“Was this the incident on the bus? The reason they found traces of her blood?”
“Yes. Billy stuck out his foot and tripped her. She fell and cut herself. But again, it was Lizzie’s word against his.”
“Why did none of this come up during the trial?” asked Frost.
“It did, in a way. I told the court there was a reason why they found traces of Lizzie’s blood on the bus, but no one asked me why she cut her lip. And the prosecutor, Erica Shay, was furious with me for even sharing that information. She didn’t want to reveal anything that would hurt her case against Martin Stanek, because she was absolutely certain he abducted my daughter.”
“And do you still believe that?” asked Jane.
“I don’t know. I’m so confused now.” Arlene sighed again. “I just want her to come home. Dead or alive, I want my Lizzie home.”
Outside, the storm clouds that had darkened the sky all morning finally unleashed fat snowflakes that swirled into the sea. On a summer’s day, this would be a lovely place to lie on the beach or build sand castles. But today the view matched the atmosphere of gloom that hung so heavily inside this house.
Arlene at last managed to straighten again and look at Jane. “No one ever asked me about Billy before. No one seemed to care.”
“We care. We care about the truth.”
“Well, the truth is, Billy Sullivan was a nasty little shit.” She paused, seeming surprised at her own outburst. “There, I said it. I should have said it to his mother, not that she’d ever believe it. I mean, no one wants to think their child is born that way, but sometimes it’s obvious who the bad ones are. The kid who likes to hurt other children and then lies about it. The kid who steals. And yet the idiot parent doesn’t have a clue.” She paused. “Have you met Susan Sullivan?”
“We spoke to her after her son vanished.”
“I know it’s wrong to talk ill about any mother who’s lost her child, but Susan was part of the problem. She had an excuse for every bad thing Billy ever did. Did you know he once skinned a baby possum, just for fun? Lizzie told me he liked to cut open animals. He’d catch frogs in the pond, slice them open while they were still alive to watch their heart beating. If he was already like that as a boy, I can’t imagine what kind of man he turned into.”
“Did you keep in touch with Susan?”
“God, no. After the trial, I avoided her. Or maybe she was avoiding me. I heard through the grapevine that Billy went into finance. Imagine that, the perfect job for a weasel. He handled millions of dollars of other people’s money and bought his mother a great big house in Brookline. A vacation home in Costa Rica. At least he knew how to treat his own mother right.” She glanced out the window again, at the snowflakes swirling in the storm. “I know I should send Susan a note and tell her how sorry I am about what happened to Billy. She never bothered to send me a note about Lizzie, but still, it would be the right thing to do. After all, she did just lose her son.”
Jane and Frost looked at each other, the same thought on both their minds: Or did she?
MY LATE FATHER’S HOUSE IS thick with the syrupy scent of lilies, and I’d like to throw open the windows and let the wintry air sweep it all outside, but that would not be the hospitable thing to do. Not when thirty-two guests are milling around the living and dining rooms, grazing off trays of appetizers. Everyone speaks in murmurs and feels the need to touch me, and I feel assaulted by all those comforting pats on the shoulder and squeezes on the arm. I respond with somber thank-yous and I even manage to produce a few pretty tears. Practice makes perfect. It’s not that I’m heartless about my father’s death; I truly do miss him. I miss the comfort of knowing there’s someone in the world who loves me and would do anything for me, as he did. To keep me safe, Daddy sacrificed his cancer-ridden body and his few remaining, if miserable, months of life. I doubt anyone else will ever be so devoted to me.
Although Everett Prescott is doing his best to play the part.
Since the moment we came back from Daddy’s memorial service, Everett has been practically joined to my hip. He keeps refilling my drink, fetching me little nibbles on plates, and I’m growing a bit annoyed at all the attention, because he won’t give me a moment to myself. Even when I retreat into the kitchen to fetch another platter of cheese and crackers from the refrigerator, he follows me and hovers nearby as I peel plastic wrap off the tray.
“Is there anything I can do, Holly? I know how hard this must be for you, dealing with all these guests.”
“I can handle it. I just want to make sure no one goes hungry.”
“Here, let me do that. And what about beverages? Should I open another few bottles of wine?”
“It’s all under control. Relax, Everett. They’re just my dad’s friends and neighbors. He certainly wouldn’t want us to stress out over this.”
Everett sighs. “I wish I’d known your father.”
“He would’ve liked you. He always said he didn’t give a damn if a man was rich or poor, as long as he treated me well.”
“I try my best,” Everett says with a smile. He picks up the tray of cheese and crackers and we go back out into the dining room, where everyone greets me with tiresomely sympathetic looks. I replenish the platters on the table and rearrange the vases of flowers. People have brought so many damn lilies, the scent is making me nauseated. I can’t help scanning the bouquets, searching for any palm leaves, but of course there aren’t any. Martin Stanek is dead. He can’t hurt me.
“Your father did a very brave thing, Holly. We owe him a debt of gratitude,” says Elaine Coyle. Cassandra’s mother stands with a plate of appetizers in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. A few nights ago, her ex-husband, Matthew, finally passed away after weeks in a coma, but Elaine is serenely elegant in the same black dress that she wore to her daughter’s funeral last month. “If I’d had the chance, I might have shot the bastard myself. I know I’m not the only one who feels that way.” She gestures to the woman beside her. “You remember Billy Sullivan’s mother, don’t you?”
I have not spoken to Susan Sullivan in years, but she looks no older than the last time I saw her. Her perennially blond hair is upswept and perfectly lacquered in place, and her face is eerily unlined. Wealth seems to agree with her.
I shake Susan’s hand. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Sullivan.”
“We’re all so sorry, Holly. Your father was truly a hero.”
Elaine squeezes Susan’s arm. “And how brave you are to come. So soon after Billy…” Her voice fades.
Susan manages a smile. “I think it’s important that we all honor the man who had the courage to finish it.” She turns to me. “Your father did what the police never could. And now it’s well and truly over.”
The two women drift away as other guests come forward to murmur condolences. Some of them I only vaguely recognize. The news channels have been relentlessly reporting the story of my father’s death, and I suspect many of these neighbors are here only out of curiosity. After all, my father was a hero who died while delivering justice to the man who’d molested his daughter.
Now everyone knows I was one of the Apple Tree victims.
The looks they give me as I circulate among them are both sympathetic and slightly abashed. How do you meet a molestation victim’s eyes without graphically imagining what was done to her? After twenty years, the case had slipped off everyone’s radar, but here it is, back on the front page. FATHER WHO KILLED DAUGHTER’S MOLESTER IS SHOT TO DEATH BY POLICE.
I keep my chin up and stare everyone squarely in the eye, because I’m not ashamed. I don’t really know what shame feels like, but I do know what’s expected of a grieving daughter, so I shake hands, endure hugs, listen to countless murmurs of I’m so sorry and call me if you need anything. I won’t be calling any of them and they know it, yet it’s what one must say in these circumstances. We go through life saying things that are expected, because we don’t know anything else to say.
It is hours before t
he house finally empties out and the last stragglers walk out the door. By then I’m exhausted and all I want is peace and quiet. I collapse on the sofa and groan to Everett, “God, I need a drink.”
“That I can arrange,” he says with a smile. He goes into the kitchen, comes back out a few minutes later with two glasses of whiskey, and hands one to me.
“Where on earth did you find the whiskey?” I ask him.
“It was way back in your dad’s kitchen cabinet.” He turns off all the lamps, and in the warm glow from the fireplace, I already feel my tension draining away. “Your dad clearly knew his scotch, because this is a top-grade single malt.”
“Funny. I didn’t know he even liked whiskey.” I take a much-needed sip and glance up, startled, when I hear the toilet flush in the powder room.
Everett sighs. “I guess there’s still one more guest in the house. How’d we miss that?”
Susan Sullivan emerges from the powder room and glances around in embarrassment at the empty room, at the fire flickering in the hearth. “Oh, dear, I seem to be the last one out the door. Let me help you clean up, Holly.”
“That’s so nice of you, but we’ll be fine.”
“I know what a long day it’s been for you. Let me do something.”
“Thank you, but we’re going to leave it all till morning. Right now, we’re going to unwind.”
She doesn’t take the hint to leave, just stands there looking at us. Everett finally says, out of sheer politeness, “Would you like to join us in a glass of whiskey?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
“I’ll get you a glass from the kitchen,” he says.
“You stay right where you are. I’ll fetch it myself.” She heads into the kitchen, and Everett mouths I’m sorry, but I can’t really blame him for inviting her to linger when she so clearly wanted to. She returns with her own glass of whiskey, plus the bottle itself.
“It looks like you’re both ready for a refill,” she says, and politely tops off our drinks before settling onto the sofa. The bottle makes a pleasant thunk as she sets it on the coffee table. For a moment we sit in silence as we sip our drinks. “It was a lovely memorial service,” Susan says, staring into the fire. “I know I should think about having one for Billy, but I dread it. I just can’t accept…”
“I’m so sorry about your son,” says Everett. “Holly told me what happened.”
“The thing is, I can’t have closure. He’s not dead. He’s missing, which means he’ll always be very much alive to me. But that’s the nature of hope. It doesn’t allow a mother to give up.” She takes a sip of whiskey and winces at its sting. “Without Billy, I don’t see any reason to stay on. No reason at all.”
“That’s not true, Mrs. Sullivan! There’s always a reason to live,” says Everett. He sets down his nearly empty glass and reaches out to touch her arm. It is a genuinely kind gesture, something that comes naturally to him. A skill I could learn. “Your son would certainly want you to go on and enjoy life, wouldn’t he?”
She gives him a sad smile. “Billy always said we should move someplace warm. Someplace with a beach. We planned to retire to Costa Rica, and we put aside enough money to move there.” She stares off into the distance. “Maybe that’s where I should go. A place where I can start fresh, without all these memories.”
I’m starting to feel light-headed, even though I’ve had only a few sips. I slide my whiskey toward Everett, who picks it up without even noticing it’s mine and takes a gulp.
“Or maybe Mexico. There are so many beautiful homes for sale, right on the water.” Susan turns to me, and her eyes are so bright they seem to glow in the firelight.
“A beach,” murmurs Everett, giving his head a shake. “Yes, I could use a beach right now. And maybe a nice, long nap….”
“Oh, dear, I’ve stayed too long. You’re both exhausted.” Susan rises to her feet. “I’ll be going.”
As she stands buttoning up her coat, the room suddenly feels warm, too warm, as if waves of heat are blasting from the fireplace. I look at the hearth, half-expecting a conflagration, but there is only the gentle flicker of flames. It’s so pretty I can’t stop staring. I don’t even notice when Susan leaves. I hear the front door close, and the flames give a shimmy as air puffs into the house.
“Feel…feel sorry for her,” mumbles Everett. “Awful, losing a son.”
“You didn’t know her son.” I keep staring at the flames, which seem to pulse in time with my heartbeat, as if the fire and I have some magical connection. I am the fire and the fire is me. No one really knew Billy. Not the way I did. I gaze down at my hands, where my fingertips are glowing. Bright threads emerge in gold meridians, arching toward the hearth. If I move my hands like a puppet master, I can make the flames dance. As wondrous as it all seems, I know this is wrong. This is all wrong.
I give my head a shake, trying to refocus, but the threads are still attached to my fingers and the filaments swirl in the shadows. The whiskey bottle catches the firelight’s reflection. I squint at the label, but the words are out of focus. I think of Everett, walking out of the kitchen, carrying two glasses of amber liquid. I never watched him pour it. I never thought to question the drink he placed in my hand or what he might have added to it. I don’t look at him, because I’m afraid he’ll see the doubt in my eyes. I keep staring at the hearth as I struggle against the thickening fog in my head and I think back to the night I met him. Both of us drinking coffee near Utica Street on the night Cassandra was found dead. He’d said he was meeting friends for dinner in the neighborhood, but what if that wasn’t true? What if our meeting was meant to happen, all of it leading up to this moment? I remember the bottle of wine he brought me, a bottle that still sits unopened in my kitchen. I think of how he has listened so attentively to every detail I shared about the homicide investigation.
What do I really know about Everett?
All this goes through my head as the fog thickens, as my limbs start to go numb. Now is the time to move, while I still have some measure of control over my legs. I stagger to my feet. Manage to take only two steps when my legs wobble out from beneath me. My head slams against the corner of the coffee table, and the pain cuts through the fog in a jolt that suddenly makes everything crystal clear. That’s when I hear the front door thud shut, and I feel cold air sweep in. Footsteps creak across the floor and come to a stop beside me.
“Little Holly Devine,” a voice says. “Still causing trouble.”
I squint up at the face staring down at me, a man who’s been stalking me for the last few years. A man who is supposed to be dead and buried in an unmarked grave. When the police told me that Martin Stanek killed Billy, I believed them, but I should have known better. Men like Billy can’t be killed; they keep springing back to life. Even though I’ve managed to hide from him all these years, even though I’ve changed my name and altered my appearance, he’s finally managed to track me down.
“How is the boyfriend?” asks a second voice, a voice that sends another shock through me.
“He’s unconscious. He’ll be no problem,” says Billy.
I struggle to focus on Susan, whose face has also come into view. They stand side by side, Billy and his mother, eyeing the results of her handiwork. I turn my head and look at Everett, who’s slumped on the sofa, even more helpless than I am. Not only did he drink his own glass of whiskey, he also drank mine. I took only a few sips, yet I can barely move.
“I see you’re still awake, Holly Dolly.” Billy crouches down to study me. He has the same brilliant-blue eyes, the same piercing stare that drew me to him when we were children. Even then I was enchanted by him and easily seduced into doing whatever he asked of me. So were the other kids.
Everyone except Lizzie, because she sensed who and what he was. The day he held a flame to the baby possum we’d found on the playground, Lizzie was the one who knocked the match out of his hand. And when he stole money from a classmate’s jacket, she was the one who called him a
thief. That made him angry, which is something you don’t do to Billy Sullivan, because there are consequences. They’re not always immediate; perhaps it takes months or even years before he strikes back, but that’s the thing about Billy: He never forgets. He always strikes back.
Unless you make a deal with him.
“Why?” I manage to whisper.
“Because you’re the only one who remembers. The only one left who knows.”
“I promised I’d never tell anyone….”
“You think I’d risk that now? With that lady reporter and the fucking book she’s writing? She already talked to Cassandra. I can’t have her talking to you.”
“No one else was there. No one else knows.”
“But you do, and you might talk.” He leans in close and whispers into my ear, “You got my messages, didn’t you, little Livinus?”
Saint Livinus the martyr, who is celebrated on my birthday. The saint whose tongue was ripped from his mouth to silence him. While I managed to stay out of Billy’s reach, he knew how to send messages I couldn’t ignore. He knew the deaths of Sarah and Cassie and Tim would catch my attention and that I’d understand the clues he’d left for me: The palm leaf laid before the burned remains of Sarah’s house. The arrows in Tim’s chest. Cassandra’s gouged-out eyes.
I understood all too well what he was telling me: Tell no secrets, or you die like the others.
And I haven’t told. All these years, I have been silent about what happened that day in the woods with Lizzie, but my promised silence was not enough. Thanks to the journalist, the truth threatens to surface anyway, and here he is, to ensure that I stay as silent as Livinus with his tongue torn out.
Susan says, “This time it has to look like an accident, Bill. Nothing that will make anyone suspicious.”