Never Tell Them, N.L. Hinkens [unputdownable books txt] 📗

her for her birthday, and when he was coming home on leave—none of which ever materialized. ”I was just sitting here thinking about Celia. It’s kind of sad without her.”

Jessica nodded, looking pensive. ”I miss her too. I’m sad for Henry that he doesn’t have a grandma. But he can share mine.”

Sonia flashed her a grateful smile. “That’s very sweet of you, Jess. All right, help me pick out some clothes for him.”

After deliberating over the meager choices, Jessica made a clumsy attempt to fold Henry’s clothes, and then shoved them into one of the bags. ”I told you he doesn’t have any toys,” she said, her eyes zig-zagging around the room. “Now do you believe me?”

“They’re probably still at his old house,” Sonia said dismissively, following Jessica down the hallway to the front door. She cast a darting glance into the family room as they went by and then hesitated. ”Why don’t you take this bag and run on home? I need to look for some paperwork for Henry’s preschool. Tell Grandma not to start dinner. I’ll order Chinese tonight.”

“Yeah! My favorite!” Jessica chirped, skipping out the door, swinging the Target bag with Henry’s clothes in it.

Sonia waited until she was sure her daughter wasn’t going to come running back to tell her something else she’d forgotten about, before slipping into the family room. The gloomy space sported a mismatched assortment of relics from the past: faded couches with sagging seat cushions, a small, squat TV, yellowing net curtains, a dome clock that chimed out time like a melancholic countdown to death itself, and enough dust in the air to mimic a double helix on a sunny day. Sonia wandered over to the bookshelf in the entertainment center to the left of the TV and glanced through some of the titles. Celia had always had a penchant for romance novels—maybe it was to compensate for the abusive relationship she had endured.

Sonia was about to leave when she spotted some faux-leather photo albums in the cubby directly below the television. She reached for one and flipped it open, eying the pictures curiously. Most of them were black and white. Judging by the clothing and hairstyles, she guessed they were from Celia’s childhood. She skimmed through the album and then returned it to the shelf and grabbed another one. This one contained color photos, and someone had meticulously logged notes and dates next to each one; Tom’s first birthday, Tom and Ray at Outer Banks Beach, Ray’s first lost tooth. On and on it went. The carefully catalogued childhoods of two sons Celia had obviously adored. Whether or not there was any truth to Ray’s tales of an abusive father, there was no evidence in the photo albums that he had ever been in his sons’ lives. Either Ray was lying about that, or Celia had taken care to erase any trace of him.

Sonia thumbed through to the final page, studying the expression on Ray’s face in the photo—the resigned look of a broken young man, just as he’d described. His brother, Tom, stood next to him, a whole head shorter, a hint of rebellion simmering in his eyes. Ray must have been about fifteen-years-old when it was taken—right before he left home. There were no more photos in the album after that. Perhaps Celia hadn’t had the heart to continue photographing Tom alone, or maybe Tom had refused to be the subject of any more staged photos hiding an ugly secret. Because if Ray was telling the truth, this entire album was a lie. Their abusive father had been in the background on every one of these occasions, the dark underside to the happy life Celia had tried to portray.

Sonia snapped the album shut, her heart pounding in her chest. She understood only too well the desire to weave a fantasy over a brutal reality. She’d tried to do the same thing at first with Finn. It was easy for Ray to judge Celia for being too weak to leave. But would Sonia have had the fortitude to leave if she hadn’t had the unconditional support of her mother?

She replaced the album on the shelf and cast one last searching glance around the room. A folded-up page of newspaper lying on the end table caught her eye. She reached for it, straightened it out, and read the headline:

Five Years After Katie Lambert’s Disappearance.

9

Sonia folded the newspaper article back up, her thoughts suddenly firing in an entirely new direction. Ray had told her he was a freelance journalist—was he working on a story about abductions? He might even be a private investigator posing as a journalist—looking into the disappearance of Katie Lambert. She traced her fingertips across her forehead considering the idea. He could be using his mother’s house as a temporary base, with no intention of moving in long-term. That would explain why he hadn’t unpacked.

Sonia racked her brain trying to remember more of the details surrounding Katie Lambert’s disappearance. It was hard to separate the facts from the gossip and speculation that had spread like wildfire at the time and continued unabated over the years. Sonia remembered Katie as a friendly girl with a mischievous grin and one too many ear piercings, who had worked in a local coffee shop in Booneville on the weekends. Her father was a successful contractor, and everyone in town knew the family. His suicide in the wake of Katie’s disappearance had shocked the close-knit community to its core—some even speculating that he was involved and had killed himself out of guilt. Sonia frowned as she stared down at the article in her hand. If Ray was investigating the story, he wasn’t going to get much information by hiding away from everyone like a recluse. It didn’t make sense.

Her muddled thoughts drifted to Henry. Whatever Ray’s real reason for being here, his odd relationship with his son troubled Sonia more than anything. She set the newspaper article back down on the end table,