Domestic Secrets

by Rosalind Noonan

  “And what was that?” Rachel asked.

  “Keep breathing.” Remy explained how she and Cassie embraced his philosophy. “And then I figured you could stretch it out. Keep going. Keep dancing. Keep singing. Keep loving. Keep living.”

  It took Rachel hours, until long after Remy left her chair, to realize that the girl hadn’t needed a trim at all. She had come to help Rachel grieve for Jackson. How had the girl known that Rachel had been stuck in regret and sadness, unable to move through her days or endure the nights?

  Keep breathing. Keep singing. Keep loving.

  Hugging herself, Rachel breathed in the sunset and said a little prayer for Remy. She prayed that she was in a better place now, and that she had died quickly, without pain. Rachel imagined her spirit entwined with the colors in the sky, soaring upward into space. She wanted to think of the poor girl rising to the heavens because the reality of what had happened here on earth was intolerable.

  Throughout the afternoon she had tried to call Ariel. When she got no answer, Rachel texted her, sending questions and words of condolence.

  I’m so sorry.

  There are no words.

  Want to talk?

  She had half expected Ariel to answer because she knew her friend had no one else to turn to. But Rachel’s phone had remained quiet, except for calls from KJ and a few local reporters. News scavengers.

  The tragedy was the perfect fodder for scandal. Lifelong friends. A prom proposal gone bad. She said no, and then he killed her.

  Rachel had seen a few headlines on the Portland newspaper’s blog before she clicked off the site and promised herself to stay away from the media right now. The sordid comments would tarnish the memory of Remy and make Rachel feel even more ill about Jared. Since the encounter at the school, she had tried to ignore a pinched feeling in her stomach that was leaching fear through her body. Misery. This would be her new normal.

  Sometime after seven, she received a call from KJ, who had been driving home from college. “Are you back, safe and sound?” she asked.

  “I got here two hours ago, but that’s not it. Mom, you’d better get home. The police are here with a search warrant. I couldn’t stop them. They’re upstairs, going through Jared’s room.”

  “You’re kidding.” Phone pressed to her ear, she marched inside and went right up to the desk officer. “Is this what you do to people? Send a squad over to ransack their house while they’re here, waiting to see a child in jail?”

  The cop, a new one since the change of shift, held up his hands. “Ma’am, I don’t know what you’re talking about. We are a criminal lodging facility, and I’ve never been to your house.”

  With a groan of exasperation Rachel hurried to her car. “I’m on my way. Don’t worry, honey. This is all probably standard.” Though she wished that George Hunt had tipped her off that this might happen.

  As she drove home, pulling back on her anxiety to stay close to the speed limit, she wondered what the police might find in Jared’s room. Illegal drugs? A collection of guns and knives? She didn’t think so. Hunting and weaponry held no appeal for Jared.

  Although it was after eight, the neighborhood was still bathed with light as Rachel parked beside KJ’s car in the driveway. The house welcomed her with a warm, golden glow that contrasted with the propped-open screen door and the cops carrying bagged items from the house to a white van.

  Slamming the door of her car, Rachel went straight to the van. “What are you looking for?”

  A man in a shirt and tie straightened, revealing a large gold star pinned to his chest. “Rachel Whalen? I’m Detective Lou Shives from the homicide division.” He was lean with a shaved head and that squared-away attitude of a former soldier. “I’ve already spoken to your son Kyle James. We have a warrant to search the premises.”

  “Really?” She put her hands on her hips. The fortitude and self-control she’d been exercising all day gave way, releasing a torrent of fury. “Were the knives, the blood, and his confession not enough? I can’t even imagine how much more evidence you might need against my son.” Exhilaration buzzed in her chest at the chance to unleash her anger.

  The detective’s eyes opened wide. He’d probably never seen a suburban mom lose it before. “Mrs. Whalen, this is procedure.”

  “Really? And where was your procedure when my son was bullied and almost killed by a pack of brutes on the football team? Where were the cops when those all-stars bound Jared’s wrists and turned him upside down and held his head underwater in a toilet bowl? Tell me, Detective Shives, where the hell were you then?”

  “Mrs. Whalen . . . please. Calm down. I’m investigating a homicide now, but I’d be happy to pursue these other claims.” Detective Shives had lowered his voice to a soothing pitch. A sympathetic tone. Dear God, she couldn’t take his sympathy. “When did these things happen to your son?”

  “Freshman year,” she said through tears. “Three years ago. But it’s too late now. Just finish here. Strip the house and go.”

  Shives cocked his head to one side like a concerned counselor. “We’ll be out of your way in a moment. We’re just about done here.”

  His tone was so even and cordial, she felt sheepish for clobbering him with her frustration. “Okay. Good.”

  “And let me give you my card. That’s my cell number, right there. But you don’t need me to file a complaint. You can share your concerns with any officer at the sheriff’s office. And it’s not too late to investigate an assault.”

  She nodded, unwilling to say another word. She had just spilled her guts out to the saint of the Timbergrove sheriff’s office. George Hunt was not going to be happy.

  Shives stepped back from the van as two other cops came down the walkway with white plastic evidence bags.

  “That’s the last of it,” said a woman with the creased skin of over-tanning, clear blue eyes, and tawny hair pulled back into a braid. A middle-aged Heidi.

  “Great. Thanks.” Shives nodded. “We’ll be on our way, Mrs. Whalen. Sorry for your troubles.”

  That seemed like a kind thing to say. Rachel watched the van drive away, hoping that she hadn’t revealed too much.

  Inside the house, KJ had the gas fireplace going in the living room as he worked in the kitchen. “Are they gone?” he asked.

  “Just left. I hope they didn’t find anything, but that part is beyond our control.” She stepped out of her shoes. “Something smells good.”

  “Grilled cheese and cream of tomato soup.” KJ stood tall, commanding the kitchen even as he seemed to be a stranger in the house. When he stepped forward to hug her, she clenched her lips together, biting back a surge of emotion at the great irony. She had spent so much of the past few months worrying about KJ, not knowing that the quiet son under her roof would be the one to melt down.

  He let her go and reached for the spatula. “I thought you’d need some sustenance.”

  “You didn’t have to come, but I’m glad you did,” Rachel said quietly. His presence would help keep her from going to the dark places. “I’ve been meaning to call you.” She didn’t really want to discuss football, but any topic would be preferable to today’s crisis. “How’ve you been feeling? Are all the symptoms gone?”

  “I’m fine. Not really here to talk football, Mom.” He poked at the pan with the spatula. “It’s just about ready if you want to wash up.”

  Appreciating the role reversal, Rachel went upstairs to press a warm washcloth to her face and change into sweatpants. As she passed by Jared’s door on the way down, she paused in the shadowed hallway and peeked inside. The places that had once been occupied by his file cabinet, computer, and storage bins now seemed like empty pockets. Missing teeth. Out of habit, she pulled open the desk drawer to find that the binders had been taken, but the football remained.

  She palmed the ball, then cradled it against her chest. Had it been just hours ago that she had stood here, realizing he wasn’t home? If only she had stopped him this morning, forced him to conn
ect. That had been part of his therapy as a child when the pediatrician had noticed a problem. Eye-contact therapy. Rachel had learned to hold his chubby cheeks and talk to him as she tried to entice him to look her in the eyes. It had always been hard to connect with Jared, but she had learned how to get in. Or so she’d thought.

  It was too quiet when they first sat down to eat, so she switched on the television for background noise, turning to a channel that showed a million ways to remodel your home.

  “The arraignment is tomorrow. A special Saturday arraignment.” She picked up a piece of sandwich, touched by the way KJ had sliced it into triangles, as she had when the boys were kids. “Do you think you’ll go with me?”

  He shrugged. “What did the lawyer say?”

  She told him about her meeting with the attorney, George Hunt, who had spoken to her for only a few minutes. Rachel had asked the lawyer about the death penalty. “Is it possible?”

  “Possible but not probable,” he’d said. “Even if he got that sentence, and I doubt he would, the state of Oregon hasn’t executed a prisoner for years. But we’re jumping ahead here.”

  George had explained that he would collect most of the information directly from Jared. Although Rachel would be paying Hunt’s retainer, his relationship would be exclusively with Jared. “Since he’s eighteen,” Hunt had said, “I need his consent to share information on the case with you.” Rachel had agreed. What choice did she have?

  KJ’s voice brought Rachel back to the present moment. “That lawyer sounds like an asshole. Did you ever get to see Jared?”

  “Finally.” She swirled a spoon through her soup, recalling the endless day of waiting. “Hunt arranged it before he left, but it was only for a few minutes, and we were separated by a screen. It was . . . awful.” Jared had cried the entire time, silent tears punctuated by occasional bouts of sobbing, and she had longed to hold him in her arms and offer some comfort, some simple compassion. But no contact was allowed, and no words could penetrate his hysteria.

  “How did he seem?”

  “Sad. He was crying.”

  KJ kept his gaze down, as if the grill marks on his sandwich were homing beacons. “Did he tell you anything?”

  “No.” And she had needed answers. “I begged him for something, some kind of explanation. I know there’s more to this, KJ. I tried to find out.”

  “Did you do it?” she had asked him, her voice waffled by the vented Plexiglas. When he’d nodded, his face contorted in a sob, she had pressed closer, beseeching. “Why? Why did you attack Remy? Please, Jared, I just need to know why.”

  She had to know. She deserved an answer. And somehow she believed that if he opened up, the explanation would mitigate the circumstances of the attack.

  But she would have to wait for his answer. “He’s admitted to stabbing Remy, more than once. The real question now is why.” Forcing herself to go through the motions, she took a bite of the sandwich and chewed.

  “He’s gone over the edge.” KJ shook his head as he wiped up soup with the bread crusts. “You got him a good lawyer, and you held a freaking vigil at the jail. All that waiting around, and he didn’t even talk to you? What the hell?”

  “He’s in crisis.”

  “A crisis he brought on himself. Come on, Mom. Don’t defend him.”

  “He’s my son, and we don’t know all the circumstances yet,” she argued, furious with KJ, although she knew he was right. She was the deluded one, holding on to false hope that somehow her son would be vindicated. “And no matter what, I’ll never give up on him. He’ll always be my son and . . . it’s my job to fight for him and wait around all day, if that’s what it takes. I would have stayed the night in one of those plastic chairs if I thought it would make a difference. It felt horrible, leaving him there alone.”

  “To be honest, I’m glad he’s behind bars,” KJ countered. “It would be pretty scary having a killer in the house with us.”

  When Rachel flinched, Kyle pointed to the television. “Wake up, Mom. It’s all over the news, trending on the Internet. Your little darling is a killer, and he’s just torn the heart out of this family.”

  “KJ, please . . .” She felt like she herself was under siege now. “What can I do here? I feel like I need to defend Jared. But at the same time, I hate him for what he did to Remy. It’s a heinous act. And I’m sick that my own child, my flesh and blood, has become a monster.”

  “It’s not your fault.” KJ got up and gathered dishes, leaving a barely touched bowl of soup in front of Rachel. “It’s not your fault that he’s become an animal. But you’ve got to accept that the Jared we knew is gone. He’s either really sick or really evil. He may be my brother, but right now I wouldn’t be able to sleep in the same house with him.”

  From her bedroom window Ariel saw them down in the backyard, gathered around the fire pit. Cassie and Maisy were huddled together in a blanket and Eli wore a fleece overshirt. Trevor, in his hoodie, jumped up to demonstrate a move. Ariel’s forehead bumped the glass when she moved closer to sniff for weed. Was Eli turning them on? No. Eli wouldn’t do that. At least not until they were all teenagers.

  Pushing away from the window, Ariel swayed a bit as she staggered toward the bed. No. Not yet. There was something else.

  A bath. Yes, she needed a hot soak with lavender salt.

  She swung around a little too quickly and braced herself against the dresser, where her pills were spilled out beside a glass with two fingers of whiskey.

  “Time to take your pill?” Or had she already taken it?

  “Oliver?” she called. He would know if it was time. “Ollie?” Where the hell was he? Probably down by the fire pit.

  Well. One wouldn’t hurt. She gulped down a pill, wincing as the whiskey burned a path down her throat. The edges of her vision were hazy, making her dizzy. She had to feel her way along the wall to get to the bathroom, where the tub loomed, gleaming white, slick, and slippery. Ha. Maybe a bath was not such a good idea. She could drown. Then again, maybe that was what made it an excellent idea.

  The rushing water reminded her of that waterfall in the Gorge, where she and Oliver had gone swimming that hot summer day. So hot. She turned the cold-water spigot; that was better. Breathing in the steam rising from the surface, she waited for the lavender to calm her rattled nerves. Lavender was so soothing. But why was she so upset?

  He would be here soon, and sex was always a great distraction for her.

  And Remy . . . Remy was so talented, with such a bright future ahead. She was going to be a star. Maybe Ariel would find a role for her daughter on the show. She wouldn’t mind sharing a bit of the spotlight with her girl. The singing witch’s daughter.

  She closed her eyes and laughed.

  When she opened her eyes, the water had grown cold, her fingertips wrinkled. She slithered out, wondering why he was so late. Well, fuck him. She scowled, then giggled. She already had. But there were others out there. So many others.

  Still damp, she crawled into bed and passed out.

  Chapter 25

  After the dinner dishes were done and it was decided that KJ would stay the night, Rachel made two mugs of tea with honey and they settled into the living room. KJ stretched out on his belly in front of the fireplace just as he had on school nights a few years ago, a tactic to delay homework. The scene looked cozy and tranquil—a family evening at home—until she realized that he was crying.

  “KJ . . . honey . . .” At a loss for any means of comfort, she went to him and rubbed his back. “Someday we’ll look back on this and . . . it’ll always be a shitty memory.”

  He lifted his head and rested his forehead on his fist. “I feel like I’ve lost a sister,” KJ said. “But it’s even weirder because my brother killed her.”

  “I know.” She sat on the hearth beside him, choking up as he sobbed into his arm.

  When he could speak again, he talked about Remy. She’d been a toddler when they met, and KJ was only five or so, but he remembered how
she seemed to speak in full paragraphs when other kids were dropping one or two words. “She would babble on with this weird, almost mystical tone,” he said, “and sometimes she didn’t make any sense, but she thought she did. She would hold up a seashell to her ear and say it was magic, that it spoke to her and told her stories of where it had traveled. Remember that?”

  “I do. And I remember how you used to carry her on your shoulders and toss her in the air.”

  “Yeah. I grew like a tree, and she was always so little.”

  Rachel cradled her mug and reminisced about the old days. In the crush of grief, she reached to recall a better time—the “wonder years” when Remy, Jared, Cassie, and KJ were little. Summers were loaded with golden afternoons picnicking at the swim park and vacations at the coast, where the kids dug in the sand and biked into town after dinner for ice cream and saltwater taffy. “And the school days,” Rachel recalled, “I never would have survived those PTA meetings and Portfolio Nights without Ariel’s blunt take on it all. And all the holidays we spent together. I used to love shopping for girly gifts for Cassie and Remy. We were a giant family . . . all of us together, telling stories or singing. Those were good times.”

  “If you say so,” KJ said, raking at the rug with his fingertips.

  “Come on, now. Didn’t you have a storybook childhood?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes. You were a great mom, but I didn’t always like hanging around with the Alexanders.”

  She rested her mug on her knee. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Nothing personal, but I’m really uncomfortable around Ariel. I know she’s your friend and all, but there’s something a little off about her.”

  “That’s not very kind—especially now—and I didn’t raise you to be so critical of other people. Ariel is my friend because she doesn’t fit the mold. She’s a refreshing change from the other Timbergrove moms.”

  “Maybe for you, but it makes me uncomfortable when she’s around. The way she looks at me. And once, I think she tried to hit on me.”