Right now I don’t want to think of anything but science, where the formulas make sense and I can predict the result of an experiment. I might be wrong, but the process is never painful. Unlike encounters with Nathan.
Unlike visions from Morgan, her mother’s secrets, Creepy Jack, and the fact that my family is in mourning.
At this point, I need a pause.
I don’t care anymore if my sudden change in behavior sets off alarm bells. Genetically speaking, it is indisputable that I’m Morgan Frost, and as little time as Mr. Frost spends with his daughter, both before and after the shift, I doubt he could say if her interest in art and fashion was a fad or not. Plus, that’s kind of the deal with growing up, isn’t it?
I remember how desperately Morgan wanted to be an actress when she was thirteen, and nobody doubted she had the looks, but then she realized celebrities lose their privacy … and she switched gears. Morgan never explained herself to anyone, not even me. It’s ludicrous to imagine she’d clarify any sudden changes. I can picture her icy, incredulous look, one brow arched. Now that I know how much pain her composure covered, I wish she had confided in me; her secrets were of the dark and destructive variety.
From here on out, I’ll try to finish what she started while shaping her life to fit. That firmly in mind, I head out after school determined to find out whatever Mrs. Rhodes knows about Morgan’s mom and Creepy Jack. It’s no surprise to find the housekeeper polishing the floors—that’s her job, after all—but when she spots me, she tries to retreat.
“You’re home early. I’ll make you a snack.”
“I’d rather chat,” I say.
Her face pales. “About what?”
I don’t have the patience to be gentle, so I lead with, “How do you think my dad would feel if he found out about our bonus program?”
She stumbles back a step, catching herself on the wall, but then she tries to bluff. “You wouldn’t. If you tell him, you lose your precious freedom.” From the way she spits the word “precious,” I can tell she hates covering for Morgan and despises herself for the necessity.
My indifference is real. “I won’t be living at home that much longer.”
“What do you want?” she demands.
“Information. First, tell me everything you know about my mother and Jack Patterson. And then I want to hear about my father’s girlfriend.”
“Is that all?” Her expression tells me she expected something worse.
“It’s not enough?”
“Come on.” She props her mop against the wall and beckons me toward the kitchen. “I’ll make tea while we talk.”
“Sounds good.”
Ten minutes later I’m sitting across from Mrs. Rhodes, who looks more tired than anything else. She stirs her drink exactly six times and then sets her spoon on the saucer. “I suppose you already know that Mr. Patterson is your mother’s ex?”
I nod. “That’s not news, I found some mementos after she died.”
“What you probably don’t know is that…” She hesitates, twin pleats forming between her brows. I can see that she’s conflicted about sharing this. “Your mom and dad … things were rocky just before she passed. He’s said some things when he was drinking I’m sure I wasn’t meant to hear.”
“So…?”
“From what your father let slip, your mother was … seeing Mr. Patterson when she died.”
The air gusts from my lungs in what feels like an asthma attack, except that’s not a problem Morgan has. “What?”
At my expression she adds, “I don’t know what he meant, exactly. That night, he wasn’t what I’d call coherent.”
“Why?”
“It was five years ago, the anniversary of your mother’s death. I got the impression your father blames himself. If he’d paid more attention, spent more time with her, the accident wouldn’t have happened.”
Wow. This is a lot to process. Does this mean Morgan’s mother was having an affair with Creepy Jack? That possibility sends a hot rush of bile to the back of my throat. It’s like Morgan and her mom are interchangeable to that pervert.
“Did he know she was pregnant?” The question slips out before I can stop it, and judging by how Mrs. Rhodes reacts, she had no idea.
“Are they still gossiping about her?” She makes a tsking sound. “Whatever your mama may have done, there are some that should really learn to shut their mouths.”
I shake my head. Now that I’ve gone this far, I might as well tell her the rest. We’re already conspirators of a sort. “Hardly. Anytime the extended family is here, they stop talking about her whenever I come into the room. But among her things I found an ultrasound picture.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t from when she was pregnant with you?” The housekeeper sounds gentle, one of the few moments of peace I’ve had in this big, lonely house.
“Definitely not. It was dated six weeks before she died.”
Mrs. Rhodes reaches for my hands and cups her rough ones over them, her gaze steady and concerned. “Morgan, nothing good will come from churning up the past. As far as I know, she never told your daddy, and if he found out now, wouldn’t that just be something else for him to regret and … to question?”
The unspoken implication is clear. Mrs. Rhodes is wondering just like I am: Who did that baby belong to? I get the chills when I realize—depending on the answer, it changes the picture entirely. Would Jack Patterson murder his unborn child? And if Randall Frost found out his wife was cheating on him, what might he have done about it?
“I think someone killed her,” I whisper. “How can I ignore that feeling?”
It’s the first time I’ve said that out loud to anyone, but Mrs. Rhodes doesn’t speak the immediate denial that I’m half expecting. Instead she lets out a slow breath and stares up at the ceiling. For a few seconds she drums on the table with her fingertips and when she meets my gaze again, she seems to have come to some fresh resolution.
“I won’t lie, there was talk. But your father shut it all down.”
“Because he didn’t want to encourage the whispers of suicide.” At least that’s what Morgan always said, the few times she mentioned her mother at all.
But I don’t have the same emotional bond with Randall Frost. It’s easier for me to make the leap and entertain the notion that he may have used money and power to cover up a crime of passion. Of course, it’s equally plausible that Creepy Jack did, too.
“Probably,” she says, visibly relieved.
Yeah, I wouldn’t want to chat with my boss’s kid about his potential motive for murdering his unfaithful wife either, and she doesn’t know if she can trust me with this information. For all she knows I’m milking her for gossip and then I’ll run to Mr. Frost, saying just enough to get her fired.
It’s unlikely that she knows more than this, though I’d give a lot to know exactly what she overheard five years ago. I can’t picture Mr. Frost raving with drunken regret, but as I’ve learned the hard way, everyone has secrets that should never see the light of day. The main question is, how bad are Randall Frost’s? But now’s not the time to press.
I force my features into a friendly expression. “Next item on the agenda. What do you know about my dad’s girlfriend? Have you met her?”
She shakes her head quickly. “I just heard him making plans with her … oh, it must be ten months back. It’s not like he confides in me. But every now and then I catch his half of a conversation and it’s not hard to put the pieces together.”
“Oh. So you don’t know more than the fact that he’s seeing someone at Frost Tech?”
“Basically. She works in sales. That’s all I know.”
“Hm. Maybe I should visit my dad at work and check the situation out.”
Mrs. Rhodes smiles, clearly relieved that the worst has passed. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He’s always saying he wishes you were more interested in the company.”
“Good to know.” I sip a little more of my tea and then push to my feet. “Thanks for the chat. Sorry if I came on strong in the beginning. It’s just frustrating, not being able to talk about my mother. I … miss her.” Since my mother is alive and well, three miles down the road, the hitch in my voice is pure theater.
But it has the desired effect. The housekeeper’s eyes widen, as if she’s just thought of something. “Your mother’s best friend lives in New York. She didn’t come for the funeral, but she sent a lovely arrangement. I still remember the lilies … and oh, I packed away all the cards. I can probably find her address for you.”
“Thank you. I’d love to get in touch with her, maybe hear some stories about what my mom was like in college, stuff my dad would never tell me.”
Mrs. Rhodes hurries off and within five minutes, she hands me a white greeting card envelope, gone faintly yellow with age. But I can still make out the return address. Ten years is a long time, so maybe this won’t help at all.
Or maybe it’s the key that unlocks everything.