by D. J. Palmer
“Eventually I heard the sirens. You must have heard them, too, because you glanced out the window, saw me. That’s when I ran. You see, Penny, I knew somebody else was involved, but I believed in my heart—or tricked myself into believing—that he came from the apartment above, that you were the only one in Rachel’s place that night, that you snapped and did those things you wrote about with Maria. I wanted it to be true so you’d be punished. That’s why I didn’t say anything. So many times … so many times I thought about coming clean, but every day that went by, my self-deception rooted deeper. I was disgusted with myself. I couldn’t concentrate at school … I saw Mom, so brokenhearted, and I thought about killing myself, but the lie I was perpetuating took on a life of its own. It all got so out of hand. The longer it went on, the harder it got to tell the truth.”
“You damn jerk,” I snapped at Ryan, looking at him incredulously. “Somebody else being in the house that night would have changed everything! Penny might not have been charged.”
“I doubt that,” you said, surprising me by coming to Ryan’s defense. “I was covered in blood, holding the murder weapon. I might not remember it, but I know what I’ve been told. The police would have been looking for a mystery accomplice, and they wouldn’t have realized that he was defending my case.”
“That’s probably true,” Mom concurred.
“So the guilt got to you,” I said.
Ryan nodded pitifully. “I let you down,” he said, swallowing hard. “And I’ll never forgive myself for that. But I’m hoping—make that praying—you’ll forgive me.”
Ryan templed his hands together in a prayer position. You reached across the table to cup your hands over his. You locked eyes with him and said in an assured voice that didn’t belong to the Penny I knew, “Ryan, you’re my brother. I forgive you.”
Our mom placed her hands over yours and Ryan’s. Then she turned her attention to me, but my hands were interlaced on the table, defiant. Mom said nothing, because she knew these decisions had to come from within.
Several moments passed in stillness, until eventually my hands unclasped like a flower coming into bloom. I placed my hand on top of Mom’s. And this will be the final shot of my film. Mom looking into the faces of her children, the many faces of them, seeing in each flickers of hurt, joy, anger, sadness, regrets—a plethora of emotions, moods, and attitudes that are merely projections of one self, one person, one family.
“Better together,” Mom said, reciting Dad’s favorite saying.
And we all responded, “Better together,” as though it were a sacred mantra.
EPILOGUE
HOPE STARTS HERE.
Someone had etched Clean Start’s inspirational motto in gold lettering on a black plaque, displayed prominently next to the front entrance of the rehab facility where Adam and dozens of other opioid addicts lived. Located in a leafy part of Massachusetts, where the only distractions were the rose gardens and walking paths, Clean Start featured beautifully manicured lawns with lush greenery and gorgeous landscaping designed to evoke a sense of calm.
Unlike Edgewater, the single-story main structure had plenty of windows to let in lots of natural sunlight, and the red clapboard siding gave the building the appearance of a rambling farmhouse. Mitch sat alone in the airy, nicely appointed reception room waiting for Adam to arrive. It was Caitlyn’s idea that Mitch and Adam have some alone time, a little father/son bonding, to see if he could be more successful than she’d been at assuaging his fears. With his release day only a week away, Adam was getting quite nervous about his future.
Mitch had rehearsed his speech on the forty-minute drive to the facility, but when Adam appeared from around a corner, he lost his words. Instead, Mitch focused on how strikingly handsome and healthy his son looked. Adam was blessed with a dimpled chin, now covered with a dotting of scruff, and prominent eyebrows. His rugged face no longer bore the gauntness typical of addicts who prefer drugs to food. During his stay at Clean Start, Adam’s tousled dark hair had grown to a moppish length, but his sunken eyes held the same haunted, fearful look that would have made him fit right in wandering the corridors of Edgewater.
Mitch knew the many pitfalls awaiting Adam out in the real world—joblessness, lack of purpose, a sense that he was doing time in life and there had to be a way to pass it more pleasurably. And there was a way, of course—a little pill he could take, or a shot in the arm, anything to make it all seem better if only for a while, until the world crumbled in on him again or he exited this existence entirely.
Mitch and Adam shared a hug to go along with their hellos, but conversation was limited to superficial observations: you look well, so do you, a recap of the drive, that sort of thing. They made their way to the dining hall, which had the ambience of an upscale Denny’s, and got their food at the salad bar. Mitch found a table for two in the back of the room where they’d have plenty of privacy. Now, he just needed the right words to say.
“Read the Globe article about you,” Adam said as he buttered some bread.
Mitch gave a slight chuckle. “Oh, yeah … I haven’t seen it. Heard it’s a long one though.”
“You’re a celebrity now, Pop,” said Adam. “They even printed the drawing she made … the one you helped her make, in color, too.”
“I didn’t realize that,” said Mitch. “I’d given the drawing back to Penny. I guess she gave her permission to print it.”
“It’s cool that all the triggers that caused Penny to remember what Isabella Boyd knew … the anchor pendant, the running bathwater, the book of ships, the ammonia, even the rope that Navarro guy used on her, were all in that drawing,” he said. “Pretty wild stuff. The article said Penny’s legally changing her name to Olivia Francone, dropping the Isabella even. Did you know that?”
Mitch might not have read the report in The Boston Globe, but he knew that detail. Grace had called to say hello, check in, and in the course of conversation she’d shared the news. It made sense to Mitch that Penny, as he thought of her, would want to give her alters a place to go, a blank canvas, a fresh start.
“How’s she doing?” asked Adam.
“She’s good from what I hear. But I’m not her doctor. She’s not in Edgewater anymore. How are you? That’s more my concern. Mom says you’re nervous about leaving here.”
Adam looked down at his salad, stabbing a tomato with his fork.
“I’m not like you, Dad. I’m not strong enough.”
Mitch held back a laugh. If only Adam knew how he had held himself in such low regard as a doctor and a father.
“You’re stronger than you know,” said Mitch. “Trust me … I’ve learned from experience.”
“You? You don’t have problems like mine, Dad.” Adam wiped tears from his eyes. He looked like he had more to say, but needed a moment to gather his composure. Eventually, he found his voice. “You know, when you’re driving down some street and it takes you, I dunno, say a minute to make that drive?”
Mitch nodded his answer.
“Well, every second of that minute, I’m craving heroin. So imagine you’re on a road that doesn’t end, Pop, doesn’t change, same mailboxes, same houses, same people walking their same dogs, over and over again, and no matter how much you want to turn, you can’t get off that damn road.
“Every single second of every day, I want a fix like I’m driving on that forever street. If it’s not the only thought I have, it’s tingling in the back of my mind like an obsession I can’t shake. You end up needing the drug like you need air, and that’s how it traps you and doesn’t ever, ever want to let you go.”
Mitch peered into his son’s eyes, again seeing the pain smoldering there. How could he expect him to beat this beast? The odds seemed as stacked against Adam as they were against Penny. But Penny did triumph over her adversity, thanks in part to Eve. Eve’s anger, that cutting sarcasm she wielded like a weapon, all the loathing and guarding she did to protect her psyche, all that was done with a purpose.
What Eve was really asking for with her caustic remarks and standoffish persona was to be left alone, to be forgotten. It made sense to Mitch that this would be her desire. She fully expected to be found guilty of murder, to spend her life in prison, so naturally she’d rebelled against those trying to convince her otherwise. Hope hurt, so it was better to keep everyone at arm’s length and take control of her destiny by accepting her doomed fate. Adam didn’t have an Eve to help him keep out the world, but he knew he could push another needle into his arm, and it would tell him exactly how he should think and feel.
Eve was Penny’s safety net. Heroin was Adam’s.
Mitch felt compelled to say something profound to his son—be the father his father never was to him—but even with all his training in psychotherapy, he couldn’t think of what to say. He kept seeing a bleak future for his boy. Either he’d boomerang back to Clean Start, or far, far worse.
A plea Adam had made to Mitch during a prior visit came back to him.
Be there for me … I need your support, not your expectations …
Mitch had helped save Penny, saved Eve, saved them all from a doomed future. In a way, Edgewater had been Mitch’s safety net, as it had given him a renewed sense of purpose. His short time there not only opened his eyes to the value of his work, but of himself as well. With Penny (or Olivia) now exonerated, Mitch felt free to leave that place behind forever, and thanks to his newfound notoriety, he had his pick of jobs. Recruiters hadn’t stopped calling, and the Globe article would certainly keep the interest going. The reality was that Mitch felt compelled to stay at Edgewater, much to Ruth Whitmore’s delight, so he could help others like Penny find their way home.
If he could be there for Penny, Mitch knew he could there for Adam, right here, right now. Mitch took a sip of seltzer water. He closed his eyes briefly, and a flash of Adam as a boy hit him so hard it took his breath away. He could see his son’s sweet smile, feel his tiny body curled up against him as they sat on the couch watching a movie, feel the weight of him as Mitch carried him up the stairs to his bedroom after he’d fallen asleep. He couldn’t carry Adam now, but he could still hold him in high regard, be proud to tell others that this was his son, what a wonderful person he was, what a blessing—and mean it.
Mitch set down his drink, dabbing at his beard with a cloth napkin. He held his son’s gaze, and the connection they shared at that moment was, for once, real and honest.
“I’m sorry,” Mitch eventually said. “I’m not talking about what’s happened to you—Lord knows, I’m so sorry about that.” His voice shook, so he took a couple deep breaths to get calm. “What I mean to say is, I’m sorry I haven’t always been there for you … not in a way that’s served you best.”
“But you have been,” Adam said assuredly. He tossed his hands in the air as if he’d tossed away any debate about his father’s dedication. “You saved my life. Narcan? Remember?”
“Yeah, I did, and I’m so damn grateful, I can’t tell you. But I’ve been angry, too. I thought this disease … that it’s your fault … that you did this to yourself and you could have stopped it. Or I’d ask myself, why’d you do it to me, to your mom? And I held on to those thoughts and that anger, and I let it eat me up inside, and then I’d feel guilty and hate myself for not giving you what you need, what you deserved, which was my support and love. I know you’re sick, same as Penny—” Mitch hadn’t meant to bring up her name, but she’d been so embedded in his consciousness it came out almost like a reflex.
“So what are you saying, Dad? That I’ve got multiple personalities?” Adam sounded amused.
“No … I’m not … well—” Mitch paused as a thought came to him. “Actually, yes, I’m saying that, but in a different way. There’s the You Adam and there’s the Drug Adam, and they are—in certain respects—one personality fractured into two, battling within the same self. But just like with Penny, that split is not your fault.” Mitch paused to collect his thoughts. Eventually, the words came to him, and he hoped they were the right ones.
“I get that people think addiction is a choice, not a disease. But I know better. My depression isn’t a choice. You said it, Adam—the way the drugs make you feel, all those heightened senses, the beautiful emotion that flooded you … there’s a chemical reason why the drugs connected with you the way they did … a lack of dopamine receptors in your brain, I suspect, so you were always predestined in some way, shape, or form, to seek out pleasure in other, less natural ways.
“And the more you used drugs, the more your brain chemistry changed—your prefrontal cortex shrank, and it affected your decision-making drastically. But the good news is that recovery is a choice, same as loving you unconditionally is one, as well. I won’t abandon you, son, not now, not ever … so when you get out there—” Mitch pointed a finger to the dining hall window, just like he’d done so many times at Edgewater to indicate the vast, unknowable world beyond its secure walls—“know that you’ll never, ever walk alone. I haven’t done my best by you, but I’ll be there every time to lift you up if you fall down, and that’s my promise. It’s the best I can do.”
Adam sat with it a moment, then rose quickly and came toward Mitch with such purposeful steps that he worried he’d angered his son. To his great relief, Adam bent over and wrapped his father in a tight embrace as thick tears came streaming down his face. When they broke apart, Mitch saw it in Adam’s eyes, on his beautiful, battle-weary face—those were the exact words his boy needed to hear.
Those were perhaps the truest words Mitch had ever spoken, for they came straight from the heart.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is always one of my favorite bits of writing to do, and it comes at the end of the line, after the book has been edited, copyedited, and reviewed with a fine-tooth comb. Here, I get to say thanks.
These books are a team effort, and many people lent their time and expertise to help me get the details right. If there are any failings here—oversights, misrepresentation of facts or procedures—the error is mine and mine alone. To that end, I want to extend my deepest thanks to Attorney William J. Bladd, for his advice on all legal matters. Dr. Joel Solomon, my first cousin (do you see a theme here?), provided me with a good primer on dissociative identity disorder and helped me immensely with Mitch’s character and the work he does. Dr. Ethan Prince, yet another highly accomplished cousin, was similarly helpful with my medical-themed questions.
As always, I need to thank my mother, Judy Palmer, for her many reads, suggestions, thoughtful edits, and encouragement along the way. Thanks to Sue Miller, for her proofreading skills, Danielle Girard, a bestselling thriller writer and fellow client of my literary agency, for her thoughtful and insightful feedback, and Zoe Quinton for the same. And special thanks to Barbara Wright and Donna Prince, my eagle-eyed readers who helped catch the errors I missed. Early drafts often look quite different from the final version, and in the case of The Perfect Daughter, that difference was especially pronounced. To that end, my appreciation goes to my agent, Meg Ruley, and Rebecca Scherer, who helped me to see areas for improvement. But nobody made more contributions to this novel than my brilliant editor, Jennifer Enderlin, who has a remarkable gift for seeing what might bog down the story and suspense. Fixing it is my job.
Behind the scenes at my publisher, St. Martin’s Press, Danielle Prielipp and Sarah Bonamino as well as others in the marketing, sales, and public relations departments, have done everything possible to make sure The Perfect Daughter finds its readership, and have done so with the added challenge of a global pandemic. I wrote this novel before the pandemic struck, and I believe the book is going to be read long after we’ve returned to more familiar ways of living. To that end, I intentionally did not modify the story to reflect the current times.
One thing that won’t change with the years is the struggle many people have with mental illness. Dissociative identity disorder, which features prominently in this novel, is a very complex and multifaceted condition that is ofte
n incorrectly dramatized in books, TV, and the movies. I did a substantial amount of research on the disorder and prioritized portraying the character with DID as true to life as possible. Where I took too many liberties, I did so for the sake of the story, and to anyone who feels I fell short of my goal, I offer my apologies.
A heartfelt thank you goes to Jessica, for taking care of everything else as I was busy writing, as she’s done for many years, and to my children, for being constant sources of joy and inspiration. For me, the satisfaction comes when I hear from delighted readers. It is a privilege that people take time out of their busy lives for my story, and they do so with the expectation that I will take them on a journey that will be thrilling, surprising, and a blast to read. I hope I have wildly exceeded your expectations.
—D. J. Palmer, New Hampshire, 2021
ALSO BY D. J. PALMER
The New Husband
Saving Meghan
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
D. J. Palmer is the author of numerous critically acclaimed suspense novels. A former e-commerce entrepreneur, D. J. Palmer now resides in New Hampshire and is currently at work on a new book. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4