Maggie knew as soon as her mother called her “Mag-pie.” It had been her father’s nickname for her. One her mother had adopted, but only when she was drunk. Instead of a nickname, it had become a signal, a warning, a grate on her nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

She stared at her mother, but the woman didn’t flinch. Her hand stayed firmly planted on the front doorknob. God! She had forgotten how good her mother was at this game. And how god-awful she was, because she let the emotion rule and carry her away—the emotion of a twelve-year-old. Suddenly, she found herself pacing the short length of her mother’s living room.

“How could I have been so stupid to believe you?” Maggie said, annoyed that her lower lip was quivering. A quick glance showed no change in her mother’s face. That perfected combination of puzzlement and innocence, as if she had no clue what Maggie was talking about.

“I have an appointment, Mag-pie…and lots of packing to do.” Even her voice had not shifted, not even a notch. There was still that sugary cheerfulness that came with the alcohol.

“How could I have believed you?” Maggie tried to ward off the anger. Why did this always feel so personal? Why did it seem like a betrayal? “I thought you stopped.”

“Well, of course, I stopped. I stopped packing to talk to you.” But she stayed by the door, hand still planted—maybe she hoped if Maggie didn’t leave, she could simply escape. She watched Maggie pace from one end of the room to the other.

“It was the tea,” Maggie said, slapping her forehead like a child finally getting an answer to a quiz. She snatched up her mother’s glass and took a whiff. “Of course.”

“Just a little something to take the edge off.” Kathleen O’Dell waved it away, a familiar gesture that reminded Maggie of some form of alcoholics’ absolution.

“To take the edge off? For what? What did you need to take the edge off of? So you could get through one goddamn visit with your own daughter?”

“A surprise visit. You really should have called first, Mag-pie. And please don’t swear.” Even that tone, that Pollyanna tone, grated on Maggie’s nerves. “Why are you here?” her mother asked. “Are you checking up on me?”

Maggie tried to slow down, tried to focus. Yes, why had she come? She rubbed a hand across her face, again annoyed that there was a bit of a tremor in her fingers. Why did she have so little control over her reaction, over her body’s response? It was as if the hurt little girl inside of her came to the surface to deal with this, because the adult woman had not yet found a sufficient way.

“Maggie, why are you here?”

Now her mother had come back into the room, suddenly anxious for an answer.

“I needed to…” She needed to remember the investigation. She was a professional. She needed answers. Answers her mother could provide. She needed to focus. “I was worried about you.”

It was her mother’s turn to stare. Suddenly, Maggie wanted to smile. Yes, she did know a thing or two about playing games, about the power of denial or in her mother’s world, the power of pretend. Her mother wanted to pretend one drink to take the edge off was not a fall off the wagon? Well Maggie could pretend she was simply worried about her, afraid for her safety, instead of looking for answers about Everett. That was what brought her here, wasn’t it? The investigation and trying to solve it. Of course it was.

“Worried?” her mother finally said, as if it had taken this long for her to formulate a definition for the word itself. “Why in the world would you be worried about me?”

“There are some things about Reverend Everett that I don’t think you know.”

“Really?”

Maggie saw suspicion slipping in past the bewilderment. Careful. She didn’t want her to get defensive. “Reverend Everett is not who he seems to be.”

“How do you know? You’ve never met him.”

“No, but I did some research and—”

“Ah, research?” her mother interrupted. “Like a background check?”

“Yes,” Maggie said, keeping her voice calm and steady now. The professional kicked back into gear.

“The FBI has always hated him. They want to destroy him.”

“I don’t want to destroy him.”

“I didn’t mean you.”

“Mom, I am the FBI. Please, just listen to me for a minute.” But her mother was fidgeting with the living room blinds, wandering from one window to the next, shutting each and taking her time. “I’ve talked to others who have told—”

“Others who have left the church.” Another interruption, but still with that annoying distracted cheerfulness.

“Yes.”

“Ex-members.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you simply can’t believe a word they say. Surely, you must know that.” This time she looked at Maggie, and there was something in her eyes, an impatience Maggie didn’t recognize. “But you’d rather believe them, wouldn’t you?”

Maggie stared at her again. Her mother’s mind was already made up. Nothing Maggie could say would change what she believed or didn’t believe. No surprise there. What exactly was it that she had expected to find out? Why had she come? It wasn’t likely her mother had any damning information about Everett. To warn her mother, perhaps? Why did she believe her mother would suddenly listen to anything Maggie had to say or to advise? This was ridiculous. She shouldn’t have come.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she said out loud, and turned to leave.

“Yes, you’d rather believe them, strangers you’ve never met before.” Her mother’s tone was no longer cheerful, a cruel sarcasm edging in. This, Maggie recognized. This, she remembered. “Not like you would ever believe me. Your own mother.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that,” Maggie said calmly, facing her mother and trying to ignore the change, not only in her mother’s tone but even in her gestures—nervous swipes of fingers through her hair. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for a tumbler or bottle and finding the tea glass. She grabbed it and emptied it in one gulp, satisfied and not realizing it had been Maggie’s glass by mistake.

“You never believed in me.”

Maggie continued to stare at her. How could the insertion of one little word like “in” make such a world of difference? “I’ve never said that.”

But her mother didn’t seem to hear her. She was going back around the room, opening the window blinds that she had just shut, one after the other. “It was always him. Always him.”

She was ranting, and Maggie knew it was too late to have any semblance of a conversation with her now. But she had no idea who she meant by “him.” This was a new rant. One she didn’t recognize.

“Maybe I should go,” Maggie said, but made no attempt to leave. She only wanted to get her mother’s attention. But her mother was no longer listening. No longer paying attention. This was a mistake.

“It was always him.” This time her mother stopped in front of her, facing her with accusation. “You loved him so much, you have nothing left for any of the rest of us. Not for me. Not for Greg. Probably not even for your cowboy.”

“Okay now, that’s enough.” Maggie wouldn’t put up with this. It was ridiculous. The woman didn’t know what she was even saying.

“He was no saint, you know.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Your father.”

Maggie’s stomach took a plunge.

“Your precious father,” her mother added as if she needed clarification. “You always loved him more. So much love for him that there was never enough left for the rest of us. You buried it all with him.”

“That’s not true.”

“And he was no saint, you know.”

“Don’t you dare,” Maggie said, immediately disappointed to find the quiver return to her lower lip.

“Dare to tell the truth?” Her mother managed a cruel smile.

Why was she doing this?

“I need to leave.” Maggie turned toward the door.

“He was out fucking his girlfriend the night of the fire.”

It was like a knife had been thrust into her back, stopping her in her tracks, making her turn to face her mother again.

“I had to call her house,” she continued, “when the fire department’s dispatcher called looking for him. Everyone thought he was up sleeping in our bed, but he was in her bed. Her bed, fucking her.”

“Stop it,” Maggie said, but it came out as a whisper, because all the air had suddenly been sucked out of her.

“I never told you. I never told anyone. How could I after he went out that night, ran into that burning building and died a fucking hero.”

“You’re making this up.”

“He got her pregnant. She has a son. His son. The son I never could give him.”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you making this up?” Maggie said, trying to keep the twelve-year-old hurt little girl from surfacing, though in her head, her voice sounded exactly like a child’s. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I was protecting you. Yes, I lied then. But not now. Why would I lie now?”

“To hurt me.”

“To hurt you?” Her mother rolled her eyes, the sarcasm having overpowered any other emotion or response. “I’ve been trying to protect you from the truth for years.”

“Protect me?” Now the anger began to unleash itself. “You call moving me halfway across the country protecting me? You call bringing home strange men to fondle me, protecting me?”

“I did the best I could.” The eyes were darting around the room again, and Maggie knew she had said what she wanted to say and was now looking to retreat, searching to escape.

“You lost a husband that night. But I lost both my parents.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I lost both my father and my mother. And what did I get in their place? A drunken invalid to take care of. A drunken slut instead of a mother.”

The slap came so suddenly, Maggie didn’t have time to react. She wiped at the sting and was more unnerved by the tears already dampening her cheek.

“Oh, Jesus! Maggie.” Her mother reached for her and Maggie pulled away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, don’t.” Maggie raised a hand in warning. She stood straight, avoided her mother’s eyes. “Don’t apologize,” she said, allowing one more swipe at the tears. “This was the perfect response from you. I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”

Then she turned and left, making it to her car, managing to drive through the blur before stopping at the entrance to I-95. She pulled off on the side, killed the headlights and switched on the car’s flashers, shoved the emergency brake into place, left the engine running and the radio blaring while she let the sobs pour out of her. While she gave in and let those damn leaky compartments burst wide open.