Iris slipped on a pair of black rubber boots, cinched up her gray L.L.Bean lamb’s wool coat—all its buttons neatly attached—and left. A frost hung in the air as the door slammed shut.
Rachel stood in the entryway for a full minute, gathering herself. She still felt the adrenaline from the Bartek encounter coursing through her. She took her shoes off, tied her hair in a ponytail, and went upstairs. She knocked on Eric’s door, heard a muffled and slightly irritated, “What?”
She took that as an invitation and opened the door. Her son was hunched over his desk, a textbook open in front of him. His walls were adorned with plaques, accolades, and certificates: Math Olympics. Spelling bee champion. Junior debate team. They were bereft of movie posters, photos of favorite athletes, or pictures of friends. There was a lack of joy and youth in her son’s room that ate at Rachel every time she entered. Once, a lifetime ago, she could barely keep track of his thriving social life. Playdates and birthday parties and endless smiles. There was nothing wrong with being a bookworm . . . but she ached for him to throw a baseball, bike around town, show any sign that he had a life beyond academia. She wanted him to be a kid again. But the truth was, since that terrible night, he’d never been the same. He’d thrown himself into his studies with a zeal that would have most parents overjoyed. But Rachel knew it was to stave off the nightmares, to shield himself from the cruelty of the outside world.
Rachel wrapped her arms around her son and kissed the top of his curly dirty-blond mop of hair. He wrenched himself free without turning around. Eric was thirteen, his once-plump cheeks losing their baby fat. He was beginning to stretch out, lean out. In a few years he would be taller than his mother and go from “cute” to “handsome” overnight. He had his father’s sparkling blue eyes, the color of the Mediterranean Sea. Looking at them made her heart swell and ache.
“I’m studying,” Eric said gruffly. He spun around in his chair. “Why are your pants all dirty?”
Rachel looked down. She was still covered in grime from the alleyway.
“I fell. Your mom is a klutz.” He raised his eyebrows as if to say duh. “So what are you working on?”
“History,” Eric said, spinning back around.
“Studying anything in particular?”
“We have a quiz on Tuesday. I have to memorize all the US states and capitals.”
“Will you be ready?”
Eric shrugged.
“Wyoming,” Rachel said.
“Cheyenne,” Eric replied.
“Delaware.”
“Dover.”
“Nevada.”
“Carson City.”
“Puerto Rico.”
Eric snorted dismissively. “Puerto Rico is a territory of the United States, not a state itself. But it’s San Juan since you asked. Nice try, Mom.”
Rachel smiled. “When did you get so smart?”
“I’ve always been smart,” Eric said.
“Yes, you have. How’s your sister?” She hated speaking to the back of his head.
“Annoying.”
“She’s seven. How annoying can she be?”
“She told me she was going to cut my hair off and cook it for dinner as spaghetti. Then she found a pair of scissors that Iris had to take away from her.”
“Iris let her get a pair of scissors?”
“Megan is a lot faster than Iris,” Eric said.
Rachel laughed. “I bet she is.”
She reached out, stopping just short of tousling his hair. Rachel remembered the day he had come into the world. Scarily early, at thirty-two weeks. Tiny, at just over four pounds. He spent five weeks in the NICU, the five longest weeks of her life. But when they brought him home, he grew. Lord, did he grow. Rachel resisted the urge to wrap her hands around this young man and squeeze him as hard as she could. After everything he’d been through, she just wanted to protect him, to make sure he knew he was loved.
“Do you like it here?” Rachel asked. “In Ashby.”
Eric shrugged again. “It’s fine.” He spun back around. “Do you think we’re going to stay?” His voice was hopeful and lanced Rachel’s heart.
“I hope so, sweetie. I hope so. I’m going to check on your sister.” She paused. “Vermont.”
Eric thought for a moment, then said, “Montpelier. Now let me study.”
“All right, kiddo.”
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yes, hon?”
“Remember to check.”
Rachel sighed. Every night over the past nearly seven years, Eric had asked her to check the front porch. Rachel’s heart felt heavy as she said, “I’ll check.”
Eric nodded and went back to his computer.
Rachel went down the hall and eased open the door to Megan’s room. She was sprawled out on her daybed, a tiny angel tucked under Max & Ruby sheets. The seashell-shaped night-light beside her bed cast a warm glow. Megan was wearing her favorite red Wonder Woman pajamas, her long blonde hair splayed across the pillow.
Rachel leaned down and gently kissed her daughter’s warm cheek, the small body beneath her stirring ever so slightly. Papers were strewed over the floor, pictures and words she couldn’t quite see in the dark. She could make out one page that read A Mystery Book by Megan Marin. Rachel’s heart swelled. She’d ask her daughter about it tomorrow. She crept out of Megan’s room and eased the door shut.
Rachel went to her bedroom, stripped off her work clothes, and hung them up neatly. She looked at herself in the mirror. She’d gotten used to the brown hair, which was not natural, and the crow’s-feet, which were. She was thirty-seven, with two children and a full-time job, so keeping her body and mind in the kind of shape necessary was a constant struggle.
And it was necessary.
Both children had been delivered via C-section, and she was proud of that scar. Her arms were sinewy and strong, blue veins visible running down her biceps and across her shoulders. She’d worked hard for that vascularity. If Reginald Bartek had seen what Rachel did to her body every night after the children went to bed, he would have considered his target much more carefully.
When she removed her undershirt, Rachel ran her finger over the thick two-inch-long scar just below her rib cage that resembled a bulging pinky finger. Rachel had told the emergency room nurse she’d been randomly slashed by a teenager participating in a gang initiation. She’d lied. Even filled out a police report.
Shockingly, they never turned up any suspects.
Because of that scar, Rachel wore only one-piece swimsuits when she took the kids to the communal pool. Her children had never seen the scar, and she would prefer they never did. If they saw it, she would have to lie again, and Eric had a first-class lie detector.
Once, only once, had a man seen it. A fling with a local obstetrician that had turned into something more. Their first time in bed, she was too caught up in the moment to hide it, her judgment clouded by just how long it had been since she had felt a man’s touch. Years. He’d gasped when he removed her shirt.
“Did you get mauled by a bear?” he asked. She told him she had her gall bladder removed when she was young. He seemed to accept the explanation, or simply not care enough to probe, and they carried on. But the ease and comfort with which the lie came shocked Rachel. For the remainder of the relationship she insisted on wearing a T-shirt or tank top when they had sex. And when the dalliance ended, part of her had felt relieved.