The Power Couple Read online

  She lay beside him and stared at the ceiling until sleep somehow took her.

  9

  Somewhere in Spain

  Kira stood on a raft, brown water all around her, swirling and foul. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t even wearing a bathing suit, only jeans and a sweater, both dry. Sweat puddling underneath. The raft shook, tossing her toward the edge.

  She fell off, opened her eyes—

  To darkness. She willed herself to see. Couldn’t. The panic came then, worse than before. She’d gone blind, where was she?

  Everything came back as the van slowed. She tried to sit up, pushing herself against the side wall. Anything to be a little less helpless.

  The van stopped.

  * * *

  She reminded herself of a trick she’d used during her anorexic days. Count down by sevens from one hundred, ninety-three, eighty-six, seventy-nine… She hadn’t been this conscious of her body, herself as a physical being, since then.

  Forty-four, thirty-seven… Get to two and start again. Vary the cycle, add eight or multiply by three or divide by two. Give her mind something to do. The trick worked. She could feel them waiting for her to beg, or say anything. She stayed quiet.

  She heard the back doors open. A hand touched her shoulder.

  “Kira.” Jacques’s voice, gentler. Some part of her couldn’t help but feel relief, at least she knew him—

  She didn’t know him.

  He edged up the hood, and she could see. The van’s back doors were open. It was parked inside what looked like a garage. The garage door was closed, and she couldn’t see any light between the door and the floor. Probably it was still dark outside. She couldn’t have slept long.

  Jacques took her hand, led her out. Again this strange chivalry.

  She could hear Becks in her head. Pay attention. Every detail counts. She paid attention. The garage had a new concrete floor. It was empty aside from cases of water and a half dozen red plastic gas tanks lined up against the back wall. The lights in the ceiling sockets were the spirals of compact fluorescents. Like the house had been built recently. But the vibe here was weirdly prepper, down to the blue emergency light on the back wall.

  Jacques offered her a water bottle. She hesitated, then thought: he’d already kidnapped her, why would he drug her again? She took it and drank deep.

  “Slow,” Jacques said.

  Too late; whether from the drug or the antidote, her stomach was queasy. She sputtered back the water. Lilly laughed.

  Kira drank again, kept the water down. She nodded at the bottles. “Guess I’ll be here awhile.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Or maybe I’m not the only girl you kidnapped this week?”

  He tilted his head, an expression she already recognized: playtime is over. “Let me show you where you’re staying.” He grabbed her and pulled her along, his fingers digging into her arm.

  * * *

  Into the house, up a staircase, down a hallway.

  “You can let me go. Just dump me on the road. I don’t know where we are, don’t know anything about you…”

  Her voice faded; she could imagine how stupid she sounded.

  The hallway ended at an open door, a narrow rectangular room, the size of a walk-in closet. It had a square of plywood nailed to the far wall. To cover a window, Kira figured.

  Two water bottles rested on a blanket in the corner.

  “This way you don’t get in any trouble.” Jacques whipped his arm forward, slung her against the far wall.

  Her head banged the edge of the plywood. She yelped, slid down. Her butt hit the ground, and she turned, looked at him. He watched her like she was a science experiment, his face grave and neutral.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  She touched a finger to her forehead. It came back wet.

  “Get some sleep.” He stepped out, closed the door. A deadbolt snapped shut.

  At least he’d left the light on.

  Then it went out, too. And she was alone in the dark.

  His footsteps receded down the hall. She let herself cry then, silently. After a while she stopped. The bleeding stopped too, though her forehead ached, dull and tender. She was sure she’d be black and blue later in the day. Maybe they’d have to discount her. Or maybe the buyer liked his ladies a little banged up.

  She took inventory. Good news: she wasn’t dead, wasn’t seriously injured. Bad news: Everything else. She was exhausted, fat-tongued, hungover from the drugs they’d used on her. Hungover and hating herself. She’d always been good. She knew the rules. Don’t go out by yourself. Don’t take a drink from someone you don’t know. Don’t leave without telling your friends. Remember that guys have higher tolerances and don’t try to match them. Always use a car service. Most of all, trust your judgment. If he seems sketchy just get a number, you can always see him again.

  Smart Kira. Careful Kira.

  Kidnapped Kira.

  * * *

  New Kira. She felt herself changing. Even now.

  When you grow up in a house where your parents don’t like each other, you grow up attuned to disturbance. She needed to put that vision to work. Jacques wasn’t a robot, even if he seemed like one. He’d make mistakes. If she could find them, she could use them.

  She was more dangerous than they thought. All those self-defense courses Becks had made her take. Guys are going to want you. Some won’t like it if you say no. Kira had thought it was Rebecca’s way of trying to frighten her about men.

  She’d let them think she was beaten. Not completely beaten, not right away, they wouldn’t trust that. Mouthy but useless. Yes, better.

  Stay strong. She’d stay strong. She’d beat them. Promise? Promise.

  Then an awful little voice in her head: The women the Border Bandit took, they probably thought the same thing.

  In some tiny rational corner of her mind she knew she was dizzy and weak and maybe had a concussion. She knew the fear wouldn’t last. But for now it ruled her. She usually felt closer to her dad than her mom. But with her own thoughts pressing her into the abyss she turned to Becks and not Bri. Lie down with her eyes squeezed shut and her hands pressing on her ears and one thought: Save me, Mommy. Mommy save me.

  10

  Barcelona

  Rebecca lay in bed as the day brightened. Beside her Brian snored lightly.

  How could he sleep? She hated him for sleeping. She’d barely dozed. Though she knew he was right—they’d look crazy if they went to the cops at 7 a.m. He always played this role in their marriage, in their lives, their family. She got stressed, he played cool, Take it easy, Becks.

  Only it wasn’t easy, was it? And for a long time she’d thought his laid-back attitude had been nothing but an excuse for simple laziness. Until he proved her wrong—and made her wonder if she was a fool for ever having doubted him.

  Rebecca rose, padded into the kitchen. Every time she looked at the apartment she noticed new details: the ornate corner moldings, the perfect cabinetry. The owners had taken great care with this place. The Unsworths had been lucky to get it. Lucky, lucky. They were lucky people. Now their luck had run out all at once.

  She poured herself a glass of water, drank it as the streets outside slowly woke. The world wouldn’t notice if Kira Unsworth vanished. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Kira was a pretty girl, and the world noticed when bad things happened to pretty white girls. Nancy Grace would run a special on her, Thirty-eight days since Kira Unsworth disappeared in Spain and police are no closer to finding her. Can we be sure her parents had nothing to do with her vanishing act?

  An ocean filled with fake tears. Grief manufactured for ratings. The thought made Rebecca grind her teeth—

  Footsteps.

  On the staircase outside, slow and heavy, the footsteps of a drunk woman coming home after a long night.

  She’d been wrong. She’d overreacted. She was a fool. Kira had lost her phone, lost track of time, gone home with the French guy.

 
The steps came off the stairs, toward the apartment’s front door.

  Rebecca would wrap Kira up like a boa constrictor and drag her inside and yell at her, Don’t do that again. Do you know how worried we were?

  She pulled open the front door. “Kira—”

  Found herself looking at a tall woman, late twenties, a yellow T-shirt streaked with sweat from dancing. The woman gave her a dazed drunk smile. Rebecca felt irrational anger, How could you do this to me? How could you pretend to be my daughter?

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yes?”

  “You were out? Dancing?”

  “Ja, the Opium Club. By the beach. DJ Kush, great DJ.”

  “Is it still open?”

  “No. It closes, I think, at… six. Or seven.” She slumped against the wall, winding down like a toy with low batteries.

  Rebecca hadn’t realized other places in the city would be open later than the Gothic Quarter bars. Some cop she was. So stupid. She should have been checking the clubs.

  Still, the knowledge made her feel a little better. It was just possible Kira had lost her phone dancing, or couldn’t hear it because of the noise, or had drunkenly decided to teach Rebecca a lesson. Unlikely but possible. Besides, finding Kira in a club with a thousand kids dancing would have been a long shot.

  No, best to wait for the afternoon for the clubs. They would have lots of surveillance cams.

  “Good night,” the blond-haired woman said. She grinned drunkenly. “Or morning.”

  Rebecca wanted to fire more questions: Did you see a tall American girl with some French guy who calls himself Jacques? Useless. She closed the door, no goodbye.

  * * *

  Back in the bedroom Brian slept curled up like he didn’t want Rebecca or anyone else to touch him. A thin sheet covered him. She knew what he was wearing underneath, tight black Calvin Klein boxer briefs, his favorites. He’d always been proud of his body. Not without reason. Even when she hadn’t liked him, she’d always been attracted to him. Suddenly she found herself on the path that had brought them here.

  As if she could unravel the mystery of where Kira had gone by prowling the corridors of her history.

  Or maybe she just wanted to distract herself. Anyway, she let the past take her…

  II REBECCA

  (THEN AND NOW)

  11

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  On their second date, Rebecca told Brian how she had played the piano, what it meant to her.

  They were at a Japanese restaurant. She was a second-year law student at the University of Virginia. He was a freelance Web developer. This was the nineties. She hardly knew what the Web was. She had opened her first email account the year before, through the law school.

  “You good?”

  “I’m not bad.”

  He smiled. He was tall, blue eyes, dark blond hair, a nose that looked like it had been broken in a bar fight. His smile was crooked too, a badly hung picture. Higher to the right. She was tall as well, long black hair, eyes so brown they too were almost black, muscular legs, and small, high breasts. She already knew they’d make a striking couple. Looks-wise, anyway.

  “Why’d you quit?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Lying. So you don’t play at all?”

  Something else she liked: His boldness, his willingness to challenge her before they had done anything more than kiss. The fact he was right didn’t hurt. “Even if I wanted to, and I don’t, I don’t know where to find a piano.”

  He didn’t mention it again.

  But two dates later he picked her up in his old Ford F-150, dark green, tinted windows, rust drooping from the quarter panels. He made a left, a right, and they were heading north on 601, out of Charlottesville.

  “Is this the right way?” She was almost sure the multiplex was the other direction.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “It’s a surprise.” His tone was flat, affectless. Her stomach tightened. How much did she know about Brian? Not much. He wasn’t a student. She’d never seen his apartment, wasn’t even sure exactly where he lived. They’d met in a bar. He had a mysterious backpack between his legs. And this truck was the rapiest vehicle imaginable short of a camper van.

  Her uncle Ned was a cop in Boston, she’d heard too many terrible stories. Had she told anyone where she was going?

  “Relax, ’kay?”

  After a few minutes, he made a hard right onto a narrow road that ran east past farmhouses and a trailer park screened by a hedge. Not even 6 p.m., but the sun was disappearing over the hills behind them. She couldn’t decide how scared to be. She had pepper spray in her purse, police-grade, a gift from Ned. She told herself if Brian turned onto a back road she would use it.

  A couple miles on, a sign proclaimed the entrance to the JEFFERSON HOME FOR THE AGED AND INFIRM. To her surprise Brian swung the pickup into it, revealing a run-down three-story brick building. Beige Buicks filled the parking lot. Rebecca felt embarrassed at her nervousness. Whatever he had in mind tonight didn’t end with her being fed through a woodchipper.

  Though she still didn’t know what he did have in mind.

  “This your way of telling me you want us to grow old together? One day, Rebecca, we will fill our diapers here, as our children fail to visit…”

  He grabbed his backpack, came around, opened her door. “Come on, they’re waiting.”

  “Don’t tell me your grandparents are in there or something.”

  She followed him through the front doors. As the smell of disinfectant hit her, she saw a black grand piano in the center of the lobby. Maybe forty women and men sat in folding chairs around it.

  Up close she saw that the piano was a Steinway. A Model B, vintage, the paint scuffed but otherwise in great shape, the soundboard perfect. Worth she didn’t even know how much. Lots.

  An unexpected fear rose in her as she walked around the Steinway. Five years. What if she couldn’t? What if she embarrassed herself?

  Brian whistled, long and piercing. All the conversations in the lobby stopped at once.

  “Please welcome Rebecca Kelly,” Brian said. “America’s favorite pianist.” He winked her way and clapped. The oldsters followed uncertainly.

  Oh why not? The Jefferson Home wasn’t exactly Carnegie Hall. She could mangle Billy Joel and they’d be happy to have her. Sing us a song you’re the piano lady…

  He held out the backpack. “I brought music if you need it—”

  She shook her head.

  He nodded like he wasn’t surprised she could play from memory. She took off her jacket, pushed up her sleeves, sat down, stared at the keys. Cracked her knuckles. Flexed her fingers. Scooted the bench close.

  She started with Schubert’s Sonata in D Major, a showy but technically simple crowd-pleaser, making sure she hadn’t forgotten how to play. The piano sounded like it had just been tuned, which surprised her until it didn’t. Brian must have brought in a tuner. He’d found her a Steinway… and had it tuned before he brought her to it. He’d brought music.

  Gonna marry this guy. She’d never thought that about anyone before. The words were so surprising that she almost missed a note. Focus.

  After the Schubert, Bach, the Italian Concerto, another crowd-pleaser, nice and slow, with chances to experiment. Then Beethoven, the Moonlight Sonata, always a winner.

  The Steinway was fantastic. And so was she. Maybe the low stakes relaxed her. Maybe the years off had allowed her to understand her technique in a way she couldn’t when she was practicing all the time. Whatever the reason, she grew stronger as the minutes passed, her hands loosening, quickening. She wished her last teacher, who toward the end had told her, Rebecca, playing like you do is supposed to be fun, I wish I could see you smile, had been there to watch.

  Halfway through the Beethoven her hands weakened. She’d forgotten how much stamina these pieces required. She would quit while she was ahead. She quickly ended, turned to the
oldsters.

  She’d assumed half of them would be asleep. Wrong. They were enraptured, leaning forward in their seats. A woman cried, the tears cutting runnels through her heavy mascara. A man simply stared, his jaw open wide, revealing his empty mouth.

  She’d forgotten how much power music could have.

  Brian stood against the wall by the front desk, smiling. He gave her a silent thumbs-up and tears stung her eyes. Embarrassing. But he had given this joy back to her, he had seen what she couldn’t.

  She stood, bowed formally to the crowd like she really was at Carnegie Hall. “Thank you.” They clapped, uncertainly at first, then steadily—

  Then a thump echoed from the back row and a woman shouted “Gordon!” in a high, frightened voice.

  Brian got to him before Rebecca. “Call 911!”

  The man was heavy, maybe seventy-five, his thin gray hair was combed across the top of his speckled head.

  He had landed on his side. Brian snaked an arm under him, put him on his back.

  “Sir! Gordon! Can you hear me?”

  Nothing. Brian touched two fingers to the man’s neck, then reached down and slapped his face. The man’s fleshy jowls jiggled. Otherwise he didn’t blink, didn’t stir. “Oh God,” the woman said. Rebecca was pretty sure he was dead. She’d never been this close to a newly dead person before.

  The man wore a white button-down shirt with a greasy stained collar. Brian tore it open, revealing flabby breasts covered with white hair. Brian didn’t seem fazed. He put his fingers in the man’s mouth, tugged open his lower jaw. Two quick breaths, puff puff, the strange intimacy of CPR. Then pressed down on the man’s chest with interlaced fingers, began compressions, counting aloud, One two three four five…

  “My husband,” the woman beside Rebecca said. She was among the younger residents, early sixties maybe, and wore shocking-red lipstick that had skidded onto her teeth.

  “I’m so sorry.” Rebecca reached to hug her.

  “Don’t touch me.” The woman stepped back. “He’s dead and you killed him.” The woman’s brown eyes bulged. She clawed at Rebecca, a skeletal hand topped with red fingernails. “Witch.” Screaming now. “Witch! WITCH!”