The Shadow Writer

by Maxwell, Eliza

  She remembered the handwritten note from Hugo that David had tossed accusingly at her. It had said something like, Thanks for a weekend I won’t soon forget.

  Hugo had sent it to her along with a collector’s edition of Jane Eyre, her favorite novel, after Laura had helped arrange a surprise getaway weekend for the couple in Saint-Tropez.

  She could have told David so. She should have, but it was so . . . demeaning, to be forced to explain herself that way. She could have shown him the emails between her and Hugo discussing the arrangements. But by God, she’d never cheated, which was more than she could say for him. She’d be damned if she was willing to validate his insecurities by playing that game.

  Rachel told her she should tell him, but Laura had refused to listen, instead standing high on her useless principals.

  When David caused a scene at the dinner, Rachel didn’t hesitate to tell her oldest friend, “I told you so, didn’t I?”

  And yet, everything in Laura rebelled at the idea that she might have had a hand in enabling David’s downward spiral.

  But was that fair, or was she simply unwilling to shoulder her share of the responsibility?

  And what kind of person, what kind of wife, was she, that her husband was lying dead on a medical examiner’s table somewhere and she was desperately trying to absolve herself, even in her own mind?

  39

  MARGARET

  Margaret hasn’t stopped shaking since she heard the news.

  David West is dead.

  It’s only by chance that she catches the tail end of the breaking report. The crowd in the breakfast room of the hotel where she’s staying turns up the television playing low in the background after someone notices a picture of David flash across the screen.

  The room, boisterous prior to that, grows quiet to a person, riveted by the drama unfolding before their eyes.

  The reverence with which their gazes turn upward, coupled with the number who hold a hand to their mouth, eyes wide with shock, reminds her of the day the Challenger exploded.

  It’s a surreal moment to share with a room full of strangers, especially for a woman who’s spent the last two and a half decades surrounded by a bevy of orphan girls and a handful of fellow nuns.

  She planned to leave the island this morning. It was a mistake to come here, to meddle in things best left in the past. She should have learned her lesson by now.

  Margaret has a rare talent for making decisions that only ever worsen an already bad situation.

  And now this.

  Graye must be terrified.

  The reporter, standing outside a short white-brick building with a few scattered palm trees in front of it, claims the police are speaking to several persons of interest.

  Margaret can’t reach Graye on her cell phone, though she tries the number half a dozen times.

  Fear unlike any she’s ever experienced courses through her.

  The group in the breakfast room begins to whisper among themselves.

  “Shh,” she says loudly, hushing them without a second thought, as she would the girls before prayer.

  “I’m Sally Monahan, reporting live from Rockaway, Texas. And now back to you, Blake.”

  The scene cuts to a handsome man with a weak jaw and perfect haircut who’s pasted an expression of grave concern on his face.

  “Thank you, Sally. Sad news for the literary world today.”

  Margaret shocks herself by wondering how many times the news anchor had to practice that somber look in the mirror before he was satisfied.

  Apparently, leaving her nun’s habit behind has shaken her mind loose from the strict regimen of charitable thoughts the Church expects.

  And now she’s coming unmoored, in more ways than one.

  “Where did they say the police station was located?” Margaret asks a group of women sitting at the nearest table, interrupting their conversation. “Is it here on the island?”

  Something of her desperation must have shown on her face, because none of the three women seem bothered by her rudeness.

  “No, it was on the mainland, wasn’t it?” one of them asks another.

  “I’ll google it,” another woman says, picking up her phone and typing something into it.

  Margaret is grateful. She’d made a trip to the local cellular store before leaving home and purchased her first ever mobile phone, but other than entering Graye’s phone number, she hasn’t taken the time to learn how to use it.

  “Rockaway,” the woman says. “That’s on the mainland. I can give you directions, if you like.”

  “Yes, please,” Margaret says. “Thank you. I’ll call a taxi.”

  “I have a better idea,” another of the women says, an older woman with an elegant chignon of white hair. “We’re planning to catch the next ferry. Our morning plans haven’t exactly gone as expected, to say the least. We could take you.”

  Humbled by the offer, Margaret asks, “Are you certain? I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “No bother at all, dear. Were you a guest for Laura’s retreat? I don’t recall seeing you at any of the events.”

  “No,” Margaret says. “No, I’m . . .” She doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t plan the words that fall from her mouth. “I’m a nun who’s run away from home.”

  The trio of women blink in unison.

  It takes a moment for any of them to speak.

  “Okay, now you have no choice,” says the youngest of the three, a brunette with large-framed glasses. “You have to let us give you a ride so you can tell us the rest of that story.”

  Margaret shakes her head, regretting her thoughtless words. She doesn’t have time to socialize with strangers. She has one goal, and only one. She must find Graye.

  “I’ll tell you everything if we can leave right away,” she says.

  All three of them stand quickly, gathering the bags at their feet.

  “You may not realize what you’ve done,” the older woman says. “We’re all writers, so you’ve essentially held up a feather on a string to three cats.”

  Writers. Of course they’re writers. Margaret hadn’t realized when she’d decided to make the trip, but she’d quickly discovered that the woman Graye was an assistant to was hosting a book event on the tiny island. She’d been able to secure a reservation at Port Mary’s one hotel only due to a last-minute cancellation.

  Margaret can’t explain her sudden need to see Graye in person. They don’t have the kind of relationship that would lend itself to impromptu visits.

  But her worry has only grown over the months. Graye stopped returning her calls. With the knowledge that Nick tracked the girl down weighing heavily on her mind, Margaret stopped sleeping nights.

  She hasn’t suffered such severe insomnia since before she took her vows.

  She was sitting in chapel last week and realized she hadn’t offered up a single word of prayer. Her thoughts were blanketed with images of Graye. The girl she was, the woman she’s become. The danger she faces.

  For days, she tried to hide her distraction and focus on the tasks in front of her, but her hands went through the motions by rote, having performed the same ones for decades.

  Nothing freed her from the endless whirl of worry.

  Finally, she gave up as she stared at the ceiling in the sparse, utilitarian room that had granted her comfort and peace once upon a time.

  She could lie to herself. But she was forced to accept that God knew what was in her heart better than she did.

  She called a taxi service to pick her up and take her to the nearest bus station early the next morning.

  Telling no one her plans, she slipped away unseen, dressed in secular clothing pulled from the donation box. The garments felt too light. Insubstantial, compared to what she was used to. But her habit is miles away now, left neatly folded on her bed, with a note sitting on top. A note which won’t even come close to a proper explanation of her reasons.

  Because she can’t put those reasons into words her
self.

  She only knows that Graye needs her and, for once in the girl’s life, Margaret needs Graye to know that someone is in her corner.

  Is she willing to share this with three strangers in exchange for the quickest route to Graye?

  Yes. Yes, she is.

  “My name is Rose, by the way,” the brunette says. “And this is Penny Southerland and Olivia Hart.”

  The other two women nod.

  “Olivia is our resident murderer,” Rose says with a smile. Everyone goes still.

  “Oh.” She raises a hand to her mouth. “That wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean—”

  “What Rose meant is that I played the role of the villain in our little murder mystery this weekend,” Olivia clarifies. “We revealed the clues and unmasked the killer, Poirot-style, at brunch this morning. But with the very real death of David West, the exercise lost its appeal. And now we know why Laura West didn’t show up.”

  “It’s a shame, really, we couldn’t give it more attention. The story was quite convoluted. Olivia was the long-supposed dead sister of Baroness Lyttleton, and she’d come back to expose her sister’s lifetime of treachery and lies. It was . . .” Rose trails off and the light drains from her face. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter now. Considering.”

  “No, Rose. I suppose it doesn’t.”

  Margaret can’t help but wonder what she’s agreed to by allying with this trio.

  But they are moving quickly, and soon the three, which have become a reluctant four, are leaving the hotel and closing the distance between Margaret and Graye.

  It’s a strange sensation for Margaret, to talk about herself. The Church encourages the sisters to accept God’s will, his hand as a guiding force. Even the concept of self is eventually lost, and the sisters, if they’re lucky, will grow to see themselves as vessels for God’s love.

  Margaret, however, made a bargain, and she keeps her word. The women prove to be exceptional listeners as she shares her story. Providing more detail than she’d ever intended, she begins to see them as confessors.

  By the time Rose pulls her rental car into the parking lot of the Rockaway Police Station, navigating around the news crews stationed outside, Margaret is shaking with nerves again, but she’s also lighter somehow. Less burdened.

  “Good luck to you, Margaret. And to Graye,” Penny says, the quietest of the group. “I hope the two of you find strength in one another, and that your path forward becomes clear.”

  It’s so like a prayer, such a gentle gesture of care, that Margaret feels tears gather in her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  “Now go,” Olivia says. “That girl needs you now.”

  She nods and waves after she steps out of the car. The women wave in return and drive away, three angels sent to help her along her way when she most needed guidance.

  The Lord does, indeed, work in mysterious ways.

  Margaret turns and faces the station. She pulls in a deep, strengthening breath. She grasps the handle of her battered suitcase, the same with which she’d entered the convent as a young girl, so many years ago.

  When she pushes open the double glass doors, a blast of cool air hits her, invigorating her senses and her purpose here.

  There are several people seated in the line of red plastic chairs in the lobby, talking quietly among themselves.

  She meets the eyes of the blonde woman who sits in the middle. She’s never met the woman, but there’s grief and more than a touch of fear in her eyes. Margaret realizes with a shock that she must be Laura West, David’s wife.

  David’s widow, now.

  Margaret’s gaze skitters away and she turns to walk toward the officer stationed at the front desk.

  “Excuse me,” she says quietly.

  The woman behind the desk is wearing a crisp uniform and a badge. She’s typing something into a computer screen in front of her and looks like she’s had better days.

  She glances quickly in Margaret’s direction, but the telephone rings, pulling her attention back to the desk.

  “One moment,” she says.

  Margaret waits while the officer takes the call.

  “No, there’s no official statement at this time. A press conference has been scheduled for three o’clock this afternoon, and members of the press are encouraged to attend.”

  A pause, and two faint lines appear between the officer’s brows.

  “We have no further information to release. No, I’m afraid not. You’re welcome to attend the press conference, and I wish you a good day.”

  With that, the officer replaces the receiver and pushes a wisp of hair away from her face, the only sign of her frustration.

  “Can I help you?” she asks in a harried tone.

  “Is Graye Templeton here?” Margaret asks.

  The woman cuts her eyes to a large window toward the back of the station almost imperceptibly.

  “I’m afraid I can’t release that information,” the officer says, and it’s Margaret’s turn to sigh.

  She has already spotted Graye in the room behind the window speaking with two other people as clear as day. What’s to be accomplished by obfuscation?

  “Are those the detectives in charge of David West’s murder?” she asks, lowering her voice. She doesn’t wish to garner the attention of the other people in the room, particularly Laura West.

  “What is this regarding, ma’am?” the officer asks.

  “I need to speak to them.”

  “In regard to the death of Mr. West?”

  It was Dr. West, not mister, but she doesn’t correct the officer.

  “Yes,” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder. The trio is still talking, but the eyes of David’s wife are on her, as Margaret had sensed they would be.

  Quickly, she turns back to face the desk.

  “I have some information that could be important.”

  “Could be?” The officer raises an eyebrow.

  “Yes. It’s about Graye . . . and it’s something I don’t think she’s going to share willingly. But . . . but it’s important.”

  Margaret has debated this course of action for weeks. Ever since Graye told her Nick had found her. The girl’s vehement refusal to put her past up for public display Margaret can understand. They’d worked so hard to shield the child from the aftereffects.

  But if she’s in danger from that very same past—and given their current predicament, it certainly seems that’s true—then it’s time for Graye to come clean.

  Perhaps that’s what she’s doing right now, sitting in that closed-off room with people who could protect her, if they knew the truth. Perhaps.

  But Margaret knows Graye. She’s single-minded in her determination, and Graye is determined to shed the skin of Grace Thacker permanently.

  Even if that means withholding pertinent information from the detectives in charge of a murder investigation.

  The female officer is studying her closely, probably debating whether she’s a crank.

  “Ma’am, why don’t you have a seat. I’ll let the detectives know you’re here.”

  “Thank you,” Margaret says, breathing a sigh of relief that causes her shoulders to sag.

  She picks up her suitcase and finds her way to a seat as far removed from the other three people as she can manage without making eye contact.

  And she waits.

  She clasps her hands together in her lap and wishes she’d chosen a chair positioned where she could see Graye in the interview room. But to do so she would have had to sit next to the trio who are also waiting.

  Occasionally people enter, but the desk officer swiftly instructs all media to remain outside the station. The town is small, the police force as well. She sees only two other uniformed officers moving about. The lobby remains relatively quiet considering there’s been a murder in their jurisdiction just this morning.

  Margaret does her best not to call attention to herself, though it’s difficult in the small room with so few oc
cupants.

  At last the door to the interview room opens and two plainclothes detectives walk out, speaking quietly to each other after the door shuts behind them.

  Margaret straightens in her seat. From the corner of her eye, she sees Mrs. West do the same.

  The pair notice as well and say a few more words to each other before they turn and head in the direction of the lobby. The female detective stops to speak to the officer behind the desk, and the man walks past Margaret without a glance.

  He stops in front of David’s wife, who stands to greet him.

  “Mrs. West, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting for so long. I know this is a difficult time,” he begins in a voice that could soothe an angry bear. “It will just be a few more moments and—”

  “Did she do it?” Laura West interrupts. “Did she confess?” The question is asked without malice, but rather a desperate need for understanding.

  “The investigation is ongoing. We’d like to interview you next, if—”

  Margaret has stood without realizing it. She finds herself walking toward the small group on unsteady feet.

  “Graye didn’t do this,” she says.

  All heads turn to Margaret. Even the officer behind the desk stops midsentence and gapes at her.

  Perhaps she’s spoken more loudly than strictly necessary.

  “And you are?” the male detective asks.

  “I raised that girl. I know her. She didn’t do this,” she says, more quietly this time, utilizing all her effort to control her voice.

  The man’s expression changes, morphs into what Margaret can only describe as sympathy.

  “Ma’am, if you’d like to have a seat, my partner and I will be happy to speak with you soon. For the moment, I’m afraid we have more pressing matters to see to.”

  If he’d spoken in a less gentle tone, Margaret might not have been so inclined to automatically acquiesce, but his voice has a touch of magic. The pied piper of the Rockaway police, and she finds herself backing up and taking a seat again, just as he requested.

  Margaret stares down at the hands gripped in her lap as the others turn away, back to the business at hand. She doesn’t hear what they’re saying, as a cacophony of revolt is taking place in her mind.