Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(69)

Why does it already seem as though it does?

But it’s not just the absence of stray shoes and books and framed photos on the walls and knickknacks on the shelves.

The apartment is still. Too still.

And dark. This might be one of the longest days of the year, but the dreary weather calls for lamplight. She tosses her keys on the bare surface of the hall table and flips a wall switch. There—that’s a little better.

“Anybody home?”

No reply. She kicks off her shoes as she walks, wincing.

It’s hard to believe her feet were once accustomed to wearing heels morning, noon, and night. Today, they merely carried her a block and a half from the parking garage back to the building, and they’re killing her.

Since she usually doesn’t bother to wear shoes around the house—and around the house is pretty much the only place she’s been lately—she’s out of practice.

With shoes, and driving.

But you did it, she reminds herself. You made it up to Westchester and back all by yourself—no pills, no tears, no…panic attacks.

Remembering what Lauren said about her episodes, and about finding a shrink, she wishes she’d never mentioned anything about it. True, she went up there to find some moral support, thinking Lauren might be the one person who might understand what she’s going through…

But even she can’t quite relate. Lauren’s never lost a child. Not like Marin. Not like…

Elsa.

Will Jeremy’s adoptive mother call back when she gets Marin’s message?

Why wouldn’t she?

Why would she?

Marin’s head is throbbing again.

“Girls!” she calls, walking down the hallway toward their rooms. They’re probably both plugged into headphones, as usual.

Annie’s door is ajar. Marin sticks her head in. No Annie.

Caroline’s door is closed. Are they in there?

Together?

An image flashes through her head: two little girls sitting side by side, heads close together—one blond, one brunette—over an open storybook across their laps, the older sister reading to the younger.

Oh please. That would never happen.

It never did, even when they were younger. Her girls were never close.

There’s no way they’re both cozily occupied in Caroline’s room, yet she knocks anyway. “Caroline? Annie?”

No answer.

“Caroline!” Uneasy, she tries the knob. Sometimes, her daughter locks it when she’s inside.

Not today.

The door isn’t locked, but Caroline’s not inside.

Marin surveys the empty room, wondering where she is.

And where, she wonders, her pulse beginning to race, is Annie?



Brett is sitting at the kitchen table in front of an open laptop, scrolling through the online listing for local therapists when the phone rings. He jumps on it, certain it’s going to be Elsa. He’s been nervous ever since he tried her earlier and she didn’t pick up.

He keeps reminding himself that her battery might be dead, and she might not have thought to pack her charger.

But when he tried calling the regular line to her mother’s apartment, no one answered there, either.

Maybe, not thinking it would be for her, Elsa didn’t bother.

Or maybe she took Renny out to eat and couldn’t hear the phone in a crowded restaurant…

Or maybe they went to a movie, and she had to turn it off…

Come on—would she really do that under these circumstances?

She might. She might have been trying hard to distract Renny.

Really, there are any number of scenarios that might explain why Elsa’s cell went straight into voice mail—and has continued to, several times—but Brett can’t quite accept any of them.

Now, he eagerly checks the incoming call. His heart sinks.

It isn’t Elsa.

He doesn’t recognize the number on the caller ID screen, nor, for a moment, the voice that greets him when he picks up.

“Hi, sorry to bother you again…”

Who…?

Oh. Joe. Mike’s friend.

“Is Mike…?”

“No change.”

“Thank God.” Brett closes his eyes briefly.

“Listen, you asked me if I knew where he was going. You know, on vacation?”

His eyes snap open. “Yes.”

“When the nurses gave me his phone, they gave me his other stuff, too. You know—to hang on to. After I talked to you I got to thinking…I know it probably wasn’t right, but I looked through Mikey’s stuff. He had the printout of the e-mail with the confirmation number for his flight. It was in his pocket.”

Brett holds his breath, waiting.

“Funny thing is, the confirmation e-mail had a time on it—and it was from early this morning, so I guess it was some kind of last-minute trip.”

“Where was he going?”

“That’s the funny thing. It’s a hell of a place for a vacation—even at the last minute.”

“Where?”

At the reply, Brett lowers himself into the nearest chair, stunned.

Mumbai: the city where Jeremy was killed.



Creeping up the rain-slicked West Side Highway in Friday night congestion, Elsa keeps a close eye on the headlights and changing traffic patterns in the rearview mirror.