The phone call and the cry in the night were no coincidence. She’s certain of it.
Yet the only explanation she can conjure is a supernatural one. Kathleen has never believed in anything like that, and it’s not as though they’re inhabiting some Gothic Victorian mansion. Even if she were inclined to go with an otherworldly explanation for the cries, this newly built Colonial is the last house she would ever imagine as haunted.
All night, she keeps a fearful vigil, her thoughts whirling feverishly over and over traumatic events—not just those that are recent, but the ones that torment her still, after all these years.
When at last the first gray light of dawn filters through the window, she silently bids her firstborn a happy birthday, tears trickling slowly down her cheeks.
“What are you doing still in bed?”
Stella stirs, roused out of a deep sleep by Kurt’s voice somewhere overhead. Rolling over, she opens her eyes and then quickly closes them again, blinded by the glare of the overhead light.
“Can you turn that off?” she croaks, her mouth foul-tasting and so dry she can’t even muster enough saliva to swallow.
She hears him cross the room to the light switch. “Okay, it’s off,” he says, sounding almost curt.
Kurt sounds curt. Imagine that.
Resentment mingles with the nausea that slips in to claim her once again, making her long for the blessed reprieve of sleep that was a long time coming. She was up far into the wee hours, most of that time spent huddled in misery on the chilly bathroom tile. Every time she dared to venture away from the toilet, she found herself racing back.
But of course Kurt doesn’t know any of that.
When he came home—if he came home at all—he spent the night on the couch. He’ll blame it on her being sick, but she has her suspicions.
It was only after she begged him over the phone that he left the office on time to meet the girls’ day care bus. He fed them takeout pizza—its aroma wafting up the stairs and sending Stella running for the bathroom—then got them into bed and informed his wife that he had to head back to the bank to finish some paperwork.
Doubting his story and too sick to care, she asked him to pick up some ginger ale and saltines for her on his way back.
If he did, he never came upstairs to tell her, or to offer to bring her some.
Now, she looks up at him, wearing suit pants and a dress shirt, a tie looped through the collar. Clearly, he’s headed back to work . . . and expects her to do the same.
“I can’t do it, Kurt,” she informs him, her stomach roiling as she tries to sit up. “I have to stay home. You’ll have to get the girls ready and drop them off.”
“I have a breakfast meeting at eight.”
Breakfast.
Food.
She tries again to swallow, but her mouth is too dry. Nausea rides up her throat and she clutches her stomach. Her bed might just as well be a storm-tossed sea. Her efforts to fight the waves of seasickness prove futile and she bolts from the bed.
This time, she doesn’t make it to the bathroom.
She vomits on the bedroom carpet—ironically, in the very spot she imagined her husband making love to a phantom mistress just yesterday.
He looks down at her in disgust. “Jesus, Stella. You’re worse than one of the kids. This is going to stink to high heaven. By the way, I have a banquet I have to go to on Friday night, so you’ll have to get a sitter if you’re still planning to chaperone that dance.”
Stella leaves the mess behind; leaves him behind. Staggering to the bathroom, she slams the door behind her.
“Bastard,” she mutters as her jellied knees give way and she sinks to the floor in front of the toilet once again.
Her body wracked with dry heaves, she wonders how on earth she wound up married to a stranger.
“Look, I already said I’m sorry,” Robby snaps into the pay phone at the 7–11 store around the corner from Orchard Arms apartments. “It isn’t my fault that I got stopped by the cops for speeding. They made me go with them and they got a truant officer to take her right back to school. There was nothing I could do.”
“I paid you to do a job, and I expected it to be done.”
“I know. It will be. Just as soon as I can figure out how.”
“I’ll tell you exactly how.”
As the ominous voice murmurs in his ear, Robby watches a packed yellow school bus pass the parking lot out on Cuttington Road, filled with kids on their way to Woodsbridge High. He finds himself scanning the windows for Jen’s familiar blond head, even as he listens to the carefully outlined plan for her demise.
“Do you understand?”
He hesitates. “I don’t know. That seems a little—”
“Are you going to do it or not? If you’re not, I’ll need the money you’ve already been paid returned to me when we meet in a half hour, and I’ll find somebody else. I can’t risk another screw up.”
Robby throws his head back to examine the overcast sky, contemplating the offer.
He needs the money. Needs it desperately. And yet . . .
He closes his eyes, seeing Jen’s innocent face—and his father’s beaming one.
His father made him promise that he’d stop dealing—that he’d stay away from drugs altogether. Robby is fairly—all right, completely—certain that the old man wouldn’t prefer he convert himself into a murderer-for-hire instead.
Jen paged him last night, and again this morning. He ignored her, and finally turned his pager off. He feels guilty every time he sees her number come up, knowing she’s probably worried about him.
She shouldn’t be, damn it. She should be afraid of him. Is she really that clueless? That trusting? If she is, then she deserves what she gets.
Or so he tries to convince himself.
He lowers his head, his gaze falling on his new black leather boots. He paid full price for them, over four hundred bucks. He’s always wanted boots like this, with thick soles and shiny silver buckles.
If he goes through with this, he can buy the other stuff he’s always wanted. A stereo with kick-ass speakers, a shearling coat, hell, maybe even a computer.
Yeah, right. What do you need with a computer? It’s not like you’re going to college or anything.
Okay, but if he had a computer he could IM like all the other kids do, and burn CDs, and surf the Web for stuff. Not just porn, but other cool stuff, too.
“Are you there?” asks the voice.
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“I need to know. If you can’t do this then tell me right now.”
This is it, Robby realizes. It’s in your hands. This is where you get to decide which way your life is going to go.
He squeezes his eyes closed again and he sees his mother’s face, filled with fury, with resentment, with hatred.
Sees the cop gazing down at him through the driver’s side window yesterday, wearing an expression of utter disdain.
Sees the vice principal’s obvious contempt, his blatant surprise that a girl like Jen would become entangled with the likes of Robby.
He’s seen it, seen all of it, so many times before, on the faces of the teachers and adults and the kids who inhabit the homes of Orchard Arms. They judge him, all of them, based on where he lives, who his parents are—no, who they aren’t.
Is it so surprising that they expect nothing of him? Nothing other than trouble. Is it so surprising that it’s all he’s given any of them all these years?
This is your chance. You can prove them wrong.
Or you can prove them right.
Everything is hanging in the balance.
Clenching the phone against his ear, he makes his decision.
“Look, I have to go,” the voice says impatiently. “Meet me in a half hour. Either you’ll have her with you, or you’ll have the money.”
Moments later, he’s back in his car, heading back home to get the coffee can from the top of his closet, certain that he made the right choice.
/> He’ll get a job. He’ll start looking for one today . . . just as soon as he’s handed over the money, then gone to the police to tell them that Jen Carmody’s life is in danger.
So this is what it feels like to be fourteen, Jen thinks glumly as she shuffles into biology. So far, it sucks. If today is any indication of what the year ahead holds, she’d probably have been better off if Robby had rammed them into that utility pole after all.
Her parents and brothers wished her a happy birthday this morning when she came downstairs.
Only the boys seemed to mean it.
Dad is still obviously angry about the detention thing yesterday, his voice as cold as his expression whenever he speaks to her—which he does only when absolutely necessary. Even his birthday wishes were cursory. Not that she’d expect anything else from a man who isn’t even a blood relative.
That isn’t fair, Jen.
She frowns at the nagging, increasingly vocal inner spokesperson for her conscience, wishing it would shut up already.
So what if she isn’t being entirely fair to the man who raised her?
Life isn’t fair.
Yeah, Dad. Life isn’t fair.
And then there’s Mom. When she stumbled into the kitchen in her robe, she looked as though she hadn’t slept all night, and she sounded slightly hoarse. She hugged Jen, but her arms felt stiff—especially when she felt Jen’s whole body go rigid in her embrace. Jen did feel a pang of regret when she saw the hurt in her mother’s eyes, but she couldn’t help her reaction.
She knows she’s the cause of her mother’s exhaustion; her mother has been losing sleep over Jen even before she got herself into trouble yesterday. But that has been easy to ignore until now.
At least nobody has made Jen sit down and discuss the circumstances of her birth and adoption. Not yet, anyway.
She heard her parents discussing her last night after she was in bed. From what she could piece together, they’re in disagreement over how to handle this. Her father wants the whole family to see a shrink. Her mother doesn’t think that’s a good idea, which is somewhat surprising, since Mom usually is a big fan of talking things out. She claims it’s healthy.
When Jen was little and heard her parents arguing, she’d worry that it meant they were going to get divorced. She still remembers how her mother used to hug her and assure her that all mommies and daddies argued sometimes, and it didn’t mean they didn’t love each other.
That she is the direct cause of friction in their marriage now should probably bother Jen, but it doesn’t. Not much, anyway.
You’re beyond caring about them, she reminds herself.
She would probably feel differently if her family were really the wholesome unit she had been duped into believing they were: happily married parents, three happy kids. That was something special, as far as Jen was concerned—something that set her apart from most of her friends.
She was different from Erin, being raised by a single mother. Different from their friend Rachel, the product of a third marriage with a trail of stepparents, stepsiblings, and half siblings along the way. Different from Robby, whose mother took off when he was a kid and whose father is an unemployed alcoholic.
Jen figured she was one of the lucky ones.
Boy, was she wrong.
At least her friends never had any illusions about who and what they are. At least they weren’t blind fools, Jen thinks bitterly.
To find out that she herself was the result of her mother getting herself pregnant by some other guy, that her father isn’t her father and her brothers aren’t her brothers . . .
Well, who cares if their marriage doesn’t last now? The family is already splintered, as far as Jen is concerned.
Wishing this miserable day were over, Jen slips gloomily into her seat at the lab table she shares with Garth Monroe, whose seat is still vacant.
“Hey, Jen, I heard about you and Robby,” Rachel Hanson leans across the aisle to say. “Did you guys really get arrested?”
“Arrested?” Jen shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “No, we weren’t arrested.”
Rachel is obviously disappointed. Erin once told Jen that if Rachel were paid for gossiping, she’d be driving a BMW by now.
Erin, again.
The thought of her brings another little pang of guilt. Her former best friend is no angel—far from it. But Jen knows she’s the one who trashed their friendship. She chose Robby over Erin.
Oh, who are you kidding? You stole Robby away from Erin.
Well, it wasn’t something she set out to do. It’s not like she was falling all over him, the way Erin accused her of doing when she found out. No, Robby was the one who came after Jen, and she tried to resist him. Really, she did.
Okay, she probably would have tried harder if her parents hadn’t spilled their horrible secret and turned her world upside down. At the time, she was hurting so badly she didn’t care who else she hurt.
And do you care now? that infuriating inner voice asks, as Jen again pictures her mother’s face when she pulled back from the hug this morning.
Life is easier when your conscience is obeying gag orders, that’s for sure.
“I thought Robby was in jail,” Rachel presses on.
“Well, he’s not.”
Not that Jen would know. She hasn’t spoken to him since the truant officer ushered her away from the car. When she snuck out of her room to use the phone last night, nobody answered at Robby’s apartment. She paged him again, too, but he never called back.
“Well, he isn’t in school today,” Rachel informs her.
“Yeah, I know.” Jen shrugs. From what she overheard in the hallway this morning, he’s been suspended—unless that, too, is a rumor. She has to figure out a way to get in touch with him.
Naturally, her parents have forbidden her to see him again.
Naturally, Jen has no intention of obeying their orders.
If she was momentarily scared straight yesterday afternoon in the moment before the cop pulled them over, she’s long over it by now.
She watches Garth come through the door of the lab, laughing and talking to Jackie Chamberlain. Jackie is one of those annoying girls who has it all together, and whose biggest fault is that she knows it.
For a moment, Jen finds herself watching them wistfully, forgetting that she no longer has a crush on Garth. He’s tall and well scrubbed in a cream-colored roll-neck sweater, neatly pressed khakis, white leather sneakers—the proverbial good guy dressed head-to-toe in pale shades that compliment his golden coloring.
Jen looks away, thinking of darkly handsome, devil-may-care Robby in his black leather jacket and new black boots.
Bad guys wear black.
Black.
White.
Yeah, right.
If only anything in Jen’s world were that simple.
Okay, the kid is five minutes late.
Either it took him longer than he thought to convince the girl to come with him, or he’s not going to show.
What if he’s already gone to the police?
Yeah, sure. What’s he going to tell them? That somebody hired him to lure Jen Carmody to this deserted stretch of waterfront and kill her?
Why would they believe a messed-up druggie?
There’s no evidence.
He’s got the cash, yes. But there are no prints on the bills.
He’s got the typewritten notes. No prints on those, either.
None of the phone calls can be traced.
If the kid is smart, he’ll finish the job he was hired to do.
Doesn’t he realize that either way, Jen Carmody is going to die?
And that either way, so is he?
Ah, but he doesn’t know that. As far as he’s concerned, all he has to do is deliver her to this spot, collect the rest of his fee, and walk away.
Yeah. Right.
An elderly man with a schnauzer on a leash passes by with a nod and a smile.
Nod. Smile back. Look away.
Damn it. This is what happens when you stop paying attention to details for even a moment. You find yourself grinning like an idiot as you walk down the street, and the next thing you know you’re making eye contact with a stranger. A stranger who might later be questioned by the police about whether they’ve seen anything unusual in this neighborhood lately. Anything, or anyone.
Well, look at that.
There’s the kid after all, walking in this direction.
Alone.
With a coffee can clutched in his hands.
So the local bad boy has a conscience after all.
Oh, well.
As they say, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.
“What are you doing here?”
Maeve turns to see Gregory striding into his office in blue dental scrubs.
“Didn’t Nora tell you I was here?” Nora is his longtime receptionist, an ill-tempered old biddy who blatantly dislikes Maeve. The feeling is mutual, of course.
“She said you were here, but she didn’t say why. And you’d better make this quick because I’m taking molds on a patient and they’ll be set in a minute.”
“I need more weekly support from you. I can either do this through the lawyers, which will wind up costing you, or we can settle this like adults.”
“Maeve . . .” He breaks off and exhales, looking at the fluorescent-lit drop ceiling. “Do we have to discuss this now? Right this second?”
“Erin needs a new coat. She needs boots, and she wants to join a ski club.”
“How much can that possibly be? I’ll write a check for—”
“If she’s going to join a ski club we’re going to get her into lessons on Saturdays,” Maeve goes on.
“I thought we were talking necessities, here, Maeve.”
“I’m not willing to risk our baby’s neck on the slopes. Are you?”
He sighs. “How much is all this going to cost?”
She hands him the notes she jotted this morning over a grande mocha latte and cranberry scone. “This is what I came up with.”
He glances over the paper, his eyes narrowing to a frown behind his unfashionable aviator glasses.
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