Purplish mottling covers her neck like she had been strangled, the knife not enough.
Her hair’s now matted and covered in blood, like she dyed portions of her strands red but couldn’t commit.
Her eyes.
I will never forget those eyes.
They will haunt me until I die. Open, rolled back, a dark lucid green. I lay the towel back over her ruined face, gingerly, as if it will heal her when it’s pulled back off.
My head swivels around the room to take in my surroundings. The furniture’s mirrored, and I can see all angles as I pause and glimpse around the room.
From her wounds and the state of the bed, it looks like there’s been a struggle. The gray satin sheets are in disarray. The coverlet’s half off the bed, throw pillows scattered all across the room. Or it could just be that she isn’t the best housekeeper. Did something happen during sex? An accident? Did a guy freak out and go ape shit on her? Or was this random?
It doesn’t look random.
Her clothes are scattered. I notice a once-nude bra peeking out from underneath the bed, discolored now, a pinkish hue. A pair of jeans hang limply over one side of the dresser.
I tiptoe across the room to inspect the side table. There are two, one on each side of the bed. Matching lamps, a set of matches and a candle on one. I peek behind the back of the side table. I see a flowered case still attached to a charger.
Her phone.
My heart sinks.
She probably tried to reach it and couldn’t.
I lift it up, my fingers trying to swipe the screen. Her screensaver flashes, a picture of her and a curly, blonde-haired girl.
A passcode’s required.
I realize my mistake too late. I’m touching a crime scene, disturbing potential evidence. My wife has CSI and Forensic Files on daily. You’d think I’d know better. What if they think I killed her because my prints are now all over her stuff?
Or what if I contaminated the only evidence linking the killer to her?
Guilt creeps in. The phone clunks on the glass as I drop it on the side table.
My eyes stay above the body as I peer across the room. A trail of blood leads out of another doorway, like an angry paintbrush had trailed across the floor in spatters.
She scooted across the floor to her final resting place.
A movement across the room throws me into a tailspin.
It’s the blinds, the air circulating from the ceiling fan causing them to rustle, as if they can soothe away the tragedy. There’s a wooden rod that’s used to keep the patio door from sliding open. Its purpose is to keep intruders out, I think wryly. Grabbing it, I hold it like a shield in case I have to defend myself.
I pull the blinds away from the patio door. It’s closed but unlocked.
Holding my breath, I notice the master bath. The thought of walking through another door, likely finding another body, murder-suicide seems to be prevalent, roots me to the spot.
I clutch my phone in my other hand as I head carefully through the doorway, scared of who might jump out.
It’s an en-suite bathroom, and I open and shut my eyes against the nausea building rapidly as I try not to breathe in the stench of death. The floor’s damp, the chevron pattern of the rug barely noticeable due to the blood stains. I squint at the shower stall, imagining the attack as I notice chunks of white-blonde hair plugging the drain. There’s an emanation of blood and what I guess to be puke, the remnants of brownish-tinged liquid still visible.
Shoving my phone in my back pocket, I pull my shirt over my nostrils, trying to add a layer of protection against the nefarious odor. I walk through the bathroom, careful to watch out for the cat and any signs of life, the rod held tight in my grip. Even the kitty box has speckles of blood intermixed with the chunks of litter. I’m unsure if it’s from Orangie’s paws or back spatter from the attack.
Either way, it’s disturbing.
I pass a large soaking tub, her double sinks, and a laundry hamper. The toilet is housed in its own little room, the door open and the fan on. The last door straight back is a walk-in closet, stuffed to the brim with clothes, shoes, and purses, a large mirror covering one side.
I check to make sure no one’s hiding behind the closet door, no feet sticking out from underneath the crammed hangers.
Tears prick my eyes as I notice her suitcase is upright, ready to go for her trip this morning. A trip she would never get to make.
Sinking down in the closet, my back scraping against the door, I crumple as tears stream down my face. Peering at my reflection, I set the rod beside me and fumble to dial 9-1-1.
It takes two times to dial the number, my hands shaking.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
“I…uh…I found a girl.”
“Is she injured?”
“Yes.” I sob. “She’s dead.”
“Did you feel for a pulse?”
“Yes, no pulse. She’s not breathing.”
“Did you administer CPR?”
“No…she’s…gone.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“You’re injured?”
“No, I mean, I’m not hurt.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
My voice rises, I become hysterical. “I don’t know…she’s dead. Dead.”
“Where did you find her?”
“In her house.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“She’s been stabbed multiple times. Choked.” I rub a hand over my face.
“Have you touched the body?”
“No.” I reconsider. “I mean, just to feel for a pulse.”
“Okay, don’t move her. I’m sending an officer to the house. Please don’t move or touch anything.”
I nod into the phone.
“What’s your name?
“Rafael. Rafael Hernandez.”
“What’s the address?”
I start to give my address, stopping mid-sentence. “Wait, that’s my home address. I’m picking her up for the airport.” A sob escapes my lips. “Her address is…” I pause, fumbling, not remembering the street name. “Mountain View I think. Wait… Aire. Mountain Aire with an ‘e’.”
“We can trace it.”
There’s a lapse as I breathe into the phone.
“Sir, I need you to go outside and wait for the officer to arrive.”
I gulp. “What if they’re still here? I checked the house, but maybe they’re hiding in the back?”
“Who?”
“The person who did this.”
“Please go out front, don’t touch anything, and be careful. I’ve dispatched the police, and an officer should be there in the next couple minutes.”
I sag against the dresser, not mentioning I’ve touched more than I should have. The woman talks again. “I’ll stay on the line with you until the officer arrives.”
I’m paralyzed with fear. As much as I try and stand up, the weight of this gruesome discovery keeps me frozen against the door, my eyes darting around the closet, the view of the bathroom in my line of sight in case anyone comes toward me.
It feels like eternity but it’s really a few minutes. Sirens blare as I hold the phone and take deep breaths that are supposed to calm me down according to the dispatcher.
They don’t.
I hear the officer’s voice before I see him.
“Officer Morse, anybody in here?” A voice yells from inside the house.
“I’m back here,” I say, my voice stifled.
He repeats his name.
I try again, this time louder.
“Where?” I hear his voice echo.
“Closet. Master.”
I wish I could see how her body affected him, but it’s a part of his job, not mine. I wipe the beads of sweat off my forehead, the image of the poor girl ingrained as if she’s a permanent fixture on my psyche.
Shutting my eyes, I see her.
I open them and I smell the act
of violence, the hate and anger radiating through this house like a bad omen.
“Sir.” Officer Morse comes into sight. “I’m going to radio for back-up.” His voice is calm, but I can see a glimmer of human kindness, of shock. It’s reflected in his blue eyes, his blond hair streaked with gray, betraying his age.
I don’t move.
The woman on the other end of the line asks, “Is that the patrolman?”
“Yes.” I whisper.
“Okay, Mr. Hernandez, I’m going to disconnect.”
I nod, dazed, as I hang up.
“Can you come with me?” The officer motions for me to stand up.
I sigh.
“Sir, are you hurt?” He sees a pained expression on my face.
“No, no, I just…” I’m struggling to find the words. He nods. He understands.
“Is that your vehicle in the driveway?”
“The black Tahoe is my work vehicle.”
“Okay, I’m assuming the other one is the victim’s?”
I shrug.
Victim?
Of course, she’s now a victim. Her name, Talin Forrester, has been replaced with the generic terminology of one that came to her death in an unfortunate incident.
It sounds so cold. And final.
“Do you need help?” His voice is not unkind.
I shake my head, gripping the doorknob with my hand and using it as leverage to pull myself up.
“Let’s go outside.” He moves his hand toward his belt where his gun rests. I automatically put my hands up in the air. “I’m not armed, I’m not the intruder.”
“Do you know the victim?”
“No.” I decide to elaborate in case he assumes I’m a suspect. “I just came to pick her up.”
“Uber?”
“No, my company, Elite Transportation, contracts with her company for airport runs.”
“What time were you slated to pick her up?”
“Seven.”
“How did you get inside?”
“The front door was open.” I stare at him dumbly. “I found her cat and he wanted in.”
“Why don’t you have a seat in my squad car and we can talk?”
“I didn’t do this.” I motion around me.
“I didn’t say you did.” His tone is gentle. “I need to take your statement. I’m going to secure the premises. Did you go in the back?”
I shake my head no.
He walks me outside, holding the door open as I sink into the leather seat.
I bury my head in my hands, thinking of everything I’ve tarnished just by touching.
Today was supposed to be mindless work behind the wheel. I drive. It’s what I do. Not discover crime scenes that’re straight off my television screen.
Her crushed body comes to mind. I shudder in agony at the evil lurking inside her house.
A nightmare come to life.
Chapter Three
Reed
I wake up when I feel a yank on my hair. One eye pops open and a small child, clothed in train pajamas, is tapping my forehead. The other one, his identical twin, is rolling around on the sheets.
“Daddy’s home,” they exclaim at the same time, jumping off the bed and then back on again.
If it weren’t for a small heart-shaped birthmark on Henry’s face, they’d be hard to tell apart. Roland and Henry are both giggling, their light brown hair and matching pajamas the same. Both have my wife’s hazel eyes and my crooked grin. Henry’s older so he acts like the boss, and his barely-younger brother follows suit with his shenanigans.
Meghan’s half-awake beside me, her long brown hair spread out on the pillow, opposite in looks and personality from Tally, one extreme to the other. Meghan’s dark-haired, level-headed, and meek.
My thoughts drift to Tally. There’s a nagging feeling I have, like something’s wrong but I can’t put my finger on it.
Meghan laughs, “Come on boys, let Daddy get up.”
“How about some pancakes?” I tickle Henry underneath his arm while Rolly attacks my right leg.
“Chocolate chip?” Rolly tries to use his small hands to tickle me back. I feign laughter, acting like he found a sensitive spot.
I pull him up and snuggle him, rubbing his cheek. “Of course, chocolate chips.” I wink. “Maybe even M&M’s if we have some.”
“Mommy, is it bad to have candy for breakfast?”
“Yes.” She gives me a sly grin. “But it’s a special occasion, so we can celebrate.”
Raising my eyebrows, I sit up in bed. “Surprise?”
“Yes.” She kisses me, but her lips only graze my cheek.
Before I can ask what the monumental news is, or if she said it to justify chocolate for breakfast, she gets out of bed, almost tripping over Frasier, our black and silver schnauzer.
“Come on.” I shove the blankets off and grab Henry. “Let’s get cooking.” I give him a light pat on the butt.
“Meet you downstairs.” My wife turns to look over her shoulder as I head into the bathroom. I take a leak and brush my teeth, my miniature travel bag resting on the sink.
I was too tired to double check my pockets and bag, the lackadaisical attitude unlike me.
I’m not trying to get caught.
Sliding my hands into my pants, I feel a crumpled slip of paper. It’s a receipt from a bar in Portland. Shaking my head, I curse myself. Ripping it into shreds, I toss it in the trash.
I hear voices downstairs. Peeking my head out and over the wrought iron open staircase, I can see down below. They’re in the kitchen, my wife playing on her phone, her fingers flying over the keyboard. I imagine she’s playing on an app, the Candy Crush game an obsession.
My phone’s still plugged in on the side table.
I go to the settings on my phone and turn my ‘do not disturb’ off.
Shooting Tally a text, I say: We need to talk
Then another one.
Stop ignoring me
Sighing, I send one more.
You’re the most difficult person in the world
There’s a creak as the bedroom door swings open, and a look of guilt flashes over my face as Meghan walks into the room.
“What’re you doing?” She comes up behind me, invading my space. I slip my phone into my pocket.
“Just checking my work emails.” The lie slips out so easy. I remember when we first met, I couldn’t lie worth a damn. She could read me like a book and I didn’t even bother. She saw through me. Now it’s second nature to be untruthful without even batting an eye.
How we progress in our flaws as humans.
She nods, crossing her arms. “I think I’m going to go away on a weekend trip soon. Do you mind?”
I’m caught off guard. She’s always taken a yearly cruise with some girlfriends but has never asked for a weekend away.
Reaching down, I tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Of course not.”
“There’s a yoga retreat I’d really like to attend.” She searches my face. “I think it would be good for me.”
“Yoga?” I question. “Since when did you start getting involved in yoga?”
She’s indignant. “I’ve been doing yoga for the last four months.”
My eyebrows rise. This is news to me. I wondered why I kept seeing workout clothes on our credit card bill, but I didn’t think to ask.
“Maybe your parents can watch the kiddos if you go on a weekend trip?”
“Why wouldn’t you stay with the boys?” She sighs. “You never spend any time with them.”
“Someone has to pay the bills,” I mumble.
“Excuse me?” She glares at me. “Don’t forget whose company you work for.” She starts making the bed, pulling up the hideous comforter I’ve grown accustomed to hate. “And there were two of us that decided to have children. I didn’t sign up to be a single parent while you took unnecessary trips all the time.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I asked my father, and he s
aid he never asked you to go to Dallas.” Tilting her head, she eyes me with disgust. “Or that Mexico trip you took last month.”
I slam the throw pillows on the bed. “It’s hard to be married to someone who can’t ever live up to their daddy’s expectations,” I shoot back. “It’s like I married your father.”
“You did.” She reaches down to tuck in the fitted sheet. I see a look of chagrin register on her face. Pulling her hand up as if she’s been burned, she stares down at her palm.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“What?” I squint to see what she’s holding.
“This.” She holds out the offending item, a small diamond stud. It’s chintzy, not the type of earring my wife would own. It’s cubic zirconia, and Meghan’s allergic to cheap jewelry. It turns her skin a greenish-gray color.
I swallow.
“This isn’t mine.”
“Maybe it’s the cleaning lady’s.” I shrug.
“We don’t have a cleaning lady.” Meghan glowers. “I let her go a couple months ago. Money just keeps disappearing like this.” She snaps her finger. “Maybe you can let me know who else has been in our bed.”
My heart’s beating out of my chest, but I can’t let her see the apprehension. “Maybe it’s one of the babysitters. Teen girls have earrings like this.” I take the stud from her and put it on the side table. “We can ask Riley next time we see her.” She’s the last babysitter who came over.
“They aren’t supposed to be in our room.” She wrings her hands.
“What do you expect from teenagers?” I ask. “Maybe we should get cameras.”
“No.” She’s quick to shoot down that idea. “I don’t want to feel like I’m on display all the time.” This surprises me. I thought she’d go for that.
Exhaling, she turns to head out of the room. “Let’s go to the botanical gardens or check out a kid-friendly museum today.”
Nodding, I know I need to appease her now. This was a close call.
“Let’s go make some pancakes first.” I wink. “Time to get messy.”
I help the boys mix the ingredients for the pancakes, both taking turns reaching the counter by standing on a stepstool. Meghan’s perched at the counter, her interest switching between the TV, a magazine she’s browsing, and her phone.
All the Pretty Lies Page 4