Keep Her Safe Read online

  I don’t think I’d ever have worked out the truth on my own. Yes, I was young and naïve at age six, and I’m less so now, but still . . . I wouldn’t have figured it out because it’s too horrible. My mind would never have produced the suspicion that any parent could or would do that. And yet, when the Kind Smiles told me, it made sense: my parents were not trying to make me feel better. Their aim was the opposite.

  If they’d put up some pictures of Emory and none of me, I’d probably have thought nothing of it. There were no photos of my parents up on shelves. We weren’t that kind of family. I think I’d have assumed that pictures of Emory were different because she was gone and we needed to remember her. By putting out photos of me as well—far fewer, and all unframed—my mother and father were trying to send me the message, in case I’d failed to notice, that they loved my dead sister more than me.

  I don’t think the Kind Smiles understand that every time they call me Favorite Child, it reminds me of how much I wasn’t, for my mother and father. It makes me think of all the sad things.

  3

  October 10, 2017

  I’m halfway to the spa building, courtesy of my silent electronic guide, when I hear a gasp behind me. I turn and see Riyonna hurrying toward me across the grass, darting left and right to avoid the water sprinklers.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen anyone at Swallowtail on the grass. Of the few people I’ve seen so far who appear willing to use their own legs, the rest have all stuck rigidly to the little streets and paved pathways. The grass is so smooth and radiant all over the resort—a stunning green carpet laid out like landscape art. I assumed there was an unwritten rule that no one was allowed to sully it with their shoes, but maybe that doesn’t apply to resort staff.

  “Mrs. Burrows!” Riyonna catches me up and stands by my side, panting. “How are you today? Did you sleep well? Do you love your casita? Pretty great view, huh?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. I slept brilliantly and the casita is out of this world. Really fantastic. Thanks so much for the upgrade.”

  “You’re so welcome. And I’m so sorry about before—I could see you waiting to talk to me, but that particular guest is a little demanding, as you probably saw. Anyway, I hope you reached out to another member of the Swallowtail team and got the help you needed?”

  “Yes, I did, thanks.”

  “Awesome! And now—let me guess—you’re on your way to our beautiful spa?”

  I nod.

  “In that case, I’m gonna recommend my favorite treatment. It is, sincerely, divine. Like, from heaven. I’m telling you, hand on heart, you have to try it while you’re here: the Cactus Needle Full Body Massage.” Riyonna laughs at my expression. “Don’t let the name put you off. Also great is the Sound Bath Body Immersion.”

  “I can see I’ll be spoiled for choice!” I say cheerily. It sounds fake to me, but it seems to be the easiest way to talk to a happy American. Anything less upbeat and Riyonna might frown and ask if I’m planning to kill myself later tonight. “Can I just ask—” I begin tentatively.

  “Yes, of course. How can I help you?”

  “The lady at reception before. Is she okay?”

  “Mrs. McNair? Sure.” Riyonna waves her hand, a brushing-aside gesture. “She’s fine, bless her heart. Comes every year. One of our more, um, imaginative guests, that’s for sure!”

  “She sat next to me by the pool a few minutes ago and . . . said a few strange things.”

  “Well, I hope she didn’t disturb you too much. But really, she’s nothing to worry about. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “This girl she keeps talking about, Melody . . . ?” I hope that’s all I need to say. Completing my question would make me sound too nosy. What’s the story there?

  “I know,” says Riyonna. “She’s a little obsessed.”

  “Is Melody dead?”

  Her eyes widen in surprise. She tilts her head and shakes her index finger in the air. “You are one smart lady, Mrs. Burrows. Yes, I’m afraid poor little Melody passed on years ago. Doesn’t stop Mrs. McNair from seeing her everywhere. She says it’s just here, but I don’t believe that, personally. I think she sees Melodys eeeverywhere she goes. She spends two weeks of every year at Swallowtail, and each time, within hours of arriving, she’s fixated on some girl she thinks is Melody. Once it was even a boy! It’s sad for her, y’know? Not much else in her life, I guess. Oh! Excuse me.”

  Riyonna’s looking past me, over my right shoulder. I turn and see two men walking toward us. One is dark-skinned, short and stocky, with black, curly hair. The other’s tall, thin and fair. They’re both wearing suits, white shirts and ties.

  Riyonna’s lost interest in me. She tells me to have a great day, as if she’s barely aware of who she’s talking to and what she’s saying, and runs toward the men.

  Odd. A little rude, too. Still, at least now I don’t have to hear a tragic story about Mrs. McNair’s dead child or grandchild.

  I’m about to set off for the spa when I hear the word “detective.” A man said it. Was it one of the men talking to Riyonna?

  It must have been. There’s no one else around, and the voice sounded as if it came from that direction. I look back and see the tall blond man slipping something into his pocket. What was it? I just missed it.

  Was it a detective’s badge? His police ID?

  I suppose it’s possible—likely, even—that I’m leaping to all the wrong conclusions. Maybe he said “defective.” My orange juice this morning was quite defective. It tasted of bananas, not oranges.

  But I heard Mrs. McNair say she’d call the police herself if no one else would. That must be what’s happened.

  Riyonna ran toward them as if she was expecting them, though. I saw it with my own eyes. So she must have known they were coming. Why wouldn’t she call them and tell them not to bother—to ignore crazy Mrs. McNair?

  Is this a regular part of Mrs. McNair’s annual stay at Swallowtail? Is there so little crime in Arizona that detectives are willing to take a day off from real work once a year to humor an old lady?

  Highly unlikely. Far more plausible is that either I heard wrong and no one said “detective,” or else the police are here about something quite different.

  Since there’s no way of solving the mystery for the time being, I decide I might as well go and study the spa’s treatment menu. I’m pretty sure I want to avoid cactus needles, but there must be a relaxing aromatherapy massage for pregnant people. I probably won’t ask my masseur if she knows anything about Mrs. McNair and Melody, or why there are two detectives at the resort.

  Almost definitely not.

  Nothing has happened, I tell myself firmly. Nothing. There is no mystery.

  Then why did Riyonna look anxious when she saw the two men? Why did she run to them, to stop them from getting any closer to where I was standing?

  The answer must be: for a reason. I don’t know the reason, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Why should I know anything? I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours. A jewelry theft from a casita, a smashed car window . . . It could be any one of a thousand things. Riyonna would want to conceal any and all problems from me because I’m a guest. Stands to reason.

  There’s nothing to worry about—nothing I didn’t bring with me, anyway. I need to get a grip before I end up as loopy as Mrs. McNair.

  The spa proves almost impossible to find, even with the help of a bossy iPad. The trouble is the resort junctions: there are places where “turn left” might mean taking any one of three paths, all of which could be said to be on the left depending on your definition.

  After a series of wrong turns and doublings-back, I finally arrive. The building that houses the spa is much more attractive than the main hotel. It’s a large rectangle with curved edges, made of dark, glossy metal of a deep greenish-gray color. Stripes of mirror, reflecting the green of the trees all around, alternate with long, thin windows that reveal other trees inside the building bordering a dark, shi
mmering rectangle with a moving surface. It takes me a few seconds to work out what this is: a pool with black, glittery tiles.

  Wow.

  Inside the spa is equally stunning. Three members of staff stand behind the reception desk, all wearing the same tunic-and-trousers uniform: white with a pale green Swallowtail logo. I was hoping to explore on my own, but I don’t have the energy to insist on it, so I let a young woman called Sujata show me around. We start off in the ladies’ changing rooms, where there are robes, slippers, towels, lotions, hair products. Sujata tries to tell me about each item, but I’m distracted by the large screen embedded in the wall. An advertisement for a medicine called Dolbrynol is on, just loud enough for me to hear. The ad seems to go on forever.

  Sujata points out what look like two solid silver cylinders in the corner, both with nozzles. One is for boiling water, the other for warm water. Around these, other things are laid out so beautifully, it could almost be a religious shrine: elaborately patterned china cups and saucers, dozens of different kinds of teabags in tiny pastel-colored paper envelopes, raisins, dried apricots . . . and probably other things, too, but by now I’m too fascinated by the TV to pay attention to what Sujata’s showing me.

  The Dolbrynol advert has ended and the next one, for something called GlucoFlush, is behaving in exactly the same bizarre way: listing the negative side effects of the product in the loud, pedantic tone of a worst-case-scenario-obsessed neurotic: “GlucoFlush may cause cardiac arrest, leukemia, athlete’s foot, blindness or halitosis. Do not take GlucoFlush if you are pregnant, asthmatic, diabetic, a talented violin player or a tennis fan. Side effects include loss of teeth, hair, sense of humor, car keys and virginity. Ask your doctor before taking GlucoFlush if you don’t want to die, shrink, turn to green slime, swell up like a balloon, lose all your friends and family, or vomit forever.”

  I’m exaggerating, but only slightly. I wait for the doom-mongering voice to perk up at the end and say, “Apart from that, it’s a really great product!” but no; like the advert before it, this one offers no happy ending.

  How on earth do Americans ever manage to buy anything if this is the way their advertising works? I wonder if it’s only medical stuff that needs to be advertised in this way, or if it works the same way for movies and cars. The new Jaguar Blah-Blah may cause hideous death involving fires and twisted metal. Do not drive the Jaguar Blah-Blah if you like having feet, ears or a small intestine.

  “Sorry?” I say, suddenly aware that I haven’t been listening at all. “What did you ask me?”

  “You’ll need to take off your shoes for the rest of the tour, and put on your spa slippers,” says Sujata.

  I leave my flip-flops in a locker. For the four-digit code I need to lock it, I choose my baby’s American due date—American only in the sense that they put the month before the day.

  “Ready?” asks Sujata.

  We leave the perplexing TV behind and go through to the spa proper. The smell is the first thing I notice: it’s sort of watery, but green leaves are also involved, and some kind of rich spice. It’s gorgeous. I’d wear it as a perfume. To say that the facilities are extensive is a ludicrous understatement. There’s an orange steam room, a rose steam room, two hammams, three saunas ranging from very hot to only a little bit hot, a bar and café area, twenty treatment rooms, the glittery black indoor pool, a beautiful blue outdoor pool with lounge chairs and parasols around it, a hot tub with bubbles and one without, a freezing cold square plunge pool, a warm hydrotherapy pool, and—perhaps my favorite thing of all—a sort of network of outdoor Jacuzzis.

  “We call it Hot Tub Circle,” says Sujata. “You access it through the hydrotherapy pool, so no need to get out of the water and lose any heat. Just go on through—see the hanging beads in the corner? Walk through there and you’ll find yourself outside, still in the water up to roughly your waist. Go straight ahead for six feet or so and you’ll find yourself at the entrance to the circle. There’s a current that’ll pull you all the way around. Imagine the shape of a donut. You can swim if you like, with help from the current, or just float and let it carry you around. As you go, you’ll see that off the circle, to the left and right, there are Jacuzzi areas of varying sizes. Some are ideal for one person alone, others can seat four or five. There’s a big one that fits twelve. In the Jacuzzi areas there’s no current, so that’s where you can stop for a rest if you want, for as long as you need. No two Jacuzzis are the same. They all have jets in different places, so you can try a few, see which you like best. Some have lots of high-pressure jets, for a really intense full-body massage. Others are much milder, like sitting in a bubble bath with a very faint movement to the bubbles. Anyway—you be sure to try them all!”

  I nod. This is unbelievable. I’ve been for the odd spa day in the UK—a Christmas present from Patrick, a hen weekend—but I’ve never seen anything like this before.

  “Oh, and before I let you go and relax, I must show you my favorite thing of all—the crystal grotto.” Sujata leads me along a tree-lined, glass-sided corridor. We come to a rough-textured semicircular wall sticking out of a smooth, flat one. In the sticking-out part, there’s an open arch-topped doorway. I look inside and see what looks like a cave with a dark red floor. Sujata slips off her white slippers and walks in. I do the same.

  We’re in a perfectly round room with a dome-shaped top. There are soft yellow wall lights at regular intervals, and about two dozen large mauve and pink crystals in metal brackets, also attached to the walls. I don’t know what I’m standing on: some kind of dark red powdery stuff. It’s warm, as if heated from below. On the ground are more pink and mauve crystals—smaller ones in circles, freestanding heaps, metal bowls. There’s a stone bench running all the way around the circular wall, for people who want to sit down.

  Close to the entrance to the grotto there’s a tall silver table—like a lectern but with a flat top—on which sits a large dimpled silver pot and, next to it, a notepad and a few pencils. “The crystal grotto is for leaving your worries behind,” says Sujata. “It’s amazing. It really works. Here’s what you do: tear off a sheet of paper from the pad and write down something you’re worried about—anything that’s been preying on your mind, maybe a grudge you’ve been hanging on to or some old pain or trauma. Then sit in the grotto, holding the paper in your hand. Sit with your eyes closed and breathe deeply, reflecting on whatever it is you’ve written down. After about ten minutes, or however long feels right to you, stand up and say ‘I choose not to carry this worry or pain into my future,’ and put the piece of paper in the silver bowl before you leave. I guarantee: that worry will be gone, and it won’t ever come back.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say diplomatically. I like this little round room—I can imagine lying down on whatever this powdery stuff is and having a long, deep sleep—but you’d have to be an idiot to write down details of your personal problems and leave them in a pot for other guests to read.

  After the crystal grotto, Sujata leaves me to my own devices. I have a quick look around the spa shop—healing crystals, dream catchers, soap, body lotion, books about the sacred properties and ancient wisdom of Camelback Mountain—before heading for the outdoor pool.

  Damn. Badass Mom and Highbrow Daughter are here, reading their books on lounge chairs. I wonder if that means the attempt to silence the Marco Polo shouters was unsuccessful. I studiously avoid catching their eye and they reciprocate. Good. I feared they might be tempted to try and engage me in a bitching session about poor old Mrs. McNair, but they evidently want nothing to do with me, which is a relief. If they keep ignoring me like this, I’ll soon be able to see them around the resort and not think, Oh, shit. I hope they don’t think I’m following them around.

  The layout here is much more regular and symmetrical than at the family pool: a rectangle of royal blue—somehow more satisfying to look at than the traditional turquoise—in a white-walled courtyard with one potted tree in each corner and four rows of lounge chairs parallel both to
the walls and to the four sides of the pool.

  Little tables next to the chairs hold folded maps of the spa and piles of menus: food, drinks, spa treatments that include everything from a Chakra Realignment Revitalizer to an Aromatherapy Aura-Enhancing Foot Massage. A young white woman wearing a name badge that says KIMBALI appears with towels for me and takes my order of a Virgin Colada.

  Kimbali? Is that a misspelling of Kimberley, I wonder, and by whom—the spa badge maker or the girl’s parents? Was she conceived in Bali, and is her mother called Kim, maybe?

  There’s no excuse. With one hand on my stomach, I whisper, “I swear I will not give you a stupid name.”

  I’m about to lie back on my lounge chair and close my eyes when a man walks out of the spa building, scans the terrace as if looking for someone, runs his fingers through his hair as if he knows people are watching, then goes back inside. It’s the taller of the two men I saw Riyonna talking to—the good-looking blond one, made considerably less attractive by his air of seeming pleased with himself for no apparent reason.

  One of the detectives.

  Why’s he here? Who was he looking for? Mrs. McNair?

  Without stopping to ask myself what on earth I think I’m doing, I get up and walk into the spa building, in pursuit. It takes me a while to find him—I can’t move fast on these smooth tiled floors in my white slippers—but eventually I see him ahead of me, talking to a white-uniformed spa employee, the only male one I’ve seen so far. He lowers his voice when he sees me approaching, but not before I hear him say “. . . see Melody.”