Beautiful Lies

by Jessica Warman

  I turn around, fumbling at the doorknob. I don’t want to start crying, not now, not in here.

  “Go ahead and leave,” he says, laughing again. “I don’t give a damn. Come back and apologize when you’ve calmed down. Your sister’s a different matter, though. She’s not welcome here at all. She’s done. If she ever comes home at all. That’s another thing people say, Rachel. They say that one of these days, Alice is going to get herself into some real trouble if she keeps screwing up—”

  I spin to face him so quickly that my hair whips the side of my face. My vision is blurry with anger. I can feel my heartbeat behind my eyes.

  “Shut up about my sister.”

  He gives me an amused look, sips his drink, and turns his attention back to the paperwork sitting on his desk. He waves a hand carelessly at me. “Get the hell out of here, Rachel.”

  As I leave his office, I slam the door behind me with enough force that pretty much everyone in the bar is looking in my direction once I come rushing down the hallway.

  “Hey,” Kimber says as I hurry past her, “what’s the matter with you?”

  I ignore her. I ignore everyone. I take a quick look around the restaurant, searching for my cousin, until I catch a glimpse of him through the window of the swinging kitchen door. He’s back there washing dishes, smiling to himself, his iPod headphones on his ears.

  I want to go back and get him, to bring him home with me. He shouldn’t be working at a place like this, not with a boss like Mr. Hahn. But as I’m standing at the door, watching him, something stops me.

  He looks so happy. He loves this job. And as far as I know, nobody—not even Mr. Hahn—has ever been unkind to him.

  “Rachel.”

  I jump. Kimber’s hand is on my shoulder. I turn around to find her frowning at me. Her waitress uniform—a long-sleeved white dress shirt and black pants—is clean and perfectly ironed, her red bow tie knotted in such a way that its center curves into a dimple. Her long hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and for the first time in as long as I’ve known her, I notice that her ears aren’t pierced. When she turns her head, a wispy cluster of scarring is visible just above her collar, near the bottom of her neck.

  “What is it?” I’m out of breath from running down the hallway.

  She wrinkles her forehead in concern. “What happened back there? Did you get into trouble?”

  I ignore the question, turning to look at Charlie again instead. He notices me, his smile widening as our eyes meet. He waves with a hand covered in soap bubbles.

  “I quit,” I tell her.

  “What?” she almost shrieks. “Why? What did Mr. Hahn—”

  “Mr. Hahn is an asshole,” I interrupt, tugging at the corner of my bow tie until it comes undone. “I hate this job anyway. Screw it.” I’m so frustrated that I could cry. I turn away from the kitchen door so that Charlie won’t see me. “Screw it,” I repeat, under my breath.

  Kimber presses her lips together, a hint of disapproval clouding her typically serene expression. But she doesn’t seem angry, not exactly—she seems sad. “Do you mean that?” she asks.

  Now that I’m out of his office, I feel like I can breathe again. I take deep breaths, grateful for the feeling of air spreading through my lungs. My face is sweaty and flushed. I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, nodding.

  When I stand up, Kimber’s arms are crossed against her chest. “Rachel,” she says in a loud whisper, “what’s the matter? We’re friends; you can tell me.”

  The truth seems so obvious. I’m barely even trying to act like my sister; how can she not realize who I am?

  When I don’t answer her, she continues, asking, “Is that it? You’re just going to leave?”

  I nod. “Yes.” After a pause, I add, “He fired Alice. I don’t want to work here without her.”

  She wrinkles her eyebrows. “Come on, Rachel. I know she’s your sister, but Mr. Hahn had every right to let her go. He could have fired her a long time ago. She’s been stealing liquor for months—you know that.”

  Did Rachel know? I’m surprised by all of this shared knowledge about my theft; my sister has never mentioned to me that she was aware of it, and I always did my best to hide it from her. I didn’t want to get her in any trouble. Too late for that now, I guess.

  “Charlie will be upset that you’re leaving,” Kimber says.

  I nod. “I know. I’m sorry. Just tell him … tell him I got a headache, okay?”

  She frowns. “All right. Are you sure you don’t want to talk, though? I’m really worried about you.”

  “Not now,” I say, shaking my head. “I have to go home.” I pause. “Call me later, okay? We’ll talk then.”

  She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. As her arms fall limply at her sides, she sighs. “Fine.” After a few seconds of silence, the two of us staring at each other, she nods at the door. “Go. You’d better leave before you get into even more trouble.”

  I start to walk away, but then I have second thoughts. Without a word, I walk behind the bar and lean past Doug, who’s mixing a drink, to grab a bottle of tequila.

  “Rachel?” He stops midstir. “What are you doing?”

  I grab a tumbler and pour a few shots into the glass. I swallow it in one gulp; it tastes so foul that my eyes water, and I have to hold my breath for a few seconds just to keep it all down. Once I’m finished, I press the glass into Doug’s free hand. He takes it, stunned. Everyone in the bar is stealing glances at me, even as they pretend to be minding their own business. I can still feel their gaze at my back as I walk out the door.

  I’ve only taken a few hurried steps outside when I hear a low whistle coming from somewhere behind me. Before I have a chance to turn around, someone calls, “Rachel, stop. What’s your hurry?”

  It’s my friendly neighborhood policeman, Ryan Martin. He stands beneath one of the bright floodlights in the parking lot, his hands shoved into his pockets. Instead of his uniform, he’s wearing jeans, a long-sleeved gray shirt, and loafers without socks.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  He gives me a lopsided, shy smile. “I guess I’m following you.”

  In a matter of seconds, it has begun to rain. I step beneath one of the green canvas awnings attached to the building. Ryan joins me, but right away it becomes obvious that there’s not quite enough covered space for both of us to stand comfortably; our bodies are only a few inches apart, draped in shadow as we stand beyond the reach of the lights that shine down on the parking lot.

  “You’re following me?” I repeat, trying not to breathe on him, afraid he’ll smell the liquor on my breath.

  He doesn’t respond at first. He looks past me, toward the parking lot, and smiles. “I think you made a friend.”

  “What?”

  “Cookie.” He nods. “Look.”

  I glance over my shoulder. A red compact car is parked maybe fifty feet away. The passenger-side window is down; Cookie is looking at us. She sits with her paws resting on the edge of the door, her furry head sticking out into the rain. “She’s going to get soaked,” I tell him. “So is the inside of your car.”

  “Meh.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up. “They’re both washable.”

  There is a loud crash from inside the restaurant; it’s obviously the sound of somebody dropping a tray of dishes. I wince, thinking of Charlie, and how devastated he’d be if he lost his job.

  “Actually, Rachel, I do have a question for you. Do you have a minute?”

  I nod, keeping my mouth closed.

  “It’s about your sister’s boyfriend, Robin. I did some research after you left the station today, and I couldn’t find an address for him. You said his last name is Lang, correct?”

  I nod again.

  “Can you spell it for me?”

  It seems like a silly question. How many different ways are there to spell Lang? I do it anyway, though, turning my head slightly, hoping he won’t notice that I reek of booze
. “L-A-N-G,” I say slowly. “Just like it sounds.”

  “Huh. Okay.” He scratches his forehead. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Why? What’s the matter?”

  “We couldn’t find any record of somebody with that name in Greensburg.”

  It doesn’t surprise me that much; Robin never even got a driver’s license. He’s always claimed he prefers to stay under the radar. I shrug. “Sorry. That’s all I know about him.”

  “Rachel …” Ryan’s voice trails off. He stares up at the underside of the awning; its corners are thick with cobwebs. A big black spider dangles from a single thread, its legs pulled close to its body as it hangs in the misty air, waiting for who knows what.

  Ryan lets out a deep breath. “Look, you seem like a nice girl. I don’t want you or your sister to get into any trouble. But things aren’t adding up. Not the way you’ve explained them to me.”

  I wrap my arms around my body, shivering in the chilly night air. My memory has grown clearer since I got to work; I was probably just too tired to think earlier tonight. I remember everything about the day now, including my visit to the police station. “What do you mean? I told you everything I know this morning. You said you believed me. You told me about your epilepsy. I thought you understood how sometimes things happen that we can’t explain.” I know I should tell him that I saw Rachel this afternoon, but I’m afraid of what might happen to my grandma if I reveal that she’s been helping my sister hide out. I can’t do that to her.

  “I know what I said,” Ryan answers. “I remember. And I did believe you.”

  I take a step backward, into the rain. “You did? You mean you don’t believe me anymore?”

  “Come on. Don’t do that.” He reaches out and tugs my arm, pulling me back under the awning. “I talked to Marcus Hahn today. He swears up and down that nobody has stolen anything from him.”

  I shake my head. “He’s lying.”

  “I don’t know about that. He was very cooperative.” Ryan pauses. “He was in Philadelphia on business all weekend. He can prove it.”

  “So what?” Regardless of why Rachel ran away, Mr. Hahn is lying about the money.

  Another pause. “Rachel, does Robin own a car?”

  “…”

  “You never met him, did you? How would you know where he lives? How would you know he didn’t hurt your sister? Do you know anything about him aside from what she’s told you?”

  “Stop it. I know enough.”

  He softens his tone. “Rachel, you can trust me. I only want to help you. Both of you.”

  I’m so cold that my fingertips are numb. All I want is to go home. Squeezing myself more tightly, I ask, “Why did you come here tonight? Just to accuse me of lying?”

  He doesn’t miss a beat. “No. I came here to check on you.”

  I stare at him. “Why would you need to do that?”

  “Because it’s my job,” he says simply. “To protect and serve. You’ve heard that before, I assume?”

  Instead of responding, I look beyond him at the city of Greensburg spread out all around us, the rain falling more heavily by the minute. I’ll be soaked by the time I get home.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  He frowns. “You’re not walking, are you?”

  “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

  “No way.” He shakes his head vigorously. “Come with me. I’m giving you a ride.”

  “I don’t want a ride.” It’s not true; I’d actually love one. But if I get in his car, he’ll definitely smell my breath.

  “I don’t care if you want one,” Ryan presses. “I’m not letting you walk home in the dark, especially not in the rain.”

  I give him a steely look. “I’ll be fine. I can do what I want.”

  He seems disappointed. “You’re sure?”

  I force a smile. “I’ll be fine,” I repeat.

  As I walk away, the rain is coming down in tiny droplets that feel like a million needles hitting my skin; I’m soaked almost immediately.

  Even with my back turned, I can tell Ryan is still standing under the awning, watching me. Before I cross the street, I look over my shoulder. Sure enough, there he is.

  He cups his hands around his mouth. “You’ll catch a cold!” he yells.

  I’m almost to the end of the street before I realize what a ridiculous warning it is. The understanding makes me laugh out loud. I’ll catch a cold, I think, unable to suppress my giggles. What a tragedy.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The rain remains constant and heavy as it pours from the low, thick stratus clouds overhead, hitting my cheeks as I walk toward the center of town, to the path that will take me home. My shirt is soaked all the way through to my skin. I have goose bumps. The days are growing shorter, and it’s completely dark right now, at barely seven o’clock. In a few weeks it will be dark by five. I’ve never liked autumn much. A person can go for what feels like forever around here without seeing the sun.

  The path, once I reach it, appears to be empty. And even though it’s eerie to see it so still and quiet when it’s usually pretty crowded, it doesn’t surprise me. Who would be out for a stroll on a night like this? The rain comes down harder by the minute as the sky grows darker, and the evening gives me such an uncomfortable, unsettled feeling that I find myself walking faster, almost trotting in my dress shoes as I hurry to get home.

  A faint noise sounds behind me in the almost-darkness, pebbles tumbling along and falling against one another, a low scuffle of motion. I pause for a second, listening.

  Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.

  I glance over my shoulder. After maybe fifty feet, the trail curves to my left, preventing me from seeing anything beyond a certain point. Maybe all I’m hearing is the rain hitting the ground or trickling down from the leaves on the trees surrounding me.

  I keep walking, a little faster now. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. The sound is rhythmic and constant. It’s not the rain.

  Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. It’s a person. I can sense him before I see him. But then, as I hurry forward, I look over my shoulder again and make out a tall figure wearing a dark raincoat—camouflage, maybe?—and sweatpants. It’s a man, a jogger. He’s heading right toward me, trotting along with his head down, hood pulled tightly around his face.

  I don’t know why, but I’m scared. I’m sure whoever’s behind me is just a random person out for an evening run. And even though the trail is otherwise empty right now, I’m sure that lots of people go running on it in all kinds of weather. There’s nothing for me to be afraid of. Right?

  Still, I speed up, trotting a bit, my feet aching with every stride as my shoes hit the loose gravel. I’m starting to wish I’d accepted Ryan’s offer for a ride.

  Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. The runner is getting closer. I speed up a bit more, my adrenaline flowing, and finally I see the break in the path that leads to the road near my house.

  “Rachel!” I hear from behind me. “Rachel, wait!”

  It’s Sean Morelli. I stop, catching my breath as my panic subsides. He trots closer to me, puts a hand on my shoulder. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I’m going home.” My teeth chatter as I smile. “You scared me.”

  “I did? Aww, I’m sorry. I was trying to catch up with you. I thought something might be wrong.” He looks up and down the path, which is still deserted. “Anyway,” he continues, “you shouldn’t be out here by yourself, not at night. Come on—I’m going home too. I’ll walk with you.”

  For a little while, both of us are quiet as we head toward our street, rushing to get out of the rain even though we’re already soaked. I’ve known Sean for six years, but it’s still an awkward silence. I’m not used to being alone with him.

  “Wish I had an umbrella for you,” he says. “Why did you have to walk home? Couldn’t someone pick you up?”

  My steps grow slower as we trudge uphill. It’s tough to walk quickly on the pavement in these shoes, which are uncomfortable under
the best of conditions.

  “I got fired,” I tell him, my tone apologetic. I give him a quick explanation of the night’s events so far. He listens, eyes wide open in attention, nodding his head as I tell him everything that Mr. Hahn said about Alice. By the time I’m finished, we’re standing on the front porch of his house.

  “You ever been fired before?” he asks, fiddling with his keys as he goes to unlock his front door.

  “Never.” I hesitate as he steps into the foyer. “Um, I should probably go home. Thanks for walking with me.”

  He looks me over. “You’re drenched. I’m not sending you home like that. Come inside and dry off first.” Smiling, he adds, “You don’t want to catch a cold, do you?”

  I wait in the kitchen, taking a seat at the table while he goes upstairs to get me a towel. His house is sparsely decorated, clearly lacking a woman’s touch. As far as I know, he doesn’t date much. I remember him having a girlfriend a couple of years ago—Adrienne? No. Her name was Alexis. She was a teacher too. I think she taught chemistry or biology—something like that. Anyway, they lived together for a few months. Charlie adored her. She and Mr. Morelli adopted his dog together from the Humane Society. But after a while, something went wrong between them and she moved away. It happened quickly. She came to our house early one morning to say good-bye to Charlie, and her car was parked down the street, already packed up and ready to go. She drove away and never came back. Poor Mr. Morelli—I remember my aunt and uncle talking about how heartbroken he was when it happened.

  The house is almost quiet except for the sounds of his footsteps upstairs as he walks around his room. I imagine him changing out of his wet clothes and getting dressed again, and can feel heat rising in my cheeks, embarrassed by my own thoughts. His yellow Lab, Sheba, is asleep on the living-room carpet. She’s the calmest dog I’ve ever encountered. All around me, I hear small sounds that would otherwise blend into the stillness of the room if I weren’t paying attention to them: The hum of the refrigerator. The sound of the faucet dripping, all the way down the hall in the first-floor bathroom. The rain outside hitting the windows. Sheba’s heavy breathing, the air in her lungs creating a light wheezing sound.