Hide Away (A Rachel Marin Thriller) Page 19

  In fact, the only thing bothering Stefanie at the moment was not knowing if she’d packed enough reading material. She would need something to occupy her time at the pool while Nestor binged episodes of Chopped on his Surface Pro.

  Nestor looked agitated. Nervous. He was biting his lower lip hard enough that, if he wasn’t careful, he could draw blood. And if he wasn’t careful and a drop fell while they were taking care of business, they might not even make it to Bermuda.

  Stefanie reached over and put her hand on top of his. The trembling stopped. Nestor’s skin was rough, palms calloused. She knew his time in prison had hardened his skin but softened his heart. He was a troubled boy. Had been ever since Stefanie first met him—at a party at Isabelle’s house, of all places. This was back when Isabelle was still a Robles, while her parents were still alive. They were humorless assholes and never gave Chris a dime, but they sure could throw a party.

  Nestor came with Chris. The boys sat by themselves, drinking rum and Cokes and smoking menthols. But when Stefanie locked eyes with Nestor . . . that was it.

  She waited for him while he was in prison. She never dreamed of touching another man. And she made him swear on the Holy Bible—literally—that he would never lay a finger on another woman. He did so without hesitation. And she, perhaps jokingly, had given him permission to kill anyone in prison who tried to make him his bitch.

  She remembered the look on his face. Half smiling because he knew it was a joke, half terrified because he knew that he might just be obligated to murder someone for her. And he would. She knew it. And she would for him. And they both would for Chris.

  Which was why they were sitting in the Dodge Avenger in the first place, a Desert Eagle and a Ruger hidden inside a cargo duffel bag in the back seat, along with a canister of bleach, a bottle of lighter fluid, and several boxes of waterproof matches.

  Stefanie looked at Nestor. He continued to chew his lip. His eyes flitted back and forth, watching the unsuspecting parents gab and laugh. Stefanie reached over and gently placed her hand on the back of his head. His black hair was short and buzzed all over. She loved the prickly feeling on her palms. Loved the way it felt when his head was between her legs. It electrified her. She’d made him swear never to grow it out.

  She gently caressed his head, kneading the flesh below the stubble, and instantly felt him calm down. Nestor turned toward Stefanie and smiled, then leaned over and kissed her, deep and loving.

  “For Chris,” he said.

  “For Chris,” she replied.

  They heard a bell ring, and the school doors opened. Soon enough they would see a horde of children come barreling out, rug rats in pastel backpacks covered with illustrations of unicorns and dogs and superheroes. Stefanie checked her phone again and found the picture of Rachel Marin that Isabelle had sent her. They didn’t know what her daughter, Megan, looked like, so they had to wait for Rachel in order to make their move.

  But no children came out. No parents ran up to hug their children, swaddled in mittens and hats, cheeks turning a ruddy red in the cold. Nestor and Stefanie waited. Where are all the kids?

  She could feel beads of cold sweat trickling down her spine. Could they have missed Rachel Marin? Was there another entrance?

  “There,” Nestor said, tapping Stefanie on the shoulder and pointing at the school entrance. “Coming out.”

  And there she was, Rachel Marin, exiting the school carrying her daughter, the young girl’s face buried in her shoulder, arms and legs dangling. She must have gone in to get Megan while they hadn’t been looking. She was the only parent crossing the schoolyard. Easy prey.

  Stefanie had stayed up all night wondering if she would really be able to go through with it. Kill not just the Marin woman but her daughter too.

  And now, seeing them both, Stefanie felt no hesitation. Once the first shot shattered the air, everyone would scatter. They would have time to put another round or two in the Marin woman to be thorough. She’d never have a chance.

  Then they would burn the car and be in Bermuda before the cops even knew what had happened. And who knew? Maybe they would stay abroad. Start a family. Change their names. Forget the past. The world was their oyster. With $150,000, they could do just about anything.

  Stefanie and Nestor slipped on the leather gloves and brought the duffel bag into the front seat. Nestor unzipped it and took out the Desert Eagle. She removed the Ruger and slid it down by the footwell.

  “Ready?” she said to Nestor.

  “Ready.”

  As Rachel Marin crossed the yard holding her daughter, no more than twenty feet from the Dodge, Nestor and Stefanie exited the car. Nestor held the gun by his hip. Stefanie had the Ruger upright. She didn’t care if anyone saw them. Screams would be good. Screams would get everyone out of there. Panicked witnesses gave terrible testimony.

  They walked toward Rachel Marin. She was whispering something to the girl in her arms. The girl seemed light. Almost floppy. Stefanie figured a bitch like that probably underfed her own children to save money.

  She and Nestor exchanged a glance. Time to dance.

  But as Marin got closer, a feeling of dread started in the pit of Steinman’s stomach. Something wasn’t right. The girl’s hair looked . . . off. Then it hit her: Marin wasn’t carrying her daughter. In her arms was a child-size doll. Stefanie looked at the doll, with its large button eyes and stitched-on smile, and wondered what in the hell was going on.

  But before she even had a chance to look up, Stefanie felt the prongs embed themselves in her chest, and suddenly fifty thousand volts were coursing through her like lightning. Stefanie screamed, dropped the Ruger, and fell to the ground.

  Nestor looked down at her in shock, and before Stefanie could warn him, three men wearing APD windbreakers knocked Nestor sideways. The Desert Eagle flew into the air and clattered on the stone sidewalk. Stefanie had never felt so much pain in her life. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. One of the men had his knee in Nestor’s back, pinning him to the ground. Another held his legs, while the third handcuffed him behind his back. Stefanie saw a cut on Nestor’s chin from where his face had hit the pavement. That would have been enough for her to kill someone.

  They hurt my baby, she thought as she felt a knee drive into her back as well.

  Stefanie managed to look up. She saw an Ashby PD officer holding a Taser. She also saw the Marin woman, her face oddly blank. Marin walked over to Steinman’s Dodge. Stefanie watched, helpless, as Marin reached into the wheel well of the right front tire, felt around, and removed a small metal box.

  The bitch tracked us. She set us up.

  Marin pocketed the item, then turned to look at Stefanie. A look of satisfaction on her face.

  And then Marin waved at Stefanie and mouthed the word Bye.

  CHAPTER 23

  Four Years Ago

  To “Rachel,” the only thing better than a cup of hot, freshly brewed arabica on a cool September morning was the rhythm of a speed bag being beaten to a pulp. She stood perfectly balanced in front of the bag and pummeled it endlessly, shoulders burning, sweat pouring down her face and pooling on the rubber mat at her feet.

  It had taken her a long time to get the hang of the speed bag. Sure, she’d seen Rocky. Who hadn’t? The first time Myra set her up in front of the bag, she punched it as hard as she could and mistakenly led with her first row of knuckles like an amateur. The bag barely moved, and her hand ached for a week.

  Myra taught her the correct positioning and striking form.

  “The speed bag isn’t about strength,” Myra said. “Too many people try to beat the crap out of it like it’s a driver who rear-ended you. The bag is all about endurance and hand-eye coordination.”

  Myra taught her to lead with the flat underside of her fist and to keep her hand slightly open. One of the biggest mistakes newbies made with the speed bag was using an open fist. Amateur hour.

  “Keep your shoulders relaxed. Hit the bag before it reaches its center point
. If you hit the bag while it’s coming forward, you’ll just drive it straight up into the platform. And always try to hit the bag in the same exact spot. If you hit it every which way, you’ll never be able to control it. So find a stitch, or lettering, and aim for that spot every single time. Repetition. Muscle memory. Don’t think. Just do.”

  Rachel soaked in every word, not just hearing Myra, but listening. She evolved. Got better. She learned the difference between bad pain, which hurt, and good pain, which disappeared in a haze of adrenaline and pride.

  She was working the red speed bag like a demon when she heard the front door open.

  “Tell me you went home last night, Blondie, you crazy bitch,” Myra said. “Tell me you didn’t sneak back in after I locked up and spent the night beating that bag like it was a shitty ex-husband.”

  Rachel laughed and stopped working the bag. She caught her breath and took a long pull from a water bottle.

  “Hey, Myra,” she said. “Just needed to get some work in.”

  “Apollo Creed is quaking in his star-spangled booties,” Myra said. “Just remember, elbows up. Almost perpendicular with the floor.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  She was getting used to being called Rachel. It took some time at first. Myra had to call her by the new name several times before she responded. It felt silly. Like she was playacting. But Myra had been clear.

  No real names. No sharing details about your life. Everyone here needs to feel comfortable. These classes are a sanctuary, and the walls around us are real. We do not breach these walls. If you feel unsafe, let Myra know, and the offender will be gone.

  At the conclusion of a recent class, one of the students, a thirtysomething man calling himself Abe, had asked another student, “Tabitha,” out for drinks. Tabitha had come back the next session. Abe had not. Rachel had quickly realized that not everybody understood just how serious Myra was about the group being a sanctuary.

  Every day she would drive her son to school, drop her daughter at day care, and spend the rest of her hours toiling at the gym or ensconced in a book. Since meeting Myra she had transformed her body and her mind. And it wasn’t about getting back to her prepregnancy weight. She didn’t care about that. Her stomach would never look the same. But that didn’t matter. The C-section scar was the only scar on her body, but she considered it a badge of honor.

  Her fingertips and palms had all developed hard calluses, courtesy of throwing around free weights, but finding the right lifting gloves had cut down on those. Every night she put her young daughter to bed, forced her son to do his homework, and then soaked her hands in Epsom salts and shaved off the dead skin layers with a pumice stone. And once both were in bed, Rachel spent an hour doing plyometrics in the living room.

  She could see her body changing before her eyes. She had tried to stay in shape through her two pregnancies, always back at a barre or spin class within six weeks of delivering. But this was different. She could see the definition forming in her shoulders, the ropy muscles on her back. She almost looked like a different woman.

  Myra’s training had given her a feeling of power she had never imagined. Unleashed something inside her that had been dormant. And just as important, it had given her a place to direct her anger. She wanted to pound the speed bag into oblivion. To put every ounce of her strength into every single punch during sparring sessions. But one thing Myra had taught her was that strength only mattered when controlled. Anger uncontrolled was useless. A bull let loose on a raft would drown.

  “Think of anger like a bottle of seltzer that’s been shaken up,” Myra had said to the class early on. “You twist the cap, the liquid spurts everywhere, and you end up a soaking mess. Each of you is that liquid inside the bottle right now. Dying to get out. Pushing to get out. But you’re only at your best when controlled. Open the cap slowly. Let some out—but not all. And then close it before it overwhelms you. Learn to control your anger, and you’ll be capable of great things.”

  And Rachel could feel it. The anger welled up inside her almost constantly. She liked Myra’s seltzer analogy, but there was just one problem. Eventually, the carbonation in the seltzer would subside. Eventually, it would be safe to open and pour. But Rachel could spend hours at the gym working the bags, practicing self-defense and attack techniques, hauling kettlebells until she couldn’t raise her arms above her head. She would go home, exhausted, barely able to lift a pan to cook dinner. And yet she would wake up the next morning with the anger still there. The bottle shaken up all over again.

  What did you do when the anger never went away?

  The truth was, when Rachel left class at night, she was at a loss. Everything felt unfamiliar. The world as she knew it had ceased to exist, and she didn’t know how to live in the new one. Her children were her dock. When she was home, she fed them and clothed them and bathed them and nurtured them. When she was home with them, she had a purpose. But when she was away from them, she felt unmoored.

  She presumed that was why she spent hours on end battering speed bags and heavy bags, lifting weights that, several years ago, would have seemed too heavy to even consider. It was why when, after her children went to bed, she read every book she could find to understand the world and how it worked. She was soaking up knowledge: physical and mental. At first, because she wanted to understand what had happened to her husband. To understand the system. But now, it was beyond that. She wanted to understand everything.

  About him.

  Harwood Greene.

  The man who’d torn their life to pieces and walked away with his own intact.

  She searched the books, threw the weights around, looking for an answer that even she knew she would probably never find.

  Each training class with Myra was three hours long, broken up by a fifteen-minute water break. After the first session, Myra had bestowed upon Rachel the moniker of “shin-kicker.” Rachel had smiled and then retched into a bucket. By the end of the third hour, she’d felt like her insides were liquefying. Now that fifteen-minute break was simply an annoyance. Breaks were for soft people. And she was granite.

  Sometimes Myra would stay after class to work out on her own. One night, Rachel had gathered up the courage to ask Myra if she could stay late and work out alongside her. Myra obliged. They pounded the heavy bag until their arms were numb, did burpees until their legs wobbled. Rachel felt only a modicum of guilt arriving home half an hour late to relieve her sitter.

  And as fulfilling as it was to toughen her body after two children and years of neglect, she also stayed because she wanted—needed—to know more about Myra. Why this woman spent three nights a week teaching a free self-defense class to a group of strangers. But Rachel had no idea how to broach the subject. Myra had made it clear the students’ privacy was tantamount. And Rachel didn’t want to risk crossing that line.

  They worked out together but rarely spoke. Rachel would hold the heavy bag while Myra pounded away. Myra would hold Rachel’s ankles as she did sit-up after sit-up, tightening up the muscles that had helped grow two glorious children.

  At the end of that crisp fall day, Rachel and Myra both finished their workouts, cleaned up the equipment, and left the gym at the same time. There was a cool breeze in the air. It felt wonderful on Rachel’s tired muscles. Myra walked fast, and Rachel had to make an effort to keep up.

  The gym was not in a particularly good neighborhood, but class usually ended early enough that the sun was still out, and the trainees could feel safe going to their cars or waiting for a taxi. But since they’d stayed an extra hour after class, the sun had faded to burnt umber on the horizon. Darkness was descending like a soft blanket.

  They walked in silence. Myra seemed fine with this arrangement. Rachel did not. She wasn’t sure how to cross the silent divide, so she just barreled ahead.

  “So . . . where do you go when class is over?” she said, immediately regretting it.

  Myra turned to Rachel and laughed. “How long have you been waiting to
ask me something about myself, Blondie?”

  “A while. A long while.”

  “Yeah. I figured. I’m heading home. Got a son and a husband, and if I’m lucky, I’ll catch some TV before I pass out.”

  They continued to walk, Rachel speechless. This was already more information than Rachel had ever gotten in the year she’d been training with Myra. A husband? Son? She watched television?

  Rachel searched for a follow-up question but came up blank.

  “What, you didn’t think I had a life? I might be boring, but I’m not that boring.”

  “I don’t think you’re boring,” Rachel said.

  “Well, thank you, Blondie,” Myra said.

  “How old is your son?” Rachel asked. Had she gone too far?

  “Fourteen,” Myra said. “I know, I know. Had him young. Met my ex our freshman year of college. Was knocked up by my senior year. And that waste of carbon was gone two years after that. Thankfully he left me the best part of him. Other than his sperm, he wasn’t worth a damn.”

  “Can I see a picture of your boy?” Rachel said. Every question felt like a massive intrusion, breaking the class omertà. But without hesitation, Myra took her cell phone from her gym bag and opened the Photos app. She held it up for Rachel to see.

  In the photo, Myra had her arms wrapped around the neck of an adorable young boy. He had sandy-brown hair, blue eyes, and the happy, toothy grin of someone who’d just had his braces removed. Myra’s eyes sparkled with joy.

  “His name is Ben,” Myra said. “And he’s the love of my life. Even my husband knows that.”

  “He’s beautiful,” Rachel said. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Took my husband a little getting used to,” she said. “We married when we were both thirty. Most dudes aren’t looking to marry into a family at that age. They’re happy to play the field, lay pipe for a while, or looking to start their own family fresh. Not easy dating as a single mom in your twenties. But when Javier met my Ben . . . I swear, he might love that kid more than I do by now. So, what about you, Blondie?”