“And I’ll check the missing persons reports,” she said. “That’s all we can do for now.”
Chicago, Sunday, August 1, 8:00 A.M.
Dana smelled the beef stew before she slipped into Hanover House’s kitchen. Caroline was here, doing her normal Sunday cooking that would last them well into the week.
“I was wondering when you’d get back,” Caroline said. She looked over her shoulder and her eyes widened. “What happened?”
“I had a little accident in the bus station.”
Caroline found the first-aid kit and pushed Dana into a chair. “You need stitches.”
“A butterfly bandage will do.”
“That’s what you always say.” She started cleaning the cut with peroxide. “David came by last night after he left here. He told me about Lillian. I’m so sorry.”
Dana drew a deep shuddering breath. “Me, too.”
“David also said you and Evie had words.”
“You could call it that, I guess.”
“Dana, you know Evie is wrong. I worked with Lillian, too. She wasn’t going to leave Chicago. New names would not have helped her.”
“I know.”
“Then you also know you’ve stalled long enough. What happened, honey?”
From the corner of her eye, Dana watched Caroline exchange the brown bottle of peroxide for the disinfectant. “Just a little accident. Ow. That stings.”
Caroline tilted Dana’s face up to the light, her blue eyes troubled. “You have a bruise, too. Did somebody’s husband do this to you? Lillian’s husband?”
“No. It really was an accident. Some junkie tried to rob an old lady.”
Peeling a length of adhesive tape, Caroline sighed. “And you just stepped right in?”
“It was reflex. He gave me a shove and my head hit a bench.” Her eyes teared as her hair was pulled back from the cut. “Ow. Dammit, Caro, that really hurts.”
“Sorry. When was this?”
Dana glanced at the kitchen clock. “About two and a half hours ago.”
Caroline drew back, surprised. “What took you so long to get here?”
Dana hesitated, then shrugged. “There was . . . this guy.”
Caroline’s hands stilled. “Did this . . . guy have a name?”
“Ethan Buchanan.”
“Hmm. Nice name.” She gently pressed the bandage into place.
“His name wasn’t the only thing that was nice,” Dana responded dryly and Caroline huffed a chuckle before carefully lowering her pregnant body into a chair.
She sat back, arms propped on her rounded stomach, her eyes sober. “Tell me.”
“Well, it was right after the junkie hit me. When I opened my eyes . . . he was there.”
Caroline held up her hand. “Wait just a minute. You mean you were unconscious after you hit your head? And you didn’t go to the hospital? Are you insane?”
“If I was out, it was only for a few seconds. And I didn’t go to the hospital because I don’t have insurance. Not everybody has a rich husband, you know.”
Caroline looked pained. “You know we’d pay for your insurance, Max and I.”
“And you know I don’t take what I don’t earn. You want to hear this or not?”
“You know I do. So he was there, this Ethan Buchanan. Then what?”
Dana moved her shoulders uncomfortably. Now that she had to say it, it sounded pretty stupid. Then he looked at me. It sounded so childish. But he had done no more than that, not at first. “I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”
“Try,” Caroline drawled.
“Dammit, I don’t know. I was all mad and upset and my head hurt and then, there he was, all of a sudden. He . . . he looked at me. And then . . .”
Blonde brows lifted. “And then?”
“I felt like everything would be all right. Like I’d always known him. Dumb, huh?”
“No.” Caroline’s voice was gentle. “Don’t even think it. So what happened then?”
Dana drew a very deep breath. “He touched my hand to help me up and it was like . . . electricity. Like when they use the paddles to start your heart.”
Caroline’s eyes had grown wide. “Mercy.”
Dana had to chuckle at the subdued exclamation. “Yeah. I tried to leave before the security guard came back from trying to catch the junkie, but Ethan wouldn’t let me go. Said he was afraid I had a concussion. Then he made me go get breakfast with him.”
“Made you, huh?”
Dana shot her a foul look. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely. So what will you do next?”
“He asked me to meet him there tomorrow. I said I’d think about it.”
Blond brows arched. “Which means yes or no?”
“I’m not sure.”
Caroline touched her hand. “What’s really bothering you, honey?”
Dana blew out a breath. “I don’t know. I’ve just got . . . ” She rubbed her hand over her chest to relieve the pressure building there. “Do you believe in fate?”
Caroline didn’t blink. “Yes. And no.”
“Well, that’s definitive.”
Caroline smiled. “I know. I learned it in law school last semester. How to Dodge Secret of Life Questions 101. I got an A.”
Dana’s lips curved in spite of herself. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Caroline sobered slightly, flinching. “That was a swift one.” She shifted in her chair, rubbing the side of her stomach with the heel of her hand. “He/she’s active this morning.” She leaned back, her gaze sharp, her palm resting atop her unborn child. “How can I sit here today and tell you I don’t believe in fate? I met Max at just the right time . . . for both of us. I think the fate part is where we met. But I distinctly remember the moment when I decided not to walk away.” Her eyes sharpened. “Fate is the opportunity. Choice is what you do with it.”
“That’s what I thought,” Dana said quietly.
Caroline tilted her head. “Ethan Buchanan made a pretty big impression on you.”
Dana’s chuckle was mirthless. He had. She just had no idea what to do about it. “I was thinking about you and Max and then I wondered—what if I never meet anyone of my own?”
“Dana—”
Dana shook her head. “No, really. And then I thought, so what if I do? Would it really matter? Would I walk away from what I do? Could I? It’s what I am.”
“You are a great deal more than the director of Hanover House, Dana. But that aside, why should you have to give up what you do?”
“Please, Caroline. I practically live at the House. I sleep in my own apartment maybe once a week. I could never give someone the time a relationship deserves.”
“Well, then, I suppose that’s the choice.” Caroline drew a breath, let it out. “Did it ever occur to you that you don’t have to work at Hanover House forever?”
Dana’s mind was flooded with the picture of Lillian’s children discovering their mother’s body. Even as she desperately tried to push the picture away, it morphed into the image that still managed to rip her insides to shreds. She stared down at the backs of her hands, then her palms. “No, this is something I have to do. It’s . . . it’s my life. That’s all.”
Caroline grasped Dana’s hands, kneaded her palms with her thumbs. “Look at me, Dana. Look at me.” Dana raised her eyes slowly, saw Caroline’s face focused with singular intent. “Your hands are clean, Dana. Don’t you think you deserve a life of your own? Don’t you think you deserve to be happy, too?”
The question hit harder than the bench. Dana opened her mouth, but not a sound came out and Caroline’s blue eyes went sad. “Go get some sleep, Dana. Maybe things will be clearer when you’re not exhausted.”
Chicago, Sunday, August 1, 11:00 A.M.
Evie stopped in front of the mirror in the front hall. Examined her reflection. Her makeup was good. No sign of the damn scar. She wouldn’t be expected to smile. Funerals were good in that regard. Her lips thinned as she stared at her reflection.
She’d be damned if she didn’t go to Lillian’s funeral. If they’d done their jobs, Lillian would be alive today. She’d sit in the back. Slip in after the funeral started and slip out before it was over. No one would see her and Dana’s paranoia would be upheld.
She turned for the door when she heard a quiet “Ahem” behind her and she jumped.
“Jane.” Her pulse settling, Evie regarded the woman who’d been standing behind her. She’d been here since Friday, the tenth Jane Smith to arrive in the last year. Evie wished their clients would show more creativity when choosing an alias. “What can I do for you?”
Jane wrung her hands nervously. “It’s nothing. I’ll just wait until you get back.”
Evie lifted one corner of her mouth in the three-cornered smile she’d practiced in the mirror. “I’m going to be gone for a while. I have a funeral to go to. What do you need?”
“I just was wondering if I could get some Benadryl for Erik. He gets hives.”
Poor kid. Curled into a ball like that. Evie’s lips thinned. Somebody should pay for whatever had happened to that little boy. “You go to him. I’ll bring it to you.”
Chicago, Sunday, August 1, 11:15 A.M.
As setups went, this one was perfect. Sue was here, in a place James would never even think to look. She crept up to the little room she’d been given on her arrival Friday night, found the kid on the twin bed where she’d left him. He was waking up.
“Can’t have that,” she murmured. She retrieved one of the kid’s pills from her backpack and made him swallow it. There had been two bottles in the Vaughns’ bathroom. She’d tried to pry details from Rickman regarding the kid’s meds, but having never fully recovered from seeing her fiancé lose the top of his head, she’d been very little help.
A quick Internet search while she’d been connected at Morgantown had yielded better results. Keppra was the more powerful drug, but Phenobarbital could dope a kid up if given in too large a dose. She did want the kid to sleep. She did not want him going into seizures that would make them noticeable in a crowd. Or perhaps make him dead.
Sue needed the kid to keep breathing. At least for another week or so. So she gave him just enough of the Keppra and doubled up the Pheno. And he’d slept like a baby all the way to Chicago. But she was running low on both drugs.
Adopt, adapt and improve. Her mother had used garden variety over-the-counter Benadryl mixed with wine to shut Bryce up when they were kids, and if it was good enough for Mom, it would be good enough for her. She’d stretch the Pheno with Benadryl until she could get a refill. A refill was something the other mothers in the shelter had assured her would be easy to do. “Just ask Dana,” the mother in the room next door had said.
Dupinsky had been stingy with the Benadryl last night. Only gave her a single damn dose. But Scarface had given her the whole damn bottle.
So now Sue chased the pill with a big spoonful of the Benadryl. The kid struggled at first, weakly, but a single hard look had him complying. She watched his throat work as he swallowed, but something in his eyes, just the tiniest flicker of defiance, made her check to be sure. He fought, pulling his face away from her hands when she grabbed him, nearly choking when she forced his mouth open to find the red liquid still pooled in his cheek.
“Swallow it,” she muttered, before realizing it would do no good to threaten the child with words. With one hand clenching his scrawny jaw, she wrote him a note on the pad of paper someone had so thoughtfully left next to the bed. Showed it to him.
Watched his face blanch. Without another flicker of his eyes, he swallowed.
She tipped him a nod, shoved the note in her pocket, and shoved his head forcefully to the pillow. Dumb kid. Thinking he could get the better of her. He was twelve, for God’s sake. And how smart could he be? Considering his father, after all.
For a moment she stood looking down at the boy, contemplating. By the time the final curtain fell, he’d be dead. On some level, the notion should bother her. It did not.
She clenched her hand slowly. It was sticky from the Benadryl. She needed to wash her hands. And she desperately needed a smoke. With a final warning glare at the kid, she grabbed her cigarettes and lighter and headed for the bathroom.
Alec watched her go, then closed his eyes, pulling himself into a miserable little ball. He remembered the man who’d been with her at the beach house. The one who’d held a gun to Cheryl’s head while the white-eyed woman tied him up. Bryce was his name. Alec knew that now. Alec knew that Bryce had stayed behind, waiting for his parents. And Alec knew that Bryce now held that gun to his mother’s head. The note had said so.
Alec couldn’t take a chance that the white-eyed woman was lying.
His mother would die. Just like Cheryl died. And Paul. Unless he cooperated.
Alec swallowed again, this time feeling the burning of tears in the back of his eyes. He was crying like a stupid little baby when his mother needed his help. He’d let that bitch drug him, while his mother needed his help.
He had no idea of where he was, or who all the people were around him. The red-haired lady treated the white-eyed lady nice. So she must be bad, too. For the first time he desperately wished for his processor. He could slip it behind his ear and listen, like Cheryl had taught him. He would know if the red-haired lady was good or bad. But he didn’t have his processor. Cheryl was dead. And his mom needed his help.
But the meds made his arms feel like lead and the inside of his head like molasses. He struggled hard, but in the end he drifted.
Satisfied, Sue sat down on the edge of an ancient tub in the equally ancient bathroom. She fished a cigarette from her pocket, flicked her Bic to its tip, and took a nice long drag. With a flourish, she pulled the note from her pocket and touched the burning end of the cigarette to the paper, watching fascinated as it smoldered, then burned, the red edge of the flame racing to the paper’s edge. Just before the flame reached her fingers, she dropped it in the toilet and flushed the ashes. The note had done the trick, threatening to have Bryce kill his mother. That Bryce was rotting in some Maryland jail was something the kid didn’t know, and what the kid didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either of them.
Another drag filled her lungs, and she relaxed for the first time in days. Then her cell phone rang, nearly sending her off the edge of the tub. She dug the phone from her pocket, her pulse quickening. Bryce. Or worse, James. “Yeah.”
“Baby, it’s Fred.”
She blew out a lungful of smoke, now annoyed. “What do you want?” she hissed.