It had been a good strategy, and it had almost worked: on Deerfield Lane there was a little island of three houses adrift between the first beginnings of cross streets, and, emerging from cover once he thought Mack was gone, the man was definitely,definitelyheaded toward it, toward the house on the far end in particular. Then the man saw the Cherokee, and Mack saw that the man was on his cell phone, and they both panicked. The man turned and ran back across the street, the phone still to his ear, and Mack threw the car into reverse. He needed a street number for these houses, is what he was thinking. Just a street number, and he could google. Google and find this man’s name. Call him. Write to him. Why hadn’t Mack thought of this before he had scared the guy shitless?
Mack had reversed, in a sharp straight line. The tires behaved themselves, and then he was right next to an old-fashioned mailbox with the number 53 on it. Fifty-three Deerfield Lane, or maybe 55 or 57, would hold his salvation. Mack had rolled his window down and was reaching to open the mailbox—a name, he was thinking, maybe he could just get a name from a piece of mail—when again the man appeared in his rearview.
The guy was in the street behind him, looking right at Mack’s license plate and speaking into his phone. “It’s a black Cherokee,” Mack had heard clearly through his open window, and then Mack had floored it, straight into the mailbox of the next house. He hadn’t even felt the impact; he had reversed and shot off again down the road before a single thought had had time to pop into his brain.
Now, Mack was relieved to see Hailey digest an abbreviated, disorganized version of this without judgment.
“If he got the license plate, the police will be looking for the car.”
“I guess so,” said Mack. “Yeah.”
“They’ll come here. They’ll follow it up if they think you were harassing him.”
“I know.” This is what had propelled Mack home at speed, despite the weather. That and the fact that his 6:30 a.m. deadline had passed, hours ago. How much did he believe that mattered?
“The guy’s fine, so you haven’t done anything wrong,” Hailey said. “Although the police might be able to see the complaint from Tech. That was kind of harassment too.”
Mack closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. “I just need to think about what to tell them.”
But there was no time: Gulliver barked, then went careening into the house toward the front door. Outside the garage, they heard footsteps in the snow, and then voices.
56.
Hailey
They don’t look like cops,” Mack said, and even though she agreed, this did not make Hailey feel even a little bit better.
“Girls, can you go up to your room please?” Mabel and Gigi obeyed without questioning her, which was scary in itself, and then Hailey wondered if sending them off alone was the right thing to do.
“Go with them,” Mack told her. “Whatever this is, I’ll deal with it. Keep your phone on you.”
Hailey obeyed too; she made it as far as the landing. Looking down from the window, she could see the tops of two heads outside the door, two big men in winter hats and bulky coats, not uniforms. The car that had been left at the end of the driveway was an unmarked van, the kind that she had warned Gigi and Mabel away from since their earliest consciousness.
“Mack,” she called out, her stomach twisting. “Don’t—”
He was already opening the door, and she strained to hear the muffled voices. He was letting them in, absolutely the wrong thing to do. Was their tone threatening? She couldn’t decide, she—
“Now?” Mack’s voice finally rose up the stairs; he had stepped back away from the door. He was in her sights now, through the bars of the banister, and she watched as he raked his hand through his hair. “I mean, I guess, why not? Now’s as good a time as any, right?”
When he called out her name, it made Hailey jump: “Hailey? Can you come down?”
He was letting these men deeper into the house. Hailey hurried down the stairs, heart racing, and then she saw that one of the bundled-up figures was Ben, the Concrete Guy. Not a cop, and not someone even worse.
“I forgot you were coming.” She fought to keep her voice from cracking. “I hope you had a good Christmas.”
“I did, thanks. This is Bruce,” said the Concrete Guy. “He’s our steel expert. He just wants to take a look at those S-beams.”
Hailey noticed that Mack put the deadbolt on the front door before he followed the three of them down the stairs. Then he went straight into his office.
She still, she realized as the men crouched over the crater in the floor, had not told him about his mother.
The Steel Man wasted no time. He climbed right into the hole and tucked himself in among the beams, illuminating splashes of bright red with his flashlight. Then he held up a hand, stained crimson.
“Yep,” he said. “This is exactly what I thought from the pictures.”
“Rust?” said Hailey.
“Rust. The steel is corroded. I shouldn’t actually be touching this,” he said. “It’s acid, probably combined with salt, based on the color it’s giving off.”
