Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(9)

“Okay, well…We can go to the mall to get you some new summer clothes, and have our nails done…”

Did you really just say that? Shopping and manicures?

Never in a million years would Elsa have thought she’d hear herself suggest such a thing. As the only child of Sylvie Durand, one of the world’s first supermodels—who became famous for creating an aura of mystery with the vintage blusher-veiled hats she always wore in public—Elsa had been force-fed girly pursuits. Groomed to follow in Maman’s glamorous footsteps, she’d done just that—sans chapeau, of course—until she was twenty-one. Then she met her unlikely soul mate: a preppy nautical engineering student from New Rochelle, who’d never heard of her mother and didn’t know haute couture from prêt-à-porter.

Head over heels for Brett, Elsa gladly traded her promising modeling career for family life.

That was the plan, anyway. Through years of heartbreaking infertility, Elsa could do little more than fantasize about what kind of mother she’d be. Unlike Sylvie, she’d never impose upon an impressionable daughter the rigid standards of fashion and beauty…

Yet here you are, grasping at straws, trying to lure Renny to the mall and salon. Nice going. While you’re at it, why don’t you just invite Maman over to pluck Renny’s eyebrows and parade her around with a book on her head?

The very idea makes her shudder.

It isn’t that Maman is a horrible grandparent. Quite the contrary. When Jeremy went missing, Maman was bereft and supportive—in her own self-centered way, of course.

The alluringly tragic Sylvie Durand was all over the airwaves, tearful behind her black veil, pleading for the return of her missing grandson. Elsa and Brett figured it could only help bring attention to the case. It did—and also revitalized Sylvie’s career, landing her a multimillion-dollar cosmetics contract. In Paris for a shoot, she reconnected with a childhood sweetheart, fell passionately in love—a frequent habit of hers—and decided to stay.

Elsa fully expected her to return to New York when the affair fizzled, but so far, it hasn’t. Maman keeps her Manhattan apartment just in case. She has a lavish wardrobe there and another in Elsa’s guestroom closet, as she refuses to travel with luggage. But she remains happily settled into Jean Paul’s countryside chateau.

Once in a while, Elsa misses her. But Maman flies home every couple of months—for holidays, and Fashion Week. And for the most part, Elsa’s glad to keep her at a healthy distance—particularly from impressionable Renny, who’s fascinated by her charming and glamorous “Mémé,” as Sylvie prefers her granddaughter to call her.

“Can we just stay home today, Mommy?”

Pushing aside the bitter memory of her own past, Elsa looks at her daughter. “Sure, we can stay home. Are you feeling all right?”

“No. The monster…” The child casts a fearful look at the window, and a chill slithers down Elsa’s spine. “He’s out there.”

“No, Renny, he’s not. He’s in here.” She gently presses her index fingertip against her daughter’s temple. “You dreamed him. He isn’t real.”

Renny says nothing.

“Look around.” Elsa sweeps a hand around the sun-splashed room, with its lavender ruffles and Disney princess theme. “There’s nothing to be afraid of here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Promise?”

Elsa hesitates.

Before he left for the office earlier, Brett kissed her on the cheek and said, “I promise you everything is fine.”

She wanted desperately to believe him. And when she realized that he’d never made any such promise before, about Jeremy, she did believe him—until now.

Now, when she knows just how easy it is to let the right words roll off your tongue to reassure someone you love.

She turns away, not looking Renny in the eye. “I promise.”



Things are different here.

In Manhattan, unlike the Connecticut shore towns, people live in towering, guarded fortresses. You have to be creative here; you can’t just climb in a window.

Well, maybe if you’re Spider-Man.

Spider-Man…

Now there’s an ironic thought.

Park Avenue is bustling on this cool June morning. People scurry or sometimes even push past, late for work, talking on their cell phones, trying to beat the light. No one casts a second glance in this direction, and even if someone did…

I’d never be recognized. Not here. Not in Groton, either—not even by the Cavalons.

One last look at the tall apartment building with its rows of windows high above the street…

Somewhere up there, does Marin Quinn really believe her children are safe in a concrete fortress, protected by locks and alarms and uniformed doormen?

She’ll learn.

She’ll find out what it’s like to feel your skin ooze with cold sweat as your heart seems to splinter your fragile ribs with every violent beat. She’ll know what it’s like to cower, helpless, aware that your darkest fears are going to come to fruition. Most importantly, she’ll know that it isn’t Jeremy’s fault that he did what he did.

No, it’s her own fault, and Elsa Cavalon’s, for failing the child they were both, in turn, supposed to protect.