Behind Every Lie
Page 12
“We have a baked potato.”
“Oh, that sounds good!” I said, relieved to find something normal. “And a cup of tea, please.”
I sat at a table near the back where I could watch the crowd. Young professionals in sharp suits drank elaborately mixed cocktails. Middle-aged businessmen laughed loudly, sloshing amber liquid all over the floor.
In America, you needed a reason to drink in the middle of the day. Celebrating something? Fine. Drowning your sorrows? Okay. Watching a sports game? Absolutely. But in England, apparently all you needed was £4 and a spare hour.
I pulled out my new phone and dialed Liam’s number. I was worried he might be in a meeting with that building inspector who was giving him so much grief, but he answered immediately.
“Hello?” Liam’s voice was brisk, the impatient tone of a busy businessman.
“Liam, it’s me.”
“Eva! Oh my God! I’ve been calling and calling! Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”
“I’m sorry, I had to turn my phone off. I bought a new one. Detective Jackson knows I’ve left the country, and I was afraid he could trace me.”
“Babe.” His voice softened with pity. “Don’t you hear how crazy that sounds? Please come home.”
“I can’t, Liam. I’m close to finding the truth.” I was about to tell him about the man following me, but he cut me off.
“Eva, you need to listen to me. I’m worried about you. You’re in a different country with a major head injury. You’re forgetting things, little things like our appointment with the priest and big things like the night your mom was killed. And now you’re being paranoid. This is insane!”
I was suddenly glad I hadn’t told Liam about the man I thought had been following me. Had I imagined it?
The bartender set my baked potato and tea in front of me. I mouthed, Thank you.
Maybe Liam was right. I couldn’t trust the things I remembered, David Ashford wasn’t available to talk to, and I was running around in circles. What the hell am I doing here?
“I just want to know what it all means,” I said, frustrated. “My mom, David Ashford, me. If only there was a place to look up—” I stopped, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Oh my God! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. The library! They’ll have news archives.”
“Remember what the doctor—”
“No.”
“Eva! You—”
“The doctor’s wrong!” I cut him off.
There was a long silence. I could imagine Liam’s face, the pinch of his mouth, the crumpled brow. Liam hated when I argued with him. It was a relic from his childhood, his arguments with his father, which he never won.
I took a deep breath. “I’ll come home soon,” I said, softer now. “I just have to figure this out first, okay?”
“Fine,” he finally said. “Just … take care of yourself, and stay safe. You’ll call me if there’s anything you need, right? Even if you just want me to hop on a plane?”
“Of course. I love you.”
“Love you most.”
I said good-bye, guilt thick in my throat. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t leave now. I couldn’t.
As I picked at my food, a busboy started collecting empty glasses from the table next to mine, young, oily hair hanging limp against a pimply face.
“Excuse me?” I tapped his arm. “Do you know where the nearest big library is?”
“I reckon it’d be the British Library in King’s Cross.”
“How do I get there?”
“Hop the Piccadilly line. It’s straight up from here.”
“Thanks.”
I grabbed my phone and purse and headed outside.
It took me longer than I thought it would to get to the British Library, thanks to boarding the Tube going the wrong direction. I transferred to the right train and got off at King’s Cross, but instantly got lost amid the puzzling array of entrances, exits, and shops.
Finally I made it back to street level. Cyclists and joggers rushed past. Cars and taxis and buses honked, competing for space. Schoolchildren and businesspeople and policemen in bright-yellow jackets hurried along the sidewalks.
Forgetting that traffic was coming from the opposite side, I stepped onto the road, only to leap back when a motorcycle blasted its horn as it barreled toward me. The driver shook his fist, shouting angrily as he zoomed past.
The British Library was set in an unassuming redbrick building that looked like a school. Inside, I wound my way through the multilevel atrium to the escalators, which swept up each floor like a wave. I followed the instructions to receive a Reader Pass and headed to the news reading room. A tiny mouse of a woman with large tortoiseshell glasses and a poof of curly brown hair showed me how to use the news archives.
“What are you looking for?” she asked. “Our archives go back to the seventeen hundreds.”
“To be honest, I don’t have a lot of information to go on,” I admitted. “I wanted to find any news articles about a man named David Ashford. He owns the Selwyn House Art Gallery. It’s for a research project for art school,” I rushed to add.
“Certainly.” She clicked the mouse efficiently, navigating to a page and using the advanced search tool to narrow the parameters. “Let’s try this.”
A dozen articles popped up, all featuring David Ashford’s name. Judging by the headlines, David was prominently known in the art industry, actively involved in his community, and a generous donor to a number of charities.
“What about older articles?” I said. “Maybe twenty, thirty years ago?”
The librarian filtered the articles from oldest to newest. I scanned the first few, which were mostly media releases about his art gallery. And then I saw it.
Woman Held for Murder after Tot Dies in Tragic Fall
“Thank you,” I said, reaching for the mouse.
“Just click each one when you want to view it. When you’re done, hit Back.”
I nodded, waiting until she’d moved away before I clicked into the story.
Woman Held for Murder after Tot Dies in Tragic Fall
A woman has been arrested on suspicion of murder after three-year-old Eva Clarke died at the Mayfair home of David Ashford, owner of a local art gallery.
Officers were called to the property at 3.45pm on Friday following a call that the girl had fallen from a third-storey window, sustaining fatal head injuries.
Police said they were not looking for anyone else in connection with the incident.
A police spokesman said: “A report is currently being prepared for the coroner and a woman has been arrested in connection with the death.”
I put a hand to my mouth. Murder. I actually felt sick. Charlotte Ashford was right—Eva Clarke was dead. Was Mom the woman arrested for murdering her? It didn’t seem possible. Just a few weeks ago, she’d been awarded for saving a little girl’s life.
I clicked Back and went on to the next article.
Wife of Gallery Owner Kills Self and Daughter in Thames Suicide Jump
The watery grave of the Thames has claimed two more lives this year after Rose Ashford, wife of art gallery owner David Ashford, jumped into the river with their young daughter.
Mrs Ashford was arrested last month after her nanny’s daughter, Eva Clarke, was found dead following a three-storey fall at the Ashford property. The fall was subsequently ruled an accident and all charges were dropped, but Eva Clarke’s parents issued a statement to the media condemning the police’s investigation as insignificant, calling for an inquiry to be held. Sources close to the family say Mrs Ashford’s suicide note apologizes for her role in the toddler’s death.
There are no other suspects in the murder-suicide.
I sat back in my chair, stunned. Mom wasn’t the murderer; it was David’s wife. And she’d gone on to kill herself and their child out of guilt. A wad of bile filled my mouth, bitter as a chewed-up aspirin.
I zoomed in on the grainy black-and-white photo next to the article.
Eva Clarke’s parents had been captured leaving their house. The mother had her hand up, as if her eyes couldn’t adjust to the light.
I leaned in, squinting. There was no denying it. Eva Clarke’s mother, Katherine Clarke, was younger, blonder, thinner, but definitely the woman who’d raised me: Katherine Hansen.
My mind went dull with shock.
Once when I was about six or seven, I ran away in a huff because Mom had forgotten to take me to a friend’s birthday party. Andrew had been a baby, and Mom was exhausted caring for us both, but at the time I didn’t care. I was furious I’d missed the unicorn party I’d been looking forward to for weeks. So I ran away to the backyard and climbed the gnarled limbs of our old oak tree.
Mom knew where I was—she was in the kitchen watching me the whole time. At some point I dozed off and fell maybe ten feet to the ground, landing, arms splayed, on my back. Mom shrieked my name as she ran out of the house and collapsed at my side. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs, and I lay there, suddenly awake but not sure if I really was.
That was how I felt now, like I had fallen and landed with a rude jolt and all I could do was lie there wondering if this was really happening. The truth was here in front of me, but only partially. I still didn’t know what to believe.
I squinted and looked at the picture again. There was something familiar about Sebastian Clarke, Katherine’s husband. I rifled through my purse, pulled out the sketch I’d drawn earlier, and compared it to Sebastian Clarke.
The man in my drawing was much older, his nose larger and more crooked. He had facial hair and his forehead was a little wider, but there was something between the eyes, maybe the shape of his jaw too.
I covered my mouth to stifle a gasp.
Was Sebastian Clarke the man I remembered at Mom’s house the night she was murdered, the man following me earlier?
nineteen
eva
BACK AT JACOB’S FLAT THAT evening, I changed into a Bendy AF T-shirt and yoga pants and made myself a cup of tea. I feverishly called Andrew over and over, wanting to ask if he’d known anything about this. But he didn’t pick up. I then tried Liam, but he didn’t pick up either.
I took my tea to the living room window and looked outside. I could barely process that I wasn’t me, and that my mom, who wasn’t my mom, had been murdered, and that maybe I had murdered her, but maybe I hadn’t. Maybe somebody else had, and now they were after me.
What did it all mean?
I felt like I’d been trapped in a bubble where all sound had been muted, only the vibrations reaching me, thrumming inside my chest. What I really needed was time to grieve, to mourn, but I couldn’t even have that. I had to keep going, keep moving, keep running so I could unravel this mystery.
If I didn’t, I could end up in jail.
Outside, the sky was clear and velvet black. A smattering of the brightest, most determined stars pierced the night. I was surprised by how clear they were. I traced the blaze of the North Star down to the hard lip of the Big Dipper, hovering low in the evening sky.
Once when I was five, maybe six, my mom came into my room and woke me in the middle of a hot summer night. She slipped my coat on and wrapped a light blanket around my shoulders.
“I have something to show you,” she’d whispered.
She buckled me in the car. I fell back asleep as she drove, but then she was lifting me out and we were in a field surrounded by nothing but stars as far as the eye could see.
“Mommy,” I breathed. “The stars are dancing!”
Mom smiled. She laid the blanket on the ground, and we sat down.
“That there is the North Star,” she said, pointing to the brightest star. “A long time ago people used it to guide themselves home when they were lost. And that”—she moved her finger to a collection of stars—“is Ursa Major. At school you’ll probably call it the Big Dipper. It has seven stars, but five of them move together, like a family.”
She tilted her chin up, her elbows bent behind her, and stared up at the stars. “It’s extraordinary. They all originated from a single cloud of gas and dust, became individual stars, and yet still move as one.”
I looked at my mom, her eyes wide, her profile bathed in the creamy light. At that moment she was the most beautiful person I had ever seen.
She turned her head, trapping my gaze in hers. “There are millions of stars in the sky, Eva. They’re all different, completely unique. Just like you. Don’t ever doubt that, all right?”
The memory tugged softly at the corners of my mouth, but then despair washed over me, filling me with the heavy, liquid feeling of being seasick. She’d known I wasn’t Eva. But who the hell was I, then, and how did I fit into Mom’s murder? If I didn’t know who I really was, how did I know if I could trust myself? Maybe I really was the type who could randomly freak out and hurt someone, murder someone she loved.
I spent the next half hour doing yoga poses—Warrior, Lotus, Half-Moon—until my mind was relaxed. I wiped away beads of perspiration and flopped on the bed. I tried to distract myself on Instagram, then opened Gmail.
There was an e-mail from Detective Jackson. I clicked into it but it was empty except for an attachment. When I clicked it, a pdf of a toxicology report opened.
I tried to read it, but it was a jumble of scientific words and numbers I couldn’t make sense of.
“Jerk,” I muttered out loud. I nibbled a fingernail, trying to decide what to do. I dialed Andrew’s number again, relieved when he picked up.
“Andrew, I’ve been trying to call you. Where’ve you been?”
“Eva? What do you mean, where have I been?” he exclaimed. I heard the clacking of a keyboard and papers shuffling. He was at work, as usual. “I’ve been busy. There are things—procedures for events like this. Mom prepared for it, so I’m taking care of the arrangements.”
For a second I was too stunned to speak. “She … prepared for her death?”
“Of course she did. She wrote her will years ago. She paid for her cremation and memorial too.”
“Right.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I told you already. I’m in London.”
Andrew sighed. I could imagine him shaking his head at me, his disapproval blistering me even here. “I can’t believe you left the country.”
“I can’t believe you’re still at work in the middle of our mother’s murder investigation,” I shot back, even though it wasn’t actually true. Finding something predictable during a crisis was comforting for Andrew. But I didn’t like whatever he was insinuating.
“You have no idea what I’m going through right now!”
“I’m not a suspect! I’m not under arrest. I didn’t have to stay,” I snapped at my brother.
My brother.
Andrew had always been my brother, never my half brother, even though we had different dads. But now we had different moms too. Was he still my brother with no blood shared between us?
“No, but it doesn’t look good.”
“Whatever. Listen, Detective Jackson sent me Mom’s toxicology report, but I don’t understand it.”
“What’s it say?” Andrew asked with a sigh.
“The drug screen result says there were elevated levels of digoxin in her blood.”
“Digoxin? That’s a drug for heart disease, I think.” I heard clacking as his fingers flew over a keyboard. “Yeah. It’s prescribed to treat cardiac disease and chronic atrial fibrillation.”
“Mom had heart problems?” This was the first I’d heard of it.
“Not that I knew of. Hold on, it says here it comes from the plant Digitalis purpurea, also known as foxglove, a toxic flower that’s become prevalent in the last few years around Seattle. Too much of it causes fast heartbeat, nausea, loss of appetite. Sometimes it seems the victim is just tired or suffering from the flu.”
I flashed back to dinner with my mom, how she’d clutched her chest after a vicious coughing fit. “So maybe she ate a flower?”
“Yeah, but … she was stabbed too.” He was quiet for a minute. “You know, the police have footage of you on the ferry back to Seattle. They have security video from one of Mom’s neighbors showing you running down the street. You were there that night.”
“I know. At least, I think I know. But someone was with me. I’ve been having these memories … there was a man there. I was able to sketch his face. I don’t know who he is, but maybe he poisoned Mom.”
“Did he stab her?”
I tried to clutch at the fragments I did remember—the knife, the man, the blood—but they disappeared, like evaporating drops of water.
“I can’t remember,” I said, frustrated.
“Can you remember anything else?”
He meant did I remember killing Mom, but I didn’t have an answer. “I’ve told you everything I know.”
Silence.
“Andrew?” I bit my lip. “Don’t you believe me?”
It sounded like he was crying. The tears that had been ever-present at the back of my throat were suddenly hot on my cheeks.
“What happened that night?” Andrew’s voice was rough.
“I swear,” I whispered, “I don’t know.”
He took a deep breath in, and then let it out, like he was deciding something. “That detective, Jackson, he isn’t going to stop until he finds out what happened to Mom.”
“Good,” I said. “I hope he finds out the truth.”
I heard someone call Andrew’s name and more shuffling as Andrew covered the phone and replied.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said. “Send Detective Jackson that sketch. Maybe he can run it through some profiling software.”
“If I tell him about it, I’ll have to admit I was at Mom’s house.”
“He already knows you were there!”
“Fine.” I relented. “But I have more to tell you—”
“Can you catch me up later? I have to be in court in twenty minutes. And don’t be a jerk. Call Dad. He’s worried about you.”
“Yeah, but—” I started to reply, but he’d already hung up.
I stared at my phone, then opened Gmail to send Andrew the phone number to my new phone. There was one new e-mail: Andrew had sent through a link with information about Detective Kent Jackson. I opened it and learned that a few years back Jackson had been working on a high-profile case with the Boston PD when his wife was killed by a gang member he’d been investigating. Shortly after, the man suspected of murdering his wife was found shot in the head. Although no evidence was ever found linking Jackson to the murder, he’d quit the Boston PD and moved to Seattle.