Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(61)

“I’m…a friend of his.”

“Yeah. So am I.”

Wondering what’s going on, Brett asks, “Can I please speak to him?”

There’s a long pause. “I’m sorry. They just gave me his phone, and I heard it ring, so…”

“They?”

“The nurses. I’m at the hospital. Mike is…he’s been in an accident.”



Elsa desperately wants to believe she and Renny are alone in the apartment.

If they are, then the safest thing to do would be to barricade the door and stay right here until this is over…

Whatever “this” is.

But if that isn’t the case—if whoever unlocked the dead bolt is still here—then they have to escape, before—

No. Don’t even think about that. It’s going to be fine. You can get through this. Just stay calm.

Okay. An escape. The door is just a few yards away. It would be so easy to grab Renny and run for it…

Her eyes go to the coat closet beside the door. What if someone is hiding in there, watching them through the crack? Or that tall armoire positioned against the curved wall between the door and where they’re standing now: Someone could be lurking in the shadows on the far side of it. If she makes a move to leave with Renny, he’ll pounce, and then what?

Elsa could scream for help at the top of her lungs…

And no one would hear.

Soundproof. Oh God.

Her eyes are starting to sting.

How could she have thought it was a good idea to leave Brett, to travel so far from home alone with Renny, to a city filled with strangers who—

“Can we eat now?” Renny’s voice startles Elsa.

She blinks, takes a deep breath, tries to focus. Her throat dry with fear, she repeats Renny’s question slowly, as if it had been spoken in a foreign language. “Can we eat now?”

Can…we…eat…now…?

Can…we…?

The words aren’t registering. All she can think of is fleeing this gilded cage, getting her daughter to safety…

“Mommy?”

Food. She’s talking about the Chinese food in the kitchen.

“No, we…”

Wait a minute. The kitchen…

The knives are there, right on the counter. If she were armed, she’d at least be able to fight back if someone attacked.

Yes. That’s what she’ll do. She’ll grab a knife and then make a break for the door with her daughter.

“Come on,” she tells Renny, trying to keep panic from edging into her voice. “Let’s go eat.”

Peering into every shadowy nook along the way as they move toward the kitchen, Elsa keeps one firm hand on Renny’s shoulder and the other in her pocket, clamped around her cell phone. If she had to, she could probably dial 911 blindly, with her thumb.

But how long would it take for help to arrive?

Too long.

And no one will hear their screams.

Oh God…Oh God…

In the kitchen, the Chinese food waits on the counter.

Keeping Renny close beside her, Elsa walks over. Her hand is shaking like crazy, her thumb poised on the 9 button, as she starts to reach past the bag…

Calm down. You have to calm down. If he’s watching, he’ll think you’re going for the takeout, and—

Stunned by what she sees, she involuntarily loosens her grip on her phone. It clatters onto the granite counter as she stares in disbelief at the knife block.

Minutes ago, the handles were all accounted for.

Now one of the slots is empty.



Stunned, Brett listens as Joe, the man who answered Mike’s phone—his neighbor, and a witness to the accident—explains the situation.

Mike Fantoni is in a coma.

“It was a hit-and-run in front of his building. This car came barreling out of nowhere. Hit him, and kept on going.”

“Did you get a look at it?”

“Not a good look, no. I was in a state of shock, trying to help Mikey…” He pauses, clears the emotion from his throat. “A couple of other people saw it, though. The cops found the car abandoned a coupla blocks away. Stolen.”

“Do they have any idea who was driving it?”

“Probably some crazy-ass kid out joyriding.” Joe sighs heavily. “You know, another few seconds, and he woulda been outa there, on his way to the airport.”

“What? The kid? How do you know—”

“Not the kid. Mike!”

“Mike was going to the airport?”

“Had his bags all packed and everything.”

“Do you know where he was going?”

“On vacation.”

“Do you know where?” Brett repeats, his heart pounding.

“Nah. Why?”

“Just…he was working on something for me. Is there any way you can find out where—”

“I told you, he’s in a coma, on a respirator. I can’t—”

“No, I know,” Brett says quickly, guiltily. “Forget it. It’s not important.”

But it is important.

Just last night, Mike promised to figure out where that Spider-Man figurine came from. Why hadn’t he mentioned he was going away this morning?