The Color of Lies

by CJ Lyons

  I sit down beside her. “This is my new favorite place,” I tell her. “Reminds me of home.”

  She stiffens at that, and I kick myself mentally for saying anything. “I wish I could remember more. How long was I there?”

  “Eleven days. Your gram and uncle came to pick you up the day before Thanksgiving. Even though we said good-bye, I still didn’t believe you were leaving for good, so I insisted on setting a place for you at Thanksgiving.”

  I don’t tell her the rest—how for years I insisted on saving a place for Nora at the family table, how I’d scrawled pictures and made invitations that Mom would slide into thick envelopes and mail for me. It became the family joke, but I never laughed about it. Instead, after everyone was sated and leaning back, watching football, I’d sneak out, go down to the empty patch of land where the burned-out cabin once sat, searching the dunes for any trace of her, waiting for her at the ocean’s edge until the sun set behind me and the moon rose.

  “Eleven days,” she echoes. “Why so long?”

  “No one knew who your parents were. The police traced the car registration to your dad. His emergency contact was his partner.”

  “Darrin.” She frowns.

  “And he was out of the country, attending a conference in London. Your mom didn’t list any next of kin other than your father, so it wasn’t until the police tracked down Darrin that they knew about your grandmother and uncle.”

  She frowned at that. “Isn’t that strange? That Helen and Joe weren’t listed as next of kin? Didn’t they realize my parents were missing?”

  “Everyone thought your folks were on vacation, remember? And your gram and uncle lived in a small town in upstate New York—from the interview notes, it sounded as if they hadn’t seen your parents in a while.”

  “Why not? New York’s not that far for us to go visit them.”

  I shrug. “Maybe because you were just a baby? Too difficult to make the trip?”

  She considers that. “Then why bother to take me on vacation? Why not just leave me with Helen?”

  “I don’t know. Anyway, my family is registered for emergency foster care, so we took you in. By the time Helen and Joe made it down, the police verified your parents’ ID.”

  “How? You said DNA—from family members?”

  “Your dad didn’t have any family.”

  “My dad’s dad died right before I was born. Heart attack. His mom when he was still in college. Cancer.” Her face remains placid, staring out at the ducks, but her hands tighten over her knees. I can’t even begin to imagine how painful this must be for her.

  “The police in South Carolina called the police up here, and they went to your home, gathered toothbrushes, stuff like that with DNA. Also checked to see if there was any evidence indicating why . . .” I trail off, uncertain how to qualify what the investigators had been searching for. The reports used official language like “previous incidents or episodes of violent or aberrant behavior,” but no way am I going to repeat that to her.

  “So the DNA proved that they were my parents and after that they were able to notify next of kin. I guess it doesn’t happen as fast as in the movies.”

  “No. Not with so many jurisdictions involved—it was too big a case for the local department to handle alone, so the state police did most of the work. Plus, tests take time, witnesses have to be located and interviewed. There are a lot of moving parts.”

  “Did I tell you anything about that night? Back then, I mean.”

  “You didn’t say anything. I mean literally not a word, not the whole time you were with us.” Eleven days she refused to leave my side—wouldn’t even go to sleep until I threw a sleeping bag down on the floor beside her bed in the guest room. “Social services, a psychologist from the mainland, the cops—no one could get a word out of you. Even when your gram and uncle came, you kept hold of my hand, like you were in shock, didn’t know who they were—”

  “I’d just turned three, maybe I didn’t. Not if I didn’t see them very often.”

  “Anyway, they took you home. We never heard from you again.” I hesitate. “I wrote you. A few letters that year, a few more the year after. Do you remember that?” What I really mean to ask is, do you remember me? But her answer would break my heart, so I keep silent.

  She shakes her head. “I guess they were worried about the trauma, wanted to protect me? They never gave me any of your letters, I’m sorry. But I think I might remember something of that night. I remember running and hiding, a man shouting, being terrified that he was hunting me, that he’d find me. I remember the fire—and running to the water. But the man, who was the man? If someone else was there, then maybe—”

  “They didn’t find any trace of anyone else,” I tell her. And immediately regret once again cutting off any avenue of hope.

  “Maybe they were wrong,” she snaps. Then she takes a breath, calms herself. “But we’re starting fresh, remember. Once you know who the victims are, where do you look next? The evidence?”

  “Close associates. Family. Anyone with a motive.” I steer her away from the forensic evidence—no way is she ever seeing those photos. And the evidence is clear cut: both victims killed by the same nine-millimeter pistol, the same pistol found in possession of the male whose wounds were consistent with a self-inflicted gunshot to the head.

  “Motive. Right. Let’s start there.” She turns to me. “Family’s out—you said they hadn’t even seen us in months. And Darrin was in London, so it wasn’t him. Why would anyone want my parents dead?”

  That’s a very good question, I think.

  CHAPTER 24

  Ella

  “Motive usually boils down to profit, power, or passion,” Alec tells me. He sounds so earnest, like a law professor or something. Much older than his years. “At least that’s what my dad always says.”

  “Passion—like a love affair?” I’m shaking my head. “That’s the one thing even I remember, how much in love my parents were. They—we—were happy.” I’m trying to convince him, as if what Alec believes could change what dozens of professional investigators decided fifteen years ago.

  He hesitates. “Okay. Let’s skip that one.” He leans back on the bench, one arm slung over his messenger bag beside him. But he doesn’t need to get his laptop; it’s clear he remembers everything about my parents’ case. “Power. Guess that would be control of Cleary and Sons, right?”

  “That’s Darrin, but he was in London. Besides, he was my dad’s best friend. They were college roommates. And he’s worked his butt off growing the company, basically rebuilt it from the ground up after my parents died. But according to their will, Cleary and Sons still belongs to me. So I can continue the family legacy.” I hate the gray tinge of bitterness that colors my words, am thankful Alec is blind to it. My parents couldn’t have foreseen how their final wishes bound me tighter than iron chains.

  “The police verified Darrin’s alibi.” He frowns. “But maybe that’s a motive for Helen and Joe? With you alive and your parents dead, they can access all that money.”

  I shake my head and roll my eyes, the idea is so ridiculous. “Right, the two people on the planet who want nothing more than to become hermits and lock themselves away from the rest of the world would conspire to be forced to raise a kid? No way. Besides, Darrin controls the money. He has to approve any expenses, like when we moved into town and bought the house here or redid the basement and turned it into a studio for Helen.”

  He frowns, his pool of suspects quickly diminishing. “Which brings us right back to profit. Follow the money. If it wasn’t Darrin, Helen, or Joe, who else stood to gain from your parents’ deaths?”

  “That’s easy. Me.” Though I don’t remember much about that night, I’m at least sure I had no hand in my parents’ deaths—other than running away and abandoning them. “I get everything—the family trust, their insurance policies, even a special educational trust that Darrin just told me about. Now that I’m eighteen, I can access that money a
s well.”

  “No one else? Maybe at Cleary and Sons?”

  “Darrin’s the only one who still works there—after my parents died, he expanded the company, refocused it on targeting corporate clients, which meant new specialists, new staff. The only thing left of the old Cleary and Sons are a few document boxes in the attic at my old house up at the lake.”

  That makes me wonder about what else might be up there—maybe it’s time I finally looked? The last time I was up in the attic at the lake house was back when I was twelve and Joe and I moved the bat colony to the dock.

  Alec seems to be thinking along another direction entirely. “Maybe you should use the money. Leave, forget about all this, go to Paris.” His tone has changed, is suddenly charged. “Why open up old wounds you didn’t even know exist?”

  Now it’s my turn to become emotional. I stand up, turn to face him. “Why? It wasn’t my idea to come bursting into my life asking about my parents.”

  He looks away, shame-faced. “I know. I know. I said I was sorry.”

  “What if it was someone like a serial killer? A random act of violence?” My aura is warm, shimmering like wet blood. “We can’t let them get away with murder.”

  “It’s a possibility, I guess. But no matter what we learn, we might find answers you don’t want to hear. Are you prepared for that?”

  Now I see what he’s saying. He still believes the police. “You think if we can’t find any evidence that someone else killed them, then it was my father. That he snapped, went mental, did that to my mom, to me—” I’m scared and angry and uncertain and my voice shakes beneath the weight of it all. “That he was the random act of violence.”

  Alec jumps up, places his palms on my arms, anchoring me. “It happens. Doesn’t mean it’s anyone’s fault, or that it might—”

  “Might happen again? Like to me? Because stuff like that, psychosis, severe mental illness, it’s often hereditary, right? That’s what you’re really afraid of, isn’t it? If we can’t find a good reason why my father did what he did, then that’s all that’s left. And that means . . .”

  I gasp for air, twist free of his hands, unable to finish the thought. Because what that means for me, I can’t even begin to comprehend. “No. I don’t believe it. There was a man. I heard him, saw him, he was there.”

  “Ella.” His voice is soft, guiding me back from the brink. “Either way, it’s okay. You’re not alone. This is all my fault and I’m not going to leave you. No matter what, I’ll see it through. I promise.”

  I whip away, can’t stand looking at him.

  “Maybe I don’t want you here.” I spit out the words and race down the path, away from him, away from facts and evidence and forensic truths. Running toward the only truth I know: home.

  CHAPTER 25

  Ella

  Blinded by emotion, I don’t even remember the drive home. After throwing my phone on the charger in my bedroom—mainly to have an excuse not to answer in case Alec or anyone called—I shut myself inside my studio, trying hard to relegate everything Alec has told me into something small and manageable that I can pretend doesn’t exist, like a child playing hide and seek, covering her eyes to make herself invisible to the rest of the world.

  I have no idea how long I’ve sat staring at my portrait of Rory when a timid knock on the side door comes. I get up and walk toward it, noticing that it’s already dark outside. Uncle Joe waits, holding a plate and a glass of milk. “Nothing better than next-day birthday cake, right?”

  He raises his offerings with a hopeful half smile. His aura bathes the cake and milk in a pale glow the color of bruised peaches. Not necessarily an ugly color, but it does make the food suddenly unappealing. Or maybe I’ve lost my appetite after everything that’s happened.

  “Darrin took your gram to meet with her new producer, so it’s just us left to forage for ourselves.” Joe skirts the canvases and bottles of pigment, managing only to topple and re-right one Mason jar of paint thinner near the space heater before he makes it to the chair nearest to my stool. He sets the food down, spilling milk on my sketchpad, but that’s okay, as nothing I’ve been able to put to paper today is any good. He stands behind me, one hand resting on my shoulder. “Long day.”

  All I can do is nod.

  “I like the painting. Is it Marilyn Monroe? Reminds me of Andy Warhol’s portrait of her—like you went from the real woman to his portrait and then back to who she could have been if she had lived or something. Very ethereal.” One of his favorite words—tastes like vanilla, he says.

  I almost laugh—his intention, I think, but I’m not sure. Joe is what I’d call “art blind.” He loves talking about art. Trying to compete with Darrin, who’s always bringing me catalogues from world-famous galleries and collections he’s visited. But Joe can’t appreciate the difference between a Warhol and a Kandinsky.

  Once, years ago, me, Max, and Rory got together and bought a paint-by-numbers velvet Elvis that we all did together and gave him for his birthday. It was meant to be a joke, but he put it in an expensive frame, declared it was the best gift ever, and it still hangs above his fireplace in the lake house. Even had us all sign it. Thankfully, we’re the only people who ever visit him, so I don’t have to worry about being humiliated in front of strangers.

  He’s made me smile—it feels like my first of the day—and, grateful for the kindness, I hug him so hard that I’m almost crying again.

  As I slump back onto my stool he says, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong? You know me, I know nothing about art.”

  I shake my head, staring at the paint splatters on the concrete floor.

  “It was that boy, wasn’t it? He has no right, coming here, insinuating himself into your life, trying to hurt you.”

  I want to set him straight about Alec, but I simply don’t have the words—not that I could get them past the boulder in my throat anyway. I feel miserable, worse than having the flu, when the fever drowns you in your own sweat at the same time it parches you from the inside out.

  “Tell me the truth.” I finally manage to find my voice again. “You knew Dad. Did you have any warning? Was he . . . sick?”

  There are other words I want to use, gentler words like troubled or depressed, but I know they’re words that will trigger Joe’s synesthesia in a bad way, so I avoid them. But sick also doesn’t feel right. It’s much too small, too weak for what my father did—and why he did it. Something that horrific, that monstrous, deserves a word larger than life.

  He pats the top of my head like he used to when I was little. “After he and your mom got married, after you were born, we never saw much of him—of any of you. They didn’t come home for holidays, always had an excuse—work or other plans. A young family, both your parents working such long hours to build Cleary and Sons, a toddler at home, it made sense . . . until it didn’t.” He shakes his head so hard his hair falls into his face. “I don’t know if there’s anything we could have seen, could have done—it’s something that will haunt us the rest of our lives.”

  “But surely you talked about it—after. Had he seen a doctor? Did Darrin notice anything at work?” I’m grasping at will-o’-wisps, searching for logic in an event that defies logic.

  “No. Nothing. If only—” His sigh whooshes through the rafters above us. “Darrin, none of us, even knew he’d taken you and your mother away. With Darrin gone at that conference, your dad was meant to be at the office, running things.” He stalks through the crowded garage, his pace stuttering. “I wish I had answers, but I don’t. No one does.”

  His erratic movements send a stack of canvases cascading to the floor and another Mason jar of cleaning fluid spills, its fumes stinging my eyes. He turns back to me, fists raised, searching for a target. I’ve never seen him so agitated.

  “We could go. Get away from all this,” he says, the width of the garage dividing us. “Darrin told you about your trust, right? Let’s change those tickets, go to Paris right now. If you ask him,
he’ll give you the money, I’m sure. He knows how miserable you are here.”

  “How much money is there? How does it all work?” I’m curious, but more than that I’m desperate to change the subject away from my leaving home. There’s a strange tug of war pulling at my insides. I’ve dreamed of so many far-off places: the towers of New York, Chicago’s old-school architecture, seeing a full moon over the ocean, and yes, even Paris. All so far out of reach that I’ve sequestered them behind mental walls as mere childish fantasies.

  But now, suddenly, I have the chance. And part of me wants to take that chance. But there’s that insidious whisper of dread overshadowing my dreams. That if I leave my family, run off to some strange, wonderful place, something terrible will happen.

  I used to think that whisper was simple childish fear. That all I needed was to grow up, find someone else to look after Helen and Joe. But thanks to Alec, I know better. It’s not fear of what might happen, it’s terror over what already happened.

  Joe does a quick calculation. Numbers aren’t his thing. “How much? Sitting there for fifteen years, compound interest, all that jazz, gotta be over seven million now.”

  “Seven million? Dollars?” I almost fall off my stool. Shades of iridescent green swirl through the air, practically filling the room with the allure of money.

  “Yep. All yours. Well, once you’re twenty-one. Until then, Darrin has to approve any withdrawals.”

  “I had no idea.” I knew my parents had left my family fairly comfortable as far as money went—enough for us to keep the lake house for Joe, and when I started school, to move us here to the city, buy this house, help Helen get started with her voice acting career, pay the bills. But . . . seven million dollars? That was a kind of rich I’d never imagined.

  “It’s a lot of money. You’ll need to be careful. Who you tell—not even friends.”

  He’s right. Rory and Max would freak. I sober up fast. “Money like that changes everything.”