“I don’t understand. How?”
“Women hide pregnancies, and people fake cancer. They do it all the time, as a grift. In my case, it would be easy, because I was sick before. They’d believe it for sure. Say I lose a few pounds. Put on a turban like I lost my hair. We take a picture for the Facebook with an IV in my arm, tubes in my nose, a little contour on my cheeks so I’m gaunt. You take a leave of absence from work to care for me. Say you’re bringing me somewhere for treatment. Then disappear till after the baby comes. Nobody will suspect. Your husband just got killed, and now your mother’s dying? Who’s gonna begrudge you, or think to check your story?”
“Wow. That could actually work.”
“It will work. I’m a good actress when I want to be.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“For you. And for my grandchild.”
“His name is Ollie.”
“No,” Sylvia said, eyeing Kathryn’s waistline. “You’re carrying thick in the middle like I did with you. That’s a girl in there, for sure.”
33
Kathryn had thought it would take an effort to cry at Sylvia’s memorial service, since her mother wasn’t actually dead. But she broke down repeatedly. She’d given birth just two weeks earlier. The bleeding had stopped, but her breasts were still engorged, and her hormones haywire. She longed for that red-faced, scrunchy little baby with a physical craving. Grace. Her downy head, her perfect fingers and toes and ears. She understood that they couldn’t be together. But the separation hurt worse than anything she’d ever felt. When Matthew died, he was gone forever. It was final. There was nothing to do but accept, and plot revenge. Grace was still here on this earth. She could be touched and held and kissed and cuddled. Just not by Kathryn. Ten minutes after being discharged from the anonymous Midwestern hospital where she’d given birth, she’d waved goodbye under cover of darkness. Her stitches hurt. There was a heavy pad between her legs. But it was her heart that felt like it would explode. If there had been any other way … but there wasn’t. Sylvia’s death certificate was ready. It was time to call Ray, notify him of her passing, and announce Kathryn’s imminent return, along with the date of the memorial service.
And that’s what she did, because she’d learned the hard way that delay could be deadly.
That night, she watched the people she loved most in the world drive off in a used Volvo, registered in Sylvia’s new name of Marie Allen. The Volvo had an infant seat in the back and a portable crib and stroller in the trunk. Also, two cases of formula, three boxes of newborn Huggies, and piles of tiny clothes. Onesies, footie pajamas, little hats and booties and blankies and a shopping bag full of stuffed animals. Things that Kathryn had lovingly collected during the months of Sylvia’s fake illness to gift to her daughter. Things that would touch her velvet skin when Kathryn couldn’t, comfort her in the night when her mother wasn’t there. Though, if she was honest with herself, Grace wouldn’t miss her. How could you miss someone you didn’t know?
The Volvo’s navigation system was programmed with the address of a small house on a lake in remote northern New Hampshire, purchased with the down payment money intended for her family home with Matthew. She’d drained the account to pay for the house in cash, because monthly mortgage payments could be traced. Sylvia complained about the destination. Why pick a place with such brutal winters? Why not Arizona, or better yet, Miami Beach? There was a reason. The house backed onto woods full of hiking trails, less than a mile from the Canadian border. You could step out the back door, walk for fifteen minutes, and cross into Canada without being seen. Besides, it was close enough for Kathryn to visit, if she ever decided that was safe to do. And it was only for a while. They’d live there until she could join them permanently, which hopefully wouldn’t be long.
But first, she had to put the logistics in place for the three of them to disappear without a trace. She’d taken some important steps already. She’d bought a gun, unregistered and untraceable, which she’d keep hidden until it was needed. There was a death certificate in Sylvia’s name, obtained by bribing a county employee. Once it was filed, Sylvia would cease to exist, legally speaking. They’d paid top dollar for new identification, not just for Sylvia, but for Kathryn too, in the names of Marie and Jenna Allen, a mother and daughter who’d died in a car crash in Tennessee years before. Rather than going through crooks in Boston who might rat her out, she bought the Allens’ identities on the Dark Web, using an alias. It cost many times more, but the peace of mind was worth it. Using the name Jenna Allen at the hospital, Kathryn obtained a birth certificate for Grace in the name of Allen, too. But as anyone living in the shadows knows, even the most professional-looking false documents will only get you so far. It’s hard to build a life around them if you want to work, go to school, get a line of credit or a mortgage. The risk of being caught was too great, at least in the States. She would be better off retiring to a foreign country. But for that, she’d need money. Lots of money, enough for the three of them to survive on indefinitely. And since she’d just drained her bank account, that would take time to accumulate, more time than she wanted to spend. So she decided to steal it. The people who’d been profiting off her for decades were loaded. She would take their money and leave them broken and destroyed. She didn’t know how yet, but that was her vow as she returned to Boston on a warm spring day, with a marble urn in her roller bag that supposedly contained her mother’s ashes.
* * *
Step one in her plan for revenge: lull them into a false sense of security.
There was no coffin at Sylvia’s memorial service. Just the urn displayed on a stand next to a photograph draped with black ribbon. The photo showed Sylvia on the Cape thirty years before, looking glamorous in sunglasses and a white dress. The lavish arrangement of white lilies in front of the photo complemented her outfit. Kathryn snapped a picture on her phone. Her mother was going to love this.
“Damn, she was a looker,” Ray said from behind her.
Her skin crawled at the sight of him, which reminded her not to overplay her hand. The last time they met was at Matthew’s funeral. That ugly confrontation was burned into her brain. It would be burned into his, too. He was the first to arrive. They were alone for the moment. But welcoming him with open arms wouldn’t seem natural.
“You weren’t invited,” she said coldly.
“Kathy. Please, let me say goodbye. Your mother was the love of my life.”
“You should have thought of that before you murdered her son-in-law.”
He put his hand over his heart like he’d been struck.
“If it was up to me, that would never have happened. I tried to protect you. It was just impossible. I know you’ll never forgive me, but please, for Sylvia’s sake, let me mourn her. I would have been with her at the end if you had let me. Held her hand while she left this earth. Sung to her. You know she loved my singing voice?”
That voice was shaky now, his eyes red and wet. She had a hard time believing anything Ray said or did, but she had to admit, his tears seemed real. He was an old man, and not in the best of health. She had an image of him dropping dead on the floor in front of her. How satisfying that would be. But it wouldn’t serve her purpose.
“You can stay,” she said grudgingly. “I agree Mom would have wanted that, and today is her day.”
He grabbed her hands and kissed them.
“Thank you. I’m very grateful. I pray that someday our differences will be like water under the bridge. You know I think of you like—”
A daughter? It made her want to vomit.