Caitlin peeked her head into the tent. Bear and Gus were sound asleep too, in a tangled mess of blankets, Bear curled up with his thumb in his mouth—the fetal position had never seemed so appropriate as it did now—and Gus slack jawed, his legs thrown almost protectively over Bear’s. Poor little Bear. He looked even more exhausted than his father did. But not for long. Her plan was under way, was going to work. She’d have him back to his mother in hours.
She hadn’t allowed herself to think much about what would happen next. She dared to hope that in person, she could talk Violet into coming here, confronting Finn on her own—assuming Finn was still here to confront by then—taking one last chance to talk things through on their own terms without the authorities calling the shots. Maybe there was still some way out of this, however unlikely, for all of them. But then again, maybe not. Maybe Vi would insist on calling Agent Martin right away. Maybe Finn would be taken into custody and follow through on his blackmail threats. Maybe he’d escape, and she’d be accused of letting him go.
The price Caitlin might pay … well, she’d just have to face it.
But where was Leo?
“Boo!” he shouted, springing up from the pile of pillows against the back wall of the tent. Leo erupted into a fit of giggles as Caitlin’s hand went to her throat. Her eyes darted toward Finn, half expecting him to sit up. He didn’t move. Miraculously, neither did the other boys. Caitlin went down onto her knees and opened her arms, and Leo sank into her hug.
“I was hiding!” he said proudly, his voice muffled by her shoulder.
“I can see that. You scared me!” She could always count on him for a good snuggle, no matter where they were or whom they were with. She knew that would change one day, but she hated to think of it. She held him close for as long as he’d let her and tried to think of exactly what she should do next. She had to disable the alarm, grab the essentials—pull-ups (she’d learned the hard way that the boys couldn’t always wait for the next exit on a long drive), clothes, snacks—and rush the kids out to the car. She’d need to grab Bear’s car seat from that clunker Finn was driving—she still didn’t have the slightest clue where he’d gotten it, or how—and figure out how to install it in her own. And she had to keep the boys relatively quiet while she was loading up—she wasn’t sure how soundly she could bank on Finn sleeping. But if she could just get the car moving in the direction of Asheville, and everyone strapped in, she’d be home free.
Well, neither home nor free, actually. Her own troubles would just be beginning—but Bear and Violet would be together and safe. And that was what mattered.
Leo pulled back and grinned up at her, the kind of goofy grin full of unencumbered love that only the youngest kids can give. And the kind of messy grin that comes only from those who have yet to learn to use a napkin. She had to laugh. “What on earth is all over your face?” It looked like smears of chocolate, and something stickier. Leo had been getting into everything lately. It was the age, people told her, and she had to bite her lip to point out that Gus didn’t seem to have any problems staying out of trouble. She couldn’t stand the idea of people categorizing the twins in the way that she knew they eventually would: the troublemaker and the mama’s boy, the old soul and the wild child, the brawn and the brains.
“Hot chocolate.”
She glanced around for a mug but didn’t see any. She didn’t even think they had any hot chocolate.
“Hot chocolate? Did Uncle Finn make you that?”
Leo didn’t answer. He buried his hands in the front of her shirt and started pulling on the fabric, the way he did when he thought he was in trouble. “It’s okay, little man. Mommy isn’t mad. We just need to clean you up.”
He looked at her with so much gratitude she regretted all the times she’d been less patient, less understanding. “I wanted marshmallows,” he explained, as she took his sticky hand and led him toward the kitchen.
And that’s when she saw. The bag of marshmallows open on the counter. The stool pulled up next to it. The puddles of French vanilla–flavored coffee that had sloshed over the sides of Finn’s mug from this morning. And the fact that hardly a drop was left inside.
She scooped Leo into her arms and crossed the rest of the distance to the counter, trying to remain calm. She pointed at the mug. “This is what you drank?” He nodded, and something inside her keeled over. No. It couldn’t be.
“This isn’t hot chocolate, little man. It was Uncle Finn’s coffee. Coffee is a grown-up drink. It didn’t taste funny to you?”
He shrugged. She looked again at how much was spilled onto the counter. It was hard to judge. She forced into her voice a calm she didn’t feel. “Did you actually drink it, or did you just dip marshmallows in it?” He didn’t answer.
If only she had dumped it out—if she hadn’t been so careless to hold on to some lingering hope that Finn would polish it off after all …
Her heart pounded, yet she moved slowly—if she set off a tantrum, if he felt he was in trouble, she might never get the answers she needed. And the consequence could be deadly serious. She touched the tip of her nose to his, a move she reserved for when she needed his attention most. “You drank it, or you just dipped marshmallows in it?” she repeated.
“I wanted marshmallows,” he said again. Then, with another sticky grin, “It tasted like hot chocolate!” Caitlin had a flash of Gus and Bear, still sleeping in the tent. She set Leo on the floor at her feet and took him by the shoulders as gently as she could manage with her pulse racing.
“Did Gus and Bear drink some too?”
He shook his head.
“Are you sure? Not even a little bit?”
“I didn’t want to share,” he said.
Caitlin fought against the growing sense of panic that threatened to overtake her. She couldn’t let herself get frantic, not now.
“Honey, do you feel sick at all? Do you feel sleepy?” Leo looked at her strangely. She glanced over her shoulder at the tent, at Finn asleep on the couch. No one stirred.
“Let’s go into the bathroom, sweetie,” she said soothingly, taking Leo by the hand. She pulled him down the hall and he followed reluctantly. Back in the master bathroom, she washed her hands and his at the sink. Then she led Leo gently over to the toilet and knelt down beside him.
When he was younger, he had an underdeveloped gag reflex, one that used to make every little head cold miserable for the whole family by causing him to throw up without warning—all over his bedsheets, or the couch, or his car seat—when he coughed with any force at all. She prayed he still had it. Without a word, she wrapped an arm around his midsection, bent him over the bowl, and pushed her index finger as far down his throat as she could. Leo made a loud, startled gagging noise, and she pulled her hand back. He cried out, and then began to wail, tears of hurt and surprise instantly streaming down his face. He did not, however, throw up.
She did it again, to no avail. She gave him a moment to catch his breath, then tried again. Each time, he wailed louder. By the time her fifth attempt failed, she was crying too. She sank onto the floor, wrapped both arms around him, and pulled him close. His little shoulders heaved and she held on tight.