by Debra Webb
What kind of mother did that to her child? Of course Rowan was aware of the classic textbook explanations, but none of those assuaged the emptiness, hurt and resentment left by her mother’s decision. She closed the journal. Frankly, until all these recent dreams, she had rarely thought of her mother. Irrationally she thought, Why should I? Clearly her mother had not been thinking of her. Even though Rowan knew as an adult and a doctor that her reactionary thoughts were also selfish.
A framed photograph of Norah and her daughters sat on the desk. It was taken perhaps two months before Raven had died. The azaleas in the yard had already started to bloom. Rowan and Raven had the same blond hair and blue eyes as their mother. As Rowan grew older, her father had often remarked that she was the spitting image of her mother. And Rowan had always resented that fact. She would have much preferred to look like her father.
She stared at her reflection in the window. And just like her mother, she had hurt her father deeply not once, but twice. As a freshman in college, the dreams of Raven had overwhelmed her again. Being thrust into a new environment at college and once again finding herself isolated without any friends, she had grown depressed. Rather than seek help she swallowed a handful of her roommate’s sleeping pills. Rowan sighed. That time her father was not there to intervene and she ended up at the hospital with a mandatory stay in a psych unit.
Dr. Julian Addington had been the psychiatrist to evaluate her. He had taken a special interest in Rowan. It was all so obvious now. He had been watching her and made sure he was the one to evaluate her and then to continue as her therapist all through her undergraduate years. By the time he announced that she no longer required his services, they were close friends. If only their association had ended there. Instead, they had become colleagues as well as friends.
Then he murdered her father for no other reason than to hurt her.
Her decision to stay in Nashville after her education and residency and to follow in Julian’s footsteps to some degree had catered to his massive ego. When her book, The Language of Death, was released, Julian had not been so pleased, apparently, to find it was dedicated to her father. After having bared so much of her soul within the pages of that book, she had eventually confessed her long-kept secret to her father and to Julian—she had made the wrong choice. As satisfying as her career in Nashville was, deep down she wished she’d followed in her father’s footsteps.
In his demented mind, Julian had taken her admission as an insult. His extreme emotional reaction had caused the killer who had murdered more than a hundred people without leaving so much as a trace to make his first mistake.
He had become emotionally attached to Rowan and she had been his downfall.
She stared out the window. Except he was still out there. Whoever died next by his hand was on her, just as her father’s death was.
“Get on with it, already.” Rowan shook off the thoughts and opened the center desk drawer. Inside was a small tin of candies. A smile tugged at her lips at the memory of her mother’s cinnamon-scented breath. The image of her smile filled Rowan’s mind. Norah had loved braiding their hair. She would often braid her own as well and say they were triplets. We all have matching pink ribbons...
A warm sensation whispered through Rowan. How had Rowan forgotten? Her brain wouldn’t allow those sweet and tender memories beyond the hurtful ones of her mother’s suicide—a self-protective mechanism. But now, with all the questions about their history, she needed to push through those defenses and remember everything. Somewhere amid all those tucked-away memories were answers that she desperately needed.
Her gaze wandered back to the window looking out over the backyard. The three of them had spent endless hours picnicking in the summer. On a quilt her mother had hand-stitched...surrounded by the flowers of her garden.
Rowan’s heart beat faster as the moments played like a long forgotten video in her head. Funny how those things had completely slipped her mind. Just more of those painful places and moments that were easier to block than to touch. The painful images—her mother hanging from that second floor banister, Raven’s gray and bloated body—bored into her brain.
Rowan’s breath caught, and she forced the recollections away and began picking through the papers and completely random items in the desk drawers. She moved to the small two-drawer file cabinet that sat next to the desk. The journals were filed by year. Rowan pulled out the one for the final year of Norah’s life. She started with January. Month by month she skimmed through her mother’s writing. The best Rowan could determine, she took a short trip each month. Two of the trips that year were in Colorado but not as far west as California. And certainly none to Nashville were noted.
She mentioned Rowan and Raven, and her garden occasionally. Each day of writing began with where she was and her mood. She spoke of sitting at this window and watching her daughters play. Two or three pages of ramblings about her stories filled each day that she worked. Rowan was surprised she didn’t write every day. In Rowan’s memory she had always been bent over this desk.
The words she wrote were consistently related to her most recent travels. There were so many beginnings but only a few had endings. Hardly any had middles. The journals actually appeared more like notes and ideas that had inspired her but not real stories. Parts flowed like narrative but very little actually went anywhere.
Strange, Rowan decided. Surely she hadn’t sent something this incomplete to a publisher and expected anything other than a rejection.
An entry for September of that final year seemed familiar to Rowan, but she couldn’t be sure. Twenty-seven years was a very long time ago. Perhaps she had heard her mother speak of the story idea. Rowan frowned. Probably not. Norah had been very private about her stories.
Rowan wondered if her father had ever read any of the notes. He had never mentioned it if he had. Like her, he might have found the mere thought too painful.
Closing the drawer, she stood. It was time she prepared for the funeral. The cleaners were likely finished downstairs and the chapel preparations would be nearly complete.
Freud’s deep, throaty barks echoed in the air. Rowan walked around to the backside of the desk and peered out the window. He stood on the far side of the yard, the hair on his back standing on end, his posture one of attack readiness. She didn’t see anyone in the yard or near the fence. Beyond the six-foot privacy fence she could see that there was no one in the alley on the other side. Maybe a squirrel or cat she couldn’t see from here was taunting Freud.
She crossed the room but hesitated at the door. The closet door was open a crack. Had she forgotten to close it two months ago when she and Billy had selected the suit her father would wear?
Rowan walked to the closet and reached to close the door, but something on the floor prevented it from closing. She bent down and picked up the black cloth. A jacket. One of her father’s jackets. Flipping on the light in the walk-in closet, she gasped. Two more jackets and a pair of trousers were strewn on the floor.
Had she left this mess? She didn’t recall leaving anything on the floor. She did remember looking through the various suits with Billy until she’d found the charcoal one she wanted. Frankly, the days around her father’s funeral had been like walking through a fog. Perhaps some of his things had slipped off the hangers and she hadn’t noticed. Frustrated with herself, she picked up each jacket, shook the wrinkles from it and hung it back on the lone wooden rod. As she picked up the trousers, she spotted a slip of paper on the floor beneath them. When the trousers were back on a hanger, she retrieved the paper and opened it. It was a cocktail napkin from the Night Owl. No note or phone number written on it.
She wasn’t familiar with the establishment but apparently it was a club or bar. Perhaps her father had gone with a friend. She would ask Herman. The napkin must have been in his pocket and fallen out when she was rifling through the hangers for the proper burial suit. She shouldn’
t have been so careless.
Once she’d set the closet to rights, she turned off the light and closed the door. Her mother’s closet was next to her father’s. The master bedroom had once been two bedrooms. The second bedroom had been divided into closets when her parents married. Her father had said that Norah’s one condition for moving into the funeral home was that she had a larger closet.
Funny, Rowan had wished for the same. As much as she would like to have more room, she could never use her parents’ room. It just wouldn’t feel right. Plus, she would have to pack and store all their things. For now, she simply couldn’t do that. Her father had left her mother’s things just as they were. She supposed she would do the same...for now.
She turned on the light and checked her mother’s closet, as well. The closed-up room still smelled like her—the subtle fragrance of flowers. Her mother had loved roses and peonies and lavender. Actually, there wasn’t a blooming plant she could think of that her mother hadn’t liked. Rowan hadn’t come into this closet since leaving for college. She wondered now if her father had.
A partially opened drawer revealed the end of a nightshirt that had been tugged out of place. Rowan opened the drawer and looked at the array of cotton shirts. Her mother always slept in nightshirts. No silky lingerie or pajamas for her. Plain old cotton nightshirts and thick socks. This was something they had in common. There was another drawer full of socks. Rowan was a fan of comfy socks, too.
Rowan touched the fabric of her mother’s dresses. Mostly natural fabrics. Her mother preferred organic materials and foods. Unlike Rowan, Norah had gone for the ankle-length skirts and tank tops rather than jeans. Even in the winter she simply changed out her flip-flops for boots and added a sweater or coat to her flimsy tank top or T. Her father had called her a flower child.
Norah hadn’t been much of a jewelry fan, either. A string of pearls and a silver chain lay in a vintage bone china bowl that served as a tray on the built-in drawer set. Another penchant the two of them shared. Rowan thought of the suits and heels she’d worn in her former career. Norah would not have approved. Too stuffy, she would have said. Too fake.
“What about you, Mother?” Rowan’s fingers trailed along the fabrics. “What were you hiding behind all this simplicity?”
Rather than risk answering herself, Rowan turned off the light and left her parents’ space. The sound of Freud still carrying on outside drew her down the rear stairs and to the back door. The area had two access points. The double doors designed for the delivery of the bodies, which were always bolted and locked. Then, near the staircase that went up to the living quarters was a single back door that led out onto a porch with wide steps down to the yard.
As she reached the steps, her cell vibrated. Rowan was so focused on the dog she jumped at the unexpected intrusion of her cell.
It was probably Billy or Herman. She answered without checking the screen. “Hey.”
Rather than the Hey yourself she expected from Billy or the I’m headed your way from Herman, there was only the sharp sound of a quickly indrawn breath.
“Hello?” Frowning, she drew the phone away from her ear and checked the screen. Unknown Number.
“Hello?” Probably a telemarketer. “Thanks for calling,” she muttered. “I’m hanging up now.”
“Rowan.”
Another sharply indrawn breath...only this time it was hers.
Julian Addington.
Fury fired through her. “What do you want?” Asking him where he was would be pointless. He wasn’t going to tell her the truth if he told her anything at all.
“I’ve missed you, Rowan.”
The urge to vomit sent a bitter taste into her mouth. “I wish I could say the same, but obviously that isn’t possible, you son of a bitch.” Anger snatched away her control. “You murdered my father.”
“I did. But rest assured that I did so quite mercifully. He never saw it coming. I had no desire for him to suffer. It was you I wanted to feel the pain of loss.”
She struggled to conquer her emotions. “I hope you’re enjoying your victory.” She hesitated. “But wait, your decision to murder my father and that police officer took a great deal from you, as well. The life you knew with all the money and prestige is gone. Over. Everyone knows what an impostor you are. A liar and a murderer. A pathetic excuse for a human being.”
“We can’t all be so ingenious,” he tossed back. “I’m certain my name will echo through history, as will yours, but for entirely different reasons. You are nothing without me, Rowan. I saved your life. I gave you purpose. I made you what you are. A little gratitude wouldn’t kill you.”
“The only thing I feel for you, Julian, is sheer hatred. I want you to die screaming in agony. I would love nothing better than to see you staked to the ground and torn apart by ravenous animals.” She took a breath, struggled to regain control of her emotions. “Is that enough gratitude for you?”
He laughed. The sound was like salt in her wounds. How had she ever considered this man brilliant and charming, much less a trusted friend?
“How far you’ve fallen, Rowan. You’re already returned to your roots. The small-town girl with no hope of anything except playing with dead things and marrying some boot-wearing former small-time football star who is about as complex as a stone. Will you have his babies, too? I hear older women are doing all sorts of things to prime their aging uteri for childbirth. I thought I taught you better, Rowan. You are worth so much more than a sperm bag and human incubator.”
“Goodbye, Julian. Good luck evading all those law enforcement agencies on your trail even as we speak.”
“I understand you’ve found Alisha.”
The words stopped Rowan cold. It wasn’t a question. He knew. How could he know? Her name had not been released.
His ex-wife.
Of course.
“Who is Alisha?” Rowan refused to give him any information. He already knew too much. There were many other things she should be saying, asking, but none of those things would launch from her brain to her tongue.
“You don’t remember?”
Rowan felt a prick of dread in the pit of her stomach. “Aren’t you afraid the FBI is tracing your call, Julian? Really, I thought you were supposed to be some amazingly intelligent killer. Perhaps the police have overestimated your skill.”
This was one thing she understood about Julian. He was immensely competitive and did not take assaults on his reputation or intelligence level well.
He laughed. “You know me inside and out, Rowan.”
Silence thickened between them. Rowan’s heart pumped harder and harder.
“Think, Rowan. You will remember. Like many painful memories of your childhood, you have suppressed this one, as well. You will remember.”
The dread needling at her evolved into a sense of rising panic. “I’m afraid you’re wrong again, Julian, just as you are about our relationship. You have been wrong about so many things. My father made me who I am. He instilled his strength and determination in me. He is the man I loved, admired and respected above all others. Not you. It was never you.”
“I’ve left you a gift, Rowan. Something to help you remember. Watch your step, you are closer to death than you know.”
The call ended.
Rowan resisted the urge to throw the phone. But the damned thing was far too pivotal to her work. And it was a connection to him... If serving as the bait that helped lure him in was necessary, she was happy to oblige. She took a breath, let it out slowly. Then another and another. His final words to her echoed over and over in her head. Well, of course she was close to death. She lived and worked in a funeral home.
The silence around her suddenly demanded her attention. Her gaze sought and found Freud. Sitting beneath the tree, he was watching her as if he, too, understood the call had been from a monster. At least he’d stopped his infernal
barking. She drew in another deep, cleansing breath, steadied the tiny tremor quaking through her limbs and reached for calm.
“Come on, boy,” she called. She had work to do. Mr. Whitt’s funeral was at one. The family would be here soon. She needed to appear presentable even if she was shaking inside.
Freud ignored her, turned his attention back to the tulip tree that stood next to the fence and started to bark once more. What on earth was he barking at?
Rowan stalked across the yard and peered up into the tree. Pinkish-purple blooms would open soon from the thousands of buds weighing down the limbs. She couldn’t see a squirrel or a bird or one damned thing that would make him bark.
“Freud,” she repeated in a stern voice, “come.”
He glanced at her, then back at the tree.
Rowan shook her head. His fur and his stance warned he was ready to attack. The question was, attack what?
“What is it you see, boy?” She put her hand up to block the sun and scrutinized the tree limb by limb.
Finally, she saw the culprit. A small leather pouch. Like a tiny purse. It appeared beaded, like one of those crafted by hand found at local artisan shops.
How long had it been hanging in this tree?
She had to put a foot between the V of two thick limbs to boost herself up far enough to reach the bag. It didn’t appear weatherworn. It couldn’t have been out here all that long. She thought of the neighborhood on the street that ran beyond the alley behind the funeral home. It was possible some of the children who lived nearby sneaked onto the property from time to time. Kids loved to tempt the unknown and the mysterious. There was nothing more ghoulish than a funeral home. The small bag closed with strings. She untied it and loosened the opening to see if there was anything inside. The smell of leather emanated from the bag.
I’ve left you a gift...
Julian’s words echoed in her brain.
A small, thin object was deep inside. Rowan reached in with two fingers and tugged the object out.
