Lie in Plain Sight

by Maggie Barbieri

  “And call your friend Tammy! She’s worried sick about you!”

  Inside the house, Maeve picked up her wine glass and grabbed the bottle of wine that she and Gabriela had started, marching up to her room and putting both on her nightstand. It had been a long day and would probably be an even longer night. She collapsed onto the bed and closed her eyes, the wine glass in her hand. On her nightstand, the landline rang, and she debated whether or not to pick it up.

  It was Jo. “Turn on the local news.”

  “What?” Maeve said.

  “Turn on the local news,” Jo said again, but by the time Maeve located the remotes, whatever story had Jo so agitated was over. “This is a fascinating story about bulldog rescue organizations, Jo, but I’m tired and want to go to bed.”

  “Keep the news on,” Jo said. “Trish Dvorak is in jail.”

  “What?” Maeve said, sitting up so quickly that she nearly upended the wine on the nightstand.

  “She’s the one who orchestrated Taylor’s kidnapping.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Before she finally fell asleep, Maeve watched the story three times. Trish Dvorak in handcuffs. Chris Larsson making a statement to reporters. Suzanne Carstairs walking up the stairs to the station house, a grim set to her red lips, not missing a step in her extraordinarily high heels.

  Trish hadn’t been kidding when she said that she was worried about paying for college. She was so worried that she planned on getting the money any way she could, even if it meant a fake kidnapping plot that would result in her daughter’s father, Charles Connors, paying five hundred thousand dollars to the “kidnappers.”

  According to Chris, Taylor was supposed to go to the Rathmuns’, who were housecleaning clients of Trish’s, and stay there until the money was delivered. The only thing was, she had disappeared for real.

  And for good, it seemed.

  “Is this some kind of village of the damned, or what?” Jo asked. “Mothers who would sell their own kid for tuition? Real kidnapping? I thought Doug’s job was crazy, but these local cops have their hands full.”

  Maeve had stared at the screen and watched Chris. They surely did have their hands full, and sometimes it seemed they couldn’t get out of their own way. It was a dangerous combination.

  Maeve always thought that the strangest things happened in the most bucolic locales. Farringville was proving her correct on that front. The scariest part was that Taylor was missing and the wheels had been set in motion by her own mother. Maeve knew some truly horrifying people—some would consider her one of them if they knew the truth—but that took the cake.

  No pun intended.

  Maeve texted Heather the next morning to make sure she was going to school and to tell her that that night, over dinner, they were going to talk about everything: her lie of omission about Taylor and the day she disappeared, this new relationship with a kid Maeve didn’t know but didn’t like already. Once Tommy, the boyfiend, as Maeve thought of him, had left town months earlier, Heather had lived the life of a monastic, but it appeared that her self-imposed boycott on the opposite sex had come to an end. And she had gone right back to the type of boy that made every mother’s skin crawl, only this time, the rumors were far worse than just those usually alleged.

  She drove to Rye after work to pick up Evelyn, having let the owners of the group home know via e-mail in the morning that she was coming. Evelyn was waiting at the front door, a little woman in neatly pressed jeans and a long-sleeved polo, her hair combed and lip gloss—an adored item that she went through with alarming alacrity—shining on her mouth. She opened the door when she saw Maeve’s car, racing out to greet her younger sister.

  “Maeve!” she said, and Maeve prepared herself for the force with which Evelyn would throw herself into her arms. Maeve grabbed her and kissed the top of her head, the older woman being shorter. “Where are we going?” Evelyn asked when she got in the car, making sure to first buckle her seat belt, her feet barely touching the floor mats of the Prius.

  Maeve thought about that, wondered how much to say. She decided to tell Evelyn the truth. “We’re going to see the house where you used to live.”

  Evelyn loved an adventure, particularly if it involved her beloved sister, someone she had only known a short time but had come to rely on after her father had died. Maeve would never tell her that Jack wasn’t her biological father; he was the only father she had ever known, and he had done right by her, taking her from a horrible institution and making sure she lived a wonderful life right in Maeve’s backyard. She wasn’t sure Evelyn would understand the difference between biological and adopted anyway. It wasn’t a conversation worth starting for many reasons.

  “I’m hungry. We should eat,” Evelyn said, her appetite a constant.

  “Yes, we’ll eat. What do you want? What sounds good?” Maeve asked, merging onto the highway, grateful for the flexibility to travel at off hours and to be able to get to today’s destination quickly.

  “Cheeseburger!” Evelyn said.

  Maeve looked over at her, enough of her mother in both of them so that they bore a resemblance to each other. The cheekbones—or lack thereof in Maeve’s case—and the softening around their jawlines, the flesh showing their age, spoke to their shared genes. Maeve wondered if those traits would be evident in her mother today, had she lived. Her mother had died young, younger than Maeve was now, so she would never know.

  While Evelyn kept up a constant monologue, asking Maeve how every single person that they knew mutually was doing—Jo, baby Jack, Heather, Rebecca, Doug, et cetera—Maeve rehearsed in her mind what she might say to Heather that night once they were alone. Raging didn’t work. Neither did disappointment. Maybe she would have to try something that she rarely used with her younger daughter: honesty.

  It was worth a shot.

  If she were someone else, Maeve would have asked her sister if she remembered anything about the street where she had spent a few years, if anything looked familiar at all, but it was no use. Evelyn remembered odd details about things, but overarching concepts were lost to her, somewhere in her mind, not retrievable.

  That didn’t mean she couldn’t surprise Maeve every once in a while. “That’s where the Haggertys lived,” she blurted out in the same unmodulated tone that Jack had often used when remembering a lost detail.

  Maeve pulled over and parked beneath the shade of an elm and turned to look at her sister, flabbergasted. “You remember?”

  But Evelyn was on to something else, remarking on the tallest tree she had ever seen and how the one Maeve had parked beneath paled in comparison. “Do you remember where you used to live?”

  “No, Maeve. I live in Rye.”

  “Did you visit the Haggertys a lot?” Maeve asked. “When you lived here?”

  Evelyn was singing a song, another Kelly Clarkson tune, “Since U Been Gone.” Her voice was soft and sweet. There was no talk of the Haggertys, just the song. The moment had passed, and there was nothing Maeve could do to get it back.

  She never thought of herself as an emotional blackmailer, but walking up to Mrs. McSweeney’s house, it was the only way she could describe herself. One hand holding her sister’s, Maeve knocked at the front door with the other.

  Mrs. McSweeney answered quickly, obviously expecting someone else. The smile on her face was immediately replaced by a frown when she discovered that the person she’d thought would be there when she opened the door was really Maeve and a woman she looked like she recognized but wanted to forget.

  “Maeve,” she said gently.

  “Mrs. McSweeney, this is my sister, Evelyn. The one we spoke about.”

  The older woman stood inside the door and regarded the two women on her front stoop. “Hello, Evelyn.”

  They were in a standoff, this much older woman who was as sharp as a tack and Maeve, with only memories of her childhood, and none of her sister. Maeve held her gaze. “She’s older now. But you remember her.”

  Evelyn looked at Maeve
, whispering. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  Maeve shrugged. “We need to use your bathroom, Mrs. McSweeney.”

  Mrs. McSweeney opened the door reluctantly, averting her gaze as Maeve and Evelyn walked in. Maeve led her sister to the bathroom, situated exactly where she thought it would be, since her childhood home was a mirror image of this one. She waited outside the door, reminding Evelyn to wash her hands when she was done, even though she didn’t need to; Evelyn was fastidious about her appearance and her hygiene, making sure her hair was combed, her clothes were pressed, and her hands were always clean.

  Maeve wandered down the hall after a few moments, finding Mrs. McSweeney in the kitchen. “Do you remember her? I know it was a long time ago. But you must remember something.”

  Mrs. McSweeney leaned against the Formica counter, looking out the window over the kitchen sink to the backyard. “I told you, Maeve. I remember nothing. I didn’t know your sister. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I don’t know anything.”

  Maeve heard the water running in the bathroom and knew she only had a few seconds before they would have to leave. “Please.”

  The woman wouldn’t look at Maeve, opting instead to survey the view outside the kitchen window. “There are things that are better not known, Maeve. Leave it alone.”

  “Leave what alone?” Maeve asked, the door to the bathroom opening and her sister starting down the hall. “Leave what alone?”

  Evelyn appeared in the doorway. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. McSweeney turned, tears in her eyes. “You’re welcome.”

  Maeve beseeched the woman with her own tear-filled eyes before starting for the door. “Please.”

  Evelyn grabbed the taller, older woman around the waist and hugged her tightly. “You have a nice house,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Mrs. McSweeney kissed the top of Evelyn’s head. “And you have grown up into a lovely woman,” she said before realizing the indictment in that statement, that she remembered her as a girl. She looked at Maeve. “But now you have to go. I have company coming.”

  Maeve hesitated at the front door. “Please,” she said again, but she knew it was no use. “Tell me.”

  Mrs. McSweeney surprised her by hugging her, too. “Good-bye, Maeve. Be well,” she said before closing the door behind them.

  Outside, on the sidewalk that Maeve had run up and down countless times, she put her arm around her sister’s waist. “I love you.”

  Evelyn looked up at her, her eyes innocent and bright. “I love you, too. And I love cheeseburgers. I’m hungry, Maeve.”

  Maeve buckled her sister into the car and drove away, watching the neighborhood grow smaller and smaller in her rearview mirror.

  CHAPTER 32

  “Tell me everything.” Maeve was at the kitchen table sitting across from Heather later that night, her rage simmering below the surface but apparent to the girl, whose eyes didn’t leave her folded hands. It wasn’t the first time she would say those words to her daughter, nor would it be the last. She was ready, finally, to hear the details of the girl’s conversation with Taylor on the day she had gone missing and find out why, if Rebecca was to be believed, she continued to have such terrible taste in men.

  Heather wasn’t her usual sullen self, but she wasn’t hostile either. What she was seemed far more concerning to Maeve. She seemed dead inside, without life, a shell of a girl who had lost the ability to feel. She stared across at her mother, words failing her.

  Maeve led her along in the story. “You saw Taylor.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did she say?”

  Heather traced a circle on top of the old wood table, a knife mark left by one of the girls when they were small and didn’t know the lasting damage that one minor act could do. “She told me to stay away from Jesse Connors.”

  Maeve knew why, but she had to hear it from Heather. “Why?”

  “She said he was bad news.” She rolled her eyes; she didn’t believe that. But then again, where boys were concerned, she rarely did.

  “Did she mention that Jesse is related to her?”

  Heather looked surprised, a little spark returning. “No. I only found out about that later.”

  Maeve considered her next questions carefully. “Did she say anything about a party? Something that happened there?”

  Heather sighed. “Dating a cop has made you even more annoying. Do you know that?” she asked.

  Maeve slammed her hand down on the table, knocking over the ceramic napkin holder that Rebecca had made at day camp, shattering it into what seemed like a million pieces. “Enough,” she said, her voice a low growl. “Enough of this.”

  Heather was not fazed by her mother’s outburst. She held her gaze. “You’re not the only one who looks for answers,” she said, and before Maeve could respond, she was out the door.

  Maeve leapt from her seat, slamming into the kitchen table, a piece of ceramic napkin holder getting stuck in her shoe and leaving a rut in the oak floor as she raced to the front door. Outside, the street was empty, the only sound the train going by, its horn blaring in the distance drowning out the sound of Maeve’s call for her daughter.

  She went back inside and grabbed her car keys, getting into the Prius and driving around the village, coming to rest in a park in the center of town where she knew the kids hung out after school and into the evening hours. It was nine o’clock. She pulled out her phone and called Chris; they hadn’t spoken since the day before, both needing physical and emotional distance from the situation.

  From each other.

  He hadn’t looked at her when he released Heather into her care yesterday. She didn’t know what Heather had told him, but it was enough to make him want to avoid her. He had been uncomfortable and nervous, so she was glad when he picked up the phone.

  “Hi, gorgeous,” he said, and there was a smile in his voice. It was faint, but it was there.

  “Hi.”

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Mathers Park.”

  “Looking for an adult to buy you beer? A little pot?” he said. “No one over the age of eighteen hangs out in Mathers Park at this hour unless they are up to no good.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Are you up to no good?”

  “No. Not right now.” He was going in a different direction with her, flirting a bit to take the edge off of what had happened the day before, but she wasn’t in the mood. Anyway, he would be shocked to know what she actually did when she was up to no good.

  “So what are you doing there?”

  “I don’t know.” She paused. “Well, I’m looking for Heather.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “Left in a huff. I want to talk to her.” She peered out the window, spying shadowy teenage figures in the distance but none with the mannerisms or physicality of her daughter. “What did she say yesterday, Chris? Because she’s sure not telling me.”

  He was silent. and Maeve mentally kicked herself for not demanding a lawyer at the time—a real lawyer, someone who wasn’t Cal—thinking that while it would have made Heather seem guilty, it would have protected her as well. In some ways, Maeve was the consummate rule follower, accepting what people in authority said or did without question. No doubt about it: Catholic school had done a number on her.

  “She didn’t tell us much at all, Maeve. If she’s keeping something to herself, she certainly didn’t let on. She saw Taylor. They had a quick conversation. She didn’t mention it to anyone because it didn’t seem important. That’s all we got.”

  “Is she in trouble, Chris? Just tell me that.”

  His sigh filled the space between them. “No,” he said unconvincingly, the sigh indicating otherwise. “No, she’s not in trouble.”

  “I should have gotten her a lawyer.”

  He stayed silent.

  “How did you raise such a good kid, Chris?” she asked. She didn’t know Chris’s son well, but what she did know of him she liked. He was more like Chris th
an he would probably care to admit, but to Maeve, that was a good thing.

  “The same way you did,” he said, referring, she thought, to Rebecca. “Vigilance. Saying no more often than yes. Love.”

  Odd order, she thought, but he was right. And honest. She had tried to lead with love, and it was successful the first time, unsuccessful the second. “Just promise me you’ll tell me if there’s something I need to know about her. Promise me that.”

  “Trish Dvorak’s confession was a game changer, Maeve. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  Maeve asked a question that had lodged itself in the back of her mind. “Why did you just find out about the tape? At Jane Murdock’s store?”

  “We didn’t know she had a camera.”

  Isn’t it your job to know those things? she wanted to ask but couldn’t. “And she didn’t think to let you know?”

  “People aren’t suspicious by nature, Maeve. They don’t think the worst. They don’t realize that they may have information that we need. It’s that simple.”

  He was dead wrong, but she would never say that. She was suspicious. She thought that other people were just like her.

  “Really,” she said.

  “Really.” The next stretch of silence went on longer than she cared for. “Okay.” He was cooking; she could hear the sounds of water running, a pot being put on the stove. “Come over. I’ll make you dinner.”

  She had things to do and places to go. “No,” she said. “Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Before he could ask again, and she knew he would, she hung up, knowing where she was headed.

  CHAPTER 33

  The person who answered the door was not expecting to see Maeve; that was clear. Tall, wearing a lavender polo shirt and expensive jeans, his feet bare, he regarded Maeve with a question on his face, respect in his voice. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  Okay, Junior, she thought, let’s not lay it on too thick. “Hi. I want to talk to you.”

  He stood inside the immense foyer that fronted the house, his hand on the doorknob. “Is this about the Relay for Life?”