Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(58)

“Did she say anything at all?”

“To me? Nah. She was all wrapped up in a shawl and under a big black umbrella when she came in. I don’t even think she needed the umbrella, with that gigantic hat she had on, but to each his own. I did mention to her that it’s bad luck to keep an umbrella open inside, but she just kept on walking. I guess she’s not the superstitious type.”

No, she isn’t.

Nor is she the type to show up in New York without warning.

What in the world is going on?



Staring at the pouring rain beyond the plate-glass window, Caroline wonders if she should have given up hours ago. Technically, it’s no longer even afternoon. Yet here she is, parked at the same table in Starbucks, waiting for some guy to show up. And why would he? It’s not like people can read minds. It’s not like she’s sent him some telepathic message to meet her and, voilà—here he’ll be.

That is so not going to happen.

So what are you doing here, then? How did you, of all people, turn into this pathetic loser?

Dejectedly, she sips her third—or is it fourth?—cup of tea. Herbal this time. She’d discovered earlier that coffee made her sick to her stomach, and regular tea made her antsy. But she couldn’t just sit here for hours without buying something every once in a while—even if all this hot liquid makes her have to pee constantly.

Maybe she missed Surfer Boy during one of her countless visits to the bathroom.

Yeah, or maybe you’re never going to see him again.

This is crazy. A year ago, she was on top of the world. Now she’s, like, some peerless—

“Hi, Caroline! What are you doing here?”

She looks up, startled…then breaks into a slow smile.

It’s him.



Rounding the corner into the hallway that bisects Maman’s wing of the building, Elsa can see that the main apartment door is ajar.

That’s strange.

Unless Maman arrived, saw their luggage by the door, realized that they’re in town, and didn’t want to lock them out…

But she knows I have the keys. How else would I have gotten into the apartment in the first place? And why wouldn’t she just call me on my cell phone to see where I was?

She sticks her head in and calls, “Maman?”

No reply.

“Is she here?” Renny asks.

“She must be. Come on.” Opening the door wider, she sees that the lights are off, just as she left them. No bags have joined their own in the foyer—because, of course, Maman doesn’t travel with luggage—but no dripping black umbrella, either.

Elsa sniffs the air for a waft of Parisian perfume, but smells only the Chinese food in the bag she’s carrying.

“Maman!”

Silence.

She closes the door, again wondering uneasily why her mother left it open. After a moment’s hesitation, she slides the dead bolt.

Immediately, she wonders if that was a mistake.

What if her mother isn’t the only one who’s waiting for them here? What if Renny’s stalker somehow found his way to the apartment, and broke in, and…Oh God, what if Maman showed up and surprised him?

“Where is she, Mommy?”

“I’m not sure. Come on, let’s go see.” She gingerly moves toward the hall, her hand firm on Renny’s shoulder. Again, she calls to her mother, wondering if the doorman might have been mistaken.

Renny chimes in with a singsong “Mémé! Mémé!”

In the kitchen, Elsa flips on a light. Again, everything is just as she left it: the untouched cookies on a plate, the juice in a glass.

Remembering every horror movie she’s ever seen, she glances at the knife block. All the handles are accounted for. Good. That’s good.

See? Everything is fine.

She sets the bag of Chinese food on the counter beside the knives. “Maman! Are you here?”

“That man said she is, Mommy. I bet the walls are so thick she can’t hear us.”

“I guess so,” Elsa agrees, not bothering to point out that it’s the walls between the apartments that are soundproof. Most of the interior ones are just regular drywall partitions installed over the years as the rooms were reconfigured.

They resume the search in the dining room, the living room, the library. Back in the entry hall, she looks again at the locked door. If Maman isn’t here, who left it open while they were out? Elsa distinctly remembers closing it earlier, before they left.

“Do you think she’s sleeping, Mommy?”

At this hour? Even with jet lag, Maman stays up late.

Then again, she’s getting older, and anyway, where the hell else could she be?

“Probably. Let’s go look.”

But when they reach the master bedroom, it’s not only dark; it’s deserted.

“Maybe she’s in the shower,” Renny suggests.

“I don’t hear the water running.” Elsa can’t hear anything at all, in fact, but the distant hum of the refrigerator. “Anyway, Maman takes baths.”

Chanel-scented bubble baths—but never in the middle of the day.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” For Renny’s sake, Elsa tries to sound playful as they cross the master suite toward the adjoining bath.