Thicker Than Water Read online

  I grit my teeth. “I don’t remember. They said it was. They said they heard me throw the lock to open the door.”

  She falls silent for a while, and I wonder what she’s thinking.

  After a moment, she puts a hand over mine. “What are the first two acts?”

  I look up. “What?”

  “You said this afternoon that you felt like your life had split into a third act. What were the first two?”

  I pull back, self-conscious. “That was stupid. I just meant before, with my mom. And before that. With my mom and my dad.”

  “Oh.” She’s quiet, and I can hear her thinking. “Are they divorced?”

  “She left him. From what I remember, it was pretty sudden. We didn’t hide, but it felt like hiding, if that makes any sense. She used to say he was bad news.”

  Charlotte studies me. “Did he abuse her?”

  “No.” I shake my head before I really think about it. Mom never said he did, and until Charlotte asked the question, no one ever laid that option on the table. I realign some of my memories, trying to make her sudden departure seem like that of a battered woman. It doesn’t quite fit—but it’s not completely out in left field, either.

  And Mom obviously isn’t here to weigh in.

  “Not that I know of,” I finally say. “I never saw it. I always used to think he was into drugs or something illegal. She hid from him at first. I don’t know all the details.”

  “Did you tell the police all of this?”

  “Of course. But she stopped worrying about him years ago. She never mentioned him. When people asked about my father, she’d tell them he wasn’t a part of our lives. I grew up like that, so I took it at face value. I actually thought he might be dead.”

  “But you don’t know for sure. Is there any chance he contacted her?”

  “The cops took her laptop and searched it. According to Stan they didn’t find any contact with anyone that seemed threatening or even remotely concerning. Her cell phone records all trace to easily recognizable numbers. Me. Stan. Work. Her friends. Not a single unknown.”

  “Do you have her laptop?” Her eyes light with intrigue. “Would you recognize his name?”

  “Sure, but I don’t have it. The cops still do. And I told them his name, so . . .” I shrug. “I know they hate me, but I don’t think they’re entirely stupid.”

  “Did they go through her things?”

  I snort. “She didn’t have much. She hadn’t even unpacked everything from the move yet. She said there’d be time for that after the honeymoon.” My voice breaks, and I’m not ready for it.

  Charlotte acts like it didn’t happen, and I appreciate the chance to hold on to my dignity. She’s like a dog with a bone, though; she won’t let go of this line of questioning. “So your mom has things you haven’t unpacked yet?”

  “Yeah. But it’s only three boxes. Just clothes and stuff from her bedroom back home.”

  “Did the cops go through those boxes?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, why would they? I’m pretty sure they’re still sealed. They’re in the garage.”

  “Do you want to go through them?”

  I hesitate. “Do I want to go through my mom’s old clothes and sheets and pillows? I don’t really see the point.”

  “Do you have any other ideas?”

  I think about that for a minute, then look at her. I sweep the cookie crumbs into my hand. “Let me get some scissors.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHARLOTTE

  I’m not entirely sure what I thought would happen when we broke open the old boxes on the floor of Stan’s garage. I suppose I imagined something right out of a mystery novel, like the boxes would explode with dust and we’d find a cryptic map that we’d follow to the murderer’s lair. Or maybe there’d be a weapon tucked beneath the flap of one of the boxes.

  Instead, it’s just three ordinary cardboard boxes. No dust, nothing amiss at all. The garage isn’t even creepy: Stan keeps it clean, and there are two single bulbs hanging from the ceiling, giving us just enough light to see what we’re doing. The first box has a stack of sheets with four decorative pillows on top. The tape was holding it all inside, because the pillows almost fling themselves free when Thomas cuts the tape. We take everything out, but that’s all there is.

  To be thorough, I crush the pillows in my hands, just in case something has been hidden inside.

  “Find anything, Nancy Drew?”

  His words are teasing, but his eyes are serious, and there’s a hollow undercurrent to his voice.

  I remind myself that these things are familiar to him. They represent his mother.

  I stop squeezing a pillow. “Are you okay?”

  He nods. “They . . . they smell like her. It’s . . .” His voice trails off.

  “Do you want to stop?”

  “No.” He rips open the next box.

  Clothes, and a lot of them, but it’s all off-season fabric: corduroy slacks and heavy sweaters and turtlenecks and jeans. Winter clothes, packed away because she wouldn’t need them for months yet.

  “See?” he says. “Nothing.”

  “Let’s check all the pockets.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  My hands are already unfolding a down vest, but I stop and look at him. “No. We don’t have to.”

  He’s looking into the box with the clothes, sliding his fingers along the fabrics, and he doesn’t answer. I wait, giving him time.

  I’m a terrible person for thinking this, but I don’t mind the view.

  If he’d moved here a year ago, we’d be going to school together in a few weeks, and I try to imagine him fitting in at school. New kids are always hit or miss around here, thanks to how small the town is. They either leap into the fray with instant popularity, by virtue of personality or looks or athletic ability—or they fade into the woodwork for the time they’re here, and they get the heck out of town as soon as they can.

  Thomas would be part of the first group, I can already tell. If we’d met at school, I would have been too intimidated to talk to him.

  I’m almost too intimidated to talk to him now, and we’re completely alone.

  He slides a sweater out of the box, then looks at me. His eyes are piercing, and just a bit bewildered. “Why do you want to do this?”

  “It feels better than doing nothing.”

  He gives a laugh that doesn’t sound like he is all that amused. “No, that’s why I’m doing it. I’m trying to understand why you’re doing it.” He hesitates. “It’s a Friday night. You could be out on a real date, for god’s sake.”

  Is he calling this a date? “Clearly you haven’t seen the pool of teen guys in Garretts Mill.”

  “You could be doing anything, Charlotte. Anything. But instead, you’re sitting on a garage floor, sorting through clothes.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Since the vest is in my hands anyway, I check the pockets, then fold it and set it aside.

  He follows my lead and sets the sweater to the side. He pulls out another. “Is this a rebellion thing?”

  I raise my eyebrows at him and grab a pair of jeans. “A rebellion thing?”

  He gives me a look like he knows I know what he means. “Yeah.”

  “You think I’m here just because my parents don’t want me to be?”

  “Are you?”

  The jeans pockets have a receipt that obviously went through the washing machine, but I set it to the side anyway and add them to the pile of checked clothes. “You’ve got a cynical view of the world.”

  “I’ve learned to be cautious. Answer the question. Why are you here?”

  I meet his eyes, and I can’t say any of the words in my head.

  I’m here because I’ve been attracted to you since the moment I saw you outside the church.

  I’m here because you let your guard down around me sometimes, and I don’t think you do that with anyone else.

  I’m here because you make me feel like I have
something to offer the world, instead of being someone who needs to be sheltered away.

  And finally . . .

  I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t want to leave your presence until I’ve figured you out.

  I’ve been staring at him too long, my hands still on the khaki slacks in front of me. He’s waiting for an answer.

  I blush and look away. My voice is hushed and shy, almost a mumble. “I’m here because I want to be. If you want me to leave, I can leave.”

  Then I busy myself with checking the pants pockets.

  Thomas crawls across the floor to kneel in front of me. “Hey.”

  I look at him.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  He lets out a long breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I almost can’t believe you’re here, and then I have to go act like you forced your way in.” He shakes his head. “I always thought I could read people, and now I spend every day second-guessing myself.”

  “You don’t have to read me,” I say. “What you see is what you get.”

  That makes him smile, and he looks a little devious. “I’m beginning to realize that.”

  I smile back. “And it’s funny?”

  “It’s funny because you should be spending your nights with some guy who thinks ‘second base’ means holding hands, who knows what aioli is, and would find some preppy job during the summer while working on his Harvard application essay.”

  “Ugh.” I make a face. “You sound like my mother. I mean, like, word for word.”

  He smiles. “Instead, you’re here with me.”

  “You’re being a perfect gentleman.”

  “And you don’t know how much effort that’s taking.”

  The note in his voice makes my breath catch. My hands hesitate on the jacket pockets I’m checking, and I look up at him. His eyes are dark and intense, and for a moment I think of that instant in the kitchen.

  Don’t make me pick you up and put you in the chair.

  I remember the strength in his arms when he carried me through the woods.

  I want to feel his hands on me again. I’m flushed suddenly, thinking about it. It takes everything I have not to throw myself at him.

  Like I’d have a clue what I was doing.

  I thrust my hand into a jacket pocket, just for an excuse to do something, anything, that doesn’t involve pushing him down on the floor and jumping on top of him. My hand closes around a folded piece of paper.

  I yank it free and hold it up. He’s moved closer somehow. Our breath sounds loud in the space between us.

  His eyes don’t even leave mine.

  “Found something.” I sound like I’ve been out running. My heart agrees.

  He takes the paper. It’s folded notebook paper, nothing special. It takes him a moment to look away from me, and when he does, I feel a release, like a spell has broken.

  He unfolds it halfway, sees what it is, and lets it fall closed again. He drops it beside the receipt. “It’s nothing.” His tone has gone flat.

  I pick it up. “What was it?”

  “Just a sketch.”

  I start to unfold it, but his sudden mood shift warns me to wait. “Do you mind if I . . .”

  He shrugs and grabs another pair of pants. “Go ahead.”

  The paper is smooth, only creased in half twice, like a note folded to fit in an envelope. When he said a sketch, I expected a goofy doodle, or a caricature of a teacher, or . . . anything, really. Anything except something that looks like it should be framed and hung on a wall. Or kept in a museum.

  The drawing is done in pencil, and the artist has so much talent that emotion almost pours off the page. The perspectives are all perfect, the lines and shadows as clear as a photograph. A woman is sitting at a table, wearing a bathrobe and looking out a window. There’s a cup of coffee in front of her. I don’t know how I know it’s coffee—but I do. Her hair is piled high on her head in a messy bun. She’s not young, but there’s a fullness to her mouth. A look of desperate longing in her eyes.

  “She wants something,” I say without thinking.

  “Yeah,” he says. “A cigarette.”

  I look at him.

  “It’s the day after she quit,” he says.

  “This is your mother?” I ask quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s beautiful.” I shouldn’t be surprised. She had a beautiful son.

  “She was. Yes.” He takes the paper from me and folds it back up.

  “Did you draw the picture?”

  He hesitates. “I wanted her to know what she looked like. To remember that she made it through the first day, and she’d never have to look that needy again.”

  I don’t ask why he wouldn’t have taken a picture. This is better than a picture: this is her image in her son’s eyes.

  “She carried it with her,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Or she shoved it in this jacket and never looked at it again. It doesn’t matter.”

  I frown, unsure what to say.

  He’s an artist.

  Don’t you have any hobbies? Of course.

  Why wouldn’t he tell me? It’s another piece of the mystery. I feel like I started with a twenty-four-piece puzzle box, but inside is a five hundred-piece double-sided puzzle with no straight edges.

  He pulls another garment from the box and doesn’t say anything either. I follow his lead, grabbing another pair of jeans.

  Nothing.

  I want to ask him about art, about how long he’s done it, whether he wants to study it in school, whether he wants to be an artist as a career. I’ve seen kids at school who enjoy drawing, but none of them were ever very good. The sketch of his mother—that took true talent.

  The way he tossed the sketch down warns me to tread carefully.

  We continue to work in silence.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  “I can’t do it anymore,” he finally says. His voice is raw. We’ve made a small stack of receipts and scraps of nonsense.

  “You want to stop?”

  “No, not this.” His eyes flick to the discarded drawing. “That. I sit down and try to draw, and I can’t do it.”

  “Since she died?”

  He nods. “I always used to have a drawing in my mind. Now, it’s like I can’t pick a pencil up without my hand wanting to draw her murder.” He grimaces, then scrubs at his face with his hands, as if he needs to push away the image. “I didn’t want to see it the first time.”

  I continue going through the clothes, because he hasn’t stopped, and it feels easier to talk while we’re doing something. “Maybe you should let yourself draw it.”

  “Yeah, right. Like it’s some kind of mental block?”

  “Maybe it is.” I hesitate. “Maybe it’ll help you remember something. Matt always tells me that when some insignificant detail about an investigation won’t leave him alone, he knows it’s his brain trying to tell him something. He’s the most practical guy ever, but he takes that kind of thing really seriously.”

  Thomas doesn’t say anything, so I keep sorting.

  “I’ll try it,” he finally says.

  “Now?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I don’t—I’m not ready. Not now. Not yet.”

  “Okay,” I say softly.

  He pulls the next item out of the box. At first glance, I thought it was a skirt, but when he pulls, it’s actually a fabric shoulder bag, in a purple and blue paisley print, threaded with gold and silver.

  “That’s pretty,” I say.

  “I don’t think I ever saw her use it. It’s empty.” He flings it on top of the pile of clothes we’ve already gone through, then thrusts his hand back in the box for another.

  He frowns and fishes around, then rises to his knees to look in the box. “Holy shit.”

  “What?”

  “This.” He reaches down into the box and comes bac
k up with a handful of envelopes. They’ve all been mailed to Marie Bellweather, with various dated postmarks. The handwriting is the same on all of them. The edges are worn where a letter has been pulled out and returned to the envelopes.

  Thomas drops them on the floor between us.

  Then he reaches back into the box and retrieves another handful.

  And another.

  When he’s done, at least twenty-five envelopes are scattered on the floor.

  We both stare at them for a moment.

  “Is it weird,” he says, “that I feel like I shouldn’t be reading her mail?”

  “No.” I pause. “Do you want me to read one?”

  “No. Not yet.” He slides a letter out of an envelope. It’s one page long, handwritten on white paper, the kind you’d pull out of a copy machine. The handwriting isn’t neat, but it looks legible.

  Thomas reads for a moment, not long enough to get through the whole thing, before shoving it back into the envelope almost violently. His breathing has quickened. He pulls another one free and begins to read.

  I pick up the one he discarded, easing the letter out of the envelope because I don’t want to overstep my bounds.

  The letter starts abruptly, without any introduction.

  I wish I could talk to you. You don’t know how much I wish I could see you.

  I understand it, but this isn’t fair.

  Thomas tosses his letter at me. “Look at that one.”

  I put down the one I’m reading and pick up his.

  You don’t know how hard it is to know I could get in a car and come find you.

  I won’t. I made a promise, and I’ll keep it.

  But please write back to me.

  Please.

  I think about you all the time.

  I need you.

  Please.

  I look at the date on the postmark. It’s from eight years ago. I pick up another. It’s from nine years ago. Another is almost ten years old.

  “Do you recognize the handwriting?” I ask.

  Thomas shakes his head.

  “So you don’t know if it’s your father’s?”

  He laughs shortly, without any humor whatsoever. “My father left before I could read. I have no idea what his handwriting looks like.”