Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(66)

Almost like someone was lying in wait.

Joe didn’t say that. But Brett sure as hell thinks it.

Mike is a private eye. He’s made his share of enemies. It’s not that far-fetched to imagine that someone might have sought vengeance for an extramarital affair Mike had uncovered, or a jail sentence resulting from one of Mike’s investigations…

Brett finds the phone book and flips the alphabetical pages, looking first under J for Joan—no luck—and then under T for therapist—again, no luck.

He has no idea what her last name is, but he thumbs through every page in the book, looking for any entry that bears the first name Joan.

There is none.

“Now what?” he mutters aloud.

He certainly can’t call Elsa and ask her for her therapist’s contact information.

No, but he can at least call her to check in and see how she sounds.

After that, I’ll figure out how to reach her therapist.

Grimly shaking his head, he dials Elsa’s cell phone.



It was all so perfect, right from the moment Elsa Cavalon and her kid showed up at the Ansonia with their take-out dinner, looking like drowned rats.

They could have stayed out for hours, which would have been okay, too—eventually they’d have returned to discover that their would-be safe house wasn’t safe at all.

But at least the way it happened—their arrival within a half hour of “Sylvie Durand’s” supposed grand entrance—prevented this thing from dragging on all night.

The veiled hat—purchased a mere two hours ago from a Scarlett O’Hara display at a costume shop in the Theater District—certainly served its purpose, as did the black pashmina and umbrella: twenty bucks from a street vendor near Columbus Circle. Now the hat, pashmina, and umbrella are carefully positioned on the edge of an alley Dumpster off West Seventy-third Street, where some poor homeless person can probably put them to good use.

See? Who says you don’t have a heart?

The duplicate keys to Sylvie Durand’s apartment almost landed in the Dumpster, too—after all, it’s a safe bet Elsa Cavalon won’t be coming back to the Ansonia anytime soon. But it seems like a shame to throw them away after going to all the trouble of stealing them, along with a spare set of keys to the Cavalons’ house, having them copied, and returning them before anyone noticed they were missing.

All the trouble?

Okay, it was a piece of cake to walk in through the unlocked door while Elsa and her kid were out in the backyard the other day, having a cozy little picnic under a tree. So easy to keep an eye on them while snooping around the house, finding not just the keys, but planting the listening devices that had proven just as handy.

The best part was unlocking the door in the dead of night to replace the keys, and taking a little detour, wearing the rubber mask, to scare the shit out of the kid.

Yeah. Good times.

Staying one step ahead—or rather, behind—the two of them in the apartment just now was even more fun. What a great setup for hide-and-seek—plenty of places to hide, though a few times, when Elsa looked over her shoulder, it seemed certain that the jig was up. Grabbing the knife from the kitchen was meant to be a scare tactic, but for a minute there, it almost seemed like it would have to be put to use.

That would have been a real shame, to end it all just as the real fun is about to get under way.

How fitting that it was Scarlett O’Hara herself who said it: Tomorrow is another day.



Marin can’t recall the last time she filled the car—any car—with gas. No wonder the fuel level is on E by the time she reaches the southbound Hutchinson Parkway. Figuring it’s better to fill up now than within city limits, she pulls into a roadside service area.

Once she remembers how to work the pump, it takes only a few minutes to fill the tank.

There’s something to be said for having your own means of transportation, she decides as she replaces the nozzle and removes her receipt from the machine. Throughout Garvey’s gubernatorial campaign, and even before that, the Quinns traveled mostly by car service and limo.

It’s kind of nice to be fully in charge, once again, of where she goes, and when she gets there.

Slipping back behind the wheel, she’s planning to merge right back out onto the highway.

Instead, she finds herself pulling into a parking space near the on-ramp.

You sure you’re in charge, there?

Yes. But once she gets home, she’ll have to deal with Caroline, plus she and Annie will be in earshot.

If you’re going to make that call, she tells herself as she pulls out her cell phone, you’d better make it now.



After the first killing, it got easier.

That’s how it is.

The first time, even while it’s happening, you don’t know quite what to expect when it’s over. You don’t know how you’ll feel, or what you’ll do, or where you’ll hide the corpse, or even if you should bother. You don’t know whether you’re actually capable of taking a human life, though it feels good—so damned good—to try.

To succeed is just…well, it’s a gust of pure, exhilarating supremacy, and you know, in that moment, that you can accomplish anything. Anything at all.

Eventually, though, the feeling subsides.

And you feel a pang when you realize it’ll never return, unless…