Stay With Me by Alison Gaylin Page A

typing furiously on her laptop, only to switch screens and slam it shut when she realized Faith was in the room. Maya, who had never hidden anything from Faith before.
    Faith had asked Maya what she’d been typing, of course.
    And Maya had replied the way any teenager would: “ Nothing. ”
    “Nicolai,” Faith said to her cameraman as he took a light reading of her face. “Do you feel like you can tell your parents anything?”
    He put the cardboard down and gave her a look like she’d just spoken to him in ancient Sanskrit.
    “Are you serious?” he said.
    Nicolai’s peachy skin was half covered by unkempt dark beard and he wore glasses with thick black frames that Faith had always suspected were clear glass. He had an entire wardrobe of baggy flannel hunting shirts, wing-tip shoes and combat boots, mailman shorts, and brown UPS shirts and dress pants that were probably considered pathetically outré in the late seventies. Nicolai was a spoiled little boy who went to work in costume. Screw him.
    “Yes, Nicolai, I’m serious.”
    “I’m twenty-four years old,” he said, as though that was supposed to mean anything. Five years from now, he could date Maya, no one would bat an eye.
    Faith sighed. “Point well taken.”
    She supposed she should talk to Jim about this. But maybe not. What if Maya had been writing in a journal, or complaining about her parents to a friend from school? She was a thirteen-year-old girl who had never seriously misbehaved—and with a mother, bless Brenna’s heart, who remembered every misstep she ever made. Wasn’t Maya entitled to her secrets? Wasn’t everyone?
    The lights were hot on Faith’s skin. Not for the first time, she felt as though her on-camera makeup were pressing against her, smothering her. There were downsides to this job—the long hours, the pressure, the lack of privacy, which was, of course, ironic. As a nosy, privacy-invading TV journalist, Faith had more stalkers than she’d had as a beauty queen.
    None of it was conducive to family. Maybe it was time to rethink this job, take a little hiatus, dedicate herself to being a full-time stepmom . . .
    God, Maya would probably hate that, which was sad. Couple of years ago, it would’ve made her the happiest little girl in the world, which just goes to show, you can’t put things off when it comes to kids. If you don’t seize the moment and ride it for all it’s worth, they’ll outgrow you.
    They’ll leave you behind.
    Faith needed to focus. Here she was, thinking of family issues while sitting in the Bensonhurst home of Ashley Stanley, “get” of the year.
    Ashley Stanley, who had been held captive for ten years by husband-and-wife sadists Charles and Renee Lemaire. She’d been twenty-three when she was escaped a year ago, and unlike Elizabeth Smart and Jaycee Dugard, she never had the satisfaction of seeing her tormentors brought to justice. By the time Ashley had given the police directions to the home where she’d spent all of her teen years, often gagged and shackled under the bed while the couple entertained unwitting dinner guests, the Lemaires had escaped.
    Ashley lived alone. Her mother—her only family—had died four years ago, and with the Lemaires still at large, she’d imposed on herself a new type of captivity: doors triple-bolted, blocked ID on her phone, natural blonde hair dyed mud brown. She maintained no close friendships, didn’t do social media. She didn’t even have an e-mail address.
    And she had never given an interview. It had taken months for Faith and her producers to coax this poor, terrified girl out of hiding. In fact, Faith might not have had an interview with Ashley at all if, after seeing the sensitive way she’d treated Brenna on camera, Ashley hadn’t agreed to have lunch with Faith.
    A lunch that, sadly, had turned into yet another horror. Despite taking every precaution possible to keep it under wraps, the two women had been snapped three weeks ago at the Capitol