by Lisa Gardner
A chill had moved over her, until she didn't belong to herself. She shut down, picked up the bottle of gin, and embraced the fog that blanketed her like the softest caress. She lived for the fog, she loved the fog. It was the best lover she'd ever had, and she fell graciously into its arms, smoothing it like a handful of rich soapsuds over her bare, aching breasts. She rolled languorously through the days, not thinking, not feeling, not existing, because then the pain would be too much.
Just kill me, just kill me. Why aren't I dead?
Her father had demanded she stop drinking. Her husband had checked her into a rehab ward, seeking as always a scientific solution to her emotional ills. None of it mattered. She hadn't cared what they thought, she hadn't cared what they wanted or that her son was turning into a somber, hard little man, incapable of smiling. She hadn't cared about anything.
Then Harper, dazed, overwhelmed, workaholic Harper, had done the unexpected. He'd moved them all to Boston, where images of Meagan could no longer torture her or Brian in the halls. And in a single defining moment, the kind of moment that gave her faith in him and hope for their marriage, Harper had brought her to see “Daddy's Girl.”
Patricia had taken one look at Melanie, small, earnest, blue-eyed Melanie, and everything in her had given way.
She fell in love again. The ice cracked, the fog receded. She wanted to hold this little girl so badly, it was a physical ache. She wanted to take care of her troubles, she wanted to tell her it would be all right. She wanted beyond all reason to keep her safe.
She loved little Melanie for being little Melanie. She loved the way she endured the unknown, the way she tried to make people smile. She was strong. She was spirited. She was earnest. She was everything Patricia had always wanted to be but had never quite managed. She was Patricia Stokes's hero.
For Melanie, Patricia had pulled herself together. For Melanie, she'd started to love Brian again, to give him the attention he desperately needed, to give him back his mother. For Melanie, she'd even started loving her husband again, because just when she'd thought there was nothing left between them, he'd given her this most precious gift: a second daughter and a chance to make things right.
The night Melanie came home, Patricia had slowly stripped off her clothes and for the first time in five and a half years, she'd crawled into her husband's arms. Harper had even accepted her, though she knew there had been other women in between and she knew his heart had not completely melted like hers.
When the short physical period ended, she understood. Harper would never love her the way he once had. He would not worship her or pursue her as he'd done in the very beginning. He would not look at her with the same urgent passion.
He would accept her. He would take care of her. But he would not forgive. In Texas, forgiveness was women's work.
Now Harper set down the business section. He picked up the metro news. For a moment she had a glimpse of the face she'd known for thirty-eight years, his eyes still as blue, his jaw still as square, his hair still as thick and golden.
Even at the age of fifty-eight, he looked like the man who had turned her head away from Jamie O'Donnell and swept her off her feet.
She sectioned out another bite of grapefruit.
And unbidden, the memories came back to her—of Texas nights, hot and humid, when the three of them had thought they could take over the world, Jamie so strong, Harper so charming, and Patricia simply so beautiful.
Harper's nothing but a handshake and a smile, lass. He's obsessed with image, not substance. You can do better than him.
He understands me, Jamie.
Why? Because he wears the right clothes, gets a good manicure? Because he'd sell his own mother for an invite to the right party?
Exactly, my love. Exactly.
“I'm sorry, Meagan,” she mouthed to her grapefruit. “I am so sorry.”
Harper lowered his paper. “What?”
“I'm worried about Melanie.”
Harper promptly set down the paper. “She's been working too hard,” he said seriously. Health was his domain, and he'd always been very worried about Melanie's, especially her migraines. “She's got to learn to slow down.”
“I've been trying to help her,” Patricia said, then shrugged delicately. She couldn't get her daughter to slow down any more than she could her husband.
As if reading her mind, Harper said, “What if we all went on a vacation?”
“Pardon?”
“I mean it, Pat.” He leaned forward, sounded earnest. “I've been thinking about it for weeks now. I've always said someday, when I retire, we'll travel everywhere. Well, hell, I'm not getting any younger. None of us are. Maybe it's time to finally be impulsive. Take our children and cruise the world. What d'you say?”
Patricia couldn't say a word. With shaking hands she set down her silver spoon. Cruise the world. Just like that. In her wildest dreams her husband never said such things.
She searched his gaze warily, looking for something she couldn't name. She wondered if her husband knew that even after all these years, she loved him. Even when he put his job before the family. Even when he went out with those silly young twits, then came home and kissed her dryly on the cheek. She wondered if he knew how patiently and quietly she was waiting for the day he did retire and he would belong to her again. Then maybe they could recapture what they'd shared so briefly in those first hot days of Texas. Then maybe they could finally leave all the mutual mistakes, and mutual sins, and mutual regret behind, and start fresh.
Didn't people always say it's never too late for new beginnings?
“Would you . . . would you leave the hospital?”
“Well, not leave it leave it.”
Patricia ducked her head so he wouldn't see her disappointment. “A vacation, then? Like a week or two?”
“Longer. Maybe four months, six months. Hell, maybe I could be really wild and take a leave of absence.”
A leave of absence. That got her attention again. She didn't know whether to be thrilled or suspicious. She did her best to sound interested. “Really? When?”
Harper said matter-of-factly, “I was thinking next week.”
In the sudden quiet of the patio, Patricia was certain her husband would be able to hear the pounding of her heart. Next week. Harper never moved that fast. He never did anything as dramatic as take a leave of absence from his career.
Oh, God, it wasn't about Melanie or romance after all. He knew. Her husband knew.
The note, sitting in her car after the AA meeting. Inside her locked, alarmed Mercedes, placed on the driver's seat.
Five words, cut out of a magazine. Simple. Knowing. Chilling to the bone.
You get what you deserve.
In the cold moment that followed after she read the note, her heart beating like a trapped bird in her chest, Patricia had experienced a horrible instance of prescience, where the past blended with the future and there was no way she could stop it. Don't hurt her, she'd found herself silently begging. Don't hurt Melanie. I was good this time. I swear, I swear, I have been so good.
“Pat? Come on, I thought you would be pleased.”
“Six months,” she murmured, keeping her gaze on the table. “Somewhere far away. Would we take Melanie?”
“Yes.”
“Would we . . . would we take Brian?”
Harper hesitated, then slowly he nodded. “But not any lovers. I'm trying, Pat. Jesus, I'm trying. But I'm not ready to go that far.”
“The whole family,” she murmured. “Going away. Someplace far. They would need more notice than a week, sweetheart. That's awfully short.”
He remained firm. “Hey, if I can find a way to get out of the hospital, so can they.”
“So next Friday?”
“Yes. Next Friday.”
She should push more, she thought. Demand to know why. She was too afraid of the answer. She whispered, “All right, darling, all right.”
María appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Sheff
ield here for Dr. Stokes.”
Harper looked surprised, but then he rose and placed a quick kiss on his wife's cheek. Patricia had placed the sunflowers on the patio table that morning. He touched one magenta petal. “It'll be all right,” he told her softly. “You'll see.”
He strode out of the room. Patricia was alone with her half-eaten grapefruit. She wasn't sure what had just happened. The spur-of-the-moment vacation for no good reason. Her own desperate willingness to play along.
Secrets, she thought. Hers. His. And last night she suspected Melanie had them too. There had been too many long pauses in her daughter's speech. Too many guards on her eyes. Melanie always had kept too much to herself. Did she really think her parents hadn't figured that out?
You get what you deserve. You get what you deserve.
Oh, Jesus God.
Patricia felt exhausted. She could barely lift her spoon or summon the energy to eat. Life was spiraling away on her again. Her breath was coming too quick and fast. An anxiety attack. At her age you would think she would know better. She didn't.
She went in search of her daughter. If she could just see Melanie, just know that her little girl was all right, not kidnapped, not murdered, not dead, it would help. If she could reassure herself that this was the present and the past was truly the past and long dead . . .
But Melanie was nowhere in sight. At ten-thirty in the morning Patricia Stokes crawled back to bed.
She knew she should be stronger. Today she wasn't.
MELANIE WOKE UP late again, then had to scramble to be ready by ten. She yanked a dress over her head while dialing Ann Margaret to tell her she wouldn't be at the donor center today. She wasn't feeling well. Maybe a touch of the flu. Ann Margaret was sympathetic. Don't worry, dear. Get lots of rest, dear. You know how much we worry about you.
Melanie went downstairs feeling about two inches tall. She hated lying and was doing too much of it these days.
She burst out the front doors eight minutes after ten. David Reese was waiting across the street, leaning against a cherry tree, his legs crossed, his hawkish face showing impatience. He looked as if he hadn't slept a wink the previous night, and the moment he spoke he sounded in a sour mood.
“Was that William Sheffield who just walked into your house?” David asked as a form of greeting.
“Yes. He probably has some meeting with my dad.” She was fidgeting with the strap of her purse, trying to get it to stay on her shoulder, but apparently David had had enough of waiting. He pushed away from the tree and immediately started walking.
“Do they always meet at your house?”
“Well, no, not always.”
“Why this morning?”
“I don't know. I just caught the tail end of things as they walked into the study, but William was upset. Sounded like his house was broken into last night.”
David came to an abrupt halt. “His house was broken into? Like yours the night before?”
Melanie saw where his thoughts were heading and immediately shook her head. “I'm sure this has nothing to do with our house. William has a slight bingo problem, you know? No doubt he got a little over his head again and a few creditors decided to help themselves. That's what Dad was grumbling when he showed him into his study. ‘Well, William, what do you expect?' I guess the intruder even left a note.”
David grabbed her arm. The intensity in his eyes caught her off guard. “A note? What kind of note?”
“I . . . I don't know. I didn't hear that much.”
“Did you hear William say something was actually taken?” David demanded. “Did he actually complain about losing money?”
Melanie tried to remember. She honestly hadn't paid that much attention. “I think he did deny it; he said he'd won last night. But my father didn't believe him. Said his record spoke for itself.”
“What about the note?”
“He just kind of went, ‘Well, if it was just a creditor, why the hell would he leave a note? Creditors take money, not write poetry.'” She paused. “Basically, William was upset and my father was trying to calm him down. End of story.”
David was still frowning, but he finally let go of her arm. “I'd like to know what the note said.”
“Why? What could possibly be so important?”
“‘You get what you deserve,'” David said. “Isn't that what Digger's caller told him?”
“Oh.” Melanie had forgotten about that. She considered it for a moment, then shook her head. “William's just an associate of my father's. He has enough problems of his own.”
David let the matter drop. They both resumed walking.
The morning was bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky and not a tourist-free space on the tree-lined street. Men in double-breasted blazers window-shopped at Armani's, while college coeds with pierced navels walked into Ann Taylor and coffee shops. She and David wove their way through the throngs. The hotel was only fifteen minutes away by foot.
Melanie finally looked at her silent companion. David had dressed up for the occasion in black slacks and sports jacket. Brooks Brothers would be her guess. Looked nice on him. Very nice.
They went four blocks down Newbury before Melanie's nerves couldn't take the silence anymore.
“Did you have a relaxing evening?”
“Dandy.”
“You're limping less today.”
“Lucky me.”
“You're not much for conversation, are you?”
“I grew up in a household of men. Mealtimes were for chewing.”
“I bet. So what happened to your mother?”
“Cancer.”
“I'm sorry.”
“So was she.”
Melanie refused to be fazed. “So then it's just your father and . . .”
“One brother. Younger.” He added, “Steven. Currently married, two children, baseball coach at Amherst. Good pitcher. Better?”
“A regular speech,” she assured him, and thought he might have smiled.
They crossed over to Boylston Street, passing the Pru Center, where the Stokeses did all their shopping, then turned at the Shari Theater, where Melanie had watched the re-released Star Wars trilogy in a single afternoon. The hotel was nearly in sight.
“You didn't call Larry Digger, right?” David checked.
“Of course not—”
“Good. I want to catch him off guard, before he has a chance to perfect his story. What about your parents? What did you tell them last night?”
“Nothing—”
“And your brother? Hear anything more from him?”
“No.”
“He didn't even call?” David seemed surprised by that. “So much for the protective-older-brother act.”
“Brian's one of those people who require a lot of space. He'll call when he's ready. He will.”
“Always the diplomat, huh?”
She looked him in the eye. “Don't knock it until you try it.”
“Touché,” he said. “Touché.”
They arrived at the First Church of Christ, Scientist, just a block from the hotel. Melanie watched shouting children splash in the long reflecting pool. God, it was a beautiful day.
A moment later she followed David into the Midtown Hotel.
THERE WEREN'T MANY people in the lobby. One man was buried behind a newspaper in the corner, while an exhausted mom tried to rein in two racing children. The counter was manned by a short, pert redhead whose eyes lit up at the sight of David. She managed to ring Larry Digger's room while giving David a blatantly suggestive glance.
Melanie decided she didn't like the redhead much.
David himself barely seemed to notice her. A mood had swept over him upon entering the hotel. His face was shuttered, but his hooded eyes were observant. He stood differently, up on the balls of his feet with his left leg back for balance. He was on alert, Melanie finally realized. Studying the lobby, its occupants, its exits. He was preparing for Larry Digger.
The redhead got off the
phone with Larry Digger and pointed them down the hall, giving David a last generous pout. He turned away without a backward glance.
They found Larry Digger waiting for them at the door to his room, his face smug, then faltering when he saw David.
“Who the hell are you?” Digger demanded.
“Your helpful hardware man,” David said. He led Melanie inside, then kicked the door shut with his foot and stood, arms across his chest.
“Shit, you're the waiter.” Digger turned to Melanie. “Why the hell did you bring him? This is between us.”
“I want to see your proof, Mr. Digger. Mr. Reese offered to escort me. Now, do you want to talk, or should I leave?” She sat on the edge of a chair, making it clear she was ready to get up again at any time.
Digger looked at David unhappily. “Can't you at least wait in the hallway?”
David did Melanie the favor of answering. “No.”
Digger gave up, pacing the small room. He was wearing the same pants from last night but a fresh shirt. There was no evidence of a suitcase in the room, just one worn duffel bag and a pile of notebooks on the bedside table. A tape recorder rested in the middle of the bed, the top open and gaping hungrily.
“You can start talking anytime,” Melanie prodded him. “That is, if you have anything useful to say.”
Digger stopped pacing and gave her a belligerent gaze. “Oh, no, that's not the way this is going to play out. You want your proof, you have to answer my questions first. That's the way it works.”
“Why? At this point I'm still not sure you're telling the truth. Maybe you're making this all up for money.”
“And that's such a sin? Jesus, what would you know? Living in that town house, every need taken care of, every wish fulfilled, and what did you do for it, sweetheart? What did you ever do to deserve the life you lead?”
Melanie's lips thinned; his comments struck too close to home. “I was lucky,” she said stiffly. “So far, much luckier than you have ever been.”
“Well, doesn't that just make you special? Hey, for your information, I don't even need you anymore. I've talked to the intern who found you at the hospital. I've gotten in touch with the social workers assigned to your case—”
