Final acceptance is tough, whether you get news or you come to it on your own. But maybe now Frances can begin to heal.
When they all pull apart, Marin’s eyes meet Simon’s. She can tell what he’s thinking. They’re going to have to find a new location for their stupid, pointless, so-called support group. When the meeting ends a few minutes later, the four of them say goodbye to Frances and head outside. Jamie’s car is beside Marin’s, and they click their fobs at the same time.
“Pretty awful, huh?” Marin says to her. This meeting was not exactly the ideal first experience she would have wished for someone new, and she wouldn’t be surprised at all if she never sees the other woman again.
“Yeah.” Jamie’s voice is softer than she expected, almost little-girlish. “‘Awful’ is the right word. But you know what? I feel so much better. See you next month.”
As they get into their cars, Marin is reminded, and not for the first time, that sometimes someone else’s pain is the only thing that makes yours better.
Chapter 4
The private investigator’s email stops her in her tracks.
For seven seconds, Marin can’t move, can’t breathe. She had just stepped out of the shower, her wet hair dripping onto the marble vanity as she leans over, staring at Vanessa Castro’s name in her phone. There’s nothing in the subject line.
She knows it’s seven seconds, because she counts. By the time she gets to five, she remembers that Vanessa Castro wouldn’t email if she had bad news. She would not tell Marin that her son is dead in an email. When she gets to seven, she inhales, clicks on it, and reads. It’s only two sentences.
Hi — do you have any time to meet this morning? I’ll be at the office by 10.
She wants to meet? Oh god. Whatever awful thing the private investigator plans to tell Marin, she wants to do it in person.
There’s no protocol in place for how the news about Sebastian is to be revealed to her, should that day ever come. They’ve never discussed it. The only thing Vanessa Castro has ever said—and it was more in passing than anything else—was that if she learned something crucial, she would call Marin immediately.
With shaking hands, Marin replies.
I’ll be there. —MM
Four hundred eighty-six days. Would today be the day?
It can’t be. Their meeting’s at ten, and it’s only eight thirty. If the PI was going to tell Marin that her son was dead, surely she wouldn’t make Marin wait ninety minutes to find out.
Then again, maybe she would. Maybe this is how it’s done. If her son is dead, what does it matter if she learns the news now, or in an hour and a half?
Marin gets ready, trying to occupy her mind with other things. Before she leaves the room, she tidies up. It’s Daniela’s day to clean, but that doesn’t mean the woman should have to pick up clothing from the floor, or make the bed. It doesn’t take long; the sheets are still neat on Derek’s side. As she fluffs a pillow that’s already fluffy, it occurs to Marin that she has no idea what time her husband will be back from his business trip tonight. In his brief text at bedtime the night before, he never specified. Then again, she never asked. He didn’t suggest they have dinner. She didn’t offer to cook.
This is who they are now. Living parallel lives, side by side for the most part, but never converging.
As she passes Sebastian’s room, she places a hand over his door. Just for a second, same as she does every day. Daniela isn’t allowed to clean in there.
Marin had an easier time getting out of bed this morning. She always sleeps well after group, and she drank nothing last night when she got home. The difference in the mirror this morning is obvious—no bloodshot eyes, no bags, no puffiness. It might have been a decent start to the day, if not for the PI’s email.
She pads downstairs to the kitchen to start the coffee machine. The Breville is fancy, and can make everything from cappuccinos to lattes at the push of a button, using beans it grinds fresh for every cup. Sitting on a stool at the island while the coffee percolates, she checks her calendar for the day. She finds a phone number in her contacts list, and hits Call. It rings twice and goes to voicemail, as it always does. He never picks up.
“Hi, Dr. Chen, it’s Marin Machado,” she says after the beep. Her voice is a bit hoarse, as these are the first words she’s spoken this morning. “Something urgent has come up, and it has to do with my son, so I won’t be able to make my appointment. I understand I’ll be billed for the late cancellation, and of course that’s fine. Thanks.” She pauses, wondering if she should mention rescheduling, then decides against it. She disconnects. She can always call again later, but for now, she’s not sure she wants to see her therapist again.
There’s nothing wrong with Dr. Chen. He’s fine. He’s calm, soothing, understanding, easy to talk to, all the things you’d want your therapist to be. But therapy is hard. You have to do the work, and it demands a lot from you before it starts to give back. And at the last appointment, things got … argumentative.
Marin finally told Dr. Chen her secret.
She went into the appointment with the plan to reveal it, in small part because she did want to talk about it. It was something she’d never dared tell anyone before. But more than that, she was testing him, gauging his reaction, to see if he’d “allow” her to continue doing it, or if he’d try to get her to stop.
When she finally spoke the words out loud, Dr. Chen’s normally neutral face had registered surprise, which quickly morphed into concern. Still, it took him a long moment to speak, and when he did, his tone was gentle but firm. And then he said all the things Marin knew he would say. And maybe that’s why she told him. So that he’d tell her it was wrong. So that he’d tell her not to do it anymore.
“What you just told me, Marin, it’s not productive.” Dr. Chen’s voice was measured, but there was no mistaking the alarm behind it. It was in his body language, which was a degree stiffer than it had been a moment earlier. “It’s not healthy for you. In fact, I think you should stop. Immediately.”
“I don’t do it every night,” Marin said. “Not even every week. Just … when I can’t stop thinking about him. When I can’t stop worrying.”
“I understand. But this isn’t the way to go about it.” Dr. Chen leaned forward. He only did this when he felt compelled to make a point. “It’s … very not okay. I am very concerned that engaging in this behavior will exacerbate your thoughts of self-harm. Not to mention,” he said, in his infuriatingly calm way, leaning back in his chair once more, “it’s illegal. You could get in serious trouble. You could get arrested.”
She knew this was what he would say. She just needed to hear him say it. She defended herself, her voice growing louder while his stayed at its normal pitch, until her time ran out. His frustration, however, was obvious. Therapists aren’t impervious to emotion.
After leaving the message with Dr. Chen, Marin texts Sadie. I won’t be in this morning after all, she types. Sorry, I know I promised to go over the vendor contracts with you.
No worries at all, Sadie replies. Everything OK?
Not sure, she writes, which is the truth. Am meeting with the PI.
There’s a pause, and Marin watches three dots flicker across her phone screen while Sadie formulates a response. The other woman won’t ask questions, she never does, but she can probably sense Marin is worried. Sadie doesn’t just run Marin’s salons—she’s also a close friend. Finally, her reply comes in, and it’s sweet and brief, as Marin knew it would be.
Understood. Here if you need anything. xo
She doesn’t know what she would have done without Sadie.
When the FBI told them a month after Sebastian went missing that the search for their son would always be considered “ongoing,” but that in the immediate, there were no new leads to pursue (fancy speak for “we’re putting this on the back burner”), it was like losing her child all over again.
And Marin didn’t handle it well. At all.
When she
was discharged from the hospital a week later, the first thing she did was call the private investigator. She’d had Vanessa Castro’s card for a while; a couple of weeks, at least. Castro had left her business card in the plastic bowl by the front desk of the downtown salon, having come in for a pedicure some time earlier. Every month, the salons do a drawing for a free service, but Vanessa Castro’s card wasn’t a winner. Marin only saw it because her sleeve had caught the edge of the bowl and knocked it over, causing all the cards to spill onto the floor.
Nothing about the PI’s business card was particularly interesting—Isaac & Castro was written in plain blue letters across the middle, and below it, Vanessa Castro, Private Investigator in smaller type—but out of the two dozen cards splayed out on the tile, it was the only one that landed faceup. Maybe it was the only one she needed to see. The universe is funny that way.
Sebastian had been missing for two weeks by that time. Marin pocketed the card, and later, after she was released from psychiatric hold, she called.
Castro and her business partner are both ex-Seattle PD. She specializes in finding missing children, and she’s made a name for herself because she looks in places the police won’t, or can’t. She’s unconventional, a bit of a renegade. Classy on the surface, she’s unafraid to get her hands dirty. She’s also ridiculously expensive. When they first met, she told Marin to call her Vanessa, but that didn’t feel right—they weren’t girlfriends and it wasn’t Sunday brunch.
Marin hired the woman to find her son. She couldn’t live with the thought that nobody was looking for him. Someone always has to be looking.
Whether the person who took Sebastian was someone who actually knew him was a bone of contention between Marin and the police—and later, the FBI. They found no evidence to suggest that the person was a friend or acquaintance of the family, and cited statistics for stranger abductions as being “small, but significant.” The Santa costume, they believed, denoted the person’s intent to steal a child—possibly any child, from a place that was crowded, busy, and congested—because there is no bigger representative of Christmas for small children than Santa Claus. Even a child who doesn’t automatically trust adults might be lured by the red suit and white beard. As for the lollipop, she and Sebastian hadn’t been far from the candy store. If someone had been plotting to kidnap him, he (or she) might have overheard their conversation.
Marin disagreed. While she can admit that Sebastian is an outgoing child by nature—and quite trusting of adults in general—he would never have allowed himself to be led away from her without so much as a backward glance. And how did “Santa” even know that Sebastian liked that specific lollipop? Marin’s watched the grainy footage a thousand times. She knows her son better than any person on earth. He loved Santa, but he found the actual presence of Santa Claus intimidating. He would have looked to Marin for reassurance that it was all right for him to go.
Unless it was someone he knew.
But everyone in their personal lives was interviewed. Everyone. And every alibi was checked. All of them. For the past year, Castro has been repeating all the work the FBI did, and then some.
At their last status meeting a month ago, Marin asked Castro to widen the search and look into Derek’s employees, and hers, along with all her clients. Derek’s company hosts a holiday party in early December for the families of his employees, and Marin does something similar in the summer with her Customer Appreciation Barbecue. Anyone attending those parties would have met Sebastian. Marin wanted background checks done on all of them, so Castro began with the employees who were closest with Derek and Marin.
She pauses. What if it was Sadie who took Sebastian? What if that’s what the private investigator is going to tell her?
It’s the first time the thought has crossed her mind, and Marin barks a laugh into the quiet kitchen. Ridiculous. Of course it isn’t Sadie. Besides, the woman just had a baby of her own. Why would she want Marin’s?
Marin prepares her coffee, pouring it into a tumbler featuring the salon logo etched down the side. They sell the extra-large rose-gold-tinted tumblers at all three locations for sixty-five dollars, an outrageous price for what amounts to a coffee mug, but the clients buy them regularly for themselves and as gifts for other people. Sometimes Marin puts wine in hers. But not today.
She gets into her car, wondering if she should call Derek in Portland to let him know about the possibility of bad news. Despite the emotional distance between them, she wouldn’t mind hearing his voice right now, always so reassuring and practical. He would certainly remind her that Vanessa Castro is a former cop and professional private investigator who would have said something immediately if she had definitive news about Sebastian, who would never make her wait for a face-to-face appointment.
She’d like to talk to him, but she can’t. She can’t tell Derek a damned thing.
She never told her husband she hired a PI.
Chapter 5
“How was traffic?” Castro asks when Marin arrives at the small office in Fremont. She never asks how Marin is. She knows better. The investigator appears to have just arrived herself. She’s still wearing her coat.
“The bridge wasn’t too bad.” Marin takes a seat across from her, noticing that some things have been changed around since she was last here, a month ago. The small fish tank, which used to sit on the low bookcase by the wall, is now on the corner of the desk where Marin can see it up close. There’s only one fish inside it, a betta with a flashy red tail, and she watches it swim back and forth as Castro logs in to her computer.
She and Castro usually do status updates once every other month, but truth be told, those meetings are nothing they couldn’t do via phone or email. However, Castro seems to understand that speaking face-to-face with the parent of the child she’s looking for is necessary for the mother’s well-being, and she’s both patient and direct with Marin whenever they see each other.
As far as Marin is concerned, these meetings with the PI are better than therapy.
“Thanks for coming on short notice.” Castro places a mini bottle of water in front of her. Usually she offers Marin coffee, but everything about today feels different.
“Of course.” Marin stares at the woman’s face, searching for any clue that she’s about to receive terrible news. Castro is near impossible to read. The other woman does seem a bit uneasy.
“So…” Castro pauses. “It’s not about Sebastian.”
Marin didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she lets out a long exhale. Oh thank god. She reaches for the water bottle, twists the top off, and takes a long sip.
“Sorry.” Castro’s brow is furrowed. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I should have specified that in my email.”
“It’s okay,” Marin says. It’s really not, but at the moment she can’t bring herself to process anything other than relief. “So, what is it, then?”
“It…” Castro hesitates again, and though Marin is no longer worried, she can’t imagine what’s causing the PI such discomfort. The woman’s an ex-homicide cop, for Christ’s sake. “It appears your husband is seeing someone.”
Huh? Marin takes another sip of water, staring at the other woman, not fully comprehending. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure where things stand with you two, but last we spoke, you didn’t mention anything about a separation—”
“We’re not separated.”
“Then I’m very sorry to tell you that your husband is having an affair.”
Marin blinks. She heard the words the PI said clearly, and she doesn’t need them repeated, though perhaps she needs Castro to communicate them a different way. They sit in silence for a few seconds. Marin feels like she’s waiting for a punchline that isn’t coming.
What the hell is the woman talking about, affair? That can’t be why she called Marin in. That isn’t why she was hired.
As if reading her mind, Castro types something onto her desktop, then turns the monitor in her direct
ion so Marin can see. It’s a photo, full color, of Derek. He’s with another woman. The picture fills up the whole screen.
Marin stares at it, her mouth dropping open. Her brain seems to want to process everything she’s looking at separately; she can’t take it in all at once. Hair. Clothes. Face. Hands. Tree. Sidewalk. Boots. Smiles. Age. Ethnicity. The woman standing beside Derek looks a little like Olivia Munn, that actress who used to date that football player. But this woman is definitely younger—Marin doesn’t know how old she is, but mid-twenties would be her guess. A spark of familiarity hits her, something in the angle of her chin, the shape of her eyes. But then Marin blinks, and the sense of déjà vu is gone, and the woman is a stranger.
A stranger holding hands with her husband.
Castro clicks the mouse, and the photo changes to a different one, taken the same day, probably a minute or two later.
The stranger is now kissing her husband. Passionately. Outdoors. In broad daylight.
“These are from yesterday afternoon. In Portland.” The PI knows how to deliver bad news. Her voice is modulated; sympathetic but neutral. She could be an anchorwoman on a local news station, reading the teleprompter and telling viewers about something devastating that just happened somewhere in the world before throwing it back over to Chuck and Gary for the sports and weather. “A contact of mine sent them over. I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”
Derek isn’t just away on business—he’s away on business with his … with his … mistress, is the first word that comes to mind. Girlfriend, lover, homewrecker, and whore also come to mind, but for some reason, mistress seems to fit. It’s more sordid, and more scandalous, which is what this feels like.
Well, what did you expect? a little voice in her head whispers, and she mentally swats at it, like it’s a buzzing mosquito. But it doesn’t leave; it keeps whispering, and the whispers are growing louder, and more persistent, and if she doesn’t calm down, she’s going to have a panic attack right here in the middle of the private investigator’s office.
Little Secrets Page 4
