Wherever She Goes

by Kelley Armstrong

  “You couldn’t,” he says after a moment. “Not when you’d first met me. It was too soon. But I wish you had, at some point. At any point.”

  “I know. I just … The further it went, the more afraid I got. The easier it seemed to just become someone else.”

  “Were you?” he asks softly. “Were you actually someone else, Bree? Or were you just pretending to be?”

  “Was I pretending to be your wife? Charlie’s mommy? No.” I look at him. “Pretending to be happy? No. But the person you fell in love with, the one you married, you had a child with, that wasn’t the whole me, and I’m sorry.”

  He says nothing. I bend and snake out a last bit of vine.

  “So, MIT, huh?” he says, and when I look over, he’s smiling. It’s not his usual smile—it’s a little sad, a little confused—so I just nod.

  “When you’re done with the AC, my desktop has been acting up,” he says. “Think you can fix that, too?”

  I find a half smile for him. “Probably.” I straighten. “Let’s see if this works.”

  “It should.” A long pause. “Will you stay for coffee?”

  “I will, but only because all this isn’t what I came to talk to you about. Let’s go inside.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  We sit at the kitchen table, and I tell him everything, as succinctly as I can. I explain how I identified Kim Mikhailov, linked her to Denis Zima, went to Zima’s club and overheard that conversation … and then had Zima’s thug menace me on my jog tonight.

  “So, my concern is…” I begin, and then I trail off as I catch his expression and realize he’s no longer hearing me. He’s just staring.

  “I’m okay,” I say carefully.

  “I can see that.” He pulls back and rubs his hands over his face.

  “Paul?” I say. “Are you okay?”

  “My wife just told me how she identified a dead woman, staked out a Russian mobster’s nightclub, taped a covert conversation from the closet, and then overpowered one of his thugs.”

  “I didn’t exactly overpower—”

  “You took a gun from a man who wouldn’t hesitate to use it on you.”

  “It was in his waistband. He hadn’t pulled it. I knew what I was doing.”

  “Yes, Aubrey, that would be my point. You knew what you were doing. With all of it.”

  “Oh.”

  Earlier I said the woman he married wasn’t the whole me, and now I see the truth of that in his expression. He’s known I’m a thief, a tech whiz, but it hasn’t penetrated until this moment. He’s looking at me the way he’d look at a stranger. Because he’s realized that’s what I am.

  A stranger he married. A stranger who bore his child, who is now helping raise his child.

  I take a deep breath. “Yes, I grew up knowing how to fight back. I learned some martial arts, some marksmanship. Part of that was because I planned to go into the army, but part was because my father knew that as a woman I might need those skills outside a battlefield. You’re wondering now how much of that I’ve passed on to our daughter. You’ve seen our pretend sword fighting, our roughhousing. I haven’t initiated any of that. Maybe whatever makes me crave exercise is what makes her love physical play, too. I’m not trying to turn her into me, Paul. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “That’s not—” He shakes his head. “Your father was right. Harnessing that physicality to defend yourself was a good idea. I hope to God that Charlie is never pulled into an alley, but if she is, I want her to be able to do what you did. To fight back. To escape. I just … You’re not…”

  “The woman you thought you married.”

  A long silence.

  I put my mug down with a clack. “I’ll leave in a minute, Paul. I just wanted you to know what happened. I offhandedly mentioned that I didn’t have kids, and Zima’s thug didn’t bat an eye, so I’m hoping that means they don’t know about Charlie. I hid everything of hers in my apartment, so if they finish breaking in, they won’t find it.”

  “Finish breaking in?”

  “Someone tried while the thug distracted me. That’s why I left. I’m going to a hotel, but I wanted you to know what happened, in case you think that endangers you or Charlie.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t. You said this thug didn’t even believe you saw Kim with a child. That’s what he said on the phone. He must have tracked you down to see what you’d say in person. When you brushed him off, he snapped. Men like him aren’t accustomed to that sort of treatment. You supported his conviction that there’s no child, though. That’s what he’ll take back to Zima—even you have retracted your story. The boy is safe somewhere, and his aunt is probably on her way to get him.”

  “Yes, but be careful, please. Lock the doors. Arm the security system. I’d offer to look after Charlie tomorrow, but that’s not a good idea. Is there anyone else who can take her, so she’s not at daycare?”

  “I’d stay home, but I have trial. Gayle’s taking a few days off. Maybe I could ask…” He doesn’t finish.

  “That’s fine with me.”

  He nods, but it’s absent, his gaze distant.

  I rise. “If anything else happens, I’ll let you know.”

  He gets to his feet before I can leave. “You should stay here tonight.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll get a hotel—”

  “No, stay. That’s safer, and Charlie will like to see you.”

  I hesitate. “I don’t want to confuse her. Having me here…”

  “We’ll tell her that you stopped by for breakfast because you didn’t get to see her on the weekend.”

  I nod slowly. “Okay, I’ll take the futon in your study.”

  “I’ll take the futon. You have the bed.”

  I think of that. Of sleeping in my old bed. Of waking in the night, thinking I’m home. Waking in the morning, thinking I never left, and these six months have been a bad dream. And then realizing the truth.

  “No,” I say. “Please. I don’t … I’d rather take the futon.”

  He nods and goes to find bedding for it.

  * * *

  I still wake in the night. Wake smelling my home. Then I remember what woke me. I’d dreamed of Charlotte finding me on the futon, and seeing my purse, and going to check whether I brought her anything and pulling out the thug’s gun—

  I inhale so sharply it hurts. Then I scramble for my purse, only to remember that I left the gun in the car. I put it under the seat.

  Did I lock the car doors? I’m sure I did but …

  I slip outside. The car is locked, but I open it and move the gun into the glove box. Then I lock that. Lock the car next. Go back inside, lock those doors and rearm the security system. I hear a noise overhead, the creak of a footstep. Paul appears at the top of the stairs.

  “Aubrey?” he says, and there’s a note in his voice, as if I’m not the only one who is confused, finding me here. Then he shakes off sleep and comes down the steps. “Is everything okay?”

  “I had a nightmare about the gun,” I say. “I was just making sure it was secured.”

  He nods, and that sleepy confusion lingers in his eyes. He gives my arm a squeeze and leans over to kiss the top of my head. Then he stops, as if realizing what he’s doing, simple reflex.

  I squeeze his arm in return and murmur something as I slip back to his office to sleep.

  * * *

  I wake on that futon and … God, this is hard. Harder than I would have ever imagined. I haven’t been back to this house since I left, and I didn’t think that was intentional, but I realize now that it was. I stayed away even when I had reasons to come there, when I’d need something for Charlotte on the weekend and Paul wouldn’t be home, and he’d say, “Just go grab it. The key’s in the usual place.” I went without rather than set foot in this house.

  I remember once, as a child, we got a home off base. Dad didn’t care much for the base housing options, and there were good places to rent elsewhere. I had a house with a yard and a pool and a purple bed
room with sunflower curtains. I made friends with a girl next door and a boy down the street, my first non-military friendships. We spent the summer exploring the ravine and forest behind our house. When Dad got transferred, I ran away. After we left, I cried every night. He painted my new room purple. He bought me sunflower curtains. And I hated them, because I’d wake up and think I was back there.

  That’s what this felt like, only ten times worse. I’d been happy in that other house, but I’d never been an unhappy child. I’d just found something special there. In this home, with Paul and Charlotte, I’d been unbelievably happy. Now I wake on the futon, and I want to grab my overnight bag and run, still wearing my nighttime sweats.

  I don’t, of course. That’s as childish as running away from my father, and I’m no longer a child. I suck it up, and I slip into the kitchen, and I make coffee. I notice Paul has bought one of those K-Cup brewers, and I have to smile at that. He never could make proper coffee, and he’d happily given up his K-Cup bachelor machine when we moved in together. Now the old brew pot is shoved back on the counter, dusty and unused. I find coffee in the freezer, right where I kept it. The same coffee I left there. I push back pangs of grief, and I brew a pot. I open the cupboard, and I reach for his cup and …

  It’s gone.

  We had a set of Lady and the Tramp coffee mugs, ones we bought at Disney World. When you pushed them together, the handle cutouts formed a heart. Couple mugs. Tossed out, I presume, until I spot them at the back of the cupboard. I take out two generic ones. Fill them. Feel another pang as I add his cream, never pausing for a second to remember how much he takes. I fix his coffee by motor memory.

  When I lived here, I’d get up early to make coffee and wake him with his mug. Once I have this one ready, I’m halfway up the stairs before I remember this is no longer my place. Our bedroom is definitely not my place. It’s the one spot in this house I shouldn’t enter. I’m heading back down when I hear his footsteps in the hall. Then, “Bree?”

  I hold up the mug. He comes down. He’s pulled on sweatpants, but that’s it, and I notice he’s lost weight. That thickening through his middle is gone, the early stages of a spare tire reversed, and I feel a stab of pain even at that. It’s a sign he’d made a conscious effort to lose that extra weight in preparation for dating.

  Can’t blame him for that, can I?

  He takes the coffee, and I’m about to head down to the kitchen when he says, “Do you want to wake Charlie?”

  I frown, thinking it’s too early. Normally I’d get him up and off to work and then relax with a second coffee until Charlotte wakes around eight, maybe even nine if I’m lucky.

  That’s how we did things when Mommy stayed home. Mommy no longer stays home, and Daddy needs to drop Charlotte off on his way to work.

  I nod and slip past him. I climb the steps to my daughter’s room, for the first time in six months. I open the door, and I see her sleeping and … The crib is gone. She’s in a bed. Her own bed. My baby sleeping in a regular bed. My baby growing up … without me.

  I’ve been so careful, stifling the pangs of grief, feeling my eyes well, allowing no more than a single tear to slide down my cheek. Now that self-restraint snaps. It starts with a burst of tears, and then I’m sobbing.

  “Bree?”

  It’s Paul. He’s right behind me. He must have been there the whole time, and when I turn, he quickly puts his coffee mug on the bannister.

  I close Charlotte’s door. “I-I can’t,” I manage between heaving breaths. “I-I’m sorry. I need … I need to go.”

  I bolt for the stairs, tears blinding me. I hit his coffee mug, and I hear it crash. I let out a gasp and a frantic apology. Paul’s arms go around me. I think he’s just keeping me from tumbling half-blind down the stairs. Then he pulls me against him.

  At first I resist. I smell the faint scent of night sweat, and I feel his skin against my cheek, and I hear his heartbeat, and my brain screams that this isn’t mine, not anymore. It’s like seeing Charlotte in her new bed. I want to flee while I still can. But Paul pulls me into a tight embrace, and he whispers in my ear that it’s okay. I collapse against him. He pats my back with one hand and holds me with the other, and he tells me it’s okay, and I hear permission to break down, to fall apart. So I do.

  I sob against his chest until the pressure finally eases, until I can lift my head to say I’m all right. I look up and … he kisses me. His mouth goes to mine, and there isn’t a moment of surprise in that, not a moment of hesitation either. He’s kissing me, and my arms go around his neck, and I’m kissing him back and oh God, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed him so much. Time blurs as I pour that longing and need into my kiss. I forget where I am. I forget whatever I should be doing. I certainly forget that I should not be doing this. Or maybe I do remember that last part … and I just don’t care.

  It’s a deep, desperate kiss, and the next thing I know, I’m in our bedroom. He lowers me onto the bed. Or maybe I pull him down onto it. I have no idea who does what—I only know that neither one needs to prod the other. I’m on the bed, and he’s over me, and we’re still kissing. He has my shirt up, and I’m tugging down his sweatpants, and it comes as naturally as fixing his coffee. Motor memory, the hungry kiss, and then both of us falling into bed and—

  His phone buzzes. I glance over to see it standing on the charger. Paul puts his hands to my face, getting my attention and ignoring his phone, but when I see the name that flashes, I pull away. He glances at the phone. He sees the name—he must—but it doesn’t seem to register. He only lowers his mouth to mine again. I pull back and scramble from under him.

  “Gayle,” I say.

  There’s still no reaction. Or if there is, it’s confusion, like I’m speaking an unfamiliar name.

  I wave at the ringing phone as I clamber off the bed. “We can’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have— That’s not right. You have … Gayle.”

  He gives a soft—and uncharacteristic—curse and hits the Ignore button. By then, I’m at the door. He doesn’t come after me. He just sits on the edge of the bed, face in his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “It wasn’t you.”

  “It’s…” I inhale. “Habit, right? Being here. It’s just habit. I’m sorry. I’d never— I know you have … someone … and I wouldn’t try to do that. It’s disrespectful.”

  “Disrespectful.” He gives a short laugh and shakes his head.

  “I’ll go,” I say. “I shouldn’t have been here. I’m sorry.”

  As I turn, he says, “No,” and rises to his feet. His hand lands on my shoulder. “Charlie would love to see you. If you’d rather I wake her, I’ll do that.”

  “No, I can. It was just…” I twist to look back at him. “I see you got her a real bed.” I smile when I’m saying it, but that starts the tears again, my eyes filling. I wipe them away. “Sorry, it’s just…”

  I’m missing her life. I’m missing so much of it.

  Missing you, too. Missing both of you.

  He gives me a one-armed hug, more careful now. “I know. You go get her up, then, and I’ll shower and dress. There’s cereal and bagels. She goes back and forth between them.”

  “Do you have eggs?” I ask.

  He hesitates, and when he forces a smile, it’s a little awkward, a little sad. “That would require me knowing how to cook them.”

  I nod. Then I murmur that I’ll figure out something and slip from the room. As I go, I hear him pick up his phone to call Gayle back.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I hold it together for Charlotte. That’s easier than I feared. She’s thrilled to see me, even though I’m quick to explain that I just stopped by. It doesn’t matter. She wakes with a bounce, as always, and there’s no time to grieve for what I’ve lost. I get a taste of it this morning, and I’ll take that as a gift and make the most of it.

  I find bacon in the freezer—bacon I’d put there. I thaw it and whip up pancakes, also fr
om my legacy baking ingredients. Paul comes down, and we eat, and the awkwardness disappears with Charlotte there, talking a mile a minute.

  “So you’re taking her to Gayle’s today?” I ask.

  He stops with the fork halfway to his mouth. Then he shakes his head. “I changed my mind. Gayle will have brought work home, and Charlie is a full-time job.”

  “I has job?” Charlotte says, following our conversation.

  “Yes,” Paul says. “A very special job, but it might be too hard. I need you”—he leans toward her—“to be good for Mrs. Mueller. You’re going to stay with her today.”

  “And Becky and Pete?”

  “Yes, you’re staying with Mrs. Mueller, and her son Pete and her cat Becky.”

  Charlotte squeals. “Noooo. Becky is girl. Pete is dog.”

  Paul frowns. “Are you sure? Becky kind of looks like a little girl, but I’m pretty sure Pete is a rat. A huge rat, like Matt.”

  “Pete is dog!”

  “Chihuahua,” Paul murmurs to me.

  “Ah,” I say. “Well, I can see where you’d get confused.” I turn to Charlotte. “I bet Pete loves Matt.”

  Charlotte shakes her head, curls bouncing. “No. Pete scared of Matt. Becky like Matt.”

  “The Muellers moved in down the road,” Paul says. “Becky’s four. Her mom has offered to take Charlie anytime daycare doesn’t work out, so I called this morning. I also let the daycare know she’d be away.”

  “Thank you.”

  He’s about to speak again when his phone rings. He checks the screen. Hits Ignore.

  “I’d like to talk to you later,” he says. “More about what’s going on. And I would rather you didn’t go back to your apartment without me. Well, without someone, but I’d prefer it to be someone who knows what’s going on, and I’m guessing that’s just me?”

  “It is.”

  “We’ll discuss—” His phone buzzes with a text. He flicks it to vibrate without checking the message. “We’ll discuss … nighttime arrangements then. If you’d be okay coming back here for dinner…”