Sins That Haunt

by Lucy Farago

  “I don’t want to lose you because she reacts badly to what you tell her. That’s not fair to me or you.”

  He was right. “You’re missing the point. Telling her is only the first step. The rest … the rest we still need to figure out.” It was all she could promise.

  *

  Shannon and Noah sat outside Mrs. Polanski’s house as two deliverymen carried out the old television, after having delivered a new, sixty-two-inch flat screen. Mrs. P was cashing in on her monthly sweepstakes check. Even while dreading what needed to be done, Shannon had to smile. The woman loved her soaps, but beyond that she didn’t watch much television. What was she going to do with a big-ass TV?

  “It won’t bring him back,” Noah said. “Maybe it’s better she doesn’t know.”

  “Maybe, and maybe I’m being selfish, but I can’t keep letting this eat away at me. I don’t want to hurt her. If she forgives me, great … if not—” She shrugged. There wasn’t much she could do about it. “Knowing you’re out here will make me nervous so don’t wait for me.”

  She reached for the door handle when Noah yanked her back and kissed her. His mouth was warm, reassuring.

  “I love you,” he said, breaking the skin-tingling kiss. “Nothing that happens in there will change that.”

  She wasn’t going to say it back. Before she moved into the future she had to fix the past. Because her admitting she loved him wasn’t going to be followed by a but.

  “Wish me luck,” she said and left the car.

  Mrs. P’s spider sense kicked in again, and by the time Shannon stepped onto the porch the front door had opened.

  “Shannon,” she exclaimed, arms open wide for a hug.

  She fell into the warm embrace, praying this wouldn’t be their last hug. “Do you have bionic ears or something? I swear, you know when I’m here.”

  “Bi-o-nic? What is that? No, no, look.” She pointed to the right corner above her door. “Camera.” She smiled. “Cool, yes?”

  Shannon didn’t point out that Tweedsmuir virtually had no crime and a fancy security system was a little over the top. “Very cool.” The woman was too cute, and the idea of Mrs. P hating her sliced into Shannon’s heart.

  “You want cake?” she asked once they were inside.

  “No, thank you.” Prolonging the inevitable wouldn’t make it any easier.

  “Oh? You watching your girlish figure? Maybe for special man?”

  “Maybe,” she said, her tone promising nothing.

  “Maybe yes or maybe no? Give it up.”

  “Give it up?”

  “I learned on television. It means … it means …” She tapped her chin with her index finger. “I don’t know what it means, but when woman told man, he spilled his guts.”

  Shannon laughed. “No guts spilling.”

  “You no say no so it’s a yes,” she said, grabbing her hand and dragging her to the couch. “Tell me. Is he good kisser?”

  “Mrs. P, what the heck?” She gave her a playful slap on the arm. Holy cow, no way was she discussing her love life with her surrogate mother.

  “It worth a shot. So if you no want to talk about sex with Noah, why you say you have something important to tell me?”

  It took a few minutes for Shannon to get her jaw to work, but when she did she sobered up quickly, remembering why she’d come. “It’s about Mr. Polanski … and the way he died.”

  “Frederick.” Mrs. P crossed her hands over her lap, the way she always did when conversations turned serious. “This is something I do not wish to talk about. Very painful,” she shook her head, “very painful.”

  Shannon swallowed hard and took in a deep breath. She could do this. Mrs. P needed to know. “I understand. Someone you loved was taken from you in the worst way.”

  “Yes, so enough, no more. You want cake?”

  Mrs. P went to stand, but Shannon grabbed her arm to stop her. “No cake. This is hard for me. Please, I need you to sit and listen.”

  She sat back down, her brow crinkled with worry. “Is this bad?”

  “This is bad.”

  “Okay, I listen.”

  “Mr. P’s death. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “Yes,” she said her forehead furrowed deeper. “I know, but how you know? We told no one.”

  His suicide was common knowledge so she could only be referring to his using their savings for a life insurance that never panned out. “I know about his last investment.”

  “Oh, yes, but his heart in right place. And see,” she turned up a palm, “I win sweepstake. If only my Fredrick had more courage,” she said regretfully. “We could have had a little more time.”

  Many people saw suicide as a coward’s way out, a sin even. For the person who took his own life, the profound sense of desperation needed for such a drastic decision was over, and hopefully they were at peace. It was the ones left to pick up the pieces who were then left to deal, when the victim themselves could not. And be it mental illness or something else, they were victims. But even if the whys were answered, it was the what ifs their loved ones were forced to suffer through, the one question with no answer. Could they have done something to prevent such a tragedy? And were they to blame?

  Who knew what Mr. Polanski was thinking? But considering JJ had robbed him of much of his life’s savings, she assumed the shame must have been too much for him. “It wasn’t his fault,” she repeated. She couldn’t undo what was done and she didn’t want Mrs. P to hate her. But better to blame Shannon than herself. It was the one thing she could do for the woman.

  “It was my fault he died. Partially anyway.” She could see that now. JJ had done the deed and would have with or without her help. But she still needed to own up to her part.

  “Your fault?” Mrs. P said, obviously confused and wondering what the hell she was talking about. “No. I did same for many years. I blame myself because I was selfish. Who was I to make him stay? I thought he don’t love me.” Tears began to pool in her eyes.

  If Shannon thought she couldn’t feel any worse, she was wrong.

  “But later I realize he did it because he love me. Cancer is an awful thing.”

  Cancer? “Wait … what?”

  “My Freddy, he did not want me to suffer. He knew I too would die watching him die. I was very mad.” She shook her head woefully. “Then I realize I selfish. He did not want to suffer,” she placed a hand over her heart, “or make me suffer. Stupid man. But who am I to tell another how to die? So you see, Shannon,” she patted Shannon’s knee, “it no one fault but the cancer. What could a young girl do?”

  Shannon blinked. She’d listened closely to Mrs. P explain, but maybe she’d misunderstood. “Mr. Polanski had cancer?”

  “Yes, I thought you know. You said—”

  “Yes, it–it wasn’t what I meant. So you’re telling me you think he took his life because he had cancer?” Could Mr. Polanski have lied to his wife?

  “No think. It is the truth. Freddy left a note. You remember the winter before? He have bad cough, very bad.”

  Shannon thought back and did recall Mr. Polanski had suffered pneumonia not once but three times. Mrs. P had complained what a mistake it had been for him to refuse the shot. “I remember. You were mad because he’d been stubborn. He was afraid of needles.”

  “Yes. He no have pneumonia. He had lung cancer, full of lung cancer,” she said, wiping away a tear.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “No one knew. He very proud. Wanted no one should know.”

  She believed her husband took his life because he was dying. But had the poor man expected his wife to cash in on the life insurance he thought he’d bought through JJ? But if that had been his thinking, because he didn’t know about the two-year waiting time in the suicide clause, why take his life early? Sooner or later she’d collect. Maybe he did know about the clause and was afraid to leave his wife penniless. No, that didn’t work. If he’d died of legitimate causes, she’d have again collected on the plan. Holy hel
l, she was confused.

  JJ had dressed up the scam. Anyone buying in would have thought their initial investment was passed on to living relatives. So he really did take his life because of terminal cancer. Then why had he asked JJ for his money back? A hospital bill? Could he have taken his life to prevent his leaving her with a massive debt?

  “I … I guess he didn’t want to leave you with hospital bills?” She hated herself for fishing for answers but had to know.

  “Oh no. We not have a lot of money. Pension not too good, but his company pay good medical plan. Now, enough sadness. I go get cake.”

  This time Shannon allowed her to leave. She needed to process this new information. She debated calling Noah. But the decision had to be hers. For the last thirteen years she’d blamed herself for Mr. Polanski’s death, and now to discover she wasn’t responsible … So why wasn’t she more relieved?

  “I have lemon and cherry.” Mrs. P returned with a tray and a very big smile.

  Who did the old woman think she was kidding? Shannon relieved her of her burden and set it down on the coffee table. “Sit.”

  “You no like cherry? I have chocolate too.”

  “Stop,” she said, taking Mrs. P’s hands into her own. They were strong hands, ones that never ceased. These pillowy, soft hands had made countless cakes. They were the tools used to express love. If Mrs. P wasn’t feeding someone, she wasn’t happy. She couldn’t solve everyone’s problems, but a chocolate chip cookie and a slice of lemon cake made you feel loved. And wasn’t love the balm to if not all at least some of your pain?

  “I made you cry,” she said, biting back her own tears. Not for herself but the woman who’d given her so much love when she’d needed it the most. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Cherry cake was Frederick’s favorite. It good to remember.” She smiled. “Frederick loved you … like family. Good you know why he died. Big secret I carry. Good to tell someone.”

  “I loved him too.” The wrinkled knuckles in her hands blurred; then, with one final squeeze, she let them go. Mrs. P had spoken the truth. “Do you know how you said my father was a bad man?” Shannon wiped the tears off her cheeks and began her story.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Good to tell someone. Truer words had never been spoken, and while Shannon had done her best never to lie after she and Maggie had run away, she hadn’t told the truth. And it was good to tell the truth. But there was one other person she needed to confess to, and as she stood over Mr. Polanski’s grave, she said a silent prayer, hoping that he too would forgive her.

  She pressed a kiss to her fingers and touched his gravestone. “I tried to take care of her, you know. I’ll be visiting more, so I’ll do my best to keep taking care of her. That woman has crazy spending habits, but I think you know that.”

  Shannon’s partners had been thrilled with the idea of opening up an office in Boston. But she wasn’t packing up and moving in with Noah just yet. Running blindly to something was just as bad as running away. As it turned out, a transfer to another FBI office wasn’t impossible. But for now they’d do the commute thing, to test the waters and enjoy discovering all their new pet peeves and annoying bad habits. Life was good, except for one thing.

  “Hey, could you do me a favor?” she said to Mr. P, wiping the tears from her face. “Could you look around and see if my sister is with you? And if she is, can you give her a hug for me and tell her … tell her I’m sorry.”

  Everyone had begun to think the worst and what totally sucked was, there were no pictures to put on the damn milk carton. If JJ had had any, he’d either destroyed them or hidden them somewhere they couldn’t be found. All they had was the artist’s rendition from the description the school had given them. Shannon had stared at it for hours, but Cecilia looked like an average, cute seven-year-old. Hundreds could have fit the picture. She had begun to see her little sister’s face on every kid she came across.

  “Well, I have to go.” She pressed another kiss to the headstone.

  She and Noah were heading over to JJ’s. If her father had gone through all the trouble of protecting Cecilia, surely he’d loved her. It didn’t make any sense that he’d destroyed all her baby things. Somewhere in that house the police had missed something and she was going to find it. She turned away from Mr. P’s grave and nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “Mom?” This was the second time her mother had done this. Had the woman forgotten how to use a phone?

  “Shannon … I had to. I couldn’t let him do it again.”

  “Who? Let him do what, Mom?”

  “I lost you because of him.”

  JJ. Yes, but she’d done squat to prevent it. Even knowing Shannon would have nothing to do with her as long as JJ was in the picture, she’d continued to keep him in her life. Why was she lamenting it now? “You could have pushed him away, told him to stay away. Why didn’t you?”

  “Because,” she said, touching Shannon’s cheek with a warm palm, “I needed to see my baby. It was the only way. You grew up so fast. I lost all those years.”

  Her mother was making no sense and there could be only one reason. “Did you take your meds today?”

  “I don’t remember,” she said with a far-off expression that clearly said she hadn’t.

  “Mom, where are your pills? Remember, you’re supposed to keep them with you.”

  “Yes … I … I think they’re in my car.”

  She tipped her head up, as if listening for someone or, God forbid, listening to someone. Shannon wasn’t qualified for this, and if her mom flipped, she had no idea what to do. “I’m going to go to your car. Want to come with me?” Maybe she could get her to sit while Shannon called an ambulance.

  They walked for a little, arm in arm; then her mother stopped. “I like it here. The people are nice.”

  Her mother’s car was parked on the side lane, not ten feet away. Damn, now what? “People?”

  “Yes, the ones who died. Can’t you see them?”

  Should she play along? Better to keep her calm, right? “Sure, but why don’t you keep talking to them and I’ll go get your pills?”

  “Don’t go,” she said, now panicked as she snatched Shannon’s arm and dug her fingernails into her skin. “Don’t go,” she repeated. “They’ll get mad if you do.”

  Aw, hell, if Shannon hated one thing, it was the crazy paranoia. “Then come with me. See,” she pointed to the car, “it’s just over there.”

  The passenger side of the vehicle was facing her, and it was then Shannon noticed something odd, a hole the size of a quarter near the wheel barrel. She didn’t know much about the year, but it was a Buick. She went to take a step closer, but her mother’s grip tightened.

  “No, you can’t leave,” she said, her anxiety escalating.

  The sharp tone took Shannon by surprise. “Mom, let me go. There’s something I need to see.”

  “No, they’ll get mad if you leave again.”

  Okay, if this were a horror movie and this wasn’t her mom, Shannon would be freaking out right about now. But her mother wouldn’t hurt her. Would she? She knew of cases when schizophrenics had committed murder while off their medication. She glanced back at the hole in her mom’s car, wanting desperately to believe it wasn’t what she thought it was. Her mom hadn’t shot JJ. But it was starting to make sense. The height of the hole, the bullet never recovered, her gun being fired. A gun she’d left in her trailer when she’d run away with Maggie. JJ never had her Glock. Her mother did.

  She needed to diffuse this, and fast. “Why? Why will they get mad?”

  “Because they’re already mad at me,” she said, her tone a high-pitched shrill. “They’re not nice anymore.”

  Shannon flinched as her mother’s nails now drew blood. She wished she hadn’t left her jacket in the car.

  “They want to punish me,” she whimpered.

  “No, you must be mistaken. Why would they want a thing like that?” What the hell was she supposed to do?
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  “Because,” she drew close, her warm breath fanning Shannon’s face as she whispered, “because I put JJ here. They didn’t like that. JJ was an evil man. I put an evil man with them.”

  Shannon bit back the pain her mother’s nails inflicted. “You put JJ here?”

  Her mother nodded. “I had to. He was taking my baby.”

  “You shot JJ?”

  “I had to,” she said again. “He was taking my baby.” She was growing more and more agitated.

  “It’s okay. Like you said, he was an evil man.” The plea would be insanity. There was no other way. She’d just have to make certain her mother went to a good facility. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  “You always did. I was a bad mother.”

  “No,” she choked out on a gasp as her mother’s hold tightened. “Mom, let go of my arm.”

  She looked down at her hand and, in horror, released her, then stared at the blood now pooled under her fingernails. “I’m a bad mother. They’re right to be mad. They should punish me. I tried to help him. I made his leg better, but then he wouldn’t let me have my baby.”

  “No one will punish you.” Shannon gripped her wrist to ward off the pain from the gashes her mother had left. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  “Shannon?” Her mother jerked her head over her shoulder and back again with a crazed shine to her eyes that wasn’t a good sign. “Shannon? Do you know where Shannon is? He has my baby. No,” she said, as if arguing with someone, then slapped her hands over her ears.

  “Mom, I’m here, Mom.” She took a step forward, but her mother wouldn’t see her. This was so not happening.

  “Stay away,” she shouted, but Shannon knew that the terrified woman wasn’t talking to her.

  “He wouldn’t let me see my baby. He laughed at me. I had to make him stop laughing.”

  If she tackled her now, how long would she have to sit on her until help came? And would she be successful? She was younger and in better shape, but someone in the middle of an episode could possess amazing strength. Who wouldn’t when they feared for their lives? This wasn’t simple, although anything schizophrenia-related wasn’t simple. The voices weren’t just telling her she was no good or worthless. They were calling for punishment. And her mother might hurt herself.