Looking back, that night set the stage for everything that was to come. He would have done anything for any one of them. Fight, kill, die. How had things gone so wrong? It was like some larger force had been there with them that night under the streetlamp, cursing them to difficult lives and brutal deaths. Their pact—at the time it was just a venting of childhood what-ifs—took on a life of its own many years later and eventually destroyed them all.
Now the church was quiet. The Eucharist service wasn’t starting for over two hours, but there was nowhere else he wanted to be. He felt a calmness and destruction within the walls of this building. Pulsing familiarity. And though it was sacrilege to pray for the strength to do something evil, to kill smoothly and cleanly, he was sure God understood the many variations of sin and would forgive him for finishing something that started when he was just a kid.
A soft voice came out of the darkness. “Excuse me, sir? Did you say you wanted to make confession?”
CHAPTER 17
Marie Lavoisier-Saunders sat in her spartan room at the Christ the King Convent. Her eyes rested on a spot on the wall that was bare—no religious relic, no picture, no decoration of any kind. The wall was eggshell white, clean of dirt, yet dulled and dingy from time. She was deep in disquieting thought.
The day her sister died had been miserable from daybreak. Pouring rain from the minute Marie opened her eyes. It was a Friday and there was only one Mass, at midday. She had to prepare herself physically and spiritually. She had been dressing when the telephone rang. The message from Ava was brief.
As she drove, she’d kissed her rosary and prayed that Claire was still conscious. The emergency-room cubicle was chaos when she got there, but her sister was alive, attached to monitors.
Marie had clutched Claire’s hand. “What happened?” she whispered.
“Things are out of control, Marie. You need to call Maman. I’m afraid.”
“What’s out of control? Afraid of what?” When Marie looked up, Ava was there, standing by the cubicle, her eyes wide, riveted on the two of them. Marie pulled the curtain and put her head closer to hear her sister’s last words.
The two thoughts that came to her when the doctor told them her sister was dead were, one, that now everything was on her shoulders, and two, that maybe Claire’s death hadn’t been an accident.
Marie opened her eyes. She was in the middle of the floor in her cell at the convent, a rosary in one hand. She had been rocking and swaying without even realizing it. Someone was pounding on the door.
She stood and went to open it, but it flew open before her hand even touched the knob. He stood in the doorway, dressed in dark colors, paunchy, short—a pathetic figure of a man.
“No,” Marie said, voice quavering. She hadn’t seen him in years, hadn’t been completely sure where he’d been, though she’d always been certain he was circling nearby. Keeping a beady eye on things. His looks hadn’t improved with age. She tried to shut the door on him but he pushed his way in.
“What do you want?” Tears welled in her eyes and she backed up to the wall. The last time she’d seen him he’d brutalized Claire, slamming her head against the hood of the car, demanding to know where Ava was.
He ignored her and walked the perimeter of the small room, his head down, hands clasped behind his back. He said nothing for more than a minute. Marie eyed the door and wondered if she could move fast enough to get past him.
His head snapped up, his glassy eyes met hers. “Claire kept me busy, I will say. Moving here. Moving there.”
“Please, don’t do this here.”
He raised both arms and turned in a circle. “And where would be more fitting than here in the Catholic church, hmmm?”
Marie stared at the floor. “You saw her obituary?” she whispered. “I was so afraid of that.”
“Her death led me to her. As funny as that sounds. And then Ava pops up like a baby bird leaving the nest. Going to Loyal’s house.” He spun to face her. “But you know that, right? And she’s been talking to the wrong people. So why? Why now, Marie? What got her going?” He continued to pace, saying nothing for a minute. Then he stopped. “Whoever killed the others intends to kill me next, Marie. And then maybe you.”
Marie jumped up—to confront him or escape, she didn’t know. “Me? None of this has anything to do with me. This is about you and my father and what the four of you did.” She pointed at him. “My father, dumping his sins on Claire—it destroyed her life.”
“The minute your sister agreed and the minute you started protecting that child, it had everything to do with you. Do you think it’s a coincidence that only you and I are left? Someone knows our secret. So you’re going to help me find out who’s been killing us off. Bill, Loyal, your father—and then we’re going to get rid of Ava so there’s no evidence left. Which should have been done twenty years ago.”
Marie took a step back from him. “I was never completely on Claire’s side in any of this. In protecting Ava. You know that.”
“Interesting you say that, but I’m never quite sure with you . . .”
She blew air out of her mouth. “A few years ago we might be having a different conversation—with Claire and Ross still alive. But not now. Ava’s becoming too much.”
His eyes jumped to hers. “Why? What’s she done? Tell me.”
Marie shook her head. “I think she’s . . . Never mind. Just know that I loved my father. When I heard from his own lips what he did, his reasons, I could never find it in my heart to turn my back on him completely. And I won’t turn my back on his memory now.”
He hesitated by the door, his face puffy, ugly. “Someone is out there watching and killing, Marie. You haven’t gotten a photograph in the mail, have you? You know, of Claire’s front door? I’m not convinced she had a heart attack.”
His echo of her own suspicions made her hands shake. She said nothing.
“So, are we going to work together now? Let’s do it or we’ll both be gone.”
She looked toward the cross on the wall. For years, she and Claire had sacrificed for others. Maybe it was time for self-preservation to come first. “What do you propose?”
He studied her for a second. “It’s funny, we’re both in agreement but for different reasons. You loved Ross. I hated him and hate him now for all this.”
Marie’s head was moving back and forth. “Well, he’s dead. Someone else hated him too, apparently.”
“Are you up for this, Marie? Getting rid of your niece? Because I can’t have you backing out or double-crossing me. Or letting religion cloud your judgment at the last minute.”
When she nodded, he said, “Good. I’ll be in touch.” With that, he left the room.
Marie stared after him, at the door, not moving from her spot. Everything she’d said to him was true. Ava had become a problem. Killing her, though, was another story. But Marie also knew that if she didn’t cooperate, he’d just come back. And maybe kill her too.
“There has to be another way out. A third option.” She turned to the cross. “God, please let me find it.”
CHAPTER 18
I stood at the locked door in Claire’s office, hammer in hand. No one else was in the house. I’d woken with the first sign of light—no Marie to suddenly “stop by,” no Joanne to stand behind me, breathing on my neck, asking dozens of questions, all of which seemed time consuming and annoying.
The locksmith was due in a few hours to open the door. But I worried about a stranger seeing the contents before I had a chance to examine them myself. What was hidden behind this wooden barricade? Papers, documents, secrets, hidden pasts, jewels, photographs, dynamite, dead bodies? Each thought popped into my head and was discarded just as quickly. Too obvious, too stupid, too outlandish.
The door handle was one of the original fixtures of the house. Smooth, marble white. The lock had been installed in the walnut wood sometime much later. A pewter silver color, it sat directly underneath the handle. The hammer was useless. There was no
thing to pound, and the lock was hard to get to. In frustration I dropped to my knees and slid the claws into the doorjamb and pulled.
“You’re not going to get far with just a hammer.” I dropped it and whipped around. Russell stood in the doorway. “You might need a crowbar.”
He took a step into the room. “And you’re obviously immune to Beethoven’s fifth. I’ve been ringing the bell for ten minutes.” He sat in the desk chair. “So . . . what’s going on?” He motioned to the closet door. “A bit early for a break-in.”
I stood and smoothed my jeans. “A bit early for a break-in, back atcha.” I looked at my watch. “It’s only 7:16. How’d you know I wasn’t occupied up here? You know, doing something really private?”
He smiled. “You obviously were. Sorry for the interruption. That front door needs to be locked at all times. But you know that.”
“What did you want?”
“I had to find you. And you didn’t answer your cell.”
I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “I couldn’t sleep, and this closet has been rankling me. The locksmith is coming at nine thirty. I thought I might take one more crack at opening it before he shows. Want some coffee?” I left the room and went down the steps, not waiting for an answer.
Russell found me in the kitchen a few minutes later. He was wearing what I would call his uniform. Medium-blue button-down shirt and khakis. Dress-casual that he thought didn’t scream cop to the general public.
“I need to talk to you, Ava.”
I put the coffee beans into the grinder and pushed the button. “So talk,” I shouted over the whirring of the blades.
“No, I need your full attention.” He took my arm and nudged me toward the kitchen table. I shook off his hand and poured the grinds into the basket. I knew whatever he had to say wasn’t going to be good news. I knew because he didn’t tell me upstairs. He wanted to wait until the mood was right. And I was irritated at him—for reasons I didn’t want to examine too closely. My heart was starting to flutter when I saw him, I was thinking about him when he wasn’t around—not just worrying about his safety, but about what he was doing. None of that was good, no matter what Joanne thought.
He waited patiently at the table, just watching me. It took a full ten minutes for the coffee to brew, and he didn’t move. He didn’t try to make conversation with me. He just sat and waited and finally I ran out of distractions.
I put the coffee cup in front of him and took the chair across the table. I folded my arms and closed my eyes. “Go ahead, Russell. Shatter my world. What did you find out?”
He leaned toward me, as if proximity would soften the blow. “Charlie Walker, from the Haddon Township Police Department, searched all records from nineteen ninety-three. And ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-four, too. There was never a baby abandoned at the Holy Saviour Catholic Church.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Or any other church in the area. At least, not one that was reported to the police. So, either it happened and it was kept quiet. Or . . .”
I opened my eyes. “Or what?”
“Or it never happened at all. It was a cover story—for you. No one else.” His eyes were grave and unblinking.
I shook my head. “So they lied to me about everything. And it wasn’t just Claire lying, but Marie and Anais too?”
He didn’t move. “I don’t think any of them lied to hurt you. Probably just the opposite.”
“But what could be so bad that lying was necessary? Why make up some complex story? Why didn’t Claire just pretend I was her real daughter?”
“Well, that’s the question. I just don’t know the answer. Yet.”
I half smiled. “Glad to see you’re not giving up on this. But it seems like the more you dig, the more questions pop up. Like who am I? If I’m not some girl abandoned at a church, who am I? Really?”
His hands wrapped around his mug. “You came into contact with this family somehow. Claire adopted you, maybe protected you at all costs. Did you ever happen to see any real adoption papers? Legal papers, growing up? Anything that would validate a part of their story?”
I shook my head. “No. And Claire told me very little.”
“So it begs the question, how did she get a birth certificate, or anything, to register you for school?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“More curious. You really are Jane Doe.”
I stared at the bandages still adhered to the side of his head. His words made me furious. “I am not. I had a real mother. At some point I ended up with Claire. That’s what you should be focused on. Who am I? Start there. Forget the murders for a minute.”
He was startled at my anger and reached across to touch my hand. “I didn’t mean—”
I shook my head and pulled my hand away. “Don’t.”
“Can I ask you just one question? What’s your very first memory?”
My very first memory? Joanne had asked me the same thing. I closed my eyes. “I remember feeling more than remembering, if that makes sense. Darkness. The stained-glass windows. I was in a church. My mother was holding my hand.”
“Claire?”
I shook my head no, and then yes. “I think so but I don’t know. I need to be alone with this for a bit. Please? And like I said, if you start by finding out where I came from, that wouldn’t be a bad thing.”
He pushed up from his chair. “I don’t want you to feel alone, Ava. You’re not. I’ll call you.”
I heard his feet on the floor and the sounds of the front door opening and closing behind him. When I looked up, the room was empty. I took a breath and a half, trying to stifle this miserable feeling. I wanted Russell to find answers, didn’t I? He said I wasn’t alone, but I’d never been more alone in my life.
When I heard the locksmith leaning on the doorbell sometime later, I was still sitting at the kitchen table. The cup of coffee in front of me was cold and untouched.
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to put this in. Are you sure you want it open?” He was bent at one knee, looking at the lock. “Last year I was hired to open a door just like this. Old woman had died. Family thought it might be filled with money or something. Wasn’t.” He gave me a fleeting look. “Dead cats and mothballs. She kept all her dead cats in this locked closet. Must have been a stench until they completely decomposed . . .”
“I’m very sure. And I doubt there are cats in there. Claire hated cats.” I smiled.
“All the better reason to shove them in a closet.”
“Oh, and please leave the locks in place. I don’t want anyone to know that I’ve opened this door.”
He gave me a curious glance. “Family drama,” he muttered. “Give me twenty minutes, then. I’ll try and leave it pristine. But the door will be open. I can’t make keys to relock it.”
I nodded and walked down the stairs and back into the kitchen. I busied myself by dumping the coffee and scrubbing the pot. The hot water and bubbles helped me think.
The thing that bothered me, that could bring tears to my eyes in an instant, was Anais. Claire and I had lived in many towns, many houses, while I was growing up, but Anais had only one. It was a constant, the North Star in my life, the place that felt like home. She was strong, consistent, disciplined, and that had given me the strength to endure the sudden uprootings, Claire’s moods. I saw her for a month every summer and some scattered weeks during the year. But that time made all the difference. She taught me to read in English and French, to tie my shoes, to know how alkaline the soil was before planting a proper garden. I just could not reconcile that she’d conspired with the rest of them to keep the truth from me. Almost mocking my steadfast commitment to her. But maybe they’d lied to her too. Maybe she didn’t know any more than I did. She and I needed to have a conversation as soon as possible.
“All done.” The locksmith was in the doorway. “You were right, no cats.”
“What’s in there?”
“A lot of boxes. Nothing else.” He held out a clipboar
d. “That’s one fifty. Cash or credit.”
The closet door was shut, and the only sign that the lock had been violated was bits of shredded wood on the floor. I entered the closet, partially closing the door behind me. A treasure trove. Maybe not gold, silver, or jewels. But heavily guarded information. My skin began to crawl. This was a large house that had had only two occupants for as long as I could remember. Claire had endless privacy. These boxes could have been in her room, under her bed, in that closet where I found the photograph, and I wouldn’t have known. Why the locked door?
I surveyed the space. This closet was, like most of the others in the house, cut from other rooms. The original Victorian layout didn’t allow for bathrooms or closets. At some point the rooms were redrawn. Cut to accommodate these modern conveniences. It was small, six feet square. High ceiling. I hit the light switch and then noticed the incandescent bulb in the fixture in the ceiling. It sizzled, and I thought the filament inside the bulb had burned out, but then it lit up. It made me wonder when Claire, or anyone, had last come in here. Then I saw a metal folding chair against the wall. There was lighting and seating. All that was missing was refreshments.
“Qu’avons-nous ici, Claire? Les secrets cachés du passé?”
The hidden secrets of the past. I unfolded the chair and took a seat, then pulled the nearest box to me. When I opened the flap and peered inside, it was filled with loose photographs. And I knew that the man who had stared into the camera was Ross Saunders.
CHAPTER 19
Russell stared out the window, the facts of the case zigzagging back and forth through his brain. So much information, so little information. His hands were tied, because he couldn’t do anything to bring attention to his investigation. Getting information on the down low was harder and more exacting. It meant he had to go through numerous people, and those people had to be trusted. One leak and he could be called to account for what he was doing. If that happened, Ava would shut down. This whole thing would end. And he was too curious now to be that careless.
Twist of Faith Page 8