Myra always stayed at the gym after class ended. That was her private workout time, and the students knew better than to hang around. Once class was over, you were out of Myra’s life and vice versa until the next class began.
But that night, after gathering up the courage, Blondie had asked Myra if she could stay late. Work out alongside her. To her great surprise, Myra said yes. And so they sparred, pounded the heavy bag and speed bag as if it had insulted their mothers, did burpees until their legs begged for mercy. And when they couldn’t push any further, when every muscle felt like lead and even though their heads shouted more while their bodies pleaded stop, they called it a day.
“Remember, when you hit the heavy bag, it’s not all about power,” Myra said. “Don’t punch through the bag. Snap your punches. And when the punch lands, don’t pull your fist back. Let the rebound do it for you.”
“Gotcha. Rebound,” Blondie said. She looked around the empty gym. There were no clocks. No way to tell time other than dead limbs and pools of sweat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot, Blondie.”
“I know talking about ourselves is pretty much off limits. So you can tell me to shut up, and I won’t take it personally, and I’ll never ask you anything else not related to proper striking form.”
Blondie waited. Myra said nothing.
“I ain’t stopping you, kid,” Myra finally said.
“Do you ever feel . . . trapped?”
Myra looked at Blondie and offered a slim smile. “Only every damn day. Why do you ask?”
“Because I don’t know how long we can stay here. My family, I mean.” Blondie took a pull from a sports bottle filled with an energy drink that tasted like sour grape juice mixed with formaldehyde. She didn’t know why she had suddenly decided to share details of her personal life with Myra. For so long, since her husband had died, she’d had nobody to talk to. The children were too young to understand, and her friends had abandoned her.
“Thinking about moving? Or moving on?” Myra asked.
“Both. This city, it’s too close to everything. I walk down the streets, and I swear I see ghosts. But I also don’t think I can keep moving my kids. We need somewhere to settle. For good. Somewhere away from the ghosts.”
“I know it might be kind of hard to see it right now,” Myra said, “but the world is your oyster, Blondie.”
“If you mean I’m stuck inside a small shell and can’t move and could be eaten at any moment, then yes.”
Myra laughed and clapped a strong hand on Blondie’s thigh. Blondie winced. Tomorrow she would find a palm-size welt there.
“I feel for you. I do. But look at it this way. You can go anywhere you want. Anywhere. I mean, what the hell is keeping you here? Nothing. Go to New York. LA. Phoenix. Hell, move to Paris. What’s stopping you?”
“Money, for one thing,” Blondie said, droplets of sweat spattering onto the varnished wood. “We don’t have any. I mean, we might. There’s something in the works I can’t really talk about. But even if I had money, I’d never move to a big city. We need to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere the kids won’t feel crushed. We need a town, maybe a small city. Somewhere we can blend in and become a part of the surroundings without feeling like we’re going to get run over. I want to do right by them.”
Myra nodded. There was something beneath her eyes, a remorse. In that instant, Myra seemed like a different person. One consumed by sadness.
“You gotta do right by them,” she said. “I screwed up my chance to do that. And I’m still paying for it.”
Then her face changed. The sadness disappeared, like a mask had slipped back on. She laughed.
“Besides,” Myra said, “look at the trap muscles on you. I feel bad for anyone who tries to run you over.”
“You ever think about leaving?” Blondie said.
“All the damn time,” Myra said. “I don’t particularly like it here. But I have to stay.”
“Why?”
“Reasons, Blondie. I made mistakes. And I’m paying for them. That’s all you need to know.”
“So if you did leave,” Blondie said, “any ideas on where you’d go?”
“Ashby,” Myra said. “I’d move to Ashby.”
“Never been there. Why Ashby?”
“It’s right up your alley. Western Illinois, a couple hours outside Chicago. I have some family there. Some people I don’t see as often as I should. But it’s the kind of place you’d love. Quiet. Folks mind their own business for the most part. Good school system for the kids. You could get a job, keep your head down. It’s far enough from the bigger cities like Chicago and Springfield that real estate prices won’t kill you, but close enough that if you need to travel, you have options.”
“How do you know all this? You work in real estate in Ashby or something?”
“What did I say about asking so many questions?”
Blondie nodded. “So Ashby, huh?”
“If you do leave here, give it a look. It’s a good place to disappear.” Myra checked her cell phone. “It’s getting late. Walk with me.”
The women gathered up their belongings and left the gym. The cool air felt invigorating on their damp skin. Darkness fell over the city, but Blondie, for the first time in a long, long time, began to believe she just might have a future. She let the name sit on her lips. Ashby. If her settlement money came through, she’d look into it. Maybe she’d found her family’s new home.
Several blocks away, a man walked toward them. His name was Stanford Royce. At that moment they were unaware of each other’s existence. But their futures would soon be intertwined in blood.
CHAPTER 11
Today
Ten minutes after Evie Boggs left her home, Rachel received a text message.
Thanks for your hospitality. I’ll be in touch. See you soon. ~E
She had never given Evie her cell number. And See you soon. The house could be under surveillance by Evie or someone else.
Rachel stood by the front door for twenty minutes, unmoving, to be sure Evie was not coming back. She spent the rest of the evening waiting, patiently, for her children to go to sleep. She tucked Megan in, marveling at the collection of pages from her new Sadie Scout book. She knocked on Eric’s door, opened it after an irritated What? and told her son that she loved him. He nodded, and that was their final communication for the night. Then, when the house was quiet, she brewed a pot of french roast and went down to the basement.
The door to the lower level of the Marin home was protected by a three-inch-thick metal-framed door guarded by a keypad. Most families designed their basements for play. Thick carpeting for roughhousing. Toys and games scattered everywhere. Perhaps a man cave for the husbands who occasionally needed to escape their families and responsibilities, overstuffed La-Z-Boys opposite a home-theater system the size of a Range Rover.
Rachel had none of those amenities. Her basement was to work her mind and body. Her children were forbidden to use it. They had enough playthings.
On one wall, Rachel had mounted a rack of free weights, jump ropes, and plyometric equipment. She used these daily. The floor was covered with a rubber mat so her sweat wouldn’t seep into a carpet or the floorboards. She cleaned it twice a week with water and mild detergent.