When she got to the bathroom, two stalls were closed. A toilet flushed and Nyla Guthrie stepped out and looked from Stacy to Amy and back. “What?” she said in an accusing tone.
“Nothin’,” said Amy.
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it,” Stacy told her.
Nyla gave Amy a sour once up and down, then pushed through the bathroom door going back to the dining room, leaving Stacy and Amy both watching the second stall.
Impatient, Stacy went across and banged on the door with the side of her fist. “Hey, hurry it up, will ya?”
The toilet flushed and Cissy Pettameyer stepped out, a picture of ingratiating sweetness. “Good morning, ladies,” she said with a sly smile as she moved to the basin and washed her hands, checking her face in the mirror.
Neither of them spoke, just watched her.
“Be like that then,” Cissy told their reflections, and ran a smoothing finger along one eyebrow. “I’m just trying to be polite.”
Neither Amy nor Stacy was taken in. Cissy was a poisonous, two-faced gossip who spread stories at a rate that would make the black plague look slow.
Stacy stuck one hand on her hip and shifted her weight. “You done?”
Cissy turned and ran her eyes right down to Stacy’s prison-issue shoes and back. “I guess.”
She jerked her head towards the door. “Then get out.”
After Cissy had gone, Stacy opened the door and peered out, then closed it, leaning against it so no one else could enter.
“So what’s so important? Are you okay, Amy? Is someone giving you a hard time?”
“No, it’s not like that. I’m fine. But when I was working today, a box came, addressed to the prison, like they do sometimes. It had a Faulty Goods sticker on the side, so I figured it was just stuff coming back that had stitching problems with them or something.” She paused and dropped her voice to a whisper. “But this was in it.” She reached down into the front of her jumpsuit, pulled the blouse out, and handed it to Stacy.
“What is it?”
“You look,” Amy said, hugging herself and jerking her chin toward the blouse in Stacy’s hands. “I didn’t know who else to tell.”
Stacy checked the seams, the sleeves, the buttonholes, and her eyes came back up to Amy, questioning.
“Keep lookin’,” she said.
Stacy turned the garment, checking the collar, then the neckline. Her jaw dropped and she looked up, eyes wide.
“Well, holy shit,” she said.
CHAPTER ONE
FOUR MONTHS LATER
DAY ONE: 1:56PM—STACY
The car rounded the last bend into Becker Street and came to an abrupt halt. Right in front of them was a pack of reporters and TV crews surrounding the front gate and stretching halfway down the street. By the look of them, they must have had the place staked out since dawn. The instant the first person spotted the car, the crowd was in motion. In a matter of seconds the car was swamped, microphones and cameras pressed to the windows, reporters and news anchors pushing and elbowing each other and yelling questions while a couple of cops tried unsuccessfully to hold them back.
Stacy sat up in the back seat, peering out at the commotion. This was something she hadn’t expected. This could be a problem.
She twisted around, looking out the side and rear windows, watching the chaos outside while Mrs. McClaine, who was sitting next to her, leaned forward, directing the driver to pull in as close to the front gate as possible. Meanwhile, Penny Rickman, Mrs. McClaine’s secretary, got out of the car behind them and cut her way through the crowd, also pointing and yelling over the rabble, ordering security to push the media back and form a guard around the car while Stacy and Mrs. McClaine got out.
There was nothing like this when Stacy was sentenced three years ago. As she’d left the courthouse that day, a handful of supporters had lined up along the front steps, shouting and waving placards that said things like: “No mother should be in prison for wanting her child,” and “Where’s the justice in this country?”
Didn’t make one iota of difference because she’d already been tried and sentenced. Seventeen years old she was, and on her way to Carringway Women’s Prison with a sentence of five years for assaulting the social services lady who’d taken her son away. And that was the last she’d seen of the outside world—would have been for the next two years, if it hadn’t been for the governor’s new early release program.
Now, here she was free again—or at least, she would be if all these reporters weren’t surrounding the place.
The car door opened to a semicircle of space made by a wall of security guards. Stacy flashed Mrs. McClaine a glance, and when she got the okay Stacy got out, head down, hand shielding her face from the flash of cameras. The security guards closed in, forming one compact unit, and together they moved in through the front gate, up the front steps, and onto the porch.
While Mrs. McClaine turned to answer questions and pose for the cameras, Stacy took a second to ease the tension out of her shoulders, look the place over. Seemed kind of ironic that after all these years, here she was back at the very house she’d run away from in the first place. Gayleen Charms never would have made Mother of the Year. Child Services knew the house better than the mailman. Having a child at fifteen might have been the best thing that ever happened to Stacy, but being a teen mom hadn’t been at the top of Gayleen’s list of career choices. Gayleen had wanted to be a dancer. She wanted to live in the big city under the bright lights.
From the minute Stacy was born she knew she’d been the biggest mistake Gayleen ever made, that she’d ruined her mother’s life. Fourteen years of being made to feel like trash finally made life on the streets a way more attractive prospect. Which was why Stacy had run away.
Standing here now, the place looked no different—same crappy house with the same dirty white paintwork, same clutter all over the front porch, same broken railing her mother still hadn’t fixed in all the time she’d lived here. One of the conditions of Stacy’s release was that she must live at this address for a minimum period of six months.
Like hell.
Stacy didn’t intend to stay six minutes. The instant she got the chance, she’d be out the door and looking for Tyler.
Behind her, the reporters and TV crews were packed like sardines outside the gate, all out across the street, and two doors down. Walking out the front door wasn’t an option. She’d have to come up with something else. And she had to do it quickly. Tyler’s school was out at 2:30. She had no idea where his foster home was, so if she missed him, she’d never find him.
One of the security guards leaned in and knocked on the door. When there was no response, he looked to Mrs. McClaine, who nodded, so he pressed a finger into the doorbell and leaned on it. Inside they could hear the chimes ring through the house. Stacy folded her arms in tight and hung her head while they waited.
Still no reply. Mrs. McClaine leaned across and rapped on the glass panel in the door. Again they waited, with reporters shouting questions and holding up phones and taking pictures. Mrs. McClaine cut a look across at Penny Rickman, as if to say, “I thought you said she was home,” to which Penny Rickman shrugged and made a face that said, “She was. She answered the phone, said she’d be here.”
Outside the gate, a couple of police were cutting through the crowd, ordering the media back, away from the gate. When Stacy turned to follow the action she caught a glimpse of Penny’s watch, and her heart flipped. It was later than she thought.
Her plan had been to use her mother’s car to pick up Tyler, then take him straight to Wayne’s. That’s what she’d told him in the letters she’d had smuggled out. If traffic was light, getting to Tyler’s school in time would have been a breeze. But Gayleen hadn’t answered the phone when she was supposed to. She’d picked up twenty minutes after the appointed time. And now they were running almost a half hour late.
All those months’ planning had come down to this. Heat flashed across Stacy’
s forehead and a bead of sweat trickled down her back.
Penny looked to Mrs. McClaine, eyebrows raised, and Mrs. McClaine replied with a quick nod. But just as Penny reached for the knob, the lace curtain flicked aside, the door swung open, and Gayleen Charms filled the entranceway.
She was just as Stacy remembered, a little fatter around the middle, long dyed blonde hair hanging past her shoulders, faded jeans and a low-cut top exposing a withered and deeply lined cleavage, bare feet.
“You’re late,” she said by way of greeting. No “Sorry, I didn’t hear the bell,” or “Hello, Stacy, it’s good to see you.”
That was hardly surprising. Gayleen had only agreed to have Stacy live back with her because she thought there was a buck in it. Then she’d found out otherwise and had been less than cooperative ever since.
Stony faced, she stepped back and opened the door wider, an unspoken invitation to enter. Elizabeth McClaine stepped in over the threshold, followed by Stacy, then Penny.
The inside of the house hadn’t changed, either—same battered old sofa, same threadbare rug, same smell of musty furnishings overlaid with stale cigarette smoke and cooking grease.
Gayleen went back to an old velour armchair where she’d apparently been sitting—leaving Mrs. McClaine to close the door—while she plopped herself into the seat and picked up a lit cigarette from an overfull ashtray. After tapping the ash off, she took a puff and finally looked up—steely blue eyes, deep lines around her lips from years of smoking, no smile. From her expression, anyone would have thought they’d come to raid the place.
“I expected you a half hour back,” she told them through a cloud of smoke.
Mrs. McClaine dipped her head by way of acknowledgment. “I’m sorry. We got caught in traffic. But it’s so nice to meet you at last, Mrs. Charms. I’m Elizabeth McClaine, custodian of the Charles McClaine Foundation. And this is Penny Rickman, my secretary,” she added, gesturing to the woman next to her.
All eyes went to Penny, who was looking around as if she’d found herself in a toxic wasteland. As soon as she realized Mrs. McClaine was looking at her expectantly, she snapped to, suddenly all business. She switched her briefcase from one hand to the other, addressing both Elizabeth and Gayleen at once.
Stacy dug her teeth into her upper lip to stifle a smile while Penny went straight into automatic mode.
“I’m afraid Governor Straussman hasn’t been able to make it today. He has an urgent meeting downtown. He sends his apologies. Kay Heathers from Child Services is on her way over.” Penny lifted her left wrist to check the time. “Matter of fact, she should be here any minute now.”
Gayleen’s barely concealed sneer went from Penny’s face, down her sleek gray business suit to her shiny black pumps and back up again.
“Then you better take a seat, and get on with it,” she said, nodding at the sofa behind them. “Sooner I can get all a’ them reporters outta my front yard the better.”
Penny Rickman glanced back at the threadbare seating, then at her boss. Mrs. McClaine lowered herself to sit on the edge while Penny hovered like a dog that can’t make up its mind which way to lie, then perched alongside Mrs. McClaine, saying “Thank you,” and positioning her briefcase close in beside her as if someone might steal it.
Stacy circled the room slowly, picking up ornaments from the dresser and replacing them. All her grandfather’s things. Gayleen must have just carried on after he died like nothing had happened.
Behind her, her mother was already complaining about the crowds outside, droning on about her privacy being invaded and people trampling the lawn. Stacy had stopped listening. Instead, she moved across to the front window, angling her head so she could see the street. Even more reporters were arriving.
Shit!
Acting as if she was reveling in a trip down memory lane, she wandered casually through to the kitchen and peered out the window over the sink into the back yard.
Nothing but grass. No rear fence. Just like it was when she lived here. Wasn’t the best situation, but it could work.
Out in the living room Mrs. McClaine was going through the conditions of Stacy’s release, the curfews set around her work program, and explaining how Stacy’s ankle bracelet would monitor all her movements via satellite and cellular networks. All the same old blah blah she’d heard from the guy who fitted it. She hadn’t listened the first time because she hadn’t planned to wear it long. But if she didn’t leave now, she’d never make it.
“I’m just going to the bathroom,” she called.
Mrs. McClaine called back, saying, “Okay. Then maybe you should get some rest. If we need you, we’ll call,” and went on listing off the conditions. Judging by Gayleen’s reactions, Mrs. McClaine must have felt like one of those diplomats you see on TV, trying to talk nice to a bunch of people who just wanted to start another war.
But the longer they took, the better for Stacy.
She made her way quickly to the back of the house and stood outside the bathroom looking back. Penny had moved from the living room into the kitchen, and Stacy could hear her still talking on the phone.
Walking quickly past the bathroom, she ducked into her mother’s room, quietly closing the door behind her.
What now?
Gayleen’s purse lay where she always kept it, on the nightstand beside the bed. Stacy unzipped it and emptied it on the coverlet. A pile of old receipts fell out, along with a pack of cigarettes and a Bic lighter, sunglasses, a pack of gum, and her money purse. No keys. Stacy stuck her hand into the purse and felt around. Right at the bottom, she found a photograph, caught in a pocket in the lining, and pulled it out. It was a picture of Gayleen as a young woman: platinum blonde dyed hair, low-cut blouse, cigarette in her hand—the good-time girl.
Yeah, we all remember those good times, Stacy thought bitterly and shoved it back.
Next she turned to the dresser and started opening drawers. In the third drawer down was a stack of folded scarves. When she lifted the top one, she spotted a wisp of hair. She pulled the drawer out further and there was Gayleen’s old wig. Straight out of the eighties. She put it on and tugged it into place, securing it with one of the scarves. Then she checked her reflection in the mirror. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.
With the scarf and the wig on, she crossed to the closet and rummaged through the pockets of two coats before finally locating the car keys.
Out in the living room she could hear her mother blabbering on and on to Mrs. McClaine and Penny Rickman—still sounding like she’d rather stick pins in her eyes than have her only daughter come live with her.
Stacy rolled her eyes to the ceiling. From the minute Stacy’s living arrangements had been suggested, Gayleen had thrown herself into a blue funk, like her life was about to be ruined all over again by her useless daughter and her retarded kid—which was how she referred to Tyler.
But Gayleen need never have worried. Before the day was out, Stacy and Tyler would have both vanished into thin air, and Gayleen would never have to see them again.
CHAPTER TWO
DAY ONE: 2:16 PM—STACY
Sliding one hanger after the next, Stacy went right through the closet, looking for something she could use. She yanked one of Gayleen’s old house dresses from the hanger and pulled it on over her clothes and patted her pocket—a quick check for Tyler’s toy car: Lightning McQueen, a little red die-cast racer with “95” and a lightning bolt on the side. She’d carried it ever since he gave it to her the last time she saw him. Still there, thank God. That was the one thing she never wanted to lose.
A look in the mirror told her she looked like someone living on the streets. When she shoved on the sunglasses, no one would have known her. Just the look she’d been going for.
With her hand on her head to keep the wig and and scarf in place, she tiptoed to the back door, eased it open, and slipped out, gently closing it behind her. Down the back steps, along the rear of the house. Sure enough, the old green ’67 Chevy that Gayle
en had inherited along with the property was parked in front of the garage at the side of the house. Hidden from street view by a couple of overgrown shrubs, Stacy made a beeline for the car, head down while she unlocked it. As she pulled the door open, two reporters at the end of the driveway turned, heads swiveling her way. Next thing, they were moving quickly down toward her, calling, “Hey, you there!”
Stacy slipped into the car, stuck the key in the ignition, and twisted it. The car grumbled into life.
The gauge told her she had half a tank of gas. Could be worse.
In the rearview mirror she could see the two reporters moving up on her. She slammed the car in reverse, laid one arm along the back of the seat while she turned, and pressed her foot on the gas. The car roared and shot backwards, forcing the two reporters to leap aside. She stamped on the brake, then pushed the gear stick into drive.
Out on the street, people had begun turning this way, craning to see down the narrow driveway. A few reporters took photos while others yelled questions with their hands held up like kids on a class outing. She ignored them and turned her attention to the front again, lifting her head so she could see over the steering wheel while she pressed her foot to the pedal, harder this time.
The car lurched forward so fast her head snapped back and she almost hit the side of the garage. Her foot slipped off the gas and the car jerked to a stop. She twisted the wheel hard, pressed her foot down, and the car lunged forward again. Clinging to the wheel, and keeping her foot steady, she steered down the strip of grass between her mother’s garage and the neighbor’s, then turned across Gayleen’s back yard.
In the rearview mirror she could see five reporters now, all following her down the driveway. She ignored them and kept going.
The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set Page 31