Behind Every Lie

by Christina McDonald

  I hesitated. Doubt crackled like frostbite along my spine. Maybe I’d stabbed Mom—but who poisoned her? That was done over time, not one night, and I definitely didn’t do that. And what had cracked Sebastian’s head open like that? Not the little knife I remembered holding. And who put Sebastian’s body in the septic tank? I wasn’t strong enough to do that.

  Liam was right. I still didn’t know everything.

  “Eva, listen to me.” He grasped me by the shoulders. “You could go to jail for something you don’t even really remember. Trust me, babe. Your mind is all messed up right now. Going in to talk to the detective just opens you up to a lot of legal problems.”

  I stared at Liam, thinking about all the things I loved about him. How diligent and persistent he was. How confident and loyal. I imagined how our life could be if I gave in to him, pretended I didn’t know I had killed two people. Maybe the police would never find out. Maybe there wasn’t enough evidence to convict me. We could have our Christmas wedding, go on honeymoon to Barbados, maybe have a baby one day. I could get it right this time.

  But getting struck by lightning and everything that had happened since had stripped me bare and exposed who I really was: broken but healing, flawed but strong.

  Liam tried to pull me to him again, but I put a hand on his chest and pushed him away.

  With Liam, I would never be whole because he would always be the one filling the cracks.

  “No.” I shook my head. The image I’d painted of our future faded away. “If I killed my mom, I have to pay for that. I have to put myself back together.”

  Liam’s face paled, his hands dropping limply to his sides. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. Hot tears slid down my cheeks, splashing into my mouth and tasting of salt and sorrow.

  “Eva, don’t do this.” His pain physically hurt me. If there was one thing Liam couldn’t bear, it was rejection.

  I couldn’t meet his eyes. I grabbed my coat and purse and opened the front door. A rumble of thunder came from a bank of clouds concealed somewhere in the distance. Night tugged at me like a riptide.

  And I stepped into the darkness.

  thirty-eight

  kat

  the day before

  I WAS JUST PUTTING the kettle on for tea when the doorbell rang. I pulled the door open and a delivery boy thrust a gorgeous bouquet of daffodils in a round-bottomed vase at me.

  “Delivering on a Saturday?” I said with a smile. “That’s dedication.”

  “You’re my last one. Hopefully I’ll be home before the rain gets here!” The kid peered anxiously at the sly streaks of purple and gray creeping across the horizon.

  He waved good-bye as a sudden wind ripped through the trees, buffeting the house.

  I shut the door and opened the card.

  Congratulations.

  Me xx

  I cut away the packaging and set the flowers on the island in the kitchen, then picked up the phone and dialed a long-familiar phone number.

  “Thank you,” I said when she picked up.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “Who else knows my favorite flowers are daffodils?” I smiled. “Rose.”

  “I read in the news that you saved a little girl’s life. You’re an amazing person, Katherine Hansen.”

  “Blimey! How’d you hear about it all the way over in New York?”

  “It’s been picked up by national networks.”

  “Oh dear. I did decline the interviews.”

  “Are you still worried about Seb?” She tutted. “If he was still looking for you, he’d have found you ages ago. He’s either long dead or has moved on. I think you can relax now.”

  “I shall never be able to relax.”

  “You always did have an overinflated sense of responsibility,” she teased.

  “Hmmm …” I scooped a teaspoon of loose-leaf tea into a small teapot and poured boiling water over it. “How are the paintings selling?”

  “Very well. I have dinner shortly with a gallery owner, in fact.”

  “Bravo, you.” A gust of wind rattled against the windows. Feeling feverish, I tugged my cardigan off the back of a chair and draped it over my shoulders. A sudden cough swept through me, an agonizing rattle.

  “You should get that looked at. You don’t sound well.”

  “It’s just a cold. I’m quite certain I shall be fine.” I was rarely ill. I rather believed that much of illness was in the mind. But then my vision blurred, a series of strange yellow halos appearing. I shook my head and blinked to dislodge them, feeling quite faint. Perhaps a visit to the doctor was in order. Just this once.

  I poured the tea through a mini strainer into my mug, dashed a bit of milk in, and sipped it. It tasted a bit funny. I checked the milk’s expiration, but it was still in date.

  “How’s Eva?” she asked.

  “I haven’t heard from her much lately,” I admitted. Our relationship was rather like dark energy these days, a black force pushing us apart rather than drawing us closer together. “Ever since she moved away, to be perfectly honest. Perhaps I was too brusque with her after what she went through,” I said. “I suppose I wanted her to be strong, to learn to trust herself again. But I reckon it backfired in my face.”

  “Not to worry. I’m sure she’ll come around.”

  But I did worry. I’d realized long ago that when it came to Eva, I always would.

  “Do you ever think we should tell her the truth?” she asked. “Perhaps it would help if she knows who she really is, now that she’s experienced childbirth and loss.”

  “I’ve thought about it.” I blew on my tea. “But I reckon after all this time it would confuse her more than help her.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  I rubbed my chest, which was tight, coiled like a wire. My heart throbbed against my rib cage. I took my tea to my armchair and looked out the living room window at the night sky, a blue-black canvas of stars rippling in the distance.

  Out there in the expanse of our solar system, there was a cosmic laboratory, each planet’s position, size, atmosphere, and composition creating a world wholly different from its neighbors. Perhaps it was the same with humans—different parents created different children. Perhaps if I had been a different mother, a kinder mother, more sympathetic and compassionate, Eva would have fared better.

  “I wasn’t very good at it,” I said slowly. “Being her mother. You know, I worried when I was pregnant with Andrew that I would love him more than I loved Eva. But I don’t. I never did. I discovered that the heart is an ever-expanding organ. Metaphorically, of course. I love them both equally, but in different ways.”

  “Some relationships flow easier than others. I’m sure she knows you love her, Kat.”

  “I worry that you would have been better for her. I’ve always worried that.”

  A stunned silence came down the phone. “Why did you fight so hard to keep me away, then?” she asked finally.

  I shook my head, trying to form the right answer. “I’m afraid it is an utterly selfish reason. I wanted to prove that I was worthy as a mother. I suppose I thought it would make up for failing my Eva. I let Laura slip into Eva’s identity, but I couldn’t let her take her place in my heart. I’m afraid I failed her, and you as well. Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Forgive you?” She laughed. “You kept her safe! Mother is a verb, not DNA. The world is quite eager to give women criteria for what makes a good mother, but you said it best all those years ago, Kat. We have to make the best choices for our child. You loved Eva and you kept her safe. One day she’ll grow up and understand and forgive our failings and see that we did the best we could.”

  “Do you ever regret it?” I asked. “Letting me raise her?”

  “A million times,” she replied honestly. “But she didn’t need to suffer for my mistakes. Life is difficult, it’s complicated and beyond anyone’s total control, but I think it all works out all right in the end.
”

  I heard a muffled knock on the other end of the line.

  “Listen, I must dash,” she said. “That’s my date for dinner tonight.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’ll speak with you soon,” she said, her voice soft. I imagined, just for a moment, that I could feel her lips brushing my cheek, the faint scent of lemons tangling in the air. My heart crunched, and I stiffened, speechless with a yearning that had never quite disappeared.

  “Good-bye,” I said, more abruptly than I’d intended.

  And a moment later, she was gone.

  thirty-nine

  kat

  that night

  IT HAD BEEN RAINING off and on since last night, and now it seemed the storm was worsening. The trees were writhing and flailing, the wind churlish and angry. Drops of icy rain tumbled through the night. I hurried from my car to my front door, fumbling with the lock, my fingers oddly thick and clumsy. Inside, I slipped out of my wet coat and changed into a thick cardigan. The cold had seeped into my very bones.

  I longed desperately to go to bed with a hot water bottle. The pain in my head was dreadful and I felt quite ill. But I had papers to grade, so instead I headed upstairs to my office.

  I sat at my desk and watched as withered leaves tore past the window. A far-off rumble of thunder rolled closer. My head was throbbing dreadfully, my vision still plagued by those odd yellow halos. I stared at the papers, troubled and unable to concentrate.

  I thought back to dinner earlier this evening. Andrew, as always, appeared to be doing well in his job as a corporate lawyer, and Eva seemed … happy, I supposed. Just quiet. No, quiet wasn’t the word. Eva used to be so very vibrant and full of life. And now she seemed a shadow of that girl, unbearably uncertain of herself. Perhaps that was the root of my deep sense of unease.

  I stood and peered briefly through my telescope. The narrow scope was still focused on Bill’s living room. I had been looking at the three largest moons of Jupiter last week when I’d inadvertently seen Jacob administering a dose of medicine to Bill, his hand cupped behind his father’s head. The scene had been so unbearably tender I hadn’t looked away for a long moment. Now Jacob was slumped on the couch, watching TV as Bill slept.

  A sudden scratching sound from the window made me jump—but it was just the branches of a tree scraping against the glass. Opening my filing cabinet, I reached to the back and pulled out Barnaby, Eva’s old teddy bear, and rubbed the faded bloodstain on his ear, memories pulsing like a scar.

  I sighed.

  Eva. My poor girl. Would knowing the truth help or harm her?

  Answers, I know, are rarely absolute. We each intend to do the right thing, and yet we are all helpless in the face of fate. We make a choice and must then move forward with the consequences. But perhaps a day would come when she would need to know. And so I began to write.

  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 found Eva’s birth certificate and the scrap of paper on which I kept David Ashford’s address and slid them into an envelope with the letter. At least now I was prepared to tell her, whenever the time might come.

  A racking cough launched up my chest. When it had passed, all I could do was slump weakly in the chair. My heart was racing so fast I feared I would have a heart attack.

  “Blimey,” I muttered.

  Pain tugged just beneath my breastbone. I lurched to my feet, throwing a hand out to steady myself. A sound came from somewhere in the house: a click, or perhaps a scratch.

  I froze.

  I do not feel safe.

  It was a fleeting thought, gone as quickly as it had come. I made my way downstairs, glancing around warily, to check the front door, then the back. Everything was locked. I set the alarm, trying to remember if I had armed it when I first got home.

  I climbed the stairs to check that the windows were locked, gasping at oxygen that had turned to syrup in my lungs. The bathroom door was closed. I pushed it open slowly. The rusty hinges creaked in protest. My whole body flinched in reaction.

  At first I didn’t understand what I was seeing, my vision distorting with those strange yellow halos.

  But then I saw a tube of lipstick lying uncapped next to the sink.

  And written across the mirror in scarlet letters were the words:

  I

  Found

  You

  forty

  eva

  NIGHT WAS AN OBSIDIAN FIST squeezing me in its grasp as I neared the ferry dock. Five minutes until it left. My thoughts knotted, spinning like tires in mud. I felt so much I almost felt nothing.

  I paid the ferry fee and pulled onto the car deck. Headlights bounced up and down as other vehicles drove up the metal ramp. I put my car in park and waited. Nobody got out of their cars. The wind had picked up, the water choppy. The heavy purple clouds from earlier had turned black, releasing icy drops of rain that pummeled the water. I watched as the lights of the dock receded into the distance.

  Memories flashed in my mind: the cottony smell of Mom’s hand lotion; her guiding hand on my back as she ran alongside me when I first learned to ride a bike; listening to the sound of rain drumming against the roof while we watched Monty Python; the cup of tea she’d made me the morning I came home from the hospital.

  The thought that I’d hurt her was unbearable, a shard of glass twisting in my eyeball. I laid my head on the steering wheel and smacked my palm against the dashboard over and over and over. Goddamn it. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t deserve to. Not if I’d killed her.

  But still, that seed of doubt persisted. What really happened that night?

  It had been a long time since I’d trusted myself. I didn’t think I was good enough, worthy enough. I’d kept secrets. Secrets from myself and secrets from others. And now here I was, on the edge of something huge, and nothing I said or did would ever be worth anything if I didn’t tell the truth now.

  The ferry docked with a gentle bump. Workers in orange high-visibility jackets waved their wands. I started the engine and slowly made my way off the ferry, my car bumping over the metal ramp.

  There was one last truth I needed to tell—one person I had to speak to.

  * * *

  “Jake!” I pounded on Jacob’s front door. “Jacob!”

  After a moment, the porch light flicked on. The metallic sound of a lock sliding open came from inside, and Jacob opened the door.

  “Eva?” He blinked in surprise. He was wearing black sweatpants, a dusty black T-shirt, and a leather tool belt, a hammer gripped in his right hand. His hair was tousled, dust clinging to the ends.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Come in.”

  Jacob set the hammer on the hallway table, and I followed him inside.

  I gaped at the mess. The house was in complete disarray. The hallway from the front entrance to the living room had been smashed through, a massive hole of crumbling plaster and rotting wood exposing the living room. The wall that had blocked off the kitchen had been demolished, ancient brown appliances, green-and-yellow wallpaper, and dark-veneer cupboards showing through.

  “I needed a project,” Jacob explained. “I couldn’t live here the way it was, so I thought I’d do a bit of remodeling.”

  I stepped over piles of drywall and crumbled plaster. The house smelled of cooking grease, the stale scent of booze and cigarettes. Jacob and I sat on the sagging corduroy couch that had been in the living room for as long as I could remember. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust.

  We were sitting too close, so I moved a few inches. I noticed a tattoo on his right arm. Grayish-purple clouds curled from u
nder his T-shirt sleeve, streaks of jagged lightning forking down the top of his bicep.

  I pointed at the tattoo. “Where … ?”

  Jacob glanced at his tattoo. “This? I got it in Venezuela. I was photographing the lightning strikes of Lake Maracaibo. It’s the most electric place on earth. One of the guys I was working with said that in Venezuela, lightning means strength and illumination.”

  I shrugged my coat off and showed him the marks left on my skin by the lightning. They were almost the invert of his tattoo. As if someone had laid a sheet of tissue paper over mine and used a coin to emboss them onto him.

  Jacob ran a finger over the marks. Goose bumps prickled along my skin at his touch. “We match,” he said, so softly I had to lean closer to hear.

  Our eyes met, and he withdrew his hand, clearing his throat. “So, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

  “Oh, Jake.” I stared at a photo on the wall, the only photo Bill had hung of Jacob. He was four, maybe five years old and he was sitting in a swimming pool in the backyard. Bill was lifting the hose over their heads, the water shimmering in the light as it fell onto their faces. They were both smiling. I looked at Jacob, confused and disoriented. Nothing was ever as it seemed. “I had a baby.”

  “What?” He ran a hand through his hair so it stood on end. “When?”

  “After I was raped, I found out I was pregnant. I couldn’t keep her. Not after that night. So I gave her up for adoption.”

  I pressed my fingers into my eyes, trying to stop the tears.

  “I felt so …” I tried to articulate my emotions, the shame frothing up inside me, hardening like beaten egg whites. “. . . ashamed and mortified. I didn’t want to hate her for something that wasn’t her fault. Something she had no memory of. So I gave her up.”

  “Eva—”

  I held up a hand. “Please. I need to finish.”

  Jacob nodded.