The Unforgiven

by Irina Shapiro

  “Sylvia,” Gabe barked, forcing her to look at him.

  “Emma was taking a nap, so I asked Jude to mind her while I ran out to the shops. I wanted to pick up some chops for our tea. There was a line at the till, and I took longer than expected. When I came back they were gone.”

  “Have you rung Jude?”

  “Of course. I’ve been trying for hours. He’s not answering and his mailbox is full.”

  “Where’s Logan?” Gabe demanded.

  “Logan and Colin went out to look for Jude and Emma. Logan knows Jude’s favorite hangouts. He thought it was worth a try.”

  Gabe sank onto the sofa and covered his face with his hands. His stomach felt hollow and his chest tight, as if a cinder block rested on his ribcage. He was a horrible parent, the kind of parent who allowed something awful to happen to their child through thoughtlessness and negligence. He should have never left Emma with Sylvia. He hardly knew her, and what he knew of Jude made his blood run cold. Emma would have been devastated by the death of her grandfather, but at least she would have been safe. Now she was out there somewhere, alone with a drug addict who’d taken her out hours ago without telling anyone where he was going.

  “We’ve got to call the police,” Gabe said, springing to his feet.

  “Gabe, no, please,” Sylvia wailed. “Not yet.”

  Gabe stared at her, confused, and then the penny dropped, and his fear escalated to new heights. “Jude’s got a record, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. He was arrested for heroin possession and dealing a few years ago. He spent six months at a juvenile hall since he was still a minor.”

  “So you left my child alone with a druggie and a felon, and merrily went off to the shops?” Gabe roared, fighting to control an overwhelming desire to grab Sylvia and shake her until her teeth rattled. The impulse shamed him, so he drew in a few deep breaths to calm his temper.

  “He’s my son, Gabriel. I don’t think of him in those terms,” Sylvia replied with a defiant lift of her head.

  “Well, Emma is my daughter, and you have no bloody idea where she is. She’s four, Sylvia. She’s vulnerable and trusting. I’m calling the police.”

  “Gabe, I beg you. Wait. It’s only been three hours.”

  “That’s three hours too long.”

  Gabe was about to call the police when the doorbell rang. Sylvia ran to answer it, but the light of hope went out of her eyes when Logan and Colin came in, looking tired and worried.

  “We didn’t find them,” Logan said. “None of his mates have seen him today.”

  “Oh, God,” Sylvia moaned. She tried to stay Gabe’s hand as he called 999, but he wouldn’t be deterred. Night was coming, and Emma would be out there alone with a strung-out heroin addict. It didn’t bear thinking about. Gabe calmly gave all the pertinent information and disconnected the call. The police were on their way.

  “I’ll make some tea,” Colin offered. “I’d prefer something stronger, but it won’t do for the police to think that anyone in the house might be under the influence.”

  Sylvia resumed her seat on the sofa, Logan next to her. Gabe couldn’t sit still, so he paced the room like a caged tiger, ready to pounce on anyone who dared to cross his path.

  Everyone jumped to attention when a key turned in the lock and Emma exploded into the room. She was wearing shimmering fairy wings and had a fuchsia streak in her black hair. She twirled around to show everyone her beautiful wings and then jumped into Gabe’s arms, thrilled to see him back.

  “Daddy, I have pink hair!” she cried, clearly delighted with her new do.

  Jude walked in after her. Emma’s Disney Princesses backpack was slung over his shoulder and he carried her jumper in his hand, since she couldn’t wear it over her wings. Jude had shaved the sides of his head, and the hair on top stood in sculpted spikes, the tips colored electric blue. Around his neck he wore a leather collar studded with metal grommets.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Gabe snarled, barely controlling his temper so as not to frighten Emma. He wanted to take a swing at Jude and watch him go down in a heap, but under the circumstances that wasn’t an option. Some part of Gabe’s brain reflected that becoming a parent had turned him into an unhinged lunatic who would probably need to enroll in an anger-management program before long.

  Jude looked around, his expression confused. “What’s everyone freaking out about?” he asked, finally noticing Logan and Colin’s anxious faces and Sylvia’s deathly pallor.

  Gabe was about to respond when the doorbell rang. A pair of plain-clothed detectives were at the door. They identified themselves before stepping into the entryway.

  “We’ve had a report of a missing child.”

  “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” Gabe said, his voice low. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding. She’s home and she’s all right.”

  The officers looked around the room, taking in the subdued adults and the child, who was happily twirling around, her wings shimmering in the light as she hummed to herself. Emma was oblivious to the drama playing out around her, caught up in some childish fantasy.

  “That’s the best outcome we could have hoped for. Goodnight, sir.” The policemen turned to leave, but not before bestowing a look of irritation on Gabe. He’d wasted police time, which under certain circumstances, was a crime.

  Gabe closed the door and returned to the front room, where Emma had stopped twirling and was hopping from foot to foot.

  “I have to go to the toilet,” she announced.

  “Come, darling, I’ll take you,” Sylvia said, ushering Emma out before emotions had a chance to boil over, and closing the door behind her.

  Jude stared at Gabe in utter disbelief. “You called the cops? What did you think I’d done with her?” he yelled. “Did you think I sold her on the dark web to pay for drugs, you arsehole?”

  “Where were you?” Gabe asked, ignoring the insult.

  “We went to a hair salon. I wanted to change up my look a bit before our next gig, and my friend Bridget had an opening.”

  Gabe felt a momentary pang of regret when he saw tears of hurt in Jude’s eyes, but he was still furious. “You didn’t answer your mobile. What were we supposed to think?”

  “You weren’t supposed to think anything. My battery died and Bridget didn’t have a charger. What’s the problem, mate? We’ve only been gone for a few hours, and Emma had fun,” Jude cried, obviously devastated by the implication that he would have done anything to hurt Emma. “We are back in time for tea.”

  “She has colored hair,” Gabe said, but the anger had gone out of him, leaving him tired and overwrought.

  “She asked for a pink streak, so Bridget did it for her. It’s no big deal, man. It’s just one strand. It’ll grow out in a few months. She loves it. Did you really think I’d hurt her?” The hurt had turned to anger as Jude advanced toward Gabe, fists clenched.

  Logan instantly came between them and put a restraining hand on Jude’s arm.

  “I didn’t know what to think, given your history,” Gabe replied. He had no intention of backing down. Emma was his child, and he had every right to be worried. And if Jude’s feelings were hurt, well that wasn’t his problem. “You should have told someone where you were going.”

  “Fuck you, man. And the same goes for the rest of you,” Jude said just as Sylvia and Emma returned to the room. “Not you,” Jude amended, looking at Emma. “You are a cool kid.”

  Jude stormed out of the house and slammed the door behind him. Sylvia sank into a chair, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs while Emma hid behind the sofa, frightened by the exchange.

  “Mum, he’ll be back,” Logan promised. “He just needs a little time to cool down.”

  “No, he won’t. And I wouldn’t blame him. We should have had more faith in him. How’s he ever supposed to get better if no one trusts him?”

  “What’s going on?” Emma demanded from behind the sofa. “Grandma Sylvia, why are you crying?”

&
nbsp; “I’m just glad you’re back,” Sylvia replied, avoiding a lengthy explanation.

  “Of course I’m back. It was fun. Why did Jude leave? He said we could watch a film tonight.”

  “Jude is a little upset, Em,” Gabe said. “He needs time to think things through. He took you without telling anyone and we were worried.”

  “Well, that’s silly. He’s my uncle.”

  “I know, sweetheart, but he still should have told someone where he was going.”

  Emma nodded, already bored by the heavy conversation. “I’m hungry.”

  “Why don’t we all go out for a pizza?” Logan suggested. He glanced at his mother, whose mouth was compressed into a thin line as she gave Gabe a hard stare.

  Gabe ignored her. He wasn’t sure if Sylvia knew that Jude was using again, but he did, and he’d had every right to demand an explanation, especially given the fact that Jude kept pulling down his sleeves while they spoke. The leather collar on Jude’s neck did explain the marks Gabe had seen before, so he was glad that at least Jude wasn’t risking his life for an orgasm. Or maybe he was, and used the leather collar to cover up the bruises. It wasn’t any of his business, but he wouldn’t be leaving Emma with Sylvia again in a hurry.

  “I’ll stay here and wait for your brother,” Sylvia said to Logan.

  “Mum, he won’t be back tonight. Give him some space. He’s angry, but he’ll come round. He’ll understand that we were simply worried.”

  “Gabe called the police on him,” Sylvia cried.

  “And I would do it again,” Gabe replied calmly. “Now, can we put this behind us?”

  “Not just yet,” Sylvia replied. She was still angry, but the fight had gone out of her. “You go on. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Come on then,” Colin said, eager to lighten the atmosphere. “Emma, what kind of pizza do you like?”

  “Just plain. Can I wear my wings?”

  “Only if we walk to the restaurant. They’ll break in the car.”

  “I’m tired of walking. Jude made me walk. Here.” Emma turned to Gabe, allowing him to remove the wings. “Keep them safe.”

  “I will. You can wear them tomorrow.”

  Emma smiled hugely. “And I’ll have my pink hair for months,” she said, pleased with herself. “Bridget has purple hair. Jude said it looks fierce. What does that mean, Daddy?”

  “Means it looks great.”

  “Do I look fierce?” Emma demanded.

  “You are the fiercest of them all,” Logan interjected. “You make me want to get pink hair.”

  “Logan, pink is for girls.”

  Logan and Colin exchanged looks and burst out laughing.

  “Come, I’m starving,” Logan said and they trooped out of the house, leaving Sylvia to stew.

  Chapter 39

  May 2014

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Quinn set aside the fan and exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She finally had her answer, the answer she’d been searching for since she was a little girl. Madeline was the one with the psychic gift, and she must have passed it on to her child, who appeared on the family tree as the son of Amelia and George. But how had Madeline come by her ability, and what had become of her? Why was there no record of her existence? Had she died during the Civil War, which began shortly after her baby was born, and been forgotten by history, or was there something more sinister behind the obvious omission?

  Quinn buried her face in her hands. She didn’t want to know. She really didn’t, but she couldn’t stop now. If her hypothesis was true, then Madeline was her ancestor, her only link to those who came before her. And if Madeline had come to a violent end, Quinn needed to know. Madeline’s story had to be told, and her voice needed to be heard one last time.

  The fan lay on the bed, an inanimate object from a bygone era, a lacework in ivory, and a ghostly reminder of a girl who had lived long ago. Quinn had searched every source, both digital and physical, and every archive in New Orleans. She’d even gained access to cemetery records in the hope that she would find a reference to Madeline Besson, but she’d come up empty-handed. Madeline had vanished like a puff of smoke.

  “What happened to you, Maddy?” Quinn asked the silent room. “Where did you go?”

  Quinn leaned her head against the padded headboard and considered that question. Perhaps nothing had happened to Madeline, other than an ordinary life. There could be another scenario that fit, one that was ridiculously simple. She might have handed over her baby to Sybil and left the plantation. She wasn’t wanted there, and her father’s banishment was the reason her birth and death were never recorded in the family records. She’d never wished to marry Gilbert Montlake, so it stood to reason that she’d married someone else at a later date. Madeline could have gone on to have a long life, and was probably safely buried somewhere, her death listed under her married name. There had been countless Madelines in the archives, countless women whose lives had not taken a violent turn and whose legacy lived on in their descendants, just as Madeline Besson’s lived on in Quinn.

  There was only one way to find out, so Quinn gingerly reached for the fan and closed her eyes, ready to witness the next chapter.

  Chapter 40

  January 1859

  Louisiana Bayou

  Madeline sat on the hard wooden chair, her eyes fixed on the stagnant water of the bayou. The water sparkled in the bright sunshine that managed to penetrate the gloom of the towering trees and shine a light onto this forgotten corner of Louisiana. She shuddered with revulsion when the scaly head of an alligator broke the surface, dangerously close to shore. The cabin could only be accessed by steep wooden steps, so they were safe, but the hideous creatures sent shivers of fear down Madeline’s spine every time they came near. Mammy didn’t seem bothered. She said that alligators tasted just fine, when barbequed over an open flame and basted regularly to prevent the meat from getting tough.

  Madeline tore her gaze away from the gator and looked off into the distance, hoping to glimpse a canoe nosing its way toward the cabin. Joe came every Monday, bringing supplies and news of the outside world. But it wasn’t Joe Madeline was waiting for—it was George. The New Year had come and gone, and January was almost at an end, so George had to be back at the plantation, even if he’d decided to visit Amelia’s family for a few weeks. He had to be back, and he had to know about the child and Madeline’s banishment.

  “He’ll come for me, Mammy. You’ll see,” Madeline said over and over again, trying to convince herself as much as Mammy.

  Mammy nodded, her expression glum. She was always glum these days, going about her daily chores with a permanent scowl on her face. She was kind to Madeline, but Madeline could see anger bubbling just beneath the surface. Perhaps Mammy was upset about being separated from her family again, Madeline reasoned, as she spent her days moping aimlessly, desperate for something to occupy her time besides waiting for George.

  “If you says so, child,” Mammy would reply. “If you says so.”

  There was little to do at the cabin, so Madeline spent hours sitting on the tiny porch and reliving the happy moments she’d shared with George, her mind conjuring bittersweet images of that golden time. In her mind’s eye, she saw George laughing and spraying water on her when he shook his hair after swimming in the lake. George in her bed, tender and passionate, whispering that he loved her while he moved deep inside her. George promising to take care of her always, no matter what happened. He wouldn’t just discard her as if she meant nothing to him and go back on everything he’d said. It might take him some time to smooth things over with Amelia and extricate himself long enough to come to Madeline, but he would come; she was sure of it. Even if he no longer cared for her—a thought that left Madeline feeling hollow and hopeless—he’d never forsake his child, and as long as the child lived within her, they were one and the same.

  Madeline placed a hand on her belly. It had changed over the past month, growing firmer and
rounder, as had her breasts. Her skin felt unusually sensitive, even the smooth fabric of the linen shift she wore as irritating as the rough surface of the pumice stone Mammy used to remove callouses from her feet. The barely noticeable movement deep inside her womb reminded Madeline of the rippling in the water after an alligator slithered by. Mammy said it was the baby moving. Madeline’s baby. Hers and George’s.

  The child hadn’t seemed real before, but now it was as real as the loneliness that gnawed at her insides day and night, and the fear that gripped her heart as she lay in bed, sleepless, wondering what would become of her if she refused to comply with Sybil’s wishes. She dutifully wrote to Gilbert every week, not because she cared what he thought or wanted to keep him interested, but because it was a way to stave off the loneliness for a short time. She made up amusing stories about her pretend family, and described events that never took place, unwittingly replaying her outings with George. The restaurant her aunt and uncle took her to was just like the restaurant where George had taken her for lunch, and the carriage ride along the river was as picturesque and dreamy as the one she had shared with George the night of the dinner party.

  Gilbert wasn’t much of a correspondent. All his letters were similar. He missed her. He looked forward to her return. He went to New Orleans with his father, or paid a social call with his mother. He was learning about the running of the plantation and taking on more responsibility. At times, Gilbert mentioned the growing unrest between the North and the South, but the sentiments he expressed were taken directly from his father’s mouth, the views harsh and unyielding. Gilbert wasn’t man enough to think for himself, or even man enough to choose his own bride. His mother and Sybil Besson had decided to pair them up, and Gilbert simply went along with their wishes. He wasn’t passionate enough to care either way. He’d marry Madeline, but if she turned him down, he’d probably wed someone else just as happily, given enough time. He would be a good husband and a caring father, but he would never know true desire or feel life-shattering loss. He didn’t have it in him to feel such extremes of emotion.