An Imperfect Plan: A Novel Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2022 by Nicole Moleti and Krista Wells

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542037808

  ISBN-10: 1542037808

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE GRETA

  PART ONE

  Chapter One COLETTE

  Chapter Two GRETA

  Chapter Three COLETTE

  Chapter Four GRETA

  Chapter Five COLETTE

  Chapter Six GRETA

  Chapter Seven COLETTE

  Chapter Eight GRETA

  Chapter Nine COLETTE

  Chapter Ten GRETA

  Chapter Eleven COLETTE

  Chapter Twelve GRETA

  Chapter Thirteen COLETTE

  Chapter Fourteen GRETA

  PART TWO

  Chapter Fifteen GRETA

  Chapter Sixteen COLETTE

  Chapter Seventeen GRETA

  Chapter Eighteen COLETTE

  Chapter Nineteen GRETA

  Chapter Twenty COLETTE

  Chapter Twenty-One GRETA

  Chapter Twenty-Two COLETTE

  Chapter Twenty-Three GRETA

  Chapter Twenty-Four COLETTE

  Chapter Twenty-Five GRETA

  Chapter Twenty-Six COLETTE

  Chapter Twenty-Seven GRETA

  Chapter Twenty-Eight COLETTE

  Chapter Twenty-Nine GRETA

  Chapter Thirty COLETTE

  Chapter Thirty-One GRETA

  Chapter Thirty-Two COLETTE

  Chapter Thirty-Three GRETA

  Chapter Thirty-Four COLETTE

  Chapter Thirty-Five GRETA

  Chapter Thirty-Six GRETA

  Epilogue GRETA & COLETTE

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS FROM KRISTA AND NICOLE

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  PROLOGUE

  GRETA

  2020

  He was unrecognizable. The only things familiar to Greta were the tufts of brown hair peeking out from the gauze bandage. She only believed it was him because the hospital ID on his wrist read O’Brien, Patrick B. Attempting to take deep breaths, she looked at the nightmarish scene: his face, mostly hidden by an oxygen mask; catheter, IVs, and tubes snaking out of his body; an imposing line running out from his throat. The few visible patches of skin looked . . . oddly darkened. Greta shuddered, thinking about what the hidden parts looked like. The nurse’s words from just moments ago played like a loop in Greta’s head: Ninety-eight percent of his body is covered in third-degree burns, but we’ll do what we can.

  When the ambulance arrived at the hospital, the medics had rushed him straight to the burn and trauma ICU. Greta had run down the burn unit’s hall still barefoot, her whole body trembling, her thoughts spiraling. Now all she could do was pray that his pain wasn’t as torturous as she knew it must be.

  The doctors and nurses hovering over him worked rapidly, moving constantly around his battered body. She strained to decipher their muffled words through the partition dividing her from them, pressing her forehead up against the glass as she searched every inch of his bandaged body, desperate for a movement, for any tiny sign of life. The whiteboard on the wall of his room said Patrick O’Brien, and her stomach turned both from seeing it stated so starkly there and from the sickening smell of burned flesh making the air rancid. Her nose and mouth covered, her breathing was still irregular as she whispered, “Please, God.”

  The heart monitor blared, its beeping aggressive and high pitched. She jumped, staring in disbelief at the flat line extending across the entire screen.

  Hitting the window, she shouted, pleading with them to save him, to keep trying everything, to not even think about giving up. They can’t give up.

  The drama and commotion in the room slowed until it stopped entirely and the doctors and nurses backed away from the scorched, still body. The attending doctor pulled down his face mask, glanced over at the clock, and seemed to pronounce the time of death.

  Greta’s legs gave out, a primal sob erupting from deep within.

  A doctor appeared before her. She was on the floor now, hyperventilating, as he apologized, explaining that they had done all they could but he had succumbed to his internal injuries. Shakily getting to her feet, she pushed past him and into the trauma room. Accusations flooded her mind; she needed someone to blame for this.

  Closer to the body, Greta gagged at the overpowering smell of burned flesh, bile inching its way up her throat. Dizzy, she watched a nurse removing the tubes. Greta stepped to the edge of the bed and stroked his hair. “I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispered. “I love you so much. I always will.” Her voice caught. “We will find out who did this.”

  Her fingertips grazed his hand, and its coolness shocked her. It seemed too fast . . . and just like that, acid rushed into her mouth. Greta flew down the hall to a bathroom, just barely collapsing in front of a toilet before her stomach emptied itself violently. When her retching turned to sobbing, she slumped on the cold tile floor, unable to move. She pressed her now-icy hands against the back of her neck. Her grief invited in a stream of dark thoughts, and she wondered if this was her punishment for all her lies. Saliva caught in her throat as she breathed deeply, and she choked, coughing. She grabbed a wad of toilet paper to blow her nose and wipe the tears pouring down her face.

  She was alone again, and the thoughts returned. Why hadn’t she told him she loved him more often? Why hadn’t she been more giving and present?

  A forceful pounding startled her, accompanied by a voice bellowing aggressively from the hallway. “Mrs. O’Brien?” They weren’t going to let her be.

  “Just a second,” Greta called, slowly wiping her face.

  Before she’d even made it to the door, the voice commanded, “Mrs. O’Brien, come out. Immediately.”

  Greta’s eyes narrowed, her heart clutching. The floor felt like quicksand as she opened the door and stepped into the hallway. She reached for the wall to steady herself.

  “I’m Detective Morales. I have a few questions.”

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  COLETTE

  1984

  “We can’t have anything he’ll come back for.” Her mother’s angry voice carried up through the weathered floorboards. “They told me to do this.”

  Colette’s tiny fingers clutched her doll so hard her knuckles turned white. She tossed the doll onto the floor of the tree house and went on all fours, closing one eye and pushing the other to the hole in the wood. Her mother’s voice was a growl now as she mumbled to herself, and Colette watched as her mother opened one of her father’s brown bottles with the picture of the turkey on it and poured it all over the wooden swing that hung from the same large oak that Colette’s tree house was built on.

  “Mommy! No! I love the swing!” she cried as her mother’s shaky hands peeled the plastic from the top of another bottle and then poured the amber liquid all over one of the only things in the world Colette cared about. Panic gripped her. She was safe up in t
he tree house; her mother would never climb up the rickety wooden ladder with the cracked rungs. But she could never be sure what her mom would do next. She carefully nestled her doll into the bed she had made out of an old sleeping bag she had found in the shed. She threw her legs through the opening and rushed down the ladder, jumping the final few feet when she was three rungs up from the ground.

  “He might come back, don’t pour it out!” Colette whined as she pulled on the back of her mother’s worn nightgown. Two empty bottles lay on the ground near her bare feet, and she was opening a third. The smell coming from them was sweet and sour at the same time, and Colette felt sick.

  Her mother’s rough hand, slick with the stinking liquid, swatted back toward her and hit her cheek with a wet slap. “He’s not coming back!” she snarled as she threw the bottle to the ground. Colette sat on the grass for a moment, stunned, holding her hand to her cheek, which was damp from tears and the remnants of her mother’s smack.

  The beautiful swing set that her father had labored over was standing strong with the setting sun behind it. The little tree house clung to the big trunk, held in place by rotting pieces of wood, the blue paint peeling away in spots. The window’s glass had broken in a storm, but there was one big piece that was crack-free so Colette could keep a lookout. Every minute she could, Colette would run outside and swing on the swings and play with her dolls in the house. Especially on days like this, when she didn’t know what kind of mood her mom would be in. She loved swinging on the wooden plank that hung from two thick ropes on the branch, looking out at all the trees lining the fields on their farm when her feet hit the sky. Even when he’d still lived with them, her father hadn’t been around much; he was always working at the lumberyard or going to the pub with his friends. He never played with her or read her books, but he had made that swing and the tree house for her. With his own hands.

  Her heart was beating like crazy as she watched her mother go back into the house mumbling something. Maybe she wasn’t going to do anything bad after all. She really hoped not. The wet stuff would dry . . . it would be fine. She stood up from where she had been knocked to the ground by her mother’s angry hand and made her way back up the ladder to the safety of the house.

  She breathed in the sweet smell of the wooden floorboards and climbed onto the sleeping bag to hug and kiss her doll. “It will be okay,” she whispered in the doll’s ear. She really hoped it would be. She and Dad had worked hard on this.

  He had collected the wood for a long time from the scrap pile at his job at the lumberyard. Some pieces were long and some were short, all different colors and scents. When he thought he had enough, he’d told her it was time to get to work. She had helped him by holding the nails in the small circle inside her palm and handing them to him one by one when he asked. Every Sunday for weeks, Dad would measure and cut the pieces of wood using his tools, and she had loved the sound of the measuring tape as it swooshed back into its holder. She would laugh so hard when he would try to tell her something with a nail stuck between his lips, his words coming out like gibberish. Each night when they were done for the day, she had swept up the sawdust left behind on the garage floor with the little pink broom from the kitchen set Aunt Lisa had bought her for Christmas.

  She heard the back patio door sliding open and she peeked out. Her mother came storming back outside, still mumbling under her breath, and Colette watched, frozen in fear. Her mother stood at the bourbon-soaked swing and calmly stuck her hand inside the top of her nightgown and pulled a cigarette pack out of her bra. She placed a cigarette between her lips and lit it with a big square silver lighter.

  Colette watched as the lighter, still alight with flame, left her mother’s fingers and flew through the air as if in slow motion, landing on the swing. Little blue flames burst along the wood.

  “Please . . . Mommy . . . please!” she screeched and dropped her doll. But it was too late. Colette watched as the wood burned slowly, inching toward the thick ropes that held it.

  “Ya better get down from there,” her mother said with a wicked smile on her face as she watched the fire creep up the ropes of the swing fast like lightning.

  Within seconds the fire was licking the tree branch that led to the little blue house. Colette ran across the floorboards and threw her feet onto the ladder and climbed down into the smoky air. She dashed across the yard to get a bucket from the garden and fill it with water from the hose. Her mother’s back was to her as she watched the blaze, her laughter filling the backyard. Colette ran over when the bucket was filled to the top with water, going as fast as she could, careful not to spill any. She threw the water with all her might up toward the branch that was engulfed in flames, but the little splash didn’t even reach it. The fire was going to reach the tree house.

  “Mommy! The house!” she screeched as she looked over to where her mother had sat down in a lawn chair, smoking her cigarette with a big smile on her face. She’s going to let it all burn, she’s not going to help me.

  Colette realized with horror that her doll was still up there, and she flew like a flash back toward the ladder. Embers floated in the sky, and her feet left black soot marks on each rung as she scrambled up. One whole wall of the little house was engulfed in flames, and the heat hit Colette’s cheeks as soon as she put her head through the hole at the top of the ladder. Smoke filled her lungs and she choked. Her doll was propped against the wall in the corner; her face was melting and her beautiful, silky blonde hair had disappeared. Black lines slid down her dissolving cheeks from where her eyes had once been, and her ears were dripping nubs on the sides of her head. Colette burst into furious tears of helplessness as she realized that she couldn’t save her only friend. She pushed herself down the ladder, coughing on the thick gray air. She ran away from the fire and plopped down on the ground and watched while the solitary sign of her father’s love for her went up in flames.

  When Chief Morris came to the house because one of the neighboring farmhands had seen the smoke and called the fire department, Colette’s mother wasn’t laughing anymore. Colette watched curiously as her mother wiped tears from her cheeks and pointed at Colette and whispered in the fireman’s ear.

  She heard him say, “Okay, Connie—we will take care of it.”

  She watched as the fireman came toward her and wondered what he was going to ask her. She wouldn’t dare tell him what her mother had done; she knew, even though she was just a little girl, that nobody should ever know how mean her mother could be. But still her stomach flipped in the one moment it took for him to reach her and crouch down to talk to her quietly where she sat in the grass in the backyard.

  “Colette, what happened today could have been much worse than it was. You are a lucky little girl that nobody got hurt because of what you did,” he said, and Colette was confused but relieved when she noticed that his eyes looked kind and he reached out for her hand.

  “Your mommy wanted me to talk to you about how dangerous it is to play with fire.”

  1994

  Even though it had been over a decade ago, Colette could never be near a fire and not think about the tree house. She stared at the hand gripping the red can of gasoline, jerking it up and down and allowing gas to spray out onto the logs that had just started to die out. Her mind flashed, and it was her mother’s hands igniting fire on the beautiful wood so perfectly crafted. She jumped at the male voice in her ear.

  “People around here don’t realize how dangerous it is to play with fire,” he said, and she turned to look at him, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat at the familiar words. She smiled and shrugged, not knowing what to say.

  “Everyone knows when you try to make a bonfire too perfect, it explodes,” he said, pointing as the girl threw the gas can into the flames.

  Colette turned toward him and prayed that he didn’t notice the laughter she choked out was the nervous kind. She watched the fire rise and lick the sky in the reflection of his eyes. She pushed away the ugly memorie
s of her childhood and focused on what was in front of her.

  She couldn’t believe that he was talking to her. Rob, the coolest guy in this little town. He had shown up her freshman year, two grades above her in school. They had never met, but she’d heard through the grapevine that he had moved there from New Jersey because his father had gotten a big job at the sub base. He looked different from everyone else at the party; his tan arms were lit by the glow of the flames, and his brown hair, instead of being tucked underneath a dirty trucker hat, was slicked back with gel.

  “I was hoping you would be here,” he said with a wink.

  Colette frowned. “You were?”

  “Yeah, I haven’t seen you around in a while,” he said.

  “I . . . I . . . don’t think we’ve ever met,” she said, wishing she hadn’t stuttered.

  “Oh, I’m Rob. I could swear we smoked a cigarette together at a party a while back,” he said, his eyes squinting in confusion.

  “No . . . no . . . I don’t smoke,” Colette answered.

  “Hmmm,” Rob said. “Well anyways, happy to have a beautiful girl like you to hang with tonight.” He took a pack of Camel cigarettes out of his fleece jacket and lit one before reaching toward her with the pack. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”

  She considered. This hot guy who seemed so different from everyone else in town thought he knew her. But he didn’t. And there was a quiet comfort in that fact. He doesn’t know anything about me or my mother. He’s probably the only one here who doesn’t.

  “You know what, doll? I’d love one,” she answered with a coy smile.

  The beer and nicotine hit her, and the world was spinning. Nearby, a bunch of boys were digging a hole in the ground to put the keg into. They would bury it, letting only the tap stick out, an old trick just in case the cops came. The earthy scent of the soil, soaked from the hard rain the day before, turned her stomach.

  “Oh God, that smell,” Colette said, pushing her hand over her mouth and nose.

  “The smoke?” he asked.

  “No, the mud. The smell of it makes me sick,” she answered and took a drag from the cigarette.