Loe raamatut: «Quiet as the Grave»
Praise for KATHLEEN O’BRIEN
“If you’re looking for a fabulous read, reach for a Katheleen O’Brien book. You can’t go wrong.”
—New York Times bestselling author Catherine Anderson
“Darkly gothic and disturbing, Happily Never After is a thrill ride reminiscent of V.C. Andrews’ Flowers in the Attic, with the added appeal of a robust romance and an unnerving mystery.”
—Terri Clark, Romantic Times BOOKclub on Happily Never After, 4½-Star Top Pick
“Any book written by the talented Ms. O’Brien is a good excuse to leave all your troubles at the bathroom door as you spend a couple of hours relaxing in your tub.”
—Diana Tidlund, Writers Unlimited
“Ms. O’Brien has definitely made it to my ‘must read’ list.”
—Bea Sigman, The Best Reviews
Quiet as the Grave
Kathleen O’Brien
Dear Reader,
When you first met Mike Frome and Suzie Strickland, back in Firefly Glen, they were just impetuous teenagers, full of attitude and hopeless longing. They took foolish risks, as so many of us do when we’re young, trading a sensible tomorrow for a thrilling today.
A special thanks to all the readers who wrote, asking for more. What happened to those two grouchy, mismatched kids? Did they ever find contentment? Did they ever find their way back to each other?
I know how you felt. They were special kids, and they deserved a happy ending. But, as we all know, happiness isn’t handed out to the most deserving, like a merit badge. Sometimes you have to wait a long time, and trudge through a lot of tough times.
Quite simply, sometimes you have to fight for it, tooth and nail.
Now, ten years after their beginnings in Firefly Glen, Mike and Suzie are ready to meet that fight head-on. Mike’s divorced from the glamorous Justine, sharing custody of his son, Gavin. Purple-haired, fiery-tempered Suzie has reinvented herself as a cool, collected beauty, and is even building a career as a portraitist.
But the calm is an illusion—the eye of the hurricane. Justine has turned up dead, and the authorities are only a heartbeat away from arresting Mike. If he’s going to save himself, he’s going to have to find out what really happened to his beautiful, toxic wife. He’s surprised to learn that his strongest ally is the feisty girl he left behind in high school. The girl whose heart was too strong to be broken then—or daunted now.
I hope you enjoy their story.
Warmly,
Kathleen O’Brien
www.KathleenOBrien.net
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BONUS FEATURES
CHAPTER ONE
EVEN AS THE DREAM played out, the man knew he was dreaming. Except…how could dream be the right word for anything so real? It was more like time travel. While his body lay there, helpless on the bed, twitching and whimpering and trying to wake up, his mind flew back to the cave and lived it all again.
Lived the stink. The air in the cave was wet. It had rained all day, and moisture clung to the slimy, pitted walls. Now and then a pocket of algae grew too heavy and popped from its secret pore. It slid across the gray rock slowly, an insect leaving behind a shining trail of ooze.
Everyone had come tonight, which was rare—but they must have heard that this would be special. Too many men crowded into the space, so the wet, stinking air was hot. He felt light-headed, as if the oxygen levels were too low. He wondered if they’d all die here, breathing foul air until they collapsed where they stood. How long would their bodies lie in their black robes before anyone discovered them?
Maybe they’d never be found, and they’d rot here. Poetic justice, surely. They were already rotted on the inside.
His mask was too tight. He couldn’t breathe. He adjusted the cloth so that the eye and mouth holes lined up better.
When the girl was brought in, it was obvious she’d been drugged. The man practically had to drag her through the opening. Her head kept dropping. She made small sounds that weren’t quite human, more like a puppy whining in a cage.
From there the dream went black. No sight. All sounds. The sound of metal against metal. Metal against rock. Metal against skin.
And always the puppy sound, begging. Struggling to find its way out of the cage. Sometimes the noises escalated a little, but they never got very loud. The cage held. The puppy had almost given up hope.
The cave seemed to come alive then, as if it was being sucked into an auditory whirlwind. Weeping and low moans. Wet noises, as if someone gargled fear. Heavy breathing that rode the naked back of animal grunts. Babbling, strangely religious, from the blind trance of terror.
And then, finally, at the very end, one heartbreaking human word. The word to which everyone, even the dreamer, could be reduced, if things got bad enough.
“Mommy,” the girl cried, though God only knew where her mother was. Not here, not in this wet stone room full of infected air and sweating men. The girl hadn’t been more than a child when she came in, but she was a baby now. They had peeled fifteen years from her in fifteen minutes.
“Mommy, help me!”
And it was at that moment—every time, no matter how hard he prayed it wouldn’t happen—that the dreamer felt his body jerk and release, spreading shame all over his pajamas, his sheets, his soul.
THE TUXEDO LAKE Country Day School Open House was the highlight of the elementary school season, and the Tuxedo Lake mothers knew it. They spent the entire morning getting ready. Manicures, pedicures, facials, eyebrow waxing and a hundred other little rituals Mike Frome had never known existed until he married Justine Millner.
Though he and Justine had been divorced two years now, he would never forget what an eye-opener the six years of their marriage had been. Her sunshine-colored hair, which used to mesmerize him the way a shiny bell on a string mesmerizes a cat, apparently was really an ordinary brown. Without its makeup, her face seemed to have different contours entirely. At home, he rarely saw that ivory skin. It was almost always buried beneath green cream and hot towels. Sometimes, when he turned to her at night—in the early days, when he still bothered to—he found her hands encased in gel-filled gloves that slid and squished when he touched them.
He would have been able to live with all that. It was called growing up, he supposed. Like discovering there’s no such thing as Santa Claus. He could have coped, if only she hadn’t been such a sick bitch. If he lived to be a million years old, he’d never understand why he hadn’t seen sooner what a bitch she was.
Still, he’d put up with it for Gavin’s sake. Gavin, who had been conceived when Mike and Justine were only teenagers—and who had been seven months old before his parents made things legal—loved his mother. So Mike had tried to love her, too.
He’d tried for six whole years that felt more like six hundred. Then he just couldn’t pretend anymore. He had to get out, or he’d die. He figured Gavin was better off with a part-time dad than a dead one.
Since then, he’d worked hard to make this split-parenting thing a partnership. For the past two years, he and Justine had attended every single one of Gavin’s Little League games together, and the kiddy birthday parties and, of course, the deadly dull PTA functions.
To attend this one, he’d stopped right in the most critical stage of a job. The Proctors’ boathouse was almost finished, and he should be there. But he’d told the carpenters to take the afternoon off—which surprised the hell out of them, since ordinarily at the end of a job he was hyperfocused.
The Open House was more important. The fourth-graders were staging a musical play to welcome the parents to a new school year. Learning Is Fun featured historical characters who had demonstrated a love for education. Apparently Gavin’s role was as the teacher in a one-room country school—a fact Justine had only this minute discovered.
“This must be a mistake,” she was saying to Cicely Tillman, the mother of one of Gavin’s friends. Cicely wore a small name tag shaped like a bow tie that read Cicely—Volunteer Mommy.
“No,” Cicely, the Volunteer Mommy, said. “It’s not a mistake.”
“It must be,” Justine said again, and Mike recognized that tone. Volunteer Mommy would be smart to back off. “Gavin was supposed to be the narrator. He was supposed to be Abraham Lincoln.”
“I know, I know, it’s a shame, but he said he didn’t want the part,” Cicely explained, her voice brimming with the fakest sympathy Mike had ever heard, even from Cicely. “He wanted something smaller.”
Justine scanned her program. “But this…this farmer isn’t even a named part. What about Socrates? Or even Joseph Campbell?”
“We’re five minutes from opening curtain, Justine.” Judy Stott, who was the principal of Tuxedo Lake Country Day School, and also Justine’s next-door neighbor, had noticed the fracas and joined the two ladies.
“But Judy—”
Judy reached out and patted Justine’s arm. “Some children just aren’t comfortable in the spotlight,” she said. “I’m sure Gavin shines in other areas.”
Oh, brother. Well, even if Cicely and Judy didn’t have the sense to get away, Mike did. He found a folding chair fifth row center and claimed it. While the ladies’ drama continued, he watched the stage. Someone new must be running the spotlight. The glowing circle lurched all over the blue curtain, leaped to the side and hit the American flag, then slid down the stairs, only to pop up again on the curtain.
When the overhead lights flickered, warning that the show was about to begin, Justine finally arranged herself next to him with a waft of Chanel. She hummed with fury.
“Did you hear that? Not comfortable in the limelight! Did you hear that? Can you believe how rude?”
Mike rolled his paper program into a cylinder and kept his eyes on the stage, where the curtains were now undulating with restless lumps. The kids, no doubt, trying to find their places.
“No, I didn’t hear it.” He didn’t want to get into this. “I was too busy wondering what exactly it means to be a ‘volunteer mommy.’ Do you think they’re implying that—”
But he should have known Justine wouldn’t respond to any satirical attempt to change the subject. Justine didn’t have a sense of humor at the best of times. And this was definitely not the best of times. She could really be like a dog with a bone, if she thought she’d been slighted.
“That self-important little pencil pusher,” she whispered sharply, leaning her head toward his. “Just because she’s the principal, she thinks she’s God around here. She’s a glorified babysitter. And her fool of a husband sells thumbtacks, for God’s sake.”
Mike set his jaw. He liked Phil Stott, who was kind of a wuss, but a damn nice guy.
“And she has the nerve to say Gavin isn’t comfortable in the limelight. Right to my face.”
Mike sighed and looked at his ex-wife. She was gorgeous, of course. She never ventured out of the house without looking perfect. But someone really should tell her that if she didn’t stop disapproving of everything, her lousy temper was going to gouge furrows between those carefully waxed-and-dyed eyebrows before her thirtieth birthday.
“Gavin isn’t comfortable in the limelight,” he said, deciding to ignore the non sequitur about the thumbtacks. “Why would it be rude to say so?”
Justine glared at him a minute, then, flaring her elegant nostrils, turned her head toward the stage and tapped her program on the palm of her hand.
“For God’s sake, Mike,” she said under her breath. “Don’t play stupid. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Frankly, that’s the case about ninety percent of the time. No, make that ninety-nine.”
She whipped her head around, but he got lucky. Taped music filled the air, the curtains began to open, two jerky feet at a time, and a pint-size Abraham Lincoln, complete with beard and top hat, stepped forward. It took the spotlight a few seconds to find him, and when it did Justine growled quietly.
“See? See what I mean? That’s Hugh. Cecily took the part away from Gavin so she could give it to her own son. And Judy let her. You can’t tell me it’s not deliberate.”
He didn’t answer. He had spotted Gavin in the background, on the small risers that had been set up on either side of the stage. Mike had been to enough of these performances to know that, one at a time, the students would climb down and take center stage for their two or three lines. Ms. Hadley, the music teacher, was careful never to leave anyone out entirely. She knew all about Volunteer Mommy Syndrome.
Gavin looked nervous as hell. Mike stared at him, sending it’ll-be-okay vibes. He hadn’t liked this kind of thing much, either, when he’d been in school. He’d been tons happier on the football field, and he had a feeling his son was going to take after him. Which would, of course, piss Justine off in a big way.
About halfway through the play, her cell phone began to vibrate. These folding chairs were close enough together that, for a minute, he thought the rumbling against his thigh was his own phone. But he’d turned his off completely. He gave Justine a frown. Why hadn’t she done the same?
To his surprise, she had stood up and was getting ready to edge her way down the aisle. She glanced back at him, holding her phone up as explanation.
God, she was absolutely unbelievable. Gavin was due up any minute—he was one of only about two or three kids who hadn’t performed yet. He reached out and grabbed her arm. He must have squeezed too hard, because she let out a cry loud enough to be heard up on stage.
“Sit down,” he whispered. He jerked his head toward the stage. “Gavin.”
He ought to let go of her forearm. He knew that. She was obviously strung out. She was humiliated because her son had a piddly part in the school play. She was mad at Mike for not caring. Plus, she’d had to repress all that resentment against Cicely Tillman, and self-control wasn’t her strong suit.
She was probably as hot and high-pressure as a volcano ready to blow.
But he didn’t let go. He was pretty damn angry, too. He knew who was on the other end of that cell phone. Her new boyfriend. The one she was going to be spending a month in Europe with, starting tonight. The guy was welcome to her, but, goddamn it, couldn’t she at least pretend to put her son first, for once in her life?
“Let go of me, Michael,” she said. Her whisper was so shrill it turned heads three rows away. “You’re hurting me.”
He hesitated one more second, and then he dropped his hand, aware that, in their section of the audience, they were now more fascinating than what was happening onstage. She rubbed her arm dramatically and then, with a hiccuping sob, made her way down the row.
Mike stared hard at the stage, ignoring the curious faces that were still turned in his direction. Gavin, who had just put on an old-fashioned hat, came forward.
“Our schoolroom is small, but it has to hold us all,” he sang in a horribly off-key soprano. “My students walk for miles, and I greet them with a smile.”
That was probably where Gavin was supposed to smile, but he didn’t. He finished his tiny part, and then he scurried, head bowed, back to his spot on the risers. Mike felt his stomach clench. Was this just stage fright, or had Gavin actually heard his parents squabbling?
Justine didn’t return even when the show was over, and Mike was fuming, though he managed to hide it fairly well, he thought. He ate cookies and drank fruit punch with the other parents until the kids joined them, enduring the awkward silences while everyone tried to figure out what to say about Justine’s absence.
Finally Gavin came racing out, beaming. He barreled into Mike, trying to knock chests like the professional sports figures, but instead hitting Mike’s ribs with his nose. Mike forgot Justine and his heart pounded a couple of heavy thumps of typical proud-daddy love. The kid was growing like crazy. In a year or two, that chest-bumping thing just might work.
Best of all, Gavin looked ecstatic now that his ordeal was over. He grinned up at Mike with those knockout blue eyes that were so like Justine’s. “It’s over!” He laughed. “I sucked, huh?”
Mike smiled back, relieved that the episode with Justine apparently hadn’t reached the kids’ ears. “Yep, you’re pretty bad, pal. You’re definitely no Pavarotti.”
This was the kind of candor that would drive Justine nuts. She had the theory that admitting any inadequacies was bad for the boy’s ego. But Mike knew that Gavin’s ego was perfectly healthy. Maybe too healthy. Gavin was as gorgeous as his mother, he lived in a six-thousand-square-foot mansion with his own boat and plasma TV, he pulled down straight As, and he boasted the best batting average in his Little League conference.
It would do him good to face the facts: Hugh Tillman was a better singer.
“I know,” Gavin agreed happily. “I can’t ever get the tune. Mrs. Hadley hates me. Where’s Mom?”
Mike felt the eyes of the other parents once again.
“She’s outside,” he said as casually as he could. “She got a phone call.”
“Oh, well, tell her I love her, okay? I gotta go.” Gavin and his buddies had plans to celebrate the success of the play with a pizza party at the Tillmans’ house. “Hugh’s mom is already waiting in the minivan for us.”
“Go tell her yourself,” Mike said. He knew if he let Gavin leave without saying goodbye, she’d carp about it all the way home.
The boy flew off, with Hugh and about four other boys trailing behind him like a pack of puppies. Mike grabbed a napkin, wiped cinnamon sugar off his hands and tossed his empty punch cup in the big trash bin.
“Three points,” Phil Stott, Judy’s husband, said with a smile. Mike appreciated that. He knew that Phil, a nice guy who didn’t have kids but was here to support his wife’s school, was trying to bridge the embarrassment gap.
Gavin was back in a flash. “Found her! She says to tell you she’s waiting for you in the car.” He held up his hand for Mike’s goodbye slap. At home it would be a hug and a kiss, but with Hugh and the other “dudes” standing by, a high five would have to do.
Mike obliged, and then did the same for all the other boys, who were accustomed to parading by him this way after every Little League game. He’d coached these boys since they were in T-ball. They were good kids. But he couldn’t help thinking his own smart, silly son was the best.
He wished Gavin were coming home with him right now, but he realized that was pretty cowardly. Yeah, the ride home would be a bummer, with Justine pouting or ranting, but he could handle it. He didn’t need to use his son as a buffer.
By the time he got to the car, Justine wasn’t speaking to him. Good. Pouting was ridiculous, but it was easier to ignore than the ranting.
She’d rolled back her silk sleeve and was rubbing conspicuously at the discoloration just above her wrist. He checked it out of the corner of his eye, just cynical enough to wonder which way the finger marks were facing. He was pretty damn sure he hadn’t been rough enough to bruise anything. She’d probably done it herself, while she waited for him to come out.
He considered trying to make conversation, but it seemed like too much trouble. Woodcliff Road was kind of tricky, with a twenty-foot drop through wooded slopes on the passenger side. He needed to concentrate.
Let her sulk. She loved that anyhow.
Finally, though, her resentment simply had to bubble out in words. She swiveled in her seat and glared at him. “So? Don’t you have a single thing to say for yourself? After what you did to my arm?”
Damn. He’d almost made it. They were only a couple of miles from Tuxedo Lake. He negotiated a curve through some overhanging elms, which were just beginning to go yellow. He glanced at her face, which looked slightly jaundiced in the glowing light. The shadows of the trees passing over her made it seem as if her mouth were moving silently, though he knew it wasn’t. It was a disagreeable sight.
He turned away and shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. “I just couldn’t believe you were actually going to leave right when Gavin’s part was coming up.”
She waved her hand. “You call that a part? I can’t believe he dragged us all the way out there for that. He made a fool of me, that’s for sure.”
Clenching the steering wheel, Mike tried not to react. This was pointless, and he knew it. He’d tried for years to make Justine think about any situation, anywhere on this earth, without viewing it through the prism of her own self-interests, but she simply couldn’t do it. He’d looked up sociopath once, and it fit perfectly. It was kind of scary, actually.
But, like an idiot, sometimes he just couldn’t stop himself from responding. He accelerated, whipping the passing trees into a batter of lemony green.
“He made a fool of you? Sorry, but you’re going to have to explain to me how Gavin’s school play can possibly end up being all about you.”
She didn’t answer right away, and he knew that was a bad sign. She was lining up her ammunition, which meant this wasn’t going to be just a skirmish. It was going to be war.
“That’s just so like you,” she said. “The perfect Mike Frome can’t make mistakes. If anyone dares to point out that you’ve done something wrong, like rough up your own wife, you just launch a counterattack, trying to change the subject. Well, I won’t be put on the defensive. You manhandled me, and I ought to go to the police.”
“You’re not my wife,” he said. That was stupid, too. That wasn’t the point. But she did that to him. She made him so mad his brain shut off.
“I’m your son’s mother. I think that is just as important, don’t you?”
“No. I think it’s tragic.”
“God, you’re so melodramatic.” She narrowed her eyes. “Tragic? Because I took a call on my cell phone? I’m sorry to tell you, but that doesn’t make me a bad mother.”
He’d had enough. “No,” he said. “What makes you a bad mother is that you’re a raging bitch. You’re the most self-centered, foul-tempered bitch in the state of New York. That’s what makes you a bad mother.”
He half expected her to slap him. He definitely expected her to start yelling epithets at him. But she didn’t do either of those things. Instead, she did something that shocked the hell out of him.
She opened her car door.
“Justine—”
“Stop the car.”
“Damn it, shut the door.”
“No. Stop the car. I’m getting out.”
He was already applying the brakes, but he had to be careful. She had one leg out. He didn’t want to fishtail on these narrow, curving roads. He was mad as hell at her. He might wish he’d never met her, but he didn’t want her to get hurt.
He maneuvered the car to a safe spot. His heart racing, he turned to her. “Are you insane? Do you want to kill yourself? Shut the damn door.”
She didn’t answer. She just picked up her purse and got out of the car, slamming the door shut behind her.
He rolled down the down the window. “Justine, for God’s sake.”
“Go to hell,” she said without looking at him. “Just go straight to hell where you belong.”
He looked at her, so messed up with contradictory, heart-racing emotions and adrenaline that he couldn’t even decide what he felt. It was about five o’clock, and the trees behind her were already full of shadows. She had on high heels, the better to impress the other Volunteer Mommies with, but no damn good at all for walking along an uphill cliff road.
“Justine. Okay, look. I’m sorry. Get back in the car.”
She didn’t even answer. She just began to walk.
He trolled along behind her for a few yards, leaning over to beg her through the window and steering the car with one hand. He felt like a fool, which was bad enough, but when another car came up behind him and honked impatiently, the embarrassment of it was just too much.
“Justine, get in the car right now, or I’m going to drive away, and you’re going to have to walk the rest of the way home. It’s nearly a mile.”
No response, except another short toot from the car behind.
“Justine, I mean it. It’s getting cold. I’m not coming back to get you.”
She didn’t even turn her head. She shifted her purse to her other shoulder and kept walking. The people behind him probably thought he was a stalker, or a serial killer.
Honk…
Well, screw her, then. If she wanted to walk all the way home in a snit, fine. She logged about five miles on the treadmill in the home gym every single day of her life. He figured she could handle half a mile out here.
He rolled up the window and hit the gas. He watched her in the rearview mirror, getting smaller but never once looking his way or acknowledging her predicament by the slightest twitch of a muscle.
Finally he came to a curve, and when he looked in the mirror again she was gone.
That was the last time anyone—except perhaps her killer—ever saw Justine Millner Frome alive.
