Every Single Secret(80)

He still had her face clenched in his hands, and now he’d shoved her up against the wall. I saw a tear slip down her cheek, then her hands rise up to press against his chest. Only she wasn’t trying to push him away—instead she seemed to be caressing him.

“He’s your son, isn’t he?” she said. “Yours and that woman’s—”

“Oh my God! Cecelia, no! Listen to yourself! I’ve told you a million times, I found that woman through an ad in the newspaper. The boy is not my son. He is ours. Ours. And, if you remember, we made a pact to help him . . . regardless of how difficult it got. We promised to help this boy, and disregard our weaknesses and desires and endless longing to receive love in return—”

She swung at him, awkwardly, catching him on the side of the face with her open palm, but he caught her hand. Then, pushing her against the door, he pressed forward and kissed her. She let him. In fact, she opened herself to him, softening, throwing her arms around him as he ground her against the door. The camera captured it all, the whole torrid moment, but as I watched, something occurred to me. Something I hadn’t thought to ask Heath this whole time.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why didn’t you ever tell anyone what they did to you? Why didn’t you call the police?”

There was no answer.

He was gone. Just as I realized it, I saw the door shut and heard the unmistakable sound of a bolt sliding into the lock.



Chapter Twenty-Nine

I put the iPad on the floor and pounded on the door with both fists as hard as I could.

“Heath! Let me out!”

The lock held fast. I kicked at the door anyway, fury and fear spreading in me like a drop of black ink in water.

“What are you doing?” I screamed. “Heath!”

There was no answer.

The iPad played behind me, and I looked at it in distaste. Dr. Cerny and Cecelia were going at it now—one side of her blouse had fallen off her shoulder and his hand was up her skirt. Good God. What a pair of sickos. Rutting like a couple of animals while a child suffered alone in those dusty, desolate rooms. And capturing the whole train wreck on film. It was beyond disgusting.

On the other side of the mirror, I saw Heath reenter the dining room. I pushed the iPad aside and moved closer to the mirror. Heath had joined the doctor, and the two men stood in silence in the middle of the empty room, both of their faces pale and haggard.

I watched, heart beating against my chest like a trapped bird, waiting for something to happen, for them to tear into each other or for the heavens to fall, but all that happened was they started talking like a couple of guys who’d just run into each other at the bar. I couldn’t hear what they were saying—if there was some sort of audio connection from the apartment to the observation room, it had been disabled. I kicked at the door one more time. Nothing.

Clearly, Heath wanted to confront the doctor alone. And he deserved that much.

I sat, rebooted the iPad, and opened a file labeled Age 15. The dazzling young man pacing the sitting room on-screen made me suck in my breath. From all indications, he’d reached his full height, over six feet, and even though his face was still rounded with baby fat, his shoulders had broadened and his jaw sharpened. His hair was a shock of shiny black, a buzz cut that had grown out. It was my Heath, raw and coiled, oozing with fresh testosterone and ready to launch at the slightest provocation.

I felt the familiar curl in my stomach. That delicious tightening I felt every time I laid eyes on him.

Cecelia sat on the sofa; her feet were tucked up under her, and a lock of blonde hair fell across her face. She was knitting—a big, nubby, ivory thing fanned out over her legs. An afghan, maybe. Or a circus tent, who knew. I wondered if she and the doctor were still playing their twisted game of push-and-pull, ripping each other’s clothes off in the observation room and using Heath as their pawn.

Cecelia sent Heath a reproving look, then dropped her knitting. “Sit, my dear. Read or work on the birdhouse. Something.”

“Fuck the birdhouses.”

“Heathcliff.”

“Don’t call me that.”

She cleared her throat carefully. “Sam. There’s schoolwork to be done. Reading.”

“I finished.”

“All of it?”

He tromped to the window, and she resumed her work.

“What happened at the end?” she asked lightly.

“Everyone interesting died,” he snapped. “And the ones who didn’t, got married.”

She laughed, but then shook her head and sighed. He dropped down beside her and let his head fall on her shoulder. She shrugged it off immediately, but the needles in her hands stopped moving. There was a moment when neither of them moved. Then Heath scooted down to the far end of the sofa, stretched out, and gingerly laid his head on her lap.

“Heathcliff,” she whispered. And then laid her hand on his hair and began to stroke it.

As she worked her fingers through his hair, his eyelids fluttered closed, and I could see hers lower too, as she watched him. Then, without warning, her hand stilled.

“We shouldn’t,” she said. Her voice sounded tired.

“You said he went into town.”

“I know, I know, but he’ll look at the tape later. And he’ll be angry.”

“I like it when he gets angry. It’s funny.”