Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(54)

“No,” Marin quipped in return, patting her rounded belly, “but I’m pretty sure this one is.”

Garvey was sorry when the session was over that day. He would have been quite content to sit there forever with his daughter safely held in his arms.

I still would, he thinks, and forces himself to turn away from the picture.

He can’t believe, after all these years, that the past is coming back to haunt him in a way that he never imagined.

That some lowbrow reporter with spectacular luck and a sketchy plan actually thought he could get away with blackmailing one of the most powerful men in New York should have been laughable. Yet somehow, instead of a joke, Byron Gregson turned into Garvey’s worst nightmare—even posthumously.

But it’ll be over soon, he assures himself.

For all he knows, the mission to Glenhaven Park has already been accomplished. Really, there’s no reason to think that it won’t be.

He hopes that this time, there will be no bloodshed.

But sometimes, it simply can’t be avoided.

And sometimes, if you want something done right…

Garvey sighs, shaking his head, praying it won’t come to that.





CHAPTER ELEVEN




Higher!” Sadie calls, pumping her bare little legs as the swing arcs into the air.

Lauren steps back a bit, positioning her hands as it pendulums back toward her.

They’ve been at it for a good ten minutes now, and her arms are getting tired. She can smell the chlorine from her swim wafting from her skin. She wouldn’t mind jumping back into the water. Funny, because earlier, she was chilly in the pool and couldn’t wait to get out.

But it’s warm here in the open field with the sun high overhead.

And her nerves are on edge.

Even a vigorous swim didn’t ease the tension gnawing away at her. Tension because of Nick—and because, back at the house earlier, she could have sworn someone was lurking in the backyard.

She knows what she saw—for a split second, anyway. She knows what she felt—a pair of eyes on her.

Yet who’s to say whether her own mind conjured both the shadow—a trick of the light?—and the sensation? Would it be that surprising, under the circumstances?

It might be more surprising to find that someone had actually been out there.

Imagine—a garden-variety Peeping Tom in Glenhaven Park. Ludicrous.

About as ludicrous as it is for her to be here with the kids, like it’s just an ordinary summer’s day. But she’s got to keep them busy, at least, until she knows more about Nick.

She’s almost found herself wishing Beth would show up. If she does, Lauren has every intention of putting her pride aside and questioning her about Nick’s whereabouts.

That she isn’t here doesn’t bode well.

“Higher, Mommy!”

She gives the swing another push and Sadie giggles, soaring toward the clear blue sky once again.

“I can’t wait until he’s that age.”

Lauren turns to see a man strapping a chubby, bald baby into one of the harness swings on the adjacent bar.

“Higher!” Sadie screeches, descending again.

“Sometimes I wish she were that age,” Lauren replies, indicating her daughter and then the baby.

“Really? How come?”

“Mommy! Higher!” Sadie demands. “Higher!”

“Guess.” Lauren smiles wryly, and the dad laughs.

The dad? How do you know he’s a dad?

She sneaks a sidewise look at him. Baggy khaki cargo shorts, five o’clock shadow, a bit of a gut, baseball cap, boat shoes without socks—yep. He’s a dad, taking the week off from a corporate job, no doubt.

Then again, he might be an uncle. Or a manny. Trilby says lots of local women are hiring male sitters for their sons.

“I’d get a manny for my boys if Bob weren’t such a jealous type,” she once told Lauren.

“Bob probably wouldn’t be a jealous type if you weren’t such a flirt,” Lauren returned with a grin.

“True. Can you imagine having a strapping young manny around the house?”

Lauren couldn’t imagine it, no.

She sneaks another peek at the guy pushing the baby on the swing. He’s not exactly strapping—nor particularly young. Early forties, she’d guess.

He sees her looking. “So you’re saying I should be glad my son can’t talk, is that it?”

His son. So she was right the first time. He is a dad.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she advises, appreciating the momentary distraction of casual conversation. “Once they start talking, they don’t stop—unless they’re thirteen, and you need information from them. Then it’s like they took the vow of silence and will be shot if they speak.”

“What kind of information do you need?”

“Is the party going to be chaperoned? Who drank the rest of the milk and put the empty carton back into the fridge? You know—that sort of thing.”

He laughs. “I don’t need that kind of information yet. But I do need to know other things.”

“Like what?”

“Like, is something hurting you or are you just screaming for the hell of it?”

“Oh, right. I remember those days. Trust me, after three kids, I know the answer is usually B, I’m just screaming for the hell of it.”