The First to Lie

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “As I said when we first discussed it, it’s—well,” he said. “It’s called ‘off-label’ use. Remember? You did read the consent before you signed it, didn’t you? But my dear, there is always adoption, and…”

  His voice blurred into blithering nothingness, his words absurd and meant for someone else, not Lacey, never her. Brinn. The woman should have left well enough alone.

  Brinn had brought her here. Brinn had forced her. Forced her! And had left her no choice. Brinn had convinced her, cajoled her, reassured her, even after her first injection. Oh, you’re the luckiest! Our innovation team is certain it’ll work, it’s new, and fabulous, it’s a miracle …

  Lacey felt her mind flame and burn and shrivel, shrivel like her own dead insides, and then spiral into darkness and then even darkerness.

  Dr. Sheppard pushed his ugly glasses higher on his ugly nose, then stood.

  “I’ll give you a few moments to get dressed and then come back. We’ll talk about how to make the best of it.”

  She sat, silent and motionless, as he closed the door behind him, leaving her in antiseptic silence. She’d been so excited that morning, she remembered, with the prospect of happiness, happiness in the form of this miraculous remedy, that’s what it was, hadn’t he told her that? Hadn’t Brinn?

  She stared at the mawkish yellow wall, at the dumb diplomas and certificates that didn’t mean a damn thing, and pictured the babies who would never be, and the family that would never be, and it was not her fault. It was the medicine. It was Pharminex.

  And it was Brinn. She sat up straighter, as straight as she could, feeling her spine stiffen along with her resolve.

  The need for a child twisted through her brain and clutched at her heart, binding it, wrapping it, insistent, relentless, demanding.

  “Make the best of it.” She muttered the doctor’s platitude out loud, then flinched at the bitterness in her voice. She wouldn’t tell Trevor, that was for sure. He thought she was perfect, he told her so all the time, and now she wasn’t.

  And Brinn? Mother, she’d insisted Lacey call her. Disgusting.

  She lifted her chin, determined. She could pretend with the best of them. She’d smile and blush and be the perfect Vanderwald wife. She’d spent her entire life acting. Acting like everything was perfect. To hold on to her new life, she had to continue acting. But on her own terms now. Not Brinn’s. Not ever again.

  She snapped off the belt of the paper johnnie and stood in the doctor’s office, naked and shivering, and like every day of her damned life, determined. Maybe this doctor was wrong. He had to be wrong. She listened for his footsteps. Nothing. Coward. He would pay for this. Or better—Mother Brinn would pay. She wasn’t the only one with power.

  She grabbed for her ivory satin underwear, lacy for Lacey, Trevor had said when he presented it to her, and she had laughed, putting it on, then taking it off.

  Now, dressing for her next battle, she could almost hear her real mother’s fetid voice hooting at her, taunting. We plan and God laughs, little girl, like a curse, in that saccharine drawl. You put on airs, but He’ll bring you down to earth.

  CHAPTER 32

  ELLIE

  “Oh, come on, Gabe. Not a chance. Impossible.” Ellie waved him off. Just before nine now, but the Pharminex reception area was still deserted. “If Meg Weest is Brooke Vanderwald, daughter of the Pharminex Vanderwalds, that would mean that somehow, of all the cities in all the world, in all the television stations in all the world, of all the reporters in all the world, of all the investigations in all the world—”

  The center elevator doors slid open. Ellie whipped her head around to see who’d emerge. But it was empty. After a pause, the elevator seemed to sigh and the doors swished closed.

  Ellie shook her head. “The idea that Brooke Vanderwald would just happen to show up and become my researcher when I’m looking into the company that her family owns? Impossible.” She consulted her watch. “Detta’s keeping us waiting, I see. Anyway, Sherlock, what’re you smoking to make you think she’s Brooke?”

  Gabe stayed in his chair, staring at the mums.

  She poked his arm with one finger. “I’m listening.”

  “When I last saw Brooke—”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “Her brother, Trevor, was a classmate. No real connection, no big friendship, just the same school. He had a blowout birthday party at a country club. Years ago. And his little sister was there for it. All, you know, braces. Bad skin.” He looked at her, as if remembering, “Awkward. Fifteen. Or so.”

  “Did you talk to her then?” Ellie asked.

  “Not that I remember.” Gabe shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. It’s unlikely. More than unlikely.”

  “Did Meg seem to recognize you?” That would be a complication.

  “No reason for her to remember me. I was older, in her brother’s circle. She was a teenager. In an I hate everyone stage. When you think you’re going to be unhappy forever. You know how it was.” He gave half a smile. “Did you ever look her up, in your research about the company and the family?”

  “Yeah, way back,” Ellie admitted. “But after you mentioned it, I checked again. And I saw an internet thing, like, yesterday, that after she got out of rehab, the fam shipped her off to Majorca or Málaga, I forget, someplace ritzy like that, spending her trust fund. Or maybe she’s … you know. Damaged goods. From the accident. The snooty Vanderwald types could never deal with that. Or maybe, prodigal daughter, she’ll show up at the gala. That’d be something.”

  Gabe stood, unbuttoned his coat, folded it over his arm. “Where’s Fiddler, I wonder?”

  “Are we finished talking about Meg Weest being Brooke Vanderwald? Because the real Meg, the TV researcher, seems to be on an unsanctioned mission into enemy territory, which makes me wonder if she’s actually the enemy. What if—”

  “Nora.” Gabe’s voice changed, now formal and warning. He tilted his head toward the back of the room, where a door had opened behind the reception desk.

  Ellie blinked, trying to remember if she’d even noticed the outline of a door.

  Maren, Ellie remembered. Fiddler’s haughty secretary. “Maybe she’s Brooke Vanderwald,” Ellie whispered to Gabe.

  “Hello, Maren,” Ellie said in her normal voice. “This is my lawyer, Gabriel Hoyt. He’s here to—”

  “Ms. Fiddler will see you both now,” Maren interrupted.

  * * *

  I’m Nora, Nora, Nora, Ellie kept thinking, as she assumed her Nora face and her confident Nora posture, and listened to Gabe and Detta Fiddler hash out another confidentiality agreement—her second in two weeks, this one about her new mission. How would Nora feel about this assignment? Hurt, but vindicated, Ellie decided. A battered woman who’d been apologized to and offered money to secure her allegiance.

  Detta’s back was to the wide window. Her view, if she ever turned to look at it, was a sliver of sky, the pointy top of the Custom House Tower, and past that, a strip of Boston Harbor, water meeting sky. Detta had barricaded herself behind her desk, her gardenias in full fragrance, white flowers without a hint of browning edges. Detta seemed to be ignoring the leather-skirted Allessandra, hovering as usual behind Detta’s shoulder.

  Gabe had first taken the upholstered visitor’s chair to Ellie’s left, but stood to accept a manila file folder Detta handed him.

  “Take a look,” Detta instructed. “We’ll wait while you read it.”

  Ellie yanked her Nora-self back to this center of power, this carefully appointed room where lives were discussed like entries in a ledger. She’d been lost in angry thoughts, thoughts of retribution and revenge. Trying to understand why people made the decisions they did. For power, or money, or even because they thought it was the right thing.

  “Nora?” Gabe tapped the papers in the open file folder. “This proposal indicates you’ll be reassigned as a customer service slash public relations representative. No longer actively repping products but tasked with ass
essing consumer reaction and protecting the company’s market position. You’d report to Ms. Fiddler directly. Are you amenable to this?”

  “What do you think, Gabe?” As if she would say no. As if she would refuse this access. There was always the chance that Detta Fiddler was trying to trap her again. But it was a risk she’d take. Gabe too. Lawyers and journalists. Together they had the power to make things right.

  “I think it’s likely a waste of time. But that’s not for us to assess. So. Agreed.” Gabe closed the folder. “But no promises. Ms. Quinn cannot guarantee she’ll discover anyone—reporter or other unwanted questioner—who’s approaching your employees. It may not even be true.”

  “Oh, it’s true,” Allessandra finally contributed, narrowing her eyes as if trying to read the room. “We have—shall we say—people in certain pivotal doctors’ offices and other places. We know what’s going on. It’s a necessary evil. A cost of doing business.”

  “Like your spy? Dr. Hawkins?” Ellie couldn’t resist saying. “The liar who cost me my job?”

  “Which means our methods work, correct?” Detta drummed her fingers on her desktop, then stopped, possibly realizing the attitude it telegraphed.

  Allessandra stepped forward, taking over. “We need to ensure the safety and efficacy of our products, as well as their security. The stakes are high. It’s too easy to ruin a company’s reputation. Too easy for the media to spin some fake story, gossip, essentially, exploiting so-called ‘victims’ who certainly understood—”

  Ellie caught Detta’s short-lived expression of disapproval.

  “What Allessandra means,” Detta rolled over the end of her assistant’s sentence, “is that we’d be infinitely grateful to you, Nora. We need to make clear to the board and to the stockholders—”

  “And to the public,” Gabe said.

  “Goes without saying,” Detta said.

  “Does it?” Gabe asked.

  “That no renegade journalist is targeting our company.”

  Ellie looked Detta square in the eye, knowing that Detta was seeing Nora. The woman she’d had no problem entrapping, discrediting and discarding. Detta also apparently had no hesitation about using her again if she thought it was to her advantage.

  Nora would assert herself in any discussion of her future, Ellie figured. “Detta? How can I help you stop something you’re not sure even exists? If I’m to be part of this search, we need to be clear about that and—”

  Search. She stopped herself midsentence. “Detta? Did you have someone break into my apartment?”

  “What?” Detta looked surprised, though Ellie assumed the woman had practice with artifice.

  “Your apartment?” Allessandra frowned.

  “Is that a no?” Gabe said. “Someone did.”

  “Did you call the police?” Detta asked. “Did the burglar take anything?”

  “Was it you?” Ellie persisted. Detta had not asked whether Nora was at home or if she had been harmed.

  “Let me be clear, Ms. Quinn. And to you too, Mr. Hoyt. On the record. On the permanent record. And immutable. We do nothing—nothing—that’s in any way criminal.” Detta Fiddler stood, resting her fingertips on her desk, her chair rolling out from behind her with the decisive motion. “Yes, we employ people to make sure our company is not targeted or harmed. But—” She pressed her lips together and sat back down, smoothing her black skirt underneath her. “I assure you we would never cross that line. Clear?”

  How do you know if someone is lying? Listening to Detta, assessing her earnest expression and persuasive techniques, Ellie had to wonder. She herself had spent much of her career doing the same thing. And expecting people to believe her.

  As Nora, she’d lied to convince this company to give her a job in the first place, lied to further her investigation, then lied her way out when she got caught. As Ellie, she’d lied to convince her news director and everyone else that she had no agenda but to be a journalist exposing a powerful and unscrupulous business. Now she was being offered an assignment where the stated point was to keep on lying. And to discover who else was doing the same thing.

  When the stakes were life and death, did a few lies matter?

  CHAPTER 33

  ELLIE

  “That was pretty surreal,” Ellie said, as she and Gabe pushed through the heavy glass revolving door and out into the morning, entering the Monday gloom. A messy-bunned walk-and-talker looked up from her cell phone to glare at Ellie, who apparently had dared to step into her path. This time of morning, the tail end of rush hour, the foot traffic was only post-weekend stragglers, some hurrying against the cold, others tardy and defeated. Everyone carried coffee. “You’re pretty convincing as a lawyer.”

  “I am a lawyer.” Gabe nudged her with an elbow as they walked toward his car. “And you’re pretty convincing as pharma Barbie.”

  She elbowed him back. “Not pharma Barbie, dude. No detail bag, right?” She pointed to the sleek black leather shoulder bag they’d given her, illustrating her point. “I’m now a briefcase-toting customer service slash public relations representative.”

  Heads down and hands stuffed in their pockets, she and Gabe battled up the wind tunnels of the skyscrapered Financial District toward the parking lot. The fragrance of surreptitious marijuana mixed with bus exhaust, and a seagull pecked the ground, stalking someone’s discarded popcorn. Rickety souvenir stands competed for the sidewalk space, offering tourists counterfeit Red Sox T-shirts and Cheers mugs.

  She was as counterfeit as those cheap trinkets, Ellie realized, as they descended into the fume-filled underground parking garage. Gabe clicked open his Jeep and opened the door for her.

  “Where to now? Should you check out some doctors? You’re already all Nora’d up and ready to go.”

  Ellie slid into her seat. Yanked on her seat belt. Closed her door.

  “Gabe? What if I see Meg in some office? So much of the time I’m not at Channel Eleven. And no one there knew I was being Nora. That’s part of my deal, that I can research without having to check in all the time.”

  Gabe pushed on the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, but he didn’t shift into gear.

  “But see, that means,” Ellie raised a forefinger as punctuation, “I also don’t know where Meg’s been while I’m gone. I keep trying to think whether I’ve seen her. You’d think I’d have recognized her, no matter how she tried to disguise herself. I mean, I know her.”

  “Or maybe she saw you first and took off.”

  “Could be.” Ellie thought about that. “She’s aware—because we discussed it with the news director—that I’ve visited doctors’ offices. She thinks I go as me, though. Ellie. Not Nora.”

  “But she knows Ellie-you. Think she’d recognize Nora-you?”

  “Impossible to say,” she admitted. “And then there’d be the question of whether she’d keep it secret. Geez. It might be easier if she were Brooke Vanderwald. Listen. Let’s head to Newton. I’ll explain on the way.”

  Gabe accelerated up the parking garage’s concrete incline toward the Boston morning, the gloomy daylight ahead appearing as they drew closer to the garage exit.

  March in Boston was still the depth of winter, Ellie was learning. Back home, March meant daffodils, and even the floating canopies of cherry blossoms. But the dank Boston days, she’d been warned, stretched until April. Ellie drew her coat closer, chilled not only by the weather but by the path she’d chosen. She could be warm later. Happy later. Satisfied later. At peace—later.

  She sneaked a glance at Gabe as he slipped a paper ticket and then a credit card into the parking fee machine. Guy, she thought. But now officially Gabe, after he’d shown her ID in his WorkHere office. She yearned to be furious about his deception, betrayed and deceived, but that was complicated since she’d done the same thing to him. Her feelings about Guy, though—before she knew the truth—had been real. And he’d told her “Guy” had “connected” with Nora. So some things were authentic. Maybe.

&nbs
p; “I still get confused about what to call you,” she said. “Gabe or Guy. They both look the same.”

  “Well, yeah, the same person was never supposed to see both of us. You’re the only one who did.”

  The bright orange-striped metal of the parking garage exit arm clanked to vertical, allowing them into the morning. A brown tourist trolley trundled in front of them, red pennants fluttering and glassine windows flapped down, its bundled-up passengers peering through the smoky plastic at Boston Common and, Ellie figured, at the gold dome of the statehouse beyond.

  “But doesn’t it work just fine now?” Gabe asked. “That we’re both who we really are? Most of the time, anyway.”

  “And it’s easy for you to remember when I’m Nora.” She pretended to preen, twirled an auburn curl like a cheesy TV villain. “Though, yeah, the same people were not supposed to see both her and me either. That’d never work.”

  Gabe pulled out into the street, the silvery morning softening the lines in his face, and pulled up to the zebra-striped crosswalk, stopping for the pedestrians who’d stepped off the curb on their way to the Common. A ballet dancer of a woman wearing a pink watch cap, pink leggings and chunky boots chatted face-to-face with a swaddled infant strapped into the Snugli across her chest, oblivious to anything but their conversation. A twentysomething in a puffy red parka and pushing a stroller grabbed the mittened hand of a waddling child in a matching coat, the child pointing to a scattering of sparrows in the snow.

  A stroller. A mother. A child. So random, so unremarkable, so simple. For some. For others the image might bring pain and grief, longing and disappointment. So many women wanted that, needed that, lived for that. Motherhood was a choice, and needed to be as fair a choice as humanly possible. That’s why Ellie—and Nora—did what they did. Risked what they risked. Ellie made a silent promise. She would not give up.