HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller

by T. J. Brearton

  The sailboat is tiny. I remember when Paul bought it. Second-hand, from someone local. Paul had seen it on the side of the road. It’s blue and white and a little beat up. We named it Couchsagrage, after an Adirondack legend. Paul thought it was funny to give such a small boat a long name. But he taught himself how to use it, then both of our children. The only one who wouldn’t know what to do is me.

  I continue to inspect everything. The sailboat looks normal, I decide. The dinghy is the same as it ever is, a round-bottom boat with four bench seats and two rowing oars, plus the trolling motor and battery.

  As I walk along, I almost trip on a green fishing net. I jam it into the basket along with the poles. Two more windows look over the rest of our cove — the shoreline sweeps around and heads back for the main body of water just yards away from the boathouse. Nothing out there, and nothing in here.

  I start back to the other side. Before climbing back down the rickety ladder, I notice something carved into the wood. In between two vertical studs, etched into the exposed plywood, a heart with an arrow through it and two names.

  Joni

  Michael

  And beneath those, today’s date. Well, no — yesterday’s date. When they were down here together and I heard them splashing around and Joni giggling. They must’ve been carving this.

  My fingers brush the grooves. I’m not sure who had a knife; maybe it’s in here. I look around on the dock but don’t see one. Then I notice it — a small pocketknife up on the windowsill. Well, not much of a windowsill, but just the framing-in of the window. I hadn’t seen it when I peered in. Must be Paul’s.

  As I turn away, another carving catches my eye. This one isn’t as deep, as if scratched out quickly.

  Not a heart, not names, but a sentence. Five words.

  I want my mommy back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I hear the pop of sand and gravel beneath car tires. Joni is pulling her Subaru into the driveway. I hold the door open and smile as she and Michael walk to and enter the house. It’s been half an hour since going in the lake and my hair is still damp. I’ve been able to think of little else since seeing those words carved into the boathouse wall, of how they must’ve gotten there. But I have to pick my moment.

  I’m just not sure when that is yet.

  “How you guys doing?”

  “Good,” Joni says. She stops and eyes the bruise on my cheek. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Come on in. Did you guys eat?”

  “Yeah, I took Michael to the diner in town.” She walks deeper into the house.

  The two of them are the picture of summer: he wears a black V-neck T-shirt and brown shorts. She’s wearing a bathing suit, with a breezy pink shirt over top, jean shorts, and brown sandals on her feet. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a loose bun. This is the Joni-look I’m used to.

  “Anyone seen my white sweatshirt?” She’s looking around in the living room.

  “Fished it out of the lake,” I tell her.

  “Really?” She comes closer for scrutiny. Practically sniffing me as she looks me over. “You went swimming?”

  “Just so I could get it. It must’ve blown off the dock. It’s hanging on the line now. Up by the shack.”

  Finally, she breaks eye contact. “Thank you.” I’m struck, for a moment, by how lovely she is.

  When she was in her mid-teens, Joni did some modeling, mostly for clothing catalogues. It wasn’t something I ever would’ve sought for her, but Paul’s secretary had a sister at an agency.

  Her nose wrinkles with a question. “Where’s Dad?”

  “You probably went right by him. Where else? Working on the boat.”

  She nods. I smile at Michael. I feel like a psychic reaching for his thoughts, but I ask about their morning, their breakfast. Joni remarks about the diner being redone and about downtown being crowded, and I zone out, thinking about — (I want my mommy back) — how Joni hated modeling when she was young. Mostly, it became the perfect cause for rebellion. Only, the rebellion lasted after the last photographer refused to work with her and we called it quits. It went on through two private schools, multiple attempts at running away from home, and sudden disappearances. Times she would venture into the city on her own.

  When she was fifteen, we sent her to see someone for her anxiety and depression. She hated that, too. Like Maggie Lewis, Joni didn’t want to be on any medication. But when the doctor prescribed Effexor, we decided to try. It was gut-wrenching to me. She was so young, so troubled, but SSRIs such as Effexor had shown efficacy, even in teens.

  In the end, she wasn’t on it for long. She seemed to grow out of her funk naturally. It doesn’t mean everyone does.

  Joni walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge and asks Michael if he wants a drink. He takes a can of iced tea. We continue chatting. Every now and again, I catch Michael looking at me. Or maybe I’m looking at him. Either way, it’s like we’re having this sub-perceptive side conversation. Like telepaths.

  Me: I know.

  Him: And I know you know. . .

  I sit at the counter extension, where we have a couple of stools. Watching the pair of them slurp their canned drinks and stand around like teenagers, I ask them what they’re planning to do next.

  “Not sure,” Joni says. She glances at Michael, who lifts his eyebrows in deference to her.

  The way to do this, I think, is to keep it as calm and pleasant as possible.

  “How about dinner? You guys gonna be here for dinner?”

  “Um, I don’t know.” Joni continues looking at him.

  “Okay, well . . .” I take a breath. “Sean is coming.”

  Joni’s gaze swivels to me. She’s always adored her older brother. “Yeah? You heard from him?”

  I check my phone. My last text to him is still there: Hey kiddo. ETA?

  His response arrived about a half hour later. Inbound. ETA 7:30 p.m. Sorry for the delay, Ma!

  I show it to Joni.

  “Uh-huh,” she says, looking. The utterance is meant to demonstrate her lack of faith.

  I give her a stern look at first, but then soften. “Listen, this is your vacation, too. I’m not trying to pin you guys down to anything. But we still owe you a celebratory dinner.”

  “No, you don’t,” Joni says. “We don’t need that.”

  Michael and I share another quick glance. Who looked at who first?

  “Of course you do. You’re engaged. The least we can do is take you out.”

  “You mean ask us a bunch of questions.”

  “No . . .”

  “About the future, about where are we going to live, about what are we going to do for money. About how much is the wedding going to cost, et cetera.”

  There’s marginal humor in her voice, but mostly, she’s being petulant. Even Michael seems to sense it. He puts a hand on her back and murmurs something too low for me to pick up on, but she shrugs him off. The most likely explanation is probably the right one: Joni is edgy because she’s brought her fiancé to the lake house for our annual family get-together, someone we’ve never met, and so far, we’ve been pretty frigging cool about it.

  If you discount my antics or what I’ve discovered, all of which she’s unaware of.

  So she’s defensive, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  At that moment, Paul comes in from outside, breaking the tension.

  “Daddy,” she says, and trots to him and gives him a big hug. Paul is holding a paintbrush in one hand and a rag in the other, so he’s unable to properly hug her back. But she makes a big show of affection for him — letting everyone know he’s the preferred parent right now.

  I cast my gaze at Michael, who gives me a sheepish smile and looks down, like he understands.

  Welcome to the family. You’ll fit right in.

  “So, Michael,” I say. “I have a confession to make.”

  When he raises his eyes to me again, they seem to dance in the light filling the floor-to-ceiling windows
behind me. That incredible green-blue, like a lagoon.

  “I checked you out on Facebook.”

  “I’m not on Facebook,” he says.

  “I guess that explains why I couldn’t find you. There were quite a few Michael Rands, though. I was going through them for a while.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “I should’ve told you.”

  I make a face and wave at the air. “No, not at all. It’s not something you have to tell people. ‘Hi, I’m not on Facebook.’ And I’m admitting to snooping.”

  Joni has let go of Paul. She is not exactly glaring at me, but close. Giving me the stink-eye, anyway. Paul continues toward the sink, where he starts to wash out his brush. “Paul, honey,” I say. “What are you doing? Kitchen sinks are for dishes and food preparation, not oily paintbrushes.”

  “I’m going to put a sink in the garage,” he says, still rinsing the brush.

  “I’m actually not on any social media,” Michael says.

  Joni moves toward him, tentative. It’s clear she has mixed feelings whether he should talk to me.

  “Really?” I ask. “No Instagram? No TikTok? Nothing?”

  He shakes his head. I’m acting lighthearted, but he seems serious. “You know, what’s funny is . . . social media is getting harder to define. We call Facebook and Twitter social media. But so is YouTube, Pinterest, Substack . . . Does that mean online comments sections are, too? I mean, you can get into a debate in the comments section of a newspaper. Even some retailers. Customer reviews can turn into cultural arguments.” He steps toward the counter and sets his drink down. He’s just across from me; I could reach out and touch him.

  “Basically, all of the internet has become e-commerce and social media.”

  “Paul,” I say, “are you hearing this?”

  Still rinsing: “Uh-huh.”

  I ask Michael, both to keep listening to him talk, which is deeply affirming his identity — his mannerisms, his inflections, all the same — and because I’m genuinely interested in his answer: “Okay, so what else do you think the internet could have been?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think it could have been anything else. I think it’s how human beings are. And what’s really interesting is how people increasingly treat social networks like public utilities. Like, if you don’t have Facebook, you won’t have access to certain information. That might be as part of a recreational group, or school, or work. But Facebook is a private company. It’s advertising to you. Can you imagine if you had a landline phone, and every few minutes it would ring, and it would be an ad for something?” He looks around at Joni, behind him. She offers a wan smile and plucks at the frayed ends of her jean shorts. Michael turns back to me. “Or if you answered, and it gives you some tidbit of news . . . and you have no idea where it’s coming from, or if it’s true . . .”

  Did he just make a reference to something specific? Like the strange voicemail on my phone? I’m suddenly nervous, trapped in his blue eyes. But when he blinks and looks away, I remind myself that I’m in control of how I react. Besides, he’s just waxing philosophical.

  Paul shuts off the tap at that moment and tears free a paper towel to dry the cleaned brush. “Michael studied media literacy at Colgate,” he says.

  “I was a film and media studies major,” Michael clarifies.

  “Wow, a carpenter who’s an intellectual? I didn’t know you went to Colgate. That’s a great school. It’s right near where Joni goes to Hamilton.”

  Michael nods. “I had a scholarship. I played lacrosse.”

  We continue to talk. Gradually, Joni seems to loosen up and even contributes to the conversation and laughs a few times. According to Michael, who says he grew up in Huntington, Long Island (not Sayville), lacrosse was a passion, and SUNY Stony Brook the obvious choice for his higher education.

  But then his parents died. His father, who was a successful businessman working in the city, was also a heavy drinker. One night, Michael’s father and mother were on their way home from a function in Manhattan. Michael’s father swerved into a tractor-trailer on the highway. He and Michael’s mother were both killed right away.

  Michael was seventeen, he says, a junior in high school.

  “After that, everything changed. I didn’t want to go to Stony Brook. I didn’t want to go anywhere at all. I didn’t even want to live, to be honest.”

  Joni is holding onto him, resting her chin on his shoulder. She kisses his neck and feathers her hand over his chest.

  The question just pops out of me: “Who did you stay with?”

  “No one. I mean, I didn’t go anywhere. My aunt and uncle actually came to stay with me.”

  Interesting, I think. So close to the truth — in reality, Thomas, who lived in Westchester County, went to stay with his aunt and uncle on Long Island. In Michael’s twisted version — if it is, in fact, an alteration of the truth — he’s from Long Island, and his aunt and uncle came to stay with him.

  “They believed that . . . well, that it would be best for me to stay in my house. Stick with my routine.”

  Even more fascinating, I think, because evidence shows this to be an effective form of managing extreme grief for children — to keep things as consistent as possible. One might think that there would be too many painful reminders, but those painful reminders are preferable and mentally healthier for children than sudden, major change. Like having to move out and live with new people.

  Did Michael research that for his story? Or did he just come up with it on his own?

  I say, “That was very nice of them.”

  “Yeah, they’re wonderful people.”

  “I’d like to meet them.”

  Joni’s eyes dart to me, like I’m being pushy. But Michael just smiles. “I’m sure you will.”

  There is a moment of silence and I clear my throat. “So . . .”

  “I did miss a few months of my junior year of high school. But I was able to get back on track and graduate on time.” His brow dimples in thought. “I was ready to leave Long Island by then. Colgate was my moonshot school. And I got in.”

  “And that’s how you two met?” I point my finger between them. “Since Hamilton is so close? Because it obviously wasn’t social networking . . .”

  Joni answers with a sigh. “I was going to save all of this for when Sean got here.”

  “I’m sorry, honey.” Thinking of Sean, I check my phone again. Nothing. In truth, I’m kind of waiting for him, too. What’s in the offing is a sort of intervention, and it seems right Sean would be here. He’s insightful, kind. He could help with Michael.

  “We met at a lacrosse game,” Joni says. “Our schools were playing each other. And I went with Liz and some of the others just for something to do. And there he was. I watched the way he played, the way he moved . . . Liz is dating one of the guys on our team, and so we were hanging around in the parking lot, and then Michael came out. And he looked right over at me . . .”

  “Wait,” I say, cutting into their love-staring. “When was this?”

  “Early this spring,” Joni says. “Just after Easter.”

  Paul goes for the fridge. “That’s good,” he says. “You met the old-fashioned way, in person. That’s the best.” He gets a glass and pours himself some juice.

  Michael’s story is forgery — it has to be. But meeting my daughter at a sports game? She just happened to be there? Either he’s gone a long way toward making it work — an incredibly long way, somehow timing things for her to meet him — or I’m missing something.

  I could also be losing my mind. That’s a possibility, too.

  For now, one more question: “So, Michael — you graduated this spring?”

  He drags his eyes away from Joni and looks at me, shakes his head, appearing chagrined. “No, I, ah . . . Well, I’ll just be honest — my grades slipped and I lost my scholarship. Without it, I can’t afford to finish. And I need another year to get all my credits.”

  Money, I think, suddenly and forcibly.
Could this whole thing be about money? Extortion? Colgate is not a cheap school.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.

  Paul stands beside me, smelling of wood stain. His knuckles are darkened with it. “Is there a way to get things back on track?”

  Michael gives a nod but looks chagrined. “Maybe, yeah. I’m seeing what I can work out. I want to finish.”

  Joni interrupts before Paul can speak again. “They lost the game,” she says. “Colgate lost to Hamilton.” It’s like she’s trying to bring the conversation back to the important part — their impending union.

  Michael looks at her. “It was a key game, too.”

  “But you wouldn’t have met me.”

  “That’s right.”

  And they go back to mooning over each other. This time, Joni takes him by the hand and leads him out of the kitchen. Before either Paul or I can object, she says to us, “Okay? Enough grilling for now? You got the juicy details.”

  But she smiles, and I see, for the first time since she’s been here, real delight in my daughter’s eyes. Joni has lots of defenses, but she is a good woman. I remember her often as a baby, who came into the world so quietly, so softly, so watchfully. My little bundle, that tiny face. The preternatural calm she exuded.

  “We’re going swimming,” she calls over her shoulder, and she bangs out the front door, Michael in tow.

  Both Paul and I turn to watch them run down the sloping lawn toward the sparkling water. She taunts Michael and he chases her, grabs her, and she squeals with laughter.

  “I think we might just have to come to terms with it,” Paul says behind me.

  “What?”

  “Our daughter has found her man.”

  I watch them continue down to the water, stripping off clothes, running for the end of the dock, then jumping in — her diving elegantly, him launching into a cannonball and making a big splash.

  Oh God, I think.

  What am I going to do?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  After their swim, Joni and Michael sit in towels by the water’s edge, holding hands. I turn from the window and walk upstairs to find Paul changing in our bedroom.