Twisted Lies Page 20

  "Right." A little ball of apprehension settled in his stomach.

  "She told me I should ask you about why she moved home. She gave the impression there's a story there."

  His palms started to sweat just from the thought of sharing the story. He wiped his right hand on his jeans, then his left. He adjusted the heater. It suddenly seemed very warm.

  "You don't want to tell me."

  He glanced at her, saw a flicker of hurt in her eyes, and focused on the road. They were moving faster now, but it would take another three hours before they got to Queens. Not like he could pretend there wasn't time. He took a deep breath. "It's not easy to talk about."

  "Okay." The one word held both question and resignation. She wouldn't push it. Which made him feel worse. Could he get through it without losing his breakfast? More importantly, what would Marisa think about him when he'd finished the story?

  He could hear his therapist's voice echoing in his ears. Your prison bars are only as solid as your secrets. Fine. If Marisa thought less of him, at least she'd know the truth about the person she'd trusted to help her through this. Maybe she'd decide to leave him out of it, and he could go back to the solitary life he'd planned.

  He glanced again and saw her watching him. What would she think of him? But it couldn't be helped. She'd learn the truth eventually. Rae or Brady or Sam—one of them would certainly tell her before this was all over. Of course, if he let one of them tell it, Nate would come out looking like a hero instead of the coward he was.

  So yes, he should tell her. But, under the circumstances... "It's a pretty ugly story, Marisa. It has nothing to do with the people who have Ana, but I don't want to make things worse for you."

  "I think I can handle it."

  He took another deep breath. "Rae married a guy who turned out to be an arms dealer, part of an international crime family that makes our local gang activity look like child's play. She didn't know what he did for a living. He'd lied to her about everything, but..." He forced a breath. So far, so good. "A lot of this story is hers. I'll only tell you my part in it. Before I go on though, this isn't something I'm really supposed to talk about outside of therapy. It's all hush-hush, which means you have to keep it to yourself."

  "You can trust me with your secrets."

  He nodded once. "After Johnny was born, she left the guy and went back to Nutfield to hide. I was the only person he'd met from her past, so he..."

  Nate paused, swallowed, and loosened his grip on the steering wheel. He took a deep breath and willed his voice to stay steady.

  "He and his bodyguard grabbed me. And there was a woman, too. They stuffed me in the trunk of a car and took me to a hotel room in Connecticut."

  "Oh, my God."

  "The guard was..." She didn't need the details. "I knew where Rae was, but I refused to tell them."

  "Did they hurt you?"

  He nodded.

  "Did you escape?"

  If only he'd had the courage. "The guard was working against Rae's husband. Julien found out and shot him. Twice." Nate swallowed the nausea that always rose with the memory. "I watched it happen."

  He focused on the road, the white lines whizzing by on each side, the sedans and minivans and SUVs and eighteen-wheelers all around him. It was a normal day, and he was surrounded by normal people. He was safe.

  "That must have been terrifying," Marisa said.

  "I just thought... You're in that situation, and you think, this is how I'm going to die. Just like that. And you start to wonder about inconsequential stuff, like will I soil my shorts? Will it hurt when the bullet enters my brain, or will I die instantly? Should I try to run and get shot in the back instead? At first, I kept trying to figure out how to get away, but there were three of them, just one of me, and they had the guns. The woman was adept at tying my ropes. And then I was badly beaten, I couldn't imagine how I could ever get out of the ropes, much less fight to get away. After a while, I don't know. You just decide, whatever. I guess I'll die."

  "Oh, Nate."

  "I got angry. I thought, screw 'em. They're going to kill me anyway. I'm not telling them anything."

  "But everybody breaks. That's what they say on TV, anyway."

  He nearly smiled. "Yeah. I would have, eventually."

  "But you didn't?"

  "Rae called. I should have..." His eyes stung, but no way was he going to cry. He waited until the feeling passed. "I should have answered the phone with, 'They have me. Run.'" But I thought they'd just figure out I'd been lying and try to get me to tell where she was. I never imagined she'd give herself away. When she did, I should have warned her."

  "But there was a reason you didn't."

  He could still feel the gun pressed to his temple. All his thoughts about being ready to die had come to that moment, and he hadn't had the courage to go through with it. "I was afraid." At least he didn't have to look at her as he admitted this most shameful moment of his life. He might never be able to look at her again.

  Marisa reached across the truck and touched his hand, which had a death grip on the steering wheel. He looked down, saw her hand there, palm up. An invitation. He considered ignoring it, wanted to ignore it. But he cared too much for her to hurt her. He took her hand.

  "We're all afraid, Nate. That's what it means to be human."

  "I should have protected her."

  "But she's all right. It worked out."

  "No thanks to me."

  "What happened?"

  He sighed. "The rest is really her story to tell."

  A few moments passed, and he hoped the conversation was over. Marisa scooted closer. "How long did they have you?"

  "About thirty-two hours."

  "A long time."

  "Nothing, really. Think of POWs and what they have to endure. My situation was nothing like that. And still I couldn't hold out."

  "You didn't tell them where she was."

  "Eventually, I did. He threatened to kill my family, and at that point, I couldn't figure out what the point was in not telling them. They knew the town she was in; it was just a matter of time before they figured out her real name and where she lived. I didn't want them hunting down my parents or my brother to get the information."

  "They put you in an impossible position, Nate. You did the right thing. The only thing."

  "You say that because Rae and Johnny survived. If they'd died..."

  "But they didn't. And Rae and Brady obviously feel very differently about what happened, based on the things they've said to you. And to me about you."

  "Rae blames herself for what I went through. I wish she wouldn't. She didn't have any control over the situation."

  "And you did?"

  He didn't answer. He knew what Marisa would say, the same thing his therapist said, the same thing Rae and Brady and Sam had said so many times. He hadn't had any control. Maybe it was easier for the rest of them to say it, but to realize the truth of it? That was a whole different ballgame.

  Nate had felt a lot of terrible emotions in his lifetime, but none hit that depth of powerlessness. He'd never considered himself a control freak, but having everything removed from his control, from when he was able to use the bathroom to the number of sips of water he was allowed between beatings. Being tied to a chair, unable to wipe the dripping blood, unable to scratch an itch. Some people found peace in knowing the world was out of their control. Nate found only torment.

  Marisa moved their joined hands to her lap, where she laid her other hand over his. "I can't imagine how awful it was for you."

  No, she couldn't imagine it. And he wasn't going to tell her any more. She had enough of her own torment right now. She didn't need to worry about his.

  "Is that why you quit your job?"

  "I needed to escape the chaos. Escape the job, escape New York." He needed to control his environment, and there was too much in New York that was out of his control. A quiet life. That's what he longed for. A life where he would never, ever feel that powerles
s again.

  And if that were the case, what was he doing here?

  "I believe I've ruined your plans," Marisa said.

  Was she a mind reader? "Nobody ever plans for something like this."

  "I would never have guessed you'd gone through that. Did you have PTSD?"

  "Did. Still do, I guess."

  "Yet, here you are."

  A sucker for a pretty face. He glanced at Marisa and smiled. A beautiful face, a beautiful heart. He squeezed her hand. "Like I said yesterday, there's no place I'd rather be."

  "How are you handling it, the...the fear? Because after I escaped eight years ago, I was skittish all the time. And nothing had really happened to me. I'd just been afraid, and it was awful."

  "I feel like I'm in AA. Maybe I should be—do they have AA for control freaks?" The joke fell flat. "I'm worried I won't be able to handle it, yeah. That's why I need my friends and Garrison to stay involved. You need somebody you can count on if things get dangerous."

  "I can count on you."

  "No, you can't. You think you can, which is why I'm telling you this. I am..." He really didn't want to go on, but she needed to understand who he was. Even if it painted him in an ugly light. She needed to know he was not worthy of her trust. "Remember when that guy grabbed you in Acapulco?"

  "Not the kind of thing a person forgets."

  "Ever ask yourself why it took me so long to react?"

  When she didn't say anything, he glanced at her face. She seemed more confused than anything. "You were there right away."

  "I wasn't. I paused. I stood on the bottom step and stared for, I don't know, a few seconds, anyway. The instinct to help seems to have been replaced with the instinct to run away like a little kid."

  "A second, two seconds—that's normal."

  "It's not. A real man—"

  "Don't be ridiculous. You think you're not a real man because you paused for a second? After what you've been through, a lot of people would have bolted. But you didn't. You rescued me."

  "Not really. The guy took off as soon as he heard me. And anyway, he'd only been trying to stick the phone in your bag and create a diversion. He ran when he heard the tires squeal. I did nothing. Just like last time."

  She sighed. "You're insane."

  "There's that, too."

  "That's not... Nate, the man you describe, this coward you think you are, would not have stuck with me through all of this. He wouldn't have gotten involved from the very start. He'd never have left Queens."

  He wasn't sure what to say. He'd just been caught up in it, but he wouldn't be able to convince her of that. At least he'd told her the truth. Funny, though. His prison bars still seemed just as solid.

  Chapter 16

  MARISA STARED AT THE house as Nate parked the truck on the street. This had been home for most of her life. Leslie'd taken good care of it. The wood siding had recently been repainted. It was yellow now, and it looked pretty with white window casings. The windows looked new. Leslie had kept the small front yard in good shape, and the rhododendron bushes looked bigger and healthier than ever.

  "How will we get in?" Nate asked.

  Marisa stepped out of the car and shivered. The previous day's rain had passed, but the sun had brought a cold front with it. She crossed her arms and walked up the short walk that cut the tiny yard in half. At the front door, she peered at the same lock that had been there since Father had bought the deadbolt when Marisa was little. She could still remember the conversation about "my girls' safety" as he'd installed the lock. That had been just a few months before he'd moved out. Maybe he'd known they'd need something to count on besides him.

  "I still have a key," Marisa said. "I've kept it in my wallet all these years."

  "A talisman of hope."

  She smiled at him. "Something like that." She pulled her wallet from the bag Nate had bought her in Acapulco, found the key in the coin purse, and unlocked the door.

  They went inside, and she looked around. The house looked so different, she hardly recognized it. Apparently this was what Leslie had done with at least some of the money she'd stolen. The hardwood floors had been refinished, the old wooden banister that led to the second floor had been replaced with ornate wrought iron. She stepped into the living room. The old, ugly fireplace had been updated. Gray stacked stone had replaced the old brick, and a new dark stained mantle sat above it. Over that, a black-and-white abstract drew the eye.

  The furniture was different, too. A taupe low-profile sectional surrounded a square table with a few magazines, a modern, unused ashtray, and a vase filled with some sort of dried twigs. Leslie had no decorating ability, which meant she'd hired help. Add decorator's fees to the list of costs.

  Marisa continued into the kitchen. Granite countertops, stainless appliances, and even a dishwasher. If only they'd had that growing up, their evenings would have been much more pleasant. The room had been completely remodeled. She turned to Nate, who'd followed her through the house. "Leslie's been busy."

  "It looks brand new."

  "If not for the address, I might not have recognized it."

  "It's nice."

  She supposed, though she'd been looking forward to seeing the white appliances their mother had bought, the old pictures on the walls. Even the kitchen wallpaper had been removed, replaced with pale blue paint that stretched into the living room and entryway. "She changed everything."

  "Does that bother you?"

  Marisa looked for some sign of herself, of their mother, but saw only Leslie's fingerprints. She didn't answer Nate's question.

  "You look down here," she said. "I'll head upstairs. Let me know if you find anything."

  "Will do."

  After spending hours looking through Leslie's Facebook friends the day before, Sam, Rae, and she had decided their best chance for discovering the name of Leslie's fiancé would lie in the house. They'd found a handful of guys among her Facebook friends who weren't married, but most were either clients—which Sam had discovered using Leslie's invoices from her email—or lived too far away. Maybe they'd have more luck in the house.

  At the top of the stairs, Marisa entered what used to be their mother's bedroom. Why she'd thought her mother's things would still be there, she didn't know. Instead, Marisa found that Leslie had moved into the space. New paint, new bedroom furniture, new everything. She stifled a sigh as she crossed to the bureau and the many photographs there. Leslie with a host of people, all wearing the logo of Leslie's office cleaning business. In these photos, she looked different than she had when Marisa had lived here. She looked different than she had in Acapulco, too. She'd never spent a lot of time on personal grooming. Maybe the new boyfriend had encouraged her to try a little harder. In the pictures, her hair was sleek, and she wore more makeup than Marisa was used to seeing on her. Leslie wore nicer clothes fitted to her shape. She looked...pretty.

  She hated that the thought of her sister as pretty had come as a surprise. She'd always thought of Leslie as kindhearted and honest, if not a little homely.

  Seemed she'd been wrong on all counts.

  Marisa studied the photos again. There were none of Leslie with a man.

  Interesting.

  She perused the rest of the room. It seemed perfectly normal. Normal except for the fancy clothes, jewelry, shoes, and handbags, which hadn't been normal for Leslie eight years before. In the adjoining bathroom, Marisa found makeup galore, not to mention various hair styling implements—a curling iron, straightening iron, and blow dryer, along with expensive hair gels. It seemed that frumpy Leslie had transformed. Funny how she hadn't bothered with any of that stuff when she'd gone to Mexico. Marisa would have assumed her lack of grooming had been due to fear, but now she knew better. She hadn't been afraid. She'd been...what? Maybe trying to look the part of the grieving sister? Maybe trying to pretend nothing had changed? Marisa took in the updated bathroom and thought of the designer clothes hanging in her sister's closet. Leslie had apparently changed everythi
ng.

  Marisa went through the drawers in the bathroom. Mostly Leslie's stuff, but one drawer held a man's razor, a can of shaving cream, a toothbrush, and a box of condoms. Lovely.

  She returned to the bedroom to search. Aside from Leslie's things, she found a drawer filled with men's clothes. T-shirts and sweat pants, all larges, along with boxers and white socks. Seemed the man didn't live here, but he stayed over often enough to need his own drawer.

  Marisa crossed the hall and checked out Leslie's old room, which had been converted to an office. Marisa dug through the drawers and file cabinet looking for something, anything that might shed some light on what was going on. No photographs of any mystery man. No files labeled kidnapping scheme—wouldn't that have been convenient? Nothing to give her a hint about what her sister was doing.

  With a deep breath, Marisa left the office and headed to her closed bedroom door. She could still picture the double bed, the white furniture her father had bought for her thirteenth birthday, the pink walls and white lacy curtains. She could imagine the easel, the pads of paper and charcoals and watercolors and markers she'd used to create every kind of artwork, the pictures she'd tacked all over the room. She'd been such a girly-girl, and her father had spoiled her long after he'd moved out. She remembered the scent of the cheap perfume she'd gotten from a friend for her fifteenth birthday. She'd thought it was the sweetest smelling stuff in the world. She could imagine the thin layer of powder and blush and eyeshadow covering the top of her makeup table. This room had been hers, and she was afraid to find out what her sister had done with it. After a deep breath for courage, she stepped inside.

  A workout room. A high-end elliptical machine and a treadmill both faced a flat-screen TV. The walls were white. The curtains black. The crappy artwork as dark as her sister's heart. Hoping to find some trace of herself, Marisa opened the closet. Workout clothes and a cache of DVDs. She slammed the door and headed back downstairs.

  Nate stood at the door, looking outside. He'd been nervous about coming here, and she didn't blame him. If the bad guys—whoever they were—were looking for them, they'd certainly have eyes on this house. Marisa was ready to face them, face her sister and tell her what she thought of her. But nobody came.