Little Secrets

by Jennifer Hillier

  What the hell is this? Some kind of bondage thing? Have she and Derek gotten into something kinky? Is this the kind of shit that turns him on?

  Then Marin notices how stringy the younger woman’s hair looks. Her pink waves are limp and greasy, not damp. Also, something doesn’t look right with her face. She zooms in on the picture to get a closer look, and she gasps when McKenzie’s features come into focus.

  Derek’s lover has been beaten. It’s not makeup. The swelling is obvious. One eye is purple and nearly swollen shut. Her bottom lip is split, and there’s dried blood on her chin. There’s a cut above her eyebrow. Zooming in even closer, Marin can see the wet line trailing from the corner of her puffy eye all the way down her cheek.

  Tears. She’s crying.

  And then the Shadow app receives another text. This time, it’s all words.

  We have your girl. $250,000 cash, small bills, tonight. You don’t pay, the same thing will happen to her that happened to your son. You don’t want it to happen again, do you, Derek? We’ll be in touch later with the address.

  Marin’s knees give out. She clutches the desk as her head spins, a thousand feelings bubbling up all at once as she tries to make sense of what she’s just read. She wills herself to breathe, to stay calm, because having a panic attack will not help.

  “Oh god, Derek,” she whispers into the quiet office. “Oh my god. What have you done?”

  Her phone pings again. Marin is almost afraid to look down.

  She does, anyway, to find her husband has responded to the ransom demand. Only five words.

  I’ll get you the money.

  Chapter 28

  If it were anybody else, Marin would be calling the police herself. It’s a ransom demand. It’s a life at stake.

  Except the ransom demand wasn’t sent to Marin. It was sent to her husband, and the life at stake is McKenzie Li’s. The woman whose death was worth—in a moment of weakness, in Marin’s darkest hour—two hundred fifty thousand dollars. The amount it cost Marin to end her life is, coincidentally, the exact same amount it will cost Derek to save it.

  Marin has no idea if her husband loves this woman, or has ever loved her. When Sebastian disappeared, he and Marin were schooled by the FBI on exactly what to say if they were to ever receive a ransom demand. And not saying or doing anything to antagonize the kidnappers was the first thing on that list. Just because Derek said he would get the money doesn’t mean he will.

  Either way, that’s not Marin’s immediate concern. She wants to know what the hell the text is referring to with You don’t want it to happen again.

  Again? Did Derek get a ransom demand for their son, and not tell her, or the FBI? Is this the same person who took Sebastian? Or is it someone totally unrelated, preying on Derek’s trauma over the abduction of their son and betting that he’ll pay up to avoid another tragedy?

  She thinks back to the days after Sebastian’s disappearance. Their phones were never out of their sight, never not fully charged. All they did was wait for the call, and the call never came. Except it might have. The wording of the ransom demand could be interpreted two totally different ways, and since Derek’s response was immediate and decisive, it’s clear her husband knew which way to take it.

  Derek knows exactly what they mean.

  In the general scheme of things, two hundred fifty thousand dollars is a drop in the bucket for them. It’s a phone call, a few numbers typed into a computer, a wire transfer, and a confirmation email. It affects their finances almost not at all, which is probably why the kidnappers asked for a number so low. It’s an accessible amount, one that gets the whole thing over with quickly.

  No more avoiding. No more pretending. No more secrets. No more lies. The time has come to address all of it with the only person who has all the answers. The common denominator.

  Marin sits in the kitchen, drinking coffee, waiting for Derek. His meetings had ended sooner than he’d expected, and he managed to get on an earlier flight back to Seattle. He sent her a text thirty minutes ago to let her know he’d landed, just like he used to back when they were happy, before all this happened. He didn’t check a suitcase, he didn’t park a car. He’ll simply deplane and take a taxi home. With traffic at this time of day, she has maybe thirty more minutes until he walks through the door.

  She pulls out the small piece of white paper she found on the floor of their closet three days before, and finally calls the number on the front of it.

  “Sunshine Cab,” a dispatcher answers, halfway through the first ring. A man’s voice, clipped. “Where you headed?”

  “Hi there, I was in one of your cabs the other day, and I think I left my wallet in it.” Marin speaks smoothly, the lie rolling off her tongue.

  “Receipt number?”

  Marin recites the eight-digit number stamped on the top right corner.

  She hears typing in the background.

  “That’s cab four-oh-two,” the dispatcher says, more to himself than to her. “One sec, I’m going to check if any lost articles were logged in that night.” More typing. “Nope, nothing.”

  “Then I’m ninety-nine percent positive it’s still in the cab,” Marin says. “Is there any way you could put me in touch with the driver?”

  “That’s not protocol,” the man says. “I can call him and ask about your missing item while I put you on hold. What’s your first name? And what does the wallet look like?”

  “It’s um, Sadie.” Marin spits out the first name that comes to mind. “And the wallet is red with, um … a gold clasp.” It doesn’t matter—there’s no wallet, and even if there were, it isn’t Sadie’s.

  “One sec.” The phone clicks, and soft rock plays over the line until the dispatcher is back. “Ma’am? The driver didn’t pick up. GPS shows him driving. Can I text him your number, tell him to call you when he’s finished his fare?”

  “Yes, please.” Marin withholds a sigh of frustration. Why didn’t they do this in the first place? “Do you have a pen?”

  She gives him her cell number and disconnects. She doesn’t know exactly what she’s looking for, but someone was in her house around nine p.m. Saturday night. She has a pretty good idea who it was, but if her theory is correct, Derek’s mistress would have gone missing sometime after she broke in. McKenzie wasn’t home when her roommate finished work at two a.m., which means the younger woman likely disappeared in that five-hour window.

  The question was, why was she in their house? And what happened to her afterward?

  The doorbell rings.

  Frowning, Marin finishes her coffee and pads down the hallway to the front door. She peers through the peephole, letting out a gasp when she sees the distorted image of the person standing on the other side. She opens the door slowly, the blood draining from her face, and feels herself sway.

  Vanessa Castro grabs her arm before she can fall.

  “I haven’t found Sebastian,” the PI says. “You’re okay. Breathe.”

  Marin straightens up, shaking, and takes a few seconds to gather herself. Phone calls are bad enough—Vanessa Castro’s name on her call display is always terrifying—but seeing the private investigator in person, she now knows, is a hundred times worse. Jesus Christ, she misses the days when Castro used to just email. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve learned some new information. I thought we should talk in person. It couldn’t wait.” She looks past Marin. “You alone?”

  “For now. Come in.”

  Marin stands aside as Castro enters. She rubs her stomach, grimacing at the acidic taste at the back of her throat. It must be a strange superpower to have, causing people indigestion at the mere sight of you. Glancing around at the pristine perfection of the house and noting Marin’s bare feet, the other woman removes her shoes, leaving them neatly by the door.

  Marin leads her into the kitchen. “Something to drink?” she asks.

  Castro’s eyes flicker to the coffee machine. “Oh, wow. Is that a Breville Oracle? I’ve always
wanted one of these for the office, but I’d have to sell a kidney.”

  Marin manages a small smile. “Make whatever you like.”

  A couple of minutes later, they take a seat at the banquette. Castro takes a sip of her mochaccino, nods her approval at the taste, and starts speaking.

  “As soon as I saw that McKenzie Li was missing, something started niggling at me,” Castro says, “and I couldn’t put my finger on it. It felt like there was some missed connection I wasn’t seeing.”

  “I know that feeling.”

  “So I started digging deeper into her background. Are you aware that she and Sal Palermo had a sexual relationship when she was seventeen?”

  Marin stares at the other woman, her mouth dropping open. The connection she couldn’t quite make earlier … here it is. She closes her mouth, swallows. “No, I was not. Are you sure?”

  Castro pulls out her phone. She taps the screen a few times, then hands it to Marin. She’s pulled up a photo of a younger Sal with a much younger McKenzie. They’re sitting beside each other on a riverbank, the water rushing by behind them, their cheeks pressed together, the sun in both their eyes. A selfie. Not the greatest quality; it was probably taken with a BlackBerry Curve or whatever cheap smartphone was popular with high schoolers seven years ago. McKenzie’s hair was dark brown, hanging in a silky sheath almost down to her waist. Her eyebrows looked different—they were thinner then, overplucked—and she looked like a teenager, which she would have been when the photo was taken.

  But there’s no mistaking it’s her.

  “Holy shit.” Marin stares at the picture, stunned. “I don’t … I don’t understand.”

  She works to wrap her mind around this new revelation. She knew that Sal was a serial dater, and had been since they broke up, and that he often hooked up with women much younger than he was. Ginny from the bar was a classic example.

  But Marin had shown him McKenzie’s picture, at his bar that afternoon while she was getting drunk on amaretto sours. Sal had taken a good, long look at McKenzie’s naked body. And he’d laughed. Laughed. And then commiserated with her at the ridiculousness of McKenzie’s youth, her pink hair, her tattoos, all the things that made her the exact opposite of Marin. He never said a word about knowing her, or even recognizing her. And all along, he had known her. Intimately. Because they’d been lovers.

  Marin is surrounded by liars.

  Castro is still speaking, and she forces herself to focus.

  “It seems that Sal and McKenzie are both from the same small town in eastern Washington called—”

  “Prosser.” Marin’s mind is whirling.

  “Right. Prosser. I made a call to a former neighbor of hers, a woman named—”

  “Pearl Watts?” Marin says. “I read the same Facebook comments you did.”

  She had meant to message the woman, but the Shadow app had pinged with the ransom demand for McKenzie, and she’d forgotten all about it. Did the PI know about the ransom demand? Was that why she was here?

  “Good detecting.” The private investigator gives her a small smile. “Yes, Pearl Watts. She confirmed that she lived next door to the Li family when McKenzie was growing up. McKenzie’s mother worked as a cleaner for several of the local businesses, and she often worked after hours, so McKenzie was looked after by her grandmother. One of the businesses she cleaned was the Palermo Wine Shoppe.”

  “The storefront and tasting room for the Palermo Wine Estates.” Marin lets out a breath. “Sal’s family business.”

  “Pearl was very helpful in giving me the inside scoop on McKenzie. Apparently, she was always a nice girl, but a bit of a wild child. Eager to get out of Prosser and become an artist. When she started seeing Sal, she didn’t care that he was more than twice her age, didn’t care who knew. It was quite the town spectacle. And then Pearl told me about rumors, things she’d heard from people who knew McKenzie in college, that she’d developed a taste for older men in general. Particularly older rich men.”

  “No surprise there.”

  “So I kept digging, and ended up getting in touch with an old roommate of hers from Idaho. The roommate, Isabel, said that McKenzie was dating a married man their senior year, whose wife came to their apartment, drunk and hysterical, because she’d learned about their affair. It was a mess, the superintendent was called, the wife had to be escorted out, and the whole thing freaked Isabel out. But she said McKenzie wasn’t bothered by it at all. She didn’t care that the wife was upset. According to Isabel, McKenzie cared more about the fact that her relationship with Paul, the married man, might end before she got her big payout.”

  “What payout?”

  “Evidently, that was their thing. The roommate even had a term for it. Professional girlfriend. They dated rich men, and when the relationships ended, they asked for ‘severance pay.’” Castro’s fingers crooked into air quotes.

  “The roommate told you all this?” Marin’s mouth drops open.

  “Isabel has turned over a new leaf, from what I can tell. Married now, to a middle-class guy her own age, and they have a kid.” Castro pauses again. “McKenzie shook Paul down for fifty thousand dollars. I know, because I tracked him down, and that’s what he told me.”

  Marin puts her head in her hands. It’s too much.

  “Marin…” Castro touches her arm, and she looks up again. The tone in the other woman’s voice is making her uneasy. “How much do you know about Sal’s past?”

  The question catches Marin off guard, and her heart starts palpitating. Julian. She’s going to ask about Julian. Her palms feel sweaty, and she puts her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking.

  “I mean, I’ve known Sal since college,” she says. “We dated for a year. We’re best friends. I’d like to think he’s been open with me about most things.”

  Except McKenzie, her brain whispers, which is a pretty big thing not to tell her.

  When Castro doesn’t respond to this right away, Marin adds, “Whatever you’re thinking about Sal, he didn’t have anything to do with Sebastian. I know for a fact he was in Prosser taking care of his mom when it happened.” She holds her breath.

  “Yes, the original police investigation verified that Sal was absolutely in eastern Washington when it happened, and I confirmed it myself,” Castro says, and Marin exhales. “According to Pearl Watts, Sal’s in Prosser quite often, helping out his mother. But so is McKenzie. Her mother is in a care facility in Yakima, and whenever she’s in the area, she and Sal spend time together. Nobody really cares about it anymore, because McKenzie’s an adult now, but apparently Sal’s father was a womanizer, too. The talk in town is that—”

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Marin finishes the sentence for her, then closes her eyes.

  That motherfucking liar. So not only did Sal have a relationship with McKenzie, he still has a relationship with McKenzie. What kind of sick game is this? Did Sal tell her to go after Derek? Did Sal set Marin’s husband up to cheat on her?

  “You think Sal helps plan McKenzie’s shakedowns?” Marin asks, when she can speak again. “Of her rich boyfriends? And Derek, too?”

  “Possibly.”

  “But why?” It comes out a wail, because she doesn’t understand. Everything Castro is telling her about McKenzie seems plausible, but Sal? She knows Sal, really knows him, and none of what the PI is saying makes any sense. Sal is her best friend. He loves her. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her, at least not on purpose. “I know Sal’s a bit shady, but he’s never cared about money. He walked away from the family business and bought a bar, for Christ’s sake. This makes no sense.”

  “I agree there might have been a time when he didn’t care about money.” There’s a careful note in Castro’s voice. “But that’s probably when he had actually had money. He doesn’t now. I took a closer look at his finances. On the surface the bar is profitable. But the winery was deeply in debt when they sold it ten years ago. Sal’s father ran it well when he was alive, but after he di
ed, Sal’s mother took over. She didn’t manage it well. By the time they sold it, it owed more than it was worth. She was lucky to get the farmhouse out of the deal. Sal supports both of them. That kind of financial strain can cause a person to do crazy things.”

  And here they are. It’s coming, Marin can feel it. It’s the way Castro’s voice sounds, getting softer by the word. The answers Marin’s been searching for are about to be revealed.

  “Vanessa, tell me. Whatever it is you’ve been trying to say since you got here, just say it.”

  “You already know.” Castro’s tone is gentle. “I can hear it in your voice.”

  “You think Sal took Sebastian. For ransom.”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  Marin closes her eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly. The pain will come later. Right now, she needs to stay focused. Present. “And then did what with him?”

  “That, I don’t know,” Castro says. “But it’s been almost a year and a half.”

  “He could still be alive.”

  “Maybe.” The PI’s voice is neutral. In her business, neutral means no. “We’d have to talk to Sal.”

  “And McKenzie is part of this? Sebastian’s kidnapping? Her own? She staged her own ransom demand?”

  “What ransom demand?” Castro puts her coffee mug down. “Marin, if you know something, now’s the time.”

  With shaking hands, Marin reaches for her phone, which was sitting facedown on the table between them. She taps on the Shadow app, then taps on the photo of McKenzie, beaten, tied up on a bed. She passes it to the other woman.

  “I thought you deleted the app.”

  “I un-deleted it earlier today.” Marin nods at the phone. “Look closely. Read it. I thought it looked real.”

  Castro zooms in and frowns. “It might well be. Who knows at this point. Derek got this today?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should have sent this to me the minute you saw it.” Castro looks at Marin. She seems flabbergasted. “Why didn’t you?”