HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller

by T. J. Brearton

  I’ve left at least three messages already. On my way. Call me back. Tell me more. Where are you? Which hospital?

  The sun’s just above the treeline as I exit the interstate and speed toward Lake Placid. I need to know where they’ve taken him — Lake Placid’s hospital is small, but it has an emergency room. I went there after my run-in with the deer. Saranac Lake’s is larger.

  When I finally hear from someone, it isn’t who I expected. His voice, coming through the car speakers, is calm. Apologetic even.

  “Mrs. Lindman,” Michael says.

  “Where’s Sean? Where are Paul and Joni?”

  “They’re with him.”

  “With him where? With Sean? Michael — what happened?”

  “We were sailing. He was teaching me. He hit his head and went into the water. I went in after him, but I’m not a very strong swimmer. He was down a long time . . .”

  “Michael . . .” I can feel the anxiety rising, threatening to turn into panic. And I’m breathing too fast. I try to slow it down. “Where is he?”

  “Um, it’s Adirondack Medical Center. In Saranac Lake. But they’re talking about moving him. He’s—”

  I end the call. It’s impulsive, but another word from Michael and I’m going to lose control. And the last time I came charging along this windy mountain road, I hit a deer.

  What’s going on? Sean’s never had a boating accident in his life. He hit his head?

  I try to clear my mind. Think of nothing but getting there in one piece. The daylight is fading. It feels poignant, like my entire life is getting darker.

  * * *

  Sean is silent, unmoving. A tube in his neck does the breathing for him. His skin has blanched, and his eyes are still beneath the closed lids. I gingerly touch his bandaged skull and plant a kiss on his forehead. “Hi, Seanie. Hi, baby. Mommy is here.”

  My eyes are dry, probably because I’m in shock.

  Paul is just beside me, his hand on my shoulder. Joni sits in the corner, her feet drawn up onto the chair, arms wrapped around her knees. She looks out the window and bites at her fingernail. Michael stands beside her. He’s studying the floor, but when I look at him, his eyes come up.

  My question is soft but demands an answer. “What happened?”

  Paul’s hand slips away from my shoulder as I walk to the corner, toward Michael.

  “I . . . he was teaching me,” Michael stammers. “I’ve never sailed.”

  Joni gives me a hard look. “He was tacking to head upwind, Mom. The boom swung around and hit him.”

  Michael’s voice becomes thick with emotion. “He was teaching me . . . showing me. I distracted him.”

  “Stop it,” Joni says, taking Michael’s arm. “It’s not your fault.”

  “He was headed upwind? Tacking?” I say. “I’d maybe believe he slipped on deck.”

  The words are out before I’ve had a chance to preview them.

  Joni’s mouth opens as she stares up at me in incredulity. Michael looks slightly confused, his eyes swimming.

  But I don’t stop. The horse has now left the barn. “Sean’s never had an accident like this. Sailing since he was eight, and never once hit by the boom.”

  Paul pulls at my shoulder. “Honey. Come on . . .”

  I yank away, my gaze drilling into Michael. “Then he went overboard? That’s what you’re saying?”

  He nods, and a tear falls from his eyelash. His long, almost feminine eyelashes. His sharp nose and thick eyebrows and handsome face. I want to slap it. He’s standing there, while Sean is comatose.

  “Why didn’t you pull him out right away?”

  “Mom, stop.” Joni glares up at me. Pure hatred in her eyes. I don’t care.

  “I tried,” Michael whines. “But we were going fast. He fell in and I was alone. I didn’t know what to do right away. I panicked. It was just a few seconds, but . . . when I finally jumped in to swim to him, he was already several yards away. I tried to . . . get his face out of the water. And then we had to get back to shore . . .” Michael sobs. Joni stands and embraces him.

  I study Michael’s face over Joni’s shoulder. “I don’t buy this act anymore,” I say to him, pulling away again from Paul’s clutches. “If you’ve got something against me or my family, be a man. Come at me head-on. No more games.”

  “Emily,” Paul says sternly. “Sean wouldn’t want this.”

  It’s what finally gets me. I return my attention to Sean, lying there helplessly. At the same moment, a nurse comes into the room. “You can’t all be in here right now.”

  She’s followed by others. She says, “You need to let us work. To let us help your son.”

  When Paul finally drags me out of the room, at last, I’m bawling.

  * * *

  I opt for the car in the parking lot instead of the waiting room. No sad people to stare at me in the parking lot; I’m still crying. Paul sits beside me, in the passenger seat. He stares out the window, rubbing his knuckle back and forth across his mouth.

  When I can speak again, I ask him where Joni and Michael went.

  “They’re still inside.”

  I nod and blot my eyes with a tissue, but it’s no good — a fresh bout of anguish overcomes me. “Oh, God . . .” And then, a flash of anger: Laura Bishop is behind this. She’s out to take an eye for an eye. I’ve known it all along.

  “He’s going to be all right,” Paul soothes.

  “They said he wasn’t breathing for a long time. You heard Michael. They were out in the middle of the lake. Michael swam all the way back to the shore with him?”

  “Someone saw them. Some tourist saw them swimming and picked them up.”

  “Did they see what happened?”

  Paul shakes his head. “I don’t know. It all happened really fast.”

  “We need to talk to the police.”

  Paul faces me. “First, you need to talk to me.”

  I sigh, letting some of the tension unwind. Maybe the police aren’t the best option right now. Not until I can sort a few things out. I tell him about the meeting with Mooney. “Laura Bishop might know who I am. And about what happened with Tom. What if she sent him to us?”

  “Sent him? To do what? Marry Joni? That seems pretty elaborate.”

  “Sent him to do this.” I wave my arms, meaning, everything. “Think about what’s happened. I hit a deer — I could’ve been killed . . .”

  “The deer?”

  “I was rushing home. Once I found out that she’d been paroled. The weird message I got on my phone, the carving . . .” I know Paul’s not aware of some of this. “It’s to destabilize us.”

  “I don’t know, if anything—”

  “Look what just happened to Sean. He doesn’t have accidents, Paul.”

  “Everybody has accidents.”

  I shake my head. “So this tourist, he drove them back to the lake house?”

  “No — they went to the boat launch at the marina. Michael thought Sean needed an ambulance. That they’d have better luck on the town side of the lake then our side, getting an ambulance back in the narrow roads.” Paul raises his eyebrows, as if to say, would a killer think of that? He adds, “Michael called 911, then me. The ambulance got there first. It was Michael who rode with Sean. He hasn’t left his side.”

  I’m still shaking my head, now shedding more tears, dizzy with uncertainty. I let it all out until it’s done. Paul rubs my back.

  “I think we need to take a breath here,” Paul says.

  I nod, trying to pull it together.

  Paul says, “This has been a lot. Michael showing up has been a big surprise, in more ways than one. And we’re reeling from it. But we need to put our heads together. You know some things, and I know some things. But we’ve got to come together. We’re a team, Em, okay?”

  I’m nodding and crying. I want to tell Paul about Doug Wiseman. About what a ready-made villain he is. How even Mooney thought Laura knew who did it or had someone to blame, and Wiseman was likely i
t. Maybe it’s a way out of all of this for us. But my phone rings.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “So you went to see Rebecca Mooney?”

  “Detective Starzyk,” I say, wiping a hand across my runny nose, “I can’t really talk right now. I have a family crisis that—”

  “This will just take a minute, okay? Mrs. Lindman, you’re free to talk to and see whoever you choose. But I hope you realize that you might not like what comes out of it.”

  “Detective, if that’s a threat, I’m not really—”

  “That’s not a threat. Not from me. I think we both know where the real threat is coming from.”

  Paul is watching me with concern. I cover the phone and whisper to him, “Go be with Sean. I can handle this.”

  He waits, but I nod and give him a gentle push. “I’m all right.”

  When Paul finally gets out and closes the door, I finish with Starzyk. “I think I might be getting in touch with your internal affairs bureau, Detective.”

  “Who do you think would suffer the worst consequences in that situation?”

  The implication is I would. “That’s ridiculous. My case notes and evaluation reflect exactly what happened, by the book. The errors and cover-ups appear all on your side of the equation.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on a second.”

  “No. I’ve heard enough. You know how this looks, and you’re scared. Mooney is scared. You know that things could slip through your fingers all over again.”

  “Boy, you are a piece of work, lady . . .”

  “Now, I really do have to go. Please don’t call me again.”

  I hang up, breathing hard. Starzyk is trying to intimidate me, and I pushed back.

  The nerve of that guy! Only, I should’ve asked him about Frank. Not that he’d admit it, and not that I don’t already know. Cops and private investigators can have a touchy relationship. Frank relies on good vibes with the police to best serve his clients.

  More important: Starzyk is clearly watching me. Showing up at the Bishop home when I’m there, knowing that I visited Mooney . . . He was the gray Ford in Lake George, I’m sure. He’s keeping tabs on things because, like I said, he’s scared.

  I shake it off. It doesn’t matter right this moment. What matters now is being with my son.

  But when I return to the hospital, Paul has a different idea.

  “I’m going to stay with him tonight.”

  I blink at Paul. “So am I.”

  “He’s in the ICU. Only one other person can be in there.”

  We’re in the waiting area, which is about half full, including Joni and Michael. I keep my voice measured, aware that we’re drawing attention, just what I don’t want. “Then it’s me,” I say in a low voice. “I’m his mother.”

  “You’ve also already gotten the attention of hospital administration,” he says quietly.

  “What? Why?”

  But I know why — because I was loud and aggressive earlier towards Michael.

  “So,” Paul says in an irritatingly soothing tone, “you can either sleep out here in the lobby, which I wouldn’t recommend. Or you can go home and get some real rest. You look exhausted, Em. You’ve been running all over the place. You—”

  “Stop.” Fresh tears burn against the backs of my eyes. I don’t want to lose it again, so take a deep breath through my nose. “I don’t need you telling me about my health when our son is—”

  Paul takes my shoulders. “Honey, this is exactly when you need to worry about your health. You know that.”

  It takes another ten minutes of convincing me; even so, I insist on seeing Sean’s doctor. This takes another thirty minutes, until finally we’re in Sean’s room, and I’m getting a crash course in comas. In Sean’s case, it was caused by a combination of traumatic head injury and cerebral hypoxia. As much as I try to pin down the doc to a prognosis, he gives us the “It could be hours, days, or even months. The brain is a mysterious organ . . .” and so on. If Sean doesn’t come around in a couple of days, a hospital in Albany will be better equipped to handle his needs.

  I stare at Sean the whole time. He looks utterly helpless, a broken toy with the batteries fallen out. In a hospital gown, an ID bracelet on his wrist, the IV going in his arm, the ventilator in his neck. The hissing and beeping of the machines. The astringent smell of the room, along with the suspicion that things are never as clean as they seem in a hospital, and there are dust bunnies and stray hairs, billions of writhing germs.

  The heavy gauze wrapping his head.

  I finally leave feeling heartbroken, stunned, a failure. I’ve failed my son, somehow. I didn’t protect him. I’ve been preoccupied by Joni, ever since she was a recalcitrant tween testing our limits. We always put our faith in Sean. He had his head on straight. He was daring and adventurous, but safe and smart. I’d worried he’d injure himself as a boy, but as a man, he instilled confidence.

  Now his brain, starved of oxygen, has shut down.

  I can’t even think about it. I can’t think about his chances at regaining consciousness. The possibility that he never returns . . .

  No. Don’t.

  But I walk to the rental car in a daze, picturing his wholesome, handsome face. His hazel eyes — same as his father’s. His genial smile.

  I’m lost in my love for him, opening the car door, when footsteps quickly approach.

  Michael is running toward me. His face replaces the mental image of my son. I feel colder the second I see him; my skin tightens, pupils narrow.

  He’s slightly out of breath. “I’ll drive you,” he says.

  You’re out of your fucking mind is my first thought. But I catch myself.

  “It’s okay. Go back inside and be with Joni. She needs you.”

  “Honestly, it was her idea. But she’s right. We need to talk.”

  “I don’t think we do. Not unless it’s going to be honest, anyway. But I just don’t have the strength right now.” I let my shoulders drop, releasing some of the tension. “And I’m sorry about what I said in the hospital room. I was just angry and hurt and lashed out at you. I shouldn’t have treated you that way . . .” I pause to fight against new emotion. “I just need to go home now.”

  “And I’ll drive you there,” he insists. “Joni asked me to get a few things for her at the house, so I’m gonna go anyway. I’ll drop you and then I’ll come back.”

  “No.” But I’m curious. “How?”

  “I’ll take Sean’s car. Just let me, okay?”

  In the end, since it’s dark, and I’ve already had one accident in the past forty-eight hours, I accept.

  For Sean.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I feed Michael some leftovers. We eat in silence. My thoughts swing from Sean to the young man seated across from me. Who is he? Why is he in my house? Was what happened to Sean an accident or something else? Is Michael capable of something so sinister? Or maybe it was one of those things that’s not quite an accident, not quite premeditated?

  He could be mentally unstable.

  I have so many questions. Why are you engaged to my daughter? Was it fate or did you seek her out? Is your mother behind this?

  But neither of us speaks, except when Michael says, “Thank you,” and picks up his dishes and places them in the sink. “I’ll grab Joni’s things and then I’ll go.”

  I face the lake through the windows, watching the column of light from the dock lamp ride the bumpy waves. I don’t say anything to Michael. A stair tread pops behind me as he ascends to the second floor.

  I hear more creaking over my head as he walks into Joni’s room. The door closes, more footfalls follow, then silence.

  Who is this stranger in my life? What is his purpose here?

  Each time I try to fathom the coincidence, it’s as though my own mind spits out the thought undigested. Is it really possible that Michael met my daughter at a college lacrosse game? Part of me says no way. But it’s contradicted by another notion: anything is possib
le.

  Therapists and former patients do sometimes bump into each other on the street or discover they ride the same daily train. Maybe this is a more complicated version of those coincidences: Former patient dates therapist’s daughter.

  But — unknowingly?

  Even if Michael had full recall of his trauma, it’s plausible he forgot the name of a therapist he saw a handful of times fifteen years ago, let alone what she looked like. Or be able to fathom what she’d look like now. At first, he might only have a picture or two to go by, something Joni showed him on her phone.

  But once he met me in person, would that have not jogged his memory?

  Maybe it did. Maybe this whole thing is a case of Michael, having fallen in love with Joni, becoming mortified at who her mother turns out to be.

  Mortified not just because of what I might know about him, but because he’s already concocted this false narrative for Joni about his parents dying in a car wreck.

  Ashamed by what his mother did to his father, he’s built an alternate self. For years, it works just fine. By the time he’s old enough to care about girls, perhaps, the media have mostly forgotten about him. He’s gone through puberty; he looks different enough that the paparazzi have lost the scent. And so now, when it comes to that getting-to-know-you moment in a new relationship, he’s free to improvise. He keeps it tragic, with plenty of truth to reinforce the lies. There’s only one problem: he ends up dating the daughter of someone who knows better.

  The chance is very slim, but possible. For one thing, I’m not the only one who knows. He could’ve wound up dating the daughter of his ad litem from the case. Or the judge’s daughter. Or one of the police officers or crime-scene techs involved. Even a reporter who might still recall the case with clarity.

  But instead of any of them, it was me.

  And maybe seeing us this weekend wasn’t the first time he made the connection. Surely Joni showed him some pictures. And then there’s her last name. My last name. Had he forgotten it at first? Or thought nothing of it? The “aha” moment might not have come until several months into their relationship. They could’ve had a conversation about what I did for a living, what Paul did. By the time Michael finally put it together, he was in too deep.