Forget Me Not: A Novel (Crossroads Crisis Center) (32 page)

When she grew up and moved far away, no one would ever lock her up again. Ever!

Mr. Johnson left home a lot.

She couldn’t stop him from shoving her in that closet, but she did get smarter about being there. She stashed a jar with a lid on it for emergency bathroom services, hid packaged crackers and bottles of water deep in the closet inside a camera case. She even folded a thick sheet of paper and made herself a fan, then put it in her secret place too. She could have gotten a candle, but the firefighter that had come to her school said they were dangerous, so she decided against it. The dark wasn’t nearly so scary as Mr. Johnson. But she did miss her mom and dad a lot sometimes. When it got real bad, she’d talk to God. He was a good listener, and He made her not so scared.

That went on for what felt like forever.

In truth, it couldn’t have been very long. But when you’re a kid and scared and miserable and lost, time moves differently than when you have some type of control over your own life.

Then one night Mr. Johnson didn’t come back. She waited and waited and waited.

Her crackers were gone.

Her water bottles stood empty, her pee-jar full.

And her tummy hurt something fierce. She prayed and cried and prayed and prayed until she couldn’t pray anymore.

Huddled in the back of the closet, she crossed her arms, freezing. Her teeth chattered until her jaw ached.

Then she began to sweat. It poured off her, dripping and splashing on her chest, her knees. She slumped to rest her head on the floor. The carpet scratched her face, but her head felt too heavy to hold up anymore—and again she started shivering. Shivering. Sweating. Shivering. Sweating.

Oh, but she was sick. So sick … Her stomach rebelled. A bad taste warned she was going to throw up. She swallowed hard. It would stink so bad. Her stomach churned and churned, her head swam, and she felt the bad taste rise in her throat.

The door opened.

She vomited all over some man’s shoes.

“Kelly!”

He knew her. Knew her! She cranked open her eye, tilted her head, hoping she didn’t get sick again, and looked up at him. Mr. Denham. “Help me.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and told someone to come.

“No! Don’t call the police. They’ll lock me away forever. Please don’t call them. Please!”

“It’s all right. A doctor is coming. Just be still until he and his helpers get here.”

“Oh no,” she cried. “He’s going to be so mad. He’ll lock me in here until I die.”

Alexander Denham’s face turned dark and red and she feared him too. “No one will ever lock you in a closet again. I give you my word on it.”

He was mad but not at her. “Thank you, Mr. Denham. I-I don’t feel good.” She threw up again but this time missed his shoes.

The ambulance people tended to her, but she could hear Mr. Denham talking to the policeman. She stayed very quiet, hoping he wouldn’t notice her and lock her up.

“I had a meeting with Mr. Johnson to go over some estate matters—her estate matters.”

The ambulance lady with the gentle voice asked her, “Kelly, how long have you been in the closet?”

She struggled to remember. “I don’t know what day it is.” She licked her lips, hoping for more water. They’d given her some, but her mouth was still so dry.

“What day did Mr. Johnson put you in the closet?”

Had she told? No, no, Mr. Denham had. The police wouldn’t lock her up for him telling. “Saturday.”

“You’re sure?” The nice lady gave her a sip of water.

“Uh-huh.” Water dribbled down her chin.

“Saturday,” the woman repeated, looking at the man helping her.

It was Friday afternoon.

Kelly lay in bed in the cottage, her cheeks wet at the vivid memories of that awful time. She clenched the wadded edge of her pillowcase and rubbed her cheeks dry.

The ambulance had taken her to the hospital, and she’d been so surprised that the nurses and doctors hadn’t been mad at her. They’d been
kind. Mr. Denham hadn’t been angry with her either, even though she’d ruined his shoes.

She’d slept a lot. Sometimes he had been there; sometimes he hadn’t. A nurse was always with her, and whoever she was, she always assured Kelly on awakening that Mr. Johnson could not come into her room and Mr. Denham would be back shortly. Amazingly he had been back.

It took her three days to work up the courage to ask when Mr. Johnson would be taking her back to his house. The nurse grimaced and said, “Don’t you worry, Kelly. He won’t hurt you anymore.” She stroked Kelly’s forehead, shoving back her hair. “Mr. Denham will explain everything.”

She didn’t believe the nurse. He wouldn’t hurt her while anyone was looking, but he’d lock her in the closet again, and she knew it.

She did not want to go back into that closet—and she’d do what she had to do to stay out of it. She’d hide or run away and disappear. She’d do something—
anything!

The nurse must have told Mr. Denham that Kelly had asked about Mr. Johnson because as soon as he arrived, he’d told her, “Kelly, you will never return to Mr. Johnson’s home.”

She felt relief, and joy danced throughout her entire body, set her to tingling, making her giddy.

“Can I go home, then?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Denham said. “You’re too young to live alone.”

She sat straight up. “Aunt Beth! Oh, please,
please
, can I go to my aunt Beth’s?” She loved Aunt Beth and her little house on the beach.

His jaw clamped, and he closed his eyes a second. “I’m afraid not.”

“But why?” Kelly grabbed a fistful of sheet. “I have my own room there—and she never puts me in the closet.” She crossed her heart. “I promise.”

“I’m sorry, but your mother and father forbade it, Kelly. You can’t live with your aunt Beth.”

She’d tried so hard not to cry. She hadn’t sobbed, but she wanted to, and tears slid down her face. “Then where do I have to go? There isn’t anyone else.”
God, please don’t let him send me back to Mr. Johnson’s anyway. Please!

He stepped closer and looked down at her. “I asked the judge and he said you could come live with me.”

Kelly recoiled, sank back against her pillows. “Are you going to lock me in the closet too?”

“No, Kelly,” he promised, his eyes burning bright. “I’ve hired a very nice woman to care for you. Her name is Doris. And we both promise that no one will ever lock you in a closet again.” He glanced away, then added, “We can even invite your aunt Beth to visit.”

And she did.

Kelly stared at the cottage bedroom ceiling, dabbed at her moist eyes, and let the memories after that time flow through her mind unfettered.

Alexander Denham wasn’t home much. When upset, he was a little hard to understand due to an accent she learned from Doris was Russian, and he didn’t know what to do with a young girl, but he’d left Doris to it. She was caring and kind, and whenever Mr. Denham returned home from his trips, the first thing he would ask Kelly is if she’d been well treated.

She had been and always felt relieved to say so without lying.

He hadn’t been a warm, fuzzy kind of person—he’d never once so much as hugged her—but he hadn’t locked her up, and he had come to respect her sharp mind. Kelly worked hard to earn his respect and harder to earn his praise. He was stingy with it but never unkind.

He’d taught her a lot. Doris had too. But even as a child, Kelly had held no illusions. Neither of them had ever loved her.

Alexander was paid well from her estate and her grandmother’s trust to care for her, act as trustee and guardian, and she had no doubt that, if she’d been poor, he’d have put her up for adoption immediately—if he’d bothered getting involved with her in the first place. His passion was acquiring money, and she provided a good, steady, long-term source for it.

Aunt Beth, though, had loved her very much. Kelly was first to admit that her mother’s “quaint and quirky” baby sister was flaky and considered by kind souls “eccentric,” which was why she couldn’t take custody of Kelly—her father had flatly refused and insisted her mother go along with him.

Once Mr. Denham had been convinced Kelly would immediately contact him in case of any trouble, he’d permitted her to spend summers with her aunt at her beach house.

Aunt Beth had taught Kelly to paint, the mood of colors, and how to use her potter’s wheel. They’d taken midnight swims, eaten ice cream for breakfast, and giggled themselves silly. Kelly had adored her zany aunt. And she had adored Kelly.

Now Aunt Beth was dead.

Her throat thick, Kelly snuggled down deep under the covers and felt her loss afresh.
A heart attack. Unexpected. Unforgiving
. They’d never gotten to say good-bye.

Kelly gave in to a good cry. For the little girl, alone and lost, locked in the closet, on the terrace. For the absence of loving parents. For feeling she had no safe haven of her own but lived as a guest in someone else’s.

When her tears were spent, she sniffed and wiped her face with her hands.

A scent wafted to her.

What was it? She sniffed, then sniffed again. Bacon.

Bacon?

Fear snipped her thoughts. She was in Ben’s cottage.
Alone
. So who was cooking bacon and making coffee?

It’s not the carjackers. It’s not. They wouldn’t come in and cook for—Doris!

Kelly tossed back the covers—and remembered in a flash why she feared Seagrove Village.

Ben!

Edward pulled into Harry’s driveway just as dawn was breaking. His truck was parked out front. With any luck, he wasn’t drunk again, but Edward couldn’t bank on it.

He got out and looked into Harry’s bedroom window. He was flat on his back sprawled out atop sleep-tossed covers, the telltale open can on a ring-marked table beside his bed.

Edward regretted what he had to do, but he had no choice. Wily and slick, where Harry was dumb but dependable, Edward would be forced to live the rest of his life sleeping with one eye open. That was no life at all.

Edward fired his gun through the window. The glass shattered. Harry took the bullet right between his eyes. He never knew what hit him.

His throat thick, Edward whispered, “Sorry, buddy. The plan changed.”

He pulled out his tools, but the door wasn’t even locked. Edward went inside to collect Harry.

The guy was bigger and heavier; it took Edward longer than he hoped to get him into the car. By the time he’d crunched him into the trunk and gotten in behind the wheel, Edward was soaked with sweat, every muscle in his body ached, and he was completely out of breath.

He’d dump Harry’s body on the reservation behind Three Gables. Some kid would find it taking the shortcut through the Brandt land on the way home from school. That way, Harry’s body would be found before it decomposed. His son would have something to bury and would know his dad was dead. He wouldn’t feel abandoned and wonder if the reason he never came around was his fault. He’d never have to ask himself what he’d done wrong. Or be left not knowing.

Not knowing was never easy.

But in Edward’s case, knowing was even worse.

Edward sighed. It wasn’t the best solution, but it was the best he could offer the kid. It was a lot better than anyone had offered him. It had taken years for him to learn his father had taken off because of his uncle Samuel Johnson.

Edward had been fourteen. He’d gone to find his father and learned he’d remarried and had a son. Then he and his new family had disappeared. Edward had tried and failed to find any trace of him after that, though he thought of his half brother often and wondered if he’d been left behind by their father too.

Edward had found Uncle Samuel and watched him closely. He’d seen Kelly on that terrace all night. Seen her pack staples into the closet, and he’d figured out what Samuel was doing. Edward bided his time. He finally got the perfect opening and seized it. To this day, no one else knew why Samuel had left one morning and just never came home.

It was nearly a week before Edward discovered Kelly was locked in the apartment. She’d been silent all that time. Edward had been hanging out
there, planning his future, and looking for information on his father and half brother but had still found nothing—Samuel was meticulously careful for all his carousing.