The Liar Next Door: An absolutely unputdownable domestic thriller

by Nicola Marsh

  I’ve been tempted to tell him the truth so many times over the last few months. The church is all about forgiveness so surely he’d absolve his wife of sin?

  But I chicken out, terrified to take a risk and unravel the life I’ve built for my son. I’m here to ensure my secret never gets out; for the sake of my baby, my marriage and my entire pious family, whose reputations will be ruined if what I’ve done is revealed.

  I’m tired, and sensing my distress, Lloyd hands me a glass of sparkling water. “Here. Looks like you could use this.”

  “Thanks.” I gulp it down gratefully but it does little to ease the tightness in my throat.

  Ruston is looking at me again and I feel the intensity of his gaze like a physical caress.

  As if my situation isn’t complicated enough, what is he doing here?

  He’s not with a woman, I’ve checked, and he doesn’t seem to be particularly close to anyone here, so that means he’s not the partner of someone or visiting a friend… hell, does he live here?

  I should approach him, act casual, pretend like my pulse isn’t racing at the sight of him. It shouldn’t. I should be immune. I steeled my heart against him before I married Lloyd. He’s my husband’s opposite in every way.

  For years, Ruston reeled me in, only to cast me away in favor of “keeping things casual”. I knew at the time any self-respecting woman wouldn’t put up with that kind of relationship, but I did because he was like a drug for me. I craved the high.

  First loves are intense like that. I kept going back for more, despite my parents warning me against him and doing everything they could to steer me in the right direction. Ironic, that when I’d finally given in and opened my heart to the possibility of having something solid with Lloyd, I’d let Ruston get under my skin again and here I am.

  Lying to everyone, including my dedicated husband.

  As Ruston continues to stare at me, a hint of a smirk playing around his mouth, like he knows how much he still affects me, I know one thing. I can’t allow him to distract me from my goal.

  I moved to Hambridge Heights for one reason only.

  I’ll do anything to make sure everything goes to plan.

  Eight

  Frankie

  THEN

  I have to admit, the backyard looks amazing. My parents have gone all out for my party. Filmy chiffon in daffodil yellow and ochre drapes from tree to tree along with fairy lights and vivid fuchsia lanterns, lending the backyard a magical quality. Tealight candles atop faux lily pads float in the pool, rimmed with more of the lanterns. And a twenty-foot grazing table is covered in cheeses, antipasto, deli meats, dried fruit, nuts and crackers, like a giant charcuterie board. A small table resides behind it, with a fancy three-tiered cake draped in daisies, surrounded by tiny lemon tartlets, apple pies and chocolate mousse. It’s stunning, yet I can’t help but wonder if Mom went online after I left her office today and ordered extra decorations to make up for what happened.

  Even now, hours after Mom told me the truth, I’m struggling, torn between disappointment and anger. I want to forget what I’ve learned, but I can’t. Maybe moving out will give me time and perspective, because I sure as hell can’t imagine sticking around and feeling like this.

  I’ve never been good at pretending and now I know the truth about their antics I need to escape. The problem is, I didn’t apply to any colleges. My folks come from old money, like many families in this enclave of Long Island, and hadn’t attended college either, so they’d been supportive when I wanted to take a gap year. I love living in Gledhill and I’d envisaged getting a job until I figured out what I want to do with my life, take my time finding something to inspire passion, but now that option has been snatched away along with my respect for them.

  Ideally, I’d like to head to Manhattan. Every rebellious, independent bone in my body is screaming at me to leave all this behind and make my own way in the world. But rent is exorbitant in the city and I’ll need my parents’ financial support to do it. Considering how our relationship has fractured today, I’m hoping they’ll back my decision.

  Mom joins me on the verandah overlooking the backyard. “What do you think, honey?”

  She slides her arm around my waist and I struggle not to flinch. I used to love our closeness, more like friends than mother–daughter, but now I feel uncomfortable.

  “It looks great, Mom, thanks.”

  I inject enthusiasm into my voice because I know it must’ve taken her ages to decorate.

  “I’m glad you like it.” She squeezes my waist. “The caterers will serve the finger food when everyone arrives and drinks will be self-serve.”

  She spins me to face her and I swallow, trying to ease the lump of emotion in my throat. My mom looks the same—wide hazel eyes rimmed in kohl, the lids dusted in gold to match her dress, high cheekbones highlighted with rosy blush, lips glossed in coral—but she’s different. I wish she’d never told me about her and Dad…

  “I understand your friends will be sneaking alcohol and while I don’t approve, you only turn eighteen once so I’ll let it slide. Just make sure no one drives home if they’ve been drinking, okay?”

  I should be glad my parents are so liberal and will allow underage drinking at my party. My friends have always viewed them as cool parents, but now I know just how liberal they are, I see them differently.

  “You ready to have fun?” She taps me on the nose like she used to when I was little, and I fake a smile and nod. She clasps her hands as she spots the first guests arrive. “Then let’s get this party started.”

  When my folks first told me they wanted to throw me an eighteenth party I hadn’t thought to question why they wanted to invite their friends too. Old family friends who’d watched me grow up, they said. A nice addition to the celebration along with my school friends ready to party as we’d all graduated a month ago.

  But as the night progresses, and I’m annoyingly sober because I got drunk once last year and hated the hangover, I understand why they invited their friends. I’m glad I haven’t sampled any of the vodka, gin or whiskey on offer because if I had I definitely wouldn’t be able to hide my reaction as I watch my parents getting close to their “friends”. A touch here. A look there. It’s all done on the sly, combined with covert glances and deliberate pressing of bodies against each other, but now I know what it means.

  This has been going on for years at every barbecue, every party, and I didn’t have a clue.

  Bile rises in my throat and I force it down with several gulps of soda. As I watch my parents play the gracious hosts, I’m appalled all over again and I’m overcome by an urge to bolt. I need to get out of here but if the birthday girl disappears before the cake is cut it won’t look good. Instead, I skirt around the crowd, past the pool, and head for the back of the garden where I know I’ll have peace and a few moments to collect my thoughts. My dad has an old shed back here he rarely uses and I like the old wrought-iron bench tucked behind it. Wisteria drapes it and I know hiding out for a while will calm me down before I embarrass myself, my parents, or all of us by screaming exactly what I think of them.

  However, my plans for some much-needed alone time are thwarted when I spot a guy sitting on the bench. I don’t recognize him. He’s about my age, maybe a few years older, with short back and sides brown hair, a white button-down shirt and dark denim that looks suspiciously like it’s been ironed, whereas most guys wear distressed denim these days.

  He looks up as I near and his eyes are light brown, almost golden, rather startling in his otherwise plain face. “Is it time to cut the cake?”

  I shake my head. “No, I just needed to get away for a while.”

  His eyebrows rise. “But you’re the birthday girl, and extremely popular by the looks of it. Why would you want to leave your own party?”

  “None of your business,” I snap, not in the mood to exchange small talk with a stranger after what I’d just witnessed with my parents and their friends, surprised when he chuckle
s at my rudeness.

  His laughter isn’t loud. It’s soft and well-modulated, like the rest of him. “Am I in your go-to spot?”

  “Yes, and I’ve had a rough day, so I’d like you to leave.”

  “Why can’t we share?”

  He pats the empty space next to him and I roll my eyes before taking a seat. I know I’m acting like a brat but I don’t want to see or speak to anyone right now. I need some alone time to calm down, so I’m not tempted to march back to the party and expose my folks and their friends as a bunch of sleazy phonies.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  I glare at him and press my lips tighter.

  He laughs again. “I’m not much of a party person myself, as you can tell.” He sweeps his arm wide to take in the garden. “This is more my style.”

  “Lurking in the shadows?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with staying in the background.” He shrugs. “Not everyone is born to be in the limelight.”

  He’s intriguing. All the young guys I know are full of themselves. They talk a lot, boasting about the size of their car, their college education fund and their dick, not necessarily in that order. They want to be noticed so this guy saying the opposite… yet another weird thing in my all-round bizarre day.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “Walter.”

  “I’m Francesca.”

  “I know.” He stares at me, the amber color of his eyes bordering on peculiar and a strange calmness infuses me. I like it.

  “How did you end up at my party?”

  “I’m your neighbor’s godson from out of town and got dragged along.”

  Of course; the more the merrier according to my social butterfly parents. “Dragged, huh?”

  “Already told you, parties aren’t my thing.”

  “I’ve never seen you stay with the Schubermanns before?” They’re the only neighbors at my party, because the house on our left is a summer rental. We don’t socialize with them usually so I assume my folks invited the sixty-something couple so they wouldn’t complain about the noise.

  “They usually come visit me.” He screws up his nose and it’s endearingly cute. “I’m a homebody. And I have this thing about strange beds, which means if I travel, I rarely get more than a few hours’ sleep a night.”

  I admire his honesty, even if it makes him sound a tad dorky. “Are you in college?”

  “No.”

  An awkward silence stretches between us and I feel compelled to fill it. “You’re not much of a conversationalist.”

  “What do you want me to say?” He shrugs. “I’m not a fan of making meaningless small talk.”

  I’m not deterred by his bluntness. “So what do you do? How old are you?”

  “I’m an accountant. Did a part-time course at a community college while working as a clerk in a bank. I’m twenty-two. My favorite color is navy, I drive my grandfather’s pick-up truck, I don’t waste money, I like watching documentaries and I’m loyal. Is that enough information for you?”

  He rests his elbows on the back of the bench, his expression serene, and I’ve never met a guy so confident in his own skin. In that moment, it hits me.

  Walter is the opposite of my parents in every way. If what he’s saying about himself is true, he’s staid, dependable and the antithesis of everything I learned to loathe today.

  I’m not sure if this realization makes him more appealing, but I find myself wanting to learn more about him. I’m drawn to him.

  I haven’t dated much in high school. Not many of the boys made my heart pound like it is now. Sitting here with Walter, infused by an unexpected calmness just from being in his presence, I feel like I’ve met someone important. Someone who can change my life.

  I don’t believe in the crazy notion of instantaneous lust, but there’s something about him that makes my skin prickle with awareness, and I like it.

  “You’re not like other guys I know.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Yeah.” I scoot toward him on the bench and, rather than meet me halfway as I hope, he slides away. So I spell it out for him. “I like you, Walter.”

  His eyes widen slightly. “You hardly know me.”

  “I know enough.”

  Our gazes lock and I swear I feel a zap, an indefinable buzz that warms me from the inside out, making me want to do crazy things, like kiss a guy I hardly know.

  Maybe it’s the stress of the day and learning the truth about my folks, maybe it’s the overwhelming fatigue of having to pretend all evening I’m having the best night ever, or maybe it’s the excitement of an unexpected attraction when I least expect it, but I do something completely out of character and lay my hand on his thigh. It clenches beneath my palm. “How long are you in town for?”

  “A week.”

  Good. Seven days will give me time to get to know Walter, to see if I’m imagining this spark between us. A few minutes ago, I’d been hell-bent on leaving Gledhill and now, I have something to stay for, at least for a week.

  “I’m glad—”

  “I have to go.”

  He stands so abruptly my hand falls and hits the bench. As I surreptitiously rub my fingers he’s looking over my shoulder, before giving a little shake of his head.

  “Enjoy your party,” he says, striding away as if he can’t escape fast enough.

  “Walter, wait.”

  But by the time I stand to follow him, he’s disappeared.

  Nine

  Frankie

  NOW

  I love this little nook in our kitchen where we share our family meals. With a small table and three benches covered in comfy cushions surrounding it, tucked into a bay window, it’s cozy. Like many families, we may not have the time to always have sit-down dinners, but I try to make the most of the ones we do. Though tonight, Luna is hyped up on sugar from the three cupcakes she scoffed at the party earlier and barely touches her dinner. It’s her favorite, meatballs and spaghetti, but I let her half-eaten plate slide. I want her in bed and asleep before I chat with Andre.

  I’m sure there was nothing between him and Celeste at the party but it’s all I’ve thought about since we left. I need to be careful not to be confrontational because I’m not convinced I saw anything worth asking about. But I can’t subdue my doubts. I’m hoping if I ask Andre a few subtle questions and get confirmation that they don’t know one another, I’ll feel better.

  I’m not this person anymore. I shouldn’t be. I know what’s brought it on. It’s my anniversary tomorrow. Not mine and Andre. My anniversary with Walter. I still feel guilty about how I used that man: that good, upstanding, stable man. If Andre has secrets, I have secrets too.

  He doesn’t know I call Walter on our anniversary every year.

  He doesn’t know we chat like old friends.

  He doesn’t know I consider Walter the only man I can truly depend on.

  The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m married to a man I love but can never fully trust, while I was once married to a man I didn’t love but trusted completely.

  “Mom, will you read to me?”

  “Ask your father,” I say, pressing a kiss to the top of Luna’s head, inhaling the fruity fragrance of her strawberry shampoo.

  “Okay.” She gives me a quick hug and I squeeze her tight, thankful every day for this beautiful bundle of energy that is my reason for existing.

  “I’ll be up later to say goodnight.”

  She wriggles out of my arms and bounds upstairs, where I hear Andre watching basketball on cable. He’d been edgy all through dinner and as eager as Luna to escape the table once we’d finished. Because I didn’t want to have our discussion in front of our daughter, I’d let it slide, but his evasive behavior makes me worry more.

  I shouldn’t. Luna is growing up. She’ll be starting school soon. And I make more money than my husband. What’s the worst that can happen if I discover he’s cheated on me again? I boot him out the door, give him visitation rights and my life
continues.

  But it’s not that simple and I know it. I’m not sure what kind of questions are raised during divorce proceedings and I don’t want to tempt fate.

  With Walter, there hadn’t been kids involved so dissolving our marriage had been easy. With Andre… I don’t want to think about the secrets that may come to light if my past is delved into…

  On impulse, I grab my cell from the counter and slip out the front door. Why wait until tomorrow to call Walter? I need his steadying influence right now.

  His number is under Floral Arrangements, a contact that would never raise Andre’s suspicion considering I often discuss flowers and their use in prettying up a room on my channel.

  I know what I’m doing is wrong. How would I feel if I discovered Andre kept in touch with an old girlfriend? Or worse, the woman he’d cheated on me with? I’d be livid. But there’s a difference. I have no romantic feelings for Walter whatsoever. He’s my friend, a sounding board, a voice of reason, nothing more.

  I stab at his number with my thumb and press the cell to my ear. Walter is a man of routine in all aspects of his life and he always picks up on the fourth ring. Not tonight. His phone rings ten times before I get his voice asking to leave a message.

  “Hey, Walt, it’s me. Call me when you get a chance. Bye.”

  Disappointed, I hang up and glance at my watch. Walter is so predictable I know he’s in front of the TV at eight every night, watching his favorite quiz show. I grew to depend on his routines, until it drove me nuts in the end. Not picking up is so out of character I’m worried for a moment, before realizing there could be any number of reasons why he’s not answering and I let myself back into the house.