What Happened to the Bennetts E-Book

Lisa Scottoline

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 493

Beschreibung

From #1 bestselling author Lisa Scottoline comes a pulse-pounding new novel. Your family has been attacked. Now you have to choose between law… and justice. Jason Bennett is a suburban dad whose life takes a horrific turn. He is driving his family home when a pickup truck begins tailgating them. Suddenly two men jump from the pickup and pull guns on Jason, demanding the car. A horrific flash of violence changes his life forever. Later that awful night, Jason and his family receive a visit from the FBI. The agents tell them that the carjackers were members of a dangerous drug-trafficking organization — and now Jason and his family are in their crosshairs. The agents advise the Bennetts to enter the witness protection program. But WITSEC was not designed to protect law-abiding families. Trapped in an unfamiliar life, the Bennetts begin to fall apart at the seams. Then Jason learns a shocking truth and realizes that he has to take matters into his own hands. Sometimes justice is a one-man show.

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Praise for What Happened to the Bennetts

‘Lisa Scottoline’s thrillers are always tight, taut page-turners, packed with action and risk and suspense. In What Happened to the Bennetts, she crafts fresh intensity because of the powerful emotions at stake, reassembling like kaleidoscope pieces with every fresh scene… Clear the calendar before you start reading; What Happened to the Bennetts is so good you may not want to put it down until the hard-won and well-earned finale’ New York Journal of Books

‘Scottoline tosses in explosive new complications in the most relentless of all her mysteries… A high-octane thriller whose hero is tossed into one impossible situation after another. Best started early in the morning’ Kirkus Reviews (The Best Books of 2022)

‘This heart-wrenching novel… morphs into a high-speed, action-packed thriller… Scottoline’s fans will get their money’s worth’ Publishers Weekly

‘What Happened to the Bennetts is a well-written and fast-paced crime thriller, with lots of clever twists. Crime aficionados will enjoy this novel’ 
Washington Times

‘Scottoline just keeps ratcheting up the pressure in what may be her most emotionally intense nail-biter to date’ People

‘A must-read book’ USA Today

‘Just might be the best book Scottoline has ever written, a masterpiece of misdirection, where nothing is as it seems, and a scorching character study of a man at the end of his rope who’s not about to go down without a fight’ Providence Journal

‘Twisty, propulsive and exhilarating. From this novel’s first pages, Scottoline caroms us into a heart-throttling journey as the Bennett family must navigate both urgent dangers and their own complicated pasts – all while the clock ticks. What Happened to the Bennetts left me dazzled and breathless’ Megan Abbott, author of The Turnout

‘An emotion-packed thriller that stabs at the core of family, betrayal, and justice. Scottoline drives the plot at breakneck speed and keeps readers turning the pages. A must read’ Robert Dugoni, author of the Tracy Croswhite series

‘Scottoline is at the top of her already masterful game in this gripping thriller about parental love. From its opening, heart-grabbing pages, What Happened to the Bennetts is compulsively readable, seamlessly delivering one blazing twist after another with relentless pacing. You won’t be able to put this one down’ Alafair Burke, author of Find Me

‘In What Happened to the Bennetts, Scottoline thrusts the reader into one family’s living nightmare – and their long, nail-biting battle to return to some sense of normalcy’ Riley Sager, author of Survive the Night

‘Scottoline’s gift for crafting human connections is displayed here… setting this thriller apart from other suburban-hero stories. A good choice for Greg Hurwitz and Harlan Coben fans’ Booklist

‘[Scottoline’s] best thriller… Fast-paced with so many twists and turns, and I felt like something happened on every page’
 Bookreporter

Praise for other Scottoline thrillers

‘Scottoline writes riveting thrillers that keep me up all night, with plots that twist and turn’ Harlan Coben, author of The Match

‘Scottoline is a powerhouse’ David Baldacci, author of Mercy

‘Scottoline is one of the very best writers today’ Michael Connelly, author of The Dark Hours

‘Scottoline knows how to keep readers in her grip’ New York Times Book Review

They’re all for Francesca, with lots of love

PART ONE

Nothing good gets away.

– John Steinbeck’s letter to his son Thom, 1958

1

I glanced in my rearview mirror at the pickup truck, which was riding my bumper. I hated tailgaters, especially with my family in the car, but nothing could ruin my good mood. My daughter’s field hockey team had just beat Radnor, and Allison had scored a goal. She was texting in the back seat, one of a generation that makes better use of opposable thumbs than any prior.

My son Ethan turned around next to her, shielding his eyes against the pickup’s headlights. ‘Dad, what’s up with this guy?’

‘God knows. Ignore him.’

‘Why don’t you go faster?’ Ethan shifted, waking up Moonie, our little white mutt, who started jumping around in the back seat. I love the dog but he has two speeds: Asleep and Annoying.

‘Why should I? I’m going the limit.’

‘But we can smoke this guy now.’

We had just gotten a new car, a Mercedes E-Class sedan in a white enamel that gleamed like dental veneers. Ethan said the E stood for his name, but I said Exorbitant. My wife and kids had lobbied for the car, but I felt like a show-off behind the wheel. I missed my old Explorer, which I didn’t need a tie to drive.

‘Dad, when I get my license, I’m gonna burn guys like him.’

I heard this once a week. My son counted the days until his learner’s permit, even though he was only thirteen. I said, ‘No, you’re not. You’re gonna let him pass.’

‘Why?’

‘We have a right to enjoy the drive.’

‘But it’s boring.’

‘Not to me. I’m a scenic-route kind of guy.’ I moved over to let the pickup pass, since Coldstream Road was a single lane winding uphill through the woods. We were entering the Lagersen Tract, the last parcel of woodland preserved by Chester County, where Nature had to be zoned for her own protection.

I lowered the window and breathed in a lungful of fresh, piney air. Thick trees flanked the road, and scrub brush grew over the guardrails. Crickets and tree frogs croaked a chorus from my childhood. I grew up on a dairy farm in Hershey, home of the famous chocolate manufacturer. I loved living in a company town, where the air smelled of sweet cocoa and corporate largesse. Everyone worked toward the same goal, even if it was capitalism.

‘He’s not passing us,’ Ethan said, bringing me out of my reverie.

I checked the rearview mirror, squinting against the headlights. Moonie was facing backward, his front paws on the back seat and his ears silhouetted like wispy triangles.

‘Come on, Dad. Show ’em who’s boss.’

‘That’s well-established,’ I said. ‘Mom.’

Lucinda was in the passenger seat, the curve of her smile illuminated by the phone screen. She was a natural beauty, with gray-blue eyes, a small nose, and dark blond hair gathered into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. She had been on Facebook since we’d left the school, posting game photos and comments. Great save by Arielle!!! Lady Patriots rock!!! Woohoo, Emily is MVP!!! My wife never uses fewer than three exclamation marks on social. If you only get one, you’ve done something wrong. Or as my father would say, You’re in the doghouse.

Lucinda looked over. ‘Jason, speed up, would you?’

‘You, too? What’s the hurry?’

‘They have homework.’

‘On Friday night? Have you met our kids?’

Lucinda smiled, shaking her head. ‘Whatever, Scenic-Route Kind of Guy.’

‘Aw, I feel so seen.’

Lucinda laughed, which made me happy. I love my wife. We met at Bucknell, where she was an art major and I was a workstudy jock slinging mac and cheese in the dining hall, wearing a hairnet, no less. She could’ve had her pick, but I made her laugh. Also she loves mac and cheese.

‘Dad, listen to this.’ Allison looked up, her thumbs still flying. She could text without looking at the keyboard, which she called her superpower. ‘My friends just voted you Hottest Dad.’

I smiled. ‘They’re absolutely right. There’s a reason I was Homecoming King.’

‘Dude, no. Never say that again.’ Allison snorted, texting. ‘We don’t even have that anymore.’

Lucinda rolled her eyes. ‘Allison, who came in second?’

I added, ‘Yeah, what troll came in second?’

Allison kept texting. ‘Brianna M’s dad.’

I scoffed. ‘Ron McKinney? Please, no contest. I got the bubble butt.’

Allison smiled. ‘Stop it!’

‘I bet I can twerk, Al. Show you when we get home.’

‘Nobody twerks anymore.’ Allison snorted again, texting away. ‘OMG, they’re saying you look like Kyle Chandler.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘The dad from Friday Night Lights. We watched it together. You remember. Also the dad in Bloodline.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A show on Netflix.’

‘Never saw it.’

‘Anyway, you look like him, except he’s way hotter.’

I smiled. ‘Okay, but can he twerk?’

Allison burst into laughter, and I glanced in the rearview mirror to see her, but the headlights of the pickup truck were too bright. The outline of her head bent over her phone, then I saw the bump of a skinny headband, and the spray of shorter hairs coming from her double ponytail. Those ponytail holders were all over the house, and I fished them from the dog’s mouth on a weekly basis.

Ethan kept twisting around. ‘Dad, if I were driving, I’d speed up.’

Allison added, ‘Seriously.’

‘Me, too,’ Lucinda joined in, still on her phone.

‘Okay, I’m convinced.’ I pressed the gas pedal, and the Mercedes responded instantly. We accelerated up the hill, hugging the sharp curve to the left.

Oddly the black pickup truck chose that moment to pass us, a dark and dusty blur roaring by with two men in the cab. It crammed us against the guardrail, and I veered to the right, barely fitting on the street.

Suddenly the pickup pulled in front of us and stopped abruptly, blocking our way.

I slammed on the brakes and we shuddered to a stop, inches from the truck. We lurched forward in our seat belts. Lucinda gasped. Moonie started barking.

‘It’s okay,’ I said, instinctively reversing to put distance between us and the truck. I scanned for an escape route, but there wasn’t one. I couldn’t fit around the truck. I couldn’t reverse down the street because of the blind curve.

Two men emerged from the pickup, illuminated by our headlights. The driver was big, with shredded arms covered by tattooed sleeves. His eyes were slits under a prominent forehead and long, dark hair. His passenger wasn’t as muscular, but had on a similar dark T-shirt and baggy jeans. The driver said something to him as they approached.

I inhaled to calm myself. If it was road rage, I could defuse the situation. I had a year of law school, so I could bullshit with anybody. Otherwise I was six foot three, played middle linebacker in high school, and stayed in decent shape.

Lucinda groaned. ‘Should I call 911?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Dad?’ Allison sounded nervous.

‘What do they want?’ Ethan stuck his head between the seats, and Moonie barked, the harsh sound reverberating in the car.

‘Don’t worry. Lucinda, lock the doors.’

‘Okay, but be careful.’

I climbed out of the car and closed the door behind me, hearing the reassuring thunk of the locks engage. The men reached me, and I straightened. ‘Gentlemen, is there a—’

‘We’re taking the car.’ The driver pulled a handgun and aimed it at my face. ‘Get everybody out.’

‘Okay, fine. Relax. Don’t hurt anybody. This is my family.’ I turned to the car and spotted Lucinda’s phone glowing through the windshield. She must have been calling 911. The carjackers saw her at the same time.

‘Drop it!’ The passenger pulled a gun and aimed it at her.

‘No, don’t shoot!’ I moved in the way, raising my arms. ‘Honey, everybody, out of the car!’

Lucinda lowered the phone, the screen dropping in a blur of light.

Allison emerged from the back seat, her eyes wide. ‘Dad, they have guns.’

‘It’s okay, honey. Come here.’ I put a hand on her shoulder and maneuvered her behind me. Lucinda was coming around the back of the car with Ethan, who held a barking Moonie, dragging his leash. They reached me, and I faced the men.

‘Okay, take the car,’ I told them, my chest tight.

‘Wait.’ The passenger eyed Allison, and a leering smile spread across his face. ‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’

No. My mouth went dry. ‘Take the car and go.’

Suddenly Moonie leapt from Ethan’s arms and launched himself at the men. They jumped back, off-balance. The driver fired an earsplitting blast, just missing Moonie.

My ears rang. I whirled around.

Allison had been struck. Blood spurted from her neck in a gruesome fan. She was reeling.

No! I rushed to her just as she collapsed in my arms. I eased her down to the street. Her mouth gaped open. Her throat emitted gulping sounds. Blood poured from her neck. My hand flew there to stop the flow. The blood felt hideously wet and warm.

Allison’s lips were moving. She was trying to talk, to breathe.

‘Honey, you’ve been hit,’ I told her. ‘Stay calm.’ I tore off my shirt, breaking the buttons. I bunched it up and pressed it against her neck. I couldn’t see the wound. It scared me to death. ‘Lucinda, call 911.’

‘My phone’s in the car!’ Lucinda grabbed Allison’s hand, beginning to sob.

Suddenly the gun fired again behind us, another earsplitting blast.

We crouched in terror. Lucinda screamed. I didn’t know who had been shot. I looked around wildly, shocked to find that one carjacker had shot the other. The driver stood over the passenger, who lay motionless on the street, blood pooling under his head. The driver dropped the gun and ran to the pickup. I spotted his license plate before he sped off. A sudden brightness told me another car was coming up Coldstream.

‘Dad, here’s Allison’s phone!’ Ethan thrust it at me. My bloody fingers smeared the screen, which came to life with a photo of Moonie in sunglasses.

I thumbed to the phone function and pressed 911. The call connected. I held the phone to my ear to hear over the dog’s barking.

The 911 dispatcher asked, ‘What is your emergency?’

‘My daughter’s been shot in the neck. Two men tried to carjack us on Coldstream Road near the turnpike overpass.’ I struggled to think through my fear. Allison was making gulping sounds. She was losing blood fast, drenching my shirt. My hands were slick with my daughter’s lifeblood, slipping warm through my fingers.

‘Sir, is she awake and responsive?’

‘Yes, send an ambulance! Hurry!’

‘Apply direct pressure to the wound. Use a compress—’

‘I am, please send—’

‘An ambulance is on the way.’

‘Please! Hurry!’

Allison’s eyelids fluttered. She coughed. Pinkish bubbles frothed at the corners of her mouth. ‘Daddy?’

My heart lurched. She hadn’t called me that since she was little.

I told her what I wanted to believe: ‘You’re going to be okay.’

2

The waiting room of the emergency department was harshly bright, and the mint-green walls were lined with idealized landscapes of foxhunts. Green-padded chairs had been arranged in two rectangles, forming rooms without walls. The front section held a handful of people, but we had the back to ourselves. Wrinkled magazines lay on end tables, ignored in favor of phones. There was a kids’ playroom behind a plexiglass wall next to vending machines.

I had been in this waiting room so many times over the years, for so many reasons. Allison’s broken arm. Ethan’s random falls. Once, a moth flew into Lucinda’s ear. Every parent knows the local emergency room, but not like this. Never before had I seen anyone look like us, right now.

The three of us huddled together, shocked and stricken. Allison had been taken to surgery. My undershirt was stiffening with drying blood, and Lucinda had spatters on her Lady Patriots sweatshirt and bloody patches on her jeans. She had stopped crying and rested her head on my right shoulder. Ethan’s T-shirt was flecked with blood, though the fabric was black and it didn’t show except for the white N in Nike. He slumped on my left, and I had an arm around each of them.

‘She’ll be okay, right?’ Lucinda asked, hushed.

‘Yes,’ I answered, but I was scared out of my mind. ‘How was she in the ambulance?’

‘Okay. She didn’t panic. You know her.’

‘Yes.’ I nodded. Allison had a high pain threshold. At lacrosse camp, she broke her arm in the morning and didn’t tell her coach until lunch.

‘The EMT was in the back, I had to sit in the front. He was nice. He talked to her. He called in her vital signs.’

‘How were they?’

‘Her blood pressure was low.’ Lucinda started wringing her hands. I remembered her doing that when her sister Caitlin was dying of breast cancer, five years ago. I hugged her closer.

An older couple shuffled in together and took a seat in our section, glancing around. The husband had a walker with new tennis balls on the bottom, and he walked ahead with concentration. His wife noticed us, then plastered her gaze to the TV, showing the news on closed-captioning.

Lucinda wiped her nose with a balled-up Kleenex. ‘Jason, do you know what she said to me in the ambulance? She told me not to worry.’

Tears stung my eyes. ‘What a kid.’

‘I know.’ Lucinda sniffled. ‘I wonder how long the surgery will be.’

‘They have to repair the vein. I think it was a vein, not an artery.’

‘How do you know?’

‘If it were an artery, like the carotid, the blood would have pulsed out.’ I hoped I was right. Any medical information I had was from malpractice depositions, of which I’d done hundreds. I was a court reporter, which made me a font of information about completely random subjects. It wasn’t always a good thing.

‘We were supposed to look for a homecoming dress tomorrow. She found one she liked at the mall. She saw it with Courtney.’

I remembered. Allison had shown me a picture on her phone. The dress was nice, white with skinny straps. She would have looked great in it. She had the wiry, lean build of an athlete. She worried it would make her butt look flat.

Allison, your butt isn’t flat.

Dad, you don’t know. You just love me.

I had so many nicknames for her. Al, Alsford, The Duchess of Alfordshire, and The Alimentary Canal because she ate like a horse. She called me Dad or Dude. I was an involved father, according to my wife. I was present in my children’s lives. I sold raffle tickets and bought gigantic candy bars that I gave out at work. I taught both kids to pitch and saw that Allison was the better athlete.

Lucinda sniffled again. ‘I assume they’ll keep her a few days, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I suppose I could pick it up for her.’

‘Pick what up?’

Ethan looked over, his eyes glistening. ‘The dress, Dad.’

‘Right.’ I was too upset to think, it just didn’t show. I couldn’t follow the conversation. My wife talked more when she was upset, but I talked less. I was lost in my own thoughts. I was lost.

Lucinda wiped her nose. ‘I hope she can still go to homecoming. She’s so excited. I think she really likes Troy.’

‘I know.’ Troy was Allison’s boyfriend of two months, already lasting longer than her last boyfriend. I liked Troy because he was as smart as she was, a true scholar athlete. He was on the quiet side, but I learned from having Ethan that there’s more to introverts than meets the eye. My son had a circle of friends, but needed time to himself.

‘I got her a hair appointment the same day as the dance. They all want to get in the morning of, but they don’t want to miss the game. It was impossible, but I got her in.’ Lucinda’s voice carried an unmistakable note of mom pride.

‘Way to go.’

‘She wants beachy waves.’

Beachy waves. I’d been hearing that a lot. I knew it was a thing. Allison had beautiful hair, but she thought it didn’t have enough volume.

Dad, I hate my hair, it’s so flat.

Like your butt?

Lucinda was saying, ‘Do you think they’ll tell us something soon?’

‘Yes, as soon as they can. They know what they’re doing.’

‘Right, they do. It’s a good hospital.’

‘It is.’ I squeezed her hand. We had often discussed the relative merits of Paoli Hospital, routinely rated among the top in the Philadelphia area. Lucinda had researched the hospitals before we moved here, and she became an expert on them and schools, comparing what the districts spent on instructional costs versus the state and national medians. My wife did the homework; we had that in common. Her mother had been the same way and her father had been a CEO of PennValue, a big insurance brokerage in Allentown. My father used to say she came from money, as if it were an actual place. Moneytown.

‘Dad, do you think Moonie’s okay?’ Ethan looked over, his eyes pained. They were blue, a shade lighter than Allison’s. I was the only brown-eyed one in the family. Well, me and Moonie.

‘Yes,’ I told him. We had left the dog in the police cruiser, since the Mercedes was being impounded by the police.

‘Don’t be mad at him.’ Ethan hung his head, showing a gelled whorl of light brown hair, combed from a low side part. I supposed the style started with Justin Bieber, but Lucinda and I both hoped it would end soon.

‘I’m not. Why would I be?’

‘I thought you would say it was his fault, but it wasn’t.’

‘No, it wasn’t.’ I managed a smile to reassure him, but Ethan didn’t smile back. His face was rounder than Allison’s, his eyes were narrower set and his build skinnier. I tended to define him in relationship to his sister, which I knew wasn’t a good thing, but as an only child, I found their differences fascinating. His skin tone was lighter, too. He had a sprinkling of small freckles on his upturned nose, since he got my thin Irish skin.

Ethan’s face fell. ‘It was my fault.’

Lucinda reached for his hand. ‘Ethan, no, it wasn’t. Why would you say such a thing?’

‘I should’ve held him tighter. If I had, Allison would be fine. I shouldn’t have let him jump out.’

Lucinda’s gaze met mine, her expression agonized. We both knew our son could not bear this burden. He was the more sensitive of the two, carrying his hurts around like a backpack. Meanwhile he began looking down at his hands, where blood had dried within the lines in his palm.

‘Ethan, listen.’ I squeezed his shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault.’

‘Why not?’ Ethan’s troubled gaze lifted to me, and his lip caught on his braces, like it did when his mouth went dry. I knew he wanted an answer, since he was the kind of kid who needed to be reasoned with, not just told.

Because I said so, my father would have said, but that didn’t work with my son.

‘Ethan, you’re saying Allison would be fine, but for your letting go of Moonie, right? But that’s bad reasoning. Your letting go of Moonie is just the but-for cause.’ I was dredging up first-year torts class, from before I dropped out. ‘There’s a bunch of other but-fors, and none of them is the real cause.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, think about it. How about, “Allison would be fine, but for the fact that we won the game”? Or “Allison would be fine, but for the fact we stayed late to celebrate”? Or “Allison would be fine, but for the fact we have a new Mercedes”?’ I spotted Lucinda wince, so I moved on. ‘But-for is the same trap as what-if. You drive yourself crazy with possibilities. There’s only one cause, and it’s the carjackers. They did it. It’s their fault.’

‘But Moonie—’

‘Not Moonie, not you. Them.’ My face went hot. I suddenly felt like I was raging inside, my emotions all over the lot. ‘The two of them, they’re scum. Violent, stupid, evil men. They aren’t worth one hair on your sister’s head. They’re the ones at fault, and I want them to rot in jail. I want them to suffer every damn day of their miserable lives and—’

‘The one’s already dead, Dad.’

Lucinda’s eyes flared. ‘Honey, we were talking about Ethan.’

‘I am talking about Ethan. I don’t want Ethan to blame himself for what that scum did to Allison.’

Ethan looked down. ‘I get it, Dad.’

Lucinda looked shaky. ‘Your dad’s just upset, is all.’

I turned away, trying to calm down. I wished I knew how Allison was doing in surgery. I loved that child to the marrow. She was everything I could’ve asked for in a daughter. Strong, smart, funny, bold. More blunt than tactful. More sensitive than she looked. My father always said she was like a draft horse, that way. Big and strong, but not always rough and tumble. Growing up, we had a great brown draft, named Chocolate Soldier.

He’s a gentle giant, that one. Don’t use the shank on him.

Allison worried more than she should have, about everything. Hair, body, GPA, extracurriculars, PSAT practice courses, and blackheads in the T-zone, whatever that was. She looked like Lucinda, but her blue eyes were narrower, and she had a long, straight nose and a big smile, now that her braces were off. She had brown hair that she wanted to highlight and lowlight. To her, nothing was as good as it should have been. I never understood. I wouldn’t have changed a thing about her. Good enough for government work, my father said all the time.

I shifted in the chair. My mouth had gone dry. It was impossible that Allison was lying on an operating table, down the hall behind double doors. Every instinct told me to be at her side. Then I remembered I had been at her side on Coldstream Road. She had bled in the street with me right there.

The thought made me furious, and inside I boiled over with rage at the carjackers, at the world, and most of all, at myself.

Daddy?

I spotted two men in suits entering the waiting room, looking around in an official way. They had to be the county detectives, who were supposed to meet us here.

I jumped to my feet.

3

The detectives headed in our direction. The older one looked to be in his late fifties with a thick bristle of gray hair, hooded brown eyes, and a sunglasses-tan. His sunburnt cheeks were jowly, and his lips a somber line. He was tallish and lean, holding a folder with a gold emblem on its brown plastic cover. The other man was younger, and his dark sport coat looked boxy on his frame. His hair was slicked back and his nose had a pronounced bump.

I extended a hand to the older one. ‘I’m Jason Bennett, I assume you’re the detectives.’

‘Yes. Bill Willoughby, Detective Sergeant of the Chester County District Attorney’s Office. This is my partner, Jim—’

‘Did you get him?’ I interrupted, unable to hold back.

‘No, not yet. My partner is Jim Balleu. We’re sorry about your daughter. We know this is a difficult—’

‘I gave the cops descriptions of the driver, the pickup, the license plate, everything. I don’t know if they told you—’

‘Yes, they did. Now, if we could speak with you.’

‘Sure, of course. Please.’ I gestured to the chairs, then realized I hadn’t introduced Lucinda and Ethan, so I did.

Detective Willoughby sat down. ‘Mrs Bennett, we’re sorry to disturb you now.’

‘I understand.’ Lucinda nodded.

‘We won’t keep you long.’ Detective Willoughby opened his folder, which held a fresh legal pad and a silver Cross pen. Detective Balleu sat down next to him and tugged a reporter’s notebook from his jacket pocket while I started talking.

‘You shouldn’t have a problem catching the guy. He drove a black pickup, a Chevy. Maybe five or six years old.’

‘We got that message.’ Detective Willoughby made a note in his pad.

‘Plus you have the other guy, dead at the scene. You must be able to find out who he is. His wallet or phone are probably on him. His fingerprints must be on the gun.’

‘We will, rest assured—’

‘I mean, you have to find the driver. He’s the guy who shot my daughter. He shot my daughter.’ I spat out the words. I couldn’t help it. All that rage exiting my body, blowing through the doors. ‘I want you to catch him and prosecute him to the fullest extent. I want him in jail for the rest of his life.’

Lucinda dabbed her eyes. Ethan slumped, his hands in his lap.

‘Okay.’ Detective Willoughby nodded. ‘Now, if you could tell us what happened.’

‘Like I told the cops, they pulled in front of us, then said they were going to take the car.’

‘And you resisted?’

‘No. Why would I? I care about my family, not a car.’

Detective Willoughby furrowed his short brow. ‘But one of the perpetrators was killed—’

‘I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill anybody.’ I realized they thought I had done it. I wished I had. I should have. ‘The other carjacker killed him. Didn’t the cops tell you? I told them.’

Lucinda recoiled. ‘My husband didn’t kill anybody. He would never.’

Detective Willoughby looked from Lucinda to me. ‘So you’re telling me perpetrator one killed perpetrator two?’

‘Yes.’ It bothered me the cops at the scene hadn’t told them. I wondered what else the cops hadn’t said. I needed to have faith in these guys.

Lucinda cleared her throat. ‘We were trying to help our daughter. We were bent over her, and Jason was trying to stop her bleeding. I heard another shot, and then, um, well—’

‘I’ll tell it,’ I interrupted, to save her from having to continue. ‘We heard the shot, turned around, and saw that the driver had shot the passenger.’

Detective Willoughby glanced skeptically at the other detective, which made me mad.

‘Don’t tell me you don’t believe me.’

‘We didn’t say—’

‘You didn’t have to. Don’t start with me, not tonight. My daughter’s in there fighting for her life.’

Lucinda grimaced, her eyes flying open, and I realized I had said the wrong thing. We hadn’t acknowledged that Allison was fighting for her life. I hadn’t even known I thought it until it came out of my mouth.

‘Mr Bennett, you can understand, it’s unusual for one perpetrator to—’

‘It’s what happened.’ I raised my voice, unable to control my tone. It wasn’t like me, but I didn’t care. ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

Lucinda took my arm. ‘Honey, calm down. Really.’

Detective Willoughby pursed his lips. ‘Sorry, we got off on the wrong foot.’

‘Accusations will do that,’ I shot back. I couldn’t apologize. Not tonight.

‘So let’s begin at the beginning. What happened?’

‘They pulled in front of us and blocked the road. Then they got out of the truck and walked toward us.’

‘Were their weapons drawn?’

‘No, not at first. They were talking.’ I remembered something I hadn’t before. ‘The driver said to the passenger, “You go left, Junior.”’

Lucinda looked over.

Ethan blinked.

I added, ‘Good, so you know his name, or his nickname, if you didn’t find out from his wallet.’

Detective Willoughby wrote in his pad. His Cross pen gleamed in the overhead lights. ‘You heard him?’

‘No. I was still inside the car.’

‘Then how do you know what he said?’

‘I read his lips. I could see his face in the headlights.’

Detective Willoughby blinked. ‘So you don’t know what he said for a fact.’

‘Yes, I do. I read lips.’

Ethan perked up. ‘He really does. My sister says it’s his superpower.’

I forced a smile for Ethan, then faced Detective Willoughby. ‘I lip-read, as a registered merit reporter.’

‘Is that like a court reporter?’

‘Yes, but licensed in specialized areas.’

‘What does that have to do with reading lips?’

‘My job is about accuracy. Lip-reading increases my accuracy.’

‘You work in court?’

‘No, we’re private. Court reporters in court are state or municipal employees.’ I wanted to talk about my daughter, not my job, but Detective Willoughby was taking notes.

‘Your business is located where?’

‘West Chester. Can we get back to what happened?’

‘Okay, please resume.’

I went on to explain, telling every detail as best as I could, remaining in emotional control by defaulting to work mode, as if the question-and-answer were a transcript. I visualized my sentences the way I would write them, in the old-school Courier font we still use, so heavy on the page that it was embossed. The testimony would form an official record, considered the truth in any court of law, and on the final page of the original, I would sign under my oath, warranting that the words were true and correct.

Just then an older doctor in a white coat appeared at the entrance to the waiting room. He had short gray hair and thick wire-rimmed glasses, and his gaze swept the room.

Lucinda straightened. ‘Is that her doctor? Does he want us?’

I stood up, but the doctor crossed to the older couple, shook their hands, and they rose as a group and left.

Lucinda sighed, anxious. ‘They came in after us, didn’t they?’

I sat down. ‘I don’t remember.’

Ethan interjected, ‘It’s not like Cheesecake Factory, Mom.’

Detective Willoughby closed his folder, slipping his Cross pen inside. ‘Okay, I think that will do for tonight. We’ll follow up in the days to come.’

Detective Balleu flipped his pad closed. ‘Yes, thank you.’

‘So can we talk later?’ I rose, shaking their hands.

‘Of course.’ Detective Willoughby nodded. ‘We’ll keep you apprised of any developments as they occur. We’ll do our best to bring this man to justice. By the way, we ask you not to talk to any reporters. Or post about this on social media.’

‘We weren’t planning to.

Lucinda added, ‘Of course not.’

They both bade us a quick goodbye, and left.

In the next moment, the gray-haired doctor reappeared in the threshold of the waiting room, catching my eye behind his glasses. His somber gaze communicated something man-to-man something primal. I didn’t know if I was imagining it. It couldn’t be. Suddenly I wondered if he’d moved the older couple to give us privacy.

No, no, no. I found myself shaking my head.

The doctor walked toward us, his lined face falling into grave folds. ‘Mr and Mrs Bennett? I’m Mark Chen, head of emergency surgery.’

Lucinda jumped up. ‘How is she?’

‘Please have a seat.’ Dr Chen gestured to the chair, then sat down opposite us, and we both sank into the chairs.

No, I thought. No, this cannot be. No, I do not want to hear this.

Dr Chen took Lucinda’s hands. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bennett, Mr Bennett. Your daughter passed away. We tried everything. There was nothing we could do.’

No, you cannot say that, no, no, no, and no.

My heart wrenched so deeply that I lost my breath. It felt like a shock wave blasting me in the chest. The world blurred, fuzzy and far away. The doctor, the waiting room, the TV.

‘No!’ Lucinda wailed, which brought me to my senses. I reacted reflexively, pulling her closer, trying to steady her. Ethan burst into tears, so I gathered him under my other arm, holding on to both of them.

I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to wail and howl in disbelief and fury. Lucinda sobbed, tears pouring from her eyes. Ethan cried like a little boy, a sound I didn’t know I remembered until now.

I knew we could not all fall to pieces at the same time. I was Daddy. I was the center, and the center had to hold. I tried to make sense of it. My voice came out choked. ‘What… happened?’

‘The gunshot severed her jugular veins and tore other vessels and muscle. She sustained significant blood loss.’ Dr Chen’s eyebrows sloped like a roof sagging under snowfall. ‘I’m so sorry. We tried everything.’

‘Explain it to me, please.’ I needed to understand. I was trying to comprehend something incomprehensible.

‘The external jugular vein is large and on top of the muscle that enables you to turn your head. It was severed by the bullet, which went through the front of her neck on the left and exited out the back, causing her to lose a massive amount of blood.’

My gaze fell to the doctor’s hands. I realized they were the last to touch my daughter alive.

‘A young person has roughly ten pints of blood. At a fifth of blood loss, a body goes into shock. Your daughter lost almost half.’

I flashed on the horrific memory. I couldn’t speak. I could barely hear him.

‘We transfused her, but she had a cardiac arrest.’

I shook my head. ‘Her… heart? Her heart is… perfect, it’s strong. She’s an athlete, a superb athlete.’

‘Yes, but with significant blood loss—’

‘I tried to stop it with my shirt.’

‘That was the proper protocol. You did everything right. You did everything you could have.’

I knew why the doctor was saying that. I could see it in his knowing eyes and hear it in his gentle tone. He didn’t want me to blame myself. But I hadn’t asked because I wanted absolution.

I would never absolve myself.

Ever.

4

The next hours at the hospital were a blur, and I traveled through them numbly. Dr Chen told us they had to perform an autopsy on Allison, which made Lucinda cry harder – they can’t do this to her, we can’t let them – the prospect eviscerating her as if she were the one being emptied of her organs, reduced to a hollowed-out shell of a mother.

I held her close. She wanted to see Allison’s body, and they showed us to an operating room. We left Ethan in an anteroom with a nurse, guessing that it would have been too much for him, and we turned out to be right. The OR was empty, chilly, and immaculate, filled with gleaming equipment and lined with cabinets. The overhead fixture was shaped like a saucer, and only a few lights had been turned on, illuminating a gurney of molded plastic, which held a body covered by a white paper sheet. There was a large bump at the head and little bumps at the feet.

Lucinda burst into new tears, and I managed not to fall to pieces when I walked her to the gurney and moved the paper aside, just enough to see the beautiful face of my daughter. It wasn’t possible I was seeing her this way, now. It couldn’t be happening.

Her eyes were closed. Her skin was pale. Her hair was darker at the hairline, dried sweat from the game. Her headband was gone. A faint reddish line from an oxygen mask encircled her mouth, where only hours before had been a blue mouth guard. She still wore a retainer at night.

I didn’t dare lower the paper sheet another inch. I knew we couldn’t handle seeing the wound on Allison’s neck. I covered her face again, and Lucinda collapsed, sobbing against our daughter’s chest.

I rubbed Lucinda’s back, but didn’t succumb to emotion. I couldn’t. Lucinda bent over to hug Allison, crying so hard I worried she would never stop. In time, a nurse came to the window and caught my eye, and I sensed they needed the room.

I signaled to her for a few more minutes, stalling, not wanting to leave my daughter here, behind, for good, forever. I found myself reaching under the sheet to touch Allison’s cheek one last time. It was cool but soft in the way of young people, full of promise. I felt my heart break. Tears blurred my eyes. My daughter could’ve done anything, she could’ve been anyone. I wanted her to be whatever she wanted to be. I wanted her to be alive. I had taken alive for granted.

Anguish tore me up, and I understood why mourners shredded their clothes. I found myself saying I am so sorry I am so sorry, then I realized I was entering dangerous emotional territory, my rage resurfacing. I clenched my teeth so hard I couldn’t say another word.

Lucinda mopped her eyes before we collected Ethan, and she sagged as we were led to the police cruiser, where Moonie barked with happiness, oblivious. Ethan scooped the dog up, buried his face in his coarse coat, and hugged him in the back seat, crying all the way home.

Somehow we got upstairs, and Lucinda and I brought Ethan into our bedroom, cuddling with him. The bedroom was dark except for ambient light from the window that faced the street. The curtains were open, and I could see the cedar shakes of the Brophys’ roof and the zigzag tree line of the Whitmans’ wind-screen across the street. The blue Nittany Lions flag in front of the Corbuzes’, next door. All the markers of my life, still in place. Except everything had changed.

Lucinda’s tears subsided, her sobs finally ceasing. Ethan fell asleep in time. I closed my eyes to the rhythm of his respiration, one breath after the other, in and out of his lungs. I didn’t know what to do or what to think. I didn’t understand. It had all happened so fast. It was as if she slipped through my fingers. My hands were still sticky with her blood, dry now, flaking off. It itched. It seared.

I needed to reconfigure who I was. I was still her father, but she was gone. I had only one living child now, just a boy, my son.

I would always be Allison’s father, even without Allison. Lucinda whispered, ‘You awake?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t know… our baby girl.’

I hugged her tighter, in the darkness.

‘It’s… this is… unreal.’

‘I feel the same way.’

‘We’re here… without… her. She’s too… young… she has everything… her whole… life.’ Lucinda began to cry again. ‘Why… why her… why? She was so… great… she was just a great kid… and now, now, that’s it? That’s her… life? Her whole… entire life?’

I closed my eyes.

‘She wasn’t even sixteen… we were just talking about… what kind of… party…’

I swallowed hard. Allison’s birthday was January 18. It would have been her sweet sixteen. Most of her friends were already sixteen. She hated that. She was competitive.

‘She doesn’t… get to graduate? Go to… college? Get married?’

I couldn’t even get that far.

‘This happened… to her? This is what happens?’

I felt the same, that this was unfathomable.

‘What will… we do? What? How?’ Lucinda fell silent a moment, then whispered, ‘Do you know what’s… the worst?’

‘Everything,’ I whispered back, without thinking.

‘Yes,’ Lucinda said, after a minute. ‘She was… my best friend.’

‘I’m so sorry, honey,’ I said. It was true. Lucinda and Allison were best friends. Lucinda had other girlfriends, like Melissa. They were field hockey and lacrosse moms, walking buddies, yoga on Mondays and Thursdays. But none was as close as Allison.

‘We were… two peas…’

She didn’t have to finish the sentence. I said it all the time. Mother and daughter were so much alike they were almost the same person. They looked alike, they even had the same walk, slightly duck-toed. They both talked too fast. They were both all over everything. Intense, strong.

‘I loved her… I love her so… much… Ethan loved her… we loved her…’

‘We always will.’

Lucinda cried harder. Tears filled my eyes, but I held them back. I was already feeling the weight of the awful tasks ahead. I would have to call the funeral home in the morning. Make an appointment to choose a casket. We would tell Allison’s friends, our friends. Troy, the new boyfriend. The coaches, the school. Lucinda would cancel the coveted day-of appointment for beachy waves. She would have to pick out Allison’s dress.

Not for homecoming.

Forever and ever.

I awoke to Moonie’s barking downstairs, then the doorbell ringing. I reached for my phone to check the time. Three-fifteen a.m. I had no idea who would be here at this hour, then realized it could be the detectives. Maybe they had caught the guy.

I jumped out of bed and flew from the room, still in my bloody undershirt. I hurried downstairs to find Moonie barking and jumping around the entrance hall, his nails clicking on the hardwood.

I looked through the window in the front door and saw two men in suits. The one in front was a trim, fit African American about my age. He spotted me, then held up a bifold wallet that read FBI under a golden badge. Behind him stood a younger White man with short brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a blocky build, holding up his own FBI bifold ID.

I didn’t know what the FBI wanted, but I opened the door. ‘Hello—’

‘Mr Bennett, I’m Special Agent Dom Kingston of the FBI, out of Philly. This is my partner, Special Agent Michael Hallman. Our condolences on the loss of your daughter. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. May we come in?’

‘Okay.’ I stepped aside, and they entered to Moonie sniffing their shoes. ‘What’s the FBI’s involvement? I thought Chester County was handling this.’

‘Not anymore.’ Special Agent Kingston looked grave.

‘Did you catch the guy?’

‘No, not yet. May we speak with you and your wife?’

‘It’s the middle of the night, and she finally got to sleep.’

‘It’s important. Can you wake her?’

‘Now?’

‘Time is of the essence.’

5

I was on the couch between my wife and son, and we sat opposite Special Agents Kingston and Hallman. Puffy-eyed and exhausted, Lucinda had changed into a chambray shirt and jeans before coming downstairs, taking off her blood-spattered clothes. Ethan still had on his Nike shirt and jeans. I would have let him sleep, but Moonie’s barking woke him.

We had exchanged introductions in the family room, where Special Agent Kingston seemed to take command merely by his presence, which was quietly authoritative. His face was a long rectangle, with a strong jawline and a small mouth. His hair was cut short, with a hairline beginning to recede. He was about my height, too, and muscular in a dark, well-cut suit. Special Agent Hallman ceded him the floor, with an impassive expression on his round face. Dimpled cheeks emphasized his youth.

Special Agent Kingston cleared his throat. ‘Mr and Mrs Bennett, and Ethan, let me begin by saying we’re very sorry about your loss.’

‘Thank you,’ I said for us all. Ethan glued his gaze to the FBI agents, and I realized he had never seen a real one before, though I had, back when I took a job for the government, working on depositions at Guantánamo Bay. All of the federal agents I met were just like these two, steady and professional in demeanor.

‘As I said, we’re sorry to disturb, but time is of the essence. We have been in contact with the Chester County detectives and the officers at the scene.’

‘Okay,’ I said, not sure where he was going. ‘So why is the FBI involved?’

‘I’ll come back to that in a moment. First, we have identified your daughter’s murderer as one John Milo.’

My jaw clenched. Now I knew the name of the man who had ended my daughter’s life. It felt surreal, hearing it in a family room filled with Allison. Her most recent school photo dominated the mantel; we had sprung for the eight-by-ten. The coffee table was cluttered with bottles of Holo Taco nail polish, tubes of watermelon ChapStick, a black ponytail elastic, and a tub of peppermint Mentos gum, which she loved so much we called her gum pig. Her Adidas slides and a pair of worn red Toms were piled by the entertainment center. My daughter surrounded us, but was absent. It was a family room without the family.

‘We have also identified his accomplice, the man killed at the scene. His name is George Veria, Jr. He goes by Junior.’

Ethan looked over. ‘Dad, you were right. Remember, you read his lips? You said his name was Junior.’

I had forgotten, my alleged superpower. I nodded at Ethan, but my thoughts flashed back to Coldstream Road. It struck me that Allison’s backpack, purse, and hockey stick were still in the car. Overnight, my daughter’s belongings had become her personal effects.

‘Jason, we understand that Junior Veria was shot by John Milo, not by you.’

Even if I remained angry that anyone had questioned this, I was relieved to hear that the suspicion had ended. ‘Good.’

‘Both men were members of the George Veria Organization, or GVO, a dangerous criminal network that distributes and sells OxyContin, fentanyl, and other opiates in central and southeastern Pennsylvania.’

‘Oh no,’ I said, aghast. Lucinda reached for my hand. Ethan hugged Moonie, a speck of dried blood on the dog’s front paw.

‘First, let me give you some background. A carjacking usually occurs for one of three reasons. Number one, the car is stolen to flee the scene of a crime. Number two, the car is stolen because it’s a specific make, as part of an auto theft ring.’ Special Agent Kingston counted off on slim, nimble fingers. ‘Number three, the victim is in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

Lucinda interjected, ‘Was it because they wanted a Mercedes?’

‘No. We have reason to believe that they needed your car to flee another crime. There was a double homicide last night, about an hour before your daughter’s. We believe it was committed by Milo and Junior. They needed to ditch their pickup, so they took your car.’

I tried to process the information. It was hard to think about what had happened before Allison was killed.

Dad, they have guns.

I asked, ‘Why take a car with a family in it? Isn’t that risky?’

‘They had no choice. They take what comes.’

‘Where was the double homicide? Who was killed?’

Special Agent Kingston paused. ‘Milo and Junior killed two men in Jennersville. Their names were Walter Jersey and Gary Reid. They were retail-level drug dealers in the same organization.’

‘So they killed their own men? Why?’ I flashed on Milo shooting Junior. ‘What is it with these guys? They turn on their own?’

‘Infighting is not uncommon in a criminal organization. They jockey for power.’

‘But why kill lower-level men? How does that help them move up?’

‘We don’t know. There are a few likely scenarios.’

‘Like what?’

Special Agent Kingston pursed his lips. ‘It’s possible that Milo falsely accuses the other two of skimming, then kills them to curry favor with the boss. The kingpin of the organization is Junior’s father, George Veria, Sr. They call him Big George. There’s nepotism even in crime families. Junior was being groomed for the top spot. So if Milo wanted the top spot, he’d have to kill Junior.’

It made a horrific sort of sense. ‘Do you think Milo planned to kill Junior at our carjacking?’

‘No. We believe he exploited the opportunity presented by the dog attack.’

Ethan looked down at Moonie. I hugged my son closer.

‘That brings me to why we’re here.’ Special Agent Kingston leaned forward intently, his dark-eyed gaze bracketed by crow’s feet that looked earned. ‘Obviously, Milo can’t tell Big George that he himself killed Junior. We believe Milo will say you put up a fight, disarmed Junior, and shot him. In effect, Milo will frame you for Junior’s murder.’

Lucinda gasped. Ethan looked over. I felt my chest tighten. I hadn’t seen this coming, but it was a logical assumption. It was what the Chester County detectives had believed, too.

Special Agent Kingston frowned. ‘Big George was very close to his son. We believe the organization will target you and your family in retaliation. We believe you’re in danger, right now.’

‘Oh no!’ Lucinda recoiled, her lips parting.

I struggled to process the information. ‘But won’t they find out from the news that Milo killed Junior?’

‘No. We won’t release that information.’

‘Why not? It’s the truth and it would prevent me from being framed.’

‘If we reveal that Milo killed Junior, he’ll flee. It will hurt our chances of apprehending him.’

‘But if you’re right, then why didn’t Milo kill me last night? Or kill all of us? He could still have lied to Big George.’

‘Excellent question.’ Special Agent Kingston smiled with grim approval. ‘We recovered only one weapon at the scene, a .45 caliber revolver. The bullet recovered from Junior’s body was a .45 caliber. We don’t have a complete ballistics report yet, but we believe it’s from Junior’s weapon. In other words, Milo shot Junior with his own gun.’

‘How do you know it wasn’t from Milo’s, if you don’t have his gun?’

Special Agent Kingston hesitated. ‘The round recovered from your daughter was a .22 caliber. We know it came from Milo’s gun, so Milo was carrying a .22 caliber weapon.’

It was hard to hear. I willed myself to stay in control. I couldn’t imagine the horrific insult of the bullet, tearing my daughter’s neck apart.

‘A logical question would be, why did Milo switch guns to kill Junior? We believe it was an abundance of caution, in case word of the ballistics leaked. Big George would never have believed you could disarm Milo, Jason. He’s big, you saw. He started with the organization as muscle and worked his way up.’

My mind reeled. ‘But my fingerprints aren’t on the gun.’

‘Milo couldn’t do anything about that. He had to take a chance. He couldn’t go back without his own gun. He couldn’t explain that to Big George.’

‘But how did Milo get Junior’s gun? We were right there.’

‘We had the same question.’ Special Agent Kingston’s eyes narrowed. ‘So let me ask you, did you see Milo shoot Junior?’

I remembered, with a sickening sensation. ‘No, we were with Allison. Our backs were turned to them.’

‘That’s what we thought.’ Special Agent Kingston glanced at Special Agent Hallman. ‘While you were with your daughter, Milo must have taken the gun from Junior and shot him. Later, did you notice if Milo was holding a gun in each hand?’

I thought back. ‘No, I saw him drop a gun. I guess I assumed there was nothing in his other hand.’

Lucinda shook her head, stricken. ‘I don’t remember.’

Special Agent Kingston paused. ‘You asked me why Milo didn’t kill you all. The reason is simple. He ran out of bullets. Junior’s gun had only one round left. He would have finished the job with his own gun but for the car coming on the scene.’

The words landed an impact of their own. My mind reeled. All of us, dead. Lucinda. Ethan. I tried to process what he was telling me. ‘Why would Junior carry a partially loaded weapon?’

‘We believe he committed the homicides in Jennersville, using his gun.’ Special Agent Kingston frowned with concern. ‘Bottom line, your family is in danger. You’re eyewitnesses to the murder of your daughter. You need to enter the witness protection program.’

‘What?’ I asked, shocked.

Lucinda’s hand flew to her mouth.

Special Agent Kingston pursed his lips. ‘We’re here to take you to a safe, temporary location, right away.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes. Now.’

Lucinda gasped. Ethan’s eyes filmed.

I shook my head, reflexively resisting. ‘Go now? Leave? We live here.’

Lucinda recoiled, aghast. ‘I mean, our daughter was just…’ she said, hushed. ‘We have to hold her funeral, and Ethan has his friends, his school—’

‘I don’t want to go,’ Ethan interrupted, anxious. ‘I don’t want to go where I don’t know anybody else.’

Special Agent Kingston nodded grimly. ‘I know this is a lot, after such a tragedy. But your lives are in jeopardy.’

I couldn’t process it that fast. ‘But I own a business. So does my wife. We’re self-employed. We work. Our businesses are here.’

Lucinda shook her head. ‘And I can’t leave my mother. She’s in assisted living. She has no family but us.’

Special Agent Kingston leaned forward, urgent. ‘We can guarantee your safety if you enter the program. You’ll be relocated to a comparable neighborhood. You can have a new life and start over.’

I felt my world turning upside down. I didn’t want a new life. I wanted my old life back. I wanted my daughter back. Instead I said, ‘How will I support us? What will I do for a living?’

‘The government will sell the business and help you establish yourself in another profession.’ Special Agent Kingston checked his watch. ‘There’ll be time to discuss it later. We need to go now. They could be on their way.’

‘How would they find us?’ I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. ‘The police haven’t even released Allison’s name.’

‘Word gets out. Information leaks. They have your plate number. They could have a scanner.’

Lucinda kept shaking her head. ‘What about my mother? Our friends? What do we tell them? We just vanish?’

‘There can be no further communication—’

‘No! Are you serious?’

‘I’m sorry, but—’

‘We don’t have to go, do we? You can’t make us, can you?’

Special Agent Kingston pursed his lips. ‘No. It’s your choice. You can choose to stay, but we strongly advise against doing so.’

‘Then we’re not going,’ Lucinda shot back.

‘We’re totally not,’ Ethan added, teary. ‘This is where we live.’

I rose. ‘Gentlemen, we need to talk this over.’

‘As I said, time is of the—’

‘We’re going to talk this over.’ I held out a hand to Lucinda. ‘Honey?’

6

I took my seat at the head of the kitchen table, and Lucinda and Ethan sat down in their chairs. The lamp glowed softly overhead, and the air still smelled of the garlic bread we had with a spaghetti dinner, another lifetime ago. Allison’s chair was empty, as it would be forever.

‘Jason, do you believe this? It’s too much.’ Lucinda shook her head, her face ashen. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Her fine nose was red at the tip, and her nostrils swollen. Her face was heart-shaped, curving to a pointed chin, but she worried about the wrinkles in her forehead. I had never noticed them before tonight.

‘No. It’s unreal, I know.’ I took her hand across the table. ‘But I think we should go.’

‘You do?’ Lucinda’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’

‘No!’ Ethan cried out, teary. ‘Dad, please, no. Can’t we please stay? We can be careful. We’ll watch out. We can do it.’

My heart ached for him. ‘I know this isn’t what you want, or what we want. But it’s not safe to stay.’

‘It is if we’re careful! It’s called “situational awareness,” we learned about it in assembly!’

‘It’s not that easy, Ethan.’