Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(52)

“No, I don’t think I need Beth’s number. But thank you.”

“Maybe we should go check Daddy’s apartment. I have the key.”

“No,” Lauren repeats. “Come on, girls. Let’s go.”

“To look for Daddy?” Sadie asks.

“No. To the pool.” Because I can’t put these children through another second of sitting around here worrying. If something horrible happened, they’ll all know soon enough, right?

“We’re going to the pool?” Lucy is incredulous.

“Yes, it’s a gorgeous day and I don’t want to waste it sitting inside.”

“But…what about Dad?”

“Dad can get ahold of us on my cell phone, or yours.” Lauren hastily wipes her eyes and turns back to Lucy. “Go on up and get your bathing suits on, girls, and then we’ll go. Okay?”

“Sure. Come on, Sadie,” Lucy says, so agreeably that Lauren knows she’s seen the tears. She quickly bends over to finish unloading the dishwasher, surreptitiously wiping them away on the sleeve of her T-shirt. A fresh flood quickly replaces them, and she gives in, crying as she puts away cups and plates and silverware.

Oh, Nick. What have you done? Where have you gone? And what am I supposed to do about it?

The task completed, tears streaming down her face, Lauren stands staring bleakly out the window, absently watching dappled shadows moving over the grass as the breeze stirs the surrounding foliage.

Gradually, she becomes aware of a different kind of shadow. More solid. Long. It almost looks like a human silhouette, cast in a sunny patch of lawn.

A chill creeps over Lauren as she leans toward the screen, peering out at the strange shadow. Is the blur from her tears creating an optical illusion?

Or is someone really there?

Even as she wonders, she has the distinct sensation that she’s being watched.

She presses the heels of her palms into her watery eyes, then looks again.

The shadow is gone.



Did she see me?

For a moment there, it seemed as though Lauren Walsh had indeed realized she had a backyard visitor. But then she rubbed her eyes, and that split second was enough time to slip farther back among the leafy boughs at the edge of the yard. From here, it’s still possible to see the figure framed in the window—but impossible to be seen.

Lauren looks out again, seemingly scanning the landscape. Then she nods, as if she’s quite satisfied that there’s nothing—no one—out here.

Ha. You couldn’t be more wrong, Lauren Walsh.

On the other side of the flimsy window screen, the woman seems poised, thoughtful, seemingly unaware that she’s being watched. Then she turns and disappears from view.

Just as well.

Watching Lauren Walsh, alone in her kitchen and crying, has been quite a disquieting experience.

Not as visually disquieting, by any means, as anything that occurred over the weekend—but disquieting just the same.

Why was she crying?

She was just on the phone asking about her ex-husband. Her voice came through the screen loud and clear.

Does she suspect the truth about him? Maybe. Maybe she just didn’t want to let on in front of the kids.

Besides—there were no witnesses; there is no easy evidence.

She’ll never know—not for sure, anyway.

Poor woman. But what’s the difference, really? He already left her. She’d be alone either way. Alone with her children in this creepy old house in the middle of nowhere.

Well, not as middle-of-nowhere as Greymeadow…but it’s hard to believe that this rinky-dink town is less than an hour’s drive from Manhattan.

In some ways, this would be a hell of a lot easier to do in the city. More anonymity. No one gives you a second glance.

Here, one must make an effort to blend into the suburban landscape so as not to raise suspicion.

On the other hand, back in Manhattan, people are naturally wary. They’re quick to retreat, slow to trust. Being invited into the home of someone you’ve just met would be next to impossible. Breaking in would mean getting past deadbolts, alarms, doormen, even window bars.

Here in Glenhaven Park, it’s almost laughably simple—if one were inclined to look for the humor in a deadly serious matter such as this.

But this, of course, is no joke.

This is life or death.



“What are you doing home?”

They say it in unison, Marin and Garvey, staring at each other in surprise across the threshold of the master bedroom. Dressed in a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase, he was about to walk out; wearing a beach dress and sandals and carrying a straw bag, she was about to walk in.

For a moment, they just look at each other.

Then Marin stands on her tiptoes and gives him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. He puts an arm around her—also perfunctory. It’s not like they haven’t seen each other in ages.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at a groundbreaking for a hospital in Yorktown?” she asks.

“Yonkers. And not until noon.” And he was so unsettled by the missing file that he canceled this morning’s breakfast meeting with his advisers—but of course he doesn’t mention that to Marin.

“Where are you going now?”

“To my office to go over some paperwork. I thought you were staying out at the beach until later today.”