“I’ll see you when I get home, guys,” Rachel tells her children, picking up her black pocketbook from the uncluttered counter. “I’ll come in and give you kisses in your beds.”
“Where are y-you going?” Jeremiah asks as she heads for the door, pulling on her black coat as she goes.
Startled by the question, she wonders for a moment if he’s suspicious. Then she reminds herself that he’s just a kid—and new at babysitting, at that. He’s being cautious. Probably wants to know where he can reach her in case of an emergency.
She side-steps his question. “My cell phone number is on the pad by the phone,” she tells him. “So is the number for my husband’s office, and his beeper. So you’re all set. And so am I. Bye—”
“W-wait,” he calls.
Frustrated, she looks back.
“I mean, I d-don’t know what time you’ll b-be home or when they g-go to b-bed or anything,” he stutters.
He’s so nervous. Why? For a split second, she reconsiders leaving him here with the kids. After all, what does he know about babysitting? And what does she really know about him? He’s a stranger, really.
No. He’s a neighbor. And she knows his family.
Besides, what could possibly happen?
She recalls the strange feeling she had as she was picking up the paper this morning. She was certain she was being watched. But she quickly got over it.
Still . . .
Jane Kendall.
“Make sure you lock the door behind me, Jeremiah,” she tells him, looking back at her children.
He nods, following her into the hall. “When will you be home?”
“Geez, I don’t know. Most likely not until around eleven or midnight. My husband will probably beat me here. He should be back by eleven.”
“Okay.” Jeremiah seems edgy.
Suddenly, she realizes why.
Opening her bag, she grabs some bills and shoves them into his hand. “There you go, Jeremiah. In case my husband gets here first. He won’t know how much we agreed on.”
“Th-thanks. And . . . b-bedtime? For the k-kids?”
“Whenever they’re tired,” she says. “I need to go now. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
With that, she breezes out into the chilly October night, determined to ignore a sudden, inexplicable sense of foreboding.
“Want to watch the millionaire show later?” Mitch asks Lianne, who is sitting beside him on the couch.
“Sure,” she says, turning a page of her magazine. She doesn’t talk much. At least, not to him. But he’s noticed that when she gets on the phone with one of her friends or her boyfriend, she goes on and on, like she’s forgotten all about him.
When that happens, he sometimes wonders if it wouldn’t be better if his mother just left him alone. Not that he likes that, either.
He guesses it’s good to have someone to talk to. Even if it’s just Lianne.
“Hey, did you hear about that lady who disappeared from the park?” he asks, wanting to get her to do something other than stare at that dumb article she’s reading. It’s about losing weight.
If you ask him, Lianne doesn’t need to lose any weight. She’s super-skinny. Pretty, too, with really white skin and long black hair that almost reaches her butt.
She looks up at him. “You mean Jane Kendall?”
“Yeah.” Pleased that he got her attention, Mitch says, “My mom is doing a story about that case.”
“She is? Cool. I know the kid who found the baby carriage in the park. Peter Frost.”
“Yeah? What’d he say about it?”
“I guess the baby was screaming and he had to rescue her from some kind of wild animal. He was totally brave.”
“Huh.” Mitch thinks about that, wondering what kind of wild animals live in High Ridge Park. He would’ve thought just squirrels and deer and maybe skunks, but none of those animals would attack a baby. There must be bears. Or wildcats, even.
“What do you think happened to her?” Lianne asks him. She looks kind of worried.
“The baby? I thought you said your friend rescued her.” Alarmed, he pictures a baby being eaten by a bear.
“No, he did. I meant the mother,” Lianne says. “Do you think she jumped into the river?”
“Probably.” Mitch thinks about the press conference his mother took him to last night, trying to remember what was said. Most of it was pretty boring. He doesn’t think there was anything about anybody jumping into a river. Then again, he can’t be sure. He hadn’t really been paying much attention. All he really remembers is that guy, the lady’s husband, crying in front of everyone.
Mitch wonders if he was embarrassed later. He would never cry in front of anyone. He hardly ever even cries when he’s alone. Crying’s for babies. And girls.
Except Mom. She doesn’t cry, either. She’s always brave.
Shawna isn’t, Mitch thinks in disgust. His stepmother’s always bawling about something. Like, when she watches a movie on TV and she knows it’s going to be sad, she’ll get a box of tissues and put it by the couch. Mitch’s dad teases her about it. Shawna doesn’t seem to mind.
Mitch doesn’t really mind when his dad teases him, either. Even though sometimes it makes him feel kind of bad. Like the time at the beach last summer, when Mitch told his father he was afraid to go into the water and that he wished he was a girl.
“Why?” his father had asked.
“Because man-eating sharks don’t eat girls. They eat men. Probably boys, too.”
His father had thought that was hilarious. Well, how was Mitch supposed to know that “man-eating” didn’t really mean the sharks only ate men?
“Hey, Mitch, does your mom know any inside stuff about the case?” Lianne asks.
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Like what?”
He shrugs. “You should ask her.”
“You know what I think happened? I think there’s a serial killer on the loose. Like in those Scream movies. I think he killed Jane Kendall, and he’s going to strike again.”
Horror bubbles up inside of Mitch. He watched the first Scream on cable one night when his mom was working late. It scared him so much that he almost ran downstairs and knocked on Mrs. Ambrosini’s door.
“You mean you think some guy in a creepy mask and robe is going around killing people here in Townsend Heights?” he asks Lianne.
“Maybe.”
How come she doesn’t look freaked out by that?
Mitch looks over his shoulder at the door, making sure it’s locked. Yup. The latch is turned. But suddenly he’s feeling panicky. What if the killer already got into the apartment and is hiding in the bathroom or something?
Suddenly, Mitch wants his mother. Or his father. Shawna, even.
“Who do you think the killer is?” he asks Lianne, trying not to let his voice shake.
“I don’t know. That’s what’s so scary. Maybe your mom has some idea, since she’s the reporter working on the case.”
Mitch thinks about the Scream movie. There was a reporter in that, too. And she was one of the few people who didn’t die in the end.
“You don’t think my mom is in danger, do you?” he asks Lianne.
“God, I don’t know,” she says.
It isn’t the answer Mitch expects. If Lianne were an adult, she’d probably say, “Of course not!” Adults never want kids to worry.
Lianne doesn’t seem to care if he worries or not.
What if something happens to his mother?
Mitch remembers how yesterday, when his father showed up at school, he thought for a second that his mother had been hurt or even killed.
If something like that did ever happen, he supposes he would go live with Dad and Shawna. Shawna would probably like it if that happened. She wants a kid really
bad. He heard her crying on the phone one day about that. She was talking to one of her friends.
But Mitch figures she probably wasn’t thinking she wanted a ten-year-old kid who already has a mother. She meant a baby of her own.
From what Mitch could figure out from the conversation, Shawna can’t have babies of her own.
So maybe she’d be really happy if something happened to his mother—like if she died of lung cancer from smoking so much, and Mitch had to come and live with her and Dad. Then Shawna could be his new mother. . . .
And Dad could be his dad all the time, not just on weekends.
For a second, Mitch is so psyched about the latter thought that he forgets what made him think of it.
Something happening to Mom.
Afraid again, he says to Lianne, “Can we talk about something else? Something that’s not scary?”
“Sure,” she says, standing up. “Right after I call my friend. I’ll only be on for a second.”
Yeah, right, Mitch thinks gloomily, slumping on the couch and hugging a pillow against his suddenly churning stomach.
Margaret’s gaze darts nervously from side to side as she picks her way along the paved, sloping path bordered by woods on both sides. She rounds a bend and sees that there’s a small clearing ahead.
One might expect this particular section of the sprawling park to have drawn its share of onlookers tonight, assuming that the curiosity seekers who are so compelled to stare at the house would want to see this, too: the site where Jane’s daughter was discovered abandoned in her stroller. The actual site was pinpointed on a map in today’s newspaper, with a circled X marking the spot that Margaret is nearing now.
But the path is deserted, with not a jogger or even a stray dog in sight. Maybe it’s because of the hour. Dusk has descended over the woodland park high above the Hudson River.
Or maybe it’s because of what happened to Jane here.
Maybe people are frightened.
Maybe they think that what happened to her could happen to them.
Her jaw set grimly, Margaret quickens her pace until she’s standing at the edge of a waist-high, narrow rock wall. She reaches into her pocket and takes out a neatly folded tissue.
You never know, she thinks, feeling numb.
Clutching it, she looks straight out. She can see the steep boulders and trees on the Rockland County shore across the river.
Looking down, she notes that there is only dark water, jagged rocks . . . and several boats moored directly below. Their lights cast an eerie glow across the choppy surface. Several figures in wetsuits are clustered on the deck of one boat.
Divers, she realizes, watching the scene for a few moments.
She knows what they’re looking for.
Margaret turns and makes her way back to the path, the fingers on one hand shredding the tissue she holds in the other.
She didn’t need it after all.
Tasha hasn’t heard from Joel all day.
As she puts the kids’ plastic supper plates into the dishwasher, she attempts to convince herself that he might have tried to call earlier when she wasn’t here, and decided not to leave a message.
But she knows that’s not likely. Joel would want credit for a phone call if he made one, since she’s always ragging on him about never calling home.
So. Is he making a deliberate statement, still angry about last night, or is he simply caught up in his work once again? There’s no way to tell. Not until he gets home. Who knows when that will be?
And what if it isn’t his work that’s keeping him so busy?
Tasha closes the dishwasher and stands in the middle of the kitchen floor, listening for movement overhead. She put the kids to bed almost a half hour ago, but she doubts they’re asleep. It was almost an hour before their bedtime, but she couldn’t wait to put them down. She just couldn’t handle them anymore.
Her headstrong daughter had thrown one tantrum after another ever since they came home from Rachel’s this afternoon. Hunter came home from school with a big science project that needed to be done for tomorrow morning. Tasha ended up doing most of it herself, just to get it over with. And little Max was fussy again, either teething or coming down with something.
Tasha thinks about Karen’s daughter, Taylor, who has some kind of stomach bug. Please, God, don’t let it be that. If Max has it, they’ll all get it. The very thought of a houseful of sick kids is enough to send Tasha out the front door shrieking.
She goes over to the phone, thinking she should call Karen to see how Taylor is. Karen looked so worried and exhausted when Tasha dropped off the Pedialyte this morning. It’s a first-time-mom thing. Tasha remembers rushing Hunter to Ben’s office every time he so much as sneezed.
She peels a banana as she dials Karen’s number, realizing she’s hungry. She never did get a chance to eat today.
“Hello?”
“Karen, hi. It’s me, Tasha.”
“Hi!”
“How’s Taylor? Still sick?”
“She seems a little better, actually,” Karen tells her. “She had diarrhea and vomiting all morning, then that stopped this afternoon, and she actually took some Pedialyte and kept it down.”
“Must be a twenty-four-hour thing.” Good. Even if the kids get it, it won’t drag on for days. “So what are you up to?”
“Just more laundry. The baby’s sleeping again. I think she’s wiped out by this. Tom had to go out for a while to go over some paperwork with a client of his, so I’m on my own.”
“So am I,” Tasha says around a bite of banana.
“Joel’s working late again?”
“Mm-hmm.” Tasha hesitates, then blurts, “Or so he says.”
There’s a moment of silence. Karen asks, “Is something going on with him, Tasha?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, half wishing she hadn’t brought it up, half relieved that she did. She tells Karen about their argument, and then about how busy Joel is at work lately.
“But he just got a promotion, didn’t he? More responsibility?”
“Yes . . .” She sighs. “I guess I’m just suspicious all of a sudden, for some reason.”
“If it’s any comfort, I can’t imagine Joel cheating.”
It is a comfort. Not that Karen knows him all that well. But still . . .
“Yeah,” Tasha says, “I can’t imagine him cheating, either.”
The thing is . . .
Even a person who wouldn’t ordinarily cheat can get caught up in unexpected passion.
Tasha tries to swallow the banana in her suddenly dry mouth.
One minute, you can be the most committed spouse in the world. The next, you can find yourself in a stranger’s arms and contemplating—
“Oh, I hear the baby,” Karen says abruptly. “I’m going to try and get her up and feed her before I put her upstairs in her crib for the night. I’ve got to run.”
“Okay.”
“Listen, Tasha, any time you want to talk, I’m here. Okay? But I wouldn’t worry about Joel. It’s probably just work. It’s so easy to forget what it’s like when you haven’t been working for a while. Whenever Tom gets busy with a client, I find myself getting irritated that he’s taking so much time away from the family. But I used to do the same thing when I was working. I probably will again. But hopefully not until Taylor’s old enough not to need me so much. Anyway . . .”
“I’ll let you go,” Tasha says reluctantly, hanging up.
She stands in the kitchen, listening for footsteps. For a key in the lock.
Missing Joel.
Maybe he’ll be home soon. She might as well watch television in the meantime. Saving Private Ryan is supposed to be on again. She’s already seen it—once in the movies with Joel—and once on cable—but she’s suddenly in the mood for a long, depressing war movie.
“Something that will make my problems look like a piece of cake,” she says aloud, breaking the silence she longed for only an hour ago—silence that suddenly seems more ominous than peaceful.
She realizes she’s still holding the limp banana peel and tosses it into the garbage, then goes into the unlit living room. She crosses toward the lamp on the end table.
Outside, the wind gusts. Dry leaves scrape against the concrete.
Tasha pauses at the window and looks out.
The Leibermans’ house is unusually dark. She realizes the porch light and lamppost haven’t been turned on as they always are at this hour. Then she remembers that Rachel isn’t home. She said something about meeting friends for dinner, and that she had hired Fletch’s nephew, Jeremiah, to babysit. Tasha told her to leave the Bankses’ number with him in case he needed anything.
Rachel waved her off, saying thanks but she was sure he’d be fine.
When Tasha and Joel go out, they always leave several phone numbers, including the Leibermans’. Well, that’s mostly because Ben is their pediatrician, Tasha tells herself, feeling suddenly overprotective.
And anyway, she doesn’t like to take chances.
Unlike Rachel.
Sometimes Tasha thinks that in a decade, when her kids are older, Rachel is going to run off someplace in search of adventure. Or maybe she won’t even wait that long.
The funny thing is, Tasha figures Ben and the kids would ultimately be okay without Rachel. After all, she’s not the warmest or most devoted wife and mother in the world. In fact, she’s pretty self-centered.
But that doesn’t mean she wants to leave her family, Tasha reminds herself, wondering why she even thought of such a ridiculous thing.
But she knows. It’s the Jane Kendall situation. She can’t shake the thought of perfect Jane running away from her life.
Or the thought of doing the same thing herself.
But of course it’s only a fantasy. And she has plenty of fantasies. That doesn’t mean she’s going to act on any of them.
Guilt surges through Tasha again.
Damn it.
Damn Fletch Gallagher.
She turns away from the window and flicks the switch on a nearby lamp, abruptly chasing the shadows from the room.
The Last to Know Page 17