Lies You Never Told Me

by Jennifer Donaldson

I hear Mom leave for the bus. I sit still a little longer, waiting to make sure she doesn’t come back for anything. Silence swells up around me.

  When it’s time, I grab my bag, step out the door, and walk away without looking back.

  I can’t see Aiden’s face when he pulls up at the bus stop, but I open the passenger side door and calmly climb in. I’m surprised—I expected the backseat to be packed full, road-trip style. But it’s not. He’s got a single suitcase, a leather messenger bag, and two grocery bags in the backseat.

  He smiles across the console at me. “Are you ready?”

  I buckle up. “Let’s go.”

  And as hard as I try to dig for some feeling of regret as we hit the highway, all I feel is free.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Gabe

  “Are you comfortable?” my mom asks, leaning down to fluff the pillow behind my head.

  It’s almost two in the morning, and we’re still stuck at the E.R. They’ve got me lying on a wobbly hospital bed, a pulse oximeter attached to my finger, waiting to be formally admitted for the night.

  I lick my lips. They’re dry and cracked from the heat of the flames. My skin tingles; there are splinters of glass embedded in my face and hands from the broken window. I hadn’t noticed at first; the adrenaline had been too strong. But now everything has started to throb and ache ominously. I’m lucky I didn’t hurt my shoulder again, using it as a battering ram the way I did.

  “Yeah, Mom, thanks.” I close my eyes.

  Beyond the confines of the little room I can still hear the noise: patients being admitted, being treated, deep into the night. I know Catherine’s not out there; the nurse who took my vitals told me that the “other people” from the fire had been taken to a different hospital. “It’s a busy night,” she’d said. “The EMTs are trying to spread the love.”

  I can picture Catherine, on a hospital bed just like mine, the smell of smoke and gas in her nostrils. Will she be in the same room as her dad? Will he be watching her? Waiting for the two of them to be alone so he can touch her again? My skin crawls, imagining it.

  I hear a soft knock. The door to my room swings open, and two cops in uniform come in. It’s Huntington and Larson—the same duo who came around when Vivi went “missing.” I look up, surprised.

  “Hey there, Gabe,” says Larson. He smiles at my mom. “Mrs. Jiménez.”

  Mom gives a little frown, then stands up to shake Larson’s hand. “Officer. What’s the problem? My son’s very tired …”

  “I’m sure he is,” Larson says sympathetically. “Crazy night, huh, Gabe?”

  I rub my knees through the thin fabric of my gown. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Huntington sits down on the doctor’s stool, wheeling it closer to my bedside. “You want to talk to us about what you were doing at Catherine Barstow’s house tonight?” she says. Her voice is clipped and businesslike.

  I rub at my eyes, running through all the things I could say, wondering if any of them make things worse or better for Catherine. The idea of saying it aloud—the kiss I saw through the window—makes me queasy, as if the words themselves are dirty. But maybe they could help her. Maybe they could get her away from him. It’d be worth it, even if I lost her in the process.

  Then I think about how she’d reacted outside the house when I hinted at what I’d seen. Not just angry. Panicked. Almost blind with it. And suddenly I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if it’s my call, to tell the cops about her dad. I don’t want to drag her into something she’s not ready for.

  “I went to try to talk to her,” I say finally. “But the house was on fire when I got there. So I called nine-one-one, but I knew they couldn’t get there fast enough. That’s when I broke a window and climbed in to help.”

  Huntington’s lips tighten slightly, but she doesn’t answer. Larson has a notebook in hand and is scrawling something down.

  Mom purses her lips. “What’s this about, officers?”

  “We’ll get to the point,” Larson says. He turns to me. “We talked to the Barstows a little while ago.”

  “You did?” I sit up in bed. “Is Catherine okay?”

  Larson doesn’t answer the question. He looks down at his notepad and seems to read off it. “According to Mark Barstow, you started pounding on his window screaming for his daughter at about eight fifteen. A few minutes later the whole place was on fire. The exit routes were more or less blocked off. Now we’re still waiting on the forensics, but it’s pretty obvious it was arson. There were about a dozen empty gasoline canisters thrown all over the backyard.”

  My eyes widen. I remember the smell of gas lingering around the gate. Remember thinking about Mr. Barstow’s lawn mower. Before I can process the information, Huntington starts to talk.

  “Plus, we’ve got two different neighbors saying they saw you skulking around the side of the house about ten minutes before you called in that fire.” She leans forward slightly, as if smelling blood. “Why were you sneaking around their yard? Why didn’t you just knock on the door? Or better yet, call her?”

  “Wait, are you saying … are you saying I started that fire?” I try to draw in my breath, but my lungs seize up. I look from Huntington to Larson and back again. “That’s crazy. I would never …”

  “Miss Barstow says you two broke up earlier this week,” Larson cuts in. His voice is gentle but deliberate. “Is that true?”

  “Yeah. We did.” My fingers curl up in frustration. “I just wanted to talk to her.”

  “Like you just wanted to talk to Sasha Daley last Friday night?” Huntington says.

  The silence stretches out for a long moment. On the other side of the door I can hear some other patient’s racking cough, a gurney being wheeled down the hall. They’re all staring at me—Larson, Huntington. My mom. I look away from her quickly, back at the cops.

  “Yeah, I talked to Sasha last Friday,” I say. “So what?”

  “Ms. Daley’s parents brought her into the station yesterday afternoon,” says Huntington. “Apparently she told them that you’d been acting … erratically lately. They took her in to make a statement.”

  Her hawklike face is thin, her eyes sharp; her features all seem pointed toward me in accusation.

  I can see it all with perfect clarity. Sasha almost shyly telling her mom that I have been acting “weird” lately. Mrs. Daley pressing her for details. Sasha hesitating, holding back, acting as if she doesn’t want to get me in trouble. And then Mr. Daley would be involved, furious at the idea of someone besides him controlling his little girl. They’d sit on either side of her at the station, neither holding her hand, but both staring across the table at the officer—had it been Huntington?—with an expression that demanded that the police do what they’re actually paid to do: protect people like them.

  “She seemed really scared,” Larson says. “She says you’ve been following her around, begging her to take you back, telling her no one else can have her.”

  “That’s not true!” The words burst out of me, hot and fast. “She’s been stalking me. She’s the one who took my little sister, for Christ’s sake.”

  And all at once, I know who started that fire.

  “You should check those gas cans for Sasha’s prints,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.

  Mom gives a little gasp, but I hold Huntington’s gaze.

  Huntington raises her eyebrows. “Do you have some reason to believe Sasha would attack the Barstows?”

  I give a hard chuckle that hurts my lungs. “Yeah. She’s been harassing me for weeks. She’s been sending threatening messages.”

  “She’s been messaging you? Do you have any of those messages saved?” Larson asks.

  “They were Snaps. They disappear as soon as you look at them.” I run my hands over my face, suddenly exhausted. “But she’s been threatening my family, and Catherine.”

  “That’s interesting,” Huntington says coldly. “Because she showed us this.”

  She holds up her phone. I l
ean forward, trying to make out what’s on there. The picture is small and grainy. But then the audio starts up, and I know exactly what we’re looking at.

  “I don’t care. I’ll go psycho on you, bitch.”

  It’s my voice—but I never said that. Or I didn’t say it like that. Did I?

  The video is taken from the eaves of the pool house in her yard. One of her parents’ security cameras.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sounds tearful, earnest. “Please, I didn’t mean to make you angry.” The angle of the camera catches the tops of our heads; you can’t see our mouths moving in the grainy image. It’d be all too easy to dub herself in any way she wanted.

  “If you come near us again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand me?”

  The fury in my voice startles even me. I don’t recognize myself. It’s the snarl of an animal backed into a corner, ugly and inhuman. I try to remember exactly what I said, exactly what she said, but when I think about that night it’s only a white-hot blur of anger.

  “Ow!” The Sasha on the screen seems to recoil from something as if I hurt her. But I didn’t. All I did was grab her hand, pull it away from my face. “You’re scaring me, Gabe.”

  “I don’t care, bitch.”

  Huntington smirks a little at my expression.

  I shake my head. “I never said that. And I didn’t hurt her. She’s edited the video. I went over that night to confront her because she left a camera in my bedroom. She was spying on me.”

  “Did you keep this camera?” Huntington raises an eyebrow. My heart plummets.

  “No. No, I … I confronted her with it.” Why? Why didn’t I keep it? Why did I need to throw it at her? The cops could have checked it for prints, or maybe checked its frequency to prove it was Sasha’s.

  “Not to mention this,” Huntington goes on. She holds up her phone to show more grainy footage of me, grabbing Catherine by the wrist in the hall at school. I remember all those kids filming, enjoying the drama.

  I shake my head weakly. “This is crazy. I haven’t done anything wrong.” But after hearing myself on the recording, my protests sound feeble, even to me. “That’s not … we were just talking. I got upset because she wouldn’t listen. But I’d never hurt Catherine. Why would I set that fire and then try to rescue her from it?”

  “To get her attention, maybe. To play the hero.” Huntington shrugs. “Or maybe you had second thoughts when you saw how quickly the house caught fire.”

  Finally, my mom speaks up.

  “I think this conversation is over for now, officers.” Her mouth is a trembling, pale line, but she sounds steady and firm. “I have a feeling we need a lawyer present.”

  “We’re just trying to get Gabe’s side of the story, Mrs. Jiménez,” Larson protests. But my mom shakes her head.

  “And he’ll be happy to give it to you, after he’s had a chance to rest,” she says. She stands up from her chair and steps a little closer to me. “But it’s late, and he’s in shock, and we will not be answering any more questions until we have legal counsel.”

  The officers exchange glances. I feel a sudden surge of gratitude toward my mom. I’ve seen this expression only a few times—when she had to fight the insurance company to get Vivi’s therapies covered; when she protested a developer who bulldozed a bunch of Mexican-owned businesses in Austin. It’s fierce and determined and uncompromising.

  “You should know we’ve put in a request for a search warrant for your home,” Larson says. “We should have it by tomorrow.”

  “Then I’ll put the coffee on at seven,” Mom says. “Good night, officers.”

  After another moment, both cops are on their feet. Huntington gives me a hard look.

  “See you later, Gabe,” she says.

  I don’t answer. I watch them go, watch as my mom moves to the door and shuts it firmly behind them.

  She stands motionless for a moment before turning back around to look at me.

  “Mom, seriously. I didn’t set that fire. I never threatened Catherine. This is all …”

  “Gabe …” She sits down and rubs her temples. “What the hell is going on?”

  I swallow. My lips feel cracked, my tongue swollen and sore. The idea of telling her everything is exhausting. I can feel the last of my energy spiraling down the drain.

  “Sasha,” I finally say. “She’s been acting unhinged since we broke up. I think she started that fire.”

  She looks skeptical. “That’s a serious accusation.”

  “I know.” I look her in the eyes. “But remember the day she took Vivi? I swear, Mom, I didn’t tell her she could. It wasn’t a misunderstanding. She’s … she’s trying to hurt the people I care about.”

  It must be the pain, or the exhaustion, or the adrenaline wearing off, but I feel tears sting the corners of my eyes. I swipe them away quickly, but she sees. She squeezes my hand.

  “I’m going to go find some coffee for me and some water for you. We’ll talk about all this after you’ve had a chance to rest.” She picks up her purse. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. And if anyone comes in here asking questions, you don’t talk to them, you understand? Not until we have a lawyer.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  She gives me one last inscrutable look, then slips through the door.

  I close my eyes, my raw hands stinging as I clench them tight. There’s only one way to fix all of this. I’ve known it all along, but I’ve denied it, even to myself. But I know what I have to do.

  I just hope it’s not too late.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Elyse

  We go east. We follow the Columbia, the canyon walls cradling us as we go. At first I’m too excited to sleep. I sit up in the passenger seat, fidgeting with the radio, watching the sliver of road illuminated in his headlights. I go rigid with fear at one point when I see blue and red lights behind us, then relax when the cop car swerves around us and pulls over someone ahead. Then for a while we’re the only ones on the road.

  I must fall asleep at some point, because when I wake up the sun is out. The river is gone; I don’t recognize our surroundings at all. The dash clock reads seven A.M.

  “Morning,” Aiden says softly. “How you feeling?”

  There’s a crick in my neck. “Hungry,” I say, stretching. “Where are we?”

  “Just outside Coeur d’Alene,” he says. “In Idaho.”

  The landscape has changed. Gentle, rolling mountains mark the horizon line, dark with trees. The sky is low and gray. But even with the gloomy morning weather, excitement fills my chest like a balloon. I sit up straight and look out the window.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. I glance back at him, suddenly realizing I haven’t even asked about the plan. “Where are we going, anyway?”

  He smiles. “Anywhere we want.”

  The idea makes me shiver. Anywhere we want? It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. I’ve never had the luxury of doing whatever I wanted before.

  I see a sign advertising restaurants, and my stomach growls. “Can we stop for breakfast?”

  He hesitates for a moment. “I was hoping to get a little more distance between us and Portland. But … I’ve been driving all night. I could definitely use a break. Sure, let’s do it. First let’s clean up a little, though.”

  We pull over into a copse of woods off the road. The air is cold; it cuts right through to the bone. Aiden pulls one of the bags out of the backseat.

  “I don’t know if anyone’s looking for us yet, but if they are they might be looking for that outfit. Better change.”

  I grab my backpack from the front seat. Huddled against the cold, I pull on a fresh T-shirt and sweater. I watch as he loses the button-down and puts on a jean jacket, lined with shearling. Then he rummages in the grocery bag and pulls out a brown wig with two braids.

  “Here,” he says. “Until we can get some dye.”

  I stare at it for a second, then take it. I wouldn’t have thought of wigs, or dye, or an
y of this. But he’s right. We can’t look like ourselves.

  I coil my hair up and pull the wig down over my head, peeking at my reflection in the car window. The style’s not terribly flattering for me—it feels juvenile and makes my face look small and pale under it. I look up to see Aiden pulling a grimy baseball hat down over his eyes. He’s already got a bit of stubble around his jawline, and when he takes his glasses off he’s almost unrecognizable.

  “Ready for a bit of acting?” he asks, winking.

  I can’t help it; I laugh out loud. A billowing sense of freedom, of adventure, takes hold of me. I pat the ends of my wig. “Born ready,” I say.

  *

  • • •

  The diner’s full of old people, gray-haired couples with plates of eggs and pancakes. Waitresses in pale pink bustle around, refilling coffee and scratching frantically on their notepads. I breathe in the smell of bacon and sigh.

  We sit across a sticky table from each other and order our food. The coffee tastes burned, but the French toast is sweet and delicious. Aiden orders a cinnamon roll bigger than his fist, corned beef hash, and a stack of sausage patties. I stare.

  “You’re going to make yourself sick,” I say. He just laughs.

  “You never know when you’re going to have another chance at a cinnamon roll. My policy is to get one while the getting’s good.”

  I cradle the coffee with both my hands. At least it’s warm. “So, what’s our next stop?”

  “I’ve got an old buddy in Missoula I want to visit. He can help us with a couple of details.” He drops his voice. “Papers. New identities. That kind of thing.”

  New identities? I laugh a little. “You’re awfully good at this. Have you gone on the lam before?” I tease.

  He just smirks a little. “Survivalist dad, remember? Plus when I left home, I worked under the table. Met all kinds of, uh, interesting people that way. Some of them may end up useful now.”

  Missoula isn’t exactly the kind of place I pictured us fleeing to. Hopefully it’ll be a brief stop. We can get the things we need and move on. “Maybe after that, we can go to New York!” I say.