The Quiet Girl

by S. F. Kosa

  Detective Correia is quiet for moment. “Mr. Zarabian, I just wanted to update you on the case. Should I take it that you’re not willing to surrender your phone?”

  “You can have my damn phone whenever you want. I just want my wife back.” I’m dead quiet again, dead level, dead tired. A cold bastard. If I’m anything else, I’m going to fall apart. “Just let me know when you want it.”

  “You can drop it by the station tomorrow if that’s convenient.”

  “Sure. Fine.”

  “Have a good night, Mr. Zarabian.”

  I hang up the phone and drink my Macallan in one long, desperate gulp.

  After yet another rough night, the only kind a guy can have when his wife has been missing for almost two weeks, I rise and do some research. Today, I’m going to figure some things out. I’m going to put the pieces together.

  I’m going to look in the places the detective won’t.

  I check my phone. I texted Drew last night postponing the call until tonight. His response: I get it, but we need to talk before Monday.

  He doesn’t mention my letter of resignation. I whipped it off in a quick email on Friday night, but it’s still marked as unopened. It’s just another step in this dance we’re doing, this game of chicken. Normally, I’d be plotting all the moves of this negotiation, but today, I’ve got something else on my mind.

  After rolling my conversation with the detective through my head about a hundred times, I’m wondering if she’s moved me up the list of suspects because of the revelation about this secret kid Mina had when she was eighteen. Willa told me that Stefan was the father, but what if she was only assuming? Mina had that way of letting people fill in the blanks she left. I know she did it with me.

  But what if Stefan isn’t the father? Though it kills me to even consider it, what if it was Scott? It would explain more of Scott and Rose’s desperation to get the child out of their lives as rapidly as possible. It would explain why Rose laughed in Sharon’s face when Sharon suggested that she and Phillip adopt the child so he could be part of Mina’s life. I wonder if Mina’s parents relayed the story to the detective in a certain kind of way, to aim the suspicion at me or Stefan. Either way, it was probably a move fueled by some sort of desperation. It was so obvious they wanted the secret to stay buried. If Mina was about to blow it wide open by telling Stefan and me, that would be something, though I’m not sure it’s enough to make them want to silence her.

  What if, though…what if she told them about the book?

  My stomach clenches, and my hand skims over the first page of the dog-eared manuscript laid out next to me on the couch. Hannah said Mina was terrified of what would happen if people she knew were aware of the book, but what if Mina worked up the courage to let her parents know that she was about to lay out their sordid life for the entire reading public? I’m not sure why she would do that, but maybe she still felt some sort of obligation to warn them.

  What if the book itself is the reason she’s gone?

  In the story, Esteban isn’t the father of Maggie’s baby. The father is the man who abused her for years. What if this part of the story is straight-up history—one only Mina’s parents knew about and were desperate to keep hidden?

  Mina might have underestimated them. Or possibly the end of her book isn’t as fictional as I’d assumed. That thought scares the shit out of me, and it also doesn’t explain where Mina herself is. The key to that has to be somewhere in their house.

  Sharon said Scott and Rose went to the New Life church, so I look it up. The only church on the cape with that name is in Orleans, and the Sunday service started half an hour ago. They’re certain to be there…which means they’re not at home. I grab my keys and head out the door before allowing myself to think of all the reasons why I should stay where I am.

  I pull right into their driveway. Like so many other homes on this street, the Richardses’ drive and house are completely hidden from the road by thick walls of wax myrtles. If they’re home, I’ll just say I’ve come for a visit. But when I arrive, there’s only one car in the drive—the pickup. The old Cadillac is gone.

  I knock on the front door, then ring the doorbell. I wait. The warm, briny breeze ruffles my hair as I listen for any sounds from inside.

  I test the door. Locked. I go around to the back, which is locked as well. My hope that they feel safe enough in their quiet enclave to leave their doors unlocked is dashed. Next I try the windows, hoping one is open, and end up cursing the fact that the Richardses have central air. Hoping to find something to help me pick the lock or pry open a window, I tromp back to Scott’s workshop. The door is closed, but the padlock is open, hanging from the hasp.

  Inside, the air is stifling and smells of sawdust and sweat. The shed is about ten by ten, and tools of all kinds hang from every spot on the wall—wrenches and chisels of various sizes, screwdrivers, a T bevel, a claw hammer—with little chalk outlines around them. Like at a crime scene.

  Along one wall is a large, sturdy utility table. A jigsaw is set up on one side. Vises cling to the table’s edge. There’s a stool under the table, a pair of safety goggles hanging from one of those vises, and utility gloves stacked on the window ledge.

  In the center of the table is a stack of paper. In the light streaming through the smudged glass pane and the half-open door, I move forward, the hairs on the back of my neck rising.

  It’s a copy of Mina’s manuscript.

  My thoughts lock up like someone just poured sugar in my tank.

  This is Mina’s book. The one that tells the story of her fugue and the reason for it. The one that tells the story of the pregnancy…and the reason for it. It’s like an indictment, sitting right there, and I have no idea how long Scott has had this, how long he’s known about it.

  I only know he’s been lying.

  Slowly, my brain sputters into motion again. Correia needs to know this. I haven’t gotten into the existence of the book with her, because she was already thinking Mina was unstable, and the book…it’s not exactly reassuring in that regard. It’s chilling and worrisome, and the more of it that’s true, the more worrisome it is. But now it’s time to break the glass, because Mina’s parents know, and they’ve done something terrible.

  I turn toward the door as a bulky shadow blocks out the light.

  Our eyes meet. “You know about the book,” I say.

  “I do.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  She’d gone over and over what to make, but in the end, she settled on a cake. She considered a boxed mix, but it seemed more appropriate to go all out and make it from scratch. There was no reason to skimp. It had to be made with all the love inside her.

  She had to buy pans, a mixing bowl, a cake spatula, a spice grinder, measuring spoons and cups. Flour, sugar, eggs, butter, vanilla, food coloring. Powdered sugar, of course. She thought about buying a mixer, but it felt like a waste of money, and she didn’t have much left. No icing bags or tips, either, but she could improvise. She could mix everything by hand. She had time. She’d talked Greta into taking a shift for her at the restaurant.

  Baking was meditative, she realized as she carefully measured out the ingredients. Cleansing. Healing. She wondered if Ivy thought so or if her baking mind was always filled with fantasies of rising to the pinnacle of social standing on a staircase made of royal icing. All Maggie thought about as she mixed sugar and butter and milk and flour was this had better be delicious.

  She poured the batter into its pans, watching its liquid tendrils spiral and settle. Then she put them into the cottage’s tiny oven and went to work on the icing. Butter. Vanilla. And all the white powder, which sent a sweet cloud up from the bowl when she dumped it in. She leaned back and tossed the bag in the trash, then went to work mixing everything together. She regretted not splurging on a cheap hand mixer, but after a good ten minutes of work, she had a respectable butter
cream.

  When the cakes were golden brown, she pulled them from the oven and let them cool for a good hour. She filled the waiting time with cleaning, leaving not even a speck on the floors or the counters, the bowls, the spoons, the spice grinder. Even Ivy would have been proud. As soon as the thought came, she spotted a dusting of powder near the tiny table at which she’d eaten so many bowls of oatmeal over the past four months. She grabbed a rag and cleaned it up before her brain awakened the specter of that hand clamping onto the back of her neck, that voice growling make it spotless.

  She made it spotless. Perfect. She could be perfect.

  You have to give yourself permission to be imperfect, Lori had said to her. You have to let things be messy sometimes.

  Maggie knew that. She believed it. But today, she had to stick to what she knew, with one difference.

  This time, we play a different game.

  She sliced the overbrowned dome off the top of the second cake slab; both layers needed to be level. She was not about to serve a lopsided cake. It would never convey all her good intentions, all the things she’d learned.

  She sank to her haunches, wrapped her arms around her knees, and rocked, breathing deep and telling herself this was okay. She didn’t want to do this, but that was because she was scared, not because it wasn’t the thing that had to be done.

  When the spots had cleared from her vision, she divided the buttercream into three bowls and colored two, pink and blue.

  Pink for a girl, blue for a boy.

  Pink for guilt, blue for innocence.

  Pink for love, blue for cyanosis.

  “Just kidding,” she whispered. But she wasn’t crazy. No one could hear her thoughts.

  She’d been raised to believe such things. She was glad she didn’t believe them anymore.

  Maggie layered pink in the middle, thick and lush, because really, what other color would be just right? She sculpted the outside of the confection with painstaking effort: first the crumb coat and then the top layer, luxurious and dense with promise and temptation. She scooped a glob of blue icing into a ziplock bag, then cut a tiny hole in one corner. Not exactly a star tip, but she decided the effect could be charming with the right amount of conscientiousness. She carefully piped a swag pattern around the top of the cake, the garland drooping sensually from its anchor points. Next, she piped pink beads along the bottom and a cute pattern in the center in the shape of a heart. Simple but sincere.

  A childlike hope had begun to speed her hands, her heart. This was really happening.

  A half hour later, the cake was as close to perfect as she could make it without the benefit of specialized tools. She hoped that would count in her favor.

  She put the plastic dome over the cake plate and snapped it into place.

  She spent the next hour decorating herself. Preparing the foundation—scrubbing her skin, applying a nice lotion. Then the icing—concealer and foundation, a soft blush, a nude lip. This was about being real, not sultry. She styled her hair and dressed in jeans and a nice sweater she’d found in a consignment shop in Brewster.

  She allowed herself a long, quiet moment to gaze into the spotty mirror over the sink. “Just be yourself,” she murmured before letting out a shuddery breath. Then she leaned forward, touching her forehead to the glass, seeking solace from her reflection. “I know who you are,” she whispered. “And I won’t forget ever again.”

  She put on her shoes and grabbed her keys. Then she carried the cake to the car and positioned it carefully on the seat.

  The drive down the Cape took a solid forty-five minutes, during which time she sang along with the radio and kept a respectful distance from other cars, not wanting to brake suddenly and ruin her masterpiece.

  When she pulled into the driveway, she felt a swell of relief. A car in the drive, but only one. She tugged at her sweater and smoothed down her hair. Perfect, perfect, or as close to perfect as she could be. She got out, lifted the cake out of the passenger seat, and marched to the front door with her heart nearly exploding. Her cheeks were probably flushed, but that was okay.

  She rang the doorbell with her elbow and positioned herself on the welcome mat.

  Was this a sign of health, what she was doing? Or was it just the same sickness?

  The door opened. She held up the cake and smiled. “I made this for you. I know it’s just a small thing, but I was hoping it would be the first step in getting you to forgive me.”

  Sunday, August 9

  She gave it to me,” Scott says as he steps into his workshop and closes the door behind him. He flips a switch next to the doorframe, and a utility lamp blazes to life directly over my head. The sensation of heat is instant, and I step aside to escape it.

  “It was my understanding that she wanted it to stay a secret.” I’m suddenly keenly aware of all the metal around me, the murderous potential of every single tool. Bludgeoning. Slicing. There are lots of options dangling from hooks, outlined in chalk.

  Even a nail gun. It’s a big cordless framing nailer, like a drill but with the nail cartridge attached to its short barrel. Hanging just to the left of the window.

  Scott watches my gaze roaming over his arsenal. “I guess she changed her mind.”

  “You’re not asking me why I’m in your workshop.”

  “Saw your car in the drive. Heard you at the door.”

  He’s been here the whole time.

  “You didn’t go to church this morning.”

  “I haven’t gone in years,” he says. “Rose goes alone.”

  Just like Lawrence in Mina’s book. He met Ivy at church but shows contempt for it later. “Crisis of faith?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Where’s Mina, Scott?”

  His look is stony. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “You actually think I hurt her?”

  “There are only a few people in this world who might want to hurt my daughter, the way I see it. And you’re one of them.”

  “And you?”

  His eyebrows rise. “Why would I ever hurt her?”

  “Have you actually read the book?”

  A flash of panic crosses his features before sinking into the thick planes of his face once more, leaving it heavy with resignation. “She knew this about me. She wanted me to read it, but she knows. I’m no good with books. The words and letters get mixed up for me. But I’ve spent every hour I can reading it. I’m almost halfway.” His cheeks have turned ruddy. “I’m trying to understand it.”

  I don’t know if I believe this dyslexic act or not, but a determination to keep trying to get through it might explain why he keeps disappearing into his workshop whenever I show up. “What did she tell you guys?”

  “She told me. Not Rose. When she came out for dinner that evening, she asked to talk to me out here. In private. She gave me the book and asked me to read it. She said she knew it would take a while, but that she’d talk to me about it when I was done. She said it would help me understand.”

  That doesn’t sound like the plan of someone who intended to kill herself. “Rose doesn’t know about the book.”

  “Only Rose can tell you what she knows.” There’s an edge in his voice. Not exactly the worshipful attitude Sharon described. “She’s an excellent liar. Took me a long damn time to realize it, though, so maybe I’m just an idiot.”

  I look around again, consider which tool I’ll grab if Scott lunges for me. There’s a heavy wrench within arm’s reach, long enough to connect with his head, big enough to send him to the ground. “Did you abuse your daughter, Scott?”

  “You’re a sick bastard.” His fists clench.

  “It’s not like I came up with the idea out of thin air.” I jerk my thumb at the manuscript on the table. “She told the whole story.”

  “Mina said that?” He shakes his head. The rage
dissolves as I watch, softening into what appears to be genuine confusion.

  “All that and more. Your daughter went through hell, and she dared to tell the tale—until someone tried to silence her.”

  “You want to check my basement? See if I’ve got her tied up down there?” He looks disgusted. “You’ve been thinking that all this time? That I’m some kind of…”

  “You both practically held her captive while she was pregnant, didn’t you?” Again, I almost mention Sharon, but I don’t want to get her in trouble. “Did you decide she needed to be ‘taken care of’ again?”

  His jaw is working like there’s something stuck in his throat. His meaty fists release and clench, release and clench. “Mina was never abused. It didn’t happen. If that’s what she said in her story, it’s a lie.”

  “In that case, why would she give you the book to read?” Maybe she wanted to punish him. Maybe he punished her first.

  He shakes his head. “She said this one was different. She asked me to read it and then to call her.” He grimaces. “I’ve been trying,” he says hoarsely. “I’ve been trying so hard to get through it.” He shoves his knuckles against his eyes and curses. “I’m so stupid.”

  “You didn’t tell Rose you had it. You didn’t ask her for help.”

  He slides his hands down his face. “Mina asked me not to. And then, when she disappeared… I don’t know.”

  I think back to what I read. All the viciousness. The cruelty. From Lawrence. From Ivy. I don’t trust Scott any further than I could throw him, but I think I’m starting to believe he’s been in the dark. “What if Rose knows something about what happened to Mina?”

  He goes still. Looks over his shoulder. “She’s here.”

  “Then how about we go ask her?” Our eyes meet. “I’m not going away. No more secrets.”

  “All right.” He turns and heads out of the workshop.

  I follow at a cautious distance. Braced for him to turn on me.

  Rose is bustling around the kitchen when we enter from the porch. She’s wearing an apron over a flowered dress. She turns to face us, and I pause.