You Can Never Tell

by Sarah Warburton

  YOU CAN

  NEVER TELL

  A NOVEL

  SARAH WARBURTON

  For my parents, with love.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONCE AGAIN, I couldn’t have written this book without the encouragement and love of my husband, Tim, and our kids. This past year when we were all working and learning in close proximity to each other, I was especially grateful that you are awesome coworkers as well as wonderful family members.

  To my parents, who are not the inspiration for these parents, and to my sisters—I love you all and count myself lucky to be related to people I enjoy so much!

  I am so thankful for my dedicated agent, Melissa Jeglinski, for her expertise, advice, and encouragement. Her warmth, humor, and unflagging support have been incredible gifts.

  Editor Terri Bischoff’s insights made this a much better book, and her words of praise helped me power through revisions. I’m especially indebted to Madeline Rathle for her marketing magic, Melissa Rechter for making everything run smoothly, Rachel Keith, Melanie Sun, and the whole team at Crooked Lane Books for bringing this book into being.

  Many thanks to all the friends with whom I’ve traded pages and critiques, commiserated and rejoiced, including Erin, Kena, Bill, Chuck, John, Melissa, Rodney, Alice, Anne, Betty, Cheryl, Alisa, Grace, Angélique and David. Thanks to Lisa for her friendship and her geographical advice. Special thanks to Heather and Barbara, for telling me everything would be okay (and then reading my pages just to be sure), and to my dear Stacey, for dragging, bullying, and forcing me to create the book I dreamed about writing. I’m eternally grateful to be in the writing trenches with you.

  And this book is especially for the friends I’ve made in groups including the New Territory Women’s Association and the Blacksburg Newcomers’ Club. None of these organizations are at all like the Bluebonnets, save in a single respect. Much like Kacy, I met some of my closest friends by taking the first step and walking into a roomful of strangers.

  Dear Grace,

  You’re not even two years old, way too young for the lessons I have to share. You’re still learning to say simple words like Daddy and dog. I describe everything we do as we do it, like the narrator to a film we’re living. Modeling, it’s called, by speech therapists and child development experts in parenting books. It’s the way I put words together as I demonstrate the action—phrasing a question, then providing the answer. “Shall we make lunch?” “Let’s see what’s in the fridge.” “Do you want juice?” “After lunch, it’s time for nap.” And so on.

  And all the while you putter around your play kitchen, dropping wooden blocks into a small pot and feeding your baby doll or offering a block to the bewildered dog.

  At the end of each day, between your bath and bedtime, your daddy reads you a book with stiff cardboard pages. Tonight he chose a simplified version of Cinderella. You patted the pumpkin and laughed when he waved his finger like a wand and booped you on the nose.

  You don’t know that you have a godmother. Not a fairy one who could transform vermin and vegetables into a coach-and-four. The woman we asked to be your godmother was something different. She was the Baba Yaga of legend, the Countess of Bathory, the stuff of nightmares. And for a while, I called her my friend.

  Maybe comparing her to larger-than-life figures makes her sound intriguing, even appealing, but that was her power. She mimicked emotion, she created the illusion of relationship, and she blinded with her charisma.

  Charisma isn’t the same thing as character. I know that now.

  She’s the reason your father still wakes up screaming. If the world could be pressed into a cardboard book, the evil witch could be identified by her smirk and her long nails, but your godmother wasn’t a witch. She was a predator, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, the spider inviting a fly to her parlor. And I fell into her web.

  Looking at you now, your eyes drooping, your little body curled around your stuffed rabbit, I can’t imagine the time you’ll be old enough to hear the truth. Maybe this story will keep you safer and make you wiser. But I’m afraid that words aren’t strong enough for that lesson. People’s words can’t be trusted. Not everyone is who they pretend to be. Your father shouldn’t be reading you Cinderella; he should be reading Red Riding Hood.

  That’s the reason I listen to true-crime podcasts while you nap and your father’s at work. I’m part of a sisterhood, scarred in a way no one can see, but I’m not alone. I used to think we told stories as a way to hold back the dark, but now I think stories are a training ground, an opportunity to do a dry run through danger. If Hansel and Gretel had read their fairy tales, they might have recognized the witch before ending up in a cage.

  Here’s the truth, Grace. You have two sets of loving grandparents, two amazing aunts, a mother and father who adore you, and a godmother who’s a serial killer.

  That’s the story I don’t want you to hear. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  But the world won’t keep it a secret. On my phone, I have the newest episode of my favorite true-crime podcast queued up, waiting, and I can feel the pressure building. This is the first time I’ll hear my story told start to finish by someone else. These hosts—Helen and Julia—sound like friends, but now I wonder what they’ll think of my choices, what version they’ll share.

  How do you know you’re living a true-crime story? Maybe the better question is, how do you know you’ll survive?

  C2C TRANSCRIPT

  1

  Helen: This is a story about friends.

  Julia: Friends like us.

  Helen: Not exactly like us.

  Julia: Hey, I’ve always said I’d kill for you.

  Helen: And you’re the one I’ll call to help bury the bodies.

  Julia: But if I did the killing, wouldn’t I be the one calling you?

  Helen: That kind of thinking is exactly why we won’t get caught. Anyway, on this episode of Crime to Chat, we’ll introduce you to an idyllic neighborhood, a storybook life, two friends—and the twisted, bloody secrets underneath it all. But first, let me tell you about some of our amazing sponsors, who make this podcast possible.

  CHAPTER

  1

  AFFIRMATIONS ARE JUST lies we wish we could believe. But that didn’t stop me from using them.

  The drive from New Jersey to Sugar Land, Texas, was mere minutes less than twenty-four hours, so I’d had ample time to practice, mentally chanting positive thoughts as if they could conjure a sunnier future. I couldn’t say whether or not they would, but the words did fill the space in my head where regret and fear usually bloomed. They’d gotten me through the drive, through the delivery of our furniture, all the way to this, our first morning in the new house.

  If I repeated them faithfully enough, maybe I could forget that these unpacked boxes were all that remained between me and actually starting over.

  My therapist back in Jersey had prescribed antidepressants, but first he’d made me promise to embrace his ideas for cognitive behavior modification. The first one I’d tried was keeping a bullet journal of goals for each day, then updating it with a record of what I actually did. For weeks, bullets written in brightly colored ink promised that I would take a walk, try a new recipe, call a friend. Finally I’d given up, leaving the pages blank.

  Because writing stayed in bed for over a month was even worse than actually doing it.

  So affirmations were my new thing. Along with everything else. My whole life was new.

  I started to slice open another moving box while positive mantras ran through my head instead of thoughts. I didn’t want to remember that tomorrow Michael would go off to his new job and I’d be alone, unemployed, with nothing but these affirmations to guide me.

  I am excited about the
new house. I am excited about Texas. I will find a job. I will make new friends. Buck up, Kacy. Everything will be good again.

  And the box cutter nicked my thumb, cutting right through the stupid affirmations. Mentally chanting them never made me feel better anyway. But it did help keep the past at bay.

  I popped my thumb into my mouth, but not before leaving a dark smudge across the label Tremaine: Kitchen. Somewhere we had Band-Aids, buried in a box along with antiseptic spray and ankle wraps. The movers who’d packed us up kept it tight. Every box labeled by room only, no Tremaine: Medicine Cabinet or Tremaine: Bedside Table. They could have saved time by labeling every single one Tremaine: Former Life.

  Did I really need a Band-Aid? I pulled my thumb out and a dark bead formed immediately, swelling until it ran down the side of my hand. “Michael?” I called. “Do we have a first-aid kit somewhere?”

  No answer. And that wasn’t like my engineer husband. Sometimes it seemed like an unanswered question caused him physical pain. Pressing my index finger against the wound, I stood and called out again. “Michael? Where’s our first-aid kit?”

  This new house was one story, open floor plan, nowhere to hide, and only a handful of places where he wouldn’t hear me calling. I started searching. The hall bathroom door was open, no one in the room that “would make a great nursery,” according to our realtor—but I found him in the master bedroom closet.

  He was running his hands over the seam of a box, and it took me a moment to realize he was pressing the tape back into place, resealing it. I didn’t need a closer look to guess the contents. I could read them in the way he rose to his feet with his hands out as if to ward me off. Michael had almost opened the only box without a label.

  My finger skidded off my bloody thumb and I held it up in explanation. “Do we have a first-aid kit?”

  “In the car.” He reached down and tore a bit of packing tape off the box. Then he pulled a tissue from his pocket and took my hand in his, inspecting it. “Not deep. Just sharp edged like a paper cut and in a bad place. We’ll close it up, and it’ll be fine.”

  The whole time his hands kept moving, folding the clean tissue into a pad that he pressed against the cut, wrapping the tape firmly to apply pressure in just the right place, tucking under any loose edges so that my makeshift bandage was neat and orderly. When he was done, he raised my hand to his lips for a quick kiss. “All better.”

  “Thanks.” Tomorrow he would go to work. Tomorrow. I’d be by myself in this house. Without a job, without a friend, without a plan. I am excited about the new house. I am excited about the move. I will find a job. I will make new friends. Everything will be fine.

  The affirmations made my breathing weirdly rhythmic, and Michael noticed. He noticed everything about me now. His hands went to my shoulders, and he pulled me close against his chest. His old T-shirt smelled like cotton, cardboard, and the shaving cream he used. The safest smells in the world. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered into my hair. “You don’t have to decide anything now.”

  “I need something to do. I want to work.”

  “So you can start the job search. But there’s no pressure. You can take your time, explore your options.”

  “But no one’s going to hire me, not in my field.”

  “Maybe you could apply under your maiden name. Or try something different. They say the average person has dozens of job changes.” He rubbed my back, and I had to fight the urge to pound my fists on his chest. This wasn’t a problem he could engineer away.

  He sensed the tension in my body and let me go. “What happened wasn’t fair. But we can’t change it. If you want to work, we’ll figure something out. Maybe start small, see what’s out there, make some contacts.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was meet people, have them looking at me and judging me. And I was an art historian. That’s not a field with tons of openings to begin with. All those years, all that work, for nothing. But none of that was Michael’s fault. He had married someone optimistic and ambitious, not a lump who lived in a blanket fort for five weeks. Not someone who burst into tears at every trigger word like painting, art, or even friend.

  He’d never doubted me, and he’d made this move to give me a fresh start. I had to get my shit together. I owed it to him. Not that he’d ever say so.

  But then he added, oh-so-casually, “You know, the firm has a support group for spouses. Maybe there’s something like that in the neighborhood too.”

  And there it was, the thing he’d been wanting to tell me. Just meet one person. Just one. Find a friend, a coworker, a boss. One person to trust. Of course, I knew it took only one person to lie, to smear your name, to blow up your life. I couldn’t imagine “making friends,” not anymore. Michael probably just wanted me to find someone to take the pressure off him. But that wasn’t fair either. That’s something else I’d learned—trauma could bring out the worst in the wounded. I wasn’t as nice as I used to be.

  I am excited about the new house. I am excited about the move. I will find a job. I will make new friends. Everything will be fine. Michael loves me, and I love him.

  Looking past Michael, I saw the box sitting on the closet floor like an anchor to our old life. “That’s one of mine. Leave it. I’ll deal with it later.”

  His mouth tightened, and I knew how much he wanted to tape that box up and throw it out.

  But the past couldn’t be sealed up so neatly. Not then, and not now.

  * * *

  Once Michael went to work the next morning, the house was quiet in a way our apartment in Jersey had never been. I could hear the air conditioner, but it only made the vaulted ceiling and open floor plan seem more cavernous.

  I’d put the kitchen together—our small selection of pots and pans, our matching set of mugs, everything in the right place ready for our new life. Four chairs were arranged neatly around the kitchen table. I’d broken down the empty boxes and stacked their flat carcasses by the front door.

  There was plenty to do, too much and not enough. Boxes of sophisticated professional clothes in the bedroom, pieces of the self-created uniform I’d worn at the museum, and boxes of books in the study, building blocks of my capsized career. And we had artwork, still flat-packed, ready to hang. Our bare walls were all painted the same silvery gray, made warmer by the greige undertones.

  But I didn’t feel the warmth, not even when sunlight broke through the window treatments left by the previous owner. Someday I should replace the heavy double-layered fabric with something lighter, more contemporary, or at least more cheerful. Michael had draped a multicolored blanket crocheted by my grandmother over the back of our sleek gray sofa. Maybe he was trying to brighten things up too.

  My phone buzzed. Mom calling to check in. I sat on the sofa and answered.

  “How are you?” she asked. Just like Michael, everything she said had an undertone of pity.

  “Great. Busy putting things in order.” The words came out of my mouth like I was reading from a script. I really just wanted to put my head on my mother’s shoulder and cry. But I didn’t want her to worry any more than she already was. I pulled the blanket down over my lap and twined my fingers through the crochet holes.

  “And Michael, does he like his job?”

  “It’s his first day, so I don’t know yet. He said the people at his interview were nice. How’s Dad?”

  “Oh, you know. He’s in a state because of the weather. Too much rain and his tomatoes are rotting. He was supposed to go fishing with Bill, but normal people don’t like to sit out on the river in a rainstorm, even though I hear that’s when the fish get frisky. Anyhoo, that’s not why I called.”

  Then she stopped, clearly waiting for me to ask, Why did you call, Mom? So I did, clutching one floral crochet square in my hand.

  “I was talking to Theresa, you know, down by the florist? She says her sister runs an art gallery there in Sugar Land. I told her you had a PhD in art history and museum experience, and she said you should
go right over and introduce yourself.”

  My heart started pounding. “I can’t—”

  “I know you’re scared, honey. But you can’t let one bad person keep you from going after your dreams. When Molly’s band broke up, she found a new one. And it’s been two years since Charlotte’s divorce, and she’s dating the nicest guy. You’ve got your whole life—”

  “Mom, it’s not the same!”

  I’d never raised my voice at my parents, not ever. And the shock of it was enough to shut us both up. I could picture my mother holding the phone to her ear, just as I was, while we listened to silence.

  And then I was sorry, so sorry. Mom wasn’t wrong. My sisters had suffered setbacks, but they’d kept going. I knew she was trying to help, just like Michael. Everyone wanted to fix my life and make the pain go away. Or maybe, said a mean voice in my head, they just want you to shut up and suck it up.

  I am excited about Texas. I will find a new job. I can make a new life.

  “What’s the name of the gallery?” My question was an apology. A plea that she wouldn’t give up on me.

  “Marville Fine Art Gallery.” And, in my mother’s subdued tone, I could hear that she wasn’t angered by my outburst; she was worried.

  “Okay, Mom. Thanks.” I pushed the blanket off my lap and stood.

  “Let me know how it works out. Love you, sweetie.”

  “Love you too.”

  A job in a gallery. Interesting. And I hadn’t found anything interesting in weeks. I used to work in a museum, designing exhibitions, but a gallery would be nice. There’d be art, maybe some acquisitions, maybe some shows. I could start building a new résumé, a new life. But my heart was still beating too quickly, and the little flame of hope flared into panic. Any job would want my references, my history.

  I pulled out my phone, about to do something I’d promised everyone—my therapist, Michael, my mother—that I would stop doing. But I couldn’t resist the awful pain of picking a scab, so I typed Kacy Tremaine into Google, the same way any diligent employer would.