“You know what’s happened, don’t you? Sydney’s dead, Miguel. After she called you.”
Miguel took an involuntary step back, dropping the bloodied rag in his hand. Sydney’s pale blue eyes flashed in his mind. “I-I didn’t do anything.”
“What did you do to her, Miguel?” Annika’s voice softened. “Why did she come to you?”
What happened? He squeezed his eyes tight. Sydney had been trying to tell him something. She didn’t want to paint anymore. Was scared. Of him? He wouldn’t have hurt Sydney. She was just a girl. A young girl. She had come to him for help. Needed help, but for what? He couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember? His gaze drifted over to a painting against the wall.
“Ah, yes.” Annika followed the direction of his gaze to the painting. “You remember, don’t you? Sydney gave you a painting . . . or did you kill her and then steal it—”
“No!” he barked. Miguel looked at his hands. The slivers of gouged skin made him dizzy. He stumbled to his couch.
“Why were you in the woods that night, Miguel?”
He felt like he’d swallowed a mouthful of cement. His tongue wouldn’t work. Miguel clenched his hands. His nails dug into the torn flesh of his palms. He couldn’t remember. He had woken up with dirt on his clothes.
His eyes found the spot on the floor where his muddy footprints had been. He swayed.
“She was a nice girl. You liked her.” Annika touched his shoulder and he flinched. “You didn’t mean to kill her.”
“No, I didn’t kill her,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper as he brought his fists to his head. He began hitting his skull, trying to fight through the blackness and remember. What had he done?
“Stop! Miguel, stop!”
Annika’s hands wrestled his fists away from his head, stopping the blows he was inflicting on himself. Her strength surprised him. Fresh blood was smeared over his hands. But there was no pain. Only numbness.
“You have to calm down. I can help you. But you need to trust me.” Her voice soothed the throbbing in his head. “I’m going to let go of your hands. Promise me you won’t start hitting yourself again.”
“I didn’t . . .” He groaned as his eyes filled with tears. “She was young. Innocent. She didn’t deserve to die.”
“Listen to me.” Annika released his wrists. “My father spent his whole life helping people like you. Gave away all his money so veterans could have a fair chance. But no one is going to give you a fair chance, Miguel. The people in this town already believe you’re crazy. They’ll kill you if they find out the truth.” She began to pace. “They won’t understand you couldn’t help yourself.”
“I’m sick.” That’s what they had told him when he had come back from war. He was sick. Needed help. But he had been afraid. They’d kept talking about what had happened and all he’d wanted to do was forget it. Now, the nightmare had come back to haunt him in real life. “I deserve to die.”
“Maybe, but not right now.” Annika stopped in front of him. “Now, tell me about the painting.”
Like a projector with missing slides, Miguel couldn’t put the pieces of his memory together. His eyes darted around the room. Frantic. The painting . . . Sydney . . . blood . . . “Miss Lane.”
“What was that?” Annika snapped. “Is that the name of your friend at the café? Is that who you gave the painting to?”
Miguel’s mouth went dry. He swallowed against a new fear rising within him. “She’s j-just a friend.”
“A friend you trust?”
Pity. That’s what he saw in Annika’s eyes. A look half the town gave him while the other half avoided looking at him altogether. Except her. Miss Lane. Bile climbed up his throat. He shuddered and pressed his hands to his temples.
“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.” Her voice dragged against his nerves. “Take these.” She held out her hand, her eyes flashing down to his bloody wounds. “You’re going to need something for the beating you gave yourself.”
Miguel held out his hand and she dropped two small pills in his palm. They were white against the crimson blood dried on his hands. Annika left the room only to return seconds later with a glass of water.
“What are you waiting for?”
He chased the pills down with a gulp of water.
“Good.” Annika walked to the door and stopped. She leveled a cold glare at him. “I think it’d be wise for you to stay away from your friend. I’d hate to imagine her ending up like Sydney.”
What had he done? Annika’s words stoked the fire of doubt in his mind. He killed Sydney? How? Why? His head felt heavy. His body too. The room went black. The burden of what he did sunk him into the depths of darkness. He didn’t fight it. Miguel allowed the abyss to swallow him.
Sweat dripped into his eyes. It stung. His clothes clung to his body, damp with moisture. The bayonet slipped in his hand. If he dropped it, he was a dead man. It was the only weapon he had to defend himself. He heard shouting. He pressed his face deeper into the mud. Muck filled his nostrils. He would suffocate out here. He turned his face for a breath and saw her. Piercing blue eyes. Unusual. Striking. Sydney.
She cowered. Pressed herself deep into the hollow of the tree behind her. It almost hid her. Almost. The shouting grew louder and he knew if he didn’t move soon, they would kill her. He couldn’t understand why.
He clawed his way through the marsh, and with each move her blue eyes grew wider, wild with fear. He was coming for her and she knew it. He was only a few feet away now. He’d try to make it quick . . . wait. What was she holding? Was it a blanket? The long piece of fabric moved. He saw a hand. It was little. No. It couldn’t be. The little boy’s face looked up at him. How?
No! It wasn’t Sydney. It was Lane. Holding her son in her arms. She smiled. Miguel had to warn her. They couldn’t be here. They were in danger. Opening his mouth, he tried to yell but nothing came out. He looked behind him. They were coming. He inched closer. How could he protect her? She was innocent. They were innocent. If they found her . . . He tightened his grip on the bayonet and lunged for her. Her smile melted into terror. She screamed.
FIFTEEN
NEWS VANS WERE PARKED OUTSIDE the courthouse. Lane passed through the metal detector. She could do this. Wanted to do this. For her and Noah. For a future. She turned down the marble hallway and faced a crowd of reporters filling the wide hall. Thankfully, their attention and their microphones were focused on her father.
“Justice will be served.” Judge Sullivan’s voice echoed against the cold stone. “Walton’s finest are doing everything they can to find out who killed that sweet girl.”
Hearing her father call someone sweet sounded odd. Out of character—especially within the confines of the courthouse. This was Bear’s den, where he lived up to the moniker and delivered justice swiftly and firmly. Sometimes she was comforted to know that the lack of empathy he displayed at home he also shared with the defendants brought before him. Some people were critical of his severity, but they couldn’t deny that Walton was exceptionally safe considering its proximity to Savannah. And her father held no qualms about taking credit for his part.
Until now.
Lane slipped into the judge’s chambers and was glad to find it empty of his secretary. This conversation would be better received without anyone else present. At least that’s what Lane hoped.
It had taken her a week after hearing Charlie speak those words to her on the front porch of her house to get the courage to face her parents. Before their bodies swayed as one, Charlie had sought permission to offer her a chance at love and she hadn’t been able to stop hearing those words. The hope they ignited within her soul had kept the monsters of her depression at bay and only when she thought about what she was about to do did their roars become louder than the thundering within her chest.
“Lane?” Her mother stepped through the arched doorway separating the sitting area of the judge’s chambers from her father’s private office. “I didn’t expect to se
e you here.”
“I thought this would be over by now.”
Lane glanced up at the flat-screen television mounted in the corner of the room that displayed a live feed of her father’s press conference.
“It should’ve been.” Her mother sighed. “Judge Atkins is using the murder as a means to question your father’s ability to deliver justice. And the media is eating it up.”
In a sharp black suit and red tie, her father leveled a serious stare at the reporters. “There is no question that I will make sure whoever killed Sydney Donovan pays for his or her crime. Leniency in this case will not be an option.”
“He’s not going to be happy when this is over.” Her mother checked her lipstick in the gilded mirror next to an antique desk. “But your support will mean a lot.”
Her support? Lane was here hoping to get their support, but maybe this could work to her advantage. If her father believed she was here to support his bid for Senate, then maybe it would make what she was about to tell him easier. If he could see she was trying, then just maybe—
“I picked up some barbecue sandwiches from the Smoking Hog. There’ll be enough to share.”
Lane followed her mother back into her father’s office. A mahogany desk sat in the center and gold baroque curtains framed the large picture window overlooking Walton’s park and memorial garden. A wall of shelves lined with law books filled the other half of the room, along with a long conference table. Her mother began unpacking the foam to-go containers, releasing the smoked aroma of barbecue into the room.
Helping her mother put the food onto plates and set the table, Lane heard her father’s voice answer the last question from the reporters. The press conference was over and Lane’s stomach twisted into a knot of dread. Could she do this?
The door behind Lane closed and it felt like the air in the room evaporated along with her courage.
“Honey, you did great.” Her mother’s voice was soothing. “Right, Lane?”
Lane spun to face her father. His eyes settled on her. She nodded. Hesitantly at first and then a little more assuredly, hoping it conveyed her agreement and not so much her fear of upsetting him. This wasn’t a good idea.
“Remind me to call Huggins.” Her father strode across his office, loosening his tie. “If I’m feeling the pressure, he’s going to feel it too.”
A trace of indignation spurred Lane’s gut. Did her father really believe the sheriff and his deputies weren’t feeling the pressure of the case? Lane wasn’t the only one who had noticed that the sheriff’s normally jovial expression was quickly replaced with deep lines of exhaustion. Customers often asked Ms. Byrdie how her husband was doing, not always out of concern for the case but because they cared. And Lane was only slightly embarrassed that she had found herself searching Charlie’s driveway for his truck the last several days only to find it empty from the break of dawn until she turned her lights off at night.
“I think they’re feeling the pressure more than most.”
Her father’s forehead wrinkled at Lane’s harsh tone. “Pressure produces results.”
“Who’s hungry?” Lane’s mother pulled out a chair at the conference table and sat, expectation on her face for Lane and her father to do the same.
Lane had no appetite but sat anyway. Her father removed his suit jacket and sat in the chair at the head of the table.
“It was nice of Lane to show up, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.”
Her father’s words said he agreed, but his eyes held hers as though he knew her unexpected appearance at the courthouse held motive. She swallowed. She might as well get it over with. The spark Charlie had lit in her soul was spreading, and before it fanned into something she didn’t dare dream possible, Lane knew this moment had to happen first.
“You remember Charlie Lynch? He’s the new deputy. The one I was with at the church benefit for Sydney.”
“I remember him.” Lane’s mother set down her fork and wiped her lips. “I didn’t realize he was with you.”
Heat flooded Lane’s cheeks. “It was kind of a . . . date.”
“A date?” Her mother reached across the table toward Lane’s hand, but her father quickly interrupted the gesture by grabbing her mother’s hand and holding tight.
Lane tucked her hands into fists beneath the table. “It’s been, uh . . . well, he’s nice and he likes Noah. And Ms. Byrdie thinks maybe I could start, well . . . I don’t know, but—”
“Lane, what is it you want?” Her father’s deep voice sent a tremor through Lane’s chest. “Why are you here?”
“Dr. Wong wants you and Mom to join me at a session,” Lane blurted out. And before the last ounce of what remained of her courage—or stupidity, she wasn’t sure which it was yet—left, she said, “And I’d like to tell Charlie the truth.”
The lines around her father’s eyes tightened. “For what purpose?”
Lane wasn’t sure which part he was referring to and whether it mattered. From his expression, she could already see him forming his answers, but her mom . . . well, something was there. Something Lane had been noticing in the way Meagan looked at her recently as well.
“Charlie’s a nice man. He’s sweet to me and, more importantly, to Noah. I don’t want to start a relationship without him knowing about my past . . . or what I’m going through now.”
“So, you’re still having issues?”
Lane stiffened. “Dad, it’s depression. It doesn’t just go away.”
“But isn’t that why you’re seeing Dr. Wong?” her mother asked. “To help you get better?”
“I am getting better, Mom, but it doesn’t mean my condition is going to change or ever fully go away. It doesn’t work that way, and if you and Dad came to an appointment—”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“What?” Lane faced her father. “Why not?”
“You realize I’m running for the United States Senate? Judge Atkins wants the position bad enough that he has my life under a microscope, trying to find something to nail me on.”
Lane blinked. “And you think he’d use me to do that?”
“This is politics,” her father said. “Nothing is off-limits.” Her father released her mother’s hand and sat back in his chair, studying Lane for a moment. “What do you think people will say when they find out our daughter has depression? Was suicidal? Actually attempted to take her own life with zero regard for her two-year-old son?”
“They can’t.” Lane curled her fists tighter so that her nails were digging into her palms. “It’s confidential.”
“You think that will stop someone from digging? And what do you think those reporters”—he jabbed a finger in the direction of the courthouse hallway—“will ask?” He leaned back farther in his chair and crossed his arms. “They’ll ask what was so bad in Judge Raymond Sullivan’s home that their daughter has depression and wanted to kill herself. They’ll blame us.”
“It isn’t about you.” Lane hated that her voice shook. Was his reputation all her father cared about? Could he not even see past an election to realize that he had as little control over her depression as she did? “It’s never been about you.”
“Oh, but it is.” Her father leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It’s been my job to protect you—even from yourself. And Noah if I have to.”
“Ray,” her mother said.
“No, Elise. She needs to hear this.” Her father kept his gaze trained on Lane. “You think my concern is selfish, but I’m looking out for you. Those reporters won’t stop with me—they’ll go after you too. And Noah. You might be ready to tell that deputy your secrets, but are you ready for everyone else to find out? Ready for the way your customers will look at you? Or have people question whether Noah should even be with you?”
Lane looked down at the untouched plate of food in front of her. Her head swam as the threat of her father’s words extinguished the flicker of hope she’d been holding on to. She felt sick. She needed
to leave.
“I should go.” Lane pushed out of her seat and ignored her mother calling after her, but when she heard her father say her name, she stopped and turned to look over her shoulder.
“We’ll see you and Noah at the barbecue next weekend.”
Was Noah safe with her? Is that what people would wonder when they knew the truth? Lane couldn’t risk losing him. The lump in her throat was almost as large as the one in her stomach. The back of her eyes stung, but she wouldn’t cry. Not here. And not in front of him. So, she nodded, accepting the command.
Lane hugged the walls of the hallway, keeping her eyes on the doors in front of her. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep the tears at bay. A blast of heat met her when she pushed through the tinted glass doors of the courthouse. Her cheeks grew hot as she took the steps down two at a time. She moved her feet faster to get away from the monolithic building.
Reporters were still lingering outside and her father’s words loomed around her, making her feel conspicuous. He was right. Lane didn’t have a television or need one to know the level to which people would stoop to win an election, and the last thing she wanted was for Noah to be drawn into that ugly world. It was bad enough she’d had to deal with it—and that was before opinions flew in every direction on social media. Noah was old enough to listen and understand. She needed to protect him.
Eyes on the ground, Lane missed the uniformed man stopped in front of her until she smacked into him and stumbled back. She squinted against the sun. Charlie.
“Lane, are you alright?” Charlie’s gentle hand reached around hers and steadied her. “What’s wrong?”
Lane swallowed the emotion that was ready to spill in Charlie’s presence. Why was he always around when she was at her worst? And why—even at her worst and after everything her father had said—did she want to be wrapped in his arms?
“Talk to me, Lane.” Charlie searched the area like he was looking for whoever was responsible for her state. With a firm and gentle grip, he pulled her next to him and assumed a protective position over her. “What’s happened?”
Living Lies Page 15