“Let me make sure I understand this correctly,” I said slowly. “You have been living the carefree, child-free life of an artist you always wanted in New York, whilst I have been raising your daughter for eight years and thinking you were dead, and that it was my fault?”
Rose’s face closed, tight as a fist. She dropped my hands and stepped away from me. “Don’t make it sound like that. I tried to find you! I missed Laura! I was utterly bereft without her.”
Anger, too much anger, flared in me. “What do you expect to happen now, Rose? She thinks I’m her mum.”
“We’ll tell her the truth. It’ll be fine.”
I snorted and shook my head. Her temerity was truly unbelievable.
Rose straightened, her gray eyes hot as just-poured asphalt. “I’m her mother. I did what I had to in order to keep her safe.”
“No, I had to keep her safe! You don’t even know her name now!” Rose looked confused. “It’s Eva. Surely you don’t actually think you can just waltz in here and be her mother and expect her to accept you?”
Rose stared at me, mouth agape. Clearly this was not going the way she had expected. “You never told her about me?”
“No, of course not!” I threw my hands in the air. “I couldn’t risk her telling anybody who we really were.”
“You could’ve told her she was adopted.”
“I would’ve had to make up a whole story—”
She cut me off. “You made up a story anyway!”
I gritted my teeth together. “I was trying to balance the things she didn’t need to know with what would keep her safe. And I have, Rose. I have kept her safe. Me!”
“You aren’t better than me just because you got to stay and pretend to be her mother.”
I drew myself up to my full height and glared at her. “Perhaps not. But I deserve to be her mother more than you.”
“Don’t you think I would’ve chosen that? I couldn’t find you! It isn’t my fault, and Laura, Eva, whatever she’s called now, she needs to know that!”
“What do you think she will say when she finds out the truth? That we lied about who she is and our entire past? That I’m not her mother, you are, but you’ve been living a bohemian, child-free life this entire time, just like you always wanted?”
Rose paled and did not reply for a long time. Eventually she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her brown leather bag. She lit one and sucked deeply, pursing her lips as smoke gathered in her mouth. When she parted her lips, O-shaped clouds rolled out.
She smoked like that in silence for a few minutes, then stubbed the cigarette out and flicked it to the ground. She was too close, smelling of nicotine, ashy and dry. I stepped away, glancing at my watch.
“I must return to work.” I brushed away the crumbs that clung to the fibers of my wool coat.
“Oh, Katherine.” Her voice was thick, tears glistening in her eyes. “Do you hate me so much? That you would take my daughter from me?”
“I don’t hate you.” It was true. Never, not once in all these years, had I hated her. Quite the opposite, in fact. I had loved few more. But things were very, very different now.
“You must. It’s written across your face. I would hate you too, if you caused my daughter’s death.”
“What are you talking about?”
She sat on the bench, covering her face with her hands. “You must blame me for opening the window Eva fell out!”
My stomach dropped, leaving my knees weak, my hands shaking.
“Rose.” I puffed my cheeks out and exhaled, long and loud, then sat next to her. I pinched the skin between my eyes. “You didn’t open that window. I did. It was my fault Eva died.”
It was the first time I had admitted it to anybody but myself, and the pain was a sharp skewering in my chest. What sort of mother opens a third-story window when her child is inside?
My mind darted back to Eva’s tiny, broken body sprawled on the ground. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to suppress the memory, the way I always did. I would never, ever forgive myself.
Rose’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“I opened the windows and put the fans upstairs.”
“But I remember …” Her voice trailed off.
“I did it. I know because the playroom was on the shady side of the house, so I opened the window and pointed the fan inward. I remember thinking you did it wrong downstairs, in the kitchen.”
“The detective said it was me—”
“Memories can be distorted when trauma is involved,” I said. “Whoever questioned you could have easily planted an initial memory of you opening the window. They do that, you know. They look for vulnerable points where they can manipulate you. But I can promise you this: You did not open that window. I did.”
Rose wrapped both arms around herself, tears spilling over her cheeks, making them shine like glass. She cried quietly for a moment, her eyes closed, an enormous weight lifting from her shoulders.
“You were right,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t look for you hard enough at first. Part of me enjoyed working and being successful.” She lifted her gaze to mine. “But I’m her mother and I love her. I’ve spent the last eight years trying to find her. Please. We must tell her everything.”
My stomach sank, an inky horror spiraling through me. Rose would take Eva from me. My stomach churned with the familiarity of it, the potential to lose my daughter. I could not allow it. Eva was already afraid Mike didn’t love her because they didn’t share the same DNA. I could not allow her to find out I wasn’t her real mother. It was my job to protect her, even if that meant protecting her from Rose’s selfish impulses.
I forced a smile, brain ticking rapidly as I formulated a new plan. “Eva is rather fragile right now. Let’s give her some time.” I took a crumpled receipt from my bag and wrote my phone number on it. “Phone me in a few weeks. We will tell her together then.”
* * *
That night I composed a long letter to David Ashford telling him the truth—that I had taken Laura, but explaining why I had to. I knew David would be the ace Rose thought she had up her sleeve. She would threaten to tell him I’d kidnapped Laura, and if she did that, he would involve the police, and the police would inform Seb. My letter would protect us against that.
David needed to hear my version of events first, and then I had to repeat it to validate it. If you repeat something enough, it becomes the truth. When people hear the same story again and again—especially when they want to believe that story—a new type of reality can be created.
In the end, David wanted to protect Eva as much as I did, and he agreed she should stay with me. Rose, however, was far less agreeable.
“You bitch!” she spluttered, her pale skin mottled with fury. She had arrived with an unexpected snow flurry just after Thanksgiving, bringing the cold along with her. “You went to David? You devious fucking cow!”
I glanced anxiously at the door. I expected Eva home from studying at the library with Jacob at any moment.
“Calm yourself, Rose. I didn’t tell him you were still alive, just why I took Eva. He knows Sebastian is still a threat. He’s agreed I should keep her safe.”
“I can’t believe you went behind my back like that!”
“That wasn’t my intention. All I’ve ever wanted was to keep Eva safe. Surely by now you realize that. If you went to David without him understanding the full story, he would go to the police, and they would tell Seb. You know what that could mean.”
Rose stilled, the fire in her eyes slowly receding. She slumped onto the couch, pulling a cushion to her midsection. She sat very still for a long time, as if one wrong move might incinerate her, turn her to ash. As if all I had to do was blow one quick puff, and she would disappear.
“I used to hide in the bathroom crying,” she finally said, staring across the living room with tear-glazed eyes. Did she see the photos of Eva framed proudly on the walls? The Mother’s Day card still propped on the fireplac
e mantel? “I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Cooking and serving and getting meals on the table, at the time it all made me so angry. I suppose I wanted to find myself, but I didn’t think I’d lose her along the way.” She lifted her eyes to mine. “I don’t know what to do.”
I sat next to her. “Sometimes the right choice is the one that feels the worst. And sometimes the wrong choice brings us to the right path. Being a mother comes from making the best decisions one can in the best interests of her child. That’s why being a mum is the hardest job in the world. We have to do what’s right for Eva.”
She nodded and swiped at her wet face. “Yes, you’re right. Of course you’re right. She must stay with you. It’s safest.”
Keys jangled in the front door, and Eva came in, snow clinging to her eyelashes. I wondered what she looked like to Rose after all these years. She was still fine-boned, her skin the milk-pale of a redhead, but her hair was now dyed that shocking black, her eyes thickly lined, her clothes a weird mix of deliberately ripped black jeans and an oversize green-velvet top. Artsy, I believe she called it.
“Mom? You ho—?” She stopped, her eyes flicking between Rose and me. “Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”
Rose stood, a smile pasted on her face. Only I could see that her hands were shaking.
“You must be Eva,” she said. “Lovely to meet you, my dear.”
She shot a look at me. I shook my head, a sharp warning.
“I was in the neighborhood looking at purchasing an art gallery up the street. I thought I’d chat to some of the neighbors.”
Rose looked at me again. The rims of her eyes were blood red. She smiled a sad little smile. “I was just leaving.”
thirty-five
eva
I SNATCHED MY PHONE from the coffee table and answered.
“Hey.” Jacob’s voice was hollow. I knew instantly something was wrong.
“What’s up?”
“My dad passed away last night. I’m having a funeral for him next week, if you’re around.”
“Oh, Jake.” I sat down on the couch. I’d been so wrapped up in my own fears and worries that I’d completely let slip that Jacob’s father was dying. “I’m so sorry. Of course I’ll be there. You okay?”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “I’m … sadder than I thought I’d be. It’s a lot to process. What about you? You’re home from London?”
“Yeah, just back yesterday.” I went to the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea, giving him a quick highlight reel of what I’d learned in London, including that my birth name was Laura.
“It’s just a name,” he said. “Didn’t Shakespeare say something about names and roses? Your name doesn’t change who you are.”
“Maybe. But it scares me to think I’ll never be able to go back to who I used to be.”
“I guess you don’t go back,” he said. “You just keep going forward and trust you’re doing the right thing.”
I sank onto the couch and tucked my feet under me, the tea gripped in one hand, the phone in the other. A million thoughts fluttered through my mind. The corduroy jacket. The gun. The texts. I closed my eyes, projecting Mom’s living room onto the chalkboard of my mind. Maybe I’d missed something when I was there last. Some important detail my brain was hiding from me.
My eyelids flipped open. “Jacob, were you home the night Mom was killed? You would’ve been right across the road! What did you see?”
I wanted to shake myself. I would be a seriously god-awful detective. How had I overlooked asking Jacob what he’d seen?
“I was home, but I didn’t see anything useful. I’m sorry.” His voice was filled with regret.
“Anything could help.”
“I’ll tell you what I told the detective. I heard a really brief scream and looked out the front window, but it was dark and I didn’t see anything unusual. I gave my dad a dose of pain medicine. When I looked out the front window about fifteen, twenty minutes later, I noticed your mom’s front door was open. I called the police then.”
Crushing disappointment filled me. He really hadn’t seen anything useful.
“There was one thing, though,” he said hesitantly. “Not that night, but a few days before. I was up with my dad around four or five in the morning—he wasn’t sleeping very well by that stage—and I saw a woman sneaking out of your mom’s house.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “Sneaking out, like stealing something?”
Jacob laughed. “No, more like doing the walk of shame.”
I held my tea under my chin, letting the steam warm my face. “I guess it makes sense. My dad told me yesterday that Mom was gay. I guess it’s why they divorced. Mom cheated on him.”
“Huh. No kidding.” He didn’t sound that surprised.
“Did you know?”
“No, not at all. I just wondered after seeing that woman. Plus, you know, Lily and her were always so close.…”
“No.… Lily and—” I shook my head.
I couldn’t see Mom and Lily together. They were close, but close like sisters; they loved each other but they competed with each other too. Christmas was a race to see who would decorate the most elaborate tree; Halloween a ridiculous contest to see whose pumpkin was biggest and who had the scariest spiderwebs strung across the boxwoods in their front yards. Mom wasn’t usually a competitive type; Lily just brought it out in her.
I’d never forget when I was fifteen and I lost my photography club’s annual photo competition—to Jacob, of course. Mom had brushed it aside and told me not to worry about it. “Winning isn’t everything,” she said.
After she’d left the room, Lily had caught my eye. “Don’t listen to her. Winning is everything. You don’t have to win today or even tomorrow. Just make sure you win one day.”
I said to Jacob, “I can’t believe she didn’t tell me.”
“Does it matter?” he asked.
“No, but why would she hide such an important part of herself?”
“Maybe she was scared. Self-doubt and fear are sort of a buy-one, get-one-free package. They work together to make us feel like shit about ourselves.”
His words punched me in the face. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was as simple as believing I was worth trusting.
“My dad was a complete bastard to me my whole life,” Jacob said. “For a long time, I thought … I don’t know, that everybody would reject me because he did. Maybe that’s why I ran away. It’s definitely why I came back. Like, if I helped him when he was sick, he’d suddenly love me and I’d mean something to him. But he never said it. He never apologized. In a way, it’s good, I guess. I can see now it has nothing to do with me. He’s fucked up because he’s fucked up, you know? At least you know Kat did her best. She tried. You have to remember that.”
He was right. One year when I was about fourteen, Mom had taken Andrew and me out to one of those places you chop the tree down yourself to get a Christmas tree. We wanted the biggest tree, and it was ridiculous, dwarfing our small car. But Mom managed to cut it down, wrestle it onto the car, get it into the house. But we were so excited, hopping from foot to foot as we hung the decorations and strung the tinsel in messy clumps. Finally Mom plugged in the lights, her face beaming as she watched our faces light up. She was happy that we were happy.
My memory of decorating that Christmas tree was like a perfect photograph in my mind. I was glad it had stayed with me, fully formed when so much else was broken or gone.
Outside, the evening newspaper thudded against the front door. Phone to my ear, I got up to get it, setting my tea on the entrance table and peering out the peephole. The paper was lying facedown on the welcome mat, wrapped in plastic. I unlocked the door, the bolt, and the chain, and grabbed the paper.
A crunching sound came from my right. I jumped.
But it was just a coyote, caught in the glare of the floodlight. It froze, its eyes glinting like wet coal before it sprang into motion, disappearing into the shadows.
“You know, I used
to think Mom was like some sort of god.” As I said that, I shut the door, relocked it, and tossed the newspaper onto the entry table next to my art nouveau lamp, the one Liam said was tacky. He’d literally groaned out loud when I told him I got it from a garage sale.
It was one of the rare times I’d ignored him. I needed one thing in this house that was mine.
I pulled the lamp’s dangling metal chain to turn the light on. The bright, stained-glass lampshade cast red and yellow lights over the newspaper, highlighting the headline through the damp plastic.
Second Body Found in Queen Anne Murder
Everything in me froze. Jacob was talking, but I tuned him out as I picked up the paper to read.
A second body has been found at the home of Katherine Hansen, the Queen Anne woman murdered in unexplained circumstances last week. The body was discovered in a septic tank in the backyard and identified as British citizen Sebastian Clarke. Police believe Mr. Clarke was Ms. Hansen’s ex-husband.
The room tilted around me.
Sebastian was dead.
He’d been dead all along.
I raised a shaking hand to my mouth. If Sebastian was dead, who had been following me in London?
If Sebastian is dead, who killed Mom?
From far away, I heard Jacob still talking, telling me about the funeral plans for his dad, the people coming to the service.
Think, Eva, think.
I stared at the picture of Sebastian Clarke in the newspaper, trying to remember the face of the man who’d been following me at the Tube station. My brain juddered to a stop, my fingertips going numb from the adrenaline.
I never saw his face, I realized. A bus had driven by before I ran into the station; I’d only caught a glimpse of the man’s profile. It could have been anyone. Or no one.
I’d drawn that sketch of Sebastian before I realized anybody was following me. Had I transposed Sebastian’s face from my sketch onto a stranger’s, filling in the blanks with my own assumptions?
I couldn’t trust anything. Not what I remembered, not what I thought I saw.
Behind Every Lie Page 21