Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(83)

Or, she thinks as she keeps going, right past Caroline’s door without a backward glance, who my daughter is.



“I still can’t believe it,” Brett murmurs, shaking his head.

“I can’t, either.”

Sitting across from Brett at the kitchen table, coffee mugs in front of them, Elsa notes that this is exactly where they were forty-eight hours ago—after Renny’s first nightmare about the monster in her room, and the open window…

Despite what she told Brett earlier, trying to rationalize Marin Quinn’s actions as a mental imbalance brought on by profound maternal grief, she finds it almost impossible to believe that Jeremy’s birth mother would actually sneak into their house in the dead of night, wearing a rubber mask…

And that’s the least of it.

Incredible. Beyond incredible, and infuriating, and bewildering…

But there’s no denying that bizarre phone call out of the blue.

And here I thought I was the one who’d gone off the deep end.

Brett, too, had thought so, remembering what she’d gone through after Jeremy disappeared. For all he knew, in her dissociative state, Elsa herself could have been capable of crawling in someone’s window in the middle of the night.

That’s why he hadn’t told her about Mike’s accident right away, or that he was headed for Mumbai when it happened. He was afraid, he said, that it might push her over the edge.

Elsa watches Brett sip his coffee, wondering if he’s thinking about Marin Quinn. His theory is that Marin convinced herself that Renny is Jeremy, and she wants to rescue—

Brett’s cell phone rings, startling them both. He pulls it from his pocket as Elsa glances at the clock.

It’s past six—not the middle of the night, but still early enough for a call at this hour to threaten bad news.

Brett glances at the caller ID pane. “Oh no.”

“Who is it?”

He holds up a finger, already answering the phone. “Hello?”

She can hear a male voice on the other end of the line, though she can’t make out what he’s saying. Judging by the look on Brett’s face, she can tell that she was right. It’s bad news.

“When?” he asks hoarsely. After listening for a moment, he nods. “Was anyone with him?” He listens again, shaking his head, and Elsa sees that there are tears in his eyes.

Comprehending, she whispers, “Mike?”

He nods, and a lump of unexpected sorrow clogs her throat.

She closes her eyes, seeing his familiar handsome face—not as it was this last time, etched by age and stress—but as it was when she first met him, years ago.

Mike Fantoni had promised, that first day, not to give up until he’d found out what happened to her lost son.

He never gave up.

If there is a heaven, she thinks, wiping away a tear that managed to squeeze through her lashes, then one thing is certain: they’re both there: Mike Fantoni and the little boy he’d so longed to bring home alive.



A few hours in the downy cloud of a featherbed that once belonged to La La’s parents was hardly enough.

But it will have to do for now. The sun is up out there beyond the drawn shades, and it’s time to get moving.

The first floor of the huge house on Regis Terrace is dim and still this morning. Moving through the rooms, it’s hard to remember that the place was actually lived in, a comfortable family home like any other in this quintessential small New England town.

Once upon a time, a clock ticked steadily on the marble mantel in the living room. But it was the kind that needed to be wound nightly, and there’s no longer anyone here to bother.

The silence is unnerving.

It’s going to be another long, exhausting day. Some caffeine would be helpful.

In the kitchen, there’s a percolator, a canister filled with dark roast coffee, even milk that isn’t yet outdated. But the beans would need to be ground, and the grinder is loud enough to wake the dead, as Candace Montgomery, La La’s mother, used to say.

Interesting turn of phrase.

The dead.

No one was ever meant to die.

Certainly not her.

But on the stormy December night of Jeremy’s first visit to this house, as soon as she realized who he was, she opened her mouth. Opened her big, fat, loud mouth and said all the wrong things.

I couldn’t help it. I just snapped.

Maybe if she hadn’t been standing at the top of the back stairs when she started blabbing…

But she was. Standing with her back to the tall, steep flight, her heels just inches from the edge of the top step. It was so tempting to just reach out and…

And I tried to fight it. Really, I did.

But in the end, it was no use. It took precious little effort to shut her up. Just one swift and mighty shove, and over she went, tumbling down the steps with a bone-crunching commotion.

After she hit bottom, all was silent…at first.

Then a faint moan floated up the stairs.

It wasn’t over. She was still alive.

But not for long.

Her blue eyes were wide open, staring in helpless horror until the last moment, when the pillow—a plush European down pillow from La La’s own bed—came down over her face.

Wow—what a way to start the day, with such a grim memory.

Coffee probably would have been better.