Buried Secrets, page 4
Chapter Four
“I don’t know what took you so long. You said you’d be here in an hour, and it’s been two.” Thin lips, wild hair, and narrowed eyes.
Tuesday’s jaw clenched as she listened to her mother’s complaints. She wanted to turn around and run out of the house. Instead, she took her mother’s arm and guided her to the master bedroom.
She’d pulled into the driveway to the sight of her standing in the big picture window of the front room, hands on hips, a glare pasted on her face. The berating began before she stepped over the threshold. Story of her life.
“I stopped and got gas, then picked up a few things at Rosauers.” Including a big bone for Tripper and a small bottle of good brandy she could indulge in now that she no longer required pain meds. She’d figured after twenty minutes alone with her mother, she’d be hitting that baby, and from initial impressions, she’d called that one with razor-point accuracy.
“My food isn’t good enough for you? I have groceries, you know.”
Keep it neutral and maybe she’d hold onto her sanity. “I’m sure you do.” She helped her mother back into the bed, pulling the comforter over her thin body. Never a big woman, she’d morphed from thin into skeletal. Not a good look even on someone whose ugly heart took away any hope for beauty a very long time ago.
Fortunately for Tuesday, she resembled her father. Not heavy. Not skinny either. More that pleasant in-between, perfect for an athlete. Or at least she’d been an athlete until that asshole permanently changed her life. She wouldn’t be able to do many of the activities she’d enjoyed before. She might never be able to swim again after the damage done to her shoulder. That pissed her off.
Dad had also been handsome and kind. When she’d been little, her go-to had always been her father because there she found gentle love, acceptance, and safety. That’s why his disappearance without a word had always bothered her, despite the consistent message from her mother that he’d abandoned them. She hadn’t believed it back then, and she didn’t believe it now. Her training had provided her with skills when it came to finding people, and she’d looked. No trace of him led her to the conclusion there had to be more to the story, and someday, she would get to the truth. Her gaze shifted to her mother. Sooner would be best.
If only she weren’t the walking wounded and unable to live her life the way she wanted. Stop. Nope. Do not go there . Everyone around her had to be sick of the moping, and she was right there with them. Her whining about what had happened irritated her as much as it must irritate her friends. Didn’t care if it bothered her family. She’d put up with their bull her whole life, so they could damn well put up with her self-pity for a few weeks. For her part, had to make the best of it and spend this time figuring out where her life would take her with no direction, no job, not even a good idea.
In some ways, she didn’t mind not returning to her career. She’d enjoyed learning and growing in her profession, which was always interesting. All that aside, it still came with more than a little stress, as it did for all of them. Years of dealing with those who ranged from petty criminals to degenerates wore down even the best of them. Could be part of what put her in the position of becoming a victim. She’d gotten sloppy, her guard had come down, and the price for that slip, unfairly heavy.
“I’m thirsty.”
Her mother’s whine brought her back to the here and now. “What do you want?”
“I want a single-malt scotch.” The longing in her voice made Tuesday wonder about her mother’s relationship with alcohol. Growing up, she’d rarely imbibed, or more precisely, Tuesday had rarely seen her imbibe. Didn’t mean she hadn’t been a drinker behind closed doors. Given the mood swings she’d witnessed as a kid, wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
“That’s a hard no.” Until she knew exactly the kinds of meds she’d been prescribed, Tuesday wasn’t about to risk an adverse reaction.
“If October was here, he’d get it for me.” And back came the whine.
“He’s not here, and so I repeat, no. What else would you like?”
“You’re just being difficult, like always.”
“No. I’m being cautious with your health, and you should be thankful for that.” Like that would ever happen. Gratitude wasn’t a trait her mother embraced.
“Coffee.” She turned her head to the window as if Tuesday no longer stood next to her.
“Fine. I’ll bring you a cup of coffee. Cream?”
“And sugar.”
She looked at her mother’s face as it turned away from her. Sweets had never been her thing. “Sugar?”
“It makes me feel better.”
That explained a lot, and at least the sneer had disappeared from her voice. A little bit humbled by cancer? Or, more likely, just made tired by the disease. She’d add the sugar. Sure couldn’t hurt at this stage and a far cry from mixing drugs and alcohol. Getting well wasn’t going to be on her agenda. “Okay. I’ll be back in a few.”
Outside the door, she paused and took a deep breath. How she’d make it through until the end, she didn’t know. Leaving this place had saved her life. Away from the toxic environment of her youth, she’d made friends, found her calling, and contributed to her community. Coming back, even for the best of reasons, could take her on a path she didn’t want to follow.
Down the hallway, she peeked into her brother’s old room. Still looked as it always did. Trophies, awards, and newspaper clippings everywhere—on the shelves and in custom frames on the walls. The golden boy captured for all time. The shrine maintained for perpetuity. She didn’t bother to step in and check. Not a speck of dust would mar the furniture, the picture frames, or the shiny trophies.
Across the hall, she stepped into her childhood room that didn’t quite hold the same place of honor. Once upon a time it had been a pleasing shade of blue, with a twin bed covered in a bright quilt made by their paternal grandmother. Back in the day, a few trophies sat on the bookshelves, a rifle gifted to her by her father on a wall-mounted rack. Pre-gun-safe days and unloaded, of course. Her own personal sanctuary where she could be alone with her books and her dreams, where she felt safe. She shifted her gaze to the door, where small holes on the door and frame were all that remained of the slide lock that used to be there.
She recognized nothing in the room now. Walls painted a bland off-white no longer hosted either the bookshelves or the gun rack. Not a trophy to be seen bearing her name. She’d place a hefty bet they’d been tossed into the trash five minutes after she’d packed and left. At least she still had the rifle, locked up safe and sound back at her house in town.
* * *
Addie owed Conchita big-time. She knew exactly what she’d needed to relax and prepare for tomorrow. If she hadn’t showed up, she’d be pacing and fretting and staring at the clock. Happened every time she started down a new path.
They finished the bottle of wine, and by the time Conchita left, she had a pleasant buzz. Not drunk. Not sober. That wonderful place right in between. She turned off the downstairs lights and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.
Sitting on the bed, she ran her hand over the lid of the banker box with the tattered corners. A long stretch since she’d opened it last, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to do it now. She tapped her fingers against the top—tap, tap, tap. She closed her eyes and counted to ten. Then she pulled off the lid.
The photograph on top made her smile. Christmas morning. She’d been ten, and he’d been fourteen. They beamed as they stood with their new bikes. Grandfather had gotten them the latest and the greatest. The best Christmas morning ever. Nothing marred that particular day, even after the mimosas were served as soon as the presents were opened. Slowly, she picked up each picture and remembered. Anthony smiled in photo after photo. He could light up any room, and people were drawn to him. When they looked into his handsome face, no one would have ever guessed what went on behind the fancy front door of their home.
Her journey down memory lane complete, she put the lid back on the box and leaned against the pillows. Not for the first time, or the hundredth, she wondered if the magnetism had taken him away from the family. Away from her. The draw to a kinder, simpler life far away from the drama of their youth. She couldn’t fault him for wanting to leave home, and as college graduation loomed, their grandfather had expected him to return to the family business. Their mother expected him to be her caretaker. A young man with the real world heavy on his shoulders.
Her phone rang, and once more she smiled. “Yes…”
“Letting you know I’m home safe and sound, and to tell you to put that damn box away.” Conchita’s voice remained as bright and cheerful as earlier. She wished she possessed a tenth of her spirit.
“What makes you think I’ve got the box?” She lifted her gaze to the ceiling and studied the vent. Sometimes, she’d swear her friend had installed security cameras at her house.
“Oh, please. Do you think I just fell off the turnip truck?”
“Is there such a thing as a turnip truck?” She laughed.
“Who the hell knows, but I do know you, and I’m betting five minutes after I left, you pulled that box out of the closet and are sitting there moping and crying. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not entirely right and not entirely wrong. I smiled and I cried.”
“Seriously, Addie. Don’t bury yourself in the past. It’s over, remember? Tomorrow is a new day and a new chance. Find Anthony, but do it looking forward.”
“Got it.”
“Do you?”
Legit question. So much of her identity was wrapped up in the events of the past. It became difficult to make a distinction between it and the present. “I think so. God grant me the serenity…”
“Bingo. Now, go to sleep. Catch your plane in the morning and see what the future brings you.”
“You’re the best.”
“Of course, I am. Sleep.”
“Got it.” She ended the call and set the box aside as she crawled beneath the covers. For a long time after she turned off the lights, she watched shadows dance on the ceiling.
* * *
“Oh, baby. I thought you’d never get here.”
Not wrong again. Rob would say she’d finished off at least three glasses of wine by the time he walked through the front door. She looked good even with her grape juice on board. She always did, a small fact that played a heavy hand in why he’d selected her.
He hung his jacket in the hall closet before he turned and kissed her on the top of her head. She tried to go for his lips. The boozy scent turned his stomach, and he took a step away. “I told you I’d be home.”
“You said you’d be here hours ago, and now dinner is cold.”
Not a big loss, and he hadn’t even looked to see what she’d made. Her skill set did not extend to the kitchen. It remained limited to her ability to uncork a bottle of wine in record time and, most importantly, her enthusiasm in the bedroom, the latter hinging upon her level of intoxication. “I grabbed a quick bite while I worked.”
“But, baby, I made you dinner.” Tears pooled in her eyes. They wouldn’t fall. It would disturb her eye makeup, and she wouldn’t let that happen. She could pack away a couple of bottles of wine and still not smear her mascara. Now, that was a skill set.
He patted her on the top of the head. “I appreciate it. If I hadn’t needed to work late, I wouldn’t have grabbed anything.”
“You want a glass of wine?”
“Sure.” He’d throw her a bone, though he didn’t intend to drink it. She wouldn’t notice. There were a lot of things she didn’t notice. Another thing that made her a perfect partner.
She tottered to the living room on the three-inch heels she wore because “they made her legs look fab,” and he followed. A glance at the wine bottle on the end table confirmed his earlier guess. Three healthy glasses in already, assuming, of course, she hadn’t finished off an earlier bottle. One glass with a sip or two in it and one clean glass sat next to the bottle. She poured maybe an inch or two into his glass and emptied the rest of the bottle into hers. She didn’t wipe up what spilled on the table. Surprised him she didn’t lick it up. Waste not, want not.
“Here, baby. It’s a good one. My friend, Katy, recommended it, and she knows how to pick them.”
Oh, yes, her friend Katy, or as he referred to her, Drunk Number Two. He made a show of taking a sip. “Yes. It’s quite nice.”
“I know.” She smiled big. “Right?” She downed half of what she’d poured for herself. Then she dropped down into the chaise, pulling her feet up and leaning back against the pillows. He’d seen her do the same thing a hundred times and always wondered how she managed not to poke holes in the upholstery with those spiky heels. “Sorry, babe. I’m feeling a little tired. You’re so late getting home.” She finished the rest of the glass and sighed.
Rob walked around the room, waiting. It wouldn’t be long now. He gave her three minutes. She made it two before she fell asleep. Could he call it, or could he call it?
In the family room, he turned on the massive TV and sat back in his chair, clicking through the channels until he landed on a local news station. The anchor, with the serious face and perfectly coiffed hair, launched into a recitation of local news. When the evening coverage ended, he got up and poured himself a scotch or, as he referred to it, a real drink. The first sip went down warm and easy. He did love a good single malt. His mother had turned him on to the joy of the deep-amber liquor.
He also loved a good plan, even an impromptu one. While he’d learned years ago not to do his special work near home, every now and again he made an exception. Like today. The anchors didn’t mention a murder victim. A no-news-is-good-news scenario for him. The longer it went, the less likely they could make meaningful connections. Not that he’d lose any sleep over it. He’d never been connected to anything before. No reason to believe he would be now.
With a final swallow, he set the empty glass on the table and got up. He could use a good night’s sleep. The next few days would try his patience. Had to maintain appearances, though, and he’d do it just as he always had. The mask of respectability wasn’t hard for him to wear, and he could read a room like nobody else. Made it all the easier to be him. Proved over and over his masterful skills.
As he passed the living room, he glanced in. She remained sprawled out, the wineglass now on its side on the floor. He turned out the light and continued upstairs.
Chapter Five
Tuesday stood in the kitchen of her youth drinking coffee and watching out the window as Tripper raced around the pasture, jumping in the air in failed attempts to catch flies. After he’d checked out the house last night and taken a patrol round of the nearby acreage, he’d settled in fine. Almost as if he’d been here a hundred times instead of never. His ability to adjust to their surroundings rubbed off on her a little. It helped a lot.
Not much had changed over the years, beyond an updated kitchen and a bit of new furniture here and there. Mother had always been a creature of habit, so the fact that she actually stepped up and redid the kitchen surprised her. She’d expected to see the same old dark-wood cabinets and brown linoleum floor. Not the case. The cabinets were a beautiful light gray, and the floor, a pleasing laminate hardwood that complemented the rest of the kitchen. Even the appliances were newer, high-efficiency versions. Like Mom actually cooked.
She’d been the one to learn how to cook when just a kid. The mere thought of the prepackaged crap that passed as the home-cooked meals of her youth made her shudder. She’d been allowed free and unsupervised use of the kitchen. Her self-taught methods improved over the years, and she’d become both efficient and good. Her own kitchen featured the quality tools found in a chef’s. Not that she really planned to utilize her skills while here. They would be wasted on an unappreciative audience.
Ten minutes after arriving, she knew she’d have to do some additional shopping just to accomplish the most basic cooking tasks. The few supplies she’d picked up on the way here weren’t enough. Her mother’s appetite clearly suffered from the multiple medications she took as part of her cancer-treatment regimen. Soft and mild wasn’t going to work for Tuesday. The only saving grace came when she opened the cupboard to find really decent coffee. Apparently, the home-care nurses appreciated dark brew as much as she did.
“Tuesday!”
And it began. So much for quality quiet time. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could do this. Yes, she could. “Coming, Mother.”
Up the stairs and to the end of the hallway, where the double doors opened to the massive master suite. Inside those doors, little had changed. Still the light-green walls, white plush carpet that no shoes were allowed to touch, and the king-sized bed that only one person had slept in for decades. Just as she remembered from the few times she had ever entered the room. More than remodeling had been banned from this personal sanctuary. The gates were closed to all but two. She wasn’t one of the two.
The only obvious changes appeared in the form of an IV pole, a wheelchair, and a black, adjustable, over-the-bed table. Not a generic wheelchair either. A high-end model that undoubtedly cost thousands of dollars. No cheap, run-of-the-mill conveyance for her mother, even though, as she’d already demonstrated, she could walk when she chose to make the effort.
The nightstand, which in the past held only a clock, a bedside lamp, and October’s college-graduation portrait, now served as the defacto medicine chest, the top covered with prescription bottles in various sizes. Change entered here only upon the appearance of terminal illness, and even then, it did so with a price tag that exceeded even the best of insurance plans. Clearly, her mother intended to die with dignity and affluence. Might be more accurate to say she intended to die with what she viewed as dignity and affluence.
“About time you got up here. What did you do, crawl up the stairs? I could have died in the time it took you to get up them. You got shot in the shoulder. Nothing wrong with your legs.”
