Stay With Me: A Brenna Spector Novel of Suspense
Dedication
For my mother, Beverly LeBov Sloane
Acknowledgments
As ever, I am so grateful to the wonderful Deborah Schneider, and to everyone at HarperCollins—particularly Lyssa Keusch, a great editor and a true friend.
Much appreciation as well to Josh Moulin and Marco Conelli for their police and technical know-how. And to Marcelle Harrison for her knowledge of City Island.
Thanks to Jackie Kellachan and Nan Tepper at The Golden Notebook for their smarts and for their support of local authors.
And to James Conrad, Chas Cerulli, Paul Leone, Anthony Marcello, Jamie and Doug Barthel, Abby Thomas, the fabulous FLs (enablers in the best sense of the word), and so many more friends (you know who you are) for the writing feedback, drinks, pep talks, and drinks. I continue to love you all.
Thank you Shel and Marilyn (aka Mom and Dad), Dennis, Betsy, Sydney and Sam, Ken and Jessica, and Mom for being the best family anybody could ever ask for.
And always, my two loves, Mike and Marissa.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Part One
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part Two
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part Three
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
About the Author
By Alison Gaylin
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part One
I want to die in a movie. I want to lie on my back with a movie star fireman hovering over me, pounding on my chest, begging me to live. He shifts in and out of my fading vision but I can still see his eyes. They are blue and soulful and shiny with tears. There’s a white light behind him and it is very, very bright, making him look like an angel. I am weak. I know he’s the last thing I will see, and I take comfort in that.
The fireman may be my husband. Or maybe my Long-Lost Great Love. He may even be some stranger who pulled me from a burning car just three minutes ago. I haven’t figured that part out, because it doesn’t matter—not really. All that matters is this moment, when my life slips away and I am the fireman’s WORLD!
“Stay with me,” he says. Just like they always say to dying people in movies. “Stay with me, sweetheart. Stay with me, please.”
It’s the most loving thing anyone has ever said to me. It is the most loving thing I have ever heard.
From the diary of Clea Spector, age seventeen
September 20, 1981
Prologue
January 16, 2010
“You can be first.”
“Uh, no. That’s okay.”
Lindsay Segal pointed the bottle of blackberry brandy at Maya in such a way that it reminded her of a microphone. “Go on. It won’t bite.”
Maya thought it might, though. The mouth of the bottle was less than an inch away from her nose, and it breathed on her—an awful, cloying smell, like cough medicine gone bad. Maya’s stomach clenched up. She was thirteen years old. Outside of a glass of champagne at Craig Sapperstein’s bar mitzvah last October, she’d never had a drink, never wanted one. But the blackberry brandy wasn’t a drink so much as a dare. Lindsay had swiped it from her parents’ liquor cabinet—a gift from three or four years ago, faded red bow still stuck to the side like a warning label—and brought it into her bedroom under her sweatshirt. “Check this out,” she’d said to Maya and Nikki and Annalee, producing it from the folds of the sweatshirt, unveiling it like a magic trick. Maya had just frowned, but Nikki and Annalee had oohed and aahed—as though this sad, sticky bottle were the one thing they’d been waiting their whole lives to see.
Maya still didn’t quite get Lindsay, Nikki, and Annalee. But that was understandable. Until this past Monday, she hadn’t known them except by legend. Maya was just a freshman, after all, while they were juniors, big-deal juniors—all of them popular in that mean-girl way, all with skintight skinny jeans and perfect shiny hair to toss and that live landmine quality—unpredictable and powerful and don’t-get-too-close-or-you-will-die.
Back in September, Maya had watched the guy she liked rush up to Lindsay after chorus practice, watched him gather her into his arms and swallow her face, right in front of everybody. Ugh. But at the same time, Duh. Guys like Miles Torper always fell for girls like Lindsay. Hell, any guy who had half a chance would fall for Lindsay. It was just the way life worked.
Maya had hated Lindsay for a couple of weeks, shot Miles angry looks whenever he caught her eye in art class. But Maya couldn’t stay angry at Miles. He was too funny, too talented, too . . . Miles.
And anyway what was the point of hating Lindsay? Lindsay didn’t even know she existed.
Until a week ago.
The weird twist in Maya’s life was, she was now friends with Lindsay Segal—something she’d never thought she wanted until it had happened. Well maybe “friends” was too important a word to choose after just six days of hanging out. But the thing was, it felt that way. Important.
Is that your painting on the wall in the cafeteria? It’s awesome, Lindsay had said. Listen, after school we’re going shopping at that new Forever 21. You want to come? Lindsay Segal, complimenting Maya. Lindsay Segal, assuming Maya liked the same kind of clothes she did. Lindsay Segal, Miles’s Lindsay Segal, inviting Maya to shop with her.
It had been like jumping into ice-cold water on a hot summer day—a shock at first, but then perfect. Maya had said yes. Of course she had. And she’d said yes to helping Lindsay with an art project and yes to hanging out with her and her friends during study hall. And just two days ago, on Thursday, Maya had said yes to sitting at her table, The Table, at lunch. Maya the only freshman at The Table, Maya turning her back to her best friends Zoe and Larissa, trying not to feel their sad eyes on her. They’d do the same thing. I know they would.
You’re having lunch with us, Maya? Miles had said from the end of the table, surprise all over his face. That’s awesome!
And now, here she was at Lindsay’s apartment. Invited for a sleepover. No parents, Lindsay had said. Just us girls. And Maya had said yes. Of course she had.
“Come on,” Annalee said. “We can’t wait for you all night, Maya.”
Maya looked at Lindsay. “Why do you guys want me to drink first?”
“Because . . .” Lindsay grinned. “You’re the guest.”
Maya stared at her, at the dead-calm eyes.
“And anyway, Miles said you liked to party.”
“What?”
“Check it out. She’s blushing.”
“Shut up, Nikki.” Lindsay set the bottle on the floor between them, the grin relaxing a little. “Sorry, Maya. That was rude of Nikki.”
Maya cleared her throat. “Miles . . .” Her voice cracked on his name. “Miles said that about me?”
“He didn’t say it in those words. He said you’re grown up, especially for your age . . .”
“He was talking about me? To you?”
“You’re into him,” Nikki said it with a little too much eagerness in her voi
ce. “Admit it. Watch out for her, Linds.”
“Shut. Up.”
“No.” Maya looked at Lindsay. “He’s just in my art class. That’s all. That’s how I know him.”
“I believe you.”
“Good, because—”
“Different,” said Lindsay.
Maya stared at her. “Huh?”
“Miles said you’re different from other girls—like, in a good way.”
Maya’s breath caught. Her palms began to sweat and she felt the rush of blood to her cheeks—another blush. She hated herself for it. Could he really have said that? To her?
Annalee said, “So you know . . . since he thinks you’re grown-up acting and different and all . . . I mean he hardly says nice things like that about anybody.”
“That’s why we invited you,” Lindsay said. “The way Miles was going on about you, he made us think you were . . . you know. Like us.” Lindsay tilted the bottle to her mouth and took a long swig from it, her throat moving up and down. Once she was done, she put it down without so much as a wince. “Sorry.” She ran her tongue over her upper lip. “I just couldn’t wait any longer.”
Maya glanced at Nikki and Annalee. Both of them were gaping at Lindsay with such awe, as if she’d just done some amazing gymnastic feat. She half expected them to start clapping.
She turned back to Lindsay. “I am,” she said.
“Excuse me.”
“I am . . . Like you.”
“Prove it.”
Maya took the bottle.
“Awesome. Now, chug, girl!”
Maya closed her eyes and thought of Miles. She thought of his lips, forming those words. Different from other girls.
She thought of his lips.
Maya raised the bottle to her mouth and tilted her head back, just as Lindsay had done.
For about a second, it wasn’t bad, but then the taste barreled in, catching up with her, so much worse than the smell. It seemed to Maya like something not meant to be swallowed at all—cleaning fluid, or kerosene. There was a vicious burn to it, too. It ripped at her throat as it went down, then thudded into her stomach. Oh no . . .
Maya gagged. It was all rushing back up, so much faster than it had gone down. She let go of the bottle, put a hand to her mouth. No, no, not now, please . . .
“Hey, don’t drop it.” Nikki caught the bottle before it tipped over. Maya’s head swam and swirled—the whole room did, as though it had been filled with water and someone had pulled the stopper out.
“Oh no, seriously?” said Annalee. “She’s gonna boot.”
“You called it, Linds.”
“No, no . . .” Maya tried to say. “I’m fine.” But she couldn’t get the words out. She was on her knees, doubling over.
“Oh yeah, she’s so grown up.” Nikki started to laugh, and Annalee yelled, “Gross,” and Maya realized she was puking blackberry brandy, all over Lindsay’s pink shag rug.
“Yep,” Lindsay said. “I called it.”
Maya spotted a trash can by the corner of the desk, but it was too late. She stared at the mess on the rug. Why had none of them given her the trash can?
She blinked hot tears out of her eyes and wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. The hand trembled. No one getting me water. No one asking if I’m okay.
“Well, I guess you’re not one of us,” Lindsay said. She started laughing along with Annalee and Nikki.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Maya said.
Which made those bitches cackle even more. Why did I come here? Why did I think they were my friends?
Maya needed to stand up. She needed to stand up and think of something funny to say, anything to say, anything to fix this. She grabbed the side of Lindsay’s desk and pulled herself to her feet up and that’s when she saw it—the green light at the top of Lindsay’s dark computer. The webcam was on.
“Wave to Miles!” Lindsay said.
“No . . .” Maya stared at the screen saver—fireworks exploding in a night sky. The screen in sleep mode, but the webcam on the whole time, the webcam connected to Miles—Miles hearing everything, seeing everything.
“Gotta keep my man entertained.”
Nikki said, “You should so post it on YouTube, Linds.”
Maya was moving—out of the bedroom, into the living room, to the front door where she fumbled with the locks, that cackling laughter following her, those bitches’ laughter. It wasn’t until she was down the hall and pressing the elevator button that it she really started to feel it. Shame. Like a giant wave sweeping over her, the awful memory of it, that laughter swirling in her head.
A setup. The whole week had been a setup. Different, she’d said. And Maya had believed it. She’d allowed herself to believe it, just as she’d allowed herself to believe that these girls would want to be her friends.
Just as she allowed herself to believe that Miles . . . Miles.
Maya didn’t let herself cry until she was safely in the elevator and she’d pressed the lobby button and the doors closed in front of her. She began to whimper, tears spilling down her cheeks, choking her. Soon, she was sobbing.
She managed to pull herself together by the time the doors opened again, but still she was a mess and she knew it. The doorman was talking to some woman. “Here’s another one of my baby,” he said. “Isn’t she an angel? Those eyes just melt my heart.” He was showing her a picture on his phone, and neither one of them looked at her.
“That is a very sweet dog,” the woman said.
Maya let herself imagine she was invisible, a ghost.
Maya stepped out blindly into the freezing night, shoulders hunched, mouth dry. She pulled out her phone to text her dad that she was coming home. When she clicked it on, though, she saw a new text.
It was from her mom:
Honey, can we talk? Call me anytime.
Maya almost started crying again. She turned her phone off and shoved it deep in her back pocket and kept walking.
Maya would walk off this awful shame. She would walk back to Dad and Faith’s and if they tried talking to her, she would say she was tired. She’d go straight to her room and lock the door and fall asleep in her own bed and wake up in the morning and tell her dad that she wanted to be transferred to a different school, where she would change her name and speak with a British accent and never drink with anyone, ever again.
It sounded dumb, but it was a plan anyway. And everybody needed a plan. Even girls walking through the streets of Chelsea on a dark, cold night after ditching a sleepover, girls steeped in shame and dehydration, freezing because they’d forgotten their coat, girls who had never done anyone any harm, who didn’t deserve this feeling, who wanted to cry and cry and never stop.
Girls who would never make it home.
1
Nine hours earlier
The waiting room still smelled the same—stale coffee and Pine-Sol. Or maybe it was the memory she had just pushed out of her mind that was still tugging at her, the smell of it lingering. It was never easy for Brenna Spector to unweave the past from the present, but it was especially hard here, in the waiting room of her former child psychiatrist, which—outside of the collection of Nick Jr. magazines and Teen Vogues in the rack next to the huge blue beanbag chair—hadn’t changed at all since the last time Brenna had been in here: April 29, 1988, a rainy Friday . . .
Brenna unzipped her bag for what felt like the thousandth time this afternoon. She slipped her hand in, touched the cover of the journal. Stay here.
No doubt Dr. Lieberman believed his young patients found the lack of change comforting. But while Brenna was sure that this was true for the majority of them, it was quite the brain assault for someone with hyperthymestic syndrome. Brenna had been afflicted (or “blessed,” depending on your opinion) with the condition since she was eleven, and it forced (“enabled”?
) her to remember every single day of her life down to the date and in perfect detail, with all five senses. Most anything could trigger a memory so vivid, it was as though she was reliving it. But going back to her childhood shrink’s office after twenty years and having it look and smell exactly the same? Come on.
Brenna couldn’t decide whether it felt more like a bizarre experiment being conducted on her by a sadist, or the world’s worst episode of Punk’d. But either way, the place was throwing more flashbacks at Brenna than whole season’s worth of telenovelas, and she wished she could wait anywhere else in the building—the lobby, the stairwell, the janitor’s closet. Anywhere.
Brenna had to be here, though, because her daughter needed help. Said like that, it sounded dramatic, but the fact was, Brenna’s life was dramatic. At least, it had been lately. For more than ten years, Brenna had been a private investigator specializing in missing persons cases—a job that, for a long while, had been mostly dull and researchy, spiked with occasional bouts of revelation and danger. But ever since this past autumn, Brenna had been on something of a revelation/danger streak, which had clearly taken its toll on Maya.
At least that’s what Brenna had assumed.
A week ago, over dinner, Maya had taken a bite of her chicken Parmigiana and scrunched up her face in a way that had made Brenna think maybe she hadn’t cooked it long enough.
“You okay, honey?”
“Yeah. It’s just . . .”
“Yes?”
“I think I need to see a shrink.”
“You want to see a psychiatrist?”
“You used to see one when you were a kid. How about him?”
“But why?”