Lies She Told

by Cate Holahan

  I set my nearly full coffee on the table. Hot liquid splashes over the side and onto the back of my hand. Instinctively, I jam the scalded skin in my mouth. Trevor watches, eyes crinkling with concern as though the accident is evidence of a fragile emotional state.

  I drop my hand on the table. “David had no reason to want to hurt Nick. He was his best friend and law partner.” My voice is a pleading whine. I am imploring Trevor to agree with my argument and help convince me of it. “With him gone, David is drowning under the weight of all the work. He’s afraid the firm could go under.”

  A splotch spreads between my thumb and pinky. It throbs with my heartbeat. Ice would be great. I wonder how much a place like this charges for it. I shake my hand, trying to cool it in the air conditioning while I attempt a casual tone. “The cops hassling us makes no sense. I talked to a sergeant from that writers’ academy I went to last year, and he thinks a woman spurned by Nick might have killed him. Apparently, Nick was gay. Can you believe it?”

  Trevor reaches across the table and lifts my injured hand. He stares at the red spot, his thumb resting on my knuckles. Though he’s probably evaluating the severity of my burn, the gesture feels intimate. Longing empties out my insides. I miss affection. Since Nick’s disappearance, David has been so prickly. Since before Nick’s disappearance, if I’m honest with myself.

  “I need to tell you something.” Trevor keeps his head down as he looks up at me. The result is a sad puppy stare that makes me nervous. “I probably should have said something before.”

  My breathing quickens. Trevor has never before “needed” to tell me something. Snapshots of our friendship scroll through my mind. Has it meant more than that to Trevor? To me?

  “Remember the launch party for Accused Woman? The one at the Thrill and Chills Book Store a few months ago?”

  This is not what I thought he was going to say. I flash back to an image of me in a plastic chair with an unnecessarily tall stack of books on the table, trying to put on a brave face for the disappointingly small crowd. I nod my answer. The more time I spend with Trevor, the more I communicate like him.

  “David and Nick showed up right as you were doing the reading.”

  Again, I nod for him to continue. I don’t remember this. Though I do recall David saying he had to work late and barely showing. He’d been a few months into the teen suicide case.

  “On my way over to the bookstore, I saw them walking down the street.”

  My neck tenses. I feel the familiar twisting in my temples. “Yes?”

  “I’m pretty sure . . . I think . . .” He looks at me, a defense attorney about to tell a wrongfully convicted client that her appeal has been rejected. “I saw them kissing.”

  A bomb goes off between my ears. An immense pressure fills my head, like my brain is being squeezed in a vice. It’s followed by a high-pitched ring, as though I’ve developed sudden tinnitus. Trevor is still talking, but I only know because his mouth is moving. I read his full lips.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What?” I know what he’s said, but can think of no other response.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice returns full blast, as though he’d turned the volume dial to the max, unaware that the sound had been on mute. I fight the desire to put my hands over my ears. “I should have told you sooner. Sometimes people have arrangements, and I didn’t want to embarrass you in case you had an agreement.” He clears his throat. “But if you only just found out about Nick . . .”

  “David’s not gay.” My voice is too loud. The lights in the coffee shop are blinding. Where’s the exit?

  “Well, I suppose it’s a sliding-scale kind of a thing for some people.”

  “You must be mistaken.” I realize that Trevor is still holding my hand. I yank it to my chest. “Maybe they were talking close.”

  “Liza, I’m pretty certain of what I saw.”

  “No.” I stand. “We’re trying for a baby.”

  Trevor rises. “I know. That’s why I thought you should be aware of it. If Nick was planning to reveal their relationship and ruin your marriage, maybe David did something to keep him quiet?”

  My breaths have become short and raspy. I could be sick, right here on the shiny, stained cement floor of this chichi coffee shop. The bitter smell wafting from my cup is suddenly retch-inducing. I have to go. Now. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Liza. I’m worried for—”

  “You’ve read too many suspense novels, Trev,” I say while backing up to the exit. “David’s my husband. He’s not gay. And he’s not a killer.”

  Chapter 15

  I do not expect to see Jake in the living room. Yet when I walk through our apartment door, there he is, sitting on the couch with his head bowed against his folded hands. Is he saying a prayer for Colleen? Pleading for himself? Asking God to spare me from discovering his actions?

  When I enter, he jumps from the couch. His eyes are rimmed with red. “Beth.” He says my name in a breathless fashion. “Can we talk?”

  A vindictive voice in my head is dying to repeat, verbatim, his argument to me the prior night: I can’t rearrange my schedule on such short notice. I’ll make it up to you soon. We’ll go out someplace nice. In the meantime, you should get some rest. I mean, Vicky doesn’t let you really sleep. Think of it: without her and me bothering you, you can get a good eight hours for once. Saying any of this, though, would tip my hand. Such snark wouldn’t be warranted for what I’m supposed to believe: Jake cancelled on me last night because of a difficult case. His dinner with a female colleague was a working meeting.

  I push Vicky into the room. She stirs in her bassinet as we enter, disturbed by the tense energy in the apartment. I pick her up and hold her to my chest.

  “Can you sit down?”

  I feign concern as I sink into the couch. Inside, I am dancing a hula to a female empowerment song. Jake is going to admit to the affair! His confession will be a permission slip to do what I please. I’ll be able to kick him out without raising any suspicion about my prior knowledge of his indiscretions. He’s giving me a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  I chew my bottom lip as I carefully pull aside the V neck of my dress and place Victoria on my exposed breast. Biting the dead skin from my lips is one of those unconscious acts that I perform when really worked up. Jake should see my telltale signs of stress.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  Get on with it. I swallow the words. “Honey, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

  “The woman the police came about wasn’t just a coworker.” His face reddens as though he’s constipated, straining over the toilet. “I slept with her.”

  I admire his tense choice. I slept with her. Not I was sleeping with her, which would indicate that he’d been screwing her up until the time of her apparent death. His phrasing could mean once a long time ago or a thousand times up until the moment she moaned her last. He’s leaving me to guess.

  “Are you saying you had an . . .” I trail off as though it’s too difficult for me to verbalize the word “affair.” A couple of weeks ago, it had been.

  “I’m sorry, baby.” A tear snakes down his cheek. He leaves it there for me to see, a glistening reminder that he is broken up about his betrayal—now that he has been forced to admit it. “I made a mistake. I was working with her. She came on to me.”

  It is not enough for Jake to confess wrongdoing. A true lawyer, he has to outline the mitigating factors. Sure, he’s to blame. But there’s plenty of fault to go around. His affair is the result of the butterfly effect. If pretty women didn’t exist . . . If his mother had not been so permissive during his childhood . . . If he hadn’t been living in New York City, with its nonstop nightlife . . .

  “And you’d been spending so much time with the baby.”

  Oh, it’s my fault too. Of course. And let’s not forget to blame our infant.

  “I was feeling vulnerable and neglected. We hadn’t been together since your last trimester, and th
en there were the rules about no sex the first month and a half after delivery.”

  He looks at me for sympathy, or at least to see whether I am buying any of his excuses. I continue nursing Vicky, relishing the visual of me as the consummate caretaker. The better parent. The better person, for all Jake knows.

  “I was weak and I’m so sorry.” He reaches for the hand not holding our baby. I tuck it around Victoria, blocking his view of her little head. His arms retreat to his side. “I want you to know that it wasn’t serious. I didn’t love her or anything like that. I’d planned on ending it before she disappeared. And I had nothing, nothing, to do with whatever happened to her. I saw her the night she went missing, but I came home to you. Something must have happened afterward. I swear. I have no idea what went on. I came home to see you.”

  I open my mouth as though crying on mute.

  Another stage tear announces itself. “I am so sorry,” he sobs.

  Not as sorry as you’re going to be. I look away so he can’t see me not cry. After a minute or two, I sniff and return my attention to his guilty face. “Do the police think you were involved?”

  There’s a change in his body language. His posture straightens. Chin lifts. I’ve witnessed this shift before. Exit Jake, the husband. Enter ADA Jacobson, the prosecutor. He clears his throat. “The police are necessarily looking into the timeline of her disappearance, and I’m the last one known to have seen her. But they’ll discover that I didn’t do anything once they figure out when the blood was spilled outside her apartment. People must have seen me come home. Our building has security cameras that would pick me up. I bought a metro card on the way back with my Visa, so there will be evidence of that transaction. They won’t be able to suspect me for long.”

  I don’t know how to feel about his CCTV alibi. Part of me wants him to continue sweating it out. Another part of me wants the police looking as far away from Jake and me as possible. “Could you have said something that might have made her hurt herself? Maybe she was distraught. Maybe you said you were going to break things off . . . ?”

  Jake’s jaw drops. “Um . . . I was . . . she . . .” How to explain that he never said anything about leaving his lover. “Colleen wasn’t the type,” he says finally. “My guess is that she stumbled upon a crime of some sort. She lived in an old factory, illegally converted to condos. They don’t run background checks in places like that. Maybe one of her neighbors was dealing drugs or was high. She pulled her badge, and he went ballistic.” His eyes start to water. “Whatever happened to her, she didn’t deserve it.” The prosecutor’s voice crumbles. He snorts, sucking up mucus into his septum. “She was a good person.”

  Rage at his defense of the woman who lured him away from his pregnant wife runs through me like an electric current. Robotically, I separate Vicky from my breast and place her back in the bassinet. She starts fussing at being separated from me. I crouch down and pull out a baby mobile from the stroller basket, clipping it to her sunshade. Animals, outfitted in circus gear, dangle above her head. I flick a switch on a side of the plastic and fabric contraption.

  “Pop! Goes the Weasel” plays through a hidden speaker. In addition to piano, this version has a string interlude followed by little kids singing nonsense lyrics. The sounds entertain our child. She stares at the animals, content with the music and visual stimulation.

  I turn to face Jake’s hunched form. His head is lowered like a chastised child. Seeing him this way makes me want to punch a wall. He doesn’t get to be the sad and sympathetic one right now, not after what he drove me to do. I can’t look at him. I can’t stay with him.

  All around the mulberry bush . . .

  “I need you to go to a hotel.”

  The monkey chased the weasel . . .

  “Baby.” Jake starts to rise from the couch.

  The monkey thought ’twas all in good sport.

  “Vicky and I will leave for a bit, give you time to get your things.”

  Pop! goes the weasel.

  “Where are you going? To your mother’s?”

  I don’t want to see my mom. She will tell me to forgive my husband because I also had an affair. I won’t be able to explain that I only betrayed Jake after discovering him with another woman without risking her telling police. What I need to do is take a walk with my baby and dispose of the plastic thongs cutting into my feet.

  “It doesn’t matter where I go. You lost your right to that information when you started lying to me. We will be back in a few hours. I expect you not to be here.”

  “But—”

  “You don’t get to negotiate right now. This is what needs to happen.”

  The kids on the recording laugh and giggle while the piano plays. Vicky starts to coo. She loves this part. I push the stroller toward the exit and open the hall closet. My sneakers sit at the bottom beside Jake’s loafers. I pull off the flip-flops and shove them into the stroller basket. The tops of my feet are chafed and blistered from the rough straps. Slipping on sneakers is painful.

  As I’m tying my laces, I hear Jake rise from the couch. I shut the closet door and see my husband, his shoulders rounded like a man headed for the stocks. The kids’ recorded squeals morph back into music.

  I’ve no time to plead and pine . . .

  I bristle as he draws near but then move aside for him to kiss Vicky.

  I’ve no time to wheedle . . .

  He casts me a longing look as I take the stroller handle.

  Kiss me quick and then I’m gone.

  I push the carriage out the door. The lock clicks behind me.

  Pop! goes the weasel.

  Part III

  Elizabeth, Elspeth, Betsy, and Bess,

  They all went together to seek a bird’s nest.

  They found a bird’s nest with five eggs in,

  They all took one and left four in.

  —English Nursery Rhyme

  LIZA

  I burst through my apartment door, not caring if I surprise the officers tearing apart my house. Migraine medication is no longer an option. The pain is so intense that I could go raving mad. My mind is trying to escape the pressure by separating me from my physical being. I feel as though I am having an out-of-body experience. I’m watching myself fumble with the keys and wince beneath the blaring hallway lights. This is happening to somebody else.

  The foyer is empty. I rush through to the bathroom, yank open my pill drawer, and find my emergency sumatriptan syringe. This will stop it: the blinding, heart-wrenching, screaming pain.

  I barely have the strength to shake the pen from the box and insert the cartridge. I yank my pants to my knees and jam the needle against my exposed thigh. There’s a pinch and the promise of relief. I remove the pen and then fall onto the closed toilet seat. I concentrate on my breathing. Nothing else. In. Out. In . . . Out . . . When I’m no longer nearly hyperventilating, I turn on the faucet, cup my hands beneath the stream, and drink fistful after fistful. Finally, I strip down and stumble into my bedroom.

  It’s in shambles. The bedding has been pulled to the floor. Clothing, mostly David’s, but some of my things too, has been tossed onto the mattress. Drawers are open. I can’t handle this sight right now.

  With my eyes half closed, I feel my way to the bare Tempur-Pedic. I fall on top of it and curl into fetal position. One by one, my systems shut down like an overheating computer force quitting processes. I can’t walk. I can’t move. I need sleep.

  *

  I wake to a yellow orb outside the window. Somehow, I’ve slept ten hours. Maybe more. I roll over and look to the digital clock on the nightstand: 7:00 AM. Slowly, I pull myself upright. Where is David? Did he come home last night?

  I roll my legs off the mattress and survey the damage. Clothes are scattered on the floor. The closet doors are half open. From the bed, I can see that the lockbox has been taken from the top shelf. The removal of something I own from my house is as violating as someone pulling down my underwear in public and slapping my bare behi
nd. What have I done to deserve this? A ransacked apartment. Broken uterus. Gay husband.

  I look at my hand. My diamond engagement ring shines beside my wedding band. David proposed on my favorite beach. He married me. He suggested that I start fertility hormones. Why would he have a child with me if he was homosexual?

  Because he felt bad for you. The answer comes in Beth’s voice. For once, she’s not being hypersexual, overly emotional, or cursing like a drunken soccer fan. Her tone is almost sad, as though I’ve learned a secret that she already knew. David understood that I wanted a baby more than anything in this world. At first, he’d hemmed and hawed about getting me pregnant because he’d known that he was attracted to men and, deep down, must have realized our relationship wouldn’t last. But he also knew that to leave me, at my age, with my history of fertility issues, would guarantee my childless future. So he stuck it out—even after starting an affair with the man he really loved—in hopes of giving us a parting gift. But then, none of the standard fertility treatments worked, and David realized that having a child with me could take years, if it happened at all. He couldn’t ask Nick to wait forever.

  The suicide case would have brought Nick and David together romantically for the first time. Probably, it pushed both men to face their feelings, prompting long conversations about their childhoods in Mississippi and Texas, being bullied and belittled for what they felt. They would have opened up to one another. Admitted their mutual attraction. Fallen in love.

  A tear tumbles down my face, a mosquito bite at dusk. Many more are to come. Trevor saw David and Nick kissing not because he needs glasses and stumbled upon two similar looking men, but because kissing was what my husband had been doing with his male law partner before my big book launch. David intended to leave me for Nick. His choice explains the year of detachment and dismissiveness, which I mistakenly attributed to his frustration with my fertility issues. He was pushing me away, hoping that I’d end things myself and spare him the apologies.