Stillhouse Lake (Stillhouse Lake #1)(53)

Officer Graham’s right. I need to take her to the range and teach her properly, because I know my child, and soon, all my orders not to touch the guns won’t be enough. She takes her cues from me, though she doesn’t want me to know it. As I look at her standing there, holding the knife, pale and afraid and yet fearless, I love her with an intensity that hurts me. I also fear what I’ve made her into.

“It’s okay,” I say, very gently, though of course it isn’t true. “Lanny. Please put the knife away.”

“Guess it’s not a great idea to murder-stab cops,” she says, “but Mom, if—”

“If they come back with some official paperwork, I’ll go quietly,” I tell her. “And you will take care of Connor. Connor, you’ll do whatever Lanny says. All right?”

“I’m the man of the house, you know,” he grumbles, and it chills me, because I hear an echo of his father in it. But unlike his father, it isn’t aggressive. It’s just a complaint.

Lanny rolls her eyes as she slots the knife back in the block, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she gently shoves Connor in the direction of his room. He plants his feet and doesn’t go. He’s too busy looking at me, that knot of concern in between his brows, his eyes fierce with worry. “Mom,” he says. “We should get out of here. Now. Just leave.”

“What?” Lanny blurts it out before she can stop herself, and I can see that the idea hasn’t been far from her mind, either. She’s been dreading the news, and expecting it. I’ve kept my kids balancing on that knife edge for too long. “No. No, we’re not. Are we leaving? Do we have to? Tonight?”

I can see the unmistakable plea in her. She’s only just found friends, something she lost in Wichita in an unimaginable whirlwind of horror. She’s found, however briefly, a little happiness. But she isn’t begging. She’s just hoping.

I don’t need to answer, because she does it for herself. She looks down and says, “Yeah. Yeah, of course we are. We have to, right? If the cops dig deep, they’re going to find out . . .”

“If they take my fingerprints, yes. They’ll find out who we are. I’m delaying to give us some time.” I take a deep breath, so deep in hurts. “Go get what you need. One suitcase, okay?”

“You’ll look guilty if we run away now,” she tells me. And of course she’s right. But I can’t stop this train; it’s well beyond any control I can exert. If we stay, I risk the storm descending from both sides. Running may make me look guilty, but at least I can get them away from this, get my kids safe, and come back to clear myself.

Connor’s off like a shot. Lanny looks at me with a mournful silence, then follows.

I say, “I’m so sorry,” to her back.

She says nothing at all.





7


It’s damn late, but I call Javier and ask him to bring the van as quick as he can; I tell him the Jeep’s ready for pickup, and I’ll pay him extra for the trouble. He doesn’t ask questions but promises to be with us in half an hour. It’s cutting things close.

I go to my room, unhook my laptop, and stow it in my go-bag for dismemberment and disposal later. It isn’t lost on me that in this I have some common ground with my ex-husband.

It’s different this time, isn’t it? Mel’s haunting voice whispers to me as I stuff extras into the bag, things I want to keep. You’re not just running from stalkers, or even from me. You’re running from the police now. How far do you think you’ll get once they’re really hunting for you? Once everyone is hunting for you?

I pause in the act of grabbing the photo album I never leave behind. There are no pictures of Mel in it, just me and the kids and friends. Mel might as well have never existed . . . Except that he is right. Mind-Mel, anyway. If I run, and they decide I’m worth chasing, it becomes a whole different paradigm. I doubt Absalom will help me evade the law. He’d be the first one to rat me out.

There’s a knock at the door. I shove the photo album in, zip the bag, and leave it on the bed. Everything else I own is cheaply acquired, easily replaced, and disposable.

When I answer the door, Javier is standing there.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “I’ll get your keys—”

He interrupts me to say regretfully, “Yeah, about that. We never got around to talking about it, but just so you know, I’m a reserve deputy. Heard on the radio that they were looking to question you right about the time you called about the van. You’re not going anywhere, Gwen. I had to make the call.”

Standing right behind him is Detective Prester. He’s wearing a dark suit today, and a blue tie so ineptly knotted I wonder if he just made a square knot and called it good. He seems tired and pissed off, and in his hand is a crisp triple-folded piece of paper with an official seal showing on the front. He says, “I’m disappointed, Ms. Proctor. I thought we had some kind of civil conversation between us. But you were about to go and run away on me, and I have to tell you, that doesn’t look good. Not at all.”

I feel the trap closing over me. It’s not a bear trap, but silk strands weaving together into an unbreakable net. I can scream, I can rage, but I can no longer run from this.

Whatever this is.

I give Javier a smile I don’t feel and say, “It’s all right.” He doesn’t smile back. He’s studying me with wary intensity. They are all, I think, well aware that I hold a concealed carry permit. They know I’m dangerous. I wonder if they have snipers out in the darkness.