He climbed in, dripping water all over the backseat.
“Thanks, Mrs. Hansen!” he said, a smile stretched ear to ear.
I couldn’t help returning the smile. What a lovely boy. So polite. But, dear Lord, he was too thin. I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. His clothes were threadbare, his jeans torn at the knees. His jacket was faded, a stain that looked like ketchup or maybe barbecue sauce on the collar.
Jacob and Eva chatted the rest of the way to the bus stop about a photography club they had joined and how to use a long exposure to capture the stars in the Milky Way. When we pulled up to the bus stop, she jumped out without giving me a backward glance. She seemed to have utterly and completely forgotten what she had said just a few minutes before. But I hadn’t.
Did she really think she was less loved just because she wasn’t Mike’s biological daughter? She must never find out about me. I couldn’t bear for her to feel unloved by both of us. The science of how she came into existence was unimportant. She was mine as surely as if I had borne her myself. While my heart would always ache for the Eva I lost, I loved the daughter I had now. Her big feelings and big opinions. Her creativity and sensitivity and insight.
I imagined the sweet weight of her in my arms when she was young, the soft pad of toddler’s feet coming down the hall, then the warmth of her little body as she climbed into my bed. How she used to press her head into the crook of my arm while we read stories together, and the sound of her tinkly laugh floating through the house when she played with her dolls.
I rolled my window down. “Eva!”
She said something to Jacob and he jogged across the street, disappearing amidst a crowd of youths. Eva hefted her backpack higher on her shoulder and came back to the car.
“Yeah?”
I wanted to tell her that Mike and I both loved her, despite our divorce. That the blood in her veins did not change that and never would. I wanted to reassure her that she wasn’t responsible for the breakup of our family or the dissolution of our marriage. In fact, she was the reason I even had a family. Honestly, I should be thanking her!
But I could not seem to speak.
I am not a stupid woman. I could tell you how many sunspots were on the sun (up to two hundred at any one time) or which planet rained glass (HD 189733b) or which dwarf planet had volcanoes that spewed ice (Ceres). But the instant I needed to speak honestly about feelings, I became utterly useless.
I had a sudden memory of my own mother driving me to school shortly before she disappeared. I was thinking about the girl who had stolen my bra during PE and hung it over the school’s front door. I wanted my mum’s reassurance and love, but she was staring out the window, unbearably vacant. I knew better than to complain. There would be no motherly hugs, no comforting words. She was not interested in how I felt or what I had to say.
Perhaps, I realized now, it was a coping mechanism for a life she didn’t choose.
Had I done that to Eva? I certainly hadn’t meant to, but perhaps that was always the way with parenting. You tried so hard to be different than your own parents. To be better, listen more, get frustrated less, but in the end you just got stuck in the same damn loop. Perhaps all parents felt that their choices were a barrier to the life they dreamt of when they were young. Only when you became a parent yourself could you fully understand that they did the best they could.
I reached for Eva’s hand, gave it a kiss, then squeezed it three times, hoping she knew what I meant.
I. Love. You.
* * *
The morning flew by, and I quickly fell into the familiar pattern of teaching. Routine comforted me more than ever these days. It was marvelous to know that across the planet and, indeed, the universe, the rhythms of our lives were governed by our journey through space, from the pull of the tide to the time we woke in the morning.
When my classroom emptied at lunch, I headed to the park across the street to enjoy what had turned into a fine autumn day. An unseasonably warm breeze ruffled the lacy boughs of the blood-red Japanese maples. A swirl of clouds as white as a turning page meandered toward Puget Sound. Crunchy yellow leaves whirled through the air like birds.
Autumn had always been my favorite season. Something about the light and the air—like breathing in hope and new beginnings. I loved hiking through the forest as orange and red leaves crackled under my feet; curling up under a blanket with a book; the gentle patter of rain on the roof.
I sat on a bench, my hair partially obscuring my peripheral vision, which was why I only just caught the outline of the woman emerging from beyond a tree in the distance. I squinted and adjusted my glasses. A cold shiver slid down my spine, and my mind turned to liquid.
I stood, unable to comprehend what I was seeing.
Her hair was a duller shade than it used to be, her mouth thin and pale, her skin now creased at the edges of her gray eyes. Her clothes were modest and shabby, the type that came from a charity shop, although she wore them with pride.
But it was her, without a doubt.
She was back from the dead.
Her name burst in my mouth like a radish, sharp and bitter.
“Rose.”
thirty-three
eva
LIAM CLEANED UP the mess I’d made, sweeping up the broken glass, throwing the torn cushions away, and washing the things that could be salvaged. He insisted I lie down on the couch, but it felt wrong watching him clean up my mess. What was happening to me?
Once we’d finished, Liam made me a fresh cup of tea and a plate of toast, setting them on the coffee table in front of me.
“You feeling better?” He sat next to me on the couch. I nodded, leaning my head against his chest. He wrapped an arm around me and stroked a hand down my hair. I was lucky he was here to take care of me.
“I’m sorry.” My voice was muffled against his suit blazer.
“It’s okay,” he assured me. But for the first time I wasn’t sure if he meant it.
Liam’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and read a text. His face went slack with shock.
“What’s wrong?”
He looked up at me. “The building inspector rejected my building permit.”
He sat for a moment, paralyzed, then lurched for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Anybody else would cut their losses and walk away. I certainly would. But not Liam. Backing down was too close to rejection, and Liam would never allow that. He wouldn’t allow no to stop him from getting that building permit.
I trailed up the stairs after him, but he was already coming back down, his briefcase bulging with files. He brushed past me and grabbed his coat and keys.
“Keep all the doors and windows locked,” he ordered. “I’m really sorry I have to go. I need to talk to this building inspector in person. I’ll call the lawyer and take you to the detective’s office when I get back, okay? And after that, we’ll get you to the doctor.” He brushed a quick kiss across my forehead. He’d returned to his old self, his jaw set, his eyes flashing with determination. “I can’t let this fall through.”
The door shut behind him, the chain lock swinging dizzyingly against the wood.
Can’t? I thought. Or won’t?
I lay on the couch for a little bit feeling sorry for myself, my head thumping horribly. Finally I managed to drag myself into the kitchen to make another cup of tea. While the kettle boiled, I looked at the calendar on the refrigerator. The appointment we’d scheduled with Father Byrne was there, written in clean block letters on Wednesday. I could’ve sworn it was for next week, on Tuesday, because I’d scheduled to get off work early that day.
I got my phone from my bedside table and opened the calendar to Tuesday. Off work early was written at 2 p.m. on Tuesday. But when I scrolled back to last Wednesday, our meeting with Father Byrne was clearly scheduled. I clicked into the appointment and it told me: Created by Eva Hansen.
God, I was useless.
I took my tea back to the couch and stared at the dead bo
lt on the front door, the shiny polished gold of new metal. The house felt oppressive. It was all those locks, the bolts slid shut, the chains fastened tight. Claustrophobia, thick as a sea mist, closed around me.
I pulled my yoga mat from the hallway closet and tried a few poses, but I couldn’t relax my mind. My body was filled with a restless, electric energy. I dressed in clean jeans and a blue sweater Liam had left out for me on the dresser and went outside for a walk.
Ginger saw me and bounded across the grass. She headbutted her nose against my jeans and fell into step behind me as I strolled along the dirt path that hugged the lake. Damp, cold air seeped through my coat. The wet soil released an unnatural fog that swirled over the brackish water. The air smelled like a storm was brewing. My left arm prickled in reply, electric pulses crawling up my skin.
Maybe it was the acid left from the wine, or the fear that had hounded me for the last week, or the knowledge that I was Laura and not Eva, and I didn’t even know what that meant, but something was … off. I felt disoriented and unsettled, restless. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it was there, just out of reach.
I sat on the edge of a damp, rotting log and dialed Detective Jackson’s number. Ginger twined around my legs, purring and blinking at me with huge green eyes.
“Detective Jackson. It’s Eva.”
“Eva. Good to hear from you.”
“I’m back from London. Actually, I got back yesterday, but I was just so tired.… I mean—what I mean to say is, I can come in to you today. I have a lot to tell you.”
“Okay, great. That’s really great, Eva. Thanks for letting me know.” He sounded distracted. The jabber of voices filtered through the phone, punctuated by the whistle of the wind. “Sorry, I’m in the middle of something. Hold on a sec.”
There was a long pause, then a muffled directive as he called something to someone.
After a minute, he returned. “Have you spoken to your brother today?” Jackson asked.
“No. I haven’t. Not since yesterday. Why?”
Somebody spoke to Jackson. The rustle of fabric covering the mouthpiece crackled in my ear. I couldn’t quite make out Jackson’s reply. The cold started seeping through my jeans into my thighs. My fingers were going numb. I wished I’d worn gloves.
Jackson came back on the line sounding rushed. “Really sorry, Eva, but I hafta go.” A gust of wind whooshed in the phone. From somewhere far away somebody called his name. “Just stay where you are, and I’ll call you back a little later, okay?”
“Wai—”
But the line had already gone dead.
What the hell? I stared at my phone, confused. Clearly going in to his office wasn’t urgent. Now I was glad I hadn’t rushed there this morning.
I tried Andrew, remembering what had seemed so urgent before I passed out last night: he had the key to Mom’s house.
Andrew’s phone rang and rang, finally kicking to voice mail.
“Andrew, I just got off the phone with Detective Jackson. He was being weird. Is something going on? Call me.”
I pulled my hat lower on my head and lifted the collar of my coat, letting the warmth of my breath heat my chilled face. On the horizon, dark, bruised-looking clouds raced closer.
What was it Mom always said? Not all storms cause chaos. Some just clear the air.
Ginger had disappeared, so I headed home alone, my boots squelching in the mud. I picked my way over the rocky incline that sloped steeply into the water and rounded the last bend to home.
I froze.
Someone was there, moving just beyond the garage. He threw a glance over his shoulder, then walked behind the house. I dropped down behind a large bush and peered into the thickening shadows. Was it Sebastian? Or the man who’d been following me in London? My heart thumped painfully in my chest.
A second later, the man reappeared. He was very tall, with a grizzled face and colorful tattoos crawling up his throat. He wore black steel-toed boots, a black raincoat, and a black beanie pressed tight against his skull.
“Hello, Eva!” a voice boomed behind me.
I jumped to my feet, heart thudding. Mr. Ayyad stood grinning at me. He was clad in full Lycra running gear. His dog gazed at me with bemused blue eyes. You are so ridiculous, his expression said.
“This is Jung,” Mr. Ayyad said, waving at the dog. “After Carl Jung. It is ironic, no? Because I was a psychologist in my former life.” He grinned and stroked a hand down his beard, which hung past his collarbone.
I held out a hand for Jung to smell. “You nearly scared the life out of me!” I laughed, but it sounded a little strangled in my throat.
Mr. Ayyad’s smile dropped. “I am terribly sorry!” He followed my gaze to the person creeping around my house. “Oh, I see.”
He tugged Jung’s leash, and together they strode across the gravel drive.
I was too far away to hear the conversation, but Mr. Ayyad said something to the man, who walked up the driveway to an unmarked van I hadn’t noticed. He pulled a small box out of the back, handed it to Mr. Ayyad, then got in the van and drove away.
“Here you are.” Mr. Ayyad handed me the box. The bank of clouds had started to release a fine drizzle, the moisture glistening on his lined skin. “He was one of those freelance delivery guys.”
I took the box and read the packaging: ISLAND ALARMS. Liam’s house alarm had arrived early.
“Thank you. I-I thought he was a burglar or something.” I felt ridiculous saying it out loud.
He nodded, his dark eyes serious as he stroked his beard. “No need to apologize. We must trust our instincts, no? Certainty can only arise through doubt, after all.”
“Thank you.”
“You will reach out if you need me, yes?”
I nodded.
“I am an old man, but I am good for some things.” He smiled one of his full-face smiles, and tapped his ear. “Listening is one of them.”
My face flushed and I looked at my feet.
Jung tugged at his leash, ready to return to running. Mr. Ayyad raised a hand as he started jogging in place. “I must run now. I’m practicing for the Ninety-Five to One Hundred World Championship race in November.”
I gaped at him.
He laughed at my obvious surprise. “We aren’t dead until we’re dead, my dear.”
He waved good-bye and jogged away, Jung following close behind.
I dug my keys out and unlocked the front door. In the bedroom, I stripped my damp jeans off but couldn’t find a clean pair, so I headed into the walk-in closet and emptied the dirty clothes basket onto the floor. Grabbing the cleanest jeans I could find, I pulled them on, but as I turned to go I caught sight of something that had been stuffed in the very corner of the closet, behind the dirty clothes basket.
My missing green corduroy coat.
I picked it up. And then I saw something that made me freeze. Large rust-colored blotches stained the collar.
Blood.
My hand went limp and the coat dropped, lead-like, to the floor. Horror slid like heated metal through my insides.
Whose blood was on it? And why had I hidden it at the back of the closet?
Something scratched at my brain. A memory? A shadow? It felt tantalizingly close. I thumped my forehead with the heel of my hand, something flickering there. But nothing came.
My phone started ringing from downstairs, cutting through the blankness. I shoved the coat back behind the laundry basket and hurried to answer it.
thirty-four
kat
17 years before
SEEING ROSE HAD NUMBED my brain. Eight years. I’d thought she was dead for eight years!
Finally I managed to open my mouth. “Rose?” My voice was hoarse with shock.
She threw her arms around me, laughing and crying at the same time.
“Katherine! I found you!” She pulled back to look at me, her hands caressing my face, running over my shoulders, my arms, as if to ensure I was real. “It’s you! It’s
really you!”
“Where … what … ? I thought …” I had so many questions I had no idea where to start. All that came out was a statement: “You aren’t dead.”
Rose shook her head. “No.”
“But you killed yourself!”
“No! I faked my death to throw Sebastian off our trail.”
“I … how?”
“I was crossing the bridge on my way to meet you at the hotel and I realized: if Sebastian thought Laura and I were dead, he wouldn’t look for us. So I got Laura’s old buggy and wrote a suicide note and left them on the bridge. I knew David would tell the police I had been medicated for depression before. But by the time I got to the hotel, you and Laura were gone.”
“I was afraid Seb would find my passport gone and come looking for me.” I could barely get the words past my constricted throat. “As soon as I found out you were dead, we went to the airport. Where have you been all this time?”
“Obviously I couldn’t stay in London, so I went to New York. I thought I’d be able to track you when you withdrew money from that bank account I set up. I got a job as a waitress, and I started painting. My work started selling. And then one day I checked the bank account and saw you’d withdrawn money from a bank in Chicago. I got a flight there and looked for you, but never found you.” Rose grasped my hands. “I checked the account every day for years, but you never withdrew anything until last month.”
“I bought a house.” My voice sounded hollow. I wanted to cry, but the tears had been incinerated somewhere between my belly and my eyeballs.
“I saw that the money had been paid to a mortgage company for a person named Kat Hansen in Seattle. I googled that name and found the school you work at. There’s a picture of you on the staff pages.”
A chill wind kicked up, sending the Japanese maple leaves shivering. My vision went momentarily blurry, and I realized it had been a rather long time since I had blinked.
Behind Every Lie Page 20