Live to Tell

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Arriving…at…destination…on…left,” the robotic voice of the GPS announces, and Lauren spots a tall apartment building just ahead.

  This is it.

  Can she really tell him no if he wants a second chance? Is that the right thing to do?

  The right thing, she reminds herself, is to put her children’s needs before her own. She just has to decide whether they’re better off with him, or without him.

  That’s if he called her here to ask for a second chance.

  As she pulls into the covered parking garage, she tells herself she’s ready for absolutely anything that can possibly happen.

  A scant five minutes later, she finds out that she’s wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  Before Mommy left, she promised Sadie that Ryan and Lucy would play a game with her.

  “Right, guys?” Mommy asked them pointedly from the bottom of the stairs, just before she walked out the door.

  “Right,” they said together.

  Then Mommy drove away, and Lucy got on the phone with someone, and Ryan went into his room and shut the door.

  That was a while ago. When Sadie knocked, her brother told her he was busy and to come back later.

  Having decided this is later enough, she knocks again.

  “Now what?” Ryan calls through the door.

  “You’re supposed to play with me.”

  “Geez, Sades, I said I will. But in a little bit, okay? I’m in the middle of something.”

  “What?”

  “Cleaning my room.”

  Sadie turns away quickly, wondering if he’s finding stuff to give away for the tag sale. Nobody’s mentioned that today, and the fishing line has been strung across her doorway without any problems now, but Sadie’s still worried.

  She goes down the hall to Lucy’s room. She can hear her sister in there on the phone, giggling and talking in a low voice.

  Sadie knocks.

  “Oh God, hang on a minute,” she hears Lucy say. Then she calls, “What’s up, Sadie?”

  “How did you know it’s me?”

  “Because it’s been you the last three times. What do you want?”

  “You have to play Chutes and Ladders with me. Mommy said.”

  “Yeah, I know. As soon as I get off the phone.”

  “When?”

  “When I’m done talking, okay?” Lucy lowers her voice and Sadie hears her say, “God, she’s such a pain.”

  Feeling like she’s going to cry, Sadie walks down the hall toward her room. Lucy and Ryan don’t even care about her. And Mommy had to go somewhere, and Daddy… Daddy’s been gone for so long Sadie sometimes can’t remember what he looks like, exactly, or what his voice sounds like, or what it was like when he lived here with them.

  If Daddy were around, no one would have snuck into Sadie’s room.

  If Daddy were around, she would have Fred back, too.

  She thinks of the pink dog as she walks into her room, and glances at the empty spot on her dresser.

  She knew as soon as she put him into the tag sale box that it would be wrong to give him away, but—

  Uh-oh.

  Belatedly, Sadie remembers the fishing line. She’d forgotten all about it when she crossed the threshold just now. Sure enough, one end has become unfastened from the doorframe.

  She tries to put it up again, but the tape isn’t sticky enough. Maybe she can just take it down now that she has the signs.

  But the signs probably aren’t going to stop anyone. Even Sadie knows that. No matter what Mommy and Dr. Prentiss said.

  The fishing wire trap won’t stop anyone, either, but at least she’ll know if someone has been in her room.

  Opening her desk drawer, she looks for the roll of tape she keeps with her art supplies. It’s gone.

  She’s positive she didn’t hide it. There wasn’t enough room for everything.

  Did someone steal it? Was someone else in here? Was the fishing line already down before she herself crossed the threshold just now?

  Sadie nervously rummages through the drawer. No tape. Someone must have—

  Suddenly, she remembers that she and Mommy used up almost the whole roll last night when they hung the signs. Thank goodness. Thank goodness no one stole it.

  Heading downstairs to borrow some tape from the kitchen drawer, she sees Chauncey at the foot of the steps, facing the front door. His tail is sticking straight up, and his ears are perked like he’s listening for something.

  “What are you doing, boy?” Sadie opens the doggy gate and goes over to him.

  Poised, silent, Chauncey seems to be on high alert.

  Sadie looks toward the door just as the bell rings.

  She can see someone standing on the other side of the frosted glass.

  The security guard in the lobby of Nick’s building barely glances up from his newspaper as Lauren walks past his kiosk. Things are different here than they are in the city, that’s for sure. At Alyssa’s building, you need ID and a signature to get past the doorman—and even then, you can’t get onto an elevator until the tenant has been buzzed and notified.

  Around here, apparently, if you don’t look like a threat, you’re not considered a threat. Maybe Lauren should discuss that with Nick—and question whether the kids are safe in a building with such lax security.

  Then again, anyone who really wanted to could easily get into their own house. No security guard, no alarm system, windows covered only by flimsy screens, locks to which strangers have the keys…

  Again, Lauren remembers what Sadie said about someone prowling around her room.

  What if she was right? What if someone really did get into the house at some point while they were gone?

  But nothing is missing. The electronics, Lauren’s jewelry…

  When she got dressed a little while ago, she opened the chest on her dresser and saw her diamond engagement ring and gold wedding band right there on top. Anyone who was looking for something of value to steal wouldn’t have to look very hard—and probably wouldn’t waste any time in a four-year-old’s room.

  Lauren steps into the elevator and pushes the button for the fourteenth floor.

  The doors close, and she leans toward one of the mirrored walls to check her teeth for lipstick, then turns her back to the mirror and looks over her shoulder to make sure she doesn’t have any panty lines. She does, a little. She tugs the band into place, hoping there’s no security camera broadcasting her actions back to the lobby. Not that the guard is likely to be paying attention.

  Why do you care what you look like, anyway? It’s just Nick.

  He’s certainly seen her at her worst: sick with the flu, giving birth—and in a sobbing, crumpled, devastated heap when he told her he was leaving.

  Maybe that’s why she wants to look her best now. To show him that she’s doing very well, thank you, without him.

  The attractive woman in the mirror radiates self-assurance—regardless of how insecure she might be feeling inside.

  On the fourteenth floor, Lauren steps into a wide, carpeted corridor.

  She pictures her kids here. Nick probably tells them to keep their voices down.

  She imagines Beth here, too. Maybe she has her own key so that she can come and go the way Lauren used to at Nick’s Manhattan apartment years ago, when they were newly dating.

  No. Don’t think about that. Don’t think about any of the good times with him. You don’t want to go into this with your emotions all worked up.

  Hell, she doesn’t want to go into this at all. She wants to turn around and walk out of Nick’s new life, the way he walked out of her old one.

  But she can’t. She won’t.

  So just take a deep breath and get it over with.

  “Ryan! Lucy! Someone’s at the door!” Sadie calls.

  No reply from the second floor. Her sister and brother are supposed to be in charge, but they’re still busy in their own little worlds, ignoring her.

  As far as Sadie’s concerned
, that means she’s in charge.

  Chauncey is on all fours, still focused on the door.

  She looks again at the silhouette in the window. She can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.

  The bell rings again.

  Sadie reaches for the knob, hesitates, turns it. Opening the door, she’s surprised to see a familiar face.

  “Hello, Sadie. How are you?”

  “I’m good,” she replies tentatively. “How are you?”

  “Not very well, I’m afraid,” is the response.

  Then Sadie sees the gun.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Hey, this is Byron. You know what to do. Do it at the beep.”

  “Yo, it’s Fantoni again. What the hell, man? Where are you? Call me back. I need to know what’s up with that…thing.”

  Mike hangs up the phone with a curse and paces across the room, rubbing yesterday’s five o’clock shadow.

  He’s known Byron Gregson since they collided on a case twenty years ago—he a fledgling private eye, Byron a cub reporter for the Providence Journal. They shared a couple of tips, cartons of cigarettes, and a burning need to uncover the truth.

  They found it.

  Byron landed a major scoop, broke a huge political corruption story in the Pro-Jo, and became an investigative journalist—one of the best. Mike opened his own PI firm in Boston and at first spent his days—well, mostly, his nights—tailing cheating spouses and deadbeat dads. As time went on, he branched out into background checks, employee investigations, missing persons…

  Like Jeremy Cavalon.

  Dammit—he really needs to talk to Byron, and the guy chooses now to pull one of his famous disappearing acts? Mike would be more aggravated than worried if his friend hadn’t alluded to the fact that he had stumbled across something big.

  As in dangerous big.

  That happened a while back. Before the holidays. Last fall, maybe. It happened because Byron was digging around, as a favor to Mike, in Jeremy Cavalon’s past.

  “I think I found the kid’s birth parents,” he told Mike in a late night phone call—the only kind Byron ever placed. “And if I’m right, you’re not going to believe who they are.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you if I’m right. I’ve got some more digging to do.”

  And that was that.

  Mike more or less back-burnered the case until last month, when he received a voice mail from Byron.

  “Dude, I was right. It’s bigger than I thought. I need some help. I’ll be in touch.”

  He hasn’t been. The silence is as ominous as Byron’s admission that he needed help. It’s always been the other way around. Byron in control, coming to Mike’s aid, bailing him out—sometimes, quite literally.

  Now Mike is wondering if maybe Byron got in over his head.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Mike just hopes it wasn’t the last.

  About to knock on the door marked 14D, Lauren realizes it’s slightly ajar.

  “Nick?” she calls, suddenly nervous.

  It’s been such a long time since she’s seen him.

  What if Nick tells her he wants to come home?

  What if the moment she lays eyes on him all the old feelings come rushing back to her and she forgets to stay strong?

  Or what if Nick tells her he’s marrying Beth, and she falls apart crying, begging him not to?

  God, I hate what-ifs. Why do I do this to myself?

  She pushes the door open farther. “Nick?”

  The apartment feels empty even before she steps over the threshold to find it silent and dim. The shades are drawn across the wide windows at the far end of the living room.

  “Nick?”

  He’s not here.

  Maybe he had to step out for something, and he’ll be right back.

  But even as that theory enters her mind, she discards it. If he was here, the air-conditioning would be on. The place is stuffy, as though it’s been sealed up for a while.

  Maybe Nick had planned to come back from his trip this morning and meet her here, but got hung up in traffic.

  No. There’s his luggage. It’s sitting just inside the door, as though he walked in and dropped it right there.

  But clearly, he wasn’t alone. Beside the familiar black Samsonite rolling bag and nylon duffel are a Louis Vuitton suitcase and matching tote.

  Obviously Beth’s luggage.

  Okay…so they’re back, the two of them. Where are they now?

  Lauren’s cell phone rings in her pocket, startling her.

  Pulling it out, she looks at the caller ID window. The call is coming from home. She flips open the phone, wondering if the kids are fighting, or hungry, or bored, or all of the above.

  “Hello?”

  “Mommy?”

  “Sadie?”

  “No.”

  It’s Lucy, she realizes. Why does she sound so young, and why is she calling Lauren Mommy?

  “What’s up, sweetie?”

  “You have to help us…”

  Lauren’s heart stops. “Lucy, are you crying?”

  “Please, Mommy—”

  She hears a scratching, rustling sound, as if someone— Ryan?—is scuffling the phone out of Lucy’s hand.

  But it isn’t her son who comes on the line. The voice is guttural and unfamiliar.

  “I’m here with your kids, Lauren. One of them has something I want. And I’ll do whatever it takes to get it back. Do you understand?”

  “I’m home!”

  The apartment door slams behind Molly Cameron and her heels tap across the parquet floor of the entry hall, accompanied by the rattling wheels of her rolling suitcase trundling along behind her.

  “Mrs. Cameron!” Sharon appears in the corridor leading to the bedrooms. “I thought you weren’t coming home until late tonight!”

  “There was an earlier flight to La Guardia so I got on it standby. What’s the matter? Aren’t you thrilled to see me, Sharon?” she teases the nanny.

  “Oh no, I am…” She toys with a strand of her long, blond hair. “I mean, I was just putting Avery down for his nap, and when I heard the door, it scared me. I thought maybe it was Mr. Cameron.”

  “I know you’ve only been working here a month, darling, but haven’t you figured out yet that Mr. Cameron never, ever shows up at home while the stock market’s open?”

  Sharon smiles faintly. To her credit, she doesn’t mention that Mr. Cameron doesn’t exactly rush home at the closing bell, either.

  After a long day on the trading floor, Andrew likes to stop off at the Battery Park Ritz-Carlton bar for a couple of scotches.

  “I might as well,” he tells Molly, if she ever dares to criticize the habit. “You never get home until late anyway.”

  True—and that’s if she gets home at all. Now that Avery is almost a year old, Molly’s been traveling on business again. Not as much as she did before she was pregnant, but enough that she feels more maternal jealousy for the new nanny than she did for the Jamaican baby nurse they’d had for the first six months. Back then, Molly was working from home a lot, and glad for every opportunity to hand her son over to someone else’s capable hands.

  She had her doubts about hiring Sharon, who’s younger and a lot more inexperienced with babies than Molly would have liked. Yet she did have a certain aesthetic appeal—an attractive, all-American blonde who had been raised in New England. And though Sharon’s child care references were slim, they were most impressive.

  “Are you crazy, hiring a gorgeous young nanny and leaving her alone in the house with your husband?” one of Molly’s friends had asked, the first time she saw Sharon.

  “Not at all. For one thing, Andrew is hardly ever in the house. For another thing, she’s not the brightest bulb on the tree. Andrew has no patience for idiots.”

  “So you hired an idiot to care for your child? Even better.”

  “She’s very sweet, and kind, and Avery loves her,” Molly replied. “And let’s face i
t, it’s not like I’m going to find a nanny with Mensa on her résumé. Which, by the way, is impressive. Did I tell you who her last employer was?”

  So far, Sharon seems to be working out okay. Time will tell.

  “I want to see Avery before he falls asleep.” Molly leaves the suitcase and heads for the nursery.

  “Oh, are you sure? I mean, he’s so tired, and—”

  “I want to see my son.” Molly tosses Sharon a look over her shoulder—her withering look of death, Andrew calls it—that quite effectively cuts her off.

  Sharon’s got to be kidding. After three days away, Molly is going to wait until Avery wakes up to see him? Sharon was undoubtedly counting on some free time while the baby sleeps. She’s probably afraid that if Molly disturbs him, he’ll be fussy and refuse to settle back down.

  Too bad. Sharon’s job is to take care of him.

  Molly opens the door to the nursery. “Mama’s home, baby!”

  To her surprise, the shades are open. Avery is in his crib, but he’s not tucked in with the mobile tinkling above. He’s sitting there clad in just his diaper, wide-awake and whimpering.

  Molly takes one look at him and screams.

  Swamped in a churning tide of panic, Lauren clings to the phone like a life buoy.

  Do something! Say something!

  She can’t move, can’t seem to find her voice.

  “Here’s what I’m going to do,” the caller tells her. “Are you listening?”

  She nods mutely.

  “Lauren?”

  This can’t be happening.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m… I’m listening.”

  “I’m going take the kids someplace safe. Okay?”

  No! Not okay! You can’t take my children!

  “Here’s what you’re not going to do,” the strange voice goes on. “You’re not going to call the police. Do you want to know why not? Tell Mommy what I’m holding in my hand, Ryan.”

  Her son’s voice is hoarse; barely recognizable. “A gun.”

  No. God, no.

  “And where is it pointed, Ryan? Tell Mommy.”

  “At me.”

  Ryan. Her baby boy.

  Please, no, no, no…

  “That’s right, Lauren. I’m pointing a gun at your son’s head, and I will pull the trigger if I hear a siren, if I spot a police car, anywhere near this house. Do you understand?”