Page 36 of The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair

Chapter Twenty-Five

I will never tell Ruth what happened to James. I’ve never told anyone.

On a good morning when I wake up, before I’m really conscious, I find myself reliving my favorite memories as if they were happening for the first time.

They always feature James. Sometimes I’m back in our tiny apartment, feeling his toddler body sleeping peacefully next to me in the dark, his soft skin pressed against my cheek.

Sometimes I’m driving down the street in a flashy convertible, with my best boy riding beside me.

And sometimes I’m back at his graduation, watching him get his degree from Yale.

This morning, I was graced with the dream of his graduation.

Watching James cross that stage, so tall and dignified in his black robes, was the proudest moment of my life.

All the struggle and pain was worth it to see this man, such a wonderful man, succeed, knowing that I had loved him as hard as I could.

And James was graduating from an Ivy League school with not a cent of debt.

I had paid for it all. Not bad for a girl who never went to high school.

The thought of watching him move through his twenties, finding success and happiness, filled me with indescribable joy. He was my triumph.

It was a shame my husband Roy felt too ill to attend the ceremony.

Or the reception. Not even the celebratory dinner.

I had been married to Roy for two years at that point.

He was long and lean, like a cowboy, with a thick moustache and eyebrows that needed trimming so that they didn’t droop in his eyes.

He’d made a fortune in industrial agricultural machines, but he seemed more like an old ranch hand than a millionaire.

Usually he loved being outside, fixing things in the garage and carting junk off to the dump in his truck.

Lately, however, he’d been sick and spent most of his time in bed.

The twins were off doing a semester at sea (a cruise ship masquerading as a college) and I was secretly glad that it was just my son and I out on the town that night.

We ordered martinis and clinked our glasses together and I stared at my beautiful boy and felt proud that I had pulled it off: I had raised a good man.

“Congratulations, James,” I said, as we sipped our drinks. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom, I’m glad you came. I know it must not have been easy, raising all of us . . . I hope someday I can take care of you,” he said earnestly, his face shining.

“Oh, honey, don’t worry about that,” I said, secretly thrilled. “I can take care of myself.”

“And Roy of course,” my son said, arching his eyebrow. And suddenly, my sick husband was hanging around the table, an invisible mood-killer.

“Yes, I can take care of Roy.”

A few weeks later, James came out to our Montana ranch to sort through his things and plan his next move.

We stayed up late talking most nights, sitting out on the porch where we wouldn’t disturb Roy’s sleep.

James was so good to my husband: delivering his trays upstairs and reading him the newspaper when he felt too weak to do it himself.

One morning, I slipped out of bed at 5 a.m. and stole into the kitchen. The house was quiet, and the sky was tinged with the first pink rays of light. My mood matched the sunrise, and I felt buoyant, as if life was easier than usual.

I heated up water and added porridge oats, leaving them to cook on the stove. Then I pulled out my secret stash of pills and began to grind them up. I was so lost in my own happy thoughts that I never heard him walk in.

“Mom, don’t,” James said, putting his hand on my wrist. I jumped, my nerves jangling.

“James! Don’t what?” I asked. He looked so solemn even though he was wearing an old high school T-shirt and some plaid boxers.

“Don’t put those pills in Roy’s food,” he said.

I froze. “I wasn’t . . .” I began unconvincingly. But one look at his face confirmed that he was certain, that there was no room for me to make him believe.

“I suppose I’ve suspected it for a long time. The different names, the constant moves, the fact that I went to more funerals as a kid than some people do in their lifetime,” James said slowly. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Come on, two husbands got cancer and one killed himself! That’s just horrible luck—” I began but he ignored me and kept talking.

“But it all seemed impossible. And I never saw anything that proved it, that even let me name it. Until now,” James said. I didn’t say anything, and he stepped forwards, taking my hands. For a moment his face softened, and I could feel my bones melting like butter. What could I say to my boy?

“Please, Mom. Don’t make me feel crazy. Tell me the truth,” he pleaded.

If it had been anyone else, I would have lied. But this was James. I didn’t want him to suffer.

“Yes. It’s true,” I whispered, saying it for the first time. “But I did it for you and the girls.” He frowned and dropped my hands.

“No, you didn’t. Geoffrey was rich. We could have lived a nice, normal life off what he left us.

And David? He was like a father to me! But you just kept thrashing around, looking for something else.

I used to feel sorry for you, for all the people you lost. But you caused this,” he said disdainfully.

When someone who loves you looks at you with disgust, a part of your soul dies.

“I wanted to give you everything—” I began, but he kept talking over me.

“And I can’t turn you in. You’re my mom. And all you’ve ever done is love me.” His voice broke, and I could see tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Yes, exactly.” I reached for him, wanting to comfort him, but he stepped back, a look of revulsion flashing across his face. My hands hung in the air, muscles straining to lift what had suddenly become so heavy.

“But that makes me hate myself. That I know you’re a murderer. And I can’t stop you!” he cried, jabbing at the ceiling, where Roy lay prone and helpless.

“Oh sweetheart, don’t think—” But he cut me off.

“And that makes me hate you as well. Because you did this to us. You ruined us,” he said. I didn’t try to say anything more. My chest felt like it was caving in on itself. “I never want to see you again.”

“No! Please! James!” I burst out but he kept talking, his body as straight as if he was iron-plated.

“I’m going to move far away and I’m going to change my name. And then I’ll try to forget all about you,” he finished, turning away.

“Please . . .” I moaned, clutching my stomach as if I’d been shot. But he never looked back. He picked up his backpack from the hallway and he walked out the door.

I never saw him again.

I didn’t kill Roy. I stopped dosing him and slowly, hesitantly, he regained his strength.

It was tiresome as Roy was a whiny patient, taking his recovery as morosely as he’d taken his illness.

I waited until he was well and then I left him.

It felt anti-climactic, packing a suitcase and calling a lawyer as opposed to watching him die and then calling the undertaker.

But every time I imagined killing him, I saw James’s pained face.

I hoped he would come back to me when he realized that Roy was still alive. But he didn’t.

I’ve experienced some terrible times in my life. But losing my son was the worst punishment I could ever receive. My daughters knew not to mention James around me, that I couldn’t talk about him. Maybe I should have just confessed then.

That night, Ruth sat at her computer, her hands poised on the keyboard, waiting for a flash of inspiration.

She had always prided herself on her investigation skills.

It was one of the things that set her apart from other journalists and gave her an edge in the dog-eat-dog world of freelancing.

Whether it was helping a woman find her World War Two boyfriend for a sentimental piece or locating a pair of cufflinks that had belonged to a convicted mobster for a crime website, Ruth had done it all.

That was why, ever since Daphne had told her she hadn’t seen her son in decades, Ruth had wondered if she could find James.

It would be great for the podcast. Ruth could do a whole story arc about searching for James and if she found him, she might be the one to break it to him that his mother had confessed to murder.

That was compelling stuff. Besides she could relate to James.

She had also grown up with a single mother in a world that often felt chaotic and beyond her control.

And Daphne’s actions had affected them both, in surprisingly similar ways.

But how could she find someone when she had almost no information?

Ruth sat at the computer for ages and tried to frame a question, any question , to begin her search.

She was looking for a white guy in his late sixties who lived somewhere in the world and might be using the name James. There was just no way.

Ruth imagined James, a pleasant family man, running errands and then coming home, flicking the TV on and seeing his mother and sisters splashed across the news.

Would he tell his family? Probably not. Who wanted to share that shame?

Instead, he would just sit there, alone and afraid that someone would find him.

Later, Ruth sat at her computer, still squinting at the screen.

It was past midnight but the flood of press inquiries and article proposals had only increased with every episode, and it was hard for Ruth to wade through them.

She was scared that she would miss a life-changing opportunity, that a single misstep might derail her, and this anxiety was making it hard for her to step away from the inbox.

She was smoking a joint as she mindlessly worked her way through her emails, hoping that she might actually be able to get some sleep tonight once the weed kicked in.

Ruth sat back in her chair, studying her apartment for a moment.

She didn’t like the idea of being forced out of this place, had always disliked moving after having no permanent home as a child.

But maybe it would be a blessing to start over in a place free of the memories of Jenn and her run-ins with the Montgomerys.

Ashing the joint in an old Diet Coke can, Ruth opened a file on her computer and flicked through some old pictures, pausing at one with her father’s family.

Ruth remembered the first time her father had introduced her to his family: his sister and brother, his daughter, his cousins.

It was in a palatial home with tall gates and a driveway crammed with luxury cars.

Ruth had felt intimidated by the house itself, much less the rich, discerning people inside who would be suspicious of an illegitimate child born of an affair with a secretary.

But Richard had patted her hand and reminded her that his actions had nothing to do with her and that he was proud of her.

“This is your family too. And if you give them time, they’ll appreciate you just as much as I do. Ruth, today is the first step of your life as a Montgomery.”

“Thank you,” Ruth had murmured. A father. A family. It was everything she had ever wanted.

At the time, she had felt like Cinderella, plucked from the ashes and transported to the castle. But if it was a fairy tale, it was definitely the Brothers Grimm version. And nobody got a happy ending .