“What? Why?”
“Her real mom was having an affair. One day, she and the guy took off together.”
“Poor kid.”
“I didn’t know her when it happened, but by the time we met, Rose was already adrift in the world. Then she got fixated on me.”
“A case of mother envy?”
“Worse than that. Rose wasn’t just envious of my and Clarissa’s relationship—she wanted it for herself, but by the time I figured that out, it was too late.”
“How did you miss it?”
“Everything started out so innocently. This child’s pain was palpable. She was sad and aching for love. Growing up, I was also a loner, so I felt sorry for her and made a few small attempts to smooth over the rough patch she’d fallen into.”
“She got too attached,” Samantha says.
“That would be putting it mildly. Clingy and disruptive is more like it. Then the accident with my husband happened, which took her to a new level.”
“What happened?”
“I told you he died, but I never gave the whole story.”
She tells Samantha about the camping trip and the accident that ended Jason’s life.
“The moment he went off the edge, it was like Rose’s mind did the same. It was the breaking point, when her reality started to bend and buckle. The situation got out of control in a hurry.”
“How?”
“With Jason gone, Rose decided I needed her more than ever and that she was the only one who could help me heal from my loss. She no longer just thought of me as her mother—she began to believe I was. This child invented a brand-new truth for herself, wouldn’t let go of it, and in the process turned our lives upside down.”
“You couldn’t stop her?”
“I couldn’t escape her. Not with Rose and Clarissa going to the same school where I taught. Between classes, she’d come running up to me in the hallway with this exuberant smile, calling me Mommy. On one side, it was unnerving, but as a teacher who, for years, saw so many broken children, it was hard to watch this little girl bleed out emotionally right in front of me.”
“While dealing with the loss of your husband at the same time, no less.”
“But that was only the beginning.”
“It got worse?”
“Much worse. She began sneaking into our house. We’d come home and find her sprawled out on the living room floor, doing her homework. Then she started competing with my daughter for attention. One time, Clarissa got a bit mouthy with me. Rose stepped in and scolded her, saying, ‘Don’t you dare talk to Mother that way!’ She actually thought they were sisters. She went from needy to downright frightening. Her weird behavior escalated so fast that it made my head spin. It was like the kid could walk through walls, which made it even harder to keep tabs on her. Soon, personal items started to go missing. My jewelry, clothing, even my lipstick. I almost flipped one day when she walked through the door wearing it.”
Samantha quivers at the image.
“I know,” Riley says. “It was all so alarming. Rose was stealing mementos so she could feel even closer to me while we were apart. A fifteen-year-old girl was stalking me like an adult.”
“Did you call the police?”
“I was hesitant to bring them into it. I mean, she was just a kid, and I’d hoped to resolve this by talking to her father.”
“What did he say?”
“I tried several times to reach him, but there was no answer. He didn’t even return my calls. Finally, I had to stop by their house. He was shocked, said he had no idea she’d been doing all this, which actually shocked me, too. How can you have such a troubled kid and not notice?”
“You do. You have to, right?”
Riley blows out a weary breath and shakes her head. “That’s what I thought, which left me wondering, had she fooled even him, or was he trying to hide what he already knew about her?”
Goose bumps spring up along Samantha’s arms. She tries to rub them away with a hand. “This is such a strange and frightening story.”
“Here’s where it gets really disturbing.” Just thinking about what she’s going to say makes an eerie sensation wriggle down Riley’s back. “After I spoke to Rose’s dad, he decided to ground her. That night, I woke up to a strange noise, and it took a second or two to find my bearings and realize where the sound was coming from. I felt a warm and wet sensation on my body. I looked down and screamed. Rose was in bed with me, curled against my chest and—”
“No. Oh hell no!” Samantha says, raising both hands in the air, shaking her head back and forth.
“—trying to breastfeed, but even creepier was the way she looked up at me.” Riley shudders. “Like a helpless baby. It made my bones freeze.”
Samantha moves away from Riley as if the distance might help ease her rattled nerves. “What on earth did you do?”
“I jumped out of bed, yelled at her, and said that if she ever showed up in our home again—or anywhere near it—I’d call the police and have her taken away. But as I spoke, I saw a cloud move through that child’s eyes. It wasn’t anger. It was something else. Like I’d snipped a hazardous hot wire. Right then, I knew Rose had moved to a new level, that she’d become even more dangerous. The next night, I pulled away my sheets. Across my pillow, with the lipstick she’d stolen, she’d written the question, ‘Why Mommy? Why?’”
“Holy shit . . .”
“Got that right. For the next several weeks, I was worried Rose would come back and try to do us harm, but she never showed up again. In a way, that was scarier because I couldn’t shake the feeling she was still out there, still watching me. Then Clarissa was murdered. Not long after, I found out Rose and her father had moved away.”
“You think he knew?”
“I never understood what the hell he knew, but I’ll tell you what. It was nothing good.”
Like a dying bloom, the skies shrink and close, and darkness returns, and the air turns cold.
Like the start to a finish.
36
Both women are quiet on the way back to their cars.
There is no break in the clouds, no sunshine, just shades of gray overcast chased by an oncoming dusk.
At their cars, Samantha asks, “Did you tell anyone about your suspicion that Rose killed Clarissa?”
“I did. When I first told Erin that one of Clarissa’s friends had been acting obsessive, she went down to the school to check out the situation but didn’t get far. Sure, a couple of teachers agreed that once or twice Rose had called me Mommy, but they said it didn’t raise any flags for them, that it seemed pretty innocent, and they thought I might have been overreacting.”
“Erin didn’t believe you?”
“It was more like she couldn’t find enough convincing evidence.”
“But you told her about the really crazy stuff, right?”
“Erin was on vacation in Ireland when that part started. By the time she came back two weeks later, it was all over. I told her what had happened, but since there wasn’t much else to do, we let it go. Then after my daughter was murdered, I explained my suspicion about Rose, but Erin’s a lawyer. She said all I had was a suspicion but no solid evidence.”
“What about all the horrible things Rose did to you? Wasn’t that enough proof?”
“The only person who could corroborate the story was Clarissa, and she was gone. With Erin’s visit to the school not panning out—and my deteriorating mental state—she was getting skeptical.”
“But the message Rose wrote on your pillow. That was solid evidence, right?”
“I showed it to Erin, and that convinced her to give this one last try, but it ended up being the deal breaker. We went to Rose’s house, and that was when I found out they’d moved.”
“Couldn’t Erin go to the police and have them track Rose down?”
“She had no interest. Seeing the empty house only raised her doubt. It didn’t matter what I said after that.”
“But sh
e’s your sister. How could she not believe you?”
“That’s a more involved, historical discussion. Anyway, with the head injury, the memory issues, and my mind going downhill, my information seemed unreliable.”
“Couldn’t you have brought that pillowcase to the police?”
“What was the point? All it said was, ‘Why Mommy? Why?’ which proved absolutely nothing. I did try to tell Sloan about Rose, but by then she was already convinced I’d killed my daughter. I’m sure she thought I was cooking up evidence to take the suspicion off myself. And pointing my finger at a child? That not only further chipped away at my credibility—it also painted me as a bigger villain.”
“So she ignored a lead from the victim’s mother?”
“The cops went through the motions and looked into it but said they found nothing to support my theory. That didn’t come as much of a surprise. I’m sure they didn’t look too hard, and like I said, this kid never left tracks.”
“I’m sorry,” Samantha says, obstinately shaking her head, “but I would have gone right back to the police, and I wouldn’t have stopped until they listened.”
“Oh, I did, but by then I’d already started losing my mind, and anything I said just made me look crazier. I kept walking into the station, and the cops kept kicking me to the curb.”
Samantha lifts her hair with both hands and lets it drop past her shoulders. “You slipped through the cracks. You were completely railroaded. You know that, right?”
“I do.”
“But it’s never too late to find justice.”
“Justice was all I ever wanted.”
“This is total bullshit!” Samantha lets out a heavy breath, purses her lips, then says, “We could nail her for the murder once and for all. I can help find her. Do you have anything else? Like where Rose might be living these days?”
“I’ve got nothing. And at this point, I wonder if it would even matter. Nobody bought my story the first time.”
“Let’s start looking. Seriously, we could do this.”
Riley tries to give it some thought, but her mind is worn down by the surge of memories she’s shared. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Samantha. It would help if Erin believed me, but that ship sailed long ago.”
“For Chrissakes! I understand why you think she didn’t believe you—although I don’t agree with it—but the other part, the one you said is complicated?”
“My mental disorder was like feeding a monster, and now it’s bigger than us both. The relationship has suffered so much damage that I’m afraid we may not stand a good chance of repairing it.”
“This is so heartbreaking.” Samantha thinks about that. “And I can understand your pain. Not the same way, but I understand it. I know what it’s like having to fight through a world where there’s nobody to stand beside you.”
Riley considers her for a moment, then swiftly looks toward the lake. She rubs a palm up and down the center of her chest as if by doing so she might, for once, be able to mend deep emotional wounds left by years of trauma, by two sisters who once cared so very much for each other.
“What is it?” Samantha asks.
Riley is still looking at the lake. She shakes her head.
“Riley.”
No answer.
“Riley,” Samantha again says. “You can tell me.”
“It’s just that . . . I feel so untethered, so completely . . .”
“Lost? Alone.”
She at last looks at Samantha and nods.
Samantha says, “Maybe we can find our way back together.”
37
Riley and Samantha have been nearly inseparable for the past few weeks. When they aren’t together, they’re chatting by phone like girlfriends who have known each other all their lives.
Riley rests in a brown beanbag chair at the studio, sipping wine while Samantha works on one of her creations: a woman spreading her wings.
“So, tell me,” Riley says, “what do you love most about doing this?”
“Gosh, there are so many parts. I feel like I could list them all day long.” Samantha steps back to inspect her work. “It’s the smell of melting wax and hot metals. Feeling the warm, wet clay in my hands. Running my palms over the finished surface. But most of all, it’s the excitement of watching essentially nothing turn into something that deeply moves me.”
“Sounds like quite an experience.”
“It’s indescribable, a mind-body-and-soul kind of thing. It’s my true north.”
“True north?”
“It’s like we come into this world with no direction and spend the rest of our lives trying to find one. If we’re lucky—and few of us are—we stumble across the path that leads us right to it.” Samantha goes back to her work.
Riley asks, “What’s that you’re doing?”
“I’m applying acid and heat to give the bronze a patina effect.”
“What happened before now?”
“A lot. First, I had to sculpt a clay model, then I covered that in silicone rubber, followed by plaster, which formed a mold, preserving all the details of the original. Then, when I removed the plaster and rubber mold, I had an exact negative of the original. There are a few more steps using molten wax and other materials before the bronze is poured, but I won’t bore you with those. You get the idea.”
“Who do you sell these to once they’re finished?”
“Private buyers, a lot of them through my website and other channels, but my goal is to eventually open my own gallery.”
“Wow. I guess I had no idea so much work was involved in all this.”
Samantha kneels and continues applying the acid. “It probably seems that way, but when you’re passionate about something, it never feels like work. I kind of separate from myself in the process. It’s a glorious feeling.”
“How so? How’s that glorious?”
Samantha looks at her for a moment as if she’s thinking about an answer. “Detaching can be an escape. Sometimes it just seems safer on the outside than inside my head.”
Riley lowers a brow, then finds distraction by checking out the mystery statue, no longer a solitary block with what appears to be the start of a head resting at its base. Just a head.
Samantha sees Riley’s interest but doesn’t respond to it.
Riley says, “I’m assuming there will eventually be a body to go with that head.”
“Yes.” Samantha laughs. “There will.”
“Still won’t tell me what it’s going to be?”
“Still going to keep asking?”
“Probably.”
Samantha picks up her wine and sips, then says, “I’ve got works in progress all over this room. Why so much interest in that one?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I saw it from the start? Seems more mysterious that way.”
Samantha bobs her head from side to side. “I guess I can see that.”
“So, does my very astute artistic interpretation merit an answer now?”
“Nope.”
“How come?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” she playfully says. “You know the rule of the land here.”
“‘I never tell anyone what my projects will be until they’re done,’” Riley mocks.
“You got it.”
Samantha puts down the brush and container, takes off her glasses, and places them nearby. She walks up to Riley and stares at her for a long moment.
“What’s wrong?”
Samantha lifts a tuft of hair on each side of Riley’s head, lets them fall, then examines her face.
“What?” Riley again asks.
“So, don’t take this wrong, but I would love to help get you a makeover.”
“What exactly are you telling me here? How awful I look?”
“Oh, like I’d really say that!” Samantha laughs. “No, you nut! You’re a very attractive woman.”
“For my age . . .”
“It’s not that at all. But I feel lik
e you’re hiding what works for you. Look, after hearing about your past, I’ve realized how much you’ve been through these last several years. I was just thinking maybe some new clothes and a fresh cut and color might lift your spirits.”
Samantha’s intent seems innocent enough. Riley looks down at the worn and nicked heels on her shoes. “I actually have been thinking lately that maybe it’s time for a new look. And you clearly know a lot about style and fashion. I could probably use your advice.”
“I do love me a project,” Samantha says. “Let’s do this! I’ve got a girl. She’s new to the salon and doesn’t have a big client list yet. I could call and see if she’s got anything open in the next few days.”
“Gosh, Samantha. I don’t know if I can afford—”
“Don’t worry about the money. It’s my treat.”
“No. Absolutely not. I won’t let you.”
“Nonsense. This was my idea. Besides, what’s the purpose of having all that bastard’s money if I can’t use it to help out a friend?”
“But hair and clothes? It’s too expensive.”
“Riley, when’s the last time you did something nice for yourself?”
“I don’t remember.”
“My point exactly. You totally deserve this.”
Riley’s eyes scan Samantha’s, searching for the assurance she needs to say yes. She thinks on it, then, more definitively, maybe even a little excitedly, says, “Okay, but only if you let me pay you back.”
“Not necessary.”
“I mean it!”
“Okay! Whatever. You can pay me back someday.”
Samantha’s phone goes off. She lifts it from a table and slants her head sideways to check the screen, grimaces, and says, “Ugh. A business call. Can you give me a minute while I take it?” She carries her phone into the hallway and starts talking.
Riley looks at Samantha’s eyeglasses while she waits, then lifts them. So classy. So smart-looking. She tries them on.
So . . . fake?
38
Samantha locks up her studio, and they stop at a French restaurant for lunch—a very expensive French restaurant. As always, money is no issue, so when the check arrives, Samantha takes out the plastic and, like that, makes it go away.
What She Doesn't Know: A Psychological Thriller Page 10
