Public Secrets

interestingly.
But Michael looked wonderful.
Michael Kesselring, she thought. Of course the paper hadn’t printed his name, hadn’t bothered to find it out. It had been her the press had been interested in. But all the girls had squealed over Michael and demanded to know who he was and if Emma had had a summer romance.
It had made her feel very grown-up to talk about him. Of course, she’d embellished the tale more than a little, about how he’d carried her in his arms, given her mouth-to-mouth, pledged his undying love. She didn’t think Michael would mind—especially since he’d never know about it.

With a sigh, she replaced the clipping and took out another. It was the one Teresa had brought over the night Emma had had her ears pierced. She couldn’t count the number of times she had taken it out, stared at it, studied it, tried to dissect it. Her eyes were constantly drawn to her mother’s face, frightened as they searched and searched for some resemblance. But not all heredity could be seen, she knew. She was a very good student, and had taken a special interest in biology when discussions of heredity and genes had come up.
That was her mother, and there was no denying it. She had grown inside that woman, had been born from her. No matter how many years had passed, Emma could still smell the stink of gin, she could still feel the pinches and slaps and hear the curses.
It terrified her—terrified her so that just looking at the picture had her digging bitten-down nails into her palms, had the palms themselves sweating.
On a choked cry, she tore her gaze from Jane’s picture and looked at her father’s. She prayed every night she was like him—kind, gentle, funny, fair. He had saved her. She had read the story often enough, and even without the printed words, she remembered. The way he had looked when she’d climbed out from under the sink, the kindness in his voice when he had spoken to her. He’d given her a home, and a life without fear. Even though he had sent her away, she would never forget the years he had given her. That he and Bev had given her.
It was hardest to look at Bev somehow. She was so beautiful, so perfect. Emma had never loved another woman more, never needed one more. And to look at her made it impossible not to think of Darren. Darren who had had the same rich dark hair and soft green eyes. Darren whom she had sworn to protect. Darren who had died.
Her fault, Emma thought now. She was never to be forgiven for it. Bev had sent her away. Her father had sent her away. She would never have a family again.
She put it away, and spent some time going through older clippings. Pictures of herself as a child, pictures of Darren, the wide, stark headlines about the murder. These she kept hidden deep in her drawer, knowing if the nuns found them and told her father, he would get that sad, hurt look in his eyes. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she couldn’t forget.

She read the stories through, though she could have recited them by heart by this time. Looking, she was always looking for something new, something that would tell her why it had happened, how she might have stopped it.
There was nothing. There never was.
There were new clippings now—pictures and stories about Bev and P.M. Some said Bev would at last get a divorce and marry P.M. Others played up the juicy angle of two men who had been like brothers torn apart by a woman. There was the announcement of Devastation’s new label, Prism, and pictures of the party in London on the day it had become official. There was her father with another new woman, and again with Johnno and P.M. and Pete. But not Stevie. With a sigh, Emma took out another clipping.
Stevie was in a clinic where they put drug abusers. They called him an addict. Others called him a criminal. Emma remembered she’d once thought he was an angel. Emma thought he looked tired in the picture, tired and thin and afraid. The papers said it was a tragedy; they said it was an outrage. Some of the girls snickered about it.
But no one would talk to her. When she had questioned her father, he had told her only that Stevie had lost control and was getting help. She wasn’t to worry.
But she did worry. They were her family, the only family she had left. She had lost Darren. She had to make sure she didn’t lose the rest.
Carefully, in her best penmanship, she began to compose letters.

Chapter Seventeen

S TEVIE READ HIS in the sunlight, as he sat on a stone bench in