Wherever She Goes(72)

I squeeze my eyes shut and give my head a sharp shake. I’m angry at Gayle. Outraged and fighting the overwhelming urge to show her why messing with my family is a very bad idea. In that state of mind, I’m jumping to ridiculous conclusions that paint her as something far worse than a woman who wants my ex-husband.

I take out my phone and find the still image of that car. I enlarge it. I compare the two.

It’s definitely Gayle’s. There’s a scrape on the rear bumper that matches. I saw her car at the daycare and thought it looked like the vehicle of a woman who belonged with Paul. That’s why it stuck in my mind.

I remember Paul seeing this picture. I remember him hesitating. This is why he wanted to stop by the office. Not to pick up files. According to his admin assistant, Paul went there to see Gayle. True. He went to confront her about this.

The fact that Gayle’s car is in the video is not proof that she sent it. A court would see it as circumstantial evidence. But there is no other logical reason for Gayle’s car to be near that park. She doesn’t even live in Oxford.

Paul said she was working from home Monday. He’d considered sending Charlotte there and then changed his mind and left her with the neighbor instead. Had he told Gayle that? If so, she’d know exactly where to find Charlotte. It would be easy to follow them to the playground and shoot the video.

Shoot a video of our daughter and send it from a prepaid phone with threatening texts? Why the hell would Gayle do that?

I don’t care. I’m not going to sit at this curb and ponder her motivation. This woman scared the life out of me and cost me my job. She also scared the life out of Paul—a man she supposedly cares for.

I march to the house.

I glance at her car as I pass. I even run my finger down that scrape, to be sure I’m not hallucinating it. I’m not. This is the car in the video.

The rear gate is ajar, and I swing it open and continue through onto the deck. The back sliding door is also not quite shut, as if someone strode through this way, too angry to close gates and doors behind them. I’m reaching for the sliding door handle when I see something smeared across the glass.

That smear gives me pause. Paul might have a three-year-old, but he also has a housekeeper three days a week. He’d be quick to clean it himself, too.

It looks like jam or candy. A light smear of red . . .

Red.

Blood. There’s a smear of blood on our back door. I grab the handle and have to forcibly stop myself.

I take out my phone to dial 911. Then I reconsider, pocket the phone, and pull my gun instead. I slide the door as carefully as I can.

Inside, it’s cool and dark. Quiet, too. Completely quiet. My heart thuds faster.

What have I done?

What the hell have I done?

Led Orbec to Paul, that’s what I’ve done. I traipsed off after my escape at Beth Kenner’s, and I’d been so pleased with myself. No need to rush and call Paul. No need to rush and call the police. The situation is under control.

I take a deep breath. Plenty of time for self-recriminations later. Right now, I need to focus.

Ahead, I see a lamp on the floor, the shade knocked off. Signs of a struggle.

Don’t run. Just keep moving. Be careful and keep moving.

I continue into the living room. And there is Gayle, sprawled on the carpet. I race to her. There’s no sign of blood. No sign of injury either. She’s breathing fine, sound asleep.

I grab Gayle by the shoulder. She wakes, flailing, her eyes wide.

“Where’s Paul?” I say.

She looks around, as if expecting to see him standing there.

“Where is Paul?” I repeat.

She blinks. “He-he took him. The man. The one who broke . . .” She seems to lose her train of thought and rubs at her temple, wincing.

“Where is he now?”

“I have no idea,” she snaps. “You’re the one who brought that man into his house.”

“What man? Describe him.”

She describes Hugh Orbec. Then she goes on to say that Orbec broke in and knocked her out, and the last thing she remembers, he was telling Paul to come along. Orbec was taking him hostage. That’s when she lost consciousness.

As she’s telling me this, I search for a note. If Orbec took Paul, he’s left a note.

As I hunt, Gayle follows me, still talking. “I don’t know what kind of hold you have over Paul, but he cannot break free of it. God knows, I’ve tried. It took months to even get him on a date, and then he’s dragging his feet every step of the way.”

“And you didn’t take a hint?” I say as I check the kitchen counters.

She glares at me. “I knew what he needed. I knew what Charlotte needed. I just had to make him realize it. I finally start seeing progress, and then you slam back into his life like a tornado. All of a sudden, I can’t do anything right. I fix your mess with the princess tea, and he tells me I handled it wrong, that I should have encouraged you to go despite not being dressed for it. I invite Charlotte to my daughter’s party, and he accuses me of planning it at the last minute.”

I’m barely listening, too focused on finding that note. If Orbec took Paul hostage, he must have left something for me. A threat. A warning. An ultimatum.

Gayle keeps talking. “Sunday evening, he calls to say you’re in trouble and staying here for the night. He asks if I can take Charlotte the next day. I’m not happy about you sleeping over, but I suck it up. I figured I’d deal with that later. The next morning, he calls and ends it. Breaks it off. No explanation. Just ‘it’s not working out.’ ”