Her Daughter's Cry, page 13
But her memory after the cupcakes stopped like an abandoned railroad track bisected by a brick wall. She was sure Miguel had supported whatever else mattered to her after that, but she couldn’t remember what it was.
Miguel had been a huge source of tension with her mother. Not Miguel exactly, though, that wasn’t the right way to put it. Marissa had never been good enough for her mother—she treated Marissa’s goals like silly fantasies, and even called them ‘little hobbies’—so Marissa knew if she loved Miguel, her mother would be opposed to him. But not because she didn’t like him, that was the ironic part. Because Marissa wasn’t good enough for him. The same way her mother said Marissa failed at everything because she didn’t care enough and didn’t put in enough effort, she said Marissa didn’t really understand love, and didn’t really love Miguel.
The anger flared through Marissa all over again as she remembered her mother’s words. How dare she presume to know what was in Marissa’s heart? Miguel made her feel loved, made her feel special. Believed in her. That was more than anyone else had done, by far, ever. And he took care of her.
But the last straw was that she accused Marissa of using Miguel. How was that supposed to work, exactly? You weren’t supposed to take gifts from your boyfriend? You weren’t supposed to let him help you? Isn’t that what partners were supposed to do, help one another and support each other’s dreams?
Headlights flashed in the distance as a car drove down a cross street, pulling her back to the present. She scanned her surroundings. The neighbors were settled in for the night, lights out and nobody peeking out from windows. She drove past the house, noting the Toyota Tesla in the driveway. Then she drove to a McDonald’s around the corner, ordered a quarter-pounder meal, and ate it while she figured out a plan of attack.
This neighborhood was more compact than her new one, with smaller lots and houses within earshot of each other. But she’d made sure her house, now Sara’s house, was separated from its neighbors by tall hedges and trees, believing firmly in the principle that good fences made good neighbors. So now, once she parked in the driveway, only the neighbor directly across the street would be able to see the car. If someone happened to look out the window, they’d see her pull in, and possibly be puzzled by the strange car. But that was a far smaller risk than parking for any period of time in front of anyone else’s home.
After finishing her French fries, she drove back to the house. She slipped out of the car and pulled up on the hidden cord to release the side gate, then trotted around to the back door. She knocked, then put her ear to the door and listened. No footsteps, no talking, nothing except the ticking of the horrible grandfather clock Miguel’s parents had given them as a wedding present.
After a second knock to be sure, she crossed to the window. The house had been painted a different color, but the window frames underneath were the same as when she owned the house—and she knew of a little peccadillo she’d never told anyone about. She trotted around to the side of the house, and ran her fingers around the edges of the glass. She pulled at the gray weatherstripping while shifting the pane—it slipped out into her hand, and she gave a silent whoop of joy.
The air inside had a stale, stuffy smell. She hurried through each room calling Sara’s name, hoping to find her injured but recuperating, too soundly asleep due to some painkiller to hear Marissa’s knocking.
The rooms, covered in dust, were a confusing pastiche of furniture she remembered from when she lived there and pieces that were completely foreign to her, giving her a disconcerting sense that she’d slipped into some sort of parallel dimension. A brand-new couch kissed Manuel’s old armchairs, its blue-and-white Moroccan pattern clashing with their earthy sage.
She ended in the master bedroom. Men’s clothes hung in the closet, and an abandoned pair of men’s boxer briefs lay crumpled on the floor. One half of the bed was meticulously made, and the other mussed from a night’s sleep—the side where men’s dress shoes peeked out from under the dust ruffle.
She jogged back down into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator. The expiration date on the milk was five days previous. Green mold dotted the loaf of bread and a container of leftover spaghetti and meatballs.
Despair pressed down onto her chest. Not only hadn’t Sara returned home to recover from her injury, nobody had been home in at least a week. Not Sara, and not Hunter.
She dropped to her knees on the tan linoleum floor, fighting back tears. She would not let herself believe Sara was dead. She couldn’t deal with that grief on top of everything else she was trying to cope with, she just couldn’t. And she couldn’t afford to break down now, she had to find a way to be strong—her daughter needed her. She had to focus.
What was her next step?
Information—she needed information. Paperwork, to start with.
She crossed through the house to the downstairs bedroom. Miguel had always used it as an office, and Sara had adopted it for the same purpose. She went through the desk drawers systematically, gathering what little she could. Sara’s place of employment—a bank—and Hunter’s—some sort of PR firm. Insurance records that confirmed the Tesla Model S was registered to her, in her name only. A few credit card statements that showed the same sort of banal purchases you could find on anyone’s—trips to the grocery store, to Target, a couple of dinners out. The deed to the house, along with transfer paperwork because Miguel had passed—
Miguel was dead? But he was so young; he’d only have been, what, fifty-five years old. His father had died young of a heart attack, had the same thing happened to him?
She wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, and shook herself. She could grieve for him later. For now, she had to stay focused. At least now she knew why Sara’s name was on the house rather than Miguel’s—she’d inherited the house, along with an insurance settlement. Part of which had paid for the Tesla, based on the timing involved, while most of the rest went into her 401K, according to the statements. Pride washed through her—her daughter was smart to be thinking of retirement so early. She must have a solid head on her shoulders.
Marissa scanned the rest of the house. Lots of bookshelves—someone loved to read. Sara must enjoy knitting, because the other spare bedroom was filled with skeins of yarn and several half-finished sweaters. Hunter apparently liked drones, because she found three of various complexity on a different table in the same room. Or, for all she knew, the drones were Sara’s and Hunter enjoyed the knitting.
As she crept back down the hall, she studied the pictures that lined the walls. One of Sara and Miguel. Another of Sara in a graduation gown. A third with Sara and Hunter. She leaned in to verify—yep, he was the same man she’d seen in Aunt Lucy’s picture, and most definitely not the man in the pictures she’d found.
As she passed the living room, a flash of brown leather next to the couch caught her eye. A purse, tucked under the end table. She grabbed it and rifled through. Several lipsticks, a mascara, a folding mirror, and a small datebook, but no wallet and no keys. Sara must have taken the essentials when she packed for the camping trip, and left what she didn’t need here, waiting for her return. Marissa flipped through the book to the pages for April, and found a segment marked off: Camping with Mom.
So they’d gone camping together. But the phrasing was ambiguous—did it mean just she and Sara had gone, or had both couples gone?
Marissa dropped her head into her hands and tried to think. Sara wasn’t here, but her car was, and a red Malibu had been parked in Marissa’s driveway. The Malibu might have been the car Bruce drove, but she doubted it—during the parts of her life she remembered, she drove red cars, because it was her favorite color. So who’d driven them out to the Berkshires? And where was Hunter? Like Bruce, both he and his car were missing. Had they all been murdered out in the woods, and only Marissa had managed to get away?
Except—Sara’s bed was half-made. The last time it was slept in, Hunter slept in it without Sara. But maybe he left the following Monday for some business trip? PR people did that, right? Bruce was a different story; according to the paperwork she found, he worked in construction. But maybe he had to work a site out of town? Maybe that’s why she and Sara had decided to go away when they did, because Bruce and Hunter were going to be away, anyway?
She shook her head. No, none of that made sense. Even if one or both were out of town, they’d expect to have heard from Marissa and Sara by now. Someone would have filed a missing persons report, wouldn’t they?
But maybe not. It had only been a week and a day since she stumbled into Taltingham. If that had been the first night of their trip, nobody would have expected them home until Friday, and they might have assumed cell service was bad when they didn’t get a call. Any police report wouldn’t have been filed yet when the detectives were looking for it.
So what did that leave her with? The only other place she knew to look for any of them was their jobs—but she couldn’t do that until morning.
Her eyes darted to the darkness outside. Which meant another desperate night hiding from the person hunting her.
Chapter Thirty
The man drove the shortest route to the house, but hit every light red. He fidgeted in his seat, waiting for them to change, fuming as he pictured Marissa slipping into the darkness again, this time forever.
By the time he made it to the right neighborhood, he’d wound himself up so tight he had to force himself not to race through the turns.
As he pulled onto the right street, he spotted a large SUV pulling out of a driveway midway down the street.
He tried to calm the rush of adrenaline. Was that the right driveway? He couldn’t tell for certain because the dark was messing with his depth perception. Could it still be her, after it took him so long to get here? It couldn’t be her, could it? He maintained his pace and kept an eagle eye on the driveway until he pulled close enough to be sure.
It was the right driveway. It had to be her.
He pulled over to the side of the road, pretending to park, hoping the SUV hadn’t noticed him.
Chapter Thirty-One
Marissa did a double take when the headlights appeared around the corner.
Dammit! Just when she was almost gone! What were the odds that someone would show up right as she was pulling out?
But—that wasn’t automatically a problem. Maybe this particular neighbor wasn’t all that observant. Or maybe they’d had a horribly bad day at work and just wanted to get home to bed, and didn’t have an extra thought to give the strange vehicle pulling out of the neighbors’ driveway. After all, she could just be a harmless visitor. Unless they noticed the house was completely dark. And how late it was.
She kept her speed steady and her eyes on the headlights in the rearview mirror. The car pulled over to the sidewalk—and she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been overreacting, anyway. Even if they called the police, what did it matter? The police didn’t know her true identity, or Sara’s. And the neighbor hadn’t had time to jot down her license plate number. She was fine.
So why did she feel so uneasy?
Chapter Thirty-Two
He watched the SUV approach the corner.
Should he follow? Was there any real possibility it wasn’t Marissa? Sara didn’t have friends who just dropped over unannounced; in fact, she didn’t really have any close friends at all. And she’d only just be due back at work, so nobody would come around looking for her this soon; the police wouldn’t even have taken a missing persons report seriously for twenty-four hours after she should have shown up for work. The only other person he could think of was Aunt Lucy, and she drove an ancient, beat-up Caddy. But if he were wrong, he might blow his only chance to catch Marissa when she did show up.
The car would be gone in a moment, he had to decide, now. And his instinct told him she was in that car.
He pulled away from the curb and turned at the same corner she had. The high red taillights were visible in the distance, stopped at the traffic light, signaling her intention to turn left. Which would put her on Elm, the main road through town, and he’d be able to follow her from a safe distance.
He maintained his speed, slowly closing the distance between them as she waited for the light to change.
When it did, she rolled through the intersection. He sped up, but couldn’t make it through in time.
He watched as she pulled away, hoping he’d have a chance to catch up before he lost track of which taillights were hers. “Stay on the road, stay on the road,” he chanted. Two cars passed by, adding two additional sets of red dots in the distance. He swore.
Then the traffic light in front of her changed, forcing her to stop.
After an eternity, his light turned green. He accelerated onto Elm until he reached thirty-five, the speed limit, then forced himself to maintain. By the time her light turned green, he was about a block away from her, nestled behind the cover of the other cars.
He relaxed and settled in, enough to enjoy guessing where they were going.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Fear constricted Marissa’s chest when headlights turned from the street she’d just left. No way that was a coincidence—it was too late for another car to be out on the same sleepy street.
The car stayed a few lengths back. She changed lanes to see if it would follow—it didn’t. She picked up her speed, and it fell behind.
Maybe she was wrong. Maybe this was just a really odd coincidence. It was possible, even if it wasn’t likely.
But she couldn’t afford to take the chance.
She’d originally planned to turn right off Elm to Dwight, which would take her to the highway. But that was another of the town’s main arteries, and the most likely path for any car on the road to take—if the car followed, she still wouldn’t be certain why. So she drove past Dwight.
The car did the same.
She turned right onto Blanquette, which led back to the sleepy neighborhoods.
The car followed, now keeping less distance between them.
Her heart pounded in her chest. There was no doubt now. Whoever it was knew what she was doing, and now wasn’t afraid of being detected. Which meant she needed to lose them, fast.
She searched what she’d recovered of her memory for any strange anomaly that would allow her to slip away and double back. Surely there was something—
She accelerated into the next turn, praying as her tires squealed.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The moment she turned back toward the neighborhood, he knew she knew.
He sped up, but just a couple of miles over the speed limit. If the cops pulled him over, he might as well come up with a prison nickname right now.
Suddenly she increased her speed as well, and turned back out of the neighborhood. He fought the urge to floor it and catch up to her. What was he going to do, run her off the road right in the middle of the city? She’d only go so fast—if she really was a fugitive, she didn’t want to be stopped by the police any more than he did.
She must be trying to get away. But how? He scanned his mental map of the area. What would he do if he were trying to get away from someone here?
She made another right turn, then a left onto the Columbus Community College campus. Then down a long street that led to a large, two-block-long central administrative building.
He smiled to himself—she was panicking. Running blind into a net of limited space, with even more restrictive speed limits, straight toward the lake on the far end of campus. Perfect for him—he’d herd her toward that more rural area and run her off the road there.
The signal light where the street dead-ended at the administrative building turned yellow—she floored it, tires squealing around the sharp turn behind the back of the building. He sped up, but couldn’t make up the distance before the light turned red.
He gripped the steering wheel, shouting at the light to turn. Thirty seconds later it did, and he threw the car around the bend.
She was gone.
His eyes darted around like a trapped animal—the road ringed the building in a squashed oval, with a different road radiating off every few yards like the spokes of a wheel on the flattened sides. In the thirty seconds she was out of sight behind the building, she could have taken just about any one of them.
“Motherfuck!” He slammed his hands on the dash.
He circled around the ring, hoping to spot her. But this was a college campus, and despite the late hour, taillights dotted every street.
Then—miracle of miracles—he spotted a pair higher than the rest. He screeched onto the street in question and jammed his foot onto the gas, determined to catch up before she disappeared around another corner, police be damned.
He pulled up behind the SUV—and screamed with frustration.
It wasn’t a Suburban. She was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Five
After turning up the first street behind the Columbus Community Administration building, Marissa took the next right immediately, and backtracked toward the edge of campus nearest the highway. After a few more zigzagging turns, she pulled into the student union parking lot, then sandwiched herself by the edge of the structure where she could watch cars passing by on the road.
Then, heart pounding so loud she could hear the rushing blood in her ears, she waited.
She didn’t recognize any of the cars that turned into the lot, but that meant nothing. She hadn’t been able to tell much about the vehicle through the rearview mirror, staring into the headlights. It was dark, maybe blue or black, and it was an economy-ish sized car, not a sedan or truck or SUV. More than that she couldn’t tell. But none of the cars that pulled into the union gave her a second glance.
