Keep You Close

by Cleveland, Karen

  “I fell.”

  “Is that what you heard the doctors say? Do you actually remember falling?”

  She blinks.

  My fingers tighten on her hand. “Mom—was anyone else in that stairwell with you?”

  “Anyone…?”

  “Did someone push you?”

  She blinks again. “I fell, Stephanie.”

  “If there was someone there, if something happened—”

  “I tripped, and I fell.” I’m scaring her. I know I shouldn’t be pressing her on this right now. I know I should be letting her rest.

  “Okay, Mom. Get some sleep,” I whisper, reluctantly. I can continue this later. “We need you better. Soon.”

  But it hurts to look at her, to see how frail she is, how broken.

  * * *

  —

  I turn my attention back to my laptop, switch back to the footage from the lobby camera. I zero in on the time of the accident. I’ve watched this endless times now. A woman with wild red curls bursts into the lobby from the stairwell, says something to the front desk attendant, who picks up the phone. The woman turns and races back into the stairwell, attracting stares from three other people in the lobby, and moments later the front desk attendant follows her. Six minutes pass before paramedics push into view.

  I rewind to the moments before the woman enters into the lobby, before the 911 call was placed. I focus on the face of each and every person who entered that lobby. The young guy in running clothes, wiping sweat from his brow. The woman with grocery bags on each arm. The man in the suit, a briefcase at his side. I pause the footage, zoom in, repeat. Desperate for something, anything.

  I hear a knock at the door and look up. It’s open a crack, and Scott’s hovering in the doorway.

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  “Of course.” I feel almost dizzy with emotion. Wistfulness, I guess. Like he should be here. Like if life had unfolded differently, if I hadn’t destroyed things between us, he’d be here by my side, going through this with me, going through life with me.

  He slumps into the empty chair beside me and frowns when he catches sight of the laptop.

  I look down at the screen. It’s paused on a grainy close-up of a man’s face. The guy in the suit. He has thick dark hair and wide-set eyes. There’s nothing remotely familiar about him. “Security footage.”

  “Of?”

  “Mom’s condo building.”

  Scott shakes his head. “How’s she doing?”

  “Getting better.”

  “Good.” His gaze drifts back to my laptop. “It was a terrible accident,” he says. I’d swear he emphasizes the word accident.

  “It wasn’t an accident,” I say quietly, impulsively. I’m surprised by how defensive I sound. But I mean it. I know it now, with every fiber of my being. This was intentional.

  Scott nods thoughtfully, but I can see that he doesn’t believe me. “I’ll tell the office you need more time.”

  And I know him so well, I hear what he really means. You’re unstable. You shouldn’t be at work.

  The words make me angry, but they fill me with doubt, too. What if I am being crazy? What if it was just an accident? Suspicious timing, sure, but an accident nonetheless. Old people lose their balance and fall. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I accept that?

  Why am I being so paranoid? What if this is all in my head?

  “I’m fine,” I say, as much to myself as to him.

  He nods again, but gets to his feet immediately. “I better be going. Just wanted to see how she’s doing. And how you’re doing.”

  His gaze rests on me. So kind, so concerned. God, I wish he was still in my life.

  He lays a hand on my shoulder, leans in close and kisses my cheek. “Remember: I’m here for you, Steph.”

  His kindness sends a shiver running through me. I can’t find the words to respond.

  And then he’s gone.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting tears.

  He doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t have to. I’m not paranoid. This isn’t in my head.

  Halliday’s behind this. It’s too much of a coincidence, otherwise. Mom knew the truth about Halliday. I told her the truth. And this is what happened to her. Was it a warning? Be quiet—or else? If he’s willing to go after my mother, why wouldn’t he go after my son?

  I swipe my tears away, fast-forward to the moment that woman bursts into the lobby. Then slow it to one-quarter speed.

  Three people at the mailboxes, one at the front desk, two near the revolving doors, on their way in. All of them stop and stare at the commotion. A man and a woman at the mailboxes exchange a few words. Over on the left side of the screen, almost off camera, the elevator door opens. A man in a dark cap walks off, head bowed, straight out to the revolving doors. Doesn’t look up, doesn’t look around, doesn’t pay any attention to what’s going on at the desk. Just disappears from the screen.

  I rewind, watch it again, my eyes only on him this time. I can feel my pulse starting to race.

  I close that footage and open up the other, the shot of the parking lot. I wind the tape to the same time stamp. Watch the man in the dark cap exit the lobby, head still bowed. Watch him walk through the lot, to a small car, a hatchback, and slide inside, never looking up, his face never visible. A minute later, the hatchback drives out of view.

  I rewind, watch again. I pause the tape just as the hatchback is about to disappear from sight.

  It’s not white or black, something in between. Virginia plates, but I can’t make out the characters.

  I stare at the grainy image, commit it to memory.

  I need to find this car. And I need to find this man.

  * * *

  —

  I finally have a lead. I finally have something.

  I can’t see the man’s face, but still, it’s something. It’s proof that I’m not paranoid. It’s proof that someone was there when Mom fell. Someone saw her fall. Someone pushed her.

  I close the laptop, drop it into my bag. Stand up, stretch.

  Coffee. I’m going to head down to the cafeteria, grab a cup of coffee.

  I stoop and kiss her forehead. “Be back in a minute.” She doesn’t stir.

  I’m nearing the end of the corridor when a man approaches me. Average height, average weight. Dirty blond hair. His gaze is locked on me and suddenly my skin starts to crawl, that sixth sense that something isn’t right.

  His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. There’s a tattoo there, on his forearm. I see the design, and my heart stutters.

  Two knives, crossed in an X.

  Chapter 26

  My heart is pounding. Did I really just see that?

  I stop and turn. He’s just stepped into an open elevator. He’s facing me, still staring directly at me. The elevator door is starting to close. And just before he’s gone from my sight entirely, I’m certain his lips quirk in a smile.

  Move, Steph.

  I bolt to the elevator, punch the button hard, three times. But it’s gone, headed down. I’m too late.

  I step back and watch the light. 4. 3. 2. It stops at two.

  I run for the stairwell. Slam open the door, jog down the stairs, two at a time. Third floor, then the second, and I push my way out into the corridor.

  I don’t see him anywhere.

  I check the numbers above the elevator. It’s below me, on the first floor now.

  Back into the stairwell, down the last flight. Push my way out into the lobby, look around.

  I lost him.

  “Mom?” Zachary’s voice. I spin around. He’s there, behind me, frowning. “Mom?”

  I try to bring the man’s face back into my mind. I’d never seen him before; I’m sure of that. But what did he look like? The placement of his eyes, the s
hape of his nose, anything.

  I can’t. All I can picture is that damned tattoo.

  I rake my fingers through my hair, frustrated. Was it really the same tattoo, the one on Torrino’s man? Or was my mind playing tricks on me?

  But that smirk, the one on his face just as the elevator closed. The way he looked at me…

  “Mom.” Zachary’s voice, sharper. “What’s going on?”

  Unless it was in my head. Stress and exhaustion—it’s a dangerous combination. What if I’m losing it?

  I’d been so sure it was Halliday. But that tattoo…And if it’s the mob, why now?

  I look at my son, the question in his eyes. What’s going on, Mom? What am I supposed to tell him? How can I possibly explain it, when I don’t understand it myself?

  Chapter 27

  The penthouse apartment is on the Potomac, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer sweeping views of the city. It’s sleekly furnished, whites and grays, minimalist style. There’s a black leather messenger bag hanging on a coat rack by the door. From deep inside it, a rhythmic buzzing.

  Wes walks over to the bag. He’s lean, with deeply tanned skin, and a thick head of hair that’s starting to turn silver in a way that makes him look distinguished. He unzips the front compartment, pulls out a smartphone, holds it to his ear. “Yes.”

  “It’s me.”

  He walks back into the living room. Sits down on the couch, slowly.

  “It’s falling apart.” There’s panic in the voice on the other end of the line.

  “It’s under control.”

  “But—”

  “It’s under control.” He looks at the chessboard in front of him, on the coffee table, midway through a game. Of course, the game wasn’t actually played here. But the board looks exactly the same as the one that was played, the one that’s paused. He knows they’re stuck. He knows they’re thinking of their next moves. He likes being able to see what they’re considering. He likes being in their heads.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Wes leans back in the couch, stretches out his legs, crosses his feet at the ankles, resting on the coffee table. A smile curves his lips. “We’re adapting.”

  “Adapting.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “We’ve done it before, and look where we are today.”

  “But now there’s even more at stake—”

  Wes pulls his feet down, sits up straight, his face now serious. “And the payoff will be even greater. We’re close now. So close. And we will succeed.”

  Silence stretches between them.

  “What if she finds out the truth?” the caller demands.

  The smile creeps back to Wes’s face. He relaxes back into the couch. Eyes the board once again. She thinks the boy will move the rook. The boy doesn’t want to sacrifice it. Neither one of them sees the best move on the board. “The truth, my friend, is extremely complicated.”

  Chapter 28

  I wake up from a sleep so deep and dreamless I could have been drugged, and I have a few blissful moments of peace before everything comes flooding back. Mom. The gun. The man with the tattoo.

  I reach over to my bedside table, fumble for my phone. No messages, no missed calls. Nothing happened to Mom overnight. Relieved, I dial the hospital just the same, just to check. She’s awake and alert, the nurse assures me. Continuing to improve.

  Zachary’s already in the kitchen when I come downstairs. He has a box of cereal in his hand, that protein-packed one that tastes like cardboard.

  “Morning, honey,” I say.

  “Morning.” He walks over to the fridge, pulls out the jug of milk. Slops some into his cereal bowl, carries it to the table.

  When my coffee’s done brewing, I take the mug and sit down at the table across from him. He doesn’t look up at me. He’s more sullen than usual this morning. “What’s wrong?”

  He shrugs, takes another bite.

  “Zachary?”

  “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Something’s going on, Mom. Your mind is elsewhere. And these questions you’ve been asking me…I have a right to know.”

  I look down at my coffee, fold my hands around the mug. How much should I say? Probably nothing.

  “It’s an email, isn’t it? To that group you mentioned. Freedom whatever.” He keeps his eyes on me as he chews.

  I answer carefully. “That’s part of it.”

  “From our IP address.”

  He’s trying to piece things together. Using all the questions I’ve asked him, all the fragments of information. He’s doing exactly what an investigator would do.

  “Let it go,” I say.

  A hint of triumph lights his eyes. He knows he’s right. “And it’s supposed to look like it’s from me.”

  A vague sense of fear settles down around me. I don’t want him involved in this. It’s too dangerous. If they’ve hurt Mom, they could hurt him. “Let it go.”

  “But obviously it’s not,” he persists. “So…who’s it from?”

  “Zachary, this isn’t a game.”

  “I get that.”

  “This is serious.”

  “It’s about me, isn’t it? I think I know that.”

  His tone chills me. But he’s right, isn’t he? He’s almost an adult. And he’s involved in this, whether I want him to be or not.

  “You asked me about a gun, Mom. I have a right to know what’s going on.”

  Does he? I take a ragged breath.

  He doesn’t. Not if it means dragging him in deeper. I need to keep him out of it, as much as I can. I need to keep him safe.

  My silence seems to encourage him. He dumps more cereal into his bowl and says, “I can look into this alone, or we can do it together. It’s up to you.”

  I’m not going to be able to stop him, am I? Should I?

  I picture Mom, in that hospital bed, the tangle of tubes, the machines beeping. Of course I should stop him. This is dangerous.

  But it’s dangerous one way or another, isn’t it?

  And he knows computers. Maybe he’d actually be able to help. Maybe he could figure out who sent the message. Find proof that Torrino’s behind this, or Halliday, or whoever it is.

  Find proof that Mom’s fall wasn’t an accident.

  Proof that we can use to stop whoever is doing this to us.

  I look away, out into the living room. I catch sight of the chessboard, and I feel that familiar, swelling sense of panic growing like a cancer between us. He’s almost gone. What if our relationship never improves? What if I run out of time?

  I look back at my son. His eyes have that round look again, like he’s wary, on the verge of being hurt, and in them I can see that trusting little boy I miss so much.

  “Together,” I say quietly, and I regret the words as soon as I’ve said them.

  * * *

  —

  Zachary’s thrilled to be helpful. He spends the morning in front of his computer screen, visiting encrypted forums, searching the deep web. I’m terrified Scott will find out, that Zachary’s digging himself further into a hole—and that I’m the one who handed him a shovel—but he’s convinced he’s covering his tracks.

  I hover nearby, watching, thinking, trying to process everything. Someone broke into our home, sent that email: I have access to targets. Planted a gun. Someone who was able to get in without tripping our alarm. Someone who didn’t leave behind a single print.

  And someone pushed Mom down those stairs.

  Who is it?

  God, how I wish I had someone on my side right now. A partner to deal with this. In my mind I see Scott. But I can’t turn to him. Can’t risk what might happen to Zachary if I tell him the truth, if he doesn’t believe me. I can figure it out myself.
I have to.

  This has got to have something to do with Halliday. Zachary just came into his life, after all these years. Visited him. It must have turned Halliday’s life upside down. He’d have reason to want to threaten me, to warn me into silence. And Mom knew the truth about him, shared some of it with Zachary. Now she’s hurt.

  But framing Zachary? What sense does that make? If it came out that his biological son was involved in a terrorist plot, it would sink his political career. Not to mention if Halliday’s own role in setting up his son ever came to light, or, worse, his involvement in Mom’s fall. Why risk it?

  Torrino? I’d swear I glimpsed that tattoo at the hospital, the same one I saw on Torrino’s man, all those years before. Torrino is still in prison, will be for at least another decade. He has men he can call on for his dirty work, ones who know about breaking and entering, removing prints, carrying out hits. But why come after me now, after all these years?

  And right as Halliday’s back in our life? Surely it’s too much of a coincidence.

  Unless…

  Unless it’s not a coincidence.

  Unless Torrino’s involvement has something to do with Halliday.

  I flash back to those words my training agent spoke, my first week on the job. Damned crooked politicians. Mob pays ’em off. That senator, Halliday—he’s the worst.

  Could they be somehow linked?

  Chicago’s cleaner now. They’ve never tied Halliday to any wrongdoing. But what if it’s true? What if the mob still considers Halliday theirs, and they’re the ones who see us as a threat?

  The thought makes sense. Perfect sense, really. Torrino wants Halliday in a position of power. And I’m a threat to that. I’m a threat to Halliday’s career, and to his power, and to his ability to protect Torrino.

  It feels like all the pieces are falling into place.

  And the picture that’s appearing is even more frightening than I thought.

  Chapter 29

  Zachary’s focused on the screen in front of him, scowling, concentrating. I watch him. “Any luck?” I finally ask.