Don't Scream

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “I needed to say I was sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For what I said.”

  Miraculously, she’s sustaining a conversation. And every second, she’s trying wildly to figure out a way to save herself, and her baby.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said…”

  She’s startled by the choked emotion in his voice, but she does her best not to react. She can’t jar him out of the past, because then he’ll remember what he means to do now, in the present.

  “I said…something terrible…But I loved Fee, and I knew if she ever found out about me and Rachel…because it was just once. I gave her a ride from the Rat, and—”

  Brynn is shaking her head in disbelief. Rachel slept with Pat? Rachel was carrying Pat’s child?

  “Why did I say it?” he asks plaintively. “I told her to get rid of it. Our own child,” he whispers, tortured.

  And in that instant, Brynn can only imagine how Rachel must have felt.

  How she herself would feel if someone told her to get rid of the tiny life that’s taken hold in her own womb.

  “Rachel was such a live wire, she was livid. She threatened to tell Fiona, and she took off. I let her go, but the more I thought about it…Well, I ended up going over to the sorority house to find Rachel and tell her I didn’t mean it.”

  No, Brynn thinks, watching him. You did mean it, and of course it made Rachel angry. You were afraid she was going to tell Fee, so you came after her, to do God only knows what, to stop her from talking.

  “You saw us leaving the house, and followed us up to the Prom, didn’t you, Pat? You saw her fall.”

  He nods. “After you left, I went down there. She was dead.”

  Like Tildy said.

  “So I carried her away,” Pat goes on in a monotone. “I buried her way up in the woods. I didn’t want her to be found. I was afraid…”

  Afraid that if her body ever turned up, her pregnancy would have been revealed. And connected to him. And Fiona would have found out.

  Now the pieces are falling into place.

  Oh, God.

  “It all would have been okay, Brynn, if Fee had just loved me the way I loved her. But she robbed me. She stole my baby.”

  “No, Pat, Fee gave you Ashley.”

  “She destroyed my babies,” Pat roars.

  “You mean the one Rachel was carrying? But Rachel fell, Pat. You said yourself she was dead when you—”

  “She was…but maybe the baby wasn’t yet. If the four of you had gotten help right away, the baby might have survived.”

  Yes, the baby he had told Rachel to destroy, Brynn thinks incredulously. He’s making no sense. He’s insane. And he’s going to kill her, too, like he did the others.

  “Pat, you can’t blame us for your baby’s death.”

  “Babies’ deaths.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

  “But I don’t.”

  “Shut up. Sit.” The arm jerks her roughly, forces her down into a pulled-out chair. “I’m going to sing to you.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up!”

  She clamps her jaw shut, seeing the mad gleam in Pat’s dark eyes as he begins to sing “Happy Birthday.”

  “Can you at least stay for a cup of coffee?” Brynn’s stepmother asks Garth as his sons go with their grandfather to play with the train set in the basement. “It’ll be ready in two minutes.”

  On edge, Garth tells her, “I really need to get back.” But he eyes the countertop, where fragrant coffee is hissing into the filter and dripping steadily into the glass carafe.

  He hasn’t slept well in…

  Years, he thinks ruefully, and rubs his raw eyes. But these last few weeks have been worse than ever. And last night was the most brutal of all.

  But he and Brynn can get through this together. Now that everything is out in the open, they’ll work on mutual forgiveness. Garth figures that every marriage has rough spots—especially when the kids are little and money is tight.

  But this, too, shall pass, he’s been telling himself. They love each other. That, he never doubts. He’s loved Brynn from that first night. He was a fool to keep things going with Tildy on the side. His only excuse is that he was young and brash and scared to death of commitment.

  But I made one. And when I took those vows with Brynn, I meant them. I never broke them. I never will.

  Yes, Tildy came on to him that night in Boston. And, yes, he might have been tempted—for a few seconds. But there was no way he would risk hurting, or losing, his wife.

  Tildy seemed to understand. She’d always had an easy-come, easy-go attitude where he was concerned, anyway.

  “Go home to your wife,” she said somewhat wistfully, “and give her a hug. She’s luckier than she realizes.”

  We both are, Garth thought at the time.

  And still does.

  Someday the kids will be more self-sufficient. And, someday, hopefully sooner than later, they’ll have an additional cash flow. He’s been killing himself to try and get—

  “You look like you could use a jolt of caffeine,” Sue comments, and Garth opens his eyes to see her watching him. “I’ll give you a go-cup if you want to take one with you. I don’t want you falling asleep on the road.”

  Right. He felt dangerously drowsy on the drive over. Thank goodness for the jumbo bag of M&Ms he bought when he stopped for gas, and for Caleb haltingly reading aloud from the backseat, needing prompting with a difficult word every couple of lines.

  Eventually he stopped reading and started complaining about an upset stomach, but they made it here without his getting sick.

  “So…” Sue takes a plastic insulated coffee mug from the cupboard and holds it up to him with a questioning look.

  “Thanks,” Garth tells Sue. “That would be good.”

  She nods and sets it on the counter beside the coffeemaker.

  “How’s Brynn feeling?”

  “She’s hanging in there.”

  “That’s good.” Sue is wearing a strange expression, as though she expects him to say something else.

  Garth shrugs. “You know, she’s been through hell lately, so she’s definitely seen better days, but…”

  “I’m glad you’re doing something for her birthday. She needs—”

  “Sue!” Brynn’s father calls urgently from the basement.

  She hurries down the steps with Garth on her heels. They find Caleb standing in a pool of vomit.

  “I told you I felt carsick,” he says accusingly to Garth, who looks around for something to use to clean his son and the floor.

  “And I told you that you probably shouldn’t have been eating all those M&Ms and reading.”

  “But Mommy throws up all the time,” Caleb points out as Sue lifts him out of the pool of vomit, “and she doesn’t eat M&Ms and she hardly ever reads anymore.”

  “Yeah, well, Mommy—” Garth stops short, remembering something. “What do you mean, Mommy throws up all the time?”

  “She does. Every day.”

  “Every day? When does Mommy throw up?”

  “Before breakfast and school.”

  Garth shifts his gaze thoughtfully away from his son and finds himself locking gazes with Sue. In her eyes, he unexpectedly finds the answer to a question he didn’t even realize he was asking.

  She stares for a long time at the medical record in her hand; an exact duplicate of one she keeps in her file cabinet at home.

  It’s locked, of course.

  About as securely as Pat’s file cabinet was, she acknowledges grimly.

  So he knew…for how long?

  When did he find out Fiona had been pregnant with their second child?

  And that she terminated the pregnancy just before she told him she wanted a divorce…

  It was a mistake. Not the divorce. The abortion. It was the worst mistake of her life.

  She just di
dn’t realize that until these past few days.

  Only when she was able to step outside of her own life could she really see it clearly.

  Fiona Fitzgerald had always believed she had everything that mattered, and she was right about that.

  Just wrong about those things being her business, her status, her connections.

  When the end came, none of that mattered.

  Seeing the grief in Ashley’s eyes awakened something deep inside of her. Some maternal instinct she had never even realized she possessed…

  Until it was too late.

  Or is it?

  She can continue to live this life, a remorseful coward hiding in plain sight.

  Or she can find the courage to reclaim her own, live with the consequences—and try to change. Try to become the kind of parent whose daughter won’t hesitate when asked again, one day, what she loved about her mother.

  She sits for a long time, mulling it over, wondering if she has what it takes.

  Then, with a trembling hand, she reaches for the phone and dials.

  “Cedar Crest police.”

  She hesitates.

  Then, closing her eyes and focusing on Ashley’s face, she says clearly, “My name is Fiona Fitzgerald.”

  “Happy Birthday, dear Bry-ynn…”

  Never before did Brynn realize how inherently mournful the melody is. Especially the way he’s singing it, a cappella, his voice low and eerily close to her ear as he stands behind her chair.

  She can see his reflection in the kitchen window across the room; can see the silver glint of the knife he’s holding poised at his side.

  As soon as he’s done singing, he’s going to use it.

  Garth will walk into this house and see what she saw when she walked into Fiona’s. He’ll be a widower, her boys will be motherless, her unborn child will be buried with her.

  No!

  Rage boils up inside of Brynn.

  “Happy Birthday to—”

  She jerks to her feet without warning, slamming her head up and back with all her might.

  Her skull makes painful contact and she hears a grunt behind her as Pat, caught off guard, falls backward.

  The knife drops from his hand and she lunges for it.

  But he’s faster than she is, it’s closer to him.

  His hand is already closing around the handle; it’s too late for her to grab it. Her only chance to save herself now is to run.

  She scoots forward, crawling under the table, kicking a chair into his path as she gets to her feet. But he’s right behind her, leaping on her with a snarl, dragging her back. He has a brawny arm around her shoulders now, his other hand yanking her hair hard so that her throat arches back.

  There’s no escape now.

  She sees the metallic flash as he wields his weapon overhead, then swoops it toward her helplessly arching neck.

  She’s going to die.

  She’s going to leave Garth, and…

  Oh, dear God, my babies, is her last despondent thought…

  Before the blast of gunfire erupts out of nowhere.

  I’m not so sure she’s even what you’re looking for.

  Kylah’s words haunt Isaac as he walks slowly uptown toward the oddly empty apartment he thought would feel like home if Rachel ever walked through the door.

  That’s never going to happen.

  Rachel is gone.

  Whether she’s dead or has run away; whether she had his baby or was ever expecting it in the first place…

  She’s gone.

  Isaac stops at the wide crosstown intersection at Fourteenth Street, staring at the red DON’T WALK sign on the opposite curb.

  Rachel is never coming back, not the way she was.

  She isn’t going to stroll back into his life someday and complete it.

  No, that—making it complete—is up to him.

  So maybe, he thinks, looking over his shoulder, it’s time to let go.

  Maybe…

  The light has changed; a white WALK signal beckons.

  Isaac hesitates.

  Then he turns and retraces his steps, all the way back to Kylah’s.

  Pacing the porch of the cabin, Quincy watches flashbulbs popping like grounded lightning bolts amid the trees beyond the length of yellow crime scene tape. He pauses to sip from a bottle of cold water one of the investigators handed him, as another set of tires crunch along the gravel lane.

  Probably the medical examiner’s car, he thinks, and idly turns his head to see if he’s right.

  Wrong.

  Wrong again, he thinks bitterly. Your gut instinct is on one hell of a roll, Hiles.

  It’s another squad car; the place is swarming with them.

  Then he sees Deb Jackson waving at him from the passenger’s seat of this one. She’s out of the car before it stops.

  Quincy holds his breath, bracing himself for bad news.

  “She’s alive,” Deb calls.

  He sags against the porch rail.

  Brynn. Brynn is alive.

  Thank God.

  Thank God.

  He lets out a deep breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding.

  “What happened?” he asks Deb when she’s reached his side.

  “The cops found the Jeep you described in the driveway at the Saddlers’ house and ran the plate. They traced it to Patrick Hagan—”

  “Fiona Fitzgerald’s ex?”

  Deb nods vigorously. “She had just called to report that he—”

  “Wait, who called?” Quincy asks, confused.

  “Fiona. Long story short, she’s alive.”

  “Jesus. ‘Long story short’?” He snorts. “Are you kidding me? What happened?”

  “Do you really want me to get into the details now?” At his look, she elaborates, “Her twin was the one who was killed—she had shown up at Fitzgerald’s place to surprise her for their birthday and Hagan mistook her for her sister.”

  Quincy’s mind is racing. “So it was Hagan? We never even looked his way.”

  “Why would we? Classic psychopath, from what I can tell. The guy oozed charm—and he manipulated the hell out of everyone who crossed his path.”

  “So Fiona Fitzgerald is alive?” Quincy reiterates, stuck on that. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. And so is Brynn. Our guys surrounded the house, got up to the back deck of her house, saw what was going on, and shot Hagan through the kitchen window. He’s in critical, but they think he’ll pull through so we’ll at least get some answers.”

  Quincy nods, for now, his concern on the real victim here. “So Brynn is fine, then?”

  Deb hesitates.

  His stomach turns over. “You don’t look so sure.”

  “Hagan didn’t hurt her, but…Quincy, she was pregnant.”

  “Was?” He curses under his breath. Had he known about that—

  “They took her to the hospital,” Deb tells him. “I think she’s in trouble.”

  “Brynn…Are you awake?”

  No.

  She’s asleep.

  And she wants to stay that way. It can’t be morning yet. She’s so exhausted…

  “Brynn, come on, wake up.”

  She opens her eyes reluctantly and sees Garth. “Just a few more—”

  Wait a minute.

  She isn’t at home in bed, and it isn’t morning, it’s—

  Fragments flash back into her mind: the cabin, Pat, the knife, the knife…

  “The baby!” she wails, trying to sit up, realizing she’s in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV. A blinding pain in her head stops her and she sinks back against the pillow with an anguished sob.

  “It’s okay,” Garth leans in to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand. “You were spotting, the doctor said, probably from stress—but you’re still pregnant.”

  Still pregnant.

  Garth knows.

  He knows, and…

  He’s smiling at her.

  “Are you sure the baby is—�
�

  “They did a sonogram. You were probably too out of it from the concussion to remember, but they got a strong heartbeat. The baby is fine. And you will be, too. We will be fine.”

  She realizes what he means and, in a flood of relief, that he’s right.

  “It was an accident, Garth. The baby. I swear I didn’t—”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “It doesn’t matter how it happened.” He shrugs. “I had no idea how much I wanted this baby until I found out it might not make it. I’ve never prayed so hard in my life.”

  “How did you find out?”

  He hesitates. “The police told me. I called from the Cape to make sure you were still okay up at that cabin, and they told me what had happened, and that you had been taken to the hospital.”

  “Garth, it wasn’t Rachel,” she says, needing him to know. “It was—”

  “Hagan. Shh, I know. Don’t even think about him right now. It’s over.”

  She closes her eyes, trying to shut out the image of Pat’s menacing face.

  No, think of something else. Something pleasant.

  “What about the boys?” she asks, smiling faintly. “How are they?”

  “They’re fine. They’re with your father and Sue, probably eating junk and playing Candyland.”

  Brynn manages a weary smile. “That’s good. I have so much to tell you, Garth.”

  “I have some things to tell you, too. But there’ll be plenty of time for talking later. And for visitors, too. There’s someone waiting to see you.”

  Yes, she thinks, closing her eyes contentedly.

  There will be plenty of time for everything.

  After all that worrying about how he was going to react…

  He’s still here.

  And he wants this baby as much as she does.

  Brynn drifts off into a pleasant dream in which Fiona is alive again, holding her hand and telling her that everything’s going to be okay from now on.

  EPILOGUE

  “Happy Birthday to you…Happy Birthday to you…Happy Birthday, dear Brynn…Happy Birthday to you.”

  The song ends with a chorus of cheers, and Jeremy urging, “Make a wish before you blow them out, Mommy!”

  Brynn nods, looking at the concentric circles of flickering candles on the bakery cake. There are thirty-two. One for every year of her life, plus an extra for luck.