The Lies They Tell(6)
The fire—cause undetermined at that time—had originated in David and Sloane’s bedroom, spreading down the second-floor hallway to where Cassidy and Joseph slept, and up through the ceiling to the attic level, which had been converted into a loft for Tristan when they bought the house three years ago. On the morning of December 24, David’s, Sloane’s, Cassidy’s, and Joseph’s bodies had all been transported to the county morgue; Tristan was unaccounted for.
Pearl straightened her spine. She’d woken up to an empty house that morning, and a message on her phone from Dad, received at three a.m. Something came up, be home as soon as I can. Turned out he’d been calling from the hospital ER, where he was receiving treatment for second-degree burns on his hands and lacerations from punching through window glass. She could still see the Christmas tree tinsel swaying with the throb of the furnace as she’d eaten breakfast, facing the front window so she could watch the street for him. Then Dad had called back, with the rest of the story.
“Garrison Blaze Ruled Arson, Multiple Homicide.” The next article was the first to use that family portrait, the one that would haunt the case to its current state of open, unsolved. Taken maybe two years ago, the photo showed the whole family wearing various ensembles of navy and white. The photographer must’ve told them not to smile.
Pearl’s phone went off and she jumped, answering without taking her eyes off Tristan’s face. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. It’s just that we’ve got way too much cake over here.” Reese chewed as he spoke.
She’d hoped he’d call; he always kept her in suspense until dusk. “Cake sounds good.” She watched Dad, now sitting on the front steps. She’d lost count of the Buds. “You could bring it over here.”
“Yeah, but then I’d have to move.” He waited. “Pe-arl, come on. I’m going to watch Evil Dead 2.”
Now that was fighting dirty. “Text you in a sec.” She hung up, turning the phone over in her hands.
“Reese?” Dad watched the sunset above the roofs of neighboring houses.
“Yeah. But I think I’ll stay in. The dishes—”
“I’ll do them. If you want to see your boyfriend, go ahead.”
“He’s not—”
“Whatever you call him. I can hold down the fort.”
But chances were, he couldn’t. Chances were, Dad would get to thinking, and there’d be nothing on TV, nothing to keep the walls from closing in, so he’d decide to drive down to the Tavern for a few. And she’d lose another little piece of him.
A text popped up from Reese: chain-saw hand just sayin
“I won’t be late. Promise.” Dad waved her off as she jogged up the steps past him. In the bathroom, she combed her hair (no visible change) and spritzed on the tiniest bit of Chantilly from the sample bottle Mom had forgotten in the medicine cabinet. Reese would laugh his ass off if he could see her.
She drove her old Civic over to the Dark Brew bakery and coffee shop, where Reese lived with his technically ex-stepmother. Dark Brew was on the ground level of an old general store built in the 1800s, and as manager, Jovia had been given a break on renting the second-story efficiency.
Pearl found them in the kitchen, Jovia doing her nails at the table, Reese sitting on the counter, eating what was most likely his second or third piece of chocolate cake.
Jovia shook her head at Pearl. “I don’t know how you stand him. Having a metabolism like that should be against the law.”
“Did you save me any?” There was one slim piece left in the takeout box. “Seriously? That’s disgusting.”
“Back off. I skipped breakfast this morning.”
“Only because you didn’t haul your butt out of bed until ten minutes before you had to be at work.” Jovia blew on her nails and pointed at him. “I am not your wake-up service, mister. Next time, you’re on your own.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Pearl dug into the cake. “Thanks, Jovia. This is awesome.”
“Better be. I made it.” Now that tourist season was in full swing, the kitchen would be stocked with day-old muffins and croissants; by the time Jovia got home, she was usually too wiped out to cook. Jovia and Reese were physical opposites: she was short, dark, and plump, fortysomething, favoring tight jeans and trendy tops; Reese was wiry, his eyes gray and lively, his uniform composed of thrift-shop finds, band tees, and the leather cuff bracelets he wore even to work, defying dress code. Their personalities were oil and water, but somehow they made the living situation work, probably because Reese did most of his living on the second floor of the carriage house out back.
Reese drummed his fingers, jumping down to his feet as soon as Pearl took her last bite. “Let’s go.”
Jovia jerked around. “You two aren’t watching that psycho crap now, are you?”
“Yep,” Reese said.
“Oh God. People getting heads chopped off, guts ripped out. Give me a nice romantic comedy any day, people being good to each other.”
“Rom-coms suck.” Reese held the back door for Pearl. “Two idiots meet cute, find insta-love, get in a fight over something stupid, and spend the rest of the movie figuring out what the audience has known since ten minutes in. Roll credits.”
“Listen, smart-ass, love is stupid. Doesn’t mean it’s not worth the ride.”