Dead Secret

by Ava McCarthy

  Dazed, she watched him lift Abby into his arms, watched his head bend to hers, the two so alike. Same dark hair, same strong brows; same stubborn set to the mouth. Ethan kissed Abby’s plump, damp cheek.

  ‘It’s Mommy’s fault poor old Badger is dead.’

  A fireball of colour exploded over the lake.

  The flash defined a knot of spectators on the shore, and Jodie’s heart double-thudded. Backlit in their midst was Ethan’s sculpted profile.

  She edged forward. He was less than two hundred yards away. Close enough to make out the faint Van Dyke beard, its thin vertical line carefully etched from lower lip to chin. As a beard, it was barely there; just a whispered suggestion of maleness, pirate-style.

  A pulse hammered high in her throat. Behind Ethan, Dublin Lake seemed on fire, the blazing sky twinned in the water like paint pressed from a centrefold. A dramatic backdrop to Ethan’s buccaneer looks, as though he’d staged it with that in mind. Then again, maybe he had.

  She inched closer, eyeing his group of companions. They were mostly men, their body language proclaiming Ethan as the dominant figure. She saw it all the time; that potent sway he had over people.

  She watched as one of the men leaned in to make a comment, saw the other low-rankers all peek at Ethan, gauging his reaction before committing to theirs. Jodie noticed Ethan appeared a head taller than the rest, and guessed it was no accident he’d ended up on higher ground than they had.

  Power and control: his motivation for everything.

  Jodie clutched her bag, felt the hard outline of the weapon inside. She tried to picture the moment when it was done. When Ethan was dead, and the time finally came to turn the gun on herself.

  Would she hesitate?

  Would it hurt?

  She probed her psyche, plumbed deep. Took an honest pulse-check of her soul.

  Found no fear.

  Pain would be cathartic. A final scream of release.

  She took a deep breath, scanned her surroundings. Felt a twist of unease. The lakefront should have emptied out by now, but the shore was still lined with people. She couldn’t risk a shot from here. What if she hit someone else?

  She had to get up close. But all those people. One of them might try to stop her. Putting Ethan back in control.

  Her spine hummed. In less than two hours, Ethan would be on a flight to New York, gone for three weeks. She couldn’t last that long. Couldn’t survive it. It had to be tonight.

  Her gaze rolled down the shoreline, out to the road, her brain scrambling for a way to get him alone. Then her eyes came to rest on the cars by the kerb, settling on the stately black sedan that dwarfed its neighbours.

  Ethan’s Bentley.

  Jodie’s skin tingled.

  With a last look at Ethan, she struck out towards the highway, willing the car to be open. He’d never given her a key. No point, he’d said, since he wasn’t going to let her drive it. She climbed the slope up to the road, pinning her hopes on his complacent habit of leaving the vehicle unlocked. She could see his point. Who’d steal from the local hotshot lawyer, especially when his ally was an ambitious thug like Caruso?

  She clambered over the guardrail onto the road. Stole up to the Bentley. Tried the handle.

  The door eased open.

  She let out a breath, unaware she’d been holding it. Then she slid into the roomy back seat, closing the door with a thunk that blocked out all sound. She lowered herself to the floor, crouching in the space between front and back. A travel rug lay folded in the foot well beside her, and she shook it out, covering herself head to toe. Then she slipped the gun out of her bag and hugged it to her chest.

  She lay there, cramped, her nostrils filled with the scent of leather upholstery. From outside, the rug and tinted windows would hide her. By the time Ethan knew she was there, it would be too late.

  Fatigue pressed down on her like a dead weight. Maybe it was the horizontal position, but suddenly the world seemed to tilt, as though she was losing her grip on it. Her mind scrabbled for a foothold. Fastened on Abby: all rough-and-tumble in her dungarees, frowning as she brushed a squirming Badger; never crying when he scratched and ran away, just wrestling him back.

  A faint hum started up in Jodie’s throat, and she clenched her teeth to shut it off.

  Her head buzzed with tiredness. She’d been fighting Ethan for so long now. Fighting for freedom. Freedom to work and be independent; freedom for Abby to make friends outside the house; freedom for herself to do the same; freedom to sell her paintings; to paint at all.

  And more recently, the freedom to leave.

  Jodie closed her eyes. Felt herself drift.

  None of that mattered any more. Tonight would be the last battle. After this, there was nothing left to fight for.

  Not now that Abby was dead.

  The door clunked, cracking open the vacuum in the car.

  Jodie’s eyes flared wide.

  Cool air seeped around her, washing in with it the thrum of night insects.

  She tried not to breathe.

  Leather stretched and creaked. The door slammed shut. Jodie’s heart pounded, too loud in her own ears. Something light flopped onto the back seat. Ethan’s jacket. Jodie took shallow breaths, the rug trapping her respiration, turning it hot against her face.

  She strained for sounds. Heard the friction of running fabric. Pictured him whipping off his tie, loosening his collar; his preferred style, since it played better to his daredevil looks.

  Jodie listened for more.

  Heard nothing.

  Just a hold-your-breath stillness.

  Ethan wasn’t moving.

  She stiffened, every skin cell on high alert, waiting for a hand to snatch the rug away. Then his keys jingled, the engine fired, and she felt herself being dragged backwards against the seat as the car pulled out onto the road.

  A tremor started up in her limbs. She fought against it, tried to keep track of their route. She’d wait a few minutes, just long enough to get further down the unlit road where no one else was around.

  He switched on the radio, scratching through the stations till he hit on a cheesy talk show. The chit-chat was banal, but he chuckled along, turning up the volume.

  The grieving father.

  Jodie’s grip tightened around the gun.

  He hadn’t mourned Abby; he’d just cleaned house. The week after she’d died, he’d boxed up all her stuff and got rid of it without asking Jodie. He wouldn’t tell her where he’d sent it. Just said they’d no more need of it and her railing at him wouldn’t change a thing. All Jodie had left of Abby was the drawing pad.

  She twitched the rug down from her face, breathing in cool air. Dense trees whipped past the window. She pictured the dark, narrow road: tall birches lining both sides, the grassy verge rising to the left, sloping downwards to the lake on the right.

  As good a place as any.

  She eased out of her crouched position, slid quietly onto the back seat, keeping the gun out of sight till she was good and ready.

  ‘Hello, Ethan.’

  2

  The car swerved.

  ‘Jesus, Jodie, what the hell—’

  Ethan yanked the Bentley back on course, and Jodie grabbed at his seat to steady herself. His eyes locked on hers through the rear-view mirror.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here? You scared the shit out of me.’

  Her fingers dug into the soft leather. ‘We’ve unfinished business.’

  ‘It can’t wait till I get back from New York?’

  ‘You’re not going to New York. Not any more.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  Jodie’s mouth felt parched.

  Lift up the gun.

  The weapon was suddenly heavy. Her arm wouldn’t move.

  Ethan jerked up his chin to survey her in the mirror. ‘Look at you, you’re a mess.’

  She closed her eyes.

  Lift up the damn gun!

  ‘You’re not well,
Jodie, I’ve been telling you that for weeks. You need help.’

  Her muscles were rigid. She opened her eyes, squinted against a blaze of oncoming headlights. Then she stared at the back of Ethan’s head, at the longish hair waving in S-bends down to his collar. She gripped the gun. Tried to picture herself touching the barrel to his skull.

  She failed.

  Do it! What are you waiting for?

  She knew she was stalling. Told herself she was waiting for the road to clear, so no one else got hurt. Was she losing her nerve? Maybe she just needed to hear him say it one last time.

  She swallowed hard. ‘I talked to Zach.’

  Ethan’s gaze shot to hers in the mirror. ‘I told you not to do that.’

  ‘I don’t do everything you say, Ethan, you should know that by now.’

  ‘You’re crazy. Zach’s not going to believe your far-fetched story, I told you that.’

  ‘You were right. He didn’t.’

  The Bentley glided around a bend, its headlights sweeping across the trees and over water lacquered black by the dark. She clasped both hands around the gun, keeping it low.

  ‘So I wrote it all down in a letter,’ she went on. ‘Everything you did, everything you told me. I wrote down what I was going to do now, so there’d be no confusion later. So no one else could get blamed by mistake.’

  He half-turned towards her, the shadows catching the angles of his jaw and the trademark, barely there beard.

  ‘You’re not making any sense, Jodie.’

  ‘I couldn’t trust Zach not to bury it. The letter, I mean. So I posted it to the District Attorney’s office.’

  There was a hitch in the Bentley’s cruising motion.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘By the time they get it, it’ll all be over.’

  ‘What the hell have you done?’

  ‘They need to know why I’m doing this. They need to know what you are.’

  ‘My God, listen to yourself. Do you hear what you’re saying?’

  His knuckles were taut against the wheel. He shook his head, dragged a hand over his shadowy stubble. In the mirror, his eyes looked tired and strained. He was only thirty-nine, ten years older than Jodie, but now and then his face seemed haggard.

  ‘You’ve brought this all on yourself, Jodie. I hope you’re happy.’

  Her insides turned stony. Ethan’s eyes flicked to the mirror.

  ‘Don’t give me that look, you know I’m right. If it wasn’t for you, Abby would still be alive.’

  Something tore at her breath. ‘You were the one who took her out in the boat, Ethan.’

  She flashed on that day six weeks earlier: Ethan holding Abby’s hand, demanding time alone with his daughter; their voices drifting off as he closed the door behind them.

  ‘I want Mommy to come.’

  ‘Mommy prefers her silly old paints to spending time with us.’

  Then the call from Zach saying Abby had fallen overboard; Jodie’s world crashing, hurtling down; helicopters thudding over the Contoocook River; the frantic wait; and finally, darkness calling off the search, and Zach kneeling down beside her to say her precious Abby was gone.

  After that, nothing.

  A black hole.

  Then a heart-slamming grief that snatched her up, day after day, flung her around and ripped her apart like a fisher cat.

  ‘I had to get Abby away,’ Ethan was saying. ‘I explained all this.’

  Headlights bore down on them, burning holes in the dark. Ethan’s eyes drilled into hers.

  ‘You were the one who wanted to leave, to take her away from me. Imagine how that would’ve hurt Abby. We had a close bond, everyone noticed it.’

  Jodie’s chest constricted. It was true. Abby had loved Ethan, and he had loved her back. It was why Jodie had stayed so long in the marriage, trying to make it work. It was why everything else that had happened was so diabolical.

  ‘I warned you over and over,’ Ethan went on. ‘I said, if you try to keep her from me, I’ll take her away. I’ll take her some place where you’ll never see her again.’

  Nausea stirred in Jodie’s gut, her body rejecting the truth all over again. Ethan was still talking.

  ‘I picked a pretty spot. That fishing place she likes, down by the covered railroad bridge.’

  Jodie stared at the insects whirling in the headlights, resisting the urge to block her ears. She needed to hear him say it again.

  ‘I made sure she was asleep,’ he said. ‘The water wasn’t cold, she didn’t wake up once.’

  The queasiness spurted into Jodie’s bowels, churning pinpricks of sweat out through her pores. Ethan kept talking.

  ‘I stayed there in the boat until it was all over. She knew I’d never leave her alone out there in the water.’

  Jodie swallowed, aware of tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t know how long she’d been crying.

  ‘I had to do it, Jodie, you were going to break the family up. I had to protect her.’

  ‘Dear sweet Jesus.’ Jodie’s voice was a whisper.

  His eyes darted to hers in the mirror. Watchful, assessing. As though checking to make sure she was in pain.

  Her fingers clenched around the gun. She took in his fine-hewn profile, the dark hair that brushed his collar. He looked so charming, so normal. That was what made him so terrifying.

  ‘Why didn’t you just kill me, Ethan? I was the one who was leaving, Abby did nothing.’ She was sobbing now. ‘For the love of God, why didn’t you just kill me?’

  His eyes turned shrewd, and he didn’t answer. His gaze slid back to the road.

  ‘No one can prove anything.’

  But Jodie didn’t need his answer. She knew why he’d done it. He’d killed his little girl because he wanted to punish Jodie.

  Retribution.

  A twisted revenge for a broken marriage; a last monstrous act of control, knowing she’d suffer for the rest of her life if he killed Abby and left her alive.

  Her gut heaved, spasms of revulsion spreading to her chest, her bowels, her throat, her brain, in a torrent so overwhelming she felt it might bury her.

  She inhaled deeply. Sought again that dead, flat place. Then she raised the gun and put it against his head.

  Ethan went still. His eyes flew to the mirror, wide, dilated.

  ‘Jodie? My God.’

  She two-handed the gun, to be sure of her aim.

  ‘Wait! Jodie!’

  Pull the trigger!

  Ethan slammed his foot on the accelerator. The Bentley roared, took off, and she felt herself being sucked backwards.

  Her aim wavered. She corrected her sights. Ethan swerved the car, tried to knock her off balance. She worked to keep her hands steady.

  Do it!

  The engine screamed, Ethan flung her a look.

  ‘I die, you die.’

  ‘You think I want to live?’

  Two quick shots. One for him. One for you.

  The car lurched, zigzagged. She flashed on Abby’s face.

  ‘There’s a place in hell for you, Ethan.’

  She pulled the trigger.

  The blast torpedoed her ears. Stickiness splattered her face, her neck. The car screeched, spun, hurled her sideways.

  She angled the gun.

  Then she took the second shot.

  PART TWO

  3

  Deadlock bolts clanked through metal. Latches snapped back, lights stuttered on, and a hundred and twenty-two cell doors clattered open.

  6 a.m.

  The hollering on A-Wing burst into Cell 5, filling the ten-by-twelve space. Noise in the prison never stopped. People screamed all through the night, kicking at doors, banging on walls, yelling about everything and nothing, as though to drown out awareness of where they were and why.

  The steel bunks creaked in Cell 5. A bout of coughing started up, loose and wet, probably Magda’s. Someone urinated loudly in the alcove toilet, no door to screen off the sour smell.

  ‘The fuck o
ut of my face, Dixie.’

  ‘Where’s my towel?’

  ‘You stink, you know that?’

  ‘Anyone seen my towel?’

  ‘I don’t fucking believe it, some bitch stole my soap.’

  Seven people bumping around, cramped in a space designed for four.

  ‘Hey, Picasso! You dead up there or what?’

  ‘Leave her be, she’s got time.’

  Jodie ignored them and stayed where she was, on the top bunk nearest the door. She closed her eyes, letting the racket wash over her, an unbearable weight settling into her chest. She worked hard to push against it, trying to summon up the strength to face another day.

  Magda hawked into the toilet. ‘I find out who stole my soap, bitch is dead.’

  Jodie waited till the woman had lumbered out of the cell, then hauled herself down off the bunk. Her limbs felt heavy, as though gravity had doubled. She bird-bathed at the sink, using the soap she’d stolen from Magda, before dragging on her Department of Corrections T-shirt and loose, elasticated pants. By the time she was done, the others had gone, all except for Dixie who was waiting by the door.

  ‘She sees you with that soap, she’ll cut your face.’

  ‘I know.’

  Dixie rolled her eyes. In the light, her brown face looked as plump and shiny as a chestnut. Too fresh for a seasoned inmate serving her third prison term, this one a five-year stretch for forgery.

  They joined the mob of inmates out in the corridor, all making their way down to chow like slow-moving cattle.

  Massachusetts Correctional Institution was the oldest female prison in the country and it showed. Despair seemed to seep from the bare cinderblock walls, like residue from some Victorian asylum. Jodie shivered. She’d had the same bleak feeling as a child, in the shelters where she’d lived in between foster families. Those places had had the same austere, brick walls. The same absence of hope.

  She’d spent a lot of time in between families. Some of them had lasted longer than others, but mostly it only took two or three months before her case worker would arrive to ship her out. She’d stopped asking why after the third move, coping the only way she knew how: by acting tough, by yelling and fighting. Which meant the next family dumped her too.