Little Secrets

by Anna Snoekstra

  “Honey,” she said. “Will? Please don’t leave me.”

  “They’re on their way,” Mia said.

  “What do you mean?” Frank said, staring at Rose now.

  Rose put her head on Will’s chest, holding him, listening to his soft heartbeat, ready to do CPR if it stopped, until she heard sirens.

  “What did you mean, Rose?” Frank asked again, but she ignored him.

  “Frank, we better take those cuffs off,” she heard Bazza say dimly.

  “No,” Frank said. “It was him.”

  Arms steady, Rose pulled herself out of the bathtub, water cascading from her wet clothes, the weight of it sploshing down into the bath, the rest of it splattering onto the tiles, the dirt from the soles of Frank’s black leather shoes seeping between the tiles, becoming mud.

  She walked up to Frank and pushed him hard; he slipped backward, holding on to the towel rack to support himself.

  “You aren’t listening. Take his cuffs off! I wrote the notes, you idiot! I did!”

  The sirens were louder now.

  Frank grabbed her wrist. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he whispered.

  The sirens were right outside the tavern now. Slipping a little, she walked into her room, then continued out the back door. The lights were glinting and glittering.

  “He’s in there!” she called, pointing into the back door.

  The paramedics ran past her, toward the tavern. One stopped and looked at her carefully.

  “Come sit down,” she said, reaching out to guide her toward the ambulance.

  “No! It’s him. Go help him. It’s bad.”

  “Okay. But wait here, okay?”

  “Go!” she said, and the woman rushed past her into the back door of the tavern.

  Her sight was slick and shifting. Her nerves were overstretched. She didn’t even know where she was going but her feet started moving. She started walking, the night air on her wet skin, the bitumen crunch under her mum’s old sneakers. She couldn’t even feel the blisters now.

  The lights flickered behind her, the red and blue getting dimmer. She couldn’t be there to see. If he died it was her fault.

  Her feet were taking her across the road, not looking, toward the lake. Toward home. That made sense. To go home. To let her shoes tread the well-worn path. Follow the route they were used to. He couldn’t die. He couldn’t.

  There was a bird squawking. Some sort of bird, angry at another and screaming. A dog barked once, and it was quiet again.

  Quiet enough to hear the car that rumbled behind her, to hear it slowing down as it reached her.

  41

  There she was. Walking home like nothing happened.

  Frank’s wet shoe slipped a little against the brake as he slowed the car, making a pitchy squeak. The headlights cut through the dark, lighting up the lone figure, making her skin shine a pale gold.

  That slut. All this time, she’d been playing Frank. Laughing at him. Making him look like an idiot. A fool.

  She’d written the notes to make fun of him, to show him that she had the power. She’d been fucking that freak Will. He’d known it. Frank had seen the way she’d looked at him.

  Slut.

  He pressed hard on the brake. Rubber on steel. Turned off the car. Got out, slamming the door.

  “Hey!”

  She stopped. He could see the muscles in her shoulders. See them tense.

  “You can’t just walk away.”

  Rose turned, and she had the fucking audacity not to look scared. Her eyes were blank, her wet hair dripping down her black-smeared shoulders.

  She should be scared. He owned this town, not her. She’d never respected that, never. She’d been laughing at him this whole fucking time.

  “You know you’re a fucking bitch, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “You know you’re a cunt?”

  Rose didn’t say anything, didn’t nod. Just looked at him. Looked at him the same way she always did, like she was superior to him. Still, the slut thought she was better than him.

  It was too much. He’d show her.

  He lunged toward her; he was going to take her. Take the fucking bitch. And there it was. Finally. Fear. Frank grabbed at her breasts, feeling them for an instant, finally in his hand, before her greasy slut body wrenched away from him. And she ran. Her breath coming out in scared little whimpers. Bitch.

  42

  Rose ran toward the closest house. Their lights were on. They were awake. Three steps up to the front door and she was bashing on it. Pounding with her fist. But no one came.

  “Help!” she screamed.

  But no one came.

  She flung herself away from the door, jumped over the bushes into the next yard, the twigs tearing at her already-bleeding legs. Scrambling to their front door, she hammered on it. The screen dug into her fist, and it rattled, loud. She whirled around, looking for him. Looking for Frank, whose eyes had turned vicious. His car was still there, but she couldn’t see him. Her breast still pounded from where he had grabbed it; she could still smell his stinking breath all over her. Stale coffee and bourbon.

  He could do anything he wanted to her and get away with it. She pounded on the door again. They were in there; she knew it.

  “Fuck!” she yelled aloud.

  “Ladies don’t swear like that.” She heard his voice so close, too close, she was running again. Away from the houses this time. Toward the lake. There was something there in the dark. A light, orange and flickering. A torch maybe. Someone who was out; someone who might help.

  The long grass ripped against her ankles as she sprinted through it, running fast, her breath too loud in her own ears to hear anything else. Running past the lake, toward the orange light.

  Something slammed against her. Frank. His weight on top of her. And she was on the shore of the lake. Cold mud on her back. He was trying to get ahold of her.

  “Get off!” she screamed.

  “Say you’re sorry,” he said, pushing on her shoulders, looking at her. There were tears in his eyes.

  “You tortured him!”

  He laughed, a strange woofing sound. “The bathtub was Mia’s idea.”

  Rose stopped struggling; that couldn’t be true.

  “Say you’re sorry.”

  She spit upward, into his face. “You’re not going to get away with it!”

  His elbow slammed onto her chest, pushing the wind out of her, hitting the bone with a crack. She looked up into Frank’s face but there was nothing familiar about it anymore. Her spit slid down the side of his nose.

  All his weight was on top of her. She couldn’t breathe. He was too heavy; it felt like her ribs would snap.

  “Don’t you get it, bitch? I’ll do whatever the fuck I want and you can’t stop me. Try it—go on.” He grabbed at the top button of her shorts, whispering now, “I’m going to ruin your fucking slut life. Try and stop me.”

  She jolted her body, trying to roll him off, but she couldn’t. He laughed, the tears still there, as she tried again. She tried to pull in a breath, but her lungs wouldn’t fill under his weight. Stars began to flicker in her vision.

  “Go away, dickhead!” came a little voice. Rose tried to look around but she couldn’t, her head stuck in the deep mud. She couldn’t look anywhere but Frank’s face. His eyes crazy, his nostrils flaring.

  Something flung out into her field of vision. A small foot in a small shoe, right into his temple. He wobbled, stunned, hands coming off her to go to his head, losing his balance. She swung her body around and this time he crumpled off her.

  Scrambling to her feet, she ran to get away from him. Breathing in hacking breaths of air. The night was alight now. The swing set was no longer covered in
weeds and bushes, but with the licks of fire. The backs of children were already far ahead, bolting on little legs. Rose ran, hearing him screaming behind her. There was another car, idling behind Frank’s. The old Auster she knew so well. Mia inside. Not looking for her, not trying to save her. Just idling, deciding what to do.

  43

  The drive was silent. Mia didn’t ask what had happened, just listened to Rose catch her breath. She was still sopping wet. Beads of water still dripping down her shoulders from her hair. Her face was streaked with gray ash; her clothes were blackened still, despite the water. The back of her hair was matted with mud. It was getting all over her car’s headrest. Tomorrow morning, Mia knew she’d have to scrub to get it off.

  She wanted to tell Rose that she’d done it for her. That Will was to blame. Mia would have never done something like that for anyone else. Rose was in pain now; she could see that. Frank had hurt her; he’d wanted payback for all the trouble she’d caused. She would have stopped it if the paper-plate kids hadn’t. She was sure she would have. But something had stopped her from getting out of the car, because she knew Frank was only doing these things because he loved Rose too and she’d let them all down. Rose had caused so much pain; maybe she deserved to feel a bit of pain too.

  They pulled up outside Rose’s house, but she didn’t get out.

  “Did they say anything? Is he going to be okay?”

  Mia shrugged. It hadn’t looked good when she’d left.

  “Don’t know. They’re going through his stuff now though. They’ll find her.”

  “It wasn’t him.”

  Mia didn’t want to hear it. The notes didn’t matter. She’d seen the blood in the sink. She knew Will was responsible.

  Rose picked up her bag and got out of the car. She didn’t say goodbye.

  Mia watched as her friend walked up the path to her house, head forward, shoulders hunched. Then Rose stopped dead. She stood totally frozen on the footpath, her back to Mia. As still as a statue.

  Mia unclicked her seat belt. She got out of the car, catching up to Rose.

  “What is it?”

  Rose turned. She put her finger to her lips. They stood together in silence. The night air brushing angrily through the leaves, the quiet hum of electricity running down the power lines. Then, very softly, the sound of laughter.

  Unmistakably, a child’s giggle.

  Rose marched around to the side of the house. Mia followed. The bushes were thick, almost covering the junk that had been there for as long as Mia could remember.

  “Come out,” Rose said.

  Silence.

  Then the sound of movement in the black shape. The crunching of leaves. Laura, wrapped up in her sleeping bag like a caterpillar, shuffled out from inside the rotten old doghouse.

  “You found me! Took you so long I fell asleep.”

  Rose bent down. She pulled Laura in, hugged her tight to her chest.

  “You’ve been there that whole time?” Mia said; her voice didn’t sound like her. It was high-pitched, strangled. She looked down into the doghouse. The silver moon lit up the corners of things. Biscuit wrappers, a juice box, a stuffed turtle.

  “You were being such a meanie, Posey. Are you sorry now?”

  Rose pulled away from Laura and slapped her across the face. The kid looked at her, shocked in muteness. Then she started to bawl.

  The crying was heard from inside. The front door opened; Rob and her mother emerged. Rob got down on his knees.

  “Laura!” he yelled, and Laura ran to him, diving into his arms. His head pressed to the top of hers, he started to cry.

  “Thank God,” he said. “Thank God.”

  Rose walked past them into the house.

  * * *

  As soon as Mia’s car turned the corner, she saw it. The fire had spread. The swing set was like a huge bonfire, the grasses around alight. Even the polluted lake was on fire, murmurs of flame gliding on its surface. Snakes slithered out from the dry grass, escaping from the smoke.

  The black night was filled with dancing embers floating like fireflies across the sky.

  44

  Rose must have checked the locks dozens of times during the night. Staring out into the black squares of the windows as her unsteady fingers squeezed at the latches, making absolutely sure they were secure.

  She sat on the side of her bed. She could still hear the shower dripping. She’d managed to go to the bathroom once the sun had started rising, once there were no shadows for someone to hide. It was filthy now; the muck from her body had stuck to the white porcelain. Her clean skin was covered in cuts and scrapes. All down her legs, on her back and her elbows. Her knees hurt to bend. A bruise was black in the center of her chest. It was the same size as Frank’s elbow.

  There was a soft knock on her door.

  “Rose?” It was her mother. Rose had hidden in her room last night, unable to face anyone. Even the idea of speaking was too much. She didn’t answer.

  The door opened and Rose’s mother entered, still in her pajamas. Her eyes were focused on her daughter for the first time in a long while. She looked her up and down.

  “Honey.” She knelt down. “What happened last night?”

  She could get a gun. That was it. Rose would get a shotgun. She’d go and find Frank and shoot him right between the eyes. Will couldn’t really be gone. She should call the hospital, find out for sure. But she’d seen his eyes.

  Her mother took her arm from her side and looked at the scrapes. Then she saw the bruise. She touched it only lightly, but still Rose flinched.

  She could get a gun.

  “What’s happened to Rose?” Scott and Sophie were at the doorway of her room.

  “Come on—leave her alone.” She heard Rob’s voice. “Go to your bedroom.”

  “But that is my bedroom!” Sophie said.

  “Now.”

  Her mother knelt down in front of her and wrapped her arms around her. She squeezed her tight, and Rose heard crying. Her mother was crying.

  “Why are you crying?” she said, her voice sounding strange.

  “Why?” Her mother pulled away and looked at her. “Because someone hurt my baby.”

  She used to call Rose that all the time. Her baby. Rose’s eyes went hot. Tears dribbled down her cheeks. Her nose began to run. It hurt. She was crying, but it hurt. She felt like she was choking.

  “Mummy,” she said, and her mother pulled her tighter. She rocked her, back and forth, until she got the tears out, until she could cry without gagging.

  “Who was it?”

  Her mother broke away from her, and they looked up. Rob stood over them. He looked angry, and she drew away from him.

  “Who? Who did this?” he demanded.

  “Frank.”

  “Right.”

  Rob turned and left the room. She looked at her mother. The two of them got up and followed him. He was getting in his car, starting the ignition.

  “I’m going to get him, that fuck! I’m going to kill him,” he was saying.

  “Don’t,” Rose said. “Stop it.”

  He paused and she swallowed.

  “Why would you do that? He’s a cop. He can do anything.”

  Rob stilled for only a second. Then he started the ignition. “Fuck it. I don’t care. No one messes with my family.”

  “But I’m not your family.”

  He looked at her. “You’re not my favorite person in the world, Rose. I’ll give you that. But you’re definitely my family. When I married your mum, I took you on too. Didn’t expect you’d want to live with us for so goddamn long, but still.”

  She looked at him, shocked. Her mother spoke instead, lightly touching his arm. “Leave it, honey,” she said. “Rose is right. It’s Fran
k. They’ll crucify you if you touch him. It won’t fix anything.”

  Rob thought on this, then banged the back of his head against the headrest. “Fuck!”

  He turned off the ignition.

  “If you want to help, can you take me to the hospital?” Rose asked. “I need to check if someone is okay.”

  “Jump in,” he said.

  She did, but when they’d only got as far as the lake, she asked him to stop. The swing sets were char, the grass was black ash, but there was still thick smoke panting out from behind the clearing.

  “Embers from the fire got in the mine last night,” Rob said. “It’s still burning down there.”

  She swallowed, and he kept driving.

  He didn’t offer to come inside with her when they arrived at the hospital. Perhaps he knew she wouldn’t have wanted him to, or perhaps seeing her bruises was too difficult for him when he knew there was nothing he could do about it. He said he’d wait for her, which was all she wanted.

  When she got to Reception the nurse gave her a form.

  “I’m not here for me,” she said. “I want to see a patient. William Rai.”

  She couldn’t look at the nurse. She knew what she was going to say. Dead on arrival.

  “Are you sure, darl? Let me get a nurse to check you over.”

  “Is he here?” She’d almost yelled it, and the nurse raised an eyebrow at her. She typed his name into the computer. Dead on arrival. Dead on arrival.

  “Floor eight,” the nurse said.

  Rose had to stop herself from running to the elevator. She pressed the up button again and again until the doors opened. Then she fidgeted and shook as the elevator rose in its shaft.

  She flung herself out the doors to the desk on floor eight.

  “What room is Will Rai in?” she asked.

  “Eight seventeen,” a nurse said, and she was already running. “But you can’t go in!” they yelled after her.

  She knew which room it was before she got there. Baz was sitting out the front of it on a chair. He stood when she approached.