“Well, call him and see when,” Riley orders with five-year-old authority.
“I can’t. He’s not at work and he doesn’t have a cell phone.”
Which is his own damn fault. He had one in Indiana, provided by his company. That’s not one of the perks of his new job, though. And when Kathleen suggested that they add another phone to their existing cell plan, he stubbornly refused—just as he refused to get one for Jen.
Now, anger—unreasonable or not—rises to mingle with Kathleen’s worry about her husband. What if something happened to him?
“Why do we have to wait for Daddy to eat?” Riley wants to know. “Why can’t we start without him? We used to eat without him all the time back home.”
Back home.
Kathleen sighs. “This is home now, Riley.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot.”
“And we wait for Daddy because it’s nice to eat dinner as a family.”
“Well, Jen doesn’t have to eat dinner as a family.”
“That’s because she got hurt. But she’s almost better, and when she is, she’ll eat with us again.”
“I want to eat now,” he whines.
“I said we’ll eat soon.”
He stamps his foot. “Now!”
Kathleen opens her mouth to scold him, then thinks better of it. He’s just a hungry little boy, caught in the middle of a domestic drama.
“Okay, Riley. You and Curran can eat now if you can’t wait.”
“What about you?”
She leads the way back to the kitchen, saying, “I’ll eat with Daddy.”
Not that she has any appetite.
Where, she wonders again, is her husband?
Nobody will ever miss the broom from Maeve Hudson’s basement.
Most likely, nobody will miss Maeve Hudson, either. Not for a long time.
It could very well be several days before anybody discovers her corpse hanging from the sturdy pole in her walk-in closet, where she tried to hide once she sensed the danger she was in.
Fitting that she died there among the trappings of her life—fashionable clothes, designer shoes. Who knew an imported Italian leather belt would make such a perfect noose . . . or that its owner would give up the fight almost willingly in the end, seeming to welcome death?
That certainly made things easier for me.
No sign of forced entry. No sign of a struggle.
That’s what the police report will say when Maeve’s body is discovered.
By then, of course, the whole thing will be over. Nobody will connect her death with her daughter’s murder, or Jen Carmody’s murder.
No, people will assume she was a grieving mother who couldn’t live without her child. A logical suicide . . . though there was no note. It was tempting to try to write one, imitating Maeve’s distinct handwriting. That would have been a necessity, had her death been planned.
But it wasn’t. It just happened, Maeve Hudson becoming an unforseen obstacle in the path.
In the end, it was better not to leave a note; better to leave well enough alone. Plenty of people kill themselves without writing a final farewell or explanation. Who would Maeve even address if she wrote such a note, anyway? She’s divorced, her daughter is dead.
Kathleen, maybe? Would she have addressed a suicide note to her loyal best friend?
An interesting idea . . . but it’s too late.
Back to the broom.
How clever was I to think of running back for the broom, then dragging it along behind me through the snow as I left?
Every footprint leading away from the Hudson home was swept neatly away without a trace. Now the broom handle is splintered into kindling, the bristles already crackling on the hearth.
Like her daughter, like the others who got in the way, Maeve Hudson didn’t have to die. She should have left well enough alone.
She should have looked through me, not at me, in those final moments of her life.
It was my fault, too. I let my guard down. I got too comfortable and forgot to be who I’m supposed to be, just for a split second. But that’s all it takes.
In any case, analyzing the catalyst of Maeve Hudson’s death is useless now that the deed is done. Now, there are far more important things to think about.
It’s time.
Time to finish the job that should have been accomplished fourteen years ago.
Time for Jen Carmody to die as she should have all those years ago.
You came so close to doing it then . . . so, so close . . .
It was the perfect opportunity. They were alone together in the nursery.
The baby gazed up from her crib with trusting blue eyes—newborn navy blue eyes that would one day change to brown beneath the telltale pale streak in her left eyebrow.
If the child made a sound when the pillow came down over her face, it was muffled by the thick bulk of down pressed against her nostrils and nose.
Sugar and spice and everything nice.
Those were the words that were embroidered in pink thread on the white pillow.
Sugar and spice and everything nice . . .
That, supposedly, is what little girls are made of.
What a joke.
The baby’s tiny body writhed frantically in the crib as oxygen was cut off, putting up a vehement fight for her life. But of course she was no match for the strong hands that held her down.
Another few seconds, and she’d have been dead.
But it didn’t happen that way.
Instead, there were footsteps in the hall, a familiar voice calling the baby’s name, the sound of a door opening . . .
It was too late to hide.
Too late to do anything but stand by helplessly as infant CPR was administered.
It was excruciating to witness the feverish effort to save the baby’s life. Excruciating to hear the raging accusations, the threats, the despair that followed.
And then . . .
The baby was gone.
It didn’t matter where. All that mattered, at first, was that she was gone, for good.
Gone and forgotten, just as if she really had died.
Just as you intended.
If only . . .
No. No need for if onlys. Not now. Not ever again.
Tomorrow is the day. It should have happened fourteen years ago; then it should have happened a month ago.
Once again, things went horribly wrong.
It should have been so easy. And it was, at first.
Erin Hudson never even turned around as she sliced apples at the counter, never seemed to sense that somebody was behind her. Somebody who was watching her every move from behind the hideous rubber monster mask, waiting for just the right moment to pounce.
Then she set the knife down . . . and that was it.
It was easy. So easy to reach in with a gloved hand and snatch the knife, warning her that she’d die if she made a sound.
She didn’t make a sound.
She died anyway, her white throat splitting open as neatly as apple skin beneath the sharp blade.
Five minutes later, Jen walked down the stairs, right into the trap.
But unlike her friend, she didn’t mutely obey orders. No, she put up a struggle, fighting, scratching, screaming.
Then came the sound of shattering glass, and the old man who seemed to come out of nowhere like some bizarre superhero dressed in a white collar instead of a cape.
In the chaotic aftermath of that shocking moment, Jen made her escape, fleeing out the back door and into the night.
She didn’t get away. Almost, but not quite.
She was surprisingly tenacious, as tenacious as the surprisingly strong old priest. He managed to get the knife away, battling ferociously to save the girl’s life even as his own was cut—quite literally—viciously short.
Then it was Jen’s turn, once again. She was badly wounded, not just from the knife, but from the struggle. Her leg was bent at a grotesque angle. She stood and tried to r
un, but couldn’t put weight on it. She fell again, her eyes gazing up just as they had fourteen years ago from her crib.
But this time, thanks to the mask, there was no recognition in her eyes. There was no trust, either.
This time, there was only stark terror.
Just like before, all it would have taken was another few seconds . . .
But headlights swung into the driveway before the job could be finished. There was nothing to do but run, leaving Jen and the old priest for dead.
In the end, though the girl survived, the priest’s presence was more help than hindrance. His fingerprints were all over the knife. So were Jen’s.
Mine weren’t.
Nobody ever suspected that another person was there the night of the murders. There was no evidence. No reason. Especially after the media took the Killer Priest angle and ran with it. The papers were full of tales of deviant men of the cloth: evil disguised as good. Psychiatrists were interviewed and agreed that it wouldn’t be the first time a seemingly sane person had lived an exemplary life, then suddenly snapped and gone on a homicidal spree.
It would be amusing to watch if it weren’t so infuriating. Twice, Jen Carmody has managed to evade her destiny. Then she spent weeks in the hospital, frustratingly out of reach.
But she’s home now.
And the third time will be the charm . . .
After a long, hot bath complete with bubbles, a magazine, and a glass of merlot, Kathleen walks into the den to find Matt dozing peacefully on the rug in front of the dying fire. The room is lit only by the flickering hearth and the drapes are open to the floodlit crystalline wonderland beyond the glass.
Her body relaxed from the hot water and wine, cozy in flannel pajamas and a terry cloth robe, the last thing she wants right now is a return to the heightened tension of an hour ago. It would be so nice just to pour another glass of wine and sit here watching the fire and the falling snow for a while, then go upstairs and crawl into bed.
She walks over to the fireplace and reaches for a black wrought iron poker. After moving the screen aside, she jabs the charred logs, sending sparks flying and chipping away the powdery bark to reveal red-hot wood.
“What are you doing?” Matt asks, stirring to life behind her.
“Keeping the fire going.” She reaches into the kindling box and tosses several small pieces of wood onto the fire.
“I’ll do it.” Matt is at her side, reaching for the poker.
“I’ve got it.”
“That’s not how you do it.” He takes the poker from her.
Kathleen clenches her jaw, the tension back full force. Well, what does she expect?
She should have just had it out with him earlier, when he blew in the door on a gust of snowy cold air just as she was putting the boys’ dirty dinner dishes into the dishwasher.
Her instant relief that he was alive swiftly gave way to a flurry of questions about where he’d been, followed by growing anger at his unsatisfactory reply that he was at work. When she asked why he didn’t call her back, he told her he didn’t get the messages. And when she asked why he was home so late, he told her the roads were terrible because of the snow.
Then Jen was calling her from upstairs, asking for a glass of water and some more pain medication, and Riley and Curran were scuffling over what to watch on television. Kathleen had no choice but to drop the subject for the time being.
Now, however, she faces her husband with renewed anger and suspicion.
“So you didn’t get all those messages I left on your voice mail?” she asks.
“Hmm?” He looks up from the fire. “Oh. I told you, no.”
“How could you not have gotten them?”
Matt shrugs. “I guess I forgot to check the voice mail.”
“You can do better than that.”
“What?”
“I expected you to say the system was down because of the storm or something. You never forget to check your voice mail. You always call me back right away.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“Oh, come on, Matt. You’ve been so worried about Jen there’s no way you would have been out of contact for an entire day. You checked it and you got my messages and you were too pissed to call me back. Admit it.”
She fully expects him to deny it.
Again, he surprises her. With obvious reluctance, he says, “All right, I’ll admit it. I was pissed. I didn’t feel like calling you back.”
“How could you let me worry about you like that? I thought your car might have gone off the road or something.”
She closes her eyes, blocking out the memory of an ice-slicked highway, crumpled metal, shooting flames.
Mollie Gallagher.
Loving Wife, Devoted Mother . . .
“It did go off the road,” Matt is saying. “A few times.”
Protective Grandmother.
“I was sliding all over the place. I should have left the office early this afternoon, when I wanted to. But . . .”
He trails off, looking back at the fire, poking it ferociously with the black iron prong.
But you told me not to come home.
His unspoken words hang as heavily between them as the wood smoke wafting in the air.
For a long time, they’re silent. There’s nothing to say.
Nothing but I’m sorry, and Kathleen can’t bring herself to do that. The words would seem more trite than contrite in light of all that’s happened.
Then Matt asks, quietly—too quietly—“How’s Jen?”
“She’s sleeping. The pain medication knocks her out.”
“Did she eat anything with it?”
“No, she—”
“That medication is supposed to be taken with food, Kathleen. It says so right on the—”
“I gave her food. She didn’t touch it. She said the pork chops were too dried out.”
And that’s all your fault, Kathleen wants to add. If Matt hadn’t been so stubborn about coming home . . . if he had only answered his goddamned phone when she called him, and given her a chance to apologize before the whole thing blew up.
Yes, the dried out pork chops are his fault. Not hers.
She’s to blame for the rest of it, though. All of it. The shambles of their marriage. The lies they told their daughter. The threat to Jen’s life. The loss of Erin’s. And, beneath it all, she’s to blame for the very tragedy that triggered all the rest.
The death of her first daughter fourteen years ago.
Jen wakes up in the middle of the night to the eerie sensation that she isn’t alone in her room.
Rolling onto her back, she realizes that the closet light, which she always leaves burning through the night, is off.
Jen scans the room, her eyes gradually growing accustomed to the darkness.
Is somebody standing at the foot of her bed?
Her heart begins to pound.
She sits up, a torrent panic rushing over her along with the painful physical effort as she realizes that somebody is there.
“Mom?”
“No, it’s me.”
Relief sweeps her at the sound of Matt Carmody’s voice. She sinks back weakly against the pillows.
“You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What happened to my closet light?”
“What? Oh . . . it must have burned out.”
She nods, then realizes he can’t see her. “I guess it must have,” she tells him, wanting to ask if he can replace it for her, wishing he’d offer.
There was a time when she wouldn’t hesitate to ask a favor of her father. But now there’s a wall between them that stilts every conversation, making even the most inane requests off limits. In the hospital, she asked her mother or the nurses to fetch water and magazines and help her to the bathroom, but she refused to ask him. On rare occasions that he was the only one in the room and she needed something, she would simply wait.
Jen glances at the digital clock on
her night stand, hoping to find that it’s almost morning.
No. Only two-forty-two.
She either has to ask her father to change the lightbulb, or spend the rest of the night in the dark.
Neither option appeals to her, but as long as he’s here . . .
Come to think of it . . . why is he here? She often wakes to find her mother looming over her, but not him. Not now that she’s home.
“Dad?” she asks, the once affectionate word sounding forced.
“Hmm?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Making sure you’re okay.” His silhouette shifts position; he steps closer, coming around to the side of the bed. “Mom said you didn’t eat your dinner.”
“It was dry and disgusting.”
“Yeah, well . . . you need to eat. Especially with the pain medication. It’s dangerous not to. You know better than that.”
She shrugs, not caring that he can’t see her in the dark. So now he’s back to scolding her about everything, all the time? It was better when they weren’t speaking at all.
She turns her back, facing the wall, Behind her, she feels him come closer to the bed, hears him reach for something on the night stand. Something rattles and she realizes he’s picked up one of her prescription bottles. He shakes it a little, then sets it down again.
Sensing he’s going to say something, she waits.
When he remains silent, she asks, “What are you doing?”
“Just checking to see if you need me to pick up a refill for your medication on my way home from work tomorrow, but you have enough.”
“Oh.”
Great. Now she feels guilty. Maybe he really does care—at least a little. At least enough to make sure she’s not in unnecessary pain.
She hears the floor creak beneath his weight, realizes he’s about to leave the room.
“Um, Dad?” she finds herself saying.
“Yeah?”
Don’t do it. Don’t ask him to change the bulb now. Don’t show him that you’re such a baby you can’t get through the night in the dark.
She hesitates a long time, finally allowing herself to ask only, “Would you mind opening my window shades? I like to watch the snow.”
She hears him cross the room, hears one shade snap up, and then the other, just to the left of her bed.
Kiss Her Goodbye Page 30