Dead Secret

by Ava McCarthy

  ‘Sexual attraction between family members isn’t unheard of. When siblings have been separated by early adoption, for instance, and don’t meet until adulthood. Genetic sexual attraction, to use the mumbo-jumbo.’

  Novak was looking queasy, and Samantha gave him a sardonic glance.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s rare. For most of us, it’s wiped out by living together as a family. Close proximity desensitizes us to sexual attraction. Reverse sexual imprinting, to go back to the mumbo-jumbo. They call it the Westermarck effect. It’s what prevents inbreeding.’

  Novak clenched his fists. ‘Whatever they call it, it didn’t stop Elliot Rosen, did it?’

  Samantha looked grim. ‘Like I said, the rules don’t apply to people like him.’

  Jodie watched Novak’s jawline bulge, sympathizing with his need to take refuge in anger. Sometimes, other emotions were just too harrowing to process. He jutted out his chin.

  ‘Sounds to me like that sick bastard warped everything he touched.’

  Samantha nodded. ‘He had problems of his own, according to his wife. Celine said he was beaten and abused by his own father, too.’

  ‘Pardon me if my heart doesn’t bleed.’

  Jodie shook her head, taking in the legacy of repeating patterns. So who was the first culpable abuser? How far back in the chain did a person have to go? She brushed the thought off, and pointed out in flat tones,

  ‘Most survivors of abuse don’t go on to become abusers.’

  ‘No, of course they don’t. Most are like Lily: traumatized to varying degrees, and no danger to anyone except maybe themselves.’ Samantha halted for a moment, and gave them a steady look. ‘But sometimes, the trauma takes a different form. It gets imprinted on the child’s brain as a kind of attachment, a way of relating. The behaviour is hard-wired in and they go on to re-enact it, just repeating what seems familiar and normal.’

  Hard-wired.

  Jodie recalled Momma Ruth’s theory: that our mistakes are hard-wired into our DNA; that we never really have any choices. Then Nate’s response: ‘That’s bullshit, right?’

  Jodie’s fists closed over. ‘Celine should have stopped him.’

  ‘That’s what Lily thinks. She’s angrier with her mother than she is with her father.’ Samantha trudged towards the exit. ‘But Celine had her own limitations, she did the best she could do at the time. Don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t make it okay. It just makes it human.’

  By now, they’d reached the double glass doors. Beyond them, the snowstorm was still blowing hard and the vast stretch of whiteness made Jodie’s eyes water. She squinted over at Novak, who was shoving Ethan’s photo back in his pocket. Jodie turned back to Samantha. Kept her voice casual.

  ‘Maybe you’re right about Celine. Maybe I should have a talk with my grandmother.’

  The family term didn’t sit well with her. Neither did the prospect of meeting the woman who’d betrayed both Lily and her father. But if Ethan had come here, then maybe Celine knew where he was.

  Jodie made her face bland. ‘Can you tell me how to contact her?’

  Samantha paused, one hand on the door. Jodie could see the debate teeter-totter behind her eyes. Finally, the girl shook her head.

  ‘Sorry. Can’t give out that kind of information.’

  She opened the door, admitting a frigid blast of wind that whipped in around their legs. Jodie groped for a way to change the girl’s mind, came up with nothing. Novak was already out the door, impatient to be gone.

  Belatedly, Jodie remembered the canvases under her arm. She held them out, tugging up her hood with her free hand.

  ‘Here, you’d better take these back.’

  Samantha shook her head. ‘Keep them. Lily wanted you to have them, and besides, she can’t look at them any more.’

  Jodie nodded, stepped outside, head bent low against the battering gusts. She crunched across the snow, following Novak back to the car. After a moment, Samantha’s voice came hollering over the wind.

  ‘Celine visits alternate days. If you really want to talk to her, she’ll be here tomorrow at noon.’

  28

  Jodie and Novak didn’t speak much in the car. Outside, the snow was dazzling white, but the light felt brittle, as if talking out loud might snap it in two and leak in more of the foul darkness already seeping into Jodie’s bones.

  She glanced at Novak. His jaw was tense, loosening up now and then to expel long, defeated breaths. Jodie huddled into her seat. Shadows stirred in the cracked light: wraiths of her family; monstrous and grotesque.

  The muteness stretched on for the next hour while they relocated to another motel, both to cover their tracks and because the way back to the Riverside Inn was now impassable. They signed in silence for separate rooms. Jodie lasted ten minutes alone in hers before joining Novak across the hall, fleeing the creeping demons of her own family.

  He let her in without comment. Just a flicker of something bright behind his eyes to say he was pleased to see her. He moved to the table over by the window, took a seat in front of his laptop. The heating was on and the curtains were drawn, blocking off the too-crisp light outside, a lamp spilling amber to warm up the room. The effect was soothing, like a fireside thaw.

  Jodie helped herself to coffee while Novak hunched over his keyboard, then she drifted towards the bed where Ethan’s dossier was spread out. She sat down to leaf through it one more time; re-reading the log he’d kept of her movements; opening some of her letters that he’d intercepted. Bills, circulars, bank account statements. Evidence that he’d been spying, having her followed. Was that why he’d tracked down her family, too? Knowledge was power?

  She frowned at the explanation, tried to make it a smooth fit. But something snagged at the edges.

  ‘Bingo!’

  Jodie’s gaze whipped up. Novak was sitting poker-straight in his chair. He jabbed at the screen, shoved a hand through his hair, crackled with an energy that punched leftover ghosts from the room. She shot to her feet and strode over, while Novak read aloud from the screen.

  ‘Missing. Keith Daggett. Last seen leaving a Shell gas station in Marlborough, Cheshire County, at 9 p.m. on July 4th 2012.’ He broke off to flick her a meaningful look. ‘Fourth of July. And Marlborough puts this guy maybe ten miles from you and Ethan that night. Look: Sales Manager, forty-five years old, five foot eleven, yada-yada, doesn’t matter what he looks like. Here we go: Daggett’s car, a red Honda Accord, was found abandoned two weeks later at Logan Airport, Boston. The car had sustained front bumper damage, and police are appealing for the public’s help in tracing witnesses to any accident … blahdy-blahdy-blah.’

  Novak flashed Jodie a look of triumph. Switched to impatience when she didn’t respond right away.

  ‘The second car?’ he prompted. ‘The one Ethan swerved to avoid that night, the one that sent him into the ditch? It was this guy,’ a finger-rap at the screen, ‘Keith Daggett. Had to be. I’ve been searching all week for a missing-persons match. This is it. Fits the time, fits the place. Too much of a coincidence otherwise.’

  Jodie leaned over his shoulder to scan the article, aware of Novak’s soap-scented heat radiating against her skin. She stared at the screen.

  ‘So Ethan crashed into Daggett, switched places, then took off in the red Honda and headed for the airport?’

  ‘Exactly. Maybe he even lived as Keith Daggett for a while. Used his credentials to set up a new identity, left a trail we could follow. The guy must’ve had a wallet. Driver licence, credit cards. Pieces of his life that Ethan could’ve used to build a new one for himself.’

  Jodie fired him a scornful look. ‘He wouldn’t have risked it.’

  ‘Why not? You were the one who said he wouldn’t be paranoid, that he’d feel safe because people thought he was dead and no one was looking for him.’

  ‘No one was looking for Ethan. But if Keith Daggett was missing, then people were looking for him. Not to rain on your parade here, but Ethan wasn’t dumb. If he really
used Daggett’s identity, someone would’ve closed in on him before now.’

  Novak glared. ‘Look, we’ve got to start some place. The guy’s out there living as somebody somewhere. Keith Daggett, Joshua Brown, who knows. Having a life, with people in it. Friends, colleagues, neighbours. Maybe even a family.’

  As soon as he’d said it, his gaze skidded away.

  Maybe even a family.

  The room shimmered. Zoomed in and out. Abby’s name hung like a hand-grenade between them.

  In a rush, just for a second, Jodie pictured her little girl. She let herself imagine that Abby was there in front of her, the air warm with her sweet vanilla scent. Dark-eyed, serious. Hopping on one leg. The image began to fade, and Jodie felt a sudden, spinning panic, a tightness in her head. Then a grey hollow as Abby slipped away.

  The empty space she’d left behind was unbearable. Jodie shut her eyes, felt the room sway. Then she clenched her fists, tried to unplug her emotions, and spun away from Novak.

  ‘Okay.’ She made it as far as the bed, her legs too shaky for pacing the room. ‘So maybe you’ve found a name for the body in Ethan’s car. But searching for traces of Daggett seems like a dead end to me.’

  Novak didn’t respond. Jodie exhaled a long breath, relenting a little. In truth, she didn’t think the discovery helped them that much, but at least it corroborated Novak’s theory about a second car. She tried a more conciliatory tone.

  ‘Look, suppose we search instead for Joshua Browns here in Oregon?’

  ‘Why, because he came here once to see Lily?’ Novak’s turn to be scornful. ‘Not sure I see the link. It doesn’t mean he ever lived here.’

  ‘It’s a place to start.’

  ‘I mean, Jesus, we don’t even know when he visited Lily. Chances are, it was years ago, when he was still Ethan McCall. It’d make more sense, wouldn’t it? That he’d try to trace your family when he first knew you? Why wait till he’d disappeared and left his life with you behind?’

  Jodie shrugged. Novak was right, it made more sense. Ethan spying on her when they were married, tailing her movements, digging up her past, hoarding secret knowledge for some future tyranny. That was the rational explanation. Yet the fabric of it still snagged on something.

  Something Lily had said?

  Jodie squinted, trying to reel the memory in. Lily rocking, zoning in and out. Huddled in her chair, eyes vacant.

  Jodie stared at Novak. ‘Remember what Lily told us? He said he’s playing dead.’

  Novak stared back, worked it out. ‘So he didn’t go to see her till after he’d faked his death?’

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘But why? You were in prison by then, or about to be. He’d dealt with you already. Why would he care about finding your family?’

  Slowly, Jodie shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  The warm air in the room seemed to quiver, rippling with something dark and furtive; something cunning that scurried underground before she got a closer look at it.

  Another one of Ethan’s secrets.

  Novak had turned his attention back to the screen. Jodie reached out for the dossier, browsed through it for a while. Presently, Novak said,

  ‘That lawyers’ office you went to look for, when you first bumped into Ethan. Was it Ives and McKenzie?’

  ‘Yes, in Boston. Why?’

  Novak opened his mouth to explain, then flicked her a look and seemed to think better of it. ‘Not sure yet.’

  He said nothing more. The silence between them stretched on, threaded with occasional small sounds: the rustle of paper, the clack of keys. Finally, when the light cracks in the curtains had darkened, and Jodie’s bones were aching with tiredness, she gathered up the dossier and got ready to return to her room.

  ‘Jodie, wait.’

  She paused by the door. Novak moved towards her, stood so close she could make out the kaleidoscope of greens and cool greys in his irises. He didn’t touch her, but her skin fizzed as though he’d laid a bare arm on hers.

  ‘You could stay,’ he said.

  The air thrummed with a low-level charge. Novak’s cheeks looked suffused beneath the stubble. More beard now than bristle. Grizzly Adams, Lily had called him. The nickname seemed to fit.

  Jodie blinked, and gave herself a mental shake, then she reached for the door. Novak made no move to stop her, just said,

  ‘Why not, Jodie? What are you afraid of?’

  Her fingers tightened around the handle.

  Jesus Christ, couldn’t he see? Didn’t he know that if she opened up even a crack, she’d splinter into a million tiny pieces? And never have the strength to pick them all up again? Couldn’t he see she was afraid of feeling something?

  The flash of anger drained away, a weary residue silting along her bones. She made her face a blank, stepped out into the hall and pulled the door closed behind her.

  29

  A furious gust snatched at the car, shook it like an enraged child with a toy. The back wheels slid sideways and Jodie stiffened. She steered into the skid, somehow regained traction. Inside her gloves, her palms were clammy.

  The wind roared like a deafening tide, whipping up ground snow into huge waves of white. Novak had said it was too dangerous to drive and she had to admit, he was probably right. So she’d left without telling him. He’d have tried to talk her out of it, making what’s-the-point arguments against chasing down long-lost grandmothers. Maybe he’d have been right about that, too.

  Jodie eyed the swirling tornados of snow. Temperatures had plummeted overnight. The radio stations were issuing wind-chill alerts, warning of ground blizzards and deadly sub-zero conditions.

  Jodie flexed her gloved fingers on the wheel. Would Celine venture out to the Marshall Lake centre in hazardous weather like this? An elderly woman? Probably not. But maybe if she’d heard about Lily’s condition. Maybe then.

  But suppose she didn’t show?

  Jodie tried the what-if on for size, not sure whether she’d be relieved or disappointed. Celine’s link to Ethan’s trail was thin, after all. And did she really want to meet the woman who’d been a bystander to her father’s pain? Yet she had to admit to a primal curiosity about the woman she was meant to look like.

  She peered into the white gauze ahead, recognized the clearing in the shadowy redwoods. She made a right into the clinic driveway, sticking to a set of tyre tracks already carved through the snow. The wind raged outside and Jodie shivered, thankful for the padded jacket she’d got from Dixie’s brother.

  The car park was mostly deserted, apart from a handful of vehicles up near the door, topped with thick pillows of snow. Jodie inched along the avenue, her back wheels losing purchase every few feet, sending the car fishtailing on slick patches. Jodie kept the gears low, and tried not to gun the engine.

  Up ahead, a slight figure emerged through the doors. A woman bent against the wind. Puffy full-length parka, hood up; scarf wound balaclava-style around her face. Jodie stared. Saw nothing to indicate the woman was elderly. No arthritic gait, no tentative steps. Yet something in her neat carriage resonated. Stirred up an odd sense of the familiar.

  The woman headed towards a small red Toyota, tucked in between a van and a black jeep. For a moment, she disappeared, obscured by the other cars, and Jodie risked accelerating to close the gap between them. Bad idea. The engine whined, the back wheels slewed. Then the car shimmied and lodged with a jolt into a snowbank.

  ‘Shit!’

  Jodie geared down, coaxed the accelerator. The wheels spun, but the car didn’t move. Up ahead, the red Toyota was cruising towards her down the driveway.

  Jodie snatched at the gearstick. Flung it into reverse, nudged the accelerator, rammed the gears back into first, coaxed some more. Kept switching gears back and forth, trying to bump the car out of its logjam.

  The red Toyota drew level. Jodie paused to stare as the car sailed past. Glimpsed a small-boned face, no scarf muffling it now; crêpey skin; cheekbones still proud under up-tilted
eyes.

  Something hummed along Jodie’s bones. Some kind of whispering déjà vu. She knew she was looking at her grandmother.

  She jammed the gears into first, juiced up the engine. The tyres gripped, and with a lurch, the car dug itself out of the snow. By now, the black jeep was crunching down the avenue, and Jodie whipped at the wheel, anxious not to let anything come between her and the Toyota. She heaved the car into a one-eighty turn, bumping into the tracks that had guided the Toyota and followed it out onto the road.

  The wind was still shrieking, whisking up a hurricane of snow from the ground, sending it hissing against the car. Jodie tightened her grip on the wheel, kept the Toyota in her sights. The jeep fell into line behind her.

  She drove on straight for half a mile, then followed the Toyota round a slippery bend, branching off into a narrower road on the right. Movement caught Jodie’s peripheral vision: Lily’s canvases had rolled from the passenger seat onto the floor.

  She’d brought them with her to give to Celine. The paintings didn’t feel rightfully Jodie’s, though she doubted Celine would take them either. What mother would want mementos of her child’s pain? Or of her own negligent hand in it, for that matter?

  Jodie eyed the rolled-up paintings. Their bleakness seemed to soak right through the canvas and bleed out onto the floor. Lily could paint, no doubt about that. Not mindless copies, but honest images that exposed how life felt from the inside. Jodie had painted like that at one time. Not her Wizard of Oz pictures, as Novak had called them, but other works she’d mostly done for herself. More abstract and elemental. She’d shown them once to Lucas, the Danish architect who’d commissioned all the paradise colours. He’d stared at them for a long, quiet moment, then turned his thoughtful gaze her way.

  ‘They’re powerful,’ he’d said. ‘Disconcerting. Probably the best you’ve ever done.’ His look had been penetrating. Then he’d given her a fond, rueful smile. ‘Of course, they’ll never sell. They don’t make people feel good, do they?’