Exposure

No one was there. No dead man, no blood. Yet still she heard the screams. And that smell!

We see you.

Kaycee flung herself to a front window and edged back a curtain. Scanned what she could see of the porch.

No one.

What’s happening to me?

Maybe she had gone crazy. Maybe all of this was in her head — a far worse paranoia than her mother ever faced.

Mark. Kaycee whirled toward the couch and her phone. No matter that he’d think she was losing her sanity, she needed to tell him —

The blood smell vanished. The screams and footsteps stopped.

All energy drained from Kaycee. Like a puppet with its strings cut, she fell onto the couch. Sinking onto her stomach, she buried her face in a cushion and begged God to heal her ravaged mind.

“Got to you, didn’t I,” a male voice sneered.

FORTY-TWO

Midnight.

Lorraine drove through the darkened streets, back straight and hands gripping the steering wheel. In the passenger seat Tammy leaned against the locked door, head lolling. She was still in her pajamas. Belinda lay tucked in beside her. Lorraine had first carried their small suitcase and her purse from the motel room, stowing them just behind her seat in the van. Then she carried Tammy and her stuffed bear out. Tammy woke up as Lorraine belted her into the seat. But she’d fallen back asleep by the time Lorraine pulled out of the motel parking lot.

Lorraine halted at a stoplight. She’d gone insane, bringing her daughter along on such a mission in the middle of the night. At every block after that she nearly turned around. Then, suddenly, the north entrance of AC Storage loomed on her right.

She slowed, gazing down the concrete between the two long buildings. Past the lot on the other side she could see Huff Street. Two tall lamps lit the wide area between the buildings, one near each end. Unit number seven, in the middle of the building to her right, lay in dimmer light.

The place was empty.

She could stop this madness right now.

Two gunshots echoed in her mind. She pictured Martin’s frozen face, his blood smearing the floor.

Lorraine didn’t know much about the Mafia. But she did know its members worked in layers, one man reporting to another. And some powerful “don” sat at the top. Whoever led the robbery and killed Martin would have to report to that leader. Imagine what would happen to the man when he claimed the money, all seven million dollars of it, had just up and disappeared . . .

Lorraine turned into AC Storage.

As she rolled past units, the memories kept flashing in her head. Tears bit her eyes. No turning back now. She’d come this far; she’d go through with it. No time to second-guess or hesitate. Just do.

Dry-throated, she drove down to the apartment and stopped in front of the door, leaving the engine running. She pulled the front door key from her pocket and went inside, holding her breath against the smell of blood. Screams and muffled gunshots echoed in her head. Without turning on a light, she fumbled her way toward the kitchen, making a wide arc around the top of the bedroom hallway.

From a cabinet she pulled out a flashlight. She opened a drawer, felt around inside, and took out a screwdriver.

Back in the van she placed the screwdriver inside the console and closed it, leaving the flashlight on top. She drove to unit seven, reversing to within a foot of its roll-up door, turned off the van and cut the headlights.

She glanced at Tammy. Still asleep. Lorraine picked up the flashlight and slipped out of the van.

Opening up the rear, she laid down the flashlight and pulled on the heavy gloves. She drew out the bolt cutter.

A car passed the Starling entrance. Lorraine froze, pulse whooshing in her ears. She shot a look toward the driver, seeing only the vague bulk of the person. But he (she?) didn’t even turn his head.

Lorraine glanced at Huff Street. Empty. From where she stood she couldn’t see the southern Huff Street entrance some distance beyond the office. The end of building two blocked her view. If someone turned into that entrance, she wouldn’t know until she saw the wash of headlights coming. By then it would be too late.

She turned toward the padlock. Here goes.

Her hands felt awkward in the heavy gloves. She wished for a second person to hold the padlock out of the way while she positioned the bolt cutter on the hasp. Alone, she had to nudge the lock aside with the blades. It shouldn’t have been that hard, but her arms were shaking. The padlock kept slipping back. In the dim light it was hard to see. She tried once . . . twice. Three times. Four. Her mouth creaked open, breath coming in short little bursts. This was stupid. If she couldn’t even do this much . . .

On the fifth try the blades closed around the hasp. Lorraine’s forehead itched with sweat.

She grasped the ends of the long handles and squeezed.

Lorraine knew this would take a few minutes. And it would require every ounce of strength she possessed, even though her arms were strong. She still carried Tammy a lot, and the little girl weighed close to forty pounds. Lorraine’s high school friend’s padlock hadn’t been as thick as this hasp. But then, neither had the bolt cutter been as powerful.

The blades didn’t move. She might as well have been trying to cut through a boulder.

She pushed harder.

Her arm muscles burned. She ignored them.

Scenes of the men loading the storage unit last night flashed in her head. She’d never seen what they’d put inside. But Martin said the robbers had left the bank with fifteen duffel bags of money, separated by denomination.

The hasp was holding. Lorraine loosened her grip on the bolt cutter and rested her hands, panting. After two deep breaths she squeezed again.

If she didn’t find those duffel bags inside, she’d drive straight to the police. Tonight.

And let on that Martin was involved, Lorraine?

The blades wouldn’t move. She gritted her teeth.

So she couldn’t tell the police anything Martin had said. Nothing about losing money or the Mafia. But she could beg them to hide her and Tammy.

Sweat trickled down Lorraine’s temple. The nerves in her arm flared all the way to her shoulders. She pushed harder.

She’d tell the police how frightened she was for her and Tammy’s safety. Maybe she could lie and say someone had been skulking around her motel door. She thought they were being followed . . .

Lorraine’s arms were going to break. Her back muscles screamed. She eased up on the bolt cutter handles and leaned her forehead against the unit door, sucking in oxygen.

This was impossible.

Lorraine looked right toward Starling, left toward Huff. The streets were empty. But any minute her husband’s murderer could appear. What if they decided to move out the money in the middle of the night?

Terror and rage sped through Lorraine. She didn’t want to die here. But neither did she want to leave seven million dollars for the man who shot her husband. And it was here, wasn’t it? She could smell it.

A low grunt rattled in her throat. She would do this.

Gathering her strength, Lorraine wrapped her hands around the bolt cutter handles and squeezed with all her might. Cords tightened on her neck. She pressed her eyes shut, tears pushing through her lashes.