One Little Secret (ARC)

by Cate Holahan

  “The rape kit came back.” Gabby slammed the paper onto the kitchen counter, where everyone could see it. “The girl that woke up beside you, not remembering you two having sex. Her system had been flooded with Ambien and very little alcohol. She was drugged.”

  Andy’s eyes darted to his mates. “I didn’t do it. I don’t even know where she got that stuff. Like I told you, she seemed fine to me and all about it. Maybe she took something to be less inhibited.”

  Gabby placed her right hand in her pants pocket, pushing back the jacket to flash her gun. “Or you spiked her punch with sedatives to make sure she’d be out of it, willing to do whatever you suggested.”

  Chris stepped toward her, hands up in mock surrender. “Let’s not get hysterical. Look, I was at the party, as you know. I saw that girl. She didn’t seem high on anything, let alone Ambien. I’ve seen people on that drug. It makes them all loopy, gets them saying things that don’t make sense. I’m a fish torpedo. Your head’s a candied yam and I’m going to eat it.”

  The fourth man laughed as though he knew the story from which Chris had taken his examples. Gabby glared at the guy like she’d caught him cursing in church. “You have a lot of experience with seeing girls high on Ambien, then.”

  Chris’s hands went to his bare sides, swelling from the tight polyurethane pants covering his lower body. “I’m not saying that. But I’ve seen it.” He pointed to his friend. “And Andy here couldn’t have known anything about that girl other than that she was eighteen and raring to go.”

  There were a couple more chuckles. Apparently, Chris was the comedian of the group. “I mean, people on that drug are walking around in a dream state,” he continued. “Half the time, they’re hallucinating. They don’t remember their own name, not to mention the name of the person they’re talking to.”

  I hate you, Sabrina. You emasculating witch. Louis’s strange screams resounded in Gabby’s head. He’d called his wife, Jenny, by another name. He’d accused her of flying on a broom. At the time, Gabby had thought he’d been speaking in metaphors. Could he have been high?

  Chris clapped Andy on the back. “I know you think this guy’s some man-whore, or a sexual predator. But until two weeks ago, when his girlfriend broke up with him, pretty boy was a one-woman guy.” Chris shrugged. “My guess is this girl was afraid of getting canned for sneaking her boss’s pills, so she made up a story that a mom would be sympathetic to. That’s all this is.” A proud smile stretched across Chris’s face, as though he’d settled a disagreement between friends and come out the good guy.

  Gabby wanted to slap that smile off his face. Instead, she snatched the lab report. “This report also says she had alcohol in her system.” She looked at Andy as she dipped her hand into her back pocket and pulled out a pair of black zip-tie cuffs. “And you clearly told all your friends she was eighteen. So, Andy Baird, put out your hands. You’re under arrest for furnishing alcohol to a minor.”

  Chris’s smile vanished, and Andy, for an instant, looked like he might cry. “But I didn’t know—”

  “Mariel told you her age before you gave her the punch.” Gabby grabbed Andy’s wrists and put them in front of him. She slipped the nylon restraints over his hands and pulled them tight. “You have the right to remain—”

  “I want to remain silent and I want a lawyer,” Andy said.

  The other two men had shifted their weight, subtly distancing themselves from their arrested friend. Chris, however, was clenching and unclenching his fists. “You’re going to cuff him? For what? A couple-hundred-buck fine?”

  Gabby nearly winced at the dollar amount. It wasn’t enough punishment, and it wouldn’t hurt Chris. For all she knew, Chris—not Andy—was the one who had dissolved the Ambien in the punch. He was the guy that seemed to know all about the drugs effects. “The police are aware of this house and all of you in it,” she shouted. “One more party with underage drinking, one more call from a crying girl saying that she felt coerced, and I’ll haul you all in for sexual assault and conspiracy to commit rape. And if you’re here thinking, So what; it’ll be our word against some humiliated young woman, know that I will tip off the papers as to exactly what went on here. How do you think your employers will feel about that? I’m sure the New York Post will think of something perfect to plaster on the front page above your preppy mug shots.”

  The man who had answered the door raised his hands in surrender. He strode back toward the retracted wall where Gabby led a silent Andy. “There won’t be any more parties, Officer.”

  “Detective Sergeant,” Gabby sneered. “And there better not be.”

  She took her time crossing to the exit with her suspect, emphasizing her lack of intimidation despite being outnumbered four to one by men twice her size. Without a cooperating victim, scaring them was her only means of deterrence.

  The breeze buffeted her back as she led Andy to the car. True to his word, he was taking his right to remain silent dead seriously. She opened the door and ordered him inside, certain that her charge of serving minors would stick, even though she’d never get him for spiking the punch without Mariel’s testimony. She slammed the door thinking about what Chris had said about an Ambien high. Even if Andy hadn’t been the one to slip Mariel the drugs, he had to have known she was too out of it to consent. She’d have been stumbling, as Chris had said. Spewing nonsense.

  Again, she thought of Louis’s last confusing words. He’d called Jenny a witch with magic powers. And, right before he’d started speaking gibberish, he’d accused her of murder. Gabby pulled her cell from her jacket pocket and dialed DeMarco.

  “Sergeant Watkins,” he answered. His tone sounded respectful, ready for instructions.

  She stepped away from the car, out of earshot of Andy in the back seat. “I need you to go down to the coroner before he releases Louis Murray’s body. Tell him to run Louis’s fluids for psychotropic drugs, especially zolpidem, also known as Ambien. And then start the paperwork for a prescription drug–monitoring request for Jenny Murray.”

  DeMarco cleared his throat. “Sergeant, that case is all wrapped up, though, isn’t it? The guy was going to lose his medical license. His livelihood. He was violent. He would have killed his wife if you hadn’t stopped—”

  “Louis Murray wasn’t a good man, detective.” Gabby cleared her throat. “But I need to be certain that Rachel’s murderer isn’t still out there.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  TWO WEEKS AFTER

  Jenny picked the doll from the top shelf of Ally’s closet, where it had no doubt lain, unnoticed and unloved, for the last five years. It still smelled of cherries from when Ally had added auburn highlights to its nylon hair. Though American Girl made dolls with Ally’s olive complexion and curly wigs, finding one with reddish hair and honey-brown eyes had proven impossible. Jenny had opted for medium-brown hair and hazel eyes, turning her biracial daughter vaguely Latina. Ally had then “fixed” her hundred-dollar-plus doll with a pack of two-dollar scented markers.

  The dye job was streaky and strange, though not as alarming as the one Jenny had bought for Ally at the salon. She had understood her daughter wanting to erase Louis’s most obvious contribution from her reflection. Still, she’d begged her not to go through with it. The red curls had been Ally, just like the yellow-toned complexion that browned in the summer and the soft bridge of her nose passed down from Jenny’s mother. Ally, however, had threatened to do it herself, forcing Jenny to book the appointment or risk her daughter ruining her hair.

  She’d been shocked when Ally had emerged a blonde. They’d agreed she would go brunette, perhaps a similar shade to Jenny’s rich brown color. But Ally must have always had other ideas. Jenny had left, unable to watch the stylist obliterate one of her daughter’s most recognizable traits. As soon as she’d gone, Ally had told the hairdresser to bleach it. When Ally looked in the mirror, she evidently hadn’t wanted to see her mother, either.

  Jenny stuffed the doll into the crook of her arm, her hand
s occupied with the crutches she required to hobble toward the large cardboard boxes labeled ALLY’S BEDROOM, DONATE, and TRASH. Few would want a doll with marker-colored hair, but maybe a mom somewhere would see it in a consignment store and figure out how to swap out the wig for a style that more closely matched her own kid’s locks. As she dangled the doll over the box destined for Goodwill, she glimpsed one of the red streaks framing the round face. The doll landed in the box of items destined for their new home—wherever that would be.

  Jenny limped back to the closet. She leaned on her good left leg and the crutch beside it, freeing her other arm to pull out a folded pile of last season’s sweaters. She was examining the loud Christmas pattern at the top of the stack when she heard the doorbell.

  She stood stock-still for a moment and closed her eyes, trying to decipher whether the tone was really someone at her door or the intensifying of the white noise and high-pitched tone she had heard constantly since Louis had bashed the glass into the side of her head, permanently damaging her hearing.

  The bell sounded again, clearer this time. She didn’t move toward the hallway. It was either another delivery of moving boxes or a reporter late to the party. There was no one to visit her. The “friends” she’d had in town were staying away, giving her time to heal and no doubt avoiding the awkwardness of seeing her shattered leg or asking about next steps. And Ally’s pals all knew Ally had gone to stay with Jenny’s parents in West Virginia until her mother figured out their next move.

  The house was already on the market. Remaining in the home they’d all shared since Ally had turned two was not an option. It held too many memories—good for Ally, bad for her, and painful for the both of them. Jenny was considering an apartment in the city. A kid could disappear among 1.6 million people, enabling Ally to avoid being gawked at by locals who knew her story.

  Given her job on television, Jenny couldn’t vanish anywhere. She wouldn’t quit, though. Money had to come from somewhere. Louis’s life insurance policy had been two million dollars, or two years of their combined income, and Ally would need a good chunk of that for college. Jenny couldn’t complain about the sum, though. She was lucky to have any of it. Had the detective actually killed Louis rather than startled him, leading to the fall, the insurance company wouldn’t have paid a dime.

  The bell rang a third time, stoking Jenny’s curiosity. She avoided the windows as she headed into the laundry room angled to overlook the L-shaped driveway in front of the house. Ben stood on her stoop, several feet in front of the FOR SALE sign hammered into the lawn. He reached out to hit the buzzer a fourth time and then seemed to think better of it, turning from the door.

  The sight of him leaving her, again, shortened her breath. She dropped one crutch and hobbled toward the stairs. The banister served as her second limb. She leaned most of her weight on it as she carefully descended.

  By the time she opened the door, Ben was at the curb. She called out to him, wincing at the desperation in her reedy voice. He turned back and hustled up the walk, realizing, perhaps, the effort it took to hold open the door when she couldn’t stand straight.

  “I had to see how you were doing.” He rubbed the back of his neck, seemingly embarrassed by the admission, as though she’d dumped him and he’d shown up on her doorstep. “Can I come in?”

  Jenny knew she should say no. He’d sold her out, after all, revealing her name to Rachel despite knowing what Louis might do to her once Rachel told him. In some ways, Ben was as responsible for everything that had happened as she and Louis were. But he was standing in front of her, the handsome man who had professed to love her once. She wanted to forgive him, to believe he’d been put in a desperate situation and would never hurt her like that again. Before she could, though, she needed him to honestly answer one lingering question.

  Jenny backed into the foyer, allowing Ben inside. As soon as the door slammed, his arms were around her, lifting her up, taking the pressure off her broken leg. In spite of herself, she leaned into his embrace.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her ear, a spoken-word lullaby that she knew by heart. “I thought you’d told her. I never imagined that the girls had come into the backyard that day and seen us. I couldn’t think of any other way that Rachel would have found out. I thought only we knew. I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me. Let me make it up to you.”

  The begging reminded Jenny of Louis. As Ben led her toward the sitting-room sofa, she wondered if his contrition was any more real than her husband’s had been. After five years cycling through apologies and anger, Jenny doubted she could tell the difference between a genuine “sorry” and one meant solely to stave off consequences.

  Ben helped her sit on the couch and then joined her on the neighboring cushion, angling his body to face her. The light from the side windows highlighted the gold and silver in his hair. He was still movie-star handsome, Jenny thought, but the pain of the past few weeks had aged him, adding deep lines between his brows and across his forehead that Jenny would have sworn hadn’t existed two weeks earlier.

  He brushed her hair back from her face, examining her healed skin. None of the scrapes and bruises had left visible scars, though her shattered leg would take six months to fully repair itself and her hearing would never be the same.

  “You look beautiful.” He gave her a wine-glass smile, easily broken. She couldn’t relax into it until she knew the truth.

  “Did she tell you?”

  His eyebrows tried to unite in confusion. “Chloe? Yes, she said that she told—”

  Jenny placed a hand on his thigh. “Did Rachel tell you that Louis hit me? Did you know before I came to your house that day when you saw the blood on the back of my head?”

  Though Ben’s lips parted, no sound emerged. His chest pulsed with quicker breaths.

  “You acted as though you hadn’t known Louis had hurt me until then. You saw my head, and I always believed you’d guessed how I’d gotten it from my cagey behavior. But did you know before? Had you seen me with sunglasses on and realized, or noticed a scratch? Did you know?”

  Ben rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I might have suspected things weren’t good. But … but I didn’t exactly know.”

  The words were the right ones, but Jenny could see in Ben’s eyes that he didn’t believe them. He wasn’t a good liar—that was one of the traits that had made her feel most safe with him.

  Since Louis’s fall off the balcony, Jenny had learned to be much better with her own performances. She nodded solemnly and wrapped her arms around him, soaking in what she knew would be a final good-bye. He pulled her tight to his chest, whispering thank-yous for taking him back, telling her how much better things would be in the future.

  A ring interrupted his plans. Ben bolted upright, clarifying that the sound hadn’t been in her head. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  “I thought the press was done trying for an interview after I gave my station that exclusive. But maybe not.”

  For a moment, Ben looked like he wanted to bolt through the house and out the back door. He could cut through their adjoining yards before the press saw him. A look back at her, reaching for her crutch, appeared to change his mind. He stood straighter. “I’ll get rid of them. There’s nothing wrong with me checking on your recovery.”

  Ben crossed into the foyer and opened the door. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Hansen.”

  She recognized the voice. The woman’s screams often echoed in Jenny’s dreams. “Detective Watkins?”

  Ben stood to the side, allowing the officer into the foyer. She looked as Jenny remembered her, dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail, her small frame covered in a fitted gray pantsuit. Jenny’s heart dropped into her stomach. She could think of only one reason for Gabby Watkins to drive the two hours—perhaps four in traffic—to see her in person.

  “We need you to come with us,” Gabby said. A uniformed officer with the badge of the local police entered behind her. Jenny w
ondered how many more officers were outside. The more cars there were, the greater the likelihood that the cops suspected what she’d done.

  Jenny grabbed her crutch and then shimmied to the edge of the couch. She pressed her hand into the armrest, using it to launch herself into a standing position. “I need my other crutch. It’s upstairs.”

  Ben moved into the room, his hands folded across his chest in delayed defiance. “What is this about? She’s still recovering.”

  Gabby looked at Jenny like she knew. “We want to clear something up. We found high levels of Ambien in Mr. Murray’s blood. Mrs. Murray has a prescription.”

  Jenny had a visceral reaction to hearing her name united with Louis. She’d permanently severed that connection. “Please don’t call me that. My maiden name is Reid. Jenny Reid.”

  Gabby nodded to the officer. The cuffs in his right hand caught the sunlight through the windows behind him. Ben seemed to notice the glint at the same time Jenny did. “Who cares if he took a bunch of pills? He was trying to kill her. He murdered my wife. He should rot in hell.”

  Jenny knew Ben’s tirade wouldn’t make a difference. She stepped forward, resigned to what was coming. Part of her was almost grateful for it. She no longer had to worry about being arrested someday, in front of her daughter. “Ben, would you get my crutch from Ally’s room?”

  Ben looked from the officers and back to her, breathing through his open mouth. “Louis murdered my wife!”

  Detective Watkins looked at him like he was a child insisting upon the existence of Santa Claus. Jenny couldn’t have her say anything more in front of him. Whatever happened, she needed Ally to believe the story she’d told, and that couldn’t happen if Ben knew the truth.

  “Ben, please, my crutch.”

  He muttered about the insanity of the police as he headed up the stairs, glancing back every few steps to make sure she was okay, as though he could somehow prevent the inevitable. The detective watched him disappear down the second-floor hallway, a gift, Jenny knew, that the police weren’t obligated to give her.