Page 78 of The Chain

“Yes.” Rachel tries to hug her, but Kylie pushes her away.

“Don’t touch me!” Kylie says.

“I can get Marshmallow back. I—”

“That’s not the point! It’s not about Marshmallow. It’s about what you’ve done. How could you kidnap someone, Mom? How could you do that?”

“I don’t know. I had to.”

“Did you hurt her?”

“No. Not really,” Rachel says, again swimming in that river of lies and shame.

“How could you do that, Mom?”

“I don’t know.”

Kylie takes a step back and then another until she bumps into the screen door.

Rachel looks at her grubby fingernails and catches a glimpse of herself in the glass. She’s like some skinny, deranged prophet trying to bring a suddenly clear-minded former follower back into the fold. No, she’s not. It’s worse than that. She’s a demon, dragging her daughter down with her into the pit. She’s the opposite of good and kind Demeter. She has made Kylie lie. She’s made her a party to a crime. This fissure between them will widen into a gulf. Nothing will ever be the same again.

She looks into Kylie’s betrayed, teary eyes.

Rachel imagines a sulfurous reek to the air. No, they are not yet escaped from hell. The escape will take months, perhaps years.

Kylie begins to sob. “You had to do it to get me back?”

“Yes.”

“You and Uncle Pete?”

“Yes.”

Kylie slides open the door, and a cold wind blows in from the basin.

“Can we go outside?” Kylie asks.

“It’s freezing.”

“We can wrap ourselves in the comforter. I don’t want to be inside.”

They go onto the deck.

“Can I hold you?” Rachel asks tentatively.

“Yes,” a meek Kylie responds.

Kylie sits on her mother’s lap in the Adirondack chair, wrapped in a blanket, the long tie of Rachel’s robe threaded around them like an umbilical. They don’t talk. They just sit there.

The day dwindles to an end in a line of reds and yellows along the Merrimack Valley. It grows dark, and when the stars come out, mother and daughter are swallowed up by the night. What is going to be a long, terrible night indeed.

37

Sunday, 10:45 p.m.

Her instinct’s right. The Chain is screwing up. Well, her instinct ispartiallyright. The problem, however, is not Rachel Klein. And the problem is not Helen Dunleavy. The problem is Seamus Hogg. Using standard spyware tech, she has mirrored the Hoggs’ phones and read Seamus’s e-mails. Seamus e-mailed his uncle, a guy named Thomas Anderson Hogg, who lives in Stamford, Connecticut, and asked him if they could meet at a Starbucks in Stamford tomorrow morning at ten.

This is a big problem because Thomas Anderson Hogg is a retired U.S. marshal.

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