Behind Every Lie

by Christina McDonald

  He set the pieces back on the desk and turned to me. “We found your car.” He pronounced it cah. “Do you remember parking it by your mom’s house?”

  I shook my head, mind churning. So my car was at my mom’s! “No. I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

  “Could someone else have driven it? Taken your keys?”

  I grabbed my purse from where I’d set it on the corner of my desk. I shoved aside gum wrappers, loose change, sunglasses, a packet of menthol Halls before finding my keys and shaking them at the detective.

  “No, they’re here.”

  “Does anybody have a copy?”

  “I keep a spare key in a magnetic box under the car.”

  “Have you remembered anything else?”

  “No. Look, do I need a lawyer?”

  “Do you?”

  Everything was suddenly too bright, too loud, too overwhelming. I wanted him to go away. Jackson snapped his notebook shut and took a step closer to me. My back pressed against the studio wall, the space seeming smaller than ever. I had nowhere to go. I knew he was doing it to intimidate me, and it was working. Sweat had broken out under my arms and along my hairline.

  His mouth twisted in a cruel approximation of a smile. “I pulled your file, Eva. I was really sorry to hear about what happened to you.”

  His words were light, but his eyes were menacing. “I would’ve done a more thorough investigation than Detective Anderson did. You know he retired last year? Moved to Alaska to fish. But me …” He shook his head, his blue eyes narrow. “I never would’ve stopped until I found the guy who did that to you.”

  I dug my fingertips into my armpits, hard, desperate to stay grounded.

  “Did you ever remember who attacked you?”

  “No.” I looked away.

  “Did you ever wonder why you can’t remember?”

  “I …” I swallowed, my throat desert-dry. “I think I was drugged.”

  “But they didn’t find any drugs in your system?”

  I didn’t reply. If he’d pulled my file, he already knew the answer to that.

  Jackson snapped his notebook open again. “Tell me again about what you remember the night your mom was murdered.”

  “I already told you! I can’t remember anything!”

  “I’m just wondering if not remembering is a defense mechanism you fall back on often.”

  “I was struck by lightning! I didn’t choose to not remember!”

  “What was your relationship with your mother like?”

  I searched his face, wondering what the right answer was. He had a fleck of spit gleaming on his lower lip. A tiny scab on his chin from a shaving cut.

  “It was fine.”

  “Interesting, because I found a domestic violence incident filed against you two years ago.” He rifled through his notebook and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here it is. Third-degree assault. Eva, you attacked your mom.”

  “That’s not what happened!” Adrenaline zipped through me like a live wire, pulsing in my head. My voice clenched around the jagged knife in my throat. “The police dropped the charges.”

  “Yes, I know. Katherine didn’t want them to press charges.”

  “This is crazy.” I put a hand on my desk to steady myself, my knees rubbery. It was happening again. “I did not hurt my mom! That other time, that was an accident!”

  Jackson’s expression remained indecipherable, but I knew. He didn’t believe me. He folded his mouth into a thin line. When he spoke his voice was almost sympathetic.

  “Do you think you did it again? Maybe you were visiting her. You had a panic attack, then suddenly the knife was in your hand. You didn’t know what you were doing but you were scared, afraid the man who attacked you was back. You plunged it into her neck, then you ran, but the lightning got you before you could get away.”

  “No,” I whispered. My rib cage felt like it was being crushed.

  The images felt vivid. I could imagine what he described. But was it real? Memories could become distorted, twisted to suit the teller, or ignored and forgotten, pushed away. I should know. I’d been doing it for years.

  “Eva!” The front door banged open, the bell ringing wildly. I pushed past Detective Jackson and rushed out to the gallery, Jackson right behind me. Liam strode across the gallery and shoved a finger in his face. “You! You can’t interview her without a lawyer present.”

  Melissa peered in the front door uncertainly.

  Jackson shook his head, his lips twisted in the barest of smirks. “Not an interview.” He glanced at me. “We were just talking, right, Eva? Although I could arrest you and bring you in for questioning … if that would suit you better?”

  Liam thrust his jaw out. “If you had any evidence, you’d have arrested her already. Now, get out of here, or I’ll report you for harassment.”

  Jackson shrugged and walked to the door. At the last second he turned, impaling me with his pale eyes.

  He’d already made up his mind about me. I could see it. His suspicion was shaping my story.

  “Don’t go too far, Eva,” he said. “We might need you for further questioning.”

  eleven

  kat

  25 years before

  I MENTALLY TICKED OFF the chores I’d completed now that Eva was asleep: toys tidied, floors mopped, counters gleaming, laundry washed and folded. Everything just the way Seb liked it when he arrived home after work. I half-listened to classical music murmuring quietly on the radio as I finished ironing Seb’s shirts.

  The music ended abruptly, and a reporter started speaking: “A fire has broken out at a restaurant in Camden Police believe the fire started just outside the kitchen of the Gardener. Two people are missing and fire engines are working to contain the blaze. No official cause has yet been released.”

  Horror braided my stomach. The Gardener was very near Seb’s restaurant. I wondered if he knew the people missing.

  The front door slammed and Seb entered carrying a rather large, heavy-looking box. I set the iron down and followed him into the kitchen. He dropped the box on the counter while I filled a glass with water and handed it to him.

  “Hello, love. Let me get your dinner heated,” I said, squeezing past him to open the oven, where I’d kept the stew I’d made for dinner. I poured a large serving into a bowl and put it in the microwave.

  “Here.” Seb dug in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-pound note. “Get us a beef roast for Sunday.”

  I put the money in the jam jar I kept on top of the refrigerator, along with the rest of the weekly allowance Seb doled out for groceries. I looked around to ensure that everything was perfect, already trying to gauge his mood, to preempt his every need.

  “I like your watch.” I nodded at Seb’s wrist.

  Seb smiled. “Rolex. In this business, the face you put on becomes your identity. This watch says, Don’t fuck with me.”

  “Did you hear the Gardener caught fire tonight?” I asked. “Two people are missing.”

  “Bloody hell!” Seb’s blue eyes widened. “That’s tough luck, innit? Maybe I should head over and have a gander in a bit, eh?” He chuckled, as if watching his competition burn to the ground was funny. It made my stomach roil. “Bung my keys over, would ya, love?”

  I plucked his keys from the key hook and handed them to him. He sawed at the box he’d set down, throwing a glance to me. “The paperwork came through for Eva’s school today. She’s been accepted at that Catholic one you liked.”

  “Seb, that’s wonderful!” I exclaimed.

  “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “I am! Thank you!” I kissed Seb on the cheek.

  It had taken a bit of convincing for Seb to agree to pay for private education, but ultimately he had caved. For all his flaws, he wanted the best for Eva too.

  The microwave beeped, and I pulled out the bowl of stew with a cloth as Seb withdrew two large tins of cooking oil from the box, followed by a packet of shortbread biscuits.

  Sudd
enly I froze. The unmistakable odor of smoke wafted in the air. Seb smelled it too, I could tell. He lifted his head, nostrils flaring.

  “What’s that smell?” he asked.

  I shook my head, a sickening feeling churning in my stomach.

  The fire alarm screamed to life. We raced toward the source of the smell: the living room. The ironing board was billowing smoke, the iron facedown. Seb’s shirt and the fabric ironing board cover were on fire. Orange and yellow flames licked at the air above the metal skeleton.

  “Water!” Seb roared.

  He dropped to the floor, beneath the smoke, and yanked out the iron’s plug. He cursed as a flaming piece of fabric fell next to him. I hurried to the kitchen to fill a pot with water and rushed back to the living room, water sloshing over my feet. Seb was beating at the flame with a rug, ashes and sparks flying into the air. When I dumped the water over the remaining flames, it hissed, a quiet, dying whisper. I threw open the sliding glass door and hot, black smoke billowed outside.

  Seb turned off the fire alarm, plunging us instantly into a thick silence cinched tight with his fury.

  “Seb, I’m so sorry!” I breathed. “The iron—it must have tipped over. I didn’t think—”

  “No. You didn’t think, did you, Katherine?” he snapped. “You never do.”

  He was right. What rational person walks away and leaves a hot iron unattended?

  I waited, frozen, hoping if I didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t say a word, that perhaps Seb wouldn’t punish me.

  The first time Seb had hit me, Eva was just a baby. I had burned his dinner, so he punched me in the stomach. I almost left him, but of course there was Eva to consider. And it was my fault anyhow. I decided then to try harder, be a better wife, a better mother.

  But better is such an idiosyncratic word. My definition of better certainly didn’t match Seb’s.

  And it wasn’t so bad, really. Nothing like my father, when he was drunk.

  Seb grabbed me, yanking my arm nearly out of its socket. I flinched, even though I had been expecting it. I imagined the purple bruises that would appear, and the stories I would spin for Rose tomorrow flashed through my mind.

  I tripped on the stairs.

  I ran into the banister.

  I caught my arm on the chain swings at the park.

  Motherhood and marriage had made me a remarkable liar.

  The distant wail of a fire engine reached my ears. Seb released me and rushed to the front door, opening it as a fire engine and a police car pulled onto the sidewalk in front of our house. Neighbors had clustered in the street, staring up at the smoke curling over our house like a cloud.

  Seb jogged down the stairs to meet the firemen as I hovered in the doorway, gulping in great breaths of warm summer air. I glared at my neighbors, hating them for their nosiness. Seb spoke animatedly to the firemen, rolling his eyes and laughing. He didn’t see the police officer circle the back of the fire engine and approach me.

  The copper was a rather large man, with a bulky body, a double chin, and a graying handlebar mustache. His black-and-white captain’s hat read metropolitan police.

  “Everything all right, missus?”

  I pushed my glasses up my nose, soot and ash thick in my throat. “Yes. We had a small fire, but not to worry. We’ve extinguished it.”

  He assessed me with dark, hooded eyes, then glanced toward Seb, who was still laughing with the firemen. “Sebastian Clarke’s your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  He cocked his head at me. “When did he arrive home tonight?”

  “I suppose it was about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Interesting.”

  I frowned. “Why so?”

  “Two fires associated with your husband in one night.”

  “You must be mistaken—”

  “Katherine!” Seb called. “Can you check on Eva?”

  “Yes, certainly.” How on earth had she slept through this chaos? I turned to the policeman. “Apologies, Officer …”

  “Hamilton.”

  “Apologies, Officer Hamilton. I must check on my daughter.”

  I turned and went inside, but not before I noticed Seb’s eyes tracking my every move.

  * * *

  The next morning Seb was still odd with me, his responses abrupt and cool. The scent of smoke lingered in the air, bitter on my tongue. I prepared breakfast quickly, hoping Eva would keep her chatter to a minimum. He was clearly not in the mood.

  I watched Seb out of the corner of my eye, my mind on what the police officer had said last night. Could Seb have set fire to the Gardener?

  Once, when Eva was a baby, one of our neighbors had a raging house party. Cars blocked the road, and the sound of thumping music kept us up late into the night. Finally Seb took his keys and went outside, keying every one of the visitors’ cars. Our neighbor and his friends came outside shouting. Shortly afterward, the police arrived, but the officer was on Seb’s payroll, so he arrested our neighbor for breaching the peace.

  When Seb returned, he’d seen me watching him with wide, baffled eyes. “They won’t do it again,” he said, his voice flat. “Trust me, it does no good to be seen as soft. I have a reputation to look after.”

  I knew he was thinking of his own childhood growing up on a council estate in East London. There, the only people who survived were those who established themselves as powerful, respected, and feared. Seb’s reputation meant he’d gained those things. But would he go so far as to commit arson?

  Personally, I’d always believed that while revenge might be sweet, it was also very like a medicine: a little could cure you, a lot could very well kill you. But I knew now more than ever that Seb did not feel the same way.

  “Mummy, what’s that?” Eva’s voice brought me crashing back to the present. She was pointing up at the spot on the living room ceiling that had bubbled from the heat.

  “Mummy was playing with fire,” Seb answered for me. He shoveled another bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth. “Wasn’t that a bit stupid of her?”

  Eva looked horrified. “Mummy! We don’t play with fire!”

  “No.” I forced a laugh. “You are most certainly right, my love. We don’t play with fire. I was very silly, but I’ll clean it up today.”

  Seb dropped us off at Rose’s and left without another word. The sticky August heat wave was already warming the air, the sun a hazy orb hanging over the skyline. I pushed my damp hair off my forehead, realizing for the first time that my hands were trembling.

  I spent the day jumpy and on edge, with Rose constantly asking if I was okay. By the time we were waiting outside for Seb to collect us at the end of the day, I was a ball of nerves, dreading whatever punishment he’d dreamt up.

  I squirmed as sweat trickled down my back into my knickers.

  “Where’s Daddy?” Eva whined.

  “He’ll be here soon.”

  I rubbed a smudge of dirt from her face. What sort of mother couldn’t keep her own child clean?

  Eva slapped at my hand. My eyes widened in surprise.

  “I’m hot!” she howled. “I want to go home!”

  I gritted my teeth, suddenly furious at Seb.

  We waited in the soupy afternoon heat for another half hour before I realized: Seb wasn’t coming. This was my punishment. I was not dim enough to suppose that Seb would let me off lightly, but dragging Eva into my punishment was a new low.

  I thought about asking Rose for a lift, but telling her the truth was far too humiliating. We would simply walk.

  I clasped Eva’s hand, our palms slippery with sweat. “Let’s go trekking!” I exclaimed. “It will be brilliant! Like we’re in the jungle!”

  “Can we be tigers?”

  “Absolutely, darling!”

  It took us over an hour, walking along the quiet, dusty streets of Mayfair, through the cool green of Regent’s Park, and over Primrose Hill. Eva’s tears started about midway home.

  We arrived at the same time Seb did, ou
r clothes dripping with sweat and dust. A heat rash prickled between my thighs. My knickers were, quite literally, in a twist. Meanwhile, he looked fresh as a daisy, his tie still tight, blazer draped neatly over one arm.

  Eva threw herself into Seb’s arms, her face streaked with muddy tears.

  “You’re a bloody mess, Eva!” He peeled her off him, looking at me in disgust.

  Furious, I shoved past him and stormed into the kitchen. The house still smelled of smoke, so I threw the window open, then pulled a pitcher of cool water from the refrigerator. I filled two cups and handed one to Eva.

  “Why didn’t you collect us?” I snapped at Seb.

  “I was at work.”

  “We had to walk home! In this heat! You should’ve been there.”

  “You must be taking the piss! One of us has to make real money, not play with some bloody toff who’s too spoiled to look after her own kid.”

  I slammed the pitcher back into the refrigerator. Behind me, Seb ordered Eva upstairs.

  “I can’t believe you, Seb! You could at least think about Eva! Don’t you—”

  Suddenly, something flashed in the corner of my eye. I tried to duck, but it was too late. The sound of metal crashing against the refrigerator filled my ears, and something slick and wet exploded all over me. And then Seb’s fist smashed into my stomach. The air rushed out of me, and white flashes of fireworks detonated as I slid, boneless, to the floor.

  I gasped for breath. On the floor next to me was one of the tins of cooking oil he’d brought home last night, the aluminum flayed open from the impact. Oil dripped from my hair, gummed my eyelashes, coated my clothes. It dribbled down the cupboards, the refrigerator, plopping onto the tile. The edges of my vision waved and blurred, rather like a mirage.

  Seb was breathing heavily, his jaw clenched. I had pushed him too far. I’d failed to heed the warning signs.

  Eva’s sobs were a siren in my ears. I needed to comfort her. That’s what a mother does: sacrifices herself to keep her child happy and safe.

  I struggled to stand, pushing my oily hair out of my eyes and forcing a smile. “Eva, that’s enough now! I’ve made a little mess, is all! What do I say about messes?”