Blood Runs Cold

55

Ren sat on her bed with a bottle of water beside her. The sun was slowly warming her room. Someone knocked on her door. Quick, relentless knocking – her favorite.

It was the maid. ‘Excuse me? Can I clean your room?’

Shit. Ren checked her watch. It was nine a.m. What? She had slept twice that night, an hour each time. She looked around the room. There were towels draped on the side of the bath, coffee mugs on every surface, chocolate wrappers, empty and half-empty chip bags, shorts, tops, shoes. Please clean my room. Then she looked at the bed and its cute patchwork of crime scene and autopsy photographs.

‘No thank you,’ said Ren. ‘Maybe, if you left a tray for me outside and maybe a cloth and some cleaning supplies …’ I would be miserable.

‘Maybe when I finish the rest of the house.’

Ren stood up and escorted herself into the shower. When she was finished and dressed, she went to tidy the pages on the bed. In the back of one of the files was the work photo of Jean Transom. Little Amber Transom had touches of her aunt in her features. Ren pulled out another photo of Jean – the one Gressett had given her. It was a long shot of Jean at a summer party, half-turned to the camera, laughing and holding a red Frisbee by her side. When she smiled, all you could see was dark, straight, long lashes. Ren stopped. Oh my God. She grabbed the photo of Amber and the photo of Jean and looked back and forth between them. Oh my God.

The drive felt epic. No speed was fast enough. Ren called Gary to let him know what she had discovered and where she was going. If she was taking definitive action on something. Gary needed blocks of complete information – a thoroughly considered theory that explained why she was doing what she was doing. You could theorize with Gary, but if the pieces weren’t all in place, you did not act on it until you knew more. It made Ren be a better agent. And it drove her nuts.

She was reeling from a wave of hits about Jean’s life. Jean had been murdered and the life she had kept so secret was going to have to be exposed. Ren wished it could be another way.

She pulled up outside the small stuccoed house where Caroline Quaintance lived and walked up the path to the front door.

‘Caroline,’ said Ren, ‘it’s Ren Bryce again.’

There was movement behind the stained glass of the door, but no response.

‘Please let me in,’ said Ren.

Caroline Quaintance opened the door and looked like she was about to try a smile. Ren was looking at her from a new angle. And Caroline knew it.

‘I’m guessing you know why I’m here,’ said Ren.

‘I have no idea,’ said Caroline.

‘Right, OK,’ said Ren. ‘Well, I’m going to have to just say it. I know you are Jean Transom’s daughter.’

Caroline turned away from Ren, but pushed the door open wider behind her as she walked into the living room. Ren followed her.

‘I haven’t known long.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren.

‘How did you know?’

‘The pathologist discovered Jean had given birth. And when I looked at photos of Jean, when she was relaxed and off-duty, there was something about you and her that connected. Then, when I met her niece, Amber, it was amazing how all three of you have similar expressions.’

‘I read that you found her body,’ said Caroline. ‘I don’t know how to feel.’ She sat slowly into the corner of the sofa.

Suddenly the young woman started crying with an extraordinary, complex grief. Ren stood rigid, holding her breath, fascinated by the intensity of her emotion.

‘I just don’t know,’ said Caroline eventually. ‘She was my mother. It even sounds weird. I didn’t know her. But I liked her. We had a connection. But can I say I loved her?’ She shrugged. ‘Why do I feel I love her, then? I don’t get it.’

Ren put a tentative hand on Caroline’s arm. ‘She was your mother, that’s why. She’s family. And whatever you feel is what you feel – you can’t argue with that.’

‘But you read about people in magazines and they have no feelings for their biological family. They feel nothing. Or they hate them. Or they’re angry.’

‘Everyone reacts differently,’ said Ren.

‘I’m sorry, but I wish I was more like them now. I wish I felt nothing at all. Because this is way too hard. I’ve readjusted my whole life to fit Jean into it. And I had the extra pressure of having to hide it, because of her job and well, I don’t really know what else. I mean – would you get fired for that? I wouldn’t have thought so. And now what do I do?’

‘I know how heartbreaking this is,’ said Ren, ‘but you can feel proud of what you overcame and for how open you were to having a relationship with her.’

Caroline looked at her. ‘Thank you. Thanks.’

‘Can I ask?’ said Ren. ‘What did she tell you about your father?’ Because whatever it was, it was bound to be a lie.

‘Just that he was a football god in high school … she was this pretty blonde …’

Don’t say cheerleader.

‘… cheerleader,’ Caroline finished.

‘Did you ever think of tracing him?’ said Ren.

Caroline shook her head. ‘I thought – well, he didn’t treat her well. And I don’t want to meet a man who treated my mother badly. Based on what I’ve heard about him abandoning us, I feel that I got most of my personality from her, anyway. So I didn’t think I needed to connect any dots, if you know what I mean.’

Ren nodded.

‘Yes …’ said Caroline.

Jean Transom had told her daughter a trite story of young, beautiful love, even if it had ended badly. Everyone wants to be born of two parents who were in love. It’s an easy story to throw out and an easy one for an abandoned child to swallow.

The only truth you have about your parents, Caroline Quaintance, is that your father did treat your mother badly. A twelve-year-old mother could only ever have been treated badly.

* * *

Ren pulled into the church car park opposite the Firelight Inn and turned off the engine. She sat still, gripping the wheel. Jean’s body has been found. I have no excuse. But it was not a negative. She had hope.

From behind her and to the right, she heard angry footsteps, then they stopped. A man’s voice rose up over the sound of something or someone slamming against a truck or car.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, going to Mountain Sports?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t “what” me … Are you out of your mind?’

‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about … but you can stop right there.’

A younger voice and an older voice. She recognized the older voice – Malcolm Wardwell.

‘Honestly, my ass,’ said Malcolm. ‘You know damn well what I’m talking about. That’s why you want me to stop!’

‘This conclusion? You’ve jumped high and wide.’

‘Have I? Really?’ said Malcolm. ‘Have I? I don’t think so … you ungrateful … piece of shit.’

‘Your only son is a piece of shit now?’

Malcolm let rip. ‘What the hell have I done to you? You are a spoilt, ungrateful, terrible, terrible child.’

As the anger exploded and she knew they had been sucked into their own private world, Ren slowly sat up and turned to watch. She saw it was Malcolm Wardwell’s son.

‘Child?’ he said, stepping forward, laughing.

Malcolm slapped him across the face. His son held his cheek, his eyes wounded and angry. ‘I asked you for nothing,’ he hissed. ‘Ever! Stay out of my business, Dad. Like I want to stay out of yours. Funny how I seem to have made a pact with the devil without being there to sign the papers.’

‘Oh, you sure did make a pact with the devil …’ said Malcolm.

‘For crying out loud, get me the sackcloth, ashes, let me walk around town ringing a bell, let me –’

‘You … disgust me.’ Malcolm Wardwell’s voice was so pained and sincere, his son stopped, mouth open. He looked surprised himself at the tears that flowed. Malcolm Wardwell hesitated, then walked toward him, taking his son in his arms.