Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(67)

You have to kill again.

The more often you experience the addictive rush of power, the harder it is to hold off until you get to feel it again.

You don’t want to get sloppy, though. You don’t want to start doing it just for the hell of it. You have to have a plan; it has to be a means to an end. Otherwise, it’s wrong: killing for the sake of killing.

This isn’t like that. This is about vengeance, and about love.

Like the lyrics of that old song…

It was by The Who. What was it?

“Behind Blue Eyes.” Right.

And the lyrics, all of them, are true. So true. No one knows what it’s like.

No one but Jeremy…

The sudden ringing of a telephone curtails that line of thinking. The ringtone is unfamiliar. It can only be Elsa Cavalon’s phone—the one she so carelessly left on the countertop in her mother’s apartment.

Too bad. It’s mine now.

Is she calling it herself, aware she lost it?

Or is someone else trying to reach her: her husband, perhaps, or her mother in France? It sure as hell isn’t Mike Fantoni—or, for that matter, Roxanne the social worker. Ha.

One look at the caller ID window provides the shock of a lifetime.

Of all the names that might have come up, this is by far the least expected—and the most intriguing.



“Hi, you’ve reached Elsa. I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave a message I’ll get right back to you.”

Marin takes a deep breath. “Elsa, this is Marin Quinn. I’m…”

Oh please. She knows who you are.

“I need to talk to you. Over the phone or in person, whatever…”

She can hear the quaking in her voice, and knows she’d better hang up before she bursts into tears—which would pretty much ensure that Elsa Cavalon won’t be calling her back.

Do you really think she’s going to do that anyway?

“I, um, understand if you’d rather not talk to me after…after all this. But I hope you will.”

Marin pauses.

Is there anything more to say? This might be her only chance.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts, and hangs up.



Out on Broadway, it’s still raining. The mass weekend exodus is well under way; the streets are jammed with traffic, the sidewalks crowded with people and umbrellas.

Spotting a cop issuing a traffic ticket over on the corner, Elsa considers—for a fleeting moment—pouring out the whole story and asking him for help.

But what proof do you even have that anyone was even after you?

What if he thinks you’re crazy?

There will be an official report. That much is certain.

And having taken Renny across state lines without permission will be the least of her worries when the agency gets hold of it.

Right now, her priority is to find a safe haven for herself and Renny—then figure out what the hell is going on.

“Where are we going?” Renny asks.

“Home,” Elsa tells her resolutely. “We’re going home.”



“…can’t locate next of kin…touch and go…maybe we should…”

Snatches of far-off voices reach Mike’s ears, bewildering him.

Where is he?

Not at home. If he were at home, he’d be alone. There are people here; he can feel movement all around him; can hear, in addition to the murmuring voices, some kind of steady electronic beep.

With tremendous effort, he opens his eyes.

At least, that’s what he thought he just did.

But still he can see nothing at all. He’s surrounded not by the darkness of a night room, but a solid pitch black that scares the shit out of him. What the hell is going on? Has he gone blind?

He opens his mouth to ask someone, but he can’t seem to move his jaw. He can’t move anything, he realizes, not even his fingers.

As terror cloaks Mike like a straitjacket, he struggles to stay conscious, desperate to piece together what might have happened to him.

The last thing he remembers is standing on the street…

He was talking to Joe…

“You going somewhere, Mikey?”

Yeah. That’s right…he was going somewhere. He had luggage. But where…?

Oh no. Oh Christ.

In a flash, it comes back to him: the Cavalons’ visit, his suspicion that Jeremy might be alive, deciding to go to Mumbai…and the speeding car that gunned right toward him.

That was no accident—the car hitting him.

Again, he struggles to speak; again, he can’t move a muscle.

He can hear two women talking nearby, and a rattling sound, as though someone is pushing a cart around.

“I don’t know…I probably shouldn’t…”

“Come on, they have two-for-one happy hour margaritas.”

“Yeah, but I’m on the early shift tomorrow.”

Listening to their mundane chatter, Mike is help-less. Don’t they realize he’s trapped in here? Don’t they care that someone tried to kill him?

Someone tried to kill him. Someone almost succeeded. Or maybe they did. Maybe he’s dying.

He’s always wondered what it would be like. Is this it? Is he living his last moments?

Or has it already happened? Is he dead?