The Mother's Fault

by Nicole Trope

Genres: Coming of Age; Family Life; Women's Fiction; Noir; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

I am cooking spaghetti, his favourite, while he plays in the garden. But when I look up, he’s gone. I call the police, my hands shaking so much that I hit the wrong digits twice. ‘My son is missing.’

When the police turn up, I’m trapped in the web of my lies.

I have hidden the truth from eight-year-old Riley, my little boy who loves climbing trees and always has scraped knees. I have hidden my secret from everyone.

Riley knows his father is dead but he has no idea why. He doesn’t know his dad’s real name, and there are no pictures in the house. Not a single person knows what happened eight years ago.

I love my son more than anything but the truth is, I have always feared for him. When the first gift arrived in our mailbox, wrapped in blue paper with silver stars, I realised I was right to be afraid.

Now, I can see the question in the detectives’ eyes. Am I a mother with a missing child or a mother with a lot to hide? I need them to save my son – but how much can I tell them, without losing him forever?

A totally gripping psychological thriller that will get your pulse racing like crazy as it hits you with twist after twist after twist! If you loved The Wife Between Us or The Girl on the Train you’ll be utterly glued to this page-turner.

Readers love Nicole Trope:

‘Wow!!! Wow!!! Wow!!! This book is a total page-turner and will keep you guessing with every page.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Omg! Omg!… My son came in and asked me who I was yelling at?! (I was yelling at my e-reader)… LOL, my heart is still beating crazy!… OK, I have to go now. I need a big glass of wine to calm down!’ Ana's Attic Guest Reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Oh my GOSH!!!!!! I read this emotionally charged, compellingbook in one sitting. Whoa,my emotions are ALL over the place!!!’ NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘I’ve never been soooooo engrossed in a book from the first pages. Amazing, emotional and just wow!!’ NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Simply brilliant… Almost gave me an aneurysm in my attempt to finish it.’ @rk_reads, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Absolutely amazing!… So so good with so many twists and surprises. I could not put it down and read it in 24 hours!’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘After reading this book I realise I use the phrase “page-turner” too much, because THIS was a true PAGE-TURNER. I read it in one sitting.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Release date: October 15, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

It’s a strange find for the father and daughter beachcombing at sunrise on the normally busy beach.

‘If you want a chance to find anything with that metal detector,’ the father had told his daughter the night before, ‘then we need to be on the beach as the sun comes up. We’re not the first people to think that a beach holds lost treasures.’

They had crept out of the house while it was still dark, not wanting to wake the rest of the family, and they had been only mildly disappointed to find they were not the first ones there. Four or five others with their own metal detectors had the same idea. An old man nodded and smiled as they walked onto the beach. ‘I’m over here for now,’ he called, letting them know to stay off his patch.

The summer heat from the night before still lingered and both father and daughter enjoyed the slight salt breeze that came off the ocean.

‘Let’s go closer to the shoreline,’ the father said and his daughter skipped ahead of him, her long dark hair flying in the wind. Half an hour later they had found nothing but bottle caps and low-value coins, when the daughter spotted something different in the grey-blue sea as waves gently crested around her feet.

‘What’s that?’ she asked her father, pointing.

‘It’s… hmm, stay there, let me see.’ He waded in, regretting that he had not thought to wear swim trunks as the water lapped against the top of his thighs. ‘Huh, look at that,’ he said, holding the piece of deep blue material up to show his daughter.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a onesie, you know, like for a baby.’

‘Ew, gross,’ said the daughter. ‘Throw it away.’

‘It looks like there’s some sort of stain on it…’

‘Dad, it’s completely gross – can you just throw it away?’

‘Yeah…’ the father muttered, wading out of the balmy water and tossing the onesie in the nearest bin.

Two weeks later, when the father reads about a body washing up on another beach many, many kilometres away, bloated and swollen to the point where it cannot be identified until forensic tests are carried out, he doesn’t think to connect the two.

Why would he?

Beverly watches Riley spoon cereal into his mouth, chewing and crunching the Cheerios with fierce concentration. He always eats like this, as though it needs to be his complete focus. She wonders what he will be like as a teenager and a young man one day. Will he still eat the same way he does as an eight-year-old, his jaw tensed and frantic, or will he have learned to relax? He stops eating and takes a sip of the hot chocolate that she makes for him every morning because even as a toddler he wanted to have ‘coffee’ like she did.

She sips her actual coffee as she watches him. She can’t seem to stomach breakfast anymore. ‘Reflux,’ her doctor has told her. ‘Maybe don’t have coffee in the morning.’ Beverly understands that this would be the logical thing to do, to start off with some food that would fill her stomach and soothe away the acid that the pills aren’t doing a very good job of controlling, but she’s not giving up her coffee for anything. Sleep does not come easily. It hasn’t for many years now and she needs coffee to get through the morning. She’s a bit young for reflux, but then she’s probably a bit young for her whole life.

Many years ago, Beverly made a decision to not question her life, to not think about how she was going to make it through the day until she’d had a cup of coffee. She still stands by that decision.

At first, it was a way to get out of bed to a crying baby at dawn when she’d had little sleep the night before. She would hear him begin the small snuffling sounds that eventually worked up to full-blown wailing and she would open her eyes and stare at the ceiling, her eyes gritty, her body exhausted. But before she allowed any other thoughts to form, she would remind herself, Once he’s been fed and changed, I can have my first cup of coffee. She would picture the large white mug, filled with caramel-coloured coffee and a spoon and a half of sugar, and imagine the creamy taste that came from using full-cream milk. She’d been overweight then, trying and failing at one diet after another, but she isn’t anymore. Food became something to simply fuel her body all those years ago, something to allow her to function. The needs of a baby come first and, after that, what she mostly craved was sleep. Before she made what she now calls ‘the coffee decision’, Riley’s morning cries would cause her eyes to prick with tears. What have I done? How will I cope? How will I ever have enough money? Is this a mistake? The ‘coffee decision’ made it easier for Beverly to swing her legs out of bed and greet Riley with a smile.

She enjoys watching Riley eat. His face lights up with new tastes and he’ll eat pretty much anything, or at least give it a try once. They share a takeaway once a week on a Friday night and although he loves pizza more than anything, he is happy enough to have a Thai curry or a Chinese stir-fry. They both love Mexican. It’s only Monday but she’s already looking forward to Friday. She wishes she didn’t think like this, but she’s sad and exhausted and she could use a day or two of doing nothing. Although she will still have the washing and the cleaning and her studying, so she supposes she’ll never actually get a day of doing nothing. Instagram accounts of people her age are stacked with pictures of elaborate cocktails and faraway beaches, skiing holidays and meals in expensive restaurants. She tries not to look and if she looks, not to envy. Finish your coffee, Beverly. Just finish your coffee.

‘We need to leave in ten minutes or you’ll miss the first bell at school,’ she says.

‘I know,’ Riley replies and he lifts the bowl up and drinks the milk, making as loud a slurping sound as he possibly can. He puts the bowl down with a clunk and she winces, imagining the state of the table underneath the yellow plastic cloth. He is not a gentle child. ‘You say the same thing every morning.’

‘Yes, well,’ she agrees because he’s right. He stands up from the small kitchen table, roughly shoving his chair back, and she opens her mouth to tell him to brush his teeth and grab his hat, but then closes it instead and he grins.

‘I’ll go brush my teeth and grab my hat,’ he says, making her laugh.

His teachers call him ‘spirited’, or ‘full of energy’, sometimes ‘boisterous’. They have a lot of different words for what he really is in class, which is disruptive and occasionally rude. Too disruptive? Too rude? She feels like there’s some sort of memo she missed on raising a child. The other mothers at the school gates seem to know exactly what to do in any situation. She watches them, listens to them, while she waits for Riley, her ears tuned for exchanges of information she’s reluctant to ask for. They would be friendly enough, she supposes, if she just stepped forward and said, ‘Hello,’ but she worries about saying the wrong thing, about giving too much away.

She can see the way they look at her when Riley calls her ‘Mum’. ‘My goodness,’ his teacher from last year said on parent–teacher night, ‘and how old—’

‘Twenty,’ Beverly replied before the teacher could finish the question. ‘I was twenty when I had him.’ It’s a lie. She was actually only eighteen, but people tend to look at teenage mothers a certain way, make an assessment a certain way. A single teenage mother is met with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. It’s why she works so hard at getting everything right, at making sure that Riley arrives at school with a full lunch box and a clean uniform every day. She makes sure that he never leaves homework undone and that he’s always got his hat and his sports kit on sports days. Things that other mothers brush off, like forgetting to send in money for an excursion, bother Beverly because they make her feel that she’s failing. She cannot fail at this.

The ancient fridge wheezes in the moment of silence in the kitchen and she sends it a look. Don’t you dare die on me. She’s saving up for a new one but she needs a good few more months. The whole kitchen needs to be redone but that’s a faraway dream. The granite countertop is chipped in many places, white flecks showing through the black, and the shelves in the cupboards are warped with time and the weight of many dishes. The pantry is small and always overcrowded because she buys in bulk to save money. Stop this. Be grateful the house is paid off and you and Riley have a place to live. Her mind is not allowed to wander to the thought of why the house is paid off and why she and Riley live here alone. Thoughts like that are for late nights and bottles of wine and maybe a distracting movie.

Beverly finishes the last drop in her cup and stands up from the kitchen table to get her keys as she hears the water in the bathroom gushing into the sink, even though she’s told him to turn it off until he’s ready to rinse. A couple of years ago she had been able to use the excuse of the drought, but now the main dam in Sydney is filled and he knows this, so she can’t tell him that he needs to save water for his future. Children don’t think beyond today and right now. The winter rain has been a constant source of irritation for Riley who likes to be outside. For Beverly it has meant buckets and towels and leaks everywhere. Roofs are expensive to repair. She’s as pleased as Riley is that the wet weather has eased for now. Now is all she should think about anyway. That’s what one of the meditations she listened to told her. Get through today and then get through tomorrow.

It’s easy enough to remain present with Riley, whose moods shift and change with the weather, with what’s for dinner, with how much homework he has, with how many times he scored in basketball. When she looks at him, she can’t imagine him beyond this age of eight, beyond the slightly crooked front teeth and the freckles that appear on his nose despite sunscreen. She can’t see him beyond the scraped knees because climbing trees is a favourite occupation, his skinny legs moving so quickly she fears for his safety. She knows that one day Riley will drop the iPad he insists on carrying up there with him so he can play Roblox – an online game program where the players create the games, she has learned from his very serious lectures on the subject – while he surveys the garden from the special branch he loves where a platform has been built for him. Don’t think about who built it.

In her mind she cannot see him aging past this time, this moment of sea-green eyes and short, straight brown hair with a slight kink at the front. In her mind he is always eight, but she knows that she felt the same way when he was a baby and a toddler. She looks back at that time with a level of sweet nostalgia despite it being so difficult. It was filled with pain. Every day was a terrible struggle, but it got easier after she made the decision to not think, to just do, and not allow her mind to wander until after her first cup of coffee. Everything always looked better after that first cup.

‘Come on, Mum,’ he says and Beverly realises that she’s standing at the back door holding her keys and staring into space.

‘Sorry, love,’ she replies, and she opens the door that leads on to the paved, cracked driveway. It’s the perfect winter’s day. Real cold has not set in yet because it’s only June and if you stand in the sun, it’s actually quite warm. In the shade, there is a slight bite of winter in the air. It doesn’t feel like it will ever get really cold, but Beverly knows that in August she won’t be able to believe that summer will ever return. August in Sydney is usually filled with rain and gusty winds.

Riley runs down the driveway towards her car, his large black backpack on his back. ‘Got your lunch?’ she calls.

‘Yes, Mum, come on.’

Beverly sighs as she looks at her car, examining the dent at the front for signs of rust. She needs to get it fixed but she is actually hoping to just sell it as it is and get something new. Well, new second-hand. At least not dented and hopefully with an air conditioner that works. ‘Please let me buy you a new one,’ Ethan had said when they discussed it.

But she had always refused and now Ethan is no longer in the picture, is, sadly, no longer her boyfriend. I had no choice. He got too close. I have Riley to protect.

‘But why?’ he had asked when she finally told him it was over because she could see him working up to asking her the big question.

‘I need to do what’s best for Riley,’ was her lame answer. I’m afraid of what will happen if you’re with me all the time. I’m afraid that the truth will come out and then you’ll look at me differently. I’m afraid I will disappoint you and I’m struggling to not disappoint myself every day. Another podcast Beverly listens to instructs her that people should not make fear-based decisions. Beverly feels like her whole life has been one fear-based decision after another, ever since she was sixteen and the unthinkable happened.

‘But this would be the best for him and we can have more kids. Riley will have a brother or a sister or both. I don’t understand you, Bev, I just don’t get it. What aren’t you telling me?’ Ethan had rubbed the top of his head, tangling his fingers in his thick brown hair, something he did when he was frustrated. His hair is a similar colour to hers and to Riley’s. Ethan’s eyes are a deep green and her eyes are brown, but if she ever let herself fantasise about being with Ethan forever, she knew that people would easily assume that Riley belonged to both of them.

A lot. I’m not telling you a lot, she wanted to say but didn’t. She could have explained everything, easily. Just opened her mouth and told him the truth and he would have probably understood, unless he didn’t, and that was the chance she wasn’t willing to take. He had a strong sense of moral justice, believing that whenever possible the right thing needed to be done. She had no idea what he might do if she told him the truth. It was easier to push him away. Last week she had woken from a nightmare where she told him the truth and he dragged her and Riley into a police station, demanding she confess everything. All the police in the station had strange alien heads and they did nothing but stare at her. She had woken tangled in her duvet with a racing heart and had to switch on her bedside lamp and read until she was able to dismiss the dream.

She thought he would accept her decision to break up with him but he’s refusing to let go. The text messages were constant for the first few days. And they’re still coming. It’s making it harder than it has to be. She shouldn’t have let him get so close – that was a mistake. Riley misses him. He had been wary of him at first. She had dated Ethan for three months before she let him into her home. Her son had not been interested in another man in the house, but Ethan had slowly worn him down, playing video games with him, watching football and helping him perfect his moves on the basketball court. The more Ethan insinuated himself into their lives, the more worried Beverly became. She wanted to step back and slow things down, but Ethan was ready for marriage and family.

‘Thirty was the turning point for me,’ he told her. ‘I knew that day I was done messing around with women I couldn’t see a future with.’

She should have broken it off earlier, but she was seduced by his smile and the way he held her hand, and the nice dinners out where he insisted on paying for the babysitter. What’s done is done.

She unlocks the car while Riley checks the timber mailbox. It’s painted red and has a chicken on top of it. She and Riley bought it together and he thinks it’s hilarious.

Every morning, before they leave for school, he opens the mailbox despite knowing that the mail comes in the afternoon. She slides into the car and waits for him to get in and tell her, ‘Nothing yet,’ as he does every morning.

‘You won’t believe it, you won’t believe it,’ he says excitedly, flinging open the door and jumping into the car. ‘It’s a present and it’s for me. It has a card and everything and it’s not even my birthday,’ he shouts, his eyes shining with delight.

‘What?’ Beverly asks, turning around to see him holding a small square box. ‘Give me that.’

‘But it’s for me,’ he protests, ‘for me.’

‘Riley, let me look at it please,’ she says, her voice stern. Right now, the stern voice works to a certain extent, but she’s not sure how long that will last for. How will she discipline him if he grows to over six foot, as she assumes he will do? His father was over six foot.

‘Fine,’ he says, reluctantly handing her the box.

She turns it over in her hand. The wrapping paper is blue with silver stars. She gives it a shake and then for some reason she sniffs it. ‘I’m just going to read the card first,’ she says.

‘But it’s for me,’ he shouts.

‘Yes, but I need to know who it’s from,’ she says back, louder than she means to, and then she takes a deep breath, calming herself. He is getting more and more difficult to manage and she worries all the time now about who he will be one day, who he will become. Sometimes she types his behaviours into Google and terrifies herself with all the diagnoses the internet spits at her. That’s something else she does late at night with a glass of wine and it never leads anywhere good.

The card is small and placed inside a blue envelope. She slides it out and reads the note. It’s been written on a computer and printed:

Dear Riley

Thought you might enjoy this.

It says nothing else.

‘Give it to me, give it to me,’ shouts Riley giving the back of her seat an enormous kick.

‘You stop that right now, young man, stop it now,’ she reprimands him, but she hands him the box and watches him open it.

It’s a handball, half black, half white. The white part has a sun painted on it and the black part has the moon and stars. ‘Cool,’ he says. ‘I can play with it at school today.’

Beverly nods. ‘Yes, I guess.’ It’s harmless, just a present. No need for her to worry, she tells herself, although she has no idea who it could be from.

Her phone pings with a text. We need to talk. She’s never thought of Ethan as manipulative, but he’s obviously decided that he can get to her through Riley. She contemplates taking the present away but doesn’t have the energy for the argument that would ensue.

‘Just leave me alone,’ Beverly mutters to her phone. She reverses the car and pulls out into the street so she can get Riley to school.

The gift is probably from Ethan. They had almost been a little family and she knows that he loves Riley. But she cannot have him in their lives. She just knows that she cannot allow him to move her and Riley somewhere new, and to let him begin taking over and taking care of them because there is always the possibility of things falling apart, of the truth seeping out and the consequences of that. Never mind how difficult marriage can be anyway. A marriage begun on secrets has little hope of succeeding.

She and Riley have managed, just the two of them, for this long. They’ll manage until he’s independent. It feels like she has to do this alone, like it’s a debt that is owed. There is always the worry that if she does agree to being with a man, together forever, and then something changes, Riley will get caught between the two of them. That happened to him once when he was too young to know about it, too young to know that it nearly cost him his life. People who love each other can so easily turn into people who loathe each other. No one ever thinks it will happen to them. But anything is possible. She knows that more than most.

‘Who’s it from, do you think?’ Riley asks.

‘I don’t know,’ she says, because she’s not totally sure and if Ethan’s chosen not to sign his name, maybe he doesn’t want a thank you. If she calls him and asks if he wants a thank you then they will end up having the same conversation over again. Maybe it was a ‘goodbye’ gift from him.

‘Doesn’t matter, I love it,’ Riley says. ‘I love it.’

‘Do you know,’ says Riley as he threads his legs through the monkey bars and hangs upside down, ‘that the world record for the longest handball game is seventy hours?’ He is holding his new handba. . .