Sleep Tight

Chapter 36

Abigail Portman picked her way through the darkening woods. The weather had taken a warm turn the way it often did in early November, and much of yesterday's snow had melted. She'd read in the paper that the Can-trell girl had been found alive. That wasn't the news she wanted to hear. She'd wished she'd died, because it made her feel better to know other people were suffering, that other people's lives were as miserable as hers.

When she reached the memorial, she removed the dead roses and replaced them with a fresh bouquet. Then she straightened and stood in silence, staring at the white cross…

She and Fiona had fought the morning of her death.

That's what people always talked about after a loved one died. The trivial argument they'd had beforehand. Maybe an argument over a messy room, or milk that had been left out of the refrigerator.

In their case it had been about sex.

Abigail recalled the folded note she'd found that had fallen from Fiona's coat pocket. She'd pretended it was a list, or maybe something she herself had dropped. But she'd known it was Fiona's, and she'd been curious. Not in a sneaky way, but in an oh-what-fun way. A we-share-everything way.

Fiona won't mind. We're best friends.

She opened the note, fully expecting to find some light chatter from Mary Cantrell or someone else Fiona hung around with. Instead, it was a note from a boy-or a male anyway. The fact that it was written on lined paper and had been folded into a small square made her think it must have been someone from school, but that didn't really have to be the case.

It had been a shock to find that her daughter was a slut.

The note outlined every disgusting thing the person had done to her daughter, and outlined every disgusting thing Fiona had done back, wondering when they could meet again. The word fuck appeared again and again. Fuck. In a house that had never as much as allowed the word damn.

For a short time, Abigail's mind shut down, refusing to believe what she was reading. It was a joke. A stupid, sick game.

"What are you doing?"

The unfolded note, on wide-ruled paper torn from a spiral notebook, was still in Abigail's hand. Fiona stood in the doorway, dressed in a cute plaid skirt, kneesocks, and dark sweater. Her hair was shiny and straight, falling from a middle part. She looked so sweet and innocent that Abigail wanted to give her another chance. Maybe this was something this boy did to hurt good girls.

"Are you reading my note?"

Fiona crossed the room and snatched the paper from her mother, her face contorted with rage. "That's mine!"

There was no respect in a single cell of her body. Only rage. This wasn't her daughter. This was a stranger. A vicious, hateful stranger.

Where had the other girl gone? Abigail's daughter?

The girl she babied and worshiped and spoiled? The girl who got everything she wanted and more? Had she ever been there? Or was she someone Abigail had made up? Someone she'd created in her own mind, bestowing false traits on the person standing in front of her?

She thought about the mother and daughter day they'd shared a year ago. They'd gone out to eat at Cafe Noir on Hennepin. Over crepes, they'd had a timid discussion about boys and sex, with Abigail nervous but dead set on getting through the conversation. The subject had come up in the past, before Fiona had even started her period, and Abigail thought it would be good to have a refresher, this time going into things a little deeper. She knew Fiona wasn't having sex, and wanted to reassure her that a girl didn't need to have sex to be popular with the boys.

"I've gotten you something." She slid a small, wrapped box across the table.

Fiona unwrapped it, then opened the black velvet case inside.

"It's a promise ring," Abigail explained. "All the kids are getting them. It's a statement that lets people know you plan to remain a virgin until you marry."

Fiona smiled and slipped the ring on her wedding finger. At the time, the smile had seemed sincere, but now Abigail felt it had been a sly smile, a mocking smile.

"Thanks," Fiona said, examining the ring. "What a cute idea."

Now Abigail could see that the word cute had been issued in a mocking way too. Fiona had been making fun of her for years, and Abigail hadn't even known it.

Parents were blind. She'd often said so herself, but she'd been talking about other people. She'd ridiculed parents who didn't have a clue about their children, but she'd never thought she could be one of them. She and Fiona had a special bondv a special relationship. They could tell each other anything.

Their relationship had been a lie.

Fiona was wearing the ring now.

Had she laughed about it to the boy who'd vrtittetv the note?

"Why didn't you tell me you had a boyfriend?" Abigail asked.

"I'm going to be late for school."

"How long has this kind of thing been going on?"

"You don't really want to know. Just forget it. Forget all about it. This is my birthday, remember? My birthday."

Even though their district had a perfectly acceptable bus system, Abigail had always taken her daughter to school. She had to be the best mom she could be.

"I want to know. As soon as you tell me," Abigail said woodenly, "I'll take you."

"This note?" Fiona shook the wrinkled paper. "This note isn't from a boyfriend. I don't have a boyfriend. I don't want a boyfriend. This is from a guy who is dumb but good when it comes to fucking. There. Is that what you wanted to hear? Do you feel better now?"

Abigail was afraid she might throw up. Like a robot, she went to the kitchen and got a drink of water. Then she came back, put on her shoes, and drove Fiona to school.

"Don't forget Mary," Fiona said when Abigail flew past the Cantrell house.

She braked, backed up, and honked. Did Mary know? she wondered. Was Mary a friend of the bitch or the sweet girl?

Brown-haired Mary came running across the lawn and threw herself into the backseat, laughing and breathless. "I thought you guys were going to forget me! Happy birthday, Fiona!" She reached over the back of the front seat and tugged playfully at Fiona's hair. "Sixteen! Finally!" Mary herself was seventeen. She'd started school late.

Was this all an act, part of the charade?

Abigail blocked out their chatter, driving but unaware of turning corners or obeying traffic lights. She must have done okay, because nobody ridiculed her. She let the girls out near the front of the school.

"Bye, Mrs. Portman!" Mary said, giving her a wave as she ducked to see inside the car. "Thanks for the ride!" The girls spun away, latching arms, laughing, and falling into each other as they skipped up the wide walk.

Abigail wanted to go home and crawl into bed, pull the covers up over her head. Her husband was out of town, but it would do no good to talk to him. They had grown apart years ago. A man with no personality, he was the ghost who occasionally showed up at their home. Tonight, if he thought about it, he would call his daughter and wish her a happy birthday, saying he was sorry he couldn't be there. Now Abigail wondered if he'd ever really wanted to be there.

She wished she'd never read the note. She wished she'd picked it up and slipped it back into Fiona's pocket. And now, even though she had read it, she guessed that Fiona would be perfectly willing to continue as if this morning had never happened.

People did that all the time. That's how they got through their days. But no, Abigail thought with anguish. Not when things had been so perfect. She could never forget, never go back.

It was over. The life she'd known was over because her daughter was her life. She'd read dozens of child-rearing books, so adamant had she been about doing things right. In almost every one they'd warned against getting too wrapped up in your child. Don't give up an important goal for your child. Don't give up a dream job for your child. Don't give up a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Africa for your child.

She'd laughed about that, and she'd secretly looked down upon Blythe Cantrell, who was always busy with her pottery and her art friends and her causes. What kind of life is that for a child? When the mother is never there when her children get home from school?

Abigail's one and only goal had been to be a good mother.

Not a birthday had gone by without Abigail planning a lavish party. Today was no exception. She'd intended to bake a cake herself-she hated it when people didn't bake birthday cakes for their loved ones. What kind of message did that send? But she didn't think she could pull herself together enough to bake a cake. And in years past the message had meant nothing to Fiona, so she went to the grocery store and picked up a large white sheet cake.

Last year she'd decorated Fiona's cake with tiny records and a tiny record player even though she knew most kids didn't play records anymore. Fiona had hugged her and called it adorable. Had she really thought it stupid? Probably.

"Is this for a special occasion? Would you like anything written on it?" the man behind the counter asked.

"Happy Birthday, Fiona."

"Fiona. Great name. Is this for a kid? An adult? What color would you like the lettering?"

"It's for my daughter. She's sixteen today."

"Sixteen. Wow. I remember sixteen. That was a wonderful age."

"Yes," Abigail numbly agreed.

She took the cake home and spent the rest of the day decorating for the party when all the while it seemed she was preparing for a funeral.

She picked up Fiona and Mary after school, dropping Mary off at her house. "See you at the party!" Fiona shouted after her.

"What do you think of the cake?" Abigail asked once they were inside their own house.

Fiona shrugged. "From a store, huh?" She stuck her finger in the frosting, scooping off a glob to pop in her mouth. "Good."

"Better than my cakes?" Abigail challenged, wondering what Fiona would say, what part she would play.

With her head tipped, she gave it some thought. "I don't know. Maybe a little." She turned and ran upstairs.

When she came back down a half hour later, she was wearing a dress Abigail had never seen. It was low-cut, showing cleavage, and the hem was so short her panties would show if she wasn't careful.

"You aren't wearing that dress for the party."

"Who says?"

"I say."

"It's my birthday. I should be able to wear what I want on my birthday." Angry, she flounced across the living room to the front door.

"And you certainly aren't going outside with that on."

Fiona smiled sweetly, opened the door, and left.

Abigail went to the window and watched as Fiona headed into the woods behind the house. She watched her disappear.

Abigail paced the kitchen, waiting for her to return. Waiting, waiting. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, she went after her.

A narrow path led deep into the woods to the tree house. Abigail was almost there when she stopped. Sounds came from the small wooden structure. Laughing and moaning, wild thrashing. Sounds of sex.

Fiona. And a boy. She was using the innocent tree house as a place to meet boys.

Anger rushed hot through her veins, blurring her vision, clenching her hands into fists. She strode across the ground, trampling wildflowers, her feet ripping through vines. She climbed up the ladder. Using a strength she didn't know she had, she grasped two branches and pulled herself up so she stood on the floor of the house. In one corner, on a filthy blanket, was her daughter, her dress around her waist. Between her knees knelt a boy-or a man-with stringy brown hair. Strewn around the room were empty beer cans and whiskey bottles.

"What are you doing!" she screamed.

The male looked at her over his shoulder, his mouth dropping open, his face turning red. Gavin Hitchcock. A foster kid who'd been kicked out of school more than once and who'd even been in jail.

He scrambled away, pulling up his pants as he went.

"Come on. We're going home," Abigail told Fiona. "You're having a party, remember?"

Fiona found her panties and put them on. Then she planted a big kiss on Hitchcock's greasy mouth. "Later," she said. She descended the ladder.

"I can't believe you followed me," she said as she watched her mother struggle to make it down the last few rungs.

Abigail dropped to the ground. She came to stand directly in front of her daughter, lifted her hand, and slapped her. "Whore."

Fiona's face became enraged, and she shoved her mother with two hands, pushing her into the leaf- covered forest floor. Then she turned and moved rapidly away.

Abigail was on her feet, running after her daughter. In her hand was a big rock-how had it gotten there? She had no memory of picking it up.

She swung, striking Fiona in the side of the head, knocking her down. Fiona stared at her in shocked disbelief. Abigail swung again and again.

She felt hands on her. "You're hurting her! Stop it! Stop!"

It was the boy-Gavin Hitchcock. He struggled to pull the rock from her hands.

She was all-powerful. She was the one in control of her daughter's life. She shoved Hitchcock away and struck Fiona again. Behind her, she heard sobbing intermingled with mumbling, begging, whimpering. Then silence. When she turned to look, the boy was unconscious, his mouth hanging open and edged with slobber.

She walked back toward the house. On the way, she washed the blood off the stone and off her hands, then left the stone in the streambed. At home, she took a shower and changed. She greeted the children when they arrived with gifts in their hands. When they asked about Fiona, she told them she was upstairs getting ready. And when she didn't show up, Abigail cut the cake and served it. When Fiona still hadn't arrived, the children ran shrieking and screaming and laughing through the woods, obliterating all footprints and clues as they looked for her.

Mary Cantrell found Fiona.

Abigail never intended to incriminate Gavin Hitchcock, but a gift was a gift. His prints were everywhere, in the tree house, on the beer cans and whiskey bottles. His semen was found inside Fiona, her blood on his clothes. What sealed the case was Gavin's own testimony. He said he didn't remember what happened to Fiona that night-which, to the jury and everybody else, was an admission of guilt.

And he was guilty, Abigail had told herself. He'd lured her daughter out there. He'd traded alcohol for sex. It was as much his fault as anybody's. And then, when he all but confessed, it seemed like something that was meant to be. She herself had been treated unfairly. Gavin Hitchcock going to prison for the crime seemed to even things out a little.

As the years passed, she occasionally felt guilty about Hitchcock, but never enough to publicly confess to killing her own daughter.

And it hadn't been her daughter. Not really. It had been some demon that had taken over her daughter's body. She'd saved Fiona.

Her grief was real. She mourned the loss of her daughter every day. She missed her with a pain that never subsided.

"I thought you might be the one bringing the roses."

She turned from where she was kneeling to see Mary Cantrell standing behind her. Abigail wearily shoved herself to her feet and stood facing Mary, searching her face for clues. Did she know?

"Why did you tell me you never come here?" Mary asked.

Abigail shrugged. "I don't know. I really don't. I do things I don't understand."

"So do I." Mary's voice was neutral but not unkind. "Mind if I walk back with you?"

They fell into step beside each other. For a moment, she wanted to blurt out everything. She suddenly had the overwhelming urge to tell Mary about Fiona and Gavin, about the sex and alcohol and how Fiona had hurt and humiliated her. But at the last moment, she stopped herself. What had she been thinking? Mary was an FBI agent. She wouldn't understand; she wouldn't feel sympathy for her-and sympathy was what she craved. And she didn't want Mary to know about the bad Fiona. Mary believed in the innocent, pure Fiona, and her naive endorsement put the old Fiona that much closer to the truth. Abigail needed to keep only good memories of her daighter alive. Your secret 's safe with me, sweetheart. Safe with me.

"I suppose you heard that we found Gillian," Mary said.

"yes, I did. What a relief."

"That was nice of you to send the food and cards to Mom."

"I wanted to."

Mary paused, and Abigail looked up at her. She was such a tall girl-with sad eyes. Green, weren't they? So somber. When she was little, she was always laughing. Now, dressed in her black city clothes, she looked like a priest who'd just heard the confesson of every inmate on death row.Did she carry a gun? Had she ever killed anybody? She had a nice, full mouth, but she wasn't nearly as pretty as Fiona. No girls were as pretty as Fiona.

"I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. Not sorry we found Gillian, but sorry things couldn't have turned out the same for you."

Abigail reached out and gave Mary's hand a comforting squeeze. "I'm just glad she is okay."

When they reached the Portman house, Abigail told her good-bye and went inside.

Mary stood in the street, in front of the Portman house for a long time. Then she pulled out her mobile phone and called Elliot. When he answered, she said, "I know who really killed Fiona Portman."

"Who?"

"Her mother, Abigail Portman. I think if you question her, she'll confess."

Mary disconnected and walked slowly home, to the place where Gillian and Blythe were waiting for her to join them for supper before taking her to the airport. To her mother's house, where a light was burning.