HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller

by T. J. Brearton

  “The death of two parents,” I say, “and no life insurance? At least, not enough to cover a year’s tuition?”

  Paul pulls on khaki shorts. He looks at me and shrugs. “I don’t know. Sounds kind of private.”

  I roll my eyes. My husband doesn’t need to lecture me on privacy. But his comment doesn’t bother me. Instead, I approach him and give him a kiss. He has to pause, his arms through his dark-green polo shirt but not yet over his head. Paul is in good shape for a man in his late fifties. Of course, nobody can beat time, and I’ve never been that hung up on physique, but it’s good that Paul is healthy. And right now, with his arms in his shirt, he’s my temporary captive. I push against him and give him a kiss.

  He studies me, looking into my eyes.

  I ask, “Remember when we first met?”

  “Of course.”

  “You thought I would never meet your parents. Or your friends. I was too busy with school, then work.”

  “I remember.”

  “I told you it would all come with time.”

  “Yes,” he says, sighing. “You were right.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean that I’m hoping . . . that’s all this is. I just need to give it time with Michael. Like you said. There’s been so many false starts with her . . . But we’ll get to know him, and I won’t have to be anxious.”

  He cocks his eyebrow at me — a very “Paul” expression. Paul has an angular face, sharp eyebrows, and when he raises his left one as high as the other, it’s comical. But he’s checking my sincerity.

  “What?” I ask.

  He pulls his shirt down the rest of the way. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Dressed, Paul lingers a moment. My little confession seems to have softened him. He touches my face, his thumb near my bruise. “How you feeling? Otherwise?”

  “I feel fine. I’m good.”

  I smile and pat his butt as he walks out of the bedroom. Once he’s through the door and out of sight, my smile drops.

  * * *

  In the closet is my bag from the trip home. I open it and dig out Starzyk’s business card. He answers on the second ring. “Dr. Lindman? I was hoping to hear from you.”

  I’m already feeling regret. Maybe it’s just the tone of his voice. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine, I just—”

  “Have you been contacted?”

  I assume he means Laura Bishop. “No . . . I . . . no.”

  “Is the boy still there with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does he seem?”

  I walk to the bedroom window, a dormer to one side of the vaulted ceiling. The view of the lake is the same, just from higher up. Joni and Michael are no longer in the chairs. Their towels are gone.

  I move to the door and shut it quickly but softly, speaking in a low voice. “He’s fine.”

  “Has he gone anywhere?”

  “No, just with my daughter. Just to lunch.”

  “Any strange phone calls?”

  “Have I gotten any strange phone calls?”

  “Him. Has he.”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Excuse me, Detective, but I called you.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “I understand that. He could arrange to meet her some other way. But I wouldn’t advise following him. I’m not suggesting that. Okay?”

  I shut my eyes and give a thought-clearing shake of my head. “The reason I’m calling — did you ever keep tabs on where Thomas Bishop went after everything happened?”

  “I believe he went to live with his aunt and uncle.”

  “But you never kept tabs on him after that?”

  “No . . . That’s not in my purview.”

  “I just thought . . . you were at the Bishop house.”

  Starzyk makes no reply.

  “He might be living in Arizona,” I say. “This might not be him. This Michael Rand has a very . . . compelling life story. He’s been to college. His parents are deceased . . .”

  “Have you been able to verify any of that?”

  “My daughter met him at college.”

  “Uh-huh. So, she can verify he’s been there for however long?”

  “He was playing on the lacrosse team. They said it was just after Easter.”

  “Lacrosse team . . .” Starzyk mutters. He’s writing it down. “Easter . . . And it’s which college?”

  I almost don’t tell him. “Colgate University.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay. And you say he hasn’t behaved in any suspicious way.”

  I think through every glance, every small moment over the past two days. Michael has admitted some baggage, but he’s the picture of a doting boyfriend. Around us, he’s neither obsequious nor arrogant, but perhaps just charmingly nervous and typically shy unless talking about a subject which interests him, like social media. In short, if he has a flaw, it’s being too perfect.

  “Detective, can I ask you — you seem very interested in this. But if Laura Bishop is out on parole, that means she was reviewed. She’s had good behavior. And yet you were sitting outside the house last night . . .”

  Starzyk is quiet for so long, I think we lost connection.

  Then, his voice low: “Dr. Lindman, I think there’s a real concern here.”

  I wait.

  “Where you’re staying — it’s in Lake Placid?”

  “Are you checking up on me?”

  “You’re fifteen miles from Cold Brook Prison.”

  It’s true, and I don’t have a response.

  “For your own safety,” he says, “don’t follow this Michael Rand, especially if you think he’s meeting her. They could be dangerous. I have to go now. We’ll talk again.”

  He hangs up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE | Saturday late evening

  I’m not quite done making dinner — I’ve pulled out all the stops and it feels like I’m on the verge of completing an Olympic decathlon — when Sean shows up early.

  “Hey,” he says, coming close for a hug. “Traffic was lighter than I expected.” His smile fades as he notices my bruises and small cut. “Mom, what happened?”

  I put my arms around him, press my face into his chest.

  My son is home.

  But I don’t linger; I have to finish cooking.

  “What are you doing? Did you get into a fight or something?”

  “I hit a deer with the Range Rover.”

  “You what? And you got all banged up?” Sean follows me around the kitchen. “I bet it’s that stupid car. You know those things just underwent a huge recall? Why are you making dinner? Ma. You need to sit down.”

  Sean’s complaints and concerns seem to motivate everyone else. Michael offers to set the table, while Joni takes over some of the last of the cooking, warming the bread and plating up the meal. Paul comes in and finally distracts Sean. Father and son hug and speak quietly, and then both are looking at me. I’m left standing alone in the kitchen, nothing to do. “I’m fine,” I say, loud and clear.

  Once we’re all seated, Paul uncorks the wine and everyone takes a glass, except for Michael. He raises his water. We would toast Joni’s engagement, except Sean doesn’t know yet. She wants to tell him in her own time.

  My head is swimming.

  “To the lake house,” Paul says. “To us all being together.”

  First, Sean regales us with tales of the West. For six months, he worked a grain elevator at a farm in South Dakota. He wintered in Idaho, mostly skiing and bartending. This past spring, he joined up with another farm, this one operating on one-hundred-percent-renewable energy sources to create organic produce.

  Sean is ruggedly handsome, with tanned skin and a two-day beard stubble. He’s got the Irish that comes through both my line and Paul’s, but also the bit of Italian I inherited from my great-grandfather, who was from Rome. Sean’s hair is ruddy brown, his eyes dark blue. There’s a bend to his nose from when he broke it �
�� twice. As a boy, Sean was a daredevil. He was always leaping from things: kitchen counters, the backs of vehicles, swing sets — all pretty typical stuff. But then there was the skateboarding, and the snowboarding, with all of the jumps. And when that wasn’t enough, hang gliding and bungee jumping came next. His first skydive was at the age of eighteen. Paul and I were both anxious about it, but we had no choice — he was an adult.

  Over the last two years or so, Sean has gotten a little calmer. Some of the jobs — like smoke jumping in Arizona — had me up nights. But the move to the grain elevator job, and then to picking organic produce, gives me hope. I may not go completely gray just yet.

  Sean and Michael seem to warm to each other instantly. While talking, Sean’s gaze connects with mine and he winks. It seems a preliminary stamp of approval for Michael.

  If you only knew.

  Once Paul and Joni are done bombarding Sean with questions, he asks Michael about himself. Michael hits on all the same points he’s shared with Paul and me. Joni glances at me — her eyes convey something much different from Sean’s: a reminder that this was when we were supposed to learn everything about her fiancé. And maybe she has a point: Now, we’re hearing everything twice. But that’s good. I’ve said hardly a word, just listened, and as Michael shares his personal story, I find myself evaluating his performance, checking for inconsistencies. Either it’s very well-rehearsed or it’s genuine. If it’s the latter, then I’ve got some strange, personal knots to untangle.

  From there, the conversation moves to more general topics. The weather, plans for the upcoming week. Sean asks Paul, “When’s your boat gonna be ready, Dad?”

  “I’m getting close. I’ll put the second coat on her tonight.”

  “What about the sailboat? You guys been out in the Cootchie?”

  “Sean Anthony,” I say with mock sternness.

  He grins. “Sorry, Ma.”

  Paul mentions some repairs done to the sailboat the previous autumn. As they talk, Michael listens raptly. Joni pours herself some more wine and offers it around. Paul and Sean agree to more, distractedly. I decline. Sort of in solidarity with Michael, sort of because I’ve been maybe hitting the stuff a bit too hard lately. And I’ve been having those cravings to smoke — even smelling it when there’s none around. Remembering the bluish haze of it in the air. The din of voices from a cocktail party, ice cubes ratting in tumblers, people in a hidden back room, noses bent to a glass table . . .

  I’m about to excuse myself for an unneeded trip to the bathroom, just to clear my head, when I notice Michael checking his phone.

  Any strange phone calls?

  I’d almost forgotten talking to Starzyk.

  A moment later, with Sean and Paul and Joni in a lively reverie about the time the three of them capsized the boat, Michael says, “Excuse me. Sorry, I’ll just be right back.”

  “Head down the driveway a bit and you’ll have a better chance at reception,” Joni says.

  “Thanks, babe.”

  She smiles and gives his hand a squeeze and dives back into the conversation with her father and brother.

  Michael walks out of the room toward the side door. After a few seconds, I pull together some dishes and head for the kitchen sink.

  “Honey, I’ll do all that,” Paul says, noticing. “You’re going to get in trouble with our son.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just puttering.” I sneak a glance at Michael stepping outside.

  “It’s good to see him,” Paul says about Sean.

  “Yes, it is.”

  After Paul’s absorbed with Sean and Joni again, I head to the side door. Michael stands near the cars in the driveway.

  Subtly, quietly, I drift closer. The solid door is open, leaving the screen. His voice floats to me as a murmur. He sounds calm, striking an almost professional tone.

  “Mmhmm. No, I understand . . .” His feet crunch across the driveway as he moves farther out of range.

  “Mom, what are you doing?”

  Joni startles me. She’s standing in the hallway, looking so pretty in her white, sleeveless blouse, the flower pattern around the midriff. She holds her wineglass in one hand and holds her elbow with the other, her hips cocked at a slightly sassy angle.

  “Just propping the door open. The air is so nice tonight. Warm.”

  Joni seems to accept this and looks past me, through the open door.

  “Sean really likes him, I think,” I say.

  “Of course he does.”

  “I didn’t mean anything . . .”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “I know, honey. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  I expect pushback, why wouldn’t I be okay — but instead see something in the corner of my daughter’s gaze, just before she steps past me toward the door. “I’m fine, Mom.”

  She’s fine, I’m fine. Everybody’s fine.

  F-I-N-E = fucked-up, insecure, neurotic and emotional.

  The evening contains that bluish shade, monochrome, as the sun descends and takes the colors with it. Joni stands in the doorway, gazing into the dusk.

  I risk closing the gap between us and put my hands on her shoulders. Joni doesn’t resist or pull away. “I love you, you know.”

  “I know. I love you, too.”

  “I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe. That’s all.”

  “I know.”

  “You can always come to me. If there’s anything. Anything that . . .”

  Her shoulders rise and fall as she pulls a heavy breath. Then she lowers her head. Through tears, she repeats, “I know, Mom . . .”

  I’m almost whispering now. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she says emphatically, betrayed by her tears.

  “All right,” I say. Then, tentatively: “You used to talk to me.”

  “Yeah, when I was ten.”

  “You still can.”

  She snuffs and wipes her tears away. “When I was little, I told you that I didn’t want to grow up.”

  “I remember.”

  “You said that I would still be this little girl forever. That people were like trees. That when you cut a tree you see the rings of its growth, and that’s your past, always there.”

  She faces me. I’ve left the hallway dark, so we’re in the gloom, but her eyes are shining from the kitchen and dining area lights.

  “I don’t feel that little girl inside,” she says. “I didn’t for a long time, Mom. And then — it sounds corny, but — Michael came along and I felt okay to let go again. To be me. To remember her.”

  “That doesn’t sound corny at all.” My own tears have started.

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  She starts away and I grab her arm. Maybe too forcibly, because she glances down at my hand and I let go. “You were about to say something else. Just now. What? Honey, just talk to me. Okay? I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  I almost blurt it out. It’s on the tip of my tongue. And so what if I told her? This is my daughter. My flesh and blood.

  But I can’t. It’s not about me or Joni. If those who seek counseling can’t trust their therapists with privacy, then the whole thing goes out the window.

  Joni is still staring at me.

  “I don’t mean anything. But you’ve got this guy . . . you’re standing here with me, and something has got you upset—”

  “I just told you why. You don’t have to fix me anymore, Mom. That’s the point. I found someone that makes me feel good. For who I am.”

  “Then I’m thrilled for you.”

  “No, you’re not. I know you. You think he’s just another flash in the pan. You think I’m too young. That I should wait, like you and Dad. You got your careers started . . .”

  “Barely . . .”

  “That I’m just rushing into things . . .”

  She falls silent, looking through the door again. Michael is just a shape in the gloaming, nearer the garage than the house, hi
s voice a faint mumble, his feet scratching against the ground.

  Joni says, “You don’t trust me because of how I used to be. You think I’m unstable.”

  “Joni—”

  “Let me. You think I’m unstable, but that’s not even it. You’re worried. You’re worried because you think my bad choices will reflect your bad choices. All the shit from when Sean and I were kids.”

  “Hey,” I say in a sharp whisper. “Now listen up.”

  But she’s glaring at me, and I know I’ve just screwed up. I’ve got a hold of her arm again, for one thing, which I slowly release.

  “We’ll just go,” Joni says.

  She turns on her heel and walks quickly back to the dining room.

  “Jo . . .” I start after her, but stop.

  Suddenly, I’m incensed. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be in this position. Yes, I have children, and I accept that there will always be burdens that come with having even adult children. But this is something I never anticipated happening, and it’s making me crazy and driving a wedge between us. And there’s only one way to solve it.

  I push out the screen door and march through the gathering darkness in search of Michael.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  DR EMILY LINDMAN

  CASE NOTES

  MAY 17

  Session 2

  Met with Tom today for one hour, our second session. He remains quiet and subdued. It’s been over six months since his father was killed, but the boy wears it like a shroud. His eyes make him look older; he’s seen too much for someone his age. There is a weight in his shoulders and stiffness in his gait.

  His demeanor presents similar clues to his burden, his repression. When the body reacts to a mechanical stress — like a back injury — the response is inflammation. The brain works similarly, only the “inflammation” from trauma is a muddying of events. A fog rolls in that leaves certain things in stark relief, while veiling others.

  Tom does not elaborate when I ask about his extended family — the aunt and uncle he’s now living with. He offers only basic information, sparing detail. They’re nice, they take care of him, he has a cousin. When I gently ease toward the past, i.e., how he’s come to live with them, the answer is blunt and perfunctory. “Because I had to.”