The Color of Lies

by CJ Lyons

  But with my mom’s birthday? Then I realize we’ve both made a mistake. Names and birthdays—two of the most easily stolen pieces of identification. So if someone with my mother’s name and birthday was murdered, it means some other woman was pretending to be my mother, stole her identity.

  Finally, I can breathe again. Of course; dead people are the most frequently targeted victims of identity theft. And things were laxer back when my parents died. That has to be the answer.

  As I’m relishing my epiphany, Helen stops, considers Alec’s words, and relaxes the tiniest bit, a hint of lavender overlapping her anxious green.

  “Nice to meet you, young man. You have the sweetest voice.” She ducks her head inside the Impreza where I’m still working to unlatch my seat belt. “Ella, dear, your friend’s voice is all warm and toasty like melted caramel.” She turns back to Alec, interlocking her arm with his. “Come into the house and join us, Alec Ravenell.”

  He glances back over his shoulder at me. “I’m not sure—”

  I rush to rescue him from Helen.

  “I insist,” she says, looking at me, not him, as she holds the tiara aloft.

  Ducking my head, I allow her to place the sparkly birthday tiara in my hair. Somehow Helen always gets exactly what she wants, whether it’s an embarrassing birthday tradition I long ago outgrew or inviting a total stranger into our sanctum simply because she likes his voice. “We’ll be right there,” I tell her. “I just need to talk to Alec for another quick second.”

  “Okay, but don’t dawdle. Everyone’s waiting.” She goes back up the steps to the porch. I see Rory and Max watching us through the bay window, Rory grinning so wide her braces glint in the porch light, giving her a silvery shimmer, and Max with a forced half smile that reveals a touch of both concern and distrust as he stares at Alec.

  I grab Alec’s arm. “I don’t need to come in,” he says before I can open my mouth. “I can walk back to campus. Maybe we can talk more later? I’m really sorry about all this . . . mess.”

  “No. You’ll disappoint Gram Helen if you don’t stay now. But you have to promise not to talk about any of this, not here in front of my family. Not until we can figure out how your murder victim’s and my mom’s . . . identities got mixed up.” My mind’s whirling with conspiracy theories centered on Russian hackers. “Not a word tonight. Deal?”

  He nods, seems relieved—as if my suggestion of identity theft has removed a weight from his shoulders. Using both his hands, he straightens my tiara, his eyes creasing as his smile finally returns. “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Ella

  Because Gram Helen has so much trouble going out into the world, the world has always come to us, right here in our little jewel box of a house. It might be just the two of us, but our house is bright and joyous, a safe haven.

  Helen’s sound sensitivity means she only tolerates “good” sounds—wind chimes and birdcalls and bangle bracelets and laughter. My friends are welcome, as long as their voices don’t trigger her spells. Certain voices, music, or other sounds release a barrage of pain—she says it’s like Fourth of July fireworks exploding inside her head—that will send her to her knees. Thanks to noise-cancelling headphones and her soundproof studio we’ve built in the basement, things aren’t as bad as they were when I was little. Sometimes she’ll even risk leaving the house for a walk around the block. It’s a rare treat, the sight of her in her tie-dyed caftans, bobbing along to the “good” music streaming from her headphones as her copper curls escape their grip, oblivious to the sounds around her, arms outstretched, palms up, embracing the sunlight.

  Now, as I lead Alec up the steps to my house, I’m nervous. He’s already met Helen, got her seal of approval. Rory and Max basically know him from earlier. Although Rory will still flirt—she could have any boy in school if she’d only decide which one she wants. More than looks, it’s the way—despite still having braces—she never hides her smile, and holds her chin up when she walks, and remembers everyone’s name and the name of their dog and cat and little sister and what their parents do for a living. The whole world feels warmer when you’re with Rory. Within two minutes she’ll know everything worth knowing about Alec.

  What little she doesn’t discover as she wins him over—resistance is futile when it comes to Rory—Max will ferret out. He’s one of those guys who’s quiet, always watching, always listening, but not in a creepy way; more like because he’s interested in what you have to say. He’s not very big for a guy his age, which means he’s no threat, but he’s also no pushover. Solid. That’s my word for Max.

  No, Rory and Max won’t be a problem. Neither will Darrin—who’s not only the silent partner in Cleary and Sons, he’s my godfather. More like my guardian angel. Anytime I’ve needed anything, from money for art classes to learning how to drive, Darrin’s been there, taking care of me. He was best man at my parents’ wedding and takes his godparenting duties extremely seriously.

  Alec and I reach the front door. Before I can open it, it’s yanked open for me. A tall, lean man with the same copper-bright hair as Helen blocks our path. Uncle Joe. He’s all elbows and knees, his head perched on a skinny neck, his chin so sharp that when I was little, I’d run before I’d let him hug me for fear I’d get poked by it. As awkward as he looks, Joe’s personality is even more prickly.

  “Who’s this, then?” he asks. Before either of us can answer, he holds a hand up to Alec, palm out in the universal gesture for stop. “Don’t say a word. Ella, you talk. Does he know the rules? What does he want? It’s your birthday. Friends and family only.”

  Again, not waiting for me to even take a breath, he twists his arms around me in a hug and kisses me on the forehead before releasing me. “Happy birthday, sweet girl.” The words flash in shiny pink ribbons that twist and flow into the shape of a heart.

  That’s Joe. My mother’s little brother. He was only ten when they all fled during the Siege of Sarajevo back in the 90s, after my grandfather was murdered by a Serbian sniper. Despite Joe’s appearance and sharp-edged manners, he’s a good man with a good heart. If you can stand to be in the same room long enough to get to know him.

  I haul in a breath, very much aware of Alec’s eyes on me. But his expression is calm, his feet are pointed toward the house and not the road, and his lips are fighting a smile that seems genuine. Hard to tell without seeing his aura, but I take a chance. After all, we’ve come this far.

  “Alec, meet my uncle Joe. No, I haven’t had a chance to explain the rules to him. But if you give us just a moment, I’ll take care of everything, don’t worry.”

  Joe’s frown contorts his face. He glares at Alec, who takes it like a man, not even shifting his weight. Then Joe jerks his chin in a nod. “Friends and family, young man. Not many are invited to join that select group.” He steps back from the door and starts to turn away, but then stops to look back over his shoulder—with his bony build and long neck, I see a six-foot pink flamingo twisted tighter than a corkscrew. “Even fewer are asked back a second time.”

  Thankfully, Rory arrives to rescue us. She beams at Alec, winks at me, tosses her blonde curls at Joe and takes his arm. “Got some new ones for you,” she tells him, leading Joe away from us so we finally have space to step inside the door. “Melliferous.”

  Joe raises his nose as if sniffing. “Cotton candy still warm and wispy.”

  “Nice. How about raconteur?”

  They round the corner into the dining room, leaving Alec and me in the foyer. It’s a small, cozy space with light oak floors and wainscoting below pale peachy-cream walls—a color called “moonrise” that I simply could not resist based on its name alone—with a staircase leading up to one side, the archway to the dining room tucked behind it, and on the other side, another arch leading to the living room. The living room used to be two rooms, a front parlor and a rear family room that opens up into the kitchen, but Helen had the wall between them taken down, creating the warm, inviting space where we actually
do most of our living.

  “Can I take your coat?” I remember my manners, holding out my hands for Alec’s jacket.

  “Depends. Am I staying?” He’s shrugging free of the coat as he asks, so I know his answer. “Tell me about these rules.”

  I turn to hang up his jacket on the ancient walnut coat stand—which has actual antique hats perched on the highest hooks as well as unique colorful umbrellas and parasols bristling from the ring at its foot, gifts from Darrin whenever he travels. He gets to go all over the world, places where, even if I join the insurance business like everyone wants, I know I’ll never go. Too far from home. From family.

  Before I can turn back, I feel Alec’s hands on my shoulders, taking my parka. He’s tall enough that he nudges a silk top hat askew as he hangs it up.

  Then we’re facing each other, so close I can see the curve of his eyelashes magnified by his glasses.

  “The rules?” he asks again.

  I tear my attention away and straighten my posture. “Right. You already passed the first hurdle—Gram Helen likes your voice.”

  “She says I’m warm and toasty.” I have to fight not to mirror his grin. It’s as if that awful conversation in the parking lot never happened. “I kind of like that. How old is your Gram?”

  “Way too old for you. Anyway, that’s the first rule, no sounds that hurt Helen.” This is where it might get tough. “Would you mind turning your phone off? The ringers and even the vibrate mode all make her sick.”

  He slides his phone from his pocket and turns it off without protest. “Done. Next rule?”

  “A bit trickier. Helen is sensitive to sounds, but Joe … with him, it’s words.”

  “Spoken or written?” He leans forward, genuinely interested.

  “Both. They trigger tastes.” Alec grimaces and I realize that he gets it—you can shut out a noise, but how can you turn off a taste, especially a nasty one? “Good news is there are only a few you need to avoid that might come up tonight. Sugar. Napkin. You can say TV, but not television. Best to simply avoid mentioning politics at all. Or the Beatles—the musicians, not the bugs or cars. I know they seem the same, but—”

  His gaze drifts away from mine. Have I lost him? But then from behind me, a man clears his throat. “This must be Alec.”

  I turn to smile at Darrin, who is holding out a hand to Alec. As always, he’s dressed in a crisp off-white shirt and well-cut suit that’s a shade between navy and indigo, almost exactly matching his aura. Confidence radiates from him, and I instantly feel calmer.

  Most families divide child-raising duties between two parents. After my parents died, I was lucky enough to have three watching over me. Gram Helen, she’s our spinner of tales and provider of comfort. Even though she’s totally Americanized now, not even a hint of an accent except when she swears, she still makes a few traditional delicacies. Baklava that makes my mouth water as soon as I see her gathering the ingredients and tufahije, an apple cake that wraps the entire house in shimmering golden love.

  Uncle Joe, despite his quirks, is the one to seek out if you want fun and adventures—he taught me how to walk silently in the woods and cook a s’more and cast a fishing line properly. He even helped me win a science fair when I was twelve—we relocated a colony of bats from the attic of the lake house to a bat house we built beside the dock. It took us weeks of research and preparation so we didn’t disturb the babies who couldn’t fly yet and were still dependent on their mothers.

  But if you want something done and done right, if you want advice you can count on, if you want the warm, solid feeling that things will never change and everything is going to work out just fine, then you need a godfather like Darrin.

  Darrin leads Alec through to the living room, pausing to show him Helen’s awards for her audiobooks and signed photos of the famous authors she works with, all the while chatting about the architecture and something about the Steelers, easing Alec into our world slowly, letting him catch his breath.

  I follow behind, watching Alec’s reactions. I love our house, the way it feels and smells and sounds, the way it’s filled with life. From the fresh flowers growing near every window to the comfy-worn overstuffed chintz couch and loveseat to the fireplace that takes up almost an entire wall back near the kitchen. And then there’s the artwork—Joe calls it the “Gallery of Ella,” and it includes pieces from when I was a little girl, which he and Helen will no doubt insist on showing Alec, leaving me dissolved into a puddle of embarrassment. After my parents died, Helen left her own home and moved here with me, so this house reflects her more than anything: a feeling of luxury and comfort without fussiness, a safe haven from the entire ugly world.

  I’m nervous of how we appear to an outsider like Alec. I find myself holding my breath, waiting for his judgment—silly, I know, because usually I really don’t care what anyone else thinks of me. After all, they can’t see me—not the real me—not like I can see them.

  Darrin and Alec turn the corner into what used to be the old family room, where the walls are exposed brick. They take a step, but then Alec stops and glances back at the painting nestled into an alcove tucked beside the fire-place. It’s the umbrella painting I told him about earlier. The expression on his face morphs from polite attention to wonder.

  “Ella,” he whispers in awe. Then he turns to me, the weight of his stare forcing a blush from me. “You painted this? When you were how old?”

  “Eleven,” I mumble. The piece is okay for a kid—I’m actually quite proud of it, not because of the technique but because of the way I was able to capture both movement and stillness simultaneously. I love it when I can create that kind of visual tension.

  “Dinner,” Max calls to us, poking his head out from the kitchen where he’s been helping Helen. He’s the only one who hasn’t come forward to greet Alec, but Helen can be a full-time job, especially with the sudden addition of a stranger. At least I hope that’s all it is.

  Alec walks past Max, disappearing into the kitchen, while Max waits for me.

  “We need to talk,” he whispers. His usual brick-colored aura is brittle with sick yellow chiseling into the edges. “I did some more digging. There’s something you need to know about your new friend. Starting with the fact that he’s a liar.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Alec

  I follow the others into the dining room. Max gives me a strange look as I pass—I can’t tell if he’s angry or jealous or what. If he didn’t want me hanging out with Nora—Ella—then why did he send me to her in the first place?

  The table could hold eight but is set for seven. Darrin shows me to a seat at the end of one of the long sides, placing Ella’s uncle Joe on one side of me while Darrin takes the seat at the head of the table on my other side, effectively pinning me in as far from Ella as possible. Across from me are Rory, Max, and Ella, with Helen swooping in with the final dish and taking the seat at the other head of the table.

  I’m swamped by a sudden homesickness. This is the first family dinner I’ve been at since I left home three months ago, and it isn’t my family. Out of habit, I raise my hands and place them palms up beside my place setting, but then quickly pull them back when I realize they aren’t going to hold hands to say grace—they aren’t giving thanks at all, just eating. It’s a whirl of platters and bowls moving one way or the other, all of Ella’s favorite foods, Darrin tells me as he hands me a plate of sweet potatoes. I take a small helping—no way can they ever match my mom’s, but they do smell good, so I take some more along with a slice of spinach pie that Helen tells me is called zeljanica.

  Despite Joe’s problem with words and Helen’s sound sensitivity, the conversation never slows. Most of it about the family business, which Darrin mainly answers, and questions about Ella’s plans for college, which she deflects with the help of Max and Rory. The three make for a world-class dodgeball team.

  The spotlight inevitably lands on me. The first barrage is launched by Darrin. “Alec, tell us about yourself. W
here are you from?”

  I swallow my bite of sweet potato and meet Darrin’s eyes. “South Carolina.” Then I turn to Helen. “Don’t tell my mom, but these sweet potatoes are just as good as hers, Mrs. Cleary. Wait, I’m sorry. I know you’re Ella’s maternal grandmother, but—”

  She smiles indulgently, already understanding my dilemma. “It’s pronounced ser-vano. It means red in Croatian.” She pats her thick auburn curls.

  I try it out. “Mrs. Crveno.” It’s not quite right, but close enough that she nods. “I just know Mom would love the recipe for your sweet potatoes if y’all don’t mind sharing.”

  “Call me Helen, please. It’s nothing special—I grate fresh ginger on top, slow roast them, then put them under the broiler at the last minute so they’re almost caramelized.”

  Darrin isn’t deflected so easily. “Where in South Carolina? What brings you all the way here to Cambria City?”

  Rory jumps in. “Alec’s studying journalism at the college. He’s a junior. And Ella’s going to help him with one of his projects.”

  All three adults swivel to stare at me. My cheeks warm under the combined weight of their disapproval. I get it. From their point of view, I’m an interloper. If Ella had been my dad’s daughter, he’d be conspicuously cleaning his guns at the table if a strange man intruded uninvited on such an intimate family gathering.

  “Only technically a junior,” I explain, trying to alleviate some of their worries. “I just turned nineteen last month. Our high school was so small we couldn’t afford any advanced placement classes, so they made a deal with a local college. I spent my last two years of high school attending college classes and graduated with my associate’s degree, then transferred my credits here.”