The Black Widow (35 page)

“I’m strong,” Gaby assured her.

“I know you are. You really are.”

They make a turn, another turn, following winding roads beneath an inky sky. She can’t remember a night this dark.

Yes, she can.

November twelfth, three years ago. There was no visible moon that night; there were no stars. She remembers. She looked.

But the sun will rise again. It did even then. It always does.

In the front seat, Barnes’s phone rings.

“Yeah. What? Where?” Long pause. “And what about— No. No. Got it. Okay. Almost there.”

He hangs up.

“News?” Leary asks.

He nods.

“They found something?”

Barnes glances over his shoulder into the backseat. “They found . . . her. That’s all.”

“Is she . . . ?”

Barnes nods again, says nothing.

Leary asks no further questions.

Gaby doesn’t know how much Dante Rodriguez has heard, or whether the language barrier allows him to understand the nuances of the conversation in the front seat.

But she understands. They’ve found Alex Jones, and it sounds like she’s . . .

Dead.

“And what about—” Barnes had started to ask, and then, “No.”

He’d been asking about Ben.

Did the no mean they’d found him, too?

Is he also dead?

Gaby’s mind races through the possibilities as they speed on through the night.

“Slow down,” Dante Rodriguez eventually says, and then, “Almost . . . right there.”

The car makes a final turn, crawling past a sign marked
NO TRESPASSING.

There are lights up ahead. Flashing red and blue lights, and big yellow spotlights illuminating cops on foot, dogs on leashes. Misty vapor floats in the beam of the headlights as the car stops before a clearing filled with activity.

“Wait right here,” Leary commands as she and Barnes climb out of the front seat.

Gaby ignores her.

After a moment, so does Dante. The two of them climb out and trail the detectives toward the clearing.

There’s a figure lying on the ground. Blood. There’s so much blood, around the head, and it’s impossible to tell from here . . .

Gaby stops walking, frozen in place, terrified that it’s Ben.

Then she hears a strangled sob from the throat of the man beside her and she realizes: it’s not Ben.

It’s the woman.

Dante’s mother.

It doesn’t seem to make sense, though, that the person responsible is somehow also a mother. A mother Dante himself had affectionately described as a good mother . . .

What happened along the way to turn her into a monster? What does it take to change a person so drastically?

Dogs are barking in the distance, among the trees.

“I found a shovel!” a voice calls, and then . . .

“Holy crap! There! There! Get more lights! We need another shovel! Get shovels! Get more guys over here! Hurry!”

Gaby arrives in the clearing in time to see them start frantically digging at a patch of bare dirt, and she knows . . .

Ben.

She sinks to the ground and looks up at the sky, searching for stars. Stars would be a good sign. Even one star. Just a tiny glimmer of light . . .

There are none.

But for a long time, she looks.

For a long time, they dig.

Then she hears shouts. Several men descend upon the hole and pull something out of it: a flat piece of wood.

“He’s here!” someone shouts.

Somehow, Gaby is on her feet again. She watches as a lifeless-looking body is pulled from the hole and laid upon the ground.

Ben.

No.

Nooooooooo.

She pushes her way forward. “Let me through! I’m his wife! I’m his wife!”

“Stay back!”

Gaby sinks to her knees beside Ben. He’s covered in dirt, and . . .

Blood.

His eyes are closed.

“Ben,” she says, “please, Ben . . . please be all right . . . I need you . . .”

She reaches for his hand, steeling herself for what she found once before when she reached for someone she loved: cold flesh, hardened in death.

But not this time.

Not this time.

“It’s me,” she whispers, close to his ear. “I’m here.”

His warm hand squeezes hers, and when she looks away, up at the night sky to blink away her tears, she sees it: a single star twinkling in the heavens.

Epilogue

The sun is shining.

“That’s the most important thing,” Gabriela reminds Ben as he adjusts his black bow tie, sweat glistening in his dark hair and on his forehead.

“If the sun wasn’t out,” he tells her, “it wouldn’t be this hot.”

“It can be really hot without the sun, Ben.”

“No kidding,” he says grimly, and she knows he’s thinking of that June day three years ago, right here at Orchard Beach: the gray, oppressive day when she came here looking for him, carrying his phone and his box of memories from the past.

That she lost the box somewhere along the way doesn’t matter now. It didn’t matter even when she told him about it, as he was propped in a hospital bed with a bandaged shoulder.

The bullet had ripped through his rotator cuff and shattered the bones. It was too early then to tell whether he would be able to swim again, but he’d taken that news in stride—as he did her confession about the lost box.

“It was just stuff, Gaby.”

“It was a lifetime worth of memories. That’s what you told me.”

“Turns out I was wrong. The memories are still here.” He’d tapped his head. “Impossible to lose.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better. I’m so sorry, Ben.”

“Gaby—I forgive you.” With his good arm, he pulled her close, held her fast against his beating heart. “Things happen. People make mistakes. But if there’s anyone I’d trust to safeguard my most precious memories, or even my most precious . . .
stuff
—it’s you.”

In that moment of forgiveness, she’d grasped that it was time for her, too, to let go—and to hang on tight.

At last, she’d found her closure. At last, the healing could begin.

It was a long time before they discussed the past again, or even what they wanted out of the future. They gave themselves permission to simply live in the present, spending that summer together without analyzing or second-guessing anything.

When autumn came, they found that they were ready to embrace a new season. Ben was swimming again. And Gaby was pregnant.

Now, she turns to look at the sleeping child in a stroller parked in the corner, a miniature bow tie tucked beneath his drool-soaked chin.

Ben follows her gaze. “Poor kid. It’s so hot. And it’s nap time.”

“I know. How are we going to wake him up, let alone get him to walk down the aisle?”

“It’s not really an aisle—just sand. We can carry him down.”

“I know, but . . .”

“Everyone will understand. It’s just friends and family, and he’s just a baby.”

“Not really. He’s two.”

Two. Growing up fast, with parents who are becoming quite proficient at balancing the hanging on with the letting go . . .

Shakey sticks his do-ragged head through the doorway of the small room ordinarily used to store beach equipment. Today it’s a dressing room for the wedding party, and they’re the last to leave.

“Are you guys ready?” he asks. “Everyone’s already out there on the beach waiting for you.”

“We’re ready.”

“Then get a move on. The bride is getting restless.”

“You think she’s still worried the groom is going to run away?” Ben asks Gaby as Shakey disappears.

“If I know Jaz, she won’t relax until she has a ring on her finger.”

“Well if I know Junie, that’ll be in about five minutes. He swore that if he was going to do this, he didn’t want anything dragged out.”

“Dragged out? She’s been looking forward to this day her whole life.”

“Then let’s not keep her waiting another minute,” Ben says, consulting the watch Gaby gave him as a gift on their own wedding day—the second one, here at the beach. That was in the autumn, under a hurricane warning. He reminds her of that now.

“But the storm didn’t hit until the next day. It was perfect. And I still love summer weddings.”

“You love all weddings.”

“Believing in happily ever after,” she reminds him, “is not a bad thing.”

“Nobody’s arguing with that. What do you say, ring bearer? Are you ready?” He leans toward the stroller, then grins up at Gaby. “He’s ready. Are you?”

“Always,” she tells him.

Ben picks up their drowsy son and together they head out into the bright summer sunshine.

Don’t miss the next thrilling novel from

New York Times
best-selling author

WENDY CORSI STAUB

BLOOD RED

Mundy’s Landing: Book One

Coming Fall 2015!

Nestled in New York’s Hudson Valley, Mundy’s Landing is famous for its picturesque setting, historic architecture . . . and violent past. Founded by colonists whose unspeakable crime casts a shadow even centuries later, the town was revisited by murder one hundred years ago. That notorious case remains unsolved, but every summer, crime buffs from around the world gather in an attempt to solve it. Now, a new predator has set Mundy’s Landing in the crosshairs, and bloodshed isn’t just the village’s past—it’s in the immediate future as well.

Chapter 1

Mundy’s Landing, New York

Six minutes.

That’s exactly how long it takes to drive between the elementary school where Rowan Mundy teaches and the riverside home where she lives with her family.

The route meanders along the brick-paved streets of the village: past the Dutch Colonial where she grew up, the little white clapboard church where she was baptized and married, and Holy Angels cemetery where her parents and father-in-law are buried alongside generations of local citizens and the trio of young girls whose deaths put Mundy’s Landing on the map a century ago.

Most days, she drives on past those landmarks without taking note, her mind on whatever happened during the past few hours or on whatever needs to get done in the next few.

Once in awhile, though, she allows herself to get caught up in nostalgia for long gone loved ones and places that will never be the same.

Today is one of those days. Christmas music plays on the car stereo courtesy of her iPod, and the business district is decked out in wreaths and garlands that seem to have materialized overnight. She wistfully remembers cozy holidays when her parents were alive and her brothers and sister weren’t scattered from east coast to west.

Now Rowan’s two oldest children are gone as well. Braden is a junior at Dartmouth; Katie a freshman at Cornell. Both were here for the long Thanksgiving weekend that just passed, but it was all too fleeting. They headed back yesterday in opposite directions.

“I hate this letting go thing,” she told Jake, wiping tears as they stood on the front porch watching taillights disappear.

“They’ll be home on break for a whole month before you know it, and you’ll be counting down the days until they go back to school in January.”

“No I won’t.”

“Oh, right. I’m the one who does that.” Jake flashed his good-natured grin and went back to eating a leftover turkey drumstick and watching the Giants win in overtime.

Passing the Mundy’s Landing Historical Society, which occupies a grand turreted mansion facing the village square, Rowan is reminded of an unpleasant phone call she received this morning from the mother of one of her fourth-grade students.

Bari Hicks moved to town from New York City over the summer, and has proven to be one of those people who always manages to find something to complain about. This week, she was calling to express her displeasure with the upcoming class field trip to see the Colonial Christmas exhibit.

The annual excursion has been a well-loved school tradition since Rowan herself was in fourth grade, back when this turreted mansion was still a private residence and the historical society was housed in the basement of the local library.

“I just don’t think a trip like this sounds appropriate for children this age,” Bari insisted.
Appropriate
seems to be her favorite word. Rather,
inappropriate
.

Rowan reminded her that the fourth grade social studies curriculum encompasses New York State history and some of the most colorful chapters unfolded right here in Mundy’s Landing. She treaded carefully in her response though, assuming the woman’s gripe must have something to do with religious beliefs and Christmas. She was wrong.

“My Amanda still isn’t used to her new bedroom and she has enough problems falling asleep at night without being dragged through a gory chamber of horrors that’s going to give her nightmares for years.”

Although Rowan immediately grasped what she was referring to, she couldn’t resist feigning ignorance.

“Oh, you must have this mixed up with the high school’s haunted hallway fund-raiser, Mrs. Hicks. That was back in October on Halloween, and I wouldn’t dream of exposing my class to—”

“No, I’m talking about the historical society. The
murders
.”

“Which murders?” That time, Rowan wasn’t playing dumb. Mundy’s Landing is famous for not one, but two notorious murder cases.

The first unfolded in the mid-seventeenth century, when James and Elizabeth Mundy were executed on the gallows for butchering and cannibalizing their fellow colonists. Jake is directly descended from the couple’s only son Jeremiah Mundy, who, along with his offspring and subsequent generations, lived such exemplary lives that the town was later named in their honor.

Mundy’s Landing itself wasn’t quite so fortunate in terms of redemption and reputation. Precisely two and a half centuries after the hangings, a serial killer committed the so-called Sleeping Beauty murders. That bloody summer in Mundy’s Landing marked one of the most notorious unsolved crime sprees in American history. The young female victims, whose identities were never known, were lain to rest beneath white granite markers simply etched with the year 1916 and the word
Angel
.

Bari Hicks was referring to the Sleeping Beauty murders. “I heard the museum has bloody clothing on display, and the murder weapon, and a disembodied skull. Do you really think it’s necessary to—”

“There’s no skull,” Rowan quickly assured her, though she’d heard that rumor all her life, “and it isn’t the actual murder weapon, it’s just an antique razor blade someone’s grandfather donated as an example, and the bloody clothing is only exhibited in the summer during . . .”

She couldn’t quite bring herself to call the event Mundypalooza, the flippant popular term for the annual historical society-sponsored gathering that draws crime buffs, reporters, tourists, and plain old fruitcakes from all over the globe.

“ . . . the convention,” she chose to say instead, and hastily added, “We’re only visiting the Colonial Christmas exhibit on our field trip. I promise Amanda will love it. All the kids do.”

Naturally, Bari Hicks still had reservations. Rowan wound up inviting her to come along as a chaperone so that she can see for herself. She regrets that already, but at the time, it seemed like the easiest way to avoid additional Monday morning stress.

Now, winding up Riverview Drive toward home, she blinks against the glare of sinking autumn sun at every westbound hairpin curve. Lowering the visor doesn’t help at all.

She worries about Mick.

In about ten minutes, her youngest son will be getting off the late bus after varsity basketball practice. Even if he’s not plugged into his iPod—despite her warnings about the dangers of walking or jogging along the road wearing headphones—he’ll have his head in the clouds as usual.

At this time of year, the angle of the late day sun is blinding. What if a car comes careening up the hill and doesn’t see him until it’s too late?

Long gone are Rowan’s days of waiting in the minivan at the bus stop on Highland Road, a busy north-south thoroughfare. Even on stormy afternoons—there are plenty of those in Mundy’s Landing—Mick insists on walking home up Riverview Drive, just as his older siblings did when they were in high school.

I’ll walk Doofus,
she decides as she brakes at the curbside mailbox in front of their rambling Victorian house perched on the bluff above the Hudson.

Doofus the aging basset hound was originally named Rufus, but earned his current name when it became evident that he wasn’t exactly the smartest canine in the world.

Rowan ordinarily lets him out into the yard when she gets home after a long day, but Doofus—although increasingly lazy—might welcome some exercise, and she can use it herself.

She bought a tasteless but slimming couscous salad for lunch today, courtesy of Wholesome & Hearty, the school district’s new lunch program. But then someone left a plate of cookies in the teachers’ break room after lunch and one of her students brought in birthday cupcakes. Plus there’s still half an apple pie in the fridge at home, leftover from Thanksgiving dinner.

There was a time when Rowan could gobble anything she felt like eating and never gain an ounce. Those days, too, are long gone. According to her doctor, she needs to exercise nearly an hour a day at her age just to keep her weight the same. And the hair colorist who’s been hiding her gray for a few years now recently told her that her natural red shade was making her “mature” skin look sallow, and that the long hair she’d had all her life was too “weighty.”

“I think you should try a short, youthful cut and go a few shades lighter, maybe a biscuit blond with honey highlights and caramel lowlights. What do you think?”

“I think biscuits and honey and caramel sound like something I’d want to eat right now if I didn’t have to run ten miles to work off the extra calories,” Rowan said with a sigh of resignation.

She finally agreed to the new hairstyle right before Thanksgiving. It got mixed reviews at home. Jake and Katie liked it; Braden, who resents change of any sort, did not; Mick was indifferent. Back at work today, her colleagues complimented her, her students questioned her, and the janitor told her she looks hot—which might be inappropriate, but as the forty-seven-year-old mother of three nearly grown kids, she’ll take it.

She gets out of the car, goes around to grab the mail out of the box, and finds that it’s full of catalogues. No surprise on this first Monday of the official holiday shopping season. Given the stack of bills that are also in the box, plus the two college tuition payments coming due for next semester, the catalogues will go straight into the recycling bin.

Money has been tight lately, and Jake is worried about his job as a regional sales manager amid rumors that his company might be bought out.

Lead us not into temptation
, she thinks, tossing the heap of mail—which also includes a red envelope addressed to the family in her older sister Noreen’s perfect handwriting, and a small package addressed to her—onto the passenger’s seat.

As she pulls into the driveway, she wonders how the heck Noreen, a busy Long Island attorney, manages to get Christmas cards out at all, let alone ahead of the masses. Somehow, she even hand-addresses the envelopes, rather than use those typed labels you can so easily print out year after year.

Rowan knows without opening the card that it’ll have a photo of the svelte and lovely Noreen, her handsome trauma surgeon husband, and their four gorgeous kids, all color-coordinated in khaki and red or navy and white. Inside, there will be a handwritten note and the signature of each member of the family scrawled in red or green Sharpie.

Noreen has always managed to do so much and make it look so easy . . .

Which drives someone like me absolutely crazy. Which is why, when I was a kid, I didn’t even bother to try to follow in her footsteps.

Rowan is so caught up in the familiar combination of envy and longing for her sister that she doesn’t think twice about the package that came in the mail. She tosses it aside and takes her medication—the first thing she does every morning, and again every afternoon when she walks in the door.

It wasn’t until Mick was diagnosed with ADHD back in elementary school that Rowan learned that it was hereditary.

“With this disability, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,”
the doctor told her, leading her to recognize similar symptoms in herself.

It was as if a puzzle piece she hadn’t even realized was missing had suddenly dropped into place to complete a long-frustrating jigsaw.

If only someone—her parents, her teachers, her doctors—had figured it out when she was Mick’s age. Now she understands why she spent so much of her childhood in trouble—academically, behaviorally—and why she so often felt restlessly uncomfortable in her own skin, even as an adult.

Things aren’t perfect now—far from it—but at least she’s more in control of her life, with better focus and the ability to quell her impulsive tendencies. Most of the time, anyway.

After swallowing the pill, she walks the dog down to the bus stop and returned with a grumbling Mick.

“Where’s all the turkey?” he asks, poking his stubbly auburn head—exactly the same shade as her own—into the fridge.

“I tossed it last night.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it was old, Mick. You can’t eat leftovers after a few days.”

“You didn’t toss the pie.” He pulls out the dish.

“Pie isn’t poultry. That’s still good.”

She watches her son put the whole thing into the microwave and punches the quick start button, then open the freezer.

So much for Rowan’s dessert plans. Oh, well. She can’t afford to indulge, and Mick can. Half a pie smothered in Vanilla Bean Häagen-Dazs is nothing more than a light afternoon snack for a famished, lanky sixteen-year-old athlete who begins every morning with a three-mile run.

The stack of mail still sits on the granite counter along with her tote bag and the usual household clutter plus additional clutter accumulated over Thanksgiving: clean platters that need to go back to the dining room, a bread basket filled with cloth napkins that still have to be washed, bottles of open and unopened Beaujolais . . .

She needs to get busy cleaning it up. She needs to do a lot of things. As always, now that the medication has begun to take hold again, it all seems more manageable.

“What time do you have to be at work?” she asks Mick. Three nights a week, he’s a busboy at Marrana’s Trattoria in town.

“Five-thirty.”

“I need you to do me a favor while you’re there. Can you please get me a gift certificate for twenty-five dollars?” She pulls the cash from her wallet and hands it to him.

“Who’s it for?”

“Marlena, the library aide. I pulled her name for the Secret Santa.”

He looks at her as if she’s speaking a foreign language. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“You know . . . or maybe you don’t know. Secret Santa is something we do every year at work—we pick names and then we have to anonymously surprise the person with a little treat every day next week—”

“I don’t really think a gift certificate counts as a treat, Mom. How about cookies or something?”

“No, the gift certificate is for the big gift on Friday.”