Wearing sunglasses.
Outside Reading Terminal, Cam gives her a hug. She’s parked in the garage across the street.
“Please be careful.”
“I really wish people would stop saying that to me,” Lucinda tells her as she bends over to press a kiss against little Grace’s downy hair. “Trust me, I don’t have a death wish.”
“I just hope that when they get this guy,” Cam says, “they take him alive.”
Lucinda doesn’t have to ask why.
She knows the whole story. Knows that Eugene Fox and Andrew Stockman were in Attica together—in adjoining cells, according to the records Vic found.
Eugene Fox might very well be the only person on earth who can confirm their suspicions that Ava Neary was murdered. Ava, and Sandra, and all those other girls pictured in the scrapbook he sent Lucinda.
If they get him, perhaps they can offer answers to all those grieving, bewildered families, including Cam’s.
But something tells Lucinda that when June 18 comes, Eugene Fox will never let himself be taken alive.
And that he’s going to do everything in his power to bring Lucinda down in a blaze of glory with him, FBI or no FBI.
Unmasking the Night Watchman was a bittersweet triumph for Vic Shattuck.
He never imagined that with a name and a face at last, the killer—no longer an unsub—would remain free.
Now, with June 18 just six days away, Vic is ensconced in the field office on Arch Street in Philadelphia, working on the Norway angle—which seems to be a frustrating dead end; missing Kitty like crazy; worrying about Lucinda Sloan like crazy.
Annabelle Wyatt assured him and reassured him that they won’t let anything happen to Lucinda, but there are no guarantees.
Annabelle knows it, Vic knows it, and he has no doubt Lucinda knows it, too.
If she has any misgivings, though, they’re hidden away as effectively as the Watchman himself is.
She’s willingly going along with Annabelle’s plan to set a trap for the Night Watchman on June 18, using Lucinda herself as the bait.
“Why not consider a decoy?” Vic asked. “We can get an agent who looks like you to take your place.”
“Do you think that will work?” Lucinda asked Annabelle.
And Annabelle, damn her, shrugged.
“I’ll stay,” Lucinda decided. “We can’t let him slip through our fingers.”
Either she’s the bravest woman Vic has ever known in his life, or the most foolish.
Possibly a bit of both.
Maybe Lucinda still, somehow, doesn’t get it. Maybe she doesn’t understand just how clever and cold-blooded a killer the Night Watchman is. Maybe she doesn’t grasp how much danger she’s in.
But Vic does.
And he’s not going to let another innocent woman die.
He tried, early on, to talk her out of this, tried to convince her to go into hiding.
She flat-out refused.
“Something tells me Annabelle wouldn’t be thrilled to know you’d even suggested it, Vic,” she’d said, wearing an amused little smile.
She was right.
But he could not, in good conscience, let a woman put her life on the line without at least giving her an out.
He suspects he’ll live to regret that she didn’t take it. She won’t, though.
Not because Vic might be wrong about what’s going to happen on June 18.
Lucinda Sloan won’t live to regret it because she won’t live at all.
Hearing her mother’s heels tapping briskly across the marble corridor, Lucinda turns to see Bitsy Sloan in the doorway of the drawing room. She’s dressed—in the middle of a week-day—in a navy silk dress and pearls.
Nice to know that some things never change.
“Lucinda! What in the world are you doing here?”
“Hello, Mother. I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d stop by.”
And so the lies begin. Reading Terminal is hardly in the neighborhood.
Yet after Lucinda left Cam, she decided that if ever there were a time to reach out to her mother, this is it.
Her mother looks at Magdalena, who escorted Lucinda into the mansion after she rang the bell.
“Can you please bring us some tea?”
“Right away.” The maid nods, then flashes Lucinda a smile. “It’s nice to see you again, Ms. Sloan.”
“You, too, Magdalena.”
“Let’s sit down.” Bitsy arranges herself on an eighteenth century French sofa and indicates the chair opposite. “What’s wrong?”
What isn’t?
If Bitsy were a different kind of mother—and, to be fair, if Lucinda were a different kind of daughter—she might be tempted to pour out the whole story. She might even be tempted to stay.
Behind the stone and ivy walls of the Sloan mansion, she feels unreachable, untouchable. That, of course, is the whole idea.
Generations of Sloans before her actually believed that the real world, with all its problems, couldn’t penetrate the fortress.
But Lucinda never bought into the illusion, and she isn’t going to start now. She’s here not because it’s a safe haven, but because she has something to say.
And not much time to say it.
It might be now or never. So talk.
“I wanted you to know that I’ve been thinking about how little time we’ve spent together over the years, Mother, and I want that to change.”
Bitsy Sloan’s perfectly arched eyebrows disappear beneath the bangs of her perfectly styled pageboy, yet she maintains her composure as she replies, “I see. What made you start thinking about that?”
“Who knows? Maybe, now that I’m in my thirties, I’m finally growing up.”
It was a joke, but her mother’s response is unexpectedly heartfelt.
“You’ve always been grown-up, Lucinda. Maybe that was part of the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“You never really needed me.”
“Oh, Mother, don’t—”
“Please.” Her mother holds up a hand. “Just let me speak. And then you can speak. Who knows? Maybe we’ll have an actual conversation.” She flashes a grim smile.
Again caught off guard, Lucinda returns it.
“You were always independent, Lucinda. You were determined to take care of yourself from the time you were very young. You didn’t need me. And I was relieved, to be perfectly honest, not to be needed. I had my life; your father had his; you had yours. For a very long time, I thought it worked quite nicely.”
“I guess maybe it did.”
“But now, sitting here shocked to see you appear out of nowhere in the middle of the day, I realize I don’t know a thing about what it is that you do, exactly. Or where and how you live. Or…who you are.”
“I really didn’t think you wanted to know, Mother.”
“I didn’t.” Bitsy shrugs. “I’m not going to pretend any differently. Just as I’m sure you don’t really want to know what it is that I do, day in and day out, or who I am.”
Lucinda opens her mouth to tell her that she does know.
But do you?
“Maybe we can try to spend some time together then,” she tells her mother. “Maybe Dad will even join us.”
“I doubt that. But maybe. He’ll be home on Sunday night for a few days. Why don’t you come to dinner while he’s here?”
“Next week? I can’t.” Seeing the flash of disappointment in her mother’s eyes, she adds, “But soon. I promise.”
Even as she says it, a little voice warns her, you shouldn’t make promises you aren’t sure you can keep.
“All right, Frank, I’m going to give you something stronger for the pain. Can you hear me, Frank? If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
He squeezes Angie’s hand.
Or is it Mary?
“Frank, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
He’s squeezing, dammit.
“He probably can, whether
he’s squeezing or not,” another voice says. “Hearing is the last thing to go.”
“Frank, we’re making you comfortable, okay, honey?”
Her voice is very far away.
“I need ten more cc’s, Angie.”
Ten.
Numbers. It’s always about the numbers.
“Frank, I know it hurts. …”
Her voice fades before he can tell her that she’s wrong.
It doesn’t hurt.
Finally, it doesn’t hurt at all.
As they climb the steps to Neal’s house, Randy squeezes Lucinda’s hand. “I’m starved. How about you?”
“You know me. I’m always hungry.”
Lies.
He doesn’t know her. He thinks he does, but he doesn’t.
And she isn’t hungry. How can she eat, knowing what’s going to happen tomorrow?
For once in her life, Lucinda wishes she were enveloped in darkness.
That way, Randy wouldn’t be able to see her face and perhaps sense that she’s hiding something from him.
But the sun is still riding high in the sky, though it’s early evening now. Lawnmowers hum, a group of boys play street hockey on a neighboring driveway, and children ride tricycles on the sidewalk as watchful parents chat.
It’s all so ordinary—such a far cry from the insulated stone mansion Lucinda left behind a little while ago. Fresh from the unexpectedly candid conversation with her mother, she finds herself craving something she didn’t even realize was missing.
Family ties.
Roots.
Ordinary—and thus, for her, extraordinary—everyday life.
Neal opens the door, wearing slacks and a polo shirt. “Lucinda. Randy. Glad you could make it. Come on in.”
Looking around the front hall, Randy hands him the bottle of wine they brought. “You know, it’s been years since I was here, Neal.”
“Oh, well, it hasn’t changed much—except that there’s a lot more clutter, and some things are a little more worn out, just like the people who live here.”
“Hey, speak for yourself.” Erma appears from the kitchen. “It’s good to see you again, Randy.”
“You, too.” He hugs her. “I hear you retired. Congratulations.”
“A year ago, but thank you. I just wish Neal would join me. It gets lonely around here.”
Randy turns to Neal. “You hear that? Your wife is lonely. Don’t you think it’s time you threw in the towel?”
“Not yet,” Neal says gruffly.
“Then when?” Lucinda asks.
“When it’s time. And that’s all I have to say about that.”
Erma shakes her head, then gives Lucinda a quick hug. “How are you, sweetie? Hanging in there?”
She must know what’s been going on. Lucinda figures there are few secrets between Neal and his wife.
Before she can assure Erma that she is, indeed, hanging in there, Garland Fisher steps out of the kitchen. “Erma, don’t shoot the messenger, but your rice just boiled all over the stove.”
“Oh, no!” She scurries past him.
“Lucinda, I know you’ve met our neighbor.” Neal gestures at Garland. “He popped over so I invited him to stay for dinner. Garland Fisher, this is Randy Barakat.”
“Nice to see you again, Lucinda. Good to meet you, Randy.” Wearing cargo pants and a khaki fishing hat, Garland shakes both their hands warmly.
Lucinda flashes back to the night it all began, remembering how she suspected Garland of stealing the scrapbook.
But his eyes are anything but cold and black. How little she knew back then.
To think that Eugene Fox was here, in this house with them, that night. He brazenly came in the front door, knocked over the vase and frightened the children, then crept into the kitchen while they were all distracted here.
He could have followed Lucinda home, or been waiting in her apartment when she got there.
He could have killed her right then and there, but he didn’t.
He wanted to wait.
Timing, after all, is everything.
For him.
And for me.
Looking at Randy and Neal, Lucinda can only hope that when the time comes, they’ll understand.
Trust.
That’s always been an issue for her.
For three weeks now, she’s been thinking about the handful of people with whom she’s entrusted her keys, her secrets, her safety, her heart.
Neal. Cam. Randy. Even Vic.
But when you get right down to it, there’s only one person on the face of this earth she’s willing to entrust with her life itself.
That person is Lucinda Sloan.
Chapter Twenty-five
On Friday morning, Lucinda calls Randy early, before he can call her.
That’s unusual.
“Hey, why aren’t you sleeping in?” he asks, hearing her voice.
“Didn’t feel like it. Are you at work?”
“Yes, and I definitely could have stood to sleep in after getting home at one in the morning. I wish you had let me call in sick today and stay at your place last night like I wanted to.”
“Another time,” she tells him.
“Are you still coming out here tomorrow to go to the beach? It’s going to be a gorgeous day.”
She hesitates. “We’ll see, okay? I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
Uh-oh.
Something tells Randy she’s going to back out.
“Lucinda?”
But she’s already hung up, and Dan Lambert is standing in the doorway of Randy’s office.
“What’s up, Dan?”
Seeing the look in his eyes, Randy bows his head.
He knows what’s coming, but still, it’s a blow to hear the words.
“Frank Santiago died last night.”
“Tess? Did you get the dress on? Do you need help?” Cam calls through the closed door of her daughter’s room.
“No. You can come in.”
She opens the door.
Tess stands in front of the mirror, wearing a coral-colored chiffon cocktail dress and the new high-heeled sandals they bought last night, her face made-up and her hair in layered waves that fall past her shoulders at last.
“Oh, Tess.”
“Do I look okay?”
Cam shakes her head.
“I don’t look okay?”
“No, you do! You do. You look beautiful. And so grown up I just…I can’t believe it. Five minutes ago, I was pushing you on a swing.”
“Um, Mom? I think that was Grace.”
“No, that was you. Trust me.”
“Well, you know what they say. Time flies.”
Yes. It does. Whether you’re having fun, or not.
Looking back over Tess’s childhood, Cam thinks of all she missed, lost in a haze of booze and anxiety. And now look. Tess is a woman. In no time, she’ll be gone.
Time does fly. It’s more precious than Cam ever knew.
That’s why she’s not going to waste another minute dwelling on what happened in the past. What’s done is done.
You know the truth about Ava. You don’t need to hear it from a sick, depraved human being like Eugene Fox. Why give him the satisfaction? It won’t change anything. It won’t bring Ava back.
It’s been thirty-five years. It’s time to let go.
Cam wipes a tear from her eye.
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
“Nothing,” she tells Tess. “Nothing at all.”
And she means it.
On her knees pulling weeds from the flower bed beside the front door, Erma looks up in surprise—immediately followed by dread—when Neal pulls into the driveway.
“What are you doing home in the middle of the afternoon? Did something happen?”
“Yes.” He steps out of the car. “I’ve made a decision.”
Erma stands and pulls off her gardening gloves, brushing dirt from her shorts. “What is it?”
“I’m
going to retire.”
Erma breaks into a grin. “Why now?”
Neal hesitates.
He could tell her about all the missing persons who will never be found, with or without him.
He could tell her that last night, just before he crossed the yard to his own empty house, Garland Fisher told him how lucky he is.
Or he could tell her about Frank Santiago.
Someday, they’ll talk about all of those things.
For now, he just shrugs and says simply, “Because it’s time.”
“Lucinda! There you are. I’ve been trying to call you for the last two hours, at home and on your cell. Where have you been?”
She ignores Randy’s question. “I got your messages. Is everything okay?”
“I wanted to tell you that Frank passed away last night.”
“Oh, no.” For a moment, her own troubles disappear. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “I’ve been thinking about something he said to me the last time I saw him. I want to tell you about it. Why don’t you drive out here tonight instead of waiting until tomorrow?”
“Randy, I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t come tonight or you can’t come tomorrow?”
“Both. I just need some time, okay?”
“Time for what?”
She clutches the phone, wishing she could tell him, wishing she could see him, wishing she could say that she loves him, too….
And wishing he knew the truth.
But he can’t.
Not yet.
Not until it comes to an end, one way or another.
“Vic, it’s Annabelle. I have news, and it’s not good.”
“What is it?” He sits on the bed in his Philadelphia hotel room and braces himself for the worst.
“She’s gone.”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s missing, Vic. We have no idea what happened to her. Nobody’s seen her since she got home late last night.”
“Who?” he asks in dread, though he already knows.
“Lucinda Sloan.”
Elliott Bay is bathed in a pink glow tonight as the sun sinks low in a purplish-blue sky, with the frosty tip of Mount Rainier visible in the distance.
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