Domestic Secrets

by Rosalind Noonan

  “Are you bleeding?” Rachel said, suddenly sure that none of this was what it seemed. “He needs a doctor.” She twisted back toward the men and realized that Mike McCabe was one of them. His arms were folded, his gaze soft, as if he were a million miles away.

  “He’s not hurt,” the other cop said. “That’s not his blood.”

  She turned back to Jared for confirmation, but he had lowered his head to his forearms once again.

  “Jared.” Rachel moved closer, her hands on his shoulders, her forehead tipping against his soft brown hair. “Honey. What happened? I know you would never hurt Remy.”

  He sobbed silently, his shoulders shaking beneath her hands.

  “You need to tell the truth.” She kneeled before him and rubbed his arms gently, trying to transmit love and support to her child. She had never seen him in such a state, so distraught and broken. But then again, she could not begin to imagine the trauma of witnessing such an attack on the girl he loved.

  “I did it.”

  She couldn’t believe that. She wouldn’t. “Jared. Don’t take the blame for someone else.”

  “It’s true, okay? I stabbed her.” Without lifting his head, he reached up and peeled her hands from his shoulders, pushing her away.

  Rachel sat back on her heels and bowed her head, unable to breathe in this new vacuum of hope. “No.”

  The hush in the room only verified that all logic and life had been sucked away.

  Dear God, how can this be?

  There would be no heavenly intervention, no quick answers. She knew that in this brief moment of grace, she could only do her best to protect whatever life her son had left.

  “Okay.” She looked up at him, restraining herself from touching him. “We’re going to get you through this,” she promised. There was no telling what the outcome might be. She still did not understand what had happened in that stairwell. But no matter what, she was going to be Jared’s advocate. “Don’t talk right now. Don’t say anything else.” She used the desk to pull herself to her feet and steady herself.

  “Mrs. Whalen, your son has already confessed,” the cop said from behind her.

  “I don’t care.” Rachel wheeled toward the cop. Ramirez, according to his nametag. He was a fortyish guy, baby-faced, with a dime-sized birthmark on his cheek. “He would never hurt another person. Especially not Remy. He’s a good kid. He’s never been in trouble before.”

  “Please, ma’am, I have to ask you to step outside and let us finish the interview.”

  “But I’m his mother.”

  “He’s eighteen. Legally, he’s an adult.”

  “Barely! And he still has rights. I’m not going to let you do this to him. Where’s his lawyer? He wants a lawyer,” Rachel said quickly, recalling the protocol from a crime show on television. “So now you can’t talk to him anymore, right? Right?”

  “Fine.” Ramirez sneered. “We’ll finish at the jail, with a lawyer. Okay, Mom?”

  After that, things moved quickly. Jared was handcuffed and taken away. Hunched over and silently sobbing, he seemed frail and broken and young. A boy. Yes, he was eighteen now, but in so many ways he was still a child.

  Her heart ached for him as she followed the passel of officers up the stairs and out the nearest doors of the school by the auditorium to a waiting patrol car. A female cop patted his head. A tender gesture? Rachel wondered. No. She was just making sure he bent down low enough to clear the roof of the car as he climbed into the backseat.

  Rachel turned away from the cops and blinked back tears. There was no time to cry. She had to get to her car on the other side of the school, where there were, no doubt, packs of students and parents recalling their fear and terror over the lockdown. Probably satellite news trucks and reporters jumping on the sensational story. Swiping obstinate tears from her eyes, she noticed that the wall before her was filled with headshots of the Gleetime kids—the remaining decor from last week’s performances.

  There was Jared, eyes round as quarters and smiling with more mirth than she’d seen since he’d started junior high. He had hit his stride recently. He’d been happy. How could this happen to him now? And to Remy?

  With a murmured gasp Rachel pressed a hand to her mouth. God, she hoped Remy was okay. Her cell phone was back in the car; she’d run out without it. Please, please, let there be a text from Ariel saying that everything was fine. And then this thing, whatever had happened, could all just dissolve away.

  “Rachel.” Mike’s voice came as his hand landed on her shoulder.

  He looked miserable. Washed out, with new creases in his face. Such hard lines. “Jared will be at the jail in Oregon City, and I don’t know if they’ll allow you to see him now, but . . .”

  “Of course, I’ll be there.” That knot was back in her throat, throbbing and swelling, pushing her to tears. “Mike. He’s a good kid, and I can’t believe he would really do this. You need to look into Cooper Dover, Remy’s ex-boyfriend. He was bitter about the breakup, and not beyond hurting her.”

  “We’ll follow every lead, but . . .” He looked down, folding his arms across his chest. “Honestly, it looks like Jared is our guy.”

  “How can you say that, Mike? What about due process?”

  “His rights will be protected, and he’ll be treated fairly, I promise you that. But Jared confessed, and there were witnesses. Girls who’d been hanging out with Remy downstairs in the choir room.”

  “And they saw Jared . . . my Jared—”

  “They saw enough, Rachel. I’m going to spare you the details right now, but it’s not good.”

  She held his gaze, her face tipped up toward him in challenge. She wanted to argue her son’s innocence, but knew that Mike was doing his best to deliver the truth. “Was anyone hurt besides Remy?”

  “No physical injuries, but a few kids in shock. One of the girls was so traumatized she ran back downstairs and hid. We found her in the closet where they keep the choir robes.”

  “I don’t get it. This is not my son.”

  “Some of the kids heard Jared and Remy arguing. He wanted her to go to prom with him, and she kept saying no.”

  She shook her head. “And then he stabbed her?”

  “With a carving knife. Why would he have a carving knife at school?”

  She closed her eyes against the realization. Those damned Flashco knives.

  “Look, I’ve got to get over to the jail, but I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

  She forced herself to breathe, slow and steady. “Thanks.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not the worst of it. From the crime scene I suspected that . . . shit. There’s no easy way to say this. Remy didn’t make it. I just got word from central dispatch that the paramedics pronounced her dead. Remy’s gone.”

  No amount of time in Mike’s arms could stop the crying jag that began at the news of Remy’s death. Her chest was a thick jumble of pain, a hot mess of fear and loss and guilt that pressed on her lungs and throat. When Rachel could finally breathe again, she assured Mike that she was okay to be alone. He had to get to work, to meet with the prosecutor, to prepare for a press conference. “Besides, how would it look to have the sheriff consoling the killer’s mother?” she said, trying to pull herself together.

  “Everyone needs compassion; I don’t have to make any excuses for that.”

  He apologized for leaving her, but she assured him that she understood. As soon as he turned away she stepped back into the school, grateful for the temporary shelter of the cool shadows as she took tiny breaths and wobbled on weak legs. She had planned to cut through the school to get to her car, but she couldn’t make it there right now, not with this dense core of pain in her chest, throbbing like a festering wound. New tears ran down her cheeks as she considered the public spectacle she was about to make of herself here in the school hallway, just steps away from the chaos.

  God help me.

  She staggered into a nearby girls’ room. The sight of her damp, bl
oodshot eyes and puffy face in the mirror made another sob rise in her throat. She retreated to a stall, locked the door, and collapsed on the toilet seat to cry in privacy.

  Her muscles bunched, taut with tension, as images of the little girl who had come into her life fifteen years ago flickered through her mind. Barely two, Remy had been cheerful and amenable, a good napper, quick to smile. That sunny disposition had not wavered over the years of pigtails and braids, braces and pink sneakers, stars on the ceiling of her bedroom, happy dances on the coffee table and selfies. Selfies everywhere, all the time.

  How could such a bright light be snuffed out?

  By your son, your flesh and blood.

  Dear God, it doesn’t make sense for him to kill her. He loved her. They grew up together. And Jared is not a violent person.

  She dropped her head into her hands as denial rose and flared inside her. Denial was a cop-out, and she knew that, but right now, it was the only avenue she could travel.

  An early memory of Remy came to mind . . . the toddler dressed in a pull-up diaper, her back lathered with sunscreen as she wobbled along the lawn at the swim park, chasing the ducks with a toothy smile. “She doesn’t even need the diaper,” Ariel said. “This one potty trained at eighteen months. Just about did it herself.”

  “Adorable,” Rachel said, trying not to compare two-year-old Jared, who had no interest in the typical benchmarks of development. Even now, he sat in the sandbox alone, lining up cars, while his brother, KJ, took a swimming lesson with friends. Meanwhile, Remy wandered from blanket to picnic table, offering a smile and handfuls of grass, which sunbathing moms wholeheartedly enjoyed.

  “Yeah, Remy’s the model baby,” Ariel said. “The good daughter. And I know, because I got the bad seed, too.” With a bitter laugh, Ariel had looked back to five-year-old Cassie, who cowered at the picnic table. “Would you just get over it and come down to the water with us?” Ariel called to the frightened girl. “Those ducks aren’t going to hurt you.”

  A tearful Cassie shook her head no and curled herself into a little ball.

  “You know, sometimes the ducks do nip a little,” Rachel said.

  “Don’t tell Cassie. It’ll give her one more thing to whine about. That kid is a royal pain.”

  Not one to judge, Rachel had changed the topic and vowed to offer those girls a little positive mothering whenever possible. As it turned out, over the years she’d had plenty of opportunity to calm their fears and nurture their dreams.

  During those years of single parenting, Cassie and Remy became the daughters Rachel never had, and Ariel was always generous with sharing their affections.

  Maybe I should have spent more time raising my own kids, less time obsessing over Ariel’s mistakes.

  Hugging herself, Rachel bent over her knees and willed herself to breathe through the pain that gripped her chest. Keep breathing. It was the best she could do for now.

  The door creaked and the flurry of loud girl voices began to fill the lavatory.

  The last thing she needed was a bunch of students staring at her. She pulled on the stream of toilet paper and wound it around her hands. Pressing the mound of stiff paper to her eyes, she snatched at bits of their frantic conversation and felt herself sinking lower into the abyss.

  These were not students taking a bathroom break. They had seen the stabbing.

  “I’m still scared,” one girl gasped in a breathy voice.

  Rachel crept forward, peering through the cracks by the door. The girl who was talking had long brown hair that nearly covered her black tank top from the back. “I know the police took him away, but what if he comes after us, too!”

  “He won’t. He just had a thing for Remy. He was out to get her, and no one else mattered to him,” said the other girl, a striking African American girl with a low voice. Under the black minidress she wore, her legs seemed to be a mile high. Rachel recognized her from Gleetime. Malika.

  “Did you see his eyes?” Malika asked, the pitch of her voice rising. “God! I never knew that Jared Whalen had crazy eyes. He was, like, blind to the rest of us. All he could see was . . . getting Remy.”

  Rachel sat back on the toilet and died a little inside as the truth pressed down on her. These girls had been in the stairwell. Malika had seen it happen.

  Jared was a killer.

  Malika was crying now, and Rachel felt an odd sort of communion with the girl as tears ran down her cheeks.

  “I didn’t see that much,” the other girl admitted. “I mean, I was behind you and Shanna, so I didn’t see it happen. I told the police everything I saw, but it wasn’t much. Oh my God, why did Jared do that?”

  “Because he’s mad at her,” Malika said through a sob. “He’s mad at her because she won’t go to prom with him.”

  “Did you hear him say that?”

  “Well, first he took her aside and asked her to prom, and she was giving him a hard time, teasing him. It seemed normal, so we just sort of walked by. And when she said no, he . . . he grabbed her and cornered her. He pressed her up against the wall and kept ordering her to go to prom with him.”

  “Was she scared?” the girl whimpered.

  “Not really. They’ve known each other forever, like brother and sister.”

  Like brother and sister. Rachel pressed the crushed paper to her eyes to stave off a sob.

  “She was pissed,” Malika went on. “She was fighting back. She told him he wasn’t her boss. It seemed like every other hallway confrontation in this place. And then . . .” Her voice trembled for a moment. “She screamed. She called him a sicko-psycho, and . . . and he snapped. That was when he did it.”

  “Oh my God!” the other girl wailed. “I saw the blood. I was coming up the stairs behind you guys and . . . when I saw it, I ran back down.”

  “I know. I ran, too.” The two girls wrapped their arms around each other, hugging until their sobs calmed to whimpers.

  “I hope Remy’s okay,” said Malika. “That knife . . . what the hell was he thinking, bringing that thing to school?”

  “Do you think she’ll be able to come to prom?” the other girl asked hopefully.

  Rachel’s head swayed to the side as the girls talked of that night’s prom, as if it were a vital world event. They didn’t know that Remy was already gone. They had no clue that the killer’s mother was lurking in the lavatory stall.

  She waited, calculating Jared’s defense. Eighteen as of yesterday; he would be tried as an adult. There would be no attempt to plead not guilty; she knew that now. Now, it was about lessening his sentence, sparing his life, and preserving whatever life he might have in prison.

  Long after the girls left, Rachel remained in the stall. A breakdown chamber. A cell of sorts.

  There was no reason to rush.

  PART 2

  Chapter 23

  Cassie had to work hard to keep her mind in the present as she drove home from the morgue in a nearly blinding fury. The task of keeping her trembling hands on the wheel, slowing for stop signs and maintaining her lane on the road, was more important than railing at the shell of a woman riding with her in the car or rolling back the images of her afternoon. Her sister, so pale . . .

  She couldn’t go there now.

  And it would be useless to blast her mother right now. Ariel was so out of it that arguing with her would be like pummeling a zombie.

  So Cassie kept to twenty miles per hour in the school zone, and slowed on the curves in the country road that constituted the back way home from the hospital.

  “Take the back way,” Ariel had said as she had settled into the rear seat like an Uber cab client. Those were her mom’s first words after Cassie had emerged from the room where she had viewed the body. No questions about Remy. No sympathetic pat on the back. No whispered thanks for taking care of the horrible task that Ariel refused to do. “I can’t bear to do it,” she’d said, as if they were referring to washing windows or scrubbing a toilet. Ariel was reverting to the same hermit existenc
e she’d slunk into when Oliver died. Amazing how easily she could slip into her cocoon, block out the pain, and let Cassie take over the family. Damn her. Cassie had stepped up when Oliver had died, but now . . . no. No, no, no.

  Rage burned hot as she gripped the steering wheel, clenched her teeth, set her eyes. The only good thing about fury was that it kept her from crying.

  “I’m calling on your mother’s behalf. There’s been an incident with your sister,” the person on the phone had said. Was it the school principal or a cop? Those details had been blurred by panic, but the caller had asked her to come to the hospital, and that was how she knew. They never told you over the phone that someone was dead, because they were afraid that you’d wreck the car while you were driving. They just said, “There’s been an incident.”

  And before Cassie could throw underwear and her toothbrush in a bag, she had gotten the text from her mother. Remy is dead. Come now.

  For the first horrific hour of her trip home, she had freaked out as she tried to call Ariel for details, but there’d been no answer.

  Thanks, Mom, for all the love and support.

  Thanks, Mom, for making me be the one to look. The image would be with her forever, indelible and nightmarish. A scar on the inside of her eyelids. A forlorn shop mannequin with a sheet pulled up to her chin, her beautiful hair stiff and matted and way too dark. Dark with blood.

  Little Remy was nowhere to be found in that pale face.

  That was not the way Cassie wanted to remember Remy. That empty shell! That deflated body had barely resembled her sister. Remy had been more than lean muscle and bone. Energy had swirled around her, sparks flying from her heels, vibrations radiating from her and richocheting like a rubber ball bouncing into infinity. The squeals of delight, the hugs and tears and smiles of encouragement. She kept telling herself that Remy’s life had amounted to so much more, but her perverse mind kept flashing on the dead body she’d had to identify.

  That wasn’t Remy.