With the others, it wasn’t about enjoyment. Nor was it about control. It was more about eliminating obstacles.
First April. Then Robby. Then Erin. Then Maeve Hudson, who popped up unexpectedly, like a construction zone located right before an on-ramp. One last roadblock before smooth sailing to that final destination.
She didn’t even have to die. It was her own damned fault. In the three months Sissy worked for her, the bitch never once looked right at her. But that day, she did.
Not right away.
First, she made Sissy wait for her pay while she hunted down the telephone and made her call to Matt Carmody.
She took the phone into the next room, whispering, but Sissy heard every word she said . . . and she could easily imagine every word Matt said. The key one being “no.”
After she hung up the phone, Maeve looked almost surprised to find Sissy still there.
“What are you waiting for?” she snapped.
“My pay.”
Maybe it was something in Sissy’s tone that made Maeve glance up sharply at her. Her gaze went right to her left eyebrow.
Sissy knew what must have happened before she even caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror over Maeve’s shoulder. The wet snow had washed away the makeup covering her scar. Maeve saw the smudge; saw the lighter hair in Sissy’s brow.
Somehow, in that instant, she had the presence of mind to put two and two together. Sissy watched the lightbulb go on behind Maeve’s startled eyes.
“You . . . you’re . . .” She faltered then, before she spoke the last coherent words of her life. “Who are you?”
“Can’t you guess?”
Maeve shook her head, frightened, clearly sensing danger, yet confused.
“You’re afraid,” Sissy noted, amused. “Just like your daughter was.”
For a moment, Maeve stared in mute horror. Then she ran. First, she tried to go for the door, but Sissy was in the way, so she turned and raced up the stairs. She disappeared into the master bedroom, locked the door, and cowered in her closet.
Fool.
Didn’t she know how flimsy the locks are in this fancy new construction?
Didn’t she know she didn’t have a chance?
That the rows of clothes and the thick insulation and the falling snow muffled her screams?
Maybe she did know. Maybe that’s why Sissy managed to quickly overpower her despite all those hours Maeve spent at the gym.
She was strong, but Sissy was stronger. She was determined, but Sissy was more determined.
Still, it took longer than it had to. Sissy expected Maeve’s neck to snap, but it didn’t. Thanks to her Pilates classes and strength training, her bones and muscles were strong and supple. She strangled to death as Sissy watched in fascination, pulling on the other end of the belt with all her might.
In the end, Maeve Hudson actually seemed to welcome death. Her struggle with the makeshift noose was as short-lived as the horrible gasping sounds emitting from her slender throat as she spun slowly from the closet rod.
“Like mother, like daughter,” Sissy repeats, smiling at Margaret. “Know what I mean?”
For a few breathless moments, gazing at the pink bundle on the church steps, Kathleen had believed it was the miracle she’d sought. She believed it was her baby girl, returned to her.
By the time she realized that the baby wasn’t Jen—her cherished, lost Jen—she knew she would keep her anyway. She knew it was a sign from God.
How could you believe that?
Kathleen thumps the steering wheel in fury at her delusional former self, even as some part of her pipes up in defense.
You couldn’t help it. You were young, and alone, and you were out of your mind with grief.
And. . .
And you knew you could get away with it.
That, perhaps, is the worst part of all.
Nobody knew her baby had died.
Nobody knew the baby had been left at the church.
Nobody . . .
Except whoever left her there in the first place.
Again, Kathleen thinks about the pink bootee.
About the person who cared enough to knit the delicate pink blanket and bootees.
Whoever it was might not be the person who wants her dead. . .
But what if they want her back?
Kathleen shudders, so distracted by the frightening thoughts running through her mind that she nearly passes the turnoff to Cuttington Road and Orchard Hollow.
“Oh my God. You killed Maeve?”
But it isn’t a question. Jen knows.
Another thought occurs to her then; she blurts it aloud. “You killed him, too, didn’t you?”
“Robby?” Sissy gives a self-satisfied nod. “Yup. Him, too.”
“Robby?” Jen gasps in horror.
No. Oh, no. Oh, Robby.
“Let me guess . . .” Sissy peers into her face. “You weren’t talking about Robby?”
“No, I . . .” Jen swallows hard, thinking of poor Robby. “I meant Quint.”
“Who?”
“Quint Matteson. They said he OD’d. Did you—”
“No.” Sissy laughs. “Sorry, I had nothing to do with that. Whoever he is.” With exaggerated patience, she adds, “He’s not your father, Margaret. Your father is John. Our father is John. Remember?”
Mute with fear, Jen stares at the woman claiming to be her sister. Stares at the scar in her eyebrow.
Following her gaze, Sissy runs her fingertips almost lovingly along her brow. “My mother always called it the mark of the devil. She was a religious fanatic, you know? She thought it meant my father was cursed, and when I came along I guess she thought I was, too. And then he brought you home. You were all dressed in pink that day. Pink bootees, and a blanket . . . oh, that reminds me. Did you get the birthday gift I left for you?”
The pink bootee. Oh, God.
“Yes,” Jen whispers.
“It fell off your foot that day when they took you away. I saw my mother pick it up off the floor and throw it into the garbage. But I took it out. It was my souvenir.” Sissy laughs.
“You know, my mother flipped out when she first saw you, Margaret. She said you were the spawn of the devil. She said he had to get rid of you. He said he didn’t want to. But I did.”
Sissy retrieves something from the folds of her coat.
“Remember this?” she asks, holding it up.
Jen stares at the white pillow with pink embroidery.
Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice . . .
“Remember it?” Sissy demands again.
Jen shakes her head, manages to find her voice. “No. No, I don’t . . .”
“He bought it for you. He bought lots of things for you. Little pink ruffly dresses, and a stuffed lamb, and an Ashton-Drake doll. I always wanted one, but he said they were too expensive. And then he bought one for you. And he said I was too old to play with it.”
“I don’t like dolls. I never liked dolls,” Jen whispers.
Lost in her memories, Sissy ignores her. “After you left, I thought he’d give me the doll, but he didn’t. He threw it away. I guess he didn’t want me to have it because of what I did.”
“What . . . what did you do?”
This time, the sound of Jen’s voice seems to snap Sissy back to the present.
“I was naughty. Really, really naughty,” she says, leaning closer and whispering conspiratorially, “Want to know what I did?”
No. Please, the only thing I want is for you not to hurt me. Please . . .
Jen nods, praying harder than she’s ever prayed in her life.
“You really want me to tell you?”
Daddy, where are you?
“Yes.”
“How about if I just show you instead?”
With that, Sissy raises the pillow and brings it down over Jen’s face.
“Susie wanted to hurt the baby?” Lucy echoes in disbelief, staring at John.
“She t
ried. Deirdre found her . . . she was trying to smother Margaret in her crib.”
Lucy buries her face in her hands, shaking her head. Her baby. Her poor baby.
“Deirdre did CPR. She saved her, Lucy. And she made me promise not to tell. We both knew that if we told anybody, Susie’s life would be ruined.”
“She tried to kill a helpless baby, John!”
“I know, but you have to understand . . .” He takes hold of Lucy’s upper arms, holding her, as though he won’t let go until he makes her see. “Susie was my baby, too. She was my baby first. And she was fine before Margaret came along. Deirdre and I knew that she’d be fine if things could just go back to the way they were.”
“So you left a helpless baby on the steps of the church? Why didn’t you come to me?”
“You couldn’t keep her.”
“If I knew what had happened, I’d have found a way to—”
“I couldn’t tell you what happened, Lucy. Deirdre and I swore we’d never tell a soul about Susie. And we never did. I never did. Not even . . .”
“What?” she presses, when he trails off, his expression haunted. “What is it?”
He takes a deep breath, his hands painfully tightening on her arms, almost as though he’s clinging to a lifeline.
“Deirdre never forgave Susie. Neither did I, but she . . . it was different with Deirdre. She always thought Susie had the devil in her, from the moment she was born. The more time went by, the more tense things were between them. And then one day . . .”
“What? One day, what?” Lucy demands when he falls silent once again.
“Deirdre fell down the stairs. I was out when it happened. Susie was, too. At least, that’s what she said.”
“You didn’t believe her.”
“I did at the time. But I started to wonder. And then . . . then, a few months ago, I found the pictures.”
“What pictures?”
He reaches into his pocket, takes out a stack of photographs and hands them to her silently.
Lucy gasps.
Flipping through them, she stares in disbelief at a series of snapshots of Jen Carmody, shot through a telephoto lens.
“Susie sent me the letter. My God, John. You knew, and you didn’t—”
“I couldn’t. Lucy, she’s still my daughter. She’s my baby.”
“So is Margaret,” she bites out.
“I know that.” He nods in weary resignation. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to warn her parents before I went to the police. But it looks like nobody’s home.”
“Then let’s go right to the police,” Lucy says simply.
He nods, opens his mouth. Before he can speak, the air is filled with the faint sound of approaching sirens.
Jen writhes on the bed, panic taking hold as she realizes that her time is running out.
Her lungs burn with the futile strain for air as Sissy presses the pillow over her face in a ruthless death grip.
In another few seconds, it will be over.
Oh, Daddy. Oh, Mom. Please . . .
I’m sorry.
She’ll never have the chance to tell them how much she loves them.
That she knows how much they love her.
Images fly through her mind.
Is this what happens when you die? You see your life flashing before you like a movie montage?
Mom coming back to kiss her goodbye.
Dad coaching soccer—
Soccer.
Jen releases her hold on her captor’s viselike arm.
Feeling her way blindly, she reaches for the trophy.
The one she pulled from the shelf earlier.
The one that should still be on the bed.
Even as her fingers close over the cold metal, she remembers how heavy the trophy was. Heavy enough to kill somebody . . . but too heavy for her to lift.
Now, with her oxygen rapidly depleting, she’ll need a miracle to turn it into a weapon. She can’t breathe, she can’t see, she can’t move.
But you have to. It’s your only hope. It’s the only way you’ll get through this, so you can tell them . . .
Mom.
Dad.
Curran.
Riley.
With a miraculous surge of adrenaline-driven strength and a fierce will to live, Jen swings the trophy upward with all her might.
Kathleen sees the red lights of the police cars in front of the house from Cuttington Road. She pulls as close as she can, then abandons her car, pulls the keys from the ignition, and takes off running toward her home.
A knot of people are on the front lawn and steps: several uniformed officers, an unfamiliar couple, and Detective Brodowiaz.
“What happened?” Kathleen asks breathlessly, reaching his side. “Is Jen okay?”
“We’ve knocked and rung the bell. There’s been no answer, but we can’t find any evidence of a break in.”
“She can’t answer the door; she can’t get out of bed.” Frantic, Kathleen fumbles trying to jam the right key into the lock, getting it in and then turning it the wrong way in her haste to get it open.
“Relax, Mrs. Carmody.” Detective Brodowiaz lays a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Nobody broke in while you were gone. Chances are your daughter is safe upstairs.”
“Whoever it was might have a key,” Kathleen flings at him. “Whoever it was has been in the house before.”
She throws the door open at last and races into the house, screaming her daughter’s name.
“Mom?”
She’s alive.
“Jen!” Kathleen shrieks, taking the stairs three at a time.
Thank you, God.
Thank you, Mommy.
She’s alive.
Bursting into her daughter’s bedroom, the first thing Kathleen sees is the blood-soaked bed.
“Jen! No!”
But it isn’t Jen’s blood.
Her daughter is alive. Alive but covered in blood that belongs to a lifeless figure draped across the bed.
The skull is cracked; the brown hair is matted with red clots. But the face, eyes open and staring at a grotesque angle, is intact.
Intact, and hauntingly familiar.
Stunned, Kathleen realizes why she recognized the voice on the phone.
“Oh, God,” she breathes in disbelief.
It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Why?
“Oh, God. Sissy . . .”
“Mommy,” Jen sobs.
Footsteps pound on the stairs, in the hall, all around them.
“Mommy, I’m so sorry.”
Police officers swarm the room, guns drawn.
In the eye of the storm, Kathleen sinks onto the bed and gathers her baby into her arms, holding her close, rocking her. “It’s all right, Jen. It’s going to be all right. I’m here. Mommy’s here.”
She strokes Jen’s hair, her hands sticky with blood.
Blood.
A long time ago—a lifetime ago, it seems—she told Jen about blood . . .
And about love.
“Mommy,” Jen sobs. “Mommy. She hurt Maeve. Somebody has to go over there.”
Maeve.
Matt.
Oh, Matt . . . I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I doubted you . . .
“Mommy, she tried to—”
“Shhh . . . It’s over, sweetheart. That’s all that matters now. We’re going to be okay.”
“There’s so much blood . . .”
Blood.
Yes.
Love, Kathleen told Jen a long time ago, is thicker than blood.
Cradling their daughter in her arms, Kathleen whispers, “We really are going to be okay.”
EPILOGUE
May
Something wet and white lands on Kathleen’s hand as she climbs out of the car. She looks down at it, then up at the milky sky in disbelief.
It’s snowing.
Snowing on the second Sunday in May.
Kathleen shakes her head, smiling as she buttons her jacket and pulls up the
collar against the cold.
“Mom, is that . . . ?”
“Yes,” she tells her daughter, who has climbed out of the passenger’s seat and come to stand behind her, shivering.
“First a blizzard on Easter, and now this. I can’t believe it.”
“I can.” Laughing, Kathleen reaches out to tug at the zipper pull of her daughter’s open ski jacket, raising it to her chin. “Welcome to Buffalo. I can remember one year when it snowed on Memorial Day.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Maybe not, but it’s true.”
“I think we should move to Florida,” Jen grumbles, as Kathleen opens the backseat to remove the long, shiny white boxes there. “It feels like it’s been winter forever. I can’t stand it.”
It does, Kathleen thinks, her smile fading. It does feel like it’s been winter forever. Endless months of police investigation, complicated when the decomposing body of April Lukoviak was discovered. Endless therapy sessions and fervent prayers as Kathleen—as all of the Carmodys—came to terms with the past.
It hasn’t been easy. At first, it was downright traumatic, especially for Jen, who was forced to accept the shock that neither Matt nor Kathleen are her birth parents.
There were times, especially in the beginning, when she would rant and scream at Kathleen, and at Matt. She called them strangers, she called them liars, she called them far worse. Then one day, at last, when Jen was home with a terrible cold and Kathleen was straining homemade chicken soup at the sink, she came into the kitchen and she simply asked why.
“Why did you do it?”
Kathleen took a deep breath, knowing they had reached a turning point. Here, at last, was a question. A question instead of an accusation, a curse, a threat.
A question that, thank God, she could answer honestly and with all her heart.
“Because when I picked you up from the church steps and I looked down into your face, I knew that you needed me as badly as I needed you,” Kathleen told her daughter. “Somewhere inside I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care. When I saw you, at first glance I thought you were my daughter. And then, when I realized that you weren’t . . . well, somehow, you still were. Does that make any sense at all?”
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