Behind Every Lie(10)

“I left,” I said.

“You left?” He sounded incredulous. I could hear footsteps striking pavement, the brisk, efficient walk of a lawyer. “You can’t just leave the hospital. It’s against the rules!”

“I had to get out of there!”

“Eva, come back to the hospital. This isn’t like you.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on!”

“Neither do I, but the detective will figure out what happened to Mom.” I heard just the hint of a tremor in my brother’s voice.

“I can’t. I need to go home!”

“Do you have any idea how bad that will look? The police are already suspicious of you.…”

“What?” The noose around my neck tightened. I desperately needed somebody to explain what the hell was happening.

“Don’t you know?” Andrew asked. “The paramedics found you a few blocks away from Mom’s house last night. That’s where you were struck by lightning. Eva, the police think you might have been there when Mom was killed!”





six

kat




London

25 years before

THE FIRST TIME I MET Laura, she bit me.

I had taken Eva to the playground at Hyde Park, which, in retrospect, was an utterly ridiculous decision, as she had a dreadful cold. But that day the sky had been washed a spectacular blue by the previous night’s rain, golden light filtering through the trees. Daffodils were blooming along the footpath, dancing on the cusp of spring’s breath. As Eva trotted over to the sandpit, I pulled a fresh handkerchief from my bag and wiped moisture from a green bench before sitting.

Eva walked her teddy bear, Barnaby, across the pockmarked sand, murmuring childish secrets to him. She sneezed, her wispy blond curls bouncing in the breeze, and I instantly regretted bringing her outside when she was ill. A good mother would have stayed home, cuddled up on the couch watching cartoons on the telly. But I was going mad after days trapped inside by torrential rain.

I lifted my glasses off my nose and polished them on my coat sleeve as I watched her play. Suddenly a searing pain sliced through my shin.

“Ow!” I jumped up, holding my leg. A little girl peered up at me from under the bench, her eyes glittering with cheeky delight.

She was a tiny thing, about the same age as Eva, nearly four. Her hair was an unusual shade of red, a cross between cinnamon and mahogany. It was long and wild, knotted with leaves and twigs. She had mud smudged across one cheek and was wearing a pink, gauzy ballerina outfit under her jacket.

I glared at the child, but she seemed immune to my fury. She grinned at me from her position on all fours.

“I’m a dog!” She stuck her tongue out and panted.

“Don’t be daft!” I huffed, rubbing my sore shin. “I’ve certainly never seen a dog ballerina before.”

The child’s face fell, and I felt cruel in that way I often didn’t understand. Socially awkward, my husband, Seb, always called me.

A woman with long, flame-red hair broke off from a group of yummy-mummys—black clothing, oversize designer prams, each with a takeaway coffee in one hand and a baby in the other. She was immaculately presented, full makeup on, gauzy, figure-skimming dress swirling, dangly earrings flashing. Her four-inch stacked heels sucked into the thick mud as she tottered toward us. I looked down at my practical, mud-splattered Wellington boots and couldn’t help feeling ever so frumpy.

“Laura, what have you done!” She scooped the child up and kissed her forehead. She was beautiful, feminine in a way I would never be, with soft curves and the same delicate bone structure and milk-pale skin as the girl. The neckline of her dress had slipped to expose the white lace of her bra. I looked away to preserve her decency, but she seemed not to have noticed one bit.

“I’m being a dog, Mummy!” Laura exclaimed.

“I hope you aren’t biting again, Laura-loo!” she scolded, looking mortified.

“It’s fine,” I said.

“Mummy, look!” Eva shouted from the sandpit. “I wrote my name!”

“Well done, darling!” I called.

Laura wriggled out of the woman’s grasp and went over to examine what Eva was doing. Eva showed her the letters, then handed her a stick and told her to have a go.

“Wow!” the woman said. “How old is your daughter?”

“She’ll be four in a few months.”

“And already writing her name? That’s astonishing! You must be chuffed to bits! Laura’s four in August, but she isn’t even close to writing her name yet.”

“I was training to be a teacher before I fell pregnant.” I couldn’t help the curl of pride that rose in me. “I’m preparing her for school in September.”

“Laura’s starting as well.”

I pushed my glasses up my nose, my face feeling stiff as I struggled to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. She was so exquisitely beautiful, so alluring that it was quite intimidating.

“I’m Rose.” She extended a hand and smiled. When I shook it, it was smooth and cool, her fingers long and tapering to nails that were perfect pink ovals.

“I apologize for Laura’s behavior.” She rolled her eyes. “The girl can be positively feral sometimes.”