Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(95)

Rage flares inside her. “It’s the truth and you know it.”

“Who are you?” Caroline takes a step back from Jeremy, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I’m—your parents are—”

Obviously, he can’t even bring himself to say the words.

La La does it for him. “Your parents are his parents, get it? He’s your brother. The one everyone thinks is dead. Surprise!”

Caroline looks from Jeremy to La La and back again. “How—how can…You’re alive?”

“Don’t worry,” La La can’t resist saying as she reaches into her pocket for the gun. “He won’t be, for long. And neither will you.”



“Mr. and Mrs. Cavalon…”

Elsa looks up to see Detective Gibbs in the doorway of the kitchen, where she and Brett are seated at the table with Lisa, the police sketch artist working on a composite drawing of Melody Johnson. Brett keeps saying he’s seen the woman somewhere before, but he can’t remember where, and it’s driving him crazy.

“We’ve had a development.”

Elsa’s heart stops.

No. Please, no.

She braces herself for the worst news.

Brett grabs her hand and squeezes it, asking Detective Gibbs, “Is Renny…?”

“No,” he says hastily, “it’s not about her. No. We’re still working on a couple of leads, but…Lisa, would you mind giving us a few moments’ privacy?”

“No problem.” The sketch artist pushes back her chair, flashes them a concerned smile, and slips out of the room.

Detective Gibbs crosses toward them, carrying an open laptop. “I’ve been on the phone with New York.”

New York…

Marin Quinn is in New York. So is Garvey Quinn.

“I need you to take a look at something I just received,” Detective Gibbs says, almost gently, as he sits across from them, the laptop facing in his direction. “You might want to prepare yourselves. It’s going to be a shock.”

Prepare ourselves? Elsa thinks incredulously. How are we supposed to prepare ourselves? For what?

He turns the laptop so that they’re looking at the screen.

There’s a picture on the screen. A photograph of a young man.

Peering closer at it, Elsa is struck by an impossible thought.

No. It can’t be.

And yet, Brett gasps. “Is that…?”

“No,” Elsa says sharply. “It isn’t.”

Of course not. Brett just wants so badly for it to be him that he’s seeing him, just as Elsa did, for all these years.

Always looking at little boys, at teenagers, at young men who were the same age her son would have been. Always searching for that familiar gleam in a pair of big dark eyes, for the quick smile that could light up a room; always searching for Jeremy.

Even after she knew in her heart that he was never coming home again—she never stopped looking for him.

Never.

Not until they told her, last fall, that he was dead.

Detective Gibbs clears his throat and asks, very softly, “Do you recognize him?”

“Yes,” Brett whispers.

“No!” Elsa turns to him. “No, Brett, don’t. That isn’t him.”

The features are different.

“Elsa—”

“Don’t let yourself get caught up in…in hoping, and wishing. It’ll only hurt more.”

“But—”

“It’s not him. It can’t be. They told us—”

“Elsa, please, just look at him again. Look at his face.”

“Why? He’s dead, Brett. We both know it. He’s dead.”

“Mrs. Cavalon,” Detective Gibbs cuts in gently, “we have reason to believe that this is your son. He’s twenty-two years old, and his name is Jeremy.”

“He’s…twenty-two?” Brett’s voice is ragged. “He’s alive?”

“He’s alive. Mrs. Cavalon…?”

Elsa forces herself to look again, to really look this time.

Look at his face.

Look at his eyes.

She does.

And then she knows. She knows.

She presses her fists against her mouth, tears streaming down her face.

“That’s him. It’s Jeremy.”



“Look at you…you’re scared to death, aren’t you?”

Yes, Caroline’s scared. She’s terrified. Terrified of this…this person, this La La, who’s clearly insane…

And terrified of Jake, who brought her here.

No, not Jake.

Jeremy.

Her brother.

“You know, everyone’s afraid of something—like being closed into small spaces…that’s called claustrophobia, did you know that?” La La doesn’t wait for an answer, rambling on, “Then there’s Jeremy—he’s afraid of everything. Including me. Aren’t you?”

She abruptly whirls to face Jeremy, standing beside Caroline. She sneaks a glance at him and sees that he’s fixated on the gun.

He’s going to try to grab it, she realizes.

“He’s not a man. He’s like a little boy. No—like a little girl. How about if I lock you away, too?” She pokes the gun at him and he flinches.