Lisa Gardner - Hide

"I happen to be an expert kickboxer," I heard myself say stiffly. "My father took my safety very seriously-taught me self-defense, criminology one-oh-one, when to run, when to fight, and how to know the difference. I grew up with over a dozen different aliases, living in a dozen different cities. Trust me, I know how serious this is."

"Your father taught you?" Arched brow again.

"Yes."

"The academic from MIT?"

"The same."

"And how did your father know so much about criminology or self-defense?"

I shrugged. "Necessity is the mother of invention. Isn't that what they say?"

Catherine stared at me in bemusement. "Wait, wait," she said, when she could tell I was getting pissy again, "I'm not trying to mock you. I want to understand. When this all happened, your father…"

"He moved my family away We packed our suitcases in the middle of the afternoon, loaded up the car, and disappeared."

"No!"

"Yes."

"With fake names and everything?"

"Absolutely. There is no other way to be safe. Which reminds me, you're supposed to be calling me Tanya."

She waved away my alias, clearly unconcerned. "And did your father get another job with a university in Florida?"

"Couldn't. Not without a curriculum vitae, and fake driver's licenses rarely come with those kinds of attachments. He drove a taxi."

" Really ? And your mother?"

I shrugged. "Once a homemaker, always a homemaker, I guess."

"But she didn't protest? She didn't try to stop him? Both of your parents did this for you?"

I was growing puzzled now "Well, of course. What else was there to do?"

Catherine sat back. She picked up her tea. Her hand had started to shake, causing the liquid to slosh. She set the china cup back down.

"My parents never spoke of what happened," she said abruptly. "One day, I vanished. Another day, I returned home. We never spoke of the time in between. It was like the twenty-eight days had been some minor blip in the space-time continuum, best left forgotten. We stayed in the same house. I returned to the same school. And my parents resumed their same old lives.

"I never forgave them for that. I never forgave them for being able to still live, still function, still breathe, when every part of me hurt so much I wanted to tear the house apart board by board. I wanted to gouge out my own eyeballs. I wanted to yell and scream so badly, I couldn't make a single sound.

"I hated that house, Annabelle. I hated my parents for not saving me. I hated the block I lived on. And I hated every single child in my school who had walked home safely on October twenty-second without trying to help a stranger find a lost dog.

"And they whispered, you know. They told stories about me on the playground, shared winks and nudges in the locker room. And I never said a word because everything they whispered was true. Being a victim is a one-way ticket, Annabelle. This is who you are now, and no one will ever let you go back."

"That's not true," I protested. "Look at you-you are not weak or defenseless. When Umbrio got out of prison, you didn't just curl up in a ball. You shot him, for God's sake, and more power to you. You met the challenge. You won, Catherine.

"Not like me. I'm all training and no trial. I've spent my entire life running and I don't even know who it is I'm supposed to fear. 'Can't trust anyone,' was my father's favorite motto. 'Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you.' I don't know. Maybe my father had a point. Seems like it's always the handsome, charming husband who brutally murders his wife, the mild-mannered Boy Scout leader who's secretly a serial killer, the quiet coworker who one day opens up with an AK-47. Hell, I'm suspicious of the mailman."

"Oh, me, too," Catherine said immediately. "And utility workers, maintenance workers, and customer-service representatives. The amount of information they have at their fingertips is positively scary."

"Exactly!"

"I formed a shell company," she said matter-of-factly. "Put everything in the company's name and-badda bing, badda boom- ceased to exist on paper. It's the only way to be safe. I can have Carson look into it for you."

"Thanks, but I don't exactly have those kinds of assets…"

"Nonsense, it's about security, not money. Trust me on this one. I'll have Carson set you up. You need to think about the future, Annabelle. The real trick to security is keeping one step ahead."

I nodded, but that quickly her words took the wind out of my sails. One step ahead? Of what? What did the future really hold for someone like me? I'd been trained for twenty-five years to live out of suitcases. To lie. To distrust. To commit to no one. Even in Boston, I had only a passing acquaintance with my Starbucks coworkers, and barely registered one step above a maid with most of my wealthy clients. I attended church, but I always sat in the back. I never wanted to be asked too many questions; I didn't want to lie to a man of God.

And as for my business, what would happen if it did take off, if I tried to hire employees? Would my fake ID hold up under the intense scrutiny of business-licensing boards, referral services? I kept telling myself I was optimistic. I kept telling myself I was in control, had a dream. I would not be my father's pawn! But truth was, week after week, I slogged through the same under-the-radar routine. My business did not grow. I did not make friends or date seriously.

I would never fall in love. I would never have a family. Twenty-five years after I started running, my parents were dead, I was all alone, and I was still terrified.

And then I understood Catherine Gagnon. She was right. She had never escaped from that pit in the ground. Just as I had never stopped living like a target.

"I need to go to the bathroom," I mumbled.

"I'm done, too."

"Please, I think I just need a minute."

She shrugged. "I'll powder my nose."

She followed me to the ladies' lounge, taking up position in front of a gilded mirror. I went into one of the stalls, where I pressed my forehead against the cool metal door and worked on regaining my composure, finding focus.

What was it my father had always said? I was strong, I was fast, and I did have a fighter's instinct.

What did my father know? For all his scheming, he hadn't been able to dodge a lost taxi.

I squeezed my eyes shut, thought of my mother instead. The way she had stroked my hair. The look on her face that fall afternoon in Arlington, when she had told me that she loved me, that she would always love me.

From my pocket, I took out the picture Mrs. Petracelli had given me. Taken at a barbecue in the Petracellis' backyard. I was sitting on the picnic table next to Dori. We were grinning at the camera, each holding a Popsicle. My mom stood to the side, toasting the camera with a margarita, smiling at us indulgently. My father was toward the back, working the grill. He had also noticed the camera, maybe heard Mrs. Petracelli say "Cheese," and had turned with a large, beaming smile.

The smell of searing hamburgers, freshly cut grass, and roasting corn on the cob. The sound of neighbors' sprinklers and other small children playing next door.

I could feel the nostalgia welling in my throat, the tears burning my eyes. And I understood why I never made it forward. Because mostly I wanted to go back. To the last days of summer. To those final weeks when the world still felt safe.

I wiped my eyes. Flushed the toilet. Pulled myself together, because what else was there to do?

I made it to the sink, setting the photograph carefully to the side so it wouldn't get wet while I washed my hands. Catherine wandered over, regarded my reflection in the mirror. She had retouched her lipstick, brushed out her long black hair.