Page 37 of The Chain

In the rearview, she watches the little girl across the street play on her trampoline. There doesn’t seem to be anyone supervising her. The front door of her house is firmly closed. It would, in fact, be easy to walk over there and take the child.

Jesus Christ, who thinks things like this? What the hell have you become, Rachel?

She turns on her phone and looks at the time: 8:22.

She closes her eyes and thinks about Kylie. Has she been able to sleep? Knowing Kylie, she was probably thinking about her mom and dad the whole night, worrying about them.

Oh God, Kylie, I’m coming for you. I’ll get you back. Never let you out of my sight. Be a better mom. Keep you safe. Kill social media. Trust nobody. Full tinfoil hat.

She looks at the phone again: 8:23.

A white van drives slowly along the street, the kind of beat-up white van that’s always up to no damn good. The driver, however, pays no attention to her, and the van keeps going.

She rummages in her coat pocket for Marty’s cigarettes, but she can’t find them. A dog is barking like crazy somewhere.

Barking where? The Dunleavys do not have a dog. Rachel would know.

Maybe their neighbors? Maybe a dog next door saw Pete go into the house and recognized him as a stranger?

The phone reads 8:28.

She puts on the radio. It’s one of those endless reruns ofCar Talk. One of the two brothers is ranting about the VW microbus.

Now it’s 8:31.

Where’s Pete?

The dog is barking louder now.

The little girl gets off the trampoline, picks up what seems to be a can of soda, and gets back on the trampoline.

Not a good idea, sweetie. Not in your nice dress,Rachel thinks.

It’s 8:34.

A black-and-white from the Beverly Police Department appears in her rearview mirror. “Oh no,” Rachel mutters. She turns the key in the Volvo’s ignition and the reliable old engine roars to life.

The police car starts driving slowly down the street. There are two officers inside. They’re coming right toward her.

And now it’s 8:37.

The dog’s barking gets louder still.

The police car gets closer.

She slips the Volvo into first gear, her left foot on the clutch, her right ready on the gas.

The little girl on the trampoline does the inevitable and manages to upend the soda all over herself. She starts screaming. The two cops turn to look at her.

Pete appears on top of the Dunleavys’ fence. He drops down to the little patch of woods, runs to the Volvo, and gets in the back seat, panting heavily. “Go!” he says.

“Everything OK?” Rachel asks, alarmed.

“Yeah. Fine. Go!”

Rachel lets the clutch out and drives away. She heads east toward Manchester and then north to Ipswich and Route 1A. The cops are not following her. Pete is in the back, fiddling with his phone.

“Is everything all right?” she asks again.

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