Behind Every Lie

by Christina McDonald

  Eva’s sobs slowed. “We clean them up.”

  I lifted my gaze and met Seb’s. “That’s right. We’ll just clean it up.”

  twelve

  eva

  “EVA, I TOLD YOU not to talk to him!” Liam exclaimed after the detective had left.

  “Why didn’t you warn me he was coming?” I asked quietly.

  Liam paused. “What are you talking about?”

  I scrubbed my hands over my face. Melissa was still outside, hovering in the doorway. “Could I get a cigarette?” I asked her.

  She held one out to me. I stepped outside, bending forward as she flicked the lighter. The nicotine hit my head so fast it made me dizzy, smoke threading into the cloudy sky.

  “Eva, you don’t smoke!” Liam’s mouth then dropped open. I knew he was thinking about what the doctor had said: paranoid, personality changes, mood swings, memory loss.

  Check, check, check, and check.

  “I need to get out of here.” Smoke hissed through my teeth. I was shaking, trying to hold in all the unnamed things I felt. My mind whirled like a drunk ballerina. “Melissa, can I borrow your car?”

  “Sure.” She dug in her back pocket and tossed me the keys. “I have the pickup too, so take your time.”

  Liam lifted his hands, baffled, as I walked away. “Eva, come on!”

  But for the first time in a long time, I ignored him.

  By the time I got to Seattle I’d calmed down enough to realize I’d overreacted. I pulled up behind my old Honda down the street from Mom’s. Night had fallen. The October air was crisp, the yellow, orange, and red foliage crunching under my feet. I did a cursory search of my car—a Snickers wrapper, a half-full bottle of water, a pair of flip-flops. Nothing that stood out.

  That familiar feeling crawled over my neck, and the fine hairs on the backs of my arms stood on end. Someone was watching me. I felt their eyes hot on my body. I peered into the darkness, heart thumping. Nobody was there.

  I grabbed a flashlight from the glove box and hurried across the road. The green shutters of Mom’s Queen Anne–style house were pulled tight, the lights all off. From the outside, it just looked cold and lonely, not like the location of a horrible crime.

  Going around to the back, I fumbled under the bottom step for the spare key and unlocked the back door. The arc of light from my flashlight swept across white kitchen countertops, a hulking black stove, silver pots hanging from a ceiling rack. A cluster of daffodils was drooping in a crystal vase on the island, crumpled petals just starting to fall. Drops from the kitchen faucet plinked against the bucket sink.

  On the hallway walls were some of Jacob’s best black-and-white shots: a Cuban man with smoke curling around his head; a painted woman stretching into the immensity of the Maasai Mara. In the living room, I swept the beam of the flashlight over the room.

  Loose white powder dusted every surface. Vases and knickknacks were broken, knocked to the floor. I ran my fingers over the dusty fireplace mantel, picking up a photo of Mom, Andrew, and me playing in the sand at the beach. Next to it was a baby picture of Andrew. There were, I realized for the first time, no baby pictures of me.

  Next to the fireplace, Mom’s favorite armchair was missing. On the floor where it used to be, a large pool of blood had drenched the sand-colored carpet, the fibers glued together into a dark, crusting mass.

  I stared at it, trying to remember, but there was nothing but whirling fog, like trying to catch the tail end of a dream. I held a couch cushion to my chest. Mom’s smell gusted off it. Childhood memories buffeted me so relentlessly I literally felt homesick: Mom reading me Little House on the Prairie before bed; making lemonade together; her shouting for Andrew and me to turn the bloody telly off and get to the dinner table.

  The other not-so-beautiful memories came too: how brusque and critical she could be; the irritated fold of her brow when we argued; her cruel words before I moved out: Stop being a victim and start being a survivor.

  An unbearable sadness knuckled into my ribs. Tears filled my eyes. Was the detective right? Had I, in a moment of rage or fear or extreme anxiety, killed my mom?

  I thumped my forehead with my palm. With the pain came a sudden memory. I was reading a book in bed, like I always did to help me get to sleep. Liam was asleep next to me, both arms thrown over his head like a child. My phone chimed with a text message.

  Mom: Hello Eva. Can you come over? I realize it’s late but it’s urgent.

  Me: Ok, but I’ll have to wait for the ferry. Can prob get next one but will still be an hour or so.

  Mom: I’ll be waiting. Love you.

  I snapped back to the present and pulled my phone from my purse. I scrolled through my texts, but there was nothing from Mom. Not since we’d met at the restaurant, a text saying she’d arrived.

  I must have deleted the texts.

  I must have.

  Either that, or I was going completely fucking crazy.

  * * *

  I prowled the house, hoping to trigger another memory. In Mom’s office upstairs, I rifled through science magazines and a stack of high school physics papers, shuffled through academic books on string theory and quantum mechanics and the history of time. The light from my flashlight bounced around the room. I flung down the book I was holding. It landed with a hard thud on the filing cabinet next to the desk.

  I yanked the top drawer open. One of the hanging folders at the back was crooked, the metal claws dislodged. I pulled it out. Inside was a small, brown teddy bear with a faded daffodil-spotted tie and a sealed, letter-size envelope marked with my name in Mom’s familiar neat handwriting.

  I turned the teddy bear over, trying to remember if it was mine as a child. I didn’t recognize it. I set it down and slit the envelope open. Inside was an old British birth certificate for Eva Clarke. Mine, I supposed, before Mom and my adopted dad, Mike, got married. There was also a letter folded into a small square and a ripped piece of an envelope with an address in London for a David Ashford, written in unfamiliar block handwriting.

  I smoothed the letter on the desk, my damp fingers smudging the ink.

  Dear Eva,

  I’ve written this letter a thousand times and thrown it away each time. The truth is you are not my daughter. I should have told you about your past—our past—many years ago, but I wanted to keep you safe. If anybody knew who we really are, we could all be in very grave danger. Perhaps it is not an excuse, but your safety has always been my priority.

  I am so sorry.

  Mum xx

  I sank slowly into the leather chair, my legs like whipped cream. I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach, breathless and bewildered. A dark, wet horror rose in my mind.

  She wasn’t my mom.

  We were in danger.

  But why?

  I set the flashlight on the desk and pulled my phone from my back pocket to google the address on the scrap. The results showed a website for Selwyn House Art Gallery, owned by David Ashford. Clearly he’d been writing to my mom. Who was he?

  A door clicked shut somewhere in the house, loud as the crack of a gun. Then the low thud of boots on hardwood. My whole body tensed. Goose bumps rose on my arms, fear turning my stomach to liquid.

  Someone was in the house.

  I stood, heart hammering. I looked around for a weapon, remembering Melissa’s words. Whoever killed your mom might come back.

  Thump, thump, thump up the stairs. I froze. Fear crawled up my back like bugs. The silhouette of a masculine form appeared on the other side of the smoked-glass french doors. I snatched the flashlight from the desk and clicked it off, plunging the room into total darkness.

  The doors swung open. Fear turned my fingers to rubber bands. The flashlight slipped from my sweaty grasp, clattering onto the floor.

  “Eva?” The voice was familiar.

  “Jacob?” I stared at my old friend. “Shit! I nearly killed you!”

  Jake eased the dimmer switch up, glancing dubiously at the flashlight
I’d dropped. “With a flashlight?”

  “What are you doing in here?” I braced a hand on the desk to steady myself, weak from the jolt of adrenaline.

  “I saw you go around back. I was calling for you but you didn’t answer. The door was unlocked.”

  I stared at Jacob, feeling rattled, as if I’d been abruptly shaken. I couldn’t understand why he’d come inside. It had been a long time since we were kids and could walk into each other’s houses unannounced.

  He squinted at me, seeing my expression. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, it’s fine,” I cut him off. “It’s good to see you.”

  I reached out to hug him just as he moved to kiss my cheek, and we ended up caught in a clumsy half-embrace, his mouth landing on my jaw. We pulled apart and laughed awkwardly.

  The last time we’d seen each other, we’d been naked.

  Jacob’s face was lean, brown from the foreign sun. He was still skinny, still not much taller than me, but he’d filled out some. Fine lines fanned his green eyes. A few days’ worth of stubble covered his jaw. His dark hair was longer than I remembered, tousled. He wore faded jeans and a green military-style jacket.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” I said. “He’s sick?”

  “Yeah. End-stage cancer. I’m staying at his house until …” Jacob shook his head, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “I’m sorry about Kat. Like, what the fuck happened? Do the police have any leads?”

  “I don’t know. Andrew seems to think they … suspect me.”

  Jacob stared, incredulous. Then he threw his head back and laughed. It was inappropriate and ill-timed, but something about it made me feel a tiny bit better. Like, yes, maybe this was all a horrible joke. Of course nobody really thought I could kill my mother.

  “Is he insane? Why would he even think that?”

  “I was struck by lightning a few blocks from here. The problem is, I can’t remember anything. The lightning wiped out my memory.”

  “Struck by lightning? Christ, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sorry for laughing. Just, the thought of you as some murdering badass …” He made a scoffing sound. “You cried after getting stung by a bee because you knew it would die. Anyone who knows you would never think you could hurt your mom.”

  I handed him Mom’s letter. “Apparently she wasn’t actually my mom.”

  He read the letter, then blew out a shocked breath. “She must’ve been involved in something. Do you have any idea what it was?”

  “No. She never said anything. All I have is this stupid, cryptic letter!”

  “Maybe she meant to tell you the full story in person.”

  A shout came from down the street. I stood and peered out the wooden blinds. Detective Jackson and a cop I didn’t recognize stood next to my car, watching as an impound truck hitched it to the tow.

  “Oh my God!” I backed away from the window and turned the light off, plunging the room into shades of sepia. The streetlight threw yellow strips of light onto the carpet through the blinds.

  “That’s the detective!” I hissed. “He must really suspect me! He’s impounding my car!”

  Suddenly I knew it wasn’t Mom’s death that would haunt me, but the blank space where my last memories of her should’ve been.

  I’m sick of not trusting myself, I realized.

  “I have to find out what happened that night,” I whispered to Jacob. “I need to know if someone else killed my mom, or if I did it.”

  thirteen

  kat

  25 years before

  MY HAND HOVERED OVER Rose’s front door. I rapped sharply, practicing what I would say.

  This is our last day, Rose. Our last day.

  The thought of not seeing her every day was truly ghastly. In the few short months I’d known her, Rose had become my closest confidante, my dearest friend. In all honesty, my only friend. But Seb was right. I needed to focus on Eva, especially this last month before she started school. I was certain Rose would understand.

  “Looks like it’ll be another scorcher,” Rose said as we followed her into the sticky belly of the house. She wore a long, flowing skirt with a bright flower pattern and a tight rust-colored tank top, her cleavage on display. Her hair hung in glossy red waves to her shoulder blades. She looked cool and fresh. I, on the other hand, was baking in my brown trousers and collared shirt. I pressed my arms against my sides to hide the sweat stains.

  I opened my mouth to tell her then. But Rose clapped her hands and announced that it was too hot to paint so she would take the day off.

  “Shall we make lemonade?” she asked.

  Laura and Eva jumped up and down, shrieking, “Yes, yes, yes!”

  I smiled. “Very well, then, girls, settle down.”

  Rose and I gathered the lemons from the pantry. She sliced the shiny yellow orbs in half, and we all took turns squeezing them. Eventually the girls tired of the task and began coloring. Sweat beaded on my hairline and my palms itched as Rose and I continued squeezing, the tart scent heavy in the air.

  “Blimey! What a rubbish idea this was!” Rose moaned. “I’m boiling!”

  I swiped at a bead of sweat sliding down my nose as I poured a cup of sugar into the pitcher with the lemon juice. Rose rinsed her hands in the sink and fanned herself with one of Laura’s books. It gave me a good idea.

  “Perhaps you have some fans?” I said. “I reckon we could set them in the windows.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea!”

  I followed Rose to a cupboard under the stairs and helped her drag out several fans clouded with dust.

  “I forgot we even had these—you’re a genius, Katherine.” She grabbed a cloth to wipe them clean.

  We bustled around the house opening windows and balancing fans in them, drawing the curtains on either side to keep it as shady as possible. Outside, the sun was already high in the sky, a smear of milk-white glistening against the blue. The sweltering heat made it difficult to breathe.

  Rose had just settled the last fan in the kitchen window and was pouring lemonade into glasses with ice when I entered. Her skin was glistening at the nape of her neck, damp curls sticking to her forehead.

  I noticed she had put the fan in the window the wrong way, blowing in rather than out. As it was the sunny side of the house, the fan should have been blowing the hot air out, whilst the shady side of the house should have the fans blowing in. I was certain I had told her that, but I was too hot and frazzled to correct her mistake.

  “Here.” She pressed a glass of lemonade into my hand and sighed as she lifted the cool liquid to her lips.

  “Mummy, can we watch a movie?” Laura asked. Her face was pink and shiny from the heat.

  “What a splendid idea! All Dogs Go to Heaven is still in the VCR. You remember how to press Play?”

  Laura nodded and grabbed Eva’s hand, tugging her toward the stairs.

  “Mummy, can I have Barnaby?” Eva asked.

  “Certainly, darling.”

  I retrieved Barnaby from my handbag, and she headed up the stairs, her thumb already heading for her mouth. The heat was making all of us drowsy.

  Rose and I took our lemonades into the living room and collapsed on the couch, our damp skin making soft thwucking noises as it stuck to the leather. The sheer, silvery curtains billowed in the breeze of the open windows. The scent of lavender from the garden hung in the air, tangling with the delicate floral scent of the street’s many mimosa trees.

  “I have an excellent idea.” Rose jumped up, her gray eyes gleaming. She disappeared, reappearing after a moment with a bottle of Jameson. She grinned. “Let’s make these bad boys Irish.”

  She poured a large glug into her glass and moved toward mine.

  “Oh no—not for me.” I covered my glass, but she shushed me.

  “Don’t be silly. You need to learn to let go, relax a little!” She put a finger over her upper lip like a mustache and lowered her voi
ce to the timbre of a man’s. “You’re far too responsible.”

  “Be that as it may—”

  “It’s only one drink, Katherine!”

  I hesitated. It was a Friday, after all.

  “Very well, then,” I relented. “But only a splash.”

  Rose’s idea of a splash was rather a lot more than mine, and soon we were both giggling, the alcohol making us loose-limbed and giddy. It felt glorious.

  “Do you reckon the girls are asleep?” Rose asked.

  “Almost certainly.”

  “Oh, good!”

  She set her drink on the glass coffee table and slipped out of her skirt. She kicked it onto the floor, her black knickers just hinting at the creamy curve of her arse cheeks.

  “There.” She slumped next to me on the couch. “That’s better!”

  She lifted her hair off her neck, the scent of lemons and happiness curling around her body, an intoxicating aroma.

  A hot flush crawled up my throat and cheeks. “Rose. Honestly!”

  Rose laughed. “You’re so uptight, Katherine! Don’t you ever want to let go? Just do something for yourself?”

  I kicked my shoes off and peeled the sweaty socks from my feet. “There.” I wiggled my toes at her. “I have ‘let go.’ Happy?”

  She laughed and drained her glass. “Delighted. But seriously. Don’t you ever want to truly let go? Like, get absolutely pissed, or go skinny-dipping in the middle of the day. Just not have a care in the world?”

  I pondered her question. “Frankly, it seems quite impossible. Like imagining going faster than the speed of light, or that I can breathe liquid rather than air, or that Jupiter is more habitable than Earth.”

  “But why?” Rose pressed.

  I took a giant gulp of my drink, wincing as it burned my throat.

  “My mother left when I was fifteen. Packed her clothes and disappeared. I was left to take care of my father, the village drunk. I suppose I had to learn at a very young age to be responsible, to squirrel money away, to rely on the kindness of neighbors to eat, to clean up vomit and …” I looked away, shame burning with the alcohol in my stomach. “. . . dodge drunken fists. So when I fell pregnant with Eva, I was determined to do whatever was necessary to ensure she had a real childhood. I never want to skip out on my responsibilities like my mother did.”