Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(59)

Sometimes, she makes her way through the whole stack of albums, losing herself in the memories. Other days, she flips through only a few pages before she’s had enough. Sometimes, she goes through the photos chronologically; other times, randomly.

Today, it’s random.

Jeremy in his new room, Jeremy at the carnival with a helium balloon, Jeremy on the first day of school, Jeremy with Elsa…

Your son looks just like you, people used to say, and she would smile. It was true. Jeremy, with his black hair and eyes, was the spitting image of Elsa.

He’s smiling in many of the early photographs—yet his eyes betray a hint of desolation, even then. Why didn’t Elsa notice that in person? Why can she only see it in retrospect, captured on film? Why now, when it’s too late to help him?

But you did try to help him. You just couldn’t figure out how. You didn’t get the chance.

Frustrated, she puts the album aside and carries her half-full mug into the kitchen. After pouring the lukewarm tea down the drain, she carefully rinses every trace from the white porcelain basin. The protective glaze has worn away, leaving the surface porous; vulnerable to stains, cracks, scratches.

Lost in thought, Elsa runs the tap for a long time, absently watching the water engulf imperfections that can never be washed away.

Water. Uh-oh.

Abruptly, she turns off the faucet, slips her bare feet into a pair of sandals, and steps outside.

The forgotten sprinkler rotates with a rhythmic pattering, drenching a wide swath of the front walkway. Elsa waits for it to pass, then darts over to the spigot. She turns the valve and the spray becomes a trailing dribble, then a steady drip into the flowerbed.

Even from a few yards away, she can see the results of the prolonged drenching, but she steps closer, just to be sure.

Yes.

The plants that were seemingly wilted beyond salvation have miraculously sprung back to life.

For a long time, Elsa stands staring at the rejuvenated garden, wondering whether it just might be a sign.

Her mind made up, she goes inside.

It’s time to call Mike Fantoni.



As she walks down the hall toward her room, Sadie shivers in her wet bathing suit.

Maybe she shouldn’t have insisted on going into the water one last time after the swings.

Mommy was anxious to leave the pool, but Sadie wasn’t ready yet. It wasn’t that she was having so much fun—just that she dreaded going back home.

“Can I stay here with Ryan?” she asked her mother.

“No. He’s with his friends.”

Sadie turned to her sister. “Will you stay with me?”

“No, I want to go, too.” Lucy didn’t even bother to look at her. She seemed more obsessed with her phone today than usual, checking it every two seconds.

“Why don’t you want to leave, Sadie?” Mommy asked.

“Because I want to go back into the pool,” she lied. “Pleeeeeeease.”

Mommy let her. Only for ten minutes. It was freezing cold and it wasn’t even fun. Sadie didn’t know any of the other kids her age. They were all playing together on one end of the wide steps as she splashed around, shivering, on the other.

But she figured anything was better than going home.

Now that she’s here, though, it’s not so bad. Not upstairs, anyway.

But the downstairs looks different now without all the stuff Mom gave away. Sadie isn’t comfortable there.

And Mommy said yesterday that she was going to clean out the bedrooms next.

Not my room. No way, José.

That’s what Daddy used to say whenever he was in a good mood, a long time ago.

No way, José.

Sadie hasn’t heard him say that in a long time.

The second floor is drafty. All the bedroom doors are open for the cross breeze, and the ceiling fans are on.

As Sadie approaches her bedroom door, she reminds herself that she needs to duck under the fishing line from now on.

She’s about to, when she stops short at the threshold.

The fishing line no longer stretches across the doorway.

How can that be?

She made sure it was in place before they left earlier. She was the last one down the stairs; Mommy and Lucy were already waiting for her by the back door.

That can only mean one thing.

Someone was in the house—in her room—while they were gone.

“Mom!”

For a moment, Lauren can’t tell which of her daughters is calling for her—or where the voice is coming from.

Lucy, she realizes. She’s still outside in the yard.



“Mom!”

Lauren hurries to the back door, wondering if Lucy stepped on a bee or something.

But there’s nothing gingerly about her daughter’s barefoot dash across the grass toward the house—and she’s waving her phone in her outstretched hand.

Lauren immediately prepares herself for the worst—until she sees Lucy’s expression.

It’s not bad news, because her daughter is grinning broadly, her face etched in relief.

“Guess what? I just heard from Daddy!” she announces exuberantly. “He’s totally fine!”





CHAPTER TWELVE




At dawn on Tuesday morning, Marin awakens in an empty bed with a splitting headache.