to make this book even better. If you enjoyed what you’ve just read, Jessica and Kevin deserve a large amount of credit and many bottles of whiskey.

  A big thanks goes to Megan Beatie, who has worked tirelessly to get the word out about my books. Writing is done in solitude, but you don’t want the books to remain in the dark, and Megan has made sure that mine have not.

  Working with Thomas & Mercer has been a dream, and I’m proud to call it Rachel Marin’s home. My sincere thanks goes out to Grace Doyle, Sarah Shaw, Ashley Vanicek, Lindsey Bragg, Laura Barrett, and the rest of the T&M squad for welcoming Rachel and me into your family. I’d been a fan of the Thomas & Mercer list from afar, and it’s an honor to now be a part of it.

  At the Jane Rotrosen Agency, Amy Tannenbaum has been a phenomenal agent, sounding board, consigliere, friend, and guide. While I was writing this book, Jessica Errera also joined the team and gave me even more outstanding notes to help sharpen the story and characters.

  The mystery and thriller community has been the backbone of my professional—and often personal—life for going on two decades. It is here that I have found endless inspiration, support, joy, and, OK, maybe a drinking buddy or two. Here’s to many more years spent talking shop at hotel bars.

  These books would not exist without the three most important people in my life: my daughters, Ava and Lyla, and my wife, Dana. I could not have written these books before I became a father to the two most amazing girls, and I would not be the father I am without being fortunate enough to have a wife who is endlessly caring, patient, and loving. My heart grows every day I’m with them, and even though there is darkness in these books, I also believe there exists a great deal of hope, and it is because of my family that this hope burns brightly.

  A final thank-you to readers like you who have embraced Rachel Marin and these characters and have brought them into your homes and on your travels. I hope these stories stay with you the same way they have stayed with me.

  ABOUT THE
AUTHOR

  Photo © 2017 by Jason Rhee

  Jason Pinter is the bestselling author of seven novels for adults—Hide Away (the first Rachel Marin thriller), the acclaimed Henry Parker series (The Mark, The Guilty, The Stolen, The Fury, and The Darkness), and the stand-alone thriller The Castle—as well as the middle-grade adventure novel Zeke Bartholomew: Superspy! and the children’s book Miracle. His books have over one million copies in print worldwide. He has been nominated for numerous awards, including the Thriller Award, the Strand Critics Award, the Barry Award, and the Shamus Award, and The Mark was optioned to be a feature film.

  Pinter is the founder of Polis Books, an independent press, and was honored by Publishers Weekly’s Star Watch, which “recognizes young publishing professionals who have distinguished themselves as future leaders of the industry.” He has written for the New Republic, Entrepreneur, the Daily Beast, Esquire, and more. He lives in New Jersey with his wife and their two daughters. Visit him at www.JasonPinter.com, and follow him on Twitter and Instagram @JasonPinter.