Our Little Secret(57)

“Go on.” Mom flicked her fingers at me like this was normal, a necessary tearing-apart that parents ought to encourage. My mouth was dry as ashes. Saskia stood only ten feet from me, her thin arms wrapped around her ribs. Every now and then, she moved strands of golden hair from where the wind whipped them against her mouth. She didn’t speak to me, but when she took a step towards me along the dock, I froze. Mom was wrong. I couldn’t do this, it was insane.

I turned my back on Saskia and ran down the ramp onto the shore, past my mother and Freddy. I made it all the way to my mother’s car before they caught up with me.

“What are you doing?” Freddy said, breathing hard. “This isn’t the plan.”

“I can’t go through with it, Freddy. This isn’t me.” Overhead a bird cried out, shrieking and lonely, making me jump.

“You’ll regret this later,” Mom said, one arm propped against the side of the car. “You’ll wish you’d been more proactive.”

“No, Mom. I won’t. I’m going home.”

“Not in my car, you’re not,” Mom started, but Freddy put his hand on hers.

“Shelley, I think Angela’s reached her limit. The best thing we can do now, as members of her team—” He paused for emphasis. “—is to see this through for her.”

Mom looked from Freddy to Saskia and back again. “What—us?”

“I think that’s for the best. Let your daughter go home.” He opened the driver’s door of Mom’s car and helped me into the seat. “Angela, you drive safely back to your mother’s house. Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll explain everything to Saskia, won’t we, Shelley?”

Mom nodded, although her neck muscles were taut. “We’ll do what we have to do.”

“Off you go now.” Freddy slammed the door. “Everything will be fine after tonight.” He smiled, but his teeth looked odd.

As I bumped my way back up the grass to the road, Les Misérables blaring, I saw Mom and Freddy walking down to the dock, talking close to each other’s faces. Freddy now had his arm around Mom. The rearview mirror bounced their reflections wildly, but the last I saw of them both—of my mother and Freddy—was them stepping onto the ramp. Freddy’s arms extended towards Saskia, and he was just about to reach her.





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26


The clock is ticking past 5 p.m. Novak holds the door for someone, and with a jolt of relief I realize my mother is behind him. She flitters by the doorway, her movements bird-like and skittish. I clamber out of my chair and run to her, hug her tight.

“Mom,” I say. “Are you all right?”

She opens her mouth to answer but nothing comes out, and when she looks at me her eyes are watery and moribund like the trout at the Saturday-morning city markets she used to take me to as a child. Hugging her is like holding a cold pole.

“Why?” Mom’s voice barely registers enough sound to shape syllables. “Why did you do it?”

Mom sobs now, a sound like she might be drowning. She drapes herself into the chair opposite Tate. I return to my seat, my arms limp by my sides, shock filling me.

No, no, no. This can’t be happening.

Sitting down in the only other chair at the table, Novak places himself next to my mother. “Saskia Parker is dead.” He watches me for a reaction. I give none. Across the table, Mom’s breaths are swift and rickety, and then she collapses, crying into her hands.

Is she for real? Why is she doing this to me?

“We have of course notified her next of kin.” Novak’s words sound automated: he’s studying more than he’s speaking. “You don’t seem surprised to hear of her death, Angela.”

I can’t tell what’s inside my head and what’s outside of it. Everything’s radio fuzz. Why isn’t Mom yelling at him, defending me? How can she do this?

“Do you know what happens to a body that’s been submerged in water for close to forty-eight hours? Can you picture it? We thought perhaps you’d like to tell your mother what you did. Hence the family reunion.”

Mom looks up, her eyes drilling into mine.

“Mom,” I say, “why are you looking at me like that? Say something!”

“How, Angela? How could you?” she asks. “How?” And then it’s more tears.

Novak steps in. “According to your mother’s statement, you very recently referred to yourself as ‘having become something you are not’ and said there were ‘spiders’ on the inside of your head. Is that true?”

“Upon advice from her counsel, my client will not be speaking further to this matter.” Tate puts his hand on my knee.

“Oh, it’s not just Mrs. Petitjean who references your client’s diseased state of mind.” Novak’s oily with his own cleverness. “I have another signed statement here that corroborates everything Mrs. Petitjean has said.” He reaches inside his suit pocket and pulls out a white sheet. It’s been folded neatly, like someone’s run a thumbnail down the crease.

“This is the signed statement from Freddy Montgomery, made earlier this morning. Shall we have a read?” Novak unfolds the paper, pressing it flat on the table. “Angela Petitjean, her mother and I shared a bottle of champagne in my hotel suite in Boston. At the time she was troubled by what she termed a ‘personality disorder’ and also openly admitted that she wanted to hurt Saskia. She said she ‘wanted her gone.’ I’m afraid I distinctly remember the phrasing.”