Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(24)

While it’s certainly true that many New Englanders tend to keep a polite distance, Elsa always wondered whether it was more than that, with Brett. She wasn’t convinced Brett really believed in Mike.

And right now, she’s not convinced he believes in her, either.



“I really think she’s overreacting, Mom. I mean, listen to that.”

Marin looks up from the congealed vegetable chow fun on her plate to see Annie across the table, shaking her head. “What?”

“That.” Annie points over her shoulder in the general direction of the hallway.

Oh. That.

In her room, Caroline is loudly sobbing on the phone long-distance with one of her friends, once again rehashing this afternoon’s dramatic rodent encounter.

“I don’t know…” Marin picks up her chopsticks again. “If I reached into my purse and found a rat, I think I’d be pretty upset, too.”

“Upset. But hysterical?”

Marin shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, Annie.”

She didn’t know what to tell an inconsolable Caroline, either, when she burst through the door sobbing frantically a few hours ago.

It took Marin several minutes to even comprehend what was wrong.

Not sure what to do, and worried about rabies though Caroline hadn’t been bitten, Marin called the doctor. To her relief, he assured her that rats don’t carry rabies—not in this country, anyway.

“Just make sure she cleans her hands really well,” he advised. “And of course, call me right away if she develops any strange symptoms.”

“What kind of symptoms?”

“Symptoms? Symptoms of what? What is he talking about?” Caroline was hovering at her side, listening.

“The usual…headache, fever, chills…” He went on to explain that there’s a rare disease called rat bite fever, transmitted through rodent saliva and mucus. “Chances are that Caroline is fine, but you should keep an eye on her.”

Unfortunately, Caroline overheard that and was beside herself. Ever since she found out about her childhood illness, she’s been something of a hypochondriac. And really, who can blame her? She’s been through hell.

We all have. Including Annie.

Annie, the one bright spot in Marin’s life these days.

Maybe not just these days.

Caroline has always accused her of playing favorites, but of course Marin loves both her children equally. It’s just that Annie has such an easygoing temperament, and Caroline—like her father—can be…intense.

Please, God, let that be all it is. An intense personality and not another inherited genetic flaw, courtesy of the Quinn family tree.

“She’s such a drama queen.” Annie rolls her eyes.

“Eat your egg roll, Annie.” Marin pushes the waxed-paper pouch across the table to her.

“I did. That’s Caroline’s. Can I have it?”

“No.”

“She said she isn’t hungry.”

But one egg roll is enough—they’re fattening, and unhealthy.

“She might be hungry later. Here, have some broccoli.”

Annie wrinkles her freckled nose. “Can’t. I’m allergic.”

“You aren’t allergic to broccoli.”

“I think there’s something in the sauce. Last time I ate it, I got hives, remember?”

Maybe. Poor Annie has so many allergies that hives are a frequent occurrence.

Before Marin can reply, her cell phone, in the back pocket of her jeans, buzzes with an incoming text message. Probably Heather, wanting to see if she’s changed her mind about the beach, or France.

But when Marin pulls the phone out and checks it, she doesn’t recognize the incoming number.

She clicks on the message. “What in the world…?”



Jeremy first returned to the Northeast last autumn, after Dr. Jacobson had conducted a surgical follow-up and given him the green light to leave Texas.

There was still a little tenderness and swelling around his nose and eyes, reminding him of all the injuries that had shattered and bruised his features over the years. But the doctor assured him that it would eventually subside, and that he’d be left looking like…

Well, not like himself, that was for damned sure.

As long as he was going to have his long-broken bones repaired, he’d figured he might as well go all out. Having found his way to Texas after seeing Dr. Jacobson featured on a television documentary about facial reconstruction, he knew the plastic surgeon was capable of creating a whole new look. That was what he wanted: to look like a different person.

Maybe, he reasoned, he would actually feel like a different person, too.

He had no way of knowing, at the time, that he really was a different person: Jeremy Cavalon, and not Jeremy Smith, as he’d been called all these years.

Smith.

Maybe Papa just couldn’t be bothered with coming up with a better pseudonym for himself and thus, for Jeremy.

Or maybe it was his real name.

Jeremy might never know for sure, and he no longer cares.

By the time he had the surgery, Papa had been dead and buried for a year.

As he drove north from Texas, Jeremy occasionally caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the rearview mirror, and marveled at the change in his appearance. It was well worth the pain and the expense—though he’d be hard-pressed to think of a more fitting use for his inheritance.