Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(110)

Sort of like I do.

In the bathroom, Marin showers, brushes her teeth, and blow-dries her hair.

Same routine every morning, and yet, today will be different. Still a living hell, but June has arrived. Finals are over, as are the latest round of lessons and extracurricular activities that consumed the weekends. The school year that began in the immediate aftermath of Garvey’s downfall has come to an end.

This morning, instead of heading over to their private school off Fifth Avenue, Caroline and Annie will be here at home with Marin.

That means she’ll have to hold herself together from dawn until long after dark. No crying. No ranting. No swallowing a couple of prescription pills and crawling into bed in the middle of the day to capture the sleep that evades her in the night.

Maybe it’s better that way.

When she sleeps, she dreams.

Dreams of a little boy with big black eyes, and he’s calling for her.

“Mommy…Mommy, please help me…”

Not dreams—nightmares. Because she can never help him. Nobody can.

It’s too late to save Jeremy.

And maybe, Marin thinks, staring at her haggard reflection in the bathroom mirror, too late to save herself as well.



Brett yawns audibly, promptly evoking a dark glance from his wife. He belatedly covers his mouth and resumes a riveted expression. Too late.

“You’re not even listening to me.” Elsa’s tone is more weary than irritated, and she reaches for her mug of coffee.

“I’m listening. I’m just tired. It’s five in the morning, and we didn’t even have to be up for another—”

“There’s no way I can sleep now.”

Maybe not, but he certainly could. In fact, after he’d dutifully gone through the entire house clutching a baseball bat, checking closets and under the beds for prowlers, he’d had every intention of climbing right back under the covers. He saw no reason to lose another moment’s sleep. Even Renny had gone from frantic to drowsy, allowing Brett to tuck her back in with reassurances that there were no monsters.

Not in this house, anyway.

And the man—the monster—responsible for Jeremy’s death is behind bars.

“It was just a nightmare,” Brett had told Renny—and he tells Elsa the same thing now.

“But the window was open.”

“Maybe you just thought you’d closed it.”

She gives him a look. One that says, I’m not crazy.

He knows that, though there was a time when he’d thought…

No, he’d never thought Elsa was actually crazy.

But back when Jeremy was newly missing, he’d sensed that she was so distraught she might harm herself. He’d done his best to keep it from happening, and when it did—when she nearly died—he’d blamed himself.

From that moment on, he’d vowed to save his wife. From therapy to medication, from rehashing the tragedy to sidestepping the topic, from avoiding children to considering parenthood again—he’d do whatever was necessary to help Elsa recover.

Now, after a decade and a half of torture, she’s finally healing—or perhaps, healed.

Renny’s arrival in their lives has given her a sense of purpose again.

And yet, watching his wife with their soon-to-be-adopted child, Brett worries. She’s so protective of Renny, almost…paranoid.

Who can blame her? Their first child was kidnapped. Murdered.

But that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen again.

It doesn’t mean there really was someone in Renny’s room in the dead of night.

“I think we should call the police,” Elsa announces and Brett looks up, startled.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

“Elsa, the press is finally off our backs. Do you really want to stir it all up again?”

“The press doesn’t have to be involved. I’m just talking about calling the police and—”

“And you don’t think it’s going to get out somehow that the mother of Jeremy Cavalon thinks someone is prowling around her new kid’s bedroom?”

“New kid? Brett, how can you—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

New kid. As in replacement for old kid.

God. Brett rakes a hand through his hair. That’s not what he meant at all.

“If you honestly want to call the police,” he tells his wife, “go ahead. You know I would never take a chance with Renata.”

He sees Elsa’s nose wrinkle slightly, and he knows why. Neither of them is very fond of their daughter’s given name—probably because it was bestowed by her abusive parents. They shortened it, with Renny’s blessing, soon after she came to live with them last fall. But sometimes, when Brett means business, he refers to her as Renata.

“Don’t make yourself nuts with this, Elsa.” Brett reaches out and pats her thin shoulder. “Everything is fine. Renny is fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“There’s always something to worry about when you have a child.”

“Yes, but not…not like that. Not what you’re thinking.”

Elsa just looks at him. She can be stubborn.

So can he. “Look, there’s no reason to call the police because a window was open.”