You Don't Know Me (22 page)

Along the lake, the sunny droplets of light on the blue water were too bright, scalding her eyes. The sky appeared clear and unsullied, the balsam and pine trees a lush green, the last of the bedazzled oaks and maples dropping their jeweled leaves across the highway.

A picturesque ending that belied the devastation of her life.

She pressed a hand against her stomach, willing herself to stay upright, not to hunch over the steering wheel, not to end up in the ditch.

Or worse, in the water, to drown or freeze to death like Nathan’s father. That would be rich—a final way she could decimate her husband’s life.

And now she couldn’t see. She tapped the brake, pulled over onto the shoulder, and used the bottom of her shirt to wipe her eyes. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but she still felt sodden and messy.

This was the only way. Garcia would come to town, not find her, not know that she married or find her family, and he’d move on.

If he ever did track her down, he could hurt only her.

Yes. This was better.

And if she had any doubt that she should leave, seeing Helen this morning shrug off the fact that she had cancer sealed her decision.

She couldn’t drag Nathan away from his mother, never to see her again. Annalise knew
exactly
how that felt.

Helen deserved better.

Maybe if Frank apprehended Garcia, it wouldn’t be too late to walk back into her children’s lives. Maybe someday they’d even forgive her.

I’m sorry.

She kept repeating the words as she pulled back out onto the highway.
I’m sorry.

She didn’t know how she’d ever stop, really.

Annalise had no plan, no destination, nothing clearly formed beyond the muddle of panic propelling her out of Deep Haven and the packed bag she’d slipped into the back end. Maybe she would drive the SUV to Duluth, trade it in, and buy something else, something used. Then, maybe, she’d call Frank. After her decision had time to take root in her bones.

But she needed to think of a plan beyond that.

Now, thirty miles out of town, an impulse pulled her off the highway, down a side road onto the private acreage of one of Nathan’s clients.

For tonight, it made sense. In winter, the Millers rented the place to skiers and other lodgers who wanted a hideaway from the city. They’d offered it to Nathan and Annalise on more than a few occasions free of charge for managing the housekeeping and maintenance, and they always called before they arrived so she could stock the fridge. She kept the key on a ring in the glove compartment.

Here she’d also be out of cell phone range, one of the few pockets left in America that didn’t have regular cell signal. Good thing, because if Nathan decided to call her, his voice alone could lure her back, shake her out of her resolve.

She keyed in the security code at the gate and drove down the long path toward the lake. The Millers owned a long stretch of Lake Superior shoreline, their home outfitted with immense picture windows overlooking the rocky lake, an embracive back porch, and a giant stone fireplace made from stones plucked off the rocky beach. But no one could see the vacation home from the highway. More importantly, no one would guess her hideaway.

She’d stop, conjure up a plan. Then tomorrow she’d gas up and leave Deep Haven for good.

But tonight was Colleen’s semifinal game. She had to stay at least to listen to it on the radio and imagine herself in the stands.

Imagine her family intact.

Imagine her life with a happy ending.

Annalise pressed her fingers to her eyes again to wipe the wetness from them. She could do this. For her family, for their safety, she could do this.

Down by the lake, the leaves lay upon the dirt driveway, soggy and brown. When she glanced into her rearview mirror, she saw the imprint of her tires. Perhaps it would snow tonight, cover up her escape.

She pulled up to the three-car detached garage, got out, and unlocked the garage door before she pressed the door opener. She parked her car by the Millers’ sleek boat, closed the door, and took the path to the house.

Sophie Miller had landscaped the grounds herself with black rock from the lake, chrysanthemums tufted between them, the red and orange blooms stiff with cold. The stone pathway glistened under the thawing frost of the night, the grass brown and scarred with a patchwork of snow.

Annalise fumbled with the keys, stamping her feet on the woven mat. A plaque by the door caught her eye:
Wherever you are going, God has already been there and paved the way for you.

She doubted very much that God had ever been here. A secret identity, the horror of knowing your actions hurt others. The desperation of loneliness looming in every step ahead. Abandoned. Defeated.

No, she was in this alone.

Those verses in Psalm 103, Dan’s words from the pulpit, simply didn’t apply to her, regardless of how much she hoped they might. God didn’t love her.

She opened the door and listened to the silence as she stepped into the foyer. The door echoed into the massive great room, two stories high, as she closed it. She toed off her shoes. Let her bag drop on the bench by the door.

Annalise walked into the house in her stocking feet, running her hand over the black soapstone island in the kitchen.

She had longed for a house like this. A house that she didn’t have to repaint every year. A house that smelled of wealth and safety and success. A house with fitted Italian tile behind an inset stove and hood, a long bar, where her children could belly up and help her cook Thanksgiving dinner. A great room with a massive leather couch, enough to fit all of them as they watched football, and a bearskin rug on the floor to lay by the fire in Nathan’s arms. Outside, through the massive windows, the lake could ice over or throw itself against the rocks, and they’d watch it from the warmth of the fire or seated at the immense rough-hewn walnut table with the leather chairs. Or from upstairs, where the master bedroom overlooked the view.

Yes, she’d wanted a house like this, a place where she might raise her children in safety. In happiness.

She walked to the bearskin rug, sat in the middle of it, cross-legged, running her fingers through the fur.

You could have killed someone!

The echo of her shrill voice, the panic embedded in it, made her wince. But she’d seen Henry’s wide eyes, and fear simply won.

She curled her arms around her legs, pulling them to herself.

And this is my fault?

No, Nathan. This isn’t your fault.

She wished she’d said that, but it all happened so fast, and then Helen arrived and held them hostage in their secrets.

Maybe they’d already spoken everything worth saying anyway.

She leaned over, let herself curl into a ball on the floor. Listened to the silence of the grand home, the rumble of the waves outside, washing the shore.

Heard the lingering song in her mother’s voice.

Through many dangers, toils and snares

We have already come.

’Twas Grace that brought us safe thus far,

And Grace will lead us home.

She breathed in the words, over and over. Willing herself to believe.

But there wasn’t any grace for her. Not anymore. God had made that much clear.

Which meant she’d never go home.

Frank didn’t know where to begin to catalog how this op had ended up so far south. He should have seen the crazy written in Nathan’s eyes last night, should have known he’d do something foolish.

The man could have killed his son. Or someone else.

And then there was Annalise. Yeah, she had crazy in her eyes too. He’d recognized it the second he came up the stairs and spotted the glass spilled across the family room floor. Enough crazy to do something rash. Something stupid. Like leave town without telling anyone—including her handler. Disappearing off the planet where Frank couldn’t keep her safe.

Of course, no one could be labeled sane after the shot shattered the quiet morning. He’d nearly had a cardiac arrest, practically levitating from the bed and falling onto the floor. He’d scrambled into his pants and was up the stairs with his gun out by the time he took his next breath.

The sight of Henry standing in a puddle of glass, the family picture in shreds, turned him cold.

How close, how very close, they’d come to tragedy.

And if there wasn’t enough crazy going on, Helen had to walk in, demand to stay, and he’d let her secret out of the bag.

Her eyes, the look that said he’d destroyed everything good and sweet and magical in their budding relationship, had him calling himself a jerk. He hadn’t meant to betray her.

As if things couldn’t be any worse, Jason had caught sight of Frank’s gun as he slipped it into the back of his pants. Frank would have to level with the kid, and soon. The entire operation was spiraling way out of control.

Regardless of where he started listing his mistakes, he landed on one very real conclusion. He should have been the one sitting up with his gun cocked in the family room.

Protecting Annalise and her family.

Instead, Frank had been in the basement, like a relative, forgetting that he had a job to do. Forgetting, apparently, that Annalise wasn’t his niece but rather one of his charges, one whose life seemed to be dismantling.

In fact, he’d been thinking about Helen and that phone call from the medical clinic and what he’d do if her cancer was back and how that thought made him ache to his bones.

This time, he would be there until the end. Be braver. Be stronger.

Be willing to get messy, even hurt.

Which was probably why the truth had just spilled out of him.

If only Helen had waited for him as she banged out of the house. Because that’s exactly what he’d wanted to say to her—that he wasn’t leaving. That if she needed him, he’d be there.

Maybe he should be grateful his phone had vibrated in his pants pocket. Because if it hadn’t, he just might have taken her hand and told her she wasn’t alone.

Which meant . . . ?

See, everyone had gone crazy today.

“Take the kids to school; it’ll be safer,” he’d said, interrupting Annalise and Nathan’s low-toned argument. Annalise had looked at him with so much relief in her eyes, he’d wanted to hug her.

Instead, he’d opened his phone and stepped out on the stoop, wanting to hit something. “What?” he snapped into the phone.

“Good news, boss,” Parker Boyd said.

“Tell me.” He watched Helen get into her car, drive away. Inside, he heard Annalise rounding up the kids for school. Good girl.

“We got him.”

Frank kneaded a stiff muscle in his neck as he sank down onto the wooden bench by the door. “That is good news. Where? When?”

“Duluth. Tracked him down in the car he stole—the locals got on it. He gave them a good chase, ended up rolling his car. He was thrown and died on impact.”

The knot in Frank’s chest loosened as relief set in.

Annalise didn’t have to leave her family, her home.

Maybe she and Nathan could finally live in peace. In truth.

But Duluth. That was only two hours from Deep Haven. So close. A chill shook him through. “Are you sure it’s him?”

“The coroner said she’ll compare DNA. He was pretty mangled, but yes, it looks like Garcia. They’re taking him to the morgue, and I’m on my way. I’ll send you a picture when I get it, but it looked like him—same general build, same tattoos on his neck.”

“The cobra?”

“It’s some sort of snake. Could be a cobra.”

“Garcia has gang ink for his dominion. It’s specific to his people.”

“I have a picture of the tats. Hang on; I’ll send it to you.”

When Frank heard a beep, he pulled the phone away from his ear to open the text message. He studied the grainy picture. “I don’t know if that’s him or not. Probably, but . . . listen, I’ll come to you. I don’t want any chances that you got the wrong guy.”

He’d wait until Annalise dropped the kids off at school, then take her with him. Seeing Garcia would give her closure.

“I’ll be here.” Boyd clicked off.

Frank sat there, breathing in the morning air, wishing he felt better. Hoping the nightmare might be over.

Hoping, because, well, Pastor Dan’s words Sunday hadn’t left his head. He’d kind of hoped God had been speaking to him:
“I see you, and I know you, and I love you. Period. I know stuff about you that you don’t even think I know, and yet I love you.”

Maybe not, but it had fertilized all his hopes.

He heard the garage door open, and Annalise pulled out in the SUV. She didn’t look at him.

Please, God, heal this family from my mistakes.

Frank returned inside to see Nathan still tracking down the glass chips. The family room looked like a war zone, tiny glass bombs embedded in the carpet, the furniture.

“Where’s the vacuum? I’ll help.”

“I think you’ve done enough,” Nathan snapped as he strode past him.

“Are you kidding me? I’m not the one who pulled out an old shotgun. You’re lucky Henry’s not dead.”

When Nathan rounded on him, Frank took a step back. Nathan looked exhausted, lines embedding his face, his eyes bloodshot. “You should have let her tell me from the beginning—the very beginning. I don’t know who to blame, but I do know that when Annalise moved here, she was scared and alone, and she trusted you. You should have let her trust me, too. Maybe it wouldn’t have come to this.”

“I did manage to keep her safe for over twenty years,” Frank said, but his words felt hollow, even to himself.

Nathan shook his head, his voice low, angry. “Now my mother has cancer, and I gotta choose between taking care of my family and taking care of her. Perfect.”

“I’m sorry.”

A muscle pulled in Nathan’s jaw. “You don’t know what sorry is.”

That wasn’t exactly true. “I know you’re upset, Nathan. Just stay calm and this will be over,” Frank said quietly, glancing at his phone. He didn’t want to give them the hope that they might be safe, not quite yet, but still, see what the panic wrought? “That was my partner. He thinks we got Garcia.”

Nathan stared at him, nonplussed.

“I’m headed to Duluth to confirm, but I am going to wait for Annalise. I wanted to take her with me, take one last look at Garcia—”

“Are you crazy? She still wakes up with nightmares—I thought they were of the accident, but since there
wasn’t any accident
, it can only be from Garcia and what his men did to her. I can’t even think of it without wanting to howl, and I’ve only lived with it for a day. Imagine having that memory in your head for years, having it creep back up on you without being able to tell anyone why.” He put his hand up as if to push back the suggestion. “No way is she going to look at his face and relive what he did to her again.”

“It might help—”

“Nothing is going to help. In the last few days you’ve managed to dismantle everything Annalise is. Everything we built together. Just leave, Frank. Please, just leave, and don’t ever come back.”

“I can’t do that, Nathan. She’s still my charge. I have to make sure she’s safe.”

“She’s
my
charge. She became that when I said, ‘I do.’ We’re in this together, and I can promise you nothing is going to happen to her on my watch.”

“Like her getting shot?”

Nathan took a swing at him.

Frank sidestepped it, grabbed him by the arm, muscled him into a choke hold. “Seriously, Nathan! Who do you think you are? You’re a small-town real estate agent. You haven’t dealt with this kind of person. I know what I’m doing here, and you have to let me do it.”

“Get off me!”

When Nathan elbowed him, Frank took it in the ribs, released him. “I don’t want to do it this way, Nathan. But the fact is, you’re not responsible for her—I am. And you getting involved is only going to get somebody—” and he was deliberate about the way he glanced at the picture on the floor—“hurt.”

Nathan swore at him. Something soft and angry and deserved.

Frank tightened his jaw. “I’m sorry, but I’m finding your wife and I’m taking her with me.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Hopefully not.”

Nathan said nothing. But Frank recognized the frustration in his eyes. The same frustration Frank had probably worn as he’d watched his wife slowly slip away. Even before the cancer.

Frank’s voice gentled. “Listen. How about a compromise? You wait for Annalise, and when she gets here, lock yourselves inside this house. I’ll go to Duluth and call you. If there’s trouble, I’m calling the sheriff’s office to see if they can send over someone to take you into protective custody. But please, don’t do anything crazy.”

Frank glanced at his phone, his throat thick. “Would you tell your mother I’m sorry?”

“What do you want me to say? That you were just playing her?”

Frank felt his words like a blow to the sternum. “Tell her whatever you want.” He didn’t look at Nathan as he stalked out of the building toward his rental car.

Maybe Nathan was right—he could never be sorry enough. Especially if Luis Garcia wasn’t dead.

Nathan just wanted to hurt someone. Something.

To put a physical response on the roiling pain inside.

He could have killed his son.

Killed.

The moment grabbed him, sucked out his breath, held him hostage as he replayed it in slow motion.

He’d fallen asleep, his hand on the trigger.

A noise, and deep in his subconscious, panic lit a fire. He’d woken, already in fight mode, swung the gun toward the noise.

And he’d pulled the trigger before his aim centered on his son.
God, thank You.

His skin flushed hot and sweat trickled down his spine as he shook himself out of the moment, as he pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his thundering heart.

Henry was okay. They were all okay.

Nathan checked his watch as he finished vacuuming. Annalise should be home by now.

Maybe school would be the safest place for the kids today. He’d give Frank that much.

He ran the vacuum over the sofa, took off the cushions, found glass even in the pillows. He vacuumed his recliner, then went over the carpet once more, listening to the crunch of glass under the beater bar.

He should have worn something more than his flip-flops, but they’d been by the door and he’d grabbed them out of habit. A shard shot out from the force of the vacuum and embedded in his foot. He shook off the flip-flop, pulled out the glass.

Blood trickled off the end of his foot. He turned off the vacuum, limped to the kitchen sink. Grabbing a towel, he pressed it to the wound.

He’d left bloody footprints across the white carpet, the wooden floor.

Holding the towel to his foot, he hopped down the hallway to his room.

The disarray wasn’t unusual for a morning, but something felt . . .

Wait.

Annalise’s dresser drawers lay open, the contents scattered on the floor, on the bed. Shoes littered the floor like bomb debris. In the bathroom, her makeup box sat on the counter, empty, as if she’d dumped everything into a bag.

She hadn’t taken much, evident from the remains.

She had, however, taken the Bible by her bed. And the wallet-size baby shots in the three-hole frame. She’d left the bigger photo of their wedding and the five-by-seven of their family, a replica of the destroyed shot in the family room, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that once again climbed into his belly.

Annalise had left him.

Nathan sat on the bed.