Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(27)

That was nothing, Mrs. Quinn. Stay tuned.



That first day in Groton last fall, Jeremy had found the Cavalons’ home with no problem. Incredible, what you can find on the Internet with a little bit of searching.

Yet somehow, no one ever managed to find me in fourteen years.

Once he got to the house, he wasn’t sure what to do. He sure as hell wasn’t going to march right up, ring the doorbell, and say, “I’m your long-lost son.”

Anyway, the place looked deserted; there were no cars parked in the driveway. So he sat in his rented pickup truck down the street and studied the house.

The long, low ranch was different from the home he remembered, back when they were living in Nottingshire. But this one was just as inviting. The yard was carpeted with leaves from the huge old trees surrounding the house, and potted mums and a couple of pumpkins sat on the front step. It looked like a wonderful, cozy place to live, and Jeremy was dizzy with homesickness by the time a car pulled into the Cavalons’ driveway.

Seconds later, she stepped out of the driver’s seat.

He braced himself for his first glimpse of Elsa in over fourteen years. His recent obsession with news footage of her must have lessened the impact, though. Seeing her in person brought a fleeting wave of nostalgia and comfort, and none of the anguish he’d anticipated.

Swept by the urge to run down the street and hurtle himself into her arms, he was about to do just that…

Then she opened the back door of the car and leaned inside as if to remove a bag of groceries or something.

Something? No. It was someone.

Jeremy froze.

A child.

Elsa—Jeremy’s mother—was holding the little girl’s hand, just the way she used to hold his. She bent over and planted a kiss on the little girl’s hair, just the way she used to kiss Jeremy.

He knew, then, that it could never be the same; knew that he could never, ever go home again.

Someone had taken his place.





CHAPTER FIVE




Caroline can’t sleep.

That’s not unusual—not since her father left, anyway.

Left?

Oh please, Daddy was ripped from their lives without warning. He might as well have been gunned down in the street that day—in fact, maybe that would have been better. An assassination, or an innocent victim of a drive-by shooting…

An image of her father lying on the sidewalk, bleeding all over his Italian wool suit, flutters through Caroline’s head. She won’t let it roost there; she doesn’t wish Daddy were dead. Of course not. She loves him more than anything, and she knows he’ll be back one day.

It’s just…

Right now, it’s hard. On her. If he were dead, he’d be a hero. People would have pity for her, instead of contempt. Neighbors in the elevator, kids at school, strangers on the street—even now that the press coverage has died down and the photographers no longer stake out their building, Caroline can sense people watching her, recognizing her, whispering about her.

That’s why she’s starting to think that what happened today—with the rat—was no accident. That it didn’t just crawl into her bag. Maybe someone put it there, a cruel prank, because she’s Garvey Quinn’s daughter.

The coffeehouse was crowded, so many people jostling past her table, walking—or sitting—within arm’s reach of her purse. Anyone could have unzipped the bag as it hung on the back of the chair, dropped the disgusting creature inside, and zipped it up again.

Anyone?

Well, anyone with a seriously warped mind.

Not that cute guy, though—Jake. Caroline is pretty sure it wasn’t him.

For one thing, he’s not from here; he doesn’t even know who she is…

Or so he said. How do you know it’s true?

She tries to ignore the nagging little voice in her head. Why would he lie?

She remembers reaching into her bag a few times before he got there, to check for her iPod. There was no rat…not until after he arrived.

But that doesn’t mean it was him. And it doesn’t mean the whole place isn’t infested with rodents, and one didn’t happen to crawl into her purse.

Yeah…one that managed to work the zipper with its paw?

She has other things to worry about right now, though. Like dying from rat bite fever.

No wonder she can’t sleep.

Someone knocks on Caroline’s bedroom door.

Daddy! she thinks for an exhilarating moment. Then she remembers, and the fragile shimmer of hope shatters like crystal on granite.

In the old days, he’d come home late and check to see if she was still awake. He’d come into the room and tickle her toes, always hanging out at the bottom of the mattress. They both sleep that way—not wanting to be confined like mummies by tightly tucked sheets.

Sometimes, she’d get up and sit in the kitchen with Daddy while he ate a sandwich or sipped a cup of tea. Mom never joined them, and Annie was always asleep—or perhaps just uninvited.

It was no secret to anyone that Dad loved Caroline best.

She cherished those late night encounters.

Another knock, louder this time. She checks the digital clock, irritated at the interruption to her thoughts, if not her sleep.

Then again…only nine-thirty? Why does it feel like the middle of the night?