Not a Word

by Stephanie Black

  “Mr. Moretti had a reason for sticking sixteen thousand dollars in an envelope and writing your name on it.” Chapman set the bakery box on the table and opened it. “If you know the reason, consider the cost you might pay for keeping that secret. Secrets did not go well for Felicia Radcliffe.”

  “I’m not keeping secrets.”

  Chapman took a thick chocolate-chip cookie out of the box, placed it on a napkin, and handed it to her. “If you aren’t keeping secrets, there’s someone in your life who is. It’s time to excavate those secrets, mein Schatz, before that person destroys you.”

  Chapter 23

  As soon as Lacey heard the garage door close behind Jonas’s car, she slithered out of bed, crawled to the window, and peeked to make sure he was driving away. She didn’t know how long he’d be gone, so she needed to hurry.

  After a sleepless night, Lacey had had difficulty focusing on her work, but she’d forced herself to stay with it, diligently placing tiles on a simple undersea design she was making for a friend who wanted an ocean theme in her nursery. Lacey had spoken to Jonas as little as possible, though he’d stayed with her the whole day, sitting on the couch in her workshop, usually working on his computer—he hadn’t dared go to his office and leave her alone.

  At dinner, she’d felt a swish of relief when he’d told her he needed to go meet with someone and he wanted her to stay home. She’d sworn she wouldn’t leave the house and had even urged him to take her car keys. He’d nodded, and she’d thought that was enough until, as they’d been eating mint-chocolate-chip ice cream—another food she was sick of—he’d set a brownish-pink pill on the table next to her glass of milk and told her to swallow it. A sleeping pill, to give her a good night’s rest.

  Never mind that it was hours until bedtime—it was even early for dinnertime. She knew what he was thinking: he didn’t want to leave unless she was too doped up for any mischief.

  She’d played along, giving a fake yawn and claiming she did want to go to bed early. She’d put the pill in her mouth and gulped milk. He’d smiled. She’d said she wanted more chocolate syrup and had gone to get it from the fridge so she could turn her back on him and dig out the bitter, gooey pill disintegrating between her cheek and gum. She’d left the slobbery tablet in the fridge, hidden under the pickle jar. She’d clean it up later.

  Sweaty under her nightgown, she hurried out of the bedroom and down the stairs. All day, she’d been thinking about her notebook and what Jonas would have done with it. If he’d burned it or shredded it or tossed it into a random Dumpster like people did on police dramas, he would have said so. He hadn’t destroyed it. He wanted to keep it, but he wanted to keep it from her.

  Why? In case he needed to use it to control her? If she balked at what he ordered her to do, would he threaten to show it to the police? How incriminating was her writing? If she had to spend any more time wondering if she’d subconsciously recorded violent thoughts about Camille, she’d end up even nuttier than she was right now. She had to find out exactly what she’d written.

  What if she had murdered Camille? Could she ever have peace knowing what she’d done and not owning up to it?

  No. If she found proof against herself, she’d call the police. She’d rather get locked up than go the rest of her life carrying a secret so heavy it pressed on her back like a bag filled with scrap glass. Twenty pounds, fifty pounds, a hundred, a thousand. Enough to crush her.

  If Jonas wanted to squirrel the notebook away in a spot she’d never search, where would he put it? His safe was an obvious spot, but it would be obvious to the police too. If they ever got a warrant to search the house, they’d force him to open the safe, and they’d be curious about why he’d locked up a flowery notebook like it was diamonds.

  If Jonas wanted to keep the notebook from Lacey but also didn’t want the police to think it was anything interesting, where would he put it?

  The basement. Where Lacey never went. The one time he’d taken her down there to show her it wasn’t dangerous, she’d cried and clung to him like a toddler, arms and legs both wrapped around him lest the soles of her shoes touch the floor. He’d never tried again, and Lacey had never even opened the door to the basement. Jonas would be confident he could leave her notebook there and she’d never find it. He could even leave it in plain sight on that cold concrete floor with the drain in the middle or leaning against a wooden wall stud strung with spider webs or in a dark corner with roaches and mouse droppings. He’d know Lacey wouldn’t go near it—not if it meant flashing back to the basement where she’d hunkered down as a child, listening to her mother’s screams from upstairs; not if it meant remembering the grimy water in the bottom of that open sump pump and her nose nearly touching it as her father had forced her head into the basin, yelling that he’d drown her.

  If she wanted the notebook back, she had to go down there, and she had to do it immediately. If she stalled, she’d lose her chance.

  Following the plan she’d worked out in her mind, she scuttled to the coat closet. Ignoring the tears already running down her face, she yanked on her snow pants, shoving and bunching her nightgown inside them, then stepped into her boots. She pulled on a knit cap that covered her hair, wrapped a scarf around her mouth and nose, and put on her heavy coat. As the last piece of her armor, she put on her gloves. The winter clothing would shield her, protect her from any dust or spiders or rodents. If she didn’t have to touch anything with her skin, maybe it wouldn’t even feel like she was in a basement.

  She clomped into the kitchen, grabbed her hand lotion off the windowsill and unscrewed the top so she could breathe in the scent of fresh apples. She’d thought the scent was too strong when Jonas had bought it for her, but now she was glad it was powerful, almost headachy powerful. She held it in front of her scarf-covered nose. If she smelled anything through the scarf, it would be apples, not dank basement.

  I can’t. She stood in the kitchen, pressing the open lotion bottle against the scarf already damp with her tears. She couldn’t do this. She’d go climb back in bed, safe.

  Safe? Safe without knowing if she was a murderer? Safe with Jonas controlling everything about her, including her memory?

  She inhaled a deep breath of apples and took fast, shaking steps toward the basement door. She grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, and wrenched the door open so savagely that the doorknob slammed into the wall. She didn’t check to see if the collision had left a dent; if she paused, she’d lose the one shredded scrap of nerve she had. She pawed the wall on either side of the basement stairs, not sure where the light switch was. Her gloved hand touched it; she flicked it on.

  Go. Lacey pressed the lotion bottle against her scarf-covered nose and took one heavy, wavering step downward. Another step. Another step. The wooden tread squeaked, and Lacey yelped. She should grab the stair railing to keep herself from falling, but even with thick gloves on, she didn’t want to touch anything she didn’t have to.

  Another step. Sweat rolled down her back. Her nightgown would be soaked before she was done. She’d have to change into a different one. Would Jonas notice? She’d tell him she’d spilled her bedside water glass down her front, and she’d wad this nightgown in the bottom of the hamper in case any basement smell had penetrated her winter clothing and contaminated it.

  She stopped on the bottom step and stared at the concrete floor. There was a crack in it, a small crack. Filled with spiders or roaches or maybe blood. Someone might have died down here.

  Go. She jumped to the ground, both boots striking at once.

  She should have brought a flashlight; the light in here was weak. But a flashlight would let her see more details, and she didn’t want more details. She wanted only the notebook.

  Cardboard boxes labeled in black marker were stacked against one wall. She squinted but couldn’t read the labels from here. One step closer to the boxes. Two. Her legs jiggled, and her heartbeat boomed. What if she stumbled, or fainted? What if her face touched the floor? What if she l
ay here while cockroaches and spiders—

  One more step. Did the floor feel gritty under her boots? Gritty with what?

  One more step. She squinted at the boxes. She could almost read the labels. Jonas had square, neat handwriting.

  One more step. Something tickled her cheek. Lacey screamed, flailing her arms, but couldn’t see anything. It must have been a spider web. Was there a spider on her? She swatted her head, face, and shoulders, trying to knock any creatures away.

  A glob of lotion from the open bottle had streaked across the back of her glove and arced across the floor. She needed to clean that up, but the thought of touching the floor made her feel panicky-sick. With the toe of her boot, she smeared the lotion around, hoping the scent would fade before Jonas came down here again.

  Three boxes were stacked on top of each other, each labeled “Books.” If Jonas didn’t want the notebook to look suspicious, a box full of books was a perfect place to hide it.

  Lacey’s upper body arched backward as she pushed her legs forward. The thought of opening a box in here made her afraid she’d vomit, but she wasn’t quitting after getting all the way down here.

  So sweaty and hot she felt her clothes were filled with steam, Lacey picked at the edge of the packing tape Jonas had used to seal the top box. Her gloves were too thick to let her grip the edge of the tape.

  It’s new tape. You can see it’s new tape. It’s not even dusty. You can touch it. Hurry.

  Letting herself whimper, Lacey stowed the lotion bottle in one large coat pocket, hoping it wouldn’t spill, and yanked off her right glove. The basement air was clammy against her wet skin, clammy and dirty.

  With slippery fingers, she clawed at the tape until she finally caught the edge and ripped the tape off. After putting her glove back on, she opened the flaps of the box.

  Her notebook was there, right on top. Lacey grinned behind her soaked scarf. That was easy. Or not easy. Horrible, but she’d done it. She snatched the notebook, pressed the flaps of the box together, and did what she could to stick the now-crumpled tape to the cardboard. If Jonas got close, he’d know she’d been in the box, but at least it wouldn’t be flapping open, drawing his attention.

  She tucked the notebook in one pocket and reached into the other pocket for her lotion bottle. Inhaling the fake apple scent, she turned away from the book boxes. She wanted to run for the stairs, but her legs were too wobbly. She took a careful step toward the stairs but stopped and wheeled toward the box she’d spotted in her peripheral vision. It was a tall wardrobe box labeled “Lacey.” This must be where Jonas put the clothes he confiscated from her closet, telling her they didn’t look good on her or they made her look too old or too young or whatever. When she would object, he’d assure her he wasn’t getting rid of them; he was putting them in storage in case she wanted them later, which always bugged her because she’d tried to tell him she wanted them now.

  Was her blue skirt in here? She’d loved that full skirt that swirled and rippled with layers of tulle and silky lining, but Jonas had declared it too childish, too much like a costume.

  Forcing her legs to plant her boots firmly against the concrete, she walked toward the box. She didn’t dare bring the skirt up to her closet yet, but she wanted to see if it was here. If she’d mustered the guts to come down here once, she could muster the guts to come down here again. Someday—soon—she’d reclaim the skirt, even if Jonas thought it made her look like a fairy godmother.

  She opened the flaps of the box and fingered through the hanging clothes. The blue skirt was there, fabric shiny and whimsical even in this dingy basement. Maybe she should take it upstairs now. If she stuck it in the back of her closet, Jonas wouldn’t notice it for a while.

  She started to unhook the hanger from the rod. A scarf folded over the hanger next to it drew her attention. Her new coral scarf with the gold beads! The scarf like Camille’s. She hadn’t noticed it missing from her closet. Why had Jonas confiscated it? He’d liked this scarf; he’d said it was classy.

  Annoyed, Lacey snatched the scarf off the hanger. The silk was wrinkled, with bulges where the fibers had stretched. How had that happened? She’d been meticulous with this scarf, handling it tenderly and smoothing it out before hanging it up. Even if Jonas hadn’t been that careful in culling it from Lacey’s closet, he wouldn’t have been so rough that . . . He couldn’t have damaged it this severely . . .

  Damaged. Stretched, yanked, twisted.

  Twisted around Camille’s neck? Camille had been strangled.

  Twinkles of dizziness filled her head. Had Jonas seen the scarf on Camille’s lifeless body and stolen it because he’d thought it was Lacey’s—the proof of her crime? Was the scarf, not the notebook, the reason he was so sure she’d killed Camille?

  But Camille had a scarf identical to this. The scarf could be hers, not Lacey’s. Jonas had made a mistake.

  Clutching the scarf, Lacey galloped across the basement, up the stairs, and up the second flight into their bedroom. Sweat trickling into her eyes, she wrenched her closet open and pushed clothes apart until she found the hanger that held her dressy scarves.

  The gold-beaded scarf was gone.

  Lacey dropped the scarf she’d found in the basement, ripped off her sweaty gloves, hat, and coat, and searched between every item of clothing on the rack, on the floor, behind the shoe rack, on the shelf. In all her drawers. Under the bed.

  No second scarf. The only beaded coral scarf here was the scarf that must have strangled Camille.

  Lacey’s scarf.

  * * *

  After the door to the waiting room had closed behind her last client of the day, Natalie offered Jeanne a smile that felt more weary than genuine and bent her body forward, trying to stretch stress-tightened back muscles.

  “Post-work yoga?” Jeanne asked as Natalie rested her palms on the carpet.

  “Sore back,” Natalie said, standing straight.

  Jeanne rose from her desk. “You look wiped out, hon. You okay?”

  “More or less,” Natalie said.

  “I hope you’re taking it easy tonight.”

  “I’m heading home as soon as I finish a few notes.” Natalie didn’t add that she wasn’t planning to stay home, and even if she did stay home, taking it easy—at least mentally—wasn’t a possibility.

  Skyler strolled toward the counter. “Me—I’m hoping that when I get home, I’ll find a roast beef dinner a generous stranger left on my doorstep. Steaming-hot mashed potatoes. Homemade gravy. Apple pie. With Vicki out of town, my standard of living is not up to par.”

  Jeanne picked up her purse. “I read in the paper how someone has been sneaking around delivering home-cooked meals to random strangers.”

  Skyler’s eyes bulged. “They have?”

  Jeanne snorted. “Stop and grab yourself a burger if you want hot food, sonny. Or cook it yourself.” She waved and headed toward the exit. “Have a good night.”

  “Was that a nice thing to do to me?” Skyler asked. “Get my hopes up?”

  Kirk stopped at Jeanne’s desk and grabbed a pen to write something on a business card in his hand. “How did it go with Chapman today?” he asked Natalie.

  “He was kind,” Natalie said. “And blunt.”

  “The clinic?” Kirk asked.

  “Nothing definitive, but if the police don’t get some breaks soon . . . Let’s just say there’s a lot of competition for his financial support.”

  Kirk gave her an encouraging smile. “The cops will sort it out.”

  “Did Sir Gideon Radcliffe show up for lunch?” Skyler asked.

  “Sir Gideon?” Kirk asked.

  “Yeah, don’t you think his name sounds like it belongs to a British aristocrat?”

  “I think it sounds like the Bible guy who blasted down the walls of Jericho with a trombone, or whatever he did.”

  “You’re thinking of Joshua,” Natalie said.

  “Oh.” Kirk removed his glasses and tucked them into his shirt pocket. �
�Which one is Gideon?”

  “Gideon’s the one with trumpets and lanterns, whose men spooked an army into panicking and self-destructing,” Natalie said.

  “I feel for them,” Skyler said. “I panicked once when I saw Kirk pick up an accordion.”

  “Yes, Gideon Radcliffe was there.” Natalie pulled the conversation back on course. “Bob made it clear he has only sympathy for Felicia, and he certainly didn’t murder Gideon’s father.”

  “I hate to say it, but that’s a let-down of an ending,” Skyler said. “I was on board for the mob-boss scenario.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Kirk said. “This isn’t a joking matter to Natalie.”

  “It’s fine,” Natalie said. “I’d rather use humor to deal with it than . . .” She blanked on any other coping mechanisms. “I need to finish up. See you guys tomorrow.”

  “Take it easy, Nat,” Skyler said.

  In her office, Natalie finished her client notes. Work done, she straightened her spine, braced her feet flat on the floor, and opened her desk drawer to retrieve her phone.

  Andrea had answered the text she’d sent in the few minutes she’d had free before her final client had arrived. Of course! Come by around eight.

  Natalie set the phone down and evaluated her own emotions. Relief? No, the feeling seared more than soothed. Satisfaction that she was moving forward? Satisfaction plus dread. All afternoon, whenever she’d had a moment, she’d thought about Chapman’s words, about who in her circle might know something that could guide her.

  Andrea.

  She wanted to learn everything Andrea could tell her about Dante and the Marsh family’s interaction with him. It would take a while to chisel away Andrea’s drama and passive-aggressive gibes to excavate anything helpful—if Andrea knew anything helpful. But even if the content of the conversation was useless, Natalie could check one archeological dig off her list.