Silent Key

By Erin Leland Tuttle

Foster Farraday knows she witnessed a murder. She saw the smiling predator walk away from the scene. Just when she thought it was behind her, the sadistic game he was playing comes to find her. If she can't unmask a killer, she could be next on his list. Some other young woman might run. Foster Farraday isn't most women.

As a college-age young woman, Foster Farraday is a strong heroine. She has to navigate friendships, fears, loves, and tragedy. And she has to decide how far she is willing to go in her pursuit of freedom from a predator who seems to fear no one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin Leland Tuttle
• Release date: May 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370951154

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Silent Key

a Novella

by

Erin Leland Tuttle

Text copyright

© 2015

Erin Leland Tuttle

All Rights Reserved

Table of Contents

Prologue: 2014 4

Chapter One: Lull’d by the Moonlight 6

Chapter Two: Beam on My Heart 15

Chapter Three: Sounds of the Rude World 24

Chapter Four: List While I Woo Thee 30

Chapter Five: Starlight and Dewdrops 39

Chapter Six: Awake Unto Me 48

Chapter Seven: Mermaids are Chanting 54

Chapter Eight: Vapors are Born 61

Chapter Nine: Waiting for Thee 69

Chapter Ten: Out On the Sea 74

Chapter Eleven: Bright Coming Morn 82

Chapter Twelve: Queen of My Song 88

Chapter Thirteen: Wild Lorelei 97

Chapter Fourteen: Over the Streamlet 105

Chapter Fifteen: Clouds of Sorrow Depart 112

Epilogue: 2016 118

Prologue: 2014

As I sit at my laptop, tapping the keys like I used to tap the keys of the piano in my stuffy college practice room, two things play heavily on my mind. One, I am dying of cancer. Two, the summer before my first year of college, I witnessed a murder.

My name is Foster Anne Hagan, formerly Foster Anne Farraday. I was born in 1971 in Kentucky amidst the horse farms and stone walls, the basketball and the bourbon, where I have stayed my entire life. I'm neither proud nor embarrassed of this. I would have liked to travel more—Rome always appealed to me—but the Bluegrass State is my home. 

I live with my husband, Aaron Hagan, in a renovated home in the heart of Lexington—a home into which we have put many hours, sweat, and piles of money, a home I wanted to grow old in.

My husband is a talented and faithful man whom I have loved for over 25 years. I know our marriage hasn't been easy—what marriage is?—yet he still looks at me as if I hang the sun in the sky each and every morning. My smooth bald head, which was once covered with thick auburn hair, doesn't even seem to faze him. In fact, despite my groans, he kisses it daily. 

Eight weeks ago, I found out that I have Stage II ovarian cancer. Getting that news was definitely the black icing on the cake. No matter how much I tried to take care of it, this body of mine never got to grow babies. Aaron and I did try. We both passionately wanted at least two children in our life. But after a painful miscarriage when I was 30, I decided I could never go through that again, emotionally or physically. If Aaron was disappointed in me for this decision, he never showed it.

At this stage in my disease (God, I hate that term), I could have five more years left to live in this world. The doctors want to do cytoreductive surgery, a fancy medical term that basically means open-me-up-and-cut-it-out. I'm not keen on this idea—I'm not keen on having cancer in the first place—but it, along with the continued chemotherapy, could buy my life back. And when I see the look on Aaron's face when he doesn't know I'm watching him, I'd be willing to cut it all out myself.

We push on in life, not so much for ourselves, but for those around us. The thought of leaving the ones you love behind is worse than the thought of dying. Much worse.

Truth be told, I am almost grateful for my cancer. That may seem dark, but in all honesty it has given me the courage to finally empty all of the secret, dusty cobwebs in my head. You would think that after this many years it would have gotten easier, but it hasn’t. Each year has only solidified the feeling that I've lived a life that was split into two parallel roads. 

Keeping secrets, no matter how justified they are, is a gut-wrenching job. It eats away at you, little by little, until one day you get to the point that you have to confess, even if the priest is a blinking cursor on a blank screen. In my case, cancer decided that for me. Or perhaps the secrets grew the cancer. No matter what the doctors say, it feels like a punishment. 

Whether I will finish my story before the proverbial shit hits the fan is unclear. But I'm going to try. If I do pass away, I want to go clean. Unblemished. No matter how romantic some stories make it sound, carrying a secret to your grave only ruins the last moments of your life.

And so I begin ...

Chapter One: Lull’d by the Moonlight

I used the worn key attached to my Rubik’s Cube keychain and unlocked the door to our temporary residence around 6:30 p.m. on June 8. Before the familiar smell of the musty dorm room hit me, a pillow did.

Geez Louise, Foster! Have you been practicing this whole damn time?

Reagan. I loved her very much. But in 1988, as she was winding her way through young adulthood, she was quite a pill—one that didn't always go down smoothly.

We had known each other since we were children, but we didn't find our friendship on our own. Our parents had been college buddies, so our getting to know each other was set before we were even conceived. But honestly, I don't think I would have chosen another for my best friend, warts and all. 

We had just graduated high school and were in our fourth year of summer music camp at Central University. I had played the piano for five years longer than Reagan. She still liked to consider herself a pianist, but she only dabbled in the craft. I think her parents tried to keep her involved in as many activities as they could so she wouldn't get herself in trouble. Unfortunately, that only worked to a point.

I had been offered a piano scholarship to study at Central in 1987, before my senior year of high school began. Reagan was offered no assistance and therefore was free to choose any school she wanted. She chose Central. Although she would never admit it, I know it was because, in her own way, she needed me.

Yes I have been practicing this ‘whole damn time,’ I said, setting my keychain on my desk. Am I being punished? 

Immediately, without answering, Reagan hopped up on her twin bed and smiled down at me, hands posed behind her head. That's when I noticed.

Oh! Your hair is ... pink. 

Big time! What do you think? She turned, pink and blonde strands of her naturally wavy hair gracefully lifting and falling back to her shoulders.

It's ... big time pink.

Trying not to break into a fit of giggles, I put my hand over my nose and mouth to hide my amusement, but that never works. It's like trying not to laugh in church when the minister says, and Jesus rode into town on an ass.

Rude. You know I'm awesome.

I do, I said, then feigned shock. But what will your parents say?

Oh, who cares! she said and jumped off the bed, her feet slamming to the floor. I winced.

The girls rooming below us were attending a different camp on campus, but they made sure to find me in the lobby of the dorm after the second day we were there.

Hello there! the tallest blonde had said, waving at me and hurrying to catch up before I headed out the front door. I'm Meagan. This is Leslie. We are rooming in 132.

I looked from Meagan to Leslie before shrugging. Okay.

You're in 232, yes?

Yes, I said, noticing that Leslie, the shorter blonde, just stood there with a plastic pink smile on her face. I thought of telling her that she had forgotten to put mascara on her left eye, but figured it would be more fun if she discovered it for herself. 

Well, we're right below you, Meagan continued, and it seems like your roommate—Reagan, I think—stomps around quite a bit ...

How do you know it's not me? I asked, but Meagan continued as if I were simply a fly buzzing around her head. 

... and I was just wondering if you could tell her to maybe quiet it down? It seems like she is full of life, bless her heart, but it's really hard for us to concentrate down there.

Bless her heart. That, for those of you who may not know, is a syrupy Southern way of saying, What a dumb twat.

I smiled at both of the neon-clad Barbie dolls standing in front of me. I'll make sure to pass on your message. Enjoy your cheerleading camp. 

I never relayed the message to Reagan.

Where are you off to? I asked Reagan, kicking my shoes off. 

I'm off to have fun, she said. Remember? Fun? It's something that happens outside of the practice room, something that ...

I got it. Really. I got it.

I walked over to my half of the room and to my bed. It was small and squeaky, but warm and padded with an egg crate mattress pad that my mother had insisted that I needed my first year of camp. Although I would never admit it to her face, I'm glad I listened.

You wanna come? A few of us are going dancing downtown. Brian is gonna be there.

No, because one, Brian and his Star Wars talk wears on me, and two, I just want to crawl into my pajamas, read, and go to sleep.

I face-planted into my pillow. I practically heard Reagan's eyes roll.

Suit yourself. Don't wait up.

I didn't.

____________

Foster? Foster? Heeeey ...

I opened my eyes and quickly sat up, alarmed.

What? What time is it? Didn't you go downtown?

Reagan burst into laughter, sending the rancid smell of alcohol into my face. Good heavens, yes. It's almost midnight!

Have you been drinking?

No! I mean, not really. I'm awesome. Reagan flopped onto my bed and I bounced up in reaction. We danced and danced and now I'm back. And I feel beautiful!

My cheek, damp from the spit on my pillow, clung to a piece of my auburn hair. I pulled away and tucked behind an ear. I could have sworn that only a few moments had passed.

As I began to fully wake, my eyes focused on Reagan. She was flushed, exuberant, and intoxicated beyond what she was comfortable admitting.

Good Lord, honey, who bought you alcohol? You need to go to your bed and lay down. Here, I'll help you.

Nonsense! I shall not be moved! All the world is a stage and you are merely a ... a ...

Reagan paused, her face distorting into a grimace, before leaping from my bed and into the bathroom. I heard her vomiting and crying. For as