She Can Kill Page 24

  “Dad makes great empanadas,” Lucia said.

  He finished mincing and washed the knife. “But nothing that smells like this.”

  Sarah checked the bread. “I love to cook, and I need to keep busy.”

  “Well, then feel free to use my kitchen at any time.” He took a stool at the counter next to his daughter and watched as Sarah served the meal. “As long as you leave us samples.”

  The scene appeared relaxed but the undercurrent of tension couldn’t be denied. Lucia picked at her food. Cristan ate with robotic motions that suggested he was fueling his body more than enjoying his meal. Sarah ate the tender stew, but her throat was too sore to swallow bread. She took an ibuprofen. Then she and Cristan cleaned up the kitchen side by side.

  Now what?

  Lucia took her books upstairs and Cristan poured another cup of coffee. “Tell me about your plans for a catering business,” he said as if he understood her restlessness.

  “They’re not really plans just yet.” Sarah dried the clean stew pot and told him about her sister’s wedding.

  “You’re going to make the reception shine.”

  “Thank you. I hope so.” She put the pot in the cabinet.

  “Why don’t you try to get some rest,” he said. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  “Do we have a plan?”

  “I’ll stay on watch tonight. In the morning, we’ll meet with Mike and see how the search for Troy went.”

  Sarah paced the spotless kitchen. “What about the other issue?”

  He rubbed his unshaven jaw. “Mike has made inquiries with motels and real estate agencies that handle vacation properties with no luck. Unfortunately, rentals are often completed online. So I did some research of my own. I’m waiting on results.”

  “Waiting is frustrating.”

  “Yes, but tonight, my only focus is keeping you and Lucia safe.” Cristan took his coffee and headed for his office. “Go lie down. You’ve had a hard day. Your body might surprise you and sleep.”

  Sarah doubted she would relax. Every base instinct in her body told her to be on alert.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Her mother had been murdered. Not just her mother, her whole family. How could that be true? Lucia couldn’t grasp the concept. Though her dad had lied to her in the past, she knew this time he was telling the truth. She’d watched him struggle to get the words out, saw the regret in his eyes as he gave her a likely sanitized version of the murders. He’d responded to most of her questions, but others he’d simply refused to answer.

  She wasn’t sure if it was worse to have never had any family or to know that once, she’d had tons of relatives, but they were all dead.

  She was trying to forgive her father for fabricating her entire life, but how could she? And how could she suddenly process the fact that everyone in her family had been a criminal. The idea was too Hollywood to feel real.

  Lucia lay on her stomach on her bed. She smoothed the newspaper article out next to the old photo of her and her mother. A third picture was of her Aunt Maria. Dad had copied it from a South American tabloid shortly after the Vargas family had been murdered. Putting the pictures side by side, it was easy to see the family resemblance. Her father said that the woman watching her at the horse show could have been her Aunt Maria, and that she might want to take Lucia away. But she couldn’t believe a member of her own family would want to hurt her.

  If everyone else in the family was dead, then maybe her aunt was lonely too. Maybe she just wanted to see Lucia. The Quickie-Mart robbery could have been totally unrelated. Things like that happened all the time. Her dad might be paranoid.

  The thought that she had a relative out in the world warmed Lucia’s heart, but at the same time, the knowledge made her sad. Why couldn’t she ever see her aunt? Dad said he hadn’t even talked to Maria since he’d sneaked them out of Argentina.

  She held the magnifying glass over the newspaper picture. The photographer had focused on her and Snowman, so the background was blurry. She couldn’t see the woman’s face, but she wanted to more than anything. She wanted to see the only living connection to her mother so much her stomach ached and her chest felt hollow.

  All her friends had grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. Except for her dad, she was all alone, and it seemed selfish of him to keep her that way. In twelve years, he hadn’t even tried to find a wife. She liked to think it was because he’d been so in love with her mother, he had never gotten over her death. But maybe that had all changed now. Sarah was downstairs cleaning up the kitchen. The three of them had eaten dinner together, almost like a real family. Whatever happened, she wasn’t giving this up. He couldn’t make her. If he tried, she’d run away again.

  A tear slid down her face as she stared at her mother’s picture. Lucia had her dark wavy hair and olive skin. But her eyes were different. Lucia’s were a lighter, softer brown. Her mother’s eyes were almost black, and her gaze was sharp as she stared into the camera, almost as if she were challenging the photographer. Her mother had been beautiful, and she’d known it.

  Yet someone had killed her. Her father had said there was an explosion and gunfire, but he’d refused to give her any details. I will carry that image to my grave. I will not condemn you to the same fate. At least he’d been honest.

  She lifted the photo by the edges, careful not to damage the paper. Tomorrow she would return it to the safety of the frame. Her phone vibrated on the bed. A text message had come in. Lucia didn’t recognize the number. Her finger hovered over the screen, an inexplicable tangle of apprehension twisting in her belly. She displayed the text. Hello Lucia. Another message followed immediately. A photo. I am your mother.

  Lucia’s breath stalled in her lungs as she stared at the selfie.

  Her mother? How?

  The woman held a newspaper in front of her and pointed to the date at the top. Today.

  Anger welled hot in Lucia’s throat, and a wave of other emotions she couldn’t identify. They rushed over her like a tsunami, leaving her flattened. This was not her Aunt Maria. This was her mother. She responded with disbelief. I thought you were dead.

  Another text came in. Is that what he told you?

  Lucia went cold. He’d lied. Again. How could she ever trust him again? Maybe everything he’d told her was a lie. Maybe he’d been keeping her from her mother her entire life.

  But her mother—she’d come for her. Maybe she’d been searching for her all these years. The thought of a brokenhearted woman in a tireless search for her only child warmed the empty space inside of her. She wasn’t alone. She had the one thing she’d wished for all her life—her mother.

  She texted, Where are you?

  Outside. By the river. You can see me from your window.

  Lucia went to the window and stared out into the dark. The full moon brightened the landscape, reflecting off the river in silver shimmers. A figure stood on the bank. An arm waved. Resentment and excitement warred within Lucia until it felt as if her body would burst. Her fingers trembled as she shoved the pictures into the envelope and stuffed them into her backpack. She could never trust her father again. Not after this. She sent a final text, I’m coming.

  She moved to drop the phone on her bed but couldn’t bring herself to lose the contact with her mother. What if she couldn’t find her outside? She slipped the phone into her pocket. She’d dump it after she connected with her mother.

  There was no way she’d let her father track her. No way.

  She tugged on an extra sweater. Boots in hand, she tiptoed down the stairs. Dad was in his office. She stared at the yellow light in the doorway with hatred. How could he have lied to her all over again? She went to the foyer and slipped into the closet. She’d have to be quick. Once she hit the button, she’d have sixty seconds to get out of the house before the security system armed itself again. Plenty o
f time. But her father would hear the beeping. He’d know immediately what she’d done. She’d use the front door and run around the house. If he assumed she’d gone to the road, it might buy her a minute or so to get to the river before he caught her.

  She entered the code, went out the front door, and ran.

  Mike parked three lots away from Troy’s house. Behind his vehicle, Sean’s giant SUV cruised to the curb. They climbed out of their vehicles and met on the sidewalk. Two more Westbury PD cars parked on the street. Two officers, Pete Winters and Ethan Hale, got out.

  The windows of Troy’s house were dark, as was the porch light.

  Sean scrutinized the house. “How do you want to do this?”

  “Have to knock first.” Mike waved the arrest warrant in his hand.

  “That’s bullshit.” Sean snorted.

  “It’s the law.” Mike tucked the warrant in his pocket and drew his gun. “Pete and Ethan, cover the back.”

  Sean’s Glock was already in his hand. “Is he armed?”

  “To the teeth.” Mike led the way down the sidewalk.

  “I know we have to go through the motions, but there’s nothing in that warrant that says we can’t reconnoiter the property first.” Sean paused at the edge of the Mitchell property.

  Mike scanned the house. Looked quiet. “When I went to the store, Troy’s assistant manager said he took home three handguns, a rifle, and multiple boxes of ammunition.”

  “Terrific.”

  They veered across the grass and made a quick circle of the house. But they saw no sign of Troy. Pete and Ethan covered the back door, while Mike and Sean went around front. Mike climbed the front stoop. Sean hung back, covering him from behind a fat tree on the front lawn. Mike was not shocked when no one answered his knock. Sean joined him on the step and fished something from his pocket.

  “Look over there.” Sean pointed to the damaged garage door.

  Mike turned his head. “What?”

  “I guess it was nothing.” Sean slid something back into his pocket. “Oh, look. The door is unlocked.”

  Mike shot him a look. The door had been locked thirty seconds before. But Sean was already going inside. Weapon raised, he slipped into the dark house. Mike followed, switching on the light.

  “Holy shit,” Sean said, as they worked their way from room to room. “Troy is officially whacked.”

  The last time Mike had been here, the kitchen had been trashed, but now the entire house was in ruins. More than trashed. Beyond the kitchen, where cabinets were ripped from the walls and sawn into pieces, obscenities in red paint covered the Sheetrock in the living room and hallways. In the bathrooms, mirrors and tiles had been smashed with a sledgehammer.

  Mike spoke into his radio, letting Pete and Ethan know the house was clear.

  Sean holstered his weapon. “What now?”

  Good question, thought Mike. “Now we have to find the son of a bitch.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Wired, Sarah stared at the dark ceiling. As exhausted as she felt, sleep would not come. The bed in the guest room smelled faintly of Cristan, and every breath reminded her of the intimacy they’d shared that afternoon. Despite the danger they faced, the memory sent a little thrill through her belly. She hadn’t expected to enjoy the sex that much, not the first time. Sex with Troy had become one more means of manipulation and control. But Cristan had brought something more to the bedroom. She’d never been treated with reverence, and they’d joined in ways that weren’t physical. Their connection should intimidate her. She was barely out of a bad marriage in which she was used and abused. But her body—and her heart—weren’t listening to reason.

  She flipped onto her side and fluffed the pillow, but she couldn’t settle. A slight squeak caught her attention. She held her breath and listened. The sound was so faint, it wasn’t as much a noise as a feeling. Her instinct told her that all wasn’t right in the house. Tossing back the covers, she tugged a hooded sweatshirt over her flannel pajama bottoms and T-shirt. Her feet hit the floor automatically, drawn to the hall by the same intuition that notified her if one of the girls spiked a fever in the middle of the night.

  Using her cell phone as a flashlight, Sarah went out into the hall. After listening to the silent house for a few seconds, she turned on the light. Her heart thudded against her breastbone, and her stomach twisted in that familiar something-is-not-right feeling. Lucia’s bedroom was at the end of the hall. Barefoot, Sarah tiptoed down the hall and eased the door open. Light from the hall spilled across the empty bed.

  Relax. Lucia could be downstairs. Maybe the child hadn’t been able to sleep either. Her whole life had been turned upside down. But reasoning aside, Sarah knew this wasn’t what had happened.

  She ran down the stairs. A faint beep sounded from the closet in the foyer. She opened the front door to see Lucia disappear around the corner of the house.

  “Lucia!” Sarah chased her, the grass wet and freezing under her bare feet. As she turned the corner, she heard Cristan calling out from inside the house. “Outside,” she yelled, afraid to slow down. With long legs, Lucia loped across the back lawn like a gazelle. Sarah’s thighs burned as she tried to run faster, but she was losing ground. Lucia was close to the river. What was she doing? Winded, Sarah panted. A stitch in her side slowed her pace.

  She cupped her mouth and yelled, “Lucia!”

  At the riverbank, the teen stopped and turned. A figure stepped out of the woods and beckoned the girl. Alarm burst through Sarah. She broke into a jog again, the cramp forgotten. It was a woman, dressed in dark jeans and a black jacket. She pulled something from her pocket and extended her arm toward Sarah. Moonlight glimmered off metal. A gun.

  “No!” Lucia screamed. “Don’t hurt her.”

  Sarah stopped dead. Cold, clammy sweat gathered under her thick hoodie. “What’s going on, Lucia?”

  The girl hefted her backpack and adjusted her backpack straps. “This is my mother.”

  Eva Vargas was alive?

  Stunned, Sarah stared. How could this be? Cristan had said his wife was dead. Disbelief and terror rolled down her spine. How could she be alive and why did she have a gun pointed at Sarah?

  The woman stepped closer and swept a knit cap from her head. Long, dark hair spilled down her back. Even in the scant moonlight, the resemblance between her and the teen was striking. She also looked very much like the picture of Maria Vargas that Cristan had showed Sarah.

  “But how?” Sarah asked, doubtful. This woman could have lied to entice Lucia from the house.

  “No time to chat right now.” The woman extended her other hand toward Lucia and beckoned with her fingers. “Come with me.” The gun remained pointed at Sarah’s chest.

  Lucia walked forward. The woman snatched the cell phone from the teen’s hands and tossed it onto the grass. “You won’t be needing that.”

  Lucia flinched at the abrupt and harsh treatment. “Lucia, don’t go. Wait for your father.”

  Teary eyed, the teen sniffed. “Why? So he can tell me more lies?”

  Sarah panicked. She didn’t know what had happened, but this woman was dangerous. “He loves you.”

  Eva’s body shifted forward. “I am her mother. She needs to be with me. Christopher has kept us apart long enough.”

  Lucia wavered, her body frozen, indecision flickering in her gaze.

  Eva said, “Luciana, we have to go now.”

  Sarah took advantage of the brief shift of the woman’s eyes. She tucked her cell phone into the kangaroo pocket of her sweatshirt.

  “Sarah! Lucia!” Cristan’s shouts floated over the lawn, but Sarah couldn’t see him. He must be in front of the house looking for them.

  “Hurry.” Backing toward the water, the woman gestured to Lucia. “There is a boat tied to the tree. Undo the rope.”

  Lucia strode down the bank
. Her boots splashed in the shallows.

  Sarah squinted into the shadows. An outboard skiff bobbed on the river as Lucia untied the rope.

  “You’re coming too,” the woman gestured with the gun toward the boat. “Get in.”

  “No,” Lucia said. “Sarah doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Oh, she most certainly does. I might need her for leverage, and if your father thinks he can take another woman while he is still married to me, he is mistaken.” The woman walked forward. She pressed the muzzle of the gun to Sarah’s forehead. “Get in the boat. Now.”

  “Don’t do that to Sarah,” Lucia protested.

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” the woman said in a cold voice. “Your father has pampered you. That will have to change.”

  The woman’s accent sounded similar to Cristan’s. But the harsh tones of her voice lacked the rolling warmth in Cristan’s. Eva was bitter and hostile and dangerous.

  Sarah turned her head. Where was he? She saw his shadow at the rear of the house. Two minutes. That’s all it would take for him to get here. The woman turned away. She grabbed Lucia by the ponytail and pointed the gun at her face.

  Lucia cried out, clamping her hands around the base of her ponytail to relieve the pain. Tears ran down her face. “I’m sorry, Sarah, but you shouldn’t have followed me. I had to come. She’s my mother.”

  “It’s not your fault, Lucia,” Sarah said.

  What kind of person pointed a gun at her own child? Used her own baby for leverage? The kind that Cristan had been protecting Lucia from for over a decade. He’d been smart to keep her hidden. This woman shouldn’t have responsibility for a child any more than Troy should.

  Eva turned her cold, dark eyes on Sarah. “Get. In. The. Boat.”

  Cristan had said his wife was dead. Had he lied or was that what he truly believed? Sarah decided it hardly mattered. He would never put a gun in a child’s face, just as Sarah couldn’t take a chance with a child’s life. She would do whatever Eva wanted to keep Lucia safe.