The Truth in My Lies

by Ivy Smoak

  All I knew was that I needed to run. I followed the path, trying to ignore the searing pain in my ankle. There were two things I was sure of. I was good at dealing with pain after years of torture, and I was damn good at running. Those two things were true. Everything else? I wasn’t sure of any of it. But I was pretty sure I knew how to find out. The proof was in my husband’s files. If the handwriting on them matched the ones on the passports, I’d know he planted evidence. That he was setting me up to take the blame for his crimes.

  I threw open the back door and trudged inside. I was completely soaked. My feet left muddy prints on the sparkling clean tiles. A few weeks ago I would have stopped everything to clean up the mess. But I wasn’t sick. The medicine made me sick. It gave me OCD. It gave me nightmares. It numbed me.

  It changed me.

  I looked down at my watch. My husband would be home in 15 minutes. Shit. I was so tired. The boxes fell out of my hands. Again, my body seemed to move without my brain’s permission. I lifted up the closest box of files and picked one up, smearing mud across the folder.

  My name was Adeline Bell. And before I had gotten married, I had been Adeline Evans. I was not Dr. Nash. I had never been anyone else. The date on the file was clearly my husband’s handwriting. I had seen him make these files. I had him now. That stupid bastard. I caught him red-handed. I opened up the file and stared down at the words that the Dr. Nash imposter had written about me. Wait. They were in the same handwriting.

  What? That couldn’t be. I grabbed the box of passports. The sticky notes had the same handwriting. I tore open the box of pictures. The backs of them with the names and dates had the same handwriting. No.

  I picked up the open file. It was a session from five months ago. Listing my problems. All my problems that didn’t exist. Problems that had never been real.

  But I did have one problem. One huge problem. The handwriting was mine. The file shook in my hands. Not my husband’s. Not some mysterious imposter. It was mine. All of it was in my handwriting.

  Mine.

  How was that possible? My phone started ringing. I pulled it out of my pocket. It was Ben. I ignored it. God, oh God. Had I done this? How could I have done this?

  I dumped the box of passports out on the floor. I knew it was what my husband wanted. To lead me to this point where I’d be grasping for anything to make sense. To make the false memories go away. I grabbed the envelope and tore it open.

  Adeline,

  Do you remember now? Do you know what you’ve done? Or are you fighting it?

  You need to embrace it, Adeline. You’re not who you think you are.

  We’ve talked about this so many times. Argued about good and evil. Right and wrong. Doing something good doesn’t make up for the wrongs. It doesn’t change the past. I’m sorry, Adeline. I truly am. You’ve done so much good. But you’ve done so much more evil.

  Now that you know, you only have one choice.

  Unless you’re ready to be caught. Ready to face the consequences of your actions. Ready to pay for all the lives you took.

  If not, stop pretending you’re the one in pain and take your damn medicine. It controls you. It numbs you. It makes the memories fade. I get why you resist that. But in your case, that’s a good thing. Trust me. You need to be controlled. You need to be numb. You need for your memories to slip away. Trust me. I’m the doctor. Remember?

  And if you’re still having trouble remembering, look in the mirror. Those bruises on your face? Those aren’t from your husband. He’s dead, remember? He was the second life you took. Don’t you remember that night in the woods?

  XOXO,

  -Dr. Nash

  I touched the side of my jaw where I knew a bruise was. It was like a switch went off in my mind. Everything came flooding back. The memories of my husband were true. He promised to take care of my mother if I dropped out of college. But he hurt me. I was so scared of him. I was terrified of the man I had married. I wanted an out. He traveled during the week, so I kept going to school. I finished my degree. I kept going until I got a doctorate in psychology. I kept going until I knew I could take care of myself and my mother. And I covered my trail the whole time. Expensive fake personal trainers, cleaning services, anything I could think of that would equal the cost of tuition. And my husband bought it. He thought I had become an entitled housewife, just like he wanted me to be. Everything was going according to plan.

  But I never expected to get pregnant. It sped up my plans. I didn’t have time to do it right. All I could do was flee. By the time I reached my mother’s nursing home, she was already dead. And he was waiting for me. In my haste to get away, I hadn’t been checking the mail. I hadn’t seen my diploma come. He knew my secret. He had been making plans of his own the whole time. Which included stopping the payments for my mom’s medical bills.

  My perfect escape plan faded to dust. I kept screaming that I was pregnant, but he didn’t listen. He had never hurt me like that. He left me broken. He killed our baby. My baby.

  I tried to kill myself after that. I had lost everything. Every. Single Fucking. Thing. There was no point in living. But he found me before I died and he sent me away. To a terrible place. Some horrible psych ward. It was like I was still living with him. Every day was worse than the day before. But I escaped. I got out of that wretched place.

  I was finally free. I became Dr. Katrina Nash. I started over. But I never forgot my past. I thought becoming a psychologist would be meaningful. That helping others would soothe my own demons. Those women from the passports weren’t my friends. They were some of my patients. The ones with problems like mine. It felt like I knew them because they bared their souls to me. But not enough. I tried to help. But I knew what it was like to be abused. I knew how hard it was to trust. I knew what was going on in those women’s lives, but I couldn’t reach them. I couldn’t help them. Not the way I wanted. I even hired an abused woman as my secretary. Maria Gonzalez. That’s why her fingerprints and mine were the only ones on the files. Because I was Dr. Nash and Maria worked for me. She was just one of the many women who I couldn’t get through to. That I couldn’t help with words. I kept trying. And failing. They’d show up with bruises, bandages, casts. I wasn’t good enough at my job to save them.

  And then my husband found me. I had nothing left to give him. My job wasn’t fulfilling. It already felt like my soul was dead. He said he was close to finding my father. My dad was the only family I had left. And technically my husband was too. He promised me he'd changed. He promised he’d be better. He held me as I cried over the loss of our child. The loss of my mother. And he apologized. He said he’d never send me away again. He said he’d never hurt me again.

  I knew better. But I let my husband back into my life. He could be so charming when he wanted to be. But the abuse started again. My weakness started again. I couldn’t help my patients if I couldn’t even help myself.

  When my husband finally did find my father, I was a shell of who I once was. And my husband wanted me to kill him. He wanted to trap me back in our marriage. He needed something else to hang over my head so that I’d never run away again. He convinced me to pull the trigger. So I did. I played into my husband's hand perfectly. But what he didn’t realize was that I had nothing left to live for. So then I shot my husband too.

  I remembered missing. And running. The sound of crunching leaves as I fled into the woods. He tackled me to the ground, but I still had the gun. I shot him and his blood rained down on me. His body collapsed on mine. I couldn’t breathe.

  No. I tried to make the memories stop. No. I dug my fingers into my scalp. No!

  I remembered killing my new identity of Dr. Nash too. Setting fire to my office. But I took my files with me. I changed my name to Jennifer Clarke. I was so sick of not being able to help. I started striking up conversations with my ex-patients online. Telling them I knew what they were hiding and that I could help. That I had a way out. That I had gotten out. Talking never helped anyone. But action
? That fucking helped.

  Every Friday, I thoroughly cleaned my house. Not because my husband would be upset if it was dirty. But to wipe away any fingerprints in case the Feds came busting down my door when I was away. Because I traveled almost every weekend. I told myself my husband was abusing me. The past merging with the present was the only way I could justify my actions. But my bruises weren’t from him. They were from the struggles with the men I killed. The husbands of the 20 women whose passports I had. I ended those women’s struggles. Gave them new identities and a fresh start.

  The fee for my help? Half their husband’s life insurance policy. A policy which I had made them increase before I came to fix their problems.

  Only once had I almost gotten caught. But I hadn't been done my work. I still had a few ex-patients that needed my help. I burned down my house and moved with my files again. But I was close to being done. So close that I changed my name back to Adeline. So close that I used my father’s last name. So close that I made myself easy to catch. I left a trail of breadcrumbs right to my doorstep. And it worked. Ben showed up.

  But the detective investigating me wasn’t supposed to be so freaking handsome. He wasn’t supposed to make me feel the way that no one ever had before.

  I touched the side of my jaw again. They were bruises from my last victim. Mr. Gonzalez. I was done. I had helped everyone I needed to. I was supposed to surrender now. It was the last thing I had left to do.

  Even if I didn’t, the cops could put it together. The evidence was in the pictures, just like I had told myself. Pictures of myself with bruises and cuts. I pushed them around, staring at the dates. Some were old, from when I had been trying to prove my husband’s abuse. But most of them were taken after his death. I had taken one on each day that I killed someone. To remind myself what the monsters I was killing were capable of. The proof was in the pictures all along. But not of my husband’s actions. Of mine.

  The cops would see the new names of my patients. They could find them and ask them who killed their husbands. It was only a matter of time before one of them caved. All the evidence was right here. I looked around at all the boxes. Right here in cardboard boxes. Highly flammable cardboard boxes. I bit the inside of my lip.

  I could turn myself in and face the consequences. Face death. That had been the plan. To help my patients. And then die. There were 27 crosses in the woods. I had already made my own grave marker. I had wanted to die for so long. Until I met Ben. It felt like my heart had started beating when I met him. He had ruined everything.

  Turning myself in wasn’t the only option, though. I could find new people to help online. In support chats. Or in actual meetings. There were so many people that still needed my help. I knew it in my gut. There was still more work to be done. I should have felt bad about the murders, but I didn’t. I felt proud. Doing this was so much better than being a psychologist. I had saved these women’s lives. And by doing so, I had given my pathetic excuse of a life meaning. There was no real reason to stop. All I had to do was destroy the evidence. It would be so easy.

  But I had already told Ben about the passports. About Maria’s new name. I had told him too much. If I wanted to keep going, I’d have to do more than destroy the evidence. Ben was the only one that had ever seen me. He was the only one that knew any of my secrets. He’d be able to find me if I ran.

  So I had to kill him.

  Chapter 49

  I poured the remaining kerosene over the boxes of evidence. No, I had never seen the whole Home Alone movie. But I didn’t need all the gimmicks. The kerosene would be plenty.

  I looked up at the camera mounted in the corner of one of the kitchen cabinets. He was probably watching me right now. Why wasn’t he stopping me? He had to know what I’d done by now. Didn’t he know I was coming for him next? I walked over to the stove and turned the gas on.

  But I didn’t light it. I let the gas spread into the room. This wasn’t the first time I had done this. I breathed it in. It reminded me of being Dr. Nash. Of being Jennifer Clarke. It reminded me of freedom. This would all be over soon. And I could add a few pills to my cocktail to make myself forget.

  “Freeze,” Ben said.

  I felt the barrel of his gun press into the back of my head. Yes, I had done this before, but never after someone was so close to catching me. This wasn’t how Ben and my last moment together was supposed to go. I had forgotten that he had a key to my house. And if I was being honest, there were no pills that would make me forget him. I closed my eyes, wishing I was back in his arms. Just hearing his voice and feeling his presence reminded me of how I felt. I loved him. I could never hurt him. But it certainly seemed like he was about to hurt me.

  “I didn’t know if you were watching,” I said.

  “I told you I was always watching.”

  Something constricted in my chest. Maybe there was another way out. Would he believe me if I told him I was innocent? Would he run away with me? “Ben, whatever you think you know…”

  “Save it, Addy. Maria didn’t hesitate to tell us everything. That The Doctor was a woman. That The Doctor claimed she understood what it was like to be a victim. That she understood what it was like for everything to be taken from her. Her mother. Her father. Her unborn child.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Maria said that The Doctor had gotten revenge on her husband. And that she had helped others get revenge too. Maria didn’t hold anything back.”

  That ungrateful bitch. I had saved her from hell and this was how she repaid me? I knew she wasn’t my friend. Employees were very different than friends. “It wasn’t me, Ben.”

  The barrel shifted slightly. “Do you even know how to tell the truth?”

  “Yes. And the cops are going to be here any second. I need a minute to explain. Can we go for a walk?” I needed to get out of the house. Far away from the imminent fire.

  “There’s nothing to explain. You murdered your father. Your husband. And 20 other innocent people.”

  “Innocent? Ben, they were abusing my patients!”

  “And they should have gone to jail. Just like your husband should have gone to jail, Addy. The punishment for abuse is not death. I understand that you were hurting…”

  “You don’t understand! How could you possibly understand what it’s like to have your soul ripped out?”

  “I understand better than you think.” The gun fell from the back of my head.

  I turned around to face him. I had never seen such agony in someone’s face. Ben wasn’t anything like my husband, or my father, or the other men I had killed. He was good. So good.

  “How do you think it feels to fall in love with the suspect you’re supposed to be hunting down?” he asked. “A person you thought you knew but don’t even recognize anymore?”

  “Not good.” Probably similar to how it felt knowing that I needed to kill him but couldn’t. Knowing that I loved him but that I’d never get to be with him.

  He laughed, but it wasn’t his normal infectious laugh. It was forced. And sad. “Yeah, not great.”

  “We really should step outside,” I said. I heard his words. I did. And maybe I could convince him to let me go. Or even to come with me. But we couldn’t do it right here. We were running out of time.

  “I can forgive one murder. I can understand that you were hurting. That you were manipulated. That you were drugged. But 22 deaths? Addy, you’re the definition of a serial killer.”

  I'm a monster. He didn’t have to say it. I knew what he was thinking. And I didn’t disagree with him. “I was still on drugs.”

  “Drugs that you prescribed yourself! That’s not the same.”

  No, it wasn’t. “Ben, when the cops open the front door, this whole place is going to blow up.”

  He lifted his gun higher. “You expect me to believe that? You’re not getting away from me this time. I have everything I need to bring you in.”

  “Which we can discuss outside. I rigged the front door. When it opens t
he blowtorch will ignite, lighting the trail of kerosene that leads in here.” I gestured to the boxes. “Everything’s going to explode.”

  He eyed the stove. I knew he smelled the gas. He knew I wasn’t lying.

  But he didn’t move. He just turned back to me. “Was anything you said to me true? Or was this whole thing just a game to you?” It seemed like he was giving up. That the pain I had caused him really was as bad as he claimed. And it was the first time I had ever regretted hurting someone.

  He saw the worst of me. Everything. All the horrible things I had done. Did he still love me? I felt like I could see it in his eyes. But I needed to know. I needed to know if it was possible to convince him to forgive me. I needed to remind him of what he had said to me. “Remember when I told you there was nothing in-between good and evil? That there was no gray? You didn’t believe me. You said that was a pessimistic outlook. And that people can commit crimes with good intentions. That’s what I did, Ben. I had good reasons. I can’t take back what I did. But I’ll stop. For you, I’ll…”

  The sound of the front door opening made all my thoughts disappear. I lunged for the window. I tried to grab his hand but he ducked out of the way. I broke through the glass just as the kerosene ignited behind me.

  I fell onto the wet grass and turned around. The whole house was engulfed in flames. No. I wanted to destroy the evidence. Not Ben. No! I struggled to my feet and ran to the back door. I opened it and a blast of heat almost knocked me backward. I took a huge gulp of air and crawled into the house.

  The fire lapped at the walls, burning the cabinets off their hinges. The boxes had already been incinerated. I heard shouting but it was far away.

  “Ben!” I coughed.