Behind Every Lie

by Christina McDonald

  “Sit down. I’ll make you a sandwich.” Liam stroked his knuckles down my cheek. I winced as the raw skin scraped my face. Liam’s eczema had flared up again. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

  “A cup of tea, maybe?”

  “Won’t it just keep you awake?”

  “You’re probably right. Just water then.”

  I went upstairs to change into a clean shirt and yoga pants. When I returned, Liam was in the kitchen, barking orders into his phone. “I don’t care what it takes, get that building permit approved.” He paused, then sighed. “Fine. Up our budget. I’m not losing this project just because some new building inspector doesn’t know how this works.”

  A second later, he came out of the kitchen with a glass of water and a cheese sandwich.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  He looked irritated. “There’s a new building inspector in town and he’s making noises about denying our building permit.”

  “But you already have the building up, right?”

  Liam frowned. “It’ll be fine. Just a little more negotiating than I thought, is all.”

  “I think I’ll go outside,” I said.

  “Are you sure? Maybe you should just go to bed. The doctor said you need to rest. Heal. Your head got pretty banged up.”

  He reached out to touch the bandage on my temple but I ducked away from his fingers. “I don’t know. I just feel too trapped inside right now.”

  “You know you need to—”

  “Honestly, I’m fine.” I cut him off before he went into overprotective mode.

  “Okay, well, are you all right if I do a few things for work then?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  Liam was a workaholic. Any project, any job, he persisted at until he saw it through. I knew his drive was an unspoken fuck you to the father who’d rejected him when he was a teenager. But at least he’d turned a negative into a positive.

  “The best success stories begin with failure,” he’d told me once when we first met. He’d smiled then, and I knew. This was a man who wouldn’t give up on me. And I was right. Liam never gave up on anything.

  I went outside to the sheltered wraparound porch and curled up on one of the wicker chairs, draping a blanket over my lap. The grand old trees swayed and creaked as the wind raked over them, shaking pine needles over the ground.

  After a few minutes the automatic porch light clicked off, plunging the countryside into darkness. Finally, hidden by the velvety dark, I bowed my head, tears scorching my cheeks. The grief I’d been burying all day cracked and poured out of me.

  * * *

  Flashes of an alley slick with rain.

  The outline of a man’s profile.

  Someone calling my name.

  “Eva. Eva!”

  I lurched awake, my body covered in a cold, sticky sweat. Liam was sitting next to me on our bed. He stroked a finger gently down my cheek, his forehead etched with concern.

  “Morning, sleepyhead. How you feeling?” He was freshly showered, his hair still damp, his boy-next-door face smooth from his morning shave.

  I touched my temple and winced. “A little sore,” I admitted. “What time is it?”

  “A little after ten. I went and got croissants from that bakery you like in town.”

  I bolted upright. Pain skewered my head and my heart simultaneously as I remembered.

  Mom was dead.

  I tried to stand. I needed to call Melissa.

  “Relax.” Liam gently pushed me back down.

  His voice, I realized, was clear again. My hearing was better.

  “I took care of it. I told Melissa you weren’t feeling well. I moved a few meetings around so I could take care of you this morning. You know …” He ran a fingertip down my nose so gently I shivered. “You could set up your studio here at home. We could clear out more space in the garage next to your kiln. You could start selling your work online.”

  I blinked. My brain was too muddled to even process that idea.

  “Just something to think about.” Liam stood and held up a small, butter-stained paper bag. “Have a shower and come downstairs.”

  In the bathroom, I peeled the bandage off my temple. I touched the tender lump and froze, my left hand suspended in midair. I wiggled my fingers. My engagement ring was gone. A million worries about losing it collided inside my head, finally exterminated by one rational thought: the hospital must’ve taken it off for my CAT scan. I made a mental note to call them later.

  The lightning marks on my left forearm were still wrapped, so I hunted in the first aid kit for a small pair of scissors. The bandage frayed and slipped as I awkwardly hacked at it with my right hand.

  “Damnit!” Why didn’t they make tiny scissors for left-handed people?

  Finally free of the bandages, I studied the marks feathering up my arm. The blisters had started crusting over, but the fernlike discolorations were still angry and red. In a way, I was glad for the marks, for the physical reminder of what had happened. It was more than I’d gotten last time, when all the wounds were hidden.

  I synced my phone to my Moxie showerhead speaker—a birthday present from Liam—and turned the music up full blast, tapping out a dance beat on my leg as I closed my eyes and let the hot water slide over my body. Fragments of memories flashed like a lightbulb with a loose connection. I shook my head. I wanted the cold black-and-white facts of what had happened the other night, but I couldn’t seem to gather the threads into any logical order.

  Downstairs, the kitchen was warm and bright, the dishwasher humming quietly, the air smelling of antibacterial wipes. Liam had laid the dining table with a crisp white tablecloth, a carafe of orange juice, and ramekins of butter and jam. Everything was perfectly aligned. A vase of the black roses Liam grew in his greenhouse sat in the center, the velvet petals releasing a spicy clove scent.

  Liam shook the flaky croissants from the bag onto two plates.

  “Tea?” he asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  He flicked the electric kettle on and bustled about getting plates and napkins on the table. When the kettle boiled, he poured hot water over my tea bag and set a timer to let it steep for exactly three-and-a-half minutes.

  My eyes fell on the table, the newspaper Liam had been reading.

  The body of a woman was found in her house in Queen Anne last night, just a few streets behind popular Kerry Park. Police say the woman had been brutally murdered and are asking—

  “Let me take that.” Liam scooped up the newspaper and deposited it on the counter. The stark words paraded across my mind anyway.

  “I called a defense attorney,” he said. “The only evidence the police have is circumstantial. But he advised us to go in for an interview with the detective sooner rather than later. You can give them your fingerprints and DNA; obviously they’ll already be at the house from other times you’ve visited. You have no outstanding warrants, so they’ll have no reason to hold you. And it could take weeks to get the initial crime scene tests back.”

  My throat went dry and gritty. Would they pull my file? Would they find out about my past? Liam might learn everything I’d worked so hard to hide.

  I stared out the kitchen windows at the lake. The water was the color of clay, the wind rippling across its surface. Drizzle painted the landscape a dull gray. A movement just beyond the porch caught my eye. I jumped, a tremor dusting my arms, but then my eyes adjusted to the murky light. The lake was empty. It was just the shadows of the trees whipping in the wind.

  Liam was watching me; I could feel his eyes even though he was trying to hide it. He thought I was being paranoid and irrational. Was he right? Or was I just grieving?

  I shivered, feeling raw and exposed. Liam set my tea in front of me, and I sipped it, not caring that it was too hot.

  “I made an appointment with the lawyer in Langley first thing tomorrow morning,” he said. “We’ll talk to him together, then he’ll come with us to speak to Detective Jackso
n in Seattle.”

  I should’ve felt grateful, but instead the grit of irritation slid beneath my teeth. What was wrong with me? Why was I being such an ungrateful bitch?

  I picked up the butter knife and jabbed it into my croissant, slopped strawberry jam in the slit. Suddenly a strange mist oozed around my eyes. Electric pulses oscillated along the damaged skin on my left arm.

  I stare at the blood cooling on my hands. It is everywhere. The harsh iron scent clings to the back of my throat, making me feel like I will vomit.

  And clutched in my left hand is a knife.

  eight

  eva

  I JUMPED UP, the chair legs scraping hard against the kitchen floor. Pain flooded my head, making me press my fingertips to my temples.

  “What’s wrong?” Liam was there instantly, clutching my good arm. Light slanted through the window, defining his prominent jaw, sharp nose, the scattering of freckles over his cheeks. Worry lines were carved like quotation marks around his mouth. “Do you remember something?”

  “I was at my mom’s house.” My hands were shaking. “I was standing in her living room. Liam, I was holding a knife!”

  I set the butter knife on the table and looked at the bandage on my palm. The wound was suddenly hot, pulsing. “It must be how I got this cut.”

  Liam’s mouth buckled. “Babe, that isn’t possible. You cut your hand on the broken pottery. When I came into the garage, you were already bleeding. I helped you bandage it up. Don’t you remember?”

  “No. I …” Muddled memories darted around.

  I looked at Liam. He was frowning, his mouth pursed, brows scrunched, his eyes full of pity. I closed my eyes. I didn’t know what I remembered, what was real and what wasn’t. I felt the knife, heavy in my hand. But was it real? Was it my hand?

  Once again, I couldn’t trust myself.

  “You’ve had a traumatic injury.” Liam wrapped his arms around me. “Your brain just needs time to heal. It’s completely understandable you’re mixing your memories up.”

  I leaned into Liam. At least I could rely on him. It was Liam who’d found me staring at a bottle of wine at a local restaurant two years ago. I’d only been on the island a few months and was contemplating drinking it, then another, and another, on the verge of wanting it all to end.

  Liam was sitting on the outdoor patio near me, clearly waiting for someone. After a while, it became obvious his date wasn’t coming. It was an unseasonably cold evening, and I was shivering in my thin coat. He offered me his jacket, and I offered him a glass from my bottle.

  I’d been thinking about what had happened, regretting my every decision, so when he asked if he could join me I had no defenses left. It was his face—so calm and caring. He had this amazing quality to the way he listened, like he was interested in everything I had to say.

  A few months later I got a flat tire on the outskirts of town, and he’d been driving by. He pulled over and put the spare on, then called a tow truck to take my car to a nearby service station. It was a relief to let someone take care of everything for once.

  It took a while before I felt strong enough to go out with him, but when I did, everything just clicked like it was meant to be. He was older than me, but he had all the confidence and maturity that came with it. He was funny and charming, and eventually I started to forget the night my life fell apart. I owed Liam all of that. Not just my safety, but my sanity too.

  “I think I’ll go in to work,” I said. That’s what Mom would do, I decided. She had that whole British stiff upper lip thing going on. I would just keep moving like she would have.

  “But the doctor said you need to rest,” Liam argued.

  “I’m fine, I swear. Besides, I know you need to work. I can tell that new building is stressing you out.”

  Liam looked surprised. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was so obvious. There was one tiny code violation, and now the building inspector’s being a pain in the ass.”

  “Will you have to take the building down?”

  Liam laughed. “No, of course not! He’ll come around. I know how to deal with these guys. I am not losing this project.” He moved to get his coat. “Come on, I’ll drive you to the gallery. Just promise you’ll take it easy today.”

  “I can drive myself.”

  He gave me a look. “How? Your car isn’t in the garage.”

  I hesitated, trying to sort through the fractured pieces of my brain. But there was no memory there. Andrew said the paramedics had found me near Mom’s house. Had I driven there?

  Liam gathered our plates and took them to the kitchen sink. “You really shouldn’t be driving anyway.”

  He was probably right. Pain radiated around my head, and my arm was buzzing. I hurried upstairs and swallowed a few ibuprofen, then grabbed my purse and my quilted coat, since my green corduroy one was still missing.

  In town, I kissed Liam good-bye and made my way toward the gallery, listening to my voice mail as I walked. The first one was from Andrew, his voice low and tight, the way it used to get when he was little and trying not to cry.

  “Eva, have you talked to the detective yet?” There was a long pause. “They’ve cleared Mom’s house. I can’t … I can’t go there yet. The cops gave me a list of crime scene cleanup companies. We need to choose one, okay? Call me.”

  The next message was from my dad. We hadn’t spoken much since he’d remarried a few years ago, but the sound of his voice brought tears to my eyes.

  “Hi, sweetie. I’ve just heard.…” His voice cracked. “Is there anything I can do? Call me. I love you.”

  Just as I hung up, the slate-gray sky unleashed a flurry of raindrops. I hurried down the alley to the gallery. Inside, Melissa was bent over the desk at the back poring over reports from the cash register. She looked up, surprised to see me.

  “Holy shitballs!” She gawked at the lump on my forehead. “What the hell happened to you? Liam said you were sick!”

  She pulled me in for a tight hug, smelling of hairspray and chocolate chip cookies. I winced and she let go.

  “Christ, you look horrible! Liam start hittin’ you or somethin’?” She laughed at her own joke.

  “I got struck by lightning.”

  She burst out laughing. “No way!”

  “Seriously.”

  Her smile faded. “Seriously? Are you okay?”

  I bit my lip. “I don’t … actually know,” I said slowly.

  * * *

  As soon as I told Melissa what had happened, she locked up the gallery and brought me to the café across the street. We were huddled at a corner table overlooking the harbor. A thick mist crept slowly across the water, fingers of pale gray shrouding Puget Sound in a dewy cloak.

  “The police think you might have murdered your mom? Christ.” Melissa sat back heavily in her chair. “Do they have any evidence?”

  “I don’t know. But my fingerprints and DNA would be at her house anyway, so I don’t know how to explain that it wasn’t me, especially because I can’t remember.”

  Melissa stared at me, appalled, the same way she’d stared at me the first time we met. We were both waiting to get our hair cut, and I’d told my stylist I wanted my hair chopped to my scalp. Melissa’s gaze had jerked up from the magazine she was reading.

  “Honey, you don’t want to do that,” she’d said. She flipped to a page in the magazine and held it out to me. “Look here.” She tapped a manicured fingernail on a picture of a woman with a small, pointy face and a carefully mussed pixie cut.

  A few days later I saw a now hiring sign on the door of the Crafted Artisan gallery. Turned out Melissa was the owner. She’d hired me on the spot.

  “You gotta find yourself a lawyer, hon.” She shook her head, her dark curls dancing around her face.

  “Liam set up an appointment with one tomorrow,” I said. “He’s going to come with me to be interviewed by the detective.”

  “That’s good, right?” Melissa’s phone rang, but she pressed End and ignor
ed it. “Right?”

  “I don’t want Liam to come with me.”

  “Why?”

  I didn’t answer at first. I lifted my teaspoon and stirred my tea, watching the milky liquid swirl dizzyingly. I felt like I was looking down from a very great height, about to jump but not sure where I would land.

  “A few years ago, before I moved here, I was raped. It was a … really difficult time for me. I never told Liam. I don’t want him to find out.”

  “Oh, honey …”

  I didn’t want her pity. I didn’t want her to think of me any differently. I just wanted to say it out loud, to have someone understand how I was feeling.

  “The thing is, I can’t really remember that either,” I said. I pushed my fingertips into my sinuses to keep the tears away. “I mean, I know it happened, I know it. But the police … I don’t know, they didn’t really believe me.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I was just so stupid. I was out drinking with a friend, and we were taking shots, like idiots, and I was drunk, but then I was soo drunk and …”

  “It was not your fault!”

  “When I woke up the next day, I took a shower. I wasn’t thinking about evidence, but I guess I washed all of it away, so I couldn’t prove anything. When I reported it, the cops put the pieces together and they built this picture of me as a slut, not a victim. They didn’t believe me. And I couldn’t remember it, exactly, so how could I prove it? The police didn’t believe me, why should Liam? Why should I, for that matter?”

  “Look, those cops were asshats!” Melissa was practically spluttering with fury. “You can’t listen to them! You know what happened and you have to trust that. You could’ve filed a complaint against them. What a fucking shitshow!”

  I smiled. I wished I had just a sliver of her confidence.

  “I know Liam. He’ll believe you and love you no matter what.”

  Melissa’s phone rang again, and I waved at her to answer it. She hesitated, but snatched it up and walked a few feet away, speaking in low, angry tones. I checked my phone, scrolling through a handful of texts and missed calls from Andrew, my dad, Aunt Lily.