The Darkest Lie

by Pintip Dunn

  “It’s me,” I say to the dial tone, rather than explain my predicament. “My car ran out of gas. Could you meet me and bring a gallon of gas, please?” I rattle off the country road and then hang up.

  “Well, thank you so much,” I say, channeling my inner Raleigh. “I’ll go wait in my car now. Bye.”

  “Not so fast.” Ms. Hughes crosses her arms. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  Mr. Willoughby starts to say something, but she presses a hand on his arm. “Let me handle this, honey.”

  He nods. “Okay. See you at school, Cecilia,” he says, and leaves the room.

  “Can we make this quick?” I mumble. “My ride will be here any minute.”

  “You didn’t make a phone call, Cecilia.” Her voice is small and tight. Completely unlike the friendly secretary I know from school. “I could hear the dial tone from where I was standing.”

  Oh. Just when I thought I’d hit creek-bottom. Crap, crap, crap!

  “I decided to walk.” My words fall out like the rounds of a machine gun. “I remembered my friend lives near here and—”

  “You don’t have to do this. I know why you’re really here.”

  This stops me. “You do?”

  “Mr. Willoughby is a good-looking man.” She sighs, as if it’s taken her months to come to terms with this fact. “Many of his students have crushes on him.”

  My mouth drops open. “I don’t have a crush on him. I was . . .”

  But I can hardly tell her the truth. That I suspected him of exploiting my mom. That I was seconds from reporting him to the police. A water’s splash from destroying his life—and mine. What’s left of it, anyway.

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to call your grandma or dad.” Her tone softens. She’s not quite at the lollipop-offering stage yet, but she’s getting close. “Just don’t follow him again, okay?”

  I nod, staring at the floor. It’s the same yellow laminate that’s at our house. Maybe the hardware store was having a sale. And maybe, if I keep my mouth shut, I’ll be able to show my face sometime in the next century.

  “Now I would appreciate it if you could do something for me,” she says. “Nobody at school knows about Ty and me. And we’d like to keep it that way.”

  “What’s the big secret?” I blurt.

  “He has his reasons.” She rubs her neck. “It’s a long story, and it mostly concerns his wife.”

  “Who’s been dead for over twenty years.”

  “Twenty-six years, to be exact,” she says, her tone suddenly weary. “But who’s counting?”

  I twist the straps of my backpack. I should get out of here before my poor judgment gets me in even more trouble. And yet, part of me is curious. Even before I found the comic book, I suspected Mr. Willoughby. And there’s a reason. He acted suspicious. He did his best to keep his relationship with Ms. Hughes a secret. Why?

  “Could you tell me the story?” I ask haltingly. “I know it’s none of my business, but I’m curious. Mr. Willoughby is such a mystery. Maybe I wouldn’t have followed him if I knew more about him.”

  She studies me so closely she could be counting my eyelashes. “All right, I’ll tell you. But only because I think you’re right. This secret hurts more people than Ty realizes.”

  She walks to the sink, where she runs water over a stack of dirty plates. I don’t think her need to wash dishes is so urgent, but like my backpack-twisting, it keeps her hands busy.

  “Maria was Mexican,” she says. “Ty met her during one of his semesters abroad in college, and they eloped to the States when she was eighteen. Immediately, she was diagnosed with a brain tumor and died six months later. It’s a tragedy, to be sure, but he could’ve moved on from it. He should’ve moved on.”

  Her nails scrape across a plate. “Problem is, her family blames him. They feel she wouldn’t have died if he hadn’t taken her away. And a large part of him agrees. It’s completely irrational, of course, but he feels tremendous guilt. So much that he’s brought her entire family here to live, and he won’t go public with any relationship. He feels like it would disrespect his late wife’s memory.”

  Guilt. Yes, I can understand that. I’ve felt the way it wraps its tentacles around me, squeezing so tightly I can hardly breathe. And if this monster has infiltrated Mr. Willoughby’s life, it would explain why he’s never openly dated anyone.

  But I still have to ask. “And you’re sure he’s not seeing anybody else?”

  She looks up, her gaze sharper than the knife in the drying rack. “Cecilia, I love this man. And he loves me, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. I’d stake my life on his faithfulness.”

  She’s so certain. So positive. We always think we know someone. . . until we don’t. But even I have to admit it’s looking less likely that Mr. Willoughby is Phoenix.

  “Thanks for telling me,” I say. “And, uh, sorry about the intrusion. I’ll let myself out.”

  I leave the house and hurry to my Camry. It may only be a hundred yards, but after the hour I had, it feels more like a hundred miles.

  Come on. Hold it together for a few more minutes. A few more minutes, and then you can collapse in the safety of your car.

  I reach the Camry, and I almost cry as my hand closes around the door handle. But my relief is short-lived. Because the car won’t start.

  I groan. My lie has become truth. I’m out of gas.

  Chapter 38

  I trudge into town.

  Fool, my mind chants as one foot after the other stirs up the dusty road. You FOOL, it screams when I reach the gas station. Fool, fool, fool, it plays on repeat as I pace in front of the refrigerated drinks, waiting for a mechanic to give me—and my gallon of gas—a ride back to my car.

  What was I thinking? Honestly, what was going on in my EMPTY brain cells? Following Mr. Willoughby, barging into his house. All on the basis of a comic book. Unbelievable.

  But how could it be a coincidence? a little voice asks. Finding that comic was too fortuitous to be a coincidence.

  Shut up, I snarl at the voice. If it had a physical presence, I’d slam the voice against the wall until it was knocked unconscious. It was a coincidence, so shut the hell up. You’ve already made me the biggest fool in Lakewood, if not the entire world.

  Nothing new there. I always suspected I was a fool. Now I have irrefutable proof.

  When I get in my car again, and it actually starts, I’m not sure where to go. Part of me wants to sit in the bathtub and cry, so much that you could use my tears as bathwater. The other part wants to see Sam.

  I don’t want anyone to find out what happened—but Sam doesn’t count. He’s different. He won’t judge me. If anyone or anything can make me feel better, it’s Sam.

  Decision made, I drive to his house. Mrs. Davidson appears in front of the screen door when I knock. Her hands are covered in clear plastic gloves and bits of white meat. And a large purple bruise stretches over her left cheek.

  “Good to see you, CeCe.” Her words are weak, with almost a translucent quality. As though they exist only because they’re propped up on the aroma of carrots, celery, and garlic in the air.

  “Mrs. Davidson, are you okay?” I venture. Something is wrong. That much is obvious. I’m just not sure what.

  She holds up her gloved hands, indicating the shreds of meat like they are poison. “I’m making a chicken pot pie. Sam’s favorite. I thought we could all use a bit of comfort after this afternoon.”

  “What happened?” I ask softly.

  “My ex-husband. If Sam weren’t here, I . . . I don’t know how far it would’ve gone.” Her voice cracks, but she straightens her spine and walks into the kitchen, gesturing for me to follow her. She attacks the cooked chicken breast on the counter, shredding the meat as if her life—or at least her dignity—depends on it.

  “No one got hurt, so don’t worry. The fight involved more raised voices than fists. But Sam’s been upstairs since his dad left, and he says he’s not coming down until he finishes his article.
He’s taken over the whole floor—I’ve heard him stomping in the hallway for the last hour.”

  I lick my lips, not sure what to say or do. If it were my mother, I’d take her in my arms and stroke her hair as though our roles were reversed. I’d lay her bruised cheek on my lap and hum the lullabies she used to sing me at night.

  But she’s not my mother. She’s a stranger I’ve only met once, and with whom I’ve barely spoken. I don’t know how to comfort her without prying. I don’t know how to put myself out there, to risk being shot down, when I’ve proven, without the slightest doubt, what a fool I am.

  “Is that why you didn’t pick up the phone at four o’clock?” I ask instead. “I called, and then again half an hour later, and no one picked up.” I pull the slip of paper out of my back pocket. It looks like it’s been through the wash. And no wonder. Between the dip in the creek and my anxious grip, it’s had rougher treatment than the spin cycle. “Sam gave me your home number, since he turned off his cell.”

  “No, no. My ex-husband was gone by then.” She looks over her shoulder and frowns. Three lines slice across her forehead. “That’s strange. I was here the whole time, and I never heard the phone. Would you mind checking to see if it’s broken, CeCe? As you can see, my hands are full of chicken.”

  She wiggles her fingers in the air. I lay the slip of paper on the counter and pick up the phone on the wall.

  “There’s a dial tone,” I murmur. “I wonder why it didn’t ring.”

  Frowning, I press some buttons to navigate the menu, searching for the “missed calls” log. I hit the wrong button and enter the “dialed calls” log. I’m about to exit when I see something.

  “I got it.” Mrs. Davidson squints at the slip of paper. “You were calling the wrong number. His ‘seven’ here looks like a ‘one.’ ”

  But her words are a long-distance buzz in my ears. My vision is fuzzy, and my lungs feel like they’re being squished between two metal plates.

  I blink. And blink again. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t erase what I’m seeing. On September 18, before Sam and I became partners or friends, there are six calls to my cell phone number. Six calls on the same day the hotline posters were doctored.

  I didn’t recognize his home number when he first gave it to me. But there’s no denying my phone number on this screen.

  There has to be an explanation. Was he legitimately trying to call the hotline? He never mentioned it when I told him about the doctored hotline posters. Did Briony make those calls? Doubtful. With her uncanny ability for friendships, she doesn’t need to pour her heart out to a stranger.

  Without meaning to, I begin to build the case against Sam.

  He knew my call counselor schedule—so he knew exactly when I would be at the hotline. He was the one who suggested anyone’s head could be Photoshopped onto an image. He was the only person I confided in about Phoenix. And my mom’s journal. And my suspicions.

  Throughout this entire investigation, Sam always seemed to know things about me before I had a chance to tell him. He knew my mother had died in the old shed, for example. And the fact that I was a call counselor. I thought it was because he was a good reporter. But maybe it’s because he’s been engineering my harassment from the beginning.

  I place the phone back in its cradle. My hands were gripping the handle so hard my fingerprints shine on the surface. It’s not that I think Sam is Phoenix. That would be ridiculous. He’s my age, and he wasn’t even in town when my mom committed suicide. Clearly, he’s not preying on any young girls and convincing them to take topless photos.

  But maybe he wanted to write a good story so desperately he was willing to manipulate the situation to get what he wanted. Maybe the harassment was designed to send me running straight into his arms. Maybe all those kisses were a way to get close to me, to discover tidbits about my mom I never would’ve otherwise confided.

  Well, it worked. If Sam is actually behind the harassment, I’m an even bigger fool than I thought.

  “Are you okay, dear?” Mrs. Davidson stirs the roux on the stovetop, her eyebrows knit together. “You look pale all of a sudden.”

  I bare my teeth in what I hope passes for a smile. I’m not going to jump to conclusions. I did that with Mr. Willoughby and look what happened. “I’m fine. Is it okay if I go see Sam now?”

  “Go right ahead. You know where his room is.”

  I move into the hallway like a moth flitting around, not sure where to land. I walk up the stairs to the second floor. The entire hallway is strewn with Sam’s school supplies. His worn navy backpack with the broken zipper. A calculator jumbled with a protractor and some graph paper. His black-and-white composition notebook.

  And papers. Lots and lots of crumbled-up papers, possible early drafts of his article.

  Without fully understanding why, I pick up a ball of paper, smoothing it out and skimming my eyes over the words.

  A headline marches across the page: Secret Journal Reveals Sex Suicide’s Sexual Past.

  I stumble backward and sag against the wall as I read. And then my legs give out entirely, and I collapse to the floor.

  The article lays it all out, in black and white. How seventeen-year-old Tabitha Brooks began dating her teacher. How she became increasingly isolated from her friends. How she was made to perform oral sex under a wooden desk in a classroom filled with students.

  Sam’s memory for details is uncanny. He remembered the names of Tabitha’s best friend and even the boy with whom she was supposed to double-date. He described her outfit down to the thong. He even included a few quotes that came directly from my mother’s journal.

  How did he remember all that? I’m not sure I even gave him all those facts.

  It’s almost as if he had the journal right in front of him.

  No. That’s impossible. The journal has been in my backpack the entire day. Why, I haven’t even taken it out since first period ...

  A chill runs over my spine. Oh my god. Sam watched me adjust the journal in my backpack. He knows I brought it to school. He could’ve taken it when I wasn’t paying attention.

  My heart drilling holes in my ears, I pick up Sam’s navy backpack and look inside. Sure enough, my mother’s yellowed-page, leather-bound journal lies inside.

  There’s no mistake. Sam Davidson stole from me.

  I clutch my chest, a sharp pain spearing the very center of me. When I thought my mother betrayed me, a blade lodged in my heart. And now it’s being twisted and turned, shredding and destroying.

  Until there’s nothing left.

  And the worst part? The hand that wields the blade belongs to Sam.

  The boy with whom I was beginning to fall in love.

  Chapter 39

  I hover at the entrance to Sam’s room. He hunches over his computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard. An empty mug sits on his desk, next to a faint coffee ring. More crumbled-up papers fill a wire-mesh trash can, and he’s muttering to himself.

  Any other time, I might have admired his discipline. Now, it takes all my strength not to drive my fist through the computer screen.

  “You ass,” I say. “How could you do this to me?”

  He cocks his head like he’s trying to hear something. A whisper on the air, maybe, or his conscience. If he even has one.

  After a moment, he continues typing. That’s when I realize he’s wearing headphones. The words are a refrain inside my brain; my throat’s clogged with lies and betrayal. I don’t want to say the words again, and the fact that I have to makes the anger flame even higher.

  I march into the room and slam my mother’s journal on his keyboard.

  “CeCe!” Sam jumps and removes the headphones. “When did you get here? Did you get your phone back from Mr. Willoughby?”

  I blink. Mr. Willoughby? Oh right. Sam still doesn’t know what happened. “He’s not Phoenix,” I say flatly. “He’s in a serious relationship with Ms. Hughes and doesn’t have time to mess around with young girls. But that
’s not why I’m here.”

  I jab my finger at the journal.

  He studies the book as if he hadn’t stolen it. As if he weren’t planning to betray me. No—like he hadn’t already betrayed me. “This isn’t what you think . . .”

  “You used ‘sex’ twice in your article headline, did you know that? Isn’t that a ‘no-no’ in journalism, repeating words in the same headline? Or maybe there’s an exception since sex sells. Sex wins awards and gets you scholarships. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

  “I’m not going to submit that article to my editor.” He takes off his glasses and scrubs a hand down his face. I see a laceration on his temple, where his glasses might have cut into his skin if he had been knocked around. A dark purple bruise is beginning to form on his cheekbone.

  My knees go weak. This must be from the fight with his dad. I want to trace my fingers along his skin, kiss him until the pain goes away. But I can’t feel sorry for him. I won’t. He doesn’t deserve my sympathy, this bastard who was using me.

  “The draft you read was just a warm-up exercise, CeCe. Something to get the words flowing. I wouldn’t let them run something like this.”

  “And yet, you wrote it,” I say. “You stole from me. After I trusted you, after everything we had together, you felt okay sneaking into my backpack and taking my mom’s journal. A backup plan, in case you couldn’t come up with anything better.”

  I whip around and pace the room, in a line between his bed and dresser. “How could you, Sam? I thought you wanted to be a journalist. A serious investigative reporter, standing up for the little guy, protecting what’s right.”

  He stands and steps directly in my path. I could veer around him, but he’s too big and the room’s too small. “I do, and that’s not why I took the journal. I have a contact who knows Tommy Farrow’s sister. The girl with the striped tights, the one I helped on the first day of school? She’s friends with Lila and is arranging for me to have a meeting with her. I thought if I showed her the journal, it would convince her to talk.”