Someone Must Die (2 page)

C
HAPTER
2

Something was missing.

The emptiness in the front foyer of their loft apartment caught Aubrey by surprise. No man’s clunky boots waited on the doormat to trip her. Jackson’s fleece-lined suede coat wasn’t draped over the brass coatrack. And Wolverine’s worn leather leash was gone from the hook beside the door. She listened for the skittering sound Wolvie’s toenails made against the wood floor when he ran to greet her.

Then she remembered.

Not their apartment. Hers.

Jackson didn’t live here anymore.
He
was what was missing. He must have come by to pick up the rest of his things this afternoon while she’d been at the university library.

She ran her finger along the bookshelf by the brick wall, erasing the lines of dust that marked where the thin volumes of Jackson’s tormented poetry had been. But erasing six years of living with Jackson wouldn’t be so easy. She could still smell amaretto pipe tobacco and Wolverine’s dank doggy scent.

She missed Wolvie. She did not miss Jackson.

She shrugged off her parka, damp from melted snow, and hung it on the rack. Flurries had been coming down thick when she left the campus. She’d hidden in the library all afternoon, unaware the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Thoughts about Jackson’s treachery had preoccupied her when she should have been preparing for the Perception versus Reality class she’d be teaching this coming semester.

Perception versus reality. How ironic. Here she was, almost finished with her PhD in social psychology, with a specialization in interpersonal relationships, and she had completely missed the signs that the man in her life was a lying scumbag.

She went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of merlot. The hanging copper pots and vintage blue-and-white porcelain canisters she’d found at flea markets were still in their places. She wasn’t surprised that Jackson hadn’t taken them. He’d always scoffed when she came home with a new “find,” calling her treasures kitschy dust collectors. Well, she no longer had to justify or make excuses for what she wanted. This was
her
home now.

A knock on the front door broke through the silence. She started, nearly dropping her wineglass.

Jackson?

She’d changed the locks yesterday and had told the doorman to let Jackson in when he came by for his things. Had he forgotten something? The thought of seeing him made her stomach churn.

Another knock, more urgent.

Aubrey took a fortifying gulp of wine, then went to check the peephole. Instead of a wiry man with a salt-and-pepper beard, her good friend and neighbor, Trish, stood in the doorway, swaddled in her heavy down coat, her round cheeks afire from the cold.

Aubrey opened the door.

“What the hell is going on?” Trish barreled past her into the apartment. She glanced around the foyer, then studied Aubrey’s face. Trish was a few years older than Aubrey and an associate professor in the psych department at Brown. She noticed things.

“Everything’s fine,” Aubrey said, hoping Trish didn’t observe that her eyes were still red from yesterday’s crying bout.

“Bullshit.” Trish picked at her spiked black hair, as though she were angry at it. “I saw Jackson going in and out of the building all afternoon, loading cartons into a U-Haul. What happened?”

“I kicked him out.” Aubrey tried to sound matter-of-fact.

“Shit,” Trish said softly, then glanced at the glass Aubrey held. “Got any more of that?”

They went into the kitchen. Trish unzipped her coat and climbed onto a counter stool.

Jackson had sat there a few days before, drinking his morning coffee, the newspaper spread out on the counter, acting as though everything were perfectly normal. His royal-blue bathrobe had hung open, revealing dark chest hair sprinkled with silver.

Where were you last night, Jackson?

Out with the guys. I crashed on the sofa.

Why didn’t you answer your phone?

Sorry. Must have left it on silent by mistake.

But there was no such thing as a mistake. Everything was a choice, even the one she had made to ignore what was happening around her.

Trish took a sip of wine from the glass Aubrey handed her. “So what did The Great Poet do?”

The Great Poet.
It had been a nickname Jackson seemed to enjoy, but
The Great Pretender
would have been more apt. “He was cheating on me.”

Trish raised an eyebrow.

“You seem surprised,” Aubrey said. “So was I.”

“Nope. Not surprised at all. I always thought he was a little too smooth.”

Her friend had suspected but never said anything. A spark of anger flared, then went out. Trish would have known Aubrey wouldn’t have listened, that she hid in her little world of denial, rejecting any information that conflicted with what she wanted to believe.

“How did you finally figure it out?”

“He clearly wanted me to know,” Aubrey said. “Left his laptop open on the counter. I went to look something up, and there was his Excel spreadsheet waiting for me.” She tried to keep her voice light to hide the hurt. “A list of all his conquests over the past twenty-two years, starting with when he went to college. Forty-eight of them. Very orderly. Like he was collecting data for a research paper. First name, age, brief physical description.” She paused and swallowed a lump. “And a rating on a scale from ‘one’ to ‘ten.’”

“How do you know he slept with them?”

“I was on the list.” Aubrey tossed back the rest of her wine. “Number thirty-six.”

Which meant Jackson had been intimate with twelve women in the eight years since they’d known each other. And when she’d confronted him about the spreadsheet, his answer had been,
I’m dealing with insecurity issues. I thought you, of all people, understood that.

She had screamed at him and called him names, but that hadn’t changed things. She’d allowed herself to be duped.

She ran her fingers over the ruts in the butcher-block countertop. Jackson didn’t use cutting boards. She remembered him slicing limes with a giant knife, each cut slamming against the wood top, chipping away a bit at a time. Just like he’d been doing with her all these years with his nasty barbs about her going into psychology because she was so screwed up.

Maybe he’d been right. If so, dumping him had been a great first step to fixing herself.

Trish rubbed her back. “What a dick. I’m sorry.”

“And he didn’t even give me a good rating.” Aubrey attempted a laugh as she shifted away from Trish. “A ‘seven.’ Of course, I was only twenty at the time, and practically a virgin.” She refilled her wineglass.

“You realize he took advantage of you,” Trish said. “The older, sexy, charismatic professor preying on his student.”

“No, Trish. This isn’t about the halo effect, and I wasn’t a victim. It was right after my dad left my mom. I was angry with him, worried about her health, upset my family had just fallen apart. Jackson helped me through it.”

She thought back eight years to the first day of the elective poetry class she’d signed up for because she had needed emotional relief from science and statistics. To when Jackson had stood in front of the class and recited, in his deep, sonorous voice, one of his poems about ice-covered love.

It had been as though he’d written it just for her.

“If you say so,” Trish said. “But I see a master predator at work.”

“He certainly had plenty of help from me,” Aubrey said. “I was looking so hard at what I wanted to see that I ignored everything else. Like in the
Invisible Gorilla
video we show students. Most can’t believe they don’t notice the person in the gorilla suit walking across the court because they’re so intent on watching the players pass the basketball.”

“What did you want to see?” Trish asked.

Aubrey took a sip of wine. “I suppose I wanted to believe Jackson and I had an honest relationship. Something truer than what my parents had.” She shrugged. “But you and I both know the tendency to repeat behaviors we’re trying hard to avoid.”

“Good news is you’re no longer repeating them,” Trish said. “You saw the problem with Jackson, and you’re moving on.”

“Hear, hear.” Aubrey clinked her glass against Trish’s.

But was she really past the problem? Even before college, she had ignored situations she feared would blow up if examined too closely. Her parents’ marriage had clearly been fragile, but she’d been so desperate to keep her family intact that she had spent her childhood afraid to do anything that could cause their relationship to implode.

But growing up a “pleaser” had come with consequences. She had gone off to college with no sense of who she was or what she wanted. It was why she had decided to go into social psychology, hoping once she learned to perceive herself in relation to her family, she’d be better able to sort herself out.

Apparently, she was still a work in progress.

She held up the wine bottle. “More for you?”

“No, thanks,” Trish said. “I’m heading over to the Deep Sleep to meet Sarah and Julia. Come with me. There’s nothing better than a cheeseburger and sweet-potato fries for a heartover.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine. Really. The toughest part is losing Wolvie.”

Trish hugged her. “You were far too good for that louse.”

Aubrey blinked rapidly before any tears leaked out. She hated when anyone felt sorry for her. “You’re a good friend.”

“Call if you need anything,” Trish said, heading toward the foyer.

“I will.”

“And lock the door after me.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not letting Jackson in anymore. I’m done with being hurt by him.”

Trish gave her an approving nod, then left.

Aubrey locked the door, retrieved her wineglass from the kitchen counter, and then stretched out on the weathered leather sofa. It had scratch marks from where Wolverine liked to dig. She glanced at the beige shag rug, expecting to see their scrawny, gray, long-haired mutt panting at her, begging with his black button eyes to be allowed on her lap.

That empty pang again. Wolvie was Jackson’s dog. Part of the package.

The best part.

The snow was still coming down, blurring her view of the old redbrick buildings in downtown Providence. It was as if she were inside one of the snow globes she had collected as a child. Silent glass bubbles, each preserving a safe world—what she had always wanted for herself. What she’d believed Jackson would provide.

But was that all Jackson had been? A safe haven? Had she even loved him, or had she loved the idea that she had someone to come home to, who would take care of her?

She tried to understand her feelings. Was she hurt, angry about being deceived, or heartbroken? Then it hit her. She hadn’t loved Jackson. The distress came from something else. With Jackson gone, she no longer felt safe and protected.
That
was what was missing. The lovely bubble world she’d created for herself had cracked, and just like when her father had left, the snow swirled around her in a blizzard.

She took another sip of wine. Snow had accumulated on the lower half of the windows, but she could see fuzzy lights in the neighboring buildings and street. It was only a little after five, though it felt much later.

Maybe she’d light a fire in the fireplace. Jackson usually did it with great showmanship, as though it were a tricky, subtle task, but she could get a flame going just as well and with a lot less fuss. She’d order a pizza and finish the wine while she binge-watched
The Gilmore Girls
, the mother-daughter TV series she had loved as a girl and had occasionally watched with her mother when Mama wasn’t working late. It wasn’t a cop-out, or reality avoidance. There was nothing wrong with spending a few hours in the safe, fictitious world of Stars Hollow.

She was alone, with no one to take care of her. But that was okay—she could take care of herself. Nothing was missing as long as she had herself.

Her cell phone rang.
Our love is stronger than the pain.
The words to the song Mama had requested as her ringtone on Aubrey’s phone years ago. But the old, sad ballad from the sixties no longer seemed fitting for her mother, who was happily engaged to Jonathan and had surely gotten over her husband’s betrayal by now.

Maybe it was time for a new ringtone.

For both of them.

“Hi, Mama.” She brightened her voice so she wouldn’t worry her mother. “Are you enjoying Ethan?”

Her mother was panting, as if she couldn’t catch her breath.

Aubrey sat up straight. “Mom. Are you okay?”

“He’s
gone
.”

Aubrey’s heart skipped. “Who’s gone?”

“Ethan,” she said, her voice breaking. “Ethan’s missing.”

C
HAPTER
3

Aubrey hurried to the taxi stand at Miami International Airport, dazed by the midday heat and humidity. She hadn’t slept since getting the phone call from her mother the previous evening. She had quickly packed a bag and called Trish, who’d promised to arrange for someone to cover Aubrey’s classes while she was gone.

It had taken almost two hours to get to Boston’s Logan Airport on the snow-clogged roads. All flights had been canceled due to the storm, so she’d camped out in the terminal hoping to get on the next flight out. Throughout the night, she had texted her mother for updates, until Mama had finally written,
I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything.

This morning, flights had resumed out of Boston. Aubrey had sent her mother one more text as she’d boarded the flight to Miami.
Getting on a plane. Any news?

Her mother hadn’t answered, and Aubrey had spent the next three and a half hours trying not to think about what might have happened to Ethan, praying this was nothing more than an innocent scare. That her nephew had wandered away from the carnival but would have been found, frightened but safe, by the time she landed in Miami.

She checked her phone again as she waited in the taxi line in the stifling heat. Nothing from her mother, but her heart skipped when she saw a text from Kevin. She skimmed it. He and Kim had made it out of New York before the storm in Kim’s parents’ private jet. They were in Coconut Grove at Mama’s house. The rest of her brother’s message hit her like a punch to the gut.
Ethan still missing. How could I have trusted her with him? I should have known better.

Oh, Kev. It wasn’t Mama’s fault.

She wished she could convince him that their mother wasn’t the villain he believed she was. But Aubrey had been coming to her defense ever since Mama had missed Kevin’s wedding, and that had only further strained her once-close relationship with her big brother.

It had taken Kevin eight years to finally forgive Mama.

Now Ethan had disappeared on her watch.

Aubrey started to text her brother back to tell him Mama wasn’t to blame, then changed her mind. This was a conversation they needed to have in person.

She reached the front of the taxi line, climbed into the waiting cab, and threw her small suitcase and winter coat on the seat beside her. After giving the driver her mother’s address, she leaned back, the wool from her sweater stinging her like a hair shirt. She had spent the last few hours focused on getting to Miami, afraid if she thought about Ethan she might break down, but now she was almost home. She pulled up the photo on her phone of Ethan and her mother, taken a few minutes before he disappeared.

Ethan resting happily in the crook of his grandmother’s arm, a crowd of carnival-goers behind them.

The first and only photo of the two together.

She was struck by the resemblance between grandmother and grandson. The same large, fudge-brown eyes, the same dimples as they smiled, the same heart-shaped faces.

Before this weekend, Mama hadn’t known this beautiful, delightful child, but Aubrey had. She’d enjoyed Ethan several times a year ever since he was a baby, taking him to Central Park, boating on the lake, visiting the animals at the zoo, and even teaching him how to ice-skate a few weeks ago.

Where was her nephew now?

A dark memory surfaced.

When Aubrey was eight years old, a boy named Jimmy Ryce had gone missing a few miles from her house in Coconut Grove. Jimmy had been nine, and she could still recall the photo of him on the newscasts and in the newspapers—a grinning child in a baseball cap, gripping a bat. Mama had tried to keep the news of his disappearance from her, but it had been everywhere. Aubrey hadn’t been allowed to go anywhere by herself, even to school or on her bicycle to her friend Meagan’s house.

She’d been angry about the tighter restrictions, but then three months later, the news that they had discovered Jimmy’s ruined body had changed her. For years afterward, she would glance over her shoulder to see whether anyone was following her, and if a stranger looked her way, her heart would speed up in fright.

Had Ethan ever learned to be wary of strangers?

The taxi continued in thick traffic down Le Jeune Road, past used-car dealerships, Latin American restaurants, and billboards in Spanish advertising health care and surgical procedures. The busy commercial streets felt alien until they crossed US 1 into the lush, dark forest of Coconut Grove. The driver turned onto a narrow street, palm fronds and overgrown banyan-tree branches brushing against the sides of the taxi. As her childhood home came into view, the vise around Aubrey’s chest eased.

In the early-afternoon light, the house appeared just as it always had, like someplace where Sleeping Beauty might have comfortably slept for a hundred years, hidden away from the world. Vines grew over the faded, salmon-colored stucco walls, mildew darkened the once-red gabled roof, and magenta bougainvillea overhung the arched windows. Aubrey had left ten years earlier when she’d gone to college, and had come back only two or three times a year to visit her mother, yet she still thought of this place as home.

But her home was no longer a cloister.

Dozens of cars and news vans were parked helter-skelter on the torn-up lawn, blocking the driveway and much of the road, and a crowd of reporters stood at the edge of the property. The tightness in her chest returned.

Twenty-four hours after Ethan’s disappearance and the vultures were already circling. They knew, just as she did, that with every passing hour, the odds of getting Ethan home safely diminished.

She paid the driver and stepped into the heat, anxious to get to her mother, concerned about what the stress of Ethan’s disappearance might be doing to her. Aubrey had seen her mother debilitated from vertigo several times—most recently two years ago when she’d been sued by the parents of a little boy who had died while under her care. Aubrey could only imagine how Mama was coping with the disappearance of her own grandson.

She made her way through the reporters, trying to avoid eye contact with them. She hoped her mother had called Jonathan and asked him to stay at the house and protect her from this. In the last couple of years, Jonathan had become Mama’s main support system, not only helping her through the malpractice lawsuit and problems with her medical-practice partners, but also keeping her from falling apart when things went wrong. Like now.

“Excuse me.” A woman jumped in front of Aubrey and shoved a microphone in her face. “Are you a member of the family? Is there any news on Ethan? How is the family holding up?”

Aubrey pushed past the woman and hurried down the cracked coquina walkway toward the front door. These people didn’t care about Ethan. They just wanted a good story. She fumbled through her handbag for her house keys.

“Will the police activate an AMBER alert?” one of the reporters called out. “Have they confirmed Ethan has been abducted?”

Aubrey got her key into the lock, opened the door, then slammed it behind her. She dropped her coat and suitcase and leaned against the door. She stood there, wanting to be strong when she saw her family, and took in the familiar musty smell, like old, damp towels—the result of roof leaks that had dripped through the walls. A smell Mama had been trying unsuccessfully to erase all the years they’d lived here, but which was as much a part of the house as the creaky Dade-pine floors and coral-stone fireplaces.

But there were sounds that didn’t belong. Constant ringing, like phones in a telethon. And a droning noise, like from swarming bees.

“Are you Aubrey?”

She turned toward the stranger who had stepped into the foyer: a woman with too-thick eyebrows and jet-black hair, pulled back from a face that had been scarred by acne. She was probably in her early thirties, a few years older than Aubrey, and wore a gray, crumpled pantsuit. Her thumb was hooked on her waistband, over a gold badge.

“Yes. I’m Aubrey Lynd.”

“Detective Gonzalez with the MDPD Missing Persons Unit.” She had an accent Aubrey recognized from growing up in Miami—northeastern with a hint of Latino. “Your mother said you were coming.”

“Tell me about my nephew. Is there any news?”

“Nothing yet, but we’re doing everything we can.”

“Where is my mother? I need to see her.”

“In the other room, speaking with the FBI.”

“The FBI?” Aubrey wasn’t sure if she should be alarmed. “Are they involved?”

“Apparently your brother’s in-laws have quite a bit of clout,” the detective said. Aubrey picked up an edge of irritation in her voice. “The FBI deployed a CARD team to work with us.”

“Card?”

“Child Abduction Rapid Deployment.”

Aubrey’s heart bounced. “Has Ethan been abducted? The reporters were asking about an AMBER alert.”

The detective scratched a tattoo that stuck out from under her wristwatch. It could have been a nervous tic, not a good sign. “We don’t issue an AMBER alert without a known suspect or a vehicle,” she said. “We have neither. But we’ve put out a media alert. We’re being aggressive in trying to find Ethan quickly.”

They’re trying to find him quickly.
Aubrey wanted to believe the detective’s confident words, not her faltering body language.
He’s going to be fine.

She took a deep breath to settle herself and glanced around the small foyer.

The walls were plastered in thick swirls, as had been the style in the 1920s, but the pattern made her dizzy.

Or maybe it was lack of sleep.

She caught her reflection in the mottled mirror over the foyer table. Her long, dark hair and stick-straight bangs looked the same as always, but her eyes were wrong—too large and shadowed, like a terrified character in a silent film.

Aubrey turned to the detective. “I have to let my mother know I’m here.”

“You can’t interrupt right now, but she should be finished soon.”

“What about my brother? Is Kevin here?”

“He and his wife left a little while ago with Kimberly’s parents.”

“Left? For where?”

“They’re all staying at the Coconut Grove Ritz.”

So she wasn’t going to see Kevin just yet. She felt a mix of disappointment and something resembling jealousy. Her brother was in the grip of the Simmers, not his own family.

“The Simmers have also arranged for several meeting rooms at the Ritz,” Gonzalez said. “They’re bringing in their own private investigators.”

Aubrey was confused. “And the police and FBI—you’re okay with that?”

“As long as their investigators don’t interfere with our investigation,” Gonzalez replied. “The FBI will continue to use your mother’s home as its command post. I’ll be back and forth between here, my office, and the Simmers’ hotel. Someone will be with Kevin, Kimberly, and her parents in case whoever took Ethan tries to make contact with one of them. If this is a ransom situation, we still don’t know who they’re targeting.”

“Well, the Simmers, of course,” Aubrey said. The detective had to know that Prudence Simmer was a Baer heiress.

The detective frowned. “Do you know Ernest or Prudence Simmer well?”

“No. Not well.” Aubrey had only seen them a few times, but she doubted anyone knew the Simmers well. They wore their money and power like gold-plated armor, keeping at a distance all but those in their inner circle. And even though Kevin had married into the family and worked at Baer Business Machines, Aubrey sensed they would never treat him as one of their own.

“Here you are, Detective,” said a brusque voice behind Gonzalez.

A tall, stiff man stood in the archway of the foyer. He had a buzz cut and wore a white shirt, tie, and dark tailored suit. Something about the way he held his shoulders back and kept one hand in his pants pocket made him seem as if he thought he were better than everyone else. Aubrey wondered if he was one of the private investigators the Simmers had hired. His light-gray eyes roamed over Aubrey, then returned to the detective. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course,” Gonzalez said.

“What is it?” Aubrey asked, feeling the prickle of panic at the man’s cold efficiency. “Have you found Ethan?”

The man stared at her, lips flattened, as though surprised by her question. “And you are?”

His tone irked her. “Aubrey Lynd. Ethan’s aunt. And who are you?”

“Special Agent Smolleck. I’m heading up the FBI CARD team. And no, we haven’t found your nephew.” He hesitated, then added, “Yet.”

Aubrey watched the two strangers walk across the dark wood floor of her childhood home and listened to the cacophony coming from the other end of the house.

Twenty-four hours ago, she had been sealed in her own private bubble, concerned about things that no longer mattered.

Twenty-four hours ago, Ethan had been laughing at a carnival in his grandmother’s arms.

And just like that, everything changed.