The Perfect Liar

by Debra Lynch

  My voice shook. “Th—then I’ll tell Madeline. She likes me.”

  “Ha! Madeline’s from the South. She likes everybody. You’re nobody special to her, I can guaran-damn-tee you that. Did she give you her “bless your heart” routine? Did she tell you you were welcome anytime? Tell you how much she loved your company?” She jabbed me with one sharp fingernail and sneered. “To her you’re nothing but another passerby who she can drink sweet tea with and then laugh behind your back when her real friends come around.”

  I shook my head. “She’s not like that.”

  “You don’t know a goddamn thing about anything. Listen up, loser. If I hear one word about you going near Madeline again I will personally string you up by your balls.”

  I hated the way I cowered as she moved close until her face was inches from mine, a few pieces of spit landing on my glasses. “If I ever see you again, I’ll set the police on you.” She turned and clipped away. “I wish I could say it was a pleasure, but it wasn’t.”

  “Wait!” I jumped in front of her. “What about my personal yoga video?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” She shoved me away. “Get the hell out of my way. You’re an embarrassment and a joke.”

  “But what about my dessert? You were gonna make me that custard thing.”

  She laughed so hard I thought she was heading straight for the loony bin. “You think I really wanted to cook for you? Like we’d be some happy couple eating gourmet dinners at your crappy little house?” I started to speak, but she cut me off. “Don’t answer that. The only thing I would’ve used my creme brûlée torch for would be to burn every last hair off of your beard and then scald my name into your body. You want a tattoo, Dennis? I can tattoo whatever you want on your lily-white flesh with a branding iron. And trust me, it won’t feel kinky. It’ll hurt like hell. No way would I have ever cooked you dinner. Unless it was your last meal on death row. And even then I’d make sure to poison it.”

  She stomped away, but I sprinted after her, my heart banging like a drum. I grabbed her by the arm. “We’re friends. Good friends. You’re my girlfriend.”

  She stopped in her tracks and whirled around. “Get your filthy hands off me. I despise you. You really think I wanted to be your friend? Your girlfriend? What kind of drugs have you been smoking? I wouldn’t be caught dead with a creep like you. You want to know why I gave you one second of my life?” She laughed a shrill laugh. “I think you know why. Is that the only way you can make a friend? A girlfriend? Blackmail? Well you listen up, Mr. Creepy Hipster. I don’t have to put up with you anymore.”

  My voice was pleading, and I felt a fine line of sweat on my upper lip. “I’ll still be in your class.”

  “Oh, no you won’t. I’ll have you escorted out.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  The way her hair stood on end made Rachel look like the Wicked Witch of the West. “Yes I can.” She pointed to herself. “I’m Rachel Goodman.” Her voice was piercingly loud when she jabbed a finger once, twice, three times into my chest. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Part Three

  Twenty

  Rachel

  When I storm into my house, the feeling that engulfs me is a combination of elation and terror. My gut tells me this isn’t over yet. Sure, I scored a major point tonight by showing the video of me wrecking Dennis’s house to my class.

  But I know what he’s capable of. And I’ve no intention of ending up on his death list.

  I throw my car keys on the sofa, tear off my wrap and toss it on the polished wooden floor, kick my high heels off my aching feet, throw one in the left corner of the room, one in the right.

  The overhead kitchen lights nearly blind me, and I quickly dim them. My head pounds like a man with a jackhammer has taken up residence in my skull. I yank open my liquor cabinet and go straight for the most potent stuff I have, Jack Daniels. I am going to have to stock something stronger—say tequila or maybe moonshine? Whatever erases the images of Dennis from my brain.

  I slam back two shots in quick succession, the feeling in my belly a satisfying burn as I grip the kitchen island, taking a deep, shuddering breath. I pissed Dennis off big time tonight, and his retaliation will not be pretty. But I have to push that thought to the back burner. There’s still work to be done.

  I pour one more shot for good measure, toss it back, and run fingers through my unruly mane. No time for wimping out by collapsing in front of the TV with a mindless reality show (inspiration for the YouTube channel naturally) like I might do on a usual night.

  I straighten my spine, stalk into my video blogging studio, past the equipment and into the closet where I keep my secret stash. Behind the safe is a second door with a biometric lock. I rapidly enter the numbers and click open the door to my secret room. And there stands the rows and rows of shelves with all my stolen trinkets.

  No way is that bastard putting me in jail. Laguna Beach is a small town. A bored town. The cops don’t have much to do. Yes, there’s the occasional high-speed chase, including some crack head from Riverside in a stolen car with a firearm, and we have our share of DUIs. But the worst that usually happens here is a trio of kids who take nickel candy from the Candy Baron in the village. We’re talking real masterminds of crime.

  Who knows what might happen if Dennis calls the police with an anonymous tip that the oh-so-famous Rachel Goodman, the toast of the town, has been shoplifting? They might bring me in for questioning. I’m a great actress but who knows how I’d react under pressure?

  I’m trying to change my ways. I am. The last place I need to be is in an interrogation room because then I’d have to lie. I’ve seen enough crime shows on TV to know what those rooms look like. Dingy snake pits with a bare lightbulb hanging overhead, a tight-fitting-uniformed detective bent on making a name for herself in the hopes of a promotion, the hard stare of the bad cop followed by the good cop. “We have video surveillance of you. All over town,” they’ll say. Who knows? I might crack. Even if I don’t, they might decide to keep an eye on me. And then they’d discover the truth.

  I grab a moving box and begin the task of filling it with my loot. Cheap makeup, costume jewelry, notebooks, candles, bath salts, picture frames, T-shirts. I have a nearly inexhaustible supply of things I’ve stolen over the past several years. What can I say? What started out as harmless cons my dad taught me and ripping off sandwiches to survive whetted my appetite for breaking the law. While my father didn’t share every aspect of his business with me, I wasn’t stupid. I saw the men (and women) coming and going from our rented house and the massive amounts of money that exchanged hands.

  Then Dennis upped the ante. He ruined everything by forcing my hand. God, I hate him. I want to hurt him. The look on his face tonight goes down as one of my finest moments, but it’s not enough. I still want to make him suffer.

  By the time I have the first box filled, I’m sweating. I hunch over and grab the container, setting it in the garage while I bundle up firewood in my arms, trot down the steps to the beach, stack the wood, douse it with fire starter, throw a match over the kindling and watch the flames lick and spit. Then I pitch my stolen goods, one by one, onto the roaring fire.

  It takes me three whole trips to get rid of all the evidence. I stare at the flames and think about my father. He chose a life of crime, and now he’s dead. Daddy was strong, but he still ended up in an urn, burnt to a crisp. No way is that happening to me.

  I poke the flames with a stick and watch the fire hungrily consume my sins. I perform a silent cleansing meditation envisioning the flames consuming my impulse control disorder and feel a slight shift in my psyche. I would change and be a better person. Swear to God. When the last of the embers die down, I cover everything with sand. The rising tide will take care of the rest.

  I trudge up to my house and into my secret room to make sure I haven’t missed anything. The shelves are empty except for the one thing I keep in here. My father’s ashes contained in the decorative cera
mic urn. I caress the container. “I’ll make you proud Daddy. I’ll get my life together. I promise. I only did what I thought was right tonight. Dennis is a bad man. He has to pay. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Once Dennis gets over the shocking fact that I’m smarter than he is, he’ll be back. Will I be ready? I have to be.

  I run my fingers along the numerous photos lined up on the wall, take one last look at my goal-setting chart and the Google map. I slam the door and lock the room.

  After that, I stand in the shower for a long time, the grapefruit scented body wash scrubbing away the grime and soot from the fire. But nothing can wash away the distaste of dealing with Dennis. The bottle of Jack Daniels might put a dent in that. It may be only a dent, but I’ll take what I can get.

  In the kitchen, I glance at my phone, willing, goading, daring Dennis to text, call or show up at my door. I’m so amped on adrenaline I wouldn’t be surprised if I murder his creepy hipster ass right on the spot. Jesus. What’s become of me? He doesn’t call though, and that’s probably all that saves him. For now.

  I end the evening sitting on the deck with my two friends. Jack Daniels and Ludwig Van Beethoven, the waves pounding the shore as I drink myself into oblivion.

  Twenty-One

  Dennis

  The woman who sits across from me in my office is decent looking. But she can’t hold a candle to Rachel.

  She wipes a tear, and I wonder if she’s trying out for a part in a high school play. Jesus. Keep your day job, honey. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Somebody talked me into it. I’ve never stolen anything before,” her overly made-up eyes with the purple eye shadow and too much mascara plead. Does she really bat her eyelashes? Still. She’s not half bad looking. I make no attempt to hide the fact that I’m checking her out. My gaze travels over her long, tanned legs, her bare belly, her boobs that are nearly falling out of a skimpy halter top, her full lips quivering.

  I lean forward like I’m her dad giving patient fatherly advice. “I’d really like to believe you, sweetie.” I point to the notice above my computer. “See that sign there?”

  She nods, and I think the tears that fill her eyes are genuine. Damn, what a turn on. “Yes.”

  I point with force, my voice rising. “Shoplifters will be prosecuted. Now is there something you don’t understand about that?”

  She shakes her head rapidly. “No.”

  “The way it works is this.” I point to the computer monitor. “See this camera here? Everything’s recorded. Surely you know you’re being filmed everywhere you go.”

  “Yes sir.”

  I flinch. Did she really call me sir? Maybe she knows how to work me after all. Bow down to your master. I feel like grabbing her head and making her lick the bottom of my boots. She’d probably do it, too, if it meant I wouldn’t report her.

  My gaze falls to my open laptop, where I’d been doing a little shopping for Rachel. I’d found the perfect yellow gingham dress for her. I was just ready to navigate to the checkout page when this silly little girl decided to interrupt my day. Can you imagine? Thinking she could pilfer a beaded bracelet from my store.

  I miss Rachel. She didn’t mean any of those things she said the other night. She’s mad, but it’ll pass. Won’t it? I hope to hell it will because I can’t live without Rachel. I drum my fingers on the desk and think. I’d best keep my options open because Rachel has hurt me. Hurt me bad. Who the hell does she think she is talking to me that way? She needs to be taught a lesson. I can start by making her jealous.

  The girl opens her purse and pulls out a twenty. “Here. I’ll pay for it. Can’t you just let me go with a warning?”

  This girl is exactly the kind of hot young thing I can parade down to the kombucha bar in the hopes that Rachel will be somewhere around town. I smile. “Put your money away.” I lean forward until I’m so close I can smell her perfume. “I get off in twenty minutes. Want to grab a drink?”

  The look that crosses her face is adorable. Fear mixed with arousal. “Umm, sure.”

  A wave of nausea passes over me. What the hell am I doing flirting with this cheap tart? She’s no match for Rachel. This poor substitute for my girlfriend has no class. She’s way too eager, no challenge at all. My Rachel has spunk. Sure, we’re in a standoff right now, but that’s all part of the seduction. Maybe I don’t have as much over her anymore as I once did, but that doesn’t matter. True love always finds a way. And I will find that way.

  I stare at the girl, and suddenly, all I want is to get her the hell out of my office. I narrow my eyes, and they probably glitter with anger. I stand up and jab a finger toward the door. “Put your bribe money away and get the fuck out!” Spittle lands on her face, and her arms fly up as she cowers like a scared rabbit. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Rachel Goodman? You’re not, you know.”

  She gathers up her purse, tears filling her eyes. “I … I’m sorry.”

  “Shut up and get the hell out of my sight. Now!”

  After she leaves, the stench of her perfume hangs in the air. My heart pounds as I stand there, my fists clenched at my side. I punch the wall, and the cheap drywall explodes underneath my bloody fists. I pull in deep breaths, forcing myself to calm down.

  I pick up my phone and rapidly scroll through Rachel’s Instagram feed—filtered pictures of her smiling face, flowing blond hair, tanned skin.

  I angrily close out of Instagram, pitch the phone onto the desk, sit at my computer, and order the dress for Rachel.

  Our relationship is over when I say it’s over.

  Twenty-Two

  Rachel

  A few days after my charming bonfire on the beach, I’m greeted by a sharp ring of the front door.

  “Amazon delivery.” The local driver hands me the box with a wink. “Looking forward to the anniversary special tonight.”

  “It’ll be a blast. Thanks for watching,” I say with a wave.

  I find I’m actually whistling when I walk into my kitchen to open the package. I nearly choke on my spit when I see the dress and, more disturbingly, the card. Thought this would look great on you. Love, Dennis.

  I sling the dress on the kitchen island like it’s made out of a particularly poisonous fabric and stand with my back against the cold metal of the fridge sucking in ragged breaths. It’s only a dress. What am I supposed to do? Report Dennis for sending me a dress? I receive fan mail and presents from time to time, nothing illegal about that.

  The dress is actually pretty. I take a step toward it and touch it. No poisonous fabric invades my fingertips, and I don’t keel over dead. I hold up the dress and shriek laughter. Think I’m going a bit batty here on a sunny Laguna Beach morning. Flipping Stepford Wife outfit is what this is.

  The yellow gingham frock looks like something straight out of one of those vintage TV commercials from the 50s. The ones where women hold trays bearing freshly baked goods for their children. The dress would be right at home at a ho-down. Right alongside the hay bales and the square dancing, a homemade apple pie, and coffee for dessert after all the do-si-dos and swingings of your partner are over.

  All that’s missing is a freaking apron.

  Anger mixed with a shocking dose of adrenaline roars through me. I want to rip the dress to shreds and pretend it’s Dennis’s scrawny body.

  “Be over in thirty,” Levi says as I lean over the railing of my deck, watching the sun make its slow descent toward the ocean and listening to a shrieking gull. I had spent the day at the hairdresser where she covered my dark roots. Then a trip to the aesthetician where I treated myself to a pore-minimizing facial and a hot stone massage from a man who had the most gloriously talented hands. All the while, I practiced in my head what Levi and I would discuss during the anniversary special.

  If my nine-year-old self could see my twenty-nine-year-old self, I wonder what she’d say? Good job, Rachel! You finally made it! No. I don’t think so. She’d know the truth.

  I don my joking persona. “I’ll be all
dolled up. Spent the day and some big bucks so I’ll be ready for my close up.” He chuckles, and we sign off.

  Our show goes live within the hour, and I need to look my best. I apply extra bronzer to give me that California tanned look. Just the right amount of lip liner to make my lips look fuller, and top the look off with a natural lip gloss.

  Levi and I have chosen a talk show style format for the anniversary special. We have decided against wearing yoga clothes in favor of something more dressed up. The viewers are in for a treat seeing Levi with clothes on. Isn’t that what people always say when they see me out shopping? “Oh! I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”

  I lay out a simple beach dress—a colorful Hawaiian print wraparound that I plan to pair with dangling hoop earrings and a silver necklace fashioned with sea glass. But as I reach for my outfit, the box with the dress Dennis sent catches my eye. I had angrily tossed the box onto the floor of my walk-in closet, intending to have myself another rip-roaring bonfire with the garment. Maybe even roast some marshmallows over it this time.

  And then I realize something. My heart speeds up, and a smile tugs at the corner of my lips. If I wear the dress, it would be the ultimate screw you to Dennis. I hope he’ll be watching our show tonight. I plan to fawn all over Levi while crossing and uncrossing my legs and fingering the buttons on the Stepford Wives style garment.

  I shimmy into the dress along with a pair of strappy high heeled sandals and check myself out in the mirror. The dress fits perfectly, and the sexy girl next door effect is striking. I thrust one hip out and pretend I’m holding a martini as I smile at my reflection. “How’s about a drink, big boy? How was your day at work? Can I get the remote for you? Sit down and put your feet up.” I make my voice high pitched and purse my lips. “Widdle biddy baby boy had a hard day at work. Let Rachel make it all better.”