Authors: Anne Frasier

Tags: #Crime

Sleep Tight (42 page)

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 daughter 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 such 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 confession 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's 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.

~oOo~

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anne Frasier (a.k.a. Theresa Weir) is an award-winning, USA Today bestselling author of twenty-one books and numerous short stories that have spanned the genres of suspense, mystery, thriller, romantic suspense, paranormal, and memoir. Her titles have been printed in both hardcover and paperback and translated into twenty languages. Her memoir, The Orchard, was a 2011 Oprah Magazine Fall Pick, Number Two on the Indie Next list, a featured B+ review in Entertainment Weekly, and a Librarians’ Best Books of 2011. Going back to 1988, Weir’s debut title was the cult phenomenon AMAZON LILY, initially published by Pocket Books and later reissued by Bantam Books. Writing as Theresa Weir she won a RITA for romantic suspense (COOL SHADE), and a year later the Daphne du Maurier for paranormal romance (BAD KARMA). In her more recent Anne Frasier career, her thriller and suspense titles hit the USA Today list (HUSH, SLEEP TIGHT, PLAY DEAD) and were featured in Mystery Guild, Literary Guild, and Book of the Month Club. HUSH was both a RITA and Daphne du Maurier finalist. Well-known in the mystery community, she served as hardcover judge for the Thriller presented by International Thriller Writers, and was guest of honor at the Diversicon 16 mystery/science fiction conference held in Minneapolis in 2008. Frasier books have received high praise from print publications such as Publishers Weekly, Minneapolis Star Tribune, and Crimespree, as well as online praise from Spinetingler, Book Loons, Armchair Interviews, Sarah Weinman’s Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind, and Ali Karim’s Shots Magazine. Her books have featured cover quotes from Lisa Gardner, Jane Ann Krentz, Linda Howard, Kay Hooper, and J.A. Konrath. Her short stories and poetry can be found in DISCOUNT NOIR, ONCE UPON A CRIME, and THE LINEUP, POEMS ON CRIME. She is a member of Sisters in Crime and International Thriller Writers.

Recent releases:

The Orchard — Theresa Weir memoir (hardcover) September 2011 Grand Central Publishing

Deadly Treats — Halloween anthology edited and compiled by Anne Frasier (trade paperback) September 2011 Nodin Press

Max Under the Stars— Theresa Weir digital-only short story/fantasy, 2011

www.annefrasier.com

Title List

Writing as Anne Frasier

Hush, USA Today bestseller, RITA finalist, Daphne du Maurier finalist (2002)

Sleep Tight, USA Today bestseller (2003)

Play Dead, USA Today Bestseller (2004)

Before I Wake (2005)

Pale Immortal (2006)