Hide Away (A Rachel Marin Thriller) Read online

  She ran her fingers over Bartek’s wallet.

  “This little indent here,” she said, caressing the leather, “is where you usually keep your condom. But you don’t have one in there at the moment. Which means you took it out so your wife wouldn’t find it. Or you used it and forgot to replace it. So you’re married. And that jacket you’re wearing is old, but the colors haven’t faded much. Grangers detergent, I’m guessing. And I’ll bet your wife is the one who keeps it in good condition. You don’t strike me as someone who believes cleanliness is next to godliness.” Rachel paused. “And you have a daughter.”

  “How in the hell do you know that?” Bartek said. The menace in his voice had been replaced by unease.

  “You have flecks of pink nail polish on your right ring finger. You removed most of the polish, but you missed a spot. You let your young daughter paint your nails last night.”

  “I don’t have a daugh—”

  “Yes you do. You tried to scrape the polish off before work, using a file rather than nail polish remover, which is why it flaked. You were sloppy.” She ground the knifepoint harder into Bartek’s back. “Sloppy. Imagine that.”

  “You made your point; now leave me alone,” he said. Bartek’s entire body was stiff. A sudden movement or even a twitch could inadvertently plunge the knife into his skin.

  “I will,” Rachel said. “But I can’t just leave you like this. You didn’t need my money. You’re not desperate or hungry. Which means you’re either a sociopath or a thrill seeker. Am I warm?”

  “I got nothing to say to you.”

  Bartek squirmed. Rachel pressed her knee into the back of his hamstring. Hard. He stopped squirming.

  “You got unlucky tonight choosing me. But you’ll be back tomorrow. You’ll find someone else. Guys like you are too dumb to quit. You know, I could have the cops haul your slimy ass in.”

  “So why don’t you?” Bartek said.

  “Aside from the fact that I don’t really trust them—rich pricks like you always seem to skate—somebody once told me that I’d be faced with choices like this,” Rachel said. “And that I’d sleep well at night knowing I made a choice to prevent things like this from happening to people who can’t defend themselves. And they were right.”

  Rachel drew up Bartek’s left pant cuff and, with a quick stroke, slid the folding knife blade across the back of his ankle and partially severed his Achilles tendon.

  Bartek screamed and flopped about on the ground like a fish on a boat. He cradled his injured arm and maimed leg and curled up into a sobbing, bleeding ball. Rachel wiped the knife with a tissue and tossed it into a sewer grate. She removed a ballpoint pen from her purse and wrote four words on the back of Bartek’s driver’s license.

  “I’m taking your driver’s license,” she said. “I want you to see what I wrote on it.” Rachel held the license up to Bartek’s face so he could read what she’d written.

  He shook his head and tried to crawl away.

  “I can cut your other heel. Read it. Out loud.”

  Bartek raised his head, looked at the ID, and choked out, “Attempted robbery. Attempted rape.”

  “Good.” She slipped his license into her purse. “I’m going to keep this somewhere safe. You also did me the favor of leaving a perfect thumbprint on my purse, which I now have photos of. So if anything ever happens to me, or if I ever see you again, people will find the license and the print photo. Now ask yourself, Reggie: Are you smart enough to come up with a logical explanation for why I’d have your license and why your fingerprints would be all over my purse?”

  “You assaulted me!” Bartek howled.

  “Look at me and look at you, Brutus. You outweigh me by a whole other me. You made the first move. Remember that. This is all on you.”

  Bartek was silent.

  “Now, you’ll heal, but you’ll never run quite as fast. And just think what the next person might do to you,” she said, turning away. “And fuck you for making me late for my sitter.”

  As Rachel took her keys from her purse, she noticed a smudge of Reginald Bartek’s blood on the sleeve of her coat. She hid the stained cloth against her chest and opened the front door slowly, watching for Iris or the kids. When she confirmed the foyer was empty, Rachel quickly opened the closet door and put the coat on a hanger. It promptly fell to the ground. She hung it back up, with the dirty sleeve facing inward. She would need to get it cleaned professionally—blood didn’t come off easy. Then Rachel took a deep breath to settle her nerves and went to find her family.

  Iris was seated on the living room couch with the dregs of a cup of jasmine tea next to a Jodi Picoult novel. Iris was in her late fifties but nimble enough to chase around children a fourth of her age. She wore dark-green pants and a thick red wool sweater that itched Rachel just to look at it. Her hazel eyes could switch from sweet to serious in an instant. Rachel had come home to find serious.

  “Iris, I am beyond sorry,” Rachel said. “I got held up at work. Steve dropped a pile of work on my desk right as I was leaving, and it had to be done before the weekend.”

  Iris looked at Rachel with a mixture of irritation and disappointment. She put the teacup in the dishwasher, tucked the paperback in her pocketbook, and walked to the front door without responding to Rachel.

  “Megan is asleep. Eric is doing his homework,” she said.

  “Thank you, Iris.”

  “You were late last Tuesday,” Iris said. “And the Wednesday before. And that previous Friday. In fact, you’re late often.”

  “All I can do is apologize and promise to try harder.”

  “I have a family too,” Iris said. “My husband makes lasagna on Friday nights, and then we watch a movie on TCM. But by the time I get home, the food will be cold, and the movie will be half-over.”

  “I’m sorry. That sounds like a lovely evening,” Rachel said. A pang of loneliness radiated in her chest.

  “Other families inquire about my availability constantly,” Iris said. “My references are impeccable. I stay with you because I care about those kids, and I can imagine how hard it is being a single mother. But if I can’t get home to my family when they expect me, I’ll need to find different work. I hope you don’t force my hand.”

  “I do respect your time. This kills me, Iris. The kids love you. I’ll make this work, I swear.”

  “Please do, Ms. Marin,” Iris said. “I’ve given you plenty of chances. There won’t be another.”

  Iris slipped on a pair of black rubber boots, cinched up her gray L.L.Bean lamb’s wool coat—all its buttons neatly attached—and left. A frost hung in the air as the door slammed shut.

  Rachel stood in the entryway for a full minute, gathering herself. She still felt the adrenaline from the Bartek encounter coursing through her. She took her shoes off, tied her hair in a ponytail, and went upstairs. She knocked on Eric’s door, heard a muffled and slightly irritated, “What?”

  She took that as an invitation and opened the door. Her son was hunched over his desk, a textbook open in front of him. His walls were adorned with plaques, accolades, and certificates: Math Olympics. Spelling bee champion. Junior debate team. They were bereft of movie posters, photos of favorite athletes, or pictures of friends. There was a lack of joy and youth in her son’s room that ate at Rachel every time she entered. Once, a lifetime ago, she could barely keep track of his thriving social life. Playdates and birthday parties and endless smiles. There was nothing wrong with being a bookworm . . . but she ached for him to throw a baseball, bike around town, show any sign that he had a life beyond academia. She wanted him to be a kid again. But the truth was, since that terrible night, he’d never been the same. He’d thrown himself into his studies with a zeal that would have most parents overjoyed. But Rachel knew it was to stave off the nightmares, to shield himself from the cruelty of the outside world.

  Rachel wrapped her arms around her son and kissed the top of his curly dirty-blond mop of hair. He wrenched himself free without tur
ning around. Eric was thirteen, his once-plump cheeks losing their baby fat. He was beginning to stretch out, lean out. In a few years he would be taller than his mother and go from “cute” to “handsome” overnight. He had his father’s sparkling blue eyes, the color of the Mediterranean Sea. Looking at them made her heart swell and ache.

  “I’m studying,” Eric said gruffly. He spun around in his chair. “Why are your pants all dirty?”

  Rachel looked down. She was still covered in grime from the alleyway.

  “I fell. Your mom is a klutz.” He raised his eyebrows as if to say duh. “So what are you working on?”

  “History,” Eric said, spinning back around.

  “Studying anything in particular?”

  “We have a quiz on Tuesday. I have to memorize all the US states and capitals.”

  “Will you be ready?”

  Eric shrugged.

  “Wyoming,” Rachel said.

  “Cheyenne,” Eric replied.

  “Delaware.”

  “Dover.”

  “Nevada.”

  “Carson City.”

  “Puerto Rico.”

  Eric snorted dismissively. “Puerto Rico is a territory of the United States, not a state itself. But it’s San Juan since you asked. Nice try, Mom.”

  Rachel smiled. “When did you get so smart?”

  “I’ve always been smart,” Eric said.

  “Yes, you have. How’s your sister?” She hated speaking to the back of his head.

  “Annoying.”

  “She’s seven. How annoying can she be?”

  “She told me she was going to cut my hair off and cook it for dinner as spaghetti. Then she found a pair of scissors that Iris had to take away from her.”

  “Iris let her get a pair of scissors?”

  “Megan is a lot faster than Iris,” Eric said.

  Rachel laughed. “I bet she is.”

  She reached out, stopping just short of tousling his hair. Rachel remembered the day he had come into the world. Scarily early, at thirty-two weeks. Tiny, at just over four pounds. He spent five weeks in the NICU, the five longest weeks of her life. But when they brought him home, he grew. Lord, did he grow. Rachel resisted the urge to wrap her hands around this young man and squeeze him as hard as she could. After everything he’d been through, she just wanted to protect him, to make sure he knew he was loved.

  “Do you like it here?” Rachel asked. “In Ashby.”

  Eric shrugged again. “It’s fine.” He spun back around. “Do you think we’re going to stay?” His voice was hopeful and lanced Rachel’s heart.

  “I hope so, sweetie. I hope so. I’m going to check on your sister.” She paused. “Vermont.”

  Eric thought for a moment, then said, “Montpelier. Now let me study.”

  “All right, kiddo.”

  “Hey, Mom?”

  “Yes, hon?”

  “Remember to check.”

  Rachel sighed. Every night over the past nearly seven years, Eric had asked her to check the front porch. Rachel’s heart felt heavy as she said, “I’ll check.”

  Eric nodded and went back to his computer.

  Rachel went down the hall and eased open the door to Megan’s room. She was sprawled out on her daybed, a tiny angel tucked under Max & Ruby sheets. The seashell-shaped night-light beside her bed cast a warm glow. Megan was wearing her favorite red Wonder Woman pajamas, her long blonde hair splayed across the pillow.

  Rachel leaned down and gently kissed her daughter’s warm cheek, the small body beneath her stirring ever so slightly. Papers were strewed over the floor, pictures and words she couldn’t quite see in the dark. She could make out one page that read A Mystery Book by Megan Marin. Rachel’s heart swelled. She’d ask her daughter about it tomorrow. She crept out of Megan’s room and eased the door shut.

  Rachel went to her bedroom, stripped off her work clothes, and hung them up neatly. She looked at herself in the mirror. She’d gotten used to the brown hair, which was not natural, and the crow’s-feet, which were. She was thirty-seven, with two children and a full-time job, so keeping her body and mind in the kind of shape necessary was a constant struggle.

  And it was necessary.

  Both children had been delivered via C-section, and she was proud of that scar. Her arms were sinewy and strong, blue veins visible running down her biceps and across her shoulders. She’d worked hard for that vascularity. If Reginald Bartek had seen what Rachel did to her body every night after the children went to bed, he would have considered his target much more carefully.

  When she removed her undershirt, Rachel ran her finger over the thick two-inch-long scar just below her rib cage that resembled a bulging pinky finger. Rachel had told the emergency room nurse she’d been randomly slashed by a teenager participating in a gang initiation. She’d lied. Even filled out a police report.

  Shockingly, they never turned up any suspects.

  Because of that scar, Rachel wore only one-piece swimsuits when she took the kids to the communal pool. Her children had never seen the scar, and she would prefer they never did. If they saw it, she would have to lie again, and Eric had a first-class lie detector.

  Once, only once, had a man seen it. A fling with a local obstetrician that had turned into something more. Their first time in bed, she was too caught up in the moment to hide it, her judgment clouded by just how long it had been since she had felt a man’s touch. Years. He’d gasped when he removed her shirt.

  “Did you get mauled by a bear?” he asked. She told him she had her gall bladder removed when she was young. He seemed to accept the explanation, or simply not care enough to probe, and they carried on. But the ease and comfort with which the lie came shocked Rachel. For the remainder of the relationship she insisted on wearing a T-shirt or tank top when they had sex. And when the dalliance ended, part of her had felt relieved.

  Rachel put on a pair of blue sweatpants and a comfy old fleece. Then she removed Reginald Bartek’s driver’s license from her wallet. Examined it. It was a good photo. He was smiling. Freshly shaven. Kind eyes. He looked like a decent man. A family man.

  Sometimes behind the kindest eyes lay the darkest hearts.

  A lawyer had said those words to Rachel once, as she’d sat in a courtroom staring across the aisle at another man who’d also had kind eyes.

  Rachel flipped the license over and reread her words.

  Attempted Robbery. Attempted Rape.

  She opened the closet and pushed aside a row of blouses and blazers. A large black safe was mounted to the wall. She entered the combination and opened the metal door. Inside was some jewelry, her passport, an engagement ring, a wedding band, her children’s birth certificates (real and fake), and a loaded Mossberg 500 shotgun with four boxes of double-aught buckshot shells.

  The diamond on the engagement ring was about the size of a caper and set in a sterling silver band. It wasn’t worth more than $1,500, but when it had sat on her finger, Rachel had felt like the richest woman alive. She used to remove it only when exercising or showering. But now, every time she opened the safe, she regretted each moment she had left her finger bare.

  Rachel picked up a small brown cardboard box bound tight with rubber bands and opened it. The box held half a dozen driver’s licenses, passports, and various government-issued ID cards. She’d had some of the licenses for so long they’d expired. One of them had a reddish-brown smudge obscuring half the man’s smirking face.

  There was a small plastic bag at the bottom of the box. It contained a single piece of jewelry. A bracelet. It did not belong to her. Rachel stared at the piece for a moment, then placed Reginald Bartek’s license inside the box, closed the lid, and wound the bands back around the box.

  “Mommy!”

  Megan was awake and calling for her.

  “Just a second, sweetie!” she shouted.

  Rachel locked the safe and went to put her daughter back to sleep.

  Two hours later, after checking the front por
ch for Eric, Rachel turned on the television in her bedroom and flipped the input to HDMI-8. The split screen feeds came through in sharp high-def black and white.

  The left feed displayed Megan’s room. The right feed, Eric’s room.

  She’d mounted the CCTV cameras herself. Nearly a dozen others were installed throughout the house, hidden well.

  She ran through the different cameras. Megan’s bed. Megan’s door. Megan’s window. Eric’s bed. Eric’s door. Eric’s window. Front door. Back door. Kitchen. Living room. Her own bedroom.

  Rachel watched the feeds for a few minutes until she was certain she was alone and the children were fast asleep. She listened to them breathing. Knew their rhythms. Then, Rachel tiptoed to the basement door.

  She entered a six-digit code on a silent keypad. The door unlocked. She’d told her children that under no circumstances could they ever go downstairs. She’d said the basement had asbestos and the lock was for their protection. The first part was a lie.

  Rachel crept downstairs while her children slept. Her adrenaline began to surge.

  She had work to do.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Dispatch says the scene is a mess,” said Detective John Serrano. “Lieutenant George says the body was found on top of the frozen river. Forensics is on scene. Bridge is closed down. Harbor patrol has a boat out.”

  “A boat? Isn’t the river frozen?” replied Detective Leslie Tally.

  “Solid,” Serrano said. “I can’t imagine many worse ways to go.”

  It was just after 2:00 a.m., and the roads around Ashby were nearly empty. The Crown Victoria was silent aside from the hum of the road and the wipers brushing away snow.

  Detective Serrano held a paperback book on his lap. He thumbed the cover, opened it, read a few pages, and closed it again.

  “Life would suck if you were an orc,” said Serrano. “You’re born ugly. You grow up ugly. There are a billion of you, and you’re all ugly. Has there ever been an attractive orc? Like, has a boy orc ever looked at a girl orc and said, ‘Whoa, that is one fine-looking orc lady’? And then what do you do to pay the bills? Your whole life is spent either dragging heavy stuff around to build massive weapons of death or in battle, where you’re basically just cannon fodder for your bosses, who would feed you to a troll before giving you the time of day. So basically you’re born ugly, with bad breath and terrible skin, and then die having never been laid, ever.”