Stay With Me (5 page)

“Brenna?” he said slowly. “I understand you want to test me, make sure I’m the same Alan Dufresne. But this is kind of cruel.”

“Huh?”

“Why are you acting as if we haven’t ever spoken?”

“We
haven’t
.”

“Maybe not in the real world,” he said, that black gaze fixed on her face.

Brenna’s jaw tightened. She felt her face going hot. “I’m getting tired of this.”

“Tired of what?”

“Cut the crap, Alan. You’re not crazy enough. I know those are my sister’s things. But you know and I know that we’ve never breathed the same air before today, and whatever you know or think you know about me on a personal level is a news-created fantasy.”

His eyes narrowed. He set his beer down on the bar and stared at it. “The safe deposit box was in Provo,” he said, very quietly. “I told you that.”

“When, Alan?” Brenna said, frustration rushing through her. “When did you
tell me that
?”

“In my last e-mail.”

“
What?
”

“You’re the one who needs to cut the crap, Brenna,” he said. “We’ve been e-mailing for the past two weeks. You know it as well as I do.”

4

This wasn’t the Saturday that Faith Gordon-Rappaport had envisioned last night while falling asleep. Faith was used to that, of course. As much as she was a born planner, her job was, by nature, unpredictable—a fact that, over the years, she’d grown not only to appreciate but to love.

Interviews came through and fell through, front-running politicians dived headfirst into career-ending scandals, children went missing and starlets went crazy and tragedy struck at times and places you could never expect or imagine, never in your worst nightmares . . . And Faith had to stay on top of it all. Not only did it sharpen her skills as a broadcast journalist, it made her heart beat that much faster, made her appreciate the here and now that much more, knowing that, in an instant, everything could go so horribly wrong.

Back when she was a teen and doing pageants, Faith’s coach, Kathy, used to call her a “rehearsal addict.” “Most girls, I have to twist their arms trying to get them to practice,” Kathy used to say. “But you, honey, you’re just too prepared for your own good. How am I going to unlearn some spontaneity into you?”

Kathy couldn’t, poor dear. Faith was by far the most overprepared, overrehearsed, boring piece of white bread ever to grace the pageant circuit, and she’d have been the first to admit it, even back then.

But Faith’s job had succeeded where Coach Kathy had failed. It had taught Faith, once and for all, that a good eighty percent of life is beyond anyone’s control, that it never does what you expect it to, and that all those crappy clichés about the best-laid plans are clichés for good reason. It was a lesson Faith was grateful for every day of her life—the ability to just “roll with it” so much more important than any trick or twirl or judge-beguiling answer she’d rehearsed to death during her Miss Teen Georgia days.

But still . . .

Today, Faith had been hoping for some normalcy. It was Jim’s and her turn to have Maya for a few days, and she’d been looking forward to time alone with her stepdaughter at the handoff . . . Actually, she’d been counting on it.

It had been so long since Faith and Maya had talked, really talked, and she could feel this part of her life—the one sweet, simple thing she’d always been able to count on—she could feel it turning as unpredictable as the rest.

Last week, she’d twice caught Maya typing furiously on her laptop, only to switch screens and slam it shut when she realized Faith was in the room. Maya, who had never hidden anything from Faith before.

Faith had asked Maya what she’d been typing, of course.

And Maya had replied the way any teenager would: “
Nothing.
”

“Nicolai,” Faith said to her cameraman as he took a light reading of her face. “Do you feel like you can tell your parents anything?”

He put the cardboard down and gave her a look like she’d just spoken to him in ancient Sanskrit.

“Are you serious?” he said.

Nicolai’s peachy skin was half covered by unkempt dark beard and he wore glasses with thick black frames that Faith had always suspected were clear glass. He had an entire wardrobe of baggy flannel hunting shirts, wing-tip shoes and combat boots, mailman shorts, and brown UPS shirts and dress pants that were probably considered pathetically outré in the late seventies. Nicolai was a spoiled little boy who went to work in costume. Screw him.

“Yes, Nicolai, I’m serious.”

“I’m twenty-four years old,” he said, as though that was supposed to mean anything. Five years from now, he could
date
Maya, no one would bat an eye.

Faith sighed. “Point well taken.”

She supposed she should talk to Jim about this. But maybe not. What if Maya had been writing in a journal, or complaining about her parents to a friend from school? She was a thirteen-year-old girl who had never seriously misbehaved—and with a mother, bless Brenna’s heart, who remembered every misstep she ever made. Wasn’t Maya entitled to her secrets? Wasn’t everyone?

The lights were hot on Faith’s skin. Not for the first time, she felt as though her on-camera makeup were pressing against her, smothering her. There were downsides to this job—the long hours, the pressure, the lack of privacy, which was, of course, ironic. As a nosy, privacy-invading TV journalist, Faith had more stalkers than she’d had as a beauty queen.

None of it was conducive to family. Maybe it was time to rethink this job, take a little hiatus, dedicate herself to being a full-time stepmom . . .

God, Maya would probably hate that, which was sad. Couple of years ago, it would’ve made her the happiest little girl in the world, which just goes to show, you can’t put things off when it comes to kids. If you don’t seize the moment and ride it for all it’s worth, they’ll outgrow you.

They’ll leave you behind.

Faith needed to focus. Here she was, thinking of family issues while sitting in the Bensonhurst home of Ashley Stanley, “get” of the year.

Ashley Stanley, who had been held captive for ten years by husband-and-wife sadists Charles and Renee Lemaire. She’d been twenty-three when she was escaped a year ago, and unlike Elizabeth Smart and Jaycee Dugard, she never had the satisfaction of seeing her tormentors brought to justice. By the time Ashley had given the police directions to the home where she’d spent all of her teen years, often gagged and shackled under the bed while the couple entertained unwitting dinner guests, the Lemaires had escaped.

Ashley lived alone. Her mother—her only family—had died four years ago, and with the Lemaires still at large, she’d imposed on herself a new type of captivity: doors triple-bolted, blocked ID on her phone, natural blonde hair dyed mud brown. She maintained no close friendships, didn’t do social media. She didn’t even have an e-mail address.

And she had never given an interview. It had taken months for Faith and her producers to coax this poor, terrified girl out of hiding. In fact, Faith might not have had an interview with Ashley at all if, after seeing the sensitive way she’d treated Brenna on camera, Ashley hadn’t agreed to have lunch with Faith.

A lunch that, sadly, had turned into yet another horror. Despite taking every precaution possible to keep it under wraps, the two women had been snapped three weeks ago at the Capitol Grille in midtown. The photo had appeared everywhere—and, figuring she had nothing to lose, sad, trembling Ashley had finally agreed to the interview. (“May as well,” she’d said.) And here, Faith was secretly angry she’d switched from tomorrow to today?

How selfish could she be?

From behind the camera, Nicolai said, “Makeup says Ashley will be ready in five to seven minutes.”

Faith nodded. She thought of the thick scar down the left side of Ashley’s pretty face and wondered how makeup was doing with that.

She looked around the living room of Ashley’s small, pine-scented apartment as if she were seeing it for the first time—blond-wood furniture, blue cloth couch, polished floors. No personal pictures, no artwork. A bookshelf that was bare, save for a few pastel candles in votives and an empty ceramic vase that looked as though it had been bought out of the same catalog as everything else, and at the same time, too. Everything simple and spotless and not in any way personal.

Anyone could live here. Anyone at all.

“Rosella says you have a call,” Nicolai said.

Rosella, Faith’s assistant, was waiting outside with the rest of the crew. Ashley had wanted only Faith in the apartment for the interview, relenting only for Nicolai because someone had to work the camera.

“Can she take a message?”

Nicolai shrugged. “She says it’s one of Maya’s teachers.”

“On a Saturday?”

He shrugged again.

Faith got up and smoothed her suit. She had an odd sensation, a fluttering in her stomach, a weakness in the knees as though the ground was shifting beneath her, something changing and she couldn’t stop it . . .

Why was Maya’s teacher calling her at work? Of course Maya’s teacher would have no idea Faith was at work—it was just a cell phone number, pure and simple, on file with the school for when she couldn’t be reached on the landline.

But . . .
why?

The image fluttered back into her mind: Maya, slamming her laptop shut. That look in her eyes . . .

What is she hiding? Is she in some kind of trouble?

Outside Ashley Stanley’s freshly painted front door, Rosella was waiting on the stoop, looking up at Faith with her dark, seen-it-all eyes. The rest of the crew was buzzing around the news van and trailer, parked at the curb. Faith stole a quick glance at the trailer, where Ashley was getting her makeup done.

“Maya’s teacher?” she said.

Rosella nodded, handed her the phone.

Faith took the phone and said her name into it.

“Faith Gordon-Rappaport?” The voice confused her. It was either a man’s, soft and lilting, or a woman’s, deepened by years of smoking. Either way, she’d never heard it before. And Faith was sure she’d met all of Maya’s teachers. “We have to talk,” it said.

Faith cleared her throat. “Is there something wrong?”

“Maya. She’s a sweet girl.”
A woman.
Faith was ninety percent sure
.

“Which teacher are you? I don’t believe we’ve spoken before.”

“You shouldn’t let her out.”

“Excuse me?”

“She’ll ask to go out. She thinks she’s old enough. She’s not. Keep her home.”

She looked at Rosella. “Did she
say
she was Maya’s teacher?”

The girl nodded. “Math.”

Maya’s math teacher was a man. And British. Faith glanced at the screen. It read “Restricted Call.” “Who is this?”

“I see you with her. I know you love her. You’re a good mother.”

“Who
are
you?”

“I watch you, so I know.”

Christ. Another stalker
.

“Don’t let her go out. It won’t be good for anyone if you do.”

Faith said, “Listen. I don’t know how the hell you got this number . . .” but then she stopped. The line was dead, the call ended.

For several seconds, Faith felt a dead weight in the pit of her stomach, chills up her back. The lingering feel of a stranger, saying her daughter’s name. She stood there, staring at the phone, letting the feeling pass. This stalker hadn’t been the first to know of Maya, and she wouldn’t be the last. Faith couldn’t help but feel a little shaken, but compared to some of the other calls she’d gotten, this one was kids’ stuff. Some old chain-smoking prude who’d seen pictures of Faith and Maya in one paper or another, asking her favorite TV host not to let her daughter go out in the world.
I see you with her . . . You’re a good mother.

Rosella said, “Are you okay?”

Faith smiled at her. “Sure, honey.”

“That wasn’t her teacher, was it?”

She shrugged. “Nope,” she said. “Loyal viewer.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Faith held a hand up. Rosella had only been working for her for a few weeks. “No worries,” she said. “No more calls though, okay? If it’s the pope, take a message. Ashley needs my undivided attention.”

She nodded.

Almost as an afterthought, Faith stole a quick glance up and down the sidewalk. An older woman pushing a baby carriage, huddled against the cold. Three teenage boys in baggy clothes, talking to a friend in a parked car. No one of note. No one “watching.” Of course not. That caller was full of it. Talking about Maya as if they were best pals.
Honestly, they read one
Ladies’ Home Journal
article, these creepy fans think they know everything about you.

Including your cell phone number.

Before she opened the door, Faith closed her eyes.
Deep breath. Out with the bad, in with the good . . .
She exhaled first, then inhaled very slowly. It was something a Pilates teacher had taught her years ago, and she could swear it lowered the blood pressure, increased the flow of serotonin and whatever other chemicals the body produced to make the brain relax enough to do its job. One more breath—a cleansing breath, the teacher had called it—and she was focused. Here, now. Faith couldn’t care less how the caller had gotten her number, and the only safety she feared for was that of Ashley, her interview subject.

If they only knew how much power they had, Pilates teachers. Faith swore they could run the world.

In her room at Dad and Faith’s, Maya made sure her door was locked before she went online and logged onto her chat room. Immediately, LIMatt61 said,
Where the hell have you been?
Because he was like that, always pouncing.

Of course, Maya couldn’t blame him. She hadn’t been on in days.

Sorry,
she typed.
I’ve been hanging out with a new group of kids.

LIMatt61 typed:
And, that makes a difference because?????
Five question marks? Really, LIMatt61?

NYCJulie cut in with:
What did your mom
’s shrink say?

Maya typed:
I couldn’t figure out how to ask
. She knew she should say more before they all started giving her advice, or, worse yet, scolding her. (One of the biggest drawbacks to being the youngest person in a chat room. Everybody treated you like a kid.)

Sure enough, Matt typed in:
You would have been more prepared if you weren’t spending so much time goofing off with your friends.

Maya sighed. She typed:
Sorry.
She started to type that she wanted to get to know the psychiatrist first before she started asking him probing questions about her own mother, but then her phone burped. She cringed.

Maya had picked out the burp text tone when she’d gotten the phone—her then-best friend Zoe had discovered it and played it for her, the two of them laughing hysterically for probably ten minutes straight. She’d downloaded it on the spot, but for the past week, Maya had been torn between not wanting to hurt Zoe by changing it, and living in fear of getting texted in front of Lindsay.

She switched the phone to vibrate, then checked her screen.

A text from Lindsay.
Want to sleep over tonite?