Fade to Black (25 page)

And now he intends to make his move, as soon as he gets her alone tonight.

If she tells Frank, Smith can be taken into custody.

Or can he?

She has no evidence against him.

And neither do the police, or they would already have arrested him.

The fact that he’s asked her out means nothing.

Telling Frank her secrets won’t help to save her life.

The only thing that will save her is leaving town.

Immediately.

She turns abruptly and heads for the house.

“Elizabeth?” Frank calls behind her.

She had forgotten all about him standing there.

She pauses, turns to see him looking distressed.

“I didn’t mean to spoil your date. Please don’t get all bent out of shape about this. Chances are, Smith isn’t the guy they’re looking for. Go out with him. Try to relax and have fun. Just don’t let him get you alone until you know him better.”

She nods, clears her throat, tries to sound normal. “I’ll be careful. Thanks for the tip, Frank.”

“And don’t forget … please don’t say anything to anyone. I could get into a lot of trouble for telling you.”

But I could have gotten into far worse trouble if you hadn’t
.

I
t’s raining.

The storm clouds that have hovered over the Connecticut town all afternoon have finally opened up, sending fat, wet drops toward the parched earth.

Gretchen Dodd sits in the window of her room as always, her elbows resting on the windowsill as she watches the rain starting to fall, wishing it had brought cooler air with it.

But the day is still hot, without the slightest gust of breeze to stir the frilly white priscillas at the window.

The children next door are still frolicking on their wooden swingset, undaunted by the precipitation.

Finally, their mother opens the back door and hollers, “Ashley! Jennifer! Ryan! Get in here! Can’t you see that it’s pouring out?”

It’s hardly pouring.

Not yet.

But a rumble of thunder in the distance promises that this won’t be merely a passing shower.

Gretchen listens, rolling her eyes as the three children protest that they’re not ready to come inside yet, then watches in amusement as they scramble toward the house when their mother threatens not to let them watch
Pinky and the Brain
tomorrow morning.

Only when they’re safely inside, the back screen door slamming shut behind them, does she stand and turn away from the window.

She moves slowly across the room, stopping to pull a slicker over the plain gray athletic T-shirt she wears every day.

There had been a time when she wouldn’t be caught dead in either this T-shirt or the cheap yellow vinyl slicker. She had always been impeccably dressed, painstakingly building a wardrobe the way her mother had built her collection of Lladro figurines.

“They’re an investment, Gretchen,” her mother would say each time she splurged on a new piece to display in the lighted glass shelves of the hutch in the dining room.

Just as Gretchen’s wardrobe had been an investment.

An investment in her future as an actress.

She had prudently stockpiled her baby-sitting money as a teenager, spending it on classic designer clothing purchased at the upscale mall over in Stamford. When she moved to L.A., her luggage was filled with cashmere sweaters, velvet skirts, Italian leather shoes—every item meticulously chosen to flatter Gretchen’s figure, compliment her complexion, and coordinate with the rest of her wardrobe.

Now it’s a sloppy gray T-shirt, day in and day out, worn with plain cotton elastic-waist shorts in the summer, jeans in the winter.

Wearing anything else would be a joke.

Like decorating a Christmas tree whose top has been raggedly hacked off.

Gretchen leaves her room, moving down the familiar staircase, past the ticking grandfather clock in the foyer and through the silent parlor, dining room, kitchen. In the sunroom at the back of the house she slips her feet into a pair of sandals and opens the door.

She steps out into the yard, tilting her head up, toward the sky.

Raindrops splatter against her ravaged face, and she closes her eyes and breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of damp earth.

How she had loved the outdoors …

But that was so long ago.

She used to jog, and Rollerblade, and go to the beach.

Now she spends day after day shut upstairs in her bedroom, venturing out only under cover of darkness, or on stormy days like this, when—

A nearby shriek abruptly interrupts her thoughts.

She opens her eyes, spins around …

And sees one of the little towheaded girls who lives next door.

She’s standing by a bush that separates the two yards, clutching a soggy rag doll that had apparently been inadvertently left out in the rain.

Her eyes are wide, terrified, focused on Gretchen’s face …

Rather, on the battered purple mess that had once been Gretchen’s face.

“Mommy!” the little girl screams, turning and running toward the house. “Help! Help! There’s a terrible scary monster next door! I told you I saw it before, in the window! I told you it was real! Help!”

Gretchen turns and scurries back into the house, slamming the door behind her with an anguished curse.

E
lizabeth stands at the edge of the woods, gazing at the pavilion, where the children of Windmere Cove’s day camp are rehearsing next weekend’s big play.

From where she’s standing, with her sunglasses on and staring into the hazy sun, she can’t seem to spot him.

She takes a few steps closer, away from the shelter of the trees, one hand in her mouth as she nervously bites her nails.

The other hand is clutching a plastic shopping bag that holds the two costumes she hurriedly finished that afternoon.

She can’t leave town without giving them to him. She had promised.

And anyway, she needs to see him one last time, to make sure he told his grandparents about his mother’s threats, the way he promised he would.

She scans the children in the distant shadows of the park pavilion, seeking the familiar, slightly built figure with the cap of glossy dark hair.

He isn’t there.

Her gut twists, her hand tightening on the plastic handles of the bag.

Where is he?

Maybe he’s already on his way home. Maybe his part is over.

Except he has the lead role. And the rehearsal appears to be in full swing.

Well, maybe his grandparents kept him home that morning because they’re worried his mother will show up at the park and abduct him.

Or maybe she already has.

Please, Manny … please don’t do this to me now. You have to be all right. I can’t worry about you too
.

She turns away, heading back toward the path through the woods, uncertain of her destination.

She could go by Manny’s grandparents’ house, just to—

“Excuse me! Excuse me, miss?”

She realizes someone is calling after her, and turns to see a pretty teenaged girl with light brown hair hurrying toward her.

“You’re Manny’s friend, aren’t you?”

Elizabeth is unable to speak, her mind racing.

“I’ve seen you with him,” the girl adds, coming to a halt a few feet away from her.

Elizabeth nods, then finds her voice and says, “I’m his friend, yes. I was bringing his costumes for the show.” She lifts the bag in her hand, shows it to the girl, vaguely needing to justify her presence there.

Because the girl is looking at her with what appears to be suspicion.

“Where is he?”

They have uttered the same question, perfectly in unison.

Startled, Elizabeth stares into the girl’s worried, slightly accusing brown eyes.

“You don’t know where he is?” Elizabeth asks, a surge of panic rising in her throat.

The girl shakes her head. “He hasn’t shown up for rehearsal all day. We called his grandparents’ house, and they said he’s supposed to be here. He left home before eight this morning, on his way to the park.”

“Oh, God. Oh, Manny …” Elizabeth clutches the bag to her chest, against her racing heart.

The sun goes behind a thickening cloud, and Elizabeth glances up at the sky, wondering if it’s a sign.

Where’s Manny?

Is he in trouble?

“You mean you don’t know where Manny is?” The distrust has vanished from the girl’s face as she stares at Elizabeth, who shakes her head.

“I’m Rhonda,” the girl says abruptly, as though to make up for what she had been thinking.

Elizabeth doesn’t volunteer her own name, and the girl stumbles on with the rapid-fire speech of a teenager who’s terribly upset.

“I can’t believe this is happening. I mean, I thought maybe … I’ve seen him with you in the park, and I, you know, I knew you weren’t his mom or anything. When he didn’t show up today, and his grandparents said he’s missing, I thought—God, I’m sorry. I can tell you’re really worried about him.”

Elizabeth nods, distracted. She asks, “What did his grandparents say when they found out he hasn’t shown up here? Did they call the police?”

“They were going to look for him, I guess. I don’t know if they’ve reported it yet. We’re all just really worried about Manny, and when I spotted you hanging around over here, I thought—”

She cuts herself off, then continues. “He’s a great kid. He was working so hard on the show, learning his lines. What if some psycho child molester grabbed him and—oh, God. I can’t even think about it.”

Or what if his crack-addict mother intercepted him on his way to the park and abducted him?

Elizabeth is seized by a vivid memory of Manny’s mother’s drug-crazed, hateful eyes.

She swallows hard, turns away from Rhonda’s concerned young face.

“I have to go,” she murmurs, taking a step away, then turning back abruptly, remembering. She thrusts the bag containing the two finished costumes into Rhonda’s hands. “Take these, okay? And if Manny shows up, give them to him. Tell him …”

Tell him I said good-bye?

Tell him I’ll call?

She won’t be able to call him. She can’t possibly dare to take that risk, to make any connection to Windemere Cove once she’s gone …

And so she’ll never know where Manny is, whether he’s all right.

Unless …

Unless she doesn’t leave until she finds him.

“Where are you going?” Rhonda calls behind her as she takes off, practically running.

Elizabeth doesn’t answer, just keeps fleeing along the path leading through the woods, toward the edge of the park.

H
arper stands in front of the mirror, shaving cream lathered on his face, a towel wrapped around his waist.

He isn’t meeting Elizabeth for a few hours, but figured he might as well get ready now.

You’re not
too
anxious for tonight
, he thinks wryly, reaching for his razor.

It’s just that it’s been so long.

He tilts his head forward and moves the blade over his skin, wondering how long it’s been since he has held a woman,
any
woman, in his arms.

Then he realizes he doesn’t have to wonder.

He knows exactly when the last time was.

Over a year ago, back in Los Angeles, before …

No.

He doesn’t want to ruin his exhilarated mood by thinking about
that
.

Instead, his mind conjures Elizabeth Baxter, with her big brown eyes and her skin that looks so soft and smooth, skin that is faintly scented with subtle perfume that reminds him of a glorious spring bouquet.

He smiles, wondering if she’s found his little surprise yet …

Then winces as his blade slips, slicing into his flesh so that a stinging trickle of crimson runs down his neck.

T
he traffic on 1-95 is snarled as usual. What else would you expect on a Friday afternoon before the last true weekend of the summer, especially outside a coastal city like Boston?

It’ll get better when the traffic for the Cape branches off in a few miles, she thinks, moving her foot from the brake to the gas and inching the Toyota forward a few feet before braking again in sync with the red pickup truck in front of her.

On the radio, the traffic copter reporter says blithely, “And it’s a snail’s crawl into and out of the city this afternoon, with a slow go on the Mass Pike and routes 128 and 93. And if you’re unfortunate enough to be out on 95 south of the city, it’s bumper to bumper all the way to the split, with a serious car-tractor-trailer accident tying things up at Exit 11. Back to you, Steve.”

Pamela reaches out and turns off the radio, which she had turned on a few minutes earlier to drown out Hannah’s whining from the backseat.