A Mother Would Know (87)

The creaking returns. Must be Mom moving around in her room. I feel confident that she won’t ever let me down. I’ve always been her favorite. She’s always had my back.

And if she doesn’t, well—I think of the pill bottle in my room—I have a contingency plan.

I smile. Isn’t it lucky that I came home?





31





I stand at the window, looking down at the quiet street below. Yellow light glows from my neighbors’ windows, behind drawn curtains. All the other families are in their homes, not a care in the world, watching TV or slurping up bowls of ice cream. I once had that.

My heart slams against my rib cage when I see them approaching. Red and blue lights flashing in the sky. I glance down at the cell phone on my nightstand, hating that I was forced to make that call. To be the one to turn my son in. How much sadness can one heart take?

I hear movement downstairs.

Bowie barks.

My hand flutters up to my neck. In the window I see my own reflection staring back. Eyes wide and scared, cheeks sallow, lips trembling.

The police cars park in my driveway. Men hop out wearing blue uniforms, guns holstered to their hips. I turn away from the window and breathe deeply. Tears fill my eyes. My cheeks are hot.

I hear raps on the front door, Bowie barking, footsteps inside, men’s voices downstairs.

My heart rate spikes. I stare at my bedroom door, praying no one comes up here. I can’t take any more questions tonight. Deep down, I want to run down the stairs, to hug my son once more, but I don’t dare.

He’ll know I did this, and he won’t forgive me.

I’ve done so many things wrong when it comes to my children. This time, I have to do what’s right.

If only I hadn’t covered up Hudson’s part in Heather’s death all those years ago, things would’ve turned out better for all of us. Maybe he would’ve gotten the help he needed. Maybe we all would have.

I turn back to the window, pressing my palm to the glass. Leslie’s house peers up at me, dark and empty.

Leslie materializes, standing in the middle of the lawn, holding a pot of purple irises. She’s young again, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, bright green gardening gloves covering her hands. Heather runs around beside her, squealing, an unabashed smile on her face. Leslie smiles, waves in my direction. I wave back.

And then she’s gone.

Other neighbors have come out, though. They stand in their doorways, pepper their front lawns, all gawking, staring, pointing. It’s what they’ve been waiting for. Oh, the triumph they must feel at being right, as I stand in the window, high above them all, silhouetted by the light behind my back. But I won’t cower. I won’t hide. I will see this through.

My son is in the driveway now, hands fastened behind him. A cop holds his arm as he leads him to a police car. Hudson glances up. I know he sees me, but I can’t look away. A tear streams down my face.

It’s the second time I’ve watched the police take away one of my children today.

My heart is shattered.

I watch until he’s in the car. Until they drive off. Until I can no longer see them.

Then I walk slowly to my bedroom door, and open it.

I call for Bowie, who comes running immediately. The sound of his paws on the stairs brings me comfort. I sink to my knees and press my face into his fur. I cry for my children. For my mistakes. For what they’ve been through. For what they’ve done.

Then I gather myself up off the floor and make my way to my bed, Bowie trailing after me. I slip between the sheets, pulling the covers up to my chin, and rest my hand on Bowie’s fur. I hear the clock tick, the house creak, the familiar tapping I’ve always associated with Grace.

I’m alone again—an old woman living in this house with her dog and a ghost—exactly like I was before he came back.



* * *





Acknowledgments





The last couple of years have been tough, collectively, for all of us. This book was partly written during the lockdown, with my family just feet away and my mind swirling with anxiety and grief. But in Valerie’s big Victorian home, I found refuge. An escape. I will forever be grateful for that.

I will also forever be grateful to the following people:

My agent, Ellen Coughtrey, who spent countless hours brainstorming on the phone and on the page. Ellen, I don’t know what I would do without your magical editorial touch and your fierce support of my books and career. To Will Roberts, Anna Worrall, Rebecca Gardner and the entire team at The Gernert Company, I appreciate your constant support so much. To my film agent, Dana Spector, your tireless work on my behalf does not go unnoticed. An email from you always has the capacity to make my day.

To my editor, April Osborn, I am so grateful to you for believing in me and my books, and for your keen editorial eye. Thanks also to Lia Ferrone and the entire MIRA team for all your hard work and support.

Booktokers and bookstagrammers are marketing rock stars, and I’m so grateful to all of you, particularly Abby, @crimebythebook; Sonica, @the_reading_beauty; Sydney, @sydneyyybean_; Jessica, @the_towering_tbr; and Dany, @danythebookworm_.

A big thank you to my bestie, Megan Squires, for always being a sounding board, a shoulder, a safe place and my favorite writing partner and beta reader.

It’s never easy asking authors to read and review your work—Ashley Winstead and Eliza Jane Brazier, your blurbs for this book made me cry. I appreciate you taking the time to read and blurb for me.