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  Chapter 44

  Mackenzie

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  My hands trembled as I held the letter postmarked from the Allegheny County Jail. It was from Susan Faust, the woman who had murdered my husband – at least before I had attempted to. We had that in common, I guess.

  I opened the envelope and unfolded the white college-ruled paper covered in hasty scribble:

  Dear Mackenzie Fischer,

  I can’t say I’m sorry for what I did, because that would be a lie. We both lost people we loved, but when you think about it, we all got what we deserved. Your husband was a killer, my son was a rapist, I was a thief and an addict and a negligent mother. Karma’s a bitch, huh?

  The only victim here is you. And for that, I’m sorry. I’m sorry to have made you a widow and made your daughter fatherless. But it was never Owen’s call to play judge, jury, and executioner with my son. And it wasn’t my call to do the same with Owen. But we did what we did because at the time we thought it was righting a wrong of some sort, even through the act of committing wrongs ourselves.

  I always thought I was a victim too. Addict boyfriend who pulled me down. Never able to get clean or on my feet. Always lingering on the outside of my own life, unable to step in fully. But don’t be a victim. Be a victor. I took from you when I shouldn’t have. But as the trial will be coming up, and I know I’m going to have to look into you and your daughter’s faces, see the pain in your eyes, I want you to know why I did what I did. They’ll spin things the way they want them spun, but I want you to hear my truth.

  You might think you know what motivated me. Avenge my son and all that. But it wasn’t just about vengeance. Your husband took a life, just like my son took a woman’s soul. They can’t hide who they truly are – the worst kind of thieves. When I got sober almost a year ago, the first thing I did was go looking for my son. I hadn’t seen or spoken with him in over twenty years. Why? Because all I cared about was my high. My son stole that from me every time he’d flush my drugs down the drain, so I threw him out. Mom of the Year, right?

  I looked for him because I wanted to show him I changed, that I was back for good – clean and sober. Word got around that I was searching for my son. I found him – well, a stranger living in his shoes. He told me my son was dead, and that if I kept our conversation a secret, he’d point me to the man who took my son’s life.

  That led me to Owen. And it led me to you.

  When I first confronted your husband that night you saw me, he told me to leave, told me my baby was a rapist piece of garbage. To find out that the son you bore became the thing you hate, well, it hurt. Bad. And to find out someone else took away my only chance at redemption, well, you obviously now know how I felt about it.

  I came back full of vengeance that night you left. If I’d known your daughter was still home I probably wouldn’t have done it. But I thought Owen was home alone. Even more convenient that he had been drinking, left the open bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter. So I broke in – I’ve become adept at it over the years – gave him enough cocaine to kill him, and left feeling avenged.

  Now all I feel is emptiness.

  May my son and your husband rest in peace. It’s the only thing I can hope for such damaged individuals who obviously suffered in their lifetime to become the monsters they did – a monster I’ve now hosted. Maybe that monster lives in you too. Kill it while you still can.

  Susan Faust

  DOC 9852435

  I folded the letter back up and slipped it into the envelope. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, whether I was even legally allowed to write back with the trial coming up. But I figured from one mother to another, from one hurting heart to another, I would reach out after the trial. Maybe write her a letter, visit her in person, show her what forgiveness looks like. I’d let the idea marinate and see where it took me when the time was right.

  In the meantime, the question of my culpability continued to haunt me. Shortly after Susan Faust was implicated in Owen’s death, I had Googled can you murder someone who is already dead? The search led me to numerous references to ‘impossible crime’ – a legal term I’d never heard of – defined in legalese a layperson like me couldn’t decipher: It shall not be a defense … something about misapprehension of the circumstances … yada yada …. impossible for the accused to commit the crime attempted.

  What the heck did I read? With further digging, I stumbled across an article on one site that gave an account chillingly similar to my personal circumstances:

  After making sure he’s in a deep sleep, a woman stabs her husband multiple times to ensure he is dead. But unbeknownst to the wife, her husband suffered a massive heart attack after going to bed before she stabbed him, and thus he was already dead. Therefore, it is impossible for the wife to have killed her husband. However, the wife could still be charged with attempted murder, because she acted upon the presumption he was alive. There was an attempt to commit murder. The impossibility of ‘killing’ a dead person would be indefensible in court.

  So there it was, in black and white. I tried to rationalize the situation. Most people, knowing all the circumstances, would agree Owen ‘deserved’ to die, for being an emotionally and sexually abusive husband, and for murdering Geoffrey Faust. Yes, Susan Faust and I each had very good reasons for killing Owen. Susan had just beaten me to it, and now she was looking at life in prison. And I had gotten off scot-free.

  Was I a horrible person for letting Susan Faust take the rap? Should I turn myself in? If I did, what earthly good would it do anybody? It would destroy Aria’s life. The kid had suffered enough. And so had I.

  The more I thought about it, the harder it was to wrap my mind around it. I knew if I didn’t get help, I’d go out of my mind.

  I came from a long line of Southern Baptists. Growing up, the church had been an important part of my life, and I had often relied on my faith to sustain me in times of trouble. Over the years I had backslid, as Mamma and Daddy would say. I couldn’t remember the last time I had attended church. In his arrogance Owen had denounced religion in general – and Southern Baptists in particular – as a crutch for the stupid and the weak.

  Maybe I was weak, but weren’t we all at one point or another?

  I found the Bible my parents had given me following my baptism when I was ten years old, tucked away in a box of childhood mementos, dusty and forgotten. Settling into a comfortable chair, I said a prayer to God, and started reading at the beginning.

  Aria’s footsteps descended the stairwell, and I glanced over at her. So much had happened in the last three weeks that I wasn’t sure how she was even still standing. Everything with Ryan, her father’s death, and then the big decision on what to do about Ryan. In the end she chose not to press charges, although I’ll never understand why. Part of me wanted her to take up the fight, but she admitted that she loved Ryan and part of her had wanted that night to happen. In the end, it was a big enough part to accept what they did together.

  My first thought turned to Owen – what he had done to me for years, which I endured simply because I loved him with a damnable loyalty. It was a stupid emotional form of logic, freedom to keep hurting me because his love was bigger than the bruises. He saw past my disfigured face and still wanted me, and back then that was enough. What a fool I was.

  We’re trained from an early age to value beauty. ‘What a handsome little boy,’ we say. Or ‘What a pretty little princess.’ So we grow up believing that if we’re not beautiful enough, we won’t be loved. Then someone comes along and loves you anyway, and you make him God over you. Even when he is in fact the devil.

  Over time, abuse eats away at logic and love, and all that remains is an empty bitterness. I didn’t want that for Aria, but if I had learned anything, it was that one should never take away or take on the voice of others. It was Aria’s right to decide what she wanted to do, and for her it was easier to move on this way. Her experience was hers; mine was mine. I’d support whatever she
decided, because she had earned that choice. My young daughter had more courage than I ever had, and I’d watched it blossom over the past two weeks along with the crab apple tree out front. In a single spring my daughter had grown up.

  At my feet Lily’s cat Stormy wound around my legs, meowing for attention. Lily rarely cried, but parting with her beloved kitty had brought on the tears. I vowed to give him the love he deserved and told her to visit him anytime. By him I meant me. God, I would miss her.

  ‘Want some coffee, honey?’

  Aria had decided she was adult enough to start drinking coffee, and lately we’d bonded over the variety of creamer choices. Her favorite was peppermint mocha; mine was coconut cream.

  ‘I’ll give you the rest of the creamer,’ I said with a lilt of temptation as I shook the near-empty creamer bottle.

  She held something out to me – a folded card. There it was, plain as the blue words against a white backdrop:

  To the beautiful Aria Fischer,

  Will you be my date to prom?

  Yours truly, Ryan

  ‘He’s asked you to his prom?’ The question came out more as an excited yelp. Aria jumped back. I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’d really like to go with him.’ She searched my face for a reaction. ‘Are you angry?’

  ‘Angry? Of course not, honey. If you care about him and he cares about you, why not go? Just no drinking this time.’

  ‘Mom!’ Aria chided. ‘I’m a little scared, to be honest. I’ll be the only sophomore there. What if he leaves me to hang out with his friends?’

  I pulled her into my arms, hugging her tightly and planting kisses on her head. Any other parent might have told her what to do, but I learned that character was built one choice at a time.

  ‘You can’t control other people’s actions, but you can control your reaction. Decide to have fun no matter what. And I do know one thing – only an idiot would leave a girl as beautiful as you alone at prom.’

  Aria pulled away just enough to look up at me and smiled. ‘I never really thanked you, Mom.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For giving me my voice back.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, Aria, you’ve always had your voice. You’re just now learning how to use it. And so am I.’

  I had learned a lot in the past few days. For a long time I had lived in the company of demons – demons of my own making. Owen’s death wasn’t the answer. The answer had always been buried under the lies I sold myself – that I wasn’t good enough, pretty enough … or enough. Embracing who I was and who I wanted to be, that was the answer. Loving myself enough to fight for myself. I wish I would have learned it sooner, but it wasn’t too late. It was never too late.

  Robin and Lily had always seen my worth; if only I would have too, maybe Owen would still be alive. Maybe, maybe, maybe. I didn’t live in a world of maybes, but I did live in a world of endless possibilities that started with today.

  Epilogue

  One year later

  BODY OF ACCUSED RAPIST FOUND

  May 12

  Beaver County, Pennsylvania

  The body of Geoffrey Faust, the suspect in a string of college rapes in the early 2000s, was found in an abandoned park in Beaver Falls on Monday morning when police acted upon a tip about the location of the body. In the murder conviction of Susan Faust in July last year, mother of the deceased, details were made public regarding the disappearance of her son. While no evidence had surfaced regarding Mr Faust’s whereabouts, Susan Faust alleged that Owen Fischer, 42, had been responsible for her son’s murder.

  After murdering Mr Fischer by method of cocaine overdose last May, Mrs Faust was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison. At that time, Mr Faust’s disappearance was still under investigation.

  The Beaver Falls Police Department recovered Mr Faust’s remains in a wooded area. The body was identified using dental records. The cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the chest.

  As a result of publicity surrounding Mrs Faust’s trial, three women have come forward with rape allegations against her late son, who recognized him from photographs.

  There was more in the Beaver County Times article Robin read online on the sofa in her downsized living room in a house half the size but full of twice the love, yet she stopped reading. This was Robin’s past, her ghost visiting her. No one felt his presence but her and the other girls he haunted. She had gotten the job at the Rape Crisis Center and fielded a call from one of Geoffrey Faust’s victims herself, encouraging her to go to the police. Ten years ago women had been ashamed to report their assaults for the usual reasons: self-blame, fear of being stigmatized, dread of having to testify in open court, reluctance to ruin the lives of their assailants, and so many other self-defeating reasons. But a new age was dawning. More women were realizing that in a rape, the only victim was the woman, never the man. Helping these women felt good. Damn good. Robin had found her mission in life.

  Grant swept into the living room carrying the mail, then dropped an envelope on Robin’s lap.

  ‘Something came for you,’ he said.

  She immediately recognized the significance of the thick white baronial envelope. She slit it open with her finger, and pulled out a lovely card framed in wildflowers.

  Liliana Maria Santoro and Luca Fontana joyfully invite you to celebrate their wedding …

  Jumping up from the sofa, she darted across the living room to the kitchen where her phone was charging. Ripping out the charger, she speed-dialed Mackenzie.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Mackenzie said before Robin had a chance to speak. ‘You got Lily’s wedding invitation too?’

  Robin huffed. ‘When did you get yours?’

  ‘Yesterday. Lily told me she was going to invite you. Are you going to go?’

  ‘To my best friend’s wedding? Of course. It’s been over a year since I’ve seen her and I still love the bitch.’ She chuckled. ‘So yeah, I’ll be there.’

  A wet cooing sound paused the conversation as the line rustled. ‘Sorry,’ Mac said. ‘Raina’s trying to eat the phone.’

  ‘And I bet you’re loving every slobbery minute of it, aren’t you?’

  Mackenzie laughed. ‘What can I say? Fostering suits me. Raina’s even inspired me to write another children’s book. Because the first one sold so well, my publisher wants to release a whole series.’

  ‘That’s great, Mac! You always were the creative one among us. I’m glad everything is working out with your writing – and with the baby. Getting any sleep?’

  ‘Nah, but sleeping’s overrated. Will you be up for a visit this week?’ Mackenzie asked. ‘Have ourselves a play date?’

  ‘Sounds great. Collette needs a distraction from the teething,’ Robin grumbled. ‘I didn’t expect to be dealing with this in my forties, but at least now I have you to go through it with me.’

  ‘Well, don’t get too down on yourself. I was thinking about you and me hitting Los Angeles and throwing Lily a proper bachelorette party.’

  Robin chuckled. ‘You, me, and Lily going wild in the City of Angels? What could possibly go wrong?’

  Oh, if only they knew …

  Acknowledgements

  Being a writer is like being a mother. You funnel all of your passion and energy into this beautiful little thing you created, then one day you let it go off into the world and you just pray it thrives without your constant hovering. Except if your books were your babies, they’d starve to death, because your real-life kids don’t give you a moment alone to write. Thus is the life of a writing mother.

  Much like being a mother, I can’t take all the credit. This book is about friendship—and friends are the roots of life. They keep us grounded, and I am lucky enough to have several of them to help me stay motivated when I wonder if I should put writing on pause until my kids are older. Emily Sutton, your voracious love of books—my books—inspired me from the very beginning when you read draft after draft, remind
ing me of my strengths and lifting me up from the mire of exhaustion. I’ll always thank Gwen Stefani for bringing us together all those years ago in high school. And every writer needs a sidekick to tell complete strangers about your books, because we writers are too shy to do it ourselves. Jessica Young, that’s you—the perfect sidekick who makes me feel like a celebrity. Love and Learn Daycare should put our faces on its brochure.

  The real dream-maker is my editor extraordinaire, Katie Loughnane. She saw my gift, my potential, and turned it into a career. Thank you for taking a chance on me, Katie, and for embracing my words. With every step, the fabulous editors at HarperCollins (Bethany, Tessa—sending you love and gratitude!) guided my characters and my story into something I’m proud of. May your red pens never grow weary. My editor at Proofed to Perfection Editing Services, Kevin, always gets first look at my work, so thank you for your witty comments and extensive edits that perfected my craft. You are God’s gift to editors.

  There are many behind-the-scenes staff at HarperCollins who carry the heavy load of design and publicity, and while I don’t know your faces, I know your handiwork and you’re each amazing. Thank you for creating art and beauty in this world—even when that beauty is a “murder book.”

  My family and friends are of course always at the top of the thank-you list as you support my writing, buy my books, spread social media love, and do so much more. Then there are the four that made me the Mental Mommy I tap into when creating characters—my beautiful kids. Talia, Kainen, Kiara, and Ariana, your enthusiasm for Mommy’s writing fills me up when I’m empty. Your insights on moms going crazy always give me a laugh, and I promise to pay for your therapy bills someday. Craig, the man who gives me writing retreats and forces me to take breaks so I don’t burn out, you’re the hero who rescued me. Thank you for reading each of my books when I know you’d rather read Stephen King, and for telling me I’m one of the greats and meaning it. Your faith in me is as endless as my love for you. Thank you for being the kind of husband I don’t want to murder (most of the time).