Little Secrets

by Anna Snoekstra

  “I dunno. I hate to say it, but you’re a great writer,” he said, and she beamed at him, hoping he really meant it, that he wasn’t just using it to try to get in her pants.

  “They are getting her to write another one,” Mia said proudly. “They think she’s great too.”

  Rose wanted to change the subject; she hadn’t told Mia about the latest rejection. It was something she was trying her hardest not to think about.

  “Yeah, maybe. Any new developments?” she asked.

  “Off the record?” Frank said with a wink.

  “Of course.”

  “Nothing new to report, I’m afraid.”

  Bazza looked at him, confused. “What about the note?”

  “Baz!” yelled Frank.

  “What note?” asked Mia, as Baz apologized.

  Frank’s eyes ping-ponged between them. He looked a little overwhelmed.

  “Why don’t we go for a walk?” suggested Rose.

  She slid out of the booth and walked toward the front door. The air felt hot and thick compared to the air-conditioning inside. The sun had all but set, leaving the sky a steely pink color.

  “Those two seem to be getting on. Thought we should give them a minute,” she said to Frank as he kept pace beside her.

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Look, I know you want to get out of here and be some big-shot city journo, but—”

  Rose stopped in her tracks and stared him down, annoyed.

  “Don’t forget my sister got one of those dolls.”

  He dropped his eyes from hers. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t worry—I think it’s just a hoax. But still, I can’t talk about—”

  “Did I ask?” she said and kept walking. He smiled at her and she wondered how she’d look to him right now, the pink sky broad around them. She was going to find out more about the investigation, and she was sure if she asked the right questions, he’d tell her. But first she just walked with him toward the horizon, enjoying the silence.

  19

  “I always put my foot in it,” Bazza said, staring at the dirty dishes on the table in a sulk.

  “Do you think he’s mad?” Mia asked.

  “Yeah. He’s always getting mad. Especially around her. For some reason, when I know I have to be careful I always end up blurting out the wrong thing.”

  The guy was so cute. He was big, probably twice her size, but Mia felt a strange wave of protectiveness over him.

  “Don’t worry—I do that too.” It was true. Often, when she got home late from work, she wouldn’t be able to sleep, worrying that she’d offended someone or said something wrong. She began brushing at the crumbs on the table, pinching the stray bits of salt between her fingers and putting them onto the plate. She noticed him watching her, and stopped it. She was so used to cleaning up. If it wasn’t at Eamon’s then it would be at home. The idea of leaving a mess for someone else felt foreign.

  But she wasn’t on this date to clean. So she brushed the salt on the plastic of the booth and very lightly touched his arm. Usually, Baz wore T-shirts. But tonight, he’d worn a pale blue button-up shirt, rolled up to just past the elbows. His forearms were brown and strong. Mia ran her finger over his cuff. He looked up at her and smiled. They’d been mucking around this whole time, overplaying the date thing. She’d fed him and flirted outrageously. But now the moment felt real. It felt charged.

  “Why’d you ever agree to go out with an oaf like me?” he said, still smiling. But he meant it, she could tell.

  Mia let her hand slip down over his starchy shirt. She let her fingers lightly touch the side of his elbow. His skin was rough, but so warm. She leaned toward him and kissed him softly on the corner of his mouth, his lips delicate against hers, her chest pounding.

  “Wow,” he whispered.

  He put his big hands on either side of her face, cupping her cheeks, and brought her to him again, kissing her so softly it was almost unbearable. Then he beamed, actually beamed, like there was light coming out of him. He looked so exposed, so vulnerable, she almost had to turn away.

  “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

  He meant her. He wanted her. No one had ever wanted her before. She leaned over, kissed him again, let her lips part slightly this time, feel the wetness of his mouth on hers. His hand left her face, glided down her arm. The soft muscle of his tongue went into her mouth, brushing gently against hers.

  “Break it up,” said Frank roughly.

  Baz’s body snapped away from hers. She looked around, hand instinctively going to her lips and brushing away the traces of his saliva, still warm. Rose grinned at her and slid into the booth, followed by Frank. He was smiling too. Maybe she and Baz hadn’t been the only ones to have a moment.

  A waitress came over. “Any more drinks, Frank?”

  Frank looked around at them. Mia shrugged. It wasn’t like the date was going to get any better.

  “Just the bill, thanks, Molly,” he said.

  Underneath the table, Baz took her hand. His fingers laced between her own, making her heart beat faster again.

  “You’re Rose Blakey, right?” the waitress asked.

  Rose looked surprised. “Yes?”

  The waitress just smiled at her and walked away.

  “Famous already,” Frank said, a hint of annoyance under the teasing tone.

  * * *

  Rose nudged her as they walked toward the car. “How’d you go?” she whispered.

  “Awesome,” Mia said. “And you?”

  Rose just shrugged, her eyes focused on something in the distance. Trust Rose, evasive as always. Mia clicked open the car door, smiling at Baz over the roof.

  “What’s that?” Rose said.

  “What?” Mia followed her eyeline. All she could see were the sprawling white brick houses, ugly fences, the road sparkling in the low evening sun.

  “That.” Rose pointed, and Mia saw it. A whisper of gray snaking from behind a terra-cotta roof.

  “Fuck,” said Frank, who’d seen it now too. “Get in.”

  They jumped in the car, the four doors snapping closed. No time to even put their seat belts on as Frank reversed, then sped around a corner, jolting them toward each other, banging shoulders.

  “Might be just burned toast, someone with their window open,” Mia said.

  “No,” Frank muttered, “it’s him. The bastard’s at it again.”

  The car sped around another corner. Mia’s elbow hit the armrest at an awkward angle and she rubbed at it. She didn’t want to be part of this. Whoever it was, she didn’t want to know. She looked to Rose, who had the window open and was craning her neck to look out, eyes bright and focused. Probably already writing an article in her head. But Mia wished they could just go back to the restaurant.

  Too late now. The smoke was thicker already, and as they got closer Mia could smell it. Sharp and toxic, burning her throat. She wrapped her fingers around her rose quartz. The brakes squealed and the hand brake crunched and Frank was out of the car, running, Rose and Bazza hot on his heels.

  Mia’s hand shook as she opened the door. She didn’t want to go, not a bit, not at all. But she didn’t want to be left alone either. She ran after them, toward the gray smoke down the side of the house, hoping everyone was okay, thinking of poor Ben Riley. The smoke festered down her throat.

  It was a bin. A green plastic recycling bin, already half melted. Splitting at the sides and collapsing into itself. Rose was coughing, viscous and hacking, bent over at the waist. She’d got too close, as always. Baz was running to the garden hose, turning the tap. Holding the orange nozzle tight in his hand and spraying it into the bin, which began smoldering straightaway. Frank was banging on the back door of the house
.

  “Anyone in there?”

  And beside Mia was a sound, breaking sticks, a voice hissing, “Shut up!”

  She turned into the spindly bushes. A white face stared back at her. A white moon with dark crater eyes. She screamed, jumping back, hand to mouth.

  “Mia!” Baz dropped the hose and ran to her as the face pulled back into the bush.

  “He’s in there!” she squealed. Frank was beside her, peering into the leaves, listening.

  “We’ve got you,” he panted.

  Then the crunch of sticks, farther up now, toward the back fence. Two kids jumped out, no older than eleven. Their paper plates bobbed over their faces as they ran, high-jumped onto the fence and scrambled over it. One turned back, straddling the palings with his little Bambi legs, stuck his middle finger up and jumped down the other side.

  20

  “I can walk you in?” Frank asked, already unclipping his seat belt.

  “It’s okay!” Rose said, snapping open her car door. “Thanks! See you guys later.”

  Bazza smiled, and Mia said “’Bye” quietly, her head on his shoulder. They’d had to hang around the scene for an hour and now they were all exhausted.

  Rose hopped out of the car and walked toward the house, then turned and waved so he’d drive away. Turning back to the door, she put her hand into her bag, as though fishing for keys.

  Frank’s car turned the corner, and she retreated back down the path, hoping her mother hadn’t heard anything. Standing out the front, she surveyed her house. How humiliating that she was saving face by pretending she still lived here. It looked like such a trash heap. The paint was peeling off the bricks, the grass had grown long and dry, and there were old broken bits of furniture and an old dog kennel down the side of the house that Rob had promised to take care of. Their dog had died six years ago. Still, this was preferable by multitudes to admitting she was squatting at the tavern.

  The sky was gray now, but the air was still heavy. Dusk was when mosquitoes were out in full force; already she felt the tiny prickle on her arm. She swatted it, and her own blood smeared across her skin. The bricks of each house she walked past were exhaling the heat from the day. She quickened her pace. It wasn’t safe to walk the streets at this time, and wearing a dress made her feel like a target. As she reached the corner she almost tripped; she hadn’t been looking where she was going and she hadn’t noticed the corner of a rolled-up newspaper sticking out of the dead grass of a house. She pushed it off the footpath with her foot, noticing that this house was in worse shape than hers. The grass was almost knee length, pushing out onto the path to the front door, which was littered with copies of the paper, still rolled and unopened. Rose considered taking one—this person obviously wasn’t reading them—but in the gloom she couldn’t see which were the most recent. She kept moving.

  Before they’d got in the car, Frank had taken her aside. He’d asked her not to write about the fire, or the paper-plate kids they’d seen at the scene.

  “They might not even be connected,” she’d told him.

  “Exactly,” he’d said. Neither of them were convincing. They both knew that, one way or another, they were definitely connected. If the kids hadn’t lit the fire themselves, they’d definitely seen who did. She considered asking Frank if he’d tell her when he found out the answer to that, but he’d probably say no. It didn’t matter anyway. She had a better story.

  Approaching the tavern, she felt relieved to be back. The date had gone fairly well, all things considered, but she knew for sure now that it would never happen with Frank. It would be a good way out, the easiest way, but she would never be in love with him. Being in a relationship that one-sided would be cruel. It felt wrong.

  Rose took the back stairs and unlocked the main door. It was nice not to have to worry too much about being quiet now. She wasn’t afraid of Will anymore either. Maybe she should be, but she wasn’t. Walking down the hallway, she looked down at the slit under his door. The light was on. He was still awake. She imagined what he was doing. Lying on the bed, shoes off, reading glasses on, his eyes flicking across each line of his book, the world inside it filling up his head. Or maybe brushing the hair of a porcelain doll. She sniggered as she put her key in the lock.

  “What’s funny?”

  She jumped. He was leaning against his door frame in a white singlet.

  “What?”

  “You were laughing.”

  “No, I wasn’t. Must have been the ghost.”

  He smiled at her, the whispers of lines around his eyes crinkling deeper. “Where’ve you been?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “On a date.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “With that fat cop who’s always staring at you?”

  “He’s not fat!” she said.

  He shrugged. “If you say so.”

  She let her door swing open but didn’t go in. Instead, she leaned against the wall next to it.

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Nothing. Just reading.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “So did he have anything to say about those dolls?” he asked, and the moment was broken.

  She stared at him. “Why do you care?”

  He put up his hands, exasperated. “I’m just asking.”

  “You seem pretty interested.” She stepped toward him.

  He shook his head. “You’re the one that’s writing about them. I’m guessing that’s why you went out with the guy. Hoping for the inside story?”

  “No!”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said. His hand went to his doorknob. Before she knew what she was doing, Rose’s own hand shot out, hitting the wood with a thunk, stopping him from closing the door.

  Will looked from her hand to her. “What are you doing?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I thought you said you already knew?”

  “I do.” She swallowed. “I just want to know why.”

  He pulled at the door, but she locked her elbow. He’d have to push her out of the way if he wanted to close it.

  “This is really none of your business,” he said, his voice raised. She could feel the heat trapped in his room, smell his sweat.

  “It is my business,” she said.

  “How? You think you’re important because you’re a cheap hack now rather than just a waitress?”

  “Fuck off!” she said, getting in his face. “You gave one to my sister, so yeah, I think it is my business, you piece of shit.”

  “What?” he spit. “You’re not even making sense.”

  “I won’t tell the cops it’s you,” she lied. “I just need to know why. Why do you cut their hair so that they look like the kids?”

  He looked at her, eyes narrowed. Then he did the last thing she thought he would do. He laughed, the crinkles around his eyes reappearing.

  “What?” she said.

  “You think I’m leaving those dolls?”

  She looked at him carefully. Was this a trick?

  “I’m not.” There was a chuckle in his voice. “I’m really not.”

  She took a step closer to him, trying to see in his eyes if he was lying.

  “Rose. I’m not leaving those dolls.”

  His eyes were clear. He was close enough that if she leaned forward, she could kiss him. So, without thinking about it, she did. She took her hand from his door and clasped the back of his neck, pulling him toward her. His mouth was on hers. He tasted hot and sweet. His fingers reached around her waist and he pulled her to him, pressed her against his chest, so that he fell against the door frame. Something warm and wonderful fizzled down from her belly. He breathed in heavily through his nose. Then he pulled his head to the side.

 
“I shouldn’t,” he said, his face still so close to hers, his arms still around her. She stepped back, and his hand fell away.

  “Why?”

  “Sorry,” he said, not looking at her. Then, “I’m really not leaving those dolls.”

  He pulled the door closed.

  She stood in the hallway alone. Her lips still hot and tasting of him. Her insides twisted. What an idiot. Why the hell had she kissed him? He didn’t want her. He was trying to be nice to her and she’d literally thrown herself onto him.

  The door to her room was still hanging open. She slammed it shut behind her as she went in. She’d start writing her new article tonight. She had the note, and with that they’d have to publish her.

  21

  First thing the next day, Frank told the teachers he wanted to interview the kids about the dolls. The principal agreed hastily, letting Frank use her office for the little chats, as he’d called them, which took all day. The publicity Rose had generated had come good for something. People were scared now. Frank could work with scared people; it meant more trust in him, less questions.

  The kids weren’t scared though, and that surprised Frank. He’d expected the little shits to be pissing their school shorts. A real cop questioning them one-on-one. Telling them that if they lied, they’d be in real, serious trouble. He barely got them to blink. A few got slightly pale, but that was it. He’d spoken to six kids already, put a real lean on them. Nothing. Now he had the Hanes’ kid in front of him. Denny. He wasn’t even looking at Frank, just picking at the scab on his knee.

  “Are you worried for your sister? Getting one of those dolls?” he asked. Denny shrugged. Kid couldn’t care less.

  “Look, I’ll level with you, man-to-man. If you tell me about the fires I won’t tell your parents, promise.”

  Denny was still more interested in the scab. He’d got his fingernail under it and was slowly levering the dark red mound from his skin.

  This wasn’t working. If he was going to get anywhere with these kids he needed to start thinking like them. He tried to remember his own time as a kid at this school. When it was all about rumors, and who was mates with who, and what girl wanted to hold your hand on the playground.