“She told you about that?” Norah asked. She sounded tired. She looked beaten.
Violet nodded and Norah sighed, long and loud.
“Don’t listen to that, Violet,” she said. “Please. It’s nonsense. It’s not true. Just a bunch of Appalachian hillbillies making up their own kind of fairy tales. They told themselves something to make them feel better about where they were in life, which was nowhere. She raised me on that malarkey, and I vowed I’d be the last female in my line to have to hear it.” Norah shook her head and closed her eyes. “I can’t believe she told you that. I bet she couldn’t wait to poison you same as she poisoned me.”
Violet was quiet as she studied the woman who resembled her mother but was not her mother. Her voice was smaller than she wanted it to be when it came out of her mouth. “I liked it.” She sounded like a child, but she wasn’t a child anymore. She’d grown up in the last few weeks. She wanted to show her that. She cleared her throat, spoke louder. “I wish you had told me. I wish I had known Polly all along. I like being part of a line of women who are special.”
“It’s a fairy tale.”
“People love fairy tales, Mom.”
“But they don’t come true.” Norah looked around the room they were in, as if it were all the proof they needed.
“That legend didn’t get you here,” Violet said. “You got yourself here.”
Norah’s nostrils flared; her eyes went squinty. Violet had seen that look before. When she didn’t clean her room. When she wore grubby clothes out to dinner. When she didn’t listen to Norah. She saw the look flare, then die on her mother’s face. A calm look replaced it.
“You’re absolutely right,” Norah said. “It didn’t. But it did inform some things I believed about myself growing up. Things that weren’t so good for me. I want you to be different from me, than Polly.” She closed her eyes. “It was all I ever wanted. And I know you’ll never understand this, but it was why”—she stopped, considered her words, probably remembering that the police and her attorney were listening—“it was why everything that has happened has happened. I was always thinking of you. Trying to make things better for you. So you didn’t have to be like me.”
“You mean a prostitute?” Violet countered, feeling smug and satisfied as once again, her word arrow hit its mark. She saw it go into her mother, and she pushed away the guilt that came after.
Norah hauled her bound wrists onto the table, settling them uncomfortably with a clang. She leaned forward. “When I was a little girl,” she said, “my mother used to take me to visit her mother and aunt. They were just country bumpkins to me. Old ladies who baked biscuits and grew tomatoes in their garden. They certainly didn’t seem like Beaucatchers, like my mother claimed they were. The only thing I could tell was that they’d both been married several times but now lived together with no man in sight. And all they seemed to want to ask me was, did I have a boyfriend? They didn’t care if I had hobbies or interests. They didn’t seem to care about current events or learning new things. They only cared about men. They made me a bride doll, gave it to me like that was the epitome of my existence. It had a beautiful lace dress with a matching slip underneath.” Her mother tapped on the table with her finger, once, twice, three times, and looked at her. “I gave it to you, remember?”
Violet nodded, her mind racing as it processed what was happening. “It gave me the creeps. I felt like it was staring at me at night.” She forced herself to say it lightheartedly. To act like this was just a fond memory, a family story—nothing more, nothing less. People were listening, after all.
Her mother laughed at the recollection. “So you hid it. Remember?” she said, leaning forward, eyebrows raised.
“I remember,” Violet said.
“I gave you that doll not because I wanted to pass on some stupid legacy to you. But because I wanted it to be a symbol of what I didn’t want you to be. Being a bride—some man choosing you for his own—isn’t the be-all, end-all of your existence. It doesn’t say nearly as much about you as you can say for yourself.” Her mother swallowed and their eyes met. In that moment, Violet knew she would forgive her. Maybe not right this minute, but soon enough. She would be mad—she should be mad—but she would come to understand what it was her mother had tried to do for her. And what her mother had just done for her.
Violet nodded her understanding, both of what her mother was saying and of what she wasn’t. Her mother slid her hands forward and Violet did the same in response. They weren’t supposed to touch but did anyway. Their fingers had barely made connection when the door opened and Polly stepped into the room with an apologetic look. It was time to go. In one guilty motion, they both pulled their hands away, the chain of Norah’s handcuffs making a scraping noise across the table, a sound that would echo in Violet’s head long after they had left the jail, and her mother, behind.
Nico
After they were gone, he went into the room where the mother-and-child reunion had taken place. He could still smell the grandmother’s perfume, floral and cloying, the kind of stuff older women wore, the only thing that gave a hint as to her age. It had been a study in genetics, watching the three of them together. It wasn’t just looks or body types that were similar, but speech and movement. Sometimes he’d forgotten to pay close attention to what they were saying because he was paying closer attention to how they were saying it. They were quite a trio: they made him uneasy enough one at a time, but all together was almost too much to take.
He stood in the small, windowless room and collected himself as he waited for the smell of Polly’s perfume to evaporate. He had to get it together so he could go after them. He’d picked up on something there at the end of their conversation. It was the story Norah had told Violet. She’d been trying to be sneaky. She thought she was smart—smarter than him—but his spidey senses had gone off. (It was a pleasure to know they still could.)
He suspected there was subtext to what she’d said to her daughter. It hadn’t been just a heartwarming story meant to comfort the child. It had been a clue. He’d give them time to get home. Get dinner going. Be lulled into a false sense of the coast being clear. Then he would show up, ask to see the bride doll she’d mentioned. He’d tear the thing apart if he had to, pull the stuffing out of it till he found what Norah was hiding.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed. Matteo’s autopsy results were due back at any moment. He pulled the phone from his pocket and frowned at it. It wasn’t the medical examiner. It was an alert from his security system, signaling that the cameras had picked up movement in his driveway, which didn’t make sense. Earlier he’d watched Karen, Lauren, and Ian all arrive home. Maybe one of them was leaving. He opened the app to see who it was.
But the person in his driveway wasn’t related to him by blood or vow. He wasn’t related to him at all, save the fact that they’d been neighbors for years, sharing bits of news, garden tools, and the occasional beers. If pressed, Nico would’ve called him a friend. When Matteo went missing, Mike had brought over a six-pack and offered to sit with him on the deck and drink it. It had been spring, and normally Nico would’ve done it. But he’d declined, saying he wasn’t up to it and that he wasn’t good company, all of which was true.
He couldn’t imagine passing the time with anyone but his brother. Mike Lewis was a poor substitute. He’d accepted the beers, though, drinking them alone out on the deck, getting drunk as he watched his family pass by the windows inside, getting ready for bed without him. He’d waited till they were all asleep to go inside.
Now Mike Lewis knocked on Nico’s door, unaware or unconcerned that he was being recorded. As he waited for someone to answer his knock, he whistled. Nico tried to place the song. Mike whistled a few more bars, and, for a blissful moment, Nico thought that no one was going to come to the door and Mike Lewis would go back where he came from, back to his homely wife and hellion twin boys. Mike Lewis had been coming around more and more, making lame excuses, which Karen fell for, offering his
help in Nico’s absence, playing the concerned neighbor. He’d had to refrain from telling Karen, “Listen, about Mike Lewis. No man is that concerned about a woman without having some sort of motive.”
Then Karen would know he was watching. And he wasn’t supposed to have this app on his phone anymore. He’d gone as far as to delete it in front of her when she had asked. So he had to play it cool now, only make a move if it was truly necessary. He took a deep breath and spoke out loud in the small, windowless room. “Turn around and go home, asshole.” No, Mike Lewis was not, and never had been his friend. He was glad he’d turned him away that night.
Karen answered the door, stepping out onto the porch. She smiled when she saw him. She’d showered since she got home; wet strands were visible. She’d put on lipstick. She was wearing a skirt. He gripped the phone tighter, squeezing it so hard he wished it would break. Nothing good came in on his phone anymore. The device was an interruption, a nuisance. He’d like to throw it away. Yet he could not be without it. It was his only remaining connection to his family.
“So, you still want to go?” Mike Lewis asked, and smiled nervously.
“If you do,” Nico’s wife said to his adversary, smiling that adorable grin that Nico had thought until this moment she reserved just for him.
Mike Lewis held out his hand to Karen. She took it. “You need to say goodbye to your kids?” he asked.
“Oh no, they know I’m going out with a friend.” She giggled. “They couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”
“I’ll have to thank them later for being so shortsighted,” he said. And then Mike Lewis pulled Nico’s wife away from the camera’s eye, away from the home they’d shared, away from him. Off camera, Mike Lewis started whistling again. And this time Nico recognized the song. “Carolina in My Mind,” by James Taylor. Karen had always liked that one because her name was in it. He couldn’t believe she’d told him about that. What else had they shared? Nico sank into a chair and listened as, off camera, the whistling stopped, two car doors slammed, and the car started up and drove away.
He let himself sit and absorb what he’d just seen. He’d sit there for as long as it took to calm down. He had to be on his A game when he went to Norah’s to see about the doll. He had to be OK. He’d deal with Karen’s infidelity later. But was it infidelity if they were split up? It was for Mike Lewis. As far as Nico knew, he was still very much married. Maybe he’d call Mike Lewis’s wife from the station, give her a tip. But not now. Now he had to get to Norah’s before that kid did something with that doll. There was no time to waste. He rose from the chair and walked out of the room.
He was almost out of the station when his phone buzzed again. If anything could deter him from following up on the doll, it was the results of the autopsy. He stopped in the lobby and pulled his phone from his pocket. But again, it was the security camera, not the autopsy. His heart lifted. He smiled. Karen had come to her senses, told Mike Lewis it was a bad idea and to take her home. He clicked on the app to watch the scene unfold.
But instead of seeing Karen going back inside their house, looking guilty and ashamed of herself, he saw the smirking faces of those two thugs he’d seen his daughter talking to before, back at his door. Though he couldn’t see her from the camera angle, he could hear as Lauren opened the door wide and greeted them happily.
“We got here as fast as we could,” one of them said.
Off camera, Lauren giggled. “Come on in,” she said.
And they did. He heard the door shut behind them, and the camera kept recording nothing and no one. He watched for a bit, waiting for Lauren to remember the rules and kick the boys out. A bird flew by the camera. A breeze blew, rustling the branches of the azalea bush, long devoid of flowers. An adventuresome squirrel scampered along the rail of the porch. But no sign of the boys. Karen was gone. Ian was likely in his room with headphones on, lost in a world of animated gun battles, oblivious, leaving Lauren alone with two older boys wearing matching leers.
He looked up suddenly, remembering he was standing in the lobby of the police station. Candace, the receptionist who occasionally flirted with him (harmlessly), glanced nervously away. But he could tell she’d been watching him, likely wondering just what he had stopped to see on his phone. He shoved it back into his pocket and tried to catch Candace’s eye. But she busied herself with looking busy.
He walked out of the lobby, looking sheepish and feeling worried. And torn. Should he go to his house and interrupt Lauren and the delinquents? Or should he head to Norah Ramsey’s house as intended? Should he do his job, or protect his daughter? His hunch about the doll was just a hunch, after all. No one would know if he didn’t follow up. No one but him. Which would he regret more? If he didn’t catch Norah Ramsey, he might never know what happened to Matteo. But if he didn’t check on Lauren, something bad could happen, something that he’d regret forever.
Matteo was dead. No investigation was going to change that. When there had been a chance Matteo was alive and just in hiding, then the detective work—the dedication—had been worth it. He had had the hope that he could save his brother. But Matteo didn’t need saving. Not anymore. His daughter, however, did—even if she didn’t know it. Nico got into his car and sat there for a moment just to be sure exactly what his gut was telling him. Could he even trust his gut anymore? He could feel the pull toward home, toward his family, acutely. It was like the moon pulling the tides. And the tide had turned for him, just like that. He backed out of his parking space and turned in the opposite direction of Norah Ramsey’s house. For the first time in a long time, Nico had something—someone—else to save.
Bess
She let herself into Norah’s house, just like she used to, remembering the code in the same way that she could still remember her childhood phone number. Some things just stayed with you. Behind her, Casey carried the rest of the dinner. She’d thought that maybe she and Casey would just stay and eat with Violet and Polly. It had to get lonely, just the two of them rattling around this house.
Bess wondered what they talked about. Did Polly tell her what Norah had been like as a child? Did she tell her about herself? Ask Violet questions about her life? Bess couldn’t imagine being estranged from one of her daughters for so long. She wondered how Polly had withstood it. She knew that Polly hadn’t had much choice in the matter. Bess knew how stubborn Norah was, how long she could hold out once she committed to something.
“I guess they’re not back yet,” she said to Casey as they trooped through the house toward the kitchen in the back.
“Back from where?” Casey asked, sounding bored. She was asking only to make conversation. Bess was still shocked she’d agreed to come along and help transport the meal.
“They went to visit Norah,” she said. She tried to make her voice light as she said it. What was it the kids said in their texts? NBD: no big deal. She wanted to make it sound like Polly and Violet’s errand was just that, an errand.
But Casey wasn’t falling for it. “In jail?”
Bess nodded and began unloading the food. She’d brought too much; she always did. She smiled at Casey as she set the salad down on the kitchen island. “Thank you,” she said. She truly was thankful for the help, but more than that, she was thankful her daughter had agreed to spend one-on-one time with her. Casey had been even more wary of Bess since the whole scene with Eli. Bess wanted her to know she was forgiven, but she didn’t want to bring it up and embarrass Casey anew. But maybe now, here, she could try to smooth the waters.
She opened her mouth to speak, trusting the right words would come out. She would tread lightly, she would speak gently, she would begin making inroads to her daughter’s heart. “I . . . ,” she got out.
She watched Casey’s face change, a panicked look registering as she glanced around the empty house. Clearly Casey had counted on Polly and Violet being there to act as buffers. She’d not counted on being trapped in an empty house with her mother while they waited for them to get home.
Still, this was Bess’s moment and she was going to take it. “I . . . ,” she started again.
She watched as Casey’s face changed again, but this time it filled with relief, her eyes training on something just over Bess’s shoulder. She glanced behind her to see Violet letting herself in the back door. Bess exhaled, not with disappointment, but relief. She was off the hook for a little while longer. But soon, she told herself. Soon she would confront her daughter. She’d find out what had happened to bring her home. She’d make Casey tell her. Somehow, she would.
Polly bustled in after Violet, looking beleaguered. It had to be hard, seeing your daughter incarcerated, no matter how long you’d been estranged from her. Bess reached into the bag on the counter and extracted the wine, holding it up to Polly with her eyebrows arched in question.
“Bless you,” Polly said. She held up her index finger. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the back bedroom suite. Bess turned to the girls, who were surveying each other warily. For a day or so, Bess had thought that the two of them were becoming friends, which she’d found sweet. But now something seemed strained, like a thread pulled taut in the air between them, dangerously close to breaking. Again, Bess wondered what she didn’t know about her older child. Again, she found herself wishing she could break through the barrier Casey had erected to keep her from gaining access.
Instead she just asked if the two of them would like to help her assemble dinner. When in doubt, cook. That was her philosophy.
“I think I’ll go upstairs. I’m not very hungry,” Violet said.
Bess looked at this girl she’d watched grow from preschooler to teenager, seeing all the iterations of her at once, like she was partly hers, like she had claim, too. Which, in a perfect world, would be true. That’s what she and Norah had said; that’s what they had promised: to be there for each other all the time, through all the years. Back then they’d never imagined it working out any other way. But it had.
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