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“Carl, please give us a minute,” she commands. “I’ll call you later if I need you.”
As Carl exits the way he came, Caroline looks back at her son.
“Please, Liam, don’t be a fool,” she implores him, trying to force his eyes to meet hers. “Let me handle this.” She’s clearly been caught off guard by her son’s arrival and is playing this all by ear.
Grabbing a breath, I dart toward her, snatch the phone from her hand successfully this time, and turn and race across the great room. Tremlin jerks back in surprise, but before he has time to move, I rush by him and burst into the entryway, where the door is ajar. I practically hurl myself out into the October night.
For a few seconds I’m racing through the huge pool of light cast from the house, but then I cross over the edge, into the darkened grass. I know there must be houses close by because I passed them to get here, but I can’t see a single sign of life—not a light, a roof peak, nothing. My only hope, I realize, is the road and a passing car willing to stop.
By now, my lungs are on fire and my ballet flats are in danger of flying off. As I slow my pace a little, desperate for air, I swear I hear footsteps behind me, pounding on the grass. C.J.’s brother, maybe, or even the driver. Frantic, I increase my speed again. I keep waiting for a hand to grab my shoulder and yank me back, but somehow I manage to reach the road.
Up ahead a car approaches, headed in the direction of town. I flail my arms wildly and simultaneously shoot a glance behind me. There’s no one there. I realize that the pounding I heard was only the blood pumping hard between my ears.
The car zooms past. Maybe the driver’s unnerved by the sight of me, wondering if it’s a trick of some kind. But another comes right behind it. I drop one arm to my side, hoping to look less manic. This one slows, then crawls to a stop, and the driver rolls down the passenger window halfway. He’s a man of about sixty, with salt-and-pepper hair.
“Please,” I plead. “Someone’s following me. Can you give me a ride to town?”
He hesitates, studying me. He looks kind but wary.
“Please,” I say, begging now. “I’m in danger.”
“Okay,” he responds after a beat. “Jump in.”
As I yank open the door, I glance back at the house. No one is in the yard, but there’s a figure standing in the doorway, backlit by the light from the entrance.
“Skyler, wait,” he calls out across the grass. “Please.”
It must be Liam Whaley. There’s no way in hell I’m going to listen to him. I fall into the passenger seat, and, as I slam the door closed, I finally exhale in relief.
“Thank you,” I say, turning my head to the driver. He’s wearing chinos and a quilted olive-green jacket. Probably no one to be scared of, unless there’s a senior preppy serial killer on the loose. “Would you be able to drop me at the train station? Or anywhere in Scarsdale where I can call an Uber for the train?”
“Thetrain?” he says, incredulous. “You were going to walk to the train from here?”
“No, I was at a house. And someone was threatening me. I just need to get back to New York.”
“Shouldn’t you be calling the police?”
ShouldI? But what would my complaint be? All I could accuse Caroline of at this point is insisting I take a town car to the station.
“I will,” I lie. “But I want to do it from home. Where I feel safer.”
He nods, though he’s obviously skeptical. “No problem, I’ll drop you at the station.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, trying to sound sane and law-abiding and unthreatening. “I’m Skyler, by the way. Skyler Moore.”
“Bill Townsend.”
He uses voice-to-text to send a message, telling a woman named Sharon that he’ll be about twenty minutes late. With his attention briefly distracted, I twist to check the road behind us. There aren’t any headlights beaming through the rear window, which means Liam Whaley or the chauffeur can’t be in pursuit.
As I turn to face forward again, I realize Bill Townsend noticed my action, and he glances over, looking anxious.
“Did you see something?” he asks.
“No, it’s okay. I thought the person might be following me, but he isn’t.”
He’ll know where I’m going, though, and there must be other routes to the station from the house. Does Liam plan to show up on the platform? Still clutching my phone, I pull up the train schedule. There’s one to New York in thirteen minutes, ahead of the train I’d originally anticipated catching. I have to be on it.
“Good, I’ll just make the train,” I announce, hoping it’ll spur Bill Townsend into accelerating the car. It does, and a few minutes later, he’s pulling up in front of the station.
