“What?” Lake said, stopping in her tracks.
Amy shrugged and let her shoulders droop.
“The counselor told us,” she said glumly. “She said Dad called the director and told him he’s not going to be here. He said something came up.”
THAT MADE NO
sense, Lake thought. Why wouldn’t Jack come? Maybe it had something to do with the Boston trip he had alluded to. Or was he trying to avoid her? Her mind flashed back to Smokey.
Had
Jack shaved him—or sent someone to do it—and now he didn’t have the guts to look her in the eye? Was he trying to screw with her mind in general? There’d been that call in the middle of the night, too. If Jack was responsible for what happened to Smokey, he might have been behind the call as well.
“
Are
you, Mom?” Amy whispered, breaking through Lake’s thoughts.
“Am I what, sweetie?”
“Are you upset? About Dad not coming.”
“Oh no, honey, I’m not upset. I—I was just curious.”
The three of them finished the climb to the main grounds of the camp. There were dozens of parents and kids up there, already congregated on a grassy expanse worn bald in spots from endless
use. Will was there, too, dressed in swimming trunks and devouring one of the many doughnuts that had been laid out on a weathered picnic table. He spotted Lake, waved like he was trying to flag down an airplane, and then ran over, flashing his crooked grin. She almost cried when he wrapped his dirty arms around her.
“You’re already suited up, huh?” Lake said, tousling his silky blond hair.
“It’s probably because he’s lost his camp shorts,” Amy said.
“Shut
up
, Amy—you don’t know anything. Mom, I’m swimming in all four categories. There’s this kid who’s better than me in the freestyle but I think I’m gonna win the butterfly. And maybe the backstroke.”
“That’s awesome,” she said.
“Did you bring Smokey?” Will asked.
She nearly winced. “No, Will, Smokey had to stay at home.”
“But you said you’d bring him,” he said, furrowing his soft, luminescent brow.
“I did? When did I say that?”
“The day we
got
here. You said when you came for parents’ day, you would bring Smokey.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey. It’s just so hot. He wouldn’t have liked being cooped up in the car. But you’ll be home in a few weeks—you’ll see him then.”
What would she tell them, she wondered, when they saw him still without most of his fur?
The morning was a blur of events—swimming races, soccer, archery, a lunch of soggy sandwiches and lukewarm lemonade—and she was grateful that little was demanded of parents beyond being herded from one spot to another. Her mind where it was, she couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to have to participate in some tug-of-war game or three-legged race. It was all she could do to make inane small talk with the other parents.
By the time the talent show started, she was feeling even more anxious. She was desperate to pick up Smokey and clear out of the house, and yet the thought of leaving the kids made her ache. As the show ended and the campers congregated with friends by the makeshift stage, her eyes searched until they found the camp director.
“Hi, I’m Lake Warren,” she said, approaching him. “I’m so sorry I had to wake you the other night.”
It took him a moment to connect the dots. “Oh, not a problem,” he said, remembering. “Did you figure it out in the end?”
“It must have been a wrong number,” she said. “But it did frighten me. I thought something had happened to Will.”
“You mustn’t worry. We take excellent care of the kids here—they’re never out of sight.”
“And at night?” she asked.
“At night? Everything’s locked up tight. We even have a night watchman. Why? Is there some reason—?”
“No—that call just made me a little edgy. Could you ask the counselors to keep a special close eye on my kids? I’d really appreciate it.”
“Of course,” he said graciously. But she could tell by the way he narrowed his eyes that he thought she was being paranoid—or else hiding something.
As she walked away from him, she bit her lip, thinking. The mystery call had come twenty-four hours before Keaton’s death. Therefore it wasn’t related to the murder and might not be related to anything at all. Still, if someone
was
after her—if Jack wasn’t the one responsible for Smokey—it meant her kids might be in jeopardy, too. Should she take them out of the camp, she wondered, and bring them back to the city? Her instinct was to have them close by, but as her mind grappled with all the possibilities, she realized that the city might actually be the worst place for them right now. At least up here they were off the radar of anyone who might be after her. Plus, she realized, no one but Jack knew exactly where they were.
Friends, even people at the clinic, were aware they were in camp, but fortunately no one had ever bothered to ask the name of it.
At four the events wound down and it was time to go. Both kids acted uncharacteristically with their goodbyes. Will, who she had expected to be clingy, ran ahead with his friends, dragging his swimming medals through the dusty grass.
“Don’t I get a hug?” she called to him.
“Oh, yeah, sorry, Mom,” he said, darting back and flinging his arms around her. “Tell Smokey hi, okay?”
Amy, however, usually so independent and unflappable, reached for her hand as they walked toward the parking lot and held it tightly.
“What would you like in your next care package, honey?” Lake asked. “I want to send you a really good one.”
“I need a new book, Mom. And some Twizzlers. Enough for me and Lauren.”
“Got it…Oh, I nearly forgot. You got a letter from that Save the Tiger organization.”
She rooted through her purse for the envelope and as she looked up to hand it to her daughter she saw that Amy’s face was pinched, fighting back tears. Had she been troubled all day about something, and had Lake, overwhelmed by her own fears, not even noticed?
“What is it, honey?” Lake asked, squeezing Amy’s hand.
“It’s nothing, I guess.” Amy looked as if she were both anxious to unburden herself but reluctant to trouble Lake.
“No, tell me,” Lake coaxed. “Do you…do you feel sad about Dad not coming?”
“I guess. I wanted him to hear me sing that song in the show.”
“They were taping it, I think. He can get a DVD.”
“Okay,” Amy said sadly. Lake could see, though, that Jack’s no-show wasn’t the issue.
“There’s something else, Amy, isn’t there? Tell me, sweetie.”
“Mom,” Amy asked, almost in a whisper. “Is everything okay?”
“What do you mean?” Lake asked. Her body tightened in alarm.
“I don’t know. You seem different today. Like—I don’t know.”
That was so typical of her intuitive daughter, Lake thought—she had sensed the terror coursing right beneath her mother’s skin.
“I’m sorry if I gave you that impression, sweetie,” Lake said. “No, nothing’s the matter. I’m still getting used to doing things on my own again. But I’m fine. Really.”
“Okay,” Amy said haltingly. She sounded completely unconvinced.
“You know what I think?” Lake said, enveloping Amy in her arms. “I think parents’ days are both good and bad. Everybody gets together for a visit, which is really nice, but it makes us all a little homesick. I’m sad about leaving you, and I think you’re a little sad about saying goodbye to me. But as soon as you find Lauren and do something fun with her, you’ll feel good again.”
“But what about
you
tonight?” Amy implored.
“Oh, I’ve got plans with a friend,” Lake lied. “Now, listen, I want you to run back up the hill and wave to me from the top, okay.” Lake wanted to make certain Amy was up in the main part of the camp before she left.
They hugged each other tightly once more, and then Lake watched Amy scamper up the hill. At the top she turned and waved forlornly. Lake waved back, fighting a sob. It wasn’t until she pulled out of the parking lot that she allowed the tears to stream down her face. Why was all this happening to her? She should never have gone to Keaton’s that night, she cursed herself again. Never should have given in to her pathetic need to be desired.
She drove faster than she should have, often exceeding the speed limit on the twisting roads. When she finally reached the house, she saw two people—a man and a woman—sitting on one
of the benches on the green, holding soda cans and chatting casually. Were they who they
seemed
to be? Lake eyed them surreptitiously as she hurried up the front steps of the house.
Inside, the house was deadly still. She walked warily through the ground-floor rooms, making sure nothing had been disturbed. When she reached the kitchen door, she stopped short for a second, listening. Then she pushed the swinging door slowly open. The room was just as she left it, except for the late afternoon sun spilling over the wooden floorboards. And Smokey was there, curled on the loveseat in the little den next to the kitchen. He raised his head and meowed plaintively as she entered.
Gently, Lake eased him back into his carrying case. As she was zipping up the case, the house phone rang, making her jump yet again. It’s got to be Molly, she thought. But when she answered, a male voice she didn’t recognize spoke her name as a question.
“This is she,” she answered, her heart picking up speed.
“Hi, Lake, it’s Harry Kline.”
“Oh, hi,” she said, taken aback. She had left her number with the clinic but of everybody there, the therapist was the last person she’d expect to hear from.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No—uh, not at all,” she said. She knew she sounded flustered, but she just needed to hang up and get out of there.
“Maggie sent an email around telling us how to reach you, and I thought I’d try to catch you this afternoon. From the area code, I guess your place is upstate.”
“Yes—in the Catskills.”
“That’s great. Do you go most weekends?”
“It depends, you know, on the season, things like that.” As she spoke, her eyes raced over the kitchen windows, checking outside. “Actually this time I’m only here for half the weekend. I was just about to head back to the city.”
“Don’t let me keep you, then. If you’re going to be back in town tomorrow, would you be up for grabbing a cup of coffee?”
Now he was really catching her off guard.
“Um, sure. Is—is something up?”
“No. I just wanted to chat about a few things—out of the office.”
“That sounds kind of ominous,” she said.
“I didn’t mean it to. It’s just so hard to talk in the office with patients around.”
“Oh, okay. Sure. I’m free most of the day.”
“How’s eleven? I know you’re on the West Side, so we could meet at Nice Matin—that bistro at Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.” She hung up and grabbed the pet carrier and hurried out of the house.
As she made her way out of town, her eyes kept flicking toward the rearview mirror. The only vehicle behind her was a red pickup truck, which soon turned off onto another road. Whoever had hurt Smokey was clearly long gone—in fact had probably been gone since last night. She suddenly recalled another sound she’d heard—the light slam of a car door when she was in her backyard. It might have been the person fleeing, after drugging and shaving Smokey.
Would the person strike again, she wondered, this time in the city? And would
she
be the target, not just her cat? A brush fire raced across every nerve in her body. I
have
to do something, she thought.
The weekend doorman, Carlos, was on duty when she arrived at her building, and he let her leave her bags in the lobby while she parked the car in the garage. But she kept Smokey with her. When she returned she saw that Carlos had loaded everything onto the brass rolling cart for her. They were alone in the lobby.
“I’ve got a small favor to ask, Carlos,” she said, fumbling for the right words to use.
“Of course, Mrs. Warren,” he said.
“I do consulting work, you know, and one of my clients has had some trouble lately. I mean, one of their partners—a doctor—was murdered.”
“Oh my goodness,” he said, his brow wrinkled. “That’s
big
trouble.”
“I know—it’s horrible. And I’m kind of on edge about the whole thing. I just want to be really careful.”
He stared at her, waiting for her to continue. She could see he had no clue what she was driving at.
“I mean, I’m being a bit silly but I want to be extra cautious about the apartment. I don’t want to let anyone up until you’ve seen their ID. And will you let me know if anyone comes by and asks for me?”
He lifted his chin slightly and then nodded, catching her drift.
“Do you think you may be in danger, Mrs. Warren?” he asked.
“No, no. I’m just a little paranoid and hoping you’ll humor me.”
“Of course,” he said. “We always take precautions, but I’ll be extra careful, Mrs. Warren. Of course I will.”
“And will you tell the other doormen?”
“Most certainly.”
As soon as she was in her apartment, she turned the dead bolt on the door and put the chain on, too, something she never did during the day. She’d always felt safe in her apartment, but nothing felt safe to her now. After unzipping Smokey’s case and watching him slink sadly into the living room, she checked each room of the apartment to make sure nothing had been disturbed.
It was close to seven, already dark, and she poured a glass of wine and sat with it at the kitchen table. She had to figure out who had taken Smokey and why. An empty envelope lay on the table and she flipped it over. In her work she was a constant note taker, and she found it helped her to not only remember but also make
sense of things. With a pen she wrote one word:
Jack
. And then a question mark. Was it really possible that Jack was trying to spook her so that she was a wreck by the time she met with the court-appointed psychologist—making his custody fight a slam dunk?
Lake scrawled the word
clinic
next. As Harry had indicated, everyone had been informed as to where she was going to be this weekend, and since they’d been given the afternoon off, any one of the staff could have driven to her house that Friday. And someone from the clinic would have access to a syringe.
But if someone from the clinic killed Keaton—and was now taunting her—what had the motive been? Sexual jealousy?
Professional
jealousy? In the few short weeks he’d been with the clinic, had he managed to incite something like that? Maybe Keaton’s death was connected to the “snag” he’d mentioned to her. But how would she ever figure out what it was?