Hayden made Milo’s short life as great as it could be.
He didn’t have to, of course, but this became important to Hayden. The truth was, if Hayden hadn’t intervened, Milo would have died long ago and in pain. Thanks to Hayden—thanks to Hayden’s generosity—the boy’s limited days were happy and fun-filled. In Hayden’s mind, he should be commended for what he did. He didn’t have to do it this way. He could have been more pragmatic about it. He could have taken a healthy child that no one would miss. That would have been easier for Hayden. It would have worked far better because then Hayden could have done the deed faster and with less risk. But no, Hayden bided his time instead. He did the right thing. The moral thing. He found a life that would have been lost anyway, made it special and sparkly. All of us have a limited time here on Earth. We understand that. Milo’s time was both extended and tremendously enhanced because of Hayden Payne.
And then one day, when the time was right, when the boy was exactly the right size and weight, when the plan was laid out perfectly and, even with the medicine, little Milo was starting to suffer again, Hayden flew him on a private jet to the United States. He drove him to a home in Massachusetts. He gave the boy a small sedative, one that wouldn’t show up in the bloodstream, just enough so he wouldn’t feel anything. He took him upstairs to the other boy’s bedroom. He gave the other boy the same sedative and brought him to the car. He had already made sure the whiskey, the father’s favorite, contained a slightly stronger sedative.
Then Hayden put Milo in the other boy’s Marvel-themed pajamas.
Milo was asleep in bed when Hayden raised the baseball bat above his head. He closed his eyes and thought about Professor Tyler and that bully in eighth grade and that girl who wouldn’t stop screaming, all the times he had lashed out before, always with good reason. He channeled that rage and opened his eyes.
Hayden hoped and believed that the first blow killed Milo.
Then he raised the bat again. And again. And again. And again.
When he arrived with the boy at the Payne estate, when he finally could feel safe, that, oddly enough, was when Hayden Payne started to panic.
“Pixie, I have to tell you something…”
What had he done? After all the planning, all the years waiting to make this wrong finally right, why was he suddenly consumed with doubt? Suppose, he voiced to his grandmother, he had made a terrible mistake. Suppose the boy wasn’t really his. Could he somehow go back in time and make it all okay?
Was it too late?
But as always, Pixie had been the prudent, calm, rational one. She sent Stephano to make sure Hayden had made no mistakes, left no clues that could lead them to Payne. Then just to quiet any doubts, she had Hayden do a paternity test. It took a full day for the results to come back—a day that felt like an eternity to Hayden—but in the end, Pixie proudly announced that the test confirmed that Hayden had done the right thing.
Theo—once known as Matthew—was his son.
Pixie’s voice knocked him back to the present. “Hayden?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, Pixie.”
“You sent her the photographs,” Gertrude said.
“From two of the four photographers,” Hayden said. “They were nowhere near where we were. I also looked through them myself.”
“Either way, I think you and Theo should go now.”
“We’ll leave in the morning,” Hayden said.
Chapter
35
We pull up to Irene and Tom Longley’s three-bedroom ranch on Barclay Drive in North Stamford. I looked up the house on Zillow while we drove. It sits on a one-acre corner lot and is valued at $826,000. There are two and a half bathrooms and an in-ground pool in the back.
I lay in the backseat, a blanket over me so I stay out of sight. Barclay Drive is a cookie-cutter suburban street. A man sitting alone in a car will draw attention.
“You okay?” Rachel asks.
“Peachy.”
Rachel has her burner. She calls mine. I answer. We do a quick test where she speaks and I listen. Now I’ll be able to hear her conversation with Irene or Tom or whoever answers the door, if indeed someone is home. Primitive but hopefully effective.
“I left the keys in the car,” she says. “If something goes wrong, just take off.”
“Got it. I have the gun too. If you’re caught, just tell the cops I forced you.”
She frowns at me. “Yeah no.”
I burrow back down and wait. We don’t have headphones of any kind, so I press the phone against my ear. It feels weird hiding in the backseat of a car, but that’s the least of my issues.
Through the phone, I hear Rachel’s footsteps and then the faint echo of the doorbell.
A few seconds pass. Then I hear Rachel say softly, “Someone’s coming.”
The door opens and I hear a woman’s voice say, “Rachel?”
“Hey, Irene.”
“What are you doing here?”
I don’t like that tone. No doubt in my mind: She knows about the APB. I wonder how Rachel is going to play it.
“Do you know those pictures you showed me from the amusement park?”
Irene is confused: “What?”
“Were they digital?”
“Yes. Wait, that’s why you’re here?”
“I took a photo of one with my camera.”
“I saw that.”
“I’m wondering whether I could see the others again. Or the files.”
Silence. It’s not a silence I like.
“Listen,” Irene says, “can you just wait here and give me a second?”
I know what I’m about to do is stupid, but I’m working off instinct again. Instinct is overrated. Going with your gut is the lazy man’s way. It’s an excuse to not think or consider or do the heavy lifting needed in good decision-making.
But I have no time for that.
When I roll out of the car, the gun is already in my hand.
I sprint toward the front door. Even from this distance I can see Irene’s eyes go wide in surprise. She freezes. That’s good for me. My worry is that she will step back into the house and close the door. But I have the gun raised.
Rachel says, “David?” but she doesn’t have time for the “what the hell are you doing?” before I reach Irene and say in a half yell/half whisper, “Don’t move.”
“Oh my God, please don’t hurt me!”
Rachel shoots me a look. I shoot her one back saying I had no choice.
“Look, Irene,” I say. “I just don’t want you to call the police. I won’t hurt you.”
But her hands are up and her eyes are growing wider.
“We just need to see the photos,” I say to her. I lower the gun and take out the photograph in my pocket. “Do you see that boy? The one in the background.”
She is too terrified to take her eyes off me.
“Look,” I say a little too loudly. “Please?”
Rachel says, “Let’s move this inside, okay?”
We do. Irene only has eyes for the gun. I feel bad about this. No matter how this turns out, she will never be the same. She will know fear. She will lose sleep. She lost something today, and I took it from her the moment I took out the gun. That’s what any kind of threat or violence does to a person. It stays with them. For good.