At the Quiet Edge(61)

She felt none of the relief of having a terrible secret exposed; she felt only fear. “Everett . . .”

“I heard you tell that cop you never went outside at night, but you left the night before. You left for a long time, and I was worried, and you pretended it never happened. And then tonight? Why was that cop here again? What are you lying about?”

He was crying now, and Lily pulled him into her arms before he could resist. She wanted to cry too. Cry because she’d scared him, but also because he didn’t know. He still didn’t know the truth.

“Oh God, baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“What’s wrong? Something’s wrong and you won’t tell me! It’s about Dad, isn’t it?”

She could give him a little truth, anyway. She could stop lying about one thing. “I was helping Zoey,” she whispered.

“Zoey?” He went still. “With what?”

“I . . .” She cleared her throat. “You’re right. I did something wrong too. I let a woman stay here . . . more than once, actually. I let women stay here overnight when they needed to hide. I’m not supposed to, and that’s why I was hiding it from you and from that detective.”

“That’s illegal?”

“Not . . . not really. Except that I used a customer’s vehicle, and that was wrong, and I could get in a lot of trouble. It’s a violation, just like going through their things. So I’m sorry I acted like you were risking my job when I was already doing that. That wasn’t fair.”

He sniffed, pulling away from her a bit, but he seemed calmer now. Spent from his outburst. His anger about her other lies wouldn’t be so easy to assuage if he found out. When he found out. Like a child, she wanted to put off the consequences as long as she could, hoping they might just disappear into ash.

“You did something wrong to help someone,” he said.

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped to his lap, to the fingers he’d twisted together into a knot of worry.

Now that her initial alarm had faded, she could think about what he’d told her. “Everett, what did you mean about seeing pictures in Alex’s storage unit? What kind of pictures?”

He shrugged.

“Scary pictures?”

“No. Photos from the paper. Printouts. Stuff like that.”

Oh, thank God. “Sweetie, Alex lives in Tennessee. He recently lost his job at a newspaper. So first off, he’s a reporter who probably researches a lot of things. Second, I told you he came here to help because his uncle can’t take care of himself. Even if you think he was someone bad, his uncle is a harmless old man now, Ev.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. He had to move out of his home and into a place with nurses and helpers. So there’s nothing at all to worry about. No one is coming to get me.”

His body quieted a little, relaxing under her hand. “Okay.”

“Does that make you feel better?”

“A little.”

She sighed, suddenly unbearably exhausted. “I’m sorry I got upset, but you can’t go through people’s things. Not ever again. I know this is our home, but people trust us to take care of their belongings and respect their privacy.”

“Yeah,” he agreed before shifting away. “I know that.”

“Is that what you’ve been so worried about? Is that what brought on your nightmare?”

“No. I’m fine.”

She wanted to say, You’re obviously not fine, but she squeezed his arm instead, then gave him a sideways hug and a kiss on his temple. “I’m sorry I scared you tonight. And I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“I’m sorry too,” he whispered.

She took his mug, then followed him to his bedroom to tuck him in. “It’s late,” she said, turning off the light. “Time for bed.” But she left his door slightly ajar before heading into her own room to close the door. She leaned her back against it and let a tear slide down her face.

Jones had started out with small crimes around Everett’s age. His transgressions had spread from there, like rot and mold creeping out to decay everything around it. After stints in and out of juvenile detention for breaking and entering, he’d stayed out of trouble long enough to get a degree in accounting, but only because he’d decided to graduate to the big leagues and steal from the inside instead. He’d probably cheated his way through school too.

Everything Jones had ever told her about his childhood was a lie. He hadn’t been raised by a single dad in Idaho. He’d been taken from an abusive home in Kansas City and stuck into foster care at age nine.

His truth might have elicited pity if he’d pled his case, but he hadn’t bothered. She’d learned his history from the detective banging on a table in the interview room. The same place she’d learned about the extent of his theft in their own town. From their friends. His coworkers. People whose children she knew.

And the whole time—the whole damn time—she’d thought he was a caring, sensitive guy. Just like Everett.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head, pressing it hard against the wood so she could feel the rolling contours of her own skull, the faint crunch of her hair against cheap paint. No, not like Everett.

He was her boy, she’d raised him. He hadn’t been abused and neglected and taught that there was no love or safety in the world. He’d always been a good son, and she just had to keep loving him and protecting him.