The Cold Hard Truth
Amanda Leigh Cowley
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Copyright © Amanda Leigh Cowley 2017
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, character and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior approval of the author.
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Chapter 1
March
I heave open the front door, flop against its flaky blue paint and fight to catch my breath. This is crazy. All I’ve done is walk five minutes from the bus-stop to our house and I’m wrecked.
“Da-ad,” I call out. My voice is croaky and it catches. “It’s me, Emily….”
No answer.
Not surprising. He’s got the TV turned up so loud I doubt he’d have heard a twenty-one-gun salute if it went off right in front of him.
I’ll let him know I’m home and then I’m heading to bed to sleep off whatever lurgy has invaded my system and zapped all my energy.
I picture Dad lying on the sofa in his favourite spot, the place he spends so much time that when he gets up you can still see the imprint of his butt cheeks, and the worn-out, slightly grubby patch where his head rests. Poor Dad. He’s a shell of the man he used to be.
I push myself off the door and dump my college bag on the stairs.
“I’ve come home early….” I make my way to the living room and nudge the door with my hip. “I feel crap.” The door swings open and I shift my weight to take a step forward, but something makes me pause.
The heavy brocade curtains are drawn making the room dark but in the soft blue hue coming from the TV, I make out the shape of Dad lying on the sofa.
And I know something is wrong.
My eyes are still adjusting to the darkness so I don’t see anything amiss, but I feel it. It’s hanging in the air making all the tiny hairs on my arms stand up.
For God’s sake, Emily, get a grip.
I mentally shake myself, step into the room and hit the light switch.
And then I see it.
Blood.
Everywhere.
It’s up the walls, soaked into the carpet, and all over my lovely Dad.
I hold onto the wall to steady myself as swirls of red dance and collide before my eyes.
This has to be a bad dream.
I squint, forcing my focus to settle on Dad’s face. His eyes are open and vacant, and he’s so pale. I’ve never seen anyone that pale before.
My feet feel anchored to the floor. I force one leg in front of the other to go to him.
I’ve taken two, maybe three steps, when I catch sight of something moving over by the curtains.
Shit.
My heart picks up a new crazy rhythm as a dark figure unfurls. A man?
I'm barely breathing. My eyes stay glued to the intruder while in the background a TV chef harps on about the importance of getting your oven to the right temperature before adding your soufflés.
None of this is real, I remind myself. None of this is happening.
The intruder is upright now. He’s holding his blood-spattered hoodie tight around his face in a bid to conceal himself. Only his eyes are visible. They meet mine for a split second before his head dips and he charges past me, towards the door, knocking me off balance.
Instinctively, stupidly, I reach out to steady myself and grab hold of his sleeve. He rips it back in an attempt to shake me off, but my knuckles turn white with a vice-like grip. I know I should let go but I’m paralysed by fear.
The monster's chest rises and falls in quick succession, but he says nothing. He looks up from my hand and his eyes meet mine, the skin around them tightening and then loosening, as if he’s pleading with me.
This is just a bad dream. If I can wake myself up then everything will go back to normal.
A flash of light bounces off metal and before I can react I realise a blade has been drawn along my arm.
The sound of the TV fades and the air around me stills and it’s so surreal, I want to laugh.
I raise my arm and hold it front of my face, unable to take my eyes from the red line snaking an ugly path from my wrist to my elbow.
I see it but I don’t believe it.
There isn’t any pain.
It’s because I’m dreaming and none of this is real.
The line gets thicker until it gapes and I tilt my head as dark red blood spills onto the pale skin of my forearm.
I hear a sharp intake of breath and realise it’s coming from me. A rush of heat spreads up my arm as if someone’s just dragged a red-hot poker along my skin.
And then everything becomes sharp and clear and terrifyingly real.
The front door slams and I snap my head in that direction.
This really happened.
Hands trembling, I pull out my phone and dial 999. Deep down I already know it’s too late for Dad.
Chapter 2
Six months later
By the time I step off the plane, clear immigration and retrieve my suitcase from the carousel, I can barely keep my eyes open.
The arrivals area at Los Angeles airport is hot and noisy. An intercom announcement is drowned out by the babble of the crowd; a sea of faces waiting to meet the people coming off my flight. Somewhere among them should be Rachel, my mother.
I wheel the grey, battered suitcase holding all my worldly possessions in front of me and try to ignore the backpack digging into my shoulder. People in smart suits hold up signs displaying surnames while other people, more casually dressed run to embrace their loved ones.
A man’s face lights up when a young woman throws herself at him. As he hugs her, silvery strands of hair flop away from his bald spot. Father and daughter? My heart gives an involuntary squeeze.
Or maybe it’s an internet romance and he lied about his age….
Beads of sweat trickle down my spine. I stop, shrug the backpack off and pull my white, cotton sleeve back into place, making sure it reaches all the way to my wrist and completely covers my scar. Then I haul the backpack up onto my other shoulder and scan the crowds again.
I’m looking for a woman in her early forties with long toffee-coloured hair. I’ve only seen Rachel once in the five years since she left London. That was in March this year, just after Dad was killed. She stayed with me for an intensely difficult week and before she left, she asked me to come and live with her in California. I didn’t hesitate to say no. I didn’t want to go anywhere with her, not for a permanent move, or even just a short visit.
Forward-wind six months and I’m up to my eyeballs in debt. I’m ashamed for not managing my money better after Dad died. I took over the running of the joint account, and amidst the chaos of changing accounts into my sole name, the scammers slithered in and helped themselves to most of the funds. Unable to keep up with the rent on Dad’s house and, more importantly, unable to buy food, I’d had no choice but to accept Rachel’s offer.
So here I am.
The crowds thin out as people from my flight move on but I still can’t see her. I look over my shoulder to see if I’ve missed her and spot a hand waving in the distance. It sounds like someone is calling my name; a female voice too high-pitched to be Rachel’s.
Squinting to see better I make out a girl striding my way. She breaks through a group of people and
I see her properly for the first time. She’s wearing a cream cropped shirt and a short high-waisted skirt showing off endless legs.
She stops in front of me and leans on one of the barrier posts, panting. “Emily, I’m so sorry I’m late.” The accent is a funny mix of English and American. She looks me up and down, flashing a row of perfect white teeth. “This is crazy,” she pants. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”
I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it. I take in the masses of dark, wavy hair, the brown eyes and the small, slightly upturned nose. She’s a taller, tanned version of me.
“Harrie?”
She laughs. “Are you having trouble recognising me, sis?”
The longer I look, the more I see it’s her, but at the same time ... she’s changed so much.
Harrie is my half-sister. She came to live in California with Rachel five years ago while I got left behind in London.
I purse my lips and blow out a deep breath. Then I slide my suitcase under the barrier and crouch down to follow it.
“Hardly anyone calls me Harrie anymore,” she says, pulling her hair into a ponytail and dropping it loose behind her shoulders. “It’s too boyish. I prefer Harriet.”
I give a small nod. “Harriet. Right.”
She holds me with her eyes, takes a long inhale and smiles. “But you can call me whatever the hell you like. I’m just so happy you’re here.”
I give a tight smile and look around the arrivals hall. “Is she here?”
Harriet looks confused for a moment but then she arches her eyebrows. “Oh, you mean Mom? No, she’s not. She couldn’t get here on time. She feels terrible about it. Some issue with a customer or something…. Anyway, she should be home by the time we get back.”
Oh, well. Maybe I should be disappointed Rachel hasn’t put me first and come to meet me herself, but then she hasn’t put me first for the last five years so I’ve grown a thick skin where she’s concerned.
Harriet takes a small sniff, steps closer and stretches her arms wide.
I hesitate. I’m not sure I’ve forgiven her for leaving me. Harrie was my best friend in the world at the time. I could barely cope with my mom leaving, but Harrie as well? It was too much.
“It’s so good to see you, Em,” she whispers.
I press my teeth together and lean forward, my arms stiff by my sides.
She wraps her arms around me and squeezes tight. Her hair, which smells of coconut, tickles my face. I swallow hard and try to make sense of my feelings; there’s a part of me that wants to hug her back just as fierce. This is the big sister I adored, the sister I’ve missed far more than I care to admit to myself. A well of emotion threatens to engulf me so I disentangle myself and step back.
Harriet straightens, her glittering. “I’ve missed you so much,” she whispers.
Where were you when I needed you then? I squeeze my lips into a smile and grip my suitcase handle.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you in March,” she carries on. “I wanted to, but I’ve got this stupid fear of flying.” She wipes her hands together. “Just being at the airport is making my palms all sweaty. It’s ridiculous. I feel awful I couldn’t get on a plane and be there for you after losing Mike.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay. Don’t feel bad about it.”
Dad was my rock; the only person in the world I could count on. Rachel gave me no comfort when she flew over in March so I doubt Harriet being there would have made much difference either.
Dad loved Harrie. He raised her as if she were his own, so when she and our mother skipped off to California without a backward glance, it nearly broke him. His health suffered and he never fully recovered.
I look down at my sneakers and clear my throat. “Can we go now?”
Her eyebrows press down and she opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but then her shoulders drop and she closes it again. “Sure. Here, let me carry your backpack.”
I relax a little. I’m not ready to talk about Dad yet. That’s another reason I agreed to come to California; to try and distance myself from what happened in London back in March.
It’s approaching dusk as we enter the short-stay car park. I drag my suitcase over the rough surface following Harriet towards a Nissan Rogue.
She presses her key fob and the lights flash. “Mom and Dominic bought it for me a couple of years ago,” she announces. “An eighteenth birthday present ….”
A pang of resentment hits me. I never wanted anything as extravagant as a car from Rachel, just a card on any given birthday would have been nice.
Harriet slings my backpack into the boot, or trunk as she calls it, before helping me lift the suitcase in. She slams the door down and runs around to my side, sweeping empty drink cans and food wrappers off the leather. “Sorry about the mess,” she says, pulling a grimace. “If I’d known I was picking you up, I’d have given the car a good clear out.”
“Don’t worry.” I climb in and carefully position my feet around the empty sandwich packets. “It doesn’t bother me.”
An aroma of vanilla comes from the air-freshener hanging off her mirror. It catches at the back of my throat and makes me cough.
“So, Em….” she pauses while she puts the car into reverse and backs out of the parking space. “How old are you now … eighteen? Have you started driving lessons yet?”
I shake my head. “I was taking lessons, but I gave them up, after....” The sentence dies on my lips.
Harriet turns from the windscreen to look at me. Her eyes are sympathetic but I hold her gaze, willing her not to finish my sentence.
We exit the car park and travel in silence as Harriet negotiates our way onto the main road. The traffic’s backed right up, but I don’t mind. I’m in no rush to get to Rachel’s house. I press back into the headrest and stare out the windscreen trying to get used to being on the ‘wrong’ side of the road. They are so much bigger than the roads back home. I count twelve lanes of traffic at one point.
Either side of the freeway huge billboards advertise restaurants, perfume and the latest movies. There are giant, towering palm trees everywhere.
“Hey, you know what? Harriet says. “You should get back in the saddle again. Have a word with Mom. I know she’d be happy to arrange driving lessons for you.”
I keep my eyes forward, staring through the window. There’s no way I’ll ask Rachel to do that. I don’t want her buying my affections. I’m not sure what it is I do want from her, but it’s not that.
I bring a hand up to my mouth and nibble a sore piece of skin by my thumbnail. The thought of seeing her again is making my stomach churn.
The truth is I adored my mom when I was a child. With her American accent and long silky hair, I thought she was the most glamorous woman that ever existed. There was an always a chiffon scarf tied around her neck and she never went without her favourite perfume; Fleur de Rocaille. Everything she owned carried the same floral scent, from her clothes to the contents of her bag.
I loved her to bits and I thought she loved me the same. But moms who love their children put them first, don’t they? They don’t abandon their offspring to start a new life with their rich boyfriend, five-thousand, four-hundred and fifty-six miles away.
In her defence, she had intended to take me with her. California is where she was born, the place she grew up, and she always planned to move back there one day. Dad was up for it too. That was until Rachel met Dominic and cut Dad out of her plans.
There were massive rows when Dad found out she was planning to take us without him. He knew there was nothing he could do about Harriet because she wasn’t his daughter, but I was his trump card; his actual flesh and blood. He said there was no way he would let her take me. Rachel laughed in his face but he’d meant what he said. It ended up going through the courts and getting messy, but Dad won and Rachel was forbidden from taking me out of the UK.
Dad thought that would be the end of it. He never dreamt she would still
go ahead with her plans after she lost the court case. But Mother, bless her, decided going to California without me wasn’t such a hardship after all, and off she went.
I know Dad felt guilty about it all, but he shouldn’t have worried. I was glad he fought for me to stay. At least it proved one of my parents loved me unconditionally. And by the time Rachel left, I was glad to see the back of her.
I really was.
My mouth has gone dry. I toy with the idea of asking Harriet to drop me off at a hotel for the night. Maybe after a good night’s sleep I’ll feel stronger and then I can go to the house and face Rachel in the morning….
I give it some serious thought, but on reflection I know I’m just delaying the inevitable. And I’m pretty sure Harriet would never agree to it anyway.
“Not long now,” she says breezily, turning right at a crossroads.
I drum my fingers on my leg. I’m not ready. I need to buy more time.
“Harriet ... do you mind if we go somewhere first and grab a drink or something? I’m feeling quite thirsty.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“I was just thinking it would be nice to go to a diner or something....” My voice has gone up a few octaves.
Harriet laughs. “We don’t have to go out to get a drink. There’s plenty of stuff at the house.”
I concentrate on keeping my voice level. “I’d just really like to go somewhere first, if that’s okay with you?”
She gives me a funny look and then shrugs her shoulders. “Of course.” A smile forms on her lips. “Actually, there’s a quirky little place opposite the beach. It stays open late on a Wednesday night and it’s not far from the house. Do you want to go there?”
Chapter 3
The cafe, O’Shea’s Place, is ... different. The tables and chairs are a mix of funky styles and vibrant colours. All along one side floor-to-ceiling glass panels stand at irregular angles giving a distorted view of the Pacific Ocean. The three remaining walls are blue-washed timber and crammed with artwork and funny sayings.
The Cold Hard Truth: A Gripping Novel About Secrets and Lies Page 1