by Gina LaManna
A familiar rush of gratefulness settled over Ginger’s chest as she paused in the entrance to her room, half expecting to find two little monkeys jumping on the beds and one teenage monkey sullenly staring at the screen of her phone. Frank wasn’t exactly strict when it came to bedtimes, especially when Ginger wasn’t home. It was as if a whole new set of rules descended on the house the second Ginger stepped out the door, and most of the time, she pretended not to notice.
However, tonight, Ginger was wrong. She was surprised to feel a sense of disappointment at the quiet room, her monkeys dozing, perfectly at peace without her. One lamp glowed over the bed she’d share with Frank like a porch light left on for a teenager rushing home to make curfew.
Beneath the glow sat Frank, perched halfway up in bed, one of Poppy’s picture books spread open on his lap, his head bowed in sleep. Tom, similarly hunched over in a deep slumber, had likely pretended to be “so bored” by a little kid book, while simultaneously inching his way suspiciously close to Frank’s lap—just close enough to see the images. Ginger’s heart felt heavy, sopping with the weight of her love for them.
The biggest surprise of all, however, was Elsie. The teenager had changed into her tight black tank top (completely uncomfortable for sleeping, but try to tell her that and she’d bite your head off) and a pair of neon-pink shorts. She sat on the bed next to her father with Poppy in her lap, both sisters conked out in a deep sleep. Their mouths had cracked open in the same, drooling sort of way that indicated they were siblings even in unconsciousness.
Ginger covered her own mouth and hid a smile, thinking maybe Frank had been right this whole time. Maybe all they’d needed was a little vacation. They’d needed to blow up at one another and then come back down to earth and discuss. All was well! Her family was happy and together. Ginger didn’t have to work for a full week. They were on vacation, and it wasn’t killing them, despite Ginger’s predictions of doom and gloom.
With a sigh of relief, she turned to grab her own pajamas from the suitcase. She’d wake Frank and cover the babies with blankets after she got changed and brushed her teeth and shut out the light. If she was quiet enough, they wouldn’t even stir.
As Ginger headed to the bathroom, the loud blare of a cell phone interrupted the peacefulness of the room, threatening to wake the sleeping crew. Ginger leapt for it like a wild woman, silencing the phone and checking the damage it had done. One little snore from Elsie and a twitch from Tom, and then they were back to sleep.
Ginger glanced down, realizing the phone was Elsie’s. Who was calling her daughter at this hour? Ginger didn’t like to think of herself as one of those helicopter mothers, but when the phone landed in her lap, it was hard not to peek.
Not to mention, so long as Ginger and Frank paid for Elsie’s phone, they had full access to everything that happened on it. Social media, texts, emails—whatever. If Elsie didn’t want Ginger to see it, Elsie shouldn’t be doing it on her phone. Freedom at fifteen was merely an illusion, and Ginger had explained that to her daughter in no uncertain terms.
Ginger flicked the screen open and found the name Phoebe Brimhall—one of Elsie’s schoolmates—under the missed call log. With a frown, Ginger glanced up at her daughter. Elsie wasn’t exactly chatty, but Ginger generally knew the sort of friends she kept, and she didn’t run with Phoebe’s crowd. Phoebe was a senior. She was the head cheerleader, the queen bee, the straight-A suck-up. What was she doing calling Elsie at this hour?
Ginger ducked out of the bedroom and slid into the bathroom, closing the door behind her and beginning to dig. Her snooping led to no immediate cause for alarm. There wasn’t a history of calls from Phoebe, nor were there any text messages.
On a sudden impulse, Ginger pulled up the Facebook Messenger app and struck gold.
Fifteen
Lulu had promised herself she wouldn’t snoop. But it was dark, and Lulu hadn’t turned on the light to search for the face cream she’d asked Pierce to pack in his bag. She’d been shuffling through his suitcase in the near-blackness while he slept deeply, and that was when she’d stumbled upon it. A second sheet of loose-leaf paper, this one with Lulu’s name on it.
Her heart sank at the very sight of it. The letter obviously wasn’t intended for her eyes—at least, not yet. Not like this. It had been tucked inside a little used pocket of his suitcase next to Pierce’s work phone and shoved between the pages of his planner.
When her hand brushed against it, she’d recognized her name in familiar handwriting and figured it belonged as much to her as it did to her husband, so she’d pulled it out. Even though she was sure if they’d been at home, he’d have kept this little note in his office drawer. The locked drawer of secrets.
Lulu felt her heart begin to break as she unfolded it further. When she’d returned to the room after her evening at the bar, she’d been overwhelmed with feelings of love toward her husband. She’d found him sleeping in bed, one arm extended toward the empty space next to him as if waiting for Lulu’s return. He was the one, the very last one, the only one for her. She’d been certain of it. And just when Lulu had finally succumbed to true love, it was slipping away through her fingers.
She knew that reading this private letter would do no good. It would be like tearing at a scab that had started to heal. The wound was already there, Lulu knew. It’d been hurting her for some time now, and her only regret was not broaching the subject with Pierce sooner. Maybe, if she’d caught it early, she could have nipped it in the bud. Now, it was much too late.
But she couldn’t not look.
It was with a cautious hand that Lulu slipped the sheet against her body and strode toward the bathroom, feeling like a criminal. How depressing! Here she was like a teenager, crying over a diary in the restroom stall.
Retirement wasn’t supposed to be like this. Life was supposed to get easier, empty of responsibility, of drama. Was it so hard for Lulu to grow old with her love and die? She didn’t think that was asking for all that much.
Big, ugly tears welled in Lulu’s eyes as she put the toilet seat down. She leaned over the letter addressed to her and, with a gulp, studied Pierce’s careful, thoughtful handwriting.
Lulu,
I am trying to figure out what to say and how to say it. I’m up in our room desperate to explain things to you, but I know once I do…it will change everything. I know you sense something is wrong, and I owe you the truth, so that’s what I’m going to give you. Here goes nothing.
I can promise you this: I never meant for things to happen this way, and all I can say is that I’m sorry. I wish there was a simpler way to tell you this, a way that wouldn’t hurt so much, but I can’t think of one. Maybe once I write it all down, I’ll know the words I need to tell you when I look into your eyes.
I suppose I should start at the beginning. It all started back when
Lulu flipped the note over. She scoured the room. There was simply no more.
Pierce had run out of juice mid-confession, halfway through a letter that would have changed Lulu’s life. And now, more than ever, she was desperate to know why.
* * *
Detective Ramone: Do you recognize this woman?
Ashley Pinkett: Oh, absolutely! Lulu Franc. My other friend Cindy was gushing about her when she and her husband walked into the resort. Ms. Franc had on that fab fur coat, so of course me and Cindy were admiring it all evening.
Detective Ramone: Did you see her any time after check-in?
Ashley Pinkett: Loads. She was hanging out at the bar with her friends all evening. And then once in the middle of the night.
Detective Ramone: How did Ms. Franc seem when she came down in the middle of the night?
Ashley Pinkett: It was interesting, actually. She seemed very calm, almost detached when I asked if she needed anything. She said she was getting some air. I felt like she was devastated about something but holding it together, and I only
say that because it looked like she’d been crying.
Detective Ramone: Did she seem at all angry?
Ashley Pinkett: It was more like this cool determination. Like she knew exactly what she needed to do and was prepared to do the damn thing.
Detective Ramone: Like murder?
Ashley Pinkett: I was thinking more like killing a bottle of wine by herself. Speaking of wine, Detective, I’m available for drinks tomorrow evening, if you’re interested…
Sixteen
Emily’s body thrummed on a high, on a magnificent cloud. She was weirdly wired, giddy almost, dangerously so, as she lay sprawled and naked on Henry’s bed. She felt as if they were pushing each other, seeing how far they could go before bursting into flames.
“Thanks for letting me in,” Emily said. “I’m glad I came by.”
Henry gave a low, throaty cough. “I think we need to talk—”
“No.” Emily pressed a finger to Henry’s lips, then leaned over and drew his mouth to hers. “We don’t. That wouldn’t be good for either of us.”
“But—”
“Look, Henry,” Emily said, trying to sound breezy and unconcerned, as if she were truly just lounging on a luxurious bed, gloriously naked next to her lover. Lover—what a fancy sort of word for a one-night stand, Emily thought. This could still be called a one-night stand, right? It was within the twenty-four-hour window since they’d met, so technically, the term fit.
A sigh whooshed out of Emily as she rolled over, feeling something quite different from her normal pool of guilt and anger and loss. There’d been something about tonight—something about holding that baby, about feeling a man’s touch again—that had her pulse pounding with optimism. A sort of optimism she hadn’t felt in so long. In so, so long. Since she’d seen Julia’s face, held her in her arms, knew the all-consuming, gut-bursting sensations of motherhood.
She glanced over to Henry, who was waiting with the quiet, reserved sort of patience she’d grown to expect from their brief, albeit intense, encounters. He rested there with his shirt off, tanned and gorgeous, those abs on display in stark contrast to the blindingly white sheets. He was the sort of stud who could have almost any woman he wanted with one flash of a smile.
Henry had mastered the rugged, mysterious sort of aura that told Emily he might be a con man, or a rancher, or a nerdy billionaire. There was a bit of a thrill for Emily in pretending he might be any (or all—a con man/rancher/billionaire?) of those things. If she found out he was an investment banker looking for a weekend fling and nothing exotic at all, she’d be gravely disappointed.
“You never finished your thought,” Henry said, extending a hand toward Emily’s face. He brushed back her hair with slightly rough fingers. Definitely not an investment banker. Rancher—maybe. “What were you saying?”
“I was thinking, you and I are probably somewhat alike,” she said. “And I think we both know this isn’t going anywhere; it’s a little vacation romp to blow off steam. Let’s not complicate it.”
“We’re alike?” Henry asked. “How do you figure?”
“You have secrets; I have secrets,” Emily said. “I’m guessing yours aren’t all sunshine and rainbows.”
“You’ve been hurt,” he said. “You flinch when I touch you.”
“No, I don’t. And this is exactly what I didn’t want to do.” Emily shifted away and turned her back to Henry. “Talking about reality doesn’t make this romantic.”
“What’s the 4:00 a.m. hour for if not sharing secrets?” Henry leaned over, his breath a spicy spearmint. Emily figured she could live off the scent of him alone—a sort of woodsy crispness. “You don’t know my last name. You don’t ever have to see me again.”
“You know my last name.”
“I promise I won’t chase after you.”
Emily snorted. “You’re a charmer.”
“That’s what you want me to say, isn’t it?” Henry asked. “You’re not married, are you?”
“No.”
“In a bad relationship?”
Emily swallowed, her eyes stinging. “I’m alone. I plan on being that way for a long, long time. Forever.”
“I understand secrets,” he said, gruffly rolling away from her. “We don’t have to discuss them.”
Emily reached for him, pulled him close. She begged for his lips to touch hers just once more, to steal a kiss that had her heart thumping. Henry’s arms suddenly felt like a small haven, where she could shout her secrets and they’d never echo back to hurt her. If anything, maybe it’d relieve the ache in Emily’s chest that held her apart from the person she used to be.
“I can’t—” Emily broke the kiss, gasping for breath. “I can’t. He was awful, Henry. Horrible.”
“Did you report him to the police?”
“No,” Emily said, her chest constricting. “He would have killed me. He—There was a child involved.” She hugged her stomach and crunched over herself, still feeling the ache that had destroyed her in a visceral way.
Henry shifted onto his elbows, but he didn’t interrupt.
The sobs came freely as Emily rocked back and forth. “We had a child. A little girl, Julia. The doctors told me her death couldn’t have been helped, couldn’t have been stopped, that SIDS can happen to any baby, at any time, for no reason at all.” Emily struggled to find her breath. “But I don’t believe them. If only I’d left sooner, maybe things would have been different.”
“It’s not your fault. The doctors said so.”
“I was…” Emily stopped crying suddenly. She sat up, picturing Daniel. Picturing the man she’d needed so desperately during college. The man she’d thought would give her everything, when all he’d given her was pain.
If it weren’t for Ginger, maybe none of this would have happened. If Ginger hadn’t broken their friendship because of one stupid mistake—Emily hadn’t been thinking the night she’d kissed Frank! She had apologized a thousand times over, but no. Ginger had been able to forgive Frank, but she hadn’t ever forgiven Emily. Her one transgression had sat on their record of friendship like a stubborn pencil mark, and the more she tried to erase it, the more permanent it became.
In her loneliness, Emily had fled to Daniel’s bed, begging for him to take her back. They’d fallen into a whirlwind romance soon after. She’d been weak and tired, lonely and angry at the loss of her best friend. Daniel had seen something in her then, she realized. Something broken, and he’d capitalized on it with the prowess of a hunter finding its prey.
When Emily closed her eyes, she could still feel the slap of his hand against her cheek. She could see the blood spurt from her nose when he came home drunk and angry and sometimes armed. But if she hadn’t gone back to Daniel, she wouldn’t have had Julia. Emily remembered the times she’d stood over her baby’s crib with the grinning stuffed animals nearby, singing softly, praying his mood would blow past. That he’d leave their daughter alone. That he’d focus on Emily instead.
“I was unconscious,” Emily said evenly. She heard herself speaking, but it sounded hollow, as if someone else were retelling the story from the police report. “I don’t remember exactly what happened. It was a blur, a nightmare. I woke to find my nose broken. I was lying in the bathtub. When I came to, the first thing I did was go to Julia’s room to check on her, but…”
“I’m sorry,” Henry said. His hand came to caress her cheek tenderly.
She struggled to find a breath, and when words weren’t enough, she fell toward Henry with a ferocity that had them clawing at one another’s clothes, a bit drunk, wildly angry, painfully aware of their dysfunctional partnership as they tore at each other until they both were gasping and spent.
“I’m going to shower,” Emily said, shame creeping up the back of her neck. She crawled from the bed. “Don’t follow me. I-I need to be alone.”
Before Henry could respond, E
mily crossed the room, forgetting to be self-conscious about her naked figure as moonlight pierced through the windows. He’d already seen her anyway—all of her—and he wouldn’t be seeing her again.
Emily slammed the bathroom door behind her a little too hard, then cursed when she stepped on a duffel bag Henry must have left in the corner of the bathroom. Emily had surprised him when he’d opened the door earlier, so he must have been unpacking and forgotten it there.
“Fuck!” she snarled, holding her injured toe.
But when she leaned down to catch a glimpse of the offending object, her heart stopped.
A gun.
Henry Anonymous carried a gun in a duffel bag on a weekend retreat to a spa and resort.
Emily’s tears stopped at once, and her survival mode kicked into high gear.
Maybe he was a cop, but she sincerely doubted that. He didn’t have any other identification in his bag. Emily checked desperately for some sort of badge, but there wasn’t so much as a gym card with Henry’s name on it. Even if he was some sort of police officer, would he travel to a family event with a gun thrown carelessly in a duffel? It was possible, but…
Henry didn’t feel like a cop.
So, why the hell did he have a gun?
* * *
Detective Ramone: You said you stole a gun from Henry’s room.
Emily Brown: That is what I said. Good on you for listening.
Detective Ramone: Why did Henry have a gun in the first place?
Emily Brown: I wondered the same damn thing when I found it. But I have to say, I’m certainly glad it was there.
Detective Ramone: Did you steal it with the intent to shoot the victim?
Emily Brown: As a matter of fact, I didn’t.
Detective Ramone: Then why did this man end up with a bullet in his chest?
Seventeen
“Oh, hello, Lulu!” Kate straightened in surprise as the elevator doors opened to reveal a familiar face. “Is everything all right? It’s late—I thought you’d gone to bed.”