It could mean nothing, she tells herself, and that car might not have had anything to do with Lily’s disappearance. It would mean nothing, she tells herself, if she didn’t know the vehicle and driver all too well. If it wasn’t Lily in the passenger seat, laughing. Valerie throws up all over the kitchen table.
* * *
John Wick is on the screen, deadpanning his way through a myriad of killings. Carrie’s in Alek’s lap, their soundtrack is a series of gunshots, of the gasps of dying men until from elsewhere in the house there’s the sound of a door closing, then voices, a female and children. He’s very gentle as he moves Carrie onto the sofa next to him, then shuffles a few inches to his left, adjusting himself slightly. On the coffee table is a half-empty box of chocolates, the kind she likes, that Carrie’d presented to him as a birthday present.
Carrie pouts, but laughs, reaches for another chocolate. She smells like vanilla. It’s nice. This is nice, thinks Alek.
“Don’t worry: Mom will be supervising homework for a while yet.” The girl settles into the corner of the sofa, kneads her toes against his thigh. “Hey, when did your dad get back?”
“He’s not home.”
“No,” she says. “I saw him this morning.”
“You must have made a mistake.” Alek sits up straighter. “I was out jogging on the Mason Road. He slowed down and waved at me.” She purses her lips. “You know, I do know your dad when I see him.”
Carrie smiles around her snippy tone, and Alek feels a tingling down his spine, not fast, but creeping, like there’s a spider with eight cold feet trying not to be noticed.
Reid had paid attention to Alek’s girlfriends in the past and some he’d taken as easily as picking an apple. He didn’t do it for a relationship – none of them lasted longer than a single night, dinner and bed – Reid did it because he could. Alek thought about Annie and Ellie, Elaine and Sukie, scholarship girls he’d met at Addison U. All smart and ambitious, but disadvantaged in one way or another, orphans or fostered, poor, from the small towns in the more remote parts of the state. The towns that had boomed in the early days but through which even the Greyhounds now roared without stopping.
Sometimes his father was one of the reasons Alek didn’t stick with a girl, but he’d never told Valerie that because how pathetic was it? Having your dad steal your girlfriends? Besides, Valerie and Reid, they’d been friends at school, and if Alek told Valerie something that made her not want to hang around any longer, then where would he be? It’s not just the threat of having to feed himself, it’s the idea of no voice but his own, no face but his own in that big house. Valerie had made him feel not so alone; she saw something in him that was worthwhile, and he saw himself reflected better in her than the hallway mirrors.
His mobile vibrates in his pocket, and he plucks it out to read the text.
“I better go,” he says to Carrie’s surprised displeasure. Alek has to admit his interest in her has lessened in a very short space of time. He’d seen the look on Carrie’s face when she mentioned his father, noticed the way she’d blushed and smiled, was flattered at unwarranted attention from a silver fox, and a rich silver fox at that.
“Why?” Carrie pouts.
“Valerie needs me at home.”
“Well.” And her mouth twists, turns sour where it had been so sweet and full mere minutes ago. “Wouldn’t want to let Valerie down.”
“No,” he says, rising. And because it’s the truth, he doesn’t blush or feel ashamed. “I wouldn’t.”
* * *
New wine in old bottles...
The keypad is blinking slowly at her, an arrogant stare. She doesn’t know the code. Six digits. If she inputs the wrong numbers, what happens? An alarm goes off somewhere? The private security firm will call the house and she’ll answer, tell them it was an accident. Still and all, better no one knows she’s snooping.
At first she’d thought about the garage – it was only natural, given sight of the Mercedes – but she’d been in there before. She’s been in all the rooms of the house; it holds no secrets for her except for one spot, one spot about which she’d had no curiosity. This one room.
She puts her face against the dull silver of the door, feels it cool as death on her skin, sees her own reflection as a strange blurred shadow. Valerie presses her ear to the metal and listens as hard as she can, although she’s not sure what she might hear. Whether it’s with hope or fear, she doesn’t know, but she still does it.
Nothing. There’s nothing.
Valerie thinks about how she’s never questioned this room’s purpose. She thinks about how smart he was as he gave her the tour of the house the day she moved in. She recalls him walking her down the stairs to the basement, and along the stone corridor; he’d made sure they stopped outside the door, pointed it out. He’d even poked a finger at the keypad like an uncoordinated child, making beep-boop noises. He smiled.
“Wine cellar. It’s very high-tech for all the investment bottles. Not your average vino. No new wine in these old bottles,” he’d said and laughed – Valerie remembered him telling it like an old joke, explaining that his own father had used it to refer to children. Explaining it hadn’t made it any funnier. “I can give you the code, if you like? Do you want to have a look?”
She’d shaken her head. Valerie had no interest in booze, not given Chase’s drinking habits, and Reid Howard had known that.
“Not even a little curious? Don’t even want a peek?” he teased. They’d laughed, then moved on.
“I don’t drink, Reid,” she’d reminded him and seen that strange satisfaction on his face.
“Sorry. I forgot about Chase.” Even though there’d been an element of sorry, not sorry about it, she’d shrugged it off; the room made no impression on her memory. There’s a fully stocked bar upstairs, more wine and spirits than anyone, including a teenage boy and his friends, could get through. No need for Alek to come down here. The cellar was out of sight, out of mind for both of them.
Valerie pushes away from the door and looks at the green lights flashing in their usual sequence again.
Six numbers.
New wine in old bottles.
She puts her hand out, almost touches the keypad. She hesitates, her fingertips hovering so close, so close. What if she’s wrong?
What would happen?
But if she doesn’t try. If she waits until he comes home, she’ll never be able to hide what she suspects. If she doesn’t find out now, she might not be able to control herself when he finally returns.
Valerie touches the numbers that make up Alek’s birthday.
The keypad blinks angry red at her, makes a low, flat sound of disapproval. Too much to hope for, she supposes. Too easy. Her hands shake, her fingers go cold with disappointment. Then… it occurs that there’s one more number she might try.
Valerie picks out the numbers of tomorrow’s date, the anniversary of Lily’s disappearance.
The seconds after the last number are the longest she’s ever lived. The keypad beeps, the lock clicks. Valerie pushes the silver door open and steps through.
No blood, no bones bleached by either sun or moon.
What did she expect?
Not this.
It’s a huge room, white-painted and filled with pedestals.
There’s a short flight of stainless steel stairs that take her from the landing just inside the door down to the floor of the cellar. Valerie steps up to the first pedestal: it’s waist-high and made of thick green glass. And on it, just like on all the other pedestals, is a pair of pretty, high-heeled shoes. All around, shoes for a variety of special occasions. She leans forward, looks more closely at the nearest ones: pink shoes, prom shoes, diamantes on the straps, as well as specks of dried blood.
Valerie moves on to the next display: black stilettos, red Louboutin soles, dull brown splotches adhering to the ebony leather.
Next: purple patent, no designer label, cheap and nasty and stained.
A pair of lig
ht green Jimmy Choos.
All the colors of the rainbow, all styles, from all manner of economic strata and different fashion eras.
It’s a while before she finds Lily’s.
It takes all of her self-control not to rush around, making increasingly high-pitched noises, desperately seeking the red silk shoes. She knows if she lets herself do that she’ll lose all semblance of control; she’ll just sit on the floor rocking and weeping, and she’ll stay there until Doomsday.
She’s so intent on concentrating on just the next pair that she’s stunned to discover them in front of her. Lily’s lovely prom shoes. In patches, the red silk is darker where blood has soaked in.
And that is all her daughter has been reduced to: this pair of ruined footwear. There’s nothing else in the whole place, no other doors or rooms, no hint as to where the rest of her child might be.
Just the shoes.
How many pairs? A hundred, perhaps?
No bodies.
Just the shoes.
Row upon row.
Valerie reaches out. These are all she’s got, probably all she’ll ever have of her baby ever again. They are surprisingly sturdy, the stiletto heels tough, no matter how delicate they look.
“Don’t touch.” The tone is sharp, so commanding that Valerie hesitates, is almost tempted to obey. “It’s a rare collection, as I told you before, Valerie.”
“Fuck you,” she says and wraps a hand around the right shoe. She curls it into her chest, cradling it. Then she turns to face him.
Reid Howard is handsome, though not especially tall – a head shorter than Valerie, not much difference between him and Obadiah Tully, frankly – and dressed far more casually than his usual tailored business suit: dark jeans, t-shirt, Timberlands. Alek’s got his features but not his red hair. Reid doesn’t have a beard, he’s clean-shaven, and his eyes are a clear green. He’s as popular with women as his son is – God knows Valerie almost fell for it herself once before coming to her senses – he’s got no reason to hurt girls, but Valerie guesses he just likes it.
But she senses she needs more time, she needs to stall, so she asks, “Why? Why would you take her? You barely knew her, she was nothing to you. Why take her? Why take my child then bring me to look after yours?”
His grin as he walks down the steps, heavy boots punctuating the silence, tells her Because I could. The smile slips between her ribs, lodges like a knife in her heart. “I do like you, Valerie, never doubt that. But your baby looked just like you did in high school, just like when you said no to me, and yes to that idiot, Chase. Then Lucius – fucking Lucius! I’m a patient man, but I’m not very forgiving.” His smile widens. “And why wouldn’t Lily accept a lift home from her momma’s old friend?” He shrugs. “You being here kept you under my eye, stopped fricking Tully complaining about you – Lord you have irritated him over the years. The bonus was you looked after my idiot son. He behaves himself; I’m not distracted from either business or pleasure.” He raises his hands, palms up. “I took one child away, but I gave you another. You’re very fond of Alek. In a way, it all evens out, yes?”
It takes a moment before shock wrings a shriek of “No!” from Valerie; her fingers tighten convulsively on the shoe.
“No?” He feigns surprise. “Ah well. How did you get in?”
“New wine in old bottles. At first I thought it was Alek, but you meant my new wine.” Part of her mind is astonished to be having this conversation so coolly. But she’s got to keep a clear head, if she wants to survive. Reid’s produced a knife, the biggest from the block in the kitchen, which he taps against the glass of the pedestals as he passes, the sound a strange singing.
“Ah.” He smiles wryly. “I shouldn’t have underestimated you. Too clever by half, you, too clever to get into my bed. Still, everyone makes mistakes: not too clever to marry Chase or fuck Anderson though.”
“Lucius? Did you…?”
“Tully said he was wavering. You’d pissed him off by leaving – you do piss men off, Valerie, it is one of your defining traits – and I’d bailed him out, he was hemorrhaging money on some bad investments, so it was as much venal as vengeful. Oh, he didn’t know what had happened to your Lily – don’t think that of him. He believed I’d dropped her on the way home and she’d met her fate elsewhere, but his conscience was starting to get to him, and he was starting to wonder why it needed to be kept from you. When he was angry at you he was happy to play along.”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” she can’t help but say. He snorts.
“Should have chosen me, Valerie, or at least for a little while.”
“Why are you home? Now?” He never bothered to come home for his son’s birthday, but…
“The anniversary, Valerie – our anniversary. I love watching you every year on the day Lily disappeared. You’re strangely radiant with grief, it’s quite bewitching. I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”
Valerie begins backing away as he comes closer. “What about Alek?”
“What about him? I’ll tell him you left. I’ll tell him you got tired of him, just like his mother did, that you were disappointed in him. He’s used to that. He won’t pursue it. Kid never sticks at anything, you know that better than anyone.”
“He’s not like he was. You wouldn’t know, you’re never home. You don’t know your own son.” A burst of hysterical laughter catches in her throat at the morbid domesticity of the argument, two parents in a tug-of-war over a child. “He’s not the boy you made anymore; he’s not your new wine.”
“Granted you’ve helped him settle down, it keeps him out of trouble, but even if you hadn’t made this ill-considered incursion into my space your time was coming to an end. I worry he’ll develop too much of a conscience if you’re around much longer and that’s an inconvenient thing. Best you be gone, let him think himself deserted once again.” He tilts his head, pondering. “Do you think you’re so fierce about protecting him because you failed Lily?”
She swallows, doesn’t answer that, instead says, “Where…”
“What?”
“Where’s his mother?”
Reid points to the far end of the cellar; Valerie can make out a worn pair of white sandals with wedge heels. Long out of fashion.
“Laura didn’t go willingly. She did love her boy.”
“Dad?”
Both of them whirl to find Alek on the landing at the entrance to the cellar, in answer to Valerie’s text to come home, sent because she couldn’t think of anyone else she needed by her. His hands are held up in a gesture of surrender. Behind him, Obadiah Tully stands – clearly Valerie’s act was unconvincing – his service weapon pointed at the boy’s back.
* * *
Alek is slow as he takes the stairs, not just because of the gun barrel that periodically pokes him in the ribs. He’s heard everything Reid and Valerie had to say, and seen his own reflection in the steel of the door, as if his father’s words have remade him into something shadowy. Destabilized. His stare moves from his father to his tutor, to the pedestals and shoes, the ceiling, the floor, the walls. He’s still processing everything he heard before Tully appeared and gestured for him to enter the cellar.
Tully’s footsteps have stopped, but Alek keeps going for some paces. He looks over his shoulder at the Sheriff. Tully’s face is a picture. He’s clearly never been down here, just like Alek, only his expression is one of realizing just how deep a hole he’s stepped into. Alek guesses Obadiah’s been happy enough to take Reid’s money to smooth things over, inconvenient investigations and the like, but he didn’t really appreciate what Reid was doing. Alek had no idea himself and now he wonders on which side of the line Tully will fall.
He stops by a pedestal, takes in the cheap purple patents; they’re eye-catching, not something he’s likely to forget even with no particular interest in footwear. His head tilts to the side and he reaches out to touch them. “Annie’s.” His gaze moves on, he points at a pair of knock-off Prada pumps in electric blue
. “Ellie’s.”
Somewhere in the cellar, Alek thinks, Elaine and Sukie’s shoes also await. All the Howard Scholarship girls, the girls Alek didn’t see again. He didn’t bother with them after they’d seen his father, he’d wiped them away to salve his hurt boy’s pride. Abandoned them. He tries to swallow but it’s hard, like there’s a rock in his throat.
“Dad,” he says again, noting the kitchen knife Reid’s carrying. Alek feels sick. Sick and sad and pained. He says it again, as if it’s the only thought that’s in his brain. “Dad.”
“Alek. Terrible timing, my boy, as always.” Reid shakes his head.
“What you gonna do with them, Reid?” When Tully’s voice comes, it’s clear he’s made his choice; any hopes Alek had that the Sheriff might have chosen to help are swiftly gone. In the hole, Obadiah’s going to keep digging. Holes, Alek wants to remind him, don’t work like that.
“Well, my lovely Valerie here is going to meet with an accident – you don’t need to be around for that and probably best if he isn’t either. Obadiah, take Alek to the kitchen and sit with him until I’m done.”
“You can’t be serious, Reid. Kid’s not going to keep his mouth shut.”
“He’s my son and he’ll do what I tell him to.” Reid raises his knife, not in threat but more as a lecturer would a pointer or a cane: Attend to this, Tully, if you know what’s good for you.
Alek, standing between his father and the Sheriff, notices what the grown men have forgotten: Valerie. Reid’s got his back to her, Tully’s attention is on Reid with the sort of tunnel vision that’s rendered him one of the worst investigators Mercy’s Brook has ever had the misfortune to employ. But Alek can see her from the corner of his eye – clear as a perfect reflection – and he’s careful not to draw their gaze to her as she inches closer to Reid. Her footsteps are light, so light, but still there’s a whisper of her approach and his father seems set to turn.
Alek repeats, “Dad?”
Reid looks at him with irritation as Valerie unfurls the hand from her chest and raises the red shoe. Alek sees her rush forward, and he pivots, drops his shoulder and charges at Tully, who doesn’t even get a shot off, but tips straight back, his head striking the rise of the bottom steps. Obadiah’s eyes stay open, his stare uncomprehending.
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