Don't You Cry(88)

Esther had no idea where they were headed, but she knew this: Genevieve was trying to pass herself off as Esther. “She was trying to be me,” she says, “in the hopes that our mother would love her more. You were always her favorite, she said, but how would I know? I was only a baby when she went away,” she cries.

For five long days and five nights Esther laid on that concrete floor, breathing through her nose because the gag in her mouth made it impossible for air to pass through. There can’t be two of us, now can there? Genevieve said before locking Esther in the storage facility. That would just be weird. And so Genevieve did away with Esther so that she could be Esther. EV. Esther Vaughan.

It’s then that Detective Robert Davies reappears with Esther’s cell phone in his hand. Esther’s cell phone, which he confiscated earlier for his techies to review. “It’s for you,” he says to Esther with a rigid, weary sort of smile, and asks if she feels up to taking the call. Esther nods her head weakly and, peering toward me, asks if I’ll hold the phone for her. “I’m tired,” she confesses, a disclosure which is plain to see. “I’m just so tired.”

“Of course,” I say, leaning in close, pressing the phone to Esther’s ear, close enough that I can hear every word that is exchanged over the call. It’s her mother, Esther’s mother, the one from which she’s been estranged all these years.

From Esther comes a great big sigh of relief at the sound of her mother’s voice, and then she begins to weep. “I thought I had lost you,” she says, and Esther’s mother, also crying, says the same. “I thought I had lost you, too.” Apologies are offered; promises are made. A clean sweep. A fresh start.

I don’t eavesdrop, not per se, and yet standing within hearing range, I gather this. After Genevieve locked Esther inside the storage facility, she sought their mother out. Esther’s mother and Genevieve’s mother. She threatened her; she told her Esther was dead. A boy from the neighborhood saved her, giving his own life for hers. “Alex Gallo,” she says. “Do you remember him?” Esther shakes her head; she doesn’t remember him. “He’s a hero—” I hear Esther’s mother’s voice through the phone, along with these conclusive words “—he saved me. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead.”

And then there’s an interlude—a brief interlude which is full of sobbing and grief—before she decisively says, “Genevieve will never bother us again,” for as it turns out, Genevieve will spend the rest of her life behind bars for a murder charge.

“We need to get her to the hospital,” the EMT says, and I nod my head okay. I pull the phone from Esther’s ear and tell the woman on the other end of the line that Esther will call her back just as soon as she can. I promise Esther that I will be there; I’m following right behind. She doesn’t have to do this alone. I’m here.

I return to Ben just as his cell phone begins to ring. It’s Priya. He draws the phone from his pocket and excuses himself to drift away to a quiet space where they can speak. Ben will soon leave, and when the police say that I can go, I’ll go, too. To the hospital to be with Esther.

I watch as Ben and Priya talk, feeling more alone than I’ve felt before, though I’m surrounded by all these people.

When Ben returns, I say to him, “You don’t need to stay with me,” and, while pointing at the phone in his hand, I say, “I’m sure Priya is expecting you.” His nod is slothful and listless.

Priya is indeed expecting him.

“Yeah,” he says, and again, a mundane, “Yeah. I should go,” he decides.

Priya has made dinner, he tells me. She’s waiting. But I don’t want him to leave. I want him to stay. Stay, I silently beg.

But Ben doesn’t stay.

He embraces me in a final hug, wrapping those snug arms around me in a way that swallows me whole, that warms me from the outside in. And then he stands just inches away and says to me, “Goodbye,” while I stare into his magnificent eyes, the five-o’clock shadow that now decorates his chin, the arresting smile.

But I wonder: Is it more of a Goodbye, my love, or a See ya later, pal?

Only time will tell, I suppose, as I say goodbye and watch as he goes, turning on his heels and drifting off toward the intersecting street.

But then just like that, he turns and comes back again and there—on the corner of the city street, surrounded by men and women in uniform, the gridlock of afternoon traffic, newscasters with cameras filming for the evening news—we kiss for the very first time.

Or maybe it’s the second.

*

Keep reading for an excerpt from PRETTY BABY by Mary Kubica.





Acknowledgments

Thank you to the brilliant editorial team of Erika Imranyi and Natalie Hallak, whose diligence and sage advice helped make this novel shine, and to my agent, Rachael Dillon Fried, whose tireless emotional support and encouragement kept me going.

Thank you to the dedicated Harlequin Books and HarperCollins teams for helping bring my novel out into the world, with special thanks to Emer Flounders for the incredible publicity, and to the wonderful people of Sanford Greenburger Associates.

Many thanks to the entire Kubica, Kyrychenko, Shemanek and Kahlenberg families, and to dear friends for all the support and constant reassurance: for helping care for my family when I couldn’t be there; for being the happy, smiling faces at my signing events; for driving hundreds of miles to hear me say the same thing again and again; for delivering bottles of wine when I needed them most; and for putting up with my forgetfulness and constant shortage of time. I can’t thank you enough for your love, your support and your patience.