“Do you get it now?” Chris glared up at the younger man.
“We’re half-brothers?” Justin looked between the two of us.
Chris jumped to his feet. “Good job. Keep thinking. Martha killed a girl in front of you. But that wasn’t the first time.”
“Oh shit.” Justin’s voice trembled. “My mother is Mary Weston. And she was behind the Lancaster attacks all along.”
Chris pressed his hands to his head as if he were trying to shut out everything. “I should have said something. Made my uncle listen to me.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “You were so young.”
“So was he!” Chris pointed to Justin. “And you said his age of exposure meant he was destined for terrible things. I witnessed just as much, if not more. What does that say about me, Lucy?” His raspy voice broke on my name.
I took his shoulders. “That’s when I thought he’d killed another kid. That’s what made me think he was destined for terrible things, not the fact he was abused. And I was wrong, okay? He didn’t hurt Layla. He’s as much of a victim as she was. Look, I know you’ve both suffered terrible things I can’t begin to imagine, but that doesn’t mean you can’t lead productive lives. You already are.” I looked between the two of them, searching for the right words. “This is bad, I know. And I’ll try to help you both in whatever way I can. But right now, we’ve got to get out of here before Martha comes back. Then we call Todd and let him know we have proof that Mary Weston helped her husband commit the Lancaster murders. And she just happens to be your mother too.”
“Let’s go.” I nudged Chris. He stood motionless, and I could only imagine his poisonous thoughts. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t a nurturer-not when it came to adults, anyway–and we didn’t have time to discuss it now. Theme of the night, apparently.
Before I could say another word, a noise from above paralyzed me. The muted squeal of a door opening and closing, followed by heavy, uneven footsteps. How in the hell had I slipped this much? I prided myself on subterfuge and now twice in the last week I was about to be busted with breaking and entering. At least we had enough evidence on Martha to hopefully keep Todd from throwing us in jail. That is, if we could keep Martha from killing one of us.
We hastily switched off our flashlights, and heavy darkness descended. Despite my attempt at stifling my breathing, the noise seemed to swell and encompass the entire basement. Surely Martha would hear us and come raging down the steps. I gripped my sturdy flashlight and prepared to fight.
Justin’s hand dug into my arm, his lips at my ear. “I shut the basement door.”
Smart kid. Had we disturbed anything upstairs? I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure if Chris had left anything in his wake. That’s when I realized Chris’s entire body tensed like a coiled snake. I snagged his upper arm just as he started to lunge, as though I had a chance at keeping him from going after his mother.
“Get off,” he hissed.
“You can’t.”
“I don’t care if we get arrested.”
“I can’t get arrested,” Justin whispered.
“Shut up,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Chris, think. Forget about your pain for a minute and think about Kailey. If we screw up and Martha gets away, or if you do something really stupid, like break her neck, we’ll never find Kailey.”
“I don’t care.” He took a step forward. Above us, Martha’s heavy tread stopped. A series of rumbles followed, like she was digging in a drawer. Probably for a knife to deal with the loud intruders in the basement. If I managed to get out of this, I was going solo from now on.
I blocked Chris’s path, literally wrapping my arms around his waist. I couldn’t see, but I felt the warm, rigid muscles in his chest and smelled his minty breath on my face. “Get off.”
“I trusted you,” I hissed. “Now you trust me.” Playing that card seemed like a low blow, but I was desperate. Martha was moving around again, and it sounded like she was getting dangerously close to the door. If she didn’t have a gun, the three of us could take her. “Please, Chris. I promise I’ll help you get her. But let’s be smart.”
Something inside him broke. I felt it through his warm skin and his thick coat, felt the muscles loosen, his breath lengthen, his resolve wane. He reached around, grabbed my hands, and squeezed them hard. “Promise me.”
I knew what he was asking. I didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
A beat passed. Justin shifted, brushing against me. Martha was still in the kitchen, and from the clinking noises, I guessed she was rummaging in the refrigerator.
“Fine.” Chris dropped my hands. I stepped back from his heat and turned around blocking his path to the steps.
“Now what?” Justin whispered.
“Now we shut up and wait,” I hissed back. “If she doesn’t come down here, we try to get out when she’s asleep.”
“I could text my brother,” Justin said.
I shook my head.
“Stupid.” Chris’s voice was low, his body close to mine. A new sort of connection smoldered between us, unspoken and powerful. “Anything we have right now is illegally obtained. He can’t use it. Be quiet.”
Justin said nothing else.
Martha kept shuffling around from one room to another. I tried to picture her uneven walk and her stern, almost hateful expression, but all I saw was my own mother. It’s funny how we categorize people like that. If anyone in our life wrongs us, even in the most minute way, he or she becomes a villain. We waste time thinking of all the things we’d like to say if we had the chance to throw decorum out the window, if only we could lower ourselves to the same pathetic level. Because the villain is such a bad person. Trouble is, we don’t realize until we come across someone like Martha Beckett that all the other wrongs in our lives are nothing more than blips on life’s radar. Martha is true evil, cruelty personified right now down to her stature and sour expression.
Behind me, Chris’s hand came to rest on my shoulder. It was large and warm. I didn’t know if I should grab it, if he needed that comfort, or if he just needed to remind himself I was there. I reached back, intending to merely pat his hand, but he pinned my fingers to his.
Martha started walking toward the living room. The jingling of keys pierced our dark prison. Could she really be leaving?
The answer came seconds later, when the front door once again open and closed.
“Shit.” Justin said.
“Shh,” I said. “Give it a minute.”
Chris still held my hand hostage. I hoped he would let go before Justin saw him. I’d almost forgotten about the kid wanting me to take his virginity. My stomach burned. How was I going to make him understand he deserved better?
“I counted to seventy five,” Justin said. “She’s gone.”
His blue flashlight suddenly shined in my face. Chris released my hand, and I blocked my eyes. “Jesus, point that thing somewhere else.”
I turned my own light on and then looked at Chris. His face was pale, his expression resolute. He pulled out his phone. “Let’s take as many pictures as we can to show Todd. He won’t be able to use a damn one for evidence, but at least he’ll have to believe us.”
J
ustin called Todd.
He’d gone home to get a few hours of rest, and I could hear him yelling over the phone. He ordered us to his house, and the words felony, dumbass, and pushy private investigator echoed out of the phone. The ride was silent, each of us lost in our own web of thoughts.
“Your cologne,” I said as we pulled up in front of Todd’s Spring Garden condo.
“What?” Chris said.
“It leaves a trace. Why didn’t she catch it?”
“Her sense of smell was damaged in the accident,” Justin said. “Reconstructive surgery can’t help that.”
“How convenient for her.” I slammed the car door and followed Justin.
“Too bad she didn’t die,” Chris said.
“Yeah,” Justin said. “Then I wouldn’t be here, and no one else would have gotten hurt.”
Chris looked down, and I didn’t know what to say. We’d reached Todd’s door, and it flew open before anyone knocked. He was dressed in gym shorts and a sweatshirt. Strange to see him in anything other than a suit.
He looked from Justin, to me, to Chris, and then back to me again. “Some days I really hate you, Lucy Kendall.”
Todd looked through
the pictures on Chris’s phone three times before saying anything else. “While I was waiting for you, I looked up the Weston victims. There were four known girls: Lena Ryan, Carrie Anderson, Sarah Jane, and Jenna Pine, now known as Richardson.” He held up the locket. “Sarah’s family mentioned a locket she was wearing when she disappeared. John Weston led police to the three bodies, but the locket wasn’t with Sarah. Neither was the ankle bracelet Carrie Anderson’s parents had given her.”
“Is it the one in the picture?” I asked.
“I can’t access closed files from home,” Todd said. “But from what I managed to dig up online, yes, it’s very similar.” He turned to Chris, who’d listened to the entire exchange in silence. “Tell me what you remember about your mother.”
“It’s hard to explain,” Chris said. “I’ve spent a lot of years trying to forget.”
“But you do remember,” Justin said. “You said you’ve had several things–”
“Just give me a minute.” He sat next to me on the couch, closer than I would have expected. Our legs and shoulders touched, the connection still alive. Todd eyed the two of us, and Justin sat on the floor looking petulant.
“I remember the girl with the locket,” Chris said. “When I was seven, I started having nightmares about her. Her forehead was cut and blood kept staining her braces. My father laughed about it and yelled at her for crying. But I used to hear my mother too. I always told myself it was my imagination.
“But then there were other things. My mother cackling and saying things like, ‘poor little girl, you shouldn’t have done that.’ And she had this blue scarf. One of those silky ones. Old fashioned. She wore it a lot, and I used to have dreams of her waving this scarf with this menacing smile on her face.”
“Autopsy report said the first victim was strangled with a blue nylon material.”
Chris’s chin dropped to his chest. He jerked his head back and forth.
“Maybe you witnessed it,” I said. “She probably figured you were so little it didn’t matter.”
“I used to sneak around the house,” he said. “At night. Because of the noises in their bedroom. I kept hearing my mother harping, snapping at my father. Giving orders.”
“There were videos,” Todd said. “When your mother took you and called the police, her story was that you two had stumbled onto the girl in the barn. She claimed her husband abused her. She had bruises. So did you. When police raided the farmhouse, they found videotapes.” Todd looked embarrassed. “Of a sexual nature. What your father was doing backed up her story. And when he admitted to everything, there was no real reason to suspect her. He’s serving life in prison and has never once implicated his ex-wife.”
“Why didn’t Jenna say anything?” I asked.
“She was traumatized,” Todd said. “And if we’re right, Mary–or Martha–was very smart. She never let Jenna see her. Jenna was blindfolded at all times.”
“Her voice was deep,” Chris said suddenly. “Sometimes I used to have trouble figuring out if it was her or my father speaking. But she was always angry. Like her hate of everyone and everything simmered under the surface. I don’t have a single memory of her being affectionate.”
“If she was that smart,” I said, “then she likely set your father up with the tapes. A back-up plan.”
“My uncle hates her,” Chris said. “He’s never said much except marrying that woman was my dad’s downfall. Then he always reassured me I was the only thing good to come out of it.”
“He’s your father’s brother?” Todd asked.
Chris nodded. “My father got life in exchange for telling where the girls were buried.”
“I need to talk to him,” Todd said. “You have any idea of your mother’s last known address?”
“We were just there,” Chris snapped.
“Her paper trail.”
“No.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. Meanwhile,” he looked at Justin, “I guess you were right after all. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
Justin shrugged. “How are you going to find Kailey?”
“There was no sign of her in that house, Todd.” I said. “If Martha took her, she’s got her somewhere else.”
“It’s entirely possible, and frankly, the best lead we’ve got. Every known offender in the area has checked out,” Todd said. “She was taken by someone who didn’t stand out, someone who knew how to manipulate a kid, fast.”
“You guys aren’t discussing the obvious.” Chris spoke in a monotone. “We keep talking about how Justin’s taunting Martha set her off, but I don’t buy that.”
“Why not?” Justin sounded indignant.
Chris addressed Todd, ignoring his new brother. “Are we supposed to believe it’s a coincidence that the same woman who put Mary Weston’s husband in prison and ruined her game now has her daughter stolen?”
New lines festered in Todd’s forehead. “You’re absolutely right. If Martha is the kidnapper, she’s been planning this.”
“Of course.” I wanted to slap myself on the forehead. “She tracked Jenna down. Decided to have some revenge and was just biding her time. Or maybe she kept tabs on Justin and then found out about Jenna that way. Whatever the case, Justin showing up on her doorstep just made Martha decide to act.”
“Exactly,” Chris said. He went back to staring at his shoes.
“So what are you going to do?” I looked at Todd.
“I can’t use any of your information,” Todd said. “Right now, all I can do is stake out Martha’s home and business and see what she does. And you two,” he looked between them, “need to get a DNA test. We get that, and with the information you both remember, and maybe getting your dad to talk, we might have a case. If we can bring her in, that is.”
Chris and I rose to leave. Justin stood too, but Todd motioned for him to sit back down. “You’re staying here tonight. No arguments. I’ll walk you two out.”
Justin shrank down to the couch, red-faced. He glanced at me and shrugged.
I felt badly for him, but the shriveling woman hidden deep inside me–the one who looked in the mirror weekly for new wrinkles or fresh gray hairs–secretly rejoiced. Forget the fourteen-year age difference and the massive pile of baggage parked between us. Every damned woman loves the attention of a younger man, and if she says she doesn’t, she’s lying.