Fatal Secrets Read online

“I’m sorry,” Ryan whispered. “I didn’t mean to bring it up.” She watched the old man sink down onto a wooden trunk, and she sat on the floor beside him.

  “Is very hard, losing someone.” Mr. Partini sighed. “Like my Rosa … twenty-five years now … but I never forget.”

  A long silence drifted by. Mr. Partini closed his eyes and rocked gently, lost in thought. After a while he spoke again.

  “I say to myself, is a good idea to put fresh things, green things in the toyshop. Nice for customers … nice for you and me …” He shook his head sadly. “No. Was bad idea.”

  “No, Mr. Partini, it wasn’t a bad idea. It didn’t have anything to do with what happened.” She smiled wryly, hearing Phoebe’s own words coming out of her mouth. Why is it always easier to comfort everyone else instead of me?

  “Twenty-five years,” Mr. Partini murmured. “My Rosa … my love …”

  “Mr. Partini”—Ryan nudged him gently, and he looked at her as if he’d forgotten where he was—“Mr. Partini, someone broke that mirror.”

  “Aah … not your fault,” he said kindly, patting her cheek with one blue-veined hand. “I no blame you—you not worry, eh?” He got up and gathered the broken pieces of the mirror, shuffled over, and dropped them into a wastebasket. “No more worry. Everything okay now. I get a new mirror. Everybody happy.”

  “Someone moved the doll, Mr. Partini,” Ryan said, trying her best to be patient. “Between the time I found it and you came in. Someone must have been here, and I didn’t know it—”

  “You have other things on your mind.” Mr. Partini patted her shoulder, smiling. “Crazy things up here sometimes, just like me!” He tapped one finger to his forehead, his smile spreading, lighting up his whole face. “Is normal, eh? I hear voices—they say, ‘Work harder, Guido Partini, you way too slow, even for an old man!’” He laughed heartily, catching Ryan in a hug. “You okay, Bambalina. You go home now. Rest. Come back tomorrow … feel better, eh?”

  “I shouldn’t leave, Mr. Partini. I’m here to work—”

  “Yes, yes, and all these customers need help!” He flapped his arms at the empty room and tried to look serious. “Go away, all of you! My little friend here needs to go home, and I can only wait on fifty of you at one time!”

  In spite of everything Ryan began to feel better. “Well, I hope all the customers don’t start looking like that weird one in the window.”

  Mr. Partini turned and stared at his front window display, then back to Ryan, his expression more blank than ever.

  “You make a joke with me.” He shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly. “But I don’t get it!”

  “No joke, Mr. Partini.” Ryan couldn’t help smiling. “He was out on the sidewalk in a big fat coat with his face all covered up.”

  “I no see this big fat guy.” Mr. Partini shook his head. “Maybe he fat with money, eh? Maybe he come in sometime and buy all my toys for his fat babies!”

  Shaking her head in amusement, Ryan followed him back to the workshop and got out of her apron.

  “Where were you when I got here?”

  “Is a funny thing! I hear knock on door. I say, who’s there?” Ryan chuckled as the old man counted out the events on his fingers. “Voice say ‘Delivery.’ I say ‘I no expect delivery.’ Voice say ‘Delivery.’ I go out, eh? Nobody there. Nobody in whole alley.” He stared at Ryan, dismissing the whole incident with a wave of his hand. “So maybe another joke on me. Bad boys playing around.”

  Ryan considered it, nodding. “Well … I suppose it could have been a joke.…”

  “Or maybe shop is haunted!” Mr. Partini slapped his leg and gave a laugh. “They break mirror—they call me outside! Those bad, bad toys, eh? Causing trouble!” He laughed again, ushering her to the front door, then regarded her thoughtfully as she put on her coat. “You bundle up warm, Bambalina—no catch cold in the snow.” Gently he reached out and patted her cheek, then closed the door after her as she went outside.

  It was nearly dark. Ryan usually enjoyed the shorter days of winter, but now it looked ominous outside, and she was thankful for the dim light from the other shops.

  That doll … reaching for help …

  A raw wind gusted out from an alleyway, twisting old newspapers around Ryan’s ankles. Catching her breath, she tore them away, then watched them scatter out into the street.

  The doll … with the red ribbon …

  “It was my fault,” Ryan whispered now, walking faster, head bent against the wind, “my fault that you’re dead, Marissa—”

  An earsplitting squeal made her look up in alarm—she saw the headlights only inches away and felt a crushing jolt as she spun backward and sprawled facedown onto the curb.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  Stunned, Ryan lay there on the pavement and gave in to the strong hands that took her shoulders and gently eased her over.

  “Are you hurt? Say something—can you talk?”

  As Ryan gazed up into the young man’s face, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Winchester Stone was staring down at her, silhouetted against the slate-gray twilight.

  “Can you hear me? Can you move?”

  At long last Ryan found her voice, though it came out little more than a croak. “I … I think so.”

  “Try, then. Move your arms.”

  Ryan gingerly did so, relieved when nothing seemed to be broken.

  “Now your legs.”

  Again she did as she was told. She could feel his arm beneath her shoulders, propping her up. His other hand moved to her right ankle, and then to her left, carefully testing for broken bones. Flustered, she struggled to sit up.

  “I’m fine. Really. I just need to get up now.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’m really okay. Just … surprised.”

  “Surprised.” As he echoed her words in his soft, slow voice, Ryan could see the fear on his face relaxing a little. “Surprised,” he said again. “You stepped out right in front of me—I didn’t even have time to honk the horn. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

  Ryan got clumsily to her feet, avoiding his eyes. He picked up her things and handed them to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve just had my mind on other things lately.”

  His glance was quick and curious. His eyes shifted back to the street.

  “Forget it,” he said quietly.

  “I’m … I’m Ryan McCauley,” she stammered.

  “I know.”

  “You do?” She bit her lip, embarrassed, and tried to be casual about brushing herself off.

  “I went out with your sister,” he said, and his eyes swung back to her again. “But I never saw you at your house.”

  Because Phoebe was right, I was always hiding upstairs.

  Ryan shrugged and tried to smile. “Well, I was—you know, around somewhere probably.”

  Without warning Winchester turned back to his truck, but stopped after only a few steps. He kept his back to her, one hand resting on his hip.

  “I’m sorry about her,” he said.

  Ryan stared at his tall, lean frame, his thick black mane of hair hanging just below the collar of his denim jacket.

  “You helped look for her. I never thanked you.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I guess … you haven’t heard anything,” he said at last. He sounded uncomfortable, and Ryan shook her head, forgetting that he couldn’t see her.

  “They still haven’t found her body. They told us they might never find her.… I hate to think that.”

  “It’s the river,” he said quietly. “The current’s so strong …” He turned around and looked at her, but his face was in shadow. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

  “I’m going home,” she said, then added quickly, “but really, I’m used to the walk.”

  “It’s dark. That’s a pretty long way to go.” He moved to his truck and opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

  She felt that curious flutteri
ng in her chest again and glanced back in the direction of the toyshop. Maybe I only thought the doll was in the pond … like when I blank out at school and then realize half the class is over.…

  “—the door?”

  “What?” Ryan’s mind snapped back, and she saw Winchester staring in her window.

  “I need to close your door.”

  “Oh, yes—yes—sorry.”

  She watched as he slammed the door and climbed in the other side. The pickup was old and battered, and it was all she could manage, not to bounce off the seat at every bump. She tried to study Winchester from the corner of her eye and sensed great calm and strength behind his handsome features. When he suddenly turned off the main road to her house, she realized that somehow she’d missed the whole trip.

  “Well … thanks a lot.” Ryan pushed on the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. She pushed again. “I really appreciate the ride—” She was shaking the handle now, and nothing was happening, and he was just sitting there staring at her while she made a total fool of herself. “It really was nice of you—”

  “You have to unlock it,” Winchester said. To Ryan’s embarrassment, he reached across her, pulled up on the lock, and shoved the door open.

  “I-I—thanks,” Ryan murmured. She scrambled out and headed straight across the yard to the front door. As she reached the porch, she couldn’t resist one last backward glance. Winchester was leaning out his window watching her, and as she bolted inside, she heard the truck’s engine fading down the road.

  “Mom?” she called. “You home?”

  “Up here,” came the toneless answer, and Ryan’s heart sank. When she looked in Marissa’s room, Mrs. McCauley was sitting listlessly on the edge of the bed.

  “Come on, Mom,” Ryan coaxed. “Let’s go downstairs, and I’ll make hot chocolate.”

  “I missed her today,” Mrs. McCauley murmured. “Even more than usual.” When Ryan didn’t answer, she roused a little, her eyes searching for Marissa’s clock. “Are you home already? It must be late—”

  “No, I’m early.” Ryan peeled off her coat, relieved when her mother finally faced her.

  “Are you sick?”

  “Sort of. Not really.”

  Her mother nodded and turned away. “That’s so like you, Ryan. Can’t you decide? So different from your sister.…”

  Ryan sat down but couldn’t bring herself to touch her mother’s shoulder. “Maybe I’m trying to catch the flu. It’s going around school.”

  Mrs. McCauley held a thin hand to Ryan’s forehead. “No fever. Maybe you’re just tired. I’ve told you a hundred times, you shouldn’t stay up so late to study.”

  I stay up late because I can’t sleep, and when you see my grades, you’ll find out that all the studying hasn’t helped. “I know—let’s go out for dinner.”

  “I can’t, Ryan. Steve flies in tonight, and I promised to pick him up.”

  “God, Mom, he has his own boat, can’t he even afford a taxi?” The words were out before she could stop them, and her mother’s face grew even more remote. “I’m sorry.” Ryan reached for her mother’s arm … hesitated … drew her hand away. “That was a rotten thing to say.”

  “Yes, it was. Especially since Steve thinks so much of you.”

  “Well, anyway”—Ryan sighed—“I forgot Phoebe’s coming by later to study and—” She broke off, following her mother’s gaze to the windowsill, where a smiling photo of Marissa stared back. “Mom?”

  “When I’m in here,” Mrs. McCauley murmured, “it’s like it used to be. I can feel her … she’s alive.”

  Ryan’s eyes swept the room, and she suppressed a shiver. Nothing in the room had been changed or removed or rearranged since the day of Marissa’s death. Ryan didn’t like the strange feeling the room gave her. She only came in here when she had to drag her mother out into the world of the living.

  “Just like today,” her mother went on. “Like today when I just started missing her so much, I thought I couldn’t bear it. I thought, my beautiful daughter is dead, and the pain is more than I can stand—”

  “Mom … please …” You still have me … doesn’t that help … even a little?

  Her mother’s eyes swung reluctantly back to Ryan’s face, and an ironic smile quivered at the corners of her mouth. “I know I’m being silly. Everyone’s told me it’s impossible she could have survived. Maybe … with the spring thaw—”

  “Mom—”

  “It’s just that I keep thinking of her, lost out there somewhere, and all alone, and wondering why we haven’t found her and brought her home.…”

  Ryan was shaking. She made it to the hallway and stood there looking back.

  “I know I’m being morbid,” Mrs. McCauley went on, her voice breaking, the tears coming, yet still she stared at Marissa’s photograph, still her eyes never moved. “Morbid and completely illogical, but maybe she really did survive somehow, maybe she’s sick somewhere and confused and someone’s taking care of her and she can’t remember who she is or what happened. Maybe it’ll suddenly come back to her, and we’ll hear a knock at the door and—”

  The doorbell pealed through the silent house, and Ryan jumped as her mother turned frightened eyes toward the hall.

  “It’s probably Phoebe.” Ryan backed gratefully toward the stairs. “Mom? Did you hear me? I’m going now.”

  Hurrying down, Ryan breathed deeply, trying to rid herself of the stale stench of Marissa’s room. The porch light was on, and through the frosted glass at the top of the door, she could make out an indistinct form, someone standing there, head lowered.

  “Phoebe, you silly,” Ryan scolded, jerking open the door. “What’d you do, forget your key again—”

  But it wasn’t Phoebe standing there on the porch, arms heaped with gaily wrapped packages. As Ryan stared, the young man looked up, his wide, full mouth relaxing in a polite smile, the presents shifting slightly as he stepped forward.

  “Is this the McCauley residence?”

  “Yes,” Ryan mumbled. In the glow of the light she saw dark blond hair brushed back from a high forehead, and narrowed blue eyes that swept over her without so much as a blink.

  “I’m delivering these presents. From Marissa.”

  Ryan knew she was staring, but she couldn’t help it. In the sudden quiet her voice sounded unnaturally loud. “From … I’m afraid there must be a mistake—”

  “No mistake,” he interrupted, stepping closer, the smile fixed on his lips. “I know Marissa’s dead.”

  “You … then …”

  “You must be Ryan,” he said, and in that instant she saw something flicker behind his eyes, something tighten in his smile.

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  He bent his head, his chin deep in the collar of his jacket. His voice sounded muffled, but Ryan could still hear each word.

  “You’re the one who let her drown.”

  Chapter 3

  Ryan had a strange feeling of being suspended in time. She saw the smile on the stranger’s face, and she heard footsteps descending the stairs behind her, but she couldn’t seem to make herself move or speak.

  “Ryan?” It was her mother’s voice, fearful, on the staircase, and as Ryan mentally shook herself, her mother spoke again. “It isn’t Marissa, is it? Tell me it’s—”

  “Charles Eastman.” The young man peered around Ryan, his smile open and friendly as Mrs. McCauley hovered at Ryan’s back.

  For a moment Mrs. McCauley looked as confused as Ryan felt. “I’m … I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “I was a friend of Marissa’s,” he said quietly. “A very good friend.”

  “Marissa?” Mrs. McCauley echoed, and the longing in her voice stirred Ryan at last. “You knew Marissa?”

  “We had classes together. We’d been going out awhile.”

  “Charles … Charles …” Ryan could see her mother struggling to think back, to place him somewhere in Marissa’s interrupted life. “I’m sorry, I …”

  “Y
ou mean Marissa never mentioned me?” He chuckled. “Isn’t that just like her—with her string of boyfriends, I’m not surprised. But that’s okay.” He smiled understandingly. “There’s no reason you should know me. Actually, I’ve been wanting to come and see you for a long time—ever since I heard about …” His voice trailed away, and his face went serious. “Well, I was cleaning out some stuff last week, and I found these.” He held the packages out and took a step closer. “We used to go antique hunting together, and I guess some of her things got mixed up with mine. I knew she meant to give these to you for Christmas.” His voice softened, his eyes suddenly sad. “Anyway, I wrapped them and decided to bring them myself. I know it’s what she would have wanted.”

  Throughout his whole speech, Ryan had been watching, listening, feeling as if she were invisible. “You’re the one who let her drown.” He had said that, hadn’t he, as she’d stood there holding the door? Yet the charming young man before her now couldn’t have said those horrible words—and through a slowly clearing fog, Ryan heard her mother’s voice taking control at last.

  “Come in, Charles, come in—Ryan, don’t leave him freezing out there on the porch! Close the door.”

  Ryan felt him move past her into the hall. She closed the door and watched as her mother led Charles into the living room and gestured to a chair.

  “Ryan, take the packages and his coat. You can stay for a while, can’t you, Charles? Wouldn’t you like something hot to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

  “Coffee’d be great, but only if it’s already made.” He smiled at Ryan and draped his coat across her arm. She hadn’t remembered following them into the room.

  I’m scaring myself. First I was seeing things that weren’t there … and now I’m hearing things that nobody said.…

  “Ryan!” Mom’s voice, firm. “The coffee?”

  She felt herself nod and was glad to escape to the kitchen, glad to be doing something she didn’t have to think about. Pot … filter … coffee … Her hands moved slowly, but her mind was racing. “You’re the one who let her drown.”

  He didn’t really say that. He couldn’t have.

  Ryan slipped back to the hallway, positioning herself so she could watch Charles without being seen. He was sitting forward in his chair, hands clasped together on his knees, his expression intense as if determined not to miss anything her mother might say. From time to time he slowly flexed his fingers, reminding Ryan of a contented cat. She moved closer, propping herself in the doorway, and was surprised when Charles turned and gave her a winning smile.