by Ann Aguirre
I shake my head. Now that I’ve gone this far, I might as well tell her the rest. We’re already conspirators of a sort. “Hardly. Anytime the extended family is here, they stop talking about her whenever I come into the room. But among her things I found an ultrasound picture.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t from when she was pregnant with you?” The housekeeper sounds gentle, one of the few moments of peace I’ve had in this big, lonely house.
“Definitely not. It was dated six weeks before she died.”
Mrs. Rhodes reaches for my hands and cups her rough ones over them, her gaze steady and concerned. “Morgan, nothing good will come from churning up the past. As far as I know, she never told your daddy, and if he found out now, wouldn’t that just be something else for him to regret and … to question?”
The unspoken implication is clear. Mrs. Rhodes is wondering just like I am: Who did that baby belong to? I get the chills when I realize—depending on the answer, it changes the picture entirely. Would Jack Patterson murder his unborn child? And if Randall Frost found out his wife was cheating on him, what might he have done about it?
“I think someone killed her,” I whisper. “How can I ignore that feeling?”
It’s the first time I’ve said that out loud to anyone, but Mrs. Rhodes doesn’t speak the immediate denial that I’m half expecting. Instead she lets out a slow breath and stares up at the ceiling. For a few seconds she drums on the table with her fingertips and when she meets my gaze again, she seems to have come to some fresh resolution.
“I won’t lie, there was talk. But your father shut it all down.”
“Because he didn’t want to encourage the whispers of suicide.” At least that’s what Morgan always said, the few times she mentioned her mother at all.
But I don’t have the same emotional bond with Randall Frost. It’s easier for me to make the leap and entertain the notion that he may have used money and power to cover up a crime of passion. Of course, it’s equally plausible that Creepy Jack did, too.
“Probably,” she says, visibly relieved.
Yeah, I wouldn’t want to chat with my boss’s kid about his potential motive for murdering his unfaithful wife either, and she doesn’t know if she can trust me with this information. For all she knows I’m milking her for gossip and then I’ll run to Mr. Frost, saying just enough to get her fired.
It’s unlikely that she knows more than this, though I’d give a lot to know exactly what she overheard five years ago. I can’t picture Mr. Frost raving with drunken regret, but as I’ve learned the hard way, everyone has secrets that should never see the light of day. The main question is, how bad are Randall Frost’s? But now’s not the time to press.
I force my features into a friendly expression. “Next item on the agenda. What do you know about my dad’s girlfriend? Have you met her?”
She shakes her head quickly. “I just heard him making plans with her … oh, it must be ten months back. It’s not like he confides in me. But every now and then I catch his half of a conversation and it’s not hard to put the pieces together.”
“Oh. So you don’t know more than the fact that he’s seeing someone at Frost Tech?”
“Basically. She works in sales. That’s all I know.”
“Hm. Maybe I should visit my dad at work and check the situation out.”
Mrs. Rhodes smiles, clearly relieved that the worst has passed. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He’s always saying he wishes you were more interested in the company.”
“Good to know.” I sip a little more of my tea and then push to my feet. “Thanks for the chat. Sorry if I came on strong in the beginning. It’s just frustrating, not being able to talk about my mother. I … miss her.” Since my mother is alive and well, three miles down the road, the hitch in my voice is pure theater.
But it has the desired effect. The housekeeper’s eyes widen, as if she’s just thought of something. “Your mother’s best friend lives in New York. She didn’t come for the funeral, but she sent a lovely arrangement. I still remember the lilies … and oh, I packed away all the cards. I can probably find her address for you.”
“Thank you. I’d love to get in touch with her, maybe hear some stories about what my mom was like in college, stuff my dad would never tell me.”
Mrs. Rhodes hurries off and within five minutes, she hands me a white greeting card envelope, gone faintly yellow with age. But I can still make out the return address. Ten years is a long time, so maybe this won’t help at all.
Or maybe it’s the key that unlocks everything.
35
My heart’s pounding like crazy as I run up to my room, clutching the sympathy note. Before checking out the address online, I study the handwriting, which is careful and elegant cursive. When my mom was alive, Aunt Tina came to see us twice a year, once on my mother’s birthday, which was in July, and to ring in the New Year—
Wait. How do I know that?
Those are Morgan’s memories, not mine. I can’t remember being around for either of those visits, yet the fact sits in my skull indisputable as sunrise. I rub my knuckles across my brow. It seems like a memory that just won’t come, a word hovering on the tip of my tongue. Somehow I feel as if I know Tina Goldsmith but I never met her, though Morgan must have.
My head aches, a throbbing drum in both temples, and as the pain sharpens, a mental image forms. She’s a slender woman with rich brown skin, big eyes, and natural hair worn short, and she favors bright colors. I can see her in a yellow sundress complemented with black and white bangles. I’m on her lap, clacking them together in delight while she and my mom giggle over something I’m too small to understand.
That fast the images fade to white noise and I reel to the side. The bed catches me, so I only hit my side on the frame, my head landing on the mattress. Beside me the card flutters down to the floor, slower than it should. I don’t want to touch it but I can’t resist. It feels cold enough in here that I should be able to see my breath. I’m smelling that damn perfume again, and I can feel Morgan, close, like she’s whispering but I can’t quite make out the words.
My fingers tremble as I open the envelope to reveal a vase of lilies on the front, simple and innocent in death. When I unfold the card, an old photo tumbles out.
At first I just stare at it because this can’t be real.
I blink once.
Twice.
But it’s definitely Lucy Ellis-Frost and Tina Goldsmith, who’s wearing the exact outfit I envisioned a few seconds ago, down to the bracelets. They’re standing outside a bistro-style restaurant, arms around each other and beaming wildly at the photographer. Fighting nausea, I set the picture aside and read the message.
Dear Randall (and Morgan),
Words can’t express how sorry I am. I’m sending you a copy of this picture because it means the world to me and I hope seeing her smile so brightly will help when you miss her most. Morgan, I will always be your Aunt T, so if you ever need anything, I’ll be there. I wish I lived closer and that I could do more, but I’m only a phone call away.
All my love,
Tina
Before I can think better of it, I pick up my cell and dial. The whole time it’s connecting, I hold my breath. The out of service message is rather anticlimactic, but I guess it’s too much to hope that she would’ve kept the same number for ten years. She didn’t say if this was her home or cell, either. She may have disconnected her landline and gone mobile only.
“What the hell is going on?” I mumble.
Nothing makes sense anymore. Am I Morgan who remembers being Liv or Liv who almost remembers being Morgan? At what point do I accept that I’m not okay and ask for help? Misery sweeps over me, inch by inch, creeping over my ankles, chilling my knees, foreboding fingers clutching like cold bone. When my phone rings, I jump and nearly drop it. As I check the ID, I pray that it’s not Creepy Jack, and relief streams through me when I recognize Clay’s icon. My heart still hasn’t settled when I answer.
>
“Hey, you.”
Clay’s smile comes across enough to thaw the block of ice my torso has become. “You’ve been quiet today, so I’m checking in. Everything okay?”
The automatic answer won’t come. I’m beyond weary from carrying this alone. Today the baby steps I took with Mrs. Rhodes are the first of many down a road I never expected to travel. I might as well be the unnamed narrator in that “Road Not Taken” poem by Robert Frost. I’m staring in two directions, checking out my options, and neither path is rosy. Neither ends with me living at home, eating dinner with my family. My soul diverged in a wood—no, it was a field beneath an infinite starry sky—and that has made all the difference. Maybe I am insane.
Maybe I am.
At this moment I only know I can’t handle this shit alone, and the person I choose to share my delusions with is Clay. I want to let him all the way in, carve my secrets between us in trust and truth. What happens next, I can’t even speculate.
“No,” I say softly. “It’s really not.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks instantly.
“Nothing I can talk about on the phone. Can I pick you up?” I’ve kind of lost track of what day it is, but I think he should be off work by now.
“Are you okay to drive?”
The question puts a smile on my face, settling my nerves. It’s amazing how steady Clay makes me feel. It’s not that all my fears and uncertainties disappear, more like they’re reduced by a factor of ten. A slow breath escapes me.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. See you in half an hour or so.”
Normally I’d just leave without saying anything, but the talk I had with Mrs. Rhodes makes me want to be polite. She’s spent ten years cleaning our house and cooking us food; this is the least I can do. So I call, “I’m going out with Clay. I won’t be late.”
She emerges from the kitchen with a startled look. “Thanks for letting me know.”
We exchange tentative smiles, then I let myself out and head for the garage where I parked the VW. After dropping my phone in the cup holder between the seats, I back out and navigate the curves of the drive, pausing only for the gate to let me out. Half the drive passes without incident, but as I stop at the four-way intersection on the outskirts of town, the passenger door flies open and suddenly Creepy Jack is in my car. My heart lurches.
If he looked abnormal in some way, I’d feel better. But he’s not scruffy or unshaven; his eyes aren’t bloodshot. To anyone else I’m sure he’s the picture of control and sanity. Yet here he is, a married man, chasing me like I’m his reason for living. His abrupt arrival means he’s been stalking me.
“Get out,” I order, hoping I don’t sound as scared as I feel.
“Not before we talk.” He’s smiling, but the number of teeth he shows me—it doesn’t feel safe or friendly, more like he wants to take a bite.
“There’s nothing to say. I’ve outgrown our arrangement.”
I’m torn on what to do next; I really want him out of my car, but there’s a truck approaching in my rearview mirror. In the ideal world I could jump out and beg for help. That would expose Creepy Jack and open the door to criminal charges. But as I look at the dilapidated pickup truck and the grubby neckbeard driving it, I’m not convinced I can rely on the dude to do the right thing. I’m better off alone with CJ. I step on the gas and drive toward town, hoping he doesn’t know the way to Clay’s house.
Except a hard hand settles on the nape of my neck. “Turn around.”
So far he hasn’t produced a weapon but he outweighs me by eighty pounds. In a purely physical contest, I don’t see how I can win. Fear coats my tongue, tasting of copper and bile, but I try to remain calm. My breathing gives me away, though, quick and staccato beneath the rush of the vents.
“I have plans.” My voice doesn’t shake at least.
“Change them. I don’t think you realize how important this is. I’m not a man you can play with, precious.” With an awful smile, he runs his knuckles down my cheek and my whole body clenches in revulsion.
The idea of him touching me anywhere else … it makes me want to die. I can’t believe Morgan did this—for any reason. She wanted to learn the truth about her mother’s death, but I recall the pictures she stored online and I stifle a whimper. Assholes would say I invited this, deserve it even.
This isn’t my fault. Is it? In my head, I hear Morgan echoing the question, all heartbreak and hesitation.
36
Dammit, no. He’s the criminal. This isn’t my fault.
Or Morgan’s.
Even so, I have a thousand regrets—that I wasn’t more on guard after breaking it off—that I didn’t report him to the police and turn over all my evidence … the list goes on forever.
“I’m not your property,” I tell him. “If you keep on like this, the truth will come out.”
“Will it?” His voice is silky with menace.
He jerks the wheel, driving the small car into a spin. I stomp the brake in reflex so we come rocking to a stop at the edge of the road, and my head snaps sideways, slamming into the window. It hurts like hell and I’m seeing stars for a few seconds, long enough for him to yank me out of the driver’s seat and into his lap. The gear shift bites into my hip. I scream then, full on ear-splitting shrieks, and it makes him hesitate. Then I process what he’s actually saying.
“My God, you’re bleeding. Morgan, are you all right?”
He cradles me like I’m infinitely precious, just like the endearment he used, and it unsettles me to the point that I can’t speak. What the hell is wrong with this man? I use his concern, relaxing enough to make him drop some tension in his arms. It’s like he really thinks I’ll snuggle against him. When he puts his face in my hair, I slam my skull back against his nose and lunge for the door handle.
Though I’m dizzy as shit, in ten seconds I’m running full tilt into the field. The corn is tall and dry, rustling, whipping my face as I shove through, deeper into the rows, so I can’t see anything. This is a scene straight from a horror movie, and I should know better, except all my choices are bad and worse. There are no houses around, and for a few heartbeats, I can only think, Is this how my mother died? I imagine her being driven off the road, surviving the crash and running, running, aware of the tiny, helpless life inside her. Is this how she felt in her last moments? I smell Creepy Jack’s blood in my hair, and in this moment, I feel only mad revulsion. If I could, I’d plunge into a river and wash myself clean, even if that ended with me floating like Ophelia with flowers in my damp and streaming hair.
He’s shouting but I don’t stop. I run and keep running as if my life depends on it. Maybe it does. I’ve lost the ability to tell. In the headlong rush I don’t see the edge coming, plunge down a bank and tumble through a briar patch. Wild raspberries, half-eaten by birds, smear my skin with red, underscored by scratches deep enough to bleed. I don’t have the breath or strength to run farther. Injuries from the accident throb from the fall, so I press myself into the damp earth, weeds tickling my bare cheeks, and I don’t move.
Creepy Jack is frantic. I hear him nearby, searching, searching, beating at the dry corn stalks. “Morgan, please. Don’t do this.”
His scuffed leather dress shoes appear, no more than ten feet from where I’m hiding. From this angle I can see only up to the bottom of his pant legs. My breath strangles in my throat, and my heartbeat thunders so loud that I’m astonished he can’t hear it. It seems like an eternity before he moves off in the other direction, still calling for me. I hide for countless moments more, shivering as if I have a fever. By the time I notice that it’s getting dark, my body has stiffened to the point that it’s agony to crawl out of the thicket. The thorns catch on my clothes like I’m a prize the bushes don’t want to relinquish, and fresh scratches scrape down my spine, deep enough that I feel the hot trickle of blood.
Finally I stumble forward and land on hands and knees in the clay-rich dirt of the embankment. There are raspberries growing along an irri
gation trench, and it takes all my remaining fortitude to dig my bloody fingers into the soil and haul myself onto flat ground. All around, the wind rustles through the dry corn husks. I’ve arrived in a nocturnal agrarian wasteland. The word desolate blooms in my mind, and I picture myself dying alone, as my mother did. There will be no one to ask hard questions about my passing, either.
Pure defiance forces me to my feet. Despite the stitch in my side, the pain in my ankle, and all the myriad minor wounds that are bleeding sluggishly, I stagger onward. Now that it’s dark, I’m not altogether sure where I came from. The rows of corn seem like an endless Halloween maze, only instead of music and laughter, I hear only the wind and insects singing their night songs. Now that the sun’s gone down, it’s getting chilly, too. Not enough for me to die of exposure, but I’m not dressed for the weather, and my skin prickles with goose bumps.
Pulling down the plants around me helps a little. I spin in a slow circle and eventually identify the road. From this distance it’s a dark swathe cutting through the fields. I limp in that direction, each step feeling like a thousand, but when I reach the pavement, my VW is gone. Staring in both directions, disbelief sweeps over me.
That asshole stole my car?
If I had the energy, I’d be furious. Just now I only have room for fear … because my cell phone is still in the car, I don’t have any money on me, and the only person who knows I’m missing is Creepy Jack. He might be driving the Bug around even now, silently searching. That threat is almost enough to send me back into the cornfield.
No, I can’t hide forever. Still, I don’t walk right on the shoulder of the road. Instead I pick a careful path along the shallow ditch set slightly below it. This way, I may be able to scramble into the cornfield if Creepy Jack stops. I’m twitchy, heading for cover as cars pass, but then after I see their taillights I realize maybe I should’ve flagged them down. I’m afraid of getting in the wrong car, just like with grubby pickup-truck guy.
