Take It To The Grave Bundle 2: Take It to the Grave parts 4-6

That uncomfortable sensation of being a Stepford wife returns. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself.

But what does Maisey know about the pressures I’m under? She probably sees all this luxury and assumes my life is easy. She doesn’t get how difficult it is to keep Warwick and his mother happy.

As I leave, my sister puts her arm around our mother, but Alice pushes her away, staggering deeper into the garden. Maisey’s face falls, and she gives her fingers a vicious twist. Once again, I wonder what’s wrong with her.

Why does she keep trying? Can’t she see Alice is a lost cause?

I leave them be. It’s nothing I’ll ever be able to resolve.

The house is quiet and blissfully cool when I return. After checking to ensure no one is around, I let myself into Warwick’s office. It’s an exaggerated expression of his masculinity, all dark wood and oversize chairs. His desk is bigger than most people’s beds, even though I’ve yet to see him do any work here. For all his talk, work has never been Warwick’s thing.

My husband’s bar is concealed in an oversize globe. Despite the hour, I fix myself a vodka tonic. How Mother would love access to this room. In preparation for Alice’s visit, any alcohol in the house had been put under lock and key. Bridget had thought I was overreacting until she met my mother. We give Alice just enough to keep her from going into withdrawal, but there’s more to it than that. My mother would cause a scene if we didn’t let her have a cocktail with everyone else, or wine with dinner. I imagine Eleanor’s reaction if she ever witnessed one of Alice’s full-blown temper tantrums. I’d rather die.

The ice-cold bite of the tonic water is refreshing. It’s not long before the smooth warmth of the vodka makes me feel better, stronger. I pour myself another before locking Warwick’s office and checking on Elliot. He’s fast asleep, his fingers curled into a teeny fist.

Lucky baby. I wish I could sleep through this day. Wake me when it’s over.

With my son napping, I’m at loose ends. It’s tempting to accidentally wake him, but that would be cruel. Might as well make good use of the time by putting some effort into finding the perfect outfit. I want Warwick to be proud of me again, to appreciate what a gorgeous wife he has.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

Caleb invades my mind. I remember the way he looked at me yesterday, his eyes glowing with admiration. “I wish you would come with me, Sarah...”

No, not Caleb. Don’t think about Caleb. Caleb is dangerous. Think about Warwick. You’re married to Warwick. Caleb rejected you, remember? He had his chance and he blew it. It’s too late to go back now.

It’s impossible to please both, in any case. Warwick prefers it when I’m fully made up, with heavy shadow and red lips. Caleb was always into natural beauty, fresh-faced Nivea girls (like Maisey?) with clean, shining hair pulled into ponytails. He’s the reason I didn’t wear a stitch of makeup as a teenager. After that I’d piled it on in a pathetic attempt to get back at him, even though he wasn’t around to notice or care.

Compromising, I apply another layer of mascara and some eyeliner and leave it at that. Slipping one of the 1950s-style dresses my husband loves over my head, I’m pleased to discover it’s no longer a battle. The fabric slides over my hips without a whimper of protest. It hasn’t fit this well since I learned I was pregnant with Elliot.

Turning to the side, I smooth the dress as I check my figure. My stomach howls, sounding mournful, but I ignore it. I may be starving most of the time, but it’s worth it. I’m finally starting to resemble myself again, no toilet paper or popcorn required.

As I drain the second vodka tonic, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The booze, the gaunt, strained expression, the haunted eyes surrounded by thick makeup. The resemblance is terrifyingly clear.

My God, I’m turning into Alice.

The thought makes me shiver.

Maisey (#ue05d3d18-c9bc-5f0a-832a-05777612b87b)

Caleb and I were walking along the beach, arm in arm again. We’d made a habit of this, going for a walk along the sand every chance we got. This special time, with just the two of us, no Sarah, no Alice, no in-laws and no Lucy, who could be quite exhausting. I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much in another’s company in years, and I could already feel us growing closer. I curled my toes in the sand. This time I was going barefoot. It was freeing.

And yet, that memory of Frankie, of me racing to pull him out of the pool, haunted me. My mother had gone to prison for Frankie’s death. I’d tried to make an effort with her, and after spending a little more time with her, the guilt was eating at me like acid on grime. Even though Peter was gone, she still drank. Because of Frankie? Because of...me?

I kept trying to avoid it, but Lucy was being a bitch. Now that I’d uncovered it, she wanted me to face what I’d done. Constantly, that memory woke me, intruded on my daydreams. I could barely look at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t go near my nephew. How could I go anywhere near another child? After the horrific crime I’d committed? I was disgusted with myself. I hated myself. Lucy was the one who was holding me together, but even she was struggling. If it weren’t for these little reprieves with Caleb, where I could fool myself into thinking everything was fine, everything was normal, that I wasn’t the most evil of human beings, I think I’d go crazy.

I turned my attention to the distraction that was Caleb.

“I still think pasta is better,” he said, and I grinned.

“Nope, noodles, baby. Especially in a spicy peanut sau—” I stopped talking, focused on the single white arm waving feebly just beyond the surf. A young man was out there—a teen, from the looks of it. He was clinging to a surfboard, but his wave was half hearted, as though he was exhausted.

I eyed the water. He was caught in a riptide, I could tell, the waves converging in a triangle closer to the beach, but the whitewash showed the undertow.

I took a step, then froze. I looked back at the house, then out at the surfer who was clinging weakly to his board. I had started this walk as an escape, but we were still within sight of the house, where my sister was, the person who had helped me cover up my part in Frankie’s death. Where Alice was, the woman who had gone to prison for the negligence that had resulted in the drowning death of a child in her care. My baby half brother. Floating facedown in the pool. My family was so near, as was the weight of the past. The sand I stood in was like concrete clinging to my ankles. I swallowed noisily, and cold sweat broke out on my brow.

The boy waved again, but he lost his grip on the surfboard and slid beneath the waves.

You should do something, Lucy prodded. You were a lifeguard. You know what to do.

I can’t. I can’t go in the water. Ever since the day of the picnic, water frightened me. I kept seeing Frankie, pale and lifeless, floating.

This is a chance to redeem yourself.

Do I deserve that? God, Lucy, I’m so scared.

Shh. It’s okay. I’m here for you.

The boy surfaced. Waved. Subsided below the water. Caleb looked at me briefly, then reacted. He whipped his shirt up over his head and kicked his loafers off as he raced across the sand, his uneven stride more noticeable in a run. He was in prime condition, well-muscled and fit, despite his injury. He ran into the sea, lifting his knees high above the waves, his arms arcing out for balance but looking more like angel’s wings as he tried to wade through the crashing foam, before diving under the crest of an oncoming wave.

I watched, my hand to my mouth, as Caleb struggled against the swell. I wanted to go in there, I wanted to dive, to swim—I knew how to do that, but I couldn’t move. Frankie. My mind went through various scenarios, picturing actions I could take, consequences, at lightning speed. Caleb had entered the surf at the wrong spot, I could tell, and was now struggling against the current to reach the surfboard. I bit my lip, feeling absolutely useless. How long had it been?

My heart pounded in my chest, and I shifted my weight from leg to leg, the rocking a surrogate action for the rescue. I looked past the crashing waves, only to see Frankie, so thin, so pale, so eerily still, floating in the water. I blinked a couple of times. No, there was Caleb, his strokes a little sluggish, and then he stopped, treaded water for the briefest of moments as he took a breath, and dived.

Frankie was in the water, facedown, like a zombie in aquatic slumber. I shook my head, tears streaming down my face, and I took a shaky step forward. No. I sobbed, my hands covering my mouth as I tried to relegate memory to the past, and vision to the present. Where was Caleb? Why couldn’t I see his head above water? Please, don’t be like Frankie.

There was a body, facedown. Small and lifeless. I threaded my hands in my hair, gritting my teeth as I tried to stop slipping back in time.

Lucy, please, help me.

I can’t. You’re doing this, not me.

I heard this sound, like a feral cat caught in a drainpipe, and pulled at my hair. The sharp sting of follicles ripping from my scalp brought my focus back, and I realized that feral cat, those raw, keening whimpers, was me.

Waves. Pool. Waves. Caleb. No, Frankie. Panic, cold, chaotic, set me shivering. Trembling. Please, where was Caleb? Again, Frankie’s lifeless body, floating in the water, clouded my vision. Lucy stepped in with the force of a hurricane, pulling me away into a sea of black. I stayed in the darkness, for how long I don’t know. It was quiet here. Peaceful. Why did I feel so panicked? I let the darkness envelope me, cradle me. The darkness was my friend. Just like Lucy. It kept me safe.

Maisey! You can come back now! Lucy’s voice called me, whipping away the dark curtain.

I blinked. Caleb and the kid were standing in the surf. Well, Caleb was standing. The kid had collapsed to his knees once he was out of the foam, coughing as he cleared an enormous amount of water from his lungs, returning the fluid to the sea. Caleb thudded him on the back, then straightened, hands on hips, grimacing as he tried to catch his breath. His chest was heaving, his features drawn, but his relief was evident. Caleb was safe. Just like that. My heart started to slow in its frantic beating. I trotted over to them. The kid wiped his hair off his face, and I saw he was about fifteen, maybe sixteen. Much older than Frankie.

“Dude, you saved my life,” the surfer rasped. “Thanks.”

He looked like he was about to cry. I rubbed his arms and looked him in the eye. “You’re okay, buddy. You’re going to be fine.” The wild look in his eyes calmed, and he swallowed, as though consciously trying to calm himself. His eyes glimmered, and he blinked back the tears.

“Thanks,” he repeated. “I didn’t think I’d make it.”

“Do you need a ride home?” I asked. “Do you want me to call someone? Your mom?”

The kid cringed. “God, no. She’ll kill me when she hears about this.”