Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(56)

It does sound crazy.

“That was different, though,” Lauren tells her gently. “You lost him so long ago, and it was your choice to give him up…”

She trails off, seeing the flash of anger in Marin’s blue eyes.

“You’re wrong about that. It wasn’t my choice. It was Garvey’s.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you wanted—”

“No. I didn’t. I never wanted to give him up, but I was too weak, and Garvey was too strong.”

“I’m sorry,” Lauren says again.

“It killed me. Handing over that baby to a stranger…I wish I could tell Jeremy that, but now it’s too late, and…”

“And you need to tell someone.”

“Maybe I do. You said it yourself, Lauren. When you were talking about Nick’s mother. It doesn’t matter that she hasn’t seen him in years—she’s still his mother.”

Lauren swallows hard and leans over to put an arm around Marin, half expecting her friend to crumple at the contact. But Marin stoically keeps her composure: the epitome of grace under pressure, courtesy of all those years in the spotlight.

“So what do you think?” she asks Lauren after a moment.

I think it’s a huge mistake. I think you’re setting yourself up for more heartache. I think you’re on the verge of a nervous breakdown as it is, and…

And I don’t think it matters what I think.

“Just be careful, Marin. If you decide to reach out to her, it won’t be easy—for either of you.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

For some reason, those last words linger ominously in Lauren’s mind long after Marin has driven off into the pouring rain.



It all came back to Jeremy as he drove out of Nottingshire that day last fall, past the familiar sign: “Harbor Hills Golf.”

That was where he’d bashed in a little girl’s head with a seven-iron.

He didn’t remember her last name, or even her first—not her real one, anyway. He remembered only that she had some silly nickname everyone called her—Cha Cha or Lulu or something—and he remembered her blond braids.

He remembered other things, too: how angry he felt about having to take golf lessons. How impossible it was to get the ball into that tiny, faraway hole—only for him, though, not for the others. How mercilessly the little girl with the blond braids had taunted him about it…

He remembered her mean-spirited laughter every time he’d cry out in frustration after his turn; remembered how he’d sort of waved the seven-iron at her as a threat; remembered her scoffing at that, saying his swing was so bad there was no way he could hit her with the golf club.

He remembered proving her wrong. Over and over again.

He remembered her screams, then her moans; remembered the blood in her hair and on the club and spattered all over him, blood everywhere; remembered the voices as people came rushing.

“What happened to her?”

“Is she breathing?”

“Does anyone know CPR?”

He remembered Brett Cavalon grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him, shouting, “What did you do?”

And he remembered the look on Elsa’s face.

The memories were relentless. They haunted him. Finally, he had to do something about them.

It was November when he returned to Nottingshire and snuck onto the grounds of Harbor Hills. Dressed in a golf shirt and khakis, Jeremy meandered his way to the clubhouse, where he hit pay dirt: a series of framed photographs of junior golfers over the years. He didn’t recognize any of the faces, but one name jumped out at him from a photo caption: La La. That was it. Not Cha Cha or Lulu. It was La La. La La Montgomery.

The picture must have been taken maybe a year or two after he’d known her. He never would have recognized her, and not just because her blond braids had been exchanged for a pixie cut. Her whole face looked different—and he wondered if that was because of what he’d done to her.

Probably.

Well, she wasn’t the only one who’d been beaten beyond recognition. She wasn’t the only one who’d had plastic surgery.

Suddenly, Jeremy wanted to see her…even if she didn’t want to see him. No, he didn’t just want to see her…he had to see her.

Luckily for him, she wasn’t hard to find.





CHAPTER NINE




The sky opens up in earnest as Elsa and Renny stand waiting for the light to change on Broadway. Carrying takeout Chinese food in a soggy plastic bag, Elsa wishes she’d thought to ask the restaurant for a few extra bags, since she has no umbrella and no raincoat.

Oh well. At least you’re finally getting that shower you missed earlier.

When she’d suggested to Renny that they go browse around some stores and have dinner at a neighborhood restaurant, she was hoping to kill a solid hour or two. She figured she might even have a glass of wine—take the edge off and relax a little, since her stress isn’t doing Renny any favors.

But Renny wasn’t interested in browsing or dining out—particularly once they had ventured out into the downpour.

“When can we go back?” she kept asking, and Elsa didn’t have the heart to keep dragging her around in the deluge.