Page 43 of The Secrets We Hide
Verisimilitude—the seeming plausibility of truth.
She didn’t have time to ponder a deeper meaning behind either parent’s choices. She tossed the card back inside. Opened the large file drawer. Mortgage documents. Thick volumes of health-care records. Birth certificates. Invoices for house repairs. She thumbed through the tabs a second in case she’d missed anything. Then she double-checked the contents to make sure they were labelled correctly.
The center drawer was unlocked and held a wooden case for the revolver that Gerald had taken with him the last time he’d left the office.
The contents of the next drawer she opened shocked the hell out of her.
The leather-bound flask was identical to the one Uncle Penley had pulled out of his pocket at the funeral, but not as worn from use. Emmy unscrewed the cap. Recognized the pungent smell of bourbon. She swirled the flask. It was full.
Emmy sat back in the chair.
Her father had been a practicing alcoholic before Emmy was born. She knew this from Tommy, who’d witnessed first-hand the weekend benders, the blackout drinking, the long, unexplained absences. By the time Emmy came along, Gerald was completely sober. He’d often told her that Myrna’s unplanned pregnancy had been a wake-up call. That Emmy had lifted the despair of losing two of his children. That she had been his opportunity to do things right.
Now, she wondered if his sobriety was yet another deception. The flask was returned to its spot. She went back to the files. Checked death certificates. Henry Gerald Clifton had died by drowning on June 16, 1983. Emmy had never noticed there wasn’t a death certificate for Jude. She hadn’t thought to question anything her parents had told her.
She ran her hand underneath each drawer in case her father had taped something out of sight. She looked back at the filing cabinets. Gerald wasn’t a pack rat, but he’d inherited the Clifton tendency toward careful documentation. Each drawer was neatly labelled with dates going back through six decades of law enforcement. Emmy had already perused all of his old case files over the last few decades. She’d told herself that she was looking for insight into his work as a detective, but the truth was, she’d been driven to be exactly like him. He’d embodied everything she’d respected as both a police officer and a parent.
Headlights slashed through the front windows. Emmy closed her eyes, listened for the roar of Cole’s cruiser or the purr of Celia’s classic Alfa Romeo or the hum of Tommy’s Honda CR-V. Instead, she heard the tick of the wonky timing belt in Jude’s rented Jeep Wrangler.
Tick-tick-tick.
She was being tortured by sounds lately.
The heavy crunch of motorcycle boots across the gravel driveway worked on Emmy like the proverbial fingernails on a chalkboard. Jude’s look hadn’t changed that much since the photo at the river basin. Her makeup was lighter, hair styled in a more modern shag, but she still dressed like she was the front woman in a shitty band that thought it was going to be the next Fleetwood Mac but only got as far as everybody sleeping witheverybody else. Which was coincidentally how she’d spent her first few years away from North Falls.
“Hi.” Jude stood in the doorway. She looked up at Gerald’s old shotgun mounted above the jamb. “How’re you holding up?”
Emmy watched her sit down in the chair that was usually Cole’s spot. Jude’s presence filled the room, overshadowing what little was left of Gerald. She had been like that from the moment Emmy had met her—taking up space, erasing everybody else, plopping down in front of you like a cat who just assumed you were delighted to be in their presence.
Jude said, “I need to tell you something.”
Emmy wasn’t interested. “Why didn’t you go to Taybee’s farm like I told you? One of us should’ve been there to help her clean up.”
“In what world would Taybee let anyone help her clean?” Her tone had a joking quality that Emmy found infuriating.
“Our mother was buried today. Taybee did us a favor hosting all those people at the farm. Do you really think it’s okay to ghost her?”
“Did you yell at Tommy for not offering to wash dishes?”
“You don’t want to know what I sound like when I’m yelling.”
Jude sat back in the chair. Crossed her legs. “Clearly, this isn’t about Taybee. What do you want to argue about now?”
“You’re mistaking this for a conversation. Stay out of my case. You don’t know the first thing about Allison Vickery.”
Jude took a moment to switch gears. “I know that Reggie Wilder became physically violent with you in the street today. I know that you should’ve put him on the ground the minute he laid hands on you. Dad didn’t teach you to give second chances.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about what Dad taught me.”
“Be that as it may, you should give Reggie a hard look. If a woman has one physically abusive asshole in her life, she usually has another.”
“Allison filed divorce papers on Bill two weeks ago.” Emmy let herself appreciate the way Jude’s mouth closed. “I begged her to leave him for years, and she was finally doing it.”
“But she didn’t tell you about the divorce. I can tell by your voice that you only found out today. Is that why you’re so upset?”
Emmy hated how easily Jude could read her.
“Sweetheart.” Jude’s tone was gratingly soft. “People don’t tend to celebrate you for telling them that their life has gone off the rails. They hate you because they’re embarrassed you were right.”
