Four weeks. It all becomes clear. Four weeks ago was when the Greens moved into the house across the street. The Greens, who kept their window blinds closed and their garage door shut. Who never said boo to me. I think of the nervous woman who called herself Carrie Green, but that’s not her real name.
It’s Nina, and clearly she knows enough to send this man to prison. If he doesn’t kill her first.
“Let’s make this nice and easy,” the man says, once again leaning in, his voice low and coaxing. “You help me, I help you.”
“And if I don’t?”
He glances at his men. “What do you think, boys? Bury her alive? Trash compactor?”
A bullet in the head is starting to sound good.
He turns back to me. “Let’s try this again. Tell me where you’ve got her and I’ll let you live. I might even keep you on retainer. I could use another set of eyes and ears on the inside. Who did you say you work for?”
“She didn’t say,” the van driver says. “But I could smell a cop. The way she spoke to me. The way she came at me, like she fucking owned the street.”
And that was my mistake, thinking that I’m a genuine action hero when really, I’m just a housewife in Revere. It’s too bad I was so convincing. Now I’m going to die because I have no idea where Nina/Carrie is.
But they don’t have to know that.
“Let me guess. FBI?” the big man asks me.
I don’t answer. This time I see his hand coming, but even though I’m ready for it, the blow is every bit as stunning as the first one. I stagger sideways, my jaw throbbing. My lip stings and when I touch it, I see blood on my fingers.
“I’ll ask again. Are you FBI?” he says.
I draw in a breath. Whisper: “Boston PD.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I’m too demoralized to say a word. I stare down at my blood dripping onto the concrete, blood that will be silent testimony long after I’m dead. I imagine crime scene technicians scouring this warehouse days or weeks or even years from now, staring at the evidence of my demise glowing at their feet. I won’t be able to tell them what happened, but my blood will.
And Jane will take it from there. That is one thing I know I can count on: My daughter will see that justice is done.
“Let’s try this again,” he says. “Where is Nina?”
I merely shake my head.
“Kill her,” he says and turns to walk away.
One of the men pulls out his gun and steps forward.
“Wait,” I say.
The big man turns back.
“The Colonnade Hotel,” I blurt. The name pops into my head only because it’s where Agnes Kaminsky’s grandniece had her wedding reception. I remember the three-tiered cake and champagne and the startlingly short groom. It’s just a Hail Mary answer, one that they’ll be able to knock down with a quick visit to the hotel, but it’s all I can come up with to delay the inevitable.
“What name is she registered under?”
“Kaminsky,” I answer, hoping there isn’t really anyone named Kaminsky staying there.
He glances at the van driver. “Get over there. Check it out.”
And that will be the end of this charade, I think. When he finds out I’ve been bluffing and the woman they’re hunting for isn’t there. I can’t think of anything else I can say or do to save myself. I can think only of the people I love and how I’ll never see them again.
The driver climbs into the van and pulls out of the warehouse. A half hour, an hour at the most, I think. That’s all it will take to expose me as a liar. I glance around, looking for an escape route. I see construction equipment—a cement truck, an earthmover—but there is no exit except for the open bay door which is now blocked by the men.
The big man drags over a crate and sits down. He looks at his knuckles and gives his hand a shake. The asshole bruised himself hitting me. Good. He looks at his watch, scratches his nose, ordinary gestures by an ordinary-looking man. He doesn’t look like a monster but he is, and I think about how courageous Nina is, to go up against him. I remember her nervous face and the note she left on my porch, asking me to leave them alone. All this time I thought she was afraid of her husband, when she was really afraid of these men.
I flinch at the sound of his ringing cell phone. He pulls it from his pocket and says: “Yeah?”
And now it ends. He’s going to hear there’s no Kaminsky registered at the Colonnade. He’ll know I’m lying.