Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(53)
“Sure. One, two…go.”
Lucy goes, with a groan.
Lauren looks at Marin. “It’s never easy.”
“No,” Marin agrees with a faint smile, “it never is. Listen, I really need to get going, so…”
“Wait, Marin, before you do…is everything okay?”
Marin shifts her weight on the sofa. “Everything is…” Not okay. That would be a ridiculous claim, and Lauren knows it.
She settles on, “Everything is as well as can be expected.”
“Are you sure?”
Should I tell her about the e-mail, and the rat?
Will she think I’m crazy and paranoid if I do?
Or, even worse, will she think that Caroline is crazy and paranoid?
“I’m positive, Lauren. I’m hanging in there. We all are. But thanks for asking.” She stands up, her car keys already in hand.
“Wait, I know you didn’t just come here to drink coffee and check out my new kitchen. I know something’s bugging you…and I think I know what it is.”
Marin raises an eyebrow. “I doubt it…but try me.”
Meg Warren’s car is sorely in need of some routine maintenance—not that she’ll be needing it anymore, but still…
It’s a wonder the thing even made it to New York City, what with the horrible creaking beneath the pedals every time the steering wheel makes the slightest turn.
Oh well. This Bronx neighborhood is the end of the road. Other than being a great place to abandon a stolen car, the area has very little going for it. But at least it’s right off the highway, and there’s a subway station with a southbound express train.
Oh, and one more perk: On this rainy day, the streets are teeming with furtive-looking, backpack-carrying young people wearing baggy jeans and hoodies. It’s easy to blend into the crowd here and on the downtown Number Five train.
It won’t be the same in Manhattan, though. Rush hour will be under way on this summer Friday; well-dressed office workers will have begun their mad dash toward home. That means it’ll be a good idea to slip into the bathroom at Grand Central Terminal and swap out the black hoodie and baggy jeans for something more suitable for midtown.
And after that…East Side, to Marin, or West Side, to Elsa?
Guess I’ll just have to start walking uptown and see which way the wind blows.
Elsa looks at her watch.
Does she dare call Brett at the office again? She’d spoken to him when they first arrived at Penn Station, just before hailing a cab to take them uptown. The conversation was harried, and she could tell he wasn’t alone in the room on his end. Maybe he is now.
She settles Renny at the table with the fresh orange juice and organic granola cookies they picked up at the Fairway.
“Wait, Mommy, where are you going?” Renny protests as Elsa starts for the hallway, fishing her cell phone from her bag.
“Just into the bedroom to…to make sure there are clean sheets on the beds. I’ll be right back.”
“Can I watch TV?” Renny gestures at the flat screen mounted in the custom cabinetry.
There are probably a dozen good reasons not to park her daughter in front of the television again, but Elsa decides they’re far outweighed by the need for some semblance of familiarity to put her at ease.
As the silence gives way to the reassuring cartoon commotion, even she finds herself breathing a little easier.
“Okay, holler if you need me.”
Fixated on the screen, Renny barely nods.
In her childhood bedroom, Elsa sits on the white Matelasse coverlet—something she’d never been allowed to do as a girl—and takes out her phone.
Uh-oh—she’s down to one battery bar. Did she even remember to pack her charger? She thought of it, amid the scramble to get out of the house—but did she actually do it?
She dials Brett’s cell phone, promising herself she’ll make it a quick call, then check her bag for her charger. If it’s not here, she’s going to have to go buy one.
He picks up on the first ring. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. No.” The sound of his voice makes her homesick. “I mean, nothing happened to us…I just want this to be over. It’s crazy.”
There’s a pause before he says, “I know,” and she wonders if he’s not alone.
“Did you hear from Mike yet?”
“No. I’ve left him a couple of messages now, but he hasn’t called back.”
“That isn’t like him, Brett.”
“I know.”
“When you left those messages for him, did you say where Renny and I were going?”
“No!”
“I was just worried you might have left it on his voice mail, or…”
“All I told him was to call me, and that it was important.” Brett clears his throat. “Listen, I’m in the middle of something, so…”
Oh. Okay, she gets it. “Is someone right there?”
“Yes.”
“Call me when you get home.”
“I will.”
As she hangs up, frustrated, her gaze falls on an antique Mardi Gras eye mask sitting on top of a gilded bombé chest across the room. She remembers being severely reprimanded at Renny’s age for parading around wearing it. Like so many of Maman’s objets d’art, the mask was meant to be admired, not touched.