Little Secrets

by Anna Snoekstra

  “Do you need a hand?”

  Instantly, the old woman took her arm with an iron grip. Why was it that these frail old ladies were so strong? She looked up at Rose; her eyes had a sheen behind the glasses like she might cry. Rose hoped she wouldn’t.

  “They just keep driving past. They aren’t stopping,” she said, staring up at Rose.

  “They won’t stop until you are actually on the road,” she told her.

  “Pardon?”

  Rose held the woman’s arm, and they took a step onto the road together. The cars stopped. Some inching forward impatiently as they began walking across. The woman’s walking stick was made of a deep red wood, and it clunked against the road with each step they took.

  “They always used to just stop if someone was waiting,” the woman said. Rose wondered how long ago that had been. It definitely had never happened in her lifetime.

  “I guess times have changed.”

  “Pardon?”

  Rose raised her voice. “Times have changed!”

  “No, no,” the woman said, gripping her arm even tighter. “It’s hearts. People’s hearts have changed.”

  Rose noticed the tense knot of people outside the front of the church. Many of them were holding newspapers. Rose’s breath caught. They were reading the Star. She dropped the old woman’s arm.

  “Thank you, darling,” she said as Rose hurried toward the crowd.

  The two women Rose had met with Mrs. Hane last Sunday stood at the edge of the crowd; as she got closer she could hear their conversation.

  “I think I might faint.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  Rose snatched the paper from the woman’s hands.

  “How rude!” she clucked, but Rose ignored her. It was her article, on the cover. That was better than she could ever have hoped. Giddiness overtook her. It really was happening. The cover. That meant something. Things would change. She needed to find Mia.

  “You!”

  Mrs. Cunningham marched toward her, pulling her husband behind her.

  “You need to tell me, right now, what your game is!” Mrs. Cunningham was blustering and angry, almost stepping on Rose’s toe as she got closer. Rose folded the paper carefully under her arm.

  “My game?”

  “Yes,” she said, cheeks pink. “We don’t need the whole state knowing about this. It’s our problem, and we’ll deal with it.”

  Steve smiled apologetically at Rose over his wife’s head.

  “Don’t you have any respect for my husband? For Frank?”

  “Hang on. That’s not fair,” said the woman whose paper Rose had snatched. “We have a right to know what’s going on. The police should have made this public as soon as they got it. They are our children! We should know if there is a threat like this being made.”

  People around her nodded and Mrs. Cunningham plastered on a smile.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Fiona. I agree,” she said to the woman, “but this girl is stirring up a storm. This is our town and we’ll deal with these things our way.”

  “But if she hadn’t written the article, we never would have even known to be worried. I would have let my—” the woman swallowed “—my poor, poor baby walk home from school on her own.”

  “No one would want to kidnap her, trust me,” Mrs. Cunningham said, then turned back to Rose. “What I want to know is how on earth you got a copy of what that letter said.”

  Rose didn’t like this woman. She’d always been a bitch.

  “I can’t reveal my sources.”

  “That’s bullshit. You don’t need to tell me, anyway. We all know how little sluts like you get what they want.”

  Just as Rose opened her mouth to retort, the crowd began to murmur.

  “Oh, no. Have they seen it?”

  “Surely they would have known.”

  People had twisted their gazes away, peering over heads to look at something on the other side of the crowd. Mrs. Cunningham turned to see, as did Rose. The Rileys had arrived, bringing along the heavy hush that seemed to follow them wherever they went. They were dressed for church, Mr. Riley in black trousers, Mrs. Riley in a knee-length dress the same blue as her eyes, their daughter, Carly, wearing a blouse buttoned right up to her chin. Rose tried to remember what they had been like before the fire. She’d been going to their grocery store her whole life. She remembered Ben. His big smile if he was behind the counter, stacking silver coins into towers. She tried to remember Mr. and Mrs. Riley’s faces as they had looked then, but she couldn’t. The idea of those mouths being bent into smiles seemed impossible.

  Mr. Riley had a copy of the Star in his hands. Both he and his wife were reading her words on the front, their eyes flicking down the page. Rose knew the moment their eyes took in the note. Mrs. Riley looked away from the paper and into the crowd. There was fear all over her face, as though someone was about to leap out of the group and attack her. After pulling her daughter onto her hip, the two of them turned and walked back the way they’d come without saying a word.

  The chatter of the crowd began to rise back to normal. Mrs. Cunningham turned back to Rose, shook her head then stalked off, Steve mouthing “Sorry” as he hurried behind her.

  “That poor family,” Rose heard the woman behind her say. “This is the last thing they need.”

  “What did she mean that no one would want to kidnap my daughter?”

  “On top of everything they have already been through. What’s the world coming to?”

  “My daughter is gorgeous.”

  “I’m going to give Frank a piece of my mind,” said the other.

  “I think you’ll have to line up.”

  Rose followed their gaze toward the parking lot. Mr. Hane was talking to Frank and Baz. He was almost unrecognizable from the man that she and Mia had spoken to a week ago. His face was red and twisted with anger as he got right up into Frank’s face. The idea that he could be dangerous didn’t seem so ludicrous now. Rose wished she could hear what he was saying, but they were too far away. Behind him, Mrs. Hane held Lily tightly in her arms. Next to her, Denny stared right back into Rose’s eyes, his finger in his nose.

  Rose turned her back; she didn’t want Frank to catch her watching. She wished she’d had the chance to talk to him about all this last night. Mia was standing up near the doorway of the church, speaking to one of Bazza’s brothers. Rose began to approach, but then Mia’s eyes slid toward her and then looked away. Rose stopped. Mia must still be angry. This was stupid. She had so much to do; she didn’t have time to hang around listening to one of Father’s boring sermons. She left the churchyard, walking in the direction the Rileys had gone.

  It took her about twenty minutes to get to their house. By the time she reached their door, she had sweated so much that her hair was sticking to her neck and her top was damp. She wanted to look professional, but there was no way she’d cool off out here. The air was heavy with humidity. Fanning her face with her hand, she knocked.

  Mrs. Riley answered the door. Rose expected her to be surprised to see her, but her face stayed as vacant as before.

  “Hi, I’m Rose. I wrote the article you read this morning. I was wondering if I could come in and we could talk about it?”

  Mrs. Riley took her in, face emotionless. Then she turned. “It’s the journalist,” she said to someone in the other room. “She wants to come in.”

  “If it’s an okay time?” Rose added to the side of Mrs. Riley’s face.

  “Okay,” she heard a man’s voice say, and Mrs. Riley stood aside.

  “Thanks,” she said, feeling the relief on her skin of being out of the sun.

  Mr. Riley was sitting in the living room on the sofa, still in his church clothes. He stood and reached out to shake Rose’s hand. His palm was cool a
gainst her clammy one. Embarrassed, she took her hand back and wiped it on her shorts.

  “Take a seat,” he said, and Rose took a small armchair near the door.

  “Would you like a cold drink?” Mrs. Riley asked, her voice still so quiet that Rose had to strain to hear her.

  “A water would be great, if that’s okay?”

  Mrs. Riley nodded and walked out of the room.

  Rose hadn’t been sure what to imagine. How the everyday domesticities of tragedy would appear. The house was similar in layout to the Hanes’. A small living room to one side of the front door, kitchen to the other. She presumed the bedrooms were farther down the hallway. She wondered if Ben’s room was still the way it had been left.

  Everything in the living room was clean and simple. The only real decoration was three framed photographs on the mantel. All three were of their daughter. Rose looked away; staring at them felt like intruding. It seemed strange that there were no photographs of Ben, but then, how was she to know what was strange in this situation. This couple had had to stand back while their son burned; how could she ever judge anything they did as strange. Mr. Riley was looking at his knees in front of him on the sofa. She was imposing. She shouldn’t be here.

  “I’m sorry if my article upset you this morning,” she said to Mr. Riley.

  He nodded. “It’s okay.”

  “Frank didn’t tell you about the note?”

  “No,” he said, and she saw anger flicker across his eyes. She took out her notebook.

  “Is it okay if I quote you in my next article?”

  “I’d prefer if you didn’t,” he said, plainly.

  “Oh.” She hurriedly put the notebook back into her bag. “No, that’s fine. Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.” She felt like such a dickhead.

  Not knowing what to say, she just smiled at Mr. Riley. He had the vestiges of good looks, a straight nose and startling blue eyes. But his skin looked weathered from too much sun. The end of his nose was pink, and thick creases were cut into his forehead.

  “Here you go.”

  Rose almost jumped out of her skin; she hadn’t even noticed Mrs. Riley had come back in the room. She was holding out a glass of water, cubes of ice bobbing inside, drips of condensation sliding down the side of the glass.

  “Thank you.” Rose took it from her and gulped half of it down, enjoying the cold running down her throat and into her veins.

  Mrs. Riley sat down next to her husband. She was very thin. The woman was probably only about six or seven years older than Rose herself, but you’d be forgiven for thinking she was in her forties. When she sat down, her dress rode up a bit. Her knees looked oversize and knobbly because of the absence of any body fat around them. Rose looked up, catching her eye and coloring. What was she doing staring at this poor woman’s legs?

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” Rose said, cutting into the viscid silence. “I just wanted to check if you were okay, really. I didn’t know my article would be the first you’d see of that note.”

  Mr. Riley nodded.

  “I really don’t think you need to worry,” Rose said. God, she wished Mia was here. “I mean, Frank’s not worried, and he would know. It doesn’t necessarily mean something.”

  She took another swig of water, swallowing loudly. She felt so big, so messy and obnoxious in this house. She wanted to get this over with and get out of here. “I was just wondering if you guys thought—” How could she word this? “If you thought that there was any connection between what’s happened. The fire, I mean, and now this. The doll.”

  “I think you should leave,” Mr. Riley said.

  “What? I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You have,” he said.

  Mrs. Riley walked past Rose, not even looking at her, and went to open the front door. Feeling beyond awful now, she stood.

  “I’m really sorry.” She couldn’t look either of them in the eye as she went back out into the blistering heat.

  24

  “Is this Rose Blakey?” the man on the other end of the phone asked.

  Rose was sitting on top of one of the kegs in the storage room, the phone pressed hard against her ear. She’d ducked out from setting up the bar when the unknown number lit up her cell.

  “This is Damien Freeman, deputy editor of the Sage Review.”

  Rose opened her mouth and a strange croaking sound came out. She’d never made that noise before.

  “I saw your article before it went to press yesterday. It’s been garnering quite a reaction around the office. We’re all talking about it.”

  “Thanks” was all Rose could muster.

  “Rich down at the Star gave me your details. I hope you don’t mind me calling?”

  “Down at the Star?” Rose repeated, so taken aback that she didn’t even know what she was saying.

  “Yes. They’re on the floor beneath us. We’re both Bailey.”

  The edge of the keg dug into her thigh, but she couldn’t even feel it. For a moment the name meant nothing to her. Then it clicked. Jonathan Bailey, the media mogul. She’d heard his name many times and knew he owned newspapers, television stations and radio, but the idea that the Sage Review and the Star could be part of the same company seemed absurd. She swallowed, forcing herself to focus.

  “Thanks for calling. It’s really great to hear from you.”

  “It’s great for me to talk to you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, hardly believing what she was hearing.

  “Have you written for any other publications? Anywhere a bit more—” he paused “—intellectual than the Star?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, that’s fine. Now, Rose, we really feel like this story has huge potential. We think it could be something more suited to Sage.”

  “Really?” It was happening. Her dream was coming true.

  “What we do in cases like this is send a senior journalist down to write a feature. Of course, we’ll pay you for bringing the story to our attention.”

  The drop of her stomach was agonizing.

  “I’ve written for a few blogs and stuff,” she lied.

  “Good. That’s great.” He was fobbing her off. “Now, I think Chris might be available to come next week. It’d be great if you could show him around, give him any recommendations of places to stay.”

  The only place to stay in Colmstock was Eamon’s. If this guy came, he’d not only be taking her story, but he’d be taking her bed too.

  “Okay,” she said, because what else could she say?

  * * *

  At the bar, Mia was making out with Bazza. Their lips eased and swelled against each other, the hint of tongue appearing and disappearing. They stopped abruptly when they sensed Rose’s presence.

  “Don’t let me interrupt.”

  The look on Baz’s face made her stomach drop even further. It was real hatred, like he just might hit her. But he didn’t. He turned and walked back to the table of cops. Jonesy was staring at Rose; an identical look of loathing was on his face. Even Father was looking at her with disappointment, although Steve Cunningham was closely inspecting his beer glass. Probably feeling embarrassed that his wife had called her a slut that morning. Frank hadn’t turned. His hunched back was to her, again. She had a feeling it wouldn’t be so easy to get his forgiveness this time.

  “What’s going on?” she said quietly to Mia, who was wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. They had barely spoken while they packed up last night. Rose was annoyed at her for ignoring her in church, but she also hoped Mia wasn’t still mad; she had enough to deal with.

  “They’re pissed about the article. Frank is in big trouble.”

  She’d known this was coming, but it still hurt. “I never said he was the one that tol
d me what the note said!”

  “You didn’t need to. It’s obvious.”

  “I don’t want him to be in trouble.”

  “Too late now.” Mia still sounded cold. Rose didn’t push her. She was sure she’d apologize later once she had cooled down.

  Swallowing her guilt about Frank, Rose grabbed a pile of napkins and some loose cutlery and started rolling. Jean wasn’t there tonight. Sundays were always quiet. They had to make sure everything was perfect when she got in tomorrow.

  She looked up as Will walked in and took his usual seat. They locked eyes and Rose felt the knots inside her loosen a little. Then she turned back to her cutlery and tried, desperately, to figure out a plan.

  * * *

  Across the room, the men spoke in lowered voices.

  “What a bitch,” Jonesy said.

  “She’s not a bitch,” Frank protested.

  “She’s a fucking cow.”

  “We have more important things to worry about right now,” Frank said, giving Jonesy a look.

  Jonesy turned to the Father. “You didn’t get any interesting confessions today, did you?”

  “No,” the Father replied solemnly, “but you know that I couldn’t tell you if I had.”

  “D.C., I keep thinking about it,” Steve said. “Initials would be too obvious, right?”

  “Who knows,” said Baz. “Could mean anything.”

  “What’s your middle name?” Jonesy asked Steve. “It’s not David, is it? Or Daniel?”

  “Afraid not.”

  They paused, collectively taking deep drinks from their pints.

  “So what do you think, Steve? Is it a local?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t think so—no one in Colmstock would do this,” Steve said, looking straight over at Will.

  “We think it’s a local,” Bazza muttered, causing both the Father and Steve to look up, surprised.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “What would drive someone to do something like this, Father?” Jonesy was talking to the Father, but it was Steve who he was fixing with a steady gaze.

  “I don’t know,” the Father replied.