“Stop fidgeting,” Shannon said as the door opened.
“Shannon!” His mom swept him up in a hug and pulled him into the house. I stepped in behind them and closed the door, shutting out the frigid air outside. She seemed to be about early sixties and was slim and polished in a smart red pantsuit. She had chestnut colored hair swept back into a bun and bright green eyes. “Frank! Frank! They’re here!” She called out behind her, a rich, southern twang wrapping around her words like velvet.
I realized suddenly that Shannon didn’t have an accent. Had he worked to rid himself of it? I couldn’t imagine someone wanting to hire a killer who sounded like a lead singer in a country band. There was no reason Shannon should seem less deadly with a twang or drawl, but somehow it didn’t fit.
His mother was far more animated and friendly than her polished presentation might suggest.
By this point, we were in the foyer, easing our way into the belly of the house. “Here, let me take your coats,” she said.
“Millie, for God’s sake, I live in the same house you do,” Frank said, a similar, though more brusque accent flowing from his own mouth. Frank looked like an older version of Shannon, if Shannon were to stop working out and gain about thirty pounds, go gray, and take up pipe smoking. He was similarly dressed to his wife in a nice understated navy suit and a tie. They looked as if they were about to attend church.
I wondered if he dressed this way for his work or if Millie had made him put something nice on for dinner.
“Oh, are these for me?” Millie asked, gushing at the roses and inhaling the fragrance wafting off the pale pink blooms. “You didn’t have to bring me flowers.”
“Let me put them in some water for you.” Shannon deftly escaped to the kitchen with the roses and an empty vase he grabbed off a side table on his way.
Millie turned her attention to me. “And you must be the girl. My rude son didn’t even tell me your name!”
I could tell by her tone, that she didn’t really believe Shannon to be rude at all. It was just the good-natured ribbing that happened in families. These people were not what I’d expected. At the very least, I’d expected them to be cold and distant. Frank was a bit reserved, but not cold.
“I’m Elodie.”
“Well, that’s a lovely name. Shannon hasn’t ever brought a girl home before,” she said, leading me toward the living room. “And I’ve been dying to show off his baby pictures.”
“Mother, I will kill you,” Shannon called out from the kitchen.
For a moment I was actually terrified for her, but then I realized Shannon was just playing the role of embarrassed son. He had no intention of killing her for showing me baby pictures. I doubted he cared one way or the other about me seeing the photos. It was just part of the mask, the play he starred in where he was like everyone else.
“Oh, nonsense,” she shouted back toward the kitchen. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Could they really not see the cold dark spot inside their son? Were they that blind? Frank wasn’t as animated as Millie, but even he seemed excited to see his son and to learn he’d brought a girl home. I imagined they were both marking time in their head, planning imaginary weddings and buying imaginary baby outfits for the grandchildren that I surely would dutifully deliver for them.
In the living room, Frank retreated to a brown leather chair in the corner out of the way, while Millie led me to the couch. She pulled out a big family photo album stuffed to near exploding with pictures. On the red leather cover in gold lettering, it read, “Mercer Family Memories.”
“All the gory details are in here,” Millie said, winking at me.
I could tell she’d been waiting years to show some poor woman the story of Shannon’s early years in pictures. Though I was also certain I knew far more gory details than his mother would ever be privy to. I couldn’t imagine how much it would break her heart to know the truth. Even if I were desperate, I wouldn’t have had the will to tell his parents or seek their help. I doubted they’d believe me anyway.
Then I was inundated with photos of practically every mundane second of Shannon’s life. If these images were to be believed, he really did have a near-perfect childhood. I suddenly wished I had photos of my own childhood, but I doubted they’d be like this—judging from my dossier, at least.
In the photo album were the obligatory splashing naked baby in the bathtub pictures, the eating solid foods for the first time pictures, some funny pictures of him in a giant wooden bowl that made him seem freakishly tiny by comparison, the bumbling toddler years, birthday party pictures, and Christmas after Christmas.
Shannon seemed so sweet and adorable as a baby and toddler. As he grew through the photographs, he became a bit more stoic and detached.