The Broken Ones

by Ren Richards

  Lindsay had never moved so fast. Nell trailed after her through the building and across the parking lot like a clumsy gosling following its mother.

  ‘Don’t,’ Lindsay said pre-emptively as Nell climbed into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Linds, you should have told him about Matthew.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Lindsay waved her arm at the steering wheel. ‘Drive.’

  Nell tugged the car aggressively in drive, but she went on. ‘He was a monster, Linds.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Lindsay turned in her seat to face her. ‘That’s why you aren’t speaking to the current Mrs Cranlin right now. But it was a long time ago, and he has no reason to come back and make threats. I’m sure he’s busy tormenting his new wife.’

  Matthew Cranlin. That smug piece of shit. He was the only person Nell hated more than she hated the press, more than the vultures that had peddled her photos and pried into her life and accused her of murdering her missing daughter because it sold papers.

  ‘You should have told him,’ Nell murmured.

  ‘Can we drop this now?’ Lindsay said.

  They came to a red light and Nell hit the brakes so hard they both jolted forward. ‘No, Lindsay. No we cannot drop this. I saw your car last night and my heart just about stopped. I thought that was you being pulled out of the flames. I thought you were dead.’

  They began moving again. Lindsay turned to look out her window. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I didn’t know you thought it was me.’ An apology from Lindsay was a rare thing, but Nell was in no position to revel in it now.

  ‘If someone is trying to hurt you, if there’s anyone who has any reason to be pissed off, you need to tell me.’

  ‘Matthew was a monster, like I said, but I can’t think of a reason he’d come for me now. There’s nothing to gain; I don’t even collect alimony from him.’

  It didn’t matter if there was anything to gain. It had not been enough for Matthew simply to have Lindsay as his wife. To dress her up to impress his friends, fuck her any time he wanted. He had always wanted something more. To devour her whole, to own her fire and her spirit. It infuriated him how much he loved her. He wanted to keep her and kill her at the same time.

  A divorce couldn’t end something that powerful. Maybe nothing could.

  But that hadn’t been the worst part. The worst part had been trying to make Lindsay understand this. It was like screaming in a dream, wondering why no sound came out.

  Nell turned into the lot of the Gold Acropolis. As diners went it wasn’t the ritziest, but they served alcohol at all hours and Lindsay liked their breakfasts.

  Lindsay’s distracted silence over breakfast gave Nell a greater feeling of unease than anything else to happen in the last twenty-four hours. Lindsay downed a tall stack of pancakes but didn’t even feign interest in her mimosa. Nell hated to see her sister so worried, and moreover, hated not knowing what she was thinking.

  ‘Linds, I don’t want you to go back to the house.’

  ‘Don’t be dramatic. It’s the safest place. There’s an alarm on every window.’ She was staring out at the busy divided highway. Over the past decade, the city had become so overpopulated that people had begun flooding the outskirts, desperate for more affordable housing. If they couldn’t live in the city itself, they could at least have a view. The highway had doubled in size, and the air always smelled faintly of gasoline.

  ‘I hate this time of year.’ Lindsay’s voice was soft. She was speaking more to her faded reflection in the glass than to Nell. ‘At first, the air gets a little chilly, but then on days like these, the sun is out but there’s a bitter cold that cuts through you. It doesn’t matter what you wear. It doesn’t matter if you hold your hands up to the vents with the heat going full blast. The cold gets inside of you.’

  Nell felt a shiver move through her. She gave a lot of thought to weather like this. Days like this. The thing that truly made her restless and made eyes seem beady and intentions sinister was the anniversary that had passed without acknowledgement. Every year she moved over it like an odd bump on a dark road. This week was ten years since Reina had disappeared. Instantly, silently, the frozen white sky had devoured her whole. It was the cleanest explanation. They never found so much as a shoe. It seemed impossible that such a vast world filled with so many people had been unable to unearth even a missing child’s fingernail. Somewhere in the cardboard archives of the police station, Reina was preserved in a folder like a dead flower in an old book. The box could be opened, the photographs and reports viewed a hundred times, a million, but there was no life there, and nothing left to bloom. Nell’s child was a stunning rarity: one of the few things that didn’t come back.

  And it had been on a day just like this.

  Nell reached across the table and grabbed Lindsay’s wrist. She could feel how real and solid and warm she was. Lindsay was her constant. Reina had appeared one day and disappeared just as suddenly, but Lindsay had always been in Nell’s world, and if she ever left, she would take that entire world with her.

  Lindsay seemed grateful for the touch. She wasn’t the sort to initiate affection, or to ask for it, but the lack of it would make her do desperate things – like marry Matthew Cranlin.

  Nell’s phone trilled in her purse, making her flinch. She fumbled for it and checked the number on the screen. ‘Shit, sorry, I have to take this,’ she said. She ran outside, a gust of icy wind blowing across the speaker and distorting her voice when she said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello,’ an uncertain voice replied. It was a woman. ‘Is this Nell Way? I hope I have the right number.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nell said. ‘Is this Mrs Hamblin?’

  ‘I read your email,’ the woman said, by way of answer. ‘My husband doesn’t want me to speak with you, but—’ She cut herself off. The line went so silent that Nell checked the screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.

  ‘I can meet with you today,’ the woman went on, still hesitant. ‘Can you come to my house now? I’ll email you the address.’

  Nell looked at Lindsay through the diner window. She was using the camera on her phone to reapply her lipstick.

  Mrs Hamblin sounded uncertain. If Nell tried to reschedule, she would lose her opportunity to talk to the twins’ adoptive mother. But if she spoke to her now, maybe she could earn her trust, which would lead to further interviews, which would ultimately lead to a book that did justice to both Easter and Autumn.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Are you in the city? You know what, it doesn’t matter. Send me the address, and wherever you are, I’ll be there as fast as I can.’

  After hanging up, Nell breezed into the diner and began fishing for cash in her wallet. ‘That was work,’ she said. ‘I’m going to drop you off at the insurance agency and from there you’re going to have to take a cab back to my apartment.’

  ‘Work?’ Lindsay said. And then she went pale, and she whispered, ‘Not the crazy twin story. I thought you were going to drop that one.’

  ‘Why would I drop it?’ Nell asked.

  ‘Do you just want the immediate reasons, or should I sit down and compose a list?’ Lindsay said. But Nell had already left the money on the table and was making for the door.

  Lindsay sprinted to keep up with Nell. ‘You aren’t speaking to that crazy woman’s family alone,’ Lindsay said. ‘I’m going with you.’

  ‘No,’ Nell said. ‘You aren’t. Yesterday you didn’t keep your mouth shut, and I can’t have you doing that, Linds, I just can’t. Mrs Hamblin is very skittish about speaking to me. I don’t want her getting scared off.’

  Skittish, Nell understood. The Hamblins had made headlines throughout their daughter’s trial. HEARTBROKEN PARENTS BLAME THEMSELVES. HAMBLIN MOM CONFIDES IN PRIEST FOR GUIDANCE. THE HAMBLINS A YEAR LATER: WILL THERE BE CLOSURE?

  The media was ruthlessly parasitic. But Nell was not media. However chaotic she was in her own life, she approached the interviews with her subject’s friends and fa
mily with finesse and compassion, things that had never been afforded to her when she was the subject of the same scrutiny. She would always ask them how they were doing, pause for the reply, thank them for their time.

  Interviewing the subjects of her books themselves proved less formulaic. She hadn’t interviewed Nathan Stuart, given that he was dead. But the Widow Thompson had evoked unexpected compassion from Nell. She had been very polite, even sweet. She often asked about the weather because her room, the hallways and the activity centre at her institution were without windows. She wanted to know if it was snowing or raining, or if the heat was of the humid or dry sort.

  ‘You need to drop this project, Nell,’ Lindsay said. ‘There are a hundred other stories.’

  Nell shook her head. ‘A woman who murders her conjoined twin? There aren’t a hundred of those.’

  ‘The entire family must be crazy,’ Lindsay said.

  ‘Of course they’re crazy,’ Nell said. ‘That’s what makes the story so interesting.’

  Lindsay was not used to losing arguments, and when Nell pulled up in front of the insurance agency, Lindsay’s sourness was palpable. But they were at an impasse.

  ‘Just be safe,’ Lindsay said. ‘And call me when you’re done so I know this woman didn’t murder you.’

  ‘I promise not to get murdered,’ Nell said.

  Lindsay cut her a mean glare, but then she pushed forward and kissed Nell’s cheek, and she was gone.

  The Hamblins lived in a brownstone in what Sebastian would call the sinister part of Rockhollow. But then, to him all cities were bubbling stew pots of crime and disease.

  Nell thought it was pretty, with cast iron railings and rectangular gardens between staircases. The windows were tall and looked like half-closed eyes. The number 48 was bolted beside the front door in gleaming copper.

  The door opened before Nell could knock.

  ‘Ms Way?’ Mrs Hamblin stood in the doorway. She was a tall woman, slim, with thinning blonde hair that had been teased back to fullness. She took pride in her appearance, that much was clear. Her face wore a coat of concealer and bronzer and blush, and her eyelashes were thick with mascara.

  ‘Please call me Nell,’ Nell said.

  Mrs Hamblin nodded and moved aside to let her in. She did a quick sweep of the street before she pulled the door shut. ‘Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice,’ Mrs Hamblin said. She was leading Nell down a narrow hallway, past a staircase and into a study. Books lined the walls floor to ceiling. There was a piano, a fireplace and two leather armchairs. It was an impressive amount of furniture for such a small place, Nell thought. ‘My husband is away visiting his mother. He flies back tomorrow morning, and he would be angry if he knew I’d agreed to speak with you. I’m still not sure why I agreed.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Nell said, sitting in one armchair while Mrs Hamblin took the other. ‘I appreciate it. I know that it’s difficult to establish trust after dealing with the media circus, but you have my word that nothing is on the record unless you agree to it.’

  Mrs Hamblin gave a sad smile. ‘Oleg has become a good friend to us, especially since the trial.’

  Oleg was older than his sisters by five years. After his sisters were given up for adoption, he remained in Russia with their biological parents, but he never lost touch with his sisters. Visits, gifts, letters.

  Nell offered a warm smile. ‘It’s good that you have him to talk to.’

  ‘This has been hard on him,’ Mrs Hamblin said. ‘He was so close to Autumn. Even though he was only here once or twice a year, the two of them always picked up right where they left off.’ She stared into the fire burning in the hearth. It made the house smell of cedar and camping. ‘I don’t know why I thought boys would be less open about their feelings than girls. I suppose that’s unfair, isn’t it? But I wanted a daughter because I thought daughters were supposed to be sweet.’ She crossed one leg over the other and hooked her hands around her knee. She was so elegant, like a portrait in a gallery no one visited.

  Nell wanted to ask what Mrs Hamblin meant by ‘sweet’ and if either of her daughters met the criteria. But she would have to choose her questions carefully so as not to startle her.

  ‘We expected to adopt a baby. The waiting list is very long. Years. We were willing to wait, but when the agency called us about twins – I was overjoyed. They were older than what we expected. Ten. But one look at their faces and it was love.’ Her voice fogged up with that word and she said it again. ‘It was love.’

  Nell wrote it down. ‘What were they like?’ she asked.

  ‘Very shy,’ Mrs Hamblin said. ‘They came to live with us about a month before their surgery. We homeschooled for that first year so the girls could become more comfortable with English. They were both exceptionally bright. Autumn had a head for numbers; she was my little helper when I was balancing my chequebook or budgeting for groceries. And Easter had the most brilliant imagination. She could write entire plays in her head and perform them with her dolls. She even voiced the characters. But they were … quiet, I suppose. Skittish for a long time.’ Her voice lowered to a hush, though there was no one but Nell in the house to hear her. ‘The social worker suggested that their birth parents used to hit them. So many times I thought of asking Oleg, but it never seemed right. He wasn’t my child, after all.’

  Nell thought of Easter switching between her Russian and American accents. If the conversation lulled, Nell was prepared to ask questions about the twins’ relationship with each other and the outside world. But now that Mrs Hamblin had begun talking, she had a lot to say. She didn’t sound like the mother of a murdered child; in her recounting of motherhood, she hadn’t gotten to that part of the story yet. She was still the parent of two little girls with shiny blonde hair and sullen green eyes.

  ‘I never knew when the girls were fighting with each other,’ she said. ‘Even as teenagers, they were very well-mannered. There were no shouting matches, but I would hear them whispering angrily sometimes at night. Some things they preferred to work out among themselves.’

  ‘Do you have any examples?’ Nell asked.

  ‘Well, let’s see.’ Mrs Hamblin narrowed her eyes at the fireplace. Her gaze shifted to the mantel. It was decorated with a series of Precious Moments figurines and two candles, half melted in copper candelabras. There was an empty space at the centre; it would have been a perfect place for two framed photographs of identical children with matching scars. But there were no photos there, or anywhere else in the house that Nell had seen.

  ‘There was that time with the mouse,’ Mrs Hamblin said. ‘The girls were nearly thirteen then. We found droppings in the cupboards and little holes in the cereal boxes. Bits of Cheerios all over.’ A smile. ‘Easter had the idea that she could catch the mouse and keep it like a pet. I said that would be fine, just so long as she got the damn thing out of my kitchen. She set about making little traps to catch it. But Autumn went into the basement and took a snap trap and baited it with peanut butter. She was only trying to help. She hated rodents and bugs – not because they scared her, but I think … well I think they reminded her of being destitute. She was a very tidy child and she liked things a certain way.

  ‘We all heard the snap in the middle of the night. There was the mouse, dead in the trap, poor thing.’

  Nell considered this. Easter had wanted a pet. That was typical for a child, and not at all typical for a budding murderer. Animals were the first victims of future killers. Small, easily broken things to whet the psychotic appetite for human blood.

  But Autumn had been the one to kill the mouse. And she had used a trap. That didn’t tell Nell anything at all; Autumn may well have been doing the practical thing: getting rid of a pest.

  ‘What happened after that?’ Nell asked.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Mrs Hamblin said. ‘You could tell something had changed though.’ She looked at her hands. ‘Easter took her allowance and bought a guinea pig. I said it’d be all right
. She took good care of it. It lasted almost ten years, I think. Pasha. She took it with her when she and Autumn moved into their apartment.’

  There was a hitch to her voice when she said that last word. Here was where the story turned dark, with that one word: apartment. Once Autumn and Easter left this house, they ceased to be the children Mr and Mrs Hamblin had dreamed of. They became women. Their secrets flourished and festered and turned into something ugly.

  If only they had stayed here. That’s what Mrs Hamblin’s expression said. Maybe they would have stayed little girls forever.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Hamblin said. ‘I have to ask you to leave now. I have guests due.’

  ‘Mrs Hamblin—’ Nell fought to keep her desperation in check. She knew this was the only interview she would likely be granted. This was the only time she would be welcomed into the home of the media’s most infamous conjoined twins. ‘This isn’t just Easter’s story. I would like to tell the world about your daughters as they really were. Before this happened.’

  Mrs Hamblin fell silent and the air was tight. Nell felt her own pulse thudding in her temples. Had she just blown the interview?

  ‘I didn’t know what to expect, and that’s my fault,’ Mrs Hamblin finally said. ‘I thought having children would be like the sitcoms I watched as a girl, and the poems on birthday cards.’

  Nell was holding her breath. She didn’t dare to make a sound, lest she ruin the momentum that had been built.

  ‘They weren’t easy children.’ Mrs Hamblin tugged at her thin gold necklace as though it were tightening around her throat. ‘I can only guess what sort of life they had in Russia. As I said, there may have been abuse. My husband and I tried to understand. In the twins’ first year of high school, Easter would turn up with bruises all the time. I couldn’t imagine how she was getting them because she wasn’t the rambunctious type. Autumn came to me one evening in tears and said that Easter was beating herself with her hairbrush, burning her wrists with the curling iron.