Hollis said nothing on the way home, but Charlotte knew without being told that her presence would be required in the study. It was Hollis’s battlefield of choice.
When they walked into the house, Charlotte grabbed Ruby’s shoulder, spinning her around.
“Hey, petal.” Charlotte bent down so she was crouched in front of her. “Why don’t you go play upstairs?”
Ruby’s eyes went wide, and she leaned in so her nose bumped against Charlotte’s. “Are you in trouble with Grandma?”
Charlotte pulled at the end of one of her braids. “No, sweetheart. We’re just going to talk a bit.”
Ruby’s lips pursed and then flattened. “That means you’re in trouble.”
Out of the mouths of babes. There was something both funny and tragic about it, and Charlotte was too tired to find the line so she could know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, she stood up and turned Ruby by her shoulders. “We’ll get ice cream later.”
“Can Dee-Dee come?” Ruby asked, the slippery soles of her polished white dress shoes already hitting the steps.
The memory of harsh words in the early-morning light lingered, but so did the soft moment when Trudy had stopped her. I need your help.
“We’ll ask her,” Charlotte promised, and the grin it earned her was worth the sacrifice.
She stared at the empty staircase after Ruby disappeared.
The house had gone quiet. Mellie and Trudy had beelined for their rooms the minute they’d walked through the door, neither of them willing or interested in being pulled into whatever storm was headed Charlotte’s way. Sterling was God knew where. He said golfing, but for all she knew, he was screwing his latest mistress into the mattress. His version of church.
And Hollis, well, Hollis was always waiting. Waiting for Charlotte to mess up, waiting to punish her, waiting to take out on Charlotte the bitterness that seemed to fuel her very existence. Sometimes she directed that anger at Mellie, but rarely. It was always Charlotte who seemed to displease the most. Who drew the venom so often she didn’t even try to guess the cause anymore. Or she knew the cause, really, and had long given up on rationalizing it.
It wasn’t complicated. Sterling had never looked at Mellie the way he’d looked at Charlotte. The way he’d looked at Trudy. The way he was starting to look at Ruby.
Hollis wasn’t an idiot. But rather than doing anything to stop it, she just steeped in her own resentment, directing the toxic hostility that ran through her blood toward the very girls she should have protected.
The thought was an echo to the earlier one Charlotte had had while bearing the brunt of Trudy’s verbal assault. The Burke women were the snakes who couldn’t bite the foot that stepped on them. In Hollis’s case, that meant she went after the mice that had been dropped in the cage instead.
Charlotte’s heels clicked on the slick hardwood floor, and her stomach pitched with each step. There was a little voice prodding at the very base of her brain that wondered if she would go back to that floaty place now. If this would be enough to send her there. That same voice asked if that meant she was going crazy. It was a question she was terrified to answer.
She took one final breath before pushing the door open and stepping through the threshold.
Hollis stood by the corner of the desk and nodded to one of the chairs. Charlotte would sit; Hollis would loom. A clear visual reminder of their power dynamics in case Charlotte ever forgot.
There were so many times they’d sat like this. Some might call them natural adversaries, the fading mother, the attractive daughter, but Charlotte had never wanted it to be like that.
On Sunday afternoons when she was young, she would slink into the study, tuck herself into the chair, and listen to a list of things she’d done wrong all week. It was instructive, Hollis had told her. The grooming it took to become a Burke wasn’t soft or easy. Crying over the corrections wasn’t allowed, not at first.
Later, when Charlotte was a teenager, Hollis seemed to revel in it when she broke down.
There had been exactly one time when Charlotte had tried alcohol, outside of wine, at formal functions. She’d come home with liquor on her breath that she hadn’t been able to hide with mints. Hollis had dragged her by the wrist, her fingers digging into the bones there, through the house, paying no attention to Charlotte’s efforts to break free. She’d thrown her to the floor once they’d made it to the study and then knelt before her. Hollis had captured Charlotte’s chin in her hand to force her mouth open, and Charlotte had relented only when the edges of her vision had gone blurry.
When she smelled the Scotch, Hollis had slapped her. Burkes don’t get drunk like homeless men on the street. Burkes don’t disrespect their family like that. Did Charlotte not know who she was, what was expected of her?
The punishment had been isolation, unrelenting isolation. Charlotte had never had many friends, not like other girls. But she’d had one. A person she could trust and whisper secrets to under blankets and not worry about the tiny confessions becoming weapons in cruel hands. Once Hollis realized this, though, the connection had been quickly severed on the premise that the girl was a bad influence. Burkes had to be choosy about the people they surrounded themselves with.
Seven years later, Charlotte recognized the tactic for what it was—just another way to keep her controlled. Helpless.
“Explain yourself” was all Hollis said, a pink nail tapping on the desk.
Charlotte watched the sharp edge of it hit the wood, the fast rhythm the only outward indication of Hollis’s annoyance. “It was hot.”
“I’m not talking about your embarrassing display at the service,” Hollis snapped out.
Startled, Charlotte met her eyes. “Trudy?”
Why would she have told, though?
Hollis smoothed down a nonexistent wisp of her hair. Not a single strand of the platinum-blonde shell was actually out of place. “As if I need a child to inform me of what’s happening in my own house.”
She must have seen Charlotte coming in. Trudy had delayed her only a few minutes on the porch, but it had been enough, as she’d already been running late.
“It’s nothing,” Charlotte said, knowing it wasn’t the right answer. But there wasn’t a right answer for Hollis. There never was.
“Whoring around town is nothing?”
Defending herself would be pointless. A waste of energy and breath. Hollis wanted to attack, and so she would. If not for this, it would be for something else. Charlotte’s shoulders hit the back of the chair as she sagged against the smooth leather. Would this ever end? This cycle they were caught in, with Charlotte forever being punished for something she’d never been able to fight off in the first place.
Hollis stepped around the desk, her eyes cold as she stopped in front of Charlotte. She sank her fingers into Charlotte’s smooth hair and yanked in one brutal movement, wrenching Charlotte’s head to the side. The position exposed her neck and the small bruise Enrique had left there.
Hollis dug the tip of her nail into the spot, then leaned over so that her breath was warm against Charlotte’s ear. “Did this one try to stop when you called him ‘Daddy’? Or did he like it?”
Bile pressed at the back of Charlotte’s throat, and she surged to her feet as she tried to swallow the vomit. The quick movement knocked Hollis back a few steps, forcing her to let go of Charlotte’s hair.
They stared at each other as Charlotte panted, her stomach heaving, the ragged breaths the only sound in the otherwise-silent room.
Hollis’s face was passive, a mask of smooth perfection. But her eyes were hard and unrelenting as she watched Charlotte’s reaction. The taunt had been crude, vulgar. So unlike Hollis.
And it was the only time she’d ever alluded to the fact that she knew. The only time she’d so blatantly thrown it in Charlotte’s face, and there had to be a reason. Had to be. The purpose must have been to provoke Charlotte, to shock her into doing something. But what? What was it supposed to accomplish?
“Why?” She forced the word out between lips so chapped they hurt. Everything hurt.
Hollis knew what she was asking, and when she answered, her voice was cool once again. Gone was that hot, derisive whisper that would now forever live in Charlotte’s memory.
“Your behavior is reckless and dangerous,” Hollis said. “And it’s a bad influence on my granddaughter.”
All the muscles in Charlotte’s body seized. Ruby. Of course this was about Ruby.
“Winning custody of her wouldn’t take much,” Hollis said. “All we care about is her welfare and her happiness.”
It was a threat, one Hollis had been keeping up her carefully tailored designer sleeve for five years. The one that had never been uttered until now, even though the idea of it had always been enough to keep Charlotte in line. Each time she brought up moving out, Hollis would simply look at Ruby. Each time she started withdrawing just a little extra money from her account than what Hollis knew she needed, she’d drop in a casual question. “What are you planning to do with it?” Hollis would ask, her hand resting on Ruby’s thin shoulder. And then she’d make Charlotte turn over any cash she had on her.
But now Hollis was putting it into words.
“Why do you hate me so much?” Charlotte choked out, her voice weak and small, even though she knew it was the wrong response. Hollis didn’t react to emotion.
“Darling, I don’t hate you.” Hollis stepped closer again, her fingers trailing down Charlotte’s cheek. It was grotesque in its gentleness after the violence that had just occurred between them. “I just want what’s best for you. And your daughter, of course.”
Charlotte flinched. But didn’t say anything further.
Hollis hummed in approval of what she saw as obedience. “You’re unstable, Charlotte. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Us taking care of Ruby while you take some time to recover is the only reasonable path forward.”
“Recover from what?” Charlotte forced herself to ask. Her mind wasn’t keeping up. And a little part of her wondered if the words rang too true.
Hollis leaned forward. “It doesn’t even matter, darling.”
A mental breakdown, drugs, alcohol. It could be anything. That’s what Hollis meant. If her mother decided to whisper encouragement in the right ear, Charlotte would be unable to do anything about it.
Charlotte closed her eyes, to block out the sight of Hollis’s face, and breathed. She needed to think.
This wasn’t an idle threat; Hollis could make it happen if she wanted. Another way to hurt Charlotte.
It would be a blow to the family’s reputation, but not one it couldn’t weather. They’d already absorbed the whispers about two unmarried daughters with bastard children living in the house; it would surprise few people if Charlotte checked into rehab.
Panic clawed at her rib cage. She needed to act, she needed to plan. She needed to talk to Trudy again. I need your help.
She opened her eyes to find Hollis watching her, red lips turned up at the corners.
It was hate, pure and uncomplicated, that thrummed through Charlotte’s veins. It fueled her, gave her a strength she’d never had before.
“You’ll never take my daughter away from me,” Charlotte said, her voice even. “I will kill you myself first.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ALICE
August 2, 2018
Four days after the kidnapping
“You don’t think she did it,” Nakamura said as he knocked the back of his hand against the corner of his lip, going for the glob of pizza sauce that clung there.
Alice chewed on her straw. She had no appetite, even though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. The only reason she’d stopped was that Nakamura had pled starvation, and she’d known he’d be useless to her if he didn’t get food in his stomach.
“I don’t know.” It was all she was willing to commit to.
“You don’t think she did it,” Nakamura repeated, this time keeping his eyes firmly on her face.
She shrugged, looking away. The pizza joint was mostly empty, except for a pair of teenagers in the back, racking up points on the ancient pinball machines. It smelled of oregano and grease, and the floor was sticky from beer that must have been spilled the night before. Sometimes she thought all the floors in St. Petersburg were coated with a thin layer of Coors Light.
They had gotten little from Charlotte Burke in the latest round of questioning. No more, certainly, than they had in the previous four days. After her dramatic declaration, she’d clammed up and slid a card with the name of her lawyer over to them.
Even after reassuring her there was no need for one yet, Charlotte had refused to say anything further.
So they’d left, with nothing else to do but eat pizza and wonder if the case had just been solved for them anyway.
“Do you?” She paused, then clarified: “Think she did it.” At the moment she didn’t really care what Nakamura thought. His impressions were his to have.
“I don’t know,” he said, and that got her attention.
“Asshole.” She laughed and chucked her partially shredded napkin at him. “You’re giving me shit and—”
“And I really don’t know. You, on the other hand . . . you’ve made up that brilliant little mind of yours already. And that, my dear partner, is the difference,” Nakamura said, finishing off his last slice.
Her eyes tracked the smooth contours of his face. For the most part, he was open and easygoing. But he was a veteran cop and could use that to his advantage to hide what he was really thinking.
“You want me off the case, then?” She had to ask.
“Did I say that?”
He hadn’t, but it wouldn’t be surprising. Too close to home. That would be the excuse. Something with a slightly nastier undertone would be whispered behind her back, though. She’d heard it before.
She spread her palms on the tabletop. “I think if she’d done it, she would be laid out right next to Ruby.”
Nakamura’s eyebrows shot up. “You think she would have killed herself, too?”
“Seems the type,” Alice said, watching the teenagers as they grabbed a discarded slice from an abandoned table and headed for the door.
“The type?”
Alice shifted her attention back to her partner. He was watching her with a quiet, thoughtful expression she found disarming. Most of the time, eyes slid over and past her face, unwilling to linger in case they got a glimpse of a tragedy they didn’t want to think about. She was no longer a person who had thoughts or opinions. For others, she was forever and perpetually in grief. For the rest of her life.
“Mothers kill their children all the time,” she said. Saying it aloud almost felt taboo. “It’s not this mystical bond that can never be severed. But there are types to it.”
Nakamura nodded and then tipped his head to the exit. They both pushed out of the booth. He held the door for her, and she didn’t make a thing of it.
The day had turned just as hot and muggy as the warm morning had promised, and she immediately missed the pizza place’s weak air conditioner. Even walking to the Buick parked three spots away felt overwhelming as the sun cooked the hot black pavement under their feet.
“You have the mentally ill. The type who think their children belong in the house of God, and such,” Alice continued, eyeing the door handle warily. She didn’t particularly fancy losing skin to the hot metal. “You have the neglectful ones, the ones who shake their babies when they won’t stop crying or who forget to feed them when they’re in the bathroom shooting up.”
“Charlotte Burke doesn’t really strike me as either,” Nakamura said, sliding into the car. Alice followed suit.
“No,” Alice agreed, shuddering as the cool air blasted her damp skin. Goddamn Florida. “Which leaves the type who kill the
ir child and then kill themselves.”
There was a beat of silence as Nakamura backed out of the spot. “And yet Charlotte is still alive.”
“Points to the detective on that one.” Alice smirked, and Nakamura flipped her off.
“Are those the only types?”
Alice shrugged. “Who knows? I could be pulling this all out of my ass.”
Nakamura barked out a laugh and took a sharp right, heading in the direction of the station. “You’re a good liar, Alice Garner.”
“It’s all in the confidence.”
“It sounded legit, at least,” Nakamura said, still chuckling. He didn’t even slam on the horn when a white pickup truck with a Confederate-flag bumper sticker cut him off. The king of being unruffled.
“Mostly it is,” Alice said, watching the strip malls and fast-food restaurants blur by. It was better than watching him drive. “I simplified it. But the point stands.”
Psychologists had talked about Alice when Lila was killed. Not in so many words, because ethics didn’t allow it—diagnosing someone who wasn’t a patient was a no-no. But talking shit in vague terms to the local papers let the shrinks clutch at their fifteen minutes of fame while they tore her apart. Consequently, she knew a lot about women who killed their children.
“So how do you explain that little announcement, then?” Nakamura asked, though his voice was more curious than anything. She liked that about him. His willingness to consider ideas that didn’t come naturally to him. “That we’re going to think she murdered Ruby.”
“As cliché as it may sound, grief does strange things,” Alice said. Sometimes clichés were there for a reason—to lend words to a universal truth. Grief could warp reality into something unrecognizable. She knew that too well.
Alice remembered watching as the man who had killed Lila was pulled from the police car outside the courthouse. She remembered the stubble on his jaw, the red chapped skin on his nose. She remembered the weight of the gun in her lap as she ran her fingers lovingly along the length of it.
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