“Stacy May Charms is headstrong, determined, and resents any kind of authority. I thought we had applicants who would have been more suitable for the program. That’s all.”
“Stacy was a good mother in a bad situation. All she ever wanted was to look after her child.”
“Which she could have. If she’d let the Child Services worker take Tyler into care until the mess with the bad check was ironed out. Jail is no place for a little boy. But, no. Stacy wasn’t going to have anyone tell her what to do. So she attacked the Child Services worker who was only trying to help her.”
Elizabeth could feel her hackles rising. “I believe Stacy pushed her.”
“Doesn’t matter. The woman fell, hit her head and needed hospitalization. Since Stacy was nearly eighteen, she was charged as an adult. That’s how the law goes, Mrs. McClaine. You break it, things don’t always go the way you want.”
“But all the characteristics you just listed—the strong-headedness, the determination—they’re the exact qualities I was looking for in the applicants. Whoever the first successful candidate for this program was, she had to be passionate, and dedicated to the care of her child, no matter what.”
“Your point being?”
“My point being that Stacy has those qualities in spades. Every time I spoke to her, I was even more convinced.”
“Yes, it’s incredible how convincing these women can be.”
“Oh, come on, Jennifer. You don’t believe it was an act any more than I do. I think someone, somewhere, has said or done something to frighten her. It’s the only thing that would explain her taking off like that.”
“If she was so terrified, why didn’t she say something? Why didn’t she come to me?”
“That’s what I intend to find out. But I need your help.”
A tense silence stretched. Then Jennifer Glassy sighed down the line and said, “That’ll depend on what you need.”
Elizabeth outlined her plan, then hung up. Penny, who’d been listening, let out a relieved breath.
“Sounds like that went better than I thought it would.”
“It did, but we don’t have much time. Have my car brought around. We’re going back to the prison.”
“What? Today? I thought you were going to the Business Awards dinner tonight.”
Elizabeth swung around on her chair, snatched her coat from the stand, and shrugged into it. “So I’ll be fashionably late. I hardly think anyone’s going to miss me for the first hour or so. It’ll be all long-winded speeches by Clay Farrant and Christine Wentworth smooching up to anyone that smells of cash so his company floats at the highest share price.”
“You can hardly blame her. I heard her employment package includes a substantial share issue. She’ll be worth millions overnight.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll see that she’s worked for it. What time do the awards start?”
“Are you sure this is a wise decision?”
Elizabeth looked up at her. “I’m on the Business Awards committee. What else do you think I’m going to do? Hide in my office with my tail between my legs?”
“It starts at eight.” Penny checked the time. “I’ll have Katy put out your dark blue business suit, the take-no-prisoners one. You show so much as a ruffle you may as well wear a matching noose.”
Elizabeth lifted her briefcase from the desk and snapped it closed. “Under the circumstances, I might already be wearing it. But I refuse to back out now. This isn’t about the Cleveland business community, or about Clay Farrant’s egotistical puffery and self-promotion. This is damage control. Anyone who’s anyone will be there. I’m going to see to it that each and every political backer who supported this program—supported me—knows that nothing has changed, that we’re still on point.”
Penny’s eyebrows shot up. “Whoa! That’s going to be some hard sell.”
“I know. So the sooner we find Stacy May Charms, the better the chance I won’t spend the rest of my life in social and political purgatory with just a leper bell to keep me company.”
CHAPTER SIX
DAY ONE: 4:17 PM—STACY
The whole stretch of Walton Street was pretty much deserted when Stacy pulled up outside Wayne’s house. That meant nothing. You could never be too careful. She stayed in the car, twisting around in her seat so she could peer up at the house, then up and down the street. When she felt safe enough, she got out, locked the car and walked quickly up the front path. Keeping her head down, she hurried up the three front steps to the door, knocked, and waited.
Stacy had met Wayne three days after she ran away from home. He was sixteen, good-looking, and streetwise. Stacy thought she’d found the love of her life. Eleven months later, when Tyler was born, all that changed. Tyler came out of the womb with the cord wrapped around his neck and his face the color of thunderclouds. The doctor said he had brain damage due to lack of oxygen, and that if Stacy had been in the hospital like she was supposed to be, instead of the back of Wayne’s car at two o’clock that morning, things might have been different.
Wayne had tried to get the cord off the baby’s neck but when he couldn’t, he’d panicked and run, leaving Stacy holding the baby, so to speak. Wasn’t until she managed to loosen the cord that he took his first breath.
From the second she looked down at her newborn son with those great big eyes that were still swollen shut, those rosebud lips, and his tiny fingers clasped around hers, she knew right away that he was the first thing she’d ever loved—really loved.
Sitting in that car, Stacy made Tyler a promise: that she’d never be the kind of mother Gayleen was; that he would always have a good home; that anything he got would be his alone, not second-hand crap that someone else had worn first. And that no one, no one would lift a hand to her child. They’d have to go through Stacy first. That was the kind of mom she was going to be.
Didn’t exactly turn out that way. If only she’d made better decisions in her life.
Wayne’s place looked like he’d put some work into it since she was last here. A two-story, single family house, it had a porch with a love seat angled to catch the sunset, new paintwork across the front, windowsills highlighted in a shade of royal blue, and a freshly dug-over garden along the front containing flowers that looked like daisies. Didn’t look like anything Wayne would do. Last time she saw this place, it looked fit to be demolished. Then again, time changes a person. If anyone knew that, it was her.
When she got no reply from her first knock, she knocked again, a little harder this time, then moved to the side window and peeped in. No movement. Checking the street, she slipped the key out of her back pocket, inserted it in the lock. It turned. She gave the street another once-over, then twisted the handle and pushed the door open.
The living room smelled faintly of dog, bacon, and freshly tumble-dried laundry. She moved to the kitchen where a single cereal bowl sat in the sink, but the counter was clear and wiped down. A couple of wilted flowers sat in a jelly jar on the windowsill. Under a cat flap in the back door, someone had spread newspapers across the worn linoleum. A neatly laid-out toolbox full of screwdrivers and wrenches stood open on the floor next to the dining table, on which a lace cloth had been laid. Set in the corner of the table was an array of photographs in black frames. Most of them featured a blonde girl, probably in her late twenties, standing next to a big lumberjack-looking guy with brown curly hair, his arm around her. Then it hit her.
Oh, jeez, Wayne’s moved.
Now what?
When her eyes dropped back to the toolbox, she spotted a pair of tin snips neatly slipped into a compartment down the side. Taking the opportunity while she had it, she snatched them up and set her foot on one of the dining chairs, sliding one edge of the snips down under the bracelet, and squeezed hard on the grips with both hands. The blades snapped through the strap, and the display on the bracelet tweeted and flashed. The strap sprang apart and the device clunked to the floor.
Stacy picked it up and inspected it. The
display was still active. Soon as she left, she’d get rid of it. But she had to find Wayne first. She stuck the bracelet into her jeans pocket and scanned the room.
A phone sat on the sideboard, plugged into the wall jack next to it. Stacy opened the first cupboard, and sure enough, phone books were stacked there, the edge of the pages showing dark smudges where someone had thumbed through them. She pulled one out and opened it to the Ls. The only Lettes she could see in the area was J. D. Lettes—Wayne’s witch of a mother. If she called Janice Lettes to find out Wayne’s address, first thing the woman would do was call the police, have them waiting at whatever address she gave Stacy. She flicked to the Bs, ran her finger down the column until she found what she was looking for.
According to the listing, Curta Brixton lived in an apartment on Terrence Avenue. Curta had been out of prison on parole for almost a year now. Chances were good that her place was the first one the police would search. But it was a chance she had to take.
She was just lifting the phone, using one finger to mark the listing, when the sound of a vehicle pulling in down the side of the house made her swing around. She replaced the receiver and crossed to the side window overlooking the driveway, leaned alongside the frame, and peeped out. A blue tow truck rattled into the driveway and came to a halt with a squeak of brakes. The logo on the hood and door depicted a snarling grizzly with the words Traynor Towing—You Better Call The Bear circling it in yellow italics.
“Dammit!” With her heart rate ratcheting up the scale again, she pivoted back against the side of the window and searched the room for escape: her choices were either upstairs or out the back door.
When she peeked out again, the driver’s door creaked open and a big guy in a plaid shirt and Indians cap got out—the guy in the photos, she realized. And here she was in his house, with no good reason to be.
She heard the truck door slam shut, so she ran for the back door. She flicked the back door latch and ripped it open to find an enormous boxer dog bounding up the back steps. She slammed the door and the dog jumped up against it, howling and barking. But when she turned to press her back to the wood frame, the tow-truck guy was standing in the front doorway, gaping at her with a startled look on his face.
He swiped his cap off and ran his hand through his hair. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
Stacy kept her back to the door, and raised both hands—part surrender, partly telling him to keep his distance. “Listen, there’s been a mistake.” Behind her, the dog was having forty fits, hurling itself repeatedly against the door, causing the upper glass panel to rattle and the cat flap to clatter. Any minute the thing would break the glass.
As he approached, the guy tilted his head, looking past her, and yelled, “Get down, Luther.”
The dog went quiet but for a few whimpers and the guy turned his attention back to Stacy. “You’re damn right there’s been a mistake. Who are you? What are you doing here?”
She straightened and tucked her hands into her pockets, nervously watching him. He tossed his cap on the sofa as he passed it, shooting her accusing glances as he strode into the kitchen. He pulled open the refrigerator, took out a can of Coke, and snapped the top open before turning back to her with his hip leaning against the kitchen counter.
Stacy folded her arms, hugging herself while she tried to think up a good lie. “I’m sorry, I thought my ah … friend was living here. He was, last I knew. I guess he must have moved out.”
The guy took a swig of Coke, and frowned, the corners of his mouth pulled down. “So you broke in?”
“No, no. The front door was open,” she lied, silently thankful she’d had the presence of mind to stick the key back in her pocket. “That’s why I thought he was home. I just opened the door and walked in. Anybody could have.” She thumbed over her shoulder towards the dog. “And besides, he wasn’t here when I got here. I wouldn’t have come in if he was.”
“Luther always comes to work with me.” He angled his head, regarding her with suspicion. “So who’s this friend you’re looking for?”
“Wayne Lettes. He lived here like, a couple years ago or something.”
When the dog let out a bark right next to her, Stacy’s heart just about jumped out of her chest and she leaped aside. She looked back to find the dog had stuck its head through the cat flap. She clapped both hands to her chest and bent briefly at the waist. “Oh, jeez, I wish he wouldn’t do that.”
“Get back, Luther,” the guy growled. He crossed to the door, waiting for the dog to retreat. “Well, I wouldn’t know where this Wayne Lettes is, but he ain’t here now, only me and Luther. ’Scuse me.” He reached past Stacy for the door handle. “Back, Luther, back,” he ordered.
Stacy could hear the dog whimpering and moving about, his huge feet thumping on the wooden porch in excitement. The second the door opened the dog burst in like a hurricane, stumpy-tailed rear end wagging, big cinderblock head and slobbery jowls all over the guy like he hadn’t seen him in months. The guy bent over and pounded his side with the flat of his hand, making a hollow thump that looked painful, but the dog responded with a look of ecstasy.
The guy grinned. “Don’t worry about this guy. He’s a big baby at heart.”
The dog spun around and lunged at Stacy. She threw up both hands in defense, but the dog jumped up, front paws up on her chest while it subjected her to the same slobber treatment his owner had, leaving a trail of drool down the front of her shirt and jeans. “Whoa! Easy there, fella,” she said, turning her face away and giving him a tentative pat on the head.
“Down, Luther. Away to your bed,” the guy ordered and pointed to the living room.
Luther’s excitement vanished in a snap and his head dropped. He turned and trotted to the living room, where he leaped up onto the sofa and collapsed with his head on his paws, watching them, one black eyebrow up, then the other.
Stacy let out a silent breath of relief and wiped her hands down her front. “So I’m guessing you’re the Traynor on the truck, huh?”
“Philip Traynor. Folks call me Bear. And who are you?”
Stacy nodded. “Bear Traynor. Right. Okay well, I’m, ah … Shelly—Shelly Shay … just call me Shelly.”
Bear said nothing, just turned and went to the living room where he opened a drawer in the dresser and took out a stack of envelopes, all bound together in with a rubber band.
“Well, then, Shelly, when you find your Wayne Lettes, you can give him his mail. And tell him to change his address. I swear, he gets more mail than I do.”
He ambled back and handed the stack to Stacy. She gave the wad a cursory flick through, noting the familiar envelopes, and her heart sank. Most of them were addressed to Wayne in her own handwriting.
“Shit.” She looked up. “I mean, dammit. He didn’t get my letters. How long’s he been gone?”
“I’ve been here just over two years.”
She flipped a couple of them over, only noticing now that the envelopes had been torn open, and the flaps taped back down. A flash of panic went down her spine as she flicked through the rest of them. “Some of these have been opened,” she said and looked to him.
Bear leaned against the kitchen counter, ankles crossed as he lifted his Coke can again. “Wasn’t me,” he said. “They all came like that.”
He was about to take another swig when his gaze dropped to the pocket of her jeans and stayed there. Following his line of sight, she could see the bracelet peeking out.
Their eyes met.
“How long have you been here?” he asked flatly.
“’Bout two minutes before you got here.”
“Then I’d really like you off my property, if you don’t mind. To my reckoning, the cops should be here in around…” He checked his watch and frowned like he was doing some mental calculations. “…three minutes.”
“What? Here?”
“Near enough. We’re in a cellular black spot, but they’ll have tracked you almost to the door.”
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Her eyes widened. “They can trace these things that accurately?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
She shrugged. “I guess, but—”
“And was it you removed it?”
“Well, who else was gonna? I thought it would just switch off when I cut the strap.”
“Seriously? The second you tamper with that thing, the bracelet sends out an alert. That’s how they know you’re trying to remove it.”
She took the bracelet out of her pocket, only now realizing the severity of the situation. “Holy shit.”
“Empty your pockets.”
“What? Why?”
“I wanna know if you took anything before I kick you out.”
Stacy lifted her chin, looked him defiantly in the eye. “I don’t steal stuff,” she told him sharply. “I’m only here because I thought Wayne lived here.”
“Then I’d like you to go. Believe me,” he said, “the instant you cut that thing off, whatever problems you had before, they just tripled.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
DAY ONE: 4:49 PM—ELIZABETH
Despite the fact that Elizabeth had left her office immediately after speaking to Warden Glassy, rush hour traffic was already mounting and the hour drive back to Carringway Women’s Prison took fifteen minutes longer. The prison came into view in the distance as she turned off the main road. It was an angular building of concrete and glass, gardens tended both inside and out. The structure might have been mistaken for the headquarters of some international manufacturing company, were it not for the twenty-foot fencing topped with razor wire that ran around the perimeter.
The complex had been state of the art in private prison construction when it was built eight years ago by her father-in-law’s company, C.J. McClaine Construction. At the time, she was still married to Richard. She remembered the long nights he’d put into winning the contract. Now, on reflection, she realized that was probably about the time when the marriage had begun to founder.
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