The Jennifer McMahon E-Book Bundle

by Jennifer McMahon

  “She told it to Mom. She said it was special, just for her.”

  “Lucky Mom,” Henry says, chomping down hard on the inside of his left cheek.

  “I have an appointment this morning,” Tess says, seemingly oblivious to Emma’s unexplainable connection to Suz.

  Henry only nods, stunned. He wants to grab his wife by the throat and demand a rational explanation for the riddle Danner told them. He wants to say, I told you so. Then he remembers the private investigator.

  “What about Bill Lunde?” Henry asks.

  “There’s a woman, here for the summer, she bought three paintings and wants to talk with me about doing a piece for her. She’s renting a place out on County Road. She really wants me to come out this morning.”

  Henry only stares, still gripping the counter.

  “So can you handle Bill on your own? And hang out with Em until I get home?” Tess asks, sounding slightly exasperated.

  “Of course,” he tells her in a voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I’d take the day off anyway.”

  “I shouldn’t be long,” she says.

  He nods, but what he wants to do is get down on his knees and beg her not to go. Not to leave him alone with them.

  Because for the first time, when he looks across the kitchen at his daughter diving into her too sweet waffles, he thinks he sees a shadow figure in the chair beside her. A dark girl with no eyes or nose, just a mouth, perfectly round, from which comes a damp, rotten laughter that only he seems to hear.

  Chapter 26

  “I’M GOING OUT TO the garden,” she tells her dad. Emma’s come downstairs from getting changed and caught him pouring vodka into his orange juice. He gives her a puzzled, nervous look.

  “Fine, Em. I’ve got some things to do in here.” He sits down at the breakfast bar with the newspaper open to the sports section. He’s not really reading, she can tell. Just pretending.

  Emma saw a Lifetime movie once about a girl who had an alcoholic mother who did awful stuff like make scenes in a department store and show up trashed for her daughter’s graduation. Emma wonders if her dad is an alcoholic. Is it just a matter of time until he shows up drunk for a PTA meeting, giving everyone at school yet another reason to think Emma’s a total freak?

  Emma crosses the kitchen, heads out the sliding doors to the patio. She makes her way through the garden, stopping at the pond to say hello to the goldfish. They come up to the surface, mouths open, begging for food in their own fishy way. Kiss, kiss, kiss. Emma blows kisses down to them, imagines she’s the Fish Queen, her skin covered in gold, shimmering scales.

  She glances back at the house, sees the shadowy figure of her father through the kitchen window. He’s still hunched over the paper. She waves to him, but he doesn’t notice.

  It’s now or never.

  She puts down her head, and speed-walks to the barn.

  If she doesn’t get the journal now, she might not get another chance. Mel’s coming over after lunch, and fully expects that Emma will have the journal in hand. One way or another, she feels like she always disappoints Mel. It would be nice to do something right for a change.

  Last night on the phone, Emma told Mel about her parents finally seeing the words in the trees.

  “So what’d your mom and dad say?” Mel asked.

  Emma bit her lip. “They kind of wigged out. It was weird. They acted like, like someone wrote Satan, Satan, Satan on the trees or something. Like it scared them.”

  There was silence. Emma could hear Mel puffing away on one of her stinky gum-wrapper cigarettes. Mel’s room is in the basement and her parents never check on her. Plus, she burns incense all the time to cover the smell.

  “Interesting,” Mel said.

  “What do you think it means?” Emma asked.

  “I think it means we have to spend more time with that journal.”

  “But—”

  “But what?” Mel interrupted.

  It’s not respectful.

  “Just get the damn journal,” Mel said.

  “OKAY,” EMMA TELLS HERSELF, her hand resting on the metal handle of the sliding barn door. “You can do this.”

  She takes a deep breath, pulls the door open.

  The barn is dark and smells like damp cement, wood shavings, and old grease. She looks around and sees that the windows have been covered—her dad’s stapled black plastic to them. Why? To keep the light out? To keep people from looking in?

  She thinks about turning on the lights, then decides against it. If she hears her dad coming, she can hide. Jump into the canoe maybe. Or under one of the painting tarps.

  She waits a few seconds for her eyes to adjust, pupils expanding after being out in the bright morning light. When she’s able to make out the rough shapes of the canoe, shelves, and drill press, she moves forward, sliding along in her flip-flops as if she’s ice-skating in slow motion, feeling her way. The toolbox is right ahead of her, she can just make out its shape.

  Behind her, she hears the cat-sneeze noise, followed by a little chuckle.

  “Danner?” Emma calls, turning. She doesn’t see Danner anywhere. She hears a scuffling sound but can’t tell where it’s coming from.

  “Why?” Danner asks.

  “Why what?”

  “That’s the question you’re not asking yourself, Emma. Why did your mom and dad freak when they saw the message in the trees? Why has your dad kept the photos and journal hidden all these years? And why is this guy here?”

  “What guy?” Emma asks.

  “Shhh,” Danner says, a disembodied voice in the dark. “Turn around.”

  Emma turns back toward the toolbox and hears something in front of her, just to the left. The door that leads to her dad’s kitchen is open and there’s her dad, just a dark silhouette, watching her.

  The lights come on and here she is, caught, caught, caught! She is such an idiot. Mel’s going to kill her when she hears about this.

  But when she looks up from the toolbox, with the lights blazing she sees that the figure who caught her isn’t her father at all. It’s a stranger—a man in tan pants and a button-down shirt, with a crew cut and a funny little sideways grin. She closes her eyes tight, thinking that maybe when she opens them, he’ll be gone. Hoping that her parents are right and this is just her overactive imagination.

  But no.

  She opens her eyes and sees he’s coming toward her, and Emma spins, takes off so fast that she loses one of her flip-flops. She jerks the barn door open, and runs into the garden, screaming “Daddy!” the whole way.

  Chapter 27

  AFTER TESS LEFT THIS morning, Henry found the Swedish vodka left over from a long ago Christmas party and made himself a screwdriver. He needed something to soothe his frayed nerves. To help him erase the image of the shadow girl he’d seen. The god-awful gaping mouth. There were teeth inside. Rows of teeth, like a fucking lamprey.

  He’s just fixed his second drink and is tossing away the empty orange juice carton when he looks out the window and sees Emma tearing across the yard, screaming for him.

  He charges through the kitchen door to the patio, sure he’ll see the shadow girl running behind Emma, chasing her down.

  “There’s a man!” she gasps as she falls against him, sweaty and clinging. He can feel her heart pounding against his own chest.

  “What? Where?” Henry asks.

  “In the barn.”

  Sure enough, a stranger is making his way across the yard, strolling briskly. Henry looks at his watch: 9:45. Shit. Bill Lunde.

  “It’s okay, Em. He’s a…friend. I’m sorry he scared you.”

  Emma lets go of Henry, looks back over her shoulder at the man coming toward them.

  “Why don’t you go on up to your room, Em,” Henry says.

  She turns back to him. “But, Dad, who—”

  “No buts,” Henry says. “Go on up now.” He gives her a gentle push toward the open kitchen door. She shuffles her way in, dragging her one flip-flop acro
ss the tile floor.

  Only when she’s out of sight does he realize that he didn’t get a chance to ask Emma what she was doing in the barn to begin with.

  Maybe her little friend told her to go poking around in there. Danner with the lamprey mouth.

  “I thought we said ten o’clock,” Henry says as Bill approaches. “And I don’t think I agreed to any breaking and entering. Or having my home searched.”

  Bill Lunde shakes his head. His eyes are a clear blue, his skin bronze. No fedora, no cigarette.

  “The door was open, Henry. I thought I heard someone in there, so I called out, then went in. I was early, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare your daughter like that. I had no idea she was there. I was looking for you.”

  Henry doesn’t buy it, but there’s not much he can do. If he makes a scene, threatens to call the cops, it’ll just make him look like he’s got something to hide. So he puts on his best all-is-forgiven smile and says, “Well, we’ve found each other now. Why don’t you come on in and have a cup of coffee?” What he’s got to do is stick to the plan. Appear friendly and forthcoming. Tell Bill the story he and Tess practiced, then send him on his way.

  “Indeed we have,” Bill says.

  Henry can’t help but feel intimidated, despite the good-natured, guy-next-door demeanor Bill has. If Bill goes digging in the right places, if he discovers that Suz disappeared that summer and begins to suspect foul play, this smiling man with the clear blue eyes could ruin their lives forever.

  The room is quiet, and Henry hears his own heart beating. He’s waiting for the inquisition to begin.

  “Tell me,” Bill Lunde says at last, “who is Danner?”

  “What?”

  “Danner. Your daughter was talking to someone named Danner in the barn.”

  Henry sucks air through his teeth, making a little whistling sound.

  “Imaginary friend,” he says.

  Bill Lunde nods, says, “I see.”

  Oh I really doubt that, Henry thinks and somewhere in the back of his brain, he hears Emma’s voice asking, How did you die?

  Silence again.

  “So is there something I can help you with?” Henry asks, wanting to get this over with.

  “Do you know where Valerie is?”

  Henry hesitates, bites the inside of his cheek. Does he tell Bill about last night, how Winnie met him down at the lake, dressed as Suz?

  Swim with me, Henry.

  “Not a clue,” Henry says. “Boston, maybe. She had family in Boston. That’s where she was headed after college.”

  “So you haven’t seen her since?” Bill asks, looking into his coffee mug.

  “No.”

  “And you haven’t seen or heard from Suz?”

  “No.”

  “And your wife hasn’t either?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry Tess isn’t here now. I’d like to talk with her too.”

  “She had a meeting,” Henry says. “With a client. Someone she’s doing a painting for.” Even this comes out sounding like a lie. Henry wipes the back of his hand across his forehead and feels that he’s beginning to sweat. He takes a big gulp of his screwdriver, the vodka and juice burning the holes he’s gnawed inside his cheeks.

  “Another time, then,” Bill says, standing.

  Henry stands with him. Is it possible that he’s gotten off this easily? This was not the third degree he’d been expecting.

  “So you’re heading up to the college today?” Henry says.

  “Yes,” Bill tells him. “I’ve got a couple of appointments up there.”

  “Great,” Henry says, forcing a smile. He’d been hoping for more—a few little details about who Bill was seeing, what leads he might be following.

  “Thanks for your time, Henry,” Bill says, extending his hand for a shake.

  “No problem at all,” Henry says, his cheeks aching from all this smiling. Bill’s hand is dry and warm. Henry’s is like a dead fish.

  Henry walks Bill to the sliding glass doors that lead to the patio and opens them. Bill steps out, hesitates a moment on the patio, then turns toward Henry.

  “So you didn’t know she was back?” Bill asks.

  Henry feels his throat constrict. “Who?” he croaks.

  Suz. Suz is back.

  “Valerie. She’s here. In town.”

  “Oh,” Henry says with a relieved little gasp. “No, I didn’t know.”

  Bill smiles again, nodding, and Henry is positive that inside that smile, Bill is laughing at him for being such a piss-poor liar.

  Chapter 28

  “DO YOU MIND IF I smoke?”

  Tess shakes her head. Watches Claire reach into a large embossed leather bag, retrieve a silver cigarette case and take one out. Inside the lid of the case is a tiny mirror.

  Look in the mirror to see what you saw.

  Clever riddle. One Tess hasn’t heard in ages. She wonders where Em heard it, figures Henry must have told it to her one night when he was drunk. Told her and forgot, which is why he looked so freaked out hearing it again.

  But what if he didn’t tell her?

  Tess shakes her head. He must have.

  Claire lights her cigarette with a book of matches on the coffee table, inhales, then stares at Tess through the screen of smoke.

  They are sitting in the living room of Claire’s rented house. The floors are hardwood, polished to a shine. Everything else is white. The walls, the furniture. Even the tiny cups Claire has served the espresso in. The lack of color puts Tess on edge. It’s like stepping into a blank canvas. Anything can happen next.

  Outside the window, a hummingbird flits by, the shimmering ruby of its throat a surprising splash of color.

  Just as Tess is about to point the bird out to Claire, it’s gone.

  “I’m sorry,” Claire says, reaching back into her bag for the case and holding it out to Tess. “Would you like a cigarette?”

  “I…” Don’t smoke. Haven’t since college. “I’d love one.”

  Anything can happen.

  Claire lights it for her. She has the most amazing hands. All muscles and tendons. The hands of a sculptor. Tess would like to sketch those hands. She imagines the studies she’d do: page after page of Claire’s hands shown from every possible angle—holding a cigarette, grinding coffee, cracking an egg. An egg in Claire’s hand would be one of the most exquisite things Tess can imagine seeing.

  Odd. This is something the old Tess, the Tess in Suz’s notebook, might have thought once. The Tess who walked around, eyes wide in wonder at every little detail; the Tess who expected miracles in everyday life and found them simply because she knew they’d be there.

  The cigarette is surprisingly sweet, like candied violets. Though she only had candied violets once, on a wedding cake. Not her wedding cake. Someone else’s. She and Henry didn’t have a cake, sharing a pint of ice cream instead as they stood, waiting to catch the train to Montreal for their weekend honeymoon. Mint chocolate chip, it was. Funny how romantic it seemed at the time—Henry still in the suit he’d borrowed from his father, feeding her ice cream from a plastic spoon, laughing when he got some on her nose, then leaning down to kiss the spot of ice cream away.

  Tess tells herself she won’t inhale, but she takes the smoke into her lungs and finds the sensation intoxicating. Oh God. How could she have given this up for so many years?

  “Tell me about yourself,” Claire says.

  Tess laughs, letting the smoke seep out of her chest, which now feels cleaned out and hollow. Empty. “Not much to tell,” she says. She relaxes into the couch.

  Anything can happen.

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Claire says. “I really do.”

  Claire’s accent troubles Tess. It sounds vaguely European, but Tess can’t quite place it. Claire has short coal black hair, bright green eyes, and alarmingly high cheekbones. She wears light makeup and smells like cardamom. She obviously works out, she’s lean and muscled. Probably close to Tess in age.


  Tess wishes she’d chosen something more elegant than the linen pants and black T-shirt she’s wearing.

  “What about you?” Tess says, turning the question around. “Where are you from?”

  Claire smiles. “Here and there. I owned a gallery in Santa Fe but sold it last year. Now I’m in New York. Before all that, Prague.”

  “Prague,” Tess echoes, thinking about how once, she and Henry were going to hike through Europe, see all those ancient cities. Other than the occasional weekend trip to Montreal, Tess has never been out of the country.

  Tess studies the cigarette in her hand. There’s a small brown picture of a tree inside a diamond near the filter. Obviously not American. If she had traveled through Europe, she might have smoked a cigarette like this. Might be able to show off now, calling it by name.

  “Let me tell you why I asked you here,” Claire says. “As I said on the phone, I’m very drawn to your work.”

  Tess smiles. Can’t imagine what on earth her generic little paintings of flower gardens and watering cans could possibly offer this woman.

  Her eyes wander back to Claire’s hands. They’re almost masculine, which seems incongruent with everything else about Claire.

  A robin’s egg would be particularly stunning in Claire’s hand. Delicate and blue.

  She finds herself wanting to touch Claire’s hands, to run her fingers over the knobby knuckles and corded tendons. They remind Tess of a cat’s paws; she thinks of the way a cat’s paws stretch, knead at the air, claws extended.

  How odd. To want to touch another woman’s hands. It’s something young, college Tess might have considered. But not this Tess—the practical mother who keeps the checkbook balanced, fills the pantry with jars of homemade strawberry jam, makes sure Emma has an umbrella when it’s going to rain.

  “But I feel there’s something missing,” Claire continues.

  “Hmm?” Tess has gotten lost, forgotten the arc of the conversation.

  “I look at your paintings, and feel something’s missing.” Her green eyes look right into Tess’s.