Lisa Gardner - Gone

“He confessed?” Rainie asked, sounding bewildered.

“It was Mac’s idea. With all the forensic reports now done, Sanders and the experts have a fairly clear idea what happened that night. Order of events, details of the rampage. So Sanders picked Duncan up. Told him they had a new development: They’d found a receipt in Jennifer’s papers for a nanny cam. Turns out there was a camera stuffed in a bear in Aurora’s room.”

“Really?”

“No. This was Mac’s gambit. I believe it’s called blindman’s bluff. It’s not the easiest thing in the world to pull off, but again, this is where the evidence reports made the difference. Sanders dangled a few details. Duncan cracked. Good thing, too. Sanders found a Peeping Tom report filed away-Duncan’s taken to following and spying on a checkout girl who works at his neighborhood Safeway.”

“Oh, thank God.” Rainie’s hand went over her mouth. “It’s over. He did it. It’s done.”

“Yes,” Quincy said, and in spite of himself, his own voice grew hoarse. “It’s over, Rainie. It’s done.”

“I don’t want to have nightmares anymore.” Rainie started to cry. “I don’t want to keep reaching out for a little girl I can’t save. The world is cruel. Our jobs are hopeless. I don’t even know how to love anymore. I just need to hate.”

She collapsed in his arms, still weeping, still talking. Half of it made sense. Half of it didn’t. He held her, let her get it all out. And then he stroked her back, playing with the short, feathery wisps of her hair. He willed his strength into her, as if one man’s love could heal his wife. And he wasn’t surprised when she stepped away from him and wiped her eyes.

They went back to the car in silence. They drove home in silence.

And later that night, when she said she was going to see Dougie, Quincy let her go, and prayed for his own sake, as much as anyone’s, that she wasn’t actually going to a bar.

Dougie’s room had a new decoration: the yearbook photo of his mother, blown up to an eight-by-ten and nicely framed. Laura of all people had had it done. In return, Dougie had started using words such as “please” and “thank you” when the older woman was around. It gave Rainie a surreal feeling every time she came to the house.

He must have had a good day, because he was playing in his room with a new toy car when she drove up. Outside, it was pitch black with the threat of freezing rain, so even Dougie was in for the night.

Rainie sat cross-legged on the floor, while Dougie drove the car all over his mattress. “Vroooooom. Vroom. Vroom. Vroom.”

“So, what did you think of Dr. Brown?” she asked.

The boy shrugged. “He’s all right.”

“Good toys?”

“Too many Spider-Men,” Dougie said seriously. “What’s so great about Spider-Man? Now Beetle-Man, that would be a hero. Vrooooom.”

“Maybe you can help him see the light. When do you see him again?”

Dougie stopped driving his car, looked at her perplexed. “See him again? But I went!”

Rainie had to laugh. “It’s therapy, Dougie. It takes more than one session to figure things out. You have to give it time.”

“But it’s talking. ”

“Well, maybe you’ll come to like Spider-Man.”

Dougie gave her a skeptical look and resumed racing his car around the mattress.

Driving home, Rainie thought of Dougie and smiled. The boy was doing okay in his own way. He still antagonized Stanley. He still talked longingly of fire. But he was now more and more inside the house, playing, relaxed, part of the family, whether he realized it or not. She liked that he had the picture of his mother back. She liked that from time to time, he would tell a story from when he was a baby. Some of his tales sounded like fantasy to her, but in his own way, Dougie was reclaiming his past. It seemed to settle him, give him a first glimpse of the future.

He had hope. Unlike so many other children. Unlike Aurora Johnson.

The thought bruised her, hurt her all over again even after all these months. And she could feel the darkness rear up in the back of her mind, feel the telltale heaviness settle in her shoulders. And her thoughts, of course, fed on the darkness from there.

All the children out there who never had a chance. The child predators on the prowl right now. What eight-year-old was being tucked into bed right now who would never live to see the morning? What young girl was about to be snatched from her own home while her parents slept unaware down the hall?

And Rainie was left hurting, aching, reeling from the sheer hopelessness of it all.

Think happy thoughts, she told herself, almost inanely. Yellow-flowered fields, smooth-flowing streams. Of course, none of it worked.

So she thought of Dougie again. She reminded herself of the satisfied look on his face as he raced his car around the room. And she thought of all the other children out there who were bruised and battered, but somehow-somehow-found a way to survive.

She wanted so much for those children. Fiercely. Passionately. For them to grow up. For them to be free. For them to break the cycle of abuse, to find the unconditional love every person was entitled to. For them to be happy.

And she wondered how she could want so much for them, yet so little for herself. She was one of those children, too. She was a survivor.

And then, for the first time in a long time, she knew what she had to do.

She drove up the gravel driveway. She strode through the stinging rain into her house. She found Quincy sitting in front of the fire, a tight look around his mouth.

“Dougie says hi,” she volunteered loudly. “He earned himself a new toy car.”

And that quickly Quincy’s shoulders came down, the tension eased in his face. She knew what he’d been thinking, what he’d been worrying, and it brought tears to her eyes.

She stood there for the longest time. Minutes. Hours. She didn’t know. She looked at her husband and she knew she was seeing him again for the very first time. The gray that was now more visible than the jet in his hair. The fresh lines creasing the corners of his mouth. The way he sat so stiffly in his own home before his own wife, as if he were steeling himself for what she’d do next.

She strode forward before the momentum left her. She dropped to her knees in front of him. She reached out her hand. She said the words that needed to be said: “My name is Rainie Conner, and I am an alcoholic.”

The look on his face was so grave, it nearly broke her heart all over again. He took her hand. “My name is Pierce Quincy, and I’m the man who still loves you. Get off your knees, Rainie. You never have to bow before me.”

“I’m so sorry-”

“Shhh.”

“I want our life back.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Tell me you still love me.”

“Oh, Quincy, I love you.”

“Tell me you won’t drink again.”

“I’ll join a program. I’ll do what needs to be done. I won’t ever drink again.”

He drew her up onto his lap, buried his face against the soft wisps of her newly grown hair. “Congratulations, Rainie. You’ve just taken the first step.”

“It’s a very long road,” she whispered softly.

“I know, sweetheart. That’s why I’m going to hold your hand all the way.”

LISA GARDNERis the New York Times bestselling author of Alone, The Killing Hour, The Survivors Club, The Next Accident, The Third Victim, The Other Daughter, and The Perfect Husband. Living in New England with her husband, Anthony, Lisa is already at work on her latest suspense novel, and invites readers to participate by entering in the third annual KILL A FRIEND, MAIM A BUDDY sweepstakes at www.LisaGardner.com.