by Lisa Jackson
“Of course I do. Just like you do and everyone at the fire station and this stinking town does, too. Even the kids. Oh, shit…This is so horrible…so wrong!” Her voice caught on a sob.
Shannon bit back angry advice she knew Mary Beth wouldn’t listen to. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” Mary Beth started to cry softly. Once she’d been Shannon’s best friend. Now she was a stranger.
“I don’t know why I called you,” Mary Beth choked out. “Probably because you called me earlier…I thought you knew something or wanted to talk…Oh, shit. This was obviously a mistake—”
“I’m sorry, Mary Beth. I know this is hard, but I didn’t call you…”
The microwave timer dinged softly.
“Of course you did. I have it on my caller ID. What the hell game are you playing?”
“But I didn’t—”
“Oh, God, Shannon. You’re just like the rest of them, maybe worse! Stop lying to me. You and your sick brothers. I never should have married Robert. Never!” She slammed down the receiver, cutting their connection.
Shannon’s spine was stiff. You’re just like the rest of them, Shannon, maybe worse. Mary Beth’s words echoed through her head and she gritted her teeth. There were other accusations her sister-in-law hadn’t said but remained forever between them: hateful, angry accusations that simmered in the air. Accusations that haunted her life.
“You killed Ryan, I know you did,” Mary Beth had told her once, shortly after the trial, when Shannon had run into her at the deli counter of the local grocery store. “No matter how that lawyer twisted my words on the witness stand, no matter what the judge decided, you killed him just as surely as if you’d dumped gasoline all over him and lit the match.”
Shaken by Mary Beth’s rage and fury, Shannon had managed to stand firm. “I didn’t kill my husband,” she denied for the hundredth time while she felt other people staring, women pushing half-filled carts with toddlers in the seats of the baskets, the shocked clerk standing on the other side of the salad case, a scoop of pasta salad stopped halfway to the plastic container in her other hand.
Mary Beth found the decency to lower her voice. “I’m your sister-in-law, Shannon, but that’s it, okay? I’m not your friend. Not anymore.” And with that she’d pushed her empty cart with its wobbling wheel toward the produce section.
Shannon had been mortified and miserable.
Now she closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten, listening to the wall clock ticking over the soft hum of the refrigerator’s motor. “What a disaster,” she whispered as she thought about her brothers. All with their Black Irish good looks, thick, ebony-colored hair, glittering blue eyes filled, as her mother had often said, “with the very devil himself.” Their cheekbones were high, their eyebrows thick, their jaws looking as if they’d been squared off by a carpenter, then creased at the chin. They’d all been blessed with impossibly white teeth that slashed easily into heart-stopping smiles. But along with those easy, sexy grins and the gleam in their clear blue gazes came trouble. Not only was she the lone female of what their father, Patrick, had often referred to as “his litter,” she also didn’t resemble her siblings all that much. To a one, the boys took after strapping, outspoken, fire-fighting Patrick while Shannon had a petite frame, auburn curls that refused to be tamed and green eyes that were identical to her mother’s. The difference was that while her mother, Maureen, had been frail all her life, nearly dying in childbirth with the twins, Shannon was headstrong and athletic like her brothers. Maureen had been a God-fearing woman who prided herself on sticking to a strict code of Catholic ethics and often told her children the Devil was just over their shoulders. All the boys, except maybe for Oliver, had ignored her dire warnings about sin and punishment. Shannon, much to her mother’s humiliation, had eagerly followed in the footsteps of her older brothers and nearly broken every one of her mother’s rules. Along with her poor mother’s heart. The worst had been, of course, getting pregnant before she was married.
Shannon felt the old tug on her heart when she remembered her father’s suddenly weary shoulders the night he learned about Shannon’s impending baby. He stood in the den, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, leaning against the window casing, his back to her. But she saw his face in the reflection of the paned glass, his eyes turning into marbles of hatred in his suddenly florid face. “I’ll kill him,” he’d promised.
“No, Dad,” Shannon had whispered, holding tears at bay. “You won’t.”
“That lowlife bastard will marry you.”
“No way,” she’d insisted. “He doesn’t want me. Doesn’t want the baby and so I don’t want him. There’s not going to be a wedding.”
Her mother, ashen-faced, sat on an overstuffed wingback chair. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she’d said on a weary sigh. “Shannon Mary Flannery, you will marry the father of my grandchild and you’ll do it quickly. I’ll call Father Timothy right now.”
“No!” If she’d ever been certain of anything in her life it was that she didn’t want to become the wife to the spineless man she’d thought she’d loved.
“Damned straight, you’ll get married,” her father grated. He strode across the carpet to stand behind his wife and place a big, calloused hand upon Maureen’s thin shoulder. “If I have to chase that boy down with a shotgun, he’s going to marry you.”
“That’s archaic,” Shannon argued, her spine stiffening. “I can raise the baby by myself.”
“Oh, for the love of Mary! That’s not an option.”
Her mother shot to her feet and some of the iron will that rarely showed itself in Maureen Flannery became apparent. She pointed an accusing finger at her only daughter and decreed, “I’ll speak to Father Timothy and Brendan’s mother and—”
“No! Keep her out of this. I’ll handle it!” Shannon’s cheeks burned. Tears started down her face. She nearly panicked at the thought of dealing with Brendan’s parents. They’d never liked her and this situation would only make things worse. Before she could say another word she felt her stomach roil, the hot taste of bile rise up her throat. It was as if the baby she was carrying could hear and understand and was protesting loudly.
She ran out of the room to the tiny bathroom tucked under the staircase and retched and retched. Spent and gasping, she ground her teeth, silently vowing she would do what was best for her child. She knew she couldn’t raise the baby herself. Not with her disapproving father and mother, certain the child had been conceived in sin. Not with a passel of brothers often considered immoral hellions even by their own mother. Not with the possibility of running into Brendan on the streets of Santa Lucia.
That night, in the tiny powder room, Shannon had swallowed hard, flushed the toilet and stared at her pale reflection in the mirror over the medicine cabinet. Outside the door her parents continued arguing, her father raging about “young bucks who can’t keep their peckers in their pants” and her mother going on and on about “the Flannery curse,” something Maureen constantly brought up when things didn’t go as planned. Shannon could practically visualize her mother sketching out a quick sign of the cross over her thin chest, just as she always did when she spoke of ill luck.
Even now, nearly fourteen years later, Shannon felt her skin flush at the memory of confiding to her parents that she’d been three months’ pregnant.
“The Flannery curse,” she said aloud, thinking of her brother Robert. Still disturbed by Mary Beth’s phone call, Shannon removed her cup from the microwave. She found a box of caffeine-free herbal teas that Shea’s first wife, Anne, had given her for Christmas long ago. She selected a tiny pouch named raspberry mist and she dunked the bag into her steaming cup. She briefly considered calling around for Robert before discarding the idea.
Mary Beth had been right. His involvement with Cynthia Tallericco was common knowledge in town because Robert had up and moved out of their three-bedroom ranch home and into an apartment. He’d made absolutely no attempt to hi
de what he was doing. Whereas his other “dalliances” had been clandestine and short-lived, this one was different, this one had staying power. It was out in the open. Public enough to embarrass Mary Beth and their two kids. Robert didn’t seem to care. He would listen to no one—not their parents or any of his siblings—not even Oliver, soon to be a member of the priesthood.
Robert steadfastly claimed he wanted a divorce, that he loved Cynthia. And there seemed to be no talking him out of it. It was time for him to move on and for Mary Beth “to get a life.” Mary Beth, a staunch Catholic, was refusing, insisting that Robert would “come to his senses” and using their kids as pawns in an ever-escalating war.
When did love become hate? Shannon wondered grimly. Her own marriage had ended in a bloodied emotional battlefield.
Carrying her cup out of the kitchen, Shannon snapped off the lights and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. From the windowseat Shannon was able to view her backyard and over the fence to the property that had just been sold and was slated for a development where “seventy new, affordable homes” would soon be constructed.
Another reason she had decided to move. These five acres would soon be a part of the suburban sprawl of Santa Lucia. She needed more room to train her animals.
She’d thought the place she’d purchased was perfect, and it would be good to put some of the horrors of this house behind her. As she opened the window and gazed out to the night sky where the moon was rising and the sound of cicadas and crickets whispered up to her, the darkness held forboding.
She looked into the night and felt as if there, hidden in the darkness, unseen eyes were watching her.
A chill skittered down her spine.
The Flannery curse, she thought again. In her mind’s eye, she saw her mother as she had been on that fateful day so many years ago, her spirit broken, the look of horror and condemnation upon her face as Shannon had said, “I’m pregnant.” That image had never left her.
“Get over it,” she told herself now as she took off her shoes and padded barefoot to the bathroom. But her mind swam with images of Dani Settler. Silently she prayed the girl was safe, that soon she’d be with her father again. That’s where she belonged, with Travis Settler. Shannon was no part of the girl’s life.
Her heart squeezed painfully as she shook out a pain pill from the bottle. Her ribs were beginning to ache and a headache was crawling up her brain. Tossing back the pill, she chased it with water. Then she grabbed her hairbrush and worked the knots from her tangled tresses. She yanked the brush through her hair as if her life depended on it. She felt the need to hurry, as if the more she brushed, the faster and more furious she worked, the quicker her pain would end, the sooner this would all be over. Eventually she tossed down the brush, covering her face with her hands for several long moments.
She was afraid for the daughter she’d never known and now might never meet. Sick with worry.
Blindly, she walked back to her bedroom, saw the tea steeping on her nightstand. All of her thoughts were on Dani. From her pocket, she withdrew the poster, smoothed the creases with the flat of her hand and propped the picture next to her bed. “Be safe, baby,” she whispered. “Oh, please be safe.” She fought a new round of tears as she eased into bed and turned out the light.
She’d find Dani. She and Travis. There was a strength to the man, a determination. She would help him find their daughter.
Then what? her mind taunted. She could already be dead…Oh, please, God, no! But if she’s not and you find her, are you going to just let her drift out of your life again?
That, of course, would be impossible.
But, for tonight, Shannon wouldn’t dwell on the future. Not now. Not until her child was safe again.
He watched from a distance, his binoculars trained on the compound where Shannon lived. As far as he could tell she was in the house and alone. A perfect time.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out her cell phone, then, knowing he was in reach of the nearest tower to her home, he placed the call.
One ring.
Two.
On the third a woman said, “Hello?”
He waited.
“Hello?”
Again he said nothing.
“Shannon?” the woman guessed. Her voice grew more strident. “Listen, I don’t know what kind of weird game you’re playing with me, but you’d better stop this shit or I’ll call the authorities!” She slammed down the phone.
In the darkness he smiled. Don’t worry, he thought as he repocketed the cell, the authorities will be there sooner than you think, sooner than you want.
It was time to raise the stakes. Tonight. He felt a surge of anticipation through his blood.
Oh, yeah, “the authorities” would soon be on their way.
Chapter 15
“That son of a bitch,” Mary Beth said, kicking off her shoes and watching the three-inch heels bounce against the scuffed wall of her walk-in closet, her half-empty closet. When she and Robert had moved into this house five years earlier, the walk-in dressing area had been one of the reasons she’d fallen in love with it. Now the space was a mockery, her “side” filled to the gills with outfits, Robert’s empty aside from his old letterman’s jacket hanging lopsidedly on a single hanger. She closed her eyes, remembering him wearing the jacket in high school, being such a jock. She’d fallen in love with him so easily and believed the dream of happily ever after.
What a laugh, she thought scornfully. All those Friday-night football games, watching him play, meeting him afterwards, spending more time than she should have alone with him wherever they could find a secluded place.
She’d waited for him through college and even bitten back her disappointment when he’d decided to follow in his father’s footsteps and join the Santa Lucia Fire Department.
Another mistake.
From that point on, her life had been hell.
On a sigh she snapped off the closet light. Jesus, it was stuffy in here. The air-conditioning was on the fritz again and Robert refused to pay to have it fixed.
What a jackass.
Mary Beth opened the bedroom windows, then slipped into the living room and did the same. There wasn’t much of a breeze, but at least some of the hot air inside the house dissipated into the night.
Robert, Robert, Robert.
Why couldn’t she get over him?
Should she divorce the bastard?
So what if her parents, the parish priest and her kids were against it. Would God really blame her?
No, but your children will. They will never get over it.
She blew her bangs out of her eyes and knew she was doomed to stay with her husband until death. And the way she was feeling tonight, that might not be long. God, she’d love to shoot the bastard dead!
Well, not really.
But she would love to scare the liver out of him.
From the get-go there had always been other women. Even as far back as her senior year, when he’d been in college, but she’d been certain once they were married his roving eye would return to her.
Of course it hadn’t happened. Then after a while, Mary Beth began to think that maybe a baby would change things—and it had. At least for a couple of years after Elizabeth was born. But the late nights of not knowing where her husband was had started up again. So she’d gotten pregnant again and this time had given him a son.
Surely that would do the trick!
But she’d been wrong. Again.
She walked through the kids’ rooms, threw some toys into the toy boxes and scooped up a few discarded clothes, which she carried down the long hallway to the tiny laundry room off the kitchen, just inside the door of the single-car garage.
After tossing the dirty clothes into a basket balanced on the dryer, and trying to swipe down a spiderweb with one of JR’s socks, she shut the door and made her way to the kitchen. She’d already decided to tap into the bottle of wine she’d opened earlier—her own special confidence booster
. The wine had certainly helped her confront her husband in the parking lot of that run-down, no-tell motel. Shit, what was Robert thinking?
“He’s not,” she said aloud. “Unless his brain truly is in his dick.” She didn’t trust him. Never had. Never could.
Oh, he’d sworn he wasn’t going to be with that bitch tonight. When she hadn’t believed him and had started screaming at him, even going so far as to slap him once they’d gotten home, he’d acted like it was all her fault.
He’d flinched, raised his hand, but hadn’t hit her back. He just stared at her, his eyes dark and unfathomable, and warned, “Watch it, Mary Beth. Don’t you believe in the Bible? What’s the quote that’s appropriate here? ‘As ye sow, so shall ye reap’?”
“If that’s the case, you miserable prick, then you’re going to spend all of eternity roasting in hell!”
“Then I’ll see you there.”
With that he took off in a roar from his piece-of-shit car’s powerful engine. A BMW! When they were up to their eyeballs in debt! Her fault again, he’d said. Because she didn’t work outside the home and so they had no money.
But didn’t taking care of the kids—his kids!—count for something?
“Dick-head,” she muttered, pulling a bottle of Chardonnay from the refrigerator and yanking out the cork. She filled a tall, stemmed glass with the lovely amber fluid, and didn’t dwell on the fact that it had been years since Robert and she had shared a bottle of wine.
Toting the glass and bottle into the master bath, she placed them both on the rim of the jetted tub, then peeled off her clothes. First her tight pants, then her blouse that had showed off what she’d hoped was just enough cleavage to get Robert interested. She figured she’d fight fire with fire to get him back and to that end she’d purchased a low-cut black push-up bra and a god-awful matching thong. Now, staring at her reflection in the mirror, she decided she didn’t look too bad for a woman who had borne two nearly ten-pound babies. She worked out and tried to keep her body toned, but all she ever heard from Robert were complaints about the cost of the athletic club and personal trainer who had helped her form her exercise routine.