The Darkest Lie

by Pintip Dunn

  I hand the paper back to her. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you care about him. Or at least, you used to. He’s hurting right now. I thought it would matter to you.”

  My chest feels like the air inside a sauna, saturated and moist. It does matter. It matters a lot. But I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel anymore.

  He never intended to publish the scandalous story, he said to me. And here’s the proof. He opted for a subpar story, knowing he was risking his scholarship. And with Mackenzie confessing to the photos, and Mr. Swift under investigation by the police, what exactly am I still holding against him?

  The six dialed calls. The stolen journal. When it comes down to it, he still betrayed me.

  “I don’t know what happened between the two of you.” Briony pushes the knit hat up an inch. “But my brother hasn’t been himself lately. He hasn’t been bugging me for rides or trying out some crazy new gadget. He seems to think . . .” She pauses. “He thinks you’re ashamed to be seen with him. Is that true?”

  “Of course not. Sometimes you don’t want other people to know about a relationship. But that doesn’t make your feelings any less real.”

  “Doesn’t it?” she murmurs.

  The alarms ringing faintly at the back of my head turn into sirens. She’s not acting devastated. She’s more concerned about her brother’s relationship than her own boyfriend being arrested. What’s going on?

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  “No reason.” She adjusts the knit cap again, pulling it over her eyebrows. “It’s just, my boyfriend and I are in love. And I want everyone else to feel that way, too.”

  Still in love. Still her boyfriend. So she isn’t suffering from a breakup?

  And yet, her voice doesn’t sound like she’s in love. Instead, it’s high-pitched and squeaky, and each word rear-ends the following one. As if she’s trying to convince herself. As if she were my mother, in the final entries of her journal.

  “Briony,” I say carefully. “Did you call my cell phone, the second week of school? Did you call me six times?”

  “Oh.” Two bright spots show on her cheeks. “Um, I don’t think so. I mean, what reason would I have to call you?”

  “I don’t have the slightest clue.”

  “Yes, well. Listen. I need to get going.” She shoves the hat toward her hairline and backs away a few feet. “But if you care about my brother—and it sounds like you do—tell him. When he was with you, he was happy. He hasn’t been this happy since . . . well, since before my dad started beating up my mom. And that was a looong time ago. So, think about it, okay?”

  She turns, and a gust of wind lifts the hat right off her head, blowing it to the asphalt. She lunges after the hat and struggles to put it back on.

  “Oh, jeez. Bad haircut,” she babbles. “I’ve got an appointment at the salon to have them even it out.”

  But I don’t respond. I can’t. I’m too busy staring. Briony’s once-lustrous, wild mane of hair has been lopped off near the base of her neck. In choppy, jagged cuts. As if by a butcher knife.

  I’ve seen that haircut only once before. On my mother, in the police photos of her dead body.

  Chapter 44

  I get back to my house in record time, but an hour later, I still haven’t made it off the front porch. If I haven’t worn a rut in the wooden slats yet, it’s not for lack of trying. How could Briony have the same haircut as my mom? How?

  I close my eyes, conjuring up an image of my mother the last time I saw her. Even with the funeral parlor makeup, she was beautiful. So beautiful. The eyelids creamy and rounded, her lips closed and relaxed. Her hair short, the jagged edges trimmed. But the hairstylist didn’t get rid of the jutting angles. He must’ve thought they were part of my mom’s personal style.

  There’s only one answer, really. Only one thing Briony and my mom could have had in common.

  Or should I say: one man.

  Phoenix.

  Briony stated over and over again she wasn’t dating an older man. And no matter how weird she was at the end of our conversation, she’s not acting like a girl whose boyfriend was just busted for having blown-up photos of girls in our senior class.

  Whoever her boyfriend is, it’s not Mr. Swift. And if it’s not my study hall teacher, that means the real sexual predator is still out there. That means Phoenix is still on the loose.

  I reach the railing, spin around, and am about to stalk up my porch for the hundredth time when Sam scoots up my driveway. He ditches the metal contraption by the bushes and bounds up the steps, safety pads and all.

  “I thought you’d retired that thing.” My hands go to my hair, my shirt, my jeans. I don’t know when I was expecting to see him on my porch again. Certainly not this soon. Not now, when I haven’t figured out how I feel.

  “I know you’re still mad, but you’ve got to help me,” he says. “It’s about my sister.”

  I stop pacing. “Briony? I just saw her an hour ago. What’s going on?”

  “She left for the night. She told my parents she was staying at a friend’s house, but I ran into Amber at the coffee shop. Without Bri. She admitted Bri went off with her boyfriend and was using Amber as an excuse.” His feet tap a staccato rhythm on the porch. “She won’t pick up my calls, but a few minutes ago, she texted me this.”

  He hands me his cell phone, the tips of his fingers brushing my knuckles. I try not to feel the tingle, try not to notice the broad chest hovering over me as I read:

  Sammy, don’t judge! Amber said I was so busted. But you won’t tell Mom, will you? You know I’d do it for you. You and me against the world, remember? Love you.

  I hand the phone back, my mind whirling. So she’s with Phoenix right now? After he cut her hair the same way as my mother’s? What can it mean?

  “Am I overreacting?” Sam’s eyes pierce into me, making me breathless and achy, all at the same time. “What should I do? If Mr. Swift is Phoenix, then she’s probably with some guy her own age. Should I leave them alone?”

  I’ve never seen him like this. As confused as a boy lost in the woods, when he’s normally the one who holds the compass.

  I take a deep breath and tell him everything. Briony’s strange behavior. The jagged haircut. My suspicion that Mr. Swift and Phoenix aren’t the same person.

  “My god! We have to find her. We have to get her away from that monster before it’s too late.”

  “They’re still in the happy stage of their relationship,” I say, even as I remember the high-pitched, squeaky voice. “Maybe he hasn’t moved on to the exploitative parts yet.”

  “The very fact they’re together is exploitative,” he moans. “He’s got her to himself for the next twenty-four hours. A lot can happen in twenty-four hours.”

  As much as I’d like to, I can’t disagree. “Do you have any idea where they could be?”

  “No clue.” Despair edges his voice like the spiky remains of a broken window. “I quizzed Amber, hard. But she says she doesn’t know anything. Bri told her she wanted privacy. So they could have uninterrupted time and space to revel in their love. Whatever that means.”

  “Text her,” I suggest, pulling my own phone out of my pocket. “I’ll try calling. Maybe she’ll pick up if it’s me.”

  But the call goes straight to voice mail. “Briony, it’s me, CeCe,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Sam. And I’m so confused. I really need to talk to you. Please call me.” I hang up.

  “I sent the text,” Sam says, a funny look on his face as if he overheard someone talking about him.

  Oh crap, he did. My voice mail message. What was I thinking? Not about who was standing next to me, apparently.

  “You and Bri were talking about me?” he asks.

  “I was trying to get her to call me back. I would’ve said anything.”

  “But you did talk about me,” he insists. “What about?”

  “She showed me your article. The one that cam
e out this morning.” I could leave it at that. In fact, I probably should.

  But the only thing his “feature” article featured were some dry statistics about crisis call centers. He wrote about vanilla air fresheners, of all things. For me.

  “Oh Sam. Your story ... it was awful. Truly awful.”

  He blinks. “That bad, huh?”

  “It was one of the most boring things I’ve ever read.”

  His lips twitch, and he takes a step closer to me. “I told you I’d never print anything that would hurt you.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  I don’t know if he closes the gap, or if I do. But all of a sudden, our mouths smash together, and our limbs wind around each other. Our tongues tangle and then sigh and then tangle again.

  But just as quickly, it’s over. This time, I know exactly who moved, because my lips are still hanging in the air.

  The look he gives me yanks my heart into long, sticky strands of taffy. “I wish you could’ve done that before the article came out,” he says. “I wish you could’ve trusted me to do what I said.”

  I drop my eyes. “I can’t even trust myself, let alone anybody else.”

  He walks to the other end of the porch, as far from me as he can get on the wooden slats. “I guess I can’t blame you. I did steal your journal. And I’m not sorry I did. I told Lila Farrow the gist of your mom’s history over the phone. I didn’t read her lines from the journal, I didn’t give her unnecessary details. But I did tell her. And because of that, she agreed to meet with me. When they suspended Mr. Swift this morning, I thought the meeting was no longer necessary. But now that we know that Phoenix is still out there, that he’s holed up with my sister, we need Lila to confess, more than ever.”

  His voice hardens, and I can see the fifteen-year-old boy who stepped in front of his mother to save her from his father’s fists. “I’m sorry I violated your trust, CeCe. But if it means saving my sister, I’d do it again.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I try to summon the red-hot fire of betrayal, but it doesn’t come. Nothing’s changed—and yet, everything has. I can’t forget what he’s done—but I can’t continue to be mad, either.

  If we were reading from a script, the next lines couldn’t be clearer. It’s okay, Sam. I’ll forgive you, if you’ll forgive me. I’m sorry I kept our relationship a secret. I’m not afraid to shout it across the lake. To TP the school’s front lawn with our initials. To kiss you in the middle of the locker corridor.

  The words march across my tongue, trampling on my taste buds, and yet I don’t say them. I can’t. I want to reach through this wall separating us. Dismantle the bricks and smash them on the ground. But I’m battling more than just mortar and concrete. I have to fight against doubt and insecurity and distrust. And I’m just not equal to the task.

  “When’s your appointment with Lila?” I ask hollowly.

  He looks at his watch. “I have to leave in a few minutes.”

  “Let’s keep looking for Briony, then. You check Twitter and Instagram. I’ll take Facebook and Tumblr.”

  He nods. Without a word, he turns and props his phone on the railing. A sudden gale shakes the trees, and the leaves shiver. I shiver, too. Will he ever talk to me in that light, teasing tone again? Or are we forever doomed to this businesslike interaction?

  I rub my arms and pull Facebook up on my phone. And almost drop the battered device onto the floor.

  “Sam,” I say. “Take a look at this.”

  I hand him the phone. His face turns pale as he reads his sister’s updated status:

  The weather is beautiful—the perfect evening

  for a photo shoot.

  Chapter 45

  A photo shoot. A nude, explicit photo shoot, just like my mother’s.

  We’re too late, we’re too late, we’re too late.

  Sam staggers backward. “How could they be at this point already? You said they were happy.”

  “I didn’t know.” Nausea clenches my stomach. The cycle’s repeating twenty-five years later. And it’s all my fault.

  “It’s because of me,” I whisper. “After I almost accused Mr. Willoughby, I dropped the investigation. I retreated into my shell. I did everything Phoenix wanted me to do. He must’ve seen that as a triumph. It must’ve given him the confidence to move on to the next phase of his plan with Briony. With me off his trail, it gave him the opening to do what he wanted.”

  “And what he wants is to destroy my sister.” Sam’s voice is dull, defeated. With the hopelessness of a guy who spent a year setting up a house of playing cards, only to have it tumble down one card from completion.

  You did this, something inside me shouts. You were too scared to stand up for what was right. Too scared to put yourself in the spotlight. You let what other people think dictate your life. You let your fear of their judgment cause you to make the biggest mistake of all. There was nothing you could do to save your mother. But now, you’ve endangered another girl just like her.

  The emptiness inside calls me. The one that just claimed three days of my life. The one into which I’ve disappeared for months at a time. It would be so easy to stop fighting and sink, sink, sink. To let the nothingness claim me as surely as quicksand.

  But I can’t. Not this time. Because Briony needs me. And I’m not going to let her down once again.

  “We have to find Phoenix,” I say, not recognizing my own voice.

  Sam gets to his feet, and the familiar set of his shoulders returns. “You said you eliminated Mr. Willoughby. And we’ve just determined Briony can’t possibly be dating Mr. Swift. That leaves Principal Winters, right?”

  “Maybe.” But my stomach swirls like a washing machine. Something’s not right. It can’t be a process of elimination. We’re missing something. Someone. But what? “I want to go back to the library. Check out the yearbooks again.”

  Sam nods. “Okay. I’m going to meet Lila. Maybe I can convince her to tell us who Phoenix is.”

  I fish my keys out of the stuff I dumped on the steps. Sam and I are about to separate, to go our different ways, to pursue two distinct leads. And yet, despite our disagreement, despite the lingering betrayal, I feel closer to him than ever before. “Good luck,” I say. “Partner.”

  Something I can’t read crosses his face, and he nods once. “Partner.”

  * * *

  Families gather on the sidewalk outside the public library. A little boy yanks his sister’s pigtails, and kids run around in circles, chasing each other. The moms look on, weighed down with diaper bags and red-and-white-striped boxes of popcorn, with varying degrees of exasperation.

  “What happened?” I ask the least harried-looking mom.

  She rolls her eyes and sticks a pacifier into the mouth of a wailing toddler. “They canceled story hour. Power’s out.”

  “They closed the library?”

  She gives me a sympathetic look, like she would give me a pacifier, too, if it would make me feel better. “You can still go in there. They’re open, but it’s dark.”

  I thank her and walk inside. It’s dim and cave-like, the only light coming from the late afternoon rays slanting through the windows. The librarian sits at the reference desk, her face shadowed.

  She grimaces when she sees me. “They say I have to stay here. Can you believe it? Power should be back in an hour, but if you can’t wait, take one of these.” She hands me one of the half dozen flashlights on her desk.

  I switch it on, and the light, as flimsy as candles on a birthday cake, cuts through the shadows. Spooky. Steeling my shoulders, I make my way to the shelves behind the newspapers and kneel in front of the yearbooks. I find my mom’s senior yearbook. Holding the flashlight with one hand and turning the pages with the other, I go through the yearbook slowly, looking for anything I may have missed the first time.

  Prom queen, student council president. My mom was everywhere her senior year. Looking at her red hair and her even redder lips, the brilliant smile and the straight posture
, I’d never guess that seventeen-year-old Tabitha was anything less than perfectly happy. But I of all people should know how deceiving appearances can be. This is the girl that everybody sees. The girl in the mirror. The real Tabitha is hidden somewhere inside this beautiful face, so deep that the only people who glimpsed her might have been my father and me.

  Tears suddenly rush to my eyes. Don’t worry, Mom. I’m going to find Phoenix. I won’t let him hurt anyone else, and I’m going to show the world who you really are. Not the bimbo teacher who slept with a student. Not the weak woman who abandoned her husband and daughter.

  But the mother who loved me beyond measure. The woman who made her husband come alive. The teacher who cared so much and so deeply that she set up a crisis hotline so no student would ever feel as lost as she did. That’s the real Tabitha Brooks. And it’s time for her to resume her rightful place in our memories.

  Quickly, before the tears can begin a fresh assault, I turn to the photo of my mom sitting on the sports car next to her friends. Here. This is where I get that niggling feeling. This is where the dots need connecting. But how?

  I bob the flashlight, and for a moment, all I see is the front bumper of the car. The car. I was so focused on the people before, I didn’t bother to look at what they’re gathered around. I’ve seen this car before. I know it.

  I squint at the yearbook. The photo is black and white, but the shape of the car is so familiar. And then there’s the racing stripe down the center . . . Oh my god. The racing stripe. If this car were orange, it could be Liam’s car.

  Liam’s car. I don’t get it. He couldn’t be involved. Right?

  A flashlight shines in my eyes and then moves away. An instant later, Sam drops down beside me, panting. “Lila wouldn’t give me a name, but she admitted they met through the hotline.” His words tumble over each other. “She called to talk about her parents’ divorce, and he was her counselor. After a few calls, he suggested they meet, and the relationship progressed from there. What do you think? This helps, right?”