Dead Secret

by Ava McCarthy

  She groped for a distraction to quell the nausea. Latched on to Novak’s list of names. Even that was starting to make sense now. Peter Rosen, Mrs Blane, Ives and McKenzie, Celine Rosen. Had Novak figured it out, too? Had he somehow arrived at the truth from another angle?

  The queasiness slithered.

  Focus!

  She allowed her thoughts to linger on Novak. Grizzly Adams. Broke, sued, unemployable. Recalled how she’d wanted to ditch him in Belize. How glad she’d been in the end to have him there. She pictured him beside her on the bathroom floor, rocking her gently in his arms.

  Grizzly Adams. Her only ally.

  I’m sorry, so sorry.

  The rain popped and crackled on the roof. Stranded cars stood angled into the berm, coated in a smooth, frosted sheath, ice hanging from their wing mirrors like frozen drool. Jodie averted her eyes from the swirl of skid marks, risked another nudge of acceleration. Not long now. She was almost there.

  Her mind skipped ahead. What would Abby look like now? Were her cheeks still plump, her hair still curly? Jodie ached to see her, to hold her little girl.

  Then she felt her heart trip. Would Abby even know her? Would she know Abby? She caught her breath, balked at the notion that she mightn’t recognize her own child. Abby a stranger? Jodie shoved the thought away. She’d know her little girl no matter what.

  A sharp crack splintered the air. Jodie flinched, the car swerved. She straightened the wheel, gaped up ahead at a dormant tree, at the large branch that was wrenching itself free from the trunk. With a slow-motion crunch, it ripped away, weighed down with a build-up of ice. It crashed across the power lines, dragging them low, bouncing to and fro in a hammock-swing. Nearby lights flickered and waned. Flickered again, then blinked out. A synchronized shutdown.

  Jodie gripped the wheel, coached herself on. Nothing to get spooked about. The Mazda skidded on another patch of glaze, and she followed the slide, willing herself to stay calm.

  Just keep going, no need to panic. Abby would be waiting. Ethan had no reason to uproot her now, no reason to move and hide away. He’d be feeling safe. After all, as far as he knew, both Jodie and Novak were dead.

  A whispering charge prickled down her spine. A niggling doubt about her phone call to Samantha. It had been a risk, she’d known that at the time. A risk that the girl might alert the authorities to her whereabouts. But Samantha hadn’t sounded any different. Hadn’t sounded like she’d known that Jodie was a fugitive.

  Caruso’s voice sneered inside her head. ‘You’re all over the news, people snitch.’

  But not Samantha. Samantha hadn’t known. Who, then?

  Jodie’s eyes flared wide. Her heart slammed into her chest as she realized the terrible mistake she’d made. She thrashed the gears, revved up the engine. Ignored the treacherous slick on the road, pushed the Mazda to reckless speeds.

  She had to get to Abby. Had to get to her before Ethan found out she was still alive.

  37

  The clapboard house was set back from the road at the end of a long, grit-covered driveway.

  Jodie paused by the gate, her heart hammering high in her chest. She stared at the house. A two-storey A-frame, steeply pitched roof. Snowdrifts sloping in undulating mounds against the windward side. Like white sand dunes.

  Icy rain pelted her face. Ducking her head, she shoved the gate open, made her way through. Rock salt popped and crunched beneath her feet. Ahead of her, lights glowed in a downstairs window. Someone was home.

  Jodie reached the front door. Everyday noises seemed to recede, leaving behind a silence as deep as a well. Occasional sounds dropped into it: frozen rain ticking against the windows; branches creaking under burdens of ice. Loudest of all was the blood pounding in her ears.

  She rang the bell, tensing her muscles, ready to react. Her ears strained for new sounds. Tuned into distant threads from neighbouring gardens: a dog barking; light, young voices. Then finally, slowly, the front door eased open.

  A slight, elderly woman stood on the threshold. Mid to late seventies. Silver hair cut short as a pixie’s. Oversized cream sweater and slacks. Her head was cocked to one side in enquiry.

  Jodie stared at the face she’d glimpsed once before: the fine-drawn features; the tilt of long, upper eyelids, partially obscured by drooping brows; the high cheekbones, scaffolding now for loose, wrinkled skin.

  Reality shifted for an instant, pitching Jodie into freefall; stirring up scattered pieces of herself, lining them up, snapping them together. She took a deep breath, found her voice.

  ‘Celine Rosen?’

  The woman gave her a blank look. Then briefly, her eyes flared wide, a puzzled leap of near-recognition. But it flickered out and the moment passed. She frowned at Jodie in confusion.

  ‘Yes?’

  It was all Jodie needed. She shouldered the door wide, shoved past Celine.

  ‘Where’s Abby? Where’s my daughter?’

  She didn’t wait for an answer. She raced down the dimly lit hall, ignoring Celine’s look of alarm.

  ‘Abby? Abby?’

  She barged into rooms, sending doors crashing and banging off walls.

  ‘Abby? Abby! Where are you, Abby?’

  Warm fug, amber-glow. Living room. Empty. Vaulted ceilings, cold black stove. Dining room, empty. Kitchen, pantry, utility. All empty.

  Celine had followed her down the hall. ‘He told me you wouldn’t come. He spoke to you, he said you agreed—’

  Jodie swung round to face her. ‘Where is she? Tell me where she is!’

  Celine lifted her chin and glared. Her skin was like cracked plaster. ‘She isn’t here.’

  Jodie whirled away, shoved open the door to another room. TV, footstools, leather-glove smell. Secluded den.

  Empty.

  Blood stormed through her veins. She brushed past Celine, took the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Abby, are you up here?’

  She swung the first door open. Vintage fragrance, rose-heavy. Celine’s bedroom. Jodie kept going. Marble bathroom, storage box room. Windows black against the growing darkness.

  Empty, empty.

  Dear Jesus.

  Was she too late? Had Samantha already told Celine about her phone call, just like she’d told her about Jodie’s visit to Lily? All along, it had been Celine who’d passed the information on to Ethan. Had she inadvertently let him know that Jodie was still alive? Had he already taken Abby away?

  Jodie fought the surging panic, crossed the landing to the last room, dimly aware that Celine was no longer following her. She opened the door wide. The curtains were drawn, but she could tell the room was large and spacious. She groped for the light switch, flicked it on.

  Jodie caught her breath. She took in the chalky, poster-paint smell; the riotous mess of vivid colour. A patchwork of paintings covered the walls. Cornflower blues, fire-engine reds, forest greens. A plastic dust sheet protected part of the carpet, splattered with the same vibrant shades.

  Slowly, Jodie moved into the room, past a rickety shelf stacked high with books, past a conversational grouping of teddy bears on small chairs. She touched her fingertips to their fluffy heads, then picked up a stray sweater from the floor, pressed it to her face. Inhaled its vanilla-honey scent.

  Her skin tingled. The air felt soft and alive around her, swirling with warmth and crazy colours, lifting her, spinning her, breathing sweet life back into her little girl.

  It’s real, she’s real, she’s alive, still alive.

  Jodie clutched the sweater to her chest. Abby was close. She felt it like the hum of an electric current. Her gaze flashed around the room, scouring for traces. Unwashed brushes, jars of water, open tubes of paint on the floor.

  Artwork interrupted.

  Her heart did a quick flip. Interrupted for what? For Celine’s recent visit to Lily? The woman went on a regular basis. So where did Abby go when Celine wasn’t here?

  Think!

  Iced raindrops cracked against glass. Jodie stared at t
he curtains drawn across the window. Beyond them, presumably, lay the garden, adjoined to a neighbouring lot. Her eyes widened.

  A dog barking; light, young voices.

  Air seemed to lift inside Jodie’s chest. She flew to the curtains, reached up to snatch them open.

  ‘Get away from the window!’

  She jerked her head around. Celine was standing on the threshold, a hefty, ancient-looking hunting rifle aimed at Jodie’s face.

  Jodie didn’t move. The woman looked frail and her hands were shaking. Jodie eyed the long, wild-west rifle. Celine held the butt propped against her shoulder, one hand on the grip, the other further out along the stock. Her back was straight, her gaze unwavering. But the rapid tremors in her hands betrayed the strain.

  Jodie held her breath. The damn rifle could go off by accident as much as by design.

  Celine took a step forward. ‘I said, move away.’

  Her voice didn’t seem much steadier than her hands. The woman sidestepped around the room towards the window, gesturing with the rifle for Jodie to back off. The light gleamed on her silver hair, exposed the tracery of cobwebby lines on her face.

  Jodie’s eyes strayed to the curtains. What if she opened them? Would she see a small dark-haired girl next door, with baby-round cheeks and paint-smeared hands? The image almost broke her in two.

  Celine hefted the gun higher on her shoulder. Her arms were trembling. The old varmint rifle had to weigh maybe eight or nine pounds. With effort, Jodie dragged herself away from the window, backing up against the wall. She watched the rifle. Made her voice calm.

  ‘Look, why don’t you just put the gun down? I’m not here to hurt anyone, I just want my daughter.’

  ‘You’ve already hurt people.’

  ‘That’s not my intention.’

  ‘You tried to kill your own husband. Sounds like an intention to me.’

  ‘I just want my daughter.’

  ‘He’s told me all about you, you’re not fit to be a mother.’ Celine adjusted her jittery grip on the gun. ‘Make no mistake, I’ll use this if I have to. I may be old, but I know how to shoot. No one’s going to hurt my little Abby.’

  Jodie felt her jaw tighten. ‘The lioness protecting her cub? It’s a bit late for all that, isn’t it?’

  ‘Put your hands up where I can see ’em.’

  ‘You couldn’t protect your own children. What makes you think you can protect mine?’ The words came out hard and flat and Jodie couldn’t stop them.

  Celine’s gaze shifted. ‘I said, put your hands up!’

  ‘You’re the one who’s not fit to be a mother.’

  ‘I’m warning you—’

  ‘Your own children. You stood by, you let it happen!’

  ‘You don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  Jodie felt as though her blood vessels were boiling over. She wanted to lash out, to rail against all failed mothers. Against Celine, against herself, against her own dead mother.

  Celine was shaking her head. ‘My husband … You don’t know what he was like.’

  ‘You should have protected them.’

  Celine’s eyes lost focus. Something clouded them over, something shadowy and dark. Her jaw turned slack and the muzzle of the rifle dipped. After a moment, she whispered,

  ‘You think I didn’t try? But Elliot …’

  ‘You could have stopped him, got help.’

  Celine shook her head again. ‘No one believed me. He was Elliot Rosen. People looked up to him.’

  ‘You could have left, taken your children away.’

  The old woman’s eyes looked blank and watery. ‘You didn’t leave Elliot. If you tried, he’d find a way to hurt you. To hurt the children.’

  ‘You don’t seem like such a pushover to me. Didn’t you ever challenge him?’

  Even as Jodie said it, she could hear an echo of Novak’s words: ‘You don’t seem the type to fall for such a take-charge kinda guy.’

  Celine was looking at her as though she’d lost her mind.

  ‘Challenge Elliot?’

  She paused, and was quiet so long Jodie thought she was done. Then finally, Celine spoke into the silence.

  ‘He fractured my leg once. Smashed it with a baseball bat because I’d overcooked his eggs. That was to be expected. But you know what he said as they wheeled me off to surgery? Now I get the children all to myself for a while.’ Her voice dropped back to a whisper. ‘He was alone with them for three whole days.’

  Jodie felt her fingers curl into fists. Celine was still whispering.

  ‘He never showed remorse. He acted like he was indestructible. Divine, almost.’ She stared at Jodie, her eyes bleak. ‘My husband was a monster.’

  The word whisked a chill along Jodie’s arms, sent it shivering down her spine. She tensed against it.

  ‘If it was me, I’d have killed him.’

  Celine’s eyes locked with Jodie’s. They traded looks for a long moment, and the older woman seemed to have nothing more to say. Eventually, Jodie said,

  ‘You betrayed your own children.’

  Celine’s knuckles whitened, and the gun barrel wavered. ‘Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I don’t know that Lily will never forgive me?’ She paused. ‘And my son, my poor son …’

  Jodie looked away. Queasy waves rolled in her gut.

  A small boy, cowering on the floor, head bowed.

  ‘He was so young,’ Celine whispered. ‘I was so afraid for him, afraid he’d …’

  She seemed unable to go on. The butt of the rifle slipped from her shoulder, and she hiked it back up, her thin arms quivering. Jodie swallowed against the cold swill in her stomach. If she didn’t say the truth out loud, was there a chance it wouldn’t be real? She fixed her gaze to the floor. Made herself speak.

  ‘It affected them differently, didn’t it? Lily and Peter.’ If she kept Celine talking, she might get the gun away from her. ‘Lily retreated into her own head, but with Peter it was something else, wasn’t it?’

  ‘He … I worried about him so much.’

  ‘So you sent him away.’

  ‘Yes, but he came back. He couldn’t abandon us. But he couldn’t protect us, either. Or himself.’ Her voice cracked. ‘He always worked so hard, always tried to better himself. He wanted to study law, but Elliot wouldn’t allow it.’

  Jodie clamped her mouth shut. The nausea surged, radiating out to her skin in prickles of sweat. She opened her mouth to speak. Closed it again.

  Don’t say it!

  Slowly, she raised her gaze from the floor, fixed it on Celine. She took a deep breath.

  ‘When did you find out that Peter hadn’t drowned?’

  ‘The very next day. He couldn’t let me go on thinking he’d died.’

  The queasiness sloshed around in Jodie’s stomach. She inhaled through her nose, clenched her teeth. Faced the truth head-on and said,

  ‘So he faked his death, and you went along with it.’

  ‘It was the only way he could escape Elliot. He saw his opportunity and he took it. A do-over, he called it. A chance to start his life again.’

  ‘He was nineteen years old. Couldn’t he have just left?’

  Celine looked at her. ‘I already told you. You didn’t leave Elliot.’

  ‘But you did. You left him in the end.’

  ‘There was no one left for Elliot to hurt. Lily was mostly institutionalized by then, he couldn’t get to her any more. Peter was out of his reach.’ The woman’s skin sagged. ‘Anna was dead.’

  Celine’s voice trailed away. Then she roused herself and went on.

  ‘But Peter got his life back. He went into hiding for a few years, worked menial jobs. He tried to help me, but with Lily’s medical expenses … So he decided to study law, like he always wanted …’

  A light-headed buzz sounded in Jodie’s ears.

  ‘… wasn’t a real student, he couldn’t afford it, but he sat in on lectures, worked harder than anyone …�
��

  Novak’s words were a whisper inside Jodie’s head. ‘… he wasn’t a real lawyer … Never graduated, never sat the bar exam.’

  Celine was still talking.

  ‘… difficult, with no real qualifications. But he always found a way to make money. Real estate investments, he said …’

  Fraudulent loans. Even then.

  ‘… he went to Boston, got a job with a fancy law firm …’

  The room flickered in and out. Here was the truth, here it was now, spoken out loud.

  ‘… started up his own firm, took an office in the same building. Said he liked the prestige of it …’

  Jodie swallowed at the memory. Cylindrical skyscraper, forty-six floors. Ives and McKenzie.

  ‘… got married and started a family of his own.’

  Jodie shut her eyes, longed to block out her ears. The room spun, and she opened them again to find Celine’s gaze fastened to her face. The woman’s expression was an odd mix of anger and pleading.

  ‘He was having a normal life,’ Celine said. ‘That’s all I ever wanted for him. A normal life.’

  Jodie couldn’t speak. Celine went on.

  ‘He’s a good man. He loves his daughter, loves his family. Why are you trying to hurt him?’

  Jodie blinked. She stared at the woman for a long moment.

  Celine didn’t know.

  Her own grandmother didn’t know.

  Jodie’s head reeled. She opened her mouth to speak, but Celine’s gaze had shifted off to the side, her expression crumpling in sudden relief. Celine sank back against the wall.

  ‘Peter! Thank God.’

  Jodie snapped her head around, her heartbeat hammering.

  Ethan was standing in the doorway.

  38

  ‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ Ethan said.

  He stood slumped against the doorjamb, his expression bleak. His eyes looked full of anguish. Jodie stared, transfixed. It was Ethan, yet not Ethan. His face was ashen, more lined than she remembered. The trademark beard looked thin and neglected, his longish hair coarsened with rough, grey strands.