I maneuvered until I could grab its handle and pull it toward me. The lighting wasn’t great, but I didn’t need a thousand watts to see that the contents weren’t helpful. There was nothing that could be used as a weapon. Unfortunately. There was, however, a pen with one of the fancy tips meant to look like a quill. I could probably make do with it in a pinch. The question was how to smuggle it out of the trunk.
I was naked. That meant no pockets to hide it in. No folds to tuck it in. With my blonde pixie cut, I didn’t even have enough hair to conceal it behind my ear. I wasn’t willing to go down without a fight, though, so I worked it in between my bound wrists. It was a snug fit, and there was a chance I wouldn’t be able to get it out quickly enough, but it was better than nothing. The only other hiding places I had were body cavities, and those wouldn’t work for speedy retrieval either. This way, if I held my hands just right, the pen wouldn’t be seen. But hopefully I could get to it when I needed it. I could grip the tip, pull hard, wield it. Sharp end at the ready. Pray that it worked out that way.
I told myself those things. And I hoped. Hoped against hope.
I rifled through some papers. Found nothing helpful. Something shiny caught my eye. The red glow of the taillights glinting off plastic. There was a metal clip at the top. It was an identification badge, stuffed into one of the built-in card slots. I could see a blue rectangle at the top that boasted a capital letter T, but the name of the badge-holder was obscured.
The name of my captor?
Maybe.
Probably.
If I could get away… If I could get back to civilization, wherever that was… I’d have his name.
I’d nail his balls to the wall.
I was reaching for the badge when the brakes began to squeal. Both the case and I rolled toward the interior of the trunk. All I could glimpse was the first letter of the name.
An M.
The car crunched to a halt in what sounded like gravel. I pushed the case into the belly of the trunk, pushed the blanket over it. I rolled back into the position I woke in. Then I waited.
I feigned unconsciousness. Worked hard in those tense seconds to calm my breathing. That was no easy feat when every muscle in my body was quivering with readiness.
I listened. Reached out with my sense of hearing for any detail that might help me.
The car door popped. A short pause. Two soft thumps. A slam as he closed it behind himself.
I tried to imagine him walking around to the trunk. I came up with nothing but questions. Was he carrying a gun? Was he wielding a knife? Were his hands gloved because he wanted a good grip as he strangled me? Or bare because he wanted to feel the life drain out of me?
Images of a dark, faceless threat bombarded my mind. Crowded in on me inside the trunk.
The seconds it took him to reach the rear of the car were infinite. And also fleeting.
I wasn’t ready. But I had to be.
The trunk latch released. I took a deep breath. Held it. Forced my limbs to relax into as natural a pose of unconsciousness as possible. It wasn’t as difficult as it might’ve been. It was the one instance where my weakness worked for me rather than against me.
In the back of my mind, I wondered if I could walk very far in this condition. Or run if I needed to.
I pushed those thoughts down as deep as I could bury them. I couldn’t afford to be weak. Not now. Not yet. Not until this was over.
The lid popped open. Just a few inches then paused.
A rush of fresh air hit me. Night air. So crisp, so clean. Something inside me mourned the pleasure of that smell. I knew it would never be a pleasant scent ever again. However long “ever” ended up being for me. That could be five minutes, five days, or five years. No one could know the mind of a psychopath.
There was another pause, this one longer. Much longer. So long it was agonizing. I had to exhale. Let my breath out slowly. It oozed from my nostrils. My head swam lightly.
More questions. What was he doing? Taking one last look before he killed me? Admiring his handiwork? I was sure I looked like a woman who’d been through hell—naked, skinny, ratty hair, dirty hands, covered in blood. Did that give him pleasure? Satisfaction?
Nothing was happening. At least not on the outside. But on the inside, the anticipation was doing a number on me. I wanted to cry. Scream. Beg. Rant. Beg some more. Spit in his face. Dare him to kill me. Get on my knees and beg for him to let me go, for Dalton’s sake. Kill him. Then kill him again. I was still as a mouse, but there was a hurricane roaring inside me.
Before I could think better of it, I let my eyes slip open. Just a crack. The tiniest of cracks. So tiny that most of my field of vision was filled with my own matted eyelashes. But I could make out a shape. Backlit by the moon. He was tall. Hair seemed to be dark, close cut. He had broad shoulders. Looked fit. That gave me a shiver of apprehension. I’d probably only get one shot to take him down. Just long enough to make my escape. I’d have to make the best of it, because if he got his hands on me… Well, I doubted he’d have any trouble strangling me if that’s what he chose to do. Or raping me if he decided to go that route. Why couldn’t he have been a pale, sickly, fragile pervert?
I tried to look down at his hands, but I couldn’t see them without turning my head. I knew better than to do that. It was probably for the best anyway. If they held a gun or a knife, I’d have much less of a chance, and knowing that might intimidate me. Give me pause. Cost me everything.
I soon got to see that his hands were empty, though. Without any sort of warning, he bent into the trunk, grabbed me under my knees and shoulders, and lifted me out. I tried to let my head loll. Go boneless. I didn’t have much choice on what to do with my arms and legs since they were bound at the wrists and ankles.
With every step he took, gravel crunched under his shoes. My heart rate accelerated accordingly. Within six falls of his feet, my muscles were trembling with a rush of adrenaline.
I listened to the steady huff of air from his nostrils. Felt the rise and fall of his chest. He wasn’t even winded. The sound was soothing, though, so I focused on it. Made myself calm. Then as gently and as imperceptibly as I could, tried to work the fountain pen loose.
I tugged, but got nowhere. It was hung up on the tape. I needed to pull harder, but I didn’t want him detect my movement.
He came to a stop. All I could think was that I needed more time.
I’m not ready!
Alternatives filed through my mind. Small soldiers, there and gone. I could bite his jugular if I struck while he was holding me. I could kick him in the face when he laid me down. I could claw out his eyes when he leaned close. If I could hurt him just enough to buy me some time to free the pen, then…
I was weightless. Just for a few seconds. And then something cold touched my butt.
He sat me down. Then laid me down. Something smooth and frigid pressed into my back. It was grooved. Bit into my right shoulder, hip, and thigh.
I watched through the slit of my lids as he stood. I tensed for action. I’d lost my chance to bite, so kicking it would be.
Before I could move into action, he backed away. Just out of reach. Took my choices with him.
When he was several feet away, I heard him mutter, “I’m so sorry.”
And then, much to my surprise and relief, he walked away. Moved quickly to his car. Ducked behind the wheel. Started up, drove away.
He left me there.
I was going to live.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Marcy’s phone chirps and she glances down at the screen. It simply reads MOM, although there’s nothing simple about the woman herself. Marcy’s mother is what people call a “real piece of work”.
With a sigh, Marcy lets it go to voicemail. “I’ll call you back later, Mom,” she says to the empty kitchen.
Finishing up with the rolling pin, Marcy uses the star shaped cookie cutter to press shapes into the dough, pulling them out gently so as not to rip off a point. Car
oline has always loved her sugar cookies, and Marcy is feeling particularly in need of some love from her daughter. This might just be the way to get it. Even though Caroline might not tell her with words that she loves her anymore, there are times when Marcy just knows it. When she can feel it. She knows when her child is pleased and happy, and that’s love enough for Marcy. At least it is most of the time.
She’s placing stars on a baking sheet when the phone rings a second time. Marcy sees her mother’s number pop up again, and again she lets it go to voicemail. This time, a couple of minutes after it rings, a different tone sounds. A message.
Marcy pauses on her way to the oven, glaring at the phone. “I could check the message, but that could be just as bad as actually talking to you, so I think I’ll let it go and listen to it on a day I’d like to ruin.”
With a smile, she slides the pan into the oven and sets the timer. Now to clean up…
Ten minutes later, Marcy is wiping off the island and tossing the damp rag into the sink as she heads for the oven. The kitchen is already warm and toasty with the scent of sugar and vanilla. Maybe that will be enough to bring Caroline down on her own. Probably not, but maybe.
There’s always maybe.
When the cookies are decorated, cooled and plated, and there’s still no sign of Caroline, Marcy gets a saucer and puts a few stars on it. Maybe she can lure her out into the sun for a cookie. Marcy isn’t above bribery—or any other means she can think of—to get through to her daughter. Second only to her persnickety ways is her tenacity. Growing up, Marcy’s mother used to call her a little pitbull. She was fond of telling anyone who would listen that once Marcy sank her teeth into something, there was no getting her to let it go. Marcy never loved that analogy, but she had to admit it was fitting.
When Marcy rounds the corner into Caroline’s room, she finds her daughter on her bed. Some nights she can hardly get her to sleep in her bed, much less play on it.
“What are you up to, sweet girl?”
Caroline doesn’t glance up or respond in any way. She just keeps staring straight ahead. Her legs are stretched out in front of her, her back against the wall. One sock is off and her favorite ratty sneakers are on the bed beside her.
Marcy approaches slowly, setting the cookies down between them as she scoots onto the edge of the bed. She tracks Caroline’s line of sight. She’s looking out the window. At what, Marcy has no idea.
“What are you looking at?”
Despite the increasing certainty that she won’t get an answer to any question she asks, Marcy persists in at least trying. She’ll keep asking. As long as she can stand it.
Marcy gets up and goes to the window. A flash of bright red catches her eye. She recognizes the glossy paint and sleek body of her mother’s cherry-red convertible Mercedes. She’s stopped two houses down, in the middle of the road, and she’s just getting back into her car.
“What the hell is she doing here?” Marcy grumbles. She whirls toward Caroline. “You stay here and eat your cookies. I’ll go take care of grandma.”
Caroline voices no feelings on the matter, one way or the other. Most children would be excited about an impromptu visit from their grandmother. Then again, most children don’t have a grandmother like Caroline’s. Marcy’s daughter has either inherited Marcy’s own disdain for the woman, or she is just a smart, intuitive kid.
Some people can just sense evil, Marcy thinks waspishly as she races down the stairs to head her mother off before she can get too close to coming inside. If Marcy lets her in, she’ll never get rid of her. Or her opinions and unsolicited advice.
She flings open the locks and throws open the door, stepping out onto the porch just as the Mercedes is pulling to a stop in the driveway.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Marcy dons a tight smile as her mother climbs out from behind the wheel.
“This is a surprise,” she begins. “What are you doing here, mother?”
Ruby Graham raises one perfectly manicured hand, enormous diamond-and-ruby ring glinting in the sun, to smooth an imaginary flyaway blonde hair. Then she flashes Marcy the same smile she’s used to trick six different men into marrying her. Marcy has always thought of it as her “I’m going to get what I want. Why bother to fight it?” smile.
“What kind of a greeting is that for your dear mother?”
Cautiously, she picks her way toward Marcy, her feet less than steady.
“You’re going to break your neck in those.”
Ruby stops to kick up a heel. “But what a way to go, don’t you think? This year’s new Fendi pumps. I couldn’t love them one bit more.”
I’m sure you love them more than your family, because some things never change.
“They’re pretty.”
“Pretty?” Ruby’s brows twitch, but don’t draw down into a frown. That might cause a wrinkle. “Fendi shoes aren’t ‘pretty.’ They’re timeless. They’re art for the legs. They’re—”
“Okay, I get it, Mom. They’re fabulous, but they don’t tell me what you’re doing here.”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
Marcy swallows a curse. “No, I’ve been busy this morning.”
“How is it that I saw you more when you lived twenty hours away in Texas than I do now?”
Marcy shrugs. “I’ve just been busy with the move and all.”
“It doesn’t take that long to move, for God’s sake.”
“What did I miss in your message?”
Ruby finally makes it to the porch in a cloud of perfume that somehow, oddly, seems to match her outfit. It’s dark and musky and woodsy, as are her mushroom-colored slacks and blouse. “I was asking if you wanted to go to see Beauty and the Beast with me tonight in Charlotte? I hear it’s quite worth the time.”
“I don’t think so, Mom, but thanks.”
“And why not? What excuse do you have for not coming with me?”
“Why do I have to have an excuse? I just don’t want to go.”
“Nonsense. I’ll take you to dinner and then we’ll see the production. Just please tell me you have something nicer to wear than that.”
Marcy glances down at her designer jeans and peasant shirt. “I do, but I’m not going, so I think I’ll just keep this on.”
“Yes, you are.” Ruby lightly stomps one foot. It’s not the first time Marcy has seen her mimic such a petulant, childish gesture, and she’s sure it won’t be the last. Ruby Graham has been known to throw tantrums like a prima donna when she doesn’t get what she wants. Lucky for Marcy, she’s past the days of giving in to those fits. But still, Ruby’s visits make her uncomfortable. The majority of the time, they end in confrontation, which Marcy finds emotionally draining. And with Caroline getting worse, she feels like she doesn’t have a lot of emotional energy to spare.
“No, I’m not. I can’t.”
“Give me one good reason why. Just one and I’ll drop it.”
Marcy can’t think of one right off the bat, so she stalls. “What were you doing in the street? When I looked out, I saw your car parked in the middle of the road, and you were just getting back in it.”
“I was performing a duty that your neighborhood watch ought to be doing.”
“A duty? What kind of duty?”
“I was checking out a car that was parked along the street. There was someone in it, just sitting, staring down in this direction. I got out and asked her if she lives around here. You can’t be too careful these days.”
“And confronting a possible criminal is just the way to stay safe,” Marcy jabs in sarcasm.
“It’s broad daylight, and it was a woman. I didn’t have any reason to be afraid.”
“If you didn’t have to be afraid, then we don’t either.”
“I felt differently about it once I spoke with her.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was young, and when I asked her what she was doing, she got nervous and said she was on her way home. She pulled into your neighbor’s dri
ve.” Ruby tips her head toward the Halpern residence. “She was up to something, though. My gut tells me she was.”
“Maybe it was the nanny. Our neighbors have a daughter, and a nanny to help take care of her. I haven’t met her yet.”
Ruby’s brows rise at that. “Well, that explains the car. It was a very nice black Infiniti. Clearly, there’s a lot of money around here.”
“What did she look like?”
“Gorgeous. Blonde. Young. But something about her… I can’t put my finger on it. She was up to no good.”
“You’re suspicious of everyone, mother,” Marcy remarks drolly. Of course, according to John, Marcy is, too. Maybe it’s hereditary. “She was parked up the street, just sitting in her car, you said?”
Ruby nods. “Very suspicious in my book. Maybe even more so when you live just a few houses down.”
“I wonder what she was doing.”
“I don’t know. Talking to some pervert on her phone. Waiting to go home for some reason. Who knows? But she didn’t get out. She pulled into the driveway and then, a few seconds later, left again. Maybe she didn’t live there after all.”
“Was there anyone in the car with her?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Maybe it wasn’t the nanny then.”
Maybe it was just someone watching.
Marcy’s mind starts to race. She thinks of the dark car she’s seen driving away on more than one occasion, and how she feels like she’s being watched. It could be coincidence, this woman in the car her mother saw. Or, it could be more. It could be that she’s the author of the letters. It could be the woman with a bone to pick.
I know it was you. You’re going to pay for what you did. 7-2
The words are etched into Marcy’s brain, burned onto the inside of her skull. Such menace. Such promise. Malice practically oozes from each syllable. Someone brave enough to write and send a letter like that was probably capable of bad things. Very bad things.
Right Next Door Page 15