His Other Secret (A Stella Fall Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Three)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Today, I am here to ask about the past, Stella Fall thought, determined.

Stella Fall slowed the rental car. Beyond the ragged belt of trees, the horizon stretched ahead, bleak and bare. Even in the rainy season, a pall of dust seemed to hang in the air.

Home.

It was like being back in her nightmares. She had the same feeling of nameless dread, the curdling of fear in her belly that made her want to turn around and accelerate away.

There was the landmark: the dry, jagged thorn tree that she’d hoped was dead but which remained stubbornly rooted in the sandy soil. Stella had always thought its crooked branches were like clawed hands.

She shuddered, looking away as she jolted down the sand track that ran for two rutted, eroded miles.

Just a few days ago, while tackling the contents of old storage boxes, she’d discovered a letter from her father, who had disappeared without a trace when she was ten years old. Her mother had told her emphatically she’d believed him to be dead. Devastated by the loss of the quiet, kind man who’d been her mentor and protector, Stella had eventually accepted this could be the only explanation.

Reading the letter’s postmark, Stella had been shocked to see that the brief, curt note had been posted weeks after his disappearance. Her mother had known he was still alive! She’d never breathed a word about this to Stella.

Now, she was going to confront her and demand an answer. Where was her father? Why had Rhonda Fall lied?

She gritted her teeth as the small car bounced into a massive pothole. She’d lost focus for a moment, her gaze straying to the skyline. She had to brace herself; there was no room for dreaming about the future in the harsh life that she’d endured in the small, clapboard house at the end of this road.

There was the house. Its squat, low outline seemed to cling to the unforgiving landscape.

Rhonda’s ancient truck, its rear window patterned with dust, was parked under the scanty shade of an old cottonwood. Stella remembered the school runs she’d endured in that car, with Rhonda either screaming at Stella or riding in smoldering silence, depending on her mood.

Cold fear nestled inside her as she stopped the car and climbed out. She did her best to banish it. What she needed now was resolve.

She raked her fingers through her dark hair, pushing it away from her face. She’d forgotten how the relentless wind always blew it into her eyes.

Reaching back into the car, she took out the carrier bag. She’d made a brief stop in town to make the purchases. Then she walked up the broken path, staring down at the fragments of paving that still remained from the time her father had made it. Time and wear had taken their toll. The stones were all but gone.

But where was he?

Stella breathed in deeply. Then she knocked on the door. There was silence for a few beats that felt as if it was stretching into eternity. From behind the house somewhere, she heard the frantic clucking of chickens.

And then, from inside, her mother’s voice, filled with taunting amusement.

“You’re late. And you don’t need to knock. Why are you knocking?”

Stella opened the door. Hinges wailed as she stepped in, breathing in the smells she remembered. Parched boards, dusty glass, the bitter reek of the wood stain her mother used. The only home improvements that Rhonda did every year were to treat the worn, south-facing outer boards, and how Stella hated that smell. Just as she hated the faint undertones of egg, oil, and cooked cabbage that seemed to linger forever in the kitchen.

She picked up the low-key babble of television as she trod through the tiny hall, barely large enough for the discarded shoes and umbrellas that were piled there, and into the lounge.

Rhonda was seated in her wooden rocking chair by the window.

“Well, hello,” she said, turning to Stella.

A rush of emotion filled her, overwhelming in its intensity as she gazed at her mother’s slender face, her beaky nose, those bright, intense eyes. Her coarse, dark hair, now threaded with gray, was pulled back into a tight braid. The lines on her forehead and her cheeks were deeper and harsher than the last time she’d seen them.

She stared into the ice-blue eyes that she had inherited. It dismayed her how strong her mother’s genes clearly were, and how alike they were in coloring, height, and their slim, lean build. Sometimes, Stella felt frantic that there were other similarities between them. Would she end up the same as her mother? When would the terrible rages, the mood swings, the bitter a***e begin?

Why had Rhonda become this way? Were her mother’s mental problems, and her stubbornness in refusing to seek help for them, hereditary?

Every day, she felt like she needed to fight against the threat of the genetic time-bomb that might be lurking inside her. But now, Rhonda was in a gentle mood, a fact that made her deeply suspicious.

“Sorry I’m late. My flight was delayed.” Her first words were an apology. How typical.

“It’s been a very long time since my only child has visited,” Rhonda said softly. “It must be more than two years since I last saw you. How I’ve missed you. Are you staying overnight? You didn’t say.”

Stella struggled not to be drawn into the game she knew her mother would play.

“I’ve been really busy. I’ve sent money when I can,” she said shortly. “I can’t stay overnight. I’m flying back this evening as I’m moving houses tomorrow. But I brought you a gift.”

“That’s very kind of you. Very kind. You have such a good heart,” Rhonda murmured, taking the bag.

More than anything, Stella hated the uncertainty about coming home. Would her mother be in outright aggressive mode, shouting and screaming? Or would she be like this – quiet and polite, luring Stella into believing that everything might be okay between them, if she could only try just a little harder?

This mood was worse. It was like waiting for a storm, because she could tip into fury at any moment. The dread of triggering her hung over every word. But also, her mother was more manipulative in this mood. In a rage, she might be more likely to scream out the truth – and the truth was what Stella was desperate to find.

From the knowing, yet guarded expression in her mother’s eyes, Stella had a horrible feeling she might already know why her daughter was here. Rhonda was far from stupid. That was another thing she’d passed onto her daughter – her sharp, perceptive intelligence.

“Are you going to open it?” Stella asked, glancing at the bag, hoping that the gift might set their meeting on a cordial footing.

“Open it? Yes, of course, I can do that.”

She dipped a slim-fingered hand into the bag.

“Butterscotch cookies. My favorite.” She paused. “At least, they were. My physician has said I must cut down on sugar. But don’t worry, I have friends who will love them.”

Stella gritted her teeth.

“Hand cream. Now that’s useful. Pomegranate? How interesting. I can’t say I have ever thought pomegranates had a fragrance I would want on my skin. But we will see, won’t we? I look forward to finding out.” She gave Stella a conspiratorial smile. “And books. I can’t wait to read all three of those. With money so short, buying books is a luxury I haven’t allowed myself lately. I’ve had to rely on our local library, which as you know, is not well run.”

Having managed, subtly or otherwise, to make Stella feel bad about every single item in the gift bag, Rhonda put it aside. Then she stared at Stella challengingly.

“So, why the sudden decision to make this lightning trip?” she asked.

The chit-chat, such as it was, was over, and there was no point in drawing out the social niceties. It was time to unleash the real purpose for her visit.

“I came to ask you about this letter,” Stella said. She produced it from her purse.

Her mother gave nothing away as she saw it. Not as much as a narrowing of her eyes or a twitch of her face indicated that she was aware of its significance at all.

“What about it?” she asked, in tones only mildly interested.

“I must have packed it up by mistake, when I moved my things out. I found it yesterday. It was at the bottom of a drawer. It’s from Dad.”

Even though she was trying as hard as she could to maintain the same levels of icy control as her mother, Stella felt her voice shake.

“A letter from your father? You’ve come here to ask me about that?” Genuine puzzlement suffused Rhonda’s voice.

“Look at the postmark,” Stella said. She kept a firm grip on the page. She knew that in a flash, Rhonda’s mood could turn. She could snatch the letter away and destroy it. Stella wasn’t going to let that happen.

“Yes.” Rhonda peered down. “One of his last letters. It must have been only a month or two later that he disappeared.”

Stella felt anger so strong it threatened to break through the control she’d promised herself she would keep, no matter what.

“He disappeared exactly seven weeks before that letter was written,” she insisted. “I remember the exact date he didn’t come home. And there was also a missing person report filed. You insisted on waiting a full day before you did it. It felt like a hundred lifetimes,” Stella said, remembering her agonies as the long night, and then the endless day, had worn on.

Only in the evening had Rhonda climbed into her truck and, leaving Stella behind despite her tearful pleas, driven the fifteen-mile ride to the local police station where Detective Fall had worked, to report him missing.

Ever since then, Stella had suffered agonies of worry over what had happened to him. She’d tried to persuade herself over and over again that her father must have died, but she’d never been able to suppress the powerful, though irrational, feeling that he was still alive.

“I waited because I was hoping he would return,” Rhonda told her sternly before returning her attention to the letter. “This was sent from – where?” She peered down at it and Stella could see nothing in her eyes but an earnest desire to find the truth. “Your thumb’s over that part. Move your thumb.”

Keeping a tight hold on the page, Stella moved her thumb.

Rhonda sighed as if everything was clear.

“Sent from Colorado. Of course.”

“What’s of course about it?” Anxiety tightened in her belly.

“He used to go to Colorado regularly. Being a neighboring state to Kansas, there were a lot of cross-border crimes the police cooperated on. You wouldn’t know any of this because you thought all we did was fight.” Now there was a hint of acid in Rhonda’s words. “You thought you were your father’s little princess and his saving grace. You did not understand that we had a functional and happy marriage. Given that, I can’t understand why you ended up so damaged, and so very vindictive toward me. They say only scarred people go into psychology. Would you say that’s true? Has it guided your career choice?” She stared critically at Stella.

She was about to spit back an angry reply before she realized her mother was deliberately baiting her into losing her temper. Plus, she was skillfully changing the subject.

Stella dug her nails into her palm as hard as she could, glad of the distraction that the stabbing pain provided. At least it helped her keep her focus as her mother continued.

“That’s exactly why I guided you away from that path. You’re an unstable person, Stella. You can’t cope with the stresses of a career, particularly not in law enforcement. That’s why I always advised you against it. If you want wealth, and a more comfortable life than I had, then marry well. Choose someone better than I did.”

Stella wasn’t going to take the bait. She was not going to walk into the trap of discussing her Master’s degree in forensic psychology, and her recent decision to join the FBI. Her mother did not need to know that. She didn’t dare to share the triumphs of her graduation from one of the toughest law enforcement training programs, nor her job offer to join the team in the FBI New Haven field office. In fact, that was the reason why this was such a short visit. She had needed to speak to her mother in person, but today was the only day she’d had to spare, with moving into her brand new apartment in New Haven, and starting her new job on Tuesday.

Stella knew her mother would twist and corrupt her achievements and make her feel ashamed of herself. She’d done it time and time again. It was better to say nothing.

Instead, Stella forced herself to ignore the noise and distractions and focused on the purpose of her visit. Rhonda was remaining calm, which in itself was a huge red flag. Stella had to push on. She had to! There really must be something hidden.

“The postmark,” she insisted.

Rhonda shrugged. “In the backwaters of Colorado, they cleared mail when they felt like it. Your father and I used to laugh about it. Most times, he’d get back before his letters.”

Stella felt herself weaken. This sounded plausible. It could actually be.

But then she remembered her mother’s talent for deceiving her. Stubbornly, she stuck to her version.

“Seven weeks? I think that’s pushing it. From the local postbox to the post office, it would be a few days at most. Even in backwaters, the US Mail worked. Especially in backwaters,” Stella argued further. “And why did he say in the letter that you should tell me when I was ready? What did he mean? Can you explain that?” she challenged.

Rhonda looked furious for a moment, as if Stella had caught her out. Then she shook her head sadly. “My precious girl, you are hell bent on tormenting yourself with this, aren’t you?”

Her voice was soft, but her gaze lanced Stella like a steel blade.

“Why do you say that?” Now Stella wished her mother would tip over into anger. This relentless calm was a barrier she couldn’t break through.

“You won’t like the truth,” Rhonda’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Maybe. But I want it. I deserve it.”

Stella struggled to keep her voice indifferent, casual, even. Meanwhile, her heart was pounding so loudly that blood was roaring in her ears. Finally, her mother was going to relent. She was going to tell her what had really happened. Could she sense how keyed up she was? It would be better if Rhonda didn’t realize that. If she thought Stella didn’t care too much, she would be more willing to tell her everything.

“The truth,” Rhonda whispered.

“Please,” Stella said quietly.

“Alright then. I will.”

Stella leaned closer. Finally, she was going to get the answers she craved.

And then, Rhonda flung her head back and screamed out the words.

“There are no answers! There is only one reality, that your father abandoned us. He turned his back on his family. On you, his only child, who hero-worshiped him even though he was scum. He walked away. He hated us! Hated us! Why won’t you believe me? Why do you think I lie, when I have to live with this terrible truth, every day of my life?”

“But I –” Stella began.

Her mother didn’t stop shouting.

“Get out! You’ve come all this way just to traumatize both of us. Get out!”

Her screams resounded in the small house, reverberating off the walls, making Stella feel small and helpless and ten years old all over again.

She would get no answers, she realized in despair, as she scrambled to her feet and hurried toward the front door. There were only different versions of lies, which shifted just like the relentless wind battering the dusty panes.

Her mother knew the truth; she was convinced. But she wasn’t going to tell, and Stella feared she would take her secrets to her grave.

There was no option now but to leave. She’d have to fly back to New Haven and start her brand new job, and brand new life, without the information and the closure she’d been longing for.