Unforgivable: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Read online

  UNFORGIVABLE

  AN ABSOLUTELY UNPUTDOWNABLE PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

  NATALIE BARELLI

  BOOKS BY NATALIE BARELLI

  Unforgivable

  Unfaithful

  The Housekeeper

  The Accident

  The Loyal Wife

  Missing Molly

  After He Killed Me

  Until I Met Her

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Unfaithful

  Chapter 1

  Hear More from Natalie

  Books by Natalie Barelli

  A Letter from Natalie

  Acknowledgments

  ONE

  Our suburb is perched on a hill, and what makes it exceptional is its stairs. There are over a hundred of them, zigzagging everywhere, connecting streets from top to bottom and back again so that from above our suburb looks like a giant board of snakes and ladders but without the snakes.

  There’s a set of old concrete stairs just thirty feet from our house. Once upon a time, they would have connected tramlines to each other, but now they link one end of a cul-de-sac—where we live—to another dead end below. They are divided into three sections by two landings with a sharp turn at each and overshadowed by a large canopy of trees. Hardly anyone uses them because they’re steep, crumbling along the edges, and they lead nowhere useful.

  The police think this is why she wasn’t found sooner. It had rained all night, there was no moon, and for almost fourteen hours, she lay on the first landing with her head at an odd angle, tree leaves slowly falling over her. If you’d stood at the top and craned your neck, you might have seen a leg or a foot, but you wouldn’t have been sure. But anyway, nobody stood there and nobody looked.

  But we’re not there yet. For now, I’m in the back, unwrapping packages that the courier brought, sent to us for the new exhibition, the one that opens in two weeks. An exhibition that I’m hoping is going to cement my career as a curator. This is what I do, I’m an exhibitions director, a grand title considering there’s just me and my assistant Gavin, although Gavin is about to leave and I haven’t found a replacement for him yet. I didn’t choose what to call myself. My boss, Bruno did. This is his space. A long time ago, I was a painter doing mostly portraits and I had some modest success. I topped up my income by teaching art in elementary schools until I woke up one day and realized I’d been teaching for so long and done so little painting in that time that I probably could no longer call myself an artist. I wasn’t even really a proper teacher; I was a primary school relief art teacher with no qualifications, an income that barely covered my living costs and no regular hours. I didn’t enjoy teaching back then, although I think I would now. But then later, once I had a family, I decided it was time for a real career and a reliable salary, and yes, I wanted Jack to be proud of me.

  I was on the wrong side of thirty and had no skills to speak of except a love for art—is that even a skill?—so I decided to become a curator. I studied in my spare time, and I was lucky to find work at the Bruno Mallet Gallery although, to be fair, he didn’t hire me for my curatorial abilities, but because I agreed to adjust my salary according to how much money I made for him.

  Turns out, I did well. I have an eye, apparently. We now represent some very successful artists and we do okay.

  As I slice off the wrapping, I am thinking about Bronwyn. Bronwyn Bronwyn Bronwyn, like a broken record, her face filling up my head, taking up all the available space because Bronwyn is coming. That’s what Jack said this morning as I was leaving for work, like an afterthought. Oh by the way, before you go, do you know where my blue shirt is? Oh by the way, the electrician called, they can’t make it today. Oh by the way, Bronwyn called, she’s coming.

  Beautiful, dazzling Bronwyn with long raven hair and porcelain skin, a face like a Renaissance painting. And that was before she got engaged to a plastic surgeon. I wonder what she’ll look like now. Like a goddess, probably. I wish I wasn’t thinking about Bronwyn, today, of all days. The artworks I am carefully unwrapping are very important to me. They are to be included in a new exhibition I’ve planned and curated for over a year now. The culmination of my career so far. So yes, I resent Bronwyn for robbing me of this moment, although to be fair I resent Bronwyn all the time but most days, I manage not to think about her at all.

  I am so absorbed in my task—and in my thoughts—that when the front door chimes, I don’t register it immediately. It’s the sound of rubber soles squeaking on the timber floor that makes me realize that someone has come in the gallery and for a crazy moment I think it’s her, that she’s already here. I put down the Stanley knife, pull off my gloves and walk into the main area, and of course it’s not her. It couldn’t have been her; she couldn’t have arrived here that fast. It’s a young woman in high-top sneakers, skinny black jeans and faux fur jacket in black and gold animal print slumped back off her shoulders. I guess she’s too warm, because it is too warm for a jacket like that, and underneath she’s wearing a black camisole with thin straps that barely cover her shoulders.

  “Hi!” She smiles at me, a lovely big smile, lots of teeth, straight blond hair parted in the center.

  She looks vaguely familiar, but I don’t think she’s a buyer. I would have remembered. She points to one of the artworks and shakes her head. “These are awesome.”

  I come to stand next to her. “Aren’t they?”

  The show is called Little Ones, and it’s by a seventy-two-year-old artist called Claire Carter who is small and shriveled up and claims to have shockingly bad eyesight although I’m not sure I believe her; she builds miniature scenes that are so precise, so beautifully crafted you can’t take your eyes off them. They’re housed inside glass bulbs, snow domes and test tubes, or sometimes nothing at all, just tiny shop fronts or doll houses that live on a piece of board the size of a paperback and sometimes even the size of a playing card. On the surface, they seem exquisite and delicate and charming, but look closer and that tiny figure lying on the couch isn’t sleeping, they’re bleeding from the head, and is that a shotgun on the floor? And leaning against the tiny piano is a white cane; does that mean the woman playing is blind? And the little boy sitting cross-legged on the rug is holding a tiny goldfish in both hands, watching it squirm. Her pieces are dark and weird and surreal, but the craftsmanship is flawless. I went to her studio once—a small austere building on Washington Street—and it was like walking into a crazy toymaker’s workshop; bits of dolls scattered among dead cl
ocks spewing out their entrails; glass eyes staring at you from the counter; springs and tiny beads surrounding jeweler’s tools and absurdly small paintbrushes. She offered me a piece of lemon cake that she took out of a little fridge in the corner, and it had a thin film of mold on it, like someone had sprinkled strands of pale silvery cotton and finished it off with a scattering of gray dust. That was the only time I thought maybe there was something wrong with her eyesight, after all. Or maybe she just didn’t like visitors. I ate the cake. That goes without saying. Although I scraped the top layer with my spoon and fed it to the cat under the table.

  “They’re wonderful,” my visitor says.

  “This is one of my favorites,” I say. “It’s called The Inverted Garden.” It’s a take on the hanging gardens of Babylon but even more magical. Small trees and shrubs in all shapes and colors, tiny mushrooms, ivy climbing everywhere, even peacocks wondering around. Every nook and cranny of the crumbling splendor of a white building, more Roman than Babylonian, is covered by this enchanted garden, with stairs linking tiered levels and columns and arches and even fountains. It’s also the only work of hers, as far as I know, that doesn’t have a dark side. It must have taken years to make, and if it was mine, I’d never part with it. “But it’s just been sold, I was about to put a red dot on it, in fact. But if you’re interested, this one is available.” I point to the piece next to it, tiny swimmers playing with a beach ball in a swimming pool, ignoring the woman drowning just feet away. “Also one of my favorites.” She raises an eyebrow at me. I laugh. “Okay, I’ll come clean. They’re all my favorites.”

  She laughs too. “Oh, I wish.” Her outstretched hand shoots out from the ripples of her jacket. “I’m Summer. You may not remember me, but I’m a photographer. We met once, at the Carrie Saito opening. We talked about me having an exhibition here, but it wasn’t the right time.”

  “Oh yes! I do remember you. How are you?”

  “I’m well, thank you. And that was a great show too, by the way.”

  I nod. “She’s brilliant.” I do remember her. It was a busy exhibition opening and everything was going wrong that night. Gavin called in sick at the last minute and I had to rope Jack in to tend the bar which he wasn’t thrilled about. She’d brought her portfolio and she wanted me to look at it right there and then. I was distracted, I glanced at the work, I could see she had talent, but I didn’t find any of her photographs exciting.

  “You said I should develop my own style.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  She raises a hand. “Don’t be. It was good advice. I’m still learning.”

  She reaches into her satchel and I’m thinking she’s going to pull out her portfolio, the updated, stylish version, but she says, “I saw there was a job advertised on your website.” She pulls out a simple white envelope. “I brought my resume.”

  “Oh? But it’s an administrative position.”

  “I know. But I have the skills, I promise. I know I could learn so much working with you, and if you’d give me a chance, I promise you won’t regret it.”

  She tells me about her somewhat limited office experience but I’m not listening because behind me my cell is ringing in my bag. I recognize the ringtone I set for Charlie’s school. I raise a finger. “I’m sorry, I need to get that. Could you excuse me for just a moment?”

  There’s a tiny pause. “Of course,” she says, twirling her envelope between her fingers.

  I thank her, running over to dig out my cell. “Laura, it’s Tara Fuller, from Greenhills Elementary?”

  “Yes, Tara, is everything all right?”

  “We’ve had an incident, unfortunately.”

  “Is Charlie okay?”

  “Yes. She’s fine.” She sighs and I brace myself. “She bit one of her classmates.”

  “She did?” Oh God. I thought we had moved on from the biting. “I can’t believe it’s happening again,” I say. “Who did she hurt?”

  “Valerie.”

  “Valerie? But they’re friends.”

  “Not anymore. Can you come early and pick her up? And we should have a chat.”

  I glance at my watch. Five past three. I am supposed to be here until five-thirty. Maybe Jack could do it. “Have you tried her father? He was going to pick her up later anyway, he’s probably at home—”

  “She asked for you, Laura. She wants you.”

  She wants you. Is it terrible that those three little words send a ripple of joy every time I hear them? Even when it’s because she took a chunk out of another child? She bit someone. She wants you.

  “I’m on my way.”

  I put my phone away and when I look up, Summer is smiling at me, her arm outstretched with the envelope in her hand.

  I take it from her. “Unfortunately, I have to close up. Family emergency. Are you free tomorrow? Would you be able to come back then?”

  “Yes, of course. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, everything is fine. Just a minor… hiccup.” I slide her envelope in the drawer. “I’ll be here from nine am. What’s a good time for you?”

  She smiles. “Nine am would be just fine.”

  Minutes later, Summer is gone and I’m fumbling with my bag, fishing for my keys. I’ve texted Jack to let him know what’s going on and I’m about to call Bruno to tell him I have to close early but then I remember Gavin saying he’d be back. I call him, explain the situation. He says he’s still at the bank but he’s almost done and he should be back in fifteen minutes. I’m doing three things with two hands. I’ve still got the phone wedged in the crook of my neck and I’m hanging up the “back soon” sign on the door, adjusting the analog clock and movable hands to four o’clock. As I thank Gavin, I accidentally drop the keys on the ground, and then my phone. The phone now has a cracked screen, and Gavin is gone and when I finally look up, I think I catch the edge of Summer’s distinctive black and gold jacket disappearing behind the edge of the building and I wonder if she’d been there the whole time.

  TWO

  Charlie is sitting on a yellow plastic chair inside Tara’s office, her eyes red from crying. She springs upright and rushes into my arms to bury her face in my belly.

  “Hey, sweetie! You okay?” I feel Tara’s disapproving stare as if to say. Oh, she’s fine, it’s the other girl you should be worried about.

  “Charlotte?” Tara says, “Can you go outside for a minute?”

  “Go on,” I say softly. “You wait outside the door where I can see you. I’ll be there in a sec.”

  “It’s not just the biting,” Tara says once Charlie’s left the room. “She’s… taking things again.”

  We don’t say stealing here, in this lovely elementary school. I know this because this isn’t our first rodeo. We say, “taking things without permission.”

  “What did she take?”

  “A box of pencils from another student. We found them in her bag.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Do you know why she’s acting up? She’s been so good lately, is anything going on at home?”

  These time-honored teacher-parent questions are never meant to be answered truthfully, surely everyone knows that. We’re hardly going to tell our child’s educator that daddy is having it off with his secretary or mommy’s gone to rehab. So, I do what everyone else does. I plaster on my genuinely puzzled face, and say, “No, nothing I can think of. But we’ll talk to her, tonight, Jack and I. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “Because she was doing so well, she’s very popular with her classmates, she’s a lovely child.”

  “Yes, she is. It’s a minor setback, Tara, really. I’ll take her home and talk to Jack and let you know.”

  “Have you considered counseling for her?”

  “Not since the last time,” I say, “I’ll talk to Jack about it. I’m sure it’s nothing.” I press my bag against my chest and stand up. “Thank you. I’ll take her home now.”

  “Oh and, Laura, also…”

  “Yes?”
I say, my hand on the door handle, my face for all the world looking like I have no idea what’s coming.

  “The term’s fees. You’re fifteen hundred dollars in arrears?”

  “Am I? Really? Oh my God, I’m sorry. I thought Jack had taken care of it!” I shake my head. “I’ll do it as soon as I get home.”

  We live a ten-minute walk from the school. I try to take Charlie’s bag but she shrugs me off. She’s sullen because I asked her to wait outside, she probably thinks I’m taking Tara’s side. She’s angry with me, and she’s letting me know. It’s raining and I pull the hood of her parka over her head, and she takes off toward the park, toward the playground.

  “Charlie, no! Come on! We’re going home!”

  But she’s not done yet. She sprints around the corner, toward the concrete stairs that join up to our street even though she knows full well I don’t like to use them when it’s raining. She stomps her gumboots into puddles of water, and for a second I consider giving in, but only for a second. If I give in now, she’ll be a complete nightmare all evening.

  “Come on, Charlie!” I call out to her again and, after a bit more stomping, she comes back and runs home, her backpack bouncing between her shoulder blades.