Page 75 of Gone Tonight
When I was younger, I loved horror movies, and the best ones were when the monster was in the house. I’d yell at the screen, telling the oblivious heroine to get out of the basement, incredulous she couldn’t sense the dark shadow creeping up behind her.
I watched those movies with my mother next to me, the two of us clutching each other at the jump scares.
“Nothing about her is real.” I whisper the words aloud because I need to finally hear the truth, even if I’m the only one telling it to myself.
My mind is so overloaded I want to close my eyes right here on the blue bath mat and sleep.
But that’s not the right escape. I have to summon the will to get out of here, but where can I go?
Then I hear a sound that sends a chill down my spine.
My mother isn’t due home from work for a couple of hours. I thought I had more time.
A key is scraping into the lock on our front door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXRUTH
The moment I see James’s grainy picture on my phone, I frantically yank the pull cord for the bus to stop. The doors aren’t fully open when I leap down the steps and land on the sidewalk.
I look around wildly, scanning my surroundings. A woman in a blue-and-gold sari waits in the bus shelter, pushing a baby stroller back and forth and singing in a language I don’t recognize. A couple of teenagers are sitting on the steps of a town house, exhaling wispy white clouds as they vape. A deliveryman with bags of Chinese food stacked in a plastic crate on the back of his scooter whips past me, the aroma of fried food drifting by a moment later.
Then I see a slender man walking directly toward me. He’s wearing sunglasses and has sandy hair. I melt into the nearest storefront, my heart leaping into my throat.
As the man draws nearer, I see he can’t be more than nineteen or so—the age James was when I last saw him. I step back onto the sidewalk, my legs shaking as I hurry toward home.
I have to get a grip. I need to battle back my panic with every ounce of my force of will.
“Protect Catherine.” I say the words aloud as I begin to focus on the preparations I have made in anticipation of this day.
My emergency bank account, the one Catherine doesn’t know about, holds seven hundred and forty dollars. It’s running money, amassed through the years, mostly through deposits of five or ten dollars at a time. I keep the ATM card taped to the underside of the passenger seat in our car.
I’m going to need that cash now.
I didn’t get off the bus early solely to change up my routine. I also need to talk to a lawyer. I already have the name of the person I intend to use. I began my research the day I learned James had been granted parole and added the contact to my phone.
I begin to walk briskly, constantly scanning my surroundings. When a car horn blares behind me, I flinch, but I don’t miss a stride.
Protect Catherine.
Those two words form a mantra in my mind. Every action I’m about to take is designed to put another steel cage around my daughter and me.
I’m glad I followed my instincts and tucked my burner phone in my purse. Since it is untraceable, I need to use it for the first time ever for this conversation.
I dial the number for the lawyer, and after three rings he picks up the phone himself. It makes sense that the kind of attorney I can afford doesn’t earn enough to pay for an assistant. Even so, my secret fund won’t stretch far.
I launch into my cover story, explaining that I’m a relative of Coach Franklin, and that my family is devastated to learn James Bates is now a free man.
“You can’t understand how hard this has been on us,” I tell the lawyer, and I don’t have to fake the emotion in my voice. “We’d just like to find out where James is living. I don’t want my father to bump into James in the grocery store or something. Honestly, that might kill my dad. His health isn’t so good.”
I pass by a garbageman clanging down the lid on a metal trash can and shift closer to the curb to avoid a couple of laughing kids who are running down the sidewalk. The noises and movements don’t pull away my focus now. My purpose is absolute.
I’ve been preparing for this day all of my daughter’s life.
“Rough stuff,” the lawyer replies, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “So listen, I might be talking myself out of a job here, but as the victim’s family, you can reach out to the prosecutor’s office. They should be able to keep you posted on the guy’s movements. For free.”
I already know this. But filing such a request would require me to provide information I cannot give to anyone. Those details would drop clues leading directly to me, and even if James never found them, I’m sure the police would.
“We’d rather keep this quiet.”
