by E. G. Scott
ALSO BY E. G. SCOTT
The Woman Inside
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2020 by E. G. Scott
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Title: In case of emergency: a novel / E.G. Scott.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019034183 | ISBN 9781524744557 (hardback) | ISBN 9781524744571 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Fiction. | Missing persons—Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3619.C6623 I5 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034183
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Also by E. G. Scott
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Part Three
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
For our sisters and brothers; Gordon, Susan, Madeline, and Thomas
PROLOGUE
This is going to end badly.
It’s chaos in here. They’re not listening to me. I’ve told them that we need to stop operating, but they’re talking over me, drowning me out. I know what I’m doing. I’m an integral part of this team. Hell, I’m the smartest person in the room.
Her vitals are a mess. Her breathing is shallow and labored. Her color is all off.
“She’s been under too long. We need to close her up.”
“Almost there. Just hang in. Just a minute longer.”
The beeping ramps up.
The ego in this room has pushed out the common sense. “We’re going to lose her.”
“This is my operating room!”
“She’s coding!”
PART ONE
Date: October 2, 2019
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
H,
I know you told me not to reach out to you this way, but you aren’t leaving me any other choice since you haven’t returned any of my phone calls. We really need to talk.
I know you got the same message I did last night. This isn’t going away. Your pride is blinding you from doing the right thing here. Coming clean is the best path ahead for everyone involved.
I want to be able to look in the mirror every day and know that I fixed the mistakes I made. I don’t want to ruin any more lives. Please contact me.
Charlotte
ONE
WOLCOTT
I hear the cracking sound and look up just in time to see the splintered wood flying toward us. I drag the shrieking woman hanging on my arm out of the way as the massive branch thuds onto the pavement.
“Lionel!” she screams.
When I look up again, my partner has managed to get his footing under him, narrowly avoiding the same fate as the chunk of tree. I put my arm around the frantic woman and take her hand with my free one. “It’s going to be okay,” I say in my most soothing late-night-radio deejay voice. “My partner has it under control, ma’am.”
“But Lionel isn’t supposed to be out of the house,” she protests. “He’s scared. And confused!”
“The big guy’s going to be just fine, ma’am,” yells Silvestri. “Detective Wolcott, can you get over near the trunk here? I’m going to lower him down to you.”
“Oh, please be careful!” she insists.
“Ma’am,” yells Silvestri, “your cat is in wonderful hands, I assure you. My partner here is as steady as they come.”
I squeeze her shoulder reassuringly before I slip her grip and move toward the tree. As I do, I notice two teenage boys standing across the street, pointing their phones at us. It occurs to me that a couple of kids that age probably could have had Lionel down from the tree in about half the time it’s taken us.
Silvestri cradles the cat with one arm as he lowers himself onto his stomach. He balances himself along the length of the branch and lowers Lionel down to me. The cat appears to be paralyzed with fear, limbs jutting out like a panicked crossing guard. I take him gently around the rib cage and lower him slowly into the crook of my elbow.
His owner nearly bowls me over as she retrieves him. “Oh, Detectives! Thank you so much. I’m so glad you were passing by. You saved Lionel’s life!”
She turns her attention to the cat, lavishing kisses on him as she chastens his behavior. “You’re such a bad boy, aren’t you? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
Silvestri drops down from the tree and joins the lovefest, scratching Lionel behind the ears as the cat nuzzles him.
“Thank you so much, Detective!” The woman eyes my partner. “You’re so brave.” She begins whispering into the cat’s ear, all the while keeping her gaze locked on Silvestri. “Say thank you to the handsome detective, Lionel. Yes, that’s right. Say thank you.”
“Think nothing of it, ma’am.” He nods to the woman, then the cat. “Lionel. Now, you two get back inside and enjoy your day.”
* * *
“You really came through on that one, Silvestri.” I’m pulling the unmarked back onto the street as Lionel’s owner waves at us from the front porch of her house.
“Long Island’s finest, at it again,” he deadpans. He tugs his sleeves up to inspect his forearms, and I notice a smattering of tiny puncture wounds.
“Shit, man. You okay?”
“All good,” he answers, waving back to the woman on the porch. “Glad I had on the thermal, though. That situation had the makings of a fucking acupuncture session gone wrong.”
“Odd day today,” I say.
“Dead-slow week is more like it.”
“Well, you did good. And where’d you learn to climb a tree, city slicker?”
He chuckles. “It might surprise you to know that I wasn’t always the model citizen you see before you today.”
“That right?” I ask.
“I had some behavioral issues as a youth.” He flashes air quotes around the diagnosis. “My folks sent me off to one of those Outward Bound camps for the summer. You think the tree climbing’s impressive? You should see me tie a square knot. That’ll really get you hot and bothered.”
“A real outdoorsman,” I say.
“Why do you think I’m so comfortable out here in the boondocks with you?” he asks.
“And a regular Cesar Millan with the animals these days,” I add.
“The love of pets will do that to a man,” he says.
“How are Molly and Duff?”
“Big, happy, and slobbering, the both of them,” he responds, and turns to me. “Kinda like someone else I know.”
“Enough with the ass-kissing, Silvestri. It’s been a roller coaster of a morning. Let’s hit Gus’s for some sandwiches, eh?”
“Sounds good to me,” he answers. “I’ve been dreaming about that Reuben, with the fresh—” He’s interrupted by the sound of his cell vibrating inside the cup holder. He fishes it out and answers. “Detective Silvestri . . . Mmm-hmm . . . Yeah, we can be right over . . . You got it . . . Yeah, thank you.” He hangs up and turns to me. “Wolcott, we’re gonna have to put off lunch for a bit. Sorry, pal.”
“What was that?” I ask.
“Looking like a day at the park.”
“That puts a different spin on things,” I say. “What’s up?”
My partner shakes his head and shrugs. “Sounds like a body.”
* * *
We pull into the lot adjacent to the park. The sprawling lawn is empty, except for a flock of seagulls scavenging near a garbage can, and what appears to be a human form splayed out on the grass beyond the commotion.
“Any idea who called it in?” I ask, scanning the expanse.
“Whoever it was didn’t bother to stick around, I guess.”
Silvestri and I climb out and approach the lawn, which sends the birds packing. “Looks like she’s left the building,” I say as my partner and I pull pairs of nitrile gloves out of our pockets and stretch them over our fingers. I drop into a squat position and press two fingers gently against her carotid artery. After a moment, I look up and offer Silvestri a solemn shake of the head.
He drops down to get a better view of our victim. “Man, she looks young,” he observes, a frown on his face. He shakes his head as he studies her. “What a shame.”
He’s not wrong. The woman appears to be in her midthirties. She’s dressed in spandex pants, a thin hooded sweatshirt, and running shoes. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and secured with an elastic band. The position of her body is consistent with someone having suffered a sudden physical collapse. I examine her face. The color has drained, but I don’t pick up on any overt signs of trauma. Her clothing appears to be undisturbed. I examine her hands. The unpolished nails are clipped short but evenly, with smooth edges. The wrists and forearms that extend from beneath the rolled-up sleeves of her sweatshirt are free of bruises and marks, save for a couple of light superficial scratches. I pull out my pen light and shine it into her eyes, and I catch a whiff of vomit on her breath as I lean in. I check the surrounding area but see no pools of sickness close by.
“How’s she looking?” he asks.
“Pupils look dilated,” I say. “Smells like she’s thrown up recently. That’s what’s jumping out at me.”
“You thinking natural? Some cardiac issue? Out for a jog, and then this?”
“Could be,” I answer, shaking my head.
He studies the length of her body carefully, then moves his hand toward the front of her sweatshirt, where he’s located the lone pocket on her outfit. He slips his hand inside and fishes out some loose cash and an inhaler.
“Damn,” I say. “Asthma attack, maybe.”
“Could be,” he says with a forlorn expression. As he counts out twelve dollars in fives and singles, a card falls out from among the cash. “Coffee money?” he guesses as he sets down the bills and inspects the card.
“What do you got there?”
He looks at it, then flips it and hands it to me. “Just this.”
TWO
CHARLOTTE
“Today is the day,” I say loudly, using volume as much as enthusiasm in my attempt to conjure Peter. He said he would be back this week, and I am running out of days on the calendar and doubling down on positivity.
When I woke up this morning, my intuition was strong. For the first morning since he went away, I genuinely felt the hopeful excitement of finally seeing him outweighing the negative, nagging pull that he’s gone away for good.
“He will come for me today.” I am specific in my intention. I close my eyes and picture a strong white light entering my body and radiating through me while time is suspended in the red traffic light, and I relish a few composing breaths before I start my day of interactions. The only sound I can hear is the soothing metronomic turn signal, click, click, click, click.
It’s a quieter-than-usual suburban weekday afternoon at the mouth of the parking lot, and I’m alone at the intersection. There is no one to look at me in judgment for talking to myself at full volume. Not a harried mom on her way to Pilates, or a car full of teenagers side-eyeing me, thinking, Crazy.
Then, as I enter the lot and near my corner of the complex, I practically jump out of the moving car when I see a man standing in front of my office, his back to me. He is tall with dark hair, too far away to positively identify, but it has to be him. I slow the car and squint, my heart blooming with hope, and I bounce in my seat like an excited toddler, but he’s moved out of sight behind one of the storefront pillars.
“Wait!” I bellow, then whip into a lane of open spaces. He’s already walked a good distance away by the time I pull into a parking spot mercifully close to my office door. I barely remember to shut off the engine and unfasten my seat belt before I’m out of the car.
“Peter!” I call after the steadily shrinking figure. He doesn’t hesitate in his next step or turn around. My heart sinks.
“Peter?” I say a little louder in volume, but lower in hope. He’s disappeared around a corner before the “er” leaves my lips. I check the time on my phone to see if I have a few extra minutes before my next patient to give chase, but I only have two minutes until
the appointment is scheduled to begin. I chastise myself for getting out of the car; I could have driven alongside him and easily caught up.
Fuck. I want to follow him, but I’m out of time. He’ll come back. Of course he will. I pull out my phone in the hope of a text from him, asking where I am. Nothing.
I shakily put the key in the door. Was it really him? My desperation may be distorting my ability to see people clearly. I’m doubting everything lately. I should be able to recognize him by now, even at a distance. I fight against the negative self-talk that is bubbling over.
“Honestly, Charlotte. You can barely recognize yourself anymore. Get your shit together,” I mutter as the door glides open with an easy push.
“Excuse me? What did you just say to me?” The voice is so close, I feel the hair on the back of my head stand up.
I pivot sharply and we are face-to-face.
* * *
My hand is steady and I am poised to strike. The sun through the window glints off the tip of the metal. Her blue eyes are wide with fear at the sharp point moving toward her chest. She swallows hard and looks away. In one quick move, I push the tip into her skin. She exhales sharply. I smile.
There are points on the outside of the human body where if you apply enough pressure, say, with a sharp object, you can change an entire internal energy flow. You can turn someone into wet spaghetti or bring them to unconsciousness with the know-how. I pride myself on having mastered these vital points, outside and in.
I’ve never lost the thrill of seeing how they respond the first time. It’s a reminder of how powerful what I’m doing can be, and how powerless people are. How they confront the things that scare them tells a lot about their personality. In this case, she is openly afraid. I have only known her for inside an hour, but she already is an open book of insecurity and fear. It’s a large part of what has brought her to me. And makes her an ideal candidate for what I do. I keep one hand on her arm to comfort her while I home in on the next entry point.