Джеймс Паттерсон - Three Women Disappear

“Sarah,” Sean called, “I love you. You know that. I want to help you. Please don’t shut me out. Not now.”

I crawled on hands and knees into Aunt Lindsey’s bedroom and then into her walk-in closet, hoping the general clutter might give me a place to hide. I heard Sean moving through the upstairs, opening and closing drawers, knocking on doors. Toying with me, like the stalker in a slasher flick.

“You know who I work with,” he told Aunt Lindsey. “You know who she works for. At a crossroads like this, up against an organization like this? She needs me. Question my integrity all you like, but she needs me.”

He opened the bathroom door.

“I could have sworn you had a framed picture of her in here.”

“Look, Sean, the scrapbooks—”

“Are in the guest bedroom? Maybe?”

She lost her patience, decided to make a stand.

“You need a warrant, Sean. You can’t go through a house without a warrant.”

I caught a slight tremble in her voice. She thought I was still lying asleep in the spare room—the room Sean was about to search.

“My little Sarah is nobody’s enemy,” she added.

“I’m so glad to hear you say that, Lindsey. For once we’re in agreement. Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter if Sarah is or isn’t their enemy: it only matters that they think she is.”

Step by methodical step, he made his way to the master bedroom. I’d pulled the closet door shut, crept behind Aunt Lindsey’s luggage collection, and covered myself with an armful of winter coats.

“Here’s one,” Sean said.

He was talking about my high school graduation photo. Aunt Lindsey kept it in a silver frame on top of her dresser.

“That picture’s twenty years old,” Aunt Lindsey said.

“True, but like I told you, I need a wide range. People have to know what she used to look like, what she looks like now, and what she might look like tomorrow.”

A quick tour of her dresser drawers, maybe a glance under the bed, and then he was making his way toward the closet.

“Last chance,” he said. “If she’s in there, why not just tell me? We’re all a little old to be playing hide-and-seek.”

“How could she be in there when she hasn’t even been by the house?”

Her tone—exasperated, fed up with being called a liar—was damn convincing. I hoped Sean thought so, too.

“All the same, I’ll just take a peek.”

The door opened. I felt every muscle in my body contract. I expected the coats to go flying, expected to see Sean’s smug face staring down at me. Instead, I heard him curse, heard his fist slam against the wall. Aunt Lindsey let out a little gasp. Then they went quiet while Sean regained his composure.

“You’re a bit of a hoarder, Linds,” he said. “I shudder to think what we’ll find in the basement.”

CHAPTER 13

WHEN I knew for sure he was gone, I pushed my way out of the closet and peered into the hall. Aunt Lindsey was sitting on the floor, knees to her chest, head resting on her forearms. She’d heard me coming but didn’t look up.

“God bless you, Sarah,” she said. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re the bravest person I know.”

I looked around as if maybe she was talking to someone else.

“Brave?” I said. “I cowered in a closet while you fought my battle for me. I’m so sorry, Aunt Linds. If he’d done anything, if he’d so much as …”

She stared out at nothing. There was sweat trickling down her forehead.

“I failed you,” she said.

“What are you talking about? Never—not even once. You’ve been my champion every step of the way. My hero. It’s me who failed you.”

I sat next to her, took her hand.

“A child can’t fail a parent,” she said. “That’s what I was, really: a parent. I wanted to do right by you. By your mother. I should have been paying closer attention. I should have been more forceful. Now it’s too late. You come to me for protection and there’s not a damn thing I can do.”

I squeezed her hand a little tighter.

“My marriage isn’t your fault, Aunt Linds. And you did do something.”

“What’s that? Chase him around my home while he hunted you down? Fat lot of good I’d have done if he found you.”

“I don’t mean that,” I said. “You moved my car, didn’t you? While I was asleep.”

She smiled in spite of herself.

“It’s in the church lot down the street,” she said.

“And Anna’s jewelry?”

“In the attic, wrapped up in your old sleeping bag.”

“You know if Sean had seen my car parked out front, I’d be in jail now. Or worse.”

Her smile faded.

“And if I’d put my foot down when it mattered, you wouldn’t be mixed up in—”

“Shush now,” I told her. “I love you. That’s all that matters.”

Downstairs, she sat me on the couch and brought out her nursing bag. The gash in my leg looked swollen and pink. She was busy tending to it when something—or the absence of something—caught my attention.

“Aunt Linds?”

“Am I being too rough?”

“No, it’s not that.”

I pointed to the coffee table.

“Did you move my insulin kit?”

She looked over, saw a stack of magazines and an empty space where the kit had been. She stood up. I stood with her. We searched the living room, the kitchen, the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms. The kit was gone. We both knew: Sean had taken it.

He must have figured it would work to his advantage once he found me. How could I run from him when he was holding the thing that kept me alive? Or maybe this was his way of flushing me out. There were only so many places I could go looking for insulin. He was probably camped outside my doctor’s office right now.

“I’m so sorry,” Aunt Lindsey said. “It’s gone.”

Then she walked over to me and took my face in her hands.

“Don’t worry, child, we’ll get through this. Together. You hear me? We’re in this together.”

I nodded, knowing full well this was my fight, and mine alone.

Next morning, Aunt Lindsey woke up to find the following note on her kitchen table:

Dear Aunt Lindsey ,

I know if I delivered this message in person you’d try to talk me out of it, and I know you’d probably succeed, so I’m writing a note because I can’t afford to be weak. Not now. I love you. There’s no one I’d rather have in my corner, but this is our reality: in order for me to survive, and for you to be happy, I need to disappear. Alone. No forwarding address means no need for you to lie—to the police, or whoever comes calling. I don’t want you on the hook for my mistakes. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you .

There’s something else. Something far more urgent. I cooked up a batch of buttered grits for you. They’re in the Tupperware on top of the stove. Six stars .

All my heart ,

Sarah

PS: As you can see, I’ve left you both my credit cards. Wait a few days and use them to buy anything you need/want. Use them for my sake, to throw the dogs off the scent. Then destroy them, along with this note .

It took me three drafts to get the wording right, then a fourth to make my penmanship legible. The note felt to me like a good-bye. A permanent good-bye. Because somehow I was sure I’d never see Aunt Lindsey again.

CHAPTER 14

DETECTIVE SEAN WALSH

SÍMON QUIT work at five o’clock sharp, spent an hour pushing weights around a boutique gym, then hit a local fast-food chain, where he sat by the window scarfing a three-tier cheeseburger and curly fries. No doubt about it: the man had assimilated.

From the restaurant I followed him to a ritzy wine bar in Sunset Park. Lucky for me, the place had a glass storefront. I parked across the street, watched through binoculars from behind my Jeep’s tinted windows. Símon was halfway through a demicarafe of red when a woman in a sequin dress tapped his shoulder. He hopped up, smiled, gave her a very polite peck on the cheek. For a second I thought it was Serena. Right height and shape, wrong age: Símon’s date was robbing the cradle.