Our Little Secret

by Roz Nay

  I wriggled but couldn’t shift her.

  “I will bring you down. Get out of my house and stay away from my family!”

  She let go, pushing fury into my neck as she stood.

  “Leave and don’t come back,” HP said. He took a half step toward me, as if he might jog over and kick me for a field goal. “Get in your car and go. Your game is over.”

  I went to the spare room, dressed, packed a few things into my suitcase, and took off in my car for my mother’s place.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Novak has completely lost his poker face.

  “So, Angela…” He rubs his hand over his weak jawline. “Is that when you decided to get back at her?”

  “No, that was my last effort at breaking through to HP. I was done.”

  He scratches his head, leafing through his file. He’s looking for something, anything, to keep me here.

  “Can I go?” It’s time: We’ve reached the finish. And now that the moment has arrived, it seems almost anticlimactic. I was half hoping he’d go up a gear and at least present something of a challenge.

  He stands up and puts his hands in his pockets. “You’re kind of a bad person, Angela. Has that occurred to you? You’re driven by hate. That kind of toxicity can really eat a person up, compelling them to do nasty things.”

  My laugh is dry. “Okay. Can I go?”

  Novak leans against the door. It’s the cat and the mouse all over again. “You have one major problem, as I see it.”

  “You’ve got nothing on me.”

  “DNA of the missing woman found in your bedroom. Her favorite necklace tucked away in your book.”

  “I didn’t put it there. Olive wanted me to have it.”

  “That’s going to be hard for you to prove. I have to agree with Mr. Parker when he says your game is up.”

  “Arrest me then, Detective Novak.” I lean back so that the chair tips. “In the meantime, where’s my lawyer? I’m not saying anything more until you get me one.”

  And then he surprises me. He leaves and returns with a policeman, the man who deposited the plated macaroni late last night. The officer’s cheeks are flushed.

  “We have sufficient evidence to suggest you’re involved in the disappearance of Saskia Joanne Parker,” Novak announces, his voice churchy and too loud. “You’re being held on suspicion of your involvement. You’ve requested an attorney and one will be provided to you. Do you have any questions?”

  I tilt my head and shrug.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  My attorney’s name is Tate. I’m not clear if that’s his first name or his last. He wears tennis shoes with his suit and has a new girlfriend, judging by the number of text messages he’s already received in his first five minutes. He must be fresh out of law school, because he’s about my age; he’s short-haired and overweight by thirty pounds, with a blond beard and a signet ring on his right pinkie.

  I like him instantly. He sits next to me in the interview room while Novak is across from us with his file. Tate’s cell beeps on the table, hopping it along a few inches.

  “Ignore that,” Tate says, but he doesn’t make a move to switch it off.

  “Can we pick up where we left off earlier?” Novak mutters, laying paper documents flat and resting his palms on top of them. He looks at Tate like locals look at tourists.

  “Yep.” He turns to me. “Are you ready?”

  I nod.

  “Angela,” Novak begins. “We’ve established you have motive to cause the Parkers harm.”

  “Excuse me,” cuts in Tate. “My client asserts she’s caused no harm to any party. Leading the witness.”

  “We’re not in court, Tate.”

  “No, but you can’t put words in her mouth. Rephrase.”

  Novak blows out air into his cheeks. “We’ve established that your client wanted revenge on the Parkers for ‘injustices’ she felt they’d done to her. Is that fair?”

  “She exacted her revenge when she attempted to have sex with Mr. Parker. Which, correct me if I’m wrong, Detective Novak, isn’t a crime.”

  “But her hatred runs deeper. If she did that, then…”

  Tate shrugs.

  “Angela, did you try to insinuate yourself into the life of the Parkers, to possess everything they’d managed to build?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Tate says.

  “Didn’t you long to become Saskia? That’s pretty much what you’ve told me. Wasn’t it eating you up? All those years and you couldn’t oust her? When HP threw you out of the house, did you take it upon yourself to lure Saskia with a fake apology, with the express intention of causing her harm?”

  “As your attorney, I strongly advise you not to answer that one, either.”

  “Angela, somebody coaxed Saskia to a secret location, and she went with full compliance. She organized a playdate for Olive, forgot to take her cell phone with her, and didn’t leave her husband a note. That to me suggests it was a meeting she was eager to attend.”

  “Is that a question?” asks Tate. “I’m struggling to hear it among all the conjecture.”

  “Where is Saskia, Angela?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I say.

  “You’re still not upset.” Novak smacks both hands on the table.

  “Sure I am. I just don’t like to parade my feelings for strangers. And I’m drained.”

  “That’s right.” Tate nods. “Twenty-four hours of constant questioning can take a toll on a person’s emotional thresholds.”

  Novak composes himself. “Where did you spend last weekend? June ninth and tenth?”

  “Boston. With Mom. I already told you this.”

  “According to Freddy Montgomery’s statement, you stayed with him at the Boston Hotel on Berkeley Street. Did you speak with Freddy Montgomery about your frustrations with the Parkers?”

  “Probably. They had just kicked me out of their house.” I glance at Tate.

  “And was Mr. Montgomery sympathetic?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “Isn’t it true that Mr. Montgomery would do anything for you?” Novak delivers the line for Tate’s benefit; he’s already tried that argument on me.

  “I think he’s my friend, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Only your friend, or are you sleeping with him? Is he part of your little manipulation game, too?”

  “Objection,” says Tate. “Irrelevant who my client sleeps with.”

  Novak rolls his eyes and mutters.

  “Do you have anything else?” asks Tate. “Unless you have something new—like, say, a body with my client’s DNA on it—I’m going to get my client out of here.”

  “Wait.” Novak gets up and walks out the door.

  Tate turns to me. “He’s panicking.”

  “I know.”

  “Sit tight.”

  Tate takes a quick call, ending it with a happy sigh as he slips his phone back into his pocket. “Sorry about that. Listen, like I say, we’re talking hours now. I’d say two, max. Let’s just stay a little longer, placate him, and soon you’ll be home free—and you can carry on with your life.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I’m bored of this room and I’m bored of these people. Honestly, it seems to me that the only interesting humans in the world are the young ones. Year by year as we grow, a little more imagination rubs off of us, like white paint from a fence. By adulthood, all we are is a horde of conditioned, washed-out scarecrows, shuffling along with our heads full of hay.

  I used to be nicer. When I was a kid, I never joined in with the neighborhood boys who pulled the legs off spiders. I never threw rocks at dogs. I held hands with all kinds of people and trotted alongside them, letting their faces beat down on me like a sun. I was a lot like Olive.

  The way we live now, most people veil their destructiveness and dress it up as love. They clothe it and feed it and take it out on the town as their socially acceptable for
m of devastation. They do as much damage as the next person.

  All love stories are crime stories and all crime stories, love. If you say that’s not true, you’re not looking properly. Perhaps when two people join, it’s inevitable, the things they’ll damage in each other. If that’s what Novak means by calling this a love story, then fine, I totally agree with him.

  Ezra fantasized about getting rid of his dog in high school, but the truth is I’ve always had ways stacked up in my head of how to clear my life of Saskia. But they were thoughts, not actions, and you can’t get in trouble for thinking things. Because if you could, wouldn’t everyone in the world be in jail?

  * * *

  Tate left the room a while ago to talk to Novak. Now they come in together. Neither of them sits down. Tate has no bag or pen with him and he’s left his jacket elsewhere, probably in the coffee room. Novak has a glass jar crooked between his elbow and his left hip. Tate’s face is clammy with new stress.

  “Are you letting me out?”

  Tate shakes his head.

  Novak stares into my face, his hooded eyes icicle-cold. “Look, Angela, here’s your Manifestation Jar, as promised. Our forensic guys have delivered this back to us, and we’ve had a chance to read through it.”

  I look more closely at the mason jar as he stands it on the table. It’s definitely mine. “I told you, anything I wrote in there is irrelevant, years old.”

  “What?” Novak cups his hand behind his ear. “Speak up.”

  I clear my throat and look at Tate. “It’s just a bunch of dumb hippie voodoo. It was all my mother’s idea.”

  “Was it?” Novak pulls latex gloves from an inside pocket of his suit, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I bother with these things but, you know … You understand.” He slips his long fingers into the gloves.

  My heart’s beating faster, and when I speak my tongue lisps. “Novak, you can’t take anything that’s in there seriously. It’s not fair to dredge it up. I threw the whole jar out.”

  “Angela, let me do the talking,” Tate says quietly.

  The rubbery seal breaks. Novak rummages in to the elbow. The nerves in my fingers scream. “This is your handwriting, Angela?” He turns a piece of paper my way. “Good, just making sure.” Novak unfolds the ragged sheet. “HP loves me more.” Novak tosses the note onto the table, where it quivers and shifts as I breathe. He goes in for a second dip. “Her parents die in a car crash. She goes home to Australia and never comes back.”

  “Christ,” says Tate as he readjusts his shirt at each armpit.

  Novak pulls out a third. “HP will come to his senses.” He throws that one down into the pile. “I could go on and on. But you know what? I won’t, because we already have more than we need.”

  “My client won’t be talking further about this so-called exhibit. It’s obsolete. Seven years beyond its sell-by date. Inadmissible.” Tate’s chin is set.

  Novak snorts laughter, getting ready to gloat, when the door to the interview room bursts open and the thickset policeman sticks his head in, his face ablaze.

  “Sir, we need to speak.”

  Novak turns in his seat.

  “You need to come.”

  Novak jumps up, collects the papers, and clamps the jar back under his elbow, ramming his shin into his chair as he hurries.

  “Wait!” I call. “Did they find her? Where?”

  With Tate a few steps behind him, Novak pauses at the door, his fingertips on the door handle. He turns to face me. “Angela? Why aren’t you asking if she’s alive?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It’s the waiting that’s the killer. I don’t just mean in here, in this sterile little cube they’ve had me in for days, and I don’t just mean for me. For everyone, it’s the waiting that’s the killer. Once you know what’s coming for you, it’s impossible to concentrate on anything else.

  After I left HP that fateful Saturday night, I crept into my mother’s house while she was asleep in her bed. I lay on the couch in the dark, staring at the silhouettes of trees as they moved in shadow on the ceiling. My neck hurt where Saskia had knelt on it.

  I couldn’t sleep. As the hours inched toward dawn, the feeling that I’d lost the most important piece of myself grew, until the panic was an oily sheen on my skin, slick and cold and unrelenting. When Mom found me at seven a.m., I hadn’t rolled over once.

  “Goodness, did you sneak in here under cover of dark?” She leaned over the back of the couch, her hair smoother and less gray than it should have been. “How unsociable, darling.”

  She moved into the kitchen and began clanking china cups and pressing hard plastic capsules into her coffee machine. When she’d poured in water and the coffee sputtered to life, she returned.

  “What’s the matter with you, Angela?”

  I hadn’t been able to find any blankets in the night, and had resorted to the small starchy towel from the downstairs bathroom. It raked against my skin as I sat up.

  “I had to leave the Parkers.”

  “Well, you’d expected to leave today anyway.”

  “I had to get out of there earlier than planned.” I couldn’t look at her. My stomach knotted inside me.

  “Are you on bad terms?” She stared, hard and beady, before moving back to the kitchen to find sugar and milk.

  “Yes.”

  “With both of them, or just with her?”

  My forehead creased, a signal I was about to crumble, and my throat burned to cry. Instead I managed a shrug.

  “Darling.” Mom came over to me, put a hand to my brow. “Whatever’s happened, I’m sure it was way past due and will be for the best in the end. You’ve put all your eggs in that miserable Parker basket, and there was only so long before the basket tipped.”

  “I think I really lost HP.”

  Mom handed me a coffee. The heat of the mug was scalding to touch.

  “I doubt that’s true. Not really.” She bunched me along the couch and sat down. The white flesh of her knee protruded from a gap in her housecoat. “You and HP have always been close. It’s not like your father and I. When we fell out, it was like he’d dropped off the edge of the planet. And after years of marriage, no less. Believe me when I say you will get over this. And you’ll be better for it when you do.” She looked me over as she tucked the towel around me. “Perhaps I should tag along next weekend in Boston? In the meantime, we can be roomies this week! I can cook for two and we can drink gin together while we watch Dancing with the Stars. That’ll lift your spirits, won’t it, darling?”

  Her words clattered off me like horseshoes thrown at an iron peg. I’d lost HP and I’d lost Olive. The couch was a pit and I was slipping in whole.

  Later that morning I gave Freddy a call.

  “They’ve banished me, Fred. I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. Are you all right? You sound down in the dumps.”

  “Freddy, am I a bad person?”

  “What? Why on earth are you asking that?”

  “Saskia and HP think I’m—”

  “Oh, pishposh. Who cares what they think? Listen, I’ll see you for our mini break next Saturday. I’ve booked us a room at the Boston Hotel on Berkeley.”

  I sniffed. “My mother wants to come.”

  There was a long pause. “Really?”

  I twirled the extension cord of the phone between my fingers. “She’s missed me these past weeks and Cove is depressing.”

  He let out a small laugh. “Okay, fine, I’ll make it a suite. We’ll send her shopping on Saturday so that you and I will get some time.” I heard him rap his knuckles on his desk. “Now, don’t give HP or the antipodean any more of your precious time. You are not a bad person, Angela Petitjean, you are gorgeous and underappreciated. It’s time to assert yourself. Draw the line.”

  “You’re the boss,” I said, and hung up.

  * * *

  The following weekend, my mom and I flew to Boston. The Boston Hot
el used to be a jail. It’s a gray stone behemoth, which in the right light could stand shoulder to shoulder with the grandeur of any building in Oxford. The original police station lanterns still flank the entranceway in bossy blue, and wherever you sit in the lobby you can look up at haunted ceilings and see the ghosts of old wrongdoing.

  Freddy met us in the hotel bar, Precinct, on Saturday afternoon. As Mom and I walked down the shiny stairs into the low-ceilinged bunker we found him sitting on a high stool by the bar, listening to the lilt of jazz on the sound system.

  “Greetings!” He stood up from his stool and buttoned his blazer over a gleaming white shirt. “Welcome!

  “How are you?” he asked me, taking my hand briefly. “There, there, you’re with me now. You can forget all this awful business with those benighted ingrates. A better life begins right now.” For the second that I hugged him, I felt safer than I had all week. “And Mrs. Petitjean, how glorious. You look younger every time I see you.”

  Mom fluttered a hand to her throat and blushed. She’d bought new shoes for the trip and swayed in them. Freddy just reached the height of her shoulders.

  “Here, please, allow me.…” He motioned us to a private table set back in a darker corner of the bar and pulled my mother’s chair out for her. As she sat, he raised his eyebrows at me but couldn’t maneuver over to the seat next to me. He was stuck by Mom. I suppressed a smile at our secret communication. “Ladies, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us some cocktails.” He gestured at the bartender with an upward nod. “And I trust the room is to your liking?”

  “It’s huge, Freddy. You didn’t have to treat us like royalty,” I said.

  Freddy bowed slightly. “It’s my pleasure.” He winked and raised his martini glass for a toast as we stretched our drinks forward, green olives bobbling over the table at the bottom of our glasses. “Now, what news? Angela, my darling, I know you don’t want to go into maudlin details, but seeing as Harrison Ford banished you from his house, you’re very welcome to stay at mine.”