Hide & Seek - James Patterson [2]
I heard the front door slam like a clap of thunder in the night. Loud footsteps exploded on the porch just over my head.
Jennie woke up. “Shhh,” I whispered. “Shhh.”
“Maggie! I know you're here. I know it! I'm not a stupid man. There's nowhere to run to.”
“Daddy … Daddy!” Jennie cried out, the way she had so many times in the safety of her crib.
A flashlight suddenly shone under the porch. Bright, terrifying light blinded me. A thousand sharp splinters in my eyes.
“Peekaboo! There you are! There's Jennie and Maggie. There's my two girls,” Phillip shouted in triumph. His voice was so hoarse and raw, it was nearly unrecognizable. I could almost make myself believe that this insane man wasn't my husband. How could he be?
Two deafening shots came from his gun. He fired right at us. He meant to kill either Jennie or me, maybe both of us.
I had a surprise for Phillip, just this one time.
Peekaboo yourself!
I fired back.
CHAPTER II
SOMETIMES, I FEEL as though I'm wearing a horrifying scarlet letter—only the letter is M, for Murderess. I know this feeling will never completely go away and it seems so unfair. It is unfair. It's inhuman and indecent.
The memories are jagged and chaotic, but at the end so vivid and horrifying that they are etched into my brain. They will be with me forever.
I'll tell you all of it, sparing no one, especially myself. I know that you want to hear. I know this is a “big news story.” I know what it is to be “news.” Do you have any idea? Can you imagine yourself as a piece of news, as cold black type that everybody reads, and makes judgments about?
Area newspapers from Newburgh, Cornwall, Middle-town called the first shooting the worst “family tragedy” in the history of West Point. To me, at the time, it seemed as though it had happened to someone else. Not to Jennie and me, or even to Phillip, as much as he may have deserved it.
Yet a dozen years later, after time and my own denial had clouded the events still further and made even my emotions hazy, a second killing has forced me to remember West Point in all of its horrible vividness.
I obsessively confront the questions that pound in my brain: Am I a murderer?
Did I kill not one, but two of my husbands?
I don't know anymore. I don't know! As crazy as that sounds, I honestly don't.
It gets terribly cold here—sometimes it seems as cold as it was that Christmas Eve when Phillip died. All I can do is sit in this prison cell, in torment, and wait for the trial to begin.
I decided to write it all down. I'm writing it for myself—but I'm also writing it for you. I'll tell you everything.
When you've read it, you decide. That's how our system works, right? A jury of my peers.
And, oh yes, I trust you. I'm a trusting person. That's probably why I'm here, in all of this terrible trouble.
Book One
Star-Crossed
CHAPTER 1
Early winter, 1984
More snow. Another Christmas season. Almost a year after Phillip's death—or as some would have it, his murder.
I sat back in the yellow cab as it bounced and plowed through the slush-filled New York streets. I was trying to put my mind in a calm place, but it wouldn't be still for me. I had promised myself I wouldn't be afraid—but I was very afraid.
Outside the streaked, wet taxi window, even the Salvation Army Santa Clauses looked miserable. Nobody sane or sensible was out walking today; those who were would not take their hands from their pockets to make a donation. The traffic cops looked like abandoned snowmen. The pigeons had disappeared from every window-sill and rooftop.
I glanced at my own reflection in the cab's window. Very long, blond hair, mostly with a mind of its own, but my best physical attribute, I thought. Freckles that no amount of makeup would ever cover. Nose a little out of proportion. Brown eyes that had, I knew, regained at least some of their half-forgotten sparkle. A small mouth,