And yet she was positive their courtship had never been as relaxed as this. Maybe it was because she was older, and married, and knew herself better. But it occurred to her that, had she been single, she would have gone to bed with the American journalist she had only met the previous morning.
"Wanna share? It must be something good."
Mags jumped, caught daydreaming. She blushed, despite herself. "I'm sorry?"
"Don't be." Patrice's expression was direct. For a second, she half-considered telling him, which deepened her blush. He smiled. "It looked like you were thinking about something that made you happy. You smiled. I was just being rudely curious, wondering what that might be."
Flustered, Mags finished the wine in her glass and stood up. "Oh, nothing, not really," she said.
"Another glass?" Patrice was draining his.
Mags shook her head. Now she was standing, she realised she was tipsy. "No, thanks. Not for me. You go ahead."
"Nah, I'm done too. But I insist you try the bourbon here. It's one of my favourites."
"All right," said Mags. "A small one, though."
She threaded her way through the tables to the restroom at the back. Looking in the mirror as she touched up her make-up, she frowned at herself. She was here to find out, if she could, what was going on with Tam. Now she was flirting with a stranger. Martino might be charming, and refreshingly direct, but she was married. She would fly up to Boston, spend a couple of nights with Bradley and his folks, then go home. If Patrice was right, the killer would be caught soon. When that happened, surely whatever Tam was going through would stop.
She nodded at her reflection. Yes. It would stop.
Mags turned the wrong way leaving the restroom and found herself in the bar area of the hotel. A sign on the wall pointed to the reception, so she came back into the restaurant through the other door. When she got close to the table, she saw that Patrice had a piece of paper in his hand. He was studying it, keeping it low to the table, and his eyes kept flicking up towards the door leading to the restrooms. She slowed, stepping to her right to get a better view of the table. The first thing she noticed was her handbag on the seat next to him. Then she saw what he was looking at. It was Tam's picture of the Hinesville house.
She walked up to the table.
Patrice looked up. "Shit."
"Shit indeed." Mags held out her hand. He re-folded the picture and gave it to her. She put in her bag and took her jacket from the back of the chair.
"Sit down, Mags."
"I don't think so, Mr Martino. I don't think we have anything more to say to each other."
She walked away, but he raised his voice.
"Mags."
She turned. He pointed at the glass of bourbon in front of her place. "Sit," he said. She didn't move. He looked up at her. "I've been straight with you from the moment we met, but I'm not sure you've said even a single word of truth since you first got in my car. Is your name even Mags Barkworth? Because I could find no writer of that name."
"Yes, it Is. I used to write under my maiden name. And, whatever you think of me, it gives you no excuse to go through my things."
"I apologise for that, Mags. Here's the thing. I like you. I knew you were spinning me a tall tale early on, but I didn't think you were doing it for the wrong reasons. Even though you were lying about something, I trusted you. I still do. You haven't told me why you're really here, but I'm guessing you have your reasons. I just wish you'd been able to tell me what they are. Please, sit down. This bourbon is not cheap."
The moment stretched out. Patrice did nothing to fill the silence. He put his hands on the table, looked at her and waited.
Mags sat down. "You're right," she said. "I'm not a reporter. I'm a mother, and I'm worried about my daughter."
"Now that is something I know about. Try me."
Mags looked him in the eye. If she still hoped to find out anything that might help her on this trip, Patrice would be the man to turn to. He was researching the murders, and he'd written about similar cases. Her instinct was to trust him. Then again, that same instinct told her to distrust her husband. God, she was tired.
"Fuck it," she said.
"Excuse me?"
Mags lift her glass and tried the bourbon. An ice cube touched her upper lip as the smooth fiery liquid dropped down her throat. "You heard me," she said. "I said fuck it. Wow. That is good bourbon."
"Yup."
"Okay, Patrice, I'll tell you why I'm here. But swear it's off the record."
She waited. Patrice nodded. "Whatever you tell me is between you and me, I promise. On my daughter's life."
She told him everything. Patrice was as good as his word, listening without judgement. He made notes, a mixture of shorthand and what looked like doodles, drawing arrows from one idea to another. His questions were pertinent, and useful. He asked about Tam's internet access at home, how much TV she watched, and how conversant she was with technology. He asked about her friends and her interests. When Mags told him about her love of PG Woodhouse, Martino smiled.
"Sounds like a great kid."
"Cheers. She is. I'm lucky. I mean, we are lucky." She felt herself blush again at the omission, but Patrice didn't seem to notice. He put his pen down and sat back. His bourbon was untouched. He took a sip.
"Okay, there is a simple explanation, but you won't like it."
Mags leaned forward. "What I like or don't like doesn't matter. I want to help her. You didn't see her face when she drew the picture. It was scary. Like she wasn't there."
"That's one part of the explanation. It is possible she is having absence seizures. Possible, but unlikely. Still, you should get her checked out."
"I've heard of those. Epilepsy, right?"
"Right. My daughter's best friend suffers from them. She was the only one in her year who didn't learn to drive, because she never knew when she might have a seizure."
"Well, that's one good thing about having a scientist husband. Right from the start, right from when Tam was born, especially since…" There was no need to tell Patrice about Clara. Mags had never spoken to anyone else about her other daughter apart from her family, and Ria. Too painful. Not relevant, either. "Tam has had blood tests four times a year since she was born. Bradley insists we all have a full medical twice a year. Something like this would be picked up."
"Maybe. I said it was unlikely. But it's not impossible. I still think you should look into it."
"I will. But Bradley is a genetic researcher at one of the top companies in Boston. If there was something wrong with Tam, he would have found it. What was the other part of your explanation?"
Patrice picked up his glass and finished his bourbon. "Look, Mags, every mother thinks they know their kid. And it sounds like you two are real close."
"We are."
"Try not to take this too hard. Girls are programmed to push themselves away from their parents in adolescence. Usually later in their teens, but girls mature faster. Has Tam reached puberty?"
Mags thought back to the day of the first picture, the mixture of pride, sadness, and worry when Tam had told her about her first period. "Yes," she confirmed
"Then I'm probably right."
"Right about what?"
"Mags, Tam may be more conversant with technology than you suspect. You and I remember a time when the only computers we saw were in movies. It's different for our kids. They've already forgotten more about how technology than we will ever know. They're always a few steps ahead of us. No need to hide a secret diary under your mattress if you can use the latest software."
"But I checked her computer. I told you. She hadn't even cleared her internet history. There was nothing to see, Patrice."
Patrice sighed. It was the sigh of a man who wasn't enjoying himself.
"I'll wager a hundred bucks here and now that your daughter is using a different internet browser for what she really wants to look at. The one you checked is the one she's happy for you to see, which is why she
hasn't cleared her history."
"No. No, she wouldn't do that. I'm not being naïve. I understand that mothers and daughters drift apart, particularly in the teenage years. But it hasn't happened yet, with Tam and me. We are, we are — "
"Tight? A team? Friends, as well as mother and daughter?" Patrice spread his arms out, palms open. "I'm sorry, Mags. I'm not making fun of you. I learned some of this the hard way. With Hannah it was drugs."
He looked away from her for a moment. Mags put her hand on his. "I'm so sorry, Patrice. That must have been awful. But, I promise you, I know Tam, I understand her."
Patrice's smile was weary. "She's a smart girl, right?"
"Yes. She is."
"Here's another guess, then. I bet there was something in her history that wasn't entirely innocent, but nothing to make you worry. Something to make you think she wasn't hiding anything. Am I right?"
Mags remembered Tam's search for erections. Shit. She noticed her hand was still resting on Martino's. She moved it.
Patrice saw her expression change. "If she knows how to install and hide another browser, I'll bet she can do it so you'll never find it. But at least there is an explanation. And I know this won't help much now, but when you've had some time, you'll know I'm right. It's not unusual for kids to get obsessed with violent crime. Some like to watch horror films before they're allowed to. Some read about murders. They might even collect knives, or other weapons. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it means nothing. They're just exploring the worst of the adult world. If Tam is obsessing over a serial killer, at least she's chosen one on another continent. It's a safe way for her to look at the awful things one human being can do to another, the things her parents protect her from. And I'm guessing you're a protective parent."
Mags raised a hand to get the attention of a waiter. "Another two bourbons," she said. "Large ones, please."
Dammit," said Patrice. "I hate to be the one to point this out, Mags. It's not easy to face. Your relationship with your daughter is changing, but you two sound as if you have a fantastic foundation. This is probably nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."
"I feel like a fool," said Mags, as the drinks arrived. "I flew halfway across the world so an Italian-American journalist could tell me my daughter is better at using the internet than I am."
"Sorry."
"Still doesn't explain the drawings," she said, taking a sip. Her eyes were heavy.
"No," agreed Patrice, "it doesn't. Your husband's explanation may well be the right one. Most of my breakthroughs—when I've been writing an investigative piece—come out of the blue. In the middle of the night, sometimes in the shower. The subconscious mind is still the great unknown as far as neuroscience is concerned."
Mags stood up. "Thank you for today. In fact, thank you for everything. I'm going to bed."
Patrice raised his glass. "I won't be far behind. Nine o'clock okay for breakfast? I'll drive you back to Atlanta."
Mags leaned down, her lips brushing his unshaven cheek. "You're a good man, Patrice Martino."
"Yeah. So my bartender tells me."
By the time she got back to her room, Mags was wiped out. She hadn't realised the effect of carrying this secret, not talking to anyone about it. Then coming out to America, putting the Atlantic Ocean between her and Tam. It was just gone midnight when Mags got into bed. She plugged her phone in to charge. Seven-fifteen in London. She called Kit's home number.
"Mags? That you? Hope it's not too boring over there. You're missing all the fun. How was Margaret Mitchell?"
"Who?"
"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."
Mags remembered the excuse she'd given for flying to Atlanta rather than straight to Boston."Oh, I didn't hear you right. Not a great line. Yes, amazing. The houses are incredible. Like being in the movie. You all okay?"
"Everything is fine, Sis. Hang on, I'll fetch her." A few seconds later, there was a breathless giggle at the other end of the line.
"We're making pizza, Mum. It's brilliant. We made the bases first, and Uncle Kit had the video on YouTube where they show you how to spin it on your finger. Mine went in my hair, and Uncle Kit's went out of the window. It was top notch. We're going to watch TV when we eat the pizzas. I put pineapple and olives and mushrooms on mine. And three different cheeses. It smells amazing, Mum. I wish you were here. What's it like in America? Is Atlanta different to Boston? When are you seeing Dad? Rosa has got a puppy. She wants to bring it round to the house. Can she? Can we have a puppy?"
Tam was always like this when she spent any time with Kit. Mags rolled her eyes, then frowned as she remembered her conversation with Patrice. She didn't want to believe that Tam could deceive her. "No, I don't think we can have a puppy. It wouldn't be much fun for it, where we live."
"We could always move out of London. Get a country pile. Then could we have a puppy?"
Mags laughed. "We're not planning on moving just yet, Tam. But Rosa can bring her puppy over and you can play with it."
Tam squealed. "Thanks, Mum. I have to go, my pizza's ready. Love you love you love you, come home soon, I miss you. Love you love you love you, bye, bye…"
Kit came back on the line.
"We're going to eat, Sis. Everything okay over there? Anything you want to share with your twin brother?"
Mags wished she had confided in him. She would rectify that when she got home. "I'm back on Sunday. Let's talk about it then."
"Sounds like a plan. Maybe we can discuss my impending separation at the same time. David is eating a pizza with anchovies and pineapple on it. Legal grounds for divorce, surely?"
"A criminal offence," confirmed Mags. "Enjoy your pizza. Thanks for looking after her. Love you."
"Love you too."
Mags woke twice during the night, both times after the same nightmare.
She was standing in her kitchen at home, facing the fridge. Tam's first picture was on it. It looked so real the rest of the room seemed dreamlike. She took a step towards the fridge, and the kitchen blurred around her. The familiar room seemed pixelated, half-formed, like a photograph downloading in the early days of dial-up internet. But Tam's drawing was sharp, crisp, real. She took another step. The picture expanded to meet her. Another step, and her foot came down on dusty dry earth. She was back at the Hinesville house, but this time, the world was a charcoal picture. There were no colours, only gradations of black, grey, and white. The front door was open, and she walked towards it. As she stepped into the house, she wasn't in the kitchen, she was standing upstairs, outside the children's bedroom. The door was ajar. Just a few inches, but it was enough. The charcoal world darkened around her, and she heard a child struggling to breathe. She ran towards the door but it got no closer. The awful sounds from inside the bedroom got worse, and she ran faster and faster, her sides hurting with the effort, her lungs burning. All at once, the strangled gasps ceased. She burst through the door and woke up in the darkness of her hotel room.
The second time Mags woke up, it was 6:10. She got out of bed and opened the curtains, looking out over the unfamiliar town. After a shower, she packed a bag and pulled a chair over to the window. From there, she watched the sun rise over the town where a killer had murdered a family, then tucked them back into their beds as if they had drifted off in their sleep. And he was still out there, looking for his next victims.
Chapter Twenty
Mags called Bradley from a diner a few miles off the I-16 on the outskirts of a small town called Dublin. The town names were a strange mixture of the familiar and the exotic. Dudley and Chester were neighbours with Yonkers and Tarrytown. The next big town was Warner Robins, which sounded like a movie studio or ice cream manufacturer.
While Patrice went inside to use the restroom, she paced up and down the small lot. Their's was the only car parked in front, but Patrice said the place had an excellent reputation for all-day breakfasts. He had timed their arrival to coincide with the lunch crowd thinning out.
Bradl
ey sounded distracted, irritable. "When are you getting here?"
"Seven-ish. You needn't pick me up from the airport. I'll get a cab."
"Honey, I can't spare you much time. I appreciate the romantic gesture, I really do. I know how hard it must have been for you to fly here on your own to see me, but one of our projects is at a critical stage. We're working all the hours we can. Have dinner with Mom. I'll get away as soon as I can, but I'll have to be up real early and into work again. I feel terrible about this, Mags, but there's nothing I can do. Dad and I need to be there. Let's talk about it tonight. I'm sorry, honey."
Her relief and guilt were evenly balanced. She could cut her Boston trip from three nights to one. She and Bradley's mother had little in common, so no one would put up much resistance if she went home early.
"It's okay, don't apologise. I can't expect you to drop everything just because I've been spontaneous for once in my life."
"I wish I could. But thank you for understanding. I love you."
A memory of their urgent, unplanned coupling on the kitchen floor came into Mags' mind. For a moment, it had been like the early days, giving herself up to her need for him. She didn't want the distance between them to creep back in, but it had been there for too long, like so much background noise.
Patrice was sitting at a table near the back, and the waitress was topping up his coffee cup. He waved her over.
"Connie here recommends the all-day farmer's slam."
The waitress, an older woman with a ready smile, nodded. "Best breakfast in Georgia."
"Sounds good. And a coffee with cream, please." Mags slid onto the bench opposite Patrice.
"Sure thing."
When the food arrived, it was as good as Connie had promised. Mags left the French toast and fried potatoes, but there was no way she could eat another thing. Patrice eyed her toast.
"May I?"
The Picture On The Fridge: The debut psychological thriller with the twist of the year Page 9