Never Look Back. Robert Ross
it all happened. It stood empty for years until Mr. Kaye bought it.” She shook her head. “Hardly the atmosphere to raise a child, you know?”
A cold chill went down Karen’s spine.
“I’m surprised Mr. Kaye never told you.”
“So am I….”
“And Jessie’s so sensitive.” Mrs. Winn reached across the table and took Karen’s hand. “It’s important that you and I get along—for her sake. I’m worried.”
Karen held the older woman’s gaze. “Tell me about her. Philip hasn’t said much about Jessie, except that she’s homeschooled, and—” What were his exact words? She couldn’t remember; she hadn’t really paid much attention. But he had told her something else about Jessie. What was it? All she’d been thinking about was becoming Mrs. Philip Kaye. Karen shrugged. “I know he dotes on her. That much is obvious.”
More perhaps than he dotes on me, Karen thought, immediately regretting it. Still, she couldn’t help but feel that just two weeks after getting married she shouldn’t be here all alone, her husband off on yet another book tour—with how many other pretty young female fans in low-cut blouses approaching him at his readings?
But he married me. I am Mrs. Philip Kaye.
She focused again on Mrs. Winn and talk of Jessie.
“She trusts me, I think,” Mrs. Winn was saying. “But she doesn’t talk to me—I don’t know that she talks to anyone. We talk about her schoolwork, but that’s about it.” She sighed. “After the first Mrs. Kaye’s, um, unfortunate accident, Mr. Kaye took Jessie to some therapists in Boston, but she wouldn’t talk to them either, so he finally gave up on that.”
“How did her mother die?” Philip had been vague about his first wife; whenever Karen had brought the subject up, he’d responded with an abrupt It’s too painful to talk about, I’m sorry, Karen.
Mrs. Winn’s jaw dropped. “You don’t know?”
Karen shook her head.
“Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of so many unpleasant secrets….”
It began to dawn on Karen just how short a time she had known her husband before she married him. It’s what made her parents so anxious about the marriage. There was so much she didn’t know about him and his life—and had been too in awe of him to push for answers. I’m his wife, Karen told herself. Not some starstruck fan. Not anymore. I have a right to know these things.
“Tell me, Mrs. Winn. Please.”
The older woman looked uncomfortable, then seemed to make a decision. “For Jessie’s sake, you should know.” She took a breath. “The first Mrs. Winn hanged herself. Jessie was alone in the house with her. Jessie was the one who found her.”
Chapter 2
There she is again, Chris Muir thought.
He was sitting on a bench on Commercial Street, bored out of his mind, drinking a protein smoothie. He’d already been to the gym that morning, lifting weights and riding the bike. His red T-shirt was stuck to his back with sweat, and his curly dark hair was damp from the exertion.
He watched as the girl in black hurried along the sidewalk, sidestepping dawdling pedestrians. Her long dark hair hung, uncombed, in tangles and knots past her shoulders. She had a heavy canvas bag thrown over her right shoulder, her eyes cast down on the redbrick sidewalk. Her skin was pale with dark circles under her large brown eyes, and her face was free of makeup. She was wearing a plain black T-shirt over black jeans and heavy black combat boots that weren’t tied, the laces flapping as she walked.
Don’t be shy, dumb-ass, say something to her.
He sat up straighter, pulling his stomach in a bit. He slid his headphones, blaring the latest Kenny Chesney CD, down from his ears. This time he was going to talk to her. What’s the worst thing she can say? It’s not like she can kill me or anything.
He steeled his courage. Biting his lip, he took a deep breath, stood up, and stepped right into her path.
She stopped, looked up at him, and stepped around him without a word, her eyes dropping immediately back down to the sidewalk again.
Mentally, he smacked his forehead as he turned and watched her continue on her way. Smooth move, stud, he berated himself, and started walking after her. You’re only going to be here for a few more weeks, and if you don’t talk to her soon, you’ll never get a chance.
Almost six feet five, Chris had just turned sixteen a few months earlier. He’d always been tall and skinny, always the tallest boy in his class, and kids who didn’t like him called him “Ichabod Crane” or “Beanpole.” When he was ten years old, he was already six feet. He didn’t understand where the height came from—both of his parents were under five eight, and none of his relatives were tall. I’m just some kind of genetic freak, he thought whenever he was at a family gathering. His relatives always teased him—more kindly than the kids at school, but it was still teasing. Do you play basketball? How’s the weather up there? Can you see the Pacific Ocean? So funny. Har-de-har-har-har.
He tended to slouch, so as not to seem as tall, but his mother, Lois, always made him stand up straight. “Don’t hunch like that, Chris,” Lois lectured, “you’ll end up with a hunched back. You’re tall; be proud of it.” Easy for her to say, he always thought resentfully.
His parents had bought a house in Truro the previous spring. But as beautiful as the Truro beaches were, there was no there there—no downtown, no shops, no anything—so most days Chris hitched a ride on the shuttle and headed into P-town for the day. Here the crowds were crazy to watch: wacky drag queens, leather-clad lesbians, freaky clowns that ogled the tourists and made grabs for the girls’ tits. Chris had spent the whole summer watching the crowds. Especially the girl dressed all in black.
His parents both taught at Boston College—his father in philosophy, his mother in women’s studies—and both were secure in their positions enough to not teach summer sessions. Their little house tucked away into the Truro woods was nothing like the big house in Boston they called home; it was snug and cozy and, in Chris’s opinion, a little cramped. His mother was working on a book about the suffragette movement; he wasn’t really sure what his father was doing, but he spent hours in front of his computer typing away at something.
Chris didn’t pay any attention when his parents talked about things—his mind just drifted away. He’d learned early on that as far as they were concerned, he just had to listen—or at least give the impression he was hanging on every word. Mostly they talked to each other about any number of things, subjects either that he didn’t care about or that went straight over his head. All he to do was just tune in for a little while, nod his head, then tune back out again. They didn’t really want his opinion on anything—their discussions, their work, or his life. He’d heard his mother tell a colleague once how proud she was that she wasn’t “one of those domineering mothers who made her child goose-step along with her decisions about his life. Chris fully participates in every decision about his future.”
Chris couldn’t help but laugh. He’d just rolled his eyes—behind her back, of course—and nodded assent as though it were gospel. But every decision affecting his life had been made for him—all that was required of him was to meekly bow his head and go along with it. He didn’t want to go to Thomas More Prep—he was painfully shy and had trouble making friends, and he wanted to stay with the kids he’d been with since grade school. But going to Thomas More Prep would almost certainly get him “into Harvard,” his mother said, “and then your future will be assured.”
He didn’t really want to go to Harvard, either, but that was another story.
He was also a virgin, a deep secret he kept from his classmates at Thomas More Prep, the all-male boarding school in Connecticut he’d begun attending as a freshman. He was relatively certain that most of the other boys were virgins too—all the talk around