Page 30 of No One Can Know

“I don’t like the idea of people gossiping because they saw you out buying milk, or whatever. Getting home and calling their girlfriends to go ‘Oh, remember that psycho teen Emma Palmer, I saw her in the Stop & Shop.’” He put on a mocking little falsetto.

“People aren’t going to stop talking just because I don’t leave the house,” Emma countered. He sounded like her mother, always worried about what everyone else thought. “You aren’t going to leave the house looking like that, are you?”

He threw a hand in the air. “Emma, I am living here. I am in this house, in this town, I amhereeven after you lied to me about all of this. Can you not do this one thing for me? For fuck’s sake. After everything you’ve put me through the last few weeks—”

“Everything I’ve putyouthrough?” Emma asked. “I’m not the only one who screwed up, Nathan. And I’m not going to be a prisoner in this house because you’re worried about gossip.” The heat in her voice surprised her.

He looked at her with a baffled expression. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” he said. “You’re not acting like yourself. Last night, and now this.”

No, she wasn’t acting like herself—not the Emma that he knew, at least. Not the Emma she had created painstakingly, a rebuke to the girl she had been. But now she was home, and that old Emma had been waiting for her here the whole time. A ghost in this house.

Nathan didn’t know that Emma. The one who always chose to fight instead of surrender, the one who was contrary and clever and sometimes cruel. He knew the soft Emma, the quiet Emma, the version who would bend and bend and bend and never break.

“Emma. I love you. I only want to do what’s best for you. For us.” He reached out, a sudden movement that made her flinch, and pulled her in toward him again. She surrendered and murmured a wordless agreement.

He said he wanted what was best for them. But this time, he was wrong. She couldn’t keep hiding from what had happened. She had to know. For herself. For her child. For any hope of a future.

“I’ll stay in. I won’t leave,” she said, lying as she had so many times before.

14DAPHNE

Now

Dale had slipped away peacefully and on schedule. Daphne left her apartment in Colorado for Arden Hills the next day, arriving around the time that an embalmer was slitting open Dale’s veins and shoving in a tube, swapping blood for formalin.

Daphne kept a tiny one-bedroom cottage in town, a few miles away from her childhood home. She’d unpacked her suitcase immediately, putting her clothes away tidily in the drawers. Whenever she traveled, she liked to do that right away. It was a way of having standards. One of her mother’s favorite words, though she meant something different by it.

For Daphne, it wasn’t about appearances, it was about reminding herself that she had value; that wherever she was, she belonged. She’d bought this house when she was twenty-one, newly married, her new last name on all the paperwork. The marriage hadn’t lasted; it hadn’t been meant to last. Jonathan had walked away with a sizable chunk of her money, but she’d kept the cottage. It was hers in a way few things were.

Before she’d left Colorado, she’d gotten a new haircut—sharp, straight bangs and a bob—and a new oak-brown color. It wasn’t the most flattering, but it changed her face, making her look even less like little Daphne Palmer than the years and weight already had. When she’d walked past the house yesterday, in fact, Nathan had been collecting themail out front. She’d almost turned around, but instead she’d walked right past him and nodded and said good morning, and he’d offered only a bland greeting in return before heading back inside.

It had encouraged her enough that she’d gone back this morning. This time, she had a dog with her—Winston, a small gray terrier, getting on in years. Not hers, of course. She’d been a dog walker in Arden Hills under her married name for years. She was good at it, the way she was good at all of her work, and her clients were always thrilled when she was back in town.

Dogs were easy. You just had to work out what they wanted—love, treats, praise—and make them understand what you wanted. A simple matter of communication. She’d messaged her regular clients and had her week booked before she even got into town. It was relaxing work in between her human clients, a way to spend a few weeks or a month or two resetting before she entered into the world of another family’s grief again.

Besides, people didn’t look twice at a fat woman walking a small dog, she’d found, sometimes not even once, and it gave her a plausible excuse to be strolling through the neighborhood.

With Winston in tow early in the morning, she had spotted Nathan’s car pulling out of the driveway. He’d left the gate open behind him, and she knew she shouldn’t, but curiosity got the better of her. She went in through the gate, turning off to the side quickly so no one would see her from the street. She left Winston behind the carriage house, dropping him a few treats to keep him content—he wouldn’t wander off, she’d trained him well over the years—and stole around to the back door of the house. A glance through the windows didn’t turn up any sign of Emma.

The back door proved unlocked. She remembered it creaked when fully opened, so she sidled herself through instead and stood in her parents’ kitchen, waiting for memory to overwhelm her. It didn’t. She felt almost disappointed at the discovery. She’d built this place up so much in her mind.

There was a phone on the counter, plugged in to charge. Daphne turned on the screen. The photo was of Nathan, grinning; the background was a beach. A vacation, maybe. It looked a few years old. Next to it was a bottle of prenatal vitamins. Daphne let out a littleah—all this urgency suddenly made more sense.

She looked through the cupboards briefly, noting the saltines and ginger candies. She listened for any sign of movement, but there was none, so she risked slipping her shoes off and stealing deeper into the house. Everything smelled of dust and cleaning products. The drawers of the credenza in the great room were all opened, the contents heaped or dumped in a trash bag beside it; someone was clearing things out. A little shiver of anxiety went through her. Was there anything left in the house to find?

No. Surely not.

She looked toward the stairs. She had been expecting since she stepped through the gates to be confronted. For Emma to stand in front of her, arms crossed, steel in her eyes—but that was the old Emma, wasn’t it? This Emma didn’t stand firm, she vanished. She receded.

Daphne walked slowly up the stairs, old habit guiding her feet past the places that creaked and sighed. At the top she paused, looking toward the smaller rooms where she and her sisters had slept. Nearly identical, except for the color of the stripes on the walls. And that had been the goal—three girls, identically perfect, distinguished by the color of their hair. Juliette’s dark, Emma’s auburn, Daphne’s wheat-colored, wearing matching white dresses with ribbons at their waists. They had photos from every year just like that. Emma squirmed and made faces through every session, but their mother always managed to find the one in which it seemed as if they were all cooperating, a fraction of a second’s shutter-click securing the illusion of success.

Emma had rebelled; Juliette had conformed and performed her part. Daphne had tried to be invisible, until one day she couldn’t be. Even now, she felt small again, standing in this place. She pressed ahand against her chest, feeling the steady thump of her heart and the strength of her own flesh. She was not that sprig of a girl anymore.

But there was still utility in being invisible, she thought, and padded toward the master bedroom. The door was open a crack. She pushed it open farther and there was Emma, sleeping on her side on top of the covers wearing a T-shirt and shorts. She looked gaunt, Daphne thought, her skin sallow. She wasn’t eating enough.

“Poor thing,” Daphne said under her breath. She stood over her sister, watching her chest rise and fall, waiting for Emma’s eyes to flutter open. She’d be caught. She would have to explain. There would be a joyous reunion—an angry confrontation—a confession, at last, overdue. The possibilities presented themselves one by one, and one by one they faded. Emma slept on.

Daphne drew away, half-reluctant and half-relieved. It wasn’t time yet, she told herself. There were still things she needed to take care of before Emma could know that she was here.

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