25. Jessica

NOW

It was nearly 9:00 P.M. Norah had spent the majority of the evening at the bar, insisting on getting every round (with the help of Jessica's credit card, of course). The bartender was not complaining. Jessica imagined it wasn't every day that someone who looked like Norah showed up at the Port Agatha pub.

Alicia was filling the "babies" in on their upbringing at Wild Meadows—being honest but not brutal in the retelling—and the girls were all leaning forward, elbows on the table, enraptured. Jessica was enraptured too… but not by Alicia. She was mesmerized by what was happening at the bar.

Norah was flirting.

Jessica wasn't sure she'd seen Norah flirt with anyone before, but it was undeniable. She moved her body differently—shoulders back, hips all slidey, head cocked. She giggled. Jessica practically felt the heat in her cheeks right along with her sister.

Had she ever flirted with Phil? She supposed she must have. But it had been a while. Perhaps she needed to start? She glanced at her phone. She'd had two text messages from Phil today. The first: Did you water the maidenhair fern? (Naturally she had.) The second: Thinking of you today. (He'd sent a variation of the second message to Norah and Alicia too; Jessica knew because Norah had asked how to send back a GIF of someone trying to kill themselves.) Sweet, really.

She'd responded to the first message: Yep. As for the second, she still hadn't responded. What could she say? She really wasn't good at that sort of thing. At the same time, shouldn't she try?

Lately, Jessica had been harboring a secret fear that Phil was going to leave her. He'd have no trouble finding someone else. A younger, sportier woman who enjoyed things like canoeing and stand-up paddleboarding. After a day out with the young sporty woman, Phil would post photos of them on social media and the sporty woman would comment "BEST day" with three heart emojis. The worst part was that if it happened, Jessica would have no one to blame but herself.

She quickly thumbed in a response to his last message.

Thanks, Phil.

Three heart emojis. She pressed send as Norah returned from the bar and put down drinks no one had asked for. Then, just as Jessica was about to ask her about the barman, the pub door opened and Detective Patel walked in.

The chatter at the table stopped immediately.

Patel's expression was grave. Her white shirt was rumpled and the sleeves were rolled up. Her severe ponytail was now not so severe. The change in appearance made Jessica anxious.

"She doesn't look happy," Bianca muttered.

Jessica's heart rate kicked up a gear.

"I thought I'd find you here," Patel said.

"Why?" Norah said.

"Because there's nowhere else open past five P.M. in this town." She gave them a tight-lipped smile. "And I saw the lights were on when I left the police station."

She pointed across the road.

"Do you want to join us?" Bianca asked, but Patel shook her head. She hesitated a moment, clasping the back of the wooden chair in front of her as if steeling herself for something.

"It's good that you're together. We received some information from the medical examiner tonight and I wanted to let you know before the media got wind of it."

"About the bones?" Jessica asked.

"Yes. There's more analysis to be done—the forensic anthropologist is yet to determine the cause of death and time of death—but we do know that the body belonged to a female child. A young child. Possibly an infant."

"An infant?"Zara said. "Like a foster child?"

"What does this mean for the investigation?" Bianca asked.

"Do you have any suspects?" Zara chimed in.

"I bet it was one of the foster mother's boyfriends," Rhiannon said. "It's always the boyfriend."

Jessica stole a glance at her sisters. Norah's brow had settled into a deep frown. Alicia's face was drained of color, and she was gripping the greasy table in front of them, as if it were a life raft.

"But if someone killed a foster kid," Zara said, "why weren't they reported missing? Foster kids have a paper trail, don't they? A social worker? Surely a child can't just disappear without anyone asking any questions."

Normally this was where Alicia would jump in. She'd told Norah and Jessica of the sobering reality many times: foster children went missing with frightening regularity. That said, the children Alicia described were typically teens. It would be hard for an infant to go missing without anyone asking questions. Practically impossible.

"We're looking into all of this now we know that the bones were those of a child," Patel said. "I'm sorry—I know this is upsetting."

Patel was looking at Alicia. When Jessica followed her gaze, her heart gave a tiny lurch. Alicia was crying.

Jessica went to Alicia's side and kneeled beside her. She placed what she hoped was a comforting hand on her sister's thigh.

"It's okay," Jessica said to her quietly. "You're okay."

Norah stood on Alicia's other side, a hand on her shoulder.

Jessica felt the eyes of the detective and the other women on them, even though they could have no idea how momentous the occasion was. They didn't know that Alicia hadn't cried a single tear since the day Grammy died.

Then, just when Jessica thought things couldn't get any more momentous, Miss Fairchild walked into the pub.

THE OFFICE OF DR. WARREN, PSYCHIATRIST

Today when I arrive to see Dr. Warren, he meets my eye and doesn't make me wait at all. He seems excited. And I am excited that he is finally listening.

"The moment John moved into Wild Meadows he became master of the house," I say to him. "It was so different from when my father was around. Even though my mother's financial troubles had been rectified by selling off land, he was obsessed with money, scrimping and saving and watching every penny. Our meals became smaller, we stopped buying new clothes. John hid a tin of cash that he hid in a sack of rice, and occasionally, he would get it out and count the contents. If he ever saw me watching, he said, ‘Don't get any ideas, I know how much money is here to the cent.'

"The other difference was the change in my mother. When my father was alive, she'd lie around in bed in the morning while my father got up and did the chores. Now my mother was up at dawn, cleaning the house from top to bottom. John was fastidious, pointing out even the smallest skerrick of dust or dirt. When she was done cleaning, Mum cooked breakfast for John, then she did all the dishes and put them away before wiping down the table and counters and mopping the floor. I would have been appalled even if I hadn't been required to help. But John insisted that I pull my weight.

"‘But he's not pulling his weight!' I cried when my mother gave me my new list of chores.

"‘He works.'

"‘So did Dad, and he didn't expect you to run yourself ragged all day cleaning a perfectly clean house!'

"I didn't see John standing in the doorway, so when he grabbed my ear, the surprise was nearly as shocking as the pain.

"‘You will not disrespect me!' John screamed at me. He pulled me close enough that I could smell his breath. ‘And you will not talk back to your mother.'

"My feet barely touched the floor as he dragged me out of the room and into the kitchen. I didn't know what to think when he reached for the bar of soap. I was silent and perplexed until the moment he shoved it into my mouth so far I retched.

"‘This is what happens to people who talk back.' He clamped his hand over my mouth.

"I had heard of this happening to other kids, but it was not at all how I imagined it. I'd thought that at worst there would be an irritating soapy taste. Instead, it was an assault. Every time I sucked in a breath I inhaled bubbles instead of air. I couldn't cough. My body became drenched with panicked sweat. I thought my mother would tell him to stop, that she would be horrified. But other than an initial ‘John…' she said nothing.

"When he finally pulled his hand away, I ran to the sink and began rinsing my mouth.

"‘I trust we won't hear more backchat from you,' John said before storming from the room. When he was gone, I thought my mother would apologize for what her husband had done. But she didn't. And I realized that my mother was every bit as lost to me as my father was."

Dr. Warren shakes his head, aghast.

"John punished me often after that," I continue. "Usually when I failed to do my chores. He was militant about chores, and I was always falling short. Mind you, I don't think it was possible to meet his standards. Even on days I'd double- or triple-checked, he'd always find fault."

"And then he'd wash your mouth out?" Dr. Warren asks, slightly breathless.

"No. That was reserved for talking back. He had different punishments for cleaning infractions. One time, when he decided I'd failed to clean the kitchen adequately, he grabbed me by the ear and dragged me to the doorway under the stairs, opened it, pushed me inside and latched it shut. I contemplated screaming, but I decided it was better to remain quiet as I waited for what came next. Stupidly, I hadn't given up hope that my mother would save me. Needless to say, that didn't happen."

"What did happen?" I may be imagining it, but it looks like Dr. Warren's pupils are dilated.

"Nothing. I kept waiting for someone to open the door, but no one did. They left me there. When I was finally let out, I'd been in the basement for twenty-four hours."

"No," Dr. Warren exclaims.

I nod. "I was lying on the floor, weak with hunger and thirst, my face dirty from licking the floor to wet my lips. In the stream of light that flooded in from upstairs, I saw John descending the stairs, followed by my mother. John came to a stop by my feet.

"‘Have you learned your lesson?' he asked.

"When I didn't respond, he kicked my foot. It wasn't especially hard, but this time my mother dropped to her knees by my side. ‘Give her a minute,' she begged.

"‘I have… learned,' I managed to croak.

"‘Will you be respectful from now on?'

"‘Yes.'

"‘Whose house is this?'

"My gaze darted to my mother.

"‘Don't look at her,' John bellowed. ‘Look at me. Whose house is it?'

"‘Yours.'

"‘Whose rules must you follow?'

"‘Yours.'

"At this, he nodded. It took me a moment to realize he was waiting for me to stand. I hauled myself to my feet, but was so weak I nearly fell down again. My mother reached for me then stopped short, glancing at John as if this might not be allowed. Apparently it wasn't.

"John led the way up the stairs. As he did, I looked at my mother. Later I consoled myself with the fact that at least my mother was too ashamed to meet my eye."

"So you blamed your mother for that?" Dr. Warren asks. "Even though John was the one who threw you in the basement?"

He is watching me avidly.

"Yes."

He cocks his bald, shiny head. "Doesn't seem fair."

"No," I say, matching his smile. "But then no one ever said motherhood was fair, Dr. Warren."