The Color of Lies

by CJ Lyons

  “She’s not like her father.” I’m stating a fact. “If her father even was mentally unstable.”

  “You don’t have any proof otherwise.” He makes a hrumphing sound, dismissing my amateur investigatory skills. “I’m coming up. And you’re laying low until I get there.”

  “No.” I can’t remember ever using that word with Dad—not like this, not as an absolute. It fills me with a strange mix of pride and fear. Am I ready to be a man, stand up to whoever was threatening Ella on my own? Doesn’t matter. With Dad so far away, he’ll never get here in time to help—and what could he do that the local police couldn’t? “No. Thanks, but I’m okay.”

  “You’ve got more to think about than yourself.” Dad’s tone holds a warning, or maybe a sermon: pride going before a fall.

  “I know. And I’ll ask for help if it comes to that, I promise.”

  “Sure now? I know how obsessed you can get, wanting to do everything on your own.” Like climbing up to an osprey’s nest or moving a thousand miles away from home to search for answers to a case the police had already declared solved. “This girl, is she safe?”

  Exactly the question I’ve been wrestling with all day. “I can’t go near her, but the police are investigating, so the whole family is under scrutiny. And I called her friend, asked her to stay with Ella.”

  A pause as he considers that. “Is she worth it?”

  That’s easy. “Yes.”

  “Okay, then, son.” Suddenly, Dad sounds older—or I feel older, I’m not sure which. “I’m here for you, you need anything. Just call. And be safe.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I hang up and slump back into my chair, staring at the phone.

  I’ve never had a conversation with Dad like that—one that hovered on the edge of emotion rather than our usual commerce-like exchanges: what I need balanced by Dad’s price. Need a ride to the mainland library on a Sunday when the buses don’t run? It’ll cost taking the next weekend off to help Dad paint Aunt Trisha’s house. Want to buy a computer? Spend the summer getting up at three in the morning to go out with my uncle’s shrimp boats.

  But this time, I’m sure that Dad just now told me he loves me. More than that, he trusts me to do right by Ella. And it didn’t cost me a thing.

  I close my laptop—the crack in the screen is giving me a headache—and grab my notebook, flipping to a clean page. Time to circle back. Again. Find the right thread to pull and I’ll unravel everything.

  Dr. Winston always says to start at the beginning. Not when the crime happened, but the real beginning, the why and how people ended up where they did. When the perpetrator felt he had no choice but to commit a crime. When the victim made the fateful decision that placed them in harm’s way.

  Then go back even farther. To the world around them that molded them both into the people who made those choices. Look for intersections. Seemingly random, inconsequential moments that were the first domino toppling, the start of the chain reaction.

  But I’ve done all that and gotten nowhere. I hesitate—I’m trying to impress Dr. Winston, not convince him I’m some psycho-stalker who can’t stay objective about a story—but he has resources I don’t. So I call him.

  “Alec, good to hear from you. Did you nail down that subject yet? Get her permission and the release form signed? I’m going to New York next week to meet with my publisher and I’d like to pitch your project as a standalone book.”

  “Really?” I’m stunned. Then I glance around the room with its whiteboards covered in scribbles, fast-food wrappers, notecards scattered across the table, and my own foul stench filling the air. “I’m not sure if I’m quite ready to create a pitch.”

  “Why not?” He always sounds so certain of himself. More so than Dad, even. I can only wish for that kind of confidence and authority. “My sources at the police tell me they think the girl started the recent fire herself—perfect ending. And timely as well. Two generations devastated by the tragedy of untreated mental illness. From homicidal maniac father to arsonist daughter.”

  “I’m not actually sure that’s what really happened. I think someone else is behind it all.”

  “Really?” He sounds disappointed. “Like who? The police ruled out the business partner. He was in London.”

  “Ella’s family. Her grandmother and uncle. There’s something strange about them.”

  “Strange is good. We can use them as red herrings, increase the audience’s empathy with the girl, then pow, hit them with the twist, that she’s just like dear daddy. You know, if she’s declared incompetent, we might be able to proceed without her release. I’ll have the publisher talk to his lawyers.” A woman’s voice comes through the phone. “Sorry, got to go. My wife and I were just headed out to a function at the dean’s house.”

  “Wait. Could I access that database you use, the one that does background checks?”

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll text you the login info. But kid, seriously, we’ve struck gold. Don’t go stirring the pot, know what I mean?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “A journalist has to know how to find the story—we’ve done that. But he also has to know when to back off and lay low, protect his sources, until he gets the chance to tell it. Can’t risk anyone else scooping us, right?”

  “But if someone’s life’s at risk, we can’t stand by and do nothing.”

  “Sure we can. That’s rule one. Never become a part of the story. Objectivity, objectivity, objectivity. Have I taught you nothing? Oh, gotta go. Let’s meet Monday, discuss your pitch. I might need to be the author on this one since you’re now part of the story, but don’t worry, we’ll find another project for you. And you can still do some of the writing, it will be good practice. See ya.”

  I’m left staring at my phone. The answers I’ve been searching for all my life, the story I’ve been fighting to tell, it can’t be mine because I’m too close? And Ella, her life will be torn inside out, shredded into pieces for public entertainment? Dr. Winston makes it sound as if it doesn’t matter if I find the truth, only that I find enough of it to allow him to twist it into a bestseller.

  Disappointment and anger wash over me. For the first time in my life, I’m doubting my ability to be a journalist. Because I don’t want to always be objective. I want to get involved.

  I want to use my words to help change the world. Starting with helping Ella.

  But where to start? What was the first domino? When had everything changed?

  Then it hits me. So hard I actually jerk away from the computer as I consider the ramifications. My stomach knots, not from hunger even though I skipped lunch, but from fear. I’m wrong. I have to be.

  The text with Dr. Winston’s credentials comes through and I log on to the database.

  I’m not wrong. The facts are right there, if you know where to look. Or rather, when.

  Not fifteen years ago on the night of the murders. Not even in the days or months leading up to them.

  The Cleary killings were the aftermath of the dominoes falling. The first domino—once it fell, nothing would ever be the same for Ella’s family. Eighteen years and seven months ago. The date on Sean Cleary’s updated will and family trust. One month before Helen and Joe arrived in New York and applied for new driver’s licenses. When Mia Cleary was pregnant with Nora. Ella. The girl who changed everything.

  My hand hovers over my phone, hesitating, but finally I grab it and dial Max. If I can convince him, my greatest critic, then I’ll know I’m right. Even if the proof is all circumstantial, nothing concrete. Not yet. “I know you’d rather punch me in the face than talk to me right now, but I think I’ve found something important. I need your help.”

  “Help with what?” His voice is shaded with suspicion. “Why should I help you?”

  “I think I might have discovered why Ella’s parents were killed. I’m at the student center, where we met yesterday morning.”

  Silence. I think about asking Max to bring Ella, but decide against it. She’s safer w
ith Rory. And if the theory I’ve come up with is right, then . . . She’ll be devastated. Never want to see me again. No. She’ll hate me. For ruining her life. For taking everything from her.

  Maybe Dr. Winston was right. Better not to get involved. But I can’t let the truth be buried, no matter how painful it is. I just can’t. Not even if it means losing Ella forever.

  She deserves to know the truth. No matter the cost. I owe her that much.

  “All right,” Max finally answers. “But this had better be good.”

  It isn’t. If I’m right, it’s bad . . . very bad.

  CHAPTER 37

  Ella

  The cabin is only about a half an hour from the city, and despite the switchbacks and unmarked roads winding up the mountain and through state game lands, I can drive it in my sleep. This trip, I spend the time trying to remember.

  Who was my father? What was he like? Am I like him?

  Of course, trying to force memories only leads to no memories. And a feeling I’ve fought all my life: as if everything I do is dictated by the ghosts of my parents. I need to live my own life, unfettered by guilt.

  For once, I’m not running away, not hiding like the scared little girl who did nothing as her family died.

  As I steer down the lane, through a cathedral of intertwined hemlocks and mountain laurel that in the summer are a riot of color and green, I’m glad I came alone. Yes, this is Joe’s place now, but he’s always made it clear that it’s also my home. Rory and Max would have been supportive in their hovering fashion. Helen and Joe would have whisked me away, back to my safe, warm bed, and then Darrin would have returned to search on his own—probably never telling me what he found.

  I’m tired of being protected, smothered by their fear. I need to face the truth, however bad it is, on my own terms.

  The trees part and I’m rewarded with my favorite view in the world—so much so that I’ve never tried to paint it for fear of failing to capture its charm. I’ve arrived at the golden hour, the hour before sunset, when the curve of the mountains and ribbons of sunlight create the illusion that our small lake and house are nestled inside a crystalline globe filled with magic.

  The lake is to the side of the house, its water inviting as it shimmers blue and gold. At its shore stand a small boat shelter where we keep a canoe and several kayaks, the bat house Joe and I built when I was in fifth grade, and a dock long enough to stretch past the muddy shallows where salamanders frolic and out to where the bottom drops off and the water is deep enough that even I have never touched bottom.

  The cabin is unlit except for the glint of the dying sun reflecting from its windows. It’s two stories, made of ancient logs that creak and settle like they’re still alive. There’s a metal roof overtop the peaked attic and a porch that wraps around the entire first floor.

  I pull up beside the steps leading to the front door and leave the car. Before I go inside, I stop and look out over the water, filling my lungs with the scent of home. The sun has vanished behind the mountains on the other side of the lake, leaving in its wake velvet streams of purple and gold weaving across the sky like a little girl’s hair ribbons. I touch my hair, wonder if maybe I was once that little girl. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel my mom and dad taking my hands, the wood of the dock scratching the soles of my feet as we race to the end and leap . . .

  The memory is deliciously intoxicating. I want more, good or bad. Finally time to see my parents for who they really were, not just who I wished they were.

  Eventually, I go inside. It’s chilly and dark but I don’t want to disturb anything—not because Joe would be upset, but because I somehow feel as if I’m balanced between two worlds, the past and the present.

  My breath shallows as I sense my way upstairs and down the hall to the steps leading up to the attic. Here I do turn on the lights—no sense breaking my neck—but the bulbs are old and dusty and the illumination they shed is soft, doing nothing to break the spell I’m under.

  This is my first time up here in years. After the whole bat incident, we pretty much never used the attic again—Joe has plenty of room downstairs for storage. I climb over a stack of ancient, frayed life jackets, cartons of Christmas ornaments that we never remember to bring down, plastic storage tubs of my old clothing—stuff I begged Helen to keep so I could use it for future art projects but of course never think of when I’m faced with one. There’s some half-finished bookshelves Joe started until the bats interrupted him, and an assortment of other detritus, but nothing from my parents.

  I stand, my head almost brushing the rafters, and scan the space one last time. The light is so dim that shadows crowd all around me. Except for a glimmer reflecting from a broken mirror in the far, far corner. I crisscross through the other remnants of my family’s life to reach it. Beside it, under the eaves, I find a cardboard box labeled Nora’s Toys.

  Nora. That’s me, before I was Ella. No one called me Nora except my mom and dad. And Alec, I remember with a smile. I regret not calling him to come with me. He wouldn’t hover or smother—he’d let me explore my past, ready to offer comfort. I should have never doubted him. As soon as I get back home, police or no police, I’m headed over to his place and asking him out. And I won’t take no for an answer.

  My fingers tremble with anticipation as I pry open the folded sections of the lid. The box is bursting with pressure, and as soon as the flaps separate, a blue hippo leaps into my hand. Hippo! How could I have ever forgotten him? He seems so small now, barely filling my palm, instead of the massive creature who once rode the waves of every bath. I was so enamored with the rubber beast that I’d often take him from bath to bed, snuggling with him.

  Holding Hippo tight, I peer into the box, imagining treasures upon forgotten treasures, given the way it was overfilled. But all I find are old sheets and a quilt I don’t recognize. No toys. No treasures.

  I flip the box over, examine the handwritten label. Its confident, bold printing can only be my father’s. I’ve seen it before on the framed poem he wrote to propose to my mother—that and a few photos are the only things we brought from this house to the city when we moved. The poem uses numbers as puns with lines like “may two march forth together as one,” and even after all these years it radiates an aura of the most beautiful alizarin crimson, a pure red that could only mean true love.

  Disappointed by the lack of any other childhood treasures or clues about my father, I hug Hippo to me. His playful squeak is gone, and instead of collapsing when I squeeze him, my fingers meet resistance as if he’s stuffed with something.

  Curious, I roll him onto his back and pry at the button inset into his belly. I chip a nail in the process, but finally the button pops free, releasing a wad of toilet paper. There’s no writing on the paper. Despite the protection of Hippo’s waterproof skin, it’s brittle and tears as I tug it free, leaving something more substantial behind. I shake Hippo, feeling a thin rectangle. It takes me a few minutes to position it to where I can push it through the squeaker hole—so long that I even consider taking Hippo down to the kitchen and finding a knife to gut him. But finally I hold my father’s legacy in my hand: a computer flash drive.

  Somehow the house doesn’t feel as empty when I creep back down the stairs. I turn on the lights as I go, the spell already broken beyond repair, and head to the living room where Joe’s computer waits.

  He’s left it on, so it only takes a few seconds before I see what’s on the drive. Folders labeled with strange names that are vaguely familiar. I think they might be clients of Cleary and Sons that Darrin has mentioned. When I click on one, it opens to reveal documents labeled by date and spreadsheets I can’t begin to fathom.

  I return to the main menu, scanning past the folders to find the sole text document. It’s labeled: For Nora. Now I’m blinking so fast, the screen blurs. As I click it open, I hold my breath. The text fills the screen. It’s dated the day before my third birthday, the day before we left for the beach.

  The day
before my parents died.

  Dear Nora,

  If you’re reading this, then I am dead. And if I’m dead, and you found this, then your mother must be dead as well and you are alone.

  First, you need to know: It’s my fault. I wish I had the words to make you understand, but everything is my fault.

  Your mother . . . I should have listened to her. So much more practical than I am, she saw this coming. If it wasn’t for her, we might never have had a chance to escape, to get you to a safe place. But if you’re reading this, then she failed to reach the FBI. We’ve both failed. All because of me.

  I stop and re-read the last. Wait, what? The FBI?

  I trusted too much. I should have seen this coming from the very beginning, long before you were born, before I met your mother. Your mother. Somehow she knew, she always knew, she never trusted him, not like I did. Our only argument was when we made him your godfather, but who else was there? After all, Darrin had been my friend since we were roommates in college. My father trusted him, I trusted him, how could I listen to your mother’s doubts? To her worries that Darrin wasn’t who he pretended to be, that he was a thief, a con artist, maybe even a killer . . .

  By now I’ve stopped blinking, scrolling down the page as fast as I can without missing a word. Darrin? A killer? Maybe my parents’ killer? No. How was that possible? He was in London at the time.

  But I didn’t believe your mother’s instincts. It took her almost two years to gather the proof and convince me of the truth. And now we’re out of time—he suspects that we suspect, I know it.

  I don’t know what happened to your mother and me, but if you’re reading this, then you must be old enough to understand how dangerous it is.

  Take this flash drive to the nearest FBI office or police station. Trust your instincts, and be safe. Don’t make our mistakes—run now, and don’t look back.

  Just know that we both love you with all our hearts. Forever, in this life and the next.

  Love,

  Dad

  Trembling, I slide the drive free and return it to its hiding place. Without the paper stuffing, Hippo is deflated. I keep the air squeezed out of him as I reinsert the plug sealing his belly. Now he’s thin enough to fit into my inside coat pocket. Somehow, having Hippo with me makes me feel safer. But even with him in my pocket, I’m shaking, terrified of what I’ve just read.