Kiss Her Goodbye (35 page)

She watches the snow, and, gradually, her clenched muscles begin to relax.

The worst month of her life is behind her. It's December now—a new month, the start of a new season.

Tomorrow, Jen decides, she might ask Mom to open her window a crack. The room feels too warm and stuffy. Suddenly, she craves fresh air.

Fresh air. A fresh start.

Yes, she decides, snuggling into the warm blankets again and closing her eyes, tomorrow will be a turning point. She can feel it.

The second of December dawns cold and clear in Woodsbridge.

In the master bathroom, Kathleen clears a peephole in the fogged-over windowpane with the sleeve of her robe. She leans close to look out, shivering in the icy draft that seeps through the crack between the double-hung windows.

The world beyond the glass is breathtakingly beautiful. The hard edges of houses and branches and fences have been cushioned in soft billows of white against a backdrop of Carmody blue sky—the precise piercing shade of Matt and the boys' eyes.

Kathleen hears a plow rumbling by in the distance. From this side of the house, she can't see if Sarah Crescent has been cleared yet. Probably not. It's still early, and the cul de sac is relatively out of the way.

Maybe Matt will leave for work later than usual. Then again, maybe he'll leave earlier, to prove a point.

But she does. She wants him here . . . just not the way he has been, lately. Not brooding, and angry, and . . . and different. She wants him the way he used to be. She wants their life together the way it used to be, even if it meant being burdened by a secret she carried single-handedly. If wondering what would happen if her husband ever found out was difficult, living with the consequences is far more painful.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Matt pokes his head into the bathroom, busily knotting a tie around his neck. “Are you almost finished in here, Kathleen?”

There was a time when he would have shortened her name on the end of that question. Kath. What a difference the extra syllable makes.

Longing for his affection, unable to give any in return, she says only, “Almost.”

She turns away from the window, squirts aqua gel onto her toothbrush.

He's still there. “Can you hurry it up? I need to get in here.”

“I thought you were done.”

“I showered. I still need to shave.”

He disappears again.

There was a time when he would have laughingly joined her in the bathroom, shaving above her head as she spit into the sink. But those days are gone. The chill between them this morning is as palpable as the draft permeating the window.

Kathleen brushes her teeth quickly and splashes cold water on her face. Her reflection in the mirror is gaunt, the skin around her eyes thin and sallow.

Turning her back on her sorry self, she emerges into the master bedroom, where her husband is tying a black dress shoe.

“It's all yours,” she informs him, trying not to sound too snotty.

Apparently doing nothing of the sort, he murmurs a clipped “thanks” as he brushes past her.

Kathleen quickly makes the bed, retrieves the throw pillows from the chair and tosses them at the head.

Overhead, there's a rumbling sound, and then a crash outside the nearest window.

Startled, Kathleen opens the shade, knowing what it is even before she sees the heap of snow below.

If it's sliding off the roof, the temperature must be warming. Good. She isn't yet ready for the onset of winter. Maybe there will be a thaw.

She quickly opens the shade at the other window, hoping to be out of here before Matt emerges from the bathroom.

She's almost to the door when he comes out, pressing a bloody washcloth against his chin.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You're bleeding.”

“I cut myself.”

“Is it bad?”

“No.”

But it is. She can tell by the streaks of crimson on the washcloth and the way he winces as he presses on it.

“Do you want me to get you some Neosporin or something?” she offers, melting just a little.

“No. Thanks,” he adds belatedly, and their eyes meet briefly before he looks away.

Kathleen shrugs and steps out into the hallway.

Behind her, Matt calls her name. Her full name, once again.

She hesitates. “What?”

“Make sure Jen eats today, will you? Those drugs she's on are heavy duty. She needs food in her system.”

Kathleen rolls her eyes and says nothing.

Down the hall, she peeks into her daughter's room and finds her sound asleep. Jen doesn't even stir when she pulls the blankets up around her shoulders, nor when Kathleen presses a kiss against her head and whispers, “I love you, baby girl.”

Baby girl.

Her first baby girl is gone.

This is the daughter who matters now.

Kathleen stares down at her sleeping daughter, safe and sound in her own bed. She thinks of the child she buried fourteen years ago and of the one Maeve Hudson buried last month.

It's time to let go of the past. Time to stop letting harsh memories torture her. Time to banish toxic guilt from her life.

Today can be the turning point, if she allows it.

She has three children who need her, a husband who loves her.

At least, he
did.

She vividly remembers the day the blue-eyed, handsome stranger laughingly bent to retrieve her baby's dropped rattle from beneath a park bench in Chicago. Surprisingly, he sat down at her side . . . and he never left it.

She always believed he was too good to be true, the second major miracle in her life.

The first, of course, was finding a baby girl on the church steps hours after she had buried her own precious child.

When she saw the pink bundle there, she was deluded enough in her grief to actually believe it was her own dead baby come to life again, courtesy of her mother in heaven.

After all, hadn't she begged her mother, begged God Himself, to send her baby back to her? To give her another chance?

All she wanted was another chance.

She got it.

She found that baby, and she took her, and she ran. She ran all the way to Chicago, certain nobody would ever know the truth. The baby's real mother had abandoned her.

And nobody knew Kathleen's real daughter lay in a shallow grave she dug herself in the dead of night . . .

Right beside Mollie Gallagher's headstone.

Lucy is halfway out the door when Henry's voice stops her in her tracks.

“Where are you going?”

Keeping her back to him for fear he'll see the lie in her eyes, she says, “To church.”

“In this weather?”

Her heart pounds. “It's not snowing.”

“The roads are icy. Stay home.”

With him, it's never a request.

It never has been, from the day she vowed before God to obey her husband until death do them part.

Obey.

She also promised to love and honor him—both vows she broke years ago. But leaving Henry is as out of the question now as it was then. Even if she had somewhere to go, some means of supporting herself, divorce is against her religion. And her religion is all she has left—all that's sustained her through the brutal years.

Last night, as her husband snored beside her in their bed, Lucy lay awake for hours, wondering if she really does love God and her church more than she hates Henry. She used to think so.

Now, she isn't so sure.

She isn't sure of anything except that Margaret's life is still in danger and nobody knows.

“Come on,” Henry says behind her now as she hesitates on the snowy step. “All the heat's going out. Get back in here.”

Lucy can't just wait helplessly for something to happen. She gave her daughter life; it's her duty to preserve it, at any cost.

She has to tell somebody about Margaret.

But whom?

The police? And have her name dragged through the press?

No. She can't let Henry find out about any of this. If he knew she saw John again, he would . . .

She closes her eyes, wincing at the thought of what he would do to her.

So the police can't know. But the Carmodys need to.

I have to talk to them,
Lucy thinks desperately.
To her, especially. Kathleen Carmody. From one mother to another—

“Lucy!” Henry barks from the doorway. “What the hell are you doing out there?”

She turns slowly to face the man she's grown to despise. If she tries to leave against his will, he'll drag her back in the house and beat her so badly she'll be trapped here for weeks.

So? Either way you're trapped,
Lucy realizes.

But not for long now. In a few hours, he'll leave for work.

If she waits him out, Lucy can leave after he does, go right over to Orchard Hollow.

She only prays the extra few hours won't make the difference between life and death for Margaret.

 

 

Stella is running late for work, yet she stops at the Dunkin' Donuts drive-through after dropping the girls at day care. She stares hungrily at the donuts pictured on the sign, but orders only the largest coffee they have.

“Decaf?” the girl asks over the crackling speaker.

“God, no,” Stella replies around a yawn.

She was up most of the night, and not just because her mother's pull-out couch is about as comfortable—and sturdy—as a plastic tubing chaise lounge.

No, she couldn't stop thinking about Kurt.

About his nameless, faceless girlfriend.

About his whereabouts the night of the murder.

What if he isn't having an affair at all?

What if he wasn't miles away when Erin was murdered and Jen attacked?

What if the priest wasn't the killer, but was trying to defend himself against the real killer?

A horn blasts behind Stella. She looks back to see an angry driver gesturing and realizes the car in front of her has pulled ahead.

“God, have some patience,” she mutters, gesturing her apology to Mr. Impatience.

She takes her foot off the brake and coasts up to the window, handing over her money and accepting the coffee from the girl.

“Have a nice day.”

The girl's breath is as steamy as the coffee in the cold morning air.

Stella nods, smiles grimly. “I will.”

Yeah, right.

A nice day.

She hasn't had a nice day since . . .

Well, she can't remember the last time she had a nice day.

And now that she's on her own with two kids, a full-time job, and a pull-out couch to call home . . .

Well, if this isn't rock bottom, she doesn't know what is.

Oh, yes. Yes, she does.

Maeve Hudson's tear-stained face pops into her head.

The wake was a nightmare, the mass agony, the burial pure torture.

Stella wept throughout.

Kurt didn't attend.

Not even during calling hours at the funeral home. He said he was busy at work.

Is he that callous?

Or is there another reason he refused to go?

A darker reason—one nobody might ever suspect.

Nobody but the wife who learned the hard way that her trust in him was profoundly misplaced.

 

 

Jen awakens to find the sun streaming through the window, something she hasn't seen in what feels like forever.

She rolls up onto her elbow, wincing as the joint takes the weight of her upper body. The physical therapist she saw at the hospital, Megan, promised her that eventually her arm will feel almost as good as new.

Not
as
good as new.

Megan told Jen that her leg will heal, too. That she should be able to play soccer again with no problem by the time the next season rolls around.

Right now, Jen can't imagine running the length of a field, let alone facing the team without Erin.

But September is a long way away.

As if to punctuate that realization, the dull, rhythmic scraping thud of a snow shovel against concrete reaches Jen's ears. She winces as she hoists herself further upright in the bed, leaning toward the frost-etched window.

Dad is below, shoveling the sidewalk.

His jaw is set, as though he's angry about something.

Jen watches him for a long time, wondering what he's thinking about.

I miss you,
she tells him silently, before turning away.

So much for a fresh start.

Her elbow might be almost as good as new someday, but it's pretty obvious that her relationship with the man she was led to believe was her father is permanently shattered. He said very little to her in all those endless days and nights as he and Mom hovered over her hospital bed. Though he seemed concerned, it could have been an act he was putting on for the doctors and nurses.