Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

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 the 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.