Kiss Her Goodbye (39 page)

“How did you happen to come work for my mom?”

“Oh, that's the best part,” Sissy says, obviously quite pleased with herself. “I stuck a flyer in the Hudsons' mailbox advertising my services.”

The fliers. Jen recalls the September night she ran into Sissy on Sarah Crescent with a handful of them.

She gave me one,
she remembers incredulously. Even back then, she was trying to work her way in. Still . . .

“Maeve just happened to hire you?” Jen asks in disbelief.

“Oh, it was a real coincidence. Her cleaning lady, Marta, just happened to have broken her leg the same day. It was a hit-and-run accident.”

Her wild laughter is inhuman. Jen realizes with a chill that Marta's accident was no accident.

“I put my fliers in the Gattinskis' mailbox, too, after I knew you were babysitting there,” Sissy is saying. “And Stella hired me, too, just like a charm. I planted the seed in Maeve's head about needing more work and the next thing I knew, your mother decided to get a cleaning lady.”

Jen feels sick, thinking about her mother unwittingly inviting a killer into their home.

“You know what's amazing?” Sissy asks. “None of you—not even your mother—ever looked closely enough at me to realize that I look like you. It's not as though there isn't a resemblance, if you really look. Just . . . nobody ever really looked at me.”

She trails off.

Jen stares at her, feeling as though she's looking at a twisted caricature of her own face.

Sissy looks up suddenly and catches her. Her eyes narrow maliciously.

“How old were you when . . . when I was born?” Jen asks quickly.

Sissy laughs bitterly. “About your age. Isn't that ironic, Margaret? I was fourteen when you showed up to ruin my life. And now you're fourteen, and here I am to do the same for you.”

“I didn't mean to ruin your life, Sissy.”

“Don't call me that! It isn't my name!”

And Margaret isn't mine, Jen wants to hurl back at her. Yet, wincing at Sissy's harsh tone, she understands that she has to control her fury along with her fear.

She murmurs only, “I'm sorry.”

“You should be. If it weren't for you, everything would have been fine.”

“It will be fine, I promise. I won't—”

“You're right, it will be. Because you're not going to get another chance to steal him away from me.”

“I don't want to steal him,” Jen protests, struggling to keep from crying. “I don't even know him. Really. I don't want to know him. I have my own father.”

And she does.

In that instant, she comprehends that Matt Carmody is her father in every way that counts. And if she can just hang on long enough, he'll be here to get her out of this.

Sissy is shaking her head, sneering. “Do you really think I believe you? Why would you stay here with him when you can be with your real parents?”

“I would never leave my mother,” Jen protests feebly, her mind spinning. “Not even to be with my real father.” She almost chokes on the phrase. Who's lying about her father's identity? Her mother? Or Susie?

Is he Quint or John?

Is he dead or alive?

“She isn't your mother.”

Jen stares at Sissy. Now what is she talking about?

“So you really didn't know.” Sissy's expression is gleeful.

“Know what?”

“Kathleen isn't your mother.”

And yet . . .

Something has clicked into place. Something Jen realizes she might have already sensed, deep down.

Sissy is saying, “She's not your mother any more than he's your father. But I'm definitely your big sister. Do you believe me, Margaret?”

“Yes,” Jen croaks, still not sure what she believes.

“No, you don't. But I've got proof. You know how you can tell?”

Jen shakes her head mutely.

Sissy spits on her fingers and wipes her hand across her left eyebrow. She holds up her hand and Jen sees that her fingertips are smudged with black.

“Mascara,” she explains.

Confused, Jen shifts her gaze from Sissy's hand to her face.

Then she sees it.

 

 

As Kathleen races toward home, she goes over and over the phone call. Not the call with Matt. The first call. Right now, every ounce of her being has to remain focused on Jen. Otherwise, she'll lose her mind. She really will.

So. . .

Helen.

The accent.

The voice that seemed so familiar . . .

Why?

She just assumed she'd heard it before while she was visiting her father at Erasmus, but obviously that isn't it.

So where did she hear it?

She hasn't been to the south in years; she hasn't run across anyone with a southern accent here in ages.

The only thing that makes sense to her is that the accent might have been fake. Perhaps it was the caller's attempt to disguise a voice Kathleen might otherwise recognize.

Whoever called her with that false message had access to the intimate details of Kathleen's life. They knew about her father. Knew his name, knew where he was. Knew, too, that it would take a life-or-death situation to drag her away from her daughter's side after all that had happened.

 

 

“Maeve Hudson was surprised, too,” Sissy tells Jen conversationally, gesturing at the pale hairs that are barely visible now that the makeup is wiped away. “I got careless yesterday when I used a towel to dry my hair and get the snow off my face. That's what happens when you get careless, you know, Margaret? You give yourself away.”

Jen nods, gulping back fear.

“At first she didn't even notice. She was too busy rummaging around the house. And then do you know what she did?”

Jen shakes her head.

“She called Matt. She made me stand there in the kitchen waiting while she went to get her purse. She made me wait for my money while she called him. I bet you didn't know she was in love with him, did you?”

“No,” Jen whispers. “I didn't know.”

“So anyway, Maeve hung up the phone and she was crying. And she saw me standing there, and you know what happened then?”

She pauses.

Jen makes a futile attempt to find her voice.

“I said, do you know what happened then?” Sissy snarls.

“No,” is all Jen can manage, a single high-pitched sound that is more a whimper than a word.

“She saw that scar in my eyebrow. That's what happened. And she got suspicious. She shouldn't have started asking questions, Margaret. Bad things happen when you ask too many questions.”

“What happened to Maeve?” Jen asks, a sick feeling taking hold in the pit of her stomach.

Sissy laughs shrilly. “What do you think?”

 

 

The thought strikes Kathleen out of the blue, and she clenches the steering wheel with all her might.

Oh, God. She should have told Detective Brodowiaz about the bootee. And the phone calls. The baby crying . . .

She'll tell him as soon as she sees him. She'll tell him the whole story.

But then Jen will find out the truth. Jen will know that Kathleen isn't her mother. That she stole her away . . .

In her grief-stricken state that night, it was the only thing she was capable of doing. Hadn't she just come from the cemetery, where she had buried her own dead child with her bare hands in the wet earth beside her mother's grave?

She's asked herself that question a thousand times since that night, and the answer has never been clear.

All she knows is that she was in no condition to make rational decisions.

Blaming herself and her unhealthy early pregnancy for her baby's inexplicable death, she pleaded with God—and with her mother—to give her another chance. To send her baby back to her.

As the shock wore off and despair took over, she found her way to the church, knowing she had to confess to Father Joseph what she had done.

Then she saw the pink bundle on the church steps.

 

 

“What happened to Maeve? Hmmm.” Sissy grins at Margaret. “Here's a clue. Like mother, like daughter. Have you ever heard that old saying?”

The girl is silent, but the expression on her face speaks volumes. She's scared out of her mind.

Just like Maeve was right before she died. Erin, too.

Yes. Like mother, like daughter.

“You know,” Sissy comments conversationally, “that's one thing my mother never said. She loved to spew old sayings at me. You name a cliché, and she said it. But not that one. She never said ‘like mother like daughter.' At least, not about me and her. I was always Daddy's girl, you know? You know?” she repeats vehemently when there's no answer.

Margaret's head bobs a little, in either a shrug or a nod. Clearly, she's all but paralyzed with fear. Sissy relishes the feeling of utter control, enjoying this whole experience even more than she anticipated.

With the others, it wasn't about enjoyment. Nor was it about control. It was more about eliminating obstacles.

First April. Then Robby. Then Erin. Then Maeve Hudson, who popped up unexpectedly, like a construction zone located right before an on-ramp. One last roadblock before smooth sailing to that final destination.

She didn't even have to die. It was her own damned fault. In the three months Sissy worked for her, the bitch never once looked right at her. But that day, she did.

Not right away.

First, she made Sissy wait for her pay while she hunted down the telephone and made her call to Matt Carmody.

She took the phone into the next room, whispering, but Sissy heard every word she said . . . and she could easily imagine every word Matt said. The key one being “no.”

After she hung up the phone, Maeve looked almost surprised to find Sissy still there.

“What are you waiting for?” she snapped.

“My pay.”

Maybe it was something in Sissy's tone that made Maeve glance up sharply at her. Her gaze went right to her left eyebrow.

Sissy knew what must have happened before she even caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror over Maeve's shoulder. The wet snow had washed away the makeup covering her scar. Maeve saw the smudge; saw the lighter hair in Sissy's brow.

Somehow, in that instant, she had the presence of mind to put two and two together. Sissy watched the lightbulb go on behind Maeve's startled eyes.

“You . . . you're . . .” She faltered then, before she spoke the last coherent words of her life. “Who are you?”

“Can't you guess?”

Maeve shook her head, frightened, clearly sensing danger, yet confused.

“You're afraid,” Sissy noted, amused. “Just like your daughter was.”

For a moment, Maeve stared in mute horror. Then she ran. First, she tried to go for the door, but Sissy was in the way, so she turned and raced up the stairs. She disappeared into the master bedroom, locked the door, and cowered in her closet.

Fool.

Didn't she know how flimsy the locks are in this fancy new construction?

Didn't she know she didn't have a chance?

That the rows of clothes and the thick insulation and the falling snow muffled her screams?

Maybe she did know. Maybe that's why Sissy managed to quickly overpower her despite all those hours Maeve spent at the gym.

She was strong, but Sissy was stronger. She was determined, but Sissy was more determined.

Still, it took longer than it had to. Sissy expected Maeve's neck to snap, but it didn't. Thanks to her Pilates classes and strength training, her bones and muscles were strong and supple. She strangled to death as Sissy watched in fascination, pulling on the other end of the belt with all her might.

In the end, Maeve Hudson actually seemed to welcome death. Her struggle with the makeshift noose was as short-lived as the horrible gasping sounds emitting from her slender throat as she spun slowly from the closet rod.

“Like mother, like daughter,” Sissy repeats, smiling at Margaret. “Know what I mean?”

 

 

For a few breathless moments, gazing at the pink bundle on the church steps, Kathleen had believed it was the miracle she'd sought. She believed it was her baby girl, returned to her.

By the time she realized that the baby wasn't Jen—her cherished, lost Jen—she knew she would keep her anyway. She knew it was a sign from God.

Kathleen thumps the steering wheel in fury at her delusional former self, even as some part of her pipes up in defense.

And. . .

That, perhaps, is the worst part of all.

Nobody knew her baby had died.