The First to Lie

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “We got here faster than I thought,” said Meg. “She’s not home yet. She said she’d leave a key.”

  Ellie frowned, confused.

  “Hang on, though.” Meg used a forefinger to count the pots, then pivoted, looked toward the street, counted again. “Three from the street, maybe she meant.”

  She picked up another pot and held up a key from underneath it, triumphant.

  Two minutes and a single-bulbed stairway later, they were inside the third-floor apartment, a pristine rectangle, living room–dining room–kitchen all in one, and a white-walled corridor where Ellie saw three closed doors. Two bedrooms, she guessed, and a bathroom. The place smelled like lemon furniture spray and something pungently clean, maybe bleach. In the front windows, pulled-down blinds backed the drawn lace curtains. A center light in the ceiling, frosted white glass with a gold knob in the middle, had been left on. The room had an edgy chill, as if someone was scrimping on the heat bill.

  “She just texted,” Meg announced. “She’s on the way. She’s nervous. We can use the dining room chairs to set up—in front of the windows? You might have to stay in here while we do the interview in the bedroom. Aren’t you so happy this all worked? Won’t Warren be so happy?”

  Meg planted her hands on her hips, assessing, then unbuttoned her coat.

  “Okay, you sit,” she instructed Ellie, “and I’ll go down the hall and check, make sure it’ll work. I know the place from when I was here before. All good?”

  “Not much of a choice,” Ellie muttered as Meg trotted down the hallway. Ellie undid her coat. Deposited her tote bag. Checked her watch: 10:45. Sat in the middle of the two-cushioned beige canvas couch, annoyed. Things were not always easy, she reassured herself. It’d be worth it. She needed this. Her phone buzzed.

  Text message. From Gabe.

  Call Monteiro.

  Now? W/M at interview, she texted back. Hoping he’d understand her “with Meg” shorthand.

  Do it.

  “You okay in there?” Ellie called out.

  “All good!”

  She scrolled through her phone to find Monteiro’s number. She poised her thumbs over the text box. Did Monteiro know Gabe had told her to call? Was she responding to his request for her to contact him? Or was Gabe giving her info on the down-low, letting her know something was up? This is Ellie, she finally typed.

  Three dots instantly appeared.

  Lacey Vanderwald? The name appeared on her screen. As if Monteiro had typed out Ellie’s own thoughts.

  ?? she texted back.

  You know her?

  Of her. That was true enough.

  Seen her? Recently?

  Don’t think so. You?

  She is now wanted for murder. Monteiro’s texted words were chillingly formal. Let me know if you see her. Instantly. BTW: Your lawyer buddy checks out.

  Gabe was not “her” lawyer, and not her “buddy,” but good to know that Monteiro deemed him a reliable guy. But that was not the key now.

  Murder of who? she typed.

  “Ellie!” Meg called from down the hall. “She’s on the way. Just texted me.”

  The three dots on Ellie’s cell phone had vanished. Monteiro had stopped typing.

  Ellie stared at the screen. Would she recognize Lacey Vanderwald if she saw her? She’d seen wedding photos from, what, fifteen years ago now? And the veiled memorial service photo after that. But that woman had never been on her radar, a widow who’d faded from significance after her ticket to power drowned in Chesapeake Bay. And now Lieutenant Monteiro seemed to believe she was a murderer. Murder of who?

  “She wants you to go get coffee or something.” Meg was walking toward her, holding her phone. “She says go to Wally’s down the block. That little store. We’ll text you when she’s ready.”

  “Kidding me?”

  “You want this or not?” Meg held up her phone as if Abigail were inside. “She’s jittery as hell. Now that you’re here, she won’t come in. She doesn’t want to meet you until she’s sure.”

  “Why?”

  Meg lowered the phone. “I can only speculate, and it doesn’t matter because she’s not gonna change her mind. Her way or the highway. So to speak. Sorry.”

  Ellie put her coat on again, trying to think. What if Abigail was Lacey Vanderwald, murder suspect? Ellie couldn’t leave her alone with Meg. If Ellie followed Abigail’s orders, it was Meg’s safety she’d be risking. In fact, maybe they should both get the hell out of here.

  She shook her head, deciding.

  “Why are you shaking your head? Go.” Meg lifted one of the front window blinds, peered out for a beat. “If she sees you—”

  “Okay.” Ellie pretended to agree. “Wally’s. The store on the corner.”

  “She wants coffee, black. But we’ll call or text you. In about fifteen. When she’s here. And I’ll leave the door open so you can get back in.”

  “Sure.” Ellie picked up her bag and her phone. “All good.”

  CHAPTER 55

  ELLIE

  With a solid five minutes to spare, Ellie deposited the three black coffees—which she’d purchased in record time at Wally’s—on a patch of bare ground behind a thick boxwood hedge. Hiding behind a stand of shrubbery was not how she’d planned to spend the morning, but Abigail would not appear and go inside until Ellie left, and Ellie would not leave Meg alone with her. The chances of her being Lacey Vanderwald were remote, she knew, but the way to resolve such a question was for Ellie to see the mysterious Abigail in person. Would she recognize her? Only one way to find out.

  If she was Lacey—and hadn’t Meg revealed inadvertent hints about that? That Abigail was nervous, hated Pharminex, didn’t want her “inflexible” family to know what had happened to her. That seemed important. Ellie should call the cops. Call Monteiro.

  But he’d stopped texting. Something was going on, and this was not the time to interrupt him. She had no answers for Monteiro, only more questions.

  She kept her gloved hand on the phone in her pocket, set to vibrate when Meg signaled Abigail’s arrival. As soon as Abigail headed up the front walkway, Ellie planned to get inside. Would she recognize Lacey Vanderwald?

  This entire Abigail-as-Lacey scenario was so unlikely that Ellie was almost embarrassed at herself. But not enough to abandon Meg. Murder of who?

  Still no cars on the street. No movement in any yard. Ellie’s freezing ears would never be the same. Should she tell Gabe where she was? Yes, sure, probably, definitely—all the answers skated though her mind.

  Her phone buzzed with a message. What? No one had gone inside the house.

  She pulled it from her pocket, baffled. Gabe. Checking in. He tell you?

  Yeah. What was the most important question if she had to hang up? Who is the murder victim? she typed.

  Husband. Trevor Vanderwald.

  That took a second to comprehend. One gasping life-changing second. A snowplow rattled by. Ellie barely registered it.

  Not a sailing accident? Ellie almost couldn’t get her thumbs to work. She edged back into the bushes, twigs scraping soft complaining whispers against her coat and catching in her hair. Many years ago?

  Cold case but parents never gave up. She left town. But new info, Monteiro says: She might be in Boston.

  Photo?

  Three dots. Was he consulting someone? Her time was ticking away. Any minute now, she’d have to end the conversation.

  Gabe? We at 348 Fogarty. Braintree. Soon talk w/victim “Abigail.”???? She LV? About to see her. Need current LV photo.

  Coming.

  The dots disappeared. He’d gone silent. Did Gabe mean he was coming here? Or that the photo was coming? Ellie pushed deeper into the boxwood branches, and a clump of snow dropped onto her head. She swiped it off, freezing and frustrated, as if nature herself had joined the conspiracy to make everything impossible. Talk about impossible. The police thought Lacey Vanderwald had killed her husband, Trevor. That it wasn’t an accident.

 
She took a deep breath, the cold air shocking her lungs. Tried to steady herself. She could not think about what might have happened to Trevor Vanderwald.

  Meg should have texted by now. Meg, inside with the person police think killed him.

  Staring at the lifeless screen, Ellie looked into the past and into the future. Lacey Vanderwald hadn’t been on that boat when he died, so said the news stories, so how could a sailing accident be murder?

  Now, just in time for the Vanderwald gala and the ceremony honoring the Vanderwalds’ son Trevor, Lacey Vanderwald was in Boston. And her white car had been parked at James Armistead’s house.

  She left town, Gabe had texted.

  Her phone vibrated. Meg. You at Wally’s? Come back.

  There was not a chance in hell anyone had passed Ellie on the way inside. No cars, white hatchback or any others, had passed by or parked. No pedestrians had been on the sidewalks.

  She yanked open the triple-decker’s front door.

  Ran up the three flights, fast as she could.

  She put her hand on the apartment’s metal doorknob. Pulled. Locked. Knocked. Had Abigail—or Lacey—locked it to keep her out? Ellie knocked again, impatient and worrying, in case they hadn’t heard her.

  “Hey, El.” Meg opened the door while she was still knocking, and stayed in the threshold of the apartment, not letting Ellie by. “That was fast. We’re pretty much set. Abigail says thank you.”

  Ellie frowned. No one had come in. She put on an embarrassed expression. “Yeah, I’ll confess, okay? I didn’t get the coffee and just walked around.” She pretended to wince. “That store was kind of skeevy. So I was out front the whole time. How’d she get in?”

  Meg stepped aside from the door, gesturing Ellie inside. “Duh, back door?” she said. “She lives here and parks in back. I was just about to text.”

  “Silly me,” Ellie said. Maybe, late in the interview, she’d risk it. Ask Abigail: Does the name Trevor Vanderwald sound familiar? But that might put them—Meg and Ellie—in more danger. “Okay. Call me when it’s ready. Just make sure we get it on video.”

  “Hey—are you ever gonna let me forget that? I’m sorry. Okay? Can we just—”

  “When this works, all will be forgiven.” Ellie tried to behave as if this were just an interview. Plus, being alone in the living room would let her see if Gabe had sent a photo of Lacey. The glitch—she wouldn’t be able to access it on her phone after the taping began. “Is she okay?”

  “Well, she wanted coffee…” Meg left that hanging for a second. “Kidding. She’s fine. I think the coffee was an excuse to give her time to get inside. This is about to work, sister. She says she has all kinds of Pharminex stuff. Inside documents. Slam-dunkers. So she says. And perfect, right? The day before the big gala.”

  “What does Abigail look like?” Ellie kept it casual.

  “Why?”

  “Just trying to picture her,” Ellie said. “You know, so I can be interviewing a real person.”

  Meg glanced toward the hallway. Seemed to make a decision. “After the interview, maybe? Let’s see how it goes. I’ll call you in three minutes when we check the final setup.”

  “Tell her…” Ellie tried to think. Was it safe or sensible to let Meg be alone with Abigail? Ninety-nine percent yes. Plus, they both knew Ellie would be in the next room. “Tell her she’s incredibly important,” Ellie finally said. “Tell her women all over the world will be grateful to her. Look up to her.”

  “Okay. She’ll love that. I guess.” Meg looked concerned. Kept turning toward the bedrooms.

  “Tell her that if we can put her interview on TV, it will ruin Pharminex.”

  “You think that’s true?” Meg’s voice dropped lower.

  “Definitely,” Ellie said. “And tell her we’ll introduce her to lawyers who can make her millions in damages for what she has suffered.”

  “Millions?” Meg’s eyes widened.

  “Yup. Tell her all she has to do is help us with the story.”

  CHAPTER 56

  ELLIE

  The three minutes Meg had estimated she’d need to do the final arrangements ticked away, with Ellie hearing voices from down the hall, then a door closing, more voices but unintelligibly muffled. As soon as Meg called and the interview began, Ellie would not be able to receive text photos. Ellie stared at her cell phone screen, willing a photo to appear.

  With about a minute to go, because the universe loved suspense, the text popped up. Gabe. Thank goodness.

  All LV photos old, he texted. Her shoulders dropped. This one? This? The screen showed the same photos she’d seen on Google: the wedding shot, gorgeous cascading hair and eyelashes. Another, at the funeral: no ears showed, no eyebrows. Anyway, every facial characteristic was easy to change these days, especially if you had money like Lacey Vanderwald did.

  Seen those pix, Ellie texted back. Abigail here now. W/Meg.

  Age same? Anything same?

  Haven’t seen her yet. Long story.

  Three dots.

  Long shot, Gabe finally typed. LMK asap.

  For once Ellie hoped she was completely and ridiculously wrong.

  Lacey Vanderwald. Wanted for murdering her husband. Might be in the next room with the exceptionally naive Meg. About to reveal inside information in an attempt to take down the family company she hated. Or something.

  Was it ethical to get information from a murder suspect? She was only a suspect, Ellie reminded herself—innocent until proven guilty. Ellie’s reporter imagination offered another possibility. Could the nefarious Pharminex be setting Lacey up?

  Maybe they had found out she was talking to Channel 11. To stop her, they’d somehow uncovered—or fabricated—new evidence that implicated her in murder. After all, Ellie told herself, you don’t have to kill someone in a car accident to get rid of them. If you’re rich and powerful enough, you can let the justice system take care of that. Even if your scheme falls apart, the danger was mitigated. And the target destroyed. Oh, sorry, mistake. But too late.

  Ellie heard a hallway door open.

  “Ready?” Meg yelled.

  “Ready.” Ellie adjusted her place on the couch, set up her phone. No matter who this woman turned out to be, if she could deliver the goods on Pharminex, they could work out the details later. Ellie would discuss the interview openly with the news director, and Warren would likely bring in the station’s lawyer. All fine. Ellie just needed this story.

  “I’m sitting on the bed,” Meg began the interview, her voice buzzy through the phone’s speaker. “Abigail’s across from me on a dining room chair. She’s in front of the window, with the light coming in behind her through the white slatted blinds. The stripes look kind of cool. She’s just head and shoulders, wearing sunglasses to change the shape of her face, and a baseball cap so you can’t see the outline of her hair. You okay with that?”

  As the interview progressed, Abigail related the same heartbreaking story she’d told before, speaking even more passionately and articulately. She seemed more at ease on this second recitation, emotionally describing the devastating results of the medicine she’d been given.

  “I lost everything,” she whispered. “My body, my soul, my health, my future. My children. My happiness.”

  Ellie could hear her crying and, cynically, had a reporter’s moment of wishing her tears would be visible on the tape. In silhouette, they wouldn’t. Still, her voice, thin but determined, came out like an indictment—of her doctor, of Monifan, of Pharminex and the entire medical system that had lied and cheated her out of a future.

  “Having children was all I ever wanted. And Pharminex took that dream away from me, took them from me. They killed them.”

  Ellie heard sniffing, and the unmistakable sound of tissues puffing from a cardboard box. “I’m crying too,” Meg said. “Can we wait a moment?”

  “I’m here, whenever you’re ready,” Ellie whispered. This story was heart-wrenching and powerful, and the reason she became a reporter.
In her mind and in her heart, Ellie felt the enormity of this woman’s tragedy. No matter who she was.

  “Okay.” Meg’s voice. “She’s fine now.”

  “Abigail?” Ellie said. “You’re incredibly brave. I thank you for this.”

  Abigail’s voice did not waver. “I’ll tell you whatever I can.”

  “Did you ever sue the company?” Ellie asked.

  A sigh came over the speakers, and then what sounded like a laugh. “I mentioned it,” Abigail said. “I suppose, you might say, I threatened it. Those people came at me like a ton of bricks. Terrified me. Said their lawyers would ruin me. That’s the word they used. Ruin.” Another soft laugh. “As if I weren’t already ruined.”

  “Ruin?” Ellie repeated. “Forgive me for this question, but do you think Pharminex would try to protect itself that aggressively?”

  “They kill people every day. With their drugs. It’s all for profit.”

  “I understand.” Ellie tried to tread lightly. There was no simple way to broach her suspicions about what had happened to Kaitlyn and Lydia. Besides, how would Abigail know? But maybe she did.

  Ellie heard muffled conversation, as if Meg had asked the woman something.

  “Sorry, I didn’t get that,” Ellie said.

  “Abigail says she doesn’t know Kaitlyn Armistead,” Meg said. “Or Nora Quinn or Lydia Frost.”

  Ellie’s jaw dropped. It was super-aggressive of Meg to ask on her own. But too late now.

  “Thank you, Meg.” Now Ellie was dying to ask—what was your car doing at Kaitlyn’s house, then? If you don’t know her? She opened her mouth to go for it, then heard the sound. Someone knocking at the apartment door.

  “You expecting someone else?” Ellie said into the phone. “Someone’s knocking.”

  Ellie stood, slowly, not sure what to do.

  Meg appeared in the hallway. “I told Abigail we were done. Did you lock the entryway door after you came back in?”

  “Ah, no,” Ellie admitted. “I guess I—I guess I thought it would lock itself.”