Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(43)

“I’m concerned about Lauren. I haven’t seen her since the—” She breaks off.

Funny that a person who has so much to say apparently doesn’t want to utter the word “separation.”

“Why don’t you just give her a call if you want to know how she is?”

Ian’s dad, whom Ryan has always considered a quiet, nerdy kind of guy, just became his new hero.

“I’ll have to do that. Ryan, honey, I don’t mean to bother you. I’m just concerned. I know what it’s like. I came from a broken home, too.”

Ethan looks up with interest. “How did your house break, Mommy?”

“No, it didn’t break, it was…”

“Broken,” Ian supplies, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“How?” Ethan persists.

“It means my parents were divorced. Like Ryan’s. And I remember how very hard it was on me. Ryan, I want you to know that if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

Yeah, sure. Ryan tries to imagine himself baring his soul to his new pal, Mrs. Wasserman.

Uh, I don’t think so, dude.

“I mean it, Ryan. If you ever feel like you want to confide in someone who’s been in your shoes…”

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

She looks pleased. “Good. Does anyone want some more shrimp?”

Ryan shakes his head, having lost his appetite and wishing he was anywhere other than here—even back at his so-called broken home.



When Garvey’s cell phone rings in the midst of a dicey cocktail hour conversation about campaign finance, he’s relieved.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’m expecting a call and this might be it.” He reaches into his pocket and checks the number.

This is definitely it.

He hurriedly excuses himself from the group of businessmen and ducks through the nearest archway leading out of the hotel ballroom.

“Is it done?” he asks into the phone as he strides toward an isolated corner, keeping his voice low.

“Yes.”

“No mess this time, right? You made sure?”

“No mess.”

“And you have the file.”

The telltale silence on the other end of the line answers the question—which wasn’t really a question, dammit, because it never occurred to him that they could possibly come this far and fail.

It’s all Garvey can do not to cry out in sheer frustration and rage.

But there are eyes on him, of course. Plenty of security at these dinners, and press, too—not to mention hundreds of people wanting to shake his hand.

“I think I know where it is, though.”

“You think?”

“I—”

“Perhaps we should discuss this in person,” he suggests into the phone, keeping his expression as neutral as if he were having a mundane chat with his wife or a campaign adviser.

“Wouldn’t that be too risky?”

“Hell, yes,” he mutters through clenched teeth. “But it’s riskier to let this drag on and on.”

If you want something done right…

But he doesn’t dare do this himself. All he can do is provide explicit instructions, and make it absolutely clear what’s at stake here.

“Where do you want to meet?”

“The usual place.”

“And the usual time?”

“Yes.”

He hangs up without a good-bye, pastes a cheerful smile on his face, and makes his way back to the ballroom full of supporters.



It’s been a year since Lauren bothered to open the secret cubby in the kitchen—which ostensibly means that anything stored inside can safely be tossed away.

She’s been moving from closet to cupboard for a few hours now, doing her best to forget that Nick has yet to get in touch with her. Then again, maybe he’s called Ryan’s cell phone by now. Ryan’s still over at Ian’s, but any second now he should be calling for a ride. When he does, Lauren is sure, he’ll mention that his father called and is just fine.

On her hands and knees, she empties the narrow space, which, like the hidden cupboard upstairs in Sadie’s closet, is concealed by a decorative panel and lacks a knob. The two shelves are mainly lined with a collection of old florist vases left over from the days when she had a husband who sent her flowers.

The vases might have outlasted the husband—not to mention the flowers—but it’s definitely time to get rid of them, Lauren decides.

Suddenly, Chauncey, asleep on the floor nearby, stirs to life. His ears prick up as if listening for something.

Sure enough, Lauren hears footsteps on the driveway outside the open windows.

Barking, the dog barrels toward the back door, prepared to either greet or attack the newcomer, as needed.

“It’s okay, boy, shh,” Lauren tells him.

She gets to her feet and turns to see a figure standing on the other side of the screen door. For a split second, relieved, she thinks it’s Nick.

Then she remembers that Nick usually comes to the front now. She flips on the outdoor light. Ryan.

“How did you get home?” She nudges Chauncey out of the way with her knee and unlatches the door.

“I walked.”

“All the way from Glenhaven Crossing? Why? I was going to pick you up!”