Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(90)

Yes, strapped in. She’s in a hurry to get back up to Boston, and the last thing she wants right now is to have an accident in a car that belongs to her, with a kid who doesn’t.

No answer.

Renata just sits staring straight ahead like a zombie. She’s been this way for miles now—for over an hour.

At first, she asked a few times where they were going.

“For a ride,” she was told. “To get…berries.”

“My mommy said berries never last long enough.”

Nothing does, kid.

“How about ice cream?”

“Pink ice cream?”

Oh, for God’s sake. “Sure, why not?”

The kid is breathing loudly, and every time she exhales, the breath trembles.

Yeah. Maybe she’s figured out by now that this is a hell of a long drive to get pink ice cream.

It’s okay. They’ve reached the Boston suburbs. It won’t be much longer.

It’s a relief to be back in the Mercedes after driving around in rentals all week—and Meg Warren’s piece of shit car.

Suddenly, the kid reaches for the door handle.

“Hey, what are you doing?” She hits the brakes. A car behind her honks loudly and swerves around her. Furious, she gives the driver the finger as he passes.

“I was just putting down my window,” the kid says in a small voice.

“It’s already down!” Yeah, she allowed that, trying to make her feel at ease from the moment they got into the car in her parents’ driveway.

“I need it more open!”

Right. Because she’s desperately claustrophobic. Her worst fear is being trapped in close quarters. That information came from the file folder Roxanne Shields so conveniently brought home the night she died—along with other interesting tidbits.

Like her photo ID.

It was so easy to create an identical one, complete with a recent photo and the perfect alias.

Melody.

Such a shame no one can really appreciate her cleverness.

And Johnson—the second most common surname, after Smith.

As in Jeremy Smith.

As in Jeremy Cavalon.

As in the child whose life was destroyed—

Before he went and destroyed mine.

And all because of Elsa Cavalon and Marin Quinn.

“I said cut that out!”

Dammit, the kid’s hand has strayed back to the controls on the door handle. The doors are locked, and flying up the interstate at sixty-five miles an hour, she’s probably not going to try to throw herself out of the car through the window, but you never know.

Up it goes, all the way, courtesy of the driver’s side control. Luckily, there’s also a lock button.

“No!” Renata Cavalon screams. “Put it down!”

“If I were you, little girl, I’d settle down and shut up right now.”

She calmly pulls the gun from her pocket.

Using it right here and now wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as what she has in store for Little Miss Claustrophobia…

But then, it’s been such a long, exhausting day already.

It might be a good idea to get it over with and go home.

Home to Jeremy.



“Mom! Mom!”

Marin opens her eyes to see someone standing there, shaking her awake.

Something’s wrong.

Annie…something about Annie…she’s supposed to be worrying about Annie.

But Annie is here…

Isn’t she?

That is Annie standing over her bed, isn’t it?

She tries to sit up. Her body is too heavy to move.

The person says something, but it’s as if Marin’s head is swathed in layers of gauze—she can barely see, can barely hear.

“…police!”

The word cuts through the fog, jolting Marin like a knife. “What?”

“The police are here.”

The police? The police…no. Please, no.

“Caroline…where’s Caroline?”

“I don’t know, in her room, I guess, but Mom…you have to get up. They want to talk to you, now!”



Elsa refuses to lose herself in the miasma of fear swirling around her. Not like last time, with Jeremy.

If she doesn’t stay strong, stay focused, Renny will be gone for good, just like Jeremy.

So she sits stoically with Brett on the couch as police officers move around them, radios squawking, taking photos, dusting the doorknob and the kitchen chair and table for Melody Johnson’s fingerprints.

Was it like this last time, when Jeremy went missing? She doesn’t even know. She was too far gone, by the time the police arrived, to notice their specific movements.

She does remember that Brett somehow managed to hold himself together back then. He was always the strong one, the one who kept his head amid chaos.

Not this time. He’s trembling, crying on and off, his head buried in his hands as Elsa sits here like the eye of a hurricane.

She can’t let it sweep her away.

She won’t.

I’m Renny’s only hope.



“Keep your head down, I said!”

Crouched on the floor of the Mercedes, the kid obeys with a whimper.

Turning on to Regis Terrace, she sees that the neighborhood has stirred to life since she drove away earlier. Kids on bikes and skateboards, pedigreed dogs on leashes, gardeners tending to lush landscapes…