All the Pretty Lies

by Marin Montgomery

  Restless, I stare at the illuminated clock, dozing off for a few minutes, waking frequently, a headache pounding behind my temples.

  Frustrated, I check my phone to see if there’s any word from my parents or Owen. Nothing. I throw a pillow over my face in aggravation. I fall into a troubled sleep after 3 A.M. that’s filled with bodies falling out of closets and shallow graves, Talin’s face rising from between tulips in the dirt.

  My eyes feel like sandpaper’s rubbing them when I sit up.

  I roll over my phone, remembering Martha.

  Pulling my email up, I check if she’s responded.

  Nothing.

  Crickets.

  I try again.

  Ten minutes later, she responds with one sentence in the subject line.

  Leave me alone.

  Sighing, I punch the decorative pillow next to me.

  I’m confused. Yes, I’m the wife, but why the animosity towards me?

  Who knows what Reed said about you to Talin, I remind myself.

  Tears burn my eyes. I pick up the phone and call Jarrett.

  He answers on the second ring.

  “Reed got arrested.” I’m detached as I say this, as if I’m talking about someone else’s life, someone else’s husband.

  “What?” He’s stunned. “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “He did it, didn’t he?” I hear him take a deep breath.

  “Seems like it.” I clench my fist around the edge of the sheets. “I’m trying to help by doing my own research.”

  “Is that a good idea?” He’s skeptical. “You don’t want to interfere with a police investigation, Meg. That’s serious. Obstruction of justice is nothing to mess with.”

  I ignore his comment. “She won’t talk to me.”

  “Who?”

  “Martha.”

  “Who?”

  “Talin’s friend.”

  “Did you think she would?”

  “I hoped she would.”

  “Meghan, you have to stop hunting.” Jarrett’s stern. “You have to stop picking at a girl who just lost her best friend.”

  “But I just lost my husband,” I whisper.

  “Soon to be ex-husband,” he corrects me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Aren’t you going to divorce him now?”

  I hadn’t considered a rush on divorcing my imprisoned husband. “Someday. When we get through this… the kids still need their father.”

  “They will need another father if he goes to prison.” I want to chastise him for being so insensitive, but he’s right. If Reed’s convicted, they will see him sporadically. I start to open my mouth, but I have nothing to say.

  He sighs. “Meg, I gotta get back to the bar. Go spend time with the twins and stop focusing on the case. The boys need you.”

  I hang up, frustrated. I tap the keyboard angrily, my fingers clicking the keys in annoyance. Glaring at the phone for a second, I silently command for him to call back and apologize for his impetuous tone. I click the ringer back on, just in case he has a change of heart.

  A couple minutes later, the home phone rings.

  Smugly, I stare at it. He knows he was brusque.

  Letting it shrill for a few beats, I pick it up and wait for Jarrett to speak first. There’s only dead air.

  “Yes.” I say.

  No response.

  I wait, breathing on the other end.

  “Do you have something to say?” I ask impatient.

  There’s a long exhale, then a click.

  “Hello?” I question.

  They’ve hung up, the dial tone pounds in my ear.

  Weird.

  Maybe he had a customer ask him a question so he hung up abruptly?

  My intent had been to tell him my next course of action is to visit Portland. I had thought about asking him to go with me, but he’s got a bar to run and knowing how he feels…it’s best he doesn’t know.

  A terrifying thought crosses my mind. What if the police question him about our relationship? But there’s nothing to tell.

  We haven’t even kissed.

  I click back on Martha’s Facebook page. From what I can glean, she lives twenty-five miles outside of Portland in a small town.

  I’m torn. I don’t want to leave the boys in the middle of a tumultuous upheaval, yet I’m pressed for time. They need their father. I need their father, regardless if he’s not my husband anymore.

  His name needs to be cleared.

  Or if he did this, then he needs to rot in prison.

  I dial my mom. “Can the boys come stay with you a few days?”

  She’s shocked. “Of course, but what’s going on, Meghan?” I can tell by her shaky voice she’s been crying. “They need their mom.”

  “I’m drained.” Which isn’t a lie. “I want to go to Cali and visit Veronica for a few days.” A small fib. “I’m being harassed constantly. I need a moment to breathe.”

  “Certainly. You need it.” Her voice softens. “They’ll be in good hands with grandma and grandpa.”

  “I know.” I lick my lips. “I’ll pick them up from Leona and Mel’s. We’ll see you tonight.”

  I pack to head to the airport and for the boys to spend time at their grandparents. Stopping at Leona’s, she has so much she wants to say, but she can tell from the look on my face that I can’t. There’s nothing to say right now. I don’t have all the answers.

  “Mommy, what’s going on?” Rolly pouts, his bottom lip protruding as he notices his red suitcase in the front seat.

  “Let’s talk when we get to Mickey D’s for a happy meal.” They love chicken nuggets and I owe them a special treat.

  “You’ve both been so good for Leona and Mel.” I glance in the rearview at their matching faces, Henry kicks the back of my seat in excitement, his earlier frown replaced by a grin. He mirrors his brother, the expressions and mannerisms eerily similar.

  As I pick at my fries and they munch on their cheeseburgers, I explain to them that they are going to nana and gramps for a couple days.

  “But where are you going?” Henry dips a fry in a blob of ketchup.

  “To visit Auntie V.”

  “Without us?” Rolly crosses his arms. “That’s not nice, Mommy. We wanna go.”

  “But what about your nana and gramps?” I brush a lock of hair off his face. “They wanna spend time with you boys.”

  Well, I don’t like it one bit.” Henry takes on a serious tone, siding with his brother.

  “Where’s Daddy?” Rolly looks around at a couple other children eating with their fathers. I knew the question would come up, a fitting response just hasn’t.

  “He’s…” I pause, my hands going to my lap so they don’t see them trembling. “Daddy’s gone away for a bit.”

  “Daddy’s on TV. I saw him.” Rolly grabs his cheap toy wrapped in plastic and starts gnawing at it with his teeth.

  “What?” I reach for the wrapper to help him, nodding my head as he spits out a piece on the table.

  “Mommy, we saw Daddy. He’s a cartoon.” They think everyone on television is a cartoon since they love animated shows. I imagine Reed as a cartoon version of himself, a caricature that’s bigger than life.

  Sighing, I grab both twins’ grubby hands in mine.

  “I love you both so so much.” I kiss each of their hands as they giggle and roll their eyes at me, a habit they definitely picked up from their father. Or mine.

  “Daddy is getting help,” I say lamely, realizing I’ve messed up any good reason for their father to be gone and that my winging a reason isn’t working out so smooth.

  Business trip. I should’ve covered for Reed by saying he was away for work. But they know…the tension, the sleepovers at other homes…they might only be six, but they know this isn’t their normal.

  And it better not be their new normal, a father in prison and a sleep-deprived mother that can’t focus on anything other than hunting for clues that may or may not lead back
to their dad.

  “For what?” Both say in unison.

  “For a mistake he made.” They eye me warily. “Remember when you took Ryan Dorrell’s bike without asking?”

  Rolly nods solemnly.

  “Daddy made a big boo-boo, and he’s trying to fix it.”

  Both eyes widen and before I know it, tears start streaming down them. A man glares at me as if to say “great parenting, lady.”

  “Come here, guys.” I drop their hands and they come around to my side of the booth, Rolly climbing into my lap, Henry in the crook of my other arm. I hold them and smell their Johnson’s children’s shampoo and their bubblegum-scented body wash as they hold onto me for dear life.

  My heart’s being wrenched from my chest as I close my eyes against the awkward stares and the pointed fingers of other patrons asking why we’re crying.

  Or maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe no one’s paying attention to our obvious displays of grief.

  We share an ice cream sundae, and it numbs the guilt and the shame, but only enough to make my stomach heave after we reach my parents’ house.

  Exchanging tearful goodbyes with the boys, I notice a wet spot on my mom’s cheek she swears is allergies. My family prides itself on being strong. The strong Texas backbone, she calls it.

  I drive home, eyes locked straight ahead, almost barreling into the garage before the door’s lifted all the way.

  Leaving my Mazda in the garage, I get an Uber.

  The Suburban’s impounded at the police station, according to my mom.

  Checking to make sure the doors are locked, I drag my roller suitcase, closing the garage behind me as I walk towards the edge of our driveway.

  A white Dodge Caravan pulls up.

  “Meghan?” The driver confirms.

  “Yep.” I hop into the backseat, a ball cap on my head, my ponytail sticking through the back. I’m going for natural and inconspicuous.

  “Airport?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Vacation?” The driver inquires, turning down the radio blasting hard rock, the bass thudding in the backseat.

  “Yep.” I lie.

  “Where to?”

  “Portland.”

  “Oh wow, you hear about the poor girl murdered there?” He glances in the rearview mirror. My stomach drops. Does he recognize me as the wife?

  I don’t think so.

  He continues. “Her married boyfriend lives here in Houston. Think just a few streets over from you. The dipshit killed her before flying home. Dumbest motherf’er ever.”

  “That’s crazy.” I pull my cap down lower on my head, hiding my face.

  “Yeah, he butchered her body. Just used her as a carving board.”

  Covering my mouth, I try to ignore my queasy stomach and the warning signs. How can someone be so indolent when they describe how a poor girl’s murdered?

  “Can we not talk about this?” I gasp, removing my hand from my mouth.

  “Sure thing, boss.” He brakes sharply for the yellow light up ahead. “God, that guy behind us is riding my tail.”

  Looking over my left shoulder, I peer behind us.

  Sure enough, a late model black sedan is right on our bumper.

  Is someone following me?

  There’s no front license plate to memorize.

  “Can you take a different route?” I’m on edge, my knees shake as I try to keep them from knocking together.

  “The freeway’s fastest. What time’s your plane leave?”

  “I got time.” I make sure my seat belt’s fastened.

  “Then no problem.” He speeds through the green as soon as it turns. The vehicle behind us maintains a closer than average distance, the windows tinted black. I squint unsuccessfully to make out a face.

  When we turn, they turn.

  My driver squeals around a corner, taking the turn at an unsafe speed.

  “Can you tell who’s behind us?” I ask.

  “That’s your job, boss. Let me focus on the driving.” At the next light, they pull back and hang a left. I can only make out the form of one person. The bulky form suggests it’s a man.

  We near the mall, and the traffic around us slows.

  Maybe we’re not being followed. Maybe they’re in a rush to get to a store before it closes for the evening. I’m paranoid, feeling like I have a target on my back, with the crank calls and the misfortunate accidents like the broken window, an arrested husband.

  No one wants to stand by an accused murderer. Especially one that’s cheating on his wife.

  Taking a few deep breaths, I keep my eyes trained on the traffic behind us.

  The car disappears from sight. I blink, scanning the road.

  I don’t see the car again on our drive to the airport, my eyes nervously twitching.

  I’m pulling my suitcase out of the back of the van when a car speeds up, slamming its brakes to a grinding halt next to us.

  I have to jump out of the way to avoid being hit.

  It’s the black sedan.

  A man throws his car in park and hops out, waving a metal object aimed at me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Meghan

  I shield my face with my hands and try to duck, moving around the side of the van.

  The Uber driver’s mouth drops in concern, his hands dialing what I assume to be 9-1-1.

  Sighing, the man knocks on his driver’s side window and motions for him to roll it down.

  He fumbles with the lock, ignoring the tapping, until the man flashes the metal object against the glass.

  And it’s not a gun, it’s his badge.

  I tremble in relief until I realize it’s Walsh.

  Detective Walsh.

  He comes around the side of the van, almost knocking me over for the second time - I’d rather it be with his body and not his vehicle.

  “What’re you doing?” I’m pissed, his air of authority and entitlement gone too far.

  “I know what I’m doing, what are you doing?” He reaches for my suitcase.

  I yank it away. “Flying. Last time I checked, I didn’t need your permission.” I don’t mean to be cheeky, but I am. “You scared me, Walsh.” I don’t bother saying Detective.

  “Got a minute?” He’s sarcastic, his eyes red and bloodshot like he hasn’t been sleeping.

  The driver rolls down the passenger side window, glancing between him and me, checking to make sure I’m not in danger. “Lady, I mean Meghan, do you know this man?” He’s panicky, his hands grasping at his phone to call the police, except one particular detective is already here. “Is that badge real?” he whispers loudly.

  “It’s an old friend that wants to catch up.” I say. “Thanks for checking.”

  He swallows, his eyes darting to my unkempt ponytail and luggage. A look of horror comes over his face as he recognizes me from the news. “Oh shit, you’re the lady, the wife of that crazy man.” The color drains as he places me, his mouth hanging open.

  Now that he’s convinced I’m not being threatened intentionally, he speeds off, narrowly missing Walsh’s crookedly parked sedan.

  “I’m going to miss my flight.” I say.

  “Where to?”

  “California.” I lie.

  “Let’s sit in my vehicle. It’s illegally parked and taking up a lane of traffic.”

  “Seems like cops can do what they want.”

  “I’m a detective, but yes, they can,” he retorts. “Climb in.”

  Sighing, I wait for him to open the passenger door for me. I slide in, the black leather cool to the touch as I settle back in the seat, resentful. He throws my suitcase in the back like it weighs nothing. Walking around to the driver’s side, he tumbles in, ignoring the annoyed glances of the other drivers and the honking.

  Turning to look at me, he gives me a stern glance.

  “You’re not going to Cali.”

  “I’m not?” I ask it as a question.

  “You’re going to Portland.”

 
; “Seriously?” I roll my eyes. “This is what you want to talk to me about?”

  “Meghan. I’m worried about you.”

  “Says the man who just accosted me at the airport! What were you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking about your best interests.” He moves tobacco around in his mouth. “I’ve got a gun. What’re you going to do for protection? Who’s protecting you?” His tone’s tinged with bitterness.

  “What’re you worried about?” I’m miffed. “We both know you’re not concerned about my well-being.”

  “You’re trying to protect a guilty man.” The police scanner chirps. He turns the volume down and faces me. “Look, it must be a nightmare to wake up and have a cheating husband that flies out of town to hook up with a younger woman while you’re stuck at home with the kids.”

  “Well, when you put it that way…” I interrupt.

  He holds up a hand. “Let me finish.”

  I look down at my fingers, my nails bitten to the quick.

  “I know you didn’t have an open marriage. You keep covering for him, and I’m trying to figure out why. It’s your family money, so why bother? I keep trying to find the angle, and I can’t. Hell, he even changed his last name to your family name when you got married.”

  That part is true. Eisenberg was his last name. My parents wanted me to marry a wealthy neighbor’s son and when I didn’t, they were ashamed Reed didn’t even have a last name we could be proud of.

  He relented after my dad wrote him a check.

  Money talks.

  Walsh continues, “Unless you helped in all this…” He takes a moment to spit in an empty plastic Mountain Dew bottle.

  My mouth drops in horror. “You think I’m involved?” I’m shocked by his insinuation, my hand on the door.

  “No.” He switches gears. “But I can’t imagine why you want to defend a man who did what he did if you’re innocent.”

  “I’ve had twenty years with him. And children.”

  “And he took the life of a girl who was almost twenty years younger and had her whole life ahead of her.” He gives me a pointed look.

  “How did you find out where I was going?”

  “I looked at the manifest for the plane. I knew you would get skittish and bail.”

  “I’m coming back in a few days.”

  “It’s a one-way ticket.”