HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller

by T. J. Brearton

  I think that about sums it up.

  “So talk to me,” Paul says. “If you can. What’s with this cop? Why was he there? Why’s he telling you about Laura Bishop getting paroled?”

  I realize I never mentioned to Paul the prison’s proximity to our home.

  “You’re shitting me,” he says. “Okay. So something is definitely going on here. Is that what you think?”

  Paul’s line of questioning strikes me as kind of dopey, like he’s some bumbling gumshoe. But that’s probably because I’m tired and my head hurts. “I don’t know what I think.” Closing my eyes, I rest my head on the seatback. “What did you guys do last night?”

  “What did we do? The two of them went into town. Picked up some Chinese food, brought it back. After we ate, I went out to work on the boat and they left.”

  “When?”

  “I dunno. It was getting late. Maybe eleven? I’m sorry I didn’t hear the phone right away. I always meant to put a line in the garage.”

  “Anything weird happen?”

  “Aside from you hitting a deer after deciding to drive all the way back here in the middle of the night? No.”

  I ignore it. Keeping my eye closed, I ask, “What time did they get back?”

  “They weren’t back.”

  My eyelids fly open. “They weren’t?”

  “No, her car wasn’t there . . . Em, do you know something you aren’t telling me?”

  “What? No . . .” Fully awake now, I call the house and wait while it rings. When Joni answers, I exhale with relief.

  “Mom?” She sounds like the call woke her up. “What’s the matter?”

  “Go back to sleep. Everything’s fine. I’ll talk to you in a bit.”

  “Okay . . .”

  I hang up. Paul is watching me carefully. He continues to strike me as goofy, ham-handed. For some reason, I think of hitting him that day in the rain, all those years ago.

  “I don’t know,” I say, “what do you think about Laura Bishop getting out of prison?”

  He scowls as he drives. “What do I think? I have no idea what to think.”

  I stare a moment, then ease back. “It’s just been a tough couple of days. A lot of heavy lifting.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Everything is going to be fine. I just need to rest.”

  He’s silent, mulling it over.

  I touch his arm. “Hey. We’ll figure it all out. All right? We will.”

  * * *

  I sleep until noon. When I wake up, it’s with a start, yanking off my eye mask. I’m hot — sweating in the sun that pours into the room. Having spent the time unconscious dreaming about a deer with its head bashed open, I’m disoriented.

  “Joni,” I say, and then I get up too fast and tumble out of the bed.

  As I catch my breath on the floor, I hear footfalls hurrying below. Someone pounds up the stairs. It’s Paul. He barges into the room and kneels down beside me, getting his arms under me. “Honey. Honey . . . what?”

  “I’m okay.” I let him help me up. We sit on the edge of the bed. “I just slipped.”

  He looks me over carefully. Then we have a quick kiss, and I wave him off. “I’m fine.” I walk to the en suite bathroom and flip on the light.

  Well, I don’t look fine. I’ve got a big red welt on the side of my cheek where I struck my own face and the cut over my eye. My skin looks waxy and pale, glistening with perspiration. I start the shower.

  Paul calls for me, “You’re really all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  I run the tap for some water — Lake Placid has pristine drinking water — and gulp some down from a cup. “I’m starving,” I tell Paul.

  “Say no more.”

  But I poke my head out. “Where’s Joni now?”

  Paul stops halfway out of the room. “Went into town. To grab some lunch.”

  “They just went into town yesterday.”

  Worry furrows his brow. Then it clears, and Paul gets a face I’ve come to know well all after these years — he’s about to be as sensible as sensible gets. “Listen, I did some thinking while you were asleep.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “And I guess I’m of two minds about this whole thing.”

  I get out my toothbrush and squeeze some paste on it. “Okay . . .”

  “On the one hand, I’m thinking maybe you should do whatever it takes to satisfy your concerns about Michael. You know, hire someone to do a background check.”

  Brushing, I spit, but don’t mention Frank Mills. “And your other mind?”

  “My other mind tells me there’s something else going on.”

  “Like what?”

  Paul gives me a sympathetic smile that’s a little bit condescending. Like I can’t see the obvious thing staring me in the face. “Our daughter is going to marry someone. After all of this time, all of our worry about her, everything we went through. It’s a lot to process. You of all people know this.”

  I rinse the toothbrush and put it away.

  Paul comes closer. He needn’t remind me of the nights we spent awake, searching for her, worrying.

  “She put us to the test,” he says. “And now that this thing is happening . . . I mean, think about it, Em. The way you reacted to her not being here last night. The way you’ve been since Michael showed up. It’s post-traumatic stress. The whole thing.”

  I square my shoulders with him. “I’ll admit you might be onto something.”

  “I worry about her, too. But she seems really happy.”

  “We’ll see what Sean thinks,” I say, turning back toward the shower. I let my robe fall from my shoulders and softly hit the ground. “He’s always been a good judge of Joni’s boyfriends.”

  “He hasn’t really liked any of them,” Paul says, right behind me.

  “Exactly.”

  Paul’s touch is light, the tips of his fingers feathering over the skin of my upper arms.

  He leans closer. “I’m so glad you’re okay. It could have been worse. A lot worse.” He kisses the back of my neck gently, warmly. He moves his hand down past my elbows, and then he moves to my thighs, my buttocks.

  There’s always a part of me that feels resistance in this moment. For one thing, I don’t feel particularly attractive right now. Not particularly sexy. For another, while it’s been many years since Paul and I went through his having an affair, it never completely goes away. The thought of him touching another woman like this, it’s always there. And at times it feels, almost, like someone watching.

  But I’ve learned to let this go, to give in to what I want. Paul and I lead busy lives. And we’re no spring chickens. Even though ours is an empty nest — long gone are the days sex was precluded by children always underfoot — it’s not become some romance-athon since Joni left for college. We’re often working late, often tired, two ships passing in the night.

  So we take our chances when they arise. And right now is more than that, anyway. It’s about closeness, comfort, intimacy.

  I step into the shower ahead of Paul. He removes his clothes and steps in after. I turn to face him, and he presses me gently but firmly against the shower wall. The water pours down. I adjust the temperature so it’s not scalding.

  We fall into our rhythm. For a few moments, I forget everything. Michael Rand, Arnold Bleeker, creepy Steve Starzyk.

  Laura Bishop, released from prison. Just a few miles away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  After our shower, I’m in the kitchen making sandwiches for lunch. Paul comes through and tells me that he’s already procured a rental car to replace the wrecked Range Rover. “It’s just a small sedan, less impact-resistant than the Rover, so don’t go hitting any more deer.”

  “Ha ha.”

  He kisses me, tells me again he’s so grateful I’m okay, then leaves to work on his boat in the garage. Once I hear the whine of his electric sander, I lick some mayo off my fingers and pick up
the phone. First I text Sean, who is supposed to be arriving this evening. Currently living in Colorado, he decided to drive instead of fly and so set out sometime yesterday.

  Hey kiddo. ETA?

  I set the phone on the kitchen island and hurry back upstairs. My overnight bag is in the closet in our bedroom. Distraught as I was last night, at least I had the presence of mind to stick the Tom Bishop file in there. I’m able to locate it quickly and thumb through it, looking for court contact information.

  There. The judge who oversaw the case was the Honorable Raymond Meyers. I call, knowing I’m likely to get a machine — it’s the weekend, after all. But a young woman answers, sounding pert and intelligent. It’s the judge’s clerk, named Sydney.

  “Sydney,” I say. “I didn’t expect to get anyone.”

  She explains that she’s going over a big deposition on a criminal case. We small-talk a little — she graduated Yale two springs ago, and she really likes clerking for Meyers. She thinks he’s a great judge.

  I penetrate the small talk with a deep dive. “Well, Sydney, about fifteen years ago, Judge Meyers presided over a capital murder case — David Bishop?”

  “Oh yes, I’m familiar with that case.”

  “Great. Then you probably know that there was a juvenile involved.”

  “Yes,” she says, not quite as pert or bright. “Those records are sealed.”

  “That’s right. So, I was a consulting clinical psychologist on that case. I worked with the New York investigators. They requested I do a mental health evaluation. I did five sessions with the juvenile.” I choose my next words carefully. “The work we did in those sessions had an impact on the direction of the case.”

  “Yes,” Sydney says, almost too quietly to hear.

  “I have my notes, but it was a closed courtroom, testimony sealed. I really could use a look at that information. Could you put in the request to Judge Meyers for me?”

  A pause. Then, tentative, “Sure . . . Can I ask what for?”

  “Well, that would be between me and Judge Meyers.”

  It’s a little curt, but I can’t give her an honest answer. I want to know who else came into the court, gave statements, etc. Some distant family in Arizona, maybe. Any friends of Laura Bishop. There are all sorts of possible angles to this thing.

  I try to sound nicer at the end. “If you could have the judge call me at his earliest convenience, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Of course.”

  When I hang up with her, the electric sander is quiet. I wait a few seconds, then it starts up again. My next call is to Candace. Arnold Bleeker’s daughter. I have her number in my phone.

  A man answers, and he’s gruff: “What do you want?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m trying to reach Candace.”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you. And this is my phone, not hers.”

  I pad down the stairs, feeling a bit of hope. It’s something in his voice — he’s not as dead-set against me as she is.

  “I understand that,” I say. “She made that clear, and I’m so sorry to be bothering you. Are you her husband?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Well, you grabbed me, pretty hard.” If there’s a bruise, it’s camouflaged by the accident, but he doesn’t know that. “I could go to the police and press charges. But I don’t want that. All I want is a chance to explain. I know Candace’s adopted brother. I can’t say how I know him, but . . . Hello?”

  I stop in the middle of the living room. So much for my intuition. Candace’s friend hung up on me. What is it with these people?

  Getting frustrated now, I dial back. No one answers. The call goes to voicemail: “Hi, this is Greg, with G. Force Trucking. I can’t answer my phone right now, but leave your info and I’ll get back to ya.”

  There’s a beep. My mouth is open to hold forth, but then I close it. I’m standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, with a view clear down to the lake. Beside the dock, in the clear dark water, is an object. Something floating.

  For a moment, I just stand there, too shocked to move.

  Then I turn from the windows and run.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Paul must see me streak across the yard, because suddenly he’s just behind me. I almost fall but am able to keep my balance. When I reach the dock, I sprint to the end of the wood. Paul’s vibrations follow. I’m on my knees reaching into the water. The white shape is floating just out of reach, but close enough to realize it’s a sweatshirt with no one in it.

  I know that sweatshirt; it’s Joni’s. She could have slipped out of it. Or been struggling and it came off. Any number of things.

  “Em . . .” Paul says. “What—”

  Shoes and all, I jump from the dock. It’s August, but Lake Placid is always cold. So cold, it once preserved the body of a missing woman for decades. The lake slopes away quickly from our shore so that just a few feet from the grassy embankment, the water is up to my chest. That’s where I land and start swimming for the shirt, just a few yards away.

  I grab at it. It billows under my grasp. I push it aside and dive under after hearing Paul call my name a second time.

  The cold sharpens my senses. Kicking with my feet to plunge deeper, I open my eyes. The sun penetrates enough and the water is clear so I can see the sandy bottom. I touch it with my fingers and arc my back and start back toward the surface. Then, keeping myself submerged by letting out some air and fanning upward with my hands, I search. I do a complete circle in the water.

  Seeing nothing, I break the surface for a breath.

  “Emily!”

  I’m back under again. Paul knows what I’m doing; I don’t need to explain myself to him right now or listen as he tries to dissuade me. I search farther out, going until the bottom disappears beneath me. I swivel back. The metal posts supporting the dock come into view. I swim around them and partly under the dock.

  Joni is nowhere.

  Breaking the surface again, I don’t see Paul right away. Then I spot him — he’s fished out the sweatshirt that drifted over to him and is wringing it out. I kick for the ladder on the side of the dock, then climb out and stand, panting, hands on my hips, water pattering down onto the treated wood.

  “My first time in since we got here,” I say between breathy exhalations. My chest and ribs hurt from last night’s accident, but the cool water was exhilarating.

  Paul gives me an angry glance. He finishes wringing out the sweatshirt and hangs it from the back of one of the Adirondack chairs occupying the dock that runs along the bank, connecting the two others. Shaking his head, he starts up the lawn for the house. He’s clearly upset with me.

  “I thought I saw someone in the water,” I call after him.

  Paul stops immediately. He walks back toward me at a brisk pace. Not much gets Paul emotional. But when it does, he’s all in. “I know,” he says testily. “I figured you thought someone was in there. But you’ve just been in a car accident, Emily. You have a giant bruise on your face. I know they said you weren’t concussed, but you’ve definitely had some sort of reaction.”

  He stands, fuming.

  I say, “You could’ve jumped in.”

  His nostrils flare and his jaw twitches. “I could see no one was there. Just you, thrashing around.”

  He turns and walks away again. I open my mouth but close it. It’s no use. I know he’s upset because he’s worried; he’s lacking control. It’s his self-esteem, I decided long ago. Paul needs to feel capable and in charge, or he fears being rejected — even after all these years.

  I watch until he goes into the house — he gives the side door a little slam — and then I take off my T-shirt. We’re located in a corner of the lake, a kind of cove, with the nearest neighbor a quarter mile away. Boating activity stays mostly restricted to the main body of the lake. We get the occasional fisherman puttering back into our area, or the kayaker or canoer who’s exploring the shoreline. But it’s typically quie
t and private, like now.

  I drop my shirt and squeeze out my hair; it’s short and will dry quickly. For now, I scrape it back out of my face. I sit and take my wet sneakers off, remove the socks. As I do, I look at the boathouse.

  The boathouse sits in the water. It’s like a garage, but for boats. In bare feet now, I rise from the chair. The boathouse is navy blue with dark red trim. There are two windows on my side. I step between docks and peer in the first window. I can see the sailboat and part of the dinghy.

  Next to the window is the door. I grab the doorknob, find it locked.

  “Paul . . . ?”

  My call to my husband is half-hearted; I know he can’t hear me all the way up at the house. But it’s odd — why is the door locked? We only do that when we’re away. I check the first window again, then move to the second. I can’t see in much better; the angle is bad and the glass is dirty. Paul has been meaning to connect all the docks with a short piece, one that joins the U-shape inside the boathouse with the U-shape on the outside, but he’s been preoccupied building his boat. A gap remains between them. Since the door is locked, that means if I want to get inside, I’ve got to go back in the water.

  I head back for the ladder and lower myself down, push off and do a breaststroke. What’s compelling me, I’m not entirely sure. A feeling. Maybe residual symptoms from last night’s accident — Paul could be partly right.

  I swim for the open mouth of the boathouse. At least there’s another ladder in there, a metal ladder from an old boat that we hooked to the inner docks. It’s rickety, but I climb up. Now I’m standing next to the sailboat. It’s shady in here, and when the wind blows, evaporating the moisture on my skin, I feel a chill.

  It’s gloomy in the boathouse. The walls are exposed so that the studs are visible, making it feel a bit like being inside a ribcage. There’s an old anchor hanging on the back wall. Several bright orange seat cushions. A long run of rope, thick and frayed, hanging from a ten-penny nail. In the corner, a basket filled with fishing poles.