Exposure

FORTY

Lorraine lay in the motel bed, staring up through the darkness. Dim light from a streetlamp filtered through the curtains, splotching the ceiling with vague patterns. Cars passed on the street. A dog barked. Lorraine had listened to latecomers pass in the hall and enter their rooms. Finally the motel settled into quiet. But sleep had not come. Like the world outside, her thoughts refused to still. Memories, fear of the future, emptiness, and grief jumbled in her head. And the crazy plan. The idea that would not die.

Beside her, Tammy sighed the even breaths of sleep. Such innocence. Such peace.

What would they do in the morning? And the next day, and the next?

Lorraine had never called Mr. Houger about cleaning up the apartment. While she was there, she’d forgotten. Then how to have the conversation at the motel with Tammy in the room? She closed her eyes. But those were just excuses, weren’t they? Deep inside a voice whispered that making sure the apartment was cleaned would no longer be her problem.

Over and over Lorraine had sifted through her choices. She could return to the apartment with Tammy after it was cleaned and resume their lives — without Martin. Somehow she’d have to live each day and endure each night with the fear that any moment Martin’s killer would come back to silence her. Maybe he’d kill Tammy too. Maybe he’d let Tammy live — to wake up alone and find her mother bloodied and dead.

Lorraine’s fingers dug into the bedcovers. It was too awful to imagine. And to think after all that killing, those evil men would be living it up, spending their millions.

Choice two: she could tell the police what she knew to be true. Martin had been involved in the robbery. The money may even be sitting in storage unit seven. They’d investigate the renter of the unit. Maybe break in and check it out. If the money was there, or if it wasn’t, Martin’s name would be dragged through the mud. Word would leak that he’d been linked to the Mafia. All those people at the bank who’d treated Lorraine and Tammy so nicely, who’d called Martin a hero? They’d turn on him. Plus, she and Tammy would really be in danger. The police would have to protect them. How long would they do that?

And how did she know she could even trust the police? Who on that force might be reporting everything to those Mafia men, including where she was hidden? Lorraine tried to tell herself she’d seen too many movies. But was she willing to bet her daughter’s life on that?

Tammy sighed in her sleep and turned over. Lorraine gazed at her through the darkness, just making out the back of her head, the tangled hair. Her heart constricted. Above all else, more important than anything in this world, she would protect her daughter.

Choice three: carry out her own vengeance and run.

But the price she would pay. Leaving Martin’s body behind, not even able to attend his funeral. Forever living with her secrets . . .

Restlessness vibrated through Lorraine. She slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. Leaving the door ajar she flicked the light switch. Tammy wouldn’t wake up. The little girl slept soundly at night. Lorraine’s eyes squinted, blinking at the floor until they adapted to the light.

Resting her hands on the sink, she stared at herself in the mirror. Could she do it?

If she didn’t, what then? Choice one or two? She’d rejected both of them.

Maybe the money wasn’t in the storage unit at all. The two men, one tall, one short, their black clothes, the timing, their hurried movements — all coincidence.

If the money wasn’t there, she would have no vengeance for her husband’s blood. With no vengeance she couldn’t bring herself to run and hide without even seeing him buried.

She’d be right back where she was now, facing the first two choices.

But in her gut she knew. The money was in that unit. The Mafia had stolen it. And with Martin dead and unable to testify against them, they were going to get away with it.

Lorraine held her own eyes in the mirror, looking down, down into her soul, to the black hole that kept on growing. For a long minute . . . she stared.

She pictured her husband lying in his casket. No family to mourn him. Her heart cracked.

“Martin,” she whispered. “Forgive me.”

She swiveled and strode from the bathroom to dress.

FORTY-ONE

Kaycee cried out at the sight of the dead man on her TV screen. Her hand jerked. The remote flew from her fingers.

She gaped at the picture, heart flailing.

For one glorious second her mind flashed a stunning explanation of everything that had plagued her. This was a shot from some crime drama she’d watched before. The footsteps and screams, the dark place — they’d come next . . .

The picture on the screen didn’t move. This was no TV show. Just the dead man.

Kaycee doubled over and threw an arm over her eyes.

“ — this medication isn’t for everyone. Talk to your doctor . . .”

Her head snapped up. An ad for a prescription cholesterol pill played on the screen.

She froze, breath backing up in her throat. The dead man — he’d been there. Right? Maybe only for two seconds, but she’d seen him.

The TV switched to a dog food commercial. Kaycee sprang to her feet and snatched the remote from the floor. She jabbed a button, backing up one channel. No dead man. Backed up another. And another. Then surfed forward, back to the dog food ad, on past that, one, two, three, four channels. With each push of the button tension tightened like a turned screw in her chest. Five channels, six. Seven, eight. No dead man. Nine, ten, eleven. Not anywhere. Come on, come on, I know I saw it! Twelve, thirteen. No frozen bloody scene. Just commercials and shows and TV as she’d always known it.

Kaycee punched off the television and hurled the remote to the floor. It bounced off the hardwood, its battery cover popping off and skittering to rest at the base of a chair.

She fell onto the couch and thrust her head in her hands. Kaycee could barely breathe. How could these people get into her TV reception? You could hack a computer, put a camera on a table and a picture in a car. But her TV pulled in cable. How did they do that?

Terror washed over Kaycee in cold waves, trailing screams and running footsteps. The smell of blood flooded her nostrils, stronger than before. Kaycee yanked her head up. Where was that smell coming from, where?

She jumped up, searched the cushion where she’d sat. No blood. She pulled it off the couch and flipped it over. Nothing. With a gasp she shoved it back and grabbed the second. Seeing it clean, she snatched the third. When all three cushions were back in place, she ran both hands down her jeans, checked the backs of her legs. Felt around her T-shirt. No blood.

She still smelled it. It was here, right here.

Footsteps sounded. Shouts. Kaycee whirled left and right, every pore prickling. Where were they?

Panic stabbed her, bright and sharp. Kaycee ran. Past the staircase, through the living room. Small cries spilled from her mouth, her feet with minds of their own. Her wild eyes cut left and right, looking for blood, for a camera, a dead man. Kaycee barreled through the dining area, chased by screams. Into the kitchen. She banged into the table and bounced off, shaken. Darkness clouded her brain and snatched air from her lungs. She tumbled into the hall, rounded the corner to her office. Through the arched doorway back into the den.