Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(88)

“Not very well, I’m afraid,” is the response.

Then Sadie sees the gun.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN




Hey, this is Byron. You know what to do. Do it at the beep.”

“Yo, it’s Fantoni again. What the hell, man? Where are you? Call me back. I need to know what’s up with that…thing.”

Mike hangs up the phone with a curse and paces across the room, rubbing yesterday’s five o’clock shadow.

He’s known Byron Gregson since they collided on a case twenty years ago—he a fledgling private eye, Byron a cub reporter for the Providence Journal. They shared a couple of tips, cartons of cigarettes, and a burning need to uncover the truth.

They found it.

Byron landed a major scoop, broke a huge political corruption story in the Pro-Jo, and became an investigative journalist—one of the best. Mike opened his own PI firm in Boston and at first spent his days—well, mostly, his nights—tailing cheating spouses and deadbeat dads. As time went on, he branched out into background checks, employee investigations, missing persons…

Like Jeremy Cavalon.

Dammit—he really needs to talk to Byron, and the guy chooses now to pull one of his famous disappearing acts? Mike would be more aggravated than worried if his friend hadn’t alluded to the fact that he had stumbled across something big.

As in dangerous big.

That happened a while back. Before the holidays. Last fall, maybe. It happened because Byron was digging around, as a favor to Mike, in Jeremy Cavalon’s past.

“I think I found the kid’s birth parents,” he told Mike in a late night phone call—the only kind Byron ever placed. “And if I’m right, you’re not going to believe who they are.”

“Who?”

“I’ll tell you if I’m right. I’ve got some more digging to do.”

And that was that.

Mike more or less back-burnered the case until last month, when he received a voice mail from Byron.

“Dude, I was right. It’s bigger than I thought. I need some help. I’ll be in touch.”

He hasn’t been. The silence is as ominous as Byron’s admission that he needed help. It’s always been the other way around. Byron in control, coming to Mike’s aid, bailing him out—sometimes, quite literally.

Now Mike is wondering if maybe Byron got in over his head.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Mike just hopes it wasn’t the last.



About to knock on the door marked 14D, Lauren realizes it’s slightly ajar.

“Nick?” she calls, suddenly nervous.

It’s been such a long time since she’s seen him.

What if Nick tells her he wants to come home?

What if the moment she lays eyes on him all the old feelings come rushing back to her and she forgets to stay strong?

Or what if Nick tells her he’s marrying Beth, and she falls apart crying, begging him not to?

God, I hate what-ifs. Why do I do this to myself?

She pushes the door open farther. “Nick?”

The apartment feels empty even before she steps over the threshold to find it silent and dim. The shades are drawn across the wide windows at the far end of the living room.

“Nick?”

He’s not here.

Maybe he had to step out for something, and he’ll be right back.

But even as that theory enters her mind, she discards it. If he was here, the air-conditioning would be on. The place is stuffy, as though it’s been sealed up for a while.

Maybe Nick had planned to come back from his trip this morning and meet her here, but got hung up in traffic.

No. There’s his luggage. It’s sitting just inside the door, as though he walked in and dropped it right there.

But clearly, he wasn’t alone. Beside the familiar black Samsonite rolling bag and nylon duffel are a Louis Vuitton suitcase and matching tote.

Obviously Beth’s luggage.

Okay…so they’re back, the two of them. Where are they now?

Lauren’s cell phone rings in her pocket, startling her.

Pulling it out, she looks at the caller ID window. The call is coming from home. She flips open the phone, wondering if the kids are fighting, or hungry, or bored, or all of the above.

“Hello?”

“Mommy?”

“Sadie?”

“No.”

It’s Lucy, she realizes. Why does she sound so young, and why is she calling Lauren Mommy?

“What’s up, sweetie?”

“You have to help us…”

Lauren’s heart stops. “Lucy, are you crying?”

“Please, Mommy—”

She hears a scratching, rustling sound, as if someone— Ryan?—is scuffling the phone out of Lucy’s hand.

But it isn’t her son who comes on the line. The voice is guttural and unfamiliar.

“I’m here with your kids, Lauren. One of them has something I want. And I’ll do whatever it takes to get it back. Do you understand?”



“I’m home!”

The apartment door slams behind Molly Cameron and her heels tap across the parquet floor of the entry hall, accompanied by the rattling wheels of her rolling suitcase trundling along behind her.