by Krystal Wade
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© 2014 Krystal Wade
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ISBN 978-1-62007-534-0 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-62007-535-7 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-62007-536-4 (hardcover)
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About the Author
A Taste Of Shattered Secrets, by Krystal Wade
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For Danielle, who wants to broaden her horizons.
hirty-two steps until Haley Tremaine entered hell. Thirty-two steps until she walked into the smell of alcohol and burned microwaveable meals, into a place where fear overwhelmed. Fear of whether Dad would go on a rampage and hit her, or maybe even her little sister Jocelyn, the girl Haley protected at the expense of her sanity, her safety. Even if that sister didn’t appreciate it, or have a clue.
Before Mom died, Haley would have called this home.
But not anymore.
Now? Now, this was definitely hell.
“You punishing your palms with that anger, or are you having a stroke?” Even in the darkness blanketing the empty streets, Haley couldn’t mistake the slight smile toying up the side of Christine’s long, slender face. She walked home with Haley every day after their shifts ended at the Berkshire Candle Company and knew all the horrid details about the broken family life inside the Tremaine household.
Haley unclenched her fists and shook them out, allowing the chilly October air to whisk the sheen of sweat into the night. Nothing more nerve-wracking than going to hell. “Sorry.”
“Since you’ve refused all offers to run away and leave this town behind, you could try this.” Christine took a hit of her thinly wound joint, winked, then held it out for Haley. Like tonight would be any different from the other five hundred times Christine had offered.
“Not happening.” But maybe, just maybe, being high would make walking through the squeaky front door hurt a little less. Maybe the pot would snuff out the anger and fear that burned and spread like uncontrolled wildfires in Haley’s head when Dad yelled, when he grunted disgusting noises because she took too long to clean his mess or get him another beer, and when Jocelyn just sat there and watched.
Dad’s favorite. Dad’s favorite because he thought she chose him instead of Mom the night she decided to leave. Dad didn’t know the truth.
Jocelyn didn’t either.
“Not today, anyway.” Hopefully that day never comes.
“Always helps me get over my issues, but suit yourself.” Tucked into her too-large, red and black flannel jacket, Christine finished off the awful-smelling joint with a shrug, then jogged across the cracked asphalt, hundreds of jagged tar lines holding the road together like band-aids. She forgot to say goodbye. As usual.
Haley stood on the side of the street between the power lines and her yard covered with a thick layer of pine needles and red leaves, the closest thing Deerfield Massachusetts had to a sidewalk. She stared through the yellow glow of the streetlamp Christine ran under, waiting for her to walk into her house. Once she did, Haley jogged up the few steps to her front porch, pulled open the screen door, took a calming breath, then walked in.
No one was waiting. The only greetings she received were sounds of the late-night news reporting the most recent murder, the smell of stale beer, and that ever-unsettling panic in Haley’s chest, the panic that never went away while under the same roof as Dad.
Backpack slung over one shoulder, she ditched her plain black work shoes next to the pile of others by the door and crept through the house that didn’t appreciate anyone creeping around. The worn floorboards rattled with every step, despite Haley’s efforts to place each foot gently in front of the other. She passed the kitchen on her way down the long hallway. The cramped space was a mess of dirty pots and pans sitting and crusting on the stovetop, trash overflowing the can and spilling onto the floor, empty plates scattered on the table. All left for Haley to clean. All left for Haley to worry over.
On the way to her room, Haley paused by the arched opening leading to the den. Dad and Jocelyn sat in each other’s company, watching TV as so many normal families would. But did all those families take advantage of one member? Did they pretend like that member didn’t exist unless they needed help with something? Or was Haley the only lucky one?
“Deerfield police found Jeremiah Woodson dead this morning along the bank of the Connecticut River. Investigators say he suffered a bullet-wound to the head and are searching for clues.”
“Wife probably killed him.” Dad chugged a bottle of beer, then slammed it onto his side table—he knew his least favorite daughter was home, and that was his best greeting—rattling the seven or eight other empty bottles already there. “Maybe his oldest daughter.”
Jocelyn tensed, finger held over one spot in the middle of her book, legs tucked up under her on their ugly paisley sofa.
“I’m home,” Haley muttered.
Dad took the time to glance at the clock, then scowled over his shoulder at Haley with his piercing blue gaze. “About time.”
Please not tonight.
Five minutes past curfew, five minutes her manager had wanted to talk about candle placements for the upcoming Harvest Festival. But Dad would never forgive those five minutes. He’d never understand. Haley should have been home. She had chores, homework, a family—that didn’t love her.
He remained seated, despite his pursed lips and balled fists. Dad would wait for Jocelyn to go to bed before he said anything to Haley.
Wouldn’t want to tarnish that image in his perfect daughter’s eyes. That perfect daughter who had yet to acknowledge Haley was home.
With a silent sigh, she dropped her bag inside the door to the mostly empty bedroom she wouldn’t be able to crash in for at least another hour, then started on her chores. She filled the sink with soapy water, collected the dirty dishes from the uneven kitchen table and off stacks of newspapers in the den, then washed and dried them one by one. From there, Haley wiped down the butcher-block counters, the gas stove—astounded they actually tried to make a meal rather than microwave something; although burned mac and cheese was probably a step down—picked up the trash, then swept the tacky yellow linoleum floors. Haley slammed the garbage into the large black can outside and then sat on the steps and put her head in her hands, tugging out strands of hair as she tried to control her shaking.
A stray cat Dad had taken a liking to walked up to her and meowed.
“Hey there.”
The little orange tabby wound through Haley’s ankles, purring set on overdrive, leaving fur behind on her black work slacks.
“You’re like the only thing in this house that cares about my existence. Promise not to ever run away?”
The cat put her front paws on Haley’s knees and meowed again.
“Feed that animal already,” Dad yelled from inside, sending a wave of panic through Haley’s chest at the same time the cat hissed. Had Dad heard her?
“Taking off for Amanda’s now, Daddy,” Jocelyn called in her sweet little voice, walking toward the door with her patchwork shoulder bag slung over her arm.
“She still having issues with that stupid boy?”
“Yep. Be back in about an hour.”
“I don’t like you out there alone at night.”
&nbs
p; “Mace is already in my bag, Daddy.”
Dad said something else in return, but Haley stopped paying attention when he agreed and allowed her fourteen-year-old sister to go out past ten on a school night because a friend was having boy issues.
“I’d love to hear his response if I asked that question,” Haley whispered, scratching the scruffy cat behind the ears.
“Maybe if you didn’t always come home after curfew, he’d let you.” Jocelyn allowed the screen door to slam behind her and then propped her hands on her slim hips, her wavy, long blonde hair falling around her porcelain face, narrowed blue gaze locked on Haley.
Unfortunately, Dad’s relentless denial of anything Haley asked for had more to do with control—and maybe how closely she mirrored her mother—and not the fact she was occasionally three-hundred seconds late.
“If you say so.” Haley returned her attention to the cat, chin on her knees, praying Jocelyn would just walk away.
But Haley’s prayers were rarely ever answered.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” Jocelyn said, sitting on the crumbling concrete step next to Haley, her words caught up in a symphony of cricket songs.
When they were younger, they’d lay outside on nights like these and stare up at the stars, holding hands while dreaming up big futures involving space travel or frilly dresses. Haley’s dreams might never come true, but she’d do everything in her power to make sure Joce’s did.
“He just wants you to do well in school and obey his rules, but you constantly fail at both.”
Why would Haley shoot for good grades? College wasn’t an option anymore, not when it meant leaving town and leaving Jocelyn with their abusive father. Sure, he’d never once raised a hand to his youngest daughter, but he smacked Haley around more now that Mom was dead. Who’s to say he would continue sparing Jocelyn his wrath with her unthanked protector out of the picture?
“Guess I just suck at life.” What could Haley say? Mom never wanted Joce to know about the darker side of Dad. He couldn’t hide the alcoholism, but how many times did she defend him? How many times did she say that Mom and Haley should be more understanding of his injury, of his feelings of inadequacies—not her words—now that he was on disability and Mom was the CEO of a booming candle company? If Joce knew the truth, that Dad hit Mom and Haley, she’d be crushed. She was already crushed about not being there when Mom died. Joce didn’t know. She didn’t understand. And Haley couldn’t tell her.
“Whatever, Haley. I think you just suck at accepting responsibility.” Jocelyn ran down the stairs without looking back, disappearing into the night once she was out of range of the tacky yellow light.
The cat followed.
“Traitor. See if I feed you tomorrow!”
Haley could have sat outside the remainder of the night, wishing for something, wishing for help with Joce, with Dad, anything. But homework waits for no man—or woman—and Haley had plenty of work to intentionally screw up. With a begrudging sigh, she returned inside and spread the papers on the plastic-covered kitchen table, then took a seat.
Before she could decide whether or not doing this homework even mattered, Dad cleared his throat, indication number one of his annoyance. Ice spread from Haley’s heart and raced into her fingers, into her toes.
Deep breath.
He’d only ever hit her hard a few times, but once was enough. Each time brought Haley back to the accident, to the night he hit Mom and she reacted by dragging Haley out of the house, into the car to escape. But, apparently, escape wasn’t meant for them. A drunk driver t-boned their car, knocked it upside down, metal and plastic scraping and buckling and groaning as they met with the other car, with asphalt. The tires squealed as the impaired driver tried to stop, tried to stop too late.
How ironic, to run from one alcoholic only to be killed by another.
Dad stumbled toward Haley in a stained faded-blue bathrobe tied loosely around his expanding waistline, shaking hand braced against the wall for support. This was not Dad, not Dad, not at all the man who’d raised her. This man grunted, set an empty bottle on the counter, the counter she’d just cleaned, then glared at the fridge as though expecting another beer to magically appear in his hand. Magic meaning Haley.
Magic always meant Haley.
She jumped to her feet and provided the man with his beer, even went so far as to unscrew the cap.
He leaned his head to the side, lips pressed in a thin line. “Did you say somethin’?”
Haley shook her head. “No, sir.”
“You think you’re better than me, don’t you? Better than this house, your sister, this life! But you’re not. You can’t even pass English.” Dad swiped the bottle from Haley, scratching a fingernail against her skin in a hasty attempt to be forceful, controlling, and continued on his tirade, “That’s right. Your teacher called, again. What’s wrong with you? You stay out late. Working. For what? You saving to escape? You want to buy a house like that whore of a mother of yours? You want to leave us too?”
“No.” Haley stared at her bare feet on the cold linoleum floors, afraid to meet Dad’s eyes. Looking at him only fueled the insatiable anger residing in his mind, the anger bubbling and waiting to erupt, waiting for a victim, waiting for Haley. The anger that would be there no matter what kind of grades she earned or what time she walked in the front door. “That’s not it. I’m sorry for being late.”
“You’re sorry for being late? That’s all? Why aren’t you sorry for acting like her, like a whore? Why aren’t you sorry that your mother died and you didn’t? Life would have been much easier if you’d died too.”
Bracing herself for impact, Haley took a deep breath and glanced up, barely holding back the hot tears stinging at her eyes. He didn’t just hate her. He wanted her dead. “Please, don’t be angry. Please.”
He dragged a hand through his greasy black hair and regarded her with unabashed hatred, eyes narrowed, lip curled up in a jagged sneer. “If your teacher calls again to voice his concern about your grades, I’ll ground you. No more job. No more daydreams about leaving us behind.”
He turned and swayed on the way back to his worn-out chair, saving Haley from his hand, his voice, any part of him that wanted to lash out further.
She quietly cried. Dad may not have hit her, but she’d expected him to, had prepared for it, and the relief that he didn’t flowed out in the form of tears. He couldn’t see how much he affected her. That would give him too much power.
Haley gathered up her schoolwork as calmly as possible. Hostility would make the situation worse. No matter what, she always had to remain calm, collected. She closed her bedroom door and tossed all her papers onto the floor. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered. She changed her clothes, put on jeans and a hoodie paired with running shoes, and waited for Dad to pass out for the night, then slipped from her bedroom window and jogged to the cemetery. He’d freak if he knew she visited Mom. He’d bar Haley’s windows, maybe even break her legs. He’d definitely not worry about her coming out alone, without mace.
Eight minutes later, she sat cross-legged next to Margaret Anne Tremaine’s grave, tending to the cheery flowers she’d planted. Mom would die all over again if she knew they’d engraved her full name on her headstone. She hated the name Margaret, never used anything other than Maggie. Said Margaret was her grandmother’s and her mother’s name but would never be hers. They were too uptight, too judgmental. Mom was anything but.
“I thought he was going to hit me today, Mom,” Haley admitted, wishing she had a way to tie up the yellow mums that were in full bloom and too heavy to hold their own weight. Tomorrow she’d have to bring twine and other gardening tools. “Only five minutes late, too. Christine keeps offering me pot. You remember Christine, right? Sure you do. You remember all your employees and their families. Well, she thinks that if I’m high, he won’t get to me. But we both know he’d still hit me, probably harder. He thinks I’m a piece of shit. And you know what? I let him. It’s so much ea
sier this way, pretending to be stupid, a slacker. If I dream, Mom—God, if I dream, he’ll kill me. If he knew all the things I wanted for my life, for Jocelyn. But, it’s all pretend. I don’t want to smoke pot. I don’t want to give up on college. Somehow, I’ll find a way out of this. Somehow.”
Crack.
Haley jumped at the sound of a twig snapping. She tried to find the source in the dark and otherwise silent cemetery, in row after row of white and gray headstones, in the surrounding trees. A man wearing a charcoal skullcap and a black pea coat, hands shoved into his jeans pockets, walked by on the car path a few rows from Haley, head down.
The man glanced Haley’s way, and she realized it was just Todd, the cemetery’s part-time groundskeeper. She’d spent so much time here since Mom’s death, Haley knew all the staff.
Todd shot an apologetic smile and cut through the headstones to join her. “Did I startle you?”
She stared up at his sad gray eyes. “A little. What are you doing out here so late?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” Todd was young, late twenties tops, though she’d never dared to ask, and attractive, all sharp angles and thick muscles. He was tall, six-foot-two maybe, towering over her by at least seven inches.
Haley glared at him.
“All right. If you must know, I thought it was a nice night for a walk… until I remembered there’s a murderer on the loose. Which is why we should both probably head home. Would you like me to walk you?”
“That’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
Todd nodded. “Keep your eyes open, Haley.”
He took off and she watched him until he disappeared into the blackness of night, leaving her with nothing but silence, an eerie silence, and she decided staying any longer would be dangerous.
“All right, Mom. I better get back before Jocelyn comes in and finds me missing—and decides to tell the whole world.” Or someone decides to kill me.
Haley placed her palm on the headstone, the only way she knew to say goodbye, closed her eyes, then left.
Maybe tomorrow would be better.
