Chapter Forty-Three

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Charles calls as I'm driving back to the Barclays'. He knows me well enough to glean something is wrong by my greeting.

Charles is the only person left in my life I can truly confide in. So I tell him everything—about seeing Detective Garcia, her getting up to go the bathroom, and me photographing the file on my mother.

Almost everything, that is. Because I leave out the part about me trading information on Rose. I don't skip over it because I fear Charles's reaction. Despite his job title, he's one of the least judgmental people I know.

But I don't want to jeopardize his career by making him a party to the knowledge of something legally murky.

"Have you read through your mother's file yet?" Charles's tone is gentle and caring. It's as if he knew I needed him today; like he intuited that he should reach out to me.

"Not yet." I take a deep breath and finish my story, telling him about fleeing the station and getting sick in the bushes.

"Oh, Stella, I am so sorry." Ragged pain threads through his voice; it's a reflection of the emotion I know mine contains. "If you'd like, we can go through the file together. I don't want you to be alone for this."

I briefly close my eyes. "I would love that."

"Then it's settled. The fire will be roaring and I'll open a bottle of something nice. I know this is hard, but it's the right thing, Stella. You deserve to have answers."

"I'll call you as soon as I leave the Barclays'," I promise him.

When I hang up, the heaviness in my body lifts ever so slightly.

As I continue my drive, I pull up information from the files stored in my mind. This morning's encounter makes me want to take a closer look at Beth.

Beth serves on four charity boards, which is as big a commitment as a full-time job. She has no siblings. Beth's mother and father live an hour away in Upperville, Virginia, but aren't involved grandparents.

Beth is a woman devoid of any strong personal connections. I've studied her personal calendar; it was submitted by her lawyer to prove she has ample time to be the sole caregiver of Rose. All of Beth's social events revolve around her charity work.

Perhaps her life once revolved only around Ian. She must have fallen deeply in love with him, given that she broke off her engagement to a blue-blood banker and son of a family friend, blowing everything up to be with Ian. He would have roared into her sterile, well-mannered world, all sex appeal and rugged charm.

Ian described their marriage as a slow drifting apart, like a rowboat whose rope loosens from the dock and rides away on a gentle current.

Today I want to get Beth alone and hear her story of their marriage. I'm curious to compare the two versions and examine the ragged edges that don't overlap.

Because I held back a few pieces of information from Detective Garcia.

I didn't let on that despite Beth and Ian's ugly custody battle, they colluded to deceive me about Beth's supposed fear of glass. It's obvious they created the plastic house to keep potential weapons out of Rose's hands; I can think of no other explanation.

And while this adds even more weight to the dark possibilities swirling around Rose, I can't ignore other scenarios.

Beth and Ian proved they can work together to extinguish messy problems.

Tina was a very messy problem.

And just this morning, Beth engineered my latest parallel with Tina's experience.

It makes me question what else Beth is capable of doing.

When I arrive at the Barclay estate, the now-familiar feeling of dread crashes over me.

The sky is an unbroken swath of cerulean blue, but as I step out of my Jeep, the bite in the wind foretells the barren season ahead, when leaves will wither and creatures will burrow into the earth in a desperate quest for survival.

My old therapist's voice pops into my head, as clear as if she were sitting next to me in the passenger's seat.

You don't give yourself enough credit for how strong you are, Chelsea said to me once.

I'm not that strong, I'd replied as I plucked a tissue from the box beside me and began to shred it.

I disagree.

I'm not sure you're doing your job right. Aren't you supposed to validate everything I say?

She'd smiled, but her tone was serious. Another child who went through everything you did could have turned out very differently, Stella. Because you survived, you've got the capacity to do tremendous things. You also have a whole lot of trauma we need to process.

I'd brushed off her words, but she remained dogged in getting her message across. Perhaps she'd already intuited I was one more session away from walking out her door and never coming back.

You're using your pain to propel you to do good in this world, to help other kids. Don't you also deserve help?

I find myself wondering what Chelsea would think if I told her I had obtained the file on my mother. I can't say for sure, but I imagine she would be glad.

I climb the porch steps and ring the doorbell. I wait for nearly a full minute, and am about to ring it again when Beth opens the door.

I take an involuntary step back, my eyes widening.

I can't believe this is the same woman I saw only a few hours ago.