The Stranger
Page 60
• • •
Gabrielle Dunbar paced for ten minutes, chanting the words So Hum over and over. She had learned this particular Sanskrit mantra at yoga. At the end of the class, her teacher would have them all lie on their backs in Corpse pose. She would have them close their eyes and repeat “So Hum” for five straight minutes. The first time the teacher had suggested this, Gabrielle had practically rolled her closed eyes. But then, somewhere around minute two or three, she began to feel the toxins of stress drain from her body.
“So . . . hum . . .”
She opened her eyes. It wasn’t working. There were things she had to do first. Missy and Paul wouldn’t be home from school for hours. That was good. That would give her time to prepare and pack. She grabbed her phone, scrolled through her favorites, hit the contact she called Douche Nozzle.
Two rings later, her ex answered. “Gabs?”
His nickname for her—the only one who called her that—still grated. When they first began dating, he started calling her “my Gabs” and she’d thought it was adorable in that way you do when you first fall in love and then, months later, the very sound of it makes you gag.
“Can the kids stay with you?” she asked.
He didn’t bother hiding his exasperation. “When?”
“I was thinking of dropping them off tonight.”
“You’re kidding, right? I’ve been asking you for extra visits—”
“And now I’m giving it to you. Can you take them tonight?”
“I’m in Chicago on business till the morning.”
Damn it. “How about Whatshername?”
“You know her name, Gabs. Tami is here with me.”
He had never taken Gabrielle on business trips, probably because he was meeting up with Tami or one of her predecessors. “Tami,” Gabrielle repeated. “Does she dot the i or put a heart over it? I forget.”
“Funny,” he said. But it hadn’t been, she knew. It had been stupid. There were much bigger fish to fry than a long-dead marriage. “We’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll drop them off then,” she said.
“For how long?”
“A few days,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”
“All okay, Gabs?”
“Peachy. Love to Tami.”
Gabrielle hung up. She looked out the window. Part of her had known this day would come from the first time Chris Taylor had approached her. It was just a question of when. The whole enterprise had been enormously appealing, a win-win, revealing truths and making money, but she’d never forgotten the obvious: They were playing with fire. People will do anything to keep their secrets.
Even kill.
“So . . . hum . . .”
It still wasn’t working. She headed up to her bedroom. Even though Gabrielle knew that she was alone in the house, she closed the door. She lay on her bed in a fetal position and started to suck her thumb. Embarrassing, but when the so-hums couldn’t do the trick, reverting to something so primitive and infantile often did. She pulled up her knees tighter to her chest and let herself have a little cry. When she was done, she took out her mobile phone. She used a VPN for privacy. It wasn’t foolproof, but for now, it would be enough. She read the business card again.
ADAM PRICE, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW
He had found her. And if he had found her, it made sense that he’d also been the one who found Ingrid.
To paraphrase that movie with Jack Nicholson, some people can’t handle the truth.
Gabrielle reached into her bottom drawer and took out a Glock 19 Gen4 and laid it on the bed. Merton had given it to her, claiming it was the perfect handgun for women. He’d taken her out to a firing range in Randolph and taught her how to use it. It was loaded and ready to go. She’d been worried at first about keeping a loaded gun in the house with young children, but the possible threats had trumped standard home safety.
So what now?
Simple. Follow procedure. She snapped a photo of Adam Price’s card with her iPhone. She attached the image to an e-mail and typed in two words before hitting SEND:
HE KNOWS
Chapter 43
Adam left work early and drove to the new turf field at Cedarfield High School. The boys’ lacrosse team was practicing. He parked down the block, out of sight, and watched his son Thomas from behind the bleachers. He had never done this before—watched a practice—and he probably couldn’t articulate exactly what he was doing here. He just wanted to watch his son for a while. That’s all. Adam remembered what Tripp Evans had said at the American Legion Hall the night this all started, how he couldn’t believe how lucky those of them who lived in towns like this were:
“We’re living the dream, you know.”
Tripp was right, of course, but it was interesting how we described our personal paradise as a “dream.” Dreams are fragile. Dreams don’t last. One day you wake up and poof, the dream is gone. You stir and feel it pull away from you as you helplessly grab at the smoky remnants. But it’s useless. The dream dissolves, gone forever. And standing there, watching his son play the game he loved, Adam couldn’t help but feel that since the stranger’s visit, they were all on the verge of waking up.
The coach blew the whistle and told everyone to take a knee. They did so. A few minutes later, the boys took off their helmets and trudged back toward the locker room. Adam stepped out from behind the bleachers. Thomas stopped short when he saw him.
“Dad?”
“It’s fine,” Adam said. Then realizing that might be misinterpreted to mean that Corinne was back, he added, “I mean, nothing new.”
“Why are you here?”
“I got out of work early. I thought I’d give you a ride home.”
“I need to shower first.”
“No problem. I’ll wait.”
Thomas nodded and started back toward the locker room. Adam checked in on Ryan. He’d gone to Max’s house straight from school. Adam texted him, asking whether he’d be ready to be picked up when Thomas was finished in order to save his old man another trip out. Ryan texted back “np,” and it still took Adam a few moments to realize that meant “no problem.”
In the car ten minutes later, Thomas asked him what the police wanted.
“It’s really hard to explain right now,” Adam said. “I’m not saying that to protect you, but for now, you’re going to have to let me handle it.”
“Does it have something to do with Mom?”
Gabrielle Dunbar paced for ten minutes, chanting the words So Hum over and over. She had learned this particular Sanskrit mantra at yoga. At the end of the class, her teacher would have them all lie on their backs in Corpse pose. She would have them close their eyes and repeat “So Hum” for five straight minutes. The first time the teacher had suggested this, Gabrielle had practically rolled her closed eyes. But then, somewhere around minute two or three, she began to feel the toxins of stress drain from her body.
“So . . . hum . . .”
She opened her eyes. It wasn’t working. There were things she had to do first. Missy and Paul wouldn’t be home from school for hours. That was good. That would give her time to prepare and pack. She grabbed her phone, scrolled through her favorites, hit the contact she called Douche Nozzle.
Two rings later, her ex answered. “Gabs?”
His nickname for her—the only one who called her that—still grated. When they first began dating, he started calling her “my Gabs” and she’d thought it was adorable in that way you do when you first fall in love and then, months later, the very sound of it makes you gag.
“Can the kids stay with you?” she asked.
He didn’t bother hiding his exasperation. “When?”
“I was thinking of dropping them off tonight.”
“You’re kidding, right? I’ve been asking you for extra visits—”
“And now I’m giving it to you. Can you take them tonight?”
“I’m in Chicago on business till the morning.”
Damn it. “How about Whatshername?”
“You know her name, Gabs. Tami is here with me.”
He had never taken Gabrielle on business trips, probably because he was meeting up with Tami or one of her predecessors. “Tami,” Gabrielle repeated. “Does she dot the i or put a heart over it? I forget.”
“Funny,” he said. But it hadn’t been, she knew. It had been stupid. There were much bigger fish to fry than a long-dead marriage. “We’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll drop them off then,” she said.
“For how long?”
“A few days,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”
“All okay, Gabs?”
“Peachy. Love to Tami.”
Gabrielle hung up. She looked out the window. Part of her had known this day would come from the first time Chris Taylor had approached her. It was just a question of when. The whole enterprise had been enormously appealing, a win-win, revealing truths and making money, but she’d never forgotten the obvious: They were playing with fire. People will do anything to keep their secrets.
Even kill.
“So . . . hum . . .”
It still wasn’t working. She headed up to her bedroom. Even though Gabrielle knew that she was alone in the house, she closed the door. She lay on her bed in a fetal position and started to suck her thumb. Embarrassing, but when the so-hums couldn’t do the trick, reverting to something so primitive and infantile often did. She pulled up her knees tighter to her chest and let herself have a little cry. When she was done, she took out her mobile phone. She used a VPN for privacy. It wasn’t foolproof, but for now, it would be enough. She read the business card again.
ADAM PRICE, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW
He had found her. And if he had found her, it made sense that he’d also been the one who found Ingrid.
To paraphrase that movie with Jack Nicholson, some people can’t handle the truth.
Gabrielle reached into her bottom drawer and took out a Glock 19 Gen4 and laid it on the bed. Merton had given it to her, claiming it was the perfect handgun for women. He’d taken her out to a firing range in Randolph and taught her how to use it. It was loaded and ready to go. She’d been worried at first about keeping a loaded gun in the house with young children, but the possible threats had trumped standard home safety.
So what now?
Simple. Follow procedure. She snapped a photo of Adam Price’s card with her iPhone. She attached the image to an e-mail and typed in two words before hitting SEND:
HE KNOWS
Chapter 43
Adam left work early and drove to the new turf field at Cedarfield High School. The boys’ lacrosse team was practicing. He parked down the block, out of sight, and watched his son Thomas from behind the bleachers. He had never done this before—watched a practice—and he probably couldn’t articulate exactly what he was doing here. He just wanted to watch his son for a while. That’s all. Adam remembered what Tripp Evans had said at the American Legion Hall the night this all started, how he couldn’t believe how lucky those of them who lived in towns like this were:
“We’re living the dream, you know.”
Tripp was right, of course, but it was interesting how we described our personal paradise as a “dream.” Dreams are fragile. Dreams don’t last. One day you wake up and poof, the dream is gone. You stir and feel it pull away from you as you helplessly grab at the smoky remnants. But it’s useless. The dream dissolves, gone forever. And standing there, watching his son play the game he loved, Adam couldn’t help but feel that since the stranger’s visit, they were all on the verge of waking up.
The coach blew the whistle and told everyone to take a knee. They did so. A few minutes later, the boys took off their helmets and trudged back toward the locker room. Adam stepped out from behind the bleachers. Thomas stopped short when he saw him.
“Dad?”
“It’s fine,” Adam said. Then realizing that might be misinterpreted to mean that Corinne was back, he added, “I mean, nothing new.”
“Why are you here?”
“I got out of work early. I thought I’d give you a ride home.”
“I need to shower first.”
“No problem. I’ll wait.”
Thomas nodded and started back toward the locker room. Adam checked in on Ryan. He’d gone to Max’s house straight from school. Adam texted him, asking whether he’d be ready to be picked up when Thomas was finished in order to save his old man another trip out. Ryan texted back “np,” and it still took Adam a few moments to realize that meant “no problem.”
In the car ten minutes later, Thomas asked him what the police wanted.
“It’s really hard to explain right now,” Adam said. “I’m not saying that to protect you, but for now, you’re going to have to let me handle it.”
“Does it have something to do with Mom?”
