“I have kids, Walsh. I’m not abandoning them. They already lost one parent thanks to your eagerness to pin the blame on someone so you could sleep at night.” I know this is unfair, his eyes are hollow with purplish circles underneath them. He opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it.
“Just remember this, Meghan Bishop. I’ve got eyes on the ground there. We will be watching your every move. You have no reason to go to Portland except to stir up trouble.”
I briskly open the door. “I appreciate your kind words, Walsh. Thanks for being considerate. I’m glad someone will be looking out for me since a killer’s on the loose and you haven’t caught him.”
“Or her.” His last words sting.
My mouth creases into a tight line as I struggle to maintain my composure.
Giving him one last glare, I pull my luggage from the backseat.
I have a plane to catch.
When we land, I pick up my rental car and head straight to the hotel for a shower and sleep. I kept nodding off during the flight, awaking to the vibrations of the plane and the snack cart.
I drive until I find a decent hotel, not wanting to book it ahead of time, paranoid that my reservations will somehow fall into the wrong hands.
Another night of tossing and turning, nightmares coming in waves, my husband digging up a body. Then both of us holding Talin down as Reed tells me it’s going to be okay.
A cold sweat wakes me up, the sheets drenched with my perspiration.
I wish for nothing more than my own bed…but my own bed a couple weeks ago.
When this wasn’t hanging over my head like a hangman’s noose. The only problem then was my suspicion of my husband’s affair.
Knowing I won’t fall back asleep and scared to turn the lights on, the fear on my face I don’t want to acknowledge in the mirror, I rifle through my purse.
Talin’s address is on a scrap piece of paper.
Before I left Houston, I looked up her house on the assessor’s site. Since she isn’t renting, it was easy to find her address.
With the advent of the internet, you can find everything, good or bad.
Her LinkedIn profile.
Job description.
Company.
How much she paid for her house.
I take a shower, my skin crawling with nervous anticipation. The warm water usually soothes my skin. Today it only serves to remind me of how Talin took a shower and never made it out alive.
Sighing, I rub my hands over goosebumps that form on my wet skin.
I manage to eat a small breakfast, pecking at the dry toast, the taste listless as I swallow it. My stomach’s in knots, the events of the day looming ahead.
Driving by the girlfriend of your husband where she was brutally murdered. Check.
Supposedly by your husband of two decades. Check.
Stalking her best friend for information. Check.
Calling my mom, I let her know I landed safely at LAX. Veronica lives in a suburb, and that’s the closest airport. I say hi to the boys, both talk over the other one, Rolly bossing around his brother. It’s such a normal day…but it isn’t.
When my mom starts to ask questions about my trip, I find a reason to hastily get off the phone.
“Oh, the spa’s calling. Gotta go, Mom. We’re getting massages today.” I disconnect, cutting her off mid-sentence.
The drive to Talin’s house would normally be enjoyable, the pretty scenery and smell of mountain air a change of pace from the haze of Houston’s smog. Instead, it’s tainted. Every mile that passes, I consider turning around, my hands gripping the wheel for dear life.
Pulling onto her street, I realize why she fell in love with the neighborhood. Mountain Aire Lane is gorgeous. I can see the appeal.
It’s catty, but I think it anyway. Would you be able to afford this place without my husband funneling money to you?
Craftsman-style bungalows line the street, Hemlocks and Japanese maples provide welcome shade and foliage along with tall plumes of white that are scattered in between the trees. Goatsbeard, I find out after I do a Google search.
The street’s a salute to the homes of the days past, and I half expect to see neighbors on their porches, discussing the weather and politics while drinking Arnold Palmers.
Everything seems normal about this street. Until you notice the yellow caution tape blocking off her driveway.
This could be a house on any street in America. Except it’s not.
A tan Volvo is parked in front of the cordoned-off area.
Her vehicle.
It belongs to a dead girl.
Canvassing the neighborhood, I drive around the block slowly, speeding up as I pass her house. So much for not drawing attention to yourself, I think sardonically.
It’s daytime, but I feel invisible eyes on me, or maybe it’s the empty threat by Walsh. He probably has the Portland police with binoculars in the bushes.
I slow down and pull over to the side of the road by a neighbor’s house. She has one house on each side, not much room between each driveway.
Knocking on one door, there’s no answer, no movement behind the curtains and no cars in the driveway.
Moving to the other neighbor, I consider my surroundings. Talin’s olive-colored house contrasts nicely with the beige of this one, the white shutters making you feel like you could ask this neighbor to borrow a cup of sugar, a pastime in today’s society.
Taking a deep breath, I propel myself forward. If I stop, I’ll lose the courage to knock.
I climb the steps, a porch swing hanging, the welcome mat a picture of a cardinal in flight.
Before I can knock, the door’s yanked open.
“What do you want?” The woman has a sour expression on her face, her hair shorn almost to the scalp.
“Hi, I’m Meghan.” I stammer. “I wanted to ask a couple of questions.”
“About Tally?” She starts to close the door. “You all do.”
“I’m his wife.” I had meant to lie, to say I’m a reporter for the fictitious Portland Gazette, but the door was closing in my face. Way to think on your feet, I chide myself.
“His wife?” She steps back, the door swinging open with her.
“Yes.”
“And you came to convince me he’s innocent?” Her hands find a spot on her hips.
“No.” I hesitate. “I came to convince myself he’s guilty.” Her gaze penetrates mine, her eyes sallow in her gaunt face. She nods, understanding the conundrum.
“Come in.” She looks over me in both directions. “I’m tired of the cops, the reporters, and the conspiracy theorists running around here, looking for a story. She’s just a child, it’s awful.”
“I know.”
“You must hate her, huh?”
“No. Not at all.” I’m truthful. “I don’t hate her one bit.”
“I would.” She reconsiders as she says this. “But circumstances aren’t those of most affairs.”
As much as I don’t hate the girl, I’ve nothing nice to say. So I say nothing.
“You want some lemonade?” she asks, shooing me in.
“I’d expect no less from a house like this.” I give her a small smile.
“Don’t get your hopes up. I didn’t make it fresh.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.” I take in the surroundings. Her house is cluttered, antique furniture draped with faded yellow sheets. Old dolls that have expressive faces ranging from surprised to creepy line the built-in shelves. Children’s books are cluttering the corners, dust covering every square inch. She notices my look of disdain.
“Let’s go outside. I need some air.”
“How long have you lived here?” I ask politely.
“This was my parents’ house. I got married and we moved back in after they passed about ten years ago.” I don’t notice anyone else around.
She pours two glasses of lemonade as I stare at the orange cat sprawled out on her counter. “That’s Loras.” She must be refer
ring to her pet as the ‘we.’
“Oh, how old is he?” I inquire.
“Don’t know. He’s a new addition.”
“You rescued him?” I grin. “He’s a fat cat. Must catch lots of mice.”
“Guess you could say that.” She motions to the back door. “There’s a couple chairs out back. Help yourself.”
It’s a night and day difference between the claustrophobic dark house with hordes of boxes and piles of memorabilia. The back yard is a gardener’s dream - flowers are lining the pavers in pots along with built-in planters that have pacific bleeding hearts blooming and shooting stars that rise up tall. The grass is lovingly cared for, and there’s a small koi pond with bright orange carp swimming in a sea of turquoise.
She instantly relaxes as we settle into her wrought iron patio chairs.
“What a beautiful back yard. This is what I call tranquil.” I lean back in the flowered cushion, glancing around at the six-foot privacy fence.
“This is my slice of heaven.” She takes a small sip of lemonade. “Since I got cancer, I’ve been home most of the time, ‘cept for chemo. That’s kicking my butt.”
I’m speechless. “I’m sorry,” I offer. “Do you have anyone that helps you?”
“My husband passed a year ago. Prolly for the best.” She’s sad, and her eyes flit around to the side of the house. “He’d have demanded we move after such a tragedy.” She nods her head towards the slats of wood separating her yard from Talin’s. “He was smitten with that girl, always helping her. I was too. She’s had a hard go of it, losing her fiancé.”
“He left her?” I ask, my mouth grimacing as the sour lemon hits my tastebuds.
“No, he was killed. It was awful. Couldn’t pull that girl off the floor.” Her eyes grow misty. “She’s no saint, none of us are, but she’s been my saving grace since Harold passed. She would bring meals over, take me to doctor’s appointments, make sure the house got cleaned.”
‘What happened to her fiancé?” I’m floored. I thought it was a case of exes - one realizing they wanted something else. I didn’t realize a tragedy had caused his demise.
“New Year’s Eve. Drunk driver lost control and smashed into him.”
My mouth drops in horror. “Where was she?”
“He had gone to the store.” She looks down at her hands. “He went to pick up a pregnancy test. Talin had already taken ‘bout fifteen. He just wanted one more to be sure.”
“Talin has a baby?” I’m shocked. This is news to me. Nothing in the newspaper or in the online articles said anything about her being a mother.
“No.” She’s dejected. “She lost the baby. She was only twelve weeks along, and she couldn’t keep it. Her body shut down after Cale, that’s his name, lost his life. He was her one true love. Reminds me of my own Harold.”
“She carried the guilt. She’d asked him to pick up some dessert, she’d been craving ice cream.” Her eyes are distant, off in thought.
I cross my arms across my chest, a feeling of utter despair overpowering me. I want to cry for this woman I’ve never met, a woman I should for all intents and purposes, hate.
But I can’t.
She lost her other half. And a baby. In a matter of weeks.
And now she’s gone.
“Did she ever recover?” I murmur.
“No.” The woman’s voice is flat. “She lost herself. Doing things she wouldn’t be proud of if it were a year ago. Case in point, your husband.”
“Did you meet him?”
“I saw him.”
“He was here a lot?”
She looks at me. Really looks at me. A hardened look comes over her face.
Lowering her voice, she says. “You really wanna know?”
“Yes. I came here for answers.” I shrug. “It’s all over the news and thrust in my face daily.”
“What if they’re not the ones you want?” She closes her eyes, leaning back in her chair. “God, I love the air here. Can’t imagine living anywhere else. You in Texas, right?”
“Houston.” I take a gulp of lemonade, my mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t want anything but the truth.”
“You’ll twist it to fit though, won’t you?” She crosses her legs, house slippers on her feet. “Isn’t that human nature when it comes to those we love?”
“Probably.” I rise to stand. “Thank you for your time.”
“I’ve offended you?”
“No, it’s just…I’m seeking out justice. Whether it’s…” I swallow hard. “Him. Or someone else.”
“Sit down.” She points to Talin’s house. I sink back in my seat, the cushion enveloping me once again.
“I never met the fella. Saw him outside a couple times. Watering her plants, taking out the trash. Doing manly things. I asked her once about him, but she went quiet.”
I nod.
“The night of…” She clears her throat. “I saw your husband leave and then walk back inside like he forgot something. He looked angry, ‘pants on fire’ as my mama used to say.”
“What did he forget?”
“No idea. Except he drove around the block and came back.” She harrumphs. “It’s like he had unfinished business to attend to. Or changed his mind.”
“Whatever the case,” she adds. “It was too late.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No. I went to bed.” She cringes. “I heard a scream. Just the worst kind. A terrified howl. But I thought it was the television in her house. Or cats fighting. It happened once and then stopped.”
She hangs her head. “I now know why.”
“Did you meet any of her friends?”
“A few in passing.” She flicks a bug that’s climbing up her glass, the condensation causing it to slide down.
“Martha?”
“She blonde? Not quite as tall?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve met her. She lives about a half hour from here.”
“Do you know what she does for work?” I hold my breath. I couldn’t find an address for her.
“She’s…what do you call it? One of those fancy names for coffee shop workers? Barrister?”
“Barista,” I correct her. “Do you know where?”
“Nah. I only remember that because she had her apron on one day, had forgotten to take it off. Had come by to feed the cat when Talin was out of town.” Her face goes white. “Visiting your husband.”
I blush, the color creeping down my neck. “Oh.” I try to change the subject. “What cat?”
“The orange one inside. That’s her cat.”
“Talin’s?
“Yep.” A tear creeps into the crease of her eyelid. “He’s mine now.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the breeze ruffling my hair. I feel her hand close over mine. “I’m sorry, dear.”
I shrug. I don’t know how to respond. “I never did get your name,” I say.
“Lydia Hogan.” She adds. “Your husband… he turned your world upside down. And your sons’.”
“How did you know I had kids?”
“Tally told me. She said she was going to be a step-mom. I think she really wanted the responsibility. She adored children. Must be hard being in the middle of a divorce during all this.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Meghan
I sputter, relieved I’d finished my lemonade or it would be all over Lydia Hogan’s face.
Abruptly I stand. “Thank you so much for your time. You’ve been most kind.”
She grabs the table, wobbly when she rises, her housecoat billowing around her.
“Do you need help?” I offer my arm.
“Thank you, dear.” She holds onto me, almost taking me down with her when she stumbles over a misplaced cat toy. We avoid the near catastrophe and I get her settled back on the couch, an afghan resting behind her shoulders.
Loras is now curled up on the window seat, sunbathing.
My heart sinks.
I see myself out after program
ming Lydia’s number in my phone. She has a landline but no cell phone. I almost envy her, our constant attachment to our mobile devices is both a blessing and a curse.
As I’m walking out, my cell chirps. It’s Jarrett.
I don’t answer. I’m not in the mood for a lecture.
Starting my engine, I park a block over and sit. I’m conflicted, and my emotions are over the place. On one hand, I feel for Talin Forrester.
She’s had a rough go of the last couple of years.
But on the other hand, my husband shouldn’t have been the next option available to her.
Balling my hands into fists, I let out a loud scream, pounding the hard plastic of the steering wheel. But you don’t want him, I remind myself.
Did my husband kill Tally because she threatened to tell me about the affair?
Would causing the loss of life be worth the risk of losing everything?
That’s a question I’m not prepared to answer right now.
I put my car in drive and head down the alley behind the row of bungalows on her street. As nice as the houses are, this alley is a human dump, piles of garbage and rusty cans littering the gravel. Plastic containers are strewn around, the wind blowing them in all directions.
Another chirp snaps me out of my thoughts. I don’t bother to look at the caller ID, I just hit the ‘answer’ button and talk. “What?” I say. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”
“Is that so?” A raspy voice says on the other end.
“Jarrett?”
“No, but sounds like a good name. You can call me that if you’d like.” There’s a pause. “Or maybe you just want to refer to me as Tally’s killer.”
“What’re you talking about? This isn’t funny.”
“Of course it’s not. I’m not laughing. Are you?” The voice snarls. “Maybe it’s not Jarrett. Maybe it’s Reed.”
“Oh, so you’re using your one call to test my patience?” I’m not serious, but a voice screams in my head. It doesn’t sound like Reed, but I don’t have any guesses as to who it is.
“I killed that girl. That’s all you need to know.”
“Seriously, this isn’t a joke.”
“No, but your poor husband’s going down for it. I guess he’ll finally get what he deserves.”
All the Pretty Lies Page 16