HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller

by T. J. Brearton

  “We’re halfway up a mountain,” Michael says. “Madison and Hunter hike to the top all the time.”

  For a moment, I think I catch the sound of an engine, but then it’s gone. I’ve been here five minutes. I checked the mirrors as I came. If Starzyk followed me, he’s keeping a distance.

  You’re the one who needs to be afraid.

  A warning? Or a threat? Well, Starzyk can’t know what Michael has told me in confidence. Even if he could, anything Michael has said so far is dubious as new evidence. No judge would hear of it — Michael’s mother-in-law-to-be eliciting memories through regression therapy, fifteen years after the fact?

  What’s on the record, too, would be unbearably hard to budge: a young Thomas Bishop admitted to witnessing his father’s murder. He made a final statement to the cops naming his mother as the murderer. Laura then pled guilty. End of story.

  At least, I hope so.

  So what does Starzyk think he knows?

  Michael is looking at me. I notice a smile playing at the edges of his mouth, a glimmer in his eye. “You need this as much as I do,” he says.

  I take a breath, let it out slowly. “Maybe I do.”

  * * *

  We get started. In anticipation of my arrival, someone, probably Michael, has lit candles. There is a couch in the center of the room.

  I’ve never been in a yurt. I expected it to be just one round space, but they’ve built two additional side rooms: a bathroom and what looks like a pantry. The ceiling is dome-shaped, with two skylights letting in the scattered sunlight. It smells nice, like earthy spices — cumin, maybe. Cinnamon. Hippie smells.

  I ask Michael if he’s comfortable. He is. He lies like a corpse on the couch, his eyes closed.

  I begin to talk him into deeper relaxation. I watch as his chest rises and falls, and his breathing slows. Not everyone is suggestible, not enough for regressive therapy. Michael seems to slide into it like a lake of oil.

  We’re similar that way. Sarah had me under hypnosis a couple of times, and it seemed to go smoothly enough. It’s something fundamental about certain people, that they can be so persuaded. It doesn’t mean we’re weak-willed, but it’s something in the brain. A different way of processing stimuli. Paul, for instance, could never be hypnotized. Probably Joni would be resistant, too.

  Sean would be susceptible. He’s more like me.

  The thought of my son temporarily derails me. “Okay, let’s keep breathing, keep relaxing . . .”

  I struggle to find my place again. I think about Joni, hiking up the mountain with her friends, leaving us with the space to do this. Kids are so much more accepting these days. Nothing surprises this generation.

  “Michael? Can you hear me?”

  His voice is monotone, slightly slurred: “Yes, I can hear you.” His eyes remain closed, his fingers folded over his stomach. He took his shoes off to lie down — for a moment, I’m distracted, thinking he’s wearing Sean’s socks.

  Stop it. Stay focused.

  “You’ve come a long way, Michael. We’ve done a lot of work already. I want you to feel all of the space you’ve created. Can you feel it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look around you right now. What do you see?”

  “My house.”

  “Your house. You mean your house as a boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you describe it to me?”

  He describes the house on Pondfield Road with even more clarity and detail.

  “Michael, I want you to go to a mirror. Can you find a mirror?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, feeling all of the space you’ve created, all of the air breezing through, I want you to look in the mirror.”

  “I’m looking.”

  “And what do you see?”

  “I see me.”

  “Are you a boy?”

  “Yes, I’m a boy.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eight.”

  “Okay. Good. And . . . what’s your name?”

  He starts to say Michael, starts to form the “M” sound, but the sound elongates and becomes, “My name is Tom.”

  “Very good,” I say, feeling that little rush of adrenaline. We’re back. Locked in. Michael’s voice has taken on that higher, youthful pitch again. From there, we go through the evening. It’s as before. He remembers his mother’s cold, distant stare at dinner. Drinking her wine. Sending him up to his room. He recalls lying in bed and reading.

  He also recalls the car outside, parked but running, smoke issuing from the tailpipe.

  His mother and father argue. His mother goes upstairs.

  “Then what do you hear?” I ask.

  “Nothing. I fall asleep.”

  “But something awakens you.” I don’t mean to be pushy or to guide him, but I can’t help it. I have to know.

  “Yes. Something wakes me up. The door.”

  The door to the kitchen. Someone has left, or someone is here. Tom thinks to check the car in the road, now empty. His father speaks loudly in the kitchen below. What are you doing? Are you fucking crazy?

  Then there’s fighting. David Bishop fearfully threatens to call the police. Tom makes his way down the stairs . . .

  “Your mother’s bedroom,” I interrupt. “Is the door open?”

  “It was closed.”

  David shouts for the intruder — or Laura, if it’s her — to put something away. It must be the hammer he or she is wielding.

  It’s not Laura.

  No. Michael made that clear in our last session. He hears more of the bad fighting and then a body drops to the floor — his father — before he sees a man flee out the door.

  “Is it a man?”

  “Yes. It’s a man.”

  “I need you to see him, Tom. I need you to freeze this picture right now. Like a movie. Press pause.”

  Michael’s voice is high, whispery: “Okay . . .”

  “Did you freeze it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now zoom in. You know how to zoom in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really get a close look. What color hair does the man have?”

  Michael says nothing. His brow has furrowed. His lips work against each other, as if struggling to form the word: “Brown.”

  “Brown hair. What is he wearing?”

  “I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  “You told me you were ready. You are ready. You’re ready to remember.”

  “He has a black coat. A little snow on it.”

  “What about any part of his face? Can you see — does he have pale skin? Or darker? Is he tall? Short?”

  I might be pressing too hard — Michael sits up on the couch. But his eyes are shut tight, his scowl deepening. He’s straining to see inside his memory. “The reflection in the door,” he says.

  “Yes?”

  “I can see his face in the reflection of the door.”

  “You can see him . . .” Gooseflesh erupts across my arms, along the back of my neck, like I’ve just touched a low-voltage live circuit.

  “I can see his face in the reflection. The glass that’s in the door. He’s looking at me . . .”

  Michael’s face contorts in fear. He wraps his arms around himself. I break from protocol — I’ve violated a million rules already, why not — and move beside him and take him in my arms, rub his shoulders. “It’s okay. He can’t hurt you. This is just a picture. But listen to me now. I want you to keep that picture. I want you to imagine you can print it out. Okay? You know what a printer is. I want you to print it out in full color. And then I want you to imagine putting it in your book bag. Like your school book bag.”

  “Okay . . .”

  I pause only briefly, knowing that the mind works fast in these situations, like in a dream. “Okay? You got it?”

  “I got it.”

  “Now, put it in your backpack. I’m going to bring you out, bring you back here with me now, and you’re going to take that backpack with y
ou, okay?”

  “Okay . . .”

  I ease Michael back down into a supine position and return to my chair. Then, slowly, so he doesn’t rise too fast, I talk him out of his deep regressive state. I describe the yurt and the woods and remind him of Joni and his life here. After about twenty minutes being under, Michael blinks open his eyes. He slowly sits up on the couch. He looks around, then at me, and he smiles.

  “Michael,” I say, having a little trouble speaking. “Did you bring the picture with you?”

  He just stares a moment, then nods and taps the side of his head. “I got it.”

  I let out a held breath. As I do, I take my phone out of my pocket. There’s no service here, but a call isn’t what I’m after. It’s the picture I saved. Two of them, actually. The older Doug Wiseman and the younger version. I hold up the younger one in front of Michael.

  “Is it this man?”

  Michael looks at it, squints, then shakes his head. “No.”

  I hold my breath a moment. Then: “Are you sure? Look again.”

  He does, but it’s clear he’s not recognizing the face in the picture. “He must look at least familiar to you.” I flip to the older version. “Here, how about now?”

  “Oh,” Michael says. “Okay. I think I remember him.”

  “From that night?”

  Michael shakes his head. “No. Not from that night. It’s not him.”

  “Michael, your mother was involved with this man. His name is Doug Wiseman. He’s the man in the image.”

  Michael continues shaking his head. “It’s not him. He looks familiar — I think I met him once, before Mom went to prison, but that’s—”

  “Listen to me,” I say. “We’re going to try again. You might need to take a second look at that reflection. Michael? Are you listening?”

  Michael has stopped looking at me. His gaze is set over my shoulder. And he begins to look worried. Even scared.

  “Michael? What is it?”

  “Behind you,” he says.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Paul is standing there, breathing hard, sweat beading his brow.

  I get to my feet. “What are you doing here?”

  His eyes move to Michael, then back to me. He says two words, and they go right through me; they seem to reverberate in my skull: “Sean’s awake.”

  In the next instant, Paul is leading me out of the yurt. I glance back at Michael, who remains sitting there, a look of pure terror on his face.

  I barrage Paul with questions.

  “When? How? Has he spoken? What did the doctor say?”

  “Just an hour ago.”

  “I haven’t even been gone that long.”

  “About twenty minutes after you left. Maybe a half hour.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “No. But he’s responsive.” Paul is still using the old pickup to get around. He opens the passenger door for me.

  Before getting in, I cast another look back. Michael is standing in front of the yurt. His arms hang at his sides, and he’s making fists with his hands, gripping and releasing. He looks nervous. More than nervous — he’s completely overwhelmed. My heart hurts for him. But the fact that he looks so nervous can only mean one thing . . .

  “Sean is definitely conscious?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he hasn’t spoken?”

  “No, but he’s responding to commands — moving his arms and legs . . . What?”

  I glance at Michael.

  Paul looks there too. “Did you regress him?”

  I nod.

  “Already? Jesus. What did he say?”

  I don’t answer Paul. I stand, looking at Michael, thinking that, no matter what, none of this is his fault. He was just a boy, caught in the middle of things. Adults, people who were supposed to protect him, failed to do so. Instead, they sought to protect themselves. To get what they needed.

  I start toward him.

  Paul calls after me, “Em — there’s no time for this!”

  Of course there’s time.

  I reach Michael and study his face. The worry, the fear. “Michael,” I say, “I can’t believe the timing. But I’m not just leaving you, okay? I’m not abandoning you. We’ll get back to this, and we’ll get to the bottom of it. It’s just that right now, I need to go see—”

  “Don’t go,” Michael interrupts.

  “I have to. It’s . . . my son.”

  Paul gets in the pickup truck and starts it up. He revs the engine.

  Michael’s gaze moves from the truck to me, those green eyes dancing. “Don’t go,” he repeats.

  I’ve had enough. “Michael, I have a family. Sean is my son.”

  “Emily!” Paul calls. “Come on!”

  I stare into Michael’s eyes, then I turn and leave.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  We barrel down the bumpy road out of the woods. Michael disappears from my side-view mirror.

  The forest thickens as we descend in elevation. Paul isn’t speaking, he’s just concentrating on the road. He’s going a bit too fast, grinding the axles.

  “Paul . . .”

  “What did he say?”

  “Paul, slow down . . .”

  “Why won’t you tell me what Michael said?”

  I shut my eyes, tight. “We didn’t get a chance. He was about to tell me something when you showed up.”

  “Bullshit. You still think he doesn’t remember? He’s been stringing you along.”

  “I don’t know. I think he remembered more than he let on at first. But it did take my work to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Why? Why would you even do that?”

  “To know, Paul. Why else? We have to know. For his sake and for ours.”

  “I already know what he said.” Paul is gripping the wheel hard enough to whiten his knuckles. His jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth. “He asked you not to go. Not to leave him, right?”

  I sigh. “Yes.”

  Paul makes a sound between a laugh and yell. “And why would he say that? Because that son of a bitch did something to Sean. He doesn’t want us going to see Sean because of what Sean might say.”

  “I never said Michael hurt Sean . . .”

  Paul looks at me like I’m crazy. “Have you forgotten? Of course you did. That was the first thing you thought.” He shakes his head.

  We reach the end of the dirt road and turn onto a paved one. I check my phone — one bar.

  “We don’t know his angle,” Paul says. “Or what this whole thing really . . . Listen, I love Jo. But this is too much. There’s too much to deal with.”

  “I’m handling it.”

  “Oh, yeah? Going to find some ironclad proof that the police coerced him? You’re ready to go to trial with that? Spend the next four, five years of your life wrapped up in this?”

  “I almost had him seeing the person who did it.”

  Paul gives me a sharp look. I show him the picture of Wiseman. “I think he recognized him,” I say. “He was fuzzy about the specifics, his timing is a little off, but this could be the guy.”

  “You’re serious . . . You think he was going to name him?”

  “I don’t know. I was close. I was right on top of it. And then you showed up. That’s my point.”

  “Well, I had a good reason, didn’t it?” Paul shakes his head in anger and disbelief. “Fuck this guy,” he mutters. “Fuck him. I’m tired of this shit.”

  “Calm down, okay? I can’t take it when you’re like this.”

  Paul mumbles something else and pours on the gas.

  “Slow down, please.” My head is spinning. “Paul . . .”

  “What?”

  “I said, slow down!” It’s a piercing shriek. I normally don’t yell. I’m a together person. People rely on me.

  Paul suddenly hits the brakes and pulls over onto the shoulder. Even though we’re on a paved road, we’re a ways between anything. Just a few cars coming and going in either direction.

  �
�What are you doing?” I ask. Paul is scaring me.

  “I slowed down.”

  “Paul . . .”

  “No, listen to me. You think this is the way forward. With you rushing off to save Michael from his horrible past. But you’re forgetting something. If this comes out, and this all gets re-examined, the police will see things they didn’t before. They always do.”

  I don’t want to admit it, but Paul is right.

  “Do you know what I’m saying?” Paul asks.

  It’s difficult to form the sentence. As if the words won’t quite fit in my mouth: “That we knew the Bishops.”

  “Yes,” Paul says. “That we knew the Bishops.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  I look at my husband as if seeing him for the first time today. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that says Snapshot Regatta. Some sailing competition, years ago. He’s in chino shorts and boat shoes. Dressed for the late summer vacation. Just another day at the lake house.

  He’s staring at me now. Into me. Breathing hard, chest rising and falling. “We knew the Bishops, and you took the assignment anyway. That’s a conflict of interest.”

  I’m close to tears. I fight them. Nothing wrong with emotion, just not now. Not here. “We didn’t know them that well . . .”

  “We knew them well enough to socialize at their house. To drink with them. People saw us. It was before anyone was on Facebook, before Instagram, but people still took pictures. There’s likely evidence of us and them, together. How do you think that will look? What judge will listen to any of this? I mean, did you forget?”

  Sometimes, I hear myself saying, trauma causes us to close off certain areas of our minds.

  “No,” I say. My voice sounds small. I take a breath and better express it. “No, I didn’t forget.”

  Paul gradually softens his penetrating stare. After a moment, he’s gazing out the windshield. More cars pass, the slipstream pushing against the pickup, rocking it on its worn-out shocks. “We even went to one of her shows, Em. In the city.”

  The sentence triggers a domino effect in my brain. I’m suddenly just like Michael, experiencing an onrush of memory, filling a vacuum: faces, voices, places, moments.