A flash of blinding rage came over me. All the indignities I suffered over the last several years came rushing back to me. How could she? How could you do that to your own mother?
And then I lifted the shovel and brought it down on her skull. Again. And again.
She went down easier than I thought she would. I’ve always thought of April as being tough—a fighter. But in the end, a shovel was all it took.
I lost count of how many times I hit her. But eventually, she wasn’t moving anymore. There was blood everywhere. In a puddle on the sidewalk and leaking from her skull, obscuring her face. And I realized she was dead.
I killed her. I killed my daughter.
I stood there, trying to feel some emotion—love, regret, sorrow. But I felt nothing. Only a sense of relief. Maybe it was all the medications.
My first instinct was to run. I had finally gotten free of that wretched nursing home and I was free of April forever. I could disappear somewhere so they would never catch me. After the medications had completely worn off, I’d be able to think straight again and make a new life for myself.
But then it hit me. I had no money. No ID. In another few hours, Deborah would report her car stolen and me missing. How long would it take for the police to catch up with me? It would be so easy for them to find me. They’d know I killed April, and then I’d be in a place much worse than a nursing home. I’d be in jail. With no chance of escape.
But if I went back to the nursing home and returned the keys to Deborah’s purse, she would never know I was gone. Even if she suspected it, she wouldn’t be able to say anything to anyone, because it would mean her job. And then I would have the perfect alibi when they found April’s body. How could I have killed her if I was in the nursing home all night long?
And now that April was dead, there would be no one there to keep me locked up anymore.
Ten minutes later, I was walking back into the nursing home. 9419. The thought of being back here made me sick, but I knew I would be free soon. April couldn’t keep me locked up anymore. Deborah was nowhere in sight and I dropped her keys back in her purse. I had thrown the shovel into the wooded area by the nursing home. It probably wouldn’t snow for weeks—by the time it did, she wouldn’t make the connection.
The next morning, I expected somebody to tell me April had died. But they didn’t. And then that policeman, Hanrahan, came to ask me questions about April. He wanted to know all about her and what she did. He told me she’s probably going to go to jail for a long time thanks to me.
But I don’t understand. How could April go to jail? Because April is dead.
And I’m the one who killed her.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Whenever I finish a book, the first thing I think to myself is, “Oh God, now I have to show this to people.” Thank goodness I’ve always got people who are willing to have a look! Thank you to my mother, for your boundless and unbridled enthusiasm. Thank you to Kate, for the positive supportive feedback. Thank you to Jen for your always insightful critiques. Thanks to Rebecca, for your great advice. Thanks to Nelle, for your thorough corrections. Thanks to Ken, for your no-nonsense advice. Thanks to Rhona, for always being ready to look at another cover. Thanks to my amazing writing group.
Thank you to the rest of my family, for letting me share my own baking secrets with you. The secret to a delicious meal is having someone to cook for.
Did you enjoy reading Want to Know a Secret?
If so, please send me an email at [email protected]. I would love to hear from you. Or consider leaving a review on Amazon!
Check out my website at: http://www.freidamcfadden.com/
Also, even though I have my books combed for typos multiple times by multiple people, there are some superhuman strains of mutant typos that always seem to survive. If you find any typos and point them out to me so I can fix them, I would eternal grateful.
（The above typo was supposed to be amusing.） Also, please enjoy a short excerpt of my new book, One by One…
ONE BY ONE
ANONYMOUS
There will be six of us.
Six adults. Stuffed into a six-person minivan like sardines, with all the luggage we felt we couldn’t possibly live without during our vacation at a swanky luxury inn. Our reservation is for six days. Six days of hiking and hot tubs. Six days away from civilization.
My mother was a religious woman. That’s how I know that on the sixth day, both man and serpent were created. You know—the snake that eventually convinced Adam and Eve to eat the forbidden fruit and got them kicked out of the Garden of Eden forever? That’s why the number six represents both man and the evil that weakens him.
In Revelation, 666 is the number of the devil.
The sixth Commandment is thou shalt not kill.
Six is not a nice number.
I’m not religious. I don’t go to church. I don’t believe in a higher power. Six is just like any other number to me. But I know that every single one of these six people has a secret they don’t want anyone to know.
I can tell you my secret right now:
At the end of this week, only one of us will make it home alive.
CLAIRE
I don’t know when I started to hate my husband.
I didn’t always. When we tied the knot over ten years ago, we held hands and I swore I would love him forever. Until death did us part. And I meant it. I meant it with every fiber of my being. I genuinely believed I would be married to Noah Matchett for the rest of my life. I fantasized about the two of us growing old together—holding hands while sitting in matching rocking chairs in a retirement home. And when the minister declared us husband and wife, I patted myself on the back for choosing the right guy.
I’m not sure what happened between then and now. But I can’t stand the guy anymore.
“Where’s my UChicago shirt, Claire?”
Noah is hunched over the top drawer of his dresser, his eyebrows bunched together as his hazel eyes stare down into the contents of the drawer. He clears his throat, which is what he always does when he’s concentrating hard on something. I used to find it cute and endearing. Now I find it irritating. Nails on a chalkboard irritating.
“I don’t know.” I grab a couple of shirts out of my own dresser drawer and shove them into the brown luggage gaping open on our bed. “It’s not in the drawer?”
He looks up from the drawer and purses his lips. “If it were in the drawer, why would I be asking you about it?”
Hmm. Maybe this is why I hate my husband. Because he’s become a huge jerk.
“I don’t know where your shirt is.” I start sifting through my bras. How many bras do you bring for a weeklong trip? I’m never certain. “It’s your shirt.”
“Yeah, but you did the laundry.”
“So?” I stuff four bras into my luggage—that should be enough. “Do you think while I’m doing laundry, I’m thinking to myself, ‘Oh, here’s Noah’s UChicago shirt—better put that somewhere special, instead of the drawer where I put every other shirt of his I’ve ever washed in the history of doing laundry’？”
He rolls his eyes at me and sifts through the drawer one more time. “Well, it’s not in here.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Noah.”
He rubs at the dark stubble on his chin that has a hint of gray. He hasn’t shaved in three days, because he’s been working from home. He doesn’t care what he looks like unless he has to go to work. “Maybe you put it in Aidan’s dresser by mistake?”