Every Single Lie

by Rachel Vincent

  “That’s probably Brother Bill.”

  Jake stands and pulls down a couple of the slats in his dusty mini-blinds so he can peer into his front yard. But I know he’s wrong even before he sucks in a sharp breath.

  “It’s your mom. And that cop who cleared everyone out of the gym on Friday.”

  “Robert Green.” The same officer who escorted me to the library.

  A car door slams out front, and a door squeals open at the other end of the house, a warning signal we’re both well attuned to. I mentally track two sets of footsteps into the living room, then one of Jake’s parents opens the front door just as a second flash of light arcs across Jake’s room.

  Brother Bill has pulled into the driveway.

  I consider trying to sneak out the window, but since Jake’s room is on the front side of the house, my chances of being caught are high, especially with two cops and a youth minister on the front porch. So I stay put, hoping my presence doesn’t make things worse for Jake.

  He opens his bedroom door, and my mother’s voice floats toward us from across the house. “Grace. Nick,” she says in greeting.

  “Julie?” Jake’s dad sounds wary. “What can we do for you?”

  “We have a warrant, and we’re going to need to see your son.”

  “Are you going to arrest him?” Grace’s words seem to hang in the air, insubstantial as dandelion fuzz, and Jake turns to me with wide eyes. We hadn’t considered that possibility.

  I shake my head. Surely not.

  “No, no. It’s nothing like that. We’re just here to ask him a few questions and take a DNA sample.”

  “A DNA sample.” Jake’s father’s voice is the gruff rasp of a chain-smoker, even several years after he gave up the habit. “What the hell for?”

  “I’m happy to tell you what I can, Nick, but the fact of the matter is that Jake’s eighteen now, and that warrant’s for him. So he’s going to need to be present.”

  Mr. Mercer stammers an objection as a new set of footsteps approach the house.

  “Evenin’, Nick. Grace,” Brother Bill says. “Why don’t we take this inside?”

  Jake heads down the hall without waiting to be called, but I stay back in the shadows, and when Mr. Mercer leads Officer Green and my mom into their kitchen, no one notices me. Grace follows them with her arm hooked through Brother Bill’s. They don’t look my way either.

  I sneak past Emily’s closed bedroom door and press my back against the wall outside the kitchen. From here, I can see a slim slice of the room including the refrigerator, the stove, and one corner of the table.

  “Would anyone like some tea?” Grace’s voice is unsteady, and I risk a peek around the door frame to see her holding a teakettle under the faucet. She twists the knob, and water runs into it.

  “No, thank you,” my mother says.

  Nick Mercer waves one hand at the table. My mom takes one of the chairs, and Jake sits across from her while his dad settles in between them, which leaves Officer Green standing in the middle of the room as if he isn’t sure what to do with himself.

  “Okay, you’ve been offered a seat and a drink.” Nick angles his chair toward my mother. “I think we’ve done what the Lord requires of us, in regards to hospitality, so why don’t you tell us what this is about? Why do you need Jake’s DNA?”

  He’s holding the folded warrant, but seems disinclined to read it.

  My mother clears her throat. “I’m sure you’re aware that last week Beckett found the remains of a newborn in a duffel bag at Clifford High.”

  “Horrible thing. Tragic.” Grace turns off the water. “But what’s that got to do with our son?”

  “We have reason to believe that bag belongs to Jake.”

  “What reason?” Nick demands in his rasp of a voice.

  Grace sets the kettle down on the stove, too hard. “He hasn’t done anything.” She turns the knob. The gas stove clicks, then the burner ignites with a soft whoosh. “It can’t be his.”

  “It’s mine,” Jake says. “We all saw the picture online. It’s my bag.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” his father snaps.

  “I recognize the bleach stain. I dripped some on my bag last season, when I was trying to clean my uniform pants. The home game ones.”

  “Well, that doesn’t mean anything,” Grace insists. “You’re not the only boy who bleaches his pants. Anyone could have a similar stain.”

  “That’s true.” My mother’s chair squeals against the linoleum as she scoots it back a little, trying to see everyone in the room at once. “And Jake will get a chance to take a closer look at the bag and ID it, as soon as the lab is done—”

  “Jake, go get your damn bag,” his father orders. “Show her she’s wrong.”

  “She isn’t wrong,” he insists quietly.

  “This doesn’t make any sense. How would your duffel bag get into the girls’ locker room? That’s where she found the poor thing, right?”

  The kettle begins to shriek, and Grace jumps, startled, before she hurries to turn off the flame.

  “I lost it,” Jake says. “Or maybe someone stole it.”

  My mother turns to him, and for a second, her gaze catches on me. I duck back into the hall, my pulse racing. Waiting to be called out.

  “Jake, when did you last see the bag?” she asks instead.

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize it was missing until—” He bites off the rest of the admission before he can drag me into it. “Until I saw that picture.”

  “Well, that’s unfortunate,” Officer Green says.

  And he’s right. The truth doesn’t exactly cast Jake in an innocent light.

  “So, how does this DNA test work?” Nick asks. “You need to draw blood?”

  I hear a crinkling sound, and I peek again to see Officer Green holding up a clear cylinder and a sealed cotton swab.

  “No, it’s just a simple cheek swab.”

  “But whatever for?” Grace pours hot water into the first of two mugs, and a tea bag floats to the top. She sets the mug on the table, in front of the last chair, and she gestures for Brother Bill to take that seat.

  “Thank you, Grace.” Brother Bill sits, then he lifts his mug and blows over it.

  Mrs. Mercer doesn’t seem to have heard him. She’s staring at my mother with her arms crossed over the front of her blouse.

  “You can’t assume that baby has anything to do with Jake, just because it was found in his bag.”

  “Actually, we kind of have to assume that,” Officer Green tells her.

  “We have to try to identify all the DNA found on that bag,” my mother explains. “We expect to find some from the baby and some from its mother. And if the bag really belongs to Jake, there’s a very good possibility that some of the DNA on it is his, just by virtue of the fact that he carried it regularly. We need to take a sample from Jake so we’ll have something to compare it to.”

  “So, he’s not a suspect?” Grace’s relief feels brittle. Ready to be shattered.

  “Ma’am, we don’t even know that a crime has been committed just yet,” Officer Green says.

  “How could there not have been a crime? That poor baby is dead!”

  “Yes. But until we hear back from the coroner, we don’t know that the baby didn’t die of natural causes. It could very well have been stillborn.” My mother’s calm tone is a balm for the open wound that the Mercers’ kitchen has become.

  “So then, what are you investigating, if you don’t even know whether there’s been a crime?” Nick asks.

  “Well, at the moment, our efforts are twofold. First, we’re trying to identify the baby, so we can notify the next of kin. Otherwise, we have no one to release the . . . um . . . the remains to.”

  “So sad . . . ,” Grace breathes.

  “Yes, it is,” my mother agrees. “We’re also obligated to collect and preserve evidence in case we do have to start a criminal investigation.”

  She turns to Ja
ke then, and I back up until I can see only the two of them and Officer Green.

  “This warrant authorizes us to compare your DNA to whatever we find on the bag. But with your permission, we’d also like to run a paternity test.”

  “Absolutely not!” Nick’s objection thunders through the room.

  “Again, Mr. Mercer, with all due respect, Jake is eighteen,” my mother points out. “That warrant is for him to read, and this question is for him to answer. We’re letting you and your wife join us as a courtesy, but that will end if you try to interfere. Or if Jake would rather do this in private.”

  I wish I could see Nick Mercer’s face. I really, really wish . . .

  My mother turns back to Jake. “I know you’re in a difficult position,” she says. “And I believe that you have no idea how your bag got into the girls’ locker room. If that baby isn’t yours, you have nothing to lose by letting us run a paternity test. And if that baby is yours, we’ll find out anyway, when we’re able to get another warrant.”

  “Why don’t you have that warrant now?” Grace asks, cradling her own hot mug.

  “Because a warrant for a paternity test is a more complicated case to make before a judge, and we didn’t have time for that tonight. We will have time for that tomorrow, but Jake, you could save us all a lot of trouble by signing this form we’ve brought. By giving us permission.”

  “No,” his father growls.

  “We’re just trying to identify that poor baby and find her next of kin.” Wisely, my mother aims her appeal at Grace. “If there’s even a chance that you had a granddaughter, even just for a few minutes, don’t you want to know? If she’s your family, wouldn’t you want to know her real name and give her a proper burial? Wouldn’t you want a place to visit her, in her eternal rest?”

  “That’s not—” Nick begins, and again, my mother cuts him off.

  “And you have my word that if the paternity test is negative, the Clifford PD will release an official statement to that effect. If that’s what Jake wants.”

  For one long moment, silence stretches from the kitchen. And finally, Brother Bill speaks up.

  “Grace, that might be worth considering. This could clear his name.”

  I have no idea why he’s talking to Jake’s mom. It isn’t her decision.

  My mother’s mouth opens, but then it snaps closed again, and I recognize that impulse. She started to disagree that a paternity test would clear Jake in any criminal investigation, but then she changed her mind.

  I lean in a teeny bit more, just in time to see Grace take her son’s hand.

  “Jake, is there any chance . . . ?”

  “Of course not,” he says. “I’ll sign the form.”

  “I don’t think—” Nick begins, but Jake speaks over him.

  “It’s my choice. Give me the damn form.”

  My mother waves Officer Green forward, and he pulls a folded sheet of paper and a pen from his pocket. Jake signs the form without reading it—he hasn’t read the warrant either—then he hands it back. And opens his mouth.

  Officer Green unseals the swab and takes a DNA sample from the inside of his cheek. Then he slides the swab into the clear tube, which he drops into an evidence bag and seals and labels in front of everyone.

  “How long will that take?” Grace asks.

  “Less than a day, once they get started.” My mother shrugs. “Robert will drive it down to the nearest state lab tomorrow, but I don’t know how soon they’ll get to it. It could be as little as a few days, as much as several weeks, if they’re backed up. Okay.” She turns back to Jake and pulls her phone from her pocket. “I only have one more question for you, since you’ve confirmed that the bag is yours. Do you recognize this shirt?”

  I can’t see the picture she’s showing him, but that turns out not to matter, because—­

  “If it helps . . .” Officer Green pulls a notebook from his pocket and reads from it. “It’s a navy Tennessee Titans licensed T-shirt, made from Dri-FIT cotton, with the Titans logo screen printed in a three-dimensional font. Size large. It’s available for purchase in the NFL store online, and in several brick-and-mortar gift shops across the state.”

  “Yeah, I know the shirt.” Jake shrugs. “A bunch of us bought one like that at the Titans game on the senior class trip.”

  “How many is ‘a bunch’?” my mother asks.

  Another shrug from Jake. “Half the guys in the senior class. It was the most affordable souvenir, other than key chains and postcards. And shot glasses. Which the teachers wouldn’t let us buy.”

  “When was that trip?” Green asks.

  My mother answers, still watching Jake. “October. So you own a shirt just like this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?” Nick asks. “What does the shirt have to do with anything?”

  “Jake, is it possible that this is your shirt?” My mother taps the image on her phone with one blunt fingernail.

  “No, mine’s in the laundry. Hang on.”

  Jake pushes his chair back and crosses the kitchen into the tiny utility room, where I can hear him rummage around for a few seconds.

  “Here.” He returns to the table and hands my mother a familiar navy blue shirt. “This one’s mine.”

  My mother lays it flat on the table and stares at it for a few seconds, comparing it to the image on her phone. “Okay, thank you,” she says at last.

  “What does the shirt have to do with anything?” Nick repeats.

  “It’s just another bit of evidence we’re trying to identify.” She stands and puts one hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Thank you very much for your help.”

  She and Officer Green head toward the hallway, and I race silently back into the shadows, planning to slip into Jake’s room. But then Emily’s door opens, casting a rectangle of light on the hallway carpet, and I duck through the open bathroom door instead.

  “What’s going on?” Emily pulls her headphones off, obviously surprised to see police in her home.

  “Nothing, honey,” Nick Mercer says from well outside my field of vision. “Officer Bergen and Officer Green were just leaving.”

  Detective Bergen, I mentally correct him, because I know my mother won’t.

  Footsteps continue across the hall into the living room, and for just a second, I think I’ve gotten away with it. Then Emily steps into the bathroom and flips the wall switch.

  Light floods the small room, and she screams, shocked to find me hiding there.

  I flinch as footsteps pound down the hallway toward us. “What’s wrong?” Mr. Mercer demands.

  Emily blinks at me. I shake my head, silently begging her to claim she saw a spider or something. But then her father appears in the doorway.

  “Beckett Bergen.” He steps back and waves me into the hall with one hand.

  My mother’s eyes fall closed for a second, and she exhales slowly.

  “Did she come with you?” Jake’s dad demands, and my mom shakes her head. So he turns to his son. “Jake, what—?”

  “It isn’t his fault, Mr. Mercer. I just . . . ​I wanted to tell him that my mom would be—”

  “Beckett!” My mother scowls at me, mortified.

  “Young lady, you do not have permission to be in this house!” Grace snaps, and all eyes turn her way.

  “I know Jake’s grounded, but—”

  “He isn’t grounded.” Grace looks puzzled. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  I frown at Jake, but he won’t look at me, so I turn back to his mother. “Then why . . . ?” He said he was on lockdown. He snuck me in because— “It’s me, isn’t it? You told him to stay away from me.”

  “It isn’t personal.” Mr. Mercer is talking to my mom, as if Jake and I aren’t even here. “I hate to say it, Julie, but we never had a moment of trouble out of our son before he started spending time at your house. And if we’d known about the issues Kyle was dealing with, we never would have—”

  “Nick,” Brother Bill says softly. “Tha
t isn’t relevant.”

  But Mr. Mercer doesn’t even look at the youth minister.

  Hearing my dad’s name on Jake’s father’s tongue feels like a slap in the face. He’s wielding it like a weapon, and I am defenseless against this blow.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tell him.

  But he doesn’t look embarrassed or ashamed of what he’s said. He looks . . . sympathetic.

  I want to slap the sympathy off his face.

  He turns back to my mother. “I’m as sorry as I can be about the loss you guys have suffered, Julie. I can’t imagine what you’re all going through. But we have to think about Jake’s college—”

  “Dad,” Jake snaps.

  His father holds out a hand, as if to reassure him. “The tire plant’s been good to me, but Jake’s the best high school pitcher in the state, and between baseball and his test scores, he’s got bigger things on the horizon. But these days, it isn’t only stats that recruiters look at. We just can’t have him associated with the kind of ugliness that’s going around on the internet right now. With this baby killer hashtag business.” Nick Mercer waves one hand at me in a vague gesture of disapproval.

  Anger burns beneath my skin. I try to catch my breath, but oxygen only feeds the flames until I am a human torch, alight with my own indignation.

  “You can’t be serious.” My mom blinks at him, incredulous.

  Brother Bill steps forward, his hands out, palms down in a placating gesture. “I think what Nick is trying to say is that there’s a lot of mud being slung right now, and if any of that hits Jake, it could have a devastating effect on his scholarship potential. For instance, there was a football player out in Virginia last year who lost his scholarship over the language he used on his YouTube channel.”

  “And that girl volleyball player,” Grace pipes up. “From somewhere out west. She lost her scholarship because of some swimsuit photos. If cursing and bikinis can do that kind of damage, what do you think is going to happen if a recruiter googles Jake and hears that his girlfriend is the unwed mother of a dead, abandoned—possibly murdered—baby? What role will they think he played in that?”