Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(46)
“Tell me what happened yesterday,” he commands in a low voice.
As he listens to the disturbing tale, he can feel his jaw clenching in fury. They follow the road in its westward turn, following the curve of the reservoir. His tightened fists pump at his sides in rhythm with a heart that isn’t racing from exercise alone.
“Is that it?”
“That’s what happened. Yes.”
“So where is it, then?”
“I told you, I’m not a hundred percent sure, but—”
“Why don’t you take a wild guess,” he bites out.
“He has a kid. Three, but there’s a little girl, and—”
“Where?” Garvey asks impatiently, glancing at the skyline behind him. The sun is coming up.
“Westchester. Glenhaven Park. Do you know where it is? It’s only about twenty minutes from—”
“I know where it is. Go.”
“There are kids involved.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?”
“But you can’t expect me to—”
“You’ll do whatever you have to do. You don’t even have kids, for God’s sake.”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t make me sick to think of—”
“Oh really? Then you’ve certainly changed your tune in the last fourteen years, haven’t you?”
Garvey’s question is met with silence. He’s always known how to hit low and dirty, right where it hurts most.
“Listen to me. You have no choice. You’re in this as deeply as I am now. You have to do whatever it takes to find that file. Do you understand me?”
“Whatever it takes.”
Garvey nods.
Conversation over.
With a burst of anger-fueled adrenaline, he sprints away, heading toward the still-darkened western sky like a nocturnal creature trying to outrun the dawn.
CHAPTER NINE
Perched on the front steps with her second cup of coffee, Lauren watches a monarch butterfly fluttering around a hydrangea bloom on the shrub beside the porch and wonders what to do about Nick.
Something is wrong. She’s sure of it. He should have called last night; certainly by now.
Lauren left one last message on both Nick’s phones before she went to bed, telling herself that she’d take action in the morning.
It’s morning. What are you going to do?
Nothing yet. Ryan is up, getting ready to help her with the boxes and then meet his friends. He asked about Nick again, first thing, and Lauren didn’t want to worry him. She assured him that his father must have gotten the Sunday brunch date wrong, that he’d probably made other plans, that he’d undoubtedly resurfaced too late last night to call.
Ryan seemed satisfied with that.
I wish I were.
When she gets back, while the girls are still asleep, she’ll do something about the Nick situation.
Like…?
Like call the police…
And tell them what? That your husband went away with another woman and hasn’t come back yet, or called—other than to let you in on a little heavy-breathing episode?
She can just imagine a seasoned cop’s reaction to that bit of news—particularly a local cop, who’d quite possibly already be privy to the sordid details of Lauren’s marital problems.
Yet Saturday’s wordless call from Nick isn’t a detail she’d be able to leave out if she calls to report him missing, given her theory that he might have had some kind of accident.
Frustrated, she watches the butterfly move on to a clump of pink and purple verbena beside the porch rail. A breeze stirs the flowers. Lauren shivers—not entirely from the chill in the air, though it’s definitely there.
Just yesterday, it was summertime.
This morning, the first hint of autumn is palpable.
The maple and oak leaves remain lush and green; the perennials are at the height of their bloom. The neighborhood still languishes in that lazy, half-deserted August aura.
Yet the air isn’t quite as humid today. It feels cooler. And the dappled morning sunlight seems to fall through the trees at a longer angle, casting shadows where there were none just a few days ago.
Or maybe it’s just her imagination. Paranoia about Nick, making the world suddenly seem like a threatening place.
As if to punctuate the thought, Lauren suddenly sees, out of the corner of her eye, a stranger coming up the street—a shaggy-haired guy wearing a baseball cap, shorts, a T-shirt.
Not wanting to be caught watching him—and not quite sure why—she turns to glance at the stack of boxes waiting on the porch behind her.
As soon as Ryan gets out of the shower, the two of them are going to load the car and transport the boxes out of here.
This is your last chance to change your mind about any of that stuff, she reminds herself.
But what would she possibly want to retrieve now? The ugly curtains she and Nick bought on clearance for the downstairs bath years ago and never bothered to hang? The double-rings-etched silver frame that once held the wedding portrait now stashed in the bottom of her dresser drawer? The Van Morrison CD?
Really, she doesn’t want any of it…but suddenly, the idea of parting with it brings a pang of regret.
It’s because of Nick. Because she’s worried about him. Not because she’s genuinely nostalgic about all the household belongings packed inside, never to be seen again.