The First to Lie

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so freaking sorry!” A spindly teenage girl, wearing a black hooded down jacket and neon-pink wool ski cap and carrying a cell phone, jogged toward Ellie, apologizing nonstop. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so totally freaking sorry! Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Ellie said. But her knees had gone to jelly, and she had to pause—hand over her racing heart—to get her bearings. Once she did, she examined her bumper. And the girl’s. “I guess the cars are okay too.”

  She watched the girl stash her phone in one pocket of her jacket.

  “Were you, like, texting?” Ellie asked.

  “No!” The girl’s face went whiter as she denied it, and Ellie realized how parents know when their kids are lying.

  “Right,” Ellie said, feeling like someone’s mom. She took out her phone and, before the girl could protest, snapped a photo of the license plate on the front of the SUV. “The cops can trace that, you know. If you were texting or talking. And aren’t you under eighteen? Don’t you know that—even more than drunk driving—texting and driving is the biggest cause of—”

  “You want my number?” The girl’s dark brown eyes welled in little-girl distress, incongruous with her pseudo street attire. “My dad’s gonna kill me.”

  “No one is gonna kill anyone,” Ellie said, weary of death and how people threw that word around like it meant nothing. This kid had no idea, Ellie thought. Maybe it was because Ellie herself was tired and afraid and pressured, but this girl had touched her, so cocooned, protected by parents and affluence and youth, unaware of the deceit and manipulation looming at every turn. And now she, Ellie, was in the midst of it, and after Kaitlyn and Lydia and Monteiro and those bulletin board pushpins, this sweetly oblivious girl had almost pushed her over the emotional edge. “And I’m all good, so you go. Your car’s fine. Drive carefully, though, okay? No texting?”

  “Thank you thank you thank you.” The girl walked backward, hands pressed together as if in prayer to illustrate her gratitude. Then she jumped in her luxury vehicle, backed up and pulled away without another look Ellie’s way. As she turned the SUV back onto the highway, she’d already pulled out her cell phone.

  Ellie stood, leaning against the side of her car, watching the girl, then watching the highway. Kaitlyn Armistead had probably been one of those statistics; on her phone, distracted. Confiding in Nora as she died.

  A trio of motorcycles roared by, one with a woman on the back, long hair flying, no helmet, as if everyone lived forever and she were immortal. The roar of their engines faded away, but not the indelible picture in Ellie’s mind. A small white car. Crashed on the side of the road.

  She had been on the phone listening as Kaitlyn died. She’d been the distraction. She’d been the cause. She pursed her lips and closed her eyes to squeeze the thought away. Kaitlyn had called her, and that’s how the world went. But if it was an accident, why did the police have Kaitlyn’s photo posted on the bulletin board?

  The police had called Nora for an interview. Then they’d let her go.

  And, Ellie remembered, they’d also said they were calling everyone Kaitlyn had talked to before she died. So Kaitlyn had made other calls.

  “You okay, ma’am?” Ellie turned to see the crazy-haired clerk she’d paid not ten minutes earlier walking toward her, waving a colorfully tattooed bare arm. He hadn’t emerged when neon-hat girl bumped her car. “You lose something?”

  “I’m fine. Just planning.” She took a deep breath, her knees back to normal and her brain in high gear. Who had Kaitlyn talked to? And speaking of talking—Gabe hadn’t called back.

  Ellie climbed into the front seat as the clerk ambled to his register. Her shoes crunched on pretzels and cracker shards, and she wished for a vacuum. She pushed her ignition and shifted into drive—then kept her foot on the brake.

  Wait. She played back that last conversation with Kaitlyn. She couldn’t remember it word for word, but she was a reporter and was trained to listen. She remembered enough.

  Nora knew exactly who else Kaitlyn had called. Because Kaitlyn had told her.

  CHAPTER 45

  ELLIE

  The Holiday Hills section of Wayland, Ellie saw, must have once been a desirable subdivision. Now its narrow winding streets, with names like MayDay Drive and Independence Street, felt weary and outdated. There seemed to be no hills. Cul-de-sacs were bordered by carbon-copy ranch homes, some with shrubs encased in grungy burlap and bound with twine. Kaitlyn Armistead had lived on Valentine Way, each street-side mailbox there marked on its wooden post with a fading red heart.

  At the address Google listed for James Armistead, two cars sat in the asphalt driveway, one salt-spackled black SUV and one white hatchback, the vehicles crowded close together by grimy piles of melting snow.

  Not Kaitlyn’s car, of course, Ellie knew. Maybe the police were holding that in evidence. Maybe this white one was a replacement. That was fast, went through her mind. And from the judgmental way Kaitlyn had described her husband, he might just as quickly replace his wife. Though possibly that was an unfair conclusion.

  At nearly five in the afternoon, the sky had already darkened almost to night. March in Boston, Ellie learned, was a time of still-early sunsets and surprising gloom. Porch lights blinked on almost in unison, perhaps on timers. The light at the Armisteads’ was still off. But James Armistead was home, Ellie knew, because she’d called his landline from a pay phone at the gas station. “Armistead,” a voice had answered. “Sorry, wrong number,” she’d said, using her best flustered voice, and then hung up.

  Now she aimed her car parallel to the curb, nose pointed toward the cul-de-sac’s exit, more out of habit than apprehension. She was a reporter, and she was reporting. She snapped a cell phone shot of the house, then one of the driveway.

  Through the lens she saw a curtain flutter in the Armisteads’ wide front window, then settle back into place. The porch light went on.

  Elle knew she was being watched as she pocketed her phone, feeling unseen scrutiny with her every step up the segmented concrete walkway. The lawn, an expanse of ice-coated brown grass, straggled up to a stubby arborvitae hedge across the front of the gray house, the scene monochromatic in the porch light’s struggling wattage.

  She scanned the yard. No leftover snowmen, no bikes leaning against the house. No abandoned sleds or soggy toys. Two kids, Armistead had told Monteiro. But Kaitlyn had told her she’d longed for kids.

  “Yes?” The man had opened the white front door before Ellie’s gloved finger hit the doorbell button. Seeing Ellie, he unlocked the screen door too, leaving a sliver of exposed space between them. Jeans, plaid shirt, running shoes, Ellie cataloged. Dark hair, a bit too long for the weather-worn fortysomething face, but he wore a pleasant enough expression. This ordinary-looking suburban guy did not appear to be the ogre Kaitlyn had described. But things often looked different behind closed doors.

  Ellie tried but could not see inside. Lights were on; that was all she could make out. And maybe the murmur of a television.

  “Ellie Berensen from the new Channel Eleven,” she began, trying to appear sympathetic and unthreatening. Her words puffed into the cold. “I wondered if you had a moment to—”

  “Can’t you people get your act together?” Armistead’s initially placid expression warped into red-faced annoyance. “Bad enough for one of you—”

  Ellie took a step back, confused, almost falling onto the front walk. She caught her balance, apologizing at the same time. “Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Armistead, but no, there’s no one else from—I mean, oh. Maybe someone from another station called you?”

  “Called me? Do you think I don’t know what I’m talking about?” He put his wide back against the glass of the storm door, still holding it open an inch, and called into the house, “You! Reporter! Are you the left hand? Because your right hand’s just arrived. Time to tell each other what you’re doing.”

  Ellie heard a rustle from deep inside the house, a chai
r scraping and footsteps.

  “Ellie!”

  She heard the chirpy voice before she saw its speaker edging toward the front door. She wore a black turtleneck and black pants. And a ponytail. Ellie’s brain sizzled, then burned to a crisp. Meg.

  “What are you doing here?” Ellie’s words—maybe not completely appropriate—escaped before she could strategically filter them. She gulped, regrouping. James Armistead had fully opened the storm door now, holding it in place with one hip. He seemed to be enjoying the face-off.

  Meg held a small spiral notebook in one hand, but quickly tucked it into a pants pocket. “I thought you were at the—”

  She stopped, maybe in response to Ellie’s frosty expression.

  James Armistead scratched his head, his scorn for both of them apparent.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said. “If you two want to argue. My wife’s just dead, so I have plenty of time.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Armistead.” Ellie took two steps forward, taking a chance on being allowed inside. “And I am so sorry for your loss. May I come in? It’s pretty cold out here.”

  She tried to look needy and unthreatening. If this guy let Meg in, he could let Ellie in.

  Armistead stepped back, begrudgingly gesturing her toward the living room. The place smelled like forgotten beer. And dust.

  “Thank you,” she said as she followed him in, undoing her coat. She’d handle this with gentle amusement. “We’re a new station, I’m sure you know, and maybe we’re not quite clear on our assignment procedure.” She shot a critical look Meg’s way, figuring that if Armistead noticed her disapproval, he’d understand Ellie was the alpha here.

  “Guess so.” Armistead plopped himself in a worn black leather armchair across from a couch. Ellie surveyed its rumpled beige corduroy, lumped with throw pillows and flanked by two end tables. Squat white ceramic lamps were clicked to bright, and a long coffee table strewn with scattered newspapers. A big-screen TV, on but muted, over the fireplace. Behind a dining room, a sliding glass door to a backyard, with spotlights illuminating only murky darkness, a few frantic moths darting through the yellow beams.

  Again Ellie scanned for the evidence of children—a stray Lego or escaped crayon. But she saw nothing.

  “I’m not sure what Meg here was asking you…” Ellie sat on the couch, letting that sentence go unfinished. “But she’d inquired about your wife’s terrible accident, is that right?”

  Wearing a guilty-puppy expression, Meg nodded from the other end of the corduroy. “Mr. Armistead was telling me how wonderful his wife was. Since I’m new and everything, he was being extremely patient, and I’m so grateful for that.”

  Ellie tried to keep the skepticism from her face. Had Meg mentioned Pharminex? Without conferring with Ellie, that would be going too far. “Anything else? About anything else?”

  Meg’s ponytail swung back and forth as she shook her head. “No, I’d just arrived, and we were talking about the weather that day and—”

  Ellie realized what had been bothering her. That night she’d moved into their apartment building, Meg had revealed that she didn’t drive. How did she get here to Wayland?

  “I see,” Elle interrupted. “As my colleague said, Mr. Armistead, we’re sorry for your loss. We know this is a difficult time. But we’re working on a story about distracted driving. Right, Meg?”

  Meg sat, hands clasped in her lap, silently agreeing. An obedient pupil.

  “I’ve been researching the causes for car accidents,” Ellie went on. “And I’m so sorry about asking you to talk about that now—” She drew in a breath and carted out the ridiculous platitude every reporter loathed. “I’m thinking if you could save one life with your personal call to discourage distracted driving, then Kaitlyn’s death would not have been in vain.”

  Ellie could barely get the words out. The reporter’s calculus—a victim’s grief versus the public good—could never truly be reconciled. But Ellie would not have been the first journalist to lie about her motives to get a story.

  Armistead fingered his hair away from his forehead, seemed to be looking over their shoulders into the backyard.

  “What can I say?” He set one ankle on the opposite knee and leaned back in his chair, his hands curving over the chair’s leather arms. He still wore his gold wedding band. The television spackled brief shadows across his face. “Sure. If it’ll help.”

  This was how reporters did it, Ellie thought, one step at a time. One innocuous question leading to another, then another. By the time the subject had followed the simple questions down the path to more difficult ones, they’d forgotten they were talking to a reporter and the truth simply came out. This man had no idea Ellie had met his wife, and certainly didn’t know that Ellie was trying to discover if Kaitlyn had worked for Pharminex. Or—completely the opposite—whether Kaitlyn had dropped a bombshell dime to a reporter about their dangerous product. He didn’t know Ellie and Kaitlyn had shared life stories. Let alone last words.

  Ellie remembered, with a shiver, those unused pushpins on Monteiro’s bulletin board.

  “Well, first, Mr. Armistead, can you tell us a bit about your wife?” Ellie thought of something else that might be useful. “Do you have any photos of her you could share with me? Or of your children?”

  CHAPTER 46

  ELLIE

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Ellie had to keep her voice low as she leaned across the couch toward Meg. Armistead had gone down the hall to retrieve a photo album. Ellie was hoping there’d be clues inside—maybe something her husband didn’t realize was important. If Kaitlyn had lied about her childlessness, that’d be as cynical as Nora pretending to be an abused wife. What people did to get what they wanted—that was a line Ellie went toe to toe with every day.

  She peered down the corridor. Armistead was not in sight. “How could you just show up here without asking me, Meg? Or asking anyone?”

  “Because—because there’s hardly anything about Kaitlyn online and I wanted to find out more about her.” Meg’s voice was entreating, maybe defensive. “It’s always better to do that in person. Anyway, we knew she’d seen Dr. McGinty, and less than 48 hours after that she crashed into a pole. I had read that one of Monifan’s side effects was suicidal tendencies. So, um, I thought I’d come ask her husband if—you know—he’d noticed anything like that.”

  “Awesome. How were you planning on broaching that subject?”

  “Well, I hadn’t quite figured—”

  “Listen, Meg. I know you think you’re just doing your job. But don’t go off on your own, okay? Without discussing it? Does Warren know?”

  Ellie could see Meg deciding what to say, which revived her annoyance. Either the news director knew or he didn’t.

  “Um, well…”

  “So you misled your boss. Not an astute career move.” Footsteps. Ellie had about twenty seconds. She could not resist. “How’d you get here, Meg?”

  Meg’s eyes widened. “Get here?” She shifted, moved a plaid throw pillow out of the way, then fiddled with her black turtleneck. Which, Ellie couldn’t help but notice, was much like the ones Ellie often wore.

  “Is that a difficult question?”

  “Uber. I have to call another one before I leave. Unless!” She reached out and touched Ellie’s arm. “Now that you’re here, maybe you can give me a ride back to the station.”

  Armistead returned empty-handed.

  “I’m losing it,” he said, scratching one ear. “We had a photo album but now that place on the bookshelf in Kait’s study is empty.” He dropped back in his chair. “Maybe she got rid of it.” His earlier contentiousness fell away, and melancholy colored his face. “Don’t know why she’d do that.”

  “Did she ever give you any indication that—” Meg began.

  Ellie gave her a shut up look.

  “Wait.” Armistead stood, raising a forefinger. “Be right back.”

  When he left the room again, Ellie glanced at the TV above h
er. An animated ice-dripping graphic announced “Weekday Winter Wonderland.” And predicted another snowstorm in the works.

  “Kidding me?” she muttered.

  “Didn’t you grow up with snow?” Meg asked.

  Ellie had to smile, remembering. “No, I grew up in—” She stopped. “Never mind.”

  Armistead was back, carrying a sleek cordovan leather briefcase. “This is her—was her—briefcase. Our anniversary is soon. Was.” He clicked open the brass latch, flopped the leather strap, yanked one side away from the other. “Maybe she was taking the album someplace. As a gift for me.”

  Ellie heard the bitter sorrow in his voice. But investigative reporting was about possibilities. All they needed was one clue linking Kaitlyn Armistead’s death to Pharminex.

  Meg scooted forward on the couch, apparently to get a better look. Ellie deliberately leaned back. Civility required the widower be allowed some privacy.

  Armistead removed two black leather flats. Put them on the coffee table atop the spread of newspapers. A Buisnessweek.

  A granola bar in a green package. Three pencils.

  “No album,” he said. “That’s all that’s in there.”

  “It’s okay,” Ellie said.

  “Yeah, but where is it?” Armistead flipped the briefcase upside down, face reddening in anger or frustration or grief, and shook it over the coffee table, as if, impossibly, a photo album might be inside. Out tumbled a cascade of whatevers: crumpled tissues and candy wrappers, a hair clip, some bronze tubes of lipstick, a tiny flashlight. ChapSticks, notepad, Life Savers, a tube of hand lotion.

  Ellie’s handbag probably contained the same ordinary detritus. “Mr. Armistead? Besides the police, has anyone else been here? Since your wife’s accident?”

  Armistead shook his head and frowned, plopping back down in his leather recliner. A beer-can-size ring stained the wide right arm.

  “Sure, people have been here.”