Behind Every Lie

by Christina McDonald

  “Bloody hell.” Rose shook her head and slopped more Jameson into our glasses. The rims of her eyes were red. “You’re like a real-life saint. Keep calm and carry on, right?”

  I laughed. “Well, I also grew up Catholic, so there’s that. Perhaps I inherited some of the guilt my mother never had.”

  She threw back half her drink. When she spoke, her voice had tilted into a slur: “There was this woman at the park who said it was a relief becoming a mum because suddenly there was someone more important than her. I thought it was a stupid thing to say. Perhaps I craved domestic bliss and rushed into marriage to ensure that I would have a family, but now I’d almost give it all up.”

  Her eyes glittered, and for a second she looked rather mad. But she was drunk. She didn’t mean it, so I smiled and tried to lighten the mood. “Surely domestic and bliss don’t belong in the same sentence. Domestic is a euphemism for a servant, and the idea of blissful servitude is an oxymoron.”

  Rose threw her head back and laughed for a long time. I laughed with her, the booze loosening my limbs. She looked so comfortable sitting there half-naked, so utterly certain of herself.

  She flopped onto her side so she was facing me. “I wish we could drink Irish lemonade every day.”

  I opened my mouth to reply—but just then the shrill sound of a child’s scream sliced through my body.

  “What was that?” Rose jumped up.

  “Eva.” I raced for the stairs, Rose stumbling behind as she yanked her skirt on, and we burst into the playroom.

  Laura was sitting on top of a chest-high bookcase next to the open window. The pale drapes fell over her shoulder like a shawl. Her eyes were wide, face pale. One knee hung over the edge of the bookcase, the other over the window ledge.

  “What are you doing?” I shouted, yanking her to the floor. “Where’s Eva?”

  Laura’s cheeks hollowed as she sucked in deep breaths.

  I gave her a small shake of the shoulders. “Where’s Eva?”

  She pointed at the open window. I lunged toward it, looked left, then right. I only saw row after row of Regency houses, pale stone and red brick, shiny cars glinting in the white sun. Up and down the street, trees were drooping, their leaves flaccid as day-old lettuce in the heat.

  Rose stuck her head out the window and looked down.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  She backed away. Her fingers clawed at her hair, tearing at it. Her eyes were wide, the whites stark and haunting, her voice turning into one long, mournful keen. “OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!”

  Finally my eyes latched on to what she had seen: the broken figure of a little girl crumpled on the ground. Her long blond hair was fanned around her face, her back and neck twisted at an impossible angle. She looked like a porcelain doll, so still, her blue eyes wide and staring, sightless, at the blue sky above, a puddle of something dark expanding around her head like a halo.

  And then I saw Barnaby, Eva’s teddy, lying next to the girl’s tiny, unfurled fist. A few feet away lay the trumpet-shaped hat, now torn from his head.

  And I knew.

  I knew.

  Eva.

  I threw myself down the stairs, bursting out the front door, across the gravel to where my daughter lay in a crumpled heap.

  My knees buckled and I collapsed, a howl launching from deep inside me. A widening pool of blood crept from my baby’s head. It soaked into the fabric of my trousers as I reached out to touch her, to hold her and beg her to come back to me.

  But she didn’t. She wouldn’t move. She lay limp and lifeless in my arms.

  And I screamed and screamed and screamed.

  fourteen

  eva

  THE IMPOUND TRUCK BEEPED LOUDLY from outside Mom’s house. I looked at Jacob through the shades of sepia cast by the yellow street lighting.

  “I have to find out what happened the night Mom was killed,” I said again. “Maybe this letter has something to do with it.”

  “And how do you plan on doing that?” Jacob asked.

  “I’ll go to London. Tonight. I’m going to talk to this David Ashford guy myself.”

  Jacob looked uncertain. “Really? Don’t you think leaving the country’s a little extreme? You said you’re a suspect.”

  “My mom’s been murdered, Jake! And, oh, it turns out she wasn’t actually my mom. I need to find out what ‘dangerous’ thing she was involved in and if it led to her murder. If anything, I’m not being extreme enough! And they haven’t arrested me yet.”

  “Well, why don’t you tell that detective about the letter?”

  Jackson’s words echoed in my head: Don’t go too far, Eva. We might need you for further questioning.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “This is motive!” I shook the letter at him. “They’ll think I killed her!” I covered my face with my hands. “What if they don’t believe me? I could end up in jail!” The thought winded me. I shook my head hard. “I’ll be back before the detective even finds out I’ve left.”

  For a second Jacob looked conflicted, but then he shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and lifted his shoulders. “Okay. What can I do to help?”

  I handed Jacob my credit card, and he booked me a seat on the next flight to London while I grabbed a backpack and filled it with a handful of the clothes I’d left at Mom’s when I moved out. Fortunately, my passport was still in the bedside drawer in my old room, so I grabbed it, too.

  I didn’t stop to think. I didn’t have a plan. I just made it up as I went.

  “Come on, I’ll drive you to the airport,” Jacob said when I was ready. “My dad’s sleeping. He won’t even know I’m gone.”

  I locked the door behind us and followed him in the direction of his house. Jacob still moved in that familiar way—long strides, lazy gait. Like he didn’t have a care in the world. He didn’t take anything seriously. With a dad like his, how could he? He was the kind of guy who dumped bubble liquid into the city’s water fountain one night and randomly drove up to Canada to use his fake ID the next. He was a classic Peter Pan. But Peter Pan was a lot more adorable as a teenager than he was at thirty.

  Jacob beeped the alarm to unlock his car while I texted Melissa, letting her know I was going out of town and would get her car back in a few days.

  “You still have the Trans Am?” I asked, incredulous.

  “I don’t really drive it much.” He shrugged. “Only when I’m back here between photography assignments. She’s had a few new engines, a lot of new tires. I keep her in good shape.”

  “It must be, like, twenty years old now. You bought it with money from your first photography sale, right?”

  “Yep. Best purchase I ever made.” He patted the roof of the car, smiling. A navy-blue paint chip crumbled onto the ground.

  “I’ll never forget when you brought it home. It was the night before the homecoming game, and we were just driving around and you—”

  “—decided to dig up a tree and plant it on the football field.” He laughed as he opened my door.

  “No-o.” I buckled up while Jacob started the car and pulled onto the quiet street. “You didn’t ‘plant’ the tree. You cemented it into the middle of the field!”

  We burst out laughing, but I stopped abruptly, feeling guilty. How could I laugh right now? I bit my lip and stared out the window. The rain made grimy tracks down the passenger window as Jacob drove.

  “What do you think you’ll find in London?” Jacob asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe this David Ashford guy will know why we were in danger and if that had anything to do with her murder.” I pushed my fingers into my aching eyeballs and shook my head. It was all so much to take in. “I wish I could just remember that night.”

  Why should the detective trust me when I couldn’t even trust myself?

  “Why don’t I go with you?” Jacob said. “Maybe I can help.”

  I almost agreed. It would be nice to have him there, someone to help me figure ou
t what to do. But I knew I couldn’t say yes. I had a fiancé now. And Jacob never stuck around for long. I should know.

  The night we slept together flickered briefly through my mind. There’d always been an unspoken rule that we would keep it platonic. And mostly we did. Except once, when I was in college. I’d just gotten home from my weekend job waitressing downtown. My roommate, Holly, was out for the evening. Jacob dropped by and we ended up drinking a bottle of red wine, and then another, and watching Monty Python. We were laughing uproariously and then we weren’t; we were kissing, tearing each other’s clothes off.

  The next morning I woke with a mother of a hangover. A note from Jake was propped against the clock on my nightstand saying he’d be in touch when he returned from Peru. I tried not to take it personally, but the rejection had stung. Shortly after, I was attacked and lost my youth, my future, my confidence, the person I was supposed to become.

  I glanced at Jacob, his still-familiar profile lit by the intermittent glow of streetlights as he drove, turning to look back at me. “I’ve missed you, Eva.”

  “Jake …” I said, my voice a warning. There was so much Jacob didn’t know, so much I hadn’t told him. The girl he used to know was not the same woman sitting next to him now.

  “No, I don’t mean like that. I miss my friend.”

  I looked at my hands. “I miss you too,” I admitted.

  My phone rang then, Liam’s name flashing on the screen. I stabbed End.

  “Sorry. My boyfriend. Fiancé …”

  Jacob held my gaze for a long moment before his mouth quirked with amusement. “Aren’t you glad thought bubbles can’t appear over your head?”

  I laughed, relieved, and just like that the moment passed.

  Jacob threaded his way through traffic and pulled into the drop-off area at Sea-Tac Airport. The airport was crowded, a Ferris wheel of cars constantly zipping in and out.

  “There, right there!” I pointed at a free space.

  “I can’t fit there.”

  “There’s another one!”

  “Would you just let me drive?”

  I rolled my eyes and flopped back in my seat. Jacob flawlessly parallel-parked between two hulking Land Rovers, letting the car idle.

  “There, see?” He turned to me with a smug grin. “I know how to park. I think it was you who failed parallel parking in driver’s ed, right?”

  “Only ’cause you lied about how big eight inches was,” I shot back.

  His eyebrows shot up, and he laughed. “I don’t remember you complaining!”

  “You didn’t give me a chance,” I replied sweetly. I grabbed my backpack, keeping a smile fixed on my face, even though the hurt was still sharp despite four years apart.

  The smile fell off Jacob’s face. “Eva, about that night, I’m really sorry.…”

  “Don’t be—”

  “I should’ve called sooner. I did try as soon as I got back from Peru. Did Holly tell you?”

  I looked at my hands, clasped like iron around my backpack. Holly had told me every time Jacob called. Eight times before he accepted that I didn’t want to talk.

  “Yeah, she did. I was so busy and …” I lifted my eyes to his. “It was just too late, Jake. You know?”

  He looked at me for a long minute. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

  An aggressive honk sounded behind us.

  “I gotta go.” I shoved the door open. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Wait.” Jacob pulled a set of keys from his pocket and handed them to me. “I have a flat in London. Stay there as long as you want. I’ll text you the address.”

  I lifted my eyebrows, surprised. Jacob had never wanted a house, a mortgage, even a credit card.

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know. But I’m there a lot for work, so it made sense. Just promise me two things.”

  “Oka-ay.”

  “Call Andrew and tell him where you’re going.”

  “And two?”

  “Tell the detective about that letter from your mom.”

  I made a face. “All right.”

  He reached across the console and hugged me. I leaned into him, catching his scent: summer grass and evergreen trees. It reminded me of childhood, of my mom, and that I was suddenly very, very alone.

  I got out of the car, a peculiar tightness in my throat as I watched Jacob drive away.

  I could do this on my own.

  I could.

  * * *

  I waited by my gate for the plane to board, knees jittering, eyes sweeping the terminal. Crossing to a window overlooking the runway, I dialed Liam’s number. I felt a little guilty I hadn’t called him earlier, but there just hadn’t been time. And now the police were investigating me, questioning people I knew, impounding my car.

  “Eva.” Liam sounded relieved when he answered. “I’m glad you called. I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you the detective might come by.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left the way I did. I don’t know why I got so mad.”

  “It’s okay. You were just struck by lightning.” I could hear the smile on his lips and a thread of yearning spiraled through me. I wanted nothing more than to go home, feel Liam’s arms around me, reassuring me that everything would be okay.

  “Look, I was thinking maybe I’d postpone our appointment tomorrow,” he said. “And I’ve canceled all my meetings so I can take care of you. I know you’re under a lot of stress and your brain’s a little rattled. After we meet the detective, we can just take the day off and relax. Maybe pack a picnic and go to the beach if the weather’s nice.”

  “What appointment?” I asked, confused.

  “Remember, we’re meeting with Father Byrne at St. Mary’s to discuss the wedding?”

  “Isn’t that next week?”

  “No, tomorrow. Wednesday. Don’t you remember? It’s been in our shared calendar for over a month. And there’s a note hanging on the refrigerator.”

  The raw force of something messy and unrefined frothed up inside of me: shame that I didn’t remember, and then anger, a black, rising fury, unnatural, unfamiliar. I pushed it away.

  “My mom has been murdered, Liam,” I said tightly. “The police think I might have had something to do with it. And you want to talk about our wedding?”

  “I just …” He paused. “I thought you might want to think about something happy too.”

  A marble column of guilt landed on me. What was wrong with me?

  “I’m sorry.” I felt like a broken record.

  An announcement came over the airport loudspeaker.

  “Where are you?”

  “Babe, listen.” I told him about Mom’s letter and the torn paper with an address for David Ashford on it. “She said she wasn’t my real mother and we were in danger. It might have something to do with why she was murdered. So I’m getting a flight to London to talk to this guy.”

  “This is unbelievable!”

  “I know! Obviously there were a lot of things she never—”

  “No, Eva, I mean, it’s unbelievable that you’re thinking about going to London in the middle of a murder investigation! Are you crazy?”

  “It’s where all the pieces are! Mom’s letter said she took me to protect me, but I don’t know who or what from. Maybe David Ashford knows something.”

  “Why don’t you just call him?”

  “I couldn’t find his number. Besides, this way he can’t hang up. He has to talk to me.”

  “Eva, if the police are suspicious of you, leaving the country is going to make you look even more guilty!”

  “Then I better find the truth quick.”

  “The detective is probably already monitoring our credit cards. He’ll know if you leave.”

  I ran a hand over my face.

  “We’ll talk to my lawyer and sort this out. I know you’re scared right now. Your memory loss, mood swings, paranoia, these are all the symptoms Dr. Simm warned us about. But I promise, everything’s going to be okay. Just wait the
re. I’ll come get you.”

  I shook my head. If I stayed, I would always be filled with doubt, a gnawing fear that I was a horrible, broken person capable of murdering someone I loved.

  I closed my eyes, fending off the guilt and the longing for him.

  “I’ll be back,” I said. “I promise.”

  And I hung up.

  fifteen

  eva

  “FINAL CALL FOR BA FLIGHT 520 to London.”

  I quickly e-mailed a picture of Mom’s letter and the scrap of paper with the address to Detective Jackson, then sent a brief text to Andrew explaining where I was going before boarding the plane.

  I stared outside as the airport’s squat buildings raced by and we rose into the night sky, rubbing my fingers over the lightning marks on my arm. The electric pulses had faded to a faint tingle, but the skin was still raised. The feel of it under my fingertips was strangely comforting.

  I pulled my coat over my head and tucked the airline blanket around my legs, blocking out the cabin light and the man with a hyperactive leg next to me, hoping to catch a few hours’ sleep. The ripples of a dream reached for me. Images twisted and shifted like a snake slithering against bare skin.

  Mom’s living room. Lightning flashes. The silhouette of a man on the other side of the room. Mom slumped in a chair. My hands splattered with blood. Lightning flashed again. The man turned, his face caught in the light. He was older, much older than me. A mocking smile twisted his mouth. He stepped toward me.

  My eyes flipped open, and I battled briefly with the coat over my head. The man in the seat next to me woke with a snort and shot me an annoyed look.

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  I felt around at my feet for my purse, pulling out a pen, a scrap of paper. My fingers flew over the paper, an image slowly emerging, revealing the shape of the man’s face. Wide forehead. Dark, bristly hair. A shadowed jaw. Long, bent nose, like it had a history of being broken.