Every Single Secret

by Emily Carpenter

  My head throbbed, the pain shooting all the way down my neck and deep into my right shoulder. I reached over and dug at the knotted muscle. Forget being a bird; I’d settle for a stiff drink and a good laugh with Lenny. Or, barring that, another chat with Glenys. I wanted to feel that lightness again, that incredible buoyancy I’d felt up on the mountain after I’d told her about Chantal and the girls’ ranch. It was supremely ironic. I’d just fought so fiercely against talking about my past with Heath, but with Glenys, the story had rolled right off my tongue.

  What was it that made me so afraid of telling Heath? What stopped me from opening up to him? Maybe that, with him—the only man I’d ever loved like this—I had so much more to lose.

  I pushed at the chained doors and put my eye to the crack. Nothing had changed from yesterday—sheet-covered furniture was crammed into the far corner. There was a single twin-bed frame, what looked like it might be a dinette set with four chairs pushed underneath. A wingback chair and some kind of desk, or maybe it was a dresser.

  Something on the floor of the barn caught my eye—the knife I’d slid between the doors yesterday. I squatted and slipped my fingers into the opening, feeling my way toward the handle.

  “Sleuthing?” came a voice behind me.

  I turned to see Dr. Cerny standing a couple of feet away, hands in his pockets, watching me with an enigmatic smile. I stealthily withdrew my hand. Rose and jabbed my thumb back at the barn.

  “I was just . . . seeing if I could get inside. Look around a little bit. There’s not much to do around here.”

  “No, I’m afraid there’s not. We’re not big on extracurriculars, as most people come for the therapy.” He cocked his head and held my gaze. Smart aleck.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Speaking of which, you’re probably keeping one of your patients waiting, aren’t you?”

  “Waiting’s not such a bad thing. Illuminates the true character of a person.”

  I lifted my chin. “Or perhaps it illuminates the character of the person making you wait.”

  He smiled. “Did you know, they say people won’t complain about waiting if they have something to do, even the most meaningless activity? For instance, turning one of those superfluous corners in line at Disney World. Or studying themselves in a mirror.”

  A mirror?

  He furrowed his brow. “Is there anything you’d like to discuss with me, Daphne? Something about Heath’s treatment? You seem . . . annoyed.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “It’s just, I was wondering if I could maybe get my phone back? Just to check emails.”

  He smiled. “You know our policy.”

  “You could make an exception.” I matched his smile.

  “I could, but there’s no cell service out here.”

  Not true.

  “Wi-Fi, then,” I said.

  “No Wi-Fi either.”

  I squinted at him. “You don’t have Wi-Fi here?”

  He shot me a patient grin. “I have Wi-Fi. You don’t.”

  “What about the LTE network?”

  “Daphne, Daphne.” He shook his head. “Don’t you understand I’m trying to help your fiancé? Disconnecting from your devices is the first step in getting in touch with your soul.”

  “Okay, fine.” I sighed. “You win.”

  “You know, this house was built by a wealthy prospector, who also didn’t have Wi-Fi,” he said. “Or iPads or telephones or streaming . . . whatever. But I imagine he and his family found ways to entertain themselves. What do you suppose they used to do for fun?”

  “I don’t know. Taffy pulls and sing-alongs? The occasional episode of cannibalism?”

  “Maybe. Maybe.” He laughed. “You know, in our sessions, Heath has shared with me how meeting you changed him. How he is determined to do anything to be the man you need.” He watched me, his eyes keen. And I had to admit, I didn’t hate the rush of warmth I felt.

  “He doesn’t need to do anything more. He’s already succeeding.”

  “I like you, Daphne. I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”

  I didn’t really know how to answer.

  “Did Heath tell you the truth about his family? The couple who cared for him after his mother gave him up?”

  “He did, some.”

  “It was very difficult for him, I expect, opening up about his past. Especially given the fact that you’ve chosen to be more discreet about yours. I imagine you feel some pressure to reciprocate now. Fulfill the social contract. Perhaps tell him about the ranch and what happened to you there.”

  I swallowed. “Not necessarily.”

  “Heath already feels quite protective of you. I believe he would be entirely sympathetic if you told him about your surrogate father being sent away to prison.”

  I shrugged.

  “Just a bystander’s opinion, of course.” He scratched his cheek absently. “Unless, that is, you had something to do with the man’s incarceration. In that case, your reticence would make complete sense—if you were in some way responsible.”

  His tone was light, but alarm still zipped through me.

  “I had nothing to do with it,” I said curtly. “And if anyone really wants to know what happened, it’s just a Google search away. For those of us with access to Wi-Fi.”

  “Touché.” He grinned, all friendly dimples and casually wavy hair. I had to admit it was a little disconcerting. He was so much like Mr. Al, and yet, not at all. This man was careful, and he didn’t appear to miss a single detail.

  I inhaled deeply. “You know you’re not going to keep cornering me when I’m alone and trick me into spilling my guts for you. So you might as well give it up.”

  He sobered. “You think that’s what I’m doing out here? Have you considered that I simply enjoy talking to you?”

  “No. But it seems . . . possibly unethical.”

  “Psychologists are allowed to converse with people who are not their patients. To have friends.”

  “Okay, so let’s converse. Let’s talk about you.”

  “Ah, ha. So clever.” I lifted my chin, and he smiled back at me. “What do you want to know?”

  “You don’t wear a ring. Are you married?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Right to the heart of things, eh? All right. The answer is, no, I’m not married and I never have been. I’ve no children either.”

  “That’s interesting. A relationship expert who’s never been married.”

  “Marriage isn’t the only kind of relationship. I have been in love, plenty of times.”

  “Okay, not going to touch that one.”

  He laughed.

  “What’s with the monster faces in the fireplaces?” I asked.

  “Ah.” He smiled at me. “The fiery fiend. I believe my ancestor Horace Baskens was a bit of an eccentric. Probably be diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic today. Back in the gold-rush days, he made a fortune for himself, but was always afraid of it being stolen by friends, even family. It was why he built his home so far up the mountain—he was terrified of losing his stash. The fiends were the guard dogs of Baskens, watching over every move of the visitors who came to call. Or his family members. He was obsessed, I hear, that his own wife and children were plotting against him.”

  “Yikes.”

  “When I was a boy, I was terrified of them. Their watchful eyes kept me from a great deal of mischief, as a matter of fact.”

  “And provided the inspiration for the cameras?”

  “An astute observation,” he said with a smile. “I had begun my practice in Atlanta when my mother passed away and left me the house. I supposed the fiery fiends had not done their job, as all the Baskens money had been frittered away by then. But yes, moving back up here among them probably did spark my imagination. I’ve never thought of it that way.”

  “You must have seen some interesting things up here.”

  He chuckled. “That I have.”

  I forged on, hoping my voice sounded casual. “Do you get man
y repeat clients? I mean, do some people ever bring one partner, then a different one later?” I swallowed uneasily. I sounded about as subtle as a hammer.

  He eyed me. “I take it you’re talking about Heath. You’re asking me if he’s ever brought another woman to Baskens?”

  “I’m just curious if he ever called to check out the program . . . for him and someone else? Before me?”

  “I’m sorry, Daphne. I’m not free to give out that information. But, if I may . . .”

  I raised my eyes to meet his. Asking the question, laying myself out like that to a stranger, had left me feeling exposed. Vulnerable in a way I hadn’t experienced in a long time. I felt an unaccountable rush of grief slam though me. The desire to let down my defenses and cry like a little girl.

  “You understand, don’t you,” he said gently, “that sometimes people hide certain facets of who they are, who they were, from the people they love? Not because they’re willfully trying to hurt them, but simply because they’re deeply, deeply afraid that the one person they care about most may reject them.”

  Of course I understood that. It was basically the single motivating factor of my entire life: don’t let anyone know the truth, because if they find out, they will leave you. Heath was afraid, just like me. We were the same, in more ways than I’d ever imagined.

  “I understand,” was all I said.

  “That’s good to hear.” He nodded a few times, like he wanted to say more on the subject, but then decided against it. “Very good indeed.” And he turned and walked back to the house.

  For the third night in a row, Heath slept. No middle-of-the-night yelling, leaping out of bed, or taking random swings at me. I wondered if it was partly because he’d told me about the couple he’d lived with, somehow the confession letting his subconscious mind off the hook.

  And if the therapy was working, why would I complain? Even though I didn’t like being here, this was what I had wanted.

  I put on my glasses. The clock on the mantel showed past midnight. While Heath snored softly, I stared toward the windows. Where exactly was the camera hidden? It unnerved me, that Cerny might be up in that spooky attic room full of hulking machines, waving needles, and blinking lights, sitting at the metal desk, watching us.

  I sat up, grabbed a hair band from the nightstand, and swept my hair up. I wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon, but I couldn’t lie here, worrying about things I had no control over. I decided I should sneak up to the attic, see what Jerry McAdam was up to with his forbidden phone. Maybe after a little spying—thinking about somebody else’s problems for a change—my brain would settle down, and I could get some sleep.

  I climbed out of bed, went out the door, and tiptoed past the Siefferts’ and McAdams’ rooms. At the end of the dark hall, I eased back the pocket door. I climbed the narrow stairs to the attic and felt a welcome slam of adrenaline—the fireproof door was cracked open. I crept in, careful to leave it open behind me, just enough that it wouldn’t shut all the way. Locking myself in up here wouldn’t be wise.

  The oddly shaped room looked exactly as I’d left it, except the desk was bare. No pad or pen. The monitors were up and running—grainy and gray and still. The monitor on the left showed the McAdams, tucked in and fast asleep. The middle screen showed Glenys and her husband in their bed as well, back to back, motionless in sleep. On ours, Heath curled next to my empty side of the bed.

  Back on the Siefferts’ monitor, something flickered. I moved closer. The screen was dark and the image just a shadowy blob, but I could see clearly. It was Glenys, climbing out of bed. Her back was straight and narrow in her nightgown, and her light hair tumbled over her shoulders.

  She walked to the window, threw it open, and leaned out—the way Heath had the other day. She sucked in the night air, then canted back, letting her head drop between her thin arms. She looked like she was doing some kind of strange yoga stretch, but I knew she wasn’t, because under her nightgown, her shoulders shook rhythmically. She wasn’t stretching, she was crying. Sobbing, to be more exact.

  Abruptly, she drew herself up, the cool air caressing her face, drying the tears. Her ghostly figure wavered on the screen. Ever so slightly, her upper body began to incline forward, to lean out the window. Instantly, I felt myself go cold. The bedroom was only on the second floor, maybe fifteen feet off the ground, but it was directly above the concrete patio, and if she went headfirst . . .

  I whirled, stumbled forward, blindly tripping over a cable and careening into a tall shelf against the wall. I threw up my arms as a torrent of hard black plastic objects rained down over my head. When the deluge was over, I opened my eyes to find myself standing in the center of a mountain of VHS tapes. I waded out, kicking them to the side, slipping on them, crushing them, frantic to extricate myself.

  I clattered down the steps and ran down the hall to the last door on the left. Tapping it lightly, I leaned close.

  “Glenys,” I said in a hoarse whisper. “Glenys!” There was no answer. I knocked louder, then tried the knob, but it was locked. “Glenys, it’s Daphne. Come to the door, please.”

  Nothing. No answer, no sound of movement from the other side of the door. Had she accidentally fallen? Or maybe jumped on purpose? It was hard to tell from the dark monitor what was happening.

  I ran down the steps, taking them two at a time, my pulse pounding in my ears. Near the bottom of the stairs, my toe hooked the hem of my pajama pants and I tripped, tumbling to the floor. I scrambled up and charged back through the house, down the hall, and into the kitchen. I threw open the door and ran outside.

  On the patio I stared up in the direction of Glenys’s window. The glare from the floodlight on the back corner of the house was so bright I had to shade my eyes. But when I did, I saw the window was closed, the curtains drawn. Glenys was gone.

  Friday, October 19

  Evening

  It feels like forever that I’ve been staggering down the rutted gravel road to Dunfree when suddenly, I hear something. The faint rumble of a car engine. It is behind me.

  I stop, all my senses ratcheting up. The car sounds like it’s a good half mile back up the mountain, and my brain clicks through the possibilities of who it could be.

  A vacationer from one of the cabins on the road, maybe. I’ve passed seven mailboxes, all with carved wood signs: “Pete’s Peak” or “The Bear’s Lair” or “Set a Spell.”

  Or someone else. Someone who means to do me harm.

  The rumble grows louder, and I speed up to a fast walk. This stretch of the road is cut into a crevice, the gradient rising steeply on either side. But there’s a stand of bronze-leafed beech trees and a handful of huge boulders dotting the slopes that I can hide behind, if I have to. I strain my ears. At first I don’t hear the car, and I wonder if it turned off somewhere. But then . . . no. There it is—a low revving.

  I break into a jog. Cut right, slide into the shallow ditch, then scramble back out, bear-crawling up the hill. I’m heading for some boulders a couple of yards ahead of me, clawing frantically at the leaves and moss. The engine growls louder just as I dive behind the rock. With the approaching car and the thundering of my heart, time seems to stand still. But when my breath finally levels out I realize I have to pee in the worst way.

  It doesn’t matter. There’s no time. I edge sideways, positioning myself so I can see between the V of the two boulders. The car rolls into view, then slows and idles. It’s a truck, a dark, early-model green truck, with a long scratch near the right bumper.

  I pull my big coat around me and scrunch down, making myself part of the stone. Was that one of the vehicles from Baskens? I picture the line of cars. A minivan, a Mercedes. A truck, I think. But was it old or new, blue or black or green? I don’t know. I can’t remember. But it could be from anywhere, and anyone could be driving it, so I need to stay out of sight.

  The engine revs again, and the truck continues down the road, the deep rumble diminishing as it gets farther and farther down the mounta
in from me. When everything is quiet again, I lie back against the rock, wilting in relief, not even caring that I’ve just soaked my pants.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wednesday, October 17

  Two Days Before

  I woke to the creak and slam of a screen door. A man’s voice said something in what sounded like Spanish, and I squinted through the early-morning gray and my gluey eyes. I had fallen asleep outside on an old metal patio chaise. Then last night came back to me in a rush.

  Glenys on the monitor, leaning out her window. Me running outside to stop her. The closed window.

  Now, as my eyes focused, I saw something—black, plastic—wedged between two patio stones just below me. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and picked it up. The fragment of a cut zip tie.

  I saw boots then and looked up, dropping the zip tie. Luca, the phantom cook and butler, was standing in front of me, hands planted on his hips. He was young, early twenties, maybe, with a compact body and short-cropped, light-brown hair. He wore a faded plaid flannel with the shirtsleeves rolled to his biceps. His forearms looked like they might be attached to a bear, but he had a kind face with high cheekbones and a cleft chin that would probably drive a sculptor wild.

  I sat up and swung my legs around so fast, I felt dizzy. I made an attempt to rub my eyes, put on my glasses, and smooth my hair all at the same time. It was a move a woman did when the guy who woke her up happened to be attractive, and I was instantly mortified. I tried to cover by acting like I wasn’t doing exactly what I was very clearly doing—the result being, I wound up poking my eyes and garbling something incoherent.

  In reply, he said something in Spanish that I didn’t understand and disappeared back through the screen door. I took a quick inventory. I was in my pajamas but covered by a quilt. Luca’s contribution, maybe. Last night, I had waited and waited below Glenys’s window, but when nothing happened, I had to conclude that I’d overreacted, read too much into what I’d seen on the monitor. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to leave, and even after the chill in the air had turned icy and the dew had started to form, I’d stayed, curling up on the chaise.