Pieces of Her: The stunning new thriller from the No. 1 global bestselling author. Karin SlaughterЧитать онлайн книгу.
Andy whispered.
“Try to make it to Macon first, then buy a map, an actual paper map, and find Carrollton. Get-Em-Go is near the Walmart.” Laura pulled Andy up by the arm. “You need to leave your phone here. Don’t take anything with you.” She shook Andy again. “Listen to me. Don’t call Daddy. Don’t make him lie for you.”
“Lie for—”
“They’re going to arrest me for this.” She put her finger to Andy’s lips to stop her protest. “It’s okay, darling. I’ll be okay. But you have to leave. You can’t let Daddy know where you are. Do you understand? If you contact him, they’ll know. They’ll trace it back and find you. Telephone calls, email, anything. Don’t reach out to him. Don’t try to call me. Don’t call any of your friends, or anyone you’ve ever had contact with, okay? Do you understand me? Do you hear what I’m saying?”
Andy nodded because that’s what her mother wanted her to do.
“Keep heading northwest after Carrollton.” Laura walked her through the kitchen, her arm tight around Andy’s waist. “Somewhere far away, like Idaho. When it’s safe, I’ll call you on the phone that’s in the bag.”
Safe?
“You’re so strong, Andrea. Stronger than you know.” Laura was breathing hard. She was clearly trying not to cry. “I’ll call you on that phone. Don’t come home until you hear from me, okay? Only respond to my voice, my actual voice, saying these exact words: ‘It’s safe to come home.’ Do you understand? Andy?”
The sirens were getting closer. Andy could hear them now. At least three cruisers. There was a dead man in the house. Andy had killed him. She had murdered a man and the cops were almost here.
“Andrea?”
“Okay,” Andy breathed. “Okay.”
“Get-Em-Go. One-twenty. Right?”
Andy nodded.
“Out the back. You need to run.” Laura tried to push her toward the door.
“Mom.” Andy couldn’t leave without knowing. “Are you—are you a spy?”
“A what?” Laura looked bewildered.
“Or an assassin, or government agent, or—”
“Oh, Andy, no,” Laura sounded as if she wanted to laugh. “I’m your mother. All I’ve ever been is your mother.” She pressed her palm to the side of Andy’s face. “I’m so proud of you, my angel. The last thirty-one years have been a gift. You are the reason I am alive. I would’ve never made it without you. Do you understand me? You are my heart. You are every ounce of blood in my body.”
The sirens were close, maybe two streets over.
“I’m so sorry.” Laura could no longer hold back her tears. Yesterday, she had killed a man. She had been stabbed, cut, almost suffocated. She had pushed away her family and not a tear had dropped from her eyes until this moment. “My angel. Please forgive me. Everything I’ve ever done is for you, my Andrea Heloise. Everything.”
The sirens were out front. Tires screeched against pavement.
“Run,” Laura begged. “Andy, please, my darling, please—run.”
Wet sand caked into the insides of Andy’s sneakers as she ran along the shore. She had the make-up bag clutched to her chest, fingers holding together the top because she dared not take the time to zip it. There was no moon, no light from the McMansions, nothing but mist in her face and the sounds of sirens at her back.
She looked over her shoulder. Flashlights were skipping around the outside of her mother’s house. Shouting traveled down the beach.
“Clear on the left!”
“Clear in the back!”
Sometimes, when Andy stayed on a 911 call, she would hear the cops in the background saying those same words.
“It’s okay to hang up now,” she would tell the caller. “The police will take care of you.”
Laura wouldn’t tell the cops anything. She would probably be sitting at the kitchen table, mouth firmly closed, when they found her. Detective Palazzolo wouldn’t be making any deals after tonight. Laura would be arrested. She would go to jail. She would appear in front of a judge and jury. She would go to prison.
Andy ran harder, like she could get away from the thought of her mother behind bars. She bit her lip until she tasted the metallic tang of blood. The wet sand had turned into concrete inside her shoe. There was a tiny bit of karmic retribution about the pain.
Hoodie was dead. She had killed him. She had murdered a man. Andy was a murderer.
She shook her head so hard that her neck popped. She tried to get her bearings. Seaborne extended three tenths of a mile before it dead-ended into Beachview. If she missed the turn-off, she would find herself in a more inhabited area of the Isle where someone might glance out the window and call the police.
Andy tried to count her footsteps, pacing off two hundred yards, then three hundred, then finally veering left away from the ocean. All of the McMansions had security gates to keep strangers from wandering in off the beach. City code forbade any permanent fences in front of the sand dunes, so people had erected flimsy wooden slats hanging from barbed wire to serve as a deterrent. Only some of the gates were alarmed, but all of them were marked with warnings that a siren would go off if they were opened.
Andy stopped at the first gate she came to. She ran her hand along the sides. Her fingers brushed against a plastic box with a wire coming out of it.
Alarmed.
She ran to the next gate and went through the same check.
Alarmed.
Andy cursed, knowing the fastest way to the street would be to climb over the dunes. She gingerly pushed the wooden slats with her foot. The wire bowed. Some unseen anchor slipped from the sand so that the fence fell low enough to step over. She lifted her leg, careful not to snag her shorts on the barbed wire. Sea oats crushed under her feet as she traversed the steep slope. She cringed at the destruction she was causing. By the time she made it to a stone path, she was limping.
Andy leaned her hand against the wall, stopped to take a breath. Her throat was so dry that she went into a coughing attack. She covered her mouth, waiting it out. Her eyes watered. Her lungs ached. When the coughing had finally passed, she let her hand drop. She took a step that might as well have been on glass. The sand in her sneakers had the consistency of clumping cat litter. Andy took them off, tried to shake them out. The synthetic mesh had turned into a cheese grater. Still, she tried to cram her feet back into the sneakers. The pain was too much. She was already bleeding.
Andy walked barefoot up the path. She thought about all of the clues that Detective Palazzolo would find when she arrived at the bungalow: Laura’s face, especially her bloodshot eyes, still showing signs of suffocation. The plastic bag around her neck with the dead man’s fingerprints on it. The dead man lying in the office by the overturned coffee table. The side of his head caved in. Urine soaking his pants. Foam drying on his lips. His eyes pointing in two different directions. Blood from Laura’s leg streaked across the carpet. Andy’s fingerprints on the handle of the frying pan.
In the driveway: broken glass from the floodlights. The lock on the kitchen door probably jimmied. The puddles on the kitchen tiles showing the path Hoodie had taken. More water showing Andy’s route from the bedroom to the hall to the guest room to the living room and back again.
On the beach: Andy’s footprints carved into the wet sand. Her destructive path up the dunes. Her blood, her DNA, on the stone path where she now stood.