Darkness My Old Friend

“Why?” asked Michael. His voice was desperate and childlike. “Why was she so unhappy?”

He wanted to sugarcoat it, to soothe Michael. But maybe there had been enough of that. Michael Holt needed the truth; he’d spent his whole life looking for it. And Henry felt at least partially responsible for that.

“I think she wanted more from life than what she had, Michael,” said Henry. He had a voice that he used with troubled students. Firm but gentle, soothing but not yielding.

“More than us?”

Henry forced himself to breathe before answering.

“She loved you and your sister very much,” Henry said. “But sometimes people have expectations of life, and life gives them something else. Most of us accept that. Some of us can’t.”

Henry saw Bethany then. She had come up behind Michael on the path and now stood behind him.

“She didn’t leave you and Cara, Michael,” said Henry. “She was taken from you. At least you know that now. She didn’t run away.”

“No,” said Michael. It was a sad and desolate grunt, the beginning of a sob.

Michael’s breathing came ragged then, and for a moment Henry thought it was rage. That he was going to have to defend himself against this concrete wall of a man. But Michael fell to his knees and started to wail, a horrible keening that filled Henry’s head. Bethany put her hands to her ears and started to cry as well. It was primal, the very sound of sorrow. Henry didn’t know what to do but kneel beside him and take Marla’s son in his arms. Even as the truth dawned on Henry, he let Michael rest against him.

Michael whispered to Henry, “All these years I thought it was my father. That he was hiding this awful secret, and I was his accomplice in silence. I couldn’t wait for him to die so that I could uncover his lies.”

Michael’s breath was foul; he reeked of body odor and rotting vegetation. Still Henry held him tight, for Marla. Even with what Michael had done, Henry knew that Marla would want him to help her son.

“Michael,” Henry said. A part of him didn’t want to hear the truth. Once it was said, there would be no more denial.

“All these years I thought he holed himself up in that house with all his garbage, that guilt was burying him alive. But it wasn’t guilt. It was grief.”

“Please,” said Henry.

But there was no stopping the words now.

“I killed her.” The words were a horrific howl, and they cut Henry to the bone. He heard Bethany sobbing. She was on her knees as well now. “When my father came home, I told him that there had been a man in the house. I was so angry. I felt so… betrayed. They fought, worse than they ever had.”

Henry wished Michael would stop. The biggest part of him didn’t want to know what had happened to Marla.

“I heard her slamming drawers in her room. She was screaming, ‘I hate you! I hate this place! I hate my life!’ I couldn’t let her leave. She must have known that.”

Michael’s voice dropped again to that hoarse whisper.

“I tried to stop her. Her suitcase spilled open. She ran from me, out the back door, into the woods. And I followed her. My father tried to stop me, but he couldn’t. No one could have stopped me.”

Michael took a deep breath. “And all these years, he kept that secret. He was protecting me.”

He was sobbing again. Weeping like a child, he put his head to the ground. There were lights and voices coming up the path. And a minute later they were surrounded. Michael looked up, as if surprised by the crowd.

“It’s over,” Michael said. There was a glassy, unhinged quality to his gaze.

And Henry supposed that it was true, that it must offer Michael some kind of relief to know. However tragic and horrifying the outcome was, Michael had finally found his mother.

chapter thirty-five

The woman working the hotel desk was the wrong side of forty. She wore thick, dark-framed glasses, had her hair pulled back tightly, fanning out from a dramatic white part in the center of her head. There was a flurry of acne below her cheekbones. No ring on her finger. But Kevin Carr could see she still had hope. That was a good thing. All women react to a handsome man carrying an extravagantly large bouquet of roses. But a woman like that would react more favorably than most.

He had his overnight bag slung over his shoulder. Had made a point to keep his suit jacket off while he drove, so that he would arrive looking pressed. He wore a bright pink tie, a light smattering of cologne. He’d dressed to make an impression. He’d shaved and styled his hair for the first time since Paula had left. He hadn’t been to work; hadn’t even called. His partners were panicking, because he was the only one staffed with a client. And the client was freaking. He hadn’t returned a call in days. Fuck them. Fuck them all. He’d been waiting for his bitch wife to make good on her promise. And, of course, she hadn’t. She wasn’t going to give him that money. But it was going to be his just the same.

Amelia, his girlfriend, was starting to get suspicious. His card got declined at dinner the other night; she’d had to pay. He made up some excuse about identity theft, but he could tell she wasn’t buying it. He’d been pretending to have the flu, told her that’s why he hadn’t seen her for a few days. He wasn’t sure she was buying that, either. She wasn’t smart like Paula. That’s what he’d liked about her. She was beautiful and desperate, not sharp. But even she was starting to wonder about him.

“Hey,” he said as he approached the counter. He tried to sound a little breathless, gave the girl (WELCOME, I’M CAROLINE!) a bright smile. And the look. There’s a look you can give a woman, a warm smile, a kind gaze. It’s a look that says, I find you so attractive. Most of them smile back. The girl at the counter beamed.

“I’m so late meeting my wife and kids,” he said. “She’s gonna kill me.”

“They’re staying here?” she asked. Her hand fluttered to the heart-shaped locket at her neck.

“Checked in a few hours ago,” he said. Idiot. He knew she’d use that card, that old American Express she still had open in her name. He’d been watching it, pressing the “refresh” button every hour or so. He knew she’d get tired of motels, want something nicer. She was a spoiled brat and had been since the day he met her.

The girl at the counter was too shy to hold his gaze for long. Her eyes drifted to the roses and then down to the screen in front of her. “What room are they in?”

“I was hoping you could tell me?” He pulled down the corners of his mouth, lifted his eyebrows. He was going for sheepish. “She told me, and I can’t remember.”

“If you give me her name, I’ll call the room and let her know you’re down here.”

“Hmm,” he said. He wrinkled his forehead a bit. “What time is it?”

He looked at his watch and saw her noticing it.

“The kids will be sleeping,” he said. “If you call up there, you’ll wake them.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I can’t tell you the room number. That’s our policy.”

“Oh, I understand,” he said. He made a show of trying to figure out a solution. He pretended to text his wife. They waited. He could tell that the girl wanted to please him, to help him out. But she was still clinging to that policy.

“You’re too young to have kids, I’m sure,” he said. He saw her blush; the red came up unattractively from her neck. “But when you do, and they’re asleep? You’ll remember this encounter. Trust me, I’d rather sleep on that couch right there than wake them up.” He pointed to the lobby sitting area.

“My sister has kids,” she said. She smoothed out her hair, which was thick and wooly, probably the bane of her existence. “I hear you.”

He looked at the phone again. “Poor thing,” he said. “She’s probably sleeping, too. She’s exhausted. I’ve been so worried about her lately. She’s under so much stress with the kids.”

He looked lovingly at the roses. “It’s our anniversary. Ten years. Hard to believe.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s so sweet.”

“Yeah,” he said with a little laugh. He gave her a funny eye roll. “If she doesn’t kill me for being late.”