All the Lovely Pieces Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Jennifer Snow

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542041591

  ISBN-10: 1542041597

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  To Marion at Audreys Books—thank you for believing in this book before I even knew what I was writing.

  CONTENTS

  AUGUST

  Drew

  Catherine

  Michael

  Drew

  Catherine

  Drew

  Michael

  Catherine

  Drew

  SEPTEMBER

  Drew

  Michael

  Catherine

  Drew

  OCTOBER

  Drew

  Drew

  Catherine

  Drew

  NOVEMBER

  Drew

  Drew

  Michael

  Drew

  DECEMBER

  Drew

  Catherine

  Drew

  Catherine

  Drew

  Catherine

  FEBRUARY

  Drew

  Catherine

  Drew

  MARCH

  Drew

  MAY

  Drew

  Michael

  Catherine

  Drew

  JUNE

  Drew

  Drew

  Michael

  Drew

  LATE JUNE

  Drew

  Catherine

  Drew

  Catherine

  Drew

  Catherine

  Michael

  Drew

  Michael

  Drew

  Drew

  DAYS LATER . . .

  Drew

  AUGUST

  Drew

  Michael

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AUGUST

  Drew

  This doesn’t feel right. But I can’t remember the last time something has.

  “Drew and Michael?”

  “Yes,” I say, forcing a smile as the principal of Northcrest Elementary appears in her office doorway, gesturing us inside.

  Michael hides behind me as we enter the office, and, turning to him, I give him my best reassuring look. “It’s okay.”

  I hand the principal the school-enrollment forms I’ve filled out and hold Michael’s hand as I sit. He refuses the other chair, standing next to me. His dark-brown hair covers his dark-brown eyes, and I wish I’d cut his hair the day before. His slightly too-short jeans and faded T-shirt tug at my chest. We need to go shopping for new clothes.

  “It’s completely normal to be nervous, but there’s nothing to be worried about. Mrs. Harper is so excited that you’ll be joining her class this year,” Principal Bradley says, taking a seat behind her desk. As she reads the forms I’ve filled out, I study her. She’s exactly what I’d pictured. Her appearance matches her voice. Thin, well dressed, polished. She nods as she reads each and every word on the form, as if wanting to prove that she’s actually reading.

  The air-conditioning inside her office is doing nothing to prevent sweat from forming on my lower back beneath my sweater, and my mouth feels like I’ve eaten a piece of blackboard chalk.

  This is a mistake.

  Her gaze lifts slowly, and I know what she’s going to ask.

  She glances at Michael, then slides the papers toward me. “I see you’ve left this section incomplete.”

  She’s pointing to the information regarding Michael’s other parent.

  My gaze doesn’t falter. My voice wouldn’t dare crack. “He passed away.”

  A look of sympathy flashes in her eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She glances at Michael, but my little boy has never known a father. He has nothing to miss.

  “It was a long time ago,” I say.

  She nods and pushes her red-rimmed glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Well, we do ask to have something on record . . .”

  “I understand. I’ll try to find the documents once we finish unpacking.” We just moved here last week. Liberty, Missouri. Kind of ironic. But at least the car didn’t break down and strand us in Avila. I shiver remembering the old ghost town, famed for its sordid history and myths of shadow walkers seen roaming the deserted streets at night. Small towns are a sanctuary, but a hundred people was too small. I’m trying to slay my demons, not acquire new ones.

  “No rush. Moving is a nightmare. Whenever you find it is fine. Is there anyone else authorized to pick Michael up from school—a grandparent? Aunt or uncle?” The emergency-contact section has been left blank as well.

  “No.”

  “I don’t have grandparents or any aunts or uncles.” Michael speaks for the first time. “It’s just me and her.”

  Her. Jesus. I’m his mother. I’m the only person he’s ever really talked to, interacted with, had a relationship with.

  I’m fine with that.

  Principal Bradley smiles. “Liberty is a very welcoming place. You’ll make a lot of new friends quickly.”

  I’m grateful for the effort to put Michael at ease, so I can’t explain the twisting in my stomach and the urge to walk out of the office.

  Michael will still need me, even if there are other people in his life.

  “Have you purchased the required school supplies for the year?”

  I nod. The one and only silver lining in my shitty-ass life is that I never have to worry about money.

  “I think everything he needs is in his backpack, but if I’m missing anything, please let me know.” We’d made the trip to Walmart the day before, and he’d been excited about starting school.

  Six and a half hours a day away from me doesn’t excite me at all. We’ve spent every moment together since leaving Seattle, and the fear and uncertainty I’m struggling with from leaving him in the care of strangers five days a week have me reconsidering this.

  The principal studies us. She’s wondering how this tiny, skinny kid is ready for fourth grade.

  “Ow . . . Mom,” he says, yanking his hand out of mine.

  I see the shape of my nails in the palm of his hand. “Sorry, sweetheart.” I clench my hands tightly on my lap. Everything will be fine. He is safe at school.

  I try to focus my blurring vision on Principal Bradley. I can’t afford a blackout right now. I stare at the cross-shaped pendant hanging around her neck. Gold, tarnished, most likely a cherished family heirloom. I finger the fabric of my pants—soft, silky, worn—and I breathe in the scent of the lilacs in the vase on her desk.

  “Here is just an additional media-release form that we need signed,” Principal Bradley is saying. “Permission to take photos, video—”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry . . .”

  She frowns. “Okay. It’s not required. But they are only used in the yearbook and some online for the school website.”

  Michael looks too much like his father . . .

  So much so that looking at him sometimes hurts. Why couldn’t h
e have my hair color, eye color, skin tone?

  “I understand, but I’d rather not.”

  She takes the form back and checks the “no” box. “No problem. Unfortunately, it means Michael may not be able to participate in certain school activities, as there is usually photography of some sort, and we can’t guarantee he won’t be in the shot.”

  I swallow the guilt. No birthday parties. No playdates. No friends. Now, no school concerts or field trips. The list of things Michael has never experienced or may ever experience keeps growing.

  Michael is staring at the floor, and my heart shatters. I want him to have a normal childhood. I’m doing my best, but it’s not nearly enough.

  Principal Bradley stands, and so do we. “Why don’t I show you to your class?” she asks Michael.

  His eyes are wide and tear filled as he looks at me. “Mom, can you stay?”

  There’s my baby . . .

  “Of course she can,” Principal Bradley says quickly.

  This time my smile is genuine and grateful. I can stay in the classroom—be there to watch . . . keep him safe. He needs me.

  I take his hand, and we follow her down the empty, echoing halls. The building smells old and musty, the new coat of paint on the walls trying and failing to hide its many years. It’s only been a week since school started, and already the place feels in full swing. A trophy case boasts the school’s accomplishments, and, next to it, a row of staff photos lines the gray concrete walls. I scan the faces of the people whom I am now entrusting with my son’s well-being.

  Tightness in my chest as Principal Bradley stops outside Mrs. Harper’s classroom.

  “Here we are. Ready, Michael?”

  He nods, peeking around the classroom door.

  Several smiling kids wave at him, and the teacher stops instructing to turn to us. “Wonderful—our new student has arrived.” Mrs. Harper is shorter than I am, thin, plain looking, with kind eyes. Not exactly a worthy rival for a crazy gun-wielding madman should one enter the classroom, but then neither am I.

  My grip tightens on Michael’s hand once again, and he releases his hold on mine as he glances up at me.

  “You know, Mom, I think I’ll be okay by myself.”

  A look flashes in his eyes that confuses me, but, aware of Principal Bradley’s intense stare, I accept his bravery for the good thing it is. “Okay. Great. You got this,” I say, bending to hug him tight.

  It’s just six and a half hours. He’s safe here.

  “Let go, Mom.” His voice makes the hair on my arms stand up, and I release him quickly.

  “Have a good day, sweetheart.”

  He waves as he enters the classroom, and the teacher shows him his backpack hook on the wall.

  I stand there, staring into the room. Sandpaper in my mouth, desperation strangling my breath.

  Come on, Michael. Say you want to leave.

  I’ll gladly take him home. But he takes his seat and doesn’t even glance my way.

  Principal Bradley closes the classroom door and turns to me with a knowing smile. “It’s always harder on the parents.”

  She has no idea.

  I lie awake at night. Every creak of this old house threatens my peace of mind. The dampness in the muggy non-air-conditioned room is not solely responsible for the beads of sweat forming on my skin. I know he’s looking for me. To make me pay for what I’ve done. And I know someday he’ll find me. It’s impossible to run forever.

  Seven states in nine years. The smallest, middle-of-nowhere towns that all share one thing in common—tiny corners of the earth that aren’t worth searching. Nonexciting, no claims to fame, just small dots on a map that I find by instinct, by feel.

  I allow my eyes to close for a moment, knowing exhaustion will eventually win and that I’ll be helpless until morning. I feel for the blade under my pillow, hoping it someday won’t be used as a weapon against me. Having it there terrifies me. Being without it isn’t an option.

  I feel my past drawing closer. I sense our peace is short lived. I never make the mistake of letting my guard down or forgetting my sins.

  I’m only desperate to remember the extent of them.

  The house is quiet for an instant, and the absence of the usual creaking, the dripping faucet in the bathroom, the tree branches brushing against the bedroom window, only makes me strain to hear even more.

  I hate nighttime.

  The drip, drip, drip of the bathroom faucet resumes, keeping time with the old grandfather clock in the hallway, and I open my eyes. The yellowing ceiling tiles above my head suggest water damage at one point. Our new balding, pear-shaped landlord promised the ceiling won’t collapse and crush me in my sleep.

  Death would almost be a welcome pleasure. I long for an escape from my own mind, but there isn’t one.

  Drip, drip, drip. Tick, tick, tick.

  I wish the nights passed more quickly.

  I often try to figure out exactly when my life became a nightmare. A warped, twisted pastime. From the beginning, Adam had been a drug, one I couldn’t get enough of, who became unavailable, unattainable, when I needed it most. I suspect the lies started the first time his gaze swept over me with a promise of a more exciting existence.

  My life certainly hadn’t been boring.

  And from beyond the iron gates leading to the multimillion-dollar home, I’d once had it all. Everything money could buy.

  Everything except peace.

  I don’t think I’ll ever have it. Images of the perfect porcelain skin, silky dark hair, and dead, unseeing eyes lying on the floor of my son’s nursery haunt me relentlessly. But they exist in a vacuum, with no context for closure. For certainty.

  The deep-blue walls of the nursery close in around me . . . or is it the glass windows of an office?

  There’s blood. Lots of blood. Vibrant red and seeping into the carpet under the lifeless body.

  Not mine. Whose?

  I shut my eyes tight, trying to untangle the images that have haunted me for so long. It doesn’t make sense. In my memory I’m not holding a weapon that night.

  Night? No, it had to have been daytime. I remember sunlight streaming through the windows.

  I need to get these details right.

  Behind my closed lids, I envision my body moving closer to the victim . . . images of a woman change into a man. I’m desperate to see the face, to see if this person is still breathing. Michael’s nanny was a woman, yet the blood oozes from a bullet hole in a man I don’t know.

  Two dead bodies tangle in the fractured images.

  The sound of a gunshot ringing in my ears and the slash of a knife across a throat are the only clear impressions in my memory.

  Somewhere, two people are dead, and I know I killed one of them.

  I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the antique wooden bed. The furniture came with the house—I don’t care about mismatched tables and chairs or ugly, dated curtains. My surroundings hardly matter. We don’t stay in a place long enough to entertain the thought of making the walls around us a home.

  I’m a shitty mother for not wanting better for my son.

  I slide the knife from beneath the pillow. The shiny, sharp blade reflects the contours of my face, distorting the appearance, so only the darkness shows against the dim lighting of the room. Light from a lamp that never gets turned off.

  I touch the point of the knife and clench my jaw. It could all be over so quickly . . .

  Knife in hand, I go downstairs, skipping the second-to-last step at the bottom. Its particular creak is louder than the others. Several boxes of our personal items—the few that made the trip with us—sit unpacked on the kitchen floor. Even the new cheap set of dishes I bought at the Walmart outside town haven’t been put away.

  I haven’t had a home in nine years; why should the dishes feel settled?

  I open the kitchen door and scan the backyard, eyes straining in the dark, as moths circle my head, buzzing around the flickering back-door light. It’s humi
d as hell, and the deck is slippery with condensation under my bare feet as I climb down the two steps into the yard. The overgrown grass tickles my bare ass as I pull down my underwear and squat low, freeing my bladder, the knife still clenched in one hand.

  The toilet has been broken for two days, and I haven’t been able to fix it. I’ll call the landlord in the morning, but the idea of drawing attention to us isn’t appealing. He already looks at us with suspicion, especially since I’ve asked to prepay three months’ rent in cash, offering extra for him to register the utilities in his name.

  I pull up my underwear and hurry back inside, relocking the three dead bolts on the kitchen door. I turn off the lights in the kitchen and flick on the ones in the living room; I check the three dead bolt locks on the front door and the ones I’ve attached to the windows.

  A false sense of security. For all I know, the danger is inside this house.

  I climb the staircase back to the second floor, and, passing Michael’s room, I see the light on. Stopping at the open doorway, I glance inside. He has the sheet pulled high over his head; one pajama leg sticks out from beneath the quilted bedspread. His favorite stuffed animal—a bunny named Mr. Floppy—is next to him for protection. Nightmares and shadows in the dark threaten his safety.

  He had a good first day at school, and I wish that made me feel better.

  I go back into my room and lie on top of the covers; I slide the knife back in place as I stare at the ceiling.

  A loud noise shatters the silence, and my heart races.

  But it isn’t the sound of footsteps or glass breaking. It’s the hum of the old refrigerator kicking in. I haven’t learned all the noises in this house yet. I catalog it in my mind as a nonthreatening sound.

  I take a deep breath as I lie here, waiting. I know eventually I’ll run out of places to hide, lies to tell. My time will be up.

  Catherine

  I sit and stare into this broken acrylic mirror.

  A thick, white, unfading scar across my neck—a constant reminder that the world is not a safe place.

  A painful reminder of the child I lost.

  I touch my barely noticeable stomach, willing this new baby to move. It hasn’t in days. I’m not sure I can handle another miscarriage. I hardly start to show before it’s all over.