Wherever She Goes(52)

“So, my concern is . . .” I begin, and then I trail off as I catch his expression and realize he’s no longer hearing me. He’s just staring.

“I’m okay,” I say carefully.

“I can see that.” He pulls back and rubs his hands over his face.

“Paul?” I say. “Are you okay?”

“My wife just told me how she identified a dead woman, staked out a Russian mobster’s nightclub, taped a covert conversation from the closet, and then overpowered one of his thugs.”

“I didn’t exactly overpower—”

“You took a gun from a man who wouldn’t hesitate to use it on you.”

“It was in his waistband. He hadn’t pulled it. I knew what I was doing.”

“Yes, Aubrey, that would be my point. You knew what you were doing. With all of it.”

“Oh.”

Earlier I said the woman he married wasn’t the whole me, and now I see the truth of that in his expression. He’s known I’m a thief, a tech whiz, but it hasn’t penetrated until this moment. He’s looking at me the way he’d look at a stranger. Because he’s realized that’s what I am.

A stranger he married. A stranger who bore his child, who is now helping raise his child.

I take a deep breath. “Yes, I grew up knowing how to fight back. I learned some martial arts, some marksmanship. Part of that was because I planned to go into the army, but part was because my father knew that as a woman I might need those skills outside a battlefield. You’re wondering now how much of that I’ve passed on to our daughter. You’ve seen our pretend sword fighting, our roughhousing. I haven’t initiated any of that. Maybe whatever makes me crave exercise is what makes her love physical play, too. I’m not trying to turn her into me, Paul. I wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s not—” He shakes his head. “Your father was right. Harnessing that physicality to defend yourself was a good idea. I hope to God that Charlie is never pulled into an alley, but if she is, I want her to be able to do what you did. To fight back. To escape. I just . . . You’re not . . .”

“The woman you thought you married.”

A long silence.

I put my mug down with a clack. “I’ll leave in a minute, Paul. I just wanted you to know what happened. I offhandedly mentioned that I didn’t have kids, and Zima’s thug didn’t bat an eye, so I’m hoping that means they don’t know about Charlie. I hid everything of hers in my apartment, so if they finish breaking in, they won’t find it.”

“Finish breaking in?”

“Someone tried while the thug distracted me. That’s why I left. I’m going to a hotel, but I wanted you to know what happened, in case you think that endangers you or Charlie.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t. You said this thug didn’t even believe you saw Kim with a child. That’s what he said on the phone. He must have tracked you down to see what you’d say in person. When you brushed him off, he snapped. Men like him aren’t accustomed to that sort of treatment. You supported his conviction that there’s no child, though. That’s what he’ll take back to Zima—even you have retracted your story. The boy is safe somewhere, and his aunt is probably on her way to get him.”

“Yes, but be careful, please. Lock the doors. Arm the security system. I’d offer to look after Charlie tomorrow, but that’s not a good idea. Is there anyone else who can take her, so she’s not at daycare?”

“I’d stay home, but I have trial. Gayle’s taking a few days off. Maybe I could ask . . .” He doesn’t finish.

“That’s fine with me.”

He nods, but it’s absent, his gaze distant.

I rise. “If anything else happens, I’ll let you know.”

He gets to his feet before I can leave. “You should stay here tonight.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll get a hotel—”

“No, stay. That’s safer, and Charlie will like to see you.”

I hesitate. “I don’t want to confuse her. Having me here . . .”

“We’ll tell her that you stopped by for breakfast because you didn’t get to see her on the weekend.”

I nod slowly. “Okay, I’ll take the futon in your study.”

“I’ll take the futon. You have the bed.”

I think of that. Of sleeping in my old bed. Of waking in the night, thinking I’m home. Waking in the morning, thinking I never left, and these six months have been a bad dream. And then realizing the truth.

“No,” I say. “Please. I don’t . . . I’d rather take the futon.”

He nods and goes to find bedding for it.



I still wake in the night. Wake smelling my home. Then I remember what woke me. I’d dreamed of Charlotte finding me on the futon, and seeing my purse, and going to check whether I brought her anything and pulling out the thug’s gun—

I inhale so sharply it hurts. Then I scramble for my purse, only to remember that I left the gun in the car. I put it under the seat.

Did I lock the car doors? I’m sure I did but . . .

I slip outside. The car is locked, but I open it and move the gun into the glove box. Then I lock that. Lock the car next. Go back inside, lock those doors and rearm the security system. I hear a noise overhead, the creak of a footstep. Paul appears at the top of the stairs.