The Weight of Silence (Nicole Foster Thriller Book 2)

by Gregg Olsen

  And now she’s back. I just knew this day would come.

  Remember, neither of us is perfect. Everyone deserves a second chance.

  Love,

  Stacy

  Love? Stacy never knew the meaning of the word.

  On the drive home, I feel the bile in my stomach rise. I know it isn’t anything that I’ve eaten, because I haven’t had a bite all day. It’s my sister. She’s doing what she always does to me. She’s like the throwing knives from one of those magician acts we used to watch on TV. The assistant stands like a statue as the knives are hurled in her direction, just barely skimming her cheek as their tips dig into the backdrop. Relief comes each time there’s a miss. The assistant appears to be calm, but deep down everyone watching knows that there’s always a chance the magician will twitch or cough or do something to break the concentration required not to miss her. Stacy is those knives. I’m the girl who tries not to blink. I think of all the things she’s done. I think of her note, a half-hearted attempt at reconciliation but with an overt dig at my greatest failure.

  She booked a room at the casino. Yes, it is the nicest place in the area. And, yes, Stacy always demanded the nicest things. Never a hand-me-down. Never a used car. Never just the steak, when lobster was also on the menu. Stacy is purposeful. She’s staying at the Quinault because she knows that I’ll have to pass through the casino to get to her.

  Seriously, Stacy?

  I am stronger now. Smarter too. I can do this because I have to do it. I have to do it for Emma.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Thursday, August 24

  Like water balloons hurled by a mob of preteens, raindrops pelt my windshield as I pull up in front of Carrie Anne’s after a brutally long day. After days of heat and sun, dips and dives in the heat, the clouds finally unzip. My wipers haven’t been used in weeks, and the glass shows the stain of motor oil and dirt that has accumulated on the rubber blades. Sitting in front of Carrie Anne’s house, I pump the blue-colored cleaner a couple more times. I make little attempt to dodge the raindrops when I run to the door to get Emma. My blouse and slacks are soaked.

  “Auntie Mommy!” Emma chimes as she meets me at the door. “Guess what? Carrie Anne has a stalker!”

  I’m startled by the word.

  Just then Carrie Anne appears behind Emma and draws me inside. Carrie Anne is one of those no-nonsense unflappable types. I met her at church after a GA meeting my first week back in Hoquiam. She was there to set up for her book club. We became friends over detective fiction. She’s a true friend.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Little elephants have big ears,” she says, shutting the door.

  I nod and then kneel down to approximate Emma’s height. She looks at me with those wide blue crystalline eyes.

  “Honey,” I say, “go get your backpack and I’ll meet you in the TV room. Scooby-Doo is on.”

  “I’m too old for Scooby-Doo,” she says.

  “You’re seven. You’re not.” I disarm her with a smile and a bribe. “We’ll go through the TacoTime drive-through on the way home. If you’re good.”

  “I’ll be good,” she says. “But I know what a stalker is too.”

  “Of course you do,” I say.

  She runs off, and I see something in Carrie Anne’s eyes for the first time. She looks frightened. Carrie Anne is never scared. A person who can handle ten kids at a time is as fearless as a SWAT team leader.

  She leads me into the kitchen and positions herself against a sink full of primary-colored plasticware. On the window ledge is a row of avocado pits that have been pierced with toothpicks to keep their bottoms submerged in water. A sweet-potato vine coils from a similar setup.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have used the word ‘stalker’ in front of the kids.”

  “It isn’t a swear word,” I say.

  “It’s an ugly one,” she says. “A scary one, Nicole. I really am sorry.”

  “What happened today?” I ask.

  Carrie Anne tugs at a tie-dyed shirt that I recognize as the first of the summer’s activities. The washer has faded it somewhat, and the dryer has made it a size too small. She wears it anyway because her kids—and Emma—think it’s cool.

  “It wasn’t just today. Yesterday too.” She stops and calls over to the kids to settle down before continuing. “So I saw this car out there. A rental from Avis. I didn’t think anything of it. I thought the Fergusons had out-of-town guests. But when I saw Suzanne, she told me that she didn’t know what I was talking about. She and Clyde haven’t had any guests all summer.”

  “What made you think it was a stalker?” I ask.

  “Okay,” she says. “That word is ridiculous. But the thing about it is that the car was only there during our outside playtime. Someone was sitting behind the wheel and watching us. It kind of unnerved me but it wasn’t a man. It was a woman, so I wasn’t completely unnerved. I can’t be sure, but I think the car was there the day before yesterday too.”

  “Did you get the plates?”

  Carrie Anne shakes her head. “I seriously need glasses, Nicole. I can’t lie to myself about that anymore. I could barely make out the Avis sticker.”

  “What make was the car? What color?” I ask.

  “I think it was a Lexus or some other high-end SUV. Definitely not a domestic car. Just too nice for that. The color?” She looks upward, thinking. “Somewhere between silver and taupe. I’m guessing for a car like that they call it champagne or something classy.”

  “Washington plates?” I ask.

  “No,” she says looking upward. “California. At least, I think so. Maybe North Carolina. Like I said, my eyes are complete crap.”

  “Did you notify the police?”

  “No,” she says. “I didn’t think it was such a big deal. It only felt like a big deal when Emma and the other kids got all excited because I used the word ‘stalker.’ God, I’m so stupid.”

  “No,” I tell her, “you’re just being careful. Careful is good. Do me a favor, though.”

  “What’s that?” Carrie Anne asks.

  “If the car shows up tomorrow, can you take a photo? Get the plates in it?”

  “Sure. I think so. I should have done that today.”

  I give her a warm smile.

  “Now I’m off to TacoTime,” I say. “I’m so lucky.”

  “We’re having fish sticks and fries. Want to stay?”

  I hate fish sticks. They remind me of my childhood. We ate so many boxes of Mrs. Paul’s, I thought of her as a relative.

  “Thanks,” I say, “but tacos are calling.”

  Emma chatters incessantly as we pull into the fast-food drive-through and I order. When my car was new, I told myself that no one could eat in it, but having a seven-year-old and the need for a distraction now and then has made that rule vanish into the bin marked “What Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time.”

  Emma crunches down hard on a taco shell, shattering it and sending lettuce and cheese every which way. We both laugh. It’s funny how things that would have bothered me in the past if another passenger had done it make me smile when it’s my beautiful, wise, and silly niece doing it.

  “I thought that lady was you,” she says to me.

  “What lady?” I ask.

  She lets more lettuce fall like confetti. “Carrie Anne’s stalker,” she says.

  Carrie Anne didn’t mention that detail. I wonder if it was the reaction of a seven-year-old corrupted by those Scooby-Doo mysteries she is all but certain she’s too old to watch.

  “You saw her?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Crunch. Crunch. “She wanted me to come over to her car.”

  My heart rate quickens a little, but I keep calm. I set down the diet cola I ordered and look at Emma as we drive, taking my eyes off the road for a second. Long enough to weigh whatever she’s telling me.

  “Did you go over to her?”

  Emma shakes her head and swallows another bite of the
taco, which has become a salad on her lap.

  “No,” she tells me. “We have to stay in the yard. It’s rule number one or maybe number two. It’s a high-up rule.”

  I’m grateful for Carrie Anne’s rules. Her eyesight is terrible, but her rules are sound.

  “Did she say something to you?” I ask.

  Crunch.

  “No,” Emma says. “She waved for me to come to her, but I didn’t do that.”

  “You said you thought it was me.”

  “I thought that for a minute. But when I got a better look at her I knew it wasn’t you. She just looked a little like you, Auntie Mommy.”

  “You’ll tell me if you see her again, won’t you?”

  She nods. “Yeah, I will.”

  I take a breath and lie to myself. Wondering if it is just a funny circumstance and not the least bit nefarious. I think about what Mia said, and I know that she’s right. The nature of my job is always looking for the darkest things. A stranger asking for directions is someone hell-bent on casing someone’s residence. A person asking to see some kittens is a criminal waiting to pounce. A teacher taking a keen interest in a student is a pedophile.

  Sometimes they are looking for kittens, asking for directions, wanting to see someone excel.

  When we get home, Emma takes a bath and I lay out her pajamas. She emerges from the bathroom, a damp duckling. I towel her off, and her teeth chatter in the way that kids sometimes do—even when they are not all that cold.

  “I’m glad it’s raining,” she says.

  “It has been a while,” I say as she gets dressed.

  “Our grass is dead,” she says. “It hurts my feet when I walk on it. Carrie Anne’s grass is green because we run the sprinkler all day.”

  “Carrie Anne is smart that way,” I say, though I think she must have an enormous water bill.

  “Yeah. She’s nice too.”

  I tuck her in, and she’s out before I can turn off the light. It has been a long day for both of us.

  Downstairs, I open a bottle of wine that I hope will last for three days. That’s my goal. I don’t want to be one of those people who drink alone every night. I know what I’m doing, yet I can’t stop. Not completely. Not when my brain is a shooting range. Emma’s given me the kind of purpose that I could not have imagined. It’s funny how I knew that I loved her when I took her from my sister, but I had no idea how deep that love would go—that as much as it was back then, it has doubled, tripled, quadrupled over time. Moms would die for their children. I’m her protector. If anyone tries to hurt my little girl, they will have to go through me first. I will never let her down.

  The wine slides down my throat. I put my feet up. I turn on the TV to catch the last of a news report from one of the Seattle stations. The faces on the screen are a jolt. I put down the glass and call Carter.

  Seriously?

  “Did you see the TV?” I ask after he picks up.

  “Hi to you too,” he says. “No, I didn’t. But I heard that they interviewed Rachel and she dropped the bomb about her affair with Luke.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” I ask.

  “Just found out. Just a little while ago. Prosecutor told me.”

  I’m holding the phone tighter than I need to. I loosen my grip. I don’t need this kind of aggravation. I know that I’m not the number one at the Aberdeen Police Department. I should have been in Bellevue, but I screwed that up royally. Even so, I can’t stop myself.

  “Why didn’t they call me?”

  “Because I said I would.” His tone suggests he knows that I’m pissed off, though I’m doing my best to hide it. I’m not great at that. I am, as I like to remind myself every day, a work in progress.

  Progress is slow.

  “There’s a Web version of the story up now on KING 5’s page. Nothing much in it. Just a tease for the reports they’re running. It’ll be on at eleven.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Carter, just so you know, next time can you text me? You do know how to text, don’t you?”

  God, I hate that those words just came out of my mouth. I reel it back in as quickly as I can. I’m letting the stress of everything get to me. I’m picking on Carter because he’s the only one I can.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “That’s okay,” he says. “We both have a lot on our plates.”

  I tell him goodbye, and I watch TV and drink wine, realizing that by 11:00 p.m. that three-day bottle will be done. I’m not drunk. I’m close. A game show. An episode of Chopped. Some channel surfing. Finally it’s 11:00.

  Rachel Cromwell comes on camera, but she isn’t alone.

  A text from Carter pops up on my phone: Holy crap!

  Indeed.

  Next to Rachel is Mia Tomlinson.

  “I’m here in support of Mia,” Rachel says, looking at Ally’s mother. Rachel is wearing a white eyelet top that makes her look sweetly demure. Mia is in a tailored blazer with a Remember Ally button affixed to the lapel. It really isn’t an interview. It’s more of a presser with Rachel doing all the talking and a KING 5 reporter and photographer covering as she talks. No questions. Just Rachel talking.

  “I had an affair with Luke Tomlinson,” she says. “I know what I did was wrong. I knew he was married. He didn’t lie to me about any of that. He told me that his wife was cold to him and that she made him do all the housework and take care of their daughter, Ally. I know that is a lie now.”

  Her eyes dart in Mia’s direction, then back at the camera.

  “Luke Tomlinson told me on at least one occasion that he didn’t want to be a father anymore. He didn’t like all the work he had to do to take care of his daughter. He told me that he wished she’d run away or something. I said that one-year-olds don’t run away and he looked at me and said, ‘Well, then something. Something that makes her gone.’”

  That word gone again.

  Holy crap! Carter texts.

  I text back: You said that already. But yes. Holy crap. Nobody wanted that little girl. Not Luke. Not Mia.

  He’s done, Carter texts.

  Yeah. He is, I answer.

  In the last seconds of the news report, I notice Mia’s very satisfied expression. As it had been from the beginning, her affect is off. She looks intense, but not in the way that would evoke sympathy for what she’s endured as a mother and as a wife. She leans into the microphone, a gold chain around her neck clacking against its surface, making scraping and static sounds.

  “I don’t want to say anything more than I’m just as shocked,” she says. “I appreciate everything Rachel Cromwell has done. I’m not angry with her. None of this is her fault. I applaud her honesty. We need more strong women like Rachel Cromwell in this world.”

  The interview is over, and the bottle is empty. I crawl up the stairs to my bed. Morning, I know, will come soon enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Friday, August 25

  I can’t sleep, and daylight comes too fast. It’s not that I even want to sleep. Not really. I never was much for sleeping. Slumber is a time waster. It also brings in the nightmares that have played in the darkness all of my life. I think now that some of what drew me to the casinos in the first place was that it gave me a way to escape without closing my eyes. The energy. The people glued to the kaleidoscope of colors and promises in front of them. The smell of hope and disappointment in the air. Flashing lights. Anticipation. All of those things sent a current through my body and took my mind off the things that visited me at night. At some point, a welcome distraction became an illness. That brought some relief. I’ll admit to that. All I could focus on was gambling. Winning. Losing. Rinse. Repeat.

  It’s 6:00 a.m., and I’m showered and dressed for the day. Emma is asleep, and I sit on the edge of her bed, taking her in. I know she’s been the cure for my problem, even though my counselor tells me that therapy and GA meetings are responsible. That’s fine. Believe what you want. I know.

  “Wake up,” I say
softly.

  Her eyes open a little, and she looks at the Felix the Cat clock that has been in this room since Stacy and I were girls.

  “Too early,” she says.

  “I’m taking you to McDonald’s before Carrie Anne’s,” I say.

  “I don’t like McDonald’s,” she says, retreating into the cocoon of blankets and sheets that twisted around her during the night.

  “You like pancakes,” I say.

  Emma stifles a sheepish grin.

  She knows that I know I’ve hit her in a place that cannot be denied. She’s a pancake girl. Forget French toast, which is my favorite (“I don’t want a soggy sandwich without anything in it”). Scratch off waffles too (“dry and nasty”).

  “Okay,” Emma says, extricating herself from her covers and landing on her feet like an Olympic gymnast on the old fir floor with the patina of decades of similar landings.

  My own.

  My sister’s.

  “I’ll be ready to go in a minute,” Emma says.

  “Teeth brushed,” I say.

  “I’m not a baby,” she says.

  “I know.”

  Emma pads across the room to the bathroom down the hall. I pick up Shelby and carry her down the stairs and let her out to do her business, which she does nearly on command.

  Sure enough, five minutes later Emma is ready to go.

  Emma and I eat at the same table where Ally and Luke dined the morning she died in her father’s car. This is intentional. I want to take in everything I can from Luke’s perspective that morning.

  Emma puts a forkful of maple syrup–soaked pancake in her mouth. “The pancakes are good,” she says.

  I don’t say a word about talking with food in her mouth. Not every single moment needs to be a teaching moment.

  “Yes, they are.” I reach over and pick up a piece of pancake from her Styrofoam plate.

  “Hey, no fair!” Emma says in bogus anger.

  “Pretty good,” I tell her. “I might want another bite.”

  She makes a face. “Okay,” she says, pretending to be annoyed. “Just one more. And that’s all.”