Sins of the Father (Bloody Marytown Book 1)

by Mansell, Lucie J.

  Deliberately avoiding the built-in vanity mirror, she made her way through to the en-suite bathroom. There was no point in standing there making comparisons to how she looked the last time she gazed in that reflective glass. She already knew that she was a little taller, more slender yet toned. Her dark, almost black, hair was not nearly as unruly, cropped above her shoulders in a more manageable style that accentuated the curls. Besides, it was not her image that she was avoiding anyway but the photos that were still on or had been reaffixed to the mirror, smiling faces that she was not interested in seeing. The past held nothing for her. Time moved on and people changed. Now was all that mattered and she had somewhere she needed to be.

  In the bathroom, she busied herself with the rather mundane task of freshening up. If she was going to go face-to-face with one of those people who were still pictured on her old mirror then she wanted to look, and perhaps smell, like she hadn’t travelled further than miles could count. It was vanity, of course, and a part of Martha hated that she was doing it but she needed to feel as though she was not as grubby as her increasing pangs of guilt suggested.

  The cascade of water fell like a heavy shower of rain, drumming off the glass shower screen like a rainstorm. Martha peeled off her skin-tight, dark khaki trousers and shirt, leaving them folded carefully on top of the wooden hamper. Her underwear followed suit. Sealing herself into the glass cube, she submerged herself in the falling spray. It was hot and relentless, pounding her muscles better than a therapeutic massage. Flattening her palms against the tiled wall, she allowed herself to enjoy it, twisting her shoulders and rolled out her neck. It was good. Real good. She almost felt as though she was home, in her own shower. Almost.

  It took a little while but the combination of the heat and water pressure eased the strain that she felt internally as well as loosening the tension she had been carrying in her shoulders. In the course of the life that she had made for herself away from Marytown, Martha had learned how to put her emotions in perspective, to channel them in positive ways so that she could carry out the tasks that befell her. In the shower, in her old bathroom, she would do the same. She would prepare her mind and body for the assignment ahead and then she would do what she needed to do. As strategies went, it was a good one. A little bit cold, perhaps, but sound.

  Leave the house. Walk across town. Apologise. Things did not have to be complicated.

  It was just another mission. So then why was she so afraid?

  Finishing up in the shower, she turned off the water and stepped out of the cubicle, nabbing a large, fluffy, white towel from the nearby airing closet. Esther had been proficient enough to move her large, canvas pack from the hall to her old room, placing it at the foot of the bed. Knowing how heavy the bag was, Martha was impressed with her aunt’s determination to let her succinctly know where her expected place within the house was. She knew that the woman only meant well and even admired that she had cared enough to have temporarily moved into the spare bedroom so that she could be there for Gale but she couldn’t help but feel irked by all of the ever-so polite inquiries, muted smiles and assumptions. It wasn’t the woman’s fault, Martha knew that deep down. Her own feeling of guilt tarnished what was most likely kindness.

  Pulling her pack and placing it on the bed, she opened it wide, picking out fresh clothes which she lay neatly beside her luggage. Reaching in with her hand, she sought around for something else that she had concealed at the very bottom, curling her hand around it and pulling it out, holding it in her hands to simply feel the comforting weight of it. The sheathed weapon had been a gift, bestowed upon her by one of her closest associates. She had carried it ever since, not once leaving it behind. Upon knowing that she was finally going to be coming back to Marytown she had made the hard decision to not openly carry it with her. She was skilled enough that she could protect herself but it had felt very strange to have, thus far, gone unarmed.

  Marytown was not a safe place, especially not for her. For a long moment, she stood at the end of her old bed and debated whether or not she should take it with her, eventually opting against it. The decision simply came down to practicality. A weapon, even sheathed and carried responsibly would most likely need to be explained and she was not prepared to answer those questions. It was a risk but she was no longer a naïve teenager. She knew what lurked in the dark hills that surrounded the small town and knew that she had to be cautious. She had to trust in her own ability to keep out of danger and, besides, a blade could not save her from the confrontation that she was heading into next. She had to face this one alone. And trust that she would survive.

  Chapter 11

  The Marytown Paranormal Investigation Agency was located on the far side of town, where modern redevelopment had expanded the town’s original one hundred and thirty acres further into the valley that lay spread out between the surrounding hillsides. The house in which the agency occupied was unassuming, blending into the neighbourhood like all the other houses. Martha suspected that this was mostly because the residents of Marytown were unaware of the things that went bump in the night and it would make them uncomfortable to have the dirty, long-buried truth shoved into their faces. Bless them.

  A small, golden plaque informed her that she was in the right place, as did the emblem which was embossed on the flank of the sleek, black car which was parked upon the gravel driveway, expansive enough for a number of vehicles – a simple logo which consisted of the initials M.P.I.A edged with a thin, white border. The building itself was mostly dark, as if its usual occupiers had left for the evening. A light shone out into the night from a large upstairs window that seemed to be the only sign of life. It also made Martha rather nervous.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried the door. It was locked. A small notice in the slim window pane that framed the entrance stated that the agency was manned between the hours of 7pm and 7am and instructed visitors to press the intercom buzzer and await a response from the on-duty investigator. Great. She had opted against announcing her presence over the phone because it felt too impersonal, too cowardly. Now she was being essentially forced to do exactly that for the sake of eighty-seven minutes. Sometimes life had a way of laughing at well laid-out plans.

  Finally taking the plunge, she reached out and pushed down the call button.

  Then waited. And waited.

  Just when she was starting to think that either the notice had lied to her and there was actually nobody manning the agency at all or the investigator on duty had taken a look out of the widow, identified the after-hours caller and sneaked out the back while she was chilling her heels like an idiot who should have known better than to visit the former boyfriend that she upped and disappeared on thirteen years ago, a voice emanated from the intercom that made her heart all but lurch up into her throat. ‘Welcome to MPIA. Can I help you?’

  Martha experienced another one of those surreal moments in which it felt as though the world briefly stopped spinning and she was about to fall off it. Between witnessing her mother in the sad, awful state that Mr Ford’s death had left her in and then reuniting with Amanda at the gallery, she would have thought that she would be used to the reaction that her body made when her past abruptly came smashing into the present but apparently not. She had been a fool to think she could keep her emotions in check here. At least, not until she had completely pulled off the bandage and diagnosed exactly how deep the wounds went. Days earlier she would not have even considered the possibility that she might still be bleeding. Funny that.

  ‘Hello?’ the voice spoke again, as if she’d been stunned for too long. ‘Someone there?’

  Mentally shaking herself out of her stupor, she leant in towards where she imagined the microphone to be, moistened her suddenly dry lips and said, ‘Yeah. It’s me.’

  The long silence from the other end implied that the person inside recognised her voice too. Three words. That was all it seemingly took. Thirteen years and three words. Martha only just about managed to resist the urge to
add something else to the discourse, feeling like she had to explain her absence and sudden presence but not wanting to put pressure on him. He would let her in or he would tell her to go to hell. It was his decision to make. Not hers.

  His choice, sadly, did not completely take her by surprise. In a tone that was a little bit more inhospitable than his greeting, he asked, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We’re apparently supposed to talk. Amanda and Walsh sent me.’

  His small huff of derision was audible over the speaker. ‘Of course they did.’

  ‘Look,’ she said, trying not to react in the way she usually might, ‘if you want me to go, I will. It’s just that Amanda told me about the investigation and they’re under the impression that if you didn’t know that I was here then it would make things awkward – because this isn’t at all uncomfortable.’ She shook her head, laughing at her own idiocy. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll go.’

  As she was turning away, internally debating whether or not it would be more or less embarrassing if she went right on ahead and kicked herself all the way back to the gutter, the voice of her past companion came uttering out of the speaker again. ‘The door’s unlocked.’

  Blowing a breath that carried more relief than she would have liked, Martha pushed open the door, which was indeed unlocked and stepped over the threshold into the elusive Marytown Paranormal Investigation Agency. The entrance hall was an expansive square space with five doors leading off in a clockwise direction from the entrance around to a helical staircase that hugged the wall and twisted so that it met the upper floor facing the same direction as when she had entered the building. Most of the doors were shut so Martha couldn’t see what lay beyond them with the exception of the double doors which lay directly in front of her and held full panes of glass edged by pristine white frames. The space inside appeared to be a conference room of some sort, with a long rectangular table. Looking clockwise from the conference room, a long walnut reception desk filled the space between the wall and the stairs, seemingly guarding the office that was situated directly beyond it. The name on the gold plaque affixed to the door indicated that it was the office of a P. Maxwell who Martha recalled her sister had said was the man in charge.

  The only other visible plaque indicated that the first door to the left was Walsh’s office, its position indicating that it ran into the extension that came out from the building in a small L shape. Martha could not see an office that claimed to be assigned to the man she had come to talk to. Realising that it was probably upstairs, she wasn’t sure whether or not she was supposed to be making her own way up there and felt like a complete and utter misfit all over again.

  No, none of this was awkward at all.

  Taking the initiative, she closed the door behind her, checking to see whether or not it automatically locked. It did. For her own sanity’s sake, she also checked to see how one might go about unlocking it again should they decide that they needed to make a hasty exit. There was a corresponding security panel on the inside of where the intercom sat with a nice, easy to access button that had a little picture of a key on it to confirm that the locks were electronic. Okay then.

  The ascent up the staircase was like climbing the world’s biggest mountain; a task she had once, in fact, actually completed because it was part of a training exercise that an ally of hers thought would be good for self-reflection and endurance. That she would much rather be right back there, scaling the perilous cliffs with a small group of males who wished that she did not exist than heading into this meeting probably said more than she’d care to admit. The reception had already been lukewarm at best. She was preparing herself, body and soul, to losing all of her extremities to the potential frostbite she found at the summit. The upper hallway was narrow, branching off in two directions, left and right. Martha had absolutely no idea which way that she was supposed to be going so softly called out, bracing herself for the response like a timid field mouse, timing its movements to avoid being gobbled up by a hungry bird of prey.

  ‘In here,’ the voice came from a room off to the front, on the right-hand side. The room that she had seen illuminated from the driveway. Drawing in what must have been her hundredth deep inhalation of courage since arriving back in Marytown, she turned the corner and stepped into the doorway of what was a decent sized space that had everything that an office should have – filing cabinets, bulletin boards, shelves, computers, two desks, an appropriate amount of chairs and a face that she hadn’t lain her eyes upon for well over a decade.

  Michael Parker had always been attractive, from the time that he was an impossibly cute, well-mannered young boy who went out of his way to befriend her in pre-school to the lanky but athletically handsome teenager that all the girls had had a crush on but only one particular girl got to share their first kiss with. The years had continued to be kind, complementing his flawless olive complexion, the dark stubble that decorated his chin and the dark brow that made his pale blue eyes appear all the more striking. The ache that Martha felt in her chest blossomed into a tightness that seemed to only hurt more the longer that she stood there, looking at him. Perched almost dejectedly against the front edge of what must have been his workspace, he was looking somewhat dishevelled with the collar of his dress shirt loosened and his short brown hair mussed up as if he had recently been dragging a hand through it.

  ‘What the fuck, Martha,’ he muttered, voice a little deeper and gruffer than she recalled but still so achingly familiar. Shoulders that seemed to be a little bit wider slumped before he raised his right hand up and back to rub his neck as if it were suddenly very tense. The action made a bicep, that also seemed a bit more defined, flex in a way that was still oddly alluring.

  ‘I…’ She stumbled over the lump in her throat, not knowing what to say now that she was stood directly in front of him, still in the doorway of his office, like a spare part.

  ‘I almost don’t believe this.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re really here, aren’t you?’

  She nodded, then realised that he still wasn’t actually looking at her, so said, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you back for good?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘I only came to see Amanda. And my mother.’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded, as if that made sense and cleared some sort of confusion. ‘I’m sorry about what’s been happening to them. They’re good people. They deserve better.’

  ‘They do,’ Martha agreed, feeling a fresh new pang of guilt because whether he meant it that way or not, coming from him, the words felt like they had deeper implications.

  If he seemed to notice it in her voice, he did not let on, simply continued talking. ‘I’m not sorry that bastard finally got what’s been coming to him though,’ he said, nonchalant despite his disclosure. ‘In fact, I threw a little party on your behalf when I heard. Even baked a cake.’

  Martha couldn’t help but laugh softly. ‘You did, huh?’

  ‘Yeah, but only in my own head,’ he admitted. ‘Didn’t want people to think that I was being inappropriately gleeful at the death of such an upstanding citizen.’

  ‘Well I appreciate the thought. However inappropriate.’

  A while passed before either of them spoke again. Martha still could not really think of anything to say that, despite the way that they had discussed Mr Ford’s death, was not flippant or about something personal and therefore far too serious. It was as unnerving as it was gut-wrenching. They had never had trouble communicating before… everything changed.

  And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Everything had changed. And she had been the one that changed it. Repentance was a difficult, long and lonesome road that you had to walk along blindfolded so that you did not see where the potholes lay and pre-emptively avoid them. No, you had to hit each and every one. You had to fall face down in the dirt, scrape your knees and bruise your ego because there was no remorse to be found in the arrogant.

  She started to say something, anything but then he finally r
aised his stare. Right at her.

  The eye contact made Martha feel conflicted in a way that she did not really understand anymore. While she suddenly so desperately wanted to flee from the intensity of his wounded gaze she could not help but simultaneously want to jump right back in to those familiar cool pools to drift along for a while so she could forget the shitty, mean world that was out to get her.

  Parker drew in a deep breath. His next statement when it finally emerged was thankfully not an outright demand for the sordid truth but it was personal. ‘When you went missing, they speculated that you had run away. Because you had packed a bag and taken some of…’

  ‘That’s not what happened,’ Martha interjected, stepping further into the room as if she was trying to at least close the physical distance between them but he stretched a pointed hand out, indicating that he did not want that, halting her abruptly in her tracks. It felt like a hard slap across the face but she really couldn’t blame him. She deserved it. And so much more.

  Attempting to assuage the unhappiness, she said, ‘There are so many things that you don’t know about what happened all of those years ago, about what happened to me.’

  Eyes narrowing in her direction, he asked, ‘What things?’

  ‘I…’ She hesitated, shook her head. ‘God. I wish I could tell you. I really, really do.’

  ‘Gale came to see me, after she had met with you. She told me that you left because of how appallingly that man she chose to marry treated you. She said that you were safe, that you were with somebody that she trusted and where you needed to be.’ He paused for what felt like a deliberate beat. ‘Are you trying to tell me that your mother lied to me, Martha?’

  ‘No… Not exactly.’

  ‘Then what?’

  She stood and stared back at him, troubled that he seemed to now be interrogating her. Of course he had every right to but she couldn’t give him the answers that he was looking for. The truth was not a burden that she wanted him to have to carry. It was too dangerous and he meant far, far too much to her. Even after all this time.