Lie to Me

by McAdams, Molly

  Not just because I had water clinging to me, but also because it would’ve been such an Emma thing to do.

  “I’m aware.”

  When I looked at her, that soft smile had turned playful, but she still had yet to look up from her tablet.

  “I’m the one who texted you. Lala’s asleep.”

  “So, is this a porch swing situation? Or . . .”

  “No, I really need your help.” She finally lifted her head and put the tablet to sleep. “I can’t get into my room. The doorknob fell right off when I grabbed it, and now I can’t get it to open.”

  “And you called me?” I asked dryly.

  “Technically, I texted you,” she said with a teasing narrowing of her eyes. “You work nights, I figured you would be awake, and I really don’t want to sleep on the couch.”

  “You slept on it yesterday,” I reminded her.

  It had been the first time since meeting Emma that she’d truly looked relaxed. Vulnerable in the purest of ways.

  Breathtaking.

  Knowing there was no point in waking her up to get her to eat or drink something, I’d draped a blanket over her and left.

  But I hadn’t been able to get that look on her face out of my head since, as if the weight of the world had finally left her shoulders. It had to be exhausting . . . to constantly be on the offensive. To not trust anyone. To have so much hate built up inside you that you couldn’t let yourself just feel.

  Emma ducked her head, but not before I saw the heat creeping into her cheeks. “I’m sorry for that. For the whole thing.”

  “Don’t be. I should know better by now than to grab you.” When she just shrugged off my words like none of it mattered, I asked, “You’re not going to tell me what happened on the stairs, are you?”

  Instead of the immediate response I’d come to expect, she looked away and chewed on her bottom lip. After a while, she asked, “Do you really not know?”

  “I scared you. Clearly.”

  When her attention fixed on me again, her eyes were filled with pain and uncertainty. “Your friend Nick didn’t tell you?” I jerked back, but she continued before I had a chance to respond. “I saw the way you looked at me when Lala brought him up the other day. I saw how uncomfortable you were. I know who he is.”

  A stunned breath punched from my chest. “He’s a lot of things, Emma. My best friend. A former teammate. A cop.”

  “He grew up next door.”

  I ground my jaw for a second and then slowly nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

  She studied me, seeming to wait for me to continue. When I didn’t, she asked, “Did he really not tell you about that night?”

  Considering I didn’t have a clue what that night could mean . . . no, he hadn’t, and I couldn’t figure out why.

  Butler knew everything about my life the same way I knew everything about his—or, at least, the way I’d thought I’d known everything. For him to keep anything from me, especially when he knew how I felt about the girl in question, didn’t make sense.

  “He didn’t have a whole lot to say about you,” I admitted gruffly. “I’ve never seen him shut down about anything the way he did when he found out you were in town.” One of my brows ticked up. “Seems to be a theme with you.”

  She nodded after a while, accepting my response, but didn’t offer any kind of explanation. From the stubborn set of her chin, I knew she didn’t plan to either.

  I glanced at the darkened tablet on her lap. “You ever going to tell me anything about you?”

  “I told you, that’s a—”

  “You’re wrong,” I said adamantly and looked into her wary eyes again. “I’ve never wanted to know so much about a person, and that was even before I realized you were the most guarded person I’d ever met.”

  “Knowledge gives people power and leaves the provider vulnerable. Why would I want that?”

  “Then you’ve been around the wrong people.” I stood and started to step away, intent on getting my tools from the truck, but stopped. “The other day, what Lala told you about me, what you wanted to know . . .” I faced her and let out a slow exhale. “That’s something I don’t talk about.”

  A curious expression covered her face, but she simply waited.

  “People hear things like that and it changes them. Changes the way they react and respond to me or anyone who has done what I do.” I lifted my shoulders. “They hear SEAL or military or hero, and it turns women obsessive. As you’ve already seen from Courtney.”

  The corners of Emma’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Well, thankfully for us, those words don’t do it for me. I tend to stay away from heroes.”

  Of course she did.

  “I just wanted to know what Lala meant,” she continued. “If, when she said you saved her life, she meant it literally, and what happened.”

  It was my turn to be surprised.

  I’d been so caught off guard and in denial at the coffee shop because Emma had been diving into the one territory I didn’t want her to, that I hadn’t fully registered Lala hadn’t told her own granddaughter what happened.

  “Lala had a stroke,” I said softly.

  Emma’s reaction was immediate. The shock and sorrow and rejection. “No. No, because she’s . . . she’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with—she would’ve said something.” She looked at me helplessly. “Right?”

  You would think.

  Then again, who knew if Lala treated Emma the same way Emma treated the world—guarded.

  “I was coming home from my run and decided to check on her and Nora. Found her on the floor of the kitchen, phone nowhere near her.”

  She flinched. “Where was Nora?”

  “Playing upstairs. She’d had no idea.”

  Emma nodded, the motion subtle. “How long ago was this?”

  I thought for a second. “Close to two years ago.”

  “I had no idea,” she murmured. “I can’t believe she still makes three meals a day, once a week, for so many people . . . even after that.”

  Amusement pulsed through me. “She was determined to keep it going, no matter what. When we tried to make her rest and recover, she made us bring her down to the couch every Thursday and had food catered in for all three meals, even when we threatened not to come.”

  “That sounds like her.” Her eyes met and held mine. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t.”

  “It doesn’t change anything,” she said softly. “I’m not the kind of girl to swoon over a hero. If anything, you should know that by now. But I was never there for her, so it helps to know that she had people looking out for her, loving her, and even more that one of them loved her enough to be there when she needed it most. So, let me thank you.”

  I slanted my head in a nod.

  When I turned for the steps, she asked, “You’re leaving?”

  My mouth twitched into a grin because those two words were just so . . . Emma. Little bit of frustration and contempt, little bit of indecision and longing.

  She’d been right: Not one bit about her had changed.

  “Just getting my tools.” I risked a glance over my shoulder. “Unless you’d rather stay out here with me all night, listening to the rain.”

  She rolled her eyes and dropped her attention to the tablet. “I’d rather sleep on the couch.”

  When I made it back to the porch with my toolbox in hand, she was still on the swing and showed no signs of moving.

  I stepped out of my running shoes and asked, “You coming?”

  Her fingers stilled for only a moment before she resumed tapping on her tablet. “It’s the room without a doorknob.”

  Right.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have minded a little change if just to avoid that part. The coldness and the way she retreated within herself while still seeming to stand ten feet tall.

  I let myself into the house and went straight for the stairs, slowing to glance at the lower step Emma had sat trembling on . . . the part of the railing she’
d gripped so damn tight. Wondering what exactly happened that night before jogging up.

  Once I was on the top floor, I kept my steps light as I passed Lala’s room and headed over to the long hallway on the far side of the second floor where Nora’s room and the guest room were.

  And right in front of the guest room was an old, crystal doorknob resting on the floor. I bent to pick it up as I inspected the door, my brow furrowing as I did. Glancing at the doorknob, I laughed as I tried to think of what exactly she would’ve had to do to accomplish this.

  Opening up my toolbox, I grabbed a pair of regular and needle-nose pliers, then turned back to the door.

  Before I had a chance to open it, I heard the front door open and shut, quickly followed by footsteps on the stairs.

  And, damn it, it sounded like home.

  The creaks of the old wood.

  Her bare feet on the floor, coming closer.

  Even the way she sighed when she rested her back against the wall and slid down it to sit next to me.

  It had chills creeping across my arms and my heart pounding so damn loudly and painfully because I swear I’d just been given a glimpse into our lives together.

  I wanted to ask if she could hear it all the same way I did. If she could see it. But God knew that would have her forgetting her walls and putting a damn ocean between us instead.

  I swallowed forcefully and looked her way.

  She jerked her chin past me. “I figured if the ladies across the street were even awake, they were going to talk about us regardless since we’d been out on the porch at such a late hour unsupervised,” she said dryly.

  “You stayed out there because you’re worried what people will say?”

  Her brows lifted. “Aren’t you?”

  “They’re already talking about us anyway.” My stare fell to her mouth before I could force it away.

  “Are you serious?”

  My head slowly shifted back in her direction at the horror in her whispered tone. “What does it matter?”

  “It—” Her head moved in small, fast jerks, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “I just don’t need that in my life. Not right now.”

  “Because it’s me?”

  “Because I don’t need that kind of attention on me.”

  “You came to the wrong place for that,” I said unapologetically and went back to the door. “Wrong town, wrong house.”

  When she didn’t respond, I grabbed the remaining part of the spindle sticking out from the door and twisted, popping the door open with a soft click.

  If Emma noticed her door was open, she didn’t show it.

  “What the hell did you do to the doorknob?” I asked softly as I picked it up and grabbed the needle-nose pliers to pull out the small piece of the spindle that had snapped off with it.

  Emma blinked and slowly dragged her attention to my hands and then to her door. “I don’t know. I just tried to open it, and it fell off in my hand.”

  “Sure you didn’t break it off with a hammer?” I teased as I put the pliers away and grabbed a screwdriver to take off the plates and latch.

  A breath of a laugh left her, but she seemed even more withdrawn. “No. No, but that room used to be my mom’s, so who knows what she did to the doorknob or anything else in there.”

  I had just finished with the last of it and was palming the screws when she added, “My mom was . . . well, she wasn’t a mom, to put it nicely.”

  Every inch of me locked up when I realized she was willingly sharing something about her life. Moving slowly, as if I might scare her into stopping, I placed the screws in my box and sat beside her.

  Knees touching.

  Eyes on her.

  Her stare fixed across the hall, but distant.

  “She also wasn’t much of a daughter, but I don’t think Lala would say that to anyone. She kept me away from here most of my life. We only came back when—” Emma swallowed slowly, her slender neck shifting with the action. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and filled with shame. “When she needed money.”

  My conversation with Butler quickly flashed through my mind, and I had a feeling I knew what she was going to say next before she said it.

  “Lala always gave it to her, and we always left as soon as she did.” She lifted a shoulder. “The one time Lala refused, I thought it might be different. I thought we might stay, but my mom had no plans to. Soon as she realized she wouldn’t be getting anything, she wanted to leave . . . I didn’t, but I was sixteen and I couldn’t make that decision.” Her eyes darted to mine before snapping back to that spot across the hall. “But I tried.”

  I finally looked in the same direction she’d been fixated on and felt my blood run cold when I noticed where she’d been staring . . . the stairs.

  I’d wanted any piece of her so fiercely that I would have begged for her to tell me something about her. I’d wanted to know what happened yesterday so badly, what had triggered her to spiral down so quickly, that I would have waited for this story forever.

  Now that she was offering it to me, I was both eager for it and not ready to hear it.

  Because this girl was fierce and brave unlike anyone I’d ever met, and whatever happened could reduce her to a trembling mess in a second.

  “Everyone was yelling.” Her voice was soft but somehow seemed to shatter the bubble of quiet that had built around us, eclipsing even the weather outside. “Lala was begging my mom to stop, to just wait and give it time. Or to finally let me stay. I was yelling that I wasn’t going, that she couldn’t make me. And Momma . . . God, she was screaming that I was selfish and a traitor and calling me every name she could think of. Said I owed her. Demanded I go outside on my own two legs, or she was going to drag me out there.”

  Emma blew out a slow, stuttered breath and shut her eyes.

  If I hadn’t been sitting so close, if I hadn’t been so focused on her, I might not have noticed the slight tremors rolling through her body.

  When she opened her eyes again, she lifted a hand to point but kept it close to her body. “Lala was there at the top of the stairs. I was down there, about a third of the way up. Momma was at the bottom. We probably looked every bit the dysfunctional family we were, standing in that line, screaming at each other.” Even though there was a hint of amusement in her words, her expression only grew more severe.

  “Then Momma charged me,” she continued in a grave tone. “Started sprinting up and screaming that she’d warned me. She caught one of my legs just before I reached the top and yanked me toward her. My feet slipped out from under me, but I managed to grab the railing as I fell. Lala lost it, started crying. Momma was screaming and tugging on me, but when I didn’t move, she started jumping.”

  Emma’s tongue darted out to wet her lips, her chest caving with a jagged exhale.

  “Literally holding on to my ankle and launching into the air and slamming back down like she was rappelling down the stairs. I begged her to stop, begged her to let go. She tore my arm straight from the socket, and I screamed, but she never stopped. Just kept jumping, just kept yelling and saying all kinds of horrible things.”

  An apology was resting on the tip of my tongue. For what happened, for grabbing her the day before even though I’d clearly had no idea what it would do to her . . . but I swallowed it back.

  I knew in my gut that couldn’t be the end. Because Emma was still staring like she was reliving a horrible nightmare. And even knowing virtually nothing about her, I had no doubt it would take a hell of a lot more to bring Emma Wade to her knees.

  “The pain was so bad that my grip on the railing loosened, and I warned her—I did,” she added on quickly as if trying to convince me. “I told her again and again that we were going to fall. I lost my hold, and we started falling, but Lala grabbed me and hauled me back just in time. Momma’s fingers slipped and she went all the way down. Hit the stairs once near the bottom and then rolled to the landing.”

  “Jesus.”

  “La
la and I sat there, staring at her. I don’t know how long. Felt like an eternity. Then I started screaming because I was sure she was dead, and it was my fault. There was blood everywhere, and we couldn’t see her chest moving from where we were. I was panicking because I’d killed her. I was afraid I was going to get arrested. Lala kept struggling to pull me away from my mom every time I tried to go to her.” She finally looked at me and held my stare. “That’s when a boy came charging into the house.”

  Butler.

  “Took one look at my mom laying on the floor and then looked to where Lala was trying to keep me away. Lala said, ‘Get her out of here,’ and he did. Took me into the kitchen and wouldn’t let me leave for anything.” Her eyelids slowly shut before opening again. “He didn’t say a word about it, even though I was sobbing, ‘I killed her. I killed her,’ over and over again. He just kept asking if he could help me with my arm—not that I let him. I figured out how to do it on my own.

  “But I was in the kitchen trying to get past this boy I didn’t know, yelling at him to let me leave, when Lala came in trying to calm me. Saying we would figure it out, saying we needed to call the cops and just tell them the truth.” Emma’s head lowered and her stare fell away. “I panicked, of course, said they couldn’t be involved. Suddenly, Momma starts yelling and cursing from the other room, demanding to know where Danny was.” She leaned closer and explained, “He was one of her husbands, not the most recent one at that time either. Before any of us could even get out of the kitchen, she came walking into it like nothing had ever happened, looked at Nick, and said, ‘Who the fuck are you?’”

  A sharp, stunned laugh escaped me at her harsh drawl, and I quickly lifted a hand toward Emma. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it isn’t funny.”

  “No, that part kind of was. We all just stood there staring at her. Finally, I asked if she was okay, and she started yelling all over again, demanding to know why I wasn’t ready to leave. When Lala pointed out the blood all over her, my mom thought it had to have been because of Danny and was so worked up, she wouldn’t let anyone tell her otherwise. It ended up being from a small cut on her head, and Momma remained adamant that we were leaving right then. I was afraid that situation would repeat itself, so I left with her. I drove, of course, but we left.”