The Release of Secrets: A Novel

by Megan Maguire

  “No, listen. They wanted a room, but they were seriously spooky.”

  “I’m not following. Are you saying one was Eli?”

  “I don’t know. The guy with the beard had brown eyes, and the other one had gorgeous, bright blue ones. But Eli’s eyes were an icy-gray color, like mine.”

  “Then they’re not him.”

  “But the bearded guy, Jim, his hair was black like Eli’s.”

  “And the other one?”

  “Nate? He had thick, dark brown hair. I wanted to run my fingers through it.”

  “Still not following, were you afraid of these men or did you wanna fuck ’em?”

  I tune her out. My voice is quick. “I suppose Eli’s hair could’ve lightened over the years. But I don’t think he’d be as tall as this Nate guy was. He was tiny.”

  “Because he was four the last time you saw him, Salem.”

  “True. And I doubt I’d think Eli was as attractive as Nate, you know, deep down, my heart would never allow me to think that way about my brother. It’s just wrong, so wrong. Might’ve been him though. Okay, it wasn’t him, but something bizarre just happened.”

  “Can you slow down and take a breath? You’re manic.”

  “Let me finish. I’m excited because the men gave me a key.”

  “To what?”

  “The back door of the lodge.”

  “Since when does the lodge have a back door?”

  “Since forever. Since it was built, I’ll explain more when you get here.”

  “Get there? Babe, I’m at work. I can’t take off right now.”

  “Trust me. You have to come.” Again, I’m sure she’s rolling her eyes. “Please. The key has Eli’s initials on it. It’s the same one I have, the same one Connor had. Our granddad made them for us. Please, Joss,” I beg. “I need your help figuring this out. It could finally lead to an answer.”

  She hesitates. “Did you call the cops?”

  “Of course I did.” I turn the deadbolt and open the door. The first note of the chime sounds as cold air courses inside. “Brad Brenner just pulled in.”

  “He’ll take that key away from you as evidence. You’ll never see it again if you show it to him.”

  “But”—I open my clenched hand, my palm branded with the heart and sparrow logo—“he can’t have it.”

  “Then don’t tell him about it.”

  “You’re right. I’ll keep it to myself for now.”

  “You should’ve called me first. What are you gonna tell Brad now, that two guys came in and wanted a room?”

  “No.” I think for a moment. “I’ll say they wouldn’t leave when I asked, and then they followed me to the bathroom.”

  She smacks her gum. “Good luck. He’ll think you’re losing your freaking mind, spending all your time alone in that lodge. Are you sure they were real?”

  “Not funny, Joss.”

  Brad Brenner—a cop from our three-officer department, one of Connor’s best friends—walks in. Ollie welcomes him with tail swishes and gets a pet.

  “Gotta go, see ya soon.” I hang up and stuff the key in my front pocket, lowering my sweatshirt over the bulge.

  “Salem.” Brad wipes a dusting of snow off his shoulders and tips his hat. “You had a disturbance?”

  “Hi, Brad.”

  “Officer Brenner.”

  “Yeah, okay, Officer Brenner. These two guys came in and—”

  “Jim Gaines and Nate Harlow. I know. I just passed them on my way out of the diner. They introduced themselves, must’ve been the uniform.” He takes off his hat and twirls it on one finger, looking up at the pine garlands hanging from the wooden beams. I’ve been too busy with a flood of housework and laundry to drag out the ladder and take down the Christmas decorations that are now three months defunct.

  “Well?” I raise my hands for more information.

  He walks over to the double doors that lead to the sitting room, a place where guests gather for morning coffee and to read the newspaper. He peers through the glass panes at the empty chairs, distracted as usual. Not the best quality for a cop.

  “Brad?”

  “Officer Brenner.”

  “Well?”

  “Detectives from the city,” he says.

  “Syracuse?”

  “No, New York.” He turns back, fixated on my chest.

  “Brad, don’t be such a perv.” I’d smack him if he were a foot closer. “Didn’t you get a good look at me when we were kids?”

  “I wasn’t looking…” He shifts his weight from foot to foot, cheeks strawberry-tinted, hat accelerating to full speed on his finger. Up until I was eight, Connor, Brad, and I changed our swimsuits in the same room, not a care in the world that we were naked in front of one another.

  “New York?” I pull the conversation back.

  He nods. “They came to talk to you about a key to your place, but you took off running and screaming before they had the chance.”

  “That’s not true. The lodge was closed, and those guys sneaked in while I was in the tub. Why wouldn’t they knock?”

  “Said they knocked.”

  “I would’ve heard. Ollie would’ve heard.” Ollie sniffs Brad’s pant leg. “And they never said they were detectives. Did you see their badges?”

  Brad widens his stance and places a hand on his holster. A habit of his, overcompensating for being five foot six, two inches shorter than me, and on the pudgy side. Add his curtained, sandy blond hair to his height and weight, and the guy doesn’t have the most ruthless of looks.

  “Did you see their badges?” I repeat.

  “Salem, no offense, but maybe you should hire someone to help you out around here. Running this place on your own must be wearing you down. You tired?”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Not to mention you’ll have the grounds to take care of once the snow melts. The Weather Channel said there might be a change coming as early as tomorrow.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Crocuses are budding through the snow along the drive, and it’ll be time to mow soon. Seems like a lot for one person.”

  “I’ve done it before, and I can do it for at least another ten years, maybe twenty. And this isn’t about being overworked. One of those men ripped the phone out of my hand when I was trying to call for help.”

  “Because they’re detectives. They are the help. There wasn’t any need to call.”

  “How was I supposed to know that?” His expression is like a neon sign flashing the words—you’re nuts. I cross my arms and say, “Fine, Brad. Sorry I called,” hoping he catches the twinge of frustration in my voice.

  “No worries. And it’s Officer Brenner.”

  His walkie clicks and a woman’s high-pitched voice vaults through the lobby. “Bradley?”

  “Go ahead, Doreen,” he calls back.

  “We got a call about some wild turkeys in the high school parking lot. The principal said the kids are circling them with their cars. He’s afraid they’ll get hurt.”

  “Who’ll get hurt? The kids or the turkeys?”

  “The turkeys, Bradley!”

  “Kidding. Tell him I’m on my way.” He turns to me with a smile. “You good?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Okay then. I gotta take off.”

  “Good luck.”

  On his way out, he stops to admire a photomural above the front door, shot over twenty years ago from the far end of the long driveway, facing the lodge.

  My grandparents are on the front porch with their arms locked in a majestic pose, like king and queen reigning over their land. I’m proud to be their granddaughter, proud to call myself a Whitfield. The name, this lodge, they’re the only things that make me feel powerful in this small town.

  In front of them, our black cat, Boo, is licking her paw, while my parents tend to flowers in a window box. I’m a blur, circling Connor with a toy lawnmower, a massive sm
ile on his face as bubbles jet out the sides. We’re too old to be playing with such toys, but having too much fun to care.

  And Eli. Eli stands out the most in that photo. He’s closest to the camera, riding his tricycle up the gravel drive in his favorite bear cub tee, the heart and sparrow key low on his chest. My baby brother, the picture of innocence—a Band-Aid on one knee and his chin stained with a thin line of grape juice—reaching to the camera, or to the future, or to whoever is looking up at the photograph. I wish I could take that hand and pull him to safety.

  The summer he vanished is forever frozen in time. Connor was seven. I was six. Eli was only four.

  “Scary how fast life can change,” Brad says, inviting a blast of cold air to enter the lobby when he opens the door and steps outside. “Later, Salem.”

  “Later, Brad.”

  three

  I light a fire in the lobby and put on a pot of coffee. Joss holds her ski goggles and white helmet under one arm, her left shoulder sugared in snow from the three-mile drive to the lodge. When she bought the Chevy Nova, the windows on both sides wouldn’t roll up because of broken window cranks. It took her a week to realize the glass was missing altogether. She tried sealing the windows with plastic and duct tape, but the flapping noise was unbearable, and the plastic distorted her view. She decided the helmet and goggles were cheaper than the repairs. They’ve served as a barrier to weather, and as it turns out, have protected her from other hazards. Like the time a bird flew inside her car and struck the side of her head, a rare occurrence that could only happen to Joss.

  “I’ll take a latte, Salem. And when you pour the steamed milk, try to get the design on the surface to come out in the shape of a dick.” She slicks her mouth with a tube of plum lipstick.

  Driving to the lodge is a trek compared to her half-mile drive to work. I’m out on the edge of town, close to the vacant marina that no one wants to buy.

  “My coffee comes black or with cream.”

  “Fine. Cream.” Her bottom lip juts out in a playful pout. She sets her helmet and goggles on the reception desk and heads to the sitting room. “These guys were hot, huh? Better than the men down at Martin’s Bar?”

  “Um, hello? If you mean better than Kenny, who’s never without a wad of chew in his mouth, or Rick, who takes pride in picking hamburger meat out of his beard, or Pete, who starts hog calling after one-too-many, or Brad—”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Or Brad, who can’t keep his eyes off women’s boobs, then yes, no comparison.”

  “Cool.”

  She swipes her hand across a vintage map of Tilford Lake, preserved on one of the tabletops under a clear coat of epoxy resin. I have boxes of old maps and brochures collecting dust in a storage closet, dating back to when the town was a scenic hotspot for tourists. Besides boaters heading to the marina, the roads used to be alive with people traveling to Joe Clayton’s Winery for tours and wine tasting. Or to have their wedding at the famous Clayton Barn, a place way out of my price range.

  The barn was built on the highest hill in town, with tall windows overlooking the lake. Sounds picture-postcard perfect, and it was. At one time, guests at the winery and the marina could rent swan-shaped paddleboats to cool off on scorching summer days. After Joe Clayton died, his daughters decided to close the winery and pour their hearts and souls into weddings. Luckily, I still get some business from them. And the miles of cross-country ski trails along the lake can bring in a handful of families each night during the winter. The same is true in the summer when hikers and mountain bikers use the trails.

  “Smells good in here.” Joss sniffs.

  “Probably the fireplace.”

  “Sugar cookie-scented logs?”

  “Shut up.” I laugh. “If you smell cookies, it must be the sachet packet in the Bissell. I just vacuumed before you got here.”

  “Ooh-la-la, sachet.” She flaps her hands. “You getting all fancy on me?”

  I pat her shoulder. “That’s enough blabber for now. I want to show you something.”

  She follows me through a curtain patterned with pine trees and prancing deer.

  “I had no idea this was here,” she says. Her brown eyes double in size when she sees the tiny room and the back door.

  “We called this our escape hatch when we were kids. My granddad painted the door to match the log walls so it wouldn’t stand out. He didn’t want guests using it to sneak extra people in late at night.” She looks high and low, curious for once about one of my stories. “It was a laundry and storage room years back, and the door was a private exit.” I open my hand and let her admire Eli’s key.

  “That’s awesome. Looks like the one you showed me when we were kids. I thought it was for the main door.”

  “I let you think that because this room was off limits after Eli disappeared. My parents wouldn’t let us go near it.” I point at the back door, my finger hovering a bit too long. “It’s hidden on the outside by bushes. I never showed this to anyone, not even Steven.”

  “Blech, I hate hearing that name. Your husband’s such a dirtball.”

  “Ex. Ex-husband. Like I’ve been saying since the divorce, long on sleaze, short on substance.”

  She throws her head back, igniting the room with a cackling laugh. Her cheeks flare, and her long hair slides off her shoulders like thick molasses.

  “Anyway, I never come back here. Being in this room makes me queasy.” I feel a pinch in my throat when I swallow, close my eyes and slip my pinkie under my collar. “It was open the morning Eli went missing.”

  Joss senses my unease and hitches her arm to mine. “Let’s get out of here then.” Her voice is brisk. She takes control and pulls me out of the room.

  I close the curtain to disguise the doorway, then block the entrance with a tea cart. Guests are left with the impression that it’s a window.

  “We wore the necklaces whenever we went out to play. My dad said we’d lose them like our heads if they weren’t attached to our necks.”

  “And somehow these guys knew about the door?”

  “Yeah, Brad said they’re detectives, so I’m guessing they read Eli’s case file. Still, it’s weird they came in that way.”

  “Totally weird.” She takes off her black puffer coat and slumps into the leather armchair next to the fire, her breasts spilling out of her low-cut shirt. “So your family never changed the locks because you thought he’d come back, right?”

  “Is that even a question? He still might, Joss. What if the detectives know where he is? I haven’t felt this close to him in such a long time.”

  “Salem.”

  “Don’t say it.” She knows I’m not the type to ever lose hope or complain about having a shit life. There’s always a chance Eli will come home. Always.

  “All right, I won’t fight you on this one. So what do we do now?”

  “We wait for the detectives. Then we find Eli.”

  “Salem.”

  “What?” I sit across from her, raising my feet to the fire.

  “You’re delusional.”

  “Maybe so.” I shrug.

  “But I love you anyway, babe.”

  four

  Seven o’clock fetches nightfall. Nine passes at the speed of a semi up a steep incline. By midnight, Joss and I are anxious from the long wait. We order a pizza and play rummy next to the fire, forcing our concentration on anything other than the detectives. An hour is all we can take until our butts are numb from the stiff leather chairs, and our necks ache from craning incessantly toward the door. We end up staring out the front window like a couple of kids waiting for Santa. And then take our irritation to the front porch in a huff.

  But the men don’t come. And maybe they won’t. It could be I’ll never see them again.

  Joss twines her fingers through mine and gives my hand a firm squeeze. My disappointment couldn’t be more apparent.

  “Sorry,” she comforts.

&nb
sp; “It’s okay.”

  “Is it?” She pulls me back inside.

  “No. Not really.” Unlike previous setbacks, the night doesn’t want to rest. I expected more, got nothing. After hours of tense muscles, jiggling feet, and a cluttered mind, I should be ready to crash. Instead, my body ferreted out a hidden sugar reserve and I’m wired.

  “Mind if I hit the sack?” Joss asks. “I’m beat.”

  “Go for it. I’m gonna hang out by the fire a little longer, brush my hair a hundred times or something.”

  She laughs. “Don’t stay up all night doing that. You might go blind.” Her silent feet climb the stairs to the second floor.

  Guests are in three of my eight rooms. Joss got one of the remaining five, welcome here anytime.

  When we were in high school, my mom let her stay whenever she wanted, aware that Joss and her dad were mixing like oil and water. He was a crabby man, religiously strict and abusive, and Joss had entered her rebellious years, curious and wild, not the best combination. One night, her dad stumbled home from the bar in a rage over the rumors that his slut daughter was spreading her legs for the locals. He didn’t want the Arriaga family to stand out more than the color of their skin, so his daughter whoring around was a total embarrassment.

  To me, it was a teenage cry for attention, a shout for love. That’s all Joss ever wanted, what anyone ever wants. And she found it wherever she could. A measly fifteen minutes in the back seat of some random guy’s car wasn’t uncommon. Her legs would lock him in, hips in a steady thrust until she came. A way to bury her loneliness—something she never outgrew.

  Her dad had hit her before, but he never left any marks for Tilford Lake eyes to gossip about. Not until one humid summer night when Joss showed up at the lodge with a bloody nose and a red handprint marking her cheek, her hair a tangled mess, eyes swollen red. She had walked two miles in bare feet and landed in my arms, sobbing, begging us not to call the cops, afraid she’d be taken away from her mom, her friends, from me. I agreed. My mom agreed. She was offered a room indefinitely, and she stayed in the private quarters when we were booked. She still does. Joss never gets turned away. Our friendship is tighter than Spanx, much sexier than Spanx, too.