by Pamela Crane
I didn’t know what to say. The man I loathed most in the world was dead. And irony of ironies, I had inherited his vast fortune. If the frozen air sending shivers through my skin and into my bones hadn’t reminded me that this was real, I would have thought I was dreaming. A perfect, beautiful fantasy.
“Mare? You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. Just trying to keep from floating away on a cloud of ecstasy.”
Karen laughed. “I understand. I’m so happy for you! I hate to bring this up, but you know the partners aren’t going to take this lying down. Even though Morty’s will is pretty airtight as far as I can see, they’re going to fight the will after it’s probated. Count on it. And they’re going to say nasty things about you. I have to warn you, Mare, it could get ugly. At the very least, they’re probably going to accuse you of sleeping with Mortimer.”
“Sleeping with him? Ewww! I’d rather die first.”
“You and me both, sister. Even though the paramedics said it looked like a clear-cut heart attack, the partners are going to demand an autopsy. So don’t be counting all that wonderful wampum just yet.”
“I won’t. Thanks, Karen. For being such a good friend. For everything.”
“You can thank me properly later, Mare, when I hit you up for a great big loan. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I didn’t have time to savor my windfall as the shadows shifted as I hung up. Movement where the driveway dropped down behind the house drew me closer. A rustle of branches startled me out of my euphoria.
I searched the dark. “Hello?” I called out.
Curiosity trumping fear—and good sense—I crept toward the sound rather than away from it, like the witless victim in a horror movie. Probably just a stray dog or cat, I rationalized. I tiptoed halfway down the walkway, armed with a broken branch from the crab apple tree. “Who’s there?”
An outline lurched forward into the light.
“Mom?” I gasped, pressing a palm to my frantic heart.
“Hi, Marin. I was just parking behind the house.”
“You almost gave me a friggin’ heart attack!” I exclaimed.
I thought I was glad to see Debra, until I saw she wasn’t glad to see me. She didn’t speak, only shot me a withering Obama Frown. For a petite white woman, she had the expression down pat.
“Sorry to scare you, but I couldn’t help overhear your conversation. What’s this about someone being dead and you being the beneficiary?”
I could see how when heard out of context, it could raise some concern.
“It’s my boss. Apparently he died tonight and left me his money. What’s crazy is that I was planning to quit…and then this happened. This money could change everything for me and Cody!”
Another judgmental silence. Another Obama Frown. Why didn’t she share my joy?
“What’s wrong, Mom?” I ventured. This was not the sweet mother-in-law I knew and adored.
“It’s awfully suspicious timing, is all. And what makes you think Cody will even want that horrible man’s money?”
“Why not? Do you think Cody loves being a used car salesman working for commission? And what about me? I’ve given up my pride, my self-esteem, my joy to bend over backwards for that man. I deserve payment for what I suffered. I can’t believe you’d want me to turn down something that could help us.”
Debra didn’t seem convinced. The silence was brittle, until she splintered it.
“I also overheard your message about Vera. It seems like you’ve been keeping secrets too, Marin.”
What was she suggesting? I tried to string together a lucid explanation for what she had heard, but the words kept dancing around me. Only one thought finally surfaced: confess.
Chapter 25
Felicity
Confess.
The word lagged behind me like an elderly dog. I had finally reached the last resort.
Austin hadn’t been much help when Oliver and I stopped at his house on our way home from our dinner date disaster. Within a minute of Austin opening the door, I shoved the torn-out journal entry in his face. The way his trembling hand took it, the quickness of his gaze passing over the words, his lack of shock—this told me everything I needed to know. Austin had known why Vera disappeared all along, but he wasn’t telling.
My only consolation? Vera hadn’t just betrayed me, but she lied to her best friend Blythe too. It took the threat of calling the cops right then and there—my index finger tapping the 9, and the 1, then hovering over the 1—before Austin spit out the truth like it tasted sour.
The breakup was because of me. Not because of Sydney, which had been my first assumption, but because of a picture Vera had found in Marin’s belongings that proved me a liar. Austin hadn’t seen the picture, only knew that whatever it was erupted all over Vera’s perfect life, destroying her. Austin used words like outraged, heartbroken, and hypocrite.
Vera had determined then and there that she would find out what else I had lied about. The only way to do that was to visit some long-lost relative—one we kept Vera far away from for her own protection—who could answer all her questions. Austin insisted, his conviction pure and pleading, that he didn’t know anything more than that. She never told him where she was going or who she was going with, only that she’d be off the grid until she figured everything out.
I bought Austin’s story, but Oliver remained skeptical. “The trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool,” Oliver cautioned, using Stephen King’s words as he stripped down to his boxers and T-shirt on his way to the master bathroom.
I had heard Debra say the same thing a time or two. I shouldn’t trust Austin. I couldn’t trust Marin. I couldn’t trust Cody. I couldn’t even trust my own husband who’d been keeping his phone hidden in his pocket since we got home. Who was left to trust?
I was tired of running in circles. Hence back to the word of the day: confess.
That was all there was left to do.
As a rush of water pounded against the shower glass, I glanced in to see Oliver hidden in the steamy modern all-glass stall adjacent to the original clawfoot tub. Washing off the filth of our fight, his hands ran up and down his lithe body, his mind clearly elsewhere. He was singing what sounded like Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer” so off-key that I could only be sure of the song based on the recognizable lyrics:
“I can't sleep, ’cause my bed’s on fire.
Don’t touch me, I'm a real live wire.”
Based on the pace of his scrubbing, he’d be another ten minutes. I knew this from years of showers, two decades of living together, knowing each other’s insides and habits as if I’d adopted them for myself. And in some ways I did.
Now was my chance to take a peek at his phone. I searched the pockets of his pants that he’d dropped beside the bed; empty. Checked his bedside table; not there. Opened his top dresser drawer; nada. I couldn’t imagine where else he’d put his phone, so I snuck into the bathroom while he rinsed his sudsy head, soap running down his muscled back, and found it tucked under his boxers on the floor. I grabbed it and scooted into the hallway, through the bedroom, onto the bed. Golden lamplight draped over my shoulders. I slipped my finger across the glass screen, putting in his password.
Incorrect password. Try again.
That couldn’t be right. I knew his passcode just like he knew mine. Did he change it? And if so, why? I tried again, same message.
So he’d indeed changed it. I tried another collection of digits, which didn’t work. I only had a couple more tries before it’d lock me out, so I tapped an old one he had used for his very first smartphone. Oliver was one to recycle old passcodes rather than memorize a new one, and my knowledge of him paid off this time.
In I went, deep-diving into his online activities.
I went straight to his texts, my focal interest. The first screen full of messages were from Annoying Little Brother, Mom, and Don’t-Answer Dickhead Da
niel. Daniel was Oliver’s nemesis, an arrogant colleague whom everyone loathed but was forced to deal with as the entitled son of one of the directors. When Daniel called, you didn’t answer unless you had an hour or two to kill listening to him ramble on about himself. The only good thing about his random rambling—say that three times fast, I imagined Eliot saying—was that I discovered he had contact information for a highly esteemed private investigator. When Vera had first gone missing, Daniel held that contact info out to Oliver like a carrot on a stick, if Oliver stroked his ego sufficiently. Oliver had refused, instead preferring bleeding ears to listening to Daniel. Hence the PI’s identity remained a mystery.
I continued scrolling, until a name arrested my attention:
Vera
My heart squeezed into a tight fist with a sharp pain. A pulsating, monstrous anger surged through me. My hand trembled so hard I could barely press my finger to the screen. But when I did, there it was. Message after message between Oliver and Vera. For days, weeks, months. Up through today. I tapped the info button—it was indeed her cell phone number.
I flicked down, down, down to the bottom of the message train, following text after text like a twisted scavenger hunt. I skimmed countless conversations exchanged over the past three months, each one elbowing the previous one aside. Finally reaching the very first message, sent from Oliver in July, twelve weeks after Vera first disappeared, I saw the words in the green bubble, though they didn’t quite set off the alarm bells in my addled brain:
Hey, honey. It’s Daddy. I miss you so much. We’re falling apart without you.
A bubble below it on the other side of the screen in gray: Daddy? I miss you too. I would give anything to see you again.
His reply: Are you okay? Please tell me where you are.
Vera: I’m where I’ve always been. Waiting for you.
Oliver: Waiting for me? I’ll come get you. I need to see you. How do I find you?
Vera: You know that’s not possible. No matter how much I wish it was true.
Oliver: Everything is crashing down without you. Your mother isn’t going to survive this. And your brother and sister…it’s too hard with you gone.
Vera: I understand. I feel it too.
Oliver: Then why did you have to go?
Vera: I ask that question every day, Daddy.
I didn’t understand what I was reading. My body couldn’t handle the overload. My husband knew Vera was alive and let me believe she could be dead since July. All that time watching me worry, observing my slow ruin. Saying nothing. For the past six months my darkness had tumbled out in wails. Now it ripped through me in fury. I clenched my jaw, holding in the screams that wanted out.
When Oliver walked into the bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist, he stutter-stepped back and stiffened, seeing his cell phone in my hand.
“I can explain, Felicity—”
“No!” I roared, so angry I bit my cheek, tasting blood. It was the coppery taste of betrayal.
The Pittsburg Press
Pittsburg, PA
Thursday, October 20, 1910
FAMILY SUSPICIONS GROW AS FAKE MESSAGES EXCHANGED IN MISSING WOMAN CASE
Several relatives of Mrs. Alvera Fields, the missing wife and mother, cast aside all hope of her return as news came early yesterday that the advertisements in the newspaper claimed to be for Mrs. Fields were indeed false.
Although letters were found from Miss Cecile Cianfarra in Alvera’s writing desk, when questioned about them, Miss Cianfarra stated:
“Alvera and I were friends who supported the same cause. I have nothing to do with her disappearance, nor was I behind such advertisements. If you want a suspect, look at her husband Robert Fields, who staunchly rejected Alvera’s involvement in our women’s suffrage fundraising, so much so that he committed her to a sanitarium to prevent her work and hired ruffians to mug her.”
Miss Cianfarra has since remained silent on the matter as detectives were put to work tracing Miss Cianfarra’s movements throughout Pennsylvania. Although Miss Cianfarra denies knowing Mrs. Fields’ whereabouts, the family has their suspicions and is quite outspoken about them. Robert Fields denied Miss Cianfarra’s accusation and said to authorities,
“Miss Cianfarra knows something about what happened to my wife, and she will be held liable for her involvement.”
Chapter 26
Marin
Debra’s glare reached me through the darkness. “It seems like you’ve been keeping secrets too, Marin.”
I wondered how much Debra had overheard, what she suspected, what she knew. A confession was brewing in me, heavy in my gut, something I hadn’t yet spoken aloud. I’m the reason Vera is gone. I know who took her. The admission crawled across my tongue…then I squashed it.
Instead I went on the defensive.
“I’ve been keeping secrets too? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Debra took a step toward me. “I overheard you on the phone mentioning Vera’s name, asking if she was with whoever was on the other end. Who were you talking to, Marin?”
“I was leaving a message.” I was being evasive and she knew it. Debra had a special x-ray vision where she could see through people right into the heart. Up until now she had accepted the darkness that she had glimpsed inside mine, but now I saw a change in her. Judgment.
“So you’re not going to tell me.” Another step brought her up to where the driveway met the grass. “I’ve welcomed you into my family, loved you like a daughter, given you nothing but respect and kindness. And you still feel the need to lie to me? Especially when it pertains to bringing my granddaughter home safely?”
“I appreciate all you’ve done for me, Mom—”
“No, don’t Mom me. Not now. Not when you’re lying to me.” One more step brought her into the yard.
“I swear to you, I don’t know where Vera is. I had a possible guess, but it turns out I was wrong.” I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t. Not if there was any other way.
Debra shrugged. “Alright. I’ll let you have your lies.” One last pace carried her face to face with me on the sidewalk, jagged tree branches stabbing me. In this space, beneath the awakened windows, her angry lines glowed like a campfire storyteller. “It’s dirty business, digging up secrets, Marin. It’s just as dirty burying them. I know this from experience.”
I had no idea what secrets Debra could possibly have, with her perfect husband and perfect family and perfect life. Her past wasn’t up for scrutiny, though; mine was. Her distrust burrowed into me like the wormlike creatures in Tremors. She wasn’t here to tell her secrets, but rather to find out mine.
“Did you come here to eavesdrop and then tell me this?”
“No, I came to bring you and Cody dinner.” She handed me a covered casserole, which I awkwardly held while my purse strap slipped down my shoulder. “And to ask if you’re cheating on Cody.”
“What? Why would you even think that?”
“I have eyes, Marin. We all know how flirtatious Oliver can be, and normally it’s part of his charm, when it’s kept in check. But I see how you and Oliver act toward one another.”
I couldn’t believe the hypocrisy. The gall of her to charge me with cheating when I watched Felicity make out with my husband!
“Before you start accusing me of this, you need to get your facts straight. It’s actually the other way around, Debra.” I emphasized her name with scorn. “You should ask Felicity about what happened between her and Cody.”
“About what? What happened?” Debra perched her hands on her hips.
“I watched Felicity kiss Cody. She practically threw herself at him.”
“Are you sure that’s what you saw? Because that doesn’t sound like either of them.”
“But it sounds like me and Oliver to cheat?”
“You and Oliver are…different. You both command a room when you walk in. You strive for more. People just hand you their attention. And you�
��re hungry to win. People with that hunger tend to get into compromising positions to get what they want.”
“The only compromising position I’ve been in is the one I’m in now…with you. Because I feel like you’re about to ask me for something...or threaten me with something. And the only thing I want is a solid marriage with Cody, despite what you think of me.”
She huffed. “You’re an actress, Marin. Your body is your instrument, able to adapt to whatever role you need to play. I’ve seen you kiss other men in a play; how much of a step further is it to kiss Oliver in real life?”
“It’s a huge difference! On a set it’s all acting, no emotion. Look, I’m not going to debate this with you. Oliver and I never crossed a line. As for Cody and Felicity, I saw it with my own eyes. Go reprimand them instead.” The sting of his infidelity watered my eyes. A tear dripped down, and Debra reached across and wiped it dry.
“I…I didn’t know. I’m sorry, honey.” She patted my cheek. “I shouldn’t have assumed…as they say, assuming only makes an ass out of you and me. But I’m sure it was just a one-time thing. Felicity is grieving, she’s out of her mind. The whole family is right now. You can forgive them one mistake, can’t you?”
Another tear fell. “Would you forgive Joe if he cheated on you?”
She sighed and touched the wedding band on her ring finger. “I’ve forgiven a lot worse.”
“Like what?” It was hard to imagine anything dark ever touching this pure old woman.