Every Secret Thing

If only Ro

Besides, nothing, not even Helen’s private sympathy, could change the central fact of who Ro

She was getting woozy, and her hair was trailing in the water again, but she no longer cared. Bit by bit, her upper body followed the strands of her hair. Her bath took on a pinkish hue, as if she had been using rose-scented oils. Ro

She didn’t.

Thursday, October 8

37.

“The date is wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

“The date. It’s wrong.”

“I think I know the day my daughter was born-October 8. Today. It’s why I’m here. Today is my daughter’s birthday.”

“No, the day she…the day that…the second date. July 17. That was the day she disappeared. But not-well, it’s not exactly right.”

Cynthia Barnes followed Nancy Porter’s tentative finger: July 17, seven years ago. The girl was right. How could such a mistake have been made? She and Warren had brought so much care to the task of burying their daughter. This, after all, would be the only ritual they would plan for her. There had been seemingly endless decisions-picking out a headstone, pla

So how had this oversight happened? Was Olivia dead to her parents from the moment she disappeared? Had Cynthia and Warren lost hope, and in doing so, lost their daughter? Cynthia was still not beyond such bouts of self-recrimination.

Which meant, she understood now, that she never would be, that she didn’t really want to be. Forget and forgive, the old adages advised, although most people switched the order, put the forgiveness cart before the forgetting horse. But if you were determined not to forget something, to remember a deed in all its stark horror, then you would have to be a saint to forgive it. Cynthia had never aspired to sainthood.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Nancy said. “It’s just that, well, I can’t help remembering the date.”

You remember for you, Cynthia thought, because it was central to your life. But she no longer availed herself of the privilege of saying whatever she wished. She might not be a saint, but she also wasn’t Sharon Kerpelman, thank God.

“I choose to remember this day.”

“That’s probably for the best,” the detective said, missing Cynthia’s tone. She missed a lot of nuances, this girl. “I was touched you agreed to share this visit with me this year.”

Actually, Cynthia had done no such thing. She had mentioned her plans in the context of an excuse, a reason not to meet with Nancy at all. Again, a more intuitive person would have picked up on the insincerity of the invitation and turned it down.

“You have done a lot for our family, I suppose. I know my daughter is safe, that those girls were not trying to harm her or get to us. And I needed to know that for my peace of mind.”

Nancy nodded. “I can see that. I also can see you usually get what you need, one way or another. Don’t you, Mrs. Barnes?”

Perhaps the girl understood more than she let on.

“What are you trying to suggest, Ms. Porter?” Cynthia never called the young woman anything as formal as “detective.” It wasn’t a real title, like her father’s, or something a person earned with a degree.

“Nothing, nothing at all. I’ve just been thinking about the fact that what appeared to be a coincidence-the missing girl’s resemblance to your daughter-turned out to be anything but.”

“That wasn’t my fault.” Said sharply, swiftly, with the defensiveness of a child. “Helen Ma

“True,” Nancy said. “I don’t think Helen Ma

“It was a good thing I called, if you think about it.”

“Oh, you’re very good with a telephone.”

There was nothing to say to that.

“Let’s see-” Nancy began ticking off a list on the fingers of her left hand. “You called my sergeant and then you called me, even though I wasn’t even the primary on the case. I figure you called the reporter, too, got her stirred up. Because you didn’t really care if we found the missing child. You just wanted to make sure that everyone knew who Alice and Ro

Cynthia shrugged, as if the matter was of such insignificance that it didn’t merit comment.

“You even called me.”

“So you said.”

“No, I mean earlier. Those messages on my cell phone, right after Alice was released-those were your handiwork, right?”

“How would I even know your cell phone number?”

“I don’t know. I do know my mom got a call last spring, from a woman organizing a class reunion for Kenwood High School. Potrcurzski, now that’s a name you can find in a phone book-and it’s the name you knew me by, back in the day. My mom gave the caller my cell and my home phone, but I never did get that invite.”

“I was right. In the end, I was right.”

“Half right,” Nancy said, in a bone-dry tone that Cynthia had to admire.

“I’m really sorry about Ro

Still, Ro

“If you ask me, what’s galling is that the other girl’s not even in that much trouble. But the justice system is imperfect. Or so they kept telling me, when it failed me.”

“Alice was in a good position to make a deal,” Nancy said on a sigh. “Her accomplice is gone, probably out of the country, so he becomes the perfect fall guy. All of a sudden, this guy she was touting as the love of her life is a predator who raped her in the tool shed while she was supposed to be gardening. I can’t criticize the state’s attorney for not wanting to take it before a jury. A jury might have acquitted. At least she’s on probation this way.”