But now I realized it was because my dad still owned the place.
Why didn't he tell me?
Shortly after we moved to Grangeway, I had a breakdown, fearing mom would return and be unable to find us. And what had dad said?
That if she came back, she’d stop at nothing to find me.
A part of me knew even then that he’d meant it to be a comfort, but in my grief and anger over my mother’s disappearance, I took it as more evidence that dad didn’t want mom back. That if she returned, he wanted to make her work to find us.
And to add further insult, as the years went by and mom never returned, I began to wonder if she truly did want to find me. Had she returned to Beacon Falls, seen we’d moved, and simply given up?
But now I knew that all that time, dad had owned the house. And by the looks of it, he’d maintained it too. The paint was faded but not chipped and weather-worn as you might expect from a house that had sat empty for years. The lawn was cut, the weeds growing between the sidewalk trimmed short.
I pulled into the driveway but couldn’t make myself get out. This close, I could see that the curtains in the windows were discolored, yellowed with age.
Blood rushed through my ears. This was too much. Being here, the memories rushing over me, the betrayal and the thousand words left unsaid between me and my dad, the never-ending longing for my mother, the desperate search for her all these years.
I couldn’t take much more of this. The deception, the lies by omission, the loss of it all.
I needed to find out the truth. I got out of the car.
Growing up, mom hid a key to the house on a little hook she’d drilled into the underside of the back deck. Surprisingly, it was still there. With shaking hands, I fitted it into the lock and pushed the door open. The musty, closed-up smell of an empty house washed over me. The kitchen was exactly as I remembered it, although the cheap linoleum had bubbled in places, and there was a thin layer of dust over everything.
My footsteps echoed as I crossed into the living room. It was smaller than I remembered, but without furniture, most rooms look smaller. The carpet was a dust-covered relic, dated in its color and texture. The curtains I’d seen all those years hung across the front window, yellowed with age.
Tears pushed against my eyes. Despite the arguments and resentments, we’d shared a lot of good memories in this room. Our little family of three. I remembered playing games on the floor and watching movies with popcorn. I remembered mom trying to get dad to join us in a game of Twister on a flimsy plastic sheet that slipped and slid on the carpet. I remembered the time I brought a toad inside. It got away from me, and me and mom spent the entire afternoon looking for it. We found it ten minutes before dad got home, congratulating ourselves in relief as we released it back outside.
I climbed the creaking stairs, at once overcome with emotions and yet numb with the shock of being here again. My footsteps echoed in the empty space. I peered out the window of my old room, staring down at the tiny backyard behind the house. I opened my closet, half expecting to see my old t-shirts hanging there, the few dresses I owned shoved to the side and hidden behind my sweatshirts.
Not for the first time, I wondered what my life would have been like if I’d gone shopping with mom that day. Would she have stayed?
I checked my parents’ old bedroom, expecting the same echoing emptiness, but when I opened the closet door, I saw a plastic box on the top shelf. With shaking hands, I lowered it to the floor. It was filled with papers. I flipped through pages and pages of tax returns, receipts, phone bills.
Then I found my birth certificate tucked inside a folder. I stared at it, emotions roiling through me. When mom told dad she was pregnant, had he been excited? Or was he fearful of the lifelong burden of a child? What had he felt when mom left us? Overwhelmed with the task of raising a child on his own? These were the questions I never asked. And the ones I'd never get to ask either.
I opened another folder and inside was mom’s birth certificate. I stared at it, heart hammering. If she had been planning on leaving, wouldn’t she have taken this? Didn’t people need their birth certificate?
Bridgett Lynn Rice. And there were her parents' names, my grandparents, who I’d never met. Both dead of cancer, grandpa when my mom was fifteen, and grandma months before I was born. It was why my full name was Madellina, after my grandmother.
For the millionth time, I wondered if mom had changed her identity. In movies and tv, people do it all the time. Leave one life behind and take up a new one, finding papers and documents online to support their lie. But mom had disappeared nearly twenty years ago. Back then it would’ve been easier to fake an identity, wouldn’t it? You could simply walk into a new town and take up a new name. The fake identity papers would come in time, and no one would be the wiser.
Instead of asking dad for help with finding mom, I’d shut him out. To prove that I could survive, that I didn’t need anyone—not mom, and especially not dad—to survive this life. I moved away. I abandoned him like mom abandoned us.
And now he was dead. And all I had left was more questions.
I looked at the plastic box, a reminder of everything I'd lost. Despair, heady and black, pinned me to the spot. Outside, a car drove by. Here, among the close-set houses and so much cement, the crickets were silent.
I continued to dig through the box and came across some photos. I recognized my mom as a young woman, pretty and happy. There was one of mom and dad when mom was pregnant with me. Even in faded color, she seemed to glow with the light of motherhood. Dad, too, had a spark about him that had gone out when mom left.
Then came baby pictures of me, wide eyes, diapered bum, chubby cheeks covered in spaghetti sauce.
At the bottom of the pile was a newer image, its color sharp and unfaded with time. It was of a barely-clothed young woman with long dark hair spilling over a busty chest. She stood at an angle to the camera, holding a pistol in the air with both hands. She wasn’t looking at the camera but at someone off to the side, an uncomfortable, almost-pleading expression on her face, as though the picture, obviously staged, hadn’t been her idea. The wall behind her was bare and nondescript.
My stomach dropped. I scrambled for my phone and pulled up several articles about the Route 5 brothel bust.
A weapon, later identified as belonging to Officer Eric Schwartz, was recovered from the car owned by Mary Trelany, one of the accused.
And below that was an image of Mary. A pretty woman with long dark hair, stared into the camera for her mug shot. She looked like a deer in headlights, her skin pale and stretched tightly about her eyes. Mary had hung herself shortly after this photo was taken.
And it was definitely the same girl in the photo I now held.
I got to my feet, wavering slightly. I ran from the room and down the stairs. I burst through the front door, gulping at the fresh air.
Had dad been involved with the girls before the bust? I thought about Chris’s face that day in the police station. He’d looked scared, like he didn’t want to be talking about it. Did it have something to do with dad’s murder? He insisted it didn’t, but there was definitely something he wasn’t telling me.
But if dad had been involved, why would he have joined the Vice Squad? Why help bust the place if he was—my stomach reeled at the thought—a customer? But if he wasn’t involved, why would he have a photo of one of the prostitutes?
Dad must’ve been there. It didn’t make sense that he’d have the photo if he wasn’t. Had he been the one taking the photo or the one Mary was looking to for help?
I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat.
A car turned onto Circle Drive. I glanced up. It was a beige sedan, Davis Dempster behind the wheel.
How had he—?
Anger, sharp red and dangerous, roared to life inside me. I ran into the street. Davis’s eyes went wide when he saw me. He hit the gas.
“Stay the hell away from me!” I screamed.
Shakin
g, I stood there until the car was out of sight.
Dammit. It was time I got some answers.
Chapter 21
I called Mitch four times before hopping into my car and driving to the Administration Building.
A young woman with wavy brown hair sat behind the dispatch station.
“Where’s Frank?” I asked. I’d been expecting Frank. Frank was always there.
She raised her eyebrows at me in annoyance. “He’s taking a few days off. Who are you?”
“I need to talk to Mitch.” I tried to see if Mitch was in his office, but the blinds were drawn. “Is he here?”
“Who are you?” she asked again.
“Mady Graves. I need to talk to him.”
At the mention of my name, the woman’s face went still. “Are you Vince’s daughter?”
“Yeah, I—“ I broke off and looked at the young woman. She’d called dad Vince. “Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m JJ,” she said. “Part time on-call dispatch. I worked with your dad.”
Something niggled at me. I stared at her, trying to place it. She wore a cute cardigan over a mauve top, her wavy hair partially hiding her identification badge around her neck. She was probably a few years older than me. I glanced at her left hand. No ring.
Then it hit me. JJ had been a name written in dad’s black book.
“Oh Jesus,” I said, suddenly feeing lightheaded.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you have a seat?” She gestured to the line of chairs against the wall.
I shook my head, heart thudding. Did dad screw every single woman in this town?
“I need to talk to Mitch,” I said. My voice sounded funny. “Right now.”
JJ stared at me with concern. “You look like you’re going to pass out. Why don’t you sit down?”
Instead, I shoved past her and into Mitch’s office.
“Hey!” I heard her cry as I swung the door shut behind me.
Mitch was on the telephone. “—constituents want that in a sheriff. They want someone—“ He broke off when he saw me. Recovering quickly, he said, “They want someone who will listen to what they want and deliver results.” He shifted the phone to his other ear. “Listen Honore, that’s all I’ve got time for right now. It’s been a pleasure.” He hung up. “Mady. Is something wrong?”
JJ pulled open the door. “I’m sorry, Chief. She burst in before I could stop her.”
Mitch looked from me to JJ and back again. “It’s okay, JJ. Thanks.”
JJ hesitated, her face flushed red. Then she turned and left, closing the door behind her.
“What’s the matter, Mady?” Mitch tried to keep his voice calm, but I could tell he was annoyed.
I showed him the photograph. “Was dad involved with the girls on Route 5? Because if he was, I need to know.”
Mitch had been a cop a long time. He was very good at keeping his emotions off his face, but I’d known him too long not to notice the slight way the muscles in his jaw worked, the tension held in his shoulders.
“Where’d you get that?” His voice was too controlled, too modulated.
“Mom’s house,” I said. “But I suppose you knew about that too? Why didn’t you tell me?” Emotion caught in my throat and tears blurred my vision. “What else aren’t you telling me? Do you know where my mom is?”
“Mady, your father was a complicated man.”
“Was he fucking this girl?” I held the photograph out between us, trying to breach a divide that could mean everything.
“I don’t know,” Mitch said. “It was a long time ago.”
“But you were in on the bust. The cop’s gun—Mitch, was the gun dad’s?”
“What? Mady, no. Your father would never—” he broke off, collected himself, and said, “It was Eric Schwartz’s gun.”
“Then why did dad have this photo?” Tears were falling down my cheeks now.
“I don’t know, Mady. I really don’t. Why don’t you give me the photo and I’ll ask around. See if anyone knows anything.”
I hesitated. Dad’s reputation was already that of a playboy. Did I really want it known that he had a photo of a dead prostitute among his things?
“I just—“ my voice hitched. “I just want to know who my dad was.” I collapsed into the chair across from the desk, wiping at tears. “Like, really. Who was he?”
“Mady,” Mitch’s face was a mask of concern.
“Was he the guy who worked day and night to find who killed Allison St. James or the guy who gave up on the Ernst case?”
“He—“ Mitch tried, but I kept going.
“Was he the guy who slept with girls half his age or—“ I waved the photograph—“the guy who paid for sex with young women he then sent to jail?”
“Mady—“
“She killed herself, Mitch. This girl. Hung herself in the cell right below us.”
“I know.”
“Why did she do that?”
“She was scared to go to jail,” Mitch said. “A lot of people are.” He made a pained, sympathetic face. “Mady, you’re searching for things that aren’t there. Your dad was a complicated guy. But he always did his best.”
I brushed the tears off my face. “Then why would someone kill him?”
Chapter 22
The day had grown stuffy, thunderclouds piling up in the west as I pulled onto Route 5. I’d left the police station in a daze, despite Mitch’s best efforts to comfort me. If Mitch didn’t know why dad had this picture, then I knew someone who would.
A quick google search and a small fee to a site that provides addresses told me Eric Schwartz lived in a town fifteen miles south of Beacon Falls. As I drove, I thought about what Mitch had said about dad being a complicated person. It was true—in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever known someone as complicated as my father. Was that why mom left? No. Mom left because I told her I wished she was dead. My father’s philandering might have added to the decision, but the ultimate last straw was me.
I took a deep breath, anxiety and regret fluttered in my chest, making it hard to breathe. My car’s A/C roared at full blast but the air never really got cold. At least in Reno the humidity hadn’t reached through the vents and threatened to strange you.
By the time I reached Schwartz’s neighborhood, my back was drenched in sweat. His house sat in a run-down neighborhood of single-story homes with small, unkempt lawns. The west side of his house was covered in foiled squares of insulation hastily stapled into place. The perimeter was fenced, the gate open, half off its hinges, in a yard full of dandelions. A dryer vent next to the front stoop poured sweet-smelling steam into the air. I knocked.
The man who answered was frail, shirtless, and breathing with the help of oxygen tubing. He looked about as far from a cop as you could get.
“Mr. Schwartz?”
His oxygen hissed, his sunken chest heaved. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Mady,” I said. “Mady Graves.”
His overgrown eyebrows rose. “Our sins are coming to bite us in the ass, wouldn’t you say?”
My voice caught in my throat.
“That’s why you’re here, ain’t it?”
“I—I don’t know,” I said at last.
“Your dad weren’t immune,” he said. “No matter what he thought. He weren’t immune.” Schwartz pulled his oxygen tank aside. “I suppose you wanna come in.”
Inside the cluttered living room, the air was heavy and thick with body odor and the pallid scent of sickness. A hospital bed took up most of the space, but Schwartz gestured to a scratchy upholstered chair squeezed between the bed and the wall.
“Did you kill my dad?” I asked. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
The old man let loose a wheezy, whistling laugh. “I can barely get outta bed in the morning. You really think I’d make it all the way to Beacon Falls to pop a guy I used to work with?”
“Do you know who did?”
I held out the picture of Mary Trelany. “I found this in my dad’s things. Do you know why he should have it?”
Schwartz took the photo and held it close to his face. His dried and cracked lips pulled down at the edges. “God, I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Did you take that picture?”
“No.”
He handed the photo back. “Then who did?”
“Can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Schwartz adjusted the tubing in his nose. “If it was in your dad’s things, stands to reason he took it, don’t it?”
Despair washed over me. “Why was your gun found in her car?”
“Wasn’t my gun.”
Frustration trilled through me. “Then whose was it?”
“I worked for a lot of small-town police forces,” he began. “Moved from one right to the other when things caught up to me.”
“Things?”
He didn’t answer my question. “There ain’t enough money to go around in these places. Then drugs move in and there’s all kinds of clamoring for you to do something about it. But you can’t. The more enterprising departments figure a way to secure that funding.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you following me?”
“No.”
He sighed. “Police, especially those who grow up in the town they're protecting, believe they have the ability to control things that are uncontrollable. They believe that if they look the other way in exchange for a little cash, they will maintain some sort of control over those who would otherwise destroy their town.”
“The drug dealers.”
Schwartz rubbed his cheek where the tubing had rubbed it raw. “It wasn’t my gun in that whore’s car.”
The Things We Keep Page 9
