Authors: Cybele Loening
Dead Lies (7 page)
I
N THE STILL-DARK, EARLY MORNING HOURS OF DECEMBER 26TH, ANNA
finally exited the station house and headed for her car. She couldn’t wait to get home and take off her shoes. Her bunions were aching. All she wanted to do right now was change into her P.J.s and soak her feet in Epsom salts. A hot bath always seemed to help.
Settling onto the icy cold seat, she fumbled for her keys and thought about how, this time yesterday, kids everywhere were waking their parents up so they could open presents. They’d have torn into brightly colored boxes, leaving piles of wrapping paper and ribbons everywhere. Her thoughts turned to the family she’d met last night and wondered if they’d gotten to sleep at all. She felt a pang of sympathy. She knew what the first morning after a loss felt like.
Spotting Paul heading to his car, she rolled down the window and stuck out her head. “You doing okay, Paul?” she called, referring to the ass-kicking the Chief had given him for his earlier screw-up. But at least Paul had kept his job.
Her young colleague didn’t want to talk about it. “I think I’m gonna crash at my parents’ house,” he said. “I’m so tired I don’t think I can make it home.”
“Say hi to them for me.” The Fishers were warm people who’d invited her to dinner when she’d moved to town and assured her she was welcome in their home any time.
“I will.”
She started to close the window but stopped. “Say, Paul, how about we go out for beers this weekend? I hear there’s a good cover band playing at McMurphy’s.”
“Sounds great, Anna,” he said enthusiastically.
She had a flash of regret about issuing the invitation. She didn’t want him to think she was interested. He was way too young for her. Then she shook the thought away, scolding herself for thinking that. What would Paul want with her? She was damaged goods. He knew that. Still, she could use a night out. Just because her life was a mess didn’t mean she had to live like a hermit.
“We can set it up later in the week,” she said finally. “See ya.” She slipped the key into the ignition.
Paul waved before disappearing into his car.
Allowing her ten-year-old Subaru to warm up for a full minute—the secret to the car’s longevity—Anna rubbed her eyes, trying to wipe away the sand. She needed sleep. She’d been up for more than twenty-four hours. Yet she felt too keyed up to rest. After the discovery at Nickel’s, Kreeger had pulled her aside and asked if she’d like to remain on the case. His office was short-staffed at Christmas holidays and they could use her help, he said. She agreed, of course—downplaying her excitement, so she wouldn’t look green—and then he’d called Chief March to get the official okay.
Now she was going home to catch a few hours of sleep. The plan was to meet Kreeger at ten tomorrow. They’d go over what they’d learned so far then drive together to the Marino house to interview the family again.
The streets were empty so early on a holiday, so Anna’s ride home took her about half the usual fifteen minutes. Tired as she was, she was glad when her little house came into view. She’d been lucky to get this rental. The place wasn’t in great shape. The hot water took forever to run from the bathroom faucets and the brown shag carpeting throughout the house had to be a 1967 original. But it was in a safe neighborhood, and she could afford it.
Pulling her car into the garage was one of those singularly suburban acts she still hadn’t quite gotten used to. The door closed behind her with a push of the remote. She entered the kitchen and was greeted by meows of hunger coming from her orange-and-white tabby, Scarlet, whom she’d adopted from a shelter the year she was married. She filled the cat’s bowl and cooed apologies for leaving her alone for so long without food. Actually, she’d completely forgotten about her.
What a horrible cat mother I am,
she thought, as she fixed herself a ham sandwich—dry because she’d forgotten to buy mayonnaise when she went to the supermarket. She took a large bite, and while she chewed she went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice. She poured a glass then put the carton back, carrying the juice and the plate through the living room toward the bedroom hall and pausing at the front door to check the bolt, just as she did every night.
She headed for the bathroom next. Her bunions were throbbing, and she needed to soak her sore feet in the tub. She could do it while she ate. But something compelled Anna to enter her son’s bedroom instead. She walked to the bed in the far corner and placed her plate and glass on the painted bedside table. She removed her equipment belt and set it down next to the food.
Settling onto the bed, she picked up a stuffed white rabbit and held it to her chest, thinking achingly of Max, who, an hour or so from now would be waking up in her ex-husband’s parents’ house in Brooklyn. The Judge had granted her sole custody of Max, but when Jack had pleaded with her to let their son spend Christmas with him, she’d given in. In spite of everything that had happened, she wanted her son and his father to have a relationship.
Hugging the stuffed animal made her feel connected to Max, but it didn’t do anything to ease a still-deeper anguish within her. She could hardly bear to think about the loss, even now over a year later. A year ago, Max’s identical twin brother—the child Anna had named Nicholas after her grandfather—had died when he was struck by a car in front of their Brooklyn home. Her first-born had been killed instantly. His twenty-five-pound body never had a chance against the 15,000-pound car.
One son was dead.
The other was emotionally scarred.
And she was alone on Christmas.
The only good thing she had going right now was her job.
Curling up on the bed as Scarlet jumped up and settled in next to her, Anna let her year of sadness wash over her. She cried until her eyes swelled shut, only succumbing to sleep when, a few hours later, a fiery orange dawn began to break in the purple sky.
S
EVERAL MILES AWAY IN THE MARINO’S HOUSE, ANOTHER MOTHER WAS
trying to cope with the loss of a child. Vivian Marino adjusted the covers and slid further under the silk sheets. She’d been so excited when she purchased the sheets in Paris last year, but now they seemed like such a ridiculous pleasure, a meaningless splurge.
She felt her head grow sluggish. Finally, the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed were kicking in. She didn’t normally take them, but she was desperate to escape the grinding, crushing grief for a few hours. Sleep, it seemed, was the only thing that might dull the edges of the pain that threatened to consume her seventy-five-year-old body.
Pain!
It slammed her again. Her beautiful daughter was dead, and she’d never hold her again!
She moaned and rolled over onto her side, turning toward her husband, who was sipping scotch on the silk chaise next to the window. Outside she could see the faint outline of the massive old oak tree, the one that was dead and needed to come down.
Dead.
Oh, God, just like Serena. It was too much. Once, like Serena, the giant oak tree had been alive, gloriously alive, providing shade for the blue-stone patio the family used so often during the summer months. When the children were young, the patio was always covered with toys, and it was the same place that many years later they’d celebrated Serena’s engagement to Bill.
Now the tree was dead. Just like her daughter and son-in-law.
Vivian’s gaze returned to her husband in his chair. He seemed lost in memory as he stared into the black night. She heard the glass clink against his teeth when he took another swig of his drink.
“Carl, do you think she suffered?” she whispered to him, her words slicing the quiet of their bedroom.
He turned to her, and she saw the depths of her husband’s agony in his moonlit eyes. It was like looking into a mirror. She had to turn away.
He sighed. “The policeman told us it was quick, and I believe him,” he said bravely, rising from his seat. He came over and sat next to her on the bed, taking her hand in his and patting it tenderly.
They both knew it wasn’t so. It had taken several minutes for their daughter to die. They knew that, not just from the police, but from that terrible phone call she’d made to Web last night. They’d practically
watched
Serena die as they witnessed the expressions on their son’s face.
“Why did this happen, Carl?” she begged through swollen, tear-stained eyes.
“I don’t know, Viv. This town has always been so safe…” He looked away helplessly, sensing he’d let down his family in some way.
She reached out and wiped the tears that were now flowing freely on his weathered face. It was only the second time Vivian had ever seen him cry, and it broke her heart. The first was when he’d gotten the news that his mother had finally succumbed to cancer over twenty years ago.
She grabbed his hands and squeezed them, and he lowered his head to her neck. They cried together for a few minutes, clutching each other that way.
But beneath the sadness, Vivian felt a familiar old shame build within her. It felt cold, like an icy drink rushing down her throat. She put her hands on her husband’s head and pulled it up, looking directly into his face. “We should have told them,” she whispered fiercely.
Her husband pulled back, as if she’d spit in his face.
“We should have told them,” Vivian repeated more emphatically. “And now it’s too late for Serena.” She put her hands over her face and burst into fresh tears.
He stroked her arm and ran his hand over her hair, pleading with her, “No, Vivian, please don’t do this now. Please.”
She was sobbing harder now. “I feel so guilty.” She was so angry at herself, at him.
“Please don’t do this now,” her husband said again, a harshness creeping into his voice through his anguish.
“We should have told her,” Vivian insisted, feeling a scalding resentment that he never wanted to talk about this. Now, when they should have been united by their loss, she felt a widening of the hairline crack that had always been present in their marriage. She felt him slip away from her.
“Don’t you feel guilty?” she challenged, not caring that she was heaping more hurt onto him.
“Vivian, I can’t do this now,” he said more forcefully. “Not on top of everything else…” He rose to his feet and shot her a bitter look.
“We’re going to tell Web,” she insisted, her ire rising uncontrollably as she thought of her only son, her precious, brave child who had already suffered so much. The thought that she would only be adding to his suffering was unbearable.
She put her hands over her face. All she had ever wanted was to be a mother. She had tried to do her best for her two oldest children, but she had failed. The lie had seemed so harmless at first, but it had snowballed with each passing year. Now it was going to crush her.
She looked at her husband, and a fresh wave of fury washed over her. Even now, Carl still couldn’t admit they’d made a mistake, while she alone had carried the guilt all these years. She knew she was a coward for deferring to his wishes, for taking the easy way out.
And now it was too late for Serena.
She would never know.
As decades of resentment and regret boiled within her, Vivian Marino made a vow: The lie would stop with Serena’s death. Whether Carl agreed or not, she would tell Web everything.
Her husband’s face hardened, and he backed away toward the door.
“We’re going to tell him,” she said again to the empty room.
A
NNA HEARD A CAR PULL INTO THE DRIVEWAY AND HURRIED TO THE DOOR.
She’d asked her in-laws to bring Max home before nine so she could see her son before she left for work, and her father-in-law had agreed. Max had been gone for almost two days, and Anna missed him desperately. She couldn’t wait to hold him.
She glanced at her watch and smiled. Stu was right on time. It was 8:57. Now she’d have forty-five minutes with Max before she had to leave him with the babysitter and meet Kreeger at the station.
She stepped out onto the front stoop, holding the door open with her body, and watched the big blue Buick roll to a stop. She caught a glimpse of her beautiful little boy in the back seat then shifted her gaze to the figure in the passenger seat. Her pulse quickened. It was her ex-husband Jack. Her cheeks flushed with anger.
She glared at her father-in-law even though he was busy parking the car. He should never have let Jack come. It had been one of the conditions for letting Max spend Christmas with her ex’s family.
In spite of the tension spreading through her body, she forced a smile onto her face. She’d be damned if she’d let her son witness one more ounce of hostility between his parents. Her little boy had seen enough already.
But
damn
Jack for putting her in this position. She would chew him out later.
The door on the driver side slammed shut, and Anna watched her father-in-law slowly make his way around the front of the car. He’d had double hip replacement surgery in the fall and still wasn’t able to walk comfortably. Unable to feel even an ounce of sympathy for him at the moment, she offered him a tight smile, which he returned, oblivious to her anger.
Jack avoided her gaze as he opened the back door and let Max out. Anna’s heart leapt into her throat when her son bounced onto the pavement with his usual fireball energy. His winter jacket was unzipped and slipping off one of his shoulders, and he wore an electric-blue and red Spider Man costume underneath. All of his attention was focused on the tubular plastic item he held in his right hand. It looked like a miniature rocket launcher. Max took a few fast steps across the snow-speckled grass then stopped in the middle of the lawn. He held up his toy gun with both hands and shouted, “Pow-pow!” as two white objects flew out of the front of the toy and landed on a muddy patch of grass. Anna realized they were marshmallows.
She laughed. “I didn’t know Spider Man carried a gun!”
Max ignored her and dove to retrieve the marshmallows.
“You can’t separate a boy from his guns,” said her father-in-law with a shake of his head.
Anna smiled more genuinely now. She wasn’t one of those parents who refused to let their child have those toys. It would be hypocritical of her to denounce guns when she carried one herself.
She went over to Max, bent down and hugged him. He squirmed in her arms. “Hi, Honey,” she said, caressing his chocolate-brown hair, which was exactly the shade of her own, but straight and fine, like threads of spun silk. She kissed his forehead as he continued to resist. “I missed you,” she said, releasing him. “Was Santa good to you?”
“Yes!” he said with awe, finally meeting her gaze. He held out his toy. “Look at my gun,” he said. “Now I can shoot all the monsters!”
She ruffled his hair. “They won’t have a chance.”
“Hello, Anna,” Jack said tentatively after Max had re-loaded the marshmallows and taken off on a recon tour of the yard.
Anna watched Max drop to one knee before firing again. “Bang, bang, you’re dead,” he shouted.
She turned to her ex-husband. “Hello, Jack,” she said coolly, even though her blood was racing and she could feel the heat in her face. She was still furious over what he’d done. Her rage could boil shrimp.
She briefly wondered what he was doing with himself these days, work-wise, whether he was still trying to make it as an actor or had moved onto something else. It had been almost a year since they’d had a real conversation that didn’t involve Max, so she didn’t know what he was up to. With that thought she realized she didn’t really care.
What was confusing though was that even after everything that had happened she was still attracted to him. Intensely. This made her angry. She hated how he still had some power over her, even though he would never know it. Of course it was hard not to lust after someone who looked like him. Jack Valentine was gorgeous. With eyes the color of sapphires and wavy blond hair that flopped lazily over his forehead, he had the kind of good looks that should have guaranteed him a place on the big screen—or at least on some prime time TV drama starring all The Beautiful People. She wondered yet again why on earth he had ever chosen her, gawky Anna Valentine, with her unruly hair, too-wide set eyes and big butt. They were a truly mismatched pair. Jack could have had his pick of any number of gorgeous women in New York. And yet he had chosen her. He had married
her.
Anna had always relished a good mystery, but this was one that would remain unsolved.
Folding her arms in front of her in a protective gesture, she turned away from her ex-husband and said, “Hi, Stu,” to her father-in-law. “Thanks for bring Max home.”
“You’re welcome, Anna,” he answered warmly. “It was my pleasure. And thanks for letting us have Max for Christmas.”
Anna felt her heart soften toward her father-in-law. He’d had an especially rough time after Nicholas’s death. His hair had gone from black to gray seemingly overnight, and a few weeks after the funeral he’d suffered a heart attack that the doctors said was stress-induced. Then there’d been the hip replacement surgery last year. All these setbacks had visibly aged him. Once he’d been straight-backed and strong; now he looked stooped and wobbly.
Out of the corner of her eye, Anna could see Jack shifting from one foot to another, clearly aware that his presence was unwelcome. “I’m sorry I came,” Jack said. “I know you didn’t want that. I, uh, I just wanted to spend a little more time with Max.” He sighed and added, “I get so little time with him.”
Anna bit back a nasty retort. She really couldn’t blame him. His time with Max
was
limited, especially now that she’d moved to New Jersey. But there was nothing Jack could do, of course. She had full custody of Max, and his visits with his father were entirely subject to her discretion. And yet she appreciated how Jack had never expressed any bitterness or resentment. In fact, he seemed grateful to get whatever time she offered. He even respected her demands that he e-mail visitation requests and only telephone on Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings if he wanted to speak to Max. He was so polite and respectful—obsequious, really—that Anna sometimes wondered if Jack was not just honoring the boundaries she’d set up but also trying to win her back.
Like there was a chance in hell that would ever happen.
Anna decided to give her ex-husband a pass for breaking the rules, but only because she was still riding high from the excitement of last night. “Just don’t do it again,” she warned. He nodded, and she turned back to her father-in-law. “Did you have a nice Christmas?”
“We did, Anna. Arlene says hello and sends her love.”
“Tell her I said the same,” Anna responded sincerely. In spite of everything that had happened she still loved her in-laws and felt sorry they were no longer part of her life.
She watched Jack retrieve two large shopping bags filled with presents from the trunk. He handed them to Anna. “Here’s Max’s loot.”
Anna glanced at her father-in-law because she knew that’s who the gifts had come from. Jack couldn’t have afforded them. She knew he was broke. “My God, it’s not
that
big a house!” she joked.
Stu grinned. “We just can’t help ourselves where Max is concerned.”
She took the bags and called out, “Max, come and say goodbye to Daddy and Grandpa.”
Max ignored her, and she called to him again. He slowly wound his way back and stood behind her, suddenly shy.
“Come on, Honey,” she coaxed. “Go and say goodbye and thank you.”
With a gentle nudge, Max walked over to his grandfather and hugged his leg. His grandfather patted Max’s head and said, “Goodbye Max. I love you.”
Max didn’t respond. He just went over to his father and repeated the gesture. But Anna noticed that he held onto his father for a few extra seconds. It gave her a pang.
Jack bent down and scooped Max up in his arms, giving Max a huge hug and kiss on the cheek in spite of the way Max was struggling to get away. “Goodbye, partner,” he said. “Daddy loves you.” He set Max down and looked up at Anna, adding, “Goodbye, Anna, and thank you.”
“Goodbye, Jack, Stu.” She gestured for her son to join her. “Come on, Max,” she said, and he joined her at the bottom of the stoop.
The two of them stood together and watched the men climb back into the car. They waved as it backed out of the driveway and eventually disappeared down the street.
Fifteen minutes later, Anna was wiping down the kitchen counters with a sponge. She’d made cinnamon toast, which she’d topped with butter and brown sugar, and they’d eaten it together at the kitchen table. Now Max was playing by himself in the living room. She stopped mid-swipe when she realized she could no longer hear him talking to himself and his toys. She’d always loved his constant stream of chatter and thought of it as the background music of her life. She called out to him. “Max?”
There was no answer, so she called again. “Max?”
Still no answer.
Anna felt a momentary flash of dread as she tried to recall whether she’d locked the front door. But she distinctly remembered flipping the bolt. Yes, she’d put down the bags of Christmas gifts next to the couch and gone back to shut and lock the door. She’d also remembered to lock the door to the garage when she came home last night. She was sure of it.
Still holding the sponge, Anna went to go look for her son. He was probably stalking Scarlet somewhere, she told herself. Maybe he’d chased her to the hall closet, where the cat loved to curl up, or under Max’s bed, where Scarlet often hid. Little boys were not high on Scarlet’s list of favorite playthings.
Or maybe Max was just ignoring his mother. Four-year-olds had a funny way of doing that.
Her son wasn’t in the living room, so she checked the hall closet. There was no sign of him. She quickly made her way down the hall to the bedrooms and popped her head into his room, the next likely place he might be. “Max?” she called again. No answer. She peeked inside the closet and under the bed, but there was still no sign of him.
Fighting a rising sense of alarm, she crossed the hall and entered her bedroom.
Keep calm,
she told herself.
Keep calm.
Two steps in, she halted in her tracks. Max was standing on the far side of the room, facing the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the closet door. His body was rock-still and ramrod straight, and his eyes had a glazed, faraway look. He seemed to be staring at a point somewhere in the depths of his reflection.
Not this again
, she thought. Gently she called out, “Max?”
He didn’t answer.
“Max?” she repeated.
Still he didn’t answer.
Anna let out a sigh as she crossed the room. She’d found Max in a trance-like state a handful of times over the past year, and while she understood he was only acting this way out of grief, she had to admit it was
creepy
. She hated feeling that way about her own son, but it was true.
She knelt down behind her little boy, but he was entirely oblivious to her presence. She gently rubbed his arm with her free hand and said, “Max, can you hear me? Come back to me.” She kept her eyes on his reflection in the glass.
Max remained caught in his hypnotic haze for another few seconds until finally his eyes shifted and he became aware of her. He let out a wail. It was the same routine always. For a few seconds after she shook him out of his stupor, Max would cry. Anna dropped the sponge on the floor and held him, uttering soothing sounds. She reminded herself to breathe and that in a few minutes he’d be himself again.
Eventually he stopped crying. He pulled away from her and sniffled a few times. “I want to play pirate,” he said, wiping at his eyes with the backs of his hand.
She hugged him fiercely. He squirmed, and she sent him off.
She picked up her sponge and walked back to the kitchen, passing her son on the way. She was glad to see that he was back to normal again, running around the living room swinging his sword at imaginary enemies. She’d taken Max to see a therapist just after his brother’s death, and the doctor had tried to reassure her about her son’s behavior. “Children do strange things in grief,” the woman had said. “They may act out in unexpected ways.”
“But have you ever heard of
this
kind of thing before?” Anna had asked. After Nicholas had died, she’d joined a support group for grieving parents, and she’d never heard anyone mention that they—or one of their children—had stared spookily into mirrors.
“No,” the psychologist had conceded after a moment’s hesitation. “But a wide range of reactions is normal. Give this some time and allow him to grieve at his own pace.”
