The Last to Know (13 page)

A
press conference, Mitchell learns, is even more boring than listening to Miss Bright drone on and on about some stupid dead president.

All that happens at a press conference is that a bunch of sad-looking people and some cops and guys in suits stand in front of a microphone in a big room, and they talk, and then they answer questions. Everyone’s talking about some lady who’s missing from the park, and her husband, the good-looking guy standing with the cops, keeps wiping tears from his eyes. Mitch wonders if he’s embarrassed to be crying in front of everyone this way. Grown-ups aren’t supposed to cry—especially men. Mom never even does.

Mitch thinks she looks nicer than the rest of the reporters here, and she asks a lot of questions. He knows she’s good at this job. She’s even won awards for being a reporter.

He mentioned that to his dad this afternoon—partly because his dad said his mother should quit being a reporter and try some other job so she could make more money. Mitch pointed out that she was really good at it, that she had won all these awards.

“Oh, yeah?” his father said. “How do you know that?”

“Because she told me,” Mitch said.

His father made this sound that Mitch didn’t understand, and he was shaking his head for some reason. So Mitch asked him why.

“You believe everything your mother tells you, Mitch?” his father asked.

Mitch nodded.

“Well, don’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mitch asked.

His father shook his head. “Forget it. Just don’t bring up your mother to me anymore, okay?”

The press conference is over. Mitch tucks his math work sheet into his notebook and stands up. His mother found him a chair in the back of the room but said she had to sit down in front with the other reporters. Now he’s lost sight of her; she’s been swallowed up in the crowd that’s milling around.

“Hey, kid, be careful,” someone barks when Mitch accidentally bumps into him.

“Sorry,” Mitch mutters. Where’s Mom? He can’t wait to get out of here.

He spots her. She’s standing talking to two cops, one of them a skinny guy with a blond crewcut, the other a stocky African-American. They’re all laughing about something. Mitch taps his mom on the arm.

“Mitch! There you are, sweetie. Guys, this is my son,” his mother says. “Mitch, this is Officer Mulvaney and Officer Wilson.”

“Hey, buddy,” the black cop says. The other one just grins at him. They look a lot different than they did a few minutes ago, when they were answering questions up there. Everyone was in such a gloomy mood then.

“Mom, can we go now?” Mitch asks.

“In a minute. So listen, you’ll tip me off if anything happens?”

“Anything for you, Paula,” the blond-haired cop, Officer Mulvaney, tells her.

“I’m serious, Brian. I’m local. These guys aren’t.” She gestures at the rest of the reporters. “Plus, I’m good at what I do. You never know. I just might stumble across something that can help you with the case.”

“Knowing you, Paula, you just might,” Officer Wilson says.

“Mom,” Mitch says again, tugging at her sleeve. “Come on. It’s a school night.”

“Go ahead, Paula,” Officer Mulvaney says. “Get your boy home. He looks beat.”

“So am I,” Mom tells him. “It’s been a long day. Okay, Mitch, come on, let’s go.”

Outside, they walk along the street toward home. It’s only two blocks away.

It’s windy and dark. Leaves make dry, rustling sounds on the sidewalk. Mitch thinks about Halloween, only a few weeks away. Maybe he won’t have to make his own costume again this year. Maybe Mom can actually buy him one.

Then again, she’ll probably say she doesn’t have the money.

Maybe he should just ask Dad for it.

Maybe he should just go live with Dad, he thinks, and then guilt seeps in.

He can’t leave his mother. She would be all alone. She needs him.

“Mom?” he asks.

“Hmm?” She sounds like she’s busy thinking about something else.

“Can I have a real Halloween costume this year?”

“Maybe.”

“Really?” He’s shocked. He expected her to say flat-out no.

“I said maybe, Mitch. We’ll see, okay?”

She sounds like she’s in a good mood. That must be because she’s doing so well at her job. He knows work makes her happy.

They walk in silence a while longer. It’s a little spooky out here. He shivers.

“Cold?” his mother asks.

“No . . . it’s just scary,” he admits. “You know . . . at night. Are you scared?”

“Nope,” she says with a shrug.

“Aren’t you scared of anything?”

She hesitates. Then shakes her head.

But he can tell she’s lying. She’s afraid of stuff. She just doesn’t want to admit it. She goes around acting brave all the time.

Mitch wishes he could be more like her. Maybe when he’s older.

“Is there anything to eat at home?” he asks, suddenly realizing his stomach feels empty.

“Hmm?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Me, too,” his mother says. “Let’s stop and buy a couple of ice-cream bars at the deli, okay?”

An ice-cream bar isn’t exactly what he had in mind. At Blake’s house there’s hot food every night. Like meat loaf and roast chicken.

Mom never makes stuff like that. But Blake’s mother doesn’t work. She has time to cook. Mom doesn’t. Mom doesn’t have time for anything—sometimes, not even for Mitch.

“Ice cream would be great,” he says, pushing away another stab of guilt.

“A
nother beer, Fletch?”

He nods at Jimmy, the bartender, then takes a last gulp from the nearly empty glass in front of him.

The eleven o’clock newscast will be starting in a few minutes. He’s tempted to ask Jimmy to raise the volume on the television above the bar, but he thinks better of it. Not that it would arouse suspicion, but you never know. Especially in a town this size.

Fletch leans against the stool’s backrest and glances into the mirror on the far wall. He notes that he could use a haircut. He likes a young, longish style, but this is bordering on unkempt. He makes a mental note to call his stylist, Heather, tomorrow. She’ll probably be booked, but she’ll find a way to fit him in. She always does.

He looks around. Not much of a crowd here at the Station House Inn, so named because it’s located in the old brick building that had once housed the Townsend Heights train station.

Well, it’s never busy on a weeknight. Fletch scans the few occupied tables—mostly couples sharing deep-fried appetizers and bottles of wine. Perched on the other seats at the bar are a handful of businessmen—probably commuters who walked over for a nightcap after getting off a train at the Metro North station on the opposite side of Townsend Avenue. The hardcore locals still call that the “new” station even though it was built almost two decades ago.

His gaze falls on the only two women at the bar. He doesn’t recognize either of them, but that’s not unusual. He usually doesn’t spend much time here in town from Pitchers and Catchers until late September—or the rest of the year, really.

Hmm. A blonde and a brunette, sitting together, sipping gin and tonic. Both are in their forties, well-dressed, and attractive. He’s caught them both sneaking glances in his direction. Now the brunette is at it again.

Fletch smiles slightly at her but turns his attention back to the television set above the bar. He’s not encouraging anything. Not here. Not tonight. Especially not with them. No wedding rings on either of them.

“Here you go, Fletch,” Jimmy says, setting the foam-brimming glass on the bar.

“Thanks, Jimmy.”

The bartender gestures up at the television set, where the newscast is beginning. “You hear about that Kendall woman?”

“Yeah, I heard,” Fletch says, reaching for his beer. He glances up at the screen, trying not to wince at the sight of Jane’s photograph plastered across it, above a shadowy black graphic that says “Missing.”

“Too bad, huh?” Jimmy shakes his head. “What a waste.”

“Yeah,” Fletch agrees, taking a sip. “What a waste.”

He wishes now that he hadn’t ordered another beer. All he wants is to be safely back at home, in bed. Preferably alone.

L
etterman is over. Tasha stands and turns off the television set, yawning.

This is the first time she’s seen
The Late Show
since the baby started sleeping through the night. It came on following the news, and after seeing the extensive coverage of the Kendall disappearance, sleep was the last thing on her mind. So she stayed here in the family room and watched David Letterman, his dry sarcasm a welcome distraction from her fear—and her anger at Joel.

Now she can’t delay going up to bed any longer. If she doesn’t get some rest, she’ll be sorry when the alarm goes off at dawn.

She hasn’t seen Joel since he stormed up the stairs earlier. She had been sure he would come back down to get something to eat. Joel never goes to bed hungry. And they rarely go to bed angry at each other.

Maybe,
she tells herself as she turns off the light and makes her way to the stairs,
he’s up there lying awake. Waiting for me. Ready to apologize.

She quietly starts up the steps, thinking that if he does apologize, she’ll accept it. Life is too short to stay mad. Look at what happened to Jane Kendall.

Then again . . . what
did
happen to Jane Kendall?

Did she jump?

Was she kidnapped?

Murdered?

What if it’s none of the above? What if she only made it look like she was dead? What if she had simply had it with her life, so she staged a disappearance as a way of escaping?

That’s not likely, Tasha tells herself.

No woman could willingly leave her child, her husband, her home—not when all of it was so perfect.

Or seemed that way.

Maybe that’s how my life seems from the outside looking in, too,
Tasha thinks.
Maybe the other mothers at Gymboree think I’m perfectly happy. That I’ve got it all together.

Don’t I?

Not anymore.

Not if the idea of escaping her life can bring even a momentary prickle of interest.

And it does, damn it.

She wonders what it would feel like to get away, just leave it all behind—the broken washing machine and the mountain of laundry and the in-laws and . . .

And Joel?

And the kids?

No.

No!

She cherishes Joel and the kids. They’re her life. She would never want to leave them.
Never.

She’d never do anything to jeopardize what she has.

Or would she?

Fletch.

It always comes back to haunt her. She shoves the thought of him, the image of him, from her mind.

Reaching the second floor, she stops in the shadowy hallway and cracks open the door to the small nursery. Little Max is sound asleep on his back in the crib, his tiny fists clenched at either side of his fat cheeks. She crosses the room and peers at him in the dim light from the night light, pulling the blanket over his chubby belly.

He’s precious. So are Hunter and Victoria.

Tasha closes her eyes against a surge of remorse. How could she have even imagined leaving her babies?

And Joel . . .

She loves Joel. Still. After so many years of marriage, and three babies, she loves him. She does.

But he’s acting like a stranger lately. He’s rarely home. When he is, his mind is someplace else.

Where?

Maybe she doesn’t want to know.

She sighs and backs out of the baby’s room, her sock-clad feet making not a sound on the pale blue wall-to-wall carpeting.

If Joel is awake, she thinks, heading down the hall to the master bedroom, she’ll have a heart-to-heart talk with him. She’ll tell him how much she misses him, how much she needs him. Maybe they can talk things through. Maybe he’ll be willing to change.

She opens the door.

Joel is in bed, his back to her.

“Joel?”

He doesn’t answer.

She stands listening to his breathing. Notices that his soft breaths aren’t quite keeping a steady rhythm.

Is he only pretending to be asleep?

“Joel?” she asks again, still quietly.

Nothing.

She turns away and goes into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

T
he wind has picked up outside, rattling the window-panes and gusting through the slightest cracks around the edges of the windows, creating a draft in the dark, silent room.

There’s nothing worse than lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to drift into slumber. Most nights, after a while, sleep gradually seeps in. But it won’t tonight, that’s for certain. Not with the wind howling out there. Not after a day like today . . . and a night like last night. Not with tomorrow looming.

Well, there’s no turning back now.

Everything is in motion.

And after mentally living it so many times, actually killing Jane wasn’t so hard after all. Not once you got past that look in her eyes. Who would have thought that taking a life could be so easy? So uncomplicated? So different from the first time? That hadn’t been planned. That had been an accident. But it was the spark that triggered the flame. . . .

And now it’s time for the next one. After all, that’s the only way this is going to work. It has to be done right, from start to finish. No loose ends. Keep the momentum.

What if somebody figures out that it was me? What if I give myself away somehow?

No. You won’t. That can’t happen. It didn’t before. It won’t now. You can’t let it.

Take a deep breath.

You can do this.

You
will
do this.

You have no choice.

T
HURSDAY,
O
CTOBER 11

Chapter 6

W
ith the kids settled in front of
Sesame Street
, Rachel drifts out the front door, pulling her silk robe more tightly around her just in case anyone’s watching. Just last month she caught Mr. Martin staring intently at her from across the street when she sneaked out to get the paper in her short summer nightie. He caught her noticing him leering and quickly pretended to be watering those god-awful orange marigolds that he insists keep the deer away.

Not surprising. Rachel’s always had him pegged for a dirty old man. But even after she told Tasha about the spying incident, Tasha is still convinced it’s Rachel’s imagination.

That’s Tasha, though. She always believes the best about people. Must be that Ohio thing she has going on. Midwesterners are so naive.

Orchard Lane is deserted this morning, and so is the Martins’ yard. Good. Rachel shivers in her robe as she makes her way down the sidewalk toward the curb in her thick-soled, fleece-lined L.L. Bean slippers. It’s chilly and windy, but the sun is peeking through a billowy pile of fast-moving clouds high in the blue-gray sky.

As she bends to pick up the newspaper, she has the sudden sensation that she’s being watched.

Looking up sharply, she surveys the Martins’ impeccably kept yard. No sign of Mr. Martin. Too late in the year for him to do any watering. All that’s in bloom now are the chrysanthemums along the foundation. Those are a garish orange, too.

Somebody should really talk to the man about his horticultural color scheme, Rachel thinks. As long as it’s not Mrs. Martin, an aging redhead who tends to wear a lot of blue eye shadow and hot pink sweaters.

Rachel’s gaze shifts to the Bankses’ house next door to the Martins’. It looks quiet. The shades are drawn upstairs and down. Joel’s car is still in the driveway.

Frowning, Rachel scans the street. Not a soul in sight. So why the creepy feeling that she’s being watched?

Must be her imagination, she thinks, bending over to retrieve the newspaper in its yellow plastic bag. She opens it and examines the front page, knowing what she’ll see there.

Sure enough, Jane Kendall’s photo stares back at her, beneath a bold headline.

SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING TOWNSEND HEIGHTS HEIRESS

“Oh, God,” Rachel mutters, unfolding the paper and skimming the story. As she reads, goose bumps form on her arms. Well, it’s freezing out here in just this thin robe, she tells herself when she notices.

But that’s not why she has goose bumps. It’s the growing sensation of being watched. She can’t shake it.

Abruptly, she tucks the paper under her arm and strides back toward the house, fighting the urge to turn around and give Mr. Martin’s house the finger, certain the old pervert’s watching her silently from one of the windows.

After all . . . who else can it be?

She shudders as she reaches the front door, which has been left ajar.

Jane Kendall. Did she really kill herself? Or was somebody else responsible for what happened? And if it was somebody else, was Jane Kendall stalked before she was killed? Did she, too, feel as though somebody was watching her?

Oh, come on. You’re scaring yourself, you idiot!

Rachel throws open the front door and slips back into the warm house, closing and locking it behind her.

“Rachel?”

She cries out at the sound of the voice right behind her, spinning around in alarm.

Ben stands there, looking surprised. “What’s wrong?”

“You scared the shit out of me!” She holds her palm against her pounding heart and shakes her head at her husband. He’s dressed for work in camel-colored corduroys and a yellow button-down shirt beneath a brown sweater vest.

The yellow’s too bright, she notices absently, vaguely irritated. It would work better with a butter-colored shirt.

Ben opens the closet beside the door and takes out his khaki trench coat. “Don’t forget, I’ll be later tonight than usual. Tonight’s the staff meeting with expectant parents.”

“Lucky you.”

Ben is always complaining about the monthly get-togethers at the hospital, when he and his nurses answer questions from pregnant women who are considering bringing their future newborns to his practice.

“Yeah. I get sick of answering the same questions over and over,” Ben says, tucking his beeper into his pocket.

“Really? You should try spending a day with your daughter,” Rachel says with a grin. “By the way, I won’t be home till late tonight either.”

“No? What’s up?”

“I’m having dinner with Allen,” she tells him easily.

She can’t use Tasha or Karen as the excuse—too easy for Ben to run into one of them. Allen is one of her gay friends who lives in the city. He’s a leftover from her pre-Ben days as a fashion stylist for Saks—and he happens to be in Tuscany for a few weeks on a shoot.

Ben raises an eyebrow. “What about Mrs. Tuccelli?”

“What about her?”

“I thought you fired her last night. Who’s going to watch the kids?”

“That boy from down the street,” Rachel tells him.

“What boy from down the street?”

“The one who’s staying with the Gallaghers. Their nephew.”

“Oh. You know him?”

“He’s a nice kid,” she says with a shrug. “And if he needs anything, his aunt and uncle are right down the street.”
Well, his aunt will be.

“Have you seen my keys?” Ben asks, distracted, patting the pocket of his trench coat

“Nope.”

“Must be in my other coat.” He opens the closet again and reaches for his black trenchcoat.

Rachel tiptoes up and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Have a good day, Ben. I’m going to go have some coffee and read the paper.”

“Did they find that Kendall woman yet?”

She shakes her head. “Not according to the headline. What do you think happened to her?”

“Nothing good. Here they are.” Waving his keys, he closes the closet door and picks up his bag. “I’ll call you later. Give the kids a kiss for me.”

“Aren’t you going to do it yourself?”

“I did. They didn’t notice. They’re all wrapped up in
Sesame Street
. I think they’re watching too much TV, Rach.”

She shrugs. “There are worse things that could happen to them, Ben. See you tonight.”

“You’ll probably beat me home. I’ve got some HMO paperwork to catch up on after the meeting. Have fun.”

“I will,” she tells him, smiling to herself as he walks out the door.

M
itch stands at the bottom of a tree with a big gun aimed at Robbie Sussman, who is whimpering and clinging to a branch overhead. Mitch is just centering Robbie’s dumb, tear-stained face in the sight when a shrill siren shatters everything.

Run! It’s the police
, he thinks in the split second before he realizes that it’s not a siren after all, but the bleating of the alarm clock, and that the whole thing with Robbie was just a dream.

Oh.

Mitch fumbles for it on the end table beside the couch, his fingers finally making contact with the snooze button.

There. Silence.

After a moment, he realizes that the place is too silent.

Where’s Mom?

He opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is a folded note on the coffee table, which has been pushed away to make room for the pullout bed.

He knows what it says before he sits up and reads it. Sure enough . . .

Mitch, I had to leave early again to cover this story. Eat breakfast. Don’t be late for school! Love, Mom

Good. When she’s here in the morning, she nags him to hurry. Today he can have a few extra minutes to lie in bed. He sinks back against the pillow and thinks about his father. If he lived with Dad, he would never have the house to himself. Shawna would always be hovering around, trying to take care of him.

Sometimes he likes the way she tries to act like a mother. She makes him cookies from one of those Pillsbury mixes—not from scratch the way Blake’s mother does, but they’re still pretty good. She buys him little presents—mostly stuff to wear, though.

And she tries to hug him. That, he doesn’t like. Maybe because the person he wishes would hug him is his dad. And his dad never has.

Plus, he knows how much it would upset his mom if she thought Shawna was going around hugging him, acting like she’s his mother. She’s not supposed to hug him, or tell him to eat his vegetables, or make sure he washes behind his ears. That’s the kind of stuff only a mom is allowed to do.

If Mitch lived with Dad and Shawna right now, Shawna would probably be standing over him, telling him to hurry up and get out of bed so he won’t be late for school.

Yeah, so . . .

Thank God he doesn’t live with Dad and Shawna.

Mitch rolls over and closes his eyes again.

F
letch steps from the steamy master bathroom back to the bedroom, a towel wrapped low around his lean waist. He catches sight of his reflection in a cheval mirror across the room and admires his bulging biceps and washboard stomach. Later he’ll hit the gym. He was hoping to play golf this morning, but it’s too late now. He slept past his usual tee time at the country club.

Yawning, he crosses the room to the built-in bureau, glancing at the rumpled bed as he passes. Sharon is there, asleep, her mouth slightly open. She’s been sleeping in that position since he came home last night, and he wasn’t thrilled to find her already in their bed. He likes to have it all to himself these days, and often does.

He stares at his wife, noting the weighty tousle of blond hair on the pillowcase, the unnaturally tanned skin against the white bed linen, the skinny black strap of her silk teddy that has slipped down over her exposed shoulder. She has drawers full of lingerie like that, he knows. He used to be impressed by her sexy sleepwear. But that wore off years ago.

She’s so motionless. . . .

She looks like she’s dead
, he notes without the humor that accompanied that particular observation in the past.

When they first met, she informed him that nothing could rouse her from a deep sleep, and Fletch soon discovered she was right. He could talk to her, turn on lights, raise the volume on the television, even shake her, and still she slept as soundly as a corpse. Always had. Still does, unless she’s faking.

But why would she do that?

To avoid talking to me?

Maybe. After all, he’s done his share of playing dead in bed for that same reason.

Well, he couldn’t care less whether she’s actually asleep at the moment or is faking it. He rubs his tense shoulders and reaches for a pair of sweats, anxious to get to the gym and pound out some of this aching tension in a kick-boxing class.

M
argaret emerges from the third-floor guest room dressed in gray slacks, a white silk blouse, and a navy blazer. Her hair is pulled back neatly and tied at her neck. She’s wearing the perfect string of pearls her father bought her for her fifteenth birthday.

“You’re my beautiful girl,” he said that morning, fastening them around her neck.

Beautiful
. In her whole life, only Daddy ever called her that. Only Daddy ever complimented her and seemed to mean it.

She never heard him call Jane beautiful. He probably did; she has no doubt that her father adored her sister. Who didn’t? But he was the only person who was ever sensitive to Margaret’s plight as Jane’s sister. He didn’t compare them; didn’t make Margaret feel inferior—something that had been second nature to Mother.

Mother.

Having descended the stairway to the second floor, Margaret passes the closed door of the other guest room, the bigger one with the adjoining bathroom. Naturally, her mother is staying there, having requested, after her arrival last night, that Margaret move her things to the third floor. She blamed it on her arthritis, saying it’s too difficult to climb all those stairs, but Margaret knows that’s merely an excuse. Her mother simply isn’t willing to settle for second-best. She wants the better guest room.

The better daughter.

Mother wants Jane. She hasn’t come right out and admitted it, but Margaret knows what she’s thinking. That the wrong daughter has disappeared. That Margaret should have been the one to go missing.

Not Jane.

Margaret clenches her hands into fists at her sides as she walks down the second-floor corridor, heading for the next flight of steps.

Not perfect Jane with her perfect house and perfect daughter and perfect husband.

The thought of Owen calms Margaret enough so that she relaxes her hands, realizing that her fingernails have been digging painfully into her palms.

She passes the nursery and pauses in the open doorway, looking in at Schuyler’s cheerful yellow-and-white room. The curtains are still drawn, but the crib is vacant. Margaret thought that if she stayed in the second-floor guest room, she would be able to hear Schuyler when she woke.

Way upstairs, she hasn’t been in earshot of the baby’s cries. Did Mother tend to Jane’s daughter, or was it Owen? Or perhaps Minerva, who said she would be back early this morning?

Margaret simmers with frustration. She had planned to be the one who came to calm the little girl in the night. She had intended to be the one who picked her up when she cried out this morning, to cuddle her and dress her and feed her.

She turns away from the nursery and continues along the silent hallway.

The door to the master bedroom is ajar. She wonders, did Owen even make it to bed last night?

When he returned from the press conference, he went straight to his study and closed the door. Mother had already been in bed by then, exhausted from her trip. But Margaret waited up, wanting to be there for Owen if he needed her. He didn’t even see her sitting in the living room when he passed, nor did he hear her calling to him as he went to his study.

Now, back on the ground floor, Margaret walks slowly to the study and finds the door closed, just as it was last night.

She does what she hadn’t found the courage to do then, knocking softly.

No reply.

Tapping a bit harder, she calls, “Owen? Are you in here?”