Kiss Her Goodbye (33 page)

The trophy—and yes, even the breezy name—seem to belong to somebody else now. A carefree, confident, sturdy stranger . . . not this person whose spirit is as broken as her body, stranded on this island in a sea of pain.

Stranded in solitude she once craved, and now fears.

But the reassuring words she keeps repeating to herself—the same words her mother and the doctors have been telling her for weeks now—don't seem to penetrate.

Maybe it's because of all the medication she's been on—medication that's supposed to ease the ache of her healing wounds and the mending bones of her right leg and left arm. The bitter white pills she obediently swallows every few hours seem to dull her thought processes more than the pain.

Or maybe it's not the medication at all.

Jen closes her eyes, trying to block it all out.

Nothing.

But she can't. She can't retrieve whatever it is that keeps flitting in to tease her, then darting just out of reach.

No, the one thing Jen instinctively needs to remember is lost in a haze of images she'd rather forget.

Stella's heels sound hollow on the hardwood floors as she walks one last time through the empty rooms of the first floor.

The living room is bathed in shadows now, the winter afternoon waning quickly. Stella reaches for a wall switch and flips it.

Nothing.

Oh. Right. The lamps are packed; there are no overhead lights or wall sconces in here.

Stella eyes the empty hooks on the barren white walls where framed art once hung. She wonders whether she should pull them out, or leave them for the new owners to deal with.

Leave them,
she decides, reaching back to rub her aching shoulders.
All I want to do now is get the heck out of—

“Tired?”

She jumps, spins around to see Kurt standing in the doorway.

“You scared me!” Last she knew, he was down in the basement, packing the last of his tools.

He chuckles. “Sorry. Didn't mean to sneak up on you.”

She's reminded of that last day, when she did the same thing to Sissy as she cleaned the upstairs bathroom.

But Sissy was already jumpy that afternoon, having heard somebody creeping around the house earlier.

Was it Kurt?

Or the killer?

Again, Stella wonders how on earth an elderly man—a priest, no less—could possibly have committed such a heinous crime.

“Listen,” Kurt says, glancing at his watch. “I have to get going. I need to be someplace in a few minutes.”

“Meeting your girlfriend?” Stella hears herself ask tartly.

His tone and expression are as bland as an unseasoned potato. “Not until later.”

She nods, wondering what kind of man wouldn't squirm under his wife's gaze after admitting a rendezvous with his girlfriend.

The kind of man who's hollow inside, she concludes. The kind of man who has no feelings; no concern for anybody but himself.

A psychopath.

That's what you call a person like that. Stella hasn't forgotten all those deviant psychology courses she took back in college.

No, you didn't forget what a psychopath
was . . .
you just forgot to make sure you weren't marrying one.

A snort escapes her.

Kurt's eyes narrow.

“What's so funny?”

Stella shrugs.

“No, really.” He takes a step closer, coming into the shadowy living room with her. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you laughing at me?” The bland expression is gone; his eyes are ablaze with anger.

“Why? Did you say something funny?”

“You seem to think so.”

“No, I don't. I'm not laughing.” And she isn't. Not now. Now she's . . . well, she's frightened. Of him. It's ridiculous, but she is.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

She shouldn't be afraid of him. She lived with him for years, shared his bed, bore his children. There was a time when she would have gone to the ends of earth if he asked, a time when she would have died for him.

But that was so very long ago . . .

Or was it?

The night of Erin's murder, she lied to the police to protect Kurt. She was certain they'd be suspicious if she told them about his affair, and just as certain of his innocence.

In the murder, at least.

But there was once a time when she managed to convince herself that he wasn't cheating on her, wasn't there?

She was in denial about that.

What if she was in denial about the murder?

She stares at her husband. Her soon-to-be-ex-husband.

Suddenly, it's as though she's looking at a complete stranger.

 

 

The stuffed pork chops Kathleen baked for supper are drying out in the oven, and still there's no sign of Matt.

Darkness seemed to descend more swiftly than usual today, casting the house in shadow not long after she and the boys trudged home through the snow from the bus stop. Her feeling of claustrophobia intensified, Kathleen turned on almost every lamp in the house and flipped every outdoor switch as well. Somehow, the artificial light seemed to help dispel her restlessness along with the gloom. So did the fire she lit in the den, and the Christmas videos and DVDs she pulled out to keep the boys occupied.

Now, with the rousing piano music from
A Charlie Brown Christmas
playing reassuringly in the background, Kathleen peers anxiously through the living room window.

The front yard and the street are blanketed in snow, and it's still swirling, sparkling like glitter in the glow from the floodlights and lamppost.

Across the street, Kathleen sees one of her neighbors, undaunted by darkness or the weather, standing on a ladder stapling holiday lights beneath the gutter above his wreath-bedecked front door. A few houses down, a colorful Christmas tree twinkles already in a picture window.

“Christmastime . . . is here . . .”
the Peanuts characters chorus in the next room.

Yes, it is. It seems like only moments have passed since Kathleen was contentedly sending the kids off on the bus on the first day of school, warm September sunshine on her shoulders. Now the holidays are upon them, and her world has spun out of control.

Kathleen is surrounded by the familiar trappings of her favorite season, but nothing is as it should be.

And where the hell is Matt? she wonders, searching the street for an arc of headlights turning off Cuttington Road. Nothing but darkness, falling snow, and the rapidly disappearing tracks of a plow that went by more than an hour ago.

Why hasn't Matt called since this morning?

At first, she was relieved to have a reprieve from the frequently ringing phone and the tiresome questions about Jen's condition. But as the afternoon wore on, she found herself regretting the way she'd spoken to him earlier, wishing she'd told him to just come on home before the weather got too nasty. She even tried calling him back a few times, but only got his voice mail.

That wasn't unusual. Matt is frequently away from his desk. But he always calls her back as soon as he gets her message. Always.

“Mommy?”

She looks up to see Riley standing behind her, the spitting image of his daddy, bright blue eyes and dark hair.

Suddenly, she feels a pang of longing for Matt, for the way things used to be between them. How can they ever go back to that now?

We can't,
she realizes, and grief sweeps over her.
We'll never be the same. He'll never trust me again.

“Mommy?” Riley says again. “I'm hungry. Can I have a snack?”

“We're going to eat soon, sweetie. The second Daddy gets home.”

“Well, when is he coming?”

“Any time now.” She glances again out the window. Still no headlights.

“Well, call him and see when,” Riley orders with five-year-old authority.

“I can't. He's not at work and he doesn't have a cell phone.”

Which is his own damn fault. He had one in Indiana, provided by his company. That's not one of the perks of his new job, though. And when Kathleen suggested that they add another phone to their existing cell plan, he stubbornly refused—just as he refused to get one for Jen.

Now, anger—unreasonable or not—rises to mingle with Kathleen's worry about her husband. What if something happened to him?

“Why do we have to wait for Daddy to eat?” Riley wants to know. “Why can't we start without him? We used to eat without him all the time back home.”

Kathleen sighs. “This is home now, Riley.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot.”

“And we wait for Daddy because it's nice to eat dinner as a family.”

“Well, Jen doesn't have to eat dinner as a family.”

“That's because she got hurt. But she's almost better, and when she is, she'll eat with us again.”

“I want to eat now,” he whines.

“I said we'll eat soon.”

He stamps his foot.
“Now!”

Kathleen opens her mouth to scold him, then thinks better of it. He's just a hungry little boy, caught in the middle of a domestic drama.

“Okay, Riley. You and Curran can eat now if you can't wait.”

“What about you?”

She leads the way back to the kitchen, saying, “I'll eat with Daddy.”

Not that she has any appetite.

Where, she wonders again, is her husband?

 

 

Nobody will ever miss the broom from Maeve Hudson's basement.

Most likely, nobody will miss Maeve Hudson, either. Not for a long time.

It could very well be several days before anybody discovers her corpse hanging from the sturdy pole in her walk-in closet, where she tried to hide once she sensed the danger she was in.

Fitting that she died there among the trappings of her life—fashionable clothes, designer shoes. Who knew an imported Italian leather belt would make such a perfect noose . . . or that its owner would give up the fight almost willingly in the end, seeming to welcome death?

No sign of forced entry. No sign of a struggle.

That's what the police report will say when Maeve's body is discovered.

By then, of course, the whole thing will be over. Nobody will connect her death with her daughter's murder, or Jen Carmody's murder.

No, people will assume she was a grieving mother who couldn't live without her child. A logical suicide . . . though there was no note. It was tempting to try to write one, imitating Maeve's distinct handwriting. That would have been a necessity, had her death been planned.

But it wasn't. It just happened, Maeve Hudson becoming an unforseen obstacle in the path.

In the end, it was better not to leave a note; better to leave well enough alone. Plenty of people kill themselves without writing a final farewell or explanation. Who would Maeve even address if she wrote such a note, anyway? She's divorced, her daughter is dead.

Kathleen, maybe? Would she have addressed a suicide note to her loyal best friend?

An interesting idea . . . but it's too late.

Back to the broom.

Every footprint leading away from the Hudson home was swept neatly away without a trace. Now the broom handle is splintered into kindling, the bristles already crackling on the hearth.

Like her daughter, like the others who got in the way, Maeve Hudson didn't have to die. She should have left well enough alone.

In any case, analyzing the catalyst of Maeve Hudson's death is useless now that the deed is done. Now, there are far more important things to think about.

It's time.

Time to finish the job that should have been accomplished fourteen years ago.

Time for Jen Carmody to die as she should have all those years ago.

It was the perfect opportunity. They were alone together in the nursery.

The baby gazed up from her crib with trusting blue eyes—newborn navy blue eyes that would one day change to brown beneath the telltale pale streak in her left eyebrow.

If the child made a sound when the pillow came down over her face, it was muffled by the thick bulk of down pressed against her nostrils and nose.

Those were the words that were embroidered in pink thread on the white pillow.

That, supposedly, is what little girls are made of.

What a joke.

The baby's tiny body writhed frantically in the crib as oxygen was cut off, putting up a vehement fight for her life. But of course she was no match for the strong hands that held her down.

Another few seconds, and she'd have been dead.

But it didn't happen that way.

Instead, there were footsteps in the hall, a familiar voice calling the baby's name, the sound of a door opening . . .

It was too late to hide.

Too late to do anything but stand by helplessly as infant CPR was administered.

It was excruciating to witness the feverish effort to save the baby's life. Excruciating to hear the raging accusations, the threats, the despair that followed.

And then . . .

The baby was gone.

It didn't matter where. All that mattered, at first, was that she was gone, for good.

Gone and forgotten, just as if she really had died.

If only . . .

No. No need for if onlys. Not now. Not ever again.

Tomorrow is the day. It should have happened fourteen years ago; then it should have happened a month ago.

Once again, things went horribly wrong.

It should have been so easy. And it was, at first.

Erin Hudson never even turned around as she sliced apples at the counter, never seemed to sense that somebody was behind her. Somebody who was watching her every move from behind the hideous rubber monster mask, waiting for just the right moment to pounce.